Pop Goes the Weasel

by James Patterson

  Lucy had been considered a prize catch, and he supposed that she still would be, for some men. Well, they could have her skinny, bony ass and all the passionless sex they could stomach.

  Shafer hoisted up four-year-old twins Tricia and Erica, one in each arm. Two mirror images of their mother. He’d have sold the twins for the price of a postage stamp. He hugged the girls and laughed like the good papa he always pretended to be.

  Then he formally shook twelve-year-old Robert’s hand. The debate being waged in the house was over whether Robert should be sent back to England for boarding school, perhaps to Winchester, where his grandfather had gone. Shafer gave his son a crisp military salute. Once upon a time, Colonel Geoffrey Shafer had been a soldier. Only Robert seemed to remember that part of his father’s life now.

  “I’m only going away to London for a few days, and this is work, not a holiday. I’m not planning to spend my nights at the Athenaeum or anything like that,” he told his family. He was smiling jovially, the way they expected him to be.

  “Try to have some fun while you’re away, Dad. Have some laughs. God knows, you deserve it,” Robert said, talking in the lower-octave man-to-man’s voice that he seemed to be adopting lately.

  “Bye, Daddy! Bye, Daddy,” the twins chorused shrilly, making Shafer want to throw them against the walls.

  “Bye, Erica-san. Bye, Tricia-san.”

  “Remember Orc’s Nest,” Robert said with sudden urgency. “Dragon and The Duelist.” Orc’s Nest was a store that sold role-playing books and gaming equipment. It was located on Earlham, just off Cambridge Circus in London. Dragon and The Duelist were currently the two hot-shit British magazines covering role-playing games.

  Unfortunately for Robert, Shafer wasn’t actually going to London. He had a much better plan for the weekend. He was going to play his fantasy game right here in Washington.

  Chapter 4

  HE SPED DUE EAST, rather than toward Washington’s Dulles Airport, feeling as if a tremendously burdensome weight had been lifted. God, he hated his perfect English family, and even more, their claustrophobic life here in America.

  Shafer’s own family back in England had been “perfect” as well. He had two older brothers, and they’d both been excellent students, model youths. His father had been a military attaché, and the family had traveled around the globe until he was twelve, when they’d returned to England and settled in Guildford, about half an hour outside London. Once there, Shafer began to expand on the schoolboy mischief he’d practiced since he was eight. The center of Guildford contained several historic buildings, and he set out to gleefully deface all of them. He began with the Abbot’s Hospital, where his grandmother was dying. He painted obscenities on the walls. Then he moved on to Guildford Castle, Guildhall, the Royal Grammar School, and Guildford Cathedral. He scrawled more obscene words, and splashed 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 Rugly, where the pranks continued. Then he attended St. John’s College, 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 where 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 wog.”

  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 redbrick or a hideous Easter-egg blue that always made him wince.

  He stopped in front of one of the redbrick 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.

  Chapter 5

  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 D.C. He called it his “Nightmare Machine.”

  He wedged the Jaguar beside the taxicab, 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 magazine, and finally a catalog from DeMask, a rubber and leather fetish wholesaler in Amsterdam, the world’s largest. He did two hundred push-ups, then a few hundred sit-ups, 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 cleanser. 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 taxicab. 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; everything was supposed to depend on the dice roll. The idea was to come up with an outrageous fantasy, a mindblower. 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!

  Chapter 6

  HE HAD A GORGEOUS PLAN mapped out. He would pick up only those few passengers—“fares”—who caught his eye, fired up his imagination to the limit. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all night; he had all weekend. He was on a busman’s holiday.

  His route had been laid out beforehand. First, he drove to the fashionable Adams-Morgan neighborhood. He watch
ed the busy sidewalks, which seemed one long syncopated rhythm of movement. Bar-grazers slouching toward hipness. It seemed that every other restaurant in Adams-Morgan called itself a café. Driving slowly and checking the glittery sights, he passed Café Picasso, Café Lautrec, La Fourchette Café, Bukom Café, Café Dalbol, Montego Café, Sheba Café.

  Around eleven-thirty, on Columbia Road, he slowed the taxicab. His heart began to thump. Something very good was shaping up ahead.

