Two days had passed since the funeral, and in that time Ardelia had not returned to Clarice's room. The letter sat where she had dropped it, devilishly innocent atop of her bed, silently screaming to be touched, read, or better yet, burnt. Just having it the house felt like an omen. She couldn't think clearly within the very same walls that concealed Starlings secret. Because it had to be a secret, didn't it? Hannibal Lecter was not a subject open for discussion between the friends, ever. If Ardelia mentioned anything in remote relation to the murderer, Clarice would crawl into her shell, deflecting and evading anyone or anything that wished to aid her in fighting her monsters.
Mapp rested on the front porch of the duplex, facing the normality of lives that continued to pass unfazed by the absence of their virtuous neighbour. Children were riding their bikes and laughing away their naive happiness, business people returned home from their long days ready to settle into the comforts of domesticity for the evening, and the lovers snuggling in their living rooms anticipating the delivery of another flawless evening. Essentially, everything was just as it was before.
Two years ago Ardelia had decided to leave an empty life and settle down with a new job and a new man. Watching the orbit of lives in Clarice's street made her think about her happiness; the joy that Clarice never had, and now would never know.
On her lap sat the letter which she had read a dozen times over; Clarice's request, final goodbye, and her last chance at redemption. She read it again, knowing each word before her eyes ran over them.
Dearest Ardelia,
Before I write or your read anymore, I want you to know that I love you. You were the one true friend who turned your back on the world to save me, and I owe you everything I ever had for your friendship. Thank you.
I'm aware that if you found this letter, I am well and truly dead. Please don't be upset, we shared some of my greatest years, and that's enough. Besides, all things end, don't they? You, of all people I know, deserve happiness and even though I won't be around anymore, I know you'll be strong. I'm counting on it.
I have left the majority of my belongings to you. There's not a lot. I suppose I always left it to you to make our house a home. One of my savings funds will be shifted to the Lutheran Home account in Bozeman. I assume, with your consent, the banks will sort it out without a great deal of hassle.
How odd it seems to be judging the sum of my life. I may as well be a barrister, twisting my past and formatting my success, attempting to prove the worth of my own existence. I feel that perhaps I have failed. Life, as it is now, seems trivial, the job, the bills, the belongings. What of this luggage? Can I take with me? No. I can't even scrap together a few memories of what I had.
All this time to reflect, Ardelia, and it's making me depressed. I feel as though I took things from you and hardly made and effort to return. I stole moments of your happiness, you gave me good advice and offered all the love you had, and what could I offer you? Not much affection, little advice and not nearly enough of my happiness. Now though, I have one final favor to ask, and its conclusion will surely bring the happiness I exhausted a lifetime trying to ignore.
In this box, along with the will is another letter. I ask you to deliver it, in person, to the addressed recipient. I know that if I were sitting next to you right now, you'd argue. You'd tell me that this was insane and wrong. But, I'm not there, and I need you to do this, more than anything.
The party in question lives out of town, but I suspect he will have heard the news by now. He'll know something is coming. A final goodbye, if you will.
Place this in the agony column if the Times, Herald-Tribune and the China Mail:
A. A. Aaron-
Her faithful follower, the pigeon has come to fall.
An exchange must be made, hand-to-hand.
The friend.
There is no trouble lurking on the horizon, I assure you. I would not put you in such a position. No one will be looking; the prey they sought has been taken care of. Trust me, they can't hurt you and neither will the recipient. He will know where to look.
It is with this finial request that I can give something back. I think it may be the worth my entire existence. Although I cannot force you, I know you will do what you feel is right.
Thank you for everything. Take care of yourself, my dearest friend.
I love you. Goodbye.
Clarice.
Ardelia's chest was swelling, or was the her vision? Each time she read the last few paragraphs she fought off the urge to churn out the contents of her stomach. Her shoulders felt heavy. How could Starling ask her to do such a thing? It was illegal; against every principal the FBI had punched into her.
Dread was the word that came to mind. Like the note on the piano hanging in the air, Ardelia could not rid of the emotion that devoured her. Would contacting Hannibal Lecter free her of this, she wondered. If she fulfilled this favour, could she find peace in knowing that Clarice would have been happy? If it wasn't enough, she'd never forgive herself. She was no longer an FBI agent, but that didn't change the fact that she remained a dutiful citizen. One who had spent many of her years believing that the only good place for a criminal was a cell.
With her head buried in a grave of thoughts, Ardelia did not see the figure of a man ascending the stairs beside her. It was not until a thick wrist tapped on her shoulder that she realised she had company.
"Miss Mapp?" Clint Pearsall squatted on his knees to level himself out with the dark woman's cowering form.
Through her curly brown hair she looked up, not bothering to sit straighter in her chair. There was no reason; he was no longer her superior.
"Clint." She mumbled his first name into her clasped hands with surprise. It stunk with informality, yet he didn't express disapproval. What would be the point?
"How are you holding up?" Pearsall rubbed his knees, well aware that age and flexibility would never make a friendly bond in his lifetime.
