Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. They are being used without permission, for entertainment purposes, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Thirteen

Morning light cracked through half-closed window shades. The hour seemed ridiculously early, but for the first time in years, Dr. Lecter had no desire to remain concealed in his bedchamber. It had been a long while since his mind engaged in such arduous civil war, well beyond the recesses of his impeccable memory. This struck him as strangely disconcerting in a bothersome, expressive fashion. More so for he knew it wouldn't trouble him if not for one decisive factor.

She would soon be gone. Over and over, he told himself that this was precisely what he wanted. It was for the best on both sides. The events of the night before were not without consequence—rather the unavoidable conclusion to such long repressed tension.

And yet, despite that, what he said and did, he could not convince himself that the correct course of action was taken. Long ago, Dr. Lecter acquainted himself with the indisputable issue that personal affairs amounted to little more than a headache. Women of his past were respectable though unremarkable—it came to equivalent of the same. The shared associations were courtly and brief. In the end, he kept friends with these contacts but nothing more. No woman ever held his interest and attention long enough to develop any lasting relationship.

Until now…now when he had someone truly exceptional. The only feasible course of action was to perform in complete disassociation?

Was that his problem? Was he was apprehensive of the possibility of Starling boring him eventually? Of lowering his high opinion? That didn't seem likely. After all, they had spent six months together. Every day was a blissful surprise.

Perhaps that was the issue. Not so much that he feared growing tired of her, but the more probable likelihood that he would not. Things were secure on this side of bachelorhood. However, there was the notion that he had never before discontinued a courtship only to wrestle with himself through throughout the night and awake with pangs he could only identify as regret. Such was darkly disturbing but no less viable.

There was perhaps some sagacity in his course of action. Any woman to affect him like this might rightly be the means to an end.

The hurt in her eyes, he would never forget, nor the wounded strength of her well structured retort. There can be no want of feeling between the likes of you and the likes of me. She was strong: built on courage and fortitude. Dr. Lecter did not believe he knew anyone more able. However much or whatever he said would be taken and digested, preferably for the betterment of her career.

Her career. Yes, yes, her career. That which would inevitably hurt her more than he ever could. That which he sent her back to, presumably for the best. An excuse he made for himself. After all, there was a deeply rooted part of her that loved it, needed it, craved it. A favorite bad habit. No matter how he pounded culture into her system; the music, the food, the wine, the finer luxuries in life, she clung to what was known. What she valued. However, respectfully, she took his teachings with her. Starling was no more changed than she was when she came to him six months ago. Yes, she had been introduced to his world, and he to hers, in some charming unforgettable trade.

There was another notion that he found somewhat distressing. An inward prompting cautioned that he would miss her world more than she would his.

The luncheon with Mrs. Rosencranz and friends was a prime example. Her roots revealed themselves at the most inopportune times. However, society needed her to unique its flavor. It was inappropriate, yes, but it also proved droll and thought provoking. In the end, he could only regard it with a fond, albeit poignant smile.

A ridiculous thought sprung to mind. Perhaps he was searching for boundaries that did not exist. Conceivably the voids keeping them a part that were not there to begin with. Dr. Lecter doubted such to be true; his perception rarely betrayed him. Even so, at any rate, these musings merited a continuance of their discussion. While he had no intention of disquieting her slumber, he found himself inexplicably eager to speak with her again.

The thought lasted only for a beat, settling with an intuitive sense that screamed what he already knew. Clarice was gone. Nothing powerfully overdramatic; rather an astute and always accurate observation. As he sat up, he noticed the air of the manor was abstractedly tainted with her scent, with the place she had once occupied, but Dr. Lecter required no forward indication to confirm the obvious. She was gone.

It struck him oddly. There was no justice in feeling bitter, or even vindicated. However, he could not explain the manner in which the pit of his stomach seemed to fall with dreary realization. The acknowledgement of his so-called wishes. Never had he felt so empty to achieve that which he claimed he wanted—never had he claimed to want something that he did not, on any level.

