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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter Disclaimer:
These characters were created by Thomas
Harris. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of
admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended, and no
profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this
site.
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6 of 12 PART 2 If it were possible to drown in a sea of people my water-logged corpse would have no doubt washed up on the distant shore of the Tattler’s main office. They crush in on all sides of me, shouting a thousand insipid questions, sounding for all the world like a cadre of seagulls swarming a garbage barge. A microphone is thrust into my face and I knock it away with enough force to elicit a surprised squawk from the little man who put it there. Don’t you know me, boy? Haven’t you penned a hundred dirty missives, recounting all the kills notched squarely on my holster? Shove that thing back in my face and I’ll see to it that your family line ends with you. After all the muck the tabloids have drug my name through, my rage does not surprise me. I point it’s sleek nose towards the back of my cavernous mind, until it has slunk away, curled up and laid down. Wait till it counts. Weather it’s seconds or minutes till I reach the sanctuary of the waiting car, I don’t know. The door is pulled open for me, and I’m hustled inside. Collapsing against the practical material seats of the federal vehicle, I lower my gaze from the tinted windows. The driver presses carefully through the huddled mass, and I can hear their palms squeak as they drag over the car’s exterior. I close my eyes and lie back, letting the gentle rocking motion of the sea of humanity lull me into the murky depths of sleep. In my dream, I’m trapped in the brig of a foundering ship. The water is licking at the backs of my knees, frigid and sharp as my fingers curl about the unbending bars of my plight. The sounds of the frantic crew create a terrible din, and I know with utter certainty that in my watery prison, I don’t even cross their minds. The water’s up to my waist now, and a rat swims determinedly by, pumping plump little legs in a effort to abandon ship. God’s speed, furry pestilence. May your generations multiply and go forth, trailing new epidemics of disease so devastating that your ancestors could only dream of them. Cold Watery fingers circle my neck, stroking hypothermic caresses down the length of my spine. The shouts of the crew begin to die down as they cut loose the lifeboats and make for the uncertainty of the open sea. I prepare myself to meet death, a few select scenes flittering before my eyes until, there is a deafening “snick”. I’ve heard that sound before. It signaled something fearfully meaningful in some other, far off context, but the water’s so cold that I can’t place it. I open my eyes underwater, trying to discern the sound here and now, in the dream time. The lock on my cell. It’s open. I push the heavy bars back with the last of my cold-sapped strength and swim for the deck. He is standing in the doorway, holding out his hand to me. And as the last wave breaks over my head, I grasp it. I shudder awake and wrap my arms around my waist, shivering with a chill that leaches deep into my bones. The car glides to a stop beside a small private air craft, and my door opens. The driver plucks my luggage from the trunk of the car. I shoulder my suitcase and make for the plane. I am the only passenger aboard, of course and there is no stewardess to offer me a Jack Daniel’s to ease my nerves. As if a drink could possible quell the nausea swirling in my stomach. I am not afraid of flying. The anxiousness that constricts around me has its genesis in the cold dark corridors of a seductive dungeon. They want me to help catch him. They want me to bring him down. My shoulder itches, a not so subtle reminder of his touch gliding over my traitorous flesh. They want me to sing him to his doom. They want me to nod my acquiescence as they drive the bullet home. And they think I can do it. I don’t who’s the bigger fool, them for believing in me or me believing I have a chance to push the iron bars open before I drown. FIN Part 2 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |