"I knew what she was talking about because for years I'd tried to pass. The rule is 'Plan ahead.' You're always thinking about what's coming, second-guessing what questions you'll be asked, steering people toward streets with noisy traffic or construction, so you'll have an excuse to ask them to shout or repeat what they say.
"But after I met Susan I rejected all that. I was anti-Oral, I was anti-mainstreaming. I taught ASL. I became a poet and gave performances at theaters of the deaf."
"Poet?"
"I did that as a substitute for my music. It seemed the closest I could hope for."
"What are signed poems like?" he asks.
She explains that they "rhymed" not sonically but because the hand shape of the last word of the line was similar to that of the last words in preceding lines. Melanie recited:
"Eight gray birds, sitting in dark.
Cold wind blows, it isn't kind.
Sitting on wire, they lift their wings
And sail off into billowy clouds."
"Dark" and "kind" share a flat, closed hand, the palm facing the body of the signer. "Wings" and "clouds" involve similar movements from the shoulders up into the air above the signer.
De l'Epee listens, fascinated. He watches her sign several other poems. Melanie puts almond-scented cream on them every night and her nails are smooth and translucent as lapidaried stones.
She stopped in mid line. "Oh," she muses, "I did it all. The National Association of the Deaf, the Bicultural Center, the National Athletic Association of the Deaf."
He nods. (She wishes he'd tell her about his life. Is he married? [Please no!] Does he have children? Is he older than I imagine, or younger?)
"I had my career all laid out before me. I was going to be the first deaf woman farm foreman."
"Farm?"
"Ask me about dressing corn. About anhydrous ammonia. You want to know about wheat? Red wheat comes from the Russian steppes. But it's name isn't political--oh, not in Kansas, nosir. It's the color. 'Amber waves of grain . . .' Ask me about the advantages of no-till planting and how to fill out UCC financing statements to collateralize crops that haven't grown yet. 'All the accretions and appurtenances upon said land . . .' "
Her father, she explains, owned six hundred and sixty acres in south-central Kansas. He was a lean man who wore an exhaustion that many people confused with ruggedness. His problem wasn't a lack of willingness but a lack of talent, which he called luck. And he acknowledged--to himself alone--that he needed help from many quarters. He of course put most of his stock in his son but farms are big business now. Harold Charrol planned to invest both son, Danny, and daughter, Melanie, with third-share interests and watch them all prosper as a corporate family.
She had been reluctant about these plans but the prospect of working with her brother had an appeal to it. The unfazable boy had become an easygoing young man, nothing at all like their embittered father. While Harold would mutter darkly about fate when a thresher blade snapped and he stood paralyzed with anger, staring at the splintered wood, Danny might jump down out of the cockpit, vanish for a time, and return with a six-pack and some sandwiches for an impromptu picnic. "We'll fix the son of a bitch tonight. Let's eat."
For a time she believed this could be a pleasant life. She took some ag extension courses and even sent an article to Silent News about farm life and Deafness.
But then, last summer, Danny'd had the accident, and lost both the ability, and the will, to work the place. Charrol, with the desperate legitimacy of a man needing heirs, turned to Melanie. She was a woman, yes (this a handicap somewhat worse than her audiologic one), but an educated, hardworking one at least.
Melanie, he planned, would become his full partner. And why not? Since age seven she'd ridden in the air-conditioned cab of the big John Deere, helping him shift up through the infinite number of gears. She'd donned goggles and mask and gloves like a rustic surgeon and filled the ammonia tank, she'd sat in on his meetings with United Produce, and she'd driven with him to the roadside stops, known only to insiders, where the illegal migrant workers hid, waiting for day jobs at harvest.
It's a question of belonging and what God does to make sure those that oughta stay someplace do. Well, your place is here, working at what you can do, where your,you know, problem doesn't get you into trouble. God's will . . . . So you'll be home then.
Tell him, Melanie thinks.
Yes! If you never tell another soul, tell de l'Epee.
"There's something," she begins, "I want to say."
His placid face gazes at her.
"It's a confession."
"You're too young to have anything to confess."
"After the poetry recital in Topeka I wasn't going back to the school right away. I was going to see my brother in St. Louis. He's in the hospital. He's having some surgery tomorrow."
De l'Epee nods.
"But before I went to see him there was something I planned to do in Topeka. I had an appointment to see somebody."
"Tell me."
Should she? Yes, no?
Yes, she decides. She has to. But just as she is about to speak, something intrudes.
The smell of the river?
The thud of approaching feet.
Brutus?
Alarmed, she opened her eyes. No, there was nothing. The slaughterhouse was peaceful. None of their three captors was nearby. She closed her eyes and struggled back into the music room. But de l'Epee was gone.
"Where are you?" she cried. But realized that though her lips were moving she could no longer hear any words.
No! I don't want to leave. Come back, please . . . .
Then Melanie realized that it wasn't the breeze from the river that booted them out of the room; it was her own self. She had grown timid once again, ashamed, and could not confess.
Even to the man who seemed more than willing to listen to anything she wanted to say, however foolish, however dark.
They caught the glint of light about fifty yards away.
Joe Silbert and Ted Biggins walked silently through the field on the left flank of the slaughterhouse. Silbert pointed to the light, a flash off the field glasses or a piece of equipment dangling from the belt of one of the hostage rescue troopers, a reflection from the brilliant halogen lights.
Biggins grumbled that the lights were too bright. There'd be lens flare, he was worried.
"You want me to go fucking shut them off?" Silbert whispered. He wanted a cigarette badly. They continued through the woods until they broke into an open field. Silbert looked through the camera, pushing the zoom button. The troopers, he could see, were clustered on a brush-filled ridge overlooking the slaughterhouse. One of them--hidden behind the school bus--was actually at the slaughterhouse, hovering just below a window.
"Damn, they're good," Silbert whispered. "One of the best teams I've ever seen."
"Fucking lights," muttered Biggins.
"Let's get going."
As they walked through the field Silbert looked for patrolling troops. "I thought we had baby-sitters all over the place."
"Those lights're really a pain."
"This is almost too easy," Silbert muttered.
"Oh, my God." Biggins was looking up in the air.
"Perfecto," Silbert whispered, laughing softly.
The men gazed up at the top of the windmill.
"It'll get us above the lights," Biggins the sticking record said.
Forty feet in the air. They'd have a spectacular view of the field. Silbert grinned and began to climb. At the top they stood on the rickety platform. The mill was long abandoned and the blades were missing. It rocked back and forth in the wind.
"That going to be a problem?"
Biggins pulled a retractable monopod from his pocket and extended it, screwing the joints tight. "So what can I do about it? Like, I've got a Steadicam in my fucking pocket?"
The view was excellent. Silbert could see troopers were clustered on the left side of the slaughterhouse. With gr
im respect he thought of Agent Arthur Potter, who'd looked him in the eye and said there'd be no assault. It was obvious the troopers were getting ready for an imminent kick-in.
Stillwell took a small sponge-covered microphone from his pocket and held it in his hand. He spoke into his scrambled cellular phone and called the remote transmission van, which was back near the main press tent. "You cocksucker," he said to Kellog when the man answered. "I was hoping they'd bust your ass."
"Naw, I told that trooper they could fuck your wife and they let me go."
"The other guys, they're at the press table?"
"Yep."
Silbert had in fact never told any of the other reporters about the press pool arrangement. He and Biggins, Kellog and Bianco and the two reporters now sitting at the pool site, pretending to type stories on the gutted Compaq, were all employees of KFAL in Kansas City.
Biggins plugged the mike into the camera and unfolded the parabolic antenna. He clipped it to the handrail of the windmill and began speaking into the mike, "Testing, testing, testing . . ."
"Cut the crap, Silbert, you gonna give us some pictures?"
