Author's Note: This idea came to me after watching Unsolved Mysteries (damn addictive show) the other day. Consequentially, the character of Clark McCallister and the details of his arrest are based on actuality. I made everything else up.

My endless thanks to Helene and Nikita for looking over this for me.

Disclaimer: The characters herein with the exception of Clark McCallister 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.


Stella-Attraversato



Author: DianaLecter (mischalecter@hotmail.com)
Rating: NR (as of now)
Timeline: Three and a half years after The Silence of the Lambs— departs from canon
Summary: Special Agent Clarice Starling is sent to administer a prisoner transfer and discovers that negotiations are never short.



Chapter One


Memories a thousand years old came to life with a flicker of the subconscious. Things she forgot she knew—things she didn't care to remember. Though rightfully, Clarice Starling lived in the mindset that she knew everything that had occurred that night. However, it seemed with the twist and turn of age that additional diminutive details returned, distorted but as valid as ever.

Knowing that she would remember very little of her nightly visions when she awoke was only temporarily gratifying. The mind was a funny thing like that. It had the ability to draw one back to a torturous event that happened eons ago, and similarly lacked the will to summon the occurrences of a prior week, or on a particularly groggy morning.

It wasn't right. Wasn't that night supposed to behind her? Hadn't she already secured her sanctuary? She had thought so, watching Jame Gumb take the last breaths of life. Someone obviously didn't agree with her.

Thankfully, Starling never had to dread what she faced when she awoke. Sleeping subjected her to the dark side of her understanding and reality snapped it back. Perhaps that was the retribution of her sacrifice and dedication to saving the life that was supposed to banish all nightmares away forever. While she never doubted what she saw when she slept, she likewise scarcely recalled any of it. An isolated wail in the distance was the embodiment of a nightly reminiscence. The cold sweat she awoke in served as the only reinforcement she required for the knowledge of where the darkness had taken her.

Some compensation. Cheap material in exchange for even cheaper satisfaction. Starling would never regret the actions that she undertook to guarantee a peaceful night, regardless of the consequences. There were other dreams, as well, but she supposed those were inevitable.

It never ceased to amaze her how tangible these images felt. Now, she was wandering through the darkness, arms outstretched as she felt her way toward the barn. It was a path she had taken time and time again, and perhaps only with the knowledge of age did she find herself doubtful of her destination. However, despite where she pointed herself, she always found her way. It was a part of the curse, something that would never fully be behind her. There was a pen ahead of her, barely visible against the gloomy sky. Déjà vu and more tackled her unwilling, matured though still very young senses. This path was nearly twenty years behind her, and yet here she was, standing at the beginning again.

And it always led her here. No matter how she tried to turn in the other direction, this was her supreme purpose. A place she could not shun from memory, no matter how desperately she tried.

Then something woke you. What woke you up? Did you dream? What was it?

Of course, that fastidious voice had only recently joined the nomadic festivities of her subliminal ramblings. Its incessant sounding caused the screaming to begin. Though never consistent in timing, Starling was surprised at how it still caused her to jump. How that familiar ache trembled through her reluctant body. A languid feeling came over her, one unwilling to run, one that demanded she return to the ranch. It was no use. She had stood here time and time before without any change to what was destined to occur.

However, like so many times, when she turned the ranch was not there. It was only her bedroom. Starling could see her sleeping form and opened her mouth to scream herself awake, but no sound escaped.

Then it was there, slicing a finish to the silent air in a wail that would never cease. That screaming! A familiar feeling of helplessness engulfed her. There was no more she could now than she could have then. She turned and directed herself to the pen, flinching as the neighing of frightened horses joined the wails already tainting the air. Familiar scents tackled her senses, things as minute as the scrape she had acquired on her knee the day before the momentous event rang back with all the pangs of practicality. Even as she blew gently in Hannah's nose, preparing for the escape, she knew it wasn't real. Merely a recollection of things long ago.

