A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  Stay calm, Potter told himself. He's playing you again. He tamped down his own rage, which mimicked Handy's.

  "She's into some sick stuff, Art. One of them S&M pups, looks like. She'll learn, she'll learn. You've got 'bout ten minutes, Art. I don't hear that chopper overhead we're gonna do some nine-millimeter plastic surgery on this here girl. Now I want that fucking helicopter. You got it?"

  "We have to bring one in from Topeka. There--"

  "There's a goddamn airport three miles west of here. Why the fuck don't you bring one in from there?"

  "You said you--"

  "Ten minutes."

  Click.

  Potter closed his eyes and sighed.

  "Angie?"

  "I think we have a problem," the psychologist answered. "He wants to hurt her."

  This was a real setback. Potter could probably have gotten an extension of the deadline from a Lou Handy who was in a good frame of mind and in control. Vindictive Lou Handy, embarrassed and angry Lou Handy, wasn't inclined to give them anything and was now in the mood for bloodshed.

  Oh, Melanie, why couldn't you have just left well enough alone? (Yet what else did he feel? Pride that she had the guts to resist Hardy when he tried to beat her for saving Kielle? Admiration? And what else?)

  Angie's beautiful, exotic face was frowning.

  "What is it?" Budd asked her.

  "What Handy was saying about plastic surgery. What does he mean?"

  "He doesn't want to kill anyone else just yet, I think," Potter said slowly. "He's worried that he's losing too many hostages and we haven't given him anything substantive. So he's going to wound her. Maybe blind her in one eye."

  "Lord," Budd whispered.

  Tobe called, "Arthur, I'm picking up scrambled signals from nearby."

  "What frequency?"

  "What megahertz, you mean?"

  "I don't care about the numbers. Whose would they be?"

  "It's an unassigned frequency."

  "Two-way?"

  "Yep. And they're retrosignals."

  Some operations are so secret that the law enforcers' radios use special coordinated scramblers that change the code every few seconds. Derek confirmed that the state police radios didn't have this feature.

  "How nearby?"

  "Within a mile radius."

  "Press?"

  "They don't usually use scramblers but it could be."

  Potter couldn't waste time on this now. He made a fist and stared out the window through the Leicas. He saw Melanie's blond hair, the black speck of the pistol. Struggling to keep his voice calm, he said, "Well, Charlie . . . you thought any more about what kind of imaginary batteries he wants for his toy?"

  Budd lifted his hands helplessly. "I can't think. I . . . I just don't know." Panic edged into his voice. "Look at the time!"

  "Henry?"

  LeBow scrolled slowly through the now-lengthy profile of Louis Handy. To nervous Charlie Budd he said, "The more urgent the task, Captain, the more slowly you should perform it. Let's see, there was a lot of grand theft auto when he was a kid. Maybe he's into cars. Should we push that button?"

  "No. Charlie's got a point. Let's think about something having to do with his escape."

  "What else does he spend his money on?" Angie asked.

  "Not much. Never owned property. Never knocked over a jewelry store . . . ."

  "Any interests?" Potter wondered.

  Angie said suddenly, "His probation reports. You have those in there?"

  "I've scanned them in."

  "Read them. See if he's ever asked permission to leave a jurisdiction and why."

  "Good, Angie," Potter said.

  Keys tapped. "Okay. Yes, he has. Twice he left Milwaukee, where he was living following his release, to go fishing in Minnesota. Up near International Falls. And three times up to Canada. Returned all times without incident." LeBow squinted. "Fishing. That reminds me of something . . . ." He typed in a search request. "Here, a prison counselor's report. He likes to fish. Loves it. Worked up merit points for a leave to a trout stream on the grounds at Pennaupsut State Pen."

  Potter thought, Minnesota. His home state. Land of a Thousand Lakes. Canada.

  Budd--standing tall with his perfect posture--continued to fidget. "Oh, brother." He looked at his watch twice, five seconds apart.

  "Please, Charlie."

  "We've got seven minutes!"

  "I know. You had the brainstorm. What was in your mind?"

  "I don't know what I meant!"

  Potter was staring at Melanie once again. Stop it, he ordered. Forget about her. He sat up suddenly. "Got it. He likes to fish and has a fondness for the north?"

