Author's note: The book Dr. Lecter refers to is indeed 'El Túnel' by Ernesto Sábato. Translation is by me, myself, and I, with supporting help from babelfish.altavista.com and the University of Chicago Spanish-English dictionary. So any goofs in it are strictly my own fault, not the doctor's.



The conference room is a place with its mind on its work. It is much like any conference room in any corporate settings: a bland table, padded chairs, a white board, a projector. Yet here is different; this is a place of purpose. For Clarice Starling, this is a place of justice: it is here that the FBI is at its best, relentlessly hunting those who would do harm to others, taking up its sword and defending the weak.

Lloyd Bowman sits at the head of the table and observes the agents working the case calmly. Clarice has a place here, but she can't help but feel somehow different from everyone else. In other cases, she has been part of the team. She still is, but now she is the victim as well. She can feel it in the way other people treat her. She is the wounded hunting dog in the pack, and there is a sympathy in the air that she is both grateful for and despises utterly.

"All right," Bowman says, in a businesslike tone. "I understand we've got a few things coming in. Hartman, how about it?"

David Hartman, sitting next to Clarice, pushes a manila folder over to Bowman. "The South American authorities have been reasonably cooperative," he says. "About as good as can be expected, I think. Major cultural centers – concert halls, stuff like that – have all been notified. I got a few reports in from those, and that may be a possibility."

"The staff was asked to be on the lookout for an older man and a young woman sitting in the fancy seats."

Bowman purses his lips. "Was Dr. Lecter's picture distributed to them? Or the composite drawing we have?" He nods at Clarice, as if noting that the updated composite picture they have of Dr. Lecter is from her doing. He stops, and Clarice can feel that odious sympathy – oh, poor Clarice, this must be so hard for you – emanating from him. Goddamn it, she has been hurt but she is not weak.

Hartman shakes his head. "No, but I did send Susana's yearbook picture down there. Dr. Lecter has probably altered his appearance, and I was afraid that sending a picture might influence things. Right now we need to cast our net as wide as we can. I had a feeling we'd get tons of crap, and we probably will, but that's better than screening him out by narrowing it down. It's likely that Dr. Lecter has surgically altered his own appearance since..." he trails off, and Clarice tenses again. Since Clarice came back, is what he means to say.

"Go ahead and say it," she says tonelessly. "Since I came back."

Hartman shrugs.

Bowman nods slowly, as if acknowledging both Hartman's strategy and Clarice's stoic stance.

"Dr. Lecter may have made her dye her hair, and he may have made her wear contact lenses," Hartman continues, "but...after reviewing the files...I think it's not likely he has...surgically altered her yet."

The thought of Susana lying unconscious on a bed, with Dr. Lecter standing over her with a scalpel gleaming in his hand, makes Clarice's stomach drop.

"We have a few possibles. One is the Buenos Aires Philharmonic. Older man, younger woman, seated in one of the fancy boxes. Also, a few of the fancy stores – Coach, Chanel, places like that – report that a man fitting Dr. Lecter's description and a girl fitting Susana's were shopping there earlier. That one looks like a positive: a couple of sales clerks noticed that the man's hand was scarred, and the girl could understand Spanish but had trouble speaking it. She spoke to her father in English."

Clarice tries to force herself to think about it like a case. Freezing it is something she has had mixed success at. When she isn't paying attention it has a tendency to thaw. This is her daughter, for Christ's sake. And...and...him.

Possibiles. At one time she'd wanted her name on the Possibles Board. Now possibles consists of sightings of a highly dangerous, amoral sociopath who has her daughter in his clutches.

"Dr. Lecter fled Buenos Aires when I came back to the US," she says.

Hartman shrugs. "Maybe he went back," he says.

Clarice shakes her head. It's too obvious. Dr. Lecter has been a fugitive from justice for decades now. Although he has a taste for fancy things, the unlovely concept that you don't shit where you eat is one he knows well, even if he would never phrase it that way.

