Sometimes, it comes down to running.
Susana runs as fast as her legs will carry her, not paying any attention to her mother behind her. She simply concentrates on moving her legs as fast as they will carry her, feeling her breath gasp in and out of her lungs, her body moving in a symphony of muscle and tendon. Behind her, her mother's footsteps pursue, competing in her ears with her own pounding heart. But her father is correct; her mother cannot catch her in a footrace.
A few people turn and watch curiously. No one gets in her way, though. She curves around to run up the driveway, ignoring the front door. It will be locked. He said so, and he is right. The back door is closed with a simple screen door, sheet metal and cheap screen. Susana scrabbles to open it. The door beyond, in the small porch, is far sturdier: it is made of thick steel. Mounted next to the door is a keypad. Hurriedly, Susana punches in her own birthdate and waits for a few tense seconds. Here, she can do nothing. The door will open, assuredly, but all she can do is stand and wait.
"Susana!" Her mother's voice sounds hoarse and wheezy. That makes sense; she's been running. How far is she? Susana can't tell.
A beep and a click and the door opens. She enters the house and shuts the door behind her. There are ample locking devices on this side of the door to ensure her mother cannot follow, even if she figures out the code to unlock the door. To run the bolts and bar the door takes only a few moments. Susana exhales. For the moment, she is safe.
Why does it have to be like this? Her father is sick. Why couldn't her mother just let her have some time with him? Despite what he says, Susana isn't convinced she is going to spend the rest of her life with him. Well, the rest of his life, anyway.
But for now she can't leave him. Not weakened as he is, and with the FBI closer than ever before to him. For now she feels a duty to stay by his side, at least until the situation is more under control. For now, she can't think about her mother.
But it isn't easy, not now that her mother will be pounding on the door in a few minutes.
The house isn't much: small and cheap. Fake wood paneling grace the walls. There is no furniture. Silence weighs heavily down on her. The air is stale and dust motes dance in it. She glances through the empty rooms to the front door. The windows are boarded up and the front door appears to be nailed shut. He had modified this house to be no more than it was now: a place to take temporary refuge and flee. It seems almost tomblike, and she wonders idly if there are any dead bodies in the house.
The basement. He told her to go down to the basement. One door opens onto a bathroom; the other onto a kitchen that is as neat as it is empty. In the kitchen is a door that leads down a flight of stairs. Her shoes echo on the risers as she proceeds down.
The basement is also empty, save a pile of cardboard boxes piled up at one ends. Susana doesn't need an invitation to go there. Knocking down the boxes rewards her with a wooden chest and a small, half-size door that resembles something out of Tolkien: a finely made wooden door leading into a dark tunnel.
Opening the chest reveals what she needs for now. There is clothing that is clearly his: a suit, a pair of warm-ups that she stares at, and an overcoat, should her father need to flee when it is cold. There is a small leather bag full of cash and identity papers. Some have his face; some have her own. Then there is a paper bag with the letter S written on it in ballpoint pen. She recognizes his oddly machinelike writing even as one letter.
Taking the bag, Susana extracts its contents and stares at them uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then distaste crosses her face as she realizes what he has laid out for her. A long black dress and ugly black shoes and black cotton stockings are the chosen ensemble.
Ewwwww. We're going to have a little chat about this, Susana thinks.
There is a piece of cloth that she cannot place – black on one side, white on the other. There is another piece of cloth that she can't figure out the purpose of, either. Then a medallion and a crucifix fall from the bundle and clatter on the floor. She stares at it for a moment before comprehension strikes. Despite herself, despite the situation, despite the fact that her mother is upstairs probably calling for a wrecker to demolish the house, Susana can do nothing but sit on the floor and laugh hysterically, the palms of her hands crammed against her mouth.
It's a nun's habit. He wants her to dress up like a nun.
She goes back and checks the clothing he left for himself. Sure enough, the shirt is black with a Roman collar and what she thought was an overcoat is a priest's gown. Or whatever they call it. It's brilliant, she thinks. South America is heavily Catholic, and everyone will look at her and think 'nun' and leave it at that. They won't notice her face, and they probably won't notice that she has maroon eyes. They'll see a nun, smile abashedly in the fact of such holiness, and go about their business. But it's also sickly ironic: of all the denizens of this continent, she probably knows the least about the Church. How is she supposed to pass for a nun? Never in her life has she even recited the Lord's Prayer all the way through.
