Chapter 25

AS THE SKY grew more and more overcast, I pulled into the safe house compound in Great Falls.

I climbed out and stretched, as leaves tumbled past in the fitful wind.

The rustic setting made me feel very much at home-the trees, brush, sloping fields of renegade grass. My early adult life was rooted in classrooms and lecture halls, and my recent professions and personal life have found me in offices and safe houses, but I have always found a way to get outside, sometimes for hours or days at a time.

I glanced enviously at the paths that led to the Potomac or farther into the dense woods, then I turned away, looking down at another text from Billy about the progress of the armored van to the slammer in D.C. I wondered if Jason Westerfield and his associate would be there to greet it. Then I realized: Of course they would.

Climbing the stairs, punching in the code. The door of the safe house eased open.

And I nodded a greeting toward Maree and Joanne, who sat across a wobbly card table from each other, with tea and cookies at hand.

Yes, and armored van was en route-a lengthy, complicated route-but it was empty.

Inscrutable

There was no way I was going to send the Kesslers to a slammer, especially a medium-security facility in the District. Nothing had changed from earlier, when I’d refused to incarcerate them, and if Westerfield was convinced I was using my principals as bait, that was a problem of his, not mine.

I knew that if the stink got big enough, Aaron Ellis might fire me. But he wouldn’t fire me until the job was concluded. For one thing, he didn’t know where I was and it would take some effort to find out. Nor could he do so without risking that somebody on the outside would learn of the Kesslers’ whereabouts. Which he wouldn’t do.

I was amused to see that the sisters were playing a board game plucked from the shelves in the living room. Backgammon. The game, where you roll dice and move markers in an attempt to remove all yours from the board first, goes back nearly five thousand years. A variation was played in Mesopotamia, and the Romans’ Game of Twelve Lines was virtually the same as the backgammon people play now.

I left the sisters to their competition and greeted Ahmad, who stood at the back door, looking out. He assured me everything had been quiet. I made a call to the spec in West Virginia, who reported that there’d been no hint of surveillance from the outside.

Nor had the deer, badgers or other animals been behaving oddly.

Ahmad was standing in a way I could only describe as anticipatory, shoulders at one angle, hips at another. Eyes were scanning the windows, his job, but also avoiding mine. He said, “I heard you ordered a transport to the Hansen Detention Center.”

“That’s right.”

He was nodding, understandably confused; the people supposedly inside the van were no more than thirty feet away from him.

I asked, “Anybody call you about it?”

“It went out over the wire.”

I told him of my ploy. “You won’t be in trouble. You can plead ignorance.”

The young officer nodded, curious, but I said nothing more. Like Abe Fallow, I’m always aware of my responsibility to teach protégés what I can about our business-there is so much to learn. But this was a situation I decided not to elaborate on, since I hoped he’d never find himself in one like it.

All he said was, “It was a good call, sir. A slammer’d be wrong for this situation.”

“Where’s Ryan?”

“Working in his room. That accounting project of his, I think.”

I realized the downstairs was filled with a new smell, spice, which I took to be from shampoo or perfume.

I was struck by the domesticity, replayed hundreds of times in the safe houses where I’ve stashed my principals, and it’s always jarring to me, the contrast: the homey, even mundane routine that’s the antithesis of the reason these men and women are here.

As it did occasionally, the comforting imagery made me feel somewhat sentimental. Certain memories again arose but I didn’t shoo them away quite so quickly this time. I recalled last Friday night after work, alone in the town house, eating a sandwich for dinner before I went to my gaming club up the street. I’d found the list for the party that Peggy and I had thrown years ago. I’d stared at it, my appetite gone. I’d become aware of the smell of the place, bitter from the cardboard, paper and ink of the many boxed games lining the walls. The town house had seemed unbearably sterile. I thought I should get some incense or do what people did when they were selling their houses, boil cinnamon on the stove.

Or bake cookies. Something domestic.

As if that would ever happen.

The game between the sisters now ended and Joanne returned to her room. Maree gave me a smile and booted up her computer.

I asked, “Who won?”

“Jo did. You can’t beat her. At anything. It’s impossible.”

As a statistician, Joanne would have had a talent for math and that meant a talent for games-certain types, in any event. I knew my skill at numbers, and my analytical mind, helped me play.

In backgammon, which I happen to be good at, I knew the general strategy was to play a “running game,” moving quickly around the board, offensively. If that didn’t work, players had to fall back on a holding action, trying to create an anchor on the opponent’s side. While not as complicated as chess, it’s a sophisticated game. I would have liked to see how Joanne played. But the interest was purely theoretical. In all my years as a shepherd, I’d never played a game with a principal, though on occasion I’d been tempted.

Maree gestured toward her computer. “Tell me what you think?”

“What?” I asked.

“Come ’ere, Mr. Tour Guide. Take a look.”

She motioned me over and typed some commands into her computer. A logo came up, GSI, Global Sofware Innovations. I’d heard of them but couldn’t recall where. After a moment the program loaded. It was apparently a picture editing and archiving program; folders of Maree’s photos appeared.

Maree’s fingers paused, hovering over keys. I thought at first she was unfamiliar with the software, but it turned out the hesitation was due to another reason. With a wistfulness in her eyes, she said, “It’s Amanda’s program. We had a lot of fun installing it together… I feel bad for her. She’s got to be terrified about this whole thing.”

I glanced into the woman’s eyes, focused blankly on the logo. “She’s stronger than a lot of my adult principals. She’ll be fine.” This was not just for reassurance; it was the truth.

Maree exhaled softly. “Jo thinks she’s stronger than I am.” A look up at my face. “As a rule I never agree with my sister but she’s right about that.”

Then she seemed to toss aside the serious thoughts-as I’d been doing all day-and concentrated on the photo software.

She typed quickly and two pictures flashed onto the screen side by side.

“I can’t decide which of these two are the best.” She laughed, looking up, and patted the chair beside her. “It’s okay, I don’t bite.”

I hesitated then sat down. I noted that, unsurprisingly, she was the source of the pleasant spice, not Joanne. And, as I’d observed yesterday, she was wearing makeup, skillfully applied. She had ironed and donned a new outfit-a sheer skirt and silk maroon blouse. This was curious. Not only do principals tend to ignore fashion like this when their lives are in danger but if Maree was as flighty as she seemed and the artist she claimed to be, I would have thought she’d have been inattentive to personal details. Or been more of a jeans-and-sweats woman.

She leaned close. I felt her arm against mine and the sweet aroma wafted around me. I must have eased away slightly because she laughed again.

I felt a ping of impatience. But I did as she’d asked and I looked at the computer screen. “The gallery show I was telling you about? I’m submitting one of these. I’ve got to send it in by Tuesday to meet the deadline. What do you think?”

“I… what’re you asking? Which one I like better?”

To me they were almost identical although one was more tightly cropped than the other. They depicted two somber men in suits, businessmen or politicians, having an intense discussion in the shadow of the government building in downtown D.C.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I was just walking down the street last week, near the Treasury Building, and saw them standing there. They look powerful, they look rich. But don’t they seem like little boys in a way? On the school yard? Forty years younger, they would’ve started a shoving match.”

At first, I didn’t get that but then I saw, yes, she was right.

“The theme is about conflict,” she explained.

“I don’t see much difference.”

“The one on the left? It’s tighter. The emphasis is on the men. But there’re no angles, no sense of composition. The one on the right is better stylistically. You see more of the Treasury Building. You see the sunlight, that band of light there, cutting into the stairs near them? It’s aesthetically better… So?” she asked.

“Which one I like better?”

“That’s the question, Mr. Tour Guide.”

I felt suddenly awkward, like I was being tested on something I hadn’t studied for. I didn’t really know which one I liked more. The only photos I looked at regularly were surveillance and crime scene shots. Aesthetics didn’t count.

Finally, I pointed to the picture on the left. “That one.”

“Why?”

I hadn’t known I had to show my work. “I don’t know; I just do.”

“Uh-uh, commit.”

“I really don’t know. They’re both nice.” I glanced up the hall. “I’ve got to talk to your brother-in-law.”

“Come on, Corte. Humor me. You’ve screwed up my weekend pretty bad. You won’t even be my masseur. You owe me.”

