A Maidens Grave

die, and it woulda been more painful than it was if I’d had more time. They didn’t give me what I shoulda had.”
    How cold and logical he sounds.
    Potter reminded himself: No value judgment. But don’t approve of him either. Negotiators are neutral. (And it broke his heart that he didn’t in fact feel the disgust that he ought to have been feeling. That a small portion of him believed Handy’s words made sense.)
    “Man, Art, I don’t get it. When I kill somebody for a reason they call me bad. When a cop does it for a reason they give him a paycheck and call him good. Why’re some reasons okay and others ain’t? You kill when people don’t do what they’re supposed to. You kill the weak because they’ll drag you down. What’s wrong with that?”
    Henry LeBow typed his notes calmly. Tobe Geller perused his monitors and dials. Charlie Budd sat in the corner, eyes on the floor, Angie beside him, listening carefully. And Officer Frances Whiting stood in the corner, uneasily holding a cup of coffee she’d lost all taste for; police work in Hebron, Kansas, didn’t involve the likes of Lou Handy.
    A laugh over the speaker. He asked, “Admit it, Art . . . . Haven’t you ever wanted to do that? Kill someone for a bad reason?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “That a fact?” He was skeptical. “I wonder . . . .”
    Silence filled the van. A trickle of sweat flowed down Potter’s face and he wiped his forehead.
    Handy asked, “So, you look like that guy in the old FBI show, Efrem Zimbalist?”
    “Not a bit. I’m pretty ordinary. I’m just a humble constable. I eat too many potatoes—”
    “Fries,” Handy remembered.
    “Mashed are my favorite, actually. With pan gravy.”
    Tobe whispered something to Budd, who wrote down on a slip of paper: Deadline.
    Potter glanced at the clock. Into the phone he said, “I fancy sports coats. Tweed are my favorite. Or camel’s hair. But we have to wear suits in the Bureau.”
    “Suits, huh? They cover up a lot of fat, don’t they? Hold on a second there, Art.”
    Potter dipped out of his reverie and trained his Leicas on the factory window. A pistol barrel appeared next to Shannon’s head, which was covered with her long, brown hair, now mussed.
    “That son of a bitch,” Budd whispered. “The poor thing’s terrified.”
    Frances leaned forward. “Oh, no. Please . . .”
    Potter’s fingers tapped buttons. “Dean?”
    “Yessir,” Stillwell answered.
    “Can one of your snipers acquire a target?”
    A pause.
    “Negative. All they can see is a pistol barrel and slide. He’s behind her. There’s no shot he can make except into the window frame.”
    Handy asked, “Hey, Art, you really never shot anyone?”
    LeBow looked up, frowning. But Potter answered anyway, “Nope, never have.”
    His hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Budd began pacing. It was very irritating.
    “Ever fired a gun?”
    “Of course. On the range at Quantico. I enjoyed it.”
    “Didja? You know, if you enjoyed shooting you might enjoy shooting some body. Killing somebody.”
    “Sick son of a bitch,” Budd muttered.
    Potter waved the captain quiet.
    “You know something, Art?”
    “What’s that?”
    “You’re all right. I mean it.”
    Potter felt a pleasing burst—from the man’s approval.
    I am good, he thought. He knew that it was the empathy that makes the difference at this job. Not the strategy, not the words, not the calculation or intelligence. It’s what I can’t teach in the training courses. I was always good, he reflected. But when you died, Marian, I became great. I had nowhere for my heart to go and so I gave it to men like Louis Handy.
    And to Ostrella . . .
    A terrorist takeover in Washington, D.C. The Estonian woman, blond and brilliant, walking out of the Soviet embassy after twenty hours of negotiating with Potter. Twelve hostages released, four more inside. Finally she’d surrendered, come out with her hands not outstretched but on her head—a violation of the hostage surrender protocol. But Potter knew she was harmless. Knew her as well as he knew Marian. He’d stepped unprotected from the barricade and walked toward her, to greet her, to embrace her, to make sure that when she was arrested the cuffs weren’t too tight, that her rights were read to her in her native language. And he’d had to endure the copious spatter of her blood from the sniper who shot her in the head when she pulled the hidden pistol from her collar and shoved it