There wasn't much Dr Gateway Normal Gateway 2 0 2001-11-01T22:33:00Z 2001-11-01T22:33:00Z 7 4084 23281 194 46 28590 9.2720

*          *          *

Morning brought an aura of dread with it, and while no heavy drinking occurred the day before, headaches suffered could only be measured to hangovers.  Massive and ugly, bold and unforgiving.  The weight of ambiguous crimes, the actions committed last night reached doorsteps, graced headlines, and captured the attention of anchors all through Manhattan.  Speculation exploded overnight, and before dawn, authorities summarized the accident could have been avoided.  Whoever they captured for the crime would face more than a simple hit-and-run charge.  Some thought the driver was under influence of drugs or alcohol.  Anything to suggest people had more humanity than to simply drive off after hitting a defenseless woman in the middle of the street and sending her to her death.

The public demanded justice, and the police shouted manslaughter.  Still, there were no leads.  Not yet.  It was too soon in the aftermath, but they would not be trapped in a slump for long.

For Crawford, the initial wake into such a day was not difficult, as he had slept very little the previous night.  Tossing back and forth between the grotesque reality of the day and dreams that rivaled the appearance of the morrow.  Toward dawn, he heard the Jaguar pull into Fell's drive, and immediately jumped out of bed and began to dress.  There was an unidentified nagging in his stomach that encouraged him to warn the doctor of something – even if he didn't know what – something that could not wait for the sun. 

The journey across the lawn was tenuous and long, though he had made it more times than he could recollect.  Crawford saw the front door was open, and that Dr. Fell was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.  However, with the knowledge that this was not a fragile man, he opted for the first likelihood.  Something in the doctor's demeanor forewarned he could go days without blinking, much less succumbing to the humanly need of rest.

Dejection.  Clarice still wasn't with him.

"Nothing happened," Fell reported wanly, intentionally ignoring the implied use of greetings.  Today was beyond normality, all could sense, therefore there was no need to introduce topics of discussion with ominous forethought or preamble.  It simply wasn't needed.  "I waited.  Around four this morning, she approached the window and looked out, though not in my direction.  More here, more toward West Egg.  I suppose she thought I had returned home.  I couldn't attract her attention.  It was too dark, I think."  He released a breath, but it didn't carry the sting of defeat as Crawford suspected it might.  "Being in the position of watching from the outside troubles me," continued the doctor a minute later.  "Something occurred in that house last night.  He has done something to her."

The blatant accusation in his voice did little to surprise.  In the light of this new day, Crawford supposed it was easier to blame rather than accept rejection, which he thought was more likely.  Though in watching Clarice the day before, he admitted she seemed true to her word of loving him.  However, with the recent turn of events, and to run off with a man whose reputation preceded him, he thought her sensibility battled with longing and won in the end.

There were other things that Crawford found himself unsure of.  Throughout the prior day, Krendler made references to this alleged criminal past of Fell's, linking him to a name he recognized from the Bureau.  Though he was never directly involved in the case, he found himself on the verge of believing that was where the doctor obtained the air of familiarity.  However, with the evidence that suggested Krendler was correct in that light, there was also the more plausible solution that Arthur Fell and Hannibal Lecter merely resembled one another.  Crawford had no desire to incriminate, and he was too deeply involved in the events of this summer to worry himself with the possibility of aiding a fugitive of the law.

Furthermore, in growing to know Dr. Fell throughout the course of the summer, he concluded on his own terms that this was a man he shared many qualities with.  Less sophisticated, yes, perhaps not as well bred, but they had, oddly, developed a friendship through the basis of Clarice.  Should new evidence sprout to recognition, should Crawford discover that his neighbor was indeed the notorious cannibal, he knew he wanted no part of his apprehension, in the event the untimely act occurred.

He realized making such a revelation within himself was dangerous, but he was personally involved now.  The man he knew was Dr. Fell, not Dr. Lecter.  As long as that distinction remained securely implanted in his brain, there was no chance of rebuttal of trust.

Which was why, he discovered, that coming here this morning struck him as an important task that could not wait for the true outbreak of the day.  Eventually, the authorities would link the car in the accident to his, and once the arrest was made, there was nothing anyone could do to protect him.  If this man was Hannibal the Cannibal, he had to run, fast, with no regards to what or whom he was leaving behind.

"You ought to go away," Crawford advised a minute later.  "It's pretty certain they'll trace your car."

Unaware of the conflicting thoughts stirring within his neighbor, Dr. Fell looked to him and blinked, as though unbelieving such a suggestion was even recommended.  "Go away?" he repeated.  "Go away *now*, old sport?"

"Go to Baltimore for a week, or up to Montreal.  Anywhere."

But the doctor wouldn't consider it.  He couldn't leave Clarice until he knew what she was going to do, what had occurred in that house.  Crawford couldn't help but assume he was grasping at some last hope, but similarly couldn't bear to shake him free.

They spent the morning together, Crawford prodding questions of the past and Fell reluctantly betraying them.  Nothing ever too blunt or informative, but there was an unspoken understanding that assured him he had earned this knowledge, which was the only reason it was released.  Fell was a man to repay debts, no matter how high the stake.  Honesty was traded for deceit, the greatest deceit Crawford had ever committed.  Even if Clarice decided to remain with Krendler, he would live knowing how close he came, how involved he was in breaking up a marriage, and it didn't bother him.

However, there were some details that Fell conveniently forgot to include.  Though Crawford refused to directly ask, perhaps in knowledge of the impending answer, no reference was made to ambiguous former identities or records with the FBI.

Much of what was discussed was an expansion of already known stories, repeated by a better narrator.  However, Crawford learned through this exactly *how* the unlikely two met.  For Clarice, night school in the library, researching patterns of serial killers in her quest for Jame Gumb.  Evidently, they reached for the same book at the same time, quarreled to whom the rights were granted in a conversation Dr. Fell regarded with much amusement, before he asked her what she was researching and offered his assistance in exchange for keeping the book.  After all, he was a psychiatrist who treated patients with patterned behavioral difficulties and homicidal tendencies, and would know of such things.

They continued meeting like that for a long time, not necessarily every night, but often.  Never organized meetings; but sooner or later, she lost her excuses for night school and started to simply arrive in the hopes he would speak with her.  Every encounter, they conceded to fight over some dusty title through the reference section, even if it was something that failed to hold either's true interest.  Time passed and books became of the essence.  Eventually, they were forced to succumb to children's books when titles were used and overused.  As their relationship blossomed and publications dwindled, he began withholding information on the case until she traded bits and pieces of her childhood, of her.  And through conversation and the marketplace-style of exchange, they found themselves in the awkward position of expanding beyond everyday pleasantries and to more extensive, thoughtful topics.

He was intrigued by this, and highly encouraged Fell to continue.

The information released seemed to brighten the doctor's features, and Crawford almost saw the scenes flashing in the pupils of his maroon eyes.

"I can't describe how surprised I was to discover I loved her, old sport.  I never considered myself a man of such frail human emotions.  After all, I had lived a good part of my life without them.  Not in denial, more or less because I knew no one worthy in this world of such attention.  Greed and corruption of society tore apart many of the decent people I knew.  So while Clarice surprised me, as well as my reaction, I never shied from it or her.  And yet, I never fully grasped the concept, more or less because I didn't know how.  For a while, I hoped she would lose interest and save us both the hassle the future promised.  It was probably for the best, even then."  Dr. Fell paused and breathed slowly.  "But she didn't, because she loved me, too.  I can't say I wish she had, for all this, should we manage through it, will seem like mere child's play compared to what I have already endured.  And worth it, so very worth it.  However, I will not shrink to deny the very obvious fact that life in general would be easier had we never met, had she lost interest like the others of her generation."  Another meaningful pause, and a smile played on his lips.  "However, I wouldn't refuse myself a minute of it.  The dangerous roads often have the most rewarding outcome."

