Author's note: Here's another chapter. Enjoy! As for the French of the previous chapter, you'll see...

Dr. Lecter surveyed the scene around him. The policeman was dead, and Dr. Lecter could safely ignore him. Was his prey? It was hard to tell in the dark. He bent down and slid his arms under her. She was cold and limp, but that did not mean she was dead. Red lights were approaching. Another police car? No, an ambulance. The shape gave it away. He picked up the policeman's hat from where it had fallen and the coat from where the unfortunate officer had tried to wrap it around her.

He trotted through the snow back to his van, shifting the weight in his arm to open the rear door. Bounding inside, he turned his attention to a small cot he had bolted to the floor. Straps were handy to secure her to the cot, lest she roll around while he drove. He put his own topcoat atop her and wiped the blade of his knife on a towel he kept for such a purpose. Then he put on the coat and hat. Both were too big for him, but in this low light it would go unnoticed.

He got out of the van and trotted up to the ambulance as it pulled up. The driver obligingly rolled down his window as he expertly rolled to a stop.

"Bonjour," the driver said.

"Bonjour," Dr. Lecter repeated, and slashed with his knife. It was barely a flick of the wrist, but it was enough. The Harpy was wickedly sharp. Blood sprayed pagan symbols over the dashboard and radio. Dr. Lecter waited only a moment to ensure the driver wouldn't be able to call for help, then ran around to the back of the ambulance. The attendants were helpfully opening the doors.

The coat and hat provided him just enough cover. He moved quickly; there was no time to waste. The first attendant fell within moments. The second provided him with a bit more of a fight, since the gurney was between them, but he lasted only two more minutes than his cohort.

Normally he would have enjoyed the opportunity to raid the ambulance for supplies, but he had very little time. Soon enough they would send others. Besides, the van held plenty of standard medical supplies, the sort of things he could easily get himself. The radio chattered at him in metallic voices. Dr. Lecter ignored it. Should he take the gurney? No, not enough room in the van for it. There was an automatic defibrillator, which Dr. Lecter had heard of but had never had the chance to try. He grabbed that. It was heavy, but he could manage. He also took a large paramedic bag that was conveniently near the rear doors.

He ran back to the van, put his things in the back, and slid into the driver's seat. Should he try and attach the light bar, to pass as another ambulance? No, he decided. He was pleasantly exhilarated, enjoying the sensation of his racing pulse. Then he put the van into drive and pulled away.

It did not take much time to reach Magog, a small city much like many other small cities across the continent. Dr. Lecter pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel that had a good view of the lake and suites that were acceptably appointed, if not top notch. He had taken the opportunity to go on ahead of her and check in while she blundered through the snow. Perhaps he shouldn't have. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now, and now at least he had a place to keep her other than the van.

He pulled into the back of the parking lot and slipped into the rear of the van. Dr. Lecter took a moment to assess her condition. Not good; she was still ice cold to the touch and unmoving. Time was still of the essence.

Next to her cot was a Rubbermaid storage bin, the largest he had been able to find. Dr. Lecter unstrapped her from the cot and put her into the container, latching the lid closed. It was large enough to hold her when he folded her knees. Not the most dignified form of travel, he allowed, but it was certainly less conspicious than his attempting to maneuver an unconscious woman through the corridors of the hotel. After grabbing the rest of the things he would need, he headed inside. It was not at all convenient to balance his bulky load and fumble with the keycard at the exterior entrance and then at the door to his suite, but he managed.

Once inside, he pushed the door shut with his foot and carefully put down his load. To extract her from the bin took only a moment. Dr. Lecter carried her across the room to his fireplace, where there was a small coffee table. He laid the girl down atop it and took stock of the situation. Now was the time.

Her clothing struck him as quite odd until he realized that she wore two sets: a dirty shirt and jeans. A black dress was sandwiched between them, under the shirt but over the jeans. Under the jeans was a pair of black tights. She must have intended to cross the border dressed up a bit, to allay suspicion. A grubby T-shirt over her head had served for some scant protection against the cold, and a pair of filthy white socks did duty for gloves. It was all wet from the snow, and it would all have to go.

