A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  No, he was just talking to someone inside.

  Keep his mind busy, off the hostages, off Stevie. "How're those lights working?" Potter asked.

  "Good. The ones you've got outside suck, though. Can I shoot 'em out?"

  "You know what they cost? It'd come out of my paycheck."

  Oates was fifty feet away, walking slowly and steadily. Potter glanced at Tobe, who nodded and pushed buttons on the HP.

  "So you're a McDonald's fan, Lou? Big Macs, they're the best."

  "How'd you know?" Handy asked sarcastically. "You never ate under the golden arches in your life, betcha."

  Angie gave him a thumbs-up and Potter nodded, pleased. It's a good sign when the HT refers to the negotiator. The transference process was proceeding.

  "Guess again, Lou. You're going to have exactly what I had for dinner twice last week. Well, minus the Fritos. But I did have a milk shake. Vanilla."

  "Thought you fancy agents had gourmet meals every night. Steak and lobster. Champagne. Then you fuck the beautiful agent works for you."

  "A bacon cheeseburger, not a glass of wine to be had. Oh, and instead of sex I had a second order of fries. I do love my potatoes."

  In the faint reflection of the window Potter was aware that Budd was staring at him and he believed the expression was of faint disbelief.

  "You fat too, like this little girl I got by her piggy arm?"

  "I could lose a few pounds. Maybe more than a few."

  Oates was fifty feet from the door.

  Potter wanted to probe some more into Handy's likes and dislikes. But he was cautious. He sensed it would rile the man. There's a philosophy in barricade situations that tries to keep the HTs on edge--bombarding them with bad music or playing with the heating and cooling of the barricade site. Potter didn't believe in this approach. Be firm, but establish rapport.

  Handy was too quiet. What was distracting him? What was he thinking? I need more control. That's the problem, it occurred to Potter. I can't get control of the situation away from him.

  "I was going to ask you, Lou . . . . This is pretty odd weather for July. Must be cold in there. You want us to rig some heaters or something?"

  Potter speculated: Naw, we got plenty of bodies to keep us warm.

  But Handy responded slowly, "Maybe. How cold's it going to be tonight?"

  Again, very logical and matter-of-fact. And behind the words: the implication that he might be planning on a long siege. That might give Potter the chance to push back some of Handy's deadlines. He jotted these impressions on a slip of paper and pushed it toward Henry LeBow to enter into his computer.

  "Windy and chilly, I'm told."

  "I'll think on it."

  And listen to his voice, Potter thought. He sounds so reasonable. What do I make of that? Sometimes he's pure bravado; sometimes he sounds like an insurance salesman. Potter's eyes scanned the diagram of the slaughterhouse. Twelve yellow Post-Its, each representing a taker or a hostage, were stuck on the schematic. Ultimately, Potter hoped, they'd be placed in the exact position where each person was located. At the moment they were clustered off to the side.

  "Lou, you there?"

  "Sure I'm here. Where the fuck'd I be? Driving down 1-70 to Denver?"

  "Didn't hear you breathing."

  In a low, chilling voice Handy said, "That's 'cause I'm a ghost."

  "A ghost?" Potter echoed.

  "I slip up quiet as a cat behind you and slit your throat and I'm gone before your blood hits the ground. You think I'm in that building there, that slaughterhouse you're looking at right now. But I'm not."

  "Where'd you be?"

  "Maybe I'm coming up behind you, that van of yours. See, I know you're in that there truck. Looking out your window. Maybe I'm right outsida that window. Maybe I'm in that stand of buffalo grass your man's walking by right now and I'm going to knife him in the balls when he passes."

  "And maybe I'm in the slaughterhouse with you, Lou."

  A pause. Potter thought, He'll laugh.

  Handy did, a hearty belly laugh. "You get me lotsa Fritos?"

  "Lots. Regular and barbecue."

  Stevie Oates was at the building.

  "Hey, shave and a haircut . . . Somebody's come acalling."

  "Got a visual," Tobe whispered. He dimmed the van lights. They turned to the screen broadcasting the picture from the camera above Stevie Oates's right ear. The image wasn't good. The door of the slaughterhouse opened only several feet and the images inside--pipes, machinery, a table--were distorted by light flares. The only person in sight was Jocylyn, in silhouette, hands to her face.

