Hey! Look! It's a new chapter! Feel free to cheer. Yes, I have a lot on my plate, but I promise to behave and finish everything before the end of the month. Hopefully. Don't hold your breath on that zombie tale though. Much thanks to Kurt, who sparked my muse for something else last night. I was trying to write something else, and this is what came out. Okey dokey then, here we go.

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How long can a man stay silent before he returns to the thing he does best?

The continual thrum of the air conditioning made the building seem almost as if it were breathing. It was not a comforting thought when you are alone in the basement of that building, sixty feet underground, caged in a small office with walls of battleship grey. A war battered desk sits in the midst of the maelstrom, not entirely an island of refuge, seeing it is as cluttered with papers as the rest of the office. A large corkboard hangs on one wall, catty corner to an equally large dry-erase board. Both are covered with their own colorful and non-too-enchanting attractions.

Old and new clippings litter the corkboard, taken from newspapers and magazines alike. Headlines from the National Tattler scream at the observer in seventy-two point Railroad Gothic, and the pictures plastered on their front pages are just as eye catching. Newspapers, yellowed from the years hang side by side with the Tattler pages. One headline form the old newsprint screams 'Bill Skins Fifth', another holds the quote from e.e. cummings' deadly little poem 'Buffalo Bill'. … how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death Newer clipping also reside on the board, magazine clippings that highlight full color photographs of the two people this board commemorates.

The dry-erase board is an amalgam of red, blue, green, and black markings. Three lists run down the board, assorted commentary interspersed between them. Some make sense to the uninitiated, others do not. It is of no matter now, since everything these things represent have once again crashed to the floor with the grace of a shattering teacup.

Behind the battle scarred desk, half hidden by the large flat panel monitor, she sat. Tipped back in the only new thing in her office, the wonderfully comfortable office chair, she sat, staring endlessly at the ceiling. Her head hurt, but not so much as her pride. All the effort over the years, traded in an instant for nothing. She would not cry, she promised herself that as she sat there, swallowing against the rising sobs and squeezing her eyes tight against the tears.

A TV also resides in the office, high up on the wall on a swinging arm of the type found in hospitals. No sound issues from it, but the pictures still play across it. The same ones over and over again, the same event replayed to the entertainment and fear of the world. Lock your doors! Keep your children inside! Don't go out unless you need to, there's a madman on the loose! The world just couldn't get enough, could they? No, they could never get enough of Hannibal Lecter.

Nor, it seemed, could they get enough of Clarice Starling. That was part of the reason as to why she was still residing in her dull office below the Earth. She didn't like her face to be splashed over every screen in America, placed on every front page of every newspaper. Not that it mattered, it would still happen, whether she liked it or not. And she would once more lay claim to the infamy of being the one with the connection to the sociopathic psychiatrist.

Hannibal the Cannibal and the FBI's Angel of Death. What a combination. What a match made in Hell. The media ate it up like it was candy, especially the Tattler. Not twenty four hours had passed since Lecter's escape, and she had already hung up on the Tattler reporter six times. The anger rose in Clarice as the phone began to ring again at that moment. Seizing the receiver violently she lifted it to her ear, already priming herself to yell at whomever was on the other end.

"Starling."

There was a long pause on the other end, silence buzzing with static. A cellular phone. There was nothing as Clarice opened her mouth once more to tell the caller exactly what she thought of prank callers. The breath died before it escaped her lips as the caller spoke.

"Not a very cordial way to answer the phone, Special Agent Starling."

She was frozen, unable to react, unable to speak or do anything. Her eyes went to the TV where, coincidentally, a picture of him was on the screen.

"No 'hello' for a dear old friend, Clarice? I thought you had better manners than that."

Her voice cracked as she worked her mouth around the word. "Hello."

The smile was almost audible in his voice, "That's better. How are you feeling, Clarice? Angry? Upset? Embarrassed? Or perhaps, slightly elated? We both knew you never really wanted to see me in that cell, otherwise you would have visited more often."

She sucked in air like a swimmer coming to the surface after a dive. Her knuckles were white on the receiver as she spoke quietly. "I'm going to catch you, Dr. Lecter."

A chuckle. "We'll see about that, Special Agent Starling. It will be a fun chase nonetheless, you and the brave FBI chasing down the feared murderer. Quite a story for the tabloids. I'm especially sure the Tattler and Mrs. Morricone will love it."