Once she was stripped, he took just one moment to look over her condition. There was some frostnip on her hands and face, but it was not too bad from the looks of it. No, the problem was core temperature – hypothermia.

He toweled her off and dressed her with clothing from his own suitcase: a pair of warm, fleecy sleep pants, thick socks, and a sweatshirt. Abandoning her for a moment, he turned to the fireplace. There was wood stacked nearby, which he stacked quickly. Rubbing alcohol from his medical supplies served to get the fire going in a satisfactory fireball. It was necessary practicality; there was little time.

He checked her temperature with an ear thermometer from the bag he had taken from the ambulance. It wasn't his preferred method, but it would have to do. Eighty-five degrees. Not good. All the same, she wouldn't be dead until she was warm and dead. Her heartbeat was irregular and thready. He would have liked an EKG, but he would have to do without one.

Dr. Lecter took the automated defibrillator and applied the paddles to her chest. Her body arched off the table as current crackled through it. He checked her pulse again. Still thready. He shocked her again, to the same result. On the third time, it began to improve.

Now he had to rewarm her. On the one hand, he supposed, it wouldn't be the end of the world if she died. He could simply wait until her body was good and dead, so that the marrow could not be harvested, and leave it where Clarice could easily find it. Or perhaps he could drag it out, seeing how long he could keep Clarice snapping at the bait. But he would prefer if she lived. It would be more deliciously fun for Clarice to be struggling for a goal that was actually there.

The first thing Dr. Lecter did was to take a breathing mask from the paramedic bag and slip the elastic strap around her head. She needed warmth now, and there was a simple way to provide that. Going into the bathroom revealed what he had hoped for – a hair dryer. Dr. Lecter brought this back to the table on which she lay. With duct tape, he constructed a crude but effective connection between the plastic tube of the mask and the hair dryer's nozzle. He turned it on. It would give her warm air to breathe, but that would not be enough.

Next came an IV line. Dr. Lecter was experienced at placing these, both from his medical practice and his hobbies. That took but a moment. The tubing was much longer than normally needed, but he had good reason for that. He noticed a fresh cut on her arm and frowned. Ruler-straight faded red lines flanked it.

Self-injury. How common. A little tedious, in fact. Right now it was the least of her problems.

This next part was harder, but he was looking forward to it. He needed access to her veins. Going in through the chest had its own problems. Her heartbeat was weak, and jamming a catheter into her chest seemed a poor idea. Better to leave it unmolested. He could go in through the femoral vein, in the thigh, but that would also have problems. He would need to remove her pants, and at some point she would recover consciousness. A woman who awoke to find a strange man leaning over her with her pants pulled down would be all too likely to get the wrong idea. After all, one never had a second chance to make a first impression.

That left the external jugular vein. He rather liked that idea; both for the venous access and the aesthetic it would provide. Dr. Lecter rolled her head to one side with great care. The vein was not hard to see under the pale skin of her neck. He considered: would he need to place two? No, a double-lumen needle should suffice.

He had nothing but his eyes and his medical knowledge, and so it was with great care and precision that Dr. Hannibal Lecter carefully pressed the needle into the girl's neck. Her flesh gave easily to the needle, and blood began to well up almost at once. Still he was precise as possible, not hurrying. Once it was in place, he wiped away some of the blood and attached the tubing to one of the ends. Then he ran the tubing and her IV lines over to the fireplace and taped them there with a bit of duct tape, low down near the fire where it would heat but not melt the tube. Then he attached a Y-connector and to that he attached a stainless steel hand pump that had come from his own supplies. Finally, he connected the end of the tube back to the other lumen.

