Author's note: Here we are. You'll notice no DeGould subplot in this chapter. She'll be along.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter rather enjoyed his deck. After the years of incarceration, one of his favorite things to do was to lie back on a recliner on his deck with a drink in his hand and watch the harbor. The water was relatively calm. Out here, he could truly appreciate his freedom.
Michael liked the deck too; it extended over the water. He had gotten to be big enough to dangle his feet in the water. That was where he was now, wearing a bathing suit and a large life vest colored in shocking shades of neon blue and yellow. Erin mandated a life jacket whenever he was out on the deck.
He sat next to his wife, watching his son shriek and giggle as he stuck his feet in the water. A cool drink at his side refreshed him. He cleared his throat.
"That detective will continue following us," he said.
"I'm not sure," Erin said nervously. "I talked to the mayor. He said he'd fix it."
Dr. Lecter exhaled. "It's rarely that simple, Erin. You know that. Just because her superiors have told her to leave us alone will not get her off the case. It has bought us some time."
Erin Lander closed her eyes and tightened her jaw. She'd known life with Dr. Lecter would be the life of a fugitive. But Dr. Lecter had killed no one for years now. She'd saved countless lives in the locales they had lived in. Didn't that count for anything? Weren't there other people for the FBI to pursue, people who ran around killing other people now? Wasn't there a point at which the authorities could leave them alone?
"You know what the best thing to do is," Dr. Lecter said. "I can arrange it quite quietly.
Her jaw tensed again. She knew what he meant.
"You promised me," she said. "No more killing,"
"I promised not to kill whimsically," Dr. Lecter pointed out. "Killing to defend my family strikes me as hardly whimsical."
Erin let air whistle through her teeth. "Even if I let you out of your promise…and I'm not saying that I am, killing her would attract suspicion," she said. "They'd be on us immediately. And even so much as a fingerprint check on either of us is going to bring down a world of hurt on us. Maybe if you send them an anonymous letter or something telling them who the cannibal killer is they'll quit bugging us."
Dr. Lecter considered. "That makes sense, Erin, but I don't know who the cannibal killer is. If I did, I should send the police an anonymous letter in a heartbeat."
Erin tensed and looked over at him. Dr. Lecter supposed this was much worse for her. All she had ever wanted was a peaceful home somewhere with him and with their son, where she could work and do her job. Sydney had been such a place for them for three years now. Michael had been an infant when they came here.
"Does he know we're here?" Erin asked. "The cannibal killer?"
Dr. Lecter had considered this already. "No," he said definitively. "He'd have tried to contact me if he did. It's just a rather hideous coincidence. But not so uncommon, really. My work is well known. There have been…copycats before this one. One in Tokyo, one in London, and one in Los Angeles. This fellow has a better grasp of my work than most, but the Tattler's shrieking that it is me is just that – shrieking. Almost assuredly there are differences between his work and my own. If I could get my hands on the case file, that would almost assuredly help."
"Not much chance of that," she said. "Sydney PD has it."
"Presumably they may call in the Behavioral Science department of the FBI, once the body count gets high enough," Dr. Lecter observed bloodlessly, and had a sip of his amaretto sour.
"So?" Erin's voice was just chilly enough to indicate that she knew what that meant.
"Perhaps Clarice might be willing to give me a copy of it, quietly," Dr. Lecter said.
Her voice grew a bit chillier. "No Clarice," she said.
"Erin, please. Clarice is not our enemy. She promised to leave us to our peace."
She was unconvinced. "She might have changed her mind. It's been three years. I don't want to take the chance."
"Clarice is not a liar," Dr. Lecter reproved.
"Clarice is an FBI agent. It's her job to put us in jail. She did it to me, once."
Dr. Lecter sighed. He could point out that Clarice had captured Erin and then bent over backwards to ensure that she was well cared for. But that was not the root issue. Clarice had turned him down; Erin had not. Yet he still cared deeply for both women and always would.
"Erin, please," he said. "Clarice is hardly a figure of evil."
"I never said she was," Erin said. "But I don't want her knowing where we are. It's a risk. What if things aren't going well in her job and hauling us in would help her out? Are you sure you want to risk your freedom, your life, your son, and your marriage that a woman you haven't even seen in three years is going to stick to a promise she made?"
"I don't think the issue is Clarice," he said mildly. "Are you that threatened by her?"
She crossed her arms at him. "Yes," she said. "Do you think I don't know about how you run out to the newsstand by the airport to buy the American version of the Tattler every week?"
Dr. Lecter sighed. "I read the Tattler for sentimental reasons," he said.
"Because you hope there'll be an article about her in it. When there are, you clip them out and put them in your desk. I know that, too."
Dr. Lecter sighed. "You needn't be insecure," he said, and put his hand on hers. "Clarice is simply someone I am fond of. You are my wife."
He didn't think that it was enough. Erin was usually insecure when the subject of Clarice came up. He didn't see why. Clarice had turned him down, then he had gone to Erin and she had agreed to go with him. He would not abandon her.
Michael Litton incurred a great deal of gratitude from his father by defusing the situation. He did so by running up to them with a white shell clenched in his fist. He waved it excitedly at them.
"Look, Daddy! Look, Mummy! I found a shell!"
Dr. Lecter smiled tolerantly down at his three-year-old. Even now, he could hear Australian intonation in his son's words. He supposed if they stayed here Michael would speak like everyone else.
"That's pretty," Erin told him. "Go clean it off at the hose. And wash your hands." A surgeon herself, she was strict on the subject of cleanliness. The little boy went obediently over to the spigot and washed his hands and his new treasure.
Their eyes met, but the brewing storm had been averted. He supposed it would have to wait another day, but perhaps Erin could deal with her insecurities about Clarice in the near future. He supposed he could see her side of it, but Clarice was no threat to Erin. If they needed her help, he was confident that she would help. He wondered what would happen if the situations were reversed. Would Erin be there for Clarice if she needed them?
"Look," Erin said apologetically, "at this point, it's all blue sky anyway. Clarice isn't involved. But you don't know what she's been doing. So much might have changed, and I don't want to risk it." She essayed a smile. "For all you know, she could be in prison."
…
Her eight-hour shift in the laundry was finally over. Dinner had been almost edible. Clarice Starling headed for the shower room with her towel, soap and shampoo. She found herself feeling good. Even though she'd been in prison for only a few weeks, she'd already become accustomed to the boring rhythms of prison life. You took your pleasures where you could. She discovered she vastly preferred the gym to the noisy chaos of the TV room. She'd worked up a good sweat and was looking forward to a shower and then her own bunk.
There were a few female guards posted in front of the shower room. No males. That was good; sometimes they would hang out by an almost-closed door and peep out like freakin' kids. At first this had angered Clarice. Now she thought it was simply pathetic. Especially because she knew they'd be on her list.
Her list was a matter of concern. Clarice wasn't a maximum-security prisoner, and she wasn't a behavioral problem. Even so, they shook down her cell now and then. She hated that as passionately as her cellmates did; their cell was the only semblance of privacy they had left. She'd written some journal-type stuff on the first ten pages. Hopefully most of the guards would think it was her diary. So far she'd made it through the one shakedown. Now the notebook resided where it always did when she wasn't using it. She'd cut her pillow very carefully along one side and stuffed the notebook in there. Now it resided there amongst the measly amount of Hollofil in the pillow.
She thought Linda was getting parole. The quiet woman had been jumping up and down excitedly about something but had not wanted to discuss it. She supposed it was partially for herself and partially for Brittany. It would be sort of rude, after all – Brittany had to serve another twenty years before she was even eligible for parole, and Clarice, as far as Linda knew, was new herself. Rubbing her freedom in her cellmates' faces would not do.
Clarice stopped at the door to the shower room and stripped obediently. Two female guards watched her carefully, in case she was attempting to bring a razor blade or other weapon into the shower room. Even after only three weeks of prison, she knew to bring her shower shoes. Otherwise, the foot fungus she would get away with would long outlast her stay in the prison.
The guards made her run her fingers through her hair and open her mouth. Clarice put up with it, fighting the urge to add them to her list of indictees anyway. They did have a tough job to do, she supposed. But her sympathy for them had really dropped to an all-time low.
Once cleared to clean herself up, Clarice pulled her jumpsuit back and proceeded into the steamy room. The showers were barracks-style; just nozzles and controls sticking out of the wall. Several inmates were already engaged in showering. Clarice paid little attention to the women showering and they paid little attention to her. A few of them slipped off together and embraced under one nozzle, but she had even gotten used to that and paid it no heed. Their business, not hers.
She saw a free shower about halfway down the hall and stripped out of her jumpsuit. She put her stuff on the wooden shelf nearby and turned on the water. Brittany had advised her to get her own soap and shampoo, and she had been quite correct. A few large, mannish women had offered to 'lend' her some, but she'd turned them down. She had a feeling she knew what the price would be.
Clarice noticed her cellmate two showers down. Idly, she wondered what to do. Did you say hi or just ignore her? Or should you wait until you were both dressed? But the water was hot and pleasant on her skin, a rare pleasure here in this house of misery.
So she simply turned on the shower and had at it. She was parsimonious with her shampoo; it cost a fortune, compared to what she was paid. She lathered up and began to rinse. Next to her, Brittany turned off the water at her own shower and began to dress.
Something amazingly hard and painful clocked Clarice on the side of the head. She staggered, soap in her eyes and stars floating over her vision. Her fingers swiped soap bubbles out of her eyes and she saw a blurred figure. In the figure's hand was a towel. Probably a bar of soap in it, her warrior's mind thought automatically.
Was somebody on to her? Shit. She'd be getting it from both sides: the inmates would never trust her if they knew she was a cop. The guards would have her head. She'd have to be pulled out pronto. But she had no time to worry about that now.
The other inmates yelled with pleasure to see the fight. Clarice grabbed the figure's wrist and forced it to drop the towel. A bar of soap spilled out, just as she had expected.
The guards ran in, yelling just as loudly, swinging their truncheons and warning the showering inmates to keep clear. They grabbed Clarice and the other figure and had them handcuffed in a trice. As soon as they were on her, Clarice stopped struggling and relaxed. She let them stand her up.
Dripping wet, naked, handcuffed, and with soap in her eyes, Clarice Starling sighed.
"I'm not resisting," she said calmly. "I was attacked. I just defended myself, that's all. Can I rinse the soap out of my eyes?"
There was a moment before one of the guards replied. "Turn your head, Hanson."
Clarice complied. There was a rush of water over her head. She held her head out from under the spray. The guards kept a firm grip on her arms, in case she tried to attack again. She could hear the guards chatting, as if they didn't seem to grasp that she, too, could understand them.
"Awright," the guard snapped. "C'mon, Hanson, you're going down to lockdown for the time being. Then the lieutenant will decide what to do with you."
Clarice tensed.
"Can I get dressed?" she asked.
"Once you're in lockdown," the guard said implacably, and then they were dragging her out of the shower room. Clarice's face burned with shame as they marched her naked through the halls of the prison. What was worse was that the guards seemed to enjoy it.
Oh you sons of bitches, I hope you enjoy the federal lawsuits I slap on your ass, she thought. They brought her down one hall and then another. There were a few barred gates and she was made to wait at each and every one. Trying desperately to think of anything other than the humiliation she felt, she concentrated. Was that another set of guard behind him, or just an echo? No; different voices. It was probably whoever had attacked her, which meant it was another inmate. Had they let her dress?
The cells here were simple holes in the wall guarded by heavy steel doors. They ran Clarice down the hall and banged her into the first free cell on the right. Her jumpsuit was thrown in with her and landed on the floor, one arm reaching out beseechingly towards her as if begging to be worn. The heavy steel door slammed shut, making Clarice jump. She was still stark naked and still in handcuffs. Rage and humiliation made her tremble.
After a moment, a voice buzzed over the speaker in her cell.
"OK," the voice said. She thought it was a man, but wasn't sure. "Tell you what. Back up to the cell door and I'll take your cuffs off you."
Clarice backed up, feeling her hands shake. She wanted to strangle somebody, anybody.
"Now settle down," the voice urged, sounding cool and professional. "Scootch down a little bit so you can feel the food slot. I'm gonna open it now. Watch your fingers."
The cell door was cold and hard against her skin. She could feel where the slot was with her fingers. It opened up and she could feel a hand on hers.
"Scootch down a little bit more for me, will you?" the voice said.
Clarice scootched.
"There you go." A hand took her wrists, but not forcefully. Then her left wrist was free. Clarice pivoted, letting the guard keep her right wrist to get the cuff off. Once he was done, she grabbed the jumpsuit and walked to the other side of the cell where she could dress in relative privacy. She was shaking and furious and angry.
"I want some rank," she snapped without thinking about it at the voice.
"You'll get it," the voice promised. "Lieutenant is gonna come down soon."
With that, he strode away. No interest in whether Clarice needed anything, no real concern. She was to stay here in this tomb until they decided she was fit to be let out. Would they believe her that she'd been attacked? Or was that snitching? She'd already seen that snitching was the death sentence in prison. Snitches were apostates, hated passionately in prison. She couldn't snitch on who had attacked her – she didn't know.
Well, wait. She glanced around the cell. It was five feet by nine feet, with only a bunk and a toilet. The door had a steel food slot and an observation window. The slot was small, and she could see a sliver of the hallway. Only the heavy door of the cell across from hers and a little bit of the hallway.
Clarice sighed and sat down on the bunk. The mattress was thin and the bunk would be hard. The guard returned with a roll of masking tape and a magic marker.
"Name and number," he said calmly.
Clarice gave him what he wanted. Her voice sounded defeated and hushed to her. The guard wrote it down on a strip of tape and attached it to her door.
"Now listen," he said. "You're in enough trouble already for fighting. Don't get to screaming with the other'n across the way. We'll write you up for that too. Just settle down and everything will be fine."
Clarice nodded. The guard crossed to the other side of the hall and asked the same of the prisoner therein. It occurred to her that her assailant must be in that cell. Interested, she plastered herself up against the door and watched carefully as the guard attached the tape to the door. She squinted, trying to read the name through the dirty glass. What she saw surprised her.
What the fuck?
Written across the tape was the name TOLLMAN BRITTANY.
Clarice lay down on the thin bunk and stared up at the ceiling. This made no sense at all. She'd gotten along just fine with Brittany for three weeks, two of three women sharing a tiny, cramped cell. She'd never given any indication of offense to Clarice. Why, then, had she attacked her in the shower?
It was incredibly boring in the cell, and it seemed like an eternity before the lieutenant finally got down there to investigate the matter. The guards shackled her before she was let out of her cell. Two of them flanked her as she was taken down to the lieutenant's office. She hoped it wasn't Beck. Anybody but Beck.
But her hope was in vain; lolling behind the desk was indeed Lieutenant Beck. They were hauling Brittany out of the office as Clarice was being brought in. Clarice turned her head as the smaller woman was being taken down the hall back to solitary.
"Brittany," she said.
Brittany's head was down and she was staring at her feet. She did not respond.
"Brittany, why? Why did you do that to me?"
Brittany's mouth quirked, but she did not answer. One of the guards thumped Clarice's back.
"No talking, Hanson."
In the lieutenant's office, no one spoke for several minutes. Clarice swallowed and realized just how vulnerable she was. Her fate was completely in his hands.
Lieutenant Beck let out a theatrical sigh.
"Brawling in the shower room," he said slowly. "So, what do you have to say for yourself, Hanson?"
Clarice crossed her ankles and tried to lean forward. Sitting with handcuffs on was much more uncomfortable than she ever would've thought. She smiled nervously.
"Well, sir," she said. "I was just…showering, minding my own business, and I was attacked. I defended myself, that's all."
Beck considered that.
"You were found holding on to the other inmate," he said.
"I was defending myself," she repeated. "I have no idea why she attacked me."
Beck nodded. "Riiiiiight," he said. "Well, look. You were both fighting, so you both get the same punishment. One week in solitary. Be smart, Hanson. Make this the last time, not the first."
The guards pulled her to her feet.
"Wait," she said breathlessly. "She attacked me."
"She said you attacked her," Beck said, not interested in the least. "Both of you are getting a week in solitary." His eyes focused on the guards. "Take her away."
Clarice went along with the guards. If she didn't, she was just going to spend more time in lockdown. But there was still a part of her that cried No! Not fair! This was exactly the sort of thing she was supposed to be fighting. What was going to happen now? Were they going to find her notebook? Was she going to be allowed to have anything at all? Was she going to have to spend a week in that tiny coffin with nothing to occupy her mind?
The heavy steel door of the cell slammed shut behind her, offering her no answers.
