The Silence of the Lambs - Страница 38

In all there were fifteen armed policemen in the lobby plus two Corrections officers set to relieve Pembry and Boyle at 7:00 P.M. Sergeant Tate himself was looking forward to going off duty with the eleven-to-seven shift.

All posts reported quiet. None of the nut calls threatening Lecter had come to anything.

At 6:45, Tate heard the elevator start up. He saw the bronze arrow above the door begin to crawl around the dial. It stopped at five.

Tate looked around the'lobby. "Did Sweeney go up for the tray?"

"Naw, I'm here, Sarge. You mind calling, see if they're through? I need to get going."

Sergeant Tate dialed three digits and listened. "Phone's busy," he said. "Go ahead up and see." He turned back to the log he was completing for the eleven-to-seven shift.

Patrolman Sweeney pushed the elevator button. It didn't come.

"Had to have lamb chops tonight, rare," Sweeney said. "What you reckon he'll want for breakfast, some fucking thing from the zoo? And who'll have to catch it for him? Sweeney."

The bronze arrow above the door stayed on five.

Sweeney waited another minute. "What is this shit?" he said.

The.38 boomed somewhere above them, the reports echoing down the stone stairs, two fast shots and then a third.

Sergeant Tate, on his feet at the third one, microphone in his hand. "CP, shots fired upstairs at the tower. Outside posts look sharp. We're going up."

Yelling, milling in the lobby.

Tate saw the bronze arrow of the elevator moving then. It was already down to four. Tate roared over the racket, "Hold it! Guard mount double up at your outside posts, first squad stays with me. Berry and Howard cover that fucking elevator if it comes--" The needle stopped at three.

"First squad, here we go. Don't pass a door without checking it. Bobby, outside-- get a shotgun and the vests and bring 'em up."

Tate's mind was racing on the first flight of stairs. Caution fought with the terrible need to help the officers upstairs. God don't let him be out Nobody weasing vests, shit. Fucking Corrections screws.

The offices on two, three and four were supposed to be empty and locked. You could get from the tower to the main building on those floors, if you went through the offices. You couldn't on five.

Tate had been to the excellent Tennessee SWAT school and he knew how to do it. He went first and took the young ones in hand. Fast and careful they took the stairs, covering each other from landing to landing.

"You turn your back on a door before you check it, I'll ream your ass."

The doors off the second-floor landing were dark and locked.

Up to three now, the little corridor dim. One rectangle of light on the floor from the open elevator car. Tate moved down the wall opposite the open elevator, no mirrors in the car to help him. With two pounds' pressure on a nine-pound trigger, he looked inside the car. Empty.

Tate yelled up the stairs, "Boyle! Pembry! Shit." He posted a man on three and moved up.

Four was flooded with the music of the piano coming from above. The door into the offices opened at a push. Beyond the offices, the beam of the long flashlight shined on a door open wide into the great dark building beyond.

"Boyle! Pembry!" He left two on the landing. "Cover the door. Vests are coming. Don't show your ass in that doorway."

Tate climbed the stone stairs into the music. At the top of the tower now, the fifth-floor landing, light dim in the short corridor. Bright light through the frosted glass that said SHELBY COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

Tate moved low beneath the door glass to the side opposite the hinges. He nodded to Jacobs on the other side, turned the knob and shoved hard, the door swinging all the way back hard enough for the glass to shatter, Tate inside fast and out of the doorframe, covering the room over the wide sights of his revolver.

Tate had seen many things. He had seen accidents beyond reckoning, fights, murders. He had seen six dead policemen in his time. But he thought that what lay at his feet was the worst thing he had ever seen happen to an officer. The meat above the uniform collar no longer resembled a face. The front and top of the head were a slick of blood peaked with torn flesh and a single eye was stuck beside the nostrils, the sockets full of blood.

Jacobs passed Tate, slipping on the bloody floor as he went in to the cell. He bent over Boyle, still handcuffed to the table leg. Boyle partly, eviscerated, his face hacked to pieces, seemed to have exploded blood in the cell, the walls and the stripped cot covered with gouts and splashes.

Jacobs put his fingers on the neck. "This one's dead," he called over the music. "Sarge?"

Tate, back at himself, ashamed of a second's lapse, and he was talking into his radio. "Command post, two officers down. Repeat, two officers down. Prisoner is missing. Lecter is missing. Outside posts watch the windows, subject has stripped the bed, he may be making a rope. Confirm ambulances en route."

