Author's Note: Thanks again to my betas. I would be lost without you.
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 Five
There were only two previous transfers on her plate, but Starling felt comfortable enough with the procedure to continue without trepidation. Netting separated personnel and prisoners-seats facing each other as to keep the convicts under constant supervision. One of the four US Marshals overseeing the modus operandi offered her a window seat in the gangway directly facing a row of inmates, smiling friendlily while not trying to mask that he was checking her out. She thanked him politely with familiar evasiveness and turned to gaze at Mapp and Brigham who stood respectively near Crawford. Their expressions were easily deciphered-so solemn she might as well have been traveling inside a casket.
A charge swept through the plane, followed by a metallic clank as all prisoners were secured in place. McCallister was opposite her three rows back, occupying the aisle seat. Starling felt his eyes on her immediately but refused to gratify him by looking back. Instead, she pulled her book from her handbag-one she knew she would look at rather than read-and reflected that it was not the wisest choice, given the circumstances. However, being halfway through Misery certified an inability to put it down, and all other selections registered as mundane and ordinary. Her eyes were heavy but she couldn't sleep-her nerves on high alert and she felt something similar to a cooing lamb every time she blinked. It would not do to awake in a panic here.
Starling did not allow herself to relax until the plane was off the ground. From there, it was only a matter of time. Her head remained buried in the literary world through the duration of the flight, looking up only once to request a cup of coffee. McCallister spoke not a word, though his eyes were trained on her the entire way.
The plane landed in Springfield a surprising ten minutes ahead of schedule. Though encouraged, Starling knew better than to suspect her luck would continue on the same street throughout the rest of the stops. While the plane they moved to seemed smaller, she credited her growing tension to restlessness and fatigue. It didn't help that Annie Wilkes had just run over a police officer with a lawnmower.
They had been in the air for a little more than a half hour when the first words cut through the silence.
"I thought of something interesting last night, Agent Starling."
Though she was prepared for McCallister to break into a string of dialogue at any minute, it still made her jump inside. However, her outward façade remained unmoved. Her eyes barely flickered over the book cover. With alarming control, she gave no indication that she had any intention to answer, or that she had even heard the question.
"Wouldn't you like to know what it is?"
Perhaps it was better to indulge him. While her interview had revealed nothing particularly threatening, the man was a confessed and proud serial killer. To her, he was another problem: an annoyance, and yet, a brief ticket out of Washington. Still, Clarice Starling indulged no one-despite specifics.
"Agent Starling?"
"What did you think of, Mr. McCallister?" She dog-leafed her page and placed the book nicely in her lap as her eyes rolled upward with shining agitation.
"The Green River Killer.do you remember that case?"
She nearly scoffed. Every agent in the country was aware of that case. It was well before her time but still referred to as though the man were actively selecting his victims. The unnamed serial killer had been quiet for several years, and it tormented Crawford that there was someone out there who had gotten away with such ambiguous multiple crime. "Yes, I am familiar."
The prime of the case that was still under heavy investigation in Oregon and in several offices at Behavioral Science lasted through the 1970s and took a healthy junk of the '80s. Starling never made the suggestion, but she suspected Crawford had harbored the hope of ending both cases when Lecter was arrested, despite the fact that the murders took place on opposite ends of the country. Anything to add more to the doctor's plate.
"He preyed on girls-namely prostitutes. Ted Bundy even offered his assistance." McCallister's brows arched challengingly and he offered a toothy grin.
Starling smiled tryingly, immediately reading into the implication without appreciation. "I am aware."
"Never caught, still. I suppose Lecter was more helpful in his assistance, with Buffalo Bill, I mean."
It was then that she noticed the attention of every man within the encompassing proximity-authority and prisoner alike-were absorbed in this exchange. Starling was much too intelligent to respond, thus simply reminded McCallister that she had not been an agent at the time and returned to her book.
Ten minutes passed.
"Ms. Starling?"
The lack of formality that had only a minute ago preceded her name made her grumble inwardly, but she did not look up.
"Ms. Starling?"
"Agent Starling," she corrected, eyes remaining glued to a sentence she had started a thousand times in the past half hour. A beat or two of silence ensued before she finally gratified him, not disguising her irritation this time. "What is it, Mr. McCallister?"
"I thought of something you might find amusing. It just occurred to me." He smiled like an accomplished businessman, leaning back as far as he could to suggest he was seated on a throne rather than the prison accommodations of an airplane. "I was born in Florence, and I'll die in Florence. Different states, of course. Florence is one of those funny towns that shows up all the way across the country. Have you noticed that? You'll find one in every state you come across. Funny, isn't it?"
Starling rolled her eyes, flipping her book back into view. "Hysterical," she muttered.
"Aren't you going to ask me which state it was?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Come now, Agent Starling," McCallister drawled, earning a few snickers from those around him, as if even they knew when enough was enough. "You're being inhospitable."
Finally, one of the marshals came to her defense, apparently losing interest and finding the continuous stream of discourse as annoying as she did. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat and said with some authority, "All right, all right, enough yapping. Settle back, McCallister."
"My apologies, Officer," he replied nonchalantly. "I was just asking the lady a question."
This seemed to satisfy everyone, and the plane fell into relative silence for a few seconds. Dead air was accompanied only by the hum of the engines beneath them and unsteady breathing of anxious passengers. For the life of him, Clark McCallister seemed to be the only prisoner unmoved by the reputation of his destination. He appeared glad to be going, as though the outing was a much-welcomed breath of fresh air.
The silence allowed for Starling to focus heavily on the novel. It wasn't often that she had the opportunity to completely lose herself in fiction, and while she allowed herself to become more engrossed than usual, she extended still her preempted elevated sensory to be on alert for anything suspicious.
It wasn't until the pilot announced that they were approaching Colorado Springs that McCallister felt the need to answer his untended inquiry.
"Kentucky."
* * *
The forty-mile ride took more than two and a half hours to complete. For the life of her, Starling would never understand why anyone bothered with transfers-or travel of any sort-to or from Colorado during the winter months. She occupied the front passenger seat where she didn't have to look at him and he could not see her. While she was not an easy victim of carsickness, she refused to dive into Misery again. The star prisoner had not bickered with the travel arrangements, but she wanted to be on full alert, should he try anything in the home stretch.
