He stepped to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. A window, then.
Except that he never got to a window.
A fourth man now joined the party, walking from the garage with a backpack over his shoulder and a duffel bag in both hands; he was squat and bulky, with a crew cut and long arms. Stopping quickly, he shucked the backpack, dropped the bag and started to reach for his hip. Shaw lunged; the man gave up on the gun — he couldn’t get to it in time — and drew back a fist. But he had no target; Shaw dropped his center of gravity, ducked low and executed a passable single-leg takedown, a classic college wrestling move.
The minder was heavy yet he went down hard, flat on his back, gasping, his face contorted. The wind had been knocked from his lungs. Shaw drew his own pistol and kept it pointed toward, but not at, the man.
He wasn’t stupid. He nodded quickly. Shaw pocketed the pistol, also a Glock, and patted him down for other weapons. There were none. He powered off the man’s phone and took a set of keys. Shaw moved his finger in a circle. The minder nodded again and rolled onto his belly.
Shaw zip-tied his wrists and ankles and turned back to the house.
Key in the lock. He turned it — silent — and, drawing his gun, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, aromatic with the smells of cooking: onions and grease. A glance around the dim place. The bedrooms, to the left, were dark. He’d have to take a chance on the kitchen. To look inside would expose him — because of a pass-through bar — to the men in the living room. The odds that there were five men here?
Small.
So, with a two-handed grip on his gun, Shaw stepped fast into the room, where the trio was sitting and pacing.
Knight dropped his phone and the “Jesus Christ!” he uttered was nearly a shout. The minders spun around, starting to stand.
“No. Down.”
They complied slowly.
Shaw had noted how each held his phone or tablet. “You.” Nodding to one. “Left hand, thumb and forefinger. Weapon out. Pitch it toward me.” The other was told to do the same with his right hand.
There was no opportunity here for heroics or clever tactics, only foolishness, and they did as instructed.
Shaw tossed zip ties to them.
“How do we...” one began.
Shaw offered a wry glance. “Just figure it out.”
Using their teeth to hold and tighten the plastic ties, they bound their own wrists.
Shaw spotted a light panel against the far wall and walked to it, then flipped the switches. The grounds were brilliantly illuminated. Then he stepped to a spot near the kitchen, where he could stand and have complete cover of the room and a view out to the yard.
“Is anyone else here, other than the one tied up outside?”
“Listen, Shaw—”
“Because if there is and he makes a move, he’s going to get shot. And that means there might be other shots.”
Knight said, “There sure is somebody. And you better...”
Shaw looked at one of the minders — the one who’d been enjoying his comedy on the tablet until the interruption. The man shook his head.
Knight growled, “The fuck’re you doing?” Odd how anger negates handsome.
“Lift up your jacket and shirt and turn around, then empty your pockets.”
After a defiant moment the CEO did. No weapons.
Shaw picked up the man’s phone and disconnected the call.
“How’d you find me? Was it Foyle? That fucker. Well, so what? You can call all the cops you want but nobody’s going to touch me. I’m out of the country in an hour. I’ve got a get-out-of-jail card.”
“Sit down, Knight.”
“I’m sorry that kid got killed. Kyle Butler. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” The man’s eyes were widening with fear as he looked from Shaw’s weapon to his cold eyes.
“I don’t care. He did get killed. And so did Henry Thompson. And Elizabeth Chabelle and her baby almost died too.”
“Foyle was an idiot to kidnap a pregnant woman.” The legendary temper flared and Shaw believed he actually shivered with rage. “So, what is this? You can’t turn me in to the cops. You going to shoot me? Just like that? Vengeance is mine — that kind of bullshit? They’ll figure out it was you. You won’t get away with it.”
“Shh,” Shaw said, tired of the sputtering. He withdrew his cell phone, unlocked it, opened an email and set the cell on the coffee table. He stepped back, keeping his aim near Knight. “Read that.”
Knight picked up the unit — his hands were none too steady — and read. He looked up. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
73
As Shaw steered the dusty, streaked Yamaha into the entrance of the Westwinds RV Center in Los Altos Hills, Colter Shaw noticed a sign he hadn’t been aware of earlier. It was some distance from the park, maybe two football fields’ worth, but the stark black letters on a white billboard were easily read: MAKE YOUR NEW HOME SILICONVILLE... VISIT OUR WEBSITE NOW!
To think he’d suspected the toy aficionado of being the Whispering Man...
He drove along Apple Road. Anywhere else in the world, the name would refer to the fruit. Here, of course, in SV, it meant only one thing and that bordered on the religious. It would be like Vatican Drive or Mecca Avenue. He turned right, on Google Way, toward his Winnebago and, arriving there, braked more harshly than he’d intended. He killed the engine. After a pause he removed his helmet and gloves.
He joined Maddie Poole, who was leaning against her car’s front fender, drinking a Corona. Without a word, she reached into the car and picked up another bottle. She opened it with a church key and handed the beer to him.
They nodded bottlenecks each other’s way and sipped.
“Damn. You saved somebody else, Colt. Heard the news.”
He glanced toward the camper and she nodded. The night was chill. He unlocked the door and they walked inside. He hit the lights and got the heat going.
Maddie said, “She was pregnant. She going to name the baby after you?”
“No.”
Maddie clicked her tongue. “Hey, was that the bullet hole from the other night? By the door?”
Shaw tried to recall. “No, that was a while ago. In better light you can see it’s rusty.”
“Where’d it happen?”
You’d think someone takes a shot at you, you’d recall instantly where it was, along with the weather, the minute and hour and what you were wearing.
Probably that job in Arizona.
“Arizona.”
“Hmm.”
Maybe New Mexico. Shaw wasn’t sure so he let the neighboring state stand.
She smoothed her dark purple T-shirt, on which only the letters AMA and, below, ALI were visible beneath a thin leather jacket. She wore pale blue sandals, shabby, and he noticed a ring on her right middle toe, a red-and-gold band. Had it been there the other night? That’s right, he couldn’t tell. The lights had been out.
She looked around the camper. With her attention on a map mounted to a wall near the bedroom — a portion of the Lewis and Clark Expedition — Shaw quickly slipped his Glock back into the spice cabinet resting place.
“I never asked, Colt. What’s with the reward thing? Funny way to make a living.” She turned back.
“Suits my nature.”
“The restless man. In body and mind. So, I got your message.” She took a long sip of her beer. There was silence, if you didn’t count the whoosh of traffic, audible even here, inside. In Silicon Valley, always, always traffic. Shaw recalled the Compound on windless days. A thousand acres filled with a clinging silence, which could be every bit as unsettling as a mountain lion’s growl. He noticed the fingers of Maddie’s left hand — her free hand — were twitching. Then he realized, no, they were air-keyboarding. She didn’t seem aware of it.