THREE YEARS LATER
Erin Lander steps out of the elevator and pads out towards the door of her tiny apartment. The graduation is finally passed, and in her hand she holds the piece of paper she has worked so hard for for the past seven years. Her internship is finally, thankfully over. She is now Erin Lander, M.D.
Her things are already packed and boxed up. She has a residency all arranged in a faraway city – she will specialize in cardiac surgery with some trauma opportunities. Most of her things are already sent via UPS to the apartment she has rented not far from the hospital; all that remains are two small bags containing a week's worth of clothes and associated needs. She will attend a graduation party thrown by some of her classmates tonight; her flight leaves then at midnight.
Dr. Lecter would be delighted to discover that his experiment has been a success. Both kidneys are perfectly healthy and function well. Other than the twin violin-like scars on her back, the only reminder that she has of them is the constant litany of medication she must take.
At her door is a red and white box from DHL Express. She frowns and picks up the box. It has an international stamp and a customs declaration on it. She doesn't know anyone overseas and wonders who has sent it. Picking up the box, she discovers it is very light. She is flattered and satisfied to note it is addressed to "Erin Lander, MD".
She opens the door to her small dorm room and sits down at her desk. The box is sealed with cellophane tape, but it yields quickly to scissors. As she opens the box and views the contents, her breathing becomes a sharp gasp.
One item is wrapped in brown paper. The other is a cream envelope with her name written in a fine copperplate across the center. The third is a perfectly ordinary manila file folder. She takes the envelope with nerveless fingers and opens it. Out slides a piece of expensive paper the same shade as the envelope. The same copperplate spills across it. Even before she reads the letter, she knows who has sent it.
Dear Erin,
I would like to congratulate you on your graduation. After all those years, it must be good to be free of the coffee bar, and of your internship. Perhaps now, your degree and new title will give you the respect you have sought. You'll be free of the petty torments of lower-end jobs. Perhaps you'll even convince yourself that you've graduated beyond your origins, and no longer need to gaze with envy at those better off financially than you.
Now I would like to discuss death and power with you. As a doctor, you'll be much more familiar with them than you may have considered. It isn't all Gray's anatomy and drugs, you know – medicine has a much more basic element.
As a doctor, you will find yourself become immured to death. At first, you'll be very hurt and upset when your patients die – and since you've chosen cardiac surgery as a residency, you'll most certainly see them die. But eventually, you'll harden up and become indifferent to it. Your first patients you'll remember; later patients you won't, for you'll see them as mere bodies strapped to a table for you.
Power? All your life you have been relatively powerless: as a student, as an intern. Others told you what to do and how to do it. Once you're allowed to begin surgery yourself, doctor, you'll taste power yourself and like it. When someone is helpless before you on a table, their naked heart open to your blade and tools, that is true power. Perhaps you'll become addicted to it; some doctors do. In some cases, of course, you'd do society a favor if you simply severed the vena cava and put an end to the whole thing. Who knows? Perhaps you'll find someone you deem worthy, you'll take a heart or two for them.
I hope you will like the graduation gift. I had it custom-made here, by a fine tailor I know. I presume your measurements have not changed too much since the week of our experiment. You are at heart a practical woman and would disdain fripperies such as shoes or a scarf.
When we last met, you knew me as Robert Lawson. I'm sure you know that is not my name. I do appreciate you keeping my secret from the FBI, even though I gave you a bit of help there. Continue to keep it, if you please – I'd rather not be forced to pay you a business call. Leave me in peace, and I shall grant you the same privilege.
As a last note, I include your case file. That awful Dr. Rhodes wrote a frankly horrid article on your transplant. Perhaps you could set the record straight – the article alone would make you famous.
Sincerely,
Hannibal Lecter, MD
It is with no small trepidation that Erin Lander's eyes move over the letter and towards the bundle wrapped in brown paper. She removes the brown paper to discover a piece of white cloth, wrapped in plastic. For a moment her mind flicks back to the fine cream-colored silk gown, counterpointed by two drops of blood on the back. But no, he hadn't had that; it was probably moldering in some FBI evidence locker somewhere. There is a tiny yellow receipt atop the plastic-wrapped bundle. She lifts it only to discover it is written in Italian, a language she cannot read. With trembling fingers, she opens the plastic.
Inside is a lab coat. Staring at the utterly mundane gift for a newly minted doctor, she can't help but laugh. It is an exceptionally made one, however; fine Egyptian cotton. The pockets are deep and flapped. Her name is sewn in red silk over the right breast pocket. She slides her arms into the coat, and it fits too well to be anything but custom-made. Her measurements have not changed terribly much since the week Dr. Lecter performed his experiment.
Her eyes flit across her own image in the wall mirror. She glances down at the file folder, and opens it. With photographs, jotted notes, and a patient-care history written in an entirely normal fashion, it contains the history of how, three years ago, Dr. Lecter kidnapped her, implanted a stolen set of kidneys into her, and kept her in his home for a week after that. Surgical notes, post-op care, everything is there. Even psychiatric notes on the results of her hypnosis sessions.
For a moment she entertains the possibility of calling the FBI agent. Here, after all, is proof positive that Clarice Starling was right, that the man who had done this to her was indeed Hannibal Lecter. She looks in her purse and roots around through the vortex of its contents. There, in her wallet, she finds Clarice Starling's business card.
She reaches for the phone, but her fingers refuse to dial the numbers. Instead of the low moan of the dial tone, voices from the time of the experiment replay in her mind.
Agent Starling, with her tender smile and her heavy West Virginia accent: Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me…I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call.
Dr. Lawson – no, Dr. Lecter – the voice she remembers well, although the words she does not: Agent Starling is not your enemy, Erin. But she works in the service of those who are. She'll tell you I'm dangerous. Sbe'll mean it well, and she'll be very sympathetic to you, and you'll be tempted to tell her everything she wants to know. But it's not the time.
Starling: Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head.
Dr. Lecter: I have given you the gift of life.
"Yes, you did," she murmurs in the stillness of the bare apartment. She opens up her suitcase and carefully folds the lab coat in with the rest of her clothing. She stuffs the folder under it. For a moment, she intends to throw the box away, but she reconsiders and crams it into her suitcase.
Yet part of her remembers what Dr. Lecter has done, what he is capable of. She cannot and she must: wants to and does not want to. She grabs the phone again and dials the number. A mechanized voice informs her she has dialed the FBI and that her call is being recorded. It rings one, twice, and then a woman's voice answers.
"FBI, Agent Starling."
For the second time, Erin's tongue catches between her teeth. She wants to speak, but cannot. The psychological lock Dr. Lecter has put on her tongue still holds.
"Hello?"
Erin's eyes close and she hangs up the phone without a word. She puts her head in her hands for several moments. There is nothing else to do on this monumental night, so she puts on her coat, checks her bags, and leaves her apartment for the graduation party.
For three hours she trades anecdotes and has brief discussions with her classmates, but her mind is elsewhere: in a large house in the country with a charming yet terrifying captor, in a hospital bed while surgeons and policemen struggle to figure out the very simple yet baffling thing that has been done to her. The glass of wine she sips at reminds her of the wine Dr. Lecter served her. The smell of roast beef and ham reminds her of sautés reins. When Dr. Lecter had watched her eat her own kidneys, sautéed and served in a sherry sauce. She can only half-smile at her fellow graduates and make banal conversation. Concentrating on anything is difficult, as if she had been given a hypnotic drug. She is glad to escape the party and returns to the apartment to pick up her bag and leave for the airport.
The airport is comforting in its anonymity. The gate agent checks one of her bags, and the security guards scan the other one. Other than that, no one bothers her. She makes her way towards the gate, a tiny island of her own as the sea of humanity flows around her in the busy airport. She checks her watch; two hours until her flight leaves. She checks her wallet, and is pleased to discover two twenties she has forgotten about. She walks over to the airport bar and orders a glass of white wine.
She is perfectly safe in her own little world, here. A few men in suits of varying cost eye her, and one attempts to start up a conversation, but she responds with disinterest and he goes off to find easier prey. People move on their own way all around her, and she is pleased that none of them even seem to notice her presence.
"Hi."
The voice comes from the next chair over. It is a woman's voice, accented with the Southern tones of West Virgina. Erin turns suddenly to discover Clarice Starling sitting in the stool next to her. Starling smiles at her and flashes her FBI ID.
"I'm Clarice Starling, with the FBI. We met a few years ago."
Erin smiles coolly. "Yes, Agent Starling. You interrogated me at the hospital."
"Dr. Lander, I'm curious about a phone call placed tonight to my extension. A phone call that was placed from your apartment."
Erin does not reply immediately. She notes that Starling has correctly called her 'doctor', which means she must have done some homework.
"All calls made to the FBI are traced and recorded. I don't know what you've seen in the movies, but that it-takes-twenty-seconds stuff isn't true." She smiles. "You know, I thought in the hospital that you were hiding something. And then, I could understand it after what you'd been through."
"A call? Oh, I'm sorry about that. Graduation was today. I had a few other students over for drinks. One of them found your card in my drawer and called it as a joke." Erin smiles and looks down, embarrassed. "I'm very sorry."
Starling smiles back. Good, she thinks, but not good enough. "According to your landlord, you came home at six-thirty, alone. Then left at seven or so, also alone. Came back around ten and caught a taxi…both times alone."
"He was mistaken."
Starling leans forward. Part of her is tempted to simply grab the younger, smaller woman and shake her until she confesses. Dr. Lander's refusal to tell her what she wants is palpable, like a cloak worn over her smart black pantsuit.
"He is a very dangerous man, Dr. Lander. He's killed numerous people. And you're protecting him?!"
Erin's eyebrow raises. "My landlord? I doubt that, Agent Starling. He's a fifty-five-year-old man with grandchildren."
Starling shakes her head. "I mean Dr. Lecter," she hisses. "Maybe he told you then his name was Lawson, but you know damn well it's Lecter."
"I'm not protecting Dr. Lawson. I told you what he looks like. It's your job to catch him, isn't it?"
Starling has had enough of this. In the hospital, she could not help but feel sorry for Erin. Starling's natural sympathy for the plight of the captive extended to the distraught, confused young woman in the hospital bed. But here, in this airport bar, dealing with a self-assured young doctor who plans to keep the charade going, she is enraged. Largely because she knows Dr. Lander is correct. The Lander inquiry was closed years ago; Jack Crawford did not classify it as a Lecter sighting. If she doesn't talk now, Starling will lose her chance to correct the record and get something—anything—that might help her track the monster. Dr. Lander's manner reminds her suddenly of Dr. Lecter, when they had first met in the basement dungeon of the insane asylum. She is sure now, surer than she has ever been. Lawson had been Lecter, and Dr. Lander was protecting him.
She reaches forward and clamps her hand on the younger woman's arm. It is not a hard clamp, but a clamp all the same.
"Listen, doctor," she says. "Let me tell you a little story. The man you identified as Lawson, you want to know something about him? There are one hundred and three men named Robert Lawson who have been licensed to practice medicine since 1950. We went looking for surgeons with that name, found six. All checked out. When we went back to the general list, guess what? Sixty still practicing, eighteen retired, nineteen dead."
"That's very nice, but get your hand off my arm."
"In a minute. There's one missing. Reporting missing fifteen years ago, presumed dead. And guess what?" Starling reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a black and white picture which she gives to Erin. Erin glances at it and then looks back up at Starling.
