Author's note: This is a different chapter for me – it's that try-writing-different-things bit again. I assure the die-hard gore fans that they aren't forgotten. Next chapter, we'll have something for you. In the meantime, things take a slightly more adult turn. After consulting with a few other authors on FF.net who all agreed this chapter was more R than NC-17, here we are.
The shower is running in this fine suite at the Boston Park Plaza Hotel. Steam billows from behind the white plastic curtain. In the large tub, a man stands under the spray from the gold showerhead. He finds the shower quite pleasant. It is the first time in six years he has taken a shower in a stall with a curtain. The first time he has been able to take a shower with good water pressure and plenty of hot water. The first time he has not had guards watching him via camera even while he bathes.
Professor Thomas Creed has been in the shower for twenty minutes. This, too, is a treat for him; he does not have an unseen voice from a speaker barking at him to get his ass out of the shower and back in his cell proper. In fact, for Professor Creed, the suite and its contents are a paradise playground of sensory events. All those years locked away in his tiny, boring cell, with its blank concrete walls and so little to do have left their mark on him. He wants to indulge his senses as much as he can; to greedily fill his gut with smells and sights and touch.
Professor Creed shuts off the water and steps out of the tub. He stands naked on the terrycloth mat for a moment and extends his arms out. He brings them into his chest. There is still some soreness in his left arm from early that morning, when the police van flopped onto its side, forcing the manacled professor in turn to land on his, but it is quite tolerable. Susana has given him some painkillers and pronounced the injury minor. The water on his skin is cold and uncomfortable, but not overly so, and the professor relishes this sensation as much as he relished the hot water cascading over him a few moments ago. He closes his eyes and inhales the aroma of the bathroom. The smells making up that aroma are not unpleasant, as you might expect. The Boston Park Plaza prides itself on the excellence of its maid staff. Professor Creed privately suspects that the majority of the maids hail from the same continent as the woman awaiting him, and that their papers would not stand up to serious scrutiny. But they have been quite industrious in their attempts to ensure that his showering experience has been pleasant.
The pleasant scent of the shampoo; the briskly clean smell of the soap; even the faintly acrid scent of the water in the shower stall and toilet. To the professor, all these things are welcome. He inhales deeply and relishes them. His skin pimples into goosebumps as the water on it grows colder, but even this experience is far from intolerable and quite welcome.
Professor Creed opens his strange pinpoint-pupilled eyes, adding sight to the mixture. The textured wallpaper and clean white of the plumbing fixtures are also not unpleasant; his cell on Death Row was painted gray and his toilet and sink stainless steel. He pivots and observes his reflection in the fogged-up mirror. He has little body hair. Only a sprinkling of dark hair across his chest and a patch circling his navel. Even the sight of his own body is a new and pleasant experience. The mirror tastefully cuts off his reflection at the waist. Professor Creed studies himself in the mirror and seems pleased. He does not share Susana Alvarez Lecter's vanity, but he does enjoy the simple ability to view so much of his body at once.
On a hook on the bathroom door is a thick white terrycloth robe, and Professor Creed takes it, sliding it over his arms and back. He is not a bodybuilder by any means, but a strict regimen of daily exercise in his cell has kept his body fit. He did not always do this; it was not until a year ago, when Susana began writing to him and began to lay the plans that have culminated in his freedom. But a year's worth of push-ups and sit-ups has ensured that he is strong, close to what he was when free. Now that he will have untrammeled access to food, he supposes the rest will follow shortly. Professor Creed plans to indulge his appetite for food just as soon as he is able; now, however, is time to glut other appetites.
Professor Creed takes a white terrycloth towel from the towel bar in order to dry his legs. The robe is quite comfortable and thirstily pulls the water from his skin, but does not do an acceptable job on his legs. But the feel of the towel – thin to most of us, but far better than jail towels – is also a welcome experience for him. Once that is done, he takes another to towel-dry his hair. Like most men, Professor Creed disdains the use of the small hair dryer mounted conveniently next to the sink. Such things are for women.
