Anthony McGee's residence was in the city, in a tall apartment building. Quite grand, really. Susana toyed with the idea of hanging him from the side of the building as she cleared the guard at the door with Lisa's ID. This time it was merely plainclothes FBI agents. Since she'd called ahead, they accepted her ID without question and sent her up, wishing her good luck in catching her cousin.
It was so easy, she thought, that it was almost boring. Were they really so blind that they could not see what was happening? It was true that Bartholomew Baker was only ten minutes dead, lying flayed and undiscovered against his stairs. But still, she thought, all these guards and guns and safeguards, and none of it hindered her in the slightest as she rode in the elevator up to her latest victim. She smiled at Luke as they went up.
He really was more experienced and intelligent than she had originally thought. When she'd told him she wanted to hit the FBI again, but had to get past the guards, it had been Luke who had told her if she could get him an FBI ID card, he could scan and print it so closely that it would appear valid to everything but a hand inspection. And he had been right when he pointed out that it was their procedure to simply flash the ID rather than subject it to a rigorous inspection.
They were fools, Susana decided. They still had no idea what this was. Five profilers dead now – six, if you counted their old man – and they hadn't realized what was going on. They believed it was simply law enforcement, tracking down the criminal to bring them to justice. Were it that, she would have never come back from South America. This was not law enforcement. This was war.
When she knocked and showed her ID, the guard behind it wore an HRT uniform. Damn. He would know Luke was not real HRT. He scrutinized Susana carefully. For a moment, she was nervous. The door was metal; she couldn't fire through it. Thankfully, Luke was behind her where the agent could not see him.
"Hi," she said calmly and showed him her ID. Same drill as before. "I'm Special Agent Starling. We spoke on the phone."
The guard looked at her curiously. "Where's your bodyguard, Starling?"
"Right here behind me," Susana said, and decided to strike before he noticed. She uncrossed her arms and casually reached for her own pistol. Her left hand held the side of the door casually. She choreographed what was about to happen in her mind before she did it – this was an apartment building and there could be no audible gunfire. She asked him to open the door and he slipped the chain free.
The guard was holding the doorknob, but loosely. He didn't expect her to be able to overpower him. Had he been alert, he might even have stopped her. But Susana had inherited her father's strength amongst other things, and when she grabbed the door and yanked, the guard seemed surprised. The doorknob popped painfully out of his hand. Her gun was already in her hand as she moved forward.
Susana silenced the gun the way she had before, the best way. She pressed the muzzle into the guard's stomach and fired twice. His T-shirt rippled under the BDU jacket as two lead slugs tore into his insides. To his credit, he grabbed for his weapon immediately, even as he fell. Susana went down with him and put a third slug into his head, the muzzle pressed against his forehead. Same as before, by the book. Clarice Starling had taught her daughter the FBI creed on shooting, and she had learned well. Once you draw your weapon, you have made the decision to shoot, so when you shoot, shoot to kill.
As she untangled herself from the corpse of the guard, she was miffed to discover some blood on the sleeve of her suit. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. Too bad Luke had already killed Laura Thompson, Susana might have been able to grab a suit from her. But McGee was her prey now, and Laura Thompson slipped from her mind as easily as last week's kill slipped from the mind of any predator.
He proved to be a taller, thinner man. Susana caught him just as he grabbed the phone and tried to dial. She snapped the receiver in two and stepped on the hook switch just to make sure. Luke was right behind her and came in with a pair of handcuffs and duct tape. They were as efficient as long-time partners as they methodically restrained and gagged their victim.
Overhead was a heavy chandelier, and once Susana saw it she knew what she planned to do. She pointed at it and grinned at Luke. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then looked around the room. He glanced over at an ottoman and nodded, a cold smile coming over his face. He laced his arms through McGee's and held him fast while Susana went hunting for what she wanted.
She came back dragging a chair and put it under the chandelier. In her other hand she held a coil of rope. It took only a moment to secure a rope around McGee's ankles, then Susana hopped up on the chair. Standing on the chair, she reminded Luke of a woman trying to change a lightbulb, perhaps, or get something down from a high shelf. He admired her form as she grabbed the chandelier, pulled it close to her, and carefully lifted it from the chain. She stepped down carefully from the chair to put the chandelier on the floor, then hopped back up to secure the rope to the chain that the chandelier was suspended from. From here, Luke thought, it would be strong enough for their purpose.
McGee didn't seem terribly happy to see Susana suspending a rope from his chandelier. He bucked against Luke, who simply tightened his grip. Once the rope was looped through the chain, Susana hauled on it. McGee tumbled to the floor, then started inching up backwards as Susana pulled him high. In short order, their victim was hanging upside down, his head perhaps three feet from the floor. Luke grinned as he watched the martyr fishtail and struggle. This was something he had tried before.
Both Susana and Luke looked around the room for something heavy. The woodcut that Luke knew so well used a rock. But Anthony McGee's interior décor did not allow for heavy rocks. His 32 inch television made for an acceptable substitute. Luke pulled it off the entertainment center and laid it down under the struggling man. He glanced into his – their, he corrected himself, their victim's reddening face.
"Do you believe in God?" he asked.
Susana neatly tied a harness around the television. She tested it, lifting the rope, and seemed pleased. Luke squatted and grabbed the plastic sides of the TV, lifting it so that she could tie it off. Working as swiftly as she had in repairing someone's aorta, Susana tied the rope in a neat knot around McGee's neck. When she nodded, Luke let go of the television. Its weight was now supported by the noose around the man's neck.
McGee spluttered and choked almost immediately. Susana looked down at him and chuckled.
"Go in peace," she said airily, and smiled at Luke. They left the apartment swiftly, heading for the stairs. The elevator was for amateurs. Andrew McGee hung head-down in his living room, his face turning red, his windpipe closing down. The weight was nauseating, sickening somehow, like a thumb over an eye. He tried fruitlessly to pull his handcuffed hands free, hoping beyond hope to break steel with his bare hands. To his credit, he kept trying, pulling and twisting against the awful weight even until everything faded into a great pool of black.
In the car heading to the next hit, Susana checked her watch and scowled. This would only work if it was done quickly. She could kill four people in two hours and get away with it. But every minute counted. Once the first murder was discovered, she knew, the first reaction of the forces guarding the targets she sought would be to check in with each other. Then they would find Baker and McGee.
"No martyring on this one," she told Luke. "We need to make better time."
Luke shrugged. Watching McGee turn and swing with the television tied around his neck had put him in a fine mood. He only wished he had time to stay and watch as life was slowly choked from the man's body. But what a wonder to watch – an evil man, part of the dark forces threatening his bride's life – as well as his own, he supposed – being turned to martyrdom, sacrificing his life but attaining eternal glory.
The next stop was a condo complex not unlike Lisa's. As before, Susana called, identifying herself as her cousin. As before, they arrived and were let in. This time, the profiler's name was Jason Kleinberg. The condo was small and the neighbors would probably hear, but the car was right outside. So when the local officer opened the door to let them in, Susana simply shot him right there. Luke decided to show his bride that he, too, could appreciate the more direct methods of killing, so he pursued the dark-haired man and tackled him. This time, however, he simply placed the muzzle of his pistol against the back of the man's head. He had seen Susana do this and had figured out that it was to muffle the sound of the gun.
"Do you believe in God?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he simply fired. A single high-velocity 9mm bullet destroyed his prey's ability to answer as it pierced the skull Blood and brains sprayed across the blue carpet. He stood and grinned, spreading his arms wide.
"Was that fast enough for you, my love?" he asked quizzically.
He loved the expression of bemusement that came over Susana's face. It had been no more than two minutes since they had entered the condo. Susana blinked momentarily, shook her head, and grinned.
"Of course," she said. "That will do nicely. Now the final attack, the big one."
…
The TV flickered on, the paper characters of the bad love story running through their roles with all the acting ability of two cardboard boxes. The ending was predetermined, the conflicts and pains the actors went through contrived. But they would end up in each other's arms. Lisa knew it.
She stared glassily at the screen, sipping occasionally at her second glass of wine. A file sat forlornly in front of her on her coffee table. Susana's file; now added with the latest crime scene reports. If Lisa had not had enough reason to be angry with her cousin, she had one now. A photograph of Lisa on the cross resided in the file now. Any FBI agent who had ever wondered what Lisa's body might look like could find out anything he might want to know now. Tied to the cross, serial-killer victim cheesecake shot, thank you so much, dear cousin. How humiliating. The fact that her face was bandaged and unrecognizable did not help much. Everyone in the agency knew it was her. And then there was Graham. Poor Will Graham, whose only crime had been to want to help out his former agency in his old age. His reward had been to be cut open and tortured to death.
So she sat with the wine and the weepy movie on cable, where she'd been since getting back from the wake. Laura Miehns was hovering around the condo, keeping an eye on the windows and doors. She'd left Lisa mostly alone throughout the afternoon and evening. Every time a car cruised by, she kept a close eye on it, occasionally speaking via walkie-talkie to the Alexandria cop parked outside Lisa's door.
Lisa caught sight of her own face in a mirror on the wall and scowled. Clarice Starling looked back at her. Couldn't be enough that you came to the FBI before me and betrayed it, did you? Did you ever once think about what it was like coming after you? Everyone knowing my name, figuring that I'm going to shoot everyone and then run off with a serial killer. Then to top it off, you have to bring Susana Alvarez Lecter into the world. Did you ever give a thought for the federal agents she's killed? Did you hate the FBI so damn much you set her loose on us like…like some kind of mad dog? And now I've got your face thanks to your daughter. Thanks, Cousin Clarice. Thank you ever so much.
She picked up the file desultorily. She'd wanted to put a final name to Susana's accomplice. John Stapleton had steadfastly denied that he was Susana's accomplice. He'd consented to a house search and had generally been cooperative. The real question was, did she accept the word of an ex-con? Especially knowing that Susana would have arranged for that beforehand?
And then there was Mystery Man. Luke Taylor. He'd disappeared shortly after Susana's escape. He'd been at work for a few weeks, then boom. Lisa shifted on her couch and tried to think. Susana's martyr murders in Canada had been a signal. Lisa was convinced of that: the martyr murders in Toronto had been a signal to the accomplice to start the Black Wednesday murders.
Could've been either, she thought. Stapleton was certainly big enough and violent enough to be the perp in Black Wednesday. But he seemed to have a bit of a temper. The interviewing officers had noted that he was angry about being accused. His rap sheet bore that out. The crime involved had been a bar fight in which Stapleton had gone after another guy with an iron bar. At issue had been who would drive some woman in the bar.
But whoever had committed the Black Wednesday murders had been a very disciplined killer. And Susana had not been around to do it. Looking at the murder scenes from Black Wednesday made her cringe, but she saw a very disciplined, very organized killer. Someone who didn't let his temper get to him. That was a point against Stapleton. Lisa could see the UNSUB as possible ex-military. Honorable or medical discharge, she thought: this guy would play by the rules. Although the murders were so horrible, this guy was a planner. Four different types of murder. He only had doubled up because of Warner's kid. And even then he'd improvised.
Military…hmm. She wondered if Luke Taylor had ever been in the military. Or Stapleton. She checked the file on both men. No one had checked. She ought to ask Quincy; he could get any Black Wednesday-related requests expedited. She went over to the phone and picked it up. Laura Miehns stopped and looked at her curiously.
"I'm calling Quincy," Lisa said. "Just got an idea."
She dialed the number and waited. A voice answered, slightly Southern-tinged in accent.
"Quincy residence," the man on the other end of the line said sharply. Lisa did not need to be told that this was one of Quincy's guards. He, too, was threatened.
"Hi," Lisa said. "This is Special Agent Starling, agent ID B504435213. Can I talk to Chief Quincy?"
