Disclaimer: THOMAS HARRIS created Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and
Paul Krendler. (Dr. Waterman and Buddy Riggins are my own creations.)
They are used without permission, but are used for entertainment purposes
ONLY for readers of fan fiction. No infringement of copyright is intended,
and the author, and/or maintainers of this site make no profit, of any kind
Title: SCRAMBLED (Formerly Known As Enjoy Your Breakfast)
Author's note: I will write in the first person for Dr. Lecter's own thoughts and words. He can only speculate what other people think and say, based upon his keen sense of picking up the truth in others, and from what Clarice did tell him about her time of incarceration in the mental institution.
Also, I wanted to give some credit to Clarice Starling as a more intelligent, strong woman than some fan fiction portrayals of her. She is a seasoned F.B.I. agent. In this rendering of her, I keep in mind her high code of moral ethics and conviction, obviously causing an unbearable struggle within her. What will be her ultimate choice?
Set at the end of the Hannibal movie version.
PART ONE:
I asked her, "Tell me, Clarice? Would you ever say to me? Stop. . If you loved me, you'd stop."
In the second it took her to respond, her mind was on overload. Some ridiculous song lyrics ran through her head-I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE, BUT I WON'T DO THAT. The combination of the morphine, fear and a stirring of a feeling she didn't want to admit to her herself also simultaneously filled her thoughts before she answered. "Not in a thousand years."
"Not in a thousand years," I repeated. My mouth loomed towards hers, opened, teeth bared. Clarice couldn't move even if she wasn't frozen with fear because I had shut the refrigerator door on her hair. She was sure I was to going rip her face off, but I stopped and smiled with some sort of perverse approval "That's my girl."
I witnessed involuntary tears spill down her cheeks because she didn't really mean what she had said to me.
I came toward her face once more, bestowing a tender kiss on her lips.
It was now or never Clarice said to herself. CLICK.
I arched one eye open, then the other, and slowly broke our kiss. I looked down, seeing Clarice had handcuffed her wrist to mine. I heard the distant approach of police sirens and helicopters coming to arrest me. "Now that's really interesting.Clarice," I mused momentarily. I'm really pressed for time, so where is the key?" I asked patiently. She stood mute. "Where's the key?" I asked again with far less patience. She still refused to answer me.
"Okay," I said in a resigned voice, picking up a nearby butcher's meat cleaver. I shoved Clarice's cuffed hand on the counter and touched the cleaver to either side of the cuff. "Above or. below the wrist.Clarice?" Clarice was stoically brave as she braced herself for her hand to be severed. I raised the cleaver and hesitated for a moment, as I was contemplating some things.
"This is really going to hurt," I said finally as I brought the razor sharp cleaver down with all of my strength. The anticipated pain and harsh yank from the cuff, made Clarice scream out before it registered, there really wasn't any real pain. She forced herself to look. I had precisely calculated to strike the part of the handcuff on my own wrist where the steel lock was, which did break the lock. However, I did catch a part of my own hand. Just below my little finger, atop my hand, and blood gushed from the deep cut. I fled out the patio door, just as the law enforcement officers stormed the front and back doors.
PART TWO:
The next memory Clarice had was waking up, very groggy in the restraint of a straightjacket. Underneath her restraints, she was dressed in hospital pajamas. She looked about and seemed to be in a padded cell. She was so confused. She began to scream for help.
After several minutes and an officious appearing doctor, which she presumed was a psychiatrist, entered her cell. "How are you feeling, Miss Starling?" he inquired, with what lacked genuine concern.
"I'm feeling like shit!" she retorted loudly. "What in the hell is going on? Why I am I here like this?"
"I'm Dr. Waterman," he introduced himself. "I work for the F.B.I. I am one of the resident psychiatrists for the agency to help treat agents who have become emotionally unstable. or worse." his voice trailed off.
"What do you mean? Or worse?" Clarice obviously demanded a better explanation.
"This is a very delicate and rather complicated situation," Dr. Waterman said. "Technically, you were arrested for aiding and abetting the escape of Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
"But I didn't," Clarice protested. "I tried to arres."
Dr Waterman interrupted her mid sentence. "You have been officially dismissed from the F.B.I, I'm afraid, under psychiatric circumstances. In other words, the Bureau doesn't feel you were totally responsible for your actions any longer."
"That's ludicrous!" Clarice roared. "I'm perfectly sane. I.."
Again, the doctor cut her off. "There is quite a bit of evidence that indicates otherwise. Agent Paul Krendler's brain was dissected while he was still alive, according to a post mortem examination. There were pieces of cooked brain tissue on a plate. Your fingerprints were on that same plate and also on the silverware beside it."
"I NEVER touched it!" Clarice protested. "His brain, I mean. I was dry heaving with revulsion at the very sight of it when Dr. Lecter."
"When Dr. Lecter did what?"
"Nothing. Never mind," she said quietly.
"In fact, your fingerprints were found all over Agent Krendler's vacation house. And when you were found, you were wearing designer clothing, like you were an invited dinner guest."
Finally Clarice broke down. "It was Dr. Lecter, who did all of that to Paul Krendler." Tears started rolling down her face, feeling she was being so disloyal to Dr. Lecter.
"And you just sat there at the dinner table in your evening gown, sipping your wine and drinking your broth, calmly?" he asked in an accusing tone. "Everyone in the Bureau knew you despised Agent Krendler because he had suspended you."
"I tried to save Agent Krendler. I even grabbed a butcher knife off of the table to try to stop things."
"Yes, we found your fingerprints on that chef's knife, as well, as some trace pieces of Agent Krendler's brains. And if all of what I have already told you weren't damning enough, ex, and I do mean EX, Special Agent Starling," Dr. Waterman continued, "we did a thorough medical examination on you when you were first brought in. There was traces of saliva on your lips, which matches Dr. Lecter's DNA."
"He kissed me," she said softly, remembering how the kiss had felt.
"So were you also lovers?"
"Never!" Clarice yelled now. "Didn't your stupid DNA tests show you that?"
"Yes, you were checked for semen. There wasn't any. Of course, Dr. Lecter could have worn a condom," Dr. Waterman said sarcastically.
"That's disgusting!" she shot back.
He looked at her with contempt. 'And your boyfriend, Hannibal Lecter, isn't disgusting? And just between you and I? You're just as disgusting. And you're just as insane. Is that why you let him go free?"
"That's not the way any of it happened! I handcuffed him, but he cut through the cuffs with a cleaver! Didn't you find any of his blood at the scene?"
"Some. Maybe he just cut himself accidentally as you two were hacking up Agent Krendler. Your story doesn't hold up, because Lecter's blood would have splattered on you, had you been so close to be handcuffed to each other."
"Maybe, I.I washed my hands, afterwards. I don't remember." This was the truth in Clarice's mind. There was a gap in her memory. It occurred to Clarice now, she was being blamed or possibly framed for everything.
"Actually most of this is almost besides the point," the doctor went on. "You were on suspension and off this case when you entered upon Mason Verger's property illegally."
Clarice began to know it was pointless to continue to argue, but she made one last attempt to explain her side to Dr. Waterman. "Verger was going to have Dr. Lecter violently murdered. I just couldn't allow that to happen. Dr. Lecter is a human being."
"Really? Dr. Lecter is a human being, so you came to his noble rescue. What about Agent Krendler, Mason Verger and the gentlemen in Italy? Not to mention all of Dr Lecter's other victims, who died grisly, suffering deaths at his hands. Weren't all those people human beings?" Dr. Waterman now spoke with contempt for Clarice.
"Yes." Clarice had to agree sadly. She did truly feel terrible about how hideously they had all died.
"I think you're going to be in here a very long time, Miss Starling. For the rest of your natural life," the doctor sneered.
"I want an attorney!" Clarice demanded. "NOW! I know my rights."
"You have no rights anymore, Miss Starling. Don't you remember your trial?" You've already been found guilty and sentenced here. This is the first time you've even talked coherently to me."
No she didn't remember, but somehow she knew Waterman was telling the truth. She became hysterical and wildly struggled, trying to get the straightjacket off.
"Oh, so you're going to start behaving like that again?" Dr. Waterman observed. "Nurse?" he called out just before he exited the cell, "Bring Miss Starling her usual injection of Thorazine. Only this time, DOUBLE the dosage."
"God dammed you!" Clarice cried out, now realizing that's why she couldn't remember a lot; they had been drugging her for who knows how long.
PART THREE:
My new, palatial, rental home was located in Bangor, Maine. I do greatly enjoy the charm and culture of New England. But in truth, I wanted to be a safe distance away from the manhunt for me, yet still as close as possible to Clarice, who was incarcerated in a mental institution just outside of Washington, D.C. My home was exquisitely furnished on two acres of beautiful, well maintained grounds. I had this latest house in impeccable order, as I always preferred tidiness. I had all of my favorite books, artwork and music and everything else I enjoyed, surrounding me, however, I had lost interest in all of it.
Not only did that trash tabloid, The National Tattler carry the story of Clarice Starling's trial and subsequent conviction to the hospital for the criminally insane, so did all the major newspapers and local television stations. I had followed it all. I watched every news broadcast and read everything anyone wrote about Clarice's case.
As much as I treasured my own freedom, I knew it was at the expense of Clarice's. I knew it was I, if anyone, who rightfully belonged there-not my Clarice. How terribly tragically ironic, I thought. How much she had sacrificed for me. Maybe action did speak much louder than words. I cursed myself for just how foolish I had been, not to bring her along with me, even if it was against her will. It would have been so easy with us joined together by the handcuffs to just sling her over my shoulder and get away. But my feelings had been momentarily crushed by her rejection and betrayal of me that night.
Sipping my tea, I reread some of the newspaper's headlines over and over. Some of the more sensational ones read:
CANNIBAL CLARICE
LECTER'S LOVER
MRS. CANNIBAL LECTER
I had loathed when they wrote such crass words about me; but it was far more insulting to read those words calling Clarice such demeaning names. I took another sip of tea: now it just tasted bitter.
Enough was enough. I knew I was Clarice's only chance, despite the great personal risk I would have to take.
PART FOUR:
Clarice awoke from her drugged sleep because she heard the cell door unlock and stood up unsteadily.
