A Maidens Grave

inside, who’d impersonated Sharon Foster, gazing out the windshield. Her blond hair was pulled back in the same ponytail as before. But she’d changed clothes. No longer in uniform, she was now wearing pants and a dark turtleneck.
    “Pris?” Handy whispered.
    She didn’t respond.
    “Pris?” Louder. “Prissy?” Rising on the wind.
    Handy shoved Potter to the ground. The agent fell and rolled helplessly on the grass then watched as Handy ran to the driver’s seat and cradled his girlfriend.
    The convict howled in horror and rage.
    Potter squinted. No, not a turtleneck, not a garment at all. The slit in the woman’s throat extended from one jugular vein to another and the dark sweater was half the blood in her body streaming down over her shoulders and arms and breasts. Her sole plea for help had been to lift a bloody hand to the windshield and gesture madly, leaving a fingerpainting of her terror on the dirty glass.
    “No, no, no!” Handy cradled her, rocking frantically back and forth.
    Potter rolled to his side and tried to scrabble away. He got only three feet then heard the snap of brush and rush of feet. A boot slammed into his ribs. Potter dropped to the ground, lifting his bound hands to his face. “You did this! You snuck up on her! You did this, you fuck!”
    Potter curled up, tried to ward off the vicious kicks.
    Handy backed up and lifted the pistol.
    Potter closed his eyes and lowered his hands.
    He tried to picture Marian but she wouldn’t come to mind. No, only Melanie was in his thoughts as, for the second time tonight, he prepared to die.
    Arthur Potter was suddenly aware of the wind around him. Howling, hissing, it rose and formed words. But they were words not of this earth: eerie syllables rising deep from within some banshee mimicking the language of pitiful humans. He couldn’t make out the content at first, a phrase repeated manically, spoken in pure loathing and fury. Then the scream coalesced, and as Handy whirled around Potter heard the malformed words over and over, “I hate you I hate you I hate you . . . .”
    The knife plunged deep into Handy’s shoulder and he cried in agony as Melanie Charrol’s strong hands pulled the long blade from his flesh and drove it again into him—into his right arm. The gun dropped to the ground. Potter rolled forward and scooped it up.
    Handy swung a fist at her face but she leapt back easily, still holding the knife in front of her. Handy dropped to his knees, eyes closed, gripping his arm, from which blood poured and poured, spiraling down his right finger, extended like God’s in the Sistine Chapel.
    Potter struggled to his feet and walked around Handy, stopped beside Melanie. She looked at his hands and untied the wire binding them. The young woman was quivering fiercely. So she too had made the same deduction about Handy that he and Budd had—that he’d be returning here for his money. She hadn’t gone after Marks at all.
    “Go ahead, do it,” Handy snarled to Potter, as if he were the long-suffering victim of tonight’s events.
    Feeling the weight of the Glock in his fingers, Potter glanced down at Handy’s creased, hating face. The agent said nothing, did nothing.
    Have you ever done anything bad?
    Then suddenly Arthur Potter understood how different he truly was from Handy and had always been. During the barricades the agent was like an actor—he becamesomeone else for a short while, became someone he distrusted, feared, even loathed. But this talent was mercifully balanced by his uncanny ability to relinquish the role, to return.
    And so it was Melanie Charrol who stepped forward and drove the long knife deep between Handy’s ribs, all the way to the bloody handle.
    The thin man choked, coughed blood, and fell backwards, shivering. Slowly she drew the knife out.
    Potter took the weapon from her, wiped the handle on his sports coat, dropped it on the ground. He stood back, watching Melanie crouch beside Handy, who was trembling as the last of life fled his wiry body. She crouched over him, her head down, her eyes on him. In the dimness of the night Potter couldn’t see her expression clearly though he detected what he believed was a faint smile on her face, one of curiosity.
    And he sensed something else. In her posture, in the tilt of her head near his, it seemed as if she were inhaling the man’s pain like spiced incense wafting through her house.
    Lou Handy’s mouth moved. A wet sound rose, a rattle, but so soft