Much to her surprise, he didn't. McCallister maintained his stream of uncharacteristic good behavior, and arrival at the Florence Penitentiary was blissfully anticlimactic. She signed over the prisoners and ignored him as he was taken away.
"Thank you, Miss Starling!" he said merrily. "See what happens when you cooperate? It truly was a pleasure!"
She did not reply, rather watched as he was ushered away in a procession of prisoners, humming to himself. The first ounce of relief was denied until she could not see him. When it finally hit that he was gone and she was rid of him forever, Starling allowed herself a small grin and turned to the administrator, who regarded her with arched brows.
"That the guy who asked you to go with him?" he drawled, eyes dropping to the stack of papers in his grasp. Beneath the wavers and legal pads, a copy of the Tattler waved at her, the headline obviously carrying her name. It was nice to know that even professionals turned to the supremely reliable source for the most accurate account of any given situation.
However, Starling did nothing more than snicker. Her current mood was near impossible to diminish. "Yes. That was him."
"Any idea why he wanted you here?"
She arched her brows and issued a dry look. "None whatever. Listen, I'm going to need to rent a car. Do you think you could point me in the right direction?"
The man shook his head and looked down regretfully. "No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. We're not a town that attracts many tourists, as you might imagine. Most traveling folk are just passing through. Aren't you going back to Washington with the rest of them?"
"No. I." Starling trailed off desperately. While improbable, she had been hoping to be rid of pryingly curious eyes as soon as the transfer commenced successfully. She knew she was welcome to ride back to Colorado Springs, and chances were that was her best bet. The thought, however, of being stuck in that automobile again for any set amount of time made her sick. And as it was, she had been informed that the plans currently were to stay the night and refuel after the long drive and start back in the morning. Waiting alongside the crew until they decided they were ready was the last thing on her mind; there was no out, nor any hope of making it to the airport on time. Something forewarned that no one aboard that vehicle would give a rat's rump about her reservations. Smiling kindly, she offered a shrug of concession. "I'm off duty for a couple weeks."
"Vacation?"
She nodded. "A break."
The man offered a sympathetic look, surprisingly honest. "And it's out of your way, wherever you're headed? Well, listen, ma'am." He turned his pen to a clean edge of one of the Tattler's pages and began jotting something down hurriedly. "Go to this address and give this to my wife. She'll set you up with my pickup. It runs like a dream on the ice and all you have to do is fill 'er up. Once you get to Colorado Springs, go to Joe's Auto Shop and ask for Bob Porter. Tell him I sent you and he'll be sure I get the car back."
The onslaught of helpfulness began and ended with such definitive force that Starling had to take a minute to reflect. It had been a long while since anyone did anything for her out of the kindness of their heart; to be on the receiving end of such a deal from a stranger nearly took her breath away.
Her first instinct, though, was to decline. An offer that good could not be without its holes. However, her sense of cabin fever was increasing and made her want to lash out at every familiar face. To turn down such an honestly construed proposal in this hour of desperation was the extremity of foolishness. Simply because benevolence wasn't encountered everyday didn't mean it failed to exist.
"Thanks," she said in no attempt to mask her surprise. "You're really very.I have no idea how I'm going to repay you, but-"
The man-whose nametag read Jack McArthur, she took time to note-stepped back and grinned, bringing up his hands in repudiation. "No, no. The biggest thing you could do for me is stop by The Short Stop for supper before you leave and say I sent you. Maybe Marie will take a couple bucks off my tab."
Starling smiled and nodded, taking the offered slip of paper and pocketed it after going over the information briefly. "Will do. Thank you very much, Mr. McArthur. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."
"Well, something tells me we owe you for a quiet transfer." He uncovered the Tattler and held it up to eye level. "Not my usual reading material, but the missus saw it this morning at the grocery store and thought I might be interested. They even named me specifically."
It was easy to detect. Someone had taken a highlighter to the pages and sketched the two places Jack McArthur was mentioned. However, her eyes only briefly lingered on the text. She was too easily distracted by the headline.
SPECIAL AGENT CLARICE STARLING MODERATES TRANSFER TO 'KEEP THE PEACE'
The affect of seeing her name in print was notably distinct from the man standing opposite her. It was not the first time, and something churned in her stomach to warn it certainly was not the last.
She offered a thin grin. "I didn't do much, you know. Just sat there and took his yapping."
"Something tells me it could've been a lot worse. I see a lot of people here. We learn not to underestimate a man like that. Accept a favor, Agent Starling. No strings. I won't take no for an answer."
Starling chuckled appreciatively. It was eerily reminiscent of southern hospitality. "Then I won't turn you down. What's your wife's name?"
"Rhonda. She'll try to give you some homemade brownies. She always makes brownies the day of a transfer. Makes for something to look forward to. They're delicious, and you'll find that she doesn't take no for an answer, either."
"I'll keep that in mind." Starling started away. She knew the others would be leaving soon, and she needed a ride to the address. "Thank you again. Thank you a thousand times over."
One of the US Marshals accompanying the transfer-Thom Nelson, she believed, was waiting for her when the peculiar trade commenced. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable leaving her to follow the word of a man she had never before met. However, she adamantly ignored his advice and requested in the politest of manners to be dropped off at the indicated address.
When Rhonda McArthur was through scrutinizing the note scribbled by her husband, she looked up and offered a warm smile, ushering Starling inward. It wasn't often, she explained, that they were honored with visitors. Most of their family lived close by-none out of state. The woman was in the mood for chitchat; prying into bits of her life that Starling relinquished with hesitation, indulging in brief answers with minute details. She kindly tolerated the cross-examination as best she could, though was careful to leave subtle hints as to her strict timetable. Starling wanted to be out of town before sundown; something told her the roads grew more hazardous with nightfall. The two-hour drive would likely extend, and while the local meteorologist predicted a few hours of daylight remaining, transfer days always sped after the heart of the job was complete. When she finished her second brownie, Starling smiled gently and informed Rhonda that it was beyond time to leave.
The truck was spacious and reminded of the one her father owned when she was little. Sensibly, the back was covered to prevent cargo from becoming entrenched in an onslaught of snow.
Colorado was unpredictable this time of year, Rhonda warned her as she was loading the back with her various pieces of luggage. "You say you lived in Montana for a while," she said conversationally, clutching herself tightly as a gust of particularly chilling air took them both by surprise. Rhonda struck her as a grandmotherly figure; a woman who wanted children but had never had them. While her husband hadn't appeared to be Starling's senior by that many years, his wife contradicted his demeanor. She had a lovely face-worn, perhaps, by one too many winters. Her eyes sparkled with life that seemed to burst from every artery. Even on this abbreviated acquaintance, Starling knew that she liked her despite the infallible curious streak, and wouldn't mind visiting again; however unlikely the chances. "That's good. The winters there aren't any friendlier. You'll be a bit more prepared than others here. But watch yourself, dear, especially since you're traveling by yourself. We're almost on the far ends of the earth, here. I've lived in Colorado all my life, and every winter brings new surprises. My husband's father once described it as the dark side of the moon. I agree with him. Do be careful."
"Trust me," Starling returned with a gracious smile. "If I haven't learned by now to be careful, I never will."
Rhonda shook her head in firm disagreement. "No, no.you don't understand. I know you're well equipped to deal with men to the likes of Clark McCallister, and that doctor fellow a few years back. But against Mother Nature, Dearie, your gun and badge can't save you. She doesn't care what your background is or where you went to school. If she's angry, she'll gobble you right up-no questions asked."
If there was a way to respond to such a statement without sounding intimidated, mankind had not yet discovered its path. Thus, there was little she could do beyond offering another smile and a nod of understanding. "I will be careful, Mrs. McArthur," she assured her, climbing into the driver's seat of the truck. "I have a cell phone if I get into any trouble. Besides, I'm simply going to catch my flight, and then I'll be down south for two weeks."
Unconvinced, Rhonda pursed her lips tightly and nodded. "All right, all right. It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Starling. Drive safely."
"You can count on it."
It was roughly three o'clock in the afternoon when she pulled up to The Short Stop after satisfying the hungry truck's empty gas tank. She made friendly conversation with the locals and sipped at a cup of coffee while waiting for any spur-of-the-moment snowstorm watches before she tackled the highway. Though it was already growing dark out, the Weather Channel failed to report impending treacherous climate conditions. After a half hour, she paid for her coffee and ordered a burger to go.
The waitress, Marie, was a well-proportioned fiery little thing who had a solid liking for cigarettes. It cascaded over the restaurant-an impressive cape that didn't fail in giving the place character. As she tallied Starling's bill, she took a look at her winter layers and emitted a healthy chuckle. "Oh hon," she said, taking a good puff and shaking her head with heavy disbelief. "Tell me that's not all you're wearing on the road."
A moderately substantial jacket covered the sweater that draped Starling's shoulders, along with gloves and a scarf. It was a far cry from a winter coat, but regardless, the warmest piece of clothing she owned. Anything thicker was typically not required in Washington. It grew cold, of course, but adapting to any sort of weather was a talent she was not modest in expressing. Such was almost essential to be a good agent.
"I don't plan on stopping anywhere," Starling retorted, handing over a five. "The heater should get me up to Colorado Springs."
With a snicker, the waitress shrugged and shook her head again, taking the money and turning her attention to the register to make change. "Yeah, whatever," she snorted. "I can always tell when there's an out-of-towner in my diner. You big shots are all alike."
Starling smiled good-naturedly and shrugged, pocketing the dollar and dropping the coins in a container that housed a stuffed basset hound to endorse some nameless charity. "Well, then perhaps it's better that I freeze. Mr. McArthur says hello, by the way. From the penitentiary. He wanted to know if referring customers would account for any reduction off his tab."
It took that much for Marie to forget the nature of their conversation. With a winning smile and another long drag of her cigarette, she chuckled knowingly and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack. Old Jackson. Jack-A-Roo. Tell him in his dreams."
"I would, ma'am, but I doubt I'll see him again." Starling began backing for the door. "At least not on this visit."
Marie squinted and looked out the window. "Ain't that his truck out there? I reckon I'd know Jackson's truck anywhere."
"He's loaning it to me for the trip."
"Family friend?"
She smiled. "No. Complete stranger. Who's to say chivalry is dead? He offered his help and I accepted."
"All right. Well, maybe next time he'll lend you his coat. Or some common sense." The waitress's brows arched pointedly as she turned to refill the mug of one of her regulars. "Seems to me you could use both."
With a pleasant though forced smile, Starling shrugged and muttered a farewell before moving for the door. She didn't know which was colder; the climate she was leaving or the one she was embracing.
The drive commenced without culmination. Though unaccustomed to driving on icy roads, she was not completely unaware of how to navigate the sheering wheel. Careful and fluent, vigilant not to accelerate too much and to pump the breaks rather than slam down hard, as was her custom.
In the quiet of the vehicle, it was the first she was allowed to pause and reflect on the day she had had. Though their acquaintance was brief and would never be rekindled, Starling felt bizarre in knowing she would never have to tolerate the abhorrent gaze of Clark McCallister again. It felt as though the dregs of his existence had settled over her skin. A haunting reminder of the weirdest day she had yet to see.
If his motive had been headlines, then he would not be disappointed. However, she could not help but suspect there was something further to his irregular interest in her. There was not a doubt in her mind that it was in some way connected to Dr. Lecter. Through the past couple days, McCallister made no move to cloud his manifest curiosity in the passing of their relationship, and the even greater desire to cut in. Almost like a jealous lover.
The conversation she had with Mapp the previous evening returned in indication, and even the discussion she held with the prisoner two days earlier. For the first time, she considered the wisdom behind her actions that dreary Tuesday afternoon. Perhaps his motives hadn't been as much the love of headlines as it was the want to further their acquaintance. Crawford often said that most serial killers acted in such a fashion that suggested an aspiration to be captured. By the books, as many things were. He had even proposed one evening, tired and likely the result from fatigue, that capture was indeed the motive behind Lecter's escape.
