Time for a woman in pain can stretch out to eternity, and so it is for Clarice Starling now. Yesterday seemed to last forever. 'Delia came over and stayed with her for a while. But eventually she had to go. Back to her own family. Her own daughter. It had been hard not to be jealous; Ardelia was concerned and determined to support her.
"Clarice, it'll be okay," Ardelia had said. "We'll find her. She'll come around. Once she realizes what he is, she'll want to get away. What we need to do for right now is just get the word out. Through the embassies and stuff like that. TV ads and radio and such. Tell her to just go to any American consulate, or police station, or whatever, and to come home."
Clarice had been bitterly comforted. That was Ardelia. She'd made the Law Review at the University of Maryland while working at night. Take control of the entire South American media system just to get her teenage daughter to come home? No problem.
Then she left, and Clarice was alone. The house was eerily quiet. She kept thinking Susana would be coming out of her room or at the door or something. But there was no sound in the house unless she made it. She was all alone. For a moment she found herself thinking of Chilton, how she had seen his quiet little lonesome life. At the time she'd thought it made him somehow lesser than her.
How had this happened? Could this be set right? All she needed was the chance. Five minutes to explain to her daughter what she had done: that was all she wanted. I didn't tell you, but that was to protect you. I was trying to keep you safe. But there was a yawing gulf between that and where she was, and Clarice had the sinking feeling that the chasm might be insurmountable.
Now, Clarice Starling sits in her living room, staring around the room and wondering how the hell this could have happened. On her mantelpiece are a few pictures of Susana. Now they seem to mock her; the girl in the pictures is thousands of miles away.
Don't let this happen to me, she beseeches. She has to turn up. She has to. I can explain this, really. Don't let my daughter fall under a monster's spell.
A great deal of her fear comes from her knowledge of Dr. Lecter. He can stay hidden; he's done it for a few decades now, for Christ's sake. He doesn't appear to care if the authorities know that he was involved in Susana's flight; the name of the shell company he used tells them that. He wanted her to know. He knows perfectly well the way her guts are knotting, as if a giant fishhook had caught in her intestines. In some sick way, he probably enjoys it.
And now that he has her…the thought makes Clarice shiver. He won't abuse her physically. She is his daughter, after all. Hannibal Lecter has no family. But she knows what he can do to Susana's mind. She knows this firsthand. His voice echoes in her mind in thoughts she has forced herself to block. Clarice, I would like you to focus on this, a small shiny object held out for her to focus on.
If Susana is in his clutches, then Ardelia's idea won't work. Dr. Lecter is skilled in his knowledge of how to mold the human mind. In fact, Clarice thinks, he is probably one of the world's foremost authorities on brainwashing. Susana may hear the calls of her mother to come home, but she won't comply. Dr. Lecter has what it takes to alter the way she thinks.
This thought brings up a bitter memory she still has problems with. Dr. Lecter is good at that. Good enough, in fact, that he cracked her like the proverbial egg and kept her as his trophy wife for eleven years. Susana may have foolishly gone to him under her own free will, but if Clarice does not find her soon, she won't have the free will to leave. It'll look like she does, but Clarice knows better.
The damnable thing is that Clarice does not know what to do next. By the time the Cuban government quits screwing around with them, she knows they will not be in Cuba anymore. At most, they would have spent the night in Cuba and flown out in the morning. The cool, fact-driven profiler tells her this; the anguished mother hopes against hope.
An electronic boop interrupts her anguish and she glances around. Susana's computer, back from the FBI's labs, is set up on the desk it formerly resided in, the monitor staring at her like a great glass eye. She doesn't remember having set it back up again. But it is all back up and running again, plugged into the house's network and content to shuttle packets back and forth to its silicon heart's content.
On the screen is a small, single window. It flashes as if desperately trying to gain her interest. She looks up at it and her mood changes from sadness to angered excitement.
MarcusAurelius1938: Are you there, Clarice?
Clarice's heart begins to pound. She crosses the room to the desk. For a moment anger swells in her. She sits down at the desk and stares bitterly at the window, wishing she could teleport herself as easily as the words, teleport herself through to him and throttle him until his eyeballs pop out for the pain he has caused her.
Instead, she simply types Yes. Is this Susana?
