Melanie added, "Can't make them mad at us."
Susan laughed derisively. "What difference does it make if they're mad? Don't give in. They're assholes. They're worst type of Other."
"We can't -" Melanie began.
Bear stamped his foot. Melanie felt the vibrations and jumped. His fat lips were working fast and all she could make out was "Shut up." Melanie looked away. She couldn't stand the sight of his face, the way the black hairs at the edge of his beard curled outward, his fat pores.
His eyes kept returning to Mrs. Harstrawn. And Emily.
When he looked away Melanie slowly brought her hand up and switched from American Sign Language to Signed Exact English and fingerspelling. This was a clumsy way of communicating – she had to spell out words and put them into English word order. But it allowed the use of small hand motions and avoided the broad gestures necessary to communicate in ASL.
"Don't make them mad," she told Susan. "Take it easy."
"They're assholes." Susan refused to switch from ASL.
"Sure. But don't provoke!"
"They won't hurt us. We're no good to them dead."
Exasperated, Melanie said, "They can hurt us without killing us."
Susan just grimaced and looked away.
Well, what does she want us to do? Melanie thought angrily. Grab their guns away and shoot them? Yet at the same time she thought: Oh, why can't I be like her? Look at her eyes! How strong she is! She's eight years younger than me but I feel like the child when I'm around her.
Some of her envy could be attributed to the fact that Susan was the highest in the hierarchy of the world of the Deaf. She was prelingually deaf – born deaf. But more than that, she was Deaf of Deaf: both her parents had been deaf. Politically active in Deaf issues even at seventeen, accepted at Gallaudet in Washington, D.C., on a full scholarship, unyielding about the use of ASL versus SEE, militantly rejecting oralism – the practice of forcing the deaf to try to speak. Susan Phillips was the chic, up-to-the-minute Deaf young woman, beautiful and strong, and Melanie would rather have one Susan by her side at a time like this than a roomful of men.
She felt a small hand tug at her blouse.
"Don't worry," she signed to Anna. The twins hugged each other, their cheeks together, their remarkable eyes wide and tearful. Beverly sat by herself, her hands in her lap, and stared mournfully at the floor, struggling to breathe.
Kielle signed, "We need Jean Grey and Cyclops," referring to two of her favorite X-Men. "They'd tear them apart."
Shannon responded, "No, we need Beast. Remember? He had the blind girlfriend?" Shannon studied Jack Kirby's art religiously and intended to be a superhero-comic artist.
"Gambit too," Kielle signed. Pointing to Shannon's tattoo. Shannon's own comics – surprisingly good, Melanie thought, for an eight-year-old – featured characters with disabilities, like blindness and deafness, that they could mutate to their advantage as they solved crimes and saved people. The two girls – Shannon, gangly and dark; Kielle, compact and fair – fell into a discussion of whether optic blasts, plasmoids, or psychic blades would be the weapons of choice to save them now.
Emily cried for a moment into the sleeve of her dress, printed with black and purple flowers. Then she bowed her head, praying. Melanie saw her two fists lift and open outward. It was the ASL word for "sacrifice."
"Don't worry," Melanie repeated to those girls who were looking at her. But no one paid attention. If they focused on anyone it was on Susan though the girl was signing nothing, merely gazing steadily at Bear, who stood near the entrance to the killing room. Susan was their rallying point. Her presence alone gave them confidence. Melanie found herself struggling to keep from crying.
And it'll be so dark in here tonight!
Melanie leaned forward and looked out the window. She saw the grass bending in the wind. The Kansas wind, relentless. Melanie remembered her father telling her about the sea captain Edward Smith, who came to Wichita in the 1800s and got the idea of mounting sails on Conestoga wagons – literally prairie schooners. She'd laughed at the idea and at her father's humorous telling of the tale, never knowing whether to believe it or not. Now, she was stung at the memory of the storytelling and wished desperately for anything, mythical or real, to sweep her away from the killing room.
She thought suddenly: And what about that man outside? The policeman?
