2:00 P.M.

Hell, Potter thought, slamming his fist on the table.

"Oh, brother," muttered Budd. Then: "Oh, Jesus."

Potter picked up the binoculars and saw a young girl appear in the window of the slaughterhouse. She was chubby and her round cheeks glistened with tears. When the muzzle of the gun touched her short-cut hair, she closed her eyes.

"Call it out, Tobe."

"Four minutes thirty."

"That's her?" Potter whispered to LeBow. "Jocylyn?"

"I'm sure."

"You've noted that the scatter guns are twelve-gauge?" Potter asked evenly.

LeBow said he had. "And that they're possibly low on ammo."

Derek glanced at them, shocked at this cold-blooded conversation.

"Jesus God," Budd rasped. "Do something."

"What?" Potter asked.

"Well, call him back and tell him you'll give him the ammo."

"No."

"Four minutes."

"But he's going to shoot her."

"I don't think he will." Will he, won't he? Potter debated. He honestly couldn't tell.

"Look at him," Budd said. "Look out there! That girl's got a gun to her head. I can see her crying from here."

"Which is just what he wants us to see. Calm down, Charlie, You never negotiate weapons or armor."

"But he's going to kill her!"

"Three minutes thirty."

"What if," Potter said, struggling to control his impatience, "he's completely out of ammo? He's sitting in there with two empty pistols and an empty scatter gun?"

"Well, maybe he's got one shell left and he's just about to use it on that girl."

A hostage situation is a homicide in progress.

Potter continued to gaze at the unhappy face of the child. "We have to assume there are nine fatalities right now – the girls inside. A hundred rounds of twelve-gauge shells? That could double the number of casualties."

"Three minutes," Tobe sang out.

Outside Stillwell shifted uncomfortably and ruffled his mop of hair. He looked at the van then back at the slaughterhouse. He hadn't heard the exchange but he, like all the other troopers, could see the poor girl's head in the window.

"Two minutes thirty."

"Send him some blanks. Or some shells that'll jam the guns."

"That's a good idea, Charlie. But we don't have any such thing. He won't waste another hostage this early." Is this true? Potter wondered.

"Waste a hostage?" The voice of another trooper – Derek the technician – cut through the van. Potter believed the man appended in a whisper, "Son of a bitch."

"Two minutes," Tobe said in his unflappable voice.

Potter hunched forward, gazing out the window. He saw the officers behind their Maginot line of cars, some looking back at the van uneasily.

"One minute thirty."

What's Handy doing? What's he thinking? I can't see into him. I need more time. I need to talk to him more. An hour from now I'd know whether he'd kill her or not. Right now, all I see is smoke and danger.

"One minute," Tobe called out.

Potter picked up the phone. Pressed the rapid-dial button.

Click.

"Uplink."

"Lou."

"Art, I've decided I want a hundred rounds of Glock ammo too."

"No."

"Make that a hundred and one rounds of Glock. I'm about to lose one in thirty seconds. I'll need something to replace it."

"No ammo, Lou."

Derek leapt forward and grabbed Potter's arm. "Do it. For God's sake!"

"Sergeant!" Budd cried, and pulled the man away, shoved him into the corner.

Handy continued, "Remember that Viet Cong dude got shot? It was on film? In the head? The blood squirting up into the air like a fucking fountain."

"I can't do it, Lou. Don't you follow? We have a bad connection, or something?"

"You're supposed to be negotiating!" Budd whispered. "Talk to him." Now he seemed to regret pulling Derek Elb off.

Potter ignored him.

"Ten seconds, Arthur," Tobe said, fingering his earring hole nervously. He'd turned away from his precious dials and was looking out the window.

The seconds passed, ten minutes or an hour. Absolute silence in the control van, except for the static on the open line, the sound bleeding through the van's speakers. Potter realized he was holding his breath. He resumed breathing.

"Lou, are you there?"

No answer.

"Lou?"

Suddenly the gun lowered and a hand grabbed the girl by the collar. She opened her mouth as she was dragged back into the slaughterhouse.

Potter speculated: Yo, Art, what's happening, homes?

"Hey, Art, how's it hanging?" Handy's cheerful voice crackled over the speakers.

"Fair to middlin'. How about you?"

"Doing peachy. Here's the deal. I shoot one an hour till that chopper's here. On the hour, every hour, starting at four."

"Well, Lou, I'll tell you right now we're going to need more time than that to get a big chopper."

Potter guessed: Fuck that. You'll do what I tell you.

But with playful menace in his voice Handy said, "How much more time?"

"A couple of hours. Maybe -"

"Fuck no. I'll give you till five."

Potter paused for a judicious moment. "I think we can work with that."

A harsh laugh. Then: "And a whole 'nother thing, Art."

"What's that?"

A pause, tension building. At last, Handy growled, "With those burgers I want some Fritos. Lots of Fritos."

"You got it. But I want that girl."

"Oh, hey," Budd whispered, "maybe you shouldn't push him."

"Which girl?"

"Jocylyn. The one you just had in the window."

"Jocylyn," Handy said with sudden animation, again startling Potter. "Funny 'bout that name."

Potter snapped his fingers, pointed at LeBow's computer. The intelligence officer scrolled through the profile of Handy, and both men tried to find some reference to Jocylyn: mother, sister, probation officer. But there was nothing.

"Why's that funny, Lou?"

" 'Bout ten years ago I fucked a waitress named Jocylyn and enjoyed it very much."

Potter felt the chill run from his legs to his shoulders.

"She was tasty. Before I met Pris of course."

Potter listened to Handy's tone. He closed his eyes. He speculated: She was a hostage too, that Jocylyn, and I killed her 'cause… He couldn't guess the rest of what Handy might say.

"Haven't thought about her for years. My Jocylyn was a hostage too, just like this one. She didn't do what I told her. I mean, she just didn't. So I had to use my knife."

Some of this is part of his act, Potter thought. The cheerful reference to the knife. But there was something revealing in the words too. Didn't do what I told her. Potter wrote down the sentence and pushed it to LeBow to type in.

"I want her, Lou," Potter said.

"Oh, don't you worry. I'm faithful to my Pris now."

"When we get the food, let's exchange. How 'bout it, Lou?"

"She's not much good for anything, Art. I think she peed her pants. Or maybe she just don't shower much. Even Bonner wouldn't come close to her. And he's a horny son of a bitch as you probably know."

"We're working on your chopper and you'll have the food there soon. You owe me a girl, Lou. You killed one. You owe me." Budd and Derek gazed at Potter in disbelief.

"Naw," Handy said. "Don't think so."

"You're only going to have room in the chopper for four or five hostages. Give me that one." Sometimes you have to lie down; sometimes you have to hit. Potter snapped, "Jesus Christ, Lou, I know you're willing to kill them. You made your damn point. So just let her go, all right? I'll send a trooper up with the food; let him come back with the girl." A pause.

"You really want that one?"

Potter thought: Actually, I'd like 'em all, Lou. Time for a joke? Or too early? He gambled. "I'd really like them all, Lou." A harrowing pause.

Then a raucous laugh from the speaker. "You're a pistol, Art. Okay, I'll send her out. Let's synchronize our Timexes, boys. The clock's running. You get the fat one for the food. Fifteen minutes. Or I might change my mind. And a big beautiful chopper at five in the p.m."