He took a strap from his own bag and wrapped it around her forehead, pinning it to the table. It was very important that she not move, not with a catheter in her jugular vein. It could make an awful mess, and it wouldn't do. All the same, Dr. Lecter smiled. It was one thing to kill a policeman in battle, as he had done with the Suretè officer, Boyle, and Pembry. They were means to an end. It was another when you had the opportunity to appreciate the pleasant sensation that another person's life was in his hands. He had known it during the time he worked in the emergency room all those years ago, and he had known it while practicing his hobby. Taking care of Rinaldo Pazzi had been especially pleasurable because it had been both. It had been a long time, but it was still there. Whether or not this girl lived or died was solely his to decide. He could continue his attempt to save her, or he could simply place a hand over her mouth and nose and end things here and now. All his to decide. It was always a heady, pleasant sensation.

He smiled down at her, showing his small, even teeth.

He began to pump, which was not as efficient as he might have liked, but it did work. Blood came out of one end of the tube, traversed the tube, and ran past the fireplace, where it was heated by the roaring flames. Then it ran to the other tube and back into her body. Dr. Lecter sat and pumped with regularity to rival any machine. The aesthetic effect, he thought, was quite intriguing. The firelight lit up the dark blood, making it seem to glow a dark maroon, not that different from the way his own eyes reflected light. He watched it intently, quite entranced with the melding of blood and light. It was rare that the symbolism of fire giving life was so actual. Yes, placing the catheter in the neck had been exactly the right decision.

He kept one ear pricked for the sounds of sirens or the powerful engines of police cruisers. None came. All the better. His hand soon ached, but this was good exercise for it. He watched her blood supply slowly traverse the tube, glow, and re-enter her body. Would it do? He rather hoped so; the tatty journalists at the National Tattler would not be able to resist 'frozen food' jokes, which Dr. Lecter found tiresome already.

Hours passed a he sat his vigil without complaint. After a few, her temperature had risen noticeably, and after a few more she began to stir. Dr. Lecter was confident now that she would be able to tolerate a sedative. He injected it into the IV and she fell still at once.

Once she was warm enough to disconnect from her tubes, he found he had a new conundrum. Where was he to put her? The table she was on now did not suit him, not for when she finally awoke. The suite was his, and the bed thus also his. There was a sofa, true, but there were the psychological aspects to consider. Waking up on a couch suggested secondary status, homelessness, and did not suit the psychological play he wished to draw her into.

Yes, she would get the bed. For tonight, as a guest. He would retire to the couch. It was much better that way. Waking up next to a strange man would give her the wrong idea. Better for her to wake up comfortable, warm, and safe.

She weighed hardly anything. He placed her in the bed as if she were a child and arranged the covers over her. Then he took a long moment to examine his prize.

She was not classically beautiful. Her body was thin, as was her face. Her features were pinched and wan. Her nose had been broken and set badly; there was a noticeable hump. Dr. Lecter supposed that had happened in prison, as it wasn't in her mugshot. It gave her a rough air. Well, it was nothing that couldn't be repaired. In fact, he mused, he would be able to make her look quite different. That would help, and he was quite looking forward to that, actually. Then he retired to the couch, which he found perfectly acceptable.

He had done it, he realized. He had won. Tomorrow would begin other challenges, but he was confident that he would be able to overcome them. After all, he was a professional.

Where was Clarice, he wondered? He had taken an early lead, but eventually she would catch up. Still blundering around the backcountry a thousand miles away, trying to put the pieces together? Had she made it to Baltimore? Burlington? Derby Line? Perhaps he would have to check in on her progress when the opportunity presented itself. It did not really matter; second place was still second place. Oh, how she would seethe to know she was not going to win the crown!

It would be fun to watch, too. He thought back to Buffalo Bill; how he had planned and plotted to give Buffalo Bill to Clarice Starling without making it seem too obvious. How naïve she had seemed then, so earnest and desperate to save the victim. Now he intended to thwart her, and he had done half the job already.