  A handsome-looking couple was leaving the popular Chief Ike’s Mambo Room. A man and a woman, Hispanic, probably in their late twenties. Sensual beyond belief.

  He rolled the dice across the front seat: six, five, four—a total of fifteen. A high count.

  Danger! That made sense. A couple was always tricky and risky.

  Shafer waited for them to cross the pavement, moving away from the restaurant canopy. They came right toward him. How accommodating. He touched the handle of the magnum that he kept under the front seat. He was ready for anything.

  As they started to climb into the taxi, he changed his mind. He could do that!

  Shafer saw that neither of them was as attractive as he’d thought. The man’s cheeks and forehead were slightly mottled; the pomade in his black hair was too thick and greasy. The woman was a few pounds heavier than he liked, plumper than she’d looked from a distance in the flattering streetlights.

  “Off duty,” he said, and sped away. Both of them gave him the finger.

  Shafer laughed out loud. “You’re in luck tonight! Fools! Luckiest night of your lives, and you don’t even know it.”

  The incomparable thrill of the fantasy had completely taken hold of him. He’d had total power over the couple. He had control of life and death.

  “Death be proud,” he whispered.

  He stopped for more coffee at a Starbucks on Rhode Island Avenue. Nothing like it. He purchased three black coffees and heaped six sugars in each.

  An hour later, he was in Southeast. He hadn’t stopped for another fare. The streets were crowded to the max with pedestrians. There weren’t enough taxis, not even gypsies in this part of Washington.

  He regretted having let the Hispanic couple get away. He’d begun to romanticize them in his mind, to visualize them as they’d looked in the streetlight. Remembrance of things past, right? He thought of Proust’s monumental opening line: “For a long time I used to go to bed early.” And so had Shafer—until he discovered the game of games.

  Then he saw her—a perfect brown goddess standing right there before him, as if someone had just given him a wonderful present. She was walking by herself, about a block from E Street, moving fast, purposefully. He was instantly high again.

  He loved the way she moved, the swivel of her long legs, the exactness of her carriage.

  As he came up behind her, she began looking around, checking the street. Looking for a taxi? Could it be? Did she want him?

  She had on a light cream suit, a purple silk shirt, high heels. She looked too classy and adult to be going to a club. She appeared to be in control of herself.

  He quickly rolled the twenty-sided dice again and held his breath. Counted the numerals. His heart leaped. This was what the Horsemen was all about.

  She was waving her hand at him, signaling. “Taxi!” she called. “Taxi! Are you free?”

  He guided the taxi over to the curb, and she took three quick, delicate steps toward him. She was wearing shimmery, silken high heels that were just delightful. She was much prettier up close. She was a nine and a half out of ten.

  The cab door swung open and blocked his view of her for a second.

  Then he saw that she was carrying flowers, and wondered why. Something special tonight? Well, that was certainly true. The flowers were for her own funeral.

  “Oh, thank you so much for stopping.” She spoke breathlessly as she settled into the taxi. He could tell that she was letting herself relax and feel safe. Her voice was soothing, sweet, down-to-earth and real.

  “At your service.” Shafer turned and smiled at her. “By the way, I’m Death. You’re my fantasy for this weekend.”

  Chapter 7

  MONDAY MORNINGS I usually work the soup kitchen at St. Anthony’s in Southeast, where I’ve been a volunteer for the past half-dozen years. I do the seven-to-nine shift, three days a week.

  That morning I felt restless and uneasy. I was still getting over the Mr. Smith case, which had taken me all over the East Coast and to Europe. Maybe I needed a real vacation, a holiday far away from Washington.

  I watched the usual lineup of men, women, and children who had no money for food. It was about five deep and went up Twelfth Street to the second corner. It seemed such a pity, so unfair that so many folks still go hungry in Washington, or get fed only once a day.

  I had started helping out at the kitchen years before on account of my wife, Maria. She was doing casework as a social worker at St. Anthony’s when we first met. Maria was the uncrowned princess of St. Anthony’s; everybody loved her, and she loved me. She had been shot, murdered in a drive-by incident not far from the soup kitchen. We’d been married four years and had two small children. The case has never been solved, and that still tortures me. Maybe that’s what drives me to solve every case I can, no matter how bad the odds.

