Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

Stay calm, Potter told himself. He's playing you again. He tamped down his own rage, which mimicked Handy's.

"She's into some sick stuff, Art. One of them S amp;M pups, looks like. She'll learn, she'll learn. You've got 'bout ten minutes, Art. I don't hear that chopper overhead we're gonna do some nine-millimeter plastic surgery on this here girl. Now I want that fucking helicopter. You got it?"

"We have to bring one in from Topeka. There -"

"There's a goddamn airport three miles west of here. Why the fuck don't you bring one in from there?"

"You said you -"

"Ten minutes."

Click.

Potter closed his eyes and sighed.

"Angie?"

"I think we have a problem," the psychologist answered. "He wants to hurt her."

This was a real setback. Potter could probably have gotten an extension of the deadline from a Lou Handy who was in a good frame of mind and in control. Vindictive Lou Handy, embarrassed and angry Lou Handy, wasn't inclined to give them anything and was now in the mood for bloodshed.

Oh, Melanie, why couldn't you have just left well enough alone? (Yet what else did he feel? Pride that she had the guts to resist Hardy when he tried to beat her for saving Kielle? Admiration? And what else?)

Angie's beautiful, exotic face was frowning.

"What is it?" Budd asked her.

"What Handy was saying about plastic surgery. What does he mean?"

"He doesn't want to kill anyone else just yet, I think," Potter said slowly. "He's worried that he's losing too many hostages and we haven't given him anything substantive. So he's going to wound her. Maybe blind her in one eye."

"Lord," Budd whispered.

Tobe called, "Arthur, I'm picking up scrambled signals from nearby."

"What frequency?"

"What megahertz, you mean?"

"I don't care about the numbers. Whose would they be?"

"It's an unassigned frequency."

"Two-way?"

"Yep. And they're retrosignals."

Some operations are so secret that the law enforcers' radios use special coordinated scramblers that change the code every few seconds. Derek confirmed that the state police radios didn't have this feature.

"How nearby?"

"Within a mile radius."

"Press?"

"They don't usually use scramblers but it could be."

Potter couldn't waste time on this now. He made a fist and stared out the window through the Leicas. He saw Melanie's blond hair, the black speck of the pistol. Struggling to keep his voice calm, he said, "Well, Charlie… you thought any more about what kind of imaginary batteries he wants for his toy?"

Budd lifted his hands helplessly. "I can't think. I… I just don't know." Panic edged into his voice. "Look at the time!"

"Henry?"

LeBow scrolled slowly through the now-lengthy profile of Louis Handy. To nervous Charlie Budd he said, "The more urgent the task, Captain, the more slowly you should perform it. Let's see, there was a lot of grand theft auto when he was a kid. Maybe he's into cars. Should we push that button?"

"No. Charlie's got a point. Let's think about something having to do with his escape."

"What else does he spend his money on?" Angie asked.

"Not much. Never owned property. Never knocked over a jewelry store -"

"Any interests?" Potter wondered.

Angie said suddenly, "His probation reports. You have those in there?"

"I've scanned them in."

"Read them. See if he's ever asked permission to leave a jurisdiction and why."

"Good, Angie," Potter said.

Keys tapped. "Okay. Yes, he has. Twice he left Milwaukee, where he was living following his release, to go fishing in Minnesota. Up near International Falls. And three times up to Canada. Returned all times without incident." LeBow squinted. "Fishing. That reminds me of something…" He typed in a search request. "Here, a prison counselor's report. He likes to fish. Loves it. Worked up merit points for a leave to a trout stream on the grounds at Pennaupsut State Pen."

Potter thought, Minnesota. His home state. Land of a Thousand Lakes.

Canada.

Budd – standing tall with his perfect posture – continued to fidget. "Oh, brother." He looked at his watch twice, five seconds apart.

"Please, Charlie."

"We've got seven minutes!"

"I know. You had the brainstorm. What was in your mind?"

"I don't know what I meant!"

Potter was staring at Melanie once again. Stop it, he ordered. Forget about her. He sat up suddenly. "Got it. He likes to fish and has a fondness for the north?"

"Right," Budd said. Asking, in effect, So what?

But LeBow understood. He nodded. "You're a poet, Arthur."

"Thank Charlie here. He got me thinking of it."

Budd looked merely perplexed.

"Five minutes," Tobe called.

"We're going to cut a phony escape deal." Potter said quickly, pointing to the "Deceptions" half of the board. LeBow rose to his feet, grabbed the marker. Potter thought for a moment. "Handy's going to want to check what I tell him. He's going to call the FAA regional headquarters. Where is that, Charlie?"

"Topeka."

To Tobe, Potter said, "I want an immediate routing of all calls into the main FAA number sent to that phone right there." He pointed to a console phone. It would be an arduous task, Potter knew, but without a word Tobe set to work pushing buttons and speaking urgently into his headset mike.

"No," Budd protested. "There's no time. Just give him that number. How will he know it's not the FAA?"

"Too risky if he checks." Potter picked up the phone and hit redial.

An enthusiastic voice answered, "Yo."

"Lou?"

"Hello, Art. My ears're peeled but I don't hear no chopper. You see my girlfriend here in the window?"

"Say, Lou," Potter said calmly, looking into the window. "I've got a proposition for you."

"Ten, nine, eight…"

"Listen -"

"Hey, Art, I just had a thought. Maybe this is your way of doing something bad. Maybe you are a son of a bitch."

"The chopper's just about ready."

"And this here girl is just about bleedin'. She's crying a stream, Art. I've had it. I've just fucking had it with you people. You don't take me seriously." He raged, "You don't do what I fucking want !"

Angie leaned forward. Charlie Budd's lips moved in a silent prayer. "All right, Lou," Potter growled. "I know you'll shoot her. But you know I'll let you do it." Static filled the van. "Hear me out at least."

"By my clock I'll hear you out for another minute or two."

"Lou, I've been working on this for an hour. I didn't want to say anything until it was in place but I'll tell you anyway. It's almost done." Let the anticipation build up.

"Well, what? Tell me."

"Give me another hour, don't hurt the girl, and I'll get you a priority FAA-cleared flight plan into Canada." Silence for a second.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"You can deal with the FAA directly. We'll never know where you go."

"But the pilot will."

"The pilot'll have handcuffs for himself and the hostages. You set down wherever you want in Canada, disable the chopper and the radio, and you'll be gone hours before we find them." Silence.

Potter looked at Tobe desperately, eyebrows raised. The young man, sweating heavily, exhaled long and mouthed, "Working on it."

"We'll stock the chopper with food and water. You want backpacks, hiking boots? Hell, Lou, we'll even give you fishing rods. This is a good deal. Don't hurt her. Give us another hour and you'll get the clearance."

"Lemme think."

"I'll get the name of the FAA supervisor and call you right back."

Click.

Unflappable Tobe gazed at his inert dials then hit the console with his fist and said, "Where the fuck is our transfer?"

Potter folded his hands together and stared out the window at the configuration that was Melanie Charrol – tiny glowing shapes of color and light, like pixels on a TV screen.