Chapter Six:
Once dinner was cleared away, exhaustion got the best of the doctor and he retired early after changing the dressings on Clarice's hands. But he woke several times in the night to see her moving in the hall, gun glinting, watching at the windows and doors.
"Go to bed, Clarice. They're not coming."
The shadow outside his open door paused, then moved away.
Over the next few days, Clarice didn't stray far from the house but checked the FBI communications hourly on her computers. She watched certainty of Lecter's identification change to hedging and second-guessing, and finally political ass-covering. The story had been on all the cable news networks for a few days, but the programs showed out-dated photographs of both of them. Without fresh information, the doctor and former agent were soon replaced by new crises. On the morning of the fifth day, even the Bureau had shoved the search onto a back shelf, insuring their safety for now. The doctor chuckled when she passed this on with indignation.
"I told you that everything would turn out all right," he said. Then he added, raising an eyebrow, "One would think you wanted me to be apprehended."
She crossed her arms with a snap of her elbows. "Someday, someone's gonna wipe the smart-ass smile off your face."
"But not someone at the FBI now that you're gone."
She paced the tiny room. "Our schedule will be pushed back by this episode. I don't think we can dare try to leave the States until the end of August at the earliest."
He moved into the hall to give her more space. "I thought you said the danger had passed," he pointed out impatiently.
"The ass-covering extends to ensuring that we're on the watch list at the airports, even if we're not really here," she said dryly.
"Perhaps we should drive to Mexico and then fly out from there," he suggested.
"Too many things can happen with that amount of time. Look what happened when you were on the road," she said, brushing past him. "No, we need a quick strike, get out of the country in an hour or two."
He watched her pass through the back door. Let her go hack at the weeds which dared to grow in her garden. He would add to his wall murals if they were stay.
But when he poked his head out the kitchen window to call her in for lunch, there was no sign of her. After days of staying within sight of her house and weapons, he couldn't believe she'd leave.
Worried, he began to search.
xox
"More coffee?" Ava Kreet asked her guest from the doorway of her house.
"Thanks much," said Clarice, giving the older woman a grateful smile as she held out her cup. She sat on the Kreet's front porch, perched on the edge of a saggy old couch.
After returning the coffee pot to the kitchen, Mrs. Kreet settled back in her own chair, and swept an examining gaze over Clarice's bland visage.
The former agent knew to hold her features, giving nothing away. Her hostess was obviously an accomplished investigator herself. Ava Kreet tried a new tack. She'd probed, cajoled and laid traps, all in an attempt to find out the past of 'Beatrice Lambert.'
Clarice continued to sidestep, and put forward her own questions. "I fret 'bout Don-T, you see. Worry he'll fall back in with the wrong crowd. It's not his nature to be trouble. Just gets in with the bad sort."
"I've seen it," Ava said with a nod, slurping on her own black coffee.
"I'm sure you know everyone around these parts," said Clarice and the old woman took this as an opening.
"As a matter of fact, I'm thinkin' you remind me of someone. Got family around here?"
Clarice shook her head and kept up her inquiries. "is there anyone we should keep an eye out for?"
Ava gave a vexed sigh. Michelley came wandering out of the house and plopped down on the edge of the porch, swinging her plump legs aimlessly.
Clarice could see Dwayne just inside the screen door, watching them.
His grandmother pursed her wrinkled mouth. Before she could reply, the doctor came striding up the drive, thunderous.
"Here's where you go to!" he raved.
Clarice started to reply hotly and then remembered her role. "Now Don," she whined. "Don't get all riled up."
He mounted the rickety porch steps. "What you doin' over here?" he growled suspiciously.
"Just visitin'" she said, ducking her head, contrite.
"Have some coffee?" asked Mrs. Kreet, rising to fetch the pot and another mug.
Michelley tipped her head, look up at Lecter curiously. "Your hair's different," she pointed out in her dull voice.
Ignoring the girl, Lecter insisted, "We'll be gettin' home," reaching for Clarice.
Role or no role, she wasn't going to be manhandled. She jumped up and pushed past him. Red-faced, she thanked Mrs Kreet for her hospitality and thumped down the stairs, leaving him behind.
He caught up with her at the end of the drive. "Clarice," he dared to call out. "Don't be so obstinate!"
"That's funny, coming from you," she tossed over her shoulder.
"Girl," he fumed, but she dove into the heavy undergrowth before he could properly chide her. He had to follow, chasing her bobbing bright hair through the dark woods, as if following a candle in the gloom of night.
Her internal compass found the way back to their property. He realized just how close the Kreets were to them and wasn't pleased.
His lamp was gone-then he spotted her by an old stump. When he drew close, he saw that bees were lazily looping around her head, as though drawn by her glow as well.
