Note: Well, here we are: the penultimate chapter. Just to let you know, that 'The Drake Hotel' and 'The Hotel' are separate hotels, 'The Hotel' being where Clarice has been staying, and the purpose of 'The Drake Hotel' (which is real), will soon be made clear. This chapter contains strong bloody violence, some strong language, and begins approximately two minutes after the previous chapter…
DAYNIGHT
a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir
SATURDAY
(n i g h t)
The Streets of Chicago; three blocks from The Snow Building
With gunshots exploding all around her, Special Agent Clarice Starling threw herself around the corner and kept on running…
"You know, running away isn't going to help," said Lilia Derevko, floating a foot off the ground, "you have to face your problems, head on! Just don't lose your head in the process!"
"Shut up, you," snapped Clarice, sweat dripping off her brow, "you're not real. You're a voice in my head. You don't exist. AND THE WOMAN BEHIND ME WITH A VERY BIG GUN IS REAL!"
"Charming!" she said, slightly insulted. She leaned back, and kept flying beside her, "But dearest Clarice. Please make sure you aren't going, a little…well. You are talking to me, in the real world, so to speak. We aren't directly in your head anymore, are we?"
"LILIA! SHUT UP!" Lilia shrugged (quite a feat while flying backwards…then again, flying backwards itself is a feat), and disappeared. The wall next to Clarice exploded, and she knew Angela was right behind her.
Swearing viciously, she threw herself to the left, into an alley. Making sure there were several dumpsters between her and Carey's pistol, she pounded through the steam, and smog, and wind. It was so cold, Clarice thought. She had been so intent on the chase, she had just noticed it.
There was silence, but Clarice was not lulled by it, knowing Carey must have paused to reload. Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, she began to press her advantage. Turning left again, she began to run back towards the Snow Building, intent on finding Vaughn.
Her gun. She had forgotten she had a gun! Having used it only moments earlier, she had clean forgotten it's very existence? Mentally kicking herself, she drew it again, and still running, knowing (and hearing) Carey was behind her, she pointed it behind her, and pulled the trigger.
The gun clicked empty.
Swearing viciously again, she pulled the gun around, thumbed the clip release button, slid a new clip in, then turned the gun round and fired twice. The first time, the chamber was empty, but after, a round was expelled towards Carey. Hearing no letup in the steady stream of gunfire directed at her, she kept firing, and dodging.
She was rapidly approaching the Snow Building, now a block away. The running battle continued, both parties wasting bullets.
"Starling!" yelled a voice. Vaughn. Raising her head slightly, she saw him peeking round the corner. Putting on a burst of speed, she flung herself around, while Vaughn moved swiftly round, aiding her around, and laying down covering fire.
Meanwhile, in the middle of the street, Angela Carey dropped to the hard road, and began to roll sideways away from the fire.
Back at the corner, Clarice had reloaded her gun, and while still out of breath, leaned around and fired towards the rolling target, fury smouldering in her eyes.
Carey went limp.
"Careful," warned Vaughn, as he put his gun in a two handed position, pointed at an angle towards Carey. Clarice mirrored the gesture, and they quickly moved towards her.
Not knowing whether she was dead or alive, Vaughn called out: "FBI! Don't move!"
Carey, with a snarl began to twist her gun-arm up, and aim at Clarice, but before she had got a quarter of the way, Clarice shot her between the eyes. Vaughn flinched as a combination of blood, brain matter, and shards of bone flooded the pavement, and splattered on his several-hundred dollar shoes. Clarice was immobile.
Slowly, she lowered and holstered her weapon.
"Goddamnit," she muttered, "damnit."
Vaughn looked back at her: "It's a clean shooting, Clarice, don't fret."
"I wonder how many I've killed. So many people," she spat, "that I've just shot. You know what, Vaughn? I'm beginning to wonder if these Chosen are right about me. Did you know that the Guinness World Record people wanted to include me as the female FBI Agent who has shot and killed the most people."
