Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

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?

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.

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.