Epilogue

She crossed the sea – now lone she wanders

By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;

Fain would I know if distance renders

Relief or comfort to her woe.

- Charlotte Brontë, Mementos

"Hello, may I ask who is calling?"

"You may well ask but unfortunately I can't grant you the courtesy of answering, Agent Starling. I'm very sorry for this inconvenience."

There is a short pause in addition to the delay that often accompanies long distance phone calls.

"Why are you calling? Did you get caught?"

There is another short pause foregoing the answer which might indicate an amused smile on the caller's part.

"If you want to catch someone, you would have to know where to look first."

"Well, common consent in the FBI is that you've escaped to Europe."

"The cogency of this deduction is only surpassed by its own precision. You might as well look for me on the moon for which I wish your hunters the best of luck… But I'm digressing… And where are my manners? Agent Starling, tell me, how are you doing? Is Jack Crawford still making ungainly advances to you?"

"Actually, I haven't seen him in a while. We work in very different places now. I am head of a small investigation team and he is back at the academy. So my life couldn't be better."

As if to confirm her words she lets out a little chuckle.

"Hmm…" the caller says skeptically.

"What about you, doctor? Are you fine – since you are obviously still at large?" Her voice sounds firmer now.

"Oh, I can't complain. Just recently I went to a late-night performance of one of my favorite operas after having enjoyed an excellent dinner of fresh liver… You should have been there, it was quite a spectacle."

"Funny you should mention eating liver of all things," she says slowly and then, seemingly off-handedly, continues: "You probably haven't heard, being wherever you are now, but the administrator of your former prison in Baltimore, Dr. Chilton, was brutally murdered in Florence, Italy. His liver and lungs were taken by the killer so…"

"You don't sound too sorry about that particular death, Agent Starling," the caller interrupts her quickly.

"No, I mean, it's a terrible tragedy for his family. And for himself, of course. No one deserves to die like he did."

"No one? Not even someone who abused every shred of power he could get hold of? Someone who betrayed the trust of his colleagues, as well as your own, Agent Starling? Someone who tried to sacrifice you for his own advancement, you, who had worked so hard for her career, who had made her profession her purpose in life? With one snap of his fingers Chilton wanted to ruin the brilliant future that's lying ahead of you in spite of it all, and yet you're telling me you don't carry a grudge against him? That you don't think he got what he deserved?"

The caller draws a deep, hissing breath. The line goes silent for a moment.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Agent Starling's voice sounds steady but there's a triumphant undertone she cannot quite conceal.

"Only a fool would confess to his follies. The artist, however, needs no confession. His art will testify to his work."

"Then it's true what they suspect. You did it. You were in Italy. You went to his house and killed him. That's… Do you have any idea what dilemma you put me in by calling me and telling me this? I have to inform my colleagues immediately! And my superiors! They will go searching for you with more teams, bigger teams." She sounds extremely agitated.

"There is no dilemma, Agent Starling. Listen to me: the FBI suspects me anyway so technically, it would get them not a single step further if you told them I did it. Which I never said anyway, just for the record."

"Then why did you call me?"

"Yes, that. I know I should have answered it the first time you asked. The other day, a question occurred to me: You are not, by any means, related to one Ernest Starling?"

This time the silence is probably due to surprise.

"Ernest Starling? Not that I am aware of."

"I see. Well, I must be off. I have a very important dinner invitation to go to. I hope next time we talk you have more good news as concerns your… career."

"What? Wait, doctor, you cannot hang up now! What about that Ernest Starling and what do you mean, next time we talk? Are you planning on calling me again?"

"Tut-tut, Agent Starling. Curiosity is what killed the cat. Or maybe it was an overdose of lorazepam. Only one thing is for certain: we can never be certain. Farewell for now, Agent Starling, and keep in mind that extraordinary pieces of art are always dedicated to extraordinary people."

Starling's voice doesn't let on anything when she finally says "Goodbye, doctor."

The line goes dead.