He was pleasantly exhilarated from the night's activities. It was always good to know he had not lost his touch. And the glow of the blood in the firelight – ahhhh.

Dr. Lecter rolled over on his side and slid easily into a light sleep.


Fucking tire, Clarice thought irritably. Fucking goddam stupid tire. Thank God she had a full-sized spare. But now she couldn't drive as fast as she would have liked to. If another tire blew, she'd be stuck.

Yet she could still cover ground, and the Mustang steadily headed north. She bent grimly over the wheel. The odds were pretty good that she had missed her target. But that didn't mean it wasn't too late. She hadn't failed. Not yet. No, according to the web searching Claire had done, she would be walking from Stanstead to Magog, which was twenty miles. If you walked it, that would mean...an awful long walk, anyway. Hours. That would mean she'd be cold, hungry, and tired. Cold, at least; after twenty minutes of changing the tire, Clarice could well testify to the unpleasant weather conditions around these parts. That would play into Clarice's hands. Even if Clarice didn't have the power of the law behind her, that didn't mean she wouldn't have the upper hand. She rehearsed what she would say: It's cold out, you need a ride? Come on, you'll freeze to death. Get her in the car, chat her up, buy the kid a cup of coffee and some donuts and she'd be set.

Yeah, sure, her mind jeered at her. Riiiiiight. Since when were you ever good at chatting anybody up? You ain't Miss Congeniality, you know. Especially with the bad guys.

She dismissed that as she got closer to Derby Line. There was an inspection station on the Interstate, but that wasn't where Claire was going. No, Claire was going to head for the library that was built on the border. There was another station there. Claire would have tried to sneak across on foot.

Would it have worked? Clarice didn't think it would. The Canadians were a little more open about their borders than the US was, but they weren't slouches, and they knew damn well that some people tried to take advantage of little border towns like that. If it was on the Internet, it wasn't only an ex-con from Virginia who could find it. With a little bit of luck, maybe they had turned her back at the border, or maybe better detained her. That would be a relief. Clarice could flash her credentials, and hopefully the Canadians would hand her back and that would be that.

The Mustang rumbled off the exit and slowed from highway speed for the first time in hours. The town was dead, nothing but black buildings and streetlights. That was good, she thought. If Claire was here, she'd stick out. It would only be her and any police out there, and they would want to see what she was doing.

The inspection station was open, thank God. Clarice had wondered if it might close. Luck had been with her. Clarice rolled down her window and smiled at the border patrol officer.

"Evening," said the uniformed officer.

"Yes, good evening," Clarice said.

"What's the purpose of your visit to Canada?" The words rolled off his tongue with the ease of long practice.

"Actually, sir, maybe you could help me out. I'm looking for someone. I think she might have crossed here. My name's Clarice Starling, and I'm with the FBI."

The man started, surprised. Well, Clarice thought, odds were the FBI didn't roll up in this tiny little burg very often.

"The FBI? Is there a problem?" He looked behind him.

"Not really. Can I pull over and come in? It's awful cold." Clarice smiled.

The fellow shrugged. "Sure. We're not too busy this time of night." He made a wide gesture at the empty, dark town. Clarice pulled around and parked her car. She brought her folder with her. The border patrol officer opened the door courteously and beckoned her inside.

"Do you want to talk to a supervisor? Should I get the RCMP?"

Clarice shook her head. She didn't want to get too many people involved; this would be better handled quietly. "Actually, this isn't a federal matter. Not really. I'm looking for this girl." She showed Claire's mugshot and saw recognition light his face immediately.

"She was here, sure," the man said. "Bout eight o'clock. Said she wanted to get some pizza. There's a pizza place up the street. Said her mom was coming to pick her up. I let her in – cold night to be outside, you know. I figured she didn't have a car, she couldn't get far." He scowled. "Shows what being a nice guy will get you, right? Is she wanted?"

Clarice shook her head. "No. Not really. She's a runaway. I'm a friend of the family. They're very worried about her. She had an argument with them and took off. She's got family up here."

