~* Labyrinth of the Burning Heart *~

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By Jstarz927 and Starlit Skye

A/N: Another murder. Ardelia Mapp and Dr. Lecter undergo grief from the Memphis police department. A dark secret begins to be revealed.

Chapter 9

Over Land and Sea

Sunday, August 27, 2001

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The Memphis police station smelled as old as it felt. The scent of cold coffee mingled with that of dusty grounds scattered about the floor. An air conditioner roaring at full blast did little to dissipate the smell of old sweat and sticky linoleum chairs. Organized chaos described every aspect of the main lobby as printers whined, phones squawked, struggling criminals were dragged through the main doors, and officers in blue and yellow dictated the lives of several thousand people.

It was in this room that Ardelia Mapp found herself on a balmy Sunday afternoon, and the atmosphere was quite efficient in making her even more pissed off than she already was. "Do you mean to tell me you don't know a single THING?!" she blurted out vehemently, raising her voice despite herself. Some heads in a few of the offices turned in her direction, but she didn't flush or even bother to temper her composure. To hell with them. She had enough to worry about as it was.

She scowled at the faces that had turned around to her until they looked away, and once more returned her attention to the whelp behind the counter. The young man had been doing nothing but nod at her words since she got here with an expression as blank as the concrete wall behind him.

She was proud of herself that she hadn't lost self-possession already and punched the startled looking bluecoat before her in his barren face, if only to get a reaction out of him. Well, to *hell* with self-possession, too.

Still, she lowered her voice a tone or two and asked for the umpteenth time, "Are you absolutely certain, without the shadow of a doubt, that Officer Starling left no trace nor indication in any way of where she might be heading, despite the fact that she was working on one of your department's cases?" Until the past few days, Ardelia had assumed that Clarice had driven towards home, like she had promised in their phone call. And then she remembered that her friend had never said such a thing. Damn slippery of you, girlfriend.

Standing tall and erect in one of the hallways of the Memphis police station, she knew for a fact this was one of the last locations where she'd been seen, but these people either had the lousiest short-term memory in the world, or they didn't care enough to bother investigating the matter. Ardelia assumed the latter, and that knowledge made her furious.

The young puppy dog of a cop attending to her plight did little but stall, listening to her endless repetition of the predicament of her friend, sometimes giving the impression he understood the situation. Then, he'd ask her if she'd like some coffee and recap the whole conversation again.

To label the lack of progress in the interrogation as frustrating was the understatement of the new century.

"Do you know anything at all?" But once again, Andrew Conan shook his head.

"Nothing, miss," he said in a slow, clear voice that he might have used on a six-year old. He moved his eyes across her visage for a moment, his facial statement revealing some concern for her state of mind. His next sentence was slightly less condescending, although no more helpful. "I'm sorry miss, but we really don't know anything about the disappearance of Special Agent Starling… Tragic, yes, but it's not our problem…" Not our problem. Never our problem. Not for the first time, Ardelia realized just what it was that had Clarice so fed up with the institution she'd dedicated her life to. To keep bouncing into wooden doors of inattention and adamantine walls of neglect had to be the most frustrating feeling in the world. It infuriated Ardelia to no end at how they could act so coolly towards her friend's fate…writing her off like some other missing person file.

Conan was smiling again. "Why don't we go inside my cubicle and sit down for a bit? Can I offer you another cup of coffee, perhaps?"

"NO, I don't want no bloody coffee!" Ardelia spat at him, raging by now, exasperated and growing more and more annoyed with the inexperienced fellow. He shrugged his shoulders at her desperation for the third time on end and once again attempted to change the subject.

Well, no more. She was getting worked up, trying to break the glass ceiling she kept beating her head against, but the Memphis police simply refused to budge. A thought struck her mind for the second time that week. How does Clarice cope with all this bullshit? To hell with this, I'm not holding back anymore. "Fine, next time you come to us about a kidnapper case which involves your best friend having disappeared off the face of the earth, I'll offer *you* a cuppa, alright? Let's see how you take it!"

He flushed at these words, which upped Ardelia's spirits a bit, gloating over the startled statement on his face. He then gave her a half-hearted smile, as though to say, I can't help being the helpless cub I am…go find someone more suited for this job.

But that was just the problem. She'd tried everything. No one was willing to stick out their neck for a missing FBI agent who had been on unreported hiatus anyway. There was no proof of a kidnapping and from the information gathered from the police agents who'd been present that early, early Saturday morning, Clarice hadn't exactly made herself the popular gal either.

At this, a corner of Ardelia's mouth had turned up into a half-smile. It's the same thing everywhere, ain't it Starling? They'll look down your skirt and try to get into your panties, but the minute you don't let them, they wouldn't care if you were rotting away somewhere in a gutter.

