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Regret nothing - part 1
Doctor Hannibal Lecter enjoyed great many things and among his varied hobbies and spare-time activities, three of them held special place in his heart: classical music, fine cuisine – in all of its aspects – and quality literature. Sadly, he had no use for the modern contemporary writers except for one and one only.
Humming, the good doctor flicked off lights in his office and at light pace he climbed the stairs into the second floor. Last of his troubled patients left, yet again in unfortunately agitated state and blubbering disgracefully, and Hannibal was slowly coming to the conclusion that his therapy was simply going nowhere.
It didn't bode well for this particular individual; it never did, though Hannibal was not interested in a good dinner now. In the fortnight, however… That would suit him better – he could host one of his famous dinner parties again.
This evening had the good doctor planned to relax and read. There were times when he could be found reading in his bed, particularly skimming through psychology magazines, but he felt that good literature should be read with proper respect – with lit fire, Cuban cigar and tumbler of fine whisky.
Lecter walked into his library and crouched down in front of the cold fireplace. He'd been looking forward this moment for the whole day, since the newest addition to his book collection had arrived in the morning. He had vast collection of literature, some pieces were very rare and very valuable, and yet he found himself enjoying and re-reading again and again only small part of it, namely the books written by C.S. Crain.
He had appreciated her writing long before she'd became widely known and successful, and he had been curious about the person behind the name long long before anyone else started to notice how little was known about her. Lecter perfectly understood why anyone didn't wish to share information about themselves with others and Mrs. Crain had every right to be reclusive and live in anonymity if she chose so. He was not interested in how she lived her life, he was often wondering what kind of person she really was.
It would be something to know her in private life and yet it felt as if he did know her; every time he held her books, it was like holding little pieces of her soul. Crain's work was captivating and Lecter simply enjoyed her frankness, even bluntness and down-to-earth, minimalistic way with words. The good doctor liked to get lost in her narratives, which was something he didn't do often. He never liked to lose sense of time and space, but her books… it was like visiting an old friend and time just flew by.
The phone rang: once, twice, for the third time. Lecter crossed to his desk and picked it up before the fourth ring could be heard.
"Yes?" He was not annoyed, of course, and the tone of his voice was pleasant, though the strict one word answer gave away that he was not happy about the disturbance. He looked at the thick tome titled The Ranchers – the smell of newly printed book evading his senses.
"Hello, doctor Lecter. So sorry to bother you this late…"
"It's quite all right, Jack. How can I help you?"
The good doctor moved around the desk and sat down. Conversations with the head of Behavioral science unit tended to be long. He held no particular fondness for them or for Jack Crawford for that matter, but he tolerated the man as a necessary evil and their friendship as a price to be paid for his safety. At least Crawford was not a complete waste of air and had his uses.
"You see straight through me, doctor. I need help and I'm rather out of competent people right now with all that's going on." Jack chuckled and Hannibal sighed silently. Ah yes, there was always some serial killer causing mischief, diverting attention from all other suspicious happenings. Good thing, really, though sometimes it was rather tiresome.
"Of course, what it is?"
"Friend of mine got herself into nasty situation. Well, the situation found her, I should say. There've been some threats and stalking for years, and yesterday night she got assaulted. I moved her back to Washington for protection and I would really appreciate if you could work on that bastard's profile."
"It was going on for years and your friend did nothing to prevent her attack?" Lecter lifted his eyebrow mockingly. One finger started caressing the finely made leather spine of the book in front of him. There were paperback versions, of course, but that would just not do.
"Well, of course she took precautions, though you know how it is with famous people, doctor. You can't cut off their normal fans, that doesn't bode well for the business."
"Famous, Jack?" Now was doctor Lecter curious and he stopped the lazy movement. He took great pride in knowing everything about people in his life – what they liked, disliked how they reacted in specific situations. He laced his voice with carefully measured dose of teasing: "Sorry to say so, my friend, but you do not strike me as a man to have close relations to celebrities."
"Well… Closet celebrity." Jack coughed, embarrassed. "She's a writer… Actually, I think I saw her in your library, too. She uses the pseudonym of Claire Crain."
Lecter stopped breathing and watched the book – her book – for a second, fingers lightly resting on the cover, mapping the letters of the author's name. He didn't register fully that Crawford of all people knew and was friends with Mrs. Crain – his mind was preoccupied with one thought only.
"Someone attacked Claire Crain?"
"Yeah. I'm so sorry I can't be there right now. It's personal, you see. Bella and CC are close; it's like an attack against my own family."
"Oh yes, I understand, Jack." Doctor Lecter abruptly stood up and moved two paces to the left where his liquor cabinet was. The telephone cable stretched to its limits while he poured himself two fingers of whisky. "You said you had her coming into Washington. Where exactly? Is it safe?"
"She's staying with Bella tonight, so yes, it's quite safe. I have a patrol there and nobody really knows about her whereabouts right now."
He sipped is drink slowly.
"I will help, of course, Jack. It will be a privilege to do so. Mrs. Crain is a very talented writer and I would hate to see her hurt and harassed any further. How much information do we have about the attacker? I'll need to see some of his letters."
"CC surely has it all with her and she can tell you everything you will need to know, doctor. I'll ring her that you will be coming to talk to her. Ok? When do you think that'd be?"
"Whenever it's suitable, Jack."
"Thanks, doctor Lecter, I'm really grateful… Oh, I gotta go, good-bye."
"It's not worth mentioning, Jack. Ta-ta."
He slowly put down the receiver and finished his drink, the book forgotten on his desk, the fireplace cold. Lecter then calmly walked out of the library, down the stairs, to the entrance hall. There he picked up his fedora and coat, his car keys. With right hand, he routinely patted his right pocket and felt the reassuring shape of his harpy. He never left the house barehanded.
It took him an hour to get to Crawford's home. He parked his car in a safe distance and walked towards it through side streets and backyards, quiet, unseen.
He was agitated and he could not explain this illogical urge to make sure that Mrs. Crain was in one piece and undamaged. He never met the woman in person, and even though he felt close to her thanks to her magnificent writings, these protective feelings didn't make any sense. The doctor would understand the displeasure he felt; violence against women was unspeakably ugly to him and by this single act only her attacker had signed his own death warrant, but this? How strange, indeed.
Lecter stopped in the shadow of an overgrown willow in the corner of Jack's backyard. Through the branches he then gazed at the handsome house with its lit windows and curtains drawn. He waited and he watched. It could be few seconds or minutes or half an hour, the doctor was patient enough, and finally he saw a silhouette flicker behind the windows. It was not Crawford's wife – he knew very well how she moved and this woman was moving differently. Then he saw another shadow, this time it was Bella.
The lights downstairs died, upstairs became alive and after a while, died again.
He breathed out and shook his head. He then checked the front yard, satisfied that the police car was there and the men inside were not dozing, and begun his journey back home.
Back at his own house, he went to sleep without any delays, though sleep didn't come this time. He was wide awake for hours, thinking, analyzing, and when the answers came, they didn't bring any peace.
He was complicated man, though he had simple reason for his behavior tonight: he wished Mrs. Crain to be alive and happy and most of all productive in her work. Her books were so honest, her way of saying things so achingly familiar. Reading her was like remembering memories hidden deep inside, like re-visiting places he knew only through someone else's eyes. He now understood why the author was granted his protection.
He didn't sit up, he didn't do anything. He did not regret. Not one bit and not even when his memory palace produced the sound of laughter he never played to himself or shown him an image he never recalled from its depths, from behind firmly shut and locked doors.
It'd been years since he had last visited this part of his palace where young and vibrant, painfully open and endearingly stubborn redhead dwelled.
Frowning into the darkness, doctor Lecter opened his eyes. He was not happy about his latest self-discovery. He had been lying to himself. Every time he opened his favorite books, he was sneaking back into times and places he'd forbid himself to go. He was not close to Mrs. Crain – her writings were transporting him back to the time when he…
He sat up and crossed to the window, looking out into the street. Ah well. He made sure those times could never be repeated and he did not regret that decision. If there were moments when he found himself gazing at the telephone, wishing it would ring and a familiar voice would say: "Hi, H," it was not regret he felt. If there were moments when he found himself thinking about quick drive down to Washington (and not with the intention to visit Jack), it was not regret he felt. If there were moments of unrest in the night, in his cold and way too large bed, it was not regret he felt.
Lecter hummed to himself and after a short minute of hesitation, warring internal battle with part of himself that wanted to be indulged in this whimsy, he retrieved The Ranchers from his library, settled into his bed and began to read. The flow of simple pure language soothed him immediately and he felt asleep with a sound of unrestrained laughter ringing in his ears.
He regretted nothing. By casting her away, he protected his lamb.