Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

He couldn’t remember if the heist was a success but he never forgot the utterly improbable plan to defeat the camera.

At the moment, he was looking at a similar one behind Eli’s residence, above the back door.

Next steps?

What the hell?

He seized a rock and flung it into the device, snapping it off the armature. He’d decided that there was a ten percent chance that somebody was continually watching the monitor — Hugh simply didn’t have that large an AU staff. Eli was legitimately concerned for his safety, it seemed, but at most the monitor would be watched at night, when the man would be the most vulnerable.

Of course, odds are simply odds and Shaw now leaned against a tree and waited to see if any armed guards charged from the castle to stop the invasion.

Nothing for five minutes. Good enough.

Shaw went for the unsubtle approach once more and kicked the door in.

No alarm.

He stepped in fast and pushed the door closed. The room he found himself in was a storage area, filled with cartons and racks of musty clothing. Dominating one corner were full-sized fiberglass figures of Snow White and the dwarves, though only six, not the full complement. Shaw didn’t bother to speculate about the missing figure or, for that matter, the presence of Disney characters in the basement of a psychotic cult leader’s home.

The door might not have been used regularly, though Shaw learned that it did have one potential function: an escape route. On the floor were three suitcases and a backpack, the latter of which turned out to be Eli’s go-bag. Inside was several hundred thousand in cash, credit cards in three different names and three passports in those same identities, all with Eli’s picture.

No phone. No weapons. To Shaw’s irritation.

He climbed the stairs and eased the door open slowly, revealing a dim, lengthy corridor. He oriented himself and headed in the general direction of the Study Room, whose location he remembered clearly from his time with Anja. He paused to listen every fifteen or twenty feet but heard nothing, other than the taps and creaks of a house growing accustomed to its surroundings — wood settling and walls protesting the pull of gravity.

Shaw finally found one advantage of the ugly slippers on his feet: his passage was silent.

He climbed to the second floor and turned left.

A noise startled him. A tap. Metal on metal.

Then footsteps coming his way.

He tested two knobs before he found an unlocked door and stepped into what was a small guest bedroom. He left the door ajar and peered out. He could see only a shadow approaching. A latch up the hall clicked. He heard a grunt. The door slammed shut.

The clinking of metal once more. A weapon? Had somebody spotted his entry point in the cellar?

Another door opened and closed, nearer. The grunt was louder.

The shadow approached. Shaw looked around for something to defend himself with. Break the decorative water bowl and pitcher and hope for a long, sharp shard. His preference to avoid using cutting and stabbing weapons would have to go out the window.

Slipping the bowl under a blanket, Shaw struck it fast with the pitcher. This resulted in a functional porcelain shiv about eight inches long. He improvised a handle from the doily on the dresser and slid the remaining broken pieces under the bed.

He eased the door open a bit farther so he could see into the hallway.

This grunt was very close.

Shaw gripped the shiv, inhaled deeply and held his breath.

The stocky middle-aged cleaning woman waddled past, limping, carting a heavy bucket filled with bottles and rags. Her opposite shoulder slumped under a big vacuum on a leather sling, reminding him of a machine gun or rocket launcher. It was the source of the clinking. She also held a metal mop. She was sweating fiercely and her face was anything but happy.

Shaw slipped the shiv into his waistband and stepped away from the door. The woman, a Journeyman, shuffled past. The grunting and clanking faded.

Back into the hallway, Shaw continued on to the Study Room.

He wasn’t surprised that the chamber was empty. The helicopter’s arrival and what Shaw guessed was Eli’s planning sessions — whatever they were — meant there’d be no time for intimacy today, however lustful the man was feeling.

He found the door in the mural. It was unlocked and he stepped into Eli’s office, which contained a modern glass desk and a leather swivel rocker, several matching armchairs and tables. A bathroom was off to one side — the door slightly ajar — and unoccupied.

With disgust, Shaw noted the battery-powered video camera pointed into the Study Room.

A search revealed no phone. The computer was, of course, password protected.

He noted stacks of documents in neat rows on the desk and he began reading. Nothing incriminating. Typical memos and notes on business plans, real estate prospectuses, notes on new Discourses, files on the Companions, bills.

Shaw opened one of the four file cabinets against a wall. It would take days to get through them all. But he started on the first, digging through the folders, skimming quickly. He could find no videos of Eli in bed with Companions, though even if he had, this probably wouldn’t be a crime, unless Eli posted them without permission or, of course, they depicted someone underage.

Something. Just give me something .

He found no references to the slain reporter Gary Yang or his killer, Harvey Edwards. Or any other obviously criminal activities Eli had engaged in.

Keep at it.

Shaw pulled another stack of files out and was halfway through them when he became aware that he wasn’t alone in the room.

He’d sensed the presence thanks to what his father described as a radar that tells us when sound waves reverberate around us due to someone’s presence.

Reaching for the pottery stiletto, he turned.

Anja stood in the doorway.

Shaw lowered his hand.

She asked, “It was you, wasn’t it? The helicopter?”

A nod. “I found out that Harvey Edwards was a Companion. He killed the reporter in San Francisco just after his article about the Foundation ran. Edwards was a Select, wasn’t he?”

Anja frowned. “I think so. Are you a policeman too?”

“No. I have a personal investment in the place.”

“I knew you weren’t like the others. He’s too blind to see. Everybody’s a mirror to him. He looks at them and he sees himself.”

“Did Etoile — the detective. Did he interview you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he ask?”

“He found out that before Yang was killed somebody broke into his apartment and stole files. His editor said he was doing a follow-up on a cult story. One of them he was researching was the Foundation; there were copies of memos he’d sent to his editor about us. He wondered if Eli or anyone else from the Foundation had been in touch with Edwards recently.”

“Had they?”

“I have no idea. We were all relieved when that reporter died. It was a tragedy, but we didn’t want to be in some trashy exposé. I swear I didn’t know that David, that Eli was behind it.”

“The Selects are muscle, you know. Like hitmen. Suicidal hitmen. That makes them very effective.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Being told and knowing’re two different things.”

She looked down to the floor. “Okay. I suspected.”

“How many Selects are there?”

“I don’t know. A dozen around the country. A half dozen or so here.”

Though one less than yesterday.

“What’s Eli’s plan? To escape somewhere?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me what he’s going to do until he does it.”

“I need your help.”