A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  It wasn't until they'd been cuffed and patted down that Arthur Potter realized the barricade was over. He'd escaped, alive and unhurt.

  And had once again read Handy wrong.

  Potter returned to Budd, D'Angelo, and Foster. Told the HRT commander to radio the agents taking the two convicts into custody with orders on how to handle them. Potter remembered that Wilcox was the cowboy in the group, more impulsive than the others. He'd ordered him shackled around the waist as well as cuffed but told them not to do so with Handy. Potter knew Lou would be more willing to cooperate if he retained at least a little control.

  Other agents appeared silently and covered the two men. They pulled them to their feet and frisked them again, more carefully, then quickly led them into a gully and hurried them away from the slaughterhouse.

  Then the lights went on inside.

  A long, long moment of silence, though it was probably just seconds.

  Where is she?

  "Go ahead," D'Angelo said into his mike. He listened for a minute then said to Potter, "It's secure. No other takers. No traps. There was something rigged in the room but it's been dismantled."

  The others rose to their feet too and watched Handy's progress as he approached up the gully.

  "And the hostages?" Potter asked urgently.

  D'Angelo listened. He said aloud, "Bonner's dead."

  Yes, yes, yes?

  "And they found two female hostages. One, white, late thirties. Conscious but incoherent."

  For chrissake, what about--

  "Second one, white, age mid-twenties. Also conscious." D'Angelo winced. "Seriously hurt, he says."

  No. Oh, my God.

  "What?" Potter cried. "What happened to her?" The negotiator lifted his own radio and cut into the channel. "How is she? The younger woman?"

  The HRT agent inside said, "Handy must've really done a number on her, sir."

  "How bad?" Potter said furiously. Budd and D'Angelo stared at him. Handy was approaching, two agents on either side. Potter found he couldn't look at him.

  The agent inside said into the radio, "Well, sir, she doesn't look that badly hurt but the thing is he must've beat the hell out of her. She can't hear a word we're saying."

  The surrender had happened so fast he'd forgotten to tell the tactical agents Melanie was deaf.

  D'Angelo said something to him and so did Charlie Budd but Potter didn't hear, so loud was his manic, hysterical laughter. Sharon Foster and nearby troopers looked at him uneasily. Potter supposed, without caring, that he sounded like the crazy old man that he was.

  "Lou."

  "Art, you don't look nothing like what I thought. You do have to lose a few pounds."

  Handy stood behind the van, hands cuffed behind him. Sharon Foster was nearby, looking over the prisoners. When Handy glanced at her body, grinning, she stared back contemptuously. Potter knew that after a hard negotiation, particularly one in which there'd been a killing, you felt an urge to insult or belittle your enemy. Potter controlled it himself but she was younger and more emotional. She sneered at Handy, walked away. The convict laughed and turned back to Potter.

  "Your picture doesn't do you justice," the negotiator said to him.

  "Fuckers never do."

  As always, after a surrender, the hostage taker appeared minuscule compared with the image in Potter's mind. Handy's features were hard and compact, his face lean and lined and pale. He knew Handy's height and weight but still he was surprised at how diminished he seemed.

  Potter scanned the crowd for Melanie. He didn't see her. Troopers, firemen, medics, and Stillwell's now-disbanded containment force were milling about outside the slaughterhouse. The car and the school bus and the processing plant itself were of course crime scenes and since by agreement this was technically now a state operation Budd had formally arrested Handy and Wilcox and was trying to preserve the site for the forensic teams.

  Where is she?

  There was a brief incident when Potter arrested Handy on federal charges. Handy's eyes went cold. "What the fuck is this?"

  "I'm just preserving our rights," Potter said. SAC Henderson explained that it was a mere technicality, and Roland Marks too confirmed that everyone would adhere to the written agreement, though Potter had a bad moment when he thought Marks was going to take a swing at the convict. The assistant AG muttered, "Fucking child killer," and stormed off. Handy laughed at his receding back.

  Shep Wilcox, grinning, looked around, disappointed, it seemed, there were no reporters present.

  The older teacher, Donna Harstrawn, was brought out on a gurney. Potter went to her and walked alongside the medics. He looked at one of the techs, eyebrow raised. "She'll be okay," the young man whispered. "Physically, I mean."

  "Your husband and children are at the Days Inn," he told her.

  "It was . . ." she began, and fell silent. Shook her head. "I can't see anyone now. Please. No . . . I don't ever . . ." Her words dissolved, incoherent.

  Potter squeezed her arm and stopped walking, watched them carry her up the hill to the waiting ambulance.

  He turned back to the slaughterhouse just as Melanie Charrol was being escorted out. Her blond hair in disarray. She too--like Handy--seemed smaller than Potter expected. He started forward but paused. Melanie hadn't seen him; she was walking quickly, her eyes on Donna Harstrawn. Her clothes were dark--gray skirt, black stockings, burgundy blouse--but it seemed to Potter that they were saturated with blood.

  "What's all that blood on her?" he asked one of the HRT agents who'd been inside.

  "Not hers," came the response. "Bonner's probably. Man bled out like a gutted twelve-point buck. You want to debrief her?"

  He hesitated.

  "Later," he said. But in his mind the word was more of a question and the answer was unknown.

  Detective Sharon Foster strode up to Potter and shook his hand.

  " 'Night, Agent Potter."

  "Thanks for everything," he said evenly.

  "Piece of cake." She jabbed a blunt finger at him. "Hey, great job with that surrender. Smooth as silk." Then wheeled and returned to her squad car, leaving Potter standing alone. His face burned like that of a rookie dressed down by a tough training sergeant.

  Angie Scapello returned momentarily from the Days Inn to collect her bags and say goodbye to Potter and the others. She still had some work ahead of her at the motel, where she would debrief the hostages further and make sure they and their families had the names of therapists who specialized in post-traumatic stress syndrome.

  Budd and D'Angelo hitched a ride with Angie to the rear staging area. Potter and two troopers escorted the takers back to the van. Squad cars waited nearby to take them to the state police troop HQ ten miles away.

  "Had yourself a fire, looks like," Handy said, looking over the black scorch marks. "You ain't gonna blame that on me, I hope?"

  As he gazed at the convict Potter was aware of a man approaching from the shadows of a gully. He paid little mind since there were dozens of troopers milling about. But there was something purposeful about the man's stride, too quick and direct for him to be passing through the crowd casually. He was heading directly for Potter.

  "Weapon!" Potter cried as Dan Tremain, twenty feet away, began to lift the gun.

  Wilcox and the trooper holding him dove to the ground, as did the second escort trooper, leaving only Handy and Potter standing. Within easy pistol range.

  Handy, smiling, turned to face Tremain. Potter drew his own gun, pointed it at the HRU commander, and stepped in front of Handy.

  "No, Captain," the agent said firmly.

  "Get out of the way, Potter."

  "You're already in enough trouble."

  The gun in Tremain's hand exploded. Potter felt the bullet snap past his head. He heard Handy laughing.

  "Get out of the way!"

  "Do it," Handy whispered in Potter's ear. "Pull the trigger. Waste the fucker."

  "Shut up!" the agent barked. Around them four or fi
ve troopers had pulled their sidearms and were sighting on Tremain. No one knew what to do.

  Or wanted to do what they knew they should.

  "He's mine," Tremain said.

  "It's legal," Handy whispered. "Kill him, Art. You want to anyway. You know you do."

  "Quiet!" Potter shouted. And yet suddenly he understood that Handy was right. He did want to. And what's more, he felt that he had permission--to kill the man who'd nearly burnt his Melanie to death.

  "Do it," Handy urged. "You're dying to."

  "This'll bring you nothing but grief, Dan," Potter said slowly, ignoring his prisoner. "You don't want to do this."

  "There you go, Art. Telling people what they want to do. I'll tell you what you want to do. You want to shoot the prick. Man almost got your girlfriend killed. She is your gal, isn't she, Art? Mel-a-nie?"

  "Shut your damn mouth!"

  "Do it, Art. Shoot him!"

  Tremain fired again. Potter cringed as the bullet streaked past his face and dug a chunk out of the slaughterhouse.

  The captain steadied the gun, seeking a target.

  And Arthur Potter spread his arms, sheltering the man who was his prisoner. And--yes, Charlie, who was his friend.

  "Do something bad," Handy whispered in a smooth, reassuring voice. "Just step aside a inch or two. Let him kill me. Or you shoot him."

  Potter turned. "Will you--?"

  Several FBI agents had drawn guns and were shouting for Tremain to drop his weapon. The state troopers were silently rooting for the HRU commander.

  Potter thought: Handy had almost killed Melanie.

  Just step aside a few inches.

  And Tremain had nearly killed her too.

  Shoot. Go ahead.

  Handy whispered, "He'd had his way, Art, your girlfriend'd have third-degree burns over most of her body now. Her hair and tits all burned up. Even you wouldn't want to fuck somebody like--"

  Potter spun, his fist lashing out. It drove into Handy's jaw. The prisoner reeled back and landed on the ground. Tremain, now only ten feet away, aimed once more at the man's chest.

  "Drop the gun," Potter commanded, spinning around and stepping forward. "Drop it, Dan. Your life isn't over with yet. But it will be if you pull that trigger. Think about your family." He remembered the ring he'd seen on Tremain's finger. He said softly, "God doesn't want to waste you over somebody as worthless as Handy."

  The pistol wavered, dropped to the ground.

  Without looking at Potter or Handy again, Tremain walked over to Charlie Budd and held his hands out for the cuffs. Budd looked over his fellow officer, seemed about to say something but chose to remain silent.

  As he scrambled to his feet Handy said, "You missed a good bet, Art. Not many people have the chance to waste somebody and--"

  Potter had him by the hair, and the pistol's muzzle drove up under Handy's stubbled jaw.

  "Not a single word."

  Handy reared back, breathing hard. He looked away first, truly scared. But only for a moment. Then he laughed. "You're a real piece of work, Art. Yessir. Let's get it over with. Book me, Dano."

  MIDNIGHT

  Arthur Potter was alone.

  He looked at his hands and saw they were quivering. Until the incident with Tremain they'd been rock solid. He took an imaginary Valium but it had no effect. He realized after a moment that his unease wasn't so much the aftermath of the showdown after all as an overwhelming sense of disappointment. He'd wanted to talk to Handy. Find out more about him, what made him tick.

  Why had he really killed Susan? What had he been thinking? What had happened in that room, the killing room?

  And what does he think about me?

  It was like watching the troopers escort a part of himself away. He gazed at the back of Handy's head, his shaggy hair. The man looked sideways, a hyena grin on his face. Potter caught a glimpse of an acute angle of jawbone.

  Be forewarned.

  He remembered his pistol. Unchambered the round and replaced it in the clip then holstered the gun. When he looked up again, the two squad cars bearing Wilcox and Handy were gone. At the moment it seemed like the perverse camaraderie between negotiator and taker would never fade. Part of him was heartsick to see the man go.

  Potter considered the work left to be done. There'd be an IR-1002 to write up. There'd be a debriefing tonight via phone with the operations director in the District and a live debriefing with the Admiral himself after the man had read the incident report. Potter ought to start preparing the presentation now. The Director liked his briefings to be as short as news bites, and real-life incidents rarely had the courtesy to line up so willingly. Potter had stopped into Peter Henderson's press conference but answered only a few questions before heading out the door, leaving the SAC to take as much credit and apportion as much blame as he wished; Potter didn't care.

  He'd also have to figure out how to deal with the aborted assault by the state HRU. Potter knew that Tremain never would have tried what he did without sanction from above--possibly even the governor's. But if that were the case, the chief executive of the state would already have distanced himself from the commander. He might even be planning a subtle offensive maneuver of his own--like the public crucifixion of one Arthur Potter. The agent would have to prepare a defense for that.

  And the other question--should he stay here for a few days? Return to Chicago? Return to the District?

  He stood not far from the scorched van, abandoned by the crowds of departing officers, waiting to see Melanie. He gazed at the slaughterhouse, wondering what he would say to her. He saw Officer Frances Whiting leaning against her car, looking as exhausted as he felt. He approached her.

  "Have time to give me a lesson?" he asked.

