The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  The clapping died. “I’d like to ask Apprentices Taylor, Margery, Ben and Marcus to come forward.”

  The foursome did and one of the two women, a stunning fashion-model blonde, fired an adoring gaze toward him.

  Eli nodded and Steve poured wine and distributed glasses. Eli lifted his. “These four Companions have completed the second phase of the Process. I’m proud of the hard work they have put into their reflections and meditations. They are an honor to the Osiris Foundation. And tonight they are advancing to the level of Journeyman. Please recite with me: From the Yesterday, a better Today. From the Today, a perfect Tomorrow.”

  Everyone did this.

  The ICs clapped and chanted, “Journey-man, journey-man.” Over and over.

  Shaw realized he wasn’t clapping—and that Journeyman Marion was eyeing him. He joined the crowd, hoping he hid the disgust he felt.

  The four new Journeymen drank their wine. Steve then handed out purple infinity amulets, and took back the red ones. Eli then addressed the room.

  “My dear Companions. You must never forget your responsibility to be vigilant. Remember that we face threats. People say we’re nonsense. They’ll try to stop us. They don’t like what I’m saying. They don’t like the truth.

  “There are the religious who hate me because what I know invalidates their superstition. There are those in the medical world who hate me because I’ve proved that this one body of ours is not all there is to life. There are self-help gurus who hate me because I expose them as charlatans. And then there are just those who hate anyone who’s ahead of his time. What do we call these haters?”

  A number of people shouted: “Toxics.”

  “Anyone who would question me, threaten me . . . betray me from outside, or within, is a Toxic. And we have to be on guard constantly. They want to stop me from helping you. They want to deprive you of what my Process can do. They want to make sure you never see the Tomorrow.”

  Angry murmuring.

  Shaw scanned the room. Just as during Eli’s bizarre Second Discourse, the one on immortality, some Companions were taking the message under advisement—but again there were plenty of troubled faces, evidence that they bought into what he was saying: that there’s an enemy out there that threatens the Foundation, the Process and Eli himself. And that therefore threatens them.

  Then, the call-and-response chant: “The best . . . is yet to come!” After the voices grew quiet, the dinner was over.

  The four walked off the stage and headed for their seats, though the blond inductee—she was Taylor—hung back, smiling toward Eli. He walked past her, directly to Victoria. Taylor took the snub like a slap to the face. Apparently she’d been thinking that the ceremony would continue privately in the Study Room.

  She returned to her place at the table and kept up appearances by chatting with all those who congratulated her, but her eyes cut frequently to the conversation Victoria and Eli were having.

  Eli whispered into Victoria’s ear. She smiled and rose. Shaw looked past them and noted someone else observing them. Anja. Her arms were crossed, her face an emotionless mask. The entourage started from the hall, Victoria with them, the guards at the rear, en route to the Study Room.

  When they were almost to the door, Victoria swayed and reached out for a table to steady herself. Frowning, Eli turned toward her. She dropped to her knees. Those left in the hall—about half the Companions—murmured or gasped.

  Eli said, “Apprentice Victoria . . .”

  Shaw heard her say, “I, something’s wrong. I—” She winced, gripping her belly. Then, supporting herself with one arm, she vomited violently.

  Two women ICs stepped forward quickly and helped Victoria to a chair. She blurted, “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” one of the women said. “Here.” She dampened a napkin and gave it to Victoria, who wiped her face.

  Her face darkened with a burst of anger Shaw hadn’t expected. Her hands were clenched. “I really am okay.”

  Eli turned to Steve and whispered, “Clean this up.”

  “I’ll call maintenan—”

  “I didn’t say to call anyone,” Eli raged. “I said clean it up.” The first instance of temper Shaw had seen in the man. The display was unsettling.

  “Yes, Master Eli.” Steve quickly walked into the kitchen.

  Victoria was breathing deeply. “I don’t know what happened. Something just hit me.” She looked down. “I’m sorry, sir . . . Master Eli. I really am okay.”

  Eli said, “Oh, my dear, don’t worry. We’ll get you to the infirmary tonight.” He was still livid—his “study session” for the evening had been ruined—but didn’t want to melt down in front of his flock.

  Victoria said, “The Study Room, tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see.” Eli put his hand on her head. “You get some rest tonight.”

  Her face still bore the blush of dismay. Her head was down.

  The IC who’d handed her the napkin took her hand and helped her up and toward the side door, after—of course—Victoria had grabbed her precious notebook.

  Eli’s attention was back on the dining hall. His eyes settled on Taylor, the blonde he’d rebuffed earlier. Her face was somber initially but then it softened, as if she were apologizing to him.

  But the debate ended quickly. His face twisted into what might pass for a sneer and he turned away. Tears glistened in the woman’s eyes.

  Shaw noted Anja, watching, with no more emotion than when Eli had picked his Study Room partner earlier.

  Then the reconstituted entourage glided out the side door, as Steve returned with mop and pail and set to work.

  43.

  Verbena is a flowering plant that has quite the history in spiritualism.

  Ironically, given the official name of Eli’s Foundation, in ancient Egypt the plant was called Tears of Isis—after Osiris’s wife, the woman who, literally, put her husband back together.

  One variety of verbena was used on Jesus’s wounds after he was taken down from the cross, which earned it the name Holy Herb. In indigenous American culture, some tribes use it for dream divination.

  Colter Shaw was aware of verbena in its secular role: it can be used to induce regurgitation in case one ingests poison in the field. A tincture of verbena acts just like ipecac and does the job nicely—if, as always, unpleasantly.

  After he’d learned what the Study Room “special studies” were, Shaw had decided: Victoria was not going to participate. Obviously one could argue it wasn’t his business. And it was decidedly condescending of him to make the decision. But he didn’t care. He didn’t see the situation as much different from Eli’s preying on Abby. One was underage; the other suicidal and vulnerable—and both under the malignant sway of a dangerous sociopath.

  But how to stop the assault and not give away his investigative mission?

  He remembered seeing verbena flowers in the forest behind the dormitories when he’d made the war clubs. After hiding the weapons he returned to the woods and picked enough of the plant to make a proper dose. In his room he dried the herbs in the microwave then rubbed them between his palms to make tiny flakes. He didn’t think they would be particularly detectible; verbena is slightly sweet—not bitter like most emetic herbs—but has no real flavor. He wrapped the powder in a page torn from his notebook.

  Then he headed to the dining hall. He knew the correct concentration of the drug. It would do nothing worse than induce vomiting. Provided Victoria wasn’t allergic, of course.

  The odds of that?

  He didn’t play the percentage game. He wasn’t going to let a sexual assault happen and, since she was going to the clinic, the doctors would recognize an allergic reaction and respond accordingly.

  As far as administering the verbena to her, that was easy.

  Shaw set fire to the buffet table.

 
; When he’d gotten his plate, he’d slid a napkin near the Sterno can. As he returned to his seat, it flared up. With everyone’s eyes on the flames, he’d stepped to Victoria’s table and—reaching across it for a water pitcher to play fireman—he opened his palm, releasing the verbena onto her plate of lasagna. He could see she never noticed.

  The effects of that dosage, he knew, wouldn’t last long. She’d be feeling better already, physically. But he was sure she was still dismayed that she’d missed the chance to give herself to the man who was teaching her how to reunite with her lost family.

  As he now stepped from the dining hall into the cool, clear evening, Shaw knew she’d be hoping for another chance to visit Eli in the Study Room.

  But that wouldn’t happen.

  For her or anyone else.

  Colter Shaw would make certain of that.

  * * *

  —

  Just give me one document about an offshore bank account in Nevis or Saint Thomas, Shaw thought. Maybe a video Eli filmed of liaisons in the Study Room, revealing a sexual assault. A memo hinting at tax evasion.

  What Shaw hoped for most was something linking Eli to the murder of journalist Yang in San Francisco. A phone bill, emails.

  He also wanted a list of the other Selects and where they were located. These men were, of course, time bombs.

  Shaw would ideally find something, then hike out of the camp east to the highway and get the evidence to federal or state police, not the corrupt Snoqualmie Gap cops.

  Where would be the best places to find something incriminating?

  Administration, of course.

  Building 14? He was looking at it now. Still two AUs in chairs in the front. Why the guards? And what was the purpose of the earlier furtive visit by the Selects?

  Eli’s residence too. It would probably be the source for the most damning evidence, if there were any. Eli would keep it close to home.

  He’d start with Building 14. He slipped into the strip of grass on the eastern edge of the camp and made his way to the back of the structure.

  Shaw noted no security cameras. The AUs in front were talking, which meant they were distracted. Would they patrol back here? Not likely at this time of night, but even if so, on a windless evening he’d hear them coming.

  The back door was a solid piece of wood, no windows. He examined the jamb carefully—no evidence of an alarm but, nowadays, there were so many subtle security systems, there could easily be one. The odds? He’d already been told there’d never been a theft here. Why go to the expense of an alarm? He recalled too that when the golf cart of Selects had entered the building the other day, they didn’t seem to have to shut off any security systems.

  Shaw placed the risk of alarm at twenty percent.

  Low enough to take the chance.

  As for the entry itself? Not a problem. His father had drummed into the children that there might be occasions when they would have to break the law—to escape from threats, to steal food and weapons, to survive.

  “Survival,” he liked to say, “bends the ethics.”

  And so Ashton taught Dorion, Colter and Russell the basics of lock picking. This door was as simple as they came. No deadbolt. The locking mechanism was in the knob: a tumbler for the key, a face plate, a striking plate. A pro would go in through the keyhole with a motorized lock pick. Bang, open in ten seconds. Shaw didn’t have that luxury, though he did have an alternative tool: a dinner knife, which he’d just copped from the table in the dining hall. He supposed there might be an inventory but sometimes you just had to take a chance or two.

  It was a simple if tedious job. The technique was to insert the blade, use it to slide the bolt away from the hole where it was seated in the strike plate. Then you pulled on the door hard to grip the bolt, which was spring-loaded, keeping it from popping back into the locked position. Shaw did this a dozen times, moving the bolt a millimeter each instance. Two dozen. Three.

