A/N: I once said I'd finish this no matter the time it takes, and I meant it. Funny—in the time it's taking, about the same amount of time has passed for us as for Clarice and Hannibal. Now:
I assume I don't have to say that this relationship is pretty corrupt. There are kindnesses, and there's healing, for sure. But I just want to give a little warning for those who may feel triggered at all. This story contains heavy manipulation, drug-induced hypnosis, mind control, and some coerced submission.
It's been quite some time since I wrote at all. I began this story while in an abusive situation. Around the time I quit writing In Profundis was when I escaped, with the help of my mom. Because of some of the things I deal with, I was compelled to give warnings. I want to communicate to everyone, particularly any younger readers, that ignoring the fact that Dr. Lecter is a murderer, this is still a completely implausible relationship that irl, would be damaging and unhealthy. So if you're dating, skip the dark, brooding, complicated bad dude and just pick a good, kind man. Promise? Ok. Enjoy the candy.
Please give me feedback. Like I said, it's been a long time since I wrote, and I'm still getting back into the swing of it. I'm trying to get my confidence back, as well as the habit.
Leonie Strobl knocked a third time. The oak doors of the doctor's home were painted indigo and after sunset, they appeared as dark as the night sky. They had no windows, but there were rows of windows on either side. Frau Strobl could not see inside—not even when she cupped her hands around her temples and looked. She turned and sighed, tucking her scarf into her coat. She was in velvet and silk, and the wind smelled like rain.
The door groaned behind her and she turned to see the doctor in dark clothes.
"Frau Strobl." He did not quite smile, but gave a meager bow. "Good evening."
His face floated in the void, as did his bare feet. She looked at them a beat too long before putting a hand to her hair, theatrically.
"Doctor," she breathed. "I'm terribly sorry to appear so late."
"What can I do for you?"
Something was strange about him, besides being barefoot. It took her a moment to pinpoint what it was. He was wearing glasses, and she hadn't seen them before. In the midst of the thought, she still acknowledged the lack of a 'not at all', or 'don't be silly,' in response to her apology. She cleared her throat.
"I...Might I talk with you? Inside? It's about Joseph."
He seemed to consider the request, causing another internal cringe for her, but then he smiled and opened the door.
"Come in out of the chill, Frau Strobl," he said, and guided her into the house, a hand at her back. Frau Strobl disappeared into the doctor's dark void, his eyes scanning the grounds with a cold, level gaze as he shut the door.
In the parlor, he handed her a drink and she took it.
"Ordinarily, I'd offer you something white, but I sense tonight calls for something a bit murkier."
"Indeed," she murmured. He turned and took a seat in the chair opposite her, his back unnaturally straight. He looked at her, the whites of his eyes seeming too white. She looked down at her drink. The house groaned.
"I am beginning to wonder if Joseph has simply lost his mind," she finally said.
"What makes you say that, Madam?"
"He's become terribly paranoid. He's become suspicious of you, which was one thing. But now, he's suspicious of me and yesterday, he mentioned something about Mitzy being, 'in on it,' whatever that's supposed to mean."
"I see."
Frau Strobl stole a brief glance at him. His short answers, in addition to the vaguest sense of her unwelcome was making her so uncomfortable, she could hardly bare it. The silence between their voices made her foot begin to twitch.
"I...I thought maybe talking with you would..." she trailed off and took a sip of the whiskey. She looked at him.
"Has he seemed unwell to you? Since the two of you have been talking?"
Dr. Lecter considered her question. He'd never met anyone 'well', although Joseph had not begun to show symptoms of drug-induced psychosis until he'd begun giving him micro doses of LSD in his drinks. He'd upped the quantity recently.
"He has, but I must confess that I've not heard him express paranoia beyond what was there to begin with. Has he sought therapy before?"
Leonie huffed and sat back in her seat. "He would never. Someone would find out about it and he'd be even more a laughing stock than he already is."
"He really ought to speak to a professional. Granted, I've had some experience in the field but I couldn't possibly advise him to only speak with me. In fact, I'd like that on the record," he said, giving her a smile and a wink.
A smile of her own ghosted across her face, but quickly fell. "He would never."
"You thought he'd never consider confiding in me either," he reminded her, and offered a palm, "yet here we are. Never say never," he said, and his open palm turned crisply and he wagged his finger.
"I suppose. I practically had to threaten him to see you the first time."
"Did you? I'm curious what the threat was."
She laughed without humor. "That the next time he felt like racing his Porsche like the mid-life crisis buffoon he is, he'd find it gone, and my purse a little heavier."
"Ah. You threatened a beloved toy. I wonder if you tire of playing stern mother to your man-child husband."
"I do!" she cried, her face so earnest and desperate that Dr. Lecter took a mental photograph to amuse himself with, later. For now, he closed his eyes in solemnity and nodded.
"I can't imagine," he said. "A woman must have the privilege to feel like a woman. She can't do that if she must mother her husband."
"Exactly," she said, her eyes big and tearful. "Just, exactly."
"Yes," he said, and handed her a handkerchief. "But," he said, his voice suddenly chipper, "We mustn't lose ourselves to sorrow or self-pity, yes?" He gave her a kindly smile, lines appearing around his eyes.
"That's true," she said.
"Right. We must be steadfast, and forward march. Because if she is nothing else, a woman is enduring. And you, Frau Strobl, are a woman."
She squirmed in her seat and her eyes fell as she smiled. "I am."
"Then we press on. Joseph and I will meet in two days. I'll see if I can't convince him to seek therapy, myself. I can give him some good recommendations. There's absolutely nothing wrong with seeking help when one needs it. I'd be shocked if his peers have not done the wise thing, and found help themselves. Everyone needs help, from time to time."
"What about me?" she asked.
Dr. Lecter stood, and held out his hands. Frau Strobl set down the half-empty glass and, not taking her eyes from Dr. Lecter's, took his hands and rose.
