A/N Hi, everyone. Yes, I have a new chapter. I certainly hope it doesn't disappoint. No, I don't know if my next chapter will be soon. But the story isn't dead and neither am I.
Confession: I have something very near and dear to me that I'd like to share with all of you, although I am uncertain of how I can go about doing it appropriately, on this platform. So bare with me, and please insert a tone of confidentiality and a wink with the following information.
A 'very good friend of mine' is publishing a book. Her name is Jordan Leigh Hart. If you enjoy my work, particularly my first story Lily of the Valley, I think you would all enjoy her book. It's called Winnie Wicked. It will be released on July 1st on Amazon Kindle and will be available for pre-order on June 27th. I would also highly recommend finding her website. You can read the first three chapter of it there for free and also learn a bit about her. I don't know if I can display websites here, so the website is her name with a dot com. That name again is Jordan Leigh Hart. I think she'd also really love to be friends with you on FB. You can find her there from her website. Oh, and it won't cost much. Just $3.99 or £2.83.
Oh, and for some reason I will be removing Lily of the Valley from FF and AO3.
I know I have been an absentee writer to you all. I hope you can forgive how long you have to wait between chapters. But if you do enjoy my writing or you even feel inclined to support me, I would be very grateful if you looked into my good friend Jordan Leigh Hart's book. Also... I do think you'd like it. And I am nothing without an audience, let's be honest. I have something I want to share. As does JLH. I really hope you like it.
August 12, 1994
I met a woman, today. Her tenacity and intermittent charm made me as uneasy as it made me receptive. She tries not to be beautiful. It reminds me of Christina. Then again, everything reminds me of Christina, now. I never cease to worry for her. Sometimes I attribute that to the obvious, but if I am an honest, (and if not in this private journal, than where else?) I have worried for her since the day she was born. I suppose that's what being a parent is. Worrying to death. Worrying until one of us is dead.
I don't know why I've said those awful words, if not to test my might. I couldn't speak them out loud, the possibility of her death, but I've managed to put it on paper. Funny, since the spoken word is intrinsically fleeting, whereas these words, as private as they are, are not fleeting.
The woman I met is a federal agent. I don't know whether to be relieved or worried tenfold. She will not last here, long. This case of hers (how funny to be someone's case!) will be pulled out from under her before she's begun. But it does make me wonder. Someone has been talking, I know it wasn't me, and of course, it wasn't Christina. I thought we were the only ones who knew. Maybe we still are. Maybe it's the media. Maybe sending her and making a 'case' is all a show. So much seems to be.
I am afraid to hope.
Clarice Starling fought the urge to wipe her upper lip with her shirt collar. She had to look at least somewhat presentable. That had become increasingly difficult, since her car's air conditioner had quit working. The previous afternoon, she'd taken it to get it fixed. When she came back to pick it up, a man came out and moved his hands back and forth.
"No fix," he'd said, his oil-smeared thick fingers still waving back and forth.
"You couldn't fix it?" she'd asked incredulously."Is it not just a broken cooling fan?"
He shook his head. "Outside services. You have to go someplace else."
"You can't fix it."
"I won't touch it."
Starling searched for a tissue in her purse at a red light. She was meeting Ardelia and a few others for dinner. Even with the sun setting, she was sweating like a damn pig. She found a little package and ripped it open, glancing in the mirror to blot.
"Shit," she said, slamming the visor up. It broke, fell in her lap, and the light turned green.
At dinner, Starling had two glasses of wine, and when Ardelia suggested a cocktail, she shrugged. The other two women weren't her friends. They were Ardelia's friends. She didn't mind being civil, but she'd been ready to go home before she'd arrived. She couldn't get Johann Miller out of her head. She couldn't get a lot out of her head.
"Yesss," said Mapp, taking the cocktail before the server could set it down. "Thank you," she added.
"You know, at the very least they could consider it," said one of the other women. She was Margaret Barrie, and she leaned back when the server leaned over to set down her cocktail. "Thanks. I mean," she paused taking a sip," Oooh, that's yummy. It's stupid to not even consider it. He's a fountain of information, and willing. Why would they not at least consider it?"
"Because he's a criminal, they don't trust him, yet," said Mapp. "Developing a rapport with the FBI is a truly foolhardy venture. It's harder to get in bed with the FBI than Starling."
Starling flipped her off and took a sip of her drink.
"Are you not irritated, Mapp?" asked the other woman. She was Katie McIntire, and Starling was sitting next to her. She was quite certain Katie's perfume was affecting the taste of her drink, somehow. She felt like she could taste it.
"Of course I'm irritated, but I gotta put that on hold. Doesn't do anybody any good. Just have to wait things out, sometimes."
"You've been talking to Conway for how long, now?" asked Starling.
"Over a year," Mapp took a sip and licked her lips with a nod. "He's a good man, deep down. He's learning how to be; faster than he has any right to."
"What do you mean?" asked McIntire.
"I mean, he's never been shown how to be a good person. For most of us, it takes all of childhood to fuck us up, all of adulthood to make us realize we're fucked up, and then when we're old and regretful, maybe, if we're lucky, we wise up. Conway's going through all of that right now at the speed of light. I admire him. Jack's a good guy."
"Jack, ey?" Barrie teased, giving her a light elbow. "Is it like that?"
"No. But I think he could become a productive member of society with the right encouragement. If we continue to reinforce the negative stereotype, if we keep him in that box, we cut him off at the knees."
"When does he get out on parole?" asked Starling.
"Seven months."
"Not bad."
"It doesn't matter. Getting out on parole gets him away from murderers and rapists and corrupt guards. But it puts him right back in the shitty position he was in before we caught up with him. He needs the right influence."
"Can't you just…be his friend?" asked McIntire.
"No, Kate. It doesn't work like that."
She shrugged. "I know I ask stupid question all of the time, but I'm an interpreter, not an agent."
"I know, I'm sorry if I sounded condescending. I'm just," Mapp yawned, "stressed."
"I know, it's fine. So what are you going to do?"
Mapp shrugged. "Continue to be a pain in the ass at just the right times. I have to keep making noise, even if it's subliminal. If we can get him on the payroll as an informant, it keeps him close to the good guys. It keeps him out of trouble, on the right path."
"Assuming we're on the right one," Starling murmured. Barrie and McIntyre looked at her sidelong, but Mapp winked at her from across the table.
"Right," she said, and lifted her glass."To the right path," she said. They awkwardly clinked their glasses beneath the hot light above the table, and Starling pretended to drink.
The following day, Starling spent much of her time at Quantico, going through her notes and sifting through piles of archives. The GPNRC had been around since the seventies, and it had been investigated by the FBI before. Starling was reading about the old case, and it all seemed to conclude that the media had one of their notorious fear frenzies, and pressure to investigate came from the Department of Justice. An investigation took pace, nothing was found, and that was the end of it. Assuming it was that simple, it looked a lot like a repeat of history. Starling put a pin in that and moved on.
George Perssons Nuclear Research Center, or GPNRC, was founded by George Perssons in 1971, and its focus had been on Physics research. It had had a number of blips in the news, but generally seemed to stay in the shadows. Nowadays, their focus was apparently on particle physics. She sub-vocalized as she read from their website:
…The study of the fundamental constituents of matter and the forces acting between them, as well as antimatter and the large hydron collider…
Since her decidedly understated success in the Polenta case, she had ironically gained a bit of favor with the media. She was beginning to feel like there was a chance of distance between her and Lecter…at least where the media and her peers were concerned.
Paul Krendler had visited her shortly after her return from Norway and made a point of shaking hers and Crawford's hands. The fact that one of her male teammates on the case had taken the brunt of the credit had seemed to cool Krendler's dislike of her. Had it happened a year ago, she may have felt relief or even gratitude. Now, she found she felt nothing but contempt. She hadn't wanted to shake his hand, but managed to do it without scowling. She'd even smiled for a damn photo. She'd bit her tongue until it nearly bled, but she'd done it.
With the support of the media and the lack of Krendler's efforts to sabotage her, she'd found herself placed on another high-profile case. Even still, it was not Behavioral Science. Starling yawned until her right eye watered, and she turned in her swivel chair, away from the computer terminal. She blinked a few times, and could still see the inverted colors of the computer screen. She needed a break from reading about particles and hydron colliders.
One of the articles about the facility had popped up a number of times. She'd found the author of the article, Brian Steele, was an investigative journalist and had contributed to quite a few scandals and had even won the Pulitzer Prize. Starling read it three times. Once, for the pleasure. He was a good writer. The second two times, for work. Investigative journalists were another breed. If a Tattler reporter was a rabid stray, an investigative journalist was a German Shepherd.
Starling had worn a denim shirt over her tank top, but had taken it off and wrapped it around her waist, after an hour or so. She put it back on now, scooped up her hair into a ponytail, and took a good stretch. A knock at the open door made her turn.
"Evening, Starling. How's it going?" Crawford asked.
"Good, thank you. And you?"
Crawford nodded, and leaned against the door frame. "Just getting out of here. Do you have what you need?"
"I think so."
"What's the game plan?"
"Well, I want to talk to Brian Steele. Do you know him?"
Crawford nodded. "Yeah. He's an interesting fellow. Just remember, no matter the source…"
"Half a grain of salt, yeah."
"Yeah. Interesting fellow," he agreed with himself, and then knocked on the door again. "Have a good weekend, Starling."
"You too, Sir."
Half a grain of salt, indeed. It was ironic, Starling reflected. The country leaned on the FBI, at various times, to deliver justice when others could not be trusted to do so, and at the same time, recoiled in fear at their exercise of raw, federal power. That uneasy trust, that terrible combination of need and dread, was something agents lived by, nearly every day.
The other reason Starling was turned onto Brian Steele was because of her phone call with Johann Miller. They'd had a decent conversation; all things considered, he was very polite about not being forthcoming. She sensed something in him that made her itchy between the shoulders. Something about his voice, his moments of hesitation and his tone, which reminded her of hostages. Starling had had a bad moment of silent humor while speaking to him.
Blink twice if someone is in the house, she'd thought. Blink twice, Mr. Miller.
From his biography on the GPNRC website alone, Starling learned that Miller had graduated with a PhD in electrical engineering from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1967, and went on to gain his higher doctorate in 1974, from the same Institute. His early career had been spent teaching and conducting energy research. Then, he'd moved to Brazil where he spent two years as a professor at Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro. In 1971, while he was simultaneously gaining his higher doctorate, he'd been elected senior lecturer, there. It was in 1976 that he came to GPNRC, joining the group working on power converters for the Large Electron-Positron Collider, or LEP. In 1989, he moved to the Operations Group as an engineer in charge of the Super Proton Synchrotron and LEP. In 1991, the year that the LHC was approved, he joined the Power Converter Group as the Head of Power Converters Design and Construction for the LHC. He held that position to this day.
If Miller's education and accomplishments couldn't impress someone, nothing could. And that was about all Starling gleamed from the brief history lesson. That, and that Miller had two traits: He was highly ambitious and extremely intelligent. From her conversation with him, she observed two more traits: Miller was very courteous, and very good at hiding his emotions.
While Miller had not been particularly forthcoming, beginning many of his answers with the words, "I'm not at liberty…", he had brought something up which had seemed out of place. It jumped out at Starling particularly because he'd been so well-spoken and articulate. Starling had just finished asking him about his personal involvement with the LED, when he'd suddenly said:
"You know, the last time someone asked me these kinds of questions, it was a reporter. Steele, I think his name was. Smart kid, but not as hard as you."
"Hard?" Starling had asked. Miller had chuckled.
"I hope I don't put you off with the word, I didn't mean it as an offense. You remind me of my daughter, Christina. She's very tenacious. Anyway, this kid Steele, he wrote up an article a few years back. I found it pretty interesting."
"Interesting, how? Too right or too wrong?"
Miller had chuckled again. "Both, I imagine."
"You imagine? Don't you know?" Starling asked. She was using the voice she used to intimidate. She could tell it was working, but Miller wasn't inept. He was holding up pretty well, and on a certain level, she had to grant him that.
"Do you know how to end a conversation without a question mark?"
"Only on Sundays. Mr. Miller, is this a good number to reach you? I may need to speak with you again."
"I'd be surprised if you didn't. All this hoopla…I hope to meet you in person, some time."
"I'm sure we can arrange for that. I'll have to visit sometime or another, won't I?"
"Maybe on a Sunday?"
"We could only hope. It's more likely to be a Monday."
"Oh, Mondays. Neither of us will be our best on a Monday, Agent Starling."
"Maybe that's for the best."
Starling could nearly hear him smile. "You're right. We'll meet the devils before the saints."
"Mr. Miller, before I let you go—why did you bring up the reporter?"
"Oh, something you said must have made me think of him."
"I see. Well, thank you for your time."
"Of course, Agent Starling."
Starling had hung up the phone, feeling the familiar sense that she'd just wasted her time. She wasn't a rookie anymore, though. She had the wisdom to know that a waste of time was actually pretty rare. A lot of what you did could feel that way, when your work was cumulative. So she filed it all a way, she put a pin in it. Now, on her way out of Quantico and heading to her lousy Pinto, Starling made two decisions.
Brian Steele, then. It was a place to go. It was a place to start. She would make an appointment with him tomorrow, if possible. And then, should time and weather permit, she would get her damned car fixed.
She came home to an empty house. Ordinarily, she didn't mind that; Starling was around people all day and needed solitude to recharge, like any introvert. But today, she missed Mapp's company. She'd been back in the states for nearly two weeks now, and already she could see that it was different. Different from leaving him, the last time.
The first time he'd returned her to the world, it had reminded her a little of returning from any vacation. Memories of real life and memories of dreams really weren't all that different. Once something was in the past, it could only exist in the mind's eye, and the mind's theater was always the same. It maintained the same quality, always forgot some things and embellished others; it warps reality until a memory is no longer an accurate rendering of an experience. Memory is a tentative thing to trust. Starling knew more of that than the average Joe. She had the intimate knowledge of it which comes from talking with witnesses.
So, like the memories of a vacation, an experience which the brain already delegates to a strange place in the archive due to its inherent discrepancy with its normal, ordinary input, their 'stolen season' always felt a tad unreal. Perhaps even negligible, like dreams we forget in the night. Drivel, nothing more. It was like this, and it wasn't. She wanted to forget it all, pretend it wasn't real, like the forgotten dreams; meaningless fragments she could scoff at until they were forgotten entirely. She couldn't, though. This was a recurring dream.
The first dream had made her feel sick. Sometimes the symptoms would rise to the surface; twice she'd found herself running to the restroom to vomit. But mostly, it only flickered in her gut, making her feel generally anxious. A handful of times, her heart would suddenly race and her face would turn red. It was not the same as when she'd felt those things when he put his hands on her. It was like the inverse of that. If you could take that delicious thrill and turn it inside out, flay it like Marsyas, that was how she'd felt.
For a while, she'd thought she'd just have to adapt to this new, ongoing torture. But then she'd gone to see him again, and he'd emotionally lanced her. What kind of psychological plague would she contract, next? And how much would it hurt when he lanced her, then? Whatever it would be, if it would be, it had not started yet. She was acutely aware of that. Because this time, when he'd returned her to the surface like Persephony, she'd just gone back to work and life. It was frightful, how seamless it had been, and she worried. Was it more normal to have that build up of muck? Was it worse to suffer between their trysts or worse to become accustomed? Which spoke better of her? Which, the worse?
The day after their commitment, their 'revelation', as he'd called it, she'd woken late in the morning. Her thoughts had been very orderly. First, she remembered his last words to her before she fell asleep. His 'Goodnight, little doxy', whispered in her ear. Second, she noted that Dr. Lecter was no longer next to her. Third, she noted that it was nearly eleven. Then, she remembered she had a plane ride which left in five hours. And last, she realized with absolute terror, that it was this last realization which left a gray, hollow place in her stomach.
After their night, they'd gone back to Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling. After their night, they'd gone back to the tedium of civility and clothing. This too, had made that hollow place wider. A crevice became a cavern.
