Well, here I am again! And with another chapter, my goodness . . . it took me long enough. Sorry about that—I originally had it written so that Mapp met Jack in the Vancouver air port by chance when someone shot at her and Starling, but I wanted her to call Jack Crawford without knowing who she was calling, so I re-wrote that and posted what you know of as chapter 2. This chapter I hated to start with, and I'm still not sure if I did it okay—I had a point to convey and so I tried to. But I don't know, tell me what you think. And I hate how I ended the whole thing, so I'm re-writing that, too. Sorry, I know. And you won't believe it—after only three chapters, I finally own them all! Ah . . . yeah, right. Later, keep up the lovely reviews! Thanks—you're the people I write this for!
*
Ardelia finally set the phone down in its cradle and sat back in her chair, her dark almond gaze level with my own maroon. (Why did Dad have to have maroon eyes? I mean, I could totally see him with blue eyes and not look weird or anything. I guess that's just Dad for you, though. He can't stick with what other people would want. But to ease my mind, and probably to amuse his, Dad had blue contacts so that he wasn't quite as noticeable.)
"So what did Jack Crawford say?" I asked.
"Someone is very set on killing you. But here's my question—why would the Mafia want you? To my knowledge they've been hunting Clarice Starling. Why you?"
I could see the wheels turning in her head, and I couldn't decide whether I should tell her myself or if I should let her figure it out on her own.
I shrugged. Probably shouldn't. Oh, fuck it. "Why not? Think about it, Agent Mapp. How familiar do I look?"
"How familiar can you look? I've never met you before."
She was studying me with such intensity and she had the answer right on the tip of her tongue, she just wouldn't say it.
"Well who do I remind you of?"
"I know what you want me to say, and you act nothing like Starling."
"Granted. Who do I act like?"
Mapp narrowed her eyes. "Someone."
"I may look like my mother, but I am my father's daughter through and through. Almost." I couldn't let her think I was some kind of . . . well, cannibal, and decided I should do what I did with Jack Crawford. "And I should tell you that . . ." I sighed. Let her figure it out herself. "I'm a vegetarian. It's not that I don't trust my dad when he cooks, it's just the concept of 'what if.' From here, you figure out what I'm trying to say."
How much more indecisive can I be? First I wanted to come out and tell Ardelia myself, then I wanted her to just figure it out herself—with some hints, of course. But now I wasn't sure if I even wanted to tell her—on the simple basis that she probably knew, from the look on her face.
Dawning. Surprise. Shock. A few other things I couldn't place. But I think horror and a little nausea was in order for her, as her opinion of my father was probably lower than Jack Crawford's. If that was even possible.
"So? What do you think?" I asked, acting very smooth. Inside I was wound tighter than a rubber band.
Silence.
Oh, God, I killed her. Don't tell me she had a heart attack, please, I can't handle that now.
"Right . . . I should have told you earlier." I let out a heaving sigh and shoved my hair out of my face. "But it's not an easy thing to tell people."
"I can imagine."
"Well—yeah, I guess you can. You and Jack Crawford are the only ones who know right now."
"And that's why you're a target," Ardelia murmured. "They'll get you before Starling." She held her tongue for only a moment. "Or—I guess it's Lecter now, isn't it?"
I shook my head. "No. They can't legally get married, with the bulletins out for Dad and all. But we have false identities that we live under, so they've been married since Mom was twenty-six under fake names. It's nice to think that there's some way for Mom and Dad to be married, since it ain't happening in the real world. Technically she's still Starling."
"Ummm."
I took a sip of tea to hide my discomfort. "Is that all Jack said?"
"Yeah. Just sort of explained your Mafia situation. Omitting some things."
"I would think so."
More silence.
"Do you know when you'll hear from your parents?"
"No. They're on their way to Florence."
"How brilliant."
"That's what I said, but Dad wasn't in the mood to be wrong. So here I am, and there they go."
"Sounds like it. And you do know that your father is a cannibal, right?"
I vividly remembered having this discussion with Jack Crawford earlier. "He's retired," I muttered.
"For now."
"What does that mean?" I snapped irritably. I don't have my dad's patience. I have my mom's smart mouth. It's not a fair trade.
"It means that you weren't even born when he was on his killing spree," she replied sharply. "I was. And in all technicalities, it's his fault that your mom is in so much trouble with the FBI now. All the people she supposedly murdered were victims of Hannibal Lecter—Mason Verger, Frederick Chilton, two police officers from the Tennessee mental institution—that's just a few, and she didn't kill any of them. Chilton hasn't been proven dead yet, but he's been missing for almost thirty years now and he's not even listed as a kidnapping. Lecter sent him a note after his escape and practically told him that he would be an entrée in the near future. Verger had an eel shoved down his throat and there was some of Lecter's hair and scalp under his nails. And the police officers—well, no one is certain of how they died exactly because of how many arteries and body parts were cut off. That's the truth of it."
