The Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris [96]
The cotton string stretched more than she expected. She got a new grip as high as she could and pulled, swinging her arm from side to side, hoping the string was fraying where it passed over the wooden lip of the opening above her. She frayed until her shoulder ached. She pulled, the string stretching, now not stretching, no more stretch. Please break high. Pop, and it fell, hanks of it across her face.
Squatting on the floor, the string lying on her head and shoulder, net enough light from the hole far above to see the string piled on her. She didn't know how much she had. Must not tangle. Carefully she laid the string out on the floor in bights, measuring them on her forearm. She counted fourteen forearms. The string had broken at the lip of the well.
She tied the chicken bone with its shredded morsels of flesh securely into the line where it attached to the bucket handle.
Now the harder part.
Work carefully. She was in her heavyweather mindset. It was like taking care of yourself in a small boat in heavy weather.
She tied the broken end of the string to her wrist, tightening the knot wjth her teeth.
She stood as clear of the string as possible. Holding the bucket by the handle, she swung it in a big circle and threw it straight upward at the faint disc of light above her. The plastic bucket missed the open hatch, hit the underside of the lid and fell back, hitting her in the face and shoulder. The little dog barked louder.
She took the time to lay out the line and threw again, and again. On.the third throw, the bucket hit her bro?ken finger when it fell and she had to lean against the insloping wall and breathe until the nausea went away. Throw four banged down on her, but five did not. It was out. The bucket was somewhere on the wooden cover of the well beside the open trap. How far from the hole? Get steady. Gently she pulled. She twitched the string to hear the bucket handle rattle against the wood above her.
The littledog barked louder.
She mustn't pull the bucket over the edge of the hole, but she must pull it dose. She pulled it dose.
The little dog among the mirrors and the mannequins in a nearby basement room. Sniffing at the threads and shreds beneath the sewing machine. Nosing around the great black armoire. Looking toward the end of the basement where the sounds were coming from. Dash?ing toward the gloomy section to bark and dash back again.
Now a voice, echoing faintly through the basement.
“Preeeeecious.”
The little dog barked and jumped in place. Its fat little body quivered with the barks.
Now a wet kissing sound.
The dog looked up at the kitchen floor above, but that wasn't where the sound came from.
A smacksmack sound like eating. “Come on, Pre?cious. Come on, Sweetheart.”
On its tiptoes, ears up, the dog went into the gloom.
Slurpslurp. “Come on, Sweetums, come on, Pre?cious.”
The poodle could smell the chicken bone tied to the bucket handle. It scratched at the side of the well and whined.
Smacksmacksmack.
The small poodle jumped up onto the wooden cover of the well. The smell was over here, between the bucket and the hole. The little dog barked at the bucket, whined in indecision. The chicken bone twitched ever so slightly.
The poodle crouched with its nose between its front paws, behind in the air, wagging furiously. It barked twice and pounced on the chicken bone, gripping it with its teeth. The bucket seemed to be trying to nose the little dog away from the chicken. The poodle growled at the bucket and held on, straddling the han?dle, teeth firmly clamped on the bone. Suddenly the bucket bumped the poodle over, off its feet, pushed it, it struggled to get up, bumped again, it struggled with the bucket, a back foot and haunch went off in the hole, its claws scrabbled frantically at the wood, the bucket sliding, wedging in the hole with the dog's hindquar?ters and the little dog pulled free, the bucket slipping over the edge and plunging, the bucket escaping down the hole with the chicken