Chapter 9

Tuesday the 26th of June 2007 in Montpellier brought them a good step closer to the killer. After rising, they went out for breakfast and newspapers. The large table they took in a small café allowed easy browsing through the many papers. Though she was fairly fluent in Spanish, Hannibal had taught Clarice a number of French words on murder and death so she'd be more accurate when scanning the papers for homicides. They flipped through the pages as they broke their fast.

"Here's another one," Clarice said and handed him the paper.

He took the page, eyed it briefly and shook his head.

"Bertrand Cantat is a case from some years ago. I found a similar article a minute ago. We can skip those."

"Right."

Clarice signaled for the waiter, who immediately approached her.

"Une café, s'il vous plaît."

"Et monsieur quelque chose?" he asked Hannibal.

"Non, merci."

The man nodded and retreated.

"Europeans are lucky people to have such great coffee," she beamed at Hannibal.

"I won't say I decided upon living here because of it, but..."

"... you appreciated the fact" added Clarice.

"Yes, I do."

"I'm happy, Hans."

He looked at her, smiled, and replied. "Me too, Clarice. Happier than I've ever been in a long time."

They held gazes for a moment before returning to their task. Hannibal was first to speak again after a moment.

"I might have something here," he said.

"What? Where?" [MB]

"Nimes. Transient death under suspicious circumstances."

She squinted, trying to mentally place the city. "To the northeast?"

Hannibal handed her the paper. "Yes, about a 40 minute drive. We could go today."

She looked down at the article but was distracted by faint ink smudges on her fingertips. "Why aren't we searching online? We should have went to a cyber cafe."

He smiled. "We could have, true. But this cafe has the best croissants in the city."

Exasperated, she shook her head. Though nearly as tech savvy as she, his old world ideals surfaced upon occasion. Stubborn, endearing man. They were pretty damn good croissants.

"Okay," she said. "So you think this transient is one of his. Why?"

"The burned body. An effective way to hide knife wounds."

"Okay, if it's one of his, is that a pattern then? He has a thing for the homeless?"

"Our boy is slow to reveal himself. But I don't think he has a thing for the homeless so much as he is opportunistic and transient populations are easily targeted." [D]

She took another bite of her croissant.

"Remember," he continued, "he killed Ms. Moreu. Hardly a transient."

"I remember," she replied, perhaps a bit defensive. Hannibal's stare bespoke his slight annoyance.

"Don't look at me like that," she retorted.

"I had meant it as a figure of speech. My apologies, my Love, for that. I know you remember. I took a bit of offense at you being defensive."

She looked at him incredulously first, then laughed.

"A lioness's offense is her best defense? I'll keep it in mind. But I imagine this old lion sometimes acted defensive?" she asked, touching his hand.

"Of course. Unpredictability is bliss."

"I'll keep that in mind, too," Clarice played. "Now, that murder. Let's visit Nîmes, see what we find there. Serveur!"

. [MB]

Forty-five minutes later, she turned to him as they zipped down the A9. "That was our exit, Mr. Spreeuw. Going to have to flip this baby around."

He grinned. "Not quite. The morgue will be open for many hours yet. There's something I want you to see while we still have bright morning sun."

Curious, she sat back, content to let him lead her on an adventure.

At least for now.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled into a guarded parking area. Hannibal got out and came around to open the door for her. "Pont du Gard," he said. "We go from the world's tallest bridge to one of the oldest. At least among Roman construction."

Captivated, she laughed and allowed him to tuck her arm under his. [D]

It wasn't a far walk from the parking area to the bridge and it already came into view after the first turn of the road. Imagining how demanding its construction must have been, Clarice found that a slight disappointment. However, the bridge itself was majestic and striking. They continued down the road and passed two yellow buildings, of which the second reminded her of Italy. The thought triggered a tiny increase of firmness in her hold. Hannibal smiled.

The Pont du Gard is the most visual part of the 31 mile aqueduct that spans the twelve miles from the spring to the town. A long, winding path, Hannibal mused. Much like the path they'd travelled to finally get together, with obstacles and detours. The Pont du Gard still stood, it had endured the ages, a work of great engineering and beauty and he was determined to make their relationship as lasting.

The hilly landscape lay under a warm-hearted blanket of morning sun, the greens and shrubberies and trees were in humble shades of green and gray. Bliss was this morning, this hour, when nothing but beauty existed.

They slowly moved on, looking like any other couple except the larger difference in age, occasionally passing by other tourists. The path, more crowded with tourists than the riverbed with water, took them closer and closer until they came close enough to actually feel the weight of its age and wonder. More people stood there at the foot, some gaping open-mouthed at the construction.

Suddenly Clarice felt Hannibal move, her arm came free.

"I have been recognized. An old Bostonian colleague," he said almost too soft for her to hear. [MB]

She tilted her head, surveying the clusters of people without being too obvious, and asked, "Older gentleman? Khaki pants and bad golf shirt? The one hightailing it out of here?"

"That's him. Pity. I always liked him."

She didn't waste time.

She broke away from Hannibal and on swift and stealth feet pursued the man as he fled to the parking lot. She was amazed but thankful at his apparent lack of a cell phone.

She reached him just as he neared the guard's booth. She pressed her Beretta Nano to the small of his back and whispered into his ear, "Don't say a word, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

Something like a whimper escaped the man's lips, but he nodded once, and allowed Clarice to lead him into the rows of cars.

"Which one's yours?"

Visibly trembling, he had to clear his throat several times before he could manage to speak. "I …I know who you are. You're Clarice Starling. You were an FBI agent, you would never …"

"Shut up." Her voice clipped, angry. "Which one is yours?"

"Th-that one." He pointed to a blue Aixam.

"Open it."

Hands still shaking, it took him several attempts to pull the keys from his pocket. She took them from him, and beeped the compact car unlocked.

"Get in."

"Can't we just …"

"Shut up." She pressed the gun harder into his back. "Get in."

He did, and she quickly made her way around and slipped into the passenger's seat.

"Drive." [D]