There were new sensations as well. It was odd standing here with a defined grasp on everything that was to come. The sense of recognizing the paradox of dreams she worked herself into versus the horror of actuality. Still, that hardly hampered the same cold feelings of dread from creeping up her spine.

As you went off in the dark, could you hear the lambs back where the lights were?

The twelve lambs screaming in the distance remained with her longer than she remembered, perhaps by the power of suggestion. The more she stayed, the more these infinitesimal particulars attacked her defenses. Soon she would be able to outline the night sky exactly as it was—every constellation a child could remember etched tightly in her cranium.

That was as far as it took her. She awoke promptly, drenched in sweat, not bothering to look at the clock. The dreams were becoming real again. Though as she banished sleep from her system, the remaining fragments of her dream bid her peace, she distantly heard a dying cry. Lingering Montana scents remained with her for a few seconds before finally drifting away. And though the hour was early, she did not consider revisiting sleep. It was routine now, a disturbing pattern that failed to disband. Despite numerous achievements, she was held back by what others would be quick to identify as shortcomings. Rather, in some perverse twist, the screaming of the lambs had intensified in the years since Buffalo Bill's death.

Every night was the same—a restless toss on a rickety mattress before falling into a brief, troubled sleep. And sometime before 5:00 AM, she would wake with the distant calls of the unsaved victims screaming their incessant plight, knowing it would never be answered.

It was something she couldn't fathom. Despite all that was accomplished, the risks and sacrifices she took to satisfy the aggrieved souls of those first that she could not save amounted to little. They were still there, kept alive by some part of her that refused to allow her to forget.

Night after night, it was the same. No inconsistency in habit. Starling was denied the rest she so craved, subjected again and again to events irreversible, regardless of how many times relived. It was a shattering piece of her that was not permitted recess.

This evening was no different. And while she never recalled all of the details, the screams were always the same. Starling had not understood the difference between soft and quiet until she ran out of synonyms. Though she had tried to recapture sleep initially, her attempts usually resulted in a battle for the sun to rise.

Instead, her eyes focused on the clock, waiting for time to wear away. It was beginning to affect her in the reign of consciousness as well. Morning was inevitably approaching when the lambs broke through a façade of sleep and awareness, when it no longer mattered what time it was.

Sleep was impracticable, consequentially leading to a long and bitterly hard day. However, this particular night demanded her alertness. The call came 4:57—fourteen minutes later. In her pivotal being between rest and reality, that was the one consistency that would remain with her in days to come. As soon as the digital apparatus announced another sixty-second duration, a shrill ring perturbed the air.

Starling was tempted to let the machine get it, but her common sense persuaded her to reach for the phone. Though her number was unlisted, there had been a time or two when an unnamed insider sold it to the Tattler or some other trash tabloid for an undoubtedly inadequate fee. However, it had been a while since she received a caller who wanted personal details about her interactions with a madman in the depths of a cryptic Baltimore dungeon. With the passage of time, she wondered briefly if anyone even remembered her name.

Someone does, she thought dryly, hesitating as she grasped the phone.

Even that was debatable.

Starling, irritated with herself, muttered something under her breath and answered. "Hello?" Though she had been awake for several minutes, she heard sleep in her voice.

"Starling?" It was Crawford. Almost immediately, she felt an upheaval of tension vacate her shoulders. Whatever she had expected, she did not know, but it was not a moment for reflection.

"Good morning, Mr. Crawford."

"I'm sorry to call so early."

"I was up." Wearily, she drew her legs over the side of the mattress and stood at her leisure. There was no point in lingering—she had known her rest was over since awakening. Remaining in bed would only make her more lethargic. "What's wrong?"

"I got a call a few minutes ago. Clark McCallister is going to be transferred to the penitentiary in Florence, Colorado." Crawford sighed tryingly. "That incident last week really rattled everyone up. Now, he's agreed to go peacefully under one condition." There was a lengthy pause, inviting commentary but she could not find her voice. After an understanding moment, he continued. "McCallister requested that you handle the matter specifically. I tried to fight it, but Pearsall wants the move to go as smoothly as possible. Any other circumstance, and I'd consent." There was no definitive finale to the announcement, rather a second pause that pleaded for clarification. When she could offer nothing, Crawford asked softly, "Starling? You still there?"

