Her riddle has him smiling to himself as he walks up the corridor to the exit. On his right, some of Clarice's fellow inmates try to catch his attention, but he ignores them all. They are not worth his time, especially now that Clarice has given him something to think on.
Their session today has left him with several questions, but he forces himself to be patient. He has only just begun to see parts of the woman, the emotions running beneath the once carefully constructed mask. Some of her answers have surprised him, of that he will not lie. He had never expected her to be as open with him as she had been, but he supposes the book was more of a draw than he had originally realized. It's something he'll have to remember for next time. Perhaps in the future he will be able to get the answers he truly craves from her.
He does not believe the truth she's about to hand over to him will be so hard to understand. Many serial killers have believed their motives to be above the moral reasoning of the normal person; however, it's rather quite easy to sympathize and understand their reasoning. Or maybe it simply has to do with his own hobbies. Perhaps his violent urges bring him closer to the mind of those who have been caught than he would sometimes wish.
The doctor is curious about her truth. Very few captured serial killers he has spoken to have ever attempted to play with him as much as she does. It is likely because she suffers from boredom, he thinks to himself. After all, she is clearly an intelligent woman. Sitting in a cell for six years with few people to talk has likely taken a slight toll on her, and now that there is someone once again paying attention to her, she is starting to feel the urge to play again.
It's an amusing notion, but if Agent Starling wants to play he will indulge her. It will give them both something to fill their time with, and he hates not winning a game of minds. He only hopes that she will be a worthy opponent. So far he has no reason to doubt that she will be.
Reaching the barred door leading out of the wing where Starling is kept, he stops, waiting mostly patiently for the orderly to appear to let him out. Hannibal tries to tell himself that there is time to think over her riddle, that rushing into it will likely only cause him to make a mistake, but he finds himself brushing such concerns aside. She is locked away and he is more than able to take care of himself, such worries are unneeded.
When the orderly arrives, the doctor offers the taller man a small smile. It always pays to be polite and friendly with the help. More often than not they're willing to provide more information on a patient. The man returns his smile from the other side of the bars. It is a pleasant, slightly vacant smile that does not quite reach the man's eyes. A slightly bigger man, with fat around his middle, triceps, and thighs, he looks like he would have made a decent athlete at some point in his life.
Hannibal waits patiently for the man to hit the button opening the door. And while he does, he decides to start a conversation with the man. If he's lucky he will learn more about Clarice, if not at least he will be in good standing with a member of the staff.
"Horrible weather, isn't it?"
The orderly looks mildly surprised to be spoken to, and for a long moment he stares at Hannibal. Eventually he nods his head slowly, agreeing silently with the doctor's assessment of the weather. It's not long before a sentence follows the nodding, "It's bad, but ain't as bad as usually is, sir. I just glad it ain't cold yet."
"Yes, I can see how the cold would make things worse."
Hannibal watches as the bars move in front of him, the heavy scraping of metal against metal sending a shiver down his back. He is more than aware that he's no closer to being found out than he was when he first arrived in the states several long years ago, but every visit to a state prison or sanitarium has him vaguely imagining a scenario in which he's finally behind bars. The orderly thankfully misinterprets it as a shiver thanks to the draftiness of the wing.
"It always gets colder in here faster than it does anywhere else," the orderly looks apologetic as he steps aside to let Hannibal through. "Some of the ones who have been here a while blame Miss Starling. They say her iciness lets in the winter chill a whole lot easier. I think they just want to blame her for something and the best they can do is the weather."
The doctor has to hold back a snort of amusement. As if a person's personality could affect the temperature. But at least he's gained something from the statement. Even the self-proclaimed Empress of the violent wing cannot fully control her subjects. Then again, even under the most ruthless leaders there will always be dissent. Hannibal cannot help but wonder if the woman allows it because she knows there is no way for her to control it, or because it amuses her to listen to her fellow inmates whisper about it.
