Author's note: Yes, this has been a while in the coming. I made myself work on this chapter today. So here we are.
Detective Isabelle Pierce was thinking.
She'd been working on her profile of the Cannibal Killer. So far, everything she had come up with pointed very strongly to Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The same precision cuts, the same missing organs. The later murders suggested that the killer was getting cocky, using smaller cuts to access the internal body cavity. Or perhaps that meant that Dr. Lander was helping Dr. Lecter. She would know how to pull someone's innards out; she did it every day.
She'd been ordered to keep away from the Littons. She didn't want to do that. Not when there was plenty of evidence pointing to the Littons as being the Lecters. The Lecters. It sounded odd, as if a cannibalistic psychiatrist might have transformed himself into a family man with his fugitive surgeon wife and their little son.
Isabelle Pierce was a dedicated detective, and she was determined to see this through. If she had to keep her pursuit of the Littons undercover, she would do that. So far, she hadn't been able to turn up much. But she couldn't keep them under 24-hour surveillance herself. If they were committing the murders, then they had to be doing it at night. Both of them were going to work normally.
Now she had an opportunity to see Elaine Litton again. It was perfectly above board. Her followup appointment was today. This could be tense, she thought. Was the surgeon suspicious? Was she involved in the murders?
She doubted Elaine Litton would try to do anything to her in the medical office. That was unlikely; there would be records of her entry and the staff would have seen her. No, there was little danger in keeping her post-op appointment. She doubted the surgeon would try to physically attack her. Elaine Litton was not exactly capable of great physical violence.
Calmly, she entered the waiting room and sat down. Dr. Litton's surgical practice was located in some office buildings near the hospital. It was quite posh, all things considered. Isabelle flipped through a magazine and tilted her head. She could hear two of the office staff talking. Carefully, she focused her eyes on the magazine and her attention on the chatting office mates.
"Dr. Litton doesn't seem quite herself today," one of them said. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know," the other replied. "She said something about her husband being called out of town unexpectedly."
"Poor thing," the first replied. "She's awfully stressed about it."
Isabelle continued to stare at the magazine until her eyes blurred. That was just fine; she had no real interest in mascara or diet tips. All her attention was focused on her ears.
Right, she thought. Dr. Hamilton Litton went on holiday, did he? Just after getting me off his back? Very interesting. Fleeing, perhaps? But why didn't his wife go with him? Where is their little boy? Are they making preparations to flee? Perhaps that's it, they're getting him out and then she'll follow.
They called her name a few moments later. The private system had its benefits. Isabelle went down the hall with the receptionist and was installed in an exam room. The receptionist handed her a paper gown and offered her a plastic smile.
"The doctor will be right in," she said.
The gown would be necessary; they were treating her for a bullet wound to the chest, after all. It was long enough to cover her gun, and that was good. The weight of the heavy pistol on her belt made her feel more comfortable.
Perhaps ten minutes later, the door opened to admit the short form of Elaine Litton. Isabelle glanced at her carefully. She seemed tense and drawn. She offered the detective a short, pulled smile and examined her chart.
"G'day," she said, the word sounding odd spoken in an American accent. Apparently the past few years in Australia had begun to rub off on her.
"G'day, Dr. Litton," the detective said. She kept a close eye on the surgeon as her shoulder was exposed to reveal the wound. She was tense, that was clear. Detective Pierce didn't think it had to do with her, though. She thought of the domestic arguments she'd had to break up during her first few years on the force. Women holding back stress and secrets. That more than anything was what the doctor reminded her of.
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Litton asked distantly.
"Better," Isabelle said. "Look…I guess I should apologize about before. It was a bit of a misunderstanding."
"That's all right," Dr. Litton replied too quickly. "You just surprised my husband a bit." Her mouth quirked.
"How is your husband?"
"Oh, he's just fine," Dr. Litton said. Thunderstorms brewed in the tone of her voice. All was clearly not fine at Chez Litton. She examined the sutures and nodded. "All right," she said in a more businesslike tone. "Let me get the ultrasound and we'll have a look inside."
A few moments later she was back, wielding a machine and wand. The ultrasound goo was cold on the detective's shoulder. Dr. Litton piloted the wand over her skin, her eyes intent on the monitor.
"How is the hunt for the killer going?" Dr. Litton asked calmly.
"We're doing our best," the detective acknowledged.
"Good," the surgeon said in a clipped tone. "Well, good news. Your wound looks just fine. Should heal up with no complications. I don't think you'll need to come back here."
She stepped back and offered her hand tentatively. Detective Pierce took it, wondering if there was some trick or not. Dr. Litton offered her a calm smile and a goodbye before moving on to her next patient.
Detective Pierce thought about what was going on. She ought to check and see if Dr. Hamilton Litton had departed the country. What sort of passport did he have, anyway? As she headed out to her Holden, she glanced over at the small, sporty Mercedes convertible parked in the small area reserved for the doctors. She knew that it belonged to Elaine Litton.
Walking around the back of the Mercedes was a figure. His steps described a semicircle around the back end of the car. Back and forth, back and forth. The detective's eyes narrowed. She began to walk down the steps. Well, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to intervene. It might just be some yobbo thinking that perhaps the surgeon kept plentiful quantities of drugs in her car. They'd run across that plenty of times; some of these people got the idea that doctors drove around with drugs in their cars to dispense them like candy. Perhaps it was something…worse.
Isabelle Pierce fumbled in her pocket for her ID. She kept her right hand close to her gun. As she descended the steps to the parking lot, the figure began to run. Isabelle quickened her steps and reached for the Browning 9mm in her belt holster.
"Stop!" she called. "Police!"
A piece of paper escaped the pocket of the running figure. Isabelle pursued grimly, grateful she'd worn her comfortable shoes today. The figure rounded a corner. A few minutes later she rounded the same corner, only to find nothing there save a chain-link fence. On the other side, a door to the hospital closed. Her lips split back from her teeth. Bloody hell!
But there was something. On the ground in front of the fence was a piece of paper. She scowled at it and picked it up. Her expression changed from peeved to surprise as she read its contents. It was the pathology report on Anthony Page, the latest Cannibal-Killer victim.
She walked back to her car, meaning to call down a unit. She felt both pique and interest. What was going on here? Either way, the good doctor Litton was coming in for questioning. If Detective Pierce could get the OK to fingerprint her, she would. If she did, then she suspected Elaine Litton would be going to jail until she was turned over to the Americans.
The passenger door of her Holden hung open. At the sight of that, Detective Pierce pulled out her gun and aimed it at the car as if it might attack her. She walked forward quite carefully.
On the passenger seat of her car was a Tupperware container. Along with it was a note written in straggling red letters. She glanced in the container and saw chopped-up meat and what looked like vegetables. Curious, she sniffed the top. The sharp aroma of onions hit her nostrils. Then she looked back at the note.
Join me in some haggis, Detective?
…
Here in the grim, gray little cell, she knew despair.
She was allowed out for an hour or so for exercise on a single, fenced-in yard. She was allowed to call her attorney. And that was it. Hours and hours and hours of isolation had left their mark on her. Clarice Starling was here, locked in this cell, forbidden to associate with anyone.
She knew intellectually that she shouldn't give in to despair. Paul was trying to get her out. Maybe Dr. Lecter would help her too. She had placed the ad a few days ago. But nothing had changed. She stayed in lockdown. Nothing to do, nothing to occupy her mind. She decided that if she ever got out of here, she would do everything in her power to see that this was stopped. No one deserved this.
But getting out seemed like such a vague possibility. Her prior life seemed so far away. Had she ever been an FBI agent before? She was beginning to wonder. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Perhaps she really was Brittany Tollman. Then she would scold herself and tell herself not to give in. She couldn't. She could not let Rebecca DeGould win.
But then the despair would come creeping back, like a monster on soft padded feet, slithering into her mind. She would flop down on her uncomfortable little bunk and try to keep from sobbing. Had Paul forsaken her? Had Dr. Lecter? It seemed irretrievably so.
Either way, she was here, and she wasn't getting out.
She could hear someone moving down the hall. He asked a few questions of the prisoner in each cell, and then moved on. Sounded like a doctor. It was stupid, so freaking useless. As he drew closer she could hear him asking each inmate if she felt all right. Then it was her turn.
The doctor stared in at her calmly. She saw him and her jaw dropped. It was…it was…
"Hello," the doctor said in a calm, cultured voice. There was a metallic tone to his voice. "I'm the new doctor for this facility." He chuckled at her. "My name is Dr. John Crawford. I'm coming around to introduce myself. Also to see if any of the inmates in solitary confinement are in need of medical attention. After all, to be incarcerated by oneself in a cell can be quite…inconvenient."
Clarice Starling stared at Dr. Hannibal Lecter and arranged her jaw. There was a guard with him, so she had to be careful. She stopped and thought. What would get her out of here?
"Thank you, Dr. Crawford," she choked. "I do…I do have some pain in…my stomach."
"I see," he said. "How bad is it, would you say?"
"Pretty painful," she assured him.
"Very well. Allow me to see to the rest of these inmates and we'll come back for you, hmmm?" The doctor grinned as if this was all amusing.
He turned to leave then, accompanied by the guard. Clarice Starling sat down on her bunk and felt an unfamiliar feeling in her stomach. Not the false pain she had described. She felt…hope.
