With a sigh,
Starling sat back. The letter and
envelope fell from her grasp, and she chucked slightly, without humor, when the
enclosed paperwork and identification badges for Hannah Fell scattered on the
floor. Obsessively prepared…did he
never forget anything?
And the envelope
looked so thin, too.
Not bothering to retrieve anything, she
closed her eyes, possessed and conflicted. What now? Behind her, the fire
crackled mockingly, scolding her that instant for withdrawing her hand, for
allowing herself such knowledge, despite how appreciated it was. Too deeply involved, too much to turn
away. Now presented with unwanted decisions,
decisions she thought she had made, perhaps prematurely.
There was still
time. She could burn his instructions
and try very hard to forget she knew where he was, what he entrusted her with.
That thought was
laughable. Though she was in no way as
skilled as he at instant memorization, Frankfurt, Germany was not a city title
to easily forget. Furthermore,
something within her forbade her to forget. She was drawn, completely and wholly drawn. Just as she could not cast the letter into the fire, despite all
reasoning and rationality, she would live knowing where he was, where she, even
now, wished to be.
Why was she
here, anyway? What plausible reasoning
had she in returning to the motherland of her problems, of her turmoil? At the time, it seemed logical. Starling wished for a minute she could see
herself when she made decisions, if only to forewarn the shadow of her being
how her mind would inevitably change. How it always changed.
After all, she
was only in his company for three days, and still managed to lose all of
herself. Lose…and find.
What still
amazed her was that *he* knew. Starling
was no fool and discerned she wasn't entirely predictable, but through whatever
twist of faith or nature, he knew the way her mind worked, just as he knew she
would see the agent in the mirror again. There were some areas she would always manage to surprise him in, and
wasn't *that* a liberating thought? But
not here, not when it came to her ethical-bent thought process. He knew she wouldn't open the envelope until
she was home, until she saw without his influence.
No, even that
was inaccurate. She saw everything as
he would, the dry shamble of the life she had on a silver platter. Without seeing it, coming to any form of a
decision would be premature and in vain. He was right; she *would* have grown to resent him, never knowing the
price of her liberation had the potential of endangering them both.
But was it what
she *really* wanted?
All right, Agent
Starling, let's weigh your options. What exactly do you have going for you here?
Let's see. There was always the Bureau, the land of
seemingly endless opportunity. Where she gradually realized no matter how much
she screwed up, there was always some department that wanted her, even if it
was as lowly as the janitorial staff. If she were ever released, it would be by accordance of her own
decision.
There was always
Hannibal Lecter to chase. As long as he
was free, Starling knew she was guaranteed a job, even if she never found
herself reassigned to the case. People
felt she was easier to approach than the only other inside expert, a retired
drunk who now resided in Florida.
Okay. A life at the Bureau. That medal Dr. Lecter mentioned. Her morals and ethics, already betrayed,
perhaps, with her sinful actions while under foreign influence. It was always possible to grasp so much of
what was herself and forget the time she spent in China. However, she recognized that while putting
it out of her head was simple – forgetting it altogether was a whole separate
issue.
Forget the
happiest time she could remember, however brief it was?
Was it worth
it? Worth keeping all those tedious
morals for the sacrifice of something she was assured to give her peace?
Peace…
Suddenly, that
world didn't seem so inapplicable. She
had found peace, tranquility in those few hours with him. Even if she never saw him again, Starling
knew she would spend her life trying to find a shimmer of the happiness she had
there. It was taunting and unavoidable. Something she found herself throwing away.
Why? Why should she deny herself what she
wanted when the key to such blissful escape was literally at her
fingertips? Because of *what* he was,
or *who* she tried to be?
Judge him based
on headlines? Was that what she reduced
herself to?
What about all
those things nobody knew? The part of
him that was all Hannibal Lecter? Despite the fierceness and the cold brutality, there was kindness and
compassion, understanding and sympathy. Yes, he valued destruction and chaos, but he also respected independent
views that were uninfluenced by modern society. While he disagreed with many of her consensual insights, he
admired her right to have them. And
despite that, they really were alike. How many people had he killed without justification in his own judgment
system? None, for one reason or
another. The same way she refused to
kill unless provoked, unless it became essential.
So they had a
collusion of values. While hers were
flexible, he had none to immediately identify.
Why was this
suddenly an issue?
She knew that
already. Because when she thought of
him, her will to fight the inner voice that steadily grew louder and louder
began to break.
Okay,
Starling…ask yourself this question. Do
you want to stay here? Be here? Act as their loyal servant for the rest of
your life?
Starling shook
her head, not wanting to answer.
Well?
Of course
not! How could she stay here when she
belonged on the other side of the globe? When she was screaming for escape but had not the courage to initiate
it? A burning pain arose in her chest,
and for a searing minute, she was angry. Why her? Why, out of all the
agents in the world, all the people to choose from, why was *she* the one
stupid enough to…
No!
Damn him! Damn him for taking her! Damn him for making
everything clear! Damn him for elaborating sense into her otherwise
irreversibly screwed up life! Damn him
for caring! Damn him for understanding! Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!
Damn him for
making her…
Don't say it…
For making her…
Don't even think
it…
For making her
fall in love with him.
A strangled cry
arose from the back of her throat as Starling jumped to her feet. Hurriedly, she seized the letter and stuffed
it back in the envelope, neatly packing her papers together. Without allowing herself time for thought,
she raced upstairs and grabbed her suitcase, sitting neatly in preparation,
having yet to be unpacked from her return.
In her urgency,
she nearly knocked herself over with the clumsy banging of the luggage against
her side. A fall down the stairs would
do her little good now, and she forced herself to take it down a notch.
Things happened
in a fury of motion. Starling seized
the phone and made a few quick calls. One to Pearsall's office, stating she was taking a small vacation but
refrained from stating where, excusing the ambiguity with a simple: "I just
want to get away…completely away. No
interruptions."
Ironically, that
was the truth.
The second phone
call was to the Norfolk Airport to secure
all arrangements. As Dr. Lecter
indicated, there was indeed a departing flight to New York scheduled for the
next day. One of four, as he
mentioned. This was the third – the
fourth to leave in three days. After
that, there was nothing for two weeks.
What a break.
Shutting her luggage into the trunk of her Mustang,
wondering briefly why she bothered taking it out, as if she anticipated this
random change of heart, Starling referred to the letter for final
instruction. What she read discouraged
her, though she knew it was essential. Looking to her car, she cocked her head in wonder. Renting a vehicle was too risky; stealing
one…she refused to consider that. What
else could be done?
Slowly, Starling's eyes landed on Ardelia Mapp's car,
paused, then traveled to the license plates. Her eyes widened considerably, and though she seemed to pause in
thought, her mind was made in an instant.
There was little time for reconsideration. In two minutes, she was crouched over, tool
box at her feet as she pried the plates from either car, making the switches
with frightening speed. The rate she
performed these unspeakable acts should have startled her, but as a law
enforcement – former law enforcement – official, it was merely applying things
she had seen occur a million and a half times to herself. Putting her knowledge of the criminal
mastermind to work at long last.
Perhaps it would have been disconcerting if she
stopped to think about it, if there were any lingering doubts in her mind. However, knowing it was Mapp's car eased her
spirit. Had it been a stranger, she
might struggle. That damnable sense
from right and wrong again. And while
it was predictable and by no means untraceable, it still bought her time.
Time was all she needed right now.
The last thing she did before leaving the place she
knew as home, the physical location of her so-called residence, was
double-check to make sure everything required for a flight out of the country
was in order, just in case the identification papers failed her. Once satisfied, Starling dove into her car
and pulled away.
Surprisingly, the significance of driving from the
life she knew failed to shake her as leaving the place she originally arrived
at as a hostage had. The feeling of
intense, unbridled relief that washed over her was much appreciated, but she knew
there would always be apart of her that wished to return to Beijing, to that
house.
Perhaps they would someday.
*They*…someday.
She grinned.
Crossing the Potomac, Starling didn't bother in
looking back at the city to which she dedicated so much, and lost even
more. Washington would always be with
her, inside her, as would a special place in the Bureau. But this wasn't a grieved departure. This was escape.
Escape. What a
beautiful word.
* * *
It wasn't until she was on the plane from New York
that Starling allowed herself to relax. At every turn, every glance from a stranger, she was sure she was being
followed, pursued, watched. Leaving DC
seemed so simplistic, as though everything should suddenly reek of complexity,
now that she willingly made a criminal of herself.
When she realized no one would be doubt her innocence
unless she acted the part, she understood finally why it was difficult to find
fugitives of the law. If they didn't
portray a façade of guilt, no one would suspect them, readily anyway. There was always that person who would find
someone familiar, but that was over a steady period of time. True illicit masterminds never allowed
themselves that close, unless assured of their disguise. Nearly laughing at her
assumptions, Starling settled, politely rejecting the beverage offers from the
attendants.
The night before was spent in her car. She supposed it was the last time she would
see her automobile and decided to make the most of it, however crude. As it was, she could hardly afford to waste
money now, even if it was for a Motel 6. Her Mustang now sat in a residential neighborhood comfortably close to
the airport. While the walk was strenuous,
it was merely a matter of steps. After
the running she did, it hardly registered.
By this time, she had the words Dr. Lecter wrote her
memorized, verbatim, though that hardly occurred to her as she withdrew the
letter again and read. Each time, it
left her with a feeling of reassurance, of growing faith.
Of release.
Regret, for what it was, failed to make an
appearance. She bid all prior ties a
discreet farewell, and doubted lament would be apart of her future. Not when there was so much more to look
forward to, to experience, to live.
She wondered if he expected her, though the letter
said he knew not to predict.
Back to that part of him she could always
surprise. Starling smiled at the
thought, knowing the taste would never grow old in her mouth.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Starling leaned into
the seat. She took these moments of
reflection to ask herself why it took Dr. Lecter's letter to restore confidence
in her prior conviction. To make her
see what was plainly there, waiting for her.
She had her theories, but the real reasons were
effortless to see. Just because she
knew what had awaited her in Washington didn't mean she *realized* it. It was important to see, even if it was a
small glance, of what her life would be like. These past hours were the longest she had ever endured, all for the lack
of meaning, for the denial of what she wanted, all for she thought ill of
herself for admitting it.
He was right, of course, that was no surprise. The need for her to see was as important as
her acknowledgement of freedom.
She saw. After
ten years of accusing the others in Bureau to judge her without looking, she
finally knew she had looked without seeing. And now that she saw, the path was clear. There. Before her. Waiting to be claimed.
Hers.
Now all she had to do was wait. After a decade of slow torture, it was the
simplest thing anyone could ask.
* * *