Hi there

Hi there! I know that by the end of this, you'll all think I got Hannibal Lecter out of character, but I honestly think he'd change a bit after becoming a parent. This is not to say that he's lost that maniacal edge that everyone loves about him, he's just not very willing to show it in front of his daughter. This is obviously going by the book here, because in the book, Hannibal and Clarice made a fashionable run for it. And who's to say they don't have kids? I mean really. Well . . . except for maybe Thomas Harris. Enter the disclaimer—I don't own 'em. Not Hannibal, Clarice, Jack Crawford (who is in fact NOT dead), or Ardelia Mapp. The only one I do own is Jacqueline, but only partially because if it weren't for two characters I didn't own, she would have no reason to grace this page. I know this story sucks, but try not to flame me too bad. Not like that guy in The Real Deal. If you have a problem with the way I write, then go read something nice and third-person. I just wanted to transfer one of my fanfics from paper to computer. Bye!

*

I suppose that by all right, I should be locked away in an orphanage or in a state house, and the FBI would see to it that I was locked away where my brain could be picked apart if they knew who I was. That's how my parents were raised--only because their parents were dead, of course. But as a sixteen-year-old girl, I believe that if something were to happen to Mom and Dad, I could get what I wanted very easily by nature.

Sorry I didn't introduce myself—I must seem like I have no manners. My name is Jacqueline Starling-Lecter. My mother is Clarice Starling and my father is Hannibal Lecter.

Just to set the record straight, I do in fact know my father's hobbies, and to his benign amusement, I do not appreciate them at all. And I also know that my mother abandoned her life back in Washington, D.C. because of some traumatic experience and the desire to stay with my father. Mildly deranged as it may sound, I'm kinda glad she chose to do that. But my name in itself shows how she misses her old job at the FBI—I don't think she's ever called me anything but Jack, unless she's mad at me.

Of course, both the names 'Starling' and 'Lecter' are infamous, so we have the names that everyone else calls us—Aaron, Hannah, and Jacqueline Mardsen (that would be me). The world is so stupid that they buy it, too. I've lived in Florence until I was possibly seven or eight, then we moved to the West Coast so that I could have an American citizenship as well as most countries in Western Europe. That's the great thing about having my parents—Dad goes everywhere in style, so travelling has never sucked.

I didn't write this just to make some kind of rambling crap out of my childhood—there's actually a point to this. It's understood that Dad has fallen on and off of the Top Ten list, which he enjoys checking from time to time, but on some routine check that he and I were doing, we got a nasty shock.

"Let's see . . ." he murmured, scrolling with the mouse. "Seems I've moved down to number nine."

"Well have you done anything that should put the FBI on edge?" I asked smartly.

Dad gave me his amused smile. "Not recently."

"Then why would you even be on here?"

He stretched and stood up. "Point taken. Where exactly is your mother?"

I shrugged. "Reading, I think. She's been awfully into Dante lately, I've noticed."

"Better than those ridiculous mysteries she read earlier," he replied, heading to the living room in search of Mom.

I continued to read up on the other people who'd made the list since we'd last checked—nothing spectacular, most were wanted on three counts of murder and some rape and auto theft mixed in there. How did Dad only make nine? Since he'd last escaped from any sort of formal custody (to my knowledge, anyway), he'd murdered at least seven people, and none of the murders were cute. But I've come to terms with that. But the point is, Dad is at any given moment far more dangerous than any of the other people up to the person at number 4. Then it got interesting. I was just sitting innocently, reading the bios on the people that the government found more lethal than my father, when I caught sight of the person at number three. It was the only woman on the list—she had brown hair past her shoulders that had nice volume (kind of like my hair), dark brown eyes, and a dark spot on her cheekbone that stood for courage in some cultures. Except for the color of her eyes, I felt as though I was looking in a mirror ten years in my future.

Wanted, the title said. Clarice Starling for multiple counts of capital murder.

I sat up straighter in my seat.

"Dad?" I called anxiously. "Dad, come here—you need to see this!"

After a minute or so, my dad stuck his head into the room. "A problem, Jacqueline?"

"Check out the number three chica," I told him, relinquishing the chair.

Dad was quiet a moment, and after a moment of reading the screen, the calm expression on his face faded into a cold, closed-off anger.

"Clarice," he thundered.

Mom must have recognized his tone of voice, because she was in the room almost instantly.

Dad sat back in his chair and folded his arms, deep in thought, as Mom took in what the image on the screen meant.

"Jesus," she whispered. "How long has this been up?"

"It wasn't there last week," I put in.

"Then why now? And under whose fucking jurisdiction am I wanted for multiple counts of murder?" she demanded.

I tapped the phone number on the screen offering information. "There's an easy way to find out."

"No," my dad replied quietly. "There's more going on here that simple law enforcement—"

I noticed the contempt in his voice at the phrase 'law enforcement.'

"—and we do nothing until I say so. I'll find out what I can over the next few days, but we all keep our eyes open and we are careful."

I bit my tongue for a minute. "Mom—do you have any idea who they could be talking about? That you supposedly murdered?"

Mom frowned. "No. The Evelda case was dropped, and that's only one that I can think of right now."

I sighed. "I think you guys should risk it and call information."

"Call for information or call with information?" asked Dad thinly.

I narrowed my eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Pop."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

He sighed, too, but looked no less angry. "I mean that whatever the intentions for calling are, they will trace the call and try to dig up information on us to see if we are credible. And what if they find a picture of your mother or myself? Checkmate."

