I've got to get out of here.
That thought was the only thing Josh Graham had to hold onto. As if three violent psychotics weren't bad enough, Dr. Hannibal Lecter had decided to pay a visit.
Josh Graham had lived with the shadow of the dark psychiatrist all his life. He had seen his father lying in a bed, tubes running out of him, clinging desperately to a life that Dr. Lecter had tried to take away from him. He had felt the sharp edge of a glass shard that a killer sent by Dr. Lecter had pressed to his throat. He had seen his father slowly sicken over the years, poisoned by the fear of the cannibal. He had seen his father stabbed once again by Dr. Lecter, in Alice's home in Baltimore. He had seen the torment inflicted on Clarice by the daughter Hannibal Lecter had given to the world.
But fear, like any emotion, can be harnessed. He grabbed the bedpost with his free hand. The positioning was terrible and he had no leverage. He'd barely passed the physical part of FBI training: his interests ran more to books and mindhunting.
Think. Think, dammit. If Dr. Lecter and Alice get ahold of Clarice...God only knows what they'll do to her.
He tested his bonds. The handcuffs were standard issue; if he didn't have a key he'd have to pick them. Breaking them wasn't an option; he'd do better to gnaw off his own hand at the wrist. A frustrated glance over at the nightstand revealed nothing he could use.
What about the bedpost?
It felt reasonably solid, but there might be some give. Was it oak? Pine? He didn't know anyway; he'd never been much of a woodcrafter. Could he break it? That was the question.
He grabbed the bedpost with his free hand and tried to move his bound hand to get some leverage. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and stung his eyes. The shackle dug painfully into his wrist. He grinned on the pain, baring his teeth into the darkness.
God, let this break and I promise I'll spend more time at the gym.
He grabbed with both hands and pulled. At first, nothing. The post seemed to be made of solid rock. Was he even doing this right? He couldn't see; his damned forehead was in the way. His muscles strained. His handcuffed wrist was going numb. His pulse pounded in his forehead.
Sweat made his hands slip. He swore, wiped his free hand, and tried again. This time, he was rewarded with the creeeeeaaaaak of wood under strain. The thought of what would happen when Alice came back drove him. He was panting, already feeling his arms begin to tire; he didn't work out enough and his muscles were screaming at the unaccustomed endurance.
Still, he tried again. He was well anchored, at least. For a moment he was insanely, bitterly jealous of the high school football stars with pecs of steel. His felt like tortured rubber right now.
He strained against it, feeling his handcuffed hand fall away, useless and numb. There was the creeeeeaaaaakkkk again, louder, stronger. Just a little bit more...c'mon, God, gimme a break here...
SNAP. The wooden ball atop the bedpost splintered off and was in his free hand . Josh had to work the handcuff over the bedpost with his free hand. His ankle was still tied to the bed, and he attacked the knot fiercely. Alice knew her knots, that was for sure.
He glanced over, sweat slipping down into his eyes, and saw a knife sitting on the bedside table. Just what every serial killer needed. He felt sort of stupid for not noticing it before. Now he grabbed it and deployed the blade. The blade was serrated – looked like a Spyderco of some kind, for sure. It made short work of his ankle rope.
His pants lay in a lonely knot on the floor. He grabbed them up and put them on. Keys, wallet, phone, everythingall there. Reaching for the holster on his belt only earned him a handful of empty air. Nervously, he slammed the dresser drawers open and shut, searching for his weapon. He didn't want to go up against Alice and her buddies with only a knife.
Luck was with him; his pistol was in the third drawer down. Checking the chamber revealed he was ready to lock and load. Now it was time to hunt the monsters down.
Clarice Starling leaned her head back against the chair and tried to think of what to do next. She'd been left here for a few hours. The chair was good heavy oak, and she couldn't budge it. Until she could get out of the chair, she couldn't do much of anything.
Where was Josh? Probably upstairs being molested by Alice, if she knew anything about the unsteady woman. Poor Josh. She almost wished Colin was back around. She could've gotten somewhere by digging at him about his jealousy.
Colin had tied her handcuffs to the chair and looped the rope under it. The knots were under her ass where she couldn't get at them. Dammit. And she had utterly no idea where her gun was.
I do not want to die in this ridiculous costume, she thought helplessly. But what was she supposed to do? She was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. There had to be something; that thought kept nagging at the back of her mind like a mosquito. But no ideas would come from her whirling brain. She felt full of nervous energy, twitchy and trapped, like a car in neutral with its gas pedal nailed to the floor.
Her mind slipped back to the thoughts of people she'd arrested. Some were old hands at it. Usually a first-time arrestee would seem downright terrified, unused to the discomfort of restraint and loss of control. She'd usually dealt with them professionally: do what I tell you and you'll be fine. Now, she understood how they felt on a much deeper level than she ever had before.
Think. Think. There is something here, some way to get out of this...you just have to figure out what it is.
The door clicked. Clarice turned her head and tensed, her hands flexing. Someone was coming. It opened slowly, creaking just a bit.
Colin entered the room, looking businesslike and calm. Having heard his prior discussion with Teek, Clarice tensed again and struggled for some way to fight him while tied to the chair. Alice came in after him, surprisingly subdued. She wore her spangly shorts and top, but her fishnets were tossed nonchalantly over her shoulder. She was barefoot. She gave Clarice a wide, loopy smile and stumbled. Clarice saw who the third figure was and stared.
She had been expecting Chatiqua Miller, the violent sociopath who fancied herself an artist. Instead, the figure was not terribly tall, imperially slim, and dressed in an immaculate suit and camel's hair overcoat. His pale coloring and dark hair were the same as Alice's.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
"Good evening, Clarice," he said politely.
Clarice eyed him warily, all too aware of her own vulnerability and the fact that she was the only person in the room who wasn't a serial killer. Her eyes shifted to each one in turn: Colin, Alice, Dr. Lecter.
"Good evening," she said abruptly.
"I must say," Dr. Lecter added. "You look quite fetching."
Colin turned and looked at Dr. Lecter. "We can't just let her go, you know," he said softly. "She's FBI."
Dr. Lecter turned and looked at him as if annoyed, tweezing one of his pant creases back to razor sharpness.
"Mr. Barksdale, I understand your concerns," he said neutrally, "but this is my decision to make, not yours."
Clarice blinked for a moment, making the connection. Dr. Lecter...in charge? It seemed impossible. But there it was, in front of her eyes.
"Clarice," Dr. Lecter said courteously. "I have an offer to make to you. I am going to take my daughter into my custody. She will trouble you no further, I promise you that. I shall ensure that her...exuberance does not trouble anyone. Mr. Barksdale is going to come along with me, with appropriate remuneration for his assistance." He eyed her with some distaste. Obviously a man like him wouldn't approve of Alice's spangly costume.
"However," Dr. Lecter went on, "during your captivity in my daughter's hands, we spoke. Do you not remember?"
She had some trouble remembering, truth be told; she'd been dizzy and weak and starved then. She watched him carefully, noting that he wasn't going for a knife or anything. "I remember some of it," she hedged.
"Think about what it is you truly want," Dr. Lecter said. "You're not happy in life; anyone can see that. I can offer you more."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" she said sharply.
Dr. Lecter shrugged. "Come with me," he said. "We can arrange for Ms. Miller's apprehension and the credit may go to young Mr. Graham. The other two of the Homicidal Productions crew will be far from American borders. There's nothing for you here but more labor, more spirit-breaking disappointment. Surely you've done your duty by the lambs by any reasonable standard."
Clarice stared. "Live? With you? With her?" There was simply no way she could ever live under the same roof as Alice. Was he crazy? What about her job? What about her duty?
"Yes," Dr. Lecter said. "Well, perhaps Alice may require supervision for a bit. We'll make arrangements."
She stared blankly from Alice, who simply smiled silently, to Colin, who seemed nervous, to Dr. Lecter who was simply watching her, waiting for a response. His face was implacable. He sure seemed to think what he was saying was possible.
"Excuse me," a new voice said. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
Chatiqua Miller stood in the doorway, her face hard and angry. In her fist was a large pistol. .45, Clarice thought. Maybe a nine millimeter. Decent size gun.
"Ms. Miller," Dr. Lecter said politely. "Nice of you to join us."
Chatiqua's face twitched. She stared with barely concealed anger at each person in turn. Clarice bit her lip nervously; Dr. Lecter had remembered the social niceties but neglected to free her from her restraints. With Chatiqua Miller waving a pistol around, that was bad. Very bad. Overcontrolled personality, Clarice thought. If she realizes that everything has fallen apart, it's gonna get ugly. If Barksdale goes back to her side...shit, no matter what, it's going to get ugly.
"Shoot him, Colin," Chatiqua demanded.
Tension weighed down heavy on her as she watched Colin Barksdale. Her chains clinked as she shifted, trying even in her restraints to get some kind of tactical advantage. The blocky young man swallowed and looked from Dr. Lecter to Chatiqua and back, clearly weighing his advantages. Which sociopath to follow?
Slowly, Colin looked down, shook his head, and cleared his throat.
"It's...it's over, Teek," he said in a low and strangled voice.
Chatiqua's nostrils flared. Her coffee-with-cream features twisted in rage. She took a step back and looked at her enemies: rival, hunters, betrayer. The pistol trembled in her fist and the muzzle shifted.
"Okay," Chatiqua said. "Now...one of you is going to die."