The van jounced and jostled along. In the driver's seat, Lieutenant Beck piloted the van easily. His large gut pressed against the steering wheel, making him look like a large water balloon forced into a too-small container. In the passenger seat, Rebecca DeGould sat trim and neat, her legs crossed. A hard, calculating expression colored her face. She was consulting a file. In the back, Brittany Tollman sat silent and defeated. Her arms were cuffed in front of her and attached to a waist chain. Her ankles were chained as well. She had not spoken a word since they had come for her.
"I still don't see how this is going to work," Beck said easily. "How can you claim Starling is Tollman if we're putting Tollman back in prison?"
DeGould eyed him with some distaste. His task wasn't to question her; it was to do as she said, when she said it. Perhaps he wasn't the best man for the job after all. Things were not going well. Starling was still free, and she'd gotten her hands on Brittany. Brittany had sworn that she hadn't told her anything, but that Starling knew DeGould was her tormentor.
Just in case, she was covering all bases.
"First off," DeGould said irritably, "don't question me. I know what I'm doing. But I'll give you this one. We're putting Brittany back in prison so that Starling doesn't have her. This is the one place Starling can't get at her, no matter what. We'll keep her stashed away in Satellite Psych. Make sure she's good and doped up, so that Starling can't get anything out of her if she interviews her."
Beck sighed. "Look," he said. "I know we gotta keep her away from Starling. But according to the records, Starling is her. How do you put Brittany Tollman in prison twice?"
DeGould grinned coldly. "Starling isn't going back to prison," she said enigmatically. "I just want to arrest her." Cloth rustled as she turned in her seat to observe the despondent, shackled woman in the back. "You never know, Brittany. Once all this is done, I may yet decide to have mercy on you. Perhaps once Starling is out of the way I'll give you an opportunity to beg me for mercy." She chuckled coldly. It was clear from her face that she found the idea of someone begging her for mercy to be great fun.
Brittany Tollman let out a shuddering sigh, the most noise she had made since they had come for her. She wanted to put her face in her hands, but her restraints did not allow for that. Miss DeGould had yelled at her before, when they'd loaded her in the van. I can't believe this crap, Brittany. I gave you a second chance and you let Starling get a hold of you? I never should have wasted my time on you, you stupid little bitch. Well, you blew this one but good. I'm taking you back to Bedford Hills.
She should have taken her chances with Miss Starling. But it was too late for that. She wondered silently along with Beck what Miss DeGould meant to do to Starling if she wasn't going to put her back in prison. The other woman did not disappoint her.
"Well," DeGould said calmly, "one of two things. If I can get her arrested, I'll take care of her myself in transit. She'll never make it back to prison." She chuckled coldly. "Shot while trying to escape. Happens a lot, doesn't it?" She turned again and observed her captive with pleasure. "If I get ahold of her myself, then I'll just blow her head off and be done with it."
Beck swallowed and glanced over at her cautiously. "Killing an FBI agent? Isn't that…risky?"
DeGould shook her head and smirked. "No," she said. "I'll kill her buddy, too, whoever he is. I'll get her FBI ID and her gun. Then, when they fingerprint her corpse, she'll just be Brittany Tollman, an escaped felon." Her painted lips curved up in a cold smile.
Brittany shuddered in the back seat. DeGould chuckled.
"Oh, Brittany, does that make you nervous?" Rebecca DeGould trilled in a bitchy-sweet tone. "It shouldn't. The day I put two bullets into Clarice Starling's head will be a very good day for you. It's at that point that I'll see if you can grovel your way out of this. Until then, it's home sweet home for you."
Brittany Tollman wanted to say something flip, but found she couldn't. At the beginning of this, she had held nothing but gratitude towards her benefactor. More and more, she had become frightened of her. Now she hung her head and realized just how evil Rebecca DeGould was.
Clarice Starling wouldn't have done this to me, she thought miserably, and tears welled to her eyes. She didn't want Kiera to be recaptured. She still didn't, and that would make what she had to suffer worth something. But she knew that what lay ahead of her would be filled with pain and prison, and she couldn't help but feel bad for herself.
They'd been traveling for several hours and she'd been in chains all that time. Sometimes if it was a long trip they'd give you a break and let you stretch. But she couldn't bring herself to ask Miss DeGould; it would simply be an opportunity for the woman to laugh in her face.
