Yet, a few times in his life, a fierce anger bubbled up from his soul and he became the cruelest man on earth. Unstoppably cruel.
"That cunt," he whispered, his voice cracking. "That cocksucking cunt."
They ran to the doorway, where the bloody prints disappeared.
Handy said, "Stay here."
"Lou--"
"Stay the fuck here!" Handy raged. "I'm gonna fix her clock like I shoulda done a long time ago." He plunged into the murky bowels of the slaughterhouse, the knife in his hand, held low, with the blade up, as he'd been taught not in the army but on the streets of Minneapolis.
10:27 P.M.
Sight is a miracle and it's the foremost of our senses. But we are as often informed by the adjunct perception, sound.
The sight of a river tells us what it is but the sound of water also can explain its character: placid or deadly or dying itself. For Melanie Charrol, deprived of this sense, smell had taken over. River rapids were airy and electric. Still water smelled stale. Here the Arkansas River smelled ominous--pungent and deep and decaying, as if it were the grave of many bottom feeders.
Still, it said, Come to me, come to me, I'm your way out.
Melanie followed its call unerringly. Through the maze of the deserted slaughterhouse she led the little girl in the hopeless Laura Ashley dress. The floorboards were rotting through in many places, but the bare bulbs from the main portion of the slaughterhouse were so bright that even back here enough light filtered into these reaches to illuminate their path. Occasionally she paused, lifted her nose, and breathed the air to make certain they were headed in the right direction. Then she'd turn once more toward the river, spinning around and looking behind her when the panic got to be too much.
Smell has not replaced sound as our primitive warning system.
But Brutus and Stoat didn't seem to have noticed the escape yet.
The teacher and student continued through the increasing gloom, pausing often and feeling their way along. The thin shafts of light were Melanie's only salvation, and now she glanced up at them. The upper part of the walls had rotted away and it was from there that the faint heavenly glow filled the murky underworld sky of this part of the slaughterhouse.
Then there it was, in front of them! A narrow door below a sign that said Dock. Melanie tightened her grip on Emily's hand and tugged the little girl along behind her. They pushed through the door and found a large loading-dock area. It was mostly empty but there were some oil drums that looked like they might still float. But the large door opening onto the outside was raised only a foot or so--high enough for them to crawl under but not high enough to push out one of the drums.
They walked to it and slipped outside.
Freedom, she thought, breathing the intoxicating air.
She laughed to herself at the irony--here she was rejoicing at being Outside, tearfully thankful for escaping from the horrible Inside. Motion startled her; she saw a boat not far offshore. Two officers in it. Somehow, they'd already spotted the girls and were now rowing toward the dock.
Melanie turned Emily around, signed, "Wait here for them. Stay down, hide behind that post."
Emily shook her head. "But aren't you--"
"I'm going back. I can't leave her."
"Please." The little girl's tears streaked down her face. The wind tossed her hair around her head. "She didn't want to come."
"Go."
"Come with me. God wants you to. He told me He does."
Melanie smiled, embraced the little girl, and stepped back. Looked over her tattered, filthy dress. "Next week, we have date. Shopping."
Emily wiped tears and walked to the edge of the dock. The policemen were very close, one smiling at the girl, the other scanning the building with a short black shotgun pointed toward the black windows above their heads.
Melanie glanced at them, waved, then slipped back beneath the loading-dock door. Once inside, she took Bear's knife from the pocket of her bloody skirt and started back into the slaughterhouse, instinctively following the same route she'd taken to arrive here.
Her neck hairs stirred suddenly and she felt a wave of the sixth sense that some deaf people claim they possess. When she looked, yes, yes, there he was--Brutus, about fifty feet away, crouching, making his way from one piece of machinery to another. In his hand he too held a short knife.
She shivered in terror and ducked behind a stack of employee lockers. She thought of climbing into one but remembered that he'd hear any sound she made. Then the sixth sense came back, pelting her neck. Melanie realized, though, that this wasn't anything supernatural at all; it was the vibration of Brutus's voice, calling to Stoat.
