Josh Graham stared around the empty office and let out a sigh. It had been about twenty hours since anyone had last seen Clarice Starling. She had left the office at six PM last night, and the Marine guard on duty at Quantico's entrance had remembered seeing her. After that, she had vanished.
Josh had received his mysterious phone call at seven or so. Since then, Clarice had vanished as if into thin air. He'd called and told Crawford as soon as it had happened. Crawford had sent a few people over to Clarice's home and discovered that she was not there. Neither was her car.
The leads were slim. They were searching for her car. DC police had not found it on the street. But there were no shortage of privately owned parking garages in Washington. Even then, Josh thought, there was no guarantee it would still be in the city or even have any evidence. They hadn't been able to find squat for physical evidence of the UNSUB at the scene.
There are men who are brave and bluff and enjoy fighting. Josh Graham was not one of these men. Shy and retiring by nature, Josh was more the intellectual type. He would fight if he had to, but he didn't particularly want to. He took his example from his father. Josh knew what scared him, but he was no coward.
So he was sitting in the office he'd been sharing with Clarice. Share, that was a word. It was her office. He was a lodger here. But he was also an investigator. Josh walked up and down the office. His eyes looked blank. If you had seen him in there, wandering in his inexpensive suit and tie, you would have thought he was probably a space cadet. Nothing was further from the truth. Josh's father had taught him about boat motors. He'd also taught him about how he did what he did. You tried to put yourself in your UNSUB's shoes. You went where they had been and saw what they saw. If you were capable enough and tried to think the way the UNSUB thought, you might be able to piece something together.
Josh didn't have the faintest idea what the Six Fingered Killer would want with Clarice. So he used Clarice as his UNSUB. It was far easier to step into her shoes than it was a killer's. Besides, he was finding himself reticent to face the same demons that his father had faced and won such a Pyhrric victory against. Though now it seemed he had little choice.
OK, he thought. Here I am, I'm Clarice Starling. It's six o'clock, and I'm going home. What's going to stop me from going home? Why don't I go right home? Instead, I meet up with someone who kidnaps me.
Had Clarice been waylaid? It didn't make a lot of sense. In order to successfully kidnap an adult through the use of force, the most effective way to do that was just before they were getting into their car. You grabbed them, stuffed them in your car, and zoomed off. That didn't fit the facts. Clarice had been armed, and she would have gotten into her car at the parking lot at Quantico. It was an armed Marine base here. The Marines who patrolled the base didn't take kindly to random good squads roaming the grounds.
Had she had car trouble? Or perhaps seen someone who did? That was possible. Josh raised his tape recorder to his lips.
"Check DC and Arlington police records to check for disabled cars," he dictated.
Even as he said it, he began reconsidering the idea. Clarice wouldn't have stopped unless she thought that the person needed her help and that she would be safe in helping them. That meant she probably wouldn't have stopped for a man unless he had his arm in a sling or something. She might've stopped for a woman. But Clarice was also the one who had suspected that the Six Fingered Killer was a woman from the get-go. The Bureau didn't give Clarice a lot of credit. Josh Graham did.
Clarice Starling had a lot of common sense, finely honed instincts, and a big old .45 that would ruin the day of anyone who chose to attack her. Whoever had kidnapped her had managed to overcome those things. How?
Maybe it was Dr. Lecter, his mind whispered.
Josh pondered that thought. The elderly cannibal could have definitely pulled it off. Was Clarice wrong, perhaps? Was Dr. Lecter the Six Fingered Killer? According to FBI files, Dr. Lecter now had the normal amount of fingers on his left hand. Was it even possible to re-transplant a finger? Why would Dr. Lecter do that?
But Clarice Starling knew better than anybody that if she ended up in the good doctor's hands, the results were likely to be messy. Had the doctor tried to kidnap her, she would have fought back. Wouldn't she? Of course she would. She had no desire to end up simmered in au jus and served with a nice red wine.
Still, Josh decided, he would check the files for Dr. Lecter's modus operandi anyway.
Someone, somewhere, had gotten Clarice Starling to deviate from her normal procedure and not go home from Quantico. There, they had managed to kidnap her. He had to find out where Clarice had gone and why she had gone there. Only then could he find her. The clock was ticking.
