Pop Goes the Weasel

conclusion to any of this.
    We headed toward the beach and soon were skimming past private houses and a few very large estates, some with long, winding driveways that stretched a hundred yards or more from the road to the main house.
    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