Part VI
Darkness Falls
Frank Bowman stood outside the jewelry shop, immobile as a statue. Nothing moved except his eyes and they probed every inch of the shop until they landed on Hannibal Lecter at the checkout counter. He could see nothing except the side of Lecter's face, but he knew it was him. Like his friend, Bowman had read every piece on Lecter he could get hold of, which was whatever Layton could provide him with. Bowman couldn't exactly waltz into the FBI and start looking through files.
He felt he knew Lecter, or at least a mere sketch of his mind. He could never claim to know everything about the man, but he could know of his habits. From the information gathered from Layton's electronic bug, he figured out what Lecter meant by "complementary gifts." It had taken him merely a set of phone calls to find the most expensive jewelry shop in the city, and now he was here.
Bowman lit a cigarette as he stepped away from the shop and backtracked the possible path Lecter would take once exiting the shop. He found a rather deserted alley along the way, with a clear view of the brightly lit shop, and stopped right by the entrance.
He puffed away on the cigarette as he waited, and pondered what Layton had mentioned so many times. About the Bureau and himself. Yes, the FBI could certainly have used his skills, but they could not have used a person like him. Bowman had never told Layton why he had dropped out of the Academy, because he wanted his friend to continue pursuing his dream. If the Bureau worked for Layton, fine, but it did not work for him.
The FBI was a big fake-out to him. Bowman had entered Academy, ready to destroy the wrongdoers and protect the innocent. He expected to be taught how to do it. Instead, he had received six months instruction on laws, procedures, and loopholes that criminals would use to dodge the justice system. Only his days on the firing range had given him any relief, and eventually, even those had not been enough to keep him in the Academy. Now he was out of the FBI with a drastically changed set of morals. What was law? A bunch of words written on paper.
Therefore, when Layton had told him to apprehend Lecter because "he was the only one skilled enough for the job, " Bowman had other plans. Maybe now he could finally knock off a wrongdoer. After all, Lecter was just a criminal, no matter how smart. The world would be so much better off without this extra serial killer running around.
So he had his pistol, a trusty six-chamber handgun that had served him well many times on the firing range. He leaned against the brick wall of the alley and kept his eyes on the jewelry shop. He would wait, bide his time. He had waited years for this moment, he could surely wait a few minutes more.
As Lecter turned to leave, Bowman caught the flicker of movement in the window and quickly put out his cigarette, crushing it underneath his foot. He stepped back around the corner and removed the small pistol from the inside of his jacket and snapped open the chamber. Two bullets. He pushed it back into place and cocked the gun. His quarry would be coming around the corner any moment.
He knew who he was up against. Layton had warned him over and over again about the danger of this man, although Bowman thought it had been quite unnecessary. Lecter was a man after all, and he could die just like any other man.
Soft footsteps coming toward him now. Bowman poised, ready, and at the right moment stepped out from around the corner, handgun held at perfect head height. And then he made his big mistake. He looked into Lecter's eyes. A wave of dread washed over him. Bowman's gun finger was perfectly trained and pulled the trigger at exactly the right instant. His arm was not so disciplined and spasmed along with the rest of his body as the deathly calm pools of red penetrated every cell of his body.
The bullet did not completely miss Lecter. It tore through his abdomen and rearranged his insides before hitting the opposite alley wall, the shot had been so close. Lecter stood frozen still for one second before pitching forward and falling to the ground. It happened so fast, he had not had time to change his expression to one of surprise.
Hannibal Lecter lay facedown on the ground, still as death, and Bowman gingerly stepped toward him. So this was the infamous murderer. Still, he had to make sure. With one hand, he turned Lecter over on his back. Maroon eyes stared unblinkingly, accusingly into his face. Bowman recoiled like a snake and, with a shaking hand, removed his knife from his belt. He would put those eyes out forever. Perhaps then, he might have peace.
He leaned over the body, knife poised. Right before the knife tip reached the face it sought, the eyes blinked. And before Bowman knew what was happening, a hand flashed into view from his right side and grasped his hand holding the knife with astonishing strength.
