Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

Nearly all BlackBridge employees refused to talk to us — terrified of the consequences — but I found several who were disgusted with the operations and agreed to meet with me. They wouldn’t give me any evidence themselves but they did refer to a former employee, Amos Gahl, who had stolen some documents from the company, something the company was desperate to recover; they believed it was evidence that could bring down BlackBridge and, in doing so, their corrupt clients as well.

Gahl hid these documents somewhere in the San Francisco area, they told me... but before he could contact the authorities about them, he was killed in a car crash that did not appear to be accidental.

It became my obsession to find what Gahl had hidden.

Then BlackBridge discovered us.

One by one, under overt or subtle threats, my colleagues backed out of our crusade. Two others died from apparently natural causes that seemed far too coincidental.

The BlackBridge operative in charge of finding us and stopping our search for the evidence — or stealing it from us if we did — is a woman named Irena Braxton. She may look like somebody’s grandmother but she’s utterly ruthless and does not hesitate to order physical assaults as part of her planning. We had thought she was dead, at the hand of a former assistant of hers no less, but — unfortunately — that report proved to be false. Her search for us continues.

Now, we get around to you.

You’ve clearly followed the breadcrumbs I’ve left leading you to Echo Ridge, and now know the whole story.

I can hardly in good conscience ask you to take on this perilous job. No reasonable person would. But if you are so inclined, I will say that in picking up where my search has ended, you’ll be fighting to secure justice for those who have perished or had their lives upended by BlackBridge and its clients, and you’ll be guaranteeing that thousands in the future will not suffer similar fates.

The map included here indicates the locations in the city that might contain — or lead to — the evidence Gahl hid. After leaving this letter and accompanying documents, I will be returning to San Francisco and I hope I will have found more leads. They can be found at 618 Alvarez Street in San Francisco.

Finally, let me say this:

Never assume you’re safe.

An exception to the usual west-to-east rule of the transit of weather in the United States occurs when the bristling Santa Ana winds flow from Southern California and embroil parts north, including the valley in which the Compound sits.

Through the open window of his father’s office, Colter Shaw felt the hot breeze now, a leisurely whirlpool throughout the valley where the cabin sat. Today’s was a rare wind, the month being June; the crisp Santa Anas are generally an October-to-April phenomenon. But lately they had been appearing earlier, and leaving later. Hotter and stronger too, as anyone who had lost a house to the frequent fires in the state could tragically confirm.

Outside, Mary Dove was walking through a large field, one Colter Shaw knew well. It was where his father’s memorial service had been. A sign that the man’s mind had not collapsed completely even near the end was his wry funeral instructions:

It’s my wish that Ash’s ashes be scattered over Crescent Lake.

This ten-acre patch was where the family had raised vegetables, and his mother still did. It was where they had hunted, taking wild turkey and pheasant and more than a few deer, an animal in which evolutionary genetic warnings — this isn’t the safest place in the world for you — didn’t seem to filter down to subsequent generations.

His mother in fact was on the trail of this evening’s dinner at the moment.

Mary Dove was the best hunter in the Shaw family. He could picture her aiming the well-tended Winchester at her prey, sighting through a scuffed Nikon scope, both eyes open. The rifle would be on a steady perch of branch or rock or fencepost.

Never fire a long gun freehand, except in emergencies.

Mary Dove wouldn’t squeeze the trigger until she was absolutely certain she had a clean and lethal shot. In all the years of hunting with her, Shaw had never seen her miss, nor use more than one bullet to take game.

Shaw wondered what would be on tonight’s menu. At another time, he might have deduced this from the type of firearm she carried — shotgun for pheasant or duck, rifle for boar or venison. But today she wasn’t armed. All she wielded now was a pen to sign the truck driver’s delivery receipt for the box of groceries. The vehicle sat beside the mailbox at the end of the drive.

Mary Dove tipped the man — it was a twenty-five-mile drive from White Sulfur Springs. She picked up the sizeable box effortlessly, as if it held feathers and air, and returned to the cabin.

Shaw’s phone hummed. The caller was Sue Bascomb, the woman who was thinking of writing a book about her experience at the Osiris Foundation.

I don’t want this to happen to anyone else...

“Mr. Shaw.” Her voice was animated. “Eli got arrested, he and that horrible man, Hugh. Did you know?”

“Heard something about it, I think.”

“I’m working on that book now. I’ve got the names of two dozen former Companions willing to talk to me. If you’re still up for it, I’d really like to interview you.”

Shaw said he was, with the caveat he’d mentioned: his name wouldn’t appear.

This was fine with her. She explained that as a journalist she frequently used unnamed sources. It was completely ethical as long as there was corroboration when it came to controversial statements.

They picked a place to meet: her home, she said, was in Seattle, and they agreed on Tacoma, where Shaw had some follow-up business.

Shaw rose and joined his mother, as she unpacked steaks and chicken and an elaborate pie.

Mary Dove lifted an eyebrow.

He showed her the contents of Ashton’s hidden treasure. She read the letter carefully, then skimmed the rest. She poked her glasses higher and reviewed the map of San Francisco. Shook her head and looked at her son.

“BlackBridge. Never heard of it.” She sighed. “But I remember when Todd and Cathy Foster died. It was terrible. Ash was very close to him. That explains a lot.” She tapped the letter. “This is real, what he’s worried about. This isn’t from his illness.”

Shaw agreed. His father’s paranoia and breaks with reality had resulted in plenty of bizarre scribblings. These notes, however, were articulate and based on actual events; his concern was genuine.

Besides, there was that run-in Shaw himself had had with the BlackBridge hitman, Ebbitt Droon, a few weeks ago, which assured him these documents were legitimate.

Shaw’s glance was to the outside, watching the hot breeze tilt needlegrass and graceful pink Muhlenbergia. The wind raised timid eddies of dust on the edge of the green. He was thinking of Droon’s shark eyes, the expert way he’d held his weapon. The ruthlessness of his mission.

I like hurting people. And I hurt in ways that change them. Forever.

“Did Ashton ever mention the house on Alvarez?”

“No.”

Upon learning that their spouse had a secret hideaway, some women would immediately think: love nest. He’s cheating. But not Mary Dove; no one was more faithful to his wife than Ashton Shaw.

Lifting his phone, Shaw showed his mother a text he’d just received from his private eye.

618 Alvarez is a single-family dwelling, three stories, 1200 square feet, owned by a corporation established under California law years ago. DCR Holdings. Tax and upkeep paid for by investments. Sufficient assets and income to keep the property going in perpetuity. Conducted brief interviews with neighboring businesses. They report that they have seen a man in his thirties entering the house from time to time recently. Possible a home sitting service. No further information.