Author's note:
Pure, inhumane torture? Wow, and here I thought Samantha Bridges with the cheese grater was bad. Well, fear no more. Less goo in this chapter, and more action and moving things along. It's been awfully fun to portray Clarice and the GD as happy with their respective partners, but now things will take a different turn....
Clarice Starling plopped herself down in the gnome-sized airline seat. She was relatively small, so the seat was only mildly uncomfortable. She felt more badly for her partner. Paul D'angelo was six feet tall, and the seat did not take his muscular frame comfortably. He tried without success to find something resembling a comfortable position. As the seat allowed only two inches more room than a galley slave had on the Middle Passage, it was an uncomfortable undertaking.
"Let's arrest the pilot," he suggested. "This seat constitutes a civil rights violation."
Clarice grinned. "How about we plan out what we're going to do?"
"There's a good Italian place outside of Columbus," he pointed out. "You hungry?"
She rolled her eyes. "I was thinking we might act like real FBI agents," she said. "You know, interrogate Dr. Lander."
"Ooooh." He grabbed a copy of the old KIDNEYHEIST file she had printed out. "Interrogate. Should we get the bright lights and pentothal?"
She raised her eyebrow at him. Paul hid behind the printout. "Uh-oh. The Look. I'm in trouble."
She strove not to laugh. She could feel it building in her stomach and throat. He had that effect on her. "The Look?" she asked.
"You know. The Girl Look. The you're-in-trouble look."
"The Girl Look? You trying to dig that grave a little deeper, Agent D'angelo?"
"Well," he said. "I'll shut up now." He made a great show of poring over the file detailing how, five years ago, Dr. Robert Lawson had kidnapped Erin Lander and implanted new kidneys in her.
"I'll let you off the hook if you talk about what we're going to do when we get there," she informed him.
"Well, we can question her, but I don't think we'll get squats out of her. Particularly if we do it at the hospital." His voice lost its jocular tone and became quite businesslike.
"Why would that matter?" she asked, interested. Behind the goofy humor lurked a sharp mind, as she was constantly reminded.
"Well, first off, she's a resident. Residents need permission for just about everything. Secondly, the hospital is going to be worried about getting sued by Mr. Tongue there. We can do it if you want, but I think if we do it at the hospital, she's going to smile real pretty at you, tell you that whatever Mr. Daum told her was covered by doctor-patient privilege, and tell you to talk to the hospital administrator."
"Lecter's a danger to others," she objected. "I think most judges would agree. That negates confidentiality, doesn't it?"
"I agree with that," he said instantly. "She won't."
"We could arrest her," Starling suggested. "Bring her in on accessory charges. Sweat her."
Paul D'angelo shook his head. "I don't like it," he said. "Then she just has to yell lawyer and everything stops. Besides, you don't want her, you want Lecter."
Starling considered that. She knew in her head, of course, that Erin Lander was most useful to their investigation if she would either give up Lecter or lead them to him. But there was a part of her that was resentful of the younger woman. She remembered all too well Erin Lander in the hospital bed, recognizing Dr. Lecter's picture and refusing to admit it. Erin Lander in the airport bar, refusing to admit that she had called Starling and so calmly denying Starling's theory. Making Starling look like the obsessed nut.
And yes, there were deeper things, things she dared not admit. She was resentful of Erin Lander because her career had suffered while the younger woman's had not. While Clarice Starling had been denied most of her rightful rewards in the FBI, Erin Lander had progressed through her surgical residency with flying colors.
Beyond that, there was something deeper, something she could not admit even to herself. Clarice was jealous. Bitter images tumbled through the back of her mind, banned from her higher brain. Dr. Lecter thanking Erin. Holding her. Lying in bed with her. There was something in those images that chewed at her, but she reviewed them anyway. Clarice Starling would have refused to admit it even under torture, but she was jealous. She had spurned Dr. Lecter's offer, and so he had taken up with another woman.
If I'd taken his offer, Clarice Starling thought as she looked out the window, I'd be living in a mansion in Argentina right now.
"If she helped him, that's obstruction of justice," she said suddenly.
Paul laughed and shook his head. "No way. Won't cut it. No DA in the world would back you on that, Starling, and you know it. She's a doctor, she's supposed to operate on people. Put the claws in already."
