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?"
As he gazed at the convict Potter was aware of a man approaching from the shadows of a gully. He paid little mind since there were dozens of troopers milling about. But there was something purposeful about the man's stride, too quick and direct for him to be passing through the crowd casually. He was heading directly for Potter.
"Weapon!" Potter cried as Dan Tremain, twenty feet away, began to lift the gun.
Wilcox and the trooper holding him dove to the ground, as did the second escort trooper, leaving only Handy and Potter standing. Within easy pistol range.
Handy, smiling, turned to face Tremain. Potter drew his own gun, pointed it at the HRU commander, and stepped in front of Handy.
"No, Captain," the agent said firmly.
"Get out of the way, Potter."
"You're already in enough trouble."
The gun in Tremain's hand exploded. Potter felt the bullet snap past his head. He heard Handy laughing.
"Get out of the way!"
"Do it," Handy whispered in Potter's ear. "Pull the trigger. Waste the fucker."
"Shut up!" the agent barked. Around them four or five troopers had pulled their sidearms and were sighting on Tremain. No one knew what to do.
Or wanted to do what they knew they should.
"He's mine," Tremain said.
"It's legal," Handy whispered. "Kill him, Art. You want to anyway. You know you do."
"Quiet!" Potter shouted. And yet suddenly he understood that Handy was right. He did want to. And what's more, he felt that he had permission – to kill the man who'd nearly burnt his Melanie to death.
"Do it," Handy urged. "You're dying to."
"This'll bring you nothing but grief, Dan," Potter said slowly, ignoring his prisoner. "You don't want to do this."
"There you go, Art. Telling people what they want to do. I'll tell you what you want to do. You want to shoot the prick. Man almost got your girlfriend killed. She is your gal, isn't she, Art? Mel-a-nie?"
"Shut your damn mouth!"
"Do it, Art. Shoot him!"
Tremain fired again. Potter cringed as the bullet streaked past his face and dug a chunk out of the slaughterhouse.
The captain steadied the gun, seeking a target.
And Arthur Potter spread his arms, sheltering the man who was his prisoner. And – yes, Charlie, who was his friend.
"Do something bad," Handy whispered in a smooth, reassuring voice. "Just step aside a inch or two. Let him kill me. Or you shoot him."
Potter turned. "Will you -?"
Several FBI agents had drawn guns and were shouting for Tremain to drop his weapon. The state troopers were silently rooting for the HRU commander.
Potter thought: Handy had almost killed Melanie.
Just step aside a few inches.
And Tremain had nearly killed her too.
Shoot. Go ahead.
Handy whispered, "He'd had his way, Art, your girlfriend'd have third-degree burns over most of her body now. Her hair and tits all burned up. Even you wouldn't want to fuck somebody like -"
Potter spun, his fist lashing out. It drove into Handy's jaw. The prisoner reeled back and landed on the ground. Tremain, now only ten feet away, aimed once more at the man's chest.
"Drop the gun," Potter commanded, spinning around and stepping forward. "Drop it, Dan. Your life isn't over with yet. But it will be if you pull that trigger. Think about your family." He remembered the ring he'd seen on Tremain's finger. He said softly, "God doesn't want to waste you over somebody as worthless as Handy."
The pistol wavered, dropped to the ground.
Without looking at Potter or Handy again, Tremain walked over to Charlie Budd and held his hands out for the cuffs. Budd looked over his fellow officer, seemed about to say something but chose to remain silent.
As he scrambled to his feet Handy said, "You missed a good bet, Art. Not many people have the chance to waste somebody and -"
Potter had him by the hair, and the pistol's muzzle drove up under Handy's stubbled jaw.
"Not a single word."
Handy reared back, breathing hard. He looked away first, truly scared. But only for a moment. Then he laughed. "You're a real piece of work, Art. Yessir. Let's get it over with. Book me, Dano."