Author's Note: Well, it's been a while. For posterity sake, here's a quick summary of the events thus far: Clarice, haunted by her past, has been specified by a felon to escort a prison transfer to Florence, Colorado. At the end of chapter two, she decided to visit said prisoner before the trip.

All that besides, my continued thanks to my betas.

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 Three


She had been to the Washington Penitentiary several times, and since the initial visit, whatever affects the ambiance was said to obscure was void at her perfect sense of immunity. Though her stomach had successfully twisted into a display of imposing knots, it was not a feeling of trepidation that overtook her system. Rather, she related the commotion in her bowels to the premonition she always received before meeting with someone who talked to her breasts while trying to impress her with mediocre come-ons and things she had heard a million times before. Starling knew McCallister was beyond that on a level, though how much was debatable.

The visits to the penitentiary in the past consisted of run of the mill business deals, such as the interrogation of a felon for information on plausible accomplices and so forth. When it came to making prisoners sweat, Starling and Crawford were a dream team. They operated like clockwork: the typical good cop/bad cop routine.

Of course, the chances to work together were numbered and consequentially seized at all times, with or without foreknowledge of the issue in question.

Standing outside, Starling had to huff out a breath and remind herself that she was here by choice and not obligation. Associating with felons was something she avoided on instinct, having already had more than her fill. Had anyone told her two days ago that she would be visiting Clark McCallister of her own freewill, she would have laughed in their face. However, Memphis had taught her to be careful, and unlike those around her, she continued to conform and abide from the lessons learned in that mistake. Starling simply could not board a plane with a killer who requested her specifically to accompany his transfer under the conjecture that it was only a grab for attention. Crawford himself had once pulled her aside to point out the hidden message in ASSUME. It was one of his favored exercises. While she knew she was in too deep to back out, negotiations were always on the table.

Everyone had ASSUMED that Hannibal Lecter could not escape custody, especially with the additional precautions taken. The Guru had underestimated the doctor's intelligence, likely by intention. He hated crediting his enemies, and that personal grudge led to one of the most disastrous transfers of all time.

She had to wonder how Crawford would have reacted if Dr. Lecter had proposed this arrangement, and knew instantly that he would never give the man the satisfaction. Starling had been told time and time again as a trainee to avoid making work personal. To Crawford, that was as personal as it got.

Likely, McCallister only had the media in mind. It was a clever strategy. Were she in the business, Starling knew she would jump at the chance to publicize such an exchange. But it wasn't over until it was over, and she would be damned if she boarded that plane unprepared. If the transfer did fail, if in the unlikely chance McCallister did escape, she could kiss her occupation good-bye. The enemies she had accumulated over the years were regretfully very influential in the business. With a disaster such as that burdening her shoulders, she had an uneasy feeling that it would not be long before she was asked to hand over her badge and gun, get lost and have a nice life.

Were that ever to happen, Starling knew she would rest better at night knowing she had taken every precaution to secure her position. Everything else was out of her hands.

All more besides, there was the irrefutable double-edged sword of curiosity. Should McCallister's interest in her exceed the desire for headlines, she felt entitled to know before allowing that much space to close between them. She did not like flattering herself and did not once seriously consider—should such a dangerous appeal exist—that it was wholly founded. However, the past, if anything, had proven that she attracted a wide variety of sleazes, regardless of the imposition of bars and isolation. Starling recalled Miggs with her familiar tremble of disgust. For not the first time, she wondered if he would haunt her forever.

And, as in all cases, there was that one exception. One that disturbed her beyond the lines of regularity, the one she carried with her still. The one that failed to apply to all inward standards. In addition, there was the terrifying remedy to such issues. Starling wondered fleetingly, and would later deny thinking it at all, what was so crazy about a man who did the things others contemplated doing on a daily basis.

How did you feel when you heard about my late neighbor, Miggs? You haven't asked me about it.

