Chapter Seven
October 15th, Sunday, 10:00 PM, Summerlin
The party had just begun to wind down, slowly and pleasantly, in that satisfying way that successful parties do. Margot and Judy and baby Mikey sat with Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter in a quiet corner of the patio, a sheltered and private alcove warmed by a cheerful blaze in an outdoor fireplace and illuminated by the orange glow of several jack-o- lanterns.
Earlier, to oblige Margot Verger, and without much urging, Springsteen had actually done a whole set, including most of his best loved hits. He'd proven to be friendly and likable when Margot had introduced him to Starling, and, to Clarice Starling's everlasting delight, had asked to dance with her after he'd finished singing and the band had gone on without its impromptu vocalist.
The two of them had boogied through the hired band's vigorous (if slightly inexpert) renditions of "Runaway" and "Blue Suede Shoes", but then the band had stated to play "Little Red Riding Hood" in honor of Halloween, only two weeks away. Starling had been seized with a fit of the giggles and she'd had to excuse herself. The evening had suddenly become too surreal to deal with, at least, not without another Corona.
And there had been something else, too. Springsteen was a good dancer, a great performer, a pop icon and an authentic cutie-pie, and he probably had the best ass in America, possibly the world. And Clarice Starling would never forget the night she danced with The Boss, not as long as she lived.
But she had an esoteric icon of her own, and she'd started to miss him, even as she twirled in Bruce Springsteen's arms. When she'd heard the first spine-tingling howl of the facetious oldie "Little Red Riding Hood", that hunger for her own dark and wolfish lover had trebled.
In a silly but essentially true way, the song was the story of her life. She'd had enough of rock and roll and the American Way for one night, maybe for good. She'd grown accustomed to wilder music. She'd gone off to find Dr. Lecter at once.
As the party had peaked and then wound down, the two couples, Judy and Margot, Hannibal and Clarice, had gravitated to this pleasant alcove, and had settled in to chat. It was a calm, strangely relaxed interlude, marked by an odd peace. Judy sat cross-legged on a cushioned rattan loveseat beside Margot, baby Michael sleeping soundly in her lap, her curly brown head resting against Margot's shoulder. Dr. Lecter had a wicker armchair, and Clarice had perched on a stool at his feet, one arm comfortably draped over his knee. Every so often he would reach down and stroke her head.
A strange grouping. Two unconventional couples, one slightly outside commonly accepted social norms, the other grotesquely beyond all sane social boundaries. Two multiple murderers. One killer-in-the-line-of-duty, government trained and sanctioned. Two orphans. One incest survivor. One child of old blood and ancient aristocracy, one child of poverty and rural tradition, one child of corrupt fortune and the Industrial Revolution. And one blameless Madonna and babe, to round out the peculiar tapestry.
Clarice thought she could begin to understand why Margot had chosen Judy Ingram to be her love and her life partner. Judy was so whole, so sane, so unlike any of the rest of them.
Clarice was musing on stories and fables and the persistence of myth as she listened to the desultory conversation. On how classic stories seemed to twine in and out of all their lives almost organically, like . . . oh, like Jack's famous beanstalk, perhaps, or the thicket of thorns that had magically sprung up around Sleeping Beauty's castle.
Sleeping Beauty. Now there was a tale. They had foolishly failed to invite Maleficent, the evil fairy, to Aurora's christening. And there had been hell to pay as a result of this rude omission. But Margot Verger was too smart, and too intrinsically decent, to make the same mistake. In stories, just like in the movies, it was easy to tell who the bad guys were. Life, however, as a certain malevolent spirit of her own acquaintance had once told her, was much more slippery than that.
The conversation between the four lacked any direct reference to the past, but centered instead on the potential future for the infant Verger. Each of them, with the possible exception of Judy Ingram, had been damaged and misshapen early on in their respective lives; all of the life paths they had taken had been diversions and derangements to compensate for these early injuries and the fragmentation they'd caused. None had yet found the way back from these skewed and crooked courses, although they had each found some hope and some frail happiness, in recent times.
Michael, though, was yet untouched and well protected, and all the ways there were still lay cleanly open before him. This was something they all found precious, in their various fashions, and so the talk revolved around him and his unspoiled future.
They speculated on what his first words might be, and when he would take his first steps upright. Would he one day play in a little league? Or would solitary sports appeal to him more? Would he have a favorite stuffed toy? An imaginary friend? Would he have enthusiasms and interests and worship dinosaurs and want grow up to be an astronaut? What college would he choose, and would he one day take up the running of the Verger empire of meat? Or might he go some other way entirely, and paint pictures or record rap hits or write a great American novel?
Could he be sheltered and guided and all the woes of the world kept at bay for him? Would his future remain as open and untainted is it was on this autumn night?
For Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, the immediate future held danger and hurt and terrible risk.
But they didn't know that. And so they enjoyed this quiet time with friends with whom they shared a history, a rare pleasure for them both. And not a dark thought entered their minds.
Sunday, 10:00 PM, Circus Circus, Room 1211
Dr. Doemling was encountering obstacles. At Margot Verger's home, he had learned that Lecter and Starling were staying at the Four Seasons, a snooty haven for fat-cats at the south end of the Strip. He himself could not afford such luxury. He had a basic room at Circus Circus, and was sitting on his hard hotel bed, thinking feverishly, right now.
He had to think. In his first flush of fear and bitter triumph and hate, he'd picked up the phone as soon as he'd gotten inside his room and dialed 911. And the moment he'd mentioned the name "Hannibal Lecter", the dispatcher on the other end of the line had immediately hung up on him, clearly convinced his call was an early Halloween prank.
That had been a good thing. He had not thought things through, had not decided how he might do this in whatever way would be most beneficial to himself. But now he would consider. He would consider carefully.
The Four Seasons, yes, that was their hotel. But he did not know what names they were registered under, and they would hardly have checked in as themselves.
Further, he'd left the party abruptly, and chances were, Lecter would still be there. He'd seemed cozy enough with Margot Verger, and would likely not have left early. The last thing Dr. Doemling wanted was for Lecter to be apprehended at the Verger residence. Should that happen, he would be left with no leverage over Margot Verger at all.