"Does that man look familiar to you, Dr. Lander? He should. Because that's the man you identified to me. Congratulations, because you found a man missing for fifteen years. Quite a mystery you cracked there." Her eyes bore into Erin's. "Now. I know that your ID was made-up, I know that it was Dr. Lecter who did this, and I know that you wanted to tell me that tonight. That's why you called."
"That was accidental. I told you."
"No, it wasn't." Starling releases the other woman's arm. The tough-cop approach does not seem to be working. "Look, I can understand why you'd want to protect him. Most of Lecter's victims died; only two others lived. You, you came out with a kidney transplant. But what he did, he didn't do for you. It was…his whimsy. He did it because it amused him. Maybe he told you he cared about you, but he doesn't. He's an incredibly dangerous man."
Dr. Lander sighs and sips her wine. "Agent Starling, look, I am really sorry to disappoint you, but I am not a Lecter victim." She flicks the picture of Dr. Lawson back at Starling. "Dr. Lawson was the man who kidnapped me and…well…transplanted kidneys into me. I don't know where he got them and I don't know how he settled on me. One minute I was locking up the coffee bar, the next minute I was in his house in the country with incisions in my back. I told you what he looked like, I told you what his name was…you're a cop. Catching him is your job."
"Why are you doing this?" Starling seethes. She controls herself, but it is still a seethe. The urge to slam Dr. Lander's head into the bar a few times is strong. Starling's hand curls into a fist on the bar and bumps Dr. Lander's purse, unaware that inside the purse, behind a few scant layers of leather, is the letter that will prove her correct.
"Better question is, why are you doing this? You didn't read me my rights. You didn't come here with any other agents. You just tracked me down and gave me the third degree here." Dr. Lander's eyes gleam. "You don't have FBI permission to be here. This investigation's closed. You don't have anything, Agent Starling."
"I can hold you for questioning."
"And I can get a lawyer and be out in an hour." Dr. Lander grins triumphantly. "You're the only one who believes it was Lecter. Even…your superiors didn't agree with you. You can't hold me. You're bluffing, Agent Starling." Even after three years, she cannot say the name 'Jack Crawford' without recoiling.
Overhead, the P.A. clicks on, announcing the arrival of yet another flight.
"Look," Dr. Lander says in a tone more kind, "I'm sorry. Really. I know this must mean a lot to you and I'm sure you believe you're correct." Crazily, Starling thinks of arriving at the asylum a long time ago, when Dr. Lecter's greeting to her had been a towel for her hair shoved through his tray carrier. "But I can't tell you what you want to hear." She does not and cannot mention that it is because of a hypnotic block.
Dr. Lander rises from her barstool and finishes the rest of her wine. "Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Starling, they're boarding my flight."
Starling does not say anything in response. Her teeth grit and her fingers dig into the palms of her hands, leaving red half-moons in her palms. Her best source of information on Lecter is walking out, and there is nothing she can do to prevent it. There is no way she can justify detaining her.
Dr. Lander takes a step away from the barstool, and decides to let her have at least something. She turns back, puts her hand on Starling's shoulder, and whispers wine-scented words into her ear. They are the only words she can say that may mean anything to Starling.
"He spoke about you. He cares about you, very much. Thinks about you, every day."
Starling's head swivels to look at Dr. Lander. Dr. Lander pats her shoulder and offers her a small smile.
"I'm not testifying and you can't prove anything. But I thought you'd want to know."
With that, Dr. Lander is gone, walking swiftly from the airport bar to her plane. She offers the gate agent her ticket and boarding pass, boards the plane, and sits down to be whisked to a new chapter in her life. She will always wonder if her former captor is watching her after tonight.
Starling sits alone in the airport bar. She is torn: gratified to know she was right after all, yet simultaneously enraged that she will never be able to prove it. Most of all, she is oddly comforted.
"Thank you, doctor," she says in the stillness.
