Time, however, would not stand still

Time, however, would not stand still.

At first, the rumors surrounding Dr. Fell went ignored, unacknowledged, as Crawford had long discarded the need to listen to allegations.  Over the past few weeks, he came to understand the falsity behind the stories.  There was Fell the Man and Fell the Myth; never did these two coincide to sprout truth behind legend.

However, there were more reliable leads.  As the doctor's name emerged from the shadows, the constant whispers ceased and tales were commonplace.  It wasn't until it reached the desk of the New York Times that a reporter decided to investigate the Man behind the Myth. 

After a few days of quiet research, the name Hannibal Lecter floated into conspiracy, though no one knew why.  More digging would revive the fugitive's record for the limelight, though over years information had become more difficult to uncover.  The nonexistent news on Lecter, and the ambiguousness of his whereabouts, left the public to draw their own conclusions.  Many speculated he had lost himself in a European city following his escape. Others thought he might be dead, another suicide in the pathway some serial killers tended to follow.  Whatever the case was, no news of the murderer had submerged in five years, and incidentally, interest of the people had dissipated. 

As a cardinal of the Behavioral Science, Crawford could remember the fluster the Bureau caused for a few months.  Though he was never directly assigned to the case, he recalled his morbid interest that likewise debauched once other cases flooded the department.  People lost interest in Lecter as more interesting and tangible specimen hoarded the headlines.  In many ways, he seemed like a fictional aspect of society, something that wasn't *really* there.  Another monster conjured up by the Halloween Candy Companies.

They had Buffalo Bill slain, Ted Kazynski in prison, and Timothy McVeigh recently executed.  The monsters of their day.  Those that seemed too inhumane to be alive, to have existed, yet the public had proof.

Lecter was gone, and there was no so-called proof to suggest the man had ever breathed.  His records, his belongings, his practice: destroyed.  There was evidence to support a theory he was educated in Oxford, but no degree or history to sustain truth.  What was known of the man was limited.  He was once a notorious psychiatrist in Baltimore, rich both in money and intellect.  It simply wasn't a party unless Dr. Lecter was invited.  Then, slowly, a series of disappearances started to play connect the dots, and all arrows pointed to him. 

No one believed it.  How could they? 

This was around the time Buffalo Bill started kidnapping young girls and skinning them.  Clarice Starling, a young trainee under cousin Jack's direction, was sent on a number of errands, second-handedly concerning the case.  After a time, it was decided that the disappearances linked to Lecter were not simultaneously one in the same with Bill's history, but likewise that the doctor himself was behind it.  Sufficient evidence was produced and a warrant signed out for his arrest.  Lecter was only in custody for a few hours before he made his escape, taking the lives of several policemen in the process.  The window of time left for shock and outrage was what he used to destroy everything connected to his name, make withdraws, and flee the country.  Five years later, he was no longer a household name.  People simply forgot there was ever such a man, and would just as soon dismiss the actions as something they viewed on television rather than actuality.

Suddenly, this was news again, being whispered in town but never making the headlines.  On Crawford's outings, he picked up a bit here and there yet thought nothing of it.  In the immediacy after Lecter's escape, the FBI received a number of pranks and false alarms, thus he was long accustomed to forgetting rumors on the streets.

Two weeks had passed since Crawford reunited Fell and Clarice, and he had not seen much of his neighbor.  There was the occasional wave across the lawn if they should be collecting their newspaper at the same time, a friendly smile as either took an evening stroll.  Nights were quiet, though it looked as though Dr. Fell was organizing another party. 

Krendler came over one day to take Crawford to town for lunch, and most likely a second look at his mistress.  Incidentally, the same day, Crawford received mail that was addressed to his neighbor and asked if it would be too much of an inconvenience if they dropped it off before their outing.

Fell was sitting on his porch, enjoying some fine wine, his eyes cast distantly over the bay when the two approached.  He smiled broadly to see Crawford.

"Good day," came the conversational, cheery greeting.

"Hello, Dr. Fell.  I'm afraid the mailman mistook my house for yours, though I can hardly see how." 

"You haven't dropped by in a while, Jack," Fell replied, dropping the previously over-used formality without a blink, as though he had called him that since meeting.  "For that, I say we send the postal service a thank you note."  Then, without waiting his reply, he turned to Krendler and nodded politely.  "I believe we have met somewhere before."

Clarice's husband blinked stupidly, obviously not remembering; yet dreaming up a false recollection to speed the process of pleasantries and get on the road.  "Yes.  So we did.  I remember very well."

"Approximately three weeks ago, I believe."

"That's right.  You were with Jack, here."

"I know your wife," Fell announced, perhaps slightly aggressive, his eyes not flickering in the hint of conspiracy. 

"That so?"

Crawford recognized something on Krendler's voice and didn't like it.  Masterfully, he swooped in to save them all an awkward moment.  "We'll all come to your next party, Dr. Fell," he offered.  "What do you say?"

"Certainly; I'd be delighted to have you."

Fidgeting uncomfortably, Krendler wedged his hands into his pockets, motioning with his head to the car parked in the drive.  "Well—think we oughta start to town."

"Please don't hurry," Dr. Fell urged softly.  Wantonly, Crawford observed that while the doctor was in perfect control, he wanted to see more of Krendler.  See what sort of man Clarice had married. 

"Sorry," Krendler retorted shortly.  "I have some business to tend to in the city that simply won't wait.  Maybe next time."

Then he and Crawford were walking away in a hurry.  Fell reclaimed his seat and his wine, returning to the solely pleasurable activity of studying Clarice's house across the bay, though it was debatable whether or not she was currently there, or inside his own abode.

"I wonder where in the devil he met Clarice," Krendler said gruffly as they edged into the car.  "He said it smugly too, did you catch that?  Goddamn, that makes my head spin."

Crawford bit his tongue and decided to refrain comment on other notable indiscretions.  It would do little more than cause additional trouble.  Instead, he pulled out of Fell's drive, and they rode to the city in silence.

*          *            *

It never rained on the night of a Fell Party, as though the gods demanded everyone be in good spirits.  The affair always started with a few people attracted by the lights, followed by a few more, until the whole place was crawling with seeming-to-be tourists.  Never did they come in herds. 

Crawford hadn't anticipated Krendler's attendance, but the man was evidently disturbed by the idea of Clarice running around alone.  That Friday, he invited himself to tag along.  They arrived fashionably late, and it was Mapp who pointed them out. 

There was unpleasantness in the air, sudden brutality that hadn't been there before.  Crawford pondered if it was because he had grown accustomed to this, to the life the summer introduced him to.  The sneaking, the trickery, the lies.  While his conscience paid no mind to the alleged wrong he committed in reacquainting two old flames, he likewise didn't want to lose all morality for the sake of time.  West Egg, he came to understand, was a world on its own, built by its sole standards and figures.

When he looked at it through Clarice's eyes, he reflected sadness and respite.  There were things here that could have been hers, that should rightfully be hers. 

"Parties have never really been my scene," she told him after the usual greetings were exchanged.  The look on her face suggested otherwise.  All her features were alight, and she positively glowed with profound radiance.  Life had breathed into her once more, and that which he couldn't place before came to a remarkable conclusion.

As soon as her eyes met with Fell's, Crawford knew his time for the evening was over.  Krendler was chatting idly with Mapp, but he caught the forlorn longing in his wife's eyes, and darkness befouled him. 

Like any gentleman, the doctor kept his distance, though the crowd seemed entirely surprised to see him lingering among them.  Crawford caught his eyes flickering in her direction every few seconds while he asked if his guests were having a good time.  A half hour distracting himself from the center of his focal point proved in vain, and Fell finally succumbed to temptation and approached.

"Glad you could make it, Mr. Krendler," he greeted with terrific casualness, avoiding the temptation to look at Clarice, given their proximity, without a blink.  "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Sure.  Thanks, Dr. Fell."

Then he looked to her and held her eyes.  "Good evening, Clarice," he said softly.

"Hello, Dr. Fell."

They watched each other for a moment as though daring the other for dialogue.  When he spoke again, his eyes didn't avert from hers, and her husband flustered in affect.  "Do you mind if I escort your wife to the dance floor, Mr. Krendler?" 

"Actually, I—"

"I'd love to," Clarice intervened, and there was no further discussion.

And then they were gone, lost in the crowd, focused only on each other.  Swirling, tumbling into oblivion where they had to live only for the pleasure they found in the other's eyes.  Dr. Fell was a wonderful dancer.  He seemed to command the attention and space from all his attendants.

Krendler scoffed and turned to Crawford hotly.  "Who is this Fell anyhow?  Some drug dealer?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I didn't hear it.  I thought it up.  A lot of these newly rich people are just drug-dealers."  Krendler shook his head in artificial disgust.  It was clear the man's profession was not what bothered him, nor was the idea of where his money might have come from.

