Brutus caught Emily's head in the crook of his left arm and lifted the tip of the knife to her eyes.

Melanie struggled futilely against Stoat's iron grip.

Brutus looked at his watch. "Time."

Emily sobbed; her joined fingers twitched as they uttered fervent prayers.

Brutus tightened his grip on Emily's head. He drew back a few inches with the knife, aimed right for the center of her closed right eye.

Stoat looked away.

Then suddenly his arms jerked in surprise. He looked straight up at the murky ceiling.

Brutus did too.

And finally Melanie felt it.

A huge thudding overhead, like the roll of a timpani. Then it grew closer and became the continuous sound of a bowed upright bass. An indiscernible pitch that Melanie felt on her face and arms and throat and chest.

Music is sound or vibration. But not both.

Their helicopter was overhead.

Brutus leaned out the window and looked up at the sky. With his bony fingers he dramatically unlocked the blade of his knife and closed it with what Melanie supposed was a loud snap. He laughed and said something to Stoat, words that Melanie was, for some reason, furious to realize she could not understand at all.

9:31 P.M.

"You're looking a little green around the gills there, Charlie."

"That pilot," Budd said to Potter, climbing into the van unsteadily. "Brother, I thought I'd bought the farm. He missed the field altogether, set her down in the middle of Route 346, almost on top of a fire truck. Now, there's an experience for you. Then he puked out the window and fell asleep. I kept shutting stuff off till the engine stopped. This smell in here isn't helping my stomach any." The captain's exemplary posture was shot to hell; he slumped into a chair.

"Well, you did good, Charlie," Potter told him. "Handy's agreed to give us a little more time. HRT11 be here any minute."

"Then what?"

"We shall see what we shall see," Potter mused.

"When I was driving up," Budd said, his eyes firmly on Potter's, "I heard a transmission. There was a shot inside?"

LeBow stopped typing. "Handy shot Bonner," the intelligence officer said. "We think."

"I think Handy and Wilcox," Potter continued, "took our strategy a little more seriously than I'd expected – about Bonner cutting a separate deal. They figured him for a snitch."

"Wasn't anything we could do about it," LeBow said offhandedly. "You can't second-guess stuff like that."

"Couldn't have been foreseen," Tobe recited like a cyborg in one of the science fiction novels he was always reading.

Charlie Budd – the faux U.S. attorney, a naif in the state police – was the only honest one in the group, for he was silent. He continued to look at Potter and their eyes met. The young man's gaze said he understood that Potter had known what would happen when he gave Budd the script; it'd been Potter's intent all along for Budd to plant the seed of distrust that would set Handy against Bonner.

But in Budd's glance was another message. His eyes said, Oh, I get it, Potter. You used me to kill a man. Well, fair's fair; after all, I spied on you. But now our sins have canceled each other out. Mutual betrayals, and what's happened? Well, we're one hostage taker down, all to the good. But listen here: I don't owe you anything anymore.

A phone buzzed – Budd's own cellular phone. He took the call. He listened, punctuating the conversation with several significant "urns," and then clamped a hand over the mouthpiece.

"Well, how 'bout this? It's my division commander, Ted Franklin. He says there's a trooper in McPherson, not too far from here. A woman. She negotiated Handy's surrender five years ago in a convenience store holdup that went bad. He wants to know if he should ask her to come down here and help."

"Handy surrendered to her?"

Budd posed the question and listened for a moment. Then he said, "He did, yes. Seems there were no hostages. They'd all escaped and HRU was about to go in. A lot different from this, sounds like."

Potter and LeBow exchanged glances. "Have her come anyway," the negotiator said. "Whether she can help us directly or not, I can see Henry's licking his chops at the thought of more info on the bad guys."

"Yes indeed."

Budd relayed this to his commander and Potter was momentarily heartened at the thought of having an ally. He sat back in the chair and mused out loud, "Any way we can get another one or two out before HRT gets here?"

Angie asked, "What can we give him that he hasn't asked for? Anything?"

LeBow scrolled through the screen. "He's asked for transportation, food, liquor, guns, vests, electricity…"

Angie said, "All the classic things. What every taker wants."

"But not money," Budd said suddenly.

Frowning, Potter glanced at the "Promises" side of the board, where the things they'd actually given Handy were recorded. "You're right, Charlie."

Angie asked, "He hasn't?" Surprised.

LeBow scrolled through his files and confirmed that Handy had not once mentioned money. He asked the captain, "How'd you think of that?"

"I saw it in a movie," Budd explained.

"It's an opportunistic taking," LeBow offered. "Handy's not out to make a profit. He's an escaping criminal."

"So was this fellow," Budd said. Potter and LeBow glanced at the captain, who, blushing, added, "In the movie, I mean. I think it was Gene Hackman. Or maybe he was the one playing your role, Arthur. He's a good actor, Hackman is."

Angie said, "I agree with Charlie, Henry. It's true that a lot of criminal takers don't want money. But Handy's got a mercenary streak in him. Most of his underlying raps're larceny."

"Let's try to buy a couple of them," Potter said. "What've we got to lose?" He asked Budd, "Can you get your hands on any cash?"

"This time of night?"

"Immediately."

"Geez, I guess so. HQ's got petty cash. Maybe two hundred. How's that?"

"I'm talking about a hundred thousand dollars in small bills, unmarked. Within, say, twenty minutes."

"Oh," Budd said. "In that case, no."

LeBow said, "I'll call the DEA. They've got to have some buy money in Topeka or Wichita. We'll do an interagency transfer." He nodded at Tobe, who flipped through a laminated phone book and pushed in a phone number. LeBow began speaking through his headset in a voice as soft and urgent as his key strokes.

Potter picked up his phone and rang Handy.

"Hey, Art."

"How you doing, Lou? Ready to leave?"

"You bet I am. Go to a nice warm cabin… Or a hotel. Or a desert island."

"Whereabouts, Lou? Maybe I'll come visit."

You got yourself quite a sense of humor, Art.

"I like cops with a sense of humor, you old son of a bitch."

"Where's my chopper?"

"Close as we could get it, Lou. In that field just over the trees. Turned out the river was too choppy after all. Now listen, Lou. You saw that chopper. It's a six-seater. I know you wanted an eight- but that's all we could rustle up." He hoped the man hadn't gotten a very good look at it; you could fit half the Washington Redskins in an old Sikorsky. "So, I've got a proposition. Let me buy a couple of the hostages."

"Buy?"

"Sure. I'm authorized to pay up to fifty thousand each. There just isn't room for the six of you and the pilot. No overhead racks for carry-ons, you know. Let me buy a couple of them."

Shit, Art, I could shoot one of 'em. Then we'd have plenty of space.

But he'll laugh when he says it.

"Hey, I got an idea. 'Stead of giving one of 'em to you, I could shoot her. Then we'd have plenty of room. For us and our matched sets of American Tourister."

The laugh was almost a cackle.

"Ah, but Lou, if you kill her you don't get any money. That'd be a bummer, as my nephew says." Potter said this good-naturedly, for he felt the rapport had been re-established. It was solid, fibrous. The negotiator knew that the man was seriously considering the offer.