Clarice Starling stands in her house, empty except for her, and looks around. Here and now is where it gets depressing. She constantly expects Susana to come out of her room, or the bathroom, or in the door from a friend's. Constantly, she gets to remind herself that Susana is not there. Her daughter has fled the continent.
It's times like this, as evening slips into night, that Clarice sometimes takes refuge in the bottle of Jack Daniel's that she keeps in the cupboard. There is a part of her that objects strongly to that, believing it a crutch for the weak. But she has been dreadfully hurt, and sometimes that crutch helps.
The bottle is calling to her tonight, suggesting that she salve her pain in the sweet and powerful balm of the whiskey. Trying to ignore that call is becoming increasingly difficult. She is simultaneously trying to watch television and thinking that she ought to be working on the case file. Bowman has been getting the word out: most of the South American authorities are on board and out looking for her daughter. Whichever nation captures Dr. Lecter and returns Susana to her mother will have a bargaining chip to cash in with the US, and so they are perhaps more eager to help than they would have in a normal custody dispute.
The telephone rings, and for a moment Clarice's heart leaps. Will it be Susana? Part of her desperately wants to believe that it is. But by now, another part of her reminds her that Dr .Lecter has probably drugged her up good and has already started depriving her of her mind and volition.
Still, she picks it up and tries to nurture that one tiny guttering flame of hope.
"Hello?" she says.
"Claire. It's 'Delia." Ardelia's voice is tense.
Her heart larrups in her chest. Other than Clarice, Amika Bridell – Ardelia Mapp's daughter – is one of the people on earth Susana has been closest to. Privately, Clarice has hoped that her daughter might try to contact Amika. Has she?
"Hey," she says. "What's up?"
"We got a package," Ardelia says. "Addressed to Amika. Who's running the investigation on Susana? Bowman? We need to get a forensics team in here, but I wanted to call you first."
Clarice's free hand closes into a fist. "Yeah, Bowman," she answers. "What's...what was it? Is it from Susana?"
Ardelia pauses a moment before answering. "I think so," she says. "Just get over here. You can ID her handwriting better than I can."
In a way it is very Ardelia: no bullshit, to the point, get to work. Clarice's eyes fill with grateful tears. Ardelia doesn't volunteer what the contents of the package were, and Clarice doesn't ask again. It is easier to get out to her Mustang and haul ass out to maison Bridell. Ardelia lives not far away, in the same town. Her house is a pleasant ranch in a development of other pleasant ranches. She can see Ardelia's form in the window as the Mustang's headlights splash onto the home.
Special Agent Harold Bridell lets her in. For a moment she looks at him: he is tall and muscular. 'Built like a brick shithouse' is the particular phrase that comes to mind whenever she sees him: no matter what he wears he looks like he is about to burst out of it. He is black as the African warriors he descends from; eyes and teeth are the only white parts of his face. She personally feels sorry for anyone who decides to try to fight him.
"Hello, Claire," he says, his voice deep and booming. "They're in the living room." He steps back so that she can walk by.
"Thank you, Harry," she says.
"As soon as we realized what it was we had, we called you," he adds, as if Clarice has accused him of deliberately tampering with the evidence. She nods and proceeds into Ardelia's living room.
Ardelia and Amika are both there. They are sitting at a table over an opened package. Identical looks of concern are on their faces. Ardelia looks a bit pained as Clarice enters the room, sympathetic pain painting her face.
On the table is a small cardboard box. Clarice recognizes her daughter's handwriting on the top. The package has been sent via FedEx from a known remailer in California. Little to no hope of tracking it that way. Dr. Lecter has used them before; they throw away and shred the original packaging. By now any clue from the postmark is gone.
"Miss Starkey, I didn't know it was from Susana," Amika says shyly, as if she has done something wrong. "There was a letter in it, and this." She gestures to a small velvet box. Clarice thinks for all of three seconds before opening it.
