It was time now.
The killer had done his job well. He had taken the nosy detective out of commission. Checking at the hospital had indicated that Detective Pierce had survived the attack. She would remain in the hospital for a few days. That was just fine. All he needed was a few days.
He drove out again to Watson's Bay, stopping along the access road to observe the mansion. Here was where the wealthy people were. The moonlight danced white filigree across the dark water. His heels clocked against the macadam and then clashed against the crushed rock of the driveway.
He would not look suspicious. His kit was concealed in an attaché case. He wore a suit and would raise no eyebrows. He walked up the steps and stared at the double black doors. The hardware was brass and brightly polished. Quite grand, really. What a suitable meal. Perhaps he'd come back and have the actual meal here.
He rang the doorbell and waited patiently. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps approach the door. He knew already that he was being eyed through the peephole, but that was all right.
Elaine Litton opened the door and eyed him carefully.
"Ian," she said, looking surprised. "What are you doing here?" The American accent intrigued him. America. That was where his idol had come from.
"I had some test results of yours that came back," the killer said smoothly. "I just happened to be in the area."
She eyed him with some suspicion. "Why didn't you send them to the office?" she queried. "That's what you usually do."
"If you prefer, I'll do that," he said. "Just some anomalies I thought bore checking out." He smiled pleasantly. "May I come in?"
Her eyes narrowed. Was she still alone? Perhaps she was, along with her little boy. No husband to muck things up. That would be much better. Dr. Hamilton Litton was older, but the killer had seen an inner strength in him through the lenses of binoculars.
And he wasn't at full strength himself. The detective had shot him. Resourceful girl, more than he'd thought. Fortunately, he had access to antibiotics and painkillers all on his own. Once he'd escaped, he'd pulled the bullet out himself and patched it as best he could. Also, his prey was short and slight. He didn't think she would be able to put up much resistance to him.
But she was a surgeon, and she noticed his stiffness as he entered the home. What he saw took his breath away. The Littons were extremely well off. Where there were not fine carpets there was finely polished parquet floor. The home was huge. He tilted his head and stared into the dining room where the dinner party had been held not so long ago.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. "You're moving a little funny."
That's where the bloody detective gut-shot me, Elaine. But never mind that.
"Just a bit stiff," he said. "Working out, you know." He smiled at her to allay her suspicions. The sound of small footsteps made his head turn. A dark-haired little boy, perhaps three, walked into the room and watched him suspiciously with maroon eyes.
"Mum, who is that?" the little boy asked.
Hmmm, the Cannibal Killer thought. The little boy. What shall I do with him?
Well, perhaps a veal dish would be nice.
The little boy crossed around the room and hid behind his mum's legs. His small hands grasped her pants and held on for dear life. Now was the time.
The Cannibal Killer put his attaché case on a table and opened it. He had rope, a blackjack, a blindfold and gag, some garbage bags, and some extra clothing. He picked up the blackjack and swung.
But his side ached as he did, and he felt a blast of pain up his side. Something ripped open inside and he grunted. Elaine Litton was quicker on the uptake than he thought. Her eyes widened and she took a step back. The blackjack seemed to strike some sort of chord in her; it was almost as if she'd seen it before. She stumbled a bit over her son and then grabbed him, running for the kitchen. A loud scream echoed through the house. The killer was not concerned; there was too much distance between houses for it to be a much concern.
The Cannibal Killer cursed and pursued her. In the kitchen, she put her son in the corner and then turned to face him with wide eyes. From a wooden knife block on the counter she pulled a gleaming French chef's knife.
"Get out," she said. "Just get out."
Erin Lander had never been violent. She had always despised violence, seeing its results every day. But the most dangerous place in the world is between a mother and her children, and in this Erin was no exception. She pressed her son into the corner and stood between him and the psycho in her kitchen. The triangular blade flashed out in a deadly oval slash.
The killer grunted as the blade slit his arm. A bright flash of silvery pain flashed up his nerves. He bared his teeth and waded in. It took a moment to slip the blackjack into his other hand. The right one no longer worked adequately.
