Hello everyone!
This fan-fiction will be following the movie canon past Hannibal, taking place a year or two later.
There's one tiny alteration—I really preferred the use of the A. A. Adams correspondence in the book Hannibal to get Clarice put on suspension. I found it more believable, so I'm keeping it—just a minor point. If you haven't read the books—SPOILER***—rather than planting a postcard, Mason Verger gets Clarice by responding to a request for correspondence from Hannibal Lecter to Clarice, publicly, by addressing a personals ad to A.A. Adams.
I don't own the works I quote or the characters of Thomas Harris.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE: The Glory and the Dream
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
-William Wordsworth
The sun had long since settled below the edge of the horizon when the Mustang pulled in to the drive. The neighborhood wasn't too far from town, but the houses were amply spaced and thickly hidden by trees.
A woman trudged inside.
Clarice locked the door, unbelted her holster, and poured herself a whisky in the dark. Usually, when she got home, she would check the pile of mail left by the neighbor kid, catch up on news, eat some real food, and take a long shower. Tonight, she doubted she would make it off the couch.
Lost another lamb, have you, Clarice?
His voice was still in her head after all this time.
The child's dead body had gone cold in her arms. She'd heard him scream before they killed him. Another voice for her nightmares.
For four days she'd hunted practically without sleep, but she couldn't sleep now. Instead, she lay down, and stared out the window at the night.
The next day was a Sunday. Clarice couldn't stand being still anymore and had managed to pass out for only an hour before the nightmares. Before full sunup, she was at the office.
There weren't any big cases at the moment, but a lot of paper-pushing to get done. Her new setup was nothing like the Bureau. After what happened (she refused to think about her last days as an Agent, referring to them simply as what happened), she didn't have much of a chance left at the Bureau and hadn't really felt like taking it.
No one understood why she refused the rape kit. He's not the one I was violated by, she had wanted to say, the Bureau violated me. Instead, she resigned before someone found an excuse to terminate her.
Life ran differently now. Crawford had quietly passed her information to a small PI group running out of Pennsylvania. They specialized in finding missing children. Lambs. She had driven up to talk to them, and Peter Rowe, the man in charge, had been—refreshing.
"We don't make money, we take bad press, we put our lives in danger, and we spend a lot of time feeling hopeless and frustrated, but every now and then we get to save an innocent life. You still interested?" he had asked.
She fit right in.
From their Philly-suburb office, they could get anywhere on the East Coast within a day, and took cases everywhere. Petty squabbling between parents took up most of their time, but they got the occasional ransom, sometimes a runaway.
Rowe hadn't lied about the workload, though. The only functioning thing in the office was the coffee pot. They didn't have the resources, support, or firepower she was used to. Hell, Clarice didn't even have an intimidating badge anymore—but she got to fight for something that actually mattered. It was worth it.
She worked on files, reports, and a little research before Rowe came in around lunch time.
"What the hell you doing here, Starling?"
"Couldn't sleep. Might as well finish the write-up on the O'Caugnahan case."
Rowe sighed, leaning on her desk. He was the same age as Clarice, but easily looked ten years older with the circles under his eyes that never seemed to disappear. He only bothered dressing up when he had to; apparently his wife had dragged him to church today, because he was in his only brown suit.
"We've both lost one before," he said, finally, "Work through it however you need. Just don't beat yourself up about this. We all did what we could."
"I know, sir."
"Ask for help if you need it, Starling. You can take as much time off as you think you need."
"Thanks, but I'd rather be here."
He nodded, straightening. "I'm just here to pick up some files I left, anyways. Try to get some rest, okay?"
"I'll try."
Rowe scanned the piles on his desk, cluttered in a meticulous way only he understood.
"Oh, right, the mail…" he muttered.
Clarice kept typing. She was procrastinating on the worst details for the report on yesterday's failure. It was dragging on. That's why she noticed the unusual silence coming from her boss's desk.
He was staring, or rather glaring, at a slip of paper.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Eviction notice," Rowe said.
"What?"
"For when we've lagged on utilities, and the "threat our presence poses to other tenants." We can either pay extra fees for our "increased risk" or get out."
"Is that legal?"
"Seems so."
Clarice cursed.
"Don't worry about it, Starling. I'll think of something. Nothing's put us under yet, not in twelve years."
"Let me know if I can do anything. Look up other buildings. Call a lawyer."
"Will do, but it can wait until tomorrow. Clarice, you should come to lunch with us. How long has it been since you ate?"
She hesitated, wondering how honest to be that she couldn't remember exactly how many days it had been since that gas station stakeout food.
"Come on, then. You can't survive off caffeine alone. I can drop you off back here after."
Peter Rowe really was a good man, so Clarice tried hard to smile at him, and accepted.
Exhaustion dripped into her frame slowly. Clarice felt it taking over, but still she didn't sleep. Insomnia was just one of the job risks.
She had ended up coming home early. The details of the report would have to wait until she'd slept, and there was no more busy work to do at the office.
In desperation, she opened the drawer beneath her stereo in the kitchen. She'd long since had the tapes converted to CD to have a backup, but still she played the tapes, and so far they hadn't worn out.
"Hello, Clarice."
Listening to those conversations again calmed her down. She liked to see how far she'd come, how much healthier her mind was now outside of the FBI. She enjoyed remembering the success of that case—she'd lost too many since then.
On nights like this, beyond exhaustion, she could admit, too, that she just missed the Doctor.
To have a voice that understands.
"God, I need a hobby. Or a dog." But with being gone one week out of every two on a case, she never seemed to find the time. Sometimes Ardelia called. Sometimes she read—she was slowly getting through the classics, the ones he always quoted. Every now and then, when a case went right, she went to a symphony. Tonight, though, Clarice just settled on the couch and let the Doctor's voice lull her to sleep.
Caffeine and alcohol got her through the next few days. Rowe kept her workload light, sending other members of their tiny staff out on the risks. By Thursday, Clarice needed to get out of the office or she thought she'd snap and start burning paperwork.
Thankfully, at least for Clarice's sanity, they got a call that day. Rowe and Clarice were alone in the office, the other three investigators out on business.
"Rowe and Co. Private Investigations, this is Rowe," he'd said, picking it up, "Oh, hello Mrs. Engle…Again?...Give us fifteen minutes, someone will be there…You're welcome."
"The couple from paradise again?" Clarice asked after he hung up.
"Yep. Apparently they're on the splits again."
"As usual, he took Quentin?"
"As usual."
Mr. and Mrs. Engle were an on-again, off-again couple whose raging drug abuse and screaming fights had nearly gotten their six-year-old son, Quentin, taken by the CPS. Mrs. Engle had no car since she'd wrecked it on a DUI, so when her husband left with their only working vehicle she was stranded. She never called the police because Mr. Engle still had custody, so there wasn't much they could do, and on top of that they might look too closely at the fresh needle tracks in her arms. Thus, about once a month, Rowe & Co. PI got a call to find Quentin.
"Let me take this one, Rowe."
"…You sure, Starling?"
"Yeah. I've dealt with them before. It's a low risk case. I need out."
"Okay. Call if you need anything."
"Will do. Thanks."
Ten minutes later, she pulled up the dirt road to the Engle house. Mrs. Engle sat on the porch stoop, rocking and crying. Clarice kneeled beside her.
"Mrs. Engle? It's me, Clarice Starling. Peter Rowe sent me. Are you okay?"
"Clarice! Thank the Lord! You have to find them!"
"I will, Mrs. Engle. I just need you to tell me what happened this time."
A long, broken explanation followed. Nothing unusual—they were fighting. Scott—Mr. Engle—hit her, took Quentin out of bed, and ran. He'd said he was never coming back this time, and he really meant it.
"Please, Miss Clarice. I just want my baby back."
"I'll do my best, ma'am. If you want to file for domestic abuse, I can give you the number."
"Oh, I don't know. Scott was just in one of his moods. It doesn't really happen that often. Please."
"All right. In that case, try to eat something and get some rest, okay? You can't help Quentin if you're exhausted."
"Thank you…"
Clarice gently took the woman's shoulders and led her inside and onto the couch. Mrs. Engle might not move again, but it was all Clarice could do, and she was hardly one to judge.
Sometimes Mr. Engle took Quentin to the park. This was not one of those times. She slowly cruised by his favorite drug stops, but didn't find him there, either.
Great.
The next place to stop at was a grimy motel that didn't operate strictly within the law. Clarice pulled up at a spot in the back, away from the lobby. His car was here. She knew where he would be.
After scanning the car in case he'd left Quentin inside, she slid to the door of room 14, knocking loudly.
"Mr. Scott Engle, are you in there? Quentin?"
