The Goodbye Man
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри
- Серия: Colter Shaw #2
- Год: 2020
- Язык: английский
- Год: G. P. Putnam’s Sons
- ISBN: 978-0-525-53597-3
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Goodbye Man». Краткое содержание книги:
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.
She smiled. “DCR Holdings.”
Dorion, Colter, Russell.
So. His father had a safe house, where he had met with his colleagues as they planned the demise of BlackBridge. And the house was still operative.
He told his mother, “These people — Braxton and Droon — probably know about you and Dorie. I’ll call Tom Pepper. He’ll pull strings and get a couple of watchers — here and outside Dorie’s.”
“I won’t object to that. But...” Mary Dove lifted the tail of her blouse and revealed the grip of a Glock, the .45, sitting in a hip holster. “We’re good for now.” She let the cloth drop and turned to a cutting board, saying, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, “Dinner in a few hours. Alert the crew.”
82
Colter Shaw and Victoria Lesston sat on the porch in the Compound. The hour was nearly midnight and a stately crescent of moon sat high in the inky sky.
The Santa Anas were relaxed at the moment and the residual breeze was merely warm and comforting. The soundtrack was the rustle of stalky plants, owls and distant coyotes, the occasional wolf.
He had a beer, she a glass of wine. Chase sat at their feet. His ears would prick up occasionally, maybe hearing or smelling a potential intruder. But nothing drove him to his feet or rose hackles. Shaw could settle him with a soft, “Okay, boy.” There was a collar around his neck connected to a leash looped around Shaw’s chair leg. Night was predator time, and Shaw wanted to make sure the rottie didn’t go off to defend the kingdom in the face of insurmountable odds.
The cabin was dim and quiet; everyone else had gone to bed.
The two of them talked and talked, sharing stories.
Shaw spoke of the Never rules of his father’s making, and the survival skills he’d taught the children, which paralleled much of Victoria’s training in the military.
“What branch?” he asked.
“Delta Force.”
The special ops branch of the Army.
Victoria explained that 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, known more commonly as “the Unit,” had been recruiting women soldiers for the field, not desk assignments, for thirty years.
They compared notes on incidents that had occurred on his reward jobs and her security work. Immersion in ice water. Making a weapon — and a particularly insidious one — out of a rosebush. Various sustaining, if disgusting, improvised meals in the field.
He told her about the time he and his fourteen-year-old sister had rappelled down a three-hundred-foot cliff to avoid a pack of wolves at the summit.
“They only hunt at night,” was her reply.
“That’s a fact.”
“Well,” was her response. “That means you did a descent in the dark. You have moonlight?”
He said no and asked if she’d had any unusual descents.
“A few.” Spoken in a deflecting way.
“Okay. How far was the longest?”