She slashed him a few more times on the arms, but he ignored it as best he could. The blade sank into his side, where the detective had shot him, and he grunted in pain. But then he was in, close in, and the sap came down hard. Once, twice, three times. Elaine Litton's eyes dimmed and she went limp. The knife clattered to the floor.
The killer let out a wounded noise as he bent to lift her. She was quite light, even as deadweight. Then he turned his attention to the squalling boy in the corner.
"Hmm," he said. "I've never tried…a veal dish."
To grab up the boy took only a moment. Then, even laden down with two victims, his feet were fleet along the gravel of the driveway. He dropped the unconscious surgeon in the trunk. The engine started. The boy was still screaming, but that was all right; it was night and he would be home soon.
He was ready for his meal.
…
Brittany sat in the TV room, watching soap operas with the rest of the crazies. Group therapy was over and done with. Brittany thought it was a pointless waste of time. All those people whining about their problems were supposed to make her feel better? As if she didn't have enough problems. Her second chance gone,
Yet the hospital was more comfortable than she would have thought. She'd been given some clothing and some medication to 'help her relax', so they'd said. She'd taken it and felt sort of stoned. After that she'd quit the meds. They might be trying to dope her up to get her to talk; it wouldn't surprise her.
It was better than prison, though. The food was better and they let her wear her own clothes. They made her go to art class. That she had found privately hysterical. Art class? In prison, there were crafters and artists who made stuff. She'd been pretty good at drawing, but it was harder these days. Her arms ached and holding things hurt. She had more leisure time than she did in prison. Most of the loony-tunes in here watched TV whenever there wasn't some sort of scheduled activity.
It was a pretty goddam sorry state of affairs when someone threw you in the loony bin and you ended up liking it, she supposed. Still, she was just waiting. Eventually Starling was going to drop the other shoe, and in the experience of Brittany Tollman that shoe would likely end up on the back of her neck. Starling was all sweetness and light now, but that was only because Brittany had information she wanted.
One of them must have grabbed her bag out of Miss DeGould's condo. They'd sent along her clothes. Her clothes, the ones she'd bought while free. They'd gone through it. She could tell. Having her possessions rifled and searched was something she was all too used to. It wasn't all bad, though. It reminded her that she was a prisoner and they were cops.
What the hell was Starling pushing her for anyway? She was a cop. Cops always got what they wanted. The system was set up for their benefit. Hadn't Starling noticed that when she was in? And besides, Brittany thought, the proof was in the pudding. Starling was free. She might have been playing con, but she was a cop. Brittany had been in Bedford Hills for five years; Starling had gotten out in a month or so. She'd get her friend out.
Eventually she would go back to prison. She knew that. If she had to go, she would not sell out her accomplices. She'd grown extremely close to Kiera in the time they'd been together. They were two of a kind. Brittany would not give her up. If their positions had been reversed, Kiera would have done the same for her. She could understand Starling's loyalty to her friend; why couldn't Starling understand her loyalty to hers?
Her feelings on Miss DeGould were more mixed. At first she had felt only gratitude towards the woman who had given her a second chance. Then, as she had gotten to see more and more of Rebecca DeGould's mean side, she had begun to fear her benefactor. Had the situation been different, she might have been willing to give up Rebecca DeGould to Starling. But the facts were there. Rebecca DeGould held power in New York. Brittany was going back to a New York prison. Once she was incarcerated again, she would be completely under DeGould's thumb for the next twenty years.
She'd also suspected that everything Miss DeGould had told her about Clarice Starling was not true. She hadn't tortured Brittany. She'd sent along her stuff. Although, Brittany had to allow, that was because she wanted her friend back.
Besides, she reflected, Rebecca DeGould had done everything she could to give Brittany a second chance. Clarice Starling meant to take away her second chance and return her to prison. Cooperating was not an option. She knew where that would lead: she'd give everything and get screwed over.