Conspicuously, Dr. Fell didn't mention why he had to leave Clarice in the first place, why Krendler ever entered the picture, why there was a wedding at all.  To that note, all he said was he had to leave for a while, indefinitely, and when he returned, she had married and moved to Long Island.  The rest, from then, was history.

*          *          *

When one o'clock rolled around and he still hadn't received an updated from Clarice, or any news concerning her affairs, Dr. Fell decided without hesitation to investigate the matter personally.  Sensibility overruled patience in the simple matter that he acknowledged time ran short for him, with or without Clarice at his side.  The thought merited serious consideration, as he stood here, now, so close he could taste the flavor of his goal, and yet five seconds of lapse could crumple five years of work.

There was one thing he knew.  He wouldn't give her up without a fight.  Earlier that day, chatting with Crawford, Dr. Fell realized his neighbor had lost faith that Clarice still wanted apart of this, that she decided to remain with Krendler after all.  Had he not heard her voice her decision with such steadfast conviction the moments directly following the unfortunate collusion, he conceded to admit the matter would similarly hold his concern.  After all, Clarice wasn't nor had ever been predictable to him.  The roots of her morality were strongly implanted, however, with the realizations she presented him, he knew one incident could not take that away.

As it was, he believed under such conditions she would leave Krendler anyway, even if it wasn't for him.

Dr. Fell didn't so much as look to the Jaguar as he deliberated which vehicle to take.  In the course of the next few hours, he knew he would have to dispose of the car, or perform some radical surgery to make it unidentifiable to the authorities.  Though he didn't anticipate remaining here too much longer, he also knew not to plan for the future, as life had a nasty habit of changing on a whim.

The choice, in the end, was not difficult.  It had been a while since he indulged himself in a drive in his Rolls-Royce, discarding it usually for the Jaguar or the Bentley.  Style, however, was hardly the motive for this visit.  In study of Krendler's rather intrusive character, he knew not to perform any tasks that required too much reading into.

Perhaps it would leave more of an impression if he drove the Jaguar.  The sadistic, dangerous thought made him smile, even if the doctor knew better.

The Krendler-Starling residence was glum as he pulled into the drive.  Having prepared for any sort of encounter, Fell approached the closed front door with steady patience, eyes on the upper window he identified as Clarice's room every minute.  He was dressed in one of his finest suits, a deceptive Harpy lodged safely up his right sleeve.  Considering the fuss circulating Gracie Pilcher's death, he hoped to avoid more spilt blood. 

However, for the sake of her salvation, he was willing to sacrifice anything.  Fell speculated he would have killed Krendler long ago, should the circumstances fall under a separate category.  He had spent too much time building up the trust and admiration in his alias name to tarnish it so quickly, even with the rumors that circulated, that came too close for comfort.  Though he never shied from public image, never denied the accusations, even those that were hideously untrue.  The guilty are always the quickest to deny misdemeanor, and perversely, Fell knew his failure to defensively protect his name was what saved it for so long.

Until now.

Now that a woman was dead. 

A life he hadn't known, hadn't planned on taking, hadn't taken, if he wished to be overly technical.  However, he didn't blame Clarice.  The thought never occurred to him. 

There would be plenty of time for such scrutiny later.  Now, Dr. Fell delicately manipulated the doorbell, stood back and held his breath until it opened.  As he suspected, Krendler's face greeted him.  Stormy, unforgiving eyes sheathed beneath layers of cold blue.  Expressionless, Fell failed to reveal disconcerted reaction.  This man wasn't very experienced in staring people down, he knew.

He let a few seconds of silence pass before nodding his head in gentlemanly acknowledgement.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Krendler," he said conversationally.  "I am here to see Clarice.  Is she available?"

Krendler sneered and shook his head.  "Get out of here.  Turn around and get out!  Go back to your…" He stretched to see past him.  "Back to your…Rolls-Royce…" Glancing back, his eyes grew darker.  "Fucking coward!  Bring over that Jag!  Bring it over!  It's stained with her blood, isn't it?  You couldn't bring it out because it's stained with Gracie's blood!"