…
Josh Graham had suspected Dr. Hannibal Lecter in the disappearance of Clarice Starling. In this he was mistaken. Dr. Lecter, the murderer of nine people, was as innocent as the newfallen snow in the kidnapping of Clarice Starling. He learned about it a day later than his former adversary's son. Dr. Lecter had satellite TV and got the biggest package. He had access to just about any news channel in the United States that he wanted.
He was sitting in his den, smiling gently as he watched a Washington, DC news channel. The distance of thousands of miles left him pleased and feeling safe. As the newscaster came on, he felt less pleased.
"In Washington tonight, police search for a missing FBI agent," the newscaster said. "Special Agent Clarice Starling, currently assigned to the Six Fingered Killer investigation, has vanished after leaving Quantico last night. Police and FBI sources would not state if Agent Starling's disappearance is related to the Six Fingered Killer, but the possibility cannot be ignored." A picture of Clarice appeared on the screen to the left and above the newscaster. "Anyone with any information on Agent Starling's disappearance is asked to call the FBI." She rattled off a number that Dr. Lecter did not bother to take down.
Dr. Lecter privately thought it might have been interesting to meet the Six Fingered Killer. Now, it occurred to him that Clarice might need help. The FBI could not save Clarice; they moved too slowly. The only reason that Buffalo Bill hadn't killed Catherine Martin was sheer, dumb, simple luck. Well, that and Clarice's instincts, Dr. Lecter amended. But someone had anesthetized those instincts and had her in their grasp.
Dr. Lecter thought about Clarice Starling bound and alone in the dark. He envisioned a madman approaching her, tools clinking in his hands. The thought made him angry and he had to stand for a moment and wait for his heart rate to settle. He pondered and then sat down.
If Clarice needed him, he would be there. But he could not go off half-cocked. What if all this was an elaborate trap to draw him into the open? He'd learned after Mason. Jacky-boy might well try the same thing. Stash Clarice down in Quantico, fake a kidnapping, and try to catch either the Six Fingered Killer or himself.
He would have to watch and wait. He wanted to see if they would slip up somewhere. At least until he was sure that Clarice needed him. Ruthlessly, he quashed the part of him that wanted to get on a plane and get back to the United States.
…
The basement was exceptionally quiet. Clarice found this out very quickly. It was amazingly creepy. She tried to yell at first, but all that she got was echoes. No one came. All that was there was her, her and Alice's torture and murder equipment. Sourly, Clarice thought that Alice had a very effective basement for a serial killer. As if she was a comic-book criminal.
The cage itself that Clarice was imprisoned in was definitely top shelf. The bars were thick iron. She didn't know how the cage itself was put together, but she couldn't get to any bolts or anything. Even if she could've, her only tools were her hands and a Twinkie wrapper.
The morning after Alice had tried drowning her, she'd awoken to find the other woman reaching in the cage to take off her handcuffs. That was as much liberty as Clarice got. For her bathroom needs, she was provided with a bucket. That was disgusting, but Clarice didn't have much choice except to deal with it.
For most of the day, she was alone. No one came, no matter how hard she screamed. She thought Alice was in the house with her, but she wasn't sure. It was pretty obvious that Alice was disturbed, but she might be able to keep up a job. She had paid for all this stuff somehow, and it wasn't the sort of thing they sold at Target.
She knew perfectly well that Alice was leaving her alone in order to scare her. They did it with arrested criminals. Lock them in a cell somewhere, drop some hints about how they were going to prison for a long, long time, then leave 'em there for a while and let 'em think. The worst tortures were always the ones your own imagination came up with.
Clarice discovered quickly that knowing that trick didn't make it any less effective.
Part of it was the décor. There was a harpoon hanging on the wall across from her. A frigging harpoon. Did she think she was Captain Ahab or something? Next to it was a rack containing a sword and an axe. Clarice didn't think much of her captor's taste in interior decorating. But she could easily envision Dr. Lecter's unknown daughter picking up the harpoon and approaching her cage with it.
She'd tried yelling. For two hours she'd screamed for someone, anyone, to help her. No one came. Not only that, there were no sounds at all. The only time a sound came from the basement that she did not make herself was occasionally when the furnace clicked on and off again.
That evening, Alice had come down and cheerfully demanded Clarice's clothing. She'd traded Clarice a green jumpsuit and her dinner for it. Clarice, mindful of the harpoon, had given up her clothing willingly. Alice had dragged over a few boards from a pile she'd had. The clatter of lumber had seemed unbelievably loud. Alice had puttered over her art project on the other side of the basement. Clarice hadn't been able to see. She'd heard a nail gun bark a few times and gotten a sick feeling. This wasn't going to be good. After that, she'd been left alone again, incarcerated and isolated within Alice's private prison. Now she felt that she had lost her face.
Overhead, she heard a rattle of keys in the door. Not the front door; Clarice had discovered she could not her that. Alice could come and go as she pleased without Clarice detecting her. Then there were two voices, both female.
"Please, please," one voice said. Clarice found her heart sinking. She couldn't place that voice. "Please let me go. I won't tell anybody. I promise."
"Not yet," came Alice's voice. She sounded quite pleased with herself. "Come on down to my basement. I have someone I'd like you to meet."
Footsteps echoed on the stairs. Clarice bowed her head and found herself shaking with anger. She'd always felt for the victims, but never before had she ever been expected to witness a victim. What was worse was that she knew she wouldn't be able to help. She'd be trapped here, in the cage.
A woman approximately her own height and age stepped down into the basement. Chains on her ankles rattled across the floor. She gave Clarice a fearful glance. Behind her, grinning and cocky, Alice Pierpont stepped down into the basement. Her hand was on the woman's arm. She piloted the woman across the basement and made her sit down.
"Hi, Reesey," she said. "Meet Christine. Christine, this is Reesey. She's also known as Agent Clarice Starling of the FBI, but we're good buddies, so she lets me call her Reesey." She giggled as if this was all terribly amusing. "Oh, and also, she's not going to be able to do much in the way of helping. Being in a cage will do that to you, you know. Now tell you what, Christine. I'm going to take your handcuffs and leg chains off. See that harpoon over there? If you try and run or do anything naughty, I'll take that harpoon and stick it right through your belly. And that'll definitely ruin your day, Chrissy. So may I suggest that humoring me is the best course of action."
Christine sniffled. Clarice gritted her teeth. Alice let out another giggle and removed her prisoner's restraints. She pointed at where Clarice's clothing was neatly folded on the table.
"Take off your clothes and put those clothes on," Alice directed. For a moment, Clarice wanted to scream to the other prisoner to fight her, to stand up. But the odds were against the victims overthrowing their captor. Clarice was caged and Christine appeared too terrorized. And Alice was much stronger than she looked.
Her hopes were dashed when the crying woman simply complied with her captor's dictates and then stood there trembling. Alice tilted her head and grinned. She walked the other woman over to where she'd been banging before and made her lie down. Clarice could make out a crosspiece. It took only a minute or two for Alice to tie her victim down at the wrists and ankles. Then she crossed to the table and hit a button on a CD player standing oddly next to the knives and weapons of Alice's extensive collection. A lone female voice began to sing. Alice sang along. Her voice was oddly pleasant to listen to. One did not expect serial killers to sing prettily, but she did.
Every finger in the room is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces then I get afraid of what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach, I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now
Alice quit singing and glanced over at Clarice.
"So, Reesey," she said conversationally. "Have you thought about maybe telling me what I want to know? It might save some mess here."
"Alice," Clarice whispered, and pressed her hands against the bars. "Don't. Please, don't. That woman's innocent, she has nothing to do with..with what you want."
Alice tilted her head and smirked. She spoke along with the song as it was playing. "Just what God needs," she quipped. "One more victim." She picked up the nail gun that she had used to construct the cross and walked over to the woman bound to it. The song continued.
Why do we, Crucify ourselves,
every day,
I crucify myself, nothing I do is good enough for you,
Crucify myself every day and my heart is sick of being in chains.
Clarice realized what Alice meant to do. She threw herself against the bars and shouted in frustration. Alice paid her little heed, glancing up only occasionally to see what Clarice would do.
Clarice pounded the bars of her cage with her fists. Alice looked over at her. She had to give the monster what she wanted. There was no way she was going to let her do this. Clarice was strong; she could take whatever Alice threw at her. But this was her weakness. Alice had herself a lamb she meant to kill.
"Alice!" Clarice shouted.
"Reesey!" Alice replied. "You seem upset. Is something wrong?"
"Alice, don't do this." Clarice hissed.
"Or you'll do what?" Alice asked, and seemed interested.
"Please," Clarice implored. "Show some humanity, will you? Don't…don't do this. It's me you…you want to torture."
"Feeling tortured now?" Alice said, and held the nail gun over Christine's wrist. Christine screeched in terror and writhed. Alice paid her no heed, watching Clarice instead.
"Goddammit, yes," Clarice growled. "Listen…why are you doing this to an innocent person?"
"She's not innocent," Alice said, as if that made it all better. "She's part of dear Mommy's Snob Brigade. Part of the bitchy part of Baltimore's jet set." She stuck her lower jaw out a bit and spoke with a burlesque Harvard lockjaw. Crazily, Clarice found herself thinking of Mr. Howell from Gilligan's Island reruns. "Ahhh, yes, Lovey, we only associate with propah bluebloods, don't you know. Scum like FBI agents and serial killers don't meet up with our high standards."
"Alice, please," Clarice pleaded.
"Tell me what I want to know," Alice said lightly. "Do that for me and I'll be merciful. Otherwise, you might want to stand up, because it's gonna get messy." She chuckled and began to sing again.
"Got a kick for a dog, that's begging for love
I got to have my suffering, so I can have my cross," she sang.
"I've got a cat named Easter, he says will you ever learn
You're just an empty cage girl, if you…kill the bird."
Clarice Starling, currently in a cage and named for a bird herself, heard that and shivered. But Alice had said she would be merciful. She took in a deep, ragged breath and tasted copper in her mouth.
"International Herald-Tribune," she said in defeat.
Alice tilted her head and grinned widely. "I'm listening," she said encouragingly.
Clarice exhaled and leaned her head against the bars. Part of her screamed that this would be incredibly foolish. But you did what you had to when you needed to save a lamb. She didn't bother lying; God only knew what Alice would do if she lied and Alice caught her at it.
"In the agony column," Clarice continued. "Make out an ad in the agony column to A. A. Aaron. Put whatever you want in there. Sign it Hannah." She wondered idly what Alice would do to her now that she'd coughed up the information Alice wanted. "He…he reads it. He'll see an ad like that. You can get in touch with him that way."
Alice's brow furrowed. "That's it?" she demanded. "A goddam classified ad? He's on the Ten Most-Wanted List and all you need to do to get in touch with him is a classified ad?"
"Yes," Clarice said. "That's it. That'll get a message to him. Whether or not he responds is something I have no control over."
Alice stood up and walked away from her captive on the cross. Her boots were quiet on the concrete floor. She eyed Clarice distantly, her arms crossed. Clarice could see her trying to figure out if she was lying or not. That didn't bother Clarice; her captor looked sane when she did that. As if there was something in that mind that Clarice could comprehend.
"I'm not lying," Clarice said. "That's…that's it, Alice. That's all I got. You can get a message to Dr. Lecter that way, but there's no telling if he'll answer it or not."
"What did he want you to tell him in the ad?" Alice asked, frowning.
Clarice sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. "He wanted to know if the lambs had stopped screaming," she said. "But he'll notice any ad addressed to A.A. Aaron and signed Hannah. When Verger…when Verger framed me, he put an ad in an Italian paper that warned Dr. Lecter. That's…that's all."
Alice's eyes narrowed and she studied Clarice intently. She seemed angry. As if Clarice's answer was too easy. But it was the truth.
"There's got to be more than that," she said.
"Alice," Clarice said, "I'm not lying to you. Now c'mon. That's it. How about letting her go?"
Alice shook her head. She stalked back across the table and lifted Clarice Starling's .45 from the stuff scattered on the table. Clarice saw it and screamed in fear and fury. So did Christine.
"I promised I would be merciful," Alice said. "And I will keep that promise with due care. But I'm going to have a little chat with you, Reesey. You're not out of the woods yet. I don't think you're telling me the entire truth. There's more than that."
Clarice reached out through the bars and displayed her bare palms.
"There isn't," she implored. "I swear to God, that's all there is. Please, just put the gun down and talk to me. Can't you talk to me? You don't need to kill anyone."
"You're not telling me everything," Alice said stubbornly. She raised the gun and sighted down the muzzle as if unfamiliar with the gun.
"Put the gun down," Clarice said, all too aware that Alice might be Hannibal Lecter's daughter, but she didn't have his self-control. Or, seemingly, his ability to tell when someone was lying. "I'll chat with you. That's fine. You're in control here. Just put it down and let's talk."
"No," Alice said shortly. Her face hardened in anger and distrust.
The echo of the .45 was deafening against the concrete walls.