The Caribbean in White Charity Event was held at National Harbor in National Harbor Fort Washington. Starling, Steele, and Mapp met for wine, before the event.
"So where's your amazing, awesome girlfriend?" teased Starling, after making introductions. Steele took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and began cleaning them.
"She's off work in, let's see, about eight minutes. She'll have to book it, but she's not far."
"What's she do?" asked Mapp, before ordering a cocktail.
"She's a CNA." Steele put on the glasses and held the menu out. "Goddamn these small print menus. Is minuscule text fancier than regular print?"
"I think it's agreed upon that it is," Mapp said. "Want me to help you?"
"No, no. The old man will figure it out." He glanced up over the rim of his glasses. "What's that look, Clarice?"
"I think I'm surprised. I expected a girlfriend of yours to be some cutthroat attorney."
"That would be my speed, wouldn't it? Somebody like you two? No," he shook his head, and ordered a white wine. "I don't want somebody like me."
"Why's that?" asked Mapp.
"Are you kidding? I'm exhausting."
At the event itself, Mapp and Starling locked elbows. "This charity is named well," said Mapp. "They weren't kidding about 'in white'."
"No, shit."
"What's this for again?" wondered Mapp. "Making the Caribbean whiter, one elegant ball at a time?"
Starling laughed, and Mapp shook her head with a dry grin. "I mean, Jesus."
"Close enough. The thing said 'assisting the less fortunate in the U.S. And Caribbean'."
"Well," Mapp sighed, "Let's meet you a Krendler fly swatter, shall we?"
"Oh, God. I haven't been nervous about something like this since graduation."
"Oh, come on," Mapp elbowed her. "It's just a little schmoozing. You're not worried about what these people might think, are you? I don't want to hear any of that pig in lipstick, white trash talk."
"No, I'm sure they won't be able to tell. They couldn't possibly tell that I'm secretly a tornado bait yokel who knows which trees can be used to make string, how to strip wet bark, which berries not to eat, bury your father, or dig deep for pride." She glanced at Mapp. "They'll never know," she whispered.
"Starting to see yourself. I approve, Ms. Starling."
"Thanks." Starling looked around. "I'm sorry to tell you...I think they'll catch on you're black." She paused, letting Mapp laugh. "But you look damn good," she added.
"I know it. But Starling?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time, I choose what we do on a Friday night."
"Fair."
After some announcements, they found Steele by the bar with a young woman.
"Hey, there," Starling said behind them.
"Well, hiii," he said, with a twang. "Clarice Starling of the FBI, may I introduce you to Marcela Parker, my girlfriend."
Parker had a heart-shaped face and an aquiline nose, with a little wildness in her eyes. Her hair was purple.
Marcela smiled. "Clarice Starling of the FBI, it's an honor. Marcela Parker of the urinals."
Starling could tell Parker was deaf after she spoke, but her accent was very mild. She would also find that Marcela Parker read lips, body language, rooms, and eyes with the accuracy of a surgeon.
Starling shook her hand. "Very nice to meet you. I've been informed that you're better than Brian in 'every way'."
"Not the hardest thing I do," she said.
"This is Ardelia Mapp," Starling said, stepping aside. They shook hands.
"Are you the best friend?" asked Parker.
"I certainly like to think so. So why are you slumming it with the likes of this fellow?"
Parker shrugged. "He's got a cool car."
Steele raised an eyebrow. "Mazda sedan. G25. Grey paint job," he said.
"So sexy," Parker said. "What's your boyfriend drive?"
"Which one?" Mapp wondered. "There's the alluring Nissan SUV, and the thrilling Honda Accord."
"And yours?" Parker asked Starling.
"I am decidedly un-boyfriended."
"Best thing, really," Parker nodded. "They make a considerable mess of the house."
"So many dishes," Mapp shook her head slowly.
"Don't forget sweaty sock bombs," offered Steele.
The women laughed.
"Ladies, if you'll excuse me. I'm going to see about a man. And you," he pointed at Parker. "Don't spike my drink. We agreed, only when we've discussed a kidnapping scenario beforehand."
Parker rolled her eyes. "It practically doesn't count if you start like that." When Steele was gone, she turned to Starling. "So, Clarice. You're meeting a big fancy boy, tonight?"
"I am."
"Remember," Parker sipped her drink. "Big fancy boys know what they are."
"Don't they ever," agreed Mapp.
Starling had a finger to her nose. "Do you think when we meet, I should tell him what a big boy he is? Or should I just compliment his big big penis?"
Parker shook her head. "No, don't come in with it too obvious. Tell him you're scared of it. Tell him that you don't know if a penis like that will fit, and that scares you."
"Wait, wait. I think it's more important to compliment his huge intellect," said Mapp. "Tell him his pompous attitude convinces you that he is very smart and important."
"And that when he interrupts you, it makes you all gooey," added Parker.
"What about when he explains how my job works to me?" Starling asked, her expression looking quizzical and serious. "Should I mention how it makes my legs weak?"
"Oh, yeah," Parker nodded.
"Absolutely," agreed Mapp.
"So. Who's the tool that's up your—Hi!" Parker's face became animated so instantly, Starling didn't immediately turn around.
Steele gave her a wink. Starling moved aside. This was supposed to be an introduction of Parker, not her or Mapp.
"Jimmy, this is my girlfriend, Marcela Parker. Marcela, this is Jimmy Mason. The one with a great cast and the best beer."
"I don't know about best," said Jimmy. He took Parker's hand. "It's lovely to finally meet you."
"You too," said Parker. "I was just talking to Ms. Mapp and Ms. Starling, here. Their sense of humor seems to be grade A. Not what I would've expected from FBI agents."
Jimmy smiled first at Mapp, then Starling. "Good evening."
"Evening," Mapp said. "Starling, I'll be outside. I've got to make a phone call." She gave a friendly wave, before leaving. Starling looked after a moment, feeling her nerves stir. But beneath that lay her control and it felt good and solid to her.
"Starling, I swear I've heard that name, before. Have I read about you?" asked Jimmy.
"Maybe," she admitted. "But I also recently read a story about the murder of a lobster man in Maine."
"Ah, was it the same magazine that headlined your own story?"
"The very same."
"And the lobster man?"
"He was believed to have been hit in the head by an axe, but no arrests have been made."
"Lobster men are misunderstood." He offered his hand and she took it. "Lovely to meet you, Ms. Starling. And you're with the FBI?"
"Yes."
"How many years, now?"
"This is my fourth."
"Any good scars?"
"I'd say plenty."
Jimmy smiled. "Well, keep up the good work," he said. Starling sensed she was about to lose him. She was going to have to take the plunge.
"I'll do that. May I ask what you think you read about me? I'll share if you do."
"I think I may have read something about you using information from Hannibal Lecter to catch Buffalo Bill." His eyes sparked a little with the dark fascination we all possess. "Is it true?"
"No, no. It was a weather balloon."
"Did the weather balloon inform you? Or did you catch the weather balloon?"
"It's classified."
"Really, though. What was it like?"
Starling pursed her lips. "Probably a lot like you'd think. It was a good learning experience, of course. Hard won, but good."
"What did you tell me about it, Starling? Something like, 'it's scary to be seen like that'. You were talking about Lecter," said Steele.
"Oh, yes," agreed Parker. "Tell us about Hannibal the Cannibal."
Starling chewed on her tongue, bared down, and told the three of them the story. It was hard. Steele and Parker were easier, because they knew exactly what was going on, and she didn't see the same grabby eyes. But Jimmy Mason became interested enough that they eventually all got a table. About twenty minutes into the discussion, she knew she'd need to change the subject. Hannibal was the elevator pitch. Keep talking to me, I'm interesting. But now, she needed to begin outlining something more.
"As challenging as some of it was, at least it was straightforward," she said.
"What do you mean?" asked Jimmy.
"Well...Bad man doing a bad thing. Go stop bad man. Very simple recipe. Karesh, on the other hand, was a different thing altogether. That really took it out of me."
"Oh, you were in Waco? What was that like?"
"Complicated. Issues of who was calling the shots, how to approach the situation. The FBI was not prepared to deal with religious zealots. The question I couldn't stop asking myself was, 'How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?' And should you? Of course I did everything I could to do just that. That was my job, and I do my job. But whether I like it or not, I'm more than my job. And I was never sure how to feel about any of that."
"Interesting. I did hear it was complicated. But tell me more about this moral question of yours. About saving people who don't want to be saved. What did you mean?"
She shrugged. "Have you ever tried to help someone who wanted nothing to do with you?"
He smiled and nodded. "Yes, now that I think about it."
"How does it feel?"
"It's exhausting and thankless. And usually pointless."
"Who did you try to help?" Starling asked.
Mason took a sip of his drink. "Uh, my wife."
"Oh. I'm sorry. That's too personal. I didn't mean to pry."
"No, it's all right. I'm just in the middle of a divorce. It's no secret, don't worry. But I do empathize with having some of your most personal stories plastered all over the news. It's not easy. I tried to keep it quiet. My wife was having a drug problem. Of course when it comes out, everybody says you covered it for re-election. Did I consider that? Yes, in passing. But who wants the world to know something like that? She isn't my enemy. I don't know if you've ever had a complicated relationship with somebody, but even after all the bad times you still remember the good too. And you care about the person, whether you want to or not."
"I do know," she nodded. "I'm not sure how I feel about it. Do you owe them forgiveness? Do you owe yourself anger? Can you feel both of those things at the same time?"
"Exactly. Just exactly."
At the end of the night, Starling found Mapp and together, they met Steele and Parker outside. When Steele saw her, he clapped.
"Holy cow, you are an FBI agent! That was incredible! You towed the line between making the man like you and falling in love, but hey! He will remember you. No doubt about it."
"Hey, all right!" said Mapp. "So it went that well?"
"It seemed like it did," said Starling, a little breathy.
"She did amazing," said Parker. "They started getting so personal, Brian and I slunk away to give them more privacy."
"Yes, that is my girl!" Mapp cried.
"Hey did you really read about him?" Steele asked.
Starling gave him a look, and nodded.
"Did you know he was in the middle of a divorce?"
"Yes, of course."
"Ooh, Clarice...You are a slippery little snake."
Starling smiled in spite of herself and felt her face getting hot. "I use my powers for good, mostly."
"Oh, please," Mapp said. "You are as apple pie as a girl can get. Well, and still be packin'."
"And she knows how to use what she's packing," added Parker. "Not many other dumb-dumbs in there could say that."
"Did you exchange information?" asked Steele. "It looked like you did."
Starling nodded. "We did. He said, and I quote, 'Let me know if you ever need anything, Ms. Starling.'"
"Drinks!" Steele cried.
"Drinks? I think you mean dranks," said Parker.
"Dranks for the ladies. Drink for me," said Steele. "I've got some work I need to catch up on tonight."
"Boo to you," said Mapp.
"Ladies?" Parker asked.
Starling and Mapp looked at each other.
"Do you have to...?"
"I don't..."
Mapp grinned. "Louise, are we both free on a Saturday?"
"I think we are, Thelma."
Parker nodded a slow, mischievous smile.
"Oh, it's gonna be like that, tonight!" said Mapp.
After a drink with Steele, the women left in Starling's Mustang, to Parker's delight.
"This rocks!" she exclaimed out the window. Starling grinned and winded the V8 out a little in second gear so Parker could feel the powerful pipes.
At another bar, it was Mapp who first began to get drunk. "Fuck some glass ceilings, I'm tired!" she complained at some point, much to the amusement of the others around her.
At the second bar, it was Parker's turn.
"I'm drinking with FBI agents. I'm drunk with FBI agents," she reported to a man at another table. He gave her the peace sign.
"Clarice, do you have good aim?" Parker asked. She had to yell for Starling to hear her over the music.
"Usually."
"Tell me how!"
"Well, it's usually your best bet to aim for the toilet's side walls. That prevents splash-back."
Starling tried to stay as sober as she could and still have fun. Somebody had to drive, and a DUI would be a huge embarrassment. Not to mention the extreme displeasure she would feel if something happened to her car. They deliberated over whether to go to another bar, or go home.
"Hey, let's head back to our place," Mapp suggested. "The booze is cheaper and we can finally get Starling drunk."
"Oh, I want to see that. Do you have a place I can crash?" asked Parker.
"We have a really comfortable sofa," Starling said.
"Nice. Let's do it!"
On their way home, Starling played around with the car more. Mapp let Parker ride in the passenger's seat, and she turned on the radio. Starling would learn later that Parker loved Guns N' Roses. Their night out was the first indication, when she blasted Live and Let Die, when it came on. Double-clutching and downshifting, Starling made Parker howl with joy, her hair whipping around her heart-shaped face.
