Chapter Eleven
Monday, October 16, 1:30 PM, Summerlin
A year old video tape of Rinaldo Pazzi, gutted, swinging from an electrical cord against the floodlit walls of the Palazzo Vecchio, flickered on the large color television set in Margot and Judy's den. Several Ingrams, two cousins, a brother, and an elderly aunt whose name Margot could never remember, were watching raptly, like children at the story hour. They had all been watching soaps when the news bulletins had started breaking in to the regular programming and now watched this more absorbing show with avid interest.
Judy and Margot stood together in the doorway to the room, neither in nor out, and watched the television screen silently. Judy had Michael slung on her hip, and he cooed occasionally, almost as though entertained by the videotaped exploits of his namesake.
The image onscreen changed to a mug shot of Dr. Lecter, taken at the time of his arrest. Neither Judy nor Margot thought the photo looked much like him.
Lecter's former face disappeared and was replaced by a close video shot of Clarice Starling's face, taken only this morning. This shot was then replaced by a more distant shot, her full figure stepping off the hotel elevator, her hospital blanket like a veil slipping away from her face, her highly dramatic fainting spell.
"That poor girl," commented the Ingram auntie. "I can't even begin to imagine what all that . . . that ANIMAL must have done to her." She shuddered extravagantly and rolled her eyes as she shook her head, thus indicating that perhaps she actually could begin to imagine it, after all. And was not completely averse to doing so.
Margot and Judy exchanged a look and left their threshold television vantage point. Judy followed Margot, striding purposefully, down the hall and into the kitchen, currently empty. Once there, Margot's purposeful manner evaporated, and she looked around the empty, sunny room without really seeing it, turning in several distracted circles. Finally, she turned to Judy and raised her hands in a vague "what-now?" gesture.
"Let's have some tea," Judy said. "I'll put on a pot. Sit down, Margot."
Margot sat heavily at the big mission style refectory table they used in the kitchen. Judy handed her the baby.
"That 'animal' they're talking about is snoozing right upstairs, Judy," she said, keeping her voice low. "Probably having some hellish bad dreams, too. Sure hope he doesn't walk in his sleep! I'm not sure tea is gonna help."
Judy, rather incredibly, laughed.
"Well, maybe not. But it couldn't hurt," she pointed out.
Margot had to smile. Judy finished filling the kettle with water and put it on to boil. Then she pulled a chair out and sat down, knee to knee, with Margot.
"Let's talk, baby," she said. 'Tell me what's on your mind."
Margot sighed and ran one hand through her hair, supporting Michael with the other hand.
"I'm not sure what's on my mind. My so-called mind. You saw those pictures."
"That whole Starling thing is bullshit. He was just getting her out of there without getting her arrested, the only way he could. It was smart. And she was in on it, too, must have been. Did you see her playing to those cameras? Like a model on the catwalk."
"Before she passed right the fuck out! Those marks on her face aren't bullshit, Judy. That Italian cop isn't bullshit. What probably happened to that motherfucker Doemling isn't bullshit."
"The things we saw at the party last night weren't bullshit either, Margot. He loves that woman, and he'd obviously do anything to keep her safe, no matter how it looks on the surface. That part is true, too. And you know it as well as I do. So, what do you want to do? Ask him to leave?"
Margot stroked the baby's head, enjoying the silky feel of his baby hair. She raised her eyes to Judy.
"I just . . . I just wonder if I haven't made a mistake. It was the right thing to do, taking him in, sure. They would never have had this trouble if they hadn't come to visit us, you know? But . . . was it really the right thing to do, for you, for Mikey? You saw what he did to that cop. THAT'S who I gave that attic room to! The whole fucking world is looking for him, right now. I'm just wondering if I haven't put you guys in terrible danger, all because of my sense of obligation, all because of MY past. I never asked you how YOU felt about it, Judy. I just went ahead and did it."
She lowered her gaze from Judy's clear brown eyes, and stared at the top of Mikey's head instead.
Judy put her hand on Margot's knee.
"Margot, look at me."
Margot looked up, and met Judy's strangely stern gaze.
"Did HE really kill Mason for you, Margot? Was he REALLY the one?"
Margot just stared at Judy, caught in her gaze, unable to answer. They had never before discussed this issue, not directly.
"Have I ever asked you about what really happened, that night?" Judy went on. "You don't want to talk about it, fine, I don't ask. But do you really think I don't know, or guess?"
The kettle whistled as it boiled and Margot was spared the effort of trying to form an answer to Judy's question. Judy rose to take the kettle off the heat and spoke from the stove as she prepared the tea.
"What I'm trying to tell you, Margot, is that it doesn't matter. I love you. I don't care what you did. I don't care what your cracked friend upstairs did. Sometimes . . . maybe once in a lifetime, we get lucky enough to find someone to love, really love. And it really doesn't matter if the one we love is a good or a bad person. Or who their friends are."
She stopped to bring two cups of the fragrant tea over to the table, and sat down as she placed one before Margot and took a sip from her own cup.
"We just love, and try to be as happy as we can, as long as we can," she went on. "It's not just YOUR past, Margot. It's OUR past, yours and mine and Mikey's. We're together, we're a family. So . . . here's what's going on - a good friend of yours is in trouble. You're helping him out. And I'm GLAD to go along, do whatever I can to help too, for your sake, if for no other reason. And that's all there is to it, really, that's it. Simple, see? Now stop worrying yourself sick and drink your tea."
Margot snorted laughter. "Yes, Mother," she said, and drank some of the tea. "Good thing you don't care what he did, 'cause he's killed sixteen people, by the FBI's count. But it's really probably double that number. And I killed - "
"Stop," Judy interrupted. "I told you, I don't care. But you do, I think. So we'll skip it. Listen, all this could be a good thing. We could start a program or something. MA"
Now Margot really laughed, hard enough to choke on her tea.
"Murderer's Anonymous? Cool! Let's invite O.J.!"
"Oh, no, Margot, we have to draw the line somewhere. Even MA has to have SOME standards."
They both giggled and Michael goggled at them, amazed and intrigued by the trilling sound of their laughter.
"How was he, when you saw him this morning?" Judy asked, her giggles subsiding. "Bad shape?"
Margot shook her head.
"If death could have a face . . . " she said, an unhappy frown creasing her own brow. "Sleeping out by the pool. Having a nightmare. Holy God, the look in his eyes when he woke up . . . like nothing I've ever seen."
"Maybe he needs some tea. It's been what . . . five or six hours? Should I bring him something, do you think? And don't frown like that, Margot, or your face will stick that way."
"He's not a milk and cookies kind of guy, Mother Judy."
"Oh, so, I should bring some raw hamburger instead? Maybe some wolf chow, or some cat treats? Must I start with the cannibal jokes?"
"Sshhh," Margot hissed, as Judy's Uncle Bob came wandering into the kitchen.
"Hi, girls," Uncle Bob said, and moved to the fridge to scout the contents. "Just about lunch time, let's see what's left over. . . " He continued to rummage in the refrigerator.
"Some party, huh? I think I had one too many margaritas. Hey, have either of you seen my grey suit? I meant to take it to the cleaners, left it in the laundry room after the party last night. Now I can't find it. Trouble is, I think I might have left my wallet in it."
