THREE YEARS LATER:
Clarice Starling walked through the bustle and crowds of Toronto International Airport. She had been up offering expert testimony on a serial-killer case in Toronto. Her RCMP hosts had been most kind, and she had enjoyed the chance to see the city. Although the testimony itself was boring – sitting in a dull courtroom and explaining how the behavioral evidence did indeed suggest that the accused had, in fact, been the strangler terrorizing Toronto for the past year and a half – Toronto was a beautiful city and a lot of fun to tour.
Clarice was much more content with her life than she had been during the events following Chesapeake. For one thing, she was now officially with Behavioral Sciences. Without Krendler to poison her file and keep the Promotions Board from giving her what was rightfully hers, she was finally beginning to get where she wanted to be. She was less disillusioned with the FBI than she had been. She would never again be the wide-eyed naif that she had once been, but she had achieved a modus viviendi with the agency that she served.
Her life was not without its pain. Paul's funeral had been hard, very hard. The church had been packed full of FBI agents and Paul's relatives. She had fumblingly introduced herself to Paul's parents and tried to assure them that he had died bravely, in the line of duty. The words had tasted like ashes in her mouth. Yes, it was true that Paul D'angelo had died trying to bring Dr. Hannibal Lecter to justice, but it seemed to be such little consolation. She had begun an e-mail exchange with Paul's parents that continued through until today.
Jack Crawford had also died. That had been hard too, but not quite as hard as Paul's death. Clarice had delivered the eulogy at his funeral. She missed him too, sometimes. Although not without his rougher points, he had tried to help her as much as he could.
People define themselves by the values they hold dear, and Clarice was no exception to this. We also recoil from times in which we betray those values, and Clarice was no exception to that either. She tried not to think too much about the farmhouse. When she had almost killed a lamb.
At first, Clarice was shocked and horrified with herself and had considered leaving the FBI. The single worst day she had was when the forensics came back from Paul D'angelo's autopsy. Test results had clearly indicated that Paul's assailant was approximately his own height. Dr. Lecter. It had been Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter had seen fit to save her and Erin from each other, but had not scrupled at taking down Paul D'angelo.
The day Clarice Starling had seen those results, she had sat down at her desk and stared into space with glassy eyes for a long, long time. In a moment of rage, she had planned to kill Erin Lander. That, she could have forgiven herself for, eventually, had that alone been the case. But she would have been wrong. That night, the nightmares had started.
They started out much like the same nightmares Clarice had always had: her ten-year-old self approaching the Montana barn in the dull gray dawn, both horrified by and unable to resist the screaming of the spring lambs. As she peeked into the barn door, she could see the red-and-white flannel shirt of the rancher, his back turned to her as he picked up another lamb to slaughter. But there was one person she could see. Herself. An adult version of herself.
Clarice Starling, slaughterer of the lambs.
She had awoken screaming.
As time went by, the nightmares became less and less frequent. Clarice checked in occasionally on Erin Lander from afar. Partially it was to see if she was possibly contacting Dr. Lecter. And part of it was to assuage her own guilt. She never did get up the courage to contact Erin directly, and nothing she was able to see from afar indicated anything other than that Erin Lander had gone back to her life as a surgical resident at OSU Medical Center.
And now, as she walked through the throng, she found her mind turning back to Erin Lander for the first time in several months. Clarice stopped and glanced around curiously. What had made her think of the other woman? Had she seen her and not noticed it? Smelled her perfume? She turned around and stared behind her.
Clarice turned her head back and forth. The people behind her passed her with a muttered comment. She ignored them. Where? What the hell? Why would Erin Lander be in Toronto?
Then, she saw it. A small woman, dressed in a smart suit, rolling a suitcase behind her. But this woman was blonde, a rich wheat color. Erin Lander's hair was black. For just a moment, Clarice thought of running after her. But then the crowd closed off between her and the blonde, and she realized that she would simply look silly if it wasn't her. Erin Lander wouldn't be here. She had no reason to be. She was back in Ohio, finishing her residency.
Clarice chuckled ruefully. She continued on to her departure gate. She took out her laptop and began to review the case files and the report she would write when she got back. That, combined with the occasional game of Solitaire, served to amuse her until they began boarding her flight.
She took her seat in steerage, which had been updated to be called 'coach'. She continued working as the pilot cheerily announced that this was flight 650 with direct service to Washington, DC, and that this was an international flight. She ignored the perky stewardess who showed her how to put on an oxygen mask and how to use her seat cushion as a flotation device. After all, the great majority of the flight took place over dry land, and if the pilot happened to steer the plane into Lake Ontario there wasn't a whole lot of good the seat cushion would do her.
The plane began to taxi. Clarice continued to work. Her seatmate unfolded a paper and began to read it. She glanced over at an article in the community section out of boredom. Calmly, it detailed how the new residencies at the University of Toronto's Emergency Medicine program began on July 1st, and proudly listed the new residents. Clarice stared at it, her eyes wide. On the outside, her expression looked blank and confused. On the inside, however, all the pieces were slowly falling into place.