Erin Lander steps out of the elevator and pads out towards the door of her tiny apartment. The graduation is finally passed, and in her hand she holds the piece of paper she has worked so hard for for the past seven years. Her internship is finally, thankfully over. She is now Erin Lander, M.D.
Her things are already packed and boxed up. She has a residency all arranged in a faraway city – she will specialize in cardiac surgery with some trauma opportunities. Most of her things are already sent via UPS to the apartment she has rented not far from the hospital; all that remains are two small bags containing a week's worth of clothes and associated needs. She will attend a graduation party thrown by some of her classmates tonight; her flight leaves then at midnight.
Dr. Lecter would be delighted to discover that his experiment has been a success. Both kidneys are perfectly healthy and function well. Other than the twin violin-like scars on her back, the only reminder that she has of them is the constant litany of medication she must take.
At her door is a red and white box from DHL Express. She frowns and picks up the box. It has an international stamp and a customs declaration on it. She doesn't know anyone overseas and wonders who has sent it. Picking up the box, she discovers it is very light. She is flattered and satisfied to note it is addressed to "Erin Lander, MD".
She opens the door to her small dorm room and sits down at her desk. The box is sealed with cellophane tape, but it yields quickly to scissors. As she opens the box and views the contents, her breathing becomes a sharp gasp.
One item is wrapped in brown paper. The other is a cream envelope with her name written in a fine copperplate across the center. The third is a perfectly ordinary manila file folder. She takes the envelope with nerveless fingers and opens it. Out slides a piece of expensive paper the same shade as the envelope. The same copperplate spills across it. Even before she reads the letter, she knows who has sent it.
Dear Erin,
I would like to congratulate you on your graduation. After all those years, it must be good to be free of the coffee bar, and of your internship. Perhaps now, your degree and new title will give you the respect you have sought. You'll be free of the petty torments of lower-end jobs. Perhaps you'll even convince yourself that you've graduated beyond your origins, and no longer need to gaze with envy at those better off financially than you.
Now I would like to discuss death and power with you. As a doctor, you'll be much more familiar with them than you may have considered. It isn't all Gray's anatomy and drugs, you know – medicine has a much more basic element.
As a doctor, you will find yourself become immured to death. At first, you'll be very hurt and upset when your patients die – and since you've chosen cardiac surgery as a residency, you'll most certainly see them die. But eventually, you'll harden up and become indifferent to it. Your first patients you'll remember; later patients you won't, for you'll see them as mere bodies strapped to a table for you.
Power? All your life you have been relatively powerless: as a student, as an intern. Others told you what to do and how to do it. Once you're allowed to begin surgery yourself, doctor, you'll taste power yourself and like it. When someone is helpless before you on a table, their naked heart open to your blade and tools, that is true power. Perhaps you'll become addicted to it; some doctors do. In some cases, of course, you'd do society a favor if you simply severed the vena cava and put an end to the whole thing. Who knows? Perhaps you'll find someone you deem worthy, you'll take a heart or two for them.
I hope you will like the graduation gift. I had it custom-made here, by a fine tailor I know. I presume your measurements have not changed too much since the week of our experiment. You are at heart a practical woman and would disdain fripperies such as shoes or a scarf.
When we last met, you knew me as Robert Lawson. I'm sure you know that is not my name. I do appreciate you keeping my secret from the FBI, even though I gave you a bit of help there. Continue to keep it, if you please – I'd rather not be forced to pay you a business call. Leave me in peace, and I shall grant you the same privilege.
As a last note, I include your case file. That awful Dr. Rhodes wrote a frankly horrid article on your transplant. Perhaps you could set the record straight – the article alone would make you famous.
Sincerely,
Hannibal Lecter, MD
It is with no small trepidation that Erin Lander's eyes move over the letter and towards the bundle wrapped in brown paper. She removes the brown paper to discover a piece of white cloth, wrapped in plastic. For a moment her mind flicks back to the fine cream-colored silk gown, counterpointed by two drops of blood on the back. But no, he hadn't had that; it was probably moldering in some FBI evidence locker somewhere. There is a tiny yellow receipt atop the plastic-wrapped bundle. She lifts it only to discover it is written in Italian, a language she cannot read. With trembling fingers, she opens the plastic.
