Truth or Dare
part 5
I finally managed to lock the clasp on my necklace and stepped back to look at myself in the mirror. My long hair was caught up in an intricate twist on my head with a few not-so-random curls hanging down. The dress I'd found, after only 2 hours of looking, was an emerald green satin that reached my ankles. It was straight and not nearly as form-hugging as the one he bought me, but it still managed to highlight enough curves to be stunning. The slit up the left side not only allows for a bit of leg, it also makes it possible to run without tripping. I checked. The spagetti straps, which look terribly fragile, were reinforced this afternoon by the seamstress--they will not rip on their own. I wanted to be absolutely certain this dress would hold up under a chase. The shoes have a thick heel and numerous straps which make it relatively easy to run in, as far as dress shoes go. I worried for a moment about wearing my necklace--the fine chain and single diamond were a gift to my mother from Daddy, and I would never want to lose it, but it's the only even faintly appropriate piece of jewelry I have with me, and I spent about as much as I'm willing on this evening already when you count the dress, shoes, and matching handbag. Why couldn't the Doctor enjoy cheap entertainment?
I sit down on the bed and open my handbag, making sure that I have the gun, the permit, and my cellphone as well as my wallet and makeup. It's all there. I think back to what Jack said when I called him and informed him of my plan for the evening, such as it was. He was furious that Lecter had switched my hotel and that I was further following his instructions to go to the ballet. "Dammit Starling, this is about CONTROL and you are playing right into his hands! He held most of the cards to begin with, then you go and just hand him yours as well! What makes you think he won't just eat your heart as soon as he tires of screwing your mind? He's done it before, Starling. He's a murderer. This is NOT a game."
I know this isn't a game--this is the most deadly serious thing I've ever done in my life. I'm more than aware that many lives, including my own, will be either destroyed or preserved, depending on how this turns out. But I also know that to Dr. Lecter, it's nothing more than a game, and Jack was right--he DOES hold most of the cards. So I'm going to play by his rules, at least until I get the upper hand. So it's off to the ballet. I need to leave, anyways: no more time to muse over meanings. I grab the ticket (thoughtfully placed on the bill, so Lecter must be picking up the tab, or at least whatever dead man's money he's using now) and my keys, glance around once more to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, and leave. I lock the door, momentarily amused as I think to myself how unnecessary it really is, since the most dangerous man in the country had already been in their while it was locked. I head back down to the lobby and find the same taxi driver that brought me here waiting by the door. "Are you ready, Ms. Starling?" I nod. What else could I do?
I arrived on time, as I had planned. I lingered in the lobby, admiring the architecture and hoping to see him so I wouldn't have to sit through the entire performance with this horrible feeling of anticipation and dread. I knew I wouldn't pay one bit of attention to the performance. I noticed several men look at me in more than passing, but none approached me, and none had maroon-colored eyes, so I paid them no attention. Finally, the lights flashed, signalling the performance was about to begin, so I headed toward my seat. I clutched my handbag so it was easy to grab the gun resting at the top; judging from the way he'd been manipulating and controlling my every move since I arrived, I wouldn't be too surprised to find the Doctor occupying the seat next to mine. However, I was sandwiched between an elderly woman with too-heavy perfume and the squirming 12-year-old daughter of the elegant young couple behind us. Not a chance either was the Doctor, even if he were in disguise, which I doubt. The lights dimmed, and the ballet began.
What little I did pay attention to of the performance was beautiful, at least to my admittedly uncultured eyes. I spent most of my time scanning the seats around and in front of me. About half-way through I remembered that Doctor Lecter always sat in the aisle seat and cursed all my wasted time. I glanced down along the aisle in front of me, but he wasn't there, I was sure. But he could easily be behind me. I was closer to the front than I thought I should be, especially if I was paying for the ticket. How could I look behind me without turning around and making a scene? I smiled as an idea came to me. I needed to touch up my makeup anyway.
I crawled over the terribly bored 12 year-old and stood in the aisle, carrying my handbag and hoping everyone thought I was going to the restroom. I walked up the aisle rather slowly, trying as inconspicuously to glance at everyone as I passed. As far as I could tell, he wasn't there either. As I exited the auditorium, the usher glanced at me, so I figured I'd better go into the bathroom so as not to appear suspicious. During my afternoon shopping I'd learned to recognize the Russian sign for "Ladies Room" or whatever the exact title was, so I didn't have a problem discerning which door I needed to try. I reapplied my lipstick and then just stood looking in the mirror trying to decide what to do now.
Well, I reasoned, it was his move. If this is all some kind of game, then I used my turn coming to the ballet. He'll probably approach me during the intermission. With that in mind, I grab my handbag off the counter and slip through the door back into the lobby.
Only to feel a strong arm reach around my waist, the unmmistakable feel of a knifeblade brushing my side through the fabric. I stiffen up and turn to face him, careful not to lean into the blade and finding myself forced to lean into the arm instead. Doctor Lecter has a smile on his face. "Why my dear, fancy meeting you here!" He says it louder than I expect, and he inclines his head slightly to the left. My eyes dart in that direction and I see two ushers looking at us. Witnesses are a good thing--on the other hand, he's never been shy about public dismemberment, so I better not rely on their presence to save me. Luckily, he saves me from trying to decide whether to play along or to scream bloody murder by whispering in his serpent's voice, "I feel like I could use a bit of fresh air. Why don't we take a walk, Clarice?"
I knew, of course, that it wasn't even a pretense of an invitation, but a command. I'm not sure if it was the steel in his eyes or in his hand that convinced me that now was not the time to try and get my gun. I see no option besides accompanying him, so I nod slightly and we walk towards the doors, his knife invisible to the doorman but unbearably present at my side.
We walk several blocks in heavy silence. My mind races, searching desperately for a way to get away from him just long enough to get my gun out and on him. I'd actually need a good ten feet of space between us as well; I know he could disarm me if I was within arm's reach. How to get that space with his steel grip and even colder knife blade pressed against my side, though? A glimmer of an idea dances just out of reach. Suddenly, it hits me. Maybe, just maybe, I can use his honor system against him. I wait until the sidewalk appears relatively clear and runable.
I shiver, allowing the cold as well as the fear and adrenaline to make me shudder, making certain he could feel it in the arm slung dangerously around my waist. As I'd hoped, he notices. "Are you cold, Clarice?" I glance at him, praying my intentions aren't written wide across my face. Only once have I ever managed to fool him, and I'm not entirely certain he believed me about Plum Island. But then again, I've only TRIED to fool him once. His face doesn't change as I nod, hesitantly, so I decide to continue with the idea.
He stops walking for a moment and I stop with him. As I'd hoped, I feel the steel blade retracted fast as lightning as his arm losens and he begins to take off his jacket. I wait just until his arm is tangled a bit then dart forward as fast as I can, digging into my handbag as I go. Damnit! The gun got buried at the bottom when I touched up my makeup! I turn around, still digging in my purse for the gun, about fifteen feet from where I left him.
He wasn't there anymore. Instead he was right behind me, the jacket discarded somewhere and the knife once again out, this time pressed against my neck just hard enough for me to feel how sharp the cool edge was. Almost as sharp and cold as his eyes, which bore a hole in my mind, making me unable to look away. I do the only thing I think which will preserve my life--I freeze.
Neither of us move for a few moments, we just remain there locked like a Michelangelo as if made of marble. My shaky breaths cloud the few inches between our faces with evaporating moisture; as far as puffs of white indicate, he isn't even breathing. Finally, he moves, taking my handbag from me and tossing it into the wilted bushes of the house we are standing in front of. I just continue to look at him, hoping that I didn't anger him. If I did, I have no expectation of seeing the sunrise tomorrow. His face is unreadable, as usual.
Suddenly I feel a piece of cloth drop onto my shoulders. I can still feel the warmth from his body in the jacket which he draped around me with the hand not holding the knife at my throat. I glance down at the hand holding the knife just a breath away from my mouth--it's the left, with only a thin white scar running from the wrist to the index finger marring the smoothness of it. I feel a sigh of muted relief escape my lips before I realize I even felt relief. "Your hand--" I look back up at his face.
To my surprise, I see, instead of anger, the glimmer of a smile at the corners of his terrifying mouth. "I happened to 'run into' a rather skilled surgeon only an hour after my premature departure from our last meeting; he was more than willing to assist me, with proper encouragement of course. Unfortunately, I was unable to offer him the same assistance." I remember, vaguely, a brief news flash about a missing surgeon in the days after the horrible disaster at lake house, but I never connected it with the Doctor. How stupid of me, looking back on it. "Well. How about a quick walk by the river, catch up on old times, eh?" He moved his hand away from my throat and wrapped it, once again, about my waist. Although his tone had been surprisingly light and friendly, his grip was iron. The knife was much more obvious as well, albeit even less so to an observer. We started walking, and I decide simply to go along with it all--my last wild card lay in the bushes 20 feet back. He hums lightly the tune from the ballet, and I try to discern what his mood is, where we're going, or what the plan is. I can't tell anything. I see that we've reached the river and we slowly meander onto the walkway only feet from it. Still, he's said nothing. I wonder if it's safe to say something myself. Anything to break this dreadful silence.
"Doctor Lecter, what do you want?" He doesn't look at me, but he sighs.
"Not that tedious question again, Clarice. Do you ever ask anything different?" I wonder what he wants me to ask, then. Well, whatever it is, he'll have to say it himself.
"Fine then. How about, why don't you turn yourself in?" I can feel he's not amused.
"Clarice, that is the most ridiculous question I've heard in my life. Why don't we discuss something interesting, hm? Like how you're enjoying life at Quantico?" I flash back momentarily to all those years ago in his cell, with him dismissing Catherine's life to ask me what my worst memory of childhood was. A surge of anger at him surges through me and colors my reply.
"They got rid of me like a fucking hot potato because of YOUR atrocities, Doctor Lecter. Now I try and show kids who've barely graduated high school how to not kill themselves with weapons they carry to defend themselves against people like YOU while they look at me like some goddamn piece of meat. Other than that, it's working out well." I'm not certain how much of the bitterness is directed at him and how much is towards the institution to which I gave my life. He stops suddenly, jerking me to a halt painfully and I feel the blade in his hand rip a tiny hole in the side of my dress. He pulls my face around painfully to face him.
"People like ME, Clarice? Who, exactly, would that be? Are you certain it's not people like YOU they need protection from?" His eyes demand an answer, but I find I can't say anything, even if I wanted to. Absurd as his question sounded, it held the ring of truth in it, somehow. People like him didn't exist. I, on the other hand, had killed for something I believed in...not all that different from people, without the badge, who kill for the causes THEY believe in. Such thoughts are painful and I try to wrench my mind from them, but they linger, shadowing me with questions and guilt about the deaths I was responsible for. I try to turn my head to look at the water, but his iron grip refuses to let me budge in the slightest. I purse my lips, determined not to reply to him.
He must have seen the determination in my face, or decided not to press me on it, because suddenly the hand on my face was gone and we were strolling again. I wonder vaguely where this nightmare is headed when he turns off the riverwalk and into a dark alley. I hesitate, but he pulls me along with him. I can sense his amusement at my reaction even through my sudden terror. "Clarice, I'm not going to stab you and leave you for dead in a dark alleyway...at least, not as long as you act wisely. I merely have something I need to retrieve."
We pause in front of a half-rotting cupboard someone left here and we reaches into the dark corners of the top shelf and pulls out a small square of folded paper. He presses it into my hand, and I can't help the shiver that goes through me as our fingers brush. I can't see his face in the dark, but the sliver of a moon overhead gives just enough light to glint dangerously off the whites of his eyes and his teeth, drawn back into a terrifying smile. Suddenly the arm around my waist is gone, and before I have a chance to blink he's snatched the jacket from my shoulders and disappeared out into the street. I remain where I am for just a moment, then dart to the edge of the alleyway, but he's nowhere in sight. Behind me something stirs in the debris, and I walk away from the entrance quickly, hoping it's just a cat or rat. I realize I have no idea how to get back to my hotel. I start to try and retrace our steps along the river, shivering a bit from the cold night air. A moment later, a taxi pulls up beside me and I recognize my unofficial chauffeur.