  "Right," Budd said. Asking, in effect, So what?

  But LeBow understood. He nodded. "You're a poet, Arthur."

  "Thank Charlie here. He got me thinking of it."

  Budd looked merely perplexed.

  "Five minutes," Tobe called.

  "We're going to cut a phony escape deal," Potter said quickly, pointing to the "Deceptions" half of the board. LeBow rose to his feet, grabbed the marker. Potter thought for a moment. "Handy's going to want to check what I tell him. He's going to call the FAA regional headquarters. Where is that, Charlie?"

  "Topeka."

  To Tobe, Potter said, "I want an immediate routing of all calls into the main FAA number sent to that phone right there." He pointed to a console phone. It would be an arduous task, Potter knew, but without a word Tobe set to work pushing buttons and speaking urgently into his headset mike.

  "No," Budd protested. "There's no time. Just give him that number. How will he know it's not the FAA?"

  "Too risky if he checks." Potter picked up the phone and hit redial.

  An enthusiastic voice answered, "Yo."

  "Lou?"

  "Hello, Art. My ears're peeled but I don't hear no chopper. You see my girlfriend here in the window?"

  "Say, Lou," Potter said calmly, looking into the window. "I've got a proposition for you."

  "Ten, nine, eight . . ."

  "Listen--"

  "Hey, Art, I just had a thought. Maybe this is your way of doing something bad. Maybe you are a son of a bitch."

  "The chopper's just about ready."

  "And this here girl is just about bleedin'. She's crying a stream, Art. I've had it. I've just fucking had it with you people. You don't take me seriously." He raged, "You don't do what I fucking want!"

  Angie leaned forward. Charlie Budd's lips moved in a silent prayer.

  "All right, Lou," Potter growled. "I know you'll shoot her. But you know I'll let you do it."

  Static filled the van.

  "Hear me out at least."

  "By my clock I'll hear you out for another minute or two."

  "Lou, I've been working on this for an hour. I didn't want to say anything until it was in place but I'll tell you anyway. It's almost done."

  Let the anticipation build up.

  "Well, what? Tell me."

  "Give me another hour, don't hurt the girl, and I'll get you a priority FAA-cleared flight plan into Canada."

  Silence for a second.

  "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "You can deal with the FAA directly. We'll never know where you go."

  "But the pilot will."

  "The pilot'll have handcuffs for himself and the hostages. You set down wherever you want in Canada, disable the chopper and the radio, and you'll be gone hours before we find them."

  Silence.

  Potter looked at Tobe desperately, eyebrows raised. The young man, sweating heavily, exhaled long and mouthed, "Working on it."

  "We'll stock the chopper with food and water. You want backpacks, hiking boots? Hell, Lou, we'll even give you fishing rods. This is a good deal. Don't hurt her. Give us another hour and you'll get the clearance."

  "Lemme think."

  "I'll get the name of the FAA supervisor and call you right back."

  Click.

  Unflappable Tobe gazed
at his inert dials then hit the console with his fist and said, "Where the fuck is our transfer?"

  Potter folded his hands together and stared out the window at the configuration that was Melanie Charrol--tiny glowing shapes of color and light, like pixels on a TV screen.

  Captain Dan Tremain leaned forward, pushing aside a branch, silent as snow.

  From this angle he could just see the corner of the window in which the young woman was being held. Tremain was one of the best sniper shots in the HRU and often regretted that his command position didn't give him the chance to strap up a Remington and, with the aid of his spotter, acquire and neutralize a target eight hundred, a thousand yards away.

  But tonight was a door-entry operation. Snipers would be useless and so he turned his thoughts from the vague target in the window to the job at hand.

  Tremain's watch showed seven. "Deadline," he said. "Outrider One. Report."

  "Charge loaded in generator."

  "Await green-light command."

  "Roger."

  "Outrider Two, report."

  "The subjects are all in the main room, hostages are unattended, except for the woman in the window."

  "Roger," Tremain said. "Teams A and B, status?"

  "Team A to home base. Loaded and locked."

  "Team B, loaded and locked."

  Tremain chocked his foot against a rock and eased to one knee. Eyes on Handy. He looked like a sprinter waiting for the gun--which was exactly what he would become in a matter of minutes.

