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The Path Not Taken copyright 2001, by Calico
Dr. Hannibal Lecter knelt in front of Clarice Starling and
accepted her offered breast. Both
knew they had reached a point of no return.
She quietly slid down to her knees in front of him so that they
were face to face. Gently
she reached her hand up to caress his head and he bent as if to kiss
her, but she quickly placed her other hand on the other side of his head
and pushed back rather roughly. She gazed intently into his eyes and said deeply, “I know
you are not an evil man.” He
smiled, but before he could reply she continued, “But you are a man
who has done evil things. These
things have no place in my life, in our life.” “Whatever makes you happy, My Dear,” he drawled in
response and tried to kiss her again, but again she shoved him back to
make her point clear. “From here on there will be no more drugs.
To put a fine point on it, Doctor, if I sense any harmful intent
from you in the future, I will nail your ass to the wall.”
She stopped, breathing deeply and wanting to close her eyes and
surrender to the feelings inside. “We’ll
be straight with each other from this point forward, correct?” “Of course,” he replied. “And honest.” “Always.” “Now, Doctor, do think very carefully,” she said in a
sultry voice, with fingers entwined in his hair, “Who do you really
want? Your sister, or
me?” Instead of answering, Lecter placed his hands on her waist,
sliding them up towards her arms then down her back. She moaned with the motion as he brought them down to her
buttocks and gently massaged them.
Then without warning he hauled her toward him so that she was
straddling his lap. In
order to keep her balance she had circled her arms around his neck as he
held her tight. It was now
that he replied, “Whom do
you think?” as he kissed the top of her breasts then trailed the tip
of his tongue up her sternum to the soft depression of her throat
causing a sigh to escape her mouth.
He placed gentle kisses up to her chin and finally settled on her
lips. The first kiss was
soft and questioning, tasting even.
Then the passion flowed freely and he rolled her over on the rug
in front of the fire. As
the firelight flashed and danced on her skin he bent over her and
whispered, “Clarice, don’t ever leave me.” To which she replied, “Where would I go?” Twelve hours later…. Clarice was in the guest bedroom sorting through the clothing
Lecter had provided for her and placing them in the suitcases on the
bed. She smiled again at
the thought that went into choosing such fine articles.
When the cases were full and stood at the foot of the bed she
went down the hall to the master suite where he was doing the same. She leaned against the door frame and asked him, “So where
are we going?” He turned away from her for a moment, and with the trained
eye of an ex-FBI agent she noticed him furtively grab an item off of the
bedside table and place it in his pocket as he picked up a book with his
other hand. He turned back
around with a triumphant smile and waved the book at her.
“You really should read this sometime.”
He put the book on the bed by his suitcase then walked towards
her. “It’s a
surprise.” “I don’t like surprises,” she said, frowning as he took
her arm and lead her into the room to sit on the bed as he finished
packing. She picked up the
book and idly surveyed the title “The Collected Poems of Robert
Frost”. “Tell me.
Please.” “Very well, we’re going to Greece.” “Greece? But I
don’t even have my passport.” She
suddenly fearful at the thought of leaving the country so soon, but
didn’t know why it bothered her. “Not a problem.” He
walked over to his bureau and opened the top drawer taking out a small
black book. He tossed it in
her direction and she caught it with ease.
Upon opening she determined it was a passport and even had her
picture in it, but he name listed was Rene Beauchamp, from Montreal,
Quebec. “What is this?” she asked a little appalled at the
obvious forgery. “Clarice, you are officially a missing person, who either
murdered four men while helping me escape, or are being held captive by
me until I do something unspeakable.
Either way, you are being sought after.
If last night was just a product of drugs and booze then I invite
you to walk out that door right now and not turn back. But if you were sincere in your intentions, then,
unfortunately, a few things are going to have to be handled my way. What do you say?” Clarice felt for a moment like fleeing.
The room, the house, everything that had been accomplished in the
past weeks. Instead she
looked at him steadily and said, “Why Greece?” “I thought it would be a fine place for a wedding.” Clarice choked, “Wedding?
What are you talking about?” “Just call me old-fashioned.” His teeth flashed as he smiled at her and pulled the object
out of his pocket. It was a
velvet jeweler’s box and he opened it as he came towards her.
She saw the most beautiful diamond and ruby ring.
She gasped at its intensity.
“It was my grandmother’s.
After the Nazi’s came everything was taken.
It took me years to track it down and it cost a small fortune,
but well worth the effort, don’t you agree?”
She reached out to touch it with her fingertip and he grasped her
wrist to pull her forward into his arms.