She refused the impulses. She would not touch his back when she came into the kitchen and he faced the stove. She'd denied herself the impulse to grab his stupid, tidy lapels and smell his neck. She refused to take his thumb in her hand when he'd sat next to her in the car, driving her to the airport. And she would not, would never, put her mouth on his and taste him, taste his every nook and cranny, taste him boorishly and obscenely, taste his teeth and his tongue and the roof of his mouth, taste his fucking molars. No, she certainly would not do that. Instead, she'd offered a nod, and he'd offered a hand, and he'd given her a perfectly tactful kiss on her knuckles. His mouth hadn't even touch her skin. And she'd pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose, and left without looking back.
She found herself imagining their last day together as though she had done those things. She imagined it off an on, all the way home on the airplanes and in the terminals and waiting areas. She'd imagined it again on her drive home, and then again in her room, lying on her bed. And she'd imagined it once more that day, that night…in her room, on her bed, under the sheets with the lights out and her hands between her legs. She wondered if at a certain point, God would abandon you, if you were offensive enough. If He just sighed one too many times, and said, in His holy way, "Forget it."
When Mapp got home, she leaned against the front door for a moment. It was pretty dark, and she welcomed it. She leaned against the door and listened to her own breathing, until the desire to get out of her stuffy clothes launched her forward. By the time she'd gotten changed, washed her face, dealt with her hair and tidied her toom, she could hear Starling in the kitchen. Mapp stood in her shorts and an old, UMD alumni t-shirt, deliberating over whether to read her book in her standard, cross-legged-against-the-heaboard position, or venture out and see if Starling needed some tea, or wisdom, or a smack upside the head. A few moments later, she found herself in the kitchen.
Starling had made a mess, and Mapp watched her in the doorway with her arms crossed for a few minutes, watching her take this and that out. Eventually, she smiled.
"You making potato cake?"
Starling turned her head a fraction. "Sure am. You gonna want some?"
"Girl, if we're going to be disgusting, let's do so comprehensively. I'll make the hamhock."
Starling and Mapp worked well enough together in the kitchen, in spite of its small size. Elbows in, coordinated pivots and a strange kind of courtesy mixed with the mock, verbal jousting of familiarity. By the time they were finished, the kitchen smelled gloriously of fat, greasy indulgence. Mapp even opened a window, before they sat down to eat. They initially ate politely, but slipped into something a little more ravenous incrementally, as they chatted about this and that. When she could eat no more, Mapp wiped her mouth, which had been as shiny as if she wore lip gloss.
"Whew," she said, sitting back in her chair. She gave her head a slow, satisfied shake. "I'm not going to be quite right for a day or so, but boy, was it worth it."
Starling scoffed, pushing aside her own plate. "I'm beginning to appreciate that particular sentiment."
"Oh?" Mapp said, her tone pretty casual, and her eyebrow only flicking upward a tad. "Tell me moah, tell me moah," she said, in a flat, mocking yankee's accent.
"Tell you what?" Starling said, a little irritable. It wasn't irritation at the question, but the kind of pointed irritability found in the tone of either a jilted woman, or a frustratingly wanton woman. Tell you what, when there's nothing to tell, that tone said.
"Oh, please," Mapp said, standing to get the dishes started. There was nothing Mapp hated more than crusty dishes-best to nip it in the bud. She could never understand people who let dishes pile up in their sink, growing fur. "You've got a man, therefore, no right to complain about not getting any. If you're not getting any," she turned to point a fork at Starling," it's nobody's fault but your own."
She turned back around at that, and Starling was grateful. She could freely bare her teeth at the inaccuracy of Mapp's statement. An inaccuracy she could never know. It occurred to Starling that the most bothered she felt at present, about her covenant with Lecter, was the separation it caused between her and Ardelia. She'd never had to be private about something. Before, she hadn't minded keeping some things to herself, but now that it was absolutely forbidden, it left a very sour taste in her mouth. She felt a surge of hot bright anger at Dr. Lecter, all over again. Her body responded with an inappropriate little whir, and it both angered her further and concerned her, deeply. None of this, she could confide. She was on her own. Alone, alone, alone. She switched gears.
"We broke up, I guess you could say."
"Oh, yeah? When'd that happen?" Mapp wondered over her shoulder. She was standing at the sink. Starling stood to help her with the drying. When they stood elbow-to-elbow, the window's curtains tickling the dead plant on the window sill with the afternoon breeze, Starling went on:
"Few days ago."
"And I'm hearing about it, now?" Mapp's tone was gentle, even as her words mocked accusation. They kept their eyes on their hands, working.
"Honestly, it was barely a blip," Starling said, in the same soft tone.
Mapp hummed. "A good thing," she said, at length and nodded to herself. "You never know if you'll be so lucky, next time. How'd he take it?" Mapp asked, apparently assuming it was Starling who had done the honors.
"Well enough. There was some disappointment in his eyes, naturally. A tad irritated at first, I think. Then, just disappointed. But not whiny."
"Thank God for that. There's nothing worse than a whiny puppy of a man."
Starling grinned. "God help the next man that falls for you. He'd better be fucking Apollo to survive you."
"Fuck you, very much."
"You're very fuckome."
It was the following day at the range with Brigham that one of Starling's two present ambitions gained some traction. Of the two, it was the lesser in importance, though it was also the one she began to feel a little pluck of excitement about.
"You've never been to a dope auction, I take it," Brigham was saying, in response to Starling's slightly incredulous expression at his suggestion.
"I haven't, but it's not that. I'm just not sure that it's so bad that-"
"Starling," Brigham interrupted, though when he paused to reload next to her, she didn't attempt to finish the thought. She just reloaded her own weapon and waited. "You're driving around a Pinto. That was fine when you were a student, sure. Students drive crap cars, it's part of the deal. You work your ass off, you drive shitty cars, you don't see the often-neglected freedom in that life of pizza boxes and homework and hangovers, but then you move on."
