Isabelle Pierce awoke with a start.  The last thing she remembered was lying on her apartment floor, her gun in her hand.  A killer's blade had sought her out.  Now she sat up, her pulse racing, and looked around. 

                She was in a white room, lying in a bed.   Instead of the blouse and pants she had worn when attacked, she had on a white gown with blue dots.  Next to her, an IV stand stood sentinel and slowly dripped clear fluid into her.   There was a window in the room.  Beyond the window was all black.  It was night.  A nurse in pink scrubs stood by her bedside. 

                A hospital.  She was in the hospital.  Thank God. 

                "Good morning," the nurse said calmly.  "You're awake.  How are you feeling?" 

                "Where is he?" Isabelle asked. 

                The nurse looked puzzled.  "Where is who?" 

                "The man who attacked me," Isabelle said.  She gestured at herself.  "He…he stabbed me.  But I got him, too.  He must have been admitted.  I hit him in the stomach." 

                "Right," the nurse said.  "I don't know, Ms. Pierce.  You're all right, and you're safe.  That's what matters.  Let me get a doctor for you." 

                "No, wait," Isabelle Pierce said.  "I mean I shot him.  In the stomach.  He's either here or he's dead." 

                The nurse smiled tolerantly, as if this was simply idle fantasy.  For a moment the detective expected her to pat her on the head and say Of course you did.  Instead, she simply raised a hand in tolerant warning. 

                "Now, Ms. Pierce," she said.  "You need to rest.  You had emergency surgery.  I'm just going to get a doctor for you and then you can talk to the police.  But for now you need to relax." 

                A few moments later, Isabelle Pierce was somewhat – but not overly – surprised to see Dr. Elaine Litton enter the room.  She eyed the short surgeon carefully. 

                "Detective Pierce," Dr. Litton said in her crisp American accent.  "How are you feeling?" 

                "All right," the detective said warily.  "I didn't know you worked in this hospital." 

                Dr. Litton smiled calmly.  "I cover for them when they need it," she explained.  "So what happened to you?"   

                Awfully convenient, Dr. Lander, Isabelle Pierce thought.  What might you know about what happened to me?  Then again, she supposed, it would have been easy for Dr. Litton to kill her on the operating table.  What sort of game was she playing? 

                "I was attacked," the detective said warily. 

                "Yes, you were," Dr. Litton answered.  "The police want to talk to you, by the way.  Fortunately, the damage was not too bad.  We got you patched up.  You'll need to stay here for a few days so we can monitor you, but you should be released to go out and fight another day." 

                "Thank you," the detective said.  "Monitor me? For what?" 

                "Your liver was lacerated," Elaine Litton said nonchalantly. 

                The detective made a moue of distaste.  "Dr. Litton," she asked urgently, "I shot the man who stabbed me.  Was there anyone admitted with a GSW to the stomach last night?" 

                Dr. Litton smiled calmly at her.  "Not that I know of," she said.  "Look, leave the detective business aside for right now.  You just need to rest.  Let the nurse know if you need anything." 

                Right, that's exactly what you want, isn't it? 

                They sent up a few uniformed cops who annoyed the crap out of her with their clumsy questions.  It was all she could do to avoid grabbing the clipboard and filling the bloody form out herself.  After explaining six times that she had shot her assailant in the gut and seen blood all over the place, would they mind going down to her apartment and typing, perhaps, she was ready to explode. 

                But once they were gone, all she had to do was sit here.  She was uncomfortably aware that all she had to do was lie here under the watchful gaze of the woman she believed to be an American fugitive.  The nurses would have made most effective prison guards, she found out.  When she got out of bed one of them was on her like a shot.

                "Did you need something?" the nurse asked sweetly. 

                "The bathroom," Isabelle said quickly, the first thing that came to mind. 

                "You're not supposed to get out of bed yet," the nurse admonished. 

                Well, pardon me, Your Grace.  "You don't want me to mess the bed, do you?" Isabelle pointed out.

                "We'd bring you a bedpan," the nurse said indulgently.   

                "I'd rather not," Isabelle offered. 

                "Hop back in bed," the nurse said.  "Let me ask your doctor." 

                Slightly miffed that she needed medical permission to urinate, Isabelle Pierce got back into bed and waited.  She kept her ears pricked.  The nurse's voice echoed in the hall. 

                "Dr. Litton," the nurse said in the tones of a supplicant, "Ms. Pierce wants to go to the bathroom." 

                She heard the surgeon sigh.  "I'm sorry, Melanie, I just had a patient vomit on me." 

