Handy raged again at Art Potter for bringing up the thought of Rudy today, like he was planting the memory in Handy's soul the way a pebble got pushed into your palm in a prison yard fight. Raged at Potter and at fat, dead Bonner and at Melanie, the fucking spooked mouse bitch.
Two feet behind her, watching her timid steps.
She didn't have a clue…
This was fucking great, walking in step with her. There were so many possibilities… Hello, Miss Mouse… But he picked the simplest. He leaned close and licked the back of her neck.
He thought she'd break her back she leapt away from him so fast, twisting sideways and falling into a stack of rusted sheet metal. His hand closed on her hair and he dragged her after him, twisting and stumbling. "Yo, Shep, put those lights back on!"
A moment later the room filled with dim light and Handy could make out the doorway to the main part of the slaughterhouse. Melanie struggled to pry his hands from her hair but he had a good grip and she could beat till kingdom come and he'd never let her go.
"You're making strange little peeps. I don't like it. Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" He slapped her in the face. He didn't think she got what he was saying but in any case she shut up. He dragged her through the cascading water, through the aisles of junk. Straight to a decapitation guillotine.
It was basically a huge piece of butcher block, carved out with an indentation for the pig's or steer's chest. On the top was mounted a frame holding a triangular blade, operated by a long rubber-covered handle. A big fucking paper cutter.
Wilcox watched. He asked, "You really gonna…?"
"What about it?" Handy screamed.
"It's just we're so close to getting out, man."
Handy ignored him, grabbed a piece of wire from the floor, and wrapped it around Melanie's right wrist. Twisted the tourniquet tight. She struggled, hit him in the shoulder with her left fist. "Fucking freak," he muttered, and slugged her hard in the back. She dropped to the floor, where she curled into a ball, moaning, staring in horror at her hand turning blue.
Handy lit his Bic lighter and ran it slowly over the blade of the guillotine. She shook her head violently, eyes huge. "Should've thought about it before you turned on me." He scooped her up from the floor and slammed her against the guillotine.
Sobbing, slapping at him, the mouse bitch tried to struggle away. He figured the pain in her right hand, now deep purple from the wire, was close to unbearable. Handy shoved her groin against the guillotine and pushed her forward, facedown, extending her right arm under the blade. He kicked her legs out from underneath her. She lost all leverage and dangled, helpless, from the machine. Handy easily pinioned her hand in the cutting groove.
He hesitated a moment and looked down at her face, listening to the gasping sound that rose from her throat. "God, I hate that fucking sound you people make. Hold her, Shep."
Wilcox hesitated, stepped forward, and took her arm in both of his hands. "Don't think I want to watch this," he said uneasily, and looked away.
"I do," Handy muttered. Unable to resist the urge, he lowered his head close to her face, inhaled her scent, rubbing his cheek against her tears. Stroked her hair.
Then his hands rose to the lever. He worked it back and forth, loosening it up, dropping the blade to her flesh, lifting it again. It rose to its full height. He took the rubber handle in both hands.
The phone rang.
Handy looked at it.
A pause. Wilcox released Melanie's hand, stepped away from the guillotine.
Shit. Handy debated.
"Answer it."
" 'Lo?" Wilcox asked into the receiver. Then listened. He shrugged and glanced at Handy, who paused. "Yo, homes, it's for you."
"Tell Potter to go to hell."
"It ain't Potter. It's a girl. And I'll tell you, sounds like she's some fox."
10:58 P.M.
Potter sat at the window, looking through his Leica binoculars, while behind him young, fierce Detective Sharon Foster, who'd pulled her cruiser hell-for-leather into the forward staging area ten minutes before, was pacing nervously and swearing like a sailor at Louis Handy.
"The fuck you say, Lou," she snarled. Like many female line officers Foster had that resolute, humorless grit that her pert blond ponytail and pretty face couldn't belie.
"Been a while, you bitch. You a detective now?"
"Yep. I got promoted." She bent down and squinted through the command van's window at the slaughterhouse, her head inches from Potter's. "What the hell've you done with your life, Lou? Aside from screwing it up royal?"
"Hey, I'm right proud of my accomplishments." From the speaker came the cold chuckle Potter recognized so well.
"I always knew you were one grade-A fuckup. They could write a book about you."
Potter recognized exactly what Foster was doing. It wasn't his way. He preferred to be more easygoing, Will Rogersish. Tough when he needed to be, but he avoided jousting, which could easily escalate into emotional skirmishes. Arthur Potter hadn't bantered with Marian and he didn't banter with his friends. But sometimes with certain takers – usually brash, overconfident criminals – this young woman's style worked: the barbs, the give-and-take.
Potter continued to stare at the slaughterhouse, trying desperately to get a look at Melanie. The last of the students, Emily, had been picked up by Stillwell's deputies in the skiff behind the building. Through Frances the little girl had explained that Melanie had gotten her out and then gone back for Mrs. Harstrawn. But that had been nearly twenty minutes ago and no one had seen the last two hostages escape. Potter assumed Handy had found her. He was desperate to know if she was all right but would never interrupt a negotiator at work.
"You're an asshole, Lou," Foster continued. "You may get away in that chopper but they're going to catch you. Canada? They'll extradite your ass so fast it'll make your head spin."
"They gotta find me first."
"You think they wear red jackets and Smokey the Bear hats and chase down muggers with whistles? You've killed, Lou – hostages and cops. There isn't a law enforcer in the world gonna stop till they get you."
LeBow and Potter exchanged glances. Potter was growing uneasy. She was pushing him a lot. Potter frowned but she either missed or ignored the expression, above criticism from an older man – and a Fee-bie at that. He was also feeling the thorns of jealousy. It'd taken him hours to build up a rapport with Handy; Potter was Stockholmed through and through. And here was this new kid on the block, this blond chippy, stealing away his good friend and comrade.
Potter nodded discreetly at the computer. LeBow caught his meaning and went on line to the National Law Enforcement Personnel Database. A moment later he turned the screen for Potter to read. Sharon Foster only looked young and inexperienced; she was in fact thirty-four and had an impressive record as a hostage negotiator. In thirty barricade situations she'd managed clean surrenders in twenty-four. The others had gone hot – HRT assaults had been required – but they'd been EDs. When emotionally disturbed takers are involved, negotiated solutions work only ten percent of the time.
"I like Art better," Handy said. "He don't give me any shit."
"That's my Lou, always looking for the easy way."
"Fuck you," Handy barked.
"Something I've been thinking about, Lou," she added coyly. "I'm wondering if you're really going to Canada."
Now Potter glanced at D'Angelo. The tactical plan required that Handy and Wilcox trek through the woods to the helicopter. If Foster made him think they hadn't believed him, Handy would suspect a trap and stay holed up.
Potter stood up, shaking his head. Foster glanced but ignored him. LeBow and Angie were shocked at the disrespect. Potter sat down again, more embarrassed than hurt.