"Chilton taunted him before Memphis, you know," he had said resignedly. "Likely threatened him with the lack of notoriety that was awaiting his later years. I wonder sometimes if he decided to escape simply for the reminder to the public that he was still an actively lethal madman." Crawford had leaned back with a weary yawn, removing his glasses to rub his nose. It was times like those that he seemed really old to her. Old and tired-bitter with age and living on the remnants of failure rather than the more copious odes to his success. "He'll resurface someday when no one expects it. Try to be unpredictable. But don't be fooled as to his motive, Starling. In the end, all they crave, all the ever crave, is to be caught. To have their five minutes of fame. Lecter's had that already, so he'll wait until he's sure he can make the second time around so godawful that he goes straight from the police car to the needle."
There was some layer of truth to his hypothesis, but Starling would not voice the areas in which their opinions conflicted. That was one of the several areas of agreement she shared with Dr. Lecter. A mantra she recited to herself when lost on a principally difficult case; one that couldn't help but escape her lips now.
"Life is too slippery for books."
Her mouth formed a poignant smile. However, her mind tripped back to the ambush of melodrama circulating the situation she was leaving now. A nagging voice forewarned that, if he had truly wanted to, McCallister had had the means to remain carefree and in the habit he claimed to enjoy so thoroughly for as long as he liked. The suggestion had never been voiced, but she couldn't help the notion that one of the reasons he was captured was for the willingness to be found. That not only was his sentencing worth the chance to meet her, but also the transfer that ensued the rest of his days in a hell hole that drove even the most stable minds past the brink of insanity.
Isolation was often worse than death.
By five o'clock, snow was coming down in sheets. The active windshield wipers kept the road in plain view, though it had been long abandoned all except for the occasional car that crept at the same agonizingly slow pace down the highway. Every time the truck slipped, she clutched the steering wheel closer, berated herself for the blunder-however nonexistent-and continued at a slower speed until her momentum regained its confidence. Her last high arrived when she crossed the Arkansas River, obtaining a shroud of relief that slithered up her spine-the last bit of comfort the night would offer.
It wasn't until hour three crept by that her previously unmovable resilience began to decline. Starling's lips were growing chapped and she realized the heater had betrayed her with an unexpected ambush of cold air. It only lasted for a minute. She had long ago shed her jacket and resigned it to the passenger seat, and while she didn't miss its presence, she could not deny the shivers crawling through her insides. Frightening thoughts of the various alter motives of serial killers were her inward companion. Such was what she always considered the worst side of her occupation. Not only did she have to cope with these inhuman monstrosities, she had to attempt to think like them. To crawl inside the space that was very much their own and decipher what made them tick. It didn't matter when a case instigated or ended-the resounding evidence of the manifest evils committed replayed with a continuous stream of apathy.
By eight o'clock that evening, she was to the brink of panic. Snow was falling in clumps, shadowing any possibility of further movement down the way. The roads were too icy to hazard travel-especially since she was migrating north. Though one to religiously stick to the map, Starling had to acknowledge that she was lost.
"That's it," she muttered to herself encouragingly, the first words to leave her in hours. "Admittance of a problem is the first step to correcting it."
The brief period of recovery lasted only a second. Without warning, the front tire hit a patch of rime, catching her thoroughly off guard. Starling gasped loudly, clutching the wheel and slamming her foot on the break hard without thinking about it. A screeching sound tackled the air as she lost control of the back end, the truck divulging at an angle until completely saturated in a bank of snow and ice.
As her breathing calmed and her mind raced to catch up with her body, Starling pulled off one of her gloves and hit the steering wheel accusingly. "A dream on ice," she murmured. "Right."
It took a few minutes to get herself oriented enough to brave the world outside. She reached for her jacket and bundled herself amply, as much as the fabric would allow. The gloves found their way over her hands once more before she fumbled for the door handle.
Having not ridden in a truck for a long time and in the midst of her new desperate state of being, she forgot the first long step to the ground, and consequentially crashed on her side. A piece of renegade ice sliced through her pant leg and cut a fair chunk of skin away. Starling immediately clamped her teeth down on her tongue to divert the pain and keep herself from screaming. It took a few seconds for her breathing to regulate, even longer to pull herself up. Wearily, she slumped against the truck, confessing inwardly that perhaps this wasn't the hottest game plan.
When she had herself sufficiently calmed, she turned to climb back into the truck to collect her cell phone. Sighing heavily, she slid outside once more and lifted the device to the air in search for a signal. There was none.
"No, no, no. You can't do this to me." She knew it was futile, but attempted to dial anyway with no success. "Oh fuck it, come on," she growled in aggravation. "Give me a break."
Surveying the rest of the damage, Starling concluded the front tire was imminently useless. It appeared the shard of ice had punctured a healthy hole in the front, thus further travel of any sort was a dangerous gamble. Snow was crusting on her hair and coating a white sheath across her jacket. The only sounds perforating the air were that of her breathing, heavy as she failingly attempted to sedate herself. Warmth awaited inside the truck, but for how long? The battery would die before morning if she left it running all night, and the chances of encountering another vehicle along this road, chiefly a Good Samaritan, were slim to none.
When all else failed, she double-checked the back for a spare and a jack. A jack she found-there was no spare.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
A second attempt at the cell phone resulted in its being thrown in wan frustration to a snowy tomb. She offered a throaty growl of contempt, moving around to the hood of the truck where she folded her arms and let her head fall in despair.
When she looked up, she halfway expected the scene before her to have enveloped into some living nightmare. However, it all remained the same. A tan truck, growing cold from its recent disuse, a cell phone glowing in pathetic futility from a small alcove of white powder, and.
What was that?
Starling frowned and took a few steps forward, ignoring a wince of minor pain that shot up her leg. In the distance, what appeared to be an establishment sat as a black cloud against the otherwise starless sky. It looked to be maybe a half-mile away, if she was lucky. Regarding her current position, Starling knew not to cross her fingers. However, the chance that she might have, could have crashed near a sliver of civilization caused a quiver of hope to slink through her system. Her eyes pried for a sign of another vehicle, or any form of life, but there was none.
But there was no denying what she saw.
It was a house.
