A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  "No, I haven't."

  "That a fact?" He was skeptical. "I wonder . . . ."

  Silence filled the van. A trickle of sweat flowed down Potter's face and he wiped his forehead.

  Handy asked, "So, you look like that guy in the old FBI show, Efrem Zimbalist?"

  "Not a bit. I'm pretty ordinary. I'm just a humble constable. I eat too many potatoes--"

  "Fries," Handy remembered.

  "Mashed are my favorite, actually. With pan gravy."

  Tobe whispered something to Budd, who wrote down on a slip of paper: Deadline.

  Potter glanced at the clock. Into the phone he said, "I fancy sports coats. Tweed are my favorite. Or camel's hair. But we have to wear suits in the Bureau."

  "Suits, huh? They cover up a lot of fat, don't they? Hold on a second there, Art."

  Potter dipped out of his reverie and trained his Leicas on the factory window. A pistol barrel appeared next to Shannon's head, which was covered with her long, brown hair, now mussed.

  "That son of a bitch," Budd whispered. "The poor thing's terrified."

  Frances leaned forward. "Oh, no. Please . . ."

  Potter's fingers tapped buttons. "Dean?"

  "Yessir," Stillwell answered.

  "Can one of your snipers acquire a target?"

  A pause.

  "Negative. All they can see is a pistol barrel and slide. He's behind her. There's no shot he can make except into the window frame."

  Handy asked, "Hey, Art, you really never shot anyone?"

  LeBow looked up, frowning. But Potter answered anyway, "Nope, never have."

  His hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Budd began pacing. It was very irritating.

  "Ever fired a gun?"

  "Of course. On the range at Quantico. I enjoyed it."

  "Didja? You know, if you enjoyed shooting you might enjoy shooting somebody. Killing somebody."

  "Sick son of a bitch," Budd muttered.

  Potter waved the captain quiet.

  "You know something, Art?"

  "What's that?"

  "You're all right. I mean it."

  Potter felt a pleasing burst--from the man's approval.

  I am good, he thought. He knew that it was the empathy that makes the difference at this job. Not the strategy, not the words, not the calculation or intelligence. It's what I can't teach in the training courses. I was always good, he reflected. But when you died, Marian, I became great. I had nowhere for my heart to go and so I gave it to men like Louis Handy.

  And to Ostrella . . .

  A terrorist takeover in Washington, D.C. The Estonian woman, blond and brilliant, walking out of the Soviet embassy after twenty hours of negotiating with Potter. Twelve hostages released, four more inside. Finally she'd surrendered, come out with her hands not outstretched but on her head--a violation of the hostage surrender protocol. But Potter knew she was harmless. Knew her as well as he knew Marian. He'd stepped unprotected from the barricade and walked toward her, to greet her, to embrace her, to make sure that when she was arrested the cuffs weren't too tight, that her rights were read to her in her native language. And he'd had to endure the copious spatter of her blood from the sniper who shot her in the head when she pulled the hidden pistol from her collar and shoved it directly toward Potter's face. (And his reaction? To scream to her, "Get down!" And fling his arms around her to protect his new love, as bits of her skull snapped against his skin.) Have you ever wanted to do something bad?

  Be . . .

  Yes, Lou, I have. If you must know.

  . . . forewarned.

  Potter was unable to say anything for a moment, afraid to offend Handy, afraid that he'd hang up. Almost as afraid of that as of Handy's killing the girl. "Listen to me, Lou. I tell you in good faith we're working on this chopper and I asked you to tell me something that you'll accept to buy another hour." Potter added, "We're trying to work out a deal. Help me out here."

  There was a pause and the confident voice said, "It's thirsty work, here."

  Ah, let's play a game. "Diet Pepsi?" the agent asked coyly.

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  "Lemonade, made out of fresh Sunkist?"

  LeBow hit several keys and showed the screen to Potter, who nodded.

  "Glass of mother's milk?" Handy sneered.

  Reading Wilcox's profile, Potter said, "I don't think liquor's a real good idea, Lou. Shep has a bit of a problem, doesn't he?"

  A pause.

  "You boys sure seem to know a lot about us."

  "That's what they pay me my meager salary for. To know everything in the world."