I folded my arms. "Well so long as no one knows exactly where Mom is—or you, considering that you're on that list, too—I think we're relatively safe."

"Don't get careless, though," he warned me. "Now more than ever, you have to keep your guard up."

"I think that's always been understood."

He took Mom's hand in his. "Good."

**

I watched my own life get more and more controlled as the days went by. I continued going to school—I hadn't missed a day in my life, not even if I was sick, and it would be suspicious if I all of the sudden just didn't show up. But as an understood agreement, Dad started driving me to classes in the Jaguar (which is a damn sight better that my old POS Ford Bronco).

Then, as though Mom suddenly being on the Top Ten list wasn't bad enough, my life got a lot more complicated.

It was a regular trip to school on a Monday morning; Dad driving the Jag and me in the passenger's seat with my hair pulled back and my goofy cat's eye sunglasses on with the top of the Jag down. We had to talk fairly loudly to be heard over the wind roaring and the engine—who the hell made engines so loud, anyway?

"What classes do you have today?" asked Dad over the noise.

"Nothing important—chemistry, theater, and Introduction to Criminal Justice," I replied in like, tightening my ponytail and swiping at renegade strands of hair. "Our teacher was a psychiatrist gone lawyer; you absolutely fascinate him."

"Really? My dossier is practically required reading in FBI training, I know that."

"Well don't get a big head over it," I laughed, tilting my head back to catch the wind. "It takes a unique perspective to find that flattering."

"No perspective is more unique than mine," he told me. "When do classes get out?"

"Two-fifteen."

"I want you out in front of this school at that exact time, don't dawdle and under absolutely no circumstances will you talk to anyone you don't know, I don't care if you're alone in the library or in the middle of lunch. The less time you spend separated from myself or your mother, the better." His voice was firm, and I could tell it wasn't open for discussion or compromise.

"Right. And you'll be here?"

"Five minutes early."

"Early and overprotective," I sighed so that he couldn't hear me.

We pulled up in front of the school and Dad parked up front, but left the motor running.

"Now what are you doing after school?" he asked, politely conversational.

"Well, um, I think I'll come outside right after class and go home without talking to strangers," I offered.

"What a novelty." He gave me the small amused smile that I've always associated with him, and I started to open my door and get out.

The voice from behind me caught me off-guard. "Excuse me. Do you know what time it is?"

I turned around in my seat, followed in turn by my father.

"Uhm—well, it's about—" I fumbled to look at the clock on the dash. "Five till eight."

"Thank you. Are you going inside?" he asked.

"Yeah, in a minute." I adjusted my skirt so that it wasn't so revealing and glanced at him over my sunglasses. "I don't think I've seen you around," I commented thinly. I don't think it came out like a compliment.

"I'm just visiting for the day," he replied. "And I haven't seen you around, either—I would have remembered."

I looked down and felt my face get a little warm. "Right." I unbuckled my seat belt and grabbed my things. "See you after school, Dad."

He gave me a look that said 'What did we just decide on strangers?' Well, I certainly didn't want the dude hanging over my shoulder while I was in the car with my father, so I figured I'd lose him in the halls or something. As I stepped out of the car, I removed my sunglasses and stashed them in my purse

The minute Dad couldn't hear our voices, the guy looked at me funny—I couldn't tell if he was checking me out or just looking at me. "I didn't catch your name," he commented.

"Oh—Jacqueline."

"Jacqueline," he repeated. "You know—that sounds familiar. Jacqueline . . . what's your last name? Starling?"

I froze. "Pardon me?" I stammered.

"Or is it Lecter?" he continued. "I can never remember."

"I—you must have me mistaken for someone else," I managed.

"No, I don't think so. See, you look disturbingly like a young Clarice Starling, but you have Hannibal Lecter's eyes," he replied, and quit walking so that he could look directly at me. "I guess that's your dad in the car, huh? He's pretty risky, being out in the open like that."

"Well—thanks, I guess, but I really think you've got me mixed up for another person. I do look like a lot of people," I insisted, looking back into the parking lot desperately. Jackpot—Dad was putting something in the trunk. "And I think you have my family mistaken for a bunch of dead people. Last I heard, Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter died seventeen years ago."

"I never did believe that," he replied. "So what's your first class?"

"Introduction to Criminal Justice. Um—I left something in my car," I lied. "Let me go back and get it real quick."

"Will you be coming back?" he asked with amusement.

"Oh yeah. I'd like to tell you who you look like," I replied.

A dead man.

I spun on my heel and walked back to the car quickly. "Dad!" I exclaimed. He looked up at me.

"Forget something?" he asked.

"Get this car the hell out of here," I told him in an undertone. "Something's not right."

He slid in behind the wheel and started the car, and I got in quickly.

"How so?" he asked.

"Just get me out of here and I'll explain on the road," I snapped with sudden anger. Dad gave me a funny look but did so anyway.

"Pardon my short patience, but why the urgency?" he queried at the edge of the parking lot.

"That guy knew who I was," I gritted. "He knew who you were, too." I glanced back behind us—the dude was on the cell phone. "Shit," I muttered. "He's probably calling the cops."

"Jacqueline, tell me exactly what he said to you," Dad told me, going straight into psychiatrist-mode. "Don't omit anything, however stupid or trivial, from the moment you got out of this car to the moment you turned your back on him."

