Potter said, "I do hear you, Lou. But we've got to get one other thing straight. I'm the only man in this universe can get you out of there alive. There's nobody else. So I'm the one to reckon with. Now do
you
hear
me
?"
"I'll call you back with our demands."
This was tricky, this was dangerous, this was not about re-election. This was about decency and life. So Daniel Tremain told himself as he walked into the governor's mansion.
Standing upright as a birch rod, he headed through the surprisingly modest home into a large den.
Decency and life.
"Officer."
"Governor."
The Right Honorable Governor of the state of Kansas, A. R. Stepps, was looking at the faint horizon – fields of grain identical to those that had funded his father's insurance company, which had in turn allowed Stepps to be a public servant. Tremain believed Stepps was the perfect governor: connected, distrustful of Washington, infuriated about crime in Topeka and the felons that Missouri sloughed off into
his
Kansas City but able to live with it all, his eye no further than the low star of a retirement spent teaching in Lawrence and cruising Scandia Lines routes with the wife.
But now there was Crow Ridge.
The governor's eyes lifted from a fax he'd been reading and scanned Tremain.
Look me over if you want. Go right ahead. His blue-and-black operations gear certainly looked incongruous here among the framed prints of shot ducks, the Lemon-Pledged mahogany antiques. Most frequently Stepps's eyes dipped to the large automatic pistol, which the trooper adjusted as he sat in the irritatingly scrolly chair. "He's killed one?"
Tremain nodded his head, which was covered with a thinning crew cut. He noted that the governor had a tiny hole in the elbow of his baby-blue cardigan and that he was absolutely terrified. "What happened?"
"Premeditated, looks like. I'm getting a full report but it looks like there was no reason for it. Sent her out like he was giving her up and shot her in the back."
"Oh, dear God. How young was she?"
"The oldest. A teenager. But still…"
The governor nodded toward a silver service. "Coffee? Tea?… No? You've never been here before, have you?"
"The governor's mansion? No." Though it wasn't a mansion; it was just a nice house, a house that rang with the sounds of family. "I need some help here, Officer. Some of your expertise."
"I'll do whatever I can, sir."
"An odd situation. These prisoners escaped from a federal penitentiary – What is it, Captain?"
"With all respect, sir, that prison at Callana's like it's got a revolving door in it." Tremain recalled four breakouts in the last five years. His own men had captured a number of the escapees, a record better than that of the U.S. marshals, who in Tremain's opinion were overpaid baby-sitters.
The governor began cautiously, like a man stepping onto November ice. "So they're technically federal escapees but they also're lined up for state sentences. Won't be till the year three thousand maybe but the fact is they're state felons too."
"But the FBI's in charge of the barricade." Tremain had been told specifically by the assistant attorney general that his services would not be required in this matter. The trooper was no expert on the hierarchy of state government but even schoolchildren knew that the AG and his underlings worked for the governor. Executive branch. "We have to defer to them, of course. And maybe it's for the best."
The governor said, "This Potter's a fine man…" His voice seemed not to stop but to deflate until it became a dwelling question mark.
Dan Tremain was a career law enforcer and had learned never to say anything that could be quoted back against him even before he'd learned how to cover two opposing doors when diving through a barricade window. "Pride of the FBI, I'm told," the trooper said, assuming that a tape recorder was running somewhere nearby, though it probably wasn't.
"But?" The governor raised an eyebrow.
"I understand he's taking a hard line."
"Which means what?"
Outside the window, threshers moved back and forth.
"It means that he's going to try to wear Handy down and get him to surrender."
"Will Potter attack eventually? If he has to?"
"He's just a negotiator. A federal hostage rescue team's being assembled. They should be here by early evening."
"And if Handy doesn't surrender they'll go in and…"
"Neutralize him."
The round face smiled. The governor looked nostalgically at an ashtray and then back to Tremain. "How soon after they get there will they attack?"
"The rule is that you don't assault except as a last resort. Rand Corporation did a study a few years ago and found that ninety percent of the hostages killed in a barricade are killed when the situation goes hot – when there's an assault. I was going to say something else, sir."
