Disclaimer: Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling and any other character of the mind of Thomas Harris are just that; of his mind. I do not claim them as my own.
Sweetly and soft the music flowed down the long rows of new and old slate stones. Each with a name carved in its shined, flattened side. Some with angels, hovering sadly above, heads hung low, hands held to their heart. The small choir of five children hauntingly filled the cemetery with their angelic young voices, their words familiar and sad. It was a Beatles song…Blackbird. The softening voices were swept away on the wind the descending leaves of fall danced with the words; each fiery leaf caressing the lyrics with their dying touch. It had been two weeks since she was killed, her cold body lying in the counties morgue. Her graying, cool skin and rigger mortis muscles being cut into and pushed aside, revealing her core. All in search of ulterior causes of death, confirming she had died outright as a result of the two bullets ripping through her body.
He stood on the opposite side of the cemetery, resting a single red rose upon a grave stone under which someone he did not know lay, dead. He bent his head down, mumbling false words of love. He wanted to charge the crowd, rip the top of the casket open and see with his own eyes that it was indeed Clarice M Starling who lay in her final bed, being lowered into the cold earth. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk his cover, being in the cemetery at all was already dangerous. He wouldn't risk them catching him again. Surely they had agents watching. Taking in a deep breath he finally took one last glance at the crème white casket being lowered into a freshly created grave. Hanging his head low, he walked away, his mind pulsing with painful thoughts.
Suppressing the need to interrupt the ceremonies she watched him carefully through her thick, wavy black hair, her deep grey eyes trailing his every move. He stood on the other side of the tiny cemetery, about two-hundred and thirty yards away. Her throat caught as his eyes almost reached her own. She could see the sadness and disbelief in them even at this great distance. He let is head hang and took off in an even stride, his grey paperboy hat covering his face as best as possible. He was definitely trying not to be noticed, the hat really wasn't his style. She had read Clarice's notes on him even before she had been reassigned to catching him. She hadn't really wanted the job but Mr. Pearsall and Jack Crawford had insisted. It was bad enough having Pearsall pushing her around but Jack Crawford, who had retired years ago, had no right to try to push just as hard.
Nudging a teary eyed Ardelia Map; she whispered a few words of condolence and gave her a small hug. Taking off down the small stone path that floated through out the grave yard she began to loosely follow him, her eyes catching a glimpse of a red pickup pulling out of the cemeteries parking lot. She squinted, her eyes catching the license plate. Repeating it over and over in her mind she jogged down to her yellow jeep and took off towards Quantico.
Two hours later she had an address and name. The truck apparently belonged to a Cliff Bergeron. She had looked up his criminal history finding it a clean slate; nothing but a single traffic ticket written four years ago for going SLOWER than the seed limit. Damn, she had no reason to check him out. Sighing she bent over, resting her arms and head atop Clarice's old desk. She didn't like being in the dungeon, especially with a dead, fellow agent things. It seemed too personal. Like she was invading Clarice's space. Everything was organized in a particular manner, tapes here, files there, Clarice's notes taped onto every open space on the illumination board that sat on the wall directly across from her desk. Every once in a while she would find strands of fiery hair on the desk or trapped under a piece of tape. Picking up her newly acquired book bag she stuffed her own notes into it and left the dungeon to go home.
Once again the foul newspapers sat before him, this time spread out over the music stand of his grand piano. They now held a picture of a rail thin, short, black haired woman; Clarice's replacement. She was the woman who had nearly followed him out of the cemetery. He had watched her mouth his license plate as he had pulled quickly out of the parking lot. She wouldn't do. She couldn't replace Clarice and would never come as close as Clarice had to catching him. Taking his hands from the polished, perfectly tuned ivory keys he picked up the issue of The national tattler and began to read the article. Her name was Brianna Thompson, a special agent at the age of thirty five. No, she would never match Clarice. Setting the tabloid down he let his light fingers drift down the soft keys once again, his mind building yet another room in his palace, this room reserved for Special agent Brianna Thompson.
A/N: Thank you Jahwarrior and Ar-men 66 for you reviews they are greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy!