Nana showed lots of teeth — her own, too. “I do feel pretty good, considering everything,” she said. “You’re still chasing him, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing nights. You and John Sampson, that Englishman Andrew Jones.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I am. And we’re going to get him. There may be four men involved in a series of murders. Here and in Asia, Jamaica, London.”

She beckoned to me with a bent, crabbed forefinger. “Come closer now.”

I grinned at her. She’s such a soft touch, really, such a sweetie, but such a hard-ass, too. “You want me to sit down on your lap, old woman? You sure about that?”

“Good Lord, no. Don’t sit on me, Alex. Just lean over and show some respect for my age and wisdom. Give me a big hug while you’re at it.”

I did as I was told, and I noticed there wasn’t any fuss or clatter coming from the kitchen anymore.

I glanced at the screen door and saw that my two little busy-bodies were watching, their faces pressed against the mesh wire. I waved them away from the door, and their faces disappeared.

“I want you to be so very, very careful,” Nana whispered as I held her gently. “But I want you to get him somehow, someway. That man is the worst of all of them. Geoffrey Shafer is the worst, Alex, the most evil.”

Chapter 107

THE GAME had never really ended, but it had changed tremendously since the trial in Washington.

It was five-thirty in the evening in London, and Conqueror was waiting at his computer. He was both anxious and feverishly excited about what was happening: the Four Horsemen was starting up again.

It was 1:30 A.M. in Manila, in the Philippines. Famine was ready for a message, and a new beginning to the game he loved.

And War awaited news of the Four Horsemen at his large house on the island of Jamaica. He, too, was obsessed with how it would end and whether he would be the winner.

It was twelve-thirty in Washington. Geoffrey Shafer was driving fast to the White Flint Mall, from the embassy. He had a lot to accomplish that afternoon. He was revved and manic.

He sped up Massachusetts Avenue, past the British Embassy and the vice president’s house. He wondered if he was being followed and supposed it was possible. Alex Cross and the other police were out there, just waiting to get him. He hadn’t spotted them yet, which only meant that they were getting serious now.

He made a quick right, hit a traffic circle, and shot onto Nebraska Avenue, heading toward American University. He snaked around back roads near the university, then got on Wisconsin and sped toward the mall.