Thomas Harris - The Silence of the Lambs

He signed the register "Lloyd Wyman," a signature he had practiced in Wyman's car.

"How will you be paying, Mr. Wyman?" the clerk said.

"American Express." Dr. Lecter handed the man Lloyd Wyman's credit card.

Soft piano music came from the lounge. At the bar Dr. Lecter could see two people with bandages across their noses. A middle-aged couple crossed to the elevators, humming a Cole Porter tune. The woman wore a gauze patch over her eye.

The clerk finished making the credit card impression. "You do know, Mr. Wyman, you're entitled to use the hospital garage."

"Yes, thank you," Dr. Lecter said. He had already parked Wyman's car in the garage, with Wyman in the trunk.

The bellman who carried Wyman's bags to the small suite got one of Wyman's five-dollar 'bills in compensation.

Dr. Lecter ordered a drink and a sandwich and relaxed with a long shower.

The suite seemed enormous to Dr. Lecter after his long confinement. He enjoyed going to and fro in his suite and walking up and down in it.

From his windows he could see across the street the Myron and Sadie Fleischer Pavilion of St. Louis City Hospital, housing one of the world's foremost centers for craniofacial surgery.

Dr. Lecter's visage was too well known for him to be able to take advantage of the plastic surgeons here, but it was one place in the world where he could walk around with a bandage on his face without exciting interest.

He had stayed here once before, years ago, when he was doing psychiatric research in the superb Robert J. Brockman Memorial Library.

Heady to have a window, several windows. He stood at his windows in the dark, watching the car lights move across the MacArthur Bridge and savoring his drink. He was pleasantly fatigued by the five-hour drive from Memphis.

The only real rush of the evening had been in the underground garage at Memphis International Airport. Cleaning up with cotton pads and alcohol and distilled water in the back of the parked ambulance was not at all convenient. Once he was in the attendant's whites, it was just a matter of catching a single traveler in a deserted aisle of long-term parking in the great garage. The man obligingly leaned into the trunk of his car for his sample case, and never saw Dr. Lecter come up behind him.

Dr. Lecter wondered if the police believed he was fool enough to fly from the airport.

The only problem on the drive to St. Louis was finding the lights, the dimmers, and the wipers in the foreign car, as Dr. Lecter was unfamiliar with stalk controls beside the steering wheel.

Tomorrow he would shop for things he needed, hair bleach, barbering supplies, a sunlamp, and there were other, prescription, items that he would obtain to make some immediate changes in his appearance. When it was convenient, he would move on.

There was no reason to hurry.

Ardelia Mapp was in her usual position, propped up in bed with a book. She was listening to all-news radio. She turned it off when Clarice Starling trudged in. Looking into Starling's drawn face, blessedly she didn't ask anything except, "Want some tea?"

When she was studying, Mapp drank a beverage she brewed of mixed loose leaves her grandmother sent her, which she called "Smart People's Tea."

Of the two brightest people Starling knew, one was also the steadiest person she knew and the other was the most frightening. Starling hoped that gave her some balance in her acquaintance.

"You were lucky to miss today," Mapp said. "That damn Kim Won ran us right into the ground. I'm not lying. I believe they must have more gravity in Korea than we do. Then they come over here and get light, see, get jobs teaching PE because it's not any work for them… John Brigham came by."

"When?"

"Tonight, a little while ago. Wanted to know if you were back yet. He had his hair slicked down. Shifted around like a freshman in the lobby. We had a little talk. He said if you're behind and we need to jam instead of shoot during the range period the next couple of days, he'll open up the range this weekend and let us make it up. I said I'd let him know. He's a nice man."

"Yeah, he is."

"Did you know he wants you to shoot against the DEA and Customs in the interservice match?"

"Nope "

"Not the Women's. The Open. Next question: Do you know the Fourth Amendment stuff for Friday?"

"A lot of it I do."

"Okay, what's Chimel versus California?"

"Searches in secondary schools."

"What about school searches?"

"I don't know."

"It's the 'immediate reach' concept. Who was Schneckloth?"

"Hell, I don't know."

"Schneckloth versus Bustamonte."

"Is it the reasonable expectation of privacy?"

"Boo to you. Expectation of privacy is the Katz principle. Schneckloth is consent to search. I can see we've got to jam on the books, my girl. I've got the notes."

"Not tonight."

"No. But tomorrow you'll wake up with your mind fertile and ignorant, and then we'll begin to plant the harvest for Friday. Starling, Brigham said-- he's not supposed to tell, so I promised-- he said you'll beat the hearing. He thinks that signifying son of a bitch Krendler won't remember you two days from now. Your grades are good, we'll knock this stuff out easy." Mapp studied Starling's tired face. "You, did the best anybody could for that poor soul, Starling. You stuck your neck out for her and you got your butt kicked for her and you moved things along. You deserve a chance yourself. Why don't you go ahead and crash? I'm fixing to shut this down myself."

"Ardelia. Thanks."

And after the lights were out.

"Starling?"

"Yeah?"

"Who do you think's prettiest, Brigham or Hot Bobby Lowrance?"

"That's a hard one."

"Brigham's got a tattoo on his shoulder, I could see it through his shirt. What does it say?"

"I wouldn't have any idea."

"Will you let me know soon as you find out?"

"Probably not."

"I told you about Hot Bobby's python briefs."

"You just saw 'em through the window when he was lifting weights."

"Did Gracie tell you that? That girl's mouth is gonna--"

Starling was asleep.

Shortly before 3:00 A.M., Crawford, dozing beside his wife, came awake. There was a catch in Bella's breathing and she had stirred on her bed. He sat up and took her hand.

"Bella?"

She took a deep breath and let it out. Her eyes were open for the first time in days. Crawford put his face close before hers, but he didn't think she could see him.

"Bella, I love you, kid," he said in case she could hear.

Fear brushed the walls of his chest, circling inside him like a bat in a house. Then he got hold of it.

He wanted to get something for her, anything, but he did not want her to feel him let go of her hand.

He put his ear to her chest. He heard a soft beat, a flutter, and then her heart stopped. There was nothing to hear, there was only a curious cool rushing. He didn't know if the sound was in her chest or only in his ears.

"God bless you and keep you with Him… and with your folks," Crawford. said, words he wanted to be true.

He gathered her to him on the bed, sitting against the headboard, held her to his chest while her brain died. His chin pushed back the scarf from the remnants of her hair. He did not cry. He had done all that.

Crawford changed her into her favorite, her best bed gown and sat for a while beside the high bed, holding her hand against his cheek. It was a square, clever hand, marked with a lifetime of gardening, marked by IV needles now.

When she came in from the garden, her hands smelled like thyme.

("Think about it like egg white on your fingers," the girls at school had counseled Bella about sex. She and Crawford had joked about it in bed, years ago, years later, last year. Don't think about that, think about the good stuff, the pure stuff. That was the pure stuff. She wore a round hat and white gloves and going up in the elevator the first time he whistled a dramatic arrangement of "Begin the Beguine." In the room she teased him that he had the cluttered pockets of a boy.)