On the white surface of the counter is a tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes. Professor Creed takes time to brush his teeth. Even the taste of the toothpaste is welcome to him. When his teeth are suitably clean, he combs his hair and lifts the can of Edge shaving gel and the Mach-3 razor. It is far preferable an experience to shave with these implements than the cheap disposable razors he was obliged to use in prison. Professor Creed lifts a dab of gel to his nose and inhales the fragrance deeply. Then he spreads it on his face and runs the razor over his cheeks and chin. He rinses the gel from his face and takes a moment to examine the tiny black hairs in the sink, small grains of black against the white.
Next to his can of shaving gel are some of Susana's toiletries. Her razor, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush. He examines them each in turn. There are several jars and bottles; mysterious feminine things stored in pretty bottles of plastic and glass. The professor feels almost troglodytic as he observes them without any idea as to what they might be. He does pick up each one in turn to feel the bottle, read the label, and sniff the contents.
Once they had arrived back in the suite, they had both been tired. The drive down had taken longer than normal, since they had doubled back to Plattsburgh and then taken the Thruway in order to elude law enforcement. They had arrived in Boston in the afternoon and by mutual agreement had slept for a few hours. Once they'd woken up, room service had provided them with an excellent meal and wine. Professor Creed had not had alcohol since his incarceration, and he had appreciated the taste. The meal, too, had been wonderful. Filet mignon. After the years of prison food, all three meals served in the same eight-hour shift, the professor was able to appreciate it much more. Knowing that he could have more if he wanted it, enjoying the taste of the meat and wine, and knowing that no one would be barking at him to give back the tray or they'd suit up a team. It all meant a great deal to him.
After dinner, Susana had suggested he might enjoy a long shower. She had enjoyed such a thing after her own escape from prison, and she had recommended it. The sultry gleam in her eye had been sufficient to tell the non-absent-minded professor that her goal was not solely to ensure his cleanliness. He had gone into the suite's bathroom – almost as large as the cell he had lived in for six years – and taken a long shower.
Professor Creed carefully examines the doorknob as it moves. It has been so long since he last opened or closed a door for himself. On Death Row, the doors were opened electronically; things that moved seemingly by themselves, openly scornful of Professor Creed's volition. For a moment, he sees himself and smiles ruefully: a man in a hotel bathrobe playing with the bathroom door while his woman awaits him in the bedroom beyond. But Professor Creed wants to hold off on that, saving the best for last.
On the toilet tank is a pair of black silk boxer shorts. The professor takes a long moment to stare at these. Almost assuredly, these and all their like have been bought by women for their men. This pair, however, have been bought by Susana Alvarez Lecter for him. He takes a moment to consider what that might mean. The professor, along with the vast majority of his gender, is perfectly happy with simpler underthings. But he opens the robe and steps into the silk boxers because she wanted him to have them.
Before they ever began the correspondence that has culminated in this, placing him in all this luxury after the years of deprivation, Thomas Creed and Susana Alvarez possessed much in common. Both of them are inexplicable in the natural order of things. Both of them are highly intelligent and fond of culture. Both of them are frightening, dangerous monsters capable of atrocities that boggle the minds of normal humans.
But both of them had also come to the conclusion long ago that they might be forced to walk the earth alone. To put it simply, their choices of partners were strictly limited by their knowledge of their own natures. During these past four years, Susana Alvarez could have had her pick of free Frenchmen. Yet she wanted none of them; she wanted him. Wanted him enough to place her own freedom at risk. Wanted him enough to maneuver circumstances so that freeing him was within her power. This is a heady thing itself for the professor, and he is determined to show her that he, too, will go to the same extent for her. If need be, he will kill for her without a second thought.