"Breakfast time," a cheery voice, which sounded familiar, said.
She blinked in disbelief. It was Paul Krendler dressed like a hospital orderly. "Paul," she gasped, "you're alive. We can get this all cleared up now. Please. Despite our past differences, help get me out of here", she implored.
Paul simply smiled at her as he rolled a serving cart into the room. "Are you ready for breakfast, Agent Starling?" He seemed respectful and friendly, so contrary to the way he had always addressed her or talked down to her before.
"What happened to you calling me a cornpone, country pussy," she couldn't refrain from asking incredulously.
He looked slightly puzzled, still smiling, "Why would I call a beautiful lady like you such derogatory names?"
She dropped the subject. What did it matter? He was alive; maybe he could clear her of some of the charges now. Just his very existence was proof enough of a lot. She must have imagined that whole nightmare at his vacation home because of all the drugs they had been giving her here. Then she looked at the serving card. It was covered with a beautiful linen table cover, with fine china and real silverware resting on it. On her plate was scrambled eggs and sausage. A glass of juice and a cup of hot coffee accompanied the meal. This struck her as an odd departure from the plastic ware they always used here. Again, who cared at this point? Paul Krendler was all that mattered. "Paul, please, say you'll tell them all you're still alive."
"Sure, Agent Starling, I'll get you out of this jam and even get you your job back. I am your boss," he assured her. "But I want you to eat your breakfast first."
"Paul, I'm not hungry.."
"Eat first, then I'll get you out of here. I promise, " he said.
Whatever made him happy at this point. Although he was acting strange, she'd eat if it would please him. She started to dig into the eggs, but he shook his head. "They're not done yet," Krendler said. Then he lifted off the top of this own skull, exposing his brains. He took a large spoon and began scooping his own brains into the eggs, then stirred the revolting combination together.
Clarice stared in abject horror.
"I know how you southern gals like brains and scrambled eggs," he smiled widely, waiting for her approval.
Clarice found herself screaming at the top of her lungs. Suddenly Paul, the cart, and vile meal all vanished. She was hallucinating. She slid down the wall in utter despair.
PART FIVE:
After a long period of extensive shopping for two days, l spread out everything I had purchased on my king sized bed.
I decided a dress rehearsal was in order to make certain everything looked genuine. First, I picked up the very high quality made toupee. It was lush and longer than my own sleek hair, sandy blonde in color with graying temples. Once I applied it to my head and arranged the false hair just right, it really did look like real hair, not a hairpiece. Next came the false mustache and beard, which coordinated with the toupee's coloring perfectly. I had been fortunate to find such a perfect color match at the authentic costume supply store. I followed the instructions and glued the facial hair on.
I then selected the next item I had acquired from a ladies cosmetic counter: some Sudden Change type product, which was purported to reduce the appearance of lines and wrinkles for up to eight hours. I was dubious about how well this product would work, but have had neither the time nor inclination to get a real face-lift and possibly be recognized. Then I picked up the ugly black-framed glasses with Coke bottle looking lenses, which were really just clear glass. I had hoped these would make me look, what was that word? Geeky? And so the glasses did give my face the desired geek effect. As for the clothes: a cheap, men's casual shirt, baggy jeans, and cheap, white tennis shoes, complete with white socks.
I surveyed my image carefully in a full-length mirror. Yes, I did look as slovenly as how most men in America dress these days. Now for the indispensable last items: the fake hospital ID, which read John Piper, R.N. and all of the forged paperwork I would need to make my plan work. Good thing I did have some contacts in low places, especially a local, expert forger acquaintance.
Though the overall effect looked cheap, it had in fact, cost me a small fortune to put all of this together so quickly. The wrinkle cream worked partially, in lessening my facial lines. Finally I was satisfied my disguise was good enough to most likely fool the hospital staff. The final touch now: a simple wedding band, which I placed on my left hand, ring finger. Subconsciously, I knew adding the wedding ring was more for my benefit, than to aid in the disguise.
I left the older, somewhat rusted Chevy sedan in the hospital staff parking lot. I tried to walk with a little slump, rather than in my usual graceful gait. I had made into the hospital and up to Clarice's floor with virtually no notice, except for a head nurse who asked who I was. In my best American, regional dialect, I answered her politely. I was a new transfer, gesturing to my authentic looking badge pinned to the nurse's smock I had picked up along the way. She accepted my answer without further question.
Now it was going to get harder. I had a new harpy in the pocket of the nurse's smock just in case things went wrong. I vowed to myself I would use it on whoever tried to get in my way if necessary. I approached the head orderly on Clarice's floor with the appropriate paperwork.
The head orderly was a large, muscular, younger man who stood up, glaring at me carefully. I started to put my right hand into the pocket, grasping the weapon. This man might be a problem.
"Who are you, man?" The orderly asked sternly. His name badge read Buddy Riggins.
Buddy. I grinned inwardly. What a trailer trash name; it fit him so appropriately. I just nodded politely to acknowledge him and replied " John Piper". I handed Buddy the paperwork as I continued speaking. "I'm supposed to take the patient, Clarice Starling, downstairs for some further psychological tests and an E.E.G."
Buddy eyed me suspiciously. "Dr Waterman just left ten minutes ago. He never mentioned Starling was going down for any tests." His voice was curt.
His rude manner irritated me so much; it took everything in my power not to just gut this man like a fish. But outwardly I kept my professional mannerism shining.
Then Buddy grinned. "Just between the two of us, Piper, that Starling is one hot, babe. Maybe I'll rape her some dark night," he laughed. He had crossed the line now. I would have killed him, had my first priority not been to get Clarice out of here unnoticed.
Buddy sensed something in my ominous silence. "Hey, Piper, something wrong?"
"Uh, no, I really just don't have time to bull shit and talk. I need to get Miss Starling downstairs now, or it will be my ass. You know how it is."
"Yeah, the administrators and doctors are a bunch of shitheads. They'll bust your ass for anything around this joint, if you screw up."
"Right," l agreed. He could have told me the moon was made from green cheese, and I would have agreed with him because I was running out of time. If Dr. Waterman came back he would indeed say there were no tests scheduled for Clarice today. "Could you give me the key to Miss Starling's cell now if you've read the forms?" I asked, still trying to sound calm and patient.
"Yeah, okay, man." He tossed a set of keys to me. "Cell 116."
"Thank you." l said as I reached for a nearby wheelchair.
"Wait a minute," Buddy said. What had he caught onto I wondered to myself, preparing to slice his throat. But I wasn't familiar with how they ran things here precisely. Buddy said, "Don't you want me to sign this? Procedure, remember?"
"I didn't think you needed to be reminded of procedure,' I said, trying to cover my error. "Yes, please sign the forms." Buddy signed, and he kept his copy, then I proceeded to locate Clarice's cell. I quickly found the right key, and opened her cell door.
Clarice only saw a figure pushing something rolling towards her. "NOOOO!" she yelled, "no food, no more brains and eggs, PLLEEASSSEEEE!!"
I am never rattled, but I confess I was stunned at her condition: her irrational screaming, the straightjacket, and her hair tangled and dirty. She was slumped against the far wall. I wanted to tell her more than anything it was me, Hannibal, and I had come to get her out of here, but she was so hysterical, I thought better of it. She might become more hysterical or even scream out my real name. I would tell her the truth once we were in the car, I decided.
In the still false American voice, I said with the most soothing tone possible. "No, Miss Starling. It isn't time to eat. I'm here to take you downstairs for some tests. Now, let me help you into the wheelchair, so I can take you down the elevator." She offered no protest as I gently lifted her rubbery like body into the chair. Her spirits really appeared broken. I only hoped her mind hadn't been broken too, beyond ever coming back to sanity.
She sat in the chair like a zombie as I casually wheeled her out, handing the keys back to Buddy on the way.
On the staff elevator ride downstairs; it was only the two of us, fortunately. She was shaking now, so I gingerly patted her knee. "It's going to be all right, Miss Starling." Mistake. She noticed the scar on my left hand where I had sliced deep into my hand with the meat cleaver.
"Doc.tor.Lec...ter." she uttered.
"Pardon?" I showed no emotion or possible understanding of what she had just spoken.
Then she saw my pretend wedding band. My scar was only another hallucination Clarice must have reasoned by what she said next. "Is your wife pretty, Mr, uh?"
"John Piper, R.N. And, yes, my wife is very lovely." At this point, I drifted further into this vein with these thoughts: she would be utterly breathtaking, if she were you, my dear, Clarice.
"Any kids?" she asked.
"Uh, yeah, two." I answered without much thought, still playing the role of John Piper outwardly.
"Must be nice to have a family."
Is that what you would like, Miss Starling? A family? Children?" I was so curious to know her real feelings on the matter.
"It will never happen," Clarice said.
I couldn't help myself from offering these words, which followed. "You never know. You might be surprised. Sometimes life can take the sweetest turnabouts. Your future husband could be very close by"
"Not in my case," she replied glumly. "I lost the only man I'll ever love forever. We were just too different for it to ever work out"
Though she sounded dejected, my heart soared at what I had just heard her say, without knowing it was I. So I was certain she was speaking the truth to a stranger, whose opinion didn't matter.
PART SIX:
We had made it out of the hospital, through a seldom-used employee exit. I pushed the wheelchair a bit faster now, until we were at my car. I opened the passenger door, and lifted Clarice into the seat, and then I went around to the driver's side, got into the car and turned the ignition key. My plan had been executed perfectly. And I was so very elated. I thought as I pulled out of the parking lot: at last. She's mine now, only mine.
Clarice must have fallen asleep because she had no recollection of being placed into the car, but now she woke and saw out of the window that we were driving on a highway. "Nurse Piper, I thought I was being taken for tests, not for a long drive." Clarice started to panic.
"Change of plans. My orders are now to take you to another hospital facility, better equipped for the tests."
Several miles away, I decided we were safe for the moment and parked the car on a side road. I produced my harpy, and resumed my natural voice. "Hello.. Clarice. I can drop the charade now."
"You ARE Dr Lecter."
"Yes." I began to remove my disguise,
Seeing the lethal harpy, Clarice announced," Well, go ahead then kill me for trying to arrest you at Krendler's place. My life is over anyway as I knew it."
She now welcomed the blade of my weapon to end her pain and hopelessness. Instead, I started cutting through the straightjacket to free her from her restraints. Once that was done, I said, "I have so missed you, Clarice.Have you missed me, hmm?" I leaned over to kiss her, but she turned her head away. "Very well, what you said to me on the elevator shall sustain me for now. I understand you are still extremely drugged and very confused." I also reasoned this in my own mind.
"Where are we going?" As if she really had any say in the matter.
"My home."
Resigned to the inevitable, she drifted back to sleep. When she stirred once more, we were back on the highway, headed toward Maine. But she believed the restraints were back across her chest. She clawed at them franticly. I saw what was happening. "It's only your seatbelt, for your safety."
She ignored me and continued to try to break free of the belt. "Stop it!" I ordered, reaching over with one free hand, the other on the wheel, to stop her hands from clawing and flailing. "The way you have been falling asleep, sliding all about the seat, you could be injured if I had to come to a stop, abruptly. Your beautiful face might hit the windshield."
"I have to pee," Clarice announced. "It's been hours in the car."
"Or is that just a badly thought out ploy so you can try to escape from me, once I'd stop the car. Even if you did manage to escape me, where, pray tell, would you go? I am the only friend you have left," I stated the obvious.
She bent her head, knowing what I said was true.
"And really, Clarice your vocabulary still leaves much to be desired. A proper lady would say. I have to visit the lavatory or powder my nose." Sometimes her lack of proper manners and incorrect usage of English exasperated me.
"Okay, I have to urinate? Is that better?"
"Not much." I shot her a quick glance of disapproval. "Very well, if you really have to relieve yourself, you understand I shall have to go with you to make certain you won't try something foolish."
"I can't pee with you watching me!" she said, mortified.
"I will not watch that part, only your face, all right?" There was logic behind my conditions. I figured if she really had to go, she would be desperate enough to agree to my presence nearby. Otherwise, if she refused to let me stand there, she really didn't have to go, and it was merely a feeble attempt to try to escape.
I pulled the car into some secluded woods. It was getting dark now. "Clarice, I know you deserve the dignity of a real ladies room, but we can't risk being seen in a public place. I helped her out of the car. I could see her legs and balance were still very wobbly, so I put my arm around her shoulder to stabilize and support her as she tried to walk. "The drugs haven't wore off yet, Clarice." I explained
"They were giving me heavy doses of Thorazine"
"No wonder. That's one of the strongest drugs that exist. It should be reserved only for the dire patients.
"And I haven't really used my leg muscles in several months, besides," she added.
"After you take care of your business, would you care for a bit of food?" I offered.
"No thanks. Not with what you like to cook," she answered sarcastically.
I felt a bit offended. "Clarice, I assure you, I packed items I knew you would approve of and enjoy. Turkey sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a thermos of hot coffee."
"No fava beans either!" she bleated. Where was this coming from right now, I wondered?
Clarice went on. "I remember when we first met in your cell, years ago, you told me you ate a man's liver with fava beans!" Then she started gagging and vomiting followed. I was distressed at the sight. Oddly, her vomiting caused me to grimace when there were so many more, what many called gruesome things I had indulged in and savored. So I certainly wasn't squeamish.
Some of her regurgitation landed on my white tennis shoe. But I didn't care about that, since I was going to burn this entire disguise. Then it hit me. It wasn't her vomiting, which bothered me. It was the fact she was sick, and I was powerless to help her. After nothing more came up, Clarice informed me she still had to urinate, but needed my assistance, since her legs just wouldn't hold her. I helped slip off her pajama bottoms, then turned away like a gentlemen, while she eliminated. When she finished, I then helped pull her bottoms up again. Perhaps, this was good, I thought. The vomiting and urination might expel the drugs from her system a little faster.
We got back into the old Chevy, and I turned the key, but the car wouldn't start after several attempts. This was one of the extremely rare times I was stumped. I was very accustomed to driving fine automobiles, but had no mechanical inclinations as far as how to repair them. This I always left to a competent mechanic.
"Do you think it's the battery, Clarice?"
"How would I know?" But she did know. "Why did you buy this piece of junk, anyway?"
"I didn't want to draw any sort of out of place attention to myself when I broke you out of the asylum. Naturally, this isn't my primary car." Again, I turned the key and nothing.
"Let me see," Clarice reached under the driver's dashboard as she pulled out some various wires.
We shall never get this car started now, l mused to myself.
But then suddenly I heard the engine roar to life. "Bad ignition switch," she informed me. I looked at her in amazement. She never ceased to surprise me.
"Dr. Lecter, I have been with the F.B.I. for 10 years, including a lot of undercover fieldwork. I should have picked up some street smarts in all that time."
PART SEVEN:
It was about a week later at my home in Maine. I had given Clarice her own bedroom, where I never intruded. If anything were to transpire romantically between us, she would have to give me a signal, indicating it was okay to proceed. I wouldn't push myself on her.
By now, all of the Thorazine had worn off, and Clarice found she was beginning to feel like her old self, dressing in her bedroom. She again opened the expansive walk in closet. Hannibal had bought her all sorts of the finest label, designer clothing; mostly all dresses and dress suits, since he disliked pants on women. There were matching shoes and handbags to go with all of the clothing, also all designer labels.
In the jewelry box on her dresser, contained some very nice jewelry: a couple of diamond tennis bracelets, earrings, necklaces, and several rings, set with costly stones. One ring set appeared to be at least a three Karat diamond, mounted into an engagement ring/wedding band set. However, Hannibal had made no reference whatsoever to this stunning ring set. She turned her attention to the private bathroom, adjoining her room. It was stocked with every beauty product imaginable any woman could ever want: from perfumes, to hair care products, make-up and so much more. All name brand, all very costly, Clarice knew.
She sat down on her bed to think, now that her head was clear. She didn't have any other place to go now. Dr. Lecter was the only one who seemed to care about her. He was the only person who made her feel----Safe. The other part of what she felt for him was getting harder to deny. She loved him and found him very attractive. But she had some equally repellent feelings for him. He was at least 25 years older than her, and that was the least of it. Despite his charm and class, she knew beneath it was a cold-blooded, serial killer, who had tortured and murdered a now unknown, high number of people, eating body parts from several victims. How could she ever reconcile the evil in him with all her loving thoughts, and how well he had treated her? It was so conflicting. Finally she decided it would never all fit together in some neat, logical order in her mind.
Actually, her predicament now was ALL because of him: the loss of her job, her conviction, and commitment to the sanctorum. Directly or indirectly, he had caused her to lose it all.
A soft rap at her door interrupted any further thought. "Come in," Clarice called out. I entered her room in yet another finely tailored suit, as was my custom to always dress well for dinner.
Clarice stared at me momentary. What was she thinking?
God, he looked so handsome. Too handsome, so she looked away, pretending to be retrieving her jewelry box.
"Excellent choice of gowns, my dear," I said approvingly.
"I know you like this green one best."
I gazed at her exquisite beauty, which the dress complimented. "Are you ready for dinner yet?"
"Almost. I know how you like me to dress perfectly for dinner, so I was just applying some finishing touches."
I smiled. "Yes, dear, but do hurry along, before dinner begins to get cold," I suggested as I left the room, shutting the door behind me.
All week no weird organs or suspicious, unidentifiable, looking meat had appeared at the table, so Clarice was starting to relax. She was hungry and looking forward to some delectable dinner and wine.
When she descended the staircase and entered the dining room, she saw the elegantly prepared table and place settings. A beautiful floral arrangement and tapered candles also adorned the table. I already had started filling her plate with some tantalizing appetizers. She could smell chicken cooking in the kitchen as well. I stopped long enough to pull her chair out for her to be seated.
"Everything smells great, Dr. Lecter."
"Clarice," I felt disappointed. " Haven't I asked you to call me Hannibal?"
"Yes. Hannibal."
After a wonderful dinner, we were drinking coffee, sitting together on the sofa in my living room.
"Tell me.Hannibal? What is this supposed to mean, if anything?" She opened her palm to show me the engagement/wedding ring set.
I smiled. "Yes or no?"
Clarice couldn't speak; instead the tears again started welling up in her eyes.
I took her tears as a sign of her being so touched. I took the set from her palm, and gently placed it on her left hand, ring finger. Then I leaned over to kiss her. This time she didn't turn her head away. After a moment, I sweetly broke the kiss. "So I take that as a yes?" I asked hopefully.
Her unexpected reply came. "No."
"I see," I said stiffly, quickly rising from the sofa. Clearly, I felt scorned. All week, I felt she was giving me small signals of encouragement, not to mention what she said on the elevator to someone she thought was a complete stranger, admitting her true feelings. I took a few paces and turned to her. "And so, Clarice, would you prefer I put on some romantic music and get down on one knee?" There was displeasure in my voice. "Clarice, I thought we past such trivial formalities, however. Maybe that is what would please you. I suppose it is the proper, traditional way of making a proposal of marriage." I searched her face for some clue, wondering if I was approaching this all wrong because, for once, I had become too emotionally involved to read her correctly anymore on this one issue. So it was time for the direct approach.
"Do you love me, Clarice?"
"In a way, I do love you, Hannibal." she spoke carefully. "But I can never forget what you are, no matter how hard I've tried."
"A man in love is what I am, now. Hannibal the Cannibal is dead, if only you will say yes." I offered sincerely. "You know I do not lie."
"So, it's like a bribe? You'll quit killing people if I marry you?" she asked bluntly. "I'm surprised at you, Hannibal. I thought you had more integrity than that."
"Oh, Clarice, how unromantic you make it sound. But. I suppose you could misunderstand it as a remnant of our old Quid Pro Quo. But it's not. I would stop to please you. Not as a trade off."
Clarice surprised me again, folding her arms, staying seated. "Okay, let's say, hypothetically, I did marry you. How long, I wonder, would it take for you to grow bored with me?"
"That wouldn't happen." I really believed that.
"Are you sure, Hannibal?" she pressed on with her possible theory. "I think the reason you want me so much, is because I have been something unattainable. Every man loves the thrill of a good chase for a woman who plays hard to get."
