Chapter Six
Margot Verger, Judy Ingram, and Michael Hannibal Verger were hemmed in by a large knot of party guests and well-wishers near the pool when Margot noticed a uniquely handsome couple emerging from the hacienda style house and out onto the great, tiered, central patio. Only her statuesque height allowed her to see over the heads of the knot of people that enclosed her.
She'd seen this couple at the church, at the christening ceremony, but had been looking from an even worse vantage point there and had not been certain she recognized them. Now she could be certain. If she could just get a better look.
The party was in full swing. Over a hundred guests were already partying on the great terra cotta tiled patio, out in the landscaped grounds, around the pool, in the house. The guests were an eclectic mix of athletes and those in the sports industry, members of Judy's Ingram's wildly prolific family, members of the Las Vegas and West Coast gay communities, local artists and writers, a number of bona fide celebrities, and all of Judy and Margot's neighbors. There were only a few Verger hangers-on and tame politicians present, and fewer still of Margot's fellow industrialists.
Three separate bars had been set up in the shelter of the arcades that enclosed the patio on three sides, and a sea of margaritas, Corona, and Jose Cuervo flowed from each of them. The fragrances of Tex-Mex specialties and barbecued meats eddied around the open flame outdoor kitchen Margot's caterers had set up, and many party-goers were sampling at the buffet tables nearby.
A four man mariachi combo strolled along one of the second floor galleries that overlooked the patio, and vied with the decent five piece rock and roll band that was playing oldies from the bandstand near the pool. People were dancing there, on a temporary folding dance-floor, and also all around the pool and deck, and on the tiles of the patio, and all over the grass.
A good sized gang of children were watching one of their number whale blindfolded at a pinata hung from a gallery rafter, and lots of childish giggling and many high pitched admonitions to "whack it again, Franklin, whack it again!" could be heard.
Multi-colored twinkle lights had been strung along every conceivable angle and surface, and many butane outdoor heaters kept off the slight chill of the autumn evening. And pleasantly scary Halloween decorations were everywhere, as well as glowing jack-o-lanterns.
Margot craned her neck to catch sight of the couple again, and finally she found them, moving away from the house doors and past the pinata bashing children.
The woman was lovely, trim and petite in moss green silk, her hair in a platinum gamine cut that emphasized the slender grace of her throat and shoulders. The man was slim, lithe and erect, fine-featured and dark, and somehow managed to cut through the crowds of party goers near the doors easily, like a blade moving through water. Neither face was clearly recognizable, but the distinctive modes of movement were easy to identify in both cases, especially to Margot's athlete's eye.
"I'll be damned," she exclaimed to herself, grinning. "They really came!"
She did not bother to examine the happy little lift of gladness that moved her at the sight of these old acquaintances.
She immediately put her hand on Judy's shoulder and squeezed lightly. Judy looked away from the baby she was holding and glanced at Margot questioningly.
"Some people I'd like you and Michael to meet, hon," she said, just under her breath. "Extra special guests. Over by the doors there. Let's see if we can get out of this crush."
Margot guided her unconventional little family out of the crowd that surrounded them steadily and determinedly. Most of Margot's guests were courteous enough to let their hostess through to greet new arrivals; a few determined boot-lickers and baby-gushers gave way more reluctantly, and one persistent fellow who had not succeeded in getting through the original crowd followed in Margot's footsteps, determined to speak to her one way or another.
Margot paid no attention to any of these pests, she was so intent on the new arrivals. She used her long stride and bulky body to clear a path and leave even the most persistent behind.
The four adults and one baby converged near a collection of ornamental cacti that gave them all a small measure of privacy, at least on one side.
"Hi, folks," Margot said, barely suppressing a burst of laughter. "Glad you could make it. Enjoying Las Vegas?"
"Margot. Darling. You miserable, manipulating, maneuvering wretch," Dr. Lecter said pleasantly, and then kissed Margot's cheek. "Thank you for having us. You remember my companion, I think?"
Margot smiled warmly at Starling. "Sure, we met, that one time, didn't we? I liked your car. How ya doing, girl? You sure LOOK like you're doing okay."
It was a strange meeting, full of hidden meanings and tacit jokes, certain names not exchanged aloud, the cries of exited children at play providing an odd counterpoint to the carefully oblique introductions.
"Meet Judy Ingram," Margot said to Dr. Lecter. "Judy, this is . . . this is the old friend of the family you've heard me talk about from time to time, and a friend of his I may have mentioned too."
Judy was a short, slightly plump brunette with an engaging, cherubic face and clever brown hands. She gave one to Dr. Lecter, reaching awkwardly past the chubby baby in her arms.
"It's good to meet you," she said, in a soft, musical voice. "I've heard a lot about you. I gather we owe you rather a lot." She smiled at her baby, and looked back at Lecter.
"Oh, not at all," Dr. Lecter answered. "I offered a few suggestions, perhaps. Little more. You are the one who did the real work, Miss Ingram. He looks in perfect health. My congratulations. May I hold him?"
Judy handed the squirmy bundle to Lecter without hesitation, and he immediately raised the child to head height so that he could look intently into the tiny face. The baby stared back, goggling with his wide blue eyes at the stranger who held him. The infant and the man, bound by a common name and the blind, bizarre connections of fate, presented an odd tableau together.
Judy turned to Starling. "Nice to meet you too."
"Congratulations," Starling answered. "I think you may have the world's cutest baby there."
Judy dimpled prettily at the compliment.
"You better believe it!" Margot remarked, laughing. "Easily the world's cutest. AND the world's fattest."
