Author's note: Here's a story I broke ground on a little bit ago. It's part of the Erin series (Dr. Lecter's Experiment, Returning the Favor, and The Most Dangerous Plaything). What with Reflections finished and Ghosts very close to being finished, I decided to go ahead and publish.
Also, thanks to LoT and Sunni for serving as Australian consultants for this fic. What I got right is largely thanks to them; whatever I got wrong is exclusively the fault of the bleeding Yank author. (No, the GD will not kill and eat the Wiggles, Steve Irwin, or Paul Hogan. Sorry. :D)
Clarice Starling sighed and put a hand to her head. Paperwork. God, how she hated paperwork. There were times she really missed the field. Yet she'd accepted the promotion to deputy chief a few years ago, and the paperwork was a necessary evil. But that didn't make it any less evil.
Two o'clock. She had a meeting with the chief of Behavioral Sciences now. It got her away from the paperwork, at least. She got up and walked down the hall to his office.
Behavioral Sciences wasn't the same since Jack Crawford's death. The new fellow running it was named Conway. He wasn't a bad guy, Clarice thought. The post-Krendler days were definitely better.
She stuck her head in his office. He was seated at his desk. When he saw her, his face brightened and he gestured for her to enter.
"Ah, yes, come on in, Agent Starling," he said calmly. "There's someone I want you to meet."
Seated in front of his desk was a tall, imperious-looking black woman. She wore an expensively cut suit and smiled graciously at Clarice. Her eyes were liquid black drops. She seemed to be a Nubian princess in a business suit. Nobility seemed part of her bearing.
"Agent Starling, this is Senator Allstyne," Conway said. "We're going to be undertaking a project she's interested in."
The woman extended her hand elegantly to Clarice. For a moment, Clarice wondered if she wasn't supposed to kneel and kiss her ring. Instead, she simply shook it gamely.
"Hello, Agent Starling," the senator said. Her voice was surprisingly deep. "I'm the junior Senator from Michigan. Also the resident 'pinko liberal' of the Senate." She chuckled throatily.
"Starling, we're going to be investigating abuse in prisons," Conway went on. "The Senator has expressed concern about human rights abuses in prisons."
The senator chuckled again. "Yes," she said. "As I said, I hold the pinko liberal belief that even those in prison should not be subject to arbitrary torture. A truly shocking belief to hold indeed, in this day and age, but one I do continue to maintain."
Clarice Starling had little sympathy for criminals, but put that way it was hard to argue with. Besides, arguing with a Senator was usually not a bright move. Besides, this might be interesting.
"What we're going to do, Starling, is put agents into various prisons undercover," Conway said. "It's a tough assignment. You'd be in from anywhere to thirty to sixty days, supplied with a cover identity. You would be treated as any other prisoner; the wardens and staff will not know who you really are. We'll be inserting agents into prisons far away from where they're based. For example, we might put you in New York or California, but not Virginia. People might recognize you here."
"I take it you want me for this assignment," Clarice said, and swallowed.
Conway nodded. "This assignment takes some onions," he said. "No doubt about it. We need people who can keep it together under tough conditions – and once you're in, you're on your own for thirty to sixty days. Your access to telephones would be strictly limited, just like any other prisoner. Your job would be mostly to record, not to prevent or prosecute. Write down what you see. Names, times, places."
Clarice thought about it. It was indeed a tough assignment. And they wanted her for this?
"Agent Starling, I've heard all about you," the senator said. "You've come highly recommended. Part of my belief in doing this is to check on the needs of female prisoners, who are often ignored. I'm sure you think criminals ought to do the time, but I'd hope you agree they deserve the same right to be free from sexual assault that everyone does."
"Of course," Clarice said uncertainly. Boy, this woman knew how to push the right buttons.
"I should tell you who recommended you for this. Agent Ardelia Mapp. I brought her into my office to ask about this, and asked how many other agents she might recommend – male and female – who might be up to the task. Your name was the first she mentioned."
Well, thank you Delia, Clarice thought. 'Agent Mapp, who would be good to throw in the pokey?' 'Why, my roommate Clarice, of course!'
But no, Ardelia wouldn't steer her wrong.
"Is Agent Mapp going to be part of the assignment?" Clarice asked.
The senator nodded.
Clarice sighed. "All right," she said. "I'll do it." Wow, me and Ardelia might be cellmates. It could be like that bad movie we caught on cable. What was it? Caged Heat or something like that. With that loony doctor.
She thought of another doctor who had been described by the uncharitable as loony, and her stomach quivered. Maybe he'd show up at her door. No, she was getting off track. Dr. Lecter had disappeared along with…
Oh hell. She'd learned to say it. His wife. Dr. Lecter had married Erin Lander and had a child with her. And Clarice had let them go four years ago.