Judy and Margot glanced at each other as Uncle Bob set out ingredients for what looked to be an extremely complicated sandwich. Both of them were noticing that Uncle Bob was a dark, slim man in his mid-fifties, and was maybe only an inch or two taller than Dr. Lecter.
"Uh . . . I'll look around for it, okay, Uncle Bob?" Judy said. "I'll see if I can find it."
"Thanks, hon. Must be around somewhere. Can I fix either of you girls a sandwich? Bob Ingram specials?"
Neither of them wanted a Bob Ingram special. Judy poured a cup of tea and took it out of the kitchen with a fast, telling nod to Margot. Margot watched as Uncle Bob completed the complex construction of his sandwich, poured himself a glass of milk, and finally left the kitchen. She played a quick game of peek-a-boo with Mikey while she waited for Judy to return.
It didn't take long. Judy slipped back into the kitchen only five minutes later.
She sat down at the table again and put the cup of tea she'd taken up with her down on the tabletop.
"Gone," she said, with no need for further explanation.
"God damn it!" Margot cried, and Mikey laughed at her sudden volume while Judy shushed her. "Of course he'd just slip off! I should have guessed. With Bob's clothes and ID too, no doubt. Where the hell would he go?"
"Here's a note," Judy said. "Found it pinned to the bedspread."
Margot looked over the note, penned on an old grocery receipt he'd probably found in the trash.
"Dear Margot," the note read:
"I have some errands to run, and I thought it best to be off before the house was fully roused. I haven't yet thanked you properly for all your kindness, but, should my business today go as planned, I'll be back later tonight, and will convey my gratitude personally. If things should go awry, and we do not have a chance to speak again, please know that I'm very grateful for all you've done. The attic room was very comfortable. I find I am quite refreshed.
HL
PS. I'm afraid I had to borrow Uncle Bob's suit and identification. I'd met him at the party last night, and noticed, among other things, that he is not wholly unlike me in appearance and size. My apologies. I'll be certain to return the wallet at the earliest opportunity, and will, of course, have the suit cleaned and pressed. I hope he will not be too greatly inconvenienced."
"What an idiot I am!" Margot exclaimed when she was finished reading. A half amused, half distressed smile stretched her mouth. "All that worrying about the tiger in the attic, and the whole time, he wasn't even there. What do you think he meant by 'errands', Judy?"
Judy shook her head, no trace of amusement on her kind, pleasant face.
"I've got a pretty good guess, I think," she said. "But you won't like it."
"Where?"
"The hospital, of course. Where they took Starling. He'd want to check on her himself, don't you think? Not trust to news reports?"
"Oh, shit," Margot moaned, dismayed at how good Judy's guess actually was. "The place will be crawling with security. They'll have a twenty-four hour guard on her, you know they will! He could never get to her. It'd be crazy to try."
"Crazy? You're saying it would be crazy?" Judy repeated, and said no more.
Margot took Judy's point immediately. She felt the gnawing, dreary bite of worry beginning to dig in at once.
"Oh, NO," she groaned. "Oh, goddamn. That fucking nut! Of course you're right, that's exactly what he'll do. I should have checked on him. I could have gone myself, if he'd just told me."
"I don't get the impression that would have suited him, Margot. I think he probably HAD to see her for himself. What should we do now?" Judy asked.
"Nothing we can do. Just keeping quiet is the best thing, I guess. We'll know if things went wrong soon enough."
"What? How?"
"We'll see it on TV," Margot said grimly. "'Hannibal the Cannibal, killed in police shoot out at local hospital'. You know how the cops are in this town. Jesus God, I hope it won't be like that. I really do."
"Me too," Judy said, unhappily. "I really do, too. Well . . . but maybe he'll be okay. Your friend is smart, even if he is crazy. "
"One of these days, he's gonna outsmart himself, " Margo said, shaking her head.
Judy rose from the table, slowly, as though she felt tired. "I guess it's gonna be a long day. I'll put on some more tea."
Judy and Margot and baby Mikey sat in the sunny, empty kitchen, and began the long vigil ahead with a second pot of tea.
October 16, 2:15 PM, a rest stop on I-10 North, three miles from Nellis Air Force Base
"I'm gonna go take a piss, Junius. Fish me a Bud out of that cooler while you got yore hands in it, want to? And let's put that puppy up front in the pickup with us when we get goin' again."
"Durned ice is pretty durn near all melted. I TOLD ya we should've got more at that fillin' station back there."
"Hell no, not at any five friggin' dollars a bag I wasn't! Don't bother me none if the beer's some warm."
"Well, I like it cold, goldurn it! And now I gotta drink it warm, 'cause you was too almighty tight to part with a extra couple of bucks! I swear, Billy Lee, you are the cheapest SOB in all creation, bar none!"
"I ain't cheap, by God. Just frugal."
Junius, who was a practicing Baptist, frowned slightly as Billy Lee took the Lord's name in vain.
"Well where's my beer?" Billy Lee continued. "I'm standin' here waitin', and the beer ain't gettin' any colder. 'Sides, I toldja, I gotta use the commode."
"Caint you once take a leak without a dang beer to go with ya? I'm surprised ya don't never get yore pecker mixed up with yore Budweiser! Drain one and try to chug t'other."
Junius Odom and Billy Lee Peacock, hunting buddies from Texas, both guffawed goatishly at the fantastic idea of a man mistaking his own trouser snake for a can of beer. And vice versa.
It was the first decent laugh they'd had today. The two good ol' boys from Amarillo had been on their annual autumn hunting odyssey for two weeks, and had killed legions of wild animals and "varmints" in that time. They'd traveled through Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Nevada on their journey, and were now headed home, to Texas. Billy Lee had got himself a grand eight- point buck back in New Mexico, and would have a nice trophy head to mount in his den once the Raton taxidermist shipped it to him in Amarillo. Junius had failed to bag any deer, but had annihilated thirteen rattlesnakes, two dozen rabbits, one prairie dog (by accident), and two coyotes out in Death Valley, during their forays there.
All that killing, as well as two weeks of enforced togetherness within the close confines of Billy Lee's trailer, had made them both tired and irritable, and as always happened at the end of their trip each year, they were glad to be going home.
They would traditionally end the testosterone-soaked yearly hunting extravaganza with a weekend of boozing and gambling and whoring in Las Vegas, and had become mightily sick of one another's company during the last few days of excess. They always took the trailer on their annual trip, because it saved them the cost of hotel bills, and they always stayed at Circus Circus in Las Vegas, because it had a trailer/RV park.
An unusual feature for a Las Vegas resort. One that, several hours earlier, had attracted the interest of Hannibal Lecter, too.
After a couple of hours of sleep at Margot Verger's house, as well as more hideous dreams, Dr. Lecter had awakened both refreshed and troubled. Clarice's fainting spell that he had seen on television had worried him. He thought it had probably been due to drugs, fatigue and stress, but one could never be sure. He'd determined to go to the hospital and satisfy himself as to her condition immediately upon waking.
