Alice Pierpont entered the store, quite pleased with herself. The overhead bell jingled as she closed the door behind her. It had taken her a while to come across this plan. If it worked, it would be fun.
The small leatherworking shop was well known in Baltimore for custom-made work. Alice had bought gloves here before. Her extra finger necessitated custom-made gloves. She liked their work. Behind the counter, an elderly man with an accent smiled when he saw her.
"Goot mornink, Mizz Pierpont," he said.
"Good morning," she said, and smiled brightly. "So they're ready?"
"Ah yes, dey are ready. Dis is a new think you ask me to do. But I make. You look."
From behind his workbench he extracted a small flat box. He opened it to reveal a finely made set of black leather gloves wrapped in tissue paper. Like the rest of the gloves she had bought from him, they were made to her own measure. Unlike the rest of them, they had the normal amount of fingers on the left hand.
"May I see your hant?" the elderly craftsman asked.
Alice rolled up her left sleeve and held out her left hand in an imperious gesture. The glovemaker took her hand and gently touched her two middle fingers together, one atop the other. He bound them together with a piece of scotch tape. The gloves were made of fine leather and buttoned at the wrist. They ran all the way up to just below her shoulder.
"Zee," he said. "You tape feengers together, like when they are spraint. Then slide glove on." He gently put the glove on her hand. Proudly, he displayed his work.
"De gluff finger with the two fingers inside is beeger. Theeker. So I make other fingers of glove beeger and theeker too. So it balances. For look. You zee?"
Alice stared at her left hand in the glove. It looked so normal. She wiggled her fingers. Her hand felt bound, but not irretrievably so. It was quite comfortable, all things considered. The glove did manage to camouflage her finger nicely. Alice's hands were small to begin with, and the result looked odd to her, but it would not get a second look from someone who did not know the actual size of her hands. She was quite pleased with the look.
The other glove was normal, but thicker so that it matched its mate. She raised her hands to her face and inhaled the brisk aroma of the leather. A lazy smile crossed her face.
Picking the symbol of her difference from the rest of humanity had its problems, but she'd seen to that. She'd be able to accomplish something she wanted to do with these. They would get her close enough.
Alice paid the glovemaker and took the gloves. Carefully, she put them in her purse and headed out to her Mustang. Driving with her two middle fingers taped together felt weird, but she could get used to it. On the way home, on a whim, she bought a box of chocolates. Clarice was still down in the cage, and she would probably appreciate some.
Before she went home she dropped in at a department store and bought herself a few new outfits. Something he would approve of. Alice was more accustomed to dressing in what she liked and shanghaied a little blonde thing of a clerk who might be able to give her advice on what she wanted. The clerk who helped her thought she had chosen well. All the same, the clerk was happy to see her leave.
Romance was in the air, she thought.
Once at home, she had some background work to do. It was much easier than she thought. She simply called around to a few of the hotels in Washington, DC. She tried the big chains first. It wasn't that different from the social engineering she'd done to find out where James Winfield was staying. The fourth one hit paydirt; Will Graham was staying at the Holiday Inn on the Hill.
Humming a happy tune to herself, Alice headed down her basement stairs and surveyed her captive. Clarice eyed her nervously. She probably thought there was something torturous in the box. Not today though; Alice was in a good mood.
"Good morning, Reesey!" she said merrily, and spread her arms. Her right hand held the box. Clarice tensed. Alice rolled her eyes. Why was she so paranoid?
"Isn't it a beautiful day today?" Alice asked.
"I wouldn't know, Alice," Clarice said carefully. "I'm in a cage here."
Alice sighed. "I know, Clarice," she said soothingly. "It's got to be hard. But I only need to detain you for a little while longer. After that…well, we'll see." Her eyes sparkled with glee.
"You're in a good mood," Clarice noted.
"I am indeed. Put your hands behind your back and I'll take you out of your cage and bring you upstairs. You can watch TV upstairs, unless you'd prefer some more quiet time in there. After all, I have a date tonight. Don't stay up."
Clarice let Alice put the cuffs on her and walked out of the cage without argument. She seemed to be holding something back. Alice frowned.
"Ree-sey," she said cuttingly, "at the least, you could be happy for me."
She walked Clarice up the stairs and through the house. They stopped in the kitchen for Clarice's dinner, then a trip to the bathroom. She'd set up the TV room so that Clarice could be in it. The TV room itself was perfectly comfortable; there was a couch, a television, a stereo, and plenty of creature comforts. The floor was polished wood.
In the center of the room was a stout wooden armchair. It would not move at all, as Alice had bolted it to the floor that morning. She took Clarice's handcuffs off and sat her in the chair. Leather straps dangled off the arms and legs of the chair. Another two were on the back of the chair. Moving quickly, Alice strapped her captive in as if preparing to electrocute her. Clarice didn't fight her. But why was she looking at her like that?
"Alice?" Clarice asked. "What are you going to do to me?"
Alice indicated the TV. "Why, we are going to watch some films, Alex," she quipped in a surprisingly apt British accent.
Clarice stared uncertainly at her and then back at the TV, which was blank.
"Oh, Reesey," Alice said in a disappointed tone. "You missed your cue! You're supposed to writhe in the chair and shout 'I see that it's wrong! It's wrong because it's like against society. It's wrong because everybody has the right to live and be happy without being tolchocked and knifed.'" She shook her head sadly.
Clarice tensed and licked her lips nervously. Her expression was cautious and fearful as she watched her captor. Finally she cleared her throat.
"Sorry," she said. "Bit of a…pain in me gulliver."
Alice threw back her head and laughed. "I just knew you'd seen that movie," she said. "I loved that movie in school. My first schoolgirl crush, don't you know. He was just soooo cute in that little ice-cream suit." She laced her fingers together and raised them up and assumed a soppy expression. "Well, the first part of the movie was my favorite, anyway. But it was a warning, too."
Clarice's fists clenched on the arms of the chair. "A warning?"
"As to what would happen to me if I got caught," Alice explained. "Do remember that the next time you try to convince me to 'get some help', little droogie."
"That's…that's not what I meant," Clarice hedged.
"Of course not. Anyways. I have to shower and primp and all that. Here's the remote. There's HBO and Showtime and all the cable channels. Or if you want a DVD, tell me which one you want."
Clarice swallowed. "So…so are you going to leave me here?" she asked nervously.
"For a bit," Alice agreed. "You'll be just as secure here as you would have been in the cage. And there's more entertainment up here. So here you are."
She turned to leave. Clarice's voice sounded nervous.
"Alice, wait," she said breathlessly. "Are you going to make me stay in this chair all night?"
Alice shrugged. "Yep," she said chirpily. "I know it's not too comfortable, but you'll get by. My father spent a long time in restraints, too. It'll help you get closer to him."
With that, she shut the door behind her and locked it. As she got ready for her date, she could hear the sound of the TV. Seemed like Clarice liked CNN. She took her time. He better appreciate it, she thought.
"Bye, roomie," she called through the door. "Don't wait up. I'll be out late."
…
Josh Graham sat in the light of his computer monitor and blinked. His eyes were sore. He'd been staring at the monitor all day and into the evening. Thankfully, they did have one piece of good news. The corpse on the cross was not Clarice. Her fingerprints had proven that immediately. But for that matter, he had no proof at all that Clarice was alive.
Still. What sort of demented freak would do something like that? It was enough to make him nervous about this case. Josh sighed and forced himself to turn away from the monitor.
He had to get out of here. All Behavioral Sciences had was the oppressive silence and fluorescent lights. Clarice's empty chair taunted him. He could do no more work here. The sound of his Outlook indicating new mail binged, and he checked it. Ever since getting that call from that girl who had kidnapped Starling – presumably the Six Finger Killer, he had wondered if she would try again.
He didn't recognize the name, but it was a girl's. He tensed. Reading it, he relaxed a bit. It wasn't from the killer; it was from a fourteen-year-old in West Virginia who'd seen the article in the Tattler and thought he was cute. He wasn't sure what to think; FBI agents usually didn't get love letters. Had Clarice had to deal with this? Weren't girls that age supposed to be into boy bands or something as idols?
Ah well. He'd worry about his teenage fan club in the morning. The idea of visiting his dad occurred to him. Dad might have some ideas. It wasn't too far from Quantico to the Holiday Inn his dad was staying in. In the lobby, he called his dad on his cell phone.
"Josh!" His dad sounded pleased. "Come on up. Sure, we can chat."
His dad was in room 221. It was a simple hotel room: a bed, a table and chairs, a TV. A watercolor by some anonymous artist on the walls. He found himself wondering who bought these things. Will Graham invited his son in and sat down on the bed, gesturing at a chair.
"So how are things going?" he asked.
Josh shrugged. "The corpse wasn't Clarice," he said. "Thank God. But…I don't know what to do. I know she's out there, and some loony's got her. But I don't know what I can do. I keep racking my brain and coming up with nothing."
Will nodded.
"Do you have any ideas?" Josh asked.
"No," Will allowed. "You have to remember…I did my time. I don't want to do this. Tell you the truth, I was surprised you did it."
It was Josh's turn to shrug.
"Part of me didn't want you to," Will continued. "I mean…I know I wasn't the best father. I was an alcoholic for many years. I can't blame it all on the FBI, but it was there. I mean…I've seen what they can do. But…," he seemed to grope. "I've been sober for ten years now, stone cold sober."
Josh smiled painfully. "You did fine as a dad," he said thoughtfully.
A look like grace appeared on Will's suntanned visage. "I'm glad," he said. "I worry about you, though."
Josh made a vague gesture. "I hardly ever drink," he said.
Will shook his head. "It's not that," he explained. "I worry more about some…some latter-day Lecter getting ahold of you."
The idea had occurred to Josh, too. Ever since he'd been very young and visited his father in the hospital bed Hannibal Lecter had put him in. But he waved it off. "I'm qualified in pistol," he said. "And I'm careful."
"So was Clarice," Will said somberly. Josh found himself shivering. Yes, the Six Fingered Killer had found some way to get her six-fingered hands on Clarice. Will held up his hand.
"Forget I said it," he said. "You'll think of something. I have faith in you."
As if by unspoken contract, the subject slid away from serial killers and the FBI to more normal things. Will Graham had owned a boat repair shop for several years and had found some peace in that. His business was booming down in the Keys. Molly was well. Josh's apartment was small and not to his liking, but he couldn't afford better in Washington.
After an hour or so, Josh rose.
"Well," he said. "I got to get going. Work tomorrow."
Will nodded. "Call me," he urged. "Maybe I can come in and help you out."
"Crawford would like that," Josh said reflectively.
Will snorted. "He sure would. Okay. Have a good night."
On the elevator ride down, Josh found himself still nervous. Where the hell was Clarice? What hadn't he thought of? What was he missing? He headed out into the lobby, still lost in his thoughts.
His shoulder bumped against someone and he turned around, embarrassed. Had he been so off in his own world that he hadn't watched where he was going? Then he saw who he had bumped into and stopped.
It was a dark-haired woman in a dress. She was beautiful. Her skin was pale and her features delicately sculptured. For a moment his mind flashed back to the goth chick he'd seen at the crucifixion murder scene. She wore all black, but that was the only real similarity. She wore a black dress that stopped a few inches above the knee. Her arms were sheathed in black leather gloves that ran all the way up her arms. Her shoulders were largely bare. Her hair was neatly styled, and a simple chain ran around her neck. She'd attracted the attention of just about every other guy in the room already.
"Oh, pardon me," she said, speaking with a cultured British accent.
Josh felt a blush rise to his face automatically. "Oh, no," he said. "That was my fault entirely."
"That's quite all right," she told him. "No harm done." Then she glanced down at his waist with a curious look. Josh felt his heart start to pound. What was she staring at?
"Is that a gun on your belt?" she asked, eyebrows raising in interest.
"Um…yes," Josh said, feeling somewhat strangled. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Why was he acting like a twelve-year-old kid stammering and full of hormones?
Because you're more used to being with serial killers than beautiful women. Just settle down.
"Yes," he repeated in a calmer voice. "I'm an FBI agent."
"FBI?" She seemed interested. "Really? Is there some sort of police operation going on in the hotel?"
Josh grinned idiotically and shook his head. Quit being such a damn moron, he thought. "No," he said. "I was just visiting my father, actually."
She smiled approvingly and nodded. He ought to think of something to say himself, he thought. "Is this your first time in the States?" he asked.
"Actually, not my first time," she said. "I've been here before. Now I'm working for the British Embassy."
Josh grinned and felt sweat against the back of his collar. She seemed perfectly at ease.
"Welcome to America," he said, and felt like it was lame.
She smiled. "Thank you," she said. "Bloody ordeal getting here, though. The plane was late from Heathrow and then we were circling around Dulles for hours. So what do you do for the FBI?"
"I'm in Behavioral Sciences," he said. Then his voice echoed in his own ears without his volition, it seemed. "Hey, would you like to get a drink? Or dinner, maybe?" As soon as he said it, adrenalin began pouring into his system and his hands shook. Josh Graham had been a more bookish, shy, retiring type than some of his more extroverted peers.
She smiled, in expert control of her mouth. "I'd love to," she said.
There was a small restaurant near the hotel that was quite cozy and romantic. Josh grinned nervously. He wondered if she wanted to eat or not. That was fine. He found himself staring at the gloves. Those were different; he hadn't seen anyone wear those in real life before. Now this was fun. It was completely unlike him, but it was still fun.
He ordered the most expensive red wine they had on the menu. That was pricey, but he had always been a saving soul. The meal was quite tasty and the portions sufficient. She ate eagerly, smiling at him saucily over her fork as if having some whipped-cream-covered thought. They made small talk over drinks. She was quite open and friendly. Eventually, the wine calmed him down a bit and he felt more social and confident.
After dinner, Josh found himself feeling somewhat woozy and flushed. It wasn't shyness, not anymore. He was feeling relatively comfortable. His new friend walked up the sidewalk and stared at a new Mustang parked on the side of the street.
"Do you like Mustangs?" she asked him.
"Yep," he said. "Don't have one myself, but they're nice."
"That they are," she agreed, and then sighed. "Josh…I'm afraid I have some confessions to make."
Josh smiled forgivingly at her. "Um…okay," he said, spreading his hands wide as if to indicate that whatever she had to confess could not possibly matter.
When she spoke again, the British accent was wiped from her voice as if it had never been there. "Well," she said, "to begin with, I don't work for the British embassy and I'm not British myself. That's one." Her arm came up and grabbed his. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She walked him over to the Mustang. A double chirp of a disarmed alarm came from it and she opened the door and tossed him inside like a sack of grain. His legs didn't want to stay stable and he wasn't expecting it. She crossed around the car quickly and slid behind the wheel.
Josh knew something was up now, and he grabbed her arm. He'd never gotten this drunk before off a couple glasses of wine. "What the hell is--,?"
"Also, I took a page from my little brother," she continued, and closed both doors. "I put some GHB in your glass of wine, Josh. That's why you feel woozy. You'll pass out momentarily. It's OK though. I would never hurt you. That's two." She reached across him and pulled his gun from his holster with no difficulty. She tossed it in the back seat and pinned him down with her right forearm jammed against his collarbone.
Amazingly, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Her mouth was warm and sweet. Her right hand was free, and she picked the buttons of her glove open one by one. She stripped it off and dropped it in his lap. Black spirals corkscrewed across his vision.
Alice Pierpont wiggled the fingers of her left hand in front of his fading eyes. Even as he was slipping into unconsciousness, he saw, and he knew who she was. She smiled gently at him as he went limp.
"As for three," Alice said lightly, "well…three times two is six."
Then the lights of Washington's night all went black.