She tried the nice approach once more, somehow managing to calm her breathy temper and even conjure a smile onto her face. "I'm sorry, Andrew." The young cop mistook the gleam in her eyes for one of interest. "I'm very tired…it was a long drive, and perhaps another cup of coffee wouldn't be such a bad idea after all."

The young man's face lit up as if he had just been offered extra candy on Halloween. "My pleasure, miss. The coffeemaker is in my cubicle, would you mind…?" He made an awkward gesture toward his left.

Ardelia had never heard a more transparent sentence in her life. But if anything, her smile grew wider. What the hell, I deserve a little bit of fun before I leave. "I would be happy to."

Conan grinned as he took Ardelia's arm in his, and they walked together toward his cubicle. Within the three-quarter-enclosed space, the two of them were hidden from the view of the rest of the department. Conan busied himself with the coffeemaker, flipping the power switch unnecessarily as he tried to ease his nervous hands. He turned the machine back on, tossing what he hoped was a carefree grin in Ardelia's direction.

Five minutes later, Ardelia balanced a Styrofoam cup of bitter coffee in her lap and proceeded to sit one foot within Conan's comfort zone. The young man grinned crazily as she sipped the coffee, wincing slightly at the taste, and smiled in his direction.

He coughed nervously. "Say, miss, what are your plans for the rest of the weekend? There's a wonderful play—."

He never finished his sentence. All heads in the building turned toward the corner of the room as a shriek reminiscent of an opera singer's high E erupted from Andrew Conan's cubicle. There was a flash of black and brown as Conan sped toward the nearest bathroom, hot coffee dripping from the bottom of his stained shirt and an expression of extreme discomfort upon his face.

Ardelia emerged from the cubicle a second later, barely containing her hysterical laughter beneath a mask of still-present anger. She paused for a moment, enjoying the stunned silence before heading toward the front door.

She stormed out of the Memphis police station so heatedly that she didn't even notice the trench coat clad figure she bumped into just outside the doorway. She muttered a quick apology and continued down the sidewalk without a backward glance as his maroon eyes danced at her lack of reaction.

In a hurry, Miss Mapp?

Dr. Lecter was tempted to follow her, to observe what mischief she would cause upon a new object of wrath. However...first things first. The tiny bell jingled as he pushed open the door to the station, wrinkling his nose at the horrendous smell in the air. The trench coat did a good job of hiding most of the stiffness in his left hand, and no one could ever guess that it had been injured without close investigation. But he didn't plan to stay that long.

Andrew Conan, looking as if he had gone face-first down a mudslide several times, saw the elegant man walking towards him and immediately snapped to attention, "Good afternoon, sir, how may I…?"

Dr. Lecter brushed past the annoying whelp as he would a mosquito and walked directly to the department chief's desk. The chief's usually bored expression was suddenly changed to rapt attention as he observed the man approaching his desk. Something about his gait seemed oddly familiar and disturbing. He frowned and tried to look into the man's eyes, but the FBI baseball cap that he wore cast them into shadow.

"Yes?"

Dr. Lecter scratched his false beard with one finger as his right hand dipped into his breast pocket and flashed his ID with a flourish for the policeman. Lecter pocketed the ID quickly, not quite allowing the man to get a decent look. "Special Agent Peter Kent requesting a copy of the LaReine case file."

The policeman's eyes narrowed; the man's presence unnerved him and the chief made up for that with a brusque attitude. "Hey Conan!" The young man's head turned in their general direction. "Need a print of the cannibal copycat case file."

The what case file? Dr. Lecter never found the pet names given to serial killers amusing, and this was no exception.

Conan came running stiff-legged up to the desk, depositing the thick manila folder in front of the chief before scurrying back to his desk like a neurotic butler. The chief pushed the folder toward the agent, forgetting the man's name immediately. "They finally sent someone else to investigate the case, eh?"

Dr. Lecter's irises darkened considerably as he used his right hand to open the folder. "If I were you, I would speak with less disdain," he said in a voice quieter than a whisper and as cold as ice. "The FBI is none too happy about your lack of interest concerning the disappearance of Special Agent Starling, especially since we know that it was your department that practically begged her to lend a hand in the first place."

He knew no such thing, but as he observed the policeman's face losing several shades of color, he figured that his guess had not been too far from the truth. Several heads emerged from the cubicles to watch the scene. Lecter did not speak again for almost a minute, allowing the chief to fidget uncomfortably, not knowing that Clarice had done the exact same thing barely a week earlier to the policemen at the LaReine house. Those men who had used her because of her knowledge about him.

