Companion piece to Chiaroscuro. The author notes on that story extent to this one.
I'm reluctant to mark this story as a romance. I prefer to write relationship fics-romance makes me think of rose-petal strewn beds and slow dancing to Cole Porter. This is not that sort of story. It's two people, drawn inexplicably together and trying to figure out what that means.
Read on...
Hannibal Lecter regained consciousness in a rush, but he remained still, keeping his eyes closed. He was handcuffed at his wrists and ankles, spread-eagle on a mattress. The bedding had a dried lavender scent, but the sick-sweet odor of a septic leach field was nearby. Birds screeched a racket and from the cool breeze, he decided a window was open in the room. A television with the volume low played on the other side of the wall.
He opened his eyes. He lay on a double bed in a small bedroom. Remaining still so the handcuffs didn't clank against the iron bedstead, he turned his head to examine the room. The walls had been painted creamy white recently. Lace curtains fluttered at the window, obscuring the view. Across from the bed, he saw his reflection in a large mirror over a mahogany bureau.
He called out, "Clarice, I'm awake."
The TV went silent and light footfall drew close. She stood in the doorway, hanging onto the jamb.
He'd prepared a proper greeting, but was shocked into saying, "My God, what have you done to yourself?"
She reached up to pull at her cropped, dyed blonde hair. "It's a disguise."
"It's not a disguise; it's an affront."
She pulled her hand down. "When I release you, you'll listen to what I have to say?"
"Yes. I'm very curious."
She unlocked his ankles first, then each arm, moving back smoothly when the last wrist was loose. He allowed her to find a safe distance in the small room before swinging his legs over to sit.
"If you want to clean up, the bathroom's across the hall," she said.
Although she'd wiped his face clean, the stage blood had left a rubbery film. His teeth tasted disgusting and his eyes felt crusted with tar. His bladder sent an urgent message. "Thank you, I will."
"There's fresh clothes, toiletries, anything you need," she said, waving her hand around the room. "I tried to get things you like..."
He checked the drawers, selecting fresh underclothes then chose a pair of ironed slacks and a button-front shirt from the wardrobe. Clarice stepped aside to let him pass. As he closed the bathroom door, she remained in the room, going over every detail again.
Lecter assessed the tight bathroom and found it lacking. The soles of his bare feet curled up, repulsed to be touching the cracked vinyl flooring. The tub was fiberglass, giving off a hollow ring when he stepped in. The plastic shower curtain clung to him and he had to fight it off. Even the water coming from the showerhead was unpleasant, stinking of iron and underlying fecal contamination. He rejected the bottles of grocery store products and shampooed with the familiar European brand in the shower rack. A cake of sandalwood soap passed muster and he lathered twice.
As he toweled off, Clarice tapped on the door. "Don't shave."
He wiped the mirror clear and checked his facial stubble. "All right."
"I think a beard will help as a disguise. And I'll cut your hair short."
"I can manage that myself."
"If you prefer." Her voice sounded as though she were leaning against the flimsy door.
He lay his hand on it and her chuckle vibrated the wood, heating his palm.
"I haven't passed muster as a hairdresser?" she said.
He only replied, "I'll be out shortly."
Once dressed, he followed the thick scent of festering meat into an open kitchen, dining and living area. Bubbling came from a pot on the stove but he couldn't bring himself to investigate. Something also seemed to be baking in the oven, but didn't warrant his attention either.
Through the front screen door, he saw Starling curled on a porch swing under the deep eaves. She wore those curious canvas pants with many pockets and a snug tee shirt. He couldn't tell if a weapon was secreted in one of the pockets, but he wouldn't have doubted it.
He stepped out and waited for her to acknowledge him. She stared across the yard, matted with last summer's yellow weeds. Sprigs of new growth gave a green blush to the surrounding fields. There was one long, low brown barn and a few askew-leaning outbuildings.
She finally looked him over. "The clothes fit?"
"Yes, thank you."
"I better check on lunch," she said, and he followed her back into the kitchen.
The doctor allowed her to stir whatever matter was in the pot, and after she set down the spoon, slammed her into the refrigerator.
"Here we are again," he said mildly.
This time there was no wall clock ticking precious minutes off. Nor did she try to fight him. Her level gaze met his calmly. Her strong wrists were the same weight in his grasp and her pulses were as steady and slow as they'd been that night. There was the subtle scent of the lotion which had been his gift to her.
He settled his superior weight against her slender frame, less for intimidation and more to assure that she couldn't get him off balance and go for a weapon. She still didn't struggle and he became aware of her pliant body as they breathed in unison; she didn't take a breath until he exhaled.
Finally, he broke the silence. "Well, my girl?" he prompted.
"Is this necessary?" she asked.
"I'm angry."
"Why?" She seemed truly puzzled.
He raised his eyebrows. "You have kidnapped me and are holding me against my will somewhere in the countryside."
He sniffed the air. "Someplace outside the sewer lines, but probably still within the reach of the Fairfax area."
"You're the one who's got me held against my will," she pointed out, her pale eyes unreadable.
"Then fight me off," he suggested. "You can retrieve a pair of handcuffs and we'll try this again. This time, I promise not to leave you behind." He was pleased at the emotion that flashed across her face; unreadable but at least the mask had slipped for a moment.
"I thought that was a goodbye kiss. I've always taken you for a man who doesn't give second chances," she said, avoiding his questions. "So imagine my surprise to discover you were in the States, with that ID for me in your possessions."
After giving a short nod, he revealed a bit of his thinking to Clarice. "When I left the country, I continued to watch your descent from a distance. I noted you'd been removed from your beloved fieldwork with all its blazing gun battles." He smiled and dropped his gaze. "...I thought that perhaps you were reevaluating your future."
He chose not to share more. He had talked to Barney as a way to ignore the pain of tiny vessels and nerve endings trying to reconnect between his thumb and hand, even though those exchanges in the orderly's dim, claustrophobic apartment reminded him strongly of the dungeon. But the big man said one sentence in all his endless ramblings which lit up the dusty, dark light: She told me that she thinks of you every day.
She turned out of his slackened grip and moved to the sofa. "Were you going to come strolling out of the Georgia pines wearing a linen suit and carrying a picnic basket containing another special meal?"
"We'll never know," he murmured.
He came to stand over her. "My curiosity is piqued, Clarice. What is all this?"
"I've done a lot of thinking since the Fourth of July. As long as you were free, the authorities were going to hunt you. This time, they were going to kill you."
He cocked his head. "I would count that as my problem, not yours."
He waited for her to acknowledge her motives, but she only set her jaw. "It'd not be right," she said, her rough dialect thick.
"If anything, it is I who is saving you," he suggested. "Now you're out of their reach. Those men were going to see you dead eventually."
"Why would anyone in the Justice department want to kill me?" she sputtered.
"You've made them look like fools."
"They demote people who do that, not kill them," she insisted.
He'd forgotten how stubborn she could be. But he hadn't forgotten another quality. A certain fire had been missing from her eyes since he'd seen her ten years ago-it had burned so bright when they'd met.
"What's happened to your ambition, Agent Starling? You should have been running the bureau by now, or at least Behavioral Sciences." He clasped his hands at his waist. "I must say, absconding with one of the top ten most wanted will not help your advancement."
"That ship sailed, Doctor," she said grimly. "My career's been dead for years."
He rocked back on his heels, then rested his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to spring as always. "And now you expect me to perform the kill? Rather dramatic of you."
She rose and walked past him to the kitchen. "Kill me? Why would you do that?" She removed a pan from the oven, steam rising from the yellow cake it held.
He didn't like the blankness in her voice at all; it wasn't just ambition which was gone. He wondered if she'd suffered a breakdown.
"Because that's what I do," he suggested.
"You told me once that you wouldn't kill me." Her back was still to him as she took down two bowls from a cabinet.
"I will not be kept here," he warned, stepping closer stealthily. "Not even by you."
She ignored his approach and dished out the stew. "I know you the best of anyone. I have build the ultimate prison for you."
He saw red; a deep, heavy wash of anger and fury pounding in his ears.
"I will shelter you in my protection as well as I can and supervise your activities," she told him over her shoulder. "But if you run, I'll follow and if necessary, stop you by force."
She had surprised him yet again. His anger gone, he had to laugh aloud, even if it made her flush under her freckles. She couldn't say the words: I'll kill you
He left that for now and leaned on the counter beside her. "Together, for the rest of our lives?" he said with astonishment.
"Yes."
"It's going to be a long rest of our lives," he said. He lowered his voice. "It'll seem as long as a thousand years."
"I wasn't doing anything anyway." she said with such self-righteous gloom that his irritation returned in a rush. He yanked her close again and expelled his next words into her face like fire.
"Ah, Jean, you're willing to be impaled on a stake? Burn in my flames? Finally become the martyr you've aspired to all these years, sacrificing yourself for the good of all humanity?" When she didn't answer, he kept pushing. "How will you keep me amused for this long life? Stimulated? Eh, Clarice? I'm a man of very complicated and varied tastes."
She spoke to the top button of his shirt but her shoulders were squared with determination. "I'm not scared of you, Doctor. If you end up killing me, so be it. I will have done what I could. You're my responsibility-" Only then did she falter.
"You're not even frightened of being eaten?"
She had regained her composure. Her flat voice resonated into his bones when she said, "You consumed me years ago. I'm dead to the world, chewed up and swallowed. If you need to eat my mortal flesh, I won't give a damn."
"Yes, Clarice, your chosen lamb has teeth," he muttered against her hair. "You've carried me off in the night, but now what?"
She twisted free and carried the bowls to the rickety dining table. "For now, we stay here. You're correct, we're in Virginia, near the border with West Virginia-"
"Was that wise? Surely they'll check all your known places."
"This is a family property, but through my mother. When it transferred to my father, they misspelled the name as Sterling. Then I took possession, but the county assessor refused to change it; what did some little girl know about such things?" She shrugged. "I took the path of least resistance. I've been paying the taxes with a cashier check. There's no way to trace me here. Never mentioned it to friends; haven't visited here in years."
Satisfied with the information, he searched for cutlery in the drawers, and finding it, handed the items to Clarice.
She nodded thanks. "I've been visiting since I was reassigned, thinking about leaving the bureau. After your return, I've set up our backstories here. You're my husband, getting out of prison soon."
"Why not father and daughter? People would find that more believable," he said, mocking.
"No one would believe us as the same genetic material. We're nothing alike."
He smiled to himself.
She added, "Besides, as husband and wife, we can keep others at a distance."
"Don't fret, my dear, I'll beat off any joker tryin' to poach on my land," the doctor said gruffly.
She hissed in reply.
He kept goading her. "And you're correct, of course. Young pretty wife, old coot with the white beard as her hubby, we'll fit right in these parts."
Yanking two paper towels from a roll by the sink, she ignored him. "The authorities will be vigilant at the international borders for at least three months before incompetence causes them to slack off. We'll wait."
With a curl of her lip, she added: I'm assuming you've got our identities set up somewhere in the world-"
"Perhaps."
She narrowed her eyes but he added nothing more. "It will be more difficult to leave the country together-" she pointed out.
"Yes. It would be safer to travel separately."
"I'm sure it would. But we'll wait until our wanted posters have faded a bit. I'm not letting you out of my sight." She raised a defiant chin.
He paced the tight room. "You could always kill me, Clarice."
She didn't reply. The emptiness in her gaze was beginning to concern him.
"As you wish. I'll play your game..For now." Shrugging in mock defeat, he held his arms wide. "On your own personal Anthrax Island."
While she turned the cooled cornbread out onto a plate, he added, "But Clarice, I'm left with one question."
"Hmmm?" she muttered, checking the table over for anything missing.
"What of my punishment?"
That got her attention. "What?"
"How can you let me walk the earth with no punishment for my past crimes? You, a sworn enforcer of the courts-" He watched her worry her lower lip with her small teeth. "Or is this my punishment?"
With studied casualness, she repeated, "What?"
Clucking his tongue to make a hollow sound, he mimed knocking on a Pexi-glass wall.
"Lunch's ready. You oughta be hungry," was her response.
Moving quickly, he pulled out her chair before she could. After a moment of hesitation, she sat. He was honored. He was sure that she rarely allowed her adversaries to be behind her.
He sat across from her and lay the paper towel over his thighs. "I have an appetite, but I'm unsure that there's food to be called dining."
She ignored his critique, and tore off a piece of cornbread, passing it to him before taking another for her.
He nibbled at the bread like an irritated rabbit. "Did you mix sand into this for a reason?"
"That's stoneground cornmeal. It's good for you."
"Any food that's described in that fashion is not good for anything." He worked on one of the stew's beef cubes, grinding down on the tough sinew with his molars. "I shall be doing the cooking from now on."
"Of course," she conceded. She sopped at her stew with a hunk of bread. "I haven't had time to learn much cookin' over the years. Feel free to take over. I tried to get some ingredients I thought you'd need-"
Leaping up from the table, he checked the cupboards and found acceptable olive oil, less than acceptable peppercorns and a round cardboard container of Morton's salt. That he nearly tossed out the window. Imported Italian boxed pasta held faint promise for a simple supper that night...he checked utensils, the freezer, and mentally began a proper shopping list.
"Look at it as a challenge for that stimulation you crave," she suggested, swallowing a chunk of carrot with relish. "Food's just fuel to me." She watched his back stiffen and took a grim glee.
"Let me show you the security precautions I've set up," she said, all business again.
She passed his room to another tiny bedroom filled with dark shapes that turned out to be televisions and computer equipment. The one small window was shielded. She pointed out what was most important to her first.
"The guns are in the lock-box," she said, motioning to a large cabinet hanging on the wall. "The code is 6912." She opened it, displaying several handguns, a shotgun and an automatic rifle.
She looked at him doubtfully. "Do you know how to shoot? I don't remember you ever killing that way."
"I can use a firearm." He wondered if she was trying to intimidate him and then why he didn't know the answer.
"I suppose you would. You know how to do everything, don't you?" She brought the computer out of hibernation. "I've used my time in the cyber division productively, learning a thing or two. They took me off your case, after-but I was able to keep an eye on the investigation with a few clicks."
"Yes, you would want to keep track of me."
"They didn't have much. But it was helpful when you got in that wreck. I was able to begin planning."
He admired the curve of her long neck as she bent over the keyboard. The repulsive shade of her hair was toned down in the dim room.
"I also managed to divert the funds from your bank account to one I set up and then cashed it out," she said.
He wiped the smirk away by saying, "Thus I shall feel free to change what disturbs me in this little dollhouse game you've created."
Her face shuttered, she went on: "There's satellite television and Internet access. A generator down in the root cellar in case we lose power."
She invited him to sit beside her and carefully showed him how to use the different computers. When satisfied he understood, she turned on all the smaller televisions.
"I've set up a basic surveillance system on the property perimeter. An alarm will sound when if it's tripped and these monitors give us some views." One showed a dirt driveway, the others only dense underbrush and fields. "I hope to get some more equipment and make it more extensive, but that depends on how long we stay."
"Yes, it will," he said slowly.
She flipped on the main TV. "Why don't you just sit a while and catch up. You look tired."
The doctor acknowledged he was suffering spells of light-headedness. "I must teach you better pharmacology," he said.
"Sorry about that," she replied with no regret. "Let's see...you enjoy my public humiliation...On MSNBC, I've been driven to do this by my father fixation...my limited sex life is being chronicled on FOX-"
"FOX."
"Of course," she said, handing over the remote control.
As she carefully closed and locked the gun case, he hooted at the commentator on the program. "That ass, James Jones, he of the doctorate printed on toilet tissue-is being allowed to pontificate."
Clarice watched a man with a great mass of facial hair, from which fat lips mumbled convoluted phrases, suggest she suffered from penis envy, leading to her gun obsession.
"Jesus," she said, and he heard the real pain in her voice. He changed the channel to CNN, where the body count from the Torres gang shoot-out was being covered. Stunned, she settled on his chair arm to watch. The doctor suppressed to urge to lie his hand on her blue-jeaned thigh.
"However did you pull that off, Clarice?"
"I'd arrested a guy named Hector Valdez in the past; been in on his interrogations," she said. "We had developed a rapport."
Lecter gave in and lightly cupped her kneecap with his palm.
Intend on the images, she didn't move away. "I knew he was in the Marian cartel; I contacted him, put on the show of the disillusioned FBI agent-"
"Which you are not in the least."
"-And said I could help him get Torres out."
The screen showed a string of gurneys coming out of the courthouse door. Her leg stiffened under his touch. The newscaster gave a death count; all Torres' men.
"Not very effective criminals," he noted.
"It helps that their weapons, supplied by me, were only loaded with blanks."
"That was a great risk," he said.
"I wasn't willing to give up every shred of my integrity for this," she said. "As it is, I'm responsible for those deaths."
He squeezed her knee until her muscles tightened in response. "Clarice, your misguided morality is terribly tiring."
She chuckled bitterly. "We'll see about that. I charged Hector a half a million dollars. It's down in the root cellar too, in the obligatory unmarked, small bills. Our piggybank. I wasn't sure how much more money you had squirreled away and if we'd be able to get to it easily."
"There's enough for our needs."
"Good. And we can add vengeful drug dealers to our list of pursuers." She added as an afterthought, "Sorry."
The story changed to a retread of their escape. They watched a grainy enlargement of background footage showing a slim, tall EMT pushing a gurney with a motionless blood-soaked victim on it. The voice over told them authorities believed this to be Starling and Lecter, leaving right under the noses of law enforcement.
Then the shot changed to Shirley Russell being chased from her front door to her car, yelling, "No comment!" over her shoulder.
"Damn," Clarice said. "She doesn't deserve this."
"What?" the doctor said with disinterest, wanting to change the station back to the inaccurate analysis of the agent's sexual drives.
"She's being crucified for a case she didn't want and a client she didn't particularly like."
"She didn't care for me, did she?" he said thoughtfully. "Suffered along for The Cause. Now, the two of you; I am certain you got along wonderfully." He gave her his cat-grin.
"You insulted her shoes, didn't you? I saw those feet, and went, oh, shit, I bet he didn't keep his mouth shut."
Suddenly, Lecter liked her immensely. "We're going to have fun, Clarice."
She started to return his smile, then her features went still. "It's going to be interesting; not sure about fun. You're right, a long rest of your life lies ahead."
"You plan to outlive me?"
"Damn straight," she said. She rose from the chair and left. He decided if he stayed in this dark room with the flickering screen, he'd fall asleep and he didn't want to do that yet.
Recalling seeing a decent bottle of Chardonnay in a cabinet, he returned to the kitchen.
Armed with a glass of wine, he followed her scent outside and leaned on the porch railing. She was walking through the tall weeds towards a barn.
"Got yourself a pet cannibal now, former Very Special Agent?" he asked the crisp spring air.
He held the heavy, oily wine in his mouth before swallowing. She hadn't done badly in the choice. It was slick and dense, and he let it roll over his palate as his tongue would caress her flesh someday.
"Worried, my little Starling? Asking yourself, whatever have I gotten myself into? Your wings flutter in a cold breeze?"
Truth be told, there was no falter in her step. She strode purposefully, ramrod straight, to the barn. She retrieved a rusted rake and attacked the weeds, tearing them loose from the damp soil and creating great piles. He enjoyed the spectacle until the wine and exhaustion overcame him, and he retired to his bedroom. There was always tomorrow.
~end Chapter One