Author's note:
Thank you to all my fanfic friends who have stayed with #NMSL and been so faithful to my H. I've been working on a novel based on NMSL, so I've been away from the fic while completing my rewrites. Thank you so much for your patience, and your support. I appreciate every single review, and all the DMs. Much fanfic love to you all.
For Anna. Always.
THE SACRIFICIAL LAMB
Hannibal slept. Clarice watched him for a time, as was her habit when he'd stayed up far too late and needed to sleep in later than she felt necessary. For much of his life he was a night owl by necessity, and it was a habit too deeply entrenched to break. As a Special Agent, she'd been an early riser, and with opposite circadian rhythms it wasn't unusual for either of them to watch as the other slept. He was so still, rarely moving or making much sound as he slept. Most likely the lack of movement came from sleeping for so many years on that old metal rack, many times without the benefit of a mattress, at the Baltimore State Forensic Hospital. The silence, she thought, might be a remnant of his traumatic past. You can't hide if you're heard, and he'd spent a very large portion of his life concealing himself. First from the Nazis, and their sympathizers, then from the bullies at the orphanage. The orphanage. His home, Lecter Castle, turned against him- weaponized for the sake of the government. His life had been hard, though he'd never complain about any of it to her. If he spoke of it, it was a way of relaying information. Of telling a tale as if it happened to someone else. Nothing happened to me, he'd said to her, I happened. That said it all to her. He wasn't framing himself as a victim, rather as the phoenix rising from the ashes of a past life, she thought.
This morning it was obvious he needed more rest than she, so Clarice left their hotel suite. She didn't garner any attention alone, but when out with her husband- that was a different story. They were swarmed when they traveled together, Hannibal being a bit of a celebrity wherever they went. It was the reason they separated from the children during this time, and the reason she decided to venture out to find some breakfast for them. Not that the room service provided by the hotel was inadequate, it was lovely, but she didn't want to be cooped up all day. The moment she stepped outside she was approached by an elderly man.
"Clarice Starling?" the man, half-stooped from age, asked.
"Clarice Lecter," she corrected, "Mrs. Hannibal Lecter to be more precise."
It began to rain. The man quickly opened the umbrella he'd used as a cane, and held it toward her. She waved it away, preferring to stand in the weather than take a place beside him. She was breathtaking, he had to admit.
"Mrs. Lecter. Of course," he countered, bowing in apology. "And to maintain his attention to the point he'd actually settle down? You'd have to be precise, wouldn't you?"
She watched his eyes. He thought to himself not to blink, but her stare was surprisingly intense. He faced her gaze no more than half a minute. When he looked away, she smiled, and there was something of Lecter in it, he thought.
"Precisely, I'm married to him, but he's never asked a thing more of me than what would come completely natural to me. Not that it's any of your business." Pausing briefly, Clarice inhaled. "You have the smell of old books and even older liquor. You've had hard life, I take it? One with more responsibility than most, I'd guess, and you've worn that responsibility like a yoke for many years, haven't you? Is that what's bent your back? What is your business? Precisely?"
"You're very observant, aren't you? I'd expect nothing else from a woman of your talents, and I'm retired, if you must know. Do you have a moment? I'd like to speak with you'll allow. I have reason to believe you're in danger. You and your children, in fact."
"You believe I'm in danger…do you know who my husband is? I'd venture to guess tha my children and I are the safest people in Paris, this day or any other." By her expression it seemed she understood more than the man cared to let on, continuing, "More to the point, Inspector Popil, is this conversation something my husband would allow if his permission was required? That is your name, isn't it? Inspector Pascal Popil?"
"It is my name." His eyes twinkled with surprise. "As for his permission, is it required?"
Clarice scoffed, "I've never asked my husband's permission for anything, nor has it ever been intimated I'd needed to. I have an errand. You can talk if you can keep up. I'd like to return before he wakes." She walked. He followed. "And I'll have you know I have full autonomy, and the absolute trust of my husband, Mr. Popil. I'd use your title, but I doubt your inspector credentials are to up to date. Correct me if I'm wrong."
"I knew you were a gifted agent, but to identify an old man from a very small part of your husband's past? No…I didn't think you were that gifted, I must admit. Intuition, or do you have extensive knowledge of my connection to your husband?"
"Guilty knowledge, you mean?" she commented with no small hint of sarcasm.
"Guilty…yes, that's what I mean, Madam Lecter, and you haven't answered my question."
"Madam Lecter was buried yesterday. You can call me Clarice. Consider the first-name-basis a professional courtesy from one ex-agent to an infirmed inspector who should know better." Though Clarice was slight in build and height, she towered over the aged man, his spine curved like an "S" by the weight of past. "I have intimate knowledge of everything connected to my husband, Pascal. May I call you Pascal since your law enforcement title no longer applies any more than mine does?"
"You may call me Pascal, though my mission goes far beyond my credentials, I assure you."
"I understand you've spent your life hunting Nazis, but my husband isn't a war criminal, Pascal."
"Isn't he? Well, no matter. The man he killed was."
Clarice didn't bat an eye at the comment, nor did she seek to correct him. Rather, she made her distaste known, asserting, "I'll allow that comment to hang in the air like the stench from the camps you so-clearly remember. Camps my husband barely avoided, though he lost his entire family nonetheless. He's suffered enough, Pascal. Especially this week."
Popil shuffled quickly beside Clarice, muttering as he stumbled along, "Suffering is something to which the French are accustomed, mine and Hannibal's generations, especially."
