A Maiden's Grave by Jeffery Deaver Page B

him. You have to be able to green-light him instantly.”
    “Fine by me.”
    “Now, I don’t want any accidents,” Potter said. “Lieutenant Budd has already told all the troopers to unchamber weapons. That correct? Snipers included?”
    Budd nodded. His mouth tightened. Potter wondered just how angry the captain was. Thinking: He’ll be angrier yet before this is over.
    “My men,” one of the troopers said stiffly, “don’t have itchy trigger fingers.”
    “Not now they don’t. But they will. In ten hours you’ll be drawing down on your own shadow. Now, Dean, you might see reflections from inside. You’ll be thinking rifle scopes. But they’ll probably just be mirrors, like periscopes. Takers who’ve done time learned that trick inside prison. So tell your people not to panic if they see a flash.”
    “Yessir,” Stillwell said slowly, the way he seemed to say everything.
    Potter said, “Now a few final words. Generally, criminal hostage takers are the easiest to deal with. They’re not like terrorists. Their purpose isn’t to kill anyone. It’s to escape. Given enough time they’re going to realize that the hostages are more of a liability than anything and dead hostages mean nothing but trouble. But the psychology of what’s going on now is that they’re not thinking rationally. They’re pumped up on adrenaline. They’re scared and confused.
    “We have to defuse the situation. Make Handy believe that he’ll survive the incident through rational action. Time works in our favor. We don’t establish any deadlines. We want to stretch this out longer than any of us can stand. And then longer. And then longer still.
    “When HRT gets here we’ll prepare for a tactical resolution but that’ll still be our last resort. As long as Handy is still talking to us there won’t be any rescue attempt. We’ll call it the pork belly approach to hostage rescue.” Potter smiled toward Stillwell, then continued, “Delay is the name of the game. It wears down the HTs, makes them bored, brings them and the hostages closer together.”
    “Stockholm syndrome,” one of the commanders said.
    “Exactly.”
    “What’s that?” another one asked.
    Potter nodded to LeBow, who said, “It’s the psychoanalytic process of transference as applied to a hostage taking. The term comes from a bank robbery in Stockholm about twenty years ago. The robber forced four employees into the bank vault. They were later joined by a former prison-mate of the taker. They all stayed together for over five days and when they finally gave up, several of the hostages were madly in love with their captors.They’d come to feel that it was the police who were the bad guys. The robber and his cellmate had formed strong feelings of affection for the hostages too and wouldn’t think of hurting them.”
    “Time to get to work,” Potter announced. “Sheriff, you’ll proceed with containment. I’ll make initial contact with the takers.”
    Bashful Dean Stillwell motioned to the commanders. “If you all’d come outside, maybe we’ll move some of those troopers of yours around a bit. If that’s all right with you. What do you say?”
    “Pork belly” was the only response, but it was said very softly. Potter believed he was the only one who heard.
     
    The water poured like a shower, a silver stream falling through gaps in the ceiling high above them, probably from rank pools of old rainwater on the roof.
    It dripped onto rusting meat hooks and chains and rubber conveyor belts and disintegrating machinery, just outside the killing room, where Melanie Charrol sat, looking over the girls. The seven-year-old twins, Anna and Suzie, huddled against her. Beverly Klemper brushed her short blond hair from her face—round with baby fat still, though she was fourteen—and struggled to breathe. The others were clustered together at the far side of the killing room. Ten-year-old Emily Stoddard rubbed frantically at a rust stain on her white