The hotel they had been booked into wasn't half bad, for an F.B.I. funded trip. Graham and Starling had been booked into separate rooms that could open up into each other nonetheless. Clarice saw this as she peered into Graham's room before moving on to her own. It was an unspoken agreement that they would keep the door locked. Clarice half suspected that Graham had seen her find the letter. She could feel the expensive paper brushing up against her stomach as she walked. No, he couldn't have, she thought pushing the card key into the door and waiting for the green light to shine before pulling on the handle. She pushed the heavy door open with her shoulder and stumbled into the room when it suddenly gave way.
Clarice Starling found herself experiencing a rather odd feeling. Something tugged at the corner of her subconscious, but she couldn't put her finger on what. Then she noticed it. Her lost luggage lay on the bed's foot. Well, that's not so odd, Clarice thought, they must have found it while we were searching the house. She smiled and unzipped her suitcase. Inside, all her things… were gone! Well, that's great. You return it only after taking everything out of it! Wonderful! She threw her hands up in exasperation and sat down at the bed. From this angle she could see that the closet was half-opened. She saw something blue peeking out of it and frowned. That looks like my shirt. The strange feeling returned. How did… She moved slowly forward and pushed the door aside. Inside the closet, all the clothes she had packed were neatly hung up. She turned around and opened the drawers on the television stand. There were her unmentionables, neatly folded in a style that was not her own. From there, she headed into the bathroom, and flipping the lights on found her toothbrush and other toiletries already laid out on the sink. Boy, either they have some room service here or… Her thoughts were distracted by a sharp knock on the door.
Clarice's eyes went wide; she approached the door carefully, sliding along against the wall, her gun out of its holster in an instant. She peered cautiously through the peephole. Graham, she thought and her body relaxed. She replaced her gun and opened the door.
Graham looked into the room uncomfortably. "Are you alright, Agent Starling? I heard banging."
"I'm fine," she smiled. "They must have found my luggage. I was unpacking." She twinged inside at lying, but it wasn't the first time. It isn't even the first time today either!
"Oh, all right," Graham said. "Listen, are you hungry? We could get room service or something."
"No, actually I'm a bit exhausted from the trip. I think I'm going to turn in."
"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then."
He backed up and Clarice closed the door, leaning on it and releasing the breath she had been holding. He was here, she thought, pushing herself off the door and into action. She went through all the pockets on her clothing in the closet and then checked under everything and in every zipper. As she searched through the closet, she came upon a dress, she knew was not hers. It was long and red and when she searched through the bag attached to it, she found matching shoes, purse, jewelry, and hair accessories. What's he still doing in Florence? Doesn't he know this is the dumbest place for him to be? The first place we'd look… or the last. She finally sat on the floor by the bureau, stumped, and leaned her forehead against her hand. Then she remembered the letter. She pulled it out of her shirt with shaking hands and then slit it along all four sides with her pocketknife. You should wait until they use the fluoroscope on it, a voice inside told her, but she ignored it. She slowly unfolded the neat letter on mauve stationary. Her mind buzzed as she laid eye on the beautiful faultless copperplate, so much that she didn't really even read it, just consume it with her eyes. She folded it back up and stared at the ceiling, her eyes brimming. Why am I doing this to myself? Why does he make me feel this way? She rubbed her fingers against the paper, which separated into two separate pieces, the bottom one of a different texture than the top. She looked down at it. The second piece of paper was white, and folded into four. She set it aside calmly and then re-opened the mauve paper.
Clarice,
Admiring my work? I do think of this painting as one of my finer works. What do you think? I really should have taken the watch company's advice and copyrighted the face. Anyway, back on topic.
I'm sure by the time you're reading this, we will have already met again, as I am heading off to the airport as soon as I finish this letter. What might transpire when I arrive there, I'm not sure I can guess. You usually manage to surprise me. You being here can only mean that whatever transpired did not cost you your job and that you are still on the case. I must say, I am delighted at that prospect. However, that you are reading this letter at all means that my plans did not go, well, as planned.
What's the matter, Clarice? Still stuck in that little dream world where you believe the F.B.I. will solve all your problems if you're just an upstanding little citizen? Still trying to live up to Daddy's expectations? Do you really think it was a sense of justice that the higher ups felt when they decided to let you keep that job and that little closet space office you must have? Ah, poor Clarice, still believing she can make her way up in the world with honesty and without adding just a few more of those itsy bitsy add-a-beads.
Well, I must be going, Clarice. You might call it a date with destiny. Then again, you have the hindsight to say whether that is correct or not, and I, as of yet, do not.
Ta,
Hannibal Lecter
Clarice paused and then read it three more times. No hint as to where he planned on going after Virginia. She sighed and leaned her head back against the bureau. She banged the back of it a few times before reaching over and picking up the folded white paper. Inside, she was unsurprised to find another drawing of herself. It been done in charcoal with color added delicately in soft shades. Clarice gasped, however. It depicted her sitting demurely in a red dress. Her eyes trailed off the picture to the closet where she could see the hem of the dress peeking out from the closet. This isn't a coincidence, Starling. No way. Sure enough, the dress that seemed to have a life of it's own in the picture was the same as the one that hung lifelessly in her closet now. The Clarice in the picture stayed thoughtfully over to the right of the picture. She was sitting on what appeared to be a stone bench. Looming in the background were tall spiral towers. A memory came unbidden into her head.
"Did you do all the drawings on your walls, Doctor?"
"Do you think I called in a decorator?"
"The one over the sink is a European City?"
"It's Florence. That's the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere."
"Did you do it from memory, all the detail?"
"Memory, Officer Starling, is what I have instead of a view."
At almost the same angle, with an image of herself perching on the balcony of the Belvedere, this picture was a near replica of the one she had seen in Dr. Lecter's cell all those years ago. What are you telling me, Doctor? Are you gloating that you have a real view now? Or are you saying that I am the only obstacle that keeps you from having an unobstructed view forever? Or… perhaps you're saying that any view without me is not complete…
Clarice thought again of Graham's words. "It's starting to look like a bit of a crush to me, Agent Starling." Had he meant Lecter had a crush on her or perhaps… No. He couldn't have thought that because that's not true. If he knew what really happened at the house on the Chesapeake he'd know that. Another voice came unbidden into her head. Then why didn't you tell them what really happened?
She spoke aloud. "Because they would have thought…"
Exactly what they think now, Agent Starling? Really, who were you protecting when you didn't tell them what happened in that kitchen? Yourself, as you've brought yourself to believe? Or him?
"He doesn't need to be protected."
Oh no, Agent Starling? Not even from you?
Clarice put the drawing to the side and put her head on her knees, rocking back and forth and wishing for all the world that she was back home sitting in the laundry room and being rocked by the rhythm of the drying machine.
