"Hold on, Lou. I think that's the pilot now. I'm going to put you on hold. I'll be right back."
"No need. Just get me that chopper in fourteen minutes."
"Just hold on."
Potter hit the mute button and asked, "What do you think, Angie?"
She gazed out the window. Suddenly she announced, "He's serious. He's going to do it. He's tired of the bargaining. And he's still mad about the assault."
"Tobe?"
"It's ringing, there's no answer."
"Damn it. Doesn't he keep the phone in his pocket?"
"You still there, Lou?"
"Time's awasting, Art."
Potter tried to sound distracted as he asked, "Oh, hey, tell me, Lou. What about those shots?"
A low chuckle. "You sure are curious about that."
"Were they shots?"
"I dunno. Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe you were feeling guilty 'bout that trooper of yours getting accidentally shot after you accidentally tried to attack me. And you heard it, you know, like a delusion."
"Sounded real to us."
"Maybe Sonny accidentally shot himself cleaning his gun."
"That what happened?"
"Be a shame if anybody was counting on him to be a witness and all and what happens but he goes and cleans a Glock without looking to see if there was a round inside."
"There is no deal between him and us, Lou."
"Not now there ain't. I'll guaran-fucking-tee that."
LeBow and Angie looked up at Potter. "Bonner's dead?" the negotiator asked Handy.
Have you ever done anything bad, Art?
"You got twelve minutes," Handy's cheerful voice said.
Click.
Tobe said, "Got him. Budd."
Potter grabbed the offered phone. "Charlie, you there?"
"I'm at the airport and they've got a helicopter here. But I can't find anybody to fly it."
"There's got to be somebody."
"There's a school here – an aviation school – and some guy lives in the back but he won't answer the door."
"I need a chopper here in ten minutes, Charlie. Just buzz the river and set it down in that big field to the west. The one about a half-mile from here. That's all you've got to do."
"That's all? Oh, brother."
Potter said, "Good luck, Charlie." But Charlie was no longer on the line.
Charlie Budd ran underneath the tall Sikorsky helicopter. It was an old model, a big one, the sort that had plucked dripping astronauts from the ocean during the Gemini and Apollo days at NASA. It was orange and red and white, Coast Guard colors, though the insignias had long ago been painted over.
The airport was small. There was no tower, just an air sock beside a grass strip. A half-dozen single-engine Pipers and Cessnas sat idle, tied down securely against Land of Oz twisters.
Budd slammed his fist onto the door of a small shack behind the airport's one hangar. The sign beside the door said, D. D. Pembroke Helicopter School. Lessons, Rides. Hourly, Daily.
Despite that claim, however, the place was mostly a residence. A pile of mail sat on the doorstep and through the window in the door Budd could see a yellow light burning, a pile of clothes in a blue plastic hamper, and what appeared to be a man's foot hanging off the end of a cot. A single toe protruded from a hole in his sock.
"Come on!" Budd pounded hard. He shouted, "Police! Open up!"
The toe moved – it twitched, swung in a slow circle – then fell still.
More pounding. "Open up!"
The toe was fast asleep once more.
The window shattered easily under Budd's elbow. He unlocked the door and pushed inside. "Hey, mister!"
A man of about sixty lay on the cot, wearing overalls and a T-shirt. His hair was like straw and spread out from his head in all directions. His snore was as loud as the Sikorsky's engine.
Budd grabbed his arm and shook violently.
D. D. Pembroke, if D. D. Pembroke this was, opened his wet, red eyes momentarily, gazed through Budd, and rolled over. The snoring, at least, stopped.
"Mister, I'm a state trooper. This's an emergency. Wake up! We need that chopper of yours right now."
"Go away," Pembroke mumbled.
Budd sniffed his breath. He found the empty bottle of Dewar's cradled beneath the man's arm like a sleeping kitten.
"Shit. Wake up, mister. We need you to fly."
"I can't fly. How can I fly? Go away." Pembroke didn't move or open his eyes. "How'd you get in here?" he asked without a trace of curiosity.
The captain rolled him over and shook him by the shoulders. The bottle fell to the concrete floor and broke.
"You Pembroke?"
"Yeah. Shit, was that my bottle?"
"Listen, this is a federal emergency." Budd spotted a jar of instant coffee on a filthy, littered tabletop. He ran water in the rusted sink and filled a mug, not waiting for it to turn hot. He dumped four heaping tablespoons into the cold water and thrust the dirty cup into Pembroke's hands. "Drink this, mister. We gotta get going. I need to you fly me to that slaughterhouse up the road."
Pembroke, eyes still closed, sat up and sniffed at the cup. "What slaughterhouse? What's this shit in here?"
"The one by the river."
"Where's my bottle?"
"Drink this down, it'll wake you up." The instant grounds hadn't dissolved; they floated on the top like brown ice. Pembroke sipped it, spit a mouthful onto the bed, and flung the cup away. "Jeeeez!" Only then did he realize that there was a man in a blue suit and body armor standing over him.
"Who the fuck're you? Where's my -"
"I need your helicopter. And I need it now. It's a federal emergency. You gotta fly me to that slaughterhouse by the river."
"There? The old one? It's three fucking miles away. You can drive faster. Fuck, you can walk! God in Hoboken… my head. Oooooh."
"I need a chopper. And I need it now. I'm authorized to pay you whatever you want."
Pembroke sagged back onto the bed. His eyes kept closing. Budd figured even if they managed to take off, he'd crash and kill them both.
"Let's go." The trooper pulled him up by his Oshkosh straps.
"When?"
"Now. This instant."
"I can't fly when I'm sleepy like this."
"Sleepy. Right. What do you charge?"
"A hundred twenty an hour."
"I'll pay you five hundred."
"Tomorrow." He started to lie down again, eyes closed, patting the dingy sheets for his bottle. "Get the hell outta here."
"Mister. Open your eyes."
He did.
"Shit," Pembroke muttered as he looked down the barrel of the black automatic pistol.
"Sir," Budd said in a low, respectful voice, "you're going to stand up and walk out to that helicopter and fly it exactly where I tell you. Do you understand me?"
A nod.
"Are you sober?"
"Stone cold," Pembroke said. He kept his eyes open for a whole two seconds before he passed out once more.
Melanie lay against the wall, caressing Beverly's sweaty blond hair, the poor girl gasping with every breath.
The young woman leaned forward and looked out. Emily, crying, stood in the window. Now Brutus turned suddenly and looked at Melanie, gestured her forward.
Don't go, she told herself. Resist.
She hesitated for a moment then walked out of the killing room toward him.
I go because I can't stop myself.
I go because he wants me.
She felt the chill sweeping into her from the floor, from the metal chains and meat hooks, from the cascade of slick water, from the damp walls spattered with mold and old, old blood.
I go because I'm afraid.
I go because he and I just killed a man together.
I go because I can understand him…
Brutus pulled her close. "You think you're better'n me, right? You think you're a good person." She could tell he was whispering. People's faces change when they whisper. They look like they're telling you absolute truths but really they're just making the lie more convincing.
"Why're we selling it? Honey, you know what the doctor said. It's your ears. You can still hear now some, sure, but that'll go, remember what they said. You don't really want to start something you'll have to give up in a few years. We're doing it for you."