Budd held up several pads of paper and the markers Derek had provided. "Should we include these?"
Potter considered. The pads and pens would give the hostages a chance to communicate with their captors and improve the Stockholming between them. But sometimes small deviations from what they expected set off HTs. The inhaler was one deviation. How would Handy feel about a second? He asked Angie's opinion.
"He may be a sociopath," she said after a moment. "But he hasn't had any temper tantrums or emotional outbursts, has he?"
"No. He's been pretty cool."
In fact he'd been frighteningly calm.
"Sure," Angle said, "add them."
"Dean, Charlie," Potter said, "come here a minute." The sheriff and the captain huddled. "Who're the best rifle shots you've got?"
"That'd be Sammy Bullock and – what do you think? Chris Felling? That's Christine. I'd say she's better'n Sammy. Dean?"
"If I was a squirrel sitting four hundred yards away from Chrissy and I saw her shoulder her piece, I wouldn't even bother to run. I'd just kiss my be-hind goodbye."
Potter wiped his glasses. "Have her load and lock and get a spotter with glasses to keep a watch on the door and windows. If it looks like Handy or one of the others is about to shoot, she's green-lighted to fire. But she's to aim for the doorjamb or windowsill."
"I thought you said there'd be no warning shots," Budd said.
'That's the rule," Potter said sagely. "And it's absolutely true – unless there's an exception to it."
"Oh."
"Go on and take care of that, Dean."
"Yessir." The sheriff hurried away, crouching.
Potter returned to Gates. "Okay, Trooper. Ready?"
Frances said to the young man, "Can I say 'Good luck'?"
"Please do," Gates said earnestly. Budd patted him on his Kevlared shoulder.
Melanie Charrol knew many Bible-school stories.
The lives of the Deaf used to be tied closely with religion, and many of them still were. The poor lambs of God… pat them on the head and force them to learn enough speech to struggle through catechism and Eucharist and confession (always among themselves of course so they didn't embarrass the hearing congregation). Abbe de l'Epée, good-hearted and brilliant though he was, created French Sign Language primarily to make sure his charges' souls could enter heaven.
And of course vows of silence by monks and nuns, adopting the "affliction" of the unfortunate as penance. (Maybe thinking that they could hear God's voice all the better though Melanie could have told them it didn't work worth squat.)
She leaned against the tile walls of the killing room, as horrible a part of the Outside as ever existed. Mrs. Harstrawn lay on her side, ten feet away, staring at the wall. No tears any longer – she was cried out, dry, empty. The woman blinked, she breathed but she might as well have been in a coma. Melanie rose and lifted her leg away from a pool of black water encrusted with green scum and the splintered bodies of a thousand insects.
Religion.
Melanie hugged the twins, feeling their delicate spines through identical powder-blue cowgirl blouses. She sat down beside them, thinking of some story she'd heard in Sunday school. It was about early Christians in ancient Rome, awaiting martyrdom in the Colosseum. They had, of course, refused to deny their faith. Men and women, children, happily praying on their knees while the centurions came for them. The story was ridiculous, the product of a simple-minded textbook writer, and it seemed inexcusable to adult Melanie Charrol that anyone would include it in a children's book. Yet like the cheapest melodrama the story had wrenched her heart then, at age eight or nine. And it wrenched her heart still.
Staring at the distant light, losing herself in the pulsing meditation of the yellow bulb, growing, shrinking, growing, shrinking, seeing the light turn into Susan's face, then into a beautiful young woman's body torn apart by lions' yellow claws.
Eight gray birds, sitting in dark…
But no, it's just seven birds now.
Was Jocylyn about to die too? Melanie peeked around the corner, seeing the girl standing at a window. She was sobbing, shaking her head. Stoat had her by the arm. They stood near the partially open door.
Motion nearby. She turned her head – the automatic reaction of a deaf person to the movement of gesturing hands. Kielle had closed her eyes. Melanie watched her hands move in a repetitive pattern, confused about the girl's message until she realized that she was summoning Wolverine, another of her comic-book heros.
"Do something," Shannon signed. "Melanie!" Her tiny hands chopped the air.
Do something. Right.
Melanie thought of de l'Epée. She hoped the thought of him would restart her frozen heart. It didn't. She was as helpless as ever, staring at Jocylyn, who looked back toward the killing room and caught Melanie's eye.
"Going to kill me," Jocylyn signed, sobbing; her cheeks, round and pale as a honeydew, glistened from the tears. "Please, help."
The Outside…
"Melanie." Kielle's dark eyes flared. The girl had suddenly appeared beside her. "Do something!"
"What?" Melanie suddenly snapped. "Tell me. Shoot him? Grow wings and fly?"
"Then I will," Kielle said, and turned, bursting toward the men. Without thinking, Melanie leapt after her. The little girl was just past the doorway to the killing room when Bear loomed in front of them. Both Melanie and Kielle stopped abruptly. Melanie put her arm around the girl and looked down, eyes fixed on the black pistol in Bear's waistband.
Grab it. Shoot him. Don't worry what happens. You can do it. His filthy mind is elsewhere. De l'Epée would hear the shot and come running to save them. Grab it. Do it. She actually saw herself pulling the trigger. Her hands began to shake. She stared at the pistol butt, glistening black plastic.
Bear reached forward and touched her hair. The back of his hand, a gentle stroke. A lover's or father's touch.
And whatever strength was within Melanie vanished in that instant. Bear grabbed them by the collars and dragged them back into the killing room, cutting off her view of Jocylyn.
I'm deaf so I can't hear her screams.
I'm deaf so I can't hear her beg me to help her.
I'm deaf, I'm deaf, I'm deaf…
Bear shoved them into the corner and sat down in the doorway. He gazed over the frightened captives.
I'm deaf so I'm dead already. What does it matter; what does anything matter?
Melanie closed her eyes, drew her beautiful hands into her lap, and, untethered, slipped away from the killing room once again.
"Run the HP, Tobe," Potter ordered.
Inside the van Tobe opened an attaché case, revealing the Hewlett-Packard Model 122 VSA, which resembled a cardiac-care monitor.
"These all one-ten, grounded?" He nodded at the outlets. Derek Elb told him yes.
Tobe plugged in and turned on the machine. A small strip of paper, like a cash-register receipt, fed out, and a grid appeared in green on the black screen. He glanced at the others in the room. LeBow pointed at Potter, himself, Angie, and Budd. "In that order."
Frances and Derek looked on curiously.
"Five says you're wrong," Potter offered. "Me, Angie, you, and Charlie."
Budd laughed uneasily. "What're you talking about?"
Tobe said, "Everybody, quiet." He pushed a microphone toward Angie.
"The rain in Spain falls -"
"That's enough," Tobe said, holding the microphone out to Potter.
He recited, "The quick brown fox…"
Henry LeBow was cut off during a lengthy quotation from The Tempest.
Budd nearly went cross-eyed gazing at the encroaching microphone and said, "That thing's making me pretty nervous."
The four FBI agents roared with laughter.
Tobe explained to Frances. "Voice stress analyzer. Gives us some clue about truth telling but mostly it gives us a risk assessment." He pushed a button and the screen divided into four squares. Wavy lines of differing peaks and valleys froze in place.