When the boys were looking away, Shaw, crouching, hurried across the road and peered over the edge. The face was not a smooth sheet of vertical rock. It cantilevered downward at a forty-five- or fifty-degree angle to the rocky floor below. There were ledges and shelves and outcroppings along the way.
Shaw recalled a book he’d read as a boy about warring Native American tribes. Flinging enemies from cliffs was a popular way for tribal people in mountainous regions to dispatch their victims. Let gravity do the work. Saves arrows and effort. The human body can withstand an impact of about thirty-five to forty miles an hour if the surface you land on has some give. You achieve that speed in about ten to twelve yards of free fall. Farther than that, combined with a rock landing, you’ve pretty much had it.
Never tense up in a fall.
Ashton would remind the children of this rule before he had them jump from eight-foot-high ledges onto the ground. You would have far less damage from impact if you went rag-doll limp. Shaw had been on a reward assignment one time when a kidnapper tried to escape from him by leaping from one roof to another. He missed and fell thirty feet to the grass. The man was uninjured, except for a broken pinkie. The EMS tech confirmed that a likely reason for this was his completely relaxed state—thanks to half a bottle of vodka.
If Shaw lost footing, he would tumble the hundred-foot length of the cliff face. Possibly fatal but more likely, he foresaw, broken bones. The fact was he would prefer death to a cracked back or neck—and being forced to live out his life the opposite of itinerate: chairbound.
He would go over the side, execute a free solo descent for about ten feet, then climb sideways and ascend behind them. He’d move in fast, disarm Adam and have them zip-tie each other’s wrists.
If he wasn’t heard, wasn’t spotted.
And if he didn’t fall.
He had no chalk or climbing shoes. He knew how to climb barefoot but he needed to keep the Eccos on. If it came to a pursuit on the gravel-strewn road, he wanted the protection.
He estimated this approach to offer a seventy-five percent success rate. Importantly, of course, the twenty-five percent failure possibility incorporated more than simply not collaring the boys; it embraced a debilitating if not lethal tumble to the valley floor.
But no other choices.
So get to it.
Now.
8.
Shaw looked down, studying the face he would have to negotiate to come up behind Adam and Erick.
It was what climbers loved: craggy and cracked. He now did what all good climbers do first: planned his route. He lay on his belly and backed toward the edge, his feet finding outcroppings he’d noted before and memorized. Descending from the top of a cliff was always more difficult than ascending; you can’t brush or blow off the dirt covering hand- and footholds. Without chalk on your hands, even a faint dusting of soil can be deadly. Shaw usually rappelled to the ground, rather than climbing.
He started down. Farther, farther, his feet searching for places to support his weight. His hands gripping rocks and branches to hold him in case his shoes slipped. Finally he was far enough over he could look down, which was a huge relief. Now, thanks to rocky protuberances, two- to three-inch cracks and a conveniently placed—and sturdy—branch, he descended the eight feet to the ledge.
Then he moved sideways slowly to the spot just below where he estimated the suspects to be. The ledge angled downward and the boulder on which they sat was at this point about twenty feet above him. He looked up and plotted his climb. He reached up and brushed soil from a handhold, then gripped and pulled himself up. He kept his hip against the rock, which brings the shoulder close too, which in turn meant that his body stayed vertical—the best way to climb. He was edging with his feet, and using cracks into which he’d insert his hands and spread his fingers and palms. Then he’d bend a knee, find a foothold and straighten his leg to move up a foot or so at a time.
Not too fast. Fast is noise. Fast is mistakes. Fast is the black muzzle of a gun awaiting you at the crest.
He came to a smooth portion of the face that was about five feet square. On a normal climb, he would “smear”—use the soles of his shoes for traction by keeping the heel down and pushing the rubber hard against the face. You need good handholds for this, and while there were adequate ones here, he didn’t trust the street shoes for the maneuver. He executed a side pull to go around the smooth portion, then up a rough slab with plenty of handholds, then he did another side pull, in the other direction, to put him back on vertical course.
