A Maidens Grave

Shep.”
    Wilcox hesitated, stepped forward, and took her arm inboth of his hands. “Don’t think I want to watch this,” he said uneasily, and looked away.
    “I do,” Handy muttered. Unable to resist the urge, he lowered his head close to her face, inhaled her scent, rubbing his cheek against her tears. Stroked her hair.
    Then his hands rose to the lever. He worked it back and forth, loosening it up, dropping the blade to her flesh, lifting it again. It rose to its full height. He took the rubber handle in both hands.
    The phone rang.
    Handy looked at it.
    A pause. Wilcox released Melanie’s hand, stepped away from the guillotine.
    Shit. Handy debated.
    “Answer it.”
    “ ’Lo?” Wilcox asked into the receiver. Then listened. He shrugged and glanced at Handy, who paused. “Yo, homes, it’s for you.”
    “Tell Potter to go to hell.”
    “It ain’t Potter. It’s a girl. And I’ll tell you, sounds like she’s some fox.”

10:58 P.M.
    Potter sat at the window, looking through his Leica binoculars, while behind him young, fierce Detective Sharon Foster, who’d pulled her cruiser hell-for-leather into the forward staging area ten minutes before, was pacing nervously and swearing like a sailor at Louis Handy.
    “The fuck you say, Lou,” she snarled. Like many female line officers Foster had that resolute, humorless grit that her pert blond ponytail and pretty face couldn’t belie.
    “Been a while, you bitch. You a detective now?”
    “Yep. I got promoted.” She bent down and squinted through the command van’s window at the slaughterhouse, her head inches from Potter’s. “What the hell’veyou done with your life, Lou? Aside from screwing it up royal?”
    “Hey, I’m right proud of my accomplishments.” From the speaker came the cold chuckle Potter recognized so well.
    “I always knew you were one grade-A fuckup. They could write a book about you.”
    Potter recognized exactly what Foster was doing. It wasn’t his way. He preferred to be more easygoing, Will Rogersish. Tough when he needed to be, but he avoided jousting, which could easily escalate into emotional skirmishes. Arthur Potter hadn’t bantered with Marian and he didn’t banter with his friends. But sometimes with certain takers—usually brash, overconfident criminals—this young woman’s style worked: the barbs, the give-and-take.
    Potter continued to stare at the slaughterhouse, trying desperately to get a look at Melanie. The last of the students, Emily, had been picked up by Stillwell’s deputies in the skiff behind the building. Through Frances the little girl had explained that Melanie had gotten her out and then gone back for Mrs. Harstrawn. But that had been nearly twenty minutes ago and no one had seen the last two hostages escape. Potter assumed Handy had found her. He was desperate to know if she was all right but would never interrupt a negotiator at work.
    “You’re an asshole, Lou,” Foster continued. “You may get away in that chopper but they’re going to catch you. Canada? They’ll extradite your ass so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
    “They gotta find me first.”
    “You think they wear red jackets and Smokey the Bear hats and chase down muggers with whistles? You’ve killed, Lou—hostages and cops. There isn’t a law enforcer in the world gonna stop till they get you.”
    LeBow and Potter exchanged glances. Potter was growing uneasy. She was pushing him a lot. Potter frowned but she either missed or ignored the expression, above criticism from an older man—and a Feebie at that. He was also feeling the thorns of jealousy. It’d taken him hours to build up a rapport with Handy; Potter was Stockholmed through and through. And here was this new kid on theblock, this blond chippy, stealing away his good friend and comrade.
    Potter nodded discreetly at the computer. LeBow caught his meaning and went on line to the National Law Enforcement Personnel Database. A moment later he turned the screen for Potter to read. Sharon Foster only looked young and inexperienced; she was in fact thirty-four and had an impressive record as a hostage negotiator. In thirty barricade situations she’d managed clean surrenders in twenty-four. The others had gone hot—HRT assaults had been required—but they’d been EDs. When emotionally disturbed takers are involved, negotiated solutions work only ten percent of the time.
    “I like Art better,” Handy said. “He don’t give me any