Labyrinth of the Burning Heart
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Chapter 4
Siren's Call
Thursday, August 9, 2001: Somewhere in the western U.S.
The public bathroom,
used by all men after their hours of exercise, was bright and warm and the walls
a complexion of gray-blue that was almost the exact shade of Clarice Starling's
eyes. Over the brittle ventilation, air moved in a soft mist, flooding from the
open door of the indoor sauna.
Out of one of the shower rooms came a figure, a man unlike any man. He had a
towel wrapped around the waist, covering his private parts as he stood in the
doorway, unmoved by the thought of time or haste. This man had all the time in
the world.
The man was small, slender. His posture was that of a dancer, graceful and in
control, demanding of a certain amount of respect and courtesy should someone
consider commencing a conversation with the aforementioned. His back and neck
straight and taut suggested a person highborn. He stood very still, his head
tilted slightly to the side like a bird's. That simple allusion to innocence
was lost in the darkness that were the eyes.
Yes, his eyes were what drew attention. In fact, attention was sucked into
these maroon orb whirlpools in the center of the man's face and quickly
redirected upon the observer in a gaze that pierced flesh, breath, and bone.
Nothing of that face might interest a passing onlooker except the eyes. The
nose slightly crooked, perhaps because of the small doses of collagen injected
into it over the years. A sleek, dark head with his short hairs slicked back
upon the skull. Skin not possessing yet an elderly tint of pale gray, but
tanned in the sun and attended to with exemplary oil and cleansing foam.
Focus on the penetrating eyes, then. Deep and dark maroon they are, at the
center of each pupil two dots of blood red. There is a rare sensation in the
lower area of your abdomen as into these eyes you look, you fall, and the face
of the Devil is staring straight at you.
This man stood motionlessly in the doorway, breathing in the atmosphere of the
place he had occupied for the past month or so. This man, Dr Hannibal Lecter,
known man-eating murderer of at least fourteen that the authorities know of.
He moved then, and as he did we could see the brace on his left hand, the metal
brace, indicating an apparent fracture of the bones. He moved carefully, making
sure his injured hand did not come into contact with the exercise equipment as
he made his way across the room, having now left the showers.
He gathered his clothes from their hook on the wall: a trench coat and a dark
suit of fine cut material, probably Italian. Involuntarily, he remembered the
hideous prison clothes he had been forced to dress himself in for almost a
decade. A tilt of the head is enough to dismiss the unpleasant recollection
from his mind. That time was long ago.
He was a free man now. The only task at hand now was for him to recover his
former physical strength, namely by fixing his hand in a proper manner.
In the damp room Dr Lecter revealed to no one his winning smile. They would
never find him here. He had time now. He had all the time in the world.
Hannibal Lecter worked hard at his physical therapy. His hand had been
recovering nicely over the past month; his bones having been re-set by the best
surgeons available in the country. From then on, Dr. Lecter had been
busy…performing exercises three times daily that would help his hand to regain
its prior strength. Fortuna, the goddess of chance was on his side: a month had
he spent at this local facility now and he had not yet been discovered.
Of course, he had taken to heart his personal safety would not be put at risk
this time.
His head was still desperately wanted on most everyone's silver platter, from
Washington to the other side of the ocean, where the Italian police craved
revenge after the brutal murder of their inspector. So what if they'd have rid
themselves of Pazzi eventually anyway.
People felt unsafe and tourism deflated drastically. If they could present to
the scared tourists the capture of the notorious Doctor Hannibal Lecter, the
blood pressure of numerous people working in Florence would drop considerably.
Since his surprise visit to the States, security around the borders had
heightened also, to the point of no escape. That is, to anyone other than Dr
Lecter.
Because of this inconvenient turn of events, the rather offbeat location for
our refined Doctor. Because of the aforementioned reasons, the revalidation
clinic miles away from inhabitable land, where no living soul would think to
search for Hannibal Lecter, wanted criminal with a million-dollar prize tag
attached to his name alone.
