A Maiden's Grave

by Jeffery Deaver

  Melanie stared into the wheat, crying. She saw: The shadowy figure crouching lower, over the woman. The elegant movement of the tall wheat, swaying in the intemperate July wind. The motion of the man's arm rising and falling slowly, once, twice. His face studying the body lying in front of him.

  Mrs. Harstrawn fixed Stoat with a stoic gaze. " . . . us go and . . . won't bother you. We won't . . ."

  Melanie was comforted to see the woman's defiance, her anger. The sturdy set of her jaw.

  Stoat and Bear ignored her. They herded Susan, Mrs. Harstrawn, and Melanie toward the bus.

  Inside, the younger girls huddled in the back. Bear pushed Mrs. Harstrawn and Susan inside and gestured toward his belt, where his gun bulged. Melanie was the last person inside before Stoat, who shoved her into the back. She tripped and fell on top of the sobbing twins. She hugged them hard then gathered Emily and Shannon into her arms.

  The Outside . . . Caught in the terrible Outside.

  Melanie glanced at Stoat and saw him say, "Deaf as . . . all of them." Bear squeezed his fat torso into the driver's seat and started the bus. He looked in the rearview mirror and frowned then spun around.

  In the distance, at the end of the ribbon of asphalt, was a dot of flashing lights. Bear pressed the pad on the steering wheel and Melanie felt the vibrations of the horn in her chest.

  Bear said, "Man, what the fuck's . . . think we . . ." Then he turned his head and the words were lost.

  Stoat shouted toward the wheat. He nodded when, apparently, the man answered. A moment later the gray Chevy sped out of the field. Badly damaged but still drivable, it rolled onto the shoulder, paused. Melanie tried to glance into the front seat for a glimpse of the man behind the wheat but there was too much glare. It appeared there was no driver at all.

  Then the car accelerated fast, fishtailing onto the asphalt. The bus followed, easing forward into the faint clouds of blue tire smoke. Bear slapped the steering wheel, turned for a moment and barked some words to Melanie--angry words, vicious words. But she had no idea what they might be.

  The brilliant flashing lights grew closer, red and blue and white. Like the Fourth of July fireworks over the park in Hebron two weeks ago, when she'd watched the streamers of color crisscross the sky, felt the explosions of the white-hot bangs against her skin.

  She looked back at the police car and knew what would happen. There'd be a hundred squad cars all converging up ahead. They'd pull the bus over and these men would get out. They'd put their hands up and be led off. The students and teachers would go down to a stationhouse somewhere and make statements. She'd miss the Theater of the Deaf performance in Topeka this time--even if they still had time to make it--but there was no way she'd get up on stage and recite poetry after all of this.

  And the other reason for her trip?

  Maybe it was a sign that she shouldn't go, shouldn't have made those plans. It was an omen.

  All she wanted to do now was go home. Back to her rented house, where she could lock the door and have a cup of tea. Okay, a hit of blackberry brandy. Fax her brother in the hospital in St. Louis, tell him and her parents the story. Melanie fell into a nervous habit, twining her blond hair around her bent middle finger, the other digits extended. This hand shape was the symbol for "shine."

  Then there was a sudden jolt. Bear had turned off the asphalt and was following the gray car down a dirt road. Stoat was frowning. He asked Bear something Melanie didn't see. The big man didn't answer but just spit out the window. Another turn and another, into hillier country. Getting close to the river.

  They passed under an electric wire covered with a hundred birds. Big ones. Crows.

  She looked at the car ahead of them. She still couldn't see him clearly--the driver, the man from the wheat field. At first Melanie thought he had long hair, then a moment later he seemed bald or crewcut, then appeared to be wearing a hat.

  With a skidding turn the gray car spun to the right and bounded down a narrow weed-filled driveway. Melanie guessed that he'd seen the dozens of police cars up ahead--the cars racing toward them to save them. She squinted and looked. No, nothing ahead of them. The bus turned and followed the Chevy. Bear was muttering, Stoat was looking back at the police car.

  Then Melanie turned and saw where they were headed.

  No! she thought.

  Oh, please no.

  For she knew her hope about the men surrendering to the trooper who was fast approaching was just a fantasy. She understood where they were going.

