Edge (26 page)

“I really better get some things done,” I told her.

“Sure.”

“Those are good pictures.”

“Thank you,” she said formally, maybe mocking my tone.

Mr. Tour Guide . . .

As I was walking up the hallway to find Ryan and tell him what duBois had found about his cases, my phone buzzed with a text message. I figured it would be from Westerfield or Ellis—not risking a voice call that would end in a coward's voice mail. But I glanced down and saw it was from duBois. I was pleased, thinking maybe she'd finished her investigation from my espionage at Graham's house. Or perhaps she'd returned to her chatty self and forgiven me for the trial she'd had to endure there.

But the message was brief and about something else altogether.

Problem . . . Hermes has a bot roaming websites, etc and he had a hit. This was posted fifteen minutes ago. Here's the URL.

I hurried into the den, unlocked my computer and typed the Web address she'd sent.

The site was a blog, written by someone with the screen name SassyCat222. I was expecting something about Clarence Brown—well, Ali Pamuk—or Eric Graham or even Ryan Kessler himself: information that Loving might use. I skimmed quickly. The postings were typical of all blogs, containing more information about daily life than anybody
cared to read. Some were humorous—a boring Saturday night at the mall when a date fell through and a music review of a really bad rock concert—and some sobering: a report about overcrowded classrooms, a call for an AIDS awareness campaign and the start of a series about the suicide of a teenager the blogger knew through her volunteer work for a self-harm prevention program at her school.

I froze when I noticed that last entry. With a sinking heart, I grabbed my phone and dialed.

“DuBois.”

I asked, “SassyCat . . . she's Amanda Kessler, right?” I remembered that she'd volunteered for a counseling program at her school.

“That's right. It's her.”

The girl must've thought it was safe to post under her screen name and from a friend's computer.

“Hermes says it was posted about an hour ago, with a naked IP address. It took him two minutes to find it was a private residence in Loudoun County. Near White's Ferry.”

“Bill Carter's house?”

“Next door.”

If we had a bot, Loving would too. He'd check the property records of everybody in the area and find Carter's name. He'd learn that Carter's main residence was five minutes from the Kesslers' in Fairfax. He'd know we'd stashed the girl there.

Caller ID sounded on call waiting. It was Westerfield's number. He'd just learned that the armored van was empty, I guessed. Then it buzzed again—I can juggle four calls on this phone. My boss's number.

I ignored them both. I told duBois, “I'm going to
Carter's myself. It's less than a half hour from here. Call Freddy and have him get some tactical troops there. You have the location, right?”

“Yes.”

I disconnected all the calls and slipped the phone away. I briefed Ahmad and then threw my laptop, along with extra ammunition, into my shoulder bag and headed out the side door, hitting the speed dial for Bill Carter's phone. As I leapt into the front seat of the Honda and sped down the drive, it rang three times and went to voice mail.

ANSWER . . . PLEASE ANSWER.

Was Carter dead and the girl in Loving's hands already?

The next occurrence would be a call from Loving via a cold phone to the FBI asking to be connected to Ryan Kessler, to inform him that his daughter was captive and requesting the information that the lifter had been hired to extract.

When that call came through, it would fall to me to make the decision to put Loving in touch with Kessler and try to negotiate the girl's release.

Or not. And write Amanda's death warrant.

I hit
REDIAL
.

Click.
The electronic voice of the phone urged, “Please leave a message.”

No . . .

I disconnected and nudged up the RPMs on the hissing engine, hitting seventy, about the fastest I could do along Route 7 and the country roads that roughly paralleled the Potomac River. It was 3:00 p.m. on a pleasant Sunday and there were brunchers and golfers and sightseers out, which made the going slow. I'd called in a clear-transit request to Loudoun and Fairfax County Police, which I didn't want to do, because it would identify my Honda to
anyone who thought to check, or to hack, the system but I couldn't afford to get stopped now.

I tried the phone once more.

One tone, another . . .

Then finally: “'Lo,” Bill Carter answered.

I exhaled in relief. “It's Corte. Loving's on his way there.”

“Okay.” Instantly alert. “What should I do?”

“First, you have your weapon on you?”

“My old sidearm. Smittie thirty-eight. Yessir. And a twelve-gauge on the mantel.”

“Get it now. Double, pump, auto?”

“Over-under.”

It'd have to do. “Load it, extra ammo in your pockets.”

“Need my hands. I'm putting you down for a minute.” A faint hollow clink of metal. I heard, “Okay.”

“Where's Amanda?”

“Getting the tackle together. We were going fishing in about a half hour.”

“I need you out of the house.”

“She'll get upset,” Carter said.

“Then she'll be upset.”

“How'd it happen?”

“She posted something from her friend's computer.”

“Goddamn. We were over there for brunch. The girls disappeared for a time. I should've thought.”

I heard footsteps, then his voice telling Amanda that there was a problem and they were leaving immediately. She said, “That's your gun. Why do you have that, Uncle Bill? . . .” Her voice trailed off. He sounded reassuring as he talked to her; there
was no recrimination. Good. No time for that now.

“Okay, Corte. What next?”

Glancing down to my computer screen, then back to the road, I explained, “I've got a satellite picture of your property from Earthwatch. It's not real clear but I see a road your drive connects to. That's the only access, right?”

“Aside from the lake.”

“Have you seen any cars on the road?”

“Mandy, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay. . . . All right, cars? I was just raccoon-proofing the trash and I saw one go past.”

“That unusual?”

“It's pretty deserted around here but we get drivers some. He didn't slow up and I didn't think any more of it.”

“Description?”

“Truth is, I heard it more'n saw it. Where do you want us?”

