Author's Note: Hi all.  I know it's been a…well, LONG time since I last posted.  Needless to say, there's been a lot going on IRL to distract me from the glorious life of fanfic.  Hopefully everyone still remembers me, and the storyline.  I promise to post until it's finished—however long it takes—but after that I can't guarantee that I will be around with any regularity until life gets less-hectic. 

That being said, thanks to everyone for the fun it's been so far.  I miss this a lot.


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 Six


With a heaving sigh, Starling threw the passenger door open and began searching for anything of use. The glove compartment offered little more assistance than the vehicle registration and an atlas of Colorado. Her ears were playing tricks on her: every time she lowered her head, a roaring car engine sounded in the distance. When she snuck a peak, however, there was no sign of approaching headlights and whatever sounds her mind conjured faded into oblivion. It was simply further confirmation that every sensible resident had long ago abandoned the dangerous roads. There would be no help from passing travelers. It was a reality she had known since crashing, but had to be sure before yielding to plod a half-mile through knee-high snow to a stranger's house for help.

As it was, options were limited and she knew she was stalling. With a heavy breath, Starling looked again to the cottage. It was hardly a fraction of what she usually jogged on the course at Quantico away, but the distance seemed to stretch for miles. With the added complication of snow, it might very well take her an hour just to reach the front door. However, particulars in this case didn't seem to matter. There was no choice.

And when she arrived, who was to say that the residents were friendly? Certainly they would abide the request of a federal officer, but she didn't want to demand room and board for the night and suffer the hostility of a negative atmosphere. Never before had she thought she might have to use her status as an agent to seek shelter. It seemed an old trick.

Edging out of the truck, Starling groaned wearily and rested again on the vehicle's hood. She berated herself for pinching for time, but a part of her screamed that as soon as she was out of comfortable reach, a car would drive by, even if common sense assured her it was beyond impossibility. There was no sound for miles. Still, should she start out, Starling knew the probability fell heavily against her favor. It was Mapp who said it best: "Chances are, babe, it ain't gonna happen…but if it does, it'll happen to you."

Regardless, she certainly couldn't linger out here all night. It was freeze here or freeze on the way to safety. Drawing in a breath of concession, she nodded to herself and pulled away from the truck. The night wasn't getting any younger, or she any warmer.

With obvious precision, Starling concluded the very palpable fact that she could not drag all her luggage through the feet of accumulating snow. The handbag in the passenger seat carried her gun and badge. She chose the latter of the two; not about to go traipsing through acres of snow and ice with the flagrant chance that she would slip and fall with a gun attached to her waist. No, the badge would definitely be more useful. All that besides, she dived into her luggage and layered herself in the supplementary sweater she had packed in preparation for the long drive. A thorough search of her remaining clothing resulted in nothing that would keep herself insulated. For a fun bonus, the journey was slightly uphill, and seemed to stretch its proximity by the minute.

Performing a last scan, Starling located a small flashlight she had somehow missed upon first inspection in the glove compartment. There was nothing else to take. She locked the trunk up, emptied her gun's cartridge into the snow as a precaution, tossed it into the back and started on her way.

Snow was falling in clumps, blurring her vision and cascading a white sheath around her objective. The house appeared and disappeared with regularity, mounting the coldness until it—too—would stand only a hilltop of white powder. The ground itself was nothing of an improvement. Twice she slipped. Twice she commended herself for not bringing a firearm.

"That's all America needs," she muttered to keep herself occupied. "Starling on ice with a gun. Some ice-capades that would make."

Every time she looked up, the house was further away. Starling refrained from becoming discouraged. The evolutionary sixth sense said to be possessed by all good FBI agents kicked into automatic pilot, busying her with assurance that all was well within its structure. However, in response, a deeper part of herself—the rationale she always ignored—sprung to fervent life. It was the preemptory intelligence that forewarned when she was pushing her luck to the pivotal edge.

It was what had made her say she had a bad feeling about loading Clark McCallister onto that plane. Nine out of ten times, it failed its prediction. Mostly in warning. A calling that she at least needed to be on guard.

In the same manner, brushing such feelings off was a progressively growing talent. Thus far, the notion hadn't gotten her into serious trouble. After all, where would she or Catherine Martin be if she had followed her senses and rejected Crawford's assignment to interview the madman within the dungeon? The price was cheap enough—layers of psychological deterioration and the best mind fuck of the century.

Still, she cautioned herself. Before she knew it; the cabin was near. Standing in front of her—a matter of a few feet away. As her pulse raced with the thought of a warm heater and perhaps some coco inside, she lent herself pause with a chilling caution. "Watch it Starling. This is exactly how it ended for Janet Leigh."

That was not the most comforting thought to conjure in the present situation. She gave herself a swift mental kick for her reading selection along the trip. Remembering such unfortunate tidings while journeying toward a dark house distance off a cold country road in the middle of a Colorado snowstorm was not the best incentive.

The ineffectual layers of her jacket were beginning to fail her—and her fingers had numbed beyond all feeling. Her legs were sodden for falling so often. She reached the porch and slipped a last time on a patch of ice crusting over the first step. A string of curses escaped her lips as she pulled herself up, reaching for the railing until nearly colliding with the front door.

