But now she was cruising down Route 677 like a pro. She didn't have musician's ears any longer but she had musician's hands, sensitive and strong. And those fingers learned quickly not to overcompen-sate on the wheel and she sped straight toward her destination.
Lou Handy had had a purpose; well, so did she.
Bad is simple and good is complicated. And the simple always wins. That's what everything comes down to in the end. Simple always wins… that's just nature and you know what kind of trouble people get into ignoring nature.
Through the night, forty miles an hour, fifty, sixty.
She glanced down at the dashboard. Many of the dials and knobs made no sense to her. But she recognized the radio. She turned switches until it lit up: 103.4. Eyes flicking up and down, she figured out which was the volume and pushed the button until the line in the LED indicator was all the way at full. She heard nothing at first but then she turned up the bass level and she heard thumps and occasionally the sliding sound of tones and notes. The low register, Beethoven's register. That portion of her hearing had never deserted her completely.
Maybe his Ninth Symphony was playing, the soaring, inspiring "Ode to Joy." This seemed too coincidental, considering her mission at the moment, and 103.4 was probably rap or heavy metal. But it sent a powerful, irresistible beat through her chest. That was enough for her.
There!
She braked the car to a screeching stop in the deserted parking lot of the hardware supply store. The windows held just the assortment of goods she'd been looking for.
The brick sailed tidily through the glass and if it set off an alarm, which it probably did, she couldn't hear it so she felt no particular pressure to hurry. Melanie leaned forward and selected what seemed to be the sharpest knife in the display, a ten-inch butcher, Chicago Cutlery. She returned leisurely to the driver's seat, dropped the long blade on the seat next to her, then put the car in gear and sped away.
As she forced the engine to speed the car up to seventy through the huge gusts of silent wind, Melanie thought of Susan Phillips. Who would soon be sleeping forever in a grave as silent as her life had been.
A Maiden's Grave…
Oh, Susan, Susan… I'm not you. I can't be you and I won't even ask you to forgive me for that, though I would have once. After today I know I can't listen to imaginary music for the rest of my life. I know if you were alive now you'd hate me for this. But I want to hear words, I want to hear streams of snazzy consonants and vowels, I want to hear my music.
You were Deaf of Deaf, Susan. That made you strong, even if it killed you. I've been safe because I'm weak. But I can't be weak anymore. I'm an Other and that's just the way it is.
And Melanie realizes now, with a shock, why she could understand that son of a bitch Brutus so well. Because she is like him. She feels exactly what he feels.
Oh, I want to hurt, I want to pay them all back: Fate, taking my music away from me. My father, scheming to keep it away. Brutus and the man who hired him, kidnaping us, toying with us, hurting us, every one of us – the students, Mrs. Harstrawn, that poor trooper. And of course Susan.
The car raced through the night, one of her elegant hands on the steering wheel, one caressing the sensuous wooden handle of the knife.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…
The wind buffeted the car fiercely and, overhead, black strips of clouds raced through the cold sky at a thousand miles an hour.
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now I'm found.
Was blind, but now I see.
Melanie dropped the knife back onto the seat and gripped the wheel in both hands, listening to the powerful bass beat resonate in her chest. She supposed the wind howled like a mad wolf but of course that was something she couldn't know for sure.
So you'll be home then.
Never.
They were three miles outside of Crow Ridge, speeding south, when Budd sat up straight, making his perfect posture that much better. His head snapped toward Potter. "Arthur!"
The FBI agent cringed. "Of course. Oh, hell!"
The car skidded to a stop on the highway, ending up perpendicular to the roadway and blocking both lanes.
"Where is it, Charlie? Where?"
"A half-mile that way," Budd cried, pointing to the right. "That intersection we just passed. It's a shortcut. It'll take us right there."
Arthur Potter, otherwise the irritatingly prudent driver, took the turn at speed and, on the verge of an irrigation ditch, managed to control his mad, tire-smoking skid.
"Oh, brother," Budd muttered, though it wasn't Potter's insane driving but his own stupidity he was lamenting. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before."
Potter was furious with himself too. He realized exactly where Handy was. Not going south at all but heading directly back to his money. All the other evidence had been removed from the slaughterhouse by the police. But Crime Scene had never gotten the scrambled radio – or the cash. They were still there, hidden. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.
As he drove, hunched over the wheel, Potter asked Budd to call Tobe at Melanie's house. When the connection was completed he took the phone from the captain.
"Where's Frank and HRT?" the agent asked.
"Hold on," Tobe responded. "I'll find out." A moment later he came back on. "They're about to touch down in Virginia."
Potter sighed. "Damn. Okay, call Ted Franklin and Dean Stillwell, have them send some men to the slaughterhouse. Handy's on his way. If he's not there already. But it's vital not to spook him. This might be our only chance to nail him. I want them to roll in without lights and sirens and park at least a half-mile away on side roads. Remember to tell him Handy's armed and extremely dangerous. Tell him we're going to be inside. Charlie and me."
"Where are you now?"
"Hold on." Potter asked Budd, who gave him their whereabouts. Into the phone he said, "Charlie says, Hitchcock Road, just off Route 345. About two minutes away."
A pause.
"Charlie Budd's with you?" Tobe asked uncertainly.
"Well, sure. You saw him leave with me."
"But you took both cars."
"No. We just took mine."
Another pause. "Hold on, Arthur."
Uneasy, Potter said to Budd, "Something's going on there. At Melanie's."
Come on, Tobe. Talk to me.
A moment later the young agent came on. "She's gone, Arthur. Melanie. She left the shower running and took the other car."
A chill ran through him. Potter said, "She's going to the Holiday Inn to kill Marks."
"What?" Budd cried.
"She doesn't know his name. But she knows the room number. She saw what I wrote down."
"And I left him trussed up there without a guard. I forgot to call."
Potter remembered the look in her eyes, the cold fire. He asked Tobe, "Did she take a weapon? Was there one in the car?"
Tobe called something to LeBow.
"No, we've both got ours. Nothing in the car."
"Well, get some troopers over to the hotel fast." He had an image of her madly going for Marks despite the troopers. If she had a gun or knife they'd kill her instantly.
"Okay, Arthur," Tobe said. "We're on it."
Just then the sulky landscape took on a familiar tone – deja vu from a recurring nightmare. A moment later the slaughterhouse loomed ahead of them. The battlefield was littered with coffee cups and tread marks – from squad cars, not the swales of covered wagons. The field was deserted. Potter folded up the phone and handed it back to Budd. He cut the engine and coasted silently the last fifty feet. "What about Melanie?" Budd whispered.
There was no time to think about her. The agent lifted his finger to his lips and gestured toward the door. The two men stepped outside into the fierce wind.