Jeffery Deaver - Edge

But the message was brief and about something else altogether.

Problem… Hermes has a bot roaming websites, etc and he had a hit. This was posted fifteen minutes ago. Here’s the URL .

I hurried into the den, unlocked my computer and typed the Web address she’d sent.

The site was a blog, written by someone with the screen name Sassy-Cat222. I was expecting something about Clarence Brown-well, Ali Pamuk-or Eric Graham or even Ryan Kessler himself: information that Loving might use. I skimmed quickly. The postings were typical of all blogs, containing more information about daily life than anybody cared to read. Some were humorous-a boring Saturday night at the mall when a date fell through and a music review of a really bad rock concert-and some sobering: a report about overcrowded classrooms, a call for an AIDS awareness campaign and the start of a series about the suicide of a teenager the blogger knew through her volunteer work for a self-harm prevention program at her school.

I froze when I noticed that last entry. With a sinking heart, I grabbed my phone and dialed.

“DuBois.”

I asked, “SassyCat… she’s Amanda Kessler, right?” I remembered that she’d volunteered for a counseling program at her school.

“That’s right. It’s her.”

The girl must’ve thought it was safe to post under her screen name and from a friend’s computer.

“Hermes says it was posted about an hour ago, with a naked IP address. It took him two minutes to find it was a private residence in Loudoun County. Near White’s Ferry.”

“Bill Carter’s house?”

“Next door.”

If we had a bot, Loving would too. He’d check the property records of everybody in the area and find Carter’s name. He’d learn that Carter’s main residence was five minutes from the Kesslers’ in Fairfax. He’d know we’d stashed the girl there.

Caller ID sounded on call waiting. It was Westerfield’s number. He’d just learned that the armored van was empty, I guessed. Then it buzzed again-I can juggle four calls on this phone. My boss’s number.

I ignored them both. I told duBois, “I’m going to Carter’s myself. It’s less than a half hour from here. Call Freddy and have him get some tactical troops there. You have the location, right?”

“Yes.”

I disconnected all the calls and slipped the phone away. I briefed Ahmad and then threw my laptop, along with extra ammunition, into my shoulder bag and headed out the side door, hitting the speed dial for Bill Carter’s phone. As I leapt into the front seat of the Honda and sped down the drive, it rang three times and went to voice mail.

ANSWER… PLEASE ANSWER .

Was Carter dead and the girl in Loving’s hands already?

The next occurrence would be a call from Loving via a cold phone to the FBI asking to be connected to Ryan Kessler, to inform him that his daughter was captive and requesting the information that the lifter had been hired to extract.

When that call came through, it would fall to me to make the decision to put Loving in touch with Kessler and try to negotiate the girl’s release.

Or not. And write Amanda’s death warrant.

I hit REDIAL.

Click . The electronic voice of the phone urged, “Please leave a message.”

No …

I disconnected and nudged up the RPMs on the hissing engine, hitting seventy, about the fastest I could do along Route 7 and the country roads that roughly paralleled the Potomac River. It was 3:00 p.m. on a pleasant Sunday and there were brunchers and golfers and sightseers out, which made the going slow. I’d called in a clear-transit request to Loudoun and Fairfax County Police, which I didn’t want to do, because it would identify my Honda to anyone who thought to check, or to hack, the system but I couldn’t afford to get stopped now.

I tried the phone once more.

One tone, another…

Then finally: “’Lo,” Bill Carter answered.

I exhaled in relief. “It’s Corte. Loving’s on his way there.”

“Okay.” Instantly alert. “What should I do?”

“First, you have your weapon on you?”

“My old sidearm. Smittie thirty-eight. Yessir. And a twelve-gauge on the mantel.”

“Get it now. Double, pump, auto?”

“Over-under.”

It’d have to do. “Load it, extra ammo in your pockets.”

“Need my hands. I’m putting you down for a minute.” A faint hollow clink of metal. I heard, “Okay.”

“Where’s Amanda?”

“Getting the tackle together. We were going fishing in about a half hour.”

“I need you out of the house.”

“She’ll get upset,” Carter said.

“Then she’ll be upset.”

“How’d it happen?”

“She posted something from her friend’s computer.”

“Goddamn. We were over there for brunch. The girls disappeared for a time. I should’ve thought.”

I heard footsteps, then his voice telling Amanda that there was a problem and they were leaving immediately. She said, “That’s your gun. Why do you have that, Uncle Bill?…” Her voice trailed off. He sounded reassuring as he talked to her; there was no recrimination. Good. No time for that now.

“Okay, Corte. What next?”

Glancing down to my computer screen, then back to the road, I explained, “I’ve got a satellite picture of your property from Earthwatch. It’s not real clear but I see a road your drive connects to. That’s the only access, right?”

“Aside from the lake.”

“Have you seen any cars on the road?”

“Mandy, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay… All right, cars? I was just raccoon-proofing the trash and I saw one go past.”

“That unusual?”

“It’s pretty deserted around here but we get drivers some. He didn’t slow up and I didn’t think any more of it.”

“Description?”

“Truth is, I heard it more’n saw it. Where do you want us?”

“Don’t drive. Don’t go near the car. Go to some place on the property where you can see somebody coming and you’ve got good cover.” I risked a glance at the satellite image. “I think I can see a little clearing in the… I guess it’s the northeast section of your property, near the road.”

“Yeah, it’s a little meadow. There’re some trees on the other side. We can get there. It’s high ground.”

“Good. You have any camouflage?”

“Fishing jackets. Dark green.”

“That’ll do. Put the phone on vibrate.”

There was the sound of clanks and zippers. “How’s this, Uncle Bill?”

“Good.”

It seemed that the girl wasn’t panicking. I was pleased. I continued, “Loving’s armed and he’s got a partner who’s armed too. Has sandy-colored hair, maybe a green jacket. Slim. But don’t trust anybody. All right, get moving. I’ll be there in fifteen. The Bureau’s on their way too.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“Loving knows where you live now. He won’t bother with them. Get to the meadow. We’re going to hang up. I need you to concentrate.”

I needed to as well, focusing on my driving. I was reflecting that if Loving had in fact tipped to Amanda’s blog, I knew he’d be pleased to learn her whereabouts. When it comes to edge, snatching a principal’s child is as good as it gets.

THIRTY-THREE MINUTES AFTER leaving the compound, I eased the Honda to a stop in a stand of bushes in front of Carter’s lakefront property and climbed out. I activated the silent alarm.

I pulled a forest green jumpsuit out of my gear bag-one of two; the other was black-and tugged it on. I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked quickly along the road, examining the ground. I could see evidence that a car had pulled over here recently, paused and then started up again. Footsteps in the soft earth headed toward where I knew the house would be-about three hundred yards into the woods.