Just ask his ex-publishers, ask the Marine units he was embedded with in Iraq, ask his wife, another notoriously pitiless journalist. Ask his parents, ask every victim of his callous but accurate exposes. Hell, ask the man himself, ask it right into to those obnoxious opaque aviator glasses, and he'd smile and agree.
An asshole, everyone knows, with a death wish. Bach volunteers for the most dangerous assignments, knowing his edge is his recklessness and willingness to do what others won't. But since he stumbled out of the desert during the Iraq War, eyes burning, there's been something else going on with Bach; an obsession beyond the old obsessions. For the first time, he’s after something more than getting the jump on a story, more than reporting from the crater the second after the bomb hits.
At first, everyone thought he'd developed a taste for atrocities instead of the Pulitzer. After all, he does write about human misery like a restaurant critic discussing a meal. Then he fell off the war circuit to start digging into a 25-year-old missing persons case. No one important. Even his enemies had to admit he was punching below his weight.
But Bach has been watching and planning and waiting for months. Zeroing in, up and down Maine and New Hampshire. Following in the footsteps of witch trials, Wabanaki Council legends and Sam Krieg horror novels.
Bach, that asshole, hasn't lost his edge: he's finally found where he can go over it.