"You, Madam, will remain vigilant. If you're feeling frightened, don't hesitate to call me. Or the police, for that matter. Observe him, and report to me. And remember," he said, giving her hands a squeeze, "you're not alone, in this."
After they'd said their goodbyes and he'd closed the heavy door, Dr. Lecter cocked his head.
"I'm afraid I haven't prepared dinner. You were my first unexpected visitor this evening."
Valarie Martin, obscured in the darkness of the stairwell, stepped down until she could see him. He turned and regarded her.
"I'm not hungry," she said, leaning against the wall. She wore his robe, and her messy hair was fetching around her shoulders and face.
Dr. Lecter beckoned her to the bottom of the stairs and she took his hand. "And what would you like?"
"You're not my host," she said, grinning. She walked past him into the parlor and took Frau Strobl's chair. She watched the fire as he joined her.
"I would have to disagree. This is my home, after all." When her eyes moved to meet his, he smiled. "And you are my guest."
She dashed her head. "I'm your lover. I'd hope that's in a different category. Sure, I suppose it falls under the umbrella. But if you'd like to continue, I prefer to be less formal. Or," she considered, "let that be my request, as your guest. Spare me formalities. Don't worry about what I'd like. I don't enjoy coming here because of how polite you are, and I don't care about your money. I like the hint of whatever you are beneath all that."
"The hint, my dear, would be the key word."
Martin grinned at the fire. "You're right. I don't know how dark your dark side gets, and I don't care to. Not a guest. Not a wife. Lover."
"Very well. But you deserve to know that you're not the only one I have."
Martin looked at him. "I wont pretend to feel a bit of jealousy, but I like the addition of it. It's like a touch of pepper in your cocoa. And you're certainly not my one and only. May I ask who she is? You don't need to give me her name or anything like that. But what's she like?"
"She's tough."
Martin grinned again. "Good. I like that. What else? Is she beautiful?"
"Yes."
"And..." Martin invited him to continue with a hand.
"Bright. Bright and quick and lovely. Like a bird."
"Songbird, or bird of prey?"
Dr. Lecter pursed his lips. "She's in a transitional period between the two."
"I assume she's transitioning to bird of prey."
Dr. Lecter only nodded slowly.
Martin, who could take reading in the eyes as well as Dr. Lecter, cocked her head a micron. "You're afraid of her."
Dr. Lecter, still looking into the fire, hummed. "I might be. I could be." He looked at her. "We shall see," he said with his eyebrows raised, and he smiled.
Martin crossed her legs, and picked up Frau Strobl's abandoned whiskey. She was an odd combination, to Dr. Lecter, of sophistication and wildness. She occupied the seat with confidence, and she possessed the ability to blend in the company of the elite. She knew all the masks they wore and she wore them well; she wore them better than the socialites she prowled among, wore the costumes of the aristocracy like she wore the robe draping her. She wore it comfortably, casually, elegantly. Wearing costumes had become a part of her identity, and so she played with them like they played with their toys. She stretched her long, shapely leg and crunched her toes.
"What is it you're doing with the Strobls, anyway?" She took a sip of the whiskey.
"I'm playing with them."
Martin nodded. "I assumed, but to what end?"
"To what end? I'm open to alternate endings."
Martin chuckled. "So you're playing with them for the pleasure of it."
"Does that bother you?"
She shrugged a shoulder. "I'm sure it would if they were dear to me. Fortunately for us both, they're not."
"That kind of self-awareness and honesty is not common. You're not going to feign a moral qualm, even though you don't particularly feel anything? You're not worried I'll turn my sights on you?"
"First," Martin began, "expressing distaste wouldn't stop you. The feeling I get it is that there is no stopping you. I'd sooner just stay out of the way. Second, if you are going to turn your sights on me, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."
"Do you feel you can protect yourself well enough?"
"Of course not. You're stronger than me, and most likely smarter. But I'm never alone."
"Ah. Friends in high places?"
Martin laughed. "Friends in low places. Anyway, if you mean me harm, I survive or I don't. I usually do. But you're not the first predator I've contended with. My line of work isn't known for its safety. Why I'm in it is my business."
Dr. Lecter conceded with a bow of his head. "Then you can trust me or not, when I say I have no intention of harming you."
"I didn't get the feeling you did."
"I imagine your own intuition is insurance enough, most of the time."
"Most of the time. Yes."
"And do you trust me?"
"Not remotely, but I believe what you said before."
"Good. I'm not interested in having a fearful or paranoid lover."
Martin sipped her drink. "I am curious, though. You've got the kind of charisma to draw the attention of a lot of different kinds of people. Certainly, anyone with romantic ideas toward the macabre, which is obnoxiously common, I admit. Which means that you most likely could take a lover most places you find yourself in. You could easily have many women, if you made even the slightest effort. Why did you take to me?"
"You remind me of her."
Martin took pause to contend with how that made her feel. It stung, but that didn't bother her. To Valarie Martin, life was a kaleidoscopic experience of one emotion blending into the next. Pain was a part of pleasure, hate a part of love, and so forth. She let herself feel it all, and appreciated it for what it was.
"Is it in appearance or in character?"
"A bit of both. You have a similar coloring, but it's more in your character."
"Does that mean you think I'm tough?"
"You're not tough." Dr. Lecter leaned his cheek into his hand. "You're resilient. That's what happens to a tough person, over time and trial."
Martin downed the rest of the whiskey."Your insults endure me to your flattery. It's a nice trick."
"It isn't a trick, in this instance."
Martin stood and made her way to the bar. "Which tricks have you used on me, then?"
"I've teased you with my proximity. It was clear you were attracted to me. I liked the thought of you initiating intimacy. I pushed you to action."
Martin was quiet as she poured herself another drink. She didn't speak until she'd sat. The robe opened up to the top of where her thighs met. She bobbed her bare foot up and down in the space between them. "So..." she began, pausing to drink. "Is that because you like to imagine your other lover is initiating? The one I remind you of?"
