Author's Note: Thanks everyone for your interest thus far. To a question…yes, the Doctor will most definitely be making an appearance in later chapters. Again, my thanks to my two wonderful betas for looking over this for me. You guys are the best.

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.


Chapter Two


Starling turned the corner onto her street just as the sun began to creep over the horizon. The earth was cold and she was grateful for the lack of ice on the streets. Such was not uncommon for late January in Washington. And though she usually indulged in a second lap, she didn't feel up to it today. The most elementary tasks became intensely difficult when one's mind was overloaded with confusing knots and turns. She had to fight the temptation to switch her sensory on automatic pilot.

Inside, she poured a cup of coffee and left the rest for her roommate, who would soon dominate the kitchen. The mornings were usually composed of a joint effort in breakfast preparations—Ardelia assumed the role of cook and Starling charged the beverage orders. Once or twice, she had attempted to surprise her friend by having everything arranged before Mapp rolled out of bed. Needless to say, she was hence strictly forbidden from making anything beyond peanut butter and jelly or untoasted turkey sandwiches. If it necessitated something more than a microwave, she was to call for Mapp immediately.

Starling knew such precautions were made in good fun and that she was not expected to follow them in any circumstance. However, her life was too fast-paced to worry with domesticity. She was not married and did not intend on ever being so, and even if that plan backfired on her, she would be damned before she let herself fall into the stereotypical wife expectation. Life required her only as she was.

With Mapp such things were easy. She had grown up with cooking as other children grew up on cartoons. The differences in their background were manifest and it helped their relationship blossom. Starling had always admired Ardelia's free spirit even if she had no desire to share it. While her friend enjoyed nights on the town with whichever love interest she was currently stringing along, Starling much preferred a quiet evening reviewing facts and files or curling up with a good book.

After opening the blinds, Starling took her coffee and leaned wearily against the counter, not tasting it. Her perfidious mind unwillingly averted to the conversation held with Crawford not an hour before. The thought of seeing Clark McCallister again was not a happy one. In many ways she suspected he strived to adopt Dr. Lecter's mannerisms and regard, but it was not a flavor that suited him. He was very much his own person—over-analytical and always trying to sound cleverer than he was. Though he was undoubtedly one of the singularly more frightening individuals she had dealt with, he likewise tried too hard to earn that right. McCallister liked using words that were long sounding but made no sense in context, and he often went silent for extended periods of time so he could surprise someone with a random burst of loud dialogue.

It was made clear at his trial that he wanted the most noteworthy sentence. Against the wishes of his attorneys, he had taken the stand and gone into long, thorough accounts as to his killings and how much he enjoyed them. The prosecutor was a strong-stomached woman called Caryn Whitelaw that Starling knew on a first-name basis. While she only attended court on the day of the sentence, she had kept a close eye on it through CNN and admired the way Mrs. Whitelaw was able to establish and maintain eye contact, even as McCallister rambled on in gruesome detail. He would become notably frustrated when he could not intimidate her. McCallister wanted to be feared; he felt it was essential for whatever dying image he gave the public.

Starling didn't know what to call him. Like insightful others, she avoided the classification of monster as it gave him what he craved. Her relationship with Dr. Lecter had been founded on mutual though admittedly odd respect. Such had no place near McCallister's name. Dr. Lecter had never striven for her high esteem. Simply being one of the more remarkable men she knew was enough for that. On a level of originality, while impossible trace, McCallister was years behind in the game. Criminals had been pulling the stunts he exercised since the dawn of time. It wasn't a matter of fear, either. Starling was quick and handy with a gun and could outwrestle many of her male colleagues.

McCallister was disturbing but she hid that expertly. When their eyes had locked briefly, she refused to become disconcerted. There was only one man who could catch her completely unflustered, and even then, she concealed better than she knew.

Starling was not concerned with the thought that she could not take him should the situation arise. Being within his eyesight for extended periods of time was the most unsettling part of the upcoming days. She could only hope he didn't turn out to be a more dignified version of Miggs on a closer basis.

Again, Dr. Lecter's name floated upward as potentially the only adversary she would face in a fair match with a hint of uncertainty as to the outcome. He was annoying like that. No matter how many years passed with his silence, he was always around. Hovering over her shoulder, making discerning commentary and berating her for various although numbered lapses.

The trip to Colorado was nothing if not an aggravation. It was taking her away from her work, would likely fuel the press with bothersome dime a dozen headlines, and forced her to company a killer whose presence was comparable to Paul Krendler's, were Krendler slightly more reserved. Who could say? The man wore many masks and changed them with the intention of preserving his namesake. She was not about to put anything past him. That would trigger the first of many mistakes.

