The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  There was one more switchback before the straightaway. Shaw inhaled deeply and continued the race. Here, the incline was steeper and occasionally he would lose his footing and stumble before catching himself. His wrestling and grappling training helped; he didn’t fight the tumbling but used it to increase his speed.

  And as he ran he thought: What to do when he caught up with the car?

  He decided he’d use a rock to spider the windshield, directly in front of the Select. It would startle him into braking instinctively. Then another rock through the driver’s side window—the front windshield glass was tough, the side ones much less so. He’d pop open the Select’s belt and drag the man out onto the road, then jump behind the wheel himself.

  Shaw would drive to the authorities in Snoqualmie Gap. He would have preferred to wait and find hard evidence linking Eli and Hugh to the various crimes but he had no choice; he had to save John’s life.

  Once at the police station or sheriff’s department, he’d explain to the cops what he’d seen, tell them about Eli’s assault of Abby. Shaw would tell them about the Foundation’s connection with the death of the journalist, Gary Yang. He’d explain too about the beating of the other reporter he’d witnessed in the camp.

  The crimes sounded circumstantial, and some of them absurd. But he’d pitch the case as best he could.

  He was now at the third switchback, the last one. Good. He’d beaten the Ford here. There was no dust hovering on this portion of Harbinger and he could see much of the straightaway. No cars. He rested briefly, head down, panting hard, ignoring the stitch in his side. He collected two rocks from the shoulder, both about the size of grapefruits. Kneading one in his right hand, he slipped into the cover of tall grass by the side of the road.

  Waiting, ready to pitch the rock toward the driver’s side windshield.

  Going over the maneuvers in his mind.

  But then—no car.

  Another sixty seconds passed.

  Then he heard, from uphill, the sound of a collision. Crunching metal, the car’s horn sounding. It blared for a moment, then went silent.

  Shaw turned and, drawing yet another deep breath, he slogged up the hill.

  When he broke from the woods this time, he saw in front of him the Ford, which had veered off the U-shaped curve from the second switchback to the third. It had slammed into a ten-foot-high rock face just off the shoulder. The front of the car was caved in and the airbags had deployed. The vehicle had been doing no more than forty or so; why had it crashed?

  Inside the car was movement. The driver was looking calmly at John, who still sat in the backseat. He’d been tossed around and was groggy and stunned—probably more from Hugh’s earlier blow than the collision. He was slowly shaking his head.

  Shaw had to get John out before the Select tried to kill him another way. He’d engage Hugh’s hitman, take him down and bind his feet. Then he’d help John hike into town. A long way but their only option.

  Shaw sprinted toward the car, gripping one of the rocks tightly in his right hand.

  He was still fifty feet away when the Select emptied the gasoline container throughout the interior of the vehicle. The Select looked out the window and happened to see Shaw. If he was surprised at Shaw’s presence he didn’t reveal it. He gave a faint smile, gave the two-armed farewell salute, then flicked a cigarette lighter, turning the interior of the car into an inferno.

  40.

  Cars generally don’t blow up spectacularly in real life the way screenwriters and directors would have it.

  There’s not enough air in the gas tank for explosive combustion. But when a fire starts elsewhere, fuel lines and gaskets melt and the aromatic and deadly liquid flows out to add to the conflagration. This happened now. A small field of orange flames flickered near the rear of the car, and soon not only was the interior engulfed but the outside too, flames boiling, black smoke spiraling skyward.

  Colter Shaw tried once more to get close. He was driven back by searing heat and turbulent black smoke. The glimpses he caught of the occupants revealed that the thrashing had ceased.

  Goddamn . . .

  Eli had created the perfect weapon. The Selects were not “monks” at all. They were the Praetorian Guard, protectors to the death. They were a secular version of the fundamentalist suicide bomber. Convinced of a better life ahead, they didn’t care about escaping after they murdered, always the most challenging aspect of the crime.

  Shaw understood now that Harvey Edwards had been a Select and that he’d engineered the shootout with the cops so he himself would die—to advance—after killing the journalist, Gary Yang.

  Shaw realized too why he had been fast-tracked for the position himself: the fictional violent crimes he’d committed, his edgy attitude. Eli didn’t want to cure him of those demons. He wanted to exploit them.

  Anyone whom the rabidly narcissistic Eli saw as a threat was at risk: heretical Companions within the Foundation, rival cult leaders, police and prosecutors, Shaw supposed. The deaths would be apparent accidents or murder-suicides—homicide investigators’ favorite death cases. Minimal investigation, some paperwork, and on to other matters.

  He cocked his head. A noise could be heard over the flames.

  Sirens in the distance, getting closer. He walked to a rocky ridge and looked down the mountain. Flashing lights. Police, a fire truck, an ambulance. The vehicles had TOWN OF SNOQUALMIE GAP painted on the sides.

  How could they be here so quickly?

  Then he realized the answer. Of course.

  Shaw got under cover just in time. Easing down the switchbacks was the black Osiris Foundation van—maybe the same one that had transported Victoria and the others to the site where Adam had died.

  The van parked about a hundred feet from the flaming wreck. Shaw climbed higher on the hill, where he had a good view of the road below and could still stay out of sight.