"I'll have you know I only do pizza on weekends. I'm a lady."
"Yes. Yes, you are," he said, testing the bounds of flirtation with his eyes and tone. Starling tried to ignore it and he took the hint, moving on, quickly. "Therefore, it's time for a new car. And if you're worried about money-"
"It's not that-"
"You'll get a good deal."
"I'll go and check it out."
"Just do your research, first."
Starling smiled. John Brigham had mostly dropped the teacher-student dynamic between them; it had been pretty swift. But from time to time, he slipped back into it, especially in moments like this, while he was doing something so familiar, so rote, as practicing at the firing range. The mind grabbed hold of routine the same as muscle memory. We cling with such alacrity to routines and habits. Without them, we find ourselves in the wilderness of our own thoughts, and instead of fishing on the banks of the emotional pond, we take a deep dive without the proper equipment. John's lapse into giving her fatherly advice didn't bother Starling. In a way, she found comfort the same anyone would, in such a proverbial pattern.
"I will, Johnny."
"I know you will," he muttered. He was pointing the gun now, most of his focus on the target, ahead.
Brian Steele sat at his home office computer, the blue light flooding his face and making him look more tired than he felt. He had one finger against his temple as he read a particularly nasty email, in regard to his most recent story. It reminded him of his first story. It had been about a young girl, Mesi Ndiaye,
(Nine years old, shot through the back of the head)
who had been killed, and her foster parents were (came out the left eye) tried for murder. He'd gotten a good deal of hate mail for that one, as though the whole of the American justice system were on his head. It had bothered him, then. Now, he gave a short snort through his nose and closed it without responding. There would always be hate mail. There would always be hate mail, uncertainty, and mad hours. Steele thrived in chaos.
His yawn made his glasses fall down to the end of his nose and he removed them, rubbing his eyes. He would put on another pot, and get cracking. Back when he was covering the Mesi story, he'd been a general assignment reporter working night shifts; that was how he'd gotten his start. He adapted quickly to late hours, and found he did some of his best work when the rest of the world was winding down or already asleep or watching Cheer re-runs. No laugh track played in the background of Steele's home. There was only the sound of the AC unit and the clacking of his fingers on the keyboard. He still had a week left on his deadline, but the big, messy work was behind him. He'd spent the better part of the last two weeks making cold calls and asking for things. Men tend to harden towards the word No, but for journalists, man or woman, the effect was tenfold. Brian Steele was very used to hearing this word, in whatever form it took, and all it meant was
(Next Thing.)
Steele worked well at night. He worked well at night because he had trouble sleeping. He had trouble sleeping because he couldn't (dolphins only allow one half of their brains to sleep at a time) shut off his brain. He knew many things about many different topics, and if he wasn't thinking about all of the endless tidbits of information in regard to a story, it was the goddamned factoids. They were relentless. But his fast-track mind served him well in his professional life. Perhaps not so well in his social life, but he'd made his choice and made that choice look good, just like his
(I'll be forty in September, Jesus)
age. Steele worked well in chaos.
It was an hour into his typing that his phone rang, and it was a good a time as any to take a pause. He finished out the sentence, took a sip of coffee and answered.
"Hello?" he asked, once again, sounding more tired than he was. He was expecting his girlfriend on the other end, and in the first instance of hearing a soft, feminine voice, continued to.
"Hello, sorry to catch you so late. I'm calling for Brian Steele?"
"This is he," he said, sitting up and furrowing his eyebrows, now entirely unsure of who was calling.
"Mr. Steele, I'm Special Agent Clarice Starling, and I apologize again for calling so late-"
"How-" Steele began to interrupt her to ask how she'd gotten this number, before the pieces fit together a second too late, and he had a moment of uncharacteristic sheepishness. "Sorry, go on," he said, instead.
"Well, I tried your office a few times, until someone passed along your home phone," she said, answering his cut-off question.
"Sharon," he muttered. She gave in easily to authoritarian voices. The voice on the other end was not authoritarian, but he could hear it ready at the gate, should the conversation require it. There was the cold undercurrent of mastery in this voice. But right now, he was being given the chime-y tone of civility. Alright, then. He liked that she hadn't come charging right out of the gate. She reserved intimidation when it was necessary, when making a cold call. So did he.
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing. How can I help you, Special Agent Staring?"
"Starling. Well, I was hoping to make an appointment to speak with you about an article you wrote a few years ago, about the GPNRC."
"Ah, they got you on that?"
At a distance, Starlings appear black, but up close, they are iridescent green and purple. Starling, Starling, purple and green, like sweet rocket.
"I'm afraid so. Would tomorrow be too short notice?"
"No," he said, using his thumb to scratch the leather puckering at the end of his chair. "I'll be free for an hour or so around lunchtime. Would you mind making it a lunch appointment? I like to multitask when possible. And if I don't eat lunch at lunchtime, it's not gonna happen."
"That's fine. What time would that be?"
"How's one o'clock? There's a bakery I usually go to on 17th, at the Barr building."
"That'll work. Thanks, and again-"
"Don't worry about it," he said, shrugging to himself. "You gotta do what you gotta do. I'll see you tomorrow. You do your homework? Know what I look like? Or should I have a red rose and a Jane Austen book on the table?"
There was a moment's pause on the other line, he hoped in managed amusement. "Yes, Mr. Steele."
"Then you have me at a disadvantage. But I'm sure I'll know you when I see you."