  "Well, that's the deal. One hour for some booze."

  "Nothing hard. No way."

  "Beer's fine. 'S' more to my liking anyway."

  "I'll send in three cans."

  "Hold up there. A case."

  "No. You get three cans of light beer."

  A snicker. "Fuck light beer."

  "That's the best I can do."

  Frances and Budd were plastered against the window, watching Shannon.

  Handy's voice sang, "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home . . . ." Moving the gun from one of the girl's ears to the other.

  Stillwell came on the air to ask what he should tell the snipers.

  Potter hesitated. "No fire," he said. "Whatever happens."

  "Copy," Stillwell said.

  They heard the whimper of the girl as Handy pressed the gun against her forehead.

  "I'll give you a six-pack," Potter said, "if you let me have that girl."

  Budd whispered, "Don't push it."

  A pause. "Give me a reason why I'd want to do that."

  LeBow dropped the cursor to a paragraph in the evolving Biography of Louis Handy. Potter read, then said, " 'Cause you love beer."

  Handy had been reprimanded by one of his wardens for whipping up some home brew in prison. Later, his privileges were suspended after he'd smuggled in two cases of Budweiser.

  "Come on," Potter chided, "what can it hurt? You'll have plenty of hostages left over." Potter took the chance. "Besides, she's a little pain in the ass, isn't she? That's her reputation at school."

  Angie's eyes sprang open. It's a risk to refer to the hostages in any way because it gives them more value to the taker than they already have. You never suggest that they have some liability that might irritate or endanger him.

  A pause.

  Now, set the hook.

  The agent said, "What's your favorite brand? Miller? Bud?"

  "Mexican."

  "You got it, Lou. A six-pack of Corona, you let that girl go and we get another hour for the chopper. Everybody's happy."

  "I'd rather shoot her."

  Potter and LeBow glanced at each other. Budd was suddenly standing close to Potter, his hands in his pocket, fidgeting.

  The negotiator ignored the young captain and said to Handy, "Okay, Lou, then shoot her. I'm tired of this bullshit."

  From the corner of his eye he saw Budd shift and for a moment Potter tensed, thinking the captain was going to leap forward, grab the phone, and agree to whatever Handy wanted. But he just kept his hands in his back pockets and turned away. Frances gazed at the negotiator in utter shock.

  Potter hit buttons on the phone. "Dean, he may shoot the girl. If he does, make sure nobody returns fire."

  A hesitation. "Yessir."

  Potter was back on the line with Handy. The man hadn't hung up but he wasn't talking either. Shannon's head swiveled back and forth. The black rectangular pistol was still visible.

  Potter jumped inches when Handy's staccato laugh shot into the van. "This's sorta like Monopoly, ain't it? Buying and selling and all?"

  Potter struggled to remain silent.

  Handy growled, "Two six-packs or I do it right now." Shannon's head bent forward as Handy pressed the gun into it.

  "And we get an extra hour for the chopper?" Potter asked. "Makes it about six-fifteen."

  "Safety's off," Dea
n Stillwell sang out.

  Potter closed his eyes.

  Not a single sound in the van. Complete silence. This is what Melanie lives with day after day after day, Potter thinks.

  "Deal, Art," Handy said. "By the way, you are one bad motherfucker."

  Click.

  Potter slumped into the chair, closed his eyes for a moment. "You get all that, Henry?"

  LeBow nodded and typed away. He rose and started to lift Shannon's marker out of the slaughterhouse schematic.

  "Wait," said Potter. LeBow paused. "Let's just wait."

  "I'll get that beer," Budd said, exhaling a sigh.

  Potter smiled. "Getting a little hot for you, Captain?"

  "Yeah. Some."

  "You'll get used to it," Potter said, just as Budd said, "I'll get used to it." The captain's voice was far less optimistic than Potter's. The agent and the trooper laughed.

  Budd started like a rabbit when Angie squeezed his arm. "I'll come with you to see about that beer, Captain. If that's all right with you."

  "Uh, well, sure, I guess," he said uncertainly, and they left the van.

  "One more hour," LeBow said, nodding.

