فصل 77

Chapter 77

THE BEAUTY of the pneumatic rifle was that it could be fired with the muzzle inside the van without deafening everyone around it - there was no need to stick the muzzle out the window where the public could see it.

The mirrored window would open a few inches and the small hypodermic projectile would fly, carrying a major load of acepromazine into the muscle mass of Dr Lecter’s back or buttocks.

There would be only the crack of the gun’s muzzle signature, like a green branch breaking, no bang and no ballistic report from the subsonic missile to draw attention.

The way they had rehearsed it, when Dr Lecter started to collapse, Piero and Tommaso, dressed in white, would “assist” him into the van, assuring any bystanders they were taking him to the hospital. Tommaso’s English was best, as he had studied it in seminary, but the h in hospital was giving him a fit.

Mason was right in giving the Italians the prime dates for catching Dr Lecter.

Despite their failure in Florence, they were by far the most capable at physical man-catching and the most likely to take Dr Lecter alive.

Mason allowed only one gun on the mission other than the tranquilizer rifle-that of the driver, Deputy Johnny Mogli, an off-duty sheriff’s deputy from Illinois and long a creature of the Vergers. Mogli grew up speaking Italian at home. He was a person who agreed with everything his victim said before he killed him.

Carlo and the brothers Piero and Tommaso had their net, beanbag gun, Mace, and a variety of restraints. It would be plenty.

They were in position at daylight, five blocks from Starling’s house in Arlington, parked in a handicap spot in a commercial street.

The van today was marked with adhesive signs, SENIOR CITIZEN MEDICAL TRANSPORT. It had a handicap tag hanging from the mirror and a false handicap license plate on the bumper. In the glove compartment was a receipt from a body shop for recent replacement of the bumper - they could claim a mix-up at the garage and confuse the issue for the time being if the tag number were questioned. The vehicle identification numbers and registration were legitimate. So were the hundred-dollar bills folded inside them for a bribe.

The monitor, Velcroed to the dashboard and running off the cigarette lighter socket, glowed with a street map of Starling’s neighborhood. The same Global Positioning Satellite that now plotted the position of the van also showed Starling’s vehicle, a bright dot in front of her house.

At 9:00 A.M., Carlo allowed Piero to eat something.

At 10:30 Tommaso could eat. He did not want them both full at the same time, in the event of along chase on foot. Afternoon meals were staggered too. Tommaso was rummaging in the cooler for a sandwich at mid-afternoon when they heard the beep.

Carlo’s malodorous head swung to the monitor.

“She’s moving,” Mogli said. He started the van.

Tommaso put the lid back on the cooler.

“Here we go. Here we go . Here she goes up Tindal toward the main road.”

Mogli swung into traffic. He had the great luxury of lying back three blocks where Starling could not possibly see him.

Nor could Mogli see the old gray pickup pull into traffic a block behind Starling, a Christmas tree hanging over the tailgate.

Driving the Mustang was one of the few pleasures Starling could count on. The powerful car, with no ABS and no traction control, was a handful on slick streets for much of the winter. While the roads were clear it was pleasant to wind the V8 out a little in second gear and listen to the pipes.

Mapp, a world-class couponeer, had sent with Starling a thick sheaf of her discount coupons pinned to the grocery list. She and Starling were doing a ham, a pot roast and two casseroles. Others were bringing the turkey.

A holiday dinner on her birthday was the last thing Starling cared about. She had to go along with it because Mapp and a surprising number of female agents, some of whom she only knew slightly and didn’t particularly like, were turning out to support her in her misery.

Jack Crawford weighed on her mind. She couldn’t visit him in intensive care, nor could she call him. She left notes for him at the nursing station, funny dog pictures with the lightest messages she could compose.

Starling distracted herself in her misery by playing with the Mustang, double-clutching and downshifting, using engine compression to slow for the turn into the Safeway supermarket parking lot, touching her brakes only to flash the brake lights for the drivers behind her.

She had to make four laps of the parking lot before she found a parking place, empty because it was blocked by an abandoned grocery cart. She got out and moved the cart. By the time she parked, another shopper had taken the basket.

She found a grocery cart near the door and rolled it toward the grocery store.

Mogli could see her turn in and stop on the screen of his monitor and in the distance he could see the big Safeway coming up on his right.

“She’s going in the grocery store.”

He turned into the parking lot. It took a few seconds to spot her car. He could see a young woman pushing a cart toward the entrance.

Carlo put the glasses on her. “That’s Starling. She looks like her pictures.”

He handed the glasses to Piero.

“I’d like to take her picture,” Piero said. “I got my zoom right here.”

There was a handicap parking space across the parking lane from her car. Mogli pulled into it, ahead of big Lincoln with handicap plates. The driver honked angrily.

Now they were looking out the back window of the van at the tail of Starling’s Car.

Perhaps because he was used to looking at American cars, Mogli spotted the old truck first, parked at a distant parking place near the edge of the lot. He could only see the gray tailgate of the pickup.

He pointed the truck out to Carlo. “Has he got a vise on the tail-gate? That what the liquor store guy said? Put the glasses on it, I can’t see for the fucking tree. Carlo, c’e una morsa sul camion?”

“Si. Yes, it’s there, the vise. Nobody inside.”

“Should we cover her in the store?”

