Author's note:
I ought to put a disclosure here (it IS chapter 11, about time, huh?), so here goes.
Some characters in this work are the property of Thomas Harris. No infringement is intended and I am not profiting off this, just telling a story. Any character not owned by Thomas Harris is owned by me.
Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews, especially chameleon302 whose kind words and enthusiasm have helped keep this story afloat.
And with that, Dear Reader, we shall begin, but I will indulge myself in just this:
Bet you didn't see this coming!
Ardelia sat back at her desk and stared at the paper thoughtfully. Any guilty feelings she had held about seeking out Clarice's daughter were gone. She now had a very good reason to seek her out. Specifically, kidnapping and false imprisonment.
She had seen the police report from Barney's kidnapping and had just interviewed him herself. When he told his tale of being kidnapped by Hannibal Lecter's daughter and held captive in Lecter's old cell for three days, Ardelia had been shocked. Her other profilers were in her office with her, batting ideas back and forth about Barney's testimony.
"How do we know it's the same person as LECCOPY?" asked Agent Witt. "Completely different MO's."
"People change MO's. The signature isn't what changes," replied Agent Meyer.
"Yeah, but look at the cases. The LECCOPY killings were killings. Tattler employees murdered because they published articles about Lecter. Barney wasn't killed. She had ample opportunity to. Plus she wore a mask, and we'd have heard about someone wearing a mask at the LECCOPY sites. Or Barney could be making the whole thing up."
"You think he's lying?" Ardelia asked.
"I'm not sure. But think about it. Barney's story is that," he grabbed a piece of paper and examined it. "a girl or young woman, a foot shorter than him, slender, drugged him and tied him to a dolly. Now we know Barney has sold Lecter memorabilia in the past. Maybe he's just trying to squeeze some more green out of a dying franchise."
"You don't believe the story?" Ardelia questioned again.
"Based on Barney's description of his assailant, he should have been able to pick her up and break her in half. And we can't forget the Lecter sales, either."
"I'll give you the Lecter sales," Meyer admitted. "But how come she couldn't have drugged him?"
"She might have. How did she get him on the dolly? Do you think it's likely a little thing like what he describes could have hauled around two hundred fifty pounds worth of deadweight? Then there's the little foray into Spanish, and then that nonsense phrase at the end."
"Sa na? Did we ever get a meaning on that?"
"No," Ardelia said. "According to the Argentinian embassy, that phrase has no meaning at all in Spanish or Argentinian slang."
Witt and Meyer continued bickering back and forth. Ardelia thought of pointing out that Clarice's daughter had appeared both at the FBI and at her home, but didn't. Even if true, they didn't mean she had kidnapped Barney or done the LECCOPY murders. Witt would gleefully point that out to her. Besides, there was a big old hole in that theory. The woman Ardelia had seen had blue eyes. Barney's assailant had maroon eyes similar to Dr. Lecter's.
As the two men continued arguing, Ardelia saw it. On her desk was the requested logs from FBI headquarters showing the visitor logs. She had gone down the list of names and eliminated those who had airtight alibis for the times of the murders.
Among the names left to check was, "Alvarez, Susana."
Barney's statement said, "Then I said, 'Goodbye, Sue.'. She said 'Sa na' back and left."
Sue sa na.
"Oh my God, she told Barney her real name," Ardelia murmured. Her profilers looked at her.
"We're going to bring her in," Ardelia announced. "Kidnapping. It'll give us a hook to hang her on for the time being."
Witt looked at her, shut up, and nodded.
"Your call, chief. Can I say something, though?"
"You know you can," she said, and meant it. She had always entitled her profilers to speak their mind, whether or not they agreed with her.
"First off, even if the USDA indicts her, you'll never get a conviction. Not enough evidence. And if we go behavioral and say she could have done it, you're handing her lawyer a big old gun to use if you try to pinch her for LECCOPY. Crimes are totally different."
"I'm aware of that," Ardelia said. "Convictions are not our job."
"Secondly, you gotta find her before you can bring her in.. And if she is Lecter's kid, then I bet you either Susana Alvarez is an alias, or if it is her real name, then wherever she's staying will be under another ID."
"We can deal with that," she said. "Get a sweep of all hotels. Look for guests named Alvarez, Lecter…," she paused, "and Starling. And any of Lecter's old aliases. Also, get West Virginia State Police on the horn."