“Don't drive. Don't go near the car. Go to some place on the property where you can see somebody coming and you've got good cover.” I risked a glance at the satellite image. “I think I can see a little clearing in the . . . I guess it's the northeast section of your property, near the road.”

“Yeah, it's a little meadow. There're some trees on the other side. We can get there. It's high ground.”

“Good. You have any camouflage?”

“Fishing jackets. Dark green.”

“That'll do. Put the phone on vibrate.”

There was the sound of clanks and zippers. “How's this, Uncle Bill?”

“Good.”

It seemed that the girl wasn't panicking. I was
pleased. I continued, “Loving's armed and he's got a partner who's armed too. Has sandy-colored hair, maybe a green jacket. Slim. But don't trust anybody. All right, get moving. I'll be there in fifteen. The Bureau's on their way too.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“Loving knows where you live now. He won't bother with them. Get to the meadow. We're going to hang up. I need you to concentrate.”

I needed to as well, focusing on my driving. I was reflecting that if Loving had in fact tipped to Amanda's blog, I knew he'd be pleased to learn her whereabouts. When it comes to edge, snatching a principal's child is as good as it gets.

THIRTY-THREE MINUTES AFTER
leaving the compound, I eased the Honda to a stop in a stand of bushes in front of Carter's lakefront property and climbed out. I activated the silent alarm.

I pulled a forest green jumpsuit out of my gear bag—one of two; the other was black—and tugged it on. I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked quickly along the road, examining the ground. I could see evidence that a car had pulled over here recently, paused and then started up again. Footsteps in the soft earth headed toward where I knew the house would be—about three hundred yards into the woods.

I'd have to assume Loving was here.

Surveying the ground, I decided the logical route he'd have taken. I hopped a low stone wall meant to deter only the most stupid or nervous of animals and moved quickly along Loving's path, which would be invisible to many people but was evident to me—because of an interest I've pursued for years.

In my twenties I was in Austin, Texas, finishing up yet another degree. I'd always loved hiking and, sick of the sedentary life of academia, I'd joined the orienteering club at the university. The sport, which
originated in Sweden, is a competition in which you use a special map and a compass to navigate through wilderness you've never seen before, stopping at checkpoints to have a control card physically or electronically stamped. The first competitor to hit the “double circle”—the end of the route on the orienteering map—is the winner.

I fell in love with the sport—I still compete—and found it a welcome relief from the static hours in the classroom or in front of computers or poring through obscure texts.

During one meet in Austin I became friends with a fellow competitor, a Drug Enforcement Administration agent. He was a sign cutter—an expert at tracking people, mostly illegal immigrants and drug runners—and he got me interested in the subject. There're no competitions in sign cutting, as with orienteering, but Border Patrol and DEA hold regular training sessions and he arranged for me to attend some.

Sign cutting was to me like some huge board game that you played outside, with yourself as a game piece. I fell instantly in love with it and when I wasn't at orienteering competitions I would head outside and practice, tracking animals and hikers, who never knew they were being pursued. I even made a little extra money from the DEA on weekends, during their training sessions—I pretended to be a drug mule and tried to escape from sign cutting agents. I was pretty good, since I'd studied the techniques and knew how to cover a trail as well as find one.

The art had come in handy to me as a shepherd on a number of occasions.

I was using the techniques now, carefully scanning the ground and branches for indications of where Loving had passed. The signs were subtle: a sun-bleached branch upside down, pebbles or deer shit out of place, leaves where leaves shouldn't normally be.

Sign cutting taught me that terrain determines the route the prey follows 90 percent of the time: you generally have only to follow the path of least resistance to be pretty sure of remaining on the trail of your target. Henry Loving was different. His route took him in directions that didn't seem to make sense, less direct and more difficult.

But his strategy became logical when I realized that he was pausing repeatedly and turning to his left and right, presumably to look for pursuers.

Rational irrationality . . .

Now that I knew his strategy of taking the high, difficult ground and pausing, prepared to engage, I moved more quickly, since he wouldn't expect someone to follow his exact route through the dense foliage. His path wove through patches of forsythia, dense blankets of kudzu and ivy, vines, brambles and brush whose pedigree I was unfamiliar with.

I paused to listen too. Dogs track by smell first, then sound and then sight. Humans are different but hearing comes second with them as well. Always listen and listen carefully. Your prey makes noise escaping and those preying upon you make noise moving in for the kill (humans tend to be the loudest approaching that climactic moment; other animals, the opposite). You'd think that snaps and rustling would seem to come from everywhere. But it doesn't take long to learn to compensate for
echoes, judge distances and know with more or less certainty where the source is located.

After a few moments I detected some faint snaps ahead of me. Maybe they were from branches clicking together in the increasing breeze, maybe a deer, maybe they were the footfalls of a man intent on kidnapping a sixteen-year-old girl.

Then, about a hundred yards away, near a body of water, I saw the outline of Carter's house. I scanned carefully. No movement other than leaves stirred by taut wind.

Moving closer.

Pausing and scanning again.

I was two hundred feet or so from the house when I spotted Loving.

Yes, it was definitely the lifter. I caught a glimpse of his face. He was wearing the same clothes, or similar ones, as yesterday when we'd had our meeting at the flytrap. He wasn't carrying his weapon; he was using his hands to move aside brush and branches as silently as he could. I'd hoped to catch him on the path; he'd be less cautious there than at the house, where he would anticipate danger; he would have done his homework and learned that Bill Carter was a retired cop and surely armed.

Loving now drew his weapon and pulled back the slide slightly to make sure a round was chambered.

I drew mine as well and started after him.

I couldn't help but think: What would Westerfield, or anybody, say if he were observing this? Wasn't my job to get my principal, now hiding three hundred yards away, to safety as fast as I could?

Then why was I stalking the lifter?