But for now they are no longer alone. They are here, together, delivered from their enemies and indulged in opulence. The professor has absorbed enough of the male ideal of this culture to feel slightly ashamed that this has all been paid for with Susana's money. He knows that Susana's wealth far outpaces his own. He also knows that money means not a whit to Susana Alvarez Lecter and never has. Professor Creed has some money of his own, hidden away in the basement of his vacation cottage on Keuka Lake, back in New York. He has resolved to do all that he can: retrieve that money when it is possible and present it to Susana to be mingled with her own, for their common weal.
The thoughts of money are tawdry, and Thomas Creed stands and forces himself to banish it from his mind. Now is not for such things. Now is time for more pleasant pursuits.
Professor Creed steps from the bathroom and walks through the living area to the closed bedroom door. The carpet under his bare feet is soft, and he rather likes this. He stops for a moment to freeze in his memory the feel of the carpet, since he knows that momentarily it will be swept away by other things for him to sense. He takes a moment to knock gently on the door.
"Come in," a low, pleased voice says. Professor Creed finds himself thinking of a lioness, or a tigress, or a female jaguar. Something with pleasing curves and eyes, something beautiful to behold, but something that will claw you and shred you to bloody ribbons without a scrap of guilt. But even these animals do not equal Susana Alvarez Lecter. They kill to defend themselves or to feed themselves and their young. Susana Alvarez Lecter will kill for her own amusement, as does Professor Creed.
Professor Creed enters the bedroom and squints his eyes. There are only a few candles lit within the room, tiny tongues of flame dancing hither and yon. After a moment, his pupils expand slightly, and Professor Creed's eyes actually look more like the human norm. They slide appreciatively over the woman lying on the bed.
Susana Alvarez Lecter lies on the bed, smiling a knowing, hungry smile. She is wearing a sheer negligee and black nylons. The hem of the negligee is short enough that Professor Creed can see she is wearing a garter belt; he can see the edge of the garter strap and the hooks where they attach to the lace tops of her stockings. On one hand she wears the ring he created for her. He stops and tilts his head, drinking in the sight of her before him, which delights her to no end. In the candlelight her eyes are pools of blood. They bespeak hunger and desire of her own. Around her neck hangs a fine gold chain, barely visible in the light. From it hangs a ruby that picks up the color of her eyes.
Professor Creed has the form of a man like any other, and his body responds to the sight before him. He feels himself stiffening in the black silk of his new boxers, and smiles himself. But there is no levity here. They are both pleased, and the desire and energy in the room is palpable. Humor, however, is absent.
Susana slides off the bed and slips her feet into a pair of stiletto-heeled pumps. As an Argentine girl, she has known all her life how to dress for a man. The patriarchal culture she grew up in taught her every last little detail, treating the duty of pleasing a man as one of the most important skills an Argentine girl can have. Susana had learned well, but as a Lecter she rejected the whole idea of male dominance. The patriarchal culture may have taught her, but her patriarch himself taught her to live on her own terms, as he had. It was fine to dress glamorously, but she should do so for herself. And she will not wait like some sort of potted flower to be picked. No, she has chosen her own man. She has settled on him, set him free, and now they will consummate their bond. On whose terms this will be remains to be seen.
The air is heavy with their mutual desire. If anyone else were in the room, they would have done well to leave immediately. Danger and desire twine around them. It is not unlike watching a lion and lioness preparing to mate. They clearly want to indulge their animal appetites for each other. But simply because their claws are sheathed and their teeth not bared does not mean they are not dangerous.
Susana's perfume hangs heavy in the professor's nostrils as they approach each other. Her arms circle his neck; his grasp her waist. The negligee is wonderfully slick to his touch. Her skin is warm and he drinks in the wonder of her femininity, something he had only dreamed of throughout the long years of his incarceration. Their lips touch. They have both been waiting for this moment.
In kissing her the professor can sense her dual natures. Her lips are soft and smooth and wonderful, but her teeth – sharp and white – are not far behind. The danger simply fires his passion to a higher level. As it does hers; Susana Alvarez Lecter is quite well aware that Professor Creed's taste for atrocity rivals her own.
