Author's Note: Thank you all again for reading my version of Dr. Lecter's past. I know it won't come close to Mr. Harris's but I don't care. Read on, my dear readers! This will be the last chapter.
Chapter Ten: The Last Quid Pro Quo
The last scenes before my incarceration were played out quickly before my eyes. Thinking back on them, I realize that time had slowed down the days and let the actions that came about flow freely.
You must remember Benjamin Raspail, Agent Starling. Oh, that man was atrocious. Probably one of the most vile men that walked the earth. His tastes were vulgar. His music was even worse. He was the one who introduced me to Buffalo Bill. He and Klaus, his lover at the time if you remember, were fascinated with a certain Jame. Klaus only came to see me twice; he seemed to sense subconsciously what I was and I could see the fear reflected in his eyes. He had the same look whenever he looked at Jame. He must have had the gift of precognition because he told me the second time we met that Jame would be the death of him. I don't think he knew at that time how true his words rang.
Poor Agent Graham was visiting me more than ever. He paced up and down my study looking for the answer of who the Chesapeake Ripper was when I was in the room all along. He would mutter distractedly and then go on a long soliloquy about different elements of the crimes. He was so close sometimes, it frightened me. All I had to do was mention some clue to contradict him and he shattered into despair. We talked about Molly sometimes and his son, although he never stayed for supper. Day and Night we worked on the case. Well, he did. I just played along...
One slow carefree day, I was walking down the street, my harpy comfortably in my left jacket pocket. I was thinking about Graham and Raspail. I had went through my mail that morning and found several letters from an old friend. I met her on some of my travels and enjoyed her company. She had written to me about her niece... Her niece was from Russia and had a reputation that preceded her. She was beautiful and intelligent with a quiet and intense demeanor. Her aunt asked me to meet her at least once to give her my professional opinion on the girl. Lilia Derevko sat on a park bench by herself. She had a dancer's lithe body. I sat down nonchalantly and studied her. Her aunt had a right to worry. We talked for some time. In an attempt to further her "career" I gave her my harpy. After I walked away with her staring at my back until she lost me in the crowd. I don't know how many killers I produced during my practice, but Jackie was right. I did set them loose.
It was the night of the twentieth of March, 1975. I sat in the Baltimore Music Concert Hall wanting to kill someone. The music was being ruined by the inept Raspail! He had not practiced the night before and so was missing important cues. Harsh notes rang out very noticeably. Even the novice music majors from the universities had commented on the horrible performance. The President of the Orchestra shook his head resignedly when he got up from his seat with a frown. Rachel said it was the worst performance she had ever been to. I was furious with Raspail. How can one flutist ruin an entire production? I didn't even know it was possible. That night I went back stage into the dressing rooms. Raspail was sweating profusely and kept wiping his head with a handkerchief. His white shirt was drenched. I could smell the disgusting scent of him.
"What happened out there, Ben?" I asked him kindly.
He looked at me, his eyes with a wild look in them. He looked like a man who had lost his way. Maybe he had...
"I don't know, Dr. Lecter. I–I don't know what's come over me. It was that damn conductor!" He burst out.
He was never one to take the blame.
"The conductor this evening was changing tempo too fast, don't you agree?"
"Maybe–."
"Now I'm the laughing stock of the whole city! I won't be commissioned anymore–."
He went on with his tirade for another ten minutes. I stopped him when he needed breath and suggested we go out for dinner to "calm his poor nerves." We walked several blocks when I took him unawares and stabbed him in the back. He went down cleanly. He didn't even fight. It was a very anticlimactic killing. I cut out his thymus and pancreas. I was in the mood for sweet breads.
A couple nights later, I sat in on another performance. This time the music ran clear and smooth. I hosted a dinner at my home and had the entire board there. It was perfect. We ate and discussed the disappearance. One woman asked what was my key ingredient.
"If I told you, you would not eat another bite."
It was around eleven o'clock at night when all of them left (having taken a piece of Raspail along with them). I cleared the table and set about the tedious tasks of washing dishes. At eleven thirty my doorbell rang. It was Agent Graham.
He was very anxious and kept stuttering. His eyes were wide with sudden inspiration but his face looked worn. I invited him to sit down and take a deep breath to calm down. He then looked me straight in the eye.
"He's eating them."
I was shocked at his revelation. This was much too close to the solution.
"Are you sure?" I asked tensely.
"Absolutely! Listen, I was at Josh's grandparents' house and his grandpa was showing him how to carve a turkey. His grandfather said to cute along the back to get the oysters. I had never heard the term before. I then saw how and what he cut. It was the same type of cut from the back of Darcy Taylor. I couldn't eat after that." He looked green at the memory of it.
"This is remarkable," I commented in a disbelieving tone.
"We had it wrong all along, Doctor. We're not trying to find some disgruntled med student or some crazy mortician. It makes sense! All the organs taken from the bodies were some sort of food item."
He both his hands through his disheveled hair. He was pale.
"You need a good night's rest, Will. Let me go get your coat."
With that I walked out of the room without a protest from him. I retrieved his jacket and made my way into the kitchen. I had been saving the linoleum knife for something special. An FBI agent seemed right. When I came back into the room, I saw him staring at an open book. He was extremely tense. Even from where I stood I could hear his labored breath. Quietly, I walked up to him until I was directly behind him. He turned around and gasped.