Anger was boiling in Lecter's eyes, raging, out of control, and Bowman thought he was looking into hell itself. He screamed, hardly aware of Lecter's unrelenting power forcing the knife back toward his face. His free hand fumbled around on the ground for the handgun, maybe he might be able to get off a shot in time...
And then the eyes were upon him. Bowman didn't realize that he was still screaming at the top of his lungs. He felt consumed by the fires, burned alive. He was screaming so loudly that he didn't even realize when the knife entered his neck and ripped his throat open. It all seemed to be happening to somebody else. Didn't realize, that is, until his vocal cords were drowned in blood and no more sound escaped his lips. Those eyes were the last things he ever saw.
Hannibal moved the dead weight off his body and got to his feet slowly, allowing his legs to regain control of his body. Only by the slightest of chances did the bullet miss his spine, instead it had gone right through his side. And, feeling his lower back gently, Hannibal discovered the enormous exit wound.
There was a lightness in his head as he felt blood draining rapidly out of his body. Rapidly. It had been so sudden, he had not prepared for it. And now, now...the thought that he might die seemed an annoyance more than anything else. He couldn't die; he needed to give Clarice her gift, they needed to move to Europe, they needed to start over, they needed to have children together, they needed to live together, they needed to live...Death was such an inconvenience.
Fear tried to invade his mind, but all that came was Clarice's face, her beautiful eyes filled every inch of his mind and pushed the fear out of the way. And then he realized that he knew what it was that was different about her, had known it all along, but had not said it out loud, for fear that it would slip away as quickly as it had come.
He couldn't stay in the alley. It was rather deserted and separated from the main road, but someone would have heard the shot, not to mention the screams. The pain from the wound increased as Hannibal slowly removed his jacket. He paused, filtering the pain away, until it had died into numbness. Pain was unnecessary, it could be dealt with later. Bowman's knife was still embedded in his neck, so Lecter carefully removed his Harpy from his shirt pocket. Two quick slashes and a long cloth strip was cut from the jacket. He tied the strip around his waist, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
He could not stop it entirely, but it would prevent him from leaving an evident trail back home. That was where he was going, he needed to return home. Although, if an assassin had been hired to kill him, chances were they knew where he lived. In that case, he needed to warn Clarice. He could not walk fast, so he kept to the shadows. Although he could not feel the pain of the wound, his body reacted to it and turned his legs into leaden blocks.
Slowly, but surely, with the brown package clutched tightly in his hand, Hannibal Lecter returned home to his Clarice.
----------------
Clarice looked up as she heard the doorknob rattling. There was a difference in Hannibal's steps. They were slower, heavier. Her mind ignored that completely as she raced happily toward the door. When she reached him, Hannibal was leaning against the doorjamb of the living room, but still standing firmly on his feet. The door to the kitchen was closed.
He smiled as he saw her. "Hello, Clarice." Then he stepped forward and sank into her shocked arms. Her mind frozen in stillness, Clarice lowered him to the carpet. One arm was wrapped around his waist and as she felt the wound, Clarice jerked back as if she had been struck. It was everyone's worst nightmare. Clarice stared unbelievingly at the blood staining her fingertips, and her eyes met Hannibal's. Her legs turned to water and buckled underneath her as she collapsed beside him on the floor.
His face was paling from lack of blood, but his eyes still looked strongly upon her face. "Clarice, I'm sorry."
"No, I'll get you to a hospital, you're going to be alright..." And all the while, she was thinking, it's all my fault, I did this, I did this, it's all my goddamn fault...
She reached for him, but Hannibal waved her hands away with the one arm that still moved. "Clarice, you need to get away, they'll be coming here soon. You know--you know everything you need. I wish I could be there, but..."
"Don't talk like that, you're going to be alright, you're going to be okay, you have to be." Her eyes were full of tears that fell from her face like sparkling jewels.
"I love you so much, Clarice...I just wanted you to know that." His hand grasped hers, fingers entwining like the bodies of lovers. Clarice could find nothing to say, she could only bury her face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. After awhile, she pulled back, her face streaked with tears and blood.
Hannibal smiled and gazed up into Clarice's face, already retreating away. Something rose up in his throat and he swallowed it down with great difficulty. How much blood had he lost? Two quarts? Three? He did not feel afraid, had not since that time so many years ago, when he had realized that fear was wasteful. It ate away at your soul and consumed you, filling every inch of your body and blocking so many other emotions, more important emotions. He had no room for it now. His hand in hers caressed her skin softly.
Then he saw her other hand go for his shirt pocket. It came away holding his Harpy knife, already stained red through his shirt by his blood. The winking blade beckoned seductively to her white skin. He knew, but he could not let that happen. Hannibal returned to himself in that instant and his grip on her hand tightened. "Don't you dare, Clarice."
Clarice was gasping with sobs. "I couldn't...I couldn't go on without you."
"Clarice..." Hannibal mustered up every reserve of strength his body had left to offer. His eyes were blazing. The last brilliant gasp of a fire before it is extinguished. "Clarice, you can't do this. Not for me. Not for anyone."
Pain, horrible ruthless pain was radiating from her heart to every inch of her body. How many times could she watch someone die in her arms? Her father, the girl, and now Hannibal...The thought of the crushing loneliness that would follow...no, she wouldn't accept it, wouldn't live with it. "Hannibal, you saw what I was without you. I won't live like that again. I need you."
Hannibal shook his head, his pain-wracked body protesting at every movement. He ignored it. "No, Clarice. You don't. It's always been you. That strength...that strength that you have, it all comes from you. I only set it free." He gazed into her tear-streaked eyes with something like fierce pride. "You are a warrior, Clarice. You are my only love, my light, my warrior..."
"No, I'm not. No, I'm not. Look at me. Please don't leave me--"
"You are a warrior," he repeated. He gazed into her tear-streaked face and thought she had never looked more beautiful. It was time to tell her. This would be all the time he would ever have.
"And...you are even more than yourself." Hannibal lifted his hand from hers and let it rest gently against her abdomen. He felt the tingling electricity again before it swelled into a deep, pulsating beat of life.
Clarice looked on in disbelief. "How--how do you know?"
"I feel it. You have life in your body, Clarice. We created it, you hold it, now live Clarice. Live for me, for you...and for the child. Please...promise me."
The chills, the aching, the suffering. All for this, this miracle. Joy amidst unbearable pain and grief. A thousand conflicting emotions, somehow all co-existing. It made no sense. "I promise...oh Hannibal, I love you so much." She bent her head and kissed him, softly, their lips whispering like forbidden lovers.
"You are my angel, Clarice." Then Hannibal drew away, until he seemed to be floating outside his body. He did not shudder or shake. Time slowed to a crawl. The pain was not so bad now. Like the blood draining out of his body, consciousness slowly slipped from his mind.
Hannibal forced a small smile as tears fell from Clarice's beautiful face. He would not cry, though, not now. Not ever. He would stay strong for his Clarice. His field of vision was rapidly dimming, closing on Clarice's eyes. Beautiful blue pools of light full of sparkling tears like diamonds. Hannibal's unseeing maroon eyes stayed open for a moment more, beckoning, willing her to remember them forever. Then they closed and far, far away, Hannibal heard a child's laugh, clear and joyful.
Clarice draped herself over him, her tears mixing with his blood. Her hands shook as the useless blade slipped from her fingers. Time would move on for her. But now she cried, trembled, wept for her love. After a moment, she noticed the brown package, now stained the color of rust, still clutched in Hannibal's left hand.
She opened it with shaking fingers and before she drew it out, she saw a flash of red. Hardly daring to hope, she drew the necklace out into the light. But no, of all the rubies that made up the necklace, magnificent though they were, none of them reflected the deep maroon of his eyes. Instead each and every one of them was a bright, vibrant red. They emitted joy and an eternal happiness of which humans were not capable. A quivering iron hand was squeezing her heart, agonizing but bearable. And so she wept, beaten but not broken.