She smothered a shiver as she flashed her badge at the first guard she saw and was admitted entrance. It was out of habit. The man's name was Pollard and he knew her well from previous visits. Normally, they smiled and nodded to each other, but she lacked the focus today. Not good, considering the nature of the upcoming meeting.

Her thoughts were away, haunted by his jesting leer that demanded her disposition, even years later. Somewhere, she suspected Dr. Lecter would never be satisfied until he was attuned to every whim that charged his associates. She had promised to tell him of the lambs and her rage, a vow that had gone untended since his escape. Did it make a difference if there was nothing to tell?

A rasp demanded still if she was glad that neighborly Miggs had bit the big one. That query was countered upon voicing—a lie, of course, but a response nonetheless.

If I answer that honestly, she thought dryly, continuing with procedure, a route she could have walked in her sleep. A few guards nodded to her as she passed, and if her train of thought hitched, she would nod in return without enthusiasm. Does that make me any better than you?

A suggestion of grief was her reply. The eerie shadows of long ago returning to disturb her when she needed to focus. Still, it was there, prying to know how she felt about those who performed discourtesies against her, and the actions taken in repercussion for those discrepancies. Was she glad or sad?

That was a laugh. Starling's mouth tugged into a taut albeit cynical grin. A deputy she knew named Howard escorted her into the designated federal conference room where she would wait for Clark McCallister. There was a long steel table to separate them, complete with chairs bolted to the floor. Two guards were stationed outside, a security camera winked at her from the corner. She felt the presence of another examining her backside.

Waiting. This is always the longest part of the process. Starling liked to consider herself a fairly patient individual—a notion she felt would quirk a few eyebrows. However, she was an expert at keeping herself composed, especially under such trying conditions. She knew that if McCallister entered the room and caught her flustered she would fall off whatever pedestal he had set her atop and never again gain that right. It was essential for the success of the transfer that she maintain her status until they arrived in Colorado.

Focus was so hard to keep when one's mind constantly retracted to conversations held a thousand years ago. A voice needling at the back of her head in constant reminder that no matter what she did and whom she talked to, the first would always be there. She would never rid herself of him.

Are you asking me, Officer Starling, if I suborned Mr. Miggs' felony suicide? Don't be silly. It has a certain pleasant symmetry, though, his swallowing that offensive tongue, don't you agree?

She answered now as she had then, an answer provoked for her sake and not his. The importance of preserving herself as the person she was. Distantly, the door opened and she saw two guards escort Clark McCallister inward. He looked immediately to her and she looked back, her mind still otherwise occupied.

Officer Starling, that was a lie. The first one you've told me. A triste occasion, Truman would say.

It was fortunate that she was separately engaged. When she commanded her overbearing sensory to shut down, she found herself locked in a warring gaze with her interviewee. Unlike before, she failed to shudder at the sight of him. He no longer appeared menacing; rather unremarkable from every convict she had met in the duration of her career. Perhaps the wear and tear of prison had drained him of his previously tangible frightening aura. But then, she reflected, she could not haste to put anything past him. The possibility existed that in effort of sublime imitation he could control the times when he appeared to be a threat.

She didn't think, however, that he was that talented.

There was something else especially notable. Not only was he unsurprised to see her, he was happy.

McCallister was a middle-aged man with graying brown hair. Though his prison photo had him sporting a pair of glasses, he had since given up any ocular supplementary products. A doctor had proclaimed them unnecessary before his sentence. His hair was thick and draped into his line of vision. When he stood at full height he towered at six foot seven, and it was clear that he enjoyed looking down at everyone. As he seated himself, he delivered another condescending gaze, daring her with fire, as though her presence was the invitation to a lengthy brawl.

Starling refused to give him the satisfaction. The look she returned offered no hint of intimidation. It carried neither respect nor fear; rather an expression of general distaste and the supreme desire to be elsewhere, even if it was simply visiting another prisoner.

At last he smiled, unsettlingly sincere, as though she were a friend or relative he had been waiting to see. "Well…" McCallister said slowly. His voice was unexceptional—casual and tryingly pleasant. "Special Agent Starling, I presume?"

There would be no exchange of agreeable chitchat. While she saw that he understood that, she similarly noted that he was not one to accept things without first testing its resolve. Instead, Starling nodded, her own tone not enlightening in sharp abruptness, her eyes set into a cold business façade. "You know who I am, Mr. McCallister."

"So I do. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I am here in relation to the upcoming transfer to Colorado."

His smile broadened, as though the topic was a pleasing one. It was quite clear that he had been informed of the prison conditions and suffered no quandary in facing the days until execution locked in solitary confinement. "Yes. I was told you agreed to direct that."

Starling felt a growl scratch at her throat and managed to bite it back. "As I was informed that you requested me to command the position."

"And you offered no objection." There was no want of denial behind his voice.

"May I ask why you requested me? You can imagine my curiosity. I hadn't realized that we were that close."

At that, he leaned backward, smiling tightly to himself as though he had uncovered something significant. It stank of arrogance and conceit, cheap victory for an even cheaper price. As though her presence here and the continuance of her actions were completely in the eye of the beholder, and that he held all the answers.

You're tough, aren't you, Officer Starling?…And you'd hate to think you were common. Wouldn't that sting? My! Well you're far from common, Officer Starling. All you have is the fear of it.

He spoke, drawing her back with minimal effort. Though the past had its way of resurfacing at the most inopportune times, she was never far from focus. She doubted his voice was as chilling as he'd like. "I scared you, didn't I?" he asked casually.

Starling rolled her eyes and exerted a deep breath, berating herself for her lapse and rejoicing inwardly when she saw he had not noticed. Indeed, McCallister was not as quick as he wanted the press to believe. Reassurance of her prior convictions was returning at amazing speed. "Call it what you want; I'm sticking to curiosity. I simply wonder why you felt compelled to specifically ask an agent you barely know from Adam to administrate your transfer."

"And I wonder how, after everything I've read, my making such a request has had this affect on you, if you're in fact not scared."

She scoffed. "You don't scare me, Mr. McCallister."

"Don't I? Not even a little."

"I know you're trying, but it won't work."

"Oh." He feigned disappointment, leaning back as far as the chair permitted him, resting his head on folded hands. "You seem to have everything worked out then, Agent Starling. That or you have an extremely hard head about these matters."

Her brows arched. "An eye for detail, you might say."

In an almost cordial way, he nodded. "What sort of details are you picking up, then? What provoked you to come visit me?"

Starling's head immediately filled with a thousand psychological diagnoses; the opinions of esteemed professionals and definitions she had long ago committed to memory. However, the onslaught subdued with controlled calm. Long ago, she had been instructed to avoid the books, and while she knew the man sitting across from her matched every characterization sketched by various specialists, it was wise to heed good advice. Intuition and an edge to her quick mouth persuaded her in the other direction. "I believe my purpose here is a rebound of your fight for attention. Your actions thus far have suggested nothing other than desperation to satisfy an under-compensated ego."

"You're giving me that attention," he noted with a grin. "I'm sorry, Agent Starling, but I don't buy it. Why else would you be here sizing me up? Although, I suppose, you do like to associate with serial killers."

It was a low blow to the nature of a Krendler-comment and she brushed it off with ease. Previously manifest discomfort was now nonexistent. Though only a few minutes had passed, she was once more convinced the nature of his inquiry was the desire to ruse headlines. "Call it a hobby," she snickered, rising to the challenge. "You know what I think, Mr. McCallister? I think you are afraid that inactivity will make you yesterday's news." When his brows arched in an ode to innocence, she gestured demonstratively and edged forward in her seat. "All right. Why did you kill your inmate, Geoffrey Connell?"

