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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 3 The plane touches down on the tarmac, with barely a squeak or bump. It is still enough to wake me. I take refuge in sleep so often now. Before, I shrugged away from the boredom. Now, I toss and turn in the clutches of something far more sinister. Daily, I am flooded with a mélange of cruel emotions; fear, longing, despair, allegiance, guilt, and blood red hatred are my constant companions. Alone? I haven’t been alone since he took up residence inside my head. I only think I’m alone because I when I wake, my arms are always wrapped tightly around my body in a wan and pathetic imitation of a lover’s embrace. The boarding ramp is down, and I’m down it in little more than a minute. The airport is desolated. No doubt the flight was scheduled to land when there would be the least amount of activity. The only reception that greets me is the bright salty sparkle of the sea air. I can see it from the airport, gleaming across winter-white wave caps, crashing gently on bleached sunlight sand. I breath it in, feel it cleanse my lungs of the last vestiges of stuffy recirculated air. The crisp breeze is invigorating, and I hate to leave it when I hurry inside to pick up my rental car. The girl at the terminal speaks in a round New England accent that I’m sure tourists find charming. The car, waiting under the name Hannah Aaron, is compact and inconspicuous. I have not explained the significance of my assumed identity to my superiors, and it will, likewise, slip under the radar of the tabloids. But he’ll know it a mile away. That is, if he bothers to look. Tossing my suitcase on the passenger’s seat, I get in my rented skiff and fish my directions out of my purse. I have not seen the rented cottage. In the unlikely event he can’t detect that this little excursion is a trap, I hope the house is suitable. I’d hate to offend his sensibilities, or disappoint him with my tastes. I ruminate on the fact that his knowledge of their trap is most likely not enough to keep him away. He lives to rub their noses in their ineptitude. He exhibits a malevolent glee in decimating their carefully constructed ruses, like a beach bully toppling a child’s sand castle. His arrogance is both frightening and breathtaking. I am afraid it will be his undoing, and I am in awe of his heroic attempts to evade capture. Heroics is not the right word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. I’m caught in a vice grip, torn between fear and anticipation. Not fear that he will come, not fear that he will butcher me and pose my remains in some exquisitely ironic tableau, but fear that this time he might not make it back out alive. I cannot be his executioner, and I cannot be their stalking horse. But although I tell myself this, I still make my way down the road to our destiny. I pull up to the cottage and park in the drive way. It’s perfect: remote and secluded. From the Bureau’s point of view, if this turns into a blood bath, the fewer witnesses, the better. The public might even find some shred sympathy for me if, cut off from the bureau, my mutilated corpse (Identified by dental records, of course) was attributed to the list of Lecter’s victims. From my debriefing, I know the surveillance team should already be in place. The fact that I cannot pinpoint their locations is both reassuring and unsettling. Good, I am safe. Bad, he is not. Flicking my key into the lock, I enter my new lair. The sitting room is tastefully furnished with a couch, arm chair and coffee table. The light streams through the shade-bare windows, illuminating the several gilt-framed pastoral scenes that line the wall. My eyes are drawn to one painting, in particular a verdant field dotted with the cotton-white of a flock of sheep. On the hill above, a black and white border collie stands, her nose upturned, scenting the air. They never leave a sheep to guard the flock. He’d go along, thinking little sheep thoughts of green grass and cool water, and very likely end up dinner along with his compatriots. The dog, on the other had understands the threat of danger because her mind is able to grasp the thought process of the wolf. The very skill that makes her the ultimate protector, also makes her dangerous. She walks a the fine line between domestication and the instincts of her blood, forever torn between duty and desire. In the distance, silver fur flashes through the shadows, reflecting back her smoky silhouette in a different time and place. He stands, proud and unapologetic, daring her to look away. She has seen the carnage the wolf brings with him, and she knows the consequences of dropping her guard. But sometimes, when she looks at the sheep, the dog salivates too. I unpack my suitcase, several interchangeable sweaters and slacks, and stow them neatly in an empty dresser drawer. A single dress, I hang in the closet. It’s over too quickly, and I’m left with nothing to do. I return to the sitting room and plop down on the couch, avoiding the painting. It’s far too appropriate. Almost painfully so. I let my thoughts drift to the surveillance men outside. Are they as bored as I am? Have they let their guard down yet, or are the diligently staring off into nothingness, waiting for a head to split. I think of him, and wonder if he’s out there already. He can’t be. It’s too soon. He might like to court danger, but he’s not so foolish as to rush in without first compressively assessing the situation. As my eyes drift unbidden, back to the painting, I think of my superiors at the bureau, and I’m struck by their unmitigated stupidity. When the dog has danced with the wolf, how can they ever trust her to guard the sheep again? FIN Part 3 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |