Author's Note: Contrary to popular belief, NO! I am NOT dead. Just really, really, really (add a million and a half 'reallys' here) busy. It's amazing I found time to cook this up. (Everyone out there does remember me, and the story, right?) Bah, if not, just forget this entire author's note, sit back, enjoy, and wonder what the hell is going on. Then, by chance, should you be interested, there are eight chapters preceding this one that will enable you to catch up. So cancel the funeral. I'm alive. I never start something without finishing it—and, by god, I will finish this. Even if it kills me.
Chapter Nine
It was pointless attempting to convince herself at this point that light was visible through any tunnel. Her evening with Dr. Lecter was quiet and awkward—intimidating like a mouse trapped in the corner with a hungry cat on the prowl. Conversation was blunt and abbreviated. She detoured to every side-road visible when he attempted to speak.
The flippant attitude he so deliberately flaunted wore with annoying resilience on every remaining nerve. How he could sit there, make idle chit-chat as though they were nothing more than old chums was blunt and beyond her. The questions barbed in her direction were shaped with such innocence that one couldn't help but peer around the corner in search for the double-entendre. Warning after warning voiced by Jack Crawford ticked through her mind with such unwitting clockwork that she felt several times willing to excuse herself if only to have a moments scream at her frustrations. But no, that wouldn't do. It was power the monster loved. Controlled power. Power he could exercise anywhere. Even as they both were well aware the power was out of her hands, if she acknowledged the helplessness of her situation, there was simply no hope left.
She was forever housed on the edge of warning, watching him with a suspicious though intrigued gaze that both screamed curiosity and demanded distance. The number of hours she had spent willfully picturing what he would do in his spare time was rather embarrassing. Freedom, however expensive, was not wasted on Dr. Lecter. No, no. He enjoyed every breath of it. The very humor of his disposition seemed radically changed. He pried, of course. Peered down every corridor of her confused life that she had not yet locked and picked away at every detail. Her short and frank rebuttals did little to misdirect his attentions. Through it all, he remained attentive and civil, disarmingly comfortable and driving her to the point that just for a minute, one minute, she might let loose and forget who it was that sat only a few feet away.
Almost.
The important thing was to remain attentive but civil. Cold but not untouchable. Not to make any move that would suggest she was about to clamor him over the back of the head with a candlestick in manner of Mrs. White in the drawing room.
She thought of their exchange in Memphis during those rare minutes when he wasn't speaking. Thought of what it was that had intrigued him so. Things were far less disconcerting when a reliable set of bars was between them. At least then, she could be herself and not worry about having to fend off a brassed cannibal should the wrong thing wander passed her lips.
"I know you must be tired, Clarice," he was saying as he stood to collect their tableware. "You have had quite the adventure today. Might I suggest some wine? I find it to be most soothing right before I retire."
Starling barely heard the question. Her mind was pacing rapidly; drawing up every token she had received over the past few years. The letter following his escape, for one thing. The headlines lacking in cannibalistic reports. When it occurred to her that silence was likely not the answer he was looking for, her mouth formed a line and she politely shook her head. "No…no, thanks, Dr. Lecter. I…umm…I think I'd just rather…"
"Of course," he replied dismissively, disappearing for a short time into the kitchen. "You must be swamped. Do make yourself comfortable. You did say the sofa, correct? Understand, you are welcome to—"
"Yes, thanks. I…the sofa…I'll…"
"Very well." He chuckled and gestured to the aforementioned divan.
Sometime between cooking and entertaining, Dr. Lecter had found time to make the settee comfortable for her. It was bound in linen sheets and cushioned with goose-down pillows. A glass of milk and two aspirin sat atop a coaster supported by the neighboring coffee table. He had certainly gone to every effort.
Starling pursed her lips. What exactly was there to say at such a radical 'oh-god-I-can't-believe-I'm-not-dreaming' moment? Her earlier notion that perhaps this was some terrific ploy devised by her rebellious subconscious again screamed its right to existence and was similarly expelled from probability. Dreams never felt this real. Dreams never were this real. This was certainly no dream.
"I wonder what your plans for tomorrow entail," Dr. Lecter continued civilly, moving passed her to suggest his own intentions for early withdraw. "The roads are much too slick to attempt any form of travel, I'm afraid. All more besides, I saw the condition in which you left your vehicle."
At that, she snickered. She couldn't help it. "Yeah. Old Jack McArthur's gonna have a helluva time explaining that to the insurance company. Well, serves him right for playing the Good Samaritan and lending his truck to a complete stranger."
The doctor rumbled in amusement. "Quite right." A subtle pause. "You seem to have relaxed rather well, much to my pleasure. Are you feeling better, Clarice, or have your acting abilities sharpened even more over the years since our last meeting?"
It was true. Though her defenses were still up and in tact, the tenor of her general mood was melting from the frigid ice queen façade she wore in any situation that rendered her vulnerable. Starling sighed and shook her head. "Enough with the cross-examination, Doctor. Can I just rest and try to forget this ever happened?"
"That will be quite a task. I highly doubt you will awake to find yourself elsewhere."
"Hey, a girl can dream." The flash of impatience that seared behind his eyes in affect would have gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn't looking for it. Though the night wore early, she already felt like she was crossing boundaries that no one should even face. With another heavy sigh, Starling flexed her arms apologetically, but could think of nothing to say. She owed no explanation just as surely as he, stubborn or not, did not expect one.
"Yes…indeed." Another pause—this one not nearly as comfortable. She felt she had stepped into a freezer. "Then I will leave you to yourself, Clarice. Goodnight. I do hope you rest well."
His presence remained long after he departed, somehow rendering the air colder than before. And without having to try, Starling knew sleep was unobtainable. Not when he was out of eyesight. Not with the day she had to escape. Not with the shadow of Clark McCallister, Paul Krendler, and a thousand others laughing at her for her fall. Not when she had no sure guarantee outside his word that she would survive the night.
Then again, it was best to trust his word. Deceit was a quality Dr. Lecter abhorred, and she knew he would never dare cross the boundaries of his own consensus. It was that acknowledgement alone that persuaded her to close her eyes and wish the world away. To will herself in a pivotal state of reasoning where she was cradled in a warm bed, thousands of miles from here. A place far, far from what was safe to call the worst vacation ever.
* * *
She was having that dream again.
It was perverse, dreaming of someone that was quite literally under the same roof, dreaming as though he were far away and catching him was simply a matter of cunning. However, her subconscious refused to adhere to what her mind screamed with such fervor. Yes, he was there with her in both spirit and body. Dreaming it made little difference now, and yet the visions came with the same annoying insistence.
Her mind loved playing games with her. In the heat of the night, she could remember every lasting detail from every dream provided from an inquisitive heart searching for the puzzle pieces to fix the tattered remains of her life. Daylight presented no such illumination.
When she awoke and every element of the previous day's horror came rushing back, Starling gritted her teeth and slammed her hand menacingly against the sofa cushions. The fine line between reality and fantasy was very faint. She was tired of having to guess what was actuality and what wasn't.
The sky was still dark but she knew without needing to look that it was near morning. It was 4:57—she was sure of it. These past few days had allowed her no further sleep beyond that point. If she stretched to gaze out the window, she might, perchance, see the faintest streak of gray; even that was doubtful. Finding sleep now would be as close to a miracle as she had ever strayed, and with a reluctant yawn, Starling sat up. The cabin looked no different in the morning than it had the evening before. Her worn muscles were refreshed and craving that good morning's jog that she hated to deny herself.
Suddenly, her unspoken spider sense kicked into gear, and she knew without having to glance around that she was not alone. Her initial reaction was—naturally—to jump up, kick him in the shins, and make a move for the door.
That lasted only a few seconds.
With a sigh of resignation, Starling leaned back into the warmth of the bed he had prepared for her and stretched. The hostility she craved had yet to find its way back into her voice. Wherever it was, it was happy and obviously not missing her presence. So long sweet hostility.
"Good morning, Dr. Lecter."
"The same to you, Clarice. I trust you had a pleasant repose?"
After what felt like years of practice, there still was no way to talk to this man. Waking under his observant gaze was discomfiting and nurturing at the same time. A sick, twisted part of her psyche must have enjoyed being watched over. Any sensical reply or attempt at cynicism abruptly left her throat, leaving her barren of all possible defenses. "As pleasant as one can expect."
"I'm afraid the weather hasn't relented," he said without the slightest inkling of sorrow coating his tone. Not that she was expecting it. "If you look very carefully, you might see the top of your vehicle before it becomes another frozen monument, claimed by a well-timed Colorado snowstorm."
"Fantastic," Starling murmured, forcing herself up. Indeed, it was still dark out. As dark as someone would expect in this part of the country during the dead of winter. "I'm going to have to get down there sometime today. My cell phone…"
Without looking, she sensed the doctor's eyes light up with amusement. "Is lost, my dear. To attempt to recover it now—"
"I don't care. I have to try." With stubborn buoyant, she finally faced him, aimed to match glares. "Doctor, with as much as you might like our new arrangement, I do have some objection to spending the better part of winter cooped up here with someone who'd just as quickly kill me as look at me."
