Author's note: Yes, this is a long one. But here we are, Dear Reader.
Clarice glanced over the fences and barbed wire of Bedford Hills and sighed. She had never dreamed that she would ever, ever come back here. Once she'd escaped, she'd thought that would be it. She had never thought she would be here again. Yet here she was, driving into the prison. Night had already fallen, throwing the prison into sharp contrast. Dark fences and buildings were cut apart by bright lights.
She wasn't here as a prisoner. She was here as an FBI agent. In lieu of a prison uniform she had a neat pants suit and an attaché case. Her handcuffs were on her belt, not her wrists. That didn't make it any easier. If anything, she thought, this whole experience had changed her. Before, she'd always been inclined to dismiss prisoners without a second thought. They were the bad guys; they'd gotten caught.
Now she knew better. There were so many shades of gray. Not everyone who was a prisoner was a bad guy. Not everyone in a uniform was a good guy. And yes, she would admit, the system made mistakes sometimes.
Clarice checked in with the guard at the gate and got directions to where she needed to go. Her rental car purred through the maze to the small building away from the main prison. She pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. Her headlights splashed onto a plain, battered sign that announced this was the SATELLITE PSYCHIATRIC CENTER.
Thought of Dr. Lecter came into her head. But no, Brittany was not here because she was a danger to anyone else. She was here because she was a danger to herself. Perhaps Clarice could reach some common ground. She certainly had a reason to reach Brittany now.
Inside, the facility was dim and grotesque. The only light came from fluorescent bulbs that hurt her eyes. She checked in at the main desk and checked her weapon. She doubted that she would need it. The woman at the desk eyed her distrustfully. Federal agents were akin to occupiers at many state prison systems these days. They were disliked, but they were feared all the same, and they had to be obeyed.
In a way, Clarice found that amusing. The prison guards thought of the Feds the same way their prisoners thought of them. None of them seemed to realize that, either.
"There's a visiting room over there, Agent Starling," the woman said dully. "We'll bring her right out to you."
Clarice shook her head. "I'll go to her," she said. "I want to see where you're keeping her. And what conditions you're keeping the others in."
The woman seemed alarmed. "But…Agent Starling, there are no visitors allowed back there. It's dangerous."
"I can handle myself," Clarice said. "Now, either I go back there or I don't, but if I don't, then I'll be having a chat with the Department of Justice when I return."
The woman seemed flustered. Hiding something, are we? Clarice thought. "Okay, okay," she said suddenly. "Just have a seat, it'll be just a bit. We have to secure the block."
Clarice smiled coolly and shook her head. "No," Clarice said. "It'll be five minutes or so until you call down a guard to bring me down there. Otherwise, I'll assume you're hiding something you don't want me to see."
The woman let out a sigh and decided that apparently this problem was beyond her pay scale. "Very well, Agent Starling," she said heavily. She called down a guard who stared with disattached annoyance at Clarice. Federal agents were not popular at state prisons these days. The guard nodded when she told him who she wanted to see and gestured for her to follow him.
She'd thought before that the things she had seen in the prison were dark and evil. Some people deserved this treatment, some did not. She knew both sides, and she wasn't about to become a liberal yet. But here, in this psychiatric center, they were supposed to be helping the inmates. Instead, Clarice thought, it was as bad or worse.
It was nighttime, and the place was quieting down a bit. Inmates lay limp and unmoving in their cells, their demons soothed by overwhelming medication. Or, Clarice thought, it made them easier to handle. That seemed more likely. She stared at the poor souls locked in tiny cells. Some were dressed, some were naked. The menace she had felt at Chesapeake was absent. In here was simply misery.
Clarice closed her eyes and felt a wave of regret. This, simply put, was wrong. No one deserved this.
Brittany Tollman was in a cell halfway down the hall. She wore one of the heavy gowns and had crammed herself into the corner of her cell in a tiny ball, as if taking up the least amount of space possible might offer her some type of comfort. The bandages on her wrists were the only other things she wore.
Clarice gestured at the cell door. "Open it," she told the guard.
The guard sighed and complied. "There," he said. He went back to his chair and flopped down with a sigh as if he had just built the railroad single-handedly. Down the hall, a woman banged on her cell door and asked for toilet paper. The guard paid her no heed.
"Get her some toilet paper," Clarice said.
"In a minute," the guard yawned.
