فصل 39

CHAPTER 39

Normally, Clarice Starling would have been curious to see Crawford’s house in Arlington, but the bulletin on the car radio about Dr. Lecter’s escape knocked all that out of her.

Lips numb and scalp prickling, she drove by rote, saw the neat 1950s ranch house without looking at it, and only wondered dimly if the lit, curtained windows on the left were where Bella was lying. The doorbell seemed too loud.

Crawford opened the door on the second ring. He wore a baggy cardigan and he was talking on a wireless phone. “Copley in Memphis,” he said. Motioning for her to follow, he led her through the house, grunting into the telephone as he went.

In the kitchen, a nurse took a tiny bottle from the refrigerator and held it to the light. When Crawford raised his eyebrows to the nurse, she shook her head, she didn’t need him.

He took Starling to his study, down three steps into what was clearly a converted double garage. There was good space here, a sofa and chairs, and on the cluttered desk a computer terminal glowed green beside an antique astrolabe. The rug felt as though it was laid on concrete. Crawford waved her to a seat.

He put his hand over the receiver. “Starling, this is baloney, but did you hand Lecter anything at all in Memphis?” “No.”

“No object.”

“Nothing.”

“You took him the drawings and stuff from his cell.”

“I never gave it to him. The stuff’s still in my bag. He gave me the file. That’s all that passed between us.” Crawford tucked the phone under his jowl. “Copley, that’s unmitigated bullshit. I want you to step on that bastard and do it now. Straight to the chief, straight to the TBI. See the hotline’s posted with the rest. Burroughs is on it. Yes.” He turned off the phone and stuffed it in his pocket.

“Want some coffee, Starling? Coke?”

“What was that about handing things to Dr. Lecter?”

“Chilton’s saying you must have given Lecter something he used to slip the ratchet on the cuffs. You didn’t do it on purpose, he says—it was just ignorance.” Sometimes Crawford had angry little turtle-eyes. He watched how she took it. “Did Chilton try to snap your garters, Starling? Is that what’s the matter with him?” “Maybe. I’ll take black with sugar, please.”

While he was in the kitchen, she took deep breaths and looked around the room. If you live in a dormitory or a barracks, it’s comforting to be in a home. Even with the ground shaking under Starling, her sense of the Crawfords’ lives in this house helped her.

Crawford was coming, careful down the steps in his bifocals, carrying the cups. He was half an inch shorter in his moccasins. When Starling stood to take her coffee, their eyes were almost level. He smelled like soap, and his hair looked fluffy and gray.

“Copley said they haven’t found the ambulance yet. Police barracks are turning out all over the South.” She shook her head. “I don’t know any details. The radio just had the bulletin—Dr. Lecter killed two policemen and got away.” “Two corrections officers.” Crawford punched up the crawling text on his computer screen. “Names were Boyle and Pembry. You deal with them?” She nodded. “They … put me out of the lockup. They were okay about it.” Pembry coming around Chilton, uncomfortable, determined, but country-courteous. Come on with me, now, he said. He had liver spots on his hands and forehead. Dead now, pale beneath his spots.

Suddenly Starling had to put her coffee down. She filled her lungs deep and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “How’d he do it?” “He got away in an ambulance, Copley said. We’ll go into it. How did you make out with the blotter acid?” Starling had spent the late afternoon and early evening walking the sheet of Plutos through Scientific Analysis on Krendler’s orders. “Nothing. They’re trying the DEA files for a batch-match, but the stuff’s ten years old. Documents may do better with the printing than DEA can do with the dope.” “But it was blotter acid.”

“Yes. How’d he do it, Mr. Crawford?”

“Want to know?”

She nodded.

“Then I’ll tell you. They loaded Lecter into an ambulance by mistake. They thought he was Pembry, badly injured.” “Did he have on Pembry’s uniform? They were about the same size.”

“He put on Pembry’s uniform and part of Pembry’s face. And about a pound off Boyle, too. He wrapped Pembry’s body in the waterproof mattress cover and the sheets from his cell to keep it from dripping and stuffed it on top of the elevator. He put on the uniform, got himself fixed up, laid on the floor and fired shots into the ceiling to start the stampede. I don’t know what he did with the gun, stuffed it down the back of his pants, maybe. The ambulance comes, cops everywhere with their guns out. The ambulance crew came in fast and did what they’re trained to do under fire—they stuffed in an airway, slapped a bandage over the worst of it, pressure to stop bleeding, and hauled out of there. They did their job. The ambulance never made it to the hospital. The police are still looking for it. I don’t feel good about those medics. Copley said they’re playing the dispatcher’s tapes. The ambulances were called a couple of times. They think Lecter called the ambulances himself before he fired the shots, so he wouldn’t have to lie around too long. Dr. Lecter likes his fun.” Starling had never heard the bitter snarl in Crawford’s voice before. Because she associated bitter with weak, it frightened her.

