Disclaimer in part one. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Apologies for the delay in posting, but my dial-up connection wasn't working :o(

two

"Miss Starling, you're very lucky to be alive."

Clarice didn't feel very lucky. She stared up at the ceiling, hardly hearing the doctor's words.

"You fractured both of your legs, broke two of your ribs and bruised the rest. Your right wrist is also broken. You pinched a nerve in your spine – although there's some bruising, the damage isn't permanent. Your whiplash is quite mild, all things considered. All in all, you're lucky-"

To be alive, she finished in her mind. I got that. Tell me something new.

The doctor consulted Clarice's chart, nodding to himself. "Are you in any pain?"

Nothing you can help me with.

A long time later, she was finally able to get to sleep. This time, she dreamed . . .

'Clarice, what have you done now?'

'Nothing, Dr. Lecter. I-'

'Can you hear them screaming? Look.'

He turned and pointed . . . and suddenly they were on the road again. Clarice's Mustang lay on its roof; she wondered how it was possible that she'd survived. She heard screaming coming from inside the car and rushed closer. Ardelia stared at her, her eyes accusing.

'Help me, Clarice. Get me out of here.'

Clarice tried to pry open the door but it wouldn't budge. She reached inside to pull Ardelia our but she couldn't get her out of the seatbelt.

'I'm so sorry.'

The driver of the truck stood behind her. In slow motion, she turned around and pulled out her Colt .45, emptying it into the man's chest. He fell to the ground.

'That's my girl.'

She turned to face Lecter, staring in horror at the bloody stump of his left arm.

'Now look what you've gone and done.'

Clarice dropped her gun ad stepped towards Lecter. 'I'm sorry. I never meant-'

'Do me a favor. Tell me when the lambs stop screaming.' With that, he vanished. Clarice was left on an empty stretch of road with only Ardelia's scream to keep her company.

She woke up crying, and had never felt more alone in her entire life.

***

Dwayne visited every day. He didn't mention God to Clarice; neither did he talk about Ardelia. He read the newspapers out loud, commenting every now and then on a story that interested him. He spoke about baseball, the weather – anything and everything. Clarice knew what he was doing but let him continue anyway. If he thought he was helping her, she wasn't going to let him think otherwise.

Ardelia's funeral took place a week after the accident that had claimed her life. Clarice was still in hospital; it killed her to know that she couldn't attend. Instead, she watched it on the news. The press had been having a field day with the accident. They had dredged up Clarice's past and, once again, the papers were full of her association with Lecter and its results. A reporter from the Tattler, following the example of the late Freddie Lounds, had snuck into Clarice's hospital room. He hadn't counted on the presence of Dwayne, who picked him and threw him out into the hallway. That had been the day before Clarice had woken up.

Ardelia was buried at Arlington. Clarice promised herself that she would visit as soon as she got out of hospital. She couldn't help remember the last time she'd buried a friend . . . maybe she'd visit Johnny Brigham's grave too.

A few days later, Clarice could finally sit up. It would be another five weeks before she would be able to leave the bed. What irritated her most was the cast on her wrist prevented her from writing her letter of resignation.

"She wouldn't want you to leave," Dwayne said when she told him. "Not like this, not because of her."

Clarice stared at the ugly pattern on the curtain. "We always said we'd retire together. Who's going to keep me sane now?" She smiled ruefully. "With my luck, Hannibal Lecter will reappear and cause more trouble . . . who'll stick by me then?"

Dwayne pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. He emptied it over Clarice's lap.

"This belonged to her. They let me take it but I think she'd prefer for you to have it."

When he left, Clarice picked up the delicate gold chain and stared at the cross that dangled from it. She sat like that for a long time, then slowly opened the drawer and put it inside.

***

Her wrist itched. She stuck a pen inside the cast to scratch, but it didn't help much. A psychologist had stopped by to talk to her about bottling up her grief. She disliked him instantly for trying to get inside her head . . . and maybe because he looked a little like Jack Crawford. Jack, who had let her down in the end.

Besides, she already had somebody in her head, analyzing every thought and word.

The psychologist, Dr. Williamson, commented on her anger. She'd glared at him, then asked him, very nicely, to leave.

Dwayne brought some magazines for her to read. If he noticed the absence of the cross around her neck, he didn't say anything. Clarice paged disinterestedly through the magazines, stopping on an ad for Gucci. She smiled fondly, thinking of a gift that sat in its box in her cupboard at home.

She lay awake, fighting sleep for as long as she could. It was a ritual she performed every night -- anything to keep from dreaming. In her dreams, she couldn't do anything to stop the screaming. Ardelia haunted her, Lecter haunted her . . . even Evelda Drumgo haunted her. Sometimes she dreamed that it was Ardelia holding the baby in the Feliciana Fish Market, and only after Clarice fired the gun did she recognize her friend.

Sometime in the third week, she dreamed of her father. He told her how disappointed he was in her and she woke up with a jolt. Lying in the darkness, she wiped away her tears. When her breathing returned to normal, she realized something was different. Very slowly, she turned her head to the side and gasped as figure stepped into the moonlight.

"Well, hello, Clarice."

to be continued