London.

"Doctor and Mrs. Maplewood!" the Duchess exclaimed as the couple entered her palatial home. "So good of you to come."

"We never miss the opportunity to come to one of your fabulous soirees, my dear lady," the doctor said sweeping her hand up in a kiss.

"Oh, he's a charmer, Penelope, don't let him out of your sight," she said in an aside to Clarice.

"Your home is beautiful, Your Grace," she replied with a smile.

"Oh, posh! You must call me Natalie. We are old friends are we not?" The Duchess took her arm and walked into the room milling with people. "There are so many people I want you to meet." Clarice glanced over her shoulder and saw that her husband had quietly moved off. She wasn't alarmed. Early in the relationship they discovered the need for personal time. He liked to move about unattended while examining objets d'art and people in equal quantities.

After a dreadful 30 minutes of meeting dreadful people, Clarice managed to move off to do some exploring of her own. Mostly she just wanted a little quiet time. In an adjoining room she found a lovely piano with an antique Tiffany lamp on it in one corner. Other than the soft light of the lamp the rest of the room was dark. She walked over and gently touched the beautiful shade on the lamp.

She smelled him first and turned around. A man walked towards her from the party room. He stumbled and caught himself on the piano, almost toppling the lamp. "'Scuse me," he said obviously drunk. Clarice turned to leave. "No, no. Wait. Don't mean to run you off. Listen. My name's Benjamin Thomason. Nat's me sister."

Not wanting to be rude to the host's brother, Clarice put out her hand, "Penelope Maplewood."

"Oh the pleasure's all mine, Penelope," he lingered over her hand, rubbing his thumb across her skin. As gently as she could she pulled it back. "Hey I know you. You're married to that old queer ain't you?"

"Excuse me?" she said shocked.

"It's so obvious what a dandy he is. An' he's gotta be twice your age. I know he can't satisfy you the way a woman needs." His hand found her rear end and gave it a squeeze. "I'd be more'n happy to help you out in that area."

Pushing aside his wayward hand, she said through gritted teeth, "With all due respect, Mr. Thomason, I must tell you this sort of behavior is totally unacceptable, and my husband would be greatly offended by your rudeness. Please leave me alone if you know what's good for you." She attempted to leave when he caught her arm and pulled her back towards him.

"Listen love, is that supposed to be some kind of threat? I ain't scared of that pansy. Let's you and me go upstairs so you can be properly satisfied and no one will be the wiser."

"You listen to me you pea-brained imbecile: My satisfaction is none of you concern." She looked over her shoulder into the next room to see if he was anywhere close by. She couldn't see him anywhere and turned back to Thomason. "Let me go this instant."

His hand squeezed her even tighter. "What are you, some kind of dyke? I heard about you queers getting married just to make look like you're normal."

Clarice narrowed her eyes, and using a simple technique learned at Quanitco, grabbed Thomason's thumb and began applying pressure. He immediately let go and started crying in pain. "You, sir, are beyond good manners. But I will give you one last chance. Leave. Me. Alone." She punctuated each word with further pressure on his hand. She was certain something had broken. She let go of his hand and he fell into a blubbering heap. Again she surveyed the party in the next room before joining it, but there was still no sign of her husband.

However had she just looked in the corner opposite of where she and Mr. Thomason had their encounter, she would have perhaps seen the flashing of maroon eyes as Hannibal Lecter watched the whole sordid scene. One thing Clarice never knew was that he sometimes followed her and watched her, not out of suspicion, but out of a genuine fascination. As she faded into the crowd his eyes turned to the crying heap on the floor and he decided that Mr. Benjamin Thomason sorely needed a lesson in etiquette.

"Natalie called me a few days later. Her brother had been missing since the party. It seemed at first that he'd just gone away with some woman, but there was no sign of him. As far as I know he was never found."

Agent Black was incredulous. "You mean to tell me it didn't occur to you that Lecter had done something to that man." Clarice was silent. "So you did suspect. Why didn't you confront him?"

"Because she was afraid of the answer, weren't you Ms. Starling?" Clemons answered. She nodded. "Because he would have told you the truth right?" Another nod. "And what would have happened if he confessed that he did indeed do away with your unwanted suitor?"

"I would have left him."

"So you ignored the truth?" Black said.

"It's not unlike many wives who choose not to acknowledge their husbands infidelities, Agent Black," she said quietly.

"Except this is cold-blooded murder. I think we're through for now. We're going to move this to DC. I assume you have no conflicting plans, Ms. Starling." Black turned to his partner. "I'll call and make arrangements for the body to be transferred."

"No!" Clarice said. "That isn't necessary, is it? Didn't you make a positive ID?"

Clemons said, "Well his face doesn't really match, but we did get the prints."

"There, that should be proof enough. He died of natural causes, there's not question of that. There is no need to transfer his body." They looked at her. "He had a last request, I'd like to fulfill it. Please."

Black and Clemons looked at each other. Finally Clemons said, "HQ won't be happy, but I guess that's all right."

Black said, "Can it be done by tonight?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Fine. Do what you need. But be ready at 8 am sharp. And Ms Starling – don't run."

"I'll be waiting. Good day, gentleman." She showed them the door.

Once they were gone she went to the phone to call the morgue.