"He was annoying me. He had dropped his food on my shoes."

"Your prison shoes?"

"There's nothing wrong with keeping tidy, despite your surroundings."

Starling sighed testily. "In killing Connell, you soiled your prison garments with blood. Not to mention, the record of your apprehension states that the place of residence you had occupied for the past two years was not at all orderly. You had made habit of collecting certain keepsakes from each of your victims, and furthermore, did nothing to conceal the whereabouts. Your overconfidence of your success was one of the aspects that got you captured. Care to try again?"

He blinked, voice not wavering in sincerity. "Prison can change a man." When she looked at him cynically, he shrugged and finally broke eye contact. "A minister visited me last week. Some Church of Christ nut-job. Did you hear of that? Preaching that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand. It's amazing, Agent Starling, what you actually stop to listen to when you have all the time in the world. Daresay, even with his nonstop jabbering, I might have seen the light."

"This was before or after you killed Geoffrey Connell?"

"Before." McCallister smiled and looked back to her sharply. "The man really was a nuisance. You would have killed him, too."

A flash in his eyes and she suddenly saw Miggs again, laughing as she wiped her face clean. Distantly, a voice beckoned her back, defying all laws of reasoning. And she obeyed, even as her assailant could have used the distraction to work himself up again.

Discourtesy was unspeakably ugly, he had said. She remembered thinking that murders must have purged him of lesser rudeness.

A different voice drew her to the present: an unwelcome tenor that stank of victory. Her lapse was not so inexcusable this time. McCallister clearly read her distancing, and knew that her mind was otherwise occupied. This seemed to please him. "You're thinking of him, aren't you?"

Starling's eyes widened as the last of her reminiscence faded into nothingness. "Excuse me?"

"Him. The him. Don't feel too bad. It's understandable. I suppose he would be difficult to forget." McCallister's eyes danced and his lips had distorted into a smile of pure nastiness.

Shaking her head in airy dismissal, she leaned forward again, gaze fixed with wrought determination. "You killed Geoffrey Connell so that your name would make headlines again. You requested that I administer your transfer for the same reason. Perhaps you think, on a level, that because the last transfer I was involved in resulted in disaster that this one will as well. I assure you, that is the furthest thing from the truth."

"You are very confident of yourself, aren't you, Agent Starling?"

"You've given me no reason not to be."

He grinned. "You've had this worked out since you came here, haven't you? Since you first learned that I had asked you to accompany me, right? You had it all worked out to ease your tension. But you couldn't let it rest at that. You had to come and prove it to yourself."

The growl that had lodged in her throat escaped in the form of a sigh. "Your request was unexpected, and you know it. You made it to stir up controversy. I don't shy from controversy, and I have no intention of rebuking my acceptance. I merely want to know why. I think I am entitled to that."

There was a brief silence as he scrutinized her, eyes narrowing in thought. After a lengthy, perhaps drawn out consideration, he also leaned forward, smirk tugging at his mouth. "You've played these games before," he accused lowly, though there was no such indictment hidden in his gaze. It was the first hint of significance to escape his lips. "You're very good at it."

"Thank you." Any inkling of sincerity was absent from her tone. It was tempting to add that she had learned from the best, but she held her tongue. Instead, her eyes flickered and she leaned back. "Answer the question, Mr. McCallister."

"How do you figure that I will tell you?"

"I don't. That is why I am asking."

Then it was gone, whatever it was. She watched the serious inclination in his posture vaporize, fighting the temptation to let her frustration show. When he smiled at her again, it was coated thickly in false amiability. "You think that because you got him to talk that you'll have the same luck with me. That would make things so much easier for you, wouldn't it? Well, I hate to break it to you, Agent Starling, but you're not exactly the catch of the county. I'm not sure what he was made of, but with me it takes more than a pretty face."

