Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

If he got busted, how would it play out? They’d presumably take him to the clearing and do the same thing as they’d done to the reporter, beat him and then get rid of him. Shaw would come up with a story. Yes, he used a fake name but he was embarrassed about seeking help. He’d be passive. They’d let their defenses down. He’d incapacitate Hugh first. The supervisor was talented in Eastern martial arts but Shaw’s father had taught the children grappling, and Shaw’s wrestling skills from college had never left him. He’d use surprise to get the man on his back fast and relieve him of any weapons — a gun, if he was lucky. Then, covering them, he’d sprint for the woods.

Shaw found himself tense.

Then he thought of one of his father’s Never rules.

Never give away what you’re about to do.

He relaxed and sat back.

He’d fight if it came to fighting, escape if it came to escaping, continue the performance if the facial recognition autobot gave him a pass. Now, stick to the role: troubled guy in his thirties unhappy with life and hoping for a quick fix.

Shaw noted Adelle’s nails were the same shade as that of the three dots of dark blood. What would her reaction be if she noticed the stains tonight? Would she be troubled at the memory of the beating, or would she think it was all in a day’s work?

She finished transcribing the information and slipped the paper application away in a drawer. “Now, if you decide to go forward with the ITP you’ll discuss the financial arrangements with your interviewer but I’ll take the application fee now. How will you pay?”

Cash — in that amount — is automatically suspicious. In the post-9/11 world, anonymous credit cards are hard to come by; banks and Homeland Security remain vigilant. But checks? Not so difficult. Shaw dug in his wallet and handed over one for $1,000 already made out to the Foundation. It was drawn on one of his LLC accounts but his PI, Mack, had ordered starter checks and had printed on them Skye’s name and a post office box number.

Adelle put the check in the drawer too, ticked another box on the tablet. She started to turn toward him but at that moment her eyes flicked back to the screen and she froze.

Had an inquisitive bot returned the message: He’s really Shaw, Colter, 7832 Vista Trail Road, Okachee, FL, professional reward seeker ?

The woman came to life and tapped some more on the tablet then, tellingly, turned it over, as she’d done before stepping outside to watch the reporter’s pounding. Apparently his interview was over; the applicants at the other two desks were still in the chairs where they’d been for forty minutes.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Shaw shrugged.

Adelle vanished through the door to the back. She started to speak to someone on the other side before the panel closed.

Shaw glanced at the front desk. That receptionist was no longer there. He noted that one of the Intake clerks — at the desk next to Adelle’s — glanced at him quickly, then returned her attention to the couple who was still being tableted. They seemed less awkward than before. At the far end, the bald man still was morose.

And his strategy of claiming an innocent motive for the pseudonym? He decided to rethink it. If the facial recognition had in fact returned a positive, Hugh would probably have guessed a reward seeker was akin to a soldier of fortune or a mercenary. Maybe working for a competitor. The expert, Anne DeStefano, had told him about the rivalries among cults. Shaw might be considered more of a threat than the reporter.

Then the back door was opening and the person walking through it was not blood-spattered Adelle but Hugh himself. Closer now, Shaw could see that the man was not handsome, his face pocked, his nose broken and badly set long ago. But he wore a bulletproof confidence. His shoulders were broader than the earlier view had indicated and his thighs thicker, hands meatier.

“Hello.” A pleasant voice, calm as could be.

Shaw nodded, standing.

Never fight from a position lower than your opponent’s.

“I’m Journeyman Hugh.”

“Carter Skye.”

The palm that Shaw shook was thick with calluses. Many martial artists spend hour upon hour punching and kicking bowls of dry rice and gravel to sheathe-up the striking portions of appendages. “If you wouldn’t mind following me, please, Mr. Skye.” Nodding toward the back door, the one through which reporter Klein had presumably walked to meet his fate.

Shaw glanced toward the front door. Twenty feet away.

No. Play it out.

He’d be oblivious till the end, then use surprise to try to take Hugh and the others. Get into the woods. They’d chase. That was fine. The wilderness was his world.

At the door Shaw paused, his eyes doing an “After you.”

Never let your opponent get behind you.

Hugh wasn’t going to make an issue of position. He had plenty of backup, not to mention lethal hands. The man walked through the door first, and Shaw followed.

They’d bypassed the main reception area of the Administration building and Shaw found himself walking down the dim corridor he’d seen earlier, extending to the back of the building.

At the end of the hallway, Hugh stopped beside an unmarked door and typed a number into the code pad, waited for one green light. Then he typed another. Shaw had never seen this type of lock before. Hugh pushed the door open, meaning Shaw should precede him, and this time he did. As he walked forward, he brushed Hugh’s right hip, trying to feel for a firearm. None. And the man was right-handed; that was the side on which a trained shooter would holster his gun.

Never cross-draw a pistol.

Inside, Shaw looked around. This was a very different room from Intake. The walls were painted violet and hung with bas-reliefs, paintings and plaques. Egyptian was the motif. A deity — Osiris, probably — was depicted in many. Shaw tried to summon what he’d learned in high school about Egyptian civilization. He was unsuccessful.

At one end of the room was a large wooden desk, behind which sat a tall-backed chair made of shiny dark-brown leather, affixed to the frame with brass buttons. Across from the desk were two matching chairs, though smaller, and a round table between them. Against the right side wall was a couch, also matching, in front of which was a coffee table. The furniture legs ended in talons gripping metal balls.

Shaw grunted. “Weird place.”

“Have a seat, please.”

Shaw half-expected Hugh to use his real name.

He sat in the chair across from the desk.

Was this where the initial “interview” of the reporter had occurred? It was hardly the spot for interrogations; the place resembled the office of an Egypt-obsessed CEO running a small but successful medical or office supply company.

The door opened and Shaw found himself looking at a pudgy man wearing the male version of the regulation uniform: blue shirt and black slacks. The infinity amulet he wore was, like Hugh’s, silver. His face was moon round and his thinning hair was combed back, accenting the shape of his head. He wore disks of glasses, also contributing to the spherical image. In his thick hand was yet another tablet, in which he was absorbed as he walked to the desk and then behind it.

The man eyed Shaw up and down. “We have a few things to talk about, sir.”

Shaw rose and separated his feet and rocked forward — a fighting stance.

“No, no, no. Sit, my friend.”

After a moment Shaw did, though he kept his weight forward, poised to leap. The pudgy man looked around. “Some room, isn’t this? Elegant. Small, though. Do you know where the word ‘claustrophobia’ comes from?”