Chapter 14:
The sun was low on the horizon, gilding the vineyard's spring-green leaves. Lecter trailed after Clarice as she approached the winery's reservoir, a dammed creek pooled above the rows of vines. Her high-heeled sandals swung from her hand by the straps. She pushed back her curls to look across the calm water.
"I gotta take a dip and wash this crud out of my hair," she announced, dropping the shoes.
"My dear, it's not warm enough," he cautioned, but she was tugging her blouse free of her skirt.
They'd had a long, tiring day of travel from the United States, but Clarice had wanted to tour their new property immediately.
"I'm tough," she announced.
She shed her top with a wiggle of her strong shoulders. Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out of it, leaving her in nothing but a white bra and panties.
Shading his eyes, the doctor looked around from their vantage on the crest. "I never would have taken you for a exhibitionist," he said, despite the fact that they were utterly alone.
She unsnapped her bra's clasp. When she said, "I've got all sorts of things that you don't know about me," her tone wasn't the least bit provocative, yet he still caught his breath.
After pulling off her panties, she dove into the water with a swimmer's clean motion before his gaze could linger too long. Her pale body rolled under the surface, light in the dark, as nebulous as a silvery sleek fish.
When she finally popped up, she ran her fingers through her hair, tugging the curls straight. "That's better," she said with delight.
Lecter sank to the grass at the water's edge. He was suddenly tired. Perhaps the past few months had been more tiring than he had admitted. He had organized their new lives with all his usual precautions and safeguards, but the stakes were so much higher than any other time he had shifted identities. He could relax; they were free at last.
As though acting out his thoughts, Clarice frolicked in the green water, diving and surfacing again and again.
He pulled his tie off and toed out of his own shoes. "Girl, get out of that water," he scolded. Shedding his jacket, he held it out. "You'll catch a cold on the first day."
Peering at him with just the top of her head exposed from the dark water, her eyes flared like quicksilver. Paddling closer, she suggested, "No, you come in."
He only shook his head, smiling. Lying back on the grass, he watched clouds drift above, glowing orange and purple as the sun sank lower. He peeked at Clarice to see what she was doing.
She appeared to have made a decision. Rising to stand, she strode out of the pond, the water coursing down her pale limbs.
Now he was weak with something more than exhaustion as she came to loom over him.
"My coat," he offered again.
She reached out, but to brush the garment from his slack fingers and grasp his hand. He pulled her down gently. Curling beside him, instantly drenching his clothes, she settled her head on his shoulder, as if a small bird landing in his palm.
"My darling," he murmured at her brow, knowing this was a time when words would be useless.
"Are we really home?" she whispered.
"Yes. All this is yours."
Her open hand pressed over his heart. "All this," she repeated.
He tipped her chin up, looking for fear or resistance in her eyes. Her gaze shimmered like the sun on the water. Her eyelids drifted shut as their lips grazed. He finally felt that he could close his own as well. She was right; the depths weren't cold.
The swan glided across the surface toward the shore where she waited, reclined and expectant. He surged onto shore, finding his harbor in her open thighs. His wide wingspan shielded them from the sinking sun, two creatures turning and twisting among the high weeds.
He found a river pebble with his fingertips, firm and smooth. He took a little boy's delight in his discovery, turning it in his touch.
His lips slid on her skin, a skipping stone over the surface, creating the lightest of ripples. She gasped in desire and discontent. Yes, she wanted harshness, but he would show her what true agony was...Only the tip of his tongue caught her rapidly rising nipples, savoring the fleeting taste.
"H," she demanded, drawing out the one letter with as many syllables as his full name.
His laugh was sadistic as ever for one sole reason; he was going to make Clarice Starling break as she never had before. But instead, she lay back in the tangled grass, wrapped her strong legs around his ribs and consumed him; submission was domination for them.
