Author's note: Did Dr. Lecter and Clarice end their night in a, ahem,  special way?  Good question.  Maybe I'll answer it.  :D  For now, the two women in the GD's life…

                The mansion in Watson's Bay stood as it always had, bravely looking out over the sea.  The woman living inside went to work and spent hours in an operating room, just as she always had.  When she was finished, she picked up her son from the babysitter's and took him home, just as she always had.  But now things were markedly different. 

                Michael was playing on the floor with his Duplo blocks.  He would build with them for hours, if allowed to.  High structures spanning into the air.  Whole cities of buildings.  Occasionally he would scatter his matchbox cars around them in order to bring his city to life.  That the scales didn't quite match meant little to him. 

                "Mummy," Michael asked, and glanced over at his mother with his strange maroon eyes. 

                Erin Lander smiled in some pain as she watched him build.   "What, honey?" she asked. 

                "Where's daddy?  He usually helps me build with my blocks."  Even at three, Michael Litton was already developing an Australian accent.  He studied the structure he was currently building as if it might offer him some answer. 

                Erin sighed.  What was she supposed to tell him?  That his father had gone gallivanting across the planet for the sake of a woman he hadn't seen in years?  That he might be captured, and that Michael might never see him again?  Meanwhile, there was that serial killer running around, and a detective besides.  That detective might try now, while he was away. 

                "Daddy went…to visit an old friend," she told him.  "He'll be back." 

                Michael tilted his head, looking oddly like a smaller version of his father.  "An old friend?" he asked.  "Why didn't we all go to see Daddy's mate?" 

                Hearing her son refer to Clarice Starling as Hannibal Lecter's mate made her clench her fists.  She damn well better not be his mate, she thought.  Then she stopped.  Michael meant it in the Australian sense.  His friend.  Just his friend. 

                That had damned well better be true. 

                "Daddy wanted to see his friend by himself," she explained.  "He'll be back.  And  I have to work.  I'm a doctor.  People need me here." 

                "Will he be back soon?" Michael's round face was the picture of innocence and curiosity.

                 Erin sighed and felt tears sting her eyes.  This whole thing was so insane.  He had just gotten on a plane and left, promising to return.  But there was so much that could go wrong.  He could be caught.  He could be detained at Australian immigration coming back.  Or, God forbid…he might choose not to come back. 

                No. He'd promised.  He wouldn't.

                "I sure hope so, Michael," she said.  "I sure hope so." 

                She glanced out the window.  Her cars were parked in the driveway.  Cars, as in more than one.  He'd bought her a Jaguar convertible when they had moved into Sydney, despite her pleas that it really wasn't practical with a baby.  His answer had been simple:  he'd bought a Mercedes sedan that served to ferry the kid around in.  Yet still, Michael always liked a ride in the no-top.  Perhaps she'd take him out for a ride tomorrow.  Her morning was free. 

                Across the street, an elderly Ford sedan was parked on the side of the road.  Its hood was up in the universal signal for car trouble.  Erin eyed it nervously for a moment or two. 

                Is that you, Detective Pierce? she wondered.  A lump tickled her throat.  What would happen if the detective burst in and took her to the station now, while he was gone?  She knew where that would lead.  Fingerprints would reveal her identity.  She'd be jailed pending extradition to the US.   Her son would be packed off to an orphanage somewhere.  Or maybe foster parents.  She didn't know how it was done in Australia. 

                Erin Lander had her own memories of orphanages and foster care.  She would sooner die than subject Michael to those dull and dirty institutions or those joyless groups of strangers who offered a sad substitute for your family.  She knew what he would want; he would want her to stay put and not arouse suspicion.  He'd said he would only need a few days.  But her mother's instinct was strong, and the urge to simply grab up Michael and get out while she could. 

                What if it isn't Detective Pierce?  Erin found herself thinking.  No, she was getting paranoid.  Who else would it be?  All the same, she crossed to a closet and glanced at the alarm panel inside.  Lights flashed in sequence.  Green across the board.  Good.  She tapped out a code on the keypad.  A muted electronic chirp came from the panel and a light shifted from green to red.  No one would break in now, not without her knowing about it. 

                And what do I do then?  she wondered.  I'm a serial killer's wife, I can't exactly call the police for help.  That detective would have me down to the station and fingerprint me in a minute.

                She wasn't willing to kill the detective.  He wanted to.  Maybe he was right; maybe her insistence that killing was wrong was ill suited to the situation.  It wouldn't take too long, not for him.  But she hated such things.  When you came down to it, she'd even tried to save Clarice Starling's life, when it was necessary. 

                The burglar alarm would have to do for now.  If she absolutely needed the police she would call them and hope for the best.  Erin Lander picked up her son and scooted him off to the tub for his bath and bedtime. 

                Across the way, the killer lowered his binoculars.  Interesting.  His meal's husband was nowhere to be seen.  His car wasn't in the driveway, either.  At first, the sight of the Mercedes and the Jaguar had thrown him off.  But he had been careful.  He knew that his prey had two cars; one was used as a baby-mobile.  The man drove a hardtop Jaguar.  That car was nowhere to be seen. 

                This was excellent. Far better than he could have ever hoped.  All he had to do was take care of the detective, and his prey would be in his hands. 

                Paul DaSilva was watching TV when the knock at his door came. His apartment in Brooklyn was nothing fancy.  But he had his Barcalounger and he had his TV and he had the good old Giants on the tube.  He got up and trotted over to the door.  Just in case, he drew his 9mm and peeked out the door before answering. 

                The peephole in his door gave him a wide, fishy-eyed view of Clarice Starling standing outside his door.  He frowned.  What the hell? Clarice was in prison.  He'd been trying to get her out. 

                He unlocked the door carefully and opened it.  Clarice smiled nervously when she saw him.  He scanned her face and consulted his memory.  Yep, that was her.  He knew it.  A little thinner through the face than she had been, but that was her. 

                "Clarice?" he said. 

                "Paul," she said urgently.  "Can I…can I come in?" 

                "Sure," he said, and opened the door to admit her.  She glanced right and left and then dodged in the door quickly.  She wasn't armed and looked nervous. 

                "So I guess everything got straightened out," he said.  "You..um…you want some coffee?"

                She shook her head.  "No," she said.  "Well hell's bells, I'll take the coffee.  Everything didn't get all straightened out.  Everything is still majorly fucked up.  Paul…I need your help." 

                The coffee mugs banged on the counter with a solid porcelain thump as he got them down.  His Mr. Coffee machine gurgled at him and emitted steam as he snapped it on.  He eyed her curiously. 

                "But you're out of prison," he pointed out. 

                Clarice Starling bit her lip and stared at him.  She looked vulnerable, he thought.  Vulnerable and needy.  It made him want to put his hands on her shoulders and tell her everything would be OK. 

                "I…I escaped," she whispered.  Her eyes scanned him and judged whether or not he would help her.  Paul's jaw dropped. 

                "You escaped?"  he said disbelievingly.    "How the hell did you do that?" 

                Clarice sat down on his couch and raised her hands to her face.  "Please don't ask me that," she whispered. 

                The coffee was ready momentarily, and Paul served Clarice a steaming fragrant mug.  She raised it to her lips and looked completely miserable.  As if she had just lost something so desperately dear to her. 

                "Paul, everything has gone wrong," she said.  "My best friend is still in prison.  The system thinks I'm a felon myself.  If I'm caught they'll send me back to prison.  Rebecca DeGould is gonna try and destroy me.  I…I don't know what to do.  I need help, Paul."  She looked up at him, her gaze exposed and helpless.  "Will you help me?" 

                Paul swallowed.  His duty was clear enough.  IF she was an escaped prisoner, it was his obligation to arrest her and bring her to jail.  They could deal with her through the courts.  So his duty always had been, and so it was clear. 

                Except Paul DaSilva knew better.  He knew the woman sitting on his couch and looking like she was about to cry was the FBI agent he had sent undercover into prison.  He had inquired as discreetly as he could about her after the official record showed that Clarice Starling had been extracted.  He'd gotten a bitchy email from a woman named Rebecca DeGould telling him to lay off and he was jeopardizing a very important case. 

                His dander was up.  He knew better.  Something wasn't right.  Best to hear Clarice out, let her see what she needed. 

                "Sure," he said.  "Look…we'll get this all straightened out."  He indicated the coffee mug.  "Drink that, it'll make you feel better."

                She took a long draw from the mug and her eyes closed in pleasure.  Then she glanced down over at some manila folders on his coffee table. TOLLMAN was written along the tab of one.  WASHINGTON was labeled on the other one.  

                "What are those?" she asked eagerly. 

                Paul shrugged.  "Brittany Tollman's file," he said.  "And Kiera Washington's.  You asked me to get them.  I had a look." 