Minute details became distinct at this proximity. She saw there was a porch light, but that it and all lamps inward remained dimmed. The cabin wasn't spacious, and she could tell there were no telling car tracks rounding the corner of the veranda. It meant nothing, of course. The residents could have received advanced warning and wisely stayed put indoors. That would not explain why they had not stirred during her approach. Starling knew how sound carried—she had not exactly been quiet on the jaunt up the hill.

A terrible thought occurred. Maybe there were no residents. Maybe this was simply a winter resort for a family and was currently uninhabited. It didn't appear to be a place to establish permanent housing. Though it was dark out, the hour was still early. Any children would undoubtedly be up in celebration for the obvious absence of a school day come the morrow. Or maybe not, Starling reflected. Perhaps she was simply engraved in the habit of late nights and early awakenings that anything else seemed out of the question.

The lack of lights made something unpleasant fall in her stomach. Still, she heaved a breath and withdrew her badge. If anything, there had to be a phone inside.

"Cabins don't have phones," she muttered discouragingly as she began to knock. She waited and counted to a hundred. Nothing. "This can't be happening to me." Another few seconds passed before she pounded on the door once more. Inside, a floorboard creaked, but it was likely her imagination.

A throaty growl tore at her vocals. Options were limited, and while she didn't favor of breaking in, it wouldn't do to travel all the way back to the truck only to freeze before morning. She tried the knob but knew already it was locked.

"Well, Ardie, you're right about one thing…" Starling observed as she backed a pace from the door. "If has to happen to someone, it's going to happen to me."

The door caved with appropriate force and she was surprised to be welcomed by a warm front of air. Why would anyone keep a winter home heated?

Her conviction began to waver. Though inside offered little light and no one came rushing to the foyer to investigate the forceful entry, the feeling in the pit of her stomach reclaimed her with overwhelming strength. It was an unlikely trepidation, but it made her uneasy just the same. Releasing a quivering breath, Starling progressed with caution and waited for her eyes to adjust. The first thing she came in contact with was a sofa—a nice, comfortable sofa. Its sudden presence took her off guard, and she rolled with a grunt to the floor, slamming her elbow onto what appeared to be a coffee table.

"Fuck!" she screamed, then gasped. Her hand immediately clamped her mouth and she waited for some angry hick to stumble into the room and blow her away with a shotgun.

Nothing.

It took no further convincing. Starling knew she was in the house alone. Heaving a sigh, she allowed herself to relax. She needed a light and a phone, and was fortunate enough to locate both in the same setting. The light took her unprepared eyes by surprise and sent her back to the sofa in impact.

"I feel like I'm caught in a bad sitcom," Starling said aggregately, needing to hear someone—even if it was herself—break the silence. She fought her way over a decorator pillow and reached for the receiver.

The phone offered no dial tone. No helpful operator. Nothing. It took her a minute to realize the dangerous turn of her predicament, and instead of try again ineffectually to summon one out of God's good humor, she sank in defeat onto the settee. Of course, the storm would have rendered the phone lines useless. The Colorado atmosphere worked on the expectations of a Stephen King enthusiast.

So she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a busted tire of a truck that would likely be buried under a mount of snow come morning. Her wet clothing stung her skin until she felt all remaining sensory fade away. Though she did not question her good judgment in leaving her suitcases to face the cold alone, her insides shuddered and begged to be relieved of the frosted sheathing.

The rest of the cabin merited searching. Drawing in a breath, Starling rose to one quaky leg, tested it, and took a few steps forward. Movement felt good despite fatigue and she made about the exploration of the rest of the house. Though unfortunate, she forced herself to admit the uncanny luck in losing control of the wheel when she did. Had only a few minutes passed and she would have been stranded all night.

Then she remembered her cell was still in the truck and an exasperated growl tore at her throat. The mere thought made her stomach wrench in knots; a very familiar feeling of languidness overcoming her better conclusions with the telling warning that any attempt to reach it tonight would be ineffective. Rationale countered with temptations to suck it up and make the journey again, that there was nothing to lose, but her body sensibly rebelled and promised the trip would be made in the morning. The signal she had not been able to acquire would likely be reached from this altitude, but it was futile to think she could get all the way down there and back without suffering some injury, especially with as tired as she was. No, tomorrow. Tomorrow after she had rested.

After all, it was only one night.

Inhaling deeply, Starling concluded the wisest thing she could do at this point was search the premises and hopefully locate something—anything—to change in to. Even her inner layers were wet with melted snow. Taking the first good look around, she drew in the sight that was the cabin. The sofa she would likely rest upon that night was indeed adjacent to a coffee table, a television pushed against the farthest wall. To her left was a door she assumed led to the kitchen, beside it a lovely antique piano, and behind a few stairs elevated to a small portico and three closed rooms. She found the heater without much of a search; it roared puffs of warm air in the space between the television and the kitchen.

The cabin was cozy—too cozy.

At that, Starling rolled her eyes, sinking into the couch with growing irritation. "That's right, C. Crash a stranger's car, break into another stranger's cabin and bitch about the living conditions. You're such an excellent houseguest."

