For the next several days, Clarice's time at the hospital seemed to be one big run-on swatch of time. She slept a lot. In the morning, her breakfast would be served through the food slot of her cell door. In Argentina, with Dr. Lecter, breakfast had been a delight for the senses. There was lots of food. It had been attractively presented. She'd developed a real appetite for breakfast then. Not any more. Now she received tasteless food along with plastic utensils on a Styrofoam tray. She swore that the pancakes they served were made with dishwater. The kitchen couldn't screw up boxed cereal, but they could and did water down the milk. The coffee was simply dreadful. She was used to strong-brewed coffee from the best gourmet beans. What she got here was tepid water dressed in brown. It was awful.
After that was more heavy time on her hands. She spent most of her day locked in her cell. The mental hospital allowed her access to a small library cart, but most of the books were literary popcorn. She couldn't bear the thought of reading a bunch of Daniel Steele romances, but did so because there was nothing left for her to read. Apparently, she was to be treated with a healthy dose of being left to stare at the four walls in her cell.
After a tasteless, joyless lunch was therapy with Dr. McQuerry. She'd originally pegged him as a mid-level bureaucrat. He went through the motions, did what he was told to do by those of higher ranks, and made those under him follow the rules. For men like McQuerry – whether they be VA psychiatrists, FBI agents, or whatever organization you wanted – the rules were everything. A patient could be bleeding out the eyeballs and he'd still expect that staff would follow the rules and make sure each gate was locked down before opening the next.
On the other hand, if this was the big gun they had aimed at her in order to 'deprogram' her from the brainwashing Dr. Lecter had supposedly performed on her, she didn't have much to worry about. Dr. McQuerry's idea of therapy was to sit there and ask her repeatedly if something wasn't true. Isn't it true, Clarice, that Dr. Lecter committed horrible atrocities when he was free? Why, when he was a much younger man, Dr. McQuerry. We lived together for eight years and I never saw him raise a finger to anyone. Doesn't sound like a slavering, murderous psychopath to me, but then what do I know? But isn't it true that he ate people? Well, yes, again, a long time ago. Isn't it true that he killed and ate a Buenos Aires musician? Have you been talking to my niece, Dr. McQuerry? I know I've been out of the country, but normally I believe that you have to have evidence and proof before you can accuse someone of that. Declaration by fiat doesn't cut it, now that you mention it. Clarice, I'm only trying to help you.
Then back to the cell for more wall-staring therapy for a few hours. Personally, Clarice had to give the staring-at-walls thing about par with Dr. McQuerry's therapy. Once a day she was taken out to a tiny, locked room and allowed to walk in a circle for an hour with her wrists and ankles cuffed. Never once did she go outside. Then dinner, then bedtime. Quiet hour at nine PM. Just Clarice, staring up into the darkness of her cell on her thin mattress.
It was boring and tedious. No wonder the doctor had been in as bad a mood as he was during his incarceration. Clarice had plenty of time to think, though. And think she did. She thought about playing along in order to get more privileges. She thought about Hannibal and what he must be going through. Raul liked the Tattler, and the Tattler was going absolutely nuts over this. It was too much for them to pass up. He would give her the paper once he had read it. And she thought about Charlene.
Clarice could cope with this. She was strong. She'd always been a warrior. It wouldn't be forever. She was more worried about her niece. She hadn't given herself up to McCracken for Charlene to…to make herself into some sort of copy of her. And the kid seemed downright miserable. Clarice knew it well. She'd work and work and work and get nothing.
So yesterday she hadn't been as openly sassy towards Dr. McQuerry. And today, once she'd been brought into the bare therapy room, she'd eyed the bored doctor as soon as he came in. Before the isn't-it-true-Clarice wagon train started up, she'd cleared her throat and made direct eye contact with the bureaucrat.
"Dr. McQuerry," she asked, "what would I have to do in order to make a phone call?"
The doctor brightened. This involved rules. He was ever so good at quoting rules, Clarice thought sourly.
"The institution's rules, Miss Starling, state that a maximum-security inmate is allowed to make one personal phone call per week. Ten minutes, collect, through the institution switchboard. It is monitored. Legal calls are permitted without being monitored."
Time to tell you what you want to hear, you officious prick. "Well, you know," she said, "I really feel bad about when my niece visited. I just feel like…like…like I turned her away."
