Jeffery Deaver - Edge

“Anybody hurt?”

“No.” I noted it was his first inquiry about casualties. Then, staring at the sparks being sucked upward into the vague cloud of smoke, I said, “You mentioned evidence that Lewis might destroy.”

A nod.

“What if I told you that Kessler has it all with him. All the spreadsheets, the memos, the accounting books.”

“In the safe house?”

“That’s right.”

A sparkle of enthusiasm lit his eyes.

I lowered my voice further. “All right, Jason, how’s this? I’ll admit I’ve been a little focused on getting Loving and I haven’t focused on his primary as much as I should’ve… A city-wide financial scandal? That’s just the sort of thing a primary’d bring Loving in for. It could go way to the top.”

“Go on.” Meaning, Let’s hear your offer.

“What do you say to this: I’ll get you copies of everything Kessler has. Tonight, as soon as I get back to the safe house. But I keep the protection detail. I control the Kesslers and their whereabouts.”

“I’ll want to interview him.”

I debated. “By secure phone. Not in person.”

The U.S. attorney chewed on a lip. “There’ll be some fallout,” he said. “You outright lied to me.”

“We’ll deal with that afterward. After Loving’s collared and Lewis’s in jail. Or whoever at police HQ or city hall’s behind it.”

A nod. It amounted to a handshake.

He, Teasley and the other agents returned to the black SUVs and headed off and I was treated to one of Freddy’s particular looks.

“The hell are you doing, son?”

I said nothing but called the safe house and asked Rudy Garcia for an update.

“Everything’s fine, sir,” the agent told me. “Just checked with West Virginia and the grounds’re secure. The fellow there said, if you call in, to tell you the deer’re where they’re supposed to be. He said you’d know what that means.”

“Good. How’re the principals holding up?”

His voice lowered. “Kind of a soap opera.”

The nature of our work.

“The husband and wife got into it again. Over something crazy. Didn’t amount to squat. Maree wanted to take pictures of me, portraits. I had to tell her no and she started to, well, pout. That woman’s a handful.” That last sentence was delivered in a whisper. He continued, “At least the game was on. Baltimore. That gave Ryan something to do. At home we’re an Orioles family. How ’bout you, sir?”

“Sorry. I go for Atlanta.” Sports don’t appeal to me much but spending so much time in hotel rooms and safe houses with male principals, I’ve watched plenty of games and over the years have developed an interest in baseball. I like the strategies involved. Football, not so much.

Garcia continued, “My son’s only six but my wife told me he said Brigham blew the game when he tried to bunt. The man just doesn’t know his way around a bat. Funny, but Ryan and I had just been saying the same thing.”

“And your boy’s just six? That going to be his sport?” I asked.

“Soccer probably.”

I could have mentioned that once I had coached a children’s soccer team but, of course, I didn’t. I told him I’d be back to the safe house as soon as I could, then disconnected and called Claire duBois.

THE HOUSE WAS small but well kept up.

The garden was nice. I didn’t know the names of the plants but, in the low-voltage landscaping lights, they seemed plentiful and trimmed and subtly colorful, burgundies and blues, probably varieties of perennials that Joanne Kessler would have appreciated.

When we lived in Woodbridge, Peggy had tried gardening for a season. It didn’t last.

I parked on the street and climbed out, felt a bone in my back pop. The smell of smoke followed me. In the car I’d changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt but hadn’t had a shower, of course, and the acrid scent from the fire at Loving’s rose from my skin.

I went to the door and knocked. A pretty blonde, around thirty, opened it partway and peered at me cautiously from behind a thick chain. I recognized her from Claire’s research.

She examined my ID and then, still cautious, asked how she could help me.

“Can I come in?”

“What’s wrong? Is anything wrong?”

“Please.”

She let me inside. This was a house of children-toys, cups, crafts and clothes-and she was about five or six months’ pregnant.

“Cheryl, right?”

Her head bobbed.

“We don’t think there’s anything to be concerned about.” Words that of course made her instantly concerned. Her eyes widened.

“I’m afraid we’re having some trouble getting in touch with your husband.”

“Oh, my God, no! Is he hurt?”

I told her reassuringly, “We have no reason to believe that he is. But we can’t get through on his radio.”

Tears running down her face, Cheryl was breathing hard as she compulsively bent down and gathered children’s pajamas and other clothes stacked on the floor. I’d interrupted a laundry session.

I said, “We know he was running a drug surveillance operation but the dispatcher at headquarters didn’t know where. Do you have any idea where he is? Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Where?”

She gave me the location. Then added, “But why can’t you get through? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” I said gravely. “But there’s a mobile command post not far from there. Hold on. I’ll text them.”

I looked down at my phone and typed on the keypad, hit SEND. I could feel the electric tension as she rocked back and forth, staring at the phone.

“Please…”

Then I looked up and smiled. “He’s there. He’s fine. The radio broke is all. Our supply division’s bringing a new one now.”

“Oh, thank you, God.” The tears continued for a moment.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no. And he’s okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” I repeated. “Sorry for the scare. Oh, but do me a favor.”

“Yeah, sure, anything.”

“He’s in the middle of the surveillance operation now. It’d be better if you don’t call him until the morning.”

“Of course. I’m so relieved. I can’t tell you. I’m so relieved,” she repeated manically, wiping tears.

I stepped outside and walked back to my car, the gravel crunching beneath my feet and the smell of smoke wafting around me.

One aspect of board games that I happen to like is that you can play the part of somebody else. For instance, in the classic German-style game The Settlers of Catan, designed by the famous Klaus Teuber, you are just that-a settler on a mythical island. To win you need to develop the resources more successfully and more quickly than your opponents. In Agricola, another German-style game, you have fourteen turns to become the most successful farmer among your fellow players. American-style games, which tend to involve more combat than European games, might give you the chance to be a general or admiral.

In my job as shepherd too, I have to engage in fictions from time to time. Usually I enjoy the acting, especially if it has positive results that are helpful in guarding my principals, as in my performance with Stu Graham earlier today.

But there are some times when the role-playing leaves me feeling cheap, dirty.

The performance I’d just given was of this sort.

That it was necessary didn’t lessen the probability that the woman’s tearful face, filled with horror at the news I’d delivered at first, would stay with me for a long time.

AT A LITTLE after 10:00 p.m. I arrived back at the safe house in Great Falls and did the code ritual to lower the drawbridge.