Tommaso did not often question Carlo.

“No, if he does it, he’ll do it here,” Carlo said.

The dairy items were first. Starling, consulting her coupons, selected cheese for a casserole and some heat ‘em and eat ‘em rolls. Damn making scratch rolls for this crowd. She had reached the meat counter when she realized she had forgotten butter. She left her cart and went back for it.

When she returned to the meat department, her cart was gone. Someone had removed her few purchases and put them on a shelf nearby. They had kept the coupons, and the list.

“God damn it,” Starling said, loudly enough for nearby shoppers to hear. She looked around her.

Nobody had a thick sheaf of coupons in sight. She took a couple of deep breaths.

She could lurk near the cash registers and try to recognize her list, if they still had it clipped to the coupons. What the hell, couple of bucks. Don’t let it ruin your day.

There were no free grocery carts near the registers. Starling went outside to find another one in the parking lot.

“Ecco!”

Carlo saw him coming between the vehicles with his quick, light stride, Dr Hannibal Lecter in a camel’s hair overcoat and a fedora, carrying a gift in an act of utter whimsy. “Madonna! He’s coming to her car.”

Then the hunter in Carlo took over and he began to control his breathing, getting ready for the shot. The stag’s tooth he was chewing appeared briefly through his lips.

The back window of the van did not roll down.

“Metti in moto! Back around with your side to him,” Carlo said.

Dr Letter stopped by the passenger side of the Mustang, then changed his mind and went to the driver’s side, possibly intending to give the steering wheel a sniff.

He looked around him and slid the slim-jim out of his sleeve..

The van was broadside now. Carlo ready with the rifle. He touched the electric window button. Nothing happened.

Carlo’s voice, unnaturally calm now in action. “Mogli, il finestrino!”

Had to be the child safety lock, Mogli fumbled for Dr Lecter plunged the slim-jim into the crack beside the window and unlocked the door of Starling’s car. He started to get in.

With an oath Carlo slid the side door open a crack and raised the rifle, Pier o moving out of his way, the van rocking as the rifle cracked.

The dart flashed in the sunlight and with a small thock went through Dr Lecter’s starched collar and into his neck. The drug worked fast, a big dose in a critical place.

Ire tried to straighten up, but his knees were going. The package dropped from his hands and rolled under the car. He managed to get a knife out of his pocket and open it as he slumped between the door and the car, the tranquilizer turning his limbs to water. “Mischa,” he said as his vision failed.

Piero and Tommaso were on him like big cats, pinning him down between the cars until they were sure he was weak.

Starling, trundling her second grocery cart of the day across the lot, heard the slap of the air rifle and recognized it instantly as a muzzle signature - she ducked by reflex as the people around her shuffled along, oblivious. Hard to tell where it came from. She looked in the direction of her car, saw a man’s legs disappearing into a van and thought it was a mugging.

She slapped her side where the gun no longer lived and began to run, dodging through the cars toward the van.

The Lincoln with the elderly driver was back, honking to get in the handicapped spot blocked by the van, drowning out Starling yelling.

“Hold it! Stop! FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Maybe she could get a look at the plate.

Piero saw her coming and, moving fast, cut the valve stem off Starling’s front tire on the driver’s side with Dr Letter’s knife and dived into the van. The van bumped over a parking median and away toward the exit. She could see the plate. She wrote the number in dirt on the hood of a car with her finger.

Starling had her keys out. She heard the hissing of air rushing out the valve stem as she got to her car. She could see the top of the van moving toward the exit.

She tapped on the window of the Lincoln, honking at her now. “Do you have a cell phone? FBI, please, do you have a cell phone?”

“Go on, Noel,” the woman in the car said, poking the driver’s leg and pinching.

“This is just trouble, it’s some kind of trick. Don’t get involved.”

The Lincoln pulled away.

Starling ran for a pay phone and called 911.

Deputy Mogli drove the speed limit for fifteen blocks.

Carlo pulled the dart from Dr Letter’s neck, relieved when the hole didn’t spurt.

There was a hematoma about the size of a quarter under his skin. The injection was supposed to be diffused by a major muscle mass. The son of a bitch might die yet, before the pigs could kill him.

There was no talking in the van, only the heavy breathing of the men and the quacking of the police scanner under the dash. Dr Letter lay on the floor of the van in his fine overcoat, his hat rolled off his sleek head, one spot of bright blood on his collar, elegant as a pheasant in a butcher’s case.

Mogli pulled into a parking garage and drove up to the third level, only pausing long enough to peel the signs off the sides of the van and change the plates.

He needn’t have bothered. He laughed to himself when the police scanner picked up the bulletin. The 911 operator, apparently misunderstanding Starling’s description of a “gray van or minibus,” issued an all-points bulletin for a Greyhound bus. It must be said that 911 got all but one digit of the false license plate right.

“Just like Illinois,” Mogli said.

“I saw the knife, I was afraid he’d kill himself to get out of what’s coming,” Carlo told Piero and Tommaso. “He’ll wish he had cut his throat.”

When Starling checked her other tires, she saw the package on the ground beneath her car.

A three-hundred-dollar bottle of Chateau d’Yquem, and the note, written in that familiar hand: Happy Birthday, Clarice.

It was then that she understood what she had seen.