"Bank on it. See you tomorrow, Mr. Steele."
"Goodnight, Agent Starling."
Brian Steele hung up with either a sense of dread or a sense of enthusiasm; he could no longer differentiate between the two.
Steele did know Starling when she came in, and not just by her clothing and demeanor. Her name had sparked a note of familiarity, but he didn't place it until he saw her come into the bakery on 17th. There was no quaint bell at the entrance, only the sounds of the traffic just outside briefly growing in volume behind her, as she opened and closed the door. She scanned the room with a hawk's precision,
...A red-tailed hawk's yellow eyes darken to brown as they age...
seeing him and heading in his direction in less than two seconds. She gave a nod.
"Mr. Steele," she started, offering a hand. He stood and shook it.
"Special Agent Starling, nice to meet you," he said, releasing her hand (Good grip) and sitting down again. He waved at a server.
"So," he continued, his tone lively and often mistaken for curt, "How goes the hunt?"
"It goes. Now, you wrote the article, The Safety of LHC, in 1990. Is that correct?"
"Sounds about right," he paused when the server arrived, inviting her to order.
"Just coffee, please. Thank you."
"And I'll take the egg-white omelet and a piece of plain toast. Fruit instead of hashbrowns, and a refill on the coffee. Thank you."
When the server was gone, Steele went on:
"Technically, I wrote it in 1989. It was published in '90."
"I see. And you say that the LSAG report concluded there was no danger-"
"Let's cut to the chase," Steele said, throwing back the remaining coffee in his cup. "The LSAG was reviewed by the GPRNC's own Policy Committee."
"Are you saying the report was...Dismissed?"
"What I'm saying is I don't know. But if I was going to speculate, the word you were looking for is revised." Steele wondered if Starling's hair always looked this good, or if she was having a good hair day.
"Your article only insinuates that speculation."
"I'm an investigative journalist, Agent Starling. Not a Tattler yo-yo."
"Of course," Starling said, reading the sympathetic note in his voice. He knew who she was. He knew who she was and he wanted to talk about it, but wasn't going to ask. She didn't like it, but was glad enough he wasn't being a jerk about it.
"Of course," she repeated, buying herself another beat. "Could you give me a list of the people you talked to?"
"I can email a list, sure. But I can tell you right now who you want to talk to."
"Who's that?"
"His name is Johanne Miller. He-"
"I know who he is, I talked with him briefly. Very skittish."
Steele nodded. "He was with me, too. I can tell you right now, he warms more easily to friendly banter than to authoritarian bulldozer."
"I noticed."
"You'll talk to him again, I assume," he said, lacing his fingers over his stomach. Before she could respond, he went on, "Was it over the phone?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "You'll do better in person. Looking at you, I know you'll hate this. But letting him see you're young and pretty will soften him."
Starling cleared her throat and glanced at the counter, where workers busied themselves.
"Yep. You'd hate that," he said, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
"I'm a federal agent, Mr. Steele. Not a cadet yo-yo."
He laughed. "Fair enough. But you'd do well to use what you have, or has life not screwed you enough, yet?"
"I'm sure we'll get there. In the meantime, why do you mention Miller?"
They paused their conversation when someone brought her coffee. Starling gave a quiet thank you, and Steele made patterns in the sugar granules scattered along the table.
(Hawks are opportunistic feeders.)
The server safely away, Steele answered her question. "Because he knows just about everything there is to know. He clammed up just when I was starting to get him to say interesting things, I assume because he was being pressured. I don't know how much pressure, but I don't think it helps that his daughter works on his team and is probably just as liable. I get the feeling he'd sell himself out for a noble cause, but not his daughter. Fathers," he shook his head. "Although, mothers are worse."
"Who is Miller's daughter?"
"Christina Gomez."
"Married?"
He nodded. "Widowed."
"I see."
"Now, listen. I tried to get the original report, believe me. But sometimes, it's just a no-go. You know how that is."
"Yes, Mr. Steele. I do."
"You don't always get what you want," he said. Serendipitously, his food arrived. He straightened up in his seat and they nodded a thank you when the server left them alone again.
"But sometimes..." he trailed off, giving Starling his best boyish grin. "Hmm?" he encouraged her with his hand, which now held a fork. Starling considered the fact that it was the second time someone had pointed a fork at her in the last forty-eight hours. She'd had worse pointed at her.
"You get what you need."
Steele let his fork down and gave a sharp clap. "She knows the Stones. And that's all I needed to know," he said, before digging in.
When they were leaving, there was a pause outside the door. Starling watched someone jay-walking, and Steele pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The plumes of smoke rose above their heads and he nodded to her.
"Listen, I'd like to work with you on this. Maybe you don't need me anymore, and if so, that's fine. But if you do, let me know. I never could get that story out of my head. You ever have those? Cases, for you, I suppose."
Starling chuckled. "You know, you could just ask."
Steele was taking a drag but she could still see the smile. He shook his head and when he blew out smoke, he politely turned his head. He exhaled in a hard, quick stream. "Wouldn't be polite."
"Well, maybe we should just get it out of the way."
"Maybe we should. You want to have another eat and tell? Or we could take a walk, now."
"I can't now. I'm headed to a dope auction after this."
"Ah, I've never been to one of those. How about I tag along, and we lance a few things on the go?"
"I thought you were so busy you had to squeeze me in during lunch, Mr. Steele."
"Sorry to do it to you, Agent Starling. When meeting people for the first time, I like to do it on my own turf. I get a lot of wackos saying they're this and that, and could they have a moment of my time. You ever realize you're talking to a crazy person halfway through a conversation?"
"I generally have a head's up, but I know what you mean. So you're saying the rushed nature of this meeting-"
"And the location-"
"Were to suss out if I was a wacko?"
"Precisely. I hope you don't mind."
"I don't. So you're saying you don't need to rush off now?"
"No. In fact, I'm ahead of my deadline, and to boot, I'm interested in this. It will go nowhere, of course. But it does pass the time, doesn't it?" While he was taking another drag, Starling looked away, looked at the traffic and didn't quite smile. "Very pessimistic."
"Very realistic. Don't worry, I'll grow on you."
"You can come along, if you want."
"Want to carpool?"
"I have my own ways of sussing out wackos," Starling said, with a thin smile. "I'll meet you there."
There are weekly police auctions held two blocks North from the Red Lion Inn every Wednesday. Every Tuesday night, they were sold out. There was a new kid working, and Teddy Balard, a veteran of working in crummy hotels, had to explain it to him when he showed up for his day shift the following morning. Teddy was updating his online dating profile when the new kid came in, and he quickly closed the window.
"Completely?" the kid asked as Teddy replaced his jacket. He nodded.
"Dope auction down the street. Car dealers and pawn shop owners buy 'em all up. Come down as far as Omaha." He nodded toward the parking lot. "See all those empty car carriers and trucks?"
"Oooh," the kid said, leaning over the counter to look.
"They won't be empty for long."
Clarice Starling and Brian Steele had to park past the inn, and walked by Teddy Balard as he was climbing into his own truck. He tipped a hat and they nodded.
"So, you know what you're doing?" Steele asked.
"Sort of," she answered.
"I appreciate the honesty. Know what you're looking for?"
"Something that works would be just great."
Steele laughed. He could see she was still far from comfortable in their proximity. He put his hands in his pockets. "Well that's a good attitude to have, at one of these things. Been to an auction before?"
"Not when I was in the market."
He nodded. "You do your research?"
"I did enough for this visit."
"What do you mean?"
Starling glanced at Steele. "I'm not buying anything, today."
"Oh, I see. You're scoping the place out."
"That's right."
"So," Steele began, pausing to move aside for a cyclist. Across the street someone's SUV trunk was open and blasting music, The Cure covering Purple Haze. He had to raise his voice. "You in the habit of observing before acting?"
Starling's eyes were fixed ahead and she nodded. "Try to be."
"You like to be ahead of the game."
She finally looked at him. "Don't you?"
"Every minute of every hour."
They shared a smile for the moment of vague camaraderie it was worth.
They stayed along the fringes of the auction, and when he saw that Starling was in the zone, he quit talking and let her (Spectacular dance in the air precedes mating) stay focused. It wasn't until they were leaving that their conversations resumed, and it wasn't until the following evening that the real conversations started. However, since their meeting at the diner, Starling had also gleaned a few more useful things from Steele. She considered them as she drove home, not realizing it would be the second-to-last time she would ever drive this vehicle.
One thing she'd learned were the names of those who most vehemently blocked Steele when he was doing research on the GPNRC, namely, Dean Coombes. Commbes was the newly appointed Director over GPRNC, having passed the torch just weeks after the company's twenty-third anniversary. She had pulled him up after the auction on her home computer. She couldn't help but note there was a fuzzy kind of lunacy in his eyes, even behind his glasses. She usually tried to not make up her mind about people before meeting them; that was rarely a good habit, but these eyes were positively frantic. So, she simply made a note of it.
In addition to Coombes, there had also been Ria Burgess, Director of Finance and Human Resources. Both made perfect sense, to Starling, though she didn't particular look forward to talking with them. The last one, the one that made Starling sigh long and deep, was Paul Krendler. It was no secret that many science research organizations work closely with the government, and even have many government employees and contractors on sight. But it did all beg the question: Why even bother? The answer was simple enough, though not at all satisfying: 'For the benefit of the public.'
In a day and age in which technology had so advanced national and even global communication, people simply knew more. It was why so many leaders, small and large scale, have such tenuous relationships with the media. Even the public have their tendency to scorn them, and Starling was no different. She'd had her own issues with the media, they could be goddamned horrendous. But...but, but, she mused. How the word tensed the shoulders. BUT, as a species, the media breed had forced things into the light that otherwise would not have been, or at the very least, shine a wobbly lantern down the darker corridors of the country, even if they can go no further nor knock on those shut doors. In that nerve-racking purgatory which lies somewhere between ignorance and enlightenment, what's the government to do? Put on a show, that's what. A show starring Special Agent Clarice Starling. Uh-oh, trouble? Don't worry, we're on it. See? Lookie-here!
This wasn't a high-profile case. It was, in its way, even more derogatory then jump squads. She was a poodle in a tutu.
The other thing she learned was that Miller's daughter, Christina Gomez, was one of the technicians working in the Power Converter Group, the one Miller oversaw. Of the names he'd given her, Starling decided to talk to Christina Gomez, first. She would talk to Gomez in person, at the facility itself, and if Daddy was home she would have a talk with him, too. Even if she was a poodle in a tutu, she was going dance damn good.
That night, Starling lay in bed staring up into the bluish dark of her room. A line of light from outside slanted across the ceiling and across her dresser by the door, and she followed it with her eyes, back and forth, back and forth. Her laced hands parted from one another, and spread across her belly. Her fingers moved unconsciously, feeling the hard contours of her stomach. Her mind flashed to Lecter's hands on her and she sniffed and turned her head, shaking the images away.
