"How'd you get him out? Callana's maximum-security."
"Paid two guards their annual salaries in cash to do it."
"Was one of them the guard Handy killed?"
Marks nodded.
"Saved some money there, didn't you?" Charlie Budd asked bitterly. "You left a car for him with the guns, the scrambled radio, and the TV in it," Potter continued. "And the tools to get the money out of the slaughterhouse where you'd hidden it for him."
"Well, hell, we couldn't exactly leave the money in the car. Too risky. So I sealed it up in this old steam pipe behind the front window." Potter asked, "What were the escape plans going to be?"
"Originally, I'd arranged for a private plane to fly him and his buddies out of Crow Ridge, from that little airport up the road. But he never made it. He had the accident – with the Cadillac – and lost about a half-hour."
"Why did he take the girls?"
"He needed them. With the delay he knew he didn't have time to get the money and make it to the airport – with the cops right on his tail. But he wasn't going to leave without the cash. Lou figured with the hostages inside and me working to get him out, it didn't matter how many cops were at the slaughterhouse. He'd get out sooner or later. He radioed me from inside and I agreed to convince the FBI to give him a helicopter. That didn't work but by then I remembered Sharon Foster's negotiation with Handy a few years ago. I found out where she was stationed now and called Pris Gunder – his girlfriend – and told her to drive over to Foster's house. Then I pretended I was a trooper and called Ted Franklin at state police."
Potter asked, "So your heart-rending offer to give yourself up for the girls… that was all an act."
"I did want them out. I didn't want anyone to die. Of course not!"
Of course, Potter thought cynically. "Where's Handy now?"
"I have no idea. Once he got out of the barricade that was it. I'd done everything I'd agreed. I told him he was on his own."
Potter shook his head. Budd asked coldly, "Tell me, Marks, how's it feel to've murdered those troopers?"
"No! He promised me he wouldn't kill anyone! His girlfriend was just going to handcuff Foster. He -"
"And the other troopers? The escort?"
Marks stared at the captain for a minute and when no credible lie came to mind whispered, "It wasn't supposed to work out like this. It wasn't."
"Call for some baby-sitters," Potter said. But before Budd could, his phone buzzed.
"Hello?" He listened for a moment. His eyes went wide. "Where? Okay, we're moving."
Potter cocked an eyebrow.
"They found the other squad car, the one Handy and his girlfriend were in. He's going south, looks like. Toward Oklahoma. The cruiser was twenty miles past the booking center. There was a couple in the trunk. Dead. Handy and his girlfriend must've stolen their wheels. No ID on them so we don't have a make or tag yet." Budd stepped close to the assistant AG. The captain growled, "The only good news is that Handy was in a hurry. They died fast."
Marks grunted in pain as Budd spun him around and shoved him hard into the wall. Potter did nothing to interfere. Budd tied the attorney's hands together with plastic wrist restraints then cuffed his right wrist to the bed frame.
"It's too tight," Marks whined.
Budd threw him down on the bed. "Let's go, Arthur. He's got a hell of a lead on us. Brother, he could be nearly to Texas by now."
She was surrounded by the Outside.
And yet it wasn't as hard as she'd thought.
Oh, she supposed the driver had honked furiously at her when she crossed the center line a moment ago. But, all things considered, she was doing fine. Melanie Charrol had never in her life driven a car. Many deaf people did, of course, even if they weren't supposed to, but Melanie had always been too afraid. Her fear wasn't that she'd be in an accident. Rather, she was terrified that she'd do something wrong and be embarrassed. Maybe get in the wrong lane. Stop too far away from a red light or too close. People would gather around the car and laugh at her.
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.