"Yes."
"Why do your tricks not work on her?"
"I didn't say they didn't."
"But some of them don't work. You're the kind of man with an immeasurable ego, driving him to be uncontrollably drawn to a challenge. She challenges you, this woman. I'd put money on it. So why do some of your tricks not work on her?"
"She knows me better than you do."
Martin laughed. "That would do it. I suppose that means she's been further down your darker corridors."
"She's explored them at length."
"So, are you in love with her?"
The question, he knew, was a casual one to Valarie Martin. People fell in and out of love all the time. Martin had most certainly been in love. He had no doubt she'd been subject to many professions of love, both real and fraudulent. That was one of the burdens of being a woman. He hadn't considered the weightiness of the concept, for him. For him, it was unprecedented. It occurred to him then that he was experiencing a rare thing. He was in the presence of someone who knew far more than he did about a particular subject, but in addition, the subject in question was not something one could learn from books or lectures or university. The only way to become a veteran of love was to live it. Before him, was a professional. He smiled, amused by his own thoughts.
"I don't know, Valarie."
Martin took a drink, then set the glass down, with a hint of something to the gesture; perhaps, a formal dismissal of it in favor of focusing on him. She bobbed her foot a few moments, before speaking.
"Why do I get the feeling that that's a rare answer, coming from you?"
"Trust your intuition."
Martin nodded. "When I was younger, I used to wonder if love was like orgasms. With orgasms, you know it if you've had one. I've known a girl or two who claimed to not be sure. If you're not sure, you haven't had one. There's absolutely no mistaking it. Would you agree?"
Dr. Lecter nodded.
"An orgasm is an orgasm. It's measurable, scientifically. We can study it, break it down into stages, even categorize them and notice differences between male and female orgasms. We even know some animals orgasm. That is to say, the pleasure of males and females beyond ejaculation. But love?" She dashed her head. "It isn't measurable. We can see what chemicals are present, but those same chemicals can be present under different circumstances. The chemicals are fleeting, and sometimes misleading. Love is different on different people. Love adapts and infuses itself with every individual, like perfume on a wrist, or wine and oak in a cask. And you can love your grandmother at the same time as loving your spouse, at the same time as loving a tart. I love dates and cashews, and I love rainy weather, and I love my mother. Hell, I love my mother even after she's dead. Love doesn't know the difference, and it doesn't necessarily need something in return. It's not always transactional. And if you want to know the kind of love that you're stuck with, it's probably that kind."
Dr. Lecter studied Martin's foot. It was still now. She took her drink back.
"So," she continued, sniffing the whiskey before tasting it. "What do you want from her? Will you love her when she's bone or ash? Will you cherish the very idea that she existed in the same world as you, for a time?"
"I would never, never forget her."
"Would you long for her?"
"Yes."
"Would you change for her?"
Dr. Lecter, considered. "Possibly. If I can."
"Hmm."
Dr. Lecter looked at Martin, and she held up her glass. "I think you may be stuck."
"Is there anything that can be done? If I decided it was too inconvenient?"
"No," she shook her head, looking slightly wistful. "You can deny yourself. Using someone else is a good distraction. But you will most likely love her until you die. Even if you find somebody else to fall in love with. That's really the only remedy, at least for the pain, in the event you can't be with her. But I don't see that as likely, in your case. I get the feeling this is highly unprecedented for you." She shrugged, and drank. "It's not so bad. You can grow accustomed to it."
"How?"
Martin laughed. "Just keep living, John. I'm sure you've adapted to worse."
Dr. Lecter sighed.
"Does she know you're in love with her?"
"It's hard to say. She might have entertained the thought, but I doubt she's sure one way or the other."
"Well," Martin considered, "Just because you weren't sure, doesn't mean she isn't. We women have our ways."
"She's nearly as naive as I am, when it comes to these things. But I take your point."
"Is she in love with you?" Martin asked.
"No," answered Dr. Lecter, without feeling. "She feels something, and she feels a lot of it but it isn't love. She's come close to hating me, though."
"Well, that's hopeful," Martin said, without sarcasm. "Hate is a strong emotion. If anything, you affect her deeply. If she cared nothing about you, she'd feel nothing. What did you do to make her hate you?"
"Valarie?"
"Yes?"
"Enough, now."
"No problem. Shall I drop the subject entirely, or just redirect?"
"Either is fine."
"Will I ever meet this woman?"
Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow and moved his hand. "Would you like to?"
"Sure. So long as it didn't cause any problems. I have plenty of those."
Dr. Lecter nodded. "It's possible. She doesn't live close, but we see one another from time to time. I had planned on having her come here, when she visits next."
"You usually meet discreetly, I take it."
"That, and I think it's good for her to experience travel recreationally. She's usually working."
"What does she do?"
"Redirect."
"Does she like music? You could take her to the Philharmonic Ball, next week. It would also grant me a chance encounter."
"It isn't the right time. She won't be available until April."
"Ah. Too bad. Would it hurt to ask?"
"Too short notice."
"So you'll see her soon, hmm. Are you excited?"
Lecter smiled at the fire and took a drink. "I'm enthusiastic."
"So, tell me something," said Martin, clearly switching gears, "Regarding your games with the Strobls, and whoever else, what role do I have in all that?"
Dr. Lecter looked at Martin and smiled. "What role would you like to have?"
Martin thought about that. "I'd say a good view, and nothing more. Could I ask a personal favor, though?"
"Certainly."
"Could you leave Etienne out of it?"
Dr. Lecter hummed, and stood. Martin sipped her drink while Dr. Lecter made his own, behind her. "I don't make promises unless I'm certain I can keep them, Valarie. I can't keep that one."
"Can you promise she wont get hurt?"
"I can't promise that about anyone."
"Can you promise you'll make an effort to not hurt her, or let someone else hurt her?"
