A Maidens Grave

but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s almost done.”
    Let the anticipation build up.
    “Well, what? Tell me.”
    “Give me another hour, don’t hurt the girl, and I’ll get you a priority FAA-cleared flight plan into Canada.”
    Silence for a second.
    “What the fuck does that mean?”
    “You can deal with the FAA directly. We’ll never know where you go.”
    “But the pilot will.”
    “The pilot’ll have handcuffs for himself and the hostages. You set down wherever you want in Canada, disable the chopper and the radio, and you’ll be gone hours before we find them.”
    Silence.
    Potter looked at Tobe desperately, eyebrows raised. The young man, sweating heavily, exhaled long and mouthed, “Working on it.”
    “We’ll stock the chopper with food and water. You want backpacks, hiking boots? Hell, Lou, we’ll even give you fishing rods. This is a good deal. Don’t hurt her. Give us another hour and you’ll get the clearance.”
    “Lemme think.”
    “I’ll get the name of the FAA supervisor and call you right back.”
    Click.
    Unflappable Tobe gazed at his inert dials then hit the console with his fist and said, “Where the fuck is our transfer?”
    Potter folded his hands together and stared out the window at the configuration that was Melanie Charrol—tinyglowing shapes of color and light, like pixels on a TV screen.
     
    Captain Dan Tremain leaned forward, pushing aside a branch, silent as snow.
    From this angle he could just see the corner of the window in which the young woman was being held. Tremain was one of the best sniper shots in the HRU and often regretted that his command position didn’t give him the chance to strap up a Remington and, with the aid of his spotter, acquire and neutralize a target eight hundred, a thousand yards away.
    But tonight was a door-entry operation. Snipers would be useless and so he turned his thoughts from the vague target in the window to the job at hand.
    Tremain’s watch showed seven. “Deadline,” he said. “Outrider One. Report.”
    “Charge loaded in generator.”
    “Await green-light command.”
    “Roger.”
    “Outrider Two, report.”
    “The subjects are all in the main room, hostages are unattended, except for the woman in the window.”
    “Roger,” Tremain said. “Teams A and B, status?”
    “Team A to home base. Loaded and locked.”
    “Team B, loaded and locked.”
    Tremain chocked his foot against a rock and eased to one knee. Eyes on Handy. He looked like a sprinter waiting for the gun—which was exactly what he would become in a matter of minutes.
     
    “Done,” Tobe called.
    He added, “Theoretically, at least.”
    Potter wiped his palm. He transferred the phone to his other hand, then called Handy back and said the helicopter clearance was arranged. He gave him the number of the FAA office.
    “What’sa name?” Handy growled. “Who should I talk to?”
    Potter said, “Don Creswell.” It was the name of hiscousin-in-law Linden’s husband. LeBow scrawled it on the nearly filled “Deceptions” board.
    “We’ll see, Art. I’ll call you back. The girl stays right beside me and my big G till I’m satisfied.”
    Click.
    Potter spun around and looked at Tobe’s screen. He said, “It’ll have to be you, Henry. He knows my voice.”
    LeBow grimaced. “I could have used time to prepare, Arthur.”
    “So could we all.”
    A moment later Tobe said, “Uplink from slaughterhouse . . . . Not coming here . . . digits . . . . one, nine-one-three, five-five-five, one-two-one-two. Topeka directory assistance.”
    They heard Handy’s voice ask for the number of the FAA regional office. The operator gave it to him. Potter exhaled in relief. Budd said, “You were right. He didn’t trust you.”
    “Uplink terminated,” Tobe whispered unnecessarily. “Uplink from slaughterhouse to Topeka, downlink transfer from trunk line to . . .” He pointed to the phone on the desk, and it began to ring. “Curtain up.”
    LeBow took a deep breath and nodded.
    “Wait,” Budd said urgently. “He’ll be expecting a secretary or receptionist.”
    “Damn,” Potter spat out. “Of course. Angie?”
    She was the closest to the phone.
    Third ring. Fourth.
    She nodded brusquely, snatched up the receiver. “Federal Aviation Administration,” she said breezily. “May I help you?”
    “I wanta talk to Don Creswell.”
    “One moment please. Who’s calling?”
    A laugh. “Lou Handy.”
    She clapped her hand to the mouthpiece