"And, as of just now, the world's wettest, I fear," Dr. Lecter remarked. "A small indiscretion on young Master Michael's part."
Judy laughed. "Naughty baby! It's not nice to pee on the guests. Say you're sorry now, Mikey."
"He doesn't look sorry," Lecter teased, holding the little body away from himself and peering again into the small face. He spoke directly to the baby. "You'll have to learn to modify your commentary soon enough, won't you, Michael Hannibal? Best to hold out as long as you can."
Michael Hannibal, upon registering that he was in a wet diaper, let out a lusty howl of outrage in reply to Dr. Lecter's advice.
All the adults smiled at the infant's wrath as Judy reached for him.
"Give him to me, I'll go change him," she said.
"What admirably direct self-expression," Lecter said, handing the damp baby over to his mother.
"Poor angry baby," Margot sympathized with the squalling Verger heir as Judy left the small group and moved toward the house. She glanced at her guests, and smiled, almost a shy smile. "It's . . . it's really good to see you. To see you both. Weird, huh?"
"Survivor bond," Lecter said, quietly. "We all experienced . . . trying times together, in one way or another. A common experience."
"And we all came out the better for it," Clarice added. "Been around the dark side of the moon and back."
"Happy endings all around," Margot agreed. "Not like the movies, is it? The bad guys never come out ahead there."
"It's much easier to determine who the bad guys are, in the movies," Lecter objected. "I like your home, Margot, other than the location. It's . . . lively."
"Yes," said Clarice. "Fun. Who did all the jack-o-lanterns?"
"Oh, that's a big Vegas tradition - decorating for Halloween. The whole town gets totally into it. And Judy and me are pumpkin carving fools," Margot explained. "Are you guys hungry? Thirsty? How about a couple of brewskis?"
She grinned at Dr. Lecter, who was already wrinkling his nose in distaste.
"I'll take a Corona," Clarice said, also grinning. She glanced at Lecter and her grin widened. "Got any hot dogs?" she added, to Margot.
The three of them moved toward one of the bars, continuing to chat as they walked.
"Did the christening gifts we sent you get here all right?" Dr. Lecter asked.
Margot laughed. "Sure. All of them. The silver dishes are exquisite, and the rattle . . . like we're really gonna let a baby play with a two thousand year old Egyptian artifact! Beautiful. Incredible. Judy actually teared up a little. But I suppose you know which things Mikey likes the best, don't you? The mini bongo set, and the stuffed toad that croaks when he squeezes it, and, of course, the keyboard he can play in his crib by kicking at it. Thanks awfully for those. I bet I know who thought of THEM."
Lecter smiled innocently. But his eyes flared with a slight vindictive sparkle. They gathered around the bar and the hired bartender poured a margarita for Margot, a beer for Clarice, and fished out a dusty bottle of Lillet for the doctor.
"And my hostess gift!" Margot went on, pretending to gush with gratitude. "A complete video library of women-in-prison movies! You shouldn't have!"
Their conversation was interrupted, and Dr. Lecter was spared the effort of further attempts to look innocent, when the whine of audio feedback suddenly sounded and a man spoke into a mike on the bandstand.
"Ladies and gentlemen - in honor of this happy occasion, and this terrific party, I'd like to dedicate this song to little Michael Verger!"
Then he immediately began to belt out "Born in the U.S. A." in a rough baritone that was instantly recognizable to millions.
"Holy shit!" Clarice exclaimed, utterly transfixed. "That's Bruce Springsteen!"
"Oh, yeah, he's in town on a club date," Margot commented casually. "I met him at an environmental conference in DC a few months ago. Sweet guy, I was glad he was in town for the party. But I didn't think he'd sing tonight, and of course I'd never ask him. Totally cool!"
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God . . . " Clarice chanted, virtually incoherent.
"I do apologize, Margot," Lecter remarked dryly. "My companion seems to have lost her mind."
"I haven't heard rock like this since . . . oh my God, it's really HIM!" Clarice enthused. She'd already begun to sway to the impassioned modern anthem of the American working classes.
Margot frowned at Dr. Lecter in mock severity. "Did you whisk this poor woman off to some culture-vulture paradise and cut her off from her life's blood? You devil! How could you?"
She put one of her big arms around Clarice, who was jiving helplessly to the pulsing beat, as though she were a cobra in the thrall of a skillful snake charmer. "You poor thing. I bet he won't let you watch baseball and eat Hamburger Helper either. Would you like to meet Bruce?"
"Bruce? BRUCE??! FUCK yeah, I'd like to meet him! Was that a trick question?"
Margot and Clarice shrieked with laughter and somehow managed to sound like the pair of teenage girls they had both once been. Dr. Lecter looked on, bemused and somewhat puzzled by this unexpected dual psychotic break.
"You don't understand," Clarice told him, laughing. "It's . . . THE BOSS!"
"Let's go," Margot said. "Maybe if we sweet-talk him a little, he'll do 'This Gun for Hire'! You'll excuse us, won't you?" she added to Lecter.
Lecter waved his hands towards the bandstand in a languid shooing motion, amused. "Oh, by all means. The Cult of Celebrity. I would never presume to stand in the way."
The two women moved off toward the bandstand, and Dr. Lecter was left alone. He looked around and noticed two arguments between couples brewing, three seductions in progress, five wallflowers of both sexes giving off typical desperate vibrations, four drunks on the verge of passing out, two preteen boys swiping half full beer bottles and drinking the contents, six intense discussions about money and business ventures, ten small groups involved in intense gossip exchange, one compulsive overeater at a buffet table, and three separate hapless party-goers that had each been cornered by veteran bores.
