Other agents appeared silently and covered the two men. They pulled them to their feet and frisked them again, more carefully, then quickly led them into a gully and hurried them away from the slaughterhouse.

Then the lights went on inside.

A long, long moment of silence, though it was probably just seconds.

Where is she?

"Go ahead," D'Angelo said into his mike. He listened for a minute then said to Potter, "It's secure. No other takers. No traps. There was something rigged in the room but it's been dismantled."

The others rose to their feet too and watched Handy's progress as he approached up the gully.

"And the hostages?" Potter asked urgently.

D'Angelo listened. He said aloud, "Bonner's dead."

Yes, yes, yes?

"And they found two female hostages. One, white, late thirties. Conscious but incoherent."

For chrissake, what about -

"Second one, white, age mid-twenties. Also conscious." D'Angelo winced. "Seriously hurt, he says."

No. Oh, my God.

"What?" Potter cried. "What happened to her?" The negotiator lifted his own radio and cut into the channel. "How is she? The younger woman?"

The HRT agent inside said, "Handy must've really done a number on her, sir."

"How bad?" Potter said furiously. Budd and D'Angelo stared at him. Handy was approaching, two agents on either side. Potter found he couldn't look at him.

The agent inside said into the radio, "Well, sir, she doesn't look that badly hurt but the thing is he must've beat the hell out of her. She can't hear a word we're saying."

The surrender had happened so fast he'd forgotten to tell the tactical agents Melanie was deaf.

D'Angelo said something to him and so did Charlie Budd but Potter didn't hear, so loud was his manic, hysterical laughter. Sharon Foster and nearby troopers looked at him uneasily. Potter supposed, without caring, that he sounded like the crazy old man that he was.

"Lou."

"Art, you don't look nothing like what I thought. You do have to lose a few pounds."

Handy stood behind the van, hands cuffed behind him. Sharon Foster was nearby, looking over the prisoners. When Handy glanced at her body, grinning, she stared back contemptuously. Potter knew that after a hard negotiation, particularly one in which there'd been a killing, you felt an urge to insult or belittle your enemy. Potter controlled it himself but she was younger and more emotional. She sneered at Handy, walked away. The convict laughed and turned back to Potter.

"Your picture doesn't do you justice," the negotiator said to him.

"Fuckers never do."

As always, after a surrender, the hostage taker appeared minuscule compared with the image in Potter's mind. Handy's features were hard and compact, his face lean and lined and pale. He knew Handy's height and weight but still he was surprised at how diminished he seemed.

Potter scanned the crowd for Melanie. He didn't see her. Troopers, firemen, medics, and Stillwell's now-disbanded containment force were milling about outside the slaughterhouse. The car and the school bus and the processing plant itself were of course crime scenes and since by agreement this was technically now a state operation Budd had formally arrested Handy and Wilcox and was trying to preserve the site for the forensic teams.

Where is she?

There was a brief incident when Potter arrested Handy on federal charges. Handy's eyes went cold. "What the fuck is this?"

"I'm just preserving our rights," Potter said. SAC Henderson explained that it was a mere technicality, and Roland Marks too confirmed that everyone would adhere to the written agreement, though Potter had a bad moment when he thought Marks was going to take a swing at the convict. The assistant AG muttered, "Fucking child killer," and stormed off. Handy laughed at his receding back.

Shep Wilcox, grinning, looked around, disappointed, it seemed, there were no reporters present.

The older teacher, Donna Harstrawn, was brought out on a gurney. Potter went to her and walked alongside the medics. He looked at one of the techs, eyebrow raised. "She'll be okay," the young man whispered. "Physically, I mean."

"Your husband and children are at the Days Inn," he told her.

"It was…" she began, and fell silent. Shook her head. "I can't see anyone now. Please. No… I don't ever…" Her words dissolved, incoherent.

Potter squeezed her arm and stopped walking, watched them carry her up the hill to the waiting ambulance.

He turned back to the slaughterhouse just as Melanie Charrol was being escorted out. Her blond hair in disarray. She too – like Handy – seemed smaller than Potter expected. He started forward but paused. Melanie hadn't seen him; she was walking quickly, her eyes on Donna Harstrawn. Her clothes were dark – gray skirt, black stockings, burgundy blouse – but it seemed to Potter that they were saturated with blood.

"What's all that blood on her?" he asked one of the HRT agents who'd been inside.

"Not hers," came the response. "Bonner's probably. Man bled out like a gutted twelve-point buck. You want to debrief her?"

He hesitated.

"Later," he said. But in his mind the word was more of a question and the answer was unknown.

Detective Sharon Foster strode up to Potter and shook his hand.

" 'Night, Agent Potter."

"Thanks for everything," he said evenly.

"Piece of cake." She jabbed a blunt finger at him. "Hey, great job with that surrender. Smooth as silk." Then wheeled and returned to her squad car, leaving Potter standing alone. His face burned like that of a rookie dressed down by a tough training sergeant.

Angie Scapello returned momentarily from the Days Inn to collect her bags and say goodbye to Potter and the others. She still had some work ahead of her at the motel, where she would debrief the hostages further and make sure they and their families had the names of therapists who specialized in post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Budd and D'Angelo hitched a ride with Angie to the rear staging area. Potter and two troopers escorted the takers back to the van. Squad cars waited nearby to take them to the state police troop HQ ten miles away.

"Had yourself a fire, looks like," Handy said, looking over the black scorch marks. "You ain't gonna blame that on me, I hope?"

As he gazed at the convict Potter was aware of a man approaching from the shadows of a gully. He paid little mind since there were dozens of troopers milling about. But there was something purposeful about the man's stride, too quick and direct for him to be passing through the crowd casually. He was heading directly for Potter.

"Weapon!" Potter cried as Dan Tremain, twenty feet away, began to lift the gun.

Wilcox and the trooper holding him dove to the ground, as did the second escort trooper, leaving only Handy and Potter standing. Within easy pistol range.

Handy, smiling, turned to face Tremain. Potter drew his own gun, pointed it at the HRU commander, and stepped in front of Handy.

"No, Captain," the agent said firmly.

"Get out of the way, Potter."

"You're already in enough trouble."

The gun in Tremain's hand exploded. Potter felt the bullet snap past his head. He heard Handy laughing.

"Get out of the way!"

"Do it," Handy whispered in Potter's ear. "Pull the trigger. Waste the fucker."

"Shut up!" the agent barked. Around them four or five troopers had pulled their sidearms and were sighting on Tremain. No one knew what to do.

Or wanted to do what they knew they should.

"He's mine," Tremain said.

"It's legal," Handy whispered. "Kill him, Art. You want to anyway. You know you do."

"Quiet!" Potter shouted. And yet suddenly he understood that Handy was right. He did want to. And what's more, he felt that he had permission – to kill the man who'd nearly burnt his Melanie to death.