Some news had the affect of a cold shower, and despite circumstances, she had to admit that this wasn't altogether unexpected. McCallister had killed a fellow inmate the previous week when some renegade prison food grunge found its way onto his standard issue shoes. The story made all the papers as a solid reminder of the man's monstrosities.

Starling required no such aide memoire. The years since graduation consisted of the never-ending struggle for her admittance into the Behavioral Science department, the place Crawford had made for her since the victorious conclusion of the Buffalo Bill case. However, her enemies in the Bureau, namely Paul Krendler and his cronies, were doing everything in their power to be sure such never happened.

There were certain cases, however, that required her assistance. The prior year Crawford had called conference with her and Pearsall to inquire if he might borrow her for insight on a long unsolved case. Starling, naturally seeking any offer that nudged her closer to Behavioral Science, accepted instantly.

Her approval was hasty but not unappreciated. The particulars were shared for their foible nature, almost clumsy in fashion but tightly linked. A seemingly random string of murders were suddenly being traced together in the search for a pattern. It seemed that for the past decade, a serial murderer had enjoyed traveling across the globe and simply killing anyone that struck his fancy. There was no consistency, no motive. The man killed because he enjoyed it. He defied every standard expectation of the modern day suspect. Crawford said once that while he thought they were dealing with a man, as female serial killers were rare, it would not surprise him if it turned out otherwise. The case in itself was too bizarre for anything to take him by storm.

In ten years, the only hints of incriminating evidence were two fingerprints taken from one isolated crime scene.

The spontaneity of the man's killings was in fact the only reliability that strewed them collectively. In months since his capture and conviction, the Tattler had yet to formulate a clever nickname, and had consequentially kept the reports on the matter relatively quiet.

Clark McCallister was identified and captured at the Washington Dulles International Airport prior to reentering the country when he was questioned about his passport. Though Starling was acquainted and a believer of the old establishment that all serial murderers on a level craved capture, there had been one a time or two that strained the lines of common knowledge. To that day, she was unsure if she agreed Jame Gumb wished to be discovered and stopped before he succeeded in his woman suit, and she knew the madman interrogated to find Buffalo Bill was very much enjoying his freedom, wherever he was.

In the time that it took Starling and a few select agents to arrive, airport security reported that McCallister, though notably aware of where they were leading him, remained calm throughout the process. If it was capture that he desired, then he had obtained it, and he submitted without struggle. When she first saw him, when their eyes connected as he was read his rights, she felt herself under scrutiny she had not experienced since standing in the presence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

He had smiled at her and said, "Well, well…they certainly called the big dogs in for this one."

Airport security officials were not so acute. McCallister's comment confused them and they had to ask one of the other agents his meaning after she led him to the squad car. Hardly anyone remembered her name, or her connection to the infamous cannibal.

The trial was swift. McCallister eagerly pleaded guilty to all charges and was sentenced to execution by lethal injection for May 5, 1998. Until then, he would wait in the Washington Penitentiary and count down the hours left to live.

When reporters questioned him as to his motives, he had left them with a chilling, "Because it was fun." It was obvious he enjoyed the publicity, but Starling doubted that it had ever been his intention to be captured. There was unsettling sincerity in his explanation, and while media attention was always enjoyable, she suspected he would have much preferred to remain at large and create those headlines until he tired of the practice, or died at his own accordance.

She had only seen him twice: when she apprehended him and when he was sentenced. Both times he established eye contact and winked. The only words he said directly to her concerned the headlines she had had the displeasure of tolerating nearly four years before. In that, she saw he understood that his momentary fame would soon fall to nothingness. Even Hannibal The Cannibal was a dying name. Despite the numerous revivals made in the Tattler, his numerous atrocities were traded for more current headlines.

"Starling?" Crawford's voice snapped her back to the present. "You still there?"

She shook her head heavily. "Yes, Sir."