  Finally with a last tug, he pulled the door open. No lights, no blaring alarms.

  He examined the ceiling and walls. No cameras.

  He stepped inside and eased the door shut. The place was dim but illuminated by light bleeding in from under the front door and, faintly, through the painted windows.

  Shaw looked around him. If he wasn’t so conscious of trying to remain absolutely quiet, he would have sighed angrily.

  What was the secret that the AUs were guarding and that the zombie-like Selects had carted in?

  Gardening supplies.

  That was all: bags of carrot, wheat, corn, green bean seeds and fertilizer, containers of rodent and pest killer, rakes and hoes, some gas-powered tillers.

  No firearms.

  No file cabinets.

  Discouraged, Shaw left the building and eased the door quietly closed. He listened for a moment but sensed no variation in the guards’ monotonous conversation at the front of the building. They hadn’t heard his intrusion.

  He walked to the Administration building next. There was a back door here too—the one through which Hugh’s boys had dragged that poor reporter, Klein. Through the windows he could see workers, walking up and down the corridors. Three offices were illuminated and a half-dozen people came and went. Shaw guessed selling immortality was a booming business. He’d have to try a different time.

  It was then he heard a snap and rustle in the brush. He dropped to his knees and turned toward the woods, irritated at his ridiculous light-blue costume, which even in the negligible moonlight made him stand out in contrast to the black-green grass and foliage. He closed his eyes briefly—to help focus his hearing—and listened. Yes. Another, similar sound. Not steps so much as a settling, as if a spy were crouching the same way he was, to make a smaller target of himself. He thought again of Frederick.

  Or was someone else following him?

  A killer Select?

  He remained absolutely silent.

  Nothing more.

  Get on with the task.

  The third source for incriminating evidence—the residence.

  He eased up to it, staying in the bushes. The large structure would be occupied too, of course. The two bodyguards, Squat and Gray. Steve would be somewhere in the building by now. The dressing-down in the dining hall would mean little to him. Puppies like that didn’t go very far from their masters, even after their leashes were jerked.

  Gazing at the octagon atop the building, Shaw saw Anja staring out the window over the camp, which to her was probably just a pattern of yellow lights. She was brushing her long hair absently. He didn’t see Eli.

  The fifteen notes reverberated on the cool air. “The time is now ten p.m. All Companions will return to their dormitories. The curfew is now in effect.”

  He couldn’t afford to be caught. He’d storm the castle tomorrow.

  Besides, according to the rules, the wild animals were descending on the camp, impatient, and eager for their entrees.

  44.

  With the absence of clocks and watches, Colter Shaw didn’t know the exact time when they came for him.

  The sky was still dark and he felt as if he’d slept for only an hour; he guessed it was around midnight when his door crashed open and two burly AUs seized him by the arms and dragged him out of bed.

  “The hell’s this?” he snapped. Whether he was playing a role or not, this is exactly what anybody would have said.

  “Quiet. You’re coming with us.”

  “No. I’m not going any—”

  “Shut up.”

  One of the AUs flung his uniform and shoes toward Shaw. “Get dressed.”

  “What did I do? What’s—”

  “Get dressed. Or we’ll drag you through the camp the way you are.”

  Shaw got dressed.

  Five minutes later he was being escorted through the back door of the Assistance U
nit. Gripping his arms near the threshold of pain, the men led him up a corridor and into a small interrogation room, like one of those in police departments the world over. It contained only a table and two functional gray metal chairs. These walls were not purple and did not exhibit Egyptian artifacts or paintings. They were white. It was warm inside and the smell was of pine cleanser.

  Claustro is Latin for “bolt,” as in bolting the door. And who doesn’t know what phobia is?

  Shaw was positive that one of these AUs had been present at Hugh’s beating of the reporter.

  They turned and closed the door behind them.

  Leaving Shaw to reflect on the list of offenses that had been committed by Novice Carter. The knife theft, the break-in at the gardening supply building, the verbena seasoning of Victoria’s dinner, the sprinting attempt to save John from a horrific death. It occurred to him that they didn’t really need cameras, since Eli had turned his followers into snitches to dime out any Toxics.

  Now he was sure he’d been right about being tailed. Twice: on the way to speak with Victoria, and just a few hours ago after the break-in at Building 14.

  Who was the spy? Frederick or someone else?

  The door opened and Hugh walked inside, accompanied by the AU who’d held the journalist’s mouth to stifle any cries when Hugh dislocated his shoulder. This man stood in the corner. Hugh sat and scrolled through a tablet. Glancing up at Shaw, he gestured toward the other chair.

  “So?” Carter Skye would be understandably uneasy under these circumstances. On the other hand, like Adam Harper, he’d done time, had a troubled childhood, had been a scrapper when younger. He was in rock-solid shape. The play Shaw had written did not call for the main character to be intimidated easily.

  “Sit.”

  He did, after a tang of defiance.

  Of course, there was always the possibility they had learned that Mr. Skye was a character of fiction, and that Colter Shaw was the one they’d invited into this soundproofed, windowless chamber. No one had used a name in addressing him. Which of the two alter egos did they think he was?