"Please. Speak frankly."
The corner of a sheet of paper peeked out from under the governor's repulsively blue sweater. Tremain recognized it as his own re'sume. He was proud of his record with the state police though he wondered if he wasn't here now because the governor had read the brief paragraph referring to a "consulting" career, which had taken Tremain to Africa and Guatemala after his discharge from the Marines.
"The Rand Corporation study is pretty accurate as far as it goes. But there's something else that bears on this situation, sir. That if there's a killing early in the barricade, negotiations rarely work. The HT – the hostage taker – has little to lose. Sometimes there's a psychological thing that happens and the taker feels so powerful that he'll just keep upping his demands so that they
can't
be met, just so he'll have an excuse to kill the hostages."
The governor nodded.
"What's your assessment of Handy?"
"I read the file on the way over here and I came up with a profile."
"Which is?"
"He's not psychotic. But he's certainly amoral."
The governor's thin lips twitched into a momentary smile. Because, Tremain thought, I'm a mercenary thug who used the word
amoral
?
"I think," Tremain continued slowly, "that he's going to kill more of the girls. Maybe all of them ultimately. If he goes mobile and gets away from us I think he'll kill them just for the symmetry of it."
Symmetry
. How do you like
that
, sir? Check out the education portion of my resume. I was cum laude from Lawrence. Top of my class at OCS.
"One other thing we have to consider," the captain continued. "He didn't try very hard to escape from that trooper who found them this afternoon."
"No?"
"There was just that one officer and the three takers, with guns and hostages. It was like Handy's goal wasn't so much to get away but to spend some time…"
"Some time what?"
"With the hostages. If you get what I'm saying. They
are
all female."
The governor lifted his bulky weight from the chair. He walked to the window. Outside the combines combed the flat landscape, two of the ungainly machines slowly converging. The man sighed deeply.
Fucking
symmetrically amoral
life, ain't it, sir?
"He simply isn't your typical hostage taker, Governor. There's a sadistic streak in him."
"And you really think he'd… hurt the girls? You know what I mean?"
"I believe he would. If he could keep an eye out the window at the same time. And one of the fellows in there with him, Sonny Bonner, he's doing time for rape. Well, interstate transport. But rape was at the bottom of it."
On the governor's desk were pictures of his blond family, a black Labrador retriever, and Jesus Christ.
"How good is your team, Captain?" Whispering now.
"We're very, very good, sir."
The governor rubbed his sleepy eyes. "Can you get them out?"
"Yes. To know how many casualties, I'd have to do a preliminary plan of the tactical operation and then run a damage assessment."
"How soon could you do that?"
"I've asked Lieutenant Carfallo to obtain terrain maps and architectural drawings of the building."
"Where is he now?"
Tremain glanced at his watch. "He happens to be outside, sir."
The governor's eyes twitched again. "Why don't you ask him in?"
A moment later the lieutenant, a short, stocky young officer, was unfurling maps and old drawings.
"Lieutenant," Tremain barked, "give us your assessment."
A stubby finger touched several places on the architectural drawings. "Breachable here and here. Move in, use stun grenades, set up crossfire zones." The young man said this cheerfully and the governor seemed to grow uneasy again. As well he ought to. Carfallo was a scary little weasel. The lieutenant continued, "I'd estimate six to eight seconds, bang to bullets."
"He means," Tremain explained, "it's six seconds from the time the door blows until we acquire all three targets – um, have guns pointed at all the HTs."
"Is that good?"
"Excellent. It means that hostage casualties would be minimal or nonexistent. But of course I can't guarantee that there'd be none."
"God doesn't give us guarantees."
"No, He doesn't."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," the governor said.
"Dismissed," Tremain snapped, and the young man's face went still as he turned and vanished.
"What about Potter?" the governor asked. "He
is
in charge after all."
Tremain said, "And the related issue – there'd have to be some reason to green-light an assault."
"Some excuse," the governor mused, very carelessly. Then he stiffened and picked at a renegade powder-blue thread on his cuff.