"I didn't know that," said Vaughn, and Clarice continued:
"When I was at the Academy, and after I graduated…hell, even now: I always hated the people who used their weapons as penis extensions. When men and women believed that the gun gives them a power over other people. These weapons are a necessary evil, one made necessary by the evil that is around us, created by us. I'm starting to bloody hate this job."
Vaughn looked at her, and nodded a little: "I know what you mean. After everything you've been through in the past six days, and probably your FBI career. Clarice…everyone knew you were meant for greatness. You still are. It was the evil, the pettiness and jealousy in people that held you back. You were the rising star, and your antagonists…weren't. Frankly, it stinks."
"But there isn't a thing we can do about it," she said, and Vaughn shook his head sadly.
Turning his head back to Carey, and again flinching at her lack of major parts from her skull, quickly searched her pockets.
"Hello," he murmured, "what have we here?"
In his hand lay a matchbook - the type they give away at hotels. It read: The Drake Hotel.
"Son of a bitch," murmured Vaughn, "what a rookie mistake." He turned to Clarice, and reached into his pocket.
Extracting a mobile phone, he swiftly dialled the numbers to the FBI Chicago field office.
--
The Drake Hotel
It had taken eight minutes for the majority of the Chicago field office to pick up Clarice and Vaughn, and begin a forensic investigation of the several-block-radius crime scene.
In another ten minutes, blazing sirens converged on The Drake Hotel. In the car, Vaughn had wiped his shoes, as not to sully any carpets.
Guns un-holstered, FBI and C.P.D. ran through to the lobby, and after swiftly explaining the situation to the manager, located Angela Carey's room. Due to the fact, the manager had seen other men with Carey, the combined taskforce crept up the stairwells, and elevators, covering everywhere. The Drake Hotel was completely locked down.
Placing the flimsy plastic card-key in the slot, they burst into the room, only to find it as empty as Angela Carters, now severely damaged, head.
Knowing they would have scared off the supposed two members left of the Chosen, they decided to bring the forensics in. They finished with the bed first, then moved to the windows.
--
"Glad I wasn't staying here," murmured Clarice, her world becoming slightly hazy, "all this disruption. People paid good money for us to ruin their night."
"Everyone's trying to save you," said Lilia (sans glasses), "and I know how you worry about it. Oh, silly, you're exhausted. Can't you see that." She took Clarice by the shoulder, and guided her to the bed. "You need to rest," she continued, her voice growing softer.
When Clarice was asleep (and that didn't take long), unseen to the technicians, and scientists, and police, Lilia gently tucked her in, smiled, and disappeared.
Fantasy and reality were blurring in Clarice's mind, but asleep she remained, and the taskforce (especially Vaughn) decided that she definitely needed to rest.
And as Doctor Hannibal Lecter proved, serial-killers can be rather sweet.
--
(d a y)
The Dry Motel; City Limits of Chicago
Dennis Hyde, and Laurence Eddings remained in the dark room, talking to the leader of the Chosen over speakerphone.
"She hasn't returned."
"Then you must assume that she is dead."
"Sir. We have followed you without hesitation…but the death of Angela."
"You know what sacrifice must be made. She must be made an example of. This evil of the Federal Bureau of Investigation cannot be allowed to spread. So my Chosen. The time has come for our endgame."
"What are your orders, sir?"
"Kill Starling."
--
Unknown Location; New York
In another dark room, hundreds of miles away to the east, sat the leader of the Chosen, known in some circles as Laurence Day. He replaced the receiver, and leaned back in the chair, sighing.
"The final trial is upon you, my chosen one. I still regret putting you through this. So it seems that your conduct will determine what will come."
--
(n i g h t)
The Drake Hotel
From darkness to light, and day to night; Clarice Starling awoke to bustling forensics. Her exhausted mind took several seconds to focus, and realise where she was: asleep in one of the most famous hotels in the world, and she hadn't paid a single cent!
Slowly sitting up, she saw Vaughn, and his concerned face.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"We're not safe here, Clarice. Too many civilians for my liking, and the media has cottoned on, damn them to hell. We need to evacuate you back to our hotel, it's being emptied as we speak."
"Why the rush, Vaughn?"
"There's been some chatter. Most of it's encrypted, but we managed to pick up 'Chosen' and 'Kill Starling'. We know the calls originated in Chicago and New York, but that's about it."
"When were they placed?"
"A few hours ago. We honestly haven't a clue what's going on, so we need to get out of here, pronto."
"Sure," said Clarice, "just let me grab my things."
--
FBI Motorcade, approaching Clarice's Hotel (about twenty blocks away)
After an armed escort to the motorcade, Clarice and Vaughn were away, in a motorcade, speeding along the streets of Chicago.
"I'm so tired," said Clarice, "and I'm sorry, I so don't want to whinge and whine. It's just so horrible."
"I can only imagine what you've been going through," replied Vaughn, "to me, it doesn't seem to be real sometimes. Like someone made it up, it's so crazy. But here we are."
"Yes. Here we are."
BANG
With a roar, a whoosh, and a horrific explosion, the car in front violently exploded, sending it six feet into the air, before turning over, and crashing to the road on it's roof.
"Shit!" screamed Clarice, as the motorcade slammed to a halt. Clarice and Vaughn dived out the car, guns outstretched. Seeing the target (and fervently hoping to miss the screaming civilians) opened fire, on the man in the green jacket, who was holding a portable rocket launcher. The guards, taking Clarice and Vaughn's lead, followed suit, opening fire on the man.
He fell to the ground, blood splattering from his mouth, but the nervous guards kept firing rounds into the corpse until Vaughn had to yell at them to stop.
"Son of a bitch," he groaned, as they approached the body.
"You know him?" said Clarice.
"That's Terrence Eddings. He used to be one of us. Bloody hell, I used to work for him. Why him?"
"I don't know anymore," whispered Clarice, "this just makes less and less sense.
--
The now terrified guards, insisted they escort the two back to the hotel, where they could stay in relative security for the night. Clarice and Vaughn were only too glad to agree.
--
The Hotel
"Yes, two club sandwiches, and two bottles of beer, please. Yes, thank you."
Vaughn looked up from the file he was studying, to Clarice who had just put the phone down.
"The food will be here in five minutes."
"Nice and prompt," Vaughn replied, "I really am hungry."
"Join the club. Club Sandwich. Ha!" said Clarice. Vaughn just looked at her blankly.
"Sorry," said Clarice, "I never was much good at telling jokes."
"I can tell," muttered Vaughn, not meaning to be rude, but couldn't exactly let it slide.
Thankfully, the awkward silence was shattered by a knocking on the door.
"Room service."
"Really prompt!" said Vaughn, opening the door to let the man in. The man nodded in gratitude, and pulled the small cart with him, two silver-covered dishes on top. The man closed the door, and pushed the cart forward a little.
"So," said Vaughn, but he was brutally interrupted by the room-service man, who swiftly hit Vaughn's windpipe, collapsing it. Vaughn fell to the floor, choking and coughing, totally unable to breath.
Dennis Hyde, the leader of the Chosen, knocked Clarice backwards, and she stumbled on the previously positioned cart, falling backwards to the bed, her arms above her head and useless.
"Murderer," Hyde whispered, in his clipped British accent, "I've waited a long time for this." He swiftly drew his gun, and aimed it at her head.
Then he pulled the trigger…
To Be Concluded
Note: But hopefully, you won't have to wait too long! I'm hoping to publish the final three chapters of A Hole In The Head, Her Burning Heart, and this in twenty days time. Which is quite a deadline, as I still have quite a bit of HBH to finish, and I don't want to rush it. However it would be nice to finish this story exactly a year after it's start. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, and please review.
Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir