Author's note: Here we are, some gore for the gore fans. Weaker stomachs may want to tune out now.
The faint ammonia smell of disinfectant stung Josh's nostrils as he entered the intensive care unit with Clarice. Nurses bustled to and fro quietly. The beep of heart monitors and the occasional calls of employees filled the place. Calmly, Clarice displayed her ID to the nurse at the desk.
"We'd like to speak to James Winfield," Clarice said to the nurse. Behind her, Josh shuffled his feet and looked vaguely uncomfortable. For a moment time and space spun in on him, and he was five years old again, looking at Daddy in the bed that Hannibal Lecter had put him in. He shivered and trembled.
"I see," the nurse said, and looked dubious. "I'll call down his doctor."
Josh swallowed nervously. A few minutes later, a harried-looking man in a white lab coat walked up to them.
"You're with the FBI?" he asked. "Here to see Mr. Winfield?"
Josh nodded.
Clarice smiled kindly. "We just want to ask him a few questions," she said. "Nothing too bad. But you know what was done to him."
The doctor nodded.
"Mr. Winfield very well may not survive the night," he said, as he began to walk forward towards the end of the burn unit. "His burns are over ninety percent of his body. Right now, we have him under heavy sedation. He can't see and I don't know if he can hear. For right now, we're providing palliative care. He's receiving pain medication. If he wants more, I am going to give it to him."
Josh nodded. Clarice seemed to be able to deal better with this. He hated hospitals. He always had. Dad ended up in the hospital when Dr. Lecter had slashed him up and a few other times when he needed to dry out. Hospitals meant you'd screwed up.
But then again, Mr. Winfield might be able to tell them something.
"These burns were extremely severe," the doctor continued. "Mr. Winfield smelled of gasoline when he was brought in. There was also a soapy substance covering his body."
Josh sucked in breath as it occurred to him. "Like napalm?"
The doctor turned and looked at him curiously. "Actually, I'd say so," he said. "Homemade, though. We're running the residue through the labs. I suspect it's common laundry detergent mixed with gasoline. When you find the psychotic who did this, I'd appreciate it if you gave them a kick in the gut and told them it was from Frederick Newton, M.D. This was one of the worst things I've seen in ten years of practice. One moment, I'll see if he's awake."
The smell of burnt flesh was rank in the air as they approached the far end. Josh flinched. The doctor crossed into a private room and spoke briefly to the poor soul therein.
"Mr. Winfield, the FBI would like to see you," the doctor said calmly.
A faint rattle, like that escaping a corpse's last breath, came in response. The doctor gestured for them to enter. Clarice went around the door first. Josh couldn't see the reporter, but he could see her. Clarice's pupils expanded and she raised a hand to her mouth in horror. He could see her shoulders tremble. She gestured for him to come in, too.
The room was small, white, and spare. Machines gathered around the bedside as if concerned. Lying on the bed was a horror. Josh could not recognize it as human. The face appeared to be nothing more than a blackened, crispy lump. The features had molded and twisted as if they had partially melted. The eyes were completely white. Yet it lived. A blackened claw trembled on the white bedsheet. Somehow, amazingly, an IV line snaked down into it. The other arm ended in a melted stub. The stink of gasoline and the sweet smell of laundry detergent fought the reek of burnt meat for the aroma of the room.
"Are you…F…BI?" the thing on the bed asked.
"Yes," Clarice said, and Josh noticed her voice shaking.
"Why?" the thing that Jimmy Winfield had become asked. "Why did you do this?"
"Why did we do what, Mr. Winfield?"
"FBI…burned me," the burnt piece of meat said.
Clarice sighed. "Mr. Winfield," she said, "are you saying an FBI agent did this to you?"
"No," husked the Winfield-thing. "Not…no agent. Some…office…person…the file…she got me….,"
Tears sprang to Clarice Starling's eyes. "Some office person did this to you? A secretary?"
"…yes,…" Winfield hissed and made a clicking noise in his scorched throat.
"How did you know that, Mr. Winfield?"
"….said she was,…"
"She said she was?" Clarice pressed a knuckle to her mouth in horror. Mr. Winfield did not mind. His eyes were clouded over and did not see. And yet somehow, she maintained a kind tone of voice. Josh had no idea how she was doing it.
"Can you tell me what she looked like, Mr. Winfield?" Clarice asked. "It was a woman?"
"Yes, a woman," Winfield gurgled.
"Can you see me? Was she as tall as me?"
"I…I can't see you."
Winfield began to shudder. The doctor glanced over at Clarice with some annoyance.
"Agent Starling, please, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said.