No manufacturer's mark on the box. Nylon or silk lining on the top, and fuzzy velvet cardboard on the bottom. In the middle, a ring with a shining emerald setting. Clarice scowls.
The ring is mounted high so that she can see the letters AB-SS engraved on the inside. This is not her daughter's doing; this is Dr .Lecter. He knew she would be called in to see this, and he wanted her to see this. A clever reminder of what he had once done to her.
The back of her neck burns hot and her cheeks flush red. She takes the ring out and examines the inside of the box. Forensics won't like it, but Forensics can fucking well deal. Nothing there that should be there; no message or anything. Clarice lets out a frustrated sigh.
Next to the box is a letter written on fine vellum. Susana's handwriting is instantly recognizable on it, just as she suspected.
Dear Amika,
Hey girl, what's happening? Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Better than fine. Sorry if I scared you. Love ya girl, Burn this. Tell my mom I'm okay.
Susana
Clarice feels rage burning hot in her gut and on her cheeks. This is exactly what he knew she would feel. Wanted her to feel. Just as Clarice had once sent a ring to Ardelia – a ring that's probably still somewhere around here – Susana has done the same. At his behest, no doubt, the similarities are too obvious for Susana to have done this on her own.
Sadistic bastard. He has Susana and he has to remind Clarice of what he's going to do. Forensics will have a go at it, but she doubts they'll come up with much. Dr. Lecter knows their tricks.
All the same, she waits until she is back in the Mustang before she starts to cry.
...
Susana stands in her room and looks at herself in the mirror. She is not pleased. Her father has told her that he wants to take her to the opera tonight. When she was little, going to the opera with papa was a rare treat. Now it is not something she really enjoys, but she'll go with him. He wants to do it, and she feels like she owes him. It will make him happy.
Dressing for the occasion is not to her pleasure; the opera, as he told her, is white tie or black tie. They had argued politely over clothing in Buenos Aires. She remembered that he always liked to dress nicely; custom-made or tailored suits. Thinking back, she cannot remember ever seeing him not wearing a tie. He has kept pictures of her younger self, which reminded him and sustained him through the years of solitude. He is in some of the pictures, and in every one he is wearing a tie too.
So he wants her to dress formally herself, and that is not something she enjoys. They had compromised: she wears a dress that falls to her ankles. No stockings; she'd stood firm on that. Only her feet are visible so it doesn't matter anyway. Even so, she feels uncomfortable and exposed in the dress. Around her neck is a necklace he bought her in Buenos Aires: a trim, neat gold chain that has a single red stone hanging from it. It sets off her eyes nicely. Susana has never been wildly fond of jewelry, but it is pretty and he wanted her to have it.
She does not understand his insistence on her carrying a purse but not putting her stuff in it. A purse is something you use, in Susana's eyes. Hers is a relatively simple, utilitarian thing: it's full of stuff like her wallet and keys and her new Argentine passport and gum and all the stuff she carries around with her. He did not seem to approve of all the stuff she had in it. The question that comes to mind – then why carry one? -- is not one he seems to have an answer for.
But no, he wants her to carry a purse to the opera but it should be empty or only have a few things in it. A bag is part of the outfit: he lectured her about that before. She doesn't understand it. Weird to think her own father is more into girly stuff than she is, but that is how it seems. She does not know that one of the first topics of conversation between her parents was her mother's bag.
But other than that things have been going well, all things considered. He's been buying her all sorts of stuff. She remembers that from her early childhood in Buenos Aires: if she wanted something she would ask him and almost invariably get it. Her mother had disapproved even then, opining that he would spoil her.
Susana doesn't feel spoiled; she feels slightly ill-at-ease, and not just because he made her dress up for the opera. She had wanted to see him; she hadn't seen him for eleven years. She hadn't known he was Hannibal Lecter when she was little, but she does now. All the gifts are a little dizzying; he has bought her literally anything she looked at in the stores, and at this point she privately thinks it's a little overboard.
