They were walking through the gully down which Stevie Gates had carried Shannon and Kielle like bags of wheat. "Through the front door?" Budd whispered.
Potter nodded yes. It was wide open; they could enter without having to risk squeaky hinges. Besides, the windows were five feet off the ground. Budd might make the climb but Potter, already exhausted and breathing heavily, knew that he wouldn't be able to.
They remained motionless for some minutes but there was no sign of Handy. No cars in sight, no headlights approaching, no flashlights. And no sound except that of the extraordinary wind. Potter nodded toward the front door.
They crouched and hurried between hillocks up to the front of the slaughterhouse, the red-and-white brick, blood and bone. They paused beside the spot where the body of Tremain's trooper had been dumped. The pipe by the window, Potter remembered. Filled with half a million dollars, the bait drawing Handy back to us. They paused on either side of the door. This isn't me, Potter thought suddenly. This isn't what I was meant to do. I'm a man of words, not a soldier. It's not that I'm afraid. But I'm out of my depth.
Not afraid, not afraid…
Though he was.
Why? Because, he supposes, for the first time in years, there is someone else in his life. Somehow, existence has become somewhat more precious to him in the past twelve hours. Yes, I want to talk to her, to Melanie. I want to tell her things, I want to hear how her day went. And, yes, yes, I want to take her hand and climb the stairs after dinner, feel the heat of her breath on my ear, feel the motion of her body beneath me. I want that! I…
Budd tapped his shoulder. Potter nodded and, guns before them, they stepped inside the slaughterhouse.
Like a cave.
Darkness everywhere. The wind roared through the holes and ill-fitting joints of the old place so loudly that the men could hear virtually nothing else. They stepped instinctively behind a large metal structure, some kind of housing. And waited. Gradually Potter's eyes became accustomed to the inky darkness. He could just make out two slightly lighter squares of the windows on the other side of the door. Beside the closest one was a stubby pipe about two feet in diameter, rising in an L shape from the floor like a vent on a ship. Potter pointed to it and Budd squinted, nodding.
As they made their way forward, like blind men, Potter understood what Melanie had gone through here. The wind stole his hearing, the darkness his vision. And the cold was dulling his sense of touch and smell.
They paused, Potter feeling panic stream down his spine like ice water. Once he gasped as Budd lifted his hand alarmingly and dropped into a crouch. Potter too had seen the leveraging shadow but it turned out to be merely a piece of sheet metal bending in the breeze.
Then they were five yards from the pipe. Potter stopped, looked around slowly. Heard nothing other than the wind. Turned back.
They started forward but Budd was tapping his shoulder. The captain whispered, "Don't slip. Something's spilled there. Oil, looks like."
Potter too looked underfoot. There were large dots of silvery liquid – more like mercury than water or oil – at the base of the pipe. He bent down, reached forward with a finger.
He touched cold metal. Not oil. Steel nuts.
The end plate was off the pipe. Handy had been here al -
The gunshot came from no more than ten feet away. An ear-shattering bang, ringing painfully off the tile and metal and exposed wet brick. Potter and Budd spun around.
Nothing, blackness. The faint motion of shadow as clouds obscured the moon.
Then the choked sound of Charlie Budd whispering, "I'm sorry, Arthur."
"What?"
"I'm… I'm sorry. I'm hit."
The shot had been fired into his back. He fell to his knees and Potter saw the ragged exit wound low in his belly. Budd keeled over onto the floor.
The agent started forward instinctively. Careful, he reminded himself, turning toward where the gunshot had come from. Guard yourself first.
The piece of pipe caught Potter squarely on the shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. He dropped hard to the ground and felt the sinewy hand yank his pistol from his grip.
"You alone? You two?" Handy's voice was a whisper. Potter couldn't speak. Handy twisted his arm up behind his back, bent a little finger brutally. The pain surged through Potter's hand into his jaw and head. "Yes, yes. Just the two of us."
Handy grunted as he rolled Potter over and bound his hands before him with thin wire, the strands cutting into his flesh.
"There's no way you're going to -" Potter began. Then a blurring motion, as Handy was slammed sideways into the pipe where the money'd been hidden. With a hollow ringing sound, the side of his head connected with the metal.
Charlie Budd, face dripping sweat as copious as the blood he shed, drew back his fist once more and slammed it into Handy's kidney. The convict wheezed with pain and pitched forward.
As Potter struggled futilely to get to his feet, Budd groped in the dark for his service automatic. He felt himself starting to black out and lurched sideways. Recovered slightly then staggered into a large cube of stained butcher block.
Handy leapt at him, growling in fury, throwing his arms around Budd's neck, pulling him down to the floor. The convict had been hurt, yes, but he still had his strength; Budd's was draining rapidly from his body.
"Oh, brother," Budd coughed. "I can't -"
Handy took Budd by the hair. "Come on, sport. Only round one."
"Go to hell," the trooper whispered.
"There's a boy." Handy got his arms around Budd and pulled him to his feet. "Ain't heard the bell. Come on. Fans're waiting."
The trooper, bleeding badly, eyes unfocused, pulled away and began flailing at Handy's lean face. One blow struck with surprising force and the convict jerked back in surprise. But after the initial burst of pain dissipated, Handy laughed.
"Come on," he taunted. "Sugar Ray, come on…"
When Budd connected a final time Handy moved in close and rained a half-dozen blows into his face. Budd dropped to his knees.
"Hey, down for the count."
"Leave him… alone," Potter called.
Handy pulled the gun from his belt.
"No!" the agent cried.
"Arthur…"
To Potter, Handy said, "He's lucky I'm doing it this way. I had more time, wouldn't be painless. Nosir."
"Listen to me," Potter began desperately.
"Shhh," Handy whispered.
The wind swelled, a mournful wail.
The three gunshots were fast and were soon replaced by the sound of Potter's voice crying. "Oh, Charlie, no, no, no…"
3:00 A.M.
Through the murky chutes, where the condemned longhorns had walked, between rectangular boulders of butcher block, beneath a thousand rusting meat hooks, clanging like bells…
And all the while the wind screamed around them, hooting through crevices and broken windows like a steam whistle on a tug.
Potter's wrists stung from the wire. He thought of Melanie's hands. Of her perfect nails. He thought of her hair, spun honey. He wished fervently that he'd kissed her earlier in the evening. With his tongue he pushed a tooth, loosened in his fall, from its precarious perch and spit it out. His mouth filled and he spit again; blood spurted to the floor.
"You poor fuck," Handy said with great satisfaction in his voice. "You just didn't get it, did you, Art? You just didn't fucking get it."
Ahead of them, some illumination. It wasn't light so much as a vague lessening of the darkness. From outside, faint starlight and the sliver of moon.
"You didn't have to kill him," the agent found himself saying.
"This way. Go there." Handy pushed him into a moldy corridor. "You been in this line of work how long, Art?" Potter didn't answer. "Probably twenty, twenty-five years, I'd guess. An' I'll bet mosta that's been doing what you did today – talking to assholes like me." Handy was a small man but his grip was ferocious. Potter's fingers tingled as he felt the circulation cut off.