That this was not the wisest course of action he could choose to take had not occurred to him at all. The course of his life to date had been such that risk was a constant factor in all he did, so constant, in fact, that he had become virtually oblivious to it. It was like a steady background noise, or a continual mildly objectionable odor, something so incessant that he no longer fully registered it. He was aware that a trip to the hospital would present difficulties, and that he would have to take various steps to clear the way for himself, but the idea of just not going had never once touched his thought, not even remotely.
Further, his dreams and all his tormented reflections of the long, dreadful morning just passed had been steadily leading him toward certain bleak conclusions. More than anything else, he just wanted to see her. He had become more and more afraid that it might well be the last time. Hannibal Lecter was a man who wanted what he wanted. Sober considerations of costs and consequences never had cut much ice with him.
He had guessed that there would be a guard on Clarice. The authorities would not really expect him to try to harm her, or even to reclaim her as his prisoner, now that she had been "rescued". Nevertheless, he was as famous for being a "psycho" as for anything, and they would have taken appropriate precautions on that basis alone. He expected that he would be able to get through the security, armed with both his altered face that had never been photographed, and with Uncle Bob's ID. But he could get through much more easily if he could cause the guard to be relaxed a bit.
If the police and the FBI believed that he had fled Las Vegas, if he could convince them of that, then the security around Clarice would, indeed, be relaxed. They would think him long gone, and their vigilance would suffer accordingly.
So, he had settled on a plan to stage a spurious border crossing for the benefit of those holding Clarice. He'd flitted about Margot Verger's home during the mid-morning hours, avoiding her house guests neatly and picking up whatever things he needed. He'd taken Bob's clothes and wallet, and had borrowed one of Mikey's toys from the nursery to use a bit later, at the hospital. He'd found an amusing canvas fishing hat in somebody's bedroom, one of those silly things that fairly screamed "retired". He'd found a pair of horn rimmed spectacles with smoked lenses in the den, forgotten next to a newspaper.
He'd checked the local yellow pages, and noted the RV Park at Circus Circus.
He was armed with his Harpy and Clarice's cut down pistol. All in all, he was as fully equipped as he needed to be.
At ten-thirty AM, he had called for a taxi, and had given the address of a home two blocks away that he had noticed during his walk to Margot's earlier. The house had looked deserted, the owners probably away on vacation, and there had been a deep, shadowy porch at the front door, easy to hide in. He'd quietly left Margot's and walked to this house, and waited for his taxi in the shadows at the front door, just as though he lived there. When the taxi had come, he'd told the driver to take him to Circus Circus and had taken advantage of the long trip into the city from Summerlin to relax and go over his plans once more.
Once he reached the trailer park, he would start to search for a very specific type of vehicle, and a very specific set of circumstances. He would be looking for a car or truck towing a trailer, one with out-of-state plates. He would be looking for such a rig with no more than two occupants, and said occupants must be leaving Las Vegas today, within the next two hours.
And that is how an hour and a half of unobtrusive loitering and observation at the Circus Circus RV Park had led him, in the end, to the trailer of Billy Lee Peacock and Junius Odom, unlucky hunters from Amarillo, Texas.
Now, as Billy Lee and Junius argued about the price of ice and how a man's pud could somehow resemble his Bud, Hannibal Lecter, hidden in the tiny shower in the trailer's mini-bathroom, listened to their talk and smiled coldly. His plans, necessarily, would not prove beneficial for Junius and Billy Lee, and this being the case, the fact that they were such unmitigated assholes was mildly pleasing to him.
There were always compensations.
Junius tossed Billy Lee the beer he'd requested, purposely over-throwing a bit, took one for himself, and shut the cooler lid with an annoyed thud.
Billy Lee popped the top of his Bud, and scowled as the beer, crazed by the toss, foamed up out of the can and over his hand and sleeve.
"Shitfire, Junius, why'd ya have ta throw the dang thing? Now I got beer on me!"
"Well, hell, wouldn't be the first time, would it? Hep me pick up this cooler, Billy Lee. We can put it up front in the pickup."
"No, I ain't. I'm going to the shithouse, I toldja."
"Well, there it is, right there, durn it," Junius said irritably, pointing at the door of the bathroom. "If yore all done TELLIN' me about how ya gotta go, I mean, and yore fixin' to just GO sometime today!"
Dr. Lecter tensed inside the shower, preparing for the potential advent of his quarry.
But Billy Lee had other ideas.
"Hell no, I ain't going in there! It stinks to high heaven and all, since we ain't never dumped the waste tank back at the RV park."
He brusquely brushed past Junius to the trailer door as Dr. Lecter nodded silent agreement from his hiding place. The small bathroom did, indeed, stink. Billy Lee and Junius apparently lacked even the most rudimentary housekeeping skills. No doubt a fine pair of big ol' swinging dicks like these two believed such chores to be lowly work, fit for women only.
"I'm going to them restrooms out there at the comfort station!" Billy Lee declared as he slammed open the trailer door and stomped down the steps outside.
Junius had noticed, just as he did each year, that his buddy Billy Lee had the odd habit of invariably alerting his companions to every proposed detail of his bathroom calls. He had also just remembered, as he did each year, that this peculiar penchant of Billy Lee's bugged the living piss out of him.
"Well, GO then, caint you?" he shouted out the door, completely out of patience. "I guess you done told me about it a hunnerd durn times already!"
"Well, FINE!" Billy Lee growled, somewhat senselessly, from outside, and stalked off toward the men's room.
Leaving Junius alone in the trailer with Dr. Lecter.
Junius was bent over the cooler, trying to get a solid grasp on its rounded plastic corners before lifting it, when he heard the sound of the bathroom door opening, and then shutting again, quickly and firmly.
He swung his head around toward the noise, thinking, for a startled, confused moment, that Billy Lee must have somehow gotten back inside and used the trailer commode after all. He popped up from his crouch at the beer cooler like a jackrabbit on springs as he saw a total stranger standing just outside the bathroom door.
"Good afternoon, Junius," Dr. Lecter said. "Your friend Billy Lee is a pig. I don't blame you if you're tired of him."
"Wha . . . who . . . ?" Junius started to say, but Dr. Lecter was on him, Harpy in hand, before he could complete the half-formed question.
A roughly Z shaped flash of the knife in the relative dimness of the trailer interior traced fleeting fire across Junius' throat, abdomen, and upper thighs. The carotid arteries on both sides of his neck opened and spewed, his intestines, freed, suddenly glurped liquidly out of his sliced belly, and the femoral artery in his right thigh was severed, along with a very thin slice off the head of his penis, which had been in the way and deflected the slashing blade from his femoral on the left.
Junius Odom collapsed instantly, like a marionette with cut strings. He was beyond any pain before he hit the floor, splashing a backwash of blood in every direction. He was dead, completely bled out, before three minutes had passed.
Dr. Lecter stepped out of the way before the red tide gushing from Junius body could reach his shoes.
He went swiftly to a closet he'd examined when he'd first broken into the trailer and waited inside for his unwary hosts to drive him out of Las Vegas. He'd found something very special in there.