"So what do we do?"
"Question her," Paul said. "I don't think it'll turn up anything, but you never know until you try. Who knows. She might actually give him up. Or give us something."
"We ought to tail her too," Clarice said. "If Lecter isn't in the hospital, she's probably treating him wherever he's hiding. If we tail her, she can lead us right to him."
"Maybe," Paul said, "but we'll see what we have after we question her, how about?"
"I want to tail her," Clarice insisted.
Paul looked slightly consternated with her for the first time since she had met him. Clarice was surprised. His voice was a bit harsher than she expected.
"I know what you want, Starling. I can see it in your eyes. You want to haul her in a back room somewhere and beat her with a rubber hose until she confesses and admits she lied about Lecter before. That still bugs you, doesn't it? Or is it that you're jealous because Lecter went to her for help?"
Clarice Starling was shocked speechless for a moment. For a moment, she felt like her skull was made of glass, all her innermost secrets exposed . First Dr. Lecter, and now Paul D'Angelo. Was it that obvious? Or did she just need dumber men in her life?
"I am not...planning anything like that," she said slowly. "I have never, ever abused a suspect in my custody. Ever."
"See? Since when is she a suspect?" He raised his hands. "Look, Starling, I don't want to start a fight with you. But we're both profilers. They teach us to recognize this stuff. And you're jealous."
Starling was irked. "I plan on being quite professional with Dr. Lander, I'll have you know," she said. "And I was not planning to do anything to her that was not appropriate. I don't care for the accusation that I abuse...questionees. And I am not jealous."
"I didn't say you did. I said you wanted to."
"I don't want to. I want to get Lecter. I just don't think that coddling is always the best way to get someone talking," she said angrily. "If you take someone like a doctor, put them in a cell for a few hours, then try talking to them then, they're often very willing to talk to you if it means getting out."
"Well, we're not going to lean on Dr. Lander just yet."
"Who says? You?"
"Considering I work for Behavioral Sciences and you're TDY, yes."
Clarice grabbed her file and began to read it angrily. She was annoyed at him for seeing through her so easily. The accusation of jealousy stung, too. It stung because in her heart of hearts, she knew it was true. For the remainder of the flight, an angry silence ruled. She pointedly ignored him. For his part, he seemed exasperated with her and read the KIDNEYHEIST file.
I guess this is our first spat, she thought.
It wasn't until the plane landed and they began to deplane that she took his arm.
"Look," she said regretfully, "I know I'm a little annoyed with Dr. Lander. She lied before. She lied to protect him. I could've gotten him if she'd talked."
"That's all right, Starling," he said. "But we're not going to get anywhere if you're still mad about that. That chance is gone. Maybe she'll talk now. Let's work on now."
"I don't want to fight," she said.
"Neither do I. I could never stay mad very long." He grinned as he shuffled down the narrow aisle of the plane.
They picked up their rental car and proceeded through Columbus traffic to OSU Medical Center. The building was vast, but the volunteer at the front desk directed them to surgery. They followed the signs to the elevators and made it to the surgical floor. The nurse manning the desk told them that Dr. Lander was currently in surgery but was expected out shortly. She directed them to a large concrete waiting room where families of patients waited.
"We're here now," Paul observed. "Aren't we supposed to get a nice big piece of cheese?"
Clarice chuckled. "I think they give pellets now."
His voice dropped conspiratorially. "Let me ask you a question," he said.
Clarice's heart took a leap. He wasn't going to ask that sort of question, was he?
"Sure," she said.
He held up the KIDNEYHEIST file. "What made you think Lecter in this? It's not his style. And she ID'ed the UNSUB as Lawson."
Clarice found herself vaguely disappointed. "Oh. Well, she said Lawson liked gourmet food, classical music, stuff like that. Lecter's tastes. Plus,...well...,"
"Well what?" he prompted.
"I think he fed her her old kidneys," she whispered.
Paul D'angelo's face wrinkled. "Tasty," he said.
"That's the sort of thing he would do."
"But why would he help her out? I mean, seems like he spent a lot of time and effort and money."
Clarice considered. He didn't seem to be challenging her, just honestly interested in her conclusion.
