So sorry this took so long to post, the week before Easter turns rather hectic for my family. My thoughts and prayers go out to Diana and her friend. Also please forgive me if anything should go astray in this chapter. I'm writing this while dealing with a nice little episode of vertigo. Grrr. It is not much fun, and rather difficult to write while the world spins on its own. Ah well, here we go with the beginning of the end. Ta-ta.

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For what seemed the first night in a long while, there was no rain to greet Clarice as she leaves the basement of Behavioral Sciences and walk to her car. The sun set with a marvelous russet glow, and left a distinct impression on her mind. She didn't place what the impression was of until she was halfway home. A single note of a single unknown song dropped the pieces into place for her, bringing the glow of his eyes into her mind's eye. It bothered Clarice slightly to know that even the simplest thing could bring him to mind, and for a moment she wondered if it would bring him to her as well. He was here, so close, but not where she could see. Tormenting her, promising help, but only giving her the thinnest of scraps to work with. All the en in her life seemed to come to her with the single intent to torment her. Crawford, Lecter, Jame Gumb, and now Darryl Conrad. All fell into the same category, and it frustrated her to no end.

How do I keep attracting men like this? The thought was accompanied by an exasperated sigh as she seized her purse and climbed from the Escort. As luck would have it, the inner psychiatrist was notably absent and unavailable to provide an answer. She trudged across the parking lot, mentally reviewing the necessary items for tonight's dinner. A wire basket is carried in the crook of her arm as she passes up and down the aisles. She doesn't feel the intent gaze that follows her from behind a dark pair of sunglasses.

The checkout lines are non-existent, and she places her baskets contents on the counter, smiling up at the cashier. Her nametag reads "Hi! I'm Abby I'm in training!" as if being in training was something to be excited about. Something tumbles loose in Starling's mind, and she notices something is different.

"Where's D tonight, Abby?"

A shadow of momentary doubt crosses the girl's face then clears. "He called in sick today. Do you know him or something?"

Something. "Not really. I was just curious." the smile Starling flashes and the explanation are lost on the girl, since she ceased listening right after supplying the answer.

"Seven eighty two." the pronounced total is met with a ten, and Clarice struggles to contain her impatience as Abby struggles to make the right change. She takes the receipt and her change, and is dismissed from the store with a dull "Have a nice evening." Starling tucks the bag under her arm and strolls back to her car. The intense eyes are still following her.

*****

Petra sits on the rear patio of her other's Baltimore home, staring out at the sunset. Idly, it occurs to her that the sun has turned a color that is very close to the color of his eyes. It causes a slight shudder in her as she reaches fro the sketchpad that sits on the patio table in front of her. The chair is moved back, iron legs scraping against the concrete, as she props her feet up on the table leg. An unfinished picture of the Duomo covers the page, a thin sheaf of photographs paper clipped in the corner. The charcoal is taken form the table and she begins to work on the sketch. She continues for a few minutes before growing frustrated. She unclips the photographs and turns the page.

The charcoal moves slowly over the paper, her fingers gripping it tightly. Petra doesn't really see what she is drawing, just letting her fingers seemingly move of their own accord. The photographs are shuffled, and re-clipped as she lays the one she wants on top. Within moments a figure starts to emerge, a slim man with regal carriage, leaning against the doorway. The Duomo makes its appearance in the background, the man's eyes are focused on it. She rests the pad against her legs and lets her hand seek the pencil box. A few moments of rummaging produces her prize. The eyes of the figure are the only color on the page, and they seem to glow with life in the setting sun in Baltimore.

*****

The duplex struck her as unnaturally silent as Clarice slipped her key from the lock. It is deposited on the table in the entryway, and she slips from the black pumps she got on sale three weeks ago. Memories echoes in her ears as she pads to the kitchen, nylons sliding over the linoleum.

"Do you know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes?" she heard him ask from the depths of her memory. She bit her lip as she dropped the grocery bag on the counter. She didn't know she spoke aloud, answering the remembered question with his own words.

"I look like a rube. I'm a well scrubbed hustling rube with a little taste." she blinked upon hearing the word taste, reflected off the glass front cabinets that occupied the kitchen. " Squelching the urge to drive a fist through one of those cabinets she suffered her irritation with a sigh. He was always there, always with her. Now he was there, present in her life as a real person, for the first time in five years. The package of chicken thighs is removed from the bag, deposited in the stainless steel sink awaiting her.

The first stars are beginning to emerge in the evening sky, if one is to step away form the lights and look straight up, where the sky is darkest. It has become habit, her routine for five years now, to step outside onto the porch, and stare up at the sky. Some of their stars were the same, and tonight all of them were. An involuntary shiver always accompanies the impromptu stargazing, urging her back inside. Tonight, Starling stood out there longer, staring up and wishing that she could reach out for one of those stars, capture it like a lightning bug, and keep it in a jar by her bed. As a child she had tried, reaching as far as she could, even climbing the tree in the backyard on one attempt. Then, and now, she couldn't reach the stars.

*****

The front door is eased open, and a key secreted back into a trouser pocket after it is slipped from the lock. The door closes easily on well oiled hinges, never emitting a sound. The house feels weighted with the ghosts of memories, and although it is clean, does not strike him as orderly. Never mind that, he wasn't seeking this one for Order. He was seeking her merely an indulgence for his Becoming. A pleasant sacrifice to appease the Red Dragon, to appease him. He hears the back door open and close, and freezes in the hallway. No footsteps so she must be outside. She cannot see into the kitchen from the back porch, since it is accessed by a door in the dining room.

Heavy footsteps tread the linoleum, and he steps into the white kitchen. A package of chicken sits in the sink. Dinner. In preparation for deboning the thighs in the package, it is cheaper to do it herself then buy the boneless chicken, a knife lays on the counter. He fingers it for a moment, then decides it is not properly suited. There is a butcher block on the opposite counter, and he reaches for the large chef's knife that rest in the block. It is an eight-inch Henckels professional knife, indicating someone in the duplex is serious about their kitchen implements. It is held behind his back in his right hand, happy with the weight and feel of it.

The back door opens and he scurries into the opposite side of the duplex. He listens to her in the kitchen, waiting for a few moments, preparing himself. He has never had anyone struggle, not even the unexpected one, the dark haired one. It excites him and his grip on the knife tightens. Yes, the Dragon would enjoy her tonight.

*****