Author's note: My apologies for the lengthy posting delay; the East Coast snowstorm knocked out power to my house several days ago and it's likely to be a few more before it's back on. This update is courtesy of the free wi-fi at the local community center. To those who have reviewed in the interim, thank you, and I'll respond when I have more time.
Nov. 3, 1991
Clarice shifted uneasily in her seat - ninth row, center, far enough back to be elevated slightly above the stage - and brushed her fingers against the pearls at her throat. She was glad the doctor had chosen an afternoon performance; her best slacks and blouse didn't look out of place in the crowd, though she still felt as though she were sneaking in somewhere she shouldn't. Starlings did not go to the symphony.
The seat to her right remained empty. A discreet glance at her watch showed the performance was just a few minutes away. She began to suspect he had purchased two tickets, though there'd been only one in the envelope with his letter. Her fingers smoothed down the nap on the armrest they shared.
"Waiting for your husband, dear?" Clarice turned her head toward the voice; the older woman, white hair perfectly coiffed, had already been sitting in the seat to her left when she had arrived. Thus far, they had exchanged no more than civil nods of greeting.
"My James was the same way, always arriving at just the last moment. He passed on, oh, thirteen years ago, now, but sometimes I still expect to see him when I look to my right."
"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. But no, I'm not waiting for anyone."
"Oh, he couldn't make it? Good for you, though, coming on your own."
"No, ma'am, I mean I'm not married."
The woman's hand was baby soft as it lightly squeezed Clarice's arm just above her watchband.
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I forget that you young people these days don't always tie the knot. What's the term? Partner? Companion? Boyfriend?"
Clarice wondered briefly if calling him her boyfriend would be enough to startle a laugh out of the doctor. "No, no, he's definitely not a boy, though he can be boyishly playful at times."
The woman laughed and patted Clarice's arm before pulling back her hand.
"It's invigorating, isn't it? My James and I raised three boys, mischief-makers, every one. There were whole years when I despaired of ever civilizing them."
Clarice smiled to hide the panic fluttering about in her head. I just tacitly called Hannibal Lecter my boyfriend. No, it was just a polite lie. I can hardly explain the situation to some stranger at the symphony.
"It must have been quite the adventure." Clarice distracted herself by practicing her witness interrogation skills, subtly guiding the woman - Grace, she learned - with questions that kept the spotlight firmly on James and the boys and away from Hannibal Lecter.
The lights flickered; the musicians tuned their instruments.
"You're a sweet girl to let me chatter so," Grace concluded. "Don't worry, dear, I'll let you enjoy the concert in peace. You'll have to tell your young man all about it, hmm?"
Clarice's smile was genuine this time. "Yes, he'll be expecting a thorough account."
She settled back in her seat, finally relaxed, the words of his brief letter whispering in her ear as though he occupied the empty seat beside her.
Dear Clarice,
It would be a shame for beauty to go unappreciated. Enjoy the symphony. And, Clarice? Wear the pearls.
Yours,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
Nov. 16, 1991
"Did you enjoy the symphony, Clarice?" He waited politely while she removed her coat and seated herself. "The cello soloist has an excellent reputation, though I myself have not heard him in person."
She met his eyes with her own, a smile playing at her lips. "Was the empty seat next to mine for you, Doctor?"
She was quick; he hadn't been certain she would have made the connection.
"Are we back to playing games, Clarice?"
"Answer my question and I'll answer yours, Doctor."
Mmm. Clarice, have you any idea how lovely you look when you won't back down?
"I was not able to make use of it, of course, but yes, that was the intent." He frowned, just slightly, and knew she had noticed. "It's simply not done, sending a young lady unescorted. I hope you'll forgive the lapse, Clarice. Had I been able to accompany you, I would have done so."
"Had you been able to accompany me, Doctor, you'd also be able to attend concerts anywhere in the world you liked and you wouldn't need to send me at all."
The blind spot persisted, he noted. Perhaps deliberately so. Very well; this game could move only at the pace she allowed. If she was skittish, it was no wonder; his suit was a rather unconventional one, given that she must go on their dates alone.
"True, my dear, but then I would be denying myself the pleasure of your company." He continued briskly onward, not allowing her room to protest. "Now then, the concert. You enjoyed it?"
"Very much so. The music was wonderful, and the acoustics were amazing. It was a far cry from a high school gymnasium."
His head tilted in silent inquiry.
"Student concerts. It's the closest I've been to the symphony until now. The music is much better when the room doesn't smell of sweaty teenagers."
"I realize it's not Paris or Florence, but surely Bozeman had some cultural opportunities beyond the high school, Clarice."
"I'm sure it did, Doctor, but the Lutheran Home couldn't afford such extravagance, not with so many children needing the basics first. I remember... oh, it must have been sixth or seventh grade, the whole middle school had a field trip to the ballet planned. The Nutcracker. It was an optional outing; the Home opted not to pay, so the nine of us sat in study hall all afternoon until the buses came back."
"Culture is hardly an extravagance, Clarice. It is as necessary to the human condition as breathing."
Clarice looked at the still-bare walls of his cell. He saw her hesitation, saw her push past it.
"Are you suffocating, Doctor?"
"I have my memories to sustain me, Clarice."
"That's not a 'no,' Doctor."