  "You bet."

  Ten minutes later they walked together to the hospital tent.

  Inside, Melanie Charrol sat on a low examining table. A medic had bandaged her neck and shoulders. Perhaps to help him she'd twisted her hair into a sloppy French braid.

  Potter stepped toward her and--as he'd told himself, had ordered himself, not to do--he spoke straight to the medic applying some Betadine to her leg, rather than to Melanie herself. "Is she all right?"

  Melanie nodded. She stared at him with an intense smile. The only time her eyes flicked away from his was when he spoke and she glanced at his lips.

  "It's not her blood," the medic said.

  "It's Bear's?" Potter asked.

  Melanie was laughing as she nodded. The smile remained on her face but he noticed that her eyes were hollow. The medic gave her a pill, which she took, then she drank down two glasses of water. The young man said, "I'll leave you alone for a few minutes."

  As he left, Frances stepped inside. The two women exchanged fast, abrupt signs. Frances said, "She's asking about the other girls. I'm giving her a rundown."

  Melanie turned back to Potter and was staring at him. He met her gaze. The young woman was still unnerved but--despite the bandages and blood--as beautiful as he'd expected. Incredible blue-gray eyes.

  He lifted his hands to sign to her what Frances had just taught him and his usually prodigious memory failed him completely. He shook his head at his lapse. Melanie cocked her head.

  Potter held up a finger. Wait. He lifted his hands again and froze once more. Then Frances gestured and he remembered. "I'm Arthur Potter," he signed. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "No, you are Charles Michel de l'Epee," Frances translated Melanie's signing.

  "I'm not that old." He was speaking now, smiling. "Officer Whiting here said he was born in the eighteenth century. How are you feeling?"

  She understood without a translation. Melanie waved at her clothes and gave a mock frown then signed. Frances translated, "My skirt and blouse have had it. Couldn't you have gotten us out just a little earlier?"

  "The movie-of-the-week people expect cliffhanger endings."

  And as with Handy he felt overwhelmed; there were a thousand things to ask her. None of which fou
nd their way from his mind to his voicebox.

  He stepped even closer to her. Neither moved for a moment.

  Potter thought of another sentence in ASL--words that Frances had taught him earlier in the evening. "You're very brave," he signed.

  Melanie looked pleased at this. Frances watched her sign but then the officer frowned and shook her head. Melanie repeated her words. To Potter, Frances said, "I don't understand what she means. What she said was, 'If you hadn't been with me I couldn't have done it.' "

  But he understood.

  He heard a chug of engine and turned to see a harvester. As he watched the ungainly vehicle he believed for a moment it was driving hordes of insects before it. Then he realized he was watching husks and dust thrown skyward by the thresher blades.

  "They'll do that all night," Frances translated.

  Potter looked at Melanie.

  She continued, "Moisture's critical. When conditions're right they run like nobody's business. They have to."

  "How do you know that?"

  "She says she's a farm girl."

  She looked straight into his eyes. He tried to believe that Marian had gazed at him thus so he could root this sensation in sentiment or nostalgia and have done with it. But he couldn't. The look, like the feeling it engendered, like this young woman herself, was an original.

  Potter recalled the final phrase that Frances had taught him. He hesitated then impulsively signed the words. As he did it seemed to him that he felt the hand shapes with absolute clarity, as if only his hands could express what he wanted to say.

  "I want to see you again," Potter signed. "Maybe tomorrow?"

  She paused for an endless moment then nodded yes, smiled.

  She reached out suddenly toward him and closed her hands on his arm. He pressed a bandaged hand against her shoulder. They stood in this ambiguous embrace for a moment then he lifted his fingers to her hair and touched the back of her head. She lowered her head and he his lips, nearly touching them to the thick blond plait. But suddenly he smelled the musky scent of her scalp, her sweat, latent perfume, blood. The smells of lovers coupling. And he could not kiss her.

  How young she is! And as he thought that, in one instant, his desire to embrace her vanished and his old man's fantasy--never articulated, hardly formed--blew away like the chaff shot from the thresher he'd been staring at.

  He knew he had to leave.

  Knew he'd never see her again.