The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  I learned, to my shock, that this trend was not the natural outgrowth typically facing challenged neighborhoods. The entire drug infestation was engineered by BlackBridge. It’s a highly secretive corporate espionage firm, based in Los Angeles. Originally small but now international, it’s made up of former corporate executives, intelligence community members, military, mercenary soldiers and even criminals. Its clients are some of the most powerful companies around the world.

  Several of those clients hired BlackBridge to engineer a massive decrease in property value of certain target neighborhoods, so their clients could move in and buy up the property at fire-sale prices. BlackBridge did this by creating an artificial drug problem. BlackBridge operatives would flood the neighborhoods with drugs, supplying them virtually for free to gangs. Sometimes they would simply scatter opioids, fentanyl and meth on the streets for anyone—including children—to take. The plan resulted in hundreds of deaths from drugs and crime, and thousands of residents dislocated, many of them becoming homeless.

  This real estate scheme, by the way, is simply one of dozens of such dirty-trick projects BlackBridge performs for clients around the world.

  I suppose such firms are not uncommon, and you may wonder why BlackBridge became my colleagues’ and my—if I may—White Whale.

  The answer is simple. A brilliant graduate student in my and several of my colleagues’ classes graduated and went on to law school and then was elected a city councilman in San Francisco. We were in touch frequently. Todd became a friend. He was the one who told me about the curious influx of drugs in the district he represented.

  He had just begun looking into the matter when he and his wife were murdered. The crime appeared to be a robbery but little was taken and the police found forensic evidence linking the killer to the new drugs found on the street.

  My belief is that BlackBridge killed Todd to shut him up. At the very least, they are responsible because of the drugs they seeded into his district.

  Nearly all BlackBridge employees refused to talk to us—terrified of the consequences—but I found several who were disgusted with the operations and agreed to meet with me. They wouldn’t give me any evidence themselves but they did refer to a former employee, Amos Gahl, who had stolen some documents from the company, something the company was desperate to recover; they believed it was evidence that could bring down BlackBridge and, in doing so, their corrupt clients as well.

  Gahl hid these documents somewhere in the San Francisco area, they told me . . . but before he could contact the authorities about them, he was killed in a car crash that did not appear to be accidental.

  It became my obsession to find what Gahl had hidden.

  Then BlackBridge discovered us.

  One by one, under overt or subtle threats, my colleagues backed out of our crusade. Two others died from apparently natural causes that seemed far too coincidental.

  The BlackBridge operative in charge of finding us and stopping our search for the evidence—or stealing it from us if we did—is a woman named Irena Braxton. She may look like somebody’s grandmother but she’s utterly ruthless and does not hesitate to order physical assaults as part of her planning. We had thought she was dead, at the hand of a former assistant of hers no less, but—unfortunately—that report proved to be false. Her search for us continues.

  Now, we get around to you.

  You’ve clearly followed the breadcrumbs I’ve left leading you to Echo Ridge, and now know the whole story.

  I can hardly in good conscience ask you to take on this perilous job. No reasonable person would. But if you are so inclined, I will say that in picking up where my search has ended, you’ll be fighting to secure justice for those who have perished or had their lives upended by BlackBridge and its clients, and you’ll be guaranteeing that thousands in the future will not suffer similar fates.

  The map included here indicates the locations in the city that might contain—or lead to—the evidence Gahl hid. After leaving this letter and accompanying documents, I will be returning to San Francisco and I hope I will have found more leads. They can be found at 618 Alvarez Street in San Francisco.

  Finally, let me say this:

  Never assume you’re safe.

  A.S.

  81.

  An exception to the usual west-to-east rule of the transit of weather in the United States occurs when the bristling Santa Ana winds flow from Southern California and embroil parts north, including the valley in which the Compound sits.

  Through the open window of his father’s office, Colter Shaw felt the hot breeze now, a leisurely whirlpool throughout the valley where the cabin sat. Today’s was a rare wind, the month being June; the crisp Santa Anas are generally an October-to-April phenomenon. But lately they had been appearing earlier, and leaving later. Hotter and stronger too, as anyone who had lost a house to the frequent fires in the state could tragically confirm.

