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.
* * *