"I won't deny that," I admitted. "I have very much enjoyed our games, and my pursuit of you."
"So after you tired of the sex with me, tired of my personality, my presence in general, then you'd probably kill me too."
"Never, Clarice.Not.. in a thousand years..." I said. Then I walked over to her, bent down, took her hand and kissed it gently.
I knew I was convincing because I spoke only the truth. I sensed Clarice start to melt inside.
"I am an older man, now. Hasn't it occurred to you maybe I'm tired of running and playing too many harsh games now? It's time I retired with the woman I love. I hope you know you are the only woman I have ever loved in my entire life."
"Yeah, I already knew that."
She gulped hard, her resolve beginning to waiver. No, she told herself, I have to remain strong.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal, the answer is still no. I won't marry you." Suddenly her voice rose, filled with malice. " Hell, you've ruined my life!"
This statement enraged me. "Ruined your life?" I mocked. "I just rescued you from the depths of a lifetime in hell from that asylum, at great risk to my own freedom and possibly very life."
"Thanks. Now I'm still in a prisoner in an insane asylum---your house," she shot back. Then she stood to face me, screaming "And I never asked you for help, you bastard!"
I felt my hand draw back, as if I was going to backhand slap her across the face. "You ungrateful." Hitting her was something only the type of men like Buddy resort to. I dropped my hand and I lunged, opened mouth at her face. I stopped short of biting, regaining some of my composure, but I was still angry and breathing hard
Clarice just glared at me. "You said you had changed? I don't think so. Your actions now just proved it."
I felt rage, hurt and sorrow at her harsh words, so I turned away abruptly, indicating the argument was over, and strode out of the room rapidly.
"Don't forget these!" Clarice yanked off the ring set and threw them at my walking feet. But I never even paused to look back.
Tears welled in Clarice's eyes. She felt she deserved an Oscar for that performance.
PART EIGHT:
In the few days that followed, there was little exchange between us. One morning, Clarice entered the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe. I was already up, dressed and making breakfast.
"Good morning," Clarice offered sheepishly.
My tone was polite, but detached. "Good morning." I never paused to even look at her as I continued to whip something up in a bowl with a wire whisk.
"Hannibal, about the other night?" she started to approach me. "I'm sorry. You know what a temper I can have at times." She offered a small grin I could see from the corner of my eye, but I still wouldn't look directly at her.
"It's all right, Clarice." But it wasn't. And we both felt it. There was a chasm between us, which never before existed.
"I really am sorry," she repeated as humbly as possible. She touched my arm lightly.
I still ignored her. "Would you hand me that chef's knife over there, Clarice, if you would be so kind?"
Uh, oh. She thought to herself. What was he up to now?
"Clarice, the knife, please?" So I can chop the onions?"
"Uh, sure." Trembling she picked it from the end of the counter and slowly handed it to me, not knowing what to expect next.
But "Thank you," was all I merely said.
"I'm hungry, so what are you making?" She peeked into the bowl and saw I was scrambling raw eggs. She couldn't help but gagging.
"Something wrong?" I asked?
She grew pale. "I can't eat those."
"Oh, yes, I remember you shouting about your hallucinations when I first entered your cell. I assure you, there are.no brains about." Now I looked at her for first time and grinned sadistically. "There is no one to harvest them from.at hand."
Her voice shook. "Except me? I know your head games."
"Nonsense. You're being paranoid," I dismissed her words. However, this was a good opportunity to say something. "But, Clarice, please bear in mind, though I don't follow baseball, three strikes and you're out, I believe is the expression?" You have already betrayed me twice. Putting yourself back on my case when I was trying live to in peace in Florence, causing all the mayhem, which ensued."
"But it was Mason Verger who."
"Then trying to handcuff me at Mr. Krendler's home, so I would be arrested and put away forever back into the dungeon.Even my patience does have its limits. Now if you don't want the eggs, I shall prepare you something else, hmm?"
"H..hannibal, could have the rings back? Maybe I'll reconsider?" she asked hopefully.
"No," I have already reconsidered." My voice was cold.
PART NINE:
Another month passed. At least now, Clarice and Hannibal were back on rather civil terms, their fight seemingly forgotten.
Again it was morning as Clarice padded in, wearing her robe and nice slippers. Once again Hannibal was making breakfast.
"Good morning, Clarice, would you like my French toast for breakfast again?" I offered.
"No, but there is something else I really would like." she said lightly brushing my hand.
"Hmm? What's that?" I asked expectantly.
"To get some fresh air."
".Oh." I halfway rolled up my eyes. My patience was really wearing thin. Was she just teasing me now? I just looked at her as if she were daft. "You know I cannot allow that."
"Hannibal, I have been here over 5 weeks and have made no attempt to run off. I didn't mean to insult you when we had that argument, but this house is sort of starting to become like a prison cell." Clarice said.
"Nonsense, you're free to move about anywhere in this house," I countered.
I want to go outside, to the store. Anywhere. Before I do go crazy," she implored.
"Perhaps, I might consider taking you for a bit of shopping, if I knew I could trust you."
"You can."
I chuckled in amusement.
"We both know the law is after me too, after you broke me out of the mental institution,"
"Yes, they are. You're as wanted by the authorities now as I. And everyone knows by now it was me who rescued you from the asylum, putting us into further collusion in public opinion. I suspect that is the only reason, you haven't tried to escape from me, yet." I concluded. "You have nowhere else to hide."
Clarice continued to reason with me on that note. "So if you did allow me out in public, I'd be fool to make a scene, wouldn't I?"
I nodded in agreement. "I would think so. But knowing that temper of yours, you don't always behave in your own best interests."
"I promise I won't say or do anything stupid, if you let me out of here for a while," she pleaded. "Please?"
"Very well," I finally decided. "We can breakfast out today. Then perhaps a bit of shopping afterwards might be fun. I will even give you spending money if you would care to purchase items of your own choosing."
Clarice was elated. "Terrific! Thank you."
Then I gave her that look. The look I knew still frightened her. "But remember, Clarice," I said, cupping her chin so our eyes met. "If you break your word to me," I warned. "I won't hesitate to kill you or anyone else around us. Is that clear?"
"Yes, clear." She shivered slightly as she was forced to stare into my now menacing eyes; she knew I wasn't bluffing.
I released her chin. Straightening myself, I became the polite Hannibal, once more. "I shall help you select your clothes for our outing," I announced enthusiastically, as though it had been my idea to go out from the beginning.
PART TEN:
At the shopping mall, Clarice looked rather clumsy trying to keep up with my stride in the 5-inch stiletto pumps she was wearing with her green dress suit. I had insisted she wear this outfit, however she wasn't accustomed to skinny heels that high. And she also hated the black wig atop her head.
Clarice had used the expression to describe me today: I was dressed to the nines, in a finely tailored suit; I also sported a fedora on my head and dark sunglasses, to lessen my chances of being recognized.
"Hannibal," she said finally as she started lagging behind, "I can't keep up with you in these stupid shoes."
"No?" I stopped and waited for her to catch up to me.
"These shoes are ridiculous for walking through the mall. Besides, I thought you had better taste."
"Those shoes are a bit gauche, but I selected them for a reason, Clarice. To lessen the chance of you trying to sprint away from me. I know what a proficient runner you are."
"Were, past tense," she corrected. I haven't jogged in ages." And my head is itching and hot from this wig. I hate it."
"Well, we can dye your hair black before our next outing."
"I don't want black hair!"
I was glancing now in a showcase in front of a men's clothing store. "You also don't want to be recognized." I was distracted, only for a moment it seemed, from Clarice, for the first time today to admire the men's designer suits."
I suppose this is when she silently slipped off one of the pumps, taking advantage of my one moment of diversion. I started to turn back to look at her. She caught my temple with the spiked heel. Simultaneously, she stomped down with her other still shod foot, driving that heel into my instep, unsteadying my balance. Before I could react, she pushed both hands into my chest as hard as she could, causing me to fall backwards through the plate glass store window.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal," I heard her say as I felt my body crashing backwards through the window.
As I hit the floor inside the shop, I observed Clarice run away. Several panicky clerks offered me assistance, asking what happened. But I got to my feet on my own, brushing away their extended helping hands.
One clerk offered to call an ambulance, but I assured them all, I was fine, even though blood ran from my temple.
I allowed her the chance on purpose to see what she would do. Stay or run. Now I had my answer.
Clarice was still running 4 miles away from the mall. Her bare feet were bruised, cut and bleeding. Hannibal hadn't known for the last 5 weeks; she was exercising her legs for hours at night in secret. Or had he?
PART ELEVEN:
Several weeks later, Clarice was still pondering her dilemma if she should just turn herself in or keep running. She felt very guilty about what she had done to Hannibal, including using the large amount of cash he had given her for shopping that morning. But it was all she had to live on. Clarice felt she really wasn't devious by nature. It was just the opposite. She was too righteous for her own good; she remorsefully had to admit to herself.
She decided on New Mexico for the moment. It was a long way from Maine or Washington, D.C. She had chosen an inexpensive, although clean hotel. She just needed some time alone to decide what to do now.
It was about 9.a.m, she noted as she was putting on her new jogging shoes for her morning run. A knock came to the door. She normally didn't order room service or dine in the hotel restaurant in order to conserve money, but she had become so sick of cheap, greasy, fast food. And she didn't feel like sitting in the hotel's restaurant alone, surrounded by noisy diners this morning.
"Room service," a male voice announced.
She cautiously opened the door; her nerves were still raw.
She surveyed the waiter, pushing the cart. He was a young black man.
"Thanks," Clarice forced a smile, handing him a ten. " Keep the change."
"Thank you, Miss. Enjoy your breakfast." The man said, as he exited.
Clarice pulled up a chair to the cart, hoping the pancakes would be decent. She lifted the lid off of her plate. She gaped in disbelief and terror at the sight: the scrambled eggs and brains, which lay on the plate. There was a little card beside the plate she noticed then. It only read:
STRIKE THREE.
Clarice sprang from the chair. She turned around to bolt for the door.
"Hello, Clarice." I said.