  The emergency vehicles arrived. The law enforcers and the firemen and firewomen, six of them, exited. Not a soul made any effort to extinguish the burning car, though they ran lines and soaked the brush nearby. That was their only concern: a wildfire. Shaw knew that even if the rescue workers had gotten here before the flames killed the two men, they would have done nothing to save those inside.

  This was made clear when Hugh and one of the other Selects climbed from the van and walked up to the sheriff and fire chief, handing out envelopes.

  The white rectangles disappeared into pockets.

  Shaw had no doubt that the vast majority of law enforcers in the state were upright—like Chad Johnson, at the Pierce County Public Safety Office. But in the space of just a few days he’d crossed paths with two sets of bad apples: Welles and the Hammond County protectors of the church, and here, in Snoqualmie Gap, a bunch of cops who were simply on the take.

  These men and woman now lounged back, leaning against their vehicles and examining the roiling smoke and flames as the Ford burned to its chassis. The stench was unbearable—some of it from the rubber, some from the occupants.

  Shaw began his hike to the camp. He couldn’t afford to be missed. He glanced back once and looked over the scene, so similar to the one where Adam had committed suicide, in that it was a crime the law enforcers had no interest in preventing, and about which they had no desire to find the truth.

  There was one difference, however. Here, only one cop took a selfie with the burning car and the bodies inside. The rest were too busy making calls and telling jokes to go to the trouble to play paparazzi.

  41.

  Shaw had taken care of his father’s commandment about finding an escape route.

  For the moment he had no intention of escaping, though. He would stay as long as it took to find proof of Eli’s guilt.

  But now that the battle lines were clear, he turned to satisfying his father’s second fundamental rule:

  In unfami
liar and potentially hostile territory . . .

  Never be without an escape route.

  Never be without access to a weapon.

  If he were found out in his hunt for incriminating evidence against Eli and Hugh, it would come to a fight. There was no doubt about that. And he wouldn’t simply be roughed up and told to leave. He’d be hunted down and killed.

  So, a weapon.

  A firearm would be ideal; it was a deterrent and, in his skilled hands, could wound, taking an enemy out of commission.

  He supposed there were guns in the Assistance Unit but getting inside would be next to impossible. And any weapons would probably be locked away in a gun safe.

  Though it seemed unlikely, the mysterious Building 14 might contain weapons.

  He might steal a knife from the kitchen but bladed weapons were problematic. The only practical way for someone armed with a knife to stop an opponent was to kill him. Nonlethal stabbing or slashing didn’t traumatize the body sufficiently to debilitate; to do so, significant blood loss was required and that usually was a short step away from death.

  Having just borrowed from indigenous culture in his chase to save John, he turned to the source again. In his father’s survival training, the children had made tools from wood and stone. They’d also made weapons.

  Warrior tribes of the North American continent in the nineteenth century were skilled marksmen and bowmen but it was braver and more prestigious to “count coup” in battle: getting close enough to the enemy to strike them with hand or a ceremonial coup stick—it was like a whip. Often warriors didn’t even kill their enemy; they humiliated them with a simple, harmless touch. A warrior kept a record of his coup count all his life and indicated it in carvings and on clothing.

  One of the favorite ways to both count coup and wound or kill the enemy was to use a war club.

  At the battle of the Little Big Horn, General George Custer and more than two hundred soldiers were killed. Most of those lives were lost by bullets, followed by arrows, but many soldiers were killed with clubs.

  The weapon could be lethal or just debilitating, used in close-quarters fighting and also thrown. It would be perfect for his needs here.

  Shaw had no tools so he searched the ground for shale or other brittle rock with a sharp edge. This wasn’t difficult; hundreds of rock fragments littered the forest floor. This had been glacial land eons ago. He found a piece, about three pounds in weight, with a reasonably good edge on it. This would not be the head of a club but an improvised axe to prepare the handles. He would make two weapons, he decided. It never hurt to have backup.

  The handles would be fresh, green wood, about an inch and a half in diameter. Fallen branches were tempting but they would be too brittle to use, so he needed to cut a sapling. His father had taught him that willow was best but there was none here, so he settled on another good choice: a privet stem, a species that’s often used in decorative gardens. It took only five minutes, using his shale axe, to strip a suitable trunk and chop two pieces, eighteen inches or so in length. He split the ends.

  For the head of a traditional club, smooth river rock is the best, but you need time and a hearty hammer to notch the surface for a steady fit in the handle. This wouldn’t work so he collected two pieces that had rough faces, which would allow for a fair grip within the privet.

  The head was traditionally bound into the handle with leather cord. He’d have to improvise this too. He found a growth of dogbane, which is related to milkwood. Selecting two four-foot brown stalks, he snapped them off at the base and then stripped them of their seed pods. He then cracked them open with a rock and dug out the inner core. The resulting fibrous strips were as strong as cotton rope.

  Shaw now jammed the rocks into the split at the end of the handles, and used the dogbane strips to bind the wood above and below the heads. He tested them. The rocks were held tight. The clubs felt good in his hands, the weight and balance just right. Good for fighting and good for throwing. The rock heads were five pounds each.

  But no. Not “rock.” His father would have corrected him: “It’s ‘rock’ in the wild,” Ashton said. “When it serves a human purpose—a Michelangelo sculpture or a spear tip—it becomes ‘stone.’”

  Young Colter had once asked what difference it made.

  “Never be imprecise,” his father had replied.

  Shaw now circled to the back of the eastern dormitories and hid the clubs in a pile of leaves directly behind Building C. From his room he could get to them via the back door or the window in seconds. By rights, they should dry off the ground but they’d be good enough for the next day or so. His investigation would have to move fast. He wouldn’t let anyone else die at the hands of the cult.

  The echoing tones of Beethoven filled the valley, then: “The time is six forty-five p.m.”

  Just enough time for one more errand. Colter Shaw disappeared back into the forest.

  42.

  As he stood in the queue for dinner, Colter Shaw once again scanned around him to see if he could spot the orange-sunglasses man, Frederick.

  Was he the Companion who’d been looking at him at the immortality discourse?

  He recalled too that while he was following Victoria, he’d believed that he had been the subject of surveillance himself.

  However, if so, wouldn’t this Frederick have turned Shaw in?

  Rule 11. If you see any suspicious behavior, tell someone in the Inner Circle or with the Assistance Unit immediately. Remember: we are all responsible for the security and the Sanctity of the Osiris Foundation.

  The snitch rule . . .

  The doors opened and the cattle trod forward—now that he knew the true nature of the Foundation, Shaw’s cynicism was back. It was hard to look at those in the room and not wonder how many, like Victoria, were finding comfort in the thought of ending their lives and starting over in a perfect Tomorrow, never mind how their friends and family would be devastated by the unforgivably narcissistic act.

  The image came into his mind of the Select’s look as he poured the gasoline and set it aflame. He steadied his breathing and forced the memory away.

  Tonight, he was assigned to Table 5. He noted that John’s name was nowhere to be seen on the seating chart. There’d be a story concocted about his absence. What would it be?

  Abby and Henry were at his table too, as last night, though Walter and Sally were not. He noted them across the room. She appeared to be having a memory lapse; her face exhibited bewilderment.

  Shaw sat and struck up a conversation with the woman beside him. Novice Kate was mid-twenties, exotic looking, with long raven hair and a pale complexion. She tried to keep up her end of the conversation but Shaw could sense her depression. She’d found out about the Foundation at a grief counseling session. There was a reference to the military. A combat widow, Shaw guessed.

  When would this woman be asked to the Study Room, like Victoria, Abby and any number of the others? He realized now that most of the unaccompanied women were young and attractive.

  He glanced at Victoria, two tables away, looking down at her open notebook.

  The voice from on high announced the Journeymen could serve themselves, and the Inner Circle Companions walked to their assigned tables. Journeyman Marion was the host at Shaw’s table. She was in her forties, lean, with short gray hair and slender features. Pleasant enough but terse, eyeing the Companions at her table even more closely than Journeyman Quinn had on the first night.

  “Novice Carter?” Samuel had come up behind Shaw and was leaning down. “A word?”

  Shaw rose and followed him. Marion glanced their way. Shaw’s impression was that private conversation between trainers and Companions was, if not against the rules, unusual. She returned to her conversation with Abby, whom she was sitting next to.

  The pudgy man cleaned his glasses and replaced them. “We can discuss this
more in our next session but I wanted to say one thing now. You can meditate on it. Your situation with your brother? After all you told me, I have a thought.”

  Shaw nodded for him to continue.

  “I think he didn’t want to leave. He felt he had no choice. If you pursue him now, and find him, he’s just going to keep running. But, given some time, he will come back.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “A protector sometimes protects best by leaving those who’re in his care. The way birds lead predators away from their young.” He gave his grandfather smile. “You were largely honest but not completely honest. You’ll need to fill me in a bit more.”

  Shaw gave a laugh too, both because the script called for it, and because it was true.

  “Thank you, Journeyman Samuel.”

  They gave the shoulder salute and then returned to their respective tables.

  The meal continued, as choreographed as before.

  With one exception: a napkin caught fire from one of the Sterno cans under a chafing dish. Shaw, having returned to his table with his plate of food, played the hero by grabbing a pitcher of water and dousing the minor blaze. He was greeted with a round of real applause, not the metronomical clapping of the ICs.

  When the voice announced the time as eight o’clock, Shaw was preparing to bus away the dishes, when over the dining hall loudspeaker came: “Companions, please remain in your seats.”

  Like last night, a murmuring flowed through the room as Eli, Anja, Steve and the two bodyguards entered. The ICs started the clapping and Eli smiled and raised his hands. He gave the shoulder salute.

  Accompanied by Steve, Eli walked to the back of the room where a low stage had been placed, a waist-high table sitting in the middle. Steve ducked into the kitchen and returned with a wine bottle and some glasses, which he placed on the table.

  An IC handed Eli a microphone and the master stepped onto the stage. Since everyone else was sitting, the stage was probably unnecessary but Shaw knew Eli would have ordered it because of his height.