"The hell you say."
"I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."
"Where's Art?"
"He's not here."
"What the fuck's going on?"
Budd swallowed. Come on, Charlie, Potter thought. No time for stage fright. He tapped the pad before Budd. "Going on?" the captain echoed. "What do you mean?"
"I only want to talk to him."
"To who?"
"Art Potter. Who the fuck do you think?"
Budd took a deep breath. "Well, why don'tcha talk to me? I'm not such a bad guy."
"U.S. attorney?"
"That's right. I want to talk to you about surrendering."
Slow down, Potter wrote.
"Oh, a shyster with a sense of humor. Well, fuck you."
Budd's face was relaxing. "Hey, don'tcha like lawyers?"
"I love 'em."
Budd said, "You wanta hear a joke, Lou?"
Potter and LeBow looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
"Sure, Charlie."
"A woman goes to her gynecologist and asks can somebody get pregnant by having anal sex. And the doctor says sure you can, where do you think lawyers come from?"
Handy roared with laughter. Budd's face burned crimson.
Potter had never in twenty years of negotiating shared a joke with a taker. Maybe he'd rewrite his instruction book.
Budd continued. "Arthur's seeing about getting you some helicopter or 'nother. Something about pontoons. It should be here soon."
"It fucking well better be here in one hour and twenty fucking minutes."
"Well, all I know is, Lou, he's doing what he can. But look here, even if you get the chopper they're gonna find you sooner or later." Budd stared at the sheet in front of him. "Soon as somebody finds out who you are, the fact you shot a girl in the back, you know what'll happen. They'll collar you and somehow you'll be riding in the back of a meat wagon and some accident'll happen."
"You threatening me?"
"Hell, no. I'm trying to save you. I'm just saying the way it is. The way you know it is."
"Ain't nobody gonna find me. So fuck that surrender shit. It ain't gonna happen. You assholes'll have to come in and get me 'fore I'd do that. And you'd find me atop six dead hostages."
Potter pointed to the pictures of the twins. LeBow frowned. Why didn't Handy know they were gone?
Budd continued, "Listen, Lou, we can offer you a deal."
"A deal? What kind of deal?"
"Some immunity. Not complete, but--"
"You know what I done here?"
"What you've done?" Echoing like a pro, Potter thought.
"I killed me a few people today. We're not talking immunity, we're talking . . . what the fuck's that thing priests give you?"
Budd looked up at Potter, who whispered, "Dispensation."
"Dispensation."
"So I don't think so, Charlie the butt-fucked lawyer. I think I need a helicopter or I'm going to turn my good friend Bonner here loose on a girl or two. You know Bonner? He stays hard twenty-four hours a day. Re-fucking-markable. Never seen anybody like him. You should've seen him in prison. Kid comes in for GTA and, bang, there's Bonner next to him 'fore the fingerprints're dry, saying, 'Bend over, pretty boy. Spread 'em.' "
Potter clamped his hand down on Budd's arm, seeing the anguish in his face. He tapped the yellow sheet once more.
"Where's Art?" Handy said suddenly. "I like him better'n you."
"He's out rustling up your helicopter, like I said."
"Fuck if he isn't listening to this right now on the squawk box. How close is he? He could probably stick his dick in your mouth without either of you moving. Hey, you a faggot, Charlie? Sound like one to me."
Budd adjusted his grip on the phone. "Agent Potter's trying to get you what you've been asking for."
They died because they didn't give me what I wanted. Potter nodded approval.
"I want that chopper or Bonner gets a girl."
"You don't need to do that, Lou. Come on. We're all working together here, aren't we?"
"Oh, I wasn't on your team last time I looked, Charlie."
Budd wiped sweat from his forehead. Potter, feeling very much like an orchestra conductor, gestured at Budd and pointed to a portion of the yellow sheet.
"My team?" Budd responded. "Hey now, that's wrong, Lou. I am on your team. And I want to offer you a deal. You and Wilcox."
Potter held his finger to his lips, indicating for Budd to pause. The captain swallowed. Angie handed him a cup of water. He drank it down, gave her a rueful smile.
Handy was silent.
Budd started to speak; Potter shook his head.
