Author's note:  Here we are…the bad guys get theirs.  Some of you will be happy; some will not. I hide behind the MFS rule. :D  I had written some other scenes too, but that will be in the next chapter; otherwise this would have been waaaay too long.  So…bad guys in the US and Down Under.

            Isabelle Pierce drove up to the city morgue in Sydney, still not quite aware what she was doing.  That little voice had told her to come here.  It might have been helpful if it had added in why or what she was supposed to be doing.  The dull gray building loomed ahead. 

                Ugly fluorescent lights mounted high overhead lighted the inside.  Isabelle's nose wrinkled.  What was she doing mucking about here anyway?  Surely there had to be better ways here to spend her time.  But the voice in the back of her mind was maddeningly insistent.  Every time she thought of going back to the car and back to the police station, it continued to yammer maddeningly.

                She went into the autopsy room and watched a man in scrubs busily poke around at the corpse on the table.  When he had finished, he glanced up at her. 

                "Sorry," he said, "I was taping that and didn't want to stop it again.  Can I help you?" 

                Ask to see the head pathologist, the voice told her. 

                "I'd like to see the head pathologist," she said.  "The coroner." 

                He nodded.  "Dr. McGregory," he said.  "Righto.  Wait a moment, I'll rustle him up for you.  He's in his office." 

                Isabelle Pierce rubbed her temple as she left.  What had happened to her?  Why were voices in her bloody head?  Had all the stress of the investigation begun to drive her mad?  That was bad.  Despite her father's disapproval, she liked her job and was good at it.  Cracking up was not something she wanted to do.  

                The pathologist stuck his head in the room. 

                "He'll see you now," he said cheerily.  "Up the stairs and it's the first door on the left." 

                Isabelle headed up the stairs and opened the door.  Here it looked like any other office building.  One would never have known that below the dead were stored.  She opened the office door and entered Dr. McGregory's office.  

                He was sitting there behind the desk.  He was a rather nondescript man.  His face was thin and pinched, very sharp-featured.  His eyes were gray behind his spectacles.  He adjusted his lab coat and smiled humorlessly at her. 

                "Good morning, Detective Pierce," he said. 

                Isabelle Pierce observed the man who catalogued Sydney's dead calmly.  His accent was not like hers.  Nor was it like Dr. Elaine Litton's clear American accent, or even Dr. Hamilton Litton's educated British accent.  It was a Scottish burr, heavy and thick.  He pronounced the R in 'morning' the way Dr. Litton did, she noticed.   

                "Good morning," she said.  She smiled disarmingly.  "I was here to ask a favor, actually.  It seems the Cannibal Killer stole some papers from my apartment when he attacked me.  I was curious if I could get those replaced.  I'd be quite grateful." 

                He tilted his head curiously.  "Odd that he'd want those," he said.   

                She smiled.  "Apparently he did," she quipped.  Then, to change the subject, she said "That's an interesting accent.  Are you Scottish?" 

                He smiled a pinched smile.  "Yes, I am," he said.  "Been here since I was ten, though." 

                "Do you miss it?" 

                "Och, no," he said.  "Here is home, you know.  I've been here for so long." 

                She watched him carefully, a connection lighting up.  "Ever had haggis?" she asked. 

                He smiled again as if it was an old joke he no longer found funny.  "Not really," he said.  "I don't wear a kilt to work either." 

                He rose from his chair.  When he did, he grimaced and put his hand to his stomach.  "Let me get you copies of everything on the Cannibal Killer investigation," he said.  "Won't be a tick."  As he left, his hand patted her shoulder calmly. 

                Isabelle Pierce sat and looked around the office.  On one wall was a portrait of Wound Man.  She watched that carefully.  The poor bastard, stabbed through with arrows and a hammer applied to his skull.  That made her think of Quantico.  A dark room, a projection screen, and Clarice Starling's voice with that odd regional drawl. 

                She rose from her chair and examined his.  Against the right armrest of the chair was a stain of blood.  In his wastebasket were several bloody bandages and tape.  She pivoted then, realization flashing into her eyes.  As the pathologist returned with several papers in his hand, she drew the Browning and aimed it straight at him. 

                His gray eyes glanced at her in surprise. 

                "Detective Pierce!" he said. 

                Her eyes were wide and alarmed, but still under control. 

                "Dr. McGregory, you're under arrest.  Turn around and drop the papers.  Keep your hands where I can see them." 

                "You're being silly," he said.  "Honestly, Detective." 

