A Maidens Grave

ragged exit wound low in his belly. Budd keeled over onto the floor.
    The agent started forward instinctively. Careful, he reminded himself, turning toward where the gunshot had come from. Guard yourself first.
    The piece of pipe caught Potter squarely on the shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. He dropped hard to theground and felt the sinewy hand yank his pistol from his grip.
    “You alone? You two?” Handy’s voice was a whisper.
    Potter couldn’t speak. Handy twisted his arm up behind his back, bent a little finger brutally. The pain surged through Potter’s hand into his jaw and head. “Yes, yes. Just the two of us.”
    Handy grunted as he rolled Potter over and bound his hands before him with thin wire, the strands cutting into his flesh.
    “There’s no way you’re going to—” Potter began.
    Then a blurring motion, as Handy was slammed sideways into the pipe where the money’d been hidden. With a hollow ringing sound, the side of his head connected with the metal.
    Charlie Budd, face dripping sweat as copious as the blood he shed, drew back his fist once more and slammed it into Handy’s kidney. The convict wheezed with pain and pitched forward.
    As Potter struggled futilely to get to his feet, Budd groped in the dark for his service automatic. He felt himself starting to black out and lurched sideways. Recovered slightly then staggered into a large cube of stained butcher block.
    Handy leapt at him, growling in fury, throwing his arms around Budd’s neck, pulling him down to the floor. The convict had been hurt, yes, but he still had his strength; Budd’s was draining rapidly from his body.
    “Oh, brother,” Budd coughed. “I can’t—”
    Handy took Budd by the hair. “Come on, sport. Only round one.”
    “Go to hell,” the trooper whispered.
    “There’s a boy.” Handy got his arms around Budd and pulled him to his feet. “Ain’t heard the bell. Come on. Fans’re waiting.”
    The trooper, bleeding badly, eyes unfocused, pulled away and began flailing at Handy’s lean face. One blow struck with surprising force and the convict jerked back in surprise. But after the initial burst of pain dissipated, Handy laughed. “Come on,” he taunted. “Sugar Ray, come on . . . .” When Budd connected a final time Handymoved in close and rained a half-dozen blows into his face. Budd dropped to his knees.
    “Hey, down for the count.”
    “Leave him . . . alone,” Potter called.
    Handy pulled the gun from his belt.
    “No!” the agent cried.
    “Arthur . . .”
    To Potter, Handy said, “He’s lucky I’m doing it this way. I had more time, wouldn’t be painless. Nosir.”
    “Listen to me,” Potter began desperately.
    “Shhh,” Handy whispered.
    The wind swelled, a mournful wail.
    The three gunshots were fast and were soon replaced by the sound of Potter’s voice crying, “Oh, Charlie, no, no, no . . . .”

3:00 A.M.
    Through the murky chutes, where the condemned longhorns had walked, between rectangular boulders of butcher block, beneath a thousand rusting meat hooks, clanging like bells . . .
    And all the while the wind screamed around them, hooting through crevices and broken windows like a steam whistle on a tug.
    Potter’s wrists stung from the wire. He thought of Melanie’s hands. Of her perfect nails. He thought of her hair, spun honey. He wished fervently that he’d kissed her earlier in the evening. With his tongue he pushed a tooth, loosened in his fall, from its precarious perch and spit it out. His mouth filled and he spit again; blood spurted to the floor.
    “You poor fuck,” Handy said with great satisfaction in his voice. “You just didn’t get it, did you, Art? You just didn’t fucking get it.”
    Ahead of them, some illumination. It wasn’t light so much as a vague lessening of the darkness. From outside, faint starlight and the sliver of moon.
    “You didn’t have to kill him,” the agent found himself saying.
    “This way. Go there.” Handy pushed him into a moldy corridor. “You been in this line of work how long, Art?”
    Potter didn’t answer.
    “Probably twenty, twenty-five years, I’d guess. An’ I’ll bet mosta that’s been doing what you did today—talking to assholes like me.” Handy was a small man but his grip was ferocious. Potter’s fingers tingled as he felt the circulation cut off.
    They passed through a dozen rooms, black and stinking—the bloody dream of Messrs. Stoltz and Webber.
    Handy pushed Potter