"Clarice."
"Someone's busted up this honey tree," she said.
He observed the fresh scars on the bark, sap bleeding with golden honey. Bees swarmed on their lifeblood, unable to stem the tide. The marks on the wood were obviously that of an axe.
"An intruder's been on our land again," he said darkly.
"Yep," she agreed. "But if we can get the queen, we can set them up in those bee boxes I saw in the barn."
"Do you know how-"
She was already reaching into the splintered trunk. "The old man who lived next door when I was young was a bee man. Collected wild honey. He took me with him a few times-"
"You're not afraid?" Lecter ignored the the angry buzz around his own body.
"No." She glanced at him. "Give me your shirt."
As she tugged apart the rotting wood and the bee swarm thickened, he quickly unbuttoned his denim work shirt and shed it, leaving only an undershirt to protect him.
She unfurled her hand, revealing a fat, elongated bee. Gently, she dropped the queen into a fold of fabric and closed it over the insect. "The drones will follow," she explained.
"Verger selected the perfect allusion to describe you, much as I hate to admit it," he said.
"Huh?" she muttered, as she broke off a piece of comb and inspected it.
He often mocked her single-minded thought process but now could only find it amusing. "That you are the honey in Samson's lion, my dear."
She rolled her eyes.
Ignoring her dismissal, he murmured: "And I cannot resist from feeding."
Muggy clouds covered the sun and dropped their glen into shadows. "Verger knew you almost too well for your survival," she suggested.
"No," he said firmly. "He simply had the instincts of the feral hunter."
A quick, knowing smile quirked on her lips. "Or he knew you too well for his survival. Everyone who comes to know you intimately dies or barely survives. Interesting."
"You're still alive," he said, echoing something she'd said to him at one time.
"For now." She plucked a bee off her thin forearm and then tried to pull the stinger from her skin.
"You will live on as long as I have anything to say about it," he promised her as he stopped her.
He opened his jackknife. "Let me take do it." Holding her arm out taut, he scraped the stinger out with the blade. He turned his arm to show her three dead bees hanging off their stingers. "Now do me," he asked.
She cleaned him quickly without meeting his eyes.
"And in that vein, you must stop investigating our neighbors," he lectured.
Shading her eyes, she looked toward their property. "I should get some buckets and gather what honey is left."
"Clarice-"
"I wudn't doin' nothin'," she drawled petulantly.
He noticed how pronounced her dialect became when she was defying him.
"You were. To compensate for your guilt over protecting me, you've decided to play at Special Agent right here. You cannot risk that-"
"What if someone is about to be killed? Has been murdered already? Oh, that's right. Death means nothing," she sneered and gathered up his shirt with the queen inside.
He blocked her way from storming off as she usually did in their confrontations. "That's where you're wrong, my dear," he ground out. "No one can live without a death. It is not a question of motives, but Oedipal drive. Take your case as an example."
He looked her over, from her fuming face to firmly planted boots. "Your father had to die for you to become the person you are. If he'd lived, you'd be wearing frosted eyeshadow, clerking at Walmart, have a pack of kids-"
"And you turn the questions back to someone else again. Who had to die for you to become who you are?"
His tender gaze lingering on her face almost unnerved her. Her eyes dropped first.
This time, he did allow her to pass without stopping her.
xox
Over the next few days, she scrubbed out the bee boxes and set them up for the swarm which had followed them back to the farm. After feeding on the fruit tree blooms, they settled into their new home, ready to serve their queen.
Intent on serving his own queen, Lecter obtained a massive, clawfoot tub from the town junk dealer. Although some husky young men had loaded it into their newly acquired pick-up truck, it took several calculations on his part to finally create a suitable sledge for the object's transportation to the back porch. Now he needed to plumb it. He had downloaded instructions from the Internet and the printouts were propped up on the washing machine. He hoped to have the tub working before the heat of the day made any concentration impossible.
Dressed for her first run since their security scare, Clarice bound down the hall and leapt off the stoop. The warped wood floor bucked, causing his papers to flutter away. The doctor shook his head as one would react to the actions of a teenager and gathered his instructions back up.
She wanted to finish before the humidity got too strong, and besides, she loved the smell of the morning dew drying on the roadside weeds. She'd only gotten a mile before she heard a rattling truck coming up behind her. Shifting closer to the drop-off of the ditch, she slowed. She sensed the vehicle coming closer, slowing, then she tumbled down into the ditch as the truck's front fender brushed her.
Rolling to her feet, she reached back and unzipped her fannypack to touch the .357 she carried when off the farm. She peered up through the weeds-had it been a mistake or an attack? Perhaps the authorities had discovered her computer program and the disorder she'd observed had been a trap.