Immediately after discovering her parentage courtesy of the FBI's crime labs, she had been humiliated and abashed. How was she supposed to go to school now that everyone knew her father was a serial killer and a cannibal? Even those last few days had contained several japes and taunts. The idea of escaping to another country sounded pretty good. No more people staring at her in the hallways, thinking there goes the cannibal girl. No more looking at her mother and wondering why in the hell she'd never told Susana who her father was. And her father had been there, casually explaining what to do.
In retrospect it had been easy, since she already had a car. She sort of missed her car; she'd bought it from an old lady down the street with money she'd been saving from working summers and that sort of thing. She'd always saved her money; her mother had taught her that. But really, he'd done the hard part. She'd gone to the Argentine consulate and he'd already faxed them her birth certificate and other papers. All she'd needed to do was stop in at a place that did passport pictures, show up, sign a few documents, and presto, instant passport. The tickets, likewise, were already reserved and paid for. All she had to do was show up and get them. On the plane, she'd been nervous that they would catch her, but her father had assured her that she just had to act like she belonged and she would be fine.
They'd stayed overnight in Havana, father and daughter but almost strangers, and then flown to Buenos Aires in the morning. That was when he'd bought her a lot of stuff – clothes, mostly, as Susana had come to him with literally the clothes on her back. Traveling to his home in Paraguay had taken more time than normal. Then he'd taken her shopping in Asunción.
Her Spanish is pretty good, considering she last spoke it at a five-year-old level and took it in school. It is warm and sunny in Paraguay and she likes the climate. Her father is rich and apparently leads a charmed life. Even so, she is beginning to have some doubts.
She is torn. The fact that her father will be incarcerated if he is caught is not lost on her. She would hope they wouldn't throw a man as old as he was in prison, but he has assured her that they will. She was angry at her mother before, but now that is fading. She is somewhat afraid to go back to Virginia and face the music, but what is she supposed to do? Her mom is probably freaking out, and Susana knows she'll be severely punished for this if she goes back. Plus, if she goes back, her mom will demand to know where Dr. Lecter is hiding, and that means he either has to flee and set up somewhere else, or go to prison for the rest of his life. Never seeing her mother again seems heartless, though, and she doesn't want to do that.
In Buenos Aires, her father went to a jeweler ; he had already custom-ordered a ring and had to pick it up. He told her to send a letter to Amika along with the ring. She did as he asked, but wondered why. He dictated what he wanted her to say and everything. Amika will tell her parents, and her mom will find out about it soon enough. Why couldn't she write her own letter to her friend? It's suspicious, and misgivings are poking at her.
She can't call her mother, not from here. Her father has made that much clear. There will be a trap-and-trace on her mother's phone, and they will be able to trace it here. In order to call her mother, she will have to go to Buenos Aires, and that will have to wait. For now, Buenos Aires is likely teeming with FBI and the Argentine authorities. Eventually they will go away, but not now. Nor can she email or IM her; her father has forbidden it. She is afraid to disobey him. Part of that is that she always was afraid to disobey him, when she was little and he was a god-like figure in her life, and part of that is knowing that he has killed and eaten people. Though she doesn't think he would do anything like that to her, antagonizing such a man doesn't sound like a clever idea.
She is in this situation and she doesn't see a way to extricate herself from it without hurting somebody. It's enough to make her stomach ache thinking about it.
There has to be a way. She managed to sneak all the way to Cuba without her mother knowing. Maybe, once she has a better idea of the lay of the land, she can figure out a way to sneak to a phone somewhere. Somewhere far enough where they won't track him. Asunción is right near the border with Argentina; there has to be a way to call from there. She was born in Argentina; they have to let her in, don't they? But even though she is terrified of what her mother will say, she knows she ought to call her. Just to assure her that she is all right. That will have to do for now until she can figure out her next move.
The door opens and her father enters, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt. A black cummerbund circles his waist and a dark jacket is hung over his shoulder. He looks at her approvingly and nods.
