A/N: Well, this is it. The end (at last). Thanks to everyone who's been reading (*grin* you're a patient bunch!) The Spanish is courtesy of babelfish ;o)
ten
Graham stared at Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, a thousand emotions running through him. He had been right: Clarice was very much alive and healthy and definitely not Lecter's prisoner.
"Well, hello, Will. How very nice to see you again." Lecter's voice was as cold and smooth as Graham remembered. With that memory, the fear returned. Graham was taken back to the night Lecter had almost killed him; that same voice calmly telling him there would be very little pain. It was the truth. The pain had come later as he lay in a hospital bed, when he saw Molly's tears and every time he woke up with a hangover.
"I wish I could say the same for you," Graham said. He felt the reassuring weight of the gun against his side and glanced from Lecter to Clarice, wondering which of them posed the greater threat.
Clarice was nearer, but there might be a chance he could convince her to leave with him. Very slowly, he drew his weapon.
"No one has to get hurt," Lecter said. "Let us pay our respects to the dead, and then we'll be gone from your life."
Graham spoke past the lump in his throat. "You know I can't let you do that."
Lecter looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Have it your way."
"Agent Starling, you know what you have to do."
Clarice smiled at him, her expression sad. Graham knew what she'd decided.
"Agent Starling," he tried again. "Think about every good thing you've ever done." He had no way of knowing Pearsall had spoken those exact words to her three years before.
She shook her head, her eyes moist with unshed tears. "I'm sorry."
With Graham's attention on Clarice, he had failed to notice that Lecter had taken out his own gun. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lecter raise his hand and slowly turned to look at him. It was strange to see the doctor holding a gun; for some reason Graham had always thought that Lecter didn't like guns. Obviously, he was wrong.
He raised his weapon, aiming it at Lecter.
"Gunshot wounds are always so messy," Lecter said. "I'm afraid I can't promise that it will be painless."
Graham pulled the trigger. There was a soft click as the gun misfired. He tried again. Another click. Click. Click. Suddenly terrified, Graham knew he was going to die. It was a feeling he'd had before, but never as strongly as now. He wondered what had gone wrong.
"Hannibal, no."
Graham blinked slowly, surprised that Clarice had intervened. Maybe there was still hope for her.
"Don't kill him," she said. "Please."
Graham didn't really expect Lecter to listen to her, so it was no surprise when Lecter fired. The bullet hit him high in the left shoulder. Graham stumbled backwards with the impact and fell to the ground.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this, he thought. There were still things he wanted to tell Molly. He wanted to finish the boat he had been building with Josh.
By the time Graham realized that he wasn't going to bleed to death, Lecter and Clarice were gone. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
*
Molly Graham had one thing in common with Hannibal Lecter: she held the FBI in as little regard as he did. The FBI had almost got Will killed on three separate occasions. The first time, she had been upset but she had tried to accept that danger came with the job. The second time, a madman had invaded her house, had tried to kill her son, and she had told Jack Crawford exactly where he could stick his Behavioral Sciences Unit.
When Will told her about Pearsall's call, she had told him it was a bad idea. But she hadn't tried to make him stay. So she had kissed him goodbye and said she loved him and prayed every night that the phone call she dreaded would not come.
When Pearsall's secretary had called—his secretary, she thought with distaste, even Crawford had had the decency to call himself—Molly had quietly listened and then hung up. She'd taken the next available flight to Washington, wondering how bad it was.
Arriving at Georgetown University Hospital, she was told her husband had discharged himself. Relieved that the injury couldn't be too serious then, she caught a taxi to his hotel. When he wasn't in his room, she called Pearsall, who denied knowing his whereabouts. Left with one more option, Molly headed downstairs to the hotel's bar.
*
Just one drink, Graham thought.
The bar was nearly empty. No one looked twice at Graham as he made his way to the bar and sat down, wincing slightly. He called the bartender over and ordered a scotch on the rocks.
Just one drink.
An hour and three drinks later, Graham realized coming here had been a mistake.
Three drinks after that, he decided he didn't care. If he drank enough, he could escape the events of the past few weeks. There was a familiar woman heading his direction.
"Hey, babe," he said as Molly slid onto the barstool next to him.
