Edge

at the house. Were you ever SWAT?”
    “Never. Just worked the street. You pick things up.” He was subdued—he’d come close to shootinghis neighbor. He continued to look behind us. He kneaded the grip of his revolver the same way I held tight to the wheel.
    The atmosphere in the car was somber, quiet. I was calmer now too, reflecting on the operation, trying to step into Henry Loving’s mind and determine his next strategy. I noted that in a relatively short period of time he’d made a clandestine trip from another state, found a trusted partner, obtained weapons, successfully masked his travel to the target location, conducted thorough surveillance of the area where his victim lived, targeted the most knowledgeable neighbors and attempted a risky daylight assault after calling in a fake school shooting to divert backup. He had executed a “friendly feint”—getting one of your allies to assault you, either because he’s mistaken or because he’s been forced to, while the real opponent comes at you from another direction. He wasn’t afraid to give up weapons to a potential risk—Teddy Knox.
    This analysis was helpful but, like looking over a chessboard in the early stages of a game, gave me only a flavor of his plan; there was still an infinite variety of strategies he could choose.
    Joanne was shaking her head, clutching her purse closely, which I’d also noticed happened frequently with principals. Familiar objects gave comfort. She said to me, in a soft voice, “If you hadn’t been there . . .” She was, I imagined, speaking in general of the family’s fate but then realized, as I did, that the comment was also a criticism of her husband, who’d resisted our help at first, and she fell silent on the subject. If Ryan noticed, he didn’t react.
    He looked toward me a moment later. “I want to call Amanda.”
    “Sure. Just don’t mention our location.”
    He pulled out the cold phone. I explained the unit and he placed the call. He got through at once and, keeping his voice completely calm, asked about her trip. Finally he explained that there’d been a little problem at the house. Whatever she heard on the news stories, everybody was fine.
    “Little problem,” Maree said and laughed cynically. “That’s what the captain of the Titanic said.” The young woman opened her large shoulder bag and pulled out and began sorting black-and-white photographs. Good, I reflected. Keep her busy. Count cows. Look for out-of-state plates.
    Ryan handed the phone to his wife. Joanne too downplayed the incident to her stepdaughter, though it seemed more difficult for her to put on a cheery face. A pause as she listened. “I don’t know why, honey. We’ll find out. Mr. Corte . . . Agent Corte’s going to find out. . . .” She listened some more and they fell into a meaningless conversation about high school, some friends, a ski vacation they had planned for Christmas.
    I made a fast turn. Another scan in the mirror; nobody was following. I saw too Maree wince and I thought she’d been hurt in the escape. But then I recalled seeing an Ace bandage wrapped around her arm. She rolled up her sleeve and examined it.
    “Maree, are you all right?” I asked.
    “Just bumped my arm last week.”
    “Is it bad?” I sounded sympathetic but I was asking because I needed to know if the injury would affect my guard job. Lifters, like wild animals, goright for the wounded. Breaks take at least six weeks to heal.
    “No. The orthopod says it’s just a bad hematoma. That’s a great word. Sounds so much sexier than ‘bruise.’ ”
    “Hurt much?”
    “Some. Not too bad. But I milk it for all it’s worth.” She laughed then explained, “I was shooting some images in downtown D.C. and this asshole on his mobile knocked into me and I slipped down some steps. He didn’t even apologize, not really. It was like, oh, what’re you doing taking pictures when people’re trying to get to real jobs?”
    I wasn’t interested in the source of the injury, just her state of wellness, but Maree continued, loud and indignant, “I couldn’t take pictures for a few days afterward, I was so dizzy. I should’ve gotten his name. And sued him.” Her voice faded. Then she looked my way. “Hey, Mr. Tour Guide? Can I call my friend? Please? Pretty please?” Singsong again.
    “Who?”
    “The guy I was going to be staying with. Before the Terminator screwed up my plans. I was going to meet him at six. If I don’t