Labyrinth of the Burning Heart

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By Jstarz927 and Aine Deande

Disclaimer: This disclaimer will apply to this and all subsequent chapters. Thomas Harris owns all characters you recognize. All those you do not belong to us and to themselves. No profit is being made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Our first collab, whoohoo! *tosses confetti and harpies and small children through the air* We'd like to thank Nyx for kindly proofreading the first two chapters, MsLecter for allowing us to use some elements from "Quid Pro Quo," and all writers who have encouraged us throughout the composition of this endless saga.

This story is still being written even as I type and more chapters can be found at the Visionary forum. We will post chapters here in increments so you won't have quite as long a wait between new chapters as the poor Visions readers. (Sorry, dahlings.)

Setting: Approximately one month after Hannibal, the movie…follows canon? Sure, why not.

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Chapter 1

Memories

Sunday, August 5, 2001, 1:00 am – Memphis, TN

Even inside the brightly lit house, Clarice Starling could see the revolving red and blue lights of the police cars through the window. Every second, the light seared her eyes and she was reminded of that night a month ago, flashing police lights seen through a morphine haze.

Clarice shook her head violently as if she could jog the memories out of her skull. Yet, as she made her way through the house, she found more and more to remind herself of that night. Blood spatters. So much blood. When Dr. Lecter had brought the cleaver down, she had passed out. It couldn't have been for more than half a minute, but when she came to her senses, the handcuff was swinging at her side, empty and covered with blood and splinters of bone.

Following the yellow police tape, she made her way through the house to a little workshop in the back. Inside, she could sense how the other officers' pulled away from her as if she were infected with something contagious. They formed a semi-circle of a distinct radius that never wavered, even when she moved. It was okay; Clarice had gotten used to the reactions over the past month. And she wasn't here to play favorites, but as a favor for the local police department. As she glanced up at the workshop wall, she quickly confirmed why she had been called.

The face of a woman, frozen in shock, stared down at Clarice from where she hung on the wall above a worktable. The woman's mouth hung open slightly and metal rods protruded from every inch of her blood-drained body.

Wound Man. In Hannibal's house. Travis Newman, 37, white male, cause of death: severe blood loss and puncture wounds to the chest. Like THAT wasn't already so obvious. The cause of Dr. Lecter's capture.

Clarice gazed solemnly into the woman's staring blue eyes as an agent hesitantly read the report to her. "Helen LaReine. Thirty-seven-year-old social worker. Cause of death--."

Oh God, don't start this again. "You think he did it, don't you?" Clarice interrupted quietly.

"Ma'am?"

She continued in an even softer voice, almost a whisper, yet everybody heard her. "Don't pretend you don't understand. It's stupid, it's boring. You called me here because this crime is in perfect likeness to one committed by known felon Dr. Hannibal Lecter. You wish to use me and my so-called expertise because you think there might be a connection. I don't like being used. But if you care to know, I can tell you that he had no part in this crime."

Complete silence in the room as a dozen men shifted their feet in awkwardness and suddenly developed undying fascinations in the concrete floor. Clarice turned to look at each of them in turn. She did not offer any words of reassurance, no comforting gestures of forgiveness. She let them feel the full impact of their discomfort just as the FBI had left her to drown in her own personal hell.

Then it was over. She was here to do her job. A piercing scream interrupted her as she was about to answer the unspoken question about Lecter.

A dozen heads turned as a fiery-haired woman burst into the room followed by three pursuing officers. The woman looked up and froze stock-still at the sight of the twisted and mangled body hanging before he eyes. She dropped to the floor as her legs collapsed beneath her. Her jaw oddly slack, something gurgled in her throat and then a fresh howl escaped her lips before disintegrating into racking sobs.

The three officers knelt to lift her to her feet, but the woman resisted, sobbing madly, several golden bracelets on her wrists scraping the ground as her fingertips dug into the concrete floor, as if she could meld herself into the ground.

"Oh, oh, Helen! My God, no, no, nonononono…" Her words ran together into an incomprehensible whimper as she curled into a fetal position and shuddered violently. The officers tended to her, and Clarice stared, hearing the sobs as if they were coming from far in the distance.

Clarice turned to the man who had spoken to her first, raising a questioning eyebrow.