* * *
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 Five
There were only two previous transfers on her plate, but Starling felt comfortable enough with the procedure to continue without trepidation. Netting separated personnel and prisoners-seats facing each other as to keep the convicts under constant supervision. One of the four US Marshals overseeing the modus operandi offered her a window seat in the gangway directly facing a row of inmates, smiling friendlily while not trying to mask that he was checking her out. She thanked him politely with familiar evasiveness and turned to gaze at Mapp and Brigham who stood respectively near Crawford. Their expressions were easily deciphered-so solemn she might as well have been traveling inside a casket.
A charge swept through the plane, followed by a metallic clank as all prisoners were secured in place. McCallister was opposite her three rows back, occupying the aisle seat. Starling felt his eyes on her immediately but refused to gratify him by looking back. Instead, she pulled her book from her handbag-one she knew she would look at rather than read-and reflected that it was not the wisest choice, given the circumstances. However, being halfway through Misery certified an inability to put it down, and all other selections registered as mundane and ordinary. Her eyes were heavy but she couldn't sleep-her nerves on high alert and she felt something similar to a cooing lamb every time she blinked. It would not do to awake in a panic here.
Starling did not allow herself to relax until the plane was off the ground. From there, it was only a matter of time. Her head remained buried in the literary world through the duration of the flight, looking up only once to request a cup of coffee. McCallister spoke not a word, though his eyes were trained on her the entire way.
The plane landed in Springfield a surprising ten minutes ahead of schedule. Though encouraged, Starling knew better than to suspect her luck would continue on the same street throughout the rest of the stops. While the plane they moved to seemed smaller, she credited her growing tension to restlessness and fatigue. It didn't help that Annie Wilkes had just run over a police officer with a lawnmower.
They had been in the air for a little more than a half hour when the first words cut through the silence.
"I thought of something interesting last night, Agent Starling."
Though she was prepared for McCallister to break into a string of dialogue at any minute, it still made her jump inside. However, her outward façade remained unmoved. Her eyes barely flickered over the book cover. With alarming control, she gave no indication that she had any intention to answer, or that she had even heard the question.
"Wouldn't you like to know what it is?"
Perhaps it was better to indulge him. While her interview had revealed nothing particularly threatening, the man was a confessed and proud serial killer. To her, he was another problem: an annoyance, and yet, a brief ticket out of Washington. Still, Clarice Starling indulged no one-despite specifics.
"Agent Starling?"
"What did you think of, Mr. McCallister?" She dog-leafed her page and placed the book nicely in her lap as her eyes rolled upward with shining agitation.
"The Green River Killer.do you remember that case?"
She nearly scoffed. Every agent in the country was aware of that case. It was well before her time but still referred to as though the man were actively selecting his victims. The unnamed serial killer had been quiet for several years, and it tormented Crawford that there was someone out there who had gotten away with such ambiguous multiple crime. "Yes, I am familiar."
The prime of the case that was still under heavy investigation in Oregon and in several offices at Behavioral Science lasted through the 1970s and took a healthy junk of the '80s. Starling never made the suggestion, but she suspected Crawford had harbored the hope of ending both cases when Lecter was arrested, despite the fact that the murders took place on opposite ends of the country. Anything to add more to the doctor's plate.
"He preyed on girls-namely prostitutes. Ted Bundy even offered his assistance." McCallister's brows arched challengingly and he offered a toothy grin.
Starling smiled tryingly, immediately reading into the implication without appreciation. "I am aware."
"Never caught, still. I suppose Lecter was more helpful in his assistance, with Buffalo Bill, I mean."
It was then that she noticed the attention of every man within the encompassing proximity-authority and prisoner alike-were absorbed in this exchange. Starling was much too intelligent to respond, thus simply reminded McCallister that she had not been an agent at the time and returned to her book.
Ten minutes passed.
"Ms. Starling?"
The lack of formality that had only a minute ago preceded her name made her grumble inwardly, but she did not look up.
"Ms. Starling?"
"Agent Starling," she corrected, eyes remaining glued to a sentence she had started a thousand times in the past half hour. A beat or two of silence ensued before she finally gratified him, not disguising her irritation this time. "What is it, Mr. McCallister?"
"I thought of something you might find amusing. It just occurred to me." He smiled like an accomplished businessman, leaning back as far as he could to suggest he was seated on a throne rather than the prison accommodations of an airplane. "I was born in Florence, and I'll die in Florence. Different states, of course. Florence is one of those funny towns that shows up all the way across the country. Have you noticed that? You'll find one in every state you come across. Funny, isn't it?"
Starling rolled her eyes, flipping her book back into view. "Hysterical," she muttered.
"Aren't you going to ask me which state it was?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Come now, Agent Starling," McCallister drawled, earning a few snickers from those around him, as if even they knew when enough was enough. "You're being inhospitable."
Finally, one of the marshals came to her defense, apparently losing interest and finding the continuous stream of discourse as annoying as she did. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat and said with some authority, "All right, all right, enough yapping. Settle back, McCallister."
"My apologies, Officer," he replied nonchalantly. "I was just asking the lady a question."
This seemed to satisfy everyone, and the plane fell into relative silence for a few seconds. Dead air was accompanied only by the hum of the engines beneath them and unsteady breathing of anxious passengers. For the life of him, Clark McCallister seemed to be the only prisoner unmoved by the reputation of his destination. He appeared glad to be going, as though the outing was a much-welcomed breath of fresh air.
The silence allowed for Starling to focus heavily on the novel. It wasn't often that she had the opportunity to completely lose herself in fiction, and while she allowed herself to become more engrossed than usual, she extended still her preempted elevated sensory to be on alert for anything suspicious.
It wasn't until the pilot announced that they were approaching Colorado Springs that McCallister felt the need to answer his untended inquiry.
"Kentucky."
* * *
The forty-mile ride took more than two and a half hours to complete. For the life of her, Starling would never understand why anyone bothered with transfers-or travel of any sort-to or from Colorado during the winter months. She occupied the front passenger seat where she didn't have to look at him and he could not see her. While she was not an easy victim of carsickness, she refused to dive into Misery again. The star prisoner had not bickered with the travel arrangements, but she wanted to be on full alert, should he try anything in the home stretch.