"Ms. Starling, it's chilly. Would you like me to take you back to the hotel?" I nod quickly as he gets out and opens the door for me. I must have drifted off on the ride back because the driver was suddenly shaking me and I recognized the hotel behind him. I mumbled a quick thanks as I managed to walk through the lobby and into the elevator. Suddenly I was SO exhausted. I knew I should call Jack, but I just wanted to sleep. As the doors opened on my floor, I finally remembered that my room key was in the handbag. Well, maybe the good Doctor took care of that, too, I thought almost desperately as I walked down to my door. Lying in front of it was an envelope marked "Clarice" in his now-familiar hand. Inside was no note, just my room key. I opened the door and tossed the envelope and the paper he'd handed me onto the table, managed to get into my pajamas and collapsed into bed without even washing off my makeup. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Fin
part 5
part 5
I finally managed to lock the clasp on my necklace and stepped back to look at myself in the mirror. My long hair was caught up in an intricate twist on my head with a few not-so-random curls hanging down. The dress I'd found, after only 2 hours of looking, was an emerald green satin that reached my ankles. It was straight and not nearly as form-hugging as the one he bought me, but it still managed to highlight enough curves to be stunning. The slit up the left side not only allows for a bit of leg, it also makes it possible to run without tripping. I checked. The spagetti straps, which look terribly fragile, were reinforced this afternoon by the seamstress--they will not rip on their own. I wanted to be absolutely certain this dress would hold up under a chase. The shoes have a thick heel and numerous straps which make it relatively easy to run in, as far as dress shoes go. I worried for a moment about wearing my necklace--the fine chain and single diamond were a gift to my mother from Daddy, and I would never want to lose it, but it's the only even faintly appropriate piece of jewelry I have with me, and I spent about as much as I'm willing on this evening already when you count the dress, shoes, and matching handbag. Why couldn't the Doctor enjoy cheap entertainment?
I sit down on the bed and open my handbag, making sure that I have the gun, the permit, and my cellphone as well as my wallet and makeup. It's all there. I think back to what Jack said when I called him and informed him of my plan for the evening, such as it was. He was furious that Lecter had switched my hotel and that I was further following his instructions to go to the ballet. "Dammit Starling, this is about CONTROL and you are playing right into his hands! He held most of the cards to begin with, then you go and just hand him yours as well! What makes you think he won't just eat your heart as soon as he tires of screwing your mind? He's done it before, Starling. He's a murderer. This is NOT a game."
I know this isn't a game--this is the most deadly serious thing I've ever done in my life. I'm more than aware that many lives, including my own, will be either destroyed or preserved, depending on how this turns out. But I also know that to Dr. Lecter, it's nothing more than a game, and Jack was right--he DOES hold most of the cards. So I'm going to play by his rules, at least until I get the upper hand. So it's off to the ballet. I need to leave, anyways: no more time to muse over meanings. I grab the ticket (thoughtfully placed on the bill, so Lecter must be picking up the tab, or at least whatever dead man's money he's using now) and my keys, glance around once more to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, and leave. I lock the door, momentarily amused as I think to myself how unnecessary it really is, since the most dangerous man in the country had already been in their while it was locked. I head back down to the lobby and find the same taxi driver that brought me here waiting by the door. "Are you ready, Ms. Starling?" I nod. What else could I do?
I arrived on time, as I had planned. I lingered in the lobby, admiring the architecture and hoping to see him so I wouldn't have to sit through the entire performance with this horrible feeling of anticipation and dread. I knew I wouldn't pay one bit of attention to the performance. I noticed several men look at me in more than passing, but none approached me, and none had maroon-colored eyes, so I paid them no attention. Finally, the lights flashed, signalling the performance was about to begin, so I headed toward my seat. I clutched my handbag so it was easy to grab the gun resting at the top; judging from the way he'd been manipulating and controlling my every move since I arrived, I wouldn't be too surprised to find the Doctor occupying the seat next to mine. However, I was sandwiched between an elderly woman with too-heavy perfume and the squirming 12-year-old daughter of the elegant young couple behind us. Not a chance either was the Doctor, even if he were in disguise, which I doubt. The lights dimmed, and the ballet began.
What little I did pay attention to of the performance was beautiful, at least to my admittedly uncultured eyes. I spent most of my time scanning the seats around and in front of me. About half-way through I remembered that Doctor Lecter always sat in the aisle seat and cursed all my wasted time. I glanced down along the aisle in front of me, but he wasn't there, I was sure. But he could easily be behind me. I was closer to the front than I thought I should be, especially if I was paying for the ticket. How could I look behind me without turning around and making a scene? I smiled as an idea came to me. I needed to touch up my makeup anyway.
I crawled over the terribly bored 12 year-old and stood in the aisle, carrying my handbag and hoping everyone thought I was going to the restroom. I walked up the aisle rather slowly, trying as inconspicuously to glance at everyone as I passed. As far as I could tell, he wasn't there either. As I exited the auditorium, the usher glanced at me, so I figured I'd better go into the bathroom so as not to appear suspicious. During my afternoon shopping I'd learned to recognize the Russian sign for "Ladies Room" or whatever the exact title was, so I didn't have a problem discerning which door I needed to try. I reapplied my lipstick and then just stood looking in the mirror trying to decide what to do now.