Witt raised an eyebrow. "You got an idea cooking, chief?"
Ardelia nodded. "It if had been last week, we'd be screwed," she said enigmatically. "But I bet you I can tell you where Clarice's daughter will be tonight."
…
Night fell over West Virginia. The city of Wheeling, not far to the north, honked with traffic in the manner of all cities. Here, in this small town, the night wrapped most of the rural area in black velvet unpierced by light. The town was lit with small streetlamps in some cases a hundred years old. Children playing in the street fled inside as the night approached, urged on by mothers following in the brook-no-nonsense-from-younguns tradition that had been handed down to them through the years. The town's two police cars cruised up and down the side streets making sure everything was safe.
In the town graveyard, darkness ruled. There were no lights to interrupt the rest of the dead. Monuments marked each spot. Some were large and garish, some were flat and low down to the earth as if to say that the person who rested there was unimportant. Most were somewhere in between.
Susana Alvarez Lecter walked along the service road of the graveyard and navigated to a particular grave. She was dressed all in black, as if to mourn. She glanced back and forth at the town, squared her shoulders as if gathering courage, and continued on.
Ahead was was the grave marker Susana sought. It was made of gray granite, with the words JOHN STARLING laser-engraved on its polished surface. Below the dates of his birth and death was a sheriff's star and the words KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY.
Susana was nervous. She had never been raised with anything resembling religion in her life. Her father deemed it all superstitious claptrap; her mother had internalized the rules and standards of her religion but none of the faith. Susana agreed with her father: she thought religion was a bunch of nonsense made up to cow people into believing that 'good' behavior would be rewarded and 'bad' behavior punished. Not to mention ensuring that the commoners remained the compliant sheep of the powerful. Susana found churches attractive only as architecture and art, and regarded anyone who claimed religion as deluded.
But she had known about her grandfather for as long as she could remember. Her mother had told her about him, and to the young girl it had been apparent that her grandfather was beyond judgment or anger. He could not be argued with or painted badly in any way. This grave was as close as Susana had ever known to hallowed ground. And it was with trepidation that she stepped forward and eyed the gravestone. This was the resting place of the saint. John Starling, law officer and loving father.
Susana Alvarez Lecter, killer of nine people, swallowed nervously and addressed a dead man.
"Hi," she said self-consciously, and put her hands in her jacket pockets for a second before pulling them out. "I'm Susana. I'm your granddaughter."
She waited a bit before remembering that no response would come, and then continued.
"This is my first time in America," she confided, "so this is my first time meeting you. You died before I was born. A long time ago, from what Mother told me. She told me about you. I would have liked to meet you, I guess."
She shifted from foot to foot. "I know that Papa – my papa – had dug you up. And I guess that was sort of rude. I'm sorry if it was. He had to do it, though. Mother was too attached to you. I mean, -" she added lamely, as if the dead man had expressed offense at her comment, "she could not be happy until she let you go. And you would have wanted her to be happy, wouldn't you? She said you would. And besides, Papa bought you a much nicer coffin than what you had."
Susana sat down Indian-style in front of the stone and traced the star on the gravestone with her fingers.
"I saw your picture when I was very young," Susana confided. "Mother still keeps one picture of you in her study. She thinks papa doesn't know about it, but he does. Always has. She showed me when I was little. You were very tall. Taller than my papa."
Susana swiped at her eyes, but it was only to scratch an itch. Her eyes remained dry and her face calm. Her fingers scratched at good high cheekbones not unlike those belonging to the skull six feet under her.
"Mother missed you most of her life," she said, as if betraying a great secret. "I miss my papa, too. That's why I came here. I had to settle up his accounts. But you don't want to hear about that," she said abruptly. John Starling had been a law officer and would probably disapprove of his granddaughter's activities.
"I brought you something," she said, reaching into her pocket. "One of them I wanted to have put in your coffin, but it's too late. I got a case for it, that should protect it." Carefully, Susana Alvarez Lecter placed three objects at the foot of her grandfather's grave. Then she stood, wiping the dirt from her hands.
"Goodbye, abuelo," she said. Her smile was soft and sad.
Flashlight beams and the high beams of a police cruiser pierced the sanctuary of the graveyard. Police radios chattered. Susana's head jolted around.
Ardelia Mapp stepped from behind a larger monument. She held a 9mm in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
"Susana Alvarez, you are under arrest," she called out. "Put your hands on your head and kneel down on the ground."