"Not Dr. Fell," Crawford amended, perhaps too defensive. 

There was silence for a minute. 

"Well," he continued, "he certainly must have put himself out to get this shindig together."  Another beat of silence, then another, and another, until Krendler muttered, barely audible, "I'd like to know who he is and what he does.  And I think I'll make a point of finding out."

Crawford blinked and looked at him, shrugged simply when the look was returned, and averted his attention to the vision of Dr. Fell sweeping Clarice across the floor.  They were visibly oblivious to the other dancers, focused only on each other.  

Krendler noticed this, too, and he scowled his rage.

Then, before either of them looked twice, Fell and Clarice were gone, and no one saw them for two or three hours.

The party was in the process of dying before Clarice surfaced, looking flushed and her eyes dancing with excitement.  Crawford was relieved to see no one at her side for he feared Krendler might lose his sensibility and provoke things to become problematic.  This was no place to cause a scene.

Forcefully, Krendler grasped her wrist.  "Where have you been?" he hissed.

"Arthur was showing me the gardens," she replied, arching a brow.  "He has the most *magnificent* gardens!  Would you like to see them before we leave?"

"The gardens?!" he erupted, shrilling voice piercing the sound of the music in the distance, coaxing a few nosy heads to turn in their direction.  "You were with a stranger for three hours in the gardens?!"

"Not just the gardens," Clarice corrected, looking to Crawford instead.  Her eyes reflected passive indifference, and it was clear she didn't care what Krendler speculated had occurred in her absence.  Instead, she searched for a pleasant conversation, her façade carrying that of a good Sunday School girl.  "There were a few of us.  Ardelia, too.  He took us on a tour of his house."

As if her name was the magic word, there appeared Mapp, also looking slightly flushed, her hair tasseled.  "What a party!" she exclaimed, staggering a bit in her walk.  "It's true, Paul.  Take a chill pill.  Clarice and I…and some others I don't know, went on a small tour of the grounds.  He has a great place, don't you think?" 

"Yes.  Wonderful," Krendler growled, his grip on Clarice's wrist tightening.  "Let's go."

"Goodnight, Jack!" Clarice chirped pleasantly as she was dragged to the drive.  "Tell Dr. Fell thanks for a lovely evening!  Bye, Ardelia!"

Crawford watched the blunt anger in Krendler's eyes and twitched his discomfort.  It wasn't until they pulled away and were out of sight that he felt it safe to address Mapp. 

"Did you really tour with them?" he asked sharply.

"Of course not.  I shacked it up with Senator Reynolds, or so he said he was Senator Reynolds.  Isn't that guy supposed to be married?  Anyway, no," Mapp excused, taking a sip of wine that seemed to appear in her hand.  "No, but I told Clarice I'd act as her alibi.  She and Fell wanted to be alone."

Nodding, Crawford looked up, his eyes catching the doctor himself, trotting down the marble stairs and doing his part as host to bid the guests farewell.  Taking a breath, he glanced back to Mapp, voice hushed with the unspoken question.  However, he felt compelled to ask, simply to get an idea of what sort of gossip to expect in the future.  "Is she going to leave Paul?"

"She should."

"But *will* she?"

With a sigh, Mapp shrugged helplessly, taking another sip of her drink.  "I don't know.  She owes it to herself to."

Crawford nodded his agreement, eyes catching Dr. Fell once more.  Their exchanged looks registered that he was asked to stay a few minutes after the party dwindled and everyone was safely on their way home.  Unsurprisingly, whatever had passed between the doctor and Clarice this evening rendered him unchanged.  Still the epitome of elegance, the face of preparation and good taste. 

"Were they really in the garden?" he heard himself ask, barely aware he spoke.

"Yeah, I think so," Mapp replied, her tone similarly losing interest with this topic.  "They were for a long time, anyway.  Talking.  Always talking."  She paused for breath, taking a final drink of her wine before placing her empty class on a nearby table.  "I think I'm going to go try to catch a ride home, Jack.  No, no, that's all right.  I want to see if anyone's willing to drive me.  Besides, it's rather inconvenient for you.  Right next door and all.  See you later." 

And then she was gone.  Crawford watched as she lost herself in the crowd before turning to join Dr. Fell.

It took another hour or so before the last guest took leave, marking another notoriously successful ending to a Fell Party.  Still, the skies refused to open and produce rain.  That would be saved for tomorrow.