Well, I reasoned, it was his move. If this is all some kind of game, then I used my turn coming to the ballet. He'll probably approach me during the intermission. With that in mind, I grab my handbag off the counter and slip through the door back into the lobby.
Only to feel a strong arm reach around my waist, the unmmistakable feel of a knifeblade brushing my side through the fabric. I stiffen up and turn to face him, careful not to lean into the blade and finding myself forced to lean into the arm instead. Doctor Lecter has a smile on his face. "Why my dear, fancy meeting you here!" He says it louder than I expect, and he inclines his head slightly to the left. My eyes dart in that direction and I see two ushers looking at us. Witnesses are a good thing--on the other hand, he's never been shy about public dismemberment, so I better not rely on their presence to save me. Luckily, he saves me from trying to decide whether to play along or to scream bloody murder by whispering in his serpent's voice, "I feel like I could use a bit of fresh air. Why don't we take a walk, Clarice?"
I knew, of course, that it wasn't even a pretense of an invitation, but a command. I'm not sure if it was the steel in his eyes or in his hand that convinced me that now was not the time to try and get my gun. I see no option besides accompanying him, so I nod slightly and we walk towards the doors, his knife invisible to the doorman but unbearably present at my side.
We walk several blocks in heavy silence. My mind races, searching desperately for a way to get away from him just long enough to get my gun out and on him. I'd actually need a good ten feet of space between us as well; I know he could disarm me if I was within arm's reach. How to get that space with his steel grip and even colder knife blade pressed against my side, though? A glimmer of an idea dances just out of reach. Suddenly, it hits me. Maybe, just maybe, I can use his honor system against him. I wait until the sidewalk appears relatively clear and runable.
I shiver, allowing the cold as well as the fear and adrenaline to make me shudder, making certain he could feel it in the arm slung dangerously around my waist. As I'd hoped, he notices. "Are you cold, Clarice?" I glance at him, praying my intentions aren't written wide across my face. Only once have I ever managed to fool him, and I'm not entirely certain he believed me about Plum Island. But then again, I've only TRIED to fool him once. His face doesn't change as I nod, hesitantly, so I decide to continue with the idea.
He stops walking for a moment and I stop with him. As I'd hoped, I feel the steel blade retracted fast as lightning as his arm losens and he begins to take off his jacket. I wait just until his arm is tangled a bit then dart forward as fast as I can, digging into my handbag as I go. Damnit! The gun got buried at the bottom when I touched up my makeup! I turn around, still digging in my purse for the gun, about fifteen feet from where I left him.
He wasn't there anymore. Instead he was right behind me, the jacket discarded somewhere and the knife once again out, this time pressed against my neck just hard enough for me to feel how sharp the cool edge was. Almost as sharp and cold as his eyes, which bore a hole in my mind, making me unable to look away. I do the only thing I think which will preserve my life--I freeze.
Neither of us move for a few moments, we just remain there locked like a Michelangelo as if made of marble. My shaky breaths cloud the few inches between our faces with evaporating moisture; as far as puffs of white indicate, he isn't even breathing. Finally, he moves, taking my handbag from me and tossing it into the wilted bushes of the house we are standing in front of. I just continue to look at him, hoping that I didn't anger him. If I did, I have no expectation of seeing the sunrise tomorrow. His face is unreadable, as usual.
Suddenly I feel a piece of cloth drop onto my shoulders. I can still feel the warmth from his body in the jacket which he draped around me with the hand not holding the knife at my throat. I glance down at the hand holding the knife just a breath away from my mouth--it's the left, with only a thin white scar running from the wrist to the index finger marring the smoothness of it. I feel a sigh of muted relief escape my lips before I realize I even felt relief. "Your hand--" I look back up at his face.
To my surprise, I see, instead of anger, the glimmer of a smile at the corners of his terrifying mouth. "I happened to 'run into' a rather skilled surgeon only an hour after my premature departure from our last meeting; he was more than willing to assist me, with proper encouragement of course. Unfortunately, I was unable to offer him the same assistance." I remember, vaguely, a brief news flash about a missing surgeon in the days after the horrible disaster at lake house, but I never connected it with the Doctor. How stupid of me, looking back on it. "Well. How about a quick walk by the river, catch up on old times, eh?" He moved his hand away from my throat and wrapped it, once again, about my waist. Although his tone had been surprisingly light and friendly, his grip was iron. The knife was much more obvious as well, albeit even less so to an observer. We started walking, and I decide simply to go along with it all--my last wild card lay in the bushes 20 feet back. He hums lightly the tune from the ballet, and I try to discern what his mood is, where we're going, or what the plan is. I can't tell anything. I see that we've reached the river and we slowly meander onto the walkway only feet from it. Still, he's said nothing. I wonder if it's safe to say something myself. Anything to break this dreadful silence.
"Doctor Lecter, what do you want?" He doesn't look at me, but he sighs.
"Not that tedious question again, Clarice. Do you ever ask anything different?" I wonder what he wants me to ask, then. Well, whatever it is, he'll have to say it himself.
"Fine then. How about, why don't you turn yourself in?" I can feel he's not amused.
"Clarice, that is the most ridiculous question I've heard in my life. Why don't we discuss something interesting, hm? Like how you're enjoying life at Quantico?" I flash back momentarily to all those years ago in his cell, with him dismissing Catherine's life to ask me what my worst memory of childhood was. A surge of anger at him surges through me and colors my reply.
"They got rid of me like a fucking hot potato because of YOUR atrocities, Doctor Lecter. Now I try and show kids who've barely graduated high school how to not kill themselves with weapons they carry to defend themselves against people like YOU while they look at me like some goddamn piece of meat. Other than that, it's working out well." I'm not certain how much of the bitterness is directed at him and how much is towards the institution to which I gave my life. He stops suddenly, jerking me to a halt painfully and I feel the blade in his hand rip a tiny hole in the side of my dress. He pulls my face around painfully to face him.
"People like ME, Clarice? Who, exactly, would that be? Are you certain it's not people like YOU they need protection from?" His eyes demand an answer, but I find I can't say anything, even if I wanted to. Absurd as his question sounded, it held the ring of truth in it, somehow. People like him didn't exist. I, on the other hand, had killed for something I believed in...not all that different from people, without the badge, who kill for the causes THEY believe in. Such thoughts are painful and I try to wrench my mind from them, but they linger, shadowing me with questions and guilt about the deaths I was responsible for. I try to turn my head to look at the water, but his iron grip refuses to let me budge in the slightest. I purse my lips, determined not to reply to him.
He must have seen the determination in my face, or decided not to press me on it, because suddenly the hand on my face was gone and we were strolling again. I wonder vaguely where this nightmare is headed when he turns off the riverwalk and into a dark alley. I hesitate, but he pulls me along with him. I can sense his amusement at my reaction even through my sudden terror. "Clarice, I'm not going to stab you and leave you for dead in a dark alleyway...at least, not as long as you act wisely. I merely have something I need to retrieve."
We pause in front of a half-rotting cupboard someone left here and we reaches into the dark corners of the top shelf and pulls out a small square of folded paper. He presses it into my hand, and I can't help the shiver that goes through me as our fingers brush. I can't see his face in the dark, but the sliver of a moon overhead gives just enough light to glint dangerously off the whites of his eyes and his teeth, drawn back into a terrifying smile. Suddenly the arm around my waist is gone, and before I have a chance to blink he's snatched the jacket from my shoulders and disappeared out into the street. I remain where I am for just a moment, then dart to the edge of the alleyway, but he's nowhere in sight. Behind me something stirs in the debris, and I walk away from the entrance quickly, hoping it's just a cat or rat. I realize I have no idea how to get back to my hotel. I start to try and retrace our steps along the river, shivering a bit from the cold night air. A moment later, a taxi pulls up beside me and I recognize my unofficial chauffeur.
"Ms. Starling, it's chilly. Would you like me to take you back to the hotel?" I nod quickly as he gets out and opens the door for me. I must have drifted off on the ride back because the driver was suddenly shaking me and I recognized the hotel behind him. I mumbled a quick thanks as I managed to walk through the lobby and into the elevator. Suddenly I was SO exhausted. I knew I should call Jack, but I just wanted to sleep. As the doors opened on my floor, I finally remembered that my room key was in the handbag. Well, maybe the good Doctor took care of that, too, I thought almost desperately as I walked down to my door. Lying in front of it was an envelope marked "Clarice" in his now-familiar hand. Inside was no note, just my room key. I opened the door and tossed the envelope and the paper he'd handed me onto the table, managed to get into my pajamas and collapsed into bed without even washing off my makeup. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Fin
part 5