"Your niece was upset," the doctor agreed. "Clarice, your niece is very, very concerned about you."
"I know she is," Clarice said. Then inspiration struck. "You know, Dr. Lecter told me I should avoid my family. That they only wanted to, um, hurt us and take him away and so I couldn't talk to him. But after all this time…and this therapy… well, you know, I'm starting to think he was wrong."
The doctor nodded. "I think we're getting somewhere," he said.
Clarice was mildly amazed. From her point of view, her acting wasn't good enough to get her an acting gig in a Zucker Brothers movie. But he was biting.
"You know," she said, forcing herself to look wide-eyed, "I really, really, want to mend ties with Charlene." That was actually no lie. She felt badly about what had happened at Charlene's visit. "Do you think I could…would you let me make a phone call to her?"
"That depends on your progress," Dr. McQuerry said.
Oh, I'll serve you up a plate of mush like you'd never believe, Clarice thought, and did. She gave McQuerry credit for having a few functioning brain cells and didn't play the chest-thumping new convert. Instead, very slowly, shakily, and not without a few feigned tears, she professed her worries that Dr. Lecter might have misled her. She was very confused. She was upset. The therapy was helping a lot, really, but still. Was it possible that she had been misled all these years? Was she a bad person? Dr. McQuerry assured her he was not in a tone that suggested he was thinking about other things, like his crossword puzzle or his retirement fund. She rubbed at her eyes and played it up. Part of her wanted to gag. She'd always hated stuff like this. But it was necessary.
She still didn't think her acting was any better than what one saw in a Hee Haw skit, but McQuerry bought it. He seemed pleased, as pleased as he got. At the end of the therapy session he sent her back to her cell. But she saw him talking calmly with Raul before he left to go annoy the women up top. Raul was a nice enough guy to check her records, where Charlene had left her number. Clarice checked the clock. Two-thirty. Nah, she would wait until Charlene was home. Clarice had her work number, but didn't want to call there. It would be recorded. Somehow or another it would get to Crawford.
She held out for four hours. She had a romance novel with papery characters and a plot about as intellectually stimulating as raw oatmeal. But there was plenty of bodice ripping and soft bodies in muscular arms, and it did the job of passing the time. Six-thirty. Charlene would be home.
Raul responded to her buzz calmly and glanced in.
"Eeeey, chica," he said, grinning. "I told you never to call me at work."
"I just can't resist you," she said, grinning. "I asked McQuerry about a phone call."
"Yeah, apparently you're progressing," he said.
"Can I have that now?"
"Sure thing," Raul said, and headed back down to get the phone. He came back with it on a long cord, unreeling it as he went. Clarice watched him, feeling a bit nervous. What was Charlene going to say? Would she hang up? Was she so lost in Crawford's maze that she had forsaken her aunt?
No, Clarice told herself, she's hurt and confused and she needs somebody.
"Now, look, Clarice," Raul said. "This is your first time with the phone. I've seen it before. You get ten minutes. Do yourself a favor – don't try and keep the phone over that time."
"I won't," Clarice said.
"Good. Cause I know how it is, you don't want to say goodbye. But don't make us go in there and bundle you up to get it."
Clarice nodded. Despite herself, she liked Raul; the guy enforced the rules because he had no other choice. He had to answer to people like McQuerry who worshipped the rules as if they were gods.
But there it was, sitting in her food slot. The phone. She picked it up and began to dial. It rang a few times. Clarice swallowed nervously and began to pace in her cell.
The phone was picked up. A voice sounded in her ear.
"Starling," Charlene said.
Clarice took a deep breath. "Charlene," she said. "It's Aunt Clarice."
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. Was that good or bad?
"Aunt Clarice," Charlene said neutrally. "How are yew?"
"I'm all right," Clarice said. "Listen, Charlene, I wanted to talk to you for a bit."
"Guess they wouldn't let you talk to your serial killer, then, if you must be reduced to slummin' with the likes of me," Charlene answered briskly.
Clarice took a deep breath. "Charlene, you're putting words in my mouth. I never said any such thing about you. You c'mon and be fair now."
"Oh, you didn't?" Charlene challenged. Clarice bit her lip. Why is she so angry?