"Jake, this is Mrs. Herchshire…I'm doing very well thank you. Can you please contact the mortuary and have them pick up my husband?…Thank you. And tell them I'll be bringing a suit over in about an hour. I want it done tonight…Yes tonight…Thank you for you sympathies Jake. Good night."

After collecting his things, Clarice drove to the mortuary. The mortician was waiting for her and collected the items. "It'll take about an hour, if you'd care to sit down, ma'am. Would you like some coffee while you wait?"

"No thank you, I'm fine." She drifted off for a while, traveling through her memory palace greeting those loved ones she couldn't see anymore. Her mother and father, John Brigham, Jack Crawford, and finally Hannibal Lecter.

"Mrs. Herchshire?" She looked up as the mortician's assistant motioned for her to follow him down to the basement crematorium. There was a simple coffin waiting on the tracks, the top opened.

"I'd like a few minutes, please."

"Of course, ma'am. But wouldn't you like a memorial service for the doctor?" the mortician asked her.

"Trust me, in a few days no one will want to memorialize him. Excuse me." She walked to the coffin and saw him lying there in a charcoal gray Armani suit. She reached in and touched his face. There were no tears. She whispered, "Well I guess this is goodbye. Don't worry about me; I'm going to be fine. I have to go to Washington and meet with the FBI to dissect your life. As long as they don't charge me with anything, I'll be able to do as you asked by the end of the month. I just want you to know that I have no regrets." She bent in and kissed his forehead.

She walked back to the mortician, who motioned to his assistant to start the process. "Are you sure you want to be present, ma'am? It can be kind of disturbing."

"I'm fine." She watched them roll the coffin into the crematorium and close the door. The turn of a switch started the gas-fed flames, who's whooshing could be heard along with the crackling of burning wood. It took about 15 minutes to complete the process. Once the fires had been banked the assistant opened the door and used a hand-held broom to sweep the ashes forward and into the brass urn she had chosen. He respectfully handed it to her and she followed them out.

"It's a shame about the doctor," the mortician said as she was paying for their services. "He was a good man."

"Remember that when you read the papers tomorrow," she replied before walking out the door.

Once home, she placed the urn on her dressing table as she packed her bags for Washington. In the weeks prior she had moved most of the valuables in the house and her memorabilia to a storage unit. All that remained would be sold with the house after she had left, as she never intended to return.

After her bags were packed, she sat down at the dressing table and pulled out of her purse the letter she had found in the safe. It read:

"My Dearest,

Well if you are reading this, all is done. I do not wish to be morbid about my death, only to wish you well on your new journey in life. There is so much more out there for you to see. I will miss you terribly, Clarice. The fire in your eyes, the gentleness in your touch, even that streak of vulgarity you refuse to suppress. Be happy. Until we meet again,

Hannibal"

True to their word, the FBI agents rang her doorbell at 8 am. They drove to the airport and arrived in Washington three hours later.

It took two weeks, but finally Agent Black was called into his superior's office.

Phil Decker tossed the file on his desk and said, "That's it Greg, let her go."

"What do you mean? She can't go free."

"We've got nothing on her."

"She admitted to killing a man on Verger's estate."

"That is an inadmissible confession and you know it. The plan fact is that there is no physical evidence, no bodies, nothing. A gun that had been discharged with her fingerprints does not prove she killed someone, if you have no corpse."

"What about harboring a fugitive. She ran off with him, Phil, for Christ's sake!"

"Greg I know that bothers you, but she admitted he used some kind of drug on her. Any lawyer will claim she was brainwashed, and they'd win. Listen we even had the IRS snoop around. All they could find is the money Lecter earned legitimately in his practice. It was well invested. All the taxes paid up and the interest claimed. He dotted his 'i's' and crossed his 't's'. There is no sign of the money he embezzled from his clients. I'm sure it's offshore somewhere. Cut her loose and back off, Greg. There's nothing we can do. Besides, the man's dead. It's over."

Agent Black stormed down the hall to the room where Clarice was sitting waiting for the end to come. He strode in and slammed the file down on the table in front of her. Pushing his hand through his hair he said, "Well, Ms. Starling that's it. I gotta let you go."

"Thank you Agent Black," she said as she rose from her chair.

"Wait a minute," he said to her. He opened the file and tossed out several photographs. She recognized all of them. The murdered cops in Tennessee, the nurse whose tongue was ripped out, Inspector Pazzi. She'd seen them when she worked the case. "Look at the man you married. Look at what he was," he pointed to the pictures as he spoke. "From one Fed to another, you disgust me. Brainwashed, bullshit. You knew exactly what you were doing."

She looked down at the photos and let her hand hover over each one as if divining their true meaning. Finally she slammed her hand on top of them and shoved them across the table. "Those horrible things were what he did, not who he was. I killed a woman holding her baby to her chest. What does that make me Agent Black, less or worse than him?" She picked up her purse and left the room.

One week later…

The farm in Lithuania was as she remembered from their previous visit. The family even recognized her even though it had been eight years, and invited her for tea, which she politely declined. After gaining their permission, she walked to the back and hiked to the spot he had shown her. In her memory she saw the picnic they had set up and the sadness in his eyes as he recounted the story to her once again, but that time it was so much more real.

She walked over to the tree that had given them shade that day and knelt beside it. Taking the urn out of her bag, she opened it and poured the ashes at the base of the tree. She stood and watched the breeze scatter the fine ash along. Then she said:

"TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both…

Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

THE END