Dr. Fell enjoyed a glass of Amarone and placed it aside once Crawford declined.  They took a stroll through the vacated gardens, admiring the variety of vivacious plant life, and pleasantly discussing the turnabout of the party before the doctor's usually quiet and under spoken voice announced with firm conviction, "She didn't like it."

"Of course she did."

"She didn't like it," he insisted.  "She didn't have a good time." Fell enjoyed his drink before turning in the direction of East Egg, unable to see, of course, her green light, but knowing that it waited beyond the trees.  "I feel far from her.  She's stubborn, you know.  Delightfully so, but it also wears on my nerves.  Attempting to make such a fiery spirit understand is trying on my patience and nerves, especially now.  Now that she's here."

"You mean, about the dance?"

"The dance?" Fell echoed, a hint of amusement on his voice as his body rippled with short chuckles.  With the snap of a finger, he dismissed the dance and all preceding it.  "My dear Jack, the dance is unimportant."

"I wouldn't ask too much of her," Crawford ventured carefully, waiting for his eyes before continuing.  "You can't repeat the past."

Dr. Fell stared at him as though he had suggested aliens had abducted the Queen of England.  "Can't repeat the past?" he repeated softly.  Then, with more fierceness, his jaw tightened, though not in anger.  "Of *course* you can."

And that opened the window of discussion, debate, and questioning.  Dr. Fell told him much of the past, of the past he wished to repeat.  There was much missing; much he failed to reduce into words and simplicity.  Only of his history with Clarice, and what he wished would occur now.  Rule of disorder and the time of disrupted function.  Teacups smashed to the ground that could mystically reattach and form once more on a stand, ignobly, as though the collusion never took place.

Crawford wondered if this was some of Fell's problem.  A life was in threat of being rearranged and placed to someone else's liking.  The teacup he spoke of might very well be shattered with no hope of ever piecing together.

*          *            *

When she arrived the next day, Clarice parked in Crawford's drive.  This was agreed upon by all parties in the event of Krendler's suspicion, while she never told him exactly where she was going, he would wind up here sooner or later.  However, no one thought he would storm out in fury to find her.  As it was, he was hardly home.

Clarice made the journey across lawns as Crawford had so many times and smiled to see Dr. Fell waiting for her on the porch.  A paper was in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, though both seemed to lose his interest once he saw her.

They stood apart for long seconds.

"Was it very difficult for you to get away?" Fell asked finally, glancing downward to his coffee.

"No.  Paul went to town today."

"Ah."  When he looked back up, his eyes captured hers in a familiar gaze, one he didn't defer for anything.  "I'm glad you came," he announced simply.

"I'm glad, too."

"We have much to discuss."

"Yes."

"Do you care to come inside?  Perhaps some coffee?"

Clarice exerted a breath, itching to look away, but finding she was incapable of doing so.  The power of his maroon pupils was not disconcerting; she had long grown used to it.  "Thank you.  That would be nice."

Inside, tension did not dismount.  They sat in silence for a few seconds in one of the parlors, drinking coffee and listening to the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. 

            When Fell decided to talk, his question was blunt and to the point, eyes imploring hers, demanding her honesty.  With precise slowness, he set his cup on the coffee table, leaned forward and clasped his hands in his lap.  The poise he reflected was the genuine depiction of a psychiatrist, hungry for an answer.  "Why did you marry him?" he asked as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

As forward as it seemed to be, Clarice knew from experience to expect no less.  However, this did not ease her nerves, and her coffee cup rattled in her hand at the impact.  It joined his on the table, and she refused to allow their eye contact to break.  Often, in the before, they spoke with their eyes when conflicting emotions became too powerful to sort with words, to express in faith that the correct message was portrayed.  "I married him because you weren't here," she replied, marveling at the calm, levelness of her tone.  "I married him because I thought I was never going to see you again."

"I told you I would come back."

Clarice's expression tightened.  "So you did.  There were other things."

"What other things?"

"You're a cannibal, for one thing."

At that, Dr. Fell's mouth drew into a taut smile.  "Ah, yes.  That minor complication.  Surely you have noticed the lack of cannibalistic claims in the headlines?  I have politely refrained from adding any names to my tally."

"That doesn't change anything."

"Oh?"

"I didn't know who you were!" she hissed, leaning forward, eyes ablaze.  "You…let me believe…"

"Pish posh, Clarice.  That's foolish and wrong." Dr. Fell seemed to darken as he leaned forward as well, teeth snarling a bit.  "You knew *exactly* who I was, and that was what scared you, wasn't it?  Knowing there was something more to those headlines you became so familiar with."

"What was I supposed to do?  The world called you a monster!  Inhumane!" Clarice jumped to her feet, though she still refused to waver her gaze.  "You confused me.  I was supposed to understand everything.  That's the reason they put me on that damn case!  Because they had the audacity to think I could relate, that I could cope."  She crossed her arms.  "And then you came along with your fancy riddles and word games.  You helped me, yes…but you were living a lie.  You were someone completely different than…"

But she stopped speaking, watching in a shimmer of fear as Dr. Fell rose to his feet.  There wasn't anger in his eyes, and that terrified her.  The passiveness he carried was more deceptive than outrage, sneakier than respite. 

"Did you ever stop to consider…" he mused after a minute, voice betraying nothing, "that you knew me too well?  It didn't surprise you at all, did it?  My arrest.  My incarceration.  My escape.  What *did* surprise you was your inability to feel horror, to shudder in the repulse my name was supposed to bring.  They did not have me long, Clarice.  Understand, I could not have come back for you as quickly as I wanted to.  I needed time.  Time to relocate and allow the rumors die."  Fell exerted a breath.  "Which is why I sent you the letter.  So you would know me when I called on you.  Because you understand me, even after what transpired.  Because I know *you*, Clarice Starling.  I know you as well as you know me."

When he said her name, her maiden name, the name she carried still, even in the so-called bonds of matrimony, she smiled widely.  Then, as quickly as it was provoked, she banished her pleasure from her face and forced herself to break eye contact.  With a sigh, she turned to face the wall, shaking her head.  "What do you want?" Clarice asked softly, the hint of evasion vanished from her tone.  "Honestly, Hannibal Lecter, what do you want from me?"

In her mind, she watched as the doctor's eyes widened at her use of his name.  His real name.  She suspected he hadn't heard it muttered in a long time, much less in blatant observation of his true identity.  Nevertheless, there was little time to savor the image.  The next thing she knew she was pinned against the wall and he was holding her immotile by her arms.  Breath hot on her face, it took every ounce of herself not to swoon.  Simply the intensity of his eyes excited her.

"What do I want from you?" he growled, grip on her arms tightening slightly.  "I want an answer.  Why?  Why did you marry Paul Krendler?  Why didn't you wait, as I asked, for my return?"

"Let me go!"

"Tell me, Clarice."  It was a demand, though a quiet one.  And it broke her.

His face carried no reaction as she burst into tears, fighting the temptation to forfeit all strength and fall into his arms.  Through blurry eyes, she regarded his composure with mixed honor and bitterness.  "Because," she choked, "because FBI agents aren't supposed to fall in love with fugitives.  Haven't you heard?  FBI agents aren't supposed to fall in love with fugitives!"

One of her arms was released, the grip on the other tightened and she felt his thumb tracing water from her face.  When she could see again, she felt a pain at the lackluster sadness in his expression.  "So you ran to Paul Krendler?" he asked.  "You ran to him for consolation of the monster I am?"

"No!" Clarice cried defiantly.  "No…I went to Paul because I hated him.  Because I still hate him.  I didn't want to be pursued, and I didn't want to forget you.  Haven't you heard that I sleep in a room down the hall from him with a gun under my pillow?"

At that, Fell cracked a brief smile, and finally he released her.  "That's my girl."

They stood that way for a minute, regrouping breath and control.  Clarice's tears dried and she leaned wearily against the wall.  Though tiring, having this conversation with him in reality was refreshing.  After five years of dueling in her mind, she reveled in the real thing. 

Then his hand was at her face again, caressing in familiar appreciation.  "What about now, Clarice?  Do you still shun me, or do you see that I am the same person now that I was then?  The very same man you say you fell in love with?"

"You're still a killer," she said hesitantly.

"I haven't killed in quite a while, but yes.  It is a practice I have not excluded from probability."  He breathed slowly.  "I will not lie to you to get what I want, but you would not be here if you thought I was a monster."

With a growl that flustered in the back of her throat, Clarice threw her head back.  "All right!" she surrendered.  "I don't think you're a monster.  Did you really need me to say that?"

"Yes," he replied.  "Because you're here.  I've waited a long time to have you here.  I need to know this is where you want to be.  That whatever occurred in the past *is* in the past.  Tell me, Clarice…do you want to leave now?  Our closure has been made, I'd say.  Do you want to return to your empty house as your dear husband runs after various skirts in town, making sure he is not denied what you refuse to give him?"  He moved closer still, arms outstretched to either side of the wall, securing her there.  "Or do you want to stay?  Here?  Alone in a very large house with a very dangerous man.  Is that what you want, Clarrriiiiccceee?"

