A Maidens Grave

The sound of the muted keys more than anything else restored Potter’s confidence. Back in business, he thought. And turned his attention to the phone.
    Answer, Lou. Come on. We’ve got too much behind us to let it fall apart now. There’s too much history, we’ve gotten too close . . . .
    Answer the damn phone!
    A loud squeal outside, so close that Potter thought at first it was feedback. Roland Marks’s limo bounded to astop and he leapt from the car, glancing briefly at the scorched van. “I saw the news!” he shouted to no one in particular. “What the fuck happened?”
    “Tremain went rogue,” Potter said, pressing redial once more and eyeing the lawyer coldly.
    “He what? ”
    LeBow explained.
    Budd said, “We didn’t have a clue, sir.”
    “I want to talk to that fellow, oh, yes I do,” Marks grumbled. “Where—?”
    Then there was a rush of motion from the doorway and Potter was knocked sideways. He fell heavily on his back, grunted.
    “You son of a bitch!” Tremain cried. “You fucking son of a bitch!”
    “Captain!” Marks roared.
    Budd and Tobe grabbed the HRU commander’s arms, pulled him off. Potter rose slowly. He touched his head where he’d banged it in the fall. No blood. He gestured for the two men to release Tremain. Reluctantly they did.
    “He’s got one of my men, Potter. Thanks to you, you fucking Judas.”
    Budd stiffened and stepped forward. Potter waved him down and straightened his tie, glancing at the burns on the backs of his hands. Large blisters had formed and the pain was really quite remarkable.
    “Tobe,” he said calmly, “run the tape, would you please? The KFAL tape.”
    There was a hum of a VCR and a monitor burst to life. A red-white-and-blue TV station logo appeared on the bottom of the screen, along with the words Reporting Live . . . Joe Silbert.
    “Oh, that’s brilliant,” Marks said sourly, staring at the screen.
    “He’s got one of your men,” Potter said, “because you dismissed the troopers who were preventing reporters from getting near the site.”
    “What?” Tremain stared at the newscast.
    LeBow continued to type. Without looking up he said, “Handy saw you moving in. He’s got a TV inside.”
    Tremain didn’t answer. Potter wondered if he was thinking, Name, rank, serial number.
    “Expected better of you, Dan,” the assistant attorney general said.
    “The governor—” he blurted before he thought better of it. “Well, even if he did, we could’ve saved those girls. They’d be out by now. We still could have gotten them out safe!”
    Why aren’t I angry? Potter wondered. Why aren’t I raging at him, this man who nearly ruined everything? Who nearly killed the girls inside, who nearly killed Melanie? Why?
    Because it’s crueler this way, Potter understood suddenly. To tell him the truth starkly and without emotion.
    Ever done anything bad, Art?
    “Handy rigged a booby trap, Captain,” Potter said, calm as a deferential butler. “A gasoline bomb on a hair trigger. Those girls would’ve burned to death the instant you blew those doors.”
    Tremain stared at him. “No,” he whispered. “Oh, no. God forgive me. I didn’t know.” The sinewy man looked like he was going to faint.
    “Downlink,” Tobe called.
    An instant later the phone rang. Potter snatched it up.
    “Lou?”
    That sucked, Art. I thought you were my friend.
    “Well, Art. That was pretty fucking low. Some goddamn friend you are.”
    “I had nothing to do with it.” Potter’s eyes were on Tremain. “We had an officer here go rogue.”
    “These boys have some nice equipment. We’ve got some grenades and a machine gun now.”
    Potter pointed to LeBow, who pulled Tremain aside and asked the numb captain what kind of armament the captured trooper had with him.
    A figure appeared in the doorway. Angie. Potter waved her in.
    “Lou,” the negotiator said into the phone, “I’m apologizing for what happened. It won’t happen again. You have my word on that. You heard me out there. I gave you good tactical information. You know it wasn’t anything I’d planned.”
    “I suppose you’ve got those girls by now. The little ones.”
    “Yes, we do, Lou.”
    “That U.S. attorney, Budd . . . he set us up, didn’t he, Art?”
    Again a hesitation. “I have no knowledge to that effect.”
    He’s going to be very reasonable, Potter surmised.
    Or go totally nuts.
    “Ha. You’re a kicker, Art. Well, okay, I believe you about this D-Day