The shower was running in the small bathroom. The radio sitting on the bathroom counter was tuned to light rock. The woman inside the shower sang along with the radio. Steam billowed from the shower stall. As she rinsed her body, soap bubbles cascaded over two scars on her back. Two scars that were shaped like f-holes on a violin, curving across her kidneys. Two scars that had been given to her by Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
Dr. Erin Lander, surgical resident, stepped from the shower and toweled herself off. Her medicine cabinet contained a staggering variety of medication. She selected a few orange vials and opened them. Some pills she took immediately; others she raked into a plastic pill box for later. She dressed quickly and dropped the pill box into the pocket of her white lab coat.
Dr. Lander took a moment, as she did almost every day, to think about the scars on her back and how they had gotten there. Five years ago, she had attracted the eye of a man she had known as Robert Lawson. That had not been his real name.
It had begun as a simple friendship at her then place of work. At that time, she had required dialysis, as she had for years. Then, without warning, Dr. Lawson had kidnapped her, drugged her unconscious, and then implanted a new set of kidneys in her. She did not know where he had gotten them from, or how he had gotten them from their original owner. For a week, she had been kept in a curious cross between captive and patient. Then, as quickly as he had appeared in her life, he had vanished.
Erin had gotten on with her life as best she could. Her schedule kept her busy, and she refused to allow her transplant to get in the way of her work. But every day, she thought of her former captor and heard his metallic voice in her mind. Sometimes, even in the OR, she felt his eyes on her back zeroing in on her lower back. Seeking the scars that he had put there. Even though she knew he was absent, she still felt him watching her at times.
The FBI had questioned her, and it was through them she had learned the true identity of her captor. A woman not much older than herself had confronted her with his picture. Other agents had interrogated her, including that evil one, that…she could not think his name without shuddering. Crawford. Although Erin had denied it – she had little choice – she knew that Agent Starling had been correct in her suspicions. For her captor had been none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Gentleman, genius, and cannibal. Also, skilled kidnapper and transplant surgeon, as Erin could attest.
To top it off, Dr. Lecter had not simply discarded her original kidneys. Instead, he had sautéed them in a sherry sauce and eaten them with her on her last night with him. Although Erin had been kept heavily drugged throughout her stay with him, she did have memories of a cream-colored gown, an elegant dinner, and the taste of her own kidneys rich in the sherry sauce. She hadn't known at the time. Mercifully, he had allowed her to remain ignorant of that fact until later. But the memory remained, colored by her realization of what she had been eating. The smell of the sauce, the elegant surroundings, and the smiling man in the tuxedo all carried an element of horror that had not been there before.
Perhaps the most bizarre thing about it was why. Erin had done her own research into Dr. Lecter's exploits, in an attempt to make sense of it all. She was, she discovered, a great rarity in the world: someone who had been in Hannibal Lecter's custody and lived to tell the tale without grievous physical or mental injury. But she could not tell anyone of what had really happened to her. Dr. Lecter had used drugs and hypnosis to effectively lock her tongue. Only alone, in the safety of her apartment, was she able to admit who her captor truly had been.
Nothing in the myriad web sites and FBI files had suggested he would ever do anything like this. Dr. Hannibal Lecter's victims mostly died. Two had lived. And then there was her. And the only reason why was for his own amusement. His whimsy, one might say. She had attracted his eye because she was polite to him. She had amused him and so he had become interested in helping her. And he had kidnapped her and cared scrupulously for her for a week because it was something to do. Fun. Amusing. Whimsy.
It was hard to believe, but that was all there was. His fun. He had done this to her and for her for his own amusement. The sort of thing one can only try to grasp alone over countless sleepless nights.
But a surgical resident's life rarely lends itself to reflection. Erin threw a Pop Tart into her toaster and poured herself a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. According to her clock, she had forty-five minutes before morning rounds. Coffee was something she knew, and the brew was a rich Brazilian roast. The pleasant smell of the coffee inundated her kitchen. It was strong, and Erin's eyes closed as she sipped from the mug.
A knock came at the door. Erin scowled and rose to get it. Who would be at her doorstep at 5 AM? She looked through the peephole and saw a man standing with his head lowered. Cautiously, she unlocked the door, but left the chain on as she opened it. A small sliver of open doorway allowed her to see him.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
"Hello, Erin," the man said. His voice was strained with some discomfort. There was a metallic rasp to his voice, as if he rarely spoke. A cold finger touched her spine. Then, the man raised his head. Maroon eyes and delicate features stared back at her.
Erin Lander's knees trembled and her arms fell slack. Her tongue caught between her teeth and she goggled in terror. The self-confident young doctor was gone, replaced by a scared little girl faced with the boogeyman in her closet capering and grinning at her.
Hannibal Lecter stared at her from the tiny slot that the chain allowed. He neither capered nor grinned. He simply gave her a pleasant if pained smile.
"Open the door, please. I need your help, Erin."
Instead, Erin tried to push the door closed. Dr. Lecter had foreseen this, and pushed back. He reached in gently and simply removed the door chain from its latch. Calmly, he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. He sighed and reached for her face. His strong fingers were on one side of her face; his thumb on the other. He squeezed gently to focus her attention.
