Author's note: Here we are, the sequel to 'Family Ties'.
The city of Buenos Aires was beautiful, Clarice thought. There were lovely old buildings and beautiful views of the Rio de la Plata. Some of the art museums were just breathtaking. They had season tickets to the Teatro Colon. She'd learned to love opera, especially as her Italian had improved.
But some of the best parts of the city were also the simplest. A walk through fine wide thoroughfares. The architecture of the city was impressive. The baroque mansions in the section of town where she lived with Dr. Lecter. The parks, pretty and green and beautiful to visit. The fine cafés in the ritzy part of the city. Argentina was a country going through a financial holocaust, but that only made Dr. Lecter's hidden accounts more valuable, as they were denominated in US dollars.
Here, Clarice was at peace. She was so very happy here. She'd never once imagined life could be like this. Instead of a career that only brought pain, she had everything she could possibly want. She was respected. Instead of being spoken of in tones that were invariably disrespectful, she was looked up to and admired. The smart set of Buenos Aires all wanted to be like her.
She still had her lambs, after a fashion. Clarice Starling had battled herself to save the lambs. Now, she was quite fond of her charity work. Many poor children in Buenos Aires received food, inoculations, and other medical help from her fortune. Dr. Lecter privately disapproved, she suspected, but it made her happy and so he kept his opinions to himself. And she was recognized for it, loved, wanted, respected. Instead of a surly Good job, Starling, said only to keep her around for more, she got honest appreciation. Oh, thank you so much, Señora Paloma, my baby is healthy because of you, how can I ever thank you enough?
She didn't even want those she helped to grovel. Clarice Starling knew well the sting to one's dignity that accepting help brings. All she asked was that somewhere, they do something to help someone else. It was enough for her to know she'd helped others.
Most of all, she had him. It had taken her so very long to realize that she loved him. He had helped her realize that. She could have given up the money if she had to. She didn't need much and could have gotten by with much less than she had. She could have found alternate ways of helping her lambs. She wouldn't have gotten the public recognition, but she didn't need that, really. It didn't matter whether a charity hospital ward was named the Clara Paloma ward or not; what mattered was that the lambs were safe. No, she loved him and she was happy with him. Here in Buenos Aires, Clarice had come to a beautiful, crystalline inner peace.
Today, she was meeting him for lunch at a café on the Avenida Alvear. They did this often on Fridays, as a way to mark the weekend. It was true that the week meant less to them than it did to those who had to work for a salary. But still it was a pleasant ritual. The café served a chocolate cake that Clarice had an admitted weakness for. She'd gotten here before him to await his coming. And today was a special day.
She sat calmly in the café, enjoying her cappuccino. It was a glorious spring day in Buenos Aires. Even after all the years of living here, she wasn't used to the seasons being flipped, but here it was November and it was beautiful in Buenos Aires. For just a moment she thought about how it usually got brisk around this time of year in Virginia.
Clarice saw the familiar shape of Dr. Lecter half a block away. Her lips curved into a smile around her mug. Despite the season, he wore an overcoat and a fedora. She had to chuckle. In his own way he could be perfectly vain. She noticed a paper cone cradled in his left arm with a brilliant splotch of red poking out of them. A dozen roses. He'd remembered. It had been eight years ago that they'd come down here. Together.
She raised her finger and called for the waiter. When he came, she asked him for a second cappuccino. He'd appreciate it. The waiter nodded, and with a sì,señora ran to fetch it. Clarice turned back to watch her husband walking down the sidewalk towards her. She sighed and smoothed down the airy fabric of her dress. Such a perfect day, such a beautiful day, to be here with the man she loved. She watched him draw nearer.
She was enchanted with him. Here in Buenos Aires, she had found a peace she never thought possible in her old life. Dancing on the terrace, fine dinners, beautiful clothes. She didn't have to work; she could study whatever interested her. Here, her life was…perfect.
So she waited in the sun for her husband to come to her. A real smile crossed her lips. He came to her, a dozen roses under his arm. Her husband. Her partner in this new, wonderful life.
The sight of Dr. Hannibal Lecter brought no fear. At one time, she'd dreaded him as a dangerous, sadistic killer. The years with him had taught her that she had nothing to fear from Hannibal Lecter. Their lives held no fear. Instead, it had been happy. More than happy; joyful. That was what she had been missing in her old life. Joy. And now she had it in abundance.
She allowed herself an indulgent moment to observe him as he strode towards her. From a block away, she could see his face light in recognition. He was so imperially slim and neat. The overcoat and fedora lent him an air of mystery. But she also knew the delicate features of his face. The nose, only slightly enhanced by collagen. His eyes, exquisitely detailed. His mouth, hiding pearly white teeth. She thought also of his fingers: slim and shapely. The hands of an artist. Once she'd wondered how he could use those hands to commit the atrocities he once had. But now she'd put it out of her mind, as he had put such things behind him.
Yes, she thought, life was perfect. She had him, and he had forsworn killing so that they could stay together unmolested. She was more important to him, and the love behind that made her feel almost drunk. He would not go away as her father had. He would stay with her no matter what it took.
So she smiled softly as he approached her from down the block. Soon he would sit at the table with her, and they would chat of inconsequential things. A pleasant chat with the man she loved on a beautiful day. This was as close as it got to heaven, Clarice thought.
Suddenly, misgivings twanged her stomach, a black streak of fear and uncertainty against what should have been a pure and rosy joy. Something was amiss. She found herself thinking of years ago, in her old life. What was it? Something had reminded her. She blinked twice, and fumbled at her hip. No gun there anymore; Clarice Starling had given up her gun along with her post fruitlessly guarding the lambs.
Oh my God.
Behind Dr. Lecter, two figures which had been just ambling along suddenly picked up their pace. They were not looking at each other, as animated Argentines might. Nor were they simply looking ahead of them. Their attentions were fixed on Dr. Lecter. He didn't notice them immediately. His own instincts had been relaxed by the peaceful years in Buenos Aires. Instead, he simply proceeded along the sidewalk, preparing to cross the street.
A dark blue car screeched to a halt in front of him. For a moment Dr. Lecter simply looked consternated at it, frustrated by the rudeness of the driver. Then people crowded out of the car, and he understood. But it was too late and there were too many of them.
Clarice Starling stood up. Horror threatened to root her to the spot. She knew exactly what was about to happen. Her jaw dropped open in sheer and perfect shock and pain. Her wonderful, fairy-tale existence here in this city thousands of miles from her enemies had just come to an abrupt and shocking end.
Seven trained agents of the FBI piled onto Hannibal Lecter. Strong as he was, not even he could overcome all of them. Slowly, relentlessly, they grabbed his arms, forcing him over the hood of the car. The bouquet of roses was ripped from his grip. It tumbled slowly into the gutter, the paper cone torn. In the melee, an agent's black-shoed foot stomped on it. Torn rose petals fluttered in the wind and landed in the street. One broken rose stuck out from the rest, broken just under the blossom. It drooped sadly as if to acknowledge its defeat. The image of the broken rose seared itself instantly into the walls of Clarice Starling's mind, where it would forever remain.
Clarice stared at the roses and back to the man who had held them. They had him down over the hood of the car. Sheer force was on their side. Like well-oiled machines they forced his hands behind his back and clamped his head down so that he could not bite. She sucked in shaky breath. Didn't they realize what they were doing?
Slowly, Clarice Starling began to walk towards the scene, trying not to cry. What would she do? What could she do? Here, in this paradise, she'd disarmed herself. She'd thought she was safe here. But in every paradise there are snakes, and now these snakes had come to destroy her Eden.
Dr. Lecter's eyes touched Clarice's for just a moment. Then he let out a sigh, lowered his gaze, and shook his head imperceptibly. She couldn't save him. He was lost.
Clarice and Dr. Lecter had discussed what would happen in the event that one of them was captured. It was simple. If it was possible for the one to save the other, they should try. If it wasn't, then the free one should flee without any guilt. Yet she could not. Dread and disbelief rooted her to the spot. Even if one of them recognized her, she could not have fled if she tried.
She saw the silver glint of handcuffs and heard them click around his wrists. Her heart pounded. They had put handcuffs on him? The thought itself was nauseating. One of them was talking calmly.
"Dr. Lecter, now listen to me, please. This can go easy, or this can go hard. It's up to you. If you act like a gentleman, we'll treat you in kind. If you try to bite, we've got a mask for you. Also, every single agent here has pepper spray and a Taser. If you try to fight us, you will lose."
A single tear slipped down Clarice Starling's cheek.
"You didn't read me my rights," Dr. Lecter observed.
"That's right. Someone you may remember wants to talk to you." The agent turned, and for just a moment Clarice thought he was looking at her.
"Agent Starling, would you like to do the honors?" the tall, rangy man called out. Her? Could he possibly be serious? The world seemed to wheel crazily around her. She felt dizzy and suddenly wondered if she would faint.
This can't be happening, Clarice thought. Dear God, this is a nightmare and soon I'll wake up, please let me wake up! Please don't let them take him away! But God ignored her pleas as he had ignored a long-ago six-year-old's plea to see his sister again. No celestial hand came to deliver Dr. Lecter from his enemies.
In front of Clarice, a young woman slipped out from behind a baroque lamppost. She wore a battered pair of BDU pants and a denim shirt. In the pocket of her denim shirt was a leather case, folded back to reveal her ID. Clarice froze. The woman hadn't seen her and didn't seem interested in her. Her sole attention was focused on the man pinned to the hood of the car. In her hands she had a pistol. In her small hands it seemed absurdly large. A .45 Colt automatic, with a piece of skate tape on the grip. Clarice recognized the gun with no surprise at all. It had once been hers, although she hadn't seen it since the night Dr. Lecter had saved her life eight years ago. She'd left it on a factory room floor many years ago. She stared uncomprehendingly at the back of the younger woman's head. Her hair was similar in color to Clarice's. But where Clarice's hair was straight, this woman's hair was in soft curls.
Dr. Lecter's eyes shifted from Clarice to the woman in front of her. He let out a tremendous sigh and mouthed one word. He seemed resigned to his fate. Clarice understood immediately.
Charlene.
Special Agent Charlene Stenson Starling, twenty-three years old, approached Hannibal Lecter slowly. Even though he was already handcuffed and held down by five burly men, she kept the gun aimed straight at him. Her eyes raked slowly back and forth over the boogeyman whose face had haunted her for the past eight years. For the past year, she'd spent countless hours tracking him. Hundred-hour weeks spent in the office, running down leads, verifying and eliminating possibilities. Capturing Hannibal Lecter had become her life. And finally, all her hard work had paid off. As her aunt had once before, she'd been able to track him by his tastes and pinpoint him here to Buenos Aires. He'd ordered a few bottles of Chateau d'Yquem from Clarice Starling's birth year, with a specified delivery date. Eight years ago on that date, he had carried a wounded and bloody Clarice Starling from a factory in Virginia. With Charlene helplessly watching him take her away.
"Dr. Lecter," she said, her voice hard and uneven. Then she cleared her throat. Behind her, Clarice turned pale. She'd always dreaded this. Words that she'd only heard in her worst nightmares touched her ears. Part of her wanted to grab her niece and tell her what a mistake she was making. But her mind was wrapped in a shroud of horror now, and she could barely even move, let alone attack her husband's assailants.
"Dr. Hannibal Lecter, I'm Special Agent Charlene Starling. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?"
Her voice seemed to float in and out of Clarice's consciousness. For one horrible moment, she thought Charlene had identified herself as Agent Clarice Starling. She might have preferred it if she had; then this would have been a nightmare that she might have woken up from. But it was horrible, mind-numbing reality. There would be no escape to consciousness in her own bed, safe with Dr. Lecter beside her.
Dr. Lecter had been captured after all these years. And her own niece had been responsible.
Hannibal Lecter sighed in resignation. "Yes, Charlene, I do," he said. "My, you've grown. Hardly the weepy, terrified, half-naked adolescent I found shivering outside a deserted factory. May I know what the charge is, please? I do have the right to know."
Charlene's eyes narrowed. Her throat hitched. "Of course, Dr. Lecter," she said tonelessly. The charges," she began, and stopped. Tears rose to her eyes. Then she set her jaw grimly and stared him down. Years of pain in her eyes gave her a strength Dr. Lecter had not expected and he looked away.
"Dr. Lecter, the charges against you are kidnapping and capital murder," she began. "Specifically,--," she stopped again. Her hand tightened down on the gun's grip and she dropped it to the ground as if afraid she might lose control and shoot him.
"Specifically, the kidnapping and murder of a federal officer. Special Agent Clarice M. Starling."
Charlene trembled and bit her lip to steel herself. The legalities were done. Now she could speak to him from her own heart. And she had only one thing to say to him. As she spoke her voice picked up its usual drawl as her emotional control began to fray.
"You killed my aunt, Dr. Lecter," she said coldly. "Now you're going to pay." She glanced at the tall agent, who nodded at her approvingly. Mr. Crawford would also be pleased with her. She watched them stuff Dr. Lecter in the back of the patrol car and stared at him through the prisoner screen for several moments. There was nothing resembling sympathy or warmth in her face.
She didn't notice the older woman behind her finally turn and flee, sobbing.