Slowly, he opened the door to the hallway, surprised by its barrenness. The door to her room was shut as it was every morning, but he knew it was vacant. It was as if he had developed a sixth sense of her mannerisms. Every word, motion, beat, breath, blink was etched tightly to memory.

This hall was consumed in its dreary state of being. A bright ray of sunlight shrinking back to the bleak darkness from which it came.

The door to Barney's room swung open suddenly, and his friend moved menacingly to shadow its path. It was obvious he had been awake for sometime, perhaps focusing on similar musings. His arms were crossed in some infamous manner that screamed an unhappy disposition. Furthermore, by the distinct glare in his eyes, Dr. Lecter acknowledged he also understood that their live-in guest was no longer with them.

He understood much more.

"Good morning," the doctor greeted, eying the bird's door with passive discernment.

Barney was in no mood for pleasantries. The initial salutation wasted itself to the want of neither party. "You promised me, Doc," he spat coldly. "You promised me no advantage would be taken of her situation." He nodded toward the closed chamber without looking at it.

Dr. Lecter was not surprised in his perception. Despite appearances, his friend always understood more than was credited. "No advantage was taken." There was no point to offer dispute. He would not insult Barney's intelligence in such a degrading fashion. Anything else was designated to take him into some disclosure. Perhaps his friend suspected the reasons behind Starling's departure to center around such an alleged act of misconduct.

"You two must've thought I was blind," Barney continued. He had never seemed so foully abused. "I saw it before either of you could." Some of his anger calmed, his shoulders slumping tiredly. "Poor Starling. You should've seen her last night, Doc. She was a mess."

That drew his attention sharply. Dr. Lecter's eyes widened in minor offense. "You saw her last night?"

"This morning," Barney acknowledged. "Before she left."

"And you did nothing to prevent her leaving?" Disbelief surfed with every passing instant. It took little to force himself to the admittance that he would have done nothing short of bolting the door closed or—more pleasurably—locking her up to keep her under this roof.

But, logically, he had told her the best thing for either of them was her departure. It occurred to Dr. Lecter that it was human nature to resent rationality, even spite it when event beyond control occurred. Another factor piling against him; the ailment it was to feel human after all. She made him so. She made him many things. "Clarice didn't leave any indication as to her destination?"

"No. I assume she's going back to Quantico."

"And she didn't leave any direction on where to send her things? Her clothes? Her personal belongings?"

"She took everything with her. I checked." Barney paused thoughtfully. "Someone picked her up, I think. I watched a bit to make sure she got off all right. There was a man waiting for her on the other side of the street."

Dr. Lecter's eyes darkened at the insinuation, even as a shudder of concern traced his spine. "Did you see who it was?"

"No. My night vision sucks."

"And you assumed this was normal? A man waiting for her in the middle of the night?"

"She didn't seem too concerned or scared. They chatted for a while, and she started to move away. He followed."

Another useless human candor. Dr. Lecter knew it was foolish to distress at such news but could not help himself. As though sensing the change in temperament, Barney led him downstairs for a cup of morning tea. The previously negative outlook had vanished with sincerity. Perhaps he sensed the goodness of misplacement.

The doctor recalled asking Starling to leave a note for Mrs. Pearce, or in whichever case, in request of coffee instead of tea. It felt a lifetime had passed since then.

His mind could not help but wander to this man that had waited for her outside, but his better senses were torn between concern and jealousy. From Barney's description, the encounter seemed innocent enough. Perhaps Starling had called someone to pick her up. But, he reflected, Dr. Lecter felt he knew her better than anyone. Not once had she mentioned a male acquaintance that she did not refer to without a grimace of distaste. The only man he could think of that she would call for assistance given such a situation was himself.

Mrs. Pearce arrived at the prescheduled time. He wondered absently if things as trivial as that would return to the droll state of being they were in before Starling entered his life. No one answered the door; by this time, she was accustomed to letting herself in.

