A Maidens Grave

asked one of the HRT agents who’d been inside.
    “Not hers,” came the response. “Bonner’s probably. Man bled out like a gutted twelve-point buck. You want to debrief her?”
    He hesitated.
    “Later,” he said. But in his mind the word was more of a question and the answer was unknown.
    Detective Sharon Foster strode up to Potter and shook his hand.
    “ ‘Night, Agent Potter.”
    “Thanks for everything,” he said evenly.
    “Piece of cake.” She jabbed a blunt finger at him. “Hey, great job with that surrender. Smooth as silk.” Then wheeled and returned to her squad car, leaving Potter standing alone. His face burned like that of a rookie dressed down by a tough training sergeant.
    Angie Scapello returned momentarily from the Days Inn to collect her bags and say goodbye to Potter and the others. She still had some work ahead of her at the motel, where she would debrief the hostages further and make sure they and their families had the names of therapists who specialized in post-traumatic stress syndrome.
    Budd and D’Angelo hitched a ride with Angie to the rear staging area. Potter and two troopers escorted thetakers back to the van. Squad cars waited nearby to take them to the state police troop HQ ten miles away.
    “Had yourself a fire, looks like,” Handy said, looking over the black scorch marks. “You ain’t gonna blame that on me, I hope?”
    As he gazed at the convict Potter was aware of a man approaching from the shadows of a gully. He paid little mind since there were dozens of troopers milling about. But there was something purposeful about the man’s stride, too quick and direct for him to be passing through the crowd casually. He was heading directly for Potter.
    “Weapon!” Potter cried as Dan Tremain, twenty feet away, began to lift the gun.
    Wilcox and the trooper holding him dove to the ground, as did the second escort trooper, leaving only Handy and Potter standing. Within easy pistol range.
    Handy, smiling, turned to face Tremain. Potter drew his own gun, pointed it at the HRU commander, and stepped in front of Handy.
    “No, Captain,” the agent said firmly.
    “Get out of the way, Potter.”
    “You’re already in enough trouble.”
    The gun in Tremain’s hand exploded. Potter felt the bullet snap past his head. He heard Handy laughing.
    “Get out of the way!”
    “Do it,” Handy whispered in Potter’s ear. “Pull the trigger. Waste the fucker.”
    “Shut up!” the agent barked. Around them four or five troopers had pulled their sidearms and were sighting on Tremain. No one knew what to do.
    Or wanted to do what they knew they should.
    “He’s mine,” Tremain said.
    “It’s legal,” Handy whispered. “Kill him, Art. You want to anyway. You know you do.”
    “Quiet!” Potter shouted. And yet suddenly he understood that Handy was right. He did want to. And what’s more, he felt that he had permission—to kill the man who’d nearly burnt his Melanie to death.
    “Do it,” Handy urged. “You’re dying to.”
    “This’ll bring you nothing but grief, Dan,” Potter saidslowly, ignoring his prisoner. “You don’t want to do this.”
    “There you go, Art. Telling people what they want to do. I’ll tell you what you want to do. You want to shoot the prick. Man almost got your girlfriend killed. She is your gal, isn’t she, Art? Mel-a-nie?”
    “Shut your damn mouth!”
    “Do it, Art. Shoot him!”
    Tremain fired again. Potter cringed as the bullet streaked past his face and dug a chunk out of the slaughterhouse.
    The captain steadied the gun, seeking a target.
    And Arthur Potter spread his arms, sheltering the man who was his prisoner. And—yes, Charlie, who was his friend.
    “Do something bad,” Handy whispered in a smooth, reassuring voice. “Just step aside a inch or two. Let him kill me. Or you shoot him.”
    Potter turned. “Will you—?”
    Several FBI agents had drawn guns and were shouting for Tremain to drop his weapon. The state troopers were silently rooting for the HRU commander.
    Potter thought: Handy had almost killed Melanie.
    Just step aside a few inches.
    And Tremain had nearly killed her too.
    Shoot. Go ahead.
    Handy whispered, “He’d had his way, Art, your girlfriend’d have third-degree burns over most of her body now. Her hair and tits all burned up. Even you wouldn’t want to fuck somebody like—”
    Potter spun, his fist lashing out. It drove into Handy’s jaw. The prisoner reeled back and landed on the