Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I believed I had the answer to Loving’s early arrival in Fairfax. “I’m guessing he got an edge on the clerk at the motel in West Virginia and had him say Loving’d checked out at eight but he’d really left around four or five this morning.”

“You win the cee-gar, Corte. All he had to do was mention the name of the clerk’s daughter and what middle school she was in.”

Loving did the same amount of homework as Claire duBois did. And, as I had years before, I felt a perverse admiration for his methodology and meticulousness.

I continued, “But the light-colored sedan was his, legit, because there were other witnesses at the motel who’d seen it earlier.”

“Yup squared.” He then added that the Charleston field office had gone through the room carefully. “Nothing.”

I looked behind me and then executed another series of evasive turns.

No beige car. Nothing out of the ordinary. Locals doing what they did on Saturday. Driving to stores, fast food restaurants for a treat after errands, movies, kids’ soccer games and tae kwon do lessons.

“What do you think, Freddy? Real or a diversion?” I couldn’t decide what Loving’s strategy at the house had been. Did he really want to kill us and take Ryan and his family hostage? Or was it a feint? Did he have something else in mind, something I couldn’t figure out?

Freddy mused, “Real?… I’d say so. I think he wanted to get in fast, get Ryan and get out. He could’ve pulled it off too. If we’d gone out the back, like he wanted, that’d be it. They’d be writing our eulogies right now and Kessler’d have bamboo under his fingernails. Or more likely his wife’s… Oh, and I’ll give you my opinion about the sister, son. She gives blondes a bad name.”

“Next step?”

“Find the primary.” I’d told Ryan that he’d possibly been targeted by mistake but I didn’t believe it. Henry Loving wouldn’t make an error like that. I wanted to find who’d hired him and what information Ryan had that was so important to him… or them.

I told Freddy I’d start looking into that when we landed and I disconnected the call.

As soon as I did, my phone buzzed and I listened to the numbers read off by the caller ID voice. It was the federal prosecutor, Jason Westerfield. He would have heard the news-that his hero cop, a star witness in a case that didn’t exist yet, had nearly been kidnapped amid a shootout in Fairfax County. Westerfield was the last person in the world I wanted to talk to at the moment. I didn’t hit ANSWER.

I noted Ryan was staring into the side-view mirror.

I said, “Detective Kessler?”

“Call me Ryan.”

“Okay, Ryan. Thanks for covering our flank at the house. Were you ever SWAT?”

“Never. Just worked the street. You pick things up.” He was subdued-he’d come close to shooting his neighbor. He continued to look behind us. He kneaded the grip of his revolver the same way I held tight to the wheel.

The atmosphere in the car was somber, quiet. I was calmer now too, reflecting on the operation, trying to step into Henry Loving’s mind and determine his next strategy. I noted that in a relatively short period of time he’d made a clandestine trip from another state, found a trusted partner, obtained weapons, successfully masked his travel to the target location, conducted thorough surveillance of the area where his victim lived, targeted the most knowledgeable neighbors and attempted a risky daylight assault after calling in a fake school shooting to divert backup. He had executed a “friendly feint”-getting one of your allies to assault you, either because he’s mistaken or because he’s been forced to, while the real opponent comes at you from another direction. He wasn’t afraid to give up weapons to a potential risk-Teddy Knox.

This analysis was helpful but, like looking over a chessboard in the early stages of a game, gave me only a flavor of his plan; there was still an infinite variety of strategies he could choose.

Joanne was shaking her head, clutching her purse closely, which I’d also noticed happened frequently with principals. Familiar objects gave comfort. She said to me, in a soft voice, “If you hadn’t been there…” She was, I imagined, speaking in general of the family’s fate but then realized, as I did, that the comment was also a criticism of her husband, who’d resisted our help at first, and she fell silent on the subject. If Ryan noticed, he didn’t react.

He looked toward me a moment later. “I want to call Amanda.”

“Sure. Just don’t mention our location.”

He pulled out the cold phone. I explained the unit and he placed the call. He got through at once and, keeping his voice completely calm, asked about her trip. Finally he explained that there’d been a little problem at the house. Whatever she heard on the news stories, everybody was fine.

“Little problem,” Maree said and laughed cynically. “That’s what the captain of the Titanic said.” The young woman opened her large shoulder bag and pulled out and began sorting black-and-white photographs. Good, I reflected. Keep her busy. Count cows. Look for out-of-state plates.

Ryan handed the phone to his wife. Joanne too downplayed the incident to her stepdaughter, though it seemed more difficult for her to put on a cheery face. A pause as she listened. “I don’t know why, honey. We’ll find out. Mr. Corte… Agent Corte’s going to find out…” She listened some more and they fell into a meaningless conversation about high school, some friends, a ski vacation they had planned for Christmas.

I made a fast turn. Another scan in the mirror; nobody was following. I saw too Maree wince and I thought she’d been hurt in the escape. But then I recalled seeing an Ace bandage wrapped around her arm. She rolled up her sleeve and examined it.

“Maree, are you all right?” I asked.

“Just bumped my arm last week.”

“Is it bad?” I sounded sympathetic but I was asking because I needed to know if the injury would affect my guard job. Lifters, like wild animals, go right for the wounded. Breaks take at least six weeks to heal.

“No. The orthopod says it’s just a bad hematoma. That’s a great word. Sounds so much sexier than ‘bruise.’”

“Hurt much?”

“Some. Not too bad. But I milk it for all it’s worth.” She laughed then explained, “I was shooting some images in downtown D.C. and this asshole on his mobile knocked into me and I slipped down some steps. He didn’t even apologize, not really. It was like, oh, what’re you doing taking pictures when people’re trying to get to real jobs?”

I wasn’t interested in the source of the injury, just her state of wellness, but Maree continued, loud and indignant, “I couldn’t take pictures for a few days afterward, I was so dizzy. I should’ve gotten his name. And sued him.” Her voice faded. Then she looked my way. “Hey, Mr. Tour Guide? Can I call my friend? Please? Pretty please?” Singsong again.

“Who?”

“The guy I was going to be staying with. Before the Terminator screwed up my plans. I was going to meet him at six. If I don’t show up, he’ll be worried.”

Joanne asked, “Mar, don’t you think it’s better if you don’t? Andrew’ll figure it out. I mean, Agent Corte didn’t want you to call from that pay phone.”

“No,” I said, “that was just because I didn’t want to spend any time there. But if you want to call, go ahead. It’s not a bad idea. We don’t want him getting curious and coming to the house, now that Loving knows where it is.”

I handed her my cold phone. “Just keep it short. Don’t say anything at all about where we are or what’s happened. Understand?”

“Sure.”

With that, Maree dropped the giddy persona and suddenly grew reluctant-because, I guessed, she realized the conversation would be overheard by us all. Or maybe she just really didn’t want to change plans. Finally she called. I glanced into the mirror and saw that her shoulders were knotted with tension. After a moment, though, her body language changed-she relaxed-and I deduced she’d got Andrew’s voice mail. Her voice became that of a teenager again: “Hey, it’s me… Um, I feel so bad. I really, really want to see you but I can’t come over after all… Like, something’s come up. Kind of serious. With the family. It’s totally important, so I can’t make it tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Okay, have a good day. I’m sorry.”