The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver
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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 smart.”
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.
“First Baptist.” Shaw said, “The wife and I’ve been going there for years.”
He picked that denomination because even if Welles was inclined to check, there’d be thousands of them throughout the country.
And all good churchgoing men need the wife.
Welles nodded to Dodd, then lifted a hand when the deputy didn’t seem to understand. “Oh, right.” He dug into his pocket and handed Shaw a napkin. Inside was the bloody zip tie that had been cut off Adam’s wrists.
Welles said, “Thought it might go better that wasn’t found. A ziptied man could jump off a cliff but …” His sun-brown face creased more than it already was. “Just better not to raise any questions. The inquest’ll be handled here. Which is good. The coroner’s one of us. Poker buddy too. It’ll go good. Don’t you worry about nothing.”
“Appreciate that.”
Ironic that the sheriff’s and medical examiner’s “cover-up” report would present what actually happened.
He jumped, did he …?
“Okay, we’ll get on finding that other boy. He’ll probably surrender. There are mighty bugs this time of year. And, course, snakes. Now, that is a most unpleasant way to go. Just ask J. P. Gibbons, my predecessor. Spent a bad last month. ’Cept, I guess you can’t ask him anything now.”
“Was he a man of God?” Shaw asked.
“Not enough, it seems. You take care now, Mr. Shaw.”
Shaw watched the sheriff’s squad car amble down the road, rocking on the tortured asphalt.
He walked to the edge of the cliff once more and looked down. The sight remained difficult; Adam’s body still lay, uncovered, where it had landed. The deputies lounged about, waiting for the coroner. Two played cards on the hood of a squad car.
Shaw climbed the steep hill and returned to the Kia. He’d just arrived when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle from the Highland Bypass—the road on which Adam seemed to have been expecting visitors. He’d forgotten about them.
Armed neo-Nazis?
He’d have to call Welles. However unpleasant the man and his crew might be, Shaw wasn’t going to let them be ambushed. From the shoulder here, gunmen would have a turkey shoot.
He checked the Smith & Wesson. In the five-round cylinder were four spent shells. One live slug remained. He slipped the gun back into his pocket. In the Glock, there was one in the chamber and six in the single-stack magazine. Returning to the brush for cover, he pulled out his phone and prepared to call Welles.
A black van pulled into view and braked to a stop on the shoulder, near where Adam and Erick had been sitting. On the side was the mathematical infinity symbol, a logo of some sort. The door opened and two men and two women got out.
Not Nazis.
More like … Amish.
They were wearing identical uniforms—dark slacks or skirts and powder blue shirts and black slip-on shoes. Only one variation in costume: two of the men wore unmarked baseball caps, and one of this pair had orange sunglasses. Most of them seemed to wear necklaces. He expected crucifixes but, no, it was something else, which he couldn’t see from this distance. Shaw supposed they were from the retreat near Snoqualmie Gap, the one that Adam and Erick were apparently headed for.
The driver stepped from the van too. He wasn’t tall but was quite broad and built like a wrestler—though not the lean, zero-body-fat athletes Shaw had competed against in college. He was clearly in charge and looked around impatiently, then barked orders. The others fanned out.
A soft cry. One of the women was staring down the cliff. She’d seen Adam’s body on the road below. She was compactly built, a brunette with dark curly hair. Her hips were broad, though she was otherwise slim. An alluring face. Not a model’s; more like that of a thoughtful, art-house actress. Her eyes were light, though he couldn’t tell the exact shade. Her complexion ruddy.
The driver, a man and the other woman joined her and gazed down at the corpse. Unlike the brunette, they glanced down without any reaction. Utterly nonchalant. The driver actually grimaced, irritated, as if the trip here had been a waste of time. He shooed the others back to the van. The brunette remained were she was, though, wiping tears. The driver strode up to her, taking her roughly by the arm. He was angry and he whispered something, his face dark. She bowed her head submissively, nodded. A reprimand. Why? For displaying emotion at the death of someone? Possibly a friend? She and Adam might have had a connection in the past.
The driver continued to whisper. More nodding. He glanced to the van and when he noted that the