  The worst place in the world.

  The gray car suddenly broke into a large, weed-filled field. At the end of the field, on the river, squatted a redbrick industrial building, long abandoned. Dark and solid as a medieval fort. The acreage in front of the plant still held a few of the fences and posts from the animal pens that had subdivided the area long ago but mostly the field had been reclaimed by the Kansas prairie of mid-high grass, sedge, bluestem, and buffalo grass.

  The Chevy raced right for the front of the building, the bus following. Both skidded to a stop just to the left of the door.

  Melanie peered at the ruddy brick.

  When she was eighteen, and a student herself at the Laurent Clerc School, a boy had brought her here, supposedly for a picnic but of course to do what boys of eighteen will do--and what Melanie too wanted, she believed at the time. But once they'd snuck inside, carting a blanket with them, she'd looked at the gloomy rooms and panicked. She'd fled and had never seen the perplexed boy, or the building, again.

  But she remembered it. An abandoned slaughterhouse, a place of death. A place that was hard and sharp and dangerous.

  And dark. How Melanie hated the dark. (Twenty-five years old and she had five night-lights in a six-room house.)

  Stoat flung open the bus door, dragged Susan and Mrs. Harstrawn out after him.

  The police car--a single trooper inside--paused at the entrance to the field. He leapt out, pistol in his hand, but he stopped short when Bear grabbed Shannon and put a gun to her head. The eight-year-old surprised him by spinning around, kicking his knee hard. He flinched in pain then shook her until she stopped squirming. Bear looked across the field at the trooper, who made a show of putting his gun back into his holster and returning to his car.

  Bear and Stoat pushed the girls toward the slaughterhouse door. Bear slammed a rock into the chain that bound the door closed and snapped the rusted links. Stoat grabbed several large bags from the trunk of the gray car, where the driver continued to sit, staring up at the building. The glare still prevented Melanie from seeing clearly but he seemed relaxed, gazing with curiosity at the turrets and black windows.

  Bear yanked open the front door and he and Stoat pushed the girls inside. The place stank of cave more than building. Dirt and shit and mold and some sweet-sickly decay, rancid animal fat. The interior was a maze of walkways and pens and ramps and rusted machinery. Pits surrounded by railings and parts of old machines. There were rows and rows of rusted meat hooks overhead. And it was just as dark as Melanie remembered.

  Bear herded the students and their teachers into a semicircular, tiled room, windowless and damp. The walls and cement floors were stained dark brown. A worn wooden ramp led to the left side of the room. An overhead conveyor holding meat hooks led away from the right side. In the center was a drain for the blood.

  This was the room where the animals had been killed.

  Cold wind blows, it isn't kind.

  Kielle grabbed Melanie's arm and pressed against her. Mrs. Harstrawn and Susan embraced the other girls, Susan gazing with raw hatred at whichever of the men happened to catch her eye. Jocylyn sobbed, the twins too. Beverly struggled for breath.

  Eight gray birds with nowhere to go.

  They huddled in a cluster on the cold, damp floor. A rat scurried away, his fur dull, like a piece of old meat. Then the door opened again. Melanie shielded her eyes against the glare.

  He stood in the cold light of the doorway.

  Short and th
in.

  Neither bald nor long-haired but with shaggy, dirty-blond strands framing a gaunt face. Unlike the others he wore only a T-shirt, on which was stenciled the name L. Handy. But to her he wasn't a Handy at all--and definitely not a Larry or a Lou. She thought immediately of the actor in the Kansas State Theater of the Deaf who had played Brutus in a recent production of Julius Caesar.

  He pushed inside and carefully placed two heavy canvas bags on the floor. The door swung shut and once the ashen light vanished she could see his pale eyes and thin mouth.

  Melanie saw Bear say, "Why . . . here, man? No fucking way out."

  Then, as if she could hear perfectly, Brutus's words sounded clearly in her mind, the phantom voice that deaf people hear sometimes--a human voice yet with no real human sound. "It don't matter," he said slowly. "Nope. Don't matter at all."

  Melanie was the one he looked at when he said this and it was to her that he offered a faint smile before he pointed to several rusty iron bars and ordered the other two men to wedge the doors tightly shut.

