"No kiddin'?"
"I was a double for Isabella Rossellini. I stood outside in the snow for long angles."
"I was thinking you looked like her." Though Budd said this uneasily, having no idea who the actress was, and hoped that she wasn't some unknown who'd never appeared in a movie shown in America.
"You're kind of a celebrity in your own right, aren't you?" she asked.
"Me?" Budd laughed.
"They say you came up through the ranks real fast."
"They do?"
"Well, you're a captain and you're a young man."
"I'm older than I look," he joked. "And before today's over I'm going to be older still by a long shot." He looked at his watch. "I better be getting inside. Not long till the first deadline. How do you manage to stay calm?"
"I think it's all what you're used to. But what about you? That high-speed chase, the time you went after that sex offender in Hamilton?"
"How on earth d'you hear about that?" Budd laughed. Two years ago. He'd hit speeds of a hundred twenty. On a dirt road. "Didn't think my, you know, exploits made it into National Law Enforcement Monthly."
"You hear things. About certain people anyway."
Her brown eyes bored into Budd's, which were green, exceedingly embarrassed, and growing more and more flummoxed by the second. He rubbed his cheek with his left hand again, just to give her a view of his ring once more, then thought: Hey, get real. You actually think she's coming on to you? No way, he told himself. She's making polite talk to a local rube.
"Better see if there's anything Arthur needs," Budd said.
For some reason he stuck his hand out toward her. Wished he hadn't, but there it was and she reached out, took it in both of hers, and squeezed it hard, stepping close. He smelled perfume. It seemed entirely unnatural for FBI agents to be wearing perfume.
"I'm real glad we're working together, Charlie." She fired a smile at him, the likes of which he hadn't seen in years--since Meg, in fact, had crosshaired him at the junior prom with one of those flirtations that he never would've believed the president of Methodist Girls' Youth Group was capable of.
4:40 P.M.
"Twenty minutes to deadline," Tobe Geller called.
Potter nodded. He punched the speed-dial button. Handy answered by saying, "I've picked the next little bird, Art."
Get off the subject of the hostages; keep him thinking they're valueless. Potter said, "Lou, we're working on that helicopter. It isn't that easy to get one."
"This one's a little trouper, she is, Art. That fat one cried and cried. Man, did that bug me. This one's shedding a tear or two but she's a soldier. Got a fucking tattoo on her arm, you can believe it."
Share some observations. Show him you're concerned, find out a few things about him.
"You sound tired, Lou."
"Not me. I'm right as rain."
"Really? Would've guessed you were up all night planning your big getaway."
"Naw, got my full eight hours. 'Sides, there's nothing like a Mexican standoff to get the old juices flowing." In fact he didn't sound at all tired. He sounded relaxed and at ease. Potter nodded toward LeBow but the officer was already typing.
"So tell me. What's so hard about a chopper, Art?"
Potter trained the glasses out the window at the brown-haired, long-faced girl. He'd already memorized the names and faces. Punching the mute button, he said to Angie, "It's Shannon Boyle. Tell me about her." Then into the phone: "I'll tell you what's so hard, Lou," Potter snapped. "They don't grow on trees and they aren't free."
You're worried about fucking money at a time like this?
"Fuck, you got all the money you need. What with everything you assholes steal from us taxpayers."
"You a taxpayer, Lou?"
"We ain't buying nuclear bombs anymore so spend a little on a chopper and save some lives here."
Angie tapped his shoulder.
"Hold on a second, Lou. Word's coming in about that chopper right now."
"She's eight," Angie whispered, "prelingually deaf. No lip-reading skills to speak of. She's got a personality of her own. Very independent. She's marched in protests to get deaf deans at schools for the deaf in Kansas and Missouri. Signed the petition to increase the deaf faculty at Laurent Clerc and hers was the largest signature on the sheet. She's been in fistfights at school and she usually wins."
Potter nodded. So if they could distract him enough, and if she had an opportunity, the girl might make a run for freedom.
Or use the chance to attack Handy and get herself killed in the process.
He clicked the mute button off. Sounding exasperated: "Look, Lou. We're just talking about a little delay is all. You want a big aircraft. Well, we've got two-seaters galore. But the big ones're hard to find."
"That's your fucking problem, ain't it? I put a bullet into little Fannie Annie here in, lemme see, fifteen minutes by my clock."
Usually, you devalue the hostages.
Sometimes you just have to beg.
"Her name's Shannon, Lou. Come on. She's only eight years old."
"Shannon," Handy mused. "I guess you aren't catching on, Art. You're trying to get me to feel sorry for some poor kid's got a name. Shannon Shannon Shannon. Those're your rules, right, Art? Written up in your Feebie handbook?"
Page 45, in fact.
"But see, those rules don't take into account somebody like me. The more I know them the more I want to kill 'em."
Walk that fine line. Chide, push, trade barbs. He'll back off if you hit the balance just right. Arthur Potter thought this but his hand cramped on the receiver as he said cheerfully, "I think that's bullshit, Lou. I think you're just playing with us."
"Have it your way."
A little edge in the agent's voice: "I'm tired of this crap. We're trying to work with you."
"Naw, you want to shoot me down. Why don't you have the balls to admit it? If I had you in my sights I'd drop you like a fucking deer."
"No, I don't want to shoot you, Lou. I don't want anybody to die. We've got a lot of logistic problems. Landing is a real hassle here. The field out front's filled with those old posts from the stockyard pens. And we've got trees everywhere. We can't set a chopper down on the roof because of the weight. We--"
"So you've got diagrams of the building, do you?"
Negotiate from strength--with a reminder to the HT that there's always a tactical solution in the back of your mind (we can kick in the door any time we want and nail you cold, and remember, there're a hell of a lot more of us than of you). Potter laughed and said, "Of course we do. We've got maps and charts and diagrams and graphs and eight-by-ten color glossy photos. You're a damn cover boy in here, Lou. This's no surprise, is it?"
Silence.
Push too far?
No, I don't think so. He'll laugh and sound cool.
It was a chuckle. "You guys're too fucking much."
"And the field to the south," Potter continued, as if Handy hadn't spoken, "look at it. Nothing but gullies and hummocks. To set an eight-person copter down'd be pretty dangerous. And this wind . . . it's a real problem. Our aviation advisor isn't sure what to do about it."
Budd frowned, mouthing, "Aviation advisor?" Potter shrugged, having just made up the job. He pointed to the "Deceptions" board and Budd wrote it down, sighing.
Silver tools, wrapped in plastic, new.
Potter desperately wanted to ask what they were for. But of course he couldn't. It was vitally important that Handy not realize what they knew about the inside of the barricade. Even more vital: if Handy suspected the released hostages were giving Potter quality information he'd think twice about releasing others.
"Art," Handy spat out, "I keep saying, them's your problems." But he was not as flippant now and part of him at least seemed to realize that this had become his problem.
"Come on, Lou. This's just a practical thing. I'm not arguing about the chopper. I'm telling you we're having trouble finding one and that I'm not sure where w
e can set it down. You got any ideas, I'll be happy to take 'em."
Hostage negotiation strategy calls for the negotiator to avoid offering solutions to problems. Shift that burden to the taker. Keep him in a problem-solving mode, uncertain.
A disgusted sigh. "Fuck."
Will he hang up?
Finally Handy said, "How 'bout a pontoon chopper? You can do that, can't you?"
Never agree too quickly.
"Pontoon?" Potter said after a moment. "I don't know. We'd have to look into it. You mean, set her down in the river."
"Course that's what I mean. Where'd you think, land in some fucking toilet somewhere?"
"I'll see about it. If there's a sheltered cove it might work out perfectly. But you'll have to give us more time."
You don't have more time.
"You haven't got any more time."
"No, Lou. Pontoons'd be perfect. It's a great idea. I'll get on it right away. But let me buy some time. Tell me something you want."
"A fucking helicopter."
"And you'll have it. It may just take a little longer than we'd hoped. Name something else. Your heart's desire. Isn't there something you can think of you want?"
A pause. Potter thought: guns, X-rated tapes and a VCR, a friend busted out of prison, money, liquor . . .
