"Ten minutes, fifteen. Give us Beverly, Lou. If you do -"
Click.
"Damn," Potter muttered.
"Little eager there, Arthur," LeBow said. Potter nodded. He'd made the classic mistake of negotiating against himself. Always wait for the other side to ask you for something. Understandably he'd pushed when he heard Handy's hesitation and upped the stakes himself. But he'd scared off the seller. Still, at some point he'd have to go through this exercise. Hostage takers can be pushed a certain distance, and bribed a certain amount further. Half the battle was finding out how far and when to do which.
Potter called Stillwell and told him he'd warned the takers about leaving the slaughterhouse. "You're green-lighted to contain them, as discussed."
"Yessir," Stillwell said.
Potter asked Budd, "What's the ETA on that power truck?"
"Should be just ten minutes." He was looking out the window morosely.
"What's the matter, Charlie?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that was good what you did there. Talking him out of shooting her."
Potter sensed there was something else on Budd's mind. But he said only, "Oh, Handy was the one who decided not to shoot. I had nothing to do with it. The problem is, I don't know why yet."
Potter waited five minutes, then pushed speed dial.
The phone rang a million times. "Could you please turn that down a little, Tobe?" Potter nodded at the speaker above his head.
"Sure… Okay, uplink."
"Yeah?" Handy barked.
"Lou, you'll have a power line in about ten minutes."
Silence.
"What about the girl, Beverly?"
"Can't have her," he said abruptly, as if surprised that Potter hadn't figured this out yet.
Silence for a moment.
"Thought you said if you got power -"
"I'd think about it. I did, and you can't have her."
Never get drawn into petty bickering. "Well, have you done any thinking about what you fellows want?"
"I'll get back to you on that, Art."
"I was hoping -"
Click.
"Downlink terminated," Tobe announced.
Stillwell brought the trooper in, a short, swarthy young man. He leaned the offending weapon by the door, its black bolt locked back, and walked up to Potter.
"I'm sorry, sir, I was on this branch and there was this gust of wind. I -"
"You were told to unchamber your weapon," Potter snapped.
The trooper stirred and his eyes darted around the room.
"Here now," Stillwell said, looking faintly ridiculous with a bulky flak jacket on under his Penney's suit. 'Tell the agent what you told me."
The trooper looked icily at Stillwell, resenting the new chain of command. He said to Potter, "I never received that order. I was locked and loaded from the git-go. That's SOP for us, sir."
Stillwell grimaced but he said, "I'll take responsibility, Mr. Potter."
"Oh, brother…" Charlie Budd stepped forward. "Sir," he said formally to Potter, "I have to say – it's my fault. Mine alone."
Potter lifted an inquiring hand toward him.
"I didn't tell the snipers to unchamber. I should've, like you ordered me to. The fact is, I concluded that I wasn't going to have troopers in the field unprotected. It's my fault. Not this man's. Not Dean's."
Potter considered this and said to the sniper, "You'll stand down and assist at the rear staging area. Go report to Agent-in-Charge Henderson."
"But I slipped, sir. It wasn't my fault. It was an accident."
"There're no accidents in my barricades," Potter said coldly.
"But -"
"That's all, Trooper," Dean Stillwell said. "You heard your order. Dismissed." The man snagged his weapon then stormed out of the van.
Budd said, "I'll do the same, sir. I'm sorry. I really am. You should have Dean here assist you. I -"
Potter pulled the captain aside. He said in a whisper, "I need your help, Charlie. But what you did, it was a personal judgment call. That, I don't need from you. Understand?"
"Yessir."
"You still want to be on the team?"
Budd nodded slowly.
"Okay, now go on out there and give them the order to unchamber."
"Sir -"
"Arthur."
"I've got to go home and look my wife in the eye and tell her that I disobeyed an FBI agent's direct order."
"How long you been married?"
"Thirteen years."
"Get hitched in junior high?"
Budd smiled grimly.
"What's her name?"
"Meg. Margaret."
"You have children?"
"Two girls." Budd's face remained miserable.
"Go on now. Do what I asked." Potter held his eyes.
The captain sighed. "I will, yessir. It won't happen again."
"Keep your head down." Potter smiled. "And don't delegate this one, Charlie."
"No sir. I'll check everybody."
Stillwell looked on sympathetically as Budd, hangtail, walked out the door.
Tobe was stacking up audiocassettes. All conversations with the takers would be recorded. The tape recorder was a special unit with a two-second delay built in, so that an electronic voice added a minute-by-minute time stamp onto the recording yet didn't block out the conversation. He looked up at Potter. "Who was it who said, 'I've met the enemy and he is us'? Was that Napoleon? Or Eisenhower, or somebody?"
"I think it was Pogo," Potter said.
"Who?"
"Comic strip," Henry LeBow said. "Before your time."
12:33 P.M.
The room was growing dark.
It was only early afternoon but the sky had filled with purple clouds and the windows in the slaughterhouse were small. Need that juice and need it now, Lou Handy thought, peering through the dimness.
Water dripped and chains hung from the gloomy shadows of the ceiling. Hooks everywhere and overhead conveyors. There were rusted machines that looked like parts of cars a giant had been playing with and said fuck it and tossed down on the floor.
Giant, Handy laughed to himself. What the hell'm I talking about?
He wandered through the ground floor. Wild place. What's it like to make money knocking off animals? he wondered. Handy had worked dozens of jobs. Usually sweat labor. Nobody ever let him operate fancy equipment, which would have doubled or tripled his salary. The jobs always ended after a month or two. Arguments with the foreman, complaints, fights, drinking in the locker room. He had no patience to wait it out with people who couldn't understood that he wasn't your average person. He was special. Nofuckingbody in the world had ever caught on to this.
The floor was wood, solid as concrete. Beautifully joined oak. Handy was no craftsman, like Rudy'd been, but he could appreciate good work. His brother had laid flooring for a living. Handy was suddenly angry at that asshole Potter. For some reason the agent had brought Rudy to mind. It infuriated Handy, made him want to get even.
He walked to the room where they'd put the hostages. It was semicircular, sided in porcelain tile, windowless. The blood drain. He guessed that if somebody fired a gun in the middle of the room it'd be loud enough to shatter eardrums.
Didn't much matter with this buncha birds, he thought. He looked them over. What was weird was that these girls – most of 'em – were pretty. That oldest one especially, the one with the black hair. The one looking back at him with a go-to-fucking-hell expression on her face. She's what, seventeen, eighteen? He smiled at her. She stared back. Handy gazed at the rest of them. Yep, pretty. It blew him away. They're freaks and all and you'd think they'd look a little gross, like retards do – like no matter how pretty, there's still something wrong, the corners don't meet even. But no, they looked normal. But damn, they cry a lot. That was irritating… that sound their throats make. They're fucking deaf – they shouldn't be making those fucking sounds!