4
"Hello, Dr. Lecter," Clarice listened to her own voice speak with an inward sort of incredulity. She had no recollection of commanding her voice to speak, or thinking of what words would come from her lips. The words just came, automatically. Like breathing.
"You're doing very well, Clarice. I knew you would figure out our little game, though I was worried that you wouldn't figure it out so quickly. Bravo, Agent Starling," he spoke with a smile evident in his voice, with the same tones and inflections that she had memorized from hours of listening to tapes of him speaking. Somehow the sound of it rang in her head, made her dizzy, and she found herself slowly sinking to sit on the floor before the great clock.
"What's the game this time doctor?" she asked, this time on purpose... and was somewhat dismayed to find that her voice had melted into a mere whisper, though she had intended it to sound forceful. "Why are you doing this?"
"It doesn't make much sense, does it? You can't figure out why I'm back, why I haven't gone to live the rest of my life in general anonymity... or at least avoid putting myself back into the spotlight with you. It's not a very sound career move, now is it?"
The quick smooth response he offered made her feel, yet again, like every move she made and every word out of her mouth was anticipated. It was unsettling, feeling as though there was nothing she could do that would surprise him... but more than that, it made her angry. "I'm getting tired of your games. I asked you a question, I'd appreciate an answer Dr. Lecter. Why are you doing this?"
"Now, now, patience is a virtue. Surely you've learned that in the FBI, waiting for the table scraps they throw you from time to time. We mustn't spoil the game too soon, that would ruin the entire purpose."
"And what is that?" she asked, voice lowering to a whisper as her fingers tightened around the cell phone at that last taunt.
"To open your eyes, Clarice. Go down to the dock."
Then he was gone. Gone before she had a chance to respond. She knew the second he hung up, the sound on the other end was infinitely more empty even than his silences. She felt as though she was moving through a sort of fog as she pressed the button to turn off the phone, knowing that he wouldn't call again.
'And what is that?'
'To open your eyes...'
"But why, damnit?" she murmured to herself, as she slowly rubbed the tips of her fingers across her closed eyelids.
**********
The dock. She remembered the dock as well as any other part of that evening, memory heightened by the adrenaline that had still been coursing through her veins at that time, after narrowly avoiding losing her hand.
Perhaps most vividly etched into her mind were those fireworks, those great explosions celebrating the day of freedom, while Dr. Lecter went off to who knows where, celebrating the freedom that he himself managed to keep for another day.
As Clarice walked down towards the planks of wood leading out onto the lake, she was surprised to find that she felt even more exposed now than she had then, when she was clothed in only that slip of an evening gown. Despite the jeans she wore, the jacket, she felt as though she were naked, trapped under watchful eyes, illuminated under the moonlight as much as she would be in broad daylight.
It was not a pleasant sensation.
"What are you planning, Dr. Lecter?" she asked of the night... and felt instantly ridiculous as she paused to see if an answer would come back at her, from the shadows beneath the trees, or hidden in the boat.
The boat.
It wasn't the same one that had been there before, but basically the same style - she knew too little about boats to be able to cite the differences, and she didn't dwell on it. Understandably. Her mind was more seriously occupied, not knowing what she might find down here.
So far this little walk down memory lane had not been particularly pleasant for her.
She found what it was he wanted her to find at the end of the dock. She'd never actually been down there before, and she felt certain that the dock was going to collapse beneath her at any second - but it held firm as she bent down to pick the little thing up.
She was surprised that she could still feel anger towards Dr. Lecter after all that he'd put her through. She thought that by the she'd be immune to his mental tricks, and the little games he seemed to delight in tormenting her with.
What Clarice had found at the end of the dock, what she held in her hands, was a fluffy little stuffed lamb.
Its mouth had been sewn shut.
**********
The drive home from Krendler's old home was a blur. The grip that Starling had on the steering wheel of her car was nothing less than a death grip; her knuckles were white the entire way home, and a jaw was clenched. Occasionally she felt the strange rage in her belly begin to fade, but it would flare up again with only a glance to the forlorn stuffed animal sitting on the passenger's seat, those red glass eyes laughing at her out of the darkness.
The depth of her anger was something that she couldn't quite understand. She had reason to be mad, of course.
After all this treasure hunt, it had led to a dead end. Nothing. The lamb was no clue.
Once again, he brought up that most tender are of her past... ground it into her face until there was nothing she could do but dwell on it, on it and the fact that he, of all the people in the world, was the only person she'd ever confided this past in.
But still, the degree of her fury at the good doctor seemed excessive. Frightening even.
She didn't realize that she was crying until she squealed into the parking lot outside of her apartment building, and it only made the red-hot anger well up inside her again. Why should she cry? Why should -he-, of all people, be able to make her cry.
She finally attributed it to how tired she was, snatched up the little toy lamb, and silently stormed her way into the building.
The elevator was broken. That left five flights of stairs for her to go up. This did not improve her mood. Endless stairs, weary eyes, and a stuffed lamb with neat little stitches across its mouth. And her bed was five floors above her. She started walking, and narrowly resisted the temptation to throw the lamb in the convenient trash can beside the door.
Four floors.
Three floors, with a few minutes spent in obligatory conversation with the old woman who lived on that level.
Two.
One, with a brief holdup as the sleazy man in 421 tried out some of his new pickup lines.
Then she was there, on her floor... then in front of her door. 556.
She was just sticking her key in the lock, and beginning to turn it, that her eyes drifted over. The door next to hers, her neighbor. The number embossed in gold in the wood.
The first five, standing for the floor that they were on.
Then Fifty-Four. 554. 54. It had been there. Right in front of her.
Hannibal Lecter was living in her apartment building, separated from her by no more than a foot of sheetrock and wood, or whatever it was that they used to build the place.
Clarice found that she had stopped blinking, stopped breathing, staring at that shiny number.
It took her a moment to notice the number moving.
Moving as the door swung open.
**********
Author's Note: Aiaiaiaiai! Way too long! Way too long! It's been way too long since I've written. I can only hope that you will all forgive me for my tardiness, and we will all keep our fingers crossed that I'm more prompt next time! I got busy. Bad Potato, bad bad bad. My thanks go out to arachniphiliac, Steel (Another loyal fan that will hopefully forgive me, I love you, really!), Satai Nad, Zechs Merquise, Shiva, chameleon, October, and Tourn. Thank you all so very much! It's because of you that I -finally- managed to get back to this! XOXO, and all that. Happy Belated Valentine's Day.
"Hello, Dr. Lecter," Clarice listened to her own voice speak with an inward sort of incredulity. She had no recollection of commanding her voice to speak, or thinking of what words would come from her lips. The words just came, automatically. Like breathing.
"You're doing very well, Clarice. I knew you would figure out our little game, though I was worried that you wouldn't figure it out so quickly. Bravo, Agent Starling," he spoke with a smile evident in his voice, with the same tones and inflections that she had memorized from hours of listening to tapes of him speaking. Somehow the sound of it rang in her head, made her dizzy, and she found herself slowly sinking to sit on the floor before the great clock.
"What's the game this time doctor?" she asked, this time on purpose... and was somewhat dismayed to find that her voice had melted into a mere whisper, though she had intended it to sound forceful. "Why are you doing this?"
"It doesn't make much sense, does it? You can't figure out why I'm back, why I haven't gone to live the rest of my life in general anonymity... or at least avoid putting myself back into the spotlight with you. It's not a very sound career move, now is it?"
The quick smooth response he offered made her feel, yet again, like every move she made and every word out of her mouth was anticipated. It was unsettling, feeling as though there was nothing she could do that would surprise him... but more than that, it made her angry. "I'm getting tired of your games. I asked you a question, I'd appreciate an answer Dr. Lecter. Why are you doing this?"
"Now, now, patience is a virtue. Surely you've learned that in the FBI, waiting for the table scraps they throw you from time to time. We mustn't spoil the game too soon, that would ruin the entire purpose."
"And what is that?" she asked, voice lowering to a whisper as her fingers tightened around the cell phone at that last taunt.
"To open your eyes, Clarice. Go down to the dock."
Then he was gone. Gone before she had a chance to respond. She knew the second he hung up, the sound on the other end was infinitely more empty even than his silences. She felt as though she was moving through a sort of fog as she pressed the button to turn off the phone, knowing that he wouldn't call again.
'And what is that?'
'To open your eyes...'
"But why, damnit?" she murmured to herself, as she slowly rubbed the tips of her fingers across her closed eyelids.
**********
The dock. She remembered the dock as well as any other part of that evening, memory heightened by the adrenaline that had still been coursing through her veins at that time, after narrowly avoiding losing her hand.
Perhaps most vividly etched into her mind were those fireworks, those great explosions celebrating the day of freedom, while Dr. Lecter went off to who knows where, celebrating the freedom that he himself managed to keep for another day.
As Clarice walked down towards the planks of wood leading out onto the lake, she was surprised to find that she felt even more exposed now than she had then, when she was clothed in only that slip of an evening gown. Despite the jeans she wore, the jacket, she felt as though she were naked, trapped under watchful eyes, illuminated under the moonlight as much as she would be in broad daylight.
It was not a pleasant sensation.
"What are you planning, Dr. Lecter?" she asked of the night... and felt instantly ridiculous as she paused to see if an answer would come back at her, from the shadows beneath the trees, or hidden in the boat.
The boat.
It wasn't the same one that had been there before, but basically the same style - she knew too little about boats to be able to cite the differences, and she didn't dwell on it. Understandably. Her mind was more seriously occupied, not knowing what she might find down here.
So far this little walk down memory lane had not been particularly pleasant for her.
She found what it was he wanted her to find at the end of the dock. She'd never actually been down there before, and she felt certain that the dock was going to collapse beneath her at any second - but it held firm as she bent down to pick the little thing up.
She was surprised that she could still feel anger towards Dr. Lecter after all that he'd put her through. She thought that by the she'd be immune to his mental tricks, and the little games he seemed to delight in tormenting her with.
What Clarice had found at the end of the dock, what she held in her hands, was a fluffy little stuffed lamb.
Its mouth had been sewn shut.
**********
The drive home from Krendler's old home was a blur. The grip that Starling had on the steering wheel of her car was nothing less than a death grip; her knuckles were white the entire way home, and a jaw was clenched. Occasionally she felt the strange rage in her belly begin to fade, but it would flare up again with only a glance to the forlorn stuffed animal sitting on the passenger's seat, those red glass eyes laughing at her out of the darkness.
The depth of her anger was something that she couldn't quite understand. She had reason to be mad, of course.
After all this treasure hunt, it had led to a dead end. Nothing. The lamb was no clue.
Once again, he brought up that most tender are of her past... ground it into her face until there was nothing she could do but dwell on it, on it and the fact that he, of all the people in the world, was the only person she'd ever confided this past in.
But still, the degree of her fury at the good doctor seemed excessive. Frightening even.
She didn't realize that she was crying until she squealed into the parking lot outside of her apartment building, and it only made the red-hot anger well up inside her again. Why should she cry? Why should -he-, of all people, be able to make her cry.
She finally attributed it to how tired she was, snatched up the little toy lamb, and silently stormed her way into the building.
The elevator was broken. That left five flights of stairs for her to go up. This did not improve her mood. Endless stairs, weary eyes, and a stuffed lamb with neat little stitches across its mouth. And her bed was five floors above her. She started walking, and narrowly resisted the temptation to throw the lamb in the convenient trash can beside the door.
Four floors.
Three floors, with a few minutes spent in obligatory conversation with the old woman who lived on that level.
Two.
One, with a brief holdup as the sleazy man in 421 tried out some of his new pickup lines.
Then she was there, on her floor... then in front of her door. 556.
She was just sticking her key in the lock, and beginning to turn it, that her eyes drifted over. The door next to hers, her neighbor. The number embossed in gold in the wood.
The first five, standing for the floor that they were on.
Then Fifty-Four. 554. 54. It had been there. Right in front of her.
Hannibal Lecter was living in her apartment building, separated from her by no more than a foot of sheetrock and wood, or whatever it was that they used to build the place.
Clarice found that she had stopped blinking, stopped breathing, staring at that shiny number.
It took her a moment to notice the number moving.
Moving as the door swung open.
**********
Author's Note: Aiaiaiaiai! Way too long! Way too long! It's been way too long since I've written. I can only hope that you will all forgive me for my tardiness, and we will all keep our fingers crossed that I'm more prompt next time! I got busy. Bad Potato, bad bad bad. My thanks go out to arachniphiliac, Steel (Another loyal fan that will hopefully forgive me, I love you, really!), Satai Nad, Zechs Merquise, Shiva, chameleon, October, and Tourn. Thank you all so very much! It's because of you that I -finally- managed to get back to this! XOXO, and all that. Happy Belated Valentine's Day.