The Silence of the Lambs

  “Hold on,” Crawford said. He held the receiver on his thigh and looked out the van window. There wasn’t much color in February for the first light to find. All gray. So bleak.

  Jeff started to say something and Crawford hushed him with a motion of his hand.

  Lecter’s monster ego. Chilton’s ambition. Senator Martin’s terror for her child. Catherine Martin’s life. Call it.

  “Let them go,” he said into the phone.

  CHAPTER 29

  Dr. Chilton and three well-pressed Tennessee state troopers stood close together on the windy tarmac at sunrise, raising their voices over a wash of radio traffic from the open door of the Grumman Gulfstream and from the ambulance idling beside the airplane.

  The trooper captain in charge handed Dr. Chilton a pen. The papers blew over the end of the clipboard and the policeman had to smooth them down.

  “Can’t we do this in the air?” Chilton asked.

  “Sir, we have to do the documentation at the moment of physical transfer. That’s my instructions.”

  The copilot finished clamping the ramp over the airplane steps. “Okay,” he called.

  The troopers gathered with Dr. Chilton at the back of the ambulance. When he opened the back doors, they tensed as though they expected something to jump out.

  Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood upright on his hand truck, wrapped in canvas webbing and wearing his hockey mask. He was relieving his bladder while Barney held the urinal.

  One of the troopers snorted. The other two looked away.

  “Sorry,” Barney said to Dr. Lecter, and closed the doors again.

  “That’s all right, Barney,” Dr. Lecter said. “I’m quite finished, thank you.”

  Barney rearranged Lecter’s clothing and rolled him to the back of the ambulance.

  “Barney?”

  “Yes, Dr. Lecter?”

  “You’ve been decent to me for a long time. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Next time Sammie’s at himself, would you say good-bye for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good-bye, Barney.”

  The big orderly pushed open the doors and called to the troopers. “You want to catch the bottom there, fellows? Take it on both sides. We’ll set him on the ground. Easy.”

  Barney rolled Dr. Lecter up the ramp and into the airplane. Three seats had been removed on the craft’s right side. The copilot lashed the hand truck to the seat brackets in the floor.

  “He’s gonna fly laying down?” one trooper asked. “Has he got rubber britches on?”

  “You’ll just have to hold your water to Memphis, buddy ruff,” the other trooper said.

  “Doctor Chilton, could I speak to you?” Barney said.

  They stood outside the airplane while the wind made little twisters of dust and trash around them.

  “These fellows don’t know anything,” Barney said.

  “I’ll have some help on the other end—experienced psychiatric orderlies. He’s their responsibility now.”

  “You think they’ll treat him all right? You know how he is—you have to threaten him with boredom. That’s all he’s afraid of. Slapping him around’s no good.”

  “I’d never allow that, Barney.”

  “You’ll be there when they question him?”

  “Yes.” And you won’t, Chilton added privately.

  “I could get him settled on the other end and be back here just a couple of hours behind my shift,” Barney said.

  “He’s not your job anymore, Barney. I’ll be there. I’ll show them how to manage him, every step.”

  “They better pay attention,” Barney said. “He will.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Clarice Starling sat on the side of her motel bed and stared at the black telephone for almost a minute after Crawford hung up. Her hair was tousled and she had twisted her FBI Academy nightgown about her, tossing in her short sleep. She felt like she had been kicked in the stomach.

  It had only been three hours since she left Dr. Lecter, and two hours since she and Crawford finished working out the sheet of characteristics to check against applications at the medical centers. In that short time, while she slept, Dr. Frederick Chilton had managed to screw it up.

  Crawford was coming for her. She needed to get ready, had to think about getting ready.

  God dammit. God DAMMIT. GOD DAMMIT. You’ve killed her, Dr. Chilton. You’ve killed her, Dr. Fuck Face. Lecter knew some more and I could have gotten it. All gone, all gone, now. All for nothing. When Catherine Martin floats, I’ll see that you have to look at her, I swear I will. You took it away from me. I really have to have something useful to do. Right now. What can I do right now, what can I do this minute? Get clean.

