Budd nearly went cross-eyed gazing at the encroaching microphone and said, "That thing's making me pretty nervous."
The four FBI agents roared with laughter.
Tobe explained to Frances. "Voice stress analyzer. Gives us some clue about truth telling but mostly it gives us a risk assessment." He pushed a button and the screen divided into four squares. Wavy lines of differing peaks and valleys froze in place.
Tobe tapped the screen and said, "This is Arthur. He never gets rattled. Actually I think he pees his pants regularly but you'll never tell it by the sound of his voice. Then you're number two, Angie. Arthur was right. You get a Cool Cucumber Award. But Henry's not far behind." He laughed, tapping the final grid. "Captain Budd, you are one nervous fellow. Can I suggest yoga and breathing exercises?"
Budd frowned. "If you hadn't been poking that thing into my face I'da done better. Or told me what it was about in the first place. I get a second chance?"
The negotiator looked outside. "Let's make that phone call. Send him out, Charlie."
"Go ahead, Stevie," Budd said into the radio handset. They saw the trooper move into the gully and make his way toward the slaughterhouse.
Potter pressed the speed dial.
"Uplink."
"Hello, Lou."
"Art. We got the fat one all dressed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. We see your boy coming. He got my chocolate shake?"
"He's the same one who pitched the phone to you. Stevie's his name. Good man."
Potter thought:
Was he one of them was shooting at us before
?
"Maybe," Handy said, "he was the one gave the signal to shoot at our Shep."
"I told you that was an accident, Lou. Say, how's everybody doing in there?"
Who gives a shit?
"Fine. I just checked on 'em."
Curious, the negotiator thought. He hadn't expected this response at all. Is he saying that to reassure me? Is he scared? Does he want to lull me into being careless?
Or did the bad-boy act fall away for a moment and was the real Lou Handy actually giving a legitimate response to a legitimate question?
"I put some of that asthma medicine in the bag."
Fuck her, who cares?
Handy laughed. "Oh, for the one sucking air. It's a pain, Art. How can anybody get any sleep with that little shit gasping for breath?"
"And some paper and pens. In case the girls want to say something to you."
Silence. Potter and LeBow glanced at each other. Was he angry about the paper?
No, he was just talking to someone inside.
Keep his mind busy, off the hostages, off Stevie. "How're those lights working?" Potter asked.
"Good. The ones you've got outside suck, though. Can I shoot 'em out?"
"You know what they cost? It'd come out of my paycheck."
Gates was fifty feet away, walking slowly and steadily. Potter glanced at Tobe, who nodded and pushed buttons on the HP.
"So you're a McDonald's fan, Lou? Big Macs, they're the best."
"How'd
you
know?" Handy asked sarcastically. "You never ate under the golden arches in your life, betcha."
Angie gave him a thumbs-up and Potter nodded, pleased. It's a good sign when the HT refers to the negotiator. The transference process was proceeding.
"Guess again, Lou. You're going to have exactly what I had for dinner twice last week. Well, minus the Fritos. But I did have a milk shake. Vanilla."
"Thought you fancy agents had gourmet meals every night. Steak and lobster. Champagne. Then you fuck the beautiful agent works for you."
"A bacon cheeseburger, not a glass of wine to be had. Oh, and instead of sex I had a second order of fries. I do love my potatoes."
In the faint reflection of the window Potter was aware that Budd was staring at him and he believed the expression was of faint disbelief.
"You fat too, like this little girl I got by her piggy arm?"
"I could lose a few pounds. Maybe more than a few."
Gates was fifty feet from the door.
Potter wanted to probe some more into Handy's likes and dislikes. But he was cautious. He sensed it would rile the man. There's a philosophy in barricade situations that tries to keep the HTs on edge – bombarding them with bad music or playing with the heating and cooling of the barricade site. Potter didn't believe in this approach. Be firm, but establish rapport.
Handy was too quiet. What was distracting him? What was he thinking? I need more control. That's the problem, it occurred to Potter. I can't get control of the situation away from him.
"I was going to ask you, Lou… This is pretty odd weather for July. Must be cold in there. You want us to rig some heaters or something?"
Potter speculated:
Naw, we got plenty of bodies to keep us warm
.
But Handy responded slowly, "Maybe. How cold's it going to be tonight?"
Again, very logical and matter-of-fact. And behind the words: the implication that he might be planning on a long siege. That might give Potter the chance to push back some of Handy's deadlines. He jotted these impressions on a slip of paper and pushed it toward Henry LeBow to enter into his computer.
"Windy and chilly, I'm told."
"I'll think on it."
And listen to his voice, Potter thought. He sounds so reasonable. What do I make of that? Sometimes he's pure bravado; sometimes he sounds like an insurance salesman. Potter's eyes scanned the diagram of the slaughterhouse. Twelve yellow Post-Its, each representing a taker or a hostage, were stuck on the schematic. Ultimately, Potter hoped, they'd be placed in the exact position where each person was located. At the moment they were clustered off to the side.
"Lou, you there?"
"Sure I'm here. Where the fuck'd I be? Driving down 1-70 to Denver?"
"Didn't hear you breathing."
In a low, chilling voice Handy said, "That's 'cause I'm a ghost."
"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."
"Yessir," Stillwell said.
Potter leaned forward, felt his head tap against the cool glass window.
In two leaps, Stevie Gates grabbed the girl and pulled her down. Her hands and legs flailed and together they tumbled behind the rise, out of sight of the slaughterhouse.