Three days later, it had all been finished. The police had been in the Skinner's house. The story of the dramatic end of the Skinner and of the rescue of his sixth victim had made all the Buenos Aires papers. The Alvarez family had retreated to their mansion, and a private security guard hired specially for the occasion kept the more aggressive members of the press away. In a short public statement, Maria Alvarez asked the press to allow their daughter 'some time to heal from the horrible experience she has been through.'

But Susana had not needed much time to heal. She had simply jumped back into her life much as she had left it. Her mother had suggested she speak to a counselor. Susana had refused, claiming that she was glad to be alive and did not need a shrink. Her therapy proved to be the Mustang. She would take the car out on the Buenos Aires expressway and push it to its limits, circling the city for hours. Once, she was stopped by a police officer. The officer, a decent man, recognized Susana and simply let her off with a warning. He could not bring himself to give a speeding ticket to a girl who had almost been vivisected two days ago. Clarice Starling knew firsthand that car therapy could often work wonders. She did not push her daughter further.

That morning, Special Agent Belle Fontaine had come out to the house, asking to interview Susana before returning to the United States. Susana had agreed. They had stayed together in Susana's room for hours. Neither of her parents asked what had gone on or what they had discussed.. Agent Fontaine had looked curiously at Clarice when she came in, and complimented her on her shooting. Starling thanked her and told her she liked to go to the range. She didn't feel the need to point out that she had been three-time interservice pistol champion.

After that, Susana had taken her keys and disappeared. The Mustang vanished, off to pursue her lonely rounds around the expressways again. When she returned, she simply went up to her room and closed the door. The car's hood had been unpleasantly hot. It sat clicking and cooling in the driveway, waiting for its mistress to call upon it again.

Susana sat out on the terrace attached to her room. She had a glass of wine in one hand and a sketch pad in the other. Her father's talent for drawing showed in the portrait she was drawing. She turned her head as her father came hesitantly out onto the terrace to join her. He bore a newspaper in his hand and a look of concern on his face. He glanced at the wine glass for a moment. Clarice normally would have disapproved, but under the circumstances, it was understandable.

"Hello, Susana," he said. "What are you drinking?"

"Y'quem," she replied distantly. She did not meet his eyes. An empty glass sat next to hers, and she gestured at it. Dr. Lecter poured himself a glass and sat down companionably next to her.

He showed her the front page of the paper. It was the Argentinian edition of an American trash tabloid called the National Tattler. The headline read BEAUTY AND THE BEAST: SKINNER KILLED IN DRAMATIC RESCUE. Underneath it was Susana's yearbook picture and the Skinner's driver's license picture. Under that, a picture of the Skinner being taken out of his house on a covered stretcher.

Susana scanned the story briefly. It was mostly accurate, although given to extremism. Susana herself was described as 'the innocent, pretty young schoolgirl', the Skinner 'a vicious, perverted killer driven to perform unspeakable horrors on young women', her mother 'an avenging angel whose motherly drives led her to confront the killer'. The Tattler blathered this sort of nonsense all the time. From the article, Susana noted that the Tattler staff seemed to have no idea at all that this was not the first time Alonso and Maria Alvarez had appeared in their paper, albeit under different names.

She chuckled and closed the paper.

"Innocent, pretty young schoolgirl?" she asked quizzically.

Dr. Lecter shrugged. "I didn't write it."

"They didn't research me very well," she said, and lifted her sketch pad again. Her pencil scratched over the surface of the paper.

"What are you drawing?" Dr. Lecter asked.

She tilted the pad and showed him the portrait of the cowering man, his hands up to ward off the bullet. It was a good likeness of Dr. Higuara in the last moments of his life. He noted that Susana had not drawn herself.

"Does that still bother you?" he asked solicitously.

She took several moments before answering. "No," she said finally. "I was terrified when I did it. And I didn't know if I could believe him or not when he said he didn't have anything to do with it." She took a sip of wine to fortify herself. "I wouldn't have done it if I had known he wasn't part of it. But it doesn't bother me. I did what I had to do."

Dr. Lecter nodded.

"I was so scared," she added absently.

"You felt it was necessary," Dr. Lecter said . "To protect yourself."

Susana put down her glass of wine. She shook her head. "No, Papa."

"How do you mean?"

"I knew he wouldn't hurt me," she explained. "Couldn't hurt me. I had kneecapped him. What could he have done?"

Dr. Lecter leaned forward a micron in his chair. "So, then, why?"

Susana tilted her head and looked at her father curiously. Without it being spoken, it was clear the question puzzled her. After all, Dr. Lecter had told her to do it himself.

"I don't know," she confessed.

Dr. Lecter nodded companionably. "It will take time to come to grips with this experience," he said calmly. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat.

"I do want to ask you a question, though," he told his daughter. He seemed uncomfortable.

Susana looked at him over the rim of her glass. "All right then. Ask."

"Have you…found other ways of dealing with this experience?"

Susana gave him a blank look. "How do you mean?"

Dr. Lecter reached into his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"When I came in your room to see if you were out here, I found this on your desk," he said. He handed her a flat black leather case. He flipped it open to reveal the FBI credentials of Special Agent Belle Fontaine. "It was right out in the open. There was no attempt made to hide it."

Susana seemed not terribly surprised to see it. "She was here this morning to interview me," she said. "Did she leave that behind?" She extended her hand and took the case from him. It disappeared smoothly into her purse.

Dr. Lecter studied his daughter. Her face was placid and she radiated calm and poise. On the side of her face was a bandage where the best plastic surgeon in Buenos Aires had closed her wound. Her left hand held the wineglass loosely. Her nails had been restored to their former pristine glory. Strange, Dr. Lecter thought. Clarice was perfectly happy running around with bare, stubby, and unmanicured nails. Susana refused to leave the house without proper nails, makeup, and hair. She looked the perfect young sophisticate, unbothered by his questions.

"The American consulate is two blocks from school," Susana said calmly. "I'll drop it off there. I'm sure they'll get it to the right place."

Dr. Lecter leaned forward and put his wineglass down. He locked eyes with his daughter and put his hands on the table.

"I'll ask this once, Susana. Did you or didn't you?"

The monster smoothed down her skirt and arched a precisely shaped brow. She tilted her head at her sire and stared back at him with maroon eyes the same shade as his. She smiled coldly at him, exposing perfectly even, white teeth.

"Did I or didn't I what? What are you talking about? Oh, I should also tell you. I gave the cook the night off. I'll be making dinner tonight."

For perhaps the first time in his life, Dr. Hannibal Lecter did not know what to say. He looked into his daughter's expression and saw his own. Her eyes were coolly amused as she watched him. There was more going on behind them, but she would never deign to say what. There was an abyss behind her eyes. She sat on one side, watching across that abyss, and allowed only what she wanted to cross back to him. Just as he had been the day a young FBI agent not much older than Susana was now paid a visit to his basement cell. He looked at her and saw himself.

"But, Agent Fontaine--," he asked.

"Agent Fontaine? You can call her, but you'll have to wait. Her plane left an hour ago, doesn't touch down for several more hours. It's a long flight to Miami, you know." A small smile played about the corner of the monster's lips.

"I hope you like dinner, papa. It's one of your favorites."

FIN