The truck was slowly backing, then stopped. Big boots came around and Dwayne Kreet looked down at her. "Hey, thar ya' are. Sorry 'bout that." He grinned, showing his uneven teeth and white gums. He reached out with one of his raw hands. "Let me give he'p up."
"No thank you," she said cautiously. "You get on down the road."
"What dat?" he said, shoving his hand in his overall's pocket, sliding it up and down his inner thigh. "I'm jus' bein' friendly."
Slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on him, she worked her way out of the muddy ditch and up onto the road. He'd parked crossways, blocking her forward progress. "I don't need any mo' friends," she said.
He grinned again, working at one of the empty gaps in his smile with his moist tongue. "Oh, now, come on. Dat ol' man can't be givin' you wha' you need. I bet he can't keep it up. I kin give you it all night long."
It took all of Clarice's control to keep from either laughing aloud or spitting on him. She pretended she thought he was joking. "You get on along now, Dwayne, an' I'll forget all about this."
He took one step closer and she decided not to play anymore. She yanked out her pistol. "Get in that truck, Dwayne," she said coolly.
His pale eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, but now his honor was threatened. "Gimme dat," he said, coming closer.
She sighed at the bother, and kicked him hard in the knee, sending him into a heap with a howl of pain. Sidestepping his feeble thrashing at her ankles, she shot out the two tires on the right side of his truck and the left rear as she walked around the back end. "Tol' you," she said without a backward glance, tucking away her gun. She began her run again.
At the first shot, Lecter's head had whipped up from his work. By the second, he was in his room, grabbing one of his new purchases, a proper knife. When the third rang out, he was halfway to the car.
Dwayne had gotten back to his feet and was hanging on the truck's bed for support, cursing as he checked his tires. He heard a vehicle coming, very fast, then saw the cloud of gravel dust. "Shit," he cursed, hoping whoever was driving could get past his truck.
Instead, the Camaro slammed to a halt and the doctor was on him like a lunging dog, blade at his throat, before he could blink.
"Where is she?"
Dwayne only gasped.
"Where is she?" The knife dipped into the young man's scrawny neck, drawing blood. "Where is she, and I'm not asking again."
"I ain't got her. She done run off."
"You fucker, you repugnant piece of shit," the doctor hissed, gripping Dwayne's neck with one iron hand while he stretched to look into the cab and bed of the truck. "If you're lying, I'm going to gut you-" Could his nightmare of Clarice's life being taken by some common criminal have come true?
"What da fuck-I ain't done nuthin' to her, we was jus' talkin'-"
Lecter swiveled his head, trying to see if Clarice's body lay in the roadside weeds. "Then why did she shoot out your tires?" He squeezed the younger man's neck until blood from the cut oozed between his fingers. "Last time; what have you done to her?"
"I done nothin'. She's da one who got all mad and shot up my truck," Dwayne whispered. "Le'me go."
"She returned to her run? After shooting your tires?" Lecter recreated the scene in his mind, this yokel attempting his tiresome advances, and yes, Clarice would be unfazed and continue on after dealing with the situation. He loosened the pressure on Dwayne's neck.
"Yeah, dat's wha' I'm tryin' to tell you," he whined.
"All right, D-Wayne." The doctor moved in close, grabbing the man's left wrist and placing the knife blade at his sternum. His voice low, Lecter told Dwayne, "You're going to listen closely to my words, and pay attention. Have I got your attention?" He snared Dwayne's shirt with the blade's tip.
The younger man's head bobbed up and down frantically.
Lecter calmed. His vision cleared from the red haze. Very carefully, he explained, "If you ever speak to my wife again, or even look at her, I'm going to come and find you. Then I shall cut out your heart, deep-fry it, and serve it to yo' Mamma, sliced on Wonda Bread with pickle relish." He let the tip nip Dwayne's pale chest. "Do ya hear me?"
"Wha' you talkin-"
Lecter pressed the knife down until blood spurted and Dwayne howled. "Last chance, Dwayne," he said.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear ya-I was jus' tryin' to be friendly."
The doctor echoed Clarice: "We don't need any more friends." He pulled the knife out from Dwayne's shirt and couldn't resist. He licked the blade clean.
Dwayne's eyes widened. "Wha are ya? That Habble the Cabble person?"
"Yes, Dwayne, I am," the doctor said. "Now repeat what I tol' you."
Dwayne's blond-white eyebrows met over his monstrous nose in confusion. "Wha?"
"My God, you must be the stupidest person I've ever met," Lecter said mildly as he snapped Dwayne's wrist with one quick jerk.
"Shit!" screamed Dwayne, dropping to his knees, then fell over, his knee still sore from Clarice's attack.
"Really your last chance," Lecter murmured in his ear.