The figure on the bed gave a jerk. "Star…ling?" it asked.
"Yes, sir," Clarice said, "I'm Agent Clarice Starling with the FBI. Agent Josh Graham is with me. You met us before, for the article, and then outside the murder scenes. Don't you remember?"
"You…you'll know…," the figure husked again. "She…she looked like…,"
A sound like a death rattle came from his throat, a grotesque gasp and click.
"Agent Starling, please," the doctor said.
"No," the figure groaned. "She looked like…Lect….Lecter." The figure held up the blackened, twisted fingers of its remaining hand. "Sih….sick…sick….,"
"Now," the doctor said, and shoved them out the door. Clarice went obediently and signaled for Josh to comply too. He was happy to. The sight of the talking piece of charcoal made him ill. The sight of dead bodies was something he had gotten used to. But James Winfield was worse, a thing somewhere between life and death. It was hard to believe he had once been the brassy reporter trying to pump them for details.
The doctor got them outside and eyed them with little sympathy.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but my first responsibility is to my patient."
Clarice nodded.
"I totally understand," she said, and reached into her purse for a card. Josh noted oddly that the bag seemed a lot more expensive than her suit. He swallowed briefly and looked away. Clarice handed the card to the doctor.
"If he comes back to a position where he can talk, even for just a few minutes," Clarice said, "could you please call me? I certainly wouldn't ever ask you to put your patient's health at risk. But I just want to find out who did this to him."
"Of course, Agent Starling," the doctor said.
Back in the hospital room, James Winfield stirred and tried to continue his sentence.
"Sih..six fingers on her hand…," he gasped.
No one heard. No one was listening. A few minutes later, despite the best efforts of the medical staff, James Winfield died. It was a common thought among the medical staff that perhaps that was more merciful.
Clarice and Josh walked down to their car calmly. Clarice glanced over at him.
"You seem quiet," she said.
"I hate hospitals," Josh answered. He thought about his father and pulled a face.
"Most people do," Clarice said. "So tell me. What do you think this was about?"
Josh took a moment to compose his thoughts and waggled his head.
"I think the killer has seen you somehow, obviously," he said. "Winfield said the killer looked like Lecter. Maybe it's a copycat. I don't know if it has anything to do with the article about us, because the killer hasn't done anything to get my attention."
"Yet," Clarice emphasized.
Josh shrugged. "Yet. But if it's someone obsessed with Dr. Lecter, they haven't done their homework on him. The killings don't exactly match up to anything he's done. Usually copycats screw up somewhere, but the killings resemble the killer they're copying."
Clarice pondered that for a moment. He was right on that. "What about the fact that he said a woman did this to him?"
Josh thought. "I'm not sure," he said. "Women usually don't commit violent crimes like that. He might've been delirious."
Clarice Starling, who had killed people before when her duty demanded it, turned and gave him a level look.
"It's possible," Clarice said. "Women have committed some pretty vicious stuff."
Josh nodded. "Usually, though, it's to someone they know. Not strangers. A woman might light her abusive boyfriend on fire. That was in a movie once, wasn't it? But not a stranger."
"This case just gets weirder and weirder," Clarice agreed.
…
Alice was quite happy to leave the jail. It was smelly, noisy, and dirty. She'd been an anomaly in the visiting room: a well-dressed woman in a suit with no kids. Her brother had been arrested the night before and spent the night in jail. She supposed Mother and Mr. Morgan would arrange for his release on bail soon enough. He'd been arrested Saturday night. Today was Monday. A day or two in jail would do the kid a world of good, Alice thought. Too bad it couldn't be longer.
She'd gotten to one of the booths and waited calmly for him. The other visitors thought she was his lawyer; she wore a smart suit and carried a briefcase. They'd made her take off her sunglasses when she got there. Rather odd.
The guards had brought out her brother in an orange jail jumpsuit. That had amused her to no end. Mother would have a fit. Eddie had always been her baby. Alice would've loved to get a photograph of him like that.
He resembled his father, Alice thought. He was not bad looking. His features were rough-chiseled. His perfect teeth gleamed at her. There was no guilt in his face at all. He seemed surprised when he sat down on the other side of the booth, but that was all.
"Hi, Alice," he said, his voice garbled through the phone. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Alice chuckled. "No," she said. "You expected your mother to come to your rescue, as she always has."
He shrugged.
"So did you do it?" Alice asked.
Eddie made a face. "No," he said.
"Of course not," Alice said. "Look, Eddie, are there any other girls who are going to pop up with the same claim?" She made a face and an imperious gesture. "Of course it's not true, and of course you're absolutely innocent. Just as you were innocent of the drug charges, the DWI, all of it."
