Mapp touched the end of her nose with her pencil. “If that’s Hot Bobby Lowrance, would you tell him I’m in the library?” Mapp said. “I’ll call him tomorrow, tell him.”
It was Crawford calling from an airplane, his voice scratchy on the phone. “Starling, pack for two nights and meet me in an hour.”
She thought he was gone, there was only a hollow humming on the telephone, then the voice came back abruptly “—won’t need the kit, just clothes.”
“Meet you where?”
“The Smithsonian.” He started talking to someone else before he punched off.
“Jack Crawford,” Starling said, flipping her bag on the bed.
Mapp appeared over the top of her Federal Code of Criminal Procedure. She watched Starling pack, an eyelid drooping over one of her great dark eyes.
“I don’t want to put anything on your mind,” she said.
“Yes you do,” Starling said. She knew what was coming.
Mapp had made the Law Review at the University of Maryland while working at night. Her academic standing at the academy was number two in the class, her attitude toward the books was pure banzai.
“You’re supposed to take the Criminal Code exam tomorrow and the PE test in two days. You make sure Supremo Crawford knows you could get recycled if he’s not careful. Soon as he says, ‘Good work, Trainee Starling,’ don’t you say, ‘The pleasure was mine.’ You get right in his old Easter Island face and say, ‘I’m counting on you to see to it yourself that I’m not recycled for missing school.’ Understand what I’m saying?”
“I can get a makeup on the Code,” Starling said, opening a barrette with her teeth.
“Right, and you fail it with no time to study, you think they won’t recycle you? Are you kidding me? Girl, they’ll sail you off the back steps like a dead Easter chick. Gratitude’s got a short half-life, Clarice. Make him say no recycle. You’ve got good grades—make him say it. I never would find another roommate that can iron as fast as you can at one minute to class.”
/>
* * *
Starling had her old Pinto moving up the four-lane at a steady lope, one mile an hour below the speed where the shimmy sets in. The smells of hot oil and mildew, the rattles underneath, the transmission’s whine resonated faintly with memories of her father’s pickup truck, her memories of riding beside him with her squirming brothers and sister.
She was doing the driving now, driving at night, the white dashes passing under blip blip blip. She had time to think. Her fears breathed on her from close behind her neck; other, recent memories squirmed beside her.
Starling was very much afraid Catherine Baker Martin’s body had been found. When Buffalo Bill found out who she was, he might have panicked. He might have killed her and dumped her body with a bug in the throat.
Maybe Crawford was bringing the bug to be identified. Why else would he want her at the Smithsonian? But any agent could carry a bug into the Smithsonian, an FBI messenger could do it for that matter. And he told her to pack for two days.
She could understand Crawford not explaining it to her over an unsecured radio link, but it was maddening to wonder.
She found an all-news station on the radio and waited through the weather report. When the news came, it was no help. The story from Memphis was a rehash of the seven o’clock news. Senator Martin’s daughter was missing. Her blouse had been found slit up the back in the style of Buffalo Bill. No witnesses. The victim found in West Virginia remained unidentified.
West Virginia. Among Clarice Starling’s memories of the Potter Funeral Home was something hard and valuable. Something durable, shining apart from the dark revelations. Something to keep. She deliberately recalled it now and found that she could squeeze it like a talisman. In the Potter Funeral Home, standing at the sink, she had found strength from a source that surprised and pleased her—the memory of her mother. Starling was a seasoned survivor on hand-me-down grace from her late father through her brothers; she was surprised and moved by this bounty she had found.
She parked the Pinto beneath FBI headquarters at Tenth and Pennsylvania. Two television crews were set up on the sidewalk, reporters looking over-groomed in the lights. They were intoning standup reports with the J. Edgar Hoover Building in the background. Starling skirted the lights and walked the two blocks to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History.
She could see a few lighted windows high in the old building. A Baltimore County Police van was parked in the semicircular drive. Crawford’s driver, Jeff, waited at the wheel of a new surveillance van behind it. When he saw Starling coming, he spoke into a hand-held radio.
CHAPTER 18
The guard took Clarice Starling to the second level above the Smithsonian’s great stuffed elephant. The elevator door opened onto that vast dim floor and Crawford was waiting there alone, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat.
“Evening, Starling.”
“Hello,” she said.
Crawford spoke over her shoulder to the guard. “We can make it from here by ourselves, Officer, thank you.”
Crawford and Starling walked side by side along a corridor in the stacked trays and cases of anthropological specimens. A few ceiling lights were on, not many. As she fell with him into the hunched, reflective attitude of a campus stroll, Starling became aware that Crawford wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, that he would have done it if it were possible for him to touch her.