Author's note:
Yes, I admit this is a bit gooier than I expected. But this is the last of the Susana series. My original daughter-of-Lecter story 'Settling Accounts' has ballooned into five fics, 300,000 words in 77 chapters. I'd be a liar if I said Susana wasn't one of my favorite original characters; she was an enormously fun character to write. Every Lecter must have a Starling; so Lisa Starling came into play in 'Blood Ties' to be Susana's nemesis. Now it's time for both of them to finish their series. Yes, this is a bit of a valentine to my characters, but they've both become favorites (even though poor Lisa got abused in various nasty ways – shot, emotionally tormented, the Tongue Scene of Infamy).
This is going to be the last Susana fic, in all likelihood – all good things must come to an end. So here you are, the final chapter of Lisa and Susana. The discerning reader may notice that the end is somewhere between 'tribute' and 'blatant theft'…but hey, it turned out that way. Those of you who have read 'Those Who Come After' may recognize an old character from that fic coming back for a cameo…
Also, thanks to Luna for assisting with French.
But on with the show, it's a happy occasion…
Lisa Starling sat in the antechamber of the church. She tapped her feet nervously. The dress shuffled around her legs. She'd never worn all this frills and such before. The dress billowed out around her legs. She figured her legs were somewhere in there, but couldn't see them.
Agent Krause glanced in at her and frowned.
"Why do you still have your gun?"
Lisa touched the flat Glock on the table in front of her.
"Um," she said. "I don't know, I'm just used to it."
"Give me that," Krause said. "You don't need to get married carrying a gun." She took the weapon away and examined it. "This is loaded!"
"I'm an FBI agent," Lisa pointed out. "I'm supposed to carry a gun. And it's supposed to be loaded."
"Not now," Agent Krause told her. "That's the last thing you need is to have a gun right now. Besides, a Glock doesn't go with your dress." Without brooking any further ado, she carried the weapon out of the antechamber and stuck her head outside. One of the other bridesmaids took the weapon for her without comment. A fair amount of Lisa's bridesmaids were FBI agents, and were not afraid to take the gun.
The white dress billowed around Lisa's legs as she moved. She felt nervous. Here it was, after all this time. It hadn't been easy. Jason had been in the hospital for a few weeks. Reattaching his arm had been not so difficult as the aftermath.
He'd undergone therapy with great vigor, determined to recover as much function in his arm as he could. That had its ups and downs, but mostly it had gone well. He'd recovered about eighty percent function, so they said. The scar was there and would always be there.
What was worse – for him – was that he had been medically discharged from the Boston Police Department. All he'd ever wanted was to be a cop. But she'd been there for him. She'd managed to get him into the FBI as a federal investigator attached to Behavioral Sciences. He did well at the work, but occasionally he felt like he wasn't a real cop anymore.
But they had stuck together through the rough times. He had forgiven her for sheltering her cousin. She had been there for him, and that was enough. The subject of Susana had not come up in years.
She did know that Susana was no longer at the clinic in Paris she had worked in previously. That gave her pause. It was good and bad, she supposed. She didn't have to worry. Susana was bright enough to stay ducked down somewhere. But, as before, she was willing to let Susana stay free. Her life was worth Susana's.
And her life was much the same as it had been. She was still Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences. She still tracked serial killers. But she wasn't as nervous about Susana anymore. Oddly, she had the feeling that Susana and Creed together would be a lot less dangerous than they would be apart.
Kenton stuck his head in the small room. She'd asked him to walk her down the aisle, since her own father was deceased. He looked distinguished in his tux. But if he was in here…
"It's coming up on time now," he said.
Lisa swallowed and felt tears of nervousness blink to her eyes.
"Okay," she said, and gripped her bouquet with white knuckles. She missed the weight of the Glock on her hip. Funny how you got used to things like that. But she had no need for her weapon today.