                Ewwwwe, Isabelle Pierce thought. 

                "She can go to the bathroom, sure.  Keep an eye on her and make sure she can walk.  Also have her let you know if there's blood in it.  If there is, get a sample and send it down to the lab." 

                "Very well," the nurse said.  "Here, I'll get you another scrub shirt." 

                "Thank you," the surgeon said.  There was the sound of rustling cloth.  An idea hit the detective.

                Isabelle Pierce was already on her feet when the nurse arrived.  This was a rare opportunity.   Dropped right in her lap, too.  She wouldn't lose it. 

                "You must really have to go," the nurse quipped. 

                Actually, Isabelle Pierce thought, I'm more interested in seeing Elaine Litton change her shirt, but never mind that. You go right ahead and feel superior because I need your permission to go pee.  

                But she wheeled her IV stand along under the watchful eye of the nurse, who saw her into the bathroom down the hall.  She was hoping it would be a larger bathroom, one with multiple stalls.  She was in luck.  The scent of vomit stung her nostrils unpleasantly.  Yes, the surgeon was here. 

                The middle stall was closed, and she could see the doctor's sneakers under the door.  Isabelle Pierce picked up the IV stand so the squeak of its wheels would not give her away.  She scurried into the stall next to Dr. Litton's. 

                The smooth plastic of the toilet seat was cold on her bare feet as she stood on the toilet.  She braced herself against the wall and carefully peeped over the top of the stall.  Dr. Litton was thankfully turned away from her, bundling up her lab coat. 

                I'm turning into a bloody pervert, the detective thought ruefully. 

                 In front of her, Elaine Litton stripped off her scrub shirt and put it on the bundle of soiled clothing.  She was quite fair, Detective Pierce noted.  The black straps of her bra stood out starkly against her skin.  But Isabelle was looking lower. 

                Two faded scars curled from below the waistband of Elaine Litton's scrub pants.  Time had rendered them less prominent than they once had been, but there were still there and quite visible.  Two F-shaped scars, curving towards each other.  Scars that resembled the F-holes on a violin. 

                Scars that had been photographed by the FBI four years ago when Erin Lander had been handed over to American custody.  Scars that Hannibal Lecter had put there a dozen years ago, when Erin Lander had been a medical student who had caught his eye. 

                I knew it, Isabelle Pierce thought.  I just knew it!    

                Yet she could not detain the surgeon here or now.  She'd gotten yelled at for pursuing the Littons before.  Besides, common sense dictated she should be out of the hospital before trying it.  She didn't want to be in Dr. Litton's grasp. 

                She waited until Dr. Litton left the bathroom before exiting the stall.  A smile crossed her face.   After having been held up so many times over this, she would be vindicated.  She went back meekly to bed and laid down. 

                You just wait, she thought.  I'll catch that bloody Cannibal Killer yet.  I have faith. 

                For the next few days, Clarice found herself back in a place she was used to being. 

                It wasn't her duplex.  Rebecca DeGould had rendered her former home a burnt-out hulk.  Nor was it Quantico.  She'd been staying away from the FBI.  Clarice had no illusions about the foe she faced.  Rebecca DeGould had help from others in the FBI; she hadn't been able to pull this off on her own.  Clarice did not know how far DeGould's tentacles reached.  She kept her contact with the FBI limited to what was necessary.  Her own agency could not be trusted.  

                No, the place Clarice was in was one she knew all too well.  The glass ceiling.  The box.  She could take two steps forward and immediately be forced a step and a half back.  Then it was largely a matter of hanging onto that half step by her fingernails.  Moving forward seemed to take superhuman effort.  She'd known it all too well in her FBI career, until Paul Krendler had died.

                Brittany had survived by the skin of her teeth.  Her wounds had been sutured and they'd run blood into her in a nearby emergency room.  Pearsall, God bless him, had found a psychiatric hospital in Pennsylvania, and they'd admitted her there under another name.  It was two hours and change away from DC by car. Far enough away that DeGould wouldn't be able to find her easily, close enough that they could get to her when they needed to.   

Both Pearsall and Paul had argued that it made the most sense to put Brittany in jail, where she could be closely monitored.  Clarice knew better.  She'd been to prison herself.  Hell, the whole reason she was fighting this was to avoid going back to prison in Brittany's place.  Putting the kid in a jail or prison would simply convince her that there would be no benefit to helping them.  That would lock her lips tighter than a bank vault.  This wasn't Dr. Lecter they were dealing with, but in some ways that was harder.  They'd been able to offer Dr. Lecter what he wanted in order to loosen his lips.  

                So she was heading out there again.  Their first meeting with her had gone poorly, to say the least.  Brittany had remained stubbornly mute.  According to the doctors, she had barely spoken at all since being admitted. 

                But Clarice had to reach her, somehow.  It was intently frustrating.  Everything she needed was in Brittany's head.  She could arrest DeGould.  She could free Ardelia.  She could restore herself to her old position. 

                She could do all those things, if only she could get Brittany to talk.

                So here she was, trying again.  The hospital wasn't anything like the Chesapeake asylum that Dr. Lecter had been kept in.  It was private, quiet, and came pretty highly recommended.  She didn't know how Pearsall was paying for it.  For right now it didn't matter.   

                Security was tight here, but nothing like the asylum.  In lieu of steel bars and gates, there were a few twin steel doors that locked off the patients from the outside world.  Clarice explained who she was, checked her weapon, and was admitted. 

                The ward that Brittany was on was towards the back. It reminded Clarice of the orphanage she had grown up in, more than anything else.  Large institutional walls.  Bland linoleum on the floor.  The cleanlier-than-thou scent of Lysol.  As she entered the ward, she noted one other difference from the asylum: patients here were allowed to wear street clothes.  A few patients roamed the ward.  Their faces were blank and their demons stilled with Thorazine. The walls were a dull cream color.  

                The charge nurse helpfully brought Clarice to a visiting room and went to go get Brittany.  How things had changed, Clarice thought.  There were no bars here.  No restraints.  Then again, it wasn't like Brittany was going to attack her.  

                The visiting room itself contained a wood-grained table and a few chairs.  The chairs were arranged at a forty-five degree angle to each other, so that either party could break eye contact.  Clarice remembered some of her psychology classes.  Even this was planned; the patient's chair had the back to the wall, so that the patient might feel safer.  The walls were painted with the same bland colors.  There was a single window in the room, overlooking some green fields.  Clarice sighed. 

                This time, she was on her lonesome.  Paul was a nice guy, but he was big and threatening.  Clarice wanted to avoid the third degree, if she could.  She turned as the door opened. 

                Brittany Tollman entered the room.  She wore a pair of sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt. White gauze bandages peeked out from the cuffs of the sweatshirt.  When she saw Clarice, her eyes flashed suspicion for just a moment.  Then her face slid with long practice into the convict's stone face, betraying none of her motives. 

                "Hi, Brittany," Clarice said.  She smiled sympathetically. 

                "Good morning," Brittany said distantly.

                Clarice swallowed.  "I came to see how you were holding up," she said calmly. 

                Brittany shrugged.  "Lousy," she said.  "Were you expecting me to thank you for saving my life?" 

                Clarice had thought that might be nice, but wasn't expecting it.  "Are you grateful for that?" 

                Brittany smiled tightly.  "No," she said.  "I'm not going to thank you for a life spent in a cage.  You should have just let me go." 

                  Clarice reached over the table and put her hand on the other woman's arm.  "No," she whispered.  "That's not true.  I know you think it's hopeless, but it's not." 

                Brittany's arm and expression remained equally hard.  "Easy for you to say," she said.  "You're not the one going back to prison."  

                Clarice paused.  "Brittany," she said, "you know, the only reason I went to prison in the first place was to help.  To check up on people like you.  Make sure you were OK.  I can help you, you know." 

                Brittany chuckled bitterly.  "I doubt that," she said. 

                "Look," Clarice said.  "If you help me, I can help you.  We could get you into a federal prison.  Low-security or a camp.  You'd have more privileges there.  I could see what I could do." 

                Brittany shook her head.  "Forget it," she said.  "If I gotta go back, I gotta go back.  But I'm not snitching out Kiera.  She got away and I hope you never catch her." 

                If I don't, Clarice thought, I'll never get Ardelia out.    The thought of that made her sick to her stomach.  She glanced at the wall for a moment or two. 

                "Brittany, my friend's in prison," she said.  "She doesn't deserve to be there.  Now look…there are so many charges over your head right now.  Impersonating a federal agent.  Conspiracy to alter records.  Accessory to arson.  You need help, Brittany.  I can help you.  Let me." 

                Brittany sighed.  "Look," she said bitterly, "maybe this is a little selfish of me, but your friend isn't my problem."  Her Southern accent softened the hard words.  "This is the thing, Starling…all you care about is people like you.  Your friend doin a year or two in prison makes you all weak at the knees.  But me and Kiera, we're looking at the rest of our lives.  That doesn't bother you a bit, does it?" 

                "We can try to help you if you cooperate," Clarice pointed out pensively. 

                "I tried that once," Brittany answered.  "When I got caught the first time.  Cooperated and was a good little girl.  Testified against him and everything.  It got me twenty-five to life.  I know the game you're playing, Starling.  I played it once before." 

                Clarice stopped.  She took a deep breath.  "I'm…not playing a game." 

                "Yes, you are," Brittany said.  She smiled a con-wise smile.  "As long as I got information you want, you're gonna be oh so nice to me.  You'll promise me the world to get me to talk.  You haven't brought out the bad guy yet.  I suppose that big Italian guy from Brooklyn's gonna play that role."     

                "No," Clarice said.  "No, I'm not."   Brittany ignored her, glancing out the window. 

                "Yes," she said.  "Whatever it takes to get me to cough up.  That's what people like you do with people like me.  Police and cons.  Once I give it up, though, things change.  Then all of a sudden, things fall through.  You couldn't arrange things for a minimum-security prison.  You're real sorry.  You'll try.  I just gotta hang on for a bit, right?  Then you go off and do your thing and I go back to Bedford Hills and Kiera goes back to Broward CI. And that's that."  She pantomimed crumpling up a piece of paper and throwing it over her shoulder. 

                Clarice stopped.  Part of this was true.  Brittany's record indicated as much.  She had gotten a pretty raw deal from the prosecutors the first time around.  Part of this was the convict's tendency to see unfairness even when none existed.  That, Clarice could understand, frustrating as it was.  She'd seen plenty of unfairness in prison.   But part of this was simple roles.  Brittany was a convict; Clarice was a cop.  Her gun and badge rendered her the enemy.  Brittany refused to see any further beyond that.

                "Brittany, you need some help," Clarice tried again.  "You're in a lot of trouble." 

                Brittany nodded.  "I guess so," she said.  "But I'm in trouble no matter what.  I'm going back no matter what.  If I go back, I'm going back with my head held high.  I'm not snitching.  You know how snitches are treated in prison.  Twenty years, thirty, forty…the hell with it.  They'll do it anyway.  No."

                Clarice let out a sigh that mostly hid the pained gasp she wanted to emit.  What the hell was she supposed to do? The idea of Ardelia stuck in that cell for the foreseeable future made her want to scream, to rage, and to cry.  It felt like a spike driven through her chest.  For a moment the idea of torturing it out of the recalcitrant convict occurred to her and she choked it off. 

                As if sensing her pain, Brittany spoke more softly. 

                "Look," she said, "it's not like your friend's gonna be down forever.  They'll let her out." 

                Clarice stared at Brittany insensibly.  How could she think like this?  How could she look the other way at an innocent woman being imprisoned for life? Was she that jaded? 

                "They won't let her out," Clarice managed, "until I can prove she's not Kiera." 

                Brittany shrugged.  "You'll get her out," she said. 

                "How?" Clarice asked. 

                "People like you always get what they want," Brittany said dismissively. 

                Clarice snorted.  "I only wish that were true," she said.  If that were true, kiddo, Rebecca DeGould would be the one fighting off assholes like Beck.  "It's not that simple." 

                Brittany shrugged again.  It seemed she honestly believed Clarice had the ability to simply wave a wand and set Ardelia free and this whole goddam mess right.  "For people like you, it is," she maintained. 

                "You talk like I'm from Mars or something," Clarice said.  "Brittany, we were in the same cell.  We got to know each other a little bit.  People do care.  I care.  I wouldn't have done the prison project if I didn't." 

                Brittany waved a hand in a pooh-pooh gesture.  "You did the prison project so some Senator could make a speech," she said.  "That's all.  Nothing was gonna change.  Just like I told you back in prison.  Nobody gives a shit." 

                Clarice struggled with herself.  "You're not even giving me a chance," she said. 

                "I didn't get one, either," Brittany said.

                Clarice grabbed her leg hard to avoid doing what she wanted to do, which was grab Brittany and shake her until she quit acting like a goddam rebellious teenager. 

                "So," Clarice said briskly, "you're going to let an innocent woman spend the rest of her life in prison because you think you were treated unfairly.   Seems sort of petty to me." 

                Brittany adopted an insouciant posture and shrugged.  "Course it seems petty to you," she said.  "You know damn well you'll get a judge to wave his gavel and get your friend out.  But to answer your question, yes.  When the price of that woman's freedom is my friend's freedom, and she didn't deserve to be in prison either, then yes.  I'll hold my mud and let my friend go free.  You can free your friend yourself.  I'm not betraying mine."  She crossed her arms.