That Junius and Billy Lee must have been on some sort of hunting junket had been perfectly clear to Dr. Lecter, judging from the abundance of guns and ammunition he'd discovered in the trailer. There had been rifles, shotguns, and even one highly illegal machine pistol, modified for fully automatic use. A surfeit of firearms, even for Texans.
But the finds that had most pleased Dr. Lecter had been the archery equipment and the fairly decent crossbow he'd discovered in the little closet near the rear of the trailer. For one thing, he despised all bow- hunters, for reasons he himself did not fully comprehend, and cared even less about. The unexpected opportunity to kill two such detested individuals had been a serendipitous enhancement of his plan to fake his own flight out of the city.
And, of course, he very much favored the crossbow as a weapon. This find had pleased him most of all.
He now pulled the crossbow out of the closet where he'd left it earlier, after making certain it was wound for his own use when the time came. Then he returned to the mid-section of the trailer, and chose a seat on the dinette bench closest to the trailer door.
The cooling corpse of Junius Odom lay in a spreading pool of blood to the right of the door. Dr. Lecter had stationed himself to the left, half obscured in the dining nook by the jut of the oak-veneered bathroom wall. When Billy Lee returned from his trip to the restroom and entered the trailer, he would first see the blood at his feet to his right, and would then spot his deceased companion, even further right. He would look to the right, and, with any luck, would move to the right as well. Which would leave Dr. Lecter, half hidden to the left, free to watch his prey move safely inside, to find his shot at leisure, to choose his moment, perhaps to hum a few bars of a Renaissance madrigal he'd been thinking of for the past hour or so.
Dr. Lecter did not have long to wait. Billy Lee returned from the restroom shortly, already shouting irritably from outside as he jerked the trailer door open.
"Gawd DAMN, Junius, ain't you got the cooler up front YET?!" he bellowed, stomping up the trailer steps and stepping directly into a tendril of pooling blood that had seeped towards the door.
His rubber-soled boot slipped in the viscous liquid and he pinwheeled his arms as he lost his footing on the slippery surface. His feet slipped out from under him and he did an abrupt involuntary belly flop onto the bloody linoleum floor, cracking his chin painfully as he hit and landing almost nose to nose with the dead, staring face of his former hunting buddy.
"Jesus-fucking-tap-dancing-jumped-up-Christ-in-a-sidecar-Almighty-DAMN!!!" Billy Lee screeched into Junius' unresponsive visage, utterly flummoxed.
The delicious black slapstick simply undid Dr. Lecter. He laughed helplessly in his hiding place, almost hard enough to compromise his aim.
But not quite. He certainly knew the ideal last words for a foul-mouthed, bow-hunting, brain-dead nitwit from Texas when he heard them. The whispery twang of the crossbow sounded in the small trailer and a well-placed quarrel impaled Billy Lee Peacock through the throat, thus stilling his voice forever.
Dr. Lecter rose from his place and took a moment to admire his handiwork, still chuckling. Adios, cowboys. Do give my regards to the rodeo clowns at that great celestial round-up in the sky. I guess your beer-drinking days are over.
But time was a-wastin', as they said out on the Rio Grande. He bent to the corpse of Billy Lee, pinned securely to the floor by the bolt through his throat. He intended for the bodies of the two deceased Texans to be found by the Highway Patrol as soon as possible, and he wanted even the most oblivious of investigators to be able to detect the infamous hand of "Hannibal the Cannibal" at the scene instantly. He must "sign" this scene, preferably in huge block capital letters that even the thickest could decipher with ease.
So he quickly excised Billy Lee's revoltingly cirrhotic liver and plopped it into the beer cooler, where it rested beside the very cans of Budweiser that had been steadily destroying it for years.
He stepped into the malodorous bathroom to wash his hands and check himself for bloodstains. Once satisfied with his appearance, he came out, scanned the scene one more time, tucked the crossbow under his arm, and picked up the cooler. He carried it to the door of the trailer, now transformed into an abattoir, and out into the bright autumn day. He left the trailer door open by approximately a foot and a half.
So far, so good. He put the cooler in the cab of the pick-up, noted that the truck keys were in the ignition, just as he'd thought they would be, and slid the crossbow under the seat on the driver's side. Then he went to the rear of the truck and unhitched the vehicle from the trailer, not an overly difficult maneuver.
He took the time to wave gaily at a family that was enjoying a late lunch at a picnic table nearby, his white teeth flashing in a friendly smile. Then he got in the truck and drove out of the rest stop, headed north, in full view of any onlookers.
He did not exit the interstate and take the service road to the southbound side of the highway for another ten miles.
He did not encounter any difficulty at all as he reentered Las Vegas. He had passed fairly extensive roadblocks on the northbound side of I-10, both when he was hidden in the late Billy Lee's trailer, and again as he passed going south on the return trip. But the police were hoping to prevent his exit from the city, and had never thought to try to prevent his entry. Which was exactly what he had expected.
By four thirty that afternoon, he was sipping a somewhat inferior Bordeaux at a secluded table in a dark video poker bar near Sunrise Hospital. He was waiting to see news of his efforts back at the rest stop near Nellis on the television behind the bar. He'd abandoned the pick-up (as well as Billy Lee's woefully unhealthy former liver) in the huge parking lot at the Mirage, where, he imagined, it would not be found for days.
As soon as he heard his own name mentioned on television, in connection with a new and spectacular atrocity on I-10, he would know that the way was as clear as it would ever be to go and visit Clarice. He'd already purchased a lovely get-well bouquet for the occasion; it lay in a gay profusion of blossoms on the dark oak table before him, an incongruously cheerful sight in the dingy dimness of the empty, late afternoon bar.
He signaled to the bartender, barely visible in the shadows near the bar. The wine was simply impossible. He'd decided to send it back and order some iced tea instead.
October 16, 5:00 PM, Summerlin
Judy and Margot, along with the majority of their various house guests, were watching the top story on this Monday night on the evening news.
" . . . the bodies of two male tourists from Texas . . . " a blow-dried reporter was saying on the television.
The reporter was standing at the curb in the rest stop on I-10, speaking urgently into a microphone, and swarms of police officers and FBI agents, plus all their equipment and vehicles, could be seen behind him. Orange plastic sawhorses encircled a ratty old trailer in the lower left half of the TV screen.
" . . . witnesses claim to have seen the suspect head north on ten, away from the city . . . "
A pair of stretchers, contents enclosed in black, rubberized body bags, were hauled into the open rear gates of a red and white ambulance.
" . . . serial killer Lecter, also known as 'Hannibal the cannibal', thought to be . . . "
Margot looked at Judy, eyebrows raised, a question in her eyes, the pale blue of her gaze somewhat darkened with distress.
" . . . armed and considered extremely dangerous . . . "
Judy shook her head. She pointed at the ground at her feet, an emphatic stabbing motion.
Margot understood. Judy did not believe Dr. Lecter would have left Las Vegas without looking in on Starling. No matter what the news said. She believed he was still in the city, somewhere. "Right here".
Judy glanced at the television screen and turned back to Margot. She silently mouthed a single word.
Again, Margot understood what Judy meant. Perfectly.
"Bullshit."
Bullshit. Yes. They continued to watch the television, lacking anything better to do.