At home, the women piled in, laughing. Mapp said, "Hey, Marcela. I have a question about music."
"Is it, 'can I hear it'?"
"Yes. Yes, it is."
"Yes, if I turn it up and I have my hearing aids. Plus I can feel the vibrations. I hear it in my own way."
While Parker was in the bathroom relieving herself for long minutes, Mapp elbowed Starling.
"Hey...Did we just make a new friend?"
Starling smiled. "I like her."
"She flashed those guys at the bus stop."
"Yeah."
"She's a little crazy, but yeah...I like her. Damn. Making a new girlfriend when you're grown is like finding a soulmate. I want to see this girl again."
"I do too. We will."
"Hey, do we have limes?"
Starling shrugged. When Parker appeared, Mapp nodded to her.
"Hey, you're a caregiver. Are you good at getting peoples' life stories out of them?"
"I guess. It's easier with the elderly. Especially old men. They desperately want to be listened to."
"Well, Starling's like a crotchety old man in her heart. See if you can get her to tell you about who she's been tappin'. She won't tell me a thing."
"I'm not tappin' anybody."
"I know you're doing something."
"Ooh, is he married?" asked Parker.
"That's what I asked. She said no."
"Well what's the non-sex you are having?" asked Parker.
"Just...You know." Starling shrugged.
"A little of this," Parker flicked her tongue. "Little o' that," Mapp joined her, hooking her fingers in the air.
"How b'out some of this?" Parker started fellating the air, her hand holding what Starling could only assume by its size was meant to be a baseball bat.
"Don't forget about this here," Mapp said, tickling the bat's balls.
Starling was laughing so hard her eyes started watering and she collapsed onto the sofa. "You're both so drunk," she whispered, through laughter.
"Well, join us, already," Parker said, abandoning the baseball air dick.
Starling never did get drunk. She had decided at a certain point that it was prudent to stay sober around Mapp and Parker. They would have undoubtedly gotten more out of her than she wanted, about Lecter. Of course, they wouldn't have known she was talking about him, but Starling had a deep and terrible fear that she tried very hard not to think about for longer than a few moments at a time. She was afraid that somehow, some day, Mapp would find out what she had done. And if that day ever came, she could not bare the thought that Mapp also knew how much she liked it. If she got drunk and started some girl-talk bullshit, she knew it could slip out. Starling knew that she was like any other woman in some ways. A part of her wanted to tell them.
Starling looked at the women at some point, late at night or early morning. Marcela Parker was showing Mapp how to sign 'eat shit and die'. Mapp was practicing the lewd gesture with great concentration, and Starling smiled, momentarily filled with a great sense of affection for them both. Yes, she thought. A lonely, girlish creature in me could tell them everything...
Every pleasure, from mouth to toes. Every smile and giggle he'd managed to extract from her. Every moan and gasp. Every pain produced by their separation, the pain she felt whenever she thought of the pleasure, her mounting eagerness and grief...
Starling did not get drunk. But while the women laughed, she did wonder. What would be worse? Mapp knowing what she'd done and assuming she'd hated every moment, or knowing what she'd done and that she'd liked it? Which made her crazier, anyway? And then a new question came. Was it her fault that she liked it? Or was that just another one of his cruelties? She thought of what he'd said to her, the first year of the covenant. Just before the first time he undressed her.
"The cruelest thing I will do to you, throughout the duration of these liaisons, is make you like it more than you hate it."
In August, Crawford found Starling organizing her notes on the GPNRC case. She'd been at it awhile, and when she turned to greet him, her eyes ached from too much blue light.
"Listen Starling, I have to tell you—there's some pressure for you to turn in your report. Think you could have it in by next week?"
"Next week? I can turn in a report next week, but—"
"Starling," Crawford's expression wasn't pained exactly, but he looked uncomfortable. "No one's expecting much. You know that, right?"
Starling sighed. She was tired. "Yeah, I know."
"Okay. So listen, John's asking for you. He's got some boys working on a drug bust. He said he was having trouble getting in touch with you and I said I'd ask." He looked a little amused. "You're not dodging him, are you?"
Starling rolled her neck. "I should probably just say no. Right?"
"You could," he nodded. "You could do that."
"I had a feeling," she said. She was suddenly aware of how good the AC felt. "SWAT vans in August. Why do you think he asks for me?"
"Because he trusts you. I recognize there are other things you'd rather be doing. I do. But there's a big compliment in it, if you can focus on that."
"I get that. Harder to focus on it. Harder to focus on anything but—"
"SWAT vans in August. I get it."
"I'll get back to him."
Starling had interviewed Christina Gomez in June. She'd struck Starling as either jaded or very tired. She'd asked her about a 911 call placed the previous year.
"Oh, that," Gomez had said. "It was just a break-in."
"You reported nothing was stolen. What happened exactly?"
"Well, it woke me up. My husband surprised the guy at the top of the stairs. I came out into the hallway, I think I yelled 'Hey'. The guy was off balance and grabbed me before falling. I got a little banged up. The guy ran off."
"I see. And your father?"
"What about him?"
"Well, he had an accident that same year, only about a month before yours. What can you tell me about that?"
"Can't you ask him about it?"
"I did. It's always good to get different perspectives though."
"Well, it was a traffic accident. It was a tricky intersection, late at night."
"And it was a hit-and-run?"
"Yeah."
"How did he seem at the hospital? You visited him at the hospital that night."
Gomez shifted in her seat. "He seemed like he'd been in a car accident."
"Banged up pretty bad?"
"Well, yeah."
"I've had to visit my father in the hospital. It's not fun. I hope you weren't alone."
"I didn't care about me. I cared if he was alone."
"I'll bet. He was getting up in years to have an accident like that. It must have been hard to see him like that."
"Yeah. It was." Gomez was getting upset. Starling was pretty sure when Miller had his 'accident', it was a threat for Gomez. Maybe it hadn't been enough, and they pulled the same on Miller, threatening his daughter. If she had any guilt about it, or resentment toward whoever was responsible, Starling expected to see some of it. The memory of her bruised, beaten father in the hospital would do it. Gomez was giving her a death stare.
"Piss you off, seeing him like that?"
"Yeah, I guess. Almost as much as this is."
"I'm sorry to make you remember. I hope they catch whoever did it." Starling's gaze was steady. Gomez' wasn't. "Do it myself, if I could."
"Well, you can't. Neither can I. That's how life goes, right ?"