  Outside, Mary Dove was walking through a large field, one Colter Shaw knew well. It was where his father’s memorial service had been. A sign that the man’s mind had not collapsed completely even near the end was his wry funeral instructions:

  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?”

  “I don’t know, about four hundred.”

  “Not bad.”

  A moment of debate apparently. “Okay, actually, it was yards.”

  A quarter mile straight down.

  Shaw said, “You get the trophy.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, until Victoria stretched and winced, as the shoulder took some unexpected stress.

  “Think I’m feeling tired,” she said.

  He was too.

  Shaw walked her to the bedroom that had been Dorie’s. The decorations were mostly prints of Native Americans, wild animals, dogs and, for some reason, old-time locomotives, which his sister had been obsessed with as a girl.

  When they stopped, Victoria turned to face Shaw. Her maneuver was of a certain caliber, sure and unmistakable. She lifted her hair away from her face. Colter Shaw put his hand on her good shoulder, leaned slightly down, and kissed her firmly. She pressed fully into him. Chase was gazing at them with that look of blended understanding and confusion that only dogs can muster. After a too-brief quarter minute, Victoria eased away.

  “’Night,” she whispered and walked into her room.

  83.

  June 22

  The weather in Gig Harbor had changed considerably from the last time he’d been here.

  The sun was brilliant, not a wisp of fog or cloud to be seen. The green swath of pine was radiant, the water blue as sapphire.

  Shaw steered the Winnebago through the entrance gate. The two pillars holding the cast-iron panels were crowned with angels made of concrete. The poor creatures were grimy and their wings weather-smoothed.

  He braked to a stop and scanned the grounds. The battered, green pickup truck he sought was not far away. He steered toward it and parked behind. Taking an 8-by-10 envelope from the seat beside him, he climbed out of the camper and walked up to the man who stood over a new grave.

  “Mr. Harper.”

  The broad-shouldered man appeared startled, apparently not having heard the camper arrive and park. He frowned, thought a moment. “Shaw.”

  Adam’s was a simple tombstone. Name and the dates of birth and death. No angels, no bas-reliefs like in the Study Room in the Foundation’s camp.

  The name on the neighboring tombstone was Kelly Mae Harper.

  Shaw said, “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  A shrug of the man’s big shoulders.

  “When Adam was away for those three weeks, after your wife died?”

  Stan Harper’s response was a tip of his head.

  “You said when he came back his moods were better.”

  “Was like when he was a kid, when he was happy. His troubles didn’t hit until he was a teenager. What’s any of this matter, Shaw?” A glance toward the grave at his feet. A ragged: “He’s gone.”

  “Those three weeks he was away? He was in a cult.”

  “Cult?”

  “It’s been in the news. Osiris Foundation.”

  Looking blankly at the ground, Stan muttered, “And?”

  “What the cult taught was that af
ter we die we come back.”

  “Like . . . reincarnation?”

  Shaw said, “Something like that.”

  “And Adam believed it?”

  “Yes, he did. It gave him comfort. Before he died he was convinced he’d be with his family again. In another life. His mother, you.”

  Harper grunted a laugh. Shaw couldn’t tell what his reaction to this odd news might really be.

  “That’s all bullshit. All of it. The church too. Heaven, hell. Way I feel anyway. After Kelly.”

  “It meant something to Adam.”

  Stan was silent.

  “Here.” Shaw handed him the envelope. Harper looked inside and extracted Adam’s Osiris Foundation notebook, the one Frederick had given him.

  Harper glanced at the cover. The Process.

  “It was Adam’s. Like a diary. He wrote down his thoughts and memories. What he liked about his life, what he didn’t.”

  The bad feelings—anger, fear, sorrow—and the good ones—joy, love, comfort. We call them—how clever is this? The Minuses and the Pluses . . .

  Shaw had skimmed it. The passages weren’t very grammatical, they rambled and ranted. There were irrelevant doodles. But some of the Pluses included memories of times spent with his father.

  “I don’t want it. Why would I want it?” He stuffed the notebook in the envelope and handed it back, then glanced down to the grave. “Don’t know why I came. Thought I’d feel something. Thought I’d think something.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Harper.”

  The man didn’t reply.

  Shaw started back to the Winnebago. He was halfway there when he heard. “Hold on.”