Now he was three feet below the crest. He rested for a moment and controlled his breathing, preparing himself for the contortion that was coming next: a mantle—the maneuver climbers use to top out at the summit. He gripped a crack with his left hand, brought his left foot then right up to a nub nearly even with his elbow. His right hand aiming for an outcropping near the top, he extended both legs from the crouching pose and rose to the edge, grabbing the rock he’d sought.
Shaw slowly lifted his head. He half-expected to find Adam aiming at him.
No, the suspects were ten feet away, still facing in the other direction.
Adam: “I don’t know. Probably twenty minutes. They weren’t sure.”
“My parents’re going to be worried.”
“I keep telling you: this’ll be worth it.”
“I just wish I could get them a message.”
“Not after that shit at the church.”
Shaw’s left hand found a secure oak sapling and he pulled himself to the surface, breathing hard . . . while trying to do so silently. This was not easy.
He crouched, tapped the Glock with his hand to remind himself exactly where it was holstered. He then moved toward them, glancing back and forth from Adam’s hands to the ground in front of himself, aiming for the most quiet places to step.
Nine feet, eight, seven. Shaw paused as the boys looked up the road.
Were the neo-Nazis approaching?
Or Welles and his band?
Don’t worry about it now.
Just like he’d planned the ascent, he planned the takedown.
And executed it.
Keeping his Glock in the holster, he came up behind Adam and in a fast, firm gesture gripped the stubby revolver, pushing downward first so that the hammer wouldn’t catch and pulling it free.
“The fuck!” Adam rose and turned. Before he could even draw back to slug the intruder, Shaw’s fist slammed into his gut. The young man grunted and dropped to his knees, cradling his belly.
Shaw pocketed the Smittie and drew his Glock, aiming toward, though not at, Erick.
“No, man, please . . . No!” His eyes were wide. “Who—”
“The fuck,” Adam repeated. “I’m going to puke.”
“Then do it and get it over with. We don’t have any time. You’re both in danger.”
“You hit me.”
Erick whispering, “Who are you? What’s—”
From his back pocket, Shaw handed Erick two of the zip ties he always carried with him. “On his wrists, hands in front. Then do your own. Now.”
Wide eyed, Erick took the off-white nylon strips. He glanced at them, figuring how they worked.
Adam grunted, “You’re a cop, you gotta identify yourself. Otherwise an arrest isn’t legal.”
“That’s not true, and I’m not a cop.” He said to Erick, “I’m here because of your parents.”
“Mom, Dad?”
He pointed at the zip ties. “Now. I’m not going to tell you again. There’re men nearby who want you dead. I can save you. Do it.”
Erick eyed Adam, who rose slowly. He said nothing but looked both sick and disgusted.
“You have to—”
“The wrists. Now!”
Erick zip-tied Adam and then held his own hands out to Shaw.
“No, d
o it yourself.”
He did, and Shaw gave a tightening tug. Their hands secured in front of their bodies wasn’t as secure but it was a safer way for them to climb to the Kia, which was fifty feet above them on the steep hill.
Adam said in a harsh, desperate voice, “Please, man. Let us go. You have to! This is all fucked up. You don’t understand.”
“We’ll talk later. Now, move!” Shaw gestured them along the road. “We have to get up that hill.”
The three of them broke into a jog, Shaw ready to grab or trip either of them if they tried an escape.
Erick whispered, “My parents?”
“They offered a reward to find you.”
This seemed to bewilder him.
“I couldn’t call them. The police would be tapping their phones.” A nod toward Adam, who was apparently the source of this warning.
“I’m parked on top of that hill.” Shaw gestured. “We have to get up there now.”
“Who wants to hurt us?” Erick asked.
“Local deputies. I thought they’d arrest you and hold you until detectives got here from Tacoma. But I’m pretty sure they want to kill you instead.”
“Why?”
“Later. On the drive.” They were almost to the spot where they could start the climb to Shaw’s car.
He said, “I saw you on your phone. You were calling somebody to meet you here. Who?”
“Nobody.”
The young man was lying—a conclusion that was obvious both from his tone and from his glance at Highland Bypass, the road from which presumably the “nobody” would soon emerge to meet the boys.
Shaw glanced at Erick, who said only, “I . . . Nobody.”
Didn’t matter, Shaw supposed, as long as they were out of the area in the next few minutes.
At the shallowest portion of the hill, where Shaw had walked down from his car, he had them stop. He pointed. “Up there. Climb slowly. The grass can be slick.”
Erick looked up and began to climb, his palms ahead of him gripping large clumps of grass and plant stalks to pull himself forward. He slipped and Shaw climbed up a few yards to help him to his feet.
Shaw glanced at Adam. “You. Now.”
The young man was looking around him. Shaw wondered if he was going to sprint down the road, and he tensed and readied himself to pursue.
“Hey, dude!” Adam called out. Erick looked down at him. “Remember what I told you. Your brother and everything? It’ll be all right. I promise.” A gentle smile crossed his face. He was muttering some words. One was “Goodbye”—and then something else that Shaw couldn’t hear.
He started sprinting away—but not up the road. He sped directly toward the cliff’s edge.
“Adam! No!”
Erick cried, “Hey, man, what’re you doing?”
Shaw ran after him.
Adam didn’t hesitate. He reached the cliff at full speed and launched himself into the air.
Breathing hard from the run and the shock, Shaw stopped just shy of the edge and watched the young man spiral to his death.
9.
Sheriff Welles’s car eased to a stop on the shoulder of Old Mill, near the boulder the suspects had been sitting on.
A hundred feet below, Adam’s body was lying facedown, utterly broken, one leg twisted at a horrible angle. Blood pooled and glistened brightly in the sun, mocking the nearby river.
The sheriff climbed out of his sedan. The passenger door opened as well, as another man got out. It was Dodd, the sniper. His face was just as emotionless as before. Or was it? Did he register just a hint of disappointment that he hadn’t had a chance to shoot any heretics?
Both men hitched their belts simultaneously, as if it were procedure to do so upon exiting an official vehicle in Hammond County. They walked toward Shaw, the sheriff’s shoes scraping on the asphalt. Dodd wore rubber-soled hunting boots; his transit was silent.
When they stopped they too turned their gazes to the valley floor far below. The other deputies were there, near the bridge over the speedy river. Shaw would have thought they might cover Adam’s corpse. But no. Then he realized: Why bother? No passersby to shock. A blanket would also interfere with the selfies. He felt a wave of disgust, watching them click photos.
What the hell had happened? Killing himself? Adam must’ve understood that he’d get a fair trial back in Pierce County. Also, he might have hoped for a chance to escape from Shaw, given that he was only in wrist restraints and Shaw’s transport wasn’t a paddy wagon but a Kia sedan.
Why just give up and leap so casually to the flinty ground below?
Shaw was furious with himself. He knew that Adam was unstable. He should have kept the man closer to him, though he’d hardly expected his lightning-fast sprint to the cliff’s edge.
Welles said, “So. Guess they weren’t where you sent us.”
When would the man ask why Shaw had zip-tied the prisoners and had taken custody when he’d told them specifically he wasn’t here to apprehend? He wondered if he himself would see the inside of the Hammond County lockup.
Dodd asked, “Where’s the other one?”
“After Adam jumped I went back for Erick but he was gone.” Shaw pointed to a trail that led into the woods. “Went down there.”
“You zip-tie him too?” Welles asked.
“Yes.”
The sheriff was looking over the shoulder and the cliff. “He jumped, did he?”
“That’s right.”
“Not an accident, you sure?”