She listened to the sound of pouring liquid behind her. Dr. Lecter didn't speak until he'd returned to his chair. "Yes. I can promise I'll make an effort. Does it help that I don't have any intention of hurting her, or plans for her?"
"A little."
"And if she does sustain injury, in spite of my efforts?"
"Then she will come before you."
"Perfectly understandable."
Martin considered him. The way he carried himself was typical l'élite. As though he owned every room, every piece of furniture. Always so self-assured. It was often their downfall; the rich know how to do very little. They were utterly dependent upon their help. They'd be the first to go, in the event society collapsed. Wouldn't last a day. While she didn't think Dr. Boucher shared that same helpless quality, he was still unprepared for when the time came that he was out of his depths. Whoever this woman he loved was, no matter how naive she was in relationships, love, or sex, she would most likely keep the upper hand. Martin wondered if the doctor knew that and liked it, on some level. She did wonder if those always in control ever got bored or lonely. Surely. Surely.
"Valarie, is there any risk that your feelings for me will grow?"
Martin set her drink down pointedly again. She seemed to consider her words longer than usual. When she spoke, she did so deliberately, and gently. "John, I'm not in love with you, and I never will be."
"Excellent. May I ask you a favor? It's a bit tasteless."
"I'm intrigued."
"I'd like you to continue to advise me on the matters of my other lover. Would that be acceptable?"
"It would be an honor."
Dr. Lecter smiled, leaned forward, and raised his glass. Martin mirrored him.
" À l'amore," Martin offered.
"À son."
Starling sat at her home computer in the quiet of the duplex. Mapp was in her own room, Starling could only assume, doing something contemplative. The interview with Miller had felt like a flop. He'd given her no new information. All she'd known to do was go back and look through what she'd found, already. Information on the previous investigation, Steele's article, and her own data analysis of the big players. There was an astounding lack of directions to go. There was information, but no direction to go. If she didn't have the drive or the animal suspicion, she could so easily dismiss the case.
There were few directions, but not zero. One thing Starling had learned was that when there was no paper trail, no enormous archive of data to analyze, and no one was talking, there often ended up being cases of blackmail or bribery. What she was supposed to be looking for was evidence for domestic terrorism. She wasn't sure what she thought she'd find. It wasn't as though she would've perused the building, come across a door marked 'secret weapon of mass destruction', and written up a report the next day. Because the GPNRC was federally supported, the chances of finding something incriminating were next to nothing. It was looking less and less likely she would uncover anything regarding terrorism, but that didn't have to mean she came up empty-handed. If she found evidence of bribery or blackmail, the case would most likely be taken from her.
"Balls," she muttered.
The person she kept coming back to was Miller. Sure, he'd gotten her nowhere, but he'd repeated himself during their second interview, and little things like that had the tendency to make Starling's ears perk. He'd mentioned Steele again, and he'd mentioned his daughter again. It made her think of something...
"I've read the cases, Clarice, have you? Everything you need to know to find him is right there, if you're paying attention."
Starling's natural inclination was to put her all into something until it was completed to satisfaction. One of the first things she'd had to contend with after training was that she often ended up juggling multiple cases at a time. You had to learn to balance it all, including which cases were assigned importance over others.
After graduation, she'd had to list her preferred field offices and branch. She'd gotten her first choice for the field office. Second on her list had been CCRSB, or, Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Service Branch. That was the one she'd been assigned. At the time, she'd been disappointed, but had the knowledge and temperance to know that being awarded a place with the BSU would've been next to impossible. Now, she was inclined to be amazed her preferences had been given thought at all. She'd gotten her second choice. The FBI took preferences into consideration, but at the end of the day, the FBI does what the FBI needs to do. Starling had come to believe that what the FBI had needed was for her to be in the cyber crime field office. However, because she was into her second year, the time had come to begin using her in a variety of capacities. She still had some cyber cases, she always did, but she'd been given various alternate cases from other branches since the beginning, and she'd been getting more of them. The GPNRC was not placed high on her list of priorities. Some of the reasons she shared. Others, she didn't.
Starling put her pen in her mouth and tied her hair back. She checked her watch, and it read: 10:59 p.m. She had a deposition for Richard Vidal's trial in the morning. A damn deposition and five other cases. Headlights slanted across the wall and Starling put her pen down. After a moment's hesitation, she turned off her computer.
There was an old Porsche parked on the curb and she watched to see the driver. She didn't recognize Brigham until he reached the porch light. Starling opened the door before he knocked.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing, but where's your phone? I tried calling. Sorry to come by late."
"It's fine, phone's in the bedroom. Just wasn't expecting a call. What's up? Do you want something to drink?"
"No, don't worry, I'm not staying. Just dropping by on my way to the airport. There's an auction tomorrow, and I know for a fact there'll be a Mustang there. Drug bust in Bellevue. The guy, Davis or Davidson, he collected cars. Found a sh—huge load of cocaine behind the AC unit, but other than that, she's innocent as a dove."
"I've got a deposition tomorrow. Is it in Bellevue?"
"Yeah. It's at four in the afternoon. Think you can make it?"
"Probably," Starling said, and nodded to Brigham's car. "Is that how you got that?"
"That, I got from my dad. Inheritance. He was a bit of a collector too. Although, he ended up with more trash in his yard than anything else."
Starling nodded. "What year?"
"Sixty-seven."
"Excellent."
"You're welcome to take a ride with me some time. Just not now."
"Where you headed?"
"Family stuff came up. I'll catch you later, Starling."
Starling huffed when she sat back down at her chair, and it squealed as she turned.
Mapp called from her room. "Starling, is that your chair or your punani? Something needs to be greased."
Starling didn't get home the following day until nearly eleven. After the deposition, she'd gone to the dope auction and left with her new Mustang. She drove it a little for fun. The speed limit on I-95 changes from fifty-five to seventy through Fredericksburg. Starling drove seventy-nine for a stretch, but when there wasn't much traffic, she took it up to ninety for a moment. She decided she'd take it out some time early, and see how a hundred and ninety felt. The vibration of the machine when she gripped the gear shift felt good.
