"I mean, were they like this, or did they have cylinders?" He found himself making a circular gesture with his finger. "Revolvers," he said slowly.

Jocylyn shook her head. Her awkward hands spoke again.

"No, she says they were black automatics. Just like that one." Frances smiled. "She asked why don't you believe her."

"You know what an automatic is?"

"She says she watches TV."

Potter laughed and told LeBow to write down that she'd confirmed they were armed with three Glocks or similar weapons.

Jocylyn volunteered that they had two dozen boxes of bullets.

"Boxes?"

"This big," Frances said, as the girl motioned her hands about six inches apart. "Yellow and green."

"Remington," LeBow said.

"And shotguns. Like that. Three of them." Jocylyn pointed to a shotgun on the rack in the van.

"Any rifles?" Potter pointed to an M-16 resting against the wall.

"No."

"They're pretty damn prepared," Budd muttered.

Potter handed off to Angie, who asked, "Is anybody hurt?"

"No."

"Does Handy – Brutus – talk to anybody in particular? Any of the teachers or girls, I mean?"

"No. Mostly he just looks at us." This brought back some memory and, in turn, more tears.

"You're doing great, honey," Angie said, squeezing the girl's shoulder. "Have you been able to tell what the three men are talking about?"

"No. I'm sorry. I can't lip-read good."

"Is Beverly all right?"

"She can't breathe well. But she's had worse attacks. The worst problem is Mrs. Harstrawn."

"Ask her to explain."

Frances watched her hands and said, "It sounds like she's having a breakdown. She was fine until Susan was shot. All she does now is lie on her back and cry."

Potter thought: They're leaderless. The worst situation. They could panic and run. Unless Melanie has taken over.

"How's Melanie?"

"She just sits and stares. Sometimes closes her eyes." Frances added to Potter, "That's not good. The deaf never close their eyes in a tense situation. Their vision is the only warning system they have."

Angie asked, "Do the men fight among themselves?"

Jocylyn didn't know.

"Do they seem nervous? Happy? Scared? Sad?"

"They're not scared. Sometimes they laugh."

LeBow typed this into his computer.

"Okay," Potter said. "You're a very brave girl. You can go to the hotel now. Your parents will be there soon."

The twelve-year-old wiped her nose on her sleeve but didn't leave. She signed awkwardly.

"Is that all you want to ask me?" Frances translated.

"Yes. You can go."

But the girl signed some more. "She asked, 'Don't you want to know about the TV? And the other stuff?' "

Tobe, LeBow, and Budd turned their heads to Potter.

"They have a TV in there?" he whispered, dismayed. Frances translated and Jocylyn nodded.

"Where did they get it?"

"In the bags with the guns. They brought it in with them. It's a little one."

"Do they have a radio?"

"I didn't see one."

"Do they watch the TV a lot?"

She nodded.

"What other stuff do they have?"

"She says they have some tools. New ones. They're in plastic."

"What kind?"

"Silver ones. Wrenches. Pliers. Screwdrivers. A big shiny hammer."

"Offer her a job, Arthur," Henry LeBow said. "She's better than half our agents."

"Anything else you can think of, Jocylyn?"

Her red fingers moved.

"She misses her mommy."

"One more thing," Potter said. He hesitated. He wanted to ask something more about Melanie. He found he couldn't. Instead he asked, "Is it cold inside?"

"Not too bad."

Potter took the girl's round, damp hand and pressed it between his. "Tell her many thanks, Frances. She did a fine job."

After this message was translated Jocylyn wiped her face and smiled for the first time.

Angie asked Frances to tell the girl that she'd take her to the motel in a minute. Jocylyn went outside to wait with a woman state trooper.

LeBow printed out the list of what the men had inside the slaughterhouse with them. He handed it to Tobe, who pinned it up beside the diagram.

Tobe said, "It's like a computer adventure game. 'You're carrying a key, a magic sword, five stones, and a raven in a cage.' "

Potter sat back in his chair slowly, laughing. He looked at the list. "What do you make of it, Henry? Tools, a TV?"

"Knocked over a store on their way out of the prison?"

Potter asked Budd, "Any reports of a commercial burglary between here and Winfield, Charlie?"

"I'm outta that loop. I'll check." He stepped outside.

"I've never had such good intelligence from a hostage who'd been inside so short a time," Potter said. "Her powers of observation are remarkable."

"God compensates," Frances said.

Potter then asked Angie, "What do you think?"

"She's with us, I'd guess."

Because of the Stockholming process hostages have been known to give false information to negotiators and tactical teams. On one of Potter's negotiations – a weeklong terrorist barricade – a released hostage left a handkerchief in front of the window where Potter was hiding so that the barricaded gunman would know where to shoot. A sniper killed the hostage taker before he could fire. Potter testified on the hostage's behalf at her subsequent trial; she got a suspended sentence.

Potter agreed with Angie's assessment. Jocylyn hadn't been inside long enough to skew her feelings about Handy and the others. She was just a scared little girl.

Angie said, "I'm going to take her to the motel. Make sure she's comfortable. Reassure the other parents."

Henry LeBow called, "Arthur, just got some info on Henderson."

Potter said to Angie as she stepped out the door, "While you're down there, check up on him. He makes me nervous."

"Pete Henderson we're talking, the Wichita SAC?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Gut feel." Potter told her about the threat. And added that he was more concerned that Henderson hadn't at first volunteered that he'd interviewed Handy after the S amp;L arson. "It's probably because his boys did a lousy job on the collar, letting the girlfriend get away and ending up with two wounded troopers." The postcollar interrogation too, which Potter now recalled had yielded only unimaginative obscenities on Handy's part. "But he should've told us up front he was involved."

"What do you want me to do?" Angie asked.

Potter shrugged. "Just make sure he's not getting into any trouble."

She offered a gimme-a-break look. Peter Henderson, as Special Agent in Charge of a resident agency, had the rank to get into as much trouble as he liked and it wasn't for underlings like Angie Scapello to do anything about it.

"Try. Please." Potter blew her a kiss.

LeBow handed Potter the printout, explaining with a sneer, "It's only resume-quality data. But there are some details I'll bet he wants to keep under wraps."

Potter was intrigued. He read. Henderson had come up through the ranks, working as an investigator in the Chicago Police Department while he went to DePaul Law School at night. After he got his degree he joined the Bureau, excelled at Quantico, and returned to the Midwest, where he made a name for himself in southern Illinois and St. Louis, primarily investigating RICO crimes. He was a good administrator, fit the Feebie mold, and was clearly destined for a SAC job in Chicago or Miami or even the Southern District of New York. After which the career trajectory would have landed him in D.C.

If not for the lawsuit.

Potter read the press accounts and, supplemented by details from memos Henry LeBow had somehow managed to pry from the Bureau databases, he understood why Henderson had been shunted off to Kansas. Six years ago a dozen black agents had sued the Bureau for discrimination in doling out assignments, promotions, and raises. The St. Louis office was one of the targeted federal districts, and Henderson was quick to offer testimony supporting their claim. Too quick, some said. In the anticipated shakeup following the Title VII suit the then-current Bureau director was expected to resign and be replaced by a young deputy director, who would become the first black head of the FBI and who would – Henderson figured – remember those loyal to the cause.