Several moments pass. The window informs her helpfully that MarcusAurelius1938 is typing…
MarcusAurelius1938: No, it is not. She's here with me, though. I assure you that she is in good health and being well taken care of. I shall not continue this conversation here. There is a Mobil gas station seven miles from your home, right near the entrance to the highway. Go there; the pay phone on the side of the building will be ringing. You have ten minutes; after that I will assume you are not interested in discussing this matter further.
MarcusAurelius1938 signed off at 21:32:12 PM. The computer makes a sound like a door closing to underscore the point. Clarice stands and her lips skin back, displaying her teeth. The urge to fight, part of her warrior's training, rises strong.
Bowman had told her that he would arrange with the phone company to have a standing trap-and-trace on her home phone line, just in case Dr. Lecter tried just this. Did it count for the DSL line? Would her ISP or the instant-messaging company or anybody be able to track it?
Of course they would, and of course Dr. Lecter would know that and plan for it. He is older, but he learned to use computers well enough to booby trap his own when the Italian police found it. Susana might be able to fill him in a bit on that; she knows how to use computers about as well as Clarice did.
And of course, she doesn't have time to mull this over right now. If Dr. Lecter said she had ten minutes to travel seven miles, he meant it. She grabs her keys and her purse and runs outside. Her Mustang had long since been replaced, but by a newer model bought through a DEA auction, just as its predecessor had been. Clarice likes performance in her cars.
The large engine growls to life, and Clarice throws it in reverse. The Mustang booms out of her nice little townhouse in a nice little suburban condo development and rockets along the nice private roadway with zero concern for what the neighbors would think. The neighbors don't have a daughter kidnapped by a highly intelligent sociopath; she does.
She gains the main road and turns onto it. The Mustang's tires shriek. Too bad she doesn't have a red light in the car. If a cop stops her, she'll keep driving anyway. They can arrest her later. For now this is her one chance.
There are a few small favors that break her way. There is only one light between her and the station and it is green. It isn't raining. The car handles well, even if it is a bit overpowered. Clarice likes the power just fine. The steering wheel trembles just a bit, just enough so that she can feel it when she grips the wheel.
Given her mission it is little comfort. It is seemingly an eternity before the Mobil sign gleams overhead, a winged red horse on a background of white and blue. It gleams down at Clarice in a somehow sterile manner. The 24-hour mini-mart is of no interest to her; the phone on the wall is. The Mustang screeches to a stop. Clarice throws herself out the door. Her work shoes rattle-thud on the asphalt as she runs towards the phone, which is already ringing. A stitch begins to build in her side as she crosses the few remaining feet.
She grabs the phone and puts it to her ear. Her heart pounds. Her breath wheezes in her lungs. Her life in Behavioral Sciences has deprived her of the opportunity to be as physically active as she was before. Besides, she is now in her fifties; try as she might, she cannot match what she was twenty years ago.
"Hello?" Her own voice is pained and gasping. She hopes to hear her daughter's voice in return. Just five minutes to talk some sense into Susana. It occurs to her sourly that it may well be too late. She chokes that voice off, determined to try.
"Hello, Clarice." The voice is assuredly not Susana's. Clarice scowls and feels a chill run down her spine.
"Let me talk to her," she hisses. It is hard to choke off the words you son of a bitch, which desperately want to follow, molding her tongue into their shapes.
"You needn't sound so angry, Clarice. Susana is fine. I was hoping to chat. It's been a while." Dr. Lecter's metallic, cultured voice sounds amused. For a moment Clarice clenches the receiver until her fingers ache and hawks back to Senator Martin. And then he just drank down my pain…as he is now drinking hers down, deeply enjoying the maternal distress he has caused.
"Give me my daughter," Clarice utters between clenched teeth.
"You make it sound like she's an object to be handed off from person to person," Dr. Lecter observes. "Have you ever given a thought to what Susana wants?"
Clarice scowls again. "She's only sixteen years old," she says. "Just…show some decency." As soon as it is out of her mouth, she knows it is the wrong thing to say. Still, she has no cards to play. He has her daughter and she doesn't.
"Decency? Please, Clarice. Susana may make her own choices, you know. They may not match what you want for her, but they are her choices to make."
Clarice halts. So that is his game after all. Brainwash her and then claim it's her free choice to…to what? Flee with him? Who the hell does Dr. Lecter feel the need to justify himself to, anyway?
No, this is a sadistic game. She chokes back a sob. If he hears it he will drag it out, just to cause her more pain.