There was a pause in the obscene noises from within.
"I'm looking for Quentin Engle."
Some banging. A creaking.
The door opened a crack. Mr. Engle stood on the other side, wearing only his underwear.
"Can I help you?"
"Hello, Mr. Engle. I'm Clarice Starling, PI."
"We met."
"I'm looking for your son. I'm told you left with him early this morning. Is he in there?"
"He's my son. You can't take him away."
"He is your son, sir, but the fact that you're currently hiding him in the bathroom with a prostitute makes it my business. Mrs. Engle is considering filing for abuse."
"That bitch!"
"I understand that you hit her. Now you brought your son into a motel room with a hooker. It's not looking good for you, sir, but if you cooperate I can help."
"She threw a bottle at me!"
Clarice nudged the door open a little more. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. It missed. But she's dangerous! I can't take Q back there!"
"Is it really better for him to be here?" Clarice stepped in while the door was still open.
"I…I was just lying low here…Rochelle's a friend…"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Mr. Engle. You have to explain it to Quentin. Is this the life you want for him?"
"Scotty! This brat smells bad!" a nasally voice called from the bathroom.
Clarice raised an eyebrow at him.
"Don't talk about my son that way!"
"What? He does!" The bathroom door cracked open and Quentin tumbled out, followed by a naked woman.
"Oh. She still here?" the woman said.
"…I don't want to go home. Take Q. He shouldn't be here," Mr. Engle said. His eyes never left Rochelle's body to see his son on the floor, pants soiled.
Clarice picked the boy up.
"Hi, Quentin. Remember me?"
Quentin nodded silently.
"You want to go home?"
Another nod.
Cradling Quentin's head into her neck so he wouldn't have to see any more, Clarice left. The door slammed behind her.
Mr. Engle had left his car unlocked, so Clarice took Quentin's backpack and let him change clothes in a McDonald's bathroom. She bought him a meal, but he barely spoke. When they were almost back to the Engle house, she had to say something.
"Quentin, does this happen a lot?"
She already knew the answer. Still, the boy nodded.
"Mommy and Daddy have a lot of problems. Grown-up problems that, unfortunately, you have to deal with too. It's not your fault, though. You are still a good kid, okay? No matter what they do."
Quentin was silent.
"I'm going to give you my card. Do you have a phone?"
A nod.
"And you can read numbers?"
"To ten."
"Well, if you ever feel like you're in danger, or your house is too scary, call me. Just punch in the numbers like they are on the card. Can you do that, Quentin?"
A nod. A card, put wordlessly in a pocket.
"Call me if you get too hungry, too, okay?"
This nod was a little more vigorous. She could tell by looking at him that there wasn't much food in the house.
Clarice didn't want to return the boy and he didn't want to go. Still, both marched out of the car. Mrs. Engle ran down the drive to hug her son. He didn't move. Mrs. Engle thanked Clarice profusely.
"Remember what I said, okay, Quentin?" Clarice asked. The boy nodded.
Clarice forced herself to drive away. For now, that would have to be enough.
"Doesn't ever get easier, does it?" Clarice asked Rowe when she got back to the office.
"Never. Quentin okay?"
"As much as he can be."
"Where was Scotty-boy this time?"
"Rochelle's."
"Oh, shit."
"Yeah."
Clarice finished her reports—she'd even done the one from last weekend, now—and started sifting through the mail that Rowe never got to. Utility bill. Thank-you card. Advertisement. Cable internet bill. Invitation to the Police Gala.
She froze.
She nearly dropped all of her papers, and shakily sat. Carefully angling behind her computer screen, Clarice stared at the envelope.
It was not addressed to her, but Rowe &Co. PI. Still, that perfectly aligned calligraphy could come from only one person.
Clarice glanced at Rowe. He was still wrapped up in something, so she opened the envelope.
Inside were a money order and a note. The "from" field on the money order was left blank, but it was addressed to Rowe & Co, for a large sum of money.
Clarice tried to read the note but couldn't. She realized her hands were shaking. She set it down.
Hello.
I was recently enlightened of your unfortunate circumstances. I believe this should cover expenses for a few months. If not, please consider putting it to use to acquire legal counsel. As the Stoic said, nothing is made worse or better by praise, so I need not commend you, but—keep up the good work.
Warm regards,
A friend.
When she could breathe again: "Rowe? You'd better come look at this."