"Mr. Krendler…let me see Clarice, please."

Violently, he shook his head in rebuttal.  "No!  She doesn't want you.  She knows what you are."

Studiously, Dr. Fell's head tilted, his pulse exhilarating slightly with the threat of truth, but he read the lie behind Krendler's eyes before the words sank to believability.  Taking a calm breath, he offered, "I will leave and never bother you again, should I hear Clarice say that from her own lips.  She requires no messenger.  If this is her resolution, she must have the courage to voice it herself."

"She is my wife!" Krendler shrilled.  "Her words are mine, and I tell you she wants nothing to do with you!  She saw you kill last night, mercilessly.  How is she to know she's not next?  Whatever you two were planning is over now, by the words of her own mouth. Your presumptuous flirtation is over."

Fell knew it was a lie, and not simply for the incorrect reference to the proceedings of the night before, but also for the fear in the man's eyes.  Fear at his capabilities, fear that he wouldn't turn away, fear what he would do.

Control begged to be broken, begged him to slice Krendler's throat open, here and now, yet Fell exercised himself to restraint.  "I will ask you civilly one final time," he remarked.  "Let me see Clarice."

"Get out!"

With that, he allowed the last strain of his stamina break.  The Harpy slid into view, and Krendler had no time to reflect his surprise before he was shoved against the door, blade poised under his throat, and meeting the menacing glare of dangerous maroon eyes.

"What have you done to her?" Fell demanded, enforcing his threat more with an emphasis on his voice rather than his weapon.

The terror that streaked through Krendler's eyes was counterpoint only to his tone as he yelped, "Frank!" into the foyer.  Raising a sardonic brow, the doctor pressed forward at the denial of his request and prepared to end the pathetic whelp's life when the butler summoned, Frank, appeared with phone in hand.  Evidently, this was a practiced exercise.

"He'll call the police," Krendler warned.  "He'll call the police and tell them where Hannibal the Cannibal lives.  Let me go, or the next time you see Clarice, it'll be through glass."

At first, the threat went unacknowledged.  Fell pressed forward with no restraint, eyes ablaze, blade begging to drive into skin.  However, after a few seconds, he retreated for he knew the man was not bluffing.  This oaf's blood was not worth the price of freedom, or to never see Clarice again.  There were other methods.

The blade scratched skin with the hint of warning, but retracted from sight just the same.  Emitting a breath, Dr. Fell stepped back and allowed Krendler to fall harshly against the door.  In the aftereffects of the attack, he rasped for breath but refused to let his warning die with the hint of evasion. 

"Get out of here!"  Krendler ordered.  "Get out!"

"For the sake of your misguidance, Paul, I will," Dr. Fell accredited, stepping back further still.  "But, a word of warning…you claim to be her husband, yet you foolishly assume that locks and chains will keep her captured and under your so-called power.  I could see that upon first acquaintance.  Your ignorance could not be lifted after five years.  I would pity you, should I find myself capable of such a mundane disposition.  You can't hold her forever, even to protect yourself." 

"Get out!  Get out and never come back!"

"That I cannot promise you," he said regretfully, and before Krendler could reply, Dr. Fell was gone, newly inspired and similarly discouraged.

When he looked up to Clarice's room, still no one was there.

*          *          *

By the reliable ventilation system, Clarice could hear everything that occurred downstairs.  Upon hearing Lecter's voice, she felt a rush of hope, knowing he had come for her.  The room at which she was currently stationed didn't allow an adequate view, but when she heard a visitor pull into their drive, she knew it had to be him.

The argument below made her flush.  Though Krendler's voice was shrilly, she was presented with no more difficulty in dissecting the message the doctor conveyed.  He was there to help, she knew, but she likewise understood with solemn resolution the difficulty of the situation. 

The faith Lecter placed in her ability to manage, with or without his assistance, made her flush both with pride and newfound encouragement to break free. 