What was he saying?
A moment later, she learned. The lights went out and she was plunged into blackness.
She dropped to the ground, paralyzed with terror. Deaf, and now blind. She curled into a ball for a moment, praying she'd faint, the terror was so great. She realized she'd dropped the knife. She patted the ground but soon gave up on it; she knew that Brutus would have heard the sound of the weapon falling and was probably making his way toward her right now. He could be kicking aside everything in his way and she'd never know, while Melanie herself had to crawl carefully over the ground, picking her way silently over bits of metal and wood, machinery and tools.
I have to--
No!
She felt something on her shoulder.
She turned in panic, lashing out with her palm.
But it was just a wire dangling from the ceiling.
Where is he? There? Or there?
Be. Quiet. It's the only thing that'll save you.
Then a reassuring thought: He can hear, yes, but he can't see any better than I can.
Want to hear a joke, Susan? What's worse off than a bird that can't hear?
A fox that can't see.
Eight gray birds, sitting in dark . . .
If I'm absolutely silent he'll never know where I am.
The remarkable internal compass that the otherwise unjust son of a bitch Fate gave Melanie tells her that she's headed in the right direction, back toward the killing room. And by God she will carry Donna Harstrawn on her shoulders if she has to.
Slowly. One foot before the other.
Silent. Absolutely silent.
Going to be easier than he'd thought.
Lou Handy was at his worst and he knew it--still fired up with bitterness, aching for a payback, but thinking coolly now. This was when he killed and tortured and enjoyed it the most. He'd followed the bloody footsteps to the loading dock, where, he'd assumed, both of the little shits had gotten out. But then as he was about to start back he'd heard something--a clink of metal, a scrape. And he'd looked down the corridor and seen her, Melanie, the mouse bitch freak of nature, making her way back to the main room of the slaughterhouse.
He'd moved closer and what was that he'd heard?
A squish, squish sound.
Her footsteps. Bloody footsteps. Good old Bonner, leaking and gross to the very end, had bled all over her shoes. With every step Melanie took she was broadcasting exactly where she was. So he'd called to Wilcox to shut the lights out.
It was wild how dark the place was. Pitch. Couldn't see your hand. At first he was real careful about making sounds. Then he thought, Why, you fuck, she can't hear you! And he hurried after her, pausing every few minutes to listen for the sound of the wet squish.
There it is.
Beautiful, honey.
Closing in.
Listen . . . .
Squish.
Can't be more than thirty feet away. Look, here we go. There she is. He saw a ghostly form in front of him, walking back toward the main room of the plant.
Squish, squish.
He walked closer to her. He knocked a table over but her footsteps just kept rollin' along. She didn't hear a fucking thing. Closing the distance now, fifteen feet . . . ten. Five.
Right behind her.
The way he'd been behind Rudy
, smelled the man's Vitalis, seen the oak dust on his shirt and the bulge in the back pocket that was a wallet filled with what it shouldn't've been filled with. "You fucker," Handy'd screamed to his brother, not seeing red, like the expression, but seeing black fire, seeing nothing but his rage. Rudy had sneered, kept on walking. And the gun in Handy's fist began firing. A little gun, a .22, loaded with long, not even a long-rifle, slugs. Which left little red dots on the neck and his brother doing the fucking scary little dance before he fell to the floor and died.
Handy raged again at Art Potter for bringing up the thought of Rudy today, like he was planting the memory in Handy's soul the way a pebble got pushed into your palm in a prison yard fight. Raged at Potter and at fat, dead Bonner and at Melanie, the fucking spooked mouse bitch.
Two feet behind her, watching her timid steps.
She didn't have a clue . . . .
This was fucking great, walking in step with her. There were so many possibilities . . . .
Hello, Miss Mouse . . . .
But he picked the simplest. He leaned close and licked the back of her neck.
He thought she'd break her back she leapt away from him so fast, twisting sideways and falling into a stack of rusted sheet metal. His hand closed on her hair and he dragged her after him, twisting and stumbling.
"Yo, Shep, put those lights back on!"
