Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

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.

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.”