Darkness Falls
Frank Bowman stood outside the jewelry shop, immobile as a statue. Nothing moved except his eyes and they probed every inch of the shop until they landed on Hannibal Lecter at the checkout counter. He could see nothing except the side of Lecter's face, but he knew it was him. Like his friend, Bowman had read every piece on Lecter he could get hold of, which was whatever Layton could provide him with. Bowman couldn't exactly waltz into the FBI and start looking through files.
He felt he knew Lecter, or at least a mere sketch of his mind. He could never claim to know everything about the man, but he could know of his habits. From the information gathered from Layton's electronic bug, he figured out what Lecter meant by "complementary gifts." It had taken him merely a set of phone calls to find the most expensive jewelry shop in the city, and now he was here.
Bowman lit a cigarette as he stepped away from the shop and backtracked the possible path Lecter would take once exiting the shop. He found a rather deserted alley along the way, with a clear view of the brightly lit shop, and stopped right by the entrance.
He puffed away on the cigarette as he waited, and pondered what Layton had mentioned so many times. About the Bureau and himself. Yes, the FBI could certainly have used his skills, but they could not have used a person like him. Bowman had never told Layton why he had dropped out of the Academy, because he wanted his friend to continue pursuing his dream. If the Bureau worked for Layton, fine, but it did not work for him.
The FBI was a big fake-out to him. Bowman had entered Academy, ready to destroy the wrongdoers and protect the innocent. He expected to be taught how to do it. Instead, he had received six months instruction on laws, procedures, and loopholes that criminals would use to dodge the justice system. Only his days on the firing range had given him any relief, and eventually, even those had not been enough to keep him in the Academy. Now he was out of the FBI with a drastically changed set of morals. What was law? A bunch of words written on paper.
Therefore, when Layton had told him to apprehend Lecter because "he was the only one skilled enough for the job, " Bowman had other plans. Maybe now he could finally knock off a wrongdoer. After all, Lecter was just a criminal, no matter how smart. The world would be so much better off without this extra serial killer running around.
So he had his pistol, a trusty six-chamber handgun that had served him well many times on the firing range. He leaned against the brick wall of the alley and kept his eyes on the jewelry shop. He would wait, bide his time. He had waited years for this moment, he could surely wait a few minutes more.
As Lecter turned to leave, Bowman caught the flicker of movement in the window and quickly put out his cigarette, crushing it underneath his foot. He stepped back around the corner and removed the small pistol from the inside of his jacket and snapped open the chamber. Two bullets. He pushed it back into place and cocked the gun. His quarry would be coming around the corner any moment.
He knew who he was up against. Layton had warned him over and over again about the danger of this man, although Bowman thought it had been quite unnecessary. Lecter was a man after all, and he could die just like any other man.
Soft footsteps coming toward him now. Bowman poised, ready, and at the right moment stepped out from around the corner, handgun held at perfect head height. And then he made his big mistake. He looked into Lecter's eyes. A wave of dread washed over him. Bowman's gun finger was perfectly trained and pulled the trigger at exactly the right instant. His arm was not so disciplined and spasmed along with the rest of his body as the deathly calm pools of red penetrated every cell of his body.
The bullet did not completely miss Lecter. It tore through his abdomen and rearranged his insides before hitting the opposite alley wall, the shot had been so close. Lecter stood frozen still for one second before pitching forward and falling to the ground. It happened so fast, he had not had time to change his expression to one of surprise.
Hannibal Lecter lay facedown on the ground, still as death, and Bowman gingerly stepped toward him. So this was the infamous murderer. Still, he had to make sure. With one hand, he turned Lecter over on his back. Maroon eyes stared unblinkingly, accusingly into his face. Bowman recoiled like a snake and, with a shaking hand, removed his knife from his belt. He would put those eyes out forever. Perhaps then, he might have peace.
He leaned over the body, knife poised. Right before the knife tip reached the face it sought, the eyes blinked. And before Bowman knew what was happening, a hand flashed into view from his right side and grasped his hand holding the knife with astonishing strength.
Anger was boiling in Lecter's eyes, raging, out of control, and Bowman thought he was looking into hell itself. He screamed, hardly aware of Lecter's unrelenting power forcing the knife back toward his face. His free hand fumbled around on the ground for the handgun, maybe he might be able to get off a shot in time...
And then the eyes were upon him. Bowman didn't realize that he was still screaming at the top of his lungs. He felt consumed by the fires, burned alive. He was screaming so loudly that he didn't even realize when the knife entered his neck and ripped his throat open. It all seemed to be happening to somebody else. Didn't realize, that is, until his vocal cords were drowned in blood and no more sound escaped his lips. Those eyes were the last things he ever saw.
Hannibal moved the dead weight off his body and got to his feet slowly, allowing his legs to regain control of his body. Only by the slightest of chances did the bullet miss his spine, instead it had gone right through his side. And, feeling his lower back gently, Hannibal discovered the enormous exit wound.
There was a lightness in his head as he felt blood draining rapidly out of his body. Rapidly. It had been so sudden, he had not prepared for it. And now, now...the thought that he might die seemed an annoyance more than anything else. He couldn't die; he needed to give Clarice her gift, they needed to move to Europe, they needed to start over, they needed to have children together, they needed to live together, they needed to live...Death was such an inconvenience.
Fear tried to invade his mind, but all that came was Clarice's face, her beautiful eyes filled every inch of his mind and pushed the fear out of the way. And then he realized that he knew what it was that was different about her, had known it all along, but had not said it out loud, for fear that it would slip away as quickly as it had come.
He couldn't stay in the alley. It was rather deserted and separated from the main road, but someone would have heard the shot, not to mention the screams. The pain from the wound increased as Hannibal slowly removed his jacket. He paused, filtering the pain away, until it had died into numbness. Pain was unnecessary, it could be dealt with later. Bowman's knife was still embedded in his neck, so Lecter carefully removed his Harpy from his shirt pocket. Two quick slashes and a long cloth strip was cut from the jacket. He tied the strip around his waist, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
He could not stop it entirely, but it would prevent him from leaving an evident trail back home. That was where he was going, he needed to return home. Although, if an assassin had been hired to kill him, chances were they knew where he lived. In that case, he needed to warn Clarice. He could not walk fast, so he kept to the shadows. Although he could not feel the pain of the wound, his body reacted to it and turned his legs into leaden blocks.
Slowly, but surely, with the brown package clutched tightly in his hand, Hannibal Lecter returned home to his Clarice.
----------------
Clarice looked up as she heard the doorknob rattling. There was a difference in Hannibal's steps. They were slower, heavier. Her mind ignored that completely as she raced happily toward the door. When she reached him, Hannibal was leaning against the doorjamb of the living room, but still standing firmly on his feet. The door to the kitchen was closed.
He smiled as he saw her. "Hello, Clarice." Then he stepped forward and sank into her shocked arms. Her mind frozen in stillness, Clarice lowered him to the carpet. One arm was wrapped around his waist and as she felt the wound, Clarice jerked back as if she had been struck. It was everyone's worst nightmare. Clarice stared unbelievingly at the blood staining her fingertips, and her eyes met Hannibal's. Her legs turned to water and buckled underneath her as she collapsed beside him on the floor.
His face was paling from lack of blood, but his eyes still looked strongly upon her face. "Clarice, I'm sorry."
"No, I'll get you to a hospital, you're going to be alright..." And all the while, she was thinking, it's all my fault, I did this, I did this, it's all my goddamn fault...
She reached for him, but Hannibal waved her hands away with the one arm that still moved. "Clarice, you need to get away, they'll be coming here soon. You know--you know everything you need. I wish I could be there, but..."
"Don't talk like that, you're going to be alright, you're going to be okay, you have to be." Her eyes were full of tears that fell from her face like sparkling jewels.
"I love you so much, Clarice...I just wanted you to know that." His hand grasped hers, fingers entwining like the bodies of lovers. Clarice could find nothing to say, she could only bury her face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. After awhile, she pulled back, her face streaked with tears and blood.
