Dear Reader, A small warning for those with fragile hearts and minds, this work contains angst. Yes, my name is LoT and I'm an angst-o-holic. It all started off as an idea, and has progressed to fic-stage. I expect it to be short and appreciate all opinions and comments. Enjoy…
The
Sinner, Her Savoir
-LadyOfTruths
A bitter cold breeze swept over Arlington National
Cemetery, encouraging a group of dead and dying leaves to dance together with the
empty air. In the far-eastern corner of the autumn tinged burial ground, a
ceremony is in procession, twenty-one-guns paused in salute by the firing
party.
Ardelia Mapp held wrapped arms tightly around her body as she watched the casket team bring forth the darkly polished coffin. She fought back the urge to fall to her knees with sudden absolute weakness, the white roses and bright flag draped over the top of painted black timber served as a sufficient distraction. She didn't want to picture the cold body at rest inside. Seventy-two hours after the death of Special Agent Clarice Starling, Ardelia still pictured her at home, in her old duplex, cleaning the shelves and laughing to herself.
Because three days had passed since her death, the funeral
was well attended. Ardelia stood at the front, making an effort to push past
the suits that attended out of obligation and the press looking to make the
best end to a story they loved. In the crowd of fifty-something, she was the
closest thing to family, no direct bloodlines, no grieving husband, and no
teary-eyed children. Though it was not surprising, Ardelia felt awful, it was
the wrong way to depart this life.
"Clarice
Starling was a first-rate agent of the Bureau. Her friends and colleagues
respected her courage, strength and loyalty greatly. She will not be forgotten"
Ardelia snorted. The father had no idea and his service was
a joke. Clarice had been a tarnished agent of the Bureau. Her colleges despised
everything about her, and probably came solely to certify her demise. She would
be forgotten as soon as they could clear out her office.
"Like any trained agent, Clarice risked her life every day in the line of duty. Her accidental death should be honoured, and for us, the public she fought to protect, her fate should be viewed as admirable."
In accordance with the faith stated on her employment
records, Starling's service provided general honours with a Lutheran touch.
There was no family to argue with, and even though she was admittedly
unreligious, a funeral without the mention of God felt like damnation. Ardelia
hoped that in her final moments, Starling had turned to something and found
a glimmer of hope worth trading her life for. In her years as a special agent, Ardelia had always stepped out with a
measure of faith in her pocket, to do so without any belief in hope was
reckless and lacking worth. When she had handed in her resignation two years
ago, Clarice had been the first to congratulate her saying "I wish I had the guts to do
it myself". The problem was,
Ardelia thought, she had too much guts and she never would've allowed herself
to leave.
"…thy
will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…"
She wondered, if she had tried harder to convince Clarice to
leave, would she be alive right now? She could be standing next to her, and
this could be someone else's funeral. But she isn't, and this was hers. Clarice
Starling was as dead as her father. She had even died for the same cause.
Ardelia was given a copy of the report, describing how and why the situation
eventuated. Clarice had gone into the raid first, cocked and vested, leading
four other agents through a narrow suburban home. Denis Husker, formerly known
and Nev Stalone, convicted rapist and paedophile, should not have been
expecting them. Everything should have run routine-smooth; Nev's latest arrest,
his new wife and child taken into custody and the 25 pounds of methamphetamine
bagged as evidence. Alas, nothing went as planned. Nev and three other men were
packing, two of them positioned on the stairs, their 9-millimetre Berettas
angled facing the door, and Nev and another waiting in the kitchen with his
wife and child, strapped with explosives. Clarice hadn't made it past the
entryway, the double action semi-automatic pistols shot into her vested chest
and shoulders, giving fair warning to the agents behind her. More bullets were
fired, but no one else was shot.
"For
the Kingdom, the power and the glory are yours, now and forever"
The report also included time of death; the paramedics
arrived in time to get her pale body into the ambulance and hooked up to a
drip. By that time, one of the shots had logged itself into bone, sending chips
and fragments flying into her heart. So much for the vest! They said she had
been strong up until the end, closing her eyes with a slight, cheerless smile…
Ardelia fought back another sob; her chest heaving in
uncontrollable fits.
Amen.