He had taken the natural precautions in creating his new identity; matching
credit card service etc. Everything was waterproof in case they would for some
reason decide to run a background-check on him.
His new identity had been effective. To the nurses and other staff members, he
was known as Dr. Howard G. Washington. Fifty-seven years of age, widowed,
dividing his time between working at the office in hometown Philadelphia and
spending time at his luxurious vacation house in St. Tropez.
Smiling to himself over his own brilliance, Dr. Lecter, dressed now, made his
way across the hallway to the great wooden door just around the corner. The
name on the door read, Dr. N. Bondelier, written on the copper plate in
fine, even, golden letters.
He raised his good hand and knocked, twice, not loud enough to startle yet
clear enough to hear. In a warm and harmonious voice the physical therapist's
voice flowed from behind the wooden door, inviting him inside. "Come
in."
Dr Lecter turned the doorknob and, opening the door far enough so he could
enter, was immediately welcomed in by the woman's friendly smile. Her eyes
wrinkled at the corners when she smiled, but for some reason it made her look
younger than she really was. "Doctor Washington…please, do come in."
At 37 years of age, Nicole Bondelier looked nothing like her contemporaries.
The reason for this was to be credited to top-rate plastic surgeons, who had
lifted her facial features a couple years back. It was time for another,
though: she did not like the creases around the eyes in the very least.
Dr Lecter, of course, noticed her facelift, as he noticed everything, and smiled
inwardly. How very droll. The tedious desperation of today's women to look
as untainted and spotless as could possibly be, to the very extent of taking a
knife to your face to ward off the attacks of age, an ironic reasoning to no
end. Yet another woman desperate to catch a man, before the god-feared forties
strike.
He felt a twinge of pity for her, as well as an odd feeling of kindness, which
he always felt towards people who just couldn't help being who they were:
boring individuals, their lives printed visibly upon their flawless features. Time
engraves our faces with all the tears we have not shed.*
"Have a seat," Nicole Bondelier beckoned with her right hand for him
to take a seat opposite her. As always, Dr. Lecter kept his feelings off his
visage, and took the seat she suggested with the usual grace of carriage.
Nicole had to catch her sigh of appreciation in her throat. This man was
certainly one of her more attractive patients.
"Well, Doctor," she began explaining the procedure of today to him,
"I thought perhaps today we could start with the usual roundup exercises,
then the hand massaging and then crunches. I'm afraid I don't have a rubber
ball for you to work with as of yet, so we'll have to begin with regular
objects like, for example, a glass of water…"
When she talked like this, Dr Lecter reflected, the tone of her voice was very
casual and airy, on the verge of irritating to some degree. She was like a
fluttering bird, determined not to fly around the same subject for too long,
perhaps afraid to grow attached to a certain something, someone…?
He had already noticed the muscles in her cheek tensing and the faint blush on
both when he had introduced himself to her two weeks ago, when therapy had
begun. A slight crush, I see…? Finding the matter to be interesting, Dr.
Lecter silently encouraged her advancements, thinking maybe in the meanwhile he
could have some fun with her.
He leaned across the desk separating the two chairs to pat her hand with his
undamaged palm, lightly, assuredly, and even producing a genuine smile while
doing so. She had soft, delicate hands. "I'm sure that whatever you have
planned for me this afternoon, the outcome for the both of us will
be…rewarding."
Nicole flushed and pulled her hand from his, muttering an "I'm sure"
for courtesy purposes only, unsure herself of why she should have such a
reaction to such a minor touch. However, it seemed to have slipped the Doctor's
attention, or he was kind enough not to comment in regard, as he immediately
started preparing himself for the exercises.
"Well . . . shall we?" he spoke in his slightly raspy voice, while he
rolled up his sleeve.
Dr. Nicole Bondelier relaxed visibly in her armchair, and while her lips formed
instructions for the patient on automatic pilot her mind began to wander.
He had well-proportioned arms: shapely, yet not overbuilt. She wondered how a
man with so robust a body would have injured himself so severely, crushing his
hand. Had he dropped a heavy weight on it? She couldn't tell for sure. . . but
it looked more as though he'd tried to pull his hand out of too small a space.
. .
Dr. Bondelier works with many patients day in day out. And as is the case for
so many thirty-something women out there, her career is her life, and she does
not favor one patient over another. This was her eighth hand therapy session
with this specific gentleman…Doctor, she corrected herself. It came in handy at
times, that he was a doctor himself, for she didn't have to explain all the
medical procedures used with him to any extent.
He had been courteous and cooperative with her, always kind and undoubtedly
intelligent, and, despite Nicole Bondelier the physician, Nicole Bondelier the
woman found herself intrigued by this puzzling individual, and she wondered if
he would consider it rude should she ask how he had gotten his injury. For now
it seemed wiser not to ask, rather tune it out and admire that worked body from
afar instead.
Dr Lecter's arm muscles worked hard under his skin as he stretched and relaxed
his hand, his arm, his upper body. Every patient was given the same routine
exercise schedule and his were no different from other men coping with a
similar hand injury. Yet not every man looked as good as this mysterious
gentleman . . . Without meaning to, Nicole released a quick breath through her
teeth.
He caught her appreciative eye and before she could blink and turn away, he had
winked at her. Playfully, kindly, perhaps . . . encouraging? She couldn't tell,
it had happened too quickly. But the fact that the hairs on her neck stood on
end and on her arms rose goosebumps would suggest otherwise. That man
certainly has a way of making a girl's fur crackle…
"Dr Washington," she suddenly heard her own voice say, "I have
been wondering about this ever since we were introduced to one another two
weeks ago . . . how did a man like yourself injure his hand so severely?
You do not strike me as the reckless type…"
How terribly tacky. Not to mention STUPID! Nicole Bondelier felt a
sudden urge to start banging her head into the oaken office door. The
unpleasant emotion of embarrassment spread its magic touch all throughout her
body, and she felt her face grow red-hot. Fool, fool, fool. He would
turn and leave the room now, certainly offended by her sudden, rude, inquiry.
And this was so very much against her principles…!
But Dr Washington did not seem to be angered by her blatantly stated question.
He made no reference to it at least, continuing his early workout, stretching
the separate muscles in his hand with infinite care while keeping up polite
conversation.
"As a matter of fact, I am not. Reckless, that is. However, I must say the
circumstances in which my accident transpired are most…unusual."
"Oh?" Again, her voice ran on with her suddenly fluttering heart as
though it had a life of its own. Excitement and curiosity began to overrule
manner and she found herself speculating the cause of his injury. "To be
honest, Doctor, from the looks of your hand I'd say you dropped a 100-pound
weight upon it or something of the manner."
Dr Lecter smiled
kindly, though he was becoming rather annoyed with her. She certainly wasn't
exceptionally humorous. "I can't say that was the case."
"Well, what was it then?" All courtesy forgotten, Nicole questioned
him further. "Do you chop wood? I know some men who do. Did you
accidentally drop the handle of the ax on your hand?"
At this, Dr Lecter looked up from his still stretched arm, a look of puzzlement
traveling over his face. Not altogether untrue… except for the setting.
Getting bored with the conversation and not liking the direction it was taking,
he decided to oblige her with a marginally true answer. "A slight
disagreement with a previous significant other…"
Despite strenuous effort not to, Dr Lecter found his mind wandering back to
that 4th of July evening on the Chesapeake. Through the hallway of his memory
palace rang suddenly the snapping sound of the handcuff closing around his
wrist. Captured in a moment of unforeseen weakness, his freedom was laid into
the open hand of the 'previous significant other' when his desire had, for once
in his life, conquered reason.