The man quickly saw the chance to redeem himself and babbled quickly, "That's Rachel Ariadne Cahlin. She is, was, the victim's best friend. She wasn't supposed to be in here."

Clarice sensed Cahlin's emotions as something that seemed familiar to her. Grief? Did it exist for her anymore…?

In a voice betraying nothing she said, "Well, she's here now. And she is going to hear, along with you, just how you are going to catch the person who did this." She gazed upon all the men again, sizing them up and gauging their ability to make good use of what she was going to say next. She noticed with approval that one of them took out a notebook and pen.

"Dr. Lecter didn't do this because he would never be so crude as to pander to the public's idea of fun. There have been eight crimes over the past month that have stirred your suspicions, this one; one a week ago also in Memphis, the victim known only as H. Locke. Another crime in Belvedere, Ohio where the victim was fully flayed. A woman by the name of Heather Levenson. Another one in Asheville, North Carolina, a woman, hanged and her face hacked apart by glass. Name, Holly Lightfoot. Four other victims dispersed around the nation, names: Henny Lipman, Hillary Lindsay, Heather Lynette, and Hannah Longbeach."

She paused to let her words as well as their accusatory meaning sink in. They had not requested her help for an entire month. A whole month, during which they knew that Lecter was loose and knew that crimes like these could start happening again. And now their refusal to act had cost the lives of eight people and more to come.

She knew there would be more. It wasn't Lecter but someone trying very hard to be Lecter. And doing a very good job of it. Simply by reviewing his work, Clarice had already created her profile for the killer. He was smart, extremely so. She could only hope that his confidence in the police's stupidity would cause him to do something rash.

And there was also something else to note, and it troubled her greatly. H. Locke, the killer's next to latest accomplishment was male, the only male in all the victims connected to this case. It seemed strange that the pattern would—

An officer was clearing his throat, obviously tired and impatient. Asshole. Oh well.

Clarice sighed. She'd think on it later. "Only an idiot," she emphasized "idiot" for a beat too long to be accidental, "could fail to see the similarity in the initials of the victims. Hannibal Lecter does not murder by crude patterns and would feel greatly insulted that anyone would think so. This is the work of a pitiful copycat at best."

"Searching for Lecter would be looking in the wrong direction." It would also be useless, she thought. "However, the killer definitely knows of Dr. Lecter. This is most likely a sick fanatic's attempt at recognition."

Silence in the room except for several broken sobs from Cahlin. She was still maintaining her death-grip on the floor despite the officers' best attempts to remove her.

Clarice took in a long slow breath and forced herself to look at the body again. "You won't find any fingerprints on her. This killer is highly attentive to detail, making sure to have the work match Lecter's exactly. Searching the victims' histories won't help; he probably never knew them. He is killing randomly, giving attention only to the names of his victims."

"Why the locations ma'am? Belvedere, Memphis…?"

"The killer is choosing his locations by anyplace…tainted, so to speak, by Lecter. I would concentrate any further investigation in places such as Baltimore, St. Louis--" she paused, "You might even want to send someone to Florence if you have the resources. Now, if there isn't anything else?" She honestly didn't mean to be snappish then, but the sight of the body was beginning to burn her retinas, knocking upon her door of memory.

The officers silently shook their heads, and Clarice made her way towards the exit. Just as she was about to step out, Cahlin raised her hand and grabbed her shirt. Several of her golden bracelets caught on the edge of the material and jingled like so many sleigh bells. She stared wildly into Clarice's eyes, her voice punctured by intermittent sobs.

"You'll get him, won't you? The bastard who did this? Please…tell me you'll get him."

Clarice looked into her grief-stricken, hopeful eyes. Oddly calm, she said softly, "Ms. Cahlin, I'm not the person to ask about this. I can't do a damned thing, but maybe these men can help you."

Fresh tears sprang to Cahlin's eyes and her hands went slack. Clarice could still hear her sobbing as she exited the house and got into her Mustang. The sobs continued to ring in her head as she drove at breakneck speed away from the house to a phone booth and placed a call to Arlington.

Someone picked up immediately on the other end of the line and spoke in an impatient voice. "Hello?"

"Ardi?"

"Wha--Clarice?"

"Yeah."

"Clarice, where the hell are you?!"

"Memphis."