The expression of bewilderment captured on her face to see both men in the kitchen, donning no more than their bathrobes sprung out briefly before her eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other. "Where's Ms. Starling?" she asked, placing a bag of what was presumably the traditional morning bagels on the counter.

"She has left," Dr. Lecter said, taking a sip of tea. "Early this morning, Barney allowed her to leave without telling me a thing about it."

Astonishment clouded her features. "Well, I'm dashed!" she exclaimed.

"And now everything's in general disarray," Barney said miserably.

"Indeed," Dr. Lecter agreed. "I received tea this morning instead of coffee. And it has occurred to me that I don't know where anything is; I don't know when my appointments are." Such was difficult to admit, but he was beyond the brink of caring. Regular appointments seemed so distant, but he had scheduled them before the project began.

"Clarice would know," Mrs. Pearce offered unhelpfully.

"Of course she would." Dr. Lecter set his cup down and moved briskly from the kitchen. "But she's gone."

Both followed him aimlessly into the parlor where he sat himself restlessly on the sofa.

"Did either of you gentlemen frighten her last night?"

"No." Dr. Lecter shook his head. "No, Mrs. Pearce, it was nothing like that." A minor fluster of temper flared at the suggestion that she could be prompted to leave by something as tedious as a little bullying. Starling didn't wear her emotions on her sleeves, and she was certainly one to put up a fight. There was something else being overlooked. Everyone was acting as though her departure was not foreseen, that she would be here until the day she died. For this, though he wished it otherwise, he felt compelled to correct. "All more besides, we all knew this day would arrive."

"It came too soon," Barney complained desolately.

"Bring yourself together," the doctor snapped, his eyes flashing with edginess. "And desist the ineffectual boohooing. You have your prospects, and I can still get you that position you came to me for in the first place." His sudden sharpness surprised both his friend and the housekeeper. After a minute, he calmed, turning away. The lighting in the room seemed so different from the night before. "I would like to know that she arrived safely," he conceded a beat later.

"I have her roommate's number!" Barney announced. "I can call real quick and—"

"You do that," he agreed. "And if she is not there, attempt to reach Jack Crawford. She will have gone to him to deliver her case file as soon as she could."

Ten minutes later, there was a negative conclusion on both sources. The woman Dr. Lecter had only briefly encountered was reportedly unsociable. She claimed to have not heard from Starling since before the White House extravaganza, recounting the outcome of that conversation with details the doctor was already familiar with. However, he did not allow himself to grow concerned until Crawford indicated that he had not seen Starling since his visit months earlier, and proceeded to go off on a tyrant of how anyone could misplace or offend her in such a manner that he claimed was an undoubtedly of an infamous nature.

It struck Dr. Lecter as highly unlikely that Starling would have gone so long without reporting to either her friend or her superior. Either something was wrong, or someone wasn't being honest. Of the two, the latter was more believable, but such could not be risked. To be sure, he had others at Quantico—associates and those who knew her—similarly vouch that she had not reported in that morning, or any morning for the past several months.

"We could phone the hospitals," Barney said helpfully, his own concern not nearly as masked. "Or the police, but they won't be able to do anything for forty-eight hours, if she hasn't turned up by then."

"I'm dashed!" Mrs. Pearce said again pointlessly.

"Call them anyway," Dr. Lecter said nonchalantly, moving upstairs to dress. "I'm sure Jack Crawford will speed things up, once he hears of it. It couldn't hurt to have her name and description, though I doubt the police will be able to be of any real help."

As always, Mrs. Pearce sought and located fault in this manner of approach, and predictably, could not keep her objection to herself. From the banister, she scowled and called up the landing. "Dr. Lecter! You can't give Clarice's name to the police as though she were a thief or a lost umbrella!"

"Well why not? I want to find her, don't I? She belongs to me. I paid five thousand dollars for her." And that was the end of that. Accentually, he closed the door—nearly a slam, but not quite.

"He's right," Barney agreed absently to a disgruntled housekeeper as he speedily punched the phone dial.

