The Silence of the Lambs (Hannibal Lecter 2)
Feathers rode on the thick brown water, curled feathers blown from the coops, carried on breaths of air that shivered the skin of the river.
The houses on Fell Street, Fredrica Bimmel’s street, were termed waterfront on the weathered realtors’ signs because their backyards ended at a slough, a backwater of the Licking River in Belvedere, Ohio, a Rust Belt town of 112,000, east of Columbus.
It was
a shabby neighborhood of big, old houses. A few of them had been bought cheap by young couples and renovated with Sears Best enamel, making the rest of the houses look worse. The Bimmel house had not been renovated.
Clarice Starling stood for a moment in Frederica’s backyard looking at the feathers on the water, her hands deep in the pockets of her trenchcoat. There was some rotten snow in the reeds, blue beneath the blue sky on this mild winter day.
Behind her Starling could hear Fredrica’s father hammering in the city of pigeon coops, the Orvieto of pigeon coops rising from the water’s edge and reaching almost to the house. She hadn’t seen Mr. Bimmel yet. The neighbors said he was there. Their faces were closed when they said it.
Starling was having some trouble with herself. At that moment in the night when she knew she had to leave the Academy to hunt Buffalo Bill, a lot of extraneous noises had stopped. She felt a pure new silence in the center of her mind, and a calm there. In a different place, down the front of her, she felt in flashes that she was a truant and a fool.
The petty annoyances of the morning hadn’t touched her—not the gymnasium stink of the airplane to Columbus, not the confusion and ineptitude at the rental-car counter. She’d snapped at the car clerk to make him move, but she hadn’t felt anything.
Starling had paid a high price for this time and she meant to use it as she thought best. Her time could be up at any moment, if Crawford was overruled and they pulled her credentials.
She should hurry, but to think about why, to dwell on Catherine’s plight on this final day, would be to waste the day entirely. To think of her in real time, being processed at this moment as Kimberly Emberg and Fredrica Bimmel had been processed, would jam all other thought.
The breeze fell off, the water still as death. Near her feet a curled feather spun on the surface tension. Hang on, Catherine.
Starling caught her lip between her teeth. If he shot her, she hoped he’d do a competent job of it.
Teach us to care and not to care.
Teach us to be still.
She turned to the leaning stack of coops and followed a path of boards laid on the mud between them, toward the sound of hammering. The hundreds of pigeons were of all sizes and colors; there were tall knock-kneed ones and pouters with their chests stuck out. Eyes bright, heads jerking as they paced, the birds spread their wings in the pale sun and made pleasant sounds as she passed.
Fredrica’s father, Gustav Bimmel, was a tall man, flat and wide-hipped with red-rimmed eyes of watery blue. A knit cap was pulled down to his eyebrows. He was building another coop on sawhorses in front of his work shed. Starling smelled vodka on his breath as he squinted at her identification.
“I don’t know nothing new to tell you,” he said. “The policemen come back here night before last. They went back over my statement with me again. Read it back to me. ‘Is that right? Is that right?’ I told him, I said hell yes, if that wasn’t right I wouldn’t have told you in the first place.”
“I’m trying to get an idea where the—get an idea where the kidnapper might have seen Fredrica, Mr. Bimmel. Where he might have spotted her and decided to take her away.”
“She went into Columbus on the bus to see about a job at that store there. The police said she got to the interview all right. She never came home. We don’t know where else she went that day. The FBI got her Master Charge slips, but there wasn’t nothing for that day. You know all that, don’t you?”
“About the credit card, yes sir, I do. Mr. Bimmel, do you have Fredrica’s things, are they here?
“Her room’s in the top of the house.”
“May I see?”
It took him a moment to decide where to lay down his hammer. “All right,” he said, “come along.”
CHAPTER 51
Jack Crawford’s office in the FBI’s Washington headquarters was painted an oppressive gray, but it had big windows.
Crawford stood at these windows with his clipboard held to the light, peering at a list off a God damned fuzzy dot-matrix printer that he’d told them to get rid of.
He’d come here from the funeral home and worked all morning, tweaking the Norwegians to hurry with their dental records on the missing seaman named Klaus, jerking San Diego’s chain to check Benjamin Raspail’s familiars at the Conservatory where he had taught, and stirring up Customs, which was supposed to be checking for import violations involving living insects.
Within five minutes of Crawford’s arrival, FBI Assistant Director John Golby, head of the new interservice task force, stuck his head in the office for a moment to say “Jack, we’re all thinking about you. Everybody appreciates you coming in. Has the service been set yet?”
“The wake’s tomorrow evening. Service is Saturday at eleven o’clock.”
Golby nodded. “There’s a UNICEF memorial, Jack, a fund. You want it to read Phyllis or Bella, we’ll do it any way you like.”