"Dr. Lecter has the money," she said. "It's a lot to you and me. But to him, it's just a rounding error. When you've got a couple mill in the bank, thirty or forty thousand isn't that much. Plus...she was smart and she was polite. I think it's the same reason he was attracted to me. He saw her and she amused him."
"Weird way to amuse yourself," he said, bemused.
"Dr. Lecter is not a normal man," she said in a colossal understatement.
Paul D'angelo interrupted the conversation by looking at something through the plate-glass window and pointing.
"I think that's her," he said. Clarice turned. Walking down the hall was a short, dark-haired woman in surgical scrubs. She looked tired and wan. Clarice rose from her seat and headed out into the hall.
"Dr. Lander?" she called. The woman turned. She hadn't changed much in five years, Clarice thought. Her eyes raked across Starling's face with no recognition. Clarice jogged up to her, Paul close behind. Clarice took out her ID.
"Yes?" Dr. Erin Lander asked, her first words to Clarice Starling in five years.
"I'm Special Agent Starling. This is Special Agent D'angelo. We're with the FBI. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop ten degrees when Starling identified herself. She saw Erin's face close up into a mask of calmness.
She knows what this is about, Starling thought immediately.
"Well, I'm due for lunch," Erin said calmly. "But I don't have a lot of time. I have an appendectomy in an hour. I believe we've met, haven't we, Agent Starling?"
"Yes, we have," Clarice answered neutrally. "How are your kidneys doing, Dr. Lander?"
"Just fine." She gestured. "The cafeteria's this way. It's not great, I'll warn you now."
The cafeteria was about half full, and Dr. Lander selected an empty table. She looked at the two FBI agents with a rather chilly calm.
"So what is all this about?" she asked.
Clarice plunged forward. "Dr. Lander, actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about a patient of yours. Thomas Daum."
Erin took a bite of her sandwich and chewed as she thought. "You know anything Mr. Daum told me is confidential," she said conversationally.
"Actually, I understand he lost his thumb."
Erin shrugged. "Yes, he did. He was admitted to the ER. I was called down for a surgical consult. We were able to reattach Mr. Daum's thumb."
"And then he left," Clarice observed.
"Mr. Daum AMA'ed, yes." Erin said. Her face was carefully neutral.
"Did he sign out AMA?" Clarice pressed.
Erin shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. We'd have preferred that. I've spoken to the hospital administrator and the hospital attorney, and they consider him to have AMA'ed."
Clarice tilted her head and adopted a tone of faux curiousity. "Is that normal, Dr. Lander? Do surgical patients just up and disappear after their surgery?"
It did not rock Erin. "No," she said. "But this is a hospital, not a prison. We don't lock up the patients. Mr. Daum was homeless, and may have had mental problems. He was quite confused in the ER."
If it was an act, it was good, Clarice thought. "Now how did Mr. Daum come by his injury?"
"According to what he told me in the ER," Erin said placidly, "he was attacked by Freaky Freddy early in the morning."
"Freaky Freddy?"
"Fred Tilton," Erin explained. For a moment, Clarice thought she had said Chilton. The idea of Dr. Chilton as a psychotic bum had a certain appeal, but Clarice did not smile.
"Mr. Tilton has been on our psych ward before," Erin continued. "He doesn't remain med-compliant when he's on the street. Can I ask you a question, Agent Starling?"
"Sure," Clarice said, her eyes narrowing.
"Why is the FBI investigating the disappearance of a patient? Mr. Daum wasn't under arrest and wasn't on psych hold. He had every right to leave if he wanted to."
Clarice nodded slowly. "We believe that Thomas Daum was a pseudonym," she said calmly. "We're investigating a criminal who cut off his thumb to escape custody. To get out of the handcuffs." She kept a close eye on Erin as she spoke. Erin's cheek twitched ever so slightly.
"We think that he might have sought out treatment from you," she said.
Erin took a few moments before answering. "Like I said, Agent Starling, this is a hospital, not a prison. We don't demand photo ID before treating someone."
"Did you contact the police? It seems like Mr. Daum was the victim of an assault."
"Not immediately, no," Erin said. It was frustrating. She was completely calm and believable. "My first concern was Mr. Daum's thumb. I had planned to have him talk to the police after he awoke from anesthesia and was able to talk with them. He walked out before I got the chance. Who do you think Mr. Daum really was, anyway?"