                "Dr. McGregory," she said, "I am not joking with you.  Drop the papers.  You're under arrest for assault on a police officer.  I've shot you once; I'll do it again." 

                Ian McGregory sighed and dropped the papers obediently.  Under them, a knife clattered to the floor.  Isabelle stared at it for just long enough to realize what it was. 

                "Where is Dr. Litton?" she demanded.  Then she stopped.  Where had that come from?  Was she psychic now?  Where were these bloody voices coming from? 

                The Cannibal Killer saw her momentary confusion and took advantage of it.  He turned in the hallway and disappeared.  Isabelle Pierce plunged through the door after him and fired twice.  In the enclosed hallway the explosions were deafening.  She'd get in heaps of trouble for it, she supposed, but for now the chips would have to fall where they lay.  She would not be cheated of this. 

                The Cannibal Killer fell in the hallway of the Sydney city morgue.  Blood bloomed from his right side, where she'd hit him once in the kidney.  Detective Pierce sprinted towards him.   She closed the distance and grabbed his wrists, handcuffing him swiftly.  He was wounded, but he would live. 

                Wounded not only once, she noticed with satisfaction.  On his front, down towards his waistband, she could feel the bulk of a bandage.  Of course, he was a doctor himself.  He would have been able to take care of his own wounds. 

                Then the door to the stairs opened, and Dr. Hamilton Litton crossed around the doorway and observed her with her prisoner.  He took a moment to stare at them as if he had not expected to see it. 

                "My," he said.  "Detective Pierce.  Perhaps you can help me." 

                Isabelle Pierce kept her hand on her Browning.  She stared at the man she knew to be Hannibal Lecter and swallowed.  If they were partners…if he tried anything…she would shoot him dead and worry about the consequences later. 

                "My wife has been missing since last night," he said.  "I haven't been able to find anything of her. A neighbor told me that Dr. McGregory was seen at my doorstop."  His face took on a look of very human concern.  "I know we've had some difference, Detective Pierce, but I assure you, I'm only concerned for my wife and son." 

                Ian McGregory sighed and muttered something against the cheap carpet. 

                "What was that?" Detective Pierce asked, her pulse racing. 

                "They're alive," he said resignedly. "I hadn't gotten my meal yet.  I should've gotten you out of the way the first time." 

                Sirens were rising in the distance, and people were beginning to gather around.  Detective Isabelle Pierce took charge of the scene.  Dr. McGregory was transported under guard to the hospital.  She herself was taken back to the station to explain the situation.  Things moved so quickly after that.  There were forms and interviews and things to explain.  But the police in Sydney knew their first priority.  Dr. McGregory's statement was deemed enough to authorise a search of his home. 

                Once the policemen had broken down the door, Detective Isabelle Pierce entered the home ahead of everyone else.  She stepped forward into it and looked around.  At first, everything was calm.  A kitchen, a living room, a bathroom.  All jejune and workaday.  But the basement…

                Dr. Ian McGregory's basement was a horror that Isabelle Pierce would have just as soon have forgotten.  Bloody instruments sat in the sink.  A table stolen from the Sydney morgue occupied pride of place.  It, too, was stained with blood.  Photographs of his prior atrocities hung on the walls.  Alongside them, pictures of Hannibal Lecter and cheap paperback books about the American psychiatrist testified to the pathologist's interest in him. 

                Against one wall was a barred cage tall enough to stand up in and wide enough to lie down in.  In it was a trembling woman holding her son tightly to her.  She stared at Detective Pierce with wide dark eyes.  Calmly, the detective squatted by the cage and reached her hand inside. 

                "Dr. Litton?" she asked. 

                Elaine Litton nodded. 

                "We're going to get you out of there.  It'll be just a moment.  We're getting some tools." 

                The lock on the cage was easily overcome, and the surgeon and her son came out.  They looked unharmed, but just in case, Isabelle Pierce sent them over to the waiting paramedics.  Even now, she could show a bit of mercy.  If Elaine Litton was Erin Lander or not, she could at least let her get checked out.  That could wait. 

                She was surprised to see Dr. Hamilton Litton still around for a moment after the ambulance containing his wife and son had left.  He waved her down to attract her attention and she eyed him carefully. 

                "Aren't you going to the hospital to be with your wife?" she asked him. 

                He nodded, observing her carefully from behind his glasses.  He was an older, courtly man, but she could still sense menace coming from him. The wiry strength in that small, sleek body was far from gone yet.  Her eyes fixed his, probing and curious.  Was he or wasn't he? 