"Say something happened to sever communications between Potter and Handy and the men in the field. And then say someone in my team observed a high-risk activity inside the slaughterhouse, some activity that jeopardized troopers or the hostages. Something Potter wasn't able to respond to. I'd think that – well, even legally – we'd be fully authorized to move in and secure the premises."
"Yes, yes. I'd think you would be." The governor lifted an inquiring eyebrow then thought better of saying whatever he'd been about to say. He slapped the desktop. "All right, Captain. My instructions: You're to move the state Hostage Rescue Unit to Crow Ridge and provide any backup assistance you can to Agent Potter. If for some reason Agent Potter is unable to remain in command of the situation and the convicts present an immediate threat to anyone – hostages or troopers or… just plain anyone – you're authorized to do whatever's necessary to neutralize the situation."
Entrust that to tape if you want. Who could argue with the wisdom and prudence of the words?
"Yessir." Tremain rolled up the maps and diagrams. "Is there anything else, sir?"
"I know that time is of the essence," the governor said slowly, applying his last test to the solemn trooper, "but do you think we could spend a moment in prayer?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
And the soldier took the sovereign's hand and they both dropped to their knees. Tremain closed his piercing blue eyes. A stream of words filled the room, rapid and articulate, as if they flowed straight from the heart of an Almighty worried sick about those poor girls about to die in the corridors of the Webber amp; Stoltz Processing Company, Inc.
So
you'll be home then
.
Melanie watched the lump of a woman and thought: it's impossible for someone to cry that much. She tapped Mrs. Harstrawn's arm but all the teacher did was cry even harder.
They were still in the little hellhole of the killing room. Scummy water on the floor, ringed like a rainbow from spilled oil. Filthy ceramic tile. No windows. It smelled of mold and shit. And decayed, dead animals in the walls. It reminded Melanie of the shower room in
Schindler's List
.
Her eyes kept falling on the center of the room: a large drain from which radiated spider legs of troughs. All stained brown. Old, old blood. She pictured a young calf braying then struggling as its throat was cut, the blood pulsing out, down the drain.
Melanie started to cry and once again heard her father's voice from last spring,
So you'll be home then. You'll be home then you'll be home then
…
From there her thoughts leapt to her brother, lying in a hospital bed six hundred miles away. He'd have heard by now, heard about the murder of the couple in the Cadillac, the kidnaping. He'd be worried sick. I'm sorry, Danny. I wish I were with you!
Blood spraying through the air…
Mrs. Harstrawn huddled and shook. Her face was a remarkable blue and Melanie's horror at Susan's death was momentarily replaced by the fear that the teacher was having a stroke.
"Please," she signed. "Girls are scared."
But the woman didn't notice or, if she did, couldn't respond.
So
you'll
…
Melanie wiped her face and lowered her head into her arms.
…
be home then
.
And if she'd been home, like her parents wanted (well,
her father
, but her father's decision
was
her parents'), she wouldn't be here now.
None of them would.
And Susan would still be alive.
Stop thinking about it!
Bear walked past the killing room and looked in. He squeezed his crotch, half hidden beneath his belly, and barked something at Shannon. He offered his knee, said something about did she want to kick him again? She tried to give him a defiant look but stared down at her arm, rubbing the faded self-drawn tattoo of the superhero.
Brutus called something and Bear looked up. The big man was afraid of him, Melanie understood suddenly, seeing the look in Bear's eyes. He laughed humorlessly, sneering. Glanced once at Mrs. Harstrawn. But his eyes lingered longest on the little girls, especially the twins and Emily, her dress, her white stockings and black patent-leather shoes, the dress bought just for the occasion of Melanie's performance at the Kansas State Theater of the Deaf Summer Recital. How long the gaze coursed over the little girl. He reluctantly walked back into the main room of the slaughterhouse.
Get them out, Melanie told herself. Whatever you have to do,
get them out
.
Then: But I can't. Brutus will kill me. He'll rape me. He's evil, he's the Outside. She thought of Susan and wept again. He was right, her father.