Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

His gut and shoulder in agony from the piling on, Shaw struggled for breath.

“Kill him!” shouted someone.

Hugh and an AU pulled Shaw to his feet. Hugh said, “Get him to the Assistance Unit.”

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.

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.”