Clarice Starling sat at her desk and tried to concentrate. The dull fluorescent light overhead gave her a headache. After all the years of trying, she'd finally been brought into Behavioral Sciences permanently. With no Krendler to poison her file, Jack Crawford had finally brought her into the department she had always wanted to be part of.
But she was still low man on the totem pole. This was an elite group of twelve, and she was number twelve. That was OK; her co-workers mostly respected her. She knew she'd have to win them over. That was fine; it was the same for everybody. Clarice didn't care what obstacles she had to surmount so long as they were equally applied to everyone.
Even so, she had a certain amount of water carrying to do. At the 8 AM staff meeting, Crawford had pulled her aside and asked her to meet , she had a feeling it was for some make-work duty. She went down the subterranean hall and glanced inside.
Crawford nodded at her. "Ah, Starling. Come on in. Have a seat."
Clarice entered the office and sat down. Sitting across from her was a young guy. Real young, Clarice thought. Like fresh out of the Academy. It wasn't unheard of for Crawford to tap young talent – her own past showed that. But he had to be good. He wore an inexpensive gray suit and seemed embarrassed. He was tow-headed and handsome in an intellectual sort of way. He glanced over at her and smiled nervously. Clarice was reminded of herself, years before, standing in front of Crawford in a new suit and cheap shoes.
"Clarice," Crawford said. "How are you?"
"Fine," Clarice said, watching the young guy. He shuffled his feet nervously and looked down.
"We've got a new trainee," Crawford said. "Sort of like with you and Buffalo Bill. I need someone to show him the ropes."
Clarice looked at the kid and tried to take his measure. This could be pretty lousy, if he was some senator's kid. But why would a senator's kid want Behavioral Sciences? You came here because it interested you. There wasn't much heroism here. Here were the mindhunters.
Crawford smiled like a proud father. "Clarice Starling, I want you to meet Agent Joshua Graham."
Clarice offered her hand and grinned. Agent Graham put out his own hand gingerly. Clarice had to grin. What was he nervous about? Then she remembered her own first time out with Buffalo Bill, and how she'd nervous around all the experienced people. Being the new kid on the block was scary.
"He's sort of a legacy, I guess you could say," Crawford said
"Oh, no," Joshua Graham said. A line of scarlet began creeping out of his collar up to his face. "Not really."
"Yes, you are," Crawford said. "Your father did some wonderful things around here."
Clarice nodded, comprehending. "So you're Will Graham's son?"
Josh nodded.
"Welcome aboard," Clarice said. She rose and indicated for him to follow her.
"C'mon with me, I'll show you how things work around here," she said calmly. Crawford grinned approvingly.
"Thank you, Starling," he said shortly. "Don't whup him too hard."
Starling walked her trainee back to her office. In the hallway, she glanced over at him and grinned.
"So you're Will Graham's son," she said. "Your dad is pretty well known around here, you know." She had to be careful. Will Graham was indeed a legend in Behavioral Sciences. He was also a drunk in Florida with a face that was hard to look at.
Josh thought for a moment. "I know," he said enigmatically. He stared around the dark offices, as if pondering. For a moment Clarice found herself feeling sympathetic towards him: a young man facing the monsters that had conquered his father.
"You interested in Behavioral Sciences as a career, or are you just sort of looking around?" she asked in a friendly manner.
"I'm not sure yet," Josh said. "I guess I just wanted to see it."
Clarice nodded. "Well, you'll see it," she said. "We're working on a few cases now. Nothing that interesting. None of the big boys your dad worked on – Garrett Hobbs, or Francis Dolarhyde."
Josh closed his eyes and took a breath. "Or Hannibal Lecter," he said.
…
Dr. Hannibal Lecter liked South America a great deal more than he thought. Here, it was ridiculously easy to set up identities. He could simply register as an immigrant, rent a home quite inexpensively, and come back in a few years and request citizenship for that identity. South American bureaucrats were quite laid-back about this sort of thing. He now had more passports than he knew what to do with. It seemed quite amusing to him that he now held no less than five passports from as many countries in as many names. Sometimes he had trouble keeping track of them all.
He maintained homes in Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay, Costa Rica, and Chile. He preferred Argentina. It was more European in nature. There were more of the finer things he preferred. They were ungodly expensive down here, but that was all right. He moved between countries as suited his mood. He did not consider this a nomadic existence; his homes were all exquisitely appointed. It also suited him to know that if any of his identities were ever discovered, all he needed to do was make the nearest train station and he would be on his way.
