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

“Does one of your people drive a dark green Honda Accord?” Shaw asked.

“No. Why?”

“Somebody was tailing me. They placed me here.”

“No, not us, not part of my operation. You get the tag?”

“No.”

Silence descended and now it was time for explanations.

Russell said, “Back there. Why were you targeted?”

“They weren’t trying to kill me. They needed me alive. For the time being.”

“Could see that. Angle of his aim. Still.”

“They wanted information. I’ll show you.”

Shaw rose and from the kitchen gathered the material Ashton had left in the basement.

“This was in the secure room.”

“Did you know about it before?”

“The room? No. All I had was the address.” A glance around the living room. “But I knew what to look for. Remember, Ash taught us how to build one, make it blend in and dim the outside lights. He called it ‘the camo of murk.’”

Russell’s eyes narrowed, as a recollection arose—probably of the time Ashton had taught the three Shaw children how to build a disguised door for a hiding spot in the shed behind the cabin. He had told them, “Anybody can hide hinges and latches. The most important thing in fooling intruders is the dust. Dusty walls don’t move.” He taught them how to use rubber cement spray on the disguised door and surrounding panels and then shake a feather duster over the adhesive. Six-year-old Dorion had done the best job.

Russell said, “You missed the flash-bang. I got an alert.”

“Careless. But at that point I didn’t know anybody else had been here, and Ashton wasn’t the IED sort.”

“No. He wasn’t.”

“You know, some people use Ring or Nest for home security—not explosives.”

Unsmiling, Russell shrugged, then nodded to the material on the table. “Saw that when I was here back a couple of years. Didn’t mean anything to me. Assumed it was Ash’s but you know . . . his rambling, the paranoia.”

“Wouldn’t mean anything without this.” Shaw dug into his backpack and retrieved the letter their father had written about BlackBridge.

Russell read. “So BlackBridge’s a dirty-tricks outfit. Never come across them before.” Spoken in a tone that suggested he was more than familiar with such operations. “Where did this come from?” A nod at the letter.

Shaw hesitated. “He hid it on Echo Ridge.”

The location where Shaw had convinced himself Russell had murdered their father.

His brother gave no reaction. “In the alley, they were all BlackBridge?”

“Right. The library was a front.”

“I know that. When you went inside, I checked. Found out it wasn’t connected to the university. And offshores don’t own libraries. Not legitimate ones.”

His resources were probably as good as Mack’s. Most likely considerably better.

Russell looked over the letter once more. “Half of Ashton’s worries were smoke.”

“At least.”

“Not this.”

“No.”

Shaw handed him the dead-drop note, written to their father by a sympathetic employee of BlackBridge.

Amos is dead. It’s in a BlackBridge courier bag. Don’t know where he hid it. This is my last note. Too dangerous. Good luck.

“‘It’? The evidence Ashton was talking about.”

“That’s right.” Shaw waved at the rest of the material he’d brought up from the basement. “Not like this, not supposition and suggestion. Whatever Gahl found is enough to get indictments.”

“Ash told us ‘Never go to Echo Ridge. Terrain’s not so kind.’ But it wasn’t any worse than anywhere else in the high country. Maybe he didn’t want us going there because it was a dead-drop for him and his circle.” Russell glanced at Shaw, who nodded his understanding of the spy term. His brother continued, “The letter was meant for one of his colleagues. How’d you find it?”

“Long story. Came across some clues that led me there.”

“Any of the friends still around?”

“Maybe, but most are dead or in hiding. BlackBridge is good at arranging accidents.”

Shaw didn’t tell his brother that he believed the letter had been left not for a colleague but for him. It was he who had been given, and who deciphered, the clues that led to Echo Ridge—and ultimately to the safe house. It wouldn’t have been impossible for a colleague of Ashton’s to deduce where the letter and map had been hidden. But why situate a dead-drop three hundred miles from San Francisco, where most of their father’s associates were?

“And BlackBridge, they’re behind Ash’s death?” Russell eyed Shaw closely. “At the funeral, the word was ‘accident.’ But back then I got the feeling you didn’t think so.”

Was there something in his brother’s tone? Did he or did he not know Shaw had silently accused him of murdering their father?

A chill flowed through him. “No, I didn’t.” He hesitated. “Some things didn’t add up. His shotgun, the Benelli, was nowhere near where he fell. And did you ever know him to lose his footing on rock, ice, snow, sand, gravel?” He was speaking quickly. Did he sound defensive as he threw out some of the reasons why he’d formulated the theory of patricide?

He felt Russell’s eyes on him still, and he chose to meet the man’s gaze. Shaw said, “A couple of weeks ago I learned for sure it was BlackBridge.” He explained what Ebbitt Droon had told him about the company’s operative coming to the Compound to “talk” with their father. “That is, torture him and get him to tell them where the evidence was hidden. Ashton tipped to the op and ambushed him. But he was no match for the BlackBridge man.”

“Hmm.”

Shaw wanted so badly to grab his brother by the shoulders and shout: I was young, you were secretive. I saw the fight you and Ash had. And you were evasive about where you were on the night he was killed. I was wrong. But was what I did reason enough for you to vanish from the family altogether? Do you know what that did to our mother, our sister?

To me . . .

But of course, Colter Shaw couldn’t ask that question because the answer might very well be what he feared: Because I can’t forgive you.

Before he could stop himself he said, “The Reclusive One.” Was it a subconscious