They indulge in a kiss, tasting each other, for several long minutes. Then Susana's arms shift around his, pulling the robe down, eager to free his body so that she might have it. The professor moves his arms slowly. He does not want to let go of her, but he also knows she will rip the robe down the middle otherwise. Susana can be patient when she must, but she does not want to be now.
He holds back, even as Susana pivots with him, moving him towards the bed. This frustrates her; he can tell. She may not quite understand why, he thinks. It is not that he does not want her; the long, hot stone against his lower belly is adequate proof of that. Nor is it that he is tangled in the remains of Victorian morals. The word 'repressed' is rarely appropriate for a man who once drove an eight-inch railspike through one of his victim's skulls. No, Thomas Creed holds back because he wants to savor each and every moment, taste it and smell it and feel it, taste her, smell her, and feel her, and drain each moment completely dry before he moves on to the next. This, he wants to be…perfect.
But Susana is more impatient than he, having lived the past six years in a world of colors and smells and things to touch and do. She urges him over to the bed, and he goes, albeit slowly. Once on the bed, her lips lock more firmly onto his. Slowly, Thomas Creed takes the hem of the negligee in his hand and raises it up. She releases her grip on his neck in order to let him lift it free.
He takes a long moment to observe the lovely but dangerous vision of Susana Alvarez Lecter naked before him, and decides in that moment that he will happily spend the rest of his life with her. Her arms are wrapped around him, pulling him greedily closer to her. It takes a moment to slip the boxers down his legs, and then they are both naked. He buries his head into the hollow of her neck as he moves atop her. Then she seizes his hair with one hand, forcing him to meet her eyes, and plants her other hand flat down on his buttock, pushing him down. Her nyloned calves wrap around the backs of his knees, holding him fast.
He moves forward then, giving in to her urges and his own. Her eyes gleam at him with the knowledge that her hunger will be satiated. Now, at last, she is willing to wait and does not try to force him. Slowly, he moves forward to join with her. When he enters her, it is like liquid silk and they gasp with one breath.
…
The morning light shines in the window, and she wakes up slowly, drowsy, easy and comfortable in the warmth they have generated under the blanket. Her legs shift smoothly and she rolls over to look at his sleeping form. He is ungainly now; that body that pleasured her so last night splayed across the bed. One arm is thrown carelessly over her, between her arm and her ribs, so that he can either prevent her from escaping the bed or grab a quick feel when consciousness finally returns. Grinning, she thinks the latter more likely.
She is quite content as she extricates herself from his grip. Someone else can do the hunting today. All she wants is to lie here in bed and listen to him breathe as she reviews the memory of their mating. She studies his face as he sleeps. He has missed a few spots shaving. The corner of his jaw has a suspicious patch of hair, as does the bottom of his jaw.
For a time she is content simply to wallow in bed, watching him. She supposes she ought to feel some sort of guilt for what she has done. In her youth, it had always been taught to her that nice girls don't do that; boys have sex with girls who will let them but they marry the girls who won't. She'd kept her legs firmly closed to the boys, developing a bit of a reputation as a prude. Then, as an adult, she has been too obsessed with her work to allow much room for a man in her life. Even that was a bit of a euphemism. She has been too obsessed with her cousin to allow a man in her life. What man could possibly have understood her need to see her fiendish relative behind bars? What man could understand how confused and conflicted she'd been once that had happened?
But for now that was behind her. For once in her life, Lisa Starling found herself not caring a fig about Susana Alvarez. Or Professor Thomas Creed, for that matter. If Professor Creed was dumb enough to pay a call, there was a cruiser parked in front of the apartment and a cop sitting in the kitchen. Police protect their own, and Jason had done a pretty damned good job of whomping up protection for the FBI task force on short notice. All of them tucked away in the homes of different Boston police officers, all of them guarded by other Boston officers and FBI agents from the Boston field office who had volunteered their time. That was pretty cool, she thought.
But even that didn't matter too much to her. Everything was being taken care of. For now, she was content to watch him as he slept. She sidled closer to him and began to play with the clocksprings of dark hair on Jason's chest. He grunted when she did that and rolled away to protect the growth. Lisa grinned. She had expected to feel guilty when she woke up. She'd expected some sort of Puritan goodwife expressing horror in her mind that she had dared to put her own selfish emotions ahead of The Job. But she didn't. Not a shred of guilt, not a shred of moral indignation, just a pleasant, easy feeling she rather enjoyed. She wasn't really hungover, either.
The bray of her cell phone interrupted her reverie, and that made her scowl. Her eyes roamed the room, but it was not handy. Hmm. Down the hall in the living room probably. And that's where the cop on guard probably was. Parading naked into the living room in front of a uniformed cop wasn't her idea of fun. Her clothes weren't handy either. They seemed to have been kicked under the bed or something. Her memories of last night were vague. Her suitcase was in the living room; no help there.
Jason's one dresser drawer was partly open, and Lisa spied her salvation in there: a rolled-up blue T-shirt. She unrolled it and held it up to observe the words BOSTON POLICE emblazoned across the front in yellow letters. She put the T-shirt on. It fell to mid-thigh. Good enough. She headed down the hall to the living room where her phone was ringing, moving swiftly to grab it before it rolled to voicemail.
There was indeed a Boston cop in uniform sitting at the kitchen table. His eyes widened. Lisa smiled shortly at him and grabbed her phone, heading back to the bedroom to take the call as if she wasn't dressed only in a stolen T-shirt. She pressed TALK on the phone and lifted it to her ear.
"Deputy Chief Starling? This is Beverly." The secretary for Behavioral Sciences had been there seemingly forever. At least since Lisa had been a rank recruit working on the SUSDOOVER force.
"Yes, Bev, whatcha got?" she asked the older woman.
Beverly's grandmotherly tones conflicted oddly with what she was saying. "Well, Chief Kenton sent an FBI forensics team to Dannemora, to the prison. They were going over Professor Creed's cell. He wanted me to call you with the results. Let me just get him on the line for you."
By that time, Lisa had made it back to the safety of the bedroom. She sat on the side of the bed. Jason Sullivan was awake and looked at her with a sidewise grin.
"Nice T-shirt," he said.
Lisa covered up her phone and waved her hand at him. "It's a trophy," she explained. "Now I'm on the phone. This is work."
"Hey, Lisa's boss," he caroled. Lisa swiped at him to shut him up, frowning.
"Starling? Kenton here. How you holding up in Beantown?"
Lisa Starling, who had actually lived in Boston once and never once called it Beantown nor heard anyone else call it that, shrugged. "We're okay. Boston PD insisted on moving our agents out of the hotel. They're all holed up for now, everyone's accounted for. But I don't think Creed is going to show up."
"You don't? Why is that?"
"It's sweet to be out, and he's not going to waste it that way."
"That makes sense, Starling, but we're talking about a guy here who doesn't think like you or me."
"No," Lisa said, "but he will want to stay free, and he seemed mostly interested in taunting me. I don't think he wants to go after me. If it was that, he'd be going after someone who had more of a visible role in bringing him down."
As soon as she said it, it occurred to her that the visible people on the Creed investigation were all dead, killed by Susana Alvarez Lecter. Creed might be gunning for her simply because Susana had taken away his chances to get anyone else. But he's not, she told herself, and we're not going to talk any more about Susana, cause she had nothing to do with this. Right?
She found she had trouble believing herself. Kenton didn't seem to express his own doubts. Instead he changed the subject.
"Well, Starling, we've been going over Creed's cell at Clinton Correctional with a fine-tooth comb. The guards reported that he carried on a lot of discussions by mail. He had…pen pals." Kenton let out a sardonic chuckle. "All of Creed's mail was copied. Incoming and outgoing. Problem is, their photocopier at Clinton must be a hundred years old and the copies look like crap. We're sending the best we got down to Quantico for handwriting analysis. Don't think we're going to get much. But one thing jumped right out at us."
