the following chapter contains some strong language
"It's a ghost."
Firefly: Bushwhacked by Tim Minear
"I don't think he'd ever bushwhack me - it's rude, and he wouldn't get to ask any questions that way. Sure he'd do it as soon as I bored him."
The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris
G H O S T S
part two by JetNoir
It is said, that truth is a fluid concept.
So what is truth? A word that is so easy to twist? Could it be that simple…to just change one idea, and so it becomes false. Lying is incredibly easy, and those who fight to seek such truth must avoid the many deceptions that they encounter if they have any hope of continuing towards their goal.
An example. Politicians are the most powerful people on the planet; and they lie constantly, with ease. They lie so much, in fact, that it has simply become the norm. How is this right? When the population laugh and joke about the latest falsehoods. How can this ever be right?
Lies are terrifying. Lies are subversive. Lies can destroy entire lives.
They are also pretty damn useful.
--
Washington, D.C.
From the very second that Patrick Cassidy drew his last breath, it took thirty-two minutes for the DCPD to reach him. An anonymous phone tip, placed from the corner of the streets betrayed his location - that is if a killer can betray himself.
First on the scene was Officer Ed Murray, fresh out of the Academy and as green as mint. One look at the body, and the bloody 'Return' carved into it's chest then caused Officer Murray to turn a sickly shade of green before emptying the contents of his stomach in the bushes to his right side. It could have been worse. He could have vomited on the body.
After calling for back-up, it took another three minutes for two nearby squad-cars to arrive, during which time a frantic Murray was attempting (in vain) to prevent contamination of the crime scene. Nosy neighbours doth not help forensic investigators, and as forensics turned up nought at a later date on the scene (though not on a vital clue), all of the mob were given an official police caution. Not that they cared…they were too busy bragging to their friends.
The clue itself was tucked within the dead man's jacket, well within - it had taken no small amount of time to find it. It was a piece of paper, small, folded neatly in four parts. The paper was common enough, as was the ink used. What was interesting, was the content of the note.
"I have returned. I want Starling. Soon…or I will slaughter again."
Due to the uncommon nature of the Chicago Hotel murder, five days ago, the Department was able to link the crimes together.
The FBI had been informed about the first crime, because the officers on duty were able to link 'Starling' to the somewhat famous Agent during the Mason Verger debacle. The decision was made to push this up higher on the chain of command instantly, and they decided to hand the case over.
Within ninety minutes of the corpse's discovery, two people met within Washington, D.C. which would change the nature of the case again; and it is there where this story continues.
--
Office of the Deputy Director
FBI Field Office; Buzzard's Point
Washington, D.C.
It was semi-dark in the office, the sky outside overcast with cloud. FBI Deputy Director Philip Straub and Section Chief Clint Pearsall were sitting on opposite sides of the large desk, that dominated the small room.
"Mind if I smoke?" asked Straub.
Pearsall looked at him oddly; "Yes. I do."
"Fine," replied Straub, "fine. You know why we're hear."
"The dead body several blocks away. I'm amazed you kept it off the news this long."
"They're holding on my request."
"Your request?"
"Yes. My request. You know about the note?" Pearsall confirmed he had, and Straub continued: "What do you think we should do about it? This is the second death."
"Two of many throughout the country these past five days."
"Admittedly, but they could have been prevented."
"How? How do you possibly thing…" He stopped speaking when he caught Straub's gaze. "You can't possible."
"We tried to get rid of Starling before. She's bad for the FBI, Clint, she's bad for us all. You know what they say about one rotten apple poisoning the whole barrel. She's that apple. Rotten to the core."
"So you want to try sacrificing her again? That's insane."
"We just put her in the line of fire. Give her the case to investigate. It's simple, her and her roommate."
"This is crazy…"
"The decisions been made," said Straub, "and it comes from Director Tunberry himself."
"He'd never condone this."
"Don't be naïve," said Straub, "there are reasons. It's Starling's case now. You need to go and tell her. Either she'll catch the guy, or the guy'll catch her. Either way the killings stop."
"Either way the killings stop," repeated Pearsall, "you'd damn well better hope they do." He got up and walked out, slightly stunned.
His one thought was simply: What do I tell Starling?
--
New York, NY
Realising that he was still on the top ten of the FBI's Most Wanted; Hannibal Lecter, M.D. was somewhat concerned about which hotel to reside in. His tastes were delicate and particular (if not always catered for), but for the most part he revelled in quiet and luxury. Just because he was on the run, didn't mean he couldn't have a little fun.
His final selection was an out of the way (but still five-star) hotel, just outside of New York. It would be easy to flee, and before he even booked himself in, he created three emergency escape routes. What he really needed was a secure accommodation, near to D.C., but for now, this would more than suffice. That would take time to set up…and here, just as in Dr Chilton's petty Asylum he had plenty of it. He also had many aliases just waiting to be used, and for these purposes he chose Christopher Weis, a scholar of Russian Literature. Ironically, one of the owners (who was more elderly), was Russian herself, and delighted in conversing rapidly with Lecter in her common tongue. This irritated Lecter no end; and by the conclusion of their conversation, he wanted to eat her tongue. However, he realised that discretion was the better part of valour, and as the old lady got to keep her mouth intact, while he retired to his room, after ordering a very expensive meal.
He had brought a few good books with him, and once unpacked, he settled down, with Fyodor Dostoevsky's Memoirs From The House Of The Dead.
Always an ironic choice, considering his circumstances.
--
Arlington, VA
The phone was loud when it rang, and the incessant bell drove a sharp spike through Clarice Starling's head. She dragged herself up, and went to her side of the house that she kept with Special Agent Ardelia Mapp. Picking it up, she said: "Starling."
"Clarice, this is Pearsall. I need you and Agent Mapp to come in to Buzzard's Point. It's urgent. Very urgent."
"Alright. Is there something we should know?"
"When you come in. No, wait. I'll send you an armed escort. Trust me, you may need it."
--
Washington, D.C.
It is several hours later. Starling and Mapp are sitting in Clint Pearsall's office; who has just informed the two agents of the situation. Pearsall is trying his hardest to be friendly, but just looking at the two Agent's before him, he could tell that they were upset. Understandably so.
"I'm finding this a little difficult to take in," said Starling, "and you're certain the Deputy Director said that."
"I was there," said Pearsall, "and I don't like this. Not one bit…but I have my orders, as you do yours. But the lack…no. This situation is bad."
"Why should we even take this assignment?" asked Mapp.
"Because two people are dead, and we don't want any more. Not you, nor the general populace. We have to stop this guy. As for yourselves…if you receive any communication from Straub or Director Tunberry, come to me first. I'm assembling a dossier of evidence. I hate to say this but the rotten apple that Straub was so fond of talking about…I wonder if it is higher up."
"So we have to be prepared," said Starling, "for anything this killer, or our own people throw at us."
"The FBI see you as a liability," said Pearsall, "I see you as one of our greatest agents, fallen by the pettiness of others. Either way, we serve the higher powers together. Yet that does not make them unaccountable. I'll protect you both as best as I can. I'm clearing you both an office in our basement. You can work out of there. Just solve this. Quickly. Very quickly. Alright that's everything, but Starling…please may I have a word."
Clarice nodded to Ardelia, who walked out. Clarice and Clint stayed where they were.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Clarice asked: "So what is this about?"
Pearsall cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. As you know, three months ago, Paul Krendler was murdered. In front of you, of course."
"And?" said Starling.
"I was going through some of his personal effects from his office, in order to give to his widow. I found a note amongst them. About you."
"What exactly about me?"
"A poem. Not a nice one either. There was a brief explanation above the actual poem, to the effects of how his psychiatrist suggested he put his feelings onto paper."
"So read it," said Starling.
"I'd rather not…as I said, it's rather unpleasant."
"Just do it," said Starling.
"Alright," he said, and the clearing his throat, read: "'Cornpone country…' Pearsall looked up, somewhat ashamed and embarrassed; "I'd rather not read that out loud."
"Yes, I'm aware of the next word," muttered Starling angrily, "carry on."
'My feelings for you
Are as a boatman's punt
And it seems that they are true.'
Another moment of awkward silence hung between the two people, until:
"I have nothing to add," said Starling, justifiably angry, "Krendler was a corrupt, lying bastard. This…poem, doesn't change my opinion of him one iota. I wish he hadn't been murdered, but beyond that I hold him in nothing but contempt."
She shook her head, and walked out, leaving Pearsall behind her. He destroyed the piece of paper.
--
Just what is a Ghost?
A standard definition is a transparent scary thing. Boo.
Untold horrors, fears, nightmares. Death.
But a ghost can also be a memory, some link to the past, and in order for the present to be made clear, we in turn must examine the past. Going there ourselves.
So like spectres, we will travel 'twixt past and present, flitting from memory to dream.
I will take you there myself.
to be continued…
Note: Sincerest apologies for the implied swear-word. I don't generally use very strong language in my stories, hence my usage, of disuse portrayed here. The word in question of course has a strong stigma still attached to it, but Harris uses it in his novels, and with regards to Krendler's character, it makes sense he would use such a word; however, I felt Pearsall would regard it inappropriate to read said word aloud. That being said, I realised it is out of Krendler's character to write a poem, but I could imagine him doing it, given the right stimulus, especially with his suggested misogyny. With the rest of the chapter, I tried to write some black comedy into it, but I'm not sure if I was entirely successful, however, as usual, I like to try something different. And as I write this, I realise how much I miss writing about Lilia. Finally, I'm so sorry about the six-month delay in updating; and reviews are deeply and greatly appreciated.
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