She stopped in Locust park since it was on her way to Quantico. She preferred the trails to the running track. Going around in circles wasn't fun. Starling liked the parts of the trail with uneven ground the most. She would aim to not decrease her speed, no matter the elevation or terrain. She had only fallen once. After she bought new sneakers, it didn't happen again. By the time she got to Quantico, it was about ten, which meant she'd be working late. Starling was fine with that.
Some of the agents she worked with semi-regularly were next to useless. Some agents contributed less, had shittier attitudes, and basically made the job harder for everyone else. Everyone called those agents grey men, but you didn't know if you were called one. Starling was unsure of many things, including how liked or respected she was by her colleagues, but she'd never once questioned if she'd been called a grey man. True, she could've been called worse. But not that. Then, there were the jackals. The ones who sniffed out information like bloodhounds. They were machines. Starling had to talk to grey men and jackals. Some of them were working on the same cases as Starling, and some just knew things she needed to know. By the time the sun was setting, there was paperwork to do. By the time she'd made reasonable headway on the paperwork, she finally sat down and ate a sandwich.
When she got home, she called Mapp from the front door. The two women circled the Mustang, Mapp's outstretched hand caressing it. When she was sitting in the driver's seat, Starling leaned against the open door.
"So what'd you do today?" Starling asked.
"My day began with a lawsuit. A Jewish kid in Virginia was killed last week by a group of men. His parents are suing the church the men belong to. I had the pleasure of speaking to the pastor today. He quoted Romans at me. 'Let every person be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except from God.'"
"What'd you say?"
"I said, 'If someone says I love God and hates his brother, he is a liar. John 4:20.'"
When Mapp stood, Starling shut the door. They leaned against the car a moment. It was nice out.
"If someone uses the Bible to be racist one more time..." Mapp said, shaking her head.
"You'll keep putting their asses away?"
"You're damn right."
"And how'd your day end?" Starling asked.
"With a visit to Conway. That was about forty minutes ago."
"God, your day was longer than mine. How was he?"
Mapp sighed. "Let's go in."
Inside, Mapp made tea and they sat at the kitchen table. "Conway's alright. As well as he can be. He's been an informant now for long enough to gain some trust and freedom. He told me last month he'd like to learn how to tune pianos. His grandfather did that. He knows a little."
"And?"
"And he asked if he ever made it that far, if he could visit me sometimes."
Starling nodded. "Do you think he has a thing for you?"
Mapp nodded. "It reminds me of, you know..."
"Right. This isn't your fault."
"I know. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm in a bad spot. However I decide to handle this—that'll be my fault."
"If you don't know what to do, let's look at what you shouldn't do. What shouldn't you do?"
"Embarrass him or lead him on."
"How would you do that?"
"Hell, that's the problem. They can take whatever you do or don't do any kinda way."
"True. But you can only do what you can do. Remember? Let me ask you something, though. Is Conway the type to kill himself?"
Mapp snorted softly. "No. He isn't."
"I imagine he's had better reasons in the past to give up. Better than you not wanting to date him. He's had a hard life. If we all hold the lives of men in our hands, as we choose to yes or no, we'd never get anything done and we'd be worn out by age twenty. We have to say yes when we mean it and no when we mean it. We do it kindly when they're kind, and if they're not so kind, we reserve the human right to feel and speak. And we reserve the right to make mistakes. And we reserve the right to forgive ourselves."
Mapp was nodding. Her lips were tight but she didn't cry. When she suddenly sniffed and rolled her shoulders, they locked eyes. They shook their shoulders, and blew air out from their puffed cheeks.
"Shake it off," Starling said, and they smiled softly.
"Said yes to anybody lately?"
Starling shook her head, still smiling.
"No contenders?"
"Haven't been interested. Haven't been interested in being interested."
"Right. Not since lakeside mystery boy. Anything ever happen, there?"
Starling shrugged. "Nothing can happen there."
"Why? Is he a reformed criminal turned informant too?"
"He's a lot of things."
"Married?"
Starling shook her head.
"Alcoholic?"
"No. And quit it."
"Three ex-wives with kids with each one?"
"No."
"Work for the Tattler?"
Starling snorted. "That was a good one. No."
"If I guess, will you tell me so?"
"I doubt you would. But no."
"Does he have herpes?"
"Oh, my God."
"Okay, rapid fire," Mapp said, taking on an interrogative tone. "He ugly? Is his driveway steep and scrapes your car? Does he use the word 'neato'? Have you dated him before? Does he have more than five allergies? Is he a homicidal maniac? Does he hand out Durex condoms at the beach dressed as a sperm?"
"That last one was suspiciously specific."
"An ex did it for a summer."
Starling grinned. "Give it a rest. I have my reasons, and my judgement is sound."
"Why's it a secret?"
"Because it's not just my secret to tell."
Mapp chewed on that. "That's a decent answer. Can I ask questions about you, then?"
"Shoot."
"Would he ever hurt you?"
"Maybe if his life depended on it."
"Maybe?"
Starling shrugged. "He's not perfect."
Mapp seemed to be considering something. "Actually, it made me think of something. Sperm boy told me he loved me in the back of his pick up. It was sweet. At the end of the summer, we were leaving a restaurant and crossing the street. This group of guys were walking past his car, and they started talking at me. I looked for sperm boy, and he was high-tailing it, into the sunset."
"Doing what sperm do," Starling suggested.
Mapp laughed. "Yeah. So he might hurt you, if his life depended on it. Could be worse. How's he make you feel?"
"Changes. Sometimes he's made me feel like a schoolgirl. Sometimes he's made me feel like Cleopatra being fanned under a gilded canopy."
"Hot damn, Clarice! I could work with that..."
Starling smiled. Her smile fell. "It doesn't matter."
"Why not?"
Starling shook her head. "I have my reasons. And my judgement is sound."