“I won’t pretend to profess something as mediocre as love,
that grandiose idea so overused it has become an insincere sentiment
used more as a bargaining chip than any real emotion. “But Clarice, I do believe in that enigmatic notion known
as soul mates – two people who’s paths verge on the same destiny.
I’ve known it for ten years now, since I first met a
wet-behind-the-ears FBI trainee, who had the cheek to come face-to-face
with a monster. I believe
you know it too. Didn’t you feel that first spark, that inner
temptation, the same one that whispers, ‘Jump from the balcony and see
what happens,’ even as your fear and common sense told you to stay
away? What do you say, Clarice, are you going to follow your same
path towards destruction as your daddy before you, or will you defy all
those who want to keep you down and follow mine into the unknown?”
With a simple nod and a smile, she agreed. Two weeks later…. In a small church on the shore of the Mediterranean at
sunset, an Orthodox priest performed the ceremony. The bride and groom spoke their vows: “I, Clarice Starling, do take you, Hannibal, as my husband,
from this day forward until death parts us.
I vow to explore and to share, to live and to learn, with honesty
and respect. I will forever
be as open as you have shown me how to be.” “I, Hannibal Lecter, do take you, Clarice, as my wife, from
this day forward until death parts us.
I vow to respect and cherish you as my most prized possession.
With you in my life, even the darkest days will be of light, and
even the sourest taste will be as sweet wine.” He placed the ring on her hand and bent for a kiss. Neither spoke of love. Clarice woke with a start.
The dream wore heavily on her and she slowly readjusted to the
present. Here on the sofa
in the drawing room, she had laid down for a moment after a long day of
cleaning. She quickly
noticed her left hand was missing the ring, but then remembered removing
it before she started the day’s chores.
The dream left a bittersweet taste.
The ceremony had been so beautiful, if not wholly legal.
The marriage license could never be filed in any municipality due
to the inherent danger in having those two names linked.
But it was kept in the safe, real to the two parties involved. The lengthening shadows revealed she had slept much longer
than she had intended. It
was late and she had to prepare his evening meal.
In the kitchen she heated up some soup to be served with homemade
bread and wild rice. He
would hate it, but he was having so much trouble keeping anything down
these days. As the soup
simmered she went down to the wine cellar and retrieved a fine merlot.
She uncorked it and left it to breathe.
No reason he shouldn’t have a little luxury. She gathered the good linen napkins, china, fine silverware,
and a crystal goblet onto a sterling silver serving tray. She ladled the soup into a bowl and put the rice on a plate
with the bread, fresh baked that morning.
Finally she poured the goblet half full and added a small vase
with a bud from the rose garden. Everything
perfect, she walked out of the kitchen through the fine dining room and
up the large staircase. The double doors to the master bedroom were not latched so
all she had to do was nudge one with her foot to enter.
With the drapes drawn the room was gray with shadows.
The large bed in the far corner seemed very still in spite of the
form that lay on it, propped up on pillows as if he fell asleep while
reading. The silence was
deafening to Clarice and she rushed to the bedside, laying the tray down
on a table. She sat on the
bed and placed her hand on the figure’s face.
Cool and moist, but most certainly still alive, as evidenced by
the slow rise and fall of the chest.
But the breathing was shallow and labored. After taking a deep breath she turned on the bedside light
and shook the sleeping figure, saying, “Darling, wake up.
It’s time for your supper.” Hannibal Lecter opened his eyes and at first seemed
incoherent, glancing around desperately before his eyes fell on her
face. Then he closed his
eyes slowly and deliberately, opening them again with a smile on his
face and looked once again as he had for the last eight years.
“Good evening, Clarice. What
scrumptious wonders have you brought to torture me with tonight, I
wonder?” “Soup. Rice.
And bread. And you
will attempt to eat it all.” She
finished as he grimaced. She
laid the napkin on his chest and brought the bowl over, beginning to
spoon it for him, when he held her hand. “I am not a child, nor am I an invalid.
Yet.” He took the
spoon from her hand, but allowed her to hold the bowl for him.
While watching him eat she was struck at just how old he had
gotten in such a short time. At
no time during their marriage had the significant difference in their
ages been a burden, or even an issue.
But now he looked every day of his 73 years and it almost broke
her heart. When he had
finished most of the soup she handed him the goblet and enjoyed watching
him savor the aroma and drink it as if it were of the gods.
“Excellent choice, My Dear.
Now I suppose I’ll have to try that soggy rice of yours.”
He had a few bites, but it was difficult for him to swallow.
She was cleaning up the dishes when he said, “Come over here
and lay with me for a while, please.” She smiled and went to the other side of the large bed and
crawled over on top of the coverings toward him. She settled in the crook of his arm while he stroked her hair
absently. “You are still
very angry with me, Clarice.” It
was a statement, not a question. “Not anymore. I
don’t think I feel anything anymore.” He chuckled. “Come
now, that was a false statement wasn’t it?” “I guess.” “No, don’t guess. What
are you feeling right this moment?” “I’m scared as hell.” “So am I. So
am I. Do you know why?” “You’re afraid to die?” “Hardly. I’m
afraid to leave you.” She
rose up to look at his face and he looked back at her.
“I’d be a fool to worry about your safety. You are perhaps the second most deadly person I know.
But I worry about how you will take my going.
Will you feel cheated? Will
you feel abandoned? Will it
be like your father’s death all over again?”
She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest.
She didn’t like crying in his presence, especially over this.
It was weak. “Clarice?
Look at me.” She obeyed, the tears shiny on her cheeks but her face
otherwise composed. “You
will be fine. You are
stronger than anyone else gives you credit for.
Don’t let your pain rule you.” “But what will I be without you?” she asked in a whisper
that she didn’t recognize as her own voice.
For the last eight years she had been at his side, student,
lover, wife, mother, and now nurse.
With the FBI and her past life totally and irrevocably discarded,
she had no idea what to do. “You will simply be the person I know you are.
What you do is irrelevant.
I am not the yardstick of your life, I simply changed your
path.” She nodded her
understanding. “There is
one more thing I want you to know.
Now listen carefully because this is terribly important.
Never doubt my feelings for you.
When I die, and we both know that is inevitable, you may be
tempted to re-enter life as yourself.
That is fine. The
authorities will surely not give any serious thought to apprehending you
now. But they may question you about me, and they may question my
motives, say that I was toying with you and that you amused me.
Perhaps to force you to confess certain secrets or whatnot.
But the point, My Dear, is that I love you and you must always
remember that.” “I thought you didn’t believe in love, that it was an
insincere sentiment.” He laughed outright. “Perhaps,
but it’s the closest I can come to explaining to you that you should
never doubt my intentions.” She smiled and said, “I never would.”
Then she kissed his check and lay back down. “Where is your ring?” he asked after a while. “I took it off this morning before cleaning the oven,”
she replied. “It’s been rather hard on you since we dismissed the help
hasn’t it?” “I don’t mind. It
keeps me busy.” “Do you have any regrets, Clarice?” “Regrets…?” “You know, don’t you ever wish you had chosen the lady
instead of the tiger?” “You’ve gotten it backwards. Besides, where else would I have learned how to distinguish
between a fine Botticelli and a cheap imitation? Every girl needs to know that.” He didn’t answer. In
moments his even breathing told her he had gone back to sleep.
She closed her eyes enjoying having him close and thought back.
This last month had been difficult, but the worst moment had come
five months prior. They were getting ready for a reception at a nearby museum,
hosting a touring collection of paintings.
Hannibal had been very interested in getting a close look at a
rare Degas. She was still
in the master bedroom putting the finishing touches on her hair when she
heard the thud. She
immediately went to investigate and found him in a heap at the bottom of
the stairs. “Oh my God, Hannibal, are you alright?”
She helped him to his feet. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.
Nothing broken.” “What the hell happened?” she demanded. “Is the vulgarity necessary Clarice?” he asked testily.
“I was coming down the stairs when I became lightheaded and
lost my footing. Nothing to
worry about.” “That’s what you’ve been saying about those horrible
headaches you’ve been getting the last few weeks. Well I AM worried, and you are going to the doctor’s first
thing tomorrow.” He smiled at her and said, “Of course, if that’s what you
want. But tonight, we still
have plans, and a rather long drive ahead.
Shall we?” He
offered her his arm and she reluctantly accepted as he led her out to
the car. The following day, sitting in the doctor’s office, their
future was told in the shadows and light of the MRI film on the light
box behind the desk. “Quite frankly, Dr. Herchshire, with the mass of this tumor
I would find it hard to believe you have been having symptoms for
only…” “Eighteen months,” Lecter responded. Clarice
was speechless. It was only
the last few weeks that he had been complaining of pain.
“Well,” the doctor cleared his throat and tried to
continue, “If you had come in even nine months ago we could have
discussed treatments and surgery, but now it’s completely embedded in
your parietal lobe and removal is impossible.
Plus I believe it has started metastasizing, but we’ll need
more tests. Honestly, I would be generous to give you even six months to
live. I’m sorry.” “No need to be. We
just came to put my wife’s fears at ease.
