After Dr. Lecter's class broke up, he returned to his office. He told the department secretary that he was going to be completing his experiments and to please have callers call back later. She agreed. Everyone at his workplace had become quite kind and supportive since Susana had disappeared. Dr. Lecter did not entirely like it. He knew they were trying to be polite and sympathetic. But there was an element of it he did not care for; the idea that he was a wounded member of the pack.
As he went, he saw Dr. Higuara in the hallway talking with a colleague. They did not interrupt their discussion, but Dr. Higuara smiled tightly and nodded at Dr. Lecter as he passed. He avoided eye contact. Dr. Lecter was not surprised. He supposed that Dr. Higuara was feeling guilty: he probably had some sort of resentment towards Susana, and now he was faced with it.
In his office, Dr. Lecter pulled out his daughter's laptop. He browsed past her staggeringly large music collection and opened up his copy of the FBI case file. As he perused it, he began to form his own psychological profile.
Intelligent. The killings were planned well and daring. Has a job relating somehow to garbage, dirt, or grime. The bodies had all been dumped in garbage dumps. Has access to medicine and medical knowledge. Tox screens on the victims indicated that muscle relaxants had been administered. Plus, the removal of the faces suggested that this man knew his way around a scalpel. That didn't mean he was a doctor, though. Could be another medical specialty. His need is not sexual; it is to degrade and punish. Trophy keeper.
Then it hit him.
Dr. Higuara was intelligent. Dr. Higuara had the same access to medicines that he himself did. Dr. Higuara had worked as a garbageman in college and medical school. And Dr. Higuara resented wealthier people than he – and all the victims had been from wealthy families. Including Susana. And the very day Susana had disappeared, Dr. Higuara had lectured her about her privilege.
Dr. Lecter sat up sharply, staring at nothing, trying to get a grasp on his fury. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Harpy. He intended to get Dr. Higuara into his office and get the information out of him, then kill him. He walked towards his door. Already he was working on how to get Dr. Higuara away from their colleague in the hall.
He was stopped by the bulk of Detective Garcia standing in the doorway. The detective eyed the doctor and chewed his lip.
"Buenos dias," Detective Garcia said.
"Buenos dias, detectivo," said Dr. Lecter.
"I'm here to question someone. Not you," the detective said.
"Any leads on finding my daughter?" Dr. Lecter's face fell into an expression of pain that was not feigned in the least.
"We're following up on some leads. Would you mind waiting in your office for a bit? This could get ugly."
Dr. Lecter's mind clicked away like the efficient computer it was. The Buenos Aires police department was obviously moving as quickly as he. Impressive. This was new.
"Of course," he said, and went back to his chair, where he continued to study the file.
Detective Garcia nodded and walked up the hall to where two doctors stood talking. He waited patiently for a few minutes until the dark-haired doctor looked at him curiously.
"Can I help you?" the doctor asked.
"Are you Dr. Ramon Higuara?" Detective Garcia asked bluntly.
The doctor drew himself up and looked surprised. "I am. Can I help you?"
Detective Garcia flashed his badge. "Detective Garcia, BAPD. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Could we step inside your office?"
…
That evening, Susana was quite nervous.
It wasn't because the Skinner was cruel to her that night. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Since he had gotten home, he had actually treated her better than he had in the past. He brought her upstairs, let her eat, and did not force her to do any work.
Instead, he allowed her to sit at his feet while he watched TV. His chivalry did not extend to allowing her much freedom – she was seated on the floor with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her ankles were shackled to a ring set in the floor. He ate popcorn and drank beer while he watched TV. Occasionally he would pass down a handful to her, watching her eat from his hand like a pet.
That she could tolerate. If he got his jollies by feeding her like a dog, more power to him. The drinking concerned her more. Being chained and helpless around a drunken serial killer was not a promising position to be in.
He did not mention the previous day's torture. She supposed he was embarrassed that she had successfully kept it from him. Instead, he simply sat and watched sitcom after sitcom. He spoke to her only occasionally. Susana kept her mouth shut unless he spoke to her.