"Alright, alright. Let's take a break from the heavy. I have a little to do before bed. You eat?"
"Not since lunch."
"I got a watermelon yesterday. I'll make the shrimp, if you fry the okra. I want to eat the watermelon nasty-open and dripping juice."
"I wasn't about to suggest forks."
Brian Steele shook several sugar packets in his hand. He sat across from Starling outside of a taqueria. Starling leaned back in her seat, the bright world around her a few shades darker and stained sepia by her sunglasses. She was getting warm and she put her glass of water against one of her pink cheeks.
"Honestly, I would've been shocked if you'd gotten more out of him than me. No offense," said Steele. He was stirring his coffee now.
"Do you drink non-coffee beverages?"
"On occasion. My guess is you're right on the money. A blackmail situation is causing him to leave you tiny breadcrumbs, make you suspicious enough to dig, but not enough that it could ever lead back to him. I'm not sure what's in my article that's suppose to raise the red flag, though."
"Me either. There's nothing in it about Christina."
Steele paused the rim of his coffee cup at his mouth a moment. "No," he said, "But I mention her team."
"Her team? He led me to believe she was on his team. She's not working on the collider?"
"Nope. She's a techy, like you. Well, not quite like you. She's a UX reasearcher."
"A UX researcher? Well, hot damn. That gives me a place to go, at least."
"What will you do?"
"See what I can find out about what they're working on. If there's something that's been in the queue since your article, I have something to look at."
"Careful. Whatever's in the queue for the technology department is likely why they have support for from the Justice Department. In fact, it's probably not really Justice. More likely someone from Justice would be working as a liaison for someone in the executive branch. Looks less suspicious, doncha know."
"We talking weapons?"
"We talkin' weapons."
"Well. Shit house mouse, no wonder nobody gets anywhere."
"Not just nobody. Me. And you. I'm sure there's other people out there with our IQ's and determination, but not many, and they're probably mostly doctors and engineers."
Starling chuckled and set down her glass. "You're good for my ego, I think."
"Sarcasm?"
"No," Starling shook her head. "Seriously."
Steele smiled. "Hey," he said, pulling out his wallet, "how overwhelmed are you now?"
"Today, or in general?"
"In general."
She flipped her palm back and forth in the air. "Been better, been worse. I am distinctly blah, these days."
"I was thinking, since your case isn't going anywhere, unless it is and you're going to get into a traffic 'accident' soon, you might have a little room on your plate to go to a thing with me next Friday night. You can meet a friend of mine. He might be able to be a friend to you, in the future."
Starling frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your problem," he paused to smile at the waiter. When he was gone:
"You said someone doesn't like you. Someone at Justice."
"Remember that you don't know that, Brian."
"Right. So I have a friend, then. He's not hot, but maybe you'd like his taste in automobiles."
Starling smiled. "Who's your friend."
"Jimmy Mason. Attorney General."
Starling was quiet.
Steele sat back in his seat, a finger to his chin. "Say, isn't the Attorney General over Justice?"
"You're suggesting I play politics."
"No. I'm strongly urging you to. Starling..." Steele started, but paused. He looked around, then took off his sunglasses and started cleaning them. He spoke with his head down. "You're never gonna win if you don't play. You get that. Right?"
"If I show-"
"Nope," he shook his head. "You've got nothing to show 'em. You can't show someone something they don't see. This enemy of yours, he doesn't see hard work. He doesn't see a team player. He doesn't see efficiency, or morality, or loyalty. He sees money, and he sees somebody who reminds him of his own personal shortcomings. That's it. That's all he'll ever see. If you want to step on him, you need a bigger foot. I've got a big foot you can meet. First Friday of May. And someone even more important will be there."
Starling sighed. "Who's that?"
"My girlfriend." Steele smiled, and Starling couldn't help smile back. He was quiet while Starling seemed to think.
By the time she spoke, they were standing, pushing their chairs in. Children nearby were blowing bubbles and Starling watched as they walked. A man across the street was babbling. Starling kept an eye on him.
The first Friday of May. That was the Friday after the meeting with Lecter. She could swing it. She'd be in a weird place, most likely. But that hadn't affected her performance, thus far. Starling was learning how much she could take. She had conflicted feelings about that.
"So...You available?" Steele asked.
"What's the thing?"
"Charity. You got formal wear?"
The man across the street was growing in volume, and they each glanced at him. The man locked eyes with Starling.
"Yep," she answered.
"Good. About Jimmy, he won't care if you're attractive, so don't worry about that. He'll care if you're quick and he'll care if you're real. He's not a saint recruiter, he's not going to shoot you to the moon based on virtue, but he does have a soft spot for a true believer. Mostly because he's out of touch. He likes stories too. Hit him with your best stories. Tell him how it made you feel. You can be honest. You should be honest. I think he'll like you. If he invites you to something else, say maybe. And, obviously, you go, all else be damned."
"So is the plan to get him to like me?"
"Yes. You don't want to ask him for anything. You want him to want to do something for you. If the time comes. Understand?"
"Brian, I know how manipulation works."
"Well, of course, you're FBI."
Starling gave him a look. "Believe it or not, I get most information by being likeable. Not intimidation or manipulation."
"But you can do those things if you need to. You can change your accent a little, adjust your clothing, pretend to be someone else, even...If it gets the job done. Do you see the discrepancy, there? You'll do it for a case. You'll do it for your job, for someone else-But not for you. Do it for you, Starling. No one else will."
When they reached her Mustang, Starling gave Steele a wave just before he disappeared among the sea of parked cars. When she turned, the babbling man was standing a good distance from her.
"I know you," he said. Starling had her keys in her hand. Her gun was in her purse.
"I don't think so."
"You're the bride," he said. He came closer and Starling reached her hand into her purse. "Bride of the monster. I know you."
"Good for you. Don't come any closer." Starling kept her eyes on him as she began unlocking her door.
"Do you want to know your future?"
