The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  “Carter Skye.”

  A pad was consulted and its touchscreen touched, and Shaw’s undercover identity was recognized.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Skye. Now, you have any weapons, liquor or drugs with you, or in the vehicle?”

  “No. Just clothes, shaving kit, the usual.”

  Another touch to the pad.

  He’d been honest about his possessions, if not his name, and it was just as well. Across the parking lot were two men in similar uniforms, carefully searching an SUV. One held a mirror on a long handle, examining the undercarriage. This was how security forces searched for bombs, and drug agents for controlled substances.

  The guard walked to the back of the Silverado and jotted something on an envelope, license plate number and make probably. If anyone checked—not that there’d be a reason to—the truck had been leased in a corporate name. Suitably anonymous and hardly suspicious. He handed the envelope to Shaw. “Park anywhere, put the keys inside and go through the main gate. There’ll be somebody there to direct you. Be sure to keep your application form with you.”

  “Got it.”

  Another tap on the touchpad screen and the gate opened with a faint grind.

  After parking, he climbed out and foraged in his backpack for the application, slipped it into the inside pocket of his tattered windbreaker. He also wore a wrinkled white T-shirt, faded blue jeans and scuffed Nocona boots, dark brown. Picking up the luggage, he turned toward the camp entrance. The chain link wasn’t the only barricade protecting the Osiris Foundation. Shaw was looking at a tall, pressure-treated stockade fence. The gate in this barrier was made of dark metal bars and over it were words in wrought iron:

  YESTERDAY, TODAY, TOMORROW

  The gate’s panels, each six feet wide, were open. He walked through them and a man who could have been the first guard’s brother gave him a smile, took the key envelope and his luggage and directed him through a metal detector.

  On the other side, Shaw turned back to him. The guard pointed to a path and said, “Follow that into the camp. Administration is the third building on the left.”

  He reached for his backpack and gym bag.

  “We’ll take care of that for you, sir.”

  “I’ll hang on to ’em.” A bit diffident. Carter Skye had some rough edges.

  “We’ll take care of them, sir.” Another smile. Of sorts. No way in hell was Shaw getting the bags. He hesitated. Then exchanged them for a claim check.

  The guard tapped his touchpad.

  Shaw followed the footpath for about a hundred feet through woods fragrant with pine and eucalyptus and jasmine. When the foliage ended, Shaw stopped and examined what lay before him.

  The Osiris Foundation’s camp nestled in a valley of grass and woods, about thirty or so acres in total. High, rocky cliffs covered three sides and, to Shaw’s left—which was east—stood a forest crisscrossed with paths. Beyond that there was a steep drop-off. Though you couldn’t see it from here, on the other side of the cliff was the large lake he’d seen on his maps. Through the trees he could see in the distance a spectacular panorama of mountains.

  Shaw counted scores of buildings, most of them single-story. One, though, dominating the southern end of the camp, was larger than the others. It had three floors and was crowned by an octagonal glass gazebo. This structure was on the back boundary of the compound, south. Shaw could guess who lived there.

  All of the buildings, which had peaked roofs to stave off snow-weight damage, were fashioned in log-cabin style but had not been constructed on-site from hand-hewn timber; the pieces were too even and well seated. These were the result of prefab kits. Shaw knew the process. The whole camp could have been set up in a month, and the bill would have been substantial.

  He thought of the place as a camp because that was how it was described in the material he’d been sent with the application. Having just finished a job in Silicon Valley earlier in the month, he found the word curious; there, most corporate grounds were called campuses, as in college. Camp had a different connotation. There was summer camp, of course, but also boot camp. Detention camp too.

  And then, chilled at the thought, Colter Shaw realized that the arching words in wrought iron over the entrance gate were reminiscent of yet another facility, infamous, from the past century.

  The place was, at the same time, beautiful and unsettling. Anne DeStefano, the deprogrammer, had warned him to stay away. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t shared with her that he did indeed have a personal stake.