It was easy to be angry with herself for this, but easier to focus the blame on Clark McCallister. Or Crawford, or Pearsall, or—hell—even, Dr. Lecter. Hadn't each whispered and revived ghosts of her past and persuaded her to take this crazy assignment? For what exactly? The transfer had gone off without a problem in sight.

But it wouldn't have if you hadn't been there, a sagacious inner voice assured her. Wasn't that the reason you came to begin with?

Another sigh coursed through her and her indignation—minor as it was—drained without much influence. She forced herself to confession that at this point it was easier to be angry with anyone rather than face the burden herself. That, naturally, led her to another conclusion. It was simply easy to be angry.

At last she coaxed herself to her feet, rubbed her eyes tiredly, and approached the television. She had no intention of watching anything, but the background noise while she searched the cabin would offer empty comfort. There was an old black and white vampire movie playing on one station, an infomercial on the next, and a seasonally outdated but oddly comforting airing of Irving Berlin's 'A White Christmas' on the last she inspected. It spurned a bittersweet memory. In the fond though steadily growing muddled recollections of her childhood, she recalled curling up in her father's lap after her siblings had retired late on Christmas Eve, solely to listen to old Bing sing it like none other could.

Starling bit her lip. After her father died, she promised herself that good memories would never be tainted by association. It was a pledge that grew progressively more difficult to keep as she gained age and her disposition waned toward astringent.

But watching the screen brought a smile to her face. She had not seen this in years, quite possibly since the last shared with her father.

When I'm worried, and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings.

Perhaps there was a reason for such things. Starling emitted a long breath as a pain struck somewhere in her middle. However, she did not change the channel. It was this or infomercials, and she didn't have the patience to surf for an alternative, nor did her frigid insides. Tearing herself away, she began with the kitchen.

First the cabinets. Basics. Canned food, coffee and a coffee maker— (yes! Thank GOD!)— bread, several slabs of what she presumed was ham, several out-of-place bottles of wine in the back cupboards…things would last until whatever help she reached arrived.

Starling didn't hesitate; she leapt for the coffee maker and began brewing a pot that would hopefully be ready by the time she wrapped the rest of the self-guided tour. Her chattering teeth and numbed skin demanded heated compensation—a lot of it. As she made her way to explore the bedrooms, she pulled the sweater over her head and stripped until she was wearing her undershirt, casually placing the excess clothing over the heater. With every minute she was growing more comfortable with the knowledge that she was temporarily marooned and there was nothing she could do about it. There was no shame in getting as relaxed as possible.

She told herself this as she kicked her boots off and arranged her jeans and sweats next to the sheaths of additional clothing. Satisfied they would be dry when she was finished with the tour, she made her way to the alcove heading the four steps of suspension from the lower ground.

One study. One lavatory. One bedroom. All neat and symmetrical—tidy and efficient. The bedchamber was comfortable enough on first glance, but it felt intrusive to stand there—more so than the living area had. A bedroom was a sanctuary from the rest of the household; she and Mapp had this understanding. They rarely burst into each other's rooms unless it was essential.

Still, her chilled skin required dry clothing. With aching strands of trepidation, Starling stepped for the closet, coiled her hand around the knob, decided against it, and instead went for the armoire. Several dress shirts hung inside along with suit jackets and a few ties. It was dark and she wasn't interested in examining brand names. Instead, she went for the dresser. There was a dry undershirt waiting for her in the first drawer, several pairs of boxers—none of which she touched—and nothing else that appeared to be of use. With a shrug, she turned away, stripped the last of her upper clothing and replaced it with the warmth of dry fabric. It was comfortably larger than she was used to wearing.

By the time she managed her way downstairs, her sweats were close to resembling dry. Starling had situated them to saturate the most heat. As she wiggled into them again, replacing them with her discarded undershirt, she ventured again into the kitchen to pour whatever coffee had been brewed.

On screen, the disgruntled damsel was singing about how love hadn't done right by her.

Starling searched and found a mug, moved for the refrigerator again before remembering that there would be no milk. That lent her pause and she frowned, overcome by an unexpected sense of déjà vu. She had already searched the refrigerator without considering…and she could have sworn…

She drew the door open and froze. There was milk in there. Its expiration date was in a little less than a week.

The realization sent cold shudders down her spine as her gasp sounded loudly and perturbed the now-quiet air. Quiet. It was then she realized the television had been shut off, and that the lamps she ignited on the other side of the door were now dimmed.

Instinctually, Starling grew deathly still, her agent's ears perking to detect a sound—any sound—that would betray the presence of another. There was nothing. No creaks in the already-noisy floorboards, no coughs, no suspicious, "Hey! Who's in here?" from a panicked resident.

This meant nothing. The preemptory sense that had originally been shunned for its lack of intuitive sprang to fervent life and howled a series of inward warning bells. She stood in the kitchen wearing the owner's undershirt and a pair of almost-dry sweats. Her heart hammered wildly against her chest. There was no denying it. She was not alone in the house.

And from the mimic of silence on the other side, the signs that screamed predator, the owner was not only home: he was hunting keenly for the trespasser.

* * *