“Can I go?”
“No. Jack said you’d ask. They’ve got two female marshals from Chicago and a nurse to take charge of Martin if they get her. You’d never be in time anyway, Starling.”
“What if he’s barricaded? It could take—”
“There won’t be any standoff. They find him, they fall on him—Crawford’s authorized an explosive entry. Special problems with this guy, Starling, he’s been in a hostage situation before. His juvenile homicides, they got him in a barricade situation in Sacramento with his grandmother as hostage—he’d already killed his grandfather—and it came out gruesome, let me tell you. He walked her out in front of the cops, they had this preacher talking to him. He’s a kid, nobody took the shot. He was behind her and he did her kidneys. Medical attention no avail. At twelve, he did this. So this time no negotiations, no warning. Martin’s probably dead already, but say we’re lucky. Say he had a lot on his mind, one thing and another he didn’t get around to it yet. If he sees us coming, he’ll do her right in our faces for spite. Costs him nothing, right? So they find him and—Boom!—the door’s down.”
The room was too damned hot and it smelled of baby ammonia.
Burroughs was still talking. “We’re looking for both names on the entomology magazine subscription lists, Knifemakers Guild, known offenders, the works—nobody stands down until it’s over. You’re doing Bimmel’s acquaintances, right?”
“Right.”
“Justice says it’s a tricky case to make if we don’t catch him dirty. We need him with Martin or with something identifiable—something with teeth or fingers, frankly. Goes without saying, if he’s dumped Martin already, we need witnesses to put him with a victim before the fact. We can use your stuff from Bimmel regardless.… Starling, I wish to God this had happened yesterday for more reasons than the Martin kid. They throw the switch on you at Quantico?”
“I think so. They put in somebody else that was waiting out a recycle—that’s what they tell me.”
“If we get him in Chicago, you made a lot of contribution here. They’re hardasses at Quantico like they’re supposed to be, but they have to see that. Wait a minute.”
Starling could hear Burroughs barking, away from the phone. Then he was back again.
“Nothing—they can deploy in Calumet City in forty to fifty-five, depends on the winds aloft. Chicago SWAT’s deputized in case they find him sooner. Calumet Power and Light’s come up with four possible addresses. Starling, watch for anything they can use up there to narrow it down. You see anything about Chicago or Calumet, get to me fast.”
“Righto.”
“Now listen—this and I gotta go. If it happens, if we get him in Calumet City, you fall in at Quantico 0800 mañana with your Mary Janes shined. Jack’s going before the board with you. So is the chief gunny, Brigham. It don’t hurt to ask.”
“Jerry, one other thing: Fredrica Bimmel had some warmups made by Juno, it’s a brand of fat clothes. Catherine Martin had some too, for what it’s worth. He might watch fat stores to find large victims. We could ask Memphis, Akron, the other places.”
“Got it. Keep smiling.”
Starling walked out in the junky yard in Belvedere, Ohio, 380 long miles from the action in Chicago. The cold air felt good on her face. She threw a small punch in the air, rooting hard for the Hostage Rescue Team. At the same time, she felt a little trembly in her chin and cheeks. What the hell was this? What the hell would she have done if she’d found anything? She’d have called the cavalry, the Cleveland field office, and Columbus SWAT, the Belvedere PD too.
Saving the young woman, sa
ving the daughter of Senator Fuck-You Martin and the ones that might come after—truly, that was what mattered. If they did it, everybody was right.
If they weren’t in time, if they found something awful, please God they got Buffa—got Jame Gumb or Mr. Hide or whatever they wanted to call the damned thing.
Still, to be so close, to get a hand on the rump of it, to have a good idea a day late and wind up far from the arrest, busted out of school, it all smacked of losing. Starling had long suspected guiltily, that the Starlings’ luck had been sour for a couple of hundred years now—that all the Starlings had been wandering around pissed off and confused back through the mists of time. That if you could find the tracks of the first Starling, they would lead in a circle. This was classic loser thinking, and she was damned if she’d entertain it.
If they caught him because of the profile she’d gotten from Dr. Lecter, it had to help her with the Department of Justice. Starling had to think about that a little; her career hopes were twitching like a phantom limb.
Whatever happened, having the flash on the dressmaking pattern had felt nearly as good as anything ever had. There was stuff to keep here. She’d found courage in the memory of her mother as well as her father. She’d earned and kept Crawford’s confidence. These were things to keep in her own White Owl cigar box.
Her job, her duty, was to think about Fredrica and how Gumb might have gotten her. A criminal prosecution of Buffalo Bill would require all the facts.
Think about Fredrica, stuck here all her young life. Where would she look for the exit? Did her longings resonate with Buffalo Bill’s? Did that draw them together? Awful thought, that he might have understood her out of his own experience, empathized even, and still helped himself to her skin.
Starling stood at the edge of the water.
Almost every place has a moment of the day, an angle and intensity of light, in which it looks its best. When you’re stuck someplace, you learn that time and you look forward to it. This, midafternoon, was probably the time for the Licking River behind Fell Street. Was this the Bimmel girl’s time to dream? The pale sun raised enough vapor off the water to blur the old refrigerators and ranges dumped in the brush on the far side of the backwater. The northeast wind, opposite the light, pushed the cattails toward the sun.
A piece of white PVC pipe led from Mr. Bimmel’s shed toward the river. It gurgled and a brief rush of bloody water came out, staining the old snow. Bimmel came out into the sun. The front of his trousers was flecked with blood and he carried some pink and gray lumps in a plastic food bag.
“Squab,” he said, when he saw Starling looking. “Ever eat squab?”
“No,” Starling said, turning back to the water, “I’ve eaten doves.”