"Also, we have a possible sighting at a mall in Rio de Janeiro. Old man, young woman, spent a lot of money on jewelry and jeans and stuff."

"Any other sightings in Rio?" Bowman asks.

"No, except for the fact that Dr. Lecter originally fled to Rio after he escaped," Hartman replies.

Clarice ponders. She knows more of South America than the others; she lived there for several years. Rio is...unlikely. They speak Portuguese there. Dr. Lecter is proficient in Portuguese – maybe not fluent, unless he has lived there recently – but Susana can't speak it.

Unlikely, she decides. Dr. Lecter isn't going to take her somewhere where she's going to stick out the minute she opens her mouth. That still points to Buenos Aires.

"The last possible we have is in Asunciòn, Paraguay. A sighting at the opera house there. Same deal: older man, very young woman, big fancy box. The usher said they were talking in some other language."

Bowman nods. "All right," he says. "Anything else?"

The profiler shakes his head. "Nope," he said. "No other sighting in Paraguay either."

Bowman taps his fingers thoughtfully. "The evidence seems to point to Buenos Aires," he says, his tone a bit hedging. "The perp is familiar with the area, and the...," he stops and glances at Clarice with one of those sympathetic glances she both appreciates and hates. "The victim's accent and all is going to fit in there. Even if it's not Buenos Aires, it may be somewhere else in Argentina, and it does seem to match the perp's MO."

Clarice pauses. The perp's MO. Bowman is referring to the fact that Dr. Lecter, a native of Baltimore, came back to the US from Florence and set up shop in Maryland. He has the habit of sticking to what he knows, particularly when he believes he can walk undetected with the herd.

All the same, something in her tells her to wait. Something isn't right here. Dr. Lecter fled Florence never to return. He did return to the Maryland area, but after many years. Is Buenos Aires a new Baltimore, or is Buenos Aires a new Florence? Guessing wrong will slow them down at best. At worst it will give Dr. Lecter time to brainwash Susana into...whatever he means to make her into.

"We ought to look at Paraguay, too," she says.

It would be easy to hate Bowman if he sneered at her; if he called her an idiot; if he openly opposed her. But he doesn't. He simply nods.

"We will look at Paraguay," he says calmly. "I'll make a phone call to the Paraguayan authorities after the meeting and make sure they're on their toes. But the evidence is pointing to Buenos Aires, and our best hope for a safe return is to concentrate our resources where they'll do us the most good. I can send the FBI's kidnapping experts, and I will." His voice is even and calm, as if Clarice will burst into tears unless she is handled gently. More of the hateful sympathy for the weak. "But I can't send them two places at once, and I can't send half to Paraguay and half to Argentina. It's an all-or-nothing thing; these people are a team."

Gentle, reasonable, just the way she has been with victims before. No, I can't wave a wand and bring your loved one back. And it does make sense. Perhaps Clarice is simply too close to it all, and should trust him. Perhaps her fear and terror and anger over her daughter make it impossible for her to make an effective analysis of the situation.

All the same, the thought nags in the back of her head. What if he's wrong?

...

The house is quiet, and in some ways that is almost weird. A few of the servants live in the house, but once their usual workday is done they retire to their rooms. Susana hasn't been able to hear anything from their quarters – no music, no chatting on the phone, nothing. It's sort of weird. Don't they have their own lives?

Her father is in his library, reading. That much she remembers. It is nice to have some time alone, and she supposes he wants his own time to himself. He has been down there for perhaps forty-five minutes.

She has decided to ask him directly about calling her mother. Yes, she knows, she has to be careful and she may not be able to see her mother, not yet. But a phone call may help things along. They can travel somewhere in northern Argentina and make the call from there. Or Brazil, that's not that far away either. She doesn't speak Portuguese, but he probably does, and all she wants is a phone call. That's not too much to ask, is it?