The high walls of the prison loomed overhead, and Brittany turned away, a lump growing in her throat. She was going back. As the van trundled in, she withdrew into herself as much as she could.
Readmission was much the same as admission had been. They photographed her, took her clothes away, and gave her a prison jumpsuit. She put it back on. That was much harder than she thought it would be, having to surrender her free-world clothing in exchange for a prison jumpsuit. It was surrendering her second chance. She was a prisoner again. She'd thought they would send her to the Reception Center, but instead, the guard processing her back in checked something on a clipboard and handed it to Lieutenant Beck.
"There you go," the guard said disinterestedly. "Satellite Psych is waiting for her. They got a suicide-watch cell all ready for her." He grinned at her with casual malice.
She paused. Satellite Psych was the psychiatric center where crazy inmates were kept. She wouldn't be part of the prison itself. It was strictly separate from the rest of the prison.
But they took her down there and handed her off to another guard. That guard made her surrender her jumpsuit and gave her a suicide gown – a thick, heavy nylon garment that could not be folded or twisted into a noose. It had no sleeves. Velcro straps at the shoulder secured it. She did not get shoes. It was long and she tripped on the hem. He escorted her to the suicide-watch row.
Here, another guard sat calmly at a desk, reading a magazine. In front of him was a row of cells containing those inmates who, like her, had tried to end their lives. Every few minutes he would put down his magazine and scan the row. Once satisfied that nothing had changed, he returned to reading.
The isolation cells had plexiglass walls. They were tiny, even tinier than the solitary cell she had occupied before DeGould set her free. Each cell contained a thin plastic mattress, a steel toilet and sink combination, and nothing else except the prisoner confined therein. Dogs at the pound got about as much space, Brittany thought.
It was noisy. A few of them banged on the wall when they saw Brittany approach. Some of them were in four-point restraints, spread-eagled as if offered up to the cruel gods that must rule places like this. Some had jumpsuits. Some wore suicide gowns like hers. And some were buck naked.
A white-coated doctor came up to her and examined her briefly, quizzing her on a few questions. She answered in monosyllables, only barely aware of what she was saying. She knew now what would happen to her; Rebecca DeGould meant to destroy her so that she could not help Clarice Starling. At this point, she was too despondent to care about the FBI agents and their petty little battles. She had her own problems.
The doctor gave her a shot and then gestured at the cell door with his thumb. The guard unlocked the door and pushed her inside. The heavy steel door slammed behind her and made her jump. She'd better get used to it.
There was nothing at all in the cell. Just a steel sink and toilet, a plastic mattress, and Brittany. In the part of her mind that was still functional, she realized how clever it was. In the prison itself, she might be able to call Starling and beg for a second chance. Here, she couldn't. She would simply be captive here until she lost her mind permanently.
Make Auntie Rebecca angry, her mind reminded her, and you'll spend the rest of your life in a little concrete box that'll make the prisons you came from seem like Disneyland. And now that had come true. She was lost.
Brittany Tollman lay down on the plastic mattress and drew her knees up inside the thick smock. The rough ballistic nylon of the suicide gown was unpleasant, but better than the plastic mattress sticking to her skin. The shot of haloperidol she had been given began to kick in. It was a large dose, designed to ensure she kept quiet and did not create a ruckus for her keepers. Tears welled in her eyes. She'd had a second chance…and lost it all.
Then the drug took effect, and she couldn't think any more.
…
Dr. Hannibal Lecter was in a rather good mood as he walked towards the long-term-parking lot of the airport. Clarice had been rather stroppy about the deal. But she would figure it out; she was a clever girl. Once she did, she'd kick herself for not realizing it sooner.
And the chance to see her again had been worth it. It had been years. He did love his wife, but he would always have a special place in his heart for Clarice. Of course, the humor in seeing her in a prison cell was not lost on him. But she was out now. And she would figure out what he meant.
He had strolled through customs with nary a hassle, equipped with a false British passport of the best Brazilian manufacture. They might think of him as a pommy. That was just fine with the doctor. They could think 'pommy' all they liked, as long as they stamped the passport and let him into the country. Once he had cleared customs he slipped through the airport, retrieved his bag, and headed back to his wife and son with a jaunty step. It was midnight and the flight had been long, but that did not matter.