                Clarice picked up Brittany's folder and opened it.  Her eyes narrowed.  "What's in here?" 

                "Everything I could get," Paul answered gently.  "Her arrest record.  Her court papers."  He pronounced the word cawt, and she smiled.  He found he liked her smile.  "Why do you want to look in there?  Sounds like you got enough problems." 

                Clarice exhaled slowly.  "I got to know what I'm dealing with," she said.  Paul thought it was something else.  She needed something to get her mind off her problems.  Reading about the Tollman chick might do it. 

                So he let her read the file.  After ten minutes of fortifying herself with the coffee and reading the file, she glanced up at him.  Her lips twisted in distaste. 

                "I can't believe they sent her up for first-degree murder," she said. 

                Paul nodded.  He had read the file himself.  His eyes blinked like a camera shutter clicking and the contents came into his mind immediately.  It had been a useful gift in his police career. 

                "Pretty raw deal," he agreed.

                "Look at this," Clarice vowed.  "The gun they found her with was loaded with blanks.  She couldn't have shot anyone if she wanted to.  And her shoulder was dislocated when they found her.  And look at these bruises."  She took an old Polaroid out of the folder and waved it at Paul as if he was responsible. 

                Paul shrugged.  "Not my department, Starling," he said.  "And not yours, either.  You got enough problems." 

                Clarice appeared not to have heard.  "Goddam it," she said desultorily, staring into the corner.  "No wonder she took DeGould's offer.  Goddam her.  How the hell does she figure this out?" 

                Paul smiled and squatted in front of Clarice.  He put his blocky hands on either side of her face. 

                "Look," Paul said.  "Listen…I ain't gonna run you in.  I know something's up here.  But you gotta focus on you for right now.  Now listen.  I'm off today.  It's nine now.  If we beat feet we can be in DC in three and a half hours.  Maybe three, if we step on it.  I got my badge.  Let's get you down there now and see what we can find.  I talked to some guy who might be willing to help you." 

                A bolt of hope crossed her face.  He nodded.  All she'd needed was a little push to get her up and running.  Sometimes people needed that sort of thing. 

                "Okay," she said breathlessly. 

                "I'll miss my Giants game, but that's OK," he said. 

                "I'll buy you tickets on the fifty-yard line when this is over," she promised. 

                Paul chuckled.  "Only if you come wit' me," he said, an eyebrow cocked.  "Look, there's pop tarts and such in the kitchen.  Let me shower and get my suit on and all.  How's that?  You need a shower or something?" 

                She shook her head.  "I'm fine," she said.  "I…showered last night."   Then she smiled saucily.  Paul DaSilva thought something was odd. 

                Paul showered quickly and dressed.  He chose a plain blue suit; he'd need to look like your average FBI agent.  A neat white shirt and a brilliant red tie completed his ensemble  After getting his weapon holstered and his tie knotted neatly around his neck, he was satisfied. 

                 It was only when he came out that he realized Clarice was dressed in a nice pants suit.  Where had she gotten that? Wasn't like there was a freakin' Saks in the prison.  She hadn't wanted to tell him how she escaped.  And frankly, it didn't matter. 

                So he brought her down to his car.  It was a quick trip to Jersey.  The Jersey Turnpike would take them all the way down to I-295, and from there it would be quick.  He had his FBI identification, so he felt comparatively little guilt in slamming the pedal to the medal.  Even the Jersey state boys were pretty good about helping out a fellow cop. 

                On the way, he gave her his cell phone and dialed a number for her.  He watched her face as she waited for the phone to pick up.  She'd be happy.  Paul DaSilva had done his homework.  Clarice Starling was in a bad situation, but she was not entirely without allies. 

                Clarice listened carefully to the phone, waiting for the electronic burr to resolve into a human voice. 

                "Pearsall," a male voice said gruffly. 

                "Clint!  It's Clarice Starling.  How are you?" she asked. 

                Pearsall seemed taken aback.  "Clarice?  Clarice Starling?  Is this a joke?" 

                "No," Clarice said in a short whisper.  "God, no.  I wish it was.  Things have been so messed up.  DeGould screwed me on the prison project.  But DaSilva's helping me.  I need help, Clint." 

                There was a long pause.  "You bet you do," Clint Pearsall said.  "Your duplex burned down and they found two bodies in it. According to FBI records…both you and Ardelia are dead."