Inside is a lab coat. Staring at the utterly mundane gift for a newly minted doctor, she can't help but laugh. It is an exceptionally made one, however; fine Egyptian cotton. The pockets are deep and flapped. Her name is sewn in red silk over the right breast pocket. She slides her arms into the coat, and it fits too well to be anything but custom-made. Her measurements have not changed terribly much since the week Dr. Lecter performed his experiment.
Her eyes flit across her own image in the wall mirror. She glances down at the file folder, and opens it. With photographs, jotted notes, and a patient-care history written in an entirely normal fashion, it contains the history of how, three years ago, Dr. Lecter kidnapped her, implanted a stolen set of kidneys into her, and kept her in his home for a week after that. Surgical notes, post-op care, everything is there. Even psychiatric notes on the results of her hypnosis sessions.
For a moment she entertains the possibility of calling the FBI agent. Here, after all, is proof positive that Clarice Starling was right, that the man who had done this to her was indeed Hannibal Lecter. She looks in her purse and roots around through the vortex of its contents. There, in her wallet, she finds Clarice Starling's business card.
She reaches for the phone, but her fingers refuse to dial the numbers. Instead of the low moan of the dial tone, voices from the time of the experiment replay in her mind.
Agent Starling, with her tender smile and her heavy West Virginia accent: Erin, I know you've been through a lot, and you're probably really scared and confused right now and I get the idea you're holding something back from me…I'm going to leave you my card. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, give me a call.
Dr. Lawson – no, Dr. Lecter – the voice she remembers well, although the words she does not: Agent Starling is not your enemy, Erin. But she works in the service of those who are. She'll tell you I'm dangerous. Sbe'll mean it well, and she'll be very sympathetic to you, and you'll be tempted to tell her everything she wants to know. But it's not the time.
Starling: Whatever he did to you, it's not your fault. You don't need to protect him. He's very good at getting in your head.
Dr. Lecter: I have given you the gift of life.
"Yes, you did," she murmurs in the stillness of the bare apartment. She opens up her suitcase and carefully folds the lab coat in with the rest of her clothing. She stuffs the folder under it. For a moment, she intends to throw the box away, but she reconsiders and crams it into her suitcase.
Yet part of her remembers what Dr. Lecter has done, what he is capable of. She cannot and she must: wants to and does not want to. She grabs the phone again and dials the number. A mechanized voice informs her she has dialed the FBI and that her call is being recorded. It rings one, twice, and then a woman's voice answers.
"FBI, Agent Starling."
For the second time, Erin's tongue catches between her teeth. She wants to speak, but cannot. The psychological lock Dr. Lecter has put on her tongue still holds.
"Hello?"
Erin's eyes close and she hangs up the phone without a word. She puts her head in her hands for several moments. There is nothing else to do on this monumental night, so she puts on her coat, checks her bags, and leaves her apartment for the graduation party.
For three hours she trades anecdotes and has brief discussions with her classmates, but her mind is elsewhere: in a large house in the country with a charming yet terrifying captor, in a hospital bed while surgeons and policemen struggle to figure out the very simple yet baffling thing that has been done to her. The glass of wine she sips at reminds her of the wine Dr. Lecter served her. The smell of roast beef and ham reminds her of sautés reins. When Dr. Lecter had watched her eat her own kidneys, sautéed and served in a sherry sauce. She can only half-smile at her fellow graduates and make banal conversation. Concentrating on anything is difficult, as if she had been given a hypnotic drug. She is glad to escape the party and returns to the apartment to pick up her bag and leave for the airport.
