Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  The smell of moth deterrent suggested that it had spent its recent days in a closet. The board itself was scuffed and stained--one of the reasons it had been such a bargain--and I wondered how many people had moved the markers from start to finish, who they were, what they were doing now, if they were still with us.

  For all their cleverness and high-definition graphics, computer games can't match the allure of their elegant, three-dimensional forebears.

  I slipped the game into a shopping bag. It was 4:00 p.m. and I was about to go home.

  Across my office a small TV sat on my credenza, the sound down. I glanced up at the screen and saw on CNN a flash: breaking news. That was something that duBois might comment on: breaking news versus news flashes versus news alerts.

  I read the crawl. Lionel Stevenson was announcing he was going to be leaving the Senate, effective immediately. He was under investigation, it seemed, but no details were forthcoming. Sandy Alberts, his chief of staff, had been arrested, as had the head of the political action committee that Alberts was affiliated with and a partner at Alberts's old lobbying firm.

  Whatever else you could say about Jason Westerfield, grass didn't grow under the man's feet.

  A voice from the doorway startled me and I shut the TV off. "I have it," my personal assistant, Barbara, said. "You ready?"

  I took the document from her and read through it. It was a release order, freeing the Kesslers from our care. The letter is merely a formality; if a lifter who hadn't, say, heard the primary was in custody and made a move on our principals again, of course, we'd be there in a minute, even after the release was signed. But we're a federal agency like any other and that means paperwork. I handed the signed document to Barbara and told her I'd be back in three days, maybe four, but she could always reach me. Which she knew but I felt better saying.

  "Take some time," she said in a motherly way, which I found heartwarming. "You're not looking so good."

  The effects of the pepper spray were gone, as far as I felt. I frowned. She explained, "You're still limping."

  "It's just a scrape."

  Then she said coyly, "You have to let that toe heal."

  I laughed, thinking I never in a million years could have come up with that one. Maree and Freddy were right, I don't joke much. But I'd try to remember the heal and toe line, though I doubted I would.

  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.

  Chapter 72

  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 proteges, 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 the
n 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.

  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.

  Endgame

  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.

  I blinked in surprise.