He threw his last beer can morosely in the corner, where a pile of predecessors lay.
"I'm out of beer," he said moodily.
Susana nodded and said nothing. He rose from his easy chair and stretched. Except for the weird helmet he always wore around her, he looked like any other man relaxing in his lounger after a hard day's work. He looked thoughtfully at her.
"C'mon," he said, reaching for her arm. He intended to put her back in her cell.
"No, wait," she said, and adopted a pained expression. "Please. Don't put me back there. Can't I just stay up here? I'm not going anywhere." She jingled her ankle chain. "Please? I promise I'll behave."
The Skinner was in a somber, thoughtful mood. She had never seen him act like this before. Something had rattled him, she thought. That could be good…and it could be bad. The beer had relaxed him further.
"All right, fine," the Skinner said, and headed for the door. Susana heard the front door slam. She sank back against the side of the recliner. Well, at least she knew she would live for fifteen more minutes, until he made it to the corner store and back.
And then she saw it.
There, on the floor in front of her, by her left knee, was a paper clip.
Susana's eyes widened. Immediately, she began rolling around and trying to walk herself around to get at it. With both wrists and ankles cuffed, it wasn't easy. She ended up on her knees, her face pressed against the cheap vinyl side of the recliner, pressing herself down as far as she would go to get her cuffed hands low enough to get the damn clip. She got it once and dropped it. That made her curse in frustration once, but she set herself back to her task and succeeded. The paperclip sat in her fingers.
She tried to work herself back into her former position just in case he came back while she worked on bending the clip to fit into the keyhole of her handcuffs. It hurt her fingers, but she pressed on. She closed her eyes and pictured the clip, bent to the proper position.
It took a few tries to get it slipped into the keyhole correctly. She remembered her father telling her how he had done this once. She brought him forth from her memory palace in order to help. She envisioned the paper clip. Partly straightened out with just the tip bent at a right angle. She pictured the lever sticking off of the ratchets of the cuffs, holding them in place. Holding her in place.
She took a deep breath, pushed, and twisted.
The cuff on her left wrist rolled open. Just like that, Susana was free.
Not totally free. She brought her arms around her and unlocked the second cuff, then quickly attacked her ankle chains. Now, she was free.
On the other side of the room was the Skinner's desk and computer. Susana sprinted for it. On the desk lay a telephone. She grabbed it and began to dial the police. She dialed the first digit, then stopped entirely. She stared at the computer monitor.
The background the Skinner had chosen was something he liked a great deal. It was a picture taken a few days ago. A picture, specifically, of two teenaged girls. In this, the Skinner was not unlike many other men. The subject matter, however, was different. One girl was bound and gagged, and the other girl was stabbing her. The killer's face was tilted towards the camera, and the expression of rage on her face was quite clear.
It was her own face.
"He's got a picture," she muttered. She couldn't call the police. Not when he had proof she was a killer herself.
Tears filled Susana's eyes. To be so close….perhaps she could flee out the window. She didn't have much time left, she knew.
No. She was being dumb. The police might be out, but she could call someone who would help her whether she was a killer or not. She grabbed the phone and dialed her home number.
The butler answered. Susana screamed at him to get her mother on the line now. The butler was surprised, but obeyed. Thankfully, he did not ask her any questions.
Clarice Starling's voice came over the line. "Hello? Susana?" There was disbelief in her tone.
"Mother," Susana said quickly. "Listen to me. I need you to listen to me and not interrupt. I'm alive. The Skinner has me."
"Where are you?" Clarice asked, despite her daughter's request.
Susana stopped. She actually did not know the address. It took her a moment to find a bill.
"1373 Alvarenga," she said. "Hurry."
"Call the police, Miss Chickabee," Clarice implored.
"Can't. I'll explain later. I need you here. Now. With guns. Lots of them."
