Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

She had been reluctant about these plans but the prospect of working with her brother had an appeal to it. The unfazable boy had become an easygoing young man, nothing at all like their embittered father. While Harold would mutter darkly about fate when a thresher blade snapped and he stood paralyzed with anger, staring at the splintered wood, Danny might jump down out of the cockpit, vanish for a time, and return with a six-pack and some sandwiches for an impromptu picnic. "We'll fix the son of a bitch tonight. Let's eat."

For a time she believed this could be a pleasant life. She took some ag extension courses and even sent an article to Silent News about farm life and Deafness.

But then, last summer, Danny'd had the accident, and lost both the ability, and the will, to work the place. Charrol, with the desperate legitimacy of a man needing heirs, turned to Melanie. She was a woman, yes (this a handicap somewhat worse than her audiologic one), but an educated, hardworking one at least.

Melanie, he planned, would become his full partner. And why not? Since age seven she'd ridden in the air-conditioned cab of the big John Deere, helping him shift up through the infinite number of gears. She'd donned goggles and mask and gloves like a rustic surgeon and filled the ammonia tank, she'd sat in on his meetings with United Produce, and she'd driven with him to the roadside stops, known only to insiders, where the illegal migrant workers hid, waiting for day jobs at harvest.

It's a question of belonging and what God does to make sure those that oughta stay someplace do. Well, your place is here, working at what you can do, where your, you know, problem doesn't get you into trouble. God's will … So you'll be home then .

Tell him, Melanie thinks.

Yes! If you never tell another soul, tell De l'Epée.

"There's something," she begins, "I want to say."

His placid face gazes at her.

"It's a confession."

"You're too young to have anything to confess."

"After the poetry recital in Topeka I wasn't going back to the school right away. I was going to see my brother in St. Louis. He's in the hospital. He's having some surgery tomorrow."

De l'Epée nods.

"But before I went to see him there was something I planned to do in Topeka. I had an appointment to see somebody."

"Tell me."

Should she? Yes, no?

Yes, she decides. She has to. But just as she is about to speak, something intrudes.

The smell of the river?

The thud of approaching feet.

Brutus?

Alarmed, she opened her eyes. No, there was nothing. The slaughterhouse was peaceful. None of their three captors was nearby. She closed her eyes and struggled back into the music room. But De l'Epée was gone.

"Where are you?" she cried. But realized that though her lips were moving she could no longer hear any words.

No! I don't want to leave. Come back, please…

Then Melanie realized that it wasn't the breeze from the river that booted them out of the room; it was her own self. She had grown timid once again, ashamed, and could not confess.

Even to the man who seemed more than willing to listen to anything she wanted to say, however foolish, however dark.

They caught the glint of light about fifty yards away.

Joe Silbert and Ted Biggins walked silently through the field on the left flank of the slaughterhouse. Silbert pointed to the light, a flash off the field glasses or a piece of equipment dangling from the belt of one of the hostage rescue troopers, a reflection from the brilliant halogen lights.

Biggins grumbled that the lights were too bright. There'd be lens flare, he was worried.

"You want me to go fucking shut them off?" Silbert whispered. He wanted a cigarette badly. They continued through the woods until they broke into an open field. Silbert looked through the camera, pushing the zoom button. The troopers, he could see, were clustered on a brush-filled ridge overlooking the slaughterhouse. One of them – hidden behind the school bus – was actually at the slaughterhouse, hovering just below a window.

"Damn, they're good," Silbert whispered. "One of the best teams I've ever seen."

"Fucking lights," muttered Biggins. "Let's get going."

As they walked through the field Silbert looked for patrolling troops. "I thought we had baby-sitters all over the place."

"Those lights're really a pain."

"This is almost too easy," Silbert muttered. "Oh, my God." Biggins was looking up in the air. "Perfecto," Silbert whispered, laughing softly. The men gazed up at the top of the windmill. "It'll get us above the lights," Biggins the sticking record said. Forty feet in the air. They'd have a spectacular view of the field. Silbert grinned and began to climb. At the top they stood on the rickety platform. The mill was long abandoned and the blades were missing. It rocked back and forth in the wind. "That going to be a problem?"

Biggins pulled a retractable monopod from his pocket and extended it, screwing the joints tight. "So what can I do about it? Like, I've got a Steadicam in my fucking pocket?"

The view was excellent. Silbert could see troopers were clustered on the left side of the slaughterhouse. With grim respect he thought of Agent Arthur Potter, who'd looked him in the eye and said there'd be no assault. It was obvious the troopers were getting ready for an imminent kick-in.

Stillwell took a small sponge-covered microphone from his pocket and held it in his hand. He spoke into his scrambled cellular phone and called the remote transmission van, which was back near the main press tent. "You cocksucker," he said to Kellog when the man answered. "I was hoping they'd bust your ass."

"Naw, I told that trooper they could fuck your wife and they let me go."

"The other guys, they're at the press table?"

"Yep."

Silbert had in fact never told any of the other reporters about the press pool arrangement. He and Biggins, Kellog and Bianco and the two reporters now sitting at the pool site, pretending to type stories on the gutted Compaq, were all employees of KFAL in Kansas City.

Biggins plugged the mike into the camera and unfolded the parabolic antenna. He clipped it to the handrail of the windmill and began speaking into the mike, "Testing, testing, testing…"

"Cut the crap, Silbert, you gonna give us some pictures?"

"Ted's sending the level now." Silbert gestured toward the antenna and Biggins adjusted it while he spoke. "I'm switching to radio," the anchorman said, then took the microphone and shoved an earphone in his left ear.

After a moment Kellog said, "There. Five by five. Jesus H. Christ, we got the visual. Where the fuck are you? In a helicopter?"

"The pros know," Silbert said. "Cut into the feed. I'm ready to roll. Let's do it before we get shot down."

There was a staticky click and he heard a Toyota commercial suddenly cut off in mid-disclaimer. "And now from Crow Ridge, Kansas," the baritone announcer said, "We have a live report from Channel 9 anchorman Joe Silbert with exclusive footage from the kidnaping scene, where a number of students from the Laurent Clerc School for the Deaf and two teachers are being held by escaped convicts. Let's go live to you, Joe."

"Ron, we're overlooking the slaughterhouse in which the girls and their teachers are being held. As you can see, there are literally hundreds of troopers surrounding the building. The police have set up a series of those brilliant halogen lights to shine into the slaughterhouse windows, presumably to prevent any sniping from inside.

"The lights and the presence of the troopers, however, didn't prevent the murder of one of the hostages on that spot right about there, in the center of your screen, about six hours ago. A trooper told me that the girl was released by the fugitives and was walking down to join her family and friends when a single shot rang out and she was hit squarely in the back. She was, as you said, Ron, deaf, and the trooper told me he believed she'd used sign language to plead for help and to tell her family that she loved them."