The Never Game. Джеффри Дивер
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Shaw looked into each of the warehouses, pungent with mold and completely empty. He then moved along the wide driveway between these buildings and the big manufacturing facility. Here he could see faded words painted on the brick, ten feet high, forty long, the final letters weathered to nothing.
AGW INDUSTRIES, INC.—FROM OUR HANDS TO Y
Shaw stepped across the driveway and into the shadows of the big building.
You’re the best tracker in the family …
Not his father’s words, his mother’s.
He was looking for a trail. In the wild, cutting for sign is noting paw prints and claw marks, disturbed ground, broken branches, tufts of animal coat in brambles. Now, in suburbia, Colter Shaw was looking for tire treads or footprints. He saw only grass that might have been bent by a car a month ago—or thirty minutes.
Shaw continued to the main building—the loading dock in the back, where the vehicle might have stopped. He quietly climbed the stairs, four feet up, and walked to a door. He tried to open it. The knob turned yet the door held fast.
Someone had driven sharp, black Sheetrock screws into the jamb. He checked the door at the opposite end of the dock. The same. At the back of the dock was a window of mesh-impregnated glass and that too was sealed. The screws appeared new, just like the lock.
This gave Shaw a likely scenario: X had raped and killed Sophie and left the body inside, screwed the doors and windows shut to keep trespassers from finding her.
Now, time to call the police.
He was reaching for his phone when he was startled by a male voice: “Mr. Shaw!”
He climbed off the loading dock and walked along the back of the building.
Kyle Butler was approaching. “Mr. Shaw. There you are!”
What the hell was he doing here?
Shaw was thinking of the open gate, the likelihood that the kidnapper was still here. He held his finger to his lips and then gestured for the boy to crouch.
Kyle paused, confused. He said, “There’s somebody else here. I saw his car in a parking lot back over there.”
He was pointing to the line of trees on the other side of which was one of the outlier structures.
“Kyle! Get down!”
“Do you think Sophie’s—” Before he finished his sentence, a pistol shot resounded. Butler’s head jerked back and a mist of red popped into the air. He dropped straight to the ground, a bundle of dark clothing and limp flesh.
Two shots followed—make-sure bullets—striking Butler’s leg and chest, tugging at his clothing.
Think. Fast. The shooter would’ve heard Butler calling him and would know basically where Shaw was. And to make the headshot, he would have been close.
But the shooter—most likely X—would also be cautious. He would have seen Shaw at San Miguel Park and suspected he wasn’t the law but he couldn’t be sure. And would be assuming Shaw was armed.
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