Eddie leaned forward and stared at his older sister through the Plexiglass. "Why do you want to know?"
Alice smiled coldly. "Perhaps I want to help out my little brother," she said. "Give me some names, Eddie. If you don't want my help, then fine, so be it."
Eddie shifted his feet and eyed her dubiously.
"Fine," he said, and named a few names. Alice wrote them down. Afterwards, she watched him with a grin.
"You think this is funny, don't you?" Eddie said.
Alice shrugged. "It's amusing to see the golden boy finally in a situation Mommy can't extricate him from," she said. "And being vindicated. You should have been the one in juvie, dear Edgar. Had you learned consequences then, you might not be here today."
Edgar Morgan III flipped his middle finger up at his older sister. The guard behind him started forward. Alice waved him off.
"Mom put you in Juvie cause you were a goddam psycho," he said unsympathetically. "She never should've let you out."
"And you're a rapist, Eddie. Have a nice day. Mommy will be here to bail you out soon." She hung up the phone and got up, enjoying the look of surprise on his face. The guard started forward to take him back to his cell. He mouthed something at her behind the Plexiglass. She supposed it was something obscene. His problem.
Now, she was heading back to her car. Her heels echoed against the concrete of the parking garage's floor. Her Mustang was parked nearby, and she slid behind the wheel and tapped on the steering wheel for a moment, thoughtfully.
It was too bad, she thought, that there had been so many police officers at Starling's the night before. Clarice had scurried off with little Josh Graham. Doubtlessly off to speak with the fricasseed reporter. Alice found herself wondering idly what Clarice would have thought if she had returned home to find Ardelia Mapp's severed head waiting for her on her kitchen table. That might've been fun; Alice would've even put some lipstick and eyeshadow on the head for her. But there were too many cops to even think of it. There had been a bit of a crowd gathered around, attracted by the flashing red lights.
Alice decided it was time to commit one more murder, just to keep the heat on that way. It would be so much more fun to keep Clarice on her toes. Then it was time to go to the next phase of her plan.
Decisions, decisions, Alice Pierpont thought. Who shall I kill today?
The factories were out. She supposed Clarice would have a police watch on her house, just in case. She'd need to put this one together on short notice. After a moment or two, it occurred to her who would be fun to kill. An old voice echoed in her memory: Smile and suck it up, freaky. It would be a bit of a connection to her, but that was OK. She didn't think Clarice would be able to track down the connection in the time she had remaining.
It took her a bit of work. Fortunately, Alice was experienced at social engineering as a means of getting information that she wanted. Once she was back home, she flipped through the white pages. A…B…C…Ch…Chelmsford, there it was. Chelmsford Juvenile Detention Center. She made a quick phone call to the main number of the juvenile facility she had spent six months in ten years ago. She knew the schedule of the employees then, but it had been a decade since she had been there. It would be foolish to expect that it might not have changed.
"Chelmsford Juvenile Detention Center," a businesslike voice said.
"Hello," Alice said. "This is Mary, from Graham, Starling and Crawford, Attorneys At Law. I'm calling to ask about deposing an employee there."
The voice stopped for a moment, becoming cautiously adversarial. "Which employee would that be?"
"Sandra Thurmond," Alice said calmly. "We're making a motion to have our client removed to a less secure facility. Ms. Thurmond has been overseeing our client for a while. Now, we'd like to make this as easy as possible. Could you tell me what days she's on?"
The voice paused again. Obviously she didn't expect Sandra Thurmond to be useful in a deposition. So that hadn't changed. But the Chelmsford people knew better than to argue with attorneys. A few minutes later, the secretary flipped through something. Alice could hear paper rustling. Dubiously, she said, "Sandra Thurmond works first shift, Tuesday through Saturday."
"Thank you," Alice said. Then, as if a throwaway question, she added, "Oh, so she's off today?"
"Yes," the secretary said.
Hmmm, the schedule hasn't changed after ten years, Alice thought. Now that's convenient.
She packed a bag calmly. Her knives, of course. Some rope. A few other odds and ends. Sandra Thurmond did not have a listed number. That only made sense; the woman had God knew how many juvenile charges and former charges who might want to go after her. That was just fine. Alice sat down at her computer and surfed to www.ussearch.com. For $19.95, they offered her basic information available in public records. She bought that, giving the parameters of 'Sandra Thurmond' in 'Baltimore, MD'. That was enough to pull up an address.
Alice checked mapblast.com for directions. It was in a blue-collar section of Baltimore. She printed out the directions and headed out. She drove first to the Baltimore airport, where she kept her van. She didn't plan to transport Sandra anywhere, but driving into a working-class neighborhood in a brand-new Mustang would draw a bit of attention. The van was a bit older and a bit more battered. No one would pay attention to it.
She parked half a block away from the house. It was far enough that her victim wouldn't see it, but close enough that she could make it back quickly. She had sneakers and pants in her bag; for now she wore her suit. She wanted to look official for this, and the suit would help her do that.
Alice extracted a few papers from her briefcase that looked vaguely official. She'd whomped them up on her computer at home while she packed. It would look like someone had filed suit against Sandra Thurmond. That would be enough to get the woman's attention and would get Alice in the house.
She wasn't afraid of being recognized. It had been ten years since Sandra Thurmond had last seen her. And facts were facts, Thurmond thought that her charges were more likely to end up in a jail uniform than a nice suit.
Alice knocked on the door and waited, adopting a calm but harried expression, as if it was her life's work to deliver pieces of paper to people. The house was small and sided with white vinyl siding. A strident voice came from the interior of the house.
"I'm coming!"
Alice waited a moment until Sandra Thurmond came to the door. Her sunglasses masked her odd maroon eyes; she kept her left hand down where it was blocked by the screen door. Held firmly in it was a black leather sap.
Sandra Thurmond came towards the door. She was a heavy, muscular woman. She towered over Alice just as she had ten years ago. That was no big deal; Alice knew perfectly well that big didn't mean much. Her hair was short and her face looked rather like a shovel. She wore an inexpensive shirt, blue jeans, and no makeup. The intervening years hadn't changed her too much, Alice thought. There was a streak of gray along one temple. Other than that she was the same overlord of the juvenile cellblock she had been before. She gave Alice a direct, calm look.
"Are you Sandra Thurmond?" Alice asked as if bored.
"Yes," Sandra asked. "What's the problem?"
"I have something for you," Alice said, and held up the piece of paper. "I need you to take this."
Sandra opened the screen door. Alice handed her the paper.
"You've been served, Ms. Thurmond," Alice said in a matter-of-fact tone.
A look of shock came over the big woman's face. Alice carefully took a step forward, getting her foot in the door. She would have to get in the house, quick while the other woman was still surprised, then sap her until she went down.
"Someone's suing me?" Thurmond demanded. "What the hell? Which little bitch is it? I'll kill her ass."
Her attention dropped down to the paper, and that was Alice's opening. Quickly, Alice stepped into the house and slammed the door behind her. Thurmond was grumbling something about the little bitches. She glanced up, realizing that the process server wasn't supposed to come in the house with her, but it was too late. The sap was already up and moving.
Sandra Thurmond had overcome her juvenile inmates before, and she was no stranger to fighting. Most of her charges were right-handed, as Alice herself indeed was. Instinctually, she moved to block, btu she was expecting a right-handed blow. As usually happened, reason won out over instinct. The sap smacked her temple hard and she staggered.
Alice moved in for a second blow without delay. Her foe's eyes were already dimming, and a second blow finished the job. The woman collapsed to the floor without another word. Alice glanced around. No neighbors looking around. She dragged the other woman into the kitchen and got her set up in a chair.
Alice bound her victim to the chair. She supposed it would hold. If not, that would be OK too. She was quick and economical with her motions. Sandra wouldn't be going anywhere. From her bag, she took the plastic tube and a roll of duct tape. She crammed the tube far back in Sandra's mouth, far enough that she wouldn't be able to spit it out. Alice was generous with the duct tape, wrapping it around the tube so that a bit of the tube stuck out. Sandra's breathing through the tube was raspy and machinelike. Alice found it quite amusing.
From a small plastic box, Alice extracted two fishhooks tied together with two pieces of fishing line. She carefully punctured each cheek with a fishhook and then looped the fishing line around the back of Sandra's head. By carefully tightening the slipknot on the fishing line, she was able to force the heavy woman's face into a grinning rictus.
That made the heavy woman start, and she opened her eyes and let out a muffled grunt. Her eyes swam into focus and stared at her tormentor. Alice smiled pleasantly and waved.
"Hi, Sandra," she said. "You'll excuse me not calling you 'Miss Thurmond' anymore. That's a mark of respect, and I have none for you."
Sandra amused her terribly by trying to speak through the tube.
"Whooo the fck arre youuuu?" she said.
"Don't you remember me?" Alice said, and waved the fingers of her left hand.
Sandra paled and said something through the tube that sounded like 'shit'.