He lived the life of a wealthy man-about-town. He had no real cares or worries. His accounts were denominated in dollars, and the exchange rate transformed him from a well-off man in America to a fabulously wealthy man in South America. The only thing that would have made his life any better was his Clarice.
He was sitting at his breakfast table. The table was near his terrace, and opening the doors let in the fresh morning sunshine. His cook was bringing up his breakfast. An omelette, orange juice, coffee, and toast. The food was served on fine china. The coffee was served in a matching cup, and the juice resided in a crystal goblet. Dr. Lecter thanked the cook kindly and dug in.
On the table with him was a copy of the Baltimore Sun and the National Tattler. Dr. Lecter was still slightly fond of the American trash tabloid, and there was a newsstand near the airport that carried the Sun. It was a few days old, but better late than never. Dr. Lecter preferred to read it for the society pages more than anything else. It gave him the opportunity to check in on the people he had once moved and shaken with.
Dr. Lecter opened the Sun and flipped through the society pages. His eyes settled on one article.
Edgar Morgan III graduates from Stansfield Academy.
Why did that name ring a bell? He consulted his memory palace. Edgar Morgan III, an eighteen-year-old snot. He was in the society pages because…wait a moment. His parents. Edgar Morgan II, the head of some business. A hard-charging CEO, but Dr. Lecter had no reason to know him. His mother was Jane Pierpont Morgan. Aha, that was it. Dr. Lecter's lips made a moue of distaste.
The prior women in Dr. Lecter's life maintained different ranks. There was still Clarice, who intrigued him long after their meeting. Most of the women he had maintained relationships with while free in Baltimore meant little to him now. Jane Pierpont he regarded with distaste. In truth, there wasn't much difference between the two of them, he thought. Jane's talent had always been in finding ways to accomplish what she wanted without her fingerprints being involved. But she could be just as cold, just as vicious, as Dr. Lecter himself. Hopefully others had raised the boy. In the good doctor's professional opinion, there were few women less qualified to be mothers than Jane Pierpont. She cared for no one other than herself; everyone else was simply a pawn for her to move.
Perhaps incarceration was not so bad, he thought. It did get me away from Jane.
But he wanted to dismiss thoughts of the past. He had a new life, now. Nothing bound him to the United States other than his own past and his own occasional desire to see Clarice Starling again.
He got his wish in the Tattler. Page 3 contained an article that he found interesting.
Brave young Fed takes up his father's mantle read the headline. There was a photograph of Jack Crawford, Clarice Starling, and a young man who looked vaguely familiar to Dr. Lecter. He leaned over the paper with an interested sound.
Agent Will Graham was one of the top guns of Behavioral Science in his day. His capture of the Minnesota Shrike, the Chesapeake Ripper, and the Red Dragon were all chronicled in this paper. Now, Agent Joshua Graham is hard at work tracking down those who threaten us now. Agent Clarice Starling, known for the capture of Buffalo Bill, has taken charge of his training. Criminals and murderers beware.
Dr. Lecter took out his Harpy and began to cut out the picture of Clarice Starling. He didn't particularly mind cutting Jack Crawford out of the picture; he had no reason to want a picture of the craggy-faced chief. But the young man and Clarice interested him. Looking at the picture, Dr. Lecter could see resemblances to the young man's father.
"Now this might be fun," Dr. Lecter mused to himself.
…
Now this is going to be fun, Alice Pierpont thought. She'd had another idea after catching late-night TV. She was insomniac at times. An ad for an annoying lawyer had caught her eye. The fellow claimed to be able to seek 'cash justice' for victims and urged them to call. Slip and fall, motorcycle accidents, pedestrian accidents. The Law Offices of Thomas N. Hale would help them out and get every dime they were entitled to.
The Law Offices of Thomas N. Hale consisted of himself and his paralegal. Both of them were handcuffed and stuffed in the back of Alice's Honda. She'd kept the car after realizing that none of the police reports on Jeannette's death mentioned the car.
Thomas N. Hale himself was a small, mousy man in an expensive gray suit. He wasn't anything like his commercials. Then again, Alice thought, being kidnapped by a knife-wielding young girl was likely to make one quiet. Next to him was his paralegal. She'd introduced herself as Missy when Alice had dropped by the office, claiming she wanted to talk to the lawyer. She trembled nervously when Alice leaned into the car. Blonde and cute, Alice noted. Probably hired so that the lawyer would have something pleasant to look at when he got to work in the morning.
"C'mon," Alice said cheerily.