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Monday, October 16, 1:30 PM, Summerlin
A year old video tape of Rinaldo Pazzi, gutted, swinging from an electrical cord against the floodlit walls of the Palazzo Vecchio, flickered on the large color television set in Margot and Judy's den. Several Ingrams, two cousins, a brother, and an elderly aunt whose name Margot could never remember, were watching raptly, like children at the story hour. They had all been watching soaps when the news bulletins had started breaking in to the regular programming and now watched this more absorbing show with avid interest.
Judy and Margot stood together in the doorway to the room, neither in nor out, and watched the television screen silently. Judy had Michael slung on her hip, and he cooed occasionally, almost as though entertained by the videotaped exploits of his namesake.
The image onscreen changed to a mug shot of Dr. Lecter, taken at the time of his arrest. Neither Judy nor Margot thought the photo looked much like him.
Lecter's former face disappeared and was replaced by a close video shot of Clarice Starling's face, taken only this morning. This shot was then replaced by a more distant shot, her full figure stepping off the hotel elevator, her hospital blanket like a veil slipping away from her face, her highly dramatic fainting spell.
"That poor girl," commented the Ingram auntie. "I can't even begin to imagine what all that . . . that ANIMAL must have done to her." She shuddered extravagantly and rolled her eyes as she shook her head, thus indicating that perhaps she actually could begin to imagine it, after all. And was not completely averse to doing so.
Margot and Judy exchanged a look and left their threshold television vantage point. Judy followed Margot, striding purposefully, down the hall and into the kitchen, currently empty. Once there, Margot's purposeful manner evaporated, and she looked around the empty, sunny room without really seeing it, turning in several distracted circles. Finally, she turned to Judy and raised her hands in a vague "what-now?" gesture.
"Let's have some tea," Judy said. "I'll put on a pot. Sit down, Margot."
Margot sat heavily at the big mission style refectory table they used in the kitchen. Judy handed her the baby.
"That 'animal' they're talking about is snoozing right upstairs, Judy," she said, keeping her voice low. "Probably having some hellish bad dreams, too. Sure hope he doesn't walk in his sleep! I'm not sure tea is gonna help."
Judy, rather incredibly, laughed.
"Well, maybe not. But it couldn't hurt," she pointed out.
Margot had to smile. Judy finished filling the kettle with water and put it on to boil. Then she pulled a chair out and sat down, knee to knee, with Margot.
"Let's talk, baby," she said. 'Tell me what's on your mind."
Margot sighed and ran one hand through her hair, supporting Michael with the other hand.
"I'm not sure what's on my mind. My so-called mind. You saw those pictures."
"That whole Starling thing is bullshit. He was just getting her out of there without getting her arrested, the only way he could. It was smart. And she was in on it, too, must have been. Did you see her playing to those cameras? Like a model on the catwalk."
"Before she passed right the fuck out! Those marks on her face aren't bullshit, Judy. That Italian cop isn't bullshit. What probably happened to that motherfucker Doemling isn't bullshit."
"The things we saw at the party last night weren't bullshit either, Margot. He loves that woman, and he'd obviously do anything to keep her safe, no matter how it looks on the surface. That part is true, too. And you know it as well as I do. So, what do you want to do? Ask him to leave?"
Margot stroked the baby's head, enjoying the silky feel of his baby hair. She raised her eyes to Judy.
"I just . . . I just wonder if I haven't made a mistake. It was the right thing to do, taking him in, sure. They would never have had this trouble if they hadn't come to visit us, you know? But . . . was it really the right thing to do, for you, for Mikey? You saw what he did to that cop. THAT'S who I gave that attic room to! The whole fucking world is looking for him, right now. I'm just wondering if I haven't put you guys in terrible danger, all because of my sense of obligation, all because of MY past. I never asked you how YOU felt about it, Judy. I just went ahead and did it."
She lowered her gaze from Judy's clear brown eyes, and stared at the top of Mikey's head instead.
Judy put her hand on Margot's knee.
"Margot, look at me."
Margot looked up, and met Judy's strangely stern gaze.
"Did HE really kill Mason for you, Margot? Was he REALLY the one?"
Margot just stared at Judy, caught in her gaze, unable to answer. They had never before discussed this issue, not directly.
"Have I ever asked you about what really happened, that night?" Judy went on. "You don't want to talk about it, fine, I don't ask. But do you really think I don't know, or guess?"
The kettle whistled as it boiled and Margot was spared the effort of trying to form an answer to Judy's question. Judy rose to take the kettle off the heat and spoke from the stove as she prepared the tea.
"What I'm trying to tell you, Margot, is that it doesn't matter. I love you. I don't care what you did. I don't care what your cracked friend upstairs did. Sometimes . . . maybe once in a lifetime, we get lucky enough to find someone to love, really love. And it really doesn't matter if the one we love is a good or a bad person. Or who their friends are."
She stopped to bring two cups of the fragrant tea over to the table, and sat down as she placed one before Margot and took a sip from her own cup.
"We just love, and try to be as happy as we can, as long as we can," she went on. "It's not just YOUR past, Margot. It's OUR past, yours and mine and Mikey's. We're together, we're a family. So . . . here's what's going on - a good friend of yours is in trouble. You're helping him out. And I'm GLAD to go along, do whatever I can to help too, for your sake, if for no other reason. And that's all there is to it, really, that's it. Simple, see? Now stop worrying yourself sick and drink your tea."
Margot snorted laughter. "Yes, Mother," she said, and drank some of the tea. "Good thing you don't care what he did, 'cause he's killed sixteen people, by the FBI's count. But it's really probably double that number. And I killed - "
"Stop," Judy interrupted. "I told you, I don't care. But you do, I think. So we'll skip it. Listen, all this could be a good thing. We could start a program or something. MA"
Now Margot really laughed, hard enough to choke on her tea.
"Murderer's Anonymous? Cool! Let's invite O.J.!"
"Oh, no, Margot, we have to draw the line somewhere. Even MA has to have SOME standards."
They both giggled and Michael goggled at them, amazed and intrigued by the trilling sound of their laughter.
"How was he, when you saw him this morning?" Judy asked, her giggles subsiding. "Bad shape?"
Margot shook her head.
"If death could have a face . . . " she said, an unhappy frown creasing her own brow. "Sleeping out by the pool. Having a nightmare. Holy God, the look in his eyes when he woke up . . . like nothing I've ever seen."
"Maybe he needs some tea. It's been what . . . five or six hours? Should I bring him something, do you think? And don't frown like that, Margot, or your face will stick that way."
"He's not a milk and cookies kind of guy, Mother Judy."
"Oh, so, I should bring some raw hamburger instead? Maybe some wolf chow, or some cat treats? Must I start with the cannibal jokes?"
"Sshhh," Margot hissed, as Judy's Uncle Bob came wandering into the kitchen.
"Hi, girls," Uncle Bob said, and moved to the fridge to scout the contents. "Just about lunch time, let's see what's left over. . . " He continued to rummage in the refrigerator.
"Some party, huh? I think I had one too many margaritas. Hey, have either of you seen my grey suit? I meant to take it to the cleaners, left it in the laundry room after the party last night. Now I can't find it. Trouble is, I think I might have left my wallet in it."