Still chuffing laughter, she removes her own clothing and puts the habit on. Instructions in his handwriting help her get the veil right and arrange the cord around her waist. Helpful details are provided: the waistcord has three knots, symbolizing poverty, chastity, and obedience. It doesn't sound like her sort of life in any case. She stuffs her own clothes in the paper bag to bring them along.
She looks at herself in the mirror and places her palms together, rolling her eyes heavenward.
"Bless you, my child," she says, and bites her lip so that she will stop laughing. They can't find her down here in a nun's habit laughing her ass off. She has to get moving. Opening the door reminds her of Tolkien, again: the little wooden door, half-size, oddly British somehow opens onto a dark tunnel with a faint dot of light at the end. How far is it? It's hard to tell. All the same, her oxfords grit on the floor, steadily moving ahead.
...
As Susana's disguise consists of a nun's habit, so does Dr. Lecter's consist of a priest's garb. He has several of these safe houses in the city. It is easier to do it this way: any of the houses has clothing, identity papers, cash.
He supposes she will not like the habit, but hopefully she will understand that playing on the strong Roman Catholicism that was Spain's gift to South America will enable them to easily escape their pursuers. Besides, there is something droll in it that pleases him to no end.
All the same, things are not well. He is not as strong as he was. Even the walk from the hospital to the bus line served to tire him out. Changing was more difficult than he had expected, as if he was donning not a black blazer and a Roman collar but a bulletproof vest akin to the one Clarice wore so many years ago.
And now Clarice is here.
In some ways, he reflects, he should not be surprised. She was a hunter, and taking Susana from her would have provoked this response. It is said that the most dangerous place in the world is in between a mother and her offspring. She hurt him once in leaving him, twice in taking their daughter. Now, will she return for a third blow? What form might it take? Depriving him of his daughter again? Depriving him of not only his daughter, but his freedom?
It is a pity, Dr. Lecter thinks. For eleven years, she was untroubled by the lambs. She was happy with him. Now, she has returned to her quest, invaded his sanctuary, and threatens everything he holds dear. Once again, it is her task to craft his doom.
All the more reason he must evade her, this one last time.
Dr. Lecter adjusts the priest's collar as he enters the market at the Plaza de los Heroes. It is the perfect place in which to lose pursuers: vendors in their stalls, crowds of people in and out. The noise of commerce floats over the plaza easily. Now all he has to do is keep an eye out for his daughter. She should be able to figure out where the Plaza is; the safe house he directed her to is close enough to it.
He is strangely unconcerned about Clarice. As an FBI agent, she is far too predictable. She will continue to believe that Susana has barricaded herself in the house. The idea that he might have purchased the house across from it as well, and had a tunnel built, is not one that will occur to her easily. No, Clarice will continue to pound on the door even as Susana makes it through the tunnel to the second house and discovers the automobile parked in the garage. Closing his eyes for a moment, he flits through his memory palace. The car there is an elderly Buick. It will do to get them out of the city. Perhaps into Argentina, even.
Blending into the crowd is something Dr. Lecter does easily. A few people smile at him and nod, seeing the doddering old cleric he wishes them to see. Just for fun, he makes the sign of the cross over a few of the children and mouths whatever Latin phrases come to mind.
Yet he is watchful for both his daughter and his wife. Ex-wife, he supposes, although that phrase is not to his liking. Perhaps Susana will balk at the habit. It is a possibility. When she was young, with him, she had never so much as entered a church. Has Clarice brought her to one? He doesn't think so; Clarice had inherited the rigid moral structure of the Lutherans but none of the dogma.
It is preferable that way. There will be less for her to unlearn.
He spots Susana over by a small group of scamps, who seem to want something from her. For a moment he wonders if the FBI is near. Instead, as he approaches, it seems they simply want to know if she has gum. Her Argentine accent is stronger than it was as she explains she does not.
Two maroon pairs of eyes meet. Her mouth quirks, and for a moment she puts him achingly in mind of her mother, not much older. Clarice standing outside his basement cell with her best bag and her cheap shoes, wearing a long skirt and matching jacket. We have a hard problem in Behavioral Sciences....