"Sometimes. But not when something's within the reach of our arm."
"Sometimes not even then."
"Mrs. Gomez, I'd like to ask about the project you were working on, last year. It was with the hydron collider, is that right?"
"Doesn't it say in your notes?"
"It does. I want to make sure I'm right about you, by hearing it from you."
"Yes, that's what I was working on."
"Nothing else? No side hustles? I myself am always bogged down by more than one project."
"Yeah, there were a few others. Small things."
"Like what?"
"A couple freelance gigs for Ford, and consulting for a design team here on an ENP."
"Really? I'm surprised they'd need a UX designer for something like that. Unless they were planning on mass producing it."
"Well, yeah. They needed for any Joe Schmo in the military to be able to use it. It was pretty simple work."
"Okay. What can you tell me about that project?"
"I don't know much about it, I didn't work much with the design team. Just gave them feedback on some things." She leaned onto her elbows. "If you want to know more about the ENP, you should talk to Mùyáng Shen. I talked to him a little more than the others. He was a coder, so we went back and forth on some stuff. He knew more than me. A lot more."
Strange tone, there. "I'll do that, Mrs. Gomez."
The interview with Shen had been different. Shen had been very open about his work. He spoke about it with pride, and was very friendly.
"I came here on the Fullbright Foreign Student Program while living in a house with five people. It was a hard time, but all I could think was how proud my parents would be."
"Are they?"
"Oh, yes."
He'd talked so much about so many different things, Starling had trouble following all of it. One thing did come up that made Starling wonder.
"Some of the people that fund us I've never heard of, but one of them I had. Senator Martin. Do you remember her from what happened to her daughter?"
"I recall."
"Well, I got to meet her once."
"Where'd you meet her?"
"At a LWVMC defending democracy fundraiser. I like to think of myself as political."
"LWVMC?"
"League of women Voters of Montgomery County."
"Was she campaigning at the time?"
"She was, yes. There were some others there, representative for GPNRC, looking for donors."
"I see. And you met her?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "She wasn't very friendly, but I think she was pretty busy. It was still all pretty exciting. I never met a Senator before."
"Did she say anything?"
"I don't really remember. Not really. She just stopped to take a picture with me."
Starling had put it all in her report, but knew none of it mattered. If it was government funded, if senators, like Martin were funding it, no scandal was likely to ever see the light of day, even if they were giving her enough time to look.
The following Monday night, Starling came home to a dark house. She took her clothes off in the utility room and put them straight into the washer. In the bathroom, she looked at her face. It wasn't in great shape.
That morning, she'd met up with John to help with the arrest. She knew hardly anything about what they were doing until she was sitting in the back of the blazing hot van, next to the block of dry ice and across from John. The other two agents didn't talk much.
"We're going in for a Dijon Drumgo and his wife, Evelda. It won't be their first arrest, so look out. I want you on Evelda. She fights, so don't think I'm giving you the easy job."
"What do they have?"
"Informant says they've got some MAC 10s. And I'd watch for a knife when you're handling Evelda."
"What are the charges?"
"Racketeering. Dijon's the leader. If he should go down, for any reason, it'll be Evelda. We want 'em both."
When they'd arrived, Starling and two other agents went for Evelda, with Starling taking point. She was pretty sure the other two agents weren't happy about that. She'd gotten her to drop the nine millimeter she held, gotten her to turn around, hands on her head. She'd gotten the handcuffs on her. She seemed pretty cooperative. On their way to the squad car, Evelda asked one of the officers if she could have her purse, to fix her face. Starling wasn't there for that; she was helping John. When Starling came back, Evelda looked up at her, her face angular and elegant, and then maced her. When Starling pushed her down into the ground, one of the men started fighting John and, trying to run away, kicked Starling hard in the face. Face on fire, head hammering, Evelda fought her way onto her back and cut Starling across the arm, stabbed her in the shoulder, and nearly in the face. Starling knew she'd go for her face. She could barely see or open her eyes, but she caught her wrist between her hands, and wrenched the knife until it slid across the bloody pavement. Then Evelda started howling. At first, Starling had thought she'd been hurt, until she saw through the burning haze that Dijon was lying on the ground, shot.
Starling looked at herself. Then she sighed and took a shower. When she got out, the house was still empty. She put the clothes in the dryer after heating up some leftovers. She ate over the sink, staring out the window. She was avoiding going to her room. She also looked forward to it.
Every night, when the day was over, regardless of whether or not the day had scarred her, Starling entered her bedroom and watched the door close behind her. And before it had finished closing, she thought of her night with Dr. Lecter.
She felt the pull of it as she went down the hall. She could almost hear the sound of his whispering voice by the time she entered her room and then the door slowly shut, and—
"I want you more than anything," he'd hissed. She could see his face over hers, the appetite in his eyes so explicit, it made her feel weak to think about it.
The fragments of the night came to her in quiet flickers, like a candle in the corner of her mind. Came in delicious, heartbreaking flickers in the darkness of her room and she couldn't stop—
She'd been curled up and crying after picking up a little girl in the dark. She knew the little girl was her. She'd been crying for so long, and when she looked up and saw Starling, she'd reached for her. She had reached for Starling, tears on her face, and Starling had scooped her up and held her and—
In her bedroom, Starling leaned against the closed door, her eyes drifting closed. She braced herself against the door, before he—
She could feel Dr. Lecter's mouth on her foot. She could feel his mouth on hers. His tongue between her lips. Warm and patient and—
Starling licked her lips, brought her own fingers to her mouth and touched her lips. Her other arm touched her thigh, moved up before—
His lips were so soft. So was his clean-shaven face. She bit his chin, let her teeth graze it before she bit down, pulled, grinned up at him. And there was his soft voice coming from the corner of the room. His smell.
The memories were disjointed, and she knew there were blank spots. But she also knew that in the morning, she felt different. She'd felt just a little more whole.
She'd felt embarrassed about the things she'd said and done. At the same time, she forgave herself. And, in the end, it had been her choice. Nothing had been against her will. She'd chosen to face the feelings that she'd buried, and she'd succeeded. Still...
Starling went slowly to the floor now, door at her back, knowing the next flickering memory would be when she—
"Just yours," she'd said.
She had just wanted to be his girl. A simple thing. A sad, simple desire, for a normal, healthy, hot-blooded woman. To be someone's girl. That girl did not consider the him in question, it had not mattered. That 's what lay beneath everything else. And oh, the look on his face. She remembered it well...
