It couldn't be happening, but it was.
In her hands sat a very tangible letter, inside her house, a waiting fireplace. Tomorrow, she would encounter a Bureau full of greedy, squabbling delegates, people determined to be the end of her, who would kill to glance at the sort of information she held. Over and over again, her eyes traced the name, proud on the expense of the envelope. One word. Claaaarrrriiiiicceee. It only took looking at it to hear his voice, and it was the only script she ever read that reflected any tone.
There were many things that were only applicable when Dr. Lecter was concerned, but Starling preferred not to think about it.
So what was it to be? If she opened it, she incriminated herself, if she burned it she would kill herself. Should she turn it in…well...she wouldn't turn it in. That option was safely ruled out of probability. Despite her alleged position within the Bureau, she would never again willfully do anything to assist their hunt for him. Not after all she had suffered, all she had endured.
All right. Read or burn it.
Starling growled her frustration, mimicked by the quietness surrounding her. Silent curses tore at her vocals, things demanding to be released. Wasn't this supposed to be behind her? Recuperating from the lake house was enough. What right did he have to contact her now? Now that she was in the process – however tedious – of getting her life back together?
That was irrelevant and wrong. She sighed her recognition, brief fury evaporating. To deny her relief in seeing this was to deny the color of the sky. The letter carried only her name – no address or return address. He had delivered it in person. Did that mean he was near at this moment? Watching her? Starling pursed her lips but didn't look around. If he was watching her, she wasn't sure that she cared to *know* just yet. One step at a time.
With another sigh, she looked back to her house, alight now with lamps, front door halfway open. How was it that it still looked bleak to her, perhaps even more so than when she arrived home?
Then his voice was with her again. Teasing. Taunting.
("Were you ever afraid of the dark before, Clarice?")
"There's a first time for everything," she muttered in response, eyes falling once more to the letter in her hand. The envelope seemed to ignite, burning, grinding against her skin. It begged to be opened.
The rest of her parcels were forgotten, abandoned in the mailbox. In a flash, the outside world was unimportant, dreary, shut off to her. It was only Starling and the letter. Starling and her connection to him. Hurriedly, anxious now, she bustled to the door, allowing no time for reconsideration; eager to shut out the sound of his voice speaking sentences she constructed and read the bona fide article. After all, it was most obvious that she wouldn't be rid of him tonight – whichever way.
All that and more, she simply couldn't dispose of the letter without knowing what it said.
Reaching her door, Starling turned once more to the darkness, eyes dimming a bit. She searched bluntly for a figure of his height, dancing eyes, anything to suggest he was outside. Watching her. However, she knew he had the intelligence to evacuate the proximity once his package was delivered. There was that chance she would alert the authorities. That option they both knew, well in advance, she wouldn't choose. Not without reading its content first.
It was hardly orderly, but Starling was beyond following the manual.
When her eyes registered the negative results, she sighed and nodded her acknowledgement to the shadows. An inkling of irritation coursed through her once more. This was so entirely typical of him. Wait until she was settled before striking. Allow her enough air to breathe the scent of normality, even if she hated the thought, before seizing it from her grasp. Even if she did nothing about the letter, folded it away and forced it from her mind, there was that part of her, that very real part that would always know. And despite all her accomplishments in the future, what she might regain in the Bureau, it would follow her forever.
Of course, that was a much broader allegation than a simple letter. That was life in general. Life constructed and based on that morning she went to interview him. Where it all began and ended for her.
To the darkness, to him, should he be near, she whispered a defeated, "Well, I hope you're happy," before closing the door.
Once concealed inside her home, Starling had to bite her lip hard to refrain from tearing the envelope open. She vowed to at least make it to her living room, where the fireplace was handy. There was that chance he would infuriate her to the point of needing to cast his words into an inferno. While she was no stranger to mockery, there was something about it coming from his mouth that made it much more difficult to face. To own up to. She wanted to say that was due to his record, that anyone *that* mad must really have a point if they found terrific flaw in her character. But that wasn't it. That wasn't even apart of it. Through all her life, she had endured ridicule and condemnation, but she faced it, accepted it. The only time it really burned was in standing before his cell those ten years ago, watching this person whom she had just met tear her down to a level that was so frighteningly close to the truth it was difficult to breathe.
His mockery was harsh because it struck close to home. Because it was beyond name-calling and wild allegations.
Exercising every nerve of restraint, Starling walked with unbelievable patience to the chair she had relaxed in just after returning home. Before she remembered the mail awaited outside. Before she was confronted with this issue. With this reoccurring matter that just wouldn't die.
Once she found a comfortable position, she lost her patience. Though careful to not rip the envelope more than necessary in preservation of the letter, she let out an aggravated growl as it battled with her, as all writings of importance do, wanting to remain in its sheathing to drive her to further lunacy.
A thought arose in the midst of this, and she rolled her eyes at herself.
("You shouldn't touch it. Forensics will never forgive you.")
"Fuck forensics," she spat. "What have they done for me lately?"
He would love this. Not a word had been read, and she was already protecting his freedom, even if she didn't realize it.