I banked my irritation again and looked at the pictures. Suddenly I had a thought. “I like it because you have to ask yourself, what’s your goal? You said it was to show conflict. The one on the left does that better. It’s more focused.”

“Even though it’s less artistic.”

“I’m not sure what artistic means, but yes.”

She lifted her hand to give me a high five. Reluctantly I lifted mine and she slapped it. “That’s just what I was thinking.”

Maree then touched the pad. The GSI software instantly shrank the pictures to thumbnails and she directed them back to a folder. She then started a slideshow and the pictures faded up to fill the screen, remained for a few moments then went to black and a new one was displayed.

I have no artistic ability whatsoever but I can appreciate something that’s technically well executed. Her pictures were all in focus and seemed well composed. But it was the subjects that appealed to me. Had they been still lifes or abstracts I wouldn’t have been interested but Maree specialized in portraits and she seemed to be able to capture the spirit of her subjects perfectly, though I supposed since she used a fancy digital camera there were a hundred outtakes for every keeper. As the show continued I noted the controls and paused several of them. Maree was leaning close.

Workers, mothers and children, businessmen, parents, policemen, athletes… There was no theme, but whoever they were, Maree had caught them in a moment of emotion. Anger, love, frustration, pride.

“They’re good. You’re talented.”

“You do something enough times, you’re going to get a few chops down. Hey, you want to see who you’re guarding?”

I frowned.

She typed and another folder appeared. It took me a moment to realize what she meant-and what I was looking at. Family albums of Maree, Joanne and who I guessed were their parents and other relatives. Maree was calling out names and information.

I heard Abe’s voice.

Learn only what you need to learn to keep them alive. Don’t use their names, don’t look at their kids’ pictures, don’t ask ’em if they’re all right, unless you’ve been dodging bullets and you need to call a medic

I said, “I really have to talk to Ryan.”

“Don’t be scared of a few family pictures, Corte. They’re not even your family. I’m the one who should be scared.”

A picture of a trim, crew-cut man in khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt faded in. Maree hit PAUSE. “The Colonel. Our father… and, yeah, people called him ‘the Colonel,’ capital C. Lieutenant colonel, a little bird, not a big bird.”

Still, the man was imposing, no question.

Maree’s voice dropped. “Don’t tell Freud but Jo thought she was marrying him. She got Ryan instead. Dad was career military, strong, quiet, distant, didn’t laugh… Ha, like you, Corte… Hey, you know I’m messing with you.”

I ignored her comment and continued to look at her pictures. Many of them showed Maree by herself and Joanne with their father.

“She was his darling, Jo was. The perfect athlete, the perfect student in school. Not a lot of fun, I have to say… Dad’d take her to her soccer matches and track events. He tried with me, I’m not saying he didn’t. But I sucked at sports and activities. I was a total klutz… Dad never rubbed it in my face, you know. ‘Oh, your sister’s perfect,’ none of that. But that’s what it smelled like. So I went the other way. I was the wild one. The big I-Irresponsible. Dropped out. I had a DUI, well, a couple, when I was seventeen or eighteen. Drugs, a little shoplifting.”

Thanks to the boyfriends, I recalled. But said nothing.

“I just didn’t fucking care. Squeaked by in a community college… Jo graduated second or third in her class. She majored in political science, nearly went into the army, like Dad, but he talked her out of that. I think she would’ve been good, actually. Drill instructor. You have brothers or sisters, Corte?”

“No.”

“And no kids. Lucky man.”

One picture of Jo revealed that she’d lost a lot of weight and looked gaunt. “Was she sick there?”

“Car crash.”

I remembered that from duBois’s bio.

She looked around. “Pretty bad. She lost control on some ice. Needed a lot of surgery. It’s why she can’t have kids but we don’t talk about that.”

So the child question was answered. I realized one of the other attractions of the hero cop-he not only saved her life; he offered her a built-in family.

The pictures slipped past again and I kept looking at them. Some of the scans were sepia pictures, going back a hundred years; some were black-and-white; some were oversaturated, from the sixties and seventies. Many were recent, direct digital.

Finally, I’d had enough.

“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 Sassy-Cat222. 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.

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