"You look lovely," he says. Susana smiles nervously and grabs the fancy purse he bought her at the Coach store in Buenos Aires. Only a few necessary things have been transferred into it from her normal purse, since apparently innocent millions will die a horrible death if there is an empty gum wrapper in her purse at the opera. At least that's the way he's made it seem.
"Thanks," she says nervously, and he turns his head a fraction in displeasure. That much she remembers: he always insisted that she not use informal speech around him. "Thank you," she corrects herself, and he nods approvingly.
"Come," he says easily. "The opera house here is quite beautiful. A copy of the Scala in Milan, you know."
Milan. Italy. He lived in Florence for a while; she knows that from all the Hannibal Lecter sites on the Internet. She also knows about Rinaldo Pazzi. The memory of the images, lovingly rendered on the websites she saw, makes her shiver. It's hard to reconcile the papa she remembers with that.
"Is it?" she asks, more because she doesn't know what else to say.
"Yes. Quite attractive. I used to take you to the opera now and then in Buenos Aires; do you remember that?"
She smiles nervously again and nods. She can remember that, although it is fudged a bit by the years. She remembers the ornate box they sat in, and how happy she was to be with him and her mama. She remembers her nanny teaching her Italian and how she had tried to understand what the singers were saying, but it was difficult to make out the words.
He walks her out to the car and courteously holds the door for her. He seems quite pleased, and she tries to be for her father's sake. The opera house is majestic, and she stares at it and murmurs something appreciative. People seem to be impressed by them, although a few are clearly trying to figure out if this young woman and old man are father and daughter or something else. The idea makes her grin nervously. The box itself is as ornate as the one in Buenos Aires that she remembers from her childhood. The usher who brought them there stares at them curiously for a moment while he seats them. Dr. Lecter tips him quickly. Susana smiles and feels out of place. It's little things like these that remind her that she is a foreigner here, even if she can speak the language.
The opera itself is about what she expects: it's nice and all, but it just isn't her thing. She likes rock music herself, although she has already picked up that it is better to not remind him of that. He bought her a few CD's in Asunción, though. Maybe this is meeting him halfway. She gets the idea that she'd have to do that a lot or else they'd end up at each other's throats.
But he is happy and he seems to enjoy it. She tries to appreciate it for his sake. She tries to understand the Italian, but she can't make any of it out. It's been years since she spoke it anyway. What was her old nanny's name, anyway? Mónica, that was it. Mónica would probably be disappointed, because Susana can't make out heads or tails of it. Of course, if they were talking normally instead of singing she might have had better luck.
He seems pleased throughout the opera, and she puts up with it for his sake. As well as her own, when you come down to it. While she's living here it behooves her to not directly antagonize him. Even so, the atmosphere in the car going home is a bit strained. He is pleased. Can he tell that she is thinking of trying to contact her mother? It's hard to tell. She never hid anything from him before.
Back at the house, she is glad for the chance to change out of the dress into comfortable flannel pants and a T-shirt. She is also glad to have some time alone. On her new desk is a new computer sporting a fast Internet connection. She sits at it and taps a pen against her teeth thoughtfully. The entire house is wired for a computer network. Will he be able to find out if she emails her mother or Amika? Maybe. Until she knows for sure she can't risk it.
But then if she does, he'll end up in prison. She came here because she wanted to meet him, not put him in prison. The fact that he is eighty-two and doesn't have much time left is a tremendous obstacle. He can't spend the rest of his life in prison. Not by her hand. What kind of daughter would she be if she did that? The thought keeps gnawing at her like hungry rats feasting on a helpless prisoner's wounds.
Irresistible force, immovable object. This is as close as it gets in the real world. If she continues on this path, she may never see her mother again. If she tries to return to the fold, her father may well be captured.
The computer offers her access to the Internet, but no easy answers. Eventually she abandons the PC and flops down on her bed. That was delivered today too; a big, comfortable bed. She has room to roll around as much as she would like.
But the bed doesn't help either; she can't sleep.