Judy and Margot glanced at each other as Uncle Bob set out ingredients for what looked to be an extremely complicated sandwich. Both of them were noticing that Uncle Bob was a dark, slim man in his mid-fifties, and was maybe only an inch or two taller than Dr. Lecter.
"Uh . . . I'll look around for it, okay, Uncle Bob?" Judy said. "I'll see if I can find it."
"Thanks, hon. Must be around somewhere. Can I fix either of you girls a sandwich? Bob Ingram specials?"
Neither of them wanted a Bob Ingram special. Judy poured a cup of tea and took it out of the kitchen with a fast, telling nod to Margot. Margot watched as Uncle Bob completed the complex construction of his sandwich, poured himself a glass of milk, and finally left the kitchen. She played a quick game of peek-a-boo with Mikey while she waited for Judy to return.
It didn't take long. Judy slipped back into the kitchen only five minutes later.
She sat down at the table again and put the cup of tea she'd taken up with her down on the tabletop.
"Gone," she said, with no need for further explanation.
"God damn it!" Margot cried, and Mikey laughed at her sudden volume while Judy shushed her. "Of course he'd just slip off! I should have guessed. With Bob's clothes and ID too, no doubt. Where the hell would he go?"
"Here's a note," Judy said. "Found it pinned to the bedspread."
Margot looked over the note, penned on an old grocery receipt he'd probably found in the trash.
"Dear Margot," the note read:
"I have some errands to run, and I thought it best to be off before the house was fully roused. I haven't yet thanked you properly for all your kindness, but, should my business today go as planned, I'll be back later tonight, and will convey my gratitude personally. If things should go awry, and we do not have a chance to speak again, please know that I'm very grateful for all you've done. The attic room was very comfortable. I find I am quite refreshed.
HL
PS. I'm afraid I had to borrow Uncle Bob's suit and identification. I'd met him at the party last night, and noticed, among other things, that he is not wholly unlike me in appearance and size. My apologies. I'll be certain to return the wallet at the earliest opportunity, and will, of course, have the suit cleaned and pressed. I hope he will not be too greatly inconvenienced."
"What an idiot I am!" Margot exclaimed when she was finished reading. A half amused, half distressed smile stretched her mouth. "All that worrying about the tiger in the attic, and the whole time, he wasn't even there. What do you think he meant by 'errands', Judy?"
Judy shook her head, no trace of amusement on her kind, pleasant face.
"I've got a pretty good guess, I think," she said. "But you won't like it."
"Where?"
"The hospital, of course. Where they took Starling. He'd want to check on her himself, don't you think? Not trust to news reports?"
"Oh, shit," Margot moaned, dismayed at how good Judy's guess actually was. "The place will be crawling with security. They'll have a twenty-four hour guard on her, you know they will! He could never get to her. It'd be crazy to try."
"Crazy? You're saying it would be crazy?" Judy repeated, and said no more.
Margot took Judy's point immediately. She felt the gnawing, dreary bite of worry beginning to dig in at once.
"Oh, NO," she groaned. "Oh, goddamn. That fucking nut! Of course you're right, that's exactly what he'll do. I should have checked on him. I could have gone myself, if he'd just told me."
"I don't get the impression that would have suited him, Margot. I think he probably HAD to see her for himself. What should we do now?" Judy asked.
"Nothing we can do. Just keeping quiet is the best thing, I guess. We'll know if things went wrong soon enough."
"What? How?"
"We'll see it on TV," Margot said grimly. "'Hannibal the Cannibal, killed in police shoot out at local hospital'. You know how the cops are in this town. Jesus God, I hope it won't be like that. I really do."
"Me too," Judy said, unhappily. "I really do, too. Well . . . but maybe he'll be okay. Your friend is smart, even if he is crazy. "
"One of these days, he's gonna outsmart himself, " Margo said, shaking her head.
Judy rose from the table, slowly, as though she felt tired. "I guess it's gonna be a long day. I'll put on some more tea."
Judy and Margot and baby Mikey sat in the sunny, empty kitchen, and began the long vigil ahead with a second pot of tea.
October 16, 2:15 PM, a rest stop on I-10 North, three miles from Nellis Air Force Base
"I'm gonna go take a piss, Junius. Fish me a Bud out of that cooler while you got yore hands in it, want to? And let's put that puppy up front in the pickup with us when we get goin' again."
"Durned ice is pretty durn near all melted. I TOLD ya we should've got more at that fillin' station back there."
"Hell no, not at any five friggin' dollars a bag I wasn't! Don't bother me none if the beer's some warm."
"Well, I like it cold, goldurn it! And now I gotta drink it warm, 'cause you was too almighty tight to part with a extra couple of bucks! I swear, Billy Lee, you are the cheapest SOB in all creation, bar none!"
"I ain't cheap, by God. Just frugal."
Junius, who was a practicing Baptist, frowned slightly as Billy Lee took the Lord's name in vain.
"Well where's my beer?" Billy Lee continued. "I'm standin' here waitin', and the beer ain't gettin' any colder. 'Sides, I toldja, I gotta use the commode."
"Caint you once take a leak without a dang beer to go with ya? I'm surprised ya don't never get yore pecker mixed up with yore Budweiser! Drain one and try to chug t'other."
Junius Odom and Billy Lee Peacock, hunting buddies from Texas, both guffawed goatishly at the fantastic idea of a man mistaking his own trouser snake for a can of beer. And vice versa.
It was the first decent laugh they'd had today. The two good ol' boys from Amarillo had been on their annual autumn hunting odyssey for two weeks, and had killed legions of wild animals and "varmints" in that time. They'd traveled through Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Nevada on their journey, and were now headed home, to Texas. Billy Lee had got himself a grand eight- point buck back in New Mexico, and would have a nice trophy head to mount in his den once the Raton taxidermist shipped it to him in Amarillo. Junius had failed to bag any deer, but had annihilated thirteen rattlesnakes, two dozen rabbits, one prairie dog (by accident), and two coyotes out in Death Valley, during their forays there.
All that killing, as well as two weeks of enforced togetherness within the close confines of Billy Lee's trailer, had made them both tired and irritable, and as always happened at the end of their trip each year, they were glad to be going home.
They would traditionally end the testosterone-soaked yearly hunting extravaganza with a weekend of boozing and gambling and whoring in Las Vegas, and had become mightily sick of one another's company during the last few days of excess. They always took the trailer on their annual trip, because it saved them the cost of hotel bills, and they always stayed at Circus Circus in Las Vegas, because it had a trailer/RV park.
An unusual feature for a Las Vegas resort. One that, several hours earlier, had attracted the interest of Hannibal Lecter, too.
After a couple of hours of sleep at Margot Verger's house, as well as more hideous dreams, Dr. Lecter had awakened both refreshed and troubled. Clarice's fainting spell that he had seen on television had worried him. He thought it had probably been due to drugs, fatigue and stress, but one could never be sure. He'd determined to go to the hospital and satisfy himself as to her condition immediately upon waking.
