Author's note: Found a fix for the Word 2000 problem – a patch that removes the horror that Microsoft calls HTML and replaces it with something that works better.

In this chapter, things get somewhat on the unpleasant side (on the Clarice side of things). This fic IS rated R, and there's a reason for that.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter rather enjoyed his Jaguar. It had the performance he demanded, and zipping through Sydney's streets was quite fun. When he pulled his car into the driveway and got out, he felt exhilarated. His head tilted a bit like a parrot's as he noted that his wife's Jaguar was not present. Odd, but not too odd. She was a doctor, after all, and she was quite dedicated to her job. From the passenger seat he took a copy of the Tattler. There was an international newsstand not far from his place of work that sold it, and Dr. Lecter was fond of the memories he associated with the paper. The Red Dragon, ah, what fun that had been.

Dr. Lecter took a moment, as he usually did on arriving at home, to observe the water lapping at the shores of his home. Sydney was such a good place for them. Their family, here, far away from their enemies. He rather liked living on the water. For all those years, in his cell, he'd been forced to simply imagine it. The salty tang of the air was a pleasant bouquet.

He took the mail from the mailbox and proceeded inside. He discovered his son parked in front of the living room television with one of those accursed Wiggles videos. Watching him was the nurse Erin occasionally pressed into service as a babysitter. She jumped up when he entered.

"Hello, Sunni," Dr. Lecter said calmly.

"Oh, hello, Dr. Litton," the nurse said. "Dr. Litton – er, your wife, I mean – was called back to the hospital. One of her patients ran into a bit of difficulty. We operated on him this morning. She asked me to watch Michael until you got home."

"I see," Dr. Lecter said, unruffled. It was part and parcel of being married to a surgeon. He glanced down at his son. "Thank you for watching him. I've got him now."

Michael Litton sat splayed on the floor, watching the TV with delight. He possessed the dark hair and fair skin of his mother. His father had given him his eyes, though: eerie maroon. When he saw his father, he smiled with delight. In one hand he clutched a slice of bread with a dark spread on it.

"Hello, Michael," Dr. Lecter said, and smiled tolerantly down at his son. Michael stood up and gripped his father around the knees in a fierce hug. "What are you eating?"

"Oh," Sunni said. "I made him a Vegemite sandwich."

Michael broke off a piece from the sandwich and held it up to his father in offering. Dr. Lecter sighed and accepted it. The little boy beamed up at him hopefully, and Dr. Lecter could not evade this. He placed it in his mouth, dreading the outcome. The sour, salty taste spilled over his tongue and went up into his sinuses. It was all he could do not to gag. Worse, he did not want to discourage his son from sharing. Erin reminded him often enough that Michael needed to be encouraged to share, just like any other child. Calmly, Hannibal Lecter put his hand over his mouth and chewed.

"Thank you, Michael," he choked. "That was…very nice of you."

"Oh, haven't you eaten it before? It's got heaps of vitamins. Great stuff for kids," Sunni said.

"No," Dr. Lecter said, his face wrinkling a bit. "I'm afraid we don't have such things where I grew up."

"I'll make one for you, if you like," Sunni offered. Dr. Lecter thought of having to consume that again and tried to keep from blanching.

"No, thank you," he said. She was a good person, and he didn't want to upset her. "I'll eat with Elaine when she gets home. I don't want to inconvenience you."

"It wouldn't be any inconvenience," the nurse persisted. She grabbed the red-on-yellow jar and a butter knife. Where had it come from? Had Erin bought it for their son? "After all, you're here in Australia now."

"Thank you again, but no," Dr. Lecter said. "I'll eat with my wife once she is back. Please, don't trouble yourself."

Sunni shrugged. He walked her out to her car to ensure she left safely, even though the odds of crime in this neighborhood were close to nil. It was quite exclusive. Once back inside, Dr. Lecter looked down at his son, who seemed to be munching happily on the sandwich. He shuddered and set to examining his mail. It consisted of a few bills, a few notices of some sort from the medical associations Erin belonged to, and some notices of sales. A thank-you note from the menswear shop where Dr. Lecter bought his suits made to measure.

The Tattler's front page screamed the headline Is Hannibal the Cannibal downunder? 72-point Railroad Gothic print, Dr. Lecter noted. He sighed and turned the page. Sure enough, the article hysterically detailed the new crimes of the copycat cannibal. Dr. Lecter had not gone back on his promise to his wife. None of the new victims were his work. But whoever it was had him down to a science. Just as he had, the mutilated corpses were found carefully dumped where they would be not easily found. Usually in dumpsters or the like. The true horror, Dr. Lecter thought, would come when they found the copycat's place of work.

Dr. Lecter wanted the copycat stopped as badly as Detective Isabelle Pierce did. To have a copycat in the city he had chosen to hide out in was irony of the most hideous order. If he could quietly find out what he could, he might be able to lead the police to the copycat with them none the wiser.

Besides, copying was so rude.

It wasn't terribly difficult for anyone to find out how Dr. Lecter had practiced his hobby. There had been no less than twelve cheap true-crime books about him. The photographs of his basement that had induced one police officer to leave law enforcement were available on the Internet these days. But Dr. Lecter thought about what this might mean.