"And what do you think?" He asks the orderly, turning his maroon gaze on the man with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Do you think Agent Starling is the Ice Queen reborn?"
The orderly shakes his head, expression serious and considering. Hannibal can tell that the thought has crossed the man's mind at least once over the time he's spent working the wing. "If she's anything reborn it's either some bloodthirsty queen or some angel of vengeance."
Hannibal's lips twitch in amusement as he steps over to remove his jacket from the hook he had left it hanging on. "An angel of vengeance? Most would say she's closer to an angel of death, isn't that what the papers called her?"
"Yes sir. She used to have one of them taped to her wall before Mr Chilton took it down." Now that Hannibal is through the bars and once again in safety, the orderly pushes the button to once more close the bars. They slide shut with a loud clang that echoes faintly down the hallway.
"Did she ever show any pride in being given such a title?"
"Miss Starling never shows much of anything, sir. She don't much like people knowin' what goes on in her head." Hannibal can't fault the woman for such a feeling. Having people know what went through your mind was invasive even at the best of times.
Pulling his jacket on slowly, his gaze wanders over to one of the walls. It is covered in screens, the black and white images flickering slightly as an orderly plays with some of the controls. Each screen has a different cell showing on it, and each is what one would expect from inmates on a maximum security wing. It takes a few seconds before Hannibal is able to locate Clarice's screen. The man smiles smugly to himself as he watches the woman in a corner of her cell, stroking the cover of her newest book.
A small part of him, beneath his curiosity and smugness, is genuinely happy she's enjoying his gift to the extent she is. The book has a special place in the doctor's heart and having the chance to see someone begin to fall in love with it is likely to do him some good.
Turning away from the wall of screens, he offers the orderly a small smile and a farewell wave. He knows the way out, and because of it the orderly returns to his seat. Hannibal doesn't mind the non-existent goodbye, in fact he rather prefers it. It allows him to replay what happened with Clarice in his mind. He would rather spend the next few minutes by himself turning over everything she told him than struggle with a conversation.
As he climbs out of the maximum security wing into the warmer, more well-kept areas of the sanitarium, Hannibal cannot help but wonder what parts of the woman's past have hurt her so. He firmly believes that something happened to the woman to make her more inclined to violence and aggression. After all she shows much intelligence during their conversations, and no shortage of rational thoughts and beliefs. Something in her childhood must have laid the foundations for her snap.
The only difficulty is finding it. Chances are it was a traumatic event for the girl, though it's not always such and Hannibal is smart enough to know it. Whatever it is, he has no doubts he will find it, he has all the time in the world to pursue it. But that is something he can think about later, for now her riddle. His first thought is the death of her father, and for a moment he allows himself a small smile. Perhaps in the end everyone is predictable.
References to secrets being hidden under mountains only makes his mind drift back to their discussion about her own mountain. For a moment, his mind pictures a young Clarice, hair pulled away from her face except for a few strands blowing wildly in the wind, her blue eyes wide with awe, and her feet planted solidly against a large rock. It's an image filled with victory and triumph, and one the doctor is certain had happened though he is less than certain as to why he believes it so readily.
Pausing in the middle of a flight of stairs, Hannibal wonders if the woman would have buried her 'truth' beneath her mountain. But no, such a thing would be too easy for one such as Clarice. She knew how to hide her tracks. A creature of caution and rational thought up until that last moment, Clarice would have never left anything connecting her to her crimes in such a place. However, he finds himself wanting to visit her mountain at least once if only to allow the image in his mind to become more real. Not only that, most families in small towns tended to stay in small towns. If he went looking and asking maybe someone would remember the Starling family.
The sound of a door opening pulls him from his thoughts and has him continuing upwards. Shaking his head slightly to himself, he pushes the thoughts of Clarice's mountain to the side and instead focuses on what he had seen. He had never expected to get such answers from her, and never so soon.