"I'm going to catch you." the statement was issued in a much quieter tone this time, cold and hard. Issued in a voice that made it clear that she was a woman who stood between iron and silver.

"I'll be waiting, Clarice. Ta."

The silence of the disconnection buzzed in her ear until the dial tone made her put the phone down. She rocked back again in the chair, then sat back upright to rest her elbows on the desk. There sat Clarice, head resting in the palms of her hands, trying to decide whether to scream or to cry. Finally recovering enough, she called down to the switchboard and asked them to try and trace the call she just received. Laying down the receiver once more, she waited. A much younger agent leaned his head in the door, looking slightly nervous. She looked at him, hoping she wouldn't have to speak to make him tell her what he wanted.

"Agent Starling?" she nodded, and he swallowed before continuing. "Your security company just called to let you know that they had an alarm go off at your house. They're on there way over there right now."

The phone rang as she opened her mouth to question the messenger. Plucking the receiver from its place once more she listened to the caller. She felt tired and nauseous as she hung up the phone. A quick check of the drawer proved her fear to be dead on. She looked back to the kid in her doorway, waving her arm expansively over her desk.

"Call the security company and tell them not to bother. The car will be gone, as well as few other items, including my cell phone. Let SAC Pearsall know about it. I already know who broke in."

"Who?" the kid looked like a puzzled bird as his head titled to the side.

"Hannibal Lecter."

*****

"Freeze! FBI!" the clear voice rang out through the juniper scented night, reaching his ears as he neared the figure seated in the clearing. He knelt by her and leaned over, catching the cold look in her eyes as he did so.

All of that surfaced in her mind as she looked to see her current benefactor standing, rather kneeling, over her. The pain radiating from her leg broke off all coherent thoughts once more as he prodded the wound. He grunted and removed his windbreaker, lifting her leg to work it under it, raising a cloud from the soft red dirt below. It was all she could do to not scream when he moved her leg. Not being able to share her discomfiture with him physically, she settled for a glare at his face, which was entirely lost in the darkness.

"Shhh, Clarice. You've been shot."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. How astute of you." she remarked sourly. Pain once again cascade through her as he applied pressure to the wound with her hand.

"Just like old times, Clarice." he brushed a hand against her cheek and smiled to himself as she turned away from the contact.

"Shut up."

He removed his hand from hers, and she heard him scoot back and stand, feet shuffling in the dirt. "Be a good girl and keep pressure on that wound, Clarice." once more, the icy glare was lost in the darkness. He was going to continue with something more before a yelp cut through the hot air followed by a string of obscenities.

"Lindsey." Clarice whispered.

"Give me one minute, Clarice, then call for help. You need medical attention, more than I can give you here and now."

"And you are going where?"

There was a distinctive click as a knife snapped open and Clarice felt a cold rush, causing shivers even in the oppressive heat.

"I have some business to attend to."

*****

The words hurt her throat as she yelled them into the night. Her throat was raw and she was winded from the dash through the trees in the hot, dry air. She stood there in the proper Weaver stance, gun up and aimed at the barely visible silhouette by the rocks, panting as she held her aim. There was no visible reaction from the target, and she cried out again.

"FBI! Drop your weapon and place your hands on your head!" Her voice rang in her head as she tried to hold herself steady. The adrenaline surging through her system was not doing her any good. The figure moved and Lindsey shifted her stance slightly. She saw the arms raise and the figure turn slightly. She knew it before her target had made his move, and was already propelling herself forward as he turned tail and ran. A half whispered obscenity escaped her lips as she followed him back into the brush. She tripped on a rock and almost sent herself sprawling on the ground. Instead, all she succeeded in doing was breaking the heel on her right shoe. Grumbling she removed the expensive leather shoes from her feet and set off once more. The ground tore at her thin nylons and Lindsey swore to herself that she would only wear reasonable shoes to the office after this. Yeah, reasonable shoes, like running shoes. Damn what Loren would say about dress code and policy.

Distracted by her erroneous thoughts Lindsey was not prepared when she was slammed back into the space between the sandstone and a juniper bush. The breath was knocked out of her and before she could recover she was shoved once again, this time into the juniper bush itself. The strong scents of the pine filled her nostrils as a few sprigs were shoved into them. Gasping for breath she snapped an elbow back at her attacker. It connected solidly with what she guessed, hoped, was his face. Unfortunately, the retaliation from him was much worse than she had ever thought to expect.

*****