The current was pulling him under despite his intentions to stay close to shore as long as possible. She caught a wave and rose above him, blocking out the glowing horizon. In darkness, her smile was bright and cruel, a sliver of white high above. Her hands went to his throat. The pressure crushed his chest, pressing the air from his lungs.
"Just let go," she told him. "Let go."
No, he must fight. He would not give in. He thrashed and bucked, battling the strong tide. The water was dark and cold, pulling him deeper...Above him, a point of light wavered, growing stronger as he struggled against the undertow.
Her arms tugged at him, trying to keep him from escaping. He struck out in fury and pain.
A fist in the darkness struck her jaw with a ringing blow. Clarice found her breath, clearing her swirling head. The stink coming off of Brocker's genitals told her that the offensive body parts were close to her face. One arm had some movement, even with his grotesque weight bearing down on her. She'd only have one chance-
"I gonna fuck your corpse," Sam growled and his gun cocked.
Coiling her fist, she struck, burying her knuckles in his scrotum. His yowl of pain echoed down the riverbank and the heavy pressure on her chest finally lightened.
His gun; she had to get his gun-
The night exploded in brightness and her ears thundered with a gunshot. Utter blackness covered her as Sam toppled over. She grappled free and rolled on her stomach to get her bearings.
Doctor Lecter clung to the rock ledge with one hand, his pistol in the other. His face was half-covered in freshly flowing blood, but the one visible pale eye pierced her heart.
"Took you long enough," she gasped.
He barked a short laugh. "I love you, Clarice Starling."
She scrambled to her feet, nearly losing consciousness as her blood pressure pounded against her head injuries. But she had to help him-
Grabbing Lecter's hand so that he didn't slip beneath the surface again, she realized that she didn't have the strength to help him out.
"I'm sorry," she kept repeating as they worked together, her tugging and he scrambling, until he was on the bank, water and blood pouring off him.
With Clarice half-carrying and supporting him, they shuffled together to the pickup. Dropping the tailgate, she lowered Lecter to sit.
"How bad is it?" she asked, wiping the blood from his face.
He raised a shaking hand to his temple. "I don't think the bullet entered my brain," he said dispassionately.
Remembering the horror of Paul's ability to converse even with his skull open, she hurried to the truck cab and fetched a flashlight. Digging under the seat, she found a fairly clean wadded up work shirt.
Blotting his forehead with the shirt, she exposed the wound from the mud and blood. It was a deep groove cleaving the skin, and although she was could see the white of bone, she didn't believe it was deep enough to have opened his skull or pierced his brain.
She told him this. "Excellent," he said, taking a weak breath.
This brought on a spate of coughing, flushing out brackish water. When he stopped spitting, he added, "No blood. I don't think the other shot has entered my lung or other organs."
"There's another shot?" Before he could reply, she was pulling off his shirt. On his pale skin, an angry bruise was already forming with a sinister small entry wound between two of his ribs. Pointing the flashlight, she checked his back for an exit.
"Good, it came out," she said. Pressing lightly, she added, "I think you're right. May have nicked a rib and has torn up the muscle and cartilage, but didn't ricochet into your abdomen."
She sagged in relief. Despite blood loss and near drowning, the doctor wasn't seriously injured. It was a momentary reprieve.
"I'm much more concerned about the fetid waters that I've been bathing in. Fecal matter, for certain," he pointed out.
"Shit," she muttered.
"Exactly," he said and laughed painfully at his own joke.
As soon as she said, "We've got to get you to the hospital," he vehemently protested: "No."
"Hannibal-" she demanded, but he just shook his head.
"No," he repeated. "It's my choice. I won't have us go out like this."
"We're Don Lambert and his wife. It won't necessarily lead to an arrest-"
"Perhaps if it was just one shot, I could claim that I was cleaning my gun when it accidentally went off, but how are we to explain the second?" he pointed out. "The police will be contacted in any case."
She leaned against the truck and supported her own pounding head on her hand. "Okay," she finally said. "We'll get you home and try to clean these wounds."
