"Lou, what'll it take to make you come out?"
Potter thought: Lemme fuck you.
"Can I fuck you?"
"You'd have to ask my husband and he'd say no."
A pause.
"There's nothing I want but freedom. And I got that."
"Do you?" Foster asked softly.
Another pause. Longer than the first.
Potter speculated. Fuck, yeah. And nobody's taking it away from me.
But Handy said, in effect, just the opposite. "I don't . . . I don't want to die."
"Nobody wants to shoot you, Lou."
"Everybody wants to shoot me. And I go back, the judge'll give me the needle."
"We can talk about that." Her voice was gentle, almost motherly.
Potter stared at the yellow square of light. Somewhere in his heart he was beginning to believe that he'd made some very serious mistakes tonight. Mistakes that had cost lives.
Foster turned to the agent. "Who can guarantee the state won't seek the death penalty?"
Potter told her that Roland Marks was nearby, sent Budd to find him. A moment later Marks climbed into the van and Foster explained to him what Handy wanted.
"He'll surrender?" The assistant attorney general's cold eyes were on Potter, who felt all the censure and scorn he'd fired at Marks earlier that day flow right back at himself. For the first time today Potter found he couldn't hold Marks's eye.
"I think I can get him to," Foster said.
"Yes indeed. I'll guarantee whatever he wants. Put a big red seal on it. Ribbons too. I can't get an existing-sentence reduction--"
"No. I'm sure he understands that."
"But I'll guarantee we don't go sticking those little needles in his arm."
"Lou. The state assistant attorney general is here. He's guaranteeing that they won't go after the death penalty if you surrender."
"Yeah?" There was a pause, the sound of a hand over the receiver. Then: "Same for my boy Shep here?"
Foster frowned. LeBow turned his computer to her and she read about Wilcox. She looked at the AG, who nodded.
"Sure, Lou. Both of you. And the other guy with you?"
Potter thought: Son of a bitch had himself an accident.
Handy laughed. "Had a accident."
Foster lifted an inquiring eyebrow to Potter, who said, "Believed dead."
"Okay, you and Wilcox," the blond detective said, "you got a deal."
The same deal that Potter, through Charlie Budd, had offered him. Why was Handy accepting it now? A moment later he found out.
"Hold up, you frigid bitch. That's not all."
"I love it when you talk dirty, Lou."
"I also want a guarantee to stay outta Callana. I killed that guard there. I go back and they'll pound me to death for sure. No more federal time."
Foster looked once more at Potter, who nodded to Tobe. "Call Justice," he whispered. "Dick Allen."
The deputy attorney general in Washington.
"Lou," Foster said, "We're checking on it now."
Potter again anticipated: I'm still horny. Let's fuck.
Handy's voice brightened and the old devil was back.
"Come sit on my cock while we're waiting."
"I would, Lou, but I don't know where it's been."
"In my Jockeys for way too long."
"Just keep it there for a while longer then."
Potter was patched through to Allen, who listened and agreed reluctantly that if Handy was willing to surrender he could serve his state time first. Allen would also waive the federal charges for the escape though not for the murder of the guard. The practical effect of this was that Handy wouldn't have to surrender to any federal jailers until about fifty years after he'd died of old age.
Foster relayed this to Handy. There was a long pause. A moment later Handy's voice said, "Okay, we'll do it."
Foster looked at Potter with a cocked eyebrow. He nodded numbly, dumbfounded.
"But I gotta see it in writing," Handy said.
"Okay, Lou. We can arrange that."
Potter was already writing the terms out longhand. He handed the sheet to Henry LeBow to type and print out.
"So, that's it," LeBow said, eyes on his blue screen. "Score one for the good guys."
Laughter broke out. Potter's face burned as he watched the elation on the faces of Budd and the other federal agents. He smiled too but he understood--as did no one else on the threat management team--that he had both won and lost. And he knew that it was not his strength or courage or intelligence that had failed him but his judgment.
Which is the worst defeat a man can suffer.
"Here we go," LeBow said, offering the printout to Potter. He and Marks signed the document and Stevie Oates made one last run to the slaughterhouse. When he returned he wore a perplexed expression and carried a bottle of Corona beer, which Handy had given him.
"Agent Potter?" Sharon Foster had apparently been calling his name several times. He looked up. "Would you like to coordinate the surrender?"
He stared at her for a moment and nodded. "Yes, of course. Tobe, call Dean Stillwell. Ask him to please come in here."
Tobe made the call. Unfazed, LeBow continued to type in information on the incident log. Detective Sharon Foster glanced at Potter with a look that he took to be one of sympathy; it was patronizing and hurt far more than a snide smile of triumph would have. As he looked at her he felt suddenly very old--as if everything he'd known and done in his life, every way he looked at things, every word he'd said to strangers and to friends was, in an instant, outmoded and invalid.