  Adam Harper—who had risked everything to eradicate Erick Young’s sorrow—had died because of him.

  And he now knew the death couldn’t be because of the crime at the church, which was a justifiable act of self-defense.

  Everybody’s got the blues. Just live with it.

  Adam’s father’s ironic phrasing. But sometimes you just couldn’t live with it, and Shaw should have known that.

  His death was a question that had to be answered.

  Another image lingered too: the brunette, alone among those at the site of Adam’s death who was so deeply saddened by his demise. And the hulking van driver’s whip-crack words to her . . . a correction of some sort. Then her shrinking, in revulsion, from his unwanted touch. Was she too at risk, like Adam, because of something at the Foundation?

  Were other followers endangered as well?

  Shaw’s career as a reward seeker, no, his essence was about survival. Saving lives. Finding the kidnap victim, the imperiled runaway, the serial killer stalking the sales clerk or college coed. And here he’d failed. Adam was dead. He needed to know why. And he needed to know if anyone else here was at risk.

  Shaw looked at what he was doing as a reward job like any other, just without the reward. He’d come here to investigate. And, if anyone needed rescuing, he’d rescue them. If abuse needed to be exposed, then that’s what he’d do.

  “You’re looking for Administration, Mr. Skye?” A voice from behind. It was another gray tunicked man. Also smiling. Also with still, careful eyes. He scanned Shaw’s rough-and-tumble outfit carefully, even though the metal detector would have reassured him that Shaw had nothing threatening on his person.

  And how does he know my name?

  From the tablet, of course, which he now slipped into a small shoulder bag.

  He muttered, “I see it. Just looking over the place. Nice view.”

  “Yessir.” The man remained impassive.

  Shaw took the hint—the equivalent of a cop saying, “Move along”—and continued down the path. He passed a building marked LUGGAGE STORAGE, then a larger one, ASSISTANCE UNIT.

  The next was Administration. It was larger than the others he’d just passed. He walked into the spotless, stark lobby and was greeted by a brunette at a reception desk. She was in her early thirties. Her outfit was the same as those worn by the women in the van who had driven down Highland Bypass to pick up Adam and Erick: pale blue top and black skirt.

  And she wore a necklace—a purple infinity sign, just like Harvey Edwards had, the killer of the San Francisco journalist. Almost certainly answering the question of whether he’d been affiliated with the Foundation. This would be the necklace that the followers in the van had worn—the ones he couldn’t identify clearly in the distance.

  Down a long corridor behind her, Shaw noted doors marked INTAKE, BUSINESS AFFAIRS, PLANNING, MEDIA. There were other offices too, though the corridor was dim and he couldn’t read those signs from here.

  Yet another tablet was consulted. “Mr. Skye, go right on in.” Nodding to the INTAKE door.

  This was an equally pristine room, about forty-by-forty feet. On the white-painted walls were unimaginative photos of sunsets or sunrises. On the back wall was stenciled in black ink:

  THE OSIRIS FOUNDATION

  WHERE THE YESTERDAY IS THE KEY TO A BETTER TODAY AND A PER
FECT TOMORROW™

  On the side wall was another:

  THE BEST IS YET TO COME

  At the receptionist’s desk, near the door, sat another woman, presently on the phone. She was a blonde in her late twenties. She smiled and held up a just-wait-a-sec finger. Three other desks lined the back wall, and two were also occupied by young women, looking over their own pads. The tablets were mounted in stands so they could be viewed like monitors. These women also wore the blue and black outfits, along with the infinity jewelry. The only difference among them was in nail polish and accessories. All three women in the room were attractive and had radiant smiles and calm eyes. They, like everyone else Shaw had seen so far, were white.

  There were several other applicants present as well. At the far desk was a balding man in a business suit, answering the employee’s questions. Speaking with the woman in the middle desk was a couple, apparently married, both middle aged and looking mildly embarrassed. They too were providing information, which was being recorded on this worker’s tablet. There was a third desk, on the far right, unoccupied. A tablet sat on this desk too, facedown.

