The need for secrecy seemed to dwindle over the next few days Gateway Normal Gateway 1 1 2001-10-24T03:34:00Z 2001-10-24T03:35:00Z 17 5107 29114 242 58 35754 9.2720

The need for secrecy seemed to dwindle over the next few days.  Since her disclosure, Clarice became open with her affair.  Though she didn't publicize indiscretions, she likewise made no attempt to cover it up.  No longer did she make use of Crawford's driveway.  The impending confrontation with Krendler robbed her of self-awareness.  After all, she had lived for five years knowing of his numerous dealings. 

It failed to strike her as odd that she should have such revelations, even with the strict and morally aligned upbringing she endured.  After she left the Fell Manor a few weeks before, changed in ways she had never fathomed, Clarice allowed herself time to pause and reflect.  Embracing her new decision, the choice she made, she came to the realization within herself that being with Fell – or Dr. Lecter, as she knew him before her wedding – took nothing from her values.  Those values that had betrayed her at every turn, that convinced her to marry a pompous ass like Krendler instead of waiting for the man she knew she loved. 

Clarice understood that evil acts are more susceptible people who have higher morality.  In the perverse order of the universe, she recognized Fell has having more ethics than anyone she knew, even if he didn't realize it himself.  There were deeds of malevolence, of course, those committed for the sole purpose of hurting others.  However, Fell was different.  Never in the duration of any crime had he done something against his principles.

Perhaps Hannibal Lecter's greatest restriction was the denial of his higher beliefs, those that kept him from greater acts of destruction.

The afternoons were blissful.  It was as if there was no life that concerned Paul Krendler, as if a day hadn't passed since they were together.  Long conversations, warm lunches, leisure lovemaking.  Compensated time for so much lost.  Inside the Fell Manor, there was no marriage certificate binding her to another, no false identity to live up to.  There was only Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling.  Dr. Arthur Fell, beside the alias, did not exist.  The name meant nothing to her; therefore she did not use it.

Today, he surprised her. 

Instead of the common, pleasant greeting, Fell answered the door with an expressionless look on his face.  "I want you to leave Paul," he announced without preamble.

Likewise, Clarice failed to miss a beat.  Eyes widening slightly at the blunt request, she collected her poise and returned without hesitation, "In a heartbeat." 

The revelation lent them reason to pause before she stepped in, and he searched her eyes for authenticity.  When he saw that she would, that Paul Krendler would be in their past, and the future left open to him, Fell moved forward swiftly and took her in his arms, hugging her profusely and smothering her face with hot kisses.

When she arrived home that day, Clarice phoned Crawford and told him she was inviting him and Fell to join her for lunch tomorrow.  The implication in her voice hinted toward the admission of the affair and her decision to leave her husband, though she refused to forwardly confess any motive.    

The environment at the luncheon was awkward and warm.  Mapp was present, lounged comfortably next to Crawford.  Krendler sat at one end and Clarice at the other.  Predictably – though fashionably – late, Dr. Fell was the last to enter.  Once he did, his eyes never left his prize, even if she turned to answer an inquiry from Mapp or Crawford. 

And then it appeared as though Fell and Clarice wished to bring the matter to discussion.  They might have had the butler not summoned Krendler to answer the phone.

"That's Paul's girl, I'll bet," Mapp speculated in a whispered hush.

Then they were silent.  The voice in the hall elevated with irritability, disabling any prolonged discussion.  "Fine, then.  I won't sell you the car.  No!  I'm under no obligation to you.  As for you bothering me at lunch, I won't fucking deal with it!"

Clarice leaned forward as though interested, though her view of the hall was obscured by a plant display.  Shrugging, she reclined again and turned to Crawford.  "He's holding down the receiver, I'll bet," she reported with cynicism.


"No, he's not," he disagreed.  "It's a bona-fide deal.  I happen to know about it."

As Krendler slammed the phone on the receiver and moved to rejoin them, Clarice jumped from her seat and cried, "Make us a cold drink, would you?" 

It was as if she asked him to don a pair of fishnets and perform a rendition of 'Sweet Transvestite.'  All became astutely aware that these two hardly conversed, and the term 'matrimony' to describe their relationship was ridiculous on more levels than their obvious lack of a sex-life.  They never lived to ask anything of each other; perhaps they only spoke when company was in the house.  Nevertheless, Krendler nodded, determined to maintain the façade of a dedicated husband, the scorned victim of a poorly received marriage. 