  "Here's your boy now. Stevie? I don't think I've ever shot anyone named Stevie. He looks pretty dayamm uncomfortable."

  What was probably a shotgun barrel protruded slowly and rested against Jocylyn's head. Her hands dropped to her sides, making fists. The sound of her whimpering floated from the speaker. Potter prayed that Stillwell's sniper would exercise restraint.

  The video image quivered for a moment.

  The shotgun turned toward Oates as a man's silhouette filled the doorway. Through the mike mounted above the trooper's ear came the words: "You got a gun on you?" A voice different from Handy's. Shepard Wilcox's, Potter guessed; Bonner would cast a far bigger shadow.

  Potter looked down to make sure he was hitting the right buttons as he cut over to Oates's earphone. "Lie. Be insistent but respectful."

  "No, I don't. Here's what you wanted. The food. Now, sir, if you'd let that girl go . . ." The trooper spoke without a quaver in his voice.

  "Good, Stevie, you're doing fine. Nod if Jocylyn seems okay."

  The picture dipped slightly.

  "Keep smiling at her."

  Another dip.

  Handy asked Oates, "You got a microphone or camera?" Another silhouette had appeared. Handy's. "You recording me?"

  "Your call," Potter whispered. "But there'll be no exchange if you say yes."

  "No," the trooper said.

  "I'll kill you if I find out you're lying to me."

  "I don't," Oates said insistently, without hesitation. Good, good.

  "You alone? Anybody sneak up on either side of the door?"

  "Can't you see? I'm alone. How's the girl?"

  "Can't you see?" Handy mocked, stepping behind Wilcox, in plain view. "Here she is. Look for yourself."

  There was no move to release her.

  "Let her go," Oates said.

  "Maybe you oughta come in and get her."

  "No. Let her go."

  "You wearing body armor?"

  "Under my shirt, yeah."

  "Maybe you oughta give me that. We could use it more'n you."

  "How do you figure?" Oates said. His voice was no longer so steady.

  " 'Cause it won't do you any good. See, we could shoot you in the face and take it offa you and you'd be just as dead as if we shot you in the back when you were walking away. So how 'bout you give it to us now?"

  They'd find the video camera and radio transmitter if he gave up the armor. And probably kill him on the spot.

  Potter whispers, "Tell him we had a bargain."

  "We had a bargain," Oates said firmly. "Here's the food. I want that girl. And I want her now."

  A pause that lasted eons.

  "Put it on the ground," Handy finally said.

  The image on the screen dipped as Oates set the bag down. Still, the trooper kept his head up and pointed directly into the crack of the open door. Unfortunately there was too much contrast in the image; the agents in the van could see virtually nothing inside.

  "Here," Handy's voice crackled, "take Miss Piggy. Go wee, wee, wee all the way home." Laughter from several voices. Handy stepped away from the door. They lost sight of him and Wilcox. Was one of them raising the gun to shoot?

  "Hiya, honey," Oates said. "Don't you worry, you're gonna be just fine."

  "He shouldn't be talking to her," Angie muttered.

  "Let's go for a walk, whatta you say? See yo
ur mommy and daddy?"

  "Lou," Potter called into the throw phone, suddenly concerned that the takers were no longer in sight. No answer. To those in the van he muttered, "I don't trust him. Hell, I don't trust him."

  "Lou?"

  "Line's still open," Tobe called. "He hasn't hung up."

  Potter said to Oates, "Don't say anything to her, Stevie. Might make her panic."

  The screen dipped in response.

  "Go on. Back on out of there. Go real slow. Then get behind the girl, turn around, and walk straight away. Keep your head up, so your helmet covers as much of your neck as possible. If you're shot, fall on top of the girl. I'll order covering fire and we'll get you out as fast as we can."

  A faint disturbed whisper came through the speaker. But there was no other answer.

  Suddenly the video screen went mad. There was a burst of light and motion and jiggling images.

  "No!" came Oates's voice. Then a deep grunt, followed by a moan.

  "He's down," Budd said, looking through the window with binoculars. "Oh, brother."

  "Christ!" Derek Elb cried, gazing up at the video monitor.

  They'd heard no gunfire but Potter was sure that Wilcox had shot the girl in the head with a silenced pistol and was firing repeatedly at Oates. The screen danced madly with grainy shapes and lens flares.

