In the distance I could see the glow of other house lights, and I figured we had to be close to James Whitehead’s. Was War still alive? Or had Shafer already come and gone?
Jones’s voice came in spits over 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 leading to the house. It was dark, pitch-black and satiny. There were no lights on anywhere on the property.
We jumped out of our cars. There were eight of us in all, including one team of detectives from Kingston, Kenyon and Anthony, both of whom were acting nervous.
I didn’t blame them. I felt exactly the same way. The Weasel was on a rampage, and we already knew he was suicidal. Geoffrey Shafer was a homicidal-suicidal maniac.
Sampson and I ran through a small garden that had a pool and cabana area on one side and an expanse of lawn and the sea on the other.
We could see Jones’s people beginning to fan out across the grounds. Shafer came into the hotel with guns blazing, I thought. He doesn’t seem to care whether or not he survives. But I do. I need to question him. I have to know what he knows. I need 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 for Shafer to attack from. 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 of it. And the fact that I knew scared me almost as much as he himself did.
Shots sounded from the darkened house.
My heart sank, and I had the most disturbing and contradictory thought: Please don’t let Geoffrey Shafer be dead.
Chapter 117
ONE MORE TARGET, one last opponent, and then it would be 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 which of them 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.
Now, that was scary—a little mental breakdown at the worst possible time. Ironically, it was Whitehead who had first gotten him dependent on uppers and downers in Asia.
Shafer began to slosh across the fetid swamp, hoping the water wouldn’t be over his head. It wasn’t. He came out and climbed over the chain-link fence on the far side. He started across the back lawn.
He had the most powerful obsession about destroying James Whitehead. He wanted to torture him—but where would he find the time? Whitehead had been his first handler in Thailand, and then in the Philippines. More than anyone, Whitehead had made Shafer into a killer. Whitehead was the one he held responsible.
The house was still dark, but Shafer believed War was in there.
Suddenly a gun fired from the house. War indeed.
Shafer began to zig and zag like an infantryman thoroughly trained in combat. His heart was thundering. Reality came in odd stop-and-go movements. He wondered if Whitehead had a nightscope on his gun. And how good a shot he was.
Whether he’d ever been in combat.
Was he frightened? Or was he excited by the action?
He figured that the doors to the house were locked and that War was crouched low, hiding inside, waiting to take a shot without too much exposure. He had never done his own dirty work, though; none of them had—not Whitehead, not Bayer, not Highsmith. They had used Death, and now he’d come for them. If they hadn’t agreed to meet in Jamaica, he would have come after them one at a time.
Shafer broke into a full sprint toward the house. Gunshots exploded from inside. Bullets whizzed past him. He hadn’t been hit. Because he was so good? Or because War wasn’t?
Shafer threw both arms up in front of his face. This was it. He dived through the large picture window in the loggia.
Glass exploded everywhere as the window blew into a thousand small pieces. He was inside!
War was here, close by. Where was his enemy? How good was James Whitehead? His mind was filled with important questions. A dog was barking somewhere in the house.
Shafer tumbled across the tile floor and hit the leg of a heavy table, but came up firing anyway. Nothing. No one was in the room.
He heard voices outside, in front. The police were here! Always trying to spoil his fun.
Then he saw War trying to run. Tall, gangly, with longish black hair. War had blinked first. He was heading toward the front door, looking for help from the police, of all people.
“You can’t make it, Whitehead. Stop! I won’t let you get out! Stay in the game.”
Whitehead apparently realized he couldn’t get out the front door. He turned toward a stairway, and Shafer followed, only a few steps behind. War turned sharply and fired again.
Shafer flicked his hand at a wall switch, and the hall lights flashed on.
“Death has come for you! It’s your time. Look at me! Look at Death!” he screamed.
Whitehead kept moving, and Shafer calmly shot him in the buttocks. The wound was large, gaping, and Whitehead screamed like a stuck pig. He whirled and fell halfway down the stairs. His face slammed against the metal railing as he fell.
He finally lay writhing at the foot of the stairs, where Shafer shot him again, this time between the legs. War screamed again. Then he began to moan and to sob.
Shafer stood over him, triumphant, his heart bursting. “You think sanctions are a game? Is this still a game to you?” he asked in the softest voice. “I believe it’s great fun, but do you?”
Whitehead was sobbing as he tried to speak. “No, Geoffrey. It’s not a game. Please stop. That’s enough.”
Shafer began to smile. He showed his enormous teeth. “Oh, you’re so wrong. It’s lovely! It is the most amazing mind game you could imagine. You should feel what I feel right now, the power over life and death.”