"I'll stay away from her," Dwayne muttered.
Lecter nodded, satisfied, but when the younger man added, "She ain't so hot anyways," he caved in Dwayne's dick with one solid kick from his steel-toed work boot.
Walking back to the Camaro, the doctor tossed over his shoulder, "Yes, you are the stupidest individual I've ever met."
He maneuvered past the truck and as soon as he was clear, gunned the motor to race after Clarice. When she heard the car coming, she had a startled thought that Dwayne had somehow gotten his tires changed. She stopped and reached for her gun, then saw it was her own car with Lecter at the wheel, his face furious.
He stopped and called through the open passenger window, "Get in."
"I'm not finished with my run," she said, glancing at the knife lying on the seat.
"Get in," he demanded again. "Now." He reached over and opened the door.
She stood with her hands on her hips, her breathing still rapid.
"I'll take you to the riverside path to run," he said. "I'll stay in the car while you finish."
She kept arguing. "I'm not going to be taken like some poodle for a run in the park. I can take care of myself."
"Clarice-"
Suddenly giving in, she snatched the weapon off the seat and plopped down. He shifted the gears and they were away.
"What did you do to him?" she asked as she examined the knife and found traces of blood.
"We had a discussion. He has survived."
"Did you do anything that may make him suspect your identity?" she said evenly.
"He hasn't a clue," Lecter said and flicked on the CD player, blasting Bach through the interior.
Clarice couldn't help but sulk. She slid down in the seat and lay her cheek on the car door, letting her hair whip out the open window. The verdant tobacco fields flew past, making her dizzy. She liked the sensation. Perhaps she wouldn't need to run; her tension would fly away with the speed-
The doctor was asking her if she'd like fish for dinner, if so, he'd take his rod to the river and see what he could catch. When she only gave a disinterested hum, he said, "Don't behave like a child, Clarice."
"Then don't treat me like your little helpless girl child, Doctor."
"I have no wish to take over the role of your father," he said with a slight smile, then frowned. Perhaps her father was not a good topic to bring up while they were quarreling.
With no emotion in her tone, she said: "Sometimes, Doctor-"
He nudged. "Yes?"
"Sometimes I feel like I was never a kid; like I'm a thousand years old."
"Does that make me the child?" he said carefully.
She rolled her head on the window's edge and met his gaze squarely until he had to pull his eyes back to the road.
Her amused voice floated over to him on the swirling winds inside the car. "Yes, sometimes you seem like a little boy to me."
He decided not to ask if that made her his mother.
She continued: "Not immature, but young in the pure delight you take with things."
She frowned.
"Even terrible, horrible things, but I suppose little boys are that way too sometimes."
She'd seen dozens of photographs of Lecter, but none as a child. He'd always appeared the same age, not old, not young. Ageless: a soul that had been with humanity all through time.
"Snails and puppy dog tails; that's me," he said. "And you allow yourself no delights, I fear."
Resentment flooded her, but she couldn't tell if it was at him or herself.
"Have you ever done anything for your own pleasure?" he asked.
"You're here, not in jail. Maybe I have." She meant that as a joke, but there was no amusement in his deep-water eyes when he looked at her. She suddenly recalled Paul Krendler's remark: 'Maybe you're incapable of being happy.'
"What are you thinking now, Clarice?" he asked, but she only shook her head.
He held back any more questions and contented himself to steal glances at her as she stared out the window. Only when he observed her unfettered joy at horses racing the car in a roadside field, did he ask again, "What is it?"
She told him that the ranch in Montana had had horses. "I rode around, no instruction, how I didn't kill myself I don't know. Just jumpin' on bareback, running, running...damn, that was a lotta fun." She smiled. "So I 'spose I was a kid every now and then."
"And then you had to go away to the Lutheran Home. No more horseback riding."
"Right."
"Have you ridden since then?"
"I have," she said. "Senator Martin had me down to ride at her farm in Tennessee. And she had friends with a place in Virginia. I went and rode there nearly every weekend for a year or two, got some proper training-"
"What was his name?"
"What do you mean?" she asked with a sly smile.
He smiled back, but it looked more like he was gritting his teeth. "I'm sensing a burly gentleman with hairy forearms, perhaps named Hank or something equally manly, flinging you into the saddle-"
"My riding instructor was a very nice gay man named Chad. I'm afraid hunky stable hands went away with DH Lawrence's death. I got good enough, considered buying a horse-"
"But..." he prompted.
"But there's no way I had the time to care for a horse properly, or get in regular riding time. I could be called away for weeks at a time." Her mouth turned down.
He glanced into the rearview mirror to watch the horses spin in frustration, their race ending at the fence line. He knew how he would make up his misstep in Norfolk.
~ end Chapter 6