"Ted's sending the level now." Silbert gestured toward the antenna and Biggins adjusted it while he spoke. "I'm switching to radio," the anchorman said, then took the microphone and shoved an earphone in his left ear.
After a moment Kellog said, "There. Five by five. Jesus H. Christ, we got the visual. Where the fuck are you? In a helicopter?"
"The pros know," Silbert said. "Cut into the feed. I'm ready to roll. Let's do it before we get shot down."
There was a staticky click and he heard a Toyota commercial suddenly cut off in mid-disclaimer. "And now from Crow Ridge, Kansas," the baritone announcer said, "we have a live report from Channel 9 anchorman Joe Silbert with exclusive footage from the kidnaping scene, where a number of students from the Laurent Clerc School for the Deaf and two teachers are being held by escaped convicts. Let's go live to you, Joe."
"Ron, we're overlooking the slaughterhouse in which the girls and their teachers are being held. As you can see, there are literally hundreds of troopers surrounding the building. The police have set up a series of those brilliant halogen lights to shine into the slaughterhouse windows, presumably to prevent any sniping from inside.
"The lights and the presence of the troopers, however, didn't prevent the murder of one of the hostages on that spot right about there, in the center of your screen, about six hours ago. A trooper told me that the girl was released by the fugitives and was walking down to join her family and friends when a single shot rang out and she was hit squarely in the back. She was, as you said, Ron, deaf, and the trooper told me he believed she'd used sign language to plead for help and to tell her family that she loved them."
"Joe, do you know the identity of that girl?"
"No, we don't, Ron. The authorities are being very slow in releasing any information."
"How many hostages are involved?"
"At this point it seems there are four students remaining inside and two teachers."
"So some have gotten out?"
"That's right. Three have been released so far, in exchange for demands by the kidnapers. We don't know what concessions the authorities have made."
"Joe, what can you tell us about those policemen off to the side there?"
"Ron, those are members of the elite Kansas State Police Hostage Rescue Unit. We've had no official word about an attempted rescue but I've covered a number of situations like this before and my impression is that they're preparing for an assault."
"What will happen, do you think, Joe? In terms of the assault? How will it proceed?"
"It's hard to say without knowing where the hostages are being kept, what the firepower of the men inside is, and so on."
"Could you speculate for us?"
"Sure, Ron," Silbert said. "I'd be happy to."
And he signaled to Biggins, using the hand gestures they'd developed between them. The sign meant "Zoom in."
They got down to the business at hand, for they didn't know how much time remained until the next deadline.
Captain Dan Tremain spoke on the scrambled radio to Bravo team and learned that they had found a breachable door near the dock in the back of the slaughterhouse but it was in full view of a skiff containing two armed troopers. The boat was anchored about twenty yards offshore.
"They'll see us if we get any closer."
"Any other access to the door?"
"Nosir."
Outrider Two, however, had some good news. Glancing into the plant, Trooper Joey Wilson had scanned the far wall--the southeast side--of the slaughterhouse and saw that, just opposite the fire door that Alpha team was going to breach, was a large piece of sloppily mounted plasterboard. He wondered if it covered a second fire door. The initial exterior surveillance hadn't revealed it. Tremain sent another trooper under the dock to the far side of the building. He made his way to the place Wilson mentioned and reported that it was in fact a door, invisible because it was overgrown with ivy.
Tremain ordered the trooper to drill through the door with a silenced Dremel tool fitted with a long, thin titanium sampling bit. Examining the core samples he found that the door was only an inch thick and had been weakened with wet rot and termite and carpenter ant tunneling. There was a two-inch gap and then he struck plasterboard, which proved to be only three-eighths inch thick. The whole assembly was far weaker than the door on the opposite side. Small cutting charges would rip it open easily.
