The time for action had come now.
Dr. Lecter sat in his den in his home in Argentina – his large, wonderfully appointed, lonely home. He reviewed the information that he had. Clarice had been kidnapped. Of that Dr. Lecter had no doubt. Someone had her. There was no reason at all for her to disappear. She was working a case; that of the Six Fingered Killer.
On Dr. Lecter's table was a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Atop the agony column was a personal ad. Dr. Lecter had circled it. It made him somewhat nervous.
A.A. Aaron – I need your help. Someone wants to meet you very badly. Hannah.
It was blunt and to the point. It sounded like Clarice, he thought. But it was so hard to tell. The printed word was not always indicative of the emotions of the sender. Yet still he had to be wary. Did they think that he was the Six Fingered Killer? Could this be a trap?
Then he thought of Clarice trapped by a serial killer, and he knew he had to find a way to help her.
Clarice had put an end to Jame Gumb's career as a fine clothier. He had always seen her as someone pursuing the killers. A forever troubled knight who would take up her sword on behalf of the innocent. A pity that she could not stand down her watch to join him. He had been slightly troubled for her throughout her career. She might have fallen on the field of battle. He could have seen that. Her disappearance troubled him more. How had Clarice fallen prey to a serial killer? She knew better.
No, it had to be something else, something that would have anesthetized Clarice's normally sound defensive instincts. Dr. Lecter suspected a wolf in lamb's clothing. Perhaps the Six Fingered Killer was female. The Tattler had hinted that this might be a possibility. Dr. Lecter thought it was possible. What he was almost positive of was that the Six Fingered Killer had appeared to Clarice as a victim. That was the only way he could make any sense of her being lulled enough to be taken captive.
The discovery of the corpse in Rock Creek Park told him what he was dealing with. The corpse had been dressed in Clarice's clothing and had been carrying Clarice's ID. The corpse resembled Clarice. It had been intended so. Clarice on the cross, crucified for her beliefs.
The FBI probably believed the killer to be quite psychologically disturbed. Dr. Lecter knew better. The Six Fingered Killer was more akin to his style. Displaying the corpse in the park indicated that the killer was bold and intelligent, able to waltz into the nation's capital and leave them a little 'gift'. The news had only reported on the facial mutilations without giving specifics, but Dr. Lecter had a feeling he knew what they were. The Six Fingered Killer had sought to delay identification of the corpse through fingerprints. He did not suspect that the facial mutilations would be ritualistic – the killer was having a bit of fun.
Given the opportunity, Dr. Lecter thought, he would have liked the chance to meet the Six Fingered Killer. But once Clarice was involved, he had to help her. The world would be boring with her gone from it.
Dr. Lecter walked calmly through his mansion to his bedroom. In his bedroom closet, he pulled back a corner of the Berber carpet. There was a small board fitted neatly into the floor there, and he carefully removed it. Beneath the floor was a cavity. Fitted neatly into the cavity was a small metal box. He took the box and walked into his den. Inside the box were passports of the finest Brazilian manufacture in several names.
He picked up the phone and consulted his memory palace for a telephone number. There it was. A broker of last-minute cancellations in Buenos Aires. He would be able to re-enter the United States for the first time in a few years. Immigrations would give him no trouble at all. They never did.
Fortunately, there was a ticket available. One of those dreadful tours. Some poor sod had died of a heart attack in Rio. It did open up a space for Dr. Lecter, though, and that was fine. He preferred the camouflage of the herd. He would be obliged to be shuffled around some tourist sites in Argentina, a country he knew perfectly well. Still, that was fine. He'd be in the United States in two days. Dr. Lecter arranged the deal in a few minutes.
It took little time to settle up his affairs. He explained to his butler that he would be leaving for a bit. Perhaps a week or so. His butler, ever diligent, offered to pack a bag for him. Dr. Lecter thanked him kindly and accepted the offer. His servants were well trained and knew what he would like.
He would need to meet the tour in Buenos Aires. They would be landing in a few hours. He picked up his bag and headed out to the airport. Two days of mucking around at tourist traps designed to suck American dollars from their wallets. Then he would be back in the United States and could best investigate Clarice's disappearance.
He hoped two days would not be too late.
…
Alice Pierpont's depressive phases did not last as long as her manic phases. Her cycle had a pronounced tilt towards the manic. But when she was depressed, she was very, very depressed. It was hard to get up in the morning. It was hard to do anything other than lie in bed. She had to force herself to feed her prisoner.
Once she was down there, it was awfully hard to make herself go back up the stairs. Clarice seemed happy to see her. She usually wanted to talk. Alice supposed it was rough on her, down there in the cage all alone for so long. But there was nothing else to be done. She'd studied up on Clarice Starling. Clarice was wily and sly. She'd survived in the FBI. She'd been much, much smarter than anyone had ever given her credit for. Alice knew. She had studied up on Clarice ever since she had been sixteen and realized who her father was.
Alice Pierpont had been educated at a girls' boarding school in England. Her hateful mother had not wanted her rare daughter around, so off she had gone to England. She hadn't intended to find Dr. Lecter. Some girl in her house had been looking at a web page about him on the Internet. Alice had seen it, checked out the website for herself, and found her interest piqued.
