Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Mr. Tour Guide …

Andrew noticed her and nodded but didn’t smile or end his call. I wondered if he’d made an unnecessary call as a show of power. Animals exhibit dominant behavior, like this, but they do so for survival, not out of ego. I knew that Andrew had hurt Maree in the past and I sensed too, seeing this disregard, that he was a threat to her now, as Joanne had believed.

Since my workweek was over, I’d left my Glock in my locked desk drawer. Still, I could always call 911. I watched closely, tallying up details that might be important: He was wearing gloves. He had a little stiffness in his hip, I’d noticed earlier. He carried a large backpack, which could contain, or could even be, a weapon. He was not wearing glasses, which would imply a vulnerability that can be helpful to an opponent in flight or fight. The man was clearly fit and strong.

Still, Maree seemed to notice none of the threat and was clearly pleased to be with him. Smiling still, she sat, kissed him on the nonphone cheek. He gripped her hand, ignored her otherwise for a moment or two longer then hung up. He slipped the phone away and turned to her with a smile. I couldn’t hear the words but the conversation seemed harmless enough. He’d be asking where she’d been for the past few days and-I could tell from the expression of surprise-she told him something of the truth. He gave a brief laugh.

But whatever you think is going on, Corte, whatever it seems, don’t make assumptions. Stay attentive .

Sure, Abe.

Andrew’s grin morphed into a seductive smile and he slipped his arm around her. He whispered what would be the invitation to head back to his apartment. I knew from duBois’s research that he lived not far from here.

It was then that Maree shook her head and shrugged his arm off her shoulder. She scooted away. She was silent for a moment, took a breath and then delivered what seemed to be a speech, avoiding his eyes. She seemed awkward at first but then she caught her stride and looked into his impassive face, as he took in her words.

He gestured with a gloved hand and leaned closer. He spoke a few words and Maree shook her head.

She lifted the bag and took out a framed photograph. It was a still life I’d seen at the Kesslers’ house and realized that it was probably a gift that he’d given her earlier. One of his own photos maybe. She handed it back to him.

Well, interesting. She was breaking up.

He stared at the picture, then smiled sadly. He spoke to her some more, making his case. He leaned in for a kiss but she backed away further and said something else.

He nodded. Then leapt up in a fury and flung the photo to the sidewalk, where it shattered. Maree cringed, dodging the shards. The he reached out and grabbed her arm. She winced and cried out in pain. He drew back with his other gloved hand, curled into a fist.

I opened the door and stepped out fast…

Just as Maree too stood and slammed her palm straight into his face. Andrew hadn’t expected any aggressive moves and he was caught completely undefended. She had connected with his nose. The pain would be fierce-I knew; a panicking principal had once elbowed me accidentally.

He fell back to the bench, hunched over, raging, gripping his bloody face.

“You fucking bitch.”

“I told you; it’s through,” she said firmly.

Now that I was out of the car I could hear them clearly.

He rose again and reached for her blindly but she calmly shoved him back, hard. Hampered by tears of pain, he stumbled and landed hard on the sidewalk, on his side. He scrambled to his feet and stepped back, digging for a Kleenex.

“You attacked me, bitch! I’m calling the police.”

“That’s fine,” she said, the epitome of calm. “Just remember my brother-in-law’s a cop. I know he’d love to talk to you about it. He and some of his friends.”

I was pleased to note that, under my care, Maree had learned about getting-and using-an edge.

She looked down with some pity, it seemed. “Don’t ever call me again.” Then she hiked up her camera bag on her shoulder, turned and, wheeling her suitcase behind her, walked slowly away. I waited to see if Andrew would follow her. He seemed to debate. He grabbed what was left of the shattered frame and flung it to the ground once more. Then he strode off in the opposite direction, his gloved hand pressed against his bleeding nose.

I dropped back into the driver’s seat and started the car, then turned in the direction Maree had gone. I found her at the next intersection, pausing for the light. She ran her hand through her hair and leaned back, looking up into the deepening sky. She’d be smelling what I was, through the open window of the Volvo, the sweet scent of autumn leaves and the sweeter smell of a fireplace log from a brownstone somewhere nearby.

The light changed. Maree crossed the street and walked to the tall, glassy Hyatt.

I eased up to the curb in front of the hotel and stopped, flashed my federal ID to a traffic cop, who nodded and walked on.

I shut the engine off.

I watched Maree walk through the revolving door. It paddled slowly to a stop. She looked around and approached the front desk, handing off her suitcase to a bellboy. She greeted the clerk and opened her purse, proffering ID and credit card.

I studied her for a moment. Then, the last of my principals finally safe, I started the engine and put the car in gear. I eased into traffic, away from the hotel, to return home.

WHEN DRIVING ON the job, I didn’t allow myself the luxury of listening to music: too distracting, as I’d told Bill Carter.

But on my own time I always had the radio, a CD or a download playing. I liked old-time music but what I meant by that was the period from the 1930s through the ’60s, nothing before and little after.

Performers like Fats Waller, Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Rosemary Clooney, Ella, Sammy Davis, Jr., Dean Martin… if the lyrics weren’t stupid. Words were important. That was a concept that the Beatles, say, for all their musicality, just didn’t get. Great music but I always thought they would have created transcendent art if only they’d stopped and thought about what they were writing.

Now, as I sped away from the District, I was on the Sinatra channel on Sirius satellite radio, which plays a good mix of artists of that era, not just Frank. The voice coming through the speakers was that of Harry Connick, Jr.

Enjoying the music.

Enjoying the driving too.

I’d left the city behind. I’d left Maree and Joanne behind. Ryan and Amanda.

Henry Loving too.

They were all, in different ways, permanent farewells.

Other people too had ceased to exist for me-only temporarily, of course. Freddy was gone, as were Aaron Ellis and Claire duBois, who I hoped was cooking up a storm just now with Cat Man.

Jason Westerfield had departed earlier from my mental cast and crew as had the woman with the pearls.

A sign flashed past. Fifteen miles to Annapolis, Maryland.

Twenty minutes later I pulled up in front of a modest white colonial house not far from the Chesapeake Bay. The wind was tame tonight but I could still hear the waves-one of the things I liked best about the area here.

I slowed, signaled, though no one was behind me, and turned up a narrow drive, flush with leaves, which bail out earlier here than in the city. I enjoyed raking them-not blowing but raking-and would get to the task tomorrow, the start of my weekend. I braked to a stop, then climbed out, stretched and gathered my computer, gym bag and the shopping bag containing the precious board game.

Juggling these items, I made my way along the serpentine strip of concrete-crunching leaves underneath-to the front door. I started to set the suitcase down to dig in my pocket for the keys but suddenly it burst open.