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.
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."