Tremain was ecstatic. This was even better than going through the loading-dock door, because opposing door entry allowed for immediate dynamic crossfire. The takers wouldn't have a chance to respond. Tremain conferred with Carfallo and divided the men into two new teams. Bravo would make its way under the dock to the southeast side of the slaughterhouse. Alpha would position itself at the north door, further to the back but closer to the hostages.
Upon entry, Alpha would split in two groups, three men going for the hostages, three advancing on the takers, while the four-man Bravo team would enter through the south door and engage the HTs from behind.
Tremain considered the plan: Deep gullies to cover their approach, absolute surprise, stun then flash grenades, crossfire. It was a good scenario.
"Home base to all teams and outriders. On my mark it will be forty-five minutes to green-light order. Are you ready? Counting from my five . . . . Five, four, three, two, one, mark."
The troopers acknowledged the synchronization.
He would--
An urgent, staticky message: "Bravo leader to home base. We have movement here. From the loading dock. Somebody's rabbiting."
"Identify."
"Can't tell. They're slipping out from under the loading-dock door. I can't see clearly. It's just motion."
"An HT?"
"Unknown. The dock's shot to hell and there's crap all over it."
"Mount your suppressors."
"Yessir."
The men had suppressors on their H&Ks--big tubes of silencers. For at least a clip or two of ammunition the sound of the guns would be merely a whispering rattle and with this wind the troopers in the skiff would probably not hear a sound.
"Acquire target. Semiauto fire."
"Acquired."
"What's it look like, Bravo leader?"
"Real hard to make him out but he's wearing a red, white, and blue shirt. I can probably neutralize but can't make a positive ID. Whoever it is, he's staying real low to the ground. Advise."
"If you can make a positive ID on a taker you've got a green light to take him out."
"Yessir."
"Keep him acquired. And wait."
Tremain called Outrider Two, who risked a look through the window. The Trooper responded, "If anybody's bolting, it's Bonner. I can't see him. Only Handy and Wilcox."
Bonner. The rapist. Tremain would love the chance to bring God's revenge down upon him.
"Bravo leader. Status? He's going into the wat
er?"
"Wait, yeah, there he goes. Just slipped in. Lost him. No, got him again. Should I tell the officers in the boat? He'll float right past them."
Tremain debated.
"Home base, do you copy?"
If it was Bonner he might get away. But at least he wouldn't be inside for the assault. One less person to worry about. If--though it seemed impossible--it was a hostage there was a chance she might drown. The current was swift here and the channel deep. But to rescue her he'd have to give away his presence, which would mean calling off the operation and jeopardizing the other hostages. But no, he thought. It couldn't be a hostage. There was no way a little girl could escape from three armed men.
"Negative, Bravo team leader, do not advise the troopers in the boat. Repeat, do not advise of subject's presence."
"I copy, home base. By the way, I don't think we have to worry about him. He's going straight out to mid-river. Doubt we'll ever see him again."
III
ACCEPTABLE CASUALTIES
7:46 P.M.
"What's that?"
Crow Ridge sheriff's deputy Arnold Shaw didn't know and he didn't care.
The lean thirty-year-old, a law enforcer all his young working life, had been in his share of boats. Dropping stinkers for catfish, trolling for bass and muskie. He'd even been water-skiing a couple of times down at Lake of the Ozarks. And he'd never once been as seasick as he was right now.
Oh, man. This is torture.
He and Buzzy Marboro were anchored twenty yards or so into the river, keeping their eyes "glued like epoxy" on the dock of the slaughterhouse, as their boss, Dean Stillwell, had commanded. The wind was bad, even for Kansas, and the shallow skiff bobbed and twisted like a Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride.
"I'm not doing too well," Shaw muttered.
"There," Marboro said. "Look."
"I don't want to look."
But look he did, where Marboro was pointing. Ten yards downstream, something was floating away from them. The men were armed with battered Remington riot guns and Marboro drew a lazy target at the bobbing mass.
They'd heard a splash coming from the dock not long ago and had looked carefully but found no takers escaping through the water.