On the other end of the line, Clarice Starling's eyes filled with tears. Elation filled her and made her feel drunk. Her baby was alive, alive, goddam it. She knew where Alvarenga was. Already, she was deciding which guns to take with her and what she would do.
A sound came from the other end of the line.
"Susana?" she asked.
There was dead silence.
"Miss Chickabee, answer me," she said. A sudden feeling of dread damped out the elation.
A shout from the other end of the line and a loud thud.
"Susana?" she screamed.
There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Then the receiver was suddenly replaced.
Clarice Starling grabbed her .45 and her car keys and ran for her car. She barely thought to call her husband's cell phone, and she was so worked up she almost drove into a tree. Thankfully, Dr. Lecter merely took the address and told her to get there and stay calm. It was advice Clarice simply could not take.
…
Consciousness came back slowly. Susana blinked her eyes and looked around. The last thing she remembered was calling her mother. She glanced up and saw a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.
Oh no.
Susana tried to move and could not. She lowered her eyes and saw herself lying on a cot. Straps on her wrists and ankles controlled them. Three larger straps held her down. She twisted her head and saw the figure of the Skinner. His back was to her, and he was muttering to himself.
"Goddam little traitor. I should have known she was no better than the others." He heard her twist and turned to look at her.
"You're awake," he said. "Well, you violated my trust. And so there's only one thing left to do, little one. It's time to pay your dues."
In his hands, he held a syringe.
Susana screamed shrilly as loud as she could. She bucked and fishtailed on the cot she was strapped to. The Skinner walked over to her and squatted.
"That will do you no good, little one," he said, and jabbed the needle into her cheek. He depressed the plunger and she could feel a cold sensation creeping up her jaw. He repeated the injection on the other cheek. Her jaw and neck began to go slack. She struggled to close her mouth and could not. It simply refused to respond. She could still feel, though, and she knew she would. Through all of it.
"As you have betrayed me, " he said, "I have something extra." He gave her a second set of injections, and her face began to burn. The Skinner chuckled evilly.
"Nerve stimulants," he explained. He touched her cheek with a fingernail, then suddenly raked it down her cheek. Susana gasped and would have screamed if she could, but too many parts of her were offline. It felt like a knife slash.
"You'll feel it all, but twice to three times as much as the others," the Skinner gloated. He slapped her face, his own visage twisting into a mask of fury. Susana's head lolled back, and she let out a thick groan. The slap felt like a waffle iron pressed to the side of her face. "And you deserve it," he told her. "I dared to trust you. But now…you shall be mine forever."
He walked away then and rummaged through something. Susana tried to scream, beg, do anything. He was muttering to himself as he grabbed down things from his counters. He placed a few things down beside her. She couldn't see and didn't want to know what they were anyway.
He walked over to the foot of the cot. In his hands, he held a pink swim cap.
…
Clarice Starling pulled off the highway. Her adrenalin was way up and her heart was pounding. Nature has no greater threat than a mother whose young are threatened. And Clarice was out for blood. She swerved through traffic, cut off whomever she pleased, and used the Jaguar's 12 cylinders as much as she was able to.
Alvarenga Street was a blue-collar neighborhood. The houses were small and old. Some were well kept and well maintained. Others sat on their tiny lots like old, tired dogs, growing more dilapidated and more depressed as time went on. There were children in the street playing soccer. Clarice honked her horn at them and screamed obscenities. They stared at the Jaguar and chattered in excitement.
She brought the car to a halt a block up the street from 1373 and locked it up carefully. The anti-theft system meant that it should be there when she got back. But the car did not matter. Susana did.
Clarice fought herself not to run. She walked along carefully, cautiously. The .45 was heavy in her purse. 1373 Alvarenga was a yellow bungalow. The lawn was well kept, but the paint was peeling. She eyed it carefully. In the driveway there was a door leading inside. That would do. The front door would be too obvious.
There were some advantages to no longer being a federal officer. Clarice did not bother to knock. Instead, she simply opened the screen door, pointed the big .45 at the latch, and squeezed the trigger three times.
