A Maidens Grave

another of her comic-book heroes.
    “Do something,” Shannon signed. “Melanie!” Her tiny hands chopped the air.
    Do something. Right.
    Melanie thought of de l’Epée. She hoped the thought of him would restart her frozen heart. It didn’t. She was as helpless as ever, staring at Jocylyn, who looked back toward the killing room and caught Melanie’s eye.
    “Going to kill me,” Jocylyn signed, sobbing; her cheeks, round and pale as a honeydew, glistened from the tears. “Please, help.”
    The Outside . . .
    “Melanie.” Kielle’s dark eyes flared. The girl had suddenly appeared beside her. “Do something!”
    “What?” Melanie suddenly snapped. “Tell me. Shoot him? Grow wings and fly?”
    “Then I will,” Kielle said, and turned, bursting toward the men. Without thinking, Melanie leapt after her. The little girl was just past the doorway to the killing room when Bear loomed in front of them. Both Melanie and Kielle stopped abruptly. Melanie put her arm around the girl and looked down, eyes fixed on the black pistol in Bear’s waistband.
    Grab it. Shoot him. Don’t worry what happens. You can do it. His filthy mind is elsewhere. De l’Epée would hear the shot and come running to save them. Grab it. Do it. She actually saw herself pulling the trigger. Her hands began to shake. She stared at the pistol butt, glistening black plastic.
    Bear reached forward and touched her hair. The back of his hand, a gentle stroke. A lover’s or father’s touch.
    And whatever strength was within Melanie vanished in that instant. Bear grabbed them by the collars and dragged them back into the killing room, cutting off her view of Jocylyn.
    I’m deaf so I can’t hear her screams.
    I’m deaf so I can’t hear her beg me to help her.
    I’m deaf, I’m deaf, I’m deaf . . . .
    Bear shoved them into the corner and sat down in the doorway. He gazed over the frightened captives.
    I’m deaf so I’m dead already. What does it matter; what does anything matter?
    Melanie closed her eyes, drew her beautiful hands into her lap, and, untethered, slipped away from the killing room once again.
     
    “Run the HP, Tobe,” Potter ordered.
    Inside the van Tobe opened an attaché case, revealing the Hewlett-Packard Model 122 VSA, which resembled a cardiac-care monitor.
    “These all one-ten, grounded?” He nodded at the outlets. Derek Elb told him yes.
    Tobe plugged in and turned on the machine. A small strip of paper, like a cash-register receipt, fed out, and a grid appeared in green on the black screen. He glanced at the others in the room. LeBow pointed at Potter, himself, Angie, and Budd. “In that order.”
    Frances and Derek looked on curiously.
    “Five says you’re wrong,” Potter offered. “Me, Angie, you, and Charlie.”
    Budd laughed uneasily. “What’re you talking about?”
    Tobe said, “Everybody, quiet.” He pushed a microphone toward Angie.
    “The rain in Spain falls—”
    “That’s enough,” Tobe said, holding the microphone out to Potter.
    He recited, “The quick brown fox . . .”
    Henry LeBow was cut off during a lengthy quotation from The Tempest.
    Budd nearly went cross-eyed gazing at the encroaching microphone and said, “That thing’s making me pretty nervous.”
    The four FBI agents roared with laughter.
    Tobe explained to Frances. “Voice stress analyzer. Gives us some clue about truth telling but mostly it gives us a risk assessment.” He pushed a button and the screen divided into four squares. Wavy lines of differing peaks and valleys froze in place.
    Tobe tapped the screen and said, “This is Arthur. He never gets rattled. Actually I think he pees his pants regularly but you’ll never tell it by the sound of his voice. Then you’re number two, Angie. Arthur was right. You get a Cool Cucumber Award. But Henry’s not far be-hind.” He laughed, tapping the final grid. “Captain Budd, you are one nervous fellow. Can I suggest yoga and breathing exercises?”
    Budd frowned. “If you hadn’t been poking that thing into my face I’da done better. Or told me what it was about in the first place. I get a second chance?”
    The negotiator looked outside. “Let’s make that phone call. Send him out, Charlie.”
    “Go ahead, Stevie,” Budd said into the radio handset. They saw the trooper move into the gully and make his way toward the slaughterhouse.
    Potter pressed the speed dial.
    “Uplink.”
    “Hello, Lou.”
    “Art. We got the fat one all dressed up like