Jeffery Deaver - Edge

I gathered the board game, my computer and gym bag of clothes and walked to duBois’s office. She was on the phone when I stepped into her doorway. Her playful tone told me she was probably speaking to the Cat Man. It was the night for a romantic dinner, it seemed. She was describing to him-with typical duBois detail and digression-a chicken dish she had in mind.

I waved good-bye. She held up a wait-a-minute finger.

But I didn’t want her to hang up. I whispered, “Have to go. And thanks. Good job.”

The smile was faint but her eyes beamed. I remembered that when Abe Fallow would praise me I had the opposite reaction. I’d look down and deflect the compliment. I decided that Claire duBois had it right. She joked occasionally and had her bizarre observations and she talked to herself. She was at ease measuring emotion both in and out. That was the way it should be. If I could go back in time and change things, I would have fixed that about myself.

But that’s the past for you. Not only does it come back at the most unexpected, and inconvenient, times but it’s set in stone.

I left her to her monologue about cooking and I went to the garage to collect my personal car, a dark red Volvo. My career may not be the safest in the world but I drive the same make of vehicle that my insurance attorney father entrusted his family’s life to. Not stylish-but who needs style? It also gets pretty good mileage.

I was just driving out onto King Street when I got a text message. I paused on the apron and looked down. Gazing out the window at the Masonic Temple, I stared at the screen, debating.

I FOUND JOANNE Kessler in the Galleria at Tysons Corner, the fancier of the two shopping centers joined at the hip near the tollway, close to the government building where the interrogation of Aslan Zagaev had occurred.

The Galleria features the Ritz-Carlton, DeBeers and Versace and I could never figure out how it stayed in business because, aside from Christmastime, it always seemed deserted.

Joanne, at a wobbly table, was clutching a cup of tea in the cavernous space in the middle of the mall. Starbucks again.

For a month or so after a job is over, the principals keep their cold phones-just in case. After that time, the software overwrites the codes and numbers with nonsense and they can mail them back to a post office box or throw them out. It was Joanne’s text I’d received a half hour ago, asking if we could meet.

I had already called her and Ryan, and Amanda, of course, and explained everything to them. We’d said our good-bye. And with the release order signed, that was the end of the job.

Except apparently not quite.

I got some coffee and joined the somber woman.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Not comfortable talking about the aches and pains and the raw toe, I said briefly, “Fine. And Ryan?”

“Coming along well. He’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Amanda?”

“She’s good. All fired up to take on corruption in Washington.”

“Keep an eye on her blogs,” I said. “I need to stay anonymous.”

She smiled. “I’ve already had that conversation.”

“Did you see the news? About Stevenson?”

“I did.” She continued, “Look, Corte, I was feeling that none of us really thanked you properly. I was thinking about that. Everything you did. You were nearly killed. We were just strangers to you. We were nobodies.”

I was silent for a moment. Awkward. I said, “You were my job.”

“I thank you anyway.”

But I knew this meeting wasn’t just about gratitude.

A pause. “There’s one thing more. I wanted to ask you something. I shouldn’t but… I didn’t know anybody else to turn to.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“It’s about Maree.” Joanne lowered her head. “That’s something else I blew.”

I waited, watching window shoppers.

“She won’t talk to me. But I overheard her. She’s going ahead: moving in with Andrew. I tried to talk her out of it but she shut me out completely. She grabbed her things and ran out the door… He’s going to hurt her again and she’s going to let him.” Joanne touched my arm. An odd sensation. When you treat those in your care as game pieces to be protected, you aren’t used to physical contact. As Abe said, it’s to be avoided.

Which thought, of course, brought to mind the kiss Maree and I had shared on the ledge overlooking the Potomac.

Joanne whispered, “Could you talk to her? Please. I know it’s not your job. But she won’t listen to me. She may never talk to me again…”

I saw tears in her eyes. Only the second time since I’d known her.

I was uncomfortable. “Where is she now?”

“She’s meeting him in an hour in Washington Park, downtown.”

As I’d made clear to Claire duBois and all my protégés, a shepherd’s involvement with his principals ends the minute the primary and lifter or hitter are arrested or neutralized. Therapy, divorce, tragic accidents, happily ever after-none of those possible endings has anything to do with us. By the time the Kesslers’ lives began to right themselves-one way or the other-following the horrors of the past few days, I’d be in another safe house or on the road somewhere, guarding new principals.

“Please.”

On the edge, I found myself thinking. I had a memory of the Potomac River’s turbulent foam below me.

On the edge …

“All right.”

The pressure on my arm increased. “Oh, thank you…” She wiped the tears.

I rose.

“Corte.”

I looked back.

“You remember what we were talking about? Having the two lives, you know, your job guarding your principals or my job, and then having a family too? I said you can’t have both. But I’m not so sure… Maybe you can. If you handle it right.” She gave an uncharacteristic smile. “And if you want it badly enough.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I nodded a good-bye and, limping slightly, walked off to find my car.

In forty minutes I was at Washington Park, not far from DuPont Circle. It was small and dated to the early days of the city. Some park benches in the city are new and, I’ve heard, made from recycled tires or milk cartons. That’s very green and good for humankind but I preferred the older ones, like those here. They looked like they’d been installed when Teddy Roosevelt was at work about three miles from here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Black ironwork, rusty in spots, with wooden slats to sit on, uneven from years of sloppy overpainting.

A couple crossed through the park, stopped once to look at a bush, a camellia, I believe, in fall bloom, and then continued on. A moment later the park was empty. The day was blustery, overcast. I parked in a spot where I could have a view of all the benches and spot Maree from any angle. I shut the engine off and dropped the visor. I was invisible enough. I’d tried her phone but gotten voice mail and I suspected she’d shut it off to avoid calls from her sister.

Then someone else approached. I was discouraged to see it was Andrew-Claire duBois had sent me his picture when I’d had her check on him as a possible primary in the Kessler job. He was on his mobile phone, walking leisurely into the park. He looked around and stood for a moment and then sat on a bench. He crossed his legs. I couldn’t see his expression-I was about forty feet away-but he wasn’t smiling and gave off the body language of someone who’s irritated. He’d be an easy opponent to defeat at a game; in addition to his temper, his mind would be elsewhere frequently.

Since he’d gotten here first there wasn’t much chance of having a conversation with Maree unless I could intercept her.

But that wasn’t going to happen either. Just then she arrived from the opposite side of the park. Unlike Andrew she was smiling, clearly looking forward to seeing him. There was a lightness in her step and she carried a small shopping bag from Neiman Marcus and her camera bag. The now-familiar wheelie suitcase was trailing behind her like a dog. Did the shopping bag contain a present? She’d reverted to her uncertain, childlike role, begging for the man’s approval, which I recalled from the message we’d heard her leave on Andrew’s phone. She was so different with him than, say, someone like me.