"Dr. Lander, you have a patient," he said.
"You," Erin said in a voice shaky and weak with terror. "You…you said you wouldn't hurt me."
"I won't," Dr. Lecter said calmly. "Please. I don't have time for this. Might I have a cup of that coffee?"
Erin nodded dumbly. Then she took in the silver ice bucket, the napkin bandage sodden with blood, and shook her head. She took down a cup from her cabinet, filled it, and presented it to him. The feeling of déjà vu was strong. Now they would discuss an article in JAMA, and then he would ask if he would have to leave, and then… She pushed the thought away.
"Don't hurt me," she whispered strengthlessly.
"I promised I won't, and I plan to keep that promise," Dr. Lecter said, and took the cup. "I wouldn't have come if I didn't need you." He held up his wounded hand and placed the ice bucket on her kitchen table.
With a visible wound to work with, Erin was able to focus. She took a deep, shuddering breath, closed her eyes, and then took his hand gently. She opened the ice bucket and examined its grisly contents. Dr. Lecter was pleased to note that she did not flinch. But this, she was trained for.
"Okay," Erin said in a voice that was shaky, but still more stable. "You cut off your thumb."
"It was necessary," Dr. Lecter agreed. "Now: reattach it, if you please."
"I'll take you down to the hospital now."
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "No hospital."
Erin Lander sighed and swallowed. Dr. Lecter could see her throat working visibly. That meant he would not like what she was going to tell him. But still she was, and that was a good sign.
"Dr. Lecter," she said primly, "this is not a button you want sewed back on your shirt. You need to be admitted, we need to do this surgically, and you need to spend a few days post-op in the hospital."
Dr. Lecter shook his head. "It won't do," he said. "The police are looking for me."
"I see," Dr. Lander said archly back to him. "Did you feed someone else their own body parts?"
Dr. Lecter smiled tightly. "Do you really want me to answer that question, dear Erin?"
Erin took a long pull on her coffee and stared at nothing for a long moment before answering. "You know what? No. I don't."
"If you don't mind," he said, "time is wasting. It's been about three hours all told, and I'd rather recover as much function as I can."
"I can't do this in my apartment, Dr. Lecter. This is not meatball surgery."
"I did not require an OR when I helped you," Dr. Lecter observed pointedly.
Erin's hand trembled on the handle of her mug. She slammed it down on the table. Her plate jumped. Her eyes gleamed with a combination of fear and excitement. She had waited for years to confront the monster, and here was her chance.
"That's true. You didn't. But what you did you did for your own amusement, doctor."
Dr. Lecter raised his eyebrows, partially amused at the outburst, and partially amused at the fact that she had actually tried to divine his motive. "It helped you," he said mildly.
"Yes, you did. And thank you. But you took a chance with me, Dr. Laws-Dr. Lecter." She fixed him with her eyes. "Let's be brutally honest, doctor. If something had happened – if I had bled out on the table, or died of post-op infection, or developed graft-versus-host disease…you'd have shrugged your shoulders and said, 'Oh, well', wouldn't you?"
Dr. Lecter acted slightly hurt. In truth, he was not. He was patronizingly impressed, the way an adult will be when a toddler proudly shows off a newly attained skill. It was as close to an outburst as she dared get with him. Still, promising, quite promising.
"I was exceedingly careful," he protested. Privately, he thought that the old jokes about Irish tempers must have been true.
"But if it had happened," she persisted, "it wouldn't have meant much to you. You'd have just shrugged and said you tried, too bad, experiment failed. And buried me right next to wherever you buried…the donor."
Dr. Lecter took several moments before answering. Then, he simply smiled, nodded, and said "Yes."
There were several long moments of silence before Erin spoke again. Her eyes spoke volumes. After all these years, she was vindicated. Won and lost at the same time. Won, because her analysis of him was correct. And lost, because perhaps, in some way, she had hoped for something more. He could see her try to shield a bit of disappointment in her eyes as she spoke.
"I don't feel that way. I'll help you, Dr. Lecter. I'll do what I can to hide you from the police. I know I owe you, and I'll pay. But you have to trust me and you have to let me help you the way I know how."
Dr. Lecter considered. She seemed on the level about helping him. He could discern lies with razor accuracy. He doubted she would call the police on him. He knew the idea: as a doctor, you were not supposed to judge your patients, just help them. It was an idea not without merit, and he had an intellectual appreciation for that ethical stance in medicine, but Dr. Lecter had found life to be ever so much more fun once he had jettisoned such well-meaning ideas.
"If you can figure out how to get me in the hospital without attracting attention, then you may do the procedure in the OR," he said. "No more."
Erin didn't even blink. "I know," she said. "Easy. I need to get a few things, though." She rose.
Dr. Lecter caught her arm as she passed. "You're not going to turn me in, are you?"
He saw a shadow of fear waver over her face as she thought. "No," she said resolutely. "I won't turn you in, Dr. Lecter. But you have to trust me. I trusted you, after all."
"You didn't have much choice," he observed.
"Neither do you," she answered. The door closed behind her, leaving Hannibal Lecter alone.