  Potter swiveled around in his chair, staring out the window at the slaughterhouse. "Henry, write down: 'It's the negotiator's conclusion that the stress and anxiety of the initial phase of the barricade have dissipated and subject Handy is calm and thinking rationally.' "

  "That makes one of us," said Frances Whiting, whose shaking hands spilled coffee on the floor of the van. Derek Elb, the red-haired trooper, gallantly dropped to hands and knees to clean up the mess.

  5:11 P.M.

  "What's he doing with Shannon?" Beverly signed, her chest rising and falling as she tried to breathe.

  Melanie leaned forward. Shannon's face was emotionless. She was signing and Melanie caught the name Professor X, the founder of the X-Men. Like Emily, the girl was summoning her guardian angels.

  Bear and Brutus were talking and she could see their lips. Bear gestured to Shannon and asked Brutus, "Why . . . giving them away?"

  "Because," Brutus answered patiently, "if we don't they'll break in the fucking door and . . . shoot us dead."

  Melanie scooted back, said, "She's just sitting there. She's all right. They're going to let her go."

  Everyone's face lit up.

  Everyone except Mrs. Harstrawn's.

  And Kielle's. Little Kielle, a blond, freckled bobcat. An eight-year-old with twenty-year-old eyes. The girl glanced impatiently at Melanie and turned away, bent down to the wall beside her, working away at something. What was she doing? Trying to tunnel her way out? Well, let her. It'll keep her out of harm's way.

  "I think I'm going to be sick," signed one of the twins, Suzie. Anna signed the same but then she usually echoed everything her very slightly older sister said.

  Melanie signed to them that they wouldn't be sick. Everything would be fine. She scooted over beside Emily, who was tearfully examining a rip in her dress. "You and I'll go shopping next week," Melanie signed. "Buy you new one."

  And that was when de I'Epee whispered in her useless ear. "The gas can," he said, and vanished immediately.

  Melanie felt the chill run down her back. The gas can, yes. She turned her head. It sat beside her, red and yellow, a big two-gallon one. She eased toward it, snapped closed the cover and the pressure hole cap. Then looked around the killing room for the other thing she'd need.

  There, yes.

  Melanie slid around to the front of the room, examined the back of the slaughterhouse. There were two doors--she could just make them out in the dimness. Which one led to the river? she wondered. She happened to glance down at the floor, where she'd written the messages in the dust about the hand-shape game. Squinting, she looked at the floor in front of each door--there was much less dust in front of the left. That's it--the river breeze blows through that one and has swept away the dust. Enough wind for there to be, just possibly, a window or door open far enough for a little girl to scoot through.

  Beverly choked and started a crying fit. She lay on her side, struggling for breath. The inhaler hadn't done her much good. Bear frowned and looked at her, called something.

  Shit. Melanie signed to Beverly, "It's hard, honey, but please be quiet."

  "Scared, scared."

  "I know. But it'll be all--"

  Oh, my God. Melanie's eyes went wide and her signing hands stopped in midword as she looked across the room.

  Kielle was holding the knife in front of her, an old hook-bladed knife. That's what she'd seen underneath a pile of trash; that's what she'd been digging out.

  Melanie shuddered. "No!" she signed. "Put it back."

  Kielle had murder in her gray eyes. She slipped the weapon into her pocket. "I'm going to kill Mr. Sinister. You can't stop me!" Her hands slashed the air in front of her as if she were already stabbing him.

  "No! Can't do it that way!"

  "I'm Jubilee! He can't stop me!"

  "That's character in comic book," Melanie's staccato hands shot out. "Not real!"

  Kielle ignored her. "Jubilation Lee! I'm going to blow him apart with plasmoids! He's going to die. No one can stop me!" She crawled through the door and disappeared through the shower of water tumbling from the ceiling.

  The huge main room of the Webber & Stoltz slaughterhouse, in the front portion of which were clustered the three convicts, had been a series of holding pens and walkways for the beasts that had died here. The space was now used for storing slaughterhouse equipment--butcher blocks, one-and three-bay decapitation guillotines, gutting machines, grinders, huge rendering vats.

  It was into this gruesome warehouse that Kielle disappeared, intending, it seemed, to circle around to the front wall, where the men lounged in front of the TV.

  No . . . .

