Storyteller's Notes: Thank you very much for your reviews. I greatly appreciate the time you are giving to read the story and write the reviews. Even when there are bad news… --wink--
The matter of Crucifixion. I must admit that I have an inadequate knowledge of Crucifixion as a technique, and while I may run into a risk of encountering some real experts in the matter around here, my personal experience doesn't stretch beyond a limited research into the subject and the reality of my imagination.
Unfortunately, the books I've read on the matter give a rather remote point of view of the historian and not of the sufferer. Based on that knowledge, I would argue to defend my description of the event in the story, taking into consideration a few points below.
First, the pain that Starling experienced was so excruciating that she actually died on the cross and was brought back by the nurse in residence.
Second, up to that point of the night Starling had already so much pain in a short time span that her body was going into a shock and, in fact, as result, her ability to feel a separate pain from Crucifixion was diminishing – a new pain, while still prominent, was fusing in with the old and culminating in an ultimate body's breakdown – death.
Third, she did try to compensate this new experience with a distraction of her memories.
And finally, I just felt that I made a point about her suffering and to go on further would be somewhat vulgar and unnecessary.
From now on, to move the story along, the reference to pain would be rather subdued – it is there and as unbearable as ever but the pain is not this story's hero. It is Clarice Starling and her courage and fighting spirit.
I hope you agree, or at least, see my reasons. Of course, that doesn't excuse shabby writing should you find it to be so.
Anyway, do enjoy the final chapter…
CE
Disclaimer: as in the first part as it is a continuation of the story...
story continues…
The night air in the barn is cold, now without the heat of the flood lights above. The only light source is the tack room and a small lamp shining on Dr Lecter who seems to be asleep.
Tommaso sits in the chair and watches closely Dr Lecter. Mogli and Carlo have gone to the house about the food. Tommaso hopes they will be back soon as his stomach is impatient. Piero busies himself with the radio.
Opposite, in the dark part of the showring, furnace reflections play endlessly hide-and-seek with the deep shadows over a silent figure, hanging on the wall. Starling is floating, soaring above the ground with her arms stretched and her legs together in a tight tail, she has no body just whirl of frosty airstreams.
Go back to school, little starling, flap your wings and fly away... fly away... That's right, flapping wings, what starlings do, not soaring... flapping...
She is very tired, all she wants is to sleep, fall in a deep roll and sleep. Never to wake. Something holds her back, irritates her, stops from slipping into the irresistible lull of oblivion. Something Mason Verger said.
You've got to nail them through the wrists and use big wooden washers, otherwise they get loose and start flapping. Get loose and flapping... flapping her wings...
Starling looks sideways and examines her wrist. Some considerable length of the horseshoe nail is protruding above the flesh. Square pointed head. No washer. Oh, yes, he said, the washers spoil the appearance...
Starling flexes her wrist and fingers. Well, she lived through the worse pain tonight, but the good news she can move her trigger finger, the wrist must be nailed just past the ligament, between the bones. She could grip the gun, she could use it.
Hell, you can do it, Starling...
Starling then observes her feet, both nailed through the instep and sole, damn Verger's precision, large square-headed nails closely surrounded by bones. It would require a significant effort to heave her feet off. With her feet being at some distance of the ground, should she loose her balance she is most likely to flip over and snap her ankles. She needs to remain upright, until the enemy is incapacitated and down. Needs to free one arm at the time to keep her balance.
Grateful for the numbness of her freezing body, she clenches her teeth and waits.
All she needs now is Johnny Mogli.
Deputy Sheriff Mogli stands in front of the bound figure of Dr Lecter. The Italians are eating in the tack room. The hour is almost up.
He'll secure the prisoners for the night, Mogli blows cigarette smoke into Lecter's face, and then retire to the little room Mason makes available for him when he has to stay overnight.
Behind him, Clarice Starling bites on her lip and holds her breath to kill a smallest whimper as she easies her right wrist along the nail, takes another deep breath before yanking it clean off. She treats it as a gruelling workout, recalling something she heard once in the gym: Complete every move as if your life depended on it.
Life, right, her frozen muscles are numb from cold. The sweat glitters her forehead, runs down her neck.
She lets her freed arm to hang down a while, trying to regain control of her deadened fingers, then pushes them between the wall and the upright stake, bracing for the next move.
Dr Lecter opened his eye and glanced for a moment over Mogli's shoulder, then fixed it on the off-duty policeman. Lecter cocked his head slightly and hissed. "Johnny, may I call you Johnny? Share with me, please, how was it to fuck Agent Starling? Was it go-o-od?"
