Potter called, "Move in separate directions about ten feet, then lie facedown on the ground."
They walked away from the slaughterhouse, farther than ordered but then dropped to their knees and went prone. The two HRT agents by the door kept their H amp;Ks trained on the fugitives' backs and stayed clear of the doorway just in case Bonner wasn't in fact dead or there'd been other takers inside that even the hostages hadn't known about.
The two agents hovering by the windows climbed inside, followed by two more, who ran from the shadows and sped through the door. The beams of the powerful flashlights attached to their guns whipped throughout the slaughterhouse.
They'd been briefed about the incendiary device Handy'd rigged and they'd be moving very slowly, looking for tripwires. Potter believed he'd never been so anxious in his life. He expected the interior of the slaughterhouse to blossom into orange flame at any instant.
Outside, two more HRT agents had moved up, covering the two beside the door, who now advanced on Handy and Wilcox.
Did the men have armed grenades on them?
Hidden knives?
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?"