Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

"A ghost?" Potter echoed.

"I slip up quiet as a cat behind you and slit your throat and I'm gone before your blood hits the ground. You think I'm in that building there, that slaughterhouse you're looking at right now. But I'm not."

"Where'd you be?"

"Maybe I'm coming up behind you, that van of yours. See, I know you're in that there truck. Looking out your window. Maybe I'm right outsida that window. Maybe I'm in that stand of buffalo grass your man's walking by right now and I'm going to knife him in the balls when he passes."

"And maybe I'm in the slaughterhouse with you, Lou."

A pause. Potter thought, He'll laugh.

Handy did, a hearty belly laugh. "You get me lotsa Fritos?"

"Lots. Regular and barbecue."

Stevie Gates was at the building.

"Hey, shave and a haircut… Somebody's come acalling."

"Got a visual," Tobe whispered. He dimmed the van lights. They turned to the screen broadcasting the picture from the camera above Stevie Oates's right ear. The image wasn't good. The door of the slaughterhouse opened only several feet and the images inside – pipes, machinery, a table – were distorted by light flares. The only person in sight was Jocylyn, in silhouette, hands to her face.

"Here's your boy now. Stevie? I don't think I've ever shot anyone named Stevie. He looks pretty dayamm uncomfortable."

What was probably a shotgun barrel protruded slowly and rested against Jocylyn's head. Her hands dropped to her sides, making fists. The sound of her whimpering floated from the speaker. Potter prayed that Stillwell's sniper would exercise restraint.

The video image quivered for a moment.

The shotgun turned toward Gates as a man's silhouette filled the doorway. Through the mike mounted above the trooper's ear came the words: "You got a gun on you?" A voice different from Handy's. Shepard Wilcox's, Potter guessed; Bonner would cast a far bigger shadow.

Potter looked down to make sure he was hitting the right buttons as he cut over to Oates's earphone. "Lie. Be insistent but respectful."

"No, I don't. Here's what you wanted. The food. Now, sir, if you'd let that girl go…" The trooper spoke without a quaver in his voice.

"Good, Stevie, you're doing fine. Nod if Jocylyn seems okay."

The picture dipped slightly.

"Keep smiling at her."

Another dip.

Handy asked Gates, "You got a microphone or camera?" Another silhouette had appeared. Handy's. "You recording me?"

"Your call," Potter whispered. "But there'll be no exchange if you say yes."

"No," the trooper said.

"I'll kill you if I find out you're lying to me."

"I don't," Gates said insistently, without hesitation.

Good, good.

"You alone? Anybody sneak up on either side of the door?"

"Can't you see? I'm alone. How's the girl?"

"Can't you see?" Handy mocked, stepping behind Wilcox, in plain view. "Here she is. Look for yourself."

There was no move to release her.

"Let her go," Gates said.

"Maybe you oughta come in and get her."

"No. Let her go."

"You wearing body armor?"

"Under my shirt, yeah."

"Maybe you oughta give me that. We could use it more'n you."

"How do you figure?" Gates said. His voice was no longer so steady.

" 'Cause it won't do you any good. See, we could shoot you in the face and take it offa you and you'd be just as dead as if we shot you in the back when you were walking away. So how 'bout you give it to us now?"

They'd find the video camera and radio transmitter if he gave up the armor. And probably kill him on the spot.

Potter whispers, "Tell him we had a bargain."

"We had a bargain," Gates said firmly. "Here's the food. I want that girl. And I want her now."

A pause that lasted eons.

"Put it on the ground," Handy finally said.

The image on the screen dipped as Gates set the bag down. Still, the trooper kept his head up and pointed directly into the crack of the open door. Unfortunately there was too much contrast in the image; the agents in the van could see virtually nothing inside.

"Here," Handy's voice crackled, "take Miss Piggy. Go wee, wee, wee all the way home." Laughter from several voices. Handy stepped away from the door. They lost sight of him and Wilcox. Was one of them raising the gun to shoot?

"Hiya, honey," Gates said. "Don't you worry, you're gonna be just fine."

"He shouldn't be talking to her," Angie muttered.

"Let's go for a walk, whatta you say? See your mommy and daddy?"

"Lou," Potter called into the throw phone, suddenly concerned that the takers were no longer in sight. No answer. To those in the van he muttered, "I don't trust him. Hell, I don't trust him."

"Lou?"

"Line's still open," Tobe called. "He hasn't hung up."

Potter said to Gates, "Don't say anything to her, Stevie. Might make her panic."

The screen dipped in response.

"Go on. Back on out of there. Go real slow. Then get behind the girl, turn around, and walk straight away. Keep your head up, so your helmet covers as much of your neck as possible. If you're shot, fall on top of the girl. I'll order covering fire and we'll get you out as fast as we can."

A faint disturbed whisper came through the speaker. But there was no other answer.

Suddenly the video screen went mad. There was a burst of light and motion and jiggling images.

"No!" came Oates's voice. Then a deep grunt, followed by a moan.

"He's down," Budd said, looking through the window with binoculars. "Oh, brother."

"Christ!" Derek Elb cried, gazing up at the video monitor.

They'd heard no gunfire but Potter was sure that Wilcox had shot the girl in the head with a silenced pistol and was firing repeatedly at Gates. The screen danced madly with grainy shapes and lens flares.

"Lou!" Potter cried into the phone. "Lou, are you there?"

"Look!" Budd shouted, pointing out the window.

It wasn't what Potter had feared. Jocylyn apparently had panicked and leapt forward. The big girl had knocked Gates flat on his back. She was bounding over the grass and bluestem toward the first row of police cars.

Gates rolled over and was on his feet, going after her.

Potter juggled more buttons. "Lou!" He slapped the console again, activating the radio to Dean Stillwell, who was watching through a night scope with a sniper beside him.

"Dean?" Potter called.

"Yessir."

"Can you see inside?"

"Not much. Door's open only about a foot. There's somebody behind it."

"Windows?"

"No one in 'em yet."

Jocylyn, overweight though she might be, was sprinting like an Olympian directly toward the command van, arms waving, mouth open wide. Gates was gaining on the girl but they were both clear targets.

"Tell the sniper," Potter said, desperately scanning the slaughterhouse windows, "safety off."

Should he order a shot?

"Yessir. Wait. There's Wilcox. Inside about five yards from the window. He's got a shotgun and's drawing a target."

Oh, Lord, Potter thought. If the sniper kills him Bandy's sure to murder one of the hostages in retaliation.

Is he going to shoot or not?

Maybe Wilcox's just panicked too, doesn't know what's going on.

"Agent Potter?" Stillwell asked.

"Acquire."

"Yessir… Wilcox's in Chrissy's sights. She's got a shot. Can't miss, she says. Crosshaired on his forehead."

Yes? No?

"Wait," Potter said. "Keep him acquired."

"Yessir."

Jocylyn was thirty yards from the slaughterhouse. Gates close behind her. Perfect targets. A load of twelve-gauge, double-ought buck would cut their legs off.

Sweating, Potter slammed his hand onto two buttons. Into the phone he said, "Lou, you there?"

There was the sound of static, or breathing, or an erratic heartbeat.

"Tell the sniper to stand down," Potter ordered Stillwell suddenly. "Don't shoot. Whatever happens, don't shoot."