Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

MR. DEVEREUX WAS LEAVING AN EXCLUSIVE GOLF RESORT WHEN HE WAS FELLED BY A SINGLE SNIPER SHOT FROM THE HIGHWAY. HE WAS LEAVING THE RESTAURANT IN THE COMPANY OF EXECUTIVES OF ABERNATHY CONSULTING, SANTA CRUZ, AND A BODYGUARD. NO ONE ELSE WAS INJURED.

THE SAN FRANCISCO DAILY HERALD REPORTED THAT AN ANONYMOUS CALLER TO THE PAPER STATED THAT A LOCAL GANG WAS BEHIND THE DEATH BECAUSE OF DEVEREUX’S INVOLVEMENT IN ILLEGAL DRUG OPERATIONS THROUGHOUT THE BAY AREA. A SAN MATEO COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE SPOKESPERSON SAID THE INVESTIGATION WAS ONGOING.

“God,” Victoria said. “The UIP thing.”

Shaw was doubtful. “He was insulated. That was BlackBridge’s thing. Nobody’d know that he was the ultimate client. He was careful about that.”

Dangerous, greedy and narcissistic, but not stupid...

It was then that his phone hummed with a text, and he read the brief message from an unknown number.

Delete the tracking app.

He stared at the words for a moment. Then the meaning hit him. Jesus. He did as the message instructed. Shaw replied.

Done.

A moment went by. Shaw debated. He sent another.

Take care...

Shaw wondered if he would get a response. Seconds later the phone vibrated again.

The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

One of those stainless-steel afternoons, when humidity, temperature, clarity of the air and a show-off of a sun conspire to make the setting as perfect as a setting can be.

Colter Shaw parked the Winnebago near the cabin and climbed out, stretching after the seven-plus-hour drive from the north, eyeing the craggy and soaring peaks to the west of the property, the dense pelt of pine and oak to the east and south. Sun danced off the pond where he and Russell had fished for hours upon hours.

There’d been several days of matters to attend to in San Francisco, answering more questions — and there’d been quite a few — about the San Bruno shootout, Droon’s death and the explosion of the Prescott home, the Urban Improvement Plan, BlackBridge. Yes, the various authorities had quite the list. Unfortunately Shaw could offer no insights into the tragic death of Devereux, but he said there was some credibility to the drug claim, since he knew for a fact that the man was one of the chief beneficiaries of the UIP.

Shaw had spent a day closing up the safe house on Alvarez, feeling his brother’s absence even more keenly than he had after Russell had departed the first time, following the rescue at the library. He thought back to his surprise and pleasure when the man had returned to explain that he would be helping Shaw identify the victims of the kill order.

It’s not a reward job, Colt. You can’t do it on your own...

Then he’d tucked the feeling away and finished filling his backpack. He had hopped onto the Yamaha for the zipping ride to the RV camp to pick up the Winnebago.

Upon leaving the park, Shaw had not headed south toward the Sierra Nevadas. And the reason for this was that he was not alone in the camper. Beside him in the passenger seat was Victoria Lesston. It turned out that she found the idea of a vacation as alien as he, but they decided to take the plunge and spend some R & R in wine country.

They had found a charming bed-and-breakfast nestled into a verdant quadrant of a vineyard. The place was long on views and complex, tasty meals, and — thank God — short on gingham and plaques of ducks and geese in bonnets.

Those days — in the safe house and then in Napa — were the first time in ages that he had spent several contiguous nights in the company of a woman. Oh, he’d been wary of the trip at first, very wary, but Shaw soon found there was nothing to worry about; all the vineyards they toured offered good beer.

The amount of time in each other’s company had been just right. At almost exactly the same moment, silence materialized between them, like a summoned spirit at a seance. It was benign, but it was silence nonetheless and they’d smiled, both understanding simultaneously that it was time to get back to their real worlds.

Now, in the Compound, Victoria climbed out of the camper too and stretched, somewhat more carefully than Shaw, given her hundred-foot high dive from a cliff not long ago — and the tumble to cover in San Bruno park. Together they walked toward the cabin, where they saw Mary Dove approaching from a field. She carried a heavy basket of vegetables.

Smiling, she nodded toward them, then the house, meaning she would off-load the provisions and then join them.

Victoria pulled off her sweater — Napa and Sonoma had been far more damp and chill than the weather here. Beneath she wore a gray silk blouse. And beneath that was a pale blue, lacey garment, not presently visible, though Shaw was by now quite familiar with its construction and the mechanics of the clasps.

She wore blue jeans, as did Shaw. He was in a black T-shirt and the leather jacket that still bore evidence of damage from various skirmishes in the past few days, most notably the cuts from the knife duel with Droon. He had examined the marks and decided to leave the blemishes. He had no clue how to go about mending a garment that had come from a department store. His expertise in leather was limited to hides and skins that he had fleshed, salted and tanned.

They carried their bags to their respective rooms. Shaw stripped and took a scorching hot, then a freezing shower. He toweled off and dressed in clean jeans and a dress shirt. Then digging through his bag, he removed the eagle statue and replaced it on the shelf from which Russell had taken it so many years ago. He’d thought about keeping it in the camper but for some reason it seemed more appropriate here.

He joined Victoria on the front porch. Mary Dove now brought out three cups of coffee, along with the milk and sugar service, which she set on the table.

All three sat, fixed up the beverages to their liking and sipped.

Victoria had dozed for a portion of the trip but had apparently been aware of several calls Shaw had taken and made on the drive.

She mentioned this now and asked, “Status?”

“Bail denied for everybody.”

“I noticed the streaks,” Mary Dove said, nodding at his jacket. “And that.” Now she looked to his hand, still bandaged following the slash from Droon’s knife. “I do hope you wear your body armor when you ought to.” Spoken in the same casual way another parent might say, “Wear your raincoat and galoshes; it’s going to pour.”

Shaw added, “The Bureau rolled up all the BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions executives and some BlackBridge people in L.A., Miami and New York. The company’s gone.”

The reason for this, of course, was ultimately Ashton Shaw’s mission. Had he not started on his quest years ago to bring the outfit down, it would still be going full force, addicting people to drugs, engaging in dirty-tricks operations and leveraging companies like Devereux’s into the pilot’s seat of political office.

Mary Dove asked, “That wouldn’t really have worked, would it? A corporation running for office?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so, but who knows?” Shaw told her what Professor Field had said.

Mary Dove said, “That’s a question Ash would’ve loved to think about — and debate until the wee hours.” She looked toward Victoria. “He was quite the historical and political scientist, you know.”

“Colt told me.” Victoria said, “I wish I’d known him.”

“He would’ve liked you,” Mary Dove said. “He enjoyed his rappelling buddies.”

The woman looked Victoria over. “You’re free to stay as long as you like. I’m hosting a women’s health retreat next week. Some good people.”