The Never Game

“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.

Shaw said, “I drove by the house. You were gone.”

“Conference is over. All us gaming nomads, packing up our tents. I’m getting a head start on the drive south.” The hour was late, 11 p.m., but for grinders like Maddie Poole it was midafternoon. “I’m not much of a phone person. Thought I’d come by in person.”

Shaw sipped. “Wanted to apologize. That’s all. Not worth much. It never is. Still...”

She was looking over another map.

Shaw said, “I had a thought. About our organization.”

“Organization?”

“Renaming it,” he said. “From the Never After Club to the On Rare Occasions Club. What do you think?”

She finished her beer.

“Trash is there,” he said, pointing.