"Yeah, I want something, Art."
"What?"
"Tell me 'bout yourself."
From out of left field.
Potter looked up into Angie's frown. She shook her head, cautious.
"What?"
"You asked me what I wanted. I want you to tell me about yourself."
You always want the HT to be curious about the negotiator but it usually takes hours, if not days, to establish any serious connection. This was the second time in just a few hours that Handy had expressed an interest in Potter, and the agent had never known an HT to ask the question so directly. Potter knew he was on thin ice here. He could improve the connection between the two or he could drive a wedge between them by not responding the way Handy wished.
Be forewarned . . . .
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything you wanta tell me."
"Well, there's nothing very exciting. I'm just a civil servant." His mind went blank.
"Keep going, Art. Talk to me."
And then, as if a switch had been flicked, Arthur Potter found himself desiring to blurt out every last detail of his life, his loneliness, his sorrow . . . . He wanted Lou Handy to know about him. "Well, I'm a widower. My wife died thirteen years ago, and today's our wedding anniversary."
He remembered that LeBow had told him there'd been bad blood between Handy and his ex; he turned to the intelligence officer, who had already called up a portion of Handy's profile. The convict had been married for two years when he was twenty. His wife had sued for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty and had gotten a restraining order because he'd beaten her repeatedly. Just after that he'd gone off on a violent robbery spree. Potter was wishing he hadn't brought up the subject of marriage, but when Handy now asked what had happened to Potter's wife he sounded genuinely curious.
"She had cancer. Died about two months after we found out about it."
"Me, I was never married, Art. No woman'll ever tie me down. I'm a freewheelin' spirit, I go where my heart and my dick lead me. You ever get yourself remarried?"
"No, never did."
"What do you do when you want a little pussy?"
"My work keeps me pretty busy, Lou."
"You like your job, do you? How long you been doing it?"
"I've been with the Bureau all my adult life."
"All your adult life?"
My Lord, an amused Potter thought from a remote distance, he's echoing me. Coincidence? Or is he playing me the way I should be playing him?
"It's the only job I've ever had. Work eighteen hours a day a lot."
"How'd you get into this negotiating shit?"
"Just fell into it. Wanted to be an agent, liked the excitement of it. I was a pretty fair investigator but I think I was a little too easygoing. I could see both sides of everything."
"Oh, yessir," Handy said earnestly, "that'll keep you from moving to the top. Don't you know the sharks swim faster?"
"That's the God's truth, Lou."
"You must meet some real fucking wackos."
"Oh, present company excluded of course."
No laughter from the other end of the line. Only silence. Potter felt stung that the levity had fallen flat and he worried that Handy had heard sarcasm in Potter's voice and was hurt. He felt an urge to apologize.
But Handy just said, "Tell me a war story, Art."
Angie was frowning again. Potter ignored her. "Well, I did a barricade at the West German embassy in Washington about fifteen years ago. Talked for about eighteen hours straight." He laughed. "I had agents racing back and forth to the library bringing me books on political philosophy. Hegel, Kant, Nietzsche . . . Finally I had to send out for Cliff Notes. I was camped out in the backseat of an unmarked car, talking on a hard-wired throw phone to this maniac who thought he was Hitler. Wanted to dictate a new version of Mein Kampf to me. I still have no idea what the hell we talked about all that time."
Actually, the man hadn't claimed to be Hitler but Potter felt the urge to exaggerate, to make sure Handy was amused.
"Sounds like a fucking comedy."
"He was funny. His AK-47 was pretty sobering, I have to say."
"You a shrink?"
"Nope. Just a guy who likes to talk."
"You must have a pretty good ego."
"Ego?"
"Sure. You gotta listen to somebody like me say, 'You scurvy piece of dogshit, I'm going to kill you the first chance I get,' and then still ask him if he'd like Diet Coke or iced tea with his burgers."
"You want lemon with that tea, Lou?"
"Haw. This's all you do?"
"Well, I teach too. At the military police school at Fort McClellan. In Alabama. Then I'm head of hostage and barricade training at Quantico in the Bureau's Special Operations and Research Unit."
Now Henry LeBow offered an exasperated expression to Potter. The intelligence officer had never heard his fellow agent give away so much personal information.
Slowly Handy said in a low voice, "Tell me something, Art. You ever done anything bad?"
"Bad?"
"Really bad."
"I suppose I have."
"Did you mean to do it?"
"Mean to do it?"
"Ain't you listening to me?" Testy now. Echoing too frequently can antagonize the hostage taker.
"Well, the things I've done aren't so much intentional, I suppose. One bad thing is that I didn't spend enough time with my wife. Then she died, pretty fast, like I told you, and I realized there was a lot I hadn't said to her."
"Fuck," Handy spat out with a derisive laugh. "That's not bad. You don't know what I'm talking about."
Potter felt deeply hurt by the criticism. He wanted to cry out, "I do! And I did feel that I'd done something bad, terribly bad."
Handy continued, "I'm talking about killing somebody, ruining somebody's life, leaving a widow or widower, leaving children to grow up alone. Something bad."
"I've never killed anyone, Lou. Not directly."
Tobe was looking at him. Angie scribbled a note: You're giving away a lot, Arthur.
He ignored them, wiped the sweat from his forehead, kept his eyes focused outside on the slaughterhouse. "But people have died because of me. Carelessness. Mistakes. Sometimes intent. You and I, Lou, we both work flip sides of the same business." Feeling the overwhelming urge to make himself understood. "But you know--"
"Don't skip over this shit, Art. Tell me if they bother you, some of the things you've done?"
"I . . . I don't know."
"What about them people dying you was talking about?"
Take his pulse, Potter told himself. What's he thinking?
I can't see a thing. Who the
hell knows?
"Yo, Art, keep talkin'. Who were they? Hostages you couldn't save? Troopers you sent in when you shouldn't've?"
"Yes, that's who they were."
And takers too. Though he doesn't say this. Ostrella, he thinks spontaneously, sees her long, beautiful face, serpentine. Dark eyebrows, full lips. His Ostrella.
"And that bothers you, huh?"
"Bothers me? Sure it does."
"Fuck," Handy seemed to sneer. Potter again felt the sting. "See, Art, you're proving my point. You've never done anything bad and you and me, we both know it. Take those folks in the Cadillac this afternoon, that couple I killed. Their names were Ruth and Hank, by the way. Ruthie and Hank. You know why I killed them?"
"Why, Lou?"
"Same reason I'm putting that little girl--Shannon--in the window in a minute or two and shooting her in the back of the head."
Even cool Henry LeBow stirred. Frances Whiting's elegant hands moved to her face.
"Why's that?" Potter asked calmly.
"Because I didn't get what I was owed! Pure and simple. This afternoon, in that field, they fucked up my car, ran right into it. And when I went to take theirs they tried to get away."
Potter had read the report from the Kansas State Police. It looked as if Handy's car had run a stop sign and been hit by the Cadillac, which had the right of way. Potter did not mention this fact.
"That's fair, isn't it? I mean, what could be clearer? They had to die, and it woulda been more painful than it was if I'd had more time. They didn't give me what I shoulda had."
How cold and logical he sounds.
Potter reminded himself: No value judgment. But don't approve of him either. Negotiators are neutral. (And it broke his heart that he didn't in fact feel the disgust that he ought to have been feeling. That a small portion of him believed Handy's words made sense.) "Man, Art, I don't get it. When I kill somebody for a reason they call me bad. When a cop does it for a reason they give him a paycheck and call him good. Why're some reasons okay and others ain't? You kill when people don't do what they're supposed to. You kill the weak because they'll drag you down. What's wrong with that?"
Henry LeBow typed his notes calmly. Tobe Geller perused his monitors and dials. Charlie Budd sat in the corner, eyes on the floor, Angie beside him, listening carefully. And Officer Frances Whiting stood in the corner, uneasily holding a cup of coffee she'd lost all taste for; police work in Hebron, Kansas, didn't involve the likes of Lou Handy.
A laugh over the speaker. He asked, "Admit it, Art . . . . Haven't you ever wanted to do that? Kill someone for a bad reason?"