Lecter's eyes darkened and she felt a colder shudder overwhelm her. "Shame on you," he berated softly. "Did I not give you my assurance that denying the world your fiery presence would be kin to committing an atrocious act of discourtesy? Your ignorance is charming but it would suggest otherwise. It's a mask you wear quite well. I am fond of you, Clarice. I do not kill those whom I am fond of."
"All the better," she retorted. "I strike a murderer's fancy. This is me not swooning. Do you have any idea how infuriating this is? All I wanted was a simple vacation. No big. And the first thing that happens the moment I get of that little McCallister worm…" She trailed off, absently drawing loose strands of hair from her eyes. "It hasn't even been…I'm terrified that I'm going to say the wrong thing or piss you off to the extremity of canceling out that fondness, and then what?"
"Oh, my dear, you have already said the wrong thing. A thousand times over. Acknowledging your fear to yourself is an act of consolation and growth. Acknowledging your fear to the very thing you are afraid of gives me an unfair advantage." Dr. Lecter paused. "I'm wounded to think that you believe such a minor inconsistency would waver my standing in your favor. Do you think so little of me?"
Starling's eyes widened. "No, I don't. Out of all the psychopathic madmen I've met, I must say you're my favorite."
At that she stopped, catching herself. Either she had said the exact right thing or something very wrong had just given leave to the air. When she felt she could speak again, she shook her head and cleared her throat. "But that doesn't make you any less of what you are, Doctor. It would be cruelty to keep me here against my will. All I want to do is go home and crawl in bed."
"At what expense?" He took a turn about the room, eyes trained on her like a hawk. "Suppose, by a small twist of fate, you are successful in locating your phone. Even finding a signal, whereas you could not last night, from what you related. Your rescue is on its way. Then what?"
She knew what he was asking but dared not venture down that path. "I go home."
Dr. Lecter tilted his head in annoyance. "You're avoiding the issue, Clarice."
"Well, what do you want me to say? I'd let you go? We both know the chances of that." She rolled her eyes. "And even so…say I do cut you a break…what would I tell whoever it was that gets me outta here? Say I happened, very fortunately, to stumble across a cabin stocked with nice furniture, food, wine, cable television, that was mysteriously unoccupied? That won't roll, Doctor."
"Precisely. Why should I forfeit my freedom so you can have yours?"
At that, she grew cold, but her resolution didn't falter. "Because it's right."
His chuckle was harsh and sent a shiver through every worn nerve in her body. "If we start discussing the logistics of right and wrong, my dear, we will be here long enough for the snow to thaw."
"Looks that way, anyway."
"If you are adamant on searching for your phone, I will not stop you." There was a familiar, patronizing twinkle in his eyes. "You must do what you feel is right, of course. After all we've been through, you should know I expect no less of you. Go on, now. I, in the meantime, will prepare breakfast."
Marie, the waitress at the diner and the last person linked to outside civilization, had warned her that she was ghastly unprepared for Colorado weather, and now Starling reflected dismally that advice from locals was usually the type you make a point to remember. It seemed years had passed since her dangerous trek up the bank of snow to reach the cabin, and her insides trembled at the mere thought of making the journey again. The night had not provided her with warmer clothing, and she very much doubted Dr. Lecter would be willing to supply additive insulation, considering the passage she wished to take. She was surprised to discover a well-padded coat and snow boots three sizes too big waiting for her once finished with the customary morning preparations.
Starling was suspicious of everything and everyone by nature. It was the only way to guarantee a walk through a snake pit wouldn't resort in multiple bites from every angle. She heard the snapping and the hisses, of course, but was very rarely scorned with a noticeable wound.
To venture into the blizzard outside inadequately dressed was analogous to bungee jumping without a bungee. No, if he were offering, she would not refuse him. Bundling herself appropriately, Starling meekly thanked her temporary caretaker and reported that she should not take long. The answer she received was awkwardly domestic. Not even twenty-four hours had passed and she felt she was trapped in a bad sitcom. Married…With Corollary.
With a sigh, she prepped herself and stepped into the freezer that was the outdoors.
