Despite her
overwhelming fatigue, Starling found terrible difficulty in working herself to
sleep. Lying on her back in the
comfortable pajamas Dr. Lecter set out for her, she studied the decorative
ceiling patterns, unblinking. Her mind
laid traps for her, and though an overwhelming part of her rationalism still
expected to wake and find this a dream, she grumbled with the knowledge that
sleep was undoubtedly easier for her captor.
Sleep. Would he sleep? Knowing that someone who hated him with as much passion as she
did was just down the hallway? Starling
knew the only way for her to escape was to end his life, or wound him severely
enough to deem him harmless. There were
many ways she could do it. Smother him
with a pillow, venture downstairs and steal one of the sharper butchering
knives…then she could find her keys and be on her way. She was within her rights.
But Starling
knew these thoughts were in vain.
Despite everything, everything he put her through and would assuredly
continue to put her through, she could never bring it upon herself to end his
life. That was her weakness, her dominant
flaw as an agent. Never could she see
herself as the enemy. Sure, she could
point her weapon and sputter threats, demands, requests…but she would never
pull the trigger. To do so would be no
different than killing the big-bad bully of a schoolyard. Honestly, what was the distinction? Both had semi-personal relationships with
their acquaintances, both talked others into doing what they want, and both had
an insufferable weakness. Tragic
flaw. The hero's downfall.
Besides, even if
she wanted to kill Dr. Lecter, he would assuredly hear her before any valiant
effort could be made.
The deeper
reasons for her reluctance to bring her fist against his in anger were harder
to explain. Something told her she
preferred not to know, yet already did, on some forbidden level.
If only she had
put up more of a fight! This ugly mess
could have been avoided, and she would never be here, battling the man she
spent most of her career pursuing for freedom.
Freedom? From which? When she did return – if she returned –
could she walk back into that office, knowing what they did to her? In the long run, it was Pearsall's fault she
was here. He hadn't see past Dr.
Lecter's methods anymore than she had.
Instead, he saw a dead man, trimmed for meat, and, like everyone else,
took the bait.
Never had it
crossed through anyone's mind that the killing was just a strategy to get her
here. Dr. Lecter planned everything out
carefully. No cuffs this time, no
morphine. He wanted her to crumple, to
fall into his helpful grasp before more damage could be done. These extremes were necessary to show her
how easily manipulative the Bureau was, what would ultimately happen if she
stayed.
Part one of his
plan complete. Starling noted this,
only partially discouraged. On some
level, she had known before coming.
Thoughts of resignation toyed idly in her mind on her way overseas,
through her speech to the men, at the opera…everything that brought her here.
All right. If he could accomplish that much without
needing to coax, how easily might the rest of his plans submerge?
Starling shook
her head, banishing that thought. With
a breath, she decided it was best to again attempt sleep, these confusing and
angry-worthy notions doing little to assist her current disposition. In her own time, she rolled over, enforcing
a yawn to hopefully tire herself.
She remained
awake long after she closed her eyes, and into the early hours of morning.
* * *
Despite her
weariness, Starling awoke promptly at 9:00 AM.
The time change had already worn its span, and she was successfully set
to the Beijing hour. She took a minute
to stretch, the events of the past twenty-four hours catching up with her. This time, however, she reflected without
surprise or alarm. The initial period of
disbelief was over, left now with anger and curiosity.
Her tortured
thoughts returned in their own time.
When Starling remembered, she paused, back arched in a
half-stretch. Slowly releasing a
breath, she forced herself to relax and put it out of her mind.
Today she had to
focus on what was important. Dr. Lecter
undoubtedly had something extravagant planned; something guaranteed to take her
breath away, in one of his attempts to woo.
As she made her way toward her closet to investigate what he might have
prepared for her, she recognized she had to be prepared to take her leap. Get to a phone if the plans included a trip
to town, and call immediately for help.
Amongst a
variety of evening wear, jeans, and business suits, Starling discovered a comfortable-looking
robe, one long enough to drag along the ground, and large enough to be
thoroughly unprovocative. Satisfied, as
the thought of dressing completely was rather appalling, considering the hour
and her fatigue, she chose it.
Tying he sash around
her waist, Starling hoped he wouldn't see anything into this, but knew not to
hold her breath. Oh well. He chose it for her, knowing she would wear
it sometime, and she wasn't going to concede comfort in avoidance of feeding
him more ideas.
Somehow,
Starling knew she was bound to do that anyway, despite her attire.
Making sure her
pajama bottoms weren't clinging to her legs, she slipped into some house shoes
before finally moving to the door.
The hallway was
vacant; the door to Dr. Lecter's chamber open.
However, without needing visual verification, she concluded it was
likewise empty. Last night he mentioned
the mornings here being beautiful, and knew he would want to savor every minute
of it.
Pleasant smells
drifted through the corridor, and involuntarily, her stomach rumbled. Starling realized she hadn't eaten in
twenty-four hours, having been much too nervous to successfully consume
anything before the opera. Now, even
though the situation seemed hopeless, she thought it safe to try and get some
food in her system.
A shudder raced
up her spine, wondering generally if Dr. Lecter would bother to personalize his
meals with any special touches.
But she had his
promise that this would be an enjoyable meal.
It should have felt odd, placing confidence in the word of a
cannibalistic evil genius, but she barely gave it a second thought.
As she stepped
into the kitchen, she was greeted with a promising whiff of
breakfasty-goodness. She succumbed an
unwilled minute to inhale, taking pleasure in the idea of a home-cooked meal.
It had been a while since she had the time to sit down and prepare herself
anything. Looking back, the last time
she was at a dinner table, she…
Didn't want to
think about that.
Dr. Lecter's
back was to her, but she didn't bother in trying anything that might get her
pushed against a refrigerator. The
thought failed to flicker through her mind.
Though she knew
he was alert to her presence the moment she stepped into the room by the way
his breathing intensified – trying to catch more of her scent over the aroma of
breakfast – he took his time in acknowledging her. Slowly whirling around, giving her the whimsical image of him
washing dishes, he smiled at her, failing to give her attire a second glance.
"Good morning,
Clarice."
Starling drew in
another breath, careful to make her tone as icy as possible. "Hello, Dr. Lecter."
"I trust you
slept well?"
"As well as one
can expect under such conditions."
"Better than
your hotel, at least?"
That question
caught her off guard, though she made a quick recovery. "I admit, your mattresses seem of higher
quality."
He smiled at
that. "I should hope so." Drawing in a breath, he turned his attention
to the set table to his left.
"Breakfast, Clarice?"
"I suppose," she
retorted, moving in the direction of his eyes.
Once seated, she raised her voice again, seemingly in defiance. "Of course, I guess I don't have a choice,
do I?"
A pause. He frowned.
"Hmm…I won't force you to consume anything. If you want to go hungry, by all means…"
Starling had a
witty reply prepared, but her rumbling stomach betrayed her. Taking a sip of his victory, Dr. Lecter
readied a helping of the wonderful-smelling food on a lovely dish and set it in
front of her. Before she could dig in,
or even express the interest of digging in, he moved to pour her milk and fresh
orange juice.
Slowly, Starling
reached for her cloth napkin – another luxury she was unaccustomed to – and
folded it in her lap. "Thank you," she
uttered, speaking as though she wished not to be heard.
"My pleasure,"
he assured her, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. A cup of wonderful-smelling coffee was in
his grasp, but Starling didn't want to ask him for anything. Instead, she turned her attention to her
meal, hesitantly taking the first bite.
Dr. Lecter
studied her reluctance with amusement, sipping his coffee. She was careful not to reflect how tasty it
was, better, admittedly – if only to herself – than any breakfast food, or
food, for that matter, that she could remember eating. However, by the curious way he looked at
her, she reveled in knowing this could be kept hidden. Even from him.
It was nice to
know she had control over *something*.
Still, despite her hunger, she ate slowly, wanting to savor every
bite.
This seemed to
agitate Dr. Lecter, though he refrained from comment.
"What are we
doing today?" she asked finally, taking a sip of her orange juice and finding
it delectable.
"We? You're quick to presume, Clarice."
Starling
shrugged simply. "All right then. What are *you* doing today, if your plans
don't include me?"
Dr. Lecter
indulged her in a short staring contest before grinning. "Well, I originally intended to visit the
local museums, make the best of an awkward location. However, I suspect you ordered have them watched, didn't you?"
At the mention
of museums, Starling's heart leapt with a fleeting inkling of hope. Again the words of her instructions to the
men that accompanied her on this mission came rushing back. "No, I didn't," she lied hastily.
A disapproving
silence settled over them. Dr. Lecter's
gaze was hard as nails, seeing, of course, through her lie without much
effort. He took a long sip of coffee
before deciding to dignify her with a reply.
