6
It was already Tuesday. Wednesday was exactly six and a half hours away, Clarice had not slept the whole previous night, and had at last collapsed on her couch with a cold beer in her hand - almost as much to just hold against her forehead than to actually drink.
The remainder of the day before had been spent in contemplation of what the answer to the riddle could possibly mean, what sort of choice she was going to have to make. Of course, while she was thinking about this, she was also standing watch over a team of forensic specialists going over Lecter's room with a fine toothed comb, hoping that he'd slipped up.
She knew that he hadn't. At most they'd find a hair, an eyelash, a fiber from his clothes, maybe a fingerprint or two if they were really lucky. But no way to find him, no way to figure out where he'd gone next. She had a feeling that she had that knowledge, the way to figure out exactly where he was... the way to catch them. Perhaps someone trained in that sort of thing would be able to find out what the answer, a Choice, implied. What the continued reappearance of Fifty-Four meant. There was one problem, the real reason that she was now slumped, exhausted, on her couch... rather than out hunting him down as she would have been with any other criminal.
Special Agent Starling didn't happen to mention the riddle, the letter, or the trip to the mall to her superiors. As far as they knew she had spent the day at the lake house of Paul's, come home, discovered the Asian boy, and called in the report right away. The worst of it was the fact that she wasn't quite sure as to what stopped her from reporting on the riddle. But when she was calling in to give an update... her mouth just stilled when it came time to mention it. She just stopped, and moved on, and still she couldn't quite figure out what had happened.
"I'll call them. But what would I say?" she murmured aloud, holding the cold can against her forehead. "Gee, sorry, just happened to forget to mention the fact that I got some more correspondence from the good doctor. Yeah. He said I have to make a choice, by the way of a rather witty little riddle. Mmhmm. Yup. Just slipped my mind."
Oh yes, that sounded plausible.
Clarice sighed, and drew the piece of paper from where she'd put it on the coffee table. By this point she knew that it was hopeless to get any clues off of it. She'd just get in trouble for not mentioning it earlier... and of everyone out there she was probably just as likely as any other to figure out what he meant. More likely, even, seeing all the past experience she'd had with him.
"And now you're justifying your actions to yourself, Clarie. Things just keep getting better and better," she muttered to herself, scanning the last lines of the letter, trying to flatten out the creases in the page. They'd been there when she first found the letter, precise creases crisscrossing the page... so far she hadn't found any meaning behind them.
Wednesday comes quickly. 54 is still the key.
Something was tickling at the back of her mind, some vague notion... a hunch, perhaps, that was just beginning to be formed in her synapses, and not quite making itself known to her conscious mind. Like that irritating itch when you know someone's name, but can't quite remember. With a low sigh of displeasure she chugged the remains of her beer, then set about folding the letter from the good doctor into the classic paper airplane... like one does with only the most worthless of articles.
It was proving to be very useless indeed.
Strange, the creases in the page were just in the appropriate places for an airplane to be crafted.
This didn't really strike Clarice to its full impact until she'd thrown it, and it was drifting easily across the room and into the kitchen... that's when it hit her. She nearly choked as she launched herself up and off the couch, to get to her computer humming off in the corner of the room.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." It became a semi-frantic chant as she logged onto the internet.
She went to the webpage for the nearest airline. Of course it loaded in the most painstaking way, loading each picture pixel by pixel before moving on to the text... and lastly the links.
She did a search for flight 54.
Again she waited, resisting the urge to tell her computer to hurry up. She'd been talking to herself enough as it was, without starting to order about inanimate objects.
There it was. Paris. He was going to Paris, and the clue had been right in front of her nose ever since she got the note the day before. If she'd only figured it out sooner... but now she didn't have much time.
It took only seconds to alert the FBI that America's most wanted criminal was likely going to be flying to see the Eiffel tower within the next seven hours. The flight was a red-eye midnight, scheduled to leave right on the dot at the witching hour. Five hours, twenty minutes. Time was flying by.
Flying away.
Like him.
"I don't know for certain this is what it meant... well, sir, I didn't mention it before because I hadn't gotten it before. I just received it." Oh, bad Clarice, now you're lying. You're not just omitting, you're flat out lying to your boss. Why? "You want me there, sir? But what... No, sir. No, of course I'll be there."
Of course she'd be there, where else would she go? What other thing in the world could possibly be more important than at last capturing the one man that had managed to elude her. It did seem odd that they'd want her there, seeing that the last time he escaped it was in her presence. But... they wanted her. She'd be there. In two hours.
