Edge

asked her about events in the area.
    “But let me know right away if you see them again.”
    Up the street I saw homeowners mowing late-season grass or raking early leaves. The day was warm, the air crisp. I scanned the entire area twice. I’m often described as paranoid. And I probably am. But the opponent here was Henry Loving, an expert at being invisible . . . until the last minute,of course, at which time he becomes all too present. Thinking of Rhode Island again, two years ago, when he’d just materialized, armed, from a car that he simply couldn’t have been inside.
    Except that he was.
    Hefting my shoulder bag higher, I returned to the Nissan and noted my reflection in the window. I’d decided that since Ryan Kessler was a police detective, what it took to win his confidence was looking more like an undercover cop than the humorless federal agent that I pretty much am. With my casual clothes, my trim, thinning brownish hair and a clean-shaven face, I probably resembled one of the dozens of fortyish businessmen dads shouting encouragement to their sons or daughters at the soccer game up the street at that moment.
    I made a call on my cold phone.
    “That you?” Freddy asked.
    “I’m here, at Kessler’s.”
    “You see my guys?”
    “Yes. They’re good and obvious.”
    “What’re they going to do, hide behind the lawn gnomes? It’s the suburbs, son.”
    “It’s not a criticism. If Loving’s got a spotter on site, I want him to know we’re on to him.”
    “You think somebody’s there already?”
    “Possibly. But nobody’ll make a move until Loving’s here. Anything more on his position or ETA?”
    “No.”
    Where was Loving now? I wondered, picturing the highway from West Virginia. We had a safe house, a good one, out in Luray. I wondered if he was driving near it at the moment.
    Freddy said, “Hold on, just getting something . . . Funny you asked, Corte. Got some details from the team at the motel. Okay, he’s in a light-colored sedan. No year, no make, no model that anybody saw.”
    Henry Loving stimulates the amnesia gene. But it’s also true most people are simply extremely unobservant.
    Freddy continued, “I say at least three hours before he’s even in the area. And he’s going to spend some time staging before he gets to the Kessler place.”
    I said, “Are you owed any favors—the Virginia State troopers?”
    “No, but I’m such a lovable guy, they’ll do what I ask.”
    I have trouble with Freddy’s flippancy. But whatever gets you through the day in this difficult business.
    “Can you get his picture to the state police? Have it sent to all the cars between here and West Virginia on an orange notice.” The officers on patrol would get a flash on their computers and they’d be on the lookout for light-colored cars and a driver who fit Loving’s description. The orange code meant he was dangerous.
    “I’ll do it but I know you’re a math wizard, Corte.”
    “And?”
    “Divide a million cars by forty troopers. Whatta you get?”
    “Thanks, Freddy.”
    We disconnected and I called Ryan Kessler.
    “Hello?”
    I told him who I was and that I’d arrived. I’d beat his door in a moment or two. I wanted him to call Freddy and check on my appearance. This was a good security measure but I also did it to increase his paranoia. I knew Kessler, as a cop—and a decorated street cop at that—would be a reluctant principal and I wanted him to sense the reality of the danger.
    Silence.
    “Are you there, Detective Kessler?”
    “Well, sir, I told Agent Fredericks and those men outside . . . I see you out there too, Agent Corte. I told them this isn’t necessary.”
    “I’d still like to talk to you, please. If you don’t mind.”
    He made no attempt to mask his irritation. “It’s really a waste of time.”
    “I’d appreciate it,” I said pleasantly. I tend to be overly polite—stiff, many people say. But a calm, structured attitude gets people’s cooperation better than bluster, which I’m not very good at anyway.
    “All right, fine. I’ll call Agent Fredericks.”
    I also asked him if he was armed.
    “Yes. That a problem?” Testy.
    “No,” I said. “Not at all.”
    I would rather he wasn’t, but as a police officer he was entitled, and asking a cop to give up his weapon was a battle rarely worth fighting.
    I gave him some time to call Freddy, while I considered the house.
    Nearly all single-family residences are