  Melanie half-rose, looked at Bear--the only one of the three with a clear view of the killing room--and froze. He wasn't looking their way but he had only to turn his greasy head inches to see them. In a panic she looked over the main room. Caught a glimpse of Kielle's blond hair vanishing behind a column.

  Melanie eased closer to the doorway, still crouching. Brutus was at the window, beside Shannon, looking out. Bear started to glance toward the room but turned back to Stoat, who was laughing at something. Bear, stroking the shotgun he held, reared back and laughed, closing his eyes.

  Now. Do it.

  I can't.

  Do it, while he can't see you.

  A deep breath. Now. Melanie slipped out of the room and crawled under a rotting walkway, indented and bowed from a million hoofprints. She paused, looking through the cascade of tumbling water. Kielle . . . Where are you? You think you can stab him and just vanish? You and your damn comic books!

  She slipped through the water--it was freezing cold and slimy. Shivering in disgust, she made her way into the cavernous room.

  What would the girl do? Circle around, she supposed, come up behind him, stab him in the back. Past the machinery, rusting scraps of metal and rotting wood. Piles of chains and meat hooks, stained with blood and barbed with sharp bits of dried flesh. The vats were disgusting. From them emanated a sickening smell and Melanie couldn't rid her mind of the image of animals sinking down into simmering fat and fluid. She felt her gorge rising, started to retch.

  No! Be quiet! The least sound'll tell them you're here.

  She struggled to control herself, dropping to her knees to breathe the cool moist air from the floor.

  Glancing under the legs of a large guillotine, its angular blade rusty and pitted, Melanie saw the little girl's shadow across the room as she scrambled from one column to another.

  Melanie started forward quickly. And got only two feet before she felt the numbing thud of her shoulder running into a piece of steel pipe, six feet long, resting against a column. It began a slow fall to the floor.

  No!

  Melanie flung her arms around the pipe. It must have weighed a hundred pounds.

  I can'
t hold it, can't stop it!

  The pipe fell faster, pulling her after it. Just as her grip was about to go she dropped to the floor, rolled under the rusty metal, and took the impact of it on her tensed stomach muscles. She gasped at the pain that surged through her body, praying that the wind and the cascade of water made enough noise to cover the grunting from her throat. She lay stunned for a long moment.

  Finally she managed to ease out from underneath the pipe and roll it to the floor--silently, she hoped.

  Oh, Kielle, where are you? Don't you understand? You can't kill them all. They'll find us, they'll kill us. Or Bear'll take us into the back of the factory. Haven't you seen his eyes? Don't you know what he wants? No, you probably don't. You don't have a clue--

  She risked a look toward the front of the room. The attention of the men was mostly turned toward the TV. Occasionally Bear glanced at the killing room but didn't seem to notice that two of the captives were missing.

  Glancing again beneath the legs of the machinery, Melanie caught a glimpse of blond hair. There she was, Kielle, making her way inexorably toward the three men near the window. Crawling, a smile on her face. She probably did think she could kill all three.

  Struggling to catch her breath from the blow of the pipe, Melanie scrabbled down a corridor, hid behind a rusted column. She turned the corner and saw the blond girl, only twenty or thirty feet from Brutus, whose back was to her as he continued to gaze out the window. His hand casually gripping Shannon's collar. If any one of the three men had stood and walked toward the girl, they'd only have to look down over one of the large vats, which lay on its side, to see her.

  Kielle was tensing. About to leap over the vat and charge Brutus.

  Melanie thought, Should I just let her do it? What is the worst that would happen? She'd get a few feet toward them, Bear would see her, take the knife away. They'd slap her once or twice, shove her back into the killing room.

  Why should I risk my life? Risk Bear's hands on me? Risk Brutus's eyes?

  But then Melanie saw Susan. Saw the dot appearing on her back and the puff of black hair, like smoke, rise up.

  She saw Bear looking over Emily's boyish body, grinning.

  Shit.

  Melanie pulled her black shoes off, pushed them under a metal table. She started to sprint. Flat out, down the narrow corridor, dodging overhanging hunks of metal and rods and pipes, leaping over a piece of butcher block.

  Just as Kielle stood and reached for the top of the vat Melanie tackled her. One hand around her stomach, the other around her mouth. They went down hard and knocked into the hinged lid of a vat, which slammed closed.