Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

"That's all ? Oh, brother."

Potter said, "Good luck, Charlie." But Charlie was no longer on the line.

Charlie Budd ran underneath the tall Sikorsky helicopter. It was an old model, a big one, the sort that had plucked dripping astronauts from the ocean during the Gemini and Apollo days at NASA. It was orange and red and white, Coast Guard colors, though the insignias had long ago been painted over.

The airport was small. There was no tower, just an air sock beside a grass strip. A half-dozen single-engine Pipers and Cessnas sat idle, tied down securely against Land of Oz twisters.

Budd slammed his fist onto the door of a small shack behind the airport's one hangar. The sign beside the door said, D. D. Pembroke Helicopter School. Lessons, Rides. Hourly, Daily .

Despite that claim, however, the place was mostly a residence. A pile of mail sat on the doorstep and through the window in the door Budd could see a yellow light burning, a pile of clothes in a blue plastic hamper, and what appeared to be a man's foot hanging off the end of a cot. A single toe protruded from a hole in his sock.

"Come on!" Budd pounded hard. He shouted, "Police! Open up!"

The toe moved – it twitched, swung in a slow circle – then fell still.

More pounding. "Open up!"

The toe was fast asleep once more.

The window shattered easily under Budd's elbow. He unlocked the door and pushed inside. "Hey, mister!"

A man of about sixty lay on the cot, wearing overalls and a T-shirt. His hair was like straw and spread out from his head in all directions. His snore was as loud as the Sikorsky's engine.

Budd grabbed his arm and shook violently.

D. D. Pembroke, if D. D. Pembroke this was, opened his wet, red eyes momentarily, gazed through Budd, and rolled over. The snoring, at least, stopped.

"Mister, I'm a state trooper. This's an emergency. Wake up! We need that chopper of yours right now."

"Go away," Pembroke mumbled.

Budd sniffed his breath. He found the empty bottle of Dewar's cradled beneath the man's arm like a sleeping kitten.

"Shit. Wake up, mister. We need you to fly."

"I can't fly. How can I fly? Go away." Pembroke didn't move or open his eyes. "How'd you get in here?" he asked without a trace of curiosity.

The captain rolled him over and shook him by the shoulders. The bottle fell to the concrete floor and broke.

"You Pembroke?"

"Yeah. Shit, was that my bottle?"

"Listen, this is a federal emergency." Budd spotted a jar of instant coffee on a filthy, littered tabletop. He ran water in the rusted sink and filled a mug, not waiting for it to turn hot. He dumped four heaping tablespoons into the cold water and thrust the dirty cup into Pembroke's hands. "Drink this, mister. We gotta get going. I need to you fly me to that slaughterhouse up the road."

Pembroke, eyes still closed, sat up and sniffed at the cup. "What slaughterhouse? What's this shit in here?"

"The one by the river."

"Where's my bottle?"

"Drink this down, it'll wake you up." The instant grounds hadn't dissolved; they floated on the top like brown ice. Pembroke sipped it, spit a mouthful onto the bed, and flung the cup away. "Jeeeez!" Only then did he realize that there was a man in a blue suit and body armor standing over him.

"Who the fuck're you? Where's my -"

"I need your helicopter. And I need it now. It's a federal emergency. You gotta fly me to that slaughterhouse by the river."

"There? The old one? It's three fucking miles away. You can drive faster. Fuck, you can walk! God in Hoboken… my head. Oooooh."

"I need a chopper. And I need it now. I'm authorized to pay you whatever you want."

Pembroke sagged back onto the bed. His eyes kept closing. Budd figured even if they managed to take off, he'd crash and kill them both.

"Let's go." The trooper pulled him up by his Oshkosh straps.

"When?"

"Now. This instant."

"I can't fly when I'm sleepy like this."

"Sleepy. Right. What do you charge?"

"A hundred twenty an hour."

"I'll pay you five hundred."

"Tomorrow." He started to lie down again, eyes closed, patting the dingy sheets for his bottle. "Get the hell outta here."

"Mister. Open your eyes."

He did.

"Shit," Pembroke muttered as he looked down the barrel of the black automatic pistol.

"Sir," Budd said in a low, respectful voice, "you're going to stand up and walk out to that helicopter and fly it exactly where I tell you. Do you understand me?"

A nod.

"Are you sober?"

"Stone cold," Pembroke said. He kept his eyes open for a whole two seconds before he passed out once more.

Melanie lay against the wall, caressing Beverly's sweaty blond hair, the poor girl gasping with every breath.

The young woman leaned forward and looked out. Emily, crying, stood in the window. Now Brutus turned suddenly and looked at Melanie, gestured her forward.

Don't go, she told herself. Resist.

She hesitated for a moment then walked out of the killing room toward him.

I go because I can't stop myself.

I go because he wants me.

She felt the chill sweeping into her from the floor, from the metal chains and meat hooks, from the cascade of slick water, from the damp walls spattered with mold and old, old blood.

I go because I'm afraid.

I go because he and I just killed a man together.

I go because I can understand him…

Brutus pulled her close. "You think you're better'n me, right? You think you're a good person." She could tell he was whispering. People's faces change when they whisper. They look like they're telling you absolute truths but really they're just making the lie more convincing.

"Why're we selling it? Honey, you know what the doctor said. It's your ears. You can still hear now some, sure, but that'll go, remember what they said. You don't really want to start something you'll have to give up in a few years. We're doing it for you."

"See, I'm going to cut her in about three minutes, that chopper don't show up. I'd kill her I had more hostages. But I can't afford to lose another one. Least not yet."

Emily stood, hands still clasped together, staring out at the window, shaking as she sobbed.

"See" – Brutus closed his fiercely strong fingers around Melanie's arm – "if you were a good person, you were really good, you'd say, 'Take me, not her.' "

Stop it!

He slapped her. "No, keep your eyes open. So if you're not like totally good you must have some bad inside you. Somewhere. To let this little one get cut instead of you. It's not like you'd die. I ain't gonna kill her. Just a little pain. Make sure those assholes out… know I mean business. You won't put up with a little pain for your friend, huh? You…bad. Just like me?"

She shook her head.

His head swiveled. Stoat's too. She guessed the phone was ringing.

"Don't answer it," he said to Stoat. "Too much talking. I'm sick and tired…" He thumbed the blade. Melanie was frozen. "You? You for her?" He moved the blade of the knife one way then the other. Figure eights.

What would Susan have done?

Melanie hesitated though she knew the answer clearly. Finally she nodded.

"Yeah," he said, eyebrows raised. "You mean it?"

"Two minutes," Stoat called.

Melanie nodded then embraced sobbing Emily, lowered her head to the girl's cheek, directed her gently away from the window.

Handy leaned close, his head inches from Melanie's, his nose beside her ear. She couldn't hear his breath, of course, but she had the impression he was inhaling something – the scent of her fear. Her eyes were fixed on the knife. Which hovered over her skin: her cheek, her nose, then her lips, her throat. She felt it caress a breast and slide down her belly.

She felt the vibration of his voice, turned to look at his lips. "… should I cut you? Your tit? No loss there – you don't have no boyfriend to feel you up, do you? Your ear? Hey, that wouldn't matter either… You see that flick, Reservoir Dogs ?"