Jeffery Deaver - Edge

“I wanted to move fast. I thought there was a chance I might find him here.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. I’m looking at the house now,” I told him. “No lights, no movement. But there’re about fifty good shooting positions in the woods all the way around the place. You guys have thermals with you?”

“Sure, but mostly, if you’re talking forest, the deer’ll light up the equipment. And Bambi doesn’t do much sniping.”

Eyes on the house, I told him, “I’m going quiet.”

We disconnected and I climbed from the car. I removed my body armor vest from the trunk, strapped it on and donned a jumpsuit, the black one. I moved through the cool autumn air, stopping between two broad oak trees. Mist floated around the house, which was about two hundred feet off the road. I could hear the creak and groan of insects that had survived the end of summer. Frogs too. I sensed the faint flutter from invisible motion above me, bats.

I have no superstition within me whatsoever and I don’t believe that we can feel the spirits of the dead. But I don’t deny that there sometimes occurs a ripening of impressions, clues and the memories of experience that trigger an understanding within us that seems like a sixth sense. I had no sense of dread or foreboding but I suddenly knew that I had to draw my weapon immediately, kick my mind into a defensive mode and keep it there. I nearly got a crick in my neck as I spun behind me and saw the shape of a man. Finger on the trigger of my Glock, I drew a target. Breathing hard, I eased against the solid, rough tree trunk. Only a moment later the saplings that had configured themselves into the lifter separated in the breeze and then gently drifted back.

The shape of a man but not a man.

Which didn’t mean that my concern was unwarranted. Loving could easily be nearby.

I turned back to the house. The two-story country manse, gabled, was painted dark brown. The handyman the owner had hired was long on landscaping and short on woodwork and painting. The railing was sagging, the stairs dipped and three of the beige shutters hung from their last hinge. Scales of dull paint rolled from the siding. On the front porch, which extended across the front of the entire house, a swing was attached to the beams above by only a single chain.

Another look around me. No sign of human life. Gazing at the porch again, I wondered if Loving the boy had spent any time in the swing on summer or fall evenings. And with whom? I noted farmland behind the broken-down picket fence in the back. Would he have gone hunting small game there? I’d heard rumors that he’d tortured animals when he was young. But I didn’t believe that. There was no evidence suggesting that Loving was a sadist and enjoyed the physical pain he inflicted; when he set the sandpaper and alcohol bottle in front of the person he needed to extract information from, I knew that the main thought in his mind was my own: What’s your goal and what’s the most efficient way to achieve it?

I stared at the dark windows, two of which were broken from BB gunshots or maybe a.22. Unoccupied places like this would be, as the law said, attractive nuisances to local kids. I knew this from the house in Woodbridge that Peggy and I had owned. Two doors down from it was an abandoned Victorian and every neighborhood kid at some point tried to sneak inside the dangerous place. I’d gone to town hall to have the city put up better fences, which they ultimately did.

Once more I wondered if it was the Kesslers or Henry Loving conjuring these memories within me. I pushed them away. No more distractions, I resolved.

I heard cars approaching, though I spotted no lights. I gave Freddy a call to tell him where I was. A few minutes later he and the tactical officers joined me.

“Anything on a car at his cousin’s?” I asked Freddy.

The senior agent was looking over the lay of the land, as were the tactical officers, each covering a different quadrant. “We found a few drops of blood in a parking space about fifty feet away. Nothing else helpful. No tread marks. No trace. But what do you expect?”

True, with Loving, you weren’t going to find the quality of evidence that led you back to his hidey-hole.

“I want to get moving,” I said, gesturing at the house. I was uncharacteristically impatient. I glanced at the tactical agents and whispered, “I haven’t seen any sign of anyone since I’ve been here. Loving might not remember what he told his cousin-he was doped up-and he might’ve come back to go to ground or at least to pick up his things.” I regarded them gravely. “And it’s possible he said what he did to the cousin to make sure it was relayed to us. This could be a trap. And remember, he’s got a partner.”

They scanned the grounds, the trees, the black windows of the house with keen eyes.

We divided into three groups and, Freddy and I leading, moved forward.

AWARE OF THE fine shooting that the partner was capable of, we didn’t expose ourselves by surveying any vantage points for more than a second or two before dropping to the ground or crouching behind trees.

In five minutes we arrived at the house and made arrangements for the tactical entry. This is not my area of expertise, nor was I as heavily armed as everyone else in the group. I would remain outside on the front porch and keep an eye out for any flanking movement until the house was cleared. Another tactical officer would do the same at the back door.

Freddy gestured to one of his tac officers. The large man examined the door and with a single kick sent it flying inward, simultaneously blurting the requisite, “FBI, serving a warrant!” Agents streamed inside through the front and back doors. Flashlights clicked on but I ignored the search and continued surveying the front and side yards, crouching and presenting as little target as I could to a sniper in the surrounding woods. Using my night vision monocular, I scanned but spotted no evidence of shooters.

Finally Freddy stuck his head out the front door. “We’re clear.”

“Any sign of inhabitants recently?”

“Yep. Food and drinks with pretty far-off expiration dates. A set alarm clock. Five a.m. Boy’s an early riser. Fresh linens. Some clothes that don’t seem too old. Loving’s size.”

So he had been staying here.

I walked inside and drew closed any open shades and curtains, then clicked on the lights. The air was musty and tinged with cedar and rot. An agent appeared in the doorway; he’d checked for evidence of the vehicles but reported that the driveway and apron were gravel and he’d found no tire prints.

“What are we looking for?” another agent called. Freddy tipped his head to me.

“Credit card receipts, correspondence, computers or hard drives, bills… anything with or without Henry Loving’s name on it. He uses fake identities a lot.”

I doubted we’d find much about his immediate plans; he was too smart to leave obvious evidence but even a player as conscientious as he made mistakes sometimes.

Game theory takes this into account. In a “trembling hand equilibrium,” a player can accidentally pick an unintended strategy-say, when you reach for a queen’s bishop’s pawn and accidentally move the knight’s in error. If you release the piece, you’ve made the move, even if the consequences are the opposite of what you’d intended and are disastrous.

Still, we found little or nothing that was helpful.

But one thing I did indeed find was Henry Loving’s past.

Virtually all of it. Neither he nor his family had eradicated his history.

Everywhere throughout the house were photographs, framed postcards, ribbons from awards won at state fairs and carnivals, pictures of Loving family vacations. On the mantelpiece and on the shelves in place of books were souvenirs and memorabilia like ceramic animals, ashtrays, hats, candleholders.