"That's right," Alice said lightly. "Which little bitch, you asked? The answer is me. Freaky. The six-fingered freak. I was in your custody for six months, ten years ago. You remember." She rose and walked towards her victim calmly. "You took special pleasure in humiliating me, because I came from a wealthy family. You used to like making me clean the toilets and the drains." Her head tilted and her tone became mocking. "Clean that bathroom, freaky,'" she said. "'You're not in your Howard County mansion now, kiddo. You answer to me, so just smile and suck it up.' Remember that? I do."
"Nooooo," Sandra foghorned through the tube.
"Yep," Alice said. "The funny thing is, I hadn't been planning to kill you. I just got the idea today. And I know just how to do it."
Conveniently, Sandra's kitchen had a pot and pan rack mounted to the overhead ceiling. Alice removed a longer tube and attached it to the end of the tube protruding from her former keeper's mouth. From the rack she suspended an upside-down bottle.
On the far kitchen wall was an award from Chelmsford, proclaiming that Sandra Thurmond was the Employee of the Month for all her hard work with troubled youths. Alice saw this and laughed bitterly.
"You're smiling," she said brightly. "Now it's time for you to suck it up." She took the end of the long tube and attached it to the bottle. Sandra's eyes followed up to the rack and saw the upside-down bottle, made out the upside-down words Liquid Drano on the label, and began to grunt.
"Employee of the Month. What is it, a union thing? Every employee has to get it at least once? You were nothing more than a sadistic bully," Alice said disdainfully. A blue liquid began to creep out of the bottle and cascade down the tube. Sandra threw her head around and screamed. The chair bumped up and down. Calmly, mercilessly, Alice grabbed the other woman's head and tilted it back so that Sandra was staring at the ceiling.
The blue liquid slipped through the tube into Sandra's mouth.
"Smile…and suck it up," Alice said, grinning cruelly.
A stronger muffled scream came from the tube, along with gagging and choking noises. Alice stepped in close and grabbed the other woman's head, holding it still while the economy-size bottle emptied. Occasionally, Sandra tried to spit it out and the blue liquid popped up in the tube.
Her face turned bright red. Alice held her head firmly in a crushing grip. The entire chair rocked back and forth. But she was still alive. She coughed and spat. Alice calculated the small amount of Drano left in the tube and figured that her victim had to have swallowed a lethal dose by now.
She stepped away then, watching the woman's violently contorting face. She stared at Alice in misery. Perhaps now, she had learned a lesson. Alice took one of her knives and cut the woman's wrist. The flow of blood was immediate, but not enough to ensure that her victim wouldn't die of poisoning.
Carefully, Alice put on her glove and rubbed her gloved left hand in the blood. She stamped it down on the table again, leaving her six-fingered mark. She observed her victim carefully and tore the tape from her mouth. She threw the tube on the floor.
Sandra Thurmond let out a gasp and shuddered. She glanced up at Alice with eyes of misery and pain. Alice looked down calmly at her.
"Well," she said. "Now perhaps you've learned a valuable lesson. Too bad it's too late to apply it in life, but there you go."
Sandra opened her mouth and made a gargling sound in her throat. Her tongue had been eaten away in parts by the acid. From the sound of it, her throat had suffered the same fate. Alice leaned forward and chuckled coldly.
"Goodbye, Sandra," Alice said. "I suppose you're in pain now."
Sandra nodded tiredly.
"Are you in agony?"
Another nod.
"Would you like me to put you out of your misery?" Alice drew the knife and displayed it so that she could see it.
A ragged, choking sigh. Something that sounded like a sob. And finally, another nod.
Alice thought for a moment, staring at her prey, and calculated something in her mind.
"You recommended against my release, do you remember that? I could've gotten out after four months, but you said I had a lousy attitude," Alice reminded her. "Do you remember saying that?"
Sandra nodded a fourth time, eyes pleading.
"I haven't gotten over my lousy attitude," Alice said archly, and sheathed the knife. Her right hand blurred in a slap, rocking the other woman's mottled red face over to one side. "The answer is no. I won't put you out of your misery. Don't worry, though, it won't be much longer."
It took Alice a few minutes to change into pants and comfortable shoes. Just on the off chance Sandra managed to get free and call the police in the ten minutes or so of life she had remaining, Alice pulled the kitchen phone off the wall and broke the receiver in half. She was far stronger than she looked.
When she went out to the van, a kid walking a dog waved hi to her. She waved hi back. The drive back to the airport to drop off the van and switch cars was uneventful. Alice Pierpont whistled to herself as she pulled into her home driveway. Everything was going just fine.