Finally Handy said, "Me and Shep?"
"That's right."
Cautiously: "What kinda deal?"
Budd looked down at the sheet. "We'll go for life only. No death penalty."
"For us two?"
Potter heard the uncertainty in Handy's voice. Beautiful, he thought. For the first time all night he's not sure what's going on. He gave Budd a thumbs-up.
"Just you and Wilcox," he said firmly.
"What about Bonner?"
Potter held up his wavering hands, indicating uncertainty.
"Well, I'm just talking about you two."
"Why aren't you talking about Bonner?"
Potter frowned angrily. Budd nodded and in a testy voice said, "Because I don't want to talk about Bonner. I'm offering you and Wilcox a deal."
"You're an asshole, Charlie."
"An asshole?"
"You're not telling me everything."
Potter touched his lips.
Silence.
Perfect, thought Potter. He's doing great. Finally he nodded to Budd.
"I am telling you everything." Budd gave up on the yellow sheet and stared out the window at the slaughterhouse. "And I'm telling it to you for your benefit as much as anybody's. You oughta surrender, sir. Even if you get out of here in that helicopter you'll be the most wanted man in North America. Your life's gonna be pure hell and if you get caught you'll get death. You know that. No statute of limitations for murder."
"What'm I supposed to say to Bonner?"
Potter made an angry fist.
"I don't much care what you say to him," Budd said gruffly. "He's not included in--"
"Why not?"
Hesitate, Potter wrote.
Handy broke the interminable silence. "What aren't you fucking telling me?"
"Do you want a deal or not? You and Wilcox. It'll save you from lethal injection."
"I want a fucking helicopter and that's what I'm going to get. Tell Art that. Fuck you all."
"No, wait--"
Click.
Budd closed his eyes and rested the phone on the table. His hands shook fiercely.
"Excellent, Charlie." Potter clapped him on the back.
"Good job," Angie said, winking at him.
Budd looked up, perplexed. "Excellent? He's all pissed off. He hung up on me."
"No, he's just where we want him." LeBow typed up the incident in the log and noted the time. On the "Deceptions" side of the board he wrote, Federal plea bargain by "U.S. Attorney Budd"--Handy and Wilcox. Life sentences in lieu of death.
Budd stood up. "You think?"
"You planted the seeds. We'll have to see if they take." Potter caught Angie's eye and they exchanged a solemn glance. The negotiator made a point of looking away before Budd noticed.
8:16 P.M.
"Five minutes and counting."
Dan Tremain had called the governor and together they had decided that the HRU rescue would go ahead as planned. Over the scrambled frequency he radioed this to his men.
Outrider One, Chuck Pfenninger, was in position near the command van, and Outrider Two, Joey Wilson, hidden behind the school bus, was prepared to lob the stun grenades through the front window. Alpha and Bravo teams were ready to make the dynamic entry through the northwest and southeast doors as planned.
Tremain was v
ery confident. Although the HTs might be anticipating an attack through the one well-marked fire exit, they'd never expect the assault through the hidden southeast door.
In five minutes it would all be over.
Lou Handy stared down at the phone and felt it for the first time that day: doubt.
Son of a bitch.
"Where is he?" he snarled, looking through the slaughterhouse.
"Bonner? In with the girls," Wilcox answered. "Or eating. I don't know. What's up?"
"Something's funny going on." Handy paced back and forth. "I think maybe he cut a deal." He told Wilcox what the U.S. attorney had said.
"They're offering us a deal?"
"Some deal. Life in Leavenworth."
"Beats that little needle. The worst part is you piss. You know that? There's nothing you can do to stop it. I tell you, I'm going out, I don't want to piss my pants in front of everybody."
"Hey, homes." Handy dropped his head, gazed coolly at his partner. "We're getting out. Don't you forget it."
"Right, sure."
"I think that prick's been with 'em all along."
"Why?" Wilcox asked.
"Why the fuck you think? Money. Cut down his hard time."
Wilcox cast his eyes into the dim back of the slaughterhouse. "Sonny's an asshole but he wouldn't do that."
"He did a while back."
"What?"
"Give up somebody. A guy he did a job with."
"You knew that?" Wilcox asked, surprised.
