Time passes – the only trick that truly is magic. For Clarice Starling, everything has seemed to return to normal. She returned to the US with her daughter, and after a bit of counseling, both she and Susana had returned to their life in Virginia.

The subject of Dr. Lecter was a prickly one: for the past two years, Susana has staunchly maintained the same story. Dr. Hannibal Lecter died of a heart attack, and she buried him in the mountains of Bariloche. She has refused to specify a location, even at the coroner's inquest that was held a few months after mother and daughter returned. Susana refuses to recognize American jurisdiction over her father's death, holding that he died in Argentina. There is also the simple loyalty of a daughter: she does not want him dug up and his corpse tormented and defaced by American coroners.

That has been troublesome for Clarice. She has faint, awful memories of holding her own father's skull, and it is hard to argue with her daughter that she should assist the authorities in allowing them to do the same thing to her father. They've searched on their own, but they have not had any luck in finding his body. Bariloche is a big place.

Susana has been singularly unhelpful in providing the location of Dr. Lecter's body, but she has repeatedly given out what she is willing to. She testified at a coroner's inquest. She underwent a polygraph and hypnotic therapy. All have indicated the same thing: Dr. Lecter died the morning of Susana's recovery.

All the same, a few things have changed in her life. For one, Dr. Lecter's official status is now Fugitive, presumed dead. After beating the bushes throughout South America for several months after his alleged death, the search has dwindled to a few agents who have other work to do. The popular feeling in the FBI is that Dr. Lecter did indeed die, but that his daughter is simply being an obstreperous teenager in refusing to disclose the location of his body.

There is evidence of the doctor's death, to be sure: the sheet in the back of the car went straight to the FBI labs, where several dyed black hairs proved to be a match for Dr. Lecter's DNA profile. His medical records from Paraguay certainly indicate that death was a possibility. His heart had been severely damaged in his heart attack.

Perhaps the best argument for the doctor's passing is simply the fact that Clarice has been able to go on with her life. Susana did not fight her on returning; she simply hung her head and came back to the United States quietly with Clarice. She has answered Clarice's questions honestly. Why had she done this? She had wanted to see her father desperately. Had he tried to brainwash her? He had tried but then stopped. She had stayed with him of her own free will. The only question she has refused to answer is the one Clarice wants the answer to most. Where is his body? Can I see that he's dead with my own two eyes? The answer to that question has always been the same. No, Mom, he's dead and I don't want them to desecrate his body.

There have been no mocking letters, no taunting phone calls, no coming home to discover a note in copperplate in lieu of her daughter. Everything has been normal. She goes to work, Susana has gone to school, and Susana is always there when she comes home. They eat dinner, they talk. Occasionally Susana will go to a friend's house, but she does always come back. This is Clarice Starling's pleasant little upper-middle-class life, so stultifying and perfect that anyone would be crazy to think that anything could be wrong.

All the same, Clarice Starling has felt eyes on her in the night.

Other things have changed, things that occur more normally in life. In June of this year, Susana graduated from high school. She was accepted at several schools and chose Johns Hopkins. That has given Clarice a bit of pause. Sure, she wanted Susana to go to the best school she could have, but...there? Where he went? It is somehow disturbing, although Clarice keeps her disturbance down deep in the pit of her stomach.

Getting used to Susana not being in the house has been troublesome. Clarice will sometimes open the door to her daughter's room, which is much the same as she left it. Her heart will pound as she sees that Susana's things are there but she is not; all that moves in the room are dust motes. Then she remembers that Susana is in her dorm room at college. Just a short drive to Baltimore, or a phone call, or an email can set her mind at ease.

But it is then, standing in her daughter's empty room, that she can hear Dr. Lecter's voice most clearly, aged and spiderlike, echoing the shadows of her nether mind: Ah, Clarice, can you be so sure?

Sometimes she resists the urge. Sometimes she gives in and calls. People in the office kid her about suffering empty nest syndrome enough. She doesn't want to smother her daughter. Yet all the same, there are times she is irrationally yet perfectly convinced that Susana's roommate will tell her that her only chick and child has flown to South America again, or that an elderly man in a natty suit dropped by to say hello.

Everything is normal. Everything is fine. Better than fine. But there is always that one shadow over her life. In a way, Clarice has thought it a particularly fitting revenge for him: even from beyond the grave he remains in the back of her mind. If it is from beyond the grave.

But today is a Friday, don't you know, and she is going out to Baltimore to visit Susana. Behavioral Sciences has just caught another big one, but Clarice doesn't want to hang around for the afterglow of putting away another baddie. No, a weekend in Baltimore will suit her nicely. The shopping there is good, and it'll be nice to see her daughter.

The trip on the Baltimore-Washington Expressway is quick and quiet; Clarice likes to drive fast. Soon enough, the towering buildings of the university are in her view. To check in with campus security takes only a moment; her FBI badge, combined with the fact that she pays Susana's tuition here, gets her in easily. Day has faded into dusk as she approaches Susana's dorm.

Next to the dorm is a parking lot, and for a moment Clarice glances over at the cars. She has always been a car buff. Nothing interesting, nothing interesting, junk junk junk...wait.

Parked between a rusting Chevrolet and a red Jeep Wrangler are two Jaguars. Clarice stops and looks those over. Minor differences between the two indicate they are different model years, but not by much. They are both supercharged sedans. Someone's got money. Then she looks at the plates, and a chill runs down her spine.

The first one just has plain old boring Maryland plates. The second one has vanity plates that read SUSANA A.

Clarice stops and looks at the car for a long while. Her hands feel numb; she doesn't even realize her cell phone is in her hand or that she has dialed. Only when the friendly secretary down at Behavioral Sciences answers does she realize what she means to do.

"This is Investigator Starkey," she whispers. "Can you...can you run a license plate for me?"

A few beats. "Of course, Claire," the grandmotherly voice replies. "What's the number?"

Clarice swallows. "It's...uh...it's a vanity plate. Maryland plate, SUSANA-A."

"Like the girl's name?"

Clarice nods before realizing the secretary can't see it. "Like...like my daughter's name," she whispers.

Clickety-clickety-click of keys over the phone, and a long pregnant pause.

"Oh," the secretary sounds surprised. "That comes back to a Susana Alvarez, at....211 East Lombard Street, Box 2665, Baltimore. It was registered just a few months ago, it looks like."

Clarice blinks for a moment. A few months ago, like when Susana went out to college. And wait...211 East Lombard? She's heard that address before, during the times she was a street agent. It is...it takes a moment to come.

It's a UPS Store mailbox. A front. A private mailbox. Just like...

Oh Jesus.

A great bubble of acid burns in her stomach. "How about this one?" she asks, and rattles off the license plate of the second Jaguar.

Clickety-clickety-click, and then a pause that seems to go on forever.

"All right, Investigator Starkey, that comes back to a William G. Leeds. Two years old, it looks like." The secretary's voice is amused. "Are you planning to buy a Jaguar, Investigator Starkey?"

Humor seems very, very far from Clarice Starling at this point. Her voice chokes and catches. In fact, her own feet feel miles away from her at this point.

"No," she says, and her own voice sounds far too much like a powerless whisper for her preference. Swallowing is hard; her throat is dry. She hasn't...no, he can't be...has Susana...did she...what the fuck is going on here?

Clarice breaks from the parking lot and runs into the dorm's lobby. Students mill around lazily, back and forth, chatting. They are comfortable in jeans and sweatshirts, and more than a few look curiously at the older woman in a pantsuit. The kid behind the desk looks at her expectantly.

"Can I help you?"

Clarice takes a shuddery breath and forces herself to calm down. It's just a fucking Jaguar. It doesn't mean anything. She doesn't know for sure that it's Susana's Jaguar. There are lots of girls named Susana Alvarez out there, right?

If it is, then she's got some explaining to do. She doesn't have the money for a car like that. There are a few possibilities as to how she could've gotten a car like that, and none of them are particularly appetizing.

"Umm, yes," Clarice stutters. "I...I'm sorry. Long drive. I'm here to see my daughter. Susana Starkey. Room 514."

The desk clerk nods. "One moment," he says calmly, and presses a button.

"Susana Starkey, you have a visitor," he says. A few moments later, her daughter's voice speaks metallic through the cheap speaker. Clarice closes her eyes and tries to calm down. She's freaking out about this, and there has to be some rational explanation. Maybe the car isn't even Susana's.

"Is it my mom?" she asks.

The clerk looks at Clarice, wordlessly suggesting that she may answer. "Yes, Susana, it's me," she says, forcing herself to sound calm.

"Sure, send her up," Susana says. The clerk gestures to where two elevator cars sit chummily side by side. Clarice walks over to the elevator and presses the button for her daughter's floor. A long moment passes, and Clarice finds herself uneasy. Why does it always take so long for the doors to close.

The doors do rumble shut eventually, but Clarice wishes they hadn't closed so quickly. Just before they close, the doors of the car next to hers open and disgorge a passenger. A man wearing a dark topcoat and fedora walks slowly from the elevator car with the hesitant steps of an older man. He is wearing formal shoes of some type, not the sneakers universally favored on college campuses: Clarice can hear the clicking. He does not look back, and Clarice doesn't know why she suddenly leans forwards to slam her palms against the closing doors, but deep in her gut she knows.

But the elevator doors do not work in her favor. The doors close calmly, and all Clarice touches is scarred aluminum. A short, strangled sound of exasperation and confusion rises from her throat –Nik!

Then the motors below grumble and wrench her car upwards, away from the dark figure. She slams her palm in frustration against the door. By the time she gets back down there he will be gone.

Is she overreacting? She saw a couple of Jaguars and an old man in a fedora. Not exactly enough for a search warrant. Maybe she is overreacting. Maybe she's just seeing ghosts in every corner.

But maybe she isn't.

The door opens on Susana's floor, and Clarice glances out, illogically sure that the old man will be on this floor. Nope; it's just students congregating in the concrete halls, chatting, and staring at Clarice with some curiosity. Clarice swallows for a moment. She can smell old beer in the hallways, and from not a few doors the sweetish scent of burning marijuana emits. Rock music of varying flavors escapes from closed doors. The carpet is brown and industrial. Just a typical dorm hall in a typical dormitory.

"Hi," she says to one knot of students. "I'm Susana's mother. I was wondering...did any of you see an older fellow just leave here? In a dark coat and hat?"

The students are four. Two boys, three girls. One girl has long blonde hair, one has shorter brown hair, and one has brown hair cut extremely short. The two boys are muscular and large. The girl with blonde hair has apparently decided to celebrate the upcoming Halloween by cramming a pumpkin under her shirt, and the others are touching her artificially distended abdomen.

They glance at her in puzzlement. "No," they chorus one by one.

Clarice stops and eyes them for a moment. Nothing in their expressions suggests they are lying. For another, they'd have no reason to lie, either. They have no reason to protect Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Though she knows who might.

Her daughter's door is closed. The names Susana and Lisa occupy different sides of a whiteboard on the door, so as to allow those who wish an audience with either girl to leave their names. Clarice stares at it for a moment or two in thought. Has he been here? She cannot sense his scent on the psychic winds. But if he is alive...

Clarice knocks on the door, and it is but a moment until her daughter opens the door and smiles out at her calmly.

"Hi, Mom," Susana says chattily. Her eyes travel up and down her mother's face and an expression of mild alarm comes over her own. "Is something wrong? You look...nervous."

Clarice swallows. Is it that obvious? She's learned to hide her emotions and bury them down deep; a useful skill in the Lutheran Home and a more useful skill for an FBI agent. Can her eighteen-year-old daughter really pierce those defenses so easily?

Perhaps someone's been teaching her a little something, a sly little voice whispers from the back of her mind, where the monsters roam.

"Is he here?" Clarice rasps, looking at her daughter and feeling her heart pound.

Susana looks somewhat puzzled. "Who?"

"Your father," Clarice says. "I...I saw the Jaguar."

Susana smiles guiltily and looks down at the floor. "Oh, that," she says dismissively. "It...it is mine. He...he told me where his money was hidden and wanted me to have it."