I thrust the knife into him. He choked and sputtered and tried to free himself. His hands had given up trying to pull the knife away from my grasp and were trying to find anything to defend himself with. A pain erupted into my side. Five arrows protruded from it. I stepped back, letting Will fall to the floor. My right hand touched the wounds and came away with my own blood on them. Ironic, isn't it? I was going to stab Will again but he reached his gun, strapped to his ankle, first. I was shot twice. My body failed me and hung limp on my desk. Maryland State Troopers arrived ten minutes later.
They sat in silence. The cigar smoke had almost cleared completely out of the air. Starling was no longer staring directly at Dr. Lecter. Her eyes gazed at something directly over his left shoulder. He still watched her. The ice that she had been, seemed to have melted. Even her posture seemed more soft. The only thing that had intensified was her grip on the .45. Her hand wasn't as steady as it was. Dr. Lecter still sat with his legs crossed at the ankles, his fingers together. He was unnaturally still.
"Of course you know the rest of the story, Agent Starling. I have left no major details out of my account. So we only have one more thing to discuss... Why?"
Her eyes flickered up to meet his. Her expression was almost fearful and anxious. Her fiery hair was trying desperately to get into her face. She moved it impatiently behind her ears.
"Why what, Doctor?" she asked.
He knew she was "playing dumb." She knew that he knew, but did it anyway.
"We had a bargain, Special Agent Starling. You've heard my life story. Now I get to ask you a question and listen to your answer. Quid pro quo."
She rose from her sear and with her free hand smoothed out the red dress. Her other hung limply at her side. She mumbled something.
"I didn't catch that, Clarice."
Her eyes met his. They were tearful but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. Her face was more pale than when she first took off the mask.
"Because they wouldn't stop screaming."
He didn't comprehend what she said at first. When comprehension sunk in, he raised his eyebrows to her. She raised her gun.
"They won't ever stop if you do this," he said while getting up.
If he was about to be shot, then he would be a gentleman about it. He would take the bullet straight-backed and tall.
"Who would have thought that the infamous Dr. Hannibal Lecter would plead for his life."
"It's not mine I'm pleading for."
Clarice's face contorted with anger. The pressure her finger was exerting on the trigger increased."
"You can't get out of this one, Doctor."
"Don't change the subject. They'll go away for a little bit but they'll come back louder and more gruesome looking." Both stared directly into each other's eyes.
The guests downstairs were forced into silence when they heard the gun shot. They all looked around stupidly. One young woman with more brains than the rest ran to the phone to dial the police.
Dr. Lecter stood in the middle of his study. Blood was slowly making its way through his shirt. His eyes never left Starling's. Clarice lowered the smoking barrel. Dr. Lecter staggered backward, his sight blurring. He felt someone sling an arm around his shoulders and guide him toward a couch in the corner. He fell heavily onto it, his breathing very ragged. His vision focused and he saw Clarice kneeling next to him. He now knew why she had worn that dark red dress; it was to hide the blood that splattered on her. With a final sigh, he whispered, "Mischa." Clarice Starling was the last person Dr. Lecter ever saw.
Trembling she stared at the dead body before her. He was dead. Dr. Lecter. Dead. She holstered her gun on her thigh and covered it. With her right hand she reached for his face. Her thin fingers came into contact with his eyelashes; his eyes were blank. Gently she closed them. She looked at the man whom she chased for years.
Clarice rose from her position on the floor and moved quickly toward the desk. Her hands shook as she searched through it but found nothing of importance. The last drawer wouldn't open for her. She found a letter opener and was able to pry the lock. She moved even faster when the sirens entered her hearing. Inside were old and faded newspaper clippings of herself. She took out the clippings and stared at them. Disregarding them, she moved her hand over the bottom of the drawer. It moved. She was able to pull up the false bottom in three seconds. Inside were two photographs. One was extremely old and yellowed. It showed a young girl not more than five years old. Even though it was an old photo, Starling knew the little girl had startling light eyes and dark hair.
"You were right," she whispered to the body, "she was beautiful."
The other photograph was a picture of herself, smiling. Her face blanched. She was noticeably younger. There was no dead look to her eyes and her face was fuller. She didn't recognize herself. When you lose yourself to your passions, you sell yourself to the devil. She could hear the people moving about the house trying to get out. The sirens were outside in the front of the grand house. Moving resolutely, she put her mask back on and stepped onto the landing, the pictures held firmly in her grasp. She hadn't bothered remembering the case file. She walked down the stairs in a kind of trance. Argentinian police officers rushed into the house. They jostled people out of the way, their guns raised. In rapid Spanish, they ordered everyone out of the house. Clarice blended in with the rest of the herd. She felt empty. What did I accomplish? The guests were even more terrified. They moved around her as if she were not there. No one noticed the specter walk out of the house with blood on its dress. No one heard nor saw it. That night, she woke up screaming. There are some things that are better left unspoken and in this case, unwritten.
Fin.
Another Author's Note: I would like to extend my deepest thanks to JetNoir for helping me a lot with this new final chapter. I don't know how I could have done it without him! Thanks, Jet! Oh! One more thing, Lilia Derevko is his vicious killer, not mine! Go read his stories!