Delay in Transit

by A. A. Aaron

Clarice and Lecter disappeared after the Muskrat Farm shootout. Now Clarice has reappeared but with amnesia.

Title: Delay in Transit

Author: A. A. Aaron

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Timeline: Set after the banquet (Hannibal Ch 101). Departs from canon.




Prologue


The three men in the small conference room in the FBI Academy building at Quantico were Special Agents Jack Crawford and Clint Pearsall, and Assistant Director Noonan. They were discussing an embarrassing situation.

Noonan was speaking. "This amnesia story of hers seems mighty fishy. How can we be sure she's not making it up? She isn't exactly what you might call trustworthy."

Crawford spoke. "Dr. Bathgate at the Misericordia Hospital is convinced she's telling the truth."

Pearsall interrupted, "He's a good man. We've worked with him before."

Crawford continued, "I visited her this morning at the Hospital and she seemed genuinely unable to remember anything that's happened from the time she became an FBI agent to the time of her accident. At any rate, we lose nothing by assuming she's telling the truth.

Noonan spoke. "She's an embarrassment to the Bureau. We were better off when she was just listed as missing. Her being killed and eaten by Hannibal the Cannibal would also have been okay. As it is, Hannibal has gotten away again and is holed up somewhere, and we're left with egg on our face. And now the Agent he escaped with turns up and can't remember anything that's happened.

"We just may have another crack at Hannibal," said Crawford. "I've drafted an Action Plan. It takes advantage of her amnesia, to some extent. . ."






Delay in Transit


I had just awakened. I was in a bed but not my bed at home. Okay, I saw that I was in a hospital room, a semi-private room though there was no one occupying the other bed, at the moment. My name is . . . it seemed to have slipped my mind. No matter, I would get back to it. I took inventory: I could see that I had assorted tapes and bandages, mostly on my left side. I could also feel that my head was bandaged. I felt bruised and headachy. Still, I didn't seem to be attached to any plumbing, which I took to be a good sign that there wasn't any serious damage. I sat up in the bed and determined that I had nothing on under the standard hospital gown with the ventilated back.

There was a small bathroom attached to the room. I went in and took care of some necessary business. Then I looked in the mirror. The face that looked back at me was that of a woman who would probably be fairly attractive if only she didn't participate in barroom brawls. It looked a little older than the face I was now recalling, but probably a cleanup would help.

I returned to the question of my name. Not a glimmer. Let's try another way, I thought: Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear . . . Nope, didn't get it.

A nurse peeked in at the doorway and said brightly, "Oh good, you're awake. You can get dressed now. I can help with the bandages if you'd like. Dr. Bathgate will be with you shortly." I dressed and waited about five minutes; then Dr. Bathgate showed up. I knew he was Dr. Bathgate by the ID attached to the front of his surgical greens. He was a plump and jolly individual, rather like Santa but without the beard. "Hi, glad to see you back with us," he said.

"Who am I," I asked.

He frowned. "Shouldn't that be 'Where am I?' Standard question you know."

I felt the corners of my mouth beginning to wrinkle in a smile. "My humble apologies. I meant, of course, 'Where am I?' "

He smiled happily, "There, isn't that better? You're in Maryland-Misericordia Hospital. You were brought here by the paramedics late last night -- this morning, actually - after you were involved in an auto accident. Can you tell me what you remember of it?"

"Nothing at all. The last thing I remember was my graduation celebration . . ." My voice trailed off. "My God - was I driving drunk?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. Your blood alcohol level was far below the legal limit. No, the other driver apparently ran a stop sign and rammed your car broadside. It took the rescue crew about an hour to free you from the wreckage and rush you here. The cuts and bruises look worse than they are. There were no fractures or internal injuries. You did suffer a concussion and we'll be running some neurological tests now to see if there are any problems."

We went through the exercise of having me close my eyes and touch my nose, balance myself on one foot, and all the rest of the package. As we continued, I feel my head clearing. We finished and Dr. Bathgate said, "Congratulations. No apparent problems. We'll run an MRI just to be safe." He opened a folder on his desk. "Now let's look into the matter of your memory loss. You still can't remember your name?" He made it a question.

"That's right"

"Does the name 'Clarice Starling'mean anything to you? It should; it's the name on your driver's license and other ID, and on your hospitalization insurance card."

"That's it," I said eagerly. As soon as I heard my name, the frost on the windows of my mind evaporated. I had clear memories of the events leading to me having to kill Buffalo Bill in order to rescue Catherine Martin. There were also the memories of my graduation from the FBI Academy at Quantico and the celebration afterward. Best of all were the memories of the people important to me: my father, Jack Crawford, Ardelia, Tony Hopkins (Steady now, girl, you're beginning to drift. Now where was I? Oh, yes . . .) Ardelia, and the most fascinating and frightening man I've ever met, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

"Well, I guess that's it, Dr. Bathgate," I said. "Thanks for everything. My memory is back and I'm ready to get back to my job."

"I'm afraid not, Agent Starling," he said. "I was hoping it would happen spontaneously, triggered by your recognizing your name. But I guess that's not to be." He handed a newspaper to me. "Check the date."

I had guessed by now what he was leading up to, but it still came as a shock. My graduation at Quantico had taken place seven years ago. The memories of the last seven years of my life were blank.



I remained at the hospital for another week. Nothing of significance showed up in the MRI scans. The rest of the time was spent trying out several bright ideas from the hospital staff on how to treat amnesia. From the movies, I had gathered that when a bump on the head causes amnesia, the way to cure it was by another bump on the head. The suggestions of the hospital staff didn't seem to be any more helpful. Finally, Dr. Bathgate reluctantly sat down with me and acknowledged that there wasn't much more they could do. My memories could come back tomorrow or they could remain buried indefinitely. He suggested that my best bet was to relax, live my life and not worry about it.

My boss, Jack Crawford, had dropped by the hospital earlier that week. He brought an assortment of news magazines of the past seven years to help me catch up with the world and perhaps give my memory a jolt. Crawford also brought flowers with a get well card signed mostly by people of whom I had no recollection. He couldn't stay long, but his visit boosted my spirits.

Best of all, I received a phone call from my roommate from Quantico, Ardelia Mapp, who was on a special assignment in Santa Fe. I was happy to learn that we had remained best friends and, in fact, shared a duplex.



The last night of my stay at the hospital, as I lay in bed, I mentally reviewed my situation. While generally of a trusting nature, I speculated on various scenarios that might fit the facts if this were a suspense thriller. I give them here, in no particular order:

1. Dr. Bathgate was too good to be true. He would turn out to be the leader of the bad guys.
2. Dr. Bathgate was Hannibal Lecter in disguise.
3. My accident was no accident but a deliberate attack on me.
4. My accident never occurred. It was fabricated to hide my injuries.
5. I was not really Clarice Starling. My memories and amnesia were hypnotically induced.
6. It was not really seven years in the future. It was all an elaborate hoax to get me to reveal the date at which the Normandy invasion would occur (Okay, this one needed a little work).

I pondered these for about thirty seconds before falling asleep.


The next day I drove home in a rental car. I had the address and directions on how to get there. I entered and found a mix of furniture: my familiar stuff and some newer pieces. Jack Crawford had dropped by the hospital again before I left. After confirming that my amnesia hadn't miraculously disappeared, he had given me two folders to examine at home. I now sat down at my desk (one of the familiar pieces) and opened the first folder. It contained copies of records covering my career with the FBI. The data showed me getting promotions on the fast track, my transfer to Crawford's Behavioral Science Section, and steadily increasing responsibility in major cases. I found myself wishing that my father could have seen this. You would have been so proud of me, Daddy.

I put the first folder aside and opened the second one. The contents of the second folder were arranged in chronological order. The first item was a copy of my 302 Report on the ill-fated Feliciana Fish Market raid. It was a weird feeling to read something I wrote, without having any memory of it.

Next was the National Tattler story which demonized me in the shooting of Evelda Drumgo .

The third item was a copy of a letter to me from Hannibal Lecter. The letter began:

Dear Clarice,

I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming. . .

The next item was a plan for the capture of Hannibal Lecter. It was signed by me, with approval sign-offs by Crawford and by Assistant Director Noonan. Of course, I had no recollection of writing it.

The plan was to take advantage of Dr. Lecter's interest in me, as evidenced by his letter. His interest was aroused by me being in peril. He had apparently taken the National Tattler's hatchet job on me as evidence of my being in disgrace with the FBI. We would encourage this impression by feeding false information to the Tattler who could be counted on to spread it over its front page. As backup documentation, a set of fake records of my career with the FBI was prepared showing a mediocre performance record.

