A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  Inside the van D'Angelo, Potter, LeBow, and Budd looked over the architectural plans of the building and the terrain and SatSurv maps. "This is where the hostages are," Potter explained. "That was current as of an hour ago. And as far as we know the gas bomb is still rigged."

  LeBow searched for his description of the device and read it aloud.

  "And you're confident you'll get one more out?" the tactical agent asked.

  "We're buying her for fifty thousand."

  "The girl should be able to tell us if the trap's still set," D'Angelo said.

  "I don't think it matters," Potter said, looking at Angie, who nodded her agreement. "Bomb or no bomb, he'll nail the hostages. If he's got any time at all, one or two seconds, he'll shoot them or pitch a grenade in."

  "Grenade?" D'Angelo frowned. "Have a list of his weaponry?"

  LeBow had already printed one out. The HRT commander read through it.

  "He's got an MP-5? With scope and suppressor?" He shook his head in dismay.

  There was a knocking on the side of the van and a young HRT officer stepped into the doorway. "Sir, we've completed initial reconnaissance."

  "Go ahead." D'Angelo nodded at the map.

  "This door here is wood with steel facing. Looks like it's rigged already with cutting charges."

  D'Angelo looked at Potter.

  "Some enthusiastic state troopers. That's how he got the Heckler & Koch."

  D'Angelo nodded wryly, brushing his flamboyant mustache.

  The trooper continued, "There's another door on the south side, much thinner wood. There's a loading dock in the back, here, by the river. The door's open far enough to get a tunnel rat under if they strip. Couple of the smaller guys. Next to it's a smaller door, reinforced steel, rusted shut. There's a runoff pipe here, a twenty-four-incher, barred with a steel grille. Second-floor windows are all barred with three-eighths-inch rods. These three windows here aren't visible from the HTs' position. The roof is covered with five-sixteenths-inch steel plates and the elevator shaft is sealed. The shaft access door's metal and I estimate bang-to-bullets of twenty to thirty seconds if we go in that way."

  "Long time."

  "Yessir. If we do four-man entry on the two doors, covering fire from a window, and two men in from the loading dock, I estimate we could engage and secure in eight to twelve seconds."

  "Thanks, Tommy," D'Angelo said to his trooper. To Potter he added, "Not bad if it weren't for the trap." He asked Potter, "How Stockholmed is he?"

  "Hardly at all," Angie offered. "He claims the more he knows somebody the more inclined he is to kill them."

  D'Angelo's mustache received another stroke. "They good shots?"

  Potter said, "Let's just say they're cool under fire."

  "That's better'n being a good shot."

  "And they've killed cops," Budd said.

  "Both in firefights and as execution," Potter offered.

  "Okay," D'Angelo said slowly. "My feeling is we can't do an entry. Not with the risk of the gas bomb and grenades. And his frame of mind."

  "Have him walk to the chopper?" Potter asked. "It's right there." He tapped the map.

  D'Angelo gazed at the portion of the map showing the field and nodded. "Think so. We'll pull everybody back out of sight, let the takers and hostages walk through the woods here."

  Angie interrupted. "Handy'll pick his own route, don't you think, Arthur?"

  "You're right. He'll want to be in charge of that. And it probably won't be the straightest one."

  D'Angelo and Potter marked off four likely routes to get from the slaughterhouse to the chopper. LeBow drew them on the map. D'Angelo said, "I'll set up snipers in the trees here and here and here. Put the ground men in deep camouflage along all four routes. When the takers go by, the snipers'll acquire. Then we'll stun the whole group with smokeless. The agents on the ground'll grab the hostages and pull 'em down. The snipers'll take out the HTs if they show any threat. That sound okay to you?"

  Potter was staring down at the map.

  A moment passed.

  "Arthur?"

  "Yes, it sounds good, Frank. Very good."

  D'Angelo stepped outside to brief his agents.

  Potter looked at Melanie's picture and then sat down once more, staring out the window.

  "Waiting is the hardest, Charlie. Worse than anything."

  "I can see that."

  "And this is what you'd call your express barricade," Tobe offered, eyes on his dials and screens. " 'S'only been about eleven hours. That's nothing."

  Suddenly someone burst through the open doorway so quickly every law enforcer inside the van except Potter reached for weapons.

  Roland Marks stood in the doorway. "Agent Potter," he said coldly. "Do I understand you're going to take him down?"

  Potter looked past him at a tree bending in the wind. The breeze had picked up remarkably. It would bolster the lie about the river being too choppy to land a helicopter.

  "Yes, we are."

  "Well, I was just speaking to your comrade Agent D'Angelo. He shared with me a disturbing fact."

  Potter couldn't believe Marks. In the space of a few hours he'd nearly screwed up the negotiations twice and almost lost his life in the process. And here he was on the offensive again. The agent was a few seconds away from arresting him just to get the pushy man out of his life.

  Potter lifted an eyebrow.

  "That there's a fifty-fifty chance one of the hostages will die."

  Potter had assessed it at sixty-forty in the hostages' favor. But Marian had always chided him for being an incurable optimist. The agent rose slowly and stepped through the burnt doorway, motioning the attorney general after him. He took a tape cassette from his pocket, held it up prominently then put it back. Marks's eyes gave a flicker.

  "Was there anything else you wanted to say?" Potter asked.

  Marks's face suddenly softened but just for a moment, as if he recognized an apology forming in his throat and shot it dead. He said, "I don't want those girls hurt."

  "I don't either."

  "For God's sake, put him in a chopper, have him release the hostages. When he lands the Canadians can come down upon him like the proverbial Assyrians."

  "Oh, but he has no intention of going to Canada," Potter said impatiently.

  "I thought . . . But that special clearance you boys put together . . ."

  "Handy doesn't believe a word of that. And even if he did he knows we'd put a second transponder in the chopper. His plans are to head straight to Busch Stadium. Or wherever his TV tells him there's a big game tonight."

  "What?"

  "Or maybe a parking lot at the University of Missouri just as evening classes are letting out. Or McCormick Place. He'll land someplace where there'll be a huge crowd around. There's no way we can take him in a scenario like that. A hundred people could be killed."

  Understanding dawned in Marks's eyes. And whether he saw those lives jeopardized, or his career, or perhaps was seeing nothing more than the hopeless plight of his own poor daughter, he nodded. "Of course. Sure, he's the sort who'd do just that. You're right."

  Potter chose to read the concession as an apology and decided to let him be.

  Tobe pushed his head out of the doorway. "Arthur, I just got a phone call. It's that Kansas State detective Charlie told us about. Sharon Foster. She's on the line."

  Potter had doubts that Foster could help them. Introducing a new negotiator in a barricade can have unpredictable results. But one thing Potter had decided might be helpful was her gender. His impression of Handy was that he was threatened by men--the very fact that he'd gone to ground with ten female hostages suggested that he might listen to a woman without his defenses raised.

  Inside the van Potter leaned against the wall as he spoke. "Detective Foster? This is Arthur Potter. What's your ETA?"

  The woman said that she was proceeding under sirens and lights and should be at the incident site by ten-thirty, ten-forty. The voice was young and m
atter-of-fact and extremely calm, though she was probably doing a hundred miles an hour.

  "Look forward to it," Potter said, a little gruffly, and hung up.

  "Good luck," Marks said. He hesitated, as if thinking of something else he might say. He settled for "God save those girls" and left the van.

  "DEA's on the way," Tobe announced. "They've got the cash. Coming in by confiscated turbo helicopter. They get the best toys, those pricks."

  "Hey," Budd said, "they're bringing a hundred thousand, right?"

  Potter nodded.

  "Where're we gonna keep the fifty that we don't give him? That's a lot of cash to store."

  Potter held his finger to his lips. "We'll split it, Charlie, you and me."

  Budd blinked in shock.

  At last Potter winked.

  The captain laughed hard, as did Angie and Frances.

  Tobe and LeBow were more restrained. Those who knew Arthur Potter understood that he rarely made jokes. He tended to do so only when he was at his most nervous.

  10:01 P.M.

  The killing room had become cold as a freezer.

  Beverly and Emily huddled against Melanie as they all watched Mrs. Harstrawn lying ten feet away: eyes open, breathing, but otherwise dead as Bear, who still blocked the entrance to the room and whose body was sending three long fingers of black blood reaching slowly toward them.