  When the receptionist hung up, she said, “Welcome, Mr. Skye.” She glanced at the pad and hesitated briefly. His sense was that she’d noted it had taken him a bit longer than normal to walk from the parking lot to Administration, as he’d stopped to assess the place.

  “Your Intake specialist has been called away. It’ll just be a moment or two. There’s a bench outside. The weather’s not too bad today. Why don’t you wait there? I’ll come get you when she’s returned.”

  He didn’t have much choice. There were no chairs in Intake or the Administration lobby.

  “I guess. How old’s this place? Buildings look new.”

  “Oh, I don’t really know. It’ll be ten minutes, tops.” Another of those smiles.

  Shaw stepped out of Intake. As he passed the initial receptionist and nodded, she too smiled back. He noted that she turned her tablet slightly away.

  On the porch he was greeted by the damp scent of pine sap once more, which never failed to take him back to his youth. In this instance, the memory was of stripping off his belt, slapping it around a tree and using it as a climbing sling to escape from what was pursuing him. Bears climb too but unless they’re really hungry they can be as lazy as anyone else. This one debated for a minute, seemingly confused about a prey that could both run and climb—and do both quickly. A new breed of predator maybe. Might be trouble. The creature had wandered off.

  Musical tones rang out through the camp, the well-known opening fifteen-note theme of the “Ode to Joy” choral movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. They were played on a synthesizer, in a low register. The last note stretched out until it faded to silence. Then a woman’s soothing alto called out through speakers, “The time is four-thirty p.m.”

  Just as he was about to sit on the rustic bench on the porch, he stopped, hearing an urgent call from behind the Administration building. It was a man’s and it was raw and troubled. He couldn’t make out the words at first. Then louder:

  “No! No! Stop!” Followed by a faint cry: someone was in pain.

  19.

  Shaw glanced about and saw no one was nearby—and no security cams, at least none visible, pointed his way.

  He walked along the side of the building, ducking when he passed windows. He crouched behind a thick stand of myrtle and camellia, which was in brilliant red bloom.

  In a grassy strip that separated the buildings on the east side of the camp from the woods, a slim blond man in tan slacks and a blazer and T-shirt stood between two others, big men, both in the gray tunics and both wearing ASSISTANCE UNIT badges. They gripped the civilian by his upper arms, as a third man approached.

  It was the driver of the van that had come to collect Adam and Erick, the one who’d dressed down the brunette and tried to grope her.

  Also tunicked, he was about five-six, with thinning brown hair. Broad chested, swarthy of complexion. A placid, unflappable look on his face. He wore two badges. In addition to ASSISTANCE UNIT, there was SUPERVISOR. Unlike the other Assistance Unit men Shaw had seen, he wore an infinity amulet; his was silver.

  Another person was present as well: a young woman similar in build, age and appearance to those Shaw had just seen inside the Intake room, wearing the same outfit as they. Maybe the third desk was hers, and this was to be his specialist.

  There was one difference, though, between her and the women inside. She was not smiling and her eyes were cold, contracted dots.

  The supervisor walked forward. He regarded his tablet and then nodded to the two guards. They released their grips. The man in street clothes slumped and rubbed his arms. “What’s this all about? They just assaulted me!”

  The supervisor looked over the captive. “Mr. Klein, I’m Journeyman Hugh. I’m in charge of the Assistance Unit.” The voice was calm, a monotone. “Now, you’ve tried to gain access to the Foundation illegally. On the application, which you signed, it states clearly that entry under a false identity is prohibited and any attempts to do so will make you guilty of trespass.”

  False identity? Shaw tucked that away.

  “There’s some mistake. My name is Briggs. You saw my ID. You’ve got me mixed up with somebody. This is embarrassing. And frankly, I’m pissed off. You can’t touch me like that. I know my rights.”

