The Never Game

by Jeffery Deaver

  A pretty girl of about two studied him; she held a stuffed rabbit, made from the same material as her red gingham dress. She had her mother’s blue eyes. This would be Gem.

  “Hello,” Shaw said. He saved his smiles for moments like this—with his nieces, mostly.

  The girl waved.

  Karen rose and shook Shaw’s hand firmly. “Thank you.” Her eyes were wide and radiated gratitude.

  Shaw sat. He noted flowers and cards and candy and a balloon. He was not a bring-a-present kind of person. Not averse to the idea; he just tended not to think about it. If he came back, maybe he’d bring her a book. That seemed practical; you couldn’t do much with balloons.

  “What do they say?” He glanced at Standish’s vastly bandaged arm and was surprised they’d been able to save the limb. The belly wound was hidden under functional blankets.

  “Broken arm, nicked spleen—I’ll probably get to keep it. You don’t need a spleen, Shaw. You know that?”

  He recalled something about that from his father’s lectures on emergency medicine in the field.

  “If they take it out, you can get infections. My doctor”—she floated away for a moment, the painkillers—“he said the spleen is like a bush league pinch hitter. Not vital but better to have one. I can’t believe I fell for that, Shaw. A car horn.” A faint smile. “The doctor said you knew what you were doing. You treated gunshots before?”

  “I have.”

  It was one of the first lessons their father gave them in emergency first aid: pressure points, tourniquets, packing wounds. Other advice too:

  Never use a tampon in a bullet wound. People say you ought to. Don’t. It’ll expand and cause more damage.

  Ashton Shaw was a wealth of wisdom.

  “When’re you getting sprung?”

  “Three, four days.”

  Shaw asked, “You heard the whole story?”

  “Dan told me. It’s about disinformation, propaganda, lies, getting the kids to vote . . . and vote certain ways. Starting rumors. Last thing in the world we need now. Destroy lives, careers . . . Lies about affairs, crimes. Bullshit.” Standish drifted away, then back. “And Knight?”

  “Vanished. They locked down his airplane and detained his minders—conspiracy. But no sign of him.”

  Which is why a Task Force officer was stationed outside her door.

  Karen handed a picture book to Gem, who was growing restless. She’d brought a bag filled with books and toys. Shaw’s sister did the same and had taught him the art of distraction for the times he babysat. He didn’t do so often but when he was called for duty, he made sure he was prepared.

  He knew survivalism under all circumstances.

  Then the tears appeared in Standish’s eyes.

  Karen leaned forward. “Honey . . .”

  Standish shook her head. She hesitated. “I called Cummings,” she said.

  Karen said, “Looks like Donnie’s going to administration.”

  Standish said, “He didn’t want to tell me. Not now, when I’m laid up. But I had to know. He said my job’s safe. Just no street work. It’s policy. He said nobody wounded this bad’s ever gone back in the field.”

  Shaw thought of her plan to get onto the street, which would now apparently be permanently derailed.

  Or not. The tears stopped and she roughly wiped her face. There was something in her olive-dark eyes that suggested there would be future conversations with the JMCTF about the topic. His nod said Good luck.

  Karen said to Shaw, “When Donnie’s back home, if you’re still here, you’ll come for dinner? Or will you be on the road?”

  “She’s a”—Standish whispered the adjective—“cook.” Because her lips didn’t move much when she spoke the censored syllables, Shaw assumed they were “kick-ass.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Wondering where the stack of his father’s documents would lead him in his search for the answer to the secret of October 5. Maybe he’d still be here. Maybe he’d be gone.

  They talked for a bit longer and then a nurse came in to change dressings.

  Shaw rose and Karen threw her arms around him and whispered once more, “Thank you.”

  Standish, bleary-eyed, just waved. “I’d do that too. But I don’t think . . . you’d appreciate the screaming.”