The Jaguar moved nicely along the highway. Dr. Lecter found himself in a rare good mood. If there was only one thing he regretted, it was that Clarice would not be able to see him in Australia. He had always wanted, one day, to have Erin and Clarice at the same table. He was quite content here.
Dr. Lecter pulled his car into his driveway and glanced around the house. The cars were all here. That was odd; Erin usually had surgery. Perhaps she'd stayed home with Michael. Sunni was their usual sitter, but she wasn't always available.
The front door pushed open at his touch. That made him wary. Erin normally insisted on keeping the doors locked. He agreed; it was better to keep the detective at bay. He frowned and proceeded further into the house.
"Erin? Michael?" he called out.
No voice greeted him. No footsteps came to welcome him. The mansion on the water seemed desolate and alone. There was no one here.
Dr. Lecter tilted his head and felt misgivings.
In the kitchen was greater cause for concern. Normally the kitchen was kept quite tidy. Now the counter was strewn with debris. On the floor were several splotches of blood. In the corner was a chef's knife. Blood marred its blade. Dr. Lecter stared at that for a long time, a look of utter seriousness on his face. In one corner was a child's footprint stamped in blood.
Dr. Lecter bared his teeth and sat down hard. After all these years, after all his victims…now he was one. His wife and son were missing. There were signs of a struggle. The Cannibal Killer of Sydney had found them.
For a moment, he felt his heart race and he forced himself to sit and breathe until he calmed down. Then he was able to examine the situation critically. He had to settle down. Stay calm. He could do this; he'd done it before.
A phone call to the local police station was next. Dr. Lecter pretended to be an attorney responding to a call. The sergeant on duty was most helpful. No one with the last name of Litton or Lander had been arrested. No woman from Watson's Bay, either. That didn't surprise him. This was a wealthy part of town. No, Erin was not in the hands of the authorities.
He picked up the knife and examined it critically. There was a bag of flour in the cupboard, and Dr. Lecter gently dusted some on the blade. He did not intend to fingerprint it and did not care whose fingerprints came up on the handle. Instead, he simply looked at the size of the prints. A small hand. Erin's.
Had someone forced his way in? Dr. Lecter did not think this was so. His reason was simple. The manse was built for security. The windows were bulletproof glass and built of heavy metal frames. The door itself was very difficult to penetrate. Fugitives know better than most about security, and Dr. Lecter and his wife were no exception. The home was their refuge. No, no one could have forced their way into the house without needing a bulldozer.
That ruled out street punks or other criminals. Erin would have known better than to open the door for them. Nor would she have opened it for a stranger at all. The years as a fugitive had made her cautious. She would have been doubly so without him there. No, it was someone she knew.
If Erin knew the Cannibal Killer in his normal identity…what did that mean?
Dr. Lecter moved swiftly. He gathered up some items. The telephone book gave him Isabelle Pierce's address in Parramatta. He called it from a pay phone and let the phone ring. Just to make sure, he called the hospital, pretending to be a police lieutenant. Isabelle Pierce was sleeping in the hospital. She would be released tomorrow.
Perfect. Dr. Lecter drove to Parramatta and entered the apartment building calmly. The door yielded to his lockpicks and he was inside. He was icy cold now, focused on his mission. This was what he had to do.
Isabelle Pierce's apartment was neat and tidy. Dr. Lecter entered and carefully searched her office until he found what he wanted. The Cannibal Killer file. He was able to find an all-night copy shop that catered to students. That provided him with a copy of the file. He returned to the apartment and silently returned the file to whence he had found it. Then he locked up the apartment again and left.
Home again, home again. Dr. Lecter sat down on his couch and carefully read the file. The Cannibal Killer kept his victims alive for a few days. That was good. He looked at the police report that Detective Pierce had filed on the killer leaving haggis in her car and paused. Haggis?
Dr. Lecter's mind was not measurable by mortal man, and as he reviewed the file ideas occurred to him that no one else would have been able to grasp. By the time he was done, it was three o'clock in the morning. But in that time he had found out what Isabelle Pierce had been working for weeks to discover. He knew the identity of the Cannibal Killer.
His first urge was to go and capture him himself. His wife and son depended on him. Then another idea occurred to him – one he rather liked. This could take care of both the problems of the killer and the detective all at one fell swoop. And it would only take a few extra hours.
Dr. Lecter went up to his study and gathered his implements. Then he grabbed a few other things. A white lab coat. His wife's identification from the hospital she worked in. A black doctor's bag and a stethoscope. He draped the stethoscope around his neck as he had seen his wife do. He clipped her identification to his lapel, twisting it around so that her picture was covered.
The disguise served to get him into the hospital without question. He walked calmly through the hospital, navigating easily to the patient-care ward where Isabelle Pierce was kept. The nurse in charge of the ward eyed him carefully, but she did not question him. He was a doctor, after all.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter glanced into the room. One bed was empty. In the other, Isabelle Pierce slept peacefully. She reminded him vaguely of Clarice. Unfortunately, she had the same dogged persistence that her American counterpart did. No matter. He closed the door behind him and extracted a syringe. The needle jetted its clear contents silently into her IV.
Now he was ready to take care of both the detective and the Cannibal Killer.
…
Clarice was frustrated. Dr. Lecter's phone call weighed heavily on her mind as she headed back to the psychiatric hospital. What the hell was he talking about? What did she have to trade? She had to think of something. Not a day went by that she didn't think about Ardelia.
She'd gotten something good, though. A golfing buddy of Pearsall's at the federal Bureau of Prisons had agreed to pull some strings and get Brittany in Alderson Work Camp, a federal minimum-security prison in West Virginia. That amused Clarice personally. It was somehow fitting to move Brittany from DeGould's home turf to hers.
Paul would have to formally arrest her, but that was just fine. As long as she was in federal custody, New York would have to fight to get her back. If they wanted her back that bad they could fight it out in court. In the meantime, Brittany would have the additional freedoms that a minimum-security facility offered. That would give her an incentive to help.
So now Clarice had something. Dr. Lecter and his 'you ask her to give you everything and you offer her 'maybes' and 'we'll try' in response?' could go stick it where the sun didn't shine. She had something real to offer Brittany. Alderson wasn't fun, but it was minimum security. So long as the kid minded her manners she'd be fine for the time being.
Paul was quiet as he drove. He drove fast, the way a man will when he knows he can flash a badge and get out of tickets. That reminded her of one thing she still did have – her Mustang. A flying chunk of debris had taken out the back window, but the car itself was OK. She'd have to get it fixed once all this was over.
At the hospital, Clarice went up to the window just as she had before. She checked her weapon just as she had before. And she asked for Brittany, just as she had before.
The receptionist looked down at her computer screen and her mouth quirked. That hadn't happened before.
"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully. "Brittany Miller is the patient you want to see?"
Clarice nodded. "I visited her the other day," she said.
The receptionist adopted a puzzled look and tapped a key.
"She's no longer a patient here," she said dubiously.
Clarice felt a wave of fear in her stomach. "She…she what?"
"She was transferred," the receptionist said. "To…wait a minute…here we are. To the New York Department of Corrections. Lieutenant David Beck." She looked up at Clarice and shrugged.
Clarice felt her stomach wrench again and put her hands on the counter. "No," she said. "No, that can't be right. It's a different state. She should've had an extradition hearing."
The receptionist shrugged. "I'm sorry," she said. "They came here and she signed some papers…let's see, here's your extradition waiver right here." She consulted a file and handed Clarice a form. Brief and to the point, it acknowledged that Brittany was voluntarily waiving her right to extradition and voluntarily returning to the custody of the New York Department of Corrections. Her signature was right there for Clarice to see.
The form did not offer Clarice much comfort. "Look," she said. "She tried to commit suicide a few days ago. She is not competent to make that decision. You never should have let her sign it. This is a freaking psychiatric hospital. People are here because they can't make decisions for themselves."
The receptionist appeared miffed. "She was a voluntary patient," she said defensively. "Besides, Agent Barton, she's not here. They came and got her this morning. If you want to complain about it, you'll have to take it up with them. They have legal custody of her."
The world seemed to whirl and spin. Things had been looking up. She'd gotten something she could offer Brittany. She might've been able to eke out a victory here. But now…what the hell was she supposed to do now?
She stumbled out to the lobby. For a moment she thought she might faint. Rebecca DeGould had Brittany. Was Brittany really back in New York DOC? Or was DeGould holding her somewhere quietly?
If she was, then Clarice was pretty damn well sunk. She might get back to her life herself, but Ardelia was lost.
Paul was sitting in the lobby with a copy of Time magazine. He glanced up at Clarice. He noticed her pallor and her shaky stance. His brow furrowed.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "You look kind of peaky."
Clarice swallowed and stared at him for several moments.
"DeGould got her," she blurted.
He tilted his head and stared at her curiously for a minute or two.
"How the hell did she do that?" he asked.
Clarice shrugged. "I don't know," she rasped. Then she moved to sit down before her knees gave out on her.
"Doesn't change much," he observed. "You've still got your fingerprint card. We can get you back into the FBI whenever we want."
Clarice wanted to scream at him for a moment. Was he blind? She forced herself to remember he was trying to help. Several deep breaths through her nose helped.
"Paul," she said. "It does change things for me. Without Brittany I can't prove DeGould did anything. And without Brittany I can't find Kiera. No one's seen hide nor hair of her. If I can't find Kiera I can't get Ardelia out. I can't have Ardelia in prison! I can't live like that, knowing my best friend is locked up. And DeGould isn't going to rest. She'll take it out on Ardelia somehow. Probably me too."
"There may be other ways," he said. "We gotta find out where Britt is, then. If DeGould's sitting on her somewhere private, we're probably screwed."
Clarice thought of Ardelia trapped in that cell for the next few years. Tears pricked her eyes.
"But maybe if she stuck her back in prison, maybe then we're set. But that means something bad."
Clarice blinked. "Like what?"
"If she stuck her back in prison," Paul advised, "then that means she doesn't want to send you back to prison."
At first Clarice had to ask why that was so bad. After all, this would be a most effective torture: Clarice would have to live her life, knowing Ardelia was imprisoned because of her. And she wouldn't be able to do anything about it. She didn't have enough to arrest DeGould, not without either of her minions. Then it occurred to her that DeGould might be cutting her losses.
"You think she'd try to kill me?" Clarice whispered.
Paul shrugged. "It's possible," he said. "Or she's got some other trick up her sleeve. Look, let's go back to the hotel room. I got to make a few phone calls. And I think you need something to help you relax."
So he drove her back to the hotel and fixed her a strong cup of coffee with a chaser of Jack Daniel's. The combination burned her tongue a bit more than she'd expect. But the whiskey had the desired effect of taking the edge off. Clarice chewed on her lip and forced herself to think. Something occurred to her oddly.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "You said it didn't change much if DeGould got her. You're not the only one who said that."
Paul smiled. In the anonymity of the hotel room, they both felt safer than they had in the busy psychiatric hospital. Even so, he looked both ways as if there might be a snooper listening in. When he spoke, his voice was hushed.
"Lecter, wasn't it?"
Clarice paused for a moment. Could she trust him this far? Would he walk out on her?
In for a penny, in for a pound. Better to be honest. She nodded.
"I figured," he said. "Somebody got you out of there slick as a…whistle." She suspected he had been planning another simile and grinned. "I've heard about you and him."
Clarice smiled guiltily and looked at the anonymous hotel carpet. Then she nodded.
"Well," she said, "there's nothing…between me and him."
Paul nodded and seemed pleased.
"First," he said, "let's find out what we can." He picked up the hotel room phone and dialed a number. White teeth flashed at her in a grin as he waited. Then the other end picked up.
"Yeah, hi," Paul said. "This is Sergeant Martelli over at Albion. How're you doing today?" The Brooklyn accent was completely scrubbed from his voice. Clarice tilted her head and watched him. Damn, she wished she could do that with her accent.
He paused. Clarice figured the other side said he was doing just fine. For a moment she watched him, trying to think. Albion? Brittany had mentioned that. It was the medium-security prison that Bedford Hills inmates hoped to be sent to.
"Hey, listen," he said jovially. "Our computer system's down here. I was wondering if you could check something out for me. I'm trying to track down a prisoner."
The voice on the other end said something. Paul grinned apologetically.
"Look, man, I'm really sorry to bug you," he said coaxingly. "Anyways, this is a prisoner who's supposed to go there. So you'd have her. Thing is, the Feds are screaming at me cause they wanted her sent here. They're trying to loosen her tongue a little about some federal case. Anyways, I got some asshole from the FBI and another from the Marshal's Service screaming at me because our inmate isn't here where they want her. You'd think they'd have the brains to get this shit done the right way, but then that's the Feds for you, right? So if you could do a check for me and see if she's there, I'll buy you a beer next time I swing down there to pick up and drop off."
Another pause.
"Thanks, man, you're great. Name is Brittany Tollman. T-O-L-L-M-A-N. Lemme give you her DIN number, too." He quoted a number that meant nothing to Clarice.
He looked a bit surprised. "Sat Psych? Why is that?"
Clarice watched him play out his role and grinned.
"Oh, OK. Well, the Feds won't like it, but the Feds can deal, right? Hey, thanks a million, my friend, you've helped me out of a jam. Yeah. Yeah, great. No, I'll tell 'em, they can deal. Thanks again. G'bye."
He hung up and looked at Clarice quite seriously.
"Brittany Tollman was checked back into the Satellite Psych Center two hours ago," he said. "That's the psych center they have on site for crazy cons. On suicide watch."
Clarice closed her eyes and thought. An insane asylum, right there for those prisoners who lost their minds. How convenient.
"So not only is she back in New York DOC," she said, "but they can keep us from seeing her."
Paul nodded. "Not only that," he said, "but it means that DeGould isn't going to try and put you back in prison. You gotta be careful. God only knows what she's decided to do instead."
Clarice nodded.
"What I gotta do," she said, "is figure out what the hell I need to do to win this. There is something."
Paul observed her casually.
"Lecter told you that, did he?"
Clarice sighed and nodded. "I suppose you don't approve, Paul, but the guy is not a liar."
Paul took a moment before replying. His heavy face was solemn as he thought.
"It's not that I don't approve," he said. "I had something like that happen to me, once. Ever heard of Vinnie Clemenza?"
Clarice thought for a moment. "The mobster?"
Paul nodded. "That's him. Clobber Clemenza, they called him. He was known for beating up guys with baseball bats. Doin life in prison over at Marion now."
"I heard of him," Clarice said.
"Well, before he went down, he knew I was FBI. He was always…polite, I guess. He stuck to the program. You don't kill cops no matter what."
Clarice nodded. La Cosa Nostra wasn't her strong point, but she'd heard of them.
"Vinnie Clemenza committed at least twenty murders that we know of. I think he's got your cannibal doc pal there beat. Vicious, nasty guy. But one day, he'd heard that some punks on the street who were running a crank operation were gonna take me out and try and pin it on his Family. So…I'm at home one night, watching TV. Knock comes on my door. I go and check it out, right? Sitting right on my doorstep is Vinnie Clemenza. I mean, the guy is Cosa Nostra to the core. They said his family's influence ran all the way – cops, politicians, hell, he knew someone in the governor's office. Nothing ever stuck to anyone. But he'd make a call and stuff happened. I was just a grunt FBI agent at the time, no rank. But here he is, one of the main men, at my front door." He chuckled ruefully, remembering.
"What did he say?" Clarice asked, grinning.
"Heh. Just what I told you. 'Agent DaSilva, there's some guys running around. They're trying to clip you and pin it on us. We don't hold for that. We stick to the contracts. Here's the evidence I have.' And he gave me pictures, and tapes, and all that!" Paul chuckled at the memory. "Then he says, 'Oh, and call the city bomb squad, there's a stick of dynamite taped to your ignition'. There was, too!" He smiled. "He asked me to testify at his sentencing hearing."
Clarice grinned. "Did you?"
He nodded. "I says, hey, listen, sure I'll say what you did. I don't know what good it'll do; you're up on twenty murder charges. But I'll go to bat for you, sure. And I did. And it didn't do squats, but I did it. Fair trade." He shook his head ruefully. "Trading for Clemenza. Who'd have thought?"
Clarice thought for a moment. And then it happened.
There are times that one may puzzle over a riddle for hours. Then, a sudden flash of insight strikes, and everything changes. The landscape of the problem is unrecognizable. It is the same in every detail; nothing has moved, but the pattern is clear now and it is obvious.