Clarice sighed. "Now," she said. "Goddam it, this place is in enough trouble already. Show some goddam decency."
The guard gave her a dirty look, but he got up and went over to the closet. Clarice pushed open the door and entered the cell. Brittany glanced up at her and let out a wordless sigh. She began to study the ground between her bare feet. Clarice sat down on the floor herself. She pushed her briefcase away and pulled her knees up, mimicking Brittany's posture in a more comfortable manner.
"Can't you leave me alone?" Brittany asked plaintively. "Isn't this enough for you?"
Clarice watched the other woman carefully. To expect Brittany not to be upset would be foolish. Coming back to Bedford Hills was vaguely disconcerting for Clarice, coming as a federal agent. For Brittany, it had to be hell on earth.
Still, her timing had been good. Brittany could talk, which meant that whatever dope they had been running into her had worn off. If they came and tried to medicate her again, Clarice could run them off.
"I'm not here to make things tougher on you," Clarice said sympathetically.
"No. You're here to make me give up Kiera. I won't." Brittany said defiantly.
Clarice shook her head.
"I know," she said. "You're here for the next twenty years anyway, so it doesn't matter. Unless your sentence is commuted by the governor."
Brittany chuckled sourly. "Yeah, right," she said. Acid bitterness scarred her tone. "That'll happen when monkeys fly out of my butt. I'm not giving you Kiera. I don't care what you do to me."
"I can see that," Clarice said. "Whatever charges I pile on your head couldn't really mean a whole lot, right?"
Brittany sighed. "Oh, just do it and get it over with," she said crossly.
"Actually," Clarice said calmly, "no. I came here to talk to you about your case."
Brittany gave her a blank look. "My case?"
"Your case."
Brittany sighed. "I don't have a case," she said. "I was sentenced. I've been here five years. There's no retrials, no court date. It's done."
Clarice shrugged. "So it won't hurt any if I have a look in your file," she said. From the briefcase she extracted a thick manila folder. She opened it and began to page through it.
"Let's see," she said. "Your boyfriend pretty much kidnapped you out of your apartment in Miami. You weren't involved in any of the robberies down South. He did those all himself. You were locked in the car. An eyewitness saw you in the car in Charleston, South Carolina. He tied you up and left you in the backseat while he robbed a convenience store, didn't he? By the time the cops got out there he was gone along with you."
Brittany shuddered. Clarice continued.
"When they found you, your gun had blanks, and your shoulder was dislocated. Store security cameras showed that. You also had some pretty bad bruises. He must've been pretty rough on you."
Brittany's eyes wet with angry tears. "He was on crank," she grumbled. "Why are you rubbing my face in this, Starling? Why do you have to be such a sadistic bitch? When has someone suffered enough for you people?"
Clarice swallowed. Let it go, she told herself, She's despairing, that's all.
"I'm not being a sadistic bitch. That's DeGould. Let me finish." Her tone was quiet but firm.
Brittany retreated into bitter silence.
"The first robbery you participated in was in Maryland. A week or so after it all started. The robbery in New York that they caught you for, the camera showed you didn't shoot the cop – your boyfriend did. They got you and you offered right off to testify against him. Your public D didn't even approach the fact that you'd been kidnapped and beaten, which was amazingly stupid of him."
Brittany sighed. "You ain't telling me anything I haven't thought about every day for the past five years," she said. "No one cares. I don't get any more chances in court."
Clarice nodded sympathetically. "I know," she said. Then she scootched forward and put her hand on Brittany's arm.
"Brittany, I look in this file and I don't see that you should have been convicted of first-degree murder," she said. "The evidence doesn't point to it. The evidence points to you being a battered woman who was terrorized into doing what her boyfriend wanted."
"Nothing to be done for it," Brittany repeated. "Nobody cares. And all you want is your friend anyway."
Clarice shook her head. "That's not what I came here for," she said. "Look, I know what you think. I'm a cop, so I don't care. There's people like you, and then there's people like me."
"Least you admit it now," Brittany said, staring fixedly between her feet.
"Well," Clarice said. "That's not totally true. The whole reason I went undercover into prison was to make sure prisoners weren't being abused. This was a whole project. It wasn't just me. Agents were put into prisons all over the country. Our job was to witness and report back what we saw. To recommend changes and file charges."
Brittany eyed Clarice over her knees with disdain.
"Like anything would change," she said spitefully. "You did this so some Senator could make a speech."
