A Maidens Grave

warmly. They both laughed at the misunderstanding. Suddenly she pulled him forward, kissed his cheek.
    He walked to the door, stopped, turned. “ ‘Be forewarned.’ That’s what you said to me, isn’t it?”
    Melanie nodded, her eyes hollow once again. Hollow and forlorn. Frances translated her response: “I wanted you to know how dangerous he was. I wanted you to be careful.”
    Then she smiled and signed some more. Potter laughed when he heard the translation. “You owe me a new skirt and blouse. And I expect to be repaid. You better not forget. I’m Deaf with an attitude. Poor you.”
     
    Potter wandered back to the van, thanked Tobe Geller and Henry LeBow, who were taking commercial flights back to their respective homes. A squad car whisked them away. He shook Dean Stillwell’s hand once more and felt a ridiculous urge to give him a present of some sort, a ribbon or a medal or a federal agent decoder ring. The sheriff brushed aside his mop of hair and had the presence of mind to order his men—federal and state alike—to walkcarefully, reminding them that they were, after all, at a crime scene and evidence still needed to be gathered.
    Potter stood beneath one of the halogen lights, looking out at the stark slaughterhouse.
    “Night, sir,” a voice drawled from behind him.
    He turned to Stevie Oates. The negotiator shook his hand. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Stevie.”
    The boy did better dodging bullets than fielding compliments. He looked down at the ground. “Yeah, well, you know.”
    “A word of advice.”
    “What’s that, sir?”
    “Don’t volunteer so damn much.”
    “Yessir.” The trooper grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    Then Potter found Charlie Budd and asked him for a lift to the airport.
    “You’re not going to hang around for a while?” asked the young captain.
    “No, I should go.”
    They climbed into Budd’s unmarked car and sped away. Potter caught a last glimpse of the slaughterhouse; in the stark spotlights the dull red-and-white structure gave the appearance of bloody, exposed bone. He shuddered and turned away.
    Halfway to the airport Budd said, “I appreciate the chance you gave me.”
    “You were good enough to confess something to me, Charlie—”
    “After I almost fixed your clock.”
    “—so I better confess something to you.”
    The captain rubbed his tawny hair and left it looking like he’d been to the Dean Stillwell hair salon. He meant, Go ahead, I can take it.
    “I kept you with me as an assistant ’cause I needed to show everybody that this was a federal operation and state took second place. I was putting you on a leash. You’re a smart man and I guess you figured that out.”
    “Yup. Didn’t seem you really needed a high-priced gofer like me. Ordering Fritos and beer and helicopters. It was one of the things made me put that tape recorder inmy pocket. But the way you talked to me, treated me, was one of the things that made me take it out.”
    “Well, you’ve got a right to be good and mad. But I just wanted to say you did a lot better than I expected. You were really part of the team. Handling that session by yourself—you were a natural. I’d have you negotiate with me any time.”
    “Oh, brother, not for any money. Tell you what, Arthur—I’ll run ’em to ground and you get ’em out of their holes.”
    Potter laughed. “Fair enough, Charlie.”
    They drove in silence through the miles and miles of wheat. The windswept grain was alive in the moonlight, like the silken coat of an animal eager to run. “I’ve got a feeling,” Budd said slowly, “you’re thinking you made a mistake tonight.”
    Potter said nothing, watching the bug eyes of the threshers.
    “You’re thinking that if you’d come up with what that Detective Foster did you could’ve got ’em out sooner. Maybe even saved that girl’s life, and Joey Wilson’s.”
    “It did cross my mind,” Potter said after a minute. Oh, how we hate to be pegged and explained. What’s so compelling about the idea that our selves are mysteries to everyone but us? I let you in on the secrets, Marian. But only you. It’s an aspect of love, I think, and reasonable enough there. But how queasy it makes us feel when strangers have the eye to see us so unfurled.
    “But you kept ’em alive through three or four deadlines,” Budd continued.
    “That girl though, Susan . . .”
    “But he shot her before you even started negotiating. There was nothing you