The senator smiled approvingly. Clarice felt slight butterflies in her stomach. But this wasn't too bad. And although she'd never had a gift for office politics, she knew that being part of a senator's pet project was never a bad thing.
Still, she found herself nervous. She was going to have to ask Delia what was up with the idea of becoming jailbirds. It was slightly unnerving.
…
The mansion in the wealthy suburb of Watson's Bay was busy. It was quite grand, a white fortress rising high and square. The back of the mansion provided a stunning view of the harbor behind it. The man of the house took due pleasure in the large rooms and the breathtaking view when the sun set over the water.
In an upper wing, children's music was playing. Four men in different colored shirts danced and sang on a TV screen. A small boy watched them eagerly, bouncing up and down in time with the music. He paid little attention to the two women with him.
"Thank you for watching him, Sunni," one said with a marked American accent. "We'll be right downstairs if you need us."
The younger woman smiled. "Oh, not at all," she said, and reached down to poke the little boy playfully. "We'll have a great time here with the videos and all. Don't worry about a thing, Dr. Litton."
The woman smiled and gave her son a goodbye kiss before heading for the bedroom she shared with her husband to change. The bedroom was vast, a pleasant refuge for the two of them. As she changed into her party finery, it occurred to her that Sydney itself was a refuge. Here, it was cosmopolitan enough for his tastes. There was the opera house, and the restaurants in Watson's Bay were enough to satisfy his highly discriminating palate. But it was also far away from their enemies, and most people would not think to look for them here.
She had a good job at a private hospital, working as a general surgeon. They had good papers. Changing identities was a pain, but necessary when one lives as a fugitive. It had been years since she practiced under her own name. Back when she was a resident, actually. And then he had come into her life…
The woman known in Sydney as Dr. Elaine Litton glanced at herself in the full-length mirror against her bedroom wall. The strapless dress was a lot more elegant than the scrubs she usually wore. But her husband's little soirees were strictly black tie. There were people from the hospital there. She'd invited her surgical team. One of the nurses on the floor was watching Michael. The guests would be here soon. The caterers and waiters had been setting up all day. College students in tuxedo shirts would be serving the every whim of the guests. Her husband was paying them well. He loved to show off at these little shindigs.
She put on her shoes and frowned. Damn these things. They might look good but they were uncomfortable. But fashion demanded them. This was a high-class affair, after all. Dinner parties at the Litton household were considered the event to be seen at.
In a way, she thought, it was funny. In America, they were fugitives. A warrant for her husband's arrest still existed and would until his death. Her own name – her original name, actually – was listed on his wanted poster. She wasn't sure if there was a warrant out for her or not, but the FBI was quite interested in finding Erin Lander, almost as much as they would have enjoyed a leisurely chat with her husband, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But here in Australia, they were among the social elite of the area. The local medical community considered Dr. Elaine Litton one of its shining stars. She was exceptionally good at her job.
Dr. Hamilton Litton had secured a post at a local museum as the curator. He seemed to quite relish the job, steeping his days in history. Although he had excellent references and a good job history, his employers did not know that his experience in museums had come from the Palazzo Caponi and the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin, as he had worked there under separate names. Nor did they know that his given name was Hannibal Lecter.
But here, the Littons had settled down into a quiet peace. They had each other and their son, Michael, a cherubic but stubborn three-year-old. They were happy. It was quite pleasant here.
It sometimes bothered Erin Lander that her son would not know some of the things she had known. He might be able to travel to America as an adult, but it would never be his home the way it had been hers. But then again, there was plenty that he would know, and that was good too. There was the harbor and the ferries. Even now Michael loved the ferry. He would stand by the side of the boat and stare at the water and laugh. His high-pitched little laugh was infectious. Even his father, glacial and dignified, would crack a grin upon hearing his son's joy. There were parks and there were places to play. And no matter what, it was better that he have his father.
Now if she could ever get used to driving on the left and having the steering wheel on the right, she'd be set. He had no problem with it; he went ripping up and down the highway as if he'd driven like this all his life. Driving on the left? No problem! Steering wheel in what she'd always thought of as the passenger seat? Easy! She was getting better, though; the first few times she'd broken out in a cold sweat.
Erin Lander opened her bedroom door and walked downstairs slowly. Their dining room was majestic, with a few Renaissance prints on the walls. The table itself was massive and polished. Twenty place settings were set up, each one a veritable display of elegance. A few of the students he'd hired to wait on the tables ran back and forth. In the middle of things, Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood, calmly giving orders. He wore a preternaturally neat tuxedo.