He had a thought, and it changed everything, changed the game for him and Whitehead. This switch was so much better than what he’d originally planned.
“I’ve decided to let you live—not very well, but you will live.”
He fired the semiautomatic again, this time into the base of Whitehead’s spine.
“You will never forget me, and the game will continue for the rest of your life. Play well. I know I shall.”
Chapter 118
THE MOMENT WE HEARD the gunshots, we ran toward the main house. I raced ahead of the others. I had to get to Shafer before they did. I had to take him myself. I had to talk to him, to know the truth once and for all.
I saw Shafer slip out a side door of the house. Whitehead must be dead. Shafer had won the game.
He was running toward the sea, moving fast and purposefully. He disappeared beh
ind a small sand dune shaped like a turtle. Where was he going? What was next for him?
Then I saw him again. He was kicking off his shoes and getting out of his trousers. What was he doing?
I heard Sampson come running up behind me. “Don’t kill him, John! Not unless we have to,” I yelled.
“I know! I know!” he called.
I plunged ahead.
Shafer turned and fired off a shot at me. The distance was too great for any real accuracy with a handgun, but still, he was a good shot, and he came pretty close. He knew how to use a gun, and not just from a few feet away.
I glanced over and saw that Sampson was kicking off his sneakers, pulling away his pants. I did the same with my sweats and T-shirt.
I pointed out to sea. “He must have a boat out there. One of those.”
We saw Shafer striding into the low waves of the Caribbean, heading into a cone of light made by the moon.
He did a shallow dive and started to swim in a smooth-looking crawl stroke.
Sampson and I were down to our underwear, nothing very pretty. We both made shallow dives into the sea.
Shafer was a very strong swimmer and was already pulling ahead of us. He swam with his face in the water, lifting it out sideways after several strokes to catch a breath.
His blond hair was slicked back and shone in the moonlight. One of the boats bobbing out there had to be his. But which one?
I kept a single thought in my head: stretch and kick, stretch and kick. I felt as if I were gathering strength from somewhere inside. I had to catch Shafer—I had to know the truth about what he’d done to Christine.
Stretch and kick, stretch and kick.
Sampson was laboring behind me, and then he started to fall even farther back.
“Go,” I called to him. “Go back for help. I’ll be all right. Get somebody out there to check those boats.”
“He swims like a fish,” Sampson shouted back.
“Go. I’ll be fine. Hold my own.”
Up ahead I could still see Shafer’s head and the tops of his shoulders glistening in the creamy white moonlight. He was stroking evenly, powerfully.
I kept going, never looking back to shore, not wanting to know how far I had come already. I refused to be tired, to give up, to lose.
I swam harder, trying to gain some sea on Shafer. The boats were still a good way away. He was still going strong, though. No sign of tiring.
I played a mind game of my own. I stopped looking to see where he was. I concentrated only on my own stroke. There was nothing but the stroke; the stroke was the whole universe.
My body was feeling more in sync with the water, and I was buoyed as it got deeper. My stroke was getting stronger and smoother.
I finally looked. He was starting to struggle. Or maybe that was just what I wanted to see. Anyway, it gave me a second wind, added strength.
What if I actually caught him out here? Then what? We’d fight to the death?
I couldn’t let him get to his boat before me. He’d have guns on board. I needed to beat him there. I had to win this time. Which boat was his?
I swam harder. I told myself that I was in good shape, too. And I was. I’d been to the gym every day for almost a year—ever since Christine disappeared.
I looked up again and was shocked at what I saw.
Shafer was there! Only a few yards away. A few more strokes. Had he lost it? Or was he waiting for me, gathering strength?
The closest boat was no more than a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards away.
“Cramp!” he called out. “Bad one!” Then Shafer went under.
Chapter 119
I DIDN’T KNOW what to think or exactly what to do next. The pain on Shafer’s face looked real; he looked afraid. But he was also a good actor.
I felt something underneath me! He grabbed hard between my legs. I yelled and managed to twist away, though he’d hurt me.
Then we were grabbing at each other, struggling like underwater wrestlers. Suddenly, he pulled me under with him. He was strong. His long arms were like powerful vises, and he held me tightly.
We went down, and I started to feel the coldest, most serious fear of my life. I didn’t want to drown. Shafer was winning. He always found a way.
Shafer stared into my eyes. His eyes were incredibly intense and manic and crazed. His mouth was closed, but it was twisted and evil-looking. He had me; he would win again.
I pushed forward as hard as I could. When I felt him straining against me, I reversed directions. I kicked out with my leg and caught Shafer under the jaw, maybe in the throat. I hit him with all of my strength, and he began to sink.
