Clarice was trembling.
It had been a day since Alice had shot the woman she'd tied to the cross. Another dull, boring day in her cage. She was hoping she might be able to convince Alice to let her out. A shower would be nice. Then her mind would flit back to Buffalo Bill, and Dr. Lecter in his cell. Buffalo Bill has a two-story house. Then Crawford, explaining how to hang someone. You use stairs. Stairs are familiar. Bring them up the stairs with a hood on and boot them off the bottom riser with the noose attached to the landing railing. Then a shower didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.
She had no illusions about her captor. Alice was dangerous and sadistic. She killed without compunction. In some ways, Clarice thought, Alice was more dangerous than her father. Dr. Lecter had done horrible things because he enjoyed them, that was true. Awards for Citizen of the Year were not in order for the psychiatrist. But Alice was worse because she had less self-control.
Locked in the cage and left alone for long periods of time, Clarice had nothing to do but think. She did not have Dr. Lecter's memory palace, but she was able to recall the information that was her stock in trade with an ease that surprised her. The cage wasn't tall enough to stand up in, but it was wide enough to lie down in, and Clarice would lie down and ponder her situation. It worked surprisingly well. Perhaps profilers ought to be locked in cages more often. If she ever got out of here, she'd suggest it to Crawford. The look on his face would be priceless.
Alice was more like a classic sociopath than her father was, Clarice decided. Whereas Dr. Lecter had the normal abilities of self-control, Alice did not. She was quick to anger and impulsive. There wasn't any sort of remorse or conscience that Clarice could see. She hadn't seen enough of her captor to determine if she was a pathological liar, like most sociopaths were, or if she was more like Dr. Lecter, who did not do such things.
She heard the basement door unlock and heard footsteps on the stairs. Despite herself, she tensed. Alice hadn't tortured her since she'd given up the agony column as a means of getting in touch with Dr. Lecter. That was good. Still, unpleasant thoughts of the other shoe dropping tormented her.
Alice came down into the basement and glanced at her for a moment or two. She held a tray in both hands. There was a covered plate on it and plastic silverware. A tantalizing smell of cooked stew arose from it. Clarice hadn't been fed terribly well during her captivity and her stomach growled audibly at the sight and smell of the food.
"Here," Alice said emotionlessly, and approached the cage. She set the tray down just outside the cage and then took several steps back. Clarice sat up and reached through the bars. It was a stew, thick and meaty and good. She pulled the bowl into her cage and began to eat the stew hungrily. Meat and potatoes and broth. God, it was good.
Feeling full and sated for the first time since Alice had captured her, Clarice took the paper napkin and wiped her face. Also on the tray was a steaming mug. Clarice glanced at it curiously. It was brown, but it didn't seem to be coffee. She sampled it and found it quite tasty. It was sweet and spicy.
"Thank you," Clarice said. "What is this stuff?"
"Chai," Alice said. "It's Indian. Tea and spices and milk. Well, that's the instant stuff, but it's okay."
Alice was sitting on the floor, perhaps seven feet away from the cage. Her arms were around her knees and she balanced on the heels of the boots. She was dressed all in black: black dress, black boots, black tights. She watched Clarice carefully. It was odd. She didn't seem cocky anymore. In fact, she looked down.
"I saw Josh today," she said suddenly, as if Josh Graham was a friend of hers instead of an agent assigned to track her down.
Clarice tried to sidle around in the cage to a comfortable position. "Josh Graham?" she asked.
Alice nodded and seemed somehow lost. In the darkness of the basement, her head and hands seemed to hover free. She let out a heavy sigh as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. "At the scene," she said vaguely. Then her eyes focused on Clarice. "What's he like?"
Clarice was more accustomed to Alice being cocky and dangerous, not thoughtful and sad. This was unknown territory. She swallowed a bit and eyed the other woman.
"He's very nice," Clarice said. "Sort of shy. Why are you asking?"
A few days ago, she thought, Alice would have hurt her for asking that. It seemed something had changed. Now she simply shrugged.
"I was just curious," Alice said. "He was looking at the scene. They'll probably figure out that's not you." Her eyes floated off and then back to Clarice's. "Don't look at me like that," she said irritably. "I had to do it."
Clarice watched her carefully. She did seem dejected somehow. "Are you…do you feel bad about that?"
Alice shook her head, her face blank. "No," she said. "I had to do it. She'd been here, she'd seen me. And she knew who I was. But that's how it's always been." Her tone turned mocking. "'How could you do that? Don't you feel guilty?' And no, I don't. I never did. I just…don't."
"You don't look happy," Clarice said.
Alice shrugged. "I'm not," she said idly. "This…this happens sometimes. It passes off. Besides, you shouldn't be mad at me. I did her a favor."
Clarice Starling knew about the killers she sought. She knew that expressing disapproval of what they had done was often counterproductive. It didn't work on the ones they tried to interview for Behavioral Sciences. Now, however, her situation was even more precarious.
"A favor?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice neutral.
Alice nodded. "She doesn't have to live in this stupid world anymore," she said. She rose and crossed to the table, boots clicking against the concrete. When she returned, she held Clarice's gun. A melancholy look crossed her face. At the sight of the gun, Clarice flinched.
"Alice?" she asked, and her voice shook. "Alice, are you OK?"
Alice shook her head without replying.
"Alice, are you…are you going to shoot me?"
Alice put the .45 on the floor and glanced over at Clarice with a curious glance. "And what if I was?" she asked. "Why do you want to cling to life so desperately? It's stupid and meaningless." She lifted the .45 and stared down the barrel. She evinced no fear in so doing. Clarice felt sweat break out on the back of her neck. If Alice shot her, she would die. If Alice shot herself, she would die too, but it would be a much more drawn-out, painful death.
"Alice, listen to me," Clarice said. Her eyes were wide with horror. "Put down the gun. Just put it down and listen to me."
Surprisingly, Alice complied and looked at Clarice with a not-this-again expression on her face. Clarice licked her lips. Her tongue felt dry. She gripped the bars of her cage hard enough to make her hands ache. The pieces fell together in her mind with a neat click.
The classic view of sociopaths was that they had no emotions. There were some who believed that this was not true. She'd seen articles that suggested that sociopathic personalities could and did suffer emotionally. An article in the Psychiatric Times that had been passed around at Behavioral Sciences suggested that emotional pain was a cause of their crimes. At the time she'd thought it was a lot of liberal hooey. Now, seeing Alice reminding her of nothing so much as a textbook case of depression, she had to wonder.
Besides, the timing of it. Baker had been killed on Saturday night. The lawyers had been killed a day later. A week and change before Winfield and Thurmond. It had struck her as a killing cycle. Now it seemed Alice's killing cycle was controlled by something else.
"You said…you said this happened and passed off," Clarice said. "Has it happened a lot before? Did they maybe give you some medication?"
Alice sighed. "You mean, am I bipolar? Did you think you were the first to figure that out?"
Clarice was surprised to hear Alice say it herself, but found herself slightly relieved. If Alice knew, convincing her to try and get help would be easier.
She'll still be a killer, though, her mind reminded her helpfully. For the time being she clamped that off.
"Yes," Clarice said.
Alice shook her head. "Oh no, they diagnosed that a while ago." She chuckled, as if it was amusing somehow.
Clarice had to force herself to let go of the bars. Had Catherine Martin ever had to deal with this? But maybe she could talk her way out of this. Alice didn't seem violent now. Maybe she was only violent when she was manic. Maybe now, she could be talked into doing the right thing.
"Do you…do you have medication?" Clarice prodded. "Upstairs, maybe?"
Alice shrugged. "I haven't taken it in a while," she said disinterestedly. "I don't like it. Everything is so…flat when you're on it."
Clarice took a long, shuddering breath. "Alice, I need you to listen to me," she said. "I want you to…to go upstairs and take the medication. You'll feel better. It's a sickness. It's not your fault. Just like…an infection or something like that. Okay?"
Alice eyed her distantly.
"Look," Clarice said. "If…if you're sick, it's not your fault. You know, there's help out there you could get. It doesn't have to be this way. Let me out of the cage. I'll help you." She stretched out her arm towards her captor.
"If I let you go," Alice said morbidly, "you'll have me put in prison."
"Not necessarily," Clarice implored. "Maybe you weren't answerable for your actions. If you're sick, you could get treatment. Get better. You don't have to feel this way."
"Treatment," Alice said, sounding dubious. "In case you didn't notice, I've killed people. They wouldn't give me treatment, they'd lock me up. I had that happen to me once before. I didn't like it."
Clarice sighed. "Look," she said soothingly. "It's not what you think. I can suggest that you not go to prison, that you go to a hospital. A psychiatric hospital. For treatment. It's not…it's not what you think. It could be a private hospital, if you want. But…but they would, they would help you."
Alice snorted. "A psychiatric hospital. Yeah, that's a great idea. Be poked at and prodded by so-called therapists. No, thank you, Clarice. I really don't want to be some headshrinker's pet project." She made quotation marks with her fingers. "Daughter of Hannibal Lecter, going to the loony bin just like him. Maybe they'd put me in his old cell. If that's your offer I must decline it. I'd rather shoot both of us than live that life. It would be more humane."
"That's not how it is," Clarice said desperately. "Things have changed. They could…they could help you. You'd have a lawyer. Your rights would be respected."
Alice let out a heavy sigh. "Tell me," she said. "When you saw my father, how many men on that ward were being helped? Were their rights respected? It was a prison, Clarice, and nothing more. They lock them up and leave them there. If your idea of helping me is to put me in a little closet and leave me there for the rest of my life, then my answer is no, thank you. In a couple of days this will pass off, and in the meantime we'll just both have to get by."
Clarice shuddered. Things had just taken a major turn.
"Do you have medication?" Clarice repeated.
Alice nodded and shrugged as it was a minor matter.
"What do you have?"
"Depakote and Zoloft," Alice said. That verified it for Clarice. Someone, somewhere, had diagnosed her as bipolar. Crazily, she found herself wondering if Alice killed when she was on her meds.
"Please, Alice. Just take the Zoloft. You'll feel better."
Alice thought about it for a few moments. Clarice tensed.
"No," Alice said. "I don't like it. I won't take it. You can't make me."
"I'm not trying to make you," Clarice implored. "I'm just trying to help. You don't like feeling this way, do you?"
"Good night, Clarice." Alice's tone was frosty. She rose and ascended the stairs. The door slammed behind her and the lock clicked shut. Overhead, the light turned off. Clarice was entombed in darkness and alone.
Oh, man, Clarice Starling thought. What am I going to do now?