"Not really." She finally had to look down.
"He will look different in the world when it falls."
She got it unlocked.
"His morality is false, but when the morality of the cities crumbles, his will still be there. And his heart will ache for you still."
Starling opened her door.
"And Cerberus will save you twice."
She glanced at him. He was a safe enough distance away. No sign of a weapon.
"Who are you talking about?"
"The monster, your lover. Your lover, and his pet. Black, like his doors in the night."
Starling stared at him for a moment. "There's a mens' shelter on 14th Street. Do you know where that is?"
"You won't be able to fix it in time. You shouldn't blame yourself. No one else will either, and few will even try. They'll stop you. They'll ruin you. They will exile you and then we will all fall."
I can have you taken there, if you need a place to stay and a meal. What's your name?"
"Chiacco. Listen to Chiacco, little doxy."
"Who have you-"
"When we crash, there will be many like him. But worse. They will eat the weak and the women slowly, to not spoil the meat. One limb at a time. Like animals. But you will not be consumed. You will lead. And he will find you."
Starling got in her car.
"He waits for you on the stone! Lions above him and doors like night below!"
"John, do you want my help, or not?"
Dr. Lecter sat with his back against the headboard of his bed. Valarie sat at the small desk across the room by the window. She was nude, and looked lovely in the midday light filtering through the dark curtains. Cerberus was curled up on the rug near her feet. Beneath the sheets, Dr. Lecter was also nude. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
"I do, but I'm not sure what this has to do with anything."
"Then maybe we need to make my purpose more clear. Do you want her to fall in love with you?"
"Is that what this is about?"
"Yes, that's what this is about. You wanted my help in matters of love. You said you might love her, and I believe you do. If anything, you are on the verge of falling over the edge of it, completely. Those were your words, just last week."
"My words were that I feel I'm on the edge of something deep and dark, without even a root to grab hold of in the descent."
"Yes, yes. You're a poet. And you told me she hates you sometimes and that she feels something for you, but not love. But there's potential. So am I misguided in assuming you would like more intimacy with her, and to create an environment in which she will more easily fall for you?"
"That would be convenient, but I refuse to do so in the manner of a schoolboy. She doesn't want a schoolboy."
"Of course she doesn't. And I'm not suggesting you play music for her outside her house on a stereo above your head. What I'm suggesting is that you understand her more. Particularly in ways that boys and men rarely do. You need to remember that your interrogative and authoritarian ways will not lead to more intimacy. You know how to get people to open up, especially showing their wounds. That makes people vulnerable. But then what, John? Do you even know what comes next?"
"Yes, Valarie," he said, with a note of irritation.
"What? Mend their wounds?"
"Encourage them to find ways of coping with their wounds and in special cases, heal their wounds."
"But you're not her psychiatrist, are you? I imagine you'd make a good one. Or, perhaps, a terrifying one for someone you don't like. But she isn't your patient. It's like you're treating her like she's your patient. And you have absolutely no idea how many men in her life have treated her that way. Like she needs to be fixed and they're finally here to fix her. All the while, never opening up themselves. It's exhausting and irritating beyond belief. You are NOT her psychiatrist. Nor are you her father. If she asks for your help, that's different. But you should also be able to ask her for help. Reciprocal respect. I'm sure you can imagine that just about every man she's ever known has been the same. Men just love it when a woman is vulnerable and needs them. I swear to God, the most attention I get from men is when they think they could help me. It's disgusting. You need to be a different kind of man for her."
"I can assure you I am."
"I don't mean unique or singular. You are those things, but I'm talking about the way you approach her. You need to be equals. And you need to be separate. Let her be what she is, and admire that. Don't wheedle and scheme and belittle. Maybe you don't think you do that, but you might. You have to watch and see."
Dr. Lecter considered. "I can't be something I am not, Valarie. Would you have me pretend to be someone she likes? She would see through something like that. It would be beneath us both."
"No, that isn't what I'm saying. John?" Valarie came to stand at the foot of the bed.
"Yes?"
"You were once a student, no doubt. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Did you argue and second-guess every lesson you learned? Or did you have a different mode? A student mode?"
"Yes. When I was a student."
"You are my student. In this way. Not overall, but I am teaching you about something you would like to learn. True, or false?"
"True."
"Do you think you could remember student mode, and slip back in?"
Dr. Lecter smiled and sat back against the headboard. "That's a good way to think of it, Valarie. I believe so. But you should know that as a student, I will still question things."
"Fine. What I'm trying to get you to do is peek into her world. She'll be able to help you do that better than me, but we can take a few guesses and it will be good practice. Here's a question. Have you brought her into your world? Music, food, entertainment, philosophies, preferences..."
"Yes."
"You've shown her things. Songs you like. Pastimes."
"Yes."
"And have you once asked her about her own?"
Dr. Lecter pursed his lips. "Not in the way you're talking about."
"Ah. So let's start sniffing around the door, shall we?" Valarie returned to the desk, where she'd put a portable stereo brought from her flat. "So you listen to this, not so that you can show her you've heard it, not as some false evidence of your interest, but you will listen to this in secret. You will listen, and imagine what it might mean to her. This is homework, not show-and-tell."
Dr. Lecter conceded with a nod. "I see."
The C.D. she'd brought was a Bruce Springsteen album. She skipped to the tenth track. I'm On Fire began playing and she turned to look at Dr. Lecter.
"Since your unrequited beloved is a young American woman, there's very little chance that this song does not hold some meaning to her. This song was playing at various points in her life. Maybe while a man-boy tried to kiss her, or she and her friend drove home one night, barefoot from a weekend trip, or when she helped a friend move on a hot summer day. Understand? Schubert was not playing in these little moments that make up her life. Not Bach, not Perotin. No! It was Bruce Springsteen, Kate Bush, Prince, Fleetwood Mac, Joan Jett, David Bowie. Get it? There are so many pieces of her that you ignore."
Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and went into student-mode. He listened to I'm On Fire, and imagined Clarice Starling. At first, the image was operatic and silly. Clarice on horseback, flying across a plane, her hair in the wind. But as Martin fell quiet, looking out the window lost in her own thoughts, the images changed.
He imagined her at the age of twenty, about the age she would have been when she first heard the song. She would've been in college. But he saw no friends driving home from a weekend trip. He saw girls coming home to a dorm, giggling and making noise down the hallway past Clarice's room, where she sat alone, up late studying.
Then he saw her a few years later, applying to the FBI academy. And, waiting for the reply in the mail, got news of Hannah's death, first.
He saw her on a date with a man who wanted children, and he saw her palpable withdraw, knowing how impossible it would be-to be the kind of mother she would want to be-as an FBI agent.
He saw her lying in bed the night after their first meeting. The song playing from down another hallway, another long hallway. Other young women laughing, listening to music, her roommate asleep, as she lie in bed awake from the screaming of the lambs. The memory of a boogeyman and cum on her face as fresh as ever.
God, but he hoped there were happier memories. He opened his eyes at the thought, as the short song faded.
"What?" asked Martin.
"Nothing. Just a strange thought."
"What was it?"
Dr. Lecter stood and took a stretch. He stared at the wall for a moment. Valarie noted that he looked quite good nude. Some of it was the confidence. Some.
"She has been lonely. Such a lonely life. I could not picture the kinds of things you said. That isn't the life she's had. No girlfriends or fun nights on the town. And I thought...I hope she has some good memories."
Martin scoffed. "In what way is that strange, John?"
Dr. Lecter looked at her. She felt pinned by something unfathomably large and moving inside of him, like a great beast moving slowly in the shadows of a tomb.
"I have never thought that about anyone. Not even her, or myself. It makes sense to want to make good memories for her, as it serves me. For her to have good memories with me endures her to me. But to wish for something in the past is nonsensical and sentimental. It's the kind of thing for which I would mock someone."
Martin nodded. "I'm beginning to see a bit more of that dark side, John. It's not just that you've never fallen in love before. It's that you don't know what love is. Does she...Does she really know how deep your rabbit hole goes?"
Dr. Lecter shook his head, still looking at her. "She knows as much as anybody could know. But she could know more. She could know more than anyone ever has. If I chose to give that to her."
Martin smiled. "Have you ever wondered why falling down her rabbit hole has endured you so much to her? I'm sure others have given you their deep dark secrets too, but did she play the victim when she did it? Did she whimper and stammer? Was she candid?"
Dr. Lecter nodded in agreement. "Yes, I see your point."
"Women don't have to feel safe to fall in love. That's a sad fact. You can trip her into a pit of love you've crafted. But do you want that? Or do you want her to love you as you will likely end up loving her? Hopelessly?"
Dr. Lecter grinned. "Hopeless would be very toothsome, indeed."
"Am I helping the devil to cage an angel here, John?"
"Did you ever think otherwise?"
Martin inhaled sharply and stood. "When is she arriving?"
"Shortly past midnight."
"You're picking her up at VIA?"
"Yes."
"Can I meet her tomorrow night?"
"Yes, but you will have to go after the sun sets."
"What happens at sunset? Will you make love to her all night?"
"If I were going to, it wouldn't be until Saturday night. But no. We don't have intercourse."
Martin blinked. "You don't...Are you saying you haven't slept with this woman?"
"Correct."
"Do you do everything but?"
"No."
"My God, John. You led me to believe you were lovers. Have you kissed, at least?"
Dr. Lecter took his pants from the chair back in the corner. "No," he said, with an oddly chipper tone, as though he'd casually noted the fact and found it interesting. Martin was quiet as he dressed.
"Why not?"
"Initially, it just happened that we didn't. I did notice, but didn't think much of it. I've never gotten much out of that. But later..."
"Later...You wanted to?"
Dr. Lecter licked his lips. "Umm. Yes."
"So why haven't you?"
"Because I want her to do it. I now find the thought of kissing her to be extraordinarily intimate. And I don't want to do it without her consent. The only way to have her consent, beyond the shadow of a doubt, is if she instigates it. Without going into much detail, believe this: It would mean a great deal if she did it. The meaning of that would be gargantuan."
Martin looked at Dr. Lecter while he was lost in his own thoughts. Martin pictured her female discernment like a bright red bird. A quick and bright vermilion flycatcher. She heard its call, but didn't voice it. She would reserve that concern for someone else. Right now, she and this man served one another. Amusement, for both of them. For Martin, information. Martin liked to know things. It was not prudent to complicate their relationship just yet.
"I see." she began. By then, Dr. Lecter was buttoning his shirt. "Does one of you climax, at least?"
"Why, yes, Valarie."
She grinned. "Is it her?"
Dr. Lecter raised his eyebrows at Martin's reflection in the mirror in front of him. "Yes."
"So, she comes here, once a year or so, and you—what? Tu manges sa petite minou? And then she leaves? Nothing for you?"
"Oui," Lecter began, finishing the last button at his throat, "je mange sa petite minou, et baise-la avec mes doigts," he continued, "et je lui fait assez de mal..." He turned to face her. "...Et je la taquine. And I let her hurt me."
Valarie's body gave a warm little buzz at his words. "What a deal!"
"Well, I don't exactly pay."
"Do you pay for her travel?"
"Of course."
"You pay for her to travel and climax all over the world?"
Dr. Lecter smiled with his small white teeth, and Martin was given the rare sight and sound of Dr. Lecter's laugh. "Yes."
"Well," Martin began, throwing her dress over her head. "She could do worse. Let's see if we can't convince her the same."
Translations:
À l'amore...To love.
"À son...To her.
Oui, je mange sa petite minou...Yes, I eat her little pussy
et baise-la avec mes doigts...And I fuck her with my fingers
et je lui fait assez de mal...And I hurt her just enough
Et je la taquine...And I tease her