His eyes closed, his jaw flexed. And then he opened his eyes and bit his lip, as though she'd offered him the treasure of Monte Cristo.
And she remembered some of what he'd said next.
"You won't be my girl for long, if ever again after tonight...In the morning, you'll be a little hard on yourself."
"That's her problem," she'd said.
Such odd dissociation, that.
"And mine."
And that was when she'd asked the question, and when he'd said—
"She is my beloved. Clarice Starling, you know, is a complex subject...more honor and bravery than anyone will likely ever know. A vulnerable warrior...her champion's heart and divine body are not meant for me. She knows. All the world knows. It's very unlikely I could ever have her, but to care for her is the closest relation I can hope to have. So it is my problem, my girl, because I choose it."
It was something like that. When she thought of it, she knew that woman he'd been talking to lived inside of her, shared her body. Because when she thought of those words, she wanted to go to him and give herself to him all over again to hear what he'd say next, and feel his hands and eyes moving over her. And to feel his lips on hers. God! It had felt so good!
It had felt so good that she could feel it now, like an echo of pleasure. She fell asleep thinking about it many nights. Even on nights like this, when she had stitches and blood-stained fatigues in the dryer. Her heart ached with it.
Before plan or reason could take place, Starling found herself writing a letter. It would not be on fine paper or good ink. It wouldn't be poetic. But she knew she could write a letter with one shining quality. It would be earnest.
Etienne Alarie and Valarie Martin outside a cafe on a Sunday in October. It was chilly and they wore hats and coats. It was nice in the sun and Valarie removed her hat.
"You could do anything. You're as smart as I am, or smarter," Etienne was saying. They were speaking in French.
"This has nothing to do with confidence. If I was going to go, and if I went to school there, I'd want it to be for something useful anywhere, anytime. Not just something to make money or impress people with. And I'm interested in Ecology. There's a BS program in Environmental studies at New York State."
Etienne shrugged. "All right. So are you coming?"
"I haven't decided."
"Come, Valarie."
A pause.
"I might."
"By the way, are you still fucking John Boucher?"
Valarie smirked. "No, I told him I'm leaving, either way. And he told me he couldn't anymore."
"Because of the American?"
Valarie nodded. "He's obsessed with her."
Etienne raised an eyebrow. "He's most certainly obsessed with her. I would be nervous. Very very nervous, if I were her."
"Did she seem confused about who he is? She knows him better than we do. And she doesn't seem stupid or naive."
"No, but it's like you said. She's known him longer. I think the more time he has, the more damage he could do. He likes to play with people, Valarie. You know. He plays with people like toys. What do you think that means for her?"
"I think it means playing a game with someone who may be his match. It's her choice whether she wants to play."
Etienne shook her head, watching birds fly overhead. "Do you really think she's his match?"
Valarie shook her head. "No, not yet. He's older and more experienced. And more manipulative. He has the upper-hand in most ways. But he is obsessed with her. She has extraordinary influence over him. And in that one way, she has the upper-hand. Is that enough? No, not at all. He can play with her nearly as well as anyone else. But she won't stay so young. And when she goes from tough to resilient, and starts using all her weapons, and gains more and learns how to use them—Yes, I think she'll be his match. I have no doubt that's one reason he's drawn to her."
"And what if it's too late, by then? What if it's already too late? John can mask his games as well as he wants to, or as thinly. I believe that at a certain point, he wanted me to be afraid of him, to distance myself. Maybe so that I wouldn't become interested in him, or become too much of a nuisance. He knew when he was more or less finished with me, and he created distance between us. He let me see just enough that, by the time I'd already been his toy or his tool, it was too late. But I'm lucky. His focus, I think, has become almost solely on her. She's all he seems to think about. And he has a year to plan their trysts. Think about what he could do. He has all his weapons, and knows how to use them already."
Valarie nodded. "That's all true. It's a good point. I think it all depends on how much she influences him. And that is dependent on how fixed he is. If he's incapable of change. I've already noticed little changes in him, so I do think it's possible."
"Change how? That's an awful lot of change to happen. Unrealistic," Etienne said, dismissively.
"Well, not necessarily. See, I don't believe that at present, John is capable of loving anybody. I'm not sure he even really knows what love is. He understands it on a theoretical level, but that's all. Who knows, maybe he once did. But right now, he is completely infatuated. He doesn't truly love her. He's so infatuated with her that I think it's driving him a little mad. And therein lies the hope. John would not allow himself to go mad. So he'll either break his infatuation, or he'll find a way to love her. And one thing he's not very good at it, is denying himself. Infatuation, it's like a drug. It's not something you can just sip and savor in moderation. It's a sick, depraved sort of pleasure. I'm not sure he can give it up. So he'll wallow and groan in that sickness until something breaks. But," she nodded. "It's a gamble."
Etienne was thinking. "Do you think she knows how severe it is? I'm sure she knows he's interested in her, maybe a little obsessed. But do you think she knows how intense it's become?"
"No, I don't. Maybe we should've told her."
"Maybe we still can. If you come with me to New York."
Valarie gave her a look. "Like we'd ever hope to find her. I doubt we were even given her real name. I've wondered if John Boucher is his name. Doesn't his presence seem almost ethereal? Like he's just appeared, and could disappear at any moment?"
"Sort of."
"Well, anyway. She's an adult. Of course I have a certain level of female allegiance, but she is an adult. And I think she stands a good change against the monster."
Dr. Lecter sat in the Strobl's taupe sitting room, with a hand on Leonie Stroble's hand.
"Go ahead, Dear," he encouraged her. "Go on."
"Well, then he started rambling and rambling, he hardly made any sense at all. It was almost like he'd been drinking, or worse! But he hadn't had a drop. And when I told him to leave, he raised his hand. He didn't strike, but I could tell he wanted to. I think he's having a mental breakdown."
"I'm so sorry you went through that. It must have been very frightening."
"It was. I just don't understand. It's almost as though since you've been helping him, he's only gotten worse."
"I think he still suspects sometimes that I am some evil mastermind. And he will not see a therapist, as I've suggested many times. He doesn't fully trust me. I'm not sure he fully trusts anyone, including himself. And neither should you. Next time, he may strike true."
"What should I do?" she asked him, giving his hand a squeeze.