Hannibal smiled and gazed up into Clarice's face, already retreating away. Something rose up in his throat and he swallowed it down with great difficulty. How much blood had he lost? Two quarts? Three? He did not feel afraid, had not since that time so many years ago, when he had realized that fear was wasteful. It ate away at your soul and consumed you, filling every inch of your body and blocking so many other emotions, more important emotions. He had no room for it now. His hand in hers caressed her skin softly.
Then he saw her other hand go for his shirt pocket. It came away holding his Harpy knife, already stained red through his shirt by his blood. The winking blade beckoned seductively to her white skin. He knew, but he could not let that happen. Hannibal returned to himself in that instant and his grip on her hand tightened. "Don't you dare, Clarice."
Clarice was gasping with sobs. "I couldn't...I couldn't go on without you."
"Clarice..." Hannibal mustered up every reserve of strength his body had left to offer. His eyes were blazing. The last brilliant gasp of a fire before it is extinguished. "Clarice, you can't do this. Not for me. Not for anyone."
Pain, horrible ruthless pain was radiating from her heart to every inch of her body. How many times could she watch someone die in her arms? Her father, the girl, and now Hannibal...The thought of the crushing loneliness that would follow...no, she wouldn't accept it, wouldn't live with it. "Hannibal, you saw what I was without you. I won't live like that again. I need you."
Hannibal shook his head, his pain-wracked body protesting at every movement. He ignored it. "No, Clarice. You don't. It's always been you. That strength...that strength that you have, it all comes from you. I only set it free." He gazed into her tear-streaked eyes with something like fierce pride. "You are a warrior, Clarice. You are my only love, my light, my warrior..."
"No, I'm not. No, I'm not. Look at me. Please don't leave me--"
"You are a warrior," he repeated. He gazed into her tear-streaked face and thought she had never looked more beautiful. It was time to tell her. This would be all the time he would ever have.
"And...you are even more than yourself." Hannibal lifted his hand from hers and let it rest gently against her abdomen. He felt the tingling electricity again before it swelled into a deep, pulsating beat of life.
Clarice looked on in disbelief. "How--how do you know?"
"I feel it. You have life in your body, Clarice. We created it, you hold it, now live Clarice. Live for me, for you...and for the child. Please...promise me."
The chills, the aching, the suffering. All for this, this miracle. Joy amidst unbearable pain and grief. A thousand conflicting emotions, somehow all co-existing. It made no sense. "I promise...oh Hannibal, I love you so much." She bent her head and kissed him, softly, their lips whispering like forbidden lovers.
"You are my angel, Clarice." Then Hannibal drew away, until he seemed to be floating outside his body. He did not shudder or shake. Time slowed to a crawl. The pain was not so bad now. Like the blood draining out of his body, consciousness slowly slipped from his mind.
Hannibal forced a small smile as tears fell from Clarice's beautiful face. He would not cry, though, not now. Not ever. He would stay strong for his Clarice. His field of vision was rapidly dimming, closing on Clarice's eyes. Beautiful blue pools of light full of sparkling tears like diamonds. Hannibal's unseeing maroon eyes stayed open for a moment more, beckoning, willing her to remember them forever. Then they closed and far, far away, Hannibal heard a child's laugh, clear and joyful.
Clarice draped herself over him, her tears mixing with his blood. Her hands shook as the useless blade slipped from her fingers. Time would move on for her. But now she cried, trembled, wept for her love. After a moment, she noticed the brown package, now stained the color of rust, still clutched in Hannibal's left hand.
She opened it with shaking fingers and before she drew it out, she saw a flash of red. Hardly daring to hope, she drew the necklace out into the light. But no, of all the rubies that made up the necklace, magnificent though they were, none of them reflected the deep maroon of his eyes. Instead each and every one of them was a bright, vibrant red. They emitted joy and an eternal happiness of which humans were not capable. A quivering iron hand was squeezing her heart, agonizing but bearable. And so she wept, beaten but not broken.