"I want to talk to my daughter," she says resolutely, trying not to let despair creep into her tone. "Is she there? May I speak with her, please?" Courtesy may get her what she wants. Sometimes it does, with Dr. Lecter.
"You're still courteous," Dr. Lecter says as if reading her thoughts. "Exaggerating your courtesy to the point of burlesque, but courtesy nonetheless. One moment, please."
Clarice turns and stares at the road running south as if she can actually see Susana from here. Her own breath sounds heavy in her ear. A moment later, she hears the phone being handed off. Then, her daughter's voice in her ear, simultaneously a great relief and a stabbing pain.
"Hi, Mom," Susana says cautiously.
Clarice's heart pounds and her brain kicks into overdrive, trying to scan her daughter's words. She doesn't sound drugged or unreasonably calm. She sounds like a girl who has done something that will make her mother extremely frightened and pissed off. That's pretty close to the truth; enough to satisfy Clarice.
A plethora of emotions pour through Clarice as she stands at the phone here at this gas station. Fear. Fear for what her daughter has done, fear of never seeing her again, fear of Dr. Lecter molding her mind like modeling clay until it has become what Dr. Lecter wants it to be. Anger. Anger at her daughter for having run away in the first place, for hiding her conversations with Dr. Lecter from Clarice. Even empathy; just as Clarice had yearned for her father after his death, Susana has too.
She cannot scream at her daughter now, no matter how her stomach churns. Her hand tightens down on the phone until the handset creaks warningly. For a moment all that escapes her now is a sobbing sigh.
"Susana?" she asks. It is only a pained whisper, and she knows he is listening – somehow – and that he will batten on it. But she has to try.
"Mom, I know you didn't want me to," Susana says. "But it's okay. I'm fine. I just…I had to. I mean, he's my father."
A pang strikes Clarice. Fear? Anger? Concern? She can't tell; perhaps it is all three.
"Honey," she says in a powerless tone. "Look. I'm not mad. I'm…I'm worried. Your--," she stops, unable to say the words. Your father. "Dr. Lecter is not what you think he is. You're in danger, Susana. Now look. For now, I want you to go to the nearest American embassy, or a police station or something, and turn yourself in. They won't arrest you, honey, you won't have to go to jail, just please,--,"
Susana interrupts her with an annoyed tone she knows all too well. "I didn't come all this way just to come on a plane and come right back," she says tartly.
If you don't come back now, you never will. "Honey," Clarice says, her tone openly pleading now, "please, just listen to me. I love you. I…I'm afraid for you.."
"He's my father," Susana retorts. "He won't hurt me."
No, he'll just…mold you into what he wants you to be. "Susana, please, sweetheart, I swear I'm not mad, just come home."
"I will. Soon. Just not yet." Susana's voice is both sympathetic and recalcitrant.
Tears prick Clarice's eyes. "Susana, it's got to be now, you've got to believe me, he is not safe--,"
A click, a rattle, and Dr. Lecter's voice replaces her daughter's, filling her with helpless rage. She wants her daughter, the lamb of her very own.
"I'm sorry to have to cut this short, Clarice, but we must be going," he says, his voice cool and amused. "I assure you I'll keep her out of trouble."
Then a click, and the smooth low moan of the dial tone. Clarice Starling bashes the pay phone with its own handset in frustration. Then she puts her head in her hands and begins to sob under the harsh light of the arc-sodium lights overhead.
Five thousand miles away, Dr. Lecter hangs up the phone and looks around the grandeur of the Retiro train station. His daughter eyes him with some displeasure. He tilts his head as he watches her in return. She is so like Clarice through the face. But those are his eyes, duplicated by busy genetic messengers, unchanged and constant.
"You didn't have to hang up on her like that," Susana says, sounding irked.
"Yes, I did. Tracing technology improves every day." He waves a hand in a smooth gesture. "Our train will be arriving soon. Let us go."
Next to them are a few suitcases on a handcart. Susana takes the handles of the cart and begins to push it; she is sixteen and full of strength. Dr. Lecter is eighty-two, and while he is still in far better shape than most men his age, he is not as strong as he was as a younger man.
For his own pleasure, he reviews having met Susana in Cuba. The drollery of that still pleases him. Here in South America, Dr. Lecter has many identities. One of his identities was a member in good standing of the local Communist party. It was that identity that he used to travel to Cuba. Based on that, Dr. Lecter thought it likely that the Cuban government would be loath to assist American authorities, and he had been correct.