Clarice's lips formed the words Dr. Lecter. She was all set to spill it when Paul D'angelo broke in. He handed Erin a black and white mug shot of an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy face. Clarice tried to keep her surprise from showing.
"That's the man, Dr. Lander," Paul said in a standard-issue just-the-facts-ma'am voice. "That's Thomas Pinzetti. He's involved with the Tetrazzini crime family in Buffalo, New York. Mr. Pinzetti was being transferred to a federal prison in Indiana when he escaped custody at a rest stop on the Interstate."
A look of surprise, then relief, crossed Erin Lander's face before it closed up again. Clarice shut her mouth, thinking God bless Paul D'angelo.
Erin chuckled and handed the picture back. "No, Agent D'angelo, that's not him. Not even close."
"What did he look like, then?" Clarice asked.
Erin shrugged. "I really didn't get a good look at him," she said. "I see a lot of patients every day. In his fifties, maybe sixties, gray hair. Medium build."
"What color were his eyes?" Clarice asked calmly.
"You know, I really didn't notice," Erin said smoothly. "I was paying more attention to his injuries."
"What can you tell us about the injury?" Paul asked. He spread his arms and smiled. "We do understand, there's confidentiality issues. But we'd like to know what you could tell us."
Erin nodded. "Very smooth. It was a clean cut all the way through."
"Like a meat cleaver?" Clarice asked.
Erin nodded. "You could say that," she said thoughtfully. "Mr. Daum didn't specify how it had happened."
"And you didn't ask?"
"I could tell from the injury," Erin said calmly. "I was more concerned with reattaching it."
Paul D'angelo stood up. Quietly, he took Clarice's arm and yanked her up too. Clarice went, fighting the urge to ask him what the hell he was doing. He smiled at Erin Lander.
"Thank you, Dr. Lander. That's really all we wanted to know. Now, if you do happen to see Thomas Pinzetti, please call us immediately. He's quite dangerous, you know." He offered Erin a card, which she took and put in the chest pocket of her scrubs. "You have a good day now and good luck with your appendectomy."
Clarice didn't want to let Erin Lander go just yet, but she knew he had to be thinking of something. She waited until they were out in the lobby before eyeing him and grinning.
"Tetrazzini crime family?" she asked. "Thomas Pinzetti?"
"Yeah," Paul said. "Haven't you ever had chicken tetrazzini? I'll make some for you when we get back. Bellisima." He kissed his fingers and spread them out. "C'mon, Starling, you don't put all your cards on the table. If you'd said Lecter she'd have denied it out the ying-yang and beelined for a phone the minute we were gone. Wise old man told me once. You want them to think you're just smart enough to find your way back to the car without help."
"All right," she said. "I'll give you that one. But who was that picture?"
He pulled out the picture and handed it to her.
"That," he said proudly, "is my dear old Uncle Vincent. He was in the Bayonne office of the FBI for years and years. Uncle Vinny works great for whenever I need a mug shot of a fake criminal to show someone."
"Thank you, Uncle Vincent," she said to the picture. "You know, some people might find that offensive."
"Not Uncle Vinny," he said calmly. "He worked undercover when we both were in diapers. He'd be honored that he could help. He's eighty now and lives down in Florida."
She had to laugh in spite of herself. "And who's Thomas Pinzetti?"
"My lawyer," Paul grinned. "We went to grade school together."
"So what do you think of Lander?"
"She's definitely hiding something. Too cool. You'd think she was questioned by FBI agents every day of the week. And when you said he cut off his thumb to get out of the handcuffs, that got to her." he admitted.
Clarice grinned. "I told you," she said.
"Yeah, you did."
"So what do we do?"
"Find out her home address and stake it out. Bet you a pizza it's not far from here. Bet you another pizza that she'll drop by her place to get her medications, then head off to wherever Lecter is."
...
That night, Paul D'angelo won his pizza back from Clarice Starling. She was not terribly concerned to lose it. They were parked across the street from Erin Lander's apartment building. She had entered it an hour ago. The dusk had been fast fading into night then, and now the street was lit only by the arc-sodium lamps overhead. This quiet residential street had little traffic, and they were not disturbed.
