Disclaimer – I do not own the characters of Hannibal and Clarice, but Grace is mine

Chapters 1&2 updated to fix a few boo boos . . .

Chapter 1 – Saying Grace

A woman sits quietly on the steps, watching the wind whisper through the pampas grass, their soft feathery tips quivering like the reverberations of arrows that have found their mark. She stares at the envelope resting on her lap. One word – a single syllable printed on the cover – leaves not doubt about the source, though the intent may not be clear for some time. She had been determined to set these events in motion, or so she thought, in spite of all rational arguments to the contrary. A conversation from six months prior replays in her mind:

"How far you want to take this?" asks the towering man. His affect is flat, though his tone is deadly serious.

Her gaze is steady as she speaks, her voice almost as calm. "I need answers. I thought I lost everyone, but if there is a chance –"

"Is it worth your life?" he interrupts, "People like her don't just 'get lost.' "

"I have to try – if she doesn't want to be found . . . then I won't find her, right? Or if HE doesn't want me to find her, is that it?" She hopes her doubt doesn't show. Don't let him see you sweat, girl. If I can't handle this guy, what chance do I have with . . . well, I'll cross that bridge later.

"What do you think you know about him?"

"I read the supermarket rags and psych journals. The Internet was particularly useful." A pointed pause, "I even got hold of a bootlegged copy of the FBI file . . . "

A grunt at the last comment, and the tiniest hint of a grudging smirk, "And?"

"And I think you know more than all of them. You spoke to both, and I think you know a lot more about what went on at the Verger place than you ever told anybody else." Easy now. Got my show cards are on the table, let's see if he calls.

"Why would I tell you?" He replies, without any hint of intimidation or surprise.

"I don't think that have the kind of cash flow that would interest you – certainly not the kind of money that your memorabilia could fetch."

He stares down at her with eyes that give nothing away.

Fine, big boy, here comes my trump card. "Let's just say that a mutual acquaintance at Baylor still has a lot of interest in the subject matter. He didn't seem too impressed with your attitude regarding his analysis and is a still a little raw about that quote in the Tattler you made about his 'encounter' with the subject . . . even less impressed that you mentioned his name to the feds after the investigation."

No reaction.

Steeling herself, she continues, "I think he might be willing to have a nice chat with me, seeing me as a colleague and a potential link to said subject should I share with him the information I gave you today, in good faith I might add. Might decide to send the feds your way, for more information. What do you think?" She asks, with just a hint of southern sugar in her tone.

"Yeah, she liked the veiled threats, too. Started out nice, friendly, then the claws came out." He actually breaks form and laughs out loud. She's not sure whether she feels relieved or worried.

"Did she? Well aside from your help with contact, I would be interested in knowing any other information you could tell me about her. I know you weren't exactly friends, but you were friendly, right? You were friendly with both of them –"

He cuts her off "Like I told her, we didn't fraternize. He'd have killed me to get out just like anyone else who got in his way."

"But not her."

He preoccupies himself with his nails for a moment, surprisingly delicate for such large hands, as he considers. With a sigh, he finally replies. "I can help you bait the hook, but that's all. I don't know anything else and I DON'T want to know where you go from there. Aside from that, I can give you a copy of the tapes, on the house. She talks a lot – you can get your information from those. I don't want to see you again."

"I can live with that. Thanks Barney."

She had been more than a little scared, of course. The guy's really big, and she wasn't used to playing bad cop, or any kind of cop for that matter. She knew more about the costs of life by the gun than most. Sighing, she looked back out over her garden, a bright spot in an otherwise typically bland suburban neighborhood. Subdivision, she thought, complete with an HOA, a bridge club, and ladies martini night one Saturday a month. The American dream that should have been a few more generations beyond reach. Education is a great equalizer. The woman knew how lucky she was. Not all of her kin were as fortunate, save one, but some would say her fate was likely far worse. Daddy dead, Mama followed a few years later after a bout with the bottle, but not before arrangements were made for her two remaining children. Yes – food, clothing, shelter, but not much affection aside from unwanted attentions that eventually led to her violent departure - but that fit her feeling of displacement. An odd companion that morphed into comfort and safety in her psyche became her driving force in carving out a life.

Now she must decide. She wishes Tommy were here. She could talk to him. The bonds of childhood, even a lousy one, had forged her closest human connection, severed by a roadside bomb in a far away desert. She tried to remind herself that she wasn't exactly alone now. Sam is a good man with an easy temper, and he might even understand. But, this pursuit could drive a wedge between them greater than any inner barrier long erected around her heart and mind. Their relationship is not quite new, but in her experience all is ephemeral and so she guards even in the most preciously intimate exchanges.

Before reason prevails, she tears open the envelop bearing a name known only to a few living souls, connected to the flash of a face in her mind, distant voices in the depths of her memory, lost forever, or so she thought. Margaret Sparrow eyes the blackbirds darting around the birdfeeder beyond her stone retaining wall with some annoyance. She prefers the chickadees, scrappy and full of spunk for such small birds. Damned birds, she thinks, wryly. A crow call brings another flash of memory to her mind, of silver taking flight on dull coal wings mottled with white. Red tresses whisper over her face as a larger hand takes hers. Sadder times. Before, her earliest happy memory the star of the sand dollar placed into her tiny hands by the bearer of the long red tresses, salty spray of sea foam and laughter. Her mind is set. Maggie brushes a strand of amber curls behind her ear and unfolds the letter addressed to Grace Starling.