The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  A zombie-eyed young man standing on the sidelines—a Select—nodded.

  There’d be another auto accident tonight. Hugh had just signed the young man’s death warrant but the assassin greeted the news as if he’d been listening to a weather report.

  “Traitor!”

  “Toxic!”

  “Kill him!”

  One woman, her eyes glazed with hatred, spat in Shaw’s face.

  Others milled about, aimless, confused.

  The AU and the Select who were gripping Shaw’s arms ushered him quickly off the stage.

  When they got to the ground Shaw, gasping and breathless from the crush, called in a raspy voice: “United Technical Development. Triangle Pharmaceuticals. Talbot Manufacturing.”

  He and his captors got five feet toward the path when a voice called, “Wait!” It was that of an Apprentice, a man in his forties with a trim haircut, wearing expensive wire-rimmed glasses. “That’s my company. UTD.”

  A woman said, “And Talbot. I’m the financial officer.”

  Shaw called out another company name, “Halifax Energy,” before another blow from the AU silenced him.

  “Get him out of here,” Eli raged. “To the Assistance Unit.”

  “Triangle Pharma?” a man asked in a loud voice. It was Henry, the balding Companion at Intake the same time as Shaw, the man who’d lost his wife.

  He and a dozen other Companions stepped in front of the men leading Shaw away. The two captors stopped, looking back toward Eli, who shouted, “Go, go!”

  “No,” the CFO of Talbot Manufacturing said. The slim woman with graying hair pulled back looked sternly toward Eli, then to Shaw. “Let him finish.”

  The crowd was growing quiet.

  Hugh was unsure how to handle the situation without a full-fledge battle beginning. He gestured the AUs to wait.

  Shaw called, “Do you know why the trainers ask about your businesses?”

  “Get him out of here,” Eli called.

  “No, we want to know,” said a tall man in his forties. It was Thomas, the husband of Carole—the heretic assaulted by Eli and the mob earlier. He was the one who’d recovered the Glock that flew from Shaw’s hand—and he clearly knew what he was doing with the weapon.

  Henry called, “I want to know too.”

  “Let him talk!” From the back of the crowd. Murmurs of agreement.

  Eli said, “Don’t listen to his lies. It’s all fake, what he’s telling you. He’s trying to take the Tomorrow away from you. I’m the only one who can give you what you want.”

  “Shut up, Eli,” Henry shouted.

  This caused a murmur from the ICs and the loyalists but no one moved.

  Thomas stepped forward, Carole behind him. He looked over the AU and the Select, then nodded toward Shaw. “Let him go.” And raised the pistol to the Select gripping Shaw.

  Henry growled, “Do it.”

  Hugh nodded.

  The strong hands released their grips and the AUs and the Select stepped back. A few loyalists stepped toward Shaw; Henry turned to face them, his fists balled up. Two other insurgents did the same.

  Thomas said, “Go ahead.”

  Flanked by Henry, Thomas and his allies, Shaw climbed back to the stage and picked up the microphone. He repeated what he’d started to say a moment ago: “Did you ever wonder why your trainers spent so much time asking about your businesses?” Curiously, seeing the rapt attention focused his way, Colter Shaw had an inkling of the power Eli felt during his Discourses.

  “Your clients, contracts, deals? Looking for all the Minuses and Pluses? Because what Eli really wanted was insider information. He recorded your sessions and sent the tapes to his business partner in Miami. He uses one of their shell companies to buy stock and real estate.”

  Some gasps. Companions were regarding one another, dismayed.

  But then a voice, “You lie!”

  A rock flew Shaw’s way; he easily dodged.

  “Lies, lies, lie!” Eli’s voice, though, was by now white noise.

  Shaw calmly continued, “Five years ago he went bankrupt. He decided to start a self-help outfit. He researched what would be the most profitable.” From the stage where they’d fallen, Shaw lifted the papers he’d printed from Eli’s computer.