  "Lou!" Potter cried into the phone. "Lou, are you there?"

  "Look!" Budd shouted, pointing out the window.

  It wasn't what Potter had feared. Jocylyn apparently had panicked and leapt forward. The big girl had knocked Oates flat on his back. She was bounding over the grass and bluestem toward the first row of police cars.

  Oates rolled over and was on his feet, going after her.

  Potter juggled more buttons. "Lou!" He slapped the console again, activating the radio to Dean Stillwell, who was watching through a night scope with a sniper beside him.

  "Dean?" Potter called.

  "Yessir."

  "Can you see inside?"

  "Not much. Door's open only about a foot. There's somebody behind it."

  "Windows?"

  "No one in 'em yet."

  Jocylyn, overweight though she might be, was sprinting like an Olympian directly toward the command van, arms waving, mouth open wide. Oates was gaining on the girl but they were both clear targets.

  "Tell the sniper," Potter said, desperately scanning the slaughterhouse windows, "safety off."

  Should he order a shot?

  "Yessir. Wait. There's Wilcox. Inside about five yards from the window. He's got a shotgun and's drawing a target."

  Oh, Lord, Potter thought. If the sniper kills him Handy's sure to murder one of the hostages in retaliation.

  Is he going to shoot or not?

  Maybe Wilcox's just panicked too, doesn't know what's going on.

  "Agent Potter?" Stillwell asked.

  "Acquire."

  "Yessir . . . . Wilcox's in Chrissy's sights. She's got a shot. Can't miss, she says. Crosshaired on his forehead."

  Yes? No?

  "Wait," Potter said. "Keep him acquired."

  "Yessir."

  Jocylyn was thirty yards from the slaughterhouse. Oates close behind her. Perfect targets. A load of twelve-gauge, double-ought buck would cut their legs off.

  Sweating, Potter slammed his hand onto two buttons. Into the phone he said, "Lou, you there?"

  There was the sound of static, or breathing, or an erratic heartbeat.

  "Tell the sniper to stand down," Potter ordered Stillwell suddenly. "Don't shoot. Whatever happens, don't shoot."

  "Yessir," Stillwell said.

  Potter leaned forward, felt his head tap against the cool glass window.

  In two leaps, Stevie Oates grabbed the girl and pulled her down. Her hands and legs flailed and together they tumbled behind the rise, out of sight of the slaughterhouse.

  Budd sighed loudly.

  "Thank God," muttered Frances.

  Angie said nothing but Potter noticed that her hand had strayed to her weapon and now held the grip tightly.

  "Lou, you there?" he called. Then again.

  There was a crackle, as if the phone were being wrapped in crispy paper. "Can't talk, Art," Handy said through a mouthful of food. "It's suppertime."

  "Lou--"

  There was a click and then silence.

  Potter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

  Frances applauded, joined by Derek Elb.

  "Congratulations," LeBow said quietly. "The first exchange. A success."

  Budd was pale. He slowly exhaled a cheekful of air. "Brother."

  "All right, everybody, let's not pat ourselves on the back too much," Potter said. "We've only got an hour forty-five minutes till our first helicopter deadline."

  Of all the people in the van only young Tobe Geller seemed disturbed.

  Arthur Potter, childless father that he was, noticed it immediately. "What is it, Tobe?"

  The agent pushed several buttons on the Hewlett-Packard and pointed to the screen. "This was your VSA grid during the exchange, Arthur. Lower anxiety than normal for a mildly stressful event."

  "Mildly," Budd muttered, rolling his eyes. "Glad you didn't take mine."

  "Here's Handy's average ten-second sequence for the entire exchange." He tapped the screen. It was nearly a flat line. "He was in the doorway with a dozen guns pointed at his heart and that son of a bitch was about as stressed out as most people get ordering a cup of coffee at 7-Eleven."

  3:13 P.M.

  She felt no thud of gunshots, no quiver of scream resonating in her chest.

  Thank you thank you thank you.

  The butterball Jocylyn was safe.

  Melanie huddled with the twins in the back of the killing room, their long chestnut hair damp from tears, plastered to their faces. She looked up at the bare bulb, which--just barely--kept the crushing waves of the Outside from smashing her to death.

