Fate keeps happening.

-Anita Loos

*****

Lindsey lay on the hotel room bed with her head near the foot of the hard mattress, watching the evening news and idly glancing at the case file spread in front of her elbows. The reporter was speaking into the microphone, looking grim in the face of the camera, and blinking in the setting sun. The feed was from four hours ago, and Lin saw herself walking around in the background by the lake. She upped the volume by a couple notches, to better hear what the reporter was saying.

"Guy Montag was found late this afternoon by another jogger, and police arrived minutes after the call. It appears to be another in a series of murders that have been plaguing the Colorado Springs area for the past two months. The killings seem to follow the pattern of a series of murders committed in the nineteen seventies by the infamous psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter." There was an old black and white picture flashed on screen as the reporter continued. Even in black and white, as the photo was, Dr. Lecter had eerie eyes. She shook her head at the cold feeling in her bones and continued listening to the newscast.

"If you do see Dr. Lecter, do not approach him. He is considered to be very dangerous and may be armed. If seen, alert authorities as soon as possible, do not try to apprehend the suspect yourself. We have been informed that the FBI is helping on this case, and you can see two of their agents there behind us. We've been told that they are Special Agents Clarice Starling and Lindsey Singleton." The camera zoomed in on her and Clarice, catching Lin as she shook her head as she stepped back from the waters edge. As always, she thought she looked horrible on camera. She looked back down at her file, tapping a pen against her chin as she scanned over the details of the murders so far. The reporter's voice droned on like an insect on the background as she dropped the sound again.

"Mr. Montag was a local fireman. Services have yet to be planned but the family has set up a trust fund. You can make donations by calling…"

*****

The room was heavy with the scent of lavender as she stepped from the shower. The rushing water had done little to clear her head, but it had sufficed to wash the essence of Chip Clayson from her body. That man was as oily and as creepy as Paul Krendler had been. Hopefully, as much as she had appreciated it, He would not arrive to put a quarrel through Lt. Clayson. She glared at her reflection in the mirror as she went to double check the locks on the door. D below middle C.

"That particular frequency of the crossbow string, should you hear it again in any context, means only your complete freedom and peace and self-sufficiency."

Damn him! She would never be rid of him, no matter how much she oft wished to be. No matter how many miles, no matter how many walls, no manner how many tears she put between them, he would always be there. And now, now she was here, put on his case once more. Did the FBI expect to create some grand spectacle for the masses in front of their televisions sets? Attempting to place her face on every cover of every tabloid that the housewives read while they waited in line with their children? Why had she slapped those cuffs on him that night? He had been ready to take her away from all of this, to give her a life with him. Because she was between iron and silver. Because of her morals and her duties, because of her commitment to the F.B.I. That was why. She was incorruptible, would forever remain that way, and she would never allow her heart to decide her destiny.

*****

The stars are bright in their fire above, glittering like a million jewels spilt on velvet. The antennas atop the peak of Cheyenne Mountain blink red against the starlit skies, and the Shrine to the Sun is floodlit lower on the mountain. The Broadmoor stands at the end of Lake Avenue, its pink exterior dimmed in the night, the eye drawn to the lit globe of light atop it. Couples stroll round the Lake within the resort, and a few relax on benches that line the paths. Bring you attention across the street form the resort now, as a handsome couple strolls along the sidewalk in front of the International Center. The woman's blonde hair just brushes her shoulders as she lightly grasps her companion's arm. Her bell-like laughter carries in the night only dimmed by the roar of a random passing vehicle. The heat from the day is slowly dissipating, as is the winds that have been accompanying it, making for a pleasant evening. They slowly cross the street, Leigh still singing some of the tunes that had been on the piano while they were in the Golden Bee.

The Golden Bee is an authentic English pub, made even more authentic due to the fact that it was disassembled in England, packed into crates, and shipped to the United States. The interior is dark and soot stains from the old oil lamps mark the walls and ceilings above the sconces and chandeliers. The wallpaper that covers the walls has tiny bees on it, in keeping with the pub's name. Leigh was a bit tipsy now as they walked back to their suite in the hotel, seeing as she had finished off a full yard of ale. She sang in the elevator, earning looks from the couple in there with them, and her companion smiled apologetically. They returned to the room in time for the late newscast, and he left it there as he changed into something more comfortable. Leigh brushed a kiss against his cheek and intoned that she was going to take a bath, and that he was quite welcome to join her. He politely declined and continued unknotting his tie. The voice on the TV stopped him mid motion.

Slowly he settled onto the edge of the bed, nicely remade by the maids after they had left the suite this afternoon. There was a tiny glint of surprise in his eyes as he listened to the continuing story. They switched to a female reporter down in front of a lake, a breeze lifting her hair and showing a setting sun behind her. Not a live feed. He had known about the murders that had been occurring, it was hard to ignore when they often occupied the front page of the local newspapers. It was the first time he had heard a name connected to the case, though, and it was not a name he wanted to be connected to it. The hotel suite and his lover in the bathroom were forgotten as the television absorbed his full attention. The entire world ceased to exist as the next name was mentioned and the camera zoomed in on the group of law enforcement officials by the lake. The name slipped from his lips before he could do anything to stop it. A hand reaching out to the screen before him.

"Clarice." it was half whispered, half spoken, as if he were afraid to say it. A moment more, then the camera returned to focus on the reporter. He felt a feather touch on his shoulder and he seized the hand.

"Geez, Henry! That hurts!" Leigh was wrapped in a thick robe and yanking her hand out of his fist, rubbing at it with the hand that held a bottle of bubble bath. "I was just coming out to get a book, and you were staring at the boob tube like you had seen a ghost."

He had seen a ghost. A ghost, and a replica of that ghost standing on the edge of a lake. He pushed the images away for the moment, reaching out to take Leigh's hand, kissing it lightly. "It was nothing, dear Leigh. Go take your bath."

Leigh leaned forward and kissed him before turning to the dresser and taking a paperback from it. He caught the title as she padded back to the bathroom, and sighed. Romance novels were such rubbish, perfectly detrimental to the welfare of women and society on a whole. He turned off the television set and returned to the undressing procedure, wondering about the turn of events that he was sure to come.

*****