Jack Crawford was dead. He had died several years ago. His shadow still hung over the offices of Behavioral Sciences. He might have been proud, now, to know that the one hound he had always tried to get into the pack now headed the pack in his stead. With Conway retired, the title of Section Chief fell upon the Deputy Chief. That role was currently occupied by none other than Clarice M. Starling.
His brother was still alive, and that was helpful. His brother was willing to help out the woman who headed the department that Jack had so lovingly nurtured. So when Clarice had asked him if she could stick a couple of witnesses at his farm, he was more than willing to give her the keys. The farm was built back in the old days, and there were plenty of bedrooms.
Now, an '88 Roush Mustang grumbled along the long driveway. A new sticker on the back window indicated where it had recently been replaced. The tires growled over the crushed rock of the driveway. A few FBI agents in suits and sunglasses eyed the car warily. As it got closer, they recognized the driver and nodded.
Clarice Starling got out of the car and adjusted her sunglasses. The farm was pretty nice. It reminded her of her rural roots. Behind the farmhouse, verdant green fields extended for what seemed like miles. There were horses turned out in the various paddocks, ambling to and fro and munching on grass as if they had all the time in the world.
Ardelia unfolded herself from the passenger seat and followed Clarice into the house. She was still tense from the ordeal she had undergone, but starting to relax. As soon as they walked into the house, two things hit them. The first was the smell of chicken and cheese cooking in a pan. Ardelia's eyes widened. The second was Paul DaSilva's deep, rich voice raised in song. Clarice tried to figure out what he was singing, but had no idea.
She tried not to giggle at the sight of him ensconced happily in the kitchen. He wore an apron and a chef's toque. He stood over a pan in which several breasts of chicken were happily cooking. In one hand was a bottle of olive oil. He was adding oil to the chicken carefully.
"Cooking?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," he said with a grin. "I figured Ardelia would want a nice dinner now that she's out of the joint. Besides, I like cooking."
"Nice hat," she observed with a wry grin.
"Heeeey," Paul DaSilva said, "when I cook, I go all out."
Ardelia grinned. "So this is Paul DaSilva," she said.
Clarice nodded.
"Look here," Paul said. "Chicken parmesan. Lots of it. Hope you're hungry. And some wine, and pasta."
"I like him already," Ardelia quipped.
Clarice smiled. When she spoke, a note of seriousness came into her tone. "So where are they, Paul?"
Paul deftly transferred the chicken to a plate. "They're out back," he said.
Clarice opened the sliding door from the kitchen to the back door. There, two federal agents, an assistant US Attorney, and Brittany Tollman sat at a picnic table outside in the dying summer night. Floodlights fought back the darkness for a small patch of the back yard. Brittany had preferred questioning outside. Clarice saw no problem with that.
All four people at the table stopped when Clarice stepped out.
"Hi," she said calmly. "Don't stop on my account. What all do you have?"
"We were just about to knock off for supper," Brittany said.
Clarice smiled tolerantly at her. For the past few days, Brittany had been singing like the proverbial bird. In the beginning, her only contact had been through Lieutenant Beck, who had called her into his office and told her if she kept her mouth shut and did exactly what she was told, she might get a second chance. After that, Brittany said, a woman answering Rebecca DeGould's description had arrived at the prison a few days later and told her what she would have to do. From then on, she had gone over the entire thing. The switch. Beck had made duplicate ID cards and made sure to destroy the original ones. After that, Brittany told them about DeGould's plan to switch the records. Her plan to move Clarice and Ardelia to Chowchilla's SHU had made Clarice quite uneasy. Brittany also fingered DeGould as the author of the arson at the duplex. All of it was carefully tracked and put on paper, so that it could be spun into an inescapable web that would bind Rebecca DeGould.
"I brought you something," Clarice told her witness. She stepped aside and smiled. Behind her stood Kiera Washington. She was slightly bedraggled from the few days she had spent in prison, but looked delighted. She ran to her friend and they embraced in as fierce a hug as Clarice and Ardelia had shared when Ardelia had been freed.
Clarice found herself thinking that she wouldn't ever quite think of criminals the same way again. Not after seeing how similar Brittany and Kiera were to herself and Ardelia. People like them were people like her.
