"Hysford's about seventeen miles. Billings, nowhere near."
"That's the missus," volunteered Commander Franklin.
"How 'bout this? A three-minute call from Towsend to your office at nine twenty-six. Was that about how long you talked to the trooper, Commander Franklin?"
"About, yessir."
"Where's Towsend?"
"Borders Crow Ridge," Budd said. "Good-sized town."
"Can you get us an address?" Budd asked Tobe.
The downloaded files from the phone company didn't include addresses but a single call to Midwestern Bell's computer center pinpointed a pay phone.
"Route 236 and Roosevelt Highway."
"It's the main intersection," Stillwell said, discouraged. "Restaurants, hotels, gas stations. And that highway's a feeder for two interstates. Could've been anybody and he could've been on his way to anywhere." Potter's eyes were on the five red plants. His head rose suddenly and he reached for the telephone. But it was a curious gesture – he stopped suddenly and seemed momentarily flustered, as if he'd committed some grievous social faux pas at a formal dinner party. His hand slipped off the receiver.
"Henry, Tobe, come with me. You too, Charlie. Dean, will you stay here and man the fort?"
"You bet, sir."
"Where are we going?" Charlie asked.
"To talk to somebody who knows Handy better than we do."
2:00 A.M.
He wondered how they'd announce their presence.
There was a button on the jamb of the front door, just like any other. Potter looked at Budd, who shrugged and pushed it.
"I thought I heard something inside. A doorbell. Why's that?"
Potter had heard something too. But he'd also noticed a red light flash inside, through a lace curtain.
There was no response.
Where was she?
Potter found himself about to call, "Melanie?" And when he realized that would be futile, he lifted his fist to knock. He shook his head at that gesture too and lowered his hand. Seeing the lights inside a lifeless house, he felt a stab of uneasiness and he pulled his jacket away from his hip, where the Glock sat. LeBow noticed the gesture but said nothing.
"Wait here," Potter told the three men.
He walked slowly along the dark porch of the Victorian house, looking in the windows of the place. Suddenly he stopped, seeing shoeless feet, legs sprawled on a couch, motionless.
Alarmed now, in a panic, he hurriedly completed his circuit of the porch. But he couldn't get any view of her – only her unmoving legs. He rapped loudly on the glass, shouted her name.
Nothing.
She should be able to feel the vibration, he thought. And there was the red flashing light – the "doorbell" – above the entryway, flashing in her clear view.
"Melanie!"
He drew his pistol. Tried the window. It was locked.
Do it.
His elbow crashed into the glass and sent a shower of shards onto the parquet floor. He reached in, unlocked the window, and started through. He froze when he saw the figure – Melanie herself, sitting up, terrified, staring at the intruder coming through her window. She blinked away the sleep and gasped.
Potter held up his hands to her, as if surrendering, an expression of horror on his own face at the thought of how he must have frightened her. Still, he was more perplexed than anything else: Why on earth, he wondered, would she be wearing stereo headphones?
Melanie Charrol opened the door and motioned her visitors inside.
The first thing that Arthur Potter saw was a large watercolor of a violin, surrounded by surreal quarter- and half-notes in rainbow colors.
"Sorry about the window," he said slowly. "You can deduct it from your taxes."
She smiled.
"Evening, ma'am," Charlie Budd said. And Potter introduced her to Tobe Geller and Henry LeBow. She looked out the door at the car parked two doors down, the two people standing behind a hedge, looking at the house.
He saw her face. He said to her, "They're ours."
Melanie frowned. He explained, "Two troopers. I sent them here earlier tonight to keep an eye on you."
She shook her head, asking, Why?
Potter hesitated. "Let's go inside."
With flashing lights, a Hebron PD squad car pulled up. Angeline Scapello, looking exhausted though no longer soot-smudged, climbed out and hurried up the stairs. She nodded to everyone, and like her fellow threat management team members she wasn't smiling.
Melanie's house had a homey air about it. Thick drapes. In the air, incense. Spicy. Old prints, many of them of classical composers, hung on the walls, which were covered with striped paper, forest green and gold. The largest print was of Beethoven. The room was full of antique tables, beautiful Art Nouveau vases. He thought with some embarrassment of his own Georgetown apartment, a shabby place. He'd stopped decorating it thirteen years ago.
Melanie was wearing blue jeans, a black cashmere sweater. Her hair was no longer in the awkward braid but hung loose. The bruises and cuts on her face and hands were quite prominent, as were the chestnut Betadine stains. Potter turned to her, tried to think of words that required exaggerated lip movements. "Lou Handy's escaped."
She didn't understand at first. When he repeated it her eyes went wide with horror. She started to sign then stopped in frustration and grabbed the stack of paper.
LeBow touched her arm. "Can you type?" He mimicked keyboarding.
She nodded. He opened his two computers, booted them into word-processing programs, hooked up a serial port cable, and set the units side by side. He sat at one, Melanie at the other.
Where did he go? she typed.
We don't know, that's why we came to see you.
Melanie nodded slowly. Did he kill anyone escaping? She could touch-type and she kept her eyes on Potter as she asked this.
He nodded. Wilcox – the one you called Stoat – was killed. Troopers too.
Again she nodded, frowning, thinking over the implications of this.
Potter typed, I have to ask you to do something you're not going to want to do.
She looked at his message, wrote: I've already been through the worst. Her hands danced over the keys invisibly, not a single mistake.
God compensates.
I want you to go back to the slaughterhouse. In your mind.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wrote nothing but merely nodded.
We don't understand certain things about the barricade. If you can help us to I think we can figure out where he's gone.
"Henry," Potter called, rising and pacing. LeBow and Tobe caught each other's eyes. "Call up his profile and the chronology. What do we know about him?"
LeBow began to read but Potter said, "No, let's just speculate."
"He's a clever boy," Budd offered. "He comes across like a hick but he's got some smarts."
Potter added, He plays the dummy but that's largely an act, I think.
Melanie typed, Amoral.
Yes.
Dangerous, Budd offered.
Let's go beyond that.
He's evil, she wrote. Evil personified.
But what kind of evil?
Silence for a moment. Angie typed, Cold death.
Potter nodded and spoke aloud, "Right. Lou Handy's cold evil. Not passionate evil. Let's keep that in mind."
Angie continued, Not a sadist. Then he'd be passionate. He feels nothing for the pain he causes. If he needs pain or death to get his way, he'll cause pain or death. Like blinding the hostages – simply another tool for him.
Potter leaned forward and typed, So, he's calculating. "And?" Budd prompted.