…
Susana tensed again. The straps were immovable. She could not move her face or neck.
I won't scream, she thought, fighting back the horror as the Skinner slid the pink swim cap onto her head. I will not scream. I refuse to scream. But she knew, in the end, she would. When her very face had been torn from her and there was only a living skull, she knew she would scream.
The Skinner settled the cap, content that her hair would be kept out of the way. He lifted his scalpel.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "This is going to hurt."
He pushed her head over and it lolled limply. With a flourish, the Skinner lowered the scalpel to Susana's face. He pressed it into the side of her jaw, below her ear, just where her jawbone curved up to fit into her skull proper.
Susana's eyes widened with the pain and tears filled her eyes immediately. The gloating figure of the Skinner prismed into a blur immediately. The scalpel felt like a line of fire. She could feel blood begin flowing immediately from the cut. A low, desperate, choked moan came from her throat.
"Yes," the Skinner said mockingly. "It hurts, doesn't it? That is what becomes a betrayer, little one. But don't worry. You belong to me in the next life as well as this one. Perhaps in that life, you may redeem yourself to Me."
The scalpel advanced up. Susana tried to retreat to her memory palace and shut out the pain. She was only partially successful.
So this is how it ends, she thought.
Suddenly, three loud gunshots echoed from upstairs.
Immediately, the Skinner stood and turned his head. He knew well what had just happened. He rose and stood for a moment, thinking.
He left the room. Susana heard him rummage through something in the hallway, then recognized the characteristic snick of his .357 being cocked. She sighed. The reprieve was good, but it was only half a reprieve – if that was her mother, she still had to kill the Skinner before he got her. If that was the police, then she might be saved, but would instead be imprisoned herself.
She cast her eyes down and tried to move her head at all. By focusing every bit of willpower that she had, she was able to raise up her head a bit. Then her eyes widened involuntarily.
When the Skinner had left, he had dropped his scalpel. It had fallen down between her right hand and her body. Lucky it hadn't cut her.
Susana pushed her arm back and forth in its strap. Slowly, painfully, she bent her wrist as far as it would go. Her fingers brushed the handle. She grabbed at it. It bobbled in her fingers. A wave of pain slipped up her side as she cut herself accidentally. Didn't matter.
Slowly, but determinedly, Susana began to cut the strap holding her right wrist prisoner. The scalpel cut easily through the canvas. The hard part was getting her hand in the right position. But as more and more of the canvas fell prey to the scalpel, she had more and more room, and she was not afraid to cut herself if it meant getting out.
…
Clarice paced through the house, gun held high. She made sure to check every corner. The place fairly screamed out 'single man'. Ugly furniture, inexpensive. The sound system and computer equipment were expensive, though. The gun was out and explored each part of the house.
No Susana, though. Strange. Was this the right address? And where the hell was Hannibal? It would take him longer to get there coming from the University, but still.
She heard a creak of a footstep and froze. Carefully, she crept around the bedroom door and looked. She saw a man's figure stepping from the kitchen. He held a revolver at port arms and had some type of curious helmet on his head. For the second time, she was glad she was no longer a federal officer and no longer subject to their rules. She broke from her cover, firing three shots at him.
He was inhumanly quick, ducking back into the kitchen and getting low. Clarice grinned. She pulled a second magazine from its special pocket in her purse. Moving quickly, she booted the clip out of the butt of the gun, replaced it with the second one, and put it where the second one had been in her purse. Now she had a full clip and one up the pipe. Take that.
A strange sort of stalemate followed. She could not see him, and didn't want to go in after him. He didn't seem to want to come out after her. The reason was simple – first one to break cover put themselves in the other's line of fire. And she had the ammo advantage, so he was waiting for her to come to him.
Clarice decided to wait a few minutes and see if his nerve broke.