"Ah, Elaine, dear. There you are. You look lovely." he smiled.
"Thank you," she murmured. "How much longer do we have?"
"Our guests will be arriving shortly," Dr. Lecter assured her. "Of course, there will be those who arrive fashionably late. Is Michael all set?"
"He's fine," Erin assured him. "Sunni is watching him. He's got his Wiggles videos, and he's happy as a clam."
Dr. Lecter scowled briefly. He had forsworn killing for the sake of his wife and child. However, if his wife were ever to release him from that vow, Greg, Anthony, Murray, and Jeff were going to be the first ones to meet the business end of a Harpy. The melodies were simple and the lyrics puerile. He thought his son ought to start out on the classics. But Michael liked the Wiggles, and Erin would remind him all too commonly that Michael was only three. Dr. Lecter was like any other parent in some respects, and he did not want to deprive his young son of something that made him happy.
The wait staff watched silently as they worked. Erin wondered what they were thinking. They were probably amused by the accents. Her accent was pure American. She had no hope of trying to match the unique Australian intonation and didn't bother trying. Dr. Lecter's accent still held the tinges of the British soldiers who had rescued him in Lithuania at a young age. That made Erin slightly nervous. It stuck out, and sticking out might attract the attention of the authorities.
Yet if the students found it amusing that their employers were a pom and a Yank, they didn't show it. They were polite and hard-working as Dr. Lecter gleefully directed things. He was in a good mood, and it showed. The first guests arrived, and Dr. Lecter conducted them to the parlor, where a bartender prepared drinks and servers offered trays of hors d'oerves.
As the dinner hour approached, the guests herded into the dining room. Tuxedoes and party dresses were all on display. The dinner party was the very height of elegance. Dr. Lecter sat at the head of the table, smiling benevolently at his guests. At the far end of the table, Erin occupied the other end. He'd told her that this part of normal etiquette. Part of her wondered if this wasn't deliberate, so she couldn't elbow him under the table if he got overly ebullient.
But their guests appeared to have a good time, and as the servers brought out the various courses of the meal, Erin found herself enjoying herself. It was a good party. Dr. Lecter raised his glass and the guests quieted.
"Friends," he said, "we are honored that you have all come to share a meal with us today. A wish for the coming New Year, if you will." He cleared his throat and stood. As he recited, his voice was surprisingly light, investing the syllables with a firm 'pease porridge hot' quality.
"Earth's increase, foison plenty
Barns and garners never empty,
Vines and clustering bunches growing,
Plants with goodly burden bowing,
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you,
Ceres's blessing so is on you."
Everyone smiled and drank to that.
Dr. Rhodes, the chief of surgery at the hospital in which Erin worked, chuckled and raised his own glass.
"An excellent toast, Dr. Litton," he said. "If I may, a toast of my own, to our most generous host and hostess." He smiled and began his own.
"Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings on you."
"You're too kind, Dr. Rhodes," Dr. Lecter said with a grin. "We're both cribbing lines from The Tempest, so that's fair enough. They say anything that has to do with the basics of human nature has been touched on by Shakespeare."
Angela Bartley, a co-worker of Dr. Lecter's at the museum, spoke up.
"Everything? Certainly quite a bit," she said. "We should all be glad for this good friends and good food. But I do wonder what Shakespeare would make of the world today; it's very different from what he knew. They say the cannibal killer has struck again."
Dr. Lecter tilted his head calmly. "Has he?"
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Bartley said. "It was on the news." She chuckled and blushed. "I suppose I'm just awful for discussing such horrible things at such a fine dinner. Pardon me."
"Nonsense," Dr. Lecter said, the attentive host. "It should make us appreciate what we have all the more."
On that note, the party continued with dessert. Dr. Lecter glanced down the table at his wife, who was giving him a slightly suspicious look. He sighed. It was understandable, he allowed. His dinner parties in America had been known for his uncommon cuisine. But he had promised. No more whimsical killing.
Calmly, Dr. Lecter shook his head.
Dessert was served, and coffee to go with it. The tone was pleasant and calm. Internally, though, Dr. Lecter was concerned.
He had selected Sydney as a place to settle with his wife and child. It had been his safe harbor. It was cosmopolitan enough for him, and perhaps more importantly, his enemies would not expect him to be here. They doubtlessly thought he had moved to another country in Europe. There, they could search for him to his heart's content.
He believed Clarice would hold true to her promise and allow them to go free, but there were others. And now, something had occurred that he had never counted on. Innocent of new murders as he might be, he still might be exposed. The irony was absolutely hideous.
A copycat killer was active in Sydney. And he was assiduously copying Hannibal Lecter's killing style.
