Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

She turned back to the teenager. “Michael, what do you know about the Four Horsemen? We know you’re not one of the players. We know it’s a very private game.”

The boy looked up. She could tell that he liked her, and maybe trusted her some. “Hardly anything, ma’am. I don’t know too much.”

Hampton nodded. “This is very important to us, Michael. Someone is killing people in the Southeast part of Washington—for real, Michael. This is not a fantasy game. I think you can help us. You can save others from getting murdered.”

Michael dropped his head again. He had hardly looked at his mother and father since they arrived. “I’m good with computers. You probably already figured that out.”

Detective Hampton kept nodding, giving the boy positive reinforcement. “We know you are, Michael. We had trouble tracing you here. You’re very good with computers. My friend Chuck Hufstedler at the FBI was really impressed. When all this is over, you can see where he works. You’ll like him, and you’ll love his equipment.”

Michael smiled, showing off large, protruding teeth with braces. “Back at the beginning of summer, probably late in June, this guy came into the Gamester’s Chatroom—where you found me.”

Patsy Hampton tried to hold eye contact with the boy. She needed him badly; she had a feeling that this was a big break, her biggest so far.

Michael continued to speak softly. “He sort of, like he took over the conversation. Actually, he was pretty much a control freak about it. He kept putting down Highlander, D & D, Millennium, all the hot games that are out now. Wouldn’t let anybody else get a word in. Almost seemed like he was high on something.

“He kept hinting about this completely different game he played called the Four Horsemen. It was like he didn’t want to tell us about it, but then he would give out bits and pieces anyway, but not much. He wouldn’t shut up.

“He said the characters in Dungeons and Dragons, Dune, and Condottiere were predictable and boring—which, I must admit, they are sometimes. Then he said some of the characters in his game were chaotic evil instead of lawful good. He said they weren’t fake heroes like in most RPGs; his characters were more like people in real life. They were basically selfish, didn’t really care about others, didn’t follow society’s rules. He said Horsemen was the ultimate fantasy game. That was all he would tell us about the Four Horsemen, but it was enough. I mean, you could see it was a game for total psychos.”

“What was his call name?” Agent Dwyer asked Michael.

“Call name, or his real name?” Michael asked, and offered up a sly, superior smile.

Agent Dwyer and Hampton looked at each other. Call name, or his real name? They turned back to Michael.

“I traced him, just like you traced me. I got through his encryptions. I know his name, and I know where he lives. Even where he works. It’s Shafer—Geoffrey Shafer. He works at the British Embassy, on Massachusetts Avenue. He’s some kind of information analyst there, according to the embassy’s Web site. He’s forty-four years old.”

Michael Ormson looked sheepishly around the room. He made eye contact with his parents, who finally looked relieved. Then he looked back at Hampton. “Is any of that stuff helpful to you? Did I help?”

“Yes, you di

d, Laughalot.”

Chapter 58

GEOFFREY SHAFER HAD VOWED he would not get high on pharmaceuticals tonight. He’d also decided he was going to keep his fantasies under control, under wraps. He understood precisely what the psychobabbling profilers on the murder cases would be thinking: his fantasy life was escalating, and he was approaching a rage state. And the profilers would be exactly right—which was why he was playing it cool for a while.

He was a skillful cook—skilled at a lot of things, actually. He sometimes put together elaborate meals for his family, and even large dinner parties with friends. When he cooked, he liked to have the family with him in the kitchen; he loved an audience, even his wife and kids.

“Tonight we’ll be eating classic Thai,” he announced to Lucy and the children as they watched him work. He was feeling a little hyper, and reminded himself not to let things get out of hand at home. Maybe he ought to take some Valium before he began to cook. All he’d taken so far was a little Xanax.

“What sets Thai food apart from other Southeast Asian cuisines are the explicit rules for proportions of ingredients, especially seasonings,” he said as he prepared a centerpiece of carved vegetables.

“Thai is a distinctive cuisine, blending Chinese, Indonesian, Indian, Portuguese, Malaysian. Bet you didn’t know that, Tricia and Erica.”

The little girls laughed, confused—so much like their mother.

He put jasmine blossoms in Lucy’s hair. Then a blossom each for the twins. He tried the same with Robert, but his son pulled away, laughing.

“Nothing too hot tonight, darling?” Lucy said. “The children.”

“The children, of course, dear. Speaking of hot, the real heat comes from capsaicin, which is stored in the ribs of these chili peppers. Capsaicin is an irritant and burns whatever it touches, even skin, so it’s wise to wear gloves. I’m not wearing gloves, of course, because I’m not wise. Also, I’m a little crazy.” He laughed. Everyone did. But Lucy looked worried.

Shafer served the dinner himself, without any help, and he announced the name of each dish both in Thai and in English. “Plaa meuk yaang, or roast squid. Delicious.” “Mieng kum, leaf rolls with ‘treasures.’ Yummy.” “Plaa yaang kaeng phet, grilled snapper with red curry sauce. Delectable. A little hot, though. Hmmm.”

He watched them tentatively sample each course; as they tasted the snapper, tears began to run down their faces. Erica began to choke.

“Daddy, it’s too hot!” Robert complained, gulping.