“No. We weren’t near the edge. He had to run for it. I have no idea why.”
“Where’s the weapon?”
“It wasn’t on him when I found them,” Shaw lied.
All three men gazed downward for a moment more, then Welles looked in the direction Shaw had pointed, the trail down which he’d said Erick had escaped. The sheriff asked, “You’re certain he went that way.”
Meaning: You lying to us again?
“Positive.”
The sheriff seemed to believe him. “Okay.” He pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt. “Jimmy?”
Clatter. “Sheriff.”
“You and somebody, head over to Morgan Road. The second boy’s probably gonna show up there, a half hour or so. He’s on the logging trail. He’s in zips.”
“His feet?”
“Of course not his feet. What’s he doing, hopping like the Easter Bunny?”
“Sure, Sheriff. Roger that.”
Welles slipped the unit back onto his service belt. “We’ll track him down. No hurry. Even if he gets scared and hides, don’t suppose a punk like that, from Gig Harbor, knows the lay of the land here. He’ll get hungry and break for the road, sooner or later. We’ll get him.”
Welles added in a low voice, “You sure pulled one over on us, Mr. Shaw.”
Here it comes.
Welles gave a wry smile. “But don’t you worry, sir. We’ll back you up.”
Dodd nodded and offered a semblance of smile. Shaw could tell it was an alien expression for him.
Welles stuck his hand out.
Mystified, Shaw gripped the lawman’s palm.
“I’m proud of you, sir,” Dodd said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, I know, you have to play it that way.” Welles gave a knowing grin. “I was thinking, at first, gotta say, I thought you were trying to send us in the wrong direction so you could snag those boys and get ’em to a do-gooding liberal lawyer.”
“Fuck them,” Dodd muttered.
Welles’s voice was now dropping in decibels even further, as if spies, or reporters, lurked. “I mean, you’re a sharp one. Calling us in the first place and reporting them boys here, and then sending us off.” He snapped his finger. “You made it all seem on the up-and-up.”
Dodd: “Was sma
rt.”
Welles frowned. “Course, I woulda liked to do the honors myself. But we all got the result we wanted, didn’t we?” A nod toward the cliff’s edge.
Shaw now realized his meaning. The sheriff and his deputies believed that Shaw had planned this out—killing the boy intentionally and making it look like a suicide: wreaking private vengeance upon the preacher shooter.
As disgusted as it made him feel, Shaw gave a smug smile. “Oh, I could hardly say that now, could I?”
“Lips sealed.”
Dodd the sniper said, “Sir, I must say, I do regret not being able to end that sinner’s life. But, if I was the one to handle the task, he never would’ve felt an instant of pain.”
A bullet travels at close to three thousand feet per second.
“But, thanks to you, that sad excuse for a human being had a most unpleasant time between you shoving and him hitting.”
Shaw gave an amused frown. “Oh, you’re thinking I shoved him. I’d never do that. He jumped.”
Welles said, “And that’s what our report’ll show. You’ll still get that reward of yours?”
“I will.”
“God bless and well earned. A shame they both couldn’ta jumped. Like a pact, you know? You see that some.”
Shaw said, “Keep in mind, it was Adam did the shooting. Not Erick.”
“I’ll do that.” Welles shook his head, smiling. “Sharp one you, I was saying. You let that boy run off first ’fore you took care of Adam. Right? No witnesses. Naw, that boy’s hide is safe. But I assure you he will have a most uncomfortable time in our hospitality suite. I promise you that. I mistook you, sir. At first. Dressed up like you were. We get people from not around here who don’t see eye to eye with us. Look down on us some.”
“A shame, that,” Shaw said, fully in his role.
“Thinking you were one of those city sorts, even with that piece of yours.” He nodded toward Shaw’s waistband, where his Glock resided. “But you’re one of us.”
How we hear what we want to hear and see what we want to see.
“Where do you pray?” the sheriff asked.
The Goodbye Man Page 5