Lecter sighed and gave her hand a pat. "Leonie, I'm going to give you something," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "But I want you to remember that it's only for emergencies." He handed her a macarone-shaped pill box. "These are sedatives. If you ever feel like Joseph is becoming dangerous, and your safety may be at stake, I want you to add these to his drink. If you're not able to do that, I want you to be ready to call the police. You must do it before he becomes out of control, though. So I want you to pay close attention to his behavior. You don't want to do it too late. If something were to happen to you, I couldn't forgive myself."
"Oh, John," she said. When her face drifted toward his, Lecter's face stiffened, and then he watched the clock just behind her once she pressed her lips to his. He kissed her back watching the clock.
Tick, tick, tick.
He pulled away and touched her cheek. "Oh, Leonie. We can't."
"Oh, John. I know, I know. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he stood, a hand still on her face.
It is a cool Fall night after a rain, about nine in the afternoon, when Dr. Lecter comes home after treating himself to the Morphing Chamber orchestra in Minoritenkirche. Spiegel im Spiegel still plays in his head, and he walks with the calm profundity of its tempo holding his mail.
He did not look at the mail until he'd sat at the desk in his study. Starling's letter was wedged inside of a catalogue. It slipped to the floor, and Dr. Lecter held it in his hands, brought it close to his face. When he brought it to his nose and sniffed, he closed his eyes. For a moment, he considered making a scene of it. He could open champagne and sit outside, smelling the rain. He could read it in front of the fire with some cognac. He thought of these things as he sat down in the desk chair, still holding the letter close to his face. He was opening it before a third scene came to mind. His pupils dilated at first sight of her handwriting.
Dear John,
I thought about what you asked me in the morning, and the answer is no. I don't regret it. My feelings on the subject are complex, as anyone could guess. Obviously, things can't be that way again. But no, I don't regret it. The truth is that what you did for me was one of the best things anyone ever did for me. I know a few people that would have given me a gift like that if they knew how, but they didn't. You did. You had a gift to give me; a sense of self-love and balance. You gave that to me. I know I'm not finished growing, and that's okay. But what you gave me was extraordinary. I didn't thank you. I'm sorry about that. I won't forget what you did for me. Not ever.
I want to give you something too. Right now it's the only thing I can give, but I can give it. So I will. I'm going to offer you the truth. Without coercion, manipulation, or bargaining. Here it is. I am embarrassed. I know you know that. You even predicted it that night. But I'm giving it to you, for the sake of giving. Of course I am embarrassed. I said and did things I would never do, and taking them back is not an option, because we both know it was real for me. I don't know if it can be real for you, which is one of the things about this that's so scary. In spite of the fact that we both know I can never and will never choose you, a part of me does want you. That's scary even under normal circumstances, but I feel naked while you are clothed. Unarmed, while you hold the knife.
I also know that at least some of my feelings are by your design. The rules, the meetings, every word you say, every tone, pitch, and cadence of your voice–it is all calculated. Your manipulation is pathological and I know that I'm out of my league. It's far too dangerous to allow my ego to get in the way of that fact. Nor can I afford to keep you in moral dignity pants, as you said in the dungeon. I think I finally understand what you meant. In the end, it's all just words. When you're studying from afar, you can afford to label people in removed, clinical terms. It's hard for the rest of us to keep our own experience and prejudices out of it, without the use of clinical terms. But I'm not studying you from afar. I'm out in the wilderness, with you. Those words no longer serve me. And I know what you are. I won't forget that either.
My final gift-wrapped truth is this:
When we are apart, I think of you often. More and more. Sometimes I think I can smell you. When I left that morning, it stung pretty bad. Yes...I miss you. But this gift comes with the other side of the truth. I cannot give one without the other, because then it would become more of a cruel lie than the truth. I do want you. I do miss you. But I love me more. And with you, I can never have the freedom to spread out, to take up space, to be who I want to be. Who I choose to be. Who I am. And I know my entitlements in the world. At least I'm beginning to, thanks to you. I doubt that was your intention. I'm sorry.
With alarming affection,
-Leda
Dr. Lecter read the letter five times. By the time he'd finished writing her back, he felt an enormous appetite growing inside, to which he chose to submit. Dr. Lecter's conscious mind was not the sort of clammy flab to allow this submission to be called something besides a decision. Was it possible to resist? Of course it was. It is the frail sort of thinking that something is irresistible which makes a place in the world for rape, murder, and every other crime or sin. Dr. Lecter did not pursue his desires out of a self-prescribed weakness. He could resist any of his impulses. He chose not to. He knew what he was and knew what he would do. And he knew that he would choose what he did.
Weeks and months were going by quickly for Starling, though the effect was not in keeping with any adages about fun-having. They went by quickly because she kept busy, and found herself lost in thought in every moment in between. Much of the time, the thoughts were about Lecter, but she kept them at bay as well as she could. When she couldn't, she got busy.
The weather got chillier, making her time spent in stuffy undercover vehicles more tolerable. Some of the men she worked with were even tolerable. John's presence was always a friendly one, and she decided that if she was going to be working with him as often as she was, at least it meant she could count on one friendly face when she was working. Nonetheless, she began to feel more and more a veteran of surveillance vans and drug-busts. The real low point was serving warrants on jump-out squads. No-knock warrants made up about thirty percent of Starling's job, and she began to wonder if somehow Krendler knew she talked with Jimmy Mason, and was punishing her for it. Or, even more frightening, she was simply being forgotten entirely. If she were forgotten by Krendler, it would be a blessing. But it wasn't him she was worried about remembering her.
She didn't see much of Crawford, spending less time at Quantico than she ever had. She almost missed the smell of flop sweat, coffee, and rut. It beat the smell of packed men in a van, especially when it had been warmer.
She'd turned in her report, feeling the first coppery taste of failure. She knew there wasn't anything she could've done to prevent it. And after a few days of feeling down on herself, it occurred to her she wasn't disappointed in the job she'd done. She was disappointed in the FBI. The failing was not on her, but on the very institutions that had once oriented her. The one she'd vowed to live for. It was far more terrifying.
As Starling moved through her days, she did find the time for a little fun now and again. Since she and Mapp had met Parker, they'd gone out more often. One weekend, they'd hiked Old Rag Mountain. Starling had wanted to for awhile. It was an advanced hike, but Mapp and Parker kept up, being in decent shape. Parker had to take a few more breaks than Mapp and Starling, but her complaining was amusing and they didn't mind stopping for the views. At one point, Parker had leaned against the cool stone, gulping for air between swigs of her water bottle.
