Jeffery Deaver - Edge

The inside of the safe house was surprisingly cozy. Many women principals fell in love with it. A few men too. When a lifter or hitter is after you, the nesting instinct swells fast, like a helium balloon at Hallmark. I’d even come downstairs once to find my principals had rearranged the furniture. Another time, to my horror, a couple had swapped the drapes between two rooms, presumably standing in full view of naked windows to do so.

The comfort made this my favorite safe house-not for my personal ease, but professional; my principals felt less agitated and that made my life easier.

Joanne picked up the remote, asking me, “Okay?”

“Sure.”

She turned on the TV, perhaps to see if we’d made the news. We had, albeit anonymously. “Possibly gang related,” the announcer said, referring to the shootout at the Hillside Inn. Then the story was gone, replaced by snippets on the Orioles’ chance in the playoffs, a suicide bombing in Jerusalem, a statement by the Supreme Court nominee, urging that the demonstrations in front of the Capitol, both for and against him, remain peaceful; there’d been some incidents of spitting and hurling bottles. I gave him my silent thanks for helping mask my transit to the flytrap.

Joanne sat staring at the screen, clasping her soda firmly. Her fingers separated as she tucked a strand of limp dark blond hair away. She still had her purse over her shoulder.

The comfort of the familiar…

Out of the blue, she looked at me and said, as if continuing a conversation we’d been having all along, “He’s frustrated. Ryan. Very frustrated. He’s guilty about bringing this on us. And when he gets guilty, he doesn’t know how to handle it. He gets angry. Don’t take it personally.”

She might have been referring to his biting comment that he was a better shot than me and the others protecting him.

Or to his implication that we were cowards, afraid to engage Loving.

“I understand.” I did.

“He’s never quite recovered from the deli shooting. I don’t mean the wound, the limp-he’s okay with that, most of the time. I mean the psychology. How it affected him. He had to move to a desk. He loved working the street. That’s what his father did, in Baltimore. After Ryan moved to Financial Crimes his father seemed to lose respect for him.”

I remembered that both of his parents were dead and I wondered what the relationship between father and son had been toward the end. My own father had died young; it was always a regret that I had been too busy to make it to the birthday party that had turned out to be his last.

A regret too that, because of his death, he hadn’t been at my son’s first.

Joanne continued, “He does his job but his heart’s not in it. Now they’ve saddled him with that administrative work.” She paused. “They know about the drinking. He thinks he covers it up. He doesn’t. You can’t.”

I reflected that I too would find it hard to give up what I do and not be able to play my games against people like Henry Loving, not to be with my principals.

But I didn’t tell Joanne this, of course. I always have to be on guard against sharing things with the people in my care. It’s not professional. They might spill something about you-if they were captured by a lifter or if they talked to the press. There’s another reason too. Principals and their shepherds are going to part ways. That’s as sure as the seasons. It’s better not to form any connection; minimize the risk of emotional hurt. This is why Abe Fallow told us to refer to them as “my principals” only.

“Keep them anonymous, Corte. This is a two-dimensional business. You have to be a cardboard cutout of a person. That’s how you have to look at them. Learn only what you need to learn to keep them alive. Don’t use their names, don’t look at their kids’ pictures, don’t ask ’em if they’re all right, unless you’ve been dodging bullets and you need to call a medic.”

But the irony is that principals love to talk to us shepherds. Oh, do they want to share. Partly it’s the presence of mortality that puts them in a talkative mode. Confessional, often. They’ve done some things wrong in their lives-who hasn’t, of course?-and they want to assuage the guilt by talking. More important, though, I’m no threat. I’m in their lives for twelve hours or forty-eight or at the most a few weeks. I go away at the end of that time and will never be in a position to repeat the secrets to their friends or loved ones.

So I listen and I nod, without being particularly encouraging, and I make no judgments whatsoever. Part of this is calculated, of course. The more they depend on and trust me, the more they’ll do exactly what I tell them to-instantly and without question.

Joanne glanced at my computer, though I’d turned the screen so she couldn’t see it. She asked, “Which of Ryan’s cases do you think it is?”

“My associate’s investigating them now.”

“At ten o’clock Saturday night?”

I nodded.

“Ryan doesn’t talk to me about his job much. You’d think it’d be pretty obvious who’s the… what did you call it, the primary?”

“That’s it, yes. You mean, to warrant hiring somebody like Henry Loving, there’d have to be a lot at stake?”

“Yes.”

“True. But sometimes you never know. I’ve had plenty of assignments where the identity of the primary was a big surprise.”

Maree appeared, poured herself a glass of wine and walked up to us.

I asked, “The room okay?”

“Very Martha Stewart, Mr. Tour Guide. Old paintings of horses. Tons of horses. They have skinny legs. Fat horses and skinny legs. I wonder if they really looked like that back then. You think they’d fall over a lot.”

Joanne smiled at this-an observation worthy of Claire duBois.

Maree then asked, “How do I go online? I need to check email.”

“I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Oh, not the spy stuff again? Please. Can I beg?” She said this with that teenager’s coy glint in her eyes. Her lips, of course, pouted admirably.

“Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“We have to assume Loving’s found your account. If you read messages or send any, it’s possible for him to correlate time with router and server traffic in the area here.”

“Corte, do you look four ways before crossing the street?”

“Mar,” Joanne chided. “Really.”

“Oh, puh-lease.”

I said, “Just taking precautions.” I regarded her serious expression and nodding head. “What’s wrong?”

“If I can’t get my masseur here, then somebody owes me a massage… Say, Mr. Tour Guide, is that in your job description?” I must have been staring at her blankly. She said, “You don’t joke much, do you?”

“Maree,” her sister said sternly. “Give it a rest.”

“Seriously,” she said to me. “I’d just like to send a few emails. I’ve got to get some images to a gallery for a show.”

“If it’s really important, I can encrypt it, send it to our central communications department and we could route it through some proxies in Asia and Europe.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No.”

“So other people would read it?”

“Yes, three or four. And me.”

“Then I think I’ll just opt for the exciting alternative of… going to bed.” She turned defiantly and vanished down the dim corridor.

Joanne watched her sister walk away, Maree’s slim hips shifting under the wispy skirt as she took steady, almost flirtatious strides.

“What’s she taking?” I asked.

Joanne hesitated. “Wellbutrin.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe an Ativan. Or two or three.”

“And?”

“Nothing else she needs a prescription for. She never got insurance so I see her medical bills. Because I pay for them… How’d you know?”