Seeing the man's struggle, Clarice slowed just slightly to allow him to keep up.
"If Hannibal has suffered, it is the mission of my life to make sure he doesn't grieve another moment for the rest of his life. If you're here to add to his problems, I'd leave while you still have your health."
Popil, his voice quavering with infirmity, and fear, asked, "Is that a threat, Mrs. Lecter?"
"It is an observation, Mr. Popil."
The rain stopped. Popil folded his umbrella and began continually swinging it ahead of him and stabbing at the ground, leaning on the umbrella much like he would a cane.
They walked a distance to Pierre Hermé, a two-Michelin-star pastry shop at 4 Rue Cambon, 1st arrondissement. She'd researched the area, and knowing this trip had been trying, wanted to bring her husband a treat. Popil stood by as Clarice, her French meticulous, walked up to the pristine counter and ordered the Plaisir Sucré. The dacquoise biscuit (cakelike, really) was made with toasted hazelnuts, hazelnut crisp, thin wafers of milk chocolate, milk chocolate ganache, and a milk chocolate cream. Hannibal would love it, she was sure. She pointed out a few additional treats from the glass case, and waited as the worker packaged the desserts.
Unrelenting, Popil urged, "You aren't afraid? Lady Murasaki understood what he was."
"Afraid? No, and as for Lady Murasaki…" Clarice, eyes aflame with anger, responded, "What did she understand about my husband? Was it before or after he cleaned and suctioned her tracheostomy, emptied her bedpan when she was bedridden, or wiped the blackened blood from her lips as she died in his arms? He nursed her as if she was his own mother, so don't you dare try to tell me she was afraid of him. She loved him, and he loved her."
"Trust me, Clarice, I knew them. He loved her and she loved him, that's true, but he did things with her he'd never do with his mother. Or did he hide that from you? Their relationship? Their affair? The fact that she rejected him for fear of what he'd become? As for turning to him in her old age…Having lost her family in the war she was alone in the world, and needed his help as she grew old, and desperate. Age humbles us all."
"But it hasn't humbled you? Not yet, anyway, I take it? As for secrets, my husband and I have none. I know they were lovers. I know everything they did and how often. I know he was heartbroken when she left, and she was heartbroken she'd abandoned him. And yes, she was desperate, and alone in the world, so if he was anything less than the honorable man he is, Hannibal could have turned her away, but he didn't. He loved and cared for her until she passed from this life into the next with him by her side. Who do you have to care for you in your old age? To whom will you turn as you're humbled, Pascal? Within whose arms will you die, I wonder?"
"I won't be dying in your husband's arms, that's certain," Popil spoke indignantly.
Clarice's eyes flashed a rage that made him take a step back. She then gathered herself, paid for her parcel, and turned toward him, hissing low, "Other than death, nothing is certain, Pascal. If you'll excuse me, I'm going back to my husband. I'd ask you to join me on the walk back to the hotel, but I'm in a hurry and don't want to push you past your physical limits. While the ganache doesn't need to be refrigerated, two of the desserts have fondant, and that's known to sweat. No need for you to sweat as well. It's been illuminating."
Seeing she was leaving, Popil reached into his satchel, and shoved a large manila envelope in her hand. "This is every single case he's been a suspect in over the last decade since he's been free. He's dangerous, Clarice…you know he is. I've been following him for years through the news, and cases of unexplained murders in the areas surrounding your family. He's never stopped killing. He'll never stop. You've had children with the man. Aren't you worried for their safety? I've seen his handiwork up close, and I've seen his psychopathic indifference to these killings. He's killed so many men since that butcher so many years ago. He'll kill again, and continue to be as unrepentant as the Devil himself."
"Let's not give him a reason to doubt your intentions, shall we, Pascal? One would think if you believed he was a dangerous as you say, you might back off a bit, and not push the murderer-angle with such vigor." She stopped in the doorway, and, hand still on the door handle, asked, "Pascal? It's Latin, isn't it? Do you know the etymology of that name?"
He nodded. "Yes. It means something to do with or relating to Easter."
She took the envelope and stuffed it in a trash receptacle beside the cashier. She then pushed through the door, commenting over her shoulder while paused at the exit, "I have no interest in your research, or your theories. I love my husband, and trust him with everything I am, our children included. With that in mind, can you please stop this nonsensical pursuit, and avoid serving yourself up as the sacrificial lamb, Pascal?"
That comment stopped him in his tracks.
Clarice didn't wait for a response. Instead, she tucked her parcel of sweets under her arm, and pushed through the doorway, exiting the shop and moving down the sidewalk before he'd even left the counter.
Popil reached into the trash to retrieve his files. Other than his suspicions regarding the death of Paul Momund, the profane butcher who'd insulted Lady Murasaki's honor, Popil had no case against Hannibal, and no authority to investigate or to act. He'd taken it upon himself to not only track Hannibal from the U.S. to Paris, but took the time to stake out the hotel and wait for her. Though Clarice knew she had to tell her husband, she wasn't looking forward to it. Popil was a name that had come up during the course of their marriage, but not as a current event. This would anger Hannibal. Clarice was sure of it.
Lady Murasaki was no longer alive to deflect Popil or protect Hannibal from scrutiny, but Hannibal wasn't a teenager any longer, and could certainly handle Inspector Pascal Popil on his own.
Pascal. The sacrificial lamb. Could anything be more fitting?
Until the next chapter, my friends,
L.H.