  He stepped to the door. Standish whispered, “Hold on, Shaw.” Then to her partner, she said, “You bring it?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” The woman dug into her purse. And handed him a small brown paper bag. He extracted a disk of cheap metal about four inches in diameter. In the center was a five-pointed star embossed with the words:

  OFFICIAL

  DEPUTY SHERIFF

  70.

  You’re a hero.”

  This was from she’s-sweet-on-you Tiffany.

  “TV and everything. Channel 2 said they invited you in for an interview. You didn’t respond.”

  Shaw ordered a coffee and deflected the adoration. He did, however, say, “Was a big help—the video. Thank you.”

  “Glad for it.”

  He looked around. The man he was going to meet hadn’t yet arrived.

  A pause. Tiffany napkin-wiped her hands, looking down. “Just . . . I thought I’d put this out there. I’m off later. Around eleven. That’s pretty late, I know. But, maybe, you want to get a bite of dinner?”

  “I’m beat.”

  The woman laughed. “You look it.”

  True. He was tired, to his soul. He’d taken a fast shower at the camper, changed clothes and then headed here. If he hadn’t gotten the phone call, he’d be asleep by now.

  “And I imagine you’re headed out of town pretty soon.”

  He nodded. Then glanced at the door.

  Ronald Cummings pushed through it. He surprised Shaw by nodding with familiarity to Tiffany, who gave him a smile. “Officer. The usual?”

  Shaw raised an eyebrow.

  The supervisor said to him, “We people get out too . . . Yes, please, the usual, Tiff. How’s Madge?”

  “Doing well. Still training. I tell her a half triathlon is as good as a whole. She’s, like, no it isn’t. Kids these days.”

  She fixed him a latte, or some other frothy concoction, and both Cummings and Shaw sat. Not many free tables. Open laptops were scattered throughout the place like cherry blossoms in April.

  Cummings sipped and diligently wiped away his white mustache. “I have to tell you something and I wanted it to be in person.”

  “I gathered.” Shaw drank a bit of his coffee.

  Tiffany appeared with what seemed to be an oatmeal cookie. She set it before Cummings.

  “You?” she asked Shaw.

  “I’m not a sweet guy. Thanks anyway.”

  A smile, more affectionate than flirtatious.

  When she’d walked away, Shaw looked over at the supervisor.

  “It’s really good. Tiffany makes them herself.” He nodded at the cookie.

  Shaw said nothing.

  “Okay. There’s a hold on the operation against Knight. This, by the way, I am absolutely not telling you.”

  “Hold?”

  “There’s a warrant, but the feds’re sitting on it.” Cummings looked around and leaned forward. “It looks like one of Knight’s clients—who hired him to break a fake-news story or two—was a lobbyist working for a certain politician. Maybe there’s a link to this individual, maybe not. But if Knight’s arrested and his name surfaces, then his future plans’re derailed. I mean, plans for a trip to Washington. A trip that would last four or eight years.”

  Shaw sighed. He now understood why the feds had not been at the Elizabeth Chabelle briefing.

  Cummings chewed some cookie. “And you’re about to ask: What about us? The Task Force or the California B of I. Making a state case against Knight.”
<
br />   “I was.”

  “We have to stand down too. That word came from Sacramento. Only for twenty-four hours. Make it look like we’re marshalling evidence or following up leads or some nonsense. Then we all—feds too—hit his last-known locations. Flashbangs, tanks, big splash.”

  “By then he’ll be on the beach in an extradition-free country.”

  “Pretty much. We caught one plum—Foyle. And we’ve closed down his operation.”

  “And the Whispering Man gets away.”

  “The . . . Oh, the game. Standish told me you were . . . bothered about Kyle Butler. And Henry Thompson. You wanted Knight arrested.”

  Or dead.

  “You’ve called in all your favors?”

  Cummings had lost interest in his heavy-duty baked good. The coffee too. “Favors I didn’t even have. And word is, we sit tight.”

  “Twenty-four hours?”

  The man nodded.

  “And there’s nothing you can do?”

  “I’m sorry. The only way Knight’s going to prison is if he strolls into the Task Force with his hands up, says, ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ and surrenders.” He gave a tired smile. “LaDonna told me you do this percentage thing? Well, you and I both know the odds of that happening, now don’t we?”

  Shaw asked, “You, or the feds, have any idea where Knight is?”

  “No, we don’t. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.” Cummings glanced into Shaw’s eyes and must’ve seen something in them that was troubling. “I know how you feel, but don’t do anything stupid here.”

  “Tell that to Kyle Butler and Henry Thompson.” Shaw rose and picked up his helmet and gloves. He nodded to Tiffany and headed for the door.

  “Colter,” Cummings said. “He’s not worth it.”

  The supervisor said something more but by then Shaw was outside into the cool evening and didn’t hear a word.

  71.

  Jimmy Foyle might’ve been expecting a visitor but he clearly wasn’t expecting this one.

  He blinked as Colter Shaw walked into the interview room at the Joint Major Crimes Task Force. Coincidentally, it was the room where Shaw and Cummings had had their get-together a day or so ago. To Shaw it felt like ages.

  Foyle sat down across from him. While there were rings cemented into the floor, the man wasn’t shackled. Maybe the turnkeys had assessed Shaw as being able to deflect an attack.

  The designer muttered, “I have nothing to say to you. This is a trick. They want to get a confession. I’m not saying anything.” The man’s lips tightened.

  Shaw had to admit he felt some sympathy for him. What would it have been like to throw your entire life into your art and then, at his young age, to realize that you’d lost your spark? The muse had deserted you?

  “This is just for me. What you’re going to tell me doesn’t go anywhere else.”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything. Go to hell.”

  Calmly Shaw said, “Jimmy, you know what I do for a living.”

  He said uncertainly, “You go after rewards . . . or something.”

  “That’s right. Sometimes it’s finding a missing child or a grandfather with Alzheimer’s. Mostly, I track down fugitives and escapees. There’s a fair number of people I’ve put into prison. People who’re not very happy with me. Now, I checked your incarceration schedule. You’ll be in San Quentin until your trial. I’ve put four prisoners in the Q. If you don’t help me, I’m going to talk to a screw or two I know. Those’re guards, by the way. You’ll learn that soon enough. They’ll spread the word that you’re a friend of mine and—”

  “What?” Foyle stiffened.

  Shaw held his hand out, palm first. “Calm, there . . . And I guarantee that word’ll spread fast.”

  “You son of a bitch.” He sighed, then leaned forward. “If I say anything, they’ll hear.” A nod at the ceiling, where presumably hidden microphones were hard at work.

  “That’s why I’m going to write down the questions and you’re going to write down the answers.”

  He removed from his bag one of his case notebooks and opened it, then he uncapped a pen. It was a cheap, flexible plastic one provided by the guards, who had explained that the Delta Titanio Galassia, with its sharp point, was not a wise implement to take into an interview with a suspected murderer.

  72.

  It’s easy to not die,” Ashton Shaw is saying to Colter, then fourteen. “Surviving is hard.”

  His son doesn’t bother to ask what he means. The professor always gets to his point.

  “Lying on a couch in front of a TV. Sitting in your office typing reports. Walking on the beach. You’re avoiding dying . . . Say, hand me another piton.”

  Even at that age Colter notes the irony in his father’s comment about the ease of not dying since they are presently one hundred and twenty feet in the air, on Devil’s Notch, a sheer rock face just across the boundary of the Compound.

  Colter hands him the piton, and, using the tethered hammer, Ashton whacks the metal spike into a crack, tests it and hooks in the carabiner with a sharp click. Parallel on their course, father and son chalk their hands and move several feet higher. The summit is only ten feet away.

  “Not dying isn’t the same as being alive. You’re only alive when you’re surviving. And you only survive when there’s a risk there’s something you can lose. The more you risk losing, the more you’re alive.”

  Colter waits for this to be translated into a Never rule.

  His father says nothing more.

  And so this becomes Colter Shaw’s favorite advice from his father. Better than all the Never rules put together.

  Ashton’s words were in Shaw’s mind now as he downshifted the Yamaha YZ450FX bike and pounded along a dirt road on the way to Scarpet Peak, between Silicon Valley and Half Moon Bay. As at Basin Redwoods Park, where Henry Thompson had been murdered, this might have been an old logging trail but was now apparently the means of transit for hikers. He hit fifty-five, caught air, then landed like waterfowl in autumn skimming down to the surface of a lake.

  Minutes counted. He twisted the throttle higher.

  Soon he came to the clearing. Ten acres of low grass, ringed by pine and leafy trees.

  He steered the bike out of the woods and killed the engine. This model of dirt bike—the 499cc version—came with a kickstand, a necessity for a street-legal conversion since you could hardly rest it on its side when you went shopping. He propped the bike up and removed his helmet and gloves.

  How crazy was this?

  Shaw decided: Doesn’t matter. It was inevitable.

  Not dying isn’t the same as being alive . . .

  The clearing reminded him of the meadow behind the cabin on the Compound—the place where Mary Dove had presided over her husband’s funeral. Ashton had anticipated—one might say overanticipated—his death and had made funeral arrangements long before the fact. His mind was sharp and clever then and rich with a wicked sense of humor. In his instructions he’d written: It’s my wish that Ash’s ashes be scattered over Crescent Lake.

  Shaw gazed across the clearing. On the far end of the moonlit expanse were two cat’s eyes of windows, glowing yellow. Just dots from here. The illumination was radiating from a vacation cabin, whose location was the information that Shaw had wrung out of Jimmy Foyle.

  The jog to the cabin took him no more than five minutes. Thirty yards away he paused, looking for security. There might be cameras, there might be motion sensors. Shaw was relying on speed to his target and the element of surprise.

  Tony Knight wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come a’calling. After all, he had immunity.

  Shaw wondered who the client was, the politician who’d hired Knight’s broadcast anchors to spread phony rumors about his opponent and destroy his chances in a forthcoming election. Some senator? A representative?
<
br />   He drew his Glock and—habit—eased the slide back against the tight spring to confirm a round was chambered, then reholstered the weapon. Crouching, he moved to the front of the rustic cabin, not unlike the one Shaw and his brother and sister had grown up in, though this one was much smaller. The rough-sided house, Nantucket gray, would have three or four bedrooms. There was a separate garage and Shaw could see an SUV and a Mercedes parked out front.

  This told Shaw that there were at least two minders with Knight. The man would be departing via helicopter; an orange wind sock sat nearby in the clearing. Two men would remain behind to drive the cars back.

  Smelling pine on the cool, damp air, Shaw crept closer to the cabin, lifted his head briefly and dropped back to cover.

  The image he’d seen was of Tony Knight on his mobile, pacing, gesturing with his other hand.

  The CEO was dressed in weekend casual. Tan slacks, a black shirt and a dark gray jacket. On his head was a black baseball cap with no logo or team designation. This suggested his departure was imminent. He wasn’t alone. There were two minders nearby. They were the same ones who’d abducted him from the floor of the C3 Conference while all eyes were on the pyrotechnic announcement about Conundrum VI overhead. One was on his phone and the other watching a tablet, earbud plugged in. He laughed at something.

  Shaw waited three long minutes and looked again.

  The tableau had not changed.

  He circled the building, planting his feet only on pine needles and bare earth, and checked what other rooms he could see into. It appeared that just the three men were inside.

  He stepped to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. A window, then.

  Except that he never got to a window.

  A fourth man now joined the party, walking from the garage with a backpack over his shoulder and a duffel bag in both hands; he was squat and bulky, with a crew cut and long arms. Stopping quickly, he shucked the backpack, dropped the bag and started to reach for his hip. Shaw lunged; the man gave up on the gun—he couldn’t get to it in time—and drew back a fist. But he had no target; Shaw dropped his center of gravity, ducked low and executed a passable single-leg takedown, a classic college wrestling move.