PART 2
With a resigned sigh, Graham poured himself a large glass of Cuervo and dropped onto the couch to begin picking through the file on Special Agent Clarice Starling. Lecter's file and the cassette tape he left conspicuously untouched.
Jack had been thorough... all of her information in regards to the Bureau as well as her reports on her interviews with Lecter.
You knew I wouldn't revisit his file, didn't you Jack? At least not right away... but you wanted to make sure I had the proper feel for the whole thing. How thoughtful of you.
Graham sneered and set those pages aside for the moment. Good old Jack had amassed quite an impressive collection of articles from various tabloids as well, including the National Tattler.
Oh boy, my favorite!
Too bad old Freddy hadn't lasted for this round.
A brief note of congratulations for the job you did on Mr. Lounds. I admired it enormously.
He shook his head and stood. Why the fuck was he bothering with this shit? He wasn't planning to do anything with the information and he sure as hell had had enough of Hannibal Lecter to last him several lifetimes! Dammit! Why did he think he owed Jack Crawford anything, let alone this?
He drained his glass and poured another one. He even managed to down half of it in a single gulp before his attention was drawn back to the clippings.
The 'Bride of Dracula' series in the National Tattler was by far the most lurid of the early ones. There was also an unfortunate picture that was taken during an incident at Split City Mini-Storage – Clarice Starling, FBI trainee, standing on the ankle of a television news cameraman who appeared to be wedged under the door to a storage unit. Starling was brandishing a jack handle. Not a stellar beginning to her career. Leave it to the Tattler to make sure that saw print no less than half a dozen times over the course of her 7 years with the Bureau.
There was one nice short piece from People magazine after the rescue of Catherine Martin.
"Someone wasn't paying attention if that one managed to get through," Graham muttered with a humorless snort.
Then there were the more recent clippings...
"DEATH ANGEL: CLARICE STARLING, THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE"
That was the worst from the fiasco at the Feliciana fish market, the mess that had resurrected the past.
Once again, the National Tattler comes out ahead.
The Tattler was also quick to speculate when Starling was suspended and even quicker when she disappeared altogether. Graham finally worked his way to the last of the mountain of clippings, and sat staring at the other file and that damn cassette tape.
Lecter's file Graham was far too familiar with - the early stuff at least. The tape was new to him, though he had read a transcript in one of the clippings from the Tattler. It had been the basis for their 'Bride of Dracula' series, after all. It seems that Frederick Chilton - Graham never had liked him much - had taped Starling's final conversation with Lecter in Baltimore. The Tattler must have been the highest bidder.
Reluctantly, Will took the tape, stood up and put it in his player. He was not particularly anxious to hear Lecter's voice again after all these years, but a transcript could only tell him so much. He needed to hear the interaction, take a reading on the tenor of the exchange. Maybe he could get a sense for what Lecter might want with her. Besides, he heard Lecter's voice far too often without benefit of tape recordings, so what the hell did it matter, really?
He pressed play.
So this was Starling. She sounded so calm. Where was the nervousness that should be running like an undercurrent in her voice? He leaned in closer to the speakers, straining to hear any hint of discomfort.
"If I decline?"
"Maybe you could hang some café curtains in there. It might help. We don't have anything to threaten you with, Dr. Lecter. What I've got is a way for you to see daylight."
She wasn't afraid of him.
Were you ever? Maybe at first but not for very long, I'll bet.
"...Quid pro quo. I tell you things and you tell me."
"Go."
No hesitation. Graham couldn't conceive of anyone who might actually be comfortable with Lecter... but that's exactly what she seemed to be.
"The time clock. What happened to it after your father was shot?"
"I don't remember."
"If you do remember, will you tell me?"
"Yes. Wait – the mayor came to the hospital and asked my mother for the clock and the badge..."
Dear God! She didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second. Surely she couldn't have trusted him? Still, she let him pull memories out of her, made revelations to him as easily as though she were in session with her therapist. Didn't she understand how dangerous that was?
"On what basis would they reject him, what would show up?"
"You're very quick, Clarice."
Was that a compliment – from Lecter?
"Why don't you ask Dr. Bloom?"
"I'd rather ask you."
I'll bet you would.
Graham shook his head, perplexed and more than a little disturbed.
"What will you get out of this, Clarice, a promotion and a raise? What are you a G-9? What do little G-9's get nowadays?"
"A key to the front door, for one thing. How would he show up on the diagnostics?"
"How did you like Montana, Clarice?"
"Montana's fine."
Will felt himself shudder. Their exchange had the rhythm of a well-choreographed dance, and Starling hadn't missed a step.
"How far did you get?"
"I got about as far as I'm going until you break down the diagnostics for me."