"Sure, I knew that," Handy said angrily. "We needed him."
But how had Bonner gotten to the feds? Almost every minute of the big man's time was accounted for from the moment of the breakout.
Though not all of it, Handy now recalled. Bonner was the one who'd gone to pick up the car. After they'd gotten out of the prison Bonner had been gone for a half-hour while he picked up the wheels. Handy remembered thinking that it was taking him a long time and thinking, If he skips on us he's going to die real fucking slow.
Gone a half-hour to get a car eight blocks away. Plenty of time to call the feds.
"But he's a short-timer," Wilcox pointed out. Bonner's interstate transport sentence was four years.
"The kind," Handy countered, "they'd be most likely to cut a deal with. Feds never chop off sentences more'n a couple years."
Besides, Bonner had an incentive: sex offenders were the prisoners who most often woke up with glass shards shoved down their throat, or a tin-can-lid knife in their gut--or who didn't wake up at all.
Uncertainly Wilcox looked into the dim slaughterhouse. "Whatta you think?"
"I think we oughta talk to him."
They walked through the main room, over the rotting ramps the livestock had once ambled along, past the long tables where the animals had been cut apart, the rusting guillotines. The two men stood in the doorway of the killing room. Bonner wasn't there. They heard him standing not far away, pissing a solid stream into a well or sump pump.
Handy stared at the room--the older woman, lying curled into a ball. The gasping girl and the pretty girl. And then there was Melanie, who stared back with eyes that tried to be defiant but were just plain scared. Then he realized something.
"Where," Handy said softly, "are the little ones?"
He gazed at two empty pairs of black patent-leather shoes.
Wilcox spat out, "Son of a bitch." He ran into the hallway, following the tiny footprints in the dust.
Melanie put her arms around the girl with the asthma and cowered against the wall. Just then Bonner came around the corner and stopped. "Hey, buddy." He blinked uneasily, looking at Handy's face.
"Where are they, you fuck?"
"Who?"
"The little girls. The twins?"
"I--" Bonner recoiled. "I was watching 'em. All this time. I swear."
"All this time?"
"I took a piss is all. Look, Lou. They gotta be here someplace. We'll find 'em." The big man swallowed uneasily.
Handy glared at Bonner, who started toward Melanie, shouting, "Where the fuck are they?" He pulled his pistol from his pocket and walked up to her.
"Lou!" Wilcox was calling from the main room. "Jesus Christ."
"What?" Handy screamed, spinning around. "What the fuck is it?"
"We got a worse problem than that. Look here."
Handy hurried back to Wilcox, who was pointing at the TV.
"Holy Christ. Potter, that lying son of a bitch!"
On the screen: A newscast, showing the perfect telephoto image of the front and side of the slaughterhouse. The reporters had snuck through the police line and had set up the camera on something close and tall--maybe that old windmill just to the north. The camera was a little shaky but there was no doubt that they were looking at a fucking SWAT trooper at a front window--only twenty feet away from where Handy and Wilcox now stood.
"Is that more there?" Wilcox cried. He pointed to some bumps in a gully to the north of the slaughterhouse.
"Could be. Shit yes. Must be a dozen of them."
The newscaster said, "It looks like an assault could be imminent . . . ."
Handy looked up at the fire door on the north side of the factory. They'd wedged it shut but he knew that explosive charges could take it down in seconds. He shouted to Bonner, "Get that scatter gun, we got a firefight."
"Shit." Bonner pulled the slide back on the Mossberg, let it snap back.
"The roof?" Wilcox asked.
Those were the only two ways a hostage rescue team could get in quickly--the side door and the roof. The loading dock was too far back. But as he stared at the ceiling he saw a thick network of ducts and vents and conveyors. Even if they blew through the roof itself they'd have to cut through those utility systems.
Handy glanced out over the field in front of the slaughterhouse. Aside from the trooper by the window--hidden from the police lines by the school bus--no other cops seemed to be approaching from that direction.
"They're coming through that side door there."
Handy moved slowly toward the window where the trooper was hiding. He gestured to Wilcox's gun. The lean man grinned and pulled his pistol from his belt, pulled the slide, chambering a round.