Thank you for you for your help.
Darling let’s go.” He
stood and waited for her, but all she could do was stare mutely forward.
He placed is hand on her shoulder and squeezed, saying, “We
need to leave now.” She
blinked and started to rise. She
followed him out of the office, mumbling farewell to the doctor. “But Dr. Herchshire, we need to discuss you plan of
treatment, pain management and all that.” “No need. Thanks
again.” He waved as he
escorted his wife out. The ride home was thick with silence.
Lecter drove while Clarice stared blankly out the window.
He did not try to engage her in conversation. They entered the home through the garage and she went
straight to the bar in the drawing room to pour herself a drink.
One very large Scotch straight. “Don’t you think it’s a little early for that, My
Dear?” he inquired dryly as he entered the room. “Oh, no,” she replied with an airy wave of her hand.
“I think it’s actually about nine fucking months too LATE!”
she finished while shouting at the top of her voice. “There is no need to let this degenerate into a brawl.
We can discuss this civilly.” “Civilly? You
self-important bastard! When
WERE you going to tell me? You
knew for over a YEAR that you had this, this disease in you and you kept
it from me? Why?
Why wouldn’t you seek help?
You could have gotten it taken out for God’s sake!
And now you are going to DIE!”
She slammed her tumbler on the bar so hard it shattered in her
hand. She looked down and
saw blood from the shards of glass imbedded into her flesh but was too
numb to feel it. The blood
just dripped onto the mahogany surface. He came around to join her and took her hand in his own.
Gently he removed the glass then rinsed the wounds.
He took a towel and wrapped it around as a makeshift bandage.
“These will require stitches.” “Well,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
“I don’t think I’ll do anything about that.
I’ll just let myself bleed to death.” “When did you become a self-pitying bitch?” he asked in a
deceptively calm voice. That caused her to look at him. “Self-pity? Is
that what you think this is? You’re
the fool who’s just thrown his life away.
I’m just your goddamn wife who’ll have to pick up the pieces
afterwards.” “Clarice, listen to me.
Do you really think I would check myself into a hospital and
allow some second-rate hack muck around in my brain?
How safe do you think I’d be?
What would you do, stand guard outside the OR with weapons drawn?
And if someone did recognize me and call in the authorities, then
what? Or maybe they
wouldn’t even do that. Just
a snip here and there, and I’d be gone on the table.
I haven’t lived this long by putting myself at risks like
that.” “But you had your finger removed and the plastic
surgery…?” “All with local anesthetic.
I was completely in control of those situations.” She turned away from him, the anger dissipated, but the hurt
remained. “Please just
leave me alone for awhile.” She
walked to the large window facing the maple trees in the back lawn and
sat down in the large chair facing it.
He liked to sit there and read for hours on end and it held his
scent. She curled her legs
under her and cradled her injured hand as it began to throb. “Fine. When
you find yourself ready to carry on please join me in the study.
We have matters to discuss.
But I warn you, Clarice. I
will not indulge this for very long.”
He turned and strode out of the room. Six months, she thought to herself.
He’ll be gone before Christmas. Two hours later….. Clarice wandered into the study and found him at his desk
sorting through papers. He
smiled up at her as she entered. “Well,
My Dear, are we feeling better.” She simply glared at him and sat in the chair in front of the
desk. “What matters do we
have to discuss?” “For quite sometime now I’ve been transferring all my
holdings and assets into your name.” “Why?” “Well simply, I don’t think you could claim them in
probate court could you?” She closed her eyes. “You’re
planning for your,” she stopped to swallow, “death?” “Of course. One
should always be prepared. All
the papers are here, the passwords, which you should change immediately,
the account codes. You will
be well off.” “Fine. Anything
else?” “Well, there is the matter of dealing with the disposal of
the body.” “Christ! I’m
not going to do this now.” She
started to stand up. “Sit down! You
can and will do this now. I
know you and your great need for honesty.
You’ll want to do the right thing.
Tell them if you must, but don’t put yourself in a position of
danger. And I wish to be
cremated. Take my ashes
back to Lithuania. Remember
that spot I showed you? Place
them there.” Clarice went to the safe hidden behind her portrait on the
wall in the study. She felt
the need to go through the papers before she made the call. Everything was in perfect order.
There were even several stacks of bills, for use in an emergency,
which she put in her purse. At
the bottom she found the envelope.
It was of the fine cream stationery he favored, and her name was
written across the top. Under
it was written, “To be opened when you feel ready.”