  “Here.” He scattered them to the crowd. “Spreadsheets, projecting income from different types of organizations. One was getting rich in the stock market, one was getting rich in real estate. One was self-assertiveness, one was about sex training. And one was about selling immortality. The projected return on investment for that one was ten times higher than any of the others. It also won in the focus groups he held.”

  More of the loyalists had fallen silent.

  “No, lies, lies!”

  Shaw shook his head slowly and when he spoke next, he meant his words sincerely: “I’m sorry to tell you this. I know you wish the Process works. I wish it did too. But it doesn’t. It’s just a lie to get your money. Are any of you lifetime Companions?”

  No one raised a hand but Shaw could see several faces glance at one another.

  “It ever bother you that you had to bequeath part of your estate to the Foundation in your will—when he’s encouraging you to kill yourself? There’s an entry in his accounting ledger. Last year the Foundation made one and a half million dollars in income from bequests.”

  This drew a collective gasp from the grounds.

  Shaw didn’t feel the need to add that Eli’s scheme was also about getting Companions into the Study Room. He saw in the faces of many of the younger women and some of the men dismay and anger. They understood they were victims of Eli’s abuse.

  Shaw did, however, have to add another bit of information he’d learned from Anja. “He’s not an orphan and he never lived in foster homes. His parents are alive. They live in Fort Lauderdale.”

  Shaw scanned the crowd. Like many budding fights, the battle between loyalists and insurgents dissipated like steam. Some of the Companions were confused, some were thoughtful, some hurt, some mad. Individually or as couples or in groups, they turned and headed back toward their dorms or the Administration building.

  Shaw’s heart tightened when his eyes settled on Journeyman Samuel. The older man was staring from Shaw to Eli. There were tears in his eyes.

  64.

  Behind Shaw, on the stage, Hugh walked to Eli.

  “It’s over,” the security man whispered.

  Mouth open and looking like a lost child, Eli said nothing.

  “David. It’s over. Are you listening?”

  Eli was staring toward Anja, who was walking down the far stairs, Steve beside her. The young gofer gazed at Eli with pure contempt. The two vanished behind the stage.

  Hugh continued, “Now. We have to get out of here. We’ve got options, places that’re safe.”

  “I . . .” Eli sputtered. “They want me to stay. My people want me to stay.” Gesturing at the Square.

  Shaw realized now that, no, the cult leader didn’t believe in the Process at all. He’d created this fiction solely for the purpose of making a fortune. But he believed fervently in the power he derived from preaching to his flock. He was addicted to it. He’d bought into his own mythology. He was Osiris, the god of the underworld, the god of fertility.

  Hugh muttered, “They’re going to turn on you. We have to get the files, computers, hard drives. And leave. Now!”

  Eli blinked, his face revealing devastation at the loss of an empire in a matter of minutes.

  Hugh turned to Squat and Gray. “Go to the residence. You know the files to get. And the computer in the Study Room. The videos.”

  “Yessir,” Gray wheezed, still not recovered from Shaw’s love tap. He and Squat turned and hurried south.

  Hugh noted his boss’s dismay. He touched Eli’s arm and repeated softl
y, “We’ll find something else, David.”

  “Something good,” the cult leader muttered absently. He was still numb.

  “Yes. It’ll be good. Overseas. Somewhere. Just as good as this.”

  His eyes wet with tears, Eli glanced at Shaw once more. His bewildered gaze was perhaps more chilling than the livid hatred of moments earlier.

  Eli gestured to Timothy, the Journeyman who had accompanied Shaw to the Square, who stepped close. They had a brief conversation. The man nodded. Eli and Hugh walked into the woods to the hidden path to go to the Administration building and collect any incriminating evidence and either destroy it or escape with it and dump it later.

  Shaw turned toward Thomas, still holding the gun. “I need that weapon.”

  “What you need doesn’t matter to us.” He put his arm around Carole’s shoulders. He gestured at the gun. “Don’t try to take it.”

  Shaw didn’t try to take it.

