Those are the hardest to track.
The easiest to find are those who have a destination that you know or can deduce.
I believed Maree had such a place in mind. I needed to find her path, though, because there were a number of specific places she might head for. I absolutely had to get there before she did. I paused at the edge of the forest and looked around me, at the puzzle of tree trunks and branches and foliage. Much of the greenery had been cut away to provide a clear view around the house, a perimeter for security purposes. But beyond that, a lot of the area was impenetrable.
I spotted overturned branches, leaves disturbed, pebbles slightly out of place and then a few good prints from stylish shoes. I began to sprint.
A hundred yards into the trees, I gave up on looking for sign. I no longer needed to, since I heard Maree pushing relentlessly through the brush. That wasn't all I heard. Growing in my ears was a roar--bearing out my deduction about where she was headed.
A few moments later I broke from the woods into a clearing and saw the young woman ahead of me--knowing how to move quickly through the foliage, I'd closed the distance but she was still a hundred feet away.
Looking back she saw me and stopped.
As a shepherd I've pursued many people until they cease running. Usually it's because they've run out of feasible routes or out of gasoline or physical stamina.
On occasion they stopped simply because they'd reached their destination.
Maree was on the edge of a rock cliff overlooking the source of the noise: the Potomac River. The woman who had twice tried to kill herself was looking down at the water cascading over the stones below. It was only thirty or forty feet to the surface but the river here was strewn with rocks and the current was swift and deep.
This seemed the perfect setting for somebody who wished to take her life. I moved in closer, slowly. I didn't want her to spook.
She sat down, looked back at me with a hollow, red face. And slipped over the edge.
I gasped and ran forward.
But then her head emerged and I realized she'd slid down to a rocky outcropping below the side of the cliff. She was just sitting there, on a shelf jutting over the boulders and speedy water.
I continued forward slowly, noticing some people on the distant shore of the river, tourists strolling along the path there, which bordered the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, which travels all the way from Georgetown to Cumberland, Maryland.
I got to the edge and looked down at the turbulent brown and gray water, the froth, the shiny rocks. To my right, Maree was huddled on the ledge, legs crossed like a yoga practitioner's.
"Maree," I said.
She was fiddling with her camera. I moved in closer and made sure she saw my slow, unthreatening transit toward her. I stopped when I was about twenty feet away, at the top of the cliff, and also sat--partly so that I wouldn't be seen as a threat and partly because I myself am not a great fan of heights. She glanced toward me and turned her attention back to the Canon. She lifted it and took some panoramic pictures of the view, then aimed down at the rocks below her. Then, curiously, she turned the lens to her face, which was puffy and damp with tears. Hopeless.
Even over the roar of the water I could hear the click of the camera.
"Maree?"
She said nothing but continued to shoot. She then turned toward me and took a picture. I gave no reaction and she leaned back against the rock.
I looked at her haunted eyes. Was she about to take her own life?
"Maree. I'd like you back inside now."
Finally she called, "It's beautiful here. . . . You gave me my money's worth for the tour."
"Please."
"How would this be for a photo series?" Eerily, the sisters had swapped roles. Joanne was the emotional one now, whipped into a frenzy. Maree was the opposite, numb, calm.
Too calm.
"What do you think?" she continued. "A series of images of someone falling into the water. I wonder how long the camera would keep shooting. I could put it on automatic. But I suppose the battery would short out pretty soon. How long do you think it would last?"
"Maree. Come on back."
"Not very long. But the pictures'd be stored on the chip. . . . It's hard to get a gallery show. Hard to sell your images. But I'll bet that series'd be a winner. Put me on the map."
My job is to keep my principals safe from everything, even their own self-destructive behaviors. Which was often the hardest part. In the extreme circumstances of the world I operate in, it's not unusual for people to consider suicide. None of my principals has ever gone forward with the act but I've known shepherds who have lost people to their own hand. Usually it's on longer assignments, when the days of seclusion amble slowly into months and the principals begin to hear more and more frequently sounds that are innocent enough but that they take to be lifters or hitters getting close for the kill.
More insidious is their own reasoning, convincing themselves that the life they've lived is over with, that family and friends will fade away, that they have nothing to look forward to. And for the rest of their days they'll be pursued. Death is a peaceful alternative.
In Maree's case, she was starting from a disadvantage: her self-destructive nature. Falling for abusive boyfriends, neglecting to provide for the basics in her life, jumping from caretaker to caretaker, who in fact only took advantage of her and then got tired when the appeal of the flirt, the cuteness, the artiness, wore off.
She looked down at the water.
I rose carefully and walked a little closer, then sat down again. "Don't worry, I'm not trained to tackle people and save them from ledges. The fact is, I'm fucking scared to be up here."
Her look said, Spare the jokes, Mr. Tour Guide.
Then she regarded the distance between us and judged, it seemed, that she could still leap into the water if I did rush her, and continued to aim her camera and press the shutter. Neither of us said anything for a moment. I broke the embargo. "Whatever your sister was saying, we don't know for sure that it was your pictures."
"Images. We call them images."
"I'm getting more information."
"But it does make sense, doesn't it? Taking pictures of people who wanted to stay anonymous. Sticking my nose into other people's business?" she added bitterly.
"It's a possibility." I wasn't going to coddle her.
"I'm surprised you didn't think of that, Corte. You think of everything else."
"I'm surprised I didn't think of it either." I was being honest. My investigation into Maree had ended when we cleared Andrew as the possible primary.
She took more pictures.
"I want to say something," I told her. "It's important."
"Under these circumstances," she said, with a dark grin, "one wouldn't really expect unimportant, now, would one?"
"One of the hardest things I have to teach my principals is that it doesn't matter if they're at fault for being targeted or not. A lot of times they are--it's because they did something wrong that I'm looking after them. But, yes or no, that's irrelevant to me. Every principal has the right to stay safe and alive. If you committed a crime, you can pay for that in court. If you did something that was morally wrong, you'll answer one way or another. None of that's my business. All I care about is keeping you alive so that you can go forward with your life--whether that's prison or a happy retirement."
"But what about what I want, Corte?"
I lifted an eyebrow.
"What if I don't want to stay safe? What's in it for me? What's back there that I could possibly want?" A nod toward the safe house.
"Your family."
"Two people who don't care whether I live or die."
"Of course they do. Maree, if I'm involved, that means this is the worst time people've ever gone through and ever will. They say terrible things when they're under protection. But they don't mean it. It's the fear talking. The frustration."
A few minutes passed and I studied the river.
I've had principals at this safe house maybe three dozen times and I've walked the entire perimeter, looking it over for offensive and defensive positions, ordered trees taken down or plantings put in. But I must say that for all my love of orienteering and sign cutting and hiking, I've never actually taken time to enjoy the place.
I turned back and noticed she was rubbing her arm.
"Why did Andrew hurt you?"
Her head dipped. "Didn't buy the rude businessman thing, hm?"
"No."
"How'd you guess?"
"I've been doing this a long time."
I suspected she'd stonewall but I was surprised. She answered almost immediately, "The question is what didn't I do." An odd laugh. Humorless and stone calm. "And you know, Corte, the scary thing is, I can't remember. I probably didn't cook the right dinner or I cooked the right dinner but the wrong way. Or I drank too much wine when his friends were over. I don't know. All I know is he grabbed me . . . grabbed and twisted. A tendon popped." She was gripping the joint. "I cried that night, most of the night. Not because it hurt. But because I was thinking I knew some people's elbows get hurt doing things like skiing or windsurfing with the people they love. But not me. No, no. I got hurt because somebody I loved wanted to hurt me."
Staring down at her camera. "But life's all about trade-offs, isn't it? I mean, who ever gets a hundred percent? I get excitement, energy, passion. Some women get boredom and drunks." She didn't look back to the safe house. "I'd rather have the thrill and a bruise now and then." A breathy laugh escaped her narrow pink lips. "How politically incorrect is that? But there it is. I'm honest, at least."
I debated a moment. A long moment and an intense debate. I eased down to the ledge and sat beside her. She made no effort to move away. It was a very small space and our legs touched firmly. I hated being up here and I had to admit I liked the comfort of the proximity.
I considered how much to tell her. I decided on a quantity and said, "I got married just after I graduated."
"Jo said you're single now. I wondered if you'd ever been married. The way you looked at Amanda, it was the way a father or uncle looks at a child. You had children?"
I again hesitated and finally nodded but it was clear from my expression that I wasn't going to talk about that. Maree sensed she'd stepped over a line. She started to say something but didn't. I continued quickly, "After we'd been married a few years we had a situation. There was a man from my wife's past who became a problem."
Maree may have noted that I said "wife" and not "ex," which imparted some information to her. She was smarter than the package suggested. She frowned her sympathy, which I didn't respond to.
"They'd worked together." I hesitated. "They were both single. They went out a few times . . . they spent the night once or twice." Maree seemed almost amused at my delicate euphemism. "This was a few years before Peggy and I met."
"Temper problem too, this guy? Like Andrew?"
"No. Nicest guy in the world. I met him."
"You met him?"
"They were in the same profession. Saw each other occasionally."
Peggy and he had done their residencies at the same hospital. I didn't give Maree these details, though. "They broke up and she met me. After a couple of years, he showed up again. Just called to say hi, see if they could have coffee, a drink, for old times' sake. But little by little it got to be strange. He began calling more frequently. Leaving messages. Innocent at first. Then getting slightly more aggressive when she didn't call back. Then he started calling me. And showing up at the house. He even called . . ." I stopped speaking for a moment. I said, "Then the serious stalking began."
I was silent, recalling those days, seeing Peggy's face, the faces of the boys too, very young but prescient and intuitive the way children are. They'd been scared.
"I realized finally what the problem was," I told Maree. "It wasn't him. It was my wife. She was treating him like a normal human being. Polite, giving him the benefit of the doubt, humoring him. She was a good person, just thinking about who he'd been when they'd been going out, charming and funny. But that was the past. When all this happened he wasn't a normal human being. He was something else. You can't be friends with a shark or a rabid dog, Maree. That's where you get into trouble. Andrew's a different kind of danger but that doesn't matter. Anyone who isn't good for you is as dangerous as Henry Loving."
I felt her hand take mine. For such delicate appendages, her fingers were surprisingly warm on this chill morning.
"Can I ask what happened?"
I shrugged, looking over the water. "It finally ended." I added, "It became a police matter."
Neither of us moved for a long moment. Maree turned and her arms snaked around me and we were gripping each other hard. She kissed me gently at first and then with more passion and desperation. Then, with a smile, she eased back slightly and slipped my hands inside her jacket, against her breasts. I felt a complicated bra. She pressed closer and kissed me again, more playfully this time, her tongue flavored with cloves or cinnamon.
Then she sat back and took my hand in both of hers. "Jo says I like bad boys. That's one of my problems. Andrew's a bad boy." She looked at me and I believed the sparkle in her eyes came from something other than the transit of cloud beneath the hazy sun. "You're one too, Corte. You're a bad boy. But I think you're a good bad boy."
I recalled that I'd recently been remembering that Peggy had said much the same about me.
"Let's go back in."
"You don't want to stay out here and enjoy the view?"
I smiled. "Duty first." I rose and pulled her to her feet and we headed back to the house.
"You ever take time off, Corte?"
"Sometimes."
"What do you do?"
"I like to play games."
Which she seemed to think was very funny.
Chapter 43
WHEN WE RETURNED to the house, I punched in the code and the door unlocked.
Inside we were greeted by two solemn faces staring our way. Her face white, mouth open, Joanne looked at her sister and walked forward.
"I'm so sorry," Joanne whispered. She tentatively touched Maree's arms and then stepped back. Maree's face was neutral. Neither accepting nor rejecting the apology.
"Mar, look, I was possessed. . . . I was so upset. . . . Amanda."
The young woman shrugged, walked to her computer, picked it up. She flopped down on the couch and scanned through it. This was something else I'd noticed that my principals had done more and more recently, in the safe house and halfway motels: withdrawn into their cyberwombs.
Joanne continued, "Please . . . say something."
"I'll be moving out when we get out of prison." Her voice was eerily soft. She continued to look through the files of pictures.
Images. We call them images. . . .
Joanne lowered her head, about to say something more, but couldn't conjure the words.
It was then that my own computer pinged. I stepped into the den. It was an email from Claire duBois, with, I hoped, an answer to what I'd had her research when Joanne had told us about the Colombian diplomat.
I was prepared for some of the contents. The rest was a bit of a shock.
I stared at the screen for some moments then printed out the documents and returned to the living room. As I did, my face must have revealed something because I found the mood in the room had changed from recrimination and contrition--in varying degrees of sincerity--to intense anticipation as they gazed at me.
I read through the four or five pages carefully once more. Then I glanced toward my principals. "It's not Maree. She has nothing to do with Loving."
Joanne sighed. "I just thought, because of Allende . . ."
I continued, "My associate just talked to some people involved in the investigation. They know the man in the picture. He's Allende's mistress's son. Has nothing to do with any illegal operations. He was sharing music downloads on the thumb drive. Even if they saw Maree was taking
pictures, they wouldn't have an interest in hiring Loving to get any information from her. And his phones and travel records are clean."
Joanne shook her head. She may have continued to speak. I didn't know. I was reading the rest of the documents duBois had sent, a third time now, just to make sure.
They drooped in my hand.
"My associate found something else," I told them.
"What?" Ryan wanted to know. He was absently massaging his game leg.
"The answer--why Henry Loving's been hired." I looked up, toward Joanne.
She froze. Her eyes regarded the sheets in my hand as if she were identifying the body of a loved one.
In a low, grim voice, very different from her tone throughout the past few days, Joanne said to me, "It's not a problem, Corte. It's been looked into."
Maree stared at her sister. Ryan took in Joanne's face, flushed, lips taut.
He asked her, "What are you talking about?"
I was the person who answered. "Henry Loving's after your wife, not you."
Chapter 44
"WHAT?" HE LAUGHED.
An endless moment followed, during which no one spoke, no one moved. The only sound was the wind and the clatter of the automatic ice maker in the refrigerator.
Shaking her head, Joanne walked to the window. I studied her cool eyes as a number of mysteries fell into place.
Maree asked, "What do you mean, Corte? What does Jo have to do with this?"
I didn't answer.
"Jo," Maree snapped. "Jo! Say something. What's he talking about?"
"Well?" I asked her firmly. I needed answers and I needed them now.
Again her voice steady and chill, she said, "I told you, Corte. It's been looked into. There's no problem. Forget it."
Ryan muttered, "Looked into?"
She ignored him and spoke to me. "Don't you think it was the first thing that occurred to me? As soon as I heard there was a possibility of a lifter, the minute I heard, I made the call. There've been a dozen people looking into it. They've found nothing. Not a thing."
"Henry Loving only works for people who make it very, very difficult to find out anything about them."
She answered calmly, "And the people I'm talking about are very, very good too."
"Jo, what is this?" her husband said, mystified.