Had to be the child safety lock, Mogli fumbled for it.
Dr. Lecter plunged the slim-jim into the crack beside the window and unlocked the door of Starling’s car. He started to get in.
With an oath Carlo slid the side door open a crack and raised the rifle, Piero moving out of his way, the van rocking as the rifle cracked.
The dart flashed in the sunlight and with a small thock went through Dr. Lecter’s starched collar and into his neck. The drug worked fast, a big dose in a critical place. He tried to straighten up, but his knees were going. The package dropped from his hands and rolled under the car. He managed to get a knife out of his pocket and open it as he slumped between the door and the car, the tranquilizer turning his limbs to water. “Mischa,” he said as his vision failed.
Piero and Tommaso were on him like big cats, pinning him down between the cars until they were sure he was weak.
Starling, trundling her second grocery cart of the day across the lot, heard the slap of the air rifle and recognized it instantly as a muzzle signature—she ducked by reflex as the people around her shuffled along, oblivious. Hard to tell where it came from. She looked in the direction of her car, saw a man’s legs disappearing into a van and thought it was a mugging.
She slapped her side where the gun no longer lived and began to run, dodging through the cars toward the van.
The Lincoln with the elderly driver was back, honking to get in the handicapped spot blocked by the van, drowning out Starling yelling.
“Hold it! Stop! FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Maybe she could get a look at the plate.
Piero saw her coming and, moving fast, cut the valve stem off Starling’s front tire on the driver’s side with Dr. Lecter’s knife and dived into the van. The van bumped over a parking median and away toward the exit. She could see the plate. She wrote the number in dirt on the hood of a car with her finger.
Starling had her keys out. She heard the hissing of air rushing out the valve stem as she got to her car. She could see the top of the van moving toward the exit.
She tapped on the window of the Lincoln, honking at her now. “Do you have a cell phone? FBI, please, do you have a cell phone?”
“Go on, Noel,” the woman in the car said, poking the driver’s leg and pinching. “This is just trouble, it’s some kind of trick. Don’t get involved.” The Lincoln pulled away.
Starling ran for a pay phone and called 911.
Deputy Mogli drove the speed limit for fifteen blocks.
Carlo pulled the dart from Dr. Lecter’s neck, relieved when the hole didn’t spurt. There was a hematoma about the size of a quarter under his skin. The injection was supposed to be diffused by a major muscle mass. The son of a bitch might die yet, before the pigs could kill him.
There was no talking in the van, only the heavy breathing of the men and the quacking of the police scanner under the dash. Dr. Lecter lay on the floor of the van in his fine overcoat, his hat rolled off his sleek head, one spot of bright blood on his collar, elegant as a pheasant in a butcher’s case.
Mogli pulled into a parking garage and drove up to the third level, only pausing long enough to peel the signs off the sides of the van and change the plates.
He needn’t have bothered. He laughed to himself when the police scanner picked up the bulletin. The 911 operator, apparently misunderstanding Starling’s description of a “gray van or minibus,” issued an all-points bulletin for a Greyhound bus. It must be said that 911 got all but one digit of the false license plate right.
“Just like Illinois,” Mogli said.
“I saw the knife, I was afraid he’d kill himself to get out of what’s coming,” Carlo told Piero and Tommaso. “He’ll wish he had cut his throat.”
When Starling checked her other tires, she saw the package on the ground beneath her car.
A three-hundred-twenty-five-dollar bottle of Château d’Yquem, and the note, written in that familiar hand: Happy Birthday, Clarice.
It was then that she understood what she had seen.
CHAPTER
78
STARLING HAD the numbers that she needed in her mind. Drive ten blocks home to her own phone? No, back to the pay phone, taking the sticky receiver from a young woman, apologizing, putting in quarters, the woman summoning a grocery store guard.
Starling called the reactive squad at Washington Field Office, Buzzard’s Point.
They knew all about Starling on the squad where she had served so long, and transferred her to Clint Pearsall’s office, she digging for more quarters and dealing with the grocery store security guard at the same time, the guard asking again and again for ID.
At last Pearsall’s familiar voice on the phone.