Edge

career or life circumstances gave me any concern. My next search was about the girl. Amanda Kessler was a typical teenager, active on Facebook, MySpace and blogs but the personal information was minimal. I was relieved at that. Social networking sites have made our jobs as shepherds nightmares, given all the personal details people threw out into the ozone. I noted too that Amanda had never posted anything about William Carter or his vacation house or Loudoun County.
    I was satisfied that it would be virtually impossible for Loving to find any connection. “Call him.” I handed Ryan a mobile, a flip phone, black, a little larger than your standard Nokia or Samsung.
    “What’s this?”
    “A cold phone. Encrypted and routed through proxies. From now on, until I tell you otherwise, use only this phone.” I collected theirs and took out the batteries.
    Ryan examined the unit—Joanne stared at it like it was a poisonous snake—then he made the call and had a conversation with Carter.
    He disconnected. “He’s on his way.” Then the detective paused for a moment, framing what he was going to say, and turned toward the doorway,calling, “Amanda? Come on down here, honey. We want to talk to you.”
    A moment later a shadow appeared in the doorway and their daughter entered the kitchen. The girl was wearing red-framed glasses, her dark hair long and moppy. She had her father’s physique: narrow hips and broad shoulders. A basketball player.
    Her eyes were quick, and though she’d probably heard something about what the agents were doing outside she seemed unafraid. She looked me over carefully.
    Her stepmother said, “Amanda, this is Agent Corte. He works with the government. Like the FBI.”
    “Hi, Amanda,” I said easily.
    “Hello.” She seemed more interested in my impressive laptop than me personally.
    Telling children they’re in danger is an art (girls, I’d found, do better with the bad news than boys). I’m skilled at having the discussion but I generally prefer to let the parents talk to them first. Ryan took over. “Mandy, we’ve got a little problem.”
    The girl nodded, eyes growing sharper yet.
    “Looks like somebody’s not too happy about a case of mine and some of the boys at the department and the FBI are going to arrest him. But until they do, we’re going to get out of the house for a while.”
    “Somebody you busted?” Amanda asked matter-of-factly.
    “We’re not sure.”
    “You said you weren’t working many cases lately.”
    Ryan paused before saying, “It could be from the past. We don’t know yet.”
    I told the girl, “We aren’t sure what he’s up to but we know he’s dangerous.”
    “Your mom and I are going with Agent Corte to talk about the case. Try to help them figure out who’s behind it.”
    “A lockdown?”
    Ryan smiled. I wondered what TV show she had gotten the term from.
    “Not quite, but it’s better if we leave the house. While we’re helping out the feds you’re going to spend a few days with Uncle Bill at the lake house.”
    “Dad, come on,” she whined. Her pretty, round face, dusted with a bit of mild acne, screwed up in disappointment, which seemed exaggerated to me. “I can’t miss school.” She recited the reasons: the first quiz of the term in her biology class, basketball practice, her assignment at a student counseling center hotline, a homecoming parade committee. She shot them out fast, hoping one would stick. “I mean, I just can’t. ”
    Children . . . invulnerable, immortal. And, by their own reckoning, the center of the universe.
    “You’ll be out of school for a few days, tops. Like a vacation.”
    “Vacation? Aw, Jo, come on.”
    “Go pack some things. Now.”
    “Now?”
    I gave her a cold phone too and collected hers. She was reluctant to part with it. I added to the girl, “And until I say it’s all right, I’m afraid you can’t go online.”
    “What?” To a teenager, the worst deprivation possible.
    “It won’t be for very long. But this man probably knows how to trace your computer.”
    “That, like, sucks.”
    “Amanda,” her father said sternly.
    “Sorry. But I have to go online. I mean, Facebook and Twitter, at least. And I write my blog every day. I’ve never missed—”
    Joanne said, “Not until Agent Corte says it’s okay. You can rough it at Uncle Bill’s. Watch TV, read, play games. You can go fishing. You like to fish.”
    “Oh, that totally . . .” The teen’s face crinkled