the Abbot's Hospital where his grandmother was dying. He painted obscenities on the walls. Then he moved onto Guildford Castle, the Guildhall, the Royal Grammar School, and the Cathedral. He scrawled more obscene words, and also large penises in bright colors. He had no idea why he took such joy in ruining beautiful things, but he did. He loved it - and he especially loved not getting caught.
Shafer was eventually sent to school at Rugby, where the pranks continued. Then he attended St John's College, Cambridge, where he concentrated on philosophy, Japanese, and shagging as many good-looking women as he possibly could. All his friends were mystified when he went into the army at twenty-one. His language skills were excellent and he was posted to Asia, which was where the mischief rose to a new level and he began to play the game of games.
He stopped at a 7-Eleven in Washington Heights for coffee - three coffees, actually. Black, with four sugars in each. He drank most of one of the cups on his way to the counter.
The Indian cashier gave him a cheeky, suspicious look, and he laughed in the bearded wanker's face.
'Do you really think I'd steal a bloody seventy-five-cent cup of coffee? You pathetic jerkoff. You pitiful Fuck.'
He threw his money on the counter and left before he killed the clerk with his bare hands, which he could do easily enough.
From the 7-Eleven he drove into the Northeast part of Washington, a middle-class section called Eckington. He began to recognize the streets when he was west of Gallaudet University. Most of the structures were two-storied apartments, with vinyl siding, either red brick, or a hideous Easter-egg blue that always made him wince.
He stopped in front of one of the red-brick garden apartments on Uhland Terrace, near Second Street. This one had an attached garage. A previous tenant had adorned the brick facade with two white concrete cats.
'Hello, pussies.' Shafer said. He felt relieved to be here. He was 'cycling up'- that is, getting high, manic. He loved this feeling, couldn't get enough of it. It was time to play the game.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Five
A rusted and taped-up purple-and-blue taxi was parked inside the two-car garage. Shafer had been using it for about four months. The taxi gave him anonymity, made him almost invisible anywhere he chose to go in DC. He called it his 'nighI'mare machine'.
He wedged the Jaguar beside the taxi cab, then he jogged upstairs. Once inside the apartment, he switched on the air-conditioning. He drank another sugar-laced coffee.
Then he took his pills, like a good boy. Thorazine and Librium. Benadryl, Xanax, Vicodin. He'd been using the drugs in various combinations for years. It was mostly a trial and error process, but he'd learned his lessons well. Feeling better, Geoffrey? Yes, much better, thank you.
He tried to read today's Washington Post, then an old copy of Private Eye, and finally a catalog from DeMask, a rubber and leather fetish wholesaler in Amsterdam, the world's largest. He did two hundred pushups, then a few hundred situps, impatiently waiting for darkness to fall over Washington.
At quarter to ten, Shafer began to get ready for a big night on the town. He went into the small, barren bathroom which smelled of cheap cleaner. He stood before the mirror.
He liked what he saw. Very much so. Thick and wavy blond hair that he would never lose. A charismatic, electric smile. Startling blue eyes that had a cinematic quality. Excellent physical shape for a man of forty-four.
He went to work, starting with brown contact lenses. He'd done this so many times, he could almost do it blindfolded. It was a part of his tradecraft. He applied blackface to his face, neck, hands, wrists; thick padding to make his neck seem broader than it was; a dark watch cap to cover every last strand of hair.
He stared hard at himself - and saw a rather convincing-looking black man, especially if the light wasn't too strong. Not bad, not bad at all. It was a good disguise for a night on the town, especially if the town was Washington.
So let the games begin. The Four Horsemen.
At ten twenty-five, he went down to the garage again. He carefully circled around the Jaguar and walked to the purple-and-blue taxi cab. He had already begun to lose himself in delicious fantasy.
Shafer reached into his pants pocket and pulled out three unusual-looking dice. They were twenty-sided, the kind used in most fantasy games, or RPGs. They had numerals on them rather than dots.
He held the dice in his left hand, rolling them over and over.
There were explicit rules to The Four Horsemen; every-thing was supposed to depend on the dice roll. The idea was to come up with an outrageous fantasy, a mind-blower. The four, players around the world were competing. There had never been a game like this - nothing even came close.
Shafer had already prepared an adventure for himself, but there were alternatives for every event. Much depended on the dice.
That was the main point - anything could happen.
He got into the taxi, started it up. Good Lord, was he ready for this!
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Six