She choked back a sob, and put it in her purse as well. Then she went to the phone. “Federal Bureau of Investigation, how may I direct your
call?” “Violent Crimes Unit, please.” “One moment.” “Agent Black, how can I help you?” “Dr. Hannibal Lecter is dead.” “Excuse me? You
mean Hannibal the Cannibal?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry ma’am, what is your name?” “Clarice Starling.” Soft whistle. “The
FBI agent? Well Miss
Starling, we’ve been looking for you for eight years.
Now how do you know he’s dead?” “I was with him.” “And how did he die?” “He’s been very ill.” “With all due respect ma’am, we get a lot of crank calls.
How can you expect me to believe you?” “I don’t. But
if you want to see for yourself, his body is at the morgue in the
basement of Elkins Memorial Hospital in Vermont.” “Vermont? You
mean he’s been in the states?” “For almost 2 years now.” “We’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon.
We’ll need to ask you some questions.
How’ll I find you?” “It’s a small community Agent Black.
Using your superior FBI techniques I’m sure you’ll find
me.” Click. Special Agent Greg Black looked across the room to his
partner, Special Agent Paul Clemons.
“Paul, we’re going to the Green Mountain State.” Next day…. In the hospital the two agents went to the reception desk and
were directed down to the morgue. The
attendant was an elderly man who shuffled as he led them to the sheet
draped body. “Normally he
would’ve been sent directly to the mortuary, but his missus demanded
we keep him here until you folks came.” “Did you know him?” Agent Clemons asked. “Not too good. Knew his missus though.
She volunteered here at the hospital up until he fell ill and got
laid up in bed. It’s a
sore shame, poor man. Disease
just ate him up from the inside out. What do you boys want with him anyhow?” They ignored the questions and removed the sheet looking down
at the face that looked a little, but not exactly like the man the FBI
had been pursuing for almost 20 years.
They took fingerprints to make a solid determination. “Do you know were we can find his wife?”
Agent Black asked. “Sure do. You
must have passed the house comin’ into town.
Big old house on the hill on the south side. Can’t miss it.” They thanked him and left.
The old man had been right.
The large home dominated the southern view.
Walking up to the front door Agent Black told his partner,
“We’ve got to be alert. She’s
been with him for almost a decade.
Who knows what he’s done to her mind.”
He rang the doorbell. The door opened and she looked at the two men.
“’Bout time. Lunch is getting cold.”
She turned and walked back inside.
They looked at each other skeptically and followed the lady into
her home. She was dressed
in a silk navy pantsuit and her auburn hair was coiled at the top of her
head. Both had seen
pictures of Starling, but neither expected the stunning vision that
walked ahead of them. At the large table in the dining room, were three place
settings. “Have a seat
gentleman, you must be starving.” “With all due respect, Ms. Starling, or would you prefer
Mrs. Lecter?” “You must be Agent Black,” Clarice said smoothly,
ignoring the sarcasm. “I
recognized your voice. Starling
is fine. And you are?”
she turned to the other man. He reached to shake her hand, “Um, Agent Clemons,
ma’am.” “Pleasure to meet you, Agent.” “Ms. Starling, we did not come here for lunch, and please
don’t be offended if I say that we would not eat anything you
prepared.” “Why, because you think it might contain human flesh?”
Sadly she shook her head. “At
least sit down while we talk.” She
chose the end chair, while the men sat at either side. Agent Black pulled a recorder out of his inner pocket and set
it on the table. “Do you
have any objections to being taped?” he asked. “Of course not. But
are you going to read me my rights?” “You are not under arrest, yet,” Agent Clemons said.
“We just want to get the facts straight.” “Fine, please proceed.” Black spoke into the recorder, “This is Special Agent
Gregory Black and Special Agent Paul Clemons, questioning Clarice
Starling. Ms. Starling has
not been Mirandized and is speaking of her own free will. “You were formally an agent with the Bureau, were you
not?” “Correct.” “And shortly after being placed on Administrative Leave you
disappeared. Can you tell
me about the events at Mason Verger’s estate?” “I had observed the man known as Hannibal Lecter being
kidnapped. As I believe Mr.
Verger wanted to harm him, that is the first place I looked. When I arrived I found Dr. Lecter strapped to a forklift and
being maneuvered towards a pin containing large carnivorous swine.