Mogli licked his lips, took a breath through bared teeth, "Fucking great."
Then he bit the cigarette between his teeth, pulled out Starling's gun and shoved it into Lecter's face. "Here, have a taste, Doc."
Looking over Mogli's shoulder, Dr Lecter produced the pointed pink tip of his tongue, leaned forward and curled his tongue around the barrel of the gun, slowly scooping the taste of her secrete and her blood. He leaned back then, closed his eye and savoured the flavour. When Dr Lecter opened his eye again, shivers went down Mogli's spine as he looked into the maroon eye almost black with fury and cold vehemence.
"Crazy sumbitch!" Mogli said loud. A head appeared through the door, attracted by the noise. Mogli waived, "It's okay."
Leaning forward again, Dr Lecter whispered, sparks flying in his pupils. "Do you know how long I have waited to taste her? Do you care to know why, Deputy Sheriff Mogli?" Chilling smile touched his red lips, when he spoke again his voice was soft and pleasant. "Because it's by invitation only. Do remember it when she spits your little Johnny on the floor. Come to think of it, I couldn't blame her, your little Johnny never managed much, did it, Officer Mogli?.. I don't believe I have a recipe bold enough to overcome its putrid odour and foul taste."
Backing to a safe distance, Mogli felt the weight of the gun in his hand. "Fucking crazy sumbitch." He chewed on his cigarette, considering, then pushed the gun back behind the belt, cold against his quivering stomach. There will be time tomorrow, he will ask Mason if could have a go with the farrier tools. Will see then about the odour when you shit yourself, Doc.
Over the Deputy Sheriff's shoulder, Dr Lecter observed Starling finally lift her arms back onto the cross beam, resting her wrists on the nails.
"Water, please, can I have some water..." Starling croaked in the voice she did not know.
Mogli turned towards her.
"Agent Starling wants some water, Deputy Sheriff," Dr Lecter said helpfully. "Mason will be ever so unhappy if she died out of turn."
Mogli looked around, noticed the hose lying next to the cross, walked over and bent down to pick it up with one hand and turn the water at the nozzle with the other.
Starling watched him to bend down and flexed her fingers. She'll only have one shot at it.
As he straitened up, both hands on the hose, Starling plunged the fingers of the left hand into Mogli's eyes, pulling him on her, leaning back, the other hand went for the gun next to his belly, cocked and fired down his abdomen. Now her left hand gripped the back of his collar, arm embracing his neck, still pulling him on, as she shot his heart through the badge.
Mogli's dead weight sagging on her, pinning her to the wooden stake. She gripped the gun with both hands now, fighting the tremors of pain and exhaustion, and fired, fired, fired, fired at the blurred figures running out of the tack room.
She registered one man laying still, the firelight flickering in the blood pooling under, two other down, moaning and crying. Starling had no time to loose, the injured had to be assessed and attended. Later, when the scene is secured.
Clarice Staling: the FBI's killing machine...
She dropped her empty gun, pulled Mogli's .357 out of his belt holster, checked it. Shifted Mogli's body to the side to expose her nailed feet and shot the square heads off the nails, gun powder stinging her skin. She wondered what the French would call it.
Discourage, she mused. Quite right. This should certainly discourage her to be in goddamn tight shoes again. Not for anyone...
Checked again on the injured men before letting the gun down, then carefully slid down the upright and grabbed her foot with both hands. Slick with Mogli's and her own blood, her hands slipped as she pulled her foot off and she tumbled to the ground, the sound of her snapped ankle and her scream ringing in her ears.
When she came around, a red curtain veiling over her mind, unable anymore to hold her sobs, Starling lay beside the body of Johnny Mogli, tears rolling down the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, drenched with the failure she loathed.
"Clarice!" She heard. "Special Agent Starling!" She made a move, somebody's calling her. Rolled her head towards the sound, the metallic rasp of that seldom used voice she heard for years in her dreams.
"You are a warrior, Clarice. The enemy is dead. You are a warrior."
"Dr Lecter..." She trailed as he continued to recite. "The most stable elements, Clarice, appear in the middle of the periodic table, roughly between iron and silver. Between iron and silver. I think that is appropriate for you."
Glad and sorry, she felt then when she first heard him read it, in her head, after the Drumgo shooting. Glad and sorry. Glad of the help, sorry he'd seen her weak. She bit her lip and heaved herself up, allowed another scream unclench her teeth as she yanked her broken foot of the nail.
Catching her breath, she checked Mogli's pockets, found her knife and car keys, down his leg found her blood-soaked ankle holster and the gun. Fixed the holster to her good leg, pushed the keys between her teeth and used the knife to cut off the length of the hose, water flooding the ground now. Glancing all the time at the men shuffling and bawling on the ground, she lined the nozzle with the shin and tied the hose around her broken ankle. Lugged the cuffs of Mogli's gun belt and threw them across to the forklift. Then Starling rolled to the pile of the clothes by the wall and pulled the shirt over her shoulders. She cut through the leg of her fatigues to accommodate her broken ankle, pulled them on, blood of her wounds immediately soaked through.
She checked on the men again and registered some change but, dizzy with pain, couldn't quite grasp what it was. Afraid to faint again, she didn't pause to think as Tommaso hauled himself back into the tack room, clutching at his shoulder, blood staining his fingers. He grabbed the air rifle and climbed to the hayloft, dropped to his knees and crawled towards the side of the hayloft that overlooked the barn.
Dr Lecter observed Starling in silence, listening to the agitation of the dark rustling humps behind the Dutch gate.
She rolled over to Dr Lecter, hands outstretched with gun.
"Good evening again, Clarice," he said when he could see her.
"Can you walk, are your legs working? She said as she seized his bare feet and hoisted herself up.
"Yes."
"Don't get any ideas, Doctor," Starling was grasping at him, struggling to stand up, reaching for the bounds on his arm.
"Understood."
"Can you see all right?"
"Yes."
"I am going to cut you loose. With all due respect, Doctor, if you fuck with me I'll shoot you dead, here and now. Do you understand that?"
"Perfectly."
"Do right and you'll live through this."
"Spoken like a Protestant."
Leaning on his body for support, weight off the broken ankle, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion, she thought, he must be finding her threats hilarious.
She was working all the time. The boot knife was sharp. She found the serrated edge worked fastest on the slick new rope.
His right arm was free.
"I can do the rest if you give me the knife."
She hesitated.
"What are you going to do, Clarice?"
She lost her footing then and he held her up as she looked into the deep maroon of his good eye, inches away, his breath on her lips.
Death and danger can come to you in the sweet breath of your beloved, she remembered seeking his presence in his former cell.
"I am taking you into custody, Dr Lecter."
"Um, I see."
She dropped then to her knees and he let her. Backed to the length of his arm and gave him the short dagger.
"My car must be close by." She still could not see the men on the ground behind him.
He had a leg free. He was working on the other, having to cut each coil separately.
"When you are loose, don't try to run. You'll never make the door. There're four pairs of cuffs," Starling said. "Behind you should be three guys, one dead, two wounded, cuff them all to each other. Then cuff yourself. Then I'll see what they need until the ambulance picks them."
"Clarice, can you walk? It must be quite unbearable in those tight shoes again"
"My shoes are fine, Doctor. You'll walk, I'll drive the forklift until we find my car."
As she spoke the dart from Tommaso's rifle flew and quivered in the centre of Starling's back. She spun, instantly dizzy, vision going dark, trying to spot a target, saw the barrel at the edge of the loft and fired. Tommaso rolling back from the edge, splinters stinging him, blue gun smoke rolling up into the lights, the tranquilizer rifle hurling down the barn. Tommaso lying on his back in the loose hey, cradling his shoulder and praying.
The noise seemed to further animate the pigs and seeing the men in their inviting position on the ground, they squealed and grunted, pressing against the barrier.
Starling pitched forward on her face, the empty pistol bouncing away.
Dr Lecter lifted Starling in his arms, placed her boots atop and backed fast towards the Dutch gate, pulled the bolts on the Dutch gate. In came the pigs in a rush to the meal that was burbling and crying on the ground. More rushed on through the barn and into the night.
Dr Lecter, holding Starling, was behind the gate when the pigs rushed through.
Tommaso from the loft could see his brother's face down in the pack and then it was only a bloody dish. Dr Lecter, erect as a dancer and carrying Starling in his arms, came out from behind the gate, walked barefoot out of the barn, through the pigs...
Back to the Book now,
making a few small adjustments along the way.
Fin
Thank you for your time. As ever I'd appreciate your reviews.
Well, the cat is out of the bag now, so I can say, that recreation of the Crucifixion Clock was behind this story. I just couldn't see how Mason Verger will let it pass by. After all, he did do a lot of crucifixions and re-enactments in his hey days. This one was just begging to be recreated.
I do hope you enjoyed the story. See you around.
CE