"What are you going to do to us?" Missy asked.
Alice pondered. "I haven't decided yet," she demurred. "But if you don't get out of the car, then what I'll do will probably involve working on that pretty face of yours with a knife. So how about humoring me?" She flashed small white teeth in a cruel smile at her victim.
Missy's face began to work, but she started to get out of the car. Alice helped her out first and got her boss. The car had already been pulled into the factory. It was a few doors down from where Jeannette had met her end. Alice hadn't seen anything in the news that indicated Jeannette's body had been found, so she stuck to it. Once they did find one of her victims, she'd go somewhere else. But there was something she liked about the factory; the big, dead machines reaching high overhead. The bluntness of the place, meant only to produce. This was a place with its mind on its work. Something in that pleased her.
She walked Hale over to where a box stood. On it lay a topcoat she had purchased in a secondhand store. She uncuffed Hale long enough to let him put it on, keeping her knife on him at all times. Then she cuffed him again, bound his feet, and settled a noose around his neck.
"Now stand up straight," she urged. She'd elected to forego the hangman's noose. Somewhere she had read that hanging without a noose or a long drop took fifteen minutes. That, she thought would be more fun.
At the same secondhand store she'd been able to find an old-fashioned bouffant gown, and after making sure Hale wasn't going anywhere, she forced Missy to put on the dress. Then, after blindfolding her, Alice stood and observed her victims.
She had two other things for Missy, and she lifted them now. A set of scales was the first one. She put the scales in Missy's hand, gently urging the other girl to hold them carefully. A roll of duct tape served to ensure that the scales would not be dropped. Alice was displeased with the visual effect of the blob of duct tape that had replaced Missy's left hand, but there were some things she simply could not help. Next was a sword. Giving her victim a weapon was not exactly the norm for a serial killer, but it was OK, she thought. The sword's edge had been blunted. Another quick wrapping job with the duct tape and she watched the result carefully.
Justice and nobility; nobility and justice. Two concepts she found quite amusing. Hale was trembling as he watched her, his mousy moustache bouncing with fear. She eyed him carefully and tilted her head.
"Do you regret that you have but one life to give for your country?" she asked.
Hale simply trembled, unaware of his namesake.
Ah, well. She hooked the box under him with her foot and kicked it out from under him. The only thing remaining to take up the weight was his neck. Thomas Hale began to gasp and choke. An unpleasant gargling sound came from his throat. His face swiftly began to turn purple. But she had fifteen minutes yet, and he didn't deserve that much of a head start on Missy.
From a long bag on the floor, Alice withdrew a second sword. She stood in front of her living Justice statue and pondered for a moment. She'd always been very strong, far stronger than one might think from a small, thin girl. But even this would take some work.
She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and jammed the sword between Missy's breasts. Impaling her wasn't the hard part. The hard part was getting the sword through her back and into the wooden post behind her. Blood immediately began to well from the wound, and the solid chunk of contact meant that the blade had come to a halt. Missy tried to scream, but managed only a whistling sound. Alice supposed she had cut a lung. The woman's hands trembled, and despite the unlovely looks of the duct tape Alice was glad it was there. She stood watching, her head tilted. There was no sympathy on her face, only curiosity. The blood did mar things, but she liked the contrast of red on white. It started in a lovely blossom around her heart and began to slide slowly down the cloth. How entrancing.
Apparently she must have gotten the heart. Missy died first, slumping back against the post. Her last breath streamed from her lungs. Hale lasted longer than his employee had, but eventually he, too, slumped in death.
Alice stood alone in the factory and observed what she had done. She was quite pleased. But there was one more thing left to do. She took a glove out of her pocket and slipped it on her left hand. Getting gloves made was always an unbelievable hassle. She needed them custom-made for her, as she possessed one more finger than the norm.
She pressed her gloved hand carefully against the blood seeping out from the wound. There wasn't as much as she had thought and it took more time. Once it was done, she walked over to the table and thought. Precisely but forcefully, she slammed her hand against the table, leaving a six-fingered, spread handprint on the table. This had to be made easy for all involved.
Now Clarice Starling will find it, and I know exactly what she'll do, Alice Pierpont thought. She stripped off the glove and put it in a plastic bag she'd brought along with her. She slipped behind the wheel of the Honda and drove to the airport. She left it there in Long Term Parking, where she customarily left it. Her own actual car – a black Mustang she liked a great deal – was there waiting for her.
On the drive home, she grinned. Everything was going according to plan. Now all Clarice had to do was find her work.