"You fucking bitch!" Brutus's tendons and jaw quivered.
He hit her once hard and she fell against the floor. Trying to scrabble away, she pulled herself up by the windowsill, glanced outside and saw the trooper carrying both the young X-Men with him, tucked under his arms. Jogging awkwardly through the gully away from the slaughterhouse.
On her neck she heard the vibrations of a man's voice shouting in anger. Brutus was running to the window on the other side of the door. He stepped back from it then aimed the shotgun outside.
Melanie ran at him.
It seemed that her feet didn't even touch the ground. Stoat grabbed for her but caught only a shred of silk collar that tore away. As she collided with Brutus's shoulder she had the satisfaction of seeing his pain and surprise and fear as he fell sideways into a square of butcher block. The gun hit the floor but didn't go off.
Melanie looked out the window once more and saw the two girls and the trooper disappear over a small hill. And then Stoat's gun caught her above the ear that had first gone deaf, years ago, and she dropped to her knees. She fainted not so much from the pain as from the terror that the darkness taking her vision was from a broken nerve and that she would now be blind as well as deaf forever and ever.
5:34 P.M.
"You gave us a bonus, Lou. Thanks much."
"Wasn't me," Handy grumbled.
"No? What happened?"
"Listen here, I'm pissed."
"Why's that?"
"Just shut up and listen, Art. I don't wanta hear your bullshit." His voice was colder than it'd been all day.
"Forty-five minutes for that helicopter. That's all you got and I'll tell you, mister, I'm itching to kill somebody. I almost hope it don't show up. I'm not doing any more bargaining with you."
"How's your beer?"
"I picked the little bitch already. She's ten or eleven. Wearing a pretty dress."
"Emily," Angie said.
"And I'm gonna let Bonner have her first. You know 'bout Bonner, don't you? You got your fucking files on us. You must know all 'bout his little problem."
A negotiator never imposes his own values on the situation – either approval or criticism. Doing so suggests that there are standards of what is and isn't acceptable and is apt to irritate the taker or make his bad behavior seem justified. Even offering reassuring cliches can be dangerous, suggesting that you're not taking the situation seriously.
Reluctantly Potter now said in as blasé a voice as he could muster, "You don't want to do that, Lou. You know you don't."
The cackle of vicious laughter filled the van. "Everybody's telling me what I don't want to do. I hate that!"
"We're working on the chopper, Lou. Look outside. We've got twenty-mile-an-hour winds, low overcast, and fog. You wanted pontoons. Well, pontoons don't grow on trees."
"You got twelve-mile-an-hour winds, ceilings of two thousand feet, and no fucking fog that I can see."
The television, Potter remembered, angry with himself for forgetting. Maybe Handy was watching the Live at Five weather report at that moment. A long minute of silence. Potter, staring at the speaker above his head, decided they were too focused on the mechanics of the negotiating. It was time for something personal.
"Lou?"
"Yeah."
"You asked me what I looked like. Let me ask you about yourself."
"Fuck, you've got pictures in there, I'll bet."
"What do mug shots show?" Potter asked, and laughed.
When Handy spoke, his voice had calmed considerably. "What do I look like?" he mused. "Let me tell you a story, Art. I was in a prison riot one time. All kindsa shit was going down like usual in things like that. What the fuck happens but I find myself in the laundry room with a fellow I'd had it in for for a long time. Now, you know where you hide things when you're inside, don't you? So I crapped this glass knife, unwrapped it, and started to work on him. You know why?"
Echo his questions and comments, Arthur Potter the negotiator thought. But Arthur Potter remained silent.
" 'Cause when I first was in he come up to me, all macho and that shit, and said he didn't like the way I looked."
"So you killed him." A matter-of-fact statement.
"Fuck yes, but that's not my point. While he was dying there, his gut all split open, I leaned down. See, I was curious. I leaned down real close and I asked him what exactly it was he didn't like about the way I looked. And you know what he said? He said, 'You looked like cold death.' Know something, Art? I was sorry I killed him after he told me that. Yessir, cold death."
Don't play his game, Potter thought suddenly. You're falling under his spell. With an edge to his voice he asked, "Lou, give us until seven. You do me that, I think we'll have some good news for you."
"I -"
"That's all. What difference does it make?" Potter kept all supplication from his voice. He made it sound that Handy was being unreasonable. It was a risk but Potter assessed that the man would have no respect at all for whiners.
Still, he was very surprised when Handy said, "All right. Jesus! But have the chopper here, Art. Or the little one in the dress goes."
Click.
Potter calmly instructed Tobe to adjust the deadline clock accordingly.
The door to the van opened and a trooper looked in. "The two girls are here, sir. They're in the medical tent."
"Are they okay?"
"One fell and scraped her elbow. Otherwise they're fine."
"I'll go over there. I could use some fresh air. Frances, could you translate? Henry, get yourself unplugged and come with us. Angie too?"
In a grove of trees not far from the van Potter ushered the girls into folding chairs. Henry LeBow joined them, portable computer in hand. He sat down and smiled at the girls, who stared at the Toshiba.
Potter tried to recall what Frances had taught him and spelled their names in sign language. S-H-A-N-N-O-N and K-I-E-L-L-E, bringing a smile to Shannon 's face. They were the same age, Potter knew – eight – but Shannon was taller. Kielle, however, with her grim face and cynical eyes, gave the impression of being far older.
"What's the matter?" Potter asked Kielle.
Frances 's face went cold when she received a response. "She said she tried to kill him."
"Who?"
"Handy, I think she means. She calls him Mr. Sinister."
Potter produced the flyer of the fugitives. Kielle's face screwed into a tight mask and she poked a finger at Handy's picture.
"She says he killed Susan and she was going to kill him. Melanie betrayed her. Melanie is a Judas."
"Why?" Angie asked.
More brutal signing.
"She threw her out the door."
"Melanie did that?"
Potter felt the chill down his spine. He knew there'd be a payback of some kind.
Shannon confirmed that the men didn't seem to have any rifles, only shotguns – her father hunted and she knew something about guns. Beverly 's asthma was bad, though Handy had given her the medicine. She reiterated that the "big man," Bonner, hovered over the girls and kept looking at Emily because she was "prettier and looked more like a girl."
Angie asked delicately, "Has anyone touched any of you?"
Shannon said that they had. But Kielle waved her hand and signed, "Not the way you mean. But Bear looks a lot."
So, Potter reflected, Bonner's a discrete threat, separate from Handy. And probably more dangerous. Lust-driven criminals always are.
"Who picked you to be released?" Angie asked Shannon.
"Him." She pointed at Handy.
"The one Melanie calls Brutus, right?"
Shannon nodded. "We call him Mr. Sinister. Or Magneto."