"Uh, he asked me what my name was, and I only told him my first name. Then he said—and I quote—'Jacqueline . . . that sounds familiar. And what's your last name? Starling?' So I said, 'Pardon me?', and he said, 'Or is it Lecter? I never can remember.' And he told me I look disturbingly like Mom, but I have your eyes. Only he used both of your names. I BS'd him and said he'd mistaken me for someone else, and that Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter had died seventeen years ago, which led him to say he'd never believed that. Then he asked if that was you, as in 'your father' in the car, and that you were brave being out in the open like that. So I made something up and said I'd left something in the car, and here I am. Absolutely certain that we're all screwed," I added as Dad pulled onto the highway that led home.

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" he asked harshly.

"Yeah."

"Then you'll point him out to me later on, I take it."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Not with what you have in mind, Dad."

"Just checking for your approval. I, too, would recognize him again."

"Yes, let's make this whole problem as positively illegal as we can," I snapped. "Your disguise and Mom's are totally foolproof, right?"

"Nothing false is totally foolproof," he replied.

"It's good enough to last an FBI inspection, right?"

"If it's a stupid agent."

"Then why don't we call a stupid agent and bust him for harassment?" I demanded.

"Because he wasn't harassing you, he was stating a fact that we need to keep quiet," Dad snapped. "And what would we tell a Federal Bureau of Investigations agent?" Again, the noticeable contempt. "Would we say anything, or would we just sit and wait for him to recognize myself and Clarice?"

"Fine, I didn't think it through. But is it any smarter that serving the guy up for dinner on the good china?"

"It's only foolish if you're inexperienced," he replied without a hint of joking about him. He was deadly serious about fixing this guy good with some parsley or whatever else he chose to use as seasoning.

"Jesus, Daddy. You wonder why I'm a vegetarian?"

"You're not a vegetarian. You eat Burger King like a second nature."

"Burger King isn't real meat," I shot back. "Didn't having a wife and a daughter give you any sense of mercy?" Even though he and my mother can't legally get married, in this fake identity they've been married since Mom was twenty-six. I sighed. "I can't believe we're having this discussion. This was not in the job description of 'normal teenage girl.'"

"Who said teenage girls were normal? Especially given the circumstances to your conception," he added.

I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off my headache. "Please spare me the details. And you know what I meant," I told him. "I mean under the circumstances that my father is a retired cannibal and my mother was an FBI agent before she ran off with you. Even given all that, I deserve some type of normalcy in my life, and eating the first guy who causes trouble in a very long time does not—and I repeat does not qualify as normal—ouch!" I exclaimed at the end of my rant when I felt a sharp stinging in my ear. I put my hand up to the little tip of it gingerly, and when I pulled away it was stained with blood. "What the—" I glanced around in search of what could have caused it, only to swear heavily. Great. Someone had shot my ear.

"Language," Dad warned.

"Worry about language later. We're being followed," I told him.

He cursed in turn. "Are you certain?"

"There's a guy in a car that doesn't have a license plate hanging out his window holding a gun. Yeah, I'm certain we're being followed."

Before he could even reply, the windshield on my side shattered with a round little hole right in the center. Like a spider and its web.

"Jacqueline," he told me urgently. "Slide down in your seat, below the headrest."

I did as I was told, and Dad followed in like while still keeping his eyes on the road and flooring it.

"Stay out of sight, but reach under the seat for me," he continued authoritatively. "There's a case under there—get it."

I fumbled around clumsily, and felt my fingers close around something hard—a box or something. I pulled it out and opened it.

"What the hell do you carry a fucking gun for?!" I exclaimed.

"Times like these."

I put a hand on the door of the car to readjust myself and let out a sharp exclamation of pain—blood began running from a hole in between my thumb and forefinger, the only part of me I'd left exposed for some minutes. Thinking on instinct, I tore off a strip from the bottom of my shirt and wrapped it around my hand.

Dad glanced over at the white material that was quickly turning red on my hand, and the speedometer quickly jumped to well over 150.

"Okay, we're going to get a speeding ticket."

"Is the bullet still in your hand?" he asked. I didn't even want to know how angry he really was.

"No, it went right through. I think it's embedded in the rearview mirror." Sure enough, there was a spider web in the glass of the mirror.

"Darling, I want you to use your good hand and keep the car going straight," Dad ordered. "And give me the gun."

"No way. Only if you promise you'll just shoot their tires out."

"I'm not worried about their tires."

"Then make them worried about their tires."

He snatched the gun from my hand and gave me a totally serious look. "I'm going to let to of the wheel, and either you keep us on the road or you worry about what I intend to do with this gun," he told me firmly. "It's your call."

And he really did let go of the wheel, going over 150 mile per hour.

"Dad—SHIT! Are you crazy?" I exclaimed, grabbing the steering wheel as the car jerked once.

"Keep your arm relatively down, or they'll shoot that, too," was all he said as he turned around in his seat, the little gun in his hand.

I set my jaw angrily and tried my hardest to concentrate only on the road, but I flinched once as the gun went off. Twice. Three times. Then, at the fourth shot, there was a funny pop and then a delayed crash.

Dad turned back and took the wheel with one hand, then took my shaking hand in his, the gun set aside.

"So was that all four tires, or three people and a tire?" I asked coldly.

"Would you have preferred it to be one shot from me and one shot from them? Because as you've already been shot twice, how many more shots would it have taken them to get it right? I prefer it the way I did it."

"So what was your final count?"

Dad sighed. "One tire."

I put my chin in my hand angrily, then let out a yelp when I realized it was my injured hand. The cloth around my hand was already soaked in blood, and now it was smeared across my chin. Peachy.