July 1st. Today was July 2nd. And while the exact date might differ, most residencies began on July 1st. Which meant that however many years later, they finished on July 1st.
"She's done," Clarice whispered. Erin Lander was done with her residency, which meant she would be free to go wherever she liked. Dr. Lecter's voice echoed in her mind.
She is not yet ready. I'll wait until she is more able to travel, as well as when you're not looking, Clarice.
There was one very good reason why Erin Lander would be in Toronto. Toronto, an attractive city which was near the U.S., but not in the U.S. Where it would be easier to slip in and out.
"Dr. Lecter," she whispered, and placed the palm of her hand on the perspex of the airplane window.
For a moment, she had to laugh. Here, she wasn't even a citizen, let alone a law enforcement officer. And what could she really do? Excuse me, Miss Stewardess, but I saw this woman from behind in the airport and I think Dr. Lecter's here in Toronto, could you stop the plane for me, please?
A moment of great sadness rose up in Clarice Starling, and she had the horrible sinking feeling in her stomach that one gets when they realize that an opportunity once offered is gone, gone forever. She heard Dr. Lecter's voice again, so clearly that she glanced around involuntarily as if he was on the plane with her.
You made your choice, Clarice. Now it's time to let her make hers.
As the plane leapt into the sky, carrying Clarice home, she stared out at the Toronto skyline and smiled ruefully.
"Good luck, you two," she said calmly.
…
The woman got out of the taxi in front of the hotel. This was one of Toronto's five-star hotels, hot and cold running bellhops, and as soon as the cab came to a halt in front of the hotel a uniformed bellhop scurried out with a large gold cart. Graciously, almost obsequiously, he helped the woman to alight from the cab and arranged her bags on the cart. The woman thanked him and proceeded inside the marble lobby to the reception desk. Her reservation and credit card in the name of Angela Brinkley were not questioned. Angela Brinkley maintained excellent credit for a dead woman.
"Are you here for the surgical conference, Dr. Brinkley?" the desk clerk asked.
"Yes," the woman nodded.
"Sign in is right over there," he explained helpfully, gesturing at a table. "You're in room 612."
She strode purposefully over to the table, attentive bellhop in tow, and signed in. She received a badge and a program. Surgical conferences are not for the weak of stomach; there were presentations on open-heart surgery, gunshot wound repair, and maxilliofacial surgery. All with full-color slides rendering everything in clinical detail, and some even offered frozen organs so that the audience could try it out themselves later.
She decided to go up to her room instead. The room was large and spacious. She gave the bellboy an American five-dollar bill and thanked him for his assistance. Glancing at the clock told her it was 7 PM. He arrived in an hour. He'd been in the air since before she had even left. It seemed somehow unfair, although then again he was coming from very far away, much further than Columbus.
For a moment, she wondered what he would do if he was recognized. On a 747 flying over the Atlantic Ocean, there would be nowhere to go. It was true that he had been dealing with life as a fugitive since she was in college, but it was her nature to worry about him.
She plopped herself down on the large bed and kicked off her shoes. The TV clicked on and she began to surf channels. Baywatch, Hearts in Atlantis, Mask of Zorro, some soap opera, a Lifetime Original movie, and finally she settled on Shadowlands. As she watched C.S. Lewis and Joy Gresham fall in love, she was amused, but then as Joy became tragically sick, she decided it wasn't something she wanted to watch anymore and turned off the TV.
Wine, she thought. He would probably like wine. She took the hotel's wine list and perused it. On the subject of wine, she knew much less than he did, so she used price as a guide: she found the most expensive Chianti on the wine list and called down to room service to order that. She hoped it would do. The starving student she had been for so long gagged at the price of the bottle, but at this point she could afford it. Room service promised to have it up to her promptly.
It was a promise they kept. Perhaps ten minutes later, a uniformed waiter trundled a cart to the door. On the cart was an ice bucket containing the bottle of wine. The woman sampled it, deemed it acceptable, and asked him to take it off the ice. He was most compliant and she tipped him another five. She stared at the wine bottle on the bureau, hoping that it would indeed be acceptable.
She slid out of her suit and went into the bathroom. The shower stall was large and tiled with white tiles. The hotel provided an ample supply of small shampoos, conditioners, soaps, and skin conditioners. The water was hot and steamy; a pleasure indeed after her flight. When she was done, she brushed her hair, took her meds, and put on the white terrycloth bathrobe. It was thick and comfortable. But it would hardly do to greet him in, so once she had finished brushing and drying her hair she stepped back into the suit.
A knock came at the door. The woman started. She flexed her hands nervously and reached out for the knob. Outside was a man in silhouette, the lights of the hallway surrounding his form.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
"Hello, Erin," the man said calmly. "May I come in?"
She opened the door and let Dr. Hannibal Lecter in. "Yes, of course," she said, "but I'm afraid you have the wrong room. I'm Angela Brinkley."
Dr. Lecter nodded. Good, that showed promise. Then, as he stepped into the room and got a good look at her, his eyes widened.
"Your hair," he observed judiciously.
Dr. Erin Lander brushed a hand through her newly blonde hair and smiled. "I thought it would be more inconspicuous for traveling" she said. "I can always dye it back later."
"It's quite attractive," Dr. Lecter said.
"I ordered wine, too," she said, her calm tone belying her nervousness. "Chianti. It's over there. I took it off the ice."
Dr. Lecter poured two glasses and offered her one. He sampled the wine and pronounced it excellent. Erin seemed inordinately pleased. For some time they chatted about nonconsequentialities; her work, his life in Europe. The wine was pleasant, and Erin began to feel slightly heady. Part of it, of course, was him. After three long years, she was in his presence again. After the farmhouse, he had written her and told her that it was not yet time, that she was not ready to flee with him.
Erin had been distressed, but she understood, and opposing Hannibal Lecter was not something she had been good at in any case. Not when a simple look from those maroon eyes made her heart pound, her knees go weak, her head grow dizzy. But now…now was the time.
As if reading her mind, Dr. Lecter smiled and sipped at his wine glass. "So, I must ask you. Have you decided?"
Erin smiled and trembled. Her hand tightened down on the crystal stem of the wine glass.
"Decided?" she parried.
"If you intend to go with me," Dr. Lecter clarified. "It is a momentous choice. It will not be without its joys, but also its terrors. And once done, it can never be undone. You may yet continue as a doctor, that is not difficult. But you'd never practice under your own name again, nor see anyone from your old life again."
Erin had already thought about this, thought about it alone in her bed on sleepless nights. More times than she would ever admit. It was true there wasn't terribly much to her old life. Mother and father both dead. A few friends and colleagues. A couple of old flames from college. But everything she had she had worked for herself: her good name, her medical degree, her surgical training, the respect of her colleagues and teachers. If she went with him, it would all be tossed in the flames.
"I know," Erin said softly.
"I have taken the liberty of reserving two seats on a flight to Paris," Dr. Lecter said calmly. "It leaves tonight at midnight. So you must choose."
For the second time in her life, Erin Lander was faced with the choice. This time, a human life did not lie in the balance. Instead, it was a simpler question, but no easier to decide. Dr. Lecter versus everything she had ever worked for in her life. If she said yes, she would be with him. That much was true. But the cost would be high: she would be considered a fugitive along with him. She had been offered an attractive position in a group practice in New York City, which might well lead to partnership. If she said yes to that, she could never have Dr. Lecter again. All the respect she had ever wanted could be hers if she took it.
And the cost was higher even than a job. She would lose her name, and whatever marks she had made on her world would be forgotten. Her four-point in college, the awards and recognitions she had won in medical school and residency. All gone.
Life with Dr. Lecter would be a combination of wealth and fear. She had little doubt that he was able to lead a charmed life, if so he chose. But she would spend the rest of her life wondering if Clarice Starling would be behind her, if the agents of the law would be watching. She knew that they would never stop seeking out Dr. Lecter, not as long as he lived. If she was with him, her risks would be the same.
Erin Lander sipped the wine again, and met Dr. Lecter's maroon eyes. She held them with her own as she considered. She took a deep breath. Past and future, the life she had once wanted versus the life she now wanted. All in the balance, and all depending on a single word. The next word she would speak.
"Yes," she said, and smiled. She followed destiny.
Author's note:
When this story began, it began to see if I could write goo. An attempt to step outside of my comfort zone. (As you may have guessed, gore is my forte.) Somewhere along the line, we moved into angst, jealousy, and killing. It was fun, and I'm deeply appreciative of everyone who read and reviewed.
Nonetheless, all good things must come to an end. Personally I think God didn't want me to write this chapter. I say this because He did about everything He could to stop me. I got majorly shifted around at work, I had to take my son to the ER (he's OK now), the floppy disk I kept my fics on died mysteriously (actually it works, it just wouldn't access this chapter). But I am nothing if not ornery and decided to get the chapter out.
It was fun, though, and I think everyone ought to try at least once to write a fic outside of their comfort zone. I've told a few people, and I'll announce it here: I won't write another goo fic until Steel writes a gore fic. And not just Clarice-gets-a-hangnail gore.
Well, so here ends the tale of Dr. Lecter, his former charge, his former student, and her coulda-been fellow agent. It was fun to write, Dear Reader, and I hope it was fun to read. I'm not sure where I'm going from here, but there are a few ideas burbling in the back of my skull, it's a matter of which one wins out. (It's sort of Darwinian back there.)
When I started this story, I never once thought it would become one of the most-often reviewed stories on here. (One of Luna's has more, but there have been a lot of people following this story still..) The response to this story has been a lot greater than I ever imagined. To everyone who read and reviewed. Thank you. That's all I can really say.