One of them got out slowly and walked over to the Jag’s driver’s-side window. The cop swaggered like a hot-shit all-American cinema hero. Shafer wanted to blow him away. Knew he could do it. He had a hot semiautomatic under the seat. He touched the grip, and God, it felt good.

“License and registration, sir,” the cop said, looking unbearably smug. A distorted voice inside Shafer’s head screeched, Shoot him now. It will blow everybody’s mind if you kill another policeman.

He handed over the requested identification, though, and managed a wanker’s sheepish grin. “We’re out of Pampers at home. Trip to the Seven-Eleven was in order. I know I was going too fast, and I’m sorry, Officer. Blame it on baby-brain. You have any kids?”

The patrolman didn’t say a word; not an ounce of civility in the prick. He wrote out a speeding ticket. Took his sweet time about it.

“There you go, Mr. Shafer.” The patrol officer handed him the speeding ticket and said, “Oh, and by the way, we’re watching you, shithead. We’re all over you, man. You didn’t get away with murdering Patsy Hampton. You just think you did.”

A set of car lights blinked on and off, on and off, on the side street where the patrol car had been sitting a few moments earlier.

Shafer stared, squinted back into the darkness. He recognized the car, a black Porsche.

Cross was there, watching. Alex Cross wouldn’t go away.

Chapter 105

ANDREW JONES SAT NEXT TO ME in the quiet, semi-darkened cockpit of the Porsche. We’d been working closely together for almost two weeks. Jones and the Security Service were intent on stopping Shafer before he committed another murder. They were also tracking War, Famine, and Conqueror.

We watched silently as Geoffrey Shafer slowly turned the Jaguar around and drove back toward his house.

“He saw us. He knows my car,” I said. “Good.”

I couldn’t see Shafer’s face in the darkness, but I could almost feel the heat rising from the top of his head. I knew he was crazed. The words “homicidal maniac” kept drifting through my mind. Jones and I were looking at one, and he was still running free. He’d already gotten away with one murder — several murders.

“Alex, aren’t you concerned about possibly putting him into a rage state?” Jones asked as the Jaguar eased to a stop in front of the Georgian-style house. There were no lights on in the driveway area, so we wouldn’t be able to see Geoffrey Shafer for the next few seconds. We couldn’t tell if he’d gone inside.