Once the letter was free and in her grasp, Starling forced herself to calm, mildly ashamed at her eagerness. With a slow breath, she leaned into the cushionary material of her chair, collected herself, and finally brought it to eyesight and began to read.
You look well, Clarice, if you'll permit me to observe.
Now, don't go about getting yourself worked up. Rest assured I am most certainly out of the area. In studying your current work patterns, I speculate you received this around eight o'clock, perhaps later. So, if you felt so compelled, you can ease your guilt. There is no need to send for the hunting dogs, or attention from your friends in the Bureau.
With the risk of eluding a preamble, I will merely state there are several points I would like to highlight. I believe we are beyond lengthy introductions and explanations. Would you agree? I think so.
Washington is lovely this time of the year. You can nearly smell conspiracy in the air. I suppose you're tolerant to its taste now, aren't you? You coat your lungs with it every day. I admit some time has passed, but not much. A few months does not constitute in adequate passing for two old friends whom had not seen each other in a decade. Not the way it used it, anyway. Rumors come and go, Clarice. We've had our share.
As I predicted, people returned to their original hypothesis. The one I mentioned in Memphis all that time ago. Do you remember, Clarice? People will say we're in love. Why, they ask, did she let the monster get away? Why didn't she seize her waiting firearm upstairs instead of trusting her abilities in a rather objectionable snow-shaker? You've heard it all, though. I regret to inform you I was not in the proximity during the time of your strenuous questioning, though I did catch as much as I could through the convenience of headlines and various news programs. You looked fetching, Clarice, though the camera hardly does you justice.
Your morals betrayed you. In questioning your reason, the answer you have relied on since its awakening to your conscious no longer has merit. While I find it admirable that you have a fetish of saving any creature from torture, as well as beyond grateful, it didn't and will not rest with them. The storm has passed, yes, but with what consequences? Simply, Clarice, they didn't see me as a lamb to save, even a black one. Where would the ignominy be in that, to either of us? No. All they saw and continue to see is a federal officer who risked her morals, career, and life to rescue a true 'baddie.' Whatever you further accomplish in that esteemed secretarial job they have so thoughtfully granted will always be overshadowed. By me.
Does that burn you, Clarice? To know you've sacrificed everything only to lose it anyway? Now what are you left with? Hmmm?
Did you still entertain the idea that the FBI will doctor your career? Answer yourself truthfully, Special Agent Starling. I suppose you could turn this letter in and pray for reinstatement, even if it is a price you wish not to pay. I would hope you have the sensibility not to repeat mistakes.
You didn't believe me so much the first time. Perhaps you will now. You believe in the oath you took. They don't. You believe it's your duty to protect the sheep. They don't. It is an institution that doesn't love you back, despite the sweat and tears and blood you've poured over it, for it, in the honor of its all-powerful title. For that motto only recite in faith of its power.
Despite all you have sacrificed, lost, given, had confiscated, they will never see what I see. Does that burn you as well, Clarice? Persistency in women does not earn a reputation for determination. Persistency, you see, is a very unattractive feature when it radiates from the wrong person. As you deduced sometime ago, your gender decided that for you long before coming to work for the FBI.
Yes…I think it burns.
You are used to this, though, aren't you? It's all routine. In and out every day. Your capabilities exceed levels any of them dare dream, and yet you're restricted for one fundamental consistency. Me. I am always there, aren't I, Clarice? I was there for ten years without having to be there at all. Without any immediate influence. It's no wonder the swarming rumors and snide remarks have not dwindled. You were spared, marking you to the world as my weakness. Bearing that in mind, this is new for me as well. I spent years developing a reputation of uncompassionate savagery, tarnished all by one stolen kiss, even if you neglected to jot that down in your statement. You are my Achilles' heel, my honey in the lion.
That being said, I will merge to my true motive.
Clarice, you worry me. In observing you for a few, and I assure you, only a few days, you seem to be overshadowed by ghosts. Beyond the restrictions and commentary of the public and your so-called superiors at the office. Though I dare not venture a guess on what this prohibition you've encountered might entail, I will make an offer. I ask you to at least consider before rejecting.
I want to help you, Clarice. Help you sort through all these little miseries life has so thoughtfully deposited in your lap. However, my offer contains certain aspects pertaining to location that I cannot forfeit through the written word. Consider these thoughts. Should you decide to forgo, I understand. It is easiest to wish our troubles away, and while it has never proven successful, I know we have been through more than humanly possible together. One more confrontation might rightfully be the end for both of us. However, it is a chance I am willing and rather eager to take.
Refer to my older directions by which to contact me, should you reach for contact. We'll have to avert pennames, of course. Shall we say, David and Goliath, speaking of weaknesses? That should elude suspicion, at least for the time being.
Society isn't easy on us, is it, Clarice? I must wonder when such mediocre matters became business of the public.
My own persistency matches yours, you'll see. A fellow just can't say no when the remuneration is too delightfully rewarding to dismiss.
Find where you are, my dear, and see whether or not I neighbor you in intentions. Reflect on these things and decide for yourself. We will go from there.
Regards,
Hannibal Lecter, MD
* * *