A Maidens Grave

shit.”
    “That’s my Lou, always looking for the easy way.”
    “Fuck you,” Handy barked.
    “Something I’ve been thinking about, Lou,” she added coyly. “I’m wondering if you’re really going to Canada.”
    Now Potter glanced at D’Angelo. The tactical plan required that Handy and Wilcox trek through the woods to the helicopter. If Foster made him think they hadn’t believed him, Handy would suspect a trap and stay holed up.
    Potter stood up, shaking his head. Foster glanced but ignored him. LeBow and Angie were shocked at the disrespect. Potter sat down again, more embarrassed than hurt.
    “Sure, I’m going to Canada. I’ve got myself a special priority. I’ve talked to the fucking FAA myself.”
    As if he hadn’t spoken, her southern-accented voice rasped, “You’re a cop killer, Lou. You touch down anywhere in these United States, with or without hostages, you’re dead meat. Every cop in the country knows your face. Wilcox’s too. And believe me, they’ll shoot first and read rights to your bleeding body. And I promise you, Lou, any ambulance carrying you to a prison hospital’s gonna take its own sweet fucking time gettin’ you there.”
    Potter had heard enough of her hardball tactics. He was sure she’d push Handy right back into his hole. He reached for her shoulder. But he stopped when he heard Handy say, “Nobody can catch me. I’m the worst thing you’ll ever come across. I’m cold death.”
    It wasn’t Handy’s words that gave Potter pause but the tone of his voice. He sounded like a scared child. Almost pathetic. However unorthodox her style, Foster had touched something in Handy.
    She turned to him. “Can I make a surrender offer?”
    LeBow, Budd, and D’Angelo all looked at Potter.
    What was in Handy’s mind? he wondered. A sudden awareness of the hopelessness of the situation? Maybe a reporter had managed to broadcast that federal Hostage Rescue had arrived and surrounded the slaughterhouse, and Handy had heard it on his television.
    Or maybe he’d simply gotten tired.
    It happened. In an instant the energy dissipates. HTs ready to come out with guns blazing will just sit on the floor when HRT kicks in the door and look at the approaching agents without the energy to lift their hands over their heads.
    Yet there was another possibility, one that Potter hated to consider. Which was that this young woman was simply better than he was. That she’d breezed in, assessed Handy, and then pegged him right. Again the jealousy tore at him. What should I do?
    He thought suddenly of Melanie. What would be most likely to save her?
    Potter nodded to the young detective. “Sure. Go ahead.”
    “Lou, what’ll it take to make you come out?”
    Potter thought: Lemme fuck you.
    “Can I fuck you?”
    “You’d have to ask my husband and he’d say no.”
    A pause.
    “There’s nothing I want but freedom. And I got that.”
    “Do you?” Foster asked softly.
    Another pause. Longer than the first.
    Potter speculated. Fuck, yeah. And nobody’s taking it away from me.
    But Handy said, in effect, just the opposite. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to die.”
    “Nobody wants to shoot you, Lou.”
    “Everybody wants to shoot me. And I go back, the judge’ll give me the needle.”
    “We can talk about that.” Her voice was gentle, almost motherly.
    Potter stared at the yellow square of light. Somewhere in his heart he was beginning to believe that he’d made some very serious mistakes tonight. Mistakes that had cost lives.
    Foster turned to the agent. “Who can guarantee the state won’t seek the death penalty?”
    Potter told her that Roland Marks was nearby, sent Budd to find him. A moment later Marks climbed into the van and Foster explained to him what Handy wanted.
    “He’ll surrender?” The assistant attorney general’s cold eyes were on Potter, who felt all the censure and scorn he’d fired at Marks earlier that day flow right back at himself. For the first time today Potter found he couldn’t hold Marks’s eye.
    “I think I can get him to,” Foster said.
    “Yes indeed. I’ll guarantee whatever he wants. Put a big red seal on it. Ribbons too. I can’t get an existing-sentence reduction—”
    “No. I’m sure he understands that.”
    “But I’ll guarantee we don’t go sticking those little needles in his arm.”
    “Lou. The state assistant attorney general is here. He’s guaranteeing that they won’t go after the death penalty if you