"Are you familiar with the medieval method of torture known as pressing, Clarice? The accused would be stretched out upon the ground as rocks were placed upon his chest until he could no longer draw breath."
"Compressive asphyxia."
He inclined his head, pleased with her clinical understanding.
"Each breath is shallower than the last; the knowledge of one's death in restricted circumstances is inescapable. I tell you this not to invite pity, Clarice, but so that you might better understand my point."
She was considering his words, her brow furrowed, one corner of her lower lip moving slightly as she tugged it under her teeth and released it. He mentally captured the image for sketching later, after his materials had been returned; Clarice deserved far more care than dull crayons could supply.
"You drew the scene in Florence from memory. With all that detail. All of your memories are that exact, Doctor? You could... see them... revisit them? Every cultural event... every night at the symphony or the opera or the ballet."
He shifted his weight as she paused, and she held up a finger in a distracted request for a moment more of silence. The presumption amused him all the more for her complete lack of hesitation. Have a care, Clarice. You've grown accustomed to the very comfort in my presence you struggle so mightily against. I await the day you finally allow yourself to realize it.
"But in here... in here you have nothing to add to your store of memories. No new experiences, except through me. Even someone with your diverse interests, your years of culture-rich experiences... it would grow tiresome, always hearing the same performances. It would be..."
She trailed off, meeting his eyes with painfully shared understanding.
"Suffocating."
Dec. 3, 1991
"Thanks for accepting the package, Dee." Clarice, standing in the kitchen, laid one hand on the back of a chair for balance and pulled her ankle behind her back with the other. "I hate stakeouts. Twelve hours in a cramped car with Buckley could turn any woman into a man-hating lesbian."
"You going to open it or just caress it with your eyes, girlfriend?" Ardelia Mapp sat down at the table across from Clarice and tapped her finger against the box's brown paper wrapping. Clarice suppressed the urge to pull it closer to her side of the table. "And when am I going to meet this mystery man? He's been sending gifts for months, but you never talk about him."
Something was off. Ardelia's voice was a little too practiced, a little overly casual. She knows.
"If there's something you want to ask me, Dee-"
"You sure there's not something you want to tell me first, Clarice?"
Clarice let her foot drop to the floor and gripped the chair back with both hands, staring down at her knuckles. She did not want to have this conversation. She'd been avoiding it for far too long, and she knew she would pay for her procrastination now. Resigned to her fate, she asked the obvious question.
"How'd you find out?"
"That's what you want to say to me? Not, 'Dee, I'm sorry that I haven't told you a cannibalistic serial killer is sending me love notes'? Not, 'Dee, I'm sorry I didn't say anything months ago before I let you eat the food he sent'?" Her hand slapped the table. "I ate that food, Clarice, and you didn't say a word! Tell me this is some undercover thing for Crawford. Tell me you were sworn to secrecy. Tell me it's the only way you'll get the Behavioral Science slot. But Jesus, Clarice, tell me something. Don't leave me in the dark for months and then pretend like you've done nothing wrong."
"You knew I went to see him after graduation."
"Yeah, and I thought that was the end of it. Wait. You're still going there? What the hell, Clarice?"
"Mr. Crawford knows, Dee. It's not like I'm just visiting for kicks."
"So this is some project that you can't talk about?"
"It's... complicated. Sort of like coaxing a reluctant witness. His insights could be valuable for the BSU, but only if he's willing to work with them."
A twinge of shame bloomed in her chest. Could she really reduce their exchanges to nothing more than making him perform on cue like a trained dog? That wasn't fair to either of them, and she hated saying the words, hated even more saying them to Delia, in whom she should have been able to confide. Nausea threatened, and the thought of dinner suddenly lost its appeal.
"And he only talks to you," Ardelia said, head nodding in comprehension. "Okay, I get that. But why didn't you tell me? I'm not just anybody, Clarice. We're roomies. I felt like a complete idiot when I walked into the document lab to check on some papers for a fraud case and saw the envelope with your name on it."
"You saw... when was this, Dee?"
"Weeks ago. I've been waiting for you to tell me, but no matter how I tried to bring up the letters, you wouldn't say 'boo' about them. He's the reason you went to the symphony? He sent you the pearls?"
Thank god; if she had only seen the brief note the doctor had sent with the symphony ticket, she hadn't seen anything too damaging.
Clarice pulled out the chair and sat down.
"Yeah, he sent the symphony ticket and the pearls."
"Are you in danger, Clarice? Is he stalking you? Does Crawford know about the gifts? He must, right, if the lab's investigating them?"
"He knows, Dee. It's fine; there's no danger. I swear to you, I wouldn't put you in any danger."
Ardelia stared hard across the table at her. Clarice kept her face carefully blank.
"I know you want this assignment bad, Clarice, but is it really worth it? Spending all this time talking with psychopaths and killers, learning to think like them?" Ardelia shuddered. "You sure you wouldn't rather try white collar?"
Clarice smiled and shook her head.
"I'm sure, Dee. I know it sounds crazy. I know it's not what you would do."
"Okay. Okay. But you keep me informed from now on, you got it? No more of this hiding bullshit."
"Right. No more hiding." Clarice stared at the box sitting between them on the table. Ardelia's gaze followed hers.
"What do you think he sent this time?"
"Given his track record and the size of the box, I'm going to say something to wear." She paused for a moment. "And maybe somewhere to wear it."