Much to her surprise, he didn't. McCallister maintained his stream of uncharacteristic good behavior, and arrival at the Florence Penitentiary was blissfully anticlimactic. She signed over the prisoners and ignored him as he was taken away.
"Thank you, Miss Starling!" he said merrily. "See what happens when you cooperate? It truly was a pleasure!"
She did not reply, rather watched as he was ushered away in a procession of prisoners, humming to himself. The first ounce of relief was denied until she could not see him. When it finally hit that he was gone and she was rid of him forever, Starling allowed herself a small grin and turned to the administrator, who regarded her with arched brows.
"That the guy who asked you to go with him?" he drawled, eyes dropping to the stack of papers in his grasp. Beneath the wavers and legal pads, a copy of the Tattler waved at her, the headline obviously carrying her name. It was nice to know that even professionals turned to the supremely reliable source for the most accurate account of any given situation.
However, Starling did nothing more than snicker. Her current mood was near impossible to diminish. "Yes. That was him."
"Any idea why he wanted you here?"
She arched her brows and issued a dry look. "None whatever. Listen, I'm going to need to rent a car. Do you think you could point me in the right direction?"
The man shook his head and looked down regretfully. "No, ma'am. I'm afraid not. We're not a town that attracts many tourists, as you might imagine. Most traveling folk are just passing through. Aren't you going back to Washington with the rest of them?"
"No. I." Starling trailed off desperately. While improbable, she had been hoping to be rid of pryingly curious eyes as soon as the transfer commenced successfully. She knew she was welcome to ride back to Colorado Springs, and chances were that was her best bet. The thought, however, of being stuck in that automobile again for any set amount of time made her sick. And as it was, she had been informed that the plans currently were to stay the night and refuel after the long drive and start back in the morning. Waiting alongside the crew until they decided they were ready was the last thing on her mind; there was no out, nor any hope of making it to the airport on time. Something forewarned that no one aboard that vehicle would give a rat's rump about her reservations. Smiling kindly, she offered a shrug of concession. "I'm off duty for a couple weeks."
"Vacation?"
She nodded. "A break."
The man offered a sympathetic look, surprisingly honest. "And it's out of your way, wherever you're headed? Well, listen, ma'am." He turned his pen to a clean edge of one of the Tattler's pages and began jotting something down hurriedly. "Go to this address and give this to my wife. She'll set you up with my pickup. It runs like a dream on the ice and all you have to do is fill 'er up. Once you get to Colorado Springs, go to Joe's Auto Shop and ask for Bob Porter. Tell him I sent you and he'll be sure I get the car back."
The onslaught of helpfulness began and ended with such definitive force that Starling had to take a minute to reflect. It had been a long while since anyone did anything for her out of the kindness of their heart; to be on the receiving end of such a deal from a stranger nearly took her breath away.
Her first instinct, though, was to decline. An offer that good could not be without its holes. However, her sense of cabin fever was increasing and made her want to lash out at every familiar face. To turn down such an honestly construed proposal in this hour of desperation was the extremity of foolishness. Simply because benevolence wasn't encountered everyday didn't mean it failed to exist.
"Thanks," she said in no attempt to mask her surprise. "You're really very.I have no idea how I'm going to repay you, but-"
The man-whose nametag read Jack McArthur, she took time to note-stepped back and grinned, bringing up his hands in repudiation. "No, no. The biggest thing you could do for me is stop by The Short Stop for supper before you leave and say I sent you. Maybe Marie will take a couple bucks off my tab."
Starling smiled and nodded, taking the offered slip of paper and pocketed it after going over the information briefly. "Will do. Thank you very much, Mr. McArthur. You have no idea how much I appreciate this."
"Well, something tells me we owe you for a quiet transfer." He uncovered the Tattler and held it up to eye level. "Not my usual reading material, but the missus saw it this morning at the grocery store and thought I might be interested. They even named me specifically."
It was easy to detect. Someone had taken a highlighter to the pages and sketched the two places Jack McArthur was mentioned. However, her eyes only briefly lingered on the text. She was too easily distracted by the headline.
SPECIAL AGENT CLARICE STARLING MODERATES TRANSFER TO 'KEEP THE PEACE'
The affect of seeing her name in print was notably distinct from the man standing opposite her. It was not the first time, and something churned in her stomach to warn it certainly was not the last.
She offered a thin grin. "I didn't do much, you know. Just sat there and took his yapping."
"Something tells me it could've been a lot worse. I see a lot of people here. We learn not to underestimate a man like that. Accept a favor, Agent Starling. No strings. I won't take no for an answer."
Starling chuckled appreciatively. It was eerily reminiscent of southern hospitality. "Then I won't turn you down. What's your wife's name?"
"Rhonda. She'll try to give you some homemade brownies. She always makes brownies the day of a transfer. Makes for something to look forward to. They're delicious, and you'll find that she doesn't take no for an answer, either."
"I'll keep that in mind." Starling started away. She knew the others would be leaving soon, and she needed a ride to the address. "Thank you again. Thank you a thousand times over."
One of the US Marshals accompanying the transfer-Thom Nelson, she believed, was waiting for her when the peculiar trade commenced. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable leaving her to follow the word of a man she had never before met. However, she adamantly ignored his advice and requested in the politest of manners to be dropped off at the indicated address.
When Rhonda McArthur was through scrutinizing the note scribbled by her husband, she looked up and offered a warm smile, ushering Starling inward. It wasn't often, she explained, that they were honored with visitors. Most of their family lived close by-none out of state. The woman was in the mood for chitchat; prying into bits of her life that Starling relinquished with hesitation, indulging in brief answers with minute details. She kindly tolerated the cross-examination as best she could, though was careful to leave subtle hints as to her strict timetable. Starling wanted to be out of town before sundown; something told her the roads grew more hazardous with nightfall. The two-hour drive would likely extend, and while the local meteorologist predicted a few hours of daylight remaining, transfer days always sped after the heart of the job was complete. When she finished her second brownie, Starling smiled gently and informed Rhonda that it was beyond time to leave.