Starling's eyes bulged with incredulity. Heaving a sigh, she looked down in effort to manage her anger. That didn't work. Instead, she found herself overwhelmed with his voice once more. Cornered now, Dr. Lecter might as well have been in the room with her, staring at her with familiar intensity even as McCallister delivered a dark gaze of his own.

The other thing I wonder is…how do you manage your rage?

"How did it feel, Agent Starling?" he continued a minute later. "I'm sure not many even remember your name. But I remember. I followed news of your interactions with much interest. He helped you find the other, didn't he? That Buffalo Bill fellow. Why do you think so? What kind of power do you fancy you had over him? And why do you think you should have it over me, as well?"

At last she looked up, eyes fire. "I don't believe I have anything further to say to you, Mr. McCallister."

He shrugged as though it were of little consequence. "Whatever. On Thursday, then. I'll see you on Thursday." Despite his confidence, she read uncertainty behind his eyes. Such confirmation was especially important as he stood, looking down at her in fear that she would still go against her word as result of this exchange.

Starling stood slowly, holding his gaze with ferocity. It wasn't until a guard had grabbed either arm and Deputy Howard stood in the doorway that she nodded in verification and watched with a slight rush of victory as his tension fell. "On Thursday."

Apprehensions vanished and he smiled again, a grin aiming to chill that failed in affect. Starling kept her gaze level and robust. After a long minute he nodded once more, moving as the guards tugged at his shoulders. "I look forward to it."

She believed him.


* * *



The night air was colder than usual. She did not know how she knew this—it was simply an understanding lodged deep within her subconscious. Even as she hardly recalled her dreams, the sense of déjà vu was impossible to ignore. A place she visited nightly, the finale to every day. Small shivers sprouted across her skin as she failingly attempted to withhold herself from trembling. Leathery reigns coiled in her grasp and her heels dug into the sides of her reliable steed. Behind her was the barn, familiar screams soaring through the air with aching accountability.

Loyalty split to the core. Her better senses commanded her to return and offer what help she could. However, somewhere she knew, as she always knew, that her surroundings were nothing more than apparitions. Images of the past—souls she could not save. The ambiance had recorded every last detail in perfection. Fleetingly, Starling pondered which was worse: the masquerade of actuality or the real thing.

And always, that voice followed her. Even her dreams offered no sanctuary. If anything, she was more open there. More vulnerable. The subconscious was unable to set up reliable defenses, thus the doctor entered and exited at his leisure. With as familiar as she was with this habitual, even if she did not realize it, his debut never failed to surprise her.

It would please him to know that his appearance made the situation more devastating, serving as the reminder that not only was she a child in this scenario, but also a woman. A woman who could not return and help her ailing victims, even if she could brave the storm of her fear. The moment of her maturity seemed to be drawn at the time when they made their first acquaintance. As a girl in her dream, she knows nothing of Dr. Lecter. Once he arrives, she remembers everything, and finds herself overwhelmed with an inexpressible sense of loss.

However, it was different tonight.

The screaming of the lambs abruptly ceased and the air around her fell dead. Starling protectively drew the reigns close, fearing the horse might dematerialize from beneath her. For long minutes, the atmosphere was coated only with her harsh breaths, hair annoyingly falling in her line of vision as her head whipped from side to side to estimate the situation. There was nothing to see. Where the barn had stood only seconds before now held nothing. A frighteningly literal nothing: blackness that stretched forever. Likewise, the stars above slowly started to wink out of existence. The gravel under Hannah's hooves disappeared, as did the road ahead. Starling, helpless, could do nothing but watch and wait until she was alone. Alone atop the horse, loud breaths emanating from her chest as the only sign of life.

It felt she had reached the end of the world.

Then she was not alone; at least it did not seem so. His voice sliced the heavy silence like a hot knife through butter. Though it was inevitable, she could not help but gasp loudly. The horse reacted as well—not violently but clearly upset about something. God, it felt so real under her. Starling ran her hand over Hannah's coat and felt her eyes well up with tears.

