Author's note: This chapter's pretty gory too.
The Buenos Aires police acted quickly, once they had been summoned. A uniformed officer took a statement from Clarice. Other men in suits quickly swarmed over the Mustang. It was hard for Clarice to concentrate, to not predict the questions she would be asked. She had to remember that she was no longer a law officer. She was Maria Alvarez, a wealthy socialite.
A swarthy man in a tan raincoat walked over to her from the car. He introduced himself as Detective Garcia. The uniformed officer deferred to him, handing him Clarice's written statement. He steered Clarice into the salon, where he got her to sit down.
"I need to ask you some questions now," he said gently. "I know it's tough, but it might help me find your daughter."
Clarice nodded, feeling oddly out of place. She had done this before, but always as the officer, never the weepy, scared questionee.
"Would you like some coffee before we get started?"
"Yes, thank you," she whispered. He crossed to the salon's front desk, spoke with the woman behind the desk, and returned with two steaming mugs of black coffee. Mugs, not Styrofoam cups, Clarice noticed. No wonder her daughter liked this place.
"Had Susana ever mentioned wanting to run away, or anything like that?"
Clarice smiled, despite herself. "No. She's a good kid."
"Any arguments in the past that she might not have thought were resolved? "
Clarice shook her head and abandoned her smile. "She didn't run away, Detective Garcia."
"I believe you," Detective Garcia said.
"Had she met someone new, maybe? New boyfriend?" He stroked his mustache as he thought.
"No." Clarice thought that a blessing: no boyfriend would do well with Hannibal Lecter to deal with.
She looked up and him and took a big sip of her coffee. It burned her throat, but she did it anyway.
"Was my daughter taken by the Skinner? Because I think she was."
Detective Garcia exhaled and waited a few moments before answering. "I don't know," he said finally. He watched Clarice for her reaction. He wants to see if I'll break down, she thought.
"There is evidence that this is a Skinner crime," he said carefully. His tone was gentle and apologetic. Almost on cue, Clarice's eyes filled with tears as the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She gritted her teeth. Daddy always said 'Don't cry'. I will not be the weepy victim here, I will not. I can't be. She sank her teeth into her lower lip.
"I have some people I would like to talk to you. And your husband, if you don't mind," Detective Garcia continued. "When would you be available?"
"Anytime," Clarice said huskily, fighting the lump in her throat. "Tonight, if you like."
He consulted his watch. "Let me call them and see. Your address is on here?"
"Yes."
He patted her kindly on the back. "OK then. How about you go back home, and I'll give you a call."
"Thank you," Clarice said, and rose and shook his hand. She walked out to the car breathing very carefully. It wasn't until she was back in her own driveway that she finally let herself break down into tears. A monster had her baby, and there was nothing she could do about it.
The servants saw her weeping behind the wheel of her car, but did not come out. Señora Alvarez was a strong woman, and no one on the staff wanted to be the one who saw her in such a weak moment. After a few minutes, Dr. Lecter walked calmly to the car and led his weeping wife into the house. He led her up to the top floor of the house.
Fortified with some herbal tea, Clarice told him that Susana had been taken by the Skinner. His only visible reaction was to press his lips together and lose color slightly. But Clarice knew that it had affected him much more than he let on. She told him that the police would be stopping by with some questions.
He tilted his head at her. "You invited them?"
"They asked," she pointed out.
Dr. Lecter shrugged. After so many years in Buenos Aires, he felt relatively safe. And it wasn't like he could refuse them. This was his daughter's life, after all. All the same, he refilled his wife's teacup and then walked to a nearby bookshelf. From it, he selected a copy of the Holy Bible, King James Edition. He opened the book unobtrusively, not wanting Clarice to see.
Inside the book was a hollowed-out section about six inches long. Lying in it was Dr. Lecter's Harpy. He had kept the knife for years, and it fit into his hand like an old friend. The blade was keen, the way only old, well-used blades can be. He slipped the knife into his pocket and returned to his wife.
An hour or so later, the doorbell rang and the butler came upstairs to announce that Detective Garcia was here with some guests. Dr. Lecter and Clarice walked downstairs to greet them.
Detective Garcia stepped forward and offered Dr. Lecter his hand.
"Dr. Alvarez, I am Detective Garcia," he said. "I have already had the pleasure of meeting your wife."
"Detectivo," nodded Dr. Lecter.
Garcia indicated a young brunette standing behind him. "I do have someone who wishes to talk with you. But first, she asked me to ask you, do either of you speak English?"