There had been something so reassuring in the way he'd stood up there on the hill after Brutus had fired his gun out the window and Bear was running around, his fat belly jiggling, ripping open boxes of bullets in a panic. The man stood on the hilltop waving his arms, trying to calm things down, stop the shooting. He was looking directly at her.
What would she call him? No animals came to mind. Nothing sleek and heroic anyway. He was old – twice her age probably. And he dressed frumpy. His glasses seemed thick and he was a few pounds heavy. Then it occurred to her. De l'Epée.
That's what she'd call him. After Charles Michel de l'Epée, the eighteenth-century abbé who was one of the first people in the world to really care about the Deaf, to treat them as intelligent human beings. The man who created French Sign Language, the predecessor of ASL.
It was a perfect name for the man in the field, thought Melanie, who could read French and knew that the name itself meant a kind of sword. Her de l'Epée was brave. Just the way his namesake had stood up to the Church and the popular sentiment that the Deaf were retarded and freaks, he was standing up to Stoat and Brutus, up there on the hill, bullets flying around him.
Well, she
had
sent him a message – a prayer, in a way. A prayer and a warning. Had he seen her? Could he understand what she'd said even if he had? She closed her eyes for a brief moment, concentrating all her thoughts on de l'Epée. But all she sensed was the temperature, which had grown cooler, her fear, and – to her dismay – the vibration of footsteps as a man, no,
two
men, approached slowly over the resonant oak floor.
As Brutus and Stoat appeared in the doorway Melanie glanced at Susan, whose face hardened once again, looking up at their captors.
I'll make my face hard too.
She tried but it trembled and soon she was crying again.
Susan! Why can't I be like you?
Bear walked up to the other men. He was gesturing to the main room. The light was dim and the phony science of lipreading gave her a distorted message. She believed he said something about the phone.
Brutus responded, "So let the fucker ring."
This was very strange, Melanie reflected, as the urge to cry diminished. Why, she thought again, can I understand
him
so well? Why him and not the others?
"We're going to send one back."
Bear asked a question.
Brutus answered, "Miss Deaf Teen." He nodded at Susan. Mrs. Harstrawn's face blossomed with relief.
My God, thought Melanie in despair, they're going to let her go! We'll be here all alone without her. Without Susan. No! She choked a sob.
"Stand up, honey," Brutus said. "Your… day. You're going home."
Susan was shaking her head. She turned to Mrs. Harstrawn and signed a defiant message, with her fast, crisp signing. "She says she isn't going. She wants you to release the twins."
Brutus laughed. "She wants me…"
Stoat said, "Get… up." He pulled Susan to her feet.
And then Melanie's heart was pounding, her face burned red, for, to her horror, she realized that the first thought in her mind was: Why couldn't it have been me?
Forgive me, God. De l'Epée, please forgive me! But then she made her shameful wish once again. And again still. It looped through her mind endlessly. I want to go home. I want to sit down by myself with a big bowl of popcorn, I want to watch closed-captioned TV, I want to clap the Koss headsets around my ears and feel the vibrations of Beethoven and Smetana and Gordon Bok…
Susan struggled away from Stoat's grip. She thrust the twins toward him. But he pushed the little girls aside and brutally tied Susan's hands behind her. Brutus stared out through the half-open window. "Hold up here," Brutus said, pushing Susan to the floor beside the door. He glanced back. "Sonny, go keep our lady friends company… that scatter-gun with you."
Susan looked back into the killing room.
In the girl's face Melanie saw the message: Don't worry. You'll be all right. I'll see to it.
Melanie held her gaze for only a moment then looked away, afraid that Susan would read her own thoughts and would see in them the shameful question: Why can't it be me, why can't it be me, why can't it be me?
Arthur Potter gazed at the slaughterhouse and the fields surrounding it through the jaundice glass of the van's window. He was watching a trooper run the electrical line up to the front door. Five caged lights hung from the end of the cable. The officer backed away and Wilcox came out once more, pistol in hand, to retrieve the wire. He didn't, as Potter had hoped, run the line through the door, which would then have to remain open, but fed it through a window. He returned inside and the thick metal door swung tightly shut.
