The Final Twist Read online

  Shaw evaluated the enemy. Ian Helms appeared fit enough, but Shaw assessed that there was less than a twenty percent chance he’d want to get his hands dirty, especially with armed minders present. Braxton was a stocky, middle-aged woman. She might be ruthless but she wasn’t much of a physical threat unless she had a weapon in her many-hued shoulder bag.

  In addition to the security guards, the other two threats were Ebbitt Droon and the bright-haired, sullen-faced minder, Blond. Droon, though of small stature, was wiry and strong and was likely carrying the same .40 pistol he’d threatened Shaw with previously. It was probably silenced so that the cries resulting from the bone-shattering impact would be louder than the report of the weapon itself.

  Blond looked to be pure muscle and would likely also be armed.

  On the other hand, Shaw had the benefit of witnesses: the four patrons, the three men and the woman. He doubted they were involved. This meant BlackBridge probably couldn’t take Shaw down the easy way—with a gunshot.

  If he could dodge the hostiles and work his way to the front, as they sought him in the stacks, maybe he could make the sprint after all.

  But then Shaw’s safety net vanished. The librarian approached the four potential witnesses and apparently asked them to leave, and to leave quickly. Which they did, concern on their faces. They had probably been told that there was some security issue. In this day and age, a brief warning was all the information people needed to evacuate. Thinking: terrorists, a crazy man with a gun, a bomb.

  Eyes still on the front door, Shaw noted Ian Helms walk quickly outside; he wouldn’t want to be connected to whatever was going to happen.

  Braxton stationed herself at the front door, while rodent-faced Droon spoke urgently to the two security men, who towered over him. They hurried to the central station where the librarian pointed to a large monitor, which was probably now in security camera mode. They’d be scanning the vids recorded in the past half hour and would soon know that he was still on the main floor.

  Shaw noted that the elevator light went out. It had been shut down.

  And what about a run to the stairs and then out the upper floor windows?

  Shaw dismissed it as having only a twenty percent chance of success, at best. A leap from a second story isn’t impossible, given a landing zone of grass or trash, but Shaw had observed that the surfaces on all four sides of the building were sidewalk, asphalt or cobblestones. That would have meant a likely sprained ankle. The resulting pain wasn’t the problem—he’d suffered worse—but that injury would have limited his ability to flee and left him a sitting target for Droon and the others. And you had to land perfectly to avoid a broken bone, and that pain was debilitating. Besides, the windows were probably sealed, as they were on this floor.

  A jump from the roof was not an option at all.

  Keeping in the shadows against the back wall, he considered the front door once more. Five to ten percent. To reach it he’d have to go past Droon, Blond and the two armed guards. Maybe the librarian was armed too. And he supposed that that exit was now locked down.

  The windows? He gave that escape route ten percent tops. The glass was thick, intruder-proof. A chair would take multiple blows and Droon and the others would be on him well before the pane shattered.

  A 911 call?

  Ashton certainly was unreasonably paranoid about many things, but Shaw recalled the note the man had left in the safe house:

  Don’t trust anyone. Some local authorities—SFPD, others—on BlackBridge payroll. Evidence should go to D.C. or Sacramento.

  Besides, even if the police officers who showed up were legit, Shaw would have to explain what his suspicions about the company were, and at this point he wasn’t able to expose BlackBridge—not without Gahl’s hard evidence.

  He’d also have to answer for making an emergency call when there was no apparent threat of violence, and Braxton would deny everything. She’d report him as a dangerous trespasser.

  He’d put a call to police/fire down as a last resort and try some other way to get out.

  He decided that he would get to the fire exit. He put this at a seventy percent chance of success. Since the door opened onto that side street, he couldn’t run directly to his cycle; that would mean crossing in front of the library. The hostiles would see and simply hurry from the front door to intercept him.

  No, once on the side street he would turn right, away from his Yamaha. A half block away he’d turn right again onto another narrow street he recalled from the map he’d studied earlier. He’d continue on this for three or four blocks, where he’d come to a park surrounded by businesses and restaurants. There he could vanish into crowds and continue north, then cut east and finally south and get to the motorbike without approaching the library.

  Shaw was a good runner. Ashton had trained the children in the art of both sprinting and long-distance running, using as models the famed tribal runners, the Tarahumara in Mexico and the Sierra Madres.

  He was sure he could out-sprint scrawny Droon and the musclebound Blond.

  The other guards? The tall one couldn’t be a runner; he was too stocky. The slighter one? Maybe he was fast.

  Shaw couldn’t dodge their bullets of course, and the big unknown factor was: Would they risk drawing and using their weapons in public? Probably.

  Which is why the fire door escape offered only a seventy percent chance of success.

  He looked through a gap in a row of insurance industry books. Braxton stood at the door to the lobby, scanning the first floor, arms crossed. Droon and Blond started walking toward the stacks on Shaw’s left, as he faced them. The security guards remained together and began the right-side flanking movement.

  Shaw slipped to the fire door.

  Push Bar. Alarm Will Sound.

  Shaw hoped it wasn’t like the emergency exits at airports; with those, pushing the bar resulted in a blaring alarm, but the lock didn’t unlatch for fifteen seconds—to give security a chance to approach and see who wanted to get out onto the tarmac.

  He took a deep breath, readying himself for the sprint.

  A firm push on the bar of the fire door.

  The bar traveled all the way to the base of the device, without resistance. Nothing happened. There was no alarm, and the lock didn’t disengage.

  The mechanism had been disabled.

  Shaw fished the safe house keys from his pocket and tried to jimmy the lock. It didn’t work. He tried the slimmer motorcycle key. Nothing.

  He slipped into a workstation and looked out from underneath. The net was closing. He could see legs and shoes. The four hunters would converge on him in minutes.

  Time for the last resort. He glanced at a nearby wall and, in a crouch, hurried to it and knelt, directly underneath the fire alarm box.

  His right hand snaked upward aiming for the alarm.

  “Now, lookee here.” The voice behind him was singsongy, eerie because of its phony cheer. Ebbitt Droon continued, “We shut that little old alarm thing down too, don’tcha know? All in honor of you, Mr. Colter Shaw.”

  10

  Droon and Blond were now joined by the two security men.

  Rising, Shaw looked over Blond, whose cold eyes were the shade of ebony, suggesting that the shocking yellow of his hair came not from genes but a bottle. Shaw had seen eyes like that before: he’d earned a reward of twenty thousand dollars by tracking down an escaped serial killer near Tulsa. Once in handcuffs the man had stared at Shaw with a look that said: If I ever escape again, you’re next on my list. Blond’s gaze was of the same species.

  Droon said, “So here you are, Mr. Didn’t Listen to What I Told Him. And not more than a couple of weeks ago, wasn’t it? Heavens. You are something else.”

  Shaw fired a focused gaze at Droon. The scrawny man—the gangs would describe him as a skel—wasn’t the one who had grappled with his father o
n Echo Ridge, combat that resulted in Ashton’s death, but he worked for the organization that was responsible and this made him as guilty as the killer, in Shaw’s mind.

  Droon squinted back and his haughty impishness vanished. He looked away.

  Shaw surveyed the area, checking left then right. His eyes made a leisurely circuit. Sizing up the guards and Blond.

  Droon’s confidence returned. He repeated, “Coupla weeks. During which you had plentya time to muse over what I said, about you keeping out of our matters here. But didn’t take, looks like. How come?”

  The upper Midwest patois was pronounced and what he brought to the sound was the tone of the unstable.

  “Who’s getting into whose space, Droon? Answer me this. You were in Tacoma just a few days ago, setting fire to somebody’s perfectly nice SUV, just so your boss could rob me.”