"Charlene, honey, listen to me," Clarice said. "I could've called anyone I wanted to. I asked to call you. I feel bad about what happened t'other day, and I want you to come see me again. I don't…I don't like seeing you get so upset, but I don't want to lose touch entirely." Then it occurred to her she had lost touch entirely with the younger woman, and that had been part of what put her here. She took a deep breath and continued. Was there anything she could do? Yes, there was. The cleansing fire of remorse.
"I hurt you, Charlene. I know that. I'm sorry I did," she said in a pained whisper. "I want…I want to try and start again. But that ain't just my decision, Charlene. Do you?"
There was silence on the other end of the line again. "Yes," Charlene said finally, and Clarice could hear her flipping pages. "I can come an' see you Monday, I guess. That work?'
Charlene, I'm in the nuthatch, Clarice wanted to say. Any freaking day works for me. But she didn't.
"Works just fine," she said.
They chatted about nonconsequentialities for the rest of the ten minutes. The subjects of Dr. Lecter and Jack Crawford were carefully avoided. But for the first time since her capture, Clarice found herself feeling happy.
Charlene was true to her word and arrived that Monday. As in the phone conversation, there was a cautious peace in the visit. Certain things could not be spoken of. Neither woman expressed her opinion of the other's associates. But it was a start, and they had to start somewhere. No voices were raised and the end of the visit was pleasant. But elsewhere, plans were changing.
…
Dr. Lecter knew his time here was short. He wouldn't miss the cell, or the rats. But he knew he was only going to trade this cell for a rat-free one back in the United States. And there, he would live out his days completely alone, in total isolation and silence. Death would be preferable.
Yet here, he was largely left to his own devices. Occasionally he would be handcuffed and pulled out of his cell and shoved into another one set up to take a shower. One guard had taken pity on him and given him some cleaning supplies. He'd put his cell in order as best he could. But still, the open hole in the floor absolutely reeked.
He heard the footsteps coming down the hall almost immediately. It wasn't Charlene. A pity. He had rather enjoyed their conversations. No, these were definitely an old man's shoes. Hmmm.
Jack Crawford walked down the hall calmly to Dr. Lecter's cell door. He glanced in at the doctor with what seemed like a smile on his face. But he had always been a cloaked man. Dr. Lecter was surprised that Crawford had come to visit him himself.
"Dr. Lecter," Crawford said emotionlessly.
Odd, that. He had been sure Jacky-boy would call him Hannibal to his face, as if they were old friends. But if Crawford would show courtesy, he could as well.
"Mr. Crawford."
"I don't know if your attorneys told you, but I gave a deposition in court today," Crawford said. "In regards to your extradition."
Dr. Lecter nodded. They seemed like two old gunfighters, as if only the thick steel door in between them kept them from fighting. Their advanced ages meant nothing in regard to the rivalry that had existed all these years.
"They haven't given me everything," Dr. Lecter said. "But thank you for telling me. I appreciate the courtesy call."
Crawford took a few pained steps up and down outside the cell as if nervous. Dr. Lecter tilted his head and observed the other man wordlessly.
"So, this is how it ends," Crawford said finally. "Did you ever think it would end this way, doctor? I caught you."
"It's not over yet, Jack," Dr. Lecter said.
"It is for you." Crawford grinned, and Dr. Lecter saw the resentment in his eyes. First, he had taken Will Graham out of Crawford's pack. Then he had taken Clarice away from him. That was what this was about.
"And it wasn't you who caught me, you know," Dr. Lecter said. "You never did, once. You found others to move as pawns on your chessboard. Your skill has always been in manipulation."
Crawford chuckled emptily. "As has yours."
"To some degree," Dr. Lecter admitted. Then he took a breath. "Tell me, Jack, how did it feel when you knew it was me who had taken Clarice? Was it then you decided to scar and traumatize her niece?"
"I didn't traumatize Agent Starl—Charlene Starling," Crawford said. "You did that, by taking and brainwashing Clarice."
"Brainwash." Dr. Lecter rolled the word around his mouth in amusement. "Interesting that you put it that way. Jack, we are both men who have convinced Starlings into the orbits of our lives." His eyes gleamed drolly. "But I must say…at least I saw to my Starling's happiness and inner peace. I can't say the same for you."
"She's feeling much better since she caught you," Crawford said.
"I doubt that. She was quite miserable, although she doesn't know why. A pity. She's a first-class investigator. She had to have been, in order to have caught me at such a young age. Tell me, Jack, does that young, lithe body make you think…naughty thoughts?"
