Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

When they settle he looks at them one by one. Finally he says, “Never deny the power of ritual. Do you know what I mean?”

“Like in Harry Potter? The ceremonies at Hogwarts?” Dorie is a fan, to put it mildly.

“Exactly, Button.”

Colter is thinking of the Lord of the Rings trilogy but he doesn’t say anything.

Russell seems to be thinking of nothing in response. He just watches his father and the box he is holding.

“A general rule of survivalism is: ‘Never risk yourself for a stranger.’ But that’s not what I believe. What’s the good of learning our skills if we can’t put them to use and help somebody else?”

The three of them — his children, his students — sit motionless on couch or chair, looking up at the intense eyes of their father.

“Colter saved somebody’s life today. And I thought we should have a ritual.”

The boy’s face burns and he’s sure it turns red. Dorion’s, on the other hand, blossoms with happiness as she looks Colter’s way. He gives her a smile. Russell now gazes at the fireplace, where the flames had turned from energetic blue to subdued orange.

Ashton reaches into the box and extracts a small statuette of an eagle in flight. He hands it to Colter, who takes it. It’s heavy, metal. He’s worried that his father will expect him to make a speech. At fourteen he has rappelled down hundred-foot cliffs and borrowed a motorcycle from a friend in White Sulfur Springs, the nearest town, and hit ninety miles an hour on a road of imperfect asphalt. He has also pulled a pistol on an intruder in the Compound — that incident last year — and sent him on his way.

He would do any of those again rather than make a speech, even to this small audience.

“But he couldn’t have done that without the love and support of his brother and sister. So our ritual includes both of you too.” Ashton reaches into the box once more and takes out a statuette of a fox and hands it to Dorion. Her eyes ignite with pleasure. The only thing she likes more than locomotives is animals.

“And here’s yours.” He hands Russell a bear statuette. His brother says nothing but stares at the bronze, weighs it in his hand.

Shaw suddenly has a snap of understanding. The statues echo the nicknames of the children. Dorie is the clever one. Russell the reclusive one. And Colter the restless one.

Then the ritual is over — no speeches required — and Mary Dove announces that it’s time to eat.

After dinner — which would have been bighorn sheep but is now elk — Colter takes the statuette into his bedroom and sets it on a shelf beside his copies of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Ray Bradbury’s short stories and a half-dozen law books, which for some reason he enjoys reading.

Now, years later, in the kitchen of the Alvarez Street safe house, Colter Shaw was looking at the same statue as intently as he was the night of the avalanche.

He recalled that when he left home to attend the University of Michigan and was packing his duffel bag for the trip he had noticed that the eagle statue was nowhere in his room.

Yet here it was now.

There was only one possible explanation for its appearance. His father had taken it with him when he’d come to the safe house. It was, maybe, a sentimental reminder of his son, something that Ash wanted to have with him. To make him feel close to home.

A perfectly reasonable, heartwarming explanation.

But Shaw believed there was another reason, a more important one, that Ashton had brought the eagle to San Francisco. It was the clearest message yet that Father wanted Colter, of all his children, to carry on his mission.

Shaw’s phone pinged with the sound of an incoming text. It was from his private investigator, in Washington, D.C., to whom he’d sent an encrypted email before his bike ride from the Tenderloin back here.

Charlotte “Mack” McKenzie might have been a model. With steely gray eyes, she was an even six feet tall, her complexion pale and her brown hair long. This was a problem for her in street work. Like a spy, PIs benefit from being inconspicuous. And no one could ever say that of Mack McKenzie. Her days of tailing people, though, were long past. She had put together a security and investigative operation that hummed, and she had a talented crew of staff and contractors to do the sweat labor.

Maria and Tessy Vasquez. Largely under the radar — likely undocumented — but social media and level-one governmental data confirm their identities. No criminal records. Probably legit. No AKA “Roman” in CA or U.S. criminal databases in SF area.

Mack was a woman after Shaw’s own heart. In keeping with Shaw’s approach to life, little was ever zero percent or one hundred percent with her, even if she wasn’t quite as quick to assign a precise number as he was.

Probably legit...

She finished with:

Your requested analysis presently underway.

He replied, thanking her, and looked over the notes he’d taken at Maria Vasquez’s apartment, a decent place in a modest building surrounded by the complex ’hood of the TL. He was concerned about the young woman, the talented singer and photographer.

For-profit kidnapping? Near zero percent.

The odds she’d been murdered and the body disposed of? Not great. Ten percent. That wasn’t as common as cable TV would have us believe.

And what about her being in a meth house somewhere, strung out, after having relapsed? Thirty percent. She seemed to be making good on a fresh start. But add Roman into this equation and that boosted the number to sixty percent.

He suddenly saw his BlackBridge mission as a distraction from the reward job, which was, after all, his main profession. But he’d make it work. He’d do whatever was necessary to find the girl, or at least get some answer for her mother.

It just then happened that his phone hummed, and he took a call from one of Tessy’s friends. The young woman couldn’t provide any information about the missing girl. But in response to his question about Roman said, “Is he involved? Shit.”

“I don’t know. Her mother thinks it’s possible.”

“He’s trouble. I think he’s crazy. I mean, really, like a psychopath.”

Shaw asked if she had any specific information on him.

“No, I never really knew him. He didn’t want Tessy hanging with us. He wanted her all to himself. He’s dangerous, mister. He hangs with some really bad people. You know, gangs, that kind of thing. I heard he killed somebody. Jesus, I hope she didn’t go back to him.”

He tried the people he’d called earlier and, when none of them answered, left new messages. This was all he could do on the reward assignment for the time being, until Mack got back to him with his earlier request.

Back to the scavenger hunt of Amos Gahl’s stolen evidence.

Glancing at his phone, he checked the tracker app. The chipped copy of Walden was still at the library.

He wondered what Helms, Braxton and Droon would be thinking about Blond’s death. Was the mysterious bearded shooter a friend of Shaw’s or was the incident merely a coincidence? Had Blond, who reeked of hired killer, been gunned down in retaliation for some earlier offense?

Shaw sat back, stared at the ceiling and silently asked Amos Gahl: What did you find?

And where is your courier bag hidden?

It was time to look at the two leads that might hold the answers to those questions: the house on Camino in Burlingame and the warehouse in the Embarcadero.

The coffee cup froze halfway to Shaw’s mouth when he heard the doorbell ring.

He turned fast, hand near his pistol. He stood.

A voice called, “Me. I’m coming in.”

The front door opened and Russell stepped inside. Still in the black hat, still in the dark, thigh-length coat, the tactical boots.