He deepened his attention, cast the net of his perception a bit wider, and started to wander among the partying guests, subtle currents of emotion coming to him, bits of conversation, tableaux and exchanges, minute variations in attitude, the expressions of dozens of different hopes and fears and pleasures and pains. He was a man who, in his own singular way, much enjoyed the company of people.
He was very good at moving among others unnoticed, when he chose to; he had the knack of making himself unobtrusive. Yet, as he wandered and audited the emotions of those around him, he thought he detected a certain attention focused specifically on himself. He stopped, and stood stock still a moment, casting for the psychic scent of this focus.
There was talk of the baby, of course, and surreptitious gossip about the child's unusual parentage. That Mason Verger had fathered the child, very nearly posthumously, was naturally a matter for speculation and discussion. And when the late Mason Verger was mentioned, it was inevitable that his own name should come up.
Whispers and rumors and half appalled, half titillated discourse:
" . . . murdered in his bed . . ."
" . . . ruined him for life and came back seventeen years later and finished the job . . . "
" . . . actually ATE his face . . . "
" . . . an EEL! Can you imagine? . . . "
" . . . escaped, never been found yet . . . "
" . . . out there somewhere, still . . . "
" . . . Lecter . . . "
" . . . Hannibal Lecter . . . "
" . . . Hannibal the Cannibal . . . "
Dr. Lecter relaxed a fraction and reeled in the tendrils of his consciousness a bit. He was well accustomed to this type of shadowy fame, to being whispered of from behind hands and out of the sides of mouths, a taboo subject matter, forbidden and fascinating, like sex or death. He decided that this undercurrent of scandalized gossip was the likely origin of the attention he sensed. He dismissed his own mild unease and moved on.
But Dr. Lecter was making a mistake. One he would, in the fullness of time, come to bitterly regret.
A pair of wide eyes watched from a safe distance as Dr. Lecter moved away into the crowd.
Earlier, when Margot Verger had disentangled herself and her loved ones from the crowd of guests to go and greet two new arrivals, most of those guests had courteously made way. One persistent fellow, however, had not been willing to let her go, and had rudely followed her, determined to speak to the new proprietor of the Verger fortune, upon whom his professional life depended.
That persistent fellow gazed at Dr. Lecter's straight back now, as Lecter faded into the rest of the crowd and was finally lost to view.
This man had followed Margot, and had overheard most of her conversation with the handsome couple she had gone to meet.
He had not recognized either the man or the woman by sight. He had simply stood several paces away from the small group of friends and listened, waiting for a convenient pause in the conversation so that he could break in.
But the man's VOICE. That had been . . . familiar, somehow. A chill had seized him at the sound, and he'd felt an odd stinging sensation in his eyes, as though from old tears, tears shed long ago. Some instinct, some half-formed memory, warned him to move out of sight behind the ornamental cactus collection, and there he had listened, hidden among the thorns.
That voice . . . something about that voice . . .
An easy conversation, clearly pleasant and amicable, a meeting of old friends and their significant others. These people knew each other, shared some bond.
But the introductions had been strange. One sided. The names of the two newcomers had never been mentioned.
A very faint metallic rasp in the man's voice, a cutting edge at odds with the pleasant softness and cultured cadences.
When he'd heard this voice before, that rasp had been more pronounced . . .
But where had he heard this voice before? The memory danced just at the outer borders of clear recall, just out of reach.
A memory that, if clearly recalled, would be abhorrent. He had been somehow certain of that. Something terrible. Something monstrous.
" . . . a small indiscretion on Master Michael's part . . . " the voice had said.
The familiar voice. "A small indiscretion". A wet baby. No names exchanged. Urine soaked diapers. A metallic rasp. Wet bedclothes, a history of bed- wetting. Sting of old tears behind his eyes. Pain. Terror. Grinding, intolerable humiliation.
" . . . a small indiscretion in a child, a more troubling condition in an adult. Have you sought professional help?"
The voice filled with spurious concern, mocking, mocking . . .
The monster in his cage, unwavering, merciless eyes that saw everything, an almost kind smile on the pale face, a shameful secret, among other things, cruelly brought to light.
He, at the age of forty-three, had still been unable to control his bed- wetting, an ignominious hold-over from an unbearable childhood. His father had beaten him for it until he was sixteen.
The caged THING had known. No bars, no netting, no barrier known to man could hold back that implacable, piercing, damaging insight. He'd been stripped naked in the fiend's binding gaze within the space of moments. The pain had been unspeakable.
He'd wept.
Hannibal Lecter.
Dr. Doemling, holder of the Verger Chair of psychology at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, had shuddered uncontrollably behind his flimsy shelter of cactus, and tears sprang to his eyes once again, though he did not notice this.
Dr. Doemling, though haunted by old sorrows and secrets, had a particularly well developed sense of self-promotion. His shock and fright at discovering the presence of the most infamous serial killer of the twentieth century was easily subsumed in his curiosity as to HOW that killer came to be at this party for a child of mysterious parentage, conversing familiarly with his hostess, a woman whose only brother he had allegedly murdered, only a year ago.
These were suggestive circumstances. It was likely that such circumstances could be turned to Dr. Doemling's advantage. Margot Verger had declined to endow his Chair this year, and he had come to this party uninvited to remind her of her family obligation. He had hoped to find her in an amenable state of mind on such a happy occasion.
And he'd come to beg, if need be. He could not have borne being turned out of his comfy academic position. Not at his age, not with his rather mediocre body of research and published works. Finding a similar position elsewhere would have been impossible.
But now, he might not have to beg for Margot Verger's clemency at all. In fact, she might well have to beg for his.
So he listened to the rest of the conversation between the four people carefully, and contrived to catch glimpses of the group while staying strictly hidden himself.
Lecter had brought a date! Incredible. Doemling thought there might be something vaguely familiar about the attractive blonde on the doctor's arm, but he could not identify her at first.
" . . . survivor bond . . . " he heard Lecter saying. " . . . a common experience . . . "
The FBI agent, Clarice Starling, was thought to have been at Muskrat Farm, the scene of the murder of Mason Verger. Her gun and other items that had belonged to her had been found. A common experience . . .
She'd disappeared, was never seen again after that night. It had been assumed, though never officially, that Lecter had killed her and hidden her body. Or eaten it, perhaps.
Hannibal Lecter had written to her and sent her gifts and obviously thought often of her over all the years since the two had first met at the Baltimore Asylum. He was clearly fixated on the woman.
The blonde had a pleasingly angular, high-cheekboned face. He had seen photos of Clarice Starling. The hair was different, and the distinctive beauty spot on the cheek was missing, but the cheekbones were the same.
It was her. Neither dead, nor, as far as he could tell, under any duress. Laughing with Margot Verger, just now, about Bruce Springsteen, like a giddy teenager. Happy. The willing consort of an inhuman monster of incomparable perversion, it seemed.
A beautiful woman. He himself had never successfully bedded such a beauty, and the unbidden comparison that came to his mind seared and rankled.
The two women, Verger and Starling, left Lecter and started toward the bandstand. Lecter gazed around himself for a moment, and then wandered away. Doemling followed his progress warily, watching through the spiky cactus.
Then Lecter stopped, and stood still.
Doemlng's stomach and throat constricted and he felt a visceral stab of absolute terror.
Had Lecter seen him? SENSED him?
No. The moment passed, and Lecter moved on.
Dr. Doemling gathered himself and continued to think of the main chance and how it could relate to him. A thought struck him and he cautiously went inside the house. He'd seen a number of opened gifts displayed in the great room of the large home, along with the cards that had accompanied each gift.
He would be looking for a card in a unique copperplate hand. A card that would likely have no signature. A card that would bear the mark, on its reverse side, of the resort or hotel that had delivered the package as part of its concierge services.
He would certainly use his newfound knowledge to apply pressure to Margot Verger. His ambitions could now go well beyond the Chair he held at some cow college in a small Texas city, and he felt certain that Ms. Verger would be eager to make anything he might wish happen, in exchange for his silence about her problematical "old friend".
But he wanted to know where Lecter and his deceived whore were staying, and he wanted to know before he talked to Margot.
He would blackmail Margot Verger. Certainly he would. But first, as soon as he left the party, he would call the FBI, and the Las Vegas PD, and maybe the goddamned National Guard and the Air Force, and he would turn that sick fuck, Lecter, in. His intense hatred of the man who'd once made him cry twisted like a wire in his guts.
Tonight. For certain. But from a safe distance.
He found the great room he sought empty, and began his examination of the baby gifts.
He did not see Judy Ingram, curled up in an overstuffed armchair, nursing her child.
Judy watched the balding, dry little man perusing the gifts absently at first, and then with closer attention. There was something curiously intent in his attitude, and something almost . . . sly . . . in the way he glanced around himself at intervals. As though he was doing something underhanded, and did not wish to be seen.
She stirred herself and rose from her chair quietly, and, Michael in her arms, crept up behind the man. He was reading the card that had come with the beautiful antique silver baby service.
"Hi," she said quietly, and saw him tense, startled. "I'm Judy Ingram. Can I help you find something?"
"Oh . . . oh, no, thank you. Just nosy, I guess," he confessed, a wide, patently false smile on his dry, flaky face. "This is a beautiful set, one of the finest, really, I've seen. I collect sterling. I was just wondering where it came from."
"Do I know you?" Judy asked, not really buying his glib explanations. "I don't think we've met."
"I don't think so. I'm an . . . associate of Margot's. Dr. Everett Doemling."
He put out his dry hand for Judy to shake. She took it, because to reject it would have been too overtly confrontational. She didn't really know what is was about this man that made her dislike and disbelieve him. She just knew that she did.
"So, Margot invited you?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed she did. It's been a lovely party, too. And this must be Michael. What a fine little fellow he is!"
Judy smiled coolly. A blatant attempt to distract her. But why? What was he hiding? He hadn't stolen anything, she'd been watching.
"Well, now, I suppose I'd better leave you two alone," he said, brightly. "Feeding time, eh? I'm so sorry if I've intruded."
"No problem," Judy said coldly. She did not like this man. Not at all.
He bustled out of the room in a hurried flurry of polite cheer and trite comments.
Judy watched after him for a moment, trying to decide if she should go and find Margot and ask her about him. Doemling, he'd said, Dr. Everett Doemling . . .
Michael Hannibal gurgled just then, and cooed winningly at his mommy. He was still hungry.
Judy smiled at the cooing baby.
"Sorry for the interruption, Mikey," she said, and went back to her chair to sit down. "Some creepy geek, huh?"
She made a mental note to talk to Margot about Dr. Doemling later. Just now, baby needed his supper. She bared her breast for the hungry child and sighed.
Outside, Dr. Doemling was getting into his Olds and driving away.
