Part IV
The Beginning
It took three weeks for the FBI to cover up everything about the extremely embarrassing incident. Perhaps they shouldn't have wasted their time. A little while afterwards, the attack on Pearsall seemed quite a trivial incident.
Pearsall was placed in the hospital under intensive care for a week. During that time, on his order, guards were doubled in the building where Starling was still held captive. But that week passed with no events out of the ordinary. The Crips seemed to have gone into hiding.
Although the hospital strongly advised against it, Pearsall checked himself out of the hospital after the week of intensive care and paid a visit to Starling. The three other officers tried not to stare at Pearsall's heavily bandaged face as he wrote down his words on paper. His mouth was not yet operational.
--Your court date is scheduled in three more weeks--, he scrawled on the paper. Then a look of pure evil at Starling. --You're going down.-- A pause. Then more words written on the paper.
--Leave us.--
The three officers exchanged looks of apprehension, but they willingly stepped out of the room.
Pearsall moved to where he could look Starling in the face. She did not flinch as she stared into his one remaining eye.
--However, give me Lecter and I might rethink your fate.--
"I've told you, I don't know where he is."
--You know how to contact him.--
Starling stared at Pearsall in disbelief. Did he really think that she was going to betray the only person who had never betrayed her? Her spit reached Pearsall, but it landed harmlessly on one of the many wide bandages covering his face.
Pearsall did not bother to wipe it away. He exited the room without a word and slammed the door.
Starling was not bothered for a few days afterwards. Pearsall went through several surgeries to reconstruct his face. The surgeon tried not to think about the last similar patient he'd had. Will Graham had come out of the operating room looking like a Picasso painting. However, technology had improved a bit since then. Pearsall would never look quite normal again, but he would manage.
He emerged from surgery still swathed in bandages and more paranoid than ever. Expectantly, the media had had a field day of theories about the sudden security over Starling. Several bootleg videotapes of the interrogation room had found their way to national television. Pearsall moved Starling to a little hideaway inside a one-room cabin with no cameras in a final attempt to escape them.
Most of the media was convinced that Hannibal Lecter had returned to the area and that the FBI was too irresponsible to find him. Try as they might, none of the investigators could confirm that fact with Starling through any form of persuasion. She kept her mouth shut tight.
And so the days and weeks passed until it was finally the day before Starling's trial. Pearsall went to visit Starling once again on that day. Most of the heavy bandages had been replaced with lighter ones, but his face was still a mess.
A few days after the attack, Pearsall had gotten his hands on the audio tapes of Starling's first conversations with Lecter and enjoyed taunting her with them. This day was certainly no exception.
"What is your worst memory of adulthood, Clarice? Oh, could it be the fact that you'll never see the sky as a free person again?"
Starling slid into a deep corner of her memory palace and blocked out the voice of Pearsall. It had been this way ever since the attack. She watched the three other officers out of the corner of her eye. They had been getting madder and madder every day. Pearsall shouldn't be doing this, Starling thought, if he continues, those people are liable to snap.
She wondered about the sudden change in Pearsall's mood. Pearsall had never been a sadist. In fact, if Starling's shadowy memory of her days as an agent served her correctly, Pearsall always wanted to help. But he was weak, ready to take whatever path suited him best.
Starling frowned as he stared into her eyes in an oddly familiar way and grinned evilly. His mind had most likely been damaged.
Pearsall was still talking..."If I saw you every day forever, I'd remember this time."
Wait, that wasn't in those tapes. Where did Pearsall---?
As if in slow motion, Starling saw one officer reach toward his holster and draw his weapon. He had finally snapped. The other two simply stood there stunned but the one officer had his gun trained on Pearsall's back.
"I'm sorry, Clint. But everyone has his breaking point. I have reached mine. I'll have to ask you to leave."
Pearsall was still facing Starling. Ever so slowly his hand came to rest on his own holster, the movement hidden by his trench coat.
"You ask me? How civil of you. I guess I must oblige."
As he turned to go, the gun was in his hand. The officer never saw it coming. He was dead before he hit the floor. In the next two seconds, the other two officers gaped and drew their own weapons. Two more seconds and they lay peacefully on the floor, as if sleeping.
Pearsall turned back to Clarice, the smoking handgun held loosely in his right hand, perfectly calm. The officers had been so close, that he had been spattered by some of their blood. He raised his left hand to his face where a drop of blood was tickling his cheek. He scratched at the loose skin.
Then Hannibal Lecter pulled the ragged remains of Clint Pearsall from his face and tossed them to the floor.
Clarice hid the surprise from her face and rose from her chair. "Hello, Hannibal."
His arm went around her waist and his blood-stained head tilted to rest on top of Clarice's hair. He breathed in her scent. A scent he had been deprived of for several weeks. He had smelled nothing from beneath his mask of flesh. His eyes opened wide, crackling, like sparks in a cave.
"I took more time than I intended. Please forgive me."
"How did you ever catch him?"
"Mr. Pearsall was exiting the hospital in terrible condition. He was in too much of a hurry. Now I believe he can take his time."
"I'm sorry, Hannibal. I'm so sorry."
"What for, my dear?"
"I told them---."
A movement from the doorway.
Agilely as a cat, Hannibal turned toward the door and with one swift movement brought the handgun to Ardelia Mapp's head level. She stood frozen there, her gun half-drawn, her eyes darting from Clarice to Hannibal and back to Clarice.
"Clarice---."
"Drop it, Ardelia."
"Clarice, how---."
"Drop it, and slide it over here."
Ardelia lowered the gun to the floor and slid it over to Clarice.
She picked it up and looked at Ardelia with an expression of sadness and bewilderment. "What are you doing here, Ardelia?"
"I could say the same about him. I came to help you, as a friend." She looked at the gun barrel pointed at her face and then at the holder. There is a senseless boldness that comes with terror. Ardelia half-smiled, "Still free, Dr. Lecter? I must commend you despite myself."
Hannibal nodded. "Charmed." But the gun never left her face. "Clarice, I trust I should let you take care of this?"
"Yes."
Hannibal lowered the gun and stepped back. Clarice went towards her former roommate. "What can I do with you, Ardelia? You would take our freedom away in a second."
"Damn right I would." Ardelia visibly trembled as Clarice came towards her. "After all he screwed with your mind, I know you'll kill me. I'm sorry, but I was wrong about you. I thought I might actually turn you around."
"That's why they let you in, in the first place, huh?" Clarice raised the gun quickly. "I'm sorry, too. How could you even begin to understand what truly happened, Ardelia? Because of him, I'm free."
Ardelia took a deep breath and held it tight.
* * *
Hannibal and Clarice walked out into the bright sunlight. Clarice savored the light wind batting around her face. She had not been outside for so long. Her fourth finger was bare. The ring was now resting safely on Ardelia's finger.
"Those must have been a horrible eight years for you, Hannibal."
"My mind was free, Clarice. That's all that mattered. I trust yours was, as well?"
"Yes...unfortunately...they know where we live...because I could not keep my mind contained."
"Everyone makes mistakes. I do."
"No, this is different. I became...weak. You wouldn't have broken."
"I can't answer that, Clarice, I wasn't there." Hannibal turned her around so that she was facing him. "You still have much to learn, but you are a warrior. Never forget that, you are a warrior, you did splendidly. You stayed strong until the end."
He leaned in close and kissed her passionately. They stayed that way for a few minutes, Hannibal's arms locked around Clarice's waist and her hand on the back of his neck.
"Now," said Hannibal, pulling away, "don't worry about our little problem. I hear Paris is quite beautiful this time of year. And I have prepared the most excellent meal for you..."
Clarice closed her eyes and let herself drift away. In her memory palace, she fixed a new door into position and mopped up the blood-stained marble. Hannibal was right, everything would work out. After all, it was springtime. It was a time for new life, and new beginnings.