                "Oh yes," he said.  "Momentarily.  But I did want to take a moment to thank you, Detective Pierce." 

                "You're welcome," she said.  "It's my job." 

                "And you've done it well," he said.  "You've saved my wife and son, and for that I thank you.  Also, you've captured the Cannibal Killer.  This is a valuable notch on your belt, Detective.  Enjoy it." 

                He scanned her again with those dark eyes. 

                "I understand from Elaine that you took some classes at Quantico, from Clarice Starling," Dr. Litton said.  "I think she'd be proud of you."

                Then he offered her a single smile and was gone. 

                The Acting Chief of Behavioral Sciences was not happy. 

 It seemed everything had gone from bad to worse.  She had thought that stashing Brittany away back in Bedford Hills's psychiatric unit would keep her out of trouble.  She had thought that freaking Beck might, just might, be able to keep Brittany under wraps for a little bit.  Considering he had been doing exactly that for the past five goddam years, she didn't think it was too unreasonable. 

But apparently it was.  According to Beck's contacts, a woman answering Clarice's description had shown up and taken Brittany away.  Her paperwork said she was Agent Sarah Barton.  At least she knew Clarice's cover identity. 

"How the hell did this happen?" she snarled into the phone. 

Beck's voice was nervous.  "She had a pardon," he said helplessly.  "We couldn't hold her." 

DeGould sighed.  "A goddam pardon?  It must have been forged.  Get her back." 

Beck made an unlovely sound as his throat clicked.  "It wasn't forged.  We checked with the governor's office." 

                "What?" DeGould said.  "How the hell did trailer trash like Starling manage to swing a pardon?  Find out what the goddam conditions of the pardon were and say she violated one." 

                Beck sounded like he was cowering in his concrete little office.  "It was unconditional.  She's free." 

                "Say she killed someone there! Say she assaulted someone!  Get her back." 

                Beck let out a sigh in her ear.  "It's too late, Agent DeGould.  She's gone." 

                "Put out a goddam APB on her then!  Didn't you know what Clarice Starling's car looked like?  Arrest them!  Do something!"  DeGould said hotly.   She wasn't screaming, but it was close. "Do I have to think of everything for you, you fat tub of lard?" 

                Beck was silent for a minute or two.  When he spoke, his voice was colder. 

                "Listen, I don't think you understand.  I cannot get her back.  The Feds are swarming over this place and we have orders to cooperate with them.  This whole goddam prison project."  He sounded disgusted. 

                "You listen to me," DeGould seethed.  "Brittany Tollman submitted a report that exonerated the guards there of any wrongdoing.  I should know.  I wrote it for the stupid little quiff.  The Feds shouldn't be bothering you at all." 

                "Well, guess what, DeGould.  Some boys from Justice were in the warden's office this afternoon.  A corrected report was filed, it seems.  You got me into this.  If you don't quit ordering me around and start doing something, I'm gonna get me a lawyer and start seeing about a deal." 

                Rebecca DeGould shook with rage.  That…that prison guard daring to betray her? 

                "You do," she promised, "and I'll see to it that you rot in prison yourself for the rest of your life." 

                "You've got your own problems," Beck informed her. 

                DeGould slammed the phone down.  How dare he?  How dare he? 

                Clarice was gone.  Brittany was gone.  Kiera was gone.  She still had one ace to play.  She had another lieutenant in Florida DOC, just as she had Beck in New York.  She called Florida DOC and asked for Lieutenant Batson.  A few minutes later, he was on the line.  Rebecca smiled.  At least someone still respected her. 

                "Batson.  This is DeGould.  Your counterpart in New York has fucked everything up," she said coolly.  "I'm relying on you." 

                "What do you need?" he asked. 

                "Ardelia Mapp.  She needs to be taken out.  No transfer to Chowchilla; we waited too long.  Kill her." 

                There was silence on the other end of the line. 

                "Kill her, I said," DeGould said irritably.  "It's not like I'm asking the earth.   Go in her cell, handcuff her, kill her and make it look like a suicide.  It wouldn't be the first time – I have read the paper." 

                "I can't," Batson said calmly. 

                "Look," DeGould said through clenched teeth.  "This is not a game here.  Either you kill her or if she gets sprung then we all go to prison ourselves.  According to the paper there have been a few suspicious deaths on your watch.  So make one more! Because either you have a dead prison inmate or we're all going to prison ourselves, and I do not intend to go.  Neither should you.  Do you understand me?" 