Clarice and Dr. Lecter shared a quick look at each other. "Yes, both of us do," Dr. Lecter answered. "I attended medical school in the United States, and Maria spent some time there in her youth."
Detective Garcia turned back to the brunette and told her what Dr. Lecter had just said. She stepped forward and smiled.
What happened next seemed to happen very, very slowly for Dr. Lecter, although it took place in only a few seconds. The brunette offered her hand first to him and then to Clarice.
"Hi," she smiled with an American accent. "I'm Belle Fontaine." She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small leather case. Dr. Lecter's heart rate began to quicken. He traded a glance with Clarice. Her eyes told him that she saw it too.
Miss Fontaine flipped open the leather case with a practiced flick of her wrist. She exposed a plastic-coated ID card. A card that he had seen before.
"I'm with the FBI," Agent Fontaine continued. "The Buenos Aires police department has asked us for assistance in this case. I'm trying to develop a profile of the Skinner."
For two or three heartbeats, neither Dr. Lecter nor Clarice moved, or even breathed.
Agent Fontaine put her ID away. She looked sympathetically at Clarice, who simply stared at her blankly. "I'm sure this must be very difficult for you," she said.
"You're in the FBI?" Clarice asked.
"Yes, ma'am." Her accent sounded midwestern. Clarice tipped her head. Not home. Ohio, sounds like.
"You're in Behavioral Sciences?"
"Yes, ma'am," Agent Fontaine repeated. A slightly puzzled look came over her face. "You've heard of it?"
"Oh, yes," Clarice said. "Do you like it?"
"A great deal, ma'am. Is there a problem?"
"Not at all. It's nice work if you can get it." She decided to shut up before she got herself in real trouble. "I'm sorry. We're just a little stressed here."
"Not at all, Mrs. Alvarez."
Special Agent Fontaine's interview was short and professional. Detective Garcia wisely made himself scarce, helping himself to the coffee offered him by the servants. Afterwards, the young FBI agent asked if she might be allowed to see Susana's room. With a horrible feeling of déjà vu, Clarice agreed. So this is how poor Mr. Bimmel felt. She closed her eyes and felt her mind whirl. Would Agent Fontaine come out with pictures hidden in a music box? Did Susana even have a music box?
Once Agent Fontaine was in Susana's room and they were alone, Dr. Lecter exhaled.
"Now there is some hideous irony for you," he said.
…
Ew, gross, Susana Alvarez thought. A thought not terribly uncommon for a sixteen-year-old girl. Susana had better reason than most. She stood in the Skinner's kitchen. One ankle was shackled to the Skinner's dirty stove. Unpleasantly, she remembered the jokes some of the boys at school had told about women being chained to the bed with enough slack to reach the kitchen. She didn't mind the thought. Anything to distract her from what she had to do.
Before her, on the cot, was the body of the other girl. The Skinner had carried it up for her after her suggestion to him. She had asked him if he had ever considered eating any of his victims. She hadn't expected him to make her do the cooking. But there she was, a not-terribly-sharp French chef's knife in her hand.
It looked rather as if Susana was wearing red elbow-length gloves. She was not. Her arms were slicked with blood and gore. Retreating into her memory palace offered her some comfort, but not much help. Dr. Hannibal Lecter had been to medical school and had years of experience in medicine. Susana had not yet finished high school. Her knowledge of internal organs was severely lacking.
The Skinner sat at his dinner table, awaiting his meal. He tipped his head at her and scowled.
"What's taking so long?" he demanded.
Susana turned her attention back to the long, ragged cut she had made in the abdomen of the corpse. She drew in a long, sobbing breath and pushed back a flap. Those long things had to be intestines. She felt her gorge rise in her throat.
Don't throw up. God only knows what he'll do to you if you throw up.
"This knife isn't sharp," she said timidly. "I'm doing it. Please."
She decided to go for the stomach, simply because it was connected to the intestines and she could thus tell where it was. She hoped she was right. Gritting her teeth, she reached into the incision and grabbed the end of the intestines with her hand. Something liquid squirted between her fingers. She staggered for a moment, her eyes clamped shut in revulsion.
She began to cut, forcing the nauseous feeling away. The knife did not cut easily. She looked up pleadingly at him.
"Could I…um, if you please," she began. The Skinner pushed his chair back with a scraping sound. He rose. Susana quailed.
"What do you want?" he asked. His tone was angry. Not good.
"Please," Susana said. "If I could have a scalpel…this would go a lot quicker."
The Skinner looked at her and pondered. Susana did her best to look helpless. It wasn't that hard when you were terrified. Without a word, he clomped down to the basement. He wore heavy boots, and they echoed against the floorboards. He returned a few moments later, a bright, shiny scalpel in his hand.
"Back up against the counter," he demanded. Susana complied. The chain was barely long enough to allow her to do so. The Skinner laid the scalpel next to the incision.
"Don't even think of trying anything," he threatened. "I'll know."
"No, not at all," Susana said quickly, and waited until he seated himself before moving forward.
With the scalpel, it was much easier going. She cut her hand once and cried out. The Skinner laughed. She whimpered when the stomach was finally cut loose and its contents began to seep from the holes.
Shakily, she walked it over to the sink. Tears welled in her eyes. She refused to let them fall. In the sink, she dropped the stomach in, slit it open carefully, and rinsed it in a flow of water. She examined the cut on her hand. It wasn't too bad, she decided. She took a paper towel and pressed it against the cut.
"Keep going," the Skinner warned.
"But,…" Susana stammered. She had it out! What more did he want?
"There's much more meat in there. Don't waste it," he ordered.
"I have to rinse this out if I'm going to cook it," she implored.
"Cut out more while it rinses," he grunted.
Susana sighed, closed her eyes, and returned to the corpse. She retreated to her memory palace. She had added a few new rooms to it. One was her father's office. In this office, however, the name on the diploma read 'HANNIBAL LECTER' in place of 'ALONSO ALVAREZ'. Seated in his office chair, surrounded by his antiques, her father offered her counsel.
He is doing this because he enjoys seeing you struggle with it, her father said. He likes watching you suffer. Not physically, perhaps. But emotionally, psychologically. He wants to humiliate you.
Susana pushed aside the mess of intestines, pressing her lips together to avoid doing what she wanted to do, which was throw up and then curl up in a ball on the floor crying. She had no idea which organ was what. The roll of paper towels was nearby. She reached for one surreptitiously and placed it over the ruined skull of the corpse. She simply cut out what she could and hoped it pleased him. She noticed him looking away.
For a very long moment, she saw herself throwing the scalpel like a dart into his eye. Saw him scream and clutch at it. Or saw herself throwing it right into his heart. Then she thought about what would happen to her if she simply wounded him – or, God forbid, missed him – and she set the scalpel down again with a shaking hand.
"Is that enough?" she asked. Her voice was shaky and barely controlled.
He examined the four or five things she had stacked on the chest of the corpse. A cruel smile wreathed his features under the odd helmet.
"Now, wrap those up," he commanded. "And cook the stomach."
This proved to be easier. Susana could simply wrap them in tinfoil and forget their origin. Her gorge began to drop a bit. Once the stomach was rinsed, Susana stuffed it with cheese and ground beef and seasoned it. She put it in the oven and let out a long, low sob.
The Skinner nodded, grinning. His eyes flicked over the corpse on the cot. His lips curled back in distaste. Suddenly, he was on his feet. He crossed the distance between them in what seemed like nothing.
His hand dug into Susana's arm.
"What do you think you're doing, little one?" he demanded. His voice was choked with anger.
"What?" Susana's eyes widened with terror. "I was just…it's cooking…it'll be ready in twenty minutes…,"
"No. That." He indicated the corpse
"I don't understand," she sobbed.
He pushed her over to the corpse and grabbed the paper towel covering what was left of its face.
"This!"
He grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face down to just above the corpse's. Its dead jaws yawed open as if inviting her in for a kiss. Her gorge rose.
"You do not hide from your fate, little one. You will look at it."
"I'm sorry," she quaked. The tears were coming now, and she could not prevent it. Her hair touched the corpse's cheekbones. Her eyes stared into its empty sockets. She planted her hands and tried fruitlessly to keep him from pressing her down any further. Her pulse beat in her ears relentlessly. He pushed her relentlessly down. Her face contacted the corpse's. It was cold, smelly, and horribly wet.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. He released her and let her stand. Like a machine, he returned to his seat. There he watched her balefully, pleased at the tears he had caused. There was a bloodstain across her forehead and one eye. How very fitting, he thought.
Susana's jaw trembled. She dared not wipe her face. Her eyes bulged in terror and revulsion.
Moving very carefully and deliberately, she took down a plate from the cupboard and a knife and fork. Then she cleaned up the sink with dish soap and a sponge. Next, she carefully stacked the rest of the meat in the refrigerator.
Concentrate on mundane things, Susana. Set the table; get a napkin. If you think too much about what just happened, you'll lose your grasp on sanity, Dr. Lecter counseled from his office in her memory palace.
The Skinner grinned cruelly.
"Not just one plate, little one. Get down two."
The oven went ding.