Edge

grow under the man’s feet.
    A voice from the doorway startled me and I shut the TV off. “I have it,” my personal assistant, Barbara, said. “You ready?”
    I took the document from her and read through it. It was a release order, freeing the Kesslers from our care. The letter is merely a formality; if a lifter who hadn’t, say, heard the primary was in custody and made a move on our principals again, of course, we’d be there in a minute, even after the release was signed. But we’re a federal agency like any other and that means paperwork. I handed the signed document to Barbara and told her I’d be back in three days, maybe four, but she could always reach me. Which she knew but I felt better saying.
    “Take some time,” she said in a motherly way, which I found heartwarming. “You’re not looking so good.”
    The effects of the pepper spray were gone, asfar as I felt. I frowned. She explained, “You’re still limping.”
    “It’s just a scrape.”
    Then she said coyly, “You have to let that toe heal.”
    I laughed, thinking I never in a million years could have come up with that one. Maree and Freddy were right, I don’t joke much. But I’d try to remember the heal and toe line, though I doubted I would.
    I gathered the board game, my computer and gym bag of clothes and walked to duBois’s office. She was on the phone when I stepped into her doorway. Her playful tone told me she was probably speaking to the Cat Man. It was the night for a romantic dinner, it seemed. She was describing to him—with typical duBois detail and digression—a chicken dish she had in mind.
    I waved good-bye. She held up a wait-a-minute finger.
    But I didn’t want her to hang up. I whispered, “Have to go. And thanks. Good job.”
    The smile was faint but her eyes beamed. I remembered that when Abe Fallow would praise me I had the opposite reaction. I’d look down and deflect the compliment. I decided that Claire duBois had it right. She joked occasionally and had her bizarre observations and she talked to herself. She was at ease measuring emotion both in and out. That was the way it should be. If I could go back in time and change things, I would have fixed that about myself.
    But that’s the past for you. Not only does it come back at the most unexpected, and inconvenient, times but it’s set in stone.
    I left her to her monologue about cooking and I went to the garage to collect my personal car, a dark red Volvo. My career may not be the safest in the world but I drive the same make of vehicle that my insurance attorney father entrusted his family’s life to. Not stylish—but who needs style? It also gets pretty good mileage.
    I was just driving out onto King Street when I got a text message. I paused on the apron and looked down. Gazing out the window at the Masonic Temple, I stared at the screen, debating.

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