For the first few days, the only reply to her treacherous answer to Dr. Lecter's inquiry was the expected waves of guilt and remorse, made no easier by their predictability. In deciding to deceive the Bureau, Starling acknowledged the impending culpability her overly religious conscience would issue. Despite her inner break from any form of deity, her subconscious remained faithful to those values entwined with her at early age.
No matter what the Bureau did to upset her, it in no way excused reaching out to the centerpiece of the Ten Most Wanted list, yearning for personal-gain and not the monster's capture.
The days that followed were hard, perhaps accentuated by her deceit. As she walked the halls, she felt sure that everyone was glaring at her with unforgiving eyes. Eyes that implored to know why. Why had she betrayed them again? All for the sake of the madman. The monster.
Of course, no one could know of her dishonor. If the FBI had reason to suspect her, they would bring her in for questioning. Starling knew from experience that it was not in their custom to sit around if someone was assumed to be involved in activities that made the culprit's prolonged career in the Bureau a distinct impossibility. Especially if the matter concerned her. No one in the Big Office was afraid to approach her about an issue concerning illegal involvement in anything related to Hannibal Lecter. The largest step they took without her knowledge or consent was monitoring her mail. No, Starling knew once they picked up a scent, the Bureau's bloodhounds liked to strike while the trail was hot. Unless she saw them advancing, she felt reasonably safe.
Inwardly, Starling toyed with the idea that nothing in her life would come easy. It was easy to place blame on the uncontrollables, those things she could watch but never touch. After all, as an orphan, it was prearranged that everything bore a heavy price.
At that, she forced herself to a grin as a ridiculous thought rose in her head.
("It's the hard-knock life for us! It's the hard-knock life for us!")After a few days, receiving no reply or any indication that Dr. Lecter relayed her message, Starling felt her frustration building. Suffering from guilt was one thing, suffering without cause was damn near intolerable. Absently, she entertained the thought that this was just a wile of the doctor to see where she stood, if she regretted the decision she so vocally screamed at the lake house. Perhaps he would stand back now and laugh at her, all the while refusing her change of heart.
Of course, Starling had not suggested in the placed article that it was her intention to change her mind. It was merely an answer, something she would have to dwell on for future developments.
Again and again, she referred to the letter for reassurance that her actions were not in vain. Similarly, again and again, she cursed herself for her doubts. It was wide knowledge, even to those who were not familiar with Dr. Lecter's methods, that he never spoke a dishonest word. The delay in his response meant something. Perhaps he was waiting to scope out her motives, to see if she had truly noble intentions. To make sure that her superiors were not looming over her shoulder, masterfully manipulating her as they did all their puppets.
That, in all logicality, seemed most probable.
Though clever, Starling at first feared that the pennames used in the articles were too obvious. Of course, everything is obvious when a risk of being exposed is placed at stake. She thought of her first viewing of 'The Sixth Sense,' how she, unlike the fellow audience members, clued in immediately that Bruce Willis was no different than the other specters haunting the child. She recalled how she thought it unwise to have Haley Joel Osment describe what the problem was with the camera so obviously focused on the dead man himself. And, with some arrogance, Starling reflected how she realized by the number of gasps toward the end that no one else had the slightest idea. It was that sort of perception that made her forget that not all people focused so closely to detail.
No one noticed. She wondered if they even checked.
The message, to her credit, was brief, having been trimmed in several revisions. It seemed odd to edit something that was so small, but she did, again and again until it was satisfactory. And even after the magazine printed, she made note with some disappointment the things she wished she could go back and change. Starling wanted to sound like a person trying to sound like her, not herself trying to sound like someone else. After rationalizing that – thoroughly confusing herself more than once – she gave up and conceded the rag. It really didn't matter what she put, as long as it clearly defined her reply and acceptance of his offer.
Still, in looking over it, she felt a pang of inferiority. Starling was no writer, and she would be the first to admit this. Even in skimming the text, she clearly read her lack of prolific speech. Talking came much easier for her, and she would be glad when the opportunity to more conventional means of discussion were available.
The article read:
Goliath: Message received. Offer accepted. Contact me for further arrangements. – David.
Starling had spent a good hour trying to decipher which one of them was David. After referring to the letter time and time again, she made her choice. Now, in the panicky aftermath of her ruse, she wondered if that was the reason he had neglected to answer. At the mere suggestion that she was dominator, the one who overpowered him, who made him fall to his knees.
But that was nothing he hadn't already stated in the letter, in his own fine copperplate handwriting.
Her reluctance to settle with the thought that his word had not transformed to read something else entire irritated her. It was only a matter of patience, something they both knew she lacked in abundance.
And so, here she was, doing quiet office work, occasionally sent to deliver a message to John Brigham's replacement at the gun range. Every time she retreated, she felt something singe deeply and refused to acknowledge it as loss. The office formerly occupied by Jack Crawford was avoided at all costs. Starling felt abandoned by every reliability once held at Quantico. Ardelia Mapp was gone, transferred and making wedding arrangements. John Brigham, dead and buried. And her mentor, the one person she depended on the most when times trying, reunited with his deceased wife, but leaving her blind with no dog to guide her.
Though, Starling reflected, she was at times glad that Crawford was gone, that he had died before seeing his favorite student blossom only to wither and lose faith in everything he taught. Before he saw her reach for his enemy in a plea for assistance. In need.
Without the support of her closest friends, she felt very much like a rebel in enemy territory. The words of console offered by Clint Pearsall were empty and rehearsed. Though she respected and regarded him with some gratitude, Starling did not miss the disappointment in his tone. The feeling was mutual. Her disappointment with everything she sacrificed herself for was unbearable.
