A Maidens Grave

and that poor girl this afternoon had not died so that Lou Handy might live long enough to kill again, certainly to gloat and relive the perverse joy at the carnage he’d caused throughout his pointless life.
    Sacrifice was sometimes necessary. And who better than a soldier to give up his life in the name of justice?
    “Surrender in ten minutes,” a voice called from behind him. Tremain could not possibly have said whether it was the voice of a trooper or that of an angel dipping low from God’s own heaven to make this announcement. In any event he nodded and rose to his feet. He stood tall, wiped the tears from his face, adjusted his uniform, brushed his hair with his fingers. Never one to preen, Tremain had decided it was important that he look strong and resolute and proud when he ended his career in the dramatic fashion he had planned.

11:18 P.M.
    Surrender is the most critical stage of a barricade.
    More lives are lost in surrenders than during any other phase of hostage situations except assaults. And this one would be particularly tricky, Potter knew, because the essence of surrender was Handy’s nemesis—giving up control.
    Again his natural impatience prodded him to get things over with, to get Handy into custody. But he had to fight this urge. He was running the surrender by the book and had assembled the threat management team before him in the van.
    The first thing he did was shake Dean Stillwell’s hand. “Dean, I’m putting Frank and the Bureau’s HRT in charge of containment and tactical matters now. You’ve done a fine job. It’s just that Frank and I’ve done this in the past a number of times.”
    “No problem at all, Arthur. I’m honored you let me help.” To Potter’s embarrassment Stillwell snapped a salute, which the agent reluctantly returned.
    Budd, LeBow, Tobe, and D’Angelo all hunched over the terrain maps and diagram of the slaughterhouse as Potter went through the procedure. Angie, who had no tactical experience and could offer little assistance toD’Angelo and the HRT, was escorting Emily and Beverly to the Days Inn. Intense, young Detective Sharon Foster was outside smoking—very real Camels. Frances was in the van, waiting patiently.
    “Everybody’s going to be wired up and half-nuts,” Potter said. “Our people and the takers. We’re all tired and there’s going to be a lot of carelessness. So we have to choreograph every step.” He fell silent and was looking out the window at the square yellow eyes of the building.
    “Arthur?” LeBow said.
    He meant, Time’s awasting.
    “Yes, sure.”
    They bent over the map and he began to give commands. It seemed to him that he’d lost his voice completely and he was surprised to find that the men who stood before him nodded gravely as if listening to words that he himself hardly heard at all.
     
    Twenty minutes later, as Potter lay in a stand of fragrant grass and hit the speed-dial button, it occurred to him that something was very wrong. That Handy was laying a trap.
    He thought of Budd’s words earlier in the day, about Handy’s planning something clever and flamboyant—a breakout maybe, a run for it.
    A gut feel. Listen to it. He’s usually right.
    And now the feeling was undeniable.
    The click of an answered phone.
    “Lou.” Potter began what was probably their last conversation via throw phone.
    “Whatsa game plan, Art?”
    “Just want to go over a few ground rules.” Potter was fifty yards from the slaughterhouse entrance. Frank D’Angelo and Charlie Budd were beside him. LeBow and Tobe remained in the command van. “Is the older woman conscious? The teacher?”
    “Zonked out. Told you, Art. She had a bad night. Bonner’s—well, was a big fella. I’m talking in all ways.”
    Potter found his voice quavering as he asked, “And the other teacher?”
    “The blond one? The little mouse?” There was a pause and Handy offered his famous chuckle. “Why you sointerested in her, Art? Seem to recall you asked about her a couple times.”
    “I want to know how our last hostages are.”
    “Sure you do.” Handy laughed again. “Well, she’s probably had better nights herself.”
    “How do you mean, Lou?” he asked casually. What terrible retribution had he exacted?
    “She’s too young for an old fart like you, Art.”
    Damn it, Potter thought, furious. Handy was reading him too clearly. The agent forced himself to put her out of his mind and returned mentally to Chapter 9 of his handbook,