Will you let me know if ever the lambs stop screaming?

"They haven't!" she screamed, voice muffled with overwhelming sentiment. "They haven't stopped screaming! And you know it!"

At that, the doctor seemed amused, his tenor moving from dialogue of their past, something it had done on occasion but with irregularity. Starling strained her neck in desperation to see him. However, he did not appear, even as his voice drew closer.

"Ah, but they have stopped, Clarice. They are not screaming now."

Indeed the lambs had stopped, almost honoring his presence. It left her with an unsettling feeling, somewhere between betrayed and impressed. Once he left she was sure they would start again.

Starling scowled, voice embittered. "Then you know already. What's the point of me telling you now?"

There was a chuckle, closer still. With growing anxiety, she tugged Hannah to perform a full circle. Nothing but blackness surrounded them. That did not sooth her. She would not put it past him to walk out of the shadows when he felt like it. When he thought it would be the most traumatizing.

"I suppose you have a point," the voice continued from nowhere in particular. "Given the odd circumstances, that would be rather redundant. However, there are other unanswered inquiries. Your rage, Clarice. You never shared your secret to managing that growing spark of fury. Does it writhe within you? Hmmmm?"

"Rage against you? Sure. Every day."

"You are being impertinent. A shame. You usually do so well…"

Starling turned around again; sure she had felt his breath on her neck. There was nothing. "Why are you here, Doctor? Why now? Why after all this time?"

A scolding beat of reproach. "You know the answer to that, Clarice."

"I don't. Why would I ask you if I knew?"

"This frontage of ignorance does not suit you, my dear. You know the answer, you simply have not realized it yet."

"Is there a difference?"

"Oh yes." It seemed behind her again. Nothing. "Quite a large one, come to think of it. I suppose for posterity sake, we can keep it simple. One step at a time. Why do you think I'm here?"

The answer was with her as quickly as he uttered the question. Familiar aggravation coincided with the even more annoying understanding. As always, it only required a reverse of the inquiry to lead to a conclusion. When such a matter was pointed at her for direction, the path was always clearer. Paved and lighted. There was no need for confirmation; her inkling was indisputably correct, however disconcerting. "I called you here."

"Very good. Why?"

"Because of what I have to do."

"Yessss…" His hiss echoed with lasting remembrance. "Clark McCallister…rather boring character, isn't he?"

"I've worked with better."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. I never said it was you."

Another chuckle. His voice was moving away again, and she instinctively tugged on the horse's reigns to follow it. The exercise proved fruitless. Even lost in her subconscious, she could not catch him.

"Your first instinct was correct, of course," he said as he drifted. "He is annoyingly addicted to publicity. And, naturally, this move will grant him what he desires. Try as he might, dear old Jack will not be able to prevent it. This is not to discourage your manifestly misplaced high opinion of him, but it is the truth, Clarice. Buried deep within you is the realization of deceived faith."

Some were truthfully acknowledgements she had made to herself, but timid still with the threat of vocalization. She didn't want outside influence to point out holes. However, despite the instant activation of her defenses, the words scorned and cut deep enough to draw blood. Even—and perhaps especially—within her cavity, he knew what to attack. Where it hurt the most—where she could not hide. She knew she was dreaming, though, as logicality bore no other explanation; given the horse she currently straddled and the definitive absence of tangible surroundings, it felt no less real. A lengthy silence ensued and she was left alone, her heart hammering. Shivers sprouted across her body, her skin moistening with cold sweat. Starling strained to see past the darkness but could not. It stretched endlessly.

Suddenly, the space beneath her felt chilly and vacant. By the time she realized that Hannah was no longer with her, she had fallen to the ground with a harsh thud. A surprisingly real twinge struck her side and her face contorted in pain. Starling was no stranger to injury, thus recovered quickly as her eyes shot up with the expectation of a sudden advance—for the doctor to appear when she was so indisposed. However, he remained away, giving no indication that he was even in the proximity, or ever had been.