"There she is," Clarice said, indicating the figure departing from the doorway of the apartment building. She watched Erin Lander walk up the street and unlock the door of a light blue Honda Civic. Good. It would be easy to follow.
Paul D'angelo waited until Erin had pulled out and traveled up half a block before he started the engine of the Lumina and slid easily into traffic. Both he and Clarice knew proper following procedures. Erin did not seem to notice them as they slid into place an eighth of a mile behind her. They picked up the Interstate and headed north.
"You ready?" he asked tensely.
"Yup," she said tersely. She checked her pistol again, heavy against her side in its holster. A thin line of apprehension gripped her around the middle. She took a deep breath.
I'm going to see him tonight.
Erin Lander drove calmly and sedately, and Clarice found herself fidgeting as they remained behind her. The waiting was the worst part. She tapped her foot resolutely as they left the city limits of Columbus and headed into the suburbs. Then past them. The landscape was mostly trees and fields, the lights of occasional houses dotting the black.
Paul slid into the right lane but did not put his blinker on. Up ahead, the Civic was exiting onto a secondary road. Here, it would be harder to avoid detection. Hopefully, Dr. Lander was not experienced at shaking a tail. The area here was heavily rural, Trees and cornfields took up most of the landscape. There was a tenseness in the care completely unlike the humorous, jocular atmosphere they had before. Tonight was a night for business.
"Smart," Clarice Starling said to break the silence.
"How so?" Paul asked, his eyes on the road and the taillights a quarter-mile in front of him.
"We thought Lecter would be somewhere near the city," she explained. "But this is just temporary. And no one would ever think of looking for him here."
Up ahead, one taillight flashed a blinking yellow. Clarice grinned tightly. Paul turned left where Erin Lander had turned before him. For a moment, Clarice was worried that Dr. Lander would realize she was being tailed and take them on a wild goose chase. The road cut through several hills, and it was vaguely nauseating to cut through the country road: up, down, up, down.
There it was. A house alone, high on a hill. It was a large house, majestic and fortresslike amongst the fields. And Erin's Civic was turning into the driveway, its tires noisy on the crushed rock. Paul had noted it, but drove past it as if he had no recognition of it at all. Clarice eyed the house suspiciously. They drove down past the house for two miles before turning back.
Perhaps a quarter-mile from the house, Paul stopped and pulled over.
"This is it," he said. "You sure we don't want backup?"
"By the time they get here, they could both be gone," Clarice said.
She drew her weapon and checked it again. Anticipation stuck an arrow of nervousness into her gut.
"Showtime," she said.
...
Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat on the couch in the living room of the house. His hand was held in Erin's. Calmly, she examined his thumb. On a table was the bandages and splints that had held his thumb onto his hand. A lamp was tilted towards his hand to give her light. In her other hand she held a pair of scissors. She was removing his stitches with infinite care. Dr. Lecter rather liked her bedside manner: she was calm and reassuring, and the steel blades moving so close to his skin bothered him not at all.
"So what did the FBI ask you?" he asked. Although her news had rocked him, his hand and arm remained perfectly still in her grasp.
Snip. "They asked me if you were a mobster," she said. "From Buffalo."
"It's a lie," he said calmly. "They know. And they'll be after me."
"So, we'll leave," she said. "No problem."
"We'll?"
Snip. Another stitch fell, and she carefully brushed the black knot of thread off his hand. "We," she said resolutely. Her eyes slid up from his hand to his eyes. Without flinching, she said, "I don't want you to leave me, Dr. Lecter."
"That's quite a serious choice, Erin."
"If you don't want me, say so," she said, returning to her work. Dr. Lecter saw the vulnerability in her eyes, even though she tried to hide it by removing another stitch.
Dr. Lecter took a deep breath, but said nothing for several moments. Finally, he asked, "And what of your residency?"
"I can apply somewhere else," she said resolutely.
"You will not. You will have to use another identity."
She nodded and took out a third stitch, rotating his hand in hers to get at it.
"Ever heard of Angela Brinkley?" she asked conversationally.
"I have not," Dr. Lecter said. "Who is she?"
"My old roommate," Erin clarified. "We went to med school together. She was my roommate...the first time we met."
