Thomas Harris - The Silence of the Lambs

"And you believe he's treatable?"

"Particularly now, when he's coming out of a stuporous phase. How his cheeks shine!"

"Dr. Lecter, why do you say Buffalo Bill's not a sadist?"

"Because the newspapers have reported the bodies had ligature marks on the wrists, but not the ankles. Did you see any on the person's ankles in West Virginia?"

"No."

"Clarice, recreational flayings are always conducted with the victim inverted, so that blood pressure is maintained longer in the head and chest and the subject remains conscious. Didn't you know that?"

"No."

"When you're back in Washington, go to the National Gallery and look at Titian's Flaying of Marsyas before they send it back to Czechoslovakia. Wonderful for details, Titian-- look at helpful Pan, bringing the bucket of water."

"Dr. Lecter, we have some extraordinary circumstances here and some unusual opportunities."

"For whom?"

"For you, if we save this one. Did you see Senator Martin on television?"

"Yes, I saw the news."

"What did you think of the statement?"

"Misguided but harmless. She's badly advised."

"She's very powerful, Senator Martin. And determined."

"Let's have it."

"I think you have extraordinary insight. Senator Martin has indicated that if you help us get Catherine Baker Martin back alive and unharmed, she'll help you get transferred to a federal institution, and if there's a view available, you'll get it. You may also be asked to review written psychiatric evaluations of incoming patients-- a job, in other words. No relaxing of security restrictions."

"I don't believe that, Clarice."

"You should."

"Oh, I believe you . But there are more things you don't know about human behavior than how a proper flaying is conducted. Would you say that for a United States Senator, you're an odd choice of messenger?"

"I was your choice, Dr. Lecter. You chose to speak to me. Would you prefer someone else now? Or maybe you don't think you could help."

"That is both impudent and untrue, Clarice. I don't believe Jack Crawford would allow any compensation ever to reach me… Possibly I'll tell you one thing you can tell the Senator, but I operate strictly COD. Maybe I'll trade for a piece of information about you. Yes or no?"

"Let's hear the question."

"Yes or no? Catherine's waiting, isn't she? Listening to the whetstone? What do you think she'd ask you to do?"

"Let's hear the question."

"What's your worst memory of childhood?"

Starling took a deep breath.

"Quicker than that," Dr. Lecter said. "I'm not interested in your worst invention."

"The death of my father," Starling said.

"Tell me."

"He was a town marshal. One night he surprised two burglars, addicts, coming out of the back of the drugstore. As he was getting out of his pickup he short-shucked a pump shotgun and they shot him."

"Short-shucked?"

"He didn't work the slide fully. It was an old pump gun, a Remington 870, and the shell hung up in the shell carrier. When it happens the gun won't shoot and you have to take it down to clear it. I think he must have hit the slide on the door getting out."

"Was he killed outright?"

"No. He was strong. He lasted a month."

"Did you see him in the hospital?"

"Dr. Lecter-- yes."

"Tell me a detail you remember from the hospital."

Starling closed her eyes. "A neighbor came, an older woman, a single lady, and she recited the end of "Thanatopsis" to him. I guess that was all she knew to say. That's it. We've traded."

"Yes we have. You've been very frank, Clarice. I always know. I think it would be quite something to know you in private life."

"Quid pro quo."

"In life, was-the girl in West Virginia very attractive physically, do you think?"

"She was well-groomed."

"Don't waste my time with loyalty."

"She was heavy."

"Large?"

"Yes."

"Shot in the chest."

"Yes."

"Flat-chested, I expect."

"For her size, yes."

"But big through the hips. Roomy."

"She was, yes."

"What else?"

"She had an insect deliberately inserted in her throat-- that hasn't been made public."

"Was it a butterfly?"

Her breath stopped for a moment. She hoped he didn't hear it. "It was a moth," she said. "Please tell me how you anticipated that."

"Clarice, I'm going to tell you what Buffalo Bill wants Catherine Baker Martin for, and then good night. This is my last word under the current terms. You can tell the Senator what he wants with Catherine and she can come up with a more interesting offer for me… or she can wait until Catherine bobs to the surface and see that I was right."

"What does he want her for, Dr. Lecter?"

"He wants a vest with tits on it," Dr. Lecter said.

Catherine Baker Martin lay seventeen feet below the cellar floor. The darkness was loud with her breathing, loud with her heart. Sometimes the fear stood on her chest the way a trapper kills a fox. Sometimes she could think: she knew she was kidnapped, but she didn't know by whom. She knew she wasn't dreaming; in the absolute dark she could hear the tiny clicks her eyes made when she blinked.

She was better now than when she first regained consciousness. Much of the awful vertigo was gone, and she knew there was enough air. She could tell down from up and she had some sense of her body's position.

Her shoulder, hip, and knee hurt from being pressed against the cement floor where she lay. That side was down . Up was the rough futon she had crawled beneath during the last interval of blazing, blinding light. The throbbing in her head had subsided now. and her only real pain was in the fingers of her left hand. The ring finger was broken, she knew.

She wore a quilted jumpsuit that was strange to her. It was clean and smelled of fabric softener. The floor was clean too, except for the chicken bones and bits of vegetable her captor had raked into the hole. The only other objects with her were the futon and a plastic sanitation bucket with a thin string tied to the handle. It felt like cotton kitchen string and it led up into the darkness as far as she could reach.

Catherine Martin was free to move around, but there was no place to go. The floor she lay on was oval, about eight by ten feet, with a small drain in the center. It was the bottom of a deep covered pit. The smooth cement walls sloped gently inward as they rose.

Sounds from above now or was it her heart? Sounds from above. Sounds came clearly to her from overhead. The oubliette that held her was in the part of the basement directly beneath the kitchen. Footsteps now across the kitchen floor, and running water. The scratching of dog claws on linoleum. Nothing then until a weak disc of yellow light through the open trap above as the basement lights came on. Then blazing light in the pit, and this time she sat up into the light, the futon across her legs, determined to look around, trying to peer through her fingers as her eyes adjusted, her shadow swaying around her as a floodlamp lowered into the pit swung on its cord high above.

She flinched as her toilet bucket moved, lifted, swayed upward on its flimsy string, twisting slowly as it rose toward the light. She tried to swallow down her fear, got too much air with it, but managed to speak.

"My family will pay," she said. "Cash. My mother will pay it now, no questions asked. This is her private-- oh!" a flapping shadow down on her, only a towel. "This is her private number. It's 202-"

"Wash yourself."

It was the same unearthly voice she'd heard talking to the dog.

Another bucket coming down on a thin cord. She smelled hot, soapy water.

"Take it off and wash yourself all over, or you'll get the hose." And an aside to the dog as the voice faded, "Yes it will get the hose, won't it, Darlingheart, yes it will!"