  He jogged into the forest and turned up the trail after Eli and Hugh. In a few minutes they would pass Building C, behind which his war club was hidden. That—and the element of surprise—would give him some advantage.

  “David!” a woman’s voice behind him called. Shaw glanced back. It was Anja. “Please, David. Let me explain!”

  Eli stopped. His face was emotionless as he looked back, seeing both Shaw and, about thirty feet behind, Anja. Eli’s eyes cut to the other side of a row of brush—where Timothy had been walking parallel. He was about even with Anja.

  It was at that moment that Shaw noted that Timothy had removed his sweater. He was not wearing an amulet.

  He was a Select, a suicide killer.

  Master Eli’s training me himself . . .

  The man nodded to his boss, pulled a box cutter from beneath his tunic and charged into the brush.

  “Anja!” Shaw sprinted toward her too.

  Before he got close, Timothy was on her, grabbing the woman by the hair.

  She gasped, “No . . . Please, Timothy.”

  Without hesitating, he drew the knife across the pale flesh of her throat. Blood cascaded and the woman dropped to her knees, then onto her side, her voice keening in horror.

  Timothy glanced toward Shaw. Then the man who laughed at sitcoms and who loved to hum and was perhaps hoping for a spot on a choir in Omaha come the advent of autumn took a deep breath and gave the farewell salute—the double-arm cross. He called, “Goodbye . . . until tomorrow.” And slashed his own jugular.

  With a perfunctory look back at the woman who had been his longtime lover, Eli turned and hurried north, accompanied by Hugh.

  Shaw sprinted to Anja. He’d been trained in the procedure for combat neck trauma. The classic treatment formula of “ABC”—airway, breathing, circulation—went out the window. There’s no point in clearing an airway if there’s no blood getting to the brain because it’s flowing onto the sidewalk. This procedure was HABC. Hemorrhage, airway, breathing, circulation. The only way to save a victim of a wound like this is pressure, a lot of pressure, which was what Shaw dropped to his knees and applied now.

  “Please,” she gasped.

  “Shhhh, I’ve seen worse. You’ll be okay.”

  He hadn’t, and she probably wouldn’t.

  She grew more ashen yet beneath her carefully painted-on makeup.

  Shaw glanced up the trail and saw Eli and Hugh disappear toward the Administration building. He could only watch them hurry away.

  Goddamn.

  A voice called, “I’ll do it. You go after him.”

  It was Steve.

  “Get down here,” Shaw instructed.

  The man crouched.

  “No. You need to be on your knees or sitting. This could be a while.”

  The slim young man did as instructed.

  Shaw said, “Follow my fingers.”

  This he did too, tentatively, as the blood coursed rich and red over his skin. Then with more confidence.

  “He . . .” Steve was whispering. “Master Eli. He . . .”

  “I know. It’s tough. But you need to concentrate.”

  “Okay.”

  “Feel the flaps of skin?”

  “There? Yes.”

  Anja started to speak, then fell silent. Her eyes closed.

  Shaw said to Steve, “It’s not severed all the way. We can keep her alive. Clamp the slash. It’ll be slippery but you’ll have to do it. Use your nails for a grip. As hard as you can.”

  “All right.”

  “There.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Shaw looked over the wound. “Good.”

  He rose, wiping blood from his hands, and saw movement nearby, a couple. Apprentices. Shaw called them over.

  “We need help,” he said.

  “My God, what happened?” the man asked, as they joined him.

  “Get somebody from the clinic here. Now.”

  “We will,” the woman said. They turned and jogged away quickly.

  To Shaw, Steve said, “Go. Stop him.”

  65.

  Sprinting.

  Shaw couldn’t see Eli and Hugh ahead, though the two couldn’t be far. If he was lucky he’d catch up to the men near Shaw’s dorm, where the war club still lay.

  Then: a flash of white. Yes, up ahead, there they were, Hugh and Eli, still alone, moving north toward the Administration building. Shaw slipped off the path into the forest to the east, where he could use trees and brush for cover as he closed the distance to his targets.