I attempted to take control of the situation…” “We found John Brigham’s gun at the scene with your
prints on it. Is that the
weapon you were using?” “Yes. I was
forced to shoot one man, and then I got two others secured on the
ground. As I was freeing
Dr. Lecter from his bonds, I was shot with a dart containing a powerful
sedative. I blacked-out
very quickly.” “Do you know what happened afterwards?” “Um, he told me he released the pigs.” “ ‘He’?” “Dr. Lecter.” “So you were with him after you woke up?” “Yes. He
apparently carried me to my car and drove me to the house where he had
been staying.” “And did you attempt to escape when you woke up?” “No.” “You mean you stayed there of your own free will?” “Um, he sort of used a mild hypnotic drug on me.” “You were drugged?” “For a while. We
developed a rapport.” “And when did you start fucking him?” “Agent Black, that’s enough,” Clemons said. “I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. When did your relationship become intimate?” “It was a few weeks I think. I don’t have a very good recollection of time passing
then.” “Because of the drugs?” “Mostly.” “Ms. Starling, around that time Paul Krendler disappeared.
You remember him don’t you?” “Yes.” “Do you have any idea what happened to him?” Clarice chewed on her lower lip for a moment then replied,
“He’s dead.” “Dead how?” “I believe a crossbow bolt to the heart.” “Did Lecter kill him?” “Yes.” “And where is the body?” “I don’t know.” “Fine, let’s move on shall we. You left the country with Lecter. Where did you go?” “First we went to Greece, for the wedding, then traveled
Eastern Europe for the honeymoon. He
showed me his childhood home in Lithuania.
We lived in Buenos Aires for a while, then London.
We went to Spain for a short time, but I was becoming homesick
for the States. That’s
when we came back. He
didn’t like it too much, but insisted we live next to the Canadian
border. Vermont was really
perfect. Very small and
remote, the residents don’t pay you any attention, and we were just 45
minutes from Montreal. There’s
a lot of culture up there.” “Did you kill anyone during this jaunt around the globe?” “No, of course not.” “What about the good doctor?” “No. That
wasn’t how things were. I
wouldn’t allow that.” “Were you afraid of him?” “No.” “Were you afraid he would kill?” “No,” Clarice came close to a shout, but made herself
relax. “Never in the whole time you spent with him, save Mr.
Krendler, did you suspect he might have murdered?” Clarice closed her eyes.
It was still there, no matter how hard she tried to forget it. London. “Doctor and Mrs. Maplewood!” the Duchess exclaimed as the
couple entered her palatial home. “So
good of you to come.” “We never miss the opportunity to come to one of your
fabulous soirees, my dear lady,” the doctor said sweeping her hand up
in a kiss. “Oh, he’s a charmer, Penelope, don’t let him out of
your sight,” she said in an aside to Clarice. “Your home is beautiful, Your Grace,” she replied with a
smile. “Oh, posh! You
must call me Natalie. We
are old friends are we not?” The
Duchess took her arm and walked into the room milling with people.
“There are so many people I want you to meet.” Clarice glanced over her shoulder and saw that her husband
had quietly moved off. She
wasn’t alarmed. Early in
the relationship they discovered the mutual need for personal time.
He liked to move about unattended while examining objets d’art
and people in equal quantities. After a dreadful 30 minutes of meeting dreadful people,
Clarice managed to move off to do some exploring of her own.
Mostly she just wanted a little quiet time.
In an adjoining room she found a lovely piano with an antique
Tiffany lamp on it in one corner. Other
than the soft light of the lamp the rest of the room was dark.
She walked over and gently touched the beautiful shade on the
lamp. She smelled him first and turned around.
A man walked towards her from the party room.
He stumbled and caught himself on the piano, almost toppling the
lamp. “’Scuse me,” he
said obviously drunk. Clarice
turned to leave. “No, no.
Wait. Don’t mean to run
you off. Listen.
M’name’s Benjamin Thomason.
Nat’s me sister.” Not wanting to be rude to the host’s brother, Clarice put
out her hand, “Penelope Maplewood.” “Oh the pleasure’s all mine, Penelope,” he leered,
lingering over her hand and rubbing his thumb across her skin. As gently as she could she pulled it back.
“Hey I know you. You’re married to that old queer ain’t you?” “Excuse me?” she said shocked. “It’s so obvious what a dandy he is.
An’ he’s gotta be twice your age.
I know he can’t satisfy you the way a woman needs.”
His hand found her rear end and gave it a squeeze.
“I’d be more’n happy to help you out in that area.” Pushing aside his wayward hand, she said through gritted
teeth, “With all due respect, Mr. Thomason, I must tell you this sort
of behavior is totally unacceptable, and my husband would be greatly
offended by your rudeness. Please
leave me alone if you know what’s good for you.”
She attempted to leave when he caught her arm and pulled her back
towards him. “Listen love, is that supposed to be some kind of threat?