Dr. Lecter turned a few more pages in the case file. "It also seems," he said, poring over the words and statements upon the page, "that the Memphis police department did not even realize that the perpetrator was not Hannibal Lecter until Agent Starling provided her assistance."

The chief shook himself, "You're with that other agent, aren't you? Look, we already told her that we couldn't do anything to find Starling, so if you're with…um…" Apparently, this man had a tendency to forget names.

"Miss Mapp? In fact, I believe that I was sent to look after her. She is…dedicated, as you could see." Dr. Lecter's snub mixed with respect was completely lost upon the policeman's thick head.

A barking laugh erupted from his lips. "Huh, well try and keep her out of our way and we'll see what we can do."

Dr. Lecter removed his hands from the sticky table surface with an effort, leaving two patches of condensation upon the desk. "Very well, and if you take care to keep out of my way, I will see what I can do," he said in a voice dripping with so much menace that even the thick-headed man could not fail to detect it. A tense moment as Dr. Lecter mentally berated himself for allowing himself to be goaded by the man's stupidity. His goal had been not to draw unnecessary attention. The cubicles fell silent as even more heads emerged to watch the interesting scene unfold.

Then, seemingly, the doctor's entire demeanor changed. He smirked at the policeman, dipping the bill of his baseball cap slightly. "Thank you for your assistance, Officer Jason Hoyt," he said, enunciating every syllable of the name carefully lightly. Then Dr. Lecter turned and made his way out of the silent hall, cradling the file with his injured hand.

An hour after Special Agent Peter Kent had departed, Hoyt continued to sit at his desk, staring into nothing. Then he let out a long, uneasy breath and began to type at his computer.

MISSING: CLARICE STARLING

A grainy photograph of Clarice slowly crept into existence upon the screen.

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The suburb of Germantown is located just east of Memphis. With a population of around 37,000 people and, once every year, even more horses, the village-city has retained its feel of home and timelessness. Strict city ordinances forbid the presence of billboards, tall buildings, or neon signs, and there is a park located within a half-mile of nearly every house. The LaReine house is situated barely a block away from a small, seldom-used park and nestled among tall willow and birch trees. The house is old, built of faded bricks embraced by networks of ivy.

The isolation would have prevented anyone from hearing the screaming, Dr. Lecter noted.

The yellow police tape surrounding the LaReine house was loose, grimy, and trodden upon the ground yet retained some of its garish incongruity with the environment despite the mud and grass stains imprinted upon the yellow and black. When Dr. Lecter pulled up beside the driveway in a filthy rental pickup, there were only two cars present. A battered Memphis police cab and an equally battered Toyota Echo. The slam of the pickup door was harshly discordant with the silent environment. The crunching sounds of his steps through the newly dead leaves were less so.

Dr. Lecter stepped over the limp yellow tape and mounted the brick steps to the front door. He caught something out of the corner of his left eye and turned his head to behold a glistening windchime swaying slightly in his presence. The ornament seemed to be made of gilded discs hanging from golden threads of differing lengths and stood out boldly against the black walnut front door. Dr. Lecter watched the windchime move, caressed by the breeze so gently as not to make a sound. His eyes flickered with a forgotten memory.

Like a whisper of fine silk, Dr. Lecter turned upon his heel and pushed open the door perhaps a bit more forcefully than he ordinarily would have. A blast of sound assailed his ears the moment he entered the house, and he beheld Ardelia Mapp leaning over the table of the police officer sitting in the front hall, waving a rolled-up newspaper over her head like a lasso, and yelling in his face.

"Don't you give me any more of that p.c. crap! I don't want coffee and I don't want to hear how sorry you are that you can't do anything to help me. My friend and the one agent who can help you solve this screwed-up case is missing, under 'suspicious circumstances,' so don't you fucking tell me it's not your problem!"

Dr. Lecter amused himself by watching the officer open and close his mouth like a goldfish as Ardelia stopped yelling long enough to breathe.

"I don't suppose you've seen this have you?" Ardelia slammed the newspaper down on the table in front of the officer as if it were a piece of raw meat.

"I already know about the case in St. Louis…"

"Oh? So your department is as incompetent with keeping up with the recent news as it is with everything else? Read the damn headlines."

COPYCAT STRIKES AGAIN!! screamed the front page.

"Let me summarize for you. Yesterday night, a sheep and horse rancher from Montana checks on his stock before heading in for the evening. He hears some whining and bleating from the back of the barn and thinks it's a wounded creature. Heads back to check. Next morning, the neighbors find him hanging from the rafters with third degree burns over 70 percent of his body."