The upstairs door flew open again—Dr. Lecter's voice carrying into the foyer. "Would you please send up a cup of coffee, Mrs. Pearce?"

Still unsatisfied, she grudgingly agreed.

Finally connected, Barney dragged the portable phone into the lobby; speaking loud enough to assure himself that the doctor could hear, should he be inclined to make a correction, or anything at all. Though he trusted himself, he understood that Dr. Lecter knew her better than anyone in the household. He had to, to be so in love with her. "Yes, yes, this is Barney Jackson speaking. 27-A Wimpole street. I want to report a missing person. Miss Clarice Starling. Yeah. About twenty-six. Her height? Uh ohh…I should think around five-seven. Her eyes…" He trailed off, knowing the answer perfectly well, but wanting to assure himself of Dr. Lecter's reported disposition. If the doctor was listening well enough to offer a compelling reaction, it was all the answer he required. "Her eyes…ummm."

Indeed, Barney was gratified. The upstairs door flew open as its occupant called downward, his voice raw with agitated impatience. "Her eyes are a chestnut color, but for posterity sake, I would say brown." The door closed again.

Barney grinned tightly. "Uh, brown. Yes. Her hair? Oh good lord…let me see. No no. Well, it's a sort of nondescript, neutral sort of—"

Again the door upstairs swung open, this time in no attempt to disguise such impatience. "Brown, brown, brown!"

The smile stretching his lips extended as a small surge of victory tackled his senses. It was only an amount of time before Dr. Lecter realized it as well. "Did you hear what he said?" Barney continued. "'Brown, brown, brown.' Yes. No, no, no…this is her residence." Close enough to the truth. This is where the general contacts wanted her residence to be, those who now knew her better than anyone else, and likewise loved her more than anyone else. "27A—Yes, yes. Uh…about between 3:00 and 4:00 this morning. Yes, I understand. Forty…yes. Rela—no, she's no relation. What? Well, let's just call her a good friend." Barney chuckled lightheartedly, then his expression darkened with menace. "What? I don't like the tone of that suggestion. What she does here is our affair. Your affair is to get her back here so she can continue doing it." He then offered an angry slam to the receiver, muttering something about society today before picking the phone up again to call the hospital.

A few minutes later, Dr. Lecter emerged fully dressed from his chamber. He listened as Barney relayed the information provided, confirming a negative report. This was reassuring on a level. The doctor nodded his thanks and moved hurriedly for the door.

"I am going to visit Rachel," he announced, fitting his coat over his shoulders. "She is not without her connections, and might see Clarice today while touring the city."

Barney frowned. "Are you grasping at straws? Why would Mrs. Rosencranz help you now?"

"Because she is a decent human being and a friend," Dr. Lecter retorted as he placed his fedora over his crown. Then he was out the door without finality, moving with definitive, eager haste.

"It looks like rain!" Barney called after him, grasping the umbrella next to the coat rack and tossing it in the doctor's direction. In one fluid motion, Dr. Lecter turned, caught it with ease, tipped his hat, then whirled and continued.

Barney was not about to sit idle waiting for updates, though as eager as he was for the doctor to find her first. This seemed especially essential as his old romantic side screamed that any reunion would resort in victory. He knew precious little about the events calculated in the evening before, but enough was seen in both their eyes—what they couldn't help but reveal—for him to draw his own conclusions. However, his nerves allowed for no such laziness. A few minutes following his friend's departure, he informed Mrs. Pearce that he was going to personally visit the hospital to confirm she wasn't there. With as many patients admitted, he explained, it was easy to overlook one in the heat of things. There, if presented with further negative results, he would phone Quantico again to be sure—by that time—that someone had seen her.

"I do hope you find her," Mrs. Pearce said encouragingly as she presented him with his coat and umbrella. "Dr. Lecter will miss her."

That made him pause with a knowing leer, but Barney could not convince himself to continue with the obvious retort. Instead, he snickered and arched a brow. "Dr. Lecter will miss her, eh? Well fuck Dr. Lecter. I'll miss her!"

And he left just like that, feeling intensely proud of himself.


* * *



Starling was in the shower when Barney called, and remained blissfully ignorant that the interaction ever took place. It was in Mapp's opinion that this was best, at least for now. While she did not doubt her friend's new sincerity, it was equally important that she see everything she was leaving behind unhampered by outside distractions.

And needles to say, Dr. Lecter, or anyone associated with Dr. Lecter, was clearly a distraction.

The chance remained very pliable that Starling would see Quantico for all its grief and heartache and still be tugged into the position that demanded her loyalty, despite prudence. Perhaps this was conniving on a level, but Mapp didn't care. She wanted the very best for her friend, and also trusted that the best consisted of what was left behind.

Despite the nasty bitterness of the past, there had not been one with more promise since Will Graham. To throw away that future without serious consideration for a man who refused to love her as she deserved was a grievous failing indeed.

In devotion to her word, Starling left the house looking beyond marvelous. Of course, Mapp could not assume responsibility for this. Much to her surprise, she watched as her friend correctly applied and used the products she had never before exhibited any interest in. Starling's hair had always been easy for her but similarly rarely styled it in any fashion other than draped over her shoulders or drawn into a ponytail. Now, her fashion was elegant, straightforward but also unlike any she had worn before. Likewise, Starling rejected Mapp's offer of assistance when selecting her wardrobe. There were several business suits she had had purchased for her on the many outings to town. Her use of makeup was flattering but hardly overdone. In the end, she selected an outfit not contrasting that which she wore to Baltimore. A burgundy business dress cut just above the knee with a jacket that fit tightly over her shoulders. Once upon a time, one would have had to hogtie Starling to get her to consider pantyhose, which she now wore gratefully along with heels she could walk in without tripping. Mapp was continuously impressed with such new resources, and for that alone, all was worth it.

"What are you going to tell him?" Mapp asked as they settled into the seats of her vehicle.

Starling sighed heavily, stalling until she heard the seatbelt click. "I'm not sure. It'd be easiest simply to hand him the file and have it over and done with. However, knowing Mr. Crawford, he will be in the market for a lengthy explanation."

"Well, naturally," her friend agreed. "The popular idea was that you would be back when this lousy charade was over."

With a small, acknowledging sad smile, Starling nodded her comprehension; her stomach performing imposing somersaults as the car pulled out of the drive. "I know," she whispered. "But things change. People change."

So enveloped were they in growing anticipation that neither recalled that Pilcher remained by the curb. A simultaneous gasp perturbed the air when he knocked on the window and insisted to be included with the day's emergent festivities.

Nerves were tense, even those belonging to the only occupant who remained ignorant of the events stirring around him. Temperament inside the car did not pick-up until the destination was nearly obtained. Starling knew maddeningly that she could not rid herself of the whelp's company without a can of mace, but assured Mapp anyway that she could do this alone.

It felt odd standing outside of Quantico, more than it had gazing at the duplex she had inhabited for years. There in the shadows of the place she had worked her hardest. The place where it came easy for her. The place she wanted to be a part of more than anything. Had wanted to be a part of. That was over now. For whatever reason, it felt natural that she should don high heels instead of sneakers, carry the file respectfully at her side instead of protectively at her breast. Even Pilcher's mindless chatting could not drag her from her reverie. This was what she had worked for. Not the White House, not Dr. Lecter…for herself. To walk into the Behavioral Science department with confidence, deliver the goods, and walk away without turning back.

A little girl had once entered the buildings, traced the maze-like corridors and sat in numerous offices in anticipation of updates. True, she was still a child in many ways, Starling knew she wasn't today. Not now.

And so, without warning her companion, she set forward again. Her strides were aligned with confidence, her eyes set and determined. She smiled at the sound of her own heels clicking at the pavement and couldn't help wonder if she would see Paul Krendler today. It was perhaps the first time such a prospect had presented itself without being followed by an inward gesture of distaste. Nothing would stop her now. Hell, she might even say hello.