"Door is still secure," the negotiator said absently, and LeBow typed.
More faxes arrived. More background on Handy and on the hostages from the school the girls attended. LeBow greedily looked over the sheets and entered relevant data in the "Profiles" computer. The engineering and architect's diagrams had been transmitted. They were helpful only for the negatives they presented – how hard an assault would be. There were no tunnels leading into the slaughterhouse and if the P amp;Z variance documents from 1938 were accurate there had been significant construction on the roof of the building – with plans to create a fourth story – which would make a helicopter assault very difficult.
Tobe stiffened suddenly. "They've popped the cover on the phone." His eyes stared intently at a row of dials.
"Is it still working?"
"So far." Looking for bugs.
The young agent relaxed. "It's back together again. Whoever did it knows his equipment."
"Henry, who?"
"No way of knowing yet. I'd have to guess Handy. The military training, you know."
"Downlink," Tobe called.
Potter lifted a curious eyebrow at LeBow and picked up the phone as it rang.
"Hello. That you, Lou?"
"Thanks for the lights. We checked 'em for microphones… the phone too. Didn't find a fucking thing. A man of your word."
Honor. It means something to him, Potter noted, trying once again to comprehend the unfathomable.
"Say, what are you, Art, a senior agent? Agent in Charge? That's what they call 'em, right?"
Never let the HT think you're in a position to make important decisions by yourself. You want the option to stall while you pretend to talk to your superiors.
"Nope. Just a run-of-the-mill special agent who happens to like talking."
"So you say."
"I'm a man of my word, remember?" Potter said, glancing at the "Deceptions" board.
Time to defuse things, build up some rapport. "So what about some food, Lou? We could start grilling up some burgers. How do you like 'em?
Blood red
, Potter speculated.
But he was wrong.
"Listen up, Art. I just want you to know what kind of nice fellow I am. I'm letting one of 'em go."
This news depressed Potter immeasurably. Curiously, with this act of spontaneous generosity, Handy had put them on the defensive. It was tactically brilliant. Potter was now indebted to him and he felt again a shift in the balance of power between predator and prey.
"I want you to understand that I ain't all bad."
"Well, Lou, I appreciate that. Is it Beverly? The sick girl?"
"Uh-uh."
Potter and the other cops craned forward to look outside. They could see a slight splinter of light as the door opened. Then a blur of white.
Keep his mind off the hostages, Potter thought. "You done any more thinking about what you folks're interested in? It's time to get down to some serious horse trading, Lou. What do you say -"
The phone clicked into dull static.
The door to the van suddenly swung open. Dean Stillwell's head poked in. The sheriff said, "They're releasing one of them."
"We know."
Stillwell disappeared outside again.
Potter spun about in the swivel chair. He couldn't see clearly. The clouds were very dense now and the fields dim, as if an eclipse had suddenly dipped the earth into shadow.
"Let's try the video, Tobe."
A video screen burst to life, showing in crisp black-and-white the front of the slaughterhouse. The door was open. They had all five lamps burning, it seemed.
Tobe adjusted the sensitivity and the picture settled.
"Who, Henry?"
"It's the older girl, Susan Phillips. Seventeen."
Budd laughed. "Hey, looks like it may be easier than we thought. If he's just gonna give 'em away."
On the screen Susan looked back into the doorway. A hand pushed her forward. Then the door closed.
"This is great," LeBow said enthusiastically, looking out the window, his head close to Potter's. "Seventeen. And she's a top student. She'll tell us a truckload of stuff about the inside."
The girl walked in a straight line away from the building. Through the glasses Potter could see how grim her face was. Her hands were tied behind her but she didn't seem to have suffered from the brief captivity.
"Dean," Potter said into the radio microphone, "send one of your men to meet her."
"Yessir." The sheriff was now speaking in a normal tone into his throat mike; he'd finally gotten the hang of the gear.
A state trooper in body armor and helmet slipped from behind a squad car and cautiously started in a crouch toward the girl, who'd made her way fifty feet from the slaughterhouse.
The gasp came from deep in Arthur Potter's throat.
As if his whole body'd been submerged in ice water he shuddered, understanding perfectly what was happening.
It was intuition probably, a feeling gleaned from the hundreds of barricades he'd negotiated. The fact that no taker had ever spontaneously released a hostage this early. The fact that Handy was a killer without remorse.
He couldn't say for sure what tipped him but the absolute horror of what was about to occur gripped his heart. "No!" The negotiator leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over with a huge crash.
LeBow glanced at him. "Oh, no! Oh, Christ, no."
Charlie Budd's head swiveled back and forth. He whispered, "What's wrong? What's going on?"
"He's going to kill her," LeBow whispered.
Potter tore the door open and ran outside, his heart slugging away in his chest. Snatching a flak jacket from the ground, he slipped between two cars and, gasping, ran straight toward the girl, passing the man Dean Stillwell had sent to meet her. His urgency made the troopers in the field uneasy but some of them smiled at the sight of the pudgy man running, holding the heavy flak jacket in one hand and waving a white Kleenex in the other.
Susan was forty feet from him, walking steadily over the grass. She adjusted her course slightly so they would meet.
"Get down, drop down!" Potter cried. He released the tissue, which floated ahead of him on the fast breeze, and he gestured madly at the ground. "Down! Get down!"
But she couldn't hear, of course, and merely frowned. Several of the troopers had heard Potter and stepped away from the cars they were using as cover. Reaching tentatively for their guns.
Potter's shouts were joined by others. One woman trooper waved madly. "No, no, honey! Get down, for the love of God!"
Susan never heard a word of it. She'd stopped and was looking carefully at the ground, perhaps thinking that he was warning her about a hidden well or wire she might trip over.
Gasping, his middle-aged heart in agony, Potter narrowed the gap to fifteen feet.
The agent was so close that when the single bullet struck her squarely in the back, and a flower of dark red blossomed over her right breast, he heard the nauseating sound of the impact, followed by an unworldly groan from deep within a throat unaccustomed to speaking.
She stopped abruptly then spiraled to the ground.
No, no, no…
Potter ran to the girl and propped the flak jacket around her head. The trooper ran up, crouching, muttering, "My God, my God," over and over. He aimed his pistol toward the window.
"Don't shoot," Potter commanded.
"But -"
"No!" Potter lifted his gaze from Susan's dull eyes to the slaughterhouse. He saw in the window just to the left of the door the lean face of Lou Handy. And through the right, perhaps thirty feet inside the dim interior, the negotiator could make out the stunned face of the young teacher, the blond one, who'd sent him the cryptic message earlier and whose name he could not now recall.
You feel sounds.
Sound is merely a disturbance of air, a vibration, and it laps upon our bodies like waves, it touches our brows like a lover's hand, it stings and it can make us cry.
Within her chest she still felt the sound of the gunshot.
No, Melanie thought. No. This isn't possible.
It
can't
be…
But she knew what she'd seen. She didn't trust voices but her eyes were rarely wrong.
Susan, Deaf of Deaf.
Susan, braver than I could ever be.
Susan, who had the world of the Deaf and the world of the Others at her feet.
The girl had stepped into the horrible Outside and it had killed her. She was gone forever. A tiny hole opening in her back, kicking aside her dark hair. The abrupt halt as she walked the route that Melanie had shamefully prayed that she herself would be walking.
Melanie's breath grew shallow and the edges of her vision crumbled to blackness. The room tilted and sweat appeared in sheets on her face and neck. She turned slowly and looked at Brutus, who was slipping the still-smoking pistol into his waistband. What she saw filled her with hopelessness. For she could see no satisfaction, no lust, no malice. She saw only that he'd done what he planned to – and had already forgotten about the girl's death.