Then it was Steele's face in her mind's eye, his angular face and friendly eyes which crinkled a bit around the edges-showing his age, showing all the scraps of amusement and joy he'd experienced along life's long, long face. He'd lit a cigarette as they'd left the auction, and Starling glanced at him.
"So..." she'd begun, adjusting her shoulder bag. She'd been surprised at how much she'd enjoyed his company. She'd surmised by then it was because he had a distinct lack of bullshit about him. He could change his face, just like she could change hers, but he only used that ability as it was meant to be used-as a tool. He knew which face was his, and he'd given her the courtesy of showing her that one. She'd done the same. And there was more than face-swapping they shared. That had also been nice.
Steele didn't look at her, but his eyes crinkled again as they looked across the street. The kids around the SUV were trying to hide a joint. Now Wild Night was playing as one of the kids from inside was waving the marijuana smoke away and watching Steele and Starling walk, like a squirrel from behind a tree.
"Are you gonna ask me what you want to ask me?" Starling finally finished. Steele gave a nod as he blew out a stream of smoke.
"Alright. You ever seen the music video to that Mellencamp song?"
Starling frowned, then shook her head. "'Fraid not. I don't get much time to watch tv."
"Ah. Very en vogue of you to say. Well, you should take a look. You remind me of the girl in it. Especially in that outfit."
Starling glanced down, then back up, half expecting a finger to flick her nose. She had a strange fraternal vibe coming from Steele. "Okay..." she said, giving him a look.
"The jeans and white t-shirt, the cap. I'm sure you've got a few party dresses in the closet, but you've got a real tom-lady thing about you."
"Tom-lady. You mean tom-girl?"
"Sure," he said, giving her a wink.
"That isn't what I meant. You said we'd lance it, so let's lance it."
"Ah, that. Are you talking about the whole, you caught a serial killer using the insight of another serial killer thing?"
"Bingo."
"Right. Well, what's there to ask? Tattler covered the story pretty well, didn't they?"
When Starling gave him another look, he laughed. It was a very boyish laugh, and it made him look younger. "You know I'm kidding. Right?"
Starling nodded. "Yeah, I know."
"Good. Listen, think of those leeches as nothing more than little pigglets suckling on the only teet they know of. It isn't about you."
"I know that."
"Good, that's good. As far as questions go, there's really only one, isn't there?"
Starling shrugged. "You tell me, Steele."
"Brian. Alright. What's he like?"
Starling's slow inhale was quiet, but her nostrils flared. It was getting bright and hot out, even since she'd put up her hair and put on her cap. She pulled out a pair of sunglasses from her bag and put them on.
"Aviators. Nice," Steele said, and Starling's smile was subtle when she glanced at him. Her coral lips with her hair in the sun made Steele think of summer watermelon juice, trailing down a throat.
"What do you think he's like?"
"Oh, come on. You told me to ask, I asked. So answer," he elbowed her lightly, and Starling's expression didn't convey anything about this tentative contact.
"Honestly? At first, exactly the way you'd think. Scary as hell. But you're not sure if it's because you know what he is or if it's because you've never been seen so completely and so easily by another sentient being. That is scary as hell."
"How do you mean?"
"I think people like to believe they're very interesting, very unique. And when someone can take one look at you and see it all-see the fingerprints of your past all over your face, see all the things you call a personality organized neatly on the shelves of your mind, see your desperation to be unique in and of itself-it's disarming, to say the least. And he knows that, too. He pins you with his kowledge, pins you like an insect on a spreading board. And he just...Looks."
"I think the hairs on my arms just raised," Steele said, the half-joke and half-truth in his words unveiled by his tone.
"Imagine standing in front of him, down in a dungeon with a to-do list, the completion of which may seal your future."
"I heard you didn't have the real to-do list. That part true?"
"Yeah, that part's true."
"I heard you were his valentine. That true?"
Starling sighed. "In a way."
Steele looked at her then, once again, making no attempt to veil the puzzlement and surprise in his face. Starling laughed.
"That was how it started. 'Look for your Valentine's in Raspail's car', he said."
"Oooh. Gotcha. Very creepy."
"Yeah. He liked playing with that particular toy. He didn't have many, then."
"What do you mean?"
They'd reached their cars, and Starling pivoted, so she could lean against her own. Steele stopped in front of her, his hands back in his pockets.
"I mean, he had very limited means of amusing himself. He knew he was scary. He knew he scared anybody he talked to, even me, even though I held onto my chitterlings. He played on that. Above all else, he likes to be amused. That's what he's like. There's your answer."
"Creepy, creepy. Want to get a bite?"
"You ate two hours ago."
"You didn't," he pointed out and smiled. "Oh," he suddenly said, as though he'd forgotten to mention something. His finger appeared next to his mouth. "We should get one more thing out of the way, I think it'll be helpful. I have a girlfriend, and I'm not looking to replace her. I'd be surprised if you didn't get a few Romeos per week. I'm not Romeo. Understand?"
"Understood, and appreciated."
"Good. Want to get a bite?"
"Sure."
It was odd for Starling, she mused lying in bed, to feel as though she'd made a friend. It had been awhile. And it had been weird as hell talking about Dr. Lecter out loud. She tried not to. Any time she talked about him, she could only talk about the boogeyman down in the dungeon. Yes, he was that boogeyman. But he was other things, too.
My death, my moonlight, he'd muttered at one point, his eyes half closed as she'd tortured him. She gave her head another shake. No more. No more, tonight.
Starling quotes Joy Reid