"You know, Clarice...Your optimism is about as helpful as a blister, right now."
Another weekend, they went shopping. Shopping was something Starling had never particularly enjoyed before. She knew some of it was that she felt it was a waste of money; she rarely had anywhere to wear anything nice. But together, Parker and Mapp convinced her.
"Just get one gorgeous dress. One."
"It's not that I'm frugal about dresses in my closet," she'd explained. "It's that you're talking about going to Dior and Chanel. I can't afford that."
"You can...If you just get one. You should own one amazing dress, Clarice," said Parker.
"A woman should do that for herself," Mapp agreed.
Starling's memory flashed on the crying little girl in the void of her mind. Should she spoil her a bit? She decided she should.
The dress she'd ended up getting she found at Saks. It was a sultry thing, with waist cutouts and a plunging neckline. It was a soft rosy color, which was striking against her coloring.
"Does this seem too naked?" She'd asked them, after trying it on. She turned this way and that.
"It makes you look just the right amount of naked," Parker said. "Also, with your tits, you can get away with it."
"Oh, thanks a lot," said Starling. "You might as well say it doesn't count because I have none."
"No, no," Marcela put up her hands. "They're...petite handfuls."
Starling looked down. She mouthed 'petite handfuls' to herself, before narrowing her eyes at Marcela.
Mapp laughed. "Fuck off, Starling. You're plenty aware of your looks, and you know you look amazing. That's your dress. Get it."
She bought Weitzman patent leather sandals to go with it.
"And where will I be wearing this costume?" Starling wondered out loud when they were back in the mustang. When Starling spoke while driving, Mapp had developed the habit of turning in her seat to tell Parker what Starling had said, as she couldn't read her lips. She did it now, and Parker smiled.
"We'll think of something!"
In the Fall, they drove first to Middletown Valley, ate lunch, and visited the Orchid Cellar Winery. From there, they drove the lighthouse loop in upper Chesapeake Bay.
The Ocean View Inn, off I-65, was the cheapest inn they could find, and looked it. But it did have an ocean view and was right by Long Pier, which had a restaurant with good seafood. It was about nine by the time they piled into the room. It was most certainly not postcard-worthy, but Starling was happy.
On Sunday, Starling got a phone call. They were heading back home and she had to pull off the road. It was Jimmy Mason.
"Starling, something's come up. The President and I are returning Tuesday next week from Brazil, and need to be briefed. It should include the report on the GPNRC. I thought of you, and spoke to Director Noonan. He hem-hawd a bit, and then Paul Krendler called me. I don't know if you know him but he certainly seems to know you. Said some negative things. I pressed him a little. I couldn't see much substance to what he had to say, but I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest. And I also want you to understand that if I ever find out you're lying about it, you'll be finished. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir. I do understand."
"So Paul's attitude toward you strikes me as odd. Mostly because it seems personal. First of all, do you know him?"
"Yes. I met him in Memphis during the Buffalo Bill search."
"He claimed you nearly got her killed. What happened?"
"At the time, I was being directed by Jack Crawford. I was told to give Lecter a phony story about getting him transferred, in order to get information. It was working. Mr. Crawford is the only person I ever knew who could handle Dr. Lecter. But when I spoke to Dr. Lecter, I was being secretly recorded by Dr. Chilton, the head of the Baltimore State Hospital. He outed us to make a new deal with Senator Martin, who was being advised by Mr. Krendler. I was in Memphis because Mr. Crawford and I knew that Dr. Lecter would only play with them. The only time he'd given any relevant information was with me, because I was willing to exchange personal information."
"Did Krendler say anything to you?"
"He told me to go back to school."
"Okay. Okay. Has he ever said anything to you untoward?"
Starling hesitated. "Yes, Sir."
"What was it?"
"He called me once, I think he was drunk. He wanted to, you know...I told him to go home to his wife."
"Got it. So he's a prick. I'm going to step over Krendler and talk to Noonan and Crawford. But don't worry about it. I want you to go ahead and shift around as needed. I want you briefing the President and me on Tuesday. Twenty-one hundred hours. The PDB is conducted and coordinated by the ODNI in the Briefing Room at the White House. You'll meet with the ODNI director beforehand, and she'll give you protocol and direction. April Dixon. And don't worry about Krendler. Got it?"
"Got it. Mr. Mason—Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This is a chance. Bring your best game. Be thorough. If I feel like I can trust you for this sort of thing, I'll pass it along."
"I'll bring my A-game."
"Good. See you next week, Ms. Starling."
The Arlington cul-de-sac is quiet at this early hour, in late November. Starling heads out to her car for a run on the trail. An hour later, the Mustang booms up the driveway again. The air is pleasantly crisp in the sun, now. The birds and neighbors, awake.
Starling checks the mail on her way in, rifling through bills and flyers on her way to the front door. When she saw his letter, Starling looked around for a moment, even though she knew Mapp was gone for Thanksgiving. Mapp tried and tried to get Starling to come. The simple fact was, Starling wanted some time to herself. She was getting to know herself, and Starling was ever the good student.
She read it at the kitchen table, warming her hands on a hot mug of coffee.
Dear Leda,
You have my deepest gratitude for your letter. Fortunately for me, I don't have to burn our correspondence like you do. I will be keeping it, but it will also have a place in the greatest museum of my mind, protected and guarded with the devotion afforded to the dead sea scrolls in Jerusalem.
Contrary to your concern, I'm happy to hear this news. It's still one of my great desires to have the best opera box for your growth into full maturity. I have every faith that you will be dazzling. It's charming to see you as you are now, a cub testing her teeth and claws. But when you're grown, you will be a powerful creature. Still charmingly toothsome, but powerful, nonetheless. I know that you will be my equal some day. And as I told you once, we don't reckon time the same. Then. Now. It makes no difference. I know what you are.
Naked and unarmed, you say. I agree that we do not belong together by the world's standards. I'd even venture to say that on the scales of depravity and perversion, our pairing is in line with bestiality. I wonder–If you had to tell the whole world you are in love with a wild yak, or that you want me, which would be the worse? Naked and unarmed. I do know the feeling...
Are you worried about leading me on? I think you are. Don't worry. I believe all the truths you offered. But I believe nothing about the future. I think you'd find a great peace comes with that practice. But you and I lead very different lives, and so we must necessarily deviate in attitude, both in ordnance and maxim.
