CHAPTER Fifty-Two
The character and traits of Death were so much like his own, Shafer was thinking as he sped south along 1-95. Death wasn't brilliant, but he was always thorough, and he always won in the end.
As the black Jag raced past the exits for various small towns, Shafer wondered if he wanted to be caught now, if he needed to be unmasked, finally to show his true face to everyone. Boo Cassady believed that he was hiding, even from her, but more importantly, from himself. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did want Lucy and the kids to see who he really was. And the police. But especially the uptight and sanctimonious staff at the embassy.
I am Death - it's who I am. I am a multiple killer - it's who I am. I am not Geoffrey Shafer anymore, maybe I never was. But if I was, it was a long, long time ago.
Shafer had always had a natural mean streak, a vengeful, nasty way. He remembered it from his early years traveling with his family through Europe, then Asia, and finally back to England. His father had been in the military and was always a real tough guy around the house. He struck Shafer and his two brothers often, but not nearly as often as he hit their mother, who died of a fall when Shafer was twelve.
Shafer was large as a boy, and he was one 'tough hombre', a real bully. Other boys feared him, even his brothers, Charles and George, who believed that Geoff was capable of anything. He was.
Nothing in his early days prepared him for being the man who finally emerged once he joined MI6. It was there that he learned he was capable of killing another human being - and Shafer found that he loved it. He had discovered his calling, his true passion in life. He was the ultimate tough guy; Shafer was Death.
He continued traveling south on the interstate highway. Because it was late, traffic was light, mostly high- speeding trucks headed toward Florida, he supposed.
He mentally composed a message to the other fantasy game players.
DEATH GOES TO FREDERICKSBURG, MARYLAND, TONIGHT. A GOOD-LOOKING THIRTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD WOMAN LIVES THERE WITH HER MIRROR-IMAGE FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER. THE WOMAN IS DIVORCED, A SMALL-TOWN LAWYER, A PROSECUTOR. THE DAUGHTER IS AN HONOR STUDENT AND A FOOTBALL CHEERLEADER. THE TWO WOMEN WILL BE SLEEPING. DEATH HAS COME TO MARYLAND, BECAUSE WASHINGTON IS TOO DANGEROUS NOW. (YES, I TOOK YOUR WARNING TO HEART.) THE DC POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR THE JANE DOE MURDERER. A WELL-THOUGHT-OF DETECTIVE NAMED PATSY HAMPTON IS ON THE CASE, AND DETECTIVE CROSS HAS RETURNED FROM BERMUDA. IT WILL BE INTERESTING TO SEE IF HIS CHARACTER HAS CHANGED IN ANY WAY. CHARACTER IS EVERYTHING, DON'T YOU AGREE?
I CAN SEE THE CAHILL HOUSE UP AHEAD. I CAN PICTURE BOTH OF THE LOVELY CAHILL WOMEN. THEY LIVE IN A FOUR-BEDROOM RANCH HOUSE. THE SUBURBAN STREET IS VIRTUALLY SILENT AT 1:00 A.M. NO ONE COULD POSSIBLY CONNECT THESE TWO MURDERS TO THE JANE DOES. I WISH YOU COULD BE HERE WITH ME. I WISH YOU COULD FEEL EXACTLY AS I DO.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Fifty-Three
Shafer parked his Jag on the shadowy street and felt strangely alone and afraid. He was actually scaring himself. The things he thought and did. No one had a twisted mind like his - no one thought like this. No one ever had such outlandish fantasies and ideas, and then acted them out.
The other players had complicated and very sick fantasy lives of course, but they paled in comparison to his. Famine claimed authorship of a series of psycho-sexual murders in Thailand and the Philippines. War liked to think of himself as the uncrowned head of the group -he claimed to influence the adventures of the others. Conqueror was confined to a wheelchair and made up stories about using his infirmity to lure his prey close enough for the kill.
Shafer doubted that any of them actually had the guts to play the game out in the real world.
But perhaps they would surprise him. Maybe each of the others was living out a homicidal fantasy. Wouldn't that be something?
The Cahill women thought they were so perfectly safe inside the ranch house, less than fifty yards away. He could see a green wooden fence surrounding a stone terrace and lap swimming pool in the back. The house had sliding doors to the pool area. So many possibilities for him to consider.
He might enter the house and murder both of them execution-style. Then he would drive directly back to Washington.
The local police and FBI would be totally baffled. The story might even make network TV. Two women shot and murdered while they slept, a mother and daughter whom everybody in their small town admired. No motive for the horrific crime, no suspects.
He was hard now, and it was difficult to walk. That was comical to Shafer, his absurd hard-on waddle. His mouth formed a smile.
A dog was barking, two or three houses down the street - a small, wimpy dog, from the sound of it. Then a larger dog joined in. They sensed danger, didn't they? They knew he was here.
Shafer knelt beside a maple tree at the edge of the backyard. He stood in shadows while the moon cast a soft white light across the yard.
He slid the twenty-sided dice out of his pocket, then let them fall on the tufts of lawn. Here we go. Playing by the rules. Let's see what the night has to offer. He counted the numerals on the special dice. They appeared fuzzy in the dark.
Shafer couldn't believe what he saw. He wanted to howl like the crazed and bewildered neighborhood dogs.
The dice count was seven.
Death had to leave! This instant! There could be no murders tonight!
