Shaw felt the same way he did when listening to Pentecostal preachers explain Bible passages to their flocks. The words didn’t follow any logic but it was clear the Companions, like parishioners, were under his spell and took the arguments as, well, gospel.
Looking past Henry, Shaw noted another tall man, a Journeyman, looking Shaw’s way. He thought again about Frederick—the man with the orange sunglasses, who might have seen him above the cliff where Adam had died. Was this the same man? The physique was the same but, with the absence of the eyewear, he couldn’t tell.
When Shaw glanced again, the man was focusing once more on Eli.
“If thousands of years of religion and spirituality get the path to immortality wrong, how can I say I get it right?” A chuckle. “What do my Jewish friends say? Chutzpah! What kind of chutzpah do I have? I mean, getting one up on everybody’s God? That’s a pretty big claim. But I’ll tell you the answer. Why do I have the key to open the door to immortality? And no one else does? Do you want to hear?”
“Tell us!”
“We love you!”
“Because I—and only I—know that immortality isn’t based on superstition or belief or faith or hope. It’s based on . . .” He looked over the crowd.
“Science,” five or six ICs cried simultaneously. Shaw wondered how long the rehearsals had been.
“Ex-actly!
“Science. Cold, hard science. In my travels after my death experience, I spoke to doctors, physicists, engineers and neuroscientists. They all agree that our consciousness and awareness—our True Core—is a unique combination of energy impulses.
“When your body ceases to exist, the energy that is your True Core remains. This is because of the First Law of Thermodynamics. I’ve written papers about it. Published all over the world. The First Law of Thermodynamics. And what does it say? That energy is neither created nor destroyed.
“So our True Core is energy and energy exists forever! Immortal! And it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad or a saint or a sinner or a primitive tribesman . . . Or a politician in Washington.” He gave a sigh.
Earning the laughter his delivery deserved.
“After you pass, your True Core will end up again in another body.” A frown. “How does that happen? I’ll be honest. I don’t know yet. It’s like when I was in school. I could always get the answer. I scored great on my tests. Top of my class. But I couldn’t always explain why I got the answer.
“Someday we’ll be able to know how your True Core travels and ends up in another body. Just like flight. We never knew why for thousands of years birds could fly but eventually we learned about the shape of their wings. For now the how doesn’t matter. What does matter is that your True Core will go on. You’ll be reunited with loved ones. Oh, in different forms, but the connection and love will be the same. You won’t have the addictions, the sorrows, the illnesses you have now.”
His eyes dipped to Walter and Sally, then to Abby. Several others.
“This is what the Process does. You start with meditating on intense feelings from the Today and doing that will raise memories from past lives—in the Yesterday. You’ll recognize the bad habits and bad people from your prior lives and eliminate them in the Today. You’ll embrace the good people, engage in the activities that are positive for you. That’s why we say . . .”
The ICs: “From the Yesterday, a better Today!”
“And the Process will condition your True Core for the next life. You’ll avoid the Minuses and embrace the Pluses in the future.”
His Greek chorus: “From the Today, a perfect Tomorrow!”
“The best is yet to come!” Eli shouted.
Clapping and chanting ensued.
Now Samuel’s comment at Intake made sense:
As you’ll see, a guarantee wouldn’t really be practical . . .
You never knew if the Process worked until you were in the grave.
“Now, do you see why I can take away all our pain, your depression, anxieties, mourning? Because you’ll always know that happiness, a gorgeous happiness awaits you in the Tomorrow.”
Eli’s voice rose in volume and resonance. “There’s no death; there’s no separation from your loved ones. Everyone’s True Core moves from life to life, forever.”
He smiled reassuringly over his rapt audience. “When the time comes for us to leave the Today, we give the Foundation’s traditional farewell.” He placed each hand on the opposite shoulder, crossing over his chest. “And we say, ‘Goodbye, until Tomorrow.’”
That’s what Adam had muttered before he jumped to his death.
Eli continued in a soft, droning tone: “The Tomorrow—when you and your loved ones will meet again, when you’ll begin a new life and find the happiness and comfort you deserve. Say it with me. Goodbye . . .”
Collective joyous shouts: “Until Tomorrow.”
“Remember, death doesn’t exist. We never say we ‘die.’ What we say is that we ‘advance.’ We advance from this life into a better one.” As he walked off the stage, he cried, “The best . . .”
“. . . is yet to come.” The crowd erupted in applause and kept the chant going at full volume.
But Colter Shaw didn’t hear the driving words. All that was in his head was the line Victoria had said to him just an hour ago.
When I advance next week, everything will be fine . . .
She didn’t mean graduating from the Process; she meant that like Adam Harper she was going to kill herself.
38.
He had his answers.
Shaw had come here to find out why Adam Harper had leapt from the cliff and learn if Victoria or anyone else—like the wounded deer that Adam had been—was at risk.
Eli—David Ellis, the former real estate developer and stockbroker from Florida—was no simple huckster; he was killing people.
The Osiris Foundation was a suicide cult.
He’d wondered why Adam had offered that eerily calm smile just before he plunged to his death. Now he understood. The young man was going to be reunited with his mother. The last three seconds of his life had not been filled with anguish, as the sniper Dodd had speculated, but joy at what lay ahead in the Tomorrow.
Shaw glanced at the Companions wandering from the Square, some talking excitedly, some pensive. He guessed that the majority of them would consider the immortality angle suspect or purely bogus, resigning themselves to having wasted a chunk of their kids’ tuition signing up for the Process.
But there were also plenty of true believers. Shaw could see it in their eyes. Like Adam, like Victoria, they were convinced there was a better world in the Tomorrow, and they’d take their lives when confronted by too much pain. Or maybe just minor setbacks.
What could Shaw do?
As for law enforcement, he didn’t think a fraud charge would hold up, any more than you could claim you’d been defrauded by donating to a born-again church promising eternal life in heaven. He’d seen Hugh and several AUs beat someone but witnessing the crime wasn’t enough for a prosecution, and it was likely Klein would take to heart Hugh’s threats and stay mum. In any event, Hugh and the AUs would never implicate Eli, who might not even know about the reporter’s assault.
He knew that Harvey Edwards had murdered the San Francisco journalist but could he tie that to Eli? SFPD Detective Etoile might be pursuing the case, though investigations like this would take a long time.
If Shaw could get cell phone records, notes, memos . . . something to connect the homicide to the cult leader. A witness who’d overheard Eli give the command would be perfect but if there were such a person, he or she would be an Inner Circle; they’d never admit to any such orders.
Shaw’s meditation about strategy for Eli’s downfall was postponed for the moment, however. He heard angry shouting from not far away.
Eli, Hugh and the two bodyguards were on the tree-lined pa
th from the stage back to his residence. They had turned and were facing curly-haired John, the Novice from Southern California, whose friend had died in the car crash. He was leaning forward toward Eli and he was angry. Gray and Squat were cautious but seemed to sense that the young man was not a major threat; either could have dropped him with a single blow. Shaw moved off the trail, remaining in the brush, and got within twenty feet of the altercation.
Several other Companions had heard and turned, walking toward the sound. Two AUs appeared and ushered them away with stern faces.
John said harshly, “You took her to the Study Room. She told me what happened there.”
“Novice John,” Eli said, “this isn’t any of your business.”
“It’s a breach of the rules. No relations with staff or Companions.”
“That’s not what the rule is for. In the Study Room we can delve into certain elements of past lives that can be critical in uncovering the True Core.”
“Uncovering,” John said, scoffing at the word. “Let me ask you a question: Is it only the pretty girls you delve into?”
So that was what the Study Room was for, not meditation at all.
Strenuous . . .
Hugh: “You’re out of line, Novice John.”
“I’m not out of line at all. Abby’s sixteen, for God’s sake.”
So, the Guiding Beacon had committed statutory rape.
Eli’s reaction was in fact no reaction at all. His face was momentarily blank, then he looked briefly to Hugh. No reaction from the head of the AUs but Steve frowned slightly then wiped the expression away. Eli said, “I wasn’t aware of that.”
Steve said, “On her application she stated she was eighteen.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve checked that out, don’t you think? Maybe take a look at her, and think, oh, let’s see some ID. Hm? You could’ve found her high school yearbook. They have those online, you know. Or did you just think, she’s hot, and decide not to find out her real age?”
In a bland monotone, Eli said, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Novice John. I will apologize to her myself. And we’ll take measures to make sure this never happens again. I’ll speak to our admissions people.”
John had apparently expected more pushback. He didn’t know where to go from here.
Eli said to him, “To be honest, after this, I don’t think you’re really the right candidate for the Process. I think it’s best for you to withdraw from the Foundation.”
“Hell, yes, I’m quitting. And that immortality babble? How the fuck can you get anybody to buy that?”
Eli said, “We’ll send you a refund.”
Hugh said, “Novice John arrived on one of the shuttles. We have a car to take him back to Snoqualmie Gap.”
“What about Abby?” John asked.
Eli said, “She’ll have to leave too, of course. We’ll have her parents pick her up. I’m truly sorry this happened. But I appreciate your bringing it up.”
“Sorry doesn’t really fix the problem now, does it?”
No! Let it go, Shaw thought.
However, it was too late. In fact the young man’s fate had been sealed the instant he’d brought up the subject of Abby’s visit to the Study Room.
Hugh looked around and made certain no Companions were nearby. In one of his slick martial arts moves, he slammed a fist into the young man’s chest. John gasped and went down hard, breath knocked from his lungs. Hugh reached into his pocket and extracted several zip ties. He bound John’s hands and feet. The man pulled his walkie-talkie off his belt and spoke into the unit. In no more than a minute, a golf cart appeared, driven by an AU. He hefted the young man and dumped him into the back of the cart then covered him with a tarp. Shaw crouched farther into the bushes and the vehicle drove into the woods, turning left onto the hidden path and heading for the main gate.
Eli gave another nod to Hugh, who followed the cart. Eli and his bodyguards returned to the residence.
Shaw had yet another answer: Hugh was no isolated negative. Eli was just as dangerous as his head of the Assistance Unit, and had surely been responsible for ordering Harvey Edwards to murder the journalist in San Francisco.