Escaping the psychiatric hospital was not an option. The ward was locked and they wouldn't let her off the ward. They weren't satisfied that she wasn't a danger to herself. That was a hoot. Making her spend the rest of her life in prison? Oh, that was perfectly humane. But letting her decide to simply opt out and die free? That couldn't be allowed. No, they were going to force her to live so they could throw her back in a cage.
One of the nurses was prowling around. She heard the nurse's voice float over the dialogue of the soap opera and the grumbling of the crazies. It was her name. Or her alias, actually. The name Starling had forced on her just as DeGould had forced Starling's name on her.
"Brittany? Brittany Miller?"
Brittany debated not responding and hoping the nurse went away. But she stuck her head up and raised her hand desultorily.
"Hi," the nurse smiled. "There are some people here who want to talk to you."
When Brittany saw who it was, she sighed and hung her head in resignation. Part of her had hoped that somehow, by some way, she might have a second chance yet. But it was not to be. She should have known this was coming.
…
Clarice Starling was frustrated. She was spinning her wheels. Talking to Brittany was going nowhere. Ardelia was still in prison. She was still in this half-netherworld between the FBI agent she had once been and the fugitive felon that Rebecca DeGould had made her into.
Paul DaSilva had been TDY'ed down to Quantico, and so he was entitled to a hotel room. She was sharing that with him. A phantom, not officially part of the FBI. She hated it.
Paul was in the shower. He tended to take his time in the shower. She glanced over at the bathroom door with some resentment. When was all this going to end? When had she suffered enough?
The cell phone Pearsall had issued to her rang. Clarice grabbed it and held it to her ear.
"Barton," she said, the alias that Pearsall had issued her FBI ID, gun, and phone in.
"Barton? I'm sorry, I have misdialed," a metallic voice said.
Clarice felt her stomach tense. "Dr. Lecter?" she asked.
A second's pause. "No," he said.
Duh, Clarice, she thought to herself.
"Dr. Crawford, I'm sorry," she improvised.
"That's better." He sounded awfully amused. "I am on layover," he continued. "I thought perhaps I would check in and see how things were going."
Clarice smiled sadly. Even through all this, he still cared. Sure, he was going back to his wife and kid, and sure, she might never see him again, but he cared.
"Not well," she admitted. Then she sighed. It all came out in a tumbling mass. "You might know. I need to get Brittany to talk to me. She's got everything I need. But she won't talk. No matter what I threaten her with, she won't talk."
Dr. Lecter seemed nonplussed. "I see," he said.
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to talk to her," Clarice said, fishing for an offer.
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Agent Barton." Dr. Lecter chuckled as if using the pseudonym was ever so amusing. "I'm no longer in the United States or even close."
Clarice's mouth quirked. "Would you talk to her on the phone?"
Dr. Lecter considered. "And what would I be doing?"
"How about getting her to let my friend out of prison and fess up on DeGould?" Clarice suggested.
There were a few moments as he considered. "And what were you planning to offer her?"
Clarice sighed. "I don't know," she said. "I've got her sort of tucked away right now. I have to bring her out so that she can testify. I was thinking we could try to take her into federal custody, maybe let her serve out her sentence at a minimum-security federal facility."
Dr. Lecter paused. "Pardon me for seeming rude," he said, "but you want her to give you everything and you offer her 'maybes' and 'we'll try' in response?"
Air hissed through Clarice's teeth in frustration. She'd told herself the same thing. "Dr. Lecter, someone has to take the first step," she said. "I'm not going to screw her over, either."
"I shall not," Dr. Lecter said. "Not when you can do better."
Clarice stopped and gripped the phone hard. "What do you mean, do better?" she asked hotly.
"Basic trade, Clarice. Just as you did with me. Quid pro quo. Not quid pro maybe." He adopted a pedantic tone. Clarice could just see him declaiming away in some airport somewhere at a pay phone.
"The answer to your dilemma is simpler than you think," Dr. Lecter said. "First, basic logic. If A, then B. You seek to trade, just as you did with me. I can see her side more clearly than you, Clarice – prisoners usually demand to work COD with the authorities. They've had too many bad experiences otherwise."