She felt my hand cover her mouth before she could scream. Then came a sharp, piercing pain into her neck and I know---for her---everything faded to black.
THE END
Title: SCRAMBLED (Formerly Known As Enjoy Your Breakfast)
Author's note: I will write in the first person for Dr. Lecter's own thoughts and words. He can only speculate what other people think and say, based upon his keen sense of picking up the truth in others, and from what Clarice did tell him about her time of incarceration in the mental institution.
Also, I wanted to give some credit to Clarice Starling as a more intelligent, strong woman than some fan fiction portrayals of her. She is a seasoned F.B.I. agent. In this rendering of her, I keep in mind her high code of moral ethics and conviction, obviously causing an unbearable struggle within her. What will be her ultimate choice?
Set at the end of the Hannibal movie version.
PART ONE:
I asked her, "Tell me, Clarice? Would you ever say to me? Stop. . If you loved me, you'd stop."
In the second it took her to respond, her mind was on overload. Some ridiculous song lyrics ran through her head-I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE, BUT I WON'T DO THAT. The combination of the morphine, fear and a stirring of a feeling she didn't want to admit to her herself also simultaneously filled her thoughts before she answered. "Not in a thousand years."
"Not in a thousand years," I repeated. My mouth loomed towards hers, opened, teeth bared. Clarice couldn't move even if she wasn't frozen with fear because I had shut the refrigerator door on her hair. She was sure I was to going rip her face off, but I stopped and smiled with some sort of perverse approval "That's my girl."
I witnessed involuntary tears spill down her cheeks because she didn't really mean what she had said to me.
I came toward her face once more, bestowing a tender kiss on her lips.
It was now or never Clarice said to herself. CLICK.
I arched one eye open, then the other, and slowly broke our kiss. I looked down, seeing Clarice had handcuffed her wrist to mine. I heard the distant approach of police sirens and helicopters coming to arrest me. "Now that's really interesting.Clarice," I mused momentarily. I'm really pressed for time, so where is the key?" I asked patiently. She stood mute. "Where's the key?" I asked again with far less patience. She still refused to answer me.
"Okay," I said in a resigned voice, picking up a nearby butcher's meat cleaver. I shoved Clarice's cuffed hand on the counter and touched the cleaver to either side of the cuff. "Above or. below the wrist.Clarice?" Clarice was stoically brave as she braced herself for her hand to be severed. I raised the cleaver and hesitated for a moment, as I was contemplating some things.
"This is really going to hurt," I said finally as I brought the razor sharp cleaver down with all of my strength. The anticipated pain and harsh yank from the cuff, made Clarice scream out before it registered, there really wasn't any real pain. She forced herself to look. I had precisely calculated to strike the part of the handcuff on my own wrist where the steel lock was, which did break the lock. However, I did catch a part of my own hand. Just below my little finger, atop my hand, and blood gushed from the deep cut. I fled out the patio door, just as the law enforcement officers stormed the front and back doors.
PART TWO:
The next memory Clarice had was waking up, very groggy in the restraint of a straightjacket. Underneath her restraints, she was dressed in hospital pajamas. She looked about and seemed to be in a padded cell. She was so confused. She began to scream for help.
After several minutes and an officious appearing doctor, which she presumed was a psychiatrist, entered her cell. "How are you feeling, Miss Starling?" he inquired, with what lacked genuine concern.
"I'm feeling like shit!" she retorted loudly. "What in the hell is going on? Why I am I here like this?"
"I'm Dr. Waterman," he introduced himself. "I work for the F.B.I. I am one of the resident psychiatrists for the agency to help treat agents who have become emotionally unstable. or worse." his voice trailed off.
"What do you mean? Or worse?" Clarice obviously demanded a better explanation.
"This is a very delicate and rather complicated situation," Dr. Waterman said. "Technically, you were arrested for aiding and abetting the escape of Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
"But I didn't," Clarice protested. "I tried to arres."
Dr Waterman interrupted her mid sentence. "You have been officially dismissed from the F.B.I, I'm afraid, under psychiatric circumstances. In other words, the Bureau doesn't feel you were totally responsible for your actions any longer."
"That's ludicrous!" Clarice roared. "I'm perfectly sane. I.."
Again, the doctor cut her off. "There is quite a bit of evidence that indicates otherwise. Agent Paul Krendler's brain was dissected while he was still alive, according to a post mortem examination. There were pieces of cooked brain tissue on a plate. Your fingerprints were on that same plate and also on the silverware beside it."
"I NEVER touched it!" Clarice protested. "His brain, I mean. I was dry heaving with revulsion at the very sight of it when Dr. Lecter."
"When Dr. Lecter did what?"
"Nothing. Never mind," she said quietly.
"In fact, your fingerprints were found all over Agent Krendler's vacation house. And when you were found, you were wearing designer clothing, like you were an invited dinner guest."
Finally Clarice broke down. "It was Dr. Lecter, who did all of that to Paul Krendler." Tears started rolling down her face, feeling she was being so disloyal to Dr. Lecter.
"And you just sat there at the dinner table in your evening gown, sipping your wine and drinking your broth, calmly?" he asked in an accusing tone. "Everyone in the Bureau knew you despised Agent Krendler because he had suspended you."
"I tried to save Agent Krendler. I even grabbed a butcher knife off of the table to try to stop things."
"Yes, we found your fingerprints on that chef's knife, as well, as some trace pieces of Agent Krendler's brains. And if all of what I have already told you weren't damning enough, ex, and I do mean EX, Special Agent Starling," Dr. Waterman continued, "we did a thorough medical examination on you when you were first brought in. There was traces of saliva on your lips, which matches Dr. Lecter's DNA."
"He kissed me," she said softly, remembering how the kiss had felt.
"So were you also lovers?"
"Never!" Clarice yelled now. "Didn't your stupid DNA tests show you that?"
"Yes, you were checked for semen. There wasn't any. Of course, Dr. Lecter could have worn a condom," Dr. Waterman said sarcastically.
"That's disgusting!" she shot back.
He looked at her with contempt. 'And your boyfriend, Hannibal Lecter, isn't disgusting? And just between you and I? You're just as disgusting. And you're just as insane. Is that why you let him go free?"
"That's not the way any of it happened! I handcuffed him, but he cut through the cuffs with a cleaver! Didn't you find any of his blood at the scene?"
"Some. Maybe he just cut himself accidentally as you two were hacking up Agent Krendler. Your story doesn't hold up, because Lecter's blood would have splattered on you, had you been so close to be handcuffed to each other."
"Maybe, I.I washed my hands, afterwards. I don't remember." This was the truth in Clarice's mind. There was a gap in her memory. It occurred to Clarice now, she was being blamed or possibly framed for everything.
"Actually most of this is almost besides the point," the doctor went on. "You were on suspension and off this case when you entered upon Mason Verger's property illegally."
Clarice began to know it was pointless to continue to argue, but she made one last attempt to explain her side to Dr. Waterman. "Verger was going to have Dr. Lecter violently murdered. I just couldn't allow that to happen. Dr. Lecter is a human being."
"Really? Dr. Lecter is a human being, so you came to his noble rescue. What about Agent Krendler, Mason Verger and the gentlemen in Italy? Not to mention all of Dr Lecter's other victims, who died grisly, suffering deaths at his hands. Weren't all those people human beings?" Dr. Waterman now spoke with contempt for Clarice.
"Yes." Clarice had to agree sadly. She did truly feel terrible about how hideously they had all died.
"I think you're going to be in here a very long time, Miss Starling. For the rest of your natural life," the doctor sneered.
"I want an attorney!" Clarice demanded. "NOW! I know my rights."
"You have no rights anymore, Miss Starling. Don't you remember your trial?" You've already been found guilty and sentenced here. This is the first time you've even talked coherently to me."
No she didn't remember, but somehow she knew Waterman was telling the truth. She became hysterical and wildly struggled, trying to get the straightjacket off.
"Oh, so you're going to start behaving like that again?" Dr. Waterman observed. "Nurse?" he called out just before he exited the cell, "Bring Miss Starling her usual injection of Thorazine. Only this time, DOUBLE the dosage."
"God dammed you!" Clarice cried out, now realizing that's why she couldn't remember a lot; they had been drugging her for who knows how long.
PART THREE:
My new, palatial, rental home was located in Bangor, Maine. I do greatly enjoy the charm and culture of New England. But in truth, I wanted to be a safe distance away from the manhunt for me, yet still as close as possible to Clarice, who was incarcerated in a mental institution just outside of Washington, D.C. My home was exquisitely furnished on two acres of beautiful, well maintained grounds. I had this latest house in impeccable order, as I always preferred tidiness. I had all of my favorite books, artwork and music and everything else I enjoyed, surrounding me, however, I had lost interest in all of it.
Not only did that trash tabloid, The National Tattler carry the story of Clarice Starling's trial and subsequent conviction to the hospital for the criminally insane, so did all the major newspapers and local television stations. I had followed it all. I watched every news broadcast and read everything anyone wrote about Clarice's case.
As much as I treasured my own freedom, I knew it was at the expense of Clarice's. I knew it was I, if anyone, who rightfully belonged there-not my Clarice. How terribly tragically ironic, I thought. How much she had sacrificed for me. Maybe action did speak much louder than words. I cursed myself for just how foolish I had been, not to bring her along with me, even if it was against her will. It would have been so easy with us joined together by the handcuffs to just sling her over my shoulder and get away. But my feelings had been momentarily crushed by her rejection and betrayal of me that night.
Sipping my tea, I reread some of the newspaper's headlines over and over. Some of the more sensational ones read:
CANNIBAL CLARICE
LECTER'S LOVER
MRS. CANNIBAL LECTER
I had loathed when they wrote such crass words about me; but it was far more insulting to read those words calling Clarice such demeaning names. I took another sip of tea: now it just tasted bitter.
Enough was enough. I knew I was Clarice's only chance, despite the great personal risk I would have to take.
PART FOUR:
Clarice awoke from her drugged sleep because she heard the cell door unlock and stood up unsteadily.
"Breakfast time," a cheery voice, which sounded familiar, said.
She blinked in disbelief. It was Paul Krendler dressed like a hospital orderly. "Paul," she gasped, "you're alive. We can get this all cleared up now. Please. Despite our past differences, help get me out of here", she implored.
Paul simply smiled at her as he rolled a serving cart into the room. "Are you ready for breakfast, Agent Starling?" He seemed respectful and friendly, so contrary to the way he had always addressed her or talked down to her before.
"What happened to you calling me a cornpone, country pussy," she couldn't refrain from asking incredulously.
He looked slightly puzzled, still smiling, "Why would I call a beautiful lady like you such derogatory names?"
She dropped the subject. What did it matter? He was alive; maybe he could clear her of some of the charges now. Just his very existence was proof enough of a lot. She must have imagined that whole nightmare at his vacation home because of all the drugs they had been giving her here. Then she looked at the serving card. It was covered with a beautiful linen table cover, with fine china and real silverware resting on it. On her plate was scrambled eggs and sausage. A glass of juice and a cup of hot coffee accompanied the meal. This struck her as an odd departure from the plastic ware they always used here. Again, who cared at this point? Paul Krendler was all that mattered. "Paul, please, say you'll tell them all you're still alive."
"Sure, Agent Starling, I'll get you out of this jam and even get you your job back. I am your boss," he assured her. "But I want you to eat your breakfast first."
"Paul, I'm not hungry.."
"Eat first, then I'll get you out of here. I promise, " he said.
Whatever made him happy at this point. Although he was acting strange, she'd eat if it would please him. She started to dig into the eggs, but he shook his head. "They're not done yet," Krendler said. Then he lifted off the top of this own skull, exposing his brains. He took a large spoon and began scooping his own brains into the eggs, then stirred the revolting combination together.
Clarice stared in abject horror.
"I know how you southern gals like brains and scrambled eggs," he smiled widely, waiting for her approval.
Clarice found herself screaming at the top of her lungs. Suddenly Paul, the cart, and vile meal all vanished. She was hallucinating. She slid down the wall in utter despair.
PART FIVE:
After a long period of extensive shopping for two days, l spread out everything I had purchased on my king sized bed.
I decided a dress rehearsal was in order to make certain everything looked genuine. First, I picked up the very high quality made toupee. It was lush and longer than my own sleek hair, sandy blonde in color with graying temples. Once I applied it to my head and arranged the false hair just right, it really did look like real hair, not a hairpiece. Next came the false mustache and beard, which coordinated with the toupee's coloring perfectly. I had been fortunate to find such a perfect color match at the authentic costume supply store. I followed the instructions and glued the facial hair on.
I then selected the next item I had acquired from a ladies cosmetic counter: some Sudden Change type product, which was purported to reduce the appearance of lines and wrinkles for up to eight hours. I was dubious about how well this product would work, but have had neither the time nor inclination to get a real face-lift and possibly be recognized. Then I picked up the ugly black-framed glasses with Coke bottle looking lenses, which were really just clear glass. I had hoped these would make me look, what was that word? Geeky? And so the glasses did give my face the desired geek effect. As for the clothes: a cheap, men's casual shirt, baggy jeans, and cheap, white tennis shoes, complete with white socks.
I surveyed my image carefully in a full-length mirror. Yes, I did look as slovenly as how most men in America dress these days. Now for the indispensable last items: the fake hospital ID, which read John Piper, R.N. and all of the forged paperwork I would need to make my plan work. Good thing I did have some contacts in low places, especially a local, expert forger acquaintance.
Though the overall effect looked cheap, it had in fact, cost me a small fortune to put all of this together so quickly. The wrinkle cream worked partially, in lessening my facial lines. Finally I was satisfied my disguise was good enough to most likely fool the hospital staff. The final touch now: a simple wedding band, which I placed on my left hand, ring finger. Subconsciously, I knew adding the wedding ring was more for my benefit, than to aid in the disguise.
I left the older, somewhat rusted Chevy sedan in the hospital staff parking lot. I tried to walk with a little slump, rather than in my usual graceful gait. I had made into the hospital and up to Clarice's floor with virtually no notice, except for a head nurse who asked who I was. In my best American, regional dialect, I answered her politely. I was a new transfer, gesturing to my authentic looking badge pinned to the nurse's smock I had picked up along the way. She accepted my answer without further question.
Now it was going to get harder. I had a new harpy in the pocket of the nurse's smock just in case things went wrong. I vowed to myself I would use it on whoever tried to get in my way if necessary. I approached the head orderly on Clarice's floor with the appropriate paperwork.
The head orderly was a large, muscular, younger man who stood up, glaring at me carefully. I started to put my right hand into the pocket, grasping the weapon. This man might be a problem.
"Who are you, man?" The orderly asked sternly. His name badge read Buddy Riggins.
Buddy. I grinned inwardly. What a trailer trash name; it fit him so appropriately. I just nodded politely to acknowledge him and replied " John Piper". I handed Buddy the paperwork as I continued speaking. "I'm supposed to take the patient, Clarice Starling, downstairs for some further psychological tests and an E.E.G."
Buddy eyed me suspiciously. "Dr Waterman just left ten minutes ago. He never mentioned Starling was going down for any tests." His voice was curt.
His rude manner irritated me so much; it took everything in my power not to just gut this man like a fish. But outwardly I kept my professional mannerism shining.
Then Buddy grinned. "Just between the two of us, Piper, that Starling is one hot, babe. Maybe I'll rape her some dark night," he laughed. He had crossed the line now. I would have killed him, had my first priority not been to get Clarice out of here unnoticed.
Buddy sensed something in my ominous silence. "Hey, Piper, something wrong?"
"Uh, no, I really just don't have time to bull shit and talk. I need to get Miss Starling downstairs now, or it will be my ass. You know how it is."
"Yeah, the administrators and doctors are a bunch of shitheads. They'll bust your ass for anything around this joint, if you screw up."
"Right," l agreed. He could have told me the moon was made from green cheese, and I would have agreed with him because I was running out of time. If Dr. Waterman came back he would indeed say there were no tests scheduled for Clarice today. "Could you give me the key to Miss Starling's cell now if you've read the forms?" I asked, still trying to sound calm and patient.
"Yeah, okay, man." He tossed a set of keys to me. "Cell 116."
"Thank you." l said as I reached for a nearby wheelchair.
"Wait a minute," Buddy said. What had he caught onto I wondered to myself, preparing to slice his throat. But I wasn't familiar with how they ran things here precisely. Buddy said, "Don't you want me to sign this? Procedure, remember?"
"I didn't think you needed to be reminded of procedure,' I said, trying to cover my error. "Yes, please sign the forms." Buddy signed, and he kept his copy, then I proceeded to locate Clarice's cell. I quickly found the right key, and opened her cell door.
Clarice only saw a figure pushing something rolling towards her. "NOOOO!" she yelled, "no food, no more brains and eggs, PLLEEASSSEEEE!!"
I am never rattled, but I confess I was stunned at her condition: her irrational screaming, the straightjacket, and her hair tangled and dirty. She was slumped against the far wall. I wanted to tell her more than anything it was me, Hannibal, and I had come to get her out of here, but she was so hysterical, I thought better of it. She might become more hysterical or even scream out my real name. I would tell her the truth once we were in the car, I decided.
In the still false American voice, I said with the most soothing tone possible. "No, Miss Starling. It isn't time to eat. I'm here to take you downstairs for some tests. Now, let me help you into the wheelchair, so I can take you down the elevator." She offered no protest as I gently lifted her rubbery like body into the chair. Her spirits really appeared broken. I only hoped her mind hadn't been broken too, beyond ever coming back to sanity.
She sat in the chair like a zombie as I casually wheeled her out, handing the keys back to Buddy on the way.
On the staff elevator ride downstairs; it was only the two of us, fortunately. She was shaking now, so I gingerly patted her knee. "It's going to be all right, Miss Starling." Mistake. She noticed the scar on my left hand where I had sliced deep into my hand with the meat cleaver.
"Doc.tor.Lec...ter." she uttered.
"Pardon?" I showed no emotion or possible understanding of what she had just spoken.
Then she saw my pretend wedding band. My scar was only another hallucination Clarice must have reasoned by what she said next. "Is your wife pretty, Mr, uh?"
"John Piper, R.N. And, yes, my wife is very lovely." At this point, I drifted further into this vein with these thoughts: she would be utterly breathtaking, if she were you, my dear, Clarice.
"Any kids?" she asked.
"Uh, yeah, two." I answered without much thought, still playing the role of John Piper outwardly.
"Must be nice to have a family."
Is that what you would like, Miss Starling? A family? Children?" I was so curious to know her real feelings on the matter.
"It will never happen," Clarice said.
I couldn't help myself from offering these words, which followed. "You never know. You might be surprised. Sometimes life can take the sweetest turnabouts. Your future husband could be very close by"
"Not in my case," she replied glumly. "I lost the only man I'll ever love forever. We were just too different for it to ever work out"
Though she sounded dejected, my heart soared at what I had just heard her say, without knowing it was I. So I was certain she was speaking the truth to a stranger, whose opinion didn't matter.
PART SIX:
We had made it out of the hospital, through a seldom-used employee exit. I pushed the wheelchair a bit faster now, until we were at my car. I opened the passenger door, and lifted Clarice into the seat, and then I went around to the driver's side, got into the car and turned the ignition key. My plan had been executed perfectly. And I was so very elated. I thought as I pulled out of the parking lot: at last. She's mine now, only mine.
Clarice must have fallen asleep because she had no recollection of being placed into the car, but now she woke and saw out of the window that we were driving on a highway. "Nurse Piper, I thought I was being taken for tests, not for a long drive." Clarice started to panic.
"Change of plans. My orders are now to take you to another hospital facility, better equipped for the tests."
Several miles away, I decided we were safe for the moment and parked the car on a side road. I produced my harpy, and resumed my natural voice. "Hello.. Clarice. I can drop the charade now."
"You ARE Dr Lecter."
"Yes." I began to remove my disguise,
Seeing the lethal harpy, Clarice announced," Well, go ahead then kill me for trying to arrest you at Krendler's place. My life is over anyway as I knew it."
She now welcomed the blade of my weapon to end her pain and hopelessness. Instead, I started cutting through the straightjacket to free her from her restraints. Once that was done, I said, "I have so missed you, Clarice.Have you missed me, hmm?" I leaned over to kiss her, but she turned her head away. "Very well, what you said to me on the elevator shall sustain me for now. I understand you are still extremely drugged and very confused." I also reasoned this in my own mind.
"Where are we going?" As if she really had any say in the matter.
"My home."
Resigned to the inevitable, she drifted back to sleep. When she stirred once more, we were back on the highway, headed toward Maine. But she believed the restraints were back across her chest. She clawed at them franticly. I saw what was happening. "It's only your seatbelt, for your safety."
She ignored me and continued to try to break free of the belt. "Stop it!" I ordered, reaching over with one free hand, the other on the wheel, to stop her hands from clawing and flailing. "The way you have been falling asleep, sliding all about the seat, you could be injured if I had to come to a stop, abruptly. Your beautiful face might hit the windshield."
"I have to pee," Clarice announced. "It's been hours in the car."
"Or is that just a badly thought out ploy so you can try to escape from me, once I'd stop the car. Even if you did manage to escape me, where, pray tell, would you go? I am the only friend you have left," I stated the obvious.
She bent her head, knowing what I said was true.
"And really, Clarice your vocabulary still leaves much to be desired. A proper lady would say. I have to visit the lavatory or powder my nose." Sometimes her lack of proper manners and incorrect usage of English exasperated me.
"Okay, I have to urinate? Is that better?"
"Not much." I shot her a quick glance of disapproval. "Very well, if you really have to relieve yourself, you understand I shall have to go with you to make certain you won't try something foolish."
"I can't pee with you watching me!" she said, mortified.
"I will not watch that part, only your face, all right?" There was logic behind my conditions. I figured if she really had to go, she would be desperate enough to agree to my presence nearby. Otherwise, if she refused to let me stand there, she really didn't have to go, and it was merely a feeble attempt to try to escape.
I pulled the car into some secluded woods. It was getting dark now. "Clarice, I know you deserve the dignity of a real ladies room, but we can't risk being seen in a public place. I helped her out of the car. I could see her legs and balance were still very wobbly, so I put my arm around her shoulder to stabilize and support her as she tried to walk. "The drugs haven't wore off yet, Clarice." I explained
"They were giving me heavy doses of Thorazine"
"No wonder. That's one of the strongest drugs that exist. It should be reserved only for the dire patients.
"And I haven't really used my leg muscles in several months, besides," she added.
"After you take care of your business, would you care for a bit of food?" I offered.
"No thanks. Not with what you like to cook," she answered sarcastically.
I felt a bit offended. "Clarice, I assure you, I packed items I knew you would approve of and enjoy. Turkey sandwiches, fresh fruit, and a thermos of hot coffee."
"No fava beans either!" she bleated. Where was this coming from right now, I wondered?
Clarice went on. "I remember when we first met in your cell, years ago, you told me you ate a man's liver with fava beans!" Then she started gagging and vomiting followed. I was distressed at the sight. Oddly, her vomiting caused me to grimace when there were so many more, what many called gruesome things I had indulged in and savored. So I certainly wasn't squeamish.
Some of her regurgitation landed on my white tennis shoe. But I didn't care about that, since I was going to burn this entire disguise. Then it hit me. It wasn't her vomiting, which bothered me. It was the fact she was sick, and I was powerless to help her. After nothing more came up, Clarice informed me she still had to urinate, but needed my assistance, since her legs just wouldn't hold her. I helped slip off her pajama bottoms, then turned away like a gentlemen, while she eliminated. When she finished, I then helped pull her bottoms up again. Perhaps, this was good, I thought. The vomiting and urination might expel the drugs from her system a little faster.
We got back into the old Chevy, and I turned the key, but the car wouldn't start after several attempts. This was one of the extremely rare times I was stumped. I was very accustomed to driving fine automobiles, but had no mechanical inclinations as far as how to repair them. This I always left to a competent mechanic.
"Do you think it's the battery, Clarice?"
"How would I know?" But she did know. "Why did you buy this piece of junk, anyway?"
"I didn't want to draw any sort of out of place attention to myself when I broke you out of the asylum. Naturally, this isn't my primary car." Again, I turned the key and nothing.
"Let me see," Clarice reached under the driver's dashboard as she pulled out some various wires.
We shall never get this car started now, l mused to myself.
But then suddenly I heard the engine roar to life. "Bad ignition switch," she informed me. I looked at her in amazement. She never ceased to surprise me.
"Dr. Lecter, I have been with the F.B.I. for 10 years, including a lot of undercover fieldwork. I should have picked up some street smarts in all that time."
PART SEVEN:
It was about a week later at my home in Maine. I had given Clarice her own bedroom, where I never intruded. If anything were to transpire romantically between us, she would have to give me a signal, indicating it was okay to proceed. I wouldn't push myself on her.
By now, all of the Thorazine had worn off, and Clarice found she was beginning to feel like her old self, dressing in her bedroom. She again opened the expansive walk in closet. Hannibal had bought her all sorts of the finest label, designer clothing; mostly all dresses and dress suits, since he disliked pants on women. There were matching shoes and handbags to go with all of the clothing, also all designer labels.
In the jewelry box on her dresser, contained some very nice jewelry: a couple of diamond tennis bracelets, earrings, necklaces, and several rings, set with costly stones. One ring set appeared to be at least a three Karat diamond, mounted into an engagement ring/wedding band set. However, Hannibal had made no reference whatsoever to this stunning ring set. She turned her attention to the private bathroom, adjoining her room. It was stocked with every beauty product imaginable any woman could ever want: from perfumes, to hair care products, make-up and so much more. All name brand, all very costly, Clarice knew.
She sat down on her bed to think, now that her head was clear. She didn't have any other place to go now. Dr. Lecter was the only one who seemed to care about her. He was the only person who made her feel----Safe. The other part of what she felt for him was getting harder to deny. She loved him and found him very attractive. But she had some equally repellent feelings for him. He was at least 25 years older than her, and that was the least of it. Despite his charm and class, she knew beneath it was a cold-blooded, serial killer, who had tortured and murdered a now unknown, high number of people, eating body parts from several victims. How could she ever reconcile the evil in him with all her loving thoughts, and how well he had treated her? It was so conflicting. Finally she decided it would never all fit together in some neat, logical order in her mind.
Actually, her predicament now was ALL because of him: the loss of her job, her conviction, and commitment to the sanctorum. Directly or indirectly, he had caused her to lose it all.
A soft rap at her door interrupted any further thought. "Come in," Clarice called out. I entered her room in yet another finely tailored suit, as was my custom to always dress well for dinner.
Clarice stared at me momentary. What was she thinking?
God, he looked so handsome. Too handsome, so she looked away, pretending to be retrieving her jewelry box.
"Excellent choice of gowns, my dear," I said approvingly.
"I know you like this green one best."
I gazed at her exquisite beauty, which the dress complimented. "Are you ready for dinner yet?"
"Almost. I know how you like me to dress perfectly for dinner, so I was just applying some finishing touches."
I smiled. "Yes, dear, but do hurry along, before dinner begins to get cold," I suggested as I left the room, shutting the door behind me.
All week no weird organs or suspicious, unidentifiable, looking meat had appeared at the table, so Clarice was starting to relax. She was hungry and looking forward to some delectable dinner and wine.
When she descended the staircase and entered the dining room, she saw the elegantly prepared table and place settings. A beautiful floral arrangement and tapered candles also adorned the table. I already had started filling her plate with some tantalizing appetizers. She could smell chicken cooking in the kitchen as well. I stopped long enough to pull her chair out for her to be seated.
"Everything smells great, Dr. Lecter."
"Clarice," I felt disappointed. " Haven't I asked you to call me Hannibal?"
"Yes. Hannibal."
After a wonderful dinner, we were drinking coffee, sitting together on the sofa in my living room.
"Tell me.Hannibal? What is this supposed to mean, if anything?" She opened her palm to show me the engagement/wedding ring set.
I smiled. "Yes or no?"
Clarice couldn't speak; instead the tears again started welling up in her eyes.
I took her tears as a sign of her being so touched. I took the set from her palm, and gently placed it on her left hand, ring finger. Then I leaned over to kiss her. This time she didn't turn her head away. After a moment, I sweetly broke the kiss. "So I take that as a yes?" I asked hopefully.
Her unexpected reply came. "No."
"I see," I said stiffly, quickly rising from the sofa. Clearly, I felt scorned. All week, I felt she was giving me small signals of encouragement, not to mention what she said on the elevator to someone she thought was a complete stranger, admitting her true feelings. I took a few paces and turned to her. "And so, Clarice, would you prefer I put on some romantic music and get down on one knee?" There was displeasure in my voice. "Clarice, I thought we past such trivial formalities, however. Maybe that is what would please you. I suppose it is the proper, traditional way of making a proposal of marriage." I searched her face for some clue, wondering if I was approaching this all wrong because, for once, I had become too emotionally involved to read her correctly anymore on this one issue. So it was time for the direct approach.
"Do you love me, Clarice?"
"In a way, I do love you, Hannibal." she spoke carefully. "But I can never forget what you are, no matter how hard I've tried."
"A man in love is what I am, now. Hannibal the Cannibal is dead, if only you will say yes." I offered sincerely. "You know I do not lie."
"So, it's like a bribe? You'll quit killing people if I marry you?" she asked bluntly. "I'm surprised at you, Hannibal. I thought you had more integrity than that."
"Oh, Clarice, how unromantic you make it sound. But. I suppose you could misunderstand it as a remnant of our old Quid Pro Quo. But it's not. I would stop to please you. Not as a trade off."
Clarice surprised me again, folding her arms, staying seated. "Okay, let's say, hypothetically, I did marry you. How long, I wonder, would it take for you to grow bored with me?"
"That wouldn't happen." I really believed that.
"Are you sure, Hannibal?" she pressed on with her possible theory. "I think the reason you want me so much, is because I have been something unattainable. Every man loves the thrill of a good chase for a woman who plays hard to get."
"I won't deny that," I admitted. "I have very much enjoyed our games, and my pursuit of you."
"So after you tired of the sex with me, tired of my personality, my presence in general, then you'd probably kill me too."
"Never, Clarice.Not.. in a thousand years..." I said. Then I walked over to her, bent down, took her hand and kissed it gently.
I knew I was convincing because I spoke only the truth. I sensed Clarice start to melt inside.
"I am an older man, now. Hasn't it occurred to you maybe I'm tired of running and playing too many harsh games now? It's time I retired with the woman I love. I hope you know you are the only woman I have ever loved in my entire life."
"Yeah, I already knew that."
She gulped hard, her resolve beginning to waiver. No, she told herself, I have to remain strong.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal, the answer is still no. I won't marry you." Suddenly her voice rose, filled with malice. " Hell, you've ruined my life!"
This statement enraged me. "Ruined your life?" I mocked. "I just rescued you from the depths of a lifetime in hell from that asylum, at great risk to my own freedom and possibly very life."
"Thanks. Now I'm still in a prisoner in an insane asylum---your house," she shot back. Then she stood to face me, screaming "And I never asked you for help, you bastard!"
I felt my hand draw back, as if I was going to backhand slap her across the face. "You ungrateful." Hitting her was something only the type of men like Buddy resort to. I dropped my hand and I lunged, opened mouth at her face. I stopped short of biting, regaining some of my composure, but I was still angry and breathing hard
Clarice just glared at me. "You said you had changed? I don't think so. Your actions now just proved it."
I felt rage, hurt and sorrow at her harsh words, so I turned away abruptly, indicating the argument was over, and strode out of the room rapidly.
"Don't forget these!" Clarice yanked off the ring set and threw them at my walking feet. But I never even paused to look back.
Tears welled in Clarice's eyes. She felt she deserved an Oscar for that performance.
PART EIGHT:
In the few days that followed, there was little exchange between us. One morning, Clarice entered the kitchen, wearing her bathrobe. I was already up, dressed and making breakfast.
"Good morning," Clarice offered sheepishly.
My tone was polite, but detached. "Good morning." I never paused to even look at her as I continued to whip something up in a bowl with a wire whisk.
"Hannibal, about the other night?" she started to approach me. "I'm sorry. You know what a temper I can have at times." She offered a small grin I could see from the corner of my eye, but I still wouldn't look directly at her.
"It's all right, Clarice." But it wasn't. And we both felt it. There was a chasm between us, which never before existed.
"I really am sorry," she repeated as humbly as possible. She touched my arm lightly.
I still ignored her. "Would you hand me that chef's knife over there, Clarice, if you would be so kind?"
Uh, oh. She thought to herself. What was he up to now?
"Clarice, the knife, please?" So I can chop the onions?"
"Uh, sure." Trembling she picked it from the end of the counter and slowly handed it to me, not knowing what to expect next.
But "Thank you," was all I merely said.
"I'm hungry, so what are you making?" She peeked into the bowl and saw I was scrambling raw eggs. She couldn't help but gagging.
"Something wrong?" I asked?
She grew pale. "I can't eat those."
"Oh, yes, I remember you shouting about your hallucinations when I first entered your cell. I assure you, there are.no brains about." Now I looked at her for first time and grinned sadistically. "There is no one to harvest them from.at hand."
Her voice shook. "Except me? I know your head games."
"Nonsense. You're being paranoid," I dismissed her words. However, this was a good opportunity to say something. "But, Clarice, please bear in mind, though I don't follow baseball, three strikes and you're out, I believe is the expression?" You have already betrayed me twice. Putting yourself back on my case when I was trying live to in peace in Florence, causing all the mayhem, which ensued."
"But it was Mason Verger who."
"Then trying to handcuff me at Mr. Krendler's home, so I would be arrested and put away forever back into the dungeon.Even my patience does have its limits. Now if you don't want the eggs, I shall prepare you something else, hmm?"
"H..hannibal, could have the rings back? Maybe I'll reconsider?" she asked hopefully.
"No," I have already reconsidered." My voice was cold.
PART NINE:
Another month passed. At least now, Clarice and Hannibal were back on rather civil terms, their fight seemingly forgotten.
Again it was morning as Clarice padded in, wearing her robe and nice slippers. Once again Hannibal was making breakfast.
"Good morning, Clarice, would you like my French toast for breakfast again?" I offered.
"No, but there is something else I really would like." she said lightly brushing my hand.
"Hmm? What's that?" I asked expectantly.
"To get some fresh air."
".Oh." I halfway rolled up my eyes. My patience was really wearing thin. Was she just teasing me now? I just looked at her as if she were daft. "You know I cannot allow that."
"Hannibal, I have been here over 5 weeks and have made no attempt to run off. I didn't mean to insult you when we had that argument, but this house is sort of starting to become like a prison cell." Clarice said.
"Nonsense, you're free to move about anywhere in this house," I countered.
I want to go outside, to the store. Anywhere. Before I do go crazy," she implored.
"Perhaps, I might consider taking you for a bit of shopping, if I knew I could trust you."
"You can."
I chuckled in amusement.
"We both know the law is after me too, after you broke me out of the mental institution,"
"Yes, they are. You're as wanted by the authorities now as I. And everyone knows by now it was me who rescued you from the asylum, putting us into further collusion in public opinion. I suspect that is the only reason, you haven't tried to escape from me, yet." I concluded. "You have nowhere else to hide."
Clarice continued to reason with me on that note. "So if you did allow me out in public, I'd be fool to make a scene, wouldn't I?"
I nodded in agreement. "I would think so. But knowing that temper of yours, you don't always behave in your own best interests."
"I promise I won't say or do anything stupid, if you let me out of here for a while," she pleaded. "Please?"
"Very well," I finally decided. "We can breakfast out today. Then perhaps a bit of shopping afterwards might be fun. I will even give you spending money if you would care to purchase items of your own choosing."
Clarice was elated. "Terrific! Thank you."
Then I gave her that look. The look I knew still frightened her. "But remember, Clarice," I said, cupping her chin so our eyes met. "If you break your word to me," I warned. "I won't hesitate to kill you or anyone else around us. Is that clear?"
"Yes, clear." She shivered slightly as she was forced to stare into my now menacing eyes; she knew I wasn't bluffing.
I released her chin. Straightening myself, I became the polite Hannibal, once more. "I shall help you select your clothes for our outing," I announced enthusiastically, as though it had been my idea to go out from the beginning.
PART TEN:
At the shopping mall, Clarice looked rather clumsy trying to keep up with my stride in the 5-inch stiletto pumps she was wearing with her green dress suit. I had insisted she wear this outfit, however she wasn't accustomed to skinny heels that high. And she also hated the black wig atop her head.
Clarice had used the expression to describe me today: I was dressed to the nines, in a finely tailored suit; I also sported a fedora on my head and dark sunglasses, to lessen my chances of being recognized.
"Hannibal," she said finally as she started lagging behind, "I can't keep up with you in these stupid shoes."
"No?" I stopped and waited for her to catch up to me.
"These shoes are ridiculous for walking through the mall. Besides, I thought you had better taste."
"Those shoes are a bit gauche, but I selected them for a reason, Clarice. To lessen the chance of you trying to sprint away from me. I know what a proficient runner you are."
"Were, past tense," she corrected. I haven't jogged in ages." And my head is itching and hot from this wig. I hate it."
"Well, we can dye your hair black before our next outing."
"I don't want black hair!"
I was glancing now in a showcase in front of a men's clothing store. "You also don't want to be recognized." I was distracted, only for a moment it seemed, from Clarice, for the first time today to admire the men's designer suits."
I suppose this is when she silently slipped off one of the pumps, taking advantage of my one moment of diversion. I started to turn back to look at her. She caught my temple with the spiked heel. Simultaneously, she stomped down with her other still shod foot, driving that heel into my instep, unsteadying my balance. Before I could react, she pushed both hands into my chest as hard as she could, causing me to fall backwards through the plate glass store window.
"I'm sorry, Hannibal," I heard her say as I felt my body crashing backwards through the window.
As I hit the floor inside the shop, I observed Clarice run away. Several panicky clerks offered me assistance, asking what happened. But I got to my feet on my own, brushing away their extended helping hands.
One clerk offered to call an ambulance, but I assured them all, I was fine, even though blood ran from my temple.
I allowed her the chance on purpose to see what she would do. Stay or run. Now I had my answer.
Clarice was still running 4 miles away from the mall. Her bare feet were bruised, cut and bleeding. Hannibal hadn't known for the last 5 weeks; she was exercising her legs for hours at night in secret. Or had he?
PART ELEVEN:
Several weeks later, Clarice was still pondering her dilemma if she should just turn herself in or keep running. She felt very guilty about what she had done to Hannibal, including using the large amount of cash he had given her for shopping that morning. But it was all she had to live on. Clarice felt she really wasn't devious by nature. It was just the opposite. She was too righteous for her own good; she remorsefully had to admit to herself.
She decided on New Mexico for the moment. It was a long way from Maine or Washington, D.C. She had chosen an inexpensive, although clean hotel. She just needed some time alone to decide what to do now.
It was about 9.a.m, she noted as she was putting on her new jogging shoes for her morning run. A knock came to the door. She normally didn't order room service or dine in the hotel restaurant in order to conserve money, but she had become so sick of cheap, greasy, fast food. And she didn't feel like sitting in the hotel's restaurant alone, surrounded by noisy diners this morning.
"Room service," a male voice announced.
She cautiously opened the door; her nerves were still raw.
She surveyed the waiter, pushing the cart. He was a young black man.
"Thanks," Clarice forced a smile, handing him a ten. " Keep the change."
"Thank you, Miss. Enjoy your breakfast." The man said, as he exited.
Clarice pulled up a chair to the cart, hoping the pancakes would be decent. She lifted the lid off of her plate. She gaped in disbelief and terror at the sight: the scrambled eggs and brains, which lay on the plate. There was a little card beside the plate she noticed then. It only read:
STRIKE THREE.
Clarice sprang from the chair. She turned around to bolt for the door.
"Hello, Clarice." I said.
She felt my hand cover her mouth before she could scream. Then came a sharp, piercing pain into her neck and I know---for her---everything faded to black.
THE END