A/N- Short chappie- now with a correction! (Jane Morricone is the reporter, Petra Morricone is her daughter. I didn't even notice until I had read Kurt's review. I'm losing my touch, time to enlist a beta?) We've entered the busy-busy-busy time of year for me, so I'm a little strapped for time. I will finish the story (hopefully before the year is out). Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers.

Chapter Eight

Lindsey began packing the car about two that afternoon. She was careful to pack only things she knew she had owned prior to moving in with Gregory or that she had bought with own checking and credit accounts. There were things she would have to leave, like Sammie's crate, which, even collapsed, would never fit into the Mustang. Sammie occupied the entire backseat himself, causing Lindsey to become creative with her packing. Somewhere in the depths of her closet she found one of her old purses, and she threw her wallet in there, along with the other things she normally carried. A row of expensive designer purses sat on the king size bed. She didn't want to risk anything.

She'd changed from her pink housecoat into a pair of well worn jeans and a faded tee shirt. Sammie looked confused when she didn't take the house keys with her as she led him out the front door. She held his leash as she armed the alarm system, then pulled the door shut behind her. Her eyes were hard and sad when she looked back at the house's facade. She'd call Clarice in a bit, once she stopped off and got herself a new wireless plan, planning to turn the old phone over to the FBI, since Gregory carried her on his plan, but she needed to be able to communicate for now. She wasn't running, she just had to distance herself right now. A call into a Realtor was also on the list, to secure herself a condo or a townhome until this blew over.

The black Cobra hunkered in the driveway, looking completely unlike a car packed full of one woman's life. Two hours after she had begun, she tossed her box from the hall closet into the passenger seat while she held the door open for the greyhound. Sammie hopped in the backseat, nosing the passenger side window as she moved that seat all the way forward to give him a little more room. His muzzle appeared out the window as she backed out the drive. Her window was down as well, wind whipping her auburn hair around her face and out behind her. She was preoccupied behind her sunglasses, and didn't see the older model Nissan sitting at the corner, a photographer watching her, snapping her picture as she rolled up to, then sped away from, the stop sign. He would earn a goodly sum for the picture, and her likeness would be on the Thursday evening edition of the Tattler.
.-.-.-.

Clarice stood outside in the sunshine, looking up at the late sun reflecting off the federal building. She'd marched right into the Denver office and told them her news. After a brief moment of doubt from the SAIC, they'd rung the bells in Washington. Now Clarice was standing as the head of a newly formed task force. It crossed her mind, there in the sunlight, that Crawford would've been proud of her. Her father never entered her thoughts.

She was looking at street level now, watching people filter by, unaware of what was happening under their noses. Her gaze stopped and settled on a small framed, black haired woman who was coming in her direction. A drop of foreboding soured Starling's stomach.

'Agent Starling!' the woman called once a little nearer. Clarice tried to turn, even to look away, but she stood, rooted, watching the woman approach. Some people around them looked up as she waved and called out again. She stopped within a chummy distance of Starling and beamed brighter. 'Hi, Agent Starling.'

The corner's of Clarice's lips turned down, and her nose wrinkled as if she'd just smelled something unpleasant. If the woman noticed, she gave no indication. Clarice took the moment and looked her over- shoulder length hair, perfectly coiffed, smart grey suit, and the large black purse hanging from her shoulder. Clarice would've been happier to never see this woman again. 'Ms. Morricone.' she allowed. 'Can I help you with something?'

Jane Morricone had long since mastered the art of the poker face, although she relied upon her easy smile to fool and disarm people. That, and playing a little dumb never hurt either. For some reason, people always thought the pretty ones had the intelligence of a kidney bean. 'Whatcha doing in Denver?'

'Vacationing.'

Jane nodded and smiled. 'Visiting your old pal, Ex-Special Agent Lindsey Singleton, I suppose?'

Clarice held back a heavy sigh. God, she was just fodder for the tabloids, wasn't she? Didn't Hollywood produce enough stars for them to hound and just leave her alone? 'Yes. What are you doing here, Ms. Morricone?'

'Oh, I work here. The Tattler opened up a Rocky Mountain office about a year ago.'

Of course, thought Clarice. She looked at her watch, then glanced back towards the building. "I have to go, Ms. Morricone. Goodbye.'

Jane's smile quirked. 'Vacationing at the FBI office?'

Politic, Clarice reminded herself. 'They knew I was here and asked for my assistance with something, I was happy to oblige. Now, if you'll excuse me.' Clarice made it no more than four steps before Jane spoke up.

'Would it have anything to do with Hannibal the Cannibal?' Clarice stopped dead, slowly turning back to see Jane smiling like the cat who was fat on cream. Jane nodded and shoved a tape recorder in her purse. 'Thank you, Agent Starling.' and she was walking away, leaving Starling there, quietly cursing herself. Clarice watched the shadows grow for a few minutes before turning back to the building. Fortunately for her, someone inside had also gotten their bell rung by another Tattler reporter. The first meeting of her task force started off sourly. By eight o'clock that evening, Starling's black mood would only grow worse.
.-.-.-.