The airport is comforting in its anonymity. The gate agent checks one of her bags, and the security guards scan the other one. Other than that, no one bothers her. She makes her way towards the gate, a tiny island of her own as the sea of humanity flows around her in the busy airport. She checks her watch; two hours until her flight leaves. She checks her wallet, and is pleased to discover two twenties she has forgotten about. She walks over to the airport bar and orders a glass of white wine.
She is perfectly safe in her own little world, here. A few men in suits of varying cost eye her, and one attempts to start up a conversation, but she responds with disinterest and he goes off to find easier prey. People move on their own way all around her, and she is pleased that none of them even seem to notice her presence.
"Hi."
The voice comes from the next chair over. It is a woman's voice, accented with the Southern tones of West Virgina. Erin turns suddenly to discover Clarice Starling sitting in the stool next to her. Starling smiles at her and flashes her FBI ID.
"I'm Clarice Starling, with the FBI. We met a few years ago."
Erin smiles coolly. "Yes, Agent Starling. You interrogated me at the hospital."
"Dr. Lander, I'm curious about a phone call placed tonight to my extension. A phone call that was placed from your apartment."
Erin does not reply immediately. She notes that Starling has correctly called her 'doctor', which means she must have done some homework.
"All calls made to the FBI are traced and recorded. I don't know what you've seen in the movies, but that it-takes-twenty-seconds stuff isn't true." She smiles. "You know, I thought in the hospital that you were hiding something. And then, I could understand it after what you'd been through."
"A call? Oh, I'm sorry about that. Graduation was today. I had a few other students over for drinks. One of them found your card in my drawer and called it as a joke." Erin smiles and looks down, embarrassed. "I'm very sorry."
Starling smiles back. Good, she thinks, but not good enough. "According to your landlord, you came home at six-thirty, alone. Then left at seven or so, also alone. Came back around ten and caught a taxi…both times alone."
"He was mistaken."
Starling leans forward. Part of her is tempted to simply grab the younger, smaller woman and shake her until she confesses. Dr. Lander's refusal to tell her what she wants is palpable, like a cloak worn over her smart black pantsuit.
"He is a very dangerous man, Dr. Lander. He's killed numerous people. And you're protecting him?!"
Erin's eyebrow raises. "My landlord? I doubt that, Agent Starling. He's a fifty-five-year-old man with grandchildren."
Starling shakes her head. "I mean Dr. Lecter," she hisses. "Maybe he told you then his name was Lawson, but you know damn well it's Lecter."
"I'm not protecting Dr. Lawson. I told you what he looks like. It's your job to catch him, isn't it?"
Starling has had enough of this. In the hospital, she could not help but feel sorry for Erin. Starling's natural sympathy for the plight of the captive extended to the distraught, confused young woman in the hospital bed. But here, in this airport bar, dealing with a self-assured young doctor who plans to keep the charade going, she is enraged. Largely because she knows Dr. Lander is correct. The Lander inquiry was closed years ago; Jack Crawford did not classify it as a Lecter sighting. If she doesn't talk now, Starling will lose her chance to correct the record and get something—anything—that might help her track the monster. Dr. Lander's manner reminds her suddenly of Dr. Lecter, when they had first met in the basement dungeon of the insane asylum. She is sure now, surer than she has ever been. Lawson had been Lecter, and Dr. Lander was protecting him.
She reaches forward and clamps her hand on the younger woman's arm. It is not a hard clamp, but a clamp all the same.
"Listen, doctor," she says. "Let me tell you a little story. The man you identified as Lawson, you want to know something about him? There are one hundred and three men named Robert Lawson who have been licensed to practice medicine since 1950. We went looking for surgeons with that name, found six. All checked out. When we went back to the general list, guess what? Sixty still practicing, eighteen retired, nineteen dead."
"That's very nice, but get your hand off my arm."
"In a minute. There's one missing. Reporting missing fifteen years ago, presumed dead. And guess what?" Starling reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a black and white picture which she gives to Erin. Erin glances at it and then looks back up at Starling.