The fellow nodded.

"I'd like to handle this quietly, if we could," Clarice said. "Look, I'd really rather not stick this kid with an Immigrations problem. The family just wants her to come back. You know how they are at that age." She essayed a smile, feeling her heart pound. Her inner Ardelia spoke up. You know how they are at that age, Clarice. That age being eighteen, as in legal adult.

"Is she underage?" The officer's face was tight.

"No, she's eighteen." See? I didn't lie, did I? "Look. Things got out of hand, I'm just trying to get this kid somewhere safe and sound before she freezes. Would you be willing to let me go look for her? She couldn't have gotten that far."

"You...," he swallowed. "You can't arrest her here, you know."

"I'm not gonna," Clarice said. Now you're lying. Well, she wasn't going to do it until she was back across the border. Maybe she wouldn't even have to actually do it, maybe the threat would be enough. "What I'd like to do, sir, is just find her, talk to her, get her family on the phone, and get her back home."

"I can call the Suretè," he volunteered.

Like hell, Clarice thought. Last damn thing I need is a bunch of other cops in the way. "I'd rather not cause this kid any legal problems," Clarice demurred. "They'll have to bring her in, and it'll be a mess. Her family's law enforcement, you know. Just trying to spare them some embarrassment."

He studied her for a few minutes then, his face tense. Clearly he was weighing something in his mind. Finally he nodded. "All right. Have a look."

Clarice smiled brightly at him. "Thank you so much," she said. "I really appreciate it. I'm sure the family does too." She was also pretty sure he didn't want it widely known that he had waved a runaway across the border, either.

Now what? What if you get her in the car and she asks for asylum? What are you going to do if she refuses to come back?

She forced herself to dismiss that. There had to be something Claire Hansen would want. Food and warmth seemed likely possibilities. After that, well....there had to be something. She'd be nice. She'd be gentle. She'd been able to be civil with Evelda Drumgo, for Christ's sakes, and Evelda had raised being a bitch into performance art. And if that didn't work, well then, she'd figure something out.

Clarice slowly pulled out of the customs station and back onto the road, driving carefully and slowly. No need to piss off the local police by driving like a madman. She reached for the printouts she had made of Claire's web searches and looked. Google maps, walking directions. Everything Claire needed, and everything Clarice needed to find her. There was her route, in black and white.

Outside of town, Clarice thought that this part of Quebec looked an awful lot like rural Virginia, or those part of West Virginia that weren't in the mountains. Except for the snow and the cold. But the dark country roads guarded by silent trees, the fields, the occasional house, oddly solemn in the darkness – all that seemed familiar.

She reached over to fumble for the printouts and stared at them. Google Maps. Complete with walking directions, even. Even the street names were familiar: Willow, which became Mountainview, then Maple. Why did they use English names? Wasn't it a French-speaking country, or province, or whatever?

She smiled ruefully at herself. It was silly to get all worked up over that, but she was pretty tired and irritated after so many hours of driving. There was also the frustration of knowing that she could've avoided all this if she'd just put the pieces together a little quicker. Or if the family had bothered to mention that oh, by the way, Mom was from Quebec.

Clarice drove on a few more miles, peering into the darkness hoping to catch sight of someone walking. She had no luck, and that irritated the hell out of her more. The kid had to be around here somewhere. She was on foot, for God's sake. She had no way of escaping Clarice. Unless, of course, she scurried back into the treeline, in which case finding her – and catching her – would mean a bitch of a time. What was the next road name?

"Rue de Tomifobia," she said. Road of Tomifobia, Tomifobia Road. What the hell kind of name was Tomifobia? What did it mean, fear of guys named Tommy?

She reached for her notebook as she drove, flipping through it with one hand. What had Sarah Hansen said her mother's name was? Julie Mennerd. Didn't sound French, but it might be Menard or something like that. She'd have to see what she could find. Immigration ought to know something if she'd been in the US long enough to have three kids. Then she remembered that she was doing this privately, and wouldn't have the same access she had as an FBI agent.