That this was not the wisest course of action he could choose to take had not occurred to him at all. The course of his life to date had been such that risk was a constant factor in all he did, so constant, in fact, that he had become virtually oblivious to it. It was like a steady background noise, or a continual mildly objectionable odor, something so incessant that he no longer fully registered it. He was aware that a trip to the hospital would present difficulties, and that he would have to take various steps to clear the way for himself, but the idea of just not going had never once touched his thought, not even remotely.
Further, his dreams and all his tormented reflections of the long, dreadful morning just passed had been steadily leading him toward certain bleak conclusions. More than anything else, he just wanted to see her. He had become more and more afraid that it might well be the last time. Hannibal Lecter was a man who wanted what he wanted. Sober considerations of costs and consequences never had cut much ice with him.
He had guessed that there would be a guard on Clarice. The authorities would not really expect him to try to harm her, or even to reclaim her as his prisoner, now that she had been "rescued". Nevertheless, he was as famous for being a "psycho" as for anything, and they would have taken appropriate precautions on that basis alone. He expected that he would be able to get through the security, armed with both his altered face that had never been photographed, and with Uncle Bob's ID. But he could get through much more easily if he could cause the guard to be relaxed a bit.
If the police and the FBI believed that he had fled Las Vegas, if he could convince them of that, then the security around Clarice would, indeed, be relaxed. They would think him long gone, and their vigilance would suffer accordingly.
So, he had settled on a plan to stage a spurious border crossing for the benefit of those holding Clarice. He'd flitted about Margot Verger's home during the mid-morning hours, avoiding her house guests neatly and picking up whatever things he needed. He'd taken Bob's clothes and wallet, and had borrowed one of Mikey's toys from the nursery to use a bit later, at the hospital. He'd found an amusing canvas fishing hat in somebody's bedroom, one of those silly things that fairly screamed "retired". He'd found a pair of horn rimmed spectacles with smoked lenses in the den, forgotten next to a newspaper.
He'd checked the local yellow pages, and noted the RV Park at Circus Circus.
He was armed with his Harpy and Clarice's cut down pistol. All in all, he was as fully equipped as he needed to be.
At ten-thirty AM, he had called for a taxi, and had given the address of a home two blocks away that he had noticed during his walk to Margot's earlier. The house had looked deserted, the owners probably away on vacation, and there had been a deep, shadowy porch at the front door, easy to hide in. He'd quietly left Margot's and walked to this house, and waited for his taxi in the shadows at the front door, just as though he lived there. When the taxi had come, he'd told the driver to take him to Circus Circus and had taken advantage of the long trip into the city from Summerlin to relax and go over his plans once more.
Once he reached the trailer park, he would start to search for a very specific type of vehicle, and a very specific set of circumstances. He would be looking for a car or truck towing a trailer, one with out-of-state plates. He would be looking for such a rig with no more than two occupants, and said occupants must be leaving Las Vegas today, within the next two hours.
And that is how an hour and a half of unobtrusive loitering and observation at the Circus Circus RV Park had led him, in the end, to the trailer of Billy Lee Peacock and Junius Odom, unlucky hunters from Amarillo, Texas.
Now, as Billy Lee and Junius argued about the price of ice and how a man's pud could somehow resemble his Bud, Hannibal Lecter, hidden in the tiny shower in the trailer's mini-bathroom, listened to their talk and smiled coldly. His plans, necessarily, would not prove beneficial for Junius and Billy Lee, and this being the case, the fact that they were such unmitigated assholes was mildly pleasing to him.
There were always compensations.
Junius tossed Billy Lee the beer he'd requested, purposely over-throwing a bit, took one for himself, and shut the cooler lid with an annoyed thud.
Billy Lee popped the top of his Bud, and scowled as the beer, crazed by the toss, foamed up out of the can and over his hand and sleeve.
"Shitfire, Junius, why'd ya have ta throw the dang thing? Now I got beer on me!"
"Well, hell, wouldn't be the first time, would it? Hep me pick up this cooler, Billy Lee. We can put it up front in the pickup."
"No, I ain't. I'm going to the shithouse, I toldja."
"Well, there it is, right there, durn it," Junius said irritably, pointing at the door of the bathroom. "If yore all done TELLIN' me about how ya gotta go, I mean, and yore fixin' to just GO sometime today!"
Dr. Lecter tensed inside the shower, preparing for the potential advent of his quarry.
But Billy Lee had other ideas.
"Hell no, I ain't going in there! It stinks to high heaven and all, since we ain't never dumped the waste tank back at the RV park."
He brusquely brushed past Junius to the trailer door as Dr. Lecter nodded silent agreement from his hiding place. The small bathroom did, indeed, stink. Billy Lee and Junius apparently lacked even the most rudimentary housekeeping skills. No doubt a fine pair of big ol' swinging dicks like these two believed such chores to be lowly work, fit for women only.
"I'm going to them restrooms out there at the comfort station!" Billy Lee declared as he slammed open the trailer door and stomped down the steps outside.
Junius had noticed, just as he did each year, that his buddy Billy Lee had the odd habit of invariably alerting his companions to every proposed detail of his bathroom calls. He had also just remembered, as he did each year, that this peculiar penchant of Billy Lee's bugged the living piss out of him.
"Well, GO then, caint you?" he shouted out the door, completely out of patience. "I guess you done told me about it a hunnerd durn times already!"
"Well, FINE!" Billy Lee growled, somewhat senselessly, from outside, and stalked off toward the men's room.
Leaving Junius alone in the trailer with Dr. Lecter.
Junius was bent over the cooler, trying to get a solid grasp on its rounded plastic corners before lifting it, when he heard the sound of the bathroom door opening, and then shutting again, quickly and firmly.
He swung his head around toward the noise, thinking, for a startled, confused moment, that Billy Lee must have somehow gotten back inside and used the trailer commode after all. He popped up from his crouch at the beer cooler like a jackrabbit on springs as he saw a total stranger standing just outside the bathroom door.
"Good afternoon, Junius," Dr. Lecter said. "Your friend Billy Lee is a pig. I don't blame you if you're tired of him."
"Wha . . . who . . . ?" Junius started to say, but Dr. Lecter was on him, Harpy in hand, before he could complete the half-formed question.
A roughly Z shaped flash of the knife in the relative dimness of the trailer interior traced fleeting fire across Junius' throat, abdomen, and upper thighs. The carotid arteries on both sides of his neck opened and spewed, his intestines, freed, suddenly glurped liquidly out of his sliced belly, and the femoral artery in his right thigh was severed, along with a very thin slice off the head of his penis, which had been in the way and deflected the slashing blade from his femoral on the left.
Junius Odom collapsed instantly, like a marionette with cut strings. He was beyond any pain before he hit the floor, splashing a backwash of blood in every direction. He was dead, completely bled out, before three minutes had passed.
Dr. Lecter stepped out of the way before the red tide gushing from Junius body could reach his shoes.
He went swiftly to a closet he'd examined when he'd first broken into the trailer and waited inside for his unwary hosts to drive him out of Las Vegas. He'd found something very special in there.
