"Your call," Potter whispered. "But there'll be no exchange if you say yes."
"No," the trooper said.
"I'll kill you if I find out you're lying to me."
"I don't," Gates said insistently, without hesitation.
Good, good.
"You alone? Anybody sneak up on either side of the door?"
"Can't you see? I'm alone. How's the girl?"
"Can't you see?" Handy mocked, stepping behind Wilcox, in plain view. "Here she is. Look for yourself."
There was no move to release her.
"Let her go," Gates said.
"Maybe you oughta come in and get her."
"No. Let her go."
"You wearing body armor?"
"Under my shirt, yeah."
"Maybe you oughta give me that. We could use it more'n you."
"How do you figure?" Gates said. His voice was no longer so steady.
" 'Cause it won't do you any good. See, we could shoot you in the face and take it offa you and you'd be just as dead as if we shot you in the back when you were walking away. So how 'bout you give it to us now?"
They'd find the video camera and radio transmitter if he gave up the armor. And probably kill him on the spot.
Potter whispers, "Tell him we had a bargain."
"We had a bargain," Gates said firmly. "Here's the food. I want that girl. And I want her now."
A pause that lasted eons.
"Put it on the ground," Handy finally said.
The image on the screen dipped as Gates set the bag down. Still, the trooper kept his head up and pointed directly into the crack of the open door. Unfortunately there was too much contrast in the image; the agents in the van could see virtually nothing inside.
"Here," Handy's voice crackled, "take Miss Piggy. Go wee, wee, wee all the way home." Laughter from several voices. Handy stepped away from the door. They lost sight of him and Wilcox. Was one of them raising the gun to shoot?
"Hiya, honey," Gates said. "Don't you worry, you're gonna be just fine."
"He shouldn't be talking to her," Angie muttered.
"Let's go for a walk, whatta you say? See your mommy and daddy?"
"Lou," Potter called into the throw phone, suddenly concerned that the takers were no longer in sight. No answer. To those in the van he muttered, "I don't trust him. Hell, I don't trust him."
"Lou?"
"Line's still open," Tobe called. "He hasn't hung up."
Potter said to Gates, "Don't say anything to her, Stevie. Might make her panic."
The screen dipped in response.
"Go on. Back on out of there. Go real slow. Then get behind the girl, turn around, and walk straight away. Keep your head up, so your helmet covers as much of your neck as possible. If you're shot, fall on top of the girl. I'll order covering fire and we'll get you out as fast as we can."
A faint disturbed whisper came through the speaker. But there was no other answer.
Suddenly the video screen went mad. There was a burst of light and motion and jiggling images.
"No!" came Oates's voice. Then a deep grunt, followed by a moan.
"He's down," Budd said, looking through the window with binoculars. "Oh, brother."
"Christ!" Derek Elb cried, gazing up at the video monitor.
They'd heard no gunfire but Potter was sure that Wilcox had shot the girl in the head with a silenced pistol and was firing repeatedly at Gates. The screen danced madly with grainy shapes and lens flares.
"Lou!" Potter cried into the phone. "Lou, are you there?"
"Look!" Budd shouted, pointing out the window.
It wasn't what Potter had feared. Jocylyn apparently had panicked and leapt forward. The big girl had knocked Gates flat on his back. She was bounding over the grass and bluestem toward the first row of police cars.
Gates rolled over and was on his feet, going after her.
Potter juggled more buttons. "Lou!" He slapped the console again, activating the radio to Dean Stillwell, who was watching through a night scope with a sniper beside him.
"Dean?" Potter called.
"Yessir."
"Can you see inside?"
"Not much. Door's open only about a foot. There's somebody behind it."
"Windows?"
"No one in 'em yet."
Jocylyn, overweight though she might be, was sprinting like an Olympian directly toward the command van, arms waving, mouth open wide. Gates was gaining on the girl but they were both clear targets.
"Tell the sniper," Potter said, desperately scanning the slaughterhouse windows, "safety off."
Should he order a shot?
"Yessir. Wait. There's Wilcox. Inside about five yards from the window. He's got a shotgun and's drawing a target."
Oh, Lord, Potter thought. If the sniper kills him Bandy's sure to murder one of the hostages in retaliation.
Is he going to shoot or not?
Maybe Wilcox's just panicked too, doesn't know what's going on.
"Agent Potter?" Stillwell asked.
"Acquire."
"Yessir… Wilcox's in Chrissy's sights. She's got a shot. Can't miss, she says. Crosshaired on his forehead."
Yes? No?
"Wait," Potter said. "Keep him acquired."
"Yessir."
Jocylyn was thirty yards from the slaughterhouse. Gates close behind her. Perfect targets. A load of twelve-gauge, double-ought buck would cut their legs off.
Sweating, Potter slammed his hand onto two buttons. Into the phone he said, "Lou, you there?"
There was the sound of static, or breathing, or an erratic heartbeat.
"Tell the sniper to stand down," Potter ordered Stillwell suddenly. "Don't shoot. Whatever happens, don't shoot."
"Yessir," Stillwell said.
Potter leaned forward, felt his head tap against the cool glass window.
In two leaps, Stevie Gates grabbed the girl and pulled her down. Her hands and legs flailed and together they tumbled behind the rise, out of sight of the slaughterhouse.
Budd sighed loudly.
"Thank God," muttered Frances.
Angie said nothing but Potter noticed that her hand had strayed to her weapon and now held the grip tightly.
"Lou, you there?" he called. Then again.
There was a crackle, as if the phone were being wrapped in crispy paper. "Can't talk, Art," Handy said through a mouthful of food. "It's suppertime."
"Lou -"
There was a click and then silence.
Potter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
Frances applauded, joined by Derek Elb.
"Congratulations," LeBow said quietly. "The first exchange. A success."
Budd was pale. He slowly exhaled a cheekful of air. "Brother."
"All right, everybody, let's not pat ourselves on the back too much," Potter said. "We've only got an hour forty-five minutes till our first helicopter deadline."
Of all the people in the van only young Tobe Geller seemed disturbed.
Arthur Potter, childless father that he was, noticed it immediately. "What is it, Tobe?"
The agent pushed several buttons on the Hewlett-Packard and pointed to the screen. "This was your VSA grid during the exchange, Arthur. Lower anxiety than normal for a mildly stressful event."
"Mildly," Budd muttered, rolling his eyes. "Glad you didn't take mine."
"Here's Handy's average ten-second sequence for the entire exchange." He tapped the screen. It was nearly a flat line. "He was in the doorway with a dozen guns pointed at his heart and that son of a bitch was about as stressed out as most people get ordering a cup of coffee at 7-Eleven."
3:13 P.M.
She felt no thud of gunshots, no quiver of scream resonating in her chest.
Thank you thank you thank you.
The butterball Jocylyn was safe.
Melanie huddled with the twins in the back of the killing room, their long chestnut hair damp from tears, plastered to their faces. She looked up at the bare bulb, which – just barely – kept the crushing waves of the Outside from smashing her to death.
Her finger nervously entwining a strand of hair again. The hand shape for "shine." The word for "brilliance."
The word for "light."
A blur of motion startled her. The huge bearded form of Bear, chewing a hamburger, stormed up to Stoat and snapped a few words. Waited for an answer, got none, and shouted some more. Melanie couldn't read a single word of their conversation. The more emotional people became, the more ragged and fast their words, making them impossible to understand, as if just when it was the most important to say things clearly there could be no clarity.