Jack Crawford laughed and shook his head. "Dr. Lecter, we're both old men," he said. "You know the answer to that."
It was Dr. Lecter's turn to chuckle. "My, Jack, time must have wracked you harder than me," he said. "I had a…satisfying relationship with my Starling."
He took great pleasure in the faint signs of anger and exasperation and…yes, jealousy, there it was—that streamed across the craggy features of Jack Crawford's face. Yes, there was some opportunity for some fun here.
"Of course there's a vastly different age difference there," Dr. Lecter said. "But tell me Jack, and be honest. You think about it, don't you?"
"I'm not answering that, Dr. Lecter," Crawford said.
"You do. I can see it in the way you grip that cane. I can't fault you for taste, she's quite attractive and there's a brain behind those thick curls of hers. But it's just on your end, isn't it? The thought hasn't even crossed her mind. Just as happened with Clarice, I might add. She never saw you as a sexual partner either. What do you want to do to her, Jack? Tell me what squalid fantasies you've had. Did you want her to dress up like a nurse? Or perhaps a Girl Scout? Are you going to buy her cookies, Jack?"
Crawford exhaled. "Goodbye, Dr. Lecter." He turned to leave.
Very well, Jack. Honestly if you'd just admit you were attracted to her you wouldn't be so vulnerable there.
"I'll give you this one for free," Dr. Lecter said. "You won't have her very long in any case."
Crawford turned and looked back at him with those veiled eyes. What thoughts are you cranking out in there now, Jack?
"Oh, not in the sexual sense. Those tawdry little fantasies in your head will remain just that. I mean as a profiler, Jack. You never keep the best. Your manipulative tendencies run them off."
"You're not going to get your hands on her, Hannibal," Crawford said. "And I think I'll take my employment advice from someone who isn't facing the needle, if you don't mind."
Dr. Lecter shrugged. Crawford was trying to come off as tough and failing miserably. He'd never confronted Hannibal Lecter himself before tonight. Had he thought assuming first-name basis would make him seem manly? Quite another thing.
"You're not going to keep her," Dr. Lecter said resolutely. "And the answer is right there in your past."
"Clarice. I know. Not happening, Dr. Lecter," he said.
Dr. Lecter shook his head and stood straight in the ragged prison uniform. "Not Clarice, actually," he said. "I tend towards monogamy myself, Jack. I am with one woman and so I shall remain. Your interest in Charlene may have carnal aspects; mine is purely avuncular. I would so like to have her on my couch someday. I suspect there's more there than you believed. Just as there was with Clarice." He chuckled. "There has to be. She caught me at such a young age, after all."
"Perhaps you're not as smart as you think, and that's why she caught you," Crawford said. He had gone back to his usual gray status. Not an emotion escaped that cloaked hawk's face. "But it's only fair to warn you, doctor. My testimony wrapped up today. We've been leaning on the Argentines as much as we can." Now he chuckled.
"I would expect no less."
"Good. Dr. Lecter, the argument of the American DOJ was that you were an illegal immigrant and thus had no standing in an Argentine court. The judge will rule on that in the next few days. He might rule in favor of us. He might not. If he doesn't, you get a few more months in there while the Argentines do their thing." Crawford smiled. "But if he doesn't, Dr. Lecter, then you'll be eligible for immediate deportation. You'd be held here while we worked out the logistics, but you'd be looking at returning home by the end of next week."
Dr. Hannibal Lecter tilted his head and stared at Jack Crawford silently for a few moments.
"And just so you know, Dr. Lecter," Crawford added. "I hope you don't plan on having Clarice at your side. She's safe in our hands."
"Odd that you accuse me of brainwashing her when you seem inclined to do the same," Dr. Lecter observed.
"We've been trying to get Clarice some therapy," Jack Crawford said, and grinned a small grin. "If that doesn't work…well, we've got other plans. But she won't be in your corner in any case, Dr. Lecter. There's more than one way to skin a cat, you know. Have a nice day, Dr. Lecter. We'll be seeing you real soon."
That same small half-grin was on his face as he turned to leave. Dr. Lecter's eyes widened for a moment. As Crawford left, he considered the possibilities. They were not good. What was worse was that there wasn't anything he could do to help his little Starling. Not locked away five thousand miles from her. He was…powerless.
Hannibal Lecter put his hands on the barred grille of his window and felt like a prisoner for the first time since he had been brought here.