  9:10 A.M.

  He'd never forgotten an anniversary in twenty-three years.

  Here's a husband for you.

  Arthur Potter folded back the paper surrounding the roses--effervescent flowers, orange and yellow--mostly open, the petals perfect, floppy, billowing. He smelled them. Marian's favorite. Vibrant colors. Never white or red.

  The stoplight changed. He set the bouquet carefully on the seat beside him and accelerated through the intersection. His hand strayed to his belly, which pressed hard against his waistband. He screwed up his face. His belt was a barometer; it was hooked through the second-to-the-last hole in the worn leather. Diet on Monday, he told himself cheerfully. He'd be back in D.C. then, his cousin's fine cooking long digested, and could concentrate on counting grams of fat once more.

  It was Linden's fault. Let's see . . . last night she'd made corned beef, buttered potatoes, buttered cabbage, soda bread (butter optional, and he'd opted), lima beans, grilled tomatoes, chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. Linden was Marian's cousin, in the lineage of the McGillis forebear Sean, whose two sons, Eamon and Hardy, came over in steerage, married within the same year and whose wives gave birth to daughters, ten and eleven months, respectively, after the vows.

  Arthur Potter, an only child orphaned at thirteen, son of only children, had enthusiastically adopted his wife's family and had spent years plotting the genealogy of the McGillises. Through elaborate correspondence (handwritten on fine stationery; he did not own a word processor) Potter kept up religiously, almost superstitiously, with the meanderings of the clan.

  Congress Expressway west. Then south. Hands at ten to two, hunched forward, glasses perched on his pale fleshy nose, Potter cruised through working-class Chicago, the tenements and flats and two-family row houses lit by the midwestern summer light, pale in the overcast.

  The quality of light in different cities, he thought. Arthur Potter had been around the world many times and had a huge stockpile of ideas for travel articles he would never write. Genealogy notes and memos for his job, from which he was soon to retire, would probably be the only Potter literary legacy.

  Turn here, turn there. He drove automatically and somewhat carelessly. He was by nature impatient but had long ago overcome that vice, if a vice it was, and he never strayed above the posted limit.

  Turning the rented Ford onto Austin Avenue, he glanced in his rearview mirror and noticed the car.

  The men were in a blue-gray sedan, as nondescript as could be. Two clean-shaven, clean-living, clean-conscienced young men, and they were tailing him.

  They had Federal Agent printed on their foreheads.

  Potter's heart thudded. "Damn," he muttered in his low baritone. Furious, he tugged at a jowl and then wrapped the green paper tighter around the flowers as if anticipating a high-speed chase. When he found the street he sought, however, and made the turn, he was doing seven cautious miles per hour. His wife's bouquet rolled against his ample thigh.

  No, he didn't speed. His strategy was to decide that he was mistaken, that the car contained two businessmen on their way to sell computers or printing services and that it would turn off on its own route soon.

  And leave me in peace.

  But the car didn't do any such thing. The men maintained an innocuous distance, traveling at the identical, irritatingly slow speed of Potter's Ford.

  He pulled into the familiar driveway and continued a lengthy distance, then rolled to a stop. Potter climbed out of his car quickly, cradling the flowers to his chest and waddling up the walk--defiantly, he hoped, daring the agents to stop him here.

  How had they found him?

  He'd been so clever. Parking the car three blocks from Linden's apartment. Asking her not to answer the phone and to leave her machine off. The fifty-one-year-old woman, who'd be a Gypsy if she could have rearranged her genes (so different from Marian, despite their common blood), excitedly accepted his instructions. She was used to the inexplicable ways of her cousin-in-law. She believed his manner was somewhat dangerous, if not sinister, and he could hardly dissuade her of that, for so it was.

  The agents parked their car behind Potter's and climbed out. He heard their footsteps on the gravel behind him.

  They didn't hurry; they could find him anywhere, and they knew it. He could never get away.

  I'm yours, you self-confident sons of bitches.

  "Mr. Potter."

  No, no, go away! Not today. Today is special. It's my wedding anniversary. Twenty-three years. When you're as old as I am you'll understand.