Once he was gone, Clarice locked eyes with Fell again and she moved for him, taking his face in her hands and kissing him.  "You know I love you," she murmured, and smiled as he smiled. 

"You forget there's a lady present," quipped Mapp, arising a laugh from everyone present.  Dutifully, Clarice returned to her seat.  

When Krendler returned, he acted bizarre, issuing drinks and carrying the image of one of Fell's oldest friends.  "Come outside," he suggested.  "I'd like you to have a look at the place."

Everyone followed to the veranda.  There, Clarice's eyes fell to a small boat that sailed across the bay. 

"I'm right across from you," Fell remarked, raising a hand and pointing in the direction of his palace at West Egg.

"So you are." 

Their eyes held and Crawford cleared his throat.  "Who wants to go to town?" he suggested, though attention by all parties was kept steadfast on Clarice and Fell, who were beyond enamored and could do nothing but stare at the other. 

"Ah," she said finally.  "You look so cool."  They were alone in space until she glanced down to her clasped hands.  "You always look so cool."

She had told him that she loved him not five minutes before, and Paul Krendler saw.  Astonishment enveloped his face as his mouth opened a little.  He traded looks from Fell to Clarice, looking at her as though he had just recognized her as someone he knew from long ago.

"All right," he said quietly, as though struggling for control.  "Let's go to town.  Come on—we're all going to town."  Moving for the door, he turned to look back to his wife and the doctor.  No one had moved.  Temper cracked, but only a little.  The fight for it was visible, flashing behind fiery pupils.  "Come on!  What's the hold up?  If we're going to town, let's start."

The five disbanded quickly, eager to break the tension, even if it was destined to accumulate wherever travels ended.  Crawford and Fell eagerly evacuated the house and recollected outside.  Neither commented on the obvious breech in etiquette, though from the curious gaze they traded, the unspoken question of why they were going this far, why Clarice simply hadn't announced the affair, hung heavily over them.

Finally, reveling in their silence, the doctor said in a soft tone, voice aligned with the explanation of dead-ends, "I can't say anything in his house, old sport.  That's his territory, his alleged sanctuary.  Where he lives in the mock of wedded bliss."

There was no need to comment on the wisdom of that decision.  Silence again dominated, and minds wandered to their random happy places.  Then, without thinking, Crawford drew in a breath and observed, barely aware he spoke: "She's got an indiscreet voice.  It's changed since I last chatted with her.  It's full of…" and he hesitated, thumbing for the correct word.

A small, ambiguous smile birthed on Fell's lips, and an air of newfound reassurance washed over him.  Nodding his agreement, he released a contented sigh and decided,  "Her voice is full of freedom."

That was it.  Light of realization, for what it was, shone on the two, standing side-by-side in continued silence.  And Crawford, who previously associated Clarice's tone with the melancholy nature of her domestic situation, now recognized the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it.  The sound of doves fluttering from opened cages.  Beset to the wind and discarding old shackles and restraints.  And both knew, dawned to the new horizon, that whatever liberation Clarice had discovered would not be forsook for societal views. 

The women emerged first, and all hint of conversation between Crawford and Fell dissipated.  Krendler was the last to exit.

"Shall we all go in my car?" the doctor suggested, careful to not look at Clarice.

"Is it a standard shift?" Krendler demanded as though it was trivial.

"Automatic."

"Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town."

Dr. Fell's eyes narrowed and his distaste was immediately registered.  Eying Clarice skeptically, as though permitted by the proposal, he objected, "I don't believe I have fueled in a while."  It was as though the previous offer to drive them all to town was dismissed, though no one noticed.  Even the doctor's enemies couldn't succumb to question his judgment.

"There's plenty," Krendler declared boisterously.  "And if it runs out, I can stop at the gas station."

Crawford established eye contact with Clarice knowingly.  When she nodded her acknowledgement and glanced to her husband in vague unfamiliarity and similar recognition, and Fell likewise came to a stunning awareness.

"Come on, Clarice," Krendler instructed, nodding to the doctor's car.  "I'll take you in this circus wagon."  He opened the door, but she wiggled away from his dominative grasp and moved defensively to Fell's side.

"You take Jack and Ardelia," she suggested, though all present could tell the issue was not up for debate.  "We'll follow in the coupé."  Without allowing room for objection, she touched Fell's arm and they slipped into the car wordlessly.

