Disclaimer: I don't own Starling, Lecter, etc. You know this. But now the question arises: Why are you still reading this? The story's down there.

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The Night of the Jackal

Ch5: The Money

It took Chacal an hour to complete the final resting place of Mr. and Mrs. Lecter. He heaved himself up out of the muddy hole and wiped off his hands in a gesture of finality. Chacal knew that it wasn't going to remove much of the dirt on his hands, but he suspected that one or both of the clients were watching him.

Chacal turned to look into the grave, glancing around first to spot any witnesses. As planned, there was no one. No cars, no dogs, nothing. The hole itself was about five feet deep (whoever said graves had to be six feet deep could go fuck himself) and just long and wide enough to fit two bodies, if they fell on top of each other. Fell, dumped; Chacal wasn't one to argue semantics. In any case, it would do wonderfully. He sauntered back to the truck and pulled his shirt back on. Then he climbed into the cab to review the plan for getting one of them out of the truck, shooting them, and getting them into the hole so fast that the other wouldn't have time to think.

He glanced at his watch then. It was 12:47. Chacal still had plenty of time to get these two into the ground and into the next world. He sighed contentedly and took out his gun, reaching back to the glove compartment to pull out a silencer. With the utmost care Chacal screwed the silencer into the muzzle of the gun and hopped out of the truck with renewed energy.

Chacal sauntered around until he was at the window of the camper. As he peered inside, he could see that Dr. Lecter and Clarice were whispering to each other. Instinct warned him that they were plotting a way to escape, but Chacal did not believe that such escape was possible. When Clarice looked up at the window there was a trace of fear behind her eyes which did not escape Chacal's notice. Chacal doubted they had a plan. The result of such would have been arrogance or at the least confidence, but there was nothing to suggest that Mrs. Lecter had anything of the kind.

Dr. Lecter was a different story entirely. While there was no arrogance in his face, Chacal knew that he would not find any fear. Chacal doubted that anything he did would elicit that particular emotion. Chacal looked on indifferently. It would be a waste of time to try threats; better to just get this over with. Chacal spoke with the compassion of a gleaming scalpel, and with similar purposes to one.

"Mrs. Lecter. I will open the door, you will exit the truck. Any sudden movements and I will draw out your demise, which, incidentally, is imminent. Have you anything to say?"

"If you think either of us are going to make this easy, you are a fool."

"Fair enough," Chacal quipped, unaffected. Without warning he pressed the muzzle to the window and pulled the trigger, shattering the small opening with a loud crack and, after another paranoid glance about the deserted area, pulled the hammer back once again. The gun was currently aimed directly at Clarice; far enough inside the cab to make avoidance of the bullet impossible, yet drawn back enough to make it exceedingly difficult to kick away.

Dr. Lecter interrupted this loudly. "STOP!" he commanded. Chacal's face remained unchanged, but he did not fire the weapon. The doctor's mind raced for a way to diffuse this situation. He simply hadn't had enough experience with the killer to thoroughly dissect his mind, and the uncertainties would make negotiations very tentative, so Dr. Lecter thought for a moment.

Chacal pursed his lips before speaking. "Well? I do admit, I hadn't wished to shoot you inside the truck... blood stains are traceable... but do not think for a minute that that will give me a moment's hesitation. Why should I 'stop'?"

"Because you will miss out on a great deal more money than you are currently being paid. Put simply, if you let us go, I will outbid your contractor."

Chacal retracted the gun from the broken window. "We'll see. What are you offering to pay?"

Lecter glanced at Clarice. "Much."

"To give you an estimate, I get 25 grand for each client. I want triple what they give. Yes, that seems fair," Chacal mused pleasantly. "Definitely. $150,000 and I will allow you both to live."

"$100,000," Dr. Lecter responded.

Chacal fired his weapon into the truck, penetrating the space inches away from Clarice's head. He glared warningly at the doctor, who was silent, but internally shaken. "You'll only have to pay $75,000 if I kill your wife, actually. Would you prefer that alternative? Save yourself a few bucks?" Chacal began speaking more rapidly. "No more games, Doctor. What is your choice? Live or die?"

"Live," Lecter replied, without hesitation.

"Good. I think that works out best for all parties. Well, excepting my employer, of course."

"How do you plan on dealing with the FBI?"

Chacal smiled at that, but wasn't entirely surprised that they had guessed who wanted them dead. "Leave that part to me. Your concern is now getting me my money. I must say, I don't trust you at all to not try to screw me out of my money, so... I will continue to hold Clarice until payment is received."

"Who's to say I won't just abandon her once I'm free?"

"Even if you do, I can sell her mangled, raped, and then deceased body to the FBI for the $25,000. They'll even blame you. Incidentally, I have been meaning to test out some new toys."

"You're lying."

