Only a few honked now. Other drivers on the parkway were terrified, scared out of their minds.

He exited the Rock Creek Parkway at fifty miles an hour, then he gunned it again.

P Street was even more crowded at that hour than the parkway had been. Washington was just waking up and setting off to work. He could still see that inviting stone wall on Connecticut. He shouldn’t have stopped. He began searching for another rock-solid object, looking for something to hit very hard.

He was doing eighty miles an hour as he approached Dupont Circle. He shot forward like a ground rocket. Two lines of traffic were backed up at a red light. No way out of this one, he thought. Nowhere to go left or right.

He didn’t want to rear-end a dozen cars! That was no way to end this — end his life — by smashing into a commonplace Chevy Caprice, a Honda Accord, a delivery truck.

He swerved violently to the left and veered into the lanes of traffic coming east, coming right at him. He could see the panicked, disbelieving faces behind the dusty, grime-smeared windshields. The horns started to blast, a high-pitched symphony of fear.

He ran the next light and just barely squeezed between an oncoming Jeep and a concrete-mixer truck.

He sped down M Street, then onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and headed toward Washington Circle. The George Washington University Medical Center was up ahead — a perfect ending?

The Metro patrol car appeared out of nowhere, its siren-bullhorn screaming in protest, its rotating beacon glittering, signaling for him to pull over. Shafer slowed down and pulled to the curb.

The cop hurried to Shafer’s car, his hand on his holster. He looked frightened and unsure.

“Get out of the car, sir,” the cop said in a commanding voice. “Get out of the car right now.”

Shafer suddenly felt calm and relaxed. There was no tension left in his body.

“All right. All right. I’m getting out. No problem.” “You know how fast you were going?” the cop asked in an agitated voice, his face flushed a bright red. Shafer noticed that the cop’s hand was still on his gun.

Shafer pursed his lips, thought about his answer. “Well — I’d say about thirty, Officer,” he finally said. “Maybe a little over the speed limit.”

Then he took out an I.D. card and handed it over. “But you can’t do anything about it. I’m with the British Embassy. I have diplomatic immunity.”

II

THAT NIGHT, as he was driving home from work, Geoffrey Shafer started to feel that he was losing control again. He was beginning to frighten himself. His whole life had begun to revolve around a fantasy game he played called the Four Horsemen. In the game, he was the player called Death. The game was everything to him, the only part of his life with real meaning.