All for a book, he thinks with a slight smirk. Not that he can entirely blame her, he'd be starved for some form of distraction if he were ever in such a place. Next time he will have to remember to bring another, perhaps one closer to her own liking, and ask questions about her father and what she remembers most about him. Head tilting to the side, he pauses for a moment as he considers that line of questioning. It almost seems too mundane for the man to truly believe it. Continuing on, he shakes his head slightly to himself. No, he has to at the very least be thorough in how he approaches Clarice. Perhaps it is not her father that triggers her, but it is likely it will lead to what does.
Smirk sharpening into a predatory smile, he pushes open the stairwell's ground floor exit, and steps into the fresh air. A slight breeze brushes over his cheeks and tries to ruffle his gelled in place hair. Turning his face into the wind, the man closes his eyes and inhales slowly. The more he thinks about the woman the more intrigued he is. But why? He has known previous female killers, has spoken with even more male killers. Nothing is new information to him anymore, and yet… Every chance he has to speak with her he cannot stop the chaos of question after question trying to claw its way out his chest.
Eyes opening, he turns towards his car, but takes his time walking. No, he must visit that mountain of hers, even if it costs him a few days. He has to know just what it is that she imagines when she closes her eyes for peace. If only to better understand the answers she will finally give him, because in the end… they always do. He knows he's a patient enough man, and with Crawford's blessing he can find all the time in the world.
On his drive home he forces himself to think on other things. He has a life outside of Agent Starling, and it would not do to let everything else fall to the wayside. It's time to have one of his dinners at home, a chance to speak with Crawford face to face, along with a few others in the psychiatric world. He does not approve of Chilton's handling of the sanatorium, and he knows that planting the right seed in the right ground would bloom into something fruitful. As he turns onto the road leading to his home, he begins to hum along to the soft notes of classical notes playing on the radio.
Hannibal pulls into his driveway carefully, parking his car on the right side as usual. The familiar ritual has him relaxing slightly. That has him frowning slightly to himself. The man had not realized he had been so tightly invested in his day. Climbing out of his car, he gives it an uncharacteristically hard push before locking it. Heading inside, he tries to think about what to make for dinner. Anything to keep himself from bringing the day and what is supposed to be work into his safe haven. Leaving his briefcase by the door, he toes his shoes off on the entrance mat and hangs his jacket in the closet.
After stalling by the door as long as possible, he plunges into the shadow filled house. Making it to his kitchen, he reaches for the wall and flicks on the lights. Thankfully he had been smart enough to keep his eye closed through the walk through the house, so when he opens them they have a less difficult time adjusting to the bright whites and greys. Reaching for the radio hidden in a corner, he flicks it on hoping the music will help him relax further.
It takes little time to find something to eat, cook, and then begin a kettle. It's only when he's pouring the hot water over a tea strainer into a mug that he has a truly magnificent idea for a sketch. Smiling to himself, he hurries to finish filling his mug so he can retreat into his study. He has everything that he'll need, fresh paper and ink, perhaps paints. It would not get his mind off of work like he had previously wanted, but it would certainly let him work off some of the frustration that's beginning to build up.
She had put off reading the book all afternoon. Shadows had grown along the cracked concrete floors of the hallway and her cell. The book had been held close for almost two hours after the doctor left, before she had placed it on top of her pillow. A silent promise for after dinner, a promise that called to her mind and soul all afternoon. Not thinking, she had left the book sitting on her bed as she had walked into the center of her cell for the arrival of her dinner. The orderly hadn't noticed it at first, but Clarice can recall the exact moment he had. Sucking in a breath through her teeth, she digs her nails into her palms to force herself to remain still in the center of the room as she remembers.
The book is gone. And with its absence there lies a hollow burning anger.
Her cell is no longer painted in shades of whites and greys, splattered with dark shadows that lurk in the corners and undersides of the sparse furniture. Instead it is dyed reds and oranges, yellows and pale blues, that rise and fall depending on the current heat of her anger. The majority of it is kept on the shortest of leashes. Her sweat stings the shallow cuts her nails have made in her skin, grounding her to her reality.
