"If you tell me what I need to know, I won't hang you. D'you understand?"

From the choked gargling which strained past the thick cord around Pazzi's throat, Clarice figured that he took her meaning. She cut him enough slack to reduce the flush in his face and to keep his eyes from bulging too much; he needed to be conscious, after all. The height of the catwalk he was precariously balanced on certainly brought a rush of blood to his brain. Above, the Baptistery's golden octagonal dome depicted Christ and the Angels of Judgement, magnificent and terrifying in their power. Below, the marble interior faded into dark, with just the barest hint of reflected moonlight shimmering on the surface of the font.

Clarice made sure that she had enough length in the cord to maneuver freely without Pazzi being able to throw her off balance. Ensnaring him during an afterhours prayer had been exhilarating; the shock still hadn't faded from his face. Even now, he was beseeching her with wide eyes and desperate noises. She tightened the noose again in warning, then gave him enough room to speak.

"Why were you following me?"

"You are a criminal. I am not," Pazzi rasped.

"An' I used to be FBI. All the more reason for you not to follow me." Clarice gave the cord a tug. "What were you hoping to find out?"

"Your address."

"Why do you care?"

Pazzi made a pathetic sound that might have been a laugh. His body twitched as his tired legs fought for purchase. "I don't."

"Someone else cares, then."

He nodded.

"Who?"

Pazzi stared at Clarice. She wound the cord tighter around her hand and pulled until the veins in his neck stood out, until his face slipped towards blue. When Pazzi could gasp enough air he choked out, "Mason Verger."

Clarice thoughtfully pulled him back from the edge of the catwalk. She unwound the noose, keeping a careful eye on Pazzi's hands as they clenched against the cord cutting into his wrists. His face was confused as Clarice turned him 'round and she thought that it added a charming dimension of amusement to his entire predicament. She smiled.

"I 'preciate you spilling your guts."

With a casual, almost nonchalant flick of her wrist, Clarice freed the Harpy. Her hand darted out so fast that Pazzi's howl of pain was a little delayed. The steel lodged firmly in his stomach. Blood slithered down in thin trails. Clarice dragged the Harpy across, sawing a bit, letting him feel the teeth of the blade. She cut deeper. The pressure of her hand made him scream. His voice echoed all the way up to the golden dome.

Slowly and without breaking eye contact, Clarice slipped her fingers inside the wound and drew out Pazzi's intestines. They were so slick she almost dropped them. She wondered if they really were the length of a football field; she stopped pulling them out when her hand became too soaked to grip them. By then Pazzi had drained of almost all colour and his eyes were rolling back in his head. She removed the Harpy with a savage slice, stepped back as the blood sprayed, pumping so ferociously, and looked on as Pazzi fell from the catwalk, as he fell from grace.

Clarice glanced at his broken body when she passed him in order to reach the font near the entrance. The moonlight spilling from above seemed to turn his blood black. Wearily, Clarice dipped her hands in the holy water and rubbed them together until all the blood washed away. She set off at a brisk pace to hail a taxi, kept her head down, focused on her breathing and broke out into a run when she reached the familiar street. Outside the apartment, Caesar was prowling and mewling. Then he padded inside, and that surprised Clarice so much she realized it was because the door was bashed open.

"Hannibal?"

The coat rack in the hall was knocked over. Shoes were scattered. The right wall had a dent.

"Hannibal!"

In the living room, the table was overturned. The leather sofa had a long tear in it. Clarice saw that the Beretta was lying across the room, by the newspaper. She picked the pistol up and barely swallowed past the lump in her throat. The details of Hannibal Lecter she'd come to cherish were all over the place, rudely rearranged where they didn't belong-but they were there. Hannibal Lecter was not.

Clarice stood in the middle of the room, feeling small, and letting the white hot intensity of her emotions overtake her. She understood all at once that her time in Florence was over. Her time with Hannibal Lecter was all that remained.