He shook his head stubbornly like a child, wanting to rid himself of the
haunting memories, but his mind did not oblige. Without any intention of his
own, the image of Clarice Starling's inexpressive face formed itself on the
gray-blue wall he was facing in his mind's eye, in the room especially designed
for her… inexpressive, with the exception of a single tear shed in a time of no
time, when his lips had so softly, so gently met hers.
Had it not been for Nicole Bondelier, Dr. Hannibal Lecter would have been
trapped until the end of eternity within that moment of at the same time,
infinite bliss, and in the next instant, the predictable betrayal of the one
woman he had ever known was an equal match to him.
As it was, no thin, high, piercing scream erupted from the Doctor's throat when
he felt as though the walls would crack if that tear on her face would be shed
one more time, for Dr. Bondelier's voice spoke out from the present, ordering
him back into his body.
"Oh my! She did that to you?" came the blunt reaction of the
37-year old physician. Doctor Lecter flinched at the impudence of her reply,
and with that, the door to that room in his mind where the walls were an exact
replica of the color of Clarice Starling's sad, blue eyes was closed instantly.
"I'd rather not talk about it," came forth his answer, with a voice
like frozen mercury. The muscles under his jawbone twitched dangerously, and
Nicole Bondelier understood. "Oh, of course, of course, Dr. Washington. Of
course."
Silence. Dr Lecter went on warming up and, distracted but observant, Nicole
watched on. It wasn't until several moments later, the doctor chose to speak
again.
"Dr Bondelier, I would like to ask you if you have any idea how long it
might be before my injury is healed and I can take my leave."
Oh, is he in a hurry to get out of here? Determined to keep him here, in
her office, where she had a good view of his body, and even more desperate to
keep the conversation going, Nicole Bondelier once again found herself once
again bluntly probe her patient. "Doctor Washington, I hope your stay with
us doesn't conflict with any plans you might have had for the summer?"
Oh, too personal a question. *Again*. She regretted the configuration of
her question instantly, having irritated him only a mere minute ago and this
was not so far removed from her previous words, on the scale of stupidity. But
now the word was out, she could not restate it, and he'd have to correct the
situation, if she hadn't already mortally offended him.
Dr Lecter paused for a moment with his stretching, turned and, once again,
challenged her into meeting his eye. When she did there was a sensation of
falling into a pit, pitch-dark and too close for comfort, yet at the same time
his eyes were like two pools of black honesty, mirroring her anxiety and her
need for a partner…did she, need a partner? It was confusing, and Nicole
Bondelier could not stand to look into those eyes any longer.
When she averted her gaze from his, the Doctor smiled, revealing his sharp
white teeth to her bowed head. An unspoken warning, and he hoped she hadn't
missed it this time around, for her sake.
"Oh, but my summer is turning out to be…quite the interesting one, in
fact. Surely, getting myself into the awkward position of receiving therapy is
hard in a way…" When he casually shrugged his shoulders it almost seemed
like a normal gesture. Nicole Bondelier found herself looking up again, into his
animated face.
"Yet staying in a place like this can have its advantages, too." …Like
the FBI having absolutely no idea of my current whereabouts, he added in
his mind to the spoken sentence, and marveled in her incognizance of the man
before her.
"I see," Dr Bondelier offered, hoping he would go on talking. When he
didn't, she took up conversation again, for some reason simultaneously
fascinated and put off guard by this man. "I'm sure you did not plan this
little setback Doctor, but if you say you are entertaining yourself here I will
take your word for it."
"There are always pleasant distractions." Was there a note of
interest to be found in that metallic voice? Despite herself Nicole found
herself looking for such a hint. "Such as?"
She reminded Dr. Lecter of a child impatiently awaiting her after-dinner
dessert. Well, why not oblige? "Such as yourself, for example." He
smiled winningly at her, provoking an instant blush on her already rosy cheeks.
The skin around her eyes wrinkled dangerously.
"Surely I had not expected when I injured my hand, I would wind up in this
clinic having this pleasant conversation with such a beautiful woman."
And surely I have imagined those words coming from his lips???!!! Nicole
had to catch her breath as she realized he was openly flirting with her. Her
heart rate climbed precariously and she was certain he could hear it from where
he was exercising.
She paid even more attention now to his well-toned arms and how dashing he
looked when he smiled at her. The grin had not yet come off his face, though
she couldn't possible make an accurate guess to the reason behind this.
Grinning, Dr Lecter was wondering inwardly if the skin on her face would tear
more easily under his Harpy, having been pulled back by the face-lift. He wondered
if she would dare look at him with such an examining eye, no medical purpose
behind it, if she only had one eye to do it with. He imagined those bedroom
eyes staring dead at him while he ate her sweetbreads, drinking a nice white
Batard-Montrachet.
"I think I am done with the warm-up now, Doctor," he spoke
tentatively to her, unsure if she wouldn't faint in her own office if he were
to continue this moment of building tension to last any longer, even if he
enjoyed the inward delectation the thought produced. "Perhaps it would be
wise to start with crunches, now?"
"First the massage, Doctor," Dr Bondelier stood up, finally able to
move a muscle again, speaking conversationally with him while taking his hand.
"I'll have to check if you did your work-out as properly as it looked,
after all." ' As it looked'? What was wrong with her?
"And I'd say you have a pretty good idea of how I did my 'workout' today,
Dr Bondelier." Oh, there came that blush again. She hated how freely her
body always betrayed her around men she found arousing, but he only relished in
the sight of her wordlessly.
"Or if you are not satisfied, perhaps you would like to demonstrate how it
should be done, the next time? Perhaps tonight, an extra session, a little more
private, Miss… Nicole, is it?" My, that was straight to the point! It
didn't get more obvious than that.
"Nicole," she obliged willingly, barely managing to stifle a giggle.
He was so charming! "And tonight would be just fine, should you feel the
need for, as you say…an extra session." She winked at him now, and the
winning smile she gained in return was all the confirmation she needed, even if
he wouldn't come out and say it. Nicole assumed this man had not had sex in
quite awhile and was simply being courteous in his wooing her.
Absent-mindedly, she started massaging the hand with the inexplicable small
scar on the side, while in her head she went over all the meetings scheduled
for this evening after eight and to what day she could postpone them if Doctor
Washington indeed decided to ask her out today.
Also, she went over the long unused dresses in her wardrobe, which would be
appropriate to wear, as well as the choice between lace or leather underwear.
Gentle or rough? She could hardly wait to find out.
Dr Lecter watched her as she massaged him, purposefully standing more than a
few inches too close to him. He was surprised and a little appalled by how
easily she gave off the vibe of availability to him. She didn't honestly expect
him to mean a word of what he said, did she? It was merely fun…
But a good tease, or perhaps, quite a good scare would teach this woman and her
fellow kind how unwise it is to give yourself out to men, to patients,
especially if your profession contradicts it. That was unmistakably rude…
How foolish and believing women of today are, the Doctor mused.
Back to the present, the therapist's trained fingers were professionally
exploring the resetting bones in his hand. Her fingers looked polished and
clean. Soft, not yet bereft of all baby fat, smooth, and well-spaced around the
palm… She had star-shaped hands. His breath stopped in his throat.
Nicole instantly noticed the change in him but decided wisely not to comment on
this. He appeared to be a private person, not too fond of lengthy inquiries not
unlike herself: she had no plans of irritating him. Nicole Bondelier had taken
a psychology course and her intuition was well developed, even if she sometimes
could not point out in herself the exact reason for her acting and reacting to
certain subjects or situations.
Suddenly, she noticed a minor infection on his inner palm, right below the
thumb. While this would cause no problems in therapy, she needed to make
certain applications to it anyhow. A serious infection in this stadium of
recovery would be disastrous.