"Yes," he said, relaxing.
"I gotta do something about these bodies," she said, looking hopelessly from Michelley to Sam.
"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that I cannot assist you," Lecter said, his tone apologetic, courtly as ever.
She nodded, wincing at the pain. "Let me try to stop your bleeding first. If we're not going to the hospital, you can't lose any more blood than you have already."
Dragging the tarp forward in the truck bed, she quickly cut lengths from the cleaner parts of it. After wiping his head as clean as she could, she wrapped a strip around his skull snugly. Satisfied with that bandage, she bound his ribs over the second gunshot wound.
He was beginning to shake.
"Let's get you in the cab and the heat on," she said, offering him her shoulder to lean on.
Despite clenching his jaw in aggravation, Lecter nonetheless accepted her assistance. Once she had him settled and the engine started, she turned her attention to the two bodies lying in the mud.
Michelley was young, but still weighed one hundred and forty pounds of dead weight. It took all of Clarice's flagging strength to roll the body to the truck, prop it up by the tailgate, and push and shove it into the bed. After pulling the remnants of the tarp over the girl's blank face and puffy body, she turned her attention to Sam Brocker next. There's no way she could heave the three hundred plus pound weight into the truck.
Finding a length of rusted pipe in the weeds, she used it to roll the mass to the river's edge. Retrieving the chain that Lecter had brought, she wrapped it as best as she could around his middle, fastening the ends with some plastic ties from the truck. She doubted it would hold for long, but she needed to buy all the time that she could.
Digging deep in her strength reserve, she tipped the body into the coursing current, hoping she'd found a deep spot as it sank beneath the surface. Making her way back to the truck, she shook her head at the sight of their many footprints, the tire tracks, shell casings and blood stains. It was an investigator's dream crime scene. But she had neither the time or energy to cover up. She would just have to hope they had bought enough time for Lecter to recover and they could flee.
Crawling into the cab behind the wheel, she took a moment to catch her breath.
"Clarice," said the doctor, stroking her cheek with a shaking and filthy hand.
"We've got to get you home," she said, desperate and near hysteria.
As carefully as possible, she turned the truck around on the narrow dirt track. Her vision blurring, she drove slowly back to the farm, despite the voice screaming in her head to hurry.
"You can do it, my dear," drifted out the darkness of the truck cab and she had to smile.
Finally, she pulled up to the back porch. Hurrying around to the passenger door, she helped Lecter out and up the stairs. They staggered together to the bathroom. He was shaking with cold again when she lowered him to the toilet. Turning the shower, she yanked off his boots and pants before stripping herself.
"Come on, let's get as much of this mud off as we can," she urged him.
Lifting his heavy head, Lecter managed to nod in agreement. "Yes," he said slowly and pushed himself upright with as much dignity as he could muster.
She helped him into the shaky tub and under the spray. Lathering up her hands, she spread suds on every inch she should reach of his body.
"I must say, my dear, when I envisioned this scenario, it was not quite like this," he said dryly as he leaned on the wall.
She gave a rusty bark. "Surely there was this much blood."
His gaze was grave and he traced a strand of wet hair from her face. "No. Not a drop."
Wincing for his anticipated pain, she removed the tarp bandages and bit her lip at the sight of the ugly, dirty injuries.
"You can clean them up with surgical scrub I have in my medical kit. There's some antibiotic ointment as well," he told her.
"This isn't a scratch from a nail, H. I really think we need to get real medical assistance. "
"I will be fine," he said stubbornly. "I heal very well."
Biting back any more argument, she left the comfort of the shower to fetch the medical kit.
Pouring Betadine solution on a washcloth, she relentlessly scrubbed the wounds until blood flowed freely again, the swarming odor mingling with the sharpness of iodine.
Bending down, she peered at the gunshot to his side. "Can I flush this with a syringe?"
