Author's note: Here we are, Chapter 2. What song is playing through MorbidAngel's head? 'John Deere Green', by Joe Diffie. Perhaps I'll introduce a character named Billy Bob, but we'll have to see. For now, let's drop in on the GD as he accustoms himself to his new circumstances.
The prison cell was easily the foulest Dr. Lecter had ever been forced to inhabit. It was a tiny room, located in the basement of the prison. Just as in the asylum, Dr. Lecter was below ground. His cell did contain a tiny window. His view was only of the prison's exercise yard, and it was blocked with black steel bars as thick as his wrist. Occasionally he could catch a glimpse of booted feet near his window. That was all. Other prisoners had been warned to keep away from him.
The rest of the cell was absolutely subpar, he decided. It was five feet by nine feet. The bed was a wooden table with a dirty straw mat atop it. It sat loose on the table. Only the most charitable could call it a mattress, and Dr. Lecter was not feeling terribly charitable. In one corner was a dirty steel sink. Dr. Lecter supposed he ought to be grateful for that, but he found himself unable to gather much gratitude. This was partially because the cell did not have a toilet. Instead, it sported only a hole in the corner. The cell reeked. He'd asked for cleaning supplies but they had refused to give him any. Whether this was because they were singling him out or because they simply didn't give prisoners the supplies they needed to keep clean was not clear. Dr. Lecter had tried to be as fastidious as he could, but prior occupants had not shared his neatness. The odor was enough to make it hard to sleep, as if the uncomfortable mat didn't do enough to accomplish that.
Other than that, there was nothing. No chair, no table. Dr. Lecter had never once thought he would miss the cell he had once occupied back in the asylum. But that had been a palace compared to this. At least there he had been the only occupant in the cell. Now, he was obliged to share these meager quarters with rats. They crawled squeaking into holes in the walls too small for him. His first night in the cell he'd had to sleep with the wool army-issue blanket over his face, lest the rats bite his face while he slept.
No Plexiglass walls that let him see out here. His walls were solid concrete and filthy. The door was heavy and metal and almost invariably locked. There was a heavy metal grille in the door. A thumb switch on the other side of the door operated the louvers of the grille. When it was open Dr. Lecter could see a faint piece of the hall. The bottom half of the door contained a food slot through which the doctor's meals were put.
The guards had mostly left him to his own devices. They came neither to help nor hinder. Occasionally they let him out for some exercise on a fenced-in yard. He was here, alone again. He had been ripped from his Clarice. Whether or not he would ever see her again was in doubt. She hadn't been here to visit him, but he didn't hold that against her. It was too dangerous.
Dr. Lecter lay on his bunk with his eyes closed. He found himself thinking of his home. The soft bed, the wide-open spaces and rooms of the mansion, and Clarice. He let his mind play over the soft feel of her skin, the smell of her perfume. The way her blue eyes gleamed at him when she was happy. How she smiled. He sighed heavily. All memory now. He couldn't expect her to risk her own neck for him. He knew what awaited him. If she fell into the hands of the FBI, she could expect a fate only scantly better. Jack Crawford did not treat traitors kindly.
He would never see her again.
He knew that and accepted it, even though it tore at him. Better that his little Starling remained free. Fly away, little starling, fly, fly, fly.
Dr. Lecter sighed as he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He heard a man's voice and a woman's. Whatever the woman was wearing, it wasn't formal women's shoes. There was no loud clack of heel against concrete. He found himself thinking of the last time he'd taken Clarice to the opera and forced himself to abandon the memory.
The gate rattled as a guard opened it. Dr. Lecter heard the soft tread of a pair of black Skechers approach down the hall. Then the mechanical click and rattle of the louvers on his grille. Staring in at him, her face outlined by the grille, was Charlene Stenson Starling. Her mien was unsympathetic as she gazed in his cell. Dr. Lecter slid off his bunk and stood. Now this was ironic.
"Hello, Charlene," he said calmly.
"Dr. Lecter," she returned emotionlessly. Dr. Lecter took the time to study her face. Rather like Clarice's, he thought, and determined not to heave a sigh. But instead of the underlying sense of peace and joy that he'd seen in Clarice's face for these past eight years, he could sense pain in Charlene's features. She was hiding it under a veneer of toughness and distance that Dr. Lecter found familiar and quite liked. Seeing it here, on a woman who clearly despised him, was bittersweet.
"I suppose I should tip my hat to you," Dr. Lecter continued. "You caught me. Excellent work, really. Do you know how many agents have tried and failed?"
"Thank you," she said distantly.
"Even Clarice never caught me," Dr. Lecter said. He saw Charlene's pupils darken and contract. There it was. He took a single sip of her pain and decided that would be all for today.
"Yes," Charlene said coldly. "And you killed her. Dr. Lecter, I didn't come here today to be tormented by you. I came to ask you a few questions."
"I've retained attorneys, Agent Starling. You should address your questions to them." He thought, correctly, that she would appreciate the respect of distance.
"Well, your attorneys don't have an English speaker handy," she said. "Besides, Dr. Lecter, only one is legal. More of an offer. If you waive extradition to the US, the FBI is willing to put you in a maximum-security prison in Indiana. You'd have a view of the fields nearby. It's not far from a treeline."
Dr. Lecter looked down. She got right down to business, didn't she? Well, it wasn't like he had much to trade. She thought he had killed Clarice. How hideously droll this was. Even if he told her he had not killed Clarice, even if he proved he had not killed Clarice, it would not save him from prison. All he would accomplish by doing that would be to get Clarice in their clutches.
"And if I refuse?"
She shrugged. "That's fine with us, Dr. Lecter. The Argentine government is going to keep you incarcerated pending your extradition. They want more IMF loans, and they want the US happy with them. And they don't want any new entries for Canibalismo in their own crime files. You're not getting out of that cell, you know." She smiled bitterly. "If you want to spend the next couple months in there and have some quality time with Br'er Rat, then be my guest. We made you the offer for two reasons. First off, American prisons may not be fun, but they're better than here and you don't have your four-footed cellmate there. Generally. Secondly, Dr. Lecter, when you lose your extradition hearing – and you will lose, I assure you of that – the FBI will take into account your history of escape and dangerousness. Do you know what that means?"
Dr. Lecter shook his head and seemed interested.
"It means for the time being, you'll be looking at USP Florence, in Florence, Colorado," she explained. "Supermax. You'll never see or hear another prisoner, except for maybe, maybe you'll catch a glimpse when you're being recreated. Access to visitors is almost nil. Oh, and you'd be permitted only a few books in your cell. They're planning to charge you in Virginia, you know." She sighed heavily. "So that means either Wallens Ridge or Red Onion. Both of those are supermax prisons too. Virginia state prisons. There have been complaints of abusive guards there, you know. Abuse of force, tasers, extreme use of restraint. Amnesty International complains about it all the time. Hardly the place for an older man." She eyed the doctor, in his late sixties, with an appraising eye.
"So if I don't give up my legal rights I'll be tortured for it."
"The authorities do not owe you leniency, Dr. Lecter," she riposted. "The first time you went down, well, things were pretty liberal then. Not any more. Prisoners' rights have taken a big-time back seat, Dr. Lecter. I don't think you really understand how much things have changed, Dr. Lecter, and I'm not saying that to be disrespectful. It's an entire mindset change and you've been out of the country for a while now. They'll throw you in supermax and then forget all about you until your trial."
Dr. Lecter did, and that was the problem. Should he accept that offer? It would be better, long-term. And he had little doubt his Argentine attorneys could keep him here. Or was there something he hadn't thought of yet?
"That offer should have been addressed to my attorneys," he repeated.
"I'll see that they're notified," Charlene answered. "But think about it, Dr. Lecter. It is to your own benefit."
"Thank you. I shall."
Their first point of business had been dealt with. Charlene cleared her throat. "I'm also curious what you might be willing to tell us about Clara Paloma," she began.
Dr. Lecter was quite surprised to hear that name pass Charlene's lips. Had she known? Did she know? He studied her carefully.
"My wife," was all he said. His face betrayed no surprise. He put his hands behind his back and drew himself up carefully.
"Yes," Charlene said. "We've got an APB out on her. We expect to have her in custody shortly. She can't run forever."
Care to wager on that, little girl? Dr. Lecter thought. But no, that wasn't right. It occurred to him that Charlene was about the age Clarice had been when she first came to his cell. Although Charlene carried no bag and he couldn't see her shoes through the grille.
"Did she know who you are, Dr. Lecter? Look, I can tell you that the Argentine authorities are likely to do what we want 'em to do. If she didn't know, then tell me now. Save your wife some pain."
Dr. Lecter studied Charlene carefully as she spoke. He only dedicated a small part of his mind to paying attention to her words. Clarice could hide. It was entirely possible that she would evade Charlene and her team. He was more interested in Charlene's behavior. After analyzing it for a moment, his rare mind turned out the answer.
Charlene did not know Clara Paloma was Clarice Starling.
That was good and bad. Naturally, it would have been preferable for the FBI to not know of her existence at all. But that was not always possible. Fortunately, Clarice had several identities available. As long as she had gotten away from the scene, it was entirely possible that she might remain free. If she was smart, she was in Brazil right now.
Dr. Lecter heaved a mighty sigh. He could not give this woman anything to go on. But he was also relatively confident that he could tell Charlene what she wanted to hear. Something that would allow her to convince herself that he was pure evil, determined solely to gain his own advantage.
"No," Dr. Lecter said. "She did not."
"Do you know where she is, Dr. Lecter?"
"Of course not. I'm in this cell. I presume you have already searched my residence," Dr. Lecter parried.
Charlene nodded.
"Well," she said, "if that's your story, then I guess I'll leave you in peace."
"It is, Charlene," he said.
She turned to leave and took a few steps away.
"I'd like to ask you something, if I may," Dr. Lecter said, internally grinning as she arrested herself and turned around awkwardly. "Something I asked your aunt, once, when she came to my cell."
He saw her lips turn pale for a moment, but she covered it quickly. Good, good. It seemed having the onions to carry on ran in Starling veins. He had to at least credit her as a worthy adversary.
"What do you want, Dr. Lecter?" she asked, her voice choking.
Dr. Lecter pulled in a deep breath and eyed the woman through the grille of his door. He let two or three beats pass before speaking. Yes, even though he was in this miserable cell, he was in control here and she was not. Perhaps – just perhaps – he could twist this to his advantage.
"Tell me, Charlene," Dr. Lecter asked casually, "how do you manage your rage?"
She started forward then and smacked the door of his cell. Her features twisted in the very rage he knew was roaring in her constantly. The same rage that had allowed her to do what no one since Will Graham had done –capture him.
The metal louvers of his grille rasped down, barring any further view of the outside. He heard her take a few running steps and then stop. Then her footsteps began again. He suspected she was forcing herself to walk slowly. Ah well, a man needed his fun, and he had precious little here.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter lay back on the filthy mattress and listened to the rats squeak in the walls. He wondered if she would be back. Despite himself, he hoped she would.