The Goodbye Man

The next day he’d received an email from the admissions director reporting that if he wanted to attend the session beginning the following Monday, he should complete the attached and bring it to the camp, along with a nonrefundable application fee of $1,000 and, if he chose to sign up for the course, the full fee would be $7,500.

Adelle posed a few questions, which he answered quickly — he’d memorized Skye’s bio, backward and forward.

The camera in the letter M was minuscule but to Shaw it was like a sniper scope aimed his way. He kept his head down at first but then gave up on the suspicious posture. It didn’t matter. He was sure the lens was of the highest resolution and already had recorded a dozen perfect, rich-pixel images of him. They were being carried by clever software through databases. Perhaps a digital eyebrow was presently being raised regarding a curious lookalike, one Mr. Colter Shaw.

If he got busted, how would it play out? They’d presumably take him to the clearing and do the same thing as they’d done to the reporter, beat him and then get rid of him. Shaw would come up with a story. Yes, he used a fake name but he was embarrassed about seeking help. He’d be passive. They’d let their defenses down. He’d incapacitate Hugh first. The supervisor was talented in Eastern martial arts but Shaw’s father had taught the children grappling, and Shaw’s wrestling skills from college had never left him. He’d use surprise to get the man on his back fast and relieve him of any weapons — a gun, if he was lucky. Then, covering them, he’d sprint for the woods.

Shaw found himself tense.

Then he thought of one of his father’s Never rules.

Never give away what you’re about to do.

He relaxed and sat back.

He’d fight if it came to fighting, escape if it came to escaping, continue the performance if the facial recognition autobot gave him a pass. Now, stick to the role: troubled guy in his thirties unhappy with life and hoping for a quick fix.

Shaw noted Adelle’s nails were the same shade as that of the three dots of dark blood. What would her reaction be if she noticed the stains tonight? Would she be troubled at the memory of the beating, or would she think it was all in a day’s work?

She finished transcribing the information and slipped the paper application away in a drawer. “Now, if you decide to go forward with the ITP you’ll discuss the financial arrangements with your interviewer but I’ll take the application fee now. How will you pay?”

Cash — in that amount — is automatically suspicious. In the post-9/11 world, anonymous credit cards are hard to come by; banks and Homeland Security remain vigilant. But checks? Not so difficult. Shaw dug in his wallet and handed over one for $1,000 already made out to the Foundation. It was drawn on one of his LLC accounts but his PI, Mack, had ordered starter checks and had printed on them Skye’s name and a post office box number.

Adelle put the check in the drawer too, ticked another box on the tablet. She started to turn toward him but at that moment her eyes flicked back to the screen and she froze.

Had an inquisitive bot returned the message: He’s really Shaw, Colter, 7832 Vista Trail Road, Okachee, FL, professional reward seeker?

The woman came to life and tapped some more on the tablet then, tellingly, turned it over, as she’d done before stepping outside to watch the reporter’s pounding. Apparently his interview was over; the applicants at the other two desks were still in the chairs where they’d been for forty minutes.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Shaw shrugged.

Adelle vanished through the door to the back. She started to speak to someone on the other side before the panel closed.

Shaw glanced at the front desk. That receptionist was no longer there. He noted that one of the Intake clerks — at the desk next to Adelle’s — glanced at him quickly, then returned her attention to the couple who was still being tableted. They seemed less awkward than before. At the far end, the bald man still was morose.

And his strategy of claiming an innocent motive for the pseudonym? He decided to rethink it. If the facial recognition had in fact returned a positive, Hugh would probably have guessed a reward seeker was akin to a soldier of fortune or a mercenary. Maybe working for a competitor. The expert, Anne DeStefano, had told him about the rivalries among cults. Shaw might be considered more of a threat than the reporter.

Then the back door was opening and the person walking through it was not blood-spattered Adelle but Hugh himself. Closer now, Shaw could see that the man was not handsome, his face pocked, his nose broken and badly set long ago. But he wore a bulletproof confidence. His shoulders were broader than the earlier view had indicated and his thighs thicker, hands meatier.

“Hello.” A pleasant voice, calm as could be.

Shaw nodded, standing.

Never fight from a position lower than your opponent’s.