Author's Note: My extended thanks to Helene and Nikita.

Also, Star Wars fans will notice a bit of familiarity toward the end - muahaha. I couldn't resist.

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 Four



Wednesday evening was bittersweet.

Arrival home from Quantico was earlier than usual. Because of the nature of her upcoming trip, Pearsall was cutting her more slack than she reckoned anyone had since graduation. She suspected it was more because of Crawford's influence rather than choice. While no one would confirm anything in one way or another, it was hinted in every note of his tone. Starling had never accused her supervisor of holding the same prejudices she suffered from colleagues, but she was certain they affected his customary behavior toward her, whether or not by intention.

She was home by three in the afternoon and was unsurprised to see Mapp crashed on the sofa. It was then that she was offered the first opportunity to relate her meeting with McCallister to her roommate. The previous evening had not seen her friend home until well past 2:00 AM. She was still sleeping when Starling left the house that morning and had taken Ira to lunch before cutting the rest of the day. There were several days like this; days where they went completely without seeing each other due to conflicting schedules. It was always provided fuel for lengthy conversations when allowed the chance to sit down and catch up.

The initial reaction from her friend was not wholly unexpected. Rather, Starling had to sit back and bite her lip to wan amusement. They spoke over a bottle of Colt 45, sliding it back and forth across the coffee table.

"That fucking creep," Mapp muttered as she refilled her glass. "So what now? You still gonna do it? You can bail, you know. It ain't never too late. Didya tell Crawford what he said? Ten bucks says he won't let him within a stone's throw in hell of you now."

Starling shook her head, leaning back, taking her half-empty drink with her. "It's not that, Ardelia. If anything, our visit encouraged me that nothing will go wrong. He wants publicity…that's why he did what he did. That much is very clear. As for asking for me, I believe it was a combination of additional exposure and curiosity."

"Curiosity?"

"He said he had followed my interactions with Dr. Lecter, and made several references to insinuate his wondering why a man of that character and reputed elegance would've decided I was good enough to talk to." Starling took a hard drink and made an involuntary face. "He doesn't realize that his guess is as good as mine. Sucks to be him."

Mapp's brows quirked in challenge. "Sucks to be you, I'd say. From where I'm sitting, he don't lose nothing. Crawford and Pearsall agreeing to this bullshit arrangement gives McCallister exactly what he wants. All for what? A quiet transfer? Who cares anymore? I believe everyone from here to Sacramento has agreed that the man ain't as clever as a certain doctor we all know. What's the worst he can do?"

The thought was with her before she could think to prevent it. Though it remained unvoiced, she had to lend herself pause in consideration. A haunting acknowledgement that rang of sharp truth. But you didn't know him. No one really did.

Something within her fell, indistinguishable.

I came really close.

Starling shook the thought away and shrugged, struggling briefly to recall what they were discussing. "It took forever to find him, Ardelia. I'm sure he could find some way to make the transfer very unpleasant if I don't do this." A short pause. "Besides, I'm getting a two week vacation as a result. All for putting up with McCallister for one day. I can do it."

With a snicker, her friend rolled her eyes and grinned humorlessly, taking another drink. "I can just see you in twenty years. You can write about this, you know. Inside The Killer's Cell or some stupid shit like that. One hundred twenty pages and you'd be a fucking millionaire. Just throw in some juicy stuff about Lecter (cause let's face it, ain't no one as interested in a two-bit serial killer as they are a cannibal) and tie 'em together with some hazy sentences to imply the two are linked. Make it kinky. It'll sell."

By the time Mapp finished structuring her theory, Starling was in stitches. The idea was rightly preposterous; the sheer image of herself producing anything relative to the suggested material was beyond lines of absurdity. Perhaps it was more the liquor, but whatever the case, it didn't seem to matter. "Whatever, 'Delia," she said between chuckles. "Sure, that'd sell. I'd have to write it right now, and I don't have the time. By the time my retirement rolls around, no one'll even remember Dr. Lecter exists, much less Clark McCallister. Like you said, who really cares about a serial killer unless he's on the loose? We both saw it with Jame Gumb. Everyone cared until Catherine Martin surfaced, then forgot about it. As long as Mad Miccy's no longer a threat to Joe Blow and his family, society don't give a fuck."

"Mad Miccy!" Mapp squealed with a rumble of drunken laughter. "That's the best I've heard yet! You better send that in to the Tattler. If you don't, I will."

"Go right ahead."

The air around them grew silent for a few awkward minutes. Glasses were drained and refilled, and drained again.

"Starling?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you sumfin?"

"Ain't nothing stopping yah." The pattern of her speech always suffered the later these drinking parties ensued.

"Where do yah think he is?"

She swallowed. "Dr. Lecter?"

Mapp looked down, images of her impending drunkenness vanishing at an alarming rate. That was a great area of envy between them. For whatever reason, the Maker had blessed her with the ability to transform from tipsy to the epitome of earnestness before anyone could blink. Starling never knew when Mapp was authentically inebriated. She was, perhaps, the only person who could remain sharp as a tack despite the chemical reactions conflicting in her body. "I don't mean to sound like everyone who's been giving you a headache," she continued softly. "It's been…what? Three, four years?"

Her words nearly fell to deaf ears. Merely the question stirred within her a wave of recollection, and shivers sprouted across her skin in affect. The mention drew her to a flash of a dying image, and she remembered immediately of whom she dreamt the night before. After awakening that morning, she brushed it off as people normally do, and only now found the time to consider his involvement disconcerting.

Any form of illustration flickered and died. Starling was grateful for her inability to recall her dreams, but similarly frustrated. Obviously, whatever the doctor had told her subconscious had calmed her. It was so unsurprising on a level that it made her shudder. Her discussions with Dr. Lecter in the past were brief and had not concerned reassurance. It was pain the doctor loved, any at all pain. In a sense, it was his air. A way to keep himself entertained in isolation. Their discussions were courtly, yes, but he had never offered a sympathetic reaction to any of her raw emotions.

He had also refrained from cutting her down in his infamous manner. Where he had the reputation of making grown men cry simply for biting reviews of poor articles in medical journals, he had only shown her that part of himself once. In the beginning. Before he really became interested.

"Four years," she said at last, wincing as she drained the remainder of her glass. "Not quite, but closer to four than three. Oh, I don't know, Ardelia. Lord knows I've wondered…lately more than ever."

"Since this McCallister bullshit started?"

Starling nodded, resting her glass on the coffee table and leaning into the embracing comfort of decorator pillows. "I think he probably lost himself in Europe…or will, if he hasn't already. Crawford kept an eye on Florence following his escape, but when things went quiet, he pulled his supervision."

"Why Florence?"

"The drawings." Her voice trailed off into another sea of recollection. "Lecter was in love with Florence, but I believe he's too smart to have gone there immediately. I think he could've concealed himself well…we know he went to St. Louis first and had no trouble, even with his face flashing every television screen." She huffed out a breath and shook her head heavily again, drawing her hands to rub her eyes agitatedly. "I don't see why Crawford insists that he isn't as smart as he appeared to be. I think he was that and then some. None of us saw that coming."

"Ever think he could be here?"

Starling arched a skeptical brow. "Washington?"

"No…the States."

"Never." With a definitive headshake, she succumbed to temptation and lurched for the bottle and refilled her glass. "Make me stop after this one," she instructed Mapp offhandedly, knowing perfectly well she would do no such thing. "No, no…Dr. Lecter has taste. For the most part, the States don't. I think he likes it here in certain places, but he could never live in Baltimore again."

Mapp didn't appear convinced. Lips pursing in thought, she leaned forward and pried the Colt 45 from Starling's grasp, debated refilling her own glass before setting it aside. "You ever think," she asked softly, "that he could be here…like, watching you? That someday he might?"

The question flushed her cold. "Why would he? He said he wouldn't."

"Well…there was some merit to what McCallister said, if you think about it." Mapp gauged the harsh look that insinuation received but didn't balk. Such was not expected nor appreciated. With a friendship this long in the making, they were accustomed to prying well beyond the lines of comfort and into territory restricted to anyone else. "Lecter talked to you, Starling. There ain't no getting around that. Why is anyone's guess. But he talked to you when he would talk to no one. You honestly think that he doesn't consider coming around to check up on you once in a while?"

