A Maidens Grave

in particular?”
    “McDonald’s. Lots of it.”
    Potter motioned to Budd, who picked up his phone and began whispering orders.
    “It’s on its way.”
    Get into him. Get inside his head. He’s going to ask for liquor next, Potter guessed.
    “And a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge shells, double-ought, body armor, and gas masks.”
    “Oh, well, Lou, I guess you know I can’t do that.”
    “I don’t know that at all.”
    “I can’t give you weapons, Lou.”
    “Even if I was to give you a girl?”
    “Nope, Lou. Weapons and ammunition are deal breakers. Sorry.”
    “You use my name a lot, Art. Hey, if we was to do some horse trading, which one of the girls would you want? Anybody in particular? Say we weren’t talking about guns and such.”
    LeBow raised his eyebrows and nodded. Budd gave Potter a thumbs-up.
    Melanie, Potter thought automatically. But he believed their assessment was right and that they had to try for the girl most at risk—Jocylyn, the troubled student.
    Potter told him there was one girl in particular they wanted.
    “Describe her.”
    LeBow spun the computer around. Potter read the fine print on the screen then said, “Short dark hair, overweight. Twelve. Her name’s Jocylyn.”
    “Her? That weepy little shit. She whines like a pup with a busted leg. Good riddance. Thanks for picking her, Art. She’s the one gets shot in five minutes, you don’t agree to the guns ’n’ ammo.”
    Click.

2:00 P.M.
    Hell, Potter thought, slamming his fist on the table.
    “Oh, brother,” muttered Budd. Then: “Oh, Jesus.”
    Potter picked up the binoculars and saw a young girl appear in the window of the slaughterhouse. She was chubby and her round cheeks glistened with tears. When the muzzle of the gun touched her short-cut hair, she closed her eyes.
    “Call it out, Tobe.”
    “Four minutes thirty.”
    “That’s her?” Potter whispered to LeBow. “Jocylyn?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “You’ve noted that the scatter guns are twelve-gauge?” Potter asked evenly.
    LeBow said he had. “And that they’re possibly low on ammo.”
    Derek glanced at them, shocked at this cold-blooded conversation.
    “Jesus God,” Budd rasped. “Do something.”
    “What?” Potter asked.
    “Well, call him back and tell him you’ll give him the ammo.”
    “No.”
    “Four minutes.”
    “But he’s going to shoot her.”
    “I don’t think he will.” Will he, won’t he? Potter debated. He honestly couldn’t tell.
    “Look at him,” Budd said. “Look out there! That girl’s got a gun to her head. I can see her crying from here.”
    “Which is just what he wants us to see. Calm down, Charlie. You never negotiate weapons or armor.”
    “But he’s going to kill her!”
    “Three minutes thirty.”
    “What if,” Potter said, struggling to control his impatience, “he’s completely out of ammo? He’s sitting in there with two empty pistols and an empty scatter gun?”
    “Well, maybe he’s got one shell left and he’s just about to use it on that girl.”
    A hostage situation is a homicide in progress.
    Potter continued to gaze at the unhappy face of the child. “We have to assume there are nine fatalities right now—the girls inside. A hundred rounds of twelve-gauge shells? That could double the number of casualties.”
    “Three minutes,” Tobe sang out.
    Outside Stillwell shifted uncomfortably and ruffled his mop of hair. He looked at the van then back at the slaughterhouse. He hadn’t heard the exchange but he, like all the other troopers, could see the poor girl’s head in the window.
    “Two minutes thirty.”
    “Send him some blanks. Or some shells that’ll jam the guns.”
    “That’s a good idea, Charlie. But we don’t have any such thing. He won’t waste another hostage this early.” Is this true? Potter wondered.
    “Waste a hostage?” The voice of another trooper—Derek the technician—cut through the van. Potter believed the man appended in a whisper, “Son of a bitch.”
    “Two minutes,” Tobe said in his unflappable voice.
    Potter hunched forward, gazing out the window. He saw the officers behind their Maginot line of cars, some looking back at the van uneasily.
    “One minute thirty.”
    What’s Handy doing? What’s he thinking? I can’t see into him. I need more time. I need to talk to him more. An hour from now I’d know whether he’d kill her or not. Right now, all I see is smoke and danger.
    “One minute,” Tobe called out.
    Potter picked up the phone.