The Final Twist, Jeffery Deaver [philippa perry book TXT] 📗

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