Such a moment occurred to Clarice Starling as her mind wandered aimlessly back over Paul DaSilva's story. The powerful flash of insight burst through her mind, powerful enough that for a moment she sat there and stared blankly as if struck dumb.
"Oh…my …GOD," Clarice Starling said. "That's it." She glanced at Paul, and a look like rapture spread over her face like cool water. "You're a genius, Paul."
Paul DaSilva gave her a quizzical look.
"He's right," Clarice whispered, and snickered. "Oh, my GOD. It's so…so simple. And it doesn't matter what DeGould does. If I can pull this off…and I think I can…I can win no matter what."
She groped over him for the telephone. The first number she called was Senator Allstyne. The Senator asked about the rumors of her death. Clarice explained to her that she had been undercover.
"Senator," Clarice said pleasantly, "I'm calling you for a reason. I need to talk to someone, and I think you could help me with that. Would you be willing to help me?"
The Senator's surprisingly deep voice considered her and found her worthy of help. "Of course, Agent Starling. I am so pleased with the results of the Prison Project. Now when will you be submitting your report?"
"Very shortly," Clarice assured her. "I just have some things I need to take care of." She explained briefly what it was she sought. The Senator considered.
"That's a bit of an odd request," she said.
"I know," Clarice said. "And Senator, I assure you I wouldn't be asking if it weren't very important."
"Agent Starling, may I say something?"
"Of course, Senator," Clarice said promptly.
"There are times in your life you'll need to grovel. This isn't one of those times. Your request is a little offbeat, but it's not like you're asking the earth. I'll be happy to see what I can do. May I get a number where I can reach you back?"
Clarice rattled off the hotel room number.
"Very well, Agent Starling. Let me make a few phone calls and call you back in fifteen minutes. All right?"
Clarice fought the urge to say Yes, your Majesty mightily. True to her word, the Senator called her back fifteen minutes later. She brought Clarice into a conference call with a third party and then a fourth.
And in the end, it was just as Dr. Lecter had said. Simple trade. Senator Allstyne was able to open the doors for Clarice, but in the end, Clarice spoke with whom she needed to speak to. She explained what she wanted and what she could offer. The other party was amenable to a deal, and the whole thing was wrapped up in less than fifteen minutes. Clarice made a few more phone calls. This time her request was more workaday and common, and the parties she spoke to now were perfectly happy to give her what she wanted when she explained what she had to offer.
Less than half an hour later, the deal was done. She had to run out to Staples and pick up a cheap fax machine to get the paperwork, but even that was not too hard. As the papers that spelled out her final victory spilled out of the machine onto the desk, she sighed. DeGould would never expect this.
Clarice sighed with pleasure. She would win. She flopped herself back against the bed and eyed Paul with gusto. For his part, he simply raised his eyebrows and acknowledged her victory with good faith.
"Goddam," Paul said. "I never thought I'd see something like that wrapped up so quickly."
Clarice grinned. "I know," she said.
"You're not out of the woods yet," Paul pointed out.
"No, but I'm a lot better off than I was," Clarice said. "See…now things are different. Now it's in everyone's self-interest to help me." She grinned widely.
"So shall we get going?" Paul asked.
Clarice shook her head. "Better to wait for shift change at Bedford Hills," she said enigmatically. Then she offered Paul a sly grin. "Besides…I want to celebrate."
"Okay," Paul said instantly. "Wanna go out to eat?"
Clarice's grin became hungrier. Victory elated her. "Nope," she said, and lunged for him. Then thoughts of Rebecca DeGould and her tormentors vanished from her mind. His lips were warm on hers. Then she was fumbling for his buttons, carefully putting his pistol down, and they were moving over to the bed in a tangled mass of legs and arms.
Two hours later, she was finally sated. Lying against him, her skin warm against his, she tangled her bare legs in the bedsheets and played with the clocksprings of hair on his chest. Paul gave her a wry grin.
"Damn, Clarice," was all he said.
Clarice smiled, unrepentant. "Hey," she said lazily. "A girl gets lonely in the joint."
"So are we putting off work until tomorrow?" he asked.
Clarice shook her head. "We'll leave in a couple of hours," she said. "But for now…I'm not quite finished."
