Labyrinth of the Burning Heart

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A/N: Many thanks for the kind reviews everybody! As stated before, this is one monster of a story. We offer no promises, no perfect endings…just an assurance that this will be one hell of a ride. Make sure your seat belts are securely fastened! ;) *psst, Lu, you want to rethink those halos?*

Chapter 3

Discoveries

Thursday, August 9, 2001

Special Agent Clint Pearsall stared hard at the sheet of paper he held in his hands. His eyes skimmed over the words, not really reading them before setting the paper down and taking a deep breath and letting it out in a huff. He should report the news, he was bound by the law to do so. And yet…

For all the time Pearsall had worked at the Bureau, no one had ever caused as much trouble for them as Starling. She had the bad habit of sticking her nose where it didn't belong and flouting orders on a whim. Pearsall had always disapproved of her actions, knowing it would eventually lead to her demise, if not by his hand than by another. And it infuriated him that she would never tell anyone of her intentions. Pearsall firmly believed that Starling knew more about that night on the Chesapeake than she was claiming.

Pearsall set the paper down on his desk and rubbed his temples. "And now you're in a real dilemma aren't you, Starling?" He picked up the phone and prepared to dial the director. His finger hovered over the last number for a second before he slammed the phone down.

He looked at his watch. It was almost time for lunch. Pearsall picked up the sheet of paper and stuffed it underneath a pile of books. He'd deal with it later. He got up from his desk and left his office, taking his water bottle along to refill.

Pearsall stepped out of his office and turned to lock the door when a hand fell on his shoulder. He turned to see the thin, wiry man standing beside him and inwardly recoiled.

"Trudell. How nice to see you again," Pearsall said in a voice that could have chilled an Eskimo.

The wiry man grinned, with a mouth full of yellowed teeth. He had a face that would have fit better on a rat. "Likewise, Clint. And remember, it's Bob to you."

"I'm flattered. Now, if you will excuse me…" Pearsall turned and started walking down the hall.

"Whoa there now, Clint. I just want to talk for a minute." Trudell fell into pace beside Pearsall. "How's the Lecter case coming?"

Pearsall stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to face Trudell. When he spoke again, it was not in answer to his question. "Who was the weasel who let you in this time?"

The man laughed, "Clint, sometimes I fear that you have too low an opinion of me. I have my own ways to get in."

Pearsall grabbed Trudell's collar and pinned him up against the wall. "I have my ways, too, BOB. And I could have you arrested right now for trespassing."

"Whoa, whoa now buddy. I'm just trying to help you out here."

"You print trash, Trudell. And not only that, but you actually have the nerve to come around here and ask us to help you."

"Now remember, Clint. I'm clean now, or have you forgotten?"

Pearsall released his collar. "Clean as mud, Trudell." Pearsall walked over to the door that led to the break room and opened the door. "Don't ever let me catch you around here again." The door slammed behind him.

Robert Trudell walked over to the door and peered in the window. Pearsall was getting a cup of coffee from the cappuccino machine with his back to the door. Trudell stepped away from the door and walked a few steps down the hall. He turned and looked back the way he came.

Trudell could smell a story almost as well as his predecessor Freddy Lounds. He could also sense when someone was hiding something although Pearsall had practically been waving the red flag right underneath his nose. Trudell straightened his rumpled collar and began walking toward Pearsall's office.

Many writers at The National Tattler feared how the loss of Freddy Lounds would affect their popularity. When it came to finding stories, he was the best, as nobody cared how he gained his information. Nobody had been willing to fill his shoes until Trudell had signed on with the paper and proved to be as talented, if not more so than Lounds.

Trudell had the privilege of covering all the stories on Hannibal Lecter and more recently, Clarice Starling as well. His stories were devoured by the hungry media and he became a bit more than a thorn in the FBI's side.

A few weeks ago, The Washington Post had hired him, much to the chagrin of the FBI. Now he had bigger jobs and more access to information although the Bureau did everything possible to keep him out. Nothing they did was ever enough as Trudell was bullheaded and relentless to an extent belying his meek appearance.

Trudell stopped in front of Pearsall's office door. He tried the knob and was surprised to find it unlocked. He laughed to himself as he entered the darkened office. "Bob, this is your lucky day. They won't be able to get you for breaking and entering now."

It took him less than a minute to find the sheet of paper Pearsall had stuffed under a pile of books.

"Special Agent Clarice Starling has failed to report to work since Friday, August 3. Memphis police can offer no assistance. Please advise."

Trudell muttered, "Oh yes. You've hit the jackpot now, Bob. Oh yeah…" He clutched the paper to him, cherishing it as if it were beaten gold.