“This escape doesn’t mean Dr. Lecter was lying,” Starling said. “Sure, he was lying to somebody—us or Senator Martin—but maybe he wasn’t lying to both of us. He told Senator Martin it was Billy Rubin and claimed that’s all he knew. He told me it was somebody with delusions of being a transsexual. About the last thing he said to me was, ‘Why not finish the arch?’ He was talking about following the sex-change theory that—” “I know, I saw your summary. There’s nowhere to go with that until we get names from the clinics. Alan Bloom’s gone personally to the department heads. They say they’re looking. I have to believe it.” “Mr. Crawford, are you in the glue?”

“I’m directed to take compassionate leave,” Crawford said. “There’s a new task force of FBI, DEA, and ‘additional elements’ from the Attorney General’s office—meaning Krendler.” “Who’s boss?”

“Officially, FBI Assistant Director John Golby. Let’s say he and I are in close consultation. John’s a good man. What about you, are you in the glue?” “Krendler told me to turn in my ID and the roscoe and report back to school.” “That was all he did before your visit to Lecter. Starling, he sent a rocket this afternoon to the Office of Professional Responsibility. It was a request ‘without prejudice’ that the Academy suspend you pending a reevaluation of your fitness for the service. It’s a chickenshit backshot. The Chief Gunny, John Brigham, saw it in the faculty meeting at Quantico a little while ago. He gave ‘em an earful and got on the horn to me.” “How bad is that?”

“You’re entitled to a hearing. I’ll vouch for your fitness and that’ll be enough. But if you spend any more time away, you’ll definitely be recycled, regardless of any finding at a hearing. Do you know what happens when you’re recycled?” “Sure, you’re sent back to the regional office that recruited you. You get to file reports and make coffee until you get another spot in a class.” “I can promise you a place in a later class, but I can’t keep them from recycling you if you miss the time.” “So I go back to school and stop working on this, or…”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Your job was Lecter. You did it. I’m not asking you to take a recycle. It could cost you, maybe half a year, maybe more.” “What about Catherine Martin?”

“He’s had her almost forty-eight hours—be forty-eight hours at midnight. If we don’t catch him he’ll probably do her tomorrow or the next day, if it’s like last time.” “Lecter’s not all we had.”

“They got six William Rubins so far, all with priors of one kind or another. None of ‘em look like much. No Billy Rubins on the bug journal subscription lists. The Knifemakers Guild knows about five cases of ivory anthrax in the last ten years. We’ve got a couple of those left to check. What else? Klaus hasn’t been identified—yet. Interpol reports a fugitive warrant outstanding in Marseilles for a Norwegian merchant seaman, a ‘Klaus Bjetland,’ however you say it. Norway’s looking for his dental records to send. If we get anything from the clinics, and you’ve got the time, you can help with it. Starling?” “Yes, Mr. Crawford?”

“Go back to school.”

“If you didn’t want me to chase him you shouldn’t have taken me in that funeral home, Mr. Crawford.” “No,” Crawford said. “I suppose I shouldn’t. But then we wouldn’t have the insect. You don’t turn in your roscoe. Quantico’s safe enough, but you’ll be armed any time you’re off the base at Quantico until Lecter’s caught or dead.” “What about you? He hates you. I mean he’s given this some thought.”

“Lot of people have, Starling, in a lot of jails. One of these days he might get around to it, but he’s way too busy now. It’s sweet to be out and he’s not ready to waste it that way. And this place is safer than it looks.” The phone in Crawford’s pocket buzzed. The one on the desk purred and blinked. He listened for a few moments, said “Okay,” and hung up.

“They found the ambulance in the underground garage at the Memphis airport.” He shook his head. “No good. Crew was in the back. Dead, both of them.” Crawford took off his glasses, rummaged for his handkerchief to polish them.

“Starling, the Smithsonian called Burroughs asking for you. The Pilcher fellow. They’re pretty close to finishing up on the bug. I want you to write a 302 on that and sign it for the permanent file. You found the bug and followed up on it and I want the record to say so. You up to it?” Starling was as tired as she had ever been. “Sure,” she said.

“Leave your car at the garage, and Jeff’ll drive you back to Quantico when you’re through.” On the steps she turned her face toward the lighted, curtained windows where the nurse kept watch, and then looked back at Crawford.

“I’m thinking about you both, Mr. Crawford.”

“Thank you, Starling,” he said.