Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I slowed the vehicle, to keep attention off us; I wouldn’t want Loving to circle around in this direction, flash a fake badge and ask if anybody had seen a gray Nissan SUV.

Ryan sat back and holstered his weapon. “You’re sure it was Loving?”

“Yes. That’s exactly the kind of strategy he’d choose. There’s no doubt it was him.”

I was aware of the corollary to that conclusion: Loving would know too-because of the escape strategy-that I was the opponent he was now playing against.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER-IT was about half past noon-I was eyeing a beige car some distance behind us, moving at about our speed, as we cruised along surface roads in Prince William County, a place with a multiple personality. The populace included politicos, business people, farmers, proud rednecks, entry-level strivers and plenty of recent immigrants.

Most of the meth in the Northern Virginia area got cooked in PW.

I couldn’t tell the make or model of the car but was well aware that it had made the same turn we had a couple of miles back, a pointless trip down a bleak, blue-collar side street, a shortcut to nowhere. You either lived on Heavenly Lane or you detoured along it to see if somebody was trailing you.

Whoever was in the beige car didn’t live there; it was still behind us.

Light sedan. No year, no make, no model …

I guessed that Loving had probably switched wheels. Yet it was possible that he would keep the same car… because it wasn’t what we’d expect. I debated but decided not to radio for assistance, not yet; again, I didn’t want to call attention to us.

I’d just keep an eye on our beige shadow.

The Kesslers were calmer now, not much, but some. In the front passenger seat Ryan was playing lookout and Maree’s pendulum had swung eerily from hysterical back to cute and coy. She kept calling me “Tour Guide,” which I found more irritating than her panicked screaming a half hour before. Joanne had gone into withdrawal again and was staring blankly out the side window. I wondered if she’d always been this timid or if the incident at the deli six years ago-facing her own death and seeing Ryan and the owners shot-had affected her fundamentally. The degree of Joanne’s emotional state might have been extreme but the frame of mind itself wasn’t. The response of principals when a lifter or hitter is after them often follows the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Joanne’s detachment was a form of denial.

Once we’d sped out of the Kesslers’ neighborhood, via an evasive route, Joanne had said only two things. First, she’d made the accurate observation that at least her stepdaughter and Bill Carter were safe, since it was obvious where Loving and any partners had been hiding. Then she offered the speculation that it made sense that Teddy Knox’s wife was all right too. If Loving had killed her, that would lessen the leverage-the edge-he’d have over Teddy to discourage him not to testify against him. That was a possibility, yes. It was also possible, however, that Loving didn’t care what Teddy knew and could testify to and he’d just killed the wife for convenience. That was my opinion but I said nothing.

Ryan asked me to call Freddy and find out if the wife was all right, but it was possible that he, Garcia and the other agents-if they were alive and functioning-had engaged Loving or were in pursuit and I didn’t want to distract them. Freddy would call when he had something to say. I told Ryan this and he nodded, though he seemed irritated I wouldn’t make the call. He returned to his impromptu surveillance.

I made a sudden turn into a Burger King parking lot and paused.

Startling me, Maree said quickly, “Hey, can I escape for a minute? There’s a pay phone.”

“No. Stay in the vehicle.”

“Please?” Sounding like a teenager begging for a trip to the mall.

“No,” I repeated.

“But it wouldn’t be traced or anything. Really, I know all about it.”

“About what?” her sister asked.

“Surveillance. I saw this episode on NCIS? Spies use pay phones to be safe. Off the grid. That’s what they say.”

“Sorry, no calls,” I said.

“Oh, you’re no fun. I demand a lawyer!” She fell into a juvenile pout. It irritated me all the more and I ignored her.

I waited for the beige car to pass us. Which it didn’t do. After ten minutes, I returned to the road and sped up, trying to catch the lights, incurring a horn or two. An extended middle finger, as well. But we saw no beige cars.

My hands-free announced Freddy was calling.

At last…

I asked, “Your guys in the car out front, they’re okay?”

“Yep. Battered. Should’ve had their belts on. They learned their lesson.”

“And how about the shooting at the school?” I’d believed it was fake but I wasn’t sure. I would have been troubled by casualties, certainly; I was, however, more interested to learn if false alarms were a technique Henry Loving was adding to his repertoire. Something else to file away about him.

“You were right, son. Three-dollar bill. Nothing at all. But it kept sixty troopers and agents busy for close to an hour.”

“Okay, Loving?”

“Got clean away. No leads. No vehicle.”

“Anybody see anything beige that was there and then wasn’t? Sedan.”

“Beige? No, and we canvassed. But one of my guys across the street got a look at his partner. In the side yard, the trees, where Garcia was covering. Tall, thin, sandy hair, wearing a dark green windbreaker or army jacket.”

“Weapon?”

“Black autoloader. Couldn’t tell what kind. He was running out of the woods fast, after you left.”

We were past densely populated areas and were surrounded by fields and houses and some commercial lots with businesses limping along or abandoned to banks. I now eased up the speed of the big SUV steadily.

“Did Teddy Knox ID Loving?”

“Yep.”

Abe Fallow had refused to use that trite line about making an ass of you and me with careless assumptions but he beat into our heads the same principle. Though Loving might have been identified in West Virginia as the man hired to target Kessler, we’d had no independent proof that in fact he was the attacker. Until now.

Freddy added, “We also got some prints on the tape he’d used on Knox and his wife. Just a partial but it’s him.”

My principals, I could see or sense, were all staring at me, wanting information.

“The Knoxes?” I sure didn’t want to deliver the news that the wife was dead.

“Both’ll be okay, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is.”

I told the Kesslers this.

“Oh.” Joanne exhaled and lowered her head. She whispered, “Thank you.” The household hadn’t seemed religious but I got the impression she herself might be and was sending aloft a prayer.

“And?” I asked Freddy, meaning: Did either of them say anything more?

“Other than the ID, squat. We could put ’em in a room with speakers blaring wall-to-wall Captain and Tennille and they wouldn’t talk.”

“Impression?” I asked, ignoring the pointless quip.

“They really don’t know diddle. We could maybe find out what he’s wearing but how helpful would that be? I submit, not very.”

I asked him if the weapon in Knox’s hand could lead us anywhere.

He gave a sour laugh. “Stolen years ago. Evidence Response’s been over, under and through the car, the yard, compost heaps and recycling bins in the whole goddamn neighborhood. The woods where the partner was spotted too. No leads. Zero, zip. They don’t even know where Loving and his boyfriend parked. Not a single fucking tire tread or fiber. And here I swore he couldn’t be there for another couple of hours. Did I get this one wrong or what?”