She matched him, round for round with no hesitation, no apparent discomfort.
You thought he talked with you, but that wasn't quite it, was it Will? You believed there was some grudging respect because you caught him, but that wasn't it at all. He talked with Starling, you he toyed with. And why not? He had nothing better to do. He knew... he always knew where to strike. He only needed the opportunity to get close enough to draw blood.
No need to go there right now. Let's just move on…
No wonder the Tattler had called her the 'Bride of Dracula' after hearing this thing! The rapport between them was... spooky. She wasn't just holding up well; she liked him. She knew exactly what he was... and some part of her liked him. That was obvious - to Graham at least.
How did you not see it, Jack? Did you want her that much?
Almost as surprising, Lecter liked her, respected her. Of course that wouldn't stop him from killing her when he was finished with whatever he had in mind... no more than wanting her had stopped Jack from sending her to him in the first place.
Will Graham sat staring at the files in front of him on the table while the minutes stretched out. He suddenly had no problem envisioning Lecter deciding to keep this woman alive for awhile; and, unlike Crawford, he was prepared to at least consider the possibility that she might actually be cooperative. He found that he was glad Jack had died before he got around to this.
Clarice Starling must be something. Both Jack Crawford and Hannibal Lecter had been more than a little intrigued by her, and that bracketed almost any universe Graham could conceive of.
It didn't take much imagination to figure out what Jack saw in her, but Lecter was another story.
"It must have irked to have Jack send you somebody who wasn't thrown off by your mind games, huh, Doc?" He actually chuckled. "And a trainee, no less!"
Graham realized that he was smirking. He was starting to like Starling a little himself, but that did nothing to change the fact that she scared the shit out of him. He would have been wary of anybody who seemed to like Lecter, even a little; but he had a more compelling reason to fear Clarice Starling. She had managed to claim the Doctor's respect. That was a dubious achievement, to say the least, and one that should inspire a certain amount of fear in any rational human.
And what about former Special Agent Starling? Why wasn't she afraid of Lecter?
"Why the hell didn't you ask her, Jack?"
Stupid question, Will. It's obvious he didn't even want to admit it, let alone explore the nature of it.
Jack couldn't have known how she'd react to Lecter before he sent her down there, but the fact that she'd never made it into Behavioral Science told Will that her reaction wasn't what Jack had expected.
Did she understand it, I wonder?
Finally, he bent forward and lifted the collection of clippings aside, picking up Agent Starling's reports on her conversations with Lecter.
Let's see if you knew, Starling. You can be sure he did.
Her reports were thorough and well-written. All of the information was there. She had left nothing out as far as he could tell from the portion of their dialogue that he'd heard... but they didn't quite convey the exact substance of the conversations either. Graham knew from personal experience that Hannibal Lecter was a disconcerting interview subject. He was certain that anyone reading his own reports on meetings with Lecter – even before the Doctor's arrest – would have come away with at least a vague sense that the interview had not been altogether pleasant. Nothing overt, mind you... the unconscious use of an extra adjective here and there that might signal discomfort, or paint Lecter's manner in a certain light. The absence of any indication in Starling's reports that this might be the case was less surprising to Graham than it should have been. Under other circumstances, he might have put it down to a conscious effort on the part of a young and ambitious trainee to appear professional, in control. But in this instance, having heard the tape before reading the reports, he found the complete absence of ... commentary on the Doctor himself to be more than a little disconcerting. Surely she couldn't have been unaware that her ease with him was uncommon in the extreme.
Was it that... natural to her?
Hell, Jack, maybe you should have fought harder to get her into Behavioral Science. If you thought I could understand a killer, she would have blown you away. Yes sir, with just a little practice that lady would have made me look like an amateur... and I'll just bet she would have enjoyed it. It sure as hell wouldn't have left her fucked up, at the very least.
What stopped you, Jack? Maybe she frightened you like I never did... maybe because she didn't have the sense to be frightened herself.
His eyes fell on the stack of clippings that had scattered out over the table. Somehow they seemed less lurid than prescient just now.
"Why am I doing this?" he asked himself again.
Why indeed? It was obvious that he was in no position to save this woman from anything. Truth be told, he wasn't so sure that it was even what she'd want, given the option. So why not just get rid of this whole mess? Why should he take this particular stroll down memory lane?
Because you need to understand her now, don't you?
What he was thinking was inconceivable, yet it seemed necessary to consider it as a distinct possibility.
Could she have gone with him willingly? Could anyone want to...
"NO! I will not do this!"
He scooped up the clippings and the reports, shoving them back into the sizable file and stacking it on top of Lecter's. Both files and the cassette tape went into the waste can in the corner. He picked up his glass and the half-empty bottle beside it and went down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.