Okay. She's not asking that much. So why is she afraid to ask him? As she walks down to the library, she finds her knees are trembling and and her stomach is churning. Maybe he will be angry, but she hasn't seen him ever get angry. Even when she was little, he didn't yell or scream. All he needed then was a sharp word or a displeased tone of voice and she would be in tears.

Her father is sitting at his desk, a small paperback book in his hands, the picture of ease and content. A glass of wine is handy for his thirst. He puts the book down and tilts his head as she stands in the doorway. A small smile comes over his face.

"Hello," he says pleasantly.

"Hi," she says, and feels her palms sweat. For a moment a heavy silence hangs in the room. Perhaps small talk will help. "What...what book are you reading?"

Dr. Lecter lifts the book from the desk. "El Túnel. By Ernesto Sábato. Have you heard of it?"

Susana shakes her head. "Should I have?" she asks.

Dr. Lecter's eyes become slightly veiled as he speaks. "Had you remained in Argentina, you would have," he says, and in his tone there is a hint of danger. "It is relatively well known. Sábato is a wonderful modern novelist. I like this work of his in particular."

Susana nods. "What is it about?" she asks curiously.

"It is about a painter named Juan-Pablo Castel," Dr. Lecter informs her. "He is a painter who feels himself...misunderstood. He meets a woman named Maria Iribarne and grows obsessed with her. Perhaps he is mad; his behavior in the novel leads me to think that he may have been bipolar or slightly schizophrenic." He chuckles. "Though it is foolish indeed to try and diagnose the psychological illnesses of a fictional character."

Susana isn't sure what to say. "You said you like it," she says, groping for her thoughts. "Why?"

"I suppose I see some of myself in him," Dr. Lecter admits. He flips to the back of the book and opens it. "Here. Listen, it will be good for your Spanish." His voice grows faint and harsh as if to reflect the words of a madman pondering his insane view of the world in a cheap art studio. "En todo caso habìa un túnel, oscuro y solitario: el mìo, el túnel en que habìa transcurrido mi infancia, mi juventud, toda mi vida." His eyes meet hers, and there is something frightening in them. He eyes her carefully for a moment. "Did you understand that?"

"In any case," she recites, "there had been a tunnel, dark and solitary...my own. The tunnel in which...," she ponders, trying to place transcurrido. The word order is different in English if she wants to make sense. "The tunnel in which my infancy, my childhood, all my life had passed."

"Yes," Dr. Lecter adds. "Very good. Here is more of this passage: Y en uno de esos trozos transparentes del muro de piedra yo habìa visto a esta muchacha y habìa creìdo ingenuamente que venìa por otro tùnel paralelo al mìo, cuanda en realidad pertencìa al ancho mundo, al mundo sin lìmites de los que no viven en tùneles, y quizà se habìa acercado a una de mis extrañas ventanas y habìa entrevisto el espectàculo de mi insalvable soledad, o le habìa intrigado el lenguaje mudo, la clave de mi cuadro."

Susana blinks. There is something frightening in his eyes, and her ability to only half-understand the Spanish makes it more frightening.

"Too much? Perhaps it is. Your Spanish will return in time. I'll do it for you; the passage is wonderful. And in one of those transparent parts of the stone wall, I had seen this girl and believed – ingenously – that she came from another tunnel parallel to my own, when in reality she belonged to the wide world, the world without limits of those who do not live in tunnels. And perhaps she had approached one of my strange windows and had seen the spectacle of my irredeemable loneliness, or she was intrigued by dumb language, the key to my picture."

His voice is strong and his eyes alight with that disconcerting light, and suddenly Susana doesn't want to ask him about calling her mother anymore.

"I, too, lived in a tunnel," Dr. Lecter says, "or a sort of one. The dark cellblock in the asylum." He shakes his head and scowls at the memory. "And my cell, too, had transparent walls, and it was there I saw your mother, and thought that perhaps she came from another tunnel like my own." His eyes lock onto hers, holding her easily. "But, your mother belonged to the wide world too, and perhaps she was only attracted to the spectacle of my loneliness, for she left me and took you with her."

She isn't going to ask him about calling Mom, not now. He is loosening himself a bit and strange things are coming out. She swallows nervously and tastes electric spit on her tongue.

As quickly as that, Dr. Lecter is himself again, back behind his pleasantly distinguished exterior. He puts the book down. "Now, then. Did you need to speak to me about something?"

She shakes her head nervously and works her jaw. "Well, I...it's nothing, really...,"

Dr. Lecter rises and walks over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. She finds herself feeling trapped. His gaze is knowing and wise, much like it was when she was little. Even then, he always seemed to know if she had done something bad.

And this knowledge has not departed him. "You've been thinking of your mother, haven't you?" he asks.

A rill of fear runs through her. She's being silly; he's not going to hurt her. Still, she cannot lie to him. "Yes...sort of...how did you know?"

He seems resigned, as if she has disappointed him in a way he was expecting her to. "You tensed visibly when I mentioned her."

She wants to look away from his eyes but cannot break eye contact herself; her eyes are nailed to his. "Well...I...she's probably worried...I just wanted to call her...,"

He lets out a sigh and then walks back to his desk. "Of course she is," he says, once seated behind it. "Please, sit."

She moves slowly to comply, watching him from over the expanse of the fine walnut desk.

"Your mother is worried, doubtlessly," he agrees. "Still, Susana, you cannot simply pick up the phone and call her. Contact with her has to be very careful...for now." He can see her tension and smiles disarmingly. "Please, relax. I am not angry with you."

It is hard to relax. She continues to watch him carefully. He laces his hands behind his neck and seems comfortable. He pours a second glass of white wine and offers it to her. "Here," he says calmly. "Try that. I believe you'll like it."

She takes the wine and stares at it for a moment before sampling it. It is dry and tart on her tongue. Though maybe that's because her tongue is so dry.

"Have you ever learned to taste wine?" he asks.

She shrugs and smiles nervously. "No...not really," she admits.

"Very well." A silver lighter appears in his hand as if by magic. A firm click resounds in the room and a blue flame appears from its tip, lighting a candle. For a moment Dr. Lecter cups his hands around it, nursing the small orange flame into life.

"There," he says. "Hold the glass up to the candle so that you can see the flame through the light."

Cautiously, she does, watching a slightly misshapen version of the flame dance through the glass.

"Very good. Now, swirl the glass a bit to release the bouquet. Then hold it under your nose and inhale deeply."

This she does too. The wine smells somewhat acrid and dry. Much like it tasted.

"Hold the wine on your tongue for a moment. Wine-tasting is an art, and one worth learning to appreciate." Dr. Lecter indicates a small pile of unsalted water crackers on a silver dish. "First, take a moment to consider the aftertaste. There's no trick to it, really. Just think about what the aftertaste is like. Take one of those. It will clear your palate. There is also water over on the sideboard if you would like it."

Susana shakes her head. "It's all right," she says.

He pours another glass and invites her to repeat the ritual. Silently, she does. He urges her to take her time; wine-tasting should be a pleasure. This glass is less tart and sweeter than before.

"Now, then. Are you feeling perhaps more relaxed than before?" Dr. Lecter eyes her carefully, as if studying her.

She is, and that seems a bit odd. She isn't a big drinker, but expecting two glasses of wine to do this is surprising. Perhaps she has less tolerance than she thinks. But she does feel more at ease, less tense. The wall between them is gone.

"Susana, you know what will happen if I am caught, do you not?"

She nods slowly. "Yes...they'll put you in prison."

"Correct. I realize that you may be concerned for your mother's pain. Such is...your inheritance from her. I must ask you, though. When your mother took you from me, did she ever worry about allowing you to contact me?"

She swallows. "No," she admits.