Her mind was wandering. This was her moment. To maneuver in the wedding dress was not easy, particularly with this train in the way. Agent Krause took her place behind her. They proceeded slowly out to the aisleway of the church. Organ music began to play. Lisa found herself blanching. The church was packed with people. What seemed to be most of the Boston Police department was on one side; pretty much the entire Behavioral Sciences department – those who weren't in the wedding party – and a fair amount of the FBI on the other. All standing up and looking at her.
Lisa felt tears spring to her eyes. Kenton's hand was calm on hers as they proceeded down the aisleway. At the end of the aisleway, waiting with his best man, Jason Sullivan waited in a tuxedo with tails.
She found herself thinking oddly of her cousin, for just a moment. Where was Susana? She wasn't here; she wouldn't possibly show up at a wedding consisting of FBI and Boston police. No way. Was she still with Professor Creed? Was she happy?
She also found herself thinking of a package that had arrived a week or so ago. It had come from an untraceable remailer. She'd tried to investigate it and found nothing, but between her job and the wedding she'd been too busy – and too freaked out, she'd admit that – to find much. It had been delivered to her home in Virginia. A simple, elegant gold necklace. One that looked like it would have cost a month's pay even for Lisa. It held an elegantly cut diamond in the center.
The note with it had said simply this,
Dear Lisa,
Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, or so they say. Here is something new. For another present, something old – at a bank in Uruguay, I have withdrawn and destroyed what I once deposited in a safe deposit box. You are free now; allow me the same privilege, if you please.
We are happy; I hope you are as well.
S.L.C.
Lisa hadn't bothered to check the writing against the letters in Susana's file. She knew who it was. Now, perhaps, she would be at peace. Susana had let her go; she would reciprocate.
As she walked down the aisleway, she heard a whispered sentence.
"Doesn't she look beautiful, Thomas?"
For just a moment, Lisa stiffened. She could, she supposed, turn around and look. Someone had to have remembered their handcuffs. She could clear two wanted killers off the FBI's Ten Most-Wanted List at one blow. Everyone would remember that.
Then she thought that neither she nor Jason would be here if not for Susana Alvarez Lecter.
Jason stood at the end of the aisleway, watching his bride approach. Lisa sighed, squared her shoulders, and went to him. She did not look back.
…
Monaco is a wonderland like no other.
The country itself is half the size of New York's Central Park. It is the second smallest independent country in the world. The same royal family has ruled it for six hundred years. The casinos in Monaco can only be rivaled by Las Vegas, substituting taste for glitz. It is a tax haven with no income tax. Many of the richest people in the world live there. There are more Rolls-Royces per capita in Monaco than anywhere else in the world.
Yet Monaco, like any resort, offers varying degrees of accommodation. The very wealthy live in Monaco, but anyone may visit. The casinos and other attractions draw all kinds. Most visitors to Monaco are European, but it can and does draw people from all over the world.
The Monaco Zoological Gardens is a small zoo, as zoos go. This is necessary in a country so tiny. But it attracts those who want to see something other than the casino at Monte Carlo. It has attracted a few such visitors today.
Captain Kelly McNeely of the Alexandria Detention Center is such a visitor. During her career with the jail, she has stood guard over some of the more famous and rare prisoners of the time. In its own time, the jail has held such high-profile prisoners as Zacarias Moussiaou, the Beltway sniper, and Susana Alvarez Lecter, and many other strange and fearful monsters in the American lexicon.
After several years working in the jail, she has written a book. The first few chapters describe the jail and its conditions. The remaining chapters each describe one particular prisoner who the captain has guarded at one point or another. The New York Times has called it an 'evenhanded, unflinching look at today's criminals by one who knew them one-on-one'. The book has received better sales than expected in Europe, where the American justice system has often been criticized. And so she has gone on a book tour of European cities, answering questions and signing books.
In her travels she has met a nice man, an American professor teaching for a year in an English university. Now, the book tour has a brief interim, and they have taken a few weeks to see Europe together on a more unscheduled basis. Are they lovers? It is far too soon to say such a thing. For now, he enjoys her company and she enjoys his, and that is all that they need or want for right now.
The casino at Monte Carlo has been fun, but the zoo is something they did not expect. It is more fun that they had anticipated. It brings back memories of childhood, and the zoo is quite clean and pleasant to visit.
Ahead of them is a small party consisting of a young British woman and two children. The children are dressed quite nicely and well turned out. The boy is nine, tall and thin. The little girl is five, significantly shorter than her sibling. He wears a school uniform – a blue blazer, white shirt and tie, and khaki pants. She wears a blue dress, a matching hat, and white tights. Lying perhaps twenty feet behind them on the ground is a small black leather purse.
Kelly McNeely, the only woman to ever guard Susana Alvarez Lecter during her brief incarceration, bends down and picks up the purse. She walks up to the group and holds it out. For a moment she notices the purse is made by Prada and wants to gasp. A child with a three-hundred-dollar purse?
"Honey, I think you dropped this," she says.
The little girl turns around. Upon seeing her dropped purse, a flush of pink reaches her cheeks.
"Oh, did she drop that? Thank you so much," the British nanny says. To her younger charge, her tone turns just a bit stern. "Now what do you say?"
The little girl takes the edge of her skirt and curtseys gracefully.
"Merci," she says. Her small hand takes the purse. Kelly smiles. The little girl eyes her behind a pair of sunglasses.
"Are you an American?" she asks, seeming interested.
"Yes," Kelly replies.
"Bienvenue à Monaco," the little girl says grandly. "I am Lady Claire Elise Lecrède."
The nanny sighs. "Claire, you don't really have a noble title," she admonishes the little girl. She turns to the Americans and smiles abashedly. "She doesn't have a noble title."
The little girl seems offended. "I do so," she says. "Annette says so too. And she's Princess of Monaco, so she can say that." Claire Elise Lecrède attends a highly exclusive preschool. Her best friend there is the young daughter of Monaco's royal family. She is justifiably proud of the fact.
"When she's on the throne, she can say that," the nanny says. "She's just five years old, like you are." Kelly McNeely thinks of the many inmate arguments she has broken up. Like many of those, she suspects this one has been repeated multiple times.
When she first traveled to France, many people warned her of meeting snooty French women. To meet one so young is amusing. Kelly gestures to herself.
"Thank you, Lady Lecrède," she says. "My name is Kelly McNeely, and my title is Captain."
The little girl's head tilts. She seems thoughtful. Her brother skulks around a bit, as if vaguely embarrassed by his grandstanding sibling.
"You have written a book!" she says in English, her Monegasque accent making the words seem mystical. "My papa writes books, too. On philosophy, though, not like your book. My maman is reading your book, yes."
For any author, those are flattering words to hear. Now it is Kelly McNeely's turn to flush slightly red and smile. Perhaps the girl's mother would like an autograph.
"Did she like it?" Kelly asks.
"Oui, oui," the little girl answers. "But…," she considered for a moment.
"But what?" Kelly asks, wondering what the little girl's mother could possibly mean.
"Un moment, s'il vous plait," the little girl says, and looks over at her brother. She asks him a question in high-pitched French: "Comment dit on 'avancement' en anglais?" The little boy glances over at the two Americans and answers briefly. His left hand remains crammed in the pocket of his blazer. Unsatisfied, the little girl addresses her question to her nanny.
"Promotion," the nanny informs her. "The word for that in English is 'promotion'."
"Merci, Elizabeth," the little girl says, and turns her attention back to the prison captain. "Maman says you must have gotten a promotion. You were a lieutenant when she knew you."
A slight feeling of disquiet falls over Kelly McNeely. "Did your mommy know me?" she asks.
The little girl nods.
"Was she in the US?" For a moment, Kelly wonders if perhaps the little girl's mother was one of the protesters who would show up around the jail. It's possible, she thinks. Or perhaps something else.
"For a time," the little girl agrees. "Now we all live here. It's very pretty, don't you think?" She takes off her sunglasses to clean the lenses with a handkerchief from her purse.
Kelly McNeely is about to agree with the little girl, but words are struck from her suddenly. The little girl does nothing untoward; she is simply cleaning the lenses of her sunglasses. She is exactly what she appears to be: a very wealthy, spoiled little girl who is small enough for her willfulness to be amusing. But her eyes…her eyes make the captain feel something between extreme uneasiness and low-grade terror.