***********
Oh yes. They were completely inconspicuous. Two men standing, browsing in the gift shop, wearing Hawaiian shirts, and a man sitting and reading a newspaper over there... as well as several other equally well hidden agents. And Clarice. She was hidden away better than the rest, since he would recognize her. She had her doubts however, about how well this was going to work... she had the most eerie feeling that he'd know she was there the instant he walked by, that he'd be able to sense her. Somehow. Obviously that was nonsense, but she studiously kept her nose buried in her book, and kept checking to make sure that the black wig that they'd thrown on her was still in place.
A black wig. You'd think that the grand FBI could have come up with something a little more sophisticated than dumping what looked like roadkill on top of her head. At least they'd nixed the idea of dark glasses, after realizing that they would be indoors at night... and that would just be a little too obvious, even for them.
Hidden beneath the poor squished tribble on her head was a headphone, to allow her to communicate with the other officers. Just in case he was spotted by one and not the rest, the other could be alerted to his presence without delay. Then they could move in. They could grab him. Then they could go home, and go to bed, and move on to the next case...
That was what was on her mind, not the book that she was idly flipping through. The next case. Would there be a next case? For her, her entire career was built on Hannibal Lecter. The only reason she really had a career was Hannibal Lecter. When he was caught and put behind the glass again, would there be anything left for her, or would she end up cleaning rooms like her mommy?
"Bad thoughts," she murmured to herself, and tried to settle her thoughts into a more peaceful strain. Trying, in vain, to think of something other than the man they were there to capture.
She managed to focus her thoughts on taking a vacation, for all of five minutes before it happened.
It seemed almost like he just materialized. He had a tendency to do that. Irritated her.
More irritating, however, was the fact that he sent her a little smile and a wave, before melting back into the crowd milling through the corridors. Strange that there'd be such a crowd for such a late flight... just their luck.
"Subject sighted just outside the Round Table Pizza outlet, heading up the corridor towards you Larry. He saw me. Yes, he recognized me, damnit, I told you this wouldn't work."
Then she was on her feet, listening to the others bark orders at each other, as she headed in the direction that she last saw him.
The hunt was on.
But who was the hunter, and who was the prey?
**********
Author's Note: Whee! Who indeed? You can never really tell. My thanks this time go to Horserider, Steel, Alegretto Emily, LadyOfTruths, Screaming Lamb, DarkShadow, Hanniballover1181, Satai Nad, chameleon302, AD, ZechsMerquise46, Nanci, shiva, SJ, and zara! You guys rock! Yay for you guys!
It was already Tuesday. Wednesday was exactly six and a half hours away, Clarice had not slept the whole previous night, and had at last collapsed on her couch with a cold beer in her hand - almost as much to just hold against her forehead than to actually drink.
The remainder of the day before had been spent in contemplation of what the answer to the riddle could possibly mean, what sort of choice she was going to have to make. Of course, while she was thinking about this, she was also standing watch over a team of forensic specialists going over Lecter's room with a fine toothed comb, hoping that he'd slipped up.
She knew that he hadn't. At most they'd find a hair, an eyelash, a fiber from his clothes, maybe a fingerprint or two if they were really lucky. But no way to find him, no way to figure out where he'd gone next. She had a feeling that she had that knowledge, the way to figure out exactly where he was... the way to catch them. Perhaps someone trained in that sort of thing would be able to find out what the answer, a Choice, implied. What the continued reappearance of Fifty-Four meant. There was one problem, the real reason that she was now slumped, exhausted, on her couch... rather than out hunting him down as she would have been with any other criminal.
Special Agent Starling didn't happen to mention the riddle, the letter, or the trip to the mall to her superiors. As far as they knew she had spent the day at the lake house of Paul's, come home, discovered the Asian boy, and called in the report right away. The worst of it was the fact that she wasn't quite sure as to what stopped her from reporting on the riddle. But when she was calling in to give an update... her mouth just stilled when it came time to mention it. She just stopped, and moved on, and still she couldn't quite figure out what had happened.
"I'll call them. But what would I say?" she murmured aloud, holding the cold can against her forehead. "Gee, sorry, just happened to forget to mention the fact that I got some more correspondence from the good doctor. Yeah. He said I have to make a choice, by the way of a rather witty little riddle. Mmhmm. Yup. Just slipped my mind."
Oh yes, that sounded plausible.
Clarice sighed, and drew the piece of paper from where she'd put it on the coffee table. By this point she knew that it was hopeless to get any clues off of it. She'd just get in trouble for not mentioning it earlier... and of everyone out there she was probably just as likely as any other to figure out what he meant. More likely, even, seeing all the past experience she'd had with him.
"And now you're justifying your actions to yourself, Clarie. Things just keep getting better and better," she muttered to herself, scanning the last lines of the letter, trying to flatten out the creases in the page. They'd been there when she first found the letter, precise creases crisscrossing the page... so far she hadn't found any meaning behind them.
Wednesday comes quickly. 54 is still the key.
Something was tickling at the back of her mind, some vague notion... a hunch, perhaps, that was just beginning to be formed in her synapses, and not quite making itself known to her conscious mind. Like that irritating itch when you know someone's name, but can't quite remember. With a low sigh of displeasure she chugged the remains of her beer, then set about folding the letter from the good doctor into the classic paper airplane... like one does with only the most worthless of articles.
It was proving to be very useless indeed.
Strange, the creases in the page were just in the appropriate places for an airplane to be crafted.
This didn't really strike Clarice to its full impact until she'd thrown it, and it was drifting easily across the room and into the kitchen... that's when it hit her. She nearly choked as she launched herself up and off the couch, to get to her computer humming off in the corner of the room.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." It became a semi-frantic chant as she logged onto the internet.
She went to the webpage for the nearest airline. Of course it loaded in the most painstaking way, loading each picture pixel by pixel before moving on to the text... and lastly the links.
She did a search for flight 54.
Again she waited, resisting the urge to tell her computer to hurry up. She'd been talking to herself enough as it was, without starting to order about inanimate objects.
There it was. Paris. He was going to Paris, and the clue had been right in front of her nose ever since she got the note the day before. If she'd only figured it out sooner... but now she didn't have much time.
It took only seconds to alert the FBI that America's most wanted criminal was likely going to be flying to see the Eiffel tower within the next seven hours. The flight was a red-eye midnight, scheduled to leave right on the dot at the witching hour. Five hours, twenty minutes. Time was flying by.
Flying away.
Like him.
"I don't know for certain this is what it meant... well, sir, I didn't mention it before because I hadn't gotten it before. I just received it." Oh, bad Clarice, now you're lying. You're not just omitting, you're flat out lying to your boss. Why? "You want me there, sir? But what... No, sir. No, of course I'll be there."
Of course she'd be there, where else would she go? What other thing in the world could possibly be more important than at last capturing the one man that had managed to elude her. It did seem odd that they'd want her there, seeing that the last time he escaped it was in her presence. But... they wanted her. She'd be there. In two hours.
***********
Oh yes. They were completely inconspicuous. Two men standing, browsing in the gift shop, wearing Hawaiian shirts, and a man sitting and reading a newspaper over there... as well as several other equally well hidden agents. And Clarice. She was hidden away better than the rest, since he would recognize her. She had her doubts however, about how well this was going to work... she had the most eerie feeling that he'd know she was there the instant he walked by, that he'd be able to sense her. Somehow. Obviously that was nonsense, but she studiously kept her nose buried in her book, and kept checking to make sure that the black wig that they'd thrown on her was still in place.
A black wig. You'd think that the grand FBI could have come up with something a little more sophisticated than dumping what looked like roadkill on top of her head. At least they'd nixed the idea of dark glasses, after realizing that they would be indoors at night... and that would just be a little too obvious, even for them.
Hidden beneath the poor squished tribble on her head was a headphone, to allow her to communicate with the other officers. Just in case he was spotted by one and not the rest, the other could be alerted to his presence without delay. Then they could move in. They could grab him. Then they could go home, and go to bed, and move on to the next case...
That was what was on her mind, not the book that she was idly flipping through. The next case. Would there be a next case? For her, her entire career was built on Hannibal Lecter. The only reason she really had a career was Hannibal Lecter. When he was caught and put behind the glass again, would there be anything left for her, or would she end up cleaning rooms like her mommy?
"Bad thoughts," she murmured to herself, and tried to settle her thoughts into a more peaceful strain. Trying, in vain, to think of something other than the man they were there to capture.
She managed to focus her thoughts on taking a vacation, for all of five minutes before it happened.
It seemed almost like he just materialized. He had a tendency to do that. Irritated her.
More irritating, however, was the fact that he sent her a little smile and a wave, before melting back into the crowd milling through the corridors. Strange that there'd be such a crowd for such a late flight... just their luck.
"Subject sighted just outside the Round Table Pizza outlet, heading up the corridor towards you Larry. He saw me. Yes, he recognized me, damnit, I told you this wouldn't work."
Then she was on her feet, listening to the others bark orders at each other, as she headed in the direction that she last saw him.
The hunt was on.
But who was the hunter, and who was the prey?
**********
Author's Note: Whee! Who indeed? You can never really tell. My thanks this time go to Horserider, Steel, Alegretto Emily, LadyOfTruths, Screaming Lamb, DarkShadow, Hanniballover1181, Satai Nad, chameleon302, AD, ZechsMerquise46, Nanci, shiva, SJ, and zara! You guys rock! Yay for you guys!