For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. "This is who?"
"Special Agent Starling," Lisa repeated, puzzled. "Lisa Starling."
"Oh." The man seemed puzzled. "Did you forget something?"
"No," Lisa replied, wondering why he would ask that. "Wanted to drop by and talk with Chief Quincy for a bit."
The man sighed as if she was asking a great deal. "Sure, Agent Starling, no problem." Lisa frowned. What was his problem? She'd only asked him once.
Laura Miehns looked quizzically at her as she hung up the phone. "Whatcha planning, Starling?" she asked.
It occurred to Lisa that her bodyguard was probably disinclined to let her leave the house.
"I…umm….I wanted to ask Quincy something," she said.
"So why didn't you ask him on the phone?" Miehns asked, not unreasonably.
"I wanted to go over there," Lisa explained. "Get out of the house."
Laura Miehns's face curved into a thoughtful look. She looked doubtful. Given her druthers, she would have rather boarded all of the profilers at Quantico around the clock. It was doubtful that Susana Alvarez Lecter, even cocky as she was, would try to attack a heavily armed and guarded Marine base. But since the attack on Lisa and Graham, she was very loath to let her charge out of her sight.
Lisa raised her clasped hands like a little girl. "Pleeease?" she caroled. "C'mon, it's work. And Quincy's got two HRT boys himself. You were saying you want everything centralized."
Agent Miehns sighed. "I shouldn't," she advised. "I only like moving you around during the day. And she's already gotten you once. Don't want it happening again." Then her expression softened a bit.
"But…if I don't, then you'll whine all night that I'm keeping you captive, and you'll keep hitting that bottle of wine and watching bad romances on HBO, and then by eleven o'clock you'll be half in the bag and you'll start crying over Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. And I really can't stand the sight of a drunken woman in tears over a bad romance, really. So OK, Starling, but we're taking the prowl car and I'm driving."
"Okay," Lisa said. "Thanks." She smiled a big toothy grin at her guard. She grabbed a briefcase from the kitchen table and stuffed her file in it. She opened the kitchen drawer under the briefcase and extracted her duty Glock, too. The drive over was short. Chief Quincy's house was quite large, set back on its lot in a nice, expensive bit of suburbia.
They stopped at the patrol car parked in the driveway. Lisa squatted and smiled at the officers inside.
"Hi," she said, and flashed her ID. The policeman behind the wheel gave her a slightly odd look and nodded instantly. He answered without asking for her name. He sounded bored.
"FBI, huh? Uh…yeah, sure. Go on in."
Lisa wondered what the hell was going on, but she started walking up the driveway. Laura Miehns fell in behind her. Both women could sense something strange going on. Lisa stopped and listened. The cops behind her were chatting in their patrol car.
"Hey, man, I wanna be a bigwig in the FBI," one of them laughed. "I want a whole bunch of little girlie agents to keep me company." He cackled. "They can come profile me anytime."
"Maybe they're sisters," the others chuckled. "Or cousins or something."
Lisa Starling halted in the driveway. The bottom fell out of her stomach. Suddenly, the large upper-middle-class house seemed menacing, a squatting predator waiting for her to enter and be devoured. She turned around and walked back to the patrol car. Very slowly, she smiled and looked at them.
"Hi, guys," she said calmly. "You, um…you want to tell me what you were talking about?"
The cop behind the wheel shifted uncomfortably. "Well…uh…you know, we were just, um, sorta talking…,"
"I know," Lisa said. "What was that about girlie agents?"
The cop's face was red above the blue serge of his uniform collar. "Just that…well…the other agent who went in there five minutes ago, the other girl agent…woman agent, I mean…she looked a lot like you."
"The….other woman agent?" Lisa asked.
"Yeah," the cop said.
The bottom fell out of Lisa's stomach. "Did she leave a name?"
The cop consulted his clipboard. Somehow, Lisa knew what he was going to say before he said it.
"Yeah," he said. "Starling. Special Agent Lisa Starling."