So, the first thing was, he must wait until Lecter would have had time to return to his own hotel. It was there that the trap must be sprung. Doemling glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock . . .
Then, he must decide on a plausible story. He could not tell the authorities the truth about where he had first seen Lecter, or again, he would compromise Margot, and his own prospects for blackmail.
No, he must say he had spotted Lecter at the Four Seasons. Perhaps in the bar? Yes, that would work, but he would need to go over there shortly, or it might come out that he had never actually BEEN at the hotel to see the twisted bastard. He must make a showing at the bar, so witnesses could remember him later. And he must do it soon, or his path and Lecter's might yet cross.
And then, how to make the authorities believe him? Since Lecter's spectacular murder of the Italian policeman in Florence, and his grisly and well publicized killing of Mason Verger, Lecter sightings had become almost as common as Elvis sightings. The whole world knew the monster was still at large. Flakes, loonies and assorted nuts were always claiming to have seen the infamous serial killer everywhere.
Doemling had originally intended to make a few anonymous phone calls, but he now understood that this would not work. He must use his own credentials as a tenured university psychologist, and his own face to face acquaintance with the fiend, to establish his credibility. For this, he must blow the whistle in person.
Where best, then?
A quick scan of the government section in the yellow pages provided the answer. The Las Vegas FBI field office. 700 Charleston Avenue, not even particularly far away. Lecter was fifth on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, with a bullet. The agents there would be ecstatic to learn of a reliable sighting and current location on this premier fugitive, and would listen carefully to anyone who sounded even a little bit credible. And, as a little added bonus, the FBI offered substantial rewards for information leading to the arrest and conviction . . . up to a million dollars worth.
Although Dr. Doemling did not really expect it to go that far. He believed Hannibal Lecter would die before he would ever allow himself to be recaptured. And he believed the FBI would be more than willing to oblige him in this preference. By dawn tomorrow, Dr. Doemling expected, Hannibal Lecter most likely be dead. And that suited him fine.
Mention Clarice Starling to the FBI? Yes? No. To have spotted Lecter in a chance meeting at a hotel was one thing. To have spotted both the murderer and the vanished presumed murder victim in one lucky go strained credulity. Let them discover their own errant former agent for themselves.
Dr. Doemling went over his plans in his dry, plodding academician's way, casting all into a mental outline.
One: Go to the Four Seasons and have a drink in the bar, making sure to be memorable.
Two: Wait an hour or two longer; let Lecter and his trollop get back to their hotel and get nice and snug and settled in for the night BEFORE the authorities would come.
Three: Drive over to the FBI field office and spill the whole concocted story.
Four: Pay an unexpected visit to Ms. Margot at dawn, when she would be most off guard, and come to initial terms.
Of course, item number four on his agenda appealed to him most. The possibilities were virtually endless. There was a decent university right here in Las Vegas, come to think of it . . .
It might be a good idea to stay close to the Verger menage from now on.
October 16th, Monday, 1:00 AM, Summerlin
Starling and Lecter were saying goodnight to their hostesses, Ingram and Verger. They were gathered at the open front door of the large home, all four hovering on the threshold.
Baby Michael had been put to bed hours ago, and many of Margot and Judy's other guests had already gone home. Many parties in Las Vegas go on all night long and into the next day, but a party for a new baby is a more family oriented affair. Almost all those guests who were staying at the house, such as young Franklin and his foster family, and Judy's platoon of relatives, had already sought their rooms and their beds.
So the two couples had a little peace and quiet for their good-byes.
"So, Tuesday, then, right?" Margot was saying. "You'll meet us for drinks at that lounge on the lagoon at Treasure Island, okay?"
The four had agreed to get together for an evening of guided sight-seeing on Tuesday night. Margot's first suggestion had been that they take in a hockey game at the Thomas and Mack, since hockey was the city's primary obsession. But no games were scheduled until Friday, and Lecter and Starling were leaving Las Vegas on Thursday morning.
"You guys'll love the lagoon," Judy said, snickering a little. "A pirate ship attacks a British clipper and sinks it! Cannonades and Pina Coladas. Only in Las Vegas."
"And then we'll take you over to Siegfried and Roy's place!" Margot added. She knew the two famous Vegas magicians socially from her various philanthropic activities in the Las Vegas gay community. "It's unbelievable. They let those big cats of theirs run around the place like house kitties! The shedding that goes on!"
"We'll look forward to that, I'm sure," Dr. Lecter said, only half joking. He quite liked big cats.
Clarice stepped forward and impulsively hugged Judy. It was something of a departure for her; she was generally a reserved person, not much given to such displays of affection. But it was virtually impossible not to like Judy Ingram.
"You do nice work, Ms. Ingram. He's beautiful. And I've got a feeling you're gonna be a world class Mommy, too."
Margot smiled fondly at her beloved. "Of course she is. She's been mothering ME for years."
Dr. Lecter held out Clarice's coat for her as he spoke to Margot and Judy. "Thank you both for a very pleasant evening. This was . . . an uncommon experience for us, as I'm sure you might imagine."
There was no need for any explanation. All four of them understood exactly what he meant.
"Yes, thank you," Clarice added to Margot.
Margot laughed. "For us too, in a way. It's been . . . nice. So, are we even yet, Doc? Have you forgiven me for Las Vegas?"
"It's possible that we are approaching parity, Margot, but I believe I may NEVER forgive you for Las Vegas. And don't call me 'Doc'."
They all laughed, and Starling and Lecter stepped outside. The limo Margot had sent for them at their hotel waited in the circular drive.
Amid many more good nights, and thanks, and recapitulations of their plans for Tuesday night, Starling and Lecter got into their car.
Margot and Judy watched as the limo pulled away, and was swallowed by the dark desert night.
Monday, 1:00 AM, Las Vegas FBI Field Office
"His face is a little different, I think he's had some plastic surgery. But I recognized the voice beyond any doubt," Dr. Doemling was saying. "And I'm certain he's staying at the hotel."
It was the first completely truthful statement he had made since he'd arrived at this office, half an hour earlier.
At twelve thirty, he walked into the office and the reception area. He'd introduced himself, showed his credentials, and told an abbreviated version of the little fairy story he'd concocted to a bored low level agent who'd been stuck with overnight desk duty.
He'd decided in advance that he must appear rattled to the officers, as anyone who'd just come from such a frightening chance encounter would be. It hadn't been difficult to convey a sense of nervousness, he'd found. Not a bit. After all, he was in the process of doing great harm to Hannibal Lecter, a man as notorious for his vindictiveness as for his murderous viciousness. If anything went wrong . . .
But nothing would go wrong. Lecter would be dead or safely in custody before this night was through. And from there, Dr. Doemling's life and prospects would take a radically different direction.
At a quarter to one, he had been repeating a more detailed version of his story to a brace of mid-level agents in a small inner office. Hastily pulled case files and copies of old photos littered the desk, and Doemling could almost hear the sound of the hounds, beginning to bay.
Now, at one o'clock, he was in a spacious executive office, telling the money version of his story to the Special Agent in Charge of the office and his second in command. SAC Edgar Riley and Deputy SAC Frank Ortega darted glances at one another as Doemling made each spurious revelation, and a tape machine recorded every lying word.
The apprehension of a high profile fugitive like Lecter would be a certain career-maker for these agents. The electric emotional crackle of extreme self-interest filled the large, well appointed room.
"And you're certain he didn't recognize you?" SAC Riley asked, for the third time. He was obviously worried that Lecter, had he recognized Doemling, might already have bolted. "You said you questioned him in Baltimore?"
"He was catatonic at the time," Dr. Doemling lied. "No, I'm certain he wouldn't have recognized me, even if he had seen me. But he didn't. I got out of there as soon as I realized who I was seeing. And came straight here."
"You didn't go to the police?" Ortega asked, again.
"Gentlemen," Doemling said, using his dry, scholarly, pedant's voice. "I've studied this man. I've seen his case files, his correspondence, every book and drawing and artifact from his cell in Baltimore. I've published on the subject. I mean to say - I have more than the average layman's understanding of him, and I know exactly how dangerous he is. This is NOT a job for the Las Vegas police force. We cannot afford mistakes. I came straight here."
Dr. Doemling watched as Riley and Ortega exchanged a satisfied glance. The police might be brought in, indeed, would very probably HAVE to be brought in. A room to room search of the hotel might well prove necessary, and one FBI field office could hardly summon the large numbers of officers needed for such an undertaking. But the running of the operation, and the credit for the "collar', would go to these men.
And this pleased them both greatly.
As it pleased Dr. Doemling.
The hounds were almost in full cry now. Soon they'd slip their leads and the pack would be off, and the hunt would begin in earnest.
Monday, 1:30 AM, Four Seasons, Room 328
Starling and Lecter were standing on their little balcony, enjoying the nippy clarity of the high desert night, sipping at small glasses of brandy, and recapping the evening's events.
The world seemed very quiet to them in this moment, even in the twenty-four hour city of Las Vegas. They stood side by side, not quite touching, both gazing out at the landscaped courtyard and the dark sky beyond.
"Are you still sorry we came to Las Vegas, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter was asking. "Do you still believe it was hubris that motivated the trip?"
"No and yes," Clarice answered, and sipped at her glass. He'd put the right answers to the right questions. They'd developed an efficient verbal shorthand in the course of their first year together, a convenient intimacy that they both enjoyed.
"But I . . . really enjoyed the party," she added. "It was strange, though, somehow . . . "
"A hospitable setting. Old friends, and new beginnings. A normal evening out, just like any of millions of couples might enjoy. But an exotic divertissement, for us. Perhaps that's why it seemed strange to you."
"Ye-es," she said, somewhat doubtfully. "That's a part of it, I guess . . . "
"An active social life. Friends and acquaintances. It's one thing I fear I cannot give you, in this peculiar new life that we've made from scratch, as it were. A lack that perhaps you've begun to feel."
She turned slightly, so that she could look directly into his eyes.
"No, we don't get out that much. No social life. Just emeralds and love and learning and stupendous sex and beauty and the best of everything and hope and laughter and play and belonging and everything else that counts. Never think I regret ANY of my choices. Do you understand? Never think that."
He smiled, satisfied. "Such severity . . . "
"You need a good scolding every now and then. I'd take a switch to you too, if I wasn't afraid to."
He laughed. "Yes, I do. Need scolding. I tend to become . . . difficult, if left unchecked. But you are quite right, I don't think I'd bend to the dreaded switch without making some effort to defend myself. You are, of course, welcome to try sometime. We might enjoy that."
They both smiled then, a shared, private amusement. They played many games, in and out of the bedroom, and all of their games were fun.
Clarice gazed again out into the night, and gazed inwardly into her memory.
"My great-grandma used to make her switches out of willow wands," she murmured, almost dreamily. "All us kids were terrified of her. Those willow- switches of hers stung like crazy."
She shivered a little, both from the memory of expertly wielded willow switches, and from the chill autumnal bite in the air. And, perhaps, from the touch of some cool, ghostly breeze of foreboding, of which she consciously knew nothing.
"It's getting cold," she said, and shivered again.
Dr. Lecter put his drink down on the balustrade and moved to stand behind her. Perhaps he felt that same icy, supernatural draft. He put his arms around her from behind and pulled her backwards into himself, as though he were a living cloak she could don against any chill.
"Here. Is this better?" he asked, mouth close to her ear.
She relaxed into the offered warmth. "Of course," she answered, her smile clearly audible in her voice. "Much, much better."
They stood that way for a time, silently, and then he bent her slightly backwards and directed her gaze upwards with a gentle hand under her chin.
"Look, Clarice. There's Orion. Can you see it? Orion the Hunter."
"Our stars in common. I can barely make it out. Just the belt. You pointed it out to me that first time we . . . do you remember that?"
She felt, rather than heard, the ironic chuckle that moved through his chest and belly, pressed close behind her.
"No, Clarice, I've completely forgotten."
He went on, punctuating each phrase with kisses to her ears, throat, cheek and nape, duplicating precisely the exact order of each his kisses and caresses on that first occasion they had broken down the last of the barriers and come together after so many hungry years.
"Every sound, every gesture, every subtle fragrance and minute movement, every sight, every touch, every last little thing you said or did, all this I have no recollection of at all."
That time merged for them into this time, and they existed, momentarily, in a timeless continuum of love beyond hope or question or reason, separate from and inviolate to the world and all its troubles.
It would be almost the last moment of peace or contentment they would know.
Monday, 2:00 AM, Four Seasons, Front Desk
SAC Ed Riley was in the small office behind the front desk of the exclusive hotel, scanning recent credit slips and register pages, consulting photocopied handwriting samples, looking for some clue that might tell him where, in this large hotel, an ill-famed monster was lurking.
He'd put his own agents, in plain clothes and two-man teams, at each of the building exits. Ortega was out front at the desk, making certain that those hotel staffers who were aware of the FBI's presence were kept quiet and continued to work normally. Lecter was notoriously easy to spook, and could vanish as well as any self-respecting wraith. Riley wanted no departure from routine or unguarded word to inadvertently warn the fugitive.
He was not having much luck with the receipts, and this frustrated him. Although he had no way of knowing it, Starling and Lecter had developed an ironclad habit, early on in their association, of having her sign all documents that might potentially come under scrutiny. There were no samples of her handwriting on file. This small habitual caution on their part had put SAC Riley in a bit of a quandary.
He had not, as yet, informed the Las Vegas PD of the impending apprehension of an FBI fugitive in their jurisdiction. Nor had he informed any of his own superiors. And he hoped to keep it that way, until Lecter was either in custody or dead as a result of resisting arrest, and all the credit for the arrest had devolved squarely onto him and his own office. After that, any leftover interdepartmental pique would become moot in the media storm that would ensue.
But it was beginning to look like they would have to search the rooms door to door to find the bastard. And his own men were stretched dangerously thin for that.
Take the risk, and try the search with his own resources? God knew, if Lecter got away due to inadequate coverage, his own career would be as dead as any of Lecter's victims. Bring in the police? Maybe. They had the warm bodies to cover the doors and back up the canvassing. And, in the event things went bad, say, if Lecter killed innocent bystanders or worse, managed to flee, the blame could be spread around, perhaps even completely pushed off on the local police department.
But it would be better by far to find the correct room and take Lecter down quickly and quietly and without any outside help. That would be the best.
Riley continued, for the moment, to search the hotel records for a single signature in a distinctive copperplate hand.
Monday, 2:15 AM, Summerlin
Judy Ingram and Margot Verger were sitting up in the king sized bed they shared, preparing for sleep and talking over the successful party they'd just thrown.
They'd agreed that it had been a smashing success, and that everyone had appeared to have a good time. They'd agreed that the caterers they'd hired had done a particularly good job, and deserved a cash bonus and a recommendation for their efforts. They'd agreed that they too had both had fun. And they'd agreed that it had been a lot more work than either of them had ever expected it would be, and that Judy's feet were killing her.
"You pushed a little too hard tonight, baby," Margot commiserated, and pulled Judy's aching extremities into her lap. "Let's see these poor little feeties. I bet I can make them feel better."
She began to massage the small feet, brown and neatly formed like the hands of their owner, with her own powerful hands. Judy sighed with relief.
"Ah, that's perfect. You could go into business, Margot, I'm not kidding. Thank you."
"My pleasure, ma'am. We aim to please." She bent to her task and did not see the bemused smile that crossed Judy's pleasant features.
"Your . . . friend, the doctor? He seemed . . . almost nice. It was weird, meeting him. After all the stories you hear, you know, it seemed strange that he was just this quiet, elegant, polite little guy. Not breathing fire and howling at the moon at all. He was funny, too. And he really loves that woman."
Margot's massaging hands stopped as she thought over these remarks.
"He's really not a 'nice' guy, Judy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. That quiet manner is deceptive. Provoked, he is absolutely vicious, the single most violent person I've ever known. And we'll probably never have a more dangerous person in this house. At least, I hope we won't."
"But you like him anyway, don't you?"
"Yeah . . . yeah, I do. He is fun, in his way. You know he helped me when I needed it most, when I was younger. And he helped me again later, too, last year. Even though I wouldn't help him then, when HE needed it most. Later, I felt bad about that, a little. And he never held it against me. But he doesn't judge things like other people do. His standards are completely different from anybody's. Weirdest man alive. But you're right about Starling, I think."
"Now THAT'S a weird thing. Former FBI agent, serial killer at large. Who thought of that pairing? By any kind of conventional rules, they ought to be trying to kill each other. But anyone can see how well their thing works."
"Maybe that's part of the 'why' it works. Because it's so outlandish. I'll tell you this . . . I've never seen him look so . . . happy. Almost makes you feel a little twitchy. It does me, anyway."
Judy's eyes widened slightly at the word "twitchy". She'd almost forgotten the twitchy balding creep she'd seen in the great room earlier in the evening, snooping through the christening gifts. Doemling, he'd said his name was. Dr. Everett Doemling.
She opened her mouth to ask Margot if she had ever heard that name . . .
Monday, 2:30 AM, Four Seasons, Room 328
Starling and Lecter had taken their earlier conversation inside, and were conversing now in the eloquent and carnal physical language that, together, over time, they'd devised. Words were not exchanged, but the syntax of movement and counter-movement told all, the grammar of fierce mutual joy was articulated, and the cadence had grown frenzied as they approached the main argument of the discourse.
They were moments away from the climax of the nonverbal discussion when the phone shrilled from the nightstand beside the bed and startled them both into immediate stillness.
They exchanged a single, knowing look, all the intense physical transports of the previous moments completely and instantaneously forgotten.
No one other than Margot Verger knew how to reach them at this number. And she would never call unless there was an emergency.
It was trouble. They knew it beyond any hope of a doubt. Likely bad trouble, because, for them, really bad trouble was always just around the corner.
They listened together, staring into each other's eyes as they waited, and the phone rang a second time. Not a mistake, then, not a wrong number.
Slowly, as though very, very tired, Dr. Lecter reached over the stilled form of Clarice and picked up the receiver. He silently put it to his ear and listened.
*********************************************************
October 15th, Sunday, 10:00 PM, Summerlin
The party had just begun to wind down, slowly and pleasantly, in that satisfying way that successful parties do. Margot and Judy and baby Mikey sat with Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter in a quiet corner of the patio, a sheltered and private alcove warmed by a cheerful blaze in an outdoor fireplace and illuminated by the orange glow of several jack-o- lanterns.
Earlier, to oblige Margot Verger, and without much urging, Springsteen had actually done a whole set, including most of his best loved hits. He'd proven to be friendly and likable when Margot had introduced him to Starling, and, to Clarice Starling's everlasting delight, had asked to dance with her after he'd finished singing and the band had gone on without its impromptu vocalist.
The two of them had boogied through the hired band's vigorous (if slightly inexpert) renditions of "Runaway" and "Blue Suede Shoes", but then the band had stated to play "Little Red Riding Hood" in honor of Halloween, only two weeks away. Starling had been seized with a fit of the giggles and she'd had to excuse herself. The evening had suddenly become too surreal to deal with, at least, not without another Corona.
And there had been something else, too. Springsteen was a good dancer, a great performer, a pop icon and an authentic cutie-pie, and he probably had the best ass in America, possibly the world. And Clarice Starling would never forget the night she danced with The Boss, not as long as she lived.
But she had an esoteric icon of her own, and she'd started to miss him, even as she twirled in Bruce Springsteen's arms. When she'd heard the first spine-tingling howl of the facetious oldie "Little Red Riding Hood", that hunger for her own dark and wolfish lover had trebled.
In a silly but essentially true way, the song was the story of her life. She'd had enough of rock and roll and the American Way for one night, maybe for good. She'd grown accustomed to wilder music. She'd gone off to find Dr. Lecter at once.
As the party had peaked and then wound down, the two couples, Judy and Margot, Hannibal and Clarice, had gravitated to this pleasant alcove, and had settled in to chat. It was a calm, strangely relaxed interlude, marked by an odd peace. Judy sat cross-legged on a cushioned rattan loveseat beside Margot, baby Michael sleeping soundly in her lap, her curly brown head resting against Margot's shoulder. Dr. Lecter had a wicker armchair, and Clarice had perched on a stool at his feet, one arm comfortably draped over his knee. Every so often he would reach down and stroke her head.
A strange grouping. Two unconventional couples, one slightly outside commonly accepted social norms, the other grotesquely beyond all sane social boundaries. Two multiple murderers. One killer-in-the-line-of-duty, government trained and sanctioned. Two orphans. One incest survivor. One child of old blood and ancient aristocracy, one child of poverty and rural tradition, one child of corrupt fortune and the Industrial Revolution. And one blameless Madonna and babe, to round out the peculiar tapestry.
Clarice thought she could begin to understand why Margot had chosen Judy Ingram to be her love and her life partner. Judy was so whole, so sane, so unlike any of the rest of them.
Clarice was musing on stories and fables and the persistence of myth as she listened to the desultory conversation. On how classic stories seemed to twine in and out of all their lives almost organically, like . . . oh, like Jack's famous beanstalk, perhaps, or the thicket of thorns that had magically sprung up around Sleeping Beauty's castle.
Sleeping Beauty. Now there was a tale. They had foolishly failed to invite Maleficent, the evil fairy, to Aurora's christening. And there had been hell to pay as a result of this rude omission. But Margot Verger was too smart, and too intrinsically decent, to make the same mistake. In stories, just like in the movies, it was easy to tell who the bad guys were. Life, however, as a certain malevolent spirit of her own acquaintance had once told her, was much more slippery than that.
The conversation between the four lacked any direct reference to the past, but centered instead on the potential future for the infant Verger. Each of them, with the possible exception of Judy Ingram, had been damaged and misshapen early on in their respective lives; all of the life paths they had taken had been diversions and derangements to compensate for these early injuries and the fragmentation they'd caused. None had yet found the way back from these skewed and crooked courses, although they had each found some hope and some frail happiness, in recent times.
Michael, though, was yet untouched and well protected, and all the ways there were still lay cleanly open before him. This was something they all found precious, in their various fashions, and so the talk revolved around him and his unspoiled future.
They speculated on what his first words might be, and when he would take his first steps upright. Would he one day play in a little league? Or would solitary sports appeal to him more? Would he have a favorite stuffed toy? An imaginary friend? Would he have enthusiasms and interests and worship dinosaurs and want grow up to be an astronaut? What college would he choose, and would he one day take up the running of the Verger empire of meat? Or might he go some other way entirely, and paint pictures or record rap hits or write a great American novel?
Could he be sheltered and guided and all the woes of the world kept at bay for him? Would his future remain as open and untainted is it was on this autumn night?
For Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, the immediate future held danger and hurt and terrible risk.
But they didn't know that. And so they enjoyed this quiet time with friends with whom they shared a history, a rare pleasure for them both. And not a dark thought entered their minds.
Sunday, 10:00 PM, Circus Circus, Room 1211
Dr. Doemling was encountering obstacles. At Margot Verger's home, he had learned that Lecter and Starling were staying at the Four Seasons, a snooty haven for fat-cats at the south end of the Strip. He himself could not afford such luxury. He had a basic room at Circus Circus, and was sitting on his hard hotel bed, thinking feverishly, right now.
He had to think. In his first flush of fear and bitter triumph and hate, he'd picked up the phone as soon as he'd gotten inside his room and dialed 911. And the moment he'd mentioned the name "Hannibal Lecter", the dispatcher on the other end of the line had immediately hung up on him, clearly convinced his call was an early Halloween prank.
That had been a good thing. He had not thought things through, had not decided how he might do this in whatever way would be most beneficial to himself. But now he would consider. He would consider carefully.
The Four Seasons, yes, that was their hotel. But he did not know what names they were registered under, and they would hardly have checked in as themselves.
Further, he'd left the party abruptly, and chances were, Lecter would still be there. He'd seemed cozy enough with Margot Verger, and would likely not have left early. The last thing Dr. Doemling wanted was for Lecter to be apprehended at the Verger residence. Should that happen, he would be left with no leverage over Margot Verger at all.
So, the first thing was, he must wait until Lecter would have had time to return to his own hotel. It was there that the trap must be sprung. Doemling glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock . . .
Then, he must decide on a plausible story. He could not tell the authorities the truth about where he had first seen Lecter, or again, he would compromise Margot, and his own prospects for blackmail.
No, he must say he had spotted Lecter at the Four Seasons. Perhaps in the bar? Yes, that would work, but he would need to go over there shortly, or it might come out that he had never actually BEEN at the hotel to see the twisted bastard. He must make a showing at the bar, so witnesses could remember him later. And he must do it soon, or his path and Lecter's might yet cross.
And then, how to make the authorities believe him? Since Lecter's spectacular murder of the Italian policeman in Florence, and his grisly and well publicized killing of Mason Verger, Lecter sightings had become almost as common as Elvis sightings. The whole world knew the monster was still at large. Flakes, loonies and assorted nuts were always claiming to have seen the infamous serial killer everywhere.
Doemling had originally intended to make a few anonymous phone calls, but he now understood that this would not work. He must use his own credentials as a tenured university psychologist, and his own face to face acquaintance with the fiend, to establish his credibility. For this, he must blow the whistle in person.
Where best, then?
A quick scan of the government section in the yellow pages provided the answer. The Las Vegas FBI field office. 700 Charleston Avenue, not even particularly far away. Lecter was fifth on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list, with a bullet. The agents there would be ecstatic to learn of a reliable sighting and current location on this premier fugitive, and would listen carefully to anyone who sounded even a little bit credible. And, as a little added bonus, the FBI offered substantial rewards for information leading to the arrest and conviction . . . up to a million dollars worth.
Although Dr. Doemling did not really expect it to go that far. He believed Hannibal Lecter would die before he would ever allow himself to be recaptured. And he believed the FBI would be more than willing to oblige him in this preference. By dawn tomorrow, Dr. Doemling expected, Hannibal Lecter most likely be dead. And that suited him fine.
Mention Clarice Starling to the FBI? Yes? No. To have spotted Lecter in a chance meeting at a hotel was one thing. To have spotted both the murderer and the vanished presumed murder victim in one lucky go strained credulity. Let them discover their own errant former agent for themselves.
Dr. Doemling went over his plans in his dry, plodding academician's way, casting all into a mental outline.
One: Go to the Four Seasons and have a drink in the bar, making sure to be memorable.
Two: Wait an hour or two longer; let Lecter and his trollop get back to their hotel and get nice and snug and settled in for the night BEFORE the authorities would come.
Three: Drive over to the FBI field office and spill the whole concocted story.
Four: Pay an unexpected visit to Ms. Margot at dawn, when she would be most off guard, and come to initial terms.
Of course, item number four on his agenda appealed to him most. The possibilities were virtually endless. There was a decent university right here in Las Vegas, come to think of it . . .
It might be a good idea to stay close to the Verger menage from now on.
October 16th, Monday, 1:00 AM, Summerlin
Starling and Lecter were saying goodnight to their hostesses, Ingram and Verger. They were gathered at the open front door of the large home, all four hovering on the threshold.
Baby Michael had been put to bed hours ago, and many of Margot and Judy's other guests had already gone home. Many parties in Las Vegas go on all night long and into the next day, but a party for a new baby is a more family oriented affair. Almost all those guests who were staying at the house, such as young Franklin and his foster family, and Judy's platoon of relatives, had already sought their rooms and their beds.
So the two couples had a little peace and quiet for their good-byes.
"So, Tuesday, then, right?" Margot was saying. "You'll meet us for drinks at that lounge on the lagoon at Treasure Island, okay?"
The four had agreed to get together for an evening of guided sight-seeing on Tuesday night. Margot's first suggestion had been that they take in a hockey game at the Thomas and Mack, since hockey was the city's primary obsession. But no games were scheduled until Friday, and Lecter and Starling were leaving Las Vegas on Thursday morning.
"You guys'll love the lagoon," Judy said, snickering a little. "A pirate ship attacks a British clipper and sinks it! Cannonades and Pina Coladas. Only in Las Vegas."
"And then we'll take you over to Siegfried and Roy's place!" Margot added. She knew the two famous Vegas magicians socially from her various philanthropic activities in the Las Vegas gay community. "It's unbelievable. They let those big cats of theirs run around the place like house kitties! The shedding that goes on!"
"We'll look forward to that, I'm sure," Dr. Lecter said, only half joking. He quite liked big cats.
Clarice stepped forward and impulsively hugged Judy. It was something of a departure for her; she was generally a reserved person, not much given to such displays of affection. But it was virtually impossible not to like Judy Ingram.
"You do nice work, Ms. Ingram. He's beautiful. And I've got a feeling you're gonna be a world class Mommy, too."
Margot smiled fondly at her beloved. "Of course she is. She's been mothering ME for years."
Dr. Lecter held out Clarice's coat for her as he spoke to Margot and Judy. "Thank you both for a very pleasant evening. This was . . . an uncommon experience for us, as I'm sure you might imagine."
There was no need for any explanation. All four of them understood exactly what he meant.
"Yes, thank you," Clarice added to Margot.
Margot laughed. "For us too, in a way. It's been . . . nice. So, are we even yet, Doc? Have you forgiven me for Las Vegas?"
"It's possible that we are approaching parity, Margot, but I believe I may NEVER forgive you for Las Vegas. And don't call me 'Doc'."
They all laughed, and Starling and Lecter stepped outside. The limo Margot had sent for them at their hotel waited in the circular drive.
Amid many more good nights, and thanks, and recapitulations of their plans for Tuesday night, Starling and Lecter got into their car.
Margot and Judy watched as the limo pulled away, and was swallowed by the dark desert night.
Monday, 1:00 AM, Las Vegas FBI Field Office
"His face is a little different, I think he's had some plastic surgery. But I recognized the voice beyond any doubt," Dr. Doemling was saying. "And I'm certain he's staying at the hotel."
It was the first completely truthful statement he had made since he'd arrived at this office, half an hour earlier.
At twelve thirty, he walked into the office and the reception area. He'd introduced himself, showed his credentials, and told an abbreviated version of the little fairy story he'd concocted to a bored low level agent who'd been stuck with overnight desk duty.
He'd decided in advance that he must appear rattled to the officers, as anyone who'd just come from such a frightening chance encounter would be. It hadn't been difficult to convey a sense of nervousness, he'd found. Not a bit. After all, he was in the process of doing great harm to Hannibal Lecter, a man as notorious for his vindictiveness as for his murderous viciousness. If anything went wrong . . .
But nothing would go wrong. Lecter would be dead or safely in custody before this night was through. And from there, Dr. Doemling's life and prospects would take a radically different direction.
At a quarter to one, he had been repeating a more detailed version of his story to a brace of mid-level agents in a small inner office. Hastily pulled case files and copies of old photos littered the desk, and Doemling could almost hear the sound of the hounds, beginning to bay.
Now, at one o'clock, he was in a spacious executive office, telling the money version of his story to the Special Agent in Charge of the office and his second in command. SAC Edgar Riley and Deputy SAC Frank Ortega darted glances at one another as Doemling made each spurious revelation, and a tape machine recorded every lying word.
The apprehension of a high profile fugitive like Lecter would be a certain career-maker for these agents. The electric emotional crackle of extreme self-interest filled the large, well appointed room.
"And you're certain he didn't recognize you?" SAC Riley asked, for the third time. He was obviously worried that Lecter, had he recognized Doemling, might already have bolted. "You said you questioned him in Baltimore?"
"He was catatonic at the time," Dr. Doemling lied. "No, I'm certain he wouldn't have recognized me, even if he had seen me. But he didn't. I got out of there as soon as I realized who I was seeing. And came straight here."
"You didn't go to the police?" Ortega asked, again.
"Gentlemen," Doemling said, using his dry, scholarly, pedant's voice. "I've studied this man. I've seen his case files, his correspondence, every book and drawing and artifact from his cell in Baltimore. I've published on the subject. I mean to say - I have more than the average layman's understanding of him, and I know exactly how dangerous he is. This is NOT a job for the Las Vegas police force. We cannot afford mistakes. I came straight here."
Dr. Doemling watched as Riley and Ortega exchanged a satisfied glance. The police might be brought in, indeed, would very probably HAVE to be brought in. A room to room search of the hotel might well prove necessary, and one FBI field office could hardly summon the large numbers of officers needed for such an undertaking. But the running of the operation, and the credit for the "collar', would go to these men.
And this pleased them both greatly.
As it pleased Dr. Doemling.
The hounds were almost in full cry now. Soon they'd slip their leads and the pack would be off, and the hunt would begin in earnest.
Monday, 1:30 AM, Four Seasons, Room 328
Starling and Lecter were standing on their little balcony, enjoying the nippy clarity of the high desert night, sipping at small glasses of brandy, and recapping the evening's events.
The world seemed very quiet to them in this moment, even in the twenty-four hour city of Las Vegas. They stood side by side, not quite touching, both gazing out at the landscaped courtyard and the dark sky beyond.
"Are you still sorry we came to Las Vegas, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter was asking. "Do you still believe it was hubris that motivated the trip?"
"No and yes," Clarice answered, and sipped at her glass. He'd put the right answers to the right questions. They'd developed an efficient verbal shorthand in the course of their first year together, a convenient intimacy that they both enjoyed.
"But I . . . really enjoyed the party," she added. "It was strange, though, somehow . . . "
"A hospitable setting. Old friends, and new beginnings. A normal evening out, just like any of millions of couples might enjoy. But an exotic divertissement, for us. Perhaps that's why it seemed strange to you."
"Ye-es," she said, somewhat doubtfully. "That's a part of it, I guess . . . "
"An active social life. Friends and acquaintances. It's one thing I fear I cannot give you, in this peculiar new life that we've made from scratch, as it were. A lack that perhaps you've begun to feel."
She turned slightly, so that she could look directly into his eyes.
"No, we don't get out that much. No social life. Just emeralds and love and learning and stupendous sex and beauty and the best of everything and hope and laughter and play and belonging and everything else that counts. Never think I regret ANY of my choices. Do you understand? Never think that."
He smiled, satisfied. "Such severity . . . "
"You need a good scolding every now and then. I'd take a switch to you too, if I wasn't afraid to."
He laughed. "Yes, I do. Need scolding. I tend to become . . . difficult, if left unchecked. But you are quite right, I don't think I'd bend to the dreaded switch without making some effort to defend myself. You are, of course, welcome to try sometime. We might enjoy that."
They both smiled then, a shared, private amusement. They played many games, in and out of the bedroom, and all of their games were fun.
Clarice gazed again out into the night, and gazed inwardly into her memory.
"My great-grandma used to make her switches out of willow wands," she murmured, almost dreamily. "All us kids were terrified of her. Those willow- switches of hers stung like crazy."
She shivered a little, both from the memory of expertly wielded willow switches, and from the chill autumnal bite in the air. And, perhaps, from the touch of some cool, ghostly breeze of foreboding, of which she consciously knew nothing.
"It's getting cold," she said, and shivered again.
Dr. Lecter put his drink down on the balustrade and moved to stand behind her. Perhaps he felt that same icy, supernatural draft. He put his arms around her from behind and pulled her backwards into himself, as though he were a living cloak she could don against any chill.
"Here. Is this better?" he asked, mouth close to her ear.
She relaxed into the offered warmth. "Of course," she answered, her smile clearly audible in her voice. "Much, much better."
They stood that way for a time, silently, and then he bent her slightly backwards and directed her gaze upwards with a gentle hand under her chin.
"Look, Clarice. There's Orion. Can you see it? Orion the Hunter."
"Our stars in common. I can barely make it out. Just the belt. You pointed it out to me that first time we . . . do you remember that?"
She felt, rather than heard, the ironic chuckle that moved through his chest and belly, pressed close behind her.
"No, Clarice, I've completely forgotten."
He went on, punctuating each phrase with kisses to her ears, throat, cheek and nape, duplicating precisely the exact order of each his kisses and caresses on that first occasion they had broken down the last of the barriers and come together after so many hungry years.
"Every sound, every gesture, every subtle fragrance and minute movement, every sight, every touch, every last little thing you said or did, all this I have no recollection of at all."
That time merged for them into this time, and they existed, momentarily, in a timeless continuum of love beyond hope or question or reason, separate from and inviolate to the world and all its troubles.
It would be almost the last moment of peace or contentment they would know.
Monday, 2:00 AM, Four Seasons, Front Desk
SAC Ed Riley was in the small office behind the front desk of the exclusive hotel, scanning recent credit slips and register pages, consulting photocopied handwriting samples, looking for some clue that might tell him where, in this large hotel, an ill-famed monster was lurking.
He'd put his own agents, in plain clothes and two-man teams, at each of the building exits. Ortega was out front at the desk, making certain that those hotel staffers who were aware of the FBI's presence were kept quiet and continued to work normally. Lecter was notoriously easy to spook, and could vanish as well as any self-respecting wraith. Riley wanted no departure from routine or unguarded word to inadvertently warn the fugitive.
He was not having much luck with the receipts, and this frustrated him. Although he had no way of knowing it, Starling and Lecter had developed an ironclad habit, early on in their association, of having her sign all documents that might potentially come under scrutiny. There were no samples of her handwriting on file. This small habitual caution on their part had put SAC Riley in a bit of a quandary.
He had not, as yet, informed the Las Vegas PD of the impending apprehension of an FBI fugitive in their jurisdiction. Nor had he informed any of his own superiors. And he hoped to keep it that way, until Lecter was either in custody or dead as a result of resisting arrest, and all the credit for the arrest had devolved squarely onto him and his own office. After that, any leftover interdepartmental pique would become moot in the media storm that would ensue.
But it was beginning to look like they would have to search the rooms door to door to find the bastard. And his own men were stretched dangerously thin for that.
Take the risk, and try the search with his own resources? God knew, if Lecter got away due to inadequate coverage, his own career would be as dead as any of Lecter's victims. Bring in the police? Maybe. They had the warm bodies to cover the doors and back up the canvassing. And, in the event things went bad, say, if Lecter killed innocent bystanders or worse, managed to flee, the blame could be spread around, perhaps even completely pushed off on the local police department.
But it would be better by far to find the correct room and take Lecter down quickly and quietly and without any outside help. That would be the best.
Riley continued, for the moment, to search the hotel records for a single signature in a distinctive copperplate hand.
Monday, 2:15 AM, Summerlin
Judy Ingram and Margot Verger were sitting up in the king sized bed they shared, preparing for sleep and talking over the successful party they'd just thrown.
They'd agreed that it had been a smashing success, and that everyone had appeared to have a good time. They'd agreed that the caterers they'd hired had done a particularly good job, and deserved a cash bonus and a recommendation for their efforts. They'd agreed that they too had both had fun. And they'd agreed that it had been a lot more work than either of them had ever expected it would be, and that Judy's feet were killing her.
"You pushed a little too hard tonight, baby," Margot commiserated, and pulled Judy's aching extremities into her lap. "Let's see these poor little feeties. I bet I can make them feel better."
She began to massage the small feet, brown and neatly formed like the hands of their owner, with her own powerful hands. Judy sighed with relief.
"Ah, that's perfect. You could go into business, Margot, I'm not kidding. Thank you."
"My pleasure, ma'am. We aim to please." She bent to her task and did not see the bemused smile that crossed Judy's pleasant features.
"Your . . . friend, the doctor? He seemed . . . almost nice. It was weird, meeting him. After all the stories you hear, you know, it seemed strange that he was just this quiet, elegant, polite little guy. Not breathing fire and howling at the moon at all. He was funny, too. And he really loves that woman."
Margot's massaging hands stopped as she thought over these remarks.
"He's really not a 'nice' guy, Judy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. That quiet manner is deceptive. Provoked, he is absolutely vicious, the single most violent person I've ever known. And we'll probably never have a more dangerous person in this house. At least, I hope we won't."
"But you like him anyway, don't you?"
"Yeah . . . yeah, I do. He is fun, in his way. You know he helped me when I needed it most, when I was younger. And he helped me again later, too, last year. Even though I wouldn't help him then, when HE needed it most. Later, I felt bad about that, a little. And he never held it against me. But he doesn't judge things like other people do. His standards are completely different from anybody's. Weirdest man alive. But you're right about Starling, I think."
"Now THAT'S a weird thing. Former FBI agent, serial killer at large. Who thought of that pairing? By any kind of conventional rules, they ought to be trying to kill each other. But anyone can see how well their thing works."
"Maybe that's part of the 'why' it works. Because it's so outlandish. I'll tell you this . . . I've never seen him look so . . . happy. Almost makes you feel a little twitchy. It does me, anyway."
Judy's eyes widened slightly at the word "twitchy". She'd almost forgotten the twitchy balding creep she'd seen in the great room earlier in the evening, snooping through the christening gifts. Doemling, he'd said his name was. Dr. Everett Doemling.
She opened her mouth to ask Margot if she had ever heard that name . . .
Monday, 2:30 AM, Four Seasons, Room 328
Starling and Lecter had taken their earlier conversation inside, and were conversing now in the eloquent and carnal physical language that, together, over time, they'd devised. Words were not exchanged, but the syntax of movement and counter-movement told all, the grammar of fierce mutual joy was articulated, and the cadence had grown frenzied as they approached the main argument of the discourse.
They were moments away from the climax of the nonverbal discussion when the phone shrilled from the nightstand beside the bed and startled them both into immediate stillness.
They exchanged a single, knowing look, all the intense physical transports of the previous moments completely and instantaneously forgotten.
No one other than Margot Verger knew how to reach them at this number. And she would never call unless there was an emergency.
It was trouble. They knew it beyond any hope of a doubt. Likely bad trouble, because, for them, really bad trouble was always just around the corner.
They listened together, staring into each other's eyes as they waited, and the phone rang a second time. Not a mistake, then, not a wrong number.
Slowly, as though very, very tired, Dr. Lecter reached over the stilled form of Clarice and picked up the receiver. He silently put it to his ear and listened.
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