  Hugh was right. The Foundation was over. Even if some still desired to believe, the precarious fantasy Eli had spun was shattered. That Eli had a go-bag in his basement meant he had an escape plan. He and Hugh would get away, leaving the remaining AUs to barricade the camp. When the police arrived, they would buy time for their boss by telling the tactical forces and negotiators that he was still here. Maybe one would pretend to be him. This would keep the authorities tied up for hours, days maybe, while the cult leader fled the country. With his resources, Eli surely had access to a private jet.

  Shaw was sticking to the thickets of brush along the hidden path. He realized he’d intercept them just before they made it to the Assistance Unit. Eli and Hugh were looking back occasionally and, not seeing Shaw, would assume he was still with Anja, trying to keep her alive. Eli had probably ordered Timothy to attack the woman partially to keep Shaw occupied while they made their escape.

  Shaw decided he would have to forgo the club; he couldn’t afford the time it would take to grab it. He’d continue after the two men, come up quietly, then attack. Hugh would have to go down first, of course; a hard tackle, a paralyzing knee to the solar plexus, then a frisk for a gun. He guessed that wouldn’t stop Eli, who would, in an instant, leave his friend behind and run. Shaw would have to pursue on foot and disable him too. Hugh would have zip ties; Shaw would use those to bind both men and drag them in the woods until he could get a phone.

  He gave the plan a seventy percent chance of working. He hurried through the brush until he was only about thirty feet from the men, who seemed wholly unaware of his presence.

  He felt confident he could take them by surprise. Make it eighty percent.

  And those odds held right up to the instant two AUs from the front and two from behind rushed him.

  Shaw understood why the foursome had gotten so close without his seeing. He’d been looking for gray tunics; these men were in the camo that Frederick had mentioned. Those from the rear slammed into Shaw hard. He went down, flat, breath kicked from his lungs. Before he could struggle upright, his hands were zip-tied behind him and he was being pulled to his feet.

  “Jesus. What’s with the blood? Is he dying?”

  “Listen to me,” Shaw said, gasping. “It’s over. The police’re—”

  “Shut up!”

  “If you
want to—”

  The blow to the gut was delivered by the apparent leader of the band, a broad, freckle-faced man with fiery red hair. Shaw struggled to keep from vomiting.

  “What now?” one asked.

  Red told him, “Journeyman Hugh said make it look like an accident. Like he fell and broke his leg and the animals got him. Great Bear Notch is the closest. Let’s go. He gives you any shit, hit him again.”

  66.

  Shaw, hands zip-tied, and his four captors were now about a hundred yards from the camp. Not far from the escape route to the state highway where—he hoped—Victoria and Frederick had scored a phone and were presently giving tactical information to the FBI and the state police.

  Red pointed. “There. I think it’s that way.”

  Shaw could see the trees ending about fifty yards ahead, the forest yielding to rocky outcroppings.

  “What’s the Notch?” somebody asked.

  Red said, “It’s like a cave. Wolves go there. Mountain lions.”

  “Why’s it called Bear Notch?” a broad-chested man, balding, and with a prominent scar on his neck and ear, asked.

  Red rolled his eyes. “They got fucking bear there too. Happy?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Weird place. Lot of bones. Stinks. We get him down there, fuck him up and leave him. Like he fell and broke a leg. Couldn’t get out.”

  So, Shaw decided, he’d run. When they neared the Notch, the AUs would grow distracted, looking for the best place to lead him into the gully. As soon as they paused, he would stop suddenly and pull away from the one that seemed the weakest—a slim blond man. The assailant would react by tugging him back. Shaw would then launch himself in the young man’s direction, with a headbutt and knee to the crotch. He’d then run flat out into the deepest part of the woods. They’d follow for a time but would grow uneasy, afraid they’d get lost, especially if they split up, which would be the most logical way to pursue him.

  Woods like these? In the summer? He’d have a ninety-five percent chance of survival. He’d have to saw off the zip tie but given the amount of rock in the vicinity that shouldn’t take long.