"Excuse me a moment," she murmured while leaving his side and
stepping to the great wooden closet in the room. She removed from it a small
phial, within it something resembling a sort of creamy substance. It was a
paste form of Echinacea, and most appropriate for applying to the minor wound.
She walked over to her patient and opened the phial for him to see. "Shall
I rub it in, Dr Washington? I promise I'll be gentle…"As I certainly
*won't* be tonight, so watch it Doctor, she added in thought.
"I'm sure you will be," Dr Lecter nodded, distracted still by his
earlier discovery. He didn't have to struggle hard to maintain composure. . .
so many women had star-shaped hands. . . if he just didn't concentrate on the
thought perhaps the impending feeling of doom would also fail to be existent,
the stirring shadows in his memory palace would fade back to nothingness. . .
yet all hope was lost when he saw the extract of Echinacea.
It was purple. Purple, purple. Purple…
Black and red spots invaded his field of vision almost simultaneously with the
glance at the purple flower extract, and he immediately began to shut all too
familiar doors in his memory palace, quick, quick…
His mind wandered across a common room. A fleeting thought made its way from an
old encyclopedia into his ear. Echinacea is a purple flower whose root is
used for its medicinal properties… From the corner of the hallway he heard
a faint screaming, a voice, young, female, crying.
The bleeding deer began running through the halls of his memory palace, and he
could not stop the footsteps in the snow from following it, the screaming in
his ears and mind and soul growing ever louder and louder. . .
He snapped out of his reverie to find Dr. Nicole Bondelier gently rubbed the extract
into his skin. Purple into his skin, under his skin, Mischa under his skin, no,
stop, stop…
He had snatched his hand away from hers before thinking, a sharp flash of pain
accompanying the move as he was not wearing his brace. Nicole immediately lunged
forward and laid it back in place. "Dr Washington, you mustn't do
that!" her alarmed, startled voice brought him completely back to the
therapy room, and he saw her bending over him with wide, searching brown eyes.
It was all too much. Dr. Lecter saw himself in those eyes and he could see the
fear that was in him. He slammed the door soundly on that notion before it
could become apparent to Nicole.
Nicole the physician was laid aside as worry filled Nicole the woman's eyes.
"Dr. Washington, is something the matter?"
The screaming was no longer so loud in his memory palace now that her hands
were no longer on his. He stepped back from the woman who reminded him of
Mischa. The resemblance was only skin-deep. Only a few steps were sufficient.
"Nothing, I just think that I've had enough…therapy for today."
The worry faded from Nicole's eyes and was replaced with the familiar creases
of courtesy and embarrassment. "That's fine, Doctor. Um, I was wondering
if you would like to continue our session at some other time?" Perhaps
tonight? She added silently with her eyes.
Dr. Lecter could feel that he had already left this room. He was out the door
and hovering over the parking lot, packed full, as it was near midday, while
his shell remained behind and made small talk with this woman. "I'm afraid
I have other plans for tonight. Perhaps another future time."
Even Nicole could sense the hollowness in his voice, the dry rattle of
emptiness. "Dr. Washington, are you sure that you're feeling all
right?"
But Lecter had picked up his metal brace and was fitting it back onto his hand
and slung his coat over an arm. "Goodbye Nicole. Thank you for your
help." He wasn't sure if Nicole had caught his sarcasm, he was already out
the door.
Nicole stood there stunned. What had made him walk out like that? He didn't
seem the type of person to lose control easily. One theory after another was
turned over and rejected in Nicole's mind, and she was now more confused than
ever. She felt a moment's concern for him.
She walked back over to the table and picked up her clipboard. Half an hour
before her next patient. Her finger wandered aimlessly over Dr. Washington's
name on the sign-in sheet. Just another name, just another patient. She should
thank him actually; there was now half an hour for her to reapply her makeup
for the next patient.
Nicole the physician's eyes wrinkled at the corners as she smiled, and it made
her look older than she really was.
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* A quote by Natalie Clifford Barney, a controversial and somewhat scandalous author of Victorian America.