  "Done," Tobe called.

  He added, "Theoretically, at least."

  Potter wiped his palm. He transferred the phone to his other hand, then called Handy back and said the helicopter clearance was arranged. He gave him the number of the FAA office.

  "What'sa name?" Handy growled. "Who should I talk to?"

  Potter said, "Don Creswell." It was the name of his cousin-in-law Linden's husband. LeBow scrawled it on the nearly filled "Deceptions" board.

  "We'll see, Art. I'll call you back. The girl stays right beside me and my big G till I'm satisfied."

  Click.

  Potter spun around and looked at Tobe's screen. He said, "It'll have to be you, Henry. He knows my voice."

  LeBow grimaced. "I could have used time to prepare, Arthur."

  "So could we all."

  A moment later Tobe said, "Uplink from slaughterhouse . . . . Not coming here . . . digits . . . . one, nine-one-three, five-five-five, one-two-one-two. Topeka directory assistance."

  They heard Handy's voice ask for the number of the FAA regional office. The operator gave it to him. Potter exhaled in relief. Budd said, "You were right. He didn't trust you."

  "Uplink terminated," Tobe whispered unnecessarily. "Uplink from slaughterhouse to Topeka, downlink transfer from trunk line to . . ." He pointed to the phone on the desk, and it began to ring. "Curtain up."

  LeBow took a deep breath and nodded.

  "Wait," Budd said urgently. "He'll be expecting a secretary or receptionist."

  "Damn," Potter spat out. "Of course. Angie?"

  She was the closest to the phone.

  Third ring. Fourth.

  She nodded brusquely, snatched up the receiver. "Federal Aviation Administration," she said breezily. "May I help you?"

  "I wanta talk to Don Creswell."

  "One moment please. Who's calling?"

  A laugh. "Lou Handy."

  She clapped her hand to the mouthpiece and whispered, "What's hold?"

  Tobe took the phone from her and tapped it with a fingernail, then handed it to LeBow. Potter winked at her.

  Again LeBow inhaled and said, "Creswell here."

  "Hey, Don. You don't know me."

  A brief pause. "This is that fellow the FBI called me about? Louis Handy?"

  "Yeah, this's that fellow. Tell me, is this bullshit he's feeding me? It is, isn't it?"

  Pudgy, benign Henry LeBow snapped, "Well, sir, I'll tell you, it's more bullshit for me. 'Cause frankly it's making my life pure hell. I got sixty planes an hour coming into our airspace and this's going to mean rerouting close to three-quarters of them. And that's just the commercial flights. I told the agent no way at first but he's a grade-A pain in the ass, and a FBI pain in the ass to boot. He told me he'd fuck up my life royal if I don't do exactly what you want. So, yeah, it's bullshit but, yeah, I'm going to give him what he asked for."

  "What the fuck is that, exactly?"

  "Didn't he tell you? An M-4 priority airspace clearance straight into western Ontario."

  Good job, Henry, Potter thought, his eyes on Melanie's silhouette.

  "A what?"

  "It's the highest priority there is. It's reserved for Air Force One and visiting heads of state. We call it 'papal clearance' because it's what the Pope gets. Now listen, you might want to write this down. What you have to do is make sure the helicopter pilot shuts off the transponder. He'll point it out to you and you can shut it off or smash it or whatever, and we won't be able to track you on radar."

  "No radar?"

  "That's part of the M-4. We do that so radar-seeking missiles can't lock onto a dignitary's jet."

  "The transponder. I think I heard about them. How long do we have?"

  LeBow looked at Potter, who held up eight fingers.

  "We can keep the airspace open for eight hours. After that there's too much commercial traffic and we'd have to rewrite the airspace requirements."

  "Okay. Do it."

  "It's being done. It'll be effective in, let me see . . ."

  Potter held up two fingers.

  "About two hours."

  "Fuck that. One hour tops, or I kill this pretty little thing next to me."

  "Oh, my God. Are you seri--? Well, sure. One hour. But I need a full hour. Only please, mister, don't hurt anybody."

  Handy's cold chuckle came through the speaker. "Hey, Don, lemme ask you a question."

  "Sure."

  "You in Topeka right now?"

  Silence in the room.

  Potter's head turned away from the window, stared at LeBow.

  "Sure am."

  Potter snapped his fingers and pointed to LeBow's computer. The intelligence officer's eyes went wide and he nodded. He punched silent buttons. The message came on: "Loading Encyclopedia." The words blinked repeatedly.

  "Topeka, huh?" Handy said. "Nice place?"

  Loading . . . loading . . .

  Come on, Potter thought desperately. Come on!

  "I like it."

  The screen went blank; at last a colorful logo appeared. LeBow typed madly.

  "How long you been there?"

  How calm Handy sounds, Potter reflected. Holding a gun to a girl's eye and he's still working all the angles, cool as can be.

  "About a year," LeBow ad-libbed. "You work for Uncle Sam, they move you around a lot." He typed rapidly. His fingers stopped. An error message appeared. "Invalid Search Request."

  The more urgent the task . . .

  He started again. Finally a map and text appeared and in the corner of the screen a color photo of a skyline.

  "Imagine they do. Like that FBI agent who called you. Andy Palmer. He must move a bunch too."

  LeBow took a breath to answer but Potter scrawled on a sheet of paper, "Don't respond to name."

  "Hell, I'd guess so."

  "That is his name, right? Andy?"

  "I think so. I don't remember. He just told me the code that let me know it was a real call."

  "You got codes? That you use like spies?"

  "You know, sir, I really oughta get on this project for you."

  "What's that river there?"

  "In Topeka, you mean?"

  "Yeah."

  LeBow leaned forward and read the blurb about the city. "The Kaw, you mean. The Kansas River. The one cuts the town in half?"

  "Yeah. That's it. Used to go fishing there. Had a uncle lived in that old neighborhood. It was all la-di-da, fancy old houses. Cobblestoned roads, you know."

 
; Henry LeBow was sitting so far forward he was in danger of tumbling off his chair. He read frantically. "Oh, Potwin Place. He's a lucky man, your uncle. Nice houses. But the streets aren't cobblestoned, they're brick." The agent's bald head glistened with silver beads of sweat.

  "What's your favorite restaurant there?"

  A pause.

  "Denny's. I have six children."

  "You son of a bitch," Handy growled.

  Click.

  "Downlink terminated," Tobe called.

  LeBow, hands shaking, stared at the phone.

  Four heads jammed into the window.

  "Did it work?" Frances muttered.

  No one ventured a guess. Only Charlie Budd said anything and the most he dared utter was "Oh, brother."

  "Home base to Outrider Two."

  "Outrider Two," whispered Lieutenant Joey Wilson, standing just beneath the window of the slaughterhouse, in the shadow of the school bus.

  "Positions of subjects?"

  The trooper lifted his blackened face quickly, glanced inside, then dropped down again.

  "Two takers in the main room by the window, Handy's got a gun on one hostage. A Glock. Right against her head. Can't tell if it's cocked. Wilcox doesn't have a weapon in his hands but's got a Glock in his belt. Bonner's got a Mossberg semiauto twelve-gauge. But he's thirty feet from the hostage room. It's a good scenario. Except for the girl in the window."

  "Can you take out Handy?"

  "Negative. He's behind pipes. Have no clear shot. Bonner keeps going back and forth. Maybe I can acquire him. I don't know."

  "Stand by."

  They were well past deadline now. Handy could shoot the poor woman at any moment.

  "Outrider One? Report."

  "Outrider One. I'm at the generator. Charge is armed."

  Lord, let us not fail, Tremain thought, and took a deep breath.

  "Outrider One?" Tremain called to Pfenninger, whom he pictured beside the command van's generator, the detonating cord to the L-210 in his hand.

  "Outrider One here."

  "Code word--"

  "Outrider Two to home base!" Wilson's energetic voice cut through the airwaves. "Hostage is safe. Repeat. Outrider Two to home base. Subject Handy is standing down. He's put his weapon away. Subject Bonner's taking the girl back to the room with the rest of the hostages."

  Tremain looked. The girl was being pulled out of the window.

  "Subject Bonner has left her in the hostage room and has returned to the front of the factory."

  "Code word Stallion," Tremain said. "All outriders, all teams, Stallion, Stallion, Stallion. Confirm transmission."