Now, to both pacify your vulnerable condition and deeply discomfort you:
I think of you day and night. Your coral and cream face, your voice with its pastoral inflection, your delicious body, your absurd principles, your courageous heart...You have saturated me. I think it's likely I'm finished. Perhaps it will interest you to know that the pain of my longing is so exquisite, that I can appreciate its excellence and beatitude, pragmatically, as only a fiend can. I sometimes think of it as a thorny statuette transplanted into my heart. Or, like Ugolin in Manon des Sources, a ribbon sewn to the breast. The Persians could not craft the artistry and cruelty of this torture. So, my girl, you are not the only one who is vulnerable.
I await our next meeting with gruesome delight.
Yours,
John
Starling, alone in the duplex, laid down on the sofa, and let the letter fall onto her chest. She lay there, feeling it on her body, for long minutes. Then, she read it again. And again. Now, memories of their last night together came, flickering on and off...
"It's very unlikely I could ever have her, but to care for her is the closest relation I can hope to have. So it is my problem, my girl, because I choose it."
After these heartfelt words, Starling had proceeded with her casual, sometimes boorish ways, she was embarrassed to recall...
"So you choose me." She chirped the word 'me'. He nodded, and caressed his mouth along her shoulder.
"Because I can," he said. "One of many fortunes I possess. Like you," he said, pinching her nose, and giving it a shake. She batted him away.
"If everything were different, I'd choose you too," she offered.
"Not much of an endorsement of your love, Clarice."
"I don't love you," she said, both offhandedly and without malice.
"True. But you do feel something."
"Of course," she'd said, leaning into him. She pushed and writhed against him. She was teasing him.
This woman, Starling had learned, loved to insight a reaction from Dr. Lecter. Such childlike sauce, she had. Sauce, an almost amusing confidence, a lack of remorse, and an unquenchable desire for pleasure and adoration. Which he had given her, without reserve.
"Touch me," she said. Then a whisper, "Play with me."
"I'll play with you, my little doxy," he said, before sitting up and lifting her feet high. He pinched her, where buttocks met thigh.
"Hey!" She kicked her feet, and got one loose. He shifted away from her free foot, and pinched her again. Starling turned over onto her stomach and felt her foot contact his face, though it didn't do any good. He pulled her ankle so that she slid down the bed. Then he was straddling her, facing her legs.
"Uh-oh," she said, which made Dr. Lecter laugh.
He tickled her feet and she screamed and beat his back with a fist, wrenched around as much as her back allowed.
"I should-a known that was a bad move. It's never a good position for sparring," she said, her voice compressed from pressure. "You never let 'em mount."
"We're not sparring," Dr. Lecter commented, between strikes to her backside. Starling took this in very good stride. Her pain receptors were low, and she was putting a good deal of focus into hitting him as hard as she could. Something she would not ordinarily do, even if she was angry—which she wasn't. She was playing, but without holding back anything. She found putting all her strength into it still didn't do much. When she went for his kidneys, he finally got off her. Starling turned over, her hair in her face.
"You stupid idiot," she announced.
"That's a double negative, Clarice."
"You stupid prick."
"There, that's better." He helped her move her hair out of her face. "Was that fun?"
She nodded, moving so that she could put her feet on his shoulders.
"Ah," he said, putting a hand on each of them. "Another precarious position."
"Not precarious, suggestive."
When she stuck her toes in his mouth, he moved his head aside and pulled them out.
"Such insolence, you have," he commented.
"I'm not insolent," she argued. "That's where they go."
"That's where your feet go? My mouth?"
She smiled and then laughed, the back of her hand covering her mouth.
"Well, I can't argue that."
Starling realized she'd put a hand down her joggers. She blinked at the ceiling. People had all sorts of depraved fantasies. Plenty of which they had no intention of ever fulfilling in reality. She closed her eyes again. She wasn't sure how well she remembered everything, but she remembered enough that her memories always stirred her until her skin felt hot...
Later in the night. Minutes or hours, she had no idea. Dr. Lecter, lying on his side, had a hand between her legs. She was breathing hard. Then her hand drifted between their bodies, drifted, and the back of her fingers brushed his erection through his pants. He inhaled sharply and stopped. Starling looked up at him without urgency.
"You've an erection," she said, in something that may have been a British accent.
"What are you doing, little doxy?"
"Touching it," she said.
"I'm not sure you—"
"Keep going," she tapped his wrist and squeezed his hand with her thighs. "I only remember you with an erection that one time. Aren't you usually soft?"
"Quite the opposite," he answered, continuing his ministrations.
Starling's eyes closed. "Really?"
"You've given it attention only twice. Once, it was necessarily exposed so you could torture me. And now, for the first time with purpose. Do you really think I've been wholly unaffected by the things we do?"
"Valarie says I have trouble seeing you as a man. I think it's true. Do it faster, now. Ummm."
Dr. Lecter didn't respond. But when Starling's fingers brushed along his pants again, he stopped. "Don't do that, Clarice," he whispered.
"Why? You don't like it?"
"I can't allow you to make big decisions in this state. You'd never forgive me."
"Oh."
"Now, would you like some more?"
"More than two fingers? I don't like it very much when it's more than that."
"I know, my darling. But the task must be completed."
"Oh," she whined quietly. "It hurts, Hannibal."
Why does this moment make Starling tremble and bring close a climax of her own, now? Starling was deep enough into her fantastical arousal that she was not burdened enough by this question to stop.
"I know, little doxy," he said, his voice gentle. "I know that part isn't quite enjoyable, but it's a part of the covenant and must be fulfilled."
"Will you do it fast?"
"Yes."
"Can we have some blueberries after?"
"You can have all the blueberries you want."
"And you'll hold me after?"
"You like that, don't you?"
She shrugged and looked up at him. Her face displayed sincerity without sentiment, and his eyes seemed to plunge into hers with such affection...
"I just need it," she answered.
He nodded, touched her cheek. And he did do it fast. And when it was done, he licked his hand, as he always did, then held her. He offered to come back with blueberries, but she only looked at him, her head to the side. When he stood, she stood with him. She held his hand, looking at him, as though to say, 'Well, let's go'. She held his hand all the way downstairs. And again, all the way up.
In the duplex, Starling squeezed her eyes shut, opened her mouth wide, and climaxed in silence. She lay staring up at the ceiling for long minutes, breathing heavy with a hand stuck down her trousers and the letter on her chest. She'd had more dignified moments. Then again, she'd had worse.