"Hmm…shame, Clarice, to think you feel the need to resort to
dishonesty. I had no intention, either
way, of changing my plans. There are
certain precautions I can take to be sure our trip will go without hitch. Need further convincing, or must I resort to
handcuffs again?"
The threat did
not go ignored. At the mention of
handcuffs, her arm muscles tightened in a desperate plea to remain
unharnessed. Quickly, she shook her
head, ready to obey.
"What features
will they look for, Clarice? What have
you told them about me?"
"To hell if I
tell you!"
A tired look
spread across Dr. Lecter's face. "Do I
really have threaten you? I might have
to bind your arms, after all."
The color
visibly drained from Starling's face, and she rolled her shoulders again. "I've told them nothing," she amended
quickly. "They have eye color, hair
color, height, weight…they'll probably expect you in Armani, or some other
fancy brand name."
"And yourself?"
Starling blanked
for a minute before realizing what he was aiming at. "Oh…umm…they won't suspect me to be—"
"Of course they
will. You called in reinforcements
after chasing me into that warehouse.
Where else would you be?" Dr.
Lecter's eyes narrowed further. "You're
destined to be recognized wherever we go, Clarice."
Releasing a
defeated sigh, Starling shrugged. "The
same as you, I guess. Eye and hair
color, especially. Things that would at
first disqualify me as the woman they're looking for."
Dr. Lecter
nodded, though she doubted her corroboration on those features was
required. Slowly, she finished her
breakfast, more out of habit. Her
appetite had abandoned her.
After a few
minutes, Dr. Lecter stood. "I'll take
care of the dishes, Clarice. Why don't
you go find something comfortable to slip into? Might I suggest jeans, something loose? You'll remember the car ride was long and strenuous."
Grumbling,
Starling nodded, climbing to her feet.
"I remember," she spat bitterly.
"Thanks for the thought."
The hostility in
her tone went ignored. Dr. Lecter
didn't look at her as she stormed off.
Likewise, the slamming of her bedroom door passed without so much as a
flinch.
* * *
Their day in
town was splendid – or would have been, under different conditions. The
afternoon passed at a leisurely pace.
They stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro before embracing the city.
In truth, there were only two museums Dr. Lecter
expressed any interest in. One was the
Lu Xun, an establishment dedicated to the writings of the author for which it
was named. Xun's pieces dealt with the
sufferings of the Chinese in the post-Qing era. Dr. Lecter took particular interest in the west side of the
grounds, where the author resided from 1924 to 1926.
The second museum was in commemoration of the artistic
works of Xu Beihong, famous for realistic paintings of galloping horses on
canvas. Though Starling hated to admit
it, she found much of the history perversely interesting, like gathering
information she could use to zap others at trivia.
Their disguises were comical. Dr. Lecter wore over-sized blue jeans and a
flannel shirt. His graying scalp was
covered with a whimsical Cubs baseball cap.
Contact lenses tinted his eyes brown, and even then, he hid them behind
large glasses. Starling had to go to
similar extents. Instead of coloring
her hair, or even hiding it with a wig, she conceded finally to stuff it all
under a ball cap. She was likewise
donned in jeans, and a loose white tank top covered her upper body. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes instead of
contacts, and she wasn't permitted to remove them at any stop.
When Dr. Lecter announced it was time to return,
Starling requested a short rest room break before they headed out. Untrustingly, it took a minute (and an
immodest search of the ladies room) before he agreed. He warned he would be waiting outside.
Once provided with privacy, Starling wasted no time in
diving for her purse. A few impatient
seconds passed before she found her query.
Holding it to eyesight, she smiled, a sense of perhaps premature relief
coursing through her. It was lipstick,
virtually unused.
Scrolling the long stem out, Starling hurriedly
applied it to one of the stall walls and began scribbling a frantic message to
whoever might happen to see it.
However, as she neared the end, her own impatience caught up with her,
and the stick broke promptly in two.
Letting out a muffled sob, Starling bent forward to
pick it up and resume, then realized it would leave telltale marks on her
hands, irrefutable evidence that she couldn't possibly wash out.
Defeated, Starling turned her eyes to what was
written.
'HANNIBAL LECTER IN BEIJING. HOUSE ON BEAC…'
With a sigh, she exited the stall and washed her hands
clean of any lipstick residue. Oh
well. Should someone find the message,
there was still hope. She had done all
she could.
Regulating her breathing, she made her way outside to
face him again.
The ride ahead, he assured, would be long and
boring. He suggested she sleep.
* * *