He clicked on the TV again and glanced toward the killing room, in whose doorway the seven girls stood or sat in a ragged line, some staring at Melanie, some staring at Mrs. Harstrawn, who had collapsed on the floor, sobbing, gripping her hair, her face contorted like a hideous red mask. The teacher had apparently seen the gunshot and understood what it meant. The other girls had not. Jocylyn wiped from her face a sheet of her dark hair, unfortunately self-cut. She lifted her hands, signing repeatedly, "What happened? What happened? What happened?"
I have to tell them, Melanie thought.
But I can't.
Beverly, the next oldest after Susan, understood something terrible had occurred but didn't quite know – or admit – what. She took Jocylyn's pudgy hand and gazed at Melanie. She sucked air deep into her damaged lungs and put her other arm around the inseparable twins.
Melanie did not spell the name Susan. She couldn't, for some reason. She used the impersonal "she," accompanied by a gesture toward the field.
"She…"
How do I say it? Oh, God, I have absolutely no idea. It took her a moment to remember the word for "killed." The word was constructed by moving the extended index finger of the right hand up under the left hand, held cupped, palm down.
Exactly like a bullet entering the body, she thought.
She couldn't say it. Saw Susan's hair pop up under the impact. Saw her ease to the ground.
"She's dead," Melanie finally signed. "Dead" was a different gesture, turning over the flattened, palm-up right hand so that it was palm down; simultaneously doing the opposite with the left. It was at her right hand that Melanie stared, thinking how the gesture of this hand mimicked scooping earth onto a grave.
The girls' reactions were different but really all the same: the tears, the silent gasps, the eyes filling with horror.
Her hands trembling, Melanie turned back to the window. De l'Epée had picked up Susan's body and was walking back to the police line with it. Melanie watched her friend's dangling arms, the cascade of black hair, the feet – one shoe on, one shoe off.
Beautiful Susan.
Susan, the person I would be if I could be anybody.
As she watched De l'Epée disappear behind a police car, part of Melanie's silent world grew slightly more silent. And that was something she could scarcely afford.
"I'm resigning, sir," Charlie Budd said softly.
Potter stepped into the John of the van to put on the fresh shirt that had somehow appeared in the hands of one of Dean Stillwell's officers. He dropped his own bloodstained shirt into a wastebasket and pulled on the new one; the bullet that had killed Susan had spattered him copiously.
"What's that, Charlie?" Potter asked absently, stepping back to the desk. Tobe and Derek sat silently at their consoles. Even Henry LeBow had stopped typing and stared out the window, which from the angle at which he sat revealed nothing but distant wheat fields, distorted and tinted ocher by the thick grass.
Through the window on the other side of the van the ambulance lights flashed as they took the girl's body away.
"I'm quitting," Budd continued. "This assignment and the force too." His voice was steady. "That was my fault. It was because of that shot a half-hour ago. When I didn't tell the snipers to unchamber. I'll call Topeka and get a replacement in here."
Potter turned back, tucking the crisp shirt in. "Stick around, Charlie. I need you."
"Nosir. I made a mistake and I'll shoulder the consequences."
"You may have plenty of opportunity to take responsibility for your screwups before this night is through," Potter told him evenly. "But that sniper shot wasn't one of them. What Handy just did had nothing to do with you."
"Then why? Why in God's name would he do that?"
"Because he's putting his cards on the table. He's telling us he's serious. We can't buy him out of there cheap."
"By shooting a hostage in cold blood?"
LeBow said, "This's the hardest kind of negotiation there is, Charlie. After a killing up front, usually the only way to save any hostage is a flat-out assault."
"High stakes," Derek Elb muttered.
Extreme stakes, Arthur Potter thought. Then: Jesus, what a day this's going to be.
"Downlink," Tobe said, and a moment later the phone buzzed. The tape recorder began turning automatically.
Potter picked up the receiver. "Lou?" he said evenly.
"There's something you gotta understand 'bout me, Art. I don't
care
about these girls. They're just little birds to me that I used to shoot off my back porch at home. I aim to get outta here and if it means I gotta shoot nine more of 'em dead as posts then that's the way it's gonna be. You hear me?"