Like Memphis.

Lost in her thoughts, Starling didn't realize Mapp had entered the room until the untouched cup of coffee was jerked from her grasp, discarded down the sink, and refilled without a breath of 'good morning.'

"You know it's getting cold when it's not steaming anymore," her friend said as she poured herself a cup and leaned against the adjacent counter. Starling looked up wordlessly and nodded, taking an absent sip.

Mapp's brow furrowed with concern. "Hey…you all right, girl?"

For a minute, she simply shook her head, indulging in another long drink. The pivotal state of her thought process was a difficult one to withdraw from, especially when she was already losing sleep. "Got a call from Crawford this morning."

An eye roll followed by a long groan. "Oh, that explains it. What time?"

"Around five."

Mapp snorted, moving away from the counter as she began to rummage for a skillet. "You wanna give me a hand here?" She gestured to the collection of kitchenware before thinking to answer. "How considerate. What a guy. Makes you cry. Any specific reason?"

Obligingly, Starling took one more sip of coffee before dumping the rest and moving forward. When she was hunched by the cabinet in search of diverse cooking utensils, she exhaled a long breath and said, "I'm supposed to escort Clark McCallister to the penitentiary in Florence, Colorado."

Something hard clamored to the floor. Starling would have jumped had she not seen the saucepan slide from Mapp's grasp. However, her friend's attention was successfully averted, her eyes staring fixatedly at her in mixed shock and anger. It was always easy to time these eruptions—a series of physical warnings were triggered before the inevitable shout. At first, Mapp's brows arched, fire racing behind her gaze as her lip quivered in the indignation that Crawford had had the balls to even utter his name to her, much less assign her with such a task. She was a classic over-reactor who was almost happier when she had something to bitch about. Particulars were rarely of any importance.

"What the fuck!" she shouted at last, ignoring the pan as it rattled to stillness against the kitchen tiles. "When is it going to stop?"

"What?"

"That pompous-'I-am-better-than-thou-art'-ass using you as his little crony. Throwing you against all the serial killers he likes, apologizing when it scars you for life, but doing it again and—"

Starling chuckled humorlessly as she knelt to collect the container off the floor. "You're exaggerating again. McCallister hardly 'scarred me for life.' I've seen him…what, twice? Not an affair to remember. He's a jerk from what I've seen. Narcissistic and damn scary when he tries to be…but that's just it. He tries to be. He wants the image." She shrugged, shaking her head as her eyes focused on a spot on the ground. "It's nothing I can't handle. I've dealt with worse."

"'Course," Mapp agreed instantly, anger not dissipating. "Crawford threw you at Lecter, too, and he was worse than McCallister. He's scary without trying to be, and, according to you, gives you one hell of a mind fuck."

"Comparing Lecter and McCallister is like comparing the Beatles to the Ozark Mountain Daredevils." Starling smiled inwardly at the thought. It was dangerous placing her favorite band and the doctor on the same pedestal, but both held her high regard, regardless of the manner in which obtained. Her thoughts were often treacherous like that, but she had long ago forfeited the pain of explaining herself. People either knew Dr. Lecter for his monstrosities or his charm—she was the first to know him for both, even on their short acquaintance. "And sometimes a mind fuck can be nice. Liberating, if not anything else. At least he made me think, and he told me the truth." At that, the smile fell off her face as she gazed off in thought. "Though truth can be more frightening than all that carnage."

"Still don't make Crawford a hero," Mapp snickered bitterly. "Why is he making you do it, for Heaven's sake?"

"McCallister asked that I administer. Crawford and I both think he's just out for publicity." Starling waited a minute for realization to seep through her friend's eyes. "Sicko's looking for some headlines, and probably to scratch up my reputation again by attacking old wounds. Imagine what the Tattler will say? 'MAD McCALLISTER REQUESTS FBI SPECIAL AGENT CLARICE STARLING TO HEAD TRANSFER TO DEATH CAMP.' Then with some subheading that mentions how I was questioned in Lecter's escape and the support I allegedly gave him."

"You should send that in. It's a good one. Besides, they're still trying to find a nickname. You could save 'em some time."

Starling rolled her eyes, placing the pan on the counter after realizing she held it still and moved to drain the last of the coffee. "I'd rather star in a Soylent Green sequel."

"How fitting."