The little girl has maroon eyes. Her pupils are tiny, inky dots dropped amongst the bloody color of her irises. They make her appear to be something other than human. Something feral that will tear you to pieces for its own sheer pleasure, a small predator with a Prada purse. Kelly McNeely is all too aware of the only other person she has ever seen with maroon eyes. Her tongue is suddenly dry.
The nanny checks her watch. "Oh!" she cries. "I'm so sorry," she says to Susana Alvarez Lecter's former keeper. "We do have to get going." To her charges, she is firmer. "Your mother and father are meeting us at the gate. They've got somewhere to be tonight and wanted dinner as a family."
"That's all right," Kelly McNeely says. She is suddenly much less eager than she might have been to meet the little girl's mother. "Nice to meet you."
"Au revoir," the little girl says. McNeely watches them go towards the zoo's front gate. She does not move towards it. The zoo is small, and she can see the exit from where she stands.
Parked at the front gate is a gleaming black Jaguar XKR. Standing in front of it are a man and a woman. They look expectantly at the children as they run near. They are too far away to be anything but silhouettes. Like the little girl, the man wears sunglasses. He has perhaps a foot of height on his wife. Both of them are dressed impeccably in the height of European fashion. Kelly McNeely finds her palms suddenly sweating.
The little girl abandons the ponderous dignity she had adopted and sprints towards her parents, leaping contentedly into her father's arms. She burbles something in excited, high-pitched French. Her mother looks at the little girl calmly for a few beats. She turns her head and eyes the now pale American woman calmly. She takes a step or two closer.
Kelly McNeely begins to walk away. Her heart pounds. She grabs Edward's hand and pulls him closer.
"Is something wrong?" he asks.
"Just trust me," she says. "Walk with me."
But she barely gets fifty feet away before dread and curiosity overcome her. She turns. At this distance she cannot make out the face, not exactly. But she recognizes a slim but strong build. The other woman is still looking at her. In the setting sun she fancies that the woman's eyes reflect the light redly at her.
The other woman raises her hand once and her fingers wiggle in a wave. Then, satisfied, she steps into the car. Kelly McNeely is somewhat pale and nervous as the taillights of the Jaguar disappear down the road.
"Ed?" she asks, her voice shaky. "Do me a favor. Let's go back to Nice. Tonight. No questions asked."
"What is it?" her companion asks, a bit surprised.
"Can I tell you later? Please?"
Edward nods, a bit confused.
"Did you know that little girl's mother?" he asks.
"I may have," Kelly allows. "If I did…I want to leave her as she was. A ghost from my past."
It wasn't until they were in a hotel room in Nice that she began to relax.
…
Follow this family as they return home from the zoo? All right, but we must do so carefully. The Lecrède family does not care for unannounced visitors.
Claire Elise Lecrède does not know of her origins. She knows that her maman is a surgeon, and a quite good one. The family owes their Monegasque citizenship to some expert surgical work Dr. Suzanne Lecrède did on the Crown Prince of Monaco. The Prince of Monaco may override the law requiring ten years residency for any resident foreigner he deems worthy of the favor. He was grateful, and he granted the entire family this favor. Claire Elise was not included in this; it was unnecessary in her case. She was born in Monaco.
She knows that she has a big brother named Guillaume, and he is nine. She does not know that her papa is not his papa. In actuality, he is only vaguely aware of this fact himself. He was very young when Thomas Lecrède came into his life with his mother. He refers to the man as papa as well. He is treated no differently than his sibling.
Treated no differently? Perhaps that is not entirely true. Claire Elise is very much the apple of her father's eye. Monsieur Lecrède is perhaps a bit harder on his son than his daughter. Not so much that there is any real favoritism. Guillaume Lecrède will grow up to become a man, and his father takes the responsibility to raise him properly. There is an unspoken understanding: the father tends to indulge Claire; the mother tends to indulge Guillaume. Both children seem happy with this.
There are not many freestanding homes in Monaco, and those that exist are monstrously expensive. The one in which the Lecrèdes dwell is near the ocean, with a small caretaker's house nearby. There is not much land. The Lecrèdes own a larger estate in France, just up the coast, but prefer living in Monaco. It is here that the children go to school and here they consider home. Suzanne Lecrède owns a clinic in Monaco. She believed rightly that a top-shelf surgical clinic in Monaco would draw the wealthy like flies, and she has been correct. The clinic already has drawn surgeons and patients from all over Europe. A fair amount of Dr. Lecrède's work is plastic surgery, and this amuses her. She has done her own work before, and she has done her husband's as well. But now they are at home.
The view of the Mediterranean is astounding from the manse. Their estate contains a small strip of private beach. Often, Thomas Lecrède will take his children to walk barefoot with the Mediterranean lapping at their ankles.
The family dines together as much as they can. The dining room is exquisite. The servants know to leave the family once the first course of dinner is served. The family eats together and enjoys pleasant conversation.
Once the children have gone to bed, the nanny watches over them while the parents depart for Monaco's royal castle. There is a party at the castle, and they make pleasant conversation as they deal with royalty and the fabulously wealthy. This last description suits them well. Hannibal Lecter took pains to ensure that his progeny would never have to work for a living. They do avoid the paparazzi outside attempting to take pictures.
On their return, they take some pains to avoid waking the children. The parlor of their mansion is large and contains a balcony that stretches out literally over the lapping Mediterranean. In the far corner of the parlor are fine oil portraits of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. These portraits mean different things to each family member. To Susana, of course, they are her deceased parents, and this is her only real way of including them in her life. If there is anything that she wishes for that she cannot have, it is the fact that neither of them ever got to see their grandchildren. To the children, these are of course their deceased grandparents. Occasionally Guillaume or Claire Elise will stare at the portraits, wondering what sort of persons lay behind the pictures. Professor Creed's connection is the most tenuous; he did not know them in life, but expresses some gratitude towards them for the woman and life they did give to him.
Let us stay back here, by the portraits, as our couple accepts coffee from the servants. A CD of the Goldberg Variations begins to play. They are fond of dancing on the terrace, and after the coffee this is what they begin to do. It is far safer for us to stay back here, where they will not see us. Neither Susana nor Professor Creed have even thought of killing in years. Their lives are happy here, and they have found a peace in each other. If they found an intruder in their home, however, they might swiftly revert to their old ways to protect their new life.
As the Goldberg Variations plays and our couple waltzes and pirouettes, silhouetted in the Mediterranean moonlight, we must keep our distance. Stay back here and they will not see us. They are focused on each other. Take a moment to observe our couple as they dance on the terrace in the warm Monegasque night. We have watched Professor Creed for not terribly long, but be assured, he is far happier now than he was when and where we first found him. Susana we have watched for far longer. We have seen her as a young woman bent on revenge against those who had wronged her deceased father. We have seen her as a frightened young girl held captive by a killer. We have seen her as a killer on her own, toying with her new nemesis. We have seen her as a woman captured and brought low, turning around by luck and viciousness to carry out a successful guerilla war against a much larger opponent. And finally, we have seen her as she is now, a woman who sought to free the man she loves and did. Now we must close her books and settle her account.
Our last sighting of Susana shall be of her dancing, her hand revolving in Professor Creed's, her dress whirling up and out around her legs as she spins towards him. Her eyes are closed and on her face is an expression of joy. Let us capture her in that moment where she neither mocks nor threatens, in a moment of happiness and contentment, and depart with that.
Quickly now, down the servants' stairs, if you please. Don't worry about waking the children; Claire and Guillaume sleep on the topmost floor and will not hear us. Their parents may, and so we must be out by the time the music fades. Should either maroon eyes or pinpoint pupils catch sight of our motion as we depart, the results could be instantly fatal. Kelly McNeely has wisely departed Monaco for the safety of Nice, and to follow her example would be astute.
Now we, too, must part ways.