The Silence of the Lambs - Страница 22

Whether his behavior was an earnest, inept attempt to swish or a hateful mocking would be hard to say on short acquaintance, and short acquaintances were the only kind he had.

"Whatcha gonna do for meeee?"

The dog scratched on the door at the sound of his voice. Gumb put on his robe and let the dog in. He picked up the little champagne-colored poodle and kissed her plump back.

"Ye-e-e-e-s. Are you famished, Precious? I am too."

He switched the little dog from one arm to the other to open the bedroom door. She squirmed to get down.

"Just a mo', sweetheart." With his free hand he picked up a Mini-14 carbine from the floor beside the bed and laid it across the pillows. "Now. Now, then. We'll have our supper in a minute." He put the little dog on the floor while he found his nightclothes. She trailed him eagerly downstairs to the kitchen.

Jame Gumb took three TV dinners from his microwave oven. There were two Hungry Man dinners for himself and one Lean Cuisine for the poodle.

The poodle greedily ate her entrée and the dessert, leaving the vegetable. Jame Gumb left only the bones on his two trays.

He let the little dog out the back door and, clutching his robe closed against the chill, he watched her squat in the narrow strip of light from the doorway.

"You haven't done Number Two-ooo. All right, I won't watch." But he took a sly peek between his fingers. "Oh, super, you little baggage, aren't you a perfect lady? Come on, let's go to bed."

Mr. Gumb liked to go to bed. He did it several times a night. He liked to get up too, and sit in one or another of his many rooms without turning on the light, or work for a little while in the night, when he was hot with something creative.

He started to turn out the kitchen light, but paused, his lips in a judicious spout as he considered the litter of supper. He gathered up the three TV trays and wiped off the table.

A switch at the head of the stairs turned on the lights in the basement. Jame Gumb started down, carrying the trays. The little dog cried in the kitchen and nosed open the door behind him.

"All right, Silly Billy." He scooped up the poodle and carried her down. She wriggled and nosed at the trays in his other hand. "No you don't, you've had enough." He put her down and she followed close beside him through the rambling, multilevel basement.

In a basement room directly beneath the kitchen was a well, long dry. Its stone rim, reinforced with modern well rings and cement, rose two feet above the sandy floor. The original wooden safety cover, too heavy for a child to lift, was still in place. There was a trap in the lid big enough to lower a bucket through. The trap was open and Jame Gumb scraped his trays and the dog's tray into it.

The bones and bits of vegetable winked out of sight into the absolute blackness of the well. The little dog sat up and begged.

"No, no, all gone," Gumb said. "You're too fat as it is."

He climbed the basement stairs, whispering "Fatty Bread, Fatty Bread" to his little dog. He gave no sign if he heard the cry, still fairly strong and sane, that echoed up from the black hole:

"PLEEASE."

CHAPTER 21

Clarice Starling entered the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane at a little after 10:00 P.M. She was alone. Starling had hoped Dr. Frederick Chilton wouldn't be there, but he was waiting for her in his office.

Chilton wore an English-cut sportcoat in windowpane check. The double vent and skirts gave it a peplum effect, Starling thought. She hoped to God he hadn't dressed for her.

The room was bare in front of his desk, except for a straight chair screwed to the floor. Starling stood beside it while her greeting hung in the air. She could smell the cold, rank pipes in the rack beside Chilton's humidor.

Dr. Chilton finished examining his collection of Franklin Mint locomotives and turned to her.

"Would you like a cup of decaf?"

"No, thanks. I'm sorry to interrupt your evening."

"You're still trying to find out something about that head business," Dr. Chilton said.

"Yes. The Baltimore district attorney's office told me they'd made the arrangements with you, Doctor."

"Oh yes. I work very closely with the authorities here, Miss Starling. Are,you doing an article or a thesis, by the way?"

"No."

"Have you ever been published in any of the professional journals?"

"No, I never have. This is just an errand the U.S. Attorney's office asked me to do for Baltimore County Homicide. We left them with an open case and we're just helping them tidy up the loose ends." Starling found her distaste for Chilton made the lying easier.

"Are you wired, Miss Starling?"