  Leave. Me. Alone.

  "Mr. Potter?"

  The young men were interchangeable. He ignored one and thus he ignored both.

  He walked over the lawn toward his wife. Marian, he thought, I'm sorry for this. I've brought trouble with me. I am sorry.

  "Leave me alone," he whispered. And suddenly, as if they'd heard, both men stopped, these two somber men, in dark suits, with pale complexions. Potter knelt and laid the flowers on the grave. He began to peel back the green paper but he could still see the young men in the corner of his eye and he paused, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his hands to his face.

  He wasn't praying. Arthur Potter never prayed. He used to. Occasionally. Although his livelihood entitled him to some secret, personal superstitions he'd stopped praying thirteen years ago, the day Marian the living became Marian the dead, passing away in front of his joined fingertips as he happened to be in the middle of an elaborate negotiation with the God he had, all his life, more or less believed existed. The address he'd been sending his offers to turned out to be empty as a rusted can. He was neither surprised nor disillusioned. Still, he gave up praying.

  Now, eyes closed, he lifted those same fingertips and gave a backhanded wave, warding off the indistinguishable men.

  And federal agents, yes, but God-fearing agents perhaps (many of them were), they kept their distance.

  No prayers, but he spoke some words to his bride, lying in the same place where she had lain for these long years. His lips moved. He received responses only because he knew her mind as well as his own. But the presence of the men in the matching suits kept intruding. Finally he rose slowly and looked at the marble flower etched into the granite above her tombstone. He'd ordered a rose but the flower looked like a chrysanthemum. Perhaps the stonecarver had been Japanese.

  There was no point in delaying any longer.

  "Mr. Potter?"

  He sighed and turned away from the grave.

  "I'm Special Agent McGovern. This is Special Agent Crowley."

  "Yes."

  "Sorry to trouble you, sir. Mind if we have a word?"

  McGovern added, "Maybe we could step to the car."

  "What do you want?"

  "The car? Please." No one says "please" quite the way an FBI agent does.

  Potter walked with them--he was flanked--to their vehicle. He realized only when he was standing beside it that the wind was
steady and ridiculously cold for July. He glanced at the grave and saw the green paper of the flowers roll in the steady breeze.

  "All right." He stopped abruptly, deciding to walk no further.

  "We're sorry to interrupt your vacation, sir. We tried to call the number where you're staying. There was no answer."

  "Did you send somebody over there?" Potter was worried that Linden would be upset if agents came calling.

  "Yessir, but when we found you we radioed them."

  Potter nodded. He looked at his watch. They were going to have shepherd's pie tonight. Green salad. He was supposed to pick up something to drink. Samuel Smith Nut Brown Ale for him, oatmeal stout for them. Then, after dinner, cards with the Holbergs next door. Hearts or spades.

  "How bad is it?" Potter asked.

  "A situation in Kansas," McGovern said.

  "It's bad, sir. He's asked you to put together a threat management team. There's a DomTran jet waiting for you at Glenview. Particulars are in here."

  Potter took the sealed envelope from the young man, looking down, seeing to his surprise a dot of blood on his own thumb--from, he supposed, a latent thorn somewhere on the stem of a rose with petals like a woman's floppy-brimmed summer hat.

  He opened the envelope and read through the fax. It bore the speedy signature of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  "How long since he went barricade?"

  "First report was around eight forty-five."

  "Any communication from him?"

  "None yet."

  "Contained?"

  "Completely. Kansas state troopers and a half-dozen agents from our Wichita office. They're not getting out."

  Potter buttoned then unbuttoned his sports coat. He realized that the agents were looking at him with too much reverence and it set his teeth on edge. "I'll want Henry LeBow as my intelligence officer and Tobe Geller for communications. Spelled with an e but you pronounce it Toby."

  "Yessir. If they're unavailable--"

  "Only them. Find them. Wherever they are. I want them at the barricade in a half-hour. And see if Angie Scapello is available. She'd be at headquarters or Quantico. Behavioral Science. Jet her out too."

  "Yessir."

  "What's the status of HRT?"

  The Bureau's Hostage Rescue Team, consisting of forty-eight agents, was the largest tactical barricade force in the country.