Red Dragon - Thomas Harris [137]
Crawford slid his notebook under Graham's hand and put a pen between his fingers.
“Willy OK,” he wrote.
“Yeah, he's fine,” Crawford said. “Molly too. She's been in here while you were asleep. Dolarhyde's dead, Will. I promise you, he's dead. I took the prints myself and had Price match them. There's no question. He's dead.”
Graham drew a question mark on the pad.
“We'll get into it. I'll be here, I can tell you the whole thing when you feel good. They only give me five minutes.”
“Now,” Graham wrote.
“Has the doctor talked to you? No? About you first - you'll be okay. Your eye's just swollen shut from a deep stab wound in the face. They've got it fixed, but it'll take time. They took out your spleen. But who needs a spleen? Price left his in Burma in '41.”
A nurse pecked on the glass.
“I've got to go. They don't respect credentials, nothing, around here. They just throw you out when the time's up. See you later.”
Molly was in the ICU waiting room. A lot of tired people were.
Crawford went to her. “Molly . . .”
“Hello, Jack,” she said. “You're looking really well. Want to give him a face transplant?”
“Don't, Molly.”
“Did you look at him?”
“Yes.”
“I didn't think I could look at him, but I did.”
“They'll fix him up. The doctor told me. They can do it. You want somebody to stay with you, Molly? I brought Phyllis down, she-”
“No. Don't do anything else for me.”
She turned away, fumbling for a tissue. He saw the letter when she opened her purse: expensive mauve stationery that he had seen before.
Crawford hated this. He had to do it.
“Molly.”
“What is it?”
“Will got a letter?”
“Yes.”
“Did the nurse give it to you?”
“Yes, she gave it to me. They're holding some flowers from all his friends in Washington, too.”
“May I see the letter?”
“I'll give it to him when he feels like it.”
“Please let me see it.”
“Why?”
"Because he doesn't need to hear from . . . that particular person.
Something was wrong with the expression on his face and she looked down at the letter and dropped it, purse and all. A lipstick rolled across the floor.
Stooping to pick up Molly's things, Crawford heard her heels tap fast as she left him, abandoning her purse.
He gave the purse to the charge nurse.
Crawford knew it would be nearly impossible for Lecter to get what he would need, but with Lecter he took no chances.
He had an intern fluoroscope the letter in the Xray department. Crawford slit the envelope on all sides with a penknife and examined its inside surface and the note for any stain or dust - they would have lye for scrubbing at Chesapeake Hospital, and there was a pharmacy.
Satisfied at last, he read it:
Dear Will,
Here we are, you and I, languishing in our hospitals. You have your pain and I am without my books - the learned Dr. Chilton has seen to that.
We live in a primitive time - don't we, Will? - neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.
I wish you a speedy convalescence and hope you won't be very ugly.
I think of you often.
Hannibal Lecter
The intern looked at his watch, “Do you need me anymore?”
“No,” Crawford said. “Where's the incinerator?”
When Crawford returned in four hours for the next visiting penod, Molly wasn't in the waiting room and she wasn't in the intensivecare unit.
Graham was awake. He drew a question mark on the pad at once. “D. dead how?” he wrote under it.
Crawford told him. Graham lay still for a full minute. Then he wrote, “Lammed how?”
“Okay,” Crawford said. “St. Louis. Dolarhyde must have been looking for Reba MeClane. He came in the lab while we were there and spotted us. His prints were on an open furnaceroom window - it wasn't reported until yesterday.”
Graham tapped the pad. “Bodv?”
"We think it was a guy named Arnold Lang - he's missing. His car was found in Memphis. It had been wiped down. They'll run me out in a minute. Let me give it to you in order.
"Dolarhyde knew we were there. He gave us the slip at the plant and drove to a Servco Supreme station