Edge (33 page)

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.

Once inside the compound, I noted another car, the engine idling. It was being driven by a young associate from our organization.

He spotted me, shut the engine off and climbed out. The trim African American, about thirty, gave a nod and joined me at the steps to the porch. I could see his nose twitch as he got close and realized that I'd grown accustomed to the smell of scorch. I couldn't sense it any longer.

“Hello, Geoff.”

“Corte. You okay?”

“Fine.” I glanced into his car, in whose front seat was another young man, with a round crew-cut head and eyes that took me in briefly and then returned to scanning the property.

“We waited out here, like you said.”

Geoff had picked up an FBI special agent, named Tony Barr, at a rendezvous point halfway between here and his house, a place that Freddy and I had agreed on. Since the truce with Westerfield was pretty tenuous, I'd decided I wasn't going to give anybody outside my organization the location of the
safe house directly. I was afraid the U.S. attorney might find out and descend in person to interview his new star witness in the MPD financial scam case.

There's also my general reluctance to give away information of any kind.

“ID?” I asked. With Loving involved you could never be too cautious. But Geoff said that Freddy's office had sent our office a picture of Barr and that facial recognition confirmed he was the agent.

“Impression?” Nodding toward the front seat.

“Military, focused, tactical time under his belt. Didn't talk much.”

Freddy had given Barr high marks.

“Hang tight for a minute. Both of you.”

“Sure, Corte.”

I walked to the front door, hit the keypad and opened it.

I was pleased the Kesslers were not within earshot. Maree either. Ahmad and Garcia were; they'd known that the car was from headquarters but didn't know why it was here.

I said to Rudy Garcia, “Talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure, sir.”

I told Ahmad to do a perimeter check and he headed out immediately.

“I talked to Agent Fredericks on the way over here,” I said to Garcia.

“Yessir. I mean, Corte.”

“He's relieving you of duty.”

The man was silent; the stillness in his face was the equivalent to a gasp of shock.

“I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand.”

“I went to see your wife, Cheryl, about a half hour ago. At your house.”

His jaw drooped a bit. “You . . . ?”

“When I called earlier, you told me you'd talked to her. About your son and the game—that's how I knew. So I went to see her.”

He realized where this was going. I'd said no personal communications from the safe house. None. “I . . . It's just she's pregnant. I like to check on her. It was, like, for three minutes. I used a cold phone.”

“I told her I needed to find you, something was wrong. She told me you were in Great Falls off Harper Road.” I didn't mention the shock and dismay the woman had felt when I'd flashed the ID and told her that her husband had gone missing.

His round face grew puffier, it seemed, and ruddy. His eyes scanned the floor. “I . . . I didn't even think about it. . . . Oh, shit. She just asked whether I was in South East or some dangerous place. I just said it was like a bed-and-breakfast in Great Falls. . . . Christ, do you think Loving picked it up?”

“No.” On the way here, I'd had Hermes run a signal scan around the Garcia house. If Loving had been eavesdropping the receiver would still be there, to collect any new information. There was no evidence that he'd planted anything nearby. Realistically Loving probably had no idea who Garcia was or what job he was assigned to, nor could he track down his wife. But that was beside the point.

“Is she . . . ?”

“Agent Fredericks had her picked up and moved to a safe location with your children. I'm going to move you there too, to be with her. We'll keep you both incommunicado until the job's concluded.”

Nodding, miserable. “I'm sorry, sir. . . . I don't
know what to say. This is all new to me. This protection work.”

It was, of course. But his offense had nothing to do with the job of being a shepherd or clone; it was that he hadn't obeyed the orders I'd given him. Which were about as simple as they come.

“I don't want to get fired, sir. I can't. I love my job.”

“I understand, Rudy. We're simply relieving you of this detail. I'm not going to write you up. What happens to your career is between you and Agent Fredericks. Now get your things together. My associate outside'll take you to your wife and kids.”

“Yessir. Thanks for not being a hard-ass, sir.”

He didn't know that my generosity was rooted in simple self-interest. I couldn't afford to have a disgruntled former employee—one who knew the location of my principals, even if he was in lockdown. Not until the job was over. After that, I didn't care if he got booted or not. I'd recommend to Freddy that he should be fired.

Efficiency. Rational strategies.

A moment later Joanne burst into the hallway. She walked up to me, blinking at the smell and what I supposed was the soot on my skin. She blurted, “My stepdaughter. How is she?” Ryan joined us too, eyebrows raised.

I'd called them from the car, of course, to tell them about the successful escape from Carter's and that both he and Amanda were now safe. But the parents would want more details and reassurance. I told them what I'd done, putting Amanda in detention.

Joanne was saying, “I wanted to talk to her. I tried the phone but it wasn't working.”

“For the time being I don't want anybody in communication with her. I want to keep her location completely secret.”

“What's the problem with me talking to her?”

“She might mention where she is.”

“Why can't we know?” Ryan asked.

“Loving recognizes her value as an edge over you. I don't even want a hint of it on the airwaves. We know she's completely safe. Carter's with her and they're in lockdown.”

“I thought you didn't want to use a slammer,” Joanne said.

I noted how quickly she'd caught on to the terms of our art.

“Normally, I wouldn't. But circumstances changed.” To reassure them I added, “She seemed to be doing better than Carter. What he said about her, having grit, that's true.”

Ryan was drinking coffee. I couldn't smell liquor. I said to both him and his wife, “We can eliminate the Graham case.”

“What'd you find?”

I explained about Graham's son forging the check, adding, “Because he didn't want to go back to college.”

Joanne shook her head, dismayed, perhaps, at the dysfunction of a family that required the children to engage in such tactics.

Massaging his game leg, Ryan said, “Most kids just drop out. They don't commit felonies across state lines. It's still a crime, even if he withdraws. I could go after the kid anyway.”

I hesitated for a moment. Then asked, “You met Graham. What did you think of him?”

“A prick.” Kessler seemed to get what I was saying. He nodded. “I don't blame the boy for doing his own thing. I think I'll just let it go.”

Joanne wondered aloud, “Who called to pressure Ryan's department not to pursue the case?”

Somebody powerful . . .

“Probably one of Graham's bosses at the Department of Defense. Doesn't matter at this point. It's a nonissue.”

Without a glance my way, Rudy Garcia left. I walked to the door and watched him get into the car and gestured Tony Barr inside. I introduced the quiet, unsmiling FBI agent to my principals and Lyle Ahmad, who—with a nod from me—gestured him aside to give him the details of the procedures we followed in the safe house. He caught on right away and I was pleased Freddy had recommended him.

I then said, “Ryan, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“All the files on that administrative matter you're handling?”

“The . . . you mean that accounting crap?” He waved his hand toward the dining room table, covered with police department files.

“Exactly. I need copies sent to a U.S. attorney.”

Joanne said, “You mean you think
that's
the reason somebody wants Ryan? He's uncovered something illegal, something within the department?”

“No,” I said.

“Then . . . ?” Joanne asked.

I thought how best to describe my strategy with Westerfield. I came up with, “I need to toss a dog a bone.”

THOUGH NEITHER WAS
aware of it, Joanne and her husband frowned in identical ways.