                "Sure," Batson said, "but I can't kill her because she's not here.  She was taken into custody by a federal marshal two hours ago and taken out of the prison.  No cuffs or anything.  There are some Feds here now.  Do you want to talk to them?" 

                Rebecca DeGould's heart began to pound.  "Hell, no," she said, and hung up.  She sat down behind the desk and grabbed the edge of the desk.  Her carefully polished nails sunk into the wood. 

                If they're all out…then I am screwed.  I'll go to prison.  If those two little morons are talking, I am dead meat. 

                The phone rang again.  She picked it up and sighed. 

                "DeGould," she said. 

                "DeGould, it's Sneed.  Have you checked your email?" 

                Rebecca let out a frenzied snort.  "No!" she said.  "Look…I have a situation here, Bob.  I really don't have time for this." 

                "You should.  Starling has been reinstated.  Reinstated.  They're saying she was undercover, not dead.  The wheels are coming off, Rebecca.  What the hell is going on?  This is not what was supposed to happen." 

                Did anyone have some good news for her?  "Bob," she said, smiling prettily, "look.  I need to make a few phone calls.   Let me call you back in five minutes."

                "No, look.  Don't hang up.  I'm telling you.  We need to do something." 

                DeGould slammed down the phone and stared at the wall of her office for a few minutes while she calmed down.  Starling reinstated?  Someone up above covering for her?  That could only mean one thing.  They had her number and she was meat. 

                Very well.  Perhaps it was time for a strategic retreat.  If she could get the hell out of here, she'd be fine.  She could be back in New York in a few hours of driving, and her father could protect her from there.  She could catch a flight to Europe from Kennedy or JFK.  Either that or drive up to Toronto and fly out of there.  It would be easy. 

                She walked out of the office and briskly down the hall to the elevators.  Time to get out of here.  The beating of her heart in her ears was hard to ignore.  Just stay calm, get to the car, and everything will be fine, she thought to herself. 

                At the exits were a knot of people.  A few of them seemed to recognize her and began to float over towards her. 

                "Agent DeGould?" one of them asked. 

                Rebecca DeGould smiled.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I'm in a bit of a rush.  I need to get going.  Can I take this up with you later?" 

                "I'm afraid not.  Would you come with us, please?" 

                DeGould stopped.  "First, I'd like to know what this is about." 

                "A complaint," was the only reply.  "I'd also like your ID and gun for the time being."

                DeGould's carefully shaped eyebrow lifted.

                "Look," she said smoothly.  "If this is a complaint in OPR, then I'll happily accept a suspension.  But I do have to leave." 

                The agent was unmoved.  "It's not OPR," he said calmly.  "It's more than that."  More agents began to trickle over.  They stepped aside and revealed a figure.  Rebecca DeGould felt her blood chill. 

                Clarice Starling stood proud and free.  She held out her hand. 

                "Rebecca DeGould," she announced firmly, "you are under arrest.  Give me your gun and your identification." 

                DeGould took a step back.  The two agents nearest her grabbed her arms.  Without asking, one of them took her weapon from its holster.   

                "Miss DeGould," one of them said. 

                All was silent in the hall for a long moment, broken only by the ratcheting of the handcuffs around Rebecca DeGould's wrist.  When Clarice Starling spoke to break the silence, her voice was calm and pleased. 

                "Rebecca DeGould, you have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no cost.  Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?" 

                DeGould put her head down and let out a low exhalation.  "You'll never make it stick, Starling," she said. 

                "Do you understand your rights, Miss DeGould?"  Clarice repeated distantly. 

                "Yes, I understand them, you hayseed," DeGould snapped. 

                "Good," Clarice said, and grinned.  "You are now under arrest." 

                She took Rebecca DeGould's arm and walked her out to a waiting car.  Stuffing her in the back was no different than any other of a thousand criminals that Clarice had arrested in her time.  Clarice slid into the passenger seat. 

                "So," she said calmly.  "Here's where it ends." 

                "You won this one, Starling," DeGould said.  "I did nothing.  This is grandstanding and you won't win again." 

                Clarice chuckled and looked at the angry woman in the rearview mirror.  "We'll see," she said. 

                It was perhaps a fifteen-minute ride to the jail.  As the car drew closer, Clarice noticed people thronging the sides.  They bore camera and DV camcorders.  Vans emblazoned with the logos of different news crews were parked alongside.  DeGould's eyes widened. 

                "C'mon, Rebecca," Clarice said as the car pulled over.  "Time to pose for your adoring public."