His long blond hair floated up around his face. His arms and legs went limp.
He began to sink, and I followed him. It was even darker under the surface. I grabbed one of his arms.
I barely caught him. His weight was pulling me with him, toward the bottom. I couldn’t let him go. I had to know the truth about Christine. I couldn’t go on with my life unless I knew.
I had no idea how deep the water was here. Shafer’s eyes had been wide open, and so had his mouth; his lungs must be filling with water by now.
I wondered if I’d broken his neck with my kick. Was he dead, or just unconscious? I took some satisfaction in the idea that I might’ve broken the Weasel’s neck.
Then it really didn’t matter. Nothing did. I had no more breath. My chest felt as if it would collapse. There was a fire spreading wildly inside me. Then a severe ringing started in both ears. I was dizzy and starting to lose consciousness.
I let Shafer go, let him sink to the bottom. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t think about him anymore. I had to get to the surface. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.
I swam frantically up, pulled at the water, kicked with all my might. I didn’t think I could make it; it was too far to the surface.
I had no more breath.
Then I saw Sampson’s face looming above me. Close, very close. It gave me strength.
His head was framed against a few stars and the blue-black of the sky. “Sugar,” he called as I finally came up for air.
He held me up, let me get my breath, my precious breath. We both treaded water for a while. My mind was reeling.
I let my eyes explore the surface for some sign of Shafer. My vision was blurred, but I didn’t see him. I was certain he’d drowned.
Sampson and I slowly paddled back to shore.
I hadn’t gotten what I needed out there. I hadn’t been able to learn the truth from Shafer before he drowned.
Once or twice I glanced back to make sure that Shafer wasn’t following us, that he was gone. There was no sign of him. There was only the sound of our own tired strokes cutting into the tide.
Chapter 120
IT TOOK TWO MORE exhausting days and nights to finish with the local police investigation, but it was good to keep focused and busy. I no longer had any hope of finding Christine, or even discovering what had happened to her.
I knew it was remotely possible that Shafer hadn’t taken Christine, that it had been some other madman from my past, but I didn’t give that possibility more than a passing thought. I couldn’t go there. It was too crazy an idea, even for me.
I’d been unable to grieve from the start, but now the monstrous finality of Christine’s fate struck me with all of its brutal force. I felt as if my insides had been hollowed out. The constant, dull ache I had known for so long now became a sharp stab of pain that pierced my heart every waking moment. I couldn’t sleep, yet I felt as if I were never fully awake.
Sampson knew what was happening to me. There was nothing he could say, but he made comforting small talk, anyway.
Nana called me at the hotel, and I knew it was Sampson’s doing, though both of them denied it. Jannie and Damon got on the phone, and they were both sweet and kind and full of life and hopefulness. They even put Rosie the cat on for a friendly long-distance meow. They didn’t mention Christine, but I knew she
was always in their thoughts.
On our final night on the island, Sampson and I had dinner with Jones. We had become friendly with him, and he finally told me some facts he had previously withheld for Security reasons. He wanted me to have some closure; he felt I deserved that much.
Back in 1989, after joining MI6, Shafer had been recruited by James Whitehead. Whitehead in turn reported to Oliver Highsmith, as did George Bayer. Shafer performed at least four “sanctions” in Asia over the next three years. It was suspected, but never proved, that he, Whitehead, and Bayer had also murdered prostitutes in Manila and Bangkok. These murders were obviously the precursors to the Jane Does, and to the game itself. All in all, it had been one of the worst scandals in the history of the Security Service. And it had effectively been covered up. That was how Jones wanted to keep it, and I had no worthwhile objection. There were already more than enough unfortunate stories to keep people cynical about their governments.
Our dinner broke up at around eleven, and Jones and I promised to keep in touch. There was one bit of disturbing news, though no one wanted to overstate the significance of it: Geoffrey Shafer’s body still hadn’t been found. Somehow that seemed a fitting end.
Sampson and I were due to catch the first flight to Washington on Tuesday morning. It was scheduled to leave at ten past nine.
That morning, the skies were swirling with black clouds. Heavy rain pounded on our car’s roof all the way from the hotel to the Donald Sangster Airport. Schoolchildren ran along the side of the road, shielding themselves from the rain with flopping banana-tree leaves.
The downpour caught us good as we tried to dash out from under the cover of the tin overhang outside the rent-a-car depot. The rain was cool, though, and it felt good on my face and head and on the shirt plastered to my back.
“It’ll be real good to be home,” Sampson said as we finally made it to a shelter under the metal roof painted a bright yellow.
“I’m ready to go,” I agreed. “I miss Damon and Jannie and Nana. I miss being home.”