At first, Molly had screamed in shock. She recovered her faculties faster than her son had, and fixed her livid gaze on the middle aged man smiling amiably at her from the head of the table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms.
"Hello again, Molly."
"Let me the fuck go right now, or so help me god I will-"
"I appreciate your dedication," Lecter interrupted, raising a hand. "But I object to your using such language at the dinner table."
"Shut the fuck up," Molly snapped, twisting against the thick ropes corded around her.
"Mom," Willy said softly. "Don't."
She fell silent, and then looked at her son, tears welling in her eyes.
"Are you okay, baby?" her gaze turned to Lecter, her voice a warning growl. "If you hurt him..."
"If I were to hurt him, Molly, trust that I would make sure you were my audience," Lecter promised.
He lingered behind her chair, planting his hands around the smooth wooden armrests as he leaned down and breathed against her ear: "I understand your distress, but I must tell you, if you continue to make such an appalling nuisance of yourself, I will be forced to take punitive measures. Do you understand?"
The look of defeat in Willy's eyes finally settled the issue for her. She cringed away from Lecter.
"Okay. Okay. Please...just..."
Lecter smiled and withdrew.
"Excellent. Now that we're all present, allow me to explain a few ground rules," he announced, returning to the head of the table. "The doors are sealed, each one armed with a liberal amount of Semtex, a commercial plastic explosive. I hold the central disarming control. I don't need to tell you what will occur if either of you attempts an escape. As I told your son before, Molly, and I now tell you, I have no intention of killing either of you. All I ask is that you behave yourselves, which will ensure that both of you will come out of this alive and intact. Is that all clear?"
The two captives stared dully at him. He clapped his hands together. "Good."
"You're doing this to lure my husband, isn't that right?" Molly finally asked, her voice monotone.
"Quite," Lecter quipped as began to pour champagne into the glasses. "But as they say, 'it's not what you're thinking'."
"I don't believe you." Willy said in his soft, calm voice.
"I know," the doctor said, smiling gently. "But never mind that now. I've prepared dinner, and I'd be absolutely devastated if you didn't try it."
With that, he lifted the lids off the silver platters to reveal several red crab shells, each stuffed with seared tender crab meat. A parsley lemon butter cream sauce garnished the main course, which steamed enticingly. The second platter held a pile of steamed long stemmed broccoli and salmon on a cedar plank, also garnished with lemon wedges and capers.
"I considered an appetizer, but I suspect both of you are rather peckish. I'm going to untie your hands, and I'll ask you not to attempt any theatrics with the silverware."
Wordlessly, they nodded. As Lecter moved to undo the ropes that bound Willy's hand, Molly gave him a disbelieving look.
"You know you're crazy if you think we're going to eat that, right?" she said dryly.
"I confess I had hoped otherwise," Lecter replied, flicking out the serrated Harpy to slice through Willy's bonds. Willy stared for a moment at the steaming platters, his mouth watering. Molly held out her hands, her eyes following Lecter closely. Willy watched, and bit his lip, trying not to hyperventilate.
Don't panic. Don't panic, he doesn't want you to panic, and you don't want to panic. Ask him something. Negotiate.
"I'll make a deal with you, doc," he said as he drew in a shaky breath, rubbing the chafe marks on his wrists. "I'll eat that if you promise me that I'll be back at school for my final exam and my mother will be home by this time next week."
Molly frowned at her son, who shrugged. Lecter cocked an eyebrow, and then slowly, a genuine smile appeared on his face.
"I'll tell you what, William. I'll do more than that. If you are willing to make this as pleasant an experience as possible, I'll not only cut both your bonds and give you free reign of the house, I'll make sure that you ace that final exam."
"You're both insane," Molly muttered from across the table. Lecter offered Willy his hand. Willy forced himself not to blanch, shook it firmly. There was a moment of silence.
"That looks excellent, doc," Willy finally said , indicating the steaming platters.
"Thank you, William," Lecter reciprocated as he began to dish out portions. Molly didn't say anything, but seized her champagne flute and downed half of it. She quailed slightly as Lecter cast her a disapproving look.
"Molly, I'd ask you kindly to give that brand the respect it deserves by not guzzling it," he said softly as he set a plate down in front of her.
"Do you normally prepare gourmet meals for your hostages?" she asked, this time taking a smaller sip.
"To be quite honest with you, I have little experience with this sort of thing."
"Really," Willy commented as he cut into the fish. "Excuse me for saying so, but you seem like an expert."
"I try," Lecter murmured, feigning modesty as he refilled Molly's glass. "I applaud your choice in scents, Molly, the rose water compliments you very well, even if you do only wear it to church."
Molly opened her mouth to question his knowledge of this information, but then realized it would be useless.
"And I'm glad to see you've recovered well from your surgery...how has your back been holding up?"
"Much better, thank you," she said stiffly, and took another measured sip of her champagne. Eyeing the plate critically, she considered for a moment and then picked up the dainty silver fork and speared a small hunk of crab meat, carefully lifting it to her mouth. She chewed it thoughtfully.
"You were right about the rosemary," she finally said, still looking down at her plate. Lecter buffed his fingernails against the white collar of his shirt, waiting patiently for Molly to look him in the eye. When she finally raised her angry gaze to meet his, he licked the backs of his small white teeth.
"I'll be sure to send you home with the recipe."
---
"I wonder why the government agencies policing this world are so very secretive." Lecter's voice purred in her ear. No, not Lecter. Before, she could distance herself from him with 'Lecter' or 'Dr. Lecter' or even just 'him'. Now, with his hands pinning hers against the cold white enamel of the old fashioned refrigerator, his body pressed against hers with uncomfortable intimacy, her breath was short.
"Hannibal," she breathed, trying to quell the anxiety in her heart. His face was inches from hers. She could smell the sweet tang of sauvignon blanc on his breath.
"Do know you the first thing I thought when I saw you?"
"Cheap shoes...?" she ventured, the nervous quiver present in her voice. Oh, how she wanted to escape. Was it fear that wracked her body, or...something else? She didn't want to think about it.
"I thought, 'she's afraid of me...but more afraid of failure.'" The edge of his lower lip travelled against her cheek. Her body jerked, but Hannibal reaffirmed his grasp on her waist, slamming her against the refrigerator.
"Tell me, Clarice," he continued calmly."What did you do after you left? Don't lie."
Clarice turned her face away from his, unable to look him in the eyes.
"I cried outside my car."
"Why? Did I frighten you?" There wasn't a single note of concern in his voice, merely inquiry. His breath, hot and sweet with alcohol, traversed across her throat, making her dizzy. She shuddered.
"No. You looked through me. I felt exposed. Unsophisticated, simple...that everything in my life up until that point didn't...mean anything."
"What then, is my significance in your life? Think carefully, Clarice."
Right answer, wrong answer. The latter might result in her death. Those quick jaws, full of sharp teeth were right there before her throat. But she knew the answer. As long as she knew the answer, she would always be safe. As safe as it was possible to be here at Dr. Lecter's mercy.
"I wasn't who I was meant to be until I met you."
"The first time, making love through the glass with eye contact. You remember. The FBI sent you to me, whored you out just like they have whored you every day since you entered into their service. A wise non-event, they'd title it. This never happened. You feel used, don't you."
"Yes."
"But not by me."
" No."
"One wise non-event, breach of trust with foul intent. Tell me how it feels."
"Hurt. Alone. Empty."
"Tell me what you want."
"To save the innocent."
"And? Think harder."
"To punish the sinners."
Hannibal tilted her chin, lips millimetres from hers as he spoke softly.
"You see, we're very much alike. Naturally I lack that rather thoughtful former, but such as it is..."
Her body sagged into his arms as his mouth met hers, demanding and all-consuming. Without thought, she felt herself respond, retaliate, letting her tongue flicker into his mouth to taste the white wine he had sipped as he had prepared that macabre dining arrangement. When it ended, he smiled at her, patronizing as always.
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it, Clarice?"
"But," she protested, a frown forming on her face. "I didn't kiss you. Before, I didn't kiss you back."
"Well, this is a dream, Clarice. It's your subconscious. We can be like the FBI, and say it never happened. One wise non-event."
Clarice woke with her face in her pillow, sweat trickling between her shoulder blades. The blankets were wrapped tightly around her body, and she struggled to free herself from them. She fought to clear the dream from her mind, but like many dreams, its reality still clung to her nerves. It was a few minutes before the scent of sauvignon blanc and blood had completely left her nostrils.
Her heart beginning to slow, Clarice glanced at the bedside clock. The red digital readout showed 5:26 am. No way was she going to get back to sleep. Reaching for her robe, she pulled it on and sauntered out to the kitchen.
She was unused to creeping down the hallof her own apartmentbut Graham's faint snores could be heard from the kitchen. Turning on the drip on the coffee machine, Clarice retrieved the case file from the living room couch, and returned with it to the kitchen table. Turning on the low stove light, she sat down and began to flip through it.
Photographs of mutilated bodies popped out at her. Detailed crime reports listed the bizarre conditions in which the victims had been found, accompanied by newspaper clippings and photographs of the ever elegant murderer in question. Finally, she came to the back of her file; her own notes from the Gumb case. Old reminders of those heady days when she was first learning the art of deciphering Dr. Lecter's word games. Sighing, she doodled aimlessly on her legal pad as she looked down at the abundance of material, cursing its uselessness.
Idly, she traced out the words from her dream. The odd jumble of words the subconscious Hannibal had strung together to form that stinging rhyme.
"One wise non-event."
She stared at the words for a moment, and then glanced back at the scribbles on the yellowed ten year old piece of note paper.
Iron Sulfide. One Wise Non-Event.
"Elizabeth Bathory, a country house...and locker 1279."
Suddenly, a jolt of realization hit her.
Quickly, she began to rearrange the letters of the phrase from the dream. Scratching out possibilities, rewriting new ones, until finally she was left with only plausible possibility.
One Two Seven Nine.
"Letters and numbers," she mumbled to herself, frustration making her body tense. Fighting the desire to throw the pen, paper, and file across the room, she slammed a hand down on the table. Then...it clicked.
"One, two, seven, nine...one nine seven two...1972. Oh my God."
Quivering with excitement, she rooted through the file folder, until finally she came to a newspaper clipping dated 1972. There wasn't much of an article, but the faded black and white photograph depicted a group of men and women in affluent formal wear. One of them, naturally, was Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Squinting, Clarice brought the paper to her nose in order to read the caption.
"Baltimore Philharmonic Board members - From left to right...Mrs. Adrienne Chagny, Mr. Maurice Yates, Dr. Henry Carnegie, Ms. Christina Flagella, Mr. Frances Bath, Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
"Oh my god." Clarice repeated again. She jumped to her feet and raced over to the guestroom door. A rapid knock on the door brought a disgruntled "Wha...?" from Graham.
"Will, I found it. I figured it out. Get up, we've got to get to the office to call Baltimore."
Graham opened the door, puffy eyed and dazed looking in his Red Sox nightshirt.
"Find something?"
"Look," Clarice stuffed the clipping under his nose. "1972. Remember, locker 1279? 1972. Elizabeth Bathory. Frances Bath. I'll bet my rent that Frances Bath owned a country house, Will."
"Well, I'll be," Graham said, and stifled a yawn. "Time to get dressed."