                Clarice felt her pulse race.  What would she do, if their positions were reversed?  Probably the same damn thing.  But this was inconceivable.  There had to be another tack.  Had to be something.   

                "You know," Clarice pointed out, "I have the fingerprint card now.  Do you know what that means, Brittany?  It means that what Rebecca DeGould did is going to be undone.  They'll know I'm me, and they'll know you're you.  And DeGould is not going to help you.  She's not kind to those who fail her."  Clarice had not yet gone formally to the FBI to be reinstated, but Brittany did not need to know that.  She was holding off on that until she was able to get DeGould once and for all.  For now, she could get what support she needed through Paul and Pearsall. 

                Brittany did not seem affected. 

                "Doesn't it bother you knowing that she'll be driving around in her Audi, free as a bird, while you're spending the rest of your life in prison?" 

                Brittany struggled to remain nonchalant.  "She had nothing to do with it," she said smoothly. 

                "Bullshit.  I know she did.  Why protect her?  She won't protect you."     

                "Maybe," Brittany said.  "Am I under arrest, Starling?" 

                Clarice shook her head. 

                "Then I'd like to end the questioning now," Brittany said easily. 

                "No," Clarice said.  "Listen to me, Brittany.  You have to listen to me.  I want to help you.  But you have to help me." 

                "You won't and you can't.  We've been through that.  But I got group therapy in a couple of minutes.  This loony bin you threw me in is pretty strict about that sort of thing." 

                "Wait," Clarice said, her voice icy and commanding.  "Dammit, Brittany, help me.  I'll help you.  Trust me.  I won't forget you.  I know you got screwed over before, but you have to give me--," 

                Brittany sighed.  "No, I don't," she said. 

                "Give me a chance, Brittany.  I'll think of something.  Show me some faith." 

                Brittany rose from her chair and opened the door.  Clarice clenched her teeth together and felt her pulse race.  The prisoner stopped, framing herself in the doorway. 

                "Only fools have faith," she said, and then she was gone. 

                …

                Rebecca DeGould was angry. 

                Things were not good, but they could've been a lot worse.  Clarice was free, but as soon as she was picked up, back to Bedford Hills she went.  The system said she was still Brittany, and thus an escapee.  But DeGould knew better. 

                And she'd been to Rebecca's home.  How the hell had she done that?  Someone had seen the girls fleeing with her after them.  She'd arrested Brittany.  Arrested her.  Inconceivable.   911 records had indicated that an ambulance had been sent out to her home.  Suicide bid.  Apparently little Brittany had decided to slash her wrists.  DeGould found that amusing.  It was actually smart; once Rebecca got her hands on the stupid little slut, she'd learn the price of failure. 

                Kiera was gone.  DeGould was not sure where she had gone, either.  Her little prisoners hadn't shared that with her.  The ingrates.  If not for Rebecca DeGould they'd have been left to rot in their respective prisons. 

                Brittany had been hospitalized and treated.  Rebecca had tracked her down that far.  After that, the trail went cold.  The people with her had been described as Clarice and a tall, blocky Italian guy with a New York accent.  Both had showed FBI credentials and said the suspect was under arrest.  After that, they had taken her away, and the trail had gone cold. 

                They'd admitted her under a false name – Rachel Dugan.  Rebecca noticed the RDG theme – her own initials.  Did Starling think that was cute?  DeGould would show her cute.  Perhaps she'd throw Brittany in Chowchilla alongside her under that name.  That would be a real knee-slapper.

                Rebecca was a good profiler, in her own right.  She could induce what that meant.  Clarice had help within the FBI.  Whoever it was would suffer a great deal.  Big blocky guy with a New York accent.  It couldn't be that hard to run him down.  The name he'd given at the hospital was Agent Bob Sneed.  Apparently Starling's ally was a wiseass.  

                 On the other hand, it gave her an excuse to terminate him with extreme prejudice.  DeGould knew that she had put too much into this to lose now.  She'd planned – originally – to spare Clarice's life.  She would suffer, but that was only just and right.  She had made DeGould suffer.  And no one did that to Rebecca DeGould and got away with it. 

                However, Clarice had thrown sand into the gears of her plan.  DeGould knew perfectly well what would happen to her if Clarice remained free for too long.  Arson, conspiracy, and the like.  Rebecca could well afford to fight off criminal charges from now until doomsday.  But she wouldn't allow a gun-crazed hick like Clarice Starling to slap the cuffs on her.  Prison was fine for the little people like Brittany and Kiera, but Rebecca DeGould would fight. 