"Does that man look familiar to you, Dr. Lander? He should. Because that's the man you identified to me. Congratulations, because you found a man missing for fifteen years. Quite a mystery you cracked there." Her eyes bore into Erin's. "Now. I know that your ID was made-up, I know that it was Dr. Lecter who did this, and I know that you wanted to tell me that tonight. That's why you called."
"That was accidental. I told you."
"No, it wasn't." Starling releases the other woman's arm. The tough-cop approach does not seem to be working. "Look, I can understand why you'd want to protect him. Most of Lecter's victims died; only two others lived. You, you came out with a kidney transplant. But what he did, he didn't do for you. It was…his whimsy. He did it because it amused him. Maybe he told you he cared about you, but he doesn't. He's an incredibly dangerous man."
Dr. Lander sighs and sips her wine. "Agent Starling, look, I am really sorry to disappoint you, but I am not a Lecter victim." She flicks the picture of Dr. Lawson back at Starling. "Dr. Lawson was the man who kidnapped me and…well…transplanted kidneys into me. I don't know where he got them and I don't know how he settled on me. One minute I was locking up the coffee bar, the next minute I was in his house in the country with incisions in my back. I told you what he looked like, I told you what his name was…you're a cop. Catching him is your job."
"Why are you doing this?" Starling seethes. She controls herself, but it is still a seethe. The urge to slam Dr. Lander's head into the bar a few times is strong. Starling's hand curls into a fist on the bar and bumps Dr. Lander's purse, unaware that inside the purse, behind a few scant layers of leather, is the letter that will prove her correct.
"Better question is, why are you doing this? You didn't read me my rights. You didn't come here with any other agents. You just tracked me down and gave me the third degree here." Dr. Lander's eyes gleam. "You don't have FBI permission to be here. This investigation's closed. You don't have anything, Agent Starling."
"I can hold you for questioning."
"And I can get a lawyer and be out in an hour." Dr. Lander grins triumphantly. "You're the only one who believes it was Lecter. Even…your superiors didn't agree with you. You can't hold me. You're bluffing, Agent Starling." Even after three years, she cannot say the name 'Jack Crawford' without recoiling.
Overhead, the P.A. clicks on, announcing the arrival of yet another flight.
"Look," Dr. Lander says in a tone more kind, "I'm sorry. Really. I know this must mean a lot to you and I'm sure you believe you're correct." Crazily, Starling thinks of arriving at the asylum a long time ago, when Dr. Lecter's greeting to her had been a towel for her hair shoved through his tray carrier. "But I can't tell you what you want to hear." She does not and cannot mention that it is because of a hypnotic block.
Dr. Lander rises from her barstool and finishes the rest of her wine. "Now if you'll excuse me, Agent Starling, they're boarding my flight."
Starling does not say anything in response. Her teeth grit and her fingers dig into the palms of her hands, leaving red half-moons in her palms. Her best source of information on Lecter is walking out, and there is nothing she can do to prevent it. There is no way she can justify detaining her.
Dr. Lander takes a step away from the barstool, and decides to let her have at least something. She turns back, puts her hand on Starling's shoulder, and whispers wine-scented words into her ear. They are the only words she can say that may mean anything to Starling.
"He spoke about you. He cares about you, very much. Thinks about you, every day."
Starling's head swivels to look at Dr. Lander. Dr. Lander pats her shoulder and offers her a small smile.
"I'm not testifying and you can't prove anything. But I thought you'd want to know."
With that, Dr. Lander is gone, walking swiftly from the airport bar to her plane. She offers the gate agent her ticket and boarding pass, boards the plane, and sits down to be whisked to a new chapter in her life. She will always wonder if her former captor is watching her after tonight.
Starling sits alone in the airport bar. She is torn: gratified to know she was right after all, yet simultaneously enraged that she will never be able to prove it. Most of all, she is oddly comforted.
"Thank you, doctor," she says in the stillness.