  At St. Anthony’s soup kitchen, I help make sure nobody gets too riled up or causes undue trouble during meals. I’m six-three, around two hundred pounds, and built for peacekeeping, if and when it’s necessary. I can usually ward off trouble with a few quiet words and nonthreatening gestures. Most of these people are here to eat, though, not fight or cause trouble.

  I also dish out peanut butter and jelly to anyone who wants seconds or even thirds, of the stuff. Jimmy Moore, the Irish American who runs the soup kitchen with much love and just the right amount of discipline, has always believed in the healing power of p.b. and j. Some of the regulars at the kitchen call me “Peanut Butter Man.” They’ve been doing it for years.

  “You don’t look so good today,” said a short ample woman who’s been coming to the kitchen for the past year or two. I know her name is Laura, and that she was born in Detroit and has two grown sons. She used to work as a housekeeper on M Street in Georgetown, but the family felt she’d gotten too old for the job and let her go with only a couple weeks’ severance and warm words of appreciation.

  “You deserve better. You deserve me,” Laura said, and laughed mischievously. “What do you say?”

  “Laura, you’re too kind with your compliments,” I said, serving up her usual extra dish. “Anyway, you’ve met Christine. You know I’m already spoken for.”

  Laura giggled as she hugged herself with both arms. She had a fine, healthy laugh, even under the circumstances. “A young girl has to dream, you know. Nice to see you, as always.”

  “Same to you, Laura. As always, nice to see you. Enjoy the meal.”

  “Oh, I do. You can see I do.”

  As I said my cheery hellos and dished out heaped portions of peanut butter, I allowed myself to think about Christine. Laura was probably right; maybe I didn’t look so good today. I probably hadn’t looked too terrific for a few days.

  I remembered a night about two weeks back. I had just finished working a multiple-homicide case in Boston. Christine and I stood on the porch in front of her house out in Mitchellville. I was trying to live my life differently, but it’s hard to change. I had a saying I really liked: HEART LEADS HEAD.

  I could smell the flowers in the night air, roses and impatiens growing in profusion. I could also smell Gardenia Passion, a favorite perfume that Christine was wearing that night.

  She and I had known each other for a year and a half. We’d met during a murder investigation that had ended with the death of her husband. Eventually we began to go out. I was thinking that it had all been leading to this moment on the porch. At least it had in my mind.

  I had never seen Christine when she didn’t look good to me and make me feel lightheaded. She’s tall,
almost five-ten, and that’s nice. She had a smile that could probably light up half the country. That night, she was wearing tight, faded jeans and a white T-shirt knotted around her waist. Her feet were bare, and her nails were dabbed with red polish. Her beautiful brown eyes were shining.

  I reached out and took her into my arms, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world. I forgot all about the terrible case I’d just finished; I forgot about the particularly vicious killer known as Mr. Smith.

  I cupped her sweet, kind face gently in my hands. I like to think that nothing scares me anymore, and many things don’t, but I guess the more good things you have in your life, the easier it is to experience fear. Christine felt so precious to me —so maybe I was scared.

  Heart leads head.

  It isn’t the way most men act, but I was learning.

  “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life, Christine. You help me see and feel things in new ways. I love your smile, your way with people—especially kids—your kindness. I love to hold you like this. I love you more than I could say if I stood here and talked for the rest of the night. I love you so much. Will you marry me, Christine?”

  She didn’t answer right away. I felt her pull back, just a little, and my heart caught. I looked into her eyes, and what I saw was pain and uncertainty. It nearly broke my heart.

  “Oh, Alex, Alex,” she whispered, and looked as if she might cry. “I can’t give you an answer. You just came back from Boston. You were on another horrible, horrible murder case. I can’t take that. Your life was in danger again. That terrible madman was in your house. He threatened your family. You can’t deny any of that.”

  I couldn’t. It had been a terrifying experience, and I had nearly died. “I won’t deny anything you said. But I do love you. I can’t deny that, either. I’ll quit the police force if that’s what it takes.”