He smiles and shakes his head once. Now is not the time for reminiscing. Where Clarice is, the FBI will follow.
"Hello, Sister," he says, and tries not to grin.
"Hello...father," Susana riposts drily. He suspects he will hear rather shortly about her displeasure with his choice of her clothing.
"Did you get the car?"
She nods. "It's parked over there," she says, and gestures. He nods. "I liked the other car better."
"No matter. Perhaps we should be leaving," he says calmly. "You may drive."
It does not bother him to be leaving Asunciòn. Even though there were things here he quite enjoyed, and a rare feeling of safety, he does not regret leaving the way he regretted leaving Florence. Leaving behind the Jaguar does consternate him; the Jaguar was much to his liking. All the same, it can be replaced. Possibly he can arrange to have it sold at auction where he can purchase it again under another identity. The house was similarly an annoyance to lose: he had extensively refurbished the house to his liking. Still, they are things and can be replaced. His daughter is with him, and that is sufficient.
Will she stay with him? Dr. Lecter thinks that she will, at least for the time being. And that is good, because circumstances have emptied his quiver. He cannot move to the harshest measures even if he wanted to. He has no place in which to secure her, and to use the same unflinching honesty he focuses on others, he does not have the internal wherewithal. He feels weak as a kitten. His arms are leaden and his chest filled with bronze. He will have access to drugs again, assuredly. He will have access to a mansion in which he could keep her hostage if it came down to it. But the strength to confront, challenge, grapple and prevail? He is not so sure that will come back soon, if at all. He has seen her carrying heavy packages with little effort. Is his wiry, outsized strength echoed in that supple young form just as his labyrinthine mind is echoed beneath that face so similar to his wife's?
Perhaps. What is worse is that his own strength has fled. The hale and hearty demeanor he puts on is an act, for her sake. A mercy, when you come down to it. It is better that she not know.
They turn the corner and approach the Buick where it is parked on the street. It is somewhat dilapidated and down at the heels. Dr. Lecter does not like the car, personally: its odor is that of an old car: sun-baked seats and dirt. Even so, it has a powerful V8, and while it is not in the same league as the Jaguar it has a decent amount of power.
The objectionable aroma assaults his nostrils and he turns his head in distaste. Even so, the Buick is enough of a steed for now. He adjusts his form on the passenger seat as his daughter pulls out into traffic.
"I can't believe you made me wear a nun's habit," she says, only half irritably.
He plucks at the Roman collar, which feels tighter than he would like. "Surely you remember how Catholic Buenos Aires was," he says. "All of South America is much the same. The Church is a great factor in the lives of the people."
"Not us," Susana says, accelerating smoothly as she picks up the highway.
"No, not us. But it does allow for us to travel easily. They will see us and think nun and priest, and that is all. They see the clothing and do not pay attention to the person in it."
She lets out a sardonic chuckle. "I figured," she says. "I had to bless three babies and a two-year-old before I found you in the plaza."
Dr. Lecter finds that amusing. "Very well," he says. "The Argentine border is not far away. The border authorities have almost assuredly been notified of our presence. However, I do not think that clearing the border controls will be a problem, not for an elderly priest and a virtuous young novitiate."
Susana makes a brusque sound in her throat that sounds more like a snort than the doctor cares for.
But in the end it is largely as he believed it would be. The drive to the Argentine border is short. The border patrol station is manned by uniformed personnel with machine guns. Dr. Lecter spies his own picture – still two faces behind, thankfully – clearly tacked up on the bulletin board behind the guards. Susana's school picture is next to it. Yet the guards smile pleasantly at the gray-haired priest and the young nun, clear their throats and mind their manners. Susana carefully recites the story he has given her in the car: Father Rodrigo had visited Asunciòn on ecclesiastical business. Regrettably he missed his train back and so she was driving him back to Argentina before returning to her own convent. The guards fear eternal damnation, and so they open the gates and wave them through without a second thought.
As Paraguay passes into the doctor's past, he turns to give it a single glance. The Buick heads into northern Argentina. Once again, he has given his pursuers the slip. Once again, he is free despite their best efforts.
"So where are we going now?" Susana asks, observing the scenery of her native country.
Dr. Lecter smiles softly. "Somewhere you remember," he replies.