"I see," Dr. Lecter said. "Don't you think she will know if you use her identity?"
"No," Erin said distantly, still focused on his thumb. "She was killed by a drunk driver two years ago." Snip. Another stitch fell "I have all her paperwork. Driver's license, social security, birth certificate, and med school degree. Everything I need. I can have a medical license in any state or country inside of a couple of days."
Dr. Lecter was surprised. Had she prepared this with him in mind, or had she simply kept her friend's paperwork? "And what of your health?"
"Not much to say," she said. "No worse than yours. I've made preparations." Another stitch fell to her scissors. "I've got three months worth of immune suppressants and plenty of prescription pads."
Dr. Lecter fell silent. A few more stitches, and it was done. Experimentally, he wiggled his thumb. He nodded approvingly.
"Good work, Dr. Lander," he said courteously. "Thank you." And then it happened.
Dr. Lecter was not sure what it was that set him off. A faint sound, an aroma, perhaps simply the psychic scent of danger on the wind. But his head snapped up. His eyes flared and so did his nostrils. Like most predators, Dr. Lecter was able to sense danger quickly.
"They're here," he said.
To her credit, Erin did not appear nervous or tense. That did not surprise him. As a surgeon, she would have been trained to react calmly under pressure.
"All right," she said calmly. "We can handle it."
...
The front door was locked, but a side door proved to be open. Clarice Starling and Paul D'angelo slipped into the house via the servant's entrance in the back. Clarice glanced around. The house was large and quite nice: the country manor of a gentleman farmer. The kitchen was quite big, although the appliances seemed too plain for Dr. Lecter. Clarice estimated the stove had been manufactured roughly around the time of her own birth.
Paul D'angelo had his weapon drawn and out. Clarice tightened her grip on her own weapon and eyed the door for a moment. She placed her back against the door, weapon up, and pushed it open. She swept the room, head, arms, and body all turning at once like a turret. Her world was the front sight of her .45 and everything beyond it. John Brigham would have been proud.
Neither she nor Paul spoke. She took one corner, he took another, sweeping out the room and finally nodding to each other that it was clear. Then, two sounds interrupted the silence. From the right and up, the sounds of feet running up the stairs. From the left, and farther away came the tinkle of glass. They glanced at each other wordlessly, reams of communication in their gaze alone. Each knew the same thing.
Hannibal Lecter was as dangerous as they came, but he was wounded. Erin Lander was not violent. Splitting up was an acceptable risk, and probably the best tactical choice. Neither of them wanted to let Hannibal Lecter get away. Paul gestured upstairs, pointed at himself, and waited. Clarice nodded. She turned to the left and headed through the dining room doorway. Paul turned towards the stairwell and ran up it, weapon out.
Clarice advanced through the dining room. The table was heavy oak and dominated the room. A china cabinet leaned against one wall. Overhead was a chandelier, a surprising touch. The room seemed empty, and an open doorway ahead led to a living room. Clarice advanced slowly, checking her corners, the muzzle of the gun swinging to and fro.
On the coffee table in the living room was some surgical tape, metal splints, and some bloody gauze pads. Clarice's eyes fixed on it. She knew immediately whose blood was on there. She grinned victoriously at it. After all this, proof positive that she had been right.
From behind Clarice came a sound. Then something grabbed her, a fist in her hair pulling her head to the left. Clarice jerked. A needle stung at the base of her neck. The person holding the needle knew right where to put it. The needle neatly slid through Clarice's skin into her carotid artery, right where it came close to the skin. She could feel the cool liquid in the syringe as it flowed into her bloodstream.
The liquid was an ultra-quick-acting barbituate. It flowed up Clarice's carotid a few inches to her brain. She tried to fight, but it was already too late and she knew it. Her eyes began to blur, the surgical tape and gauze in front of her fuzzing into a white mass streaked with red. Her captor pulled the syringe from her neck and let it fall on the floor. Faintly, Clarice could hear the plastic barrel rattle against the wooden floor.
Clarice Starling's body obeyed her final command to turn and face her tormentor. But as she pivoted, consciousness was already beginning to slide from her. She felt the gun tumble from nerveless fingers and heard it clatter to the floor. Her knees unlocked slowly as she turned, and she was halfway around in the doorway by the time she lost consciousness.