  Her finger nervously entwining a strand of hair again. The hand shape for "shine." The word for "brilliance."

  The word for "light."

  A blur of motion startled her. The huge bearded form of Bear, chewing a hamburger, stormed up to Stoat and snapped a few words. Waited for an answer, got none, and shouted some more. Melanie couldn't read a single word of their conversation. The more emotional people became, the more ragged and fast their words, making them impossible to understand, as if just when it was the most important to say things clearly there could be no clarity.

  Brushing his crew cut, Stoat stayed cool and looked back at Bear with a sneer of a smile. A real cowboy, Melanie thought, Stoat is. He's as cruel as the others but he's brave and he has honor and if those are good qualities even in bad people then there's some good in him. Brutus appeared and Bear suddenly stopped talking, grabbed a packet of fries in his fat hand, and wandered off to the front of the slaughterhouse, where he sat down and began shoveling food into his messy beard.

  Brutus carried a paper-wrapped hamburger with him. He kept glancing at it in an amused way, as if he'd never had one before. He took a small bite and chewed carefully. He crouched in the doorway of the killing room, looking over the girls and the teachers. Melanie caught his eye once and felt her skin burn with panic. "Hey, miss," he said. She looked down quickly, feeling stomach sick.

  She felt a thud and looked up, startled. He'd slapped the floor beside her. From his shirt pocket he took a small blue cardboard box and tossed it to her. It was an asthma inhaler. She opened it slowly and handed it to Beverly, who breathed in the medicine greedily.

  Melanie turned to Brutus and was about to mouth "Thank you," but he was looking away, staring once again at Mrs. Harstrawn, who'd fallen into another hysterical crying fit.

  "Ain't that something--she . . . keeps going and going."

  How can I understand his words if I can't understand him? Look at him--he crouches there and watches the poor woman cry. Chewing, chewing, with that damn half-smile on his lips. Nobody can be that cruel.
r />   Or do I understand him?

  Melanie hears a familiar voice. So you'll be home then . . . .

  Get up, she raged silently to the other teacher. Stop crying! Get up and do something! Help us. You're supposed to be in charge.

  So you'll be--

  Suddenly her heart went icy cold and anger vaporized her fear. Anger and . . . what else? A dark fire swirling within her. Her eyes met Brutus's. He'd stopped eating and was looking at her. His lids never flickered but she sensed he was winking at her--as if he knew exactly what she was thinking about Mrs. Harstrawn and that the same thing had occurred to him. For that instant the pathetic woman was the butt of an inexcusable, mutual joke.

  In despair she felt the anger vanishing, fear flooding in to fill its place.

  Stop looking at me! she begged him silently. Please! She lowered her head and began to tremble, crying. And so she did the only thing she could do--what she'd done earlier: closing her eyes, lowering her head, she went away. The place she'd escaped into from the slaughterhouse earlier today. Her secret place, her music room.

  It is a room of dark wood, tapestries, pillows, smoky air. Not a window in the place. The Outside cannot get in here.

  Here's a harpsichord carved of delicate rosewood, florets and filigree, inlaid with ivory and ebony. Here's a piano whose tone sounds like resonating crystal. A South American berimbau, a set of golden vibes, a crisp, prewar Martin guitar.

  Here are walls to reflect Melanie's own voice, which is an amalgam of all the instruments in the orchestra. Mezzo-sopranos and coloratura sopranos and altos.

  It was a place that never existed and never would. But it was Melanie's salvation. When the taunts at school had grown too much, when she simply couldn't grasp what someone was saying to her, when she thought of the world she'd never experience, her music room was the only place she could go to be safe, to be comforted.

  Forgetting the twins, forgetting gasping Beverly, forgetting the sobs of the paralyzed Mrs. Harstrawn, forgetting the terrible man watching her as he inhaled for sustenance the sorrow of another human being. Forgetting Susan's death, and her own, which was probably all too close.

  Melanie, sitting on the comfortable couch in her secret place, decides she doesn't want to be alone. She needs someone with her. Someone to talk with. Someone with whom she can share human words. Whom should I invite?

  Melanie thinks of her parents. But she's never invited them here before. Friends from Laurent Clerc, from Hebron, neighbors, students . . . But when she thinks of them she thinks of Susan. And of course she dares not.