Mapp tossed a crime scene photograph of the half-scorched body of the rancher dangling from a noose fashioned from a whip. "Name: Herman Lanning." A pause. "None of the burns are post-mortem."

Dr. Lecter tilted his head as he regarded the photograph with something approaching admiration in his eyes.

Savonarola, the radical priest, traitor to Italy, and, however briefly, overthrower of the Medicis had spent the final minutes of his life thrashing about upon the gallows like a dying carp, his body in flames. Pope Alexander Borgia had watched triumphantly as his victim writhed in the agony of both rope and fire.

Dr. Lecter wondered if the killer had remembered to employ the torture Savonarola had suffered before his execution. He remembered another detail from Mapp's story quite well.

A sheep and horse rancher from Montana…

If Dr. Lecter continued to harbor any doubts regarding Clarice's predicament, they drifted into oblivion at that moment.

Mapp held the photo inches in front of the officer's face, almost basking in perverse delight at the way the man's face twisted in disgust. Damn, why do I always have to deal with the rookies? "If you don't want something like this to happen again and have your department disgraced in the process, I suggest you get busy finding Clarice Starling." Mapp was breathing rather heavily as she and the officer locked eyes, or rather; she locked eyes with his forehead as he looked down and mumbled incoherencies. This was a low blow, especially for her, but desperation was no longer an adequate description of her current emotions and she was willing to do anything, anything…

The officer was trembling under her gaze and his mouth continued to open and close randomly. "I…I can't…"

Mercifully for him, the fax machine began to whine at that very moment and all three heads turned toward the paper that the machine was spitting out. Nearly half a minute of silence passed before the officer could remove the paper from the apparatus. Some color returned to his face as he scanned the contents of the message. Removing a tack from his desk drawer, he turned toward Mapp with a weak smile smeared upon his lips and attached the "Missing" poster on the billboard behind the desk. The blurry quality of the photograph of Clarice allowed the casual observer to distinguish no more than her slim build and the color of her hair.

"You see, ma'am, even now we're…" His voice trailed away as he saw the expression on Mapp's face. One could look upon Mapp's face at that moment and observe anger, pity, desperation, and murderous intent simultaneously combating for expression.

"Oh, that's just perfect," said Mapp in a sibilant hiss that Hannibal Lecter might have envied. She gripped the edge of the table with shaking hands. "I once made one of those for my lost dog when I was a child. I commend you and your entire department; you've finally raised Agent Starling to the level of a dog."

Suddenly, she whirled and faced Dr. Lecter, as if noticing him for the first time. Her jaw was trembling as she fiercely ground her teeth together in a desperate attempt to contain her unshed tears. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" she spat in a voice like cracking ice.

The image of her devastated soul fascinated Dr. Lecter. He closed his eyes momentarily, allowing the scent of her delicious despair to fill his lungs. The only time he had ever savored pain this sweet was on that fateful day in Memphis; he had swallowed the echo of a tormented past.

Ah, Miss Mapp. You care for her so much…

And he consumed Mapp's soul in that very moment: her fear, anger, desperation, and love. All of it, he took and locked away in a forgotten corner of his memory palace. And then he nodded curtly in her direction. "Special Agent Pet—."

"If you were sent to keep an eye on me, you're wasting your time."

He held his hand up in a gesture of peace. "Nobody sent me here, Special Agent Mapp. I am here merely to offer a word of warning. Your emotions blind you, yet you welcome them with open arms. Good day, miss."

Dr. Lecter swept past both of them in a breeze of stiff black cloth, and Mapp thought she could hear the faint squeak of metallic joints over the sound of the golden windchime weeping in the breeze.

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Ariadne shivered despite her thick overcoat. The rumble of fake thunder made its way across the speakers. Twenty pairs of sprinklers sprayed a fine mist upon the neat piles of fruits and vegetables. Cahlin did not stir as a thin film of water condensed upon her face. A familiar bone-deep itching sensation crept upon the nub of her deformed jaw. She lifted her face closer to the cool mist.

Cahlin hated shopping. She found the weekly descent into the throngs of squabbling mothers, whining children, and bored-looking men nothing short of torture. However, on this particular Sunday afternoon, the store was mercifully deserted.

She removed a yellow bell pepper from its leafy bed with a gloved hand. Through the tint of her dark glasses, the pepper appeared brown. The glasses also did an excellent job of hiding her smoke-seared eyes and the smudges of ash that were still clinging onto her eyelids. Cahlin polished the vegetable absent-mindedly with the edge of her coat sleeve, a new golden bracelet jangling upon her wrist. She deposited the pepper in a bag along with three others. Clarice would appreciate the treat in her dinner tonight.

With vicious delight, Ariadne turned her shopping cart toward the frozen meats section.

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