Jeffery Deaver

The driver eased the M70 bus through traffic toward the stop on 57th Street near where Tenth Avenue blended into Amsterdam. He was in a pretty good mood. The new bus was a kneeling model, which lowered to the sidewalk to make stepping aboard easier, and featured a handicapped ramp, great steering and, most important, a rump-friendly driver’s seat.

Lord knew he needed that, spending eight hours a day in it.

Today was beautiful, clear and cool. April. One of his favorite months. It was about 11:30 a.m. and the bus was crowded as people were heading east for lunch dates or errands on their hour off. Traffic was moving slowly as he nosed the huge vehicle closer to the stop, where four or five people waited beside a lamppost covered with flyers.

He was approaching the bus stop and he happened to look past the people waiting to get on board, his eyes taking in the old, brown building behind the stop. An early 20th century building, it had several gridded windows but was always dark inside; he’d never seen anybody going in or out. A spooky place, like a prison. On the front was a flaking sign in white paint on a blue background.

Algonquin Consolidated Power Company
Substation MH-10
Private Property
Danger. High Voltage. Trespass Prohibited.

He rarely paid attention to the place but today something had caught his eye, something, he believed, out of the ordinary. Dangling from the window, about ten feet off the ground, was a wire, about a half-inch in diameter. It was covered with dark insulation up to the end. There, the plastic or rubber was stripped away, revealing silverish metal strands; it was bolted to a fitting of some kind, a flat piece of brass. Damn big hunk of wire, the driver thought.

And just hanging out the window. Was that safe?

He now braked the bus to a complete stop and hit the door release. The kneeling mechanism engaged and the big vehicle dipped. The metal lower step was now just inches from the sidewalk. The driver turned his broad, ruddy face toward the door, which eased open with a satisfying hydraulic hiss. The folks began to climb on board. “Morning,” the driver said cheerfully.

A woman in her eighties, clutching an old shabby Henri Bendel shopping bag, nodded back and, using a cane, staggered to the rear, ignoring the empty seats in the front reserved for the elderly and disabled.

How could you not just love New Yorkers?

Then sudden motion in the rearview mirror. Flashing yellow lights. A truck was speeding up behind him. Algonquin Consolidated. Three workers stepped outside and stood in a close group, talking among themselves. They held boxes of tools and thick gloves and jackets. They didn’t seem happy as they walked slowly toward the substation, staring at it, heads close together as they debated something. One of those heads was shaking ominously.

Then the driver turned to the last passenger about to board, a young Latino, clutching his Metrocard and pausing outside the bus. He too was gazing at the substation. Frowning. The driver noticed his head was raised, as if he was sniffing the air.

An acrid scent. Yes, something was burning. The smell reminded him of the time that an electric motor in the wife’s washing machine had shorted out and the insulation burned. Nauseating. A wisp of smoke was coming from the doorway of the substation.

So that’s what the Algonquin people were doing here.

That’d be a mess. The driver wondered if it would mean a power outage and the stoplights would go out. That’d be it for him. The cross-town trip, normally twenty minutes, would be hours. Well, in any event, he’d better clear the area for the Fire Department. He gestured the passenger on board. “Hey, mister, I gotta go. Come on. Get on—”

As the passenger, still frowning at the smell, turned around and stepped onto the bus, the driver heard what sounded like pops coming from inside the substation. Sharp, almost like gunshots. Then a flash of light, light like a dozen suns, filled the entire sidewalk between the bus and the cable dangling from the window.

The Latino passenger disappeared into a cloud of flame.

The driver’s vision collapsed to gray afterimages. The sound was like a ripping crackle and shotgun blast at the same time, stunning his ears. Though belted into his seat, his upper body was slammed backward against the side window.

Through numb ears, he heard the echoes of his passengers’ screams.

Through half-blinded eyes, he saw fire.

As he began to pass out, the driver wondered if he himself might very well be the source of the fire.

— —

 

Narrated by Tony Award Nominee Marin Ireland. Listen to an excerpt.