A moment later the room filled with dim light and Handy could make out the doorway to the main part of the slaughterhouse. Melanie struggled to pry his hands from her hair but he had a good grip and she could beat till kingdom come and he'd never let her go.
"You're making strange little peeps. I don't like it. Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" He slapped her in the face. He didn't think she got what he was saying but in any case she shut up. He dragged her through the cascading water, through the aisles of junk.
Straight to a decapitation guillotine.
It was basically a huge piece of butcher block, carved out with an indentation for the pig's or steer's chest. On the top was mounted a frame holding a triangular blade, operated by a long rubber-covered handle. A big fucking paper cutter.
Wilcox watched. He asked, "You really gonna . . . ?"
"What about it?" Handy screamed.
"It's just we're so close to getting out, man."
Handy ignored him, grabbed a piece of wire from the floor, and wrapped it around Melanie's right wrist. Twisted the tourniquet tight. She struggled, hit him in the shoulder with her left fist. "Fucking freak," he muttered, and slugged her hard in the back. She dropped to the floor, where she curled into a ball, moaning, staring in horror at her hand turning blue.
Handy lit his Bic lighter and ran it slowly over the blade of the guillotine. She shook her head violently, eyes huge. "Should've thought about it before you turned on me." He scooped her up from the floor and slammed her against the guillotine.
Sobbing, slapping at him, the mouse bitch tried to struggle away. He figured the pain in her right hand, now deep purple from the wire, was close to unbearable. Handy shoved her groin against the guillotine and pushed her forward, facedown, extending her right arm under the blade. He kicked her legs out from underneath her. She lost all leverage and dangled, helpless, from the machine. Handy easily pinioned her hand in the cutting groove.
He hesitated a moment and looked down at her face, listening to the gasping sound that rose from her throat. "God, I hate that fucking sound you people make. Hold her, Shep."
Wilcox hesitated, stepped forward, and took her arm in both of his hands. "Don't think I want to watch this," he said uneasily, and looked away.
"I do," Handy muttered. Unable to resist the urge, he lowered his head close to her face, inhaled her scent, rubbing his cheek against her tears. Stroked her hair.
Then his hands rose to the lever. He worked it back and forth, loosening it up, dropping the blade to her flesh, lifting it again. It rose to its full height. He took the rubber handle in both hands.
The phone rang.
Handy looked at it.
A pause. Wilcox released Melanie's hand, stepped away from the guillotine.
Shit. Handy debated.
"Answer it."
" 'Lo?" Wilcox asked into the receiver. Then listened. He shrugged and glanced at Handy, who paused. "Yo, homes, it's for you."
"Tell Potter to go to hell."
"It ain't Potter. It's a girl. And I'll tell you, sounds like she's some fox."
10:58 P.M.
Potter sat at the window, looking through his Leica binoculars, while behind him young, fierce Detective Sharon Foster, who'd pulled her cruiser hell-for-leather into the forward staging area ten minutes before, was pacing nervously and swearing like a sailor at Louis Handy.
"The fuck you say, Lou," she snarled. Like many female line officers Foster had that resolute, humorless grit that her pert blond ponytail and pretty face couldn't belie.
"Been a while, you bitch. You a detective now?"
"Yep. I got promoted." She bent down and squinted through the command van's window at the slaughterhouse, her head inches from Potter's. "What the hell've you done with your life, Lou? Aside from screwing it up royal?"
"Hey, I'm right proud of my accomplishments." From the speaker came the cold chuckle Potter recognized so well.
"I always knew you were one grade-A fuckup. They could write a book about you."
Potter recognized exactly what Foster was doing. It wasn't his way. He preferred to be more easygoing, Will Rogersish. Tough when he needed to be, but he avoided jousting, which could easily escalate into emotional skirmishes. Arthur Potter hadn't bantered with Marian and he didn't banter with his friends. But sometimes with certain takers--usually brash, overconfident criminals--this young woman's style worked: the barbs, the give-and-take.