Her bed and sink lie in pieces around her. Some shards of porcelain slice into the balls of her feet as she continues to crouch on the cold concrete. Her feet sting from the inch of water that has managed to build up from the broken sink. But the raw anger had destroyed both before she could stop herself. So she must take the punishment of standing uncomfortably while she waits for the director and the other staff to respond to her eruption.
Half an hour later, she is beginning to panic. It should have been a handful of minutes before someone realized something was wrong, and even less for them to arrive. What was going on? Had they decided to just leave her in her mess of a cell for the rest of the night? It would certainly be her own damn fault for doing what she did. Shifting slightly, she opens her eyes and looks down at the floor to see if there is a less shard studded place to stand, or even sit. Finding a small one on the other side of the cell, Clarice carefully makes her way to it.
Settling with her back to the wall, she fixes her gaze on the spot where brick meets plexiglass. The first moment someone comes into view she will be ready to slip back into her cold mask of indifference. For now, all she wishes is to think and breath in peace. Long has it been since her anger has taken over her so completely. Bile floods her mouth as she remembers the punishment from last time. Growling softly to herself, she tucks her arms around her stomach and sides protectively. This time it will be different. Chilton and his minions won't have the chance to touch her.
There's a ghost of leather across the skin of her forearms. Gooseflesh rising, she has to hold back a shudder and a gasp that toes the line of becoming a scream. Nails digging into her sides, she swallows heavily. Water would be fantastic right now, she thinks as she casts a quick glance at the piping in the brick where the sink used to be. Some water leaks out of the wall, a slow drip compared to the never ending cascade from an hour ago, but not enough to provide the relief she seeks. Gaze fixing itself on the edge of her cell again she clenches her jaw. It's going to be a long night, but she's had worse.
Like after she had killed Jame Gumb.
That night she hadn't slept, too afraid of running into him in her dreams and finding that instead of a man's yell he would sound like dying lambs. Instead she had curled up on the broken down loveseat she and Mapp shared and stared at the wall. All afternoon and most of the evening she had been questioned relentlessly, not only by Crawford and the Behavioural Sciences Unit but by her instructors, and classmates. It had been a relief to know Crawford and the Bureau would handle making the press statement. All Clarice had wanted was to return to her dorm and sleep for a week.
Sleep had never come. Mapp had drifted to bed not long after Clarice had pretended to fall asleep on the couch. Her friend had carefully draped one of her grandmother's old quilts over her before heading for her bed. Opening her eyes, Clarice had stared after the taller woman with a sad smile. A large part of her felt guilty for being so quiet with her friend all evening, but after the day she had had… Well Mapp couldn't exactly blame her. Her smile had quickly faded as her friend retreated from view, and her gaze found a patch of shadows to watch while her mind wandered.
When she closed her eyes she could feel the man's breath on the back of her neck. Had to stop herself from looking over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't there. The click of the fridge coming to life just across the dorm sounded like his gun cocking. It had been him or her. And yet there had been no time to decide, no time to aim. Just blind instinct and panic. The panic still feels shameful. How could she feel panic in a situation she had been trained for? Perhaps that knife would dull over time and she could walk away feeling as if she had done the job well.
How long had he been behind her? Had he stalked her through the entire basement, laughing at her as she stumbled over stones and the uneven dirt? Her anger and rage threatened to boil over, her fingers twitched against her palms with the desire to throw something. But she hadn't. Somehow she had found a way to keep herself still. Her father's voice, drifting through her hearing, almost just too faint for her to hear, "That's my girl. Always knew how to do the right thing."
Her throat had convulsed at the thought of him. Tears, not too far off. Would her Daddy have been proud of her? Killing Gumb had been the right thing to do hadn't it? After everything he had done. All the girls he had tortured and killed. It was only fair. Their families deserved to know that the monster who had destroyed their flesh and blood was dead. And if she was being honest with herself… Killing Gumb had felt good. That was what scared her most. Was she just like the people who killed her Daddy? No, her mind shied at the very thought of killing an innocent.
But Gumb, or someone like him?
Her heart felt heavy in her chest, and the longer she thought about it the heavier it got. Her mind had chased itself around in circles, trying to find a logical explanation for the conflicting emotions running through her. Even the idea of speaking to Crawford about what she was experiencing only had her retreating deeper into herself. The man was so by the book, so stoic, she doubted he had ever questioned himself as much as she was. Worse, to ask him such a question might show her to be weak and only provoke his displeasure.
Looking back on that night, Clarice finds herself frowning. She had been so young, so full of righteous eagerness. If only she could return to that time and give herself guidance. But what to say? Perhaps her younger self would not listen to whatever advice she had anyways. She had always been stubborn and full of pride… Wanting nothing more than to achieve her father's dream for him.
"And yet I sit in a cold cell waiting for morons." Her voice echoes quietly for a moment before dying. Eyes narrowing, she tries to pinpoint a time, but everything feels unsteady. Her body tells her it's long past morning, her mind tries to tell her it's just before dawn. Shaking her head slightly, she pulls her arms from her sides and rubs her face. A slow inhale, then a slow exhale. Leaving her hands over her face, she slowly lowers her head to her knees. It's not a comfortable position, but it's one she can sleep in if she needs to. If they've taken this long to come, there must be time left for a nap.
She does not truly sleep. Her body still wanting to vibrate with the force of her barely restrained anger, but she dozes enough to let her mind rest. The fourth time she manages to slip into an almost sleep the door at the far end of the hallway clangs open. Eyes opening, she lifts her head from her hands and fixes her gaze once more on the corner where brick meets plexiglass. She counts the seconds until it takes the person to step into view. Five. But they had been walking quickly, so they knew about her cell at least. Hopefully.
Her eyes widen as the man steps into her line of sight. Mouth opening, she tries to think of something clever and biting to say. But a sideways glance at her cell has her thinking twice. The man will only know the quip for what it is, a too late attempt to hide her anger. Honesty would only break the strand of sanity she has knotted around her fingers. And yet she finds herself wondering if honesty might smooth some of the cracks in her mask.
While she struggles to find something to say in the silence, the man calmly takes in her cell. His dark eyes travel over the bent bed frame and the shattered edges of the sink. There are several cracks in the plexiglass, but she notices he is careful to avoid looking at those. Out of everything she had done last night, she knows that is the worst. Not that she can find it in herself to care.
"Well Agent Starling," the man's voice is full of quiet amusement. "I guess my first lesson will be what Chilton should have learnt a long time ago. Never take your books."
He turns to look at her, and for the first time Clarice believes she's getting a true smile from the man. Taking a slow breath, she hesitantly meets his dark gaze with her light one and tries for a smile of her own. Humor isn't something that always comes easy to her, but she finds herself teasing him. It's easier than admitting to her mistake. "It's not my fault I get bored, Doctor Lecter. And besides, isn't the whole law of the universe entropy?"
The man's sleek head nods a few times as his gaze flicks to the cracks in the flexiglass. His smile disappears, and his good mood seems to melt away. "We must talk about this Agent Starling," he tells her with quiet seriousness. "But not today. Today we must talk about other things."
"Other things, Doctor?"
"Yes. It has come to my attention that this facility is woefully understaffed and under funded, Doctor Chilton it seems has been taking much of the sanitarium's funds and using it to buy nights out for himself." The two share a small smile, both have heard of Chilton's desperate attempts to fit in with high Baltimore society. "And it seems too that his patients have been suffering rather needlessly."
None of this is particularly new news to Clarice, but she forces herself to remain quiet. The doctor seems uncharacteristically tense, holding himself perfectly still as if a piece of prey is about to stumble into his path. Her stomach rolls uncomfortably, making a faint gurgle that only just reaches her ears. Something is about to happen, but she has no idea what. Swallowing, she shifts ever so slightly on her feet. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and yet in this moment that's all Clarice wants to do.
