Under Attack
by Lyra Matsuoka
Rated PG-13

Chapter 5 : Dance With The Devil

The hours spent on the plane were miserable. Not that I really expected
them to be spent in a wise and productive manner. I watched the in-flight
movie, which was a romantic comedy of sorts and might have been
interesting if it hadn't been so horribly implausible.

Jack slept the entire trip, and I managed to sleep from the end of the
movie to the landing in Peru. After customs check and ticket punching,
Jack and I were on our way home. My heart gave a little jump. It
had been too long since I had been home. I closed my eyes and
tried to relax, but I felt Jack sitting tensely beside me and I
knew it was an exercise in futility to attempt a calm demeanor.

The landing was smooth and calm, the flight attendants cheerful and
pleasant as the ushered us off the plane. No luggage equaled no need
to fight the crowd for our bags. Overall, I loved Buenos Aires,
and found the pulse of the city intoxicating. It hit me as I walked
off the plane, and seeped into my veins. The airport wasn't very
interesting, and the mob exiting the airport was even less interesting,
but as my brother and I walked into the street the city welcomed us home.

"Taxi!" Jack called, and we stepped into the first available cab. I gave
directions to a place that was within five miles of our house, and we were
off. The cab driver chattered away in Spanish, and I rolled the window down
to inhale the spices that lingered in the air.

Eventually the cab drew to a stop. We paid the cab-driver and tipped him
nicely. That way, he wouldn't remember us all that well. Just like
everyone else. A band played somewhere and people were moving to a tango
beat. Cafes were full to brimming and the cobblestone streets were filled
with people of all types.

My black and white shirt flapped and I grimaced. Jack grinned and tugged at his own clothing. We started walking, weaving through people as we moved
into the night. We hailed another cab and rode within a mile of the house.

The walk was pleasant. Jack wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I slipped one around his waist. Two Lecters, walking down the street and holding each other upright. Who would have imagined.

"This ought to be a surprise," Jack commented.

"Maybe we should buy a disposable camera and snap a picture of their faces," I suggested, and we both smiled. It wasn't often that we had the chance
to surprise our parents. More often than not, they had the jump on us.

"Father's going to be upset."

I nodded in agreement. Jack and I have always been rather formal when dealing with our parents, but I wasn't thinking in adult terms just then. I wanted my Daddy. And finally, he was within reach.

The house loomed before us, elegant and dangerous at the same time. I never thought about it's beauty anymore, as artistic expression of all kinds was
now appreciated automatically. The windows on the third floor gleamed with
light, but I knew my parents weren't at home. And I knew because it was 9 p.m.;
the ideal time to attend a dinner or the theatre.

The doors were open, and there were no servants that we could see. Dinner had obviously been planned in advance. I could smell it. But the servants had laid the meal out and were now moving quietly about their business.

There was no outpouring of joy at our return from these people. They barely knew us. They were surprised that we were home, that much I was certain of. But I was too tired to care. Jack headed for the kitchen, but I trudged up
two flights of elegantly sculpted stairs and opened the door to my room.

"Sinner on the mainland, he's a sinner on the sea...he looks for absolution, not accountability..." I sang as I moved into the rooms that had not changed a bit. Here were my paintings and sculptures from Florence, my blown glass from Venice, my books from everywhere. All arranged by my father's expert hand. Oriental rugs, vases, paintings again. All this arranged perfectly. CD's, DVD's and a television were touches of my generation, but the antique wooden end tables, carefully crafted glass lamps and touches of the old world ruined the slightly modern look. I didn't mind.

"By the harbor lights of Sydney, or the Bora Bora Moon, he recites his sad
confessions to the seagulls and the loons..." I moved into my bedroom.
Wrought iron bed frame and carefully sculpted candelabras and long
poles for more candles. Whit candles everywhere. Burgandy silk spread, and a burgundy covered window seat, with black and silver accents. Gauzy silver curtains that blew in the breeze; all waiting for me. Here were more bookshelves, my antique mahogany desk, this with a covered computer. Stationary in the drawers. Lovely.

The bathroom with more candles. I took a long shower, and dressed carefully in a red silk dress that I had picked up in Hong Kong. The high collar was fitted, and the dress followed the lines of my body. Have you noticed that I have a thing for silk? Well, it looks good on me. Okay, it feels good. Same difference.

"Remittance Man, black sheep of the family clan, broke too many rules along the way..."

I opened the windows, still humming the haunting melody. The sleeves of the dress were short, and I seated myself at my vanity, brushing and styling my hair into a tight and elegant bun. The golden designs on the red silk winked in the candle glow. I didn't bother putting the candles out.

"Mischa?" Jack stood outside my door, knocking lightly. He had let himself into my outer room. I didn't mind.

"Yes?" I said, carefully formal. Jack was wearing slacks and a button down shirt. No tie. He looked relaxed, but business like.

"Those weren't FBI agents."

"No. They weren't," I confirmed, laying down the brush and reaching for my blush. "They were professional though. There was money behind them. Those badges looked real; amazingly real. It takes money and connections for that kind of counterfeit."

"But who hates us that much? Who would go to that much trouble to abduct us?"

"You, Jack. You. I wasn't caught."

"Don't pull a superior attitude with me. You are, however, correct. How did you escape?"

"Shot one of them and jumped off a cliff."

"Drama queen."

Jack smiled at me in the mirror, and with my lipstick applied, I smiled back. Mascara, blush, and lipstick can turn a hell-warmed-over appearance into beauty queen.

"When are they coming home?"

"Servants said 11."

I glanced at my bedside clock. 10:30. I had been in the shower for longer than planned. It didn't matter.

"Is dinner prepared?"

"Of course. I told the servants to lay two more settings, but they've sent us a tray for now. It's in the other room."

I nodded and turned on the vanity seat. Jack offered a hand, and tugged me to my feet. We walked into the other room, and Jack poured the tea while I found my scrapbook. Actually, it had been my mothers for years. She had collected articles concerning Hannibal Lecter for years before they ran off. And when she lost interest in keeping track of 'Hannibal the Cannibal' sightings, I took over. I sipped my tea and devoured biscuits, jam, and a small meat and cheese platter while flipping through the book. Jack Crawford's obituary, the announcements of Mason Verger's death. I nearly missed the clipping, but in a corner stood a short birth announcement. Margot Verger, Mason's sister, and her partner, had been blessed with a baby boy, 8 pounds, 4 ounces. He had been christened Marcus Verger.

Hmmm. I turned the book and showed it to Jack. Jack read it, raising his eyebrows.

"So?"

"So. If the FBI wasn't after us, then someone with a grudge had to have been. And that grudge holder must have a great deal of money, to hire all that muscle and dress them up like Feds. Who has money like that?"

"Mason Verger has been dead for 18 years."

"More like twenty. It was just a thought."

"You think his sister sent those goons after us?"

"No. But I think his son might have."

"Really," Jack leaned back in his chair and looked at me in a mocking way. I threw a biscuit at him, which he caught and ate.

"When you have a better explanation, come talk to me."

"I'll do that. Until then, however, I eat."

"Where do you put all that?" I asked, watching him eat.

"The hollow leg I have been hiding from you all these years."

"You are *so* amusing," I drawled.

"Yes, I know," Jack returned smiling at me in that lady killer way he has perfected. My brother is a ladies man, no doubt about it.

I smiled back, relaxing in the safety of my home. I was with my brother, I was surrounded by thousands of dollars in security equipment, and I was safe. It was a warm, comfortable feeling. I heard the servants leaving quickly and quietly, and knew they were setting the alarms for the grounds, gates and house as they went. The clock struck eleven as footsteps hurried to and fro in the hallway, no doubt putting the finishing touches on the table. As the front door closed for the final time, Jack and I rose. Down the stairs we went, taking the dishes into the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine chilling; I opened it while Jack got the glasses. Chardonnay, and it was oak-y. It tasted sharp and wonderful.

Jack and I lit the candles around the living room and started the fire, and then we waited. At 11:30, a car pulled into the drive. Doors opened and shut, four sharp beeps set the alarms again. Heels clicking on the stone entrance, the door opened, and female laughter drifted towards us. Jack and I both rose.

Jack cleared his throat. The laughter stopped abruptly, and I heard the safety being clicked off a gun. No one spoke.

Moments later I glanced away from the fire and saw Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, two of the most sought after people on the FBI's list, standing in the doorway.

"Hello Mother. Hello Father."