Clarice sighed. "Brittany," she said, "I know it's been tough on you. But could you give me a chance here?"
"I didn't get one," Brittany pointed out archly.
"Actually, that's not as true as you think," Clarice said. "How about letting me finish?"
"Fine," Brittany said crossly.
Clarice nodded. She could understand to a point, but Brittany's oppositional behavior was beginning to get to her. Fortunately, she'd be shutting up fairly shortly.
"Thank you," she said archly, letting her displeasure color her tone instead of her words. "Now then. As I was saying, I looked at this file, and I have some real questions as to whether or not you should have been convicted of first-degree murder."
Brittany clearly wanted to say something snide, but held her tongue. Good.
"Now let me ask you, Brittany. Suppose I could help you somehow? Something that was real and measurable. Not empty promises. No bullshit. You jumped me when DeGould offered you a second chance. Clocked me with a bar of soap and walked out in my place. Would you be willing to switch sides if I could do that?"
Brittany's shoulders slumped. "You can't get me out of here," she said. "Besides, you want Kiera and I won't--,"
"Brittany," Clarice said, cutting her off firmly, "that's not what I asked. I asked if you'd turn on DeGould for me. If I could get you a second chance. Just theoretically."
"But it ain't--," Brittany started again.
"Theoretical question, Brittany. Yes or no. Forget Kiera, I know you won't give her up. She's your friend. In your position I'd only hope I could be strong enough to do what you're doing. Answer the question I asked, Brittany. If I could get you a second chance, would you give me Rebecca DeGould?"
Brittany pressed herself further into the concrete wall and hunched her shoulders. She eyed Starling with angry helplessness for a few minutes. She set her jaw and pondered.
"You'd have to get me out of here," Brittany said, her tone low. "Period. While I'm here I'm a sitting duck for her. New York is her turf. All she has to do is make a phone call."
Don't I know that, kiddo, Clarice Starling thought.
"So you would?" she probed.
Brittany closed her eyes and let out a defeated breath through her nostrils. "Yes," she said finally.
Clarice smiled. "Good," she said briskly. "I'm glad you said that, Brittany." She cleared her throat. "I know what you think. But I do care. And I'm willing to show you some proof." She reached over for her briefcase and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
"I've been on the phone with state authorities for a bit on your behalf," she said. "Also drove to Albany from Harrisburg and back down here. As of six PM today, the governor of New York State has given you a full and unconditional pardon." With a flourish, she handed the sheet of paper to the other woman. The seal of New York State was visible in the watermark, even in the dim light of the isolation cell.
Brittany Tollman's eyes bulged. Shaking hands gripped the paper. She looked from the paper to the FBI agent and back. Clarice found the look of outright shock on her face slightly amusing. She simply held her tongue, enjoying the moment.
"Want some toilet paper for those monkeys?" Clarice asked, her mouth quirking in a grin.
"But…but…but…," Brittany stuttered.
"But what?" Clarice asked.
"I can't apply for a pardon," Brittany said blankly. "There's rules about that."
Clarice shrugged. "They can make whatever rules they want about you applying for a pardon for yourself," she pointed out. "They can't make any rules about someone else lobbying on your behalf."
"People like you never do something like this for people like me," Brittany said, her eyes still blank. Clarice found it more amusing than annoying. This wasn't protest; this had simply blown the young inmate's mind. She had never seen this coming.
"People like you are people like me," Clarice said softly. "There's no difference."
She let Brittany have a moment or two to take it all in. Then Brittany looked down at the paper and back at her.
"How did you do this?" she asked.
Clarice shrugged. "I didn't. The governor did. I showed him your file and told him I had some doubts as to your level of criminal responsibility at the time of the offense. I know all the legal talk."
"And what?" Brittany asked suspiciously.
Clarice answered the question by displaying a crafty smile. "And then I asked him nicely and said please. I'm not telling you any more. I'd rather you be able to testify under oath that you never knew the details."
"So…so I don't have to stay here?" Brittany asked dumbly.
Clarice shook her head.
"Now that you mention it, let's get out of here," she said chattily. "This place sucks. How about we get on the road and get out of here? I'll feed you if you want."
She didn't think it had registered on the girl, so she simply got to her feet and picked up her briefcase. From it she withdrew a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and sneakers. She placed them on the mattress in front of Brittany.
"Get changed," she told her.