"Even if I were, it is rather foolish to accuse me of it. In any case I do hate being lied to, so be sure that you complete your end of our deal."

"How do you propose to let me go?"

"I open the door, and you get out of my truck. Mrs. Lecter stays, you SLAM the door shut again. Then you walk away. I get back in and drive away. And if I suspect you've left that door open for Mrs. Lecter, I'll run you the fuck down. I'll leave a message on your doorstep with my numbered account. You will transfer $150,000 to that account. Then I release your wife. Slick as grease. Do you agree to these terms?"

"Of course I do," Dr. Lecter said blandly. At her corner, Clarice's shoulders sagged slightly in relief.

"Excellent," Chacal said. He tucked the gun into his pants and walked to the back of the truck. Quickly, he opened it, retrieved the gun once again, and allowed Dr. Lecter to exit.

Dr. Lecter stretched his legs and back once he was out of the cramped bed of the truck.

"Shut the door. And make sure it is shut," Chacal ordered.

Dr. Lecter sighed, gave an assuring look to Clarice, and slammed the door closed again.

"Now walk 100 yards back towards the road," Chacal said. Dr. Lecter walked quickly away.

Chacal smiled and got back into the truck after giving Clarice a wink.

Inside the truck, Clarice started. That wasn't a good wink. She flung herself at the window. Dr. Lecter was still walking, with his back to the truck. As it was, he couldn't see what Chacal was doing. The truck started and flew into motion, causing Clarice to slam herself against the divider between the cab and the bed of the truck. Ouch. The vehicle swung around and roared towards the road, quickly closing the gap between it and Dr. Lecter.

The truck did not hit him, however. It sped right past him, leaving a trail of dust and flying debris as it went. Moments later it was out of Doctor Lecter's sight, and he began to jog in the direction of his house.

When he arrived home an hour later, there was indeed an evelope with the name of Chacal's bank (it was Swiss, as he expected), and the number. It was still too early in the morning to do any banking, so Doctor Lecter began rearranging the house, putting it back in order. He performed small, menial tasks, avoiding thinking about Clarice's current situation.

The next day $150,000 was transferred to Chacal's account.

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From his home fifty miles away, Chacal grinned as he saw his new balance with the Swiss bank. Clarice was tied to a chair a few feet behind him, and could see that he had been paid.

He had not spoken to her at all since she was brought to the near-empty room. She had maintained her calm, despite the dismal settings. The floor was gray concrete, the walls bare, no furniture besides the computer Chacal was using to look at his account and the two chairs they sat on, and it had been almost completely silent until Chacal entered to use the computer. It had also been mostly dark, except for the small window near the ceiling which told her she was in a basement in the cabin. It provided the only light.

"So, Mrs. Lecter, it looks like your husband came through," Chacal murmured.

"Of course he did," Clarice said. "When he agrees to do something, he does it."

"I believe you are implying that I don't. Well, it's only partly true."

"You just held out for the better deal," Clarice scoffed.

"Actually, your husband blurted it out a second before I pulled the trigger. I fully intended to dispose of you."

"Please, you're getting paid three times what you would have made killing me."

"I admit, that I was planning on getting money from Dr. Lecter." Chacal stood up and turned, backlit by the bright white computer screen. "But what," Chacal said softly, as he walked slowly to Clarice, "makes you think that I'm not going to kill you? After all, you're worth $25,000 more from the FBI."

Clarice had time to release a short scream before Chacal cut it short.

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Doctor Lecter was sitting in the chair meditatively when he heard a squeal of tires from outside. When he looked out, the truck the killer had used was driving away and there was Clarice on the ground, motionless. He rushed outside to her, nearly breaking the wall as the door slammed into it.

She wasn't dead. She was badly beaten, and it looked as though Chacal had strangled her a bit, because there were bruises around her neck, but she wasn't dead. Dr. Lecter did not want to know if she had been raped. At least, for now he didn't. He picked her up gently and carried her inside, to clean her up.

As he was removing the torn clothing he found a folded-up paper taped to her skin. Dr. Lecter set it aside until he had cleaned Clarice's cuts and she was resting peacefully in their bed.

Once she was taken care of, Doctor Lecter turned to the killer's note.

It read:

Dear Dr and Mrs Lecter,

You'll have to forgive me for my rough treatment of Clarice. It was rather important she looked dead when I sent her pictures to the FBI. I do not imagine I'll be seeing either of you again, although the FBI might always send me a new contract on your head, Doctor.

Until then,

X

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That's all folks; no more! Pardon all the delays. (sigh) It was tempting to kill them, but I found a much more interesting alternative. Anyway: please please REVIEW!

-Vilest of Worms

PS: It occured to me that readers might not know this: Chacal actually means Jackal in French. Again, stealing from the book, but, I didn't want the hitman to have a name.