The needle on the Jag's speedometer jumps, the tach revving with it. Susana's steed can carry her far from danger. All the same, her heart is racing. The Caprice is a dark shadow behind her. Why does her mother have to do this? Her father does not have many years left. Maybe not even a year, even. She doesn't know.
What happens if she is captured here? Will they force her to go back to the United States? Almost assuredly. She isn't a Paraguayan citizen; she can't demand to stay here.
What about her father? Will they take him to prison? Probably.
The thought of giving herself up occurs to her. They might leave him alone if she does not lead them to him. But no, then he will be defenseless in his hospital bed, sick and weak. Easy prey.
But he can help her nonetheless. While screeching around a corner, Susana grabs the cell phone she took from him last night and fumbles the plugs into place. The Jaguar is equipped with a handsfree unit with distortion levels so low as to make a grown man weep.
She has to call home to get the number to the hospital. 411 works in the US, but it doesn't work here and she doesn't know what number to call. The butler helpfully looks it up for her, sounding perfectly calm. It's easy for him to be calm, he isn't being chased by the fucking FBI.
But she gets the number. It isn't easy to dial at a hundred miles an hour – or whatever it is, the fucking speedometer is labeled in kilometers and Susana doesn't remember how to convert. All the same, the tones sound in her ear and she is rewarded with a soft electronic purr. Her father's hospital room is private, and he has a phone in his room. He will know what to do. She is not sure exactly how she knows that; the assurance is vague but solid, like the outlines of a rock masked by fog. She connects it with her young girlhood, when he was Papa, a figure larger than life, the template on which her view of the entire male half of the species would be cut. Papa always knows what to do.
He'd better.
A red light springs to life behind her, a tangible reminder of her mother's relentless pursuit. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Where is he? They haven't gotten him already, have they? They can't. She needs him now.
The Caprice cuts closer and Susana lets out a small shriek. Pressing the gas pedal makes it retreat again. The engineers at Jaguar built the car well; it doesn't shudder or anything. If not for the cars swiftly whipping past her she might not realize she is going as fast as she is.
Her father picks up. "Hello?"
"Papa," Susana says. "It's me."
He takes an audible breath. He can tell something is wrong. That doesn't take razor-sharp observational skills to notice; her voice is tense and nervous.
"Are you all right?"
She has to take a moment to swerve around a slow-moving Peugeot before she plows into the goddam thing. "Mama is here," she says.
"I see," Dr. Lecter says far too calmly. "Where is she?"
Her fingers tense on the leather-wrapped wheel until they ache. "Behind me in a police car."
"All right. Stay calm, Susana. Do not come here, not right off. I shall leave the hospital and meet you."
She blinks for a moment. Leave the hospital? He can't. He just had a heart attack. "You can't leave the hospital," she protests. Her voice is shaky and screechy and she has to force herself to calm down. Her pulse is racing in her ears. She realizes she is almost screaming at him and feels guilty.
"I can, and I will, and I must. It's all right, Susana. I have made arrangements for such eventualities. Now, then. Are you on the highway?"
"No, some main drag," Susana says, and scans what is in front of her. Where is a street sign? She can't see one and her mother is close behind. Dr. Lecter calmly rattles off a few names before she sees one on a sign and repeats it back to him.
"All right," Dr. Lecter says calmly. "Turn right. Do you know where the Plaza de los Heroes is?"
Plaza of Heroes. She understands the Spanish phrase all right, but she doesn't know where it is. "No," she says, trying to keep her tone under control.
"You're not far from it. It's a very large plaza, full of shops. And people. We will be able to hide there and escape should be easy. I make it a rule to keep a car nearby."
Susana blinks for a moment. "But...I've got your car," she says in a bewildered tone.
Dr. Lecter sounds amused. "I have more than one, you know," he says. "Now then. Look for Alvarenga street. Do you see it?"
It's hard to see any street names moving this fast. Still, there it is, two streets down. The Jag's tires screech. The Caprice presses ever closer. For a moment she despairs. Doesn't her mother realize what has happened? They can't be caught now. It's not fair. Is her mother going to drag her away from him anyway?
"There is a small yellow bungalow," Dr. Lecter tells her. "The house number is fourteen forty-four. The front door is locked and nailed shut. Go around to the back. The back door is locked with a combination lock and an alarm. The combination in both cases is your own birthdate – oh three, oh five, oh four."
She blinks. "But...she'll get me if I get out of the car," she protests.
Her father seems pleased. "Not if you park a few houses away," he says calmly, as if he has planned this entire thing out. "She won't shoot you, and she won't run you down. You are sixteen. She is fifty-five. It is extremely doubtful that she can best you in a footrace. She will stop the car and chase on foot."
"How do you know that?" Susana asks. What if he's wrong? What if her mother uses a stun gun on her or something? She isn't sure what tools her mother has at her disposal.
Dr. Lecter's sigh over the phone is heavy, as if the question – or the answer – is weightier on him than it should be. "Because that is what she is trained to do, Susana. That is what FBI agents do." He sighs again, heavily. "Since she chose that path....she is eminently predictable."
She looks over at a house to catch the number. Eighteen something. Then she sees the nondescript little yellow bungalow. It looks ugly to her. Surprising that he would own such a thing.
"I shall attempt to obtain a cellular phone in the hospital so that I can call you," Dr. Lecter adds. "Once you are in the house, there are clothes, money, and ID. If you go down to the basement, you will see a shelving unit. Pull it away from the wall. There is a tunnel there which leads to the house on the next street, which is also mine. There will be a car in the garage there."
The thought of pulling over is frightening. The Jaguar is safe, a steel cage in which she can keep her mother at bay. Or should she? For now she has to. If her mother catches her she will try and catch her father too. At the least, she will never see her father again, and she can't do that. Not right now.
No one else has problems with their parents like this, she thinks.
She takes a deep breath. This is not the time, to say the least. Pull over, run down to the yellow bungalow, loop around to the back, lock the door behind her. How hard can that be?
It'll be easy. Right. Sure.
Leaving an eighty-thousand-dollar car in this neighborhood? That hurts. But with her pursuer behind her, she has little choice. Hopefully it'll be back. Or hopefully he has insurance.
Susana wrenches the wheel to the right and slams on the brakes. The brake pedal trembles as the ABS comes on,vibrating her foot. The Jaguar stops neatly, all things considered. Her body is not so carefully engineered: she can feel her nerves thrumming, the electric taste of apprehension on her tongue, and her legs don't want to move when the car finally stops.
She has only a few seconds. She may be faster than her mother, but if she screws this up it will be over quickly. The time is now and there is no going back.
She opens the door and begins to sprint towards the bungalow as quickly as she can.
...
Clarice Starling's borrowed Caprice shrieks around the corner, seeking the Jaguar darting away. Her lips skin back from her teeth and her pulse pounds in her ears. Her daughter is here. She knew it. Susana is also fleeing. That Clarice cannot hold her responsible for: she's been brainwashed by Dr. Lecter just as Clarice once was. Clarice will find her. Clarice will catch her. Clarice will heal her.
Now if only this goddam car could go just a little bit faster.
On open ground, she might not have much chance: the Caprice has a big-block V8 Police Interceptor, but the Jaguar is built for those who have about sixty thousand dollars more to spend on a car. Fortunately she is not on open ground, and her daughter is not as skilled a driver as she is. Though the Jaguar might be able to smoke the Caprice normally, Susana has to do so while dealing with city traffic.
Why is she running anyway? The thought dances unpleasantly in the back of Clarice's head. Her training tells her what to do in this situation: cut off the car, chase the perp, wrestle them to the ground, cuff them, read them their rights. But this is her daughter. Her daughter should not be fleeing from her. The situation wavers between grim reality and sheer ludicrosity.
"Just pull over, Susana," Clarice whispers to herself. "Just do it, okay?" She doesn't bother trying to yell it; Susana can't hear her anyway. The police car may be less refined than the Jaguar, but it's got plenty of oomph. Problem is, the Jaguar's got plenty of oomph under the hood too.
Her daughter will not stop. She is a better driver than Susana; she's been driving since before Susana was alive. Can she force the car to stop? Possibly. Clarice finds that she doesn't care that much if Dr. Lecter's oh-so-precious Jag gets dented or scratched a bit. She punches the gas and the tranny drops down a gear. The engine lets out a satisfying roar. But as soon as the taillights of the Jag move closer, it's only a moment before Susana hits her own gas. Unfortunately, Susana's got her beat on lateral acceleration. She may be able to track her but she can't overtake her.
Even so, Clarice presses on. Somewhere along the line Susana will make a mistake and Clarice can get her to stop. Somehow or another. But for now, all she can do is chase.
The black sports car wheels right suddenly, cornering a lot better than this beast can, but Clarice takes only a moment to clear the corner and continue pursuit. What the hell is going on? This is some residential street; she can't be serious about this.
Looking around makes it clear. Jack Crawford's dry voice echoes in her head, the way it always does when she thinks of Dr. Lecter's file. Dr. Lecter is quite well off. He is known for purchasing inexpensive properties, usually vacation cabins or small homes in blue-collar neighborhoods, and employing them as safe houses, with money, identity papers, and clothing there so that he can access them as necessary. The safe houses that were found in Argentina have built and expanded on this method.
Is that what Susana wants? It makes sense. He might have set up a couple of his safe houses with clothes and identities for his daughter. Her daughter, she flares angrily at the thought. But how is Susana supposed to get in now? Or maybe that's what she wants.
The Jag's taillights flare. Clarice watches the car slow and stop, hitting her own brakes so that she doesn't shoot past. Then the driver's side door opens and the girl behind the wheel spills herself out onto the weedy asphalt. She gains her feet and begins to run. She does not look back. Oddly, that hurts Clarice more than she would think it would've.
Clarice slams the police car to a final stop, realizing with some horror what Susana means to do. The Caprice can keep up with the Jaguar; Clarice cannot footrace her daughter for very long. She's not just not as young as she used to be. Susana is sixteen, her body young and strong and teeming with life. She scrambles out of the car and begins to run.
"Susana!" she yells. "Stop! I just..I just want to talk."
The girl continues to flee down the street. How far is she going? Can Clarice catch up to her? She's worked the past few years in an office, and it shows. Her legs don't want to run as fast as they once did. Her lungs begin to protest almost immediately. Susana is almost forty years younger; the advantage is hers.
"Susana, please! Listen to me," Clarice pleads. "I'm your mother."
Even as she presses herself to run further, she wonders if it is not already too late. Susana spares her not a glance but flees like a thousand other criminals she has pursued. Even as she forces herself to continue, knowing in her heart that it is futile, she can hear Dr. Lecter laughing.