"Oh, Will . . ."
"Buy you a drink? Hey, Dan, get the lady a drink." He downed the remaining liquid in his glass.
"Come on, Will, let's go."
"Sure." He stumbled on his way out, glad that he had a hand to a hold on to.
*
Molly blinked back her tears. He'd been doing so well until this case. When they reached the room, she dialed Pearsall's number. "It's Molly Graham," she said to Pammy. "Put me through."
"Molly! Did you find him?"
"I found him in a bar." She paused, letting the words sink in.
"I'm sorry," Pearsall said.
"Dammit, Mr. Pearsall. He's been sober for years and you wreck it in three weeks. You knew what this case would do to him. You knew it and you knew he wouldn't say no and you asked him anyway!"
"Molly—"
"Goodbye, Mr. Pearsall. Please don't call us again." She hung up and collapsed on the bed, burying her face in her hands. When Will clumsily put his arms around her, she cried harder.
* * *
Every Sunday after the evening service, Dwayne said a prayer for Clarice Starling. Six months after he read about the events at Arlington, he was surprised to see Will and Molly Graham sitting in one of the back pews. He caught Graham's eye during the first song and smiled in acknowledgement. It was more than coincidence, he thought, that tonight he was preaching on redemption.
After the service, Graham introduced him to Molly. As he walked with them to their car, Molly stopped suddenly.
"Do you think there's redemption for people like Lecter?" she asked.
Dwayne thought for a long moment, then shrugged. "Only God knows the answer to that."
Molly nodded. "I thought you'd say that."
Graham shook Dwayne's hand. "It was good to see you again."
"And you. Take care."
Dwayne watched them drive off, smiling. It was reassuring to know that not all of his prayers had gone unanswered.
*
A year after the accident, Dwayne went to visit Ardelia. He laid a bunch of wild flowers on the grass; Ardelia had loved wild flowers. He could smile at the memory now. Sometimes it still hurt to think of her, but each day was easier than the one before. He was glad he'd come.
Before he left, he said a silent prayer for Clarice Starling and hoped that wherever she was, she had found what she was looking for. He hoped she was finally at peace.
*
On the second anniversary of her friend's death, Clarice Starling woke up early and went down to the beach. She sat on the sand and watched the sun's rays dance on the Mediterranean Sea. No one would disturb her; the beach was privately owned.
She drew patterns in the sand with her fingers as she thought back to that strange time when her world had been turned inside out. The only thing she regretted was that Ardelia had had to die to make her new life possible.
She looked up as a shadow fell over her. Hannibal Lecter extended his hand to help her up. She smiled at him and hooked her arm through his as they walked back up to the house. The sound of a crying baby reached them as they reached the top of the steps, accompanied by a woman's gentle, soothing tone. Clarice's smile widened; it was time to let go of the past. The present and the future held so much more for her.
"Manuela!" she called. "Está bien. Ahora la tomaré."
The housekeeper smiled and handed the infant to Clarice. The child stopped crying instantly. Manuela threw up her hands and clucked her tongue, but she was smiling.
"¿Usted verá por favor para desayunar?"
Manuela nodded and turned towards the kitchen. "Si, Señora."
The child grabbed a fistful of Clarice's hair and gurgled. "Paloma, no."
She carefully extracted her hair from the child's fingers. Paloma smiled a toothless grin and shoved her fist into her mouth. Her eyes lit up as Lecter appeared in her line of sight.
"Alright," Clarice said. "Go to Papa."
As Clarice gave him the baby, she noticed a tenderness in his expression that she was seeing more frequently these days. If there was one thing that Lecter adored more than her, it was their child. She had been surprised that he hadn't wanted to call her Mischa.
'No,' he'd said. 'Paloma. Our dove.'
He had only killed once since they'd lived here. An ambitious young man had picked the wrong house to rob. The blood had been easy to clean from the tiles. Clarice didn't ask what he'd done with the body.
Manuela appeared in the doorway and announced that breakfast was ready. Clarice followed her family into the dining room. As she watched Lecter put Paloma in the high chair, it occurred to her that she was truly happy.
It wasn't quite the peace that Dwayne was praying for, but it was what she wanted.
~THE END~