  The fire, which had engulfed a Nissan Pathfinder, had been initiated to distract Shaw, so that Irena Braxton could steal the phony map and the GPS-rigged copy of Walden. Shaw now feigned irritation. He needed to keep on life support the façade that the map and book weren’t a setup.

  Droon said, “Oh, think I’ll plead my Fifth Amendment right on that one, son, don’tcha know?” He looked Shaw up and down. “Do say I’m sorry we didn’t get to go one-on-one. That would be a most enjoyable five minutes.” He glanced at Blond with a wink. The big man beside him said nothing, those dark marbles of eyes peering at Shaw. His arms, and they were substantial, dangled.

  The two security guards remained back five or six feet.

  Droon said to Blond, “The one I was telling you about. Doesn’t look so balls-out, does he? Told you.” A laugh. His bravado was fully recovered. Another sweep over Shaw. “Now. Listen here. I see what you’re up to, the way you’re calculating, looking ’round. Well, no cavalry’s riding out of the hills to save you. You’re solo, and there it is.

  “Now, without givin’ too much away—always a good rule in this life, don’tcha know? Without givin’ too much away, we’re looking for a certain . . . thing, let’s call it. A thing that your daddy was looking for too. And before he went to meet his sweet Maker I think he found out where it was. Since you’re here, we’re suspecting you’ve got some sound thoughts on where it is.”

  Irena Braxton approached them, slipping away her phone. He wondered whom she’d rung up so urgently—and triumphantly—about his capture.

  Droon nodded to her and continued, “We’ve been visiting all sorts of fun and exciting places on Daddy’s map but we’re not finding a single pearl in the oyster. So we need some help-out, you know what I’m saying?”

  Shaw frowned. “What exactly is it you’re looking for, Droon? Tell me and maybe I can help.”

  Droon clicked his tongue. “For me to know and you to find out. Just fill in the details. Is there another map? Did Daddy find something else?”

  “How can I tell you anything about the map since you stole it?”

  “You made a copy, didn’t you? Sure you did, a buttoned-up boy like you. You’re on the treasure hunt too!”

  He looked around the library. “You really think people don’t know I’m here?”

  Irena Braxton joined in. “No,” she said. “Nobody knows you’re here. Now, Colter.” She was condescending in both tone of voice and her use of his given name, assuming the role of a mother or schoolteacher none too pleased with a youngster’s behavior. “Stop the nonsense. Of course you made a copy. And we have your history.” A nod at the computer terminal. “You searched Amos Gahl. So, no more games. We both know what’s going on here. You’ve got some other leads. A man like you, a professional tracker after all. What do you people say? ‘Hot on the scent.’ So, tell me about those notes in your father’s book. They’re codes. We know they are.”

  Actually they were gibberish. But Shaw said, “The book you stole.” Summoning faux indignity.

  She offered a perplexed frown. “We can’t make heads or tails of it. We need you to decipher them. Your father writes in riddles.”

  “He’s not writing anything now,” Shaw said evenly.

  Irritated, Braxton said, “As you’ve been informed, his death wasn’t our intent. And the person responsible is no longer of this earth.” She crossed her arms over her broad chest.

  “That doesn’t bring him back.”

  “This won’t do, Colter. We’ve still got a half-dozen locations on the map to check out and you’re going to help us. Amos Gahl stole something, and we have a right to it. He was our employee. You’re aiding and abetting that crime.”

  “You got me. I confess.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s call nine-one-one. I’ll give myself up.”

  The headmistress smiled kindly. “Once we have it, all the rough stuff goes away. And we’re out of your life forever.”

  Shaw was eyeing his opponents even more closely than the matronly Braxton was studying him.

  Droon displayed the want-to-smack-it-off grin. Blond was expressionless. He had a habit of flexing his fists. He’d been a boxer. But then, noting scars, Shaw decided that since boxing wasn’t chic anymore, he’d probably be into bare-knuckle boxing or mixed martial arts. And when he killed—there was no doubt in Shaw’s mind that he was a murderer—he did so without conversation. It was a job to complete; he’d kill, collect his check and get home, turning the pits of his eyes to TV or computer porn.

  The other two, the guards in the suits, were uneasy. They didn’t smack of military and had probably never seen combat. They were a threat, certainly, given their weapons, but they would be second-tier risks.

  Braxton, as he’d decided before, was probably not a danger—unless that colorful purse of hers, macramé, of all things, held a Glock or Smith & Wesson.

  The woman said to Droon, “We have that meeting tomorrow. I want to tell him something. Something concrete.” She nodded to Shaw.

  The petite, wiry man said, “Oh, I’ll get something. He may not be in a talkative mood now. But that’s gonna change. I guarantee it.”

  Braxton looked over Shaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going down to the basement and . . .”

  Her voice faded as Shaw rubbed his eyes, shook his head slowly. He winced.

  She gazed at him with curiosity, frowning.

  “Not feeling all that great.”

  Droon muttered, “Why’s that our concern, son, what you’re feeling, what you aren’t?”

  Shaw closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

  “What’s he doing?” one of the security men asked, the bigger one.

  “Watch him,” Braxton said.

  “Let’s get him downstairs,” Droon said. He looked around. “This’s gone on for too long.” A glance at Blond. “You want a piece of him?”

  The man with the bleached hair and the inky eyes said nothing but gave a brief nod.

  Droon said to Braxton, “My man here gets good results.”

  She said to the security guards, “We’ll be down there for an hour or two. No disturbances. Open the library back up. If anyone asks what happened, tell them it was a medical emergency. Nothing more than that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the bigger one. “We’ll make sure.”

  Staring at Shaw, Droon asked no one, “The hell is he about?”

  Shaw said, “Just . . . light . . . headed. Not feeling too well.” He sagged and rubbed his eyes again.

  “Jesus,” Braxton said, angry. “Is he sick?”

  “What’re you doing?” Droon snapped. “What’s he doing?”

  “I’m dizzy.”

  Which wasn’t an answer to the question. The true response was that Colter Shaw was engaging in the art of misdirection: keeping everyone’s attention focused on his eyes, shoulders, torso, arms.

  Not on his left foot.

  Which was presently easing up the
wall to the electrical outlet near the floor.

  A paper clip protruded from one slot in the outlet, another from the second slot, millimeters apart. He had taken them from the cubicle where he’d been just before he’d run to the wall. He had no intention of pulling the alarm, which he’d figured had been disabled too. What he wanted was to get to the wall and stick the paper clips, which he’d unfolded to triple their length, into the outlet.

  Droon started toward him.

  Still leaning against the wall, Shaw held up his hand. “Just give me a minute . . .”

  Frowning, Droon paused.

  Shaw pressed one paper clip into the other with the upper part of his left shoe.

  The resulting spark and staccato bang, impressive, were like a firecracker detonating. Instantly the library went dark.

  11

  Droon and the security guards dropped into a crouch, looking around, not understanding what had happened.

  “Shots!” the skinny man cried and ducked.

  Shaw, protected from the current by his rubber soles, sprinted to the fire door.

  “Wasn’t a shot, you idiot,” Braxton raged.

  Shaw had taken a gamble—that the system overriding the latching mechanism of the emergency door would deactivate when power was lost.

  Before Droon and the others could recover and pursue, Shaw grabbed a chair and then slammed into the exit bar with his hip. The door crashed open. He shoved it closed and wedged the chair back against the door handle, bracing it.

  A shout. Shaw believed it was “Stop him!” He knew for sure it was Braxton’s voice.

  Shaw was tempted to run straight to his cycle but he kept to his original plan, turning to the right, away from the Yamaha, and sprinted full-out for the cross street. He heard a crash. It would be the fire exit door being muscled open and the chair that barred it flying into the street.