The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver

66

       Chapter 67

       Chapter 68

       Chapter 69

       Chapter 70

       Chapter 71

      Three: Echo Ridge

       Chapter 72. June 20

       Chapter 73

       Chapter 74

       Chapter 75

       Chapter 76

       Chapter 77

       Chapter 78

       Chapter 79

       Chapter 80. June 21

       Chapter 81

       Chapter 82

       Chapter 83. June 22

       Chapter 84

       Chapter 85

      Author’s Note

      Acknowledgments

      Keep Reading …

      About the Author

      About the Publisher

ONE:

       1.

       June 11, 2 p.m.

      Seconds to decide.

      Swerve left? Swerve right?

      A steep drop into brush? Or a narrow shoulder that ends in a cliff wall?

      Left.

      Instinct.

      Colter Shaw spun the wheel of the rental Kia sedan hard, braking intermittently—he couldn’t afford a skid. The vehicle, which had been doing forty along this stretch in high mountains, plunged into foliage, narrowly missing a collision with the boulder that had tumbled down a steep hillside and rolled into the middle of the road before him. Shaw thought the sound of a two-hundred-pound piece of rock rolling through brush and over gravel would be more dramatic; the transit was virtually silent.

      Left was the correct choice.

      Had he gone right, the car would have slammed into a granite outcropping hidden by tall, beige grass.

      Shaw, who spent much time assessing the percentage likelihood of harm when making professional decisions, nonetheless knew that sometimes you simply had to roll the dice, and see what happened.

      No air bags, no injury. He was, however, trapped inside the Kia. To his left was a sea of mahonia, otherwise known as Oregon grape, benign names both, belying the plant’s needle-sharp spikes that can penetrate cloth on their effortless way into skin. Not an option for an exit. The passenger side was better, blocked only by insubstantial cinquefoil, in cheerful June bloom, yellow, and a tangle of forsythia.

      Shaw shoved the right-side door open again and again, pushing back the viney plants. As he did this, he noted that the attacker’s timing had been good. Had the weapon fallen sooner, Shaw could easily have braked. Any later, he’d have been past it and still on his way.

      And a weapon it must have been.

      Washington State certainly was home to earthquakes and seismic activity of all sorts but there’d been no recent shivering in the vicinity. And rocks that are this big usually stay put unless they’re leveraged off intentionally—in front of, or onto, cars driven by men in pursuit of an armed fleeing felon.

      After doffing his brown plaid sport coat, Shaw began to leverage himself through the gap between door and frame. He was in trim fit, as one who climbs mountainsides for recreation will be. Still, the opening was only fourteen or so inches, and he was caught. He would shove the door open, retreat, then shove once more. The gap slowly grew wider.

      He heard a rustling in the brush across the road. The man who’d tipped the rock into Shaw’s path was now scrabbling down the hillside and pressing through the dense growth toward Shaw, who struggled further to free himself. He saw a glint in the man’s hand. A pistol.

      The son of a survivalist and in a manner of speaking a survivalist himself, Shaw knew myriad ways of cheating death. On the other hand, he was a rock climber, a dirt bike fanatic, a man with a profession that set him against killers and escaped prisoners who’d stop at nothing to stay free. The smoke of death wafted everywhere around him, constantly. But it wasn’t that finality that troubled him. In death, you had no reckoning. Far worse would be a catastrophic injury to the spine, to the eyes, the ears. Crippling his body, darkening the world or muting it forever.

      In his youth, Shaw was called “the restless one” among his siblings. Now, having grown into a self-professed Restless Man, he knew that such incapacity would be pure hell.

      He continued to squeeze.

      Almost out.

      Come on, come on …

      Yes!

      No.

      Just as he was about to break free, his wallet, in the left rear pocket of his black jeans, caught.

      The attacker stopped, leaning through the brush, and lifted the pistol. Shaw heard it cock. A revolver.

      And a big one. When it fired, the muzzle blast blew green leaves from branches.

      The bullet went wide, kicking up dust near Shaw.

      Another click.

      The man fired again.

      This bullet hit its mark.

       2.

       June 11, 8 a.m., six hours earlier

      Shaw was piloting his thirty-foot Winnebago camper through the winding streets of Gig Harbor, Washington State.

      With about seven thousand inhabitants, the place was both charming and scuffed around the edges. It was, to be sure, a harbor, well protected, connected to Puget Sound via