A few months before, Starling knew she would have killed to see this place. Now she understood that the only need was to say goodbye.

It was doubtful, however, that Jack Crawford would allow her leave that easily. The man possessed an uncanny ability to make anyone feel three inches tall. She recalled her first days working in his presence. Crawford was a giant in the world he lived in, his reputation demanding respect, even if you were caught in the negative ties of his personality. Those manipulative skills he had mastered and exercised on freewill allowed him to be both admired and scorned by the same individual. He was blunt in motive though backhand in word. Her last few months as a student were made miserable because of his persistent hounding—because he truly believed her to be his next Will Graham. Such was flattering in that unspoken, unseen sort of fashion that no one cares to accept.

Having met Graham only the night before, Starling was satisfied to have freed herself from that expectation.

Walking the hallways seemed a surreal dream in a liberating manner. Every stride was validation that she had progressed passed this point. No regrets. It was almost comparable to a high school reunion. The times spent and lessons learned within its structure were valued in the highest regard, but she wouldn't go back or relieve them for the world.

Starling reached Crawford's office in time to see Paul Krendler rise from the seat across from his desk and depart from the room. Much to her surprise, he didn't look at her, evidently disgruntled about something. Perhaps he angrily brushed Pilcher's shoulder as he passed, but she was too focused to notice. The churnings of disgust she had come to expect when in his presence were even nonexistent. Instead, she turned to her companion and whispered furiously that he had to wait outside.

It was time.

The office had not seen the face of change in years, and today was no exception. Starling wondered briefly why she assumed everything should have suffered reform just because she had. Human tendency, perhaps. Her eyes greeted a familiar scene that forced her to suppress a snicker. For the life of her, she wondered if Crawford had moved since her last visit. The image was untouched. He was hunched over his desk, the wooden surface splayed with open case files whose pages were polluted with incomprehensible scribbling. There seemed to be a permanent nook in his desk made especially for his elbow, his hand cradling his brow as he wrote furiously with the other. It seemed the man would have to clone himself to experience any conventional social life. She smiled in indefatigably bothersome fondness, though her conviction remained undamaged.

It took a few beats of silence to realize she was delaying the inevitable moment. There was no sense in standing around; she wanted in and out as soon as possible. Without further resignation, Starling straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. "Mr. Crawford?"

"Not now," he snapped, the hand at his brow taking momentary leave to shoo her away. His head did not so much as wander up. "I'm busy."

She blinked her surprise. That wasn't the reaction she expected. Never before had the Guru been cross with her. A 'welcome back' at the very least was in order, even if it was short-lived.

Then she recalled her altered accent and grinned.

"Mr. Crawford?" she repeated, unmoved.

"I told you—" His eyes shot upward with fiery intent, but froze when he saw her face. Then his expression drained and his complexion paled. "Starling?" he whispered, as though questioning her tangibility. A specter standing in his office was perhaps more believable.

Indeed, it must have been an odd sight. Her hair had grown an inch or so, but was looked better than ever. The clothing she adorned resembled something a friend had worn to a Halloween party once upon a time ago—much to everyone's drunken delight, a glimpse of how everything would appear in 'opposite land.' She was more feminine now than she had ever been before.

"Here," she said without preface, placing the file over his mound of work. "The case is over, Mr. Crawford. All of it. Look in the back if you need confirmation. Buffalo Bill is somewhere in Belvedere, Ohio."

Crawford's eyes widened skeptically and lowered to the document. "You sound so sure," he observed. Doubt was evident in his tone. "Don't you think it's a little suspicious, Starling? Why would he be where the first girl was abducted?"