Susana's head swiveled towards her. In the flashlight beam, her maroon eyes reflected back diabolically at Mapp. For just a moment, she tilted her head as her father would have done and stared at Mapp, taking in what had just happened.
Then, with deceptive speed, she turned on her heel and ran.
Three FBI agents, two West Virginia state troopers, and two township police officers looked at each other for a long moment. Ardelia broke the impasse by running after Susana. The others fell into line behind her.
It wasn't easy going. A four-foot stone wall circled the graveyard. In a motion smooth and silent as the wind, Susana leaped the wall and kept on going. Ardelia grimly pursued, her mouth drawn down into a quivering bow with the effort.
Police officers are commonly trained not to attempt to catch up to a fleeing suspect unless it is necessary. It is much easier to simply keep up and simply wait until the suspect collapses from exhaustion. At that point, the officer simply picks up the suspect and reads them their rights.
It was great in theory, Ardelia Mapp thought, but when you are fifty-four and have spent most of your career indoors in an office and your suspect is a twenty-one-year-old with legs like a gazelle, it is not quite so easy in practice. She couldn't help but admire Susana's fleeing form.
She even runs like a predator. No wasted motion. And it was true. Susana showed no signs of tiring. Ardelia was not so fortunate. Her lungs were screaming at her for more air. Her legs threatened to exhaust themselves. Muscles groaned and cried out against their unexpected use. Ahead was a county highway, fenced off. Ardelia was never so happy to see a fence in her life. It meant she only had to run just a little further. She dug down into her reserves and determined to catch Clarice's daughter.
Susana saw it and increased her speed herself. She sprang into the air like a big cat, grabbing the chain-link fence and scaling it as efficiently as a leopard. She wriggled over the three strands of barbed wire meant to keep people from doing exactly what she was doing, and then vaulted to the ground below, her arms out for balance. She landed neatly on her feet and went almost to her knees, like a gymnast.
Ardelia reached the fence. For just a moment, the two women were separated only by the chain link barrier. Their eyes touched. Susana's eyes seemed calculating and unemotional. Her face was composed and expressionless. Ardelia thought she nodded once as a 'worthy adversary' sort of gesture.
Stop, Ardelia tried to shout, but her screaming muscles demanded all the air her lungs could provide. You better at least be tired, you little bitch, she thought. Only a thin sheen of perspiration was visible on Susana's forehead.
Susana turned then, gravel spraying from the soles of her shoes as she ran up the shoulder to the highway. Ardelia knew she had lost. She was focused on the same thing Susana was: the fence on the other side of the highway. She could hear the others catching up behind her, but it was too late. All Susana had to do was run up a short hill, cross the highway, down the other side, and scale the second fence. Beyond there was the complete darkness of a forest. They could try to pursue her, but they'd need bloodhounds to have any hope of catching her.
Susana made it onto the road and ran across. Ardelia's face congealed with horror. She knew exactly what was going to happen, and could do nothing to stop it. She tried to suck in air to warn Susana, but could only watch and wheeze.
The vehicle was an old pickup truck, built around the turn of the century. Country music played from the speakers. The driver was driving at the lawful speed of fifty miles an hour when Susana ran out in front of him. To his credit, he tried to brake as soon as he could and left several feet of rubber on the road. He would later babble nervously over and over that he hadn't seen her, really, he hadn't, and he was a good driver.
The truck hit Susana doing at least forty. In a bizarre twist of fate, she was shown more mercy than any of her victims. She was aware merely of a bright light and sound on her left side. There was one strong but short burst of pain and force as the grille hit the left side of her body, breaking all the ribs on that side, and then, mercifully, everything drew her down into a pool of black.
Ardelia did not. She watched and heard the whole thing. The squeal of the brakes to the sickening whump sound of Susana's body smacking into the grill of the car, to the somehow hard sound of Susana's head striking the asphalt. She hung on the fence for a moment or two and then began the slow climb over it to get to the scene. She flashed her ID at the driver, and then ignored him, bending over the fallen girl on the highway. Susana was still breathing, but Ardelia did not know for how long. She took several moments to get her breath and then pulled out her FBI satellite phone. The medical chopper could get there in twenty minutes.
"I'm sorry, Clarice," she said.