The truck was spacious and reminded of the one her father owned when she was little. Sensibly, the back was covered to prevent cargo from becoming entrenched in an onslaught of snow.
Colorado was unpredictable this time of year, Rhonda warned her as she was loading the back with her various pieces of luggage. "You say you lived in Montana for a while," she said conversationally, clutching herself tightly as a gust of particularly chilling air took them both by surprise. Rhonda struck her as a grandmotherly figure; a woman who wanted children but had never had them. While her husband hadn't appeared to be Starling's senior by that many years, his wife contradicted his demeanor. She had a lovely face-worn, perhaps, by one too many winters. Her eyes sparkled with life that seemed to burst from every artery. Even on this abbreviated acquaintance, Starling knew that she liked her despite the infallible curious streak, and wouldn't mind visiting again; however unlikely the chances. "That's good. The winters there aren't any friendlier. You'll be a bit more prepared than others here. But watch yourself, dear, especially since you're traveling by yourself. We're almost on the far ends of the earth, here. I've lived in Colorado all my life, and every winter brings new surprises. My husband's father once described it as the dark side of the moon. I agree with him. Do be careful."
"Trust me," Starling returned with a gracious smile. "If I haven't learned by now to be careful, I never will."
Rhonda shook her head in firm disagreement. "No, no.you don't understand. I know you're well equipped to deal with men to the likes of Clark McCallister, and that doctor fellow a few years back. But against Mother Nature, Dearie, your gun and badge can't save you. She doesn't care what your background is or where you went to school. If she's angry, she'll gobble you right up-no questions asked."
If there was a way to respond to such a statement without sounding intimidated, mankind had not yet discovered its path. Thus, there was little she could do beyond offering another smile and a nod of understanding. "I will be careful, Mrs. McArthur," she assured her, climbing into the driver's seat of the truck. "I have a cell phone if I get into any trouble. Besides, I'm simply going to catch my flight, and then I'll be down south for two weeks."
Unconvinced, Rhonda pursed her lips tightly and nodded. "All right, all right. It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Starling. Drive safely."
"You can count on it."
It was roughly three o'clock in the afternoon when she pulled up to The Short Stop after satisfying the hungry truck's empty gas tank. She made friendly conversation with the locals and sipped at a cup of coffee while waiting for any spur-of-the-moment snowstorm watches before she tackled the highway. Though it was already growing dark out, the Weather Channel failed to report impending treacherous climate conditions. After a half hour, she paid for her coffee and ordered a burger to go.
The waitress, Marie, was a well-proportioned fiery little thing who had a solid liking for cigarettes. It cascaded over the restaurant-an impressive cape that didn't fail in giving the place character. As she tallied Starling's bill, she took a look at her winter layers and emitted a healthy chuckle. "Oh hon," she said, taking a good puff and shaking her head with heavy disbelief. "Tell me that's not all you're wearing on the road."
A moderately substantial jacket covered the sweater that draped Starling's shoulders, along with gloves and a scarf. It was a far cry from a winter coat, but regardless, the warmest piece of clothing she owned. Anything thicker was typically not required in Washington. It grew cold, of course, but adapting to any sort of weather was a talent she was not modest in expressing. Such was almost essential to be a good agent.
"I don't plan on stopping anywhere," Starling retorted, handing over a five. "The heater should get me up to Colorado Springs."
With a snicker, the waitress shrugged and shook her head again, taking the money and turning her attention to the register to make change. "Yeah, whatever," she snorted. "I can always tell when there's an out-of-towner in my diner. You big shots are all alike."
Starling smiled good-naturedly and shrugged, pocketing the dollar and dropping the coins in a container that housed a stuffed basset hound to endorse some nameless charity. "Well, then perhaps it's better that I freeze. Mr. McArthur says hello, by the way. From the penitentiary. He wanted to know if referring customers would account for any reduction off his tab."
It took that much for Marie to forget the nature of their conversation. With a winning smile and another long drag of her cigarette, she chuckled knowingly and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Jack. Old Jackson. Jack-A-Roo. Tell him in his dreams."
"I would, ma'am, but I doubt I'll see him again." Starling began backing for the door. "At least not on this visit."
Marie squinted and looked out the window. "Ain't that his truck out there? I reckon I'd know Jackson's truck anywhere."
"He's loaning it to me for the trip."
"Family friend?"
She smiled. "No. Complete stranger. Who's to say chivalry is dead? He offered his help and I accepted."
"All right. Well, maybe next time he'll lend you his coat. Or some common sense." The waitress's brows arched pointedly as she turned to refill the mug of one of her regulars. "Seems to me you could use both."
With a pleasant though forced smile, Starling shrugged and muttered a farewell before moving for the door. She didn't know which was colder; the climate she was leaving or the one she was embracing.
The drive commenced without culmination. Though unaccustomed to driving on icy roads, she was not completely unaware of how to navigate the sheering wheel. Careful and fluent, vigilant not to accelerate too much and to pump the breaks rather than slam down hard, as was her custom.
In the quiet of the vehicle, it was the first she was allowed to pause and reflect on the day she had had. Though their acquaintance was brief and would never be rekindled, Starling felt bizarre in knowing she would never have to tolerate the abhorrent gaze of Clark McCallister again. It felt as though the dregs of his existence had settled over her skin. A haunting reminder of the weirdest day she had yet to see.
If his motive had been headlines, then he would not be disappointed. However, she could not help but suspect there was something further to his irregular interest in her. There was not a doubt in her mind that it was in some way connected to Dr. Lecter. Through the past couple days, McCallister made no move to cloud his manifest curiosity in the passing of their relationship, and the even greater desire to cut in. Almost like a jealous lover.
The conversation she had with Mapp the previous evening returned in indication, and even the discussion she held with the prisoner two days earlier. For the first time, she considered the wisdom behind her actions that dreary Tuesday afternoon. Perhaps his motives hadn't been as much the love of headlines as it was the want to further their acquaintance. Crawford often said that most serial killers acted in such a fashion that suggested an aspiration to be captured. By the books, as many things were. He had even proposed one evening, tired and likely the result from fatigue, that capture was indeed the motive behind Lecter's escape.
"Chilton taunted him before Memphis, you know," he had said resignedly. "Likely threatened him with the lack of notoriety that was awaiting his later years. I wonder sometimes if he decided to escape simply for the reminder to the public that he was still an actively lethal madman." Crawford had leaned back with a weary yawn, removing his glasses to rub his nose. It was times like those that he seemed really old to her. Old and tired-bitter with age and living on the remnants of failure rather than the more copious odes to his success. "He'll resurface someday when no one expects it. Try to be unpredictable. But don't be fooled as to his motive, Starling. In the end, all they crave, all the ever crave, is to be caught. To have their five minutes of fame. Lecter's had that already, so he'll wait until he's sure he can make the second time around so godawful that he goes straight from the police car to the needle."
There was some layer of truth to his hypothesis, but Starling would not voice the areas in which their opinions conflicted. That was one of the several areas of agreement she shared with Dr. Lecter. A mantra she recited to herself when lost on a principally difficult case; one that couldn't help but escape her lips now.
"Life is too slippery for books."
Her mouth formed a poignant smile. However, her mind tripped back to the ambush of melodrama circulating the situation she was leaving now. A nagging voice forewarned that, if he had truly wanted to, McCallister had had the means to remain carefree and in the habit he claimed to enjoy so thoroughly for as long as he liked. The suggestion had never been voiced, but she couldn't help the notion that one of the reasons he was captured was for the willingness to be found. That not only was his sentencing worth the chance to meet her, but also the transfer that ensued the rest of his days in a hell hole that drove even the most stable minds past the brink of insanity.
Isolation was often worse than death.
By five o'clock, snow was coming down in sheets. The active windshield wipers kept the road in plain view, though it had been long abandoned all except for the occasional car that crept at the same agonizingly slow pace down the highway. Every time the truck slipped, she clutched the steering wheel closer, berated herself for the blunder-however nonexistent-and continued at a slower speed until her momentum regained its confidence. Her last high arrived when she crossed the Arkansas River, obtaining a shroud of relief that slithered up her spine-the last bit of comfort the night would offer.
It wasn't until hour three crept by that her previously unmovable resilience began to decline. Starling's lips were growing chapped and she realized the heater had betrayed her with an unexpected ambush of cold air. It only lasted for a minute. She had long ago shed her jacket and resigned it to the passenger seat, and while she didn't miss its presence, she could not deny the shivers crawling through her insides. Frightening thoughts of the various alter motives of serial killers were her inward companion. Such was what she always considered the worst side of her occupation. Not only did she have to cope with these inhuman monstrosities, she had to attempt to think like them. To crawl inside the space that was very much their own and decipher what made them tick. It didn't matter when a case instigated or ended-the resounding evidence of the manifest evils committed replayed with a continuous stream of apathy.
By eight o'clock that evening, she was to the brink of panic. Snow was falling in clumps, shadowing any possibility of further movement down the way. The roads were too icy to hazard travel-especially since she was migrating north. Though one to religiously stick to the map, Starling had to acknowledge that she was lost.
"That's it," she muttered to herself encouragingly, the first words to leave her in hours. "Admittance of a problem is the first step to correcting it."
The brief period of recovery lasted only a second. Without warning, the front tire hit a patch of rime, catching her thoroughly off guard. Starling gasped loudly, clutching the wheel and slamming her foot on the break hard without thinking about it. A screeching sound tackled the air as she lost control of the back end, the truck divulging at an angle until completely saturated in a bank of snow and ice.
As her breathing calmed and her mind raced to catch up with her body, Starling pulled off one of her gloves and hit the steering wheel accusingly. "A dream on ice," she murmured. "Right."
It took a few minutes to get herself oriented enough to brave the world outside. She reached for her jacket and bundled herself amply, as much as the fabric would allow. The gloves found their way over her hands once more before she fumbled for the door handle.
Having not ridden in a truck for a long time and in the midst of her new desperate state of being, she forgot the first long step to the ground, and consequentially crashed on her side. A piece of renegade ice sliced through her pant leg and cut a fair chunk of skin away. Starling immediately clamped her teeth down on her tongue to divert the pain and keep herself from screaming. It took a few seconds for her breathing to regulate, even longer to pull herself up. Wearily, she slumped against the truck, confessing inwardly that perhaps this wasn't the hottest game plan.
When she had herself sufficiently calmed, she turned to climb back into the truck to collect her cell phone. Sighing heavily, she slid outside once more and lifted the device to the air in search for a signal. There was none.
"No, no, no. You can't do this to me." She knew it was futile, but attempted to dial anyway with no success. "Oh fuck it, come on," she growled in aggravation. "Give me a break."
Surveying the rest of the damage, Starling concluded the front tire was imminently useless. It appeared the shard of ice had punctured a healthy hole in the front, thus further travel of any sort was a dangerous gamble. Snow was crusting on her hair and coating a white sheath across her jacket. The only sounds perforating the air were that of her breathing, heavy as she failingly attempted to sedate herself. Warmth awaited inside the truck, but for how long? The battery would die before morning if she left it running all night, and the chances of encountering another vehicle along this road, chiefly a Good Samaritan, were slim to none.
When all else failed, she double-checked the back for a spare and a jack. A jack she found-there was no spare.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
A second attempt at the cell phone resulted in its being thrown in wan frustration to a snowy tomb. She offered a throaty growl of contempt, moving around to the hood of the truck where she folded her arms and let her head fall in despair.
When she looked up, she halfway expected the scene before her to have enveloped into some living nightmare. However, it all remained the same. A tan truck, growing cold from its recent disuse, a cell phone glowing in pathetic futility from a small alcove of white powder, and.
What was that?
Starling frowned and took a few steps forward, ignoring a wince of minor pain that shot up her leg. In the distance, what appeared to be an establishment sat as a black cloud against the otherwise starless sky. It looked to be maybe a half-mile away, if she was lucky. Regarding her current position, Starling knew not to cross her fingers. However, the chance that she might have, could have crashed near a sliver of civilization caused a quiver of hope to slink through her system. Her eyes pried for a sign of another vehicle, or any form of life, but there was none.
But there was no denying what she saw.
It was a house.
* * *