Dad squeezed my hand reassuringly, in reply to my shaking hand, before releasing my hand and giving me my cell phone. "Call your mother."

"And tell her what? That someone tried to kill us?" I demanded.

"Tell her to go to the air port and fly out to Florence immedietly," he replied.

I dialed home and waited for her to pick up.

"Hello?" Mom finally said.

"Mom!" I exclaimed.

"Hi, Jack. Shouldn't you be in school?" she asked suspiciously.

"Hah. Not if I didn't think that someone would shoot the brains out of my head for the world to see."

"Wonderful allusion," Dad muttered dryly.

"What on earth happened?" Mom exclaimed.

"Some guy at school knew who I was. As in he knew who Dad was, too, so I got back in the car and we just left. Then we got tailed on the highway, and I don't know where exactly we're going. But don't try driving before the customs gate," I added. "There's a wreck and a bunch of dead people."

"Three."

"See? You admit it."

"Now that you don't have the gun."

"I'm still not laughing."

"Honey?"

"Sorry, delayed argument. We're okay."

"The airport?" insisted Dad.

"Oh yeah. Mom, Dad says that you need to go to the airport now and get on the first flight to Florence."

"We're going back to Florence?" she demanded suddenly. "We can't go back to Florence."

"Hold on." I put my thumb over the microphone on the cell. "She says we can't go back to Florence."

"We don't have a choice."

"He says we don't have a choice."

"The hell we do. Try Buenos Aires or something."

"Hey, Dad, how about Buenos Aires?"

"I have things in Florence that I need."

"He has things in Florence that he needs."

Mom started to reply, but I cut her off. "Do you want to talk to him yourself? I don't want to play Monkey in the Middle or anything,"

"Yes. Put him on."

I handed Dad the phone and sighed. From the look on Dad's face the minute he put the phone to his ear, he was getting an earful from Mom. I caught bits and pieces of conversation, but only from his end of the discussion.

" . . . I know that. I thought about that when I decided on Florence . . . well he's not there anymore, is he? What are you afraid of in Florence, Clarice? Why the adamant desire to avoid it?"

I wished desperately that I could hear Mom's reply to that, but the noise on the road blocked out everything but my father's voice.

"That was a long time ago. Keep that in mind . . . then we'll meet at the longest layover." Silence on my dad's part, and a sudden frown. "I see. Well that should be interesting. Don't worry about it."

He hung up and slowed the car down a lot as we approached the exit for the airport. "So are we all leaving now?" I asked.

"No, I need to pick some things up at the storage unit. You're meeting your mother at the terminal of the next flight from Vancouver to Florence. I'll meet you in Baltimore."

"You're leaving?" I exclaimed.

"Only until Baltimore," he replied. "Once you get inside, wait for Clarice and absolutely do not talk to whoever seems nice."

"I know."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago."

"This time I really do know."

Yeah, right. Whatever.

*

If I hadn't tactfully pointed out to my father that weapons were not allowed in airport terminals, I probably could have gotten arrested for carrying a concealed weapon or something. He'd tried to insist on me taking the gun, but I refused on the above grounds.

I hovered over by the gate I was departing on, looking for Mom anxiously. All of the sudden, people had started looking like they had a gun in their pockets, and I could swear that a few people looked at me twice suspiciously.

Or I could just be getting paranoid.

I continued scanning the crowd for Mom when I jumped out of my skin—someone had put a hand on my shoulder.

"Mom?" I asked, turning around. My ease faded as I looked into the face of a total stranger. "Who—"

A hand clamped down over my mouth firmly, and pulled me backwards into a corner. "Don't say anything," the stranger told me. "Just listen. You and your folks are in a shitload of trouble, and no one has the grace to lend you a hand—no one in a position of power, anyway. But I know someone who will respond to a call for help."

"Mmmph," I said.

"Sorry." The hand disappeared from my mouth.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want with me?" I demanded.

"My name is Judy. That's all you need to know. Your mom is a good person, and she deserves a chance. Neither she nor your father will think about accepting help, and if it wasn't for your mom I wouldn't have anything to do with Lecter anyway." A piece of paper was shoved into my hand, and the grip on me was released. "You watch these people. If I hadn't known the person who killed him, I'd think they would have killed my brother-in-law when they had what they wanted."

Then there was no one behind me.

I looked down at the paper in my hand—it was an envelope. Inside it was a phone number and a plane ticket to—huh? Washington D, C.? What the hell did I need in D, C.?

I studied the phone number—it wasn't local. It had what I, as an FBI agent's daughter, could place as a Washington area code. I don't know how I know these things. Maybe I was born with it. (Right. And my father was born with a human appetite. Whatever.)

I stashed it in my pocket for later reference and continued to scan the crowd for Mom.

"Jack!" I heard her call. I turned to where the call came from, and waved at Mom with a sigh of relief.

"Hey. Guess you made good time."

She grinned anxiously. "Yeah. So, to Baltimore?"

"Sure. That's where we meet Dad, right?"

"Yep. And then to Florence."

"What's in Florence?" I asked. "I mean, why don't you want to go back?"

Mom narrowed her eyes, trying to look like she was pretending to be irritated, but I caught her. "Nothing. It just doesn't feel right."

"When did you ever go by gut feeling?" I teased.

"Just once," she muttered, looking out at the departing planes. Then she snapped back to reality. "And I'd do it again no matter what," she added firmly.

Hmm. I would chew on that for a while.