Dumbly, Brittany obeyed. Her mind was still blown by it all, Clarice thought. It hadn't really cleared her registers. She put on the free world clothes and stared at them in disbelief. Her wrists had been deeply slit enough to make buttoning the shirt difficult. Clarice helped her calmly and then led her from the cell.
The guard frowned at them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked. "You can't take her out of the cell."
Clarice grinned. The governor's office had deliberately held off on informing the prison authorities. It would be nice for Brittany to see the guards getting it put to them for once. It was nicer for Clarice to tell the guards where to stick it.
"The hell I can't," Clarice said, and displayed the pardon. "She's been pardoned. You have no authority to hold her."
"She's a psych inmate now," the guard protested.
"She's my psych inmate, not yours," Clarice said. "I'm not unreasonable, sir. I'll give you sixty minutes – one whopping hour – to do whatever out-processing you need to do. After that, you will let both of us go." Her eyes flashed and she grinned. This was fun, damn it all. "If you impede us in any way shape or form from minute number sixty-one, sir, I will have you, and any other guard or official who gets in my way, arrested for kidnapping."
The guard's jaw dropped. "You can't do that!" he protested.
Clarice grinned impishly. "I'm an FBI agent," she said. "I most certainly can arrest people for kidnapping. You have one hour, sir. Starting now."
After summoning some rank and verifying that Brittany Tollman had, indeed, been pardoned, the powers that be gave her back a box of her property and sent her on her way in the custody of Special Agent Clarice M. Starling. Calmly, the two women proceeded out to where Clarice's car was parked by the Satellite Psychiatric Center. Clarice let her store her little box of stuff in the trunk. She could see confusion and hope beginning to dawn in the young woman's eyes.
She could see Brittany tense when they approached the gate. Clarice simply handed over the paperwork and explained what had happened. Then the car simply drove away from the prison that had imprisoned both women and never would again. Brittany turned in her seat and watched it recede in the distance, a chapter in her life closed out.
The lights of the sleeping town lit up like emeralds on velvet. For several minutes neither one spoke. Clarice spotted an all-night donut shop and pulled into it. Some coffee might be what the kid needed to clear her head.
So she bought a couple of donuts and two cups of coffee and gently steered Brittany to a booth. Brittany held her coffee in both hands and sipped from it. Her eyes seemed to be clearing. She looked exhausted and frightened to Clarice. Must be topsy-turvy enough for her, Clarice thought sympathetically. In, out, back in, back out again. But now it was time to see if she would go back a third time or stay out.
"So what happens now?" Brittany asked.
Clarice nodded. "Well, you're coming back to Virginia," she said. "With me. Then there are two ways this can go. The first choice is that I can put cuffs on you and arrest you for arson, conspiracy to alter federal records, and impersonating a federal officer. You know the score for that – I'd take you to jail, and you'd stay there while you were being tried. Or you can make a plea bargain, I guess."
Brittany recoiled. Clarice held up a hand and smiled disarmingly.
"The other choice is that you can turn state's evidence. I talked to the US Attorney and the DA in Virginia. Both of them are willing to give you immunity for your testimony. I have an agreement here." She took some papers and laid them on the table. "If you sign that, then I will take you to an FBI safe house— not a jail—and you'll give me a statement. Then you can stay there for the time being. Rebecca DeGould doesn't know we have it. Once you give me a statement I can get her arrested. You'd be safe from her."
Brittany sipped her coffee again. Her eyes sought out Starling's.
"This doesn't make sense," she said distractedly. "You never once asked me about your friend, or Kiera."
Clarice nodded. She hadn't, because she knew where that would lead. Brittany didn't want to give Kiera up. In order to do that, she had to be convinced.
"That's right," Clarice said. "Not yet. Are you ready to talk about that?"
"No, wait," Brittany managed. "You did all this for me…and thank you, don't get me wrong, I appreciate it…but…," she swallowed and looked up. "But you didn't know I would give you anything."
Clarice nodded. "Well," she allowed. "Now you think about it a little. You're small fish. I want DeGould. We make deals all the time with small fish to get big fish. It's how the system works. You're in pretty good shape. You'll be free and out. A second chance, just like you wanted. Now Kiera…it's not that way for her. She's a fugitive. There will be a warrant out for her arrest, for the same charges that I told you I can charge you with."
Brittany's eyes lit with fear.
"Now, listen to me," Clarice said sympathetically. "I know what you're thinking. You're where I've been ever since I got out of prison. You're in OK shape, but your friend isn't. Think about your friend. I know I have. If she's caught she is up a creek. But it doesn't have to be that way."
"If I give her up," Brittany said miserably.
"You'd be doing her a favor," Clarice said. "Look. My job was to go to prison and write a report on what I saw. New York State knows I'm writing that report. That's part of why they wanted to keep me happy, and when they thought I had a bee in my bonnet over your case, they gave me a pardon for you without too much argument. This prison project is big. Don't take this the wrong way, but it's a lot bigger than you. They don't want federal oversight over their Department of Corrections. They don't want the federal Department of Justice going after them for civil-rights suits. They want it to go away. One prisoner doesn't mean anything to them. They'll give me one prisoner if they think it'll keep me happy. Show of good faith, you could say."
Brittany put down her coffee cup and watched her intently.
"I couldn't do this six months ago. The governor would never have paid attention to a grunt FBI agent. Six months from now, things will be underway. Trials starting. Agreements being hammered out. And I won't be able to do it then, either. I know you want your friend free. Hell, I can't blame you for that. That's what I want for my friend. And I can try to help her. Her case is a lot like yours, I think that's why DeGould picked you. But if you want to help your friend, then I need Ardelia out to do that. But it's got to be now, Brittany. Now I've got some clout. Now Ardelia will have some clout. Once that report is over and done with, she won't. I'm not gonna lie to you. Kiera will be arrested. We're going to try and keep her in federal hands. It's easier that way. She'll have to spend a little bit of time in jail. Can't be helped. But a little bit of time in jail is a lot better than living as a fugitive and facing the rest of her life in prison if she's caught."
Brittany tensed, clearly measuring something in her mind. Clarice continued, hoping to push her over and swing the fulcrum to her side. It made sense. She had a reason to help Clarice now.
"You're right, I did this without knowing you'd help me. I gave you a leap of faith. Now you give me one. You've seen what I can do. When this is done, you'll have a real second chance. No one will be looking for you. You won't be living under someone's thumb, either. You can give that to your friend, Brittany. Give her that chance too."
Brittany Tollman clamped down on the edge of the plastic table with both hands. The conflict was clear in her eyes. The convict's code of ethics, long drilled into her mind. A convict never hates on another convict's play. Do your own time. Never help the cops. A snitch is the lowest form of prison life.
But she wasn't a convict any longer.
"You better help her," Brittany warned in a shaky tone.
"I'll do everything I can," Clarice said. "Ardelia's a good egg. She'll understand. I'll talk to her. But you gotta trust me."
"Miss DeGould doesn't know where she is," Brittany said aimlessly.
"But you do," Clarice said, trying to keep her on track.
"She's…," Brittany sighed and shook her head.
"Do the right thing, Brittany," Clarice said softly. "Help your friend. She'll understand when she's out. I need to know where she is. Tell me now, while I can help."
Brittany took another bite of the donut and stared fixedly into space.
"There's this…little rural town in southern Virginia," she said haltingly. "Tiny little spot on the map. You'd never see it if you weren't looking for it. Romulus, Virginia. It's only got like a thousand people. Her gramma lives there."
"And that's where she is?" Clarice probed.
Brittany adopted a look of despair and nodded.
"You did the right thing, Brittany," Clarice said approvingly, and patted her shoulder. "Now come on. We've got a long way to go back to Virginia." And a goddam crook to catch, she thought.
She headed back home to win.
…
Isabelle Pierce awoke and glanced around the room curiously. She had slept very well last night and felt much better. Of course, that was partially because she was being discharged today. Her shoulder was still a little stiff.
Dr. Litton did not come to discharge her, and Isabelle thought that a bit curious. Had she spotted her in the bathroom? But another doctor did come to pronounce her fit to be discharged. She called her station and asked if someone could come and get her. They agreed to send someone out.
Her clothing had been turned over to the police as evidence. The hospital let her have a set of scrubs for the time being, so she wouldn't have to march around in a hospital gown. They gave her some painkillers and wished her Godspeed. A uniformed cop came up to the floor and brought her down to a cruiser grumbling contentedly away on high-octane gas.
"Seems like you've had a rough time of it," the uniform said sympathetically.
"Just a bit," she said, more shortly than she had intended. "Part of the job."