  In the bathroom, a little basket of paper-wrapped soaps, tubes of shampoo and lotion, a little sewing kit, the favors you get at a good motel.

  Stepping into the shower, Starling saw in a flash herself at eight, bringing in the towels and the shampoo and paper-wrapped soap to her mother when her mother cleaned motel rooms. When she was eight, there was a crow, one of a flock on the gritty wind of that sour town, and this crow liked to steal from the motel cleaning carts. It took anything bright. The crow would wait for its chance, and then rummage among the many housekeeping items on the cart. Sometimes, in an emergency takeoff, it crapped on the clean linens. One of the other cleaning women threw bleach at it, to no effect except to mottle its feathers with snow-white patches. The black-and-white crow was always watching for Clarice to leave the cart, to take things to her mother, who was scrubbing bathrooms. Her mother was standing in the door of a motel bathroom when she told Starling she would have to go away, to live in Montana. Her mother put down the towels she was holding and sat down on the side of the motel bed and held her. Starling still dreamed about the crow, saw it now with no time to think why. Her hand came up in a shooing motion and then, as though it needed to excuse the gesture, her hand continued to her forehead to slick back the wet hair.

  She dressed quickly. Slacks, blouse, and a light sweater vest, the snub-nosed revolver tucked tight against her ribs in the pancake holster, the speedloader straddling her belt on the other side. Her blazer needed a little work. A seam in the lining was fraying over the speedloader. She was determined to be busy, be busy, until she cooled off. She got the motel’s little paper sewing kit and tacked the lining down. Some agents sewed washers into the tail of the jacket so it would swing away cleanly, she’d have to do that.…

  Crawford was knocking on the door.

  CHAPTER 31

  In Crawford’s experience, anger made women look tacky. Rage made their hair stick out behind and played hell with their color and they forgot to zip. Any unattractive feature was magnified. Starling looked herself when she opened the door of her motel room, but she was mad all right.

  Crawford knew he might learn a large new truth about her now.

  Fragrance of soap and steamy air puffed at him as she stood in the doorway. The covers on the bed behind her had been pulled up over the pillow.

  “What do you say, Starling?”

  “I say God dammit, Mr. Crawford, what do you say?”

  He beckoned with his head. “Drugstore’s open on the corner already. We’ll get some coffee.”

  It was a mild morning for February. The sun, still low in the east, shined red on the front of the asylum as they walked past. Jeff trailed them slowly in the van, the radios crackling. Once he handed a phone out the window to Crawford for a brief conversation.

  “Can I file obstruction of justice on Chilton?”

  Starling was walking slightly ahead. Crawford could see her jaw muscles bunch after she asked.

  “No, it wouldn’t stick.”

  “What if he’s wasted her, what if Catherine dies because of him? I really want to get in his face.… Let me stay with this, Mr. Crawford. Don’t send me back to school.”

  “Two things. If I keep you, it won’t be to get in Chilton’s face, that comes later.
Second, if I keep you much longer, you’ll be recycled. Cost you some months. The Academy cuts nobody any slack. I can guarantee you get back in, but that’s all—there’ll be a place for you, I can tell you that.”

  She leaned her head far back, then put it down again, walking. “Maybe this isn’t a polite question to ask the boss, but are you in the glue? Can Senator Martin do anything to you?”

  “Starling, I have to retire in two years. If I find Jimmy Hoffa and the Tylenol killer I still have to hang it up. It’s not a consideration.”

  Crawford, ever wary of desire, knew how badly he wanted to be wise. He knew that a middle-aged man can be so desperate for wisdom he may try to make some up, and how deadly that can be to a youngster who believes him. So he spoke carefully, and only of things he knew.

  What Crawford told her on that mean street in Baltimore he had learned in a succession of freezing dawns in Korea, in a war before she was born. He left the Korea part out, since he didn’t need it for authority.