"Wait here while I get some coffee," Mom told me. "Do you want anything?"

"Hot chocolate."

She nodded. "Then I'll be back."

I leaned against a phone booth, the envelope burning a hole in my pocket. Common sense told me to throw it out, and I reached in my pocket to do so. I didn't really think we would be in any danger once we got to Florence, and besides—this was an airport. It wasn't easy to get any sort of dangerous weapon into one.

Mom paid for the two cups about a hundred yards away, and my fingers closed around the ticket to Washington and the phone number I was supposed to call. I reached over to the trashcan—

And watched coffee start exiting the cups in two neat little arcs through two neat little holes. Mom looked down in frank surprise, and then it clicked in my own mind.

"Run!" I exclaimed, as two shots whizzed through the air by her.

"Meet me in the plane!" she shouted as she dropped the cups and fell into FBI mode, slipping out of sight. Then I noticed the spots of blood on the floor where Mom had been standing, and got the hell out of sight.

I decided then that I ought to call that number. It was a subconscious decision, really, because if my conscious mind had come up with that, the first image I would have gotten was of my dad grounding me till I could fly. Literally fly, not just TWA.

The grim realization that I had just been shot at once leaving my own school was bright in my own mind, and I knew that Dad would go to whatever lengths it took to not only keep me and Mom safe, but also to keep himself out of custody. That had always been a cold fact in my mind—the idea that my father had lived in hell for eight years and adamantly refused to return. One speeding ticket could lead to recognition, and that would tear my small family apart before it could be stopped. Dad will never let himself live in an asylum like a trophy. And that's no doubt what the people who I saw at school wanted—to turn in my father, give my mother over to some lesser authorities, and who knows where I would end up until I was eighteen. And maybe whoever had this number was worth lending a hand. I didn't want my family destroyed, and if Dad wouldn't see to it, then I would.

I picked up a payphone, slipped in the needed coins, and punched in the phone number with shaking hands.

Ring.

Answer, whoever the hell you are.

Ring.

How many rings can you handle till you lose it?

Ring.

How many rings can I handle till you lose it?

"Hello?" asked a gruff male voice. I almost passed out—I thought I'd seen Mom at the phone beside me.

"Hel—hello?" I managed. "Who is this?"

I could tell he wanted to know the same thing. "Crawford. Jack Crawford."

I almost had a heart attack. "Crawford?" I exclaimed.

"Who is this?" he demanded.

"I—someone gave me this number and said you could help me."

"Who?"

"Some lady. Her name was Judy."

"What kind of help do you need?"

My mind was reeling. "Uh—someone is trying to kill me." Small fib. I could explain later.

"Who are you?"

"Jacqueline Marster."

" . . . I suppose I could meet you somewhere."

"Where is somewhere?"

"How about in front of the White House at noon?"

"Can we do two? It's kind of a long way."

"Fine. I assume that since you have my phone number, you know who I am."

"I can guess. But please don't bring a police escort or anything. I'm sixteen years old, okay?"

"I don't see why you're worried about police. I'm FBI."

"No you're not. You retired when Clarice Starling disappeared." I bit my tongue at the tone of voice I used. Hannibal Lecter's daughter, my ass. "Sorry. I didn't mean that maliciously."

"Understood. Two this afternoon?"

"Yeah. I'll be there—I really do need your help." I hung up, and realized that I was going to be sick. What the fuck was I thinking, making an appointment with Jack Crawford? The minute he found out who my father was, he'd call the real cops and I would have written my own epitaph.

Or maybe he'd help for my mom's sake. When he found out that my mom was probably in jeopardy, of course.

I was shaking as I read the information on my ticket—fuck, shit, I was so screwed, my flight left in five minutes. Then, once I knew what I was hearing, I realized that it was boarding and Mom should be getting there any minute. I hauled ass to my gate and raced to a window seat, being the weirdo that I am.

I took repeated deep breaths, in hopes of calming my jangling nerves. I'd never so openly defied anything my parents had forbidden, I knew absolutely nothing certain about the incident earlier, except for the fact that I had a tiny piece of my right ear missing, a hole in my hand, and the knowledge that I would have been dead had there been any different circumstances.

I fainted.

*

It wasn't a big problem, passing out on an airplane, because everyone thought I was asleep, but the disorientation when I finally came to was intent, and helped none by the fact that a stewardess was shaking me awake anxiously. All I saw was her blue eyes, and I was totally convinced that my dad was threatening to ground me till I was eighty, and then I realized that someone was just trying to wake me up. I jumped awake in horror, then gasped for breath. My panic from earlier obviously had not subsided.

"Miss?" she asked. "We've arrived at the D, C. airport. Is that your stop?"

I caught my breath. "Yes, it is. Thank you."

I stood up shakily and wiped sweat from my brow, then stumbled to the aisle. "Oh, by the way—how far is it to the White House from here?" I asked.

"Oh, no more than a block. It's a lovely walk," she told me. I checked her nametag.

"Thank you, Andrea," I replied politely, regaining my head. My feet didn't shake quite so bad as I walked out of the plane.

One block. I could handle a little stroll.

I can handle strolls, I told myself as I continued to walk. I can handle this. It's nothing. It's a nice, crowded place no less than a mile from the president—there's nothing to worry about. Who could recognize you? The only two places you've ever lived are Florence and Victoria, BC.

Jack Crawford is a very easy person to spot—he's too distinguished to just sit on a park bench near the White House. Which is how I spotted him so easily.

I sauntered up to him like I had no worried and sat down next to him.