Ideology means nothing to Dr. Hannibal Lecter, but using it to accomplish his aims pleases him immeasurably.
They had gone shopping upon their arrival in Buenos Aires. Susana had come literally with the clothes on her back. There was plenty of European couture in Buenos Aires, for those who could afford it. He could. He had been somewhat surprised when she turned up her nose at several dresses that he had found attractive, but perhaps her mother had rubbed off on her. They had compromised.
It bothered Dr. Lecter not at all that the FBI might eventually connect the maroon-eyed girl and her maroon-eyed father who had bought several thousand pesos worth of clothing in the best shops that Buenos Aires had to offer. In fact, he was counting on it. He'd made a point of displaying his scarred hand to more than one clerk while paying for his daughter's clothing.
"I wanted to see more of Buenos Aires," Susana says wistfully. "I mean, this is where I was born." The rubber wheels of the luggage cart squeak as she pushes it along. How sentimental, Dr. Lecter thinks, but he is happy to have her here. He had lost Mischa; he had lost Clarice; he had lost Susana. She was the only one of the three to ever come back to him. He does not want her to leave a second time.
"Another time, you will," Dr. Lecter says easily. "It's not safe for me here. We cannot stay long in Argentina."
Susana nods. It is not far to the track where their train is boarding. A man in uniform offers to take the bags. Watching his daughter transfer them to the man's cart tells him that she has inherited his strength, among other things.
The man takes the bags and politely helps them onto the train when it arrives a few minutes later. He directs them forward, to the sleeper compartment Dr. Lecter has reserved. He chatters in rapid-fire castellano at them, wishing them a good day. Susana smiles and thanks him in her somewhat fractured command of the language.
"Do you remember your Spanish?" he asks curiously.
"Some," Susana confirms. "I haven't spoken it since I was five, so I guess it's got to come back to me."
"It will," Dr. Lecter confirms, and opens the door. The suite is impressive, for train travel. There are two bedrooms, a small sitting room, and a bathroom. Susana's eyes widen. Dr. Lecter supposes she is unfamiliar with trains.
"This is ritzy," Susana says, and looks around the berth. It is small, admittedly, but it will allow them to travel in comfort. The bedrooms are tiny, but they are enough for now. It is not that long of a trip. "I prefer to travel in comfort," Dr. Lecter explains. "Besides, the trains are very safe. I have identity papers for you, but we shouldn't need them until we arrive."
"Where are we going?" Susana asks. "You didn't tell me where you lived." She swallows. "You didn't tell me much," she adds wistfully.
"Asunciòn," Dr. Lecter says. "In Paraguay. There are not many tourists there. It's quiet and relatively safe. There's enough nightlife that I suspect you'll be able to find things to do." He smiles, as if acknowledging the gulf of years between himself and his daughter.
The train begins to pull out of the station, and Susana watches the window curiously, fascinated by the difference. He supposes her experience with trains – if indeed there is any – consists mostly of the commuter lines radiating out of Washington. Soulless things they would be; clean and not much more, a simple seat for someone to ride in going to work. Dr. Lecter rather likes the expensive sleeper accommodations he has reserved.
He observes his daughter for his own amusement. The shape of her face is definitely Clarice's. At sixteen she reminds him of the young FBI agent – perhaps only six or seven years older – who braved Chilton and Miggs to come to his basement cell. She puts a hand on the window, and Dr. Lecter's mind skips back decade to remember Mischa's small hands, like fleshy stars. Although Susana is eight times older than Mischa had ever been, there is still something of her aunt in her. Or perhaps it merely exists in his perception. When she had been two, there were times he found himself wondering if this was 'making a place' for Mischa had been. There had been times he had stared over the bars of her crib, wondering who was really under the blanket. Every time he had pulled it back from her face, it had been Susana, but he had still checked.
Then when she had turned five, he had suffered the double blow of losing Clarice and Susana at the same time. Clarice had awakened and taken Susana with her. She had fled north, back to America. He could not follow them there. Walking into Washington, DC would be foolish, and Dr. Lecter is no fool. He had been patient, though, and years of careful waiting have brought him to where he is today. His daughter is with him again. At long last, someone who has left him has come back to him.
Watching her, he is sure of one thing: he will not let her leave. She seems pleased to be with him, and Dr. Lecter is relatively confident that she will remain so. If Clarice comes down after her…he will be ready.