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

stood at the base of the porch and continued speaking to the shadows on the other side of the half-open door of Earnest La Fleur’s Sausalito home.

No arrows had been launched, though the man might have gotten a piece of Shaw if he’d been inclined. He’d moved the oil-drum barricades, as Russell had suggested.

Shaw said, “Droon’s dead. Braxton and Ian Helms’re in jail, and the FBI and state police have locked down all the BlackBridge offices. ATF and SEC’re after them too, I heard.”

“Okay, okay, given that’s true, which I still have to confirm,” La Fleur offered by way of meager rebuttal, “what about the chief boilermaker, Devereux?”

Shaw’s brow creased. “Nothing to nail him on yet.”

“Told you. Man’s elusive as a drop of mercury and just as toxic.”

“Earnest,” Shaw stretched out his unusual name. “Let me in. And could you point the arrow elsewhere?”

“How’d you know I was locked and loaded?”

Shaw exhaled loudly, not bothering to explain that he’d heard the creak of the bow once again—and not troubling either to correct the man, as he had others, by telling him that the “lock and load” phrase applied only to the M1 Garand rifle. And until you unlocked the weapon—which slipped a round into the chamber—it was only as dangerous as a baseball bat.

“All right. Come on in.”

Shaw stepped into the man’s cluttered house, still redolent of ocean and pot.

The scrawny hermit, gripping the bow and a de-notched arrow, pushed past Shaw and strode into the yard. There he stood for a moment and then disappeared into the complicated growth of plants most of whose genus and species Shaw did not know. Beyond them, however, was a landscape of plants featuring rich green leaves pointing outward like splayed fingers. Shaw knew what this crop was.

Returning, La Fleur said, “You might’ve been followed. It looked clear. But, listen to me: never assume you’re safe.”

Shaw nearly smiled. That was the last line of the letter his father had left in Echo Ridge.

La Fleur re-latched the door. There was a chain—that most insubstantial of protective devices. But it wasn’t alone. The other security mechanisms were a knob lock, a massive deadbolt, a crossbar like you’d see in a Middle Ages castle and an iron rod tilting upward at a forty-five-degree angle from floor to door. Shaw wondered if he had a rope ladder somewhere in the place for a fast emergency descent down the cliffside. As a matter of fact, he did: a glance toward the windows revealed a coil of rope, one end of which was tied to a radiator.

“You want coffee, anything?” He was sipping from a chipped mug, as bulletproof as those in the diner where Shaw and his brother dissected the courier bag containing the mixtape and the ancient document that could change the face of American politics forever.

Shaw declined. “Brought you a present.” He handed over one of the envelopes he and Russell had taken from the BNG gangbangers at the site of the Urban Improvement Plan meeting in the Tenderloin. “Ten K. Laundered and unmarked. Amos Gahl’s mother got one too.”

He peered inside and pulled the money out. “Okay, okay. Can’t say I can’t use it.” He walked to a painting of an old-time sailing ship and lifted it down, revealing a wall safe. After turning his back so Shaw couldn’t see the combination, he opened the door and slipped the cash inside. Upon closing it, he spun the dial a number of times and reseated the painting.

“Well, thankee.” His face grew troubled. “So that son of a bitch Devereux still got what he wanted. Corporations running for office? What does he want more power for, more money? He’s got a company worth a couple trillion dollars.”

“Just one point two.”

“This ain’t funny, Shaw. That’s bigger than Spain’s gross domestic product. Banyan Tree’s going to run for office, and then the world goes to shit with his new policies you were telling me about: fucking the environment, civil rights, immigration. Jesus my Lord, just occurred to me: Devereux could start his own schools. They can teach what they want. Indoctrinate the youth. Hitler did that. ‘The Future Belongs to Me.’”

“The man who would be king.”

La Fleur tilted his head slightly. “That was quite a flick. There was justice in the movie. You remember how it ended? But not here. Devereux? Hell, if he gets enough power he could change the U.S. Constitution and a company could become president of the United States.”

“You think it’d come to that?”

A smile, both coy and troubled, spread over La Fleur’s face. “But you don’t have to look back too far into U.S. politics to see that pretty damn weird things can happen.” He opened one of the metal blinds and looked out. The view of the city was indeed spectacular. And dominating the skyline was the massive office building that housed Banyan Tree. “It’s like the missiles have been launched. I’m enjoying the last view of the country before the nukes hit.” He gazed back to find Shaw looking at the same scene.

La Fleur was sizing him up. “You seem . . . what’sa word I’m looking for here, Shaw? Detached. Like you don’t care about the cataclysm.” The man squinted. “Yep, I’m sure of it. De-tached. How come’s that? Don’t you care?”

“Let’s put on the TV. Something you might want to see.”

La Fleur nodded toward the ancient set. “This one’s safe, terrestrial. The only kind I’d ever have. You can’t work for BlackBridge and not get this sense of how efficiently electrons can fuck you.”

This was a man Ashton Shaw would’ve counted as a friend.

Shaw clicked the unit on. It had to warm up before the picture crisped into view.

The crawl at the bottom of the screen said breaking news . . .

A brunette anchorwoman in a bright red dress was looking out at her invisible audience.

“Repeating this afternoon’s top story, three independent forensic examiners have concluded that a recently discovered California Constitution amendment, to allow corporations to hold office in the state, is a forgery. The