The pictures of Dr. Lecter at his trial had been interesting. The same pale skin and dark hair. The same maroon eyes. The same perfectly duplicated middle finger, the rarest form of polydactyly. The same cultured exterior covering a mind capable of traveling to the depths of atrocities. At that age, Alice had been well aware for years that she lacked something other people had. She did not feel guilt or regret. She could feel sadness, but never over things she had done.
She could understand them intellectually but did not have them in the same way that her more feeling classmates did not have an eleventh finger. She simply lacked them. But she did possess interest and fascination. Curious about her own origins, she had sought out what she could. Perhaps he could understand her. Perhaps he might have something to offer her. At the minimum, he might be interested to know that he had a daughter.
Once back in the United States for school holidays, she had time. Her mother had largely ignored her. That was just fine with Alice; by that time, she had accustomed herself to the fact that her mother was much like her. She had sought out the back issues of the Baltimore papers and discovered the truth. The society pages that had occurred a year before her birth had told her what she wanted to know. Jane Pierpont had been seen out and about in Baltimore's nightlife with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
The linkage between Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling had been well known since Alice had been a little girl. From there, Alice had dug up as much as she could find on the two of them. She had no memory palace, but she did possess her father's capability to recall information going back years at a time. The Internet was a great help; there were tons of web pages devoted to the psychiatrist's grisly doings. Sightings of him had been legion. Most of them, Alice had thought, were simply ridiculous. Dr. Lecter had been 'sighted' in London, Rome, British Columbia, Alberta, Colorado, and Australia, just to name a few. She didn't think he was anywhere close to those places. He was hiding somewhere, ducked down quietly and living the life of a wealthy man.
Now she had Clarice herself. They talked together in the basement. Clarice seemed to be quite nice. She was afraid, but that was to be expected. Alice had her in a cage. Yet she seemed to be somewhat concerned. That surprised Alice. It had been a long time since anyone had expressed any sort of concern for her. Alice suspected that Clarice's concern was motivated by self-interest. After all, she fed Clarice. If she was gone, Clarice would starve to death in the cage.
She couldn't let Clarice go, even though the idea occurred to her. She didn't want to go to prison. That was what would happen to her if Clarice were allowed out. Clarice was much smarter than the FBI gave her credit for. She might be depressed, but she wasn't stupid. Trading this house for a cell was not part of her plans. Besides, she needed Clarice in order to find her father.
On the fourth day, Alice found herself feeling better. She came down to Clarice's cage and rattled a pair of handcuffs. Clarice glanced up at her with some trepidation.
"Hi," Alice said. "Want to come out of the cage?"
Clarice tensed. "What are you going to do to me?" she queried.
Alice glanced down at her and made a moue of distaste. "I thought you might like a shower," she said. "And perhaps a meal upstairs."
Clarice's hands gripped the bars. Why was she tense? Did she want to stink in there? Alice found herself vaguely offended. Here she was offering Clarice some comforts and this was the reward she got.
"Do you want to stay in there, or not?" Alice asked, and her brow furrowed.
Clarice eyed her carefully. She seemed to be sizing her up. Clarice licked her lips nervously.
"Are…are you going to hurt me, Alice?" she asked.
Where had that come from? "No," Alice said. "I'm offering you a shower and a meal upstairs. If you don't want it, fine." Her tone sounded vaguely petulant and hurt.
"I'd like that," Clarice said quickly. "I'd like that very much. But…but I know about…you know...I'm just wondering if you're going to try and do something to me."
"I'm not going to hurt you," Alice said. "I thought you might want to eat upstairs at a table like a normal human being and get a shower. If you don't want it, fine." She dropped the handcuffs and crossed her arms.
Clarice saw them fall and swallowed hard. Her eyes scanned Alice's. Then, calmly, she took the cuffs and fastened them on her own wrists. She crab-walked over to the door of the cage.
"I do want it," she said quickly. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I just…I don't want you to hurt me, Alice. Are you going to do that?"
"No," Alice said, and crossed over to unlock the door. For the first time in four days, Clarice walked out of the cage and stood upright. Her knees let out twin cracks as she stood up. Alice took her arm and walked her over to the stairs. Clarice seemed nervous to mount them, but gained confidence as she went on.
She stopped and stared around at the upstairs part of the house. Probably she was memorizing it for later, when she was free. So she could testify at Alice's trial. Thinking about that made Alice a bit angrier, and she hustled Clarice through the house to the bathroom. Alice's time in juvenile detention had taught her how to properly strip out a prisoner for showering. After getting Clarice's jumpsuit, she noticed that the FBI agent had become thin and bony during her detention. She supposed she ought to feed her captive more. The jumpsuit itself was pretty rank, as Clarice had been forced to wear it for days on end. After locking the bathroom door, Alice tossed it down to the basement and reminded herself to wash it. She grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a white T-shirt for Clarice to wear in the meantime.
She let Clarice have perhaps twenty minutes in the shower. Magnanimity was something she could afford. Dinner was almost ready. Despite what Clarice might think, Alice had none of her father's more peculiar culinary interests. She usually cooked foods that were easy to prepare. For now, she'd gone with an easier means: she had ordered pizza.
Once Clarice was done in the shower, Alice let her dress and walked her into the kitchen. Her dinette set contained heavy wooden chairs. Once Clarice was installed in one, she handcuffed Clarice's right wrist to the arm of the chair. Then, a gracious hostess, she offered Clarice a slice of pizza.
Clarice took it warily and nibbled at it. Then she began to wolf it down. Alice supposed she was hungry. She ought to feed her a bit more; she'd try to remember that. Now that the down phase was fading off, she could keep that in mind. It was so much harder during her down phases. Everything was. She'd do better now. Maybe give her something she could keep in the cage and eat on her own time.
"How's the pizza?" Alice asked lightly, and took a slice herself.
"It's good," Clarice said, still eying Alice as if she feared Alice would attack and filet her. "Thank you."
Alice shrugged. "I wanted to ask you something," she said.
Clarice sighed. "Is it about Dr. Lecter or Josh?"
Alice nodded.
Clarice took a deep breath. Whatever she was about to say, she thought it would make Alice angry. And perhaps she knew that once Alice's down phases broke, she became more herself and more dangerous.
"Alice," she began. "We've been talking…you and me…for a while now. I don't know what I can tell you about either of them that I haven't already."
A bolt of anger shot through Alice. How dare she withhold from her! Alice had thought a shower and some hot food and clean clothes might loosen her lips. Her first urge was to slam Clarice's head a few times into the table and see if a broken nose did the trick instead. But no; resorting to physical force wouldn't get her where she wanted to be. Not yet, at any rate.
"I want to know if Dr. Lecter is going to answer the ad, and if so, how," she said, her voice betraying a hint of anger.
Clarice Starling sighed. For the past few days, Alice had been asking about her father and about Josh Graham. She didn't understand what her captor wanted to know about Josh. But Clarice had answered as best she could. If Alice thought she was lying she'd be in trouble.
"Alice," she said, holding up her free left hand to ward off the younger woman's anger, "I don't know. Dr. Lecter told me to place the ad. He never said what he would do. I don't know if he'll come here or reply through the ad or what."
Alice's face darkened. Clarice trembled a bit. The shower had felt great, but it reminded her how weak she had become. Her body, once a finely tuned fighting instrument, had suffered. Alice only fed her once a day and had to be reminded sometimes to feed her. That, Clarice thought, was more the depression than anything else. There had at least been the comfort of knowing that Alice wasn't violent when she was depressed. She'd honestly seemed to want to talk to Clarice, and Clarice took the opportunity. She knew perfectly well that a killer had a much more difficult time killing someone who had become humanized to them. Hopefully Clarice's efforts had borne some fruit.
She'd tried to suggest that Alice get some help. If she ever got out of this alive, she'd stick to that. It was damn hard for her to be hard on anyone in pain, even when that person had killed in front of her and tortured her. Alice had refused her point blank on that score. Even sad and lonely as she seemed, she didn't want to be in a hospital.
Now it seemed the other shoe was dropping and Alice was cycling up again. Now she had to be careful. When Alice was up, she'd get angry easily.
"You have to know something," she said.
Clarice felt pained. "I don't," she pleaded. "I don't know what happens now. Keep watching the ads and see if he replies. I swear, I don't know. I've been honest with you."
Alice's eyes narrowed.
"You're not helping," she said sullenly. She took a slice of pizza herself and began to eat it. As she did, she took a notebook from the table and began to flip through it. Clarice could read the word JOSHUA written across the top of it. She tensed.
"What's in the notebook?" Clarice asked, trying to make the question sound light and innocuous.
Alice shrugged and turned the notebook around so Clarice could see it. She saw the picture of the three of them taped neatly over one sheet of the paper. The other side of the paper was covered with Alice's peculiarly feminine cursive. Josh's curriculum vitae, Clarice noticed. Where he'd gone to school, when he had gone to the Academy. A lot of information about Will Graham. A chart she had written up comparing Josh to his father. She wondered if Alice had hired an investigator to get her this information and if that could be used to catch her.
"Why are you interested in him?" Clarice asked.
Alice merely smiled.
"That's my secret, Clarice," she said calmly. "He fascinates me. That's all you need to know."
She flipped the page and began to write. A two-column chart again, Clarice noticed. Across one column were the letters H.L – C.S. Across the second were the words A.P. – J.G. That was it, Clarice realized. There was an odd sort of connection between herself and Dr. Lecter. Alice hoped that there might be some sort of connection between her and Josh.
Oh boy, Clarice thought, if I live to get out of here, this is gonna make one hell of an article.
But there was one problem here. If Alice's interest in Josh was borne of delusion, it could get ugly when the truth came out. She had met Dr. Lecter, but this was not true of the next generation. Was this something she might be able to use to maneuver with? Clarice cleared her throat and decided to brave it.
"You know, you've been asking about Josh, and I can see he fascinates you," she said. "But you don't know Josh. You've never met him."
Alice Pierpont smiled coolly at Clarice. "Yet," she said cryptically.