Ardelia looked straight at him then. He immediately took her hollow eyes outlined with dark droopy circles. Mapp had always been conservative in dress and appearance; he was unaccustomed to seeing her in such a state. He watched her stash something away in her pocket before wiping away the remaining tears crusting at the corner crevices of her eyes.
"What're you doing here?" She picked at the plum polish on her nails.
Pearsall gently shifted a box into her acute-angled vision. "More things from her office. Mostly paperwork, old case files." He paused a moment. "Lecter junk."
She cringed at the name, the man and the pinnacle of her current circumstance.
"What do you expect me to do with it?" She eyed the box. Similar to the one sitting on Clarice's bed, filled with wearisome bureaucratic bullshit
" I..." He rolled back onto his heels, dispersing his bodyweight. "They had no place where they were. The stuff in here isn't helpful to any present or pending investigation. Most likely it would have been sold on e-bay by some nosy get-ahead. Clarice wouldn't have wanted that." His tone and manner was genuine.
She looked up to the aging fifty-something man in his dark suit and pinstriped tie. In all of his profession, he was visibly shaken. A frown looked foreign on a high-ranking FBI official's face. Ardelia was pleased.
"I'm sorry. You're right." She patted her hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. Her lips whitened with the strain.
Pearsall's eyes dropped to the floor in attempt to find something appropriate to say. He had intended to keep his visit brief. After all, a boss really has no place grieving in the house of his employee. The simple fact was he liked Starling and that was hard for him to express to the critical eye.
"Can I get you a coffee?" Ardelia shifted and stood. The creak of the old bamboo chair distracted his attentions for a moment.
"I should be heading back to DC. I have meetings…" He didn't have time to craft a complete excuse.
"Please." A note of desperation rises within her whisper.
He nodded and followed her into the quite duplex. As soon breathed in the stilled air mental images of Starling's body flashed to the front of his eyes. Her home smelt like the morgue where he had been called down to identify her body. No one else would know the difference, except Ardelia the passed Jack Crawford, and perhaps Hannibal Lecter. But he didn't want for Ardelia to see Starling in her death mess, and neither Crawford nor Lecter were available for comment. Pearsall had to wonder though; how would the notorious cannibal react if he had seen Clarice Starling, his number one crush, pale and lifeless on the surgical slab?
The images began to fade as the aroma of the coffee took dominance over the sterile detergent.
"Thanks for bringing them over." Ardelia busied herself in the kitchen. "Black with sugar?"
"Cream too, if you've got it." He dropped the box on a nearby couch and made his way over to the set table in the middle of the room. To his knowledge, Starling was never a spiritual person. He wondered if Ardelia had changed the arrangement of her furniture. Feng Shui seemed more like her thing.
"Yes." She realised that she'd never held such a trivial conversation with this man before. But he was playing along, and she was appreciative of the company. Perhaps they both were.
"I had some trouble getting that box through the front door at Quantico. The general consensus is that whatever remained of Lecter died with Starling. Like his capture was her secret, a lost riddle." He directed his voice into the polished tabletop.
"I'm glad you came. It's good to have company. This place reeks of memories I'd just as soon be distracted from." She wanted to avoid discussing Lecter.
Ardelia brought two cups of steaming coffee over to the table and sat across from Pearsall. His face look as trite as the bland walls behind him; washed and worn down to their most basic state.
"Clarice was a good woman and a fine agent. She'd appreciate all that you've done." He grasped the cup with both hands, tentatively sipping and blowing off the steam.
"She only ever got half as far as she should have." Pearsall was the wrong man to be directing her angers at, she knew. But the rage was clawing her internally, demanding an attack on any victim just to find some release.
"I know." Such a topic would likely lead to him stomping on eggshells, there was little that could be said.
"She put her life into the Bureau, Clint." Tears threatened to distract her once again. " Don't tell me you were incapable of a favour. You could have done something. Jump out squads? Christ! You knew she was better than that." She threw more coffee down her throat hoping to scald her tongue.
"Ardelia…don't" Pearsall took a deep breath, watching the crumble of a woman on the opposing side of the table. "Neither of us could say anything at this moment that would made a difference." His sincerity was legitimate.
~ Besides, all things end, don't they? ~
Anyone who has ever lost a friend, a lover, or even a worthy foe knows what it feels like to reach wits end. Ardelia's body was buzzing with nerves. A wave of anxiety progressed in an upward motion from her stomach to her ears.
~ I know you will do what you feel is right ~
It became too much. Her porcelain cup hit the table with a loud 'clink' as she rose. There was madness in her eyes, a dazzling light at the very end of her spark. Somewhere between a rock and a hard place would be a welcome comfort, she thought. She had to take action. Anything would be better than this.
"I've have to show you something" She stook blinking a moment before retreating.
"What is it?" Clint Pearsall inquired.
"A problem." He barely made out her reply as her rickety shadow disappeared into Starling's bedroom.