*************************************************************
Margot Verger, Judy Ingram, and Michael Hannibal Verger were hemmed in by a large knot of party guests and well-wishers near the pool when Margot noticed a uniquely handsome couple emerging from the hacienda style house and out onto the great, tiered, central patio. Only her statuesque height allowed her to see over the heads of the knot of people that enclosed her.
She'd seen this couple at the church, at the christening ceremony, but had been looking from an even worse vantage point there and had not been certain she recognized them. Now she could be certain. If she could just get a better look.
The party was in full swing. Over a hundred guests were already partying on the great terra cotta tiled patio, out in the landscaped grounds, around the pool, in the house. The guests were an eclectic mix of athletes and those in the sports industry, members of Judy's Ingram's wildly prolific family, members of the Las Vegas and West Coast gay communities, local artists and writers, a number of bona fide celebrities, and all of Judy and Margot's neighbors. There were only a few Verger hangers-on and tame politicians present, and fewer still of Margot's fellow industrialists.
Three separate bars had been set up in the shelter of the arcades that enclosed the patio on three sides, and a sea of margaritas, Corona, and Jose Cuervo flowed from each of them. The fragrances of Tex-Mex specialties and barbecued meats eddied around the open flame outdoor kitchen Margot's caterers had set up, and many party-goers were sampling at the buffet tables nearby.
A four man mariachi combo strolled along one of the second floor galleries that overlooked the patio, and vied with the decent five piece rock and roll band that was playing oldies from the bandstand near the pool. People were dancing there, on a temporary folding dance-floor, and also all around the pool and deck, and on the tiles of the patio, and all over the grass.
A good sized gang of children were watching one of their number whale blindfolded at a pinata hung from a gallery rafter, and lots of childish giggling and many high pitched admonitions to "whack it again, Franklin, whack it again!" could be heard.
Multi-colored twinkle lights had been strung along every conceivable angle and surface, and many butane outdoor heaters kept off the slight chill of the autumn evening. And pleasantly scary Halloween decorations were everywhere, as well as glowing jack-o-lanterns.
Margot craned her neck to catch sight of the couple again, and finally she found them, moving away from the house doors and past the pinata bashing children.
The woman was lovely, trim and petite in moss green silk, her hair in a platinum gamine cut that emphasized the slender grace of her throat and shoulders. The man was slim, lithe and erect, fine-featured and dark, and somehow managed to cut through the crowds of party goers near the doors easily, like a blade moving through water. Neither face was clearly recognizable, but the distinctive modes of movement were easy to identify in both cases, especially to Margot's athlete's eye.
"I'll be damned," she exclaimed to herself, grinning. "They really came!"
She did not bother to examine the happy little lift of gladness that moved her at the sight of these old acquaintances.
She immediately put her hand on Judy's shoulder and squeezed lightly. Judy looked away from the baby she was holding and glanced at Margot questioningly.
"Some people I'd like you and Michael to meet, hon," she said, just under her breath. "Extra special guests. Over by the doors there. Let's see if we can get out of this crush."
Margot guided her unconventional little family out of the crowd that surrounded them steadily and determinedly. Most of Margot's guests were courteous enough to let their hostess through to greet new arrivals; a few determined boot-lickers and baby-gushers gave way more reluctantly, and one persistent fellow who had not succeeded in getting through the original crowd followed in Margot's footsteps, determined to speak to her one way or another.
Margot paid no attention to any of these pests, she was so intent on the new arrivals. She used her long stride and bulky body to clear a path and leave even the most persistent behind.
The four adults and one baby converged near a collection of ornamental cacti that gave them all a small measure of privacy, at least on one side.
"Hi, folks," Margot said, barely suppressing a burst of laughter. "Glad you could make it. Enjoying Las Vegas?"
"Margot. Darling. You miserable, manipulating, maneuvering wretch," Dr. Lecter said pleasantly, and then kissed Margot's cheek. "Thank you for having us. You remember my companion, I think?"
Margot smiled warmly at Starling. "Sure, we met, that one time, didn't we? I liked your car. How ya doing, girl? You sure LOOK like you're doing okay."
It was a strange meeting, full of hidden meanings and tacit jokes, certain names not exchanged aloud, the cries of exited children at play providing an odd counterpoint to the carefully oblique introductions.
"Meet Judy Ingram," Margot said to Dr. Lecter. "Judy, this is . . . this is the old friend of the family you've heard me talk about from time to time, and a friend of his I may have mentioned too."
Judy was a short, slightly plump brunette with an engaging, cherubic face and clever brown hands. She gave one to Dr. Lecter, reaching awkwardly past the chubby baby in her arms.
"It's good to meet you," she said, in a soft, musical voice. "I've heard a lot about you. I gather we owe you rather a lot." She smiled at her baby, and looked back at Lecter.
"Oh, not at all," Dr. Lecter answered. "I offered a few suggestions, perhaps. Little more. You are the one who did the real work, Miss Ingram. He looks in perfect health. My congratulations. May I hold him?"
Judy handed the squirmy bundle to Lecter without hesitation, and he immediately raised the child to head height so that he could look intently into the tiny face. The baby stared back, goggling with his wide blue eyes at the stranger who held him. The infant and the man, bound by a common name and the blind, bizarre connections of fate, presented an odd tableau together.
Judy turned to Starling. "Nice to meet you too."
"Congratulations," Starling answered. "I think you may have the world's cutest baby there."
Judy dimpled prettily at the compliment.
"You better believe it!" Margot remarked, laughing. "Easily the world's cutest. AND the world's fattest."
"And, as of just now, the world's wettest, I fear," Dr. Lecter remarked. "A small indiscretion on young Master Michael's part."
Judy laughed. "Naughty baby! It's not nice to pee on the guests. Say you're sorry now, Mikey."
"He doesn't look sorry," Lecter teased, holding the little body away from himself and peering again into the small face. He spoke directly to the baby. "You'll have to learn to modify your commentary soon enough, won't you, Michael Hannibal? Best to hold out as long as you can."
Michael Hannibal, upon registering that he was in a wet diaper, let out a lusty howl of outrage in reply to Dr. Lecter's advice.
All the adults smiled at the infant's wrath as Judy reached for him.
"Give him to me, I'll go change him," she said.
"What admirably direct self-expression," Lecter said, handing the damp baby over to his mother.
"Poor angry baby," Margot sympathized with the squalling Verger heir as Judy left the small group and moved toward the house. She glanced at her guests, and smiled, almost a shy smile. "It's . . . it's really good to see you. To see you both. Weird, huh?"
"Survivor bond," Lecter said, quietly. "We all experienced . . . trying times together, in one way or another. A common experience."
"And we all came out the better for it," Clarice added. "Been around the dark side of the moon and back."
"Happy endings all around," Margot agreed. "Not like the movies, is it? The bad guys never come out ahead there."
"It's much easier to determine who the bad guys are, in the movies," Lecter objected. "I like your home, Margot, other than the location. It's . . . lively."
"Yes," said Clarice. "Fun. Who did all the jack-o-lanterns?"
"Oh, that's a big Vegas tradition - decorating for Halloween. The whole town gets totally into it. And Judy and me are pumpkin carving fools," Margot explained. "Are you guys hungry? Thirsty? How about a couple of brewskis?"
She grinned at Dr. Lecter, who was already wrinkling his nose in distaste.
"I'll take a Corona," Clarice said, also grinning. She glanced at Lecter and her grin widened. "Got any hot dogs?" she added, to Margot.
The three of them moved toward one of the bars, continuing to chat as they walked.
"Did the christening gifts we sent you get here all right?" Dr. Lecter asked.
Margot laughed. "Sure. All of them. The silver dishes are exquisite, and the rattle . . . like we're really gonna let a baby play with a two thousand year old Egyptian artifact! Beautiful. Incredible. Judy actually teared up a little. But I suppose you know which things Mikey likes the best, don't you? The mini bongo set, and the stuffed toad that croaks when he squeezes it, and, of course, the keyboard he can play in his crib by kicking at it. Thanks awfully for those. I bet I know who thought of THEM."
Lecter smiled innocently. But his eyes flared with a slight vindictive sparkle. They gathered around the bar and the hired bartender poured a margarita for Margot, a beer for Clarice, and fished out a dusty bottle of Lillet for the doctor.
"And my hostess gift!" Margot went on, pretending to gush with gratitude. "A complete video library of women-in-prison movies! You shouldn't have!"
Their conversation was interrupted, and Dr. Lecter was spared the effort of further attempts to look innocent, when the whine of audio feedback suddenly sounded and a man spoke into a mike on the bandstand.
"Ladies and gentlemen - in honor of this happy occasion, and this terrific party, I'd like to dedicate this song to little Michael Verger!"
Then he immediately began to belt out "Born in the U.S. A." in a rough baritone that was instantly recognizable to millions.
"Holy shit!" Clarice exclaimed, utterly transfixed. "That's Bruce Springsteen!"
"Oh, yeah, he's in town on a club date," Margot commented casually. "I met him at an environmental conference in DC a few months ago. Sweet guy, I was glad he was in town for the party. But I didn't think he'd sing tonight, and of course I'd never ask him. Totally cool!"
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God . . . " Clarice chanted, virtually incoherent.
"I do apologize, Margot," Lecter remarked dryly. "My companion seems to have lost her mind."
"I haven't heard rock like this since . . . oh my God, it's really HIM!" Clarice enthused. She'd already begun to sway to the impassioned modern anthem of the American working classes.
Margot frowned at Dr. Lecter in mock severity. "Did you whisk this poor woman off to some culture-vulture paradise and cut her off from her life's blood? You devil! How could you?"
She put one of her big arms around Clarice, who was jiving helplessly to the pulsing beat, as though she were a cobra in the thrall of a skillful snake charmer. "You poor thing. I bet he won't let you watch baseball and eat Hamburger Helper either. Would you like to meet Bruce?"
"Bruce? BRUCE??! FUCK yeah, I'd like to meet him! Was that a trick question?"
Margot and Clarice shrieked with laughter and somehow managed to sound like the pair of teenage girls they had both once been. Dr. Lecter looked on, bemused and somewhat puzzled by this unexpected dual psychotic break.
"You don't understand," Clarice told him, laughing. "It's . . . THE BOSS!"
"Let's go," Margot said. "Maybe if we sweet-talk him a little, he'll do 'This Gun for Hire'! You'll excuse us, won't you?" she added to Lecter.
Lecter waved his hands towards the bandstand in a languid shooing motion, amused. "Oh, by all means. The Cult of Celebrity. I would never presume to stand in the way."
The two women moved off toward the bandstand, and Dr. Lecter was left alone. He looked around and noticed two arguments between couples brewing, three seductions in progress, five wallflowers of both sexes giving off typical desperate vibrations, four drunks on the verge of passing out, two preteen boys swiping half full beer bottles and drinking the contents, six intense discussions about money and business ventures, ten small groups involved in intense gossip exchange, one compulsive overeater at a buffet table, and three separate hapless party-goers that had each been cornered by veteran bores.
He deepened his attention, cast the net of his perception a bit wider, and started to wander among the partying guests, subtle currents of emotion coming to him, bits of conversation, tableaux and exchanges, minute variations in attitude, the expressions of dozens of different hopes and fears and pleasures and pains. He was a man who, in his own singular way, much enjoyed the company of people.
He was very good at moving among others unnoticed, when he chose to; he had the knack of making himself unobtrusive. Yet, as he wandered and audited the emotions of those around him, he thought he detected a certain attention focused specifically on himself. He stopped, and stood stock still a moment, casting for the psychic scent of this focus.
There was talk of the baby, of course, and surreptitious gossip about the child's unusual parentage. That Mason Verger had fathered the child, very nearly posthumously, was naturally a matter for speculation and discussion. And when the late Mason Verger was mentioned, it was inevitable that his own name should come up.
Whispers and rumors and half appalled, half titillated discourse:
" . . . murdered in his bed . . ."
" . . . ruined him for life and came back seventeen years later and finished the job . . . "
" . . . actually ATE his face . . . "
" . . . an EEL! Can you imagine? . . . "
" . . . escaped, never been found yet . . . "
" . . . out there somewhere, still . . . "
" . . . Lecter . . . "
" . . . Hannibal Lecter . . . "
" . . . Hannibal the Cannibal . . . "
Dr. Lecter relaxed a fraction and reeled in the tendrils of his consciousness a bit. He was well accustomed to this type of shadowy fame, to being whispered of from behind hands and out of the sides of mouths, a taboo subject matter, forbidden and fascinating, like sex or death. He decided that this undercurrent of scandalized gossip was the likely origin of the attention he sensed. He dismissed his own mild unease and moved on.
But Dr. Lecter was making a mistake. One he would, in the fullness of time, come to bitterly regret.
A pair of wide eyes watched from a safe distance as Dr. Lecter moved away into the crowd.
Earlier, when Margot Verger had disentangled herself and her loved ones from the crowd of guests to go and greet two new arrivals, most of those guests had courteously made way. One persistent fellow, however, had not been willing to let her go, and had rudely followed her, determined to speak to the new proprietor of the Verger fortune, upon whom his professional life depended.
That persistent fellow gazed at Dr. Lecter's straight back now, as Lecter faded into the rest of the crowd and was finally lost to view.
This man had followed Margot, and had overheard most of her conversation with the handsome couple she had gone to meet.
He had not recognized either the man or the woman by sight. He had simply stood several paces away from the small group of friends and listened, waiting for a convenient pause in the conversation so that he could break in.
But the man's VOICE. That had been . . . familiar, somehow. A chill had seized him at the sound, and he'd felt an odd stinging sensation in his eyes, as though from old tears, tears shed long ago. Some instinct, some half-formed memory, warned him to move out of sight behind the ornamental cactus collection, and there he had listened, hidden among the thorns.
That voice . . . something about that voice . . .
An easy conversation, clearly pleasant and amicable, a meeting of old friends and their significant others. These people knew each other, shared some bond.
But the introductions had been strange. One sided. The names of the two newcomers had never been mentioned.
A very faint metallic rasp in the man's voice, a cutting edge at odds with the pleasant softness and cultured cadences.
When he'd heard this voice before, that rasp had been more pronounced . . .
But where had he heard this voice before? The memory danced just at the outer borders of clear recall, just out of reach.
A memory that, if clearly recalled, would be abhorrent. He had been somehow certain of that. Something terrible. Something monstrous.
" . . . a small indiscretion on Master Michael's part . . . " the voice had said.
The familiar voice. "A small indiscretion". A wet baby. No names exchanged. Urine soaked diapers. A metallic rasp. Wet bedclothes, a history of bed- wetting. Sting of old tears behind his eyes. Pain. Terror. Grinding, intolerable humiliation.
" . . . a small indiscretion in a child, a more troubling condition in an adult. Have you sought professional help?"
The voice filled with spurious concern, mocking, mocking . . .
The monster in his cage, unwavering, merciless eyes that saw everything, an almost kind smile on the pale face, a shameful secret, among other things, cruelly brought to light.
He, at the age of forty-three, had still been unable to control his bed- wetting, an ignominious hold-over from an unbearable childhood. His father had beaten him for it until he was sixteen.
The caged THING had known. No bars, no netting, no barrier known to man could hold back that implacable, piercing, damaging insight. He'd been stripped naked in the fiend's binding gaze within the space of moments. The pain had been unspeakable.
He'd wept.
Hannibal Lecter.
Dr. Doemling, holder of the Verger Chair of psychology at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, had shuddered uncontrollably behind his flimsy shelter of cactus, and tears sprang to his eyes once again, though he did not notice this.
Dr. Doemling, though haunted by old sorrows and secrets, had a particularly well developed sense of self-promotion. His shock and fright at discovering the presence of the most infamous serial killer of the twentieth century was easily subsumed in his curiosity as to HOW that killer came to be at this party for a child of mysterious parentage, conversing familiarly with his hostess, a woman whose only brother he had allegedly murdered, only a year ago.
These were suggestive circumstances. It was likely that such circumstances could be turned to Dr. Doemling's advantage. Margot Verger had declined to endow his Chair this year, and he had come to this party uninvited to remind her of her family obligation. He had hoped to find her in an amenable state of mind on such a happy occasion.
And he'd come to beg, if need be. He could not have borne being turned out of his comfy academic position. Not at his age, not with his rather mediocre body of research and published works. Finding a similar position elsewhere would have been impossible.
But now, he might not have to beg for Margot Verger's clemency at all. In fact, she might well have to beg for his.
So he listened to the rest of the conversation between the four people carefully, and contrived to catch glimpses of the group while staying strictly hidden himself.
Lecter had brought a date! Incredible. Doemling thought there might be something vaguely familiar about the attractive blonde on the doctor's arm, but he could not identify her at first.
" . . . survivor bond . . . " he heard Lecter saying. " . . . a common experience . . . "
The FBI agent, Clarice Starling, was thought to have been at Muskrat Farm, the scene of the murder of Mason Verger. Her gun and other items that had belonged to her had been found. A common experience . . .
She'd disappeared, was never seen again after that night. It had been assumed, though never officially, that Lecter had killed her and hidden her body. Or eaten it, perhaps.
Hannibal Lecter had written to her and sent her gifts and obviously thought often of her over all the years since the two had first met at the Baltimore Asylum. He was clearly fixated on the woman.
The blonde had a pleasingly angular, high-cheekboned face. He had seen photos of Clarice Starling. The hair was different, and the distinctive beauty spot on the cheek was missing, but the cheekbones were the same.
It was her. Neither dead, nor, as far as he could tell, under any duress. Laughing with Margot Verger, just now, about Bruce Springsteen, like a giddy teenager. Happy. The willing consort of an inhuman monster of incomparable perversion, it seemed.
A beautiful woman. He himself had never successfully bedded such a beauty, and the unbidden comparison that came to his mind seared and rankled.
The two women, Verger and Starling, left Lecter and started toward the bandstand. Lecter gazed around himself for a moment, and then wandered away. Doemling followed his progress warily, watching through the spiky cactus.
Then Lecter stopped, and stood still.
Doemlng's stomach and throat constricted and he felt a visceral stab of absolute terror.
Had Lecter seen him? SENSED him?
No. The moment passed, and Lecter moved on.
Dr. Doemling gathered himself and continued to think of the main chance and how it could relate to him. A thought struck him and he cautiously went inside the house. He'd seen a number of opened gifts displayed in the great room of the large home, along with the cards that had accompanied each gift.
He would be looking for a card in a unique copperplate hand. A card that would likely have no signature. A card that would bear the mark, on its reverse side, of the resort or hotel that had delivered the package as part of its concierge services.
He would certainly use his newfound knowledge to apply pressure to Margot Verger. His ambitions could now go well beyond the Chair he held at some cow college in a small Texas city, and he felt certain that Ms. Verger would be eager to make anything he might wish happen, in exchange for his silence about her problematical "old friend".
But he wanted to know where Lecter and his deceived whore were staying, and he wanted to know before he talked to Margot.
He would blackmail Margot Verger. Certainly he would. But first, as soon as he left the party, he would call the FBI, and the Las Vegas PD, and maybe the goddamned National Guard and the Air Force, and he would turn that sick fuck, Lecter, in. His intense hatred of the man who'd once made him cry twisted like a wire in his guts.
Tonight. For certain. But from a safe distance.
He found the great room he sought empty, and began his examination of the baby gifts.
He did not see Judy Ingram, curled up in an overstuffed armchair, nursing her child.
Judy watched the balding, dry little man perusing the gifts absently at first, and then with closer attention. There was something curiously intent in his attitude, and something almost . . . sly . . . in the way he glanced around himself at intervals. As though he was doing something underhanded, and did not wish to be seen.
She stirred herself and rose from her chair quietly, and, Michael in her arms, crept up behind the man. He was reading the card that had come with the beautiful antique silver baby service.
"Hi," she said quietly, and saw him tense, startled. "I'm Judy Ingram. Can I help you find something?"
"Oh . . . oh, no, thank you. Just nosy, I guess," he confessed, a wide, patently false smile on his dry, flaky face. "This is a beautiful set, one of the finest, really, I've seen. I collect sterling. I was just wondering where it came from."
"Do I know you?" Judy asked, not really buying his glib explanations. "I don't think we've met."
"I don't think so. I'm an . . . associate of Margot's. Dr. Everett Doemling."
He put out his dry hand for Judy to shake. She took it, because to reject it would have been too overtly confrontational. She didn't really know what is was about this man that made her dislike and disbelieve him. She just knew that she did.
"So, Margot invited you?" she asked.
"Yes, indeed she did. It's been a lovely party, too. And this must be Michael. What a fine little fellow he is!"
Judy smiled coolly. A blatant attempt to distract her. But why? What was he hiding? He hadn't stolen anything, she'd been watching.
"Well, now, I suppose I'd better leave you two alone," he said, brightly. "Feeding time, eh? I'm so sorry if I've intruded."
"No problem," Judy said coldly. She did not like this man. Not at all.
He bustled out of the room in a hurried flurry of polite cheer and trite comments.
Judy watched after him for a moment, trying to decide if she should go and find Margot and ask her about him. Doemling, he'd said, Dr. Everett Doemling . . .
Michael Hannibal gurgled just then, and cooed winningly at his mommy. He was still hungry.
Judy smiled at the cooing baby.
"Sorry for the interruption, Mikey," she said, and went back to her chair to sit down. "Some creepy geek, huh?"
She made a mental note to talk to Margot about Dr. Doemling later. Just now, baby needed his supper. She bared her breast for the hungry child and sighed.
Outside, Dr. Doemling was getting into his Olds and driving away.
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