"List the four categories of anxieties that may be present in children."
Willy observed not for the first time that morning, how utterly bizarre this situation was. Molly was barricaded in the living room, watching television (or maybe plotting an escape). Willy himself was lying on Professor Walsh's old couch in the study. Adjacent to him was Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who at the present time was leaning against the oak desk, toying with a leather-bound copy of Grey's Anatomy.
"Generalized Anxiety, Separation Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Phobias."
"What are generally the first signs of OCD?"
"An illogical impulse that is repeated, often times associated with some kind of phobia."
"Give an example, William," Lecter said lazily, thumbing the pages and watching them zip against the cover.
"A child might have an illogical fear of someone breaking into their home. They would check all of the doors and windows to make sure they're locked. That's the phobia. When they're afraid that they accidentally unlocked one of the doors or windows during the first course, and go back to check them again, that's an obsessive-compulsive manifestation."
"Very good. Now, what are some of the more obscure ways to identify a learning disorder?"
"Difficulty distinguishing left from right, extreme dyslexia, difficulty walking in a straight line or generally keeping focused on even the smallest task."
"Why is it important to assess this problem accurately?"
"Because children may develop academic problems or phobias because of emotional stress or trauma. Their education might be interrupted for a period of time, and they never quite work up to the levels of their peers."
"And?"
"And..." Willy hummed the word at the ceiling. "That doesn't necessarily indicate a learning disability, and it can severely damage the child's educational process if they're misdiagonosed."
"Tell me, William," Lecter drawled as he set the book down on the table. "Where are you looking to start your internship?"
"I was thinking about doing a few years at the UW Medical Center, and then maybe Harborview," Willy paused, and then pushed himself up from his reclining position to look at Lecter, one eyebrow skeptically lifted. "Why?"
Lecter cocked his head to the side, a benevolent grin spreading on his face. "Would you perhaps like a recommendation?"
"What?" Willy asked incredulously.
"I am still licensed to practice medicine, a recommendation from me is perfectly legitimate," Lecter said, tilting his head with a catlike smile.
"I don't think they'd believe me," Willy said doubtfully.
"Get my handwriting tested. I'll leave fingerprints. It'll be entirely bonafide. And highly amusing, if nothing else."
Willy turned around and directed his confused expression at the ceiling.
"I still don't know, doc."
"Think of it this way. You'll get considerations simply for managing to survive my company."
Willy said nothing for a moment. Again he noted the absolute insanity of his present circumstances.
"Good point," he said, voice slightly higher than usual.
---
Gun parts were scattered all over the dashboard. Graham was cleaning his old 37. S&W revolver with a paper napkin he had found in the glove compartment. Clarice glanced at him for a moment, and then returned her eyes to the road. They had changed at a rest stop an hour back. Clarice didn't know the road any better than Graham, but it seemed like a good idea if they wanted to conserve their focus for the upcoming ordeal.
"You still use that old fossil?" she commented, indicating the skeleton of the gun, removed of its cartridge cylinder.
"Old reliable. What's that anti-aircraft piece you're packing, anyway?"
Clarice unclipped her holster, pulled out the matte-black special issue baretta handgun and handed it to Graham. He hefted the loaded gun, and then arched an eyebrow at Clarice.
"Hey, normally I go smaller," she said defensively. She had a bad reputation for being too skilled with handguns, and many of the slights made years ago by the press still stung, even now.
"Well, it's not like a dinky little Derringer is going to get the job done."
"I've got one those, too."T
To be frank, Clarice wasn't sure if any gun would get the job done. Though she had never actually witnessed it herself, she had heard about his inhuman speed. His calm and strategically planned escape from the Memphis PD had made her realize long ago how physically dangerous he was. She knew for a fact he had no difficulty overwhelming an individual with a firearm. Not to mention his ability to prevent pain from dictating his actions. He had grimaced slightly when he brought the cleaver down on his own wrist, but that was all.
So when, Graham offered her gun back, and she took it gingerly, knowing that if it came to down to shooting, they wouldn't be shooting to injure or inebriate. They'd shoot to kill.
An hour later, they had traded spots again. Clarice now had taken up the chore of cleaning her firearm, but wasn't at it long before Graham pulled to a stop on the side of the road and yanked the parking break.
"What's up?" Clarice asked, sitting up.
"It's just up there, but let's not pull right up. No need to give him any warning," Graham said, lowering his voice, as if Lecter could hear them. Clarice popped the clip back into the baretta and holstered it while Graham retrieved the battle fatigues from the back seat. Pulling them on, they both got out of the car and began to crunch down the gravel shoulder towards the gated driveway.
---
Molly Graham had double checked to make sure the television volume was loud enough to prevent any one outside the room from hearing her clandestine activities. Holding the strip of bedding, she carefully tied it around the matte black handle of a steak knife she had managed to filch from the kitchen while Lecter and Willy talked in the study.
She had tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that the only way to survive this would be civility. Willy didn't know what Lecter was capable of- he didn't hear the horror story of Lecter's two attempts of the life of her husband. When Willy saw the scars, he equated them with Francis Dolarhyde, not Lecter, who in truth was responsible for them.
After the assault in their home, Molly and Graham had talked about divorce. But alas, she could not leave this sad, brave and flawed man. She knew her decision was the right one when one evening, Will had spent the night talking with his step son about the nightmares little Willy had been suffering. Dolarhyde would invade her son's thoughts at night, giving him terrors and making him afraid to go to sleep. Graham had promised no one would ever hurt them again.
Molly fumed as she fumbled with the knot. Here they were, in the custody of a psychopathic killer, yet again. Stuffing the homemade flail under one of the couch cushions, she turned towards the television, one hand around the rope, and waited patiently for Willy to reappear.
She was not disappointed. After ten minutes time, her pale face son sauntered into the room, his eyes red with sleeplessness. Despite his projected calm and sterile medical attitude towards the situation, staring eye to eye with Lecter had taken a toll on him. She hoped that after this, he would still be able to function in his chosen profession, that Lecter had not destroyed or perverted his love of psychology.
"Where is he?" Molly asked him in a soft undertone.
"The kitchen, I think. Why?"
"I want to try talking to him."
"You shouldn't, mom. He won't talk to you. He'll just...prod at your wounds."
"Why does he talk to you, Willy?"
Willy ran his hands through his hair.
"Common ground? General interest? I don't know."
"I want to talk to him about Will."
"He knows that," Willy murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the couch.
"What does he want, really?" Molly asked, hoping the noise off the television and her voice was covering the sound of scraping fabric as she pulled out the makeshift flail and tucked the knife into her back pocket.
"I have no idea. If you really want to ask him, you may as well. I guess he's making dinner."
"The cannibalistic psychopath is making us dinner."
"Yup."
Molly wound the frayed sheet around her forearm as she crept into the kitchen. The sound of sizzling could be heard, and the smell of lemon and shrimp carried to her nostrils. Lecter stood before the sink, carefully peeling a navel orange with a carrot shredder and assembling the artfully curled strips of rind on a paper towel. Letting out one coil of her weapon, Molly breathed in as silently as she dared and raised her arm to swing the knife in her captor's direction. The knife hissed through the air. Lecter turned with lightning speed and used the half peeled orange to catch the blade of the knife. Molly let out a small cry as he grinned viciously, grasping the end of the fabric strip and yanked her forward. She could smell the lemon on his breath from when he had sampled his own cooking. She felt a stinging in her arm, like that of a bee sting, and looked down at her arm. A hypodermic needle was quivering in the fleshy part of her forearm. Her vision began to blur, and she could faintly hear Lecter's chiding undertone.
"Tsk tsk. What did I tell you about the silverware, Molly."
Lecter caught her as she sagged, and set her gently down next to the spice cupboard. Gently he withdrew the needle and tossed it into the garbage. He returned to the stove top and turned down the heat. Shaking his head regretfully, he prepared a linen napkin with more of his favourite high concentrate chloro-form.
Pity it had to come to this. But, he supposed, now was as good a time as any. Assuming his plans had progressed sufficiently. Pulling a fold through his index and ring finger, he secured the chemical soaked napkin and calmly walked through the swinging kitchen door, through the dining room and into the living room.
"Case the place or go right in?" Graham said in an undertone. They were fifty yards from the house, but he couldn't help but feel the need to whisper.
Clarice bit her lip. "Come in from the water...I bet there's a basement door on the west side. See where the trees lead up to the water?"
"Okay. Ten seconds, okay? We both go across the grass at the same time."
Bent low, they crunched across the underbrush as they made their way down the shallow slope. The mist rode low over the grass, making it glisten with dew. Potentially slippery.
Silently, Clarice gestured this information with military code to Graham. Graham gave her a thumbs up. After a beat, they both shuffled past the woodshed, over the weedy wet lawn and onto the concrete patio that sat under the wooden balcony, cluttered with rusting garden equipment.
A wood thrush whistled through the trees, and was distantly answered. The noise echoed across the still waves of Lake Erie as Clarice fumbled with the lock-smith's key, slipping it into the small doorhandle lock. She needn't have bothered- the door was unlocked.
Knowing this could mean nothing good. Graham nudged the door open with the barrel of his six shooter. Automatic lights came up, florescently illuminating the gummy threadbare carpet and the cement walls upon which old posters had been tacked up. Exercise equipment had been placed around the organized looking room, but cobwebs hung from the handlebars and pulleys, adding to the musty atmosphere.
Creaky looking wooden steps lead up to what appeared to be the kitchen. The door at the top was left ajar, another unsettling sign. Graham waved Clarice into the room after him, and then went over to test the stairs. A faint but not loud creak emitted from the first one, and he carefully proceeded to the second. Clarice followed after him, careful to move light footedly as they ascended into the dimly lit kitchen.
The linoleum floor was peeling at the corners, and made a slight sound as their feet compressed it. The kitchen was organized and large, but disuse was evident in the thin layer of dust that seemed to coat everything. Clarice held up a hand for silence.
Tinny jazz music was playing in the room next door. Using her thick winter coat to muffle the sound, Clarice cocked her handgun and proceeded very slowly across the threshold into the living room. Graham followed behind her, his eyes watching everything over the sight on his revolver barrel.
Long satin sheets had been hung up over the various articles that seemed like they had been piled here for storage. Wax candles had dripped down over the mantel piece, and a large old fashioned gramophone with its comical lampshade like speaker was playing the gravelly tones of Louis Armstrong. The buzz of the record added even more character to the music, and Clarice felt her shoulders relax. What she had taken for boxes under the sheets were in fact, old musical instruments. Band pieces like long trombones and tubas. The candles had burned down to stubs, there was nothing left to support the wicks, some of which had ridden the wax waterfalls down the side of the mantel. Graham looked around once before reaching to touch one of the melted candles.
"No dust," he said softly.
"No one's here, Will," Clarice sighed. She holstered her gun and proceeded to the other side of the room across the swept hardwood floor. Uncovered in the corner was a desk made of handsome cherry wood. Atop it was a letter sealed with a featureless red wax seal. Uncaring of procedure, Clarice tore the thick white paper open and withdrew a fine sheet. Graham leaned over her shoulder as she read-
My dearest Clarice,
I had hoped you would find this sooner rather than later. I'm sorry not to be present, but I had business to attend to. Undoubtedly you're curious as to what happened to the late Mr. Bath. His remains are somewhere under the foundations of one of my old former residences: it's now a condominium. Oblige my vanity by adding him to my score card, will you?
In the icebox you will find hors d'oeuvres. I expect you're both famished after your long drive, I know I would be. I hope I'll be seeing you both quite soon.
Ta for now,
Hannibal Lecter
ps. Pay close attention to the ingredients, Will, I commissioned them especially for you.
"The icebox?"
"The fridge, come on."
They tracked back through the dust into the kitchen, where Graham threw open the refrigerator door. Neatly situated on a platter were the hors d'oeuvres, salty little crackers with cream cheese, salmon and capers piled on top of each one. On the shelf below it, the package of smoked salmon lay sealed inside a Ziplock bag. Graham bent down and grasped the package, reading its gold cardboard cover before promptly dropping it in horror.
"What is it? Will?" Clarice asked urgently, bending down to pick up the package.
"It's from Anacortes, Clarice, in Washington State."
In an instant, they were out of the house and in the car, tearing down the highway. While Clarice drove at breakneck speed, Graham dialled up Willy's cell phone number, dread threatening to consume his heart. One ring. Two. Three. A click-
"Hello, Will."
"Lecter, if you've hurt them, I'll blow your goddamn brains out."
Beside him, Graham could feel Clarice stiffen. The car swerved dangerously as she dodged past an SUV, but remained focused on her driving.
"I imagine you'd like to do that anyway, Will. Tell me, how are you sleeping?"
"Lecter..."
"Tsk. Your wife and step son are quite fine. Somewhat inebriated, true, but we've had quite a fine time."
"Where are you?" Graham demanded, one hand fingering the handle of his revolver.
"There's a flight headed for Seattle this evening from the Erie International Airport. I recommend that you take it, Will."
"What's he saying, Graham?" Clarice said, her voice a stage whisper. Graham held up a hand to indicate silence.
"Alright, I'll be on it."
"I don't need to tell you what you already know, do I?"
"No police."
"That's right. And one more thing."
"What?"
"If Clarice Starling is not with you when you arrive, I will be serving you Molly's eyeballs in gelato."
Graham was quiet for a moment. He glanced over at Starling, his face white, but eyes livid.
"Okay."
"Excellent. See you soon."
The receiver clicked and Graham closed his cell phone, setting it very gingerly on the dash.
"Make an exit for Pennsylvania as soon as you can. We're flying out tonight."
"Alright."