                If she had to, she would simply execute Clarice Starling and be done with it.  Her friend, too.  It would be easy.  Once they identified Clarice's body as Brittany's, that would be that.  Escaped prisoner, shot by an FBI agent, done deal.  As far as getting Clarice's ally, that might create more problems. 

                DeGould looked into the mirror above her monitor.  "I didn't know he was FBI," she told the mirror.  Her eyes widened in mock despair.  She laced her fingers together and raised them to her chin.  "Besides, he was helping an escaped felon.  I had to shoot him." 

                It would be easy enough. Find them.  Shoot them both.  Then quit the FBI.  It would be a snowy day in hell before they indicted her for killing an escaped felon and a rogue agent.  It wasn't like she planned to stay here.  Her future lay back in New York.  She was an arbitrage trader, not an FBI agent.  This was just…unfinished business. 

                But it wasn't unfinished business that she would allow to consume her.  She would not become a prisoner either.  She would catch Starling if she could.  Otherwise she'd just shoot her and finish it once and for all.  For now, however, things concentrated on young Brittany. 

                Starling had Brittany.  Therefore, Rebecca had to take Brittany from Starling.  First things first.  Brittany knew better than to talk.  There was no upside for her at all.  Clarice might be the Deputy Chief of Behavioral Sciences, but she couldn't help Brittany.  Rebecca DeGould had done her homework.  Brittany Tollman's plea agreement forbade her from attempting to appeal her sentence.  It was too late for any reconsideration.  Brittany Tollman was doomed to serve twenty-five years no matter what. 

                Kiera was an issue.  She suspected Brittany knew where she was.  Once Brittany was in her hands, she would get it out of the little wench.  It would be easy.  Once little Brittany was caught, DeGould would have to think about it.  She was tempted to dump her back in New York.  They could hold her easily enough.  Or maybe slam-dunk her into a psychiatric hospital. 

                She'd been calling around for hours, trying to see if Clarice had put Brittany into a local jail under another name.  There was nothing.  Once she had found her, the rest would be easy.  She could send the boys from New York DOC anywhere she wanted to. 

                Nothing.  Had Clarice stuck her in West Virginia?  DeGould shuddered at the thought of having to call every last Podunk jail in the country.  But she would if she had to.  For her own amusement, Rebecca DeGould thought of how that would go.  Howdy, y'all, Ah'm a-lookin for this yere prisoner who done gone and slashed her wrists right open.  Y'all got her? 

                Then her own thought hit her again.  A psychiatric hospital.  That was it.  Starling was such a weak sister when it came to victims.  Instead of slamming Brittany's ass in prison, that was probably what she had done.  It was exactly Starling's means of handling the situation.  She'd be all moony over Brittany's pain and want to get Brittany some help, so she wouldn't slit her wrists again.  Oh you poor thing, let me help you.  Sob, bawl, weep.  Didn't she realize Brittany was just being manipulative?  Stupid bitch. 

                Rebecca DeGould sat there and thought.  If it were a loony bin, it wouldn't be somewhere close.  Not Virginia, or DC, or Maryland.  Little Brittany would be too easy to find there.  Clarice Starling had never given her adversary credit for her brains; Rebecca DeGould would not make the same mistake. 

                But it would be somewhere close.  Somewhere within a few hours by car, so that Clarice could go and contact her captive.  Probably beg her to toss over Kiera and Rebecca herself for Mapp's sake.  On that, DeGould was more confident.  So long as Starling couldn't do squat about the remaining twenty years over Brittany's head, Brittany had no incentive at all to cooperate.  Although she hated to rely on underlings, she'd have to hope that the little dipstick could be trusted to keep her yap shut until DeGould could find her.

 She took out a map of the United States and began to examine it carefully.  The FBI's resources allowed her to pull up a list of every mental hospital, public or private, in the northeastern and central United States.  Then she picked up the phone and began to dial.

                In each case, her story was the same.  She was calling from the local police department.  She was looking for a suicidal patient with deep slashes down her arms.  She helpfully provided Brittany's description each. They were attempting to locate her to see if she would sign a protection order against her abusive husband; had there been anyone admitted to the hospital meeting that description? 

                In most cases, the staff was willing to help, but there was no patient meeting that description.  She expected that and kept dialing.  Eventually, she would find her prey.   She had faith.