With a heavy shake of her head, Starling tore her eyes away and fixed her gaze on an aging liquor stain on the carpet. "Whether he considers it or not is his affair. I don't think so. I think he likely has disassociated himself from anything pertaining to the asylum or his former life, regardless of how I interested him."

"You think he used you to escape?"

"No." It was an honest answer; one she didn't have to consider before replying. With whatever forged kinship, there was always a sense of authenticity. Even years later she saw that the doctor had at least at one time held her in a higher light. Whether he did now was improbable. There was respect, of course. A part of her wished to believe that would never die on either end of the unlikely bond. "No. I believe he was sincere, but I also know that once he saw an out, he would use whatever interest he had in the case for self-benefit. Lecter was courteous—something I still don't understand—but he was also a very smooth manipulator. Once Chilton let the cat out of the bag about the phony deal, he pretended to go along with it all the while knowing what he would do once he got to Memphis." Starling sighed and shook her head once more. "He knew what was going to happen after I visited him then. He was counting on it…my visit, I mean.

"He had that air about him," she continued after a short pause. "While I never guessed he would escape, I knew he was playing around with authorities…throwing out names like Billy Rubin, knowing they would chase to all ends before realizing it was a fake. He timed it all so well." After releasing another sigh, her eyes traveled upward and reflected Mapp's concern. Starling chuckled lightly and shook her head in contrary discernment. "McCallister is different. If he tries anything, it'll be spur of the moment and clumsy. He's never been a part of a transfer and really doesn't know what to expect. Besides, we're hoarding several others with him and there will be two armed guards at either end of the plane."

"And you'll be far away from him?"

She nodded, finishing off her drink and setting the glass aside. "I'll be at the front of the plane along with a couple US Marshals. Every precaution is being taken, girlfriend. You have no reason to worry."

"I ain't gonna stop worrying till you're back here safe 'en sound," Mapp replied, drawing the bottle back within reach, rolling it idly against the coffee table. "Not just about the transfer. I know you're a big girl and have already have had more action than I ever hope to see…but—"

"I need this time off," Starling said definitively. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Know where you're going yet?"

"There's a flight out of Colorado Springs to Houston Friday afternoon." She breathed deeply and leaned back again. "Might as well visit, you know. I won't make the entire trip of it…just drive to Hubbard when I feel I can and visit."

Mapp nodded her understanding. "You haven't visited since you graduated, have you?"

"No. After that, I might go as far down south as San Antonio. I have two weeks. Might as well make the most of it."

"Alamo?"

"Along with all the other obnoxious tourists, I'm thinkin' so."

Smiling thinly, her friend heaved herself off the couch with an exaggerated sigh. "That'll be good for you," Mapp admitted as she moved for the kitchen they shared. "No one can say you haven't earned it."

Starling scoffed her disagreement, pulling herself to her feet. In the past, they had made habit of talking late into the night only to wake at some obscene hour the next day without difficulty. It was more her habit than Mapp's, though her friend could wake just as early if necessary. That seemed a long time ago. Her flight schedule required her up at 2:30 to make it on time. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Both you and Crawford said the same. I'm sure that Krendler'll pitch a fit, though, and get a bunch of people hacked that I got time off."

The shout was muffled by the imposing presence of the kitchen door, but nonetheless heard without handicap. "Fuck Krendler!"

"Nuh uh, girly. He's all yours." As Mapp broke into subtle chuckles, Starling joined her in the kitchen to wash out her glass. "Listen, I gotta crash."

"Now? It's early."

"So's my flight. I wanna be alert. Scratch that: I gotta be alert. No sleeping tomorrow."

"All righty." Mapp turned and pried her glass from her hands, smiling kindly. "I guess that means I'm off to bed, too."

"Why?"

"Think I'm gonna let you on that plane without saying goodbye? Hell no, sistah. Ain't gonna see you for two weeks. 'Sides, I'm usually up then, anyway."

"Getting up isn't as easy as staying up, you know."

"Of course I know. Try to make that stop me."

Starling grinned. Sometimes, a lot of the time, Mapp could do things so singularly thoughtful that it made up for past inconsistencies. "You're the best."

"I knows it. Don't you forget it. Now get your ass in bed. I'll do the dishes."


* * *



When the alarm clock sounded at 2:30, Starling was instantly ready to act. Dying wails of a fading dream echoed into the distance; the nightly routine unashamedly interrupted leaving unfinished dead stirrings of dread to spool her insides. Like those preceding it, sleep had lent itself to a variety of tossing and turning through horrific visions of the past in league with event that awaited her upon awakening. She had never slept well when she knew she was facing a particularly rough day.

Much to her surprise, Mapp, true to her word, rolled out of bed thirty minutes later. A pot of coffee was brewing by the time Starling stepped out of the shower, along with the rich smell of old fashioned country cooking. They shared casual chitchat and drained the remaining supply of caffeine in the house. Both instinctively avoided the issue that hung over the room like a pulsing storm cloud waiting for monsoon season.

An hour after waking, the doorbell rang. Starling didn't hear it; she was in the middle of drying her hair and getting the rest of her gear together. When she went downstairs for the final time before departure, she was surprised to see Mapp talking quietly with John Brigham over a box of doughnuts. They both stood when she entered the room.

"I called John after you went to bed," Mapp explained nonchalantly, her tone indicating many different things that only a person who knew her very well would detect. "Thought it might do you good to see a different friendly face before you left."

Starling smiled her gratitude, stepping forward. "I appreciate that, John, but it's not necessary."

"Don't be silly." He smiled nicely at her. "I told Ardelia that I'd be happy to drive you two to the airport. Don't know if I told you, Starling, but everyone's really awestruck that you're actually doing this."

"I've heard what they're saying, John, at least some of them." She heaved out a sigh. "Whispers, really. It's anything but awe."

"Don't pay attention to it."

"I don't. How do you think I survive every day?" With a good-natured smile, Starling offered a shrug. "People will say and think what they feel is appropriate, regardless of little things like facts."

There was a sigh and Brigham nodded, looking down. "You're a good sport," he said softly. "And you put up with a bunch of stuff that no one person should rightly face. I should tell you now, though…someone's leaked to the press. Crawford's pretty wound up about it. I know you won't be here to see any immediate headlines, but I thought you should know. You'll undoubtedly hear of it wherever you end up going."

Beforehand such news would have caused her to flush with cold anger. Now, however, it came with such predictability that all the reaction she could muster was a chortle of anticipation and a roll of the eyes. "Surprise, surprise. Well, I told Crawford that someone would eventually."

It was Mapp who reacted most violently. Her eyes flared and she emitted a highly audible sigh of contempt, arms crossing tellingly athwart her chest. However, she refrained from vocalizing her obvious judgment. An unspoken understanding construed to the knowledge that any additional conversation in one way or another would achieve nothing than to further agitate already raw nerves.

Afterward, everyone was all business. Brigham helped Starling with her things into his car. The air between them was still slightly awkward, but things were gradually returning to a state that felt most like the norm. Before he asked. Though she knew why Mapp had invited him and did not approve, it was nice to see a friend this dark morning.

The drive carried out in silence. No one felt up to speaking.

At the landing, Mapp embraced Starling tightly. Despite the oddity of the situation, her friend was acting principally bizarre; had been since the assignment surfaced. She suspected it was in ode to her growing irritation with Crawford and the way the system continually recycled her in such a manner.

Brigham shook her hand and indulged her in a mini-lecture on firearms for the benefit of her amusement. Starling smiled faintly and conceded a chuckle.

No one watched as the prisoners boarded. She refrained from looking at the plane as long as possible.

Crawford seized her hand as she stepped away as he had the day of graduation. "Thank you," was all he said.

To Brigham, Mapp neared protectively. "I got a funny feeling," she whispered, nodding in Starling's direction. "Like I'm not going to see her again."

However, it was Starling who had the last word. As she disappeared into the darkness of the plane, handing over her badge and various side arms, she turned again to look at everyone who was dear to her. Everyone who was now watching her leave. Everyone she was doing this for.

Mad McCallister's eyes were on her from the very first. She didn't grant him the satisfaction of gazing back. Instead, she exhaled deeply and shook her head. "I have a bad feeling about this," she muttered.

It was the only time such a confession would escape her lips.


* * *