"Go behind him," Handy whispered. "Other window. Get his attention."
Wilcox nodded, dropped suddenly to his belly, and crawled off to the far window. Handy too crawled--to the open window outside of which the trooper was hiding. Wilcox put his mouth next to a hole in a shattered pane and gave the warble of a wild turkey. Handy couldn't suppress his smile.
When Wilcox warbled again Handy looked outside quickly. He saw the trooper, only two feet away, turning toward the sound in confusion. Handy reached out the window, grabbed the trooper's helmet, and, jerking hard, lifted him off the ground. The man let go of his machine gun, which dangled from his shoulder by a leather thong, and grasped Handy's wrists, struggling fiercely as the helmet strap choked him. Wilcox leapt to Handy's side and together they muscled the trooper through the window.
As Handy held him in a full nelson Wilcox kicked him in the groin and pulled his machine gun, pistol, and grenades away. He crumpled and fell to the floor.
"You son of a bitch," Handy raged, kicking the man violently. "Lemme look at you!" He ripped off the trooper's helmet, hood, and goggles. He bent his face low. Handy pulled his knife from his pocket and flicked it open, held the blade against the young man's cheek. "Shoot me in the back? That's the kind of balls you have? Come up behind a man like a fucking nigger!"
The trooper struggled. Handy slashed the knife downward, drawing a streak of blood along his jawline. He slammed his fist into the man's face once, then again, a dozen times, stepped away and turned back, kicking him in the belly and groin.
"Hey, Lou, take it--"
"Fuck him! He was going to shoot me in the back! He was going to shoot me in the fucking back! Is that what kind of man you are? That's what you think of honor?"
"Fuck you," the trooper gasped, rolling on the fl
oor, helpless. Handy turned him over, slugged him in the lower back, handcuffed him with the boy's own cuffs.
"Where are the rest of 'em?" Handy poked the knife into the trooper's thigh, a shallow cut. "Tell me!" he raged. He pushed further. The man screamed.
Handy leaned his face close, inches away from the trooper's face.
"Straight to hell, Handy. That's where you can go."
The knife slipped further in. Another scream. Handy reached out and touched a tiny sphere of the tear. It clung to his finger, which he lifted to his tongue. Pushed the knife into the thigh a little bit more. More screaming.
Let's see when this boy breaks.
"Oh, Jesus," the man moaned.
Have to happen sooner or later. Just work our way north with this little bit o' Buck steel and see when he starts squealing. He began to saw slowly with the blade, working his way toward the trooper's groin.
"I don't know where the rest of 'em are! I'm just fucking reconnaissance."
Handy suddenly got tired of the knife and beat him again with his fist, angrier than ever. "How many? Where're they coming in through?"
The trooper spat on his leg.
And suddenly Handy was back years ago, seeing Rudy sneer at him--well, it was probably a sneer. Seeing him turn away, Handy's two hundred dollars in his brother's wallet--he thought it was there, probably was. Seeing Rudy walk away like Handy was a piece of dried shit. The anger cutting through him like a carbon-steel blade in somebody's hot belly.
"Tell me!" he screamed. His fist rose again and again and smashed into the trooper's face. Finally, he stood back. "Fuck him. Fuck 'em all." Handy ran into the killing room and tipped the pot containing the gasoline over. The room filled with the chill liquid, splashing on the women and girls. Melanie the scared mouse-cunt pulled them into a corner but still they were doused.
Handy held the trooper's submachine gun toward the side door. "Shep, they're gonna come through there fast. As soon as they do I'm going to shoot a couple of 'em in the legs. You pitch that"--nodding at the grenade--"into the room, set off the gas. I want to keep some of them cops alive to tell everybody what happened to those girls. What it looked like when they burnt up."
"Yo, homes. You got it." Wilcox pulled the pin out of the smooth black grenade and, holding the delay handle, stepped into the doorway of the killing room. Handy pulled back the bolt of the H&K, aimed it at the door.
"Arthur, we have some movement by the window," Dean Stillwell said over the radio. "The one second to the left from the front door."
Potter acknowledged his transmission and looked out the window with field glasses. His vision of that window was blocked by the school bus and a tree.