  Beverly, air rasping into her lungs, as if she'd never breathe again, could not take her eyes off the streams.

  Something was going on in the other room. Melanie couldn't see clearly but it seemed that Brutus and Stoat were packing up--guns and bullets and the tiny TV set. They were walking through the large room, looking around. Why? It was as if they felt sentimental about the place.

  Maybe they were going to give up . . . .

  Then she thought, No way. They're going to get into that helicopter, drag us along with them, and escape. We'll live this same nightmare over and over and over again. Fly to someplace else. There'll be other hostages, other deaths. More dark rooms.

  Melanie found her hand once more at her hair, uneasily entwining a finger in the strands, which were now damp and filthy. No "shine" now. No light. No hope. She lowered her hand.

  Brutus strode into the room and gazed at Mrs. Harstrawn, looking down at her creased brow. He had that slight smile on his face, the smile Melanie had come to recognize and to hate. He pulled Beverly after him.

  "She's going home. Going home." Brutus pushed her out of the door of the killing room. He turned back, pulled a knife from his pocket, opened it, and cut the wire that had run to the canister of gasoline. He tied Melanie's hands behind her back and then her feet. Emily's too.

  Brutus laughed. "Tying your hands up--that's like gagging you too. How 'bout that?"

  Then he was gone, leaving the three remaining hostages.

  All right, she thought. The twins had done it; they would too. They'd get out by following the scent of the river. Melanie turned around, her back toward Emily's, offered her bound hands. The little girl understood and struggled with the knots. But it was useless; Emily admired long fingernails but had none of her own.

  Try harder, come on!

  Suddenly Melanie shivered as Emily's fingers dug deep into her wrists. She cringed as the little girl's hands tugged once desperately at her fingers then suddenly disappeared. Someone had the girl, was dragging her away!

  What's going on?

  Frowning, Melanie twisted around.

  Bear!

  His face bubbling with blood and twisting in rage, he pulled Emily to the wall. He shoved her against the tile. She fell, stunned. Melanie opened her mouth to scream but Bear lunged forward, stuffing a filthy rag into her mouth and clamping his bloody hand on her shoulder.

  Melanie fell backward. Bear's huge face dropped down onto her breast and kissed her, wet and bloody. She felt the moisture through her blouse. His blurry eyes looked over her body as she tried to spit the rag from her mouth. He pulled a knife from his pocket. He opened it with a bloody hand and his teeth.

  She tried to squirm away but he continued to clutch her breast. He rose up on one elbow and rolled off her. She kicked hard but her bound feet rose only an inch or two. A stream of blood poured from his slacks, where it had been pooling for the past hour, and covered her legs with the cold, thick liquid.

  Melanie, sobbing in terror, tried to push away from him, but he gripped the cloth over her breasts with a desperate strength. He threw his leg over her calves, pinning her to the ground as more blood cascaded over her.

  Please, help me. Somebody. De l'Epee . . . .

  Somebody! Please--

  Oh, no . . . . She shivered in horror. Not this. Please, no.

  He tugged her skirt above her waist with his knife hand. Yanked down her black tights. The knife started up along her thigh to her pink cotton panties.

  No! She tried to struggle away, her ears roaring from the effort. But there was no escape. His huge bulk lay upon her and dripped his heavy blood onto her legs. The blade touched her mound, cut through one seam of the underwear. Through the sparse hair between her legs she felt the cold steel and recoiled.

  A hideous grin on his face, he looked at her with icy disks of eyes. The metal sliced the other side of the panties. They fell away.

  Her vision grew dim. Don't faint! Don't lose your sight too!

  Pinned to the ground by his weight. Afraid to move anyway; the knife hovered an inch above her pink cleft, the faint hair, the pale skin.

  With his free hand Bear reached down to his crotch and unzipped. He coughed, spraying more blood upon her, spattering her chest and neck. As he reached in his pants the knife dipped and she groaned, nearly gagging on the rag, as the cold metal slipped in between her legs.

  Then the blade rose again as he guided his huge, glistening penis out. She struggled away from him but he let go of himself and once more grabbed her breast, holding her still.

  He rubbed against her leg, blood pouring off his twitching organ and running onto her bare thigh. He pressed against her skin once, twice, and then shifted his weight to move further along her body.

  And then . . .

  Then . . .

  Nothing.

  She was breathing faster than she believed possible, her chest trembling. Bear was frozen, eyes inches from hers, one hand on her chest, the other holding the blade, point down, poised between her legs, millimeters from her flesh.

  She spit the rag from her mouth, smelled his putrid stink, the rich, rusty smell of blood. Sucked in air.

  Felt the cold knife twitch against her skin once, twice, and then it went still.

  It took a full minute before she realized that he was dead.

  Melanie fought down the nausea, sure that she'd be sick. But then slowly the sensation passed. Her legs were numb; his bulk had cut off her circulation. She planted her bound hands firmly on the concrete beneath her and pushed. A huge effort. But the blood was slick, like fresh enamel, and she managed to slide several inches away from him. Try again. Then once more. Soon her legs were almost out from under him.

  One more time . . .

  Her feet popped out and came to rest exactly where he held the knife. Tensing her stomach muscles, she lifted her feet slightly and began sawing the wire against the steel blade of the knife.

  She glanced toward the doorway. No sign of Brutus or Stoat. Her stomach muscles screamed as she sawed against the wire.

  Finally . . . snap. It gave way. Melanie climbed to her feet. She kicked Bear's left hand once, then again. The blade fell to the ground. She kicked it to Emily. Gestured for her to pick it up. The little girl sat up, crying silently. She looked at the knife, which was resting in a pool of blood, and shook her head no. Melanie responded with a fierce nod. Emily closed her eyes, turned, and groped in the slick red pool for the weapon. Finally she gripped it, wincing, and held the blade up. Melanie turned and began rubbing the wire binding her wrists against the blade. A few minutes later she felt the strands brea
k. She grabbed the knife and then cut Emily's wire as well.

  Melanie stole to the doorway. Brutus and Stoat were at the windows, looking away from the killing room. Beverly was standing by the door and Melanie could see a trooper approaching with an attache case. So they were exchanging the girl for something. With luck, they'd be busy for some minutes--long enough for Melanie and the others to get to the dock.

  Melanie bent over Mrs. Harstrawn, who was now soaked in Bear's blood. The woman stared at the ceiling.

  "Come on," Melanie signed. "Get up."

  The teacher didn't move.

  "Now!" Melanie signed emphatically.

  Then the woman signed words Melanie had never seen before in ASL. "Kill me."

  "Get up!"

  "Can't. You go."

  "Come on." Melanie's hands stabbed the air. "No time!" She slapped the woman, tried to pull her to her feet; the teacher was dead weight.

  Melanie grimaced in disgust. "Come on. Or I'll have to leave you!"

  The teacher shook her head and closed her eyes. Melanie put the knife, still open, into the pocket of her skirt and, pulling Emily by the hand, slipped out of the doorway. They stepped into the door leading to the back of the slaughterhouse and vanished through the dim corridors.

  Lou Handy looked at the cash, a surprisingly small pile for that much money, and said, "We should've thought of this before. Every little bit helps."

  Wilcox looked out the window. "How many snipers you think they got on us?"

  "Oh . . . lessee . . . 'bout a hundred. And with us nailing that trooper of theirs, they've probably got one'r two ready to shoot away and pretend they didn't hear the order not to."

  "I always thought you'd be a good sniper, Lou."

  "Me? Naw, I'm too, you know, impatient. I knew some of 'em in the service. You know what you do mosta the time? You gotta lie on your belly for a couple, three days 'fore you can make one shot. Not move a muscle. What's the fun of that?"

  He flashed back to his days in the military. They seemed both easier and harder than life on the run, and very similar to life in prison.

  "The shooting'd be fun, though."

  "I'll give you that . . . . Oh, fucking hell!"

  He'd glanced at the back of the slaughterhouse and saw bloody footprints leading out of the room where the girls had been.

  "Shit," Wilcox spat out.

  Lou Handy was a man driven by positive forces, he truly believed. He rarely lost his temper and, yes, he was a murderer but when he killed he killed for expediency but hardly ever from rage.