The journey downhill was easier than the hike had been to get to safety, but of course, that was a given. A sheath of blinding white flashed her eyes without reserve, and several times, she toppled and crested a Starling-shape in the new-fallen snow. By the time she reached the truck, an hour had passed and the pleasant aroma of breakfasty-goodness drifted teasingly to her senses, reminding her that this insane voyage had, after all, been her idea.
Starling knew finding her phone in working order was a possibility that resided far from the realm of likelihood. Her frustration the previous night had consigned it to the ground, and Mother Nature was doing her damndest to get in the way of any forthcoming escape.
For what felt like hours, she searched through the mounds of white powder. Dr. Lecter had been kind enough to provide gloves for her mission, but she felt her skin numbing still, whether from the cold or basic suggestion. The phone she found was a sorry sight; protected in a cavern of snow, not frozen but far from functional. She needed to get it back to the cabin to thaw and charge before attempting to dial for help.
The charger itself was inside the truck, and she had forgotten to bring the keys. Starling cursed loudly and expressed her frustration on the frost-covered hood, her insides shivering with a sudden blast of cold. After a few seconds of steady breathing, she concluded that the vehicle was rendered more or less useless anyway, and bursting the window couldn't add too much to her already-substantial bill. With everything she needed in possession, the worn agent huffed another air and began the slow climb upward.
Paved tracks and training areas were the arenas she was accustomed to. No one could accuse Starling of being out of shape. However, the comfort of home was lost in these mountains. She had not ventured so far in such conditions since she was little, and even then, only a small comparison could be made. Patches of snow disguised the deeper dips, and she, at times, found herself swallowed waist-deep where only previously the trudge had accumulated precipitation to her knees. The skies opened once more and released a second inundation of tiny bright specks. Everything darkened and it became dreadfully cold.
When she was halfway there and nearly blind with conflicting flakes of white, Starling saw a figure moving toward her through the mass. It was Dr. Lecter; bundled securely and having, it seemed, no trouble navigating across the landscape. No words escaped his lips; he merely took her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the cabin.
"Thanks," she murmured dejectedly as he provided a comforter over her shoulders and offered a smoldering cup of hot chocolate.
"You were going to catch your death," the doctor replied simply. "I could hardly allow that. Is your phone functioning?"
"It will be here soon, I think."
"Then I will not keep you." Standing, he headed again for the kitchen. "Would you care for breakfast?"
His willful distancing was beginning to wear on her suspicions. Starling took a long sip and nodded. "Yes, please."
"My pleasure." And he disappeared again.
Breakfast was enjoyable though silent. She ate by the window, glancing at the human imprints made in the snow. The truck was gone now; vanished from sight beneath a swell of white. She hesitated to think of the condition she would find the seats in, should she escape this discomfiting situation.
An hour passed before the phone was in a state to transmit a call. Her first attempt was naturally 911, but the signal failed in mid-ring.
"Don't discourage, Clarice," Dr. Lecter assured her icily when he gauged her forlorn expression. "If you scream loud enough, long enough, someone will eventually hear you."
"We're too far away," Starling replied, more to herself. "What's the area code?"
His eyes illuminated with good humor. "My, my, aren't we getting desperate?"
She sighed in exasperation and lowered the phone. "Doctor, please don't—"
"By all means. 719. You might want to try a number that begins with three." He stood to vacate the room, holding her eyes for a long, powerful beat. At once, Starling felt her blood humming through her veins and her insides quaked in affect. She had never denied the ferocity of his gaze, but similarly, had failed to recognize the power behind it. When he finally turned to leave her in peace, she shuddered, took a minute to compose herself, and dialed the first random number that came to mind. The plan was by no means her best, but it was the only one available.
It rang, and well. Clear as a bell and better. She released a long contained huff of victory breath and felt her tense shoulders relax for what felt like the first time in weeks. At that moment, it didn't matter who picked up as long as the voice on the other end came attached with legs and a driver's license.
By the fourth ring, however, no one had answered. The cold fingers of dread once again grasped her, but she was not overly dismayed. If this led to a dead-end, she had plenty of number combinations to explore. There had to be one that—
The line suddenly clicked, followed by the sound of a minor collusion. A deep, male voice filled the line, surprisingly British in heritage and—without having to hear more than one word—she understood he supremely lacked etiquette. "Oh, bloody hell," he swore lightly. The tone was casual. "Sorry 'bout that, mate. Jus' stubbed my…oh bugger it. 'Ello?"
"Ummm…yes. Hello. You don't know me. I work with the FBI, and—"
"The FBI?" the voice repeated skeptically. "Right, then. Listen—"
"I crashed my truck last night on ice." Yes, yes…then what? I'm stuck with a psychopathic madman? I'm sure that'll go over well. "I…"
"Oh. Right. Durin' the storm, I'm guessin'." The man sighed and rustled. "How'd you get this number?"
"I didn't get it. I just randomly dialed."
"Oh, bit o'luck then. You did try jus' callin' fo' help, right? The conventional way that usually brings about the experienced in this sort of matter."
"Of course." She flushed a bit in frustration. "Listen, I just need some assistance. If you could call the police or something…a tow truck, anything that would get me out of this…my cell's signal doesn't seem to want to go that far."
"Wouldn't rightly doubt it, either. Closest town innit for a while, leas' tha's what I've been told." The man laughed a deep, humorless chuckle. "Pet, I doubt I could get a signal any better than you could. I'm from outta town." Like she couldn't tell that. "Jus' 'ere visitin' with some ole chaps. Where you stranded at? We might…uhhh…hold on."
There was, what sounded like, a brief struggle for possession of the phone.
"Sorry." A female voice this time—notably American and rather young sounding. "William gets…out way too much. Can I help you?"
Finally. "Yes, please. I crashed my truck somewhere on…" Goddammit. It wouldn't do to forget the highway. "Somewhere between…Florence and Colorado Springs. I know I'm putting…if someone could either contact someone or get help in some way, I'd really appreciate it."
In the background, she heard the same male voice, presumably William, bellow, "Don' know if I'd listen to her, luv. Says she's from the FBI, an' what all. Ask 'er what she's doin' 'ere."
"Sp…Will, shut up." An aggravated growl rumbled through the girl's throat. "Sorry again. We honestly need to muzzle him. Now, between Florence and Colorado Springs, you say?"
"Yes ma'am."
"That's a lot of road to cover—"
"Bloody right, it is," the male voice growled from a distance.
The girl went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Anything more specific?"
Hope was beginning to slip again, but she refused to concede. "There's a cabin here but it doesn't have a phone, and my cell's not cooperating enough to reach the nearest town or police station. Since this number picked up, I'm assuming you have to be near." She sighed. "I know it's a lot to ask, especially from a stranger, but I'm…desperate." This is the part when you tell the nice woman that you're stuck with a convicted felon who has occasional cannibalistic tendencies. Yet the words would not come.
"Bollocks," the Cockney voice sneered.
Starling frowned. "Is he on another line or something?"
"Erm…no. He just…is sitting really close to me. Listen, I'll do my best. Really. You sound…well, I can't judge everyone on how they sound, but I get tinglies about this sort of thing." The girl sighed, and the agent could almost hear her shaking her head in apology. "I'll try to contact someone. If not…we'll get you out of there somehow. It just might take a while. What's your name?"
"Clarice Starling."
"Oh…OH! Right. With that guy…who did that thing…I remember hearing about you. Didn't you just do that big transfer with—"
"Clark McCallister, yes."
"Psycho?"
"I'm not at liberty to say." Starling eyed the door through which Dr. Lecter had disappeared. "How long do you think?"
"Well, honestly, we're from out of town, anyway. Sort of here on business. I don't know how much easier it's going to be for us to reach any authorities. The storm knocked out most of the phone lines." There was a grumble. "Aly…my friend Alyson, was able to get things connected enough to receive…so yeah…you should be close."
"Good. You have no idea how much I—"
Once more, the male voice decided to intervene. "'Ey, luv! Y'almost finished? Passions 'll be on 'ere in a jiffy."
The girl grumbled again. "Actually, I think I do have an idea. Wouldn't want to be stuck out there with anyone…you wouldn't want to be stuck out there with. All right, Ms. Starling. Is it Miss or Agent?"
"Officer, actually."
"Well, Officer Starling…I'm Anne Summerville. We're in a big van so keep your eyes peeled over the next couple days. I'll see what I can do."
A smile spread across her face. "Thanks."
They weren't locals, but Starling was beginning to have the sense that everyone she met on this trip was tainted with a sort of mystical hospitality. She knew not to get her hopes up. However far her signal reached, she wasn't sure. The matter of when her rescue arrived was in comparison to the large if weighing over the equation.
You didn't tell them about Dr. Lecter.
"There's no use in worrying over that now," she told herself, unaware she was speaking aloud. "Once…if someone comes…hiding him won't be easy."
However, the scene looked grim. Starling, always the pessimist, felt her hope beginning to slide. It was only a matter of time. That and convincing herself that she was doing what was right.
Time.