"Can I tell Pearsall you'll comply without a fight? We don't want more trouble from McCallister."

"Why did he ask for me? I don't understand."

There was a groan and she heard the recliner Crawford was undoubtedly resting in wheeze under his weight. "Most likely because of who you are. When word gets out that Clarice Starling was requested specifically by a serial killer to directly deal with his transfer, the tabloids will—if you pardon the pun—eat you alive."

She snickered. "He doesn't think that—"

"Who knows what he thinks? He's not as smart as Lecter was, for sure…or rather, as smart as Lecter liked to think he was. McCallister might just want the publicity and thinks you're the key to it. In the end, it doesn't matter what he thinks. The media will create their own stories." Crawford groaned again, as if the burden had a larger influence on his shoulders. "I hate to do this to you."

Starling knew he meant it. Despite everything, the Guru always seemed to want the best for her. Yes, he was masterful at manipulating her and everyone else to conform to his own desires, but the basis of their friendship was beyond the merit of student and teacher. He had long given up trying to bullshit her, which she appreciated. In the Bureau, he was the only one who had the courage to be thoroughly honest. If there was a deal to be made, he let her know first handedly.

And, if he didn't, he was successful in covering wary tracks.

"But," she said understandingly, "we don't have a choice, if we want him to go quietly. Do we? It's this or nothing."

"I'm betting he could make things a lot more difficult for us if you don't agree." Crawford paused, considering. "If it's any compensation, I think Pearsall agreed to let you have the following week off. You've more than earned it. You need a vacation, Starling, and badly."

"Where am I taking him again?"

"The penitentiary in Florence, Colorado."

She snickered audibly. "Florence, Colorado. Someone trying to be funny?"

"I've wondered the same." Crawford's smile was perceptible. "It's one of the better alternatives, given the situation. The place was built in the good name of solitary confinement. Prisoners do everything in their cells. The man I spoke with told me that they only spend three hours a day interacting with their inmates, and the remaining twenty-one to themselves. McCallister should either enjoy it or crack under the pressure." He sighed. "In many ways, with the research I've done, it makes the Baltimore Asylum sound like the Ritz. In fact, a group of radicals have been protesting since it opened that it's borderline cruel and unusual punishment."

Another snicker climbed up her throat, but she bit it back. "Are we sure that Dr. Chilton didn't disappear and reestablish himself elsewhere? That sounds familiar."

The silence that followed forewarned that Crawford did not appreciate that comment. With as much as they shared an opinion of the missing administrator, the manifest dislike for Frederick Chilton shriveled in comparison to the wealth of negativity directed at Dr. Lecter himself. However, Starling felt justified in her comment and did not apologize. It was one of the areas of greater disagreement between them. While she understood Crawford's opinion of Hannibal Lecter, she could not share it. Their separate dealings with him left very different impressions.

When the silence threatened to become uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and continued in a slightly smaller voice, "No one says you have to accept it, you know."

"But I will. You knew that before you called me."

"Yes. You're a team player, Starling. No one can ever call you selfish."

At that, she rolled her eyes. The clock read 5:10 and she felt it was time for her ritualistic morning jog. "They call me worse," she muttered. "When is McCallister scheduled to be transferred?"

"In three days. That enough time?"

"I'll manage."

"Thanks Starling. We won't forget this."

Crawford was never one for 'goodbyes' by habit and the line fell dead. Starling clenched the phone tightly and her teeth gritted. "Yes you will," she murmured dangerously. "Maybe you won't specifically, but everyone else will. They always do."

The morning habitual progressed normally. She set her coffee maker and stepped outside for the customary jog around the block. There was some sign of early traffic, but not much.

It wasn't until she heard the wind howling through the few residential trees that she recalled the original conditions of her awakening. In warning, her stomach fell and small shivers sprouted across her body. Starling was glad she was not superstitious for she suspected she would have beaten herself over the head with interpretations of the coming days. Instead, she continued regularly, trying very hard to ignore the new sense of dread spooling a cold web inside her trembling soul.


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