When the dust from their abrupt departure dwindled, Krendler hotly spun to Crawford with burning eyes.  "Did you see that?"

"See what?" came the innocent reply.

And just like that, the final pieces of the puzzle fell together.  To witness such an epiphany was both admirable and amusing at the same time.  Krendler's look betrayed the twilight of ignorance, and both Crawford and Mapp became astutely aware that he knew.

Bitterness, inevitably, was the first result.  "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" he accused through gritted teeth.  "Maybe I am.  But not without surprises of my own.  I've done an investigation of this man."  The word 'investigation' hovered over them in discreet hostility as they settled into the vehicle.

Once inside, Mapp decided to comment on his revelation.  Arching a sardonic brow, she threw an arm across the passenger seat and asked honestly, "So, you found he was an Oxford man?"

"An Oxford man?!" Krendler erupted.  "Like hell he is!"

Mapp was insufferably loyal, and it made Crawford swell with admiration.  "Nevertheless, he's an Oxford man."

"Oxford, New Mexico," Krendler snorted contemptuously.  "Or something like that."

A growl of aggravation arose in her throat.  "Listen, Paul.  If you're such an ass, why did you invite him to lunch?"

"Clarice invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!"

Desperate to change the subject, as confrontation always made him uneasy, Crawford piped from the back,  "What did Dr. Fell say about the gas?"  No one looked to the gauge.

"We've got enough to get us to town," Krendler dismissed.

"But there's a garage right here," objected Mapp.  "I don't want to get stalled.  Pull over, Paul."

There was an impatient throw of the breaks as the car came to a halt under Pilcher's sign.  After a minute, the owner peered into the drive, as though not anticipating company this afternoon.  It was another few seconds before he decided to serve them.

"Let's have some gas!" Krendler commanded roughly.  "What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?"

"I'm sick," Pilcher excused, moving slowly to pump, though without conviction.  "Been sick all day?"

"What's the matter?" Krendler questioned out of courtesy, mildly concerned.

"I'm all run down."

"Well, should I help myself?  You sounded well enough on the phone."

Noting the persistent annoyance in Krendler's voice, Pilcher shook his head in discharge and quickly closed the space between himself and the pump.  "I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," he admitted softly.  "But I need the money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car."

"How do you like this one?  I bought it last week."

Crawford felt a sting of warning, and he and Mapp exchanged troublesome glances.  In the front seat, oblivious to the movement behind him, Krendler failed to flicker their unspoken worries to attention.

"It's a Jaguar…" Pilcher observed.

"Like to buy it?"

"Big chance."  There was a faint smile, and Crawford ignored the temptation to whack the driver upside the head.  Curiosity battled with sensibility and won.  "No, but I could make some money on the other."

"What do you want money for, all of a sudden?"

"I've been here too long.  I want to get away.  My wife and I want to head west."

There was a long pause as Krendler absorbed this.  "Gracie does?"

"She's been talking about it for ten years."  Pilcher rested for a moment against the pump.  "And now she's going whether she wants to or not.  I'm going to get her away."

For a minute, Crawford feared Krendler might lash out.  The second pause was longer and more significant, the icing to cover the cake of new declarations the day brought.  Instead, when the man spoke again, his tone was low and demanding, though hardly irrational.  "What do I owe you?"

Pilcher continued as though he hadn't heard him.  "I just got…I found something out the last two days.  That's why I want to get away.  That's why I've been bothering you about the car."

Found something out.

Pilcher knew.  But he didn't know *who*.

If Krendler registered this, he didn't betray it.  "What do I owe you?"

"Seventeen fifty."

In the casual air of things, Crawford tied several loose ends to mind.  Pilcher's suspicions hadn't alighted on Krendler, though he knew Gracie had some sort of life that was not apart of his world, and the shock invariably made him ill.  Glances were divided between him and Krendler, who had made a parallel discovery less than an hour before, and it dawned on Crawford that these men were the same.  Indifferent to intelligence or race, they were one in the same.

"I'll let you have the car tomorrow," Krendler announced suddenly.  "I'll send it over."

And then they were pulling away.  Crawford was relieved to be spared of the task of intervening before Dr. Fell's car was sold, and as he turned to thank Pilcher on their way out, his eyes landed on the windows over the garage.  There stood Gracie, gazing down on them.  In the days to come, he would register the look on her face that he first believed to be anger.  Not anger, of course not.  Jealous terror and fear, fixated on Ardelia Mapp and not Krendler, whom she mistook for Clarice.