It was true, she thought. Perhaps her father was right and she should have taken a less dangerous job. Somehow, serial killers seemed inclined to attack her personally. First Armington, now the Cannibal Killer.
On the other hand, she reflected, Steven Armington now sported a permanent limp. She gave as good as she got. She wondered if he thought about it. In the prison he was serving his time in, it would be a real handicap.
But Steven Armington's book was closed, and it was the Cannibal Killer who she had to seek now. And she vowed she would get him. No matter what the mayor said, or the higher-ranking officers thought. The Cannibal Killer had attacked her in her own home. That had sealed the doctor's fate in her mind; she would see him in a cell regardless of what it took.
The cop helpfully dropped her at her apartment and she went in to dress in her own clothes and check a few things out. Even if her shoulder was too stiff for the field, she could work in the office. Her apartment was much the same as she had seen it. She stared curiously at the file on her computer desk. She'd thought she left it on the coffee table, so she could flip through it while watching television. But then again, she'd been stabbed, so perhaps her memory was addled.
Her own clothes were preferable to the scrubs, and the weight of her Browning on her hip was quite a comfort. She picked up the file and eyed it carefully. For a moment, her head felt swimmy and she rubbed her temple.
Go to the Littons' home, a voice spoke up in her head.
Where had that come from? She didn't need to go there. She needed to go to the station and find enough proof to go and arrest Hamilton Litton. Then she would fingerprint him and prove he was Hannibal Lecter. And then her city would be safe.
Go to the Littons' home, the voice repeated.
Isabelle touched her temple and stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Where were these thoughts coming from? And why? Perhaps she ought to take a sick day anyway. She'd certainly earned one.
Go to the Littons' home, the voice repeated a third time, a bit more firmly.
Isabelle Pierce went out to her car and sat down behind the wheel. Was she going insane? Was this simply an aftereffect of anesthesia? But she minded the voice and headed for Watson's Bay.
When she arrived, she drove slowly along the road but did not stop. She saw the figure of a man in the garage. The figure of Dr. Hamilton Litton was clear. He was dressed casually; a T-shirt and a pair of Dockers. He lifted up a box and carried it into the house without a strain of effort. Then he closed the door behind him and disappeared into the house.
Detective Pierce's brow furrowed. This did not make sense. Dr. Litton was able to walk without any problem at all; he could carry a box. But she had shot her attacker twice, point-blank, in the gut. No one who had suffered a wound like that could simply tote a heavy box like that. The conclusion was inescapable.
Hamilton Litton had not attacked her.
Then the voice spoke again, telling her where to go next. Isabelle did not know if it was simply madness or a policeman's hunch or simply an aftereffect of the ordeal she had been through. But she heeded that voice and picked up speed again.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter turned and watched her go. It was killing him to simply sit here and wait. He wanted his wife and son back. He had once crossed the ocean for his wife. Knowing where they were and knowing he could save them made him want to go immediately to them. But if he was right, Isabelle Pierce could do his job for him and remove the threat she represented to him all by herself.
There would be some danger, he supposed, but if Isabelle Pierce were afraid of danger, she would have become a kindergarten teacher instead of a detective. She was trained for it. If his guess was right, she would be strong enough to carry out her role. He had simply given her a few of the pieces. If Clarice thought highly of her, she would be able to put the rest together herself. If she failed him, he would simply save his wife himself. In either case, Erin and Michael would both be home for dinner tonight and the detective would no longer be an issue.
Isabelle Pierce thought she had slept exceptionally well the night before in the hospital. She did not recall the few hours in which she had been gently awoken and then given strong hypnotic drugs and put into deep hypnosis. Nor would she; Dr. Lecter had covered his tracks exceptionally well.
He had not brainwashed her. He simply did not have the time. Instead, he had simply implanted a few simple post-hypnotic suggestions. She wouldn't be able to function until she obeyed them. It was akin to a song playing through one's head. It would drive her mad until she complied.
But once it was done, the effects would flow away like the tides lapping the shores of his home. She would be right as rain once she had done what he wanted her to. That was fine with Dr. Lecter. The psychiatrist had found something pleasing in her; an Australian version of Clarice. The closest he would have. There was enough there that he felt the world would be more interesting with her in it.
Besides, he was a taxpayer and expected the streets to be safe.
He watched her Holden disappear in the distance. Now, maddening as it was, he had to wait. She was off to her destiny.