"Yeah, I knew about Chilton and the officers. Verger wasn't Dad—he and Mom had cut town by then. Damned if I could point fingers, but I wouldn't if I could. And with the conviction you said that with, you don't think my mother did all that, either. Whatever my father did or didn't do, my mom's ass is on the line for no reason, and that's what I want your help with. Or—I guess that's what Jack Crawford wants your help with, anyway. But whatever you have to do, I have to be on a plane to Florence when my parents tell me when my flight is. Dad is pissed off enough that I'm in D, C. with Jack Crawford to start with, and I don't want to be in any more trouble. What you decide probably says if my mom gets turned into a head on a pole or not. It's your call." I set down my teacup firmly, and then my memory flickered to when I was little, and Dad dropped a teacup from the table. It was empty, and I never knew if it was an accident or not, but the curiosity with which he studied the remains always made me wonder what he thought about when he saw the pieces shatter on the floor. Later on, when I was twelve, I wondered if the cup would ever come back together. I don't know why. It just seemed like a decent thing to think of. And then, sitting in front of Ardelia Mapp, I briefly considered knocking the teacup off the table to see what would happen to it. But common sense told me it would shatter across the clean tile like anything else would, and that anything else would shatter across the clean tile like the teacup. So I didn't. Maybe that's why Dad was pronounced insane and I wasn't—because I knew that the teacup would never come back together. If that was even what Dad thought about when the teacup broke.
She sighed. "I'll think about it and tell you in the morning."
The day pretty much halted there.
*
I rolled over in the guest bed to the ringing of my cell phone, of whose ringer I had turned on extra-loud that night just in case. I made myself wake up so that Dad wouldn't get on me for sleeping late, which I was sure I did.
"Hello?" I yawned.
"Hi, Jack," came Mom's voice.
"Morning," I replied. "Are you in Florence yet?"
"Change of plans, you're going to Paris."
"I'm going to Paris, or we're going to Paris?"
"We. Sorry. We're not in Florence anymore, we're on a train to Paris now."
"Oh. So when do I fly out?"
Mom thus proceeded to give me the time and departure number, whatever, for my flight and told me that I should just give my last name. My fake one, of course, but you know what I mean.
"Hey . . . this is a goofy question, but why the hell did you go to Florence without me, even before you knew I was in Washington?" I asked, too tired to care about the answer.
"Oh . . . we weren't, your dad was referring to the payphones in the terminal."
"He said 'ridiculous airplane phones.'"
"Well that was his opinion of the phone he was on."
"Right. So did you end up catching the same flight?"
"You mean after someone tried to kill us again? Oh, yes. We were originally going to wait for you—or fly out to Washington, we were still deciding—but then the phone booth next to us blew up."
"Fun. Well I guess I'll see you guys tomorrow, huh?"
"Yeah. Uh—" she dropped her voice for a moment. "Before you hang up . . . how is Crawford?"
"Jack? Oh, he's . . . tired," I finally said, for lack of a better word. "I think he took mandatory retirement hard."
"He wasn't looking forward to it," she replied. "He's been getting dealt a bad hand for a long time. His wife died while I was still in the Academy, but he'd been taking care of her for years before that. And he was good friends with Will Graham, and Will's had it hard, too. Those were just a few things that stacked up against him."
I can guess at some of the others.
"He's not half bad. I can imagine what kind of section chief he made."
"He never wanted much more than that. Crawford thought he could help more with a smaller title. It earned him more respect, because everyone knew he could have been in charge of everyone if he wanted to."
"Well I like him."
"I did, too. But too much has changed."
I was quiet for a minute before saying anything else. "He blames himself, you know. For you and Dad—he took it really hard, and that's why. He thinks that if you hadn't gone in to see Dad, none of this would have happened—because he was the one who sent you in."
"I know he did, no matter what I told him. And by the time he really needed to hear it, well . . ."
"Yeah. I guess Dad's not in there now, is he?" I asked with a smile. Mom has never discussed her time with the FBI when Dad was around. It's not that he ever got mad, but I don't think Mom ever felt comfortable enough discussing any sort of longing for her old job. I don't know. I'm not the ex-FBI agent, am I?
"No, he's getting ice. I should probably let you go. I have to pay for this phone call twice—once on my tab, and once on your cell phone bill."
That's when Ardelia Mapp stuck her head into the room. "Who are you talking to?"
"I have to run, Mom. I'll pay for this one, okay?"
Mapp blanched a bit. "Jesus," she whispered.
"I don't care—you don't need to worry about phone bills till you go to college."
"Of course. Later, okay?"
"Love you, Jack."
"You too. Tell Dad I said hi."
"How about we tell him you said hello?"
"Oh. Tell Dad I said hello."
"Of course."
"Bye."
We hung up, and I rubbed some sleep out of my eyes so that I could look at Ardelia Mapp. "Sorry. I'm not going to Florence—Mom wanted to tell me that I'm going to Paris."
"Paris?" she repeated. "Fancy. But Lecter always did like it fancy."
"And for that, I've never flown coach a day in my life. I fly out at noon."
"To Paris?" asked Mapp.
"No, to Siberia. I'm meeting my parents at the Paris airport—Dad made all the arrangements already."
"I see. As an FBI agent, I can't really let you leave."
"Are you off-duty?"
"Yes."
"Then until you clock in at the office, you're not an FBI agent."
"That's not how it works."
"I haven't done anything wrong, and neither have my parents . . . for like seventeen years, anyway. Look, we're not going to cook anyone—or Dad isn't going to, as the case may be. You can have me tabbed in Paris, if you want," I offered. "So long as Dad doesn't find out."
Mapp frowned. "I have other plans. I'll give you a ride to the airport, okay? You fly out in a little over an hour."
"Shee-it. Oh wait, I only have a carry-on bag. No baggage problems," I remembered. But I was still very suspicious—as the daughter of a national delinquent, I am suspicious by nature, and Ardelia Mapp was letting me walk very easily. She wasn't even ordering me to take her to France with me in hopes of catching my father or my mother, whichever seemed more reasonable. Dad on the simple basis that he was a murderer (such a kind word in comparison to 'cannibal,' don't you think?), Mom on the more complicated basis that Mapp felt that she'd been betrayed by a good friend and lied to on a few levels.
"So you're really going to let me leave?" I added.
"Yes. You have a point—you haven't done anything wrong. I can't legally keep you here without getting sued for kidnapping, and I don't want to think of the other ways I could get in trouble," she replied. I tried very hard not to smile—she was thinking well enough to come up with a decent point. Her problem would not be legal, by the time Dad was done with her. It would all be a matter of how much medical insurance she had.
I can't believe half the things I find funny. Sometimes it's enough to make me sick.
"And you're giving me a ride to the airport?"
"Yeah. Go ahead and get dressed—I'm assuming those are clothes in your bag, right?"
"Yeah. My mom dropped the bag at the airport, and I guess I picked it up when I hauled ass to the plane."
I did? Yeah, I guess so.
"While you're getting dressed, I have to call the office and tell them that I'm going to be later than I already am, if you don't mind."
"I'm not complaining."
She ducked out of the room, and again I had the feeling that Mapp was being too easy, just letting me fly out to France, no strings attached. Something was up . . . in my own opinion, at least.
I opened the bag to see what Mom had packed in there and if it was even my clothes—yes, they were, and I cheered up more when I found Dad's hat in with my stuff. It was a duffel bag and only had clothed for one day, but they were good clothes. A pair of my old tailored blue jeans, a little white tank top that Mom only let me wear around the house and under a shirt, and lo and behold, a black overshirt with white buttons. The hat in question was one of Dad's that I borrowed all the time, nice and white with a black hatband. I love that hat.
The clothes were mine, so they fit nicely—the white tank top hugged me tightly, and the black shirt hung loosely in nice contrast. The jeans were your average wear-me fit, and the hat just made my day.
I walked into the kitchen where Mapp was just hanging up the phone, and I felt a hundred percent better than I had in that stupid skirt. The hat was resting on my head comfortably—no, I mean it. I am In Love with that hat.
"So was that your office?" I asked.
"Yeah. They're okay with it."
How could it be that easy? Why was it that easy? It couldn't be that easy.
Maybe she just had a nice boss.
I gripped the strap of my duffel fidgetively—I just made that word up. "So are you ready?"
"Yeah. I'll see you to the gate."
Okay. Or you could see me to the gate. It would have been less intruding to just drop me off, you total freaking stranger.
At the irritated thought, I laughed at myself. Was I anyone to talk? I'd practically demanded a place to stay from her, and I didn't even know who she was. And I'd wheedled a hot chocolate from Jack Crawford, another stranger who knew me only through my mother's memory. What I needed was someone I'd known for a loooong time, not another stranger—oh, but then I'd never get anything again.
I shook my head and tried to clear the incessant babbling of my own nervous mind as she escorted me out to her car—an older Mustang, classic but old enough to be a piece of junk. Hers was very similar to the one Mom used to have, but it had a removable hard-top for a roof and it was green. "Let's go."