*            *            *

It was said that there was no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and Crawford called upon that as he knew Krendler was on the whips of panic.  Both his wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping impulsively from his control.  Such anxiety caused him to speed, and the Jaguar was going well above eighty before slowing when they saw the blue coupé ahead. 

Once everyone was gathered in town without destination, Krendler decided to move the meeting to the parlor of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.

As everywhere else in this small section of the country, the air conditioner was broken.  Fanning herself profusely, Clarice turned to Mapp, who sat conveniently by the window.  "Would you open that?"

"It is open."

"Open another."

"There aren't anymore."

A growl of frustration arose in Clarice's throat, but she was dismissed by Krendler's impatient gaze.  "The thing to do is forget about the heat," he sneered.  "You'll make things ten times worse by bitching about it."

"Why not let her alone, old sport?" Dr. Fell voiced quietly.  "You are the one that suggested we come to town."

Silence followed.

"That's a great expression of yours, isn't it?" Krendler demanded a minute later.

"What is?"

"That 'old sport' business.  Where did you pick that up?"

Clarice, from her corner, flustered.  "Paul—"

"Shut up.  It's only a question.  I have several."

Dr. Fell considered for a minute, his index finger pressed to pursed lips.  Then, slowly, with quiet elegance, he rose to the occasion.  "Is that so?" he mused.  "Oh, pray ask, but do keep Clarice out of this."

Despite the implied threat in the doctor's voice, Krendler shook his head in firm disagreement.  "She's my wife.  I'll keep her in or out of whatever I decide.  It's best you remember that."

"Time, Paul, will betray what you are.  Now, ask your question."

For an instant, Krendler was caught off guard; unsure whether it was appropriate to be insulted.  It didn't seem to matter, for he read what he cared to in any situation.  Nevertheless, he discarded the remark and nodded, eyes still stormy.  "All right.  I understand you're an Oxford man."

"Not exactly."

"Oh?" His eyebrows perked as though to exhibit his lack of surprise, and further flaunt the idea that he had known all along.  "I thought you went to Oxford."

"Yes—I went there."

A pause.  Then Krendler's voice, incredulous and insulting:  "You must have gone there the time the Cubs won the World Series."

The poor reference coaxed a smile from Dr. Fell, though he decided not to comment on the suggestion.  "I told you I went there."

"I heard you, but I'd like to know when."

"Early in my college days.  I only stayed five months, thus why I cannot really call myself an Oxford man."

Krendler glanced around to see if his companions reflected his disbelief, but all eyes were fixated in roaring approval on Fell.

Smiling quaintly, the doctor placed both arms behind him and tilted his head coyly to the side.  "Is that all, Mr. Krendler, or do you have any further inquiries about my past?"

Eyes flashing in unpronounced anger, he shook his head and waved his hand.  "One more question."

"Go on."

"What kind of bullshit are you trying to cause in my house, anyhow?"

A collective, though silent, sigh of relief echoed throughout the room.  At last, they would discuss this.

However, it was Clarice who answered.  "He isn't doing anything!  You're the one yelling at everyone.  Exercise some self-control."

"Self-control!" Krendler screamed.  "I suppose the latest is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere fuck your wife!"  With eyes aflame, he turned back to Fell, who seemed neither disturbed or appalled by the accusation, rather content and amused, which only added to his infuriation.  "I know I'm not very popular.  I don't give big parties.  I suppose you've got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world."

And just like that, Paul Krendler's transition from libertine to prig was complete.

"Are you quite finished?" Fell asked a minute later when the high-pitched tones of his outburst were through echoing off the walls.

"What!"

"I have something to tell you…" The doctor looked to Clarice, as if asking her final permission.  When she nodded, he turned back to Krendler and continued, "Your wife doesn't love you.  She's never loved you.  She loves me."

"Fucking nut!"

            Fell cringed at that, but only for a second.  Unlike his opponent, he carried the ability to keep his wits about him.  "She's never loved you, do you hear?  She married you because I was incarcerated, you see.  However briefly.  I admit her judgment on that was rather questionable.  It was a terrible mistake, but she has never loved anyone except me."

"They said you were psycho, but I never imagined this!" Desperately, Krendler tossed a glance to Clarice, who did nothing to help.  "Tell me what the fuck is going on!"

"I've told you what is going on," replied the doctor calmly.  "For five years now.  You truly lack perspective."