I ain’t scared of that pansy.
Let’s you and me go upstairs so you can be properly satisfied
and no one will be the wiser.” “You listen to me you pea-brained imbecile:
My satisfaction is none of your concern.”
She looked over her shoulder into the next room to see if he was
nearby. She couldn’t see him anywhere and turned back to Thomason.
“Let me go this instant.” His hand squeezed her even tighter.
“What are you, some kind of dyke?
I heard about you queers getting married just to make look like
you’re normal.” Clarice narrowed her eyes and, using a simple technique
learned at Quantico, grabbed Thomason’s thumb and began applying
pressure. He immediately
let go and started crying in pain.
“You, sir, are beyond good manners.
But I will give you one last chance. Leave. Me. Alone.”
She punctuated each word with further pressure on his hand.
She was certain something had broken.
She let go of his hand and he fell into a blubbering heap.
Again she surveyed the party in the next room before joining it,
but there was still no sign of her husband. However had she just looked in the corner opposite of where
she and Mr. Thomason had their encounter, she would have perhaps seen
the flashing of maroon eyes as Hannibal Lecter watched the whole sordid
scene. One thing Clarice
never knew was that he sometimes followed her and watched her, not out
of suspicion, but out of a genuine fascination.
As she faded into the crowd his eyes turned back to the crying
heap on the floor and he decided that Mr. Benjamin Thomason sorely
needed a lesson in etiquette. “Natalie called me a few days later.
Her brother had been missing since the party.
It seemed at first that he’d just gone away with some woman,
but there was no sign of him. As
far as I know he was never found.” Agent Black was incredulous. “You mean to tell me it didn’t occur to you that Lecter
had done something to that man.”
Clarice was silent. “So
you did suspect. Why
didn’t you confront him?” “Because she was afraid of the answer, weren’t you Ms.
Starling?” Clemons answered. She
nodded. “Because he would
have told you the truth right?” Another
nod. “And what would have
happened if he confessed that he did indeed do away with your unwanted
suitor?” “I would have left him.” “So you ignored the truth?” Black said. “It’s not unlike many wives who choose not to acknowledge
their husband’s infidelities, Agent Black,” she said quietly. “Except this is cold-blooded murder.
I think we’re through for now.
We’re going to move this to DC.
I assume you have no conflicting plans, Ms. Starling.”
Black turned to his partner.
“I’ll call and make arrangements for the body to be
transferred.” “No!” Clarice said.
“That isn’t necessary, is it?
Didn’t you make a positive ID?” Clemons said, “Well his face doesn’t really match, but we
did get the prints.” “There, that should be proof enough.
He died of natural causes, there’s not question of that.
There is no need to transfer his body.”
They looked at her. “He
had a last request, I’d like to fulfill it.
Please.” Black and Clemons looked at each other.
Finally Clemons said, “HQ won’t be happy, but I guess
that’s all right.” Black said, “Can it be done by tonight?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Fine. Do what
you need. But be ready at 8
am sharp. And Ms Starling
– don’t run.” “I’ll be waiting. Good
day, gentleman.” She
showed them the door. Once they were gone she went to the phone to call the morgue. “Jake, this is Mrs. Herchshire…I’m doing very well
thank you. Can you please
contact the mortuary and have them pick up my husband?…Thank you. And tell them I’ll be bringing a suit over in about an
hour. I want it done
tonight…Yes tonight…Thank you for you sympathies Jake.
Good night.” After collecting his things, Clarice drove to the mortuary.
The mortician was waiting and gently took the items from her.
“It’ll take about an hour, if you’d care to sit down,
ma’am. Would you like some coffee while you wait?” “No thank you, I’m fine.”
She drifted off for a while, traveling through her memory palace
greeting those loved ones she couldn’t see anymore.
Her mother and father, John Brigham, Jack Crawford, and finally
Hannibal Lecter. “Mrs. Herchshire?” She
looked up as the mortician’s assistant motioned for her to follow him
down to the basement crematorium. There
was a simple coffin waiting on the tracks, the top opened. “I’d like a few minutes, please.” “Of course, ma’am. But
wouldn’t you like a memorial service for the doctor?” the mortician
asked her. “Trust me, in a few days no one will want to memorialize
him. Excuse me.”
She walked to the coffin and saw him lying there in a charcoal
gray Armani suit and burgundy tie.
She reached in and touched his face.
There were no tears. She
whispered, “Well I guess this is goodbye.
Don’t worry about me; I’m going to be fine.
