Chapter 30
The New World
Clarice could feel her skull pulsing with every erratic beat of her heart. Dimly, she sensed a pair of hands supporting her body. Erik must have noticed that she was about to fall and had quickly stepped forward to catch her underneath her arms. Her vision constricted to see only the crimson stains upon the white of the dress and of the forearms. As the bile rose in her throat, she wondered why Erik did not appear as horrified as she did.
A roaring filled her ears as she saw Hannibal step into view beside the body, wiping his bloodstained hands with a white towel. She made to move towards him, but the hands on her arms stayed her. She snarled and moved again but Erik increased the pressure of his hands. She the cold sensation of the mask pressing against the side of her head, and she realized that he was saying something.
"What?"
"That is not Christine."
The words were whispered directly into her ear and took several seconds to register in her mind.
"What?' she croaked.
Erik made no response but simply ran a soothing hand over her shoulders. Then she felt him turn his gaze toward the other man. "Monsieur…you had certainly better have a good explanation for this."
Hannibal's hands twisted within the crimson-stained towel as if he wished to rend it in two. Instead he stowed the cloth out of sight within a bulging black bag beside the body. He lifted his eyes to meet Clarice but through the red haze within her mind, she saw nothing.
His lip curled. "I see no need, Erik. It seems as if both of you have already drawn your own conclusions."
"Damn it, man, this is no time for—"
"Do I appear to be jesting, monsieur?" His voice was so terribly cold. "I understand your initial reaction only too well, but if you insist on imagining only the worst of me, then I am obligated to tell you nothing." He turned to look at Clarice again and this time she could not miss the flicker of pain in the cold depths of his eyes.
She offered him no response, merely held his gaze for a moment longer before looking once more at the body upon the table. She forced her heart down from her throat. The agency had trained her well to observe with impartiality in the most dire of situations, and she drew upon that serenity now.
The woman was dead and had been so for many hours. The bruises upon her face were blackened and the cuts were covered with a coppery crust. Through slashes in the wedding gown, she could see that some flesh wounds that had not healed. These gashes had been truly horrific and had been made with a variety of serrated blades. Black streaks around the wounds indicated that the weapons had been made of rusty and low-grade metal. However, the slash marks in the fabric of the gown did not match their corresponding wounds. The rips in the dress were clean, smooth, deliberate. There was too little blood staining the fabric, considering the time frame. The slashes in the dress—Christine's dress—had been added later. Perhaps only mere minutes ago.
Clarice took several gulps of air and felt the pounding behind her eyes ease. She looked at Hannibal again: a criminal, a murderer, her lover, her husband in every way except for law. How could she trust him? Hannibal drew his hands away from the body but remained at his place beside the table, like a doctor standing over his patient. How could she not trust him?
"Where did you find her?" Clarice asked, and was surprised at the steadiness in her voice. Erik had long since released his hold on her.
She saw her husband's eyes fill with relief. "The hospital's mortuary. They had not yet filed her information and were only too happy to leave the task to another doctor."
"Why?" she finally asked.
His lips thinned. She could feel his searching eyes boring into her for a long time. Apparently satisfied, he nodded his head to the side of the room, towards a figure that neither had noticed. "I think you would be more satisfied if she were to give you the answer herself."
Christine stepped out from the shadows of the room and walked towards them. As she moved past the desk, she shrank as far away from it as possible, her face pale. Erik enfolded her in his arms, tightening his hold as the girl began to tremble.
"Christine," Erik asked gently, "What is going on?"
She placed her hands against his chest, visibly calming as it rose and fell with his breathing. "Our freedom, Erik."
He waited, obviously expecting for her to say more. But she remained silent as she tried to look anywhere except for the grotesque display upon the table.
"She is leaving too much behind to disappear." Erik looked up as Clarice spoke for her. "They are still hunting for the Phantom in Paris, and thus they will continue to hunt her. If Christine is dead, they have no more reason to look. It is a simple matter of tying up loose ends, Erik, something we make a habit of doing."
"Christine agreed to this," Hannibal said quickly.
"You never said…" Christine's voice was shaking again. "…that it would look like this."
Hannibal sucked in air through his teeth. "I apologize for the unpleasantness, but corpses of young girls in pristine condition are hard to come by."
There were audible gasps from both Christine and Clarice. But instead of growing paler, Christine's face flushed quickly with anger.
"I agreed to this, did I? Certainly I did, you were so reassuring; you were so confident and comforting; you had been for all the months we spent together. How could I doubt that you knew best?"
