He wanted to live.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Fifteen
Sampson and I sprinted toward the secluded wing of the hotel where Oliver Highsmith had his suite. There had been gunshots, but we couldn't be everywhere at once. We'd heard the pistol reports all the way on the other side of the Jamaica Inn.
I wasn't prepared for the bloody massacre scene we found. Two English agents were down in the courtyard. I'd worked with them both, just as I'd worked side by side with Patsy Hampton.
Jones and another agent, in addition to a team of local detectives, were already crowded into Highsmith's suite. The room was abuzz. Everything had turned to chaos and carnage in a burst of homicidal madness.
'Shafer went through two of my people to get here,' Jones said in an angry voice strained with tension and sadness. He was already smoking a cigarette. 'He came in shooting, took down Laura and Gwynn. Highsmith is dead, too. We haven't found George Bayer.'
I knelt and quickly checked the damage to Oliver Highsmith's skull. It wasn't subtle. He'd been shot at point- blank range and the wound was massive. I knew from Jones that Shafer had resented the senior man's intelligence, and now he'd blown out his brains. 'I told you he liked to kill. He has to do this, Andrew. He can't stop. 'Whitehead!' I said. 'The end of the game.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Sixteen
We drove faster than the narrow, twisting road safely allowed, barreling toward James Whitehead's home. It wasn't far.
We passed a road sign that read: MALLARD'S BEACH -SAN ANTONIO.
Sampson and I were quiet, lost in our own thoughts. I kept thinking of Christine, couldn't stop the images from coming. We have her. Was that still true?
I didn't know, and only Shafer, or possibly Whitehead, could give me the answer. I wanted to keep both of them alive if I could. Everything about the island, the exotic smells and sights, reminded me of Christine. I tried, but I couldn't imagine a good conclusion to any of this.
We headed toward the beach and soon we were skimming past private houses and a few very large estates. Some of the estates had long, winding driveways that stretched a hundred yards or more to the main house.
In the distance I could see the glow of passing house lights, and I figured that we had to be close to James Whitehead's. Was he still alive? Or had Shafer already come and gone?
Jones's voice came in spits on the radio. 'This is his place, Alex. Glass-and-stone house up ahead. I don't see anybody.'
We pulled in near the crushed-seashell driveway to the house. It was dark, pitch black and satiny. There were no lights anywhere on the property.
We jumped out of our cars. There were eight of us, including one team of detectives from Kingston. The detectives were Kenyon and Anthony, and both were acting nervous.
I didn't blame them. I felt exactly the same. The Weasel was on a rampage and we already knew that he was suicidal. Geoffrey Shafer was a homicidal-suicidal maniac.
Sampson and I ran through a small garden that led to a pool and cabana area on one side, an expanse of lawn and the sea on the other.
We could see Jones's people beginning to fan out in the grounds. Shafer had come into the hotel with guns blazing. He didn't seem to care whether he survived. But I did. I needed to question him. I had to know what he knew. I needed all the answers.
'What about this prick Whitehead?' Sampson asked as we hurried toward the house.
It was dark near the water, a good place from which Shafer could attack. Dark shadows stretched out from every tree and bush.
'I don't know, John. He was at the hotel briefly. He's a player, so he's after Shafer, too. This is it. Endgame. One of them wins the game now.'
'He's here,' I whispered. 'I know it.'
I could definitely sense Geoffrey Shafer's presence. I was sure about it, and the fact that I knew scared me almost as much as he did.
Shots came from the darkened house.
My heart sank and I had the most disturbing and contradictory thought: Don't let Geoffrey Shafer be dead.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Seventeen
One more target, one last opponent, and then it was over. Eight glorious years of play, eight years of revenge, eight years of hatred. He couldn't bear to lose the game. He'd shown Bayer and Highsmith a thing or two; now he'd demonstrate to James Whitehead who was truly 'superior'.
Shafer had noisily crashed through thick foliage, then waded waist deep into a foul-smelling swamp. The water was distressingly tepid and the oily green scum on the surface was an inch or two thick.
He tried not to think about the swamp, or the insects and snakes that might infest it. He'd waded into far worse waters during his days and nights in Asia. He kept his eyes set on James Whitehead's expensive beach house. One more to go, just one more Horseman.
He'd been to the villa before, knew it well. Beyond the swamp was another patch of thick foliage, and then a chain-link fence and Whitehead's manicured yard. He figured that Whitehead wouldn't expect him to come through the swamp. War was cleverer than the others though. He'd been committing murders in the Caribbean for years, and not even a blip had shown up to suggest a pattern to the police. War had also helped him in the matter of Christine Johnson, and that had gone perfectly. It was a mystery, inside a mystery, all inside a complex game.
Shafer lost track of everything real for a moment or two - where he was, who he was, what he had to do.