  “This is the hardest time, Starling. Use this time and it’ll temper you. Now’s the hardest test—not letting rage and frustration keep you from thinking. It’s the core of whether you can command or not. Waste and stupidity get you the worst. Chilton’s a God damned fool and he may have cost Catherine Martin her life. But maybe not. We’re her chance. Starling, how cold is liquid nitrogen in the lab?”

  “What? Ah, liquid nitrogen … minus two hundred degrees Centigrade, about. It boils at a little more than that.”

  “Did you ever freeze stuff with it?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to freeze something now. Freeze the business with Chilton. Keep the information you got from Lecter and freeze the feelings. I want you to keep your eyes on the prize, Starling. That’s all that matters. You worked for some information, paid for it, got it, now we’ll use it. It’s just as good—or as worthless—as it was before Chilton messed in this. We just won’t get any more from Lecter, probably. Take the knowledge of Buffalo Bill you got from Lecter and keep it. Freeze the rest. The waste, the loss, your anger, Chilton. Freeze it. When we have time, we’ll kick Chilton’s butt up between his shoulder blades. Freeze it now and slide it aside. So you can see past it to the prize, Starling. Catherine Martin’s life. And Buffalo Bill’s hide on the barn door. Keep your eyes on the prize. If you can do that, I need you.”

  “To work with the medical records?”

  They were in front of the drugstore now.

  “Not unless the clinics stonewall us and we have to take the records. I want you in Memphis. We have to hope Lecter tells Senator Martin something useful. But I want you to be close by, just in case—if he gets tired of toying with her, maybe he’ll talk to you. In the meantime, I want you to try to get a feel for Catherine, how Bill might have spotted her. You’re not a lot older than Catherine, and her friends might tell you things they wouldn’t tell somebody that looks more like a cop.

  “We’ve still got the other things going. Interpol’s working on identifying Klaus. With an ID on Klaus we can take a look at his associates in Europe and in California where he had his romance with Benjamin Raspail. I’m going to the University of Minnesota—we got off on the wrong foot up there—and I’ll be in Washington tonight. I’ll get the coffee now. Whistle up Jeff and the van. You’re on a plane in forty minutes.”

  The red sun had reached three-quarters of the way down the telephone poles. The sidewalks were still violet. Starling could reach up into the light as she waved for Jeff.

  She felt lighter, better. Crawford really was very good. She knew that his little nitrogen question was a nod to her forensic background, meant to please her and to trigger ingrained habits of disciplined thinking. She wondered if men actually regard that kind of manipulation as subtle. Curious how things can work on you even when you recognize them. Curious how the gift of leadership is often a coarse gift.

  Across the street, a figure coming down the steps of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It was Barney, looking even larger in his lumber jacket. He was carrying his lunchpail.

  Starling mouthed “Five minutes” to Jeff waiting in the van. She caught Barney as he was unlocking his old Studebaker.

  “Barney.”

  He turned to face her, expressionless. His eyes may have been a bit wider than usual. He had his weight on both feet.

  “Did Dr. Chilton tell you you’d be all right from this?”

  “What else would he tell me?”

  “You believe it?”

  The corner of his mouth turned down. He didn’t say yes or no.

  “I want you to do something for me. I want you to do it now, with no questions. I’ll ask you nicely—we’ll start with that. What’s left in Lecter’s cell?”

  “A couple of books—Joy of Cooking, medical journals. They took his court papers.”

  “The stuff on the walls, the drawings?”

  “It’s still there.”

  “I want it all and I’m in a hell of a hurry.”

  He considered her for a second. “Hold on,” he said and trotted back up the steps, lightly for such a big man.

  Crawford was waiting for her in the van when Barney came back out with rolled drawings and the papers and books in a shopping bag.

  “You sure I knew the bug was in that desk I brought you?” Barney said as handed her the stuff.

  “I have to give that some thought. Here’s a pen, write your phone numbers on the bag. Barney, you think they can handle Dr. Lecter?”

  “I got my doubts and I said so to Dr. Chilton. Remember I told you that, in case it slips his mind. You’re all right, Officer Starling. Listen, when you get Buffalo Bill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t bring him to me just because I got a vacancy, all right?” He smiled. Barney had little baby teeth.