…
Susana cut the last strap off her body and rolled off the cot. She hadn't realized just how keyed up she was until she was free. She landed on the floor and trembled for a moment or two. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her face seemed aflame. The lapel of her dirty school blazer was swiftly darkening. She sat up and put a hand to the side of her throat. Her fingers came away bloody. Oh well. It could be stitched, if she got out of this alive. She was able to hold her head upright, but that was about it – her mouth hung slackly open and she could not move her head easily.
Her eyes were wide and her hands trembled as she left the room and headed down the hall. The scalpel was held before her in both hands, like a child's crucifix. Her legs trembled too. She took small steps. She was frankly terrified, feeling very much like a small child in the dark basement.
Off to the side was a closet door. Susana had not noticed it before because it had always been locked. Now it was open. The padlock hung open on its hasp, and the metal lip stuck out drunkenly. and Susana glanced inside. She steeled herself for bodies or trophies or something else. As it turned out, it was better.
The first thing she saw, in the center of the closet floor, was a gun case. The cutout impression of a .357 revolver was quite visible. She nudged the door open and stepped inside, stabbing the air with her scalpel.
There was mostly gun supplies in the closet: targets, bullets, cleaning supplies. Susana reached around with her fingers, barely able to see in the faint light. She felt a wide plastic surface under her fingers. She had been raised around guns and knew a gun case when she felt one.
Oh please, oh please.
She slid the latches open and felt the foam of the case. At first she could only feel that, even as her fingers explored the interior of the case. And then….
Susana's heart leaped as her fingers closed around the grip of a large pistol. An automatic, no less. She opened the closet door enough to peek at her prize.
A 9mm, she thought. H&K. A very well made, very deadly gun. She racked the slide and saw the gleam of brass. It was loaded. She quickly checked it for safety locks and found nothing.
A wicked grin slid over Susana Alvarez Lecter's face in the faint light.
She slipped from the closet. Just in case, she tucked the scalpel into her inside blazer pocket. She crept as quietly as she could to the stairs. After a week in captivity here, she knew well where they were.
Then her ears pricked and she stopped. She heard a creak. Then another.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
…
Clarice crouched in the living room, hiding behind a chair. She had a clear field of view of only part of the kitchen. She was satisfied that he couldn't get out of the kitchen without her knowing, but if she moved closer to get him, she would be in his field of fire before she acquired him. Likewise, if he charged her, she could get to fire on him long before he picked up her position.
Great. Mexican standoff. Well, he had at least six shots. Clarice had nine, but didn't want to give up that advantage too quickly. Besides, the guy might have a whole box of ammo in his pockets. She saw a lamp nearby and grabbed it. She lobbed it underhand, like a grenade. It exploded into shards of pottery on the kitchen floor. But there was no reaction. Damn. This guy was a cool customer.
…
Three people in the house. Two were allies, one was alone. One knew the layout of the house, one had some knowledge, and one had none at all. The two that were allies did not know the location of each other. One could not speak, and the other was trained not to. All three were armed. It was an explosive situation, and one that would only be resolved by death.
…
Dr. Hannibal Lecter drove his own Jaguar up Alvarenga Street, following his wife's directions. He saw her car parked down the block and pulled up behind it. He picked out 1373 and walked up the sidewalk towards it. The street was dark and quiet. All of the children playing on it had been called home to their dinners. That was just as well.
Dr. Lecter saw the door immediately, saw the bullet holes, and recognized his wife's handiwork. He reached into his pocket and removed his Harpy. Unlike his wife and daughter, Dr. Lecter neither owned nor used guns. Guns were tawdry, he thought. He had never been a fan of them. They made one's work too easy.
He walked up the driveway and tilted his head, looking into the house. He could not see anyone moving inside. Still, he knew that Clarice was here, and more importantly, Susana was here. He wanted to find Susana. Clarice was a warrior. Dr. Lecter knew that she could take care of herself. He wanted to see his daughter more. She might need him. Although her mother had trained her to some extent, she was still young, and had more confidence than skill. He opened the screen door with his left hand, the Harpy low in his right.
Two gunshots echoed from inside the house.