  Hugh nodded toward the woman. “Journeyman Adelle here was interviewing you when a facial recognition scan came back with your real identity.”

  Oh, hell. Hadn’t figured on FR.

  Adelle said, “It was doubly confirmed.”

  Hugh said, “You’re Jonathan Klein, an investigative reporter for NewsCircle. We run sixty-point facial recognition. The algorithms are rarely wrong. To confirm, though, we called the publisher of your newspaper and were told you were away on assignment for a week, and when I called your house—”

  Klein gasped. “My house? How did you—”

  “—I got your wife to tell me you were away for a week in the mountains of Washington State on a story. She wasn’t sure where.”

  “You fucker.” Klein leaned forward, his palms balling up.

  The two large men in tunics looked at their boss for direction. Hugh shook his head. “What we do here at the Foundation is provide intense self-help treatment for individuals who are coping with a number of problems. Their issues are extremely sensitive. I’ve read your rag. Like most media, you take things out of context and inflate and distort. You’d jeopardize the treatment of people in our care just to sell a few internet ads. We care too much to let that happen.”

  Klein snorted at this claim. “You’re not getting away with this.”

  “Here’s what comes next, Mr. Klein. You never arrived here. You’ll drive back through Hope’s Corner and keep going twenty miles, then turn around, head in this direction and drive off the road.”

  Klein blinked in surprise. “Hold on a minute.”

  “Make it look real. The crash, I mean. When you get out of the hospital, and back to work, you’ll move on to other stories and you’ll make sure that no one from your news site tries to cover the Foundation again. I don’t know how you’ll do that but that’s in your lap.”

  “Hospital?”

  Hugh handed his tablet to Adelle—then lunged forward and, before the reporter could lift a protective arm an inch, Hugh delivered a palm-open blow to Klein’s nose. The reporter barked a scream. Hugh then pointed to the man’s mouth as he glanced at one of the Assistance Unit men, who stepped behind him and wrapped his hand over Klein’s lips. Hugh moved closer, gripped the reporter’s left wrist, and twisted—Shaw, a champion wrestler in college, knew what was coming. He didn’t hear the sound as the shoulder popped from the socket; dislocations are loud internally but not to the world. Klein’s second scream was higher pitched, though muffled from the slab of a palm pressed again
st his face. He sagged.

  Hugh gestured and his man lowered his hand, withdrew a tissue and wiped Klein’s blood from his fingers. Hugh adjusted his stance, centered himself briefly and, lightning fast, drove a fist into the reporter’s cheek. This time Shaw could hear the bone break.

  Klein went out for a moment. The Assistance Unit men kept him upright.

  Hugh leaned forward. “Can you hear me, Mr. Klein?”

  “Wh . . . why?” He spit blood. He was crying. “No more. Please, please . . .”

  “Can you hear me?”

  The reporter started to lift his arm and wipe the blood that streamed from his nose and mouth but screamed again; he’d used the arm with the dislocated shoulder.

  Hugh grimaced, apparently irritated at the sound. “You understand what I said?”

  “No stories.”

  “And no police. Other than to tell them about your accident. Because if you say anything more”—he gestured at Klein’s shattered face—“there’ll be consequences.”

  “No, no, please.” Sniffing. “I’ll do anything.”

  Hugh nodded to the others.

  The men guided the staggering reporter into the forest behind the Administration building. Shaw could see that they turned left toward the parking lot. Apparently there was a path there that ran north and south, hidden by foliage. Via this route they could get to the lot and not be seen by anyone in the camp. Shaw backed away through the bushes and returned to the front of the Administration building.

  This changed everything.

  Hugh and the other three might be the isolated negatives the deprogrammer had told him about. After all, Hugh seemed to take the reporter’s incursion like a personal violation, and his sadistic response was absurdly out of proportion. Everyone else in the camp could be helpful professionals. Still, the fact that anyone here would resort to violence like that, when they could easily have called the police to report a trespasser, told Shaw that this was no place for anyone vulnerable and suicidal.