Title: Back in Baltimore – Chapter 4
Author: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL and the Studiolo)
Genre: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal
Category: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: stardustsavant@hotmail.com
Archive?: Sure.
Summary: Clarice Starling is sent to Baltimore, to work with the Homicide detectives in finding Dr. Lecter.
Author's Notes: Ten chapters planned, only eight up as of 3/10/04.
BACK IN BALTIMORE – CHAPTER FOUR
The man who is currently employed by Baltimore Wines & Spirits, a well-respected chain, studies the offered photograph critically, tilting his head a bit.
"Yeah, yeah…I know him. Came in a little over a week ago. Knew his wines. Bought a single bottle of Batard-Montrachet, but that wasn't the case he ordered."
"What was?" Munch leans against the counter with an air of practiced nonchalance.
"Chianti."
Starling grimaces, but faintly, the change in expression barely noticeable. "How appropriate." When Munch looks to her inquiringly, she shakes her head. It is not worth an explanation. She continues, "If he had the case shipped, he must have given you an address. Would you still have it, sir?"
"Sure, we keep a record of our shipments," the man responds, turning to his desk. It is uncluttered; in essence, a wooden board supported by file cabinets, with a computer to one side, gathering dust. He settles himself on the swiveling chair and pulls open the top cabinet drawer.
"Goes by Dr. Fell, we're told," suggests Munch, and their assistance nods, running a finger across the tops of assorted manila folders, before coming up with the records for that month. He spreads the folder out over the desk, flipping through a few papers, and eventually lifting a triumphant gaze to John and Clarice.
"Here you are," he says, with the cheerful expression of one who knows he has scored brownie points with the authorities. Munch jots down the address on his small pad, and flashes a smile across the desk: decidedly fake, but the integrity of the expression, or lack thereof, goes unnoticed.
-x-
Starling's heart is thudding in her ears, loud enough that she is sure the others can hear it. She leans against the wall of the hallway, shoulder-blades pressed up against the painted brick surface. Her gun is held at the ready, and she takes a deep breath to calm her jangled nerves.
She knows full well that this is her job, that this is of the utmost importance, but she cannot deny that a large part of her hopes beyond all hope that Dr. Lecter is not in the apartment. That they have the wrong address. Anything; some slip of the system that ensures his freedom and the continued chase. Without this particular game, Clarice Starling will be lost, and hates herself for it.
"Baltimore police! FREEZE!"
She hears Munch yelling, but his voice sounds as though it is emerging from a mine shaft, dwindling in volume and vehemence as it travels to reach her ears. She swallows hard, ignoring the piss-taste of old beer and fresh bile in the back of her throat.
The men ahead of her have moved, the doorway is clear. Raising her weapon, Starling edges forward, keeping to the wall, until she has turned. She finds herself in the apartment. It is rather spacious, despite the affect of the hallway.
C'mon, Starling. Check the corner, that's right, good…keep moving, let's go…
There is no one at home. If Dr. Lecter had once been here, he is gone: there are no volumes on the rows of bookshelves in the living room, a dusty layer of neglect coats the windowsill.
"Jesus," she murmurs, to nobody in particular, and pushes her way past the assortment of detectives, moving through the main area, down a short corridor, to the bedroom.
She had not predicted that the sight would hit her this hard.
The blankets are rumpled, one top sheet dangling, halfway, to the floor. He has obviously left in a hurry, and it shocks Starling to see things in such disarray. She crosses to the dresser, stares at her face's reflection, thin and pale, in the glass, There are dark circles under her eyes: borderline maroon, and it has not even been two days of investigation. Her right hand places to the dresser-top; she feels paper under her fingers instead of smooth, polished wood.
She pockets the scrap without looking down, and freezes when she sees, with the mirror's aid, Kellerman standing in the doorway, relaxing only upon the realization that he had not seen her hand move.
"What's this, huh? Little girl gone to see the bedroom of her long lost love?"
In a flash, a second's passing, Clarice Starling understands that Mike Kellerman is far more like Paul Krendler than she had initially thought.
His taunting smile is maddening. She wants to hit him, to bite and kick and scream, but she does none of those things. When she speaks, her voice is eerily calm. "Get out of here, sir. Just, get out."
With an expression of disappointment at lack of a better reaction, the smug blond turns to be unhelpful elsewhere.
Starling warily draws the paper out in the open, unfolds it. The single sentence is scripted with flawless, unmistakable penmanship. As her eyes trip from word to word, she can almost hear him, murmuring them in her ear, voice low and clear.
You are closer than you know, Clarice.
Her chin tilts upward, gaze seeks out the ceiling. It is a trick from her youth: look anywhere and everywhere but at what makes your eyes fill with tears. She will not return her stare to the floor. Starling is consumed with dread, the possibility that if she does, indeed, look down again, she will see her heart. Hot, raw and traitorous, glaring accusingly up at her, trembling in a pool of blood that she can taste now on her bitten-raw lips.