Sharply, Krendler turned his accusatory gaze to his wife once more.  "You've been seeing this fucker for five years?!"

Again, Fell intervened.  "Not seeing.  No, we couldn't meet.  But we loved each other during our time apart.  I used to chuckle, really, to think it never occurred to you."

"Oh, is that all?  You're crazy!  I don't know what happened five years ago.  Clarice and I weren't married then.  I'll be damned if I see how you got a mile of her unless you delivered our paper.  But the rest of that is a mother-fucking lie.  Clarice loved me when she married me and she loves me now!"

The first interception of this toss of dialogue she successfully executed was not constructed with words.  All eyes fell on Clarice as she burst out laughing.  Hard, uncontrollable chuckles that seemed to demand every ounce of strength, as though the very foundation of her will was reluctant to cease mirth.

Dignity drained continuously from Krendler, who continued despite this in a radical attempt to claim something back.  "She does, though.  Her problem is that sometimes she gets stupid and doesn't know what she's doing.  And what's more, I love Clarice, too."  At that, his wife's hysterics elevated.  "Once in a while, I go off on a spree and make an ass out of myself, but I always come back."

Then the discussion ceased as everyone waited for Clarice to rejoin them.  When she realized the silent inquiry for comment, her chuckles abruptly stopped.  "That's bullshit," she declared.  "We have no marriage.  We never have.  Do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.  You always come back?  I wish you wouldn't!"

Clarice was the fire and Fell's voice, the water that defused all argument.  Soothingly, he reached for her arm and drained her of fight.  "My dear, that's over now.  It doesn't matter anymore.  Just tell him the truth—let him hear it from your lips, lest he never believe you.  Tell him you never loved him."

At that, she chuckled.  "Easy!"  Looking steadily to Krendler, her eyes burned with conviction.  "I never loved you.  Ever.  You disgust me.  You make my skin crawl."  There was a moment's hesitation, then she added as an afterthought:  "The only reason I married you was to be assured of never having another sexual drive for the rest of my life."

The composure by which Fell was renowned dropped instantly with an outburst of uncontrollable chuckles. 

"As if it mattered to you," Clarice concluded with a nod, glancing with amusement to the doctor's own hysterics, which had so briefly before been hers.

Hurt and belittled, confidence vacated Krendler's tone, and his eyes reflected the need to continue to reach for what was no longer there.  The last resort.  "Of course it matters," he argued.  "I'm going to take better care of you from now on."

Leisurely, Fell recovered and shook his head.  "You don't understand.  You're not going to take care of her anymore."

"I'm not?  Why's that?"

"Clarice is leaving you."

"Like hell she is!"

Fell glanced to Clarice, who confirmed:  "I am.  I should have long ago."

All façade fell, all hint of professionalism or self-control.  "She's not leaving me!"  Krendler insisted in a shrill panic.  "Certainly not for a madman who'd eat the minister at their wedding!"

And then the fun drained from the confrontation.  Warning shot behind Clarice's eyes and she turned in a fury to Fell, unwilling to let her husband's last accusation seep in.  "I won't stand this!" she announced to the room, though looking to him.  "Please, let's get out of here!"

Krendler paraded forward until he was directly in front of Fell, ignoring her pleas of protest.  "Who are you, anyway?" he demanded.  "You're one of those kind who hangs around Barney Jackson—I know that much.  I've made an investigation of your business.  I'll continue that tomorrow."

"You can't suit yourself about that," Fell returned, minimally concerned.

"Yeah?  How about what I've found so far?  Your name's not Arthur Fell at all, is it?  It's Hannibal something or other."

Still, amazingly, the doctor refrained from exhibiting earthly distress.  "What about it?"

"How about the way you escaped your transfer from the jail to the asylum?  Killed a few policemen, tore the face off—"

Fell shook his head dismissively, and tension again dropped to his favor.  A man that could compose himself like that under such allegations maintained the strain of belief and decency, and he knew this.  "That's invalid and wrong," he decided, "and you're in no place to further such a preposterous investigation without breeching national security.  And you can't afford to contact the authorities for so-called confirmation, can you?  Not for your own acts of – oh let's say – indiscretion."

That threw Krendler off balance, and in his confusion, he lost more of the floor.  "What the flying fuck are you talking about?"

"Let's just say, I've done an investigation of my own.  It's a wonder those Black Market rumors circulating myself never extended to your doorstep."