Clarice stares at her daughter with wide eyes. "He...he wanted you to have it?" she queries. Her voice is shaking.

Susana looks irked. "Don't look at me like that," she says. "He would have wanted me to have his money. He did want me to have his money. I didn't want to tell you. You're an FBI agent. It's better that you don't know. C'mon, who else is going to want it? His victims are all forty years dead."

Clarice pauses. "Did he come and give you that Jaguar himself, Susana?" she asks.

Susana blinks, and Clarice studies her very carefully. Her own face is white and sweaty. Susana's eyes look hurt and wounded, and her lips make a moue in distaste.

"Mom," she says coolly, "he...he's gone. You know that."

"Was he? I saw two Jags in the parking lot. Side by side. And I saw a guy in a dark coat and hat leave your dorm." Clarice's voice trembles. If this is an act, it is damn, damn good. Is there a hint of amusement in those maroon eyes? The same sort of amusement she saw all those years ago in the darkest dungeon of the Chesapeake asylum? It is hard to tell.

"Probably some guy dressing up as Darkman for Halloween," Susana points out. "It is next weekend."

"Susana, just tell me," Clarice says, and the pleading in her voice bothers her tremendously, but it's all she can do. Has he somehow slipped her noose again? Has he come here, spying on her in her own home? Has her own daughter, the girl whom she crossed half the world to have in her arms again – has her own daughter been complicit in hiding him?

Susana sighs and looks hurt, as if her mother has reminded her unnecessarily of pain she would have soon left behind. "Mom...we've been through this."

"Just tell me, Susana," Clarice repeats. "I...I need to know. I won't even arrest him. He can live his life. I just...how am I supposed to live knowing he's out there...close...and watching?"

The plea falls on deaf ears. Susana shakes her head and for a moment tears well in her eyes. Her voice is thicker than before when she speaks.

"I don't know how else to tell you this," she says, and her mouth draws down into a quivering bow. "Mom...Hannibal Lecter died two years ago."

The visit over that weekend just before Halloween is tense, the question still dancing between them. Yet Clarice Starling cannot shake the idea that he is there, that he has been watching...and that some day, this whole dance may begin again. When she says her goodbyes to her daughter she is torn: has she strained the relationship that means more to her than anything else on earth over a silly fantasy?

Perhaps she has, but it is not too late to mend.

But let us leave Clarice Starling as she heads back to her quiet little middle-class life and remain instead with her daughter. Susana is taking a course in Spanish literature; her own Spanish has remained at a much more fluent level than before. She takes out her newly purchased laptop – the latest and most powerful model available – and opens up a text file containing a reading she must do for her class. Calderòn de la Barca is a poet she has grown to like. She was to read La vida es sueño for class. Her lips form the words as she reads the poet's work, the words quiet and respectful in her clear alto voice, accented with upper-crust Buenos Aires.

¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.
¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,
una sombra, una ficción,
y el mayor bien es pequeño,
que toda la vida es sueño,
y los sueños sueños son.


It's odd, Susana thinks. What is life? An illusion. A shadow. A fiction. And the greatest good is small: that all of life is a dream, and the dreams are but dreams.

She likes it better in Spanish. She thinks of her father for a moment, and is wistful. She thinks of her mother, who is running around scared to death that he is alive and looking in on her, ready to swoop down and take possession of Susana again. How little her mother understood, really: that proposition rested on the idea that she could be taken possession of, owned, dressed in pretty little dresses and molded into anything other than what she chose to be.

Dr. Lecter had once thought he could whisper through the chrysalis, but whatever emerged was beyond him and his power. Isn't she, too, a result of that chrysalis and of that joining, as surely as any human being is hatched from the chrysalis of what he once referred to as tedious sticky fumblings?

Susana chuckles, and concentrates on her Spanish reading. For her own pleasure, she repeats the last clause.

"Que toda la vida es sueño, y los sueños sueños son," she repeats, and closes her eyes to appreciate the phrase for a moment. It is both beautiful and correct.

Life is a dream.


FIN