Edge

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 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.

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.