Potter continued to stare at the slaughterhouse, trying desperately to get a look at Melanie. The last of the students, Emily, had been picked up by Stillwell's deputies in the skiff behind the building. Through Frances the little girl had explained that Melanie had gotten her out and then gone back for Mrs. Harstrawn. But that had been nearly twenty minutes ago and no one had seen the last two hostages escape. Potter assumed Handy had found her. He was desperate to know if she was all right but would never interrupt a negotiator at work.
"You're an asshole, Lou," Foster continued. "You may get away in that chopper but they're going to catch you. Canada? They'll extradite your ass so fast it'll make your head spin."
"They gotta find me first."
"You think they wear red jackets and Smokey the Bear hats and chase down muggers with whistles? You've killed, Lou--hostages and cops. There isn't a law enforcer in the world gonna stop till they get you."
LeBow and Potter exchanged glances. Potter was growing uneasy. She was pushing him a lot. Potter frowned but she either missed or ignored the expression, above criticism from an older man--and a Feebie at that. He was also feeling the thorns of jealousy. It'd taken him hours to build up a rapport with Handy; Potter was Stockholmed through and through. And here was this new kid on the block, this blond chippy, stealing away his good friend and comrade.
Potter nodded discreetly at the computer. LeBow caught his meaning and went on line to the National Law Enforcement Personnel Database. A moment later he turned the screen for Potter to read. Sharon Foster only looked young and inexperienced; she was in fact thirty-four and had an impressive record as a hostage negotiator. In thirty barricade situations she'd managed clean surrenders in twenty-four. The others had gone hot--HRT assaults had been required--but they'd been EDs. When emotionally disturbed takers are involved, negotiated solutions work only ten percent of the time.
"I like Art better," Handy said. "He don't give me any shit."
"That's my Lou, always looking for the easy way."
"Fuck you," Handy barked.
"Something I've been thinking about, Lou," she added coyly. "I'm wondering if you're really going to Canada."
Now Potter glanced at D'Angelo. The
tactical plan required that Handy and Wilcox trek through the woods to the helicopter. If Foster made him think they hadn't believed him, Handy would suspect a trap and stay holed up.
Potter stood up, shaking his head. Foster glanced but ignored him. LeBow and Angie were shocked at the disrespect. Potter sat down again, more embarrassed than hurt.
"Sure, I'm going to Canada. I've got myself a special priority. I've talked to the fucking FAA myself."
As if he hadn't spoken, her southern-accented voice rasped, "You're a cop killer, Lou. You touch down anywhere in these United States, with or without hostages, you're dead meat. Every cop in the country knows your face. Wilcox's too. And believe me, they'll shoot first and read rights to your bleeding body. And I promise you, Lou, any ambulance carrying you to a prison hospital's gonna take its own sweet fucking time gettin' you there."
Potter had heard enough of her hardball tactics. He was sure she'd push Handy right back into his hole. He reached for her shoulder. But he stopped when he heard Handy say, "Nobody can catch me. I'm the worst thing you'll ever come across. I'm cold death."
It wasn't Handy's words that gave Potter pause but the tone of his voice. He sounded like a scared child. Almost pathetic. However unorthodox her style, Foster had touched something in Handy.
She turned to him. "Can I make a surrender offer?"
LeBow, Budd, and D'Angelo all looked at Potter.
What was in Handy's mind? he wondered. A sudden awareness of the hopelessness of the situation? Maybe a reporter had managed to broadcast that federal Hostage Rescue had arrived and surrounded the slaughterhouse, and Handy had heard it on his television.
Or maybe he'd simply gotten tired.
It happened. In an instant the energy dissipates. HTs ready to come out with guns blazing will just sit on the floor when HRT kicks in the door and look at the approaching agents without the energy to lift their hands over their heads.
Yet there was another possibility, one that Potter hated to consider. Which was that this young woman was simply better than he was. That she'd breezed in, assessed Handy, and then pegged him right. Again the jealousy tore at him. What should I do?
He thought suddenly of Melanie. What would be most likely to save her?
Potter nodded to the young detective. "Sure. Go ahead."