"That will help," the doctor said, but they both knew these crude attempts would probably do little to stem infection.
He touched her bruised face lightly with trembling fingers. "I think he may have broken your cheekbone." He moved to her temple. "Cracked your skull." Even in his weakened condition, his fury was evident.
"I'm okay," she said, just as stubborn as he was. "I've had worse."
Turning off the cooling water, she helped him out of the shower and began vigorously rubbing his body dry to keep him warm, stemming the bleeding as best she could before binding the wounds with sterile cotton bandages.
"I could grab a doctor, bring him here-" she mused.
"Compounding your crimes?" he said with a rueful smile.
"I don't give a damn-"
"And exposing us even more," he said firmly. "No, I'll rest for a day or two, then we'll be on our way."
"A day-"
He repeated: "I shall be fine-"
"Fine?" She led him to his bedroom and tugged on a fresh pair of boxers for him. After covering her own nudity with one of his teeshirts, she helped him under the blankets.
She wouldn't relent. "I know you're strong...But..."
He wasn't listening. Lying back on his pillows, he traced the contusions on her temple and cheekbone again. "You probably have a concussion-"
"I won't be sleeping anyway," she said.
He tried to appeal to her sense of duty. "Clarice, it won't do us any good for you to become incapacitated."
"I've got to get rid of Michelley's body and move that car we stole in Boston," she said, still obstinate.
Ignoring his protests, she fed him water and an anti-inflammatory medication, gritting her teeth at the futility of these medical treatments. Quickly putting on fresh jeans and a sweater, she returned to the truck.
Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky, adding urgency to her tasks. Driving straight into the barn, she rolled the body into a wheelbarrow and moved it to the back of the dim structure. Finding a depression in the dirt, she dumped the the girl's remains in. Bringing over a bag of lime, she spread it over Michelley and then shoveled soil atop. This would have to do for now. She made sure the hogs' gates were secure before leaving the barn, not trusting them with the body.
In the peach grove, she started the little blue car, but only drove it as far as the abandoned farm next door. Pushing through the curtain of kudzu vines, she hid the car from passing traffic.
She knew that none of these measures were enough to hide their presence for more than a few days. Raising her chin against the tide of fear washing over her again, she curses the long gone emotion. This was not the time for its return.
Exhausted by the time she walked down their drive, she could do no more than give a cursory glance around the farm to see if any obvious evidence of the night's activities was present before dragging herself up the porch steps.
At her footfall in the house, Lecter called out: "Clarice, my dear-"
She rushed to his room. "Are you all right?" she asked, hanging onto the jamb for support.
"Yes, yes," he said from the bed. Wane and weak, he still managed to chide her. "Drink some water yourself and come to bed." He patted the mattress beside him. "At least take some Ibuprofen for your head."
Bringing a pitcher and another glass from the kitchen, she finally conceded to his demands by crawling into the bed. The pillow felt so blissful comfortable as she lowered her head.
She fell to sleep as though slipping beneath the river's surface to join Sam's body. The last thing she was aware of was Lecter's warm palm cupping her face and his murmurs of endearment.
x
It felt as though only a minute had passed when a pounding on the front door woke her. Lecter was struggling in the bedding, his body unnaturally hot and flushed.
"Gotta get up," he said thickly.
She pressed him back to the mattress. "No," she told him. "You rest. I'll get it."
His pale eyes were unfocused as he looked up at her.
"Trust me," she admonished him, swinging her feet off the bed. "I've got this."
She closed and locked the door behind her just in case he didn't obey her. Wavering on her feet, her head pounding and her vision blurring, she made her way to the front door.
When she peered out around the sheer curtain on the window, she saw the local policeman, Captain Carruthers.
Just as she reached for her waistband, he made eye contact with her. No weapon, and he'd seen her. Trapped, she turned the doorknob.
~end Chapter 14
E/N: Sorry, AlphaNtu, had to go there...