"PLEASE!" Clarice exclaimed, her features outlined in more panic than either Krendler or Fell.  A more observant person would have noticed her concern for the doctor's continued freedom, but no one focused on her part.  All eyes were profoundly set on the two conflicting men.  It wasn't until Fell looked to her that she continued, "I can't take any more of this."

"Come on," Krendler said suddenly, reaching for her arm.  "We're leaving."

Clarice shook her head and pulled out of his grasp.  "I'm riding with Arthur."

"No you're not."

"Watch me." 

And then, without another word, they were gone.  Crawford and Mapp took a minute to breathe their relief that it was over. This painful confrontation for which no one sided with the alleged victim.  It was now simply a matter of getting home in one piece. 

Krendler blinked stupidly long seconds after their departure, a blank look about his face.  The unwillingness to believe what he knew to be true, what he saw pass.  "What the hell just happened?"

Unsympathetically, Mapp stood and shrugged.  "You got dumped, Paul.  About time, too.  Ass.  So, it's okay for you to go get your booty, but the minute Clarice wants—"

"I went out because she was neglecting her duties as a wife!" Krendler snapped defensively.  "I did what any man would do!"

"I get the feeling that not only will she not have that problem with Dr. Fell," Mapp remarked, smiling as she rubbed salt on the wound, "but that he wouldn't go chase every thing with a bra-size."  Not taking the time to grin victoriously at his astounded expression, she turned to Crawford and said, "Ready?  Let's go."

*            *            *

Clarice was speeding down the highway – much too fast, but adrenaline pumped through her at her release.  The initial pride in driving a Jaguar was sacrificed to the blissful environment of emotional declaration.  Of cutting loose strings. Though her eyes were kept tightly on the road, she was in the midst of heavy dialogue with Dr. Fell – Lecter.  She would call him Hannibal from now on.  So enamored was she in her conversation, that she barely had time to swerve when Gracie raced into the middle of the road, waving her arms in desperation.

"Clarice!" Lecter hissed, lurching forward for the wheel. 

There was a quick splatter of blood as the girl rolled up the windshield, inflicting it with a large crack that was not aided by the swerve.  The scream that arose belonged to Clarice – not their victim.  And then, within two seconds, it was over, and they raced onward.

"Oh my God!" she gasped, quivering hands struggling to maintain a secure hold on the wheel, overpowered by his.  "Did…is she…?"

Emitting a breath, Lecter's eyes rested on her, trying to sooth her, perhaps with his gaze.  When her nerves failed to calm, he said softly, "I'd say so."

"Oh God!"

"Calm yourself." 

"But…I…I…"

"It wasn't your fault."

"I hit her!  And I was speeding!"

"She was wearing dark clothing and she ran in the middle of the street," Lecter observed.  "You would have inevitably hit her from any angle, at any speed.  Now Clarice…this is very important."

She was calming slowly, enough to devote some attention to him while maintaining a collective speed.  "Yes?"

"Any second thoughts you must consider now.  Are you positively sure…"

"Hannibal, I just *hit* a person on the fucking road.  Do you really have to go into a little insecure speech now?  I'm going home, but only to get my things.  Then we're out of here."

With a smile, he sat back and nodded.  "We'll talk more of this later," he decided.  "When we're not so rushed."

*            *            *

They saw three or four automobiles and a crowd when the coupé was still a distance away.

"Wreck!" declared Krendler.  "That's good.  Noble'll have a little business at last."  Though he slowed, he gave no indication of stopping.  Nerves were still running high from his encounter with Fell, and there was an unspoken anxiousness to get home.  However, as they started to pass, all caught the expressions of the people at the garage, and he immediately put on the brakes.

"We'll take a look," he announced doubtfully.  "Just a look."

It was certainly more than just a look.  Krendler sped ahead of Crawford and Mapp, and though he made not a peep, all who knew him as he beheld Gracie's body, wrapped in two blankets, could hear his silent wail.  Crawford watched him for long seconds, drinking in his reaction, though getting nothing readable.  A distant look of loss befouled his eyes, glossy, though not with tears. 

Gracie lay in the midst of a circle of people, Pilcher, inconsolable, talking with an officer in the other room.

Krendler didn't stay long; couldn't.  Just long enough to discover that a car resembling Fell's was the perpetrator, that they didn't stop or slow down, and that she was killed instantly.

At this news, all admiration Crawford ever felt for the doctor vanished.  The ride back was silent.  No one commented on the turnabout of events, an unsettling cold washing them.  Likewise, sympathies reversed, as did the revelations of the last hour.

*            *            *

Even in her hurry, Clarice was not fast enough to beat Paul Krendler when he was angry.  She stood in guest room, where she kept most of her clothes, and though her movements were furious, nerves won over collectiveness.  Her suitcase was only half-packed when her husband paraded inward, and she felt something freeze within her.

The slamming door behind her announced his entrance, though she didn't turn to face him.  Nor did she acknowledge his voice when he declared, "Your lover's a murderer."

Nothing.

"Clarice!"

"I've known this for a while, Paul," she replied calmly.  "You're a bit late the uptake."

"This is no time to jest!  Gracie Pilcher is dead!"

At that, she turned to him, her eyes ablaze with something unreadable, though it wasn't regret.  To feel regret with this man present was to beat herself senseless – it accomplished nothing.  Krendler didn't baulk at the uncaring gaze, though he did blank to see her freedom, her liberation, all things Crawford saw before, things they had spent the day trying to explain.

Perhaps he saw them earlier.  Perhaps he was surprised to see them still.

"You're still going with him?"

"I love him, Paul.  Don't pretend we had a marriage.  Let me go."

"He killed Gracie!"

"Gracie was hit by a car, yes, but there is no way to prove which. Not right now, anyway," she replied calmly.  "And why do you care so much?"

There was nothing at first.  Gazes locked and held, staring each other down, these two people who hated each other with such venom, such respite, that the institution of marriage was turned into a mockery.  It didn't last long, however.  The last strains of Krendler's short temper snapped when she failed to falter, and the sheer speed at which he moved surprised her more than action.  His clammy hands grasped her arms tightly, and he reeled her into him, pulling her with force to his chest.

Clarice fought with veracity, growling at him in her rage.  "What the hell are you doing?!" she screamed.  "Let go of me!"

But he did no such thing.  For a minute, she feared he would attempt to kiss her, but he seemed to know better.  Instead, his grip tightened, not loosening as she spat on him, and finally pushing her back onto the bed, where he regarded her with uninterested eyes.

"You're not even worth that," he snarled.  "But hell if I let you out of this house."

Clarice's eyes widened as he moved for the door.  "I might not be a smart man," he continued.  "But I do know it's a hell of a lot easier to leave a room that's unlocked rather than locked.  Bearing that in mind…"

Before she could react, or jump to beat him out, Krendler shut her in, and locked the door from the outside.

*            *            *

Crawford was walking to his car when he saw Dr. Fell standing outside Clarice's residence, and while it was his initial reaction to snap at him, he drew in a breath and maintained his nerves.  When they acknowledged each other with their eyes, he took the prerogative to open the lines of dialogue, careful to avoid spite.  "What are you doing?"

"Waiting."

At the minute, it seemed like a despicable occupation.

"Did you have any trouble on the road?" Fell asked a minute later.

The question made Crawford's stomach crawl.  A blatant innuendo to discover if the hit-and-run was registered.  Beat-around-the-bush.  Arrogant prick.

"Yes."

He hesitated.  "Was she killed?"

"Yes."

"I thought so."  As if it were the most casual occurrence in the world.  He thought so. Quaint. However, before Crawford could reply with repulse, the doctor continued:  "I told Clarice I thought so.  It's better that the shock came all at once.  She stood it pretty well."

It was as if Clarice's reaction was the only thing that mattered.

"We arrived at West Egg by a side road, but this was our destination.  I don't think anyone saw us, but I can't be sure."

By this time, Crawford disliked him so much he didn't find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.

"Who was the woman?"

"Mrs. Pilcher.  Gracie Pilcher.  What happened?"

"I tried to swing the wheel…" And he broke off.

Crawford blinked his understanding and guessed the truth.  "Was Clarice driving?"

"Yes…but, should the matter arise, I'll say I was." Fell turned his gaze back to the house.  "We weren't supposed to be here, though.  I saw Paul arrive home.  Clarice should be out by now…" He sighed.  "I think I should do something."

"Yes…go home.  At least for tonight He won't touch her.  He's not thinking about her."

"I don't trust him, old sport."

"How long are you going to wait?"

"All night, if necessary."

He would, too.  That much was evident.  Crawford said his farewells, admiration for the man growing once more.  As they parted ways, leaving the doctor to his scrutiny of the house, he reflected the persistence that got them here, all here, and wondered if his friend weren't watching over nothing.

*            *            *