The Beginning
It took three weeks for the FBI to cover up everything about the extremely embarrassing incident. Perhaps they shouldn't have wasted their time. A little while afterwards, the attack on Pearsall seemed quite a trivial incident.
Pearsall was placed in the hospital under intensive care for a week. During that time, on his order, guards were doubled in the building where Starling was still held captive. But that week passed with no events out of the ordinary. The Crips seemed to have gone into hiding.
Although the hospital strongly advised against it, Pearsall checked himself out of the hospital after the week of intensive care and paid a visit to Starling. The three other officers tried not to stare at Pearsall's heavily bandaged face as he wrote down his words on paper. His mouth was not yet operational.
--Your court date is scheduled in three more weeks--, he scrawled on the paper. Then a look of pure evil at Starling. --You're going down.-- A pause. Then more words written on the paper.
--Leave us.--
The three officers exchanged looks of apprehension, but they willingly stepped out of the room.
Pearsall moved to where he could look Starling in the face. She did not flinch as she stared into his one remaining eye.
--However, give me Lecter and I might rethink your fate.--
"I've told you, I don't know where he is."
--You know how to contact him.--
Starling stared at Pearsall in disbelief. Did he really think that she was going to betray the only person who had never betrayed her? Her spit reached Pearsall, but it landed harmlessly on one of the many wide bandages covering his face.
Pearsall did not bother to wipe it away. He exited the room without a word and slammed the door.
Starling was not bothered for a few days afterwards. Pearsall went through several surgeries to reconstruct his face. The surgeon tried not to think about the last similar patient he'd had. Will Graham had come out of the operating room looking like a Picasso painting. However, technology had improved a bit since then. Pearsall would never look quite normal again, but he would manage.
He emerged from surgery still swathed in bandages and more paranoid than ever. Expectantly, the media had had a field day of theories about the sudden security over Starling. Several bootleg videotapes of the interrogation room had found their way to national television. Pearsall moved Starling to a little hideaway inside a one-room cabin with no cameras in a final attempt to escape them.
Most of the media was convinced that Hannibal Lecter had returned to the area and that the FBI was too irresponsible to find him. Try as they might, none of the investigators could confirm that fact with Starling through any form of persuasion. She kept her mouth shut tight.
And so the days and weeks passed until it was finally the day before Starling's trial. Pearsall went to visit Starling once again on that day. Most of the heavy bandages had been replaced with lighter ones, but his face was still a mess.
A few days after the attack, Pearsall had gotten his hands on the audio tapes of Starling's first conversations with Lecter and enjoyed taunting her with them. This day was certainly no exception.
"What is your worst memory of adulthood, Clarice? Oh, could it be the fact that you'll never see the sky as a free person again?"
Starling slid into a deep corner of her memory palace and blocked out the voice of Pearsall. It had been this way ever since the attack. She watched the three other officers out of the corner of her eye. They had been getting madder and madder every day. Pearsall shouldn't be doing this, Starling thought, if he continues, those people are liable to snap.
She wondered about the sudden change in Pearsall's mood. Pearsall had never been a sadist. In fact, if Starling's shadowy memory of her days as an agent served her correctly, Pearsall always wanted to help. But he was weak, ready to take whatever path suited him best.
Starling frowned as he stared into her eyes in an oddly familiar way and grinned evilly. His mind had most likely been damaged.
Pearsall was still talking..."If I saw you every day forever, I'd remember this time."
Wait, that wasn't in those tapes. Where did Pearsall---?
As if in slow motion, Starling saw one officer reach toward his holster and draw his weapon. He had finally snapped. The other two simply stood there stunned but the one officer had his gun trained on Pearsall's back.
"I'm sorry, Clint. But everyone has his breaking point. I have reached mine. I'll have to ask you to leave."
Pearsall was still facing Starling. Ever so slowly his hand came to rest on his own holster, the movement hidden by his trench coat.
"You ask me? How civil of you. I guess I must oblige."
