FAMILIAR VOICES

The hum of the lights in the cell was becoming quite a nuisance. Clarice could not stand to hear them any longer. She was also painfully aware of other small noises such as the sound of the asylum nurses moving around, the activation of heating systems in the building, and her own movements of course. She longed to hear the exquisiteness of classical music and opera again, or Hannibal humming to himself in the kitchen, or the breeze rustling through the garden of her home in France. She definitely wished she could start over and continue her work for the FBI. But it seemed now that almost all hope was gone.

The clang of the metallic sliding doors made Clarice jump, however slightly. The slow, cautious sound of apprehensive footsteps made its way to her ears as the visitor approached. They were women's shoes. A distinct scent wafted through the air in Clarice's cell, however she didn't catch it: she had not yet acquired the talent that Hannibal had developed so well during his own incarceration.

Clarice stood up to greet the visitor, waiting anxiously, her face pressed against the bars. "Ardelia!" she exclaimed when the women came into view.

Ardelia Mapp stood with her back against the wall adjacent to Clarice's cell. Her gaze was cast downward and she seemed perturbed. "What can I say, Clarice?"

There was a long silence.

Clarice's mind was filled with thoughts, expressions, questions, and ideas. Finally, she picked one and spoke, "Ardelia, I'm sorry that you think I've changed. I'm sorry you think that I abandoned you, and my morals, and everything thing I believed in. If I have, then I am sorry for that too." Her apologies were genuine. "But truthfully I– "

"Clarice, I know it wasn't you." Ardelia said suddenly. "And I know that it wasn't Hannibal either."

Clarice was awestruck. "Then why am I here?" she asked, trying to stay calm. "Why am I here in a cell, fighting between right and wrong and wondering where the hell Hannibal is? I mean, he's probably dead somewhere in a cold metal drawer at the morgue!" Ardelia did not respond to this.

Clarice was growing angry, despite having not seen her best friend for three years. Trying to calm herself down, she asked, "how did they find us at the house?"

"There was a patient who visited Lecter, or 'Docteur Cléter', regularly. After seeing the notices we had posted around both the U.S. and Europe, he contacted our headquarters."

"What was his name?" Clarice inquired.

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you that."

"Of course."

Ardelia continued, "it was about five days ago that we finally learned of your whereabouts with the help of a few other people. We were waiting to see if we could catch you on your way out the door, but it seemed inevitable that we'd have to go in. We devised several plans to follow in case Lecter, or you, became violent. It was not an easy task, as you can imagine." Ardelia had begun to converse with Clarice as if they were back in their old apartment exchanging anecdotes. Clarice resented this.

"OK, so they caught us. They brought us here. Surely you cannot believe that we caused the murders in the states. Hannibal's patient must have clarified that we were in town."

"Frankly, neither he or his secretary could confirm your whereabouts. The patient had not had sessions since November of last year, and the secretary explained that Lecter was always very private about what he did on evenings and weekends. He seemed almost secretive to her. This was conviction enough for us at the time."

Clarice was enraged again. "How could you believe that I would actually let Hannibal kill again? He's beyond that! He's a very complex and, believe it or not, civil man. I knew he never would kill again. He would never risk that. He would never risk me."

Ardelia went to speak, but Clarice continued with her heated release. "I trusted you, Ardelia! I gave you my word - our word - in every letter and in every message I ever sent you, that we were happy, safe, and most importantly living normal lives. I confided in you that Hannibal wasn't harming me, or anyone else. And somewhere along the way you stopped believing in me! You stopped believing in Clarice the knows-the-difference-between-right-and-wrong girl. You stopped believing in your colleague who fought alongside you during FBI training. You stopped believe in your best friend! I mean, fuck Ardelia! How?"

Ardelia met Clarice's eyes with her own. Tears were falling from her large, brown eyes. "He killed again."

"What?"

"He killed again. The killer we mistook for Lecter. Police found another body this morning. It looked like one of Lecter's. According to the autopsy, the victim was only disposed of last night. It couldn't have been Lecter because last night we… He's dead, Clarice."

Now it was Clarice's turn to cry. Not just cry, but weep. And how she wept. She wept for Hannibal, for Ardelia, for her mistakes, for her abandonment. She wept for every captive soul. Sitting on her cot, she lifted her head from the arms in which her head was buried. Her sleeves were damp with her bitter tears.

With a deep breath she said, "is there any way I can get out of here? I need to see him. I want to know what they're going to do with him. He's not just some body you can throw out. He's so much more!"

"Look, Clarice. I've missed you girl, I really have. I didn't want to believe that it was you. This is not how I wanted to see you again. It's really not. I wish I had known the truth. But I did what I thought was right. It couldn't have been helped. I had no choice. If only I had known…"

Clarice stood up approaching the bars. She asked again with urgency, "Ardelia, is there any way I can get out of here? I haven't done anything! You know that! The police know that! I don't belong here, Ardelia! Ardelia? Ardelia?"

Ardelia averted her eyes. "I'm sorry Clarice, it couldn't be helped… It couldn't be helped." She repeated this as she backed away from the cell. She kept walking until she got to the end of the hall. She yelled back to Clarice who was crying for escape, "It couldn't be helped, Clarice! I'm sorry!"

The iron doors slid shut, slamming with a bitter clang. Faint voices would have been heard were it not for Clarice's screaming.

After several moments when Clarice was hoarse, she faced the mirror again. What would they give you, Clarice? Hannibal's voice rang through her head. A plaque? A medal? Something to look at from time to time to remind you of all your successes in life?

All you would need for that is a mirror.

It was bittersweet to imagine hearing the calming voice of Hannibal Lecter inside her head. But it was better than the monotonous hum of the florescent lights that slowly flooded back into her ears.

Sitting down, she fought back fresh tears. Clarice was alone. Again.