"Christine…"
She paid him no attention, carrying on as if a raging harpy had taken her place. "I don't know who you really are or what right you think you have to toy with the lives of others like this. And I am disgusted by the fact that you find yourselves unable to trust me enough to tell me." Pausing for breath, she looked up with a hint of pleasure that both of them, especially the Duke, were not meeting her gaze. But then her tone softened as she took Erik's hand in hers. "However, I was not lying when I said that I trust you with my life, both of our lives. I trust that you are doing what is best for the both of us. And that you have a good reason for not telling me…whatever it is. I only hope that someday you will find it in yourselves to trust me likewise."
"Christine." This time it was Erik who spoke. "Remember that I would not tell you who I was at first either. I believe it was the right decision in the end, but that didn't make it any easier."
The young woman did not speak, but she tightened her grip on his hand and nodded.
"We will finish what needs to be done here," Clarice offered.
Christine raised her eyes to her, and Clarice's heart fell at the stiff gratitude she saw in her gaze. The young woman nodded, and the couple began to move away.
"Christine," Hannibal reminded softly.
She stopped so abruptly that she nearly tripped. She reached into her bag. Her hand was steady as it brought out Raoul's gleaming engagement ring and remained steady as she took the many steps toward the table. She lowered her hand towards the ravaged body, wavered, and finally set the ring down next to the girl's stiff right hand.
When they had closed the door behind them, Hannibal picked up the cold hand and after some maneuvering, slid the platinum band onto the fourth finger. Frozen in rigor mortis, the ring sat precariously loose upon the finger. But Hannibal bent over the hand and though Clarice could not see what he was doing, when he straightened and turned back towards her, the ring fit snugly and comfortably upon the stranger's hand.
"Who was she?"
He paused at the unexpected question, but then moved his eyes unerringly up and down the body. "Her physique and length of bone indicates a basic but nourishing diet. She was a step above working class, most likely a seamstress, judging by the calluses on her fingers. Early to mid 20s in age. No evidence of sexual assault, which is fortunate as we would not be able to conceal that from the coroners. Nevertheless, wrongful death."
She raised her eyes to him. "What is this? Hannibal Lecter speaking like a special agent?"
A corner of his mouth twitched upwards briefly before his expression sobered. He rested his hands palms down on the table next to hers but did not touch her. "You really believed that I had done it," he stated.
She did not lie. "Yes."
"I hoped that you would not."
"Then give me a reason, Hannibal," she said gently. "I believe that you love me. I believe that you care for Erik and Christine like family. You prove these things to me every day. Prove to me as well that you are finished killing. Let me see you, let me help you."
He bowed his head. "There were others at the hospital, others still living…in better…cosmetic condition than our seamstress. They were a hairsbreadth from death, wasting away from incurable diseases. It would have been a mercy. It would have been simple to justify even to your own staunch morality."
"Then…why?"
"Why did I not? I believe that I once asked you if you would ever say to me 'Stop…if you love me, you'll stop.'" He shifted his hand slightly so it was half-covering hers, relaxing when she did not pull away. "But that was not a question for you to ever ask, it was a question that I myself had to answer for. And…I have. And that is the reason."
Clarice looked from their hands back up to him. "It seems as if today's wonders will never cease. Now I learn that Hannibal Lecter is an incurable romantic."
The scoff that she was expecting never came. "It is the most passionate people who have the potential for the most good or evil," he said. "I shy away from thinking what could have been had you and Christine not been turned from our path so early in your lives."
His hand was a warm weight over hers. Clarice turned her palm face up and interlaced their fingers. "It is never too late," she said.
Hannibal smiled at her and squeezed her hand in his
Do you know the difference between a "labyrinth" and a "maze"? Too often we carelessly interchange these in common speech, never knowing that they differ significantly in one way. Both contain only one true path, but while a maze hides this path with countless blind alleys, a labyrinth contains no dead ends, only detours.
"What do you suppose it means?"
"Why do you care?"
"It's just…it sounds rather optimistic, doesn't it? And if it is, why would she kill herself?"
"Like hell if I know how the minds of these aristocrat types work."
"How can you be so sure that's what she is?"
"I know silk when I see it. And that there ring sure isn't any old trinket."
"Hmm, how much do you think that toy would fetch me?"
"You'll leave it alone if you know what's good for you. Once the body is identified, her folks would realize its absence as fast as they'll throw you in jail. Write down a description of the gown, can't be too many stores in the city that sell stuff this fine. Poor girl, it was a wedding dress, too."
The body bearing the white gown had been floating in the Seine for the better part of a week before it had washed up on a bank a few yards away from the Louvre, frightening a group of vacationing nobles to death. The body and the dress had been beaten and slashed against the breaking ice badly enough that the facial features were completely obliterated. One fist bore a sparkling ring on its fourth finger, thus preventing the coroners from writing the case off as just another missing person. When they managed to pry her fist open, they found the apparent suicide note crumpled in her palm, waterlogged around the edges but otherwise legible.
Damaged though it was, the identification of the dress was made quickly. It wasn't every day that a wedding dress of such extravagance was purchased.
"Jesus Christ, the future Viscountess de Chagny. That family seems permanently cursed. Young gel was only 20 years old, too. Poor girl, I'd hate to be the one to tell her fiancé."
"Meaning you're shoving the unpleasantries onto me then."
"I'll treat you to a nice dinner with the family."
"Appreciated. Life goes on, eh, mate?"
The news of Christine Daaé the future Viscountess de Chagny's suicide spread like wildfire through the social circles of Paris. The vast part of the population had never quite made up their minds about the scandalous singer, but few were hardened enough not to weep over the end of such a beautiful and promising young woman.
Commotion stirred amongst the higher circles; they accused each other of being unkind to the girl, for driving her to a horrific end all because of their inflated egos. Many were humbled and stopped to consider the path their lives had taken. The spell lasted for a day or two before the feelings passed like temporary rain showers and the men returned to their brandy and the women to their powder and fans.
An investigation was undertaken, reassigning a significant number of officers who had been patrolling the city for the elusive Phantom. The fact that the lessening of police presence on public transit-ways coincided with the Duke and Duchess de Londres' imminent departure from Paris was seen as nothing more than a coincidence.
"Do you require any assistance, madam?"
"No." The other woman turned to go. "Christine…please. I wish…I wish that you wouldn't."
She turned to face her. "I know. I wish that I could…put it all behind me. Erik is better at doing so, I suppose. It will take me time. But…madam, the next time that I address you, I want to use your real name."
She matched her piercing blue gaze with one of her own. "Yes, Christine. I promise to tell you one day. After you are in America. After you are safe. But until then, even you must travel under a false name."
"I understand."
"Mama, please don't cry."
"I should never have let it happen. I should have smashed that damn mirror and moved her to a different dressing room when it first started."
Meg wrapped her little arms around her mother's waist as they both wept for the sister and daughter they had lost forever.
"Madam, I must entreat you not to leave now. It feels as if the entire city is in an uproar over the death of Miss Daaé. The reporters will be descending upon this Opera House in like buzzards."
"Don't fret, André. Remember that a successful Opera House is built around scandal. I have faith that you will handle this well, and turn a tidy profit in the process."
The man quirked a smile. "I return the sentiment, madam. I never thought I would hear myself say this, but you are everything I could have asked for in a business partner. I wish you and your husband well in your travels."
In the cold, sterile hospital room, Raoul de Chagny lifted his dead love's hand in his and caressed her fingers and the ring upon her fourth finger.
A ring that she had said that she would never wear again.
He suddenly began to laugh, but, remembering the presence of the coroners, he turned the laughter into a choking sob. However, in his mind, he silently wished Christine well.
The Fells left their estate with little fanfare, making enough excuses to avoid too many questions. They had dismissed all of their servants except for two. Their maid, Mariana, was a lovely girl that had traveled with them long enough to be considered a part of the family. The Duke and Duchess apologized for her shyness but it simply wouldn't be proper for her to make an appearance as they said their goodbyes. Gawkers caught only a glimpse of her as she stepped into the carriage, her head wrapped in a shawl.
The second servant they chose to retain was their coachman, whom they trusted to conduct them safely to the remote areas of France and then over the sea to the New World. He unfortunately had a horrible case of hay fever and really could not step out of the house in this season without a scarf wrapped around his face.
Caught up in the latest scandal of the future Viscountess de Chagny's drowning, the socialites gave little thought to the abrupt departure of the Duke and Duchess, except to scramble greedily into their bank vaults when they realized that the beautiful estate had been put up for auction.
The couple that successfully purchased the house, however, merely expressed outrage at having to pay such an exorbitant sum for a property they claimed had been theirs all along. More than a year ago, they had awakened to find themselves on an island, which, while exotic and comfortable, had been miles away from any form of civilization. There they had lived a mean and suffering existence until a few days ago, when the hand of God had finally seen fit to bring them a merchant vessel bound for France.
The aristocrats merely laughed and welcomed them heartily into their society. After all, they could never resist a good story.
FIN
A/N: Thanks, gushing, and tears shall follow after the epilogue. Until then, as always, review, pleeeeease!