The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver

appeared to be neo-Nazi but what if they were operating undercover? After all, the defamatory and racist graffiti had persisted in Pierce County for more than a year, and no one had been caught. Now that they’d been identified and were in the open maybe they’d come here. Washington State had an unfortunate history of hate groups and white supremacist organizations, Shaw knew from several reward-seeking jobs on the West Coast. There were nearly two dozen active extremist groups in the state, including two KKK chapters.

      From the overlook, Shaw gazed at the massive expanse that could easily hide a militia compound.

      Or had the boys simply panicked after the shooting and fled as far as their money would take them, or to the home of a friend who’d shelter them—a friend that no one back home knew about?

      So, Shaw told himself, assess.

      The odds that they had arrived, disembarked and hiked out into the wilderness? Fifteen percent. This territory would require some serious gear and a level of fitness and knowledge of the outdoors that the young men didn’t seem to have.

      The likelihood that they were planning to meet somebody to drive them elsewhere? Forty percent.

      Hitching down one of the crossroads that went east and west out of Hope’s Corner? Possible, though a challenge; there was little traffic on either road. He gave it twenty percent.

      Sheltering with a friend? Fifteen percent.

      There was another option as well. Were they still here, in Hope’s Corner?

      Shaw had donned his brown sport jacket. To make sure his concealed stayed concealed, though, he took the added step of untucking his shirt. His pistol permit was valid in the state but he didn’t need the attention that would ensue if someone spotted the grip of his weapon.

      He began a stroll through the town, eyes scanning for the two.

      They weren’t in either gas station.

      The general store was next. He stepped onto the low, saggy wooden porch and pushed inside, hand low, near the gun. No Erick, no Adam.

      He entered the restroom, which he had to use anyway; they weren’t there.

      The establishment was a combination store and restaurant, where a half-dozen diners sat at a chipped linoleum counter. He snagged a can of Fix-a-Flat, being spare-less now, and perched on a stool to order a turkey sandwich and a large coffee to go. When the order was up he took the bag and the can to the register. He handed the check to the middle-aged man in a beige polyester shirt embroidered with a pattern of chains.

      Shaw set down a hundred dollar bill.

      The man grimaced. “Sorry, mister, I can’t change that.”

      “I don’t want change.”

      Eyes cautious now.

      “The son of a friend of mine’s run off. I’m helping find him. He was with another guy. Think he might’ve come in on that bus from Tacoma.”

      One of the reasons Shaw shaved before a job, polished his shoes and dressed in a sport coat and pressed shirt was to give the impression of legitimacy. The sort who really would help a friend find a boy. He shot the man another stage smile.

      “Here’s his picture.” He displayed a photo of Erick. The boy was in his football uniform.

      Shaw wondered if the clerk watched the news from Tacoma and had heard of the shooting at the church. Apparently not. He asked only, “What’s he play?”

      “He’s a receiver,” Shaw vamped. “Can catch a pass one handed.”

      “No.”

      “He can.”

      “Why’d he run off?”

      Shaw shrugged. “Being a kid.”

      The bill vanished into the man’s pocket. “Yeah, they were here, thirty minutes ago. Bought some food and water. Bought a disposable phone too. And a prepaid card for the minutes.”

      “You overhear where they were going?”

      “No.”

      “Where could they get from here on foot?”

      A who-knows shrug. “There’re a dozen cabins in the foothills.” Another shrug meant: good luck finding them.

      “Any towns in walking distance?”

      “Depends on who’s walking. It’s a trek but there’s one they could make in a day. Snoqualmie Gap. Used to be called Clark’s Gap. After Lewis and Clark. But got itself changed to Snoqualmie. That’s a word, Indian word. Means ‘fierce tribe.’ Some folks were pissed off they changed it. You can go too far, this PC crap.” He’d looked Shaw over, perhaps registering “Caucasian” and guessing it was okay to offer the comment—not knowing Shaw did in fact have some Native American in him. “Funny thing is, don’t make no difference either way.”

      Shaw didn’t understand. He shook his head.

      “Lewis and Clark never got here, and the Snoqualmie River’s nowhere near either. So might as well call it New York, Los Angeles or Podunk. Maybe those boys were headed there.” He frowned briefly. “You know, there’s this place in the mountains outside of it—Snoqualmie Gap. Some people ask for directions.”

      “Place?”

      “This retreat.”

      “Separatist thing? Neo-Nazis?”

      “Don’t think so. More, some New Age bullshit. Hippies. You’re too young.”

      Shaw had been born in the Bay Area long after flower children and the Summer of Love, 1967. But he knew about hippies.

      He looked at a map on the wall. He saw Snoqualmie Gap, a small town, about ten miles from Hope’s Corner. Quite a hike in the mountainous terrain.

      “Where’s the retreat?”

      The clerk squinted. “About there, I guess.” Tapping a valley in the mountains beside a large lake. Shaw estimated it was six or seven miles from Snoqualmie Gap, accessed via a state route and then the narrow and eerily named Harbinger Road.

      Walking, it would take them three to four hours to get to Snoqualmie, and another three to get to the retreat, if that’s where they were headed.

      “I didn’t see much traffic on the way here. Going that way, to Snoqualmie, could they hitch a ride?”

      “Somebody could. They couldn’t.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “That guy with your friend’s son? I wouldn’t pick him up on a dare. Something about his eyes.”

      Shaw thanked the man and started for the door.

      “Hey, mister?”

      He turned.

      The clerk was frowning. “You forgot to pay your bill.” He looked at the check and said, “That’s eleven twenty-eight you owe me.”

       6.

      In ten minutes Colter Shaw’s job was over.

      He found Adam Harper and Erick Young on Old Mill Road, about two miles from Hope’s Corner and still a ways to go to Snoqualmie Gap.

      Shaw stopped on a narrow shoulder and looked down, to his left. Here the road was made up of switchbacks because of the dizzyingly steep grade. It descended to a valley in which a river glistened, blue and silver. On the other side, the road rose into the hills once more.

      The young men were fifty feet below Shaw. They were trudging along like college kids on a weekend hike. Each had a backpack. Adam was holding a large refillable water bottle. Erick pointed to the steep uphill climb they’d have once