"Memphis?! What are you doing there? And why didn't you tell me, I've been worried sick for the past day!" A pause. "This doesn't have anything to do with--?" Ardelia let her sentence trail, but Clarice didn't need her to finish.

"Ardi, I wish I could say that it didn't, but it does."

"Why'd you do it, girl?"

"Because they begged me to, Ardi. I can't even remember the last time someone begged me to do something for them. And it just felt so damn good, that's why."

Ardelia was silent for a long time. When she spoke again, it sounded as if she were about to cry. "Come home tomorrow, okay, Clarice? Don't do this to yourself, please."

Clarice sighed, a long, long sigh. "Okay, Ardi. Tell them I won't be at work until Tuesday." She hung up before Ardelia had a chance to reply. She didn't want to say goodbye, she hated goodbyes.

As she made her way back to her vehicle, she could see the news crews already speeding their way to the LaReine house. It was approaching two in the morning by the time Clarice managed to leave the lights of the city behind. She should have booked a motel room, but she hadn't had time, and honestly didn't care either. Something tickled the back of her throat as she drove her car to the edge of a remote street, parked, and prepared for several hours of sleep before the sun came up. It would be safe enough, she still had her gun. It felt so ironic that the FBI would leave her the gun, with everything else they had taken away.

Clarice had related her editted version of events at the lakehouse to her superiors countless times. To Pearsall, Noonan, Tunberry, Pearsall again, and again, and again… It seemed as if they wanted her to tell it so many times that she would finally slip and modify her story. They simply could not accept that most of the key details had been lost in her morphine haze. Where did he go? Did he tell you where he was going? Do you know how bad his wound was? Where did he go?

When it became clear that she did not possess, or would not reveal, any further details, the FBI dropped her. They didn't say it outright, and at least they kept her from the talons of the media, but a wall had been built between Clarice Starling and the FBI. A wall that she was powerless to walk away from because the bureau was the only thing shielding her from the hungry public. The Bureau had told the media nothing other than the fact that Hannibal Lecter had escaped, had been wounded, and that Clarice Starling had survived a night with him. Speculations were flying thick as a Viking barrage of flaming arrows.

The "Beauty and the Beast" stories of yesteryear were nothing compared to the some of the graphic and vicious theories circulating now. These speculations would continue, and Clarice could not detach from the Bureau that loathed her because of that. The Bureau knew that as well as she, and they made the most of it.

Clarice was shuttled between sections, performing whatever tasks were needed. That was who she was. The FBI gopher. Filing paperwork for forensics, minding stakeouts for behavioral science, displaying herself as an oddity in the FBI hallways…the list was endless. If Krendler were still alive, he'd be having a field day.

Oh, and Crawford was dead. Clarice had always respected him, even if all he offered was cheap sympathy. And now, her last angel in the Bureau was gone.

Through all this, Clarice had plodded right along. She didn't act, she didn't speak out, she didn't do anything that would attract any more attention to her. All she could think about was the person who had done this to her.

At first, Clarice thought she hated Hannibal Lecter. She vowed to kill him over and over again despite the fact that she had no resources or means of doing so.

But then she knew that she could never hate him; curse and threaten with the direst fates imaginable, yes, but she could never hate. That was his power, and it infuriated her. The frantic police call from Memphis had come after this realization. She had accepted the duty, thinking the help she could give this case would be worth it, thinking she could control her emotions, her memories. But she had failed. And now what?

Go back to work, pretend like it never happened. Forget him. Hopeless, she knew. Perhaps she should have listened to Crawford's advice. Do not let Hannibal Lecter inside your head. Too late.

The thing that had been tickling the back of her throat rose to her eyes and the tears flowed freely. She allowed the sobs to come, racking her body and throat. Her sobs rang in her head and gradually disintegrated into wailing animal screams. She surrendered herself totally to her emotions, hoping her output of grief would purge some of her demons. She felt better after having done it but no less burdened. Her mouth tasted of sour bile and Clarice spat out the car window for a full minute. Back inside the car, she brought her shaking hands to her face as the night wore on.

Clarice Starling slept. And all she could see in her uneasy dreams were Rachel Ariadne Cahlin's grief-stricken face and Helen LaReine's staring, lifeless blue eyes.

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A/N: Next chapter coming in a week or so.