Tremain had taken in the news, which was spreading like fire in a wheat field from trooper to trooper, that Handy had decided to give it up in exchange for an agreement not to seek the death penalty.
But for Dan Tremain this wasn't acceptable.
His trooper, young Joey Wilson, and that poor girl this afternoon had not died so that Lou Handy might live long enough to kill again, certainly to gloat and relive the perverse joy at the carnage he'd caused throughout his pointless life.
Sacrifice was sometimes necessary. And who better than a soldier to give up his life in the name of justice?
"Surrender in ten minutes," a voice called from behind him. Tremain could not possibly have said whether it was the voice of a trooper or that of an angel dipping low from God's own heaven to make this announcement. In any event he nodded and rose to his feet. He stood tall, wiped the tears from his face, adjusted his uniform, brushed his hair with his fingers. Never one to preen, Tremain had decided it was important that he look strong and resolute and proud when he ended his career in the dramatic fashion he had planned.
11:18 P.M.
Surrender is the most critical stage of a barricade.
More lives are lost in surrenders than during any other phase of hostage situations except assaults. And this one would be particularly tricky, Potter knew, because the essence of surrender was Handy's nemesis – giving up control.
Again his natural impatience prodded him to get things over with, to get Handy into custody. But he had to fight this urge. He was running the surrender by the book and had assembled the threat management team before him in the van.
The first thing he did was shake Dean Stillwell's hand. "Dean, I'm putting Frank and the Bureau's HRT in charge of containment and tactical matters now. You've done a fine job. It's just that Frank and I've done this in the past a number of times."
"No problem at all, Arthur. I'm honored you let me help." To Potter's embarrassment Stillwell snapped a salute, which the agent reluctantly returned.
Budd, LeBow, Tobe, and D'Angelo all hunched over the terrain maps and diagram of the slaughterhouse as Potter went through the procedure. Angie, who had no tactical experience and could offer little assistance to D'Angelo and the HRT, was escorting Emily and Beverly to the Days Inn. Intense, young Detective Sharon Foster was outside smoking – very real Camels. Frances was in the van, waiting patiently.
"Everybody's going to be wired up and half-nuts," Potter said. "Our people and the takers. We're all tired and there's going to be a lot of carelessness. So we have to choreograph every step." He fell silent and was looking out the window at the square yellow eyes of the building.
"Arthur?" LeBow said.
He meant, Time's awasting.
"Yes, sure."
They bent over the map and he began to give commands. It seemed to him that he'd lost his voice completely and he was surprised to find that the men who stood before him nodded gravely as if listening to words that he himself hardly heard at all.
Twenty minutes later, as Potter lay in a stand of fragrant grass and hit the speed-dial button, it occurred to him that something was very wrong. That Handy was laying a trap.
He thought of Budd's words earlier in the day, about Handy's planning something clever and flamboyant – a breakout maybe, a run for it.
A gut feel. Listen to it. He's usually right.
And now the feeling was undeniable.
The click of an answered phone.
"Lou." Potter began what was probably their last conversation via throw phone.
"Whatsa game plan, Art?"
"Just want to go over a few ground rules." Potter was fifty yards from the slaughterhouse entrance. Frank D'Angelo and Charlie Budd were beside him. LeBow and Tobe remained in the command van. "Is the older woman conscious? The teacher?"
"Zonked out. Told you, Art. She had a bad night. Bonner's – well, was a big fella. I'm talking in all ways."
Potter found his voice quavering as he asked, "And the other teacher?"
"The blond one? The little mouse?" There was a pause and Handy offered his famous chuckle. "Why you so interested in her, Art? Seem to recall you asked about her a couple times."
"I want to know how our last hostages are."
"Sure you do." Handy laughed again. "Well, she's probably had better nights herself."
"How do you mean, Lou?" he asked casually. What terrible retribution had he exacted?
"She's too young for an old fart like you, Art." Damn it, Potter thought, furious. Handy was reading him too clearly. The agent forced himself to put her out of his mind and returned mentally to Chapter 9 of his handbook, entitled "The Surrender Phase." Potter and D'Angelo had decided to send in the tunnel rats – point men – under the loading-dock door to secure the interior and guard the hostages then have the takers come out through the front.
"All right, Lou," Potter continued. "When I tell you to I'd like you to put your weapons down and just step outside, with your arms out to your side. Not on your head."
"Like Christ on the cross."
The wind had grown much worse, bending saplings and stands of sedge and bluestem, Queen Anne's lace, sending up clouds of dust. It would play hell with the snipers' shooting.
"Tell me the truth. Is Bonner dead or wounded?" Potter had visited Beverly, the poor asthmatic, in one of the hospital tents and learned that the big man indeed had been shot. But the girl explained that she'd done her best to avoid looking at him. She couldn't say for certain if he was still alive.
"Tired of talking, Art. Me and Shep're gonna chat for a few minutes then we'll give it up. Hey, Art?"
"Yes, Lou?"
"I want you out front. Right where I can see you. It's the only way I'm coming out."
I'll do it, Potter thought instinctively. Anything you want. "I'll be there, Lou."
"Right out front."
"You've got it." A pause. "Now, Lou, I want to tell you exactly -"
"Goodbye, Art. It's been fun."
Click.
Potter found himself gripping the phone long after Handy's voice was replaced by the rush of static. From nowhere the thought formed: The man's bent on suicide. The hopelessness of the situation: the impossibility of escaping, the relentless pursuit, an unbearable prison term awaiting him. He's going out in a flash.
Ostrella, my beloved…
It would be the ultimate control.
D'Angelo broke into the reverie, saying, "We'll assume Bonner's alive and armed until we get a confirmation."
Potter nodded, pressed disconnect, put the phone in his pocket. "Choreograph it carefully, Frank. I think he may go down shooting."
"You think?" Budd whispered, as if Handy had a Big Ear on them.
"A hunch is all. But plan accordingly."
D'Angelo nodded. He got on the horn and doubled the number of snipers in the trees, moved up some explosives experts to the initial takedown team. When they were in place he asked, "Should we move in, Arthur?"
Potter nodded to him. D'Angelo spoke into his microphone and four HRT troopers slipped along the front of the slaughterhouse. Two paused at open windows and the others disappeared into the shadows on either side of the door. The ones by the window had mesh bomb blankets over their shoulders.
Then the HRT commander called the two point men inside the building. He listened for a moment then repeated the report to Potter: "Two hostages, apparently alive, lying on the ground in the room you indicated. Injured but extent unknown. Bonner appears to be dead." The unemotional voice grew troubled. "Man, there's blood everywhere."
Whose? Potter wondered.
"Are Handy and Wilcox armed?"