The next item was an account of the events in Florence: Chief Inspector Pazzi spotting Lecter, and Lecter's escape after murdering Pazzi.
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Next was a record of me receiving a gift of lotions and perfumes in the mail from Lecter, together with a note of support from him.

Then came an Addendum to the original plan. The Addendum, also signed by me, proposed stepping up the apparent peril of the bait (that's me) by fabricating evidence that I had attempted to warn Lecter in Florence that his enemies were closing in on him. The plan was for the FBI to pretend to suspend me and to leak the story to the Tattler that I was facing arrest on serious charges.

The next item was a report on the Muskrat Farm affair. It stated that I had spotted Lecter in a grocery store parking lot where Lecter was being kidnapped by agents of Mason Verger, Lecter's only surviving victim. Verger had apparently been following his own plan, similar to ours. I had called for backup, and made it to Muskrat Farm before the others. There, I saw that Verger was about to torture Lecter by feeding him to wild boars. As there was not enough time for me to wait for my backup to arrive, I attempted to rescue Lecter and take him into custody. A gunfight ensued and afterward Clarice (me) and Lecter had disappeared. The information in this report was based on Police and FBI investigations of the incident.

The final item was a report that I was found alive but unconscious in a car accident. It stated that I subsequently regained consciousness but with amnesia regarding the past seven years. It was assumed that Dr. Lecter had held me captive for the several weeks that I was missing.



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In the morning, Crawford, Pearsall, Noonan and I had a covert meeting at a hotel room to discuss future strategy. The plan was considered to have succeeded in its objective to flush out Lecter but his escape left him at large. It was suggested that our best bet for capturing Lecter would be to continue with the plan. The Tattler would continue to be leaked stories of my supposed disgrace, and we would wait and hope for Lecter to reappear. I was expected to be the one most likely to get physically closest to Lecter. My orders were to arrest him if possible, but not to take any chances. I was to shoot him if he offered any resistance. There was to be no one covering me; Lecter would be bound to spot him and be spooked. It was all up to me.


Accordingly, I went about my daily life as a suspended FBI agent. A week or so went by. Then one night, with Ardelia still away on assignment, I awoke to find a visitor in my bedroom. It was Hannibal Lecter (Surprise!). He spoke in the velvet voice that I remembered so well.

"Good evening, Clarice."

"Dr. Lecter. How nice of you to call." A quick glance around the room showed that my gun had been moved out of reach to the dresser. So be it. I had not really expected to have an opportunity to capture him that quickly.

"I assume that you've recovered from your automobile accident."

"Pretty much so. Some scratches and bruising remaining but nothing serious."

"I was hoping to hear from you," said Dr. Lecter. "With the way things were left after our last encounter, I surmised that there would be much for us to discuss."

I had already decided to be as truthful as possible without jeopardizing my mission. "I can't comment on that since I can't remember our recent meeting. In fact, I can't remember anything of the last seven years or so. The accident left me with amnesia, and there's no telling when, or even if, it will be cured.

Lecter sighed. "So I had heard, but I had hoped that the news was exaggerated. Without your direct recollection of your experiences with your hallowed FBI you will not be ready to make certain vital decisions. Well, it's been a lovely visit but I'm afraid there's no reason for me to stay."

"Wait," I said. I had put on my robe and now approached Lecter. This is where the charade would be put to the test. "I may not remember anything that's happened since the Catherine Martin rescue but I can damn well read my files and the newspapers; and from what I've read it looks like I've been given the royal shaft. So let's not be too hasty in deciding whether or not I'm ready to make vital decisions."

Then, without thinking about it, I made my move. While speaking my last sentence I leaped toward the dresser. Lecter's reaction time may have been off only a tiny fraction of a second, but it was enough for me to grab the gun and have it pointing at him before he could reach me.

"Well, Agent Starling," he said venomously, "aren't you full of surprises."

"With all due respect, doctor," I said, "please don't mess with me. I don't want to shoot but I will if you don't follow my instructions exactly."

"As you wish, Clarice." His voice was back to its impassive tone.

With my back to the dresser, I opened the lower right drawer and pulled out several sets of handcuffs. Under my careful supervision, Lecter cuffed his wrists together behind his back, and his right wrist also to one leg of the dresser. It probably would not hold up for more than thirty seconds against a determined Lecter effort but I didn't expect to leave him unsupervised for that long. He was seated on the floor in a fairly comfortable position.

"What now, Clarice? Will you now turn me over to be caged? Will you crawl to the FBI to beg for your reward - full reinstatement in the FBI, and perhaps, dare one hope, a promotion?"

"As it happens, Dr. Lecter," I said, "despite what you've been reading in the newspapers and seeing on TV news, I've been doing quite well in my career. The lack of promotions, the crappy assignments, taking the rap for the botched Evelda Drumgo raid, and my frame-up on supposedly giving you a heads-up in Florence -- I'm afraid that's all been a charade to flush you out of hiding."

I felt a pang of guilt at the thought of him being locked away. I recognized the feeling as one I'd had once before, in a zoo, watching a leopard endlessly pace back and forth in its cage. I reminded myself that to protect the public it was necessary that Lecter be confined. A vision of death by lethal injection flickered briefly in my mind and I shuddered slightly before I suppressed it. I hoped he wouldn't force me to kill him. I valued his insights and would like to be able to visit him, if he were willing, after he were put behind bars.

"I'm impressed by Jackie-boy's ingenuity," said Dr. Lecter. "He's become quite imaginative as he approaches forced retirement."

"As it happens, I'm told by Jack Crawford that the plan was my idea."

"You were told that the plan was your idea? That's right . . . you have amnesia. You have to rely on being told the events of the past seven years."

"I've seen the files that support everything I've been told." I spoke confidently, but felt suppressed doubts beginning to emerge. 'Dammit,' I thought, 'I'm letting him get inside my head again,'

"Indeed," said Lecter. "You're a trained investigator, trained by the FBI, no less. Apply that ability to evaluate the files you've seen that support all you've been told. And by all means remember Marcus Aurelius' advice. The emperor counsels simplicity. First principles. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself, in its own constitution? What is its causal nature?"

I recalled Dr. Lecter telling me the same thing during our last conversation in Memphis, before his escape seven years ago. I still wasn't quite sure what it meant.

"So, Clarice," he now murmured, "will you dazzle me with your insight?"

I felt as though I were back at the University of Virginia, hit by a surprise test in Criminology. I started off hesitantly, not sure where this would lead. "The purpose of the plan was to flush you out of hiding," I began. "This was to be done by taking advantage of your interest in my welfare (rather rude of me, I admit). This was to be accomplished by using the Tattler's hatchet job on me as a starting point and building on it; continuing to leak false information to the Tattler. This plan was purported to have been proposed by me prior to the Florence events."

I continued, "I find it difficult to believe that I would ever have proposed such a plan. I could see me setting myself up as bait. I could even see taking part in someone else's plan under orders. But the plan implies that I believed, on the basis of your letter, that after seven years you would be willing to come out of hiding to help me. I'm not saying you wouldn't, just that I would never have based a plan on the assumption that you would."

I was proceeding more confidently now. "If I did not develop the plan, what reason would they have had for pretending that I did? Well, it kept me from objecting to the plan. After all, it was supposed to be my brainstorm. Also, it supported my belief in the glorious career I'm supposed to have had in the FBI. Generally, there seemed to be too much emphasis on my great career, in the files I was given, even though it had little to do with the plan for your capture. Which leads me to suspect that my career was not as glorious as advertised."

Dr. Lecter sat quietly, giving me no clue as to his reaction. I continued, "Why should they care what I believed about my career? Because they needed my cooperation and weren't expecting to get it otherwise. I remember being told that I had disappeared with you for several weeks after the Muskrat Farm event. They probably assumed that I was your captive, that some sort of sexual dependence may have developed, and that I would not be very cooperative if I were aware of the shabby treatment I had received from the FBI.

"As they couldn't expect me to be fooled unless I couldn't remember my career, the plan must have been developed after the accident, during my amnesia. I was supposed to pretend I was suspended, so I was not able to call anyone to check for discrepancies between the files I was given and the official records. Ardelia is conveniently away on a far-off assignment, so she's not available to be questioned about the progress of my career.

"Now that my suspicions have been aroused, it is not difficult to prove whether my conjecture is correct, even without .my having access to Quantico. Just as an example, I can compare the income shown in my copy of my last year's Income Tax Return with the income based on the promotions I'm supposed to have received."

"Brava, Clarice!" said Lecter. I gave a little curtsy in response.

"I can speculate further," I said. "You never saw the files I were given but you were confident that they were fake. That shows you knew that the story of my wonderful FBI career was crap and that I really was in disgrace with the FBI. You would have learned that while we were together during the several weeks we were both missing.

"From the way you've been acting I would guess that some sort of relationship had developed between us during those weeks."

"I'm delighted that you find my actions so transparent," Lecter said dryly, "but I suppose one could categorize our arrangements as 'some sort of relationship.' So, what happens now? I'm still your captive."

I wished I knew what to do. I remembered the moment in Memphis when our forefingers touched and the thrill that filled my body. I also remembered that shortly thereafter he had killed five people during his escape. And then there came the unbidden recollection of the five people I had killed in the Feliciano Fish Market fiasco.

"I don't owe the FBI anything," I said, "but I won't betray my oath to protect the public. I don't want to turn you in but it's my duty."

"I have a few thoughts regarding 'duty,' " said Dr. Lecter, "but we can save them for another time. Meanwhile, a simple solution to your dilemma is for us to switch designations of captor and captive." While saying the last few words, he was already diving across the room at me. However, he was not going to get away with pulling my own trick on me; not when I had the gun in my hand. He was still about two feet away from me when my gun fired. Dr. Lecter lurched into me and we both fell down.

The room was silent for a few seconds. Then I remarked, "Nice job ditching those handcuffs."

"Thank you," said Lecter. "I happened to have a spare handcuff key. Ever since the effort it took to make one for my Memphis escape I've made it a point never to leave home without one."

We mused on this a bit. Then Lecter commented, "Would you kindly explain how a three-time interservice combat pistol champion managed to miss me at two feet," His tone was politely conversational.

"It wasn't easy," I said. "You were covering practically my entire field of vision." I shifted a little. "Incidentally, if we're going to lie here for a while, would you mind shifting your elbow? There, that's better."

He leaned his head toward mine and I stretched toward him. Our lips met and the kiss was incredible. At first it was the intimacy of the moment. Then he probed hesitantly with his tongue, ready to withdraw if I was offended. I let him know that I found his actions very welcome indeed and we hungrily explored each other's mouth. I felt my nipples growing hard and erect. Then I found myself hearing that little voice inside: 'What do you think you're doing, girl? This is Hannibal the Cannibal. He eats people!' I thought back, 'Stick a sock in it, little voice.' But the mood was broken.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter," I said, "but this isn't going to work out. I admit I find you attractive -- okay, irresistible , but my value system says 'No!' and my value system is who I am. I realize that somehow you've convinced the 'other me,' the woman I was during the blocked off period in my memory, to reach some understanding, but she is not the same person I am."

I cringed inwardly, prepared for some stinging comment but when he spoke it was with gentle affection. "You have received shabby treatment from the FBI. Your seven years of devoted and outstanding performance were repaid with resentment, lack of advancement, crappy assignments, being set up as a scapegoat for a botched raid, and being framed for a serious crime and kicked out of the service. You are aware of this but do not retain the memory of actually experiencing it for seven years as the 'other you' has. You are a warrior, Clarice, and I would not want you to be any other way. But you may decide, some day, that it is foolish to waste your courage by doing battle for those unappreciative of your worth. The 'other you,' who you were during the hidden years, had already made that decision."

Dr. Lecter placed his hands on Clarice's shoulders. "I will be going back into hiding again," he said. "My current identity is due for a change."

"Could you at least tell me why I was driving away from you when I had my accident?"

"Not driving away," he said, "We were driving separately to the same destination. It was safer for us to be apart for the first leg of our journey." He stared deeply into my eyes and his eyes seemed to crackle. "We may never meet again, little Starling," he said, but if you ever feel the need to get in touch with me for any reason, just place an ad on any Sunday in the agony column of the national edition of the Times, the International Herald Tribune, and the China Mail. Address it to A. A. Aaron, and sign it Birdie.

He kissed me again, stared at me for a long moment, as if memorizing my features; then left as silently as he had arrived. For a moment I thought of calling him back, but the moment passed and I remained silent. I wondered if I had made the biggest mistake of my life.





Epilogue


Nearly a year later an ad appeared in the agony column of the Sunday edition of the Times, the International Herald Tribune, and the China Mail:

A. A. Aaron:
I remember all now. I have Chateau d'Yquem ready to be served the way you like it. Come and get it.
Birdie