"It took me a while," I admitted.

"Where were you coming from?" he asked, not looking at me.

"The airport in Vancouver."

"Jesus. You really need to talk to me, don't you?"

Crawford looked at me, then—and stared. I lowered my eyes sheepishly, hoping I didn't look so much like my mom that he could tell who I was.

"Before I ask for your help, I need to come clean with you. I lied to you over the phone about my name. It's not Marster."

He raised an eyebrow. "So what is it?"

"You have to promise you won't call the cops on me, otherwise my whole family is screwed. Namely my mother." I added that for good effect.

"Who are you really, if not Jacqueline Marster?" he asked.

I swallowed. This was peachy, he'd arrest Dad anyway. "No, I am Jacqueline. My parents aren't really married, so I hyphenated my last name. Jacqueline Starling-Lecter."

He choked on the coffee he was drinking—mocha with some cinnamon.

"Say what?"

"You heard, otherwise your coffee wouldn't have gone down the wrong way."

"You're . . ."

"Clarice Starling's daughter," I muttered, so that he alone could hear me.

"And . . ."

I said nothing.

"Hannibal Lecter's daughter," he murmured. "Jesus Christ."

"Far from it," I sighed. "Listen, I'm not supposed to be here. If either of my parents knew I was here, I'd be confined to a very small portion of my house that had no windows and allowed no contact with the outside world, so I don't want to mess anything up with this. I can't ask you to get any sort of protection for my family, namely because that would probably include some type of solitary confinement and it's not like my dad would appreciate your help anyway. What I want to know is who tried to kill me this morning, how they knew who I was, and then why they tried to kill my mother in the airport. I think you can help me with that, since it's not too much and I'm not personally a fugitive."

He frowned. "I don't know how much help I can be. The only recommendation I have for you would be to enter a witness hostile, but I can't make any guarantees about your family."

"I know. But if you could make some, would you?" I asked pointedly. I didn't want a potential favor, I wanted honesty. "Someone tried to kill me this morning, Mr. Crawford. And then someone shot my mother in the airport in Vancouver—I honestly don't know if she's alive or not. If she made it to the plane, she and my dad are in Baltimore trying to figure out where the hell I am, and I bet money someone tries to kill them there, too, so I hope they get on that damn plane and get out of America." I pulled out my cell phone from my purse and turned it on. "I should probably keep this ready, too, in case Mom or Dad tries to call me.

"Asking for more than information from you would be asking you to break the law, Mr. Crawford, and I don't want to do that."

Jack Crawford struck me then as an old, tired person who had left a stressful line of work when one of his particular favorite agents went mysteriously MIA, and he was again being asked to help her.

"I knew Clarice before she was even real FBI. Back then and even now, I would break every rule in the handbook if it meant she could live in peace. She was never at peace in the FBI, because she was so bright and made many smart people look stupid in front their superiors." He smiled bitterly and shook his head. "I tried to give her cases that would interest and challenge her—I tried that too early on, when she could still be spooked and impressioned. I sent her right into a monster's den. Even after we had what was needed to capture Buffalo Bill, I could tell Lecter got to her. But when she told me that he contacted her at her graduation from the Academy, I'd be damned if I didn't know right off the bat that somehow, in her own accidental way, she'd gotten to him, too. Everything that has gone wrong in her life went wrong because I used her like bait once."

"Yeah," I sighed, "but when you think about it, some things went right because of that, too."

Crawford pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess you're not the person to tell about my regrets on sending her to interview Hannibal Lecter."

"I can't complain."

"And you know what he does for a living, right?"

"He's retired," I replied firmly. "But don't think he wouldn't do what he had to do to keep me and my mom safe."

Oh, brilliant, Jack, make the man think you approve.

"That's not to say I approve of it, though," I replied. "I know it's pointless and stupid, but I'm a vegetarian."

He laughed dryly. "Well that's a comfort. Never thought his daughter would be a vegetarian."

"Yep. So would you have expected me to have horns and a tail?"

"Something like that."

"I have a pitchfork at home."

"You're a lot like your mom," he told me kindly.

"Thanks. I just don't intend to fall in love with a serial killer."

"It's appreciated. Can I buy you a drink? Vancouver is a long flight from here."

I frowned. "So is Florence. Sure, I'd like to get something."

We walked in amiable silence to the nearest coffee place, and I think Jack Crawford felt a little bit like he was doing Clarice Starling one last favor.

*

I know my dad hates him something fierce, but Jack wasn't a horrible and self-serving person like I'd thought he would be. He actually seemed very . . . I don't know. Smart, in a cunning way. Ironically, sort of like Dad. Only (in that daddy's girl opinion of mine) my dad is extremely intelligent and will use his intelligence to be cunning. I may look and eat like my mom, but apparently I think like Dad. Without that murder-like streak.

In the coffee shop, I put my forehead down beside my hot chocolate on the table. "You have no idea how much trouble I'm in," I groaned at the clock ticked nearer to four. "God. The longer it takes them to call, the more I'm afraid they're dead, but I know that if they call, I'm dead."

Crawford took a sip of a new cup of coffee. "Can you tell me exactly what happened in the instance of someone trying to kill you?"

"Yeah, sure. Dad was dropping me off at school and some guy came up to me and asked what time it was, then offered to escort me to class—sort of. He would not go away, and I didn't want Dad grilling him—Jesus, you know what I mean, and I don't mean propane-and-charcoal—so I got out of the car and I was gonna ditch him in the halls. But then he told me that he knew who I was, and that's not a good thing in the sense that you're the only other person outside my family who knows that now. So I told him I left something in the car, and we left real quick. But on the highway, someone shot at us—hence my wounded ear and wrapped hand, and so Dad blew out their tire. Slowed them down." Yeah, once he killed three people, but I didn't need Crawford to know that. "So we made plans to amscray real fast, and Mom and I were supposed to meet Dad in Baltimore so we could really leave. But then Mom and I got cornered at the airport, and she told me to get to the plane and she'd meet me. Someone shot her on the way, but I don't know how bad it was, and I don't know if she made it to the plane," I finished. "So I called you and here I am."

"Here you are," he agreed. "Are you certain your father is—ah, retired?"

"Yes." I made sure there wasn't a trace of doubt in my voice, because I didn't doubt it.

"Considering the fact that both of your parents are on America's Most Wanted, I can't do anything that would draw attention to them or myself—I'm not in good standing with the FBI. But I suppose, since I know your mother didn't commit any of the crimes she's being publicly indited for, I could do some underground work that would keep her out of hot water. There's an FBI investigation open," he continued, "that is searching for a group of individuals who number about seventy-five, who are an of Italian mafia sort of thing. About eleven years after your father escaped from state custody, he killed a man in Florence by the name of Pazzi—used to be a real big detective over there, until he was cited for falsifying evidence in a serial case. His career sort of flushed after that, and what few people know was that he was in the process of turning your father over to his only surviving victim, Mason Verger, when he was brutally murdered. His body was found hanging from the top of a building with his remains hanging down to the street."

"That sounds like Dad, yeah."

Crawford continued. "He was counting on the reward Verger offered him—three million dollars, U.S.—to get him out of his funk, but Verger wasn't his only source of income at the time. He'd fallen in bad with the mafia, owed them more money than even Verger could give him. They were closing in on his head when he died, and so while some people thought that the man he'd falsely indited for murder killed him, everyone else thought the mafia had finally nailed him. No one missed him except for his wife. The reward for capturing your father still stands, but the one for your mother has gone up to over six million dollars."

"And these people in particular want to kill me and my family because . . ."

"I'm getting there. In killing Pazzi, they feel that Lecter personally insulted them. They had their mark on him, and the only people who could kill Pazzi would be personally hired by the mafia, not some American serial killer. Ordinarily, they would have been satisfied with the sum they could get for turning Lecter over to the authorities, but in another example of how twisted they really are, they got word that your mother was in contact with Pazzi the night he died and think that she was trying to get him to Lecter discreetly. In reality, Clarice was warning him away from Lecter, but since they consider her an accomplice, they want her dead. And her reward is sizably larger than your father's, so it would cover most of Pazzi's debts and leave some spending cash."

"For what?" I sneered. "A pole to stick her head on? Do they really intend to fly to America and turn her over?"

"No. The Italian parliament is insulted by the fact that two Americans were involved in the death of a native detective—"

"That's bullshit. You said he was a patsy to them."

"I didn't, but he was. The reward in America for her is only two million, but the Italian mafia is in a bit of a financial snitch, so they're playing it safe and rich by turning her over dead, and I think that they're hoping to get lucky and catch Lecter in the process."

"Great. Peachy. Looks like they've hit the States and Canada, huh?"

"I'd say so. You should probably change out that wrap," he added, motioning to my hand.

"Oh yeah."

"You don't talk like you were from in Canada," he pointed out.

"I wasn't. I had vacations every few months to London, and so I picked up an accent."

"It's not the movie-type English I've heard."

"No, it's sort of like Eliza in My Fair Lady. Well, some of the friendliest people I met spent a lot of time with me, and they had that twang to their English. Yeah, London was nice, but I liked living in Florence much better," I sighed distantly.

"You lived in Florence? Jesus, that took guts on Lecter's part."

"I can see where you think that." Then my blood ran cold. Florence. Oh, shit. Oh, I needed to talk to Mom and Dad—shit, how much worse could this get.

"You okay?"

"No, my parents are flying to Florence from Baltimore!"

And then, like some kind of sign, the cell phone beside me flashed its screen in a signal that someone was calling. I'd had the ringer off so that I could fly.

"Who is it?" asked Crawford before I could hit 'answer.'

"That would be a very pissed off dad. Please don't make this bad for yourself, okay? He'd like nothing more than an excuse to . . ." I fell short and hit the button. "Please, please, please don't kill me," I began.

"Do me a favor and tell me exactly where you are," came Dad's calm voice. I was in so much more trouble than I'd counted on . . .

"Hi, Dad," I said meekly, feeling about two inches tall. "OH! God, hear me out real quick—don't go to Florence!"

"Did you have prior appointments? Say, with the only room you'll see till you're thirty?"

"Funny, Daddy," I snapped.

"I didn't think so."

"No, I mean it—I found out who tried to kill us today! It's the Italian mafia or something—some guy you did in a long time ago, Pazzi? He owed them money and they were going to kill him, but something like you did it first . . . I don't know, so now you've got a price on your head," I burst out before I could hear any more about how badly I was grounded.

"Thank you for taking the spotlight off of how much trouble you're in," he replied smoothly, his voice never raising a bit.

"Dad . . ."

"I don't want to hear it," he told me shortly. "You don't even realize how close your mother came to being killed today—"

"But—"

"And by being separate from myself and her, you've put yourself in twice the danger you were in before. Either you tell me exactly where you are, or I find out. And you don't want me to do that."

"Did you totally ignore what I told you?" I exclaimed. "If you go to Florence, it'll be like walking into the lion's den!"

"And how exactly did Daniel fare in the lion's den, Jacqueline?" he asked coldly.

"Daniel had visions, okay? And he had a little help from up there, and I don't think we've got them on our party list. You have to listen to me—"

"To the best of my knowledge, anyone who wants anything from us is in Vancouver."

"How do you know they didn't follow us to Baltimore or D, C.?" I demanded, then smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand.

Jack Crawford was watching me talk as though he should be recording the conversation. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"Hang on, Dad." I covered the mike with my thumb. "Is that smart? I didn't think so. How much hot water would you get in for that?"

"Jacqueline. You didn't fly to Washington, D, C.," I could hear Dad seething from his end. I've never heard him genuinely angry until that point.

"You need to understand that I found someone who will help us," I insisted. "He knew enough to let me know NOT to let you go to Florence!"

"Give me names," he ordered.

"Hell no."

"Then put him on."

"I'll tell you what I told him—hell no."

"What are you trying to hide?" he asked with a new note in his voice. "Or should I say . . . who?"

"Shut up," I growled. "It's not your place to hassle me on my own personal choices, okay? I think we fare better with his help."

"I'll decide that."

"No, it's my decision. You want to run and hide in Florence, Dad—I want to take care of this."

"I am not hiding in Florence, Jacqueline. Nor am I running from anything."

"Jacqueline—"

"Please, Mr. Crawford, give me a minute." Then, in light of my second Freudian slip, I kicked myself in the ass silently and waited anxiously for my father to catch it.

"Crawford?" he repeated finally. "Crawford—Jack Crawford?"

I could hear an exclamation in the background. "What about Jack Crawford?" came Mom's voice.

"Yes, what about him?" asked Dad, calm once again.

"Nothing," I mumbled.

"Why don't you let me talk to him? It's been so long since he and I had words."

"What did I say about hell no? I don't need this kind of pressure, Dad, and letting you talk to him is not something I need."

"Let me decide that," Crawford put in. "I want to talk to the son of a bitch."

"NO WAY. This is to both of you, because I know you can both hear me, so ABSOLUTELY NOT. I don't trust either of you on the phone with each other, so I'm just going to tell you don't go to Florence!"

"Well it's too late, because we're on one of those ridiculous airplane phones."

"Goddamnit! Why can't you call me ahead of time?" I demanded. "And why do you have to make a show out of some Italian detective! Can't you do conventional stuff, like gardening or music?"

"Don't make this my fault, Jacqueline."

"Dad! Crazy as all this may come off as to you—"

"He's seen it all before. Probably done most of it, too," put in Jack so that my father could hear.

"Tell Jackie that I still remember how much effort he put into my arrest," Dad snarled.

"Why you—" if I hadn't been on the phone and Dad had been there in person, I think Jack Crawford would have lunged at him.

"You can both hear each other," I snapped.

"Go on," Crawford told me. "I personally want to hear what you have to say. Unlike some creatures that call themselves human fathers."

"Don't criticize my parenting skills, Jack Crawford."

"DAD! WILL YOU STOP IT!" I exploded. "You're not taking this seriously—someone seriously tried to kill us both this morning, and then someone tried to kill Mom half an hour later! And you're walking right into it like it's nothing—you going to Florence is like—I don't know, like—a fly heading toward a bug zapper! You can ground me all you want for calling on Jack Crawford for help, but if he's willing to help then I think I deserve to let him!"

"Are you worried about my safety, Jacqueline?" he asked, finally not angry or malicious.

"Yes, I am. Jeez looize, I don't want to grow up by myself."

"Don't worry. I am anything but conventional, and far from worried about what the Mafia thinks they can do to me."

"I know that. But that doesn't make me or Mom conventional."

"Don't worry about your mother, either. If she wants something . . ."

I saw Jack Crawford pay close attention to this.

"She gets it. And if she can't, then it gets her. But one way or another, she ends up with what she wants."

I frowned. I didn't quite grasp what he meant by that, and I don't think I was supposed to, but Jack certainly did. He sighed heavily and took a sip of coffee.

"If your mother wants to survive, then she will. Jack Crawford did not train fools in his office."

I bit back a smile. Maybe Dad could still come around—in that way where he never would. But oh well.

"But I don't want you in Washington D, C.. Is that understood?"

"Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"Florence, where I can watch over you myself."

"Hey, discuss that with someone who has money. This ticket was free. Some chick named Judy gave it to me."

"I'll make arrangements."

"Right. Bye, Daddy. Tell Mom I said hi."

I hung up before anything else could go wrong. I was going back to Florence. Great.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crawford. He's not always like that," I sighed.

"He is to me. And you can call me Jack," he added.

"That could get confusing, Jack. I go by that name too."

"Do you still want my help, or has your father convinced you otherwise?" Jack asked.

"Do I look crazy? I'm in enough trouble already; I can afford to get into some more."

"Do you have anywhere to stay?"

"No. I came here on blind faith and a fainting spell in the airplane. Otherwise I think I would have gotten off before it was too late. Why?"

"Because I need one more person to do this, and she was a good friend of Clarice's when she . . . ran off. Anyway, I think she has room for you. Tell her Jack Crawford sent you."

I laughed nervously. "What kind of movie promo is this?"

*

AN: Tell me if it sucks. I've finished it, but you guys are deciding whether I post it or not. And be honest. Later!