Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

She nodded, understanding: Shaw would take Hugh. She would get Eli and the other person in the room.

There was a chance that Eli was armed but that seemed unlikely. In any event, he would know the least about firearms and would be the easiest to disarm.

Shaw held up three fingers and began tucking them away.

When the last digit curled tight, making a fist, he swung the door open and Shaw and Victoria stepped inside fast, clubs ready.

They stopped just as quickly.

Hearing them enter, Eli and Hugh turned, startled.

Shaw and Victoria stopped in the doorway. They both stared at the men’s wrists. They were handcuffed.

The person they’d been speaking with blinked in surprise and glanced from Shaw’s and Victoria’s faces to the war clubs and back again.

It was the sheriff from Snoqualmie Gap, the man who was deep in Eli’s pocket and who, Shaw understood, had just arrested the two men for the sole purpose of helping them escape before the real authorities arrived.

Two gurneys rolled along the gravel path, powered and piloted by med techs from the Snoqualmie Gap Fire Department.

One of the complicated yellow contraptions sped along, the techs sprinting. The other moved more leisurely.

Anja was in the first. She was unconscious and ashen. Her neck was swathed in an occlusive — airtight — dressing. Shaw had once used Saran wrap for this very purpose; it was to avoid an air embolism. An IV dangled. It would contain not whole blood but a resuscitative fluid, like saline. Anja was alive because of the man who strode quickly alongside her, Steve. His hands and clothing were covered with blood.

The trailing gurney held the body of the man responsible for Anja’s condition, the man who had advanced, Timothy.

Shaw and Victoria stood outside of the Assistance Unit. They had retrieved their luggage, which sat at their feet, though cell phones and car keys were still locked up. This was reportedly a matter of finding keys to the lockboxes; Shaw was sure, though, the keys wouldn’t be “found” until the cult leader and his associate were long gone.

Another couple was present — Thomas and Carole. He was the one who had retrieved the Glock when Shaw had been mobbed, and refused to hand it over afterward.

Shaw understood what had happened. Thomas would have forced his way into the Administration building with the stubby little weapon and insisted on a landline or one of the staff’s mobiles. He would have called 911.

Dispatch had dutifully referred the emergency call to the Snoqualmie Gap sheriff’s office. The same law enforcers Shaw had seen at the site of John’s death had arrived at the camp. The sheriff — his name badge identified him as Calhoun — knew that a pile of cash awaited him if he “arrested” Eli and Hugh and got them out of the camp before legitimate law enforcers showed up.

A deputy now led Hugh and Eli to Calhoun’s own SUV and the men were helped into the back. Their hands were cuffed in front of their bodies, a procedural violation in every law enforcement agency in the world. Hugh cast a lascivious glance toward Victoria. She parried with a look of pure ice.

The AU, also in cuffs, was led by another deputy out to the parking lot. The two men chatted like they were buddies on their way to a hunt on the first day of deer season. Arresting him and any other AUs was simply for show. They’d be released as soon as they were at the Snoqualmie Gap Sheriff’s Department, if not on the way there.

“Look,” Victoria said, nodding toward the path that led here from Eli’s residence.

Two deputies were carting luggage and go-bags.

“Bellboys,” Shaw muttered.

“Bet the tip’s going to be pretty nice.”

The men set the items in the back of the sheriff’s SUV and returned in the direction they’d come. Getting another load, Shaw thought cynically. The Guiding Beacon had to travel in comfort.

Shaw said to Victoria in a soft voice, “They’ll have to take a statement. Stretch it out for as long as you can. They don’t know Frederick’s got the feds and state police on their way.”

“Mine’ll take as much time as reading Moby-Dick . That’s a book I never finished; did you?”

“Never started it.”

The sheriff whispered to some of his deputies, who nodded, taking in the instructions. When he returned, heading toward his vehicle, Shaw stopped him. “Sheriff Calhoun.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been a witness to several crimes on the premises here and I’d—”

“‘Premises here.’ Hey, you sound like a lawyer. Are you a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Hey, gotta say, you got yourself some pretty fancy souvenirs.” A nod at the war clubs. “Sell them at the general store downtown. Fetch a pretty penny.”

Victoria said, “We’d like to make statements.”

The sheriff looked over Shaw’s bloody uniform shirt. “You sure you’re not hurt, sir?”

“No, I was saving the woman who was just wheeled out. The one that Eli ordered murdered.”

Eli, your friend. Or benefactor, at least.

Without reaction, the sheriff fished keys from his pocket and loped toward the SUV. He made a call on his radio. “Tony, you got the rest of Mr. Ellis’s stuff?”

“On its way, Sheriff.”

“’K. We gotta leave.” He walked to the driver’s side door.

“Sheriff,” Shaw called.

The man lifted an eyebrow. His expression was one of boredom.

“Statements? We’re ready to make them.”

“You’re quite the cooperative pair, aren’t you, now? The prosecutor’ll be in touch.”

“You don’t have our names.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Calhoun dropped into the seat and fired up the engine.

Shaw crouched and opened up his backpack. He dug inside. A moment later he was jotting something on a page in one of his notebooks. He tore it out and walked to Calhoun, handed it to him.

“My name and number. Just to make it easy for the prosecutor.”

“Thank you now. World needs more concerned citizens like yourself, sir.”

Shaw returned to Victoria and they watched the deputies load the last of Eli’s baggage into the back of the 4Runner. One of them closed the liftgate and tapped the side of the vehicle twice.

Calhoun accelerated fast through the YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW gate and into the gravel parking lot, leaving a trail of gray haze behind. Accompanying it was the SUV they’d seen earlier, the one filled with files and computers and hard drives.

Victoria tapped Shaw’s shoulder and pointed. On the ground near where the SUV had been was a small white object. It was the sheet of paper, now wadded into a ball, containing his name and number, which he’d handed to the sheriff not two minutes before.

Finally, the feds arrived.

Frederick’s call to Tom Pepper had worked.

Special Agent Robert Slay from the Tacoma field office of the FBI had been accompanied by two dozen tactical, forensic and hostage negotiation agents.

“You’re Shaw?” The strongly built, handsome man, wearing a navy blue windbreaker with the letters of his employer on the back, extended his hand and they shook. His hair was jet black.

“This is Victoria...” Shaw lifted an eyebrow her way.

She said, “Lesston.” Her eyes swung to Shaw; apparently they were on a last-name basis now.

Hands on hips, Slay looked over the camp, the clusters of people in the Foundation uniforms. He said nothing but his eyes were taking in the Assistance Unit and the security men in the gray tunics. Most, Shaw observed, had changed to street clothes.

Slay took a call, listened. His expression was grave. “’K. Keep me posted.” He signed off and turned his attention back to Shaw and Victoria. “Appreciate your thoughts on tracking ’em down, Mr. Shaw. I’ve got people on it. But” — he nodded toward the phone — “nothing yet.”