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The side of the duplex that belonged to Clarice Starling was in shambles. Piles of paper, books, and magazines were laid out on the floor recklessly; some of them half-open or fallen closed with a folded page in the middle, having been pushed off the desk in senseless rage. Chairs had fallen over, clothes torn out of the closets and thrown onto the bed in a disordered mess. Not a single object in the room remained in its original place.

In the midst of all this chaos, stood Ardelia Mapp, raging, fuming against everything that stood. Dressed in her pajamas, she had been up since 6 am, searching Clarice's side of the apartment for all it was worth. She had called in sick from work and since early dawn, had been seeking tirelessly and endlessly, taking a break only to eat or drink something, only to start ripping the room apart even more vehemently than before.

She continued furiously, taking no time to stop and breathe, her whole being entirely concentrated on one thought, one last straw of hope she had grasped, and held onto for dear life: A note…A note, however small it might be. Anything to tell me where she went, anything to tell me where she is now. Please, God, let me find a note somewhere in here, please, please…

It was her last option, before the inevitable one…and that was reporting Special Agent Clarice Starling to the authorities as a missing person.

Four full days had passed since her telephone conversation with her best friend and roommate of seven, eight years, and this had been the first time in all these years that Clarice had stayed away without as much as a call, a message telling her she was okay.

It worried Ardelia out of her mind. She knew Clarice had not changed so much in the past month…alright, maybe a little. Maybe her countenance had hardened and her heart embittered over the disappointment she'd suffered in the Bureau…her former great love, the F.B.I. Either the shield over her heart had grown stronger or else she had just gotten better at faking happiness.

She was angry with them and had every right to be. Ardelia found her hands clenched to fists with her knuckles turning white just at the thought of how they'd played her. How they'd used her, her extraordinary intelligence and insight to their own advantage, and now, when she needed their help the most, turning her away and tossing her aside like chaff without so much as a second glance.

And yet, for Clarice to just vanish into thin air like this…what had been her last words to her again? Tell them I won't be at work until Tuesday. No goodbyes. Clarice hated goodbyes.

Well, Ardelia thought to herself stubbornly as she went over every inch of the room for the umpteenth time, still looking for any kind of clue Clarice had come home at all, it's Thursday now and she didn't show. Thursday night and no Clarice. No Clarice.

The thought made her sick to her stomach. The poor girl. Hadn't she been through enough? First, this whole deal with that madman, Lecter, then all the Evelda Drumgo crap, then Lecter again and now this? Some pathetic copycat killer on the loose and they send over their favorite agent Starling to clear up the mess? Real nice of 'em. Assholes.

Still didn't change anything about the matter at hand, though. Ardelia sighed, knowing even as she opened the drawer of the nightstand that it had been emptied and nothing could be found in there. The whole room breathed Starling's absence. It suffocated Ardelia to the very core.

Every drawer had been opened, even those that were supposed to have been locked, every corner had been checked and re-checked, one word that could have rewarded a possible clue, any indication to Clarice's whereabouts of the moment searched for endlessly.

And all to no avail. Ardelia still had absolutely no idea where Clarice had gone. Or rather, where she was now.

God *damnit*, Ardelia thought, grasping a handful of hair as she shoved everything off the tabletop like she was clearing a chessboard. Where the fuck are you, Starling? This is no time for games.

And in her fury, turning around in the corner of the room holding a candlestick she had just picked up from the table in her right hand, she accidentally smashed the mirror that hung on the wall on her right. The mirror fell in shatters and the pieces fell to the ground with a rattling noise, along with Ardelia's shivering body, as the weight of her realization made her knees give way.

At first, on Sunday afternoon, when Ardelia had come home to an empty house, she had figured Clarice had gotten herself drunk somewhere in Memphis. Her friend's refuge in alcohol had increased severely over the past month. Many times had she turned the key in the door of their duplex to find Clarice spread out on the floor – either puking the remnants of her dinner out on the carpet, or shivering in her shell of oblivion as Ardelia then picked her up from the floor and laid her to rest.

She knew whatever demons were haunting her now, Ardelia could not fight for her – though she wished Clarice would confide in her. It seemed sometimes as though Clarice had shared more of herself with the Shrink of Doom himself, Doctor Lecter, than with her, her best friend. The most disturbing thing about this notion was that it could very well be true.

Ever since they had returned her friend to her after the dreadful Chesapeake accident, Clarice had…changed. She was no doubt a shell of her former self, and yet she kept on going. Biting her lip in bitter determination as she became the Bureau's coffee girl. Keeping a smile plastered on her face and an amiable tone in her voice as she politely rejected all persistent reporters and TV talk-show hosts begging her for an exclusive, the inside scoop on the media's – and audience's – favorite Cannibal.

It drove Ardelia crazy just thinking about it, all the media publicity and TV exposure that Clarice had suffered. And yet the girl kept on smiling. Kept on working, showing up whenever the people in charge asked her to. She was completely unbreakable, it seemed…even if Ardelia sometimes had to sweep up the broken pieces that were Clarice Starling from the floor as she lay there crying, or vomiting, or both.

And yet…it seemed likely, taking a look at the current state of affairs, for Clarice to have just had it with the world for awhile and take off to the horizon with nothing but the keys to her Mustang, her string of old add-a-beads – gold mingling with drilled tiger's eyes, two-and-three – and her loyal .44 pistol, the one sucker in this world she could count on…

But it just didn't ring true. It just didn't hit home for Ardelia…there had to be another explanation. One she had not wanted to consider before smashing the mirror in the room, and in her mind.

Ardelia's strangled sob sounded nearly like a laugh as she quickly stifled her pain. She was kidding herself.

No note was she going to find, not even if she turned out every drawer, every key, every damn penny on the floor. No Clarice was going to be hidden in any of the bedroom's closets, and no rattling of door keys would be heard in a matter of moments, as she came home from another long, boring office day at work.

She was gone. Dead, lost, kidnapped – whatever happened to her, this was no accidental disappearance. Her best friend was in trouble, great trouble…she felt it with every trembling cell in her body. The fear that mingled with the worry electrified her mind, and suddenly, Ardelia found herself up on her feet again.

Now was no time for crying, she said to herself, as she angrily rubbed at the tears that happened to escape her eyes in those moments of despair on the floor. You have to get yourself moving and help Clarice. The girl needs you, kid. You are all she has in the world, her only friend…

Except a certain Doctor with a killer smile and venomous tongue. Such she desperately tried not to add to her pep talk, but it was inevitable. As was the sudden tingle of jet black consternation creeping up her spinal column.

What if Clarice had gone away…to him? *With* him? The mother of all sins, dear God, Ardelia prayed with all her mind, don't let this be true, please. Let her not find sanctuary in a madman's arms, please God. Let her not be that far gone, please.

She collected herself resolutely after dismissing the depressing mind images of death and insanity, picking up her car keys from the bed as she made her way over the clutter on the floor to the door. Her mind was made up. No matter how long it took, she would drive over to Memphis tonight and find her answers and, if lucky, Clarice herself. She threw open her front door.

The immediate flashing light blinded her wholly for a few seconds. When she was able to see clearly again, her mouth clamped shut from pure and utter shock. The place was swarming with paparazzi: TV, radio, magazine, freelance reporters clawing at her from every side, flashbulbs blinding her vision, microphones being shoved under her chin not so gently as the questions washed over her like surges of excessive exuberance.

"Miss Mapp, can you tell us anything about the whereabouts of Special Agent Clarice Starling, who has been reported missing since Sunday, August 5 – "

"Miss Mapp, is there any chance this disappearance may be linked to the re-entry of the notorious man-eating escapee, Dr Hannibal Lecter?"

"What are your thoughts on the long-rumored romance between the former psychiatrist turned cannibalistic and your roommate?"

"No comment," she was able to blurt out finally, having recovered enough from the initial shock to conjure up a reasonably stiff expression on her face.

"No comment, no comment, no comment – " She urgently moved to her garage while avoiding as many camera eyes and hungry journalists with their presumptuous questions as she could. The walk to her car from the front door had never seemed quite as long, nor had the distance seemed this far. Every step, however hurried, was played in slow motion in her mind, too slow, she contemplated, and hurried her pace even more.

Journalists, reporters, even nosy neighbors kept blocking her way, shouting questions at her all the way to her beloved Renault. Never finding the use of elbows more convenient than now, she pushed her way through the public of snooping onlookers, uttering a last, aggravated "NO COMMENT!" before slamming the door. Shut.

How does Clarice cope with all this bullshit? Ardelia thought, safe in her car at last as she turned the key in the lock and the engine sprang to life. She drove past all news reporters as though her life would be at stake if she slowed down at all, almost driving over some of them, others flashing their photo-camera eagerly at the car windows, if just to get a snapshot of her shock-ridden face, with What the fuck? written all over it.

Okay, her mind coped with what had just happened in its own rhythm. So they found out about her disappearance. Big shit. Couldn't the big bosses have kept it quiet for awhile? They could've at least sent over some damn bodyguard or something. After the initial shock had died down, however, her head was as clear and worried as ever, as she realized what this meant.

Oh God. So no one else has heard from her in four days either. This is bad. This is really really bad…

She had received a speeding ticket and evaded many more by the time she ended up back in office, rushing to her cubicle to start calling up people, fast, and in the meantime, start thinking on how she was going to do this.