I wonder if this is how Rinaldo Pazzi felt, she thought idly, and then dismissed it. It wasn't the same. Not at all. Rinaldo Pazzi had been a dirty cop, one who neglected his duty. She was trying to save a life. Not the same at all.

For a few more miles, there was nothing but the dark country night and the white snow. It was pretty, Clarice thought abstractly. Lots of trees. Even the snow wouldn't be so bad if you had warm clothes. And like most country roads, it was pretty deserted. Well, scotch that, she thought as she looked ahead. Not quite deserted.

Clarice looked ahead and scowled. There was a cop car up ahead; a Ford Crown Victoria, the very same model of prowl car used by hundreds of American police departments. Its lights were going. There was an ambulance parked in front of it, and its lights were going too. The strobing lights threw red and blue flashes across the dark night and white snow in an epileptic nightmare.

But dread puddled in her gut. Something wasn't right. Something was very wrong. There was a prowl car here, and an ambulance...but no civilians. No cops or ambulance crew, either. No people. They should have been out and moving around, doing something, and yet the scene was silent and motionless as a graveyard. No. Not right at all.

Clarice pulled over to the side of the road, noticed that the ambulance doors were open, and then saw an unmoving form sprawled by the side of the road. She swallowed hard and got out of the car. The weight of her .45 on her hip was a comfort as she surveyed the scene.

The ambulance's engine was running. The doors were open. Not good. Slowly, she approached, wondering if she ought to draw or not. It wasn't her territory. All the same, this didn't feel right. Not right at all.

Inside, the ambulance was a slaughterhouse. The driver lolled back in his seat, his eyes staring blankly at the treeline. Blood was splashed all over the dashboard and soaked his shirt. The cold steel smell, so familiar to her, permeated the air. The two attendants inside were slumped on the floor of the ambulance. Blood was pooled on the floor here, too. Not dry yet, Clarice thought distantly. Then she turned away from the ambulance and saw the still body, lying in the snow in front of the patrol car.

"Oh, shit," Clarice said. "What the fuck did you do?"

The cursing didn't help the feeling of weakness in her knees.

She didn't know that Claire was involved in this, but it seemed to be too hideous a coincidence. She was little, sure, but that didn't mean shit. Clarice had seen women of her target's size and weight take four full-grown men to hold them down. All the same, it might have been possible for her to get the jump on one man. Four? That seemed a lot less likely.

She glanced down at the footprints. It was hard to see anything in only the light of her flashlight, but the prints at the driver's door looked too big to be Claire's. But she couldn't do this on her own.

She didn't want to trample all over the scene, so she made her way carefully back to the patrol car and looked at it carefully. The door hung open and the engine was still running. The radio chattered at her in metallic French, too fast for her to follow any of it.

Clarice felt her head spin and bit her lip hard. She had to keep it together. But yet she could feel everything spinning apart. Her duty as a law enforcement officer had just gone smack up against her job of finding this kid. She reached for the microphone, stopped, and then sighed. No other way around this. There would be no quiet way of handling this. Or maybe there could be, she thought desperately. Maybe they would understand. Maybe there was some way of quietly getting Claire Hansen back where she belonged so she could save her sister's life.

Clarice picked up the mic and grumbled a curse into the dark night. Was this a huge mistake? Was doing this going to endanger a life? For a moment she entertained the mad idea of closing the door, getting back in her car, and continuing on her search. But it seemed she had no choice. Only one course of action. She keyed the mic and gathered herself.

"This is Agent Clarice Starling of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," she said dully.

After a moment, a voice answered her in French, which she couldn't make heads or tails of. Probably wanting to know what the hell she was doing on their frequency.

She spoke the words that would make any officer who understood them come running. "You guys need to get to Tomifobia Road right away. Officer down."