 

 

 

The audiobook is narrated by Toby Stephens. Listen to an excerpt.

Narrated by Skipp Sudduth. Listen to an excerpt.

Question: Tell us briefly about Edge.

Jeffery Deaver: In Edge, our protagonist — known by the sole name Corte — is a “shepherd,” basically an über bodyguard working for an unnamed U.S. government agency, charged with keeping witnesses and innocent (or not so innocent) people safe from threats, when no one else can. In this book Corte is charged with protecting Ryan Kessler, a Washington D.C. cop, and his family when it’s learned that the villain is trying to get some information from Kessler, presumably because of one of his cases. The bad guy is a scary one: Henry Loving, a “lifter,” someone hired to extract (or “lift”) information from his target by any means necessary, including threatening or otherwise using his or her family. Torture is just one of his many tools of the trade. Edge also looks at the dynamics of what happens among family members when they’re thrown together under such extreme circumstances.

Q: How is Edge typical of and different from your other books?

JD: Well, it’s a typical Deaver book in that it takes place over a short period of time — a long weekend — and it races along without pausing for breath. And it’s got my typical twists and turns — including some really shocking surprise endings (yes, that’s plural), right up until the last couple of pages.

But what isn’t typical is that it’s written in the first person, unique for me. I did this because I wanted the challenge of incorporating twists and turns into a book where the readers have the same information as my protagonist. It certainly was a challenge, but according to the early reviews, at least, I think I pulled it off. Also, I liked the intimacy that comes from the relationship between reader and protagonist when you write in the first person. I think fans like that too.

Q: Where is the novel set?

JD: The novel’s set in a place where I actually happen to live much of the time, in and around Washington, D.C. Much takes place in Great Falls, Fairfax and in the District itself. My protagonist lives in a wonderful part of the area, Old Town Alexandria. Though it’s not a political thriller, I wanted the book to convey the exotic nature of the nation’s capital, as well as the decidedly gritty side of the District and surrounding areas. There are some Civil War motifs in the book too, which I love.

Q: Do you prefer stand-alones or series?

JD: I have no preference really. Each has its own advantages and disadvantages. With stand-alones, for instance, I can always imperil my main characters and risk killing them off (yes, I love messing with my readers’ minds!), which I can’t do with series. But I have to invent a whole world every time, whereas with series novels I know the characters, locations, institutions, etc. The real key is deciding which category is best for the story idea. For instance, the Lincoln Rhyme books are best for technical subjects, the Kathryn Dance for more psychological thrillers. The stand-alones let me experiment, often combining the two and trying out new forms (like the first-person in Edge). I think more people like series, so that’s what I stick to most of the time.

Q: What’s coming up in the future?

JD: It’s public knowledge now that I’m writing the James Bond novel for 2011. It’s largely completed, though there’ll be some more editing to do (you can never do too much rewriting). After that, I’m continuing with my next Kathryn Dance book for 2012, and the next Lincoln Rhyme in 2013. . . . Phew, hearing all that, I better get back to work!

“Best Fiction Pick For 2010”
— Kirkus Reviews

“Deaver unveils some nifty new tricks in this edge-of-your-seat thriller . . . Deaver’s first first-person narrator, Corte, is an exciting new weapon in the author’s arsenal of memorable characters.”
— Publishers Weekly

“Fans of Deaver’s fiendishly clever suspensers won’t be surprised by the nonstop deceptions, reversals, shocks and surprises, but this time they’re even more varied than usual, and, given the characters’ backgrounds, a lot more plausible. The result is his most successful thriller in years.”
— Kirkus reviews (starred review)

“This is a fine thriller with strong characters and a compelling story.”
— David Pitt, Booklist

“In Mr. Deaver’s kaleidoscope world, the odds seem to change with each turn of the page.”
— Tom Nolan, Wall Street Journal

“The challenge is to figure out what the rules are in this brain-teaser of a thriller, which pits two ruthless professionals against each other in a murderous contest over the lives of a Washington, D.C., police detective and his family.”
— Marilyn Stasio, New York Times