"Oh my GOD!" Brittany crowed. Then she glanced over at Clarice. "How did you do that?"
Clarice pointed at Kiera's ankle, which sported a device attached to an iron shackle.
"I got a judge to agree to electronic monitoring," she said. "No big deal. Better you're both here. We need Kiera as a witness too. Same deal as with you. It's better here than in jail."
"But you said,…" Brittany began.
Clarice smiled tightly. "I smiled real pretty and asked nicely," she said drily. "That's all you need to know for now. I've got my ways."
"Check this out," one of the agents said confidently. "We've even got the username and password that DeGould used to change the fingerprint records."
Clarice tilted her head. "Really?"
The agent passed her a sheet of paper. "Right there," he said.
"How'd you get that?"
Brittany grinned and looked down. "You weren't down long enough to learn that trick," she said. "When you're a convict, you learn how to keep your eyes and ears open and look dumb."
Clarice laughed. "Atta girl," she said. Then an idea occurred to her. "I'll be right back," she said.
She was gone for just a few minutes, and then returned. Paul leaned out the door and called everyone in for dinner. Ardelia stuffed herself like an unrepentant pig, grateful for the generosity of Paul's portions. After dinner, they all took some time to relax. For Clarice, this was finally a chance to rest. Ardelia settled in with the TV; Brittany and Kiera selected some books. Clarice decided she would rather adjourn to the bedroom with Paul for a bit. The master bedroom was equipped with a big brass bed, and it was there that they curled against each other.
"So how did I give you the idea?" he asked.
"From what you said," Clarice explained. "Clemenza sounded like clemency. I know it's stupid, but it made the lightbulb go off. Trading for clemency. Then you said your guy there had people in the governor's office. I figured New York State would give me a pardon for Brittany, and it was the best strategic move I could make. It got through to her, and any hold DeGould had on her was gone. Senator Allstyne got me on the phone with the Senators from New York, and they in turn got the governor on the phone. He's a politician. He agreed to do it quietly, no press release. If they ask, he's got enough cover. He'll thump his chest about her being a battered woman and all and nobody will say much."
After that, they moved on to other, more pleasant carnal pursuits, and after that Clarice drifted to sleep in his arms. The bed was a bit creaky, but it was warm and comfortable and she was not alone.
When she awoke, the farmhouse was consumed by night. Overhead, the stars shone down. The moon was full and bright, bathing the earth in white light. Clarice blinked owlishly for a moment or two. She glanced out the window. Out in the back yard, perhaps twenty feet away from the house, a figure stood.
Clarice grabbed her gun and shoes and headed downstairs. For some reason she was irrationally convinced that it was Dr. Lecter. But as she padded down to the kitchen and reached the sliding door, she found it was not so.
Brittany Tollman stood outside, her face upturned to the night. Clarice adopted a vaguely consternated look.
"Brittany, it's two in the morning," she said. "You ought to get some sleep."
"I know," the other woman returned. "I was just…looking at the stars." She essayed a somewhat guilty smile. "I could never see them in prison. The windows are so small. Sometimes you can see just a couple. Just enough that you miss the rest."
Clarice found herself thinking of Dr. Lecter's letter, all those years ago. I have windows. Orion is above the horizon now…. But now none of their stars were the same – not anymore. His life lay with another woman. But she did not grieve. Her path had not lain with his. Even so, she was happy. Where things would go with Paul she didn't know, but she enjoyed his company. Once all this was over, whatever happened, happened. Perhaps she could drop a word and help get him transferred down to DC.
"It's so big out here," Brittany added. "You can see all the stars."
Clarice nodded and smiled.
"Though I wonder what I'm going to do now," Brittany said. "In Bedford, at least I knew what I was going to be doing. Thought I'd be doing it for twenty more years. But now…now what am I gonna do?"
Clarice shrugged. "Well," she said, "for now, we need you to testify against Rebecca DeGould. So for now you can take a little time and adjust. The trial is gonna take a few months at the least. Then…well, then, you do what you have to. Get a job, get a place to live, and you'll get by. Maybe get married, have a couple of kids. Move back to Florida if you want. It's up to you."
"I guess," Brittany said. "It's just…I never thought I'd get this chance."