That Junius and Billy Lee must have been on some sort of hunting junket had been perfectly clear to Dr. Lecter, judging from the abundance of guns and ammunition he'd discovered in the trailer. There had been rifles, shotguns, and even one highly illegal machine pistol, modified for fully automatic use. A surfeit of firearms, even for Texans.
But the finds that had most pleased Dr. Lecter had been the archery equipment and the fairly decent crossbow he'd discovered in the little closet near the rear of the trailer. For one thing, he despised all bow- hunters, for reasons he himself did not fully comprehend, and cared even less about. The unexpected opportunity to kill two such detested individuals had been a serendipitous enhancement of his plan to fake his own flight out of the city.
And, of course, he very much favored the crossbow as a weapon. This find had pleased him most of all.
He now pulled the crossbow out of the closet where he'd left it earlier, after making certain it was wound for his own use when the time came. Then he returned to the mid-section of the trailer, and chose a seat on the dinette bench closest to the trailer door.
The cooling corpse of Junius Odom lay in a spreading pool of blood to the right of the door. Dr. Lecter had stationed himself to the left, half obscured in the dining nook by the jut of the oak-veneered bathroom wall. When Billy Lee returned from his trip to the restroom and entered the trailer, he would first see the blood at his feet to his right, and would then spot his deceased companion, even further right. He would look to the right, and, with any luck, would move to the right as well. Which would leave Dr. Lecter, half hidden to the left, free to watch his prey move safely inside, to find his shot at leisure, to choose his moment, perhaps to hum a few bars of a Renaissance madrigal he'd been thinking of for the past hour or so.
Dr. Lecter did not have long to wait. Billy Lee returned from the restroom shortly, already shouting irritably from outside as he jerked the trailer door open.
"Gawd DAMN, Junius, ain't you got the cooler up front YET?!" he bellowed, stomping up the trailer steps and stepping directly into a tendril of pooling blood that had seeped towards the door.
His rubber-soled boot slipped in the viscous liquid and he pinwheeled his arms as he lost his footing on the slippery surface. His feet slipped out from under him and he did an abrupt involuntary belly flop onto the bloody linoleum floor, cracking his chin painfully as he hit and landing almost nose to nose with the dead, staring face of his former hunting buddy.
"Jesus-fucking-tap-dancing-jumped-up-Christ-in-a-sidecar-Almighty-DAMN!!!" Billy Lee screeched into Junius' unresponsive visage, utterly flummoxed.
The delicious black slapstick simply undid Dr. Lecter. He laughed helplessly in his hiding place, almost hard enough to compromise his aim.
But not quite. He certainly knew the ideal last words for a foul-mouthed, bow-hunting, brain-dead nitwit from Texas when he heard them. The whispery twang of the crossbow sounded in the small trailer and a well-placed quarrel impaled Billy Lee Peacock through the throat, thus stilling his voice forever.
Dr. Lecter rose from his place and took a moment to admire his handiwork, still chuckling. Adios, cowboys. Do give my regards to the rodeo clowns at that great celestial round-up in the sky. I guess your beer-drinking days are over.
But time was a-wastin', as they said out on the Rio Grande. He bent to the corpse of Billy Lee, pinned securely to the floor by the bolt through his throat. He intended for the bodies of the two deceased Texans to be found by the Highway Patrol as soon as possible, and he wanted even the most oblivious of investigators to be able to detect the infamous hand of "Hannibal the Cannibal" at the scene instantly. He must "sign" this scene, preferably in huge block capital letters that even the thickest could decipher with ease.
So he quickly excised Billy Lee's revoltingly cirrhotic liver and plopped it into the beer cooler, where it rested beside the very cans of Budweiser that had been steadily destroying it for years.
He stepped into the malodorous bathroom to wash his hands and check himself for bloodstains. Once satisfied with his appearance, he came out, scanned the scene one more time, tucked the crossbow under his arm, and picked up the cooler. He carried it to the door of the trailer, now transformed into an abattoir, and out into the bright autumn day. He left the trailer door open by approximately a foot and a half.
So far, so good. He put the cooler in the cab of the pick-up, noted that the truck keys were in the ignition, just as he'd thought they would be, and slid the crossbow under the seat on the driver's side. Then he went to the rear of the truck and unhitched the vehicle from the trailer, not an overly difficult maneuver.
He took the time to wave gaily at a family that was enjoying a late lunch at a picnic table nearby, his white teeth flashing in a friendly smile. Then he got in the truck and drove out of the rest stop, headed north, in full view of any onlookers.
He did not exit the interstate and take the service road to the southbound side of the highway for another ten miles.
He did not encounter any difficulty at all as he reentered Las Vegas. He had passed fairly extensive roadblocks on the northbound side of I-10, both when he was hidden in the late Billy Lee's trailer, and again as he passed going south on the return trip. But the police were hoping to prevent his exit from the city, and had never thought to try to prevent his entry. Which was exactly what he had expected.
By four thirty that afternoon, he was sipping a somewhat inferior Bordeaux at a secluded table in a dark video poker bar near Sunrise Hospital. He was waiting to see news of his efforts back at the rest stop near Nellis on the television behind the bar. He'd abandoned the pick-up (as well as Billy Lee's woefully unhealthy former liver) in the huge parking lot at the Mirage, where, he imagined, it would not be found for days.
As soon as he heard his own name mentioned on television, in connection with a new and spectacular atrocity on I-10, he would know that the way was as clear as it would ever be to go and visit Clarice. He'd already purchased a lovely get-well bouquet for the occasion; it lay in a gay profusion of blossoms on the dark oak table before him, an incongruously cheerful sight in the dingy dimness of the empty, late afternoon bar.
He signaled to the bartender, barely visible in the shadows near the bar. The wine was simply impossible. He'd decided to send it back and order some iced tea instead.
October 16, 5:00 PM, Summerlin
Judy and Margot, along with the majority of their various house guests, were watching the top story on this Monday night on the evening news.
" . . . the bodies of two male tourists from Texas . . . " a blow-dried reporter was saying on the television.
The reporter was standing at the curb in the rest stop on I-10, speaking urgently into a microphone, and swarms of police officers and FBI agents, plus all their equipment and vehicles, could be seen behind him. Orange plastic sawhorses encircled a ratty old trailer in the lower left half of the TV screen.
" . . . witnesses claim to have seen the suspect head north on ten, away from the city . . . "
A pair of stretchers, contents enclosed in black, rubberized body bags, were hauled into the open rear gates of a red and white ambulance.
" . . . serial killer Lecter, also known as 'Hannibal the cannibal', thought to be . . . "
Margot looked at Judy, eyebrows raised, a question in her eyes, the pale blue of her gaze somewhat darkened with distress.
" . . . armed and considered extremely dangerous . . . "
Judy shook her head. She pointed at the ground at her feet, an emphatic stabbing motion.
Margot understood. Judy did not believe Dr. Lecter would have left Las Vegas without looking in on Starling. No matter what the news said. She believed he was still in the city, somewhere. "Right here".
Judy glanced at the television screen and turned back to Margot. She silently mouthed a single word.
Again, Margot understood what Judy meant. Perfectly.
"Bullshit."
Bullshit. Yes. They continued to watch the television, lacking anything better to do.
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