Jason Sullivan rose up, his arm slithering around Lisa's waist as she sat on the edge of the bed, and began to haul her towards him like an octopus seeking its prey. Lisa smacked his hand, trying to make him release her while she was on the phone with her boss.
"What was that?" she asked, wondering what he would think if he knew where she was.
"There are letters from three people that are missing. Gone. Creed destroyed all of the originals. The prison has the copies, of course, but the originals are gone. Creed knew what he was doing. This was planned. Let me run some names by you, see if any of them ring a bell."
"Okay," Lisa said, still trying to pry Jason Sullivan's hand off her waist and not laugh. For his part, he steadily hauled her across the sheet towards him.
"John Martin. He's a big anti-death-penalty activist in New York State. Local boys caught him quick. We're running down his alibi now to see if he checks out. Admits he wrote Creed but says he had nothing to do with the escape."
"I haven't heard of him, but we'll check it out from here, see what we can find," Lisa promised.
"The other two appear to have been, ahem, personal friends of the professor. There was a Regina Schacht from Bonn, Germany. Also a Marie Lavelle from Paris, France. Interpol is looking for what they can find on them."
At the word Paris, Lisa stiffened. She found herself thinking immediately of the one resident of Paris she knew. She'd hoped and prayed for this not to be. Would they find out that Lisa knew where Susana was? No, it couldn't be. Susana had been quiet for so long. Why now? Why Creed?
Because Creed is similar to her father, her mind whispered. There's your motive right there. She's always been Daddy's girl and she wants a man just like her daddy.
"Well, it's probably either a smokescreen or a red herring," Lisa said to belay her nerves.
"That's what I'm thinking. We're running a check through INS to see if we have either of those two names entering the country. When we have anything we'll let you know."
"Sounds good," Lisa said. "Hey, can you fax what you find to the task force's offices? Might help to have a look at it."
"Sure thing, Starling. Be careful."
"We will," Lisa said, and hit END on her phone. She turned and glared at Jason Sullivan, who grinned widely.
"I can't believe you did that while I was on the phone with my boss," she accused.
He was unrepentant. "I was just protecting you from the big bad serial killer," he teased.
"He's not here."
"You never know," Jason said. "Maybe he's under the bed, just waiting for you to put your foot down." He chuckled, parodying his own behavior from the morning before. "We gotta keep you safe and protected, you know."
She dropped her cell phone on the nightstand and went back to him voluntarily. Otherwise, it seemed, he would drag her back. But she found she didn't care too much about that, caveman-like as it was. It was nice to have a guy who wanted you, even if he hauled you across the bed while you were talking to your boss.
"I think you're doing just fine at that," she said, and dropped her lips to his.
"Mmm-hmmm," he said, and shifted on the bed. She felt his hands on the hem of her borrowed T-shirt, then the hem was yanked up roughly. She smacked his hand again.
"Do you only think about one thing?" she asked.
He pretended to think about it, making a show of rubbing his chin and pondering. "Hmm….well….yeah, now that you mention it, I do."
"I'm supposed to go to work," she informed him.
"It's Saturday," he said calmly.
"Yeah, but there are things we'll need to do."
"There are, but you don't need to get dressed to do them," he said.
"Yes, I do," she said, grinning. "I want to get into the office. The Bludgeon Man doesn't take weekends off."
"Awww," he said, disappointed.
Lisa located her clothing and managed to get her suitcase from the living room with slightly more dignity than she had before. After a shower and some clean clothing, she felt a little more like the deputy chief of Behavioral Sciences.
She wondered what people would think. Would this get out? It hardly mattered, really. Blame it on the margarita.
As she arranged her pistol in its holster and her files in her briefcase, Jason Sullivan appeared from down the hall. His hair was wet and shining, like a pelt. He slid his own gun into its holster.
"C'mon," he said. "I know a great place for breakfast."
Lisa Starling, on her way to hunt a serial killer, smiled softly at him.