A Maidens Grave

shoot?
    “Hiya, honey,” Oates said. “Don’t you worry, you’re gonna be just fine.”
    “He shouldn’t be talking to her,” Angie muttered.
    “Let’s go for a walk, whatta you say? See your mommy and daddy?”
    “Lou,” Potter called into the throw phone, suddenly concerned that the takers were no longer in sight. No answer. To those in the van he muttered, “I don’t trust him. Hell, I don’t trust him.”
    “Lou?”
    “Line’s still open,” Tobe called. “He hasn’t hung up.”
    Potter said to Oates, “Don’t say anything to her, Stevie. Might make her panic.”
    The screen dipped in response.
    “Go on. Back on out of there. Go real slow. Then get behind the girl, turn around, and walk straight away. Keep your head up, so your helmet covers as much of your neck as possible. If you’re shot, fall on top of the girl. I’ll order covering fire and we’ll get you out as fast as we can.”
    A faint disturbed whisper came through the speaker. But there was no other answer.
    Suddenly the video screen went mad. There was a burst of light and motion and jiggling images.
    “No!” came Oates’s voice. Then a deep grunt, followed by a moan.
    “He’s down,” Budd said, looking through the window with binoculars. “Oh, brother.”
    “Christ!” Derek Elb cried, gazing up at the video monitor.
    They’d heard no gunfire but Potter was sure that Wilcox had shot the girl in the head with a silenced pistol and was firing repeatedly at Oates. The screen danced madly with grainy shapes and lens flares.
    “Lou!” Potter cried into the phone. “Lou, are you there?”
    “Look!” Budd shouted, pointing out the window.
    It wasn’t what Potter had feared. Jocylyn apparently had panicked and leapt forward. The big girl had knocked Oates flat on his back. She was bounding over the grass and bluestem toward the first row of police cars.
    Oates rolled over and was on his feet, going after her.
    Potter juggled more buttons. “Lou!” He slapped the console again, activating the radio to Dean Stillwell, who was watching through a night scope with a sniper beside him.
    “Dean?” Potter called.
    “Yessir.”
    “Can you see inside?”
    “Not much. Door’s open only about a foot. There’s somebody behind it.”
    “Windows?”
    “No one in ’em yet.”
    Jocylyn, overweight though she might be, was sprinting like an Olympian directly toward the command van, armswaving, mouth open wide. Oates was gaining on the girl but they were both clear targets.
    “Tell the sniper,” Potter said, desperately scanning the slaughterhouse windows, “safety off.”
    Should he order a shot?
    “Yessir. Wait. There’s Wilcox. Inside about five yards from the window. He’s got a shotgun and’s drawing a target.”
    Oh, Lord, Potter thought. If the sniper kills him Handy’s sure to murder one of the hostages in retaliation.
    Is he going to shoot or not?
    Maybe Wilcox’s just panicked too, doesn’t know what’s going on.
    “Agent Potter?” Stillwell asked.
    “Acquire.”
    “Yessir . . . . Wilcox’s in Chrissy’s sights. She’s got a shot. Can’t miss, she says. Crosshaired on his forehead.”
    Yes? No?
    “Wait,” Potter said. “Keep him acquired.”
    “Yessir.”
    Jocylyn was thirty yards from the slaughterhouse. Oates close behind her. Perfect targets. A load of twelve-gauge, double-ought buck would cut their legs off.
    Sweating, Potter slammed his hand onto two buttons. Into the phone he said, “Lou, you there?”
    There was the sound of static, or breathing, or an erratic heartbeat.
    “Tell the sniper to stand down,” Potter ordered Stillwell suddenly. “Don’t shoot. Whatever happens, don’t shoot.”
    “Yessir,” Stillwell said.
    Potter leaned forward, felt his head tap against the cool glass window.
    In two leaps, Stevie Oates grabbed the girl and pulled her down. Her hands and legs flailed and together they tumbled behind the rise, out of sight of the slaughterhouse.
    Budd sighed loudly.
    “Thank God,” muttered Frances.
    Angie said nothing but Potter noticed that her hand had strayed to her weapon and now held the grip tightly.
    “Lou, you there?” he called. Then again.
    There was a crackle, as if the phone were being wrapped in crispy paper. “Can’t talk, Art,” Handy said through a mouthful of food. “It’s suppertime.”
    “Lou—”
    There was a click and then silence.
    Potter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
    Frances applauded, joined by Derek