A Maidens Grave

a Thanksgiving turkey. We see your boy coming. He got my chocolate shake?”
    “He’s the same one who pitched the phone to you. Stevie’s his name. Good man.”
    Potter thought: Was he one of them was shooting at us before?
    “Maybe,” Handy said, “he was the one gave the signal to shoot at our Shep.”
    “I told you that was an accident, Lou. Say, how’s everybody doing in there?”
    Who gives a shit?
    “Fine. I just checked on ’em.”
    Curious, the negotiator thought. He hadn’t expected this response at all. Is he saying that to reassure me? Is he scared? Does he want to lull me into being careless?
    Or did the bad-boy act fall away for a moment and was the real Lou Handy actually giving a legitimate response to a legitimate question?
    “I put some of that asthma medicine in the bag.”
    Fuck her, who cares?
    Handy laughed. “Oh, for the one sucking air. It’s a pain, Art. How can anybody get any sleep with that little shit gasping for breath?”
    “And some paper and pens. In case the girls want to say something to you.”
    Silence. Potter and LeBow glanced at each other. Was he angry about the paper?
    No, he was just talking to someone inside.
    Keep his mind busy, off the hostages, off Stevie. “How’re those lights working?” Potter asked.
    “Good. The ones you’ve got outside suck, though. Can I shoot ’em out?”
    “You know what they cost? It’d come out of my paycheck.”
    Oates was fifty feet away, walking slowly and steadily. Potter glanced at Tobe, who nodded and pushed buttons on the HP.
    “So you’re a McDonald’s fan, Lou? Big Macs, they’re the best.”
    “How’d you know?” Handy asked sarcastically. “You never ate under the golden arches in your life, betcha.”
    Angie gave him a thumbs-up and Potter nodded, pleased. It’s a good sign when the HT refers to the negotiator. The transference process was proceeding.
    “Guess again, Lou. You’re going to have exactly what I had for dinner twice last week. Well, minus the Fritos. But I did have a milk shake. Vanilla.”
    “Thought you fancy agents had gourmet meals every night. Steak and lobster. Champagne. Then you fuck the beautiful agent works for you.”
    “A bacon cheeseburger, not a glass of wine to be had. Oh, and instead of sex I had a second order of fries. I do love my potatoes.”
    In the faint reflection of the window Potter was aware that Budd was staring at him and he believed the expression was of faint disbelief.
    “You fat too, like this little girl I got by her piggy arm?”
    “I could lose a few pounds. Maybe more than a few.”
    Oates was fifty feet from the door.
    Potter wanted to probe some more into Handy’s likes and dislikes. But he was cautious. He sensed it would rile the man. There’s a philosophy in barricade situations that tries to keep the HTs on edge—bombarding them with bad music or playing with the heating and cooling of the barricade site. Potter didn’t believe in this approach. Be firm, but establish rapport.
    Handy was too quiet. What was distracting him? What was he thinking? I need more control. That’s the problem, it occurred to Potter. I can’t get control of the situation away from him.
    “I was going to ask you, Lou . . . . This is pretty odd weather for July. Must be cold in there. You want us to rig some heaters or something?”
    Potter speculated: Naw, we got plenty of bodies to keep us warm.
    But Handy responded slowly, “Maybe. How cold’s it going to be tonight?”
    Again, very logical and matter-of-fact. And behind the words: the implication that he might be planning on a long siege. That might give Potter the chance to push back some of Handy’s deadlines. He jotted these impressions on a slip of paper and pushed it toward Henry LeBow to enter into his computer.
    “Windy and chilly, I’m told.”
    “I’ll think on it.”
    And listen to his voice, Potter thought. He sounds so reasonable. What do I make of that? Sometimes he’s purebravado; sometimes he sounds like an insurance salesman. Potter’s eyes scanned the diagram of the slaughterhouse. Twelve yellow Post-Its, each representing a taker or a hostage, were stuck on the schematic. Ultimately, Potter hoped, they’d be placed in the exact position where each person was located. At the moment they were clustered off to the side.
    “Lou, you there?”
    “Sure I’m here. Where the fuck’d I be? Driving down 1-70 to Denver?”
    “Didn’t hear you breathing.”
    In a low, chilling voice