As he turned to go, the gun was in his hand. The officer never saw it coming. He was dead before he hit the floor. In the next two seconds, the other two officers gaped and drew their own weapons. Two more seconds and they lay peacefully on the floor, as if sleeping.
Pearsall turned back to Clarice, the smoking handgun held loosely in his right hand, perfectly calm. The officers had been so close, that he had been spattered by some of their blood. He raised his left hand to his face where a drop of blood was tickling his cheek. He scratched at the loose skin.
Then Hannibal Lecter pulled the ragged remains of Clint Pearsall from his face and tossed them to the floor.
Clarice hid the surprise from her face and rose from her chair. "Hello, Hannibal."
His arm went around her waist and his blood-stained head tilted to rest on top of Clarice's hair. He breathed in her scent. A scent he had been deprived of for several weeks. He had smelled nothing from beneath his mask of flesh. His eyes opened wide, crackling, like sparks in a cave.
"I took more time than I intended. Please forgive me."
"How did you ever catch him?"
"Mr. Pearsall was exiting the hospital in terrible condition. He was in too much of a hurry. Now I believe he can take his time."
"I'm sorry, Hannibal. I'm so sorry."
"What for, my dear?"
"I told them---."
A movement from the doorway.
Agilely as a cat, Hannibal turned toward the door and with one swift movement brought the handgun to Ardelia Mapp's head level. She stood frozen there, her gun half-drawn, her eyes darting from Clarice to Hannibal and back to Clarice.
"Clarice---."
"Drop it, Ardelia."
"Clarice, how---."
"Drop it, and slide it over here."
Ardelia lowered the gun to the floor and slid it over to Clarice.
She picked it up and looked at Ardelia with an expression of sadness and bewilderment. "What are you doing here, Ardelia?"
"I could say the same about him. I came to help you, as a friend." She looked at the gun barrel pointed at her face and then at the holder. There is a senseless boldness that comes with terror. Ardelia half-smiled, "Still free, Dr. Lecter? I must commend you despite myself."
Hannibal nodded. "Charmed." But the gun never left her face. "Clarice, I trust I should let you take care of this?"
"Yes."
Hannibal lowered the gun and stepped back. Clarice went towards her former roommate. "What can I do with you, Ardelia? You would take our freedom away in a second."
"Damn right I would." Ardelia visibly trembled as Clarice came towards her. "After all he screwed with your mind, I know you'll kill me. I'm sorry, but I was wrong about you. I thought I might actually turn you around."
"That's why they let you in, in the first place, huh?" Clarice raised the gun quickly. "I'm sorry, too. How could you even begin to understand what truly happened, Ardelia? Because of him, I'm free."
Ardelia took a deep breath and held it tight.
* * *
Hannibal and Clarice walked out into the bright sunlight. Clarice savored the light wind batting around her face. She had not been outside for so long. Her fourth finger was bare. The ring was now resting safely on Ardelia's finger.
"Those must have been a horrible eight years for you, Hannibal."
"My mind was free, Clarice. That's all that mattered. I trust yours was, as well?"
"Yes...unfortunately...they know where we live...because I could not keep my mind contained."
"Everyone makes mistakes. I do."
"No, this is different. I became...weak. You wouldn't have broken."
"I can't answer that, Clarice, I wasn't there." Hannibal turned her around so that she was facing him. "You still have much to learn, but you are a warrior. Never forget that, you are a warrior, you did splendidly. You stayed strong until the end."
He leaned in close and kissed her passionately. They stayed that way for a few minutes, Hannibal's arms locked around Clarice's waist and her hand on the back of his neck.
"Now," said Hannibal, pulling away, "don't worry about our little problem. I hear Paris is quite beautiful this time of year. And I have prepared the most excellent meal for you..."
Clarice closed her eyes and let herself drift away. In her memory palace, she fixed a new door into position and mopped up the blood-stained marble. Hannibal was right, everything would work out. After all, it was springtime. It was a time for new life, and new beginnings.