The subject was growing tiresome. Mapp did not react to the sideways look she earned for her comment, instead distracting herself with eggs and locating bacon. They would never see eye-to-eye on these issues. Where Starling trusted and admired Crawford, her friend could never seem to ridicule him or his judgment to aptly satisfy her heart's content. They typically avoided bringing it up.

Silence, however, was odd when they occupied a room. After a minute, Starling cleared her throat and steered clear of the issue. "So, what are you doing tonight?"

"Going out with William. Oh! That reminds me…Ira is still asleep in the other room. We'll have to make enough for him." The expression that overwhelmed Mapp's features was one of conceit, familiar in a way that made those closest to her laugh. She loved playing games.

The question was redundant but expected. Starling's brows arched as she shot her friend an incredulous look. "You slept with Ira and are still going to see Willy tonight? Unbelievable."

Mapp cackled. "Well, what can I say? I'm in the market and It's raining men!" Her hands shot upward in a mock of praise. "Halleluiah!" When her randomness earned an especially dry glance, her arms fell to the sides as she shrugged. "Oh well. What they don't know won't hurt 'em, anyway."

Starling shook her head. "I've traveled that road before and I can tell you right now that it's not so." Her mind was detached but never too far away. While she did not like to dwell, she convinced herself that this continuous flow of recollections was normal given the task ahead. It didn't matter that more and more her mind was occupied with the wrong serial killer.

However, her friend, who had never known such failure, simply shrugged again. "Que sera, then. You win some, you lose some."

The temptation to rebuttal was great but Starling managed to restrain herself. There was no point in beginning an endless debate on the basis of deceptive catch phrases. "Will he want coffee?" she asked instead. "I'll brew another pot."

"Yeah, but decaf. He can't stand caffeine."

She poked her tongue out. "God, you sure do pick up the freaks."

Mapp snickered and commented without thought. "At least he's not a cannibal." She stopped herself when she realized what had so carelessly escaped her lips and glanced upward apologetically. "Sorry girlfriend. All this tabloid talk has gotten to my head."

If the past few years had taught her anything, it was to take life with a sense of humor. The headlines she had consequentially earned after her interaction with the doctor were good for a laugh. She knew the purpose was to get under her skin and trash her image to the public, but Starling also understood that those ignorant enough to believe it were similarly those that did not merit her interest in defense of reputation. And though the accusation this time came from Mapp's mouth, she was astonished to discover that there was no burning resentment that rebounded in aftershock.

The ridiculous never bothered her until it merged with the truth.

"Don't worry about it," she replied nonchalantly as she filled the coffee maker with water.

"No, I shouldn't have said it. You put up with too much shit to worry with it coming into your home."

"Ardelia, I'm not angry. I will get angry if you don't drop it."

Breakfast commenced then with the exchange of few words. Their habitual of filling as much dialogue with profanity while cooking failed to surface. Starling did her part, her mind attempting unsuccessfully to refrain from drifting to her imminent task. Such was impossible when she knew what she was facing in upcoming days.

Of course, it was essential to look at the bright side of life. She was getting out of Washington and Crawford had promised vacation time. Since graduating, she had yet to enjoy an honest-to-god holiday. Mapp had taken her on a couple of weekend getaways, but Starling always ended up needing to come back for some work-related pain in the ass. Not this time. Once McCallister was safely incarcerated in Florence, she would discard her cell phone and pager, find some remote place that no one would think to find her and soak it up.

She left the duplex before Mapp thought to wake up her boyfriend after making a sausage biscuit for the go. It seemed essential that she get to Quantico as soon as possible and get everything settled.

When she did see Crawford, he was very deactivating and compliant, as though borderline to the realization that the ice he stood on was very thin. This struck her as singularly ironic as he had told her long ago that it didn't matter how she felt about him as long as they got the job done. Back in the day when she so resented being sent to a dungeon to negotiate with an impossible evil genius. Since then—since graduation—they had become close, even friends in the most uniform of conditions. Crawford was careful in his alliances. Personal ties were not advised within the Bureau—it offered the possibility of interfering with work.

However, after the Buffalo Bill ordeal, after she had been hunted through a basement in Belvedere, Ohio as a result of following instructions, their relationship had kindled. Mapp informed her that many of the other agents mocked the bond shared, but Starling was no stranger to mimicry. She had endured it all her life, and long ago arrived at the conclusion that there was not a path available in which someone would not attempt to make you fall on your feet halfway down the runway.

Starling often wondered if Crawford's altered disposition was at the expense of the realization that she was not as utterly selfless as some of the other agents he had come to know over the years. The profession was one she wanted for honest reasons. There were those who entered looking for fame or the thrill of it or to feel powerful for once in their lives. She was here because she felt it was right. Because any other option was wrong and not her. As soon as she had received her diploma, she knew that she had obtained the embodiment of her accomplishments. That one golden day, she stood on the pedestal over surpassed objectives.

And thence, it all went downhill.

Crawford, of course, knew of her dissatisfaction. His inability to square her position in Behavioral Science was one he considered a personal failure, happily blind to the barriers obstructing her path.

When he saw that morning, his smile was trying and sympathetic. "Thanks for getting here so quickly," he said as he ushered her into his office, directing her to the seat she might as well have had permanently reserved in her namesake. "You know how much I hate doing this. Clint and I discussed it at length last night, when the offer was made. We know that he will likely raise hell either way, but there is that streak in him that likes to be considered unpredictable."

"Don't worry about me, Mr. Crawford," Starling replied. "I've handled worse than him."

"You haven't had to deal with him for this long." Crawford sighed and flopped to his seat. "Here's the game plan. There are several prisoners being transferred to the penitentiary in Florence. No-name cases that'll be released ultimately. People that've done bad enough to be worthy of the human experimentation, you can say. We're going to try to keep it as quiet as possible that McCallister is even with them, and of course that you are in any way implicated."

Starling snickered dubiously. "It won't happen. I have enough enemies that they'd sell to the first bidder to get this information out. I appreciate it, though. I really do."

Crawford offered a thin smile and declined comment. As much as Mapp would object, he was too wise for that. "The plane leaves here at 4:30 AM on Thursday morning. At 5:45 you will change planes in Springfield, Missouri and continue to the airport in Colorado Springs. I don't estimate it'll take you longer than an hour or so. Then there's the ride to Florence. No more the forty miles, but this time of the year, the roads are going to be very hectic. I have no idea how long it'll take." He paused and looked up to her for reaction. When she offered none, he inclined his head and continued. "After all the paperwork is out of the way, you're free to do as you wish. We won't expect you back 'til two weeks past Thursday. I managed to talk Clint into upping it a week. You've had it coming for a long time, Starling, and complying to this nicely has, putting it lightly, earned you several brownie points."

It was tempting to blink at the generosity, but she would not insult him like that. Starling was unaccustomed to kindness, thus such displays often made her uncomfortable. "Thank you. Knowing that is what'll get me through this trip."

"You gonna stay in Colorado?"

"I doubt it. Given the nature of my visit and the time of the year, if I stay too long I'll start to feel like I'm trapped in a Stephen King novel."

His smile broadened a little. "If life were only that simple, eh?" They shared a chuckle. How true.

The moment extended into silence and the awkward understanding that there was nothing further to say. At last Crawford cleared his throat and moved for the door. "Well, Starling, I suspect you have some affairs to settle before Thursday. I wouldn't want to keep you."

She nodded, her eyes off in a daze of deliberation. Then the idea sprang to mind and would not leave. A terrible one, as most spontaneous notions usually are. Such foreknowledge spread alongside her features in raw tiresome of being remembered at all. It was a mixture of the timing and instant understanding; otherwise something she would not have considered before. "I'm going to see him before Thursday. I have some questions."

"McCallister?" Surprise was evident in his tone.

"Yes. I think it's necessary."

A look of absolute suspicion overtook Crawford's expression, an intangible that cut as deeply as any conventional weapon. It was in his nature to always be on guard, she knew, and the reaction was more derived from habit rather than the person standing in front of him. After so much time, this sort of impulsive behavior was expected.

That did not prevent it from stinging. However, she was not one to be hampered from one look of betrayed emotion. She knew that it was not his intention for her to have seen it.

"I believe I have that right, if you and Mr. Pearsall concocted this entire thing without even checking in with me first."

Her logicality didn't register. Unmoved, Crawford shook his head and winced. "Why do you want to see him?"

"Because before I get on a plane with him, I want to know why he wants to get on a plane with me. I know we agreed that it's publicity. It likely is. I'm almost dead sure of it." Starling shook her head. "But we don't know for sure. And sir, with all due respect, this is my boat now. It is important that I talk to him before we leave."

"But—"

"It's easy to make speculation standing right here. When I'm sitting in front of him, I'll know for sure." Starling sighed, moving for the door. "I'll let you know. Have a nice day, Mr. Crawford."

And before he could offer one more strain of verbal protest, she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the clicks of her heels. Each step rang with the taste of unyielding conviction.



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