"This isn't a film, Sir. There are no hidden clues, no mysteries only solvable by James Bond. You told me a long time ago that serial killers are never that inconspicuous, are rather clumsy creatures just itching to fall into a trap. If you would look in the back, you would see it all fits," she insisted, her voice accumulating in bitterness. "In the back, please. He's making himself a woman suit. Look—" When he did little more than stare at her distrustfully, she finally lurched forward and flipped to the last page, sprawled in her individual conclusions. What was so difficult of rewording something she had heard only hours before? "He needs a two-story house, Sir. He's not a drifter. What he does requires privacy. I doubt he would have associated much with the locals. But he knew Fredricka Bimmel. He weighted her down to throw us off—so that the order would be random. See?" She practically had to grasp his head and force it to face the text.

It was a satisfactory triumph watching the shades of realization cascade over his doubting gaze. Crawford's eyes widened, tracing her path of notes and ending results with his forefinger, excitement replacing the looming reservation hovering in his features. "I don't believe it," he gasped. "We'll have someone there in an hour—a half hour if we're lucky." Then he was out of the office, shouting to someone down the hall. "I should go too," he said, grabbing his coat off the back of his seat. "I'll never know how you did it, Starling, but I won't ask. Good to have you back. We'll take about reinstatement into the academy when I return."

"I won't be here when you return," she said softly. Having not budged from her seat, she felt him pause without seeing. The temptation was upon her to turn, but she restrained, preparing herself.

"What?!" he demanded finally, a shrill to his voice.

"I am currently not a student, and I do not intend to be one again."

"Why?"

"It's for the best." Starling's eyes followed him as he came back into view, unresponsive to the dazed surprise tackling his expression. "Don't ask me to explain my motives. You do not have time for that. Just accept my position. There are other issues of more importance."

"It's because of him, isn't it?" he accused bitterly, promptly ignoring her appeal. "Let me guess. Your precious doctor made you a material offer that you can't refuse. Right?"

Somehow she managed to refrain from flinching at the insinuation, though an inward ache could not help but surge. "Not my precious doctor," she said strongly, her voice wavering a bit perhaps.

Crawford caught it, of course, and smiled unpleasantly. "He sent you back, didn't he? Got tired of you after all."

"No," Starling insisted too quickly. "No. I left on my own merit."

At that, his superior leer vanished and his eyes widened in shock. This decision was solely based and funded without outside assistance. He saw that now. "Where will you go, if not here?"

"I'll make it on my own. I have the education and the degrees to do so. There is work out there to be had, and I intend to take it."

Crawford's nostrils flared and his eyes blazed as though personally offended. He violently turned away, like a teakettle ready to overflow. "Women are irrational!" he erupted finally, turning to her in a furious stroke. "That's all there is to that. Their heads are full of cotton, hay, and rags. They're nothing exasperating, irritating, vacillating, calculating, agitating, maddening, and infuriating hussies!"

Starling swallowed a gasp, beyond surprised to witness the man explode. Never before had she seen him lose is cool head in such an aggressive fashion. Though, in the end, she didn't know whether it was more appropriate to be offended or amused.

"Are you all right, Mr. Crawford?" she asked a hesitant minute later.

"No, I'm not all right!" he snarled. "What a time to tell me this! And I can't say anything. I don't have the time." He turned again and paraded angry strides to the office door, halted only by her voice, which required no such elevation.

"Nothing you could say now or ever would shunt my conviction."

A long pause preceded a sigh, and she sensed his fury dissipating in wretched defeat. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked weakly.

"Yes." There was no strain of doubt in her tone.

Crawford pursed his lips in thought, offered a beat of struggle, then conceded another sigh and moved to his desk. "I have a friend in New York," he said, grasping a loose-leaf sheet of paper and wrestling with the supplies on his desk until he located a pen. "He teaches at The John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and called me a few days ago looking for an assistant. Give him a call and he'll give you a job. Just tell him I referred you." He looked up, folding the paper and extending it to her grasp. She looked from him, to the offering, to him again but made no move to accept it. A grudging sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Take it, Starling. He's a good guy and it's a good job."

The honest disposition of his character convinced her. Wordlessly, she nodded and took the number from his grasp, opening her purse to find it sanctuary without looking at it. "Thank you, Mr. Crawford."

