2.

-- --

His colleagues parted like the Red Sea to allow him access. Mr Crawford nodded his acknowledgement and carefully stepped across the police line. He was dimly aware of a small gathering of nurses along the corridor, a junior sister in their midst being served hot therapeutic tea after her discovery.

The body was still seated in its chair outside Starling's room, a pool of congealing blood at its feet and a flask of coffee still clutched in one hand. The officer's assailant had slit his throat while he slept in one deft movement and there had been no time to react.

Manoeuvring around the body Crawford winced. The officer's eyes were missing, not gouged but carefully removed so that the tail of the optic nerve could be seen dangling from the orbits.

'Lecter,' he hissed.

It had to be him, he had a connection to Clarice and no-one else had the balls to walk carefree along a hospital corridor murdering armed police officers and precisely removing organs with apparently no fear of being caught.

'He probably ate them, sautéed them or something,' the junior officer by his side quipped. Crawford shot him and angry glance.

'What about Starling?' he asked, 'She ok?'

'Evidence suggests he was in her room, sir' the junior conceded, 'He left some stuff in there.'

'What kind of stuff?'

'Candlesticks, a flower, and a drawing.'

It sounded too much like his style.

'A drawing of?'

'Some classical thing, naked lady draped over a bed, looked a bit like Special Agent Starling actually. He left a poem too. Guess he must have been there a while to draw something so detailed, I mean man you could see everything...'

'Did he hurt her?' Crawford snapped.

'Well no, he just kind of... tidied up her room.' The junior was bemused. 'He didn't touch her.'

Crawford frowned, his eyes falling on the empty sockets of his dead colleague. 'What's he playing at? She's as vulnerable as she has ever been and he kills her guard rather than her and decorates her damn room. '

'Mr Crawford?'

'What?' the junior was really irritating him now.



'Agent Starling is awake, sir.'

-- --

"For he hears the lamb's innocent call.
And he hears the ewe's tender reply.
He is watchful while they are in peace.
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh."

Blake of course, but I think it is fitting, Clarice.

H.

She rested the paper on her lap and read over the words again, glancing at the drawing he had made beneath it, an altogether too flattering depiction of herself in repose; it was tasteful and she found herself wondering if he had drawn it from life, his eyes moving over her while she slept just as his hand moved over the paper sculpting her shape. No, he would never take advantage of her in that way, it was unbecoming to him. He had drawn from imagination, depicting her like a goddess.

She read the poem again. The handwriting was familiar and elegant, his stylish calligraphy instantly recognisable and she felt her mind struggling to wake in order to make sense of the quotation. It had meaning, everything Lecter said did, and she did not mistake his reference to 'lambs,' for starters.

Around her a nurse buzzed busily while her attending doctor flicked through the charts and observations at the base of her bed. Beyond him she could see the candelabra Lecter had left and a single fresh picked lotus flower, its petals tinged with pink and moist with dew. Lotus flowers... they rang a distant bell.

'Special Agent Starling,' the doctor addressed her snapping her from her reverie. 'I'm very glad to be able to speak to you at last, you have made a remarkable recovery but even so we were quite astonished to find you awake this morning.'

'When can I leave?' she asked pointedly.

'Clarice, you've been here for three weeks, you've suffered some serious injuries and only just regained consciousness. While it's doubtless that you're doing well I...'

'When can I leave?'

'I would advise you to remain here, for your own well being...'

Clarice cut him off with a glare. 'My own wellbeing? Hannibal Lecter was in my room last night. He killed the guy who was supposed to be watching me...' there was a click and Crawford let himself into her room, pushing the door to behind him. Clarice glanced up and then continued, her voice struggling to restrain her anger and hoarse from lack of use. 'He killed the guy who was supposed to be guarding my room, he removed his eyes... and you're trying to convince me to stay for my own wellbeing?'

Even as Clarice protested at her colleagues' ineffectiveness in her protection something in her told her that Lecter would never hurt her, he would consider it rude. She just wanted out of there, something was brewing. He had killed and the place would be crawling with cops, he wouldn't be visiting here again, but she felt sure he was out there, waiting. The idea was exhilarating and she felt oddly more alive than she had since his departure six months before.

'Going home would be just as dangerous Clarice if not more so, he knows where you live, he's been there remember.'

'Well I'm not staying here.'

Just let me out of here and let me find out what he wants.

'You aren't ready to leave the hospital Clarice, it would be against medical advice,' the doctor said levelly.

'I can discharge myself if I want to,' she replied, 'And I can discharge you too Mr Crawford, you can't stop me going home.'

'Clarice!'

'If he wants to find me he'll find me, no-one can stop him, you certainly didn't manage to last night.' She picked up Lecter's note and held it out to him.

''He is watchful while they are at peace',' she quoted. 'He's mocking you Mr Crawford. Why do you think he took the eyes, because you guys weren't being watchful; because he is.'

Crawford looked down at the paper scanning the words.

'I'm going home, Mr Crawford, and I'll sign anything you need me to sign, but you can't stop me.'

'You know we'll have to search your house, give you a guard.'

Clarice laughed. 'Do whatever you need to do Mr Crawford.'

He eyed her carefully unable to judge if this change in her was due to her injuries or the shock of having Lecter find her in hospital. She seemed reckless, like she had come unhinged. Starling hadn't been the same since Hannibal Lecter had vanished. Her work had become sloppy, she took risks she would never have taken before. She was changed. Crawford bit his lip; the bastard had got to her. Now he had to figure out how best to keep her safe without pushing her over the edge entirely.

'If you insist on leaving...' he began.

'I do.'

'Then at least let us offer you protection.'

'Fine.'

Crawford glanced at the doctor who shook his head. The both sensed they weren't going to win this one.

'We'll need time to put things in place...'

With a swift movement Clarice disconnected the drips from her arms, pulling the cannulas from her veins so that the blood spilled over her hands. A nurse dived to her side to try and stem the flow but 

Clarice shrugged her away, disentangling herself from the monitors still attached to her body, their alarms sounding as they came away.

'I'm leaving today,' she said, 'I'm leaving now.'

-- --

Of course he had already paid a call to her apartment. On her arrival, chauffeur driven by a reluctant Crawford and two plain clothes cops, she found the place crawling with forensics who were diligently fingerprinting her furniture. He had, by any standard, been a considerate caller and there were no signs of forced entry. The place was spotless and tidy and once again he had left flowers which scented the stale air of the rooms shut up for weeks on end. It amused her to find that he had even stocked her fridge with a variety of fine food and wine. Upstairs she found her sheets had been changed and her bed things laid out for her. Another lotus flower on her folded nightdress and a carafe of water by the bed.

'You know what Mr Crawford, I'm tired, do these guys really have to do this, it's not like we don't know it was him.'

'Clarice this is a crime scene.'

'It's a crime to clean my house? Get me a few bits in to eat?'

'This isn't a joke, he's a very dangerous man,' Crawford said seriously. Clarice rolled her eyes, 'very dangerous' didn't really cover it. He caught her look and grew angry. What was she thinking? 'Clarice I'm not happy about this at all, we can arrange a safehouse for you, we just have to lift the phone.'

'This morning you were telling me it'd take so long to arrange I'd be as well staying in hospital. No Mr Crawford I'm staying here tonight.'

'Well Jack will stay with you in the house,' he gestured at the officer currently ensconced in her favourite arm chair, 'and there will be two officers on the door, more surveying the street.'

Jack waved from her chair, 'Hey Agent Starling.'

'He's not staying in the house.'

'Clarice...'

'He's not staying in the house. If they want to stand outside they can but I don't think Lecter is going to teleport into my living room and take me by surprise. He might be good, but he's not that good. He still has to open doors to get in; he still has to get past whoever you stick outside the building.'

'This isn't the time to be stubborn Clarice,'

'It never used to bother you.'



Finally they went and she locked the doors behind them, pulling the curtains and reclaiming her privacy and her armchair. Curling in it painfully she withdrew Lecter's note from her purse and read it again, a wave of fatigue and emotion washing over her.

Clarice closed her eyes and let the realisation fall over her without protest. In the last six months his voice had been a constant presence in her head, the lambs a constant presence in her dreams. There had been no respite from either and the events of her everyday life had lost their importance. Her job no longer held satisfaction for her, she isolated herself from those around her and drifted into a darker place altogether. A decade before she had allowed him into her mind, believing she was strong enough to deal with the consequences. But he had slowly taken root there. Gradually, day by day, his hold on her had grown stronger and when she realised it, it was too late.

'Would you ever say to me Clarice, 'Stop, if you loved me you'd stop?''

She had been unable to stop him when he escaped from the lake house, paralysed by the single kiss he had planted on her lips, paralysed by the realisation that she could never take his freedom or change his ways. She had sensed then that it was all over that if he had only asked she would have gone with him. But he would never ask; he would never put her in that position. Ever the gentleman he would wait for her to come to her own conclusions, however painful, however long it took.

As she waited, the light fading from outside and the glow of candles filling the room, she knew that what would follow had been almost inevitable from the start of their relationship. He had probably planned it, teasing her over the years which had passed, going about his business safe in the knowledge that one day she would give in.

They know their Shepherd is nigh...

Yes, he probably was.

She hoped he was.

The hours ticked by.