If not an outright lie.
He was in camouflage gear so no one saw the lean man lying in a stand of starkly white birch not far from the command van.
His hands clasped the night-vision binoculars, sweat dotting his palms copiously.
Dan Tremain had been frozen in this position for an hour, during which time a helicopter had come and gone, the federal HRT had arrived and assembled nearby, and a squad car had streaked up to the van, bearing a young policewoman.
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 P
otter'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?"
"No weapons in their hands but they're wearing bulky shirts. Could be hidden."
Injured but extent unknown.
Potter said to D'Angelo, "They had tools. Might've brought tape with them too and taped weapons under their shirts."
The HRT commander nodded.
Blood everywhere . . .
Sharon Foster joined the men on the hillock. She'd put on bulky body armor.
How was this going to end? Potter wondered. He listened to the mournful sound of the wind. He felt a desperate urge to talk to Handy once more. Pressed the speed-dial button on the phone he carried.
A dozen rings, two dozen. No answer.
D'Angelo and LeBow were looking at him. He hung up.
Inside the slaughterhouse, the lights went out. Budd stiffened; Potter motioned him to relax. HTs often doused lights upon leaving, afraid to present a silhouette target even though they were giving up.
The crescent moon had moved fifty degrees through the windy sky. Often there's a sense of familiarity, even a perverse comfort, that a negotiator finds in the setting in which he's spent hours or days. Tonight, though, as he gazed at the black and red brick, all Potter could think of was Handy's phrase "Cold death."
The door opened slowly, stuck halfway, then opened further.
No movement.
What will it be? he wondered. Good or bad? Peaceful or violent?
Ah, my beautiful Ostrella.
During surrenders, he'd seen it all: Terrorists falling to the ground, crying like babies. Unarmed criminals streaking for freedom. Hidden guns. The young Syrian woman who walked slowly from an Israeli consulate, arms properly outstretched, and smiled sweetly at him just before the grenades in her bra blew herself and three HRT agents to pieces.
Be forewarned.
For only the third or fourth time in his career Arthur Potter lifted his weapon from his belt holster, high on his padded hip, and awkwardly pulled the automatic's slide, chambering a round. He replaced the gun, not clicking on the safety.
"Why isn't anything happening?" Budd whispered in irritation.
Potter stifled a sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh hysterically.
"Art?" Handy's voice floated from inside the slaughterhouse, a so
ft, ragged sound on the wind.
"Yes?" Potter called through the megaphone.
"Where the fuck are you? I don't see you."
Potter looked at Budd. "Here's where I earn my paycheck." He rose unsteadily, polished his glasses on the lapel of his sports coat. Sharon Foster asked if he was sure he wanted to do this. He glanced at her then walked awkwardly down the hill and stepped over an ancient split-rail fence. He paused about thirty yards from the front of the slaughterhouse.
"Here I am, Lou. Come on out."
And there they were.
Handy first. Then Wilcox.
The first thing he noticed was that their arms were at the backs of their heads.
It's all right, Ostrella. Come out however you want. Come home. You'll be okay.
"Lou, stretch your arms out!"
"Hey, take it easy, Art," Handy called. "Don't give yourself a fucking heart attack." Blinking against the powerful glare of the blinding lights. Amused, looking around.
"Lou, you've got a dozen snipers aiming at you--"
"Just a dozen? Shit! Thought I was worth more than that."
"Put your arms out or they'll shoot."
Handy stopped walking. Looked over at Wilcox. They broke into smiles.
Potter's hand went to the butt of his pistol.
Slowly the prisoners' arms extended.
"I look like a fucking ballerina, Art."
"You're doing fine, Lou."
"Easy for you to say."
Potter called, "Move in separate directions about ten feet, then lie facedown on the ground."
They walked away from the slaughterhouse, farther than ordered but then dropped to their knees and went prone. The two HRT agents by the door kept their H&Ks trained on the fugitives' backs and stayed clear of the doorway just in case Bonner wasn't in fact dead or there'd been other takers inside that even the hostages hadn't known about.
The two agents hovering by the windows climbed inside, followed by two more, who ran from the shadows and sped through the door. The beams of the powerful flashlights attached to their guns whipped throughout the slaughterhouse.
They'd been briefed about the incendiary device Handy'd rigged and they'd be moving very slowly, looking for tripwires. Potter believed he'd never been so anxious in his life. He expected the interior of the slaughterhouse to blossom into orange flame at any instant.
Outside, two more HRT agents had moved up, covering the two beside the door, who now advanced on Handy and Wilcox.
Did the men have armed grenades on them?
Hidden knives?
A Maiden's Grave Page 36