The other officers made the scene, shamefaced about being outrun by an older woman. The local officer was the last one on the scene. Ardelia glanced at him.
"Did we see what she left on the grave?"
"Yes, ma'am, we did," he answered. "That must be the girl who came in before. Asked for a badge, she did."
"A badge?"
"Yes'm. She said her grandpa hadn't never been buried with one and that he would've liked it. Chief let her have one to give her grandpa."
"You just gave someone off the street a police badge." Ardelia's tone echoed disbelief.
"Now ma'am, there ain't no reason to take on like that. We're not bumpkins here. She told us what she wanted it for. It wasn't for her. It was for her grandfather, Officer John Starling, who died in the line of duty. When the chief found out he wasn't buried with a badge we all felt real bad." The officer drew himself up proudly. "So don't you give me that look, ma'am. Unless you don't think a law officer ought to be buried with his star if he so wants. Or that we ought to set wrong things right."
"I'm sorry," she said. She remembered Starling once expressing bitterness that the village had taken back her father's star. How fitting that her daughter brought one to him after all these years.. "Do we know what else she left there?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and his answer brought tears to Ardelia's eyes. It was so Clarice, in a way. Hannibal Lecter would have considered it awfully maudlin and tedious and would have ridiculed it mercilessly. But, after all, Susana was not only Hannibal Lecter's daughter.
"She left him an orange and a SNO BALL from the market," he said seriously.
"Chopper's on its way, chief," Witt said.
Ardelia sat down on the asphalt next to Susana and tried not to look at the spreading pool of blood under her head. Probably nothing, scalp wounds bleed heavily, she'll be OK. She carefully pushed a stray lock of brown hair away from Susana's cheek. Brown hair she had seen before. On the half of Susana's face that she could see, the clear stamp of Clarice Starling's features was strong. With her eyes closed, Ardelia could be forgiven for forgetting her diabolical father's influence on her.
Ardelia was confused. On the one hand, there was evidence that Susana had kidnapped a man and perhaps killed nine other people, five of those police officers. Ardelia preferred the black and white, good and evil ways of life. She didn't want serial killers to bring SNO BALLS, oranges, and a long-overdue star to their grandfathers' graves. It was a maudlin touch, bizarre in its normality. It was something that Clarice would do. Was Susana a dangerous, amoral killer and a loving daughter and granddaughter? Were the natures of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling intertwined in her as completely as their biological natures?
There was only one thing she could do for Clarice, so she did it. She sat on the asphalt with Susana – the target of her manhunt, her only suspect in a series of vicious murders, the daughter of her long-lost best friend – and waited with her, humming a cradle song under her breath. She paid little attention to the lights of the cruisers blocking off the scene with their flashers. The entire scene lit up: blue-black, blue-black. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She thought of Clarice, and wondered where she was and what would happen when she found out what happened to her daughter. She wondered if Susana was Clarice's only daughter. She thought of the children she had never had herself. She thought of this afternoon, when the Argentinian embassy had obligingly sent over a photostat of Susana's passport. She remembered how she felt when she opened it to see Susana's face, the face of the young Clarice that had been haunting her, and the combination stabbing pain and elation when she had seen Susana's full legal name: Susana Ardelia Alvarez.
The chopper came and loaded Susana inside, taking off swiftly for Wheeling Hospital. Ardelia let them take her and hoped she pulled through. One of the local boys offered her a ride back to the station, where her car was. She accepted. The cruiser was a warm, safe bastion of sanity as they drove back to the police station.
"So, how'd you know she would be at that grave tonight?" asked the local cop.
She smiled wanly. "Study your own history, Sergeant," she said. "Today is the anniversary of John Starling's death."
…
Author's note part II:
Well, as I said, I bet you didn't see that coming.
At this point I'm a bit torn on where to go from here – the major points to tie up will be tied up, but a lot depends on whether Susana survives or not.
So tell me what you think. You can, a la Tinkerbell in Peter Pan, clap your hands and say "I believe! I believe in sociopathic killers!", or hang your head a la Maxwell Smart (from Get Smart, all you young'uns who don't remember 70's TV) and say sorrowfully, "If only she had used her powers for Niceness instead of Evil." If enough people express interest in Susana living or dying, I'll write the next chapter according to their wishes.
It's late, and that's probably why the preceding paragraph seems hysterically funny right now. So good night, Dear Reader, and we'll take up this tale again soon.