"Am I--"

"Are you wearing a microphone device to record what Dr. Lecter says? The police term is 'wired,' I'm sure you've heard it."

"No."

Dr. Chilton took a small Pearlcorder from his desk and popped a cassette into it. "Then put this in your purse. I'll have it transcribed and forward you a copy. You can use it to augment your notes."

"No, I can't do that, Dr. Chilton."

"Why on earth not? The Baltimore authorities have asked me all along for my analysis of anything Lecter says about this Klaus business."

Get around Chilton if you can, Crawford told her. We can step on him in a minute with a court order, but Lecter will smell it. He can see through Chilton like a CAT scan.

"The U.S. Attorney thought we'd try an informal approach first. If I recorded Dr. Lecter without his knowledge, and he found out, it would really, it would be the end of any kind of working atmosphere we had. I'm sure you'd agree with that."

"How would he find out?"

He'd read it in the newspaper with everything else you know, you fucking jerk. She didn't answer. "If this should go anywhere and he has to depose, you'd be the first one to see the material and I'm sure you'd be invited to serve as expert witness. We're just trying to get a lead out of him now."

"Do you know why he talks to you, Miss Starling?"

"No, Dr. Chilton."

He looked at each item in the claque of certificates and diplomas on the walls behind his desk as though he were conducting a poll. Now a slow turn to Starling. "Do you really feel you know what you're doing?"

"Sure I do." Lot of ''do's'' there. Starling's legs were shaky from too much exercise. She didn't want to fight with Chilton. She had to have something left when she got to Lecter.

"What you're doing is coming into my hospital to conduct an interview and refusing to share information with me."

"I'm acting on my instructions, Dr. Chilton. I have the U.S. Attorney's night number here. Now please, either discuss it with him or let me do my job."

"I'm not a turnkey here, Miss Starling. I don't come running down here at night just to let people in and out. I had a ticket to Holiday on Ice."

He realized he'd said a ticket. In that instant Starling saw his life, and he knew it.

She saw his bleak refrigerator, the crumbs on the TV tray where he ate alone, the still piles his things stayed in for months until he moved them-- she felt the ache of his whole yellow-smiling Sen-Sen lonesome life-- and switchblade-quick she knew not to spare him, not to talk on or look away. She stared into his face, and with the smallest tilt of her head, she gave him her good looks and bored her knowledge in, speared him with it, knowing he couldn't stand for the conversation to go on.

He sent her with an orderly named Alonzo.

CHAPTER 22

Descending through the asylum with Alonzo toward the final keep, Starling managed to shut out much of the slammings and the screaming, though she felt them shiver the air against her skin. Pressure built on her as though she sank through water, down and down.

The proximity of madmen-- the thought of Catherine Martin bound and alone, with one of them snuffling her, patting his pockets for his tools-- braced Starling for her job. But she needed more than resolution. She needed to be calm, to be still, to be the keenest instrument. She had to use patience in the face of the awful need to hurry. If Dr. Lecter knew the answer, she'd have to find it down among the tendrils of his thought.

Starling found she thought of Catherine Baker Martin as the child she'd seen in the film on the news, the little girl in the sailboat.

Alonzo pushed the buzzer at the last heavy door.

"Teach us to care and not to care, teach us to be still."

"Pardon me?" Alonzo said, and Starling realized she had spoken aloud.

He left her with the big orderly who opened the door. As Alonzo turned away, she saw him cross himself.

"Welcome back," the orderly said, and shot the bolts home behind her.

"Hello, Barney."

A paperback book was wrapped around Barney's massive index finger as he held his place. It was Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility; Starling was set to notice everything.

"How do you want the lights?" he said.

The corridor between the cells was dim. Near the far end she could see bright light from the last cell shining on the corridor floor.

"Dr. Lecter's awake."

"At night, always-- even when his lights are off."

"Let's leave them like they are."

"Stay in the middle going down, don't touch the bars, right?"

"I want to shut that TV off." The television had been moved. It was at the far end, facing up the center of the corridor. Some inmates could see it by leaning their heads against the bars.

"Sure, turn the sound off, but leave the picture if you don't mind. Some of 'em like to look at it. The chair's right there if you want it."