Furiously, she shook her head, knowing her answer would seal her fate.  "I can't!"

"Tell me."

"I can't…"

"Clarice…" His voice was low and vibrant in warning. 

"Fine!" she cried at last.  "I want to stay.  Here.  Always.  I never want to go back."  Despite her revelation, her eyes were on fire, and she burned into him.  "Is *that* what you wanted to hear, you arrogant prick?"

And then there was nothing but his satisfied smile as his hands leapt from the wall and grasped her his, pulling her sharply to him.  "Precisely," he growled as he devoured her mouth with his. 

There was no reason to fight, no use for it.  Clarice felt something primal arise within her, and she could do nothing but yield to her innermost instincts. Their verbal battle extended to their lips, groans of half-hearted completion escaping their throats at the unity, even such as this, simply being together purchased.  After a few sweet minutes, his arms were around her, his mouth hungrily exploring her neck, her brow, her shoulder, even through the layers of clothing.  It seemed there weren't enough places on her body for his lips to find, though she hardly noticed. 

"Tell me something, Clarice," he whispered, tugging on her ear with his teeth.  "Did Paul Krendler carry you over the threshold on your honeymoon?"

"My honeymoon was spent in Vegas.  I was at another hotel.  I snuck out as he was losing money at the slot machines."

"My poor darling," he chuckled.  "What horrid place, but oddly expectant of Paul.  Do you think it would be tactless to carry you over the threshold now?"  But there was no room for reply.  Before she could find her voice, Clarice found herself in his arms.  He kissed her again, but briefly, and then they were moving.  Out of the room.  Out of the room, and toward the staircase.

"Well since you asked so nicely," she kidded. 

An appreciative chortle was her response.  Once in the secluded darkness of his upper chamber, Clarice was thrown in a bouncing motion to the bed, and devoured in a sea of warmth and flesh and motion.

*          *            *

It was when curiosity about Fell was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night.  Perhaps a week or so after his last party, and no one had seen him.  As though the name he built himself on was dying, and the physical form was melting into something that lurked in shadows.  Word spread that he had fired all his servants and hired a new crew, though no on stated why. Out of neighborly kindness, Crawford went to investigate the new mystery. 

The doctor was standing on the edge of his lawn, and his eyes were clouded with something unfamiliar.  Still, he watched Clarice's dock with persistence.  Crawford allowed himself to wonder if Fell would insist to study the green light even if he and Clarice married.  It seemed probable. 

Without looking to him, Dr. Fell nodded his acknowledgement.  "Good evening, old sport."

"Hello, Doctor.  I hear you canned your servants."  The need for preamble was lost.  Fell was forward with him, and it seemed only courteous to return the favor.

The answer came without wry looks at presumptions.  Instead, the doctor nodded.  "I wanted people who won't gossip," he explained softly.  "Clarice comes over quite often in the afternoons."

That made sense.  Crawford nodded his understanding, eyes following his own as they landed across the bay.  "The rumors some people spread these days are surprising.  I've heard several about you."

"Yes, I know," Fell replied, then he looked interested.  "What do they say?"

Instantly, a million things jumped to mind, a million things he could report.  Crawford had an inkling that Fell knew everything that was said about him, that he was merely curious to observe how close it breeched to the truth.  "It's not important," he dismissed.

"I think it is.  To you, Jack.  You've heard these rumors for the better part of the summer, and yet you neglect to report them to me.  Do you fear finding yourself?"  With a sigh, he shrugged.  "I suppose it's for the best.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'll be retiring for the evening."  Then, as an afterthought: "You should come by more often."

Frivolously, Fell turned and began to walk solemnly back to his mansion, and for a minute, Crawford feared he had said something to offend.  There was a voice that scolded him for denying the doctor his answer.  And without merit, he knew the best thing to do was sooth, and leave on a good note.  After all, they had endured much together, plotted, and brought each other to such definitive statures over the summer.

"They say you killed a man," he heard himself blurt.

Dr. Fell froze, his posture perfecting to a standstill.  Then, with precision, he turned back to Crawford, presenting him with the familiar spark in his eyes.  The dancing of maroon pupils.  The gaze that allegedly belonged to the devil.  With a smile, he shrugged simply, and remarked pointedly, "Just one?" 

Then he was gone, walking away, and Crawford stood there in his dumbfound glory, left to sort the reception to the analysis of his own conclusion.

*          *            *