A Maidens Grave

bride for some reason. Don’t ask me why.”
    “Good hair for a veil,” Budd suggested, and then went red because the comment sounded like a flirt.
    “And I’ve been in one movie.”
    “No kiddin’?”
    “I was a double for Isabella Rossellini. I stood outside in the snow for long angles.”
    “I was thinking you looked like her.” Though Budd said this uneasily, having no idea who the actress was, and hoped that she wasn’t some unknown who’d never appeared in a movie shown in America.
    “You’re kind of a celebrity in your own right, aren’t you?” she asked.
    “Me?” Budd laughed.
    “They say you came up through the ranks real fast.”
    “They do?”
    “Well, you’re a captain and you’re a young man.”
    “I’m older than I look,” he joked. “And before today’s over I’m going to be older still by a long shot.” He looked at his watch. “I better be getting inside. Not long till the first deadline. How do you manage to stay calm?”
    “I think it’s all what you’re used to. But what about you? That high-speed chase, the time you went after that sex offender in Hamilton?”
    “How on earth d’you hear about that?” Budd laughed. Two years ago. He’d hit speeds of a hundred twenty. On a dirt road. “Didn’t think my, you know, exploits made it into National Law Enforcement Monthly. ”
    “You hear things. About certain people anyway.”
    Her brown eyes bored into Budd’s, which were green, exceedingly embarrassed, and growing more and more flummoxed by the second. He rubbed his cheek with his left hand again, just to give her a view of his ring once more, then thought: Hey, get real. You actually think she’s coming on to you? No way, he told himself. She’s making polite talk to a local rube.
    “Better see if there’s anything Arthur needs,” Budd said.
    For some reason he stuck his hand out toward her. Wished he hadn’t, but there it was and she reached out,took it in both of hers, and squeezed it hard, stepping close. He smelled perfume. It seemed entirely unnatural for FBI agents to be wearing perfume.
    “I’m real glad we’re working together, Charlie.” She fired a smile at him, the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years—since Meg, in fact, had crosshaired him at the junior prom with one of those flirtations that he never would’ve believed the president of Methodist Girls’ Youth Group was capable of.

4:40 P.M.
    “Twenty minutes to deadline,” Tobe Geller called.
    Potter nodded. He punched the speed-dial button. Handy answered by saying, “I’ve picked the next little bird, Art.”
    Get off the subject of the hostages; keep him thinking they’re valueless. Potter said, “Lou, we’re working on that helicopter. It isn’t that easy to get one.”
    “This one’s a little trouper, she is, Art. That fat one cried and cried. Man, did that bug me. This one’s shedding a tear or two but she’s a soldier. Got a fucking tattoo on her arm, you can believe it.”
    Share some observations. Show him you’re concerned, find out a few things about him.
    “You sound tired, Lou.”
    “Not me. I’m right as rain.”
    “Really? Would’ve guessed you were up all night planning your big getaway.”
    “Naw, got my full eight hours. ’Sides, there’s nothing like a Mexican standoff to get the old juices flowing.” In fact he didn’t sound at all tired. He sounded relaxed and at ease. Potter nodded toward LeBow but the officer was already typing.
    “So tell me. What’s so hard about a chopper, Art?”
    Potter trained the glasses out the window at the brown-haired, long-faced girl. He’d already memorized thenames and faces. Punching the mute button, he said to Angie, “It’s Shannon Boyle. Tell me about her.” Then into the phone: “I’ll tell you what’s so hard, Lou,” Potter snapped. “They don’t grow on trees and they aren’t free.”
    You’re worried about fucking money at a time like this?
    “Fuck, you got all the money you need. What with everything you assholes steal from us taxpayers.”
    “You a taxpayer, Lou?”
    “We ain’t buying nuclear bombs anymore so spend a little on a chopper and save some lives here.”
    Angie tapped his shoulder.
    “Hold on a second, Lou. Word’s coming in about that chopper right now.”
    “She’s eight,” Angie whispered, “prelingually deaf. No lip-reading skills to speak of. She’s got a personality of her own. Very independent. She’s marched in protests to get deaf deans at