  Starling grinned at him in spite of herself. She flapped a wave back over her shoulder as she ran to the van.

  Crawford was pleased.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Grumman Gulfstream carrying Dr. Hannibal Lecter touched down in Memphis with two puffs of blue tire smoke. Following directions from the tower, it taxied fast toward the Air National Guard hangars, away from the passenger terminal. An Emergency Service ambulance and a limousine waited inside the first hangar.

  Senator Ruth Martin watched through the smoked glass of the limousine as the state troopers rolled Dr. Lecter out of the airplane. She wanted to run up to the bound and masked figure and tear the information out of him, but she was smarter than that.

  Senator Martin’s telephone beeped. Her assistant, Brian Gossage, reached it from the jump seat.

  “It’s the FBI—Jack Crawford,” Gossage said.

  Senator Martin held out her hand for the phone without taking her eyes off Dr. Lecter.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Dr. Lecter, Mr. Crawford?”

  “I was afraid you’d do just what you’re doing, Senator.”

  “I’m not fighting you, Mr. Crawford. If you fight me, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Where’s Lecter now?”

  “I’m looking at him.”

  “Can he hear you?”

  “No.”

  “Senator Martin, listen to me. You want to make personal guarantees to Lecter—all right, fine. But do this for me. Let Dr. Alan Bloom brief you before you go up against Lecter. Bloom can help you, believe me.”

  “I’ve got professional advice.”

  “Better than Chilton, I hope.”

  Dr. Chilton was pecking on the window of the limousine. Senator Martin sent Brian Gossage out to take care of him.

  “Infighting wastes time, Mr. Crawford. You sent a green recruit to Lecter with a phony offer. I can do better than that. Dr. Chilton says Lecter’s capable of responding to a straight offer and I’m giving him one—no red tape, no personalities, no questions of credit. If we get Catherine back safe, everybody smells like a rose, you included. If she … dies, I don’t give a God damn about excuses.”
br />   “Use us then, Senator Martin.”

  She heard no anger in his voice, only a professional, cut-your-losses cool that she recognized. She responded to it. “Go on.”

  “If you get something, let us act on it. Make sure we have everything. Make sure the local police share. Don’t let them think they’ll please you by cutting us out.”

  “Paul Krendler from Justice is coming. He’ll see to it.”

  “Who’s your ranking officer there now?”

  “Major Bachman from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Good. If it’s not too late, try for a media blackout. You better threaten Chilton about that—he likes attention. We don’t want Buffalo Bill to know anything. When we find him, we want to use the Hostage Rescue Team. We want to hit him fast and avoid a standoff. You mean to question Lecter yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you talk to Clarice Starling first? She’s on the way.”

  “To what purpose? Dr. Chilton’s summarized that material for me. We’ve fooled around enough.”

  Chilton was pecking on the window again, mouthing words through the glass. Brian Gossage put a hand on his wrist and shook his head.

  “I want access to Lecter after you’ve talked to him,” Crawford said.

  “Mr. Crawford, he’s promised he’ll name Buffalo Bill in exchange for privileges—amenities, really. If he doesn’t do that, you can have him forever.”

  “Senator Martin, I know this is sensitive, but I have to say it to you: whatever you do, don’t beg him.”

  “Right, Mr. Crawford. I really can’t talk right now.” She hung up the phone. “If I’m wrong, she won’t be any deader than the last six you handled,” she said under her breath, and waved Gossage and Chilton into the car.

  Dr. Chilton had requested an office setting in Memphis for Senator Martin’s interview with Hannibal Lecter. To save time, an Air National Guard briefing room in the hangar had been rearranged hastily for the meeting.

  Senator Martin had to wait out in the hangar while Dr. Chilton got Lecter settled in the office. She couldn’t stand to stay in the car. She paced in a small circle beneath the great roof of the hangar, looking up at the high, latticed rafters and down again at the painted stripes on the floor. Once she stopped beside an old Phantom F-4 and rested her head against its cold side where the stencil said NO STEP. This airplane must be older than Catherine. Sweet Jesus, come on.