For one thing, the copycat had to have someplace akin to his basement. Somewhere where he could work in peace and quiet. Dr. Lecter thought it would most probably be a house. It was very difficult to work in a flat. The neighbors either heard something or smelled something. The victims had also been dumped all around Sydney. The Tattler helpfully provided a small map indicating the dumpsites, but it was too small to suit him.

Fortunately, Dr. Lecter had a fast connection to the Internet in his home. Comparing the dumpsites indicated on the map with the maps available online confirmed it. All over Sydney, and nothing particularly seemed to match any mass transit lines. Therefore, the copycat had his own car. From that Dr. Lecter reasoned that he was employed, since he had the means to maintain and operate an automobile.

Too bad he didn't have the case file. He could have done a great deal with that. It was hardly like he could get them, after all. Dr. Lecter sat back and thought. Was the copycat a doctor? The police would doubtlessly think so, but it wasn't necessarily the case. The Tattler shrieked about how the cuts were 'exactingly precise, just as the monster's work in America was!' and carried on about 'how it could be the work of no other man'. Dr. Lecter knew it had to be. What with a career, a working spouse, and a three-year-old, he wouldn't have had the time for such things even if he hadn't promised not to.

The copycat could be a veterinarian, possibly. Or a skilled hunter. Although if it was someone who didn't have experience with the human body, Dr. Lecter would expect to see prior murders while the killer gained some facility with the human body. A copycat was usually not mentally ill. They had little self-esteem and could only realize what they wanted to do 'through' their heroes. Dr. Lecter found himself thinking that this killer had failed somewhere where Dr. Lecter had succeeded. In copying his crimes he covered up his failure. The only question was where and what.

He had helped the authorities once for his own idle amusement. He had helped them again in a clever plan to gain his freedom. Now he had to find out how to help them without betraying his hand – for the sake of his family.

For Clarice, time seemed to have slowed down. It hardly seemed like two weeks since she had been processed into prison. One day simply blurred into another. She did her job in the prison laundry; she had her rec afterwards. She had more freedom than she thought she would. She went to work and once her shift was up she had some time to behave.

Of course, she realized, most of this owed it to her behavior. She wasn't a problem for the authorities and so she was given certain privileges. But she still was a prisoner; there was no mistake about that.

The officers mostly left her to her own devices as long as she wasn't an issue for them. Clarice didn't want to be an issue. She was here to observe. If she got herself thrown in lockdown for a week, that was a week she had nothing to observe. She was here to do a job, and do it she would. She also knew that she was a new fish, and that the guards watching her wanted to see if she would run and snitch before they tried anything on her.

Up until now, Clarice had largely tended to think of prisoners the way most law enforcement people did. They broke the law and so they had to pay the price. She'd been rather indifferent to the cries of unfairness that she heard. Now, however, she found herself having to revisit that assumption.

She saw tons of petty things, unfair things. Yet to the people they were happening to, they were not at all unfair. It didn't take long to see which guards liked being assholes. She'd seen one woman neatly strung between two guards: one told her to do her job one way, one told her another way. No matter what she did she was stuck. When she protested, she got a week in solitary. That rankled Clarice.

In some ways, she thought, it was not so different from before. The inmate had been deliberately screwed no matter what she did. But before, she had to admit, she would have shrugged her shoulders and said Can't do the time, don't do the crime. Now she found herself more dedicated to this project than ever before.

She'd begun to talk a bit more with Brittany. The diminutive spree killer was quiet and cooperative with the guards, mostly. Clarice had noticed that occasionally Brittany would disappear from the cell after work let out. Where she went she tended not to say, but she wasn't in the TV room and wasn't in the rec yard. Her hair and clothes were mussed sometimes; other times she went straight for her toothbrush. She tended to dodge the question whenever Clarice put it to her. Clarice did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening.

When she returned to the cell this time, shortly after dinner, Clarice decided to take the bull by the horns. She neither understood nor approved of what the young woman was doing, but she could at least try to understand. Approval…well, that would take a bit more.

Clarice was sitting on her bunk, observing the younger woman as she entered the cell they shared. Brittany had her pants tapered to her legs in the prison fashion – twisting them around her legs and then rolling the bottoms. Inmates were not allowed to alter their clothing with a needle and thread.

"Hey," Brittany said, and walked past Clarice to the sink. Clarice cleared her throat.

"Hey," she said back. A good start, but she had to follow it up. Clarice took a deep breath and decided to try the casual approach.

"You know," Clarice said, "seems like all the time after dinner you vanish for a little bit just before we get locked in for the night."

"I'm busy," the other woman said.

"Where do you go?"

"Oh, here and there," Brittany said airily, and set to brushing her teeth.

"I guess I'm curious," Clarice said, "because I look in the TV room and you're never there, and sometimes I look on the rec yard and you're not there, either."

Brittany turned off the sink and turned and gave Clarice a level look. For a moment, Clarice was struck by how normal she seemed. She was nothing like Dr. Lecter. She was just a perfectly normal young woman. Where had she gone wrong?

