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.