He finally smiled, a sad though gratified smile. "Good luck, Starling. And thanks."

And he brushed passed her, determinately not to be delayed again. The sound of his footsteps could be heard for a few seconds, but faded into nothingness.

It didn't take as long as she thought it would to tear herself away from the office. A minute or so of quiet reflection and she was ready. Inhaling a deep breath, she turned and strode out for what was confidently the last time. Pilcher waited by the doorway, the image of a loyal puppy.

Walking away from her past offered the first bit of closure she had experienced in weeks. The outlook on life was rosy, and while she didn't know where she was going or what she was doing, she was happy. Happily satisfied that this move, at the very least, was the right one to make.

Of course, there was a part of her that screamed vindication. The greater tugging at her heart pushed her backward into the path she escaped only that morning. She denied herself another sigh and forced a smile to Pilcher. It would take a while, understandably, to get over that.

This was an excellent start.

"Where are we going now?" Pilcher asked eagerly.

"I'm going to pack," she replied. "And get ready. I might be moving to New York."

"New York?"

"If the job is good," Starling explained. "Crawford wants to make sure I'm settled somewhere. He didn't tell me much, but it sounds reasonable. I'll have to consider."

"My uncle can probably help you get a place there." Pilcher's tone surprisingly understanding, though not without its desolate disappointment. "He has some a friend in the city who runs some apartment building. It's hell trying to find a place there, or so I've heard."

Starling smiled. "According to Billy Crystal, all you need to do is read the obituary column."

"…What?"

"Never mind." Her flippant temperament was betrayed by the amused laugh that managed passed her lips. "I'm not sure if I'm going to do it, yet."

"You will."

Pilcher's confidence was haunting in a way, but she speculated it vouched for accuracy. Instead of lingering, though, she decided to accept it with acquiescence and continue. The rest of their journey continued unhampered until they passed Paul Krendler again, who still failed to catch her eyes but notably checked out her backside. Starling paused when she heard him whistle.

"Hello legs," he slurred disreputably.

When she turned to face him, brows perked in a thoroughly unimpressed manner, his face fell and his eyes dulled. "Starling?"

It was too momentous, too great to ruin. The grin tackling her lips could not be helped, but she did manage to maintain her laughter. "I would retort," she observed, turning to proceed down the corridor. "But I wouldn't want to spoil the look on your face, Mr. Krendler. Adieu. I do hope you have an…interesting life." And she continued, grasping Pilcher's arm for show, releasing her chuckles finally when she knew he was out of earshot.

The visit was much more productive than she could have ever hoped.

It wasn't until they were in the last maze in sight of the exit that someone stopped her. A relatively familiar face, one she probably knew long ago. The woman was slightly short, curly brown hair with deep pupils covered by thick glasses. Her eyes were friendly but her face was expressionless. Little time was allowed for reaction. Before she could open her mouth, the woman demanded, "Are you Officer Starling?"

"I'm Miss Starling, yes."

The correction was unneeded; the girl clearly didn't care. "We've had two calls from a Barney Jackson looking for you. Do you know who he is? You might call him back to tell him you haven't fallen off the face of the earth."

Starling's face fell and her high spirits abruptly diminished. "What did he want?"

"Hell if I know. He just asked if anyone had seen you and to call him if you came in."

Breath vacated her body, her heart at first stopping, then pounded wildly. Without warning, she was hit by the wealth of confusing emotion that had plagued her that morning. A feeling of raw despondency and gloom as her lungs fought for air. The room might have stood in a permanent state of being had Pilcher not tugged at her arm. Absently, she thanked the woman who scurried off once dismissed.

"Come on," he whispered urgently. "Let's get out of here. Aunt Rachel is still in town…maybe she can call my uncle and see if that's at all fixable."

But she wasn't listening, wasn't blinking or breathing. The only way he got her to move was to drag her out. Her mind was detached and far away, plagued with terrible curiosity and wonder. What on earth could Barney want with her now?



* * *