Crawford told him. Graham lay still for a full minute. Then he wrote, “Lammed how?”
“Okay,” Crawford said. “St. Louis. Dolarhyde must have been looking for Reba McClane. He came in the lab while we were there and spotted us. His prints were on an open furnace-room window—it wasn’t reported until yesterday.”
Graham tapped the pad. “Body?”
“We think it was a guy named Arnold Lang—he’s missing. His car was found in Memphis. It had been wiped down. They’ll run me out in a minute. Let me give it to you in order.
“Dolarhyde knew we were there. He gave us the slip at the plant and drove to a Servco Supreme station at Lindbergh and U.S. 270. Arnold Lang worked there.
“Reba McClane said Dolarhyde had a tiff with a service-station attendant on Saturday before last. We think it was Lang.
“He snuffed Lang and took his body to the house. Then he went by Reba McClane’s. She was in a clinch with Ralph Mandy at the door. He shot Mandy and dragged him into the hedge.”
The nurse came in.
“For God’s sake, it’s police business,” Crawford said. He talked fast as she pulled him by the coat sleeve to the door. “He chloroformed Reba McClane and took her to the house. The body was there,” Crawford said from the hall.
Graham had to wait four hours to find out the rest.
“He gave her this and that, you know, ‘Will I kill you or not?’” Crawford said as he came in the door.
“You know the routine about the key hanging around his neck—that was to make sure she felt the body. So she could tell us she certainly did feel a body. All right, it’s this way and that way. ‘I can’t stand to see you burn,’ he says, and blows Lang’s head off with a twelve-gauge.
“Lang was perfect. He didn’t have any teeth anyway. Maybe Dolarhyde knew the maxillary arch survives fires a lot of times—who knows what he knew? Anyway, Lang didn’t have any maxillary arch after Dolarhyde got through with him. He shot the head off Lang’s body and he must have tipped a chair or something for the thud of the body falling. He’d hung the key around Lang’s neck.
“Now Reba’s scrambling around looking for the key. Dolarhyde’s in the corner watching. Her ears are ringing from the shotgun. She won’t hear his little noises.
“He’s started a fire, but he hasn’t put the gas to it yet. He’s got gas in the room. She got out of the house okay. If she had panicked too much, run into a wall or something or frozen, I guess he’d have sapped her and dragged her outside. She wouldn’t have known how she got out. But she had to get out for it to work. Oh hell, here comes that nurse.”
Graham wrote fast. “How vehicle?”
“You have to admire this,” Crawford said. “He knew he’d have to leave his van at the house. He couldn’t drive two vehicles out there, and he needed a getaway piece.
“This is what he did: He made Lang hook up the service-station tow truck to his van. He snuffed Lang, locked the station, and towed his van out to his house. Then he left the tow truck on a dirt road back in the fields behind the house, got back in his van and went after Reba. When she got out of the house all right, he dragged out his dynamite, put the gasoline around the fire, and lammed out the back. He drove the tow truck back to the service station, left it and got Lang’s car. No loose ends.
“It drove me crazy until we figured it out. I know it’s right because he left a couple of prints on the tow bar.
“We probably met him in the road when we were going up there to the house . . . Yes, ma’am. I’m coming. Yes, ma’am.”
Graham wanted to ask a question, but it was too late.
Molly took the next five-minute visit.
Graham wrote “I love you” on Crawford’s pad.
She nodded and held his hand.
A minute later he wrote again. “Willy okay?”
She nodded.
“Here?”
She looked up at him too quickly from the pad. She made a kiss with her mouth and pointed to the approaching nurse.
He tugged her thumb.
“Where?” he insisted, underlining twice.
“Oregon,” she said.
Crawford came a final time.
Graham was ready with his note. It said, “Teeth?”
“His grandmother’s,” Crawford said. “The ones we found in the house were his grandmother’s. St. Louis PD located one Ned Vogt—Dolarhyde’s mother was Vogt’s stepmother. Vogt saw Mrs. Dolarhyde when he was a kid, and he never forgot the teeth.
“That’s what I was calling you about when you ran into Dolarhyde. The Smithsonian had just called me. They finally had gotten the teeth from the Missouri authorities, just to examine for their own satisfaction. They noticed the upper part was made of vulcanite instead of acrylic like they use now. Nobody’s made vulcanite plates in thirty-five years.
“Dolarhyde had a new acrylic pair just like them made to fit him. The new ones were on his body. Smithsonian looked at some features on them—the fluting, they said, and rugae. Chinese manufacture. The old ones were Swiss.
“He had a key on him too, for a locker in Miami. Big book in there. Kind of a diary—hell of a thing. I’ll have it when you want to see it.
“Look, sport, I have to go back to Washington. I’ll get back down here the weekend, if I can. You gonna be okay?”
Graham drew a question mark, then scratched it out and wrote “sure.”
The nurse came after Crawford left. She shot some Demerol into his intravenous line and the clock grew fuzzy. He couldn’t keep up with the second hand.
He wondered if Demerol would work on your feelings. He could hold Molly a while with his face. Until they finished fixing it anyway. That would be a cheap shot. Hold her for what? He was drifting off and he hoped he wouldn’t dream.
He did drift between memory and dream, but it wasn’t so bad. He didn’t dream of Molly leaving, or of Dolarhyde. It was a long memory-dream of Shiloh, interrupted by lights shone in his face and the gasp and hiss of the blood-pressure cuff. . . .
It was spring, soon after he shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs, when Graham visited Shiloh.
On a soft April day he walked across the asphalt road to Bloody Pond. The new grass, still light green, grew down the slope to the water. The clear water had risen into the grass and the grass was visible in the water, growing down, down, as though it covered the bottom of the pond.
Graham knew what had happened there in April 1862.
He sat down in the grass, felt the damp ground through his trousers.
A tourist’s automobile went by and after it had passed, Graham saw movement behind it in the road. The car had broken a chicken snake’s back. It slid in endless figure eights across itself in the center of the asphalt road, sometimes showing its black back, sometimes its pale belly.
Shiloh’s awesome presence hooded him with cold, though he was sweating in the mild spring sun.
Graham got up off the grass, his trousers damp behind. He was light-headed.
The snake looped on itself. He stood over it, picked it up by the end of its smooth dry tail, and with a long fluid motion cracked it like a whip.
Its brains zinged into the pond. A bream rose to them.
He had thought Shiloh haunted, its beauty sinister like flags.
Now, drifting between memory and narcotic sleep, he saw that Shiloh was not sinister; it was indifferent. Beautiful Shiloh could witness anything. Its unforgivable beauty simply underscored the indifference of nature, the Green Machine. The loveliness of Shiloh mocked our plight.
He roused and watched the mindless clock, but he couldn’t stop thinking:
In the Green Machine there is no mercy; we make mercy, manufacture it in the parts that have overgrown our basic reptile brain.
There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us.
Graham knew too well that he contained all the elements to make murder; perhaps mercy too.
He understood murder uncomfortably well, though.
He wondered if,
in the great body of humankind, in the minds of men set on civilization, the vicious urges we control in ourselves and the dark instinctive knowledge of those urges function like the crippled virus the body arms against.
He wondered if old, awful urges are the virus that makes vaccine.
Yes, he had been wrong about Shiloh. Shiloh isn’t haunted—men are haunted.
Shiloh doesn’t care.
And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to
know madness and folly:
I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit.
—ECCLESIASTES
1 After Blake’s death, this poem was found with prints from the plates of Songs of Experience. It appears only in posthumous editions.
Titles by Thomas Harris
BLACK SUNDAY
RED DRAGON
THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS
HANNIBAL
Thomas Harris, Red Dragon
(Series: Hannibal Lecter # 1)
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