Time: Set four years after Silence of the Lambs, departs from the canon
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. *wishes she did* I'm merely playing with the characters that the god Thomas Harris created.
Part I
An Unexpected Guest
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation, as if something untoward would happen. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. Some sounds coming from the entrance of the house now. The curtains continued to dance, and then the entire mood was shattered by a deafening thud from the entrance door.
A muffled curse and then some keys jangling in the door lock. The wooden door creaked as a haggard-looking Clarice Starling backed through the entrance into her side of the duplex. She balanced a large cardboard box in one hand and sucked on the index finger of her other hand.
She dropped the box roughly to the ground and made a half-hearted attempt to sort through the contents before kicking the entire box underneath the hallway chest. Clarice made her way through the darkened halls to the kitchen, massaging her swollen finger as she went. Crap, she wouldn't be able to use it for at least a day.
She removed her jacket, revealing the gun holster at her side. She lifted the .45 from her side and set it on the table before pressing the button on her answering machine.
"Clarice, hey, it's Jack Crawford. I know that today had to be a rough day for you, and I'd really like to apologize for---."
Crawford's voice cut off abruptly as Clarice skipped to the next message. The last thing she needed to hear was his voice of pity. Clarice blindly walked to a cabinet and removed a glass. She filled it with vodka as she listened to Ardelia's voice reminding her that she would be gone all month on the Mankin case.
You have fun, girl. I'll just stay home and get totally hammered. It's the least I can do for myself.
Clarice walked over to the refrigerator and pressed the button for ice. Nothing. She smacked the ice machine hard. Still nothing, before she noticed that her entire refrigerator was silent. It didn't even seem to be plugged in.
"Hello, this is General Electric reminding you that your power has been turned off for routine maintenance. We are unsure as to how long the delay will be, but we apologize for the inconvenience." Beep. Then the automated voice informed her that it was her final message.
Great. This was just great. Clarice made her way into the living room where the moonlight streaming through the windows gave her some light. She sat down hard in one of the sofas, sipping her drink. As she felt the alcohol begin to affect her brain, she settled down for another sleepless night drifting in and out of consciousness. These days were becoming more and more frequent, although she kept trying to deny the reasons. Thoughts, disappointment, self-disgust. Today, mostly self-disgust. Always, when this happened, Clarice would show up for work the next morning hiding behind her vigorous shell while she was dying inside. Then she heard it again. For only the thousandth time that day.
You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?
"Shut up, Dr. Lecter," Clarice muttered. "Your voice is the last one I need to hear right now."
The disembodied voice inside her brain seemed not to agree. Your problem, Clarice, is that you need to get more fun out of life.
"I tried, Doctor. I talked to you. Now, see where it's gotten me."
Dr. Lecter's words were beginning to blur. They had degenerated into an incessant ringing. Clarice set her glass down, mostly unfinished, and rubbed her aching head. "Stop it." The ringing continued, but her head was clear. No, it wasn't in her head. Almost absently, Clarice lifted the squawking portable phone from its cradle.
"Hello?" she said in a slurred voice.
"Hello, Clarice."
"Huh?"
Momentary silence from the other side of the line. Then, "I would think that an FBI agent would at least take the precaution to lock her back door."
A brief chill. Clarice chuckled softly with forced ignorance. "Who is this?"
"Clarice, I'm disappointed. You know very well who this is."
Realization, cold and merciless, ran through her body like ice. The warm bliss of alcohol drained from her brain, and clearheaded, agonizingly clear, Clarice found herself racing into the kitchen and snatching the .45 from the table. Fortunately, the hand she had smashed underneath the box had been her left hand. In the darkness filtered by moonlight, Clarice racked a full clip into the gun and slipped another into her pocket.
"What are you doing, Clarice?" the phone said from the table.
Clarice picked up the phone and held it gingerly as if it were poison. "Dr. Lecter, where are you?"
He ignored her and said, "Why was your gun empty, Clarice?"
"What?" Clarice backed against the wall and edged very slowly toward the back door.
"I heard you load it. I believe a Behavioral Science agent is supposed to keep her gun loaded at all times?"
Clarice carefully surveyed the darkened hall by the back door. Nothing. Still as death. She forced herself to hold the phone steady. "Don't play dumb, Dr. Lecter. You know everything that happens to me." The grandfather clock next to the staircase chimed eleven o'clock. The sound was reciprocated in the phone, faintly. Clarice brought the gun up in front of her and started making her way to the staircase.
Talk. Keep him distracted. Clarice opened her mouth to talk, but before she could, Dr. Lecter spoke again. "Put down the gun, Clarice. If I wanted to kill you, I would have already done so."
"Then why are you here, Doctor? I thought you promised that you wouldn't call on me." She had reached the grandfather clock and thought she saw a flash of movement to her left. She headed that way, quickly and silently.
"Speak for yourself, Clarice. You owe me some information that you have not given."
An ad in the national edition of the "Times" and in the "International Herald-Tribune" on the first day of any month...
"There's nothing to give."
"Who's playing dumb now? No, not in here, Clarice." He said the last sentence as Clarice stepped into the dining room, gun at ready.
"Stop playing games with me, Doctor. I won't do it."
"How about the games your FBI has been playing with you, hmm? Tell me. It's the least you could do."
More than a little frustrated now. "You want to know? Fine, that idiot Krendler has been dripping poison into my file ever since I got on Behavioral Science. And after today's...incident, he pounced. He knew the FBI had no other choice. I'm done, Dr. Lecter. It's OVER." In a quieter voice, "Did you know that someone's entire career could fit into a single box?"
"Was it your fault, Clarice?"
"What the hell does it matter? The public wanted someone to blame. The FBI delivered."
"It matters to you, Clarice. You want to know that you did everything possible, so you might feel at peace with the situation. Tell me what happened."
She thought she heard the clatter of kitchen utensils in the phone and headed that way fast. "It's in half the nation's newspapers already. Let them---"
"I want to hear it from YOU, Clarice. Not some blood-sucking tabloid reporter. Tell me."
The kitchen was empty. Clarice sagged against the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room. "The FBI had cornered a serial killer in his apartment. They sent four people in, and I was one of them. What we didn't know was that he had three men with him...and a hostage, a twelve-year-old girl." She wasn't crying yet, but unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "They ambushed us on the stairs...we never saw it coming. By the time it was over, they were all dead. I tried to save her and I couldn't do it. The girl died because of me, because I failed her. Okay?"
There was beat of silence long after she had finished talking. "I'm sorry to hear that, Clarice."
She nearly laughed. "Are you really? So am I." She suddenly remembered what she was doing and the gun came back to chest level as she entered the living room again and almost absently flicked the light switch on. Nothing happened, and it reminded her of her stupidity.
"Would you shoot me, Clarice?"
"That totally depends on you, Doctor. What would you do?" She crossed the living room floor, still deserted. "You seem to know my house better than I do."
"Well, I have had four years, Clarice."
Clarice stood numbly, barely comprehending. "You mean that you've---." Then she thought she heard the closet door creak and spun toward the sound, raising the gun. However, when it came, it came from behind her.
A second later, she found her back pinned against the wall and the .45 wrenched roughly from her grasp. A hand went over her mouth as she began to scream. Her heart pounding, she lifted her eyes to the face sharpened by silver moonlight that she had memorized four long years ago.
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. *wishes she did* I'm merely playing with the characters that the god Thomas Harris created.
Part I
An Unexpected Guest
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation, as if something untoward would happen. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. Some sounds coming from the entrance of the house now. The curtains continued to dance, and then the entire mood was shattered by a deafening thud from the entrance door.
A muffled curse and then some keys jangling in the door lock. The wooden door creaked as a haggard-looking Clarice Starling backed through the entrance into her side of the duplex. She balanced a large cardboard box in one hand and sucked on the index finger of her other hand.
She dropped the box roughly to the ground and made a half-hearted attempt to sort through the contents before kicking the entire box underneath the hallway chest. Clarice made her way through the darkened halls to the kitchen, massaging her swollen finger as she went. Crap, she wouldn't be able to use it for at least a day.
She removed her jacket, revealing the gun holster at her side. She lifted the .45 from her side and set it on the table before pressing the button on her answering machine.
"Clarice, hey, it's Jack Crawford. I know that today had to be a rough day for you, and I'd really like to apologize for---."
Crawford's voice cut off abruptly as Clarice skipped to the next message. The last thing she needed to hear was his voice of pity. Clarice blindly walked to a cabinet and removed a glass. She filled it with vodka as she listened to Ardelia's voice reminding her that she would be gone all month on the Mankin case.
You have fun, girl. I'll just stay home and get totally hammered. It's the least I can do for myself.
Clarice walked over to the refrigerator and pressed the button for ice. Nothing. She smacked the ice machine hard. Still nothing, before she noticed that her entire refrigerator was silent. It didn't even seem to be plugged in.
"Hello, this is General Electric reminding you that your power has been turned off for routine maintenance. We are unsure as to how long the delay will be, but we apologize for the inconvenience." Beep. Then the automated voice informed her that it was her final message.
Great. This was just great. Clarice made her way into the living room where the moonlight streaming through the windows gave her some light. She sat down hard in one of the sofas, sipping her drink. As she felt the alcohol begin to affect her brain, she settled down for another sleepless night drifting in and out of consciousness. These days were becoming more and more frequent, although she kept trying to deny the reasons. Thoughts, disappointment, self-disgust. Today, mostly self-disgust. Always, when this happened, Clarice would show up for work the next morning hiding behind her vigorous shell while she was dying inside. Then she heard it again. For only the thousandth time that day.
You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?
"Shut up, Dr. Lecter," Clarice muttered. "Your voice is the last one I need to hear right now."
The disembodied voice inside her brain seemed not to agree. Your problem, Clarice, is that you need to get more fun out of life.
"I tried, Doctor. I talked to you. Now, see where it's gotten me."
Dr. Lecter's words were beginning to blur. They had degenerated into an incessant ringing. Clarice set her glass down, mostly unfinished, and rubbed her aching head. "Stop it." The ringing continued, but her head was clear. No, it wasn't in her head. Almost absently, Clarice lifted the squawking portable phone from its cradle.
"Hello?" she said in a slurred voice.
"Hello, Clarice."
"Huh?"
Momentary silence from the other side of the line. Then, "I would think that an FBI agent would at least take the precaution to lock her back door."
A brief chill. Clarice chuckled softly with forced ignorance. "Who is this?"
"Clarice, I'm disappointed. You know very well who this is."
Realization, cold and merciless, ran through her body like ice. The warm bliss of alcohol drained from her brain, and clearheaded, agonizingly clear, Clarice found herself racing into the kitchen and snatching the .45 from the table. Fortunately, the hand she had smashed underneath the box had been her left hand. In the darkness filtered by moonlight, Clarice racked a full clip into the gun and slipped another into her pocket.
"What are you doing, Clarice?" the phone said from the table.
Clarice picked up the phone and held it gingerly as if it were poison. "Dr. Lecter, where are you?"
He ignored her and said, "Why was your gun empty, Clarice?"
"What?" Clarice backed against the wall and edged very slowly toward the back door.
"I heard you load it. I believe a Behavioral Science agent is supposed to keep her gun loaded at all times?"
Clarice carefully surveyed the darkened hall by the back door. Nothing. Still as death. She forced herself to hold the phone steady. "Don't play dumb, Dr. Lecter. You know everything that happens to me." The grandfather clock next to the staircase chimed eleven o'clock. The sound was reciprocated in the phone, faintly. Clarice brought the gun up in front of her and started making her way to the staircase.
Talk. Keep him distracted. Clarice opened her mouth to talk, but before she could, Dr. Lecter spoke again. "Put down the gun, Clarice. If I wanted to kill you, I would have already done so."
"Then why are you here, Doctor? I thought you promised that you wouldn't call on me." She had reached the grandfather clock and thought she saw a flash of movement to her left. She headed that way, quickly and silently.
"Speak for yourself, Clarice. You owe me some information that you have not given."
An ad in the national edition of the "Times" and in the "International Herald-Tribune" on the first day of any month...
"There's nothing to give."
"Who's playing dumb now? No, not in here, Clarice." He said the last sentence as Clarice stepped into the dining room, gun at ready.
"Stop playing games with me, Doctor. I won't do it."
"How about the games your FBI has been playing with you, hmm? Tell me. It's the least you could do."
More than a little frustrated now. "You want to know? Fine, that idiot Krendler has been dripping poison into my file ever since I got on Behavioral Science. And after today's...incident, he pounced. He knew the FBI had no other choice. I'm done, Dr. Lecter. It's OVER." In a quieter voice, "Did you know that someone's entire career could fit into a single box?"
"Was it your fault, Clarice?"
"What the hell does it matter? The public wanted someone to blame. The FBI delivered."
"It matters to you, Clarice. You want to know that you did everything possible, so you might feel at peace with the situation. Tell me what happened."
She thought she heard the clatter of kitchen utensils in the phone and headed that way fast. "It's in half the nation's newspapers already. Let them---"
"I want to hear it from YOU, Clarice. Not some blood-sucking tabloid reporter. Tell me."
The kitchen was empty. Clarice sagged against the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room. "The FBI had cornered a serial killer in his apartment. They sent four people in, and I was one of them. What we didn't know was that he had three men with him...and a hostage, a twelve-year-old girl." She wasn't crying yet, but unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "They ambushed us on the stairs...we never saw it coming. By the time it was over, they were all dead. I tried to save her and I couldn't do it. The girl died because of me, because I failed her. Okay?"
There was beat of silence long after she had finished talking. "I'm sorry to hear that, Clarice."
She nearly laughed. "Are you really? So am I." She suddenly remembered what she was doing and the gun came back to chest level as she entered the living room again and almost absently flicked the light switch on. Nothing happened, and it reminded her of her stupidity.
"Would you shoot me, Clarice?"
"That totally depends on you, Doctor. What would you do?" She crossed the living room floor, still deserted. "You seem to know my house better than I do."
"Well, I have had four years, Clarice."
Clarice stood numbly, barely comprehending. "You mean that you've---." Then she thought she heard the closet door creak and spun toward the sound, raising the gun. However, when it came, it came from behind her.
A second later, she found her back pinned against the wall and the .45 wrenched roughly from her grasp. A hand went over her mouth as she began to scream. Her heart pounding, she lifted her eyes to the face sharpened by silver moonlight that she had memorized four long years ago.