Brutus glanced at the little girl, laughed then stepped into the main room of the slaughterhouse, motioning Bear after him. When he returned a moment later he was carrying a large can of gasoline.
Kielle's face went still as she stared at the red can.
"Don't nobody move." Brutus looked into Melanie's eyes as he said this. Then he set a heavy metal canister, a small rendering vat maybe, on top of a shelf above the girls and poured the gasoline into it. Melanie felt the thud as he pitched the gas can into the corner of the room. Then he tied a wire to the edge of the canister and ran it to the other room. Eerie shadows danced on the floor and wall as the light from the other room grew brighter and brighter and Brutus returned suddenly, swinging another of the lights. He unscrewed the cage and tied the unprotected fixture and bulb to a bolt in the floor, directly below the canister of gas.
Bear surveyed the workmanship with approval.
Kielle stepped toward Brutus.
"No," Melanie signed. "Get back!"
Brutus suddenly dropped to his knees and took Kielle by the shoulders. He put his face inches from hers and he spoke slowly.
"Here now, little bird… hassles from you… or somebody tries to save you, I'll pull that wire and burn you up."
He pushed hard and Kielle fell over one of the blood grooves in the floor.
"What one should I pick?" Brutus asked Bear. The fat man looked them over. His eyes lingered longest on Emily, her flat chest, her white stockings, her black-strapped shoes.
Bear gestured at Shannon. "… kicked me. Pick her, man."
Brutus looked down at the girl, tossing her long, dark hair. Like Kielle, she gazed back defiantly. But after a moment she looked down, tears filling her eyes. And Melanie could see the real difference between the girls. Shannon Boyle was one hell of an artist but she wasn't Jubilee or any other kind of hero. She was an eight-year-old tomboy, scared to death.
"You're a kicker, are you?" Brutus asked. "Okay, let's go." They led her out.
What were they going to do with her? Release her, like Jocylyn? Melanie scooted toward the doorway of the killing room – as far as she dared. She looked out and saw Shannon in the greasy window in the front of the slaughterhouse. Brutus took his pistol from his back pocket. Rested the muzzle against the girl's head. No! Oh, no…
Melanie started to rise. Bear's bulbous head swiveled toward her quickly and he raised the shotgun. She sank down to the cold floor and stared hopelessly at her student. Shannon closed her eyes and wrapped her fingers around the pink-and-blue-string friendship bracelet she'd tied on her wrist a month ago. The girl had promised to make a matching bracelet for her, Melanie now recalled, choking back tears, but had never gotten around to it.
Angie Scapello paused on her way back to the van from the rear staging area.
"Hey, Captain."
If he hadn't known it for a fact, Charlie Budd would never have guessed she was a federal agent. "Hi," he said.
She paused and fell into step beside him.
"You worked with Arthur much?" he asked suddenly, flustered. Just trying to make conversation.
"About thirty or forty barricades. Maybe a few more, I guess."
"Hey, you must've started out young."
"I'm older than I look."
He didn't think "older" was a word that applied to her at all.
"This isn't a line – I'm married." Budd awkwardly held up his glistening ring, which happened to match his wife's. "But you ever do any modeling? I only ask 'cause Meg, that's my wife, she gets these magazines. You know, Vogue and Harper's Bazaar. Like that. I was thinking maybe I saw you in an ad or two?"
"Could've been. I put myself through school doing print ads. Was a few years ago. Undergrad." She laughed. "I was usually cast as a bride for some reason. Don't ask me why."
"Good hair for a veil," Budd suggested, and then went red because the comment sounded like a flirt.
"And I've been in one movie."
"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 highspeed 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."