Her legs were wobbly as she stood. Another scan of the area offered no heightened results. At last, she admitted to a rush of fear. Perhaps this wasn't a dream. Perhaps she was lost somewhere dark, devastatingly near Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps he had materialized in result of being thought of so often; the collective notions of her subconscious mapping the construction for the real thing to take place in her presence. She wanted to call out for him but held her tongue and waited. And waited…and waited…

"You'll want to watch yourself, Clarice." The voice was suddenly in her ear, right behind her, his breath fanning her cheek. Starling screamed and whirled around to nothing. He chuckled richly, still near but respectively distanced. "Oh, wouldn't worry about him getting inside your head. He isn't as intelligent as he would like to believe, but Jack has covered that already, has he not? No no…he will use you for the attention he craves. Likely, he will also use me. Our connection. Yours and mine." A short pause. "We always did make quite a pair, didn't we? As for anything further, I do not foresee much trouble. I believe he fancies you a bit too much to try anything malignant."

She grumbled loudly. "What is it about me and serial killers?"

"Charismatic charm?" When she grunted again, he correspondingly tittered once more in growing amusement. "And on that note, Clarice, it is always a pleasure. I would hope you would find it within yourself to agree one day."

"Why should I? None of this is real." She turned again in desperation to see him. Blackness stretched forever.

"Isn't it?"

Encouraged, she stepped forward and mounted the challenge. "Then again, who knows? Maybe. My grasp on reality isn't exactly what it used to be."

"Dreams are real within their own rights. They reveal what you suppress." The voice had neared again. Next to her. Behind her. This time, however, she schooled herself in refusal to seize the bait, as that was clearly what he wanted. Perhaps if she remained stationary he wouldn't move away, or would turn her to face him. Her hand had to flex the temptation to wander backward and explore. When he spoke again, she thought she felt his teeth scrape her earlobe. It was strange to credit something to her imagination in a scenario that was in itself conjured from her disturbed line of thinking, but she never balked from irregularity. If anything, tonight alone proved the opposite. "And what could you be suppressing, Clarice, that would draw me here now, besides your blatant call for assistance? Surely not only for the sake of Clark McCallister."

"If not for him, then I don't know," she replied with honesty, digging her nails into her palms, the urge to turn becoming near unbearable. "Maybe, as Ardelia says, I was in the need for a good mind fuck, and you're the best I know."

A rumble of laughter seemed to tickle her back. "What an interesting proposition."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

"Perhaps you called me here because I haunt your every thought? Because you desperately crave guidance, even if you do not need it. Hmmmm? The reassurance that you are on the right track, ignoring the accurate hunter's senses that rage so efficiently through your system."

It happened too quickly to keep up until the moment had passed. A pair of strong hands grasped either shoulder and spun her around to face a whirlpool of the maroon sea behind his eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat even as her logic cried that this wasn't real, that she would awake at any minute. And though it lasted only a second, it filled her with such satisfaction that furthering the moment would have been wasteful and superfluous.

"Or perhaps," he hissed. "You called me here because no matter how you try, you simply can't forget me."

Then he was gone, melted into a sea of darkness.

When Starling awoke seconds later, she remembered very little from the dream. It was the first night in many that she neglected to stir alert with a grasp of panic wrenching her insides. This was even more curious, as her pillow was drenched in sweat and her blankets were wrung across the bed.

It was 4:57. Jack Crawford had called at the exact same time the previous before. She found this curious, but only for a minute. Usually she was up by now in credit to a dream, waking with a start as a dying wail faded in the distance. For the moment, she was content with the overwhelming sense of indifference. It was superior to the customary routine.

The only aspect that she found disconcerting was the screaming lambs that usually served as the wake up call had been replaced with a haunting voice of long ago. One she couldn't forget—no matter how desperately she tried.



* * *