And still, she felt guilt. Guilt for betraying that which she hated.
At night, she returned home to the comfort of hard liquor and continuous Abba, wishing over and over again that she were again young, sweet, and only seventeen. Despite everything, it seemed to cheer her up, if only briefly.
It was around this time that Starling buried herself in the literary world. Having been long disgusted with reality, she turned to novels that took her to places where there was no FBI. Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass was one of her favorites, and she was still trying to conjure an opinion on Lord of the Flies. It was one of the novels she intentionally didn't read in high school.
A month eventually passed and no response from Dr. Lecter. Starling routinely checked her mail, surveyed the landscape before retiring for the evening, and lingered at home a little longer than usual before going to work.
One month – then everything changed.
On a Monday morning, Starling's personal least favorite day of the week, she phoned in and informed Pearsall that she wouldn't be arriving until that afternoon, that she was detained with a splitting headache. Though he attempted to sound concerned, she could tell he was relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with her wealth of pessimism for a few more hours. No questions asked.
In truth, Starling did indeed have a headache, but nothing that wouldn't be solved in a half hour with two aspirin. These days, she searched for any voluble excuse to refrain from facing those who accused her of conspiring while they busied in corners to plot her own demise.
Incidentally, the mail arrived earlier that day than normal. In later years, she would question the convenience of this, but found at the minute she hadn't the strength.
When she opened her mailbox, Starling felt her pulse race and her eyes widen. At long last, she recognized the silky envelope that only he used. Fine script was on the front, this time carrying her address and a stamp. It indicated that he was located in Branson, Missouri, but she knew that was the last place he would turn willingly, outside Vegas.
Like before, Starling discarded all other mail, regardless of bills, holiday cards, or anything else of genuine importance. Instead, she hurried inside; exercising none of the restraint she held the last time such a document arrived at her disposal. It didn't strike her as curious that not once had the thought of wearing latex gloves while studying this in a lab occur to her. Not once did the idea that she should turn the new letter in flutter in her mind. Wasting little time with scrutiny of the envelope, she tore it open, careful not to rip the linen fiber paper, sank to her chair and began reading.
Clarice, you amuse me. Are you growing restless?
His mocking was tolerated. If he had earned anything in the past few months, it was that.
In watching you the past few days – inadvertently admitting, I suppose, my brief return to Washington – I have concluded that you are a woman bored with the world. Bored, and apprehensive. You peer over your shoulder so frequently that one might suspect you were checking to make sure your shadow is still behind you. It's there, Clarice, as it has always been, even if you cannot see it.
Process that a minute. Chew on your lip, as you do when you think strenuously, similarly under the assumption that no one is watching. The motion is terribly provocative.
Studying you while you do not know you are being watched is, ashamedly, the most fun I've had in years. The unveiled chamber of your emotions, what you conceal from the public eye, is most exquisite. I allow you your privacy, of course, and I assure you that I have not reduced myself to the likes of a Peeping Tom. A glance here or there will satisfy me temporarily. Compensation for so many years apart, you see.
But we're not here to discuss me, are we, Clarice? You contacted me in response to my offer of help.
You understand, of course, that I could not respond immediately. Firstly, I had to stretch the window between letters, just in case you felt a streak of unavoidable loyalty and felt compelled to confess your sins to the great whip master in the Bureau. Secondly, I wanted to watch you. Your article was most liberating. Too good to be true, you might say. I had to decide for myself if it was worth believing.
From what I have seen, Clarice, I trust your honesty. Thus far. I believe you are clever enough not to toy with me.
So it is help you seek? We want empathy in our lives so terribly, do we not? To the extent of reaching for the enemy in some reassurance that you have not lost yourself.
These next steps are risky on my part. However, if second thoughts become unbearable, rest assured that I can easily slip out of reach. Understand, Clarice, that if helping you constitutes turning myself in, you are decidedly on your own. I will not face life in a concrete box, nor will I find my fate chosen by bureaucrats.
I suppose you can guess that as you read this, I have again left Washington. As much as I would like to, visiting you in the heart of the land where I am sought the most is not the best move – for either of our benefits – that I could make at the time. If it is a civil conversation you want, which would delightful, I admit, I advise that you rent a car and make reservations on the first flight to London. Don't fret the cost – I will compensate whatever is spent.
However, the reservations are a diversion. Should our dialogue exceed days, we will want to be one step ahead of your friends in the FBI. Enclosed in the envelope, you will find a separate identity for Mrs. Natalie Campbell. You will leave the car rented under your name in the airport parking lot and point the second vehicle toward Philadelphia. Quite a drive, I know, but you have accomplished worse, haven't you? Either way, you will not arrive there the first night.
Along the way is a very small town called Shelbyville. It offers little more to the traveler than a fill-up station and a phone booth. At precisely five p.m tomorrow evening, the phone at the local 7/11 will ring three times, stop, and two minutes later, ring once more. Pick up on the second ring, and I will deliver further instructions.
I do hope you realize why such lengths are required. Should you decide against coming, I understand completely. But Clarice, you did reach to me for help. I am offering that promised empathy, that blessed escape. You may stay as long as you like, once you arrive at the final destination, and leave whenever you feel you have obtained all you need of my advice. I will not make an ungentlemanly advance without your explicit permission, though that is not to say that I expect it. I long ago learned not to predict your actions. Rather than concede defeat when you pull a fast one (which is very typical of you. Delightful so) even without realizing it, I have discovered it is far more pleasant to sit back and watch whatever is destined to unfold.
I await, Clarice. See you soon.
Fondest regards,
– H –
* * *