"I'm not gonna stiff her," Clarice protested.
"She doesn't believe that. Nor is it reasonable for her to believe you. Look at it from her point of view: for all her faults, Rebecca DeGould gave her freedom; you seek to take it away."
"Dr. Lecter, I can't give her freedom. She's already been sentenced. It's a done deal."
"Normally, you would be right," Dr. Lecter said. "However, in this case, you are wrong. You are more powerful than you think, Clarice."
Clarice sighed. "It's not like with you, Dr. Lecter," she said. "I need her to testify. I can't just take the cuffs off her and say 'Go run'. I need her in court, so she can't be a fugitive."
"She won't be," Dr. Lecter said calmly. "You can have what you want, Clarice. You simply have to figure out what you need to do to get it."
"Dammit, now you sound like her," Clarice said. Her voice became high-pitched and mocking. "'People like you always get what they want. Cops always get what they want.' Dr. Lecter, if you know something I don't, tell me. Contrary to what you may think, the FBI didn't issue me a fairy wand to wave and make it all better."
"No," Dr. Lecter said, unruffled. "This is called tough love, Clarice. It'll mean more to you if you figure it out yourself."
"What?" Clarice asked. "Just tell me. No riddles." Privately, she thought Thank you for reminding me about what I didn't like about you. How does Erin put up with this anyway?
"Basic trade, Clarice, just as I said. You once traded with me but had nothing to trade, when it came down to it. This time, you do. What is it you seek?"
"Brittany's testimony," Clarice grumbled.
"And what must you secure to get that?"
Clarice rolled her eyeballs and wished she could reach through the phone and throttle him. Note enough to kill him. Just enough to make him stop all this pretentious bullshit. She had so much on the line and he wanted to play games.
"Her cooperation. Her liking me and trusting me, I guess."
Dr. Lecter made an encouraging sound but did not speak.
"Oh, hell, I know what you mean. She said it herself, a second chance. I'd give that to her if I could, but I can't."
He was as infuriatingly calm as ever. "Yes, you can, Clarice. Admittedly, it's an anomaly. Normally you would be correct. But based on what you told me, you are not. Not under the circumstances as they are. You can win. And at the end of the game you will not have cheated."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarice said.
"What were you there to do, Clarice? Your goals were more pedestrian than you think; nothing high-minded there. But that is how you can win, and you're so close. Regardless of what Rebecca DeGould does, you can win. Even if DeGould finds her, you can win. Actually, that might work better, if she does what I think she will. Victory lies within your grasp."
"Tell me how," Clarice implored.
"By trading," Dr. Lecter said. "It's very basic, Clarice. It's hardly noble, although you could see it that way. You'll be denied the status of brave warrior. But ultimately it's just that…trading what you have for what you want."
"Please, Dr. Lecter, no games."
He seemed not to have heard. "You may need someone to help open a few doors, but ultimately, the power to accomplish your goals lies completely within yourself. All that you need to do is this, Clarice: decide how much of what you have that you're willing to sell. I won't tell you how, Clarice. I already have."
"What the f-," Clarice started.
"I'd love to chat further, Clarice, but they're boarding my flight," Dr. Lecter grinned. Even over the phone she could tell he was grinning. "Bye."
The phone clicked. Clarice put the phone down and stared out the window. Him and his pretentious bullshit.
"Goddammit, Erin, you can have him," she said to the empty air, the subject of her disavowal more than five thousand miles away.
Paul exited the shower, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a towel around his neck. It was quite different from his usual dress. Normally he tended towards the flashy side. He grinned at Clarice and picked up his suitbag.
"You look upset," he said. "Something wrong, Clarice?"
"Just a phone call," she said, and shook her head. "There's a way I can win this," she said. "I know there is. A friend called me." Her fingers clawed the air in frustration. "Something I can do…something I can trade…and get what I want."
Paul seemed interested. "Well, then," he said. "You just got to find out what that is, then."
Clarice let out a pained sigh. "That's the problem, Paul," she said. "I don't know."