I have to go to Washington and meet with the FBI to dissect your
life. As long as they
don’t charge me with anything, I’ll be able to do as you asked by
the end of the month. I
just want you to know that I have no regrets.”
She bent in and kissed his forehead. She walked back to the mortician, who motioned to his
assistant to start the process. “Are
you sure you want to be present, ma’am?
It can be kind of disturbing.” “I’m fine.” She
watched them roll the coffin into the crematorium and close the door.
The turn of a switch started the gas-fed flames, who’s
whooshing could be heard along with the crackling of burning wood.
It took about 15 minutes to complete the process.
Once the fires had been banked the assistant opened the door and
used a hand-held broom to sweep the ashes forward and into the brass urn
she had chosen. He
respectfully handed it to her and she followed them out. “It’s a shame about the doctor,” the mortician said as
she was paying for their services.
“He was a good man.” “Remember that when you read the papers tomorrow,” she
replied before walking out the door. Once home, she placed the urn on her dressing table as she
packed her bags for Washington. In
the weeks prior she had moved most of the valuables in the house and her
memorabilia to a storage unit. All
that remained would be sold with the house after she had left, as she
never intended to return. After her bags were packed, she sat down at the dressing
table and pulled out of her purse the letter she had found in the safe.
It read: “My Dearest, Well if you are reading this, all is done.
I do not wish to be morbid about my death, only to wish you well
on your new journey in life. There is so much more out there for you to see.
I will miss you terribly, Clarice.
The fire in your eyes, the gentleness in your touch, even that
streak of vulgarity you refuse to suppress.
Be happy. Until we
meet again, Hannibal” True to their word, the FBI agents rang her doorbell at 8 am.
They drove to the airport and arrived in Washington three hours
later. It took two weeks, but finally Agent Black was called into
his superior’s office. Phil Decker tossed the file on his desk and said, “That’s
it Greg, let her go.” “What do you mean? She
can’t go free.” “We’ve got nothing on her.” “She admitted to killing a man on Verger’s estate.” “That is an inadmissible confession and you know it.
The plain fact is that there is no physical evidence, no bodies,
nothing. A gun that had
been discharged with her fingerprints does not prove she killed someone,
if you have no corpse.” “What about harboring a fugitive. She ran off with him, Phil, for Christ’s sake!” “Greg I know that bothers you, but she admitted he used
some kind of drug on her. Any
lawyer will claim she was brainwashed, and they’d win.
Listen we even had the IRS snoop around. All they could find is the money Lecter earned legitimately
in his practice. It was
well invested. All the
taxes paid up and the interest claimed. He
dotted his ‘i’s’ and crossed his ‘t’s’.
There is no sign of the money he embezzled from his clients.
I’m sure it’s offshore somewhere.
Cut her loose and back off, Greg.
There’s nothing we can do.
Besides, the man’s dead. It’s
over.” Agent Black stormed down the hall to the room where Clarice
was sitting waiting for the end to come.
He strode in and slammed the file down on the table in front of
her. Pushing his hand
through his hair he said, “Well, Ms. Starling that’s it.
I gotta let you go.” “Thank you Agent Black,” she said as she rose from her
chair. “Wait a minute,” he said to her. He opened the file and tossed out several photographs.
She recognized all of them.
The murdered cops in Tennessee, the nurse whose tongue was ripped
out, Inspector Pazzi. She’d
seen them when she worked the case. “Look at the man you married.
Look at what he was,” he pointed to the pictures as he spoke.
“From one Fed to another, you disgust me.
Brainwashed, bullshit. You
knew exactly what you were doing.” She looked down at the photos and let her hand hover over
each one as if divining their true meaning.
Finally she slammed her hand on top of them and shoved them
across the table. “Those
horrible things were what he did, not who he was.
I killed a woman holding her baby to her chest.
What does that make me Agent Black, less or worse than him?”
She picked up her purse and left the room. One week later… The farm in Lithuania was as she remembered from their
previous visit. The family
even recognized her even though it had been eight years, and invited her
for tea, which she politely declined.
They were saddened to hear of her loss and after gaining their
permission, she walked towards the back and hiked to the spot he had
shown her. In her memory
she saw the picnic they had set up and the sadness in his eyes as he
recounted the story to her once again, but that time it was so much more
real. She walked over to the tree that had given them shade that
day and knelt beside it. Taking
the urn out of her bag, she opened it and poured out the ashes at the
base of the tree. She stood
and watched the breeze scatter the fine ash along.
Then she said: “TWO
roads diverged in a yellow wood, Oh, I kept the first for another day! FIN copyright 2001, by Calico |