"Did she ever express any concern for what I went through? Deprived of a wife and daughter I loved very much. She took you away. Stole you from your own father."

She stares at the floor and trembles.

"The answer isn't on your shoes, Susana. Answer the question, please."

"No," she says again, her tone hushed and somehow defeated.

"And don't you know what will happen when you return? Do you think she will be pleased with you? She'll press you for details on where I am. And she will be enraged at what you have done."

"I know," she whispers, not sure where to respond. Her shoulders tense seemingly of their own volition. Her eyes close and it seems harder than normal to open them.

"You needn't be upset," Dr. Lecter says, and she hears him stand and walk over to her. His hands touch her shoulders calmly. His voice is soothing. "There is no need to be upset. Some things may be painful to admit, but the pain will stem quickly, and you will have a better understanding of yourself."

Susana bites her lip and wonders what to say to that. His hand touches the top of her head, pressing back slightly to urge her to raise it. Below his hand, her hair, the same color as her mother's; below that her troubled brain.

"It is hard to admit that your mother's behavior was insensitive," Dr. Lecter continues, "but it may well be so. She is merely a person, flawed, just like yourself."

"I...just...she's worried, she's got to be worried...,"

"A call would not ease her worry. It would simply exacerbate it." Dr. Lecter's tone is final and his logic irresistible. "Besides, Susana. A criminal incarcerated may think that his punishment is not just, but is that so?"

"Mom isn't a criminal," Susana mumbles.

Her father pauses for a second. "Not legally," he says. "Still. She took you away from me. Stole you away without so much as a goodbye. Has she told you of how she came to lose her own father?"

Susana nods. It is hard to keep her eyes open. Was there something in that wine? "He...he died. He was shot."

"Yes...the night watchman." That confuses her for a moment: she'd always thought her maternal grandfather was a cop. Yet the words don't want to come to express that. The only time she has ever felt like this before was once when she'd pulled a muscle in her back and her mother had given her a Valium to help her sleep. "But consider this, Susana. Her father died in a terrible accident. An accident. Yet she deliberately deprived you of your own father. Did that not cause you pain? Pain she should have known? One would think she would seek at any cost to spare her own daughter pain she had suffered herself. Yet, deliberately, purposefully, she did to you what had been done to her...at a younger age, no less."

She swallows. "Yes," she answers.

"And that was wrong, and she must be punished for that," Dr. Lecter concludes.

That makes her pause. Punish? Her mother? Her mother is pretty straitlaced, except for driving. Yet she cannot form her objection to that into words, no matter how hard she tries.

"But...," she trails off. The thoughts will not come.

"Open your eyes, please."

She opens her eyes. He has moved a crystal sphere in front of the flame; the flame glows through the facets and makes it seem like a tiny sun. She watches it with logy interest.

"By now, you should be feeling quite relaxed." Dr. Lecter sounds amused. "Focus your attention on that, if you please."

The dancing light is fascinating, and Susana leans forward to watch it. The candle flickers once and is reflected in the many facets. A rasp comes from behind her; she glances over her shoulder to see him dragging over a small fainting couch. He gestures for her to rise and lie on it, as Victorian women confined by corsets were wont to do. It is more comfortable on the couch. She can lie on her side and stare at the glowing globe easily, her hands laced together just below her chin.

His voice is soothing, and Susana finds herself drifting into a very comfortable space. She is hard pressed to remember what he says, or what she herself says for that matter. There is some discomfort, but she is distanced from it all. It is much like when she was a little girl and her father tucked her in at night.

In the morning, she will awaken feeling refreshed and more at ease than she was. Her mother is suffering, but that is part of her mother's punishment. It is hard to know her mother is being punished, but it is fair: her papa has told her so. If she is concerned she should tell him and he will help her.

In the next few days, she doesn't ask about calling her mother. For now she has to be strong and resolute. Papa will help her to be strong, and Papa has told her that this is necessary.

And after all, Papa knows best.