Either she found Gumb, or she made sure he’d fled, or she took Catherine out with her, those were the only choices.
A quick look over her shoulder, around the oubliette room.
“Catherine. Catherine. Is there a ladder?”
“I don’t know, I woke up down here. He let the bucket down on strings.”
Bolted to a wall beam was a small hand winch. There was no line on the drum of the winch.
“Catherine, I have to find something to get you out with. Can you walk?”
“Yes. Don’t leave me.”
“I have to leave the room for just a minute.”
“You fucking bitch don’t you leave me down here, my mother will tear your goddamn shit brains out—”
“Catherine shut up. I want you to be quiet so I can hear. To save yourself be quiet, do you understand?” Then, louder, “The other officers will be here any minute, now shut up. We won’t leave you down there.”
He had to have a rope. Where was it? Go see.
Starling moved across the stairwell in one rush, to the door of the workroom, door’s the worst place, in fast, back and forth along the near wall until she had seen all the room, familiar shapes swimming in the glass tanks, she too alert to be startled. Quickly through the room, past the tanks, the sinks, past the cage, a few big moths flying. She ignored them.
Approaching the corridor beyond, it blazing with light. The refrigerator turned on behind her and she spun in a crouch, hammer lifting off the frame of the Magnum, eased the pressure off. On to the corridor. She wasn’t taught to peek. Head and gun at once, but low. The corridor empty. The studio blazing with light at the end of it. Fast along it, gambling past the closed door, on to the studio door. The room all white and blond oak. Hell to clear from the doorway. Make sure every mannequin is a mannequin, every reflection is a mannequin. Only movement in the mirrors your movement.
The great armoire stood open and empty. The far door open onto darkness, the basement beyond. No rope, no ladder anywhere. No lights beyond the studio. She closed the door into the dark part of the basement, pushed a chair under the knob, and pushed a sewing machine against it. If she could be positive he wasn’t in this part of the basement, she’d risk going upstairs for a moment to find a phone.
Back down the corridor, one door she’d passed. Get on the side opposite the hinges. All the way open in one move. The door slammed back, nobody behind it. An old bathroom. In it, rope, hooks, a sling. Get Catherine or go for the phone? In the bottom of the well Catherine wouldn’t get shot by accident. But if Starling got killed, Catherine was dead too. Take Catherine with her to the phone.
Starling didn’t want to stay in the bathroom long. He could come to the door and hose her. She looked both ways and ducked inside for the rope. There was a big bathtub in the room. The tub was almost filled with hard red-purple plaster. A hand and wrist stuck up from the plaster, the hand turned dark and shriveled, the fingernails painted pink. On the wrist was a dainty watch. Starling was seeing everything at once, the rope, the tub, the hand, the watch.
The tiny insect-crawl of the second-hand was the last thing she saw before the lights went out.
Her heart knocked hard enough to shake her chest and arms. Dizzy dark, need to touch something, the edge of the tub. The bathroom. Get out of the bathroom. If he can find the door he can hose this room, nothing to get behind. Oh dear Jesus go out. Go out down low and out in the hall. Every light out? Every light. He must have done it at the fuse box, pulled the lever, where would it be? Where would the fuse box be? Near the stairs. Lot of times near the stairs. If it is, he’ll come from that way. But he’s between me and Catherine.
Catherine Martin was keening again.
Wait here? Wait forever? Maybe he’s gone. He can’t be sure no backup’s coming. Yes he can. But soon I’ll be missed. Tonight. The stairs are in the direction of the screams. Solve it now.
She moved, quietly, her shoulder barely brushing the wall, brushing it too lightly for sound, one hand extended ahead, the gun at waist level, close to her in the confined hallway. Out into the workroom now. Feel the space opening up. Open room. In the crouch in the open room, arms out, both hands on the gun. You know exactly where the gun is, it’s just below eye level. Stop, listen. Head and body and arms turning together like a turret. Stop, listen.
In absolute black the hiss of steam pipes, trickle of water.
Heavy in her nostrils the smell of the goat.
Catherine keening.
Against the wall stood Mr. Gumb with his goggles on. There was no danger she’d bump into him—there was an equipment table between them. He played his infrared light up and down her. She was too slender to be of great utility to him. He remembered her hair though, from the kitchen, and it was glorious, and that would only take a minute. He could slip it right off. Put it on himself. He could lean over the well wearing it and tell that thing “Surprise!”
It was fun to watch her trying to sneak along. She had her hip against the sinks now, creeping toward the screams with her gun stuck out. It would have been fun to hunt her for a long time—he’d never hunted one armed before. He would have thoroughly enjoyed it. No time for that. Pity.
A shot in the face would be fine and easy at eight feet. Now.
He cocked the Python as he brought it up snick snick and the figure blurred, bloomed bloomed green in his vision and his gun bucked in his hand and the floor hit him hard in the back and his light was on and he saw the ceiling. Starling on the floor, flash-blind, ears ringing, deafened by the blast of the guns. She worked in the dark while neither could hear, dump the empties, tip it, feel to see they’re all out, in with the speedloader, feel it, tip it down, twist, drop it, close the cylinder. She’d fired four. Two shots and two shots. He’d fired once. She found the two good cartridges she’d dumped. Put them where? In the speed-loader pouch. She lay still. Move before he can hear?
The sound of a revolver being cocked is like no other. She’d fired at the sound, seen nothing past the great muzzle flashes of the guns. She hoped he’d fire now in the wrong direction, give her the muzzle flash to shoot at. Her hearing was coming back, her ears still rang, but she could hear.
What was that sound? Whistling? Like a teakettle, but interrupted. What was it? Like breathing. Is it me? No. Her breath blew warm off the floor, back in her face. Careful, don’t get dust, don’t sneeze. It’s breathing. It’s a sucking chest wound. He’s hit in the chest. They’d taught her how to seal one, to put something over it, a rain slicker, a plastic bag, something airtight, strap it tight. Reinflate the lung. She’d hit him in the chest, then. What to do? Wait. Let him stiffen up and bleed. Wait.