Shaw turned toward the front gate too. He knew what was going to happen.
The only question: Would he be able to stop it?
39.
Shaw dogged the golf cart as it drove slowly over the bumpy forest path. He kept off the walkway and used trees and foliage for cover.
The cart and Hugh arrived at the YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW gate. Shaw noted that no Companions were present, only some Assistance Unit men. Hugh’s walkie-talkie call had probably been to alert them to keep others away.
At the gate, which was open, the cart stopped. The driver climbed out and looked around, flung the tarp back. He easily pulled John from the bed of the vehicle. The young man was barely conscious. He’d vomited and was groggily protesting, though he had no strength to offer even minor resistance. He was dragged through the parking lot and dumped into the backseat of an old, idling Ford, in which another Companion, a young man, sat behind the wheel. He was a Select—wearing the uniform but no amulet.
A burly AU carried a large backpack—John’s luggage, Shaw guessed—to the Taurus and placed it in the trunk. The driver and Hugh shared some words.
This wasn’t like the journo, who hadn’t actually discovered anything incriminating on the Foundation. A beating would suffice with him. No, John could report Eli’s sexual assault of a minor. The young man would have to die. The supervisor would be giving instructions on how best to murder John and hide the body. Maybe in one of the lakes. Maybe in a deep ravine, where the animals would make the body vanish in days.
So, plan it out.
Shaw couldn’t get to the car here, in the camp itself. Too many AUs.
No phone to call the local police.
So he’d try to stop the Ford while it was still near camp.
He closed his eyes and pictured the map. Heading down the mountain near the camp, Harbinger twisted through a series of switchbacks for several miles. The Ford would have to take those tight turns slowly, giving Shaw a chance to catch it. Once the switchbacks ended, though, Harbinger became a straightaway where the car would accelerate to fifty or so miles per hour.
How to intercept the car?
Only one idea occurred.
He’d run.
As the Ford pulled from the parking lot and through the chain-link gate and the gap in the tall granite cliff, Shaw sprinted east to the path he’d found yesterday evening before dinner, his escape route. Instead of continuing in that direction, though, he turned north, running to the top of the rocky ridge and looking down. He could see the Ford driving perpendicular to him along the first of the switchbacks.
Shaw surveyed the ground before him: a fifteen-degree downward slope through greenery and trees and occasional swamp. The surface was loam and rock, some grass.
Well, get to it.
Shaw plunged down the hillside, heading north toward the switchbacks.
Inhaling hard, and wishing he’d had time to stretch, Shaw picked his way around the dense shrubs and over the uneven ground. No time to pace himself. He was dashing flat out—or at least with as much velocity as he could muster, given the surfaces and obstacles. Occasionally he’d have to choose: slowing to duck under overhangs or angled tree trunks or keeping the speed up while negotiating slippery or gravel-covered rock formations. And always keeping an eye out for spiny plants whose thorns could shred skin.
Running was no alien activity to Colter Shaw.
In the Compound, Ashton taught the children to run as a survival skill—sprinting toward prey and away from predators and disasters like floods and avalanches.
Ashton had told them about the famous Native American runners: the Tarahumara in Mexico and the Sierra Madres.
Their name for themselves is Raramuri, which means “fast runners.” They would regularly course long distances—sometimes two hundred miles—for communication and hunting.
In college, Shaw’s wrestling coach—observing the boy’s speed in workouts—suggested he try out for track and field too, but Colter wasn’t interested. He ran for himself only. It was a comfort, not a competitive activity. Whether long distances or short, he often had the sense that he was flying, an ecstatic sensation. He alone among the siblings enjoyed running. Not surprisingly—he was, after all, the Restless One.
Though zigzagging some to avoid spills and collisions, he largely let gravity and the direction of the slope keep him true to a downward course—like the vertical line in a dollar symbol, bisecting the S-shaped switchbacks of Harbinger Road.
Shaw broke from the woods and crossed the first switchback, observing that the sedan had just been along here; dust was still lingering. On the other side, he plunged into the forest and flew downward once more.
Then . . . oh, hell! His momentum took him onto a flat-topped boulder that he realized too late jutted into space.
No stopping.
But the eight-foot drop ended on—thank you, Mother Nature—a thick bed of loam and crunchy leaves. He hit, rolled and righted himself. Continued on.
Sudden motion in brush to his right. Deer or wolf?
Please, not a bear cub. Shaw could outrun many species. A pissed-off mama black bear was probably not one of them.
One problem: the ridiculous slipper shoes the cult had issued him. If he’d had time, he would have returned to his dormitory and ripped apart a shirt to bind over his feet, like the Tarahumara’s foot covering: they would use huaraches, a skimpy cloth sandal that helped them maintain their speed and distance. Modern-day runners and doctors had studied the footgear in an effort to figure out why they were so conducive to running.
Downward, downward.
At the second switchback, he missed the car again but he was closer to his target this time. The dust was thicker, and he caught a glimpse of a taillight flare as the Select braked for the turn and descent.
The Goodbye Man Page 18
