THE DYING CAPTOR

Hannibal stood in the doorframe of his home's study. He surveyed contentedly the scene before him. Clarice, having not noticed the doctor, was reclining on a leather chaise long with a book of modern art in her arms. She was enraptured with the painting The Persistence of Memory. Indeed she appeared quite fascinated. She was wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt and green and yellow pyjama shorts. The outfit hardly did justice to Clarice's beauty, thought the doctor, but nonetheless it was nice to see her relaxed. After all, there was so much tension in the house due to the danger awaiting them outside.

As the doctor entered the room to seat himself at his harpsichord, he brushed by Clarice, running his fingers through the strands of auburn hair lying upon her shoulders. He marvelled at how the highlights reflected in the light of her reading lamp. He proceeded to sit down and play variation twenty-seven of Bach's Goldberg Variations; his favourite one.

It was now a total of ten days since they had ventured past their front door, Hannibal recalled as his hands caressed the keys. Food and supplies were running low in the house and it would be dangerous to order groceries via the Internet. Despite their apparent dismissal from the evening newscasts, he did not want to go into town. But Hannibal resolved to believe that it was their only choice. He considered that the office had not contacted him, nor had their been any calls for Clarice. There were no visitors, no messages. It seemed to him as if the world had forgotten them. There weren't even any more crimes committed in the States. With no other available options, he planned to go to Paris the next day.

As the final notes of music ended in a well-structured cadence, he rose from the instrument and left the room informing Clarice that he was going to prepare dinner.

Clarice called to him, "would it be alright if we, you know, dressed up tonight? It has been so long since we've dined out and I…"

"Of course, Clarice," he said, smiling to himself as he popped his back into the room,

When the meal was prepared to eat by six o'clock, Hannibal set the table and went upstairs to change into one of his finest suits. As he peered down the hall, he saw Clarice dart out of her room and down the stairs, clearly ready for the evening's activities.

Hannibal left his room and wandered down the hall to her room. He entered, inhaling her unique scent. Her feminine aroma delighted him. As he ran his hands over her bed, a light outside caught his attention. He made his way to the window and saw that the authorities were outside the gate. They were not causing havoc, but were clearly prepared to do so. Three police cars were parked along the road and several officers seemed to be discussing an easy entrance to the house. He walked away from the window as the officers began to thrash at the iron-barred gate.

He sighed and thought, I do wish it wouldn't come to this, Clarice. He went back to his room to get a suitable blade with which to stop his intruders but remembered Clarice's words echoing through his head. You know I will never let you kill again. With apparent dismay, he said to himself, "of course, I would never do anything to displease you."

Hannibal went downstairs.

Clarice was waiting for him, standing behind her chair at the table.

"Good evening Hannibal," she smiled.

"Well, hello Clarice," he said with his usual charm. "I'm afraid tonight's meal is much less than fancy, but it is all that is all we have left."

"No matter," she said politely, and sat down.

Hannibal took a moment to admire the objet d'art in front of him. Clarice was dressed in a viridian green dress with emerald studded straps. A single navy blue slash of colour embellished the rippling material at the front running all the way to the back. It was the dress he had given her after a year of living by his side. Her auburn hair, complimenting the dress wonderfully, was pulled back into a simple ponytail.

Hannibal, looking quite proud, spoke, "Clarice, what a magnificent apparel you have gathered. It is quite stunning, what you can do with a little time. You look amazing."

"Looks are an accident," she repeated a line she remembered saying long ago.

"Indeed, Clarice, but not all accidents are unwelcome. You are certainly not unwelcome. Let me continue by saying that you are an unnatural beauty formed in a natural world. To create you I would need to gather all the fires of the Earth, all the grasses of great valleys, and the flowing waters of the most crystal clear rivers. And even then I would not have my Clarice. I would have a mere shadow of her. Do not ever forget who you are, and what you believe in. Despite what I've ever made you think, despite what I've taught you, never forget that you are Clarice Starling, FBI agent. Not even God himself could take that away from you."

Clarice took a moment to try and understand why Hannibal was saying the things he was saying, be resolved only that he often spoke his mind. Tonight, perhaps, he was a bit agitated. She responded with a quick, "thank you," and withdrew her questioning stare.

During their quiet meal, loud thrashing could be heard at the front door. Clarice looked up from her dinner with worried eyes directed at Hannibal. He appeared not to notice.

"Hannibal?" she began.

"Hush, Clarice. Eat your dinner." Hannibal knowingly ignored the distractions.

She continued, "I think they're…"

Suddenly, the police penetrated the threshold, yelling to one another. Hannibal and Clarice both stood. She tried to run but Hannibal grabbed her. "Go out the back, Clarice. There is no other option now."

Confused, she bolted towards the back but was dismayed when she found that Hannibal had not followed. She ran back to the corridor outside the kitchen and peered inside. Several officers were aiming guns at Hannibal saying, "put your hands up. We will not hurt you if you cooperate."

Hannibal followed their orders but had not bothered to remove the knife from his jacket pocket. It glinted in the light and the officers exclaimed that he was armed. In a quick moment, Hannibal managed to knock out several of the officers with strong arms. One officer, who was quickly rendered unconscious, had managed to shoot Hannibal in the upper arm. He passed behind a counter creating the illusion that he had left the kitchen. He quickly manoeuvred himself away from the searching officers and leaned against the counter near where Clarice was watching. He fell to the floor clutching his arm. He looked up and caught her eyes.

Horrified, Clarice mouthed, "why?"

Hannibal took a moment to escape his unpleasant situation by reverting himself to his mind palace. There were his parents, Mischa, and his beautiful Clarice. There was the Belvedere, sheets of music, and a gourmet dinner. How perfect, he thought.

After dimming the pain, he returned to conscious thought and tried to think of a reasonable answer for Clarice. What could he say? He only wished to save her. For her to escape the same punishment he had endured. He had led her into a life that would land her time in jail. He would not have had that happened to her. He felt as disgusting as Miggs. What had he done to his lamb; his beautiful Clarice? He should have let her run.

He was letting her run! Why wasn't she running? She didn't have to, of course. What would the FBI give her for escaping the wrath of Dr. Lecter? A medal? A documentary? Pride? Honour? No, she wouldn't need those things. She wouldn't need some plaque on the wall to tell her that she was strong, beautiful and courageous. She wouldn't need some silly press conference or television program. She wouldn't need more money or promotions. No… No… No…

Suddenly, a gunshot rang through the house. Hannibal had been shot in the in the chest by a rousing officer on the opposite side of the room. Blood spilled onto his white shirt, staining his tie.

Clarice gasped in terror. Desperately wanting to run to him, she thought better hearing the other officers running down the stairs towards the kitchen. Before she turned to run, she turned around to face Hannibal again. His eyes looking past Clarice, he whispered, "for that, Clarice, all you would need is a mirror." His eyes closed as he escaped one final time to the confines of his mind palace.

Tears streamed down her face as she bowed her head and turned from her dying captor. She lifted her head and found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror across from the kitchen. He didn't kill them. He didn't kill them for me.

On the verge of breaking, she ran down the hall into the salon. She opened the door and ran out into the backyard. The door slammed behind her, knocking several objects in the salon to the floor. The officers heard the noise and headed for the salon.

Clarice ran through her garden, darkened by the evening sky. She ran past the hedge and through the gate. Fighting back tears and breathing heavily, she ran blindly down the path. She fell suddenly not knowing whether she had tripped on a stone, or on her grief. Sadness overwhelmed her shaking figure and she wept there upon the ground.

After several minutes, she got up and tried to think about what she should do. Without a chance to assess her situation, strong arms grasped her from behind.

"J'ai lui trouvé, capitaine!" the officer yelled.

"Oh God," she muttered, and was silently led towards the cars parked outside her house, tears streaming down her face.