A Maidens Grave

possibly one or two of the HRT.” Marks’s eyes widened in shock at this. Potter the cold fish continued, “If he gets out he could kill twice that. Three times, or more.”
    “He’s just a bank robber. Hardly a mass murderer.”
    And how many bodies does it take to qualify somebody as a mass murderer? Potter gazed past the silent combines working their way over hills several miles away. Winter wheat was planted in November, he’d been told by thehelicopter pilot, who added that the white man’s way of busting sod for wheat planting had mortified the Potawatomi Indians and helped bring on the Depression’s dust bowl.
    Where was the damn food? Potter thought, now nervous that minutes were slipping past.
    “So that’s what those girls are then?” Marks asked, none too friendly now. “Acceptable casualties?”
    “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
    The door opened and Budd looked out. “That food’s almost here, Arthur. Oh, hello, Mr. Marks.”
    “Charlie Budd. Good luck to you. Tough situation. You’ll rise to meet it, though.”
    “We’re doing our best,” Budd said cautiously. “Mr. Potter here’s really an expert. Agent Potter, I should say.”
    “I’m going to call in,” Marks said. “Brief the governor.”
    When the limo had vanished, Potter asked Budd, “You know him?”
    “Not too well, sir.”
    “He have an agenda?”
    “Suppose he has his eye on Washington in a few years. But he’s pretty much a good man.”
    “Henry thought he might be running for office this fall.”
    “Don’t know ’bout that. But I don’t think there’s any politics here. His concern’d be the girls. He’s a real family man, I heard. A father himself a few times over, all daughters. One of ’em’s got some bad health problems so I guess he’s feeling this is pretty close to home, those girls being deaf and all.”
    Potter had noticed Marks’s well-worn wedding ring.
    “Will he be a problem?”
    “I can’t imagine how. That way he is, joking and everything, it’s kind of a front.”
    “It’s not his sense of humor I’m worried about. How connected is he?”
    Budd shrugged. “Oh, well, you know.”
    “It won’t go any further than me, Charlie. I have to know if he can cause us any damage.”
    “Well, him saying he was going to call the governor? Like they were best buddies?”
    “Yes?”
    “Doubt the man’ll even take his call. See, there’re Republicans and then there are Republicans. ”
    “Okay, thanks.”
    “Oh, hey, look, here we go now.”
    The state police car bounding over the rough road squealed to a stop. But it was not Handy’s Big Macs and Fritos. Two women climbed out. Angie Scapello was in a mid-length navy suit, her weapon jutting from the thin blazer and her abundant black hair tumbling to her shoulders. She wore pale sunglasses in turquoise frames. Behind her emerged a young, short-haired brunette in a police uniform.
    “Angie.” Potter shook her hand. “Meet my right-hand man, Charlie Budd. Kansas State Police. Special Agent Angeline Scapello.”
    They shook hands and nodded to one another.
    Angie introduced the other woman. “Officer Frances Whiting, Hebron PD. She’ll be our sign language interpreter.” The policewoman shook the men’s hands and stole a fast glance at the slaughterhouse, grimaced.
    “Please come inside,” Potter said, nodding toward the van.
     
    Henry LeBow was pleased by all the data Angie had brought. He rapidly began inputting the information. Potter had been right; the minute she’d heard about the barricade—before the DomTran Gulfstream was even fueled—she’d spoken with officials at the Laurent Clerc School and started compiling the profiles of the captives.
    “Excellent, Angie,” LeBow said, typing madly. “You’re a born biographer.”
    She opened another folder, offering the contents to Potter. “Tobe,” he asked, “could you please tape these up?” The young agent took the photographs of the girls and pinned them to the corkboard, just above the CAD diagram of the slaughterhouse. Angie had written the names and ages of the girls in the bottom margin in black marker.
    Anna Morgan, 7
Suzie Morgan, 7
Shannon Boyle, 8
Kielle Stone, 8
Emily Stoddard, 10
Jocylyn Weiderman, 12
Beverly Klemper, 14
    The picture of Susan Phillips remained face-up on the table.
    “You always do this?” Frances waved at the wall.
    Potter, eyes on the pictures, said absently, “You win by having better knowledge than the