"Pembry dead, Sarge?" Jacobs shut the music off.

Tate knelt and as he reached for the neck to feel, the awful thing on the floor groaned and blew a bloody bubble.

"Pembry's alive." Tate didn't want to put his mouth in the bloody mess, knew he would if he had to help Pembry breathe, knew he wouldn't make one of the patrolmen do it. Better if Pembry died, but he would help him breathe. But there was a heartbeat, he found it, there was breathing. It was ragged and gurgling but it was breathing. The ruin was breathing on its own.

Tate's radio crackled. A patrol lieutenant set up on the lot outside took command and wanted news. Tate had to talk.

"Come here, Murray," Tate called to a young patrolman. "Get down here with Pembry and take ahold of him where he can feel your hands on him. Talk to him.

"What's his name, Sarge?" Murray was green.

"It's Pembry, now talk to him, God dammit." Tate on the radio. "Two officers down, Boyle's dead and Pembry's bad hurt. Lecter's missing and armed-- he took their guns. Belts and holsters are on the desk."

The lieutenant's voice was scratchy through the thick walls. "Can you confirm the stairway clear for stretchers?"

"Yes sir. Call up to four before they pass. I have men on every landing."

"Roger, Sergeant. Post Eight out here thought he saw some movement behind the windows in the main building on four. We've got the exits covered, he's not getting out. Hold your positions on the landings. SWAT's rolling. We're gonna let SWAT flush him out. Confirm."

"I understand. SWAT's play."

"What's he got?"

"Two pistols and a knife, Lieutenant-- Jacobs, see if there's any ammo in the gunbelts."

"Dump pouches," the patrolman said. "Pembry's still full, Boyle's too. Dumb shit didn't take the extra rounds."

"What are they?"

"Thirty-eight +Ps JHP."

Tate was back on the radio. "Lieutenant, it looks like he's got two six-shot.38s. We heard three rounds fired and the dump pouches on the gunbelts are still full, so he may just have nine left. Advise SWAT it's +Ps jacketed hollowpoints. This guy favors the face."

Plus Ps were hot rounds, but they would not penetrate SWATs body armor. A hit in the face would very likely be fatal, a hit on a limb would maim.

"Stretchers coming up, Tate."

The ambulances were there amazingly fast, but it did not seem fast enough to Tate, listening to the pitiful thing at his feet. Young Murray was trying to hold the groaning, jerking body, trying to talk reassuringly and not look at him, and he was saying, "You're just fine, Pembry, looking good," over and over in the same sick tone.

As soon as he saw the ambulance attendants on the landing, Tate yelled, "Corpsman!" as he had in war.

He got Murray by the shoulder and moved him out of the way. The ambulance attendants worked fast, expertly securing the clenched, blood-slick fists under the belt, getting an airway in and peeling a nonstick surgical bandage to get some pressure on the bloody face and head. One of them popped an intravenous plasma pack, but the other, taking blood pressure and pulse, shook his head and said, "Downstairs."

Orders on the radio now. "rate, I want you to clear the offices in the tower and seal it off. Secure the doors from the main building. Then cover from the landings. I'm sending up vests and shotguns. We'll get him alive if he wants to come, but we take no special risks to preserve his life. Understand me?"

"I got it, Lieutenant."

"I want SWAT and nobody but SWAT in the main building. Let me have that back."

Tate repeated the order.

Tate was a good sergeant and he showed it now as he and Jacobs shrugged into their heavy armored vests and followed the gurney as the orderlies carried it down the stairs to the ambulance. A second crew followed with Boyle. The men on the landings were angry, seeing the gurneys pass, and Tate had a word of wisdom for them: "Don't let your temper get your ass shot off."

As the sirens wailed outside, Tate, backed by the veteran Jacobs, carefully cleared the offices and sealed off the tower.

A cool draft blew down the hall on four. Beyond the door, in the vast dark spaces of the main building, the telephones were ringing. In dark offices all over the building, buttons on telephones were winking like fireflies, the bells sounding over and over.

The word was out that Dr. Lecter was "barricaded" in the building, and radio and television reporters were calling, dialing fast with their modems, trying to get live interviews with the monster. To avoid this, SWAT usually has the telephones shut off, except for one that the negotiator uses. This building was too big, the offices too many.