Her murky brown eyes darted from the coffin descending into the
ground to the suits standing in the crowd. She wanted to yell and scream and
pull their shiny unless badges off their damn uniforms. She had to force her
shaking fists into her pockets before she threw them about without the
slightest care. Grief was slowly seeping into rage, and she desperately needed
to vent it.
The firing of the guns came as a shock and a relief.
Something so piercing loud, quick and deliberate summed up her fury. She looked
into the clear morning sky, as if to watch the bullets fly into space. And then
the tears came, no longer willing to remain leashed and obedient. A warm, wet path made its way over the
curves of her cheeks; she could taste the saltiness. Sadness always seemed more
authentic when you could taste your own tears.
After that, the ceremony was over within a few minutes. The
suits gathered, in all probability to sneak in the odd victorious glance, and
the media started their on-scene promos. Ardelia made her way through the crowd, heading back towards her car.
Tears distorted her vision, but she looked straight ahead, ignoring the
consoling looks from those who passed her. Beneath her leather boots, shells from several bullets crunched. She
wanted get keep one, but found that she could not stop to bend down, a sea of
white headstones was repelling her further and further from Clarice Starling's
gravesite.
"Miss Mapp, I'm Kara Millen from the
Washington Post. Would you be able to spare me…"
"I'll spare you your breath. I'm not interested." She hadn't
heard the woman sneak up behind her; her chilled tone expressed her
indifference and frustration.
"It'll
only take a few minutes. I really want this story presented with as much truth
and respect as possible"
Reporters haven't laboured a days worth of respect in their
lives, Ardelia thought before she replied "And I'd really like my best friend
back. Now please, fuck off!"
Kara Millen bit the dust as the Ardelia Mapp fasted her pace
towards the exit. Her hand-held tape recorder sat limp and wasted in her extended
palm.
~*~*~
Clarice's house, their old duplex, was lonely. There were
little belongings on display, though nothing could ease the aloof and
suppressive atmosphere Starling had created. An empty coffee cup sat
upside-down in the dish drainer next to a shot glass and plate. The rooms had
been repeatedly cleaned; the stench of bleach and disinfectants hung heavily in
the air. Effectively Starling had cleaned herself out of her home, tenants
could move in tomorrow and not feel as though they were imposing on the past
memories that only the plain sturdy walls had witnessed.
With a sigh, Ardelia moved into the bedroom. She remembered
Clarice in their academy days; she'd never been one for tidiness or fuss. The
remnants of her life now would suggest something of opposing nature. Her
dresser was almost bare, no photo frames, trophies or papers, and the clothes
in her closet had been organised into color groups. It's entirety screamed boredom and isolation. The only object out
of place was the brown cardboard box that sat unsympathetically on her bed.
Most of the contents were from work, though there was a photo album and legal
papers resting on the top. Clarice had appointed her best and only friend as
testator of her will. Ironically, most of her things were left to Ardelia's
name, so contacting beneficiaries required minimal effort.
In Clarice Starling's bedroom, Ardelia sat on the springy
mattress, running her dark hands over the ivory calico-woven quilt. Next to the
box was a file which contained her 'to-do' list, she expected it to be short.
As she lifted the papers, two notes simultaneously fell onto her lap. The top
one read: Ardelia
The envelope was small in comparison to the grand and daunting
legal notes with harsh bold headers. She sat a moment, fingering the delicate
stationary; it looked and smelt like recycled paper and rose petals.
A few scattered
tears fell onto the paper and smudged the black ink as she eased out the folded
letter inside. As she read, her breath remained hitched at the base of her
throat. The words of a dead person are demanding and sophisticated, she felt
herself compelled to read. Ardelia could feel the blood rushing through her
temples, muscles twisted knots in her stomach as she came to the end. Clarice
had signed at the bottom of the note, running each of the letters in her name
together in a fine cursive. She blinked
a moment, in hopes of defying time. She had not been ready for Clarice's final
request.
Placing the letter back in the envelope, she sat up
straight, reaching for the second letter. She sucked in another deep breath and
opened her eyes to look at the envelope. She had used the same stationary, yet
something seemed different. It smelt sweeter and appeared to hold more
sentiment. If letters had auras, she was sure this one was ringing with
tension.
In the middle of the envelope, Clarice's pen had run a fine
smooth course along the letters of one extremely familiar name: Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
To be continued…