As her temporary residence was nothing more than a guest room, she lacked the bare essentials that might not otherwise be denied.  Dressers full of clothing, a bed, a lamp, and nothing more.  She might have climbed out the window if it offered a ledge, or something on which to stable herself. 

Sooner or later, Krendler had to give her something to eat.  The spontaneity of her sudden imprisonment conceded her to acknowledge he hadn't thoroughly thought the process through.  Unless he wanted to starve her to death, which accomplished little more than that which he condemned, he had to bring her supper soon.

Of course, she didn't care to credit him with that much insight into the blatant functions of human beings. 

Though discouraged, Clarice was glad when Lecter left.  While she had every faith that Krendler and their butler proposed no threat to the doctor's strength, she couldn't afford for the authorities to be directly informed, even contacted.  Not now.  Not a day after Gracie's death.

Especially if Lecter killed Krendler, or more than Krendler, to get to her.  Gracie's blood was on her hands, not his, and she would not allow him to be captured for the sake of protecting her reputation.  Should the issue arise, should anyone directly suspect him…

She hoped to be far from this house before anyone linked the Jaguar to him.  There was some question in her mind why Krendler refrained from reporting it to the authorities before she recalled Lecter's reference to her husband's similar indiscretions that went beyond breaking martial vows.  Perhaps he feared a similar investigation on business affairs.  It was her luck and Krendler's misfortune that he didn't realize his word would be trusted as long as he did nothing to incriminate himself.

It was perhaps an hour after Lecter took his leave that Clarice heard another vehicle in the drive.  Her heart leapt in her chest, and as she bolted to press her ear to the vent, she felt her anxiousness fall, replaced by something she couldn't identify. 

It wasn't the doctor.  The voice belonged to man she hadn't seen in years.

Noble Pilcher.

*          *          *

Information was tossed in a variety of shouts and slanders.  Evidently, Pilcher believed Krendler to be the owner of the Jaguar.  After all, what else was there to suggest?  It was only the day before that he had offered to sell him the car.  Unlike Fell, his primary motive was not discreet, or hidden up sleeves.  The shotgun in his arms was self-explanatory, so much to the point along with the streak of madness in his eyes that Krendler screamed at Frank to place the phone back on the hook.

Pilcher claimed he knew all about it.  The explicit details of the affair came to his realization once she reacted to the Jaguar's approach the night before.  Before she ran into the street, she insisted her lover was coming to pick her up.  It left little to piece together.

Naturally, Krendler denied these accusations.  He even invited Pilcher to investigate the garages and see if he identified the guilty car.  In the midst of his screaming fit, the man would hear nothing of it.  Instead, he waved his gun and insisted he would shoot if answers were denied.

"Explain this!" he demanded, throwing a dog leash in Krendler's direction. 

"What!"

"We don't have a dog, Paul!  Whoever bought her this bought her a dog!"

"Are you sure it was hers?"

"She showed it to me!  She said *he* bought it for her, whoever *he* was."  Pilcher pressed forward with the shotgun.  "It was your car she ran for.  You killed her.  You killed my Gracie!"

"That wasn't my car!"  Krendler insisted.  "She *knew* my car, both of you do.  I come by enough.  Besides, she couldn't see if it was me.  I borrowed that car from the people I was meeting in town."

"You tried to sell it to me!"

Krendler looked down sharply, caught in the awkward position of explaining the questionable truth.  The story was radical enough to be a lie, which made Pilcher's inability to believe all the more insufferable.  "I just found out the owner was sleeping with my wife," he excused.  "Yours, too, probably.  We traded cars and went into town."

At that, Pilcher slowly started to defuse.  "Who?"

"Arthur Fell!  He lives across the bay at West Egg."  Krendler's eyes widened when he saw he had reached him.  "Yes, yes, go see!  He has the Jaguar, I'll bet you!  He was over here earlier, but he wasn't driving it.  It has her blood all over it, I'll bet.  Go see!  Go see!"

As Pilcher's confused expression transformed once more to anger, Krendler felt some pang of satisfaction.  Trusting all went well, the man would only need visual verification of the bloodstained car before blowing the bastard away.  When bewildered widower turned to confirm this for himself, it took all his self-control not to leap into the air like a drunk leprechaun and click his heels together.

It was all a matter of time now.  Soon, his trouble with Fell would be over.  Only after the doctor's death would he deal with his wife's separate dealings.  Beforehand, though, nothing could persuade him to touch a hair on her head.  Not while he was alive.

*          *          *

Dr. Fell sat beside the pool of the great manor, watching the unaffected waters ripple in accordance to wind changes.  In a few days, he would have to winterize all summer luxuries.  The pool this year had gone unused, though it was there more as an accessory to the house.  Today, he took peace in watching it, even as his eyes begged to turn in the direction of the bay.

Normally, his exercised patience won over primal instinct, but Fell acknowledged, sitting here in the blessed silence, that his concern for Clarice's well-being broke the tendency to school his stone façade.  However, he was content to let Krendler believe he was in the position of power.  The more secure the man became, the better off the situation.

In visiting Krendler earlier, Fell concluded several things.  Firstly, he wouldn't hurt Clarice until he felt content in the falsified stature as man of the house once more.  Judging the look in his eyes, he was definitely experiencing violent mood swings, perhaps out of emotional reactions to Gracie's death that he hadn't admitted into existence.  People like Krendler in that position were dangerous, more for their predictability.  Fell knew that if he had to flee the country without Clarice with him, he left her susceptible to whatever the man might do.

Secondly, all prior loose ends were cleanly tied.  The doctor knew from the encounter that Krendler had restrained his wife in some manner, physically preventing her from leaving the house.

Lastly, Fell knew, even with the dangers it presented, that he could not leave without knowing she was at the very least all right.  He preferred not to leave until he had her out of the house, but if it came down to it, continued freedom was more important at this time.  There was little he could do to help her behind bars.

Crawford would look after her, if worse came to worse.

The sun stretched across the sky and began its descent into twilight.  Fell remained stationary at the pool, having no grasp on time.  It wasn't until he heard the faintest tapping of a footstep inside the manor that he stirred to the present.  There it was again.  A few ratta-ta-taps through the interior, someone trying to remain silent.

It wasn't Crawford.  He knew for the lack of a distinctive smell.  Nor was it Krendler, much to his dismay.  This scent was different, groggy, slightly unclean.  It perplexed him for a few seconds, as there was no one to identify it with.

That was, until, he smelled gasoline.  Gasoline on flesh had a distinctive aroma that he doubted many could classify.  This was different than a man pouring gasoline with the intention of igniting the place into flames.  This was a man who worked around it.  A man who did it for a living.

A man like Noble Pilcher.

After he knew who was in his house, picking up separate details took little effort.  Within ten seconds, Fell knew he carried a shotgun and that he intended to use it.  Shoot to kill. 

However, he also knew the first rule of the game, and that was never hunt the animal on his home terrain.  As Pilcher misguidedly explored the parlors and living areas, Dr. Fell maneuvered with ease until he found his crossbow.  Then, making no sound as he moved, he found himself overlooking the pit into the lounge.  The view was too opportune to scrutinize.  Not concerned with his perfect accuracy in aim, Fell fired a single shot and watched without reaction as an oblivious Noble Pilcher found himself with a head full of arrow.  A flash of white and red, and he collapsed. 

Dr. Fell stood with indifference for a few minutes.  It didn't take long to speculate what had occurred.  The switched cars yesterday seemed almost too opportune, as though Krendler planned it that way. 

And now there was another dead, even if it was in the name of self-defense.  Fell sighed heavily, though he knew without consideration what this meant.  Krendler was going to great extents, desperation, even if twenty-four hours had not passed. 

That led him to one inevitable conclusion.  He had to get Clarice out of that house, and he had to do it now.

*          *          *