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Authors: James Patterson
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complete—whenever I’m with you. I would do anything for
you. Or just to be with you for one more moment.”
I stopped for the briefest pause and took a deep breath. She held my eyes, didn’t pull away.
“I love you so much, and I always will. Will you marry me, Christine?”
She continued to look into my eyes, and I saw such warmth and love, but also humility, which is always a part of who Christine
is. It was almost as if she couldn’t imagine my loving her.
“Yes, I will. Oh, Alex, I shouldn’t have waited until tonight. But this is so perfect, so special, I’m almost glad I did.
Yes, I will be your wife.”
I took out an antique engagement ring and gently slid it onto Christine’s finger. The ring had been my mother’s, and I’d kept
it since she died, when I was nine. The exact history of the ring was unclear, except that it went back at least four generations
in the Cross family and was my one and only heirloom.
We kissed in the glorious Children’s Chapel of the National Cathedral, and it was the best moment of my life, never to be
forgotten, never to be diminished in any way.
Yes, I will be your wife
.
Chapter 20
TEN DAYS HAD PASSED without another fantasy murder, but now a powerful mood swing had taken hold of Geoffrey Shafer, and he
let himself go with the flow.
He was flying high as a kite—hyper, manic, bipolar, whatever the doctors wanted to call his condition. He’d already taken
Ativan, Librium, Valium, and Depakote, but the drugs seemed only to fuel his jets.
That night at around six he pulled the black Jaguar out of the lot on the north side of the embassy, passing by the larger-than-life
Winston Churchill statue with its stubby right hand raised in
V
for Victory, its left hand holding his trademark cigar.
Eric Clapton played guitar loudly on the car’s CD. He turned up the volume higher, slapping his hands hard on the steering
wheel, feeling the rhythm, the beat, the primal urge.
Shafer turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and then stopped at a Starbucks. He hurried in and fixed up three coffees his way.
Black as his heart, with six sugars.
Mmm, hmmm
. As usual, he had nearly finished the first before he got out the door.
Once he was inside the cockpit of his Jag again, he sipped a second cup at a more leisurely pace. He downed some Benadryl
and Nascan. Couldn’t hurt; might help. He took out the twenty-sided game dice. He had to play tonight.
Anything twelve or higher would dispatch him directly to Boo Cassady’s place for a kinky quickie before he went home to the
dreaded family. A seven to eleven was total disaster—straight home to Lucy and the kids. Three, four, five, or six meant
he could go to the hideaway for an unscheduled night of high adventure.
“Come three, four, five. Come, baby, come! I need this tonight. Need a fix! I need it!”
He shook the dice for what must have been thirty seconds. He made the suspense last, drew it out. Finally, he released the
dice onto the gray-leather car seat. He watched the roll closely.
Jesus, he’d thrown a four! Defied the odds! His brain was on fire. He could play tonight. The dice had spoken; fate had spoken.
He excitedly punched a number on his cell phone.
“Lucy,”
he said, and he was smiling already.
“Glad I caught you at home, darling…. Yes, you guessed it, first try. We’re completely swamped here again. Can you believe
it? I certainly can’t. They think they own me, and I suppose they’re half right. It’s the drug-trafficking rubbish again.
I’ll be home when I can. Don’t wait up, though. Love to the kids. Kisses to everybody. Me, too, darling. I love you, too.
You’re the best, the most understanding wife alive.”
Very well played
, Shafer thought as he breathed a sigh of relief. Excellent performance, considering the drugs he’d taken. Shafer disconnected
from his wife, whose family money, unfortunately, paid for the town house, the holidays away, even the Jag,
you. Or just to be with you for one more moment.”
I stopped for the briefest pause and took a deep breath. She held my eyes, didn’t pull away.
“I love you so much, and I always will. Will you marry me, Christine?”
She continued to look into my eyes, and I saw such warmth and love, but also humility, which is always a part of who Christine
is. It was almost as if she couldn’t imagine my loving her.
“Yes, I will. Oh, Alex, I shouldn’t have waited until tonight. But this is so perfect, so special, I’m almost glad I did.
Yes, I will be your wife.”
I took out an antique engagement ring and gently slid it onto Christine’s finger. The ring had been my mother’s, and I’d kept
it since she died, when I was nine. The exact history of the ring was unclear, except that it went back at least four generations
in the Cross family and was my one and only heirloom.
We kissed in the glorious Children’s Chapel of the National Cathedral, and it was the best moment of my life, never to be
forgotten, never to be diminished in any way.
Yes, I will be your wife
.
Chapter 20
TEN DAYS HAD PASSED without another fantasy murder, but now a powerful mood swing had taken hold of Geoffrey Shafer, and he
let himself go with the flow.
He was flying high as a kite—hyper, manic, bipolar, whatever the doctors wanted to call his condition. He’d already taken
Ativan, Librium, Valium, and Depakote, but the drugs seemed only to fuel his jets.
That night at around six he pulled the black Jaguar out of the lot on the north side of the embassy, passing by the larger-than-life
Winston Churchill statue with its stubby right hand raised in
V
for Victory, its left hand holding his trademark cigar.
Eric Clapton played guitar loudly on the car’s CD. He turned up the volume higher, slapping his hands hard on the steering
wheel, feeling the rhythm, the beat, the primal urge.
Shafer turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and then stopped at a Starbucks. He hurried in and fixed up three coffees his way.
Black as his heart, with six sugars.
Mmm, hmmm
. As usual, he had nearly finished the first before he got out the door.
Once he was inside the cockpit of his Jag again, he sipped a second cup at a more leisurely pace. He downed some Benadryl
and Nascan. Couldn’t hurt; might help. He took out the twenty-sided game dice. He had to play tonight.
Anything twelve or higher would dispatch him directly to Boo Cassady’s place for a kinky quickie before he went home to the
dreaded family. A seven to eleven was total disaster—straight home to Lucy and the kids. Three, four, five, or six meant
he could go to the hideaway for an unscheduled night of high adventure.
“Come three, four, five. Come, baby, come! I need this tonight. Need a fix! I need it!”
He shook the dice for what must have been thirty seconds. He made the suspense last, drew it out. Finally, he released the
dice onto the gray-leather car seat. He watched the roll closely.
Jesus, he’d thrown a four! Defied the odds! His brain was on fire. He could play tonight. The dice had spoken; fate had spoken.
He excitedly punched a number on his cell phone.
“Lucy,”
he said, and he was smiling already.
“Glad I caught you at home, darling…. Yes, you guessed it, first try. We’re completely swamped here again. Can you believe
it? I certainly can’t. They think they own me, and I suppose they’re half right. It’s the drug-trafficking rubbish again.
I’ll be home when I can. Don’t wait up, though. Love to the kids. Kisses to everybody. Me, too, darling. I love you, too.
You’re the best, the most understanding wife alive.”
Very well played
, Shafer thought as he breathed a sigh of relief. Excellent performance, considering the drugs he’d taken. Shafer disconnected
from his wife, whose family money, unfortunately, paid for the town house, the holidays away, even the Jag,
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