She blathered on in the usual maddening way. She and the twins had been going to see a movie, Ante, but they'd rather stay at home with him. They could order from Pizza Hut. It would be fun for a change.
'Yes, what fun,' Shafer said, and cringed at the thought. Pizza Hut served indigestible cardboard drenched with very bad tomato soup. He hung up, then took a couple of Vicodin and a Xanax. He thought he could feel cracks slowly opening up in his skull.
He made a dangerous U-turn on Massachusetts Avenue and headed toward home. He passed the Jeep going in the opposite direction and was tempted to wave. A woman driver. Now, who was she?
The pizza got to the house at around seven and Shafer opened an expensive bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. He washed down another Xanax with the wine in the downstairs bathroom. Felt a little confused, fuzzy around the edges. That was all right, he supposed.
Jesus Christ, he couldn't stand being with his family, though; he felt as if he were going to crawl out of his skin. Ever since he'd been a boy in England he'd had a repetitive fantasy that he was actually a reptile and could shed his own skin. He'd had the dream long before he'd read any Kafka; he still had the disturbing dream.
He rolled three dice in his hand as he sipped his wine, played the game at the dinner table. If the number seventeen came up, he would murder them all tonight.
He swore he would do it. First the twins, then Robert, and finally Lucy.
She kept prattling on and on about her day. He smiled blithely as she told him about her shopping trip to Bloomingdale's and Bath Body Works and Bruno Cipriani at the mall. He considered the supreme irony of taking truckloads of antidepressants, and being more depressed. Jesus, he was cycling down again. How low could he go?
'Come, seventeen.' he finally said aloud.
'What, darling?' Lucy suddenly asked. 'Did you just say something?'
'He's already playing tonight's game.' said Robert, and snickered. 'Right, Daddy? It's your fantasy game. Am I right?'
'Right, son.' Shafer replied, thinking, Christ, I am mad!
He let the dice gently fall on the dining table, though. He would kill them - if their number came up. The dice rolled over and over, finally banking off the greasy pizza box.
'Daddy and his games.' Lucy said, and laughed. Erica and Tricia laughed. Robert laughed.
Six, five, one, he counted. Damn, damn.
'Are the two of us going to play tonight?' Robert asked.
Shafer forced a smile. 'Not tonight, Rob Boy. I'd like to, but I can't. I have to go out again.'
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Sixty-Six
This was getting very interesting. Patsy Hampton watched Shafer leave the large and expensive house in Kalorama around eight thirty. He was off on another of his nightly jaunts. The guy was a regular vampire.
She knew that Cross and his friends called the killer the Weasel, and it certainly fit Shafer. There was something uncomfortable about him, something bent.
She followed the black Jag, but he didn't head toward Southeast, which disappointed her. He drove to a trendy supermarket, Sutton on the Run, which was just off Dupont Circle. Hampton knew the pricey store and called it Why Pay Less.
He parked the sports car illegally, then jogged inside. Diplomatic immunity. That pissed her the hell off. What a weasel he was, real Euro-trash.
While he was in the market, Hampton made a command decision. She was pretty sure she was going to talk to Alex Cross. She had thought a lot about it, the pros and cons. Now she figured that she might be endangering lives in Southeast by not sharing at least some of what she knew. If someone died, she wouldn't be able to bear it. Besides, Cross would have gotten the information if she hadn't interceded with Chuck Hufstedler.
Shafer shuffled back out of Sutton on the Run and glanced around crowded Dupont Circle. He had a small bag of overpriced groceries clutched in one arm. Groceries for whom, though? He didn't look in the direction of her Jeep, which was just peeking around the corner.
She followed the black Jag at a safe distance in the light traffic. He got on Connecticut Avenue. She didn't think he'd spotted her, though he was an MI6 man, so she needed to be careful.
Shafer wasn't far from Embassy Row. He wouldn't be going back to work now, would he? Why the groceries if he was headed to the embassy?
The Jaguar eventually turned into the underground garage of a prewar building in Woodley Park. THE FARRAGUT was engraved on a brass sign in front.
Patsy Hampton waited a few minutes, then she pulled into the garage behind the attendant in a small kiosk and identified herself.
'The Jag that came in before me, ever see it here before?' she asked.
The man nodded. He was around her age and she could tell he wanted to impress her if he could. 'Sure. I don't know him to talk to, though. Comes here to visit a lady on ten. Dr. Elizabeth Cassady. She's a shrink. I assume he's a patient. He's got a funny look in his eyes.' the attendant said, 'but so do most people.'
'How about me?' Hampton asked.