"So you're so concerned about me?" Brittany asked. "Look, Claire…I know you're a new fish. Let me give you a tip here. You're in the can now. Do your own time and just let other people do theirs. It'll go a lot easier on you." Her eyes were distant.

"I'm not…trying to stop you," Clarice said, raising her hands. "I'm just…asking."

Brittany let out a snort. "Well, what I do is my business," she said. Then she paused. "It's my choice," she said, acknowledging without words what she had been up to. "It's different for you. I've seen your type before."

"My type?" Clarice asked softly.

"Your type," Brittany confirmed. "You're all nice women from nice backgrounds. Maybe money got a little tight, maybe you just had champagne tastes on a beer wallet. The shit hits the fan and here you are. You caught yourself a five-year sentence. You cry over how rough you have it. But in a year or so, they'll send you to Albion where there's less security than here. If you keep your nose clean, they'll let you out in another year, or two or three. And you go back to your little house with the white picket fence and get on with your life. It's not like that for me. I'm here for the rest of my life, so don't you sit there with that look on your face and judge me." She gave Clarice a cold smile. "Besides…if you haven't found out yet, you'll find out soon enough."

Clarice was slightly taken aback. The younger woman was here for a long time, there was no doubt of that, but she'd get out eventually.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I judged you," she said, deliberately keeping her voice soft. "I'm not. This is my first time down. I'm just…trying to find out what's going on. That's all."

"You'll find out," Brittany promised.

For a few moments the two women stared at each other. Clarice made a mental note to call the agents serving as her backup and see what she could find out about Brittany Tollman. Then a male voice echoed down the hallway.

"Hanson!"

Clarice heard her pseudonym and stood up. "Yeah?" she asked.

"Get down to the lieutenant's office. You got some legal mail."

Clarice walked out of the hallway and glanced back at the younger woman sitting on her bed.

"Go get your mail," Brittany said, with no malice or anger in her voice. "Might be good news, you never know."

A guard was waiting outside in the hallway, and he escorted Clarice down to the lieutenant's office. It was a small, square cinderblock room, but it was larger than the room Clarice and two other women were expected to live in. Lolling behind the desk in his chair was the lieutenant. He was a tall, muscular man. His hair was fading to gray. He was running to fat, Clarice noticed with distaste. His belly strained the leather belt that held his equipment. His nametag read BECK. His heavy black brogans were parked on the edge of the desk. Clarice had seen Lieutenant Beck around a few times, but this was her first time one-on-one with him before.

"Ahh," he said. "Inmate Hanson. Come on in. Close the door."

"Good evening, Lieutenant Beck," Clarice said. She felt uneasy. Lieutenant Beck gestured lazily at a chair in front of his desk. Clarice went to sit down.

"Close the door, I said," Beck said calmly.

Why were there butterflies in her stomach now? Clarice did as she was told, somehow aware that she wasn't going to like this.

This isn't bad, she told herself. This is proof positive. Maybe Brittany doesn't want to give you names, but if worst comes to worst you'll just get a name yourself. C'mon, Clarice, you've been shot at before. This is nothing.

The silence was somehow oppressive. She could feel it pressing down on her. Didn't seem to bother him a bit. Clarice smiled nervously.

"The CO on duty told me that I had some legal mail," she said brightly. "Where is it?"

Lieutenant Beck chuckled. "Claire, there isn't any legal mail. I just wanted to talk to you…alone. Sort of explain to you how this place works. You are new, after all."

Clarice felt her palms begin to sweat. She realized now just how every other inmate in this place felt. FBI agent or no, undercover or no, she was just a number here and he was everything. On his word alone she could get thrown in the hole. For the first time, she felt like a prisoner, not an FBI agent playing a role.

"Claire, you may have noticed a few other inmates around here who have…an understanding," he said. "With us. After all, we run the place. We're not unreasonable people, and maximum security is tough. Now, you know, we can make your time here a lot easier…or a lot harder."

"Have I done something wrong?" Clarice asked, and wished for a tape recorder like she'd never wished before.

"No," he said, and smiled. "Look. You're gonna be here for a while. You picked up seven years, according to your files. Now, in six months or a year we can send you to Albion – that's medium security, not max like here. Or we can recommend that you stay here." He smiled and shrugged. Clarice sat there, staring at him. Crazily she noticed thick black hairs sticking out of his nostrils.

"Now, Claire, nobody forces anybody, it's all good," Beck said. "You do for us, we do for you…everyone benefits."

"I'm…I'm not sure I get you, Lieutenant Beck," Clarice said, again wishing she had a wire. Part of her was exhilarated: this guy would be indicted the instant her ass got back to Washington and she made a report to the local DA. Another part of her was simply terrified.

"Okay," Lieutenant Beck said, and got out of his chair. "I'll show you, then." He crossed around the desk to where she sat. Up close, he smelled of engine grease and Cheetohs. Now Clarice didn't want a tape recorder; she wanted her .45. He came closer to her, his head blotting out the light. Clarice tensed to fight. Then his lips were greasy and unpleasant on hers, and Clarice thought her mind might snap.