Clarice chuckled. "It's a big, big world, Brittany," she said. "There's room for everybody in it. You'll do fine."
She found herself looking back up at the stars and understanding what Brittany meant. You couldn't see them in prison. She'd learned that much herself. Now, she could truly understand why Dr. Lecter had wanted to escape so badly.
She thought of him one final time, before going inside. He had gone his way; now she would go hers. But she had given him one final parting gift.
…
Isabelle Pierce stood in the police station over the trembling woman. She found herself feeling some regret. Dr. Elaine Litton had been saved at the pathologist's home. They'd discovered her and her son locked in the basement. The boy seemed troubled not at all by his ordeal. He bounced in his father's arms happily. His mother had taken it a bit harder; she was pale and shaking. But she was also physically all right, as evidenced by her co-workers at the hospital.
The detective had found herself a bit shaken by the discovery that Hamilton Litton was not the Cannibal Killer. Instead of the feared cannibalistic psychiatrist, it had been a Scottish pathologist who had lived in Sydney for the past thirty years. She had been mistaken.
Or had she been? Were the Littons no more than they appeared to be? Why did they match the fugitive psychiatrist and surgeon, even down to the scars on Elaine Litton's back? Was this simply a hideous coincidence?
She was about to find out. She'd offered the surgeon some coffee as they took her statement. Elaine Litton was rattled, and she had not noticed when Isabelle took the cup back. Hamilton Litton had taken his son's sippy cup after the boy had emptied it. She'd gotten that too and offered to get the boy some more juice. Lifting fingerprints was not a difficult skill, and soon she had two prints she could use.
She set each print in turn on the fingerprint scanner and scanned them in carefully. A large digitized image appeared on her monitor screen. She connected to the FBI's VICAP database and pressed search.
SEARCHING… the monitor reported.
Then something she did not expect happened.
NO MATCH FOUND, the computer informed her.
She tried again with the other print – Dr. Lecter's. That had to be there.
NO MATCH FOUND, the computer informed her again.
It had to be an error. She added the NCIC database and Interpol as well.
NO MATCH FOUND. For both of them. She added as many databases as she could possibly think of. The inquiry, normally instantaneous, bogged down to ten minutes. But it was irrevocable. No matter what she did, what tricks she pulled out of her hat, the answer was always the same. NO MATCH FOUND.
A uniform poked his head in at her.
"Detective Pierce? The Littons want to know if there will be anything further."
Isabelle Pierce shook her head slowly. She knew what she had seen. It was obvious. The Littons were the right age. Erin Lander had been pregnant four years ago; the Littons had a three-year-old son. And the bloody scars were right there on her back.
But she would have no choice but to let them go, after this. The system did not agree with her.
"Let them go," she said distractedly. "I guess we have no reason to hold them further."
Then she sat there, staring at the monitor, and wondered how the hell this could have happened.
…
Five thousand miles away, Clarice Starling consulted the laptop computer she had plugged into the farm's phone line. The connection out here was lousy, but it had done what she wanted. She glanced at the screen. Her parting gift to Dr. Lecter was on the screen.
16 records for LECTER, HANNIBAL deleted
14 records for LANDER, ERIN deleted
You are logged in as ADMINISTRATOR from remoteAnother command? (Y/N)
Clarice typed N and shut the laptop down. Brittany had said that DeGould could not delete records. In that, she had been wrong, as she had been wrong on a great many other things. Clarice had learned how, with a little poking around.
It was a big world, and there was room for everyone in it. Now Dr. Lecter and Erin would be able to raise their son in relative peace. If she could have her own peace, she could share it. Paul DaSilva let out a grunt and opened his eyes at her.
"Whatcha doing, Clarice?" he asked. "C'mon to bed."
Clarice smiled a small smile to herself. "Okay," she said. And with that, she glanced out at the stars one final time.
Some of our stars were the same, Dr. Lecter, she thought. But not any more. That's OK: you have Erin and I have Paul. I'm glad you're happy. I am too, finally. There's your parting gift, Dr. Lecter. Now…I'm letting you go.
Then she curled into bed and left Hannibal Lecter in her past. Paul was with her in the present. Ahead lay her future.
