The headline is large and loud, printed in black, seventy-two point Railroad Gothic. Almost against her will, it grabs Emily's eye as she passes through the checkout line with Michelle in the seat of the grocery cart. Her hand reaches out of her own accord as she picks the paper up. The National Tattler had run with the story before the police had announced their suspect on the news this morning. Useless and incorrect information now, but the name would still cause the tabloid to be eagerly grabbed from the shelves. "Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter Terrorizes San Francisco!" She drops the tabloid onto her groceries and waits as the bill is rung up. Leaving the store, she is tempted to toss the Tattler into a garbage can, but decides against it. Daughter and groceries are loaded into the Lincoln and she slides into the front seat, reading the headline once again, looking at the picture of her husband that was below it. An old, old picture. Older than the one on the FBI's website. She flips to the center section, looking for the story. There, under the byline of Jane Morricone.
She remembers the woman's voice, the laughter when Emily thought she was a solicitor. She scanned the story, reading the twisted facts, and sighs as she nears the bottom. Ms. Morricone has included a little paragraph about her, accompanied by a most unflattering picture taken from some social function she had attended so long ago. Grown accustomed to her new face, Emily didn't readily recognize her old features. Ms. Morricone had prattled on in her story about how Lecter had kidnapped the innocent Dr. Emily Christophersen and had probably eaten her. Kidnapped. That earned a snort of derision from her as she tossed the paper aside into the passenger seat and started the Lincoln. She doesn't note the panel van that follows a discreet distance behind her.
*****
"Kidnapped indeed." she snaps on the phone to her husband, who is driving back into the city. "Although, it is amusing that she thinks you ate me." she chuckles, a little levity in her slight depression.
Static crackles as the Jaguar passes through the tunnel just before the Marin side of the Golden Gate. "Hmmmm. There's a thought. On the subject of eating, I would like to try tempting you with a splendid evening out."
A laugh, her mood is certainly improving. "Tempt away. I'll call Lissie and see if she can watch Mischa. If not, I'll drop her off with Mrs. Fouts."
His smile is evident as he replies. "It is a date then. Dinner and dancing, and then maybe something more when we return home."
"We're certainly in a good mood." she quips, eyes sparkling at what he has in mind. "I'll be ready when you get home. Bye, Antoni."
"Ta ta, Amelia." he clicks the end button on the phone as he reaches the bridge. Assumed names on the telephones, one never knows who might be listening. The evening out would be perfect for cheering his sweet wife up, and even more so the rest of the night spent in.
*****
Lissie was more than happy to take Mischa for the evening, smiling as she carried the smiling baby to the car. Emily waited on the front porch until the Fairlane was out of sight, then she stepped back into the foyer, locking the door behind her. Upstairs next, sliding a beautiful black silk gown from the zippered dress bag. Rhinestones glittered along the neckline of the bodice and the two thin shoulder straps. She slipped out of her day clothes and relished the feel of the pure silk against her skin. She rummaged in the jewelry box, pulling a pair of diamond earrings Hannibal had given her as an engagement present from the top drawer. Next, the necklace. A garnet, surrounded with diamonds, hanging from a gold chain. She adored the necklace, having found it while making her way cross-country. In the light, it was the same color as his eyes. She worked the clasp as she draped it around her neck. She pulled a pair of Prada heels from the closet along with a black cashmere wrap, to complete her evening's ensemble. There. All that was left was her hair, which could easily be handled with a French twist. She had just begun to run the brush through it when the doorbell rang. Go away she mentally urged the visitor. It didn't work, the doorbell rang again. She slipped into the shoes and gritted her teeth, heading down the stairs. It rang again as she stepped into the foyer.
"Coming." she called, not bothering to hide her irritability. A peek through the stained glass window on the right revealed a woman in coveralls standing on the porch.. Emily undid the deadbolt and pulled the door open, feigning a smile as she did so.
"Can I help you?" the smile disappears as the woman's head comes up, face shadowed by the billed cap. Time slows as recognition lights in Emily's eyes. "God no…" she begins to push the door shut but the woman has already pushed her way onto the threshold.
"Good evening, Emily." a wicked smile as she catches Emily's arm. "I told you, you're next." A glint as she slips a hypodermic into her captive's arm with practiced ease. Emily tries to twist away, but the drug is fast working and she begins to slump before she can pull from the grasp. Alexandra Fell lets her fall to the floor, resheathing the hypodermic and returning it to her pocket. A quick check outside first, no one is around. Don't want the nosy neighbors to see Dr. Amelia Rinaldi being kidnapped, now do we? Dr. Fell drags the body to the panel van she has backed into the driveway. Handcuffs and legirons are attached to two steel pipes that are bolted to the floor of the van. It is a long lasting sedative, but Fell wants to take no chances. Her captive properly secured, with a strip of duct tape over her mouth, Alexandra Fell slams the doors shut. She smiles brightly as she pulls herself into the driver's seat. The van eases from the neighborhood, rolling down the next street over as Dr. Antonio Rinaldi's black Jaguar pulls into the driveway.
*****
There is something desperately wrong in the air of the house as he walks through the door. He has made it two steps before he senses the danger. Not for him, but for Emily. He walks down the hall, entering the foyer. Under the notes of sandalwood and vanilla, those of his wife, he detects something else. His nostrils flare as he identifies it as fear. He pauses by a bookshelf before heading to the stairs, fingers trailing across the volumes. There, inside the fifth book, lay his Harpy. It is secured in his hand, blade open and glinting wickedly as he moves up the stairs. He pauses outside each door, listening, smelling before he moves on to the next. She is not here. In the bedroom, her cashmere wrap lays forgotten on the bed. He lifts it, feeling the soft material slide between his fingers. Downstairs, the chirp of her cell phone. He descends quickly, lifting the small Nokia to his ear as he hits the talk button. Breath greets him on the other end.
"Where is my wife?" the note of anger is not missed in his voice. Laughter, dry and humorless, meets his question, followed by a light Italian voice.
"She is well, for the moment, Dotorre. If you want to see her, get in your car and drive. I will call you again in two minutes."
His hand tightens on the Harpy. "I don't play games."
"No, but you will. Two minutes." the connection buzzes with static as she ends the conversation. Dr. Hannibal Lecter raises maroon eyes to the clock above the sink. The voice rings in his memory, once innocent and demure, now cold and cutthroat. His own voice surfaces next, along with the image of himself, standing in the Salon of Lilies in the Palazzo Vecchio.
"….Signore Pazzi, I must confess to you: I'm giving serious thought to eating your wife."
*****