"Chilton has been removed from his position here." Hannibal Lecter smiles again at her, but this time it is sharp and predatory. Clarice hopes it's at the thought of Chilton and not at her. "And I have been asked to fill in his position."
The breath leaves the ex-agent's lungs as the man delivers his news. She doesn't hear him tell her he has accepted the position. Of course he has, otherwise he would not be standing before her. No more Chilton. That thought alone sends a spark of hope rushing through what she thought was an empty breastbone. And to have someone who listened as director?
A miracle.
If only she still believed. She might have spent the rest of the day and the night in prayer.
Inhaling slowly, she forces herself back to the moment. The doctor has spoken quite a bit since he delivered his news. Having missed it all, she asks him to repeat himself. She even remembers to add on a polite please.
"I wish to move you to a more appropriate cell. You and everyone else along this row. Criminally insane you all might be, but you all deserve to have a bed you can't smash to pieces."
Clarice finds herself recoiling at the idea. A transfer to another cell? What would that mean in return? Lips pressing together, she presses her hands to the wall and pushes herself up. She was meant to die in this cold, pathetic, little corner cell. Had long ago resigned herself to the tiny world she had been given. Why was he suddenly giving her more? Mouth open, she's ready to unleash her barrage of questions, but he raises his hand to stop her.
"You are right to expect that I will want something for this," his voice is gentle, persuasive. "But all I ask is that when you are ready, you tell me why you acted as you did last night. For now, Clarice, let us get you moved to a room. One with a window, perhaps?"
Her heart leaps into her throat. "Can I see some trees?" Her voice sounds small, hopeful.
The doctor is quick to nod, and reassure her. "Of course." He gestures for someone on the other side of the wall to come towards him. Barney approaches, wearing his usual soft smile. "Barney and I will guide you, if you will carry anything in your cell you wish to take with you."
"I have nothing," she answers truthfully, not even bothering to look. Everything is replaceable, and she has a strong feeling Lecter will be kinder and more open to her requests than Chilton was.
"Fine. Barney, if you'd please."
The doctor and Clarice watch as Barney steps forward and begins unlocking the thick brass padlocks on the door. It takes a few moments for the ex-agent to stop and catch her breath. This is all truly happening. Her gaze shoots to Lecter, and she turns utterly still. Unless the man was lying about it all. Forcing herself to breath, she looks back at Barney who's just managed to finish with the last lock. The man stands before opening the door and gestures for Clarice to approach him.
It takes her a few long seconds, during which she looks between Barney and Lecter, but she finally steps towards the bulky man. He motions for her to turn, and she looks down to see a pair of dark padded cuffs in his right hand. Taking a deep breath, she turns around and then takes a careful step towards him, her arms extended. She hasn't often worn the cuffs, the times she has she'd often lost feeling in her fingertips. Thankfully Barney is different from the rest. He ties them snug against her skin, but not tight enough to pinch. Turning back towards him, she gives him a small smile. "Thanks, Barney." The man nods at her before gesturing for her to step out of the cell. Doing so, she stiffens feeling the cold concrete beneath her socked feet. She had thought the floor of her cell chilly, but the hallway was worse.
Casting a glance at Doctor Lecter, her smile drops. Her mind tries to picture the conversation they will have later. But the image doesn't quite come into focus. The doctor is a storm brewing on the horizon, ready to shake her past and thoughts from her with no mercy. Perhaps it would be easier to slip into madness than to face him. Glancing down the hallway towards the door of iron bars that lies opening and waiting, she braces herself. Whatever the doctor is planning she will survive it. She's already seen several abysses, already turned into a monster, and she still stands. Still breaths.
Doctor Hannibal Lecter, will not break her. Not with his questions, and not with his view of trees.