Part VII
Only the Beginning
Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. --Martin Luther King, Jr.
......
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. The house was empty, still, and almost silent but for the soft chatter of a police radio outside. Moving through the hall now, past the staircase and into the living room, where the entire mood changes. Completely filled by men in blue and yellow, opening drawers, probing corners, and by all means giving a wide berth to the scarlet pool staining the carpet in the middle of the floor. Flashbulbs popped over and over as every inch of the room was photographed.
Sergeant Layton ran his hand gently across the coffee table, feeling the soft wood with his fingertips, before kneeling by the stain and taking out his knife. He would send samples of the blood to the lab to determine the origin, although there was hardly any need. FBI agents were already treading around it as if it were poison. They had followed the blood trail to the house to find it deserted, but by no means unfriendly. Every door had been flung wide open and there was even a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter with "Help yourself" written neatly on a note card beside the tray. The cookies were currently being analyzed for toxins.
Layton had arrived at the scene before anybody else. The other agents were occupied over the body of Frank Bowman found in an alley. It had been some time before the FBI could get bloodhounds to track Lecter's path. And there was so much blood all round, that the trail was hard to follow and even more impossible to find. Layton, of course, could not tell them where to go but had arrived at the house in time to remove the electronic bug and destroy all evidence of its existence.
The surrounding neighborhood was being scoured for the bodies of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Layton could have told the agents not to bother with one of the bodies, but he had said nothing, allowing them to hold out the hope that perhaps it wasn't true. That maybe Starling had not done the unthinkable.
Layton finished cutting out a red square of carpet and dropped it gingerly into a plastic evidence bag. Lecter was most likely dead, and Layton felt emptiness inside his body eating away like a disease. He had betrayed and been betrayed in return. And now his best friend was dead. He refused to believe that Bowman had purposely killed Lecter after he had warned him specifically not to. An FBI agent, about five years older than Layton, walked up to him with a hand radio. "One of our scouts just phoned in. Starling's Mustang was found abandoned in a ditch a few miles from here."
Layton sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Put out a description of Starling and canvass for any reports of stolen vehicles."
"You think she's still alive, sir?" He noticed the difficulty the man had in saying the word "sir".
"I don't think, I KNOW, agent. As should you, that is, if you weren't all busy burying your heads in the sand," he snapped bitterly, as much out of irritation as a sense of failure. Starling could be anywhere on the continent by now. Those idiots had taken too much time.
Layton was so engrossed in thought that he did not notice the phone ringing until the agent tapped him on the shoulder. The tracers got into place and started their equipment as Layton carefully picked up the portable phone from its cradle on the coffee table, not knowing that it was the same phone used by Clarice so many weeks ago on that fateful night.
"Hello?"
A soft rumbling sound from the other side of the line, like that of a car engine, before the voice came, "Don't bother with a trace, I won't be on long enough." She didn't sound worried or hurried, but spoke with a matter-of-fact tone that made Layton uncomfortable despite himself.
"Where are you, Starling?"
"I do hope you enjoyed those cookies. I set them out especially for you. It's Agent Layton, right? Oh, I'm sorry, SERGEANT Layton. How did your promotion feel? Was it everything you wanted?"
"Starling--."
"No, you listen. I talk. Otherwise, this conversation will be over. Got that? Very well. I know the press will destroy what little remains of my reputation. I will go down in history as the Bride of Frankenstein, toted on the shoulders of the tabloids like the queen of fools. Well, Agent Layton, that is most unfair. The whole world should know the real story, it should be told in newspapers around the world. Respected printings, mind you. The truth deserves to be known. Or have you also sold out to the empty scruples of righteousness of what has become of the FBI? I figured as much." She paused for his reply.
"I can't promise that. Turn yourself in and I might consider--."
"No, no, Michael." Layton shivered as he heard his first name uttered. "There's no negotiating in this matter. Either you will or you won't. You know the truth. Use it as you will. The TRUTH, Michael. Do you still remember what the word means? Or maybe you might be more interested to know that I'm driving along a rural interstate on my way to West Virginia in a stolen Toyota Camry license plate number 3756XP."
"Really, Starling? That's interesting to know--."
"No, not really. But wouldn't life be easier if everything were that simple? It's not that simple, Agent Layton. And it never will be no matter how hard you try to change that. The newspapers won't be able to decipher the true story unless you let them know. And if you don't, you'll always have this taped conversation. You could get rid of it, of course, but see what the public will do. They find out, they always do. Checkmate, Michael."
"Starling, stop running. You'll never get away. It's OVER."
Clarice laughed, the sound crisp and mocking over the phone. "There are some things I could tell the FBI about YOU, you know. Over, agent? I think not. In fact, it's only the beginning. I might have plans of calling on you. Ta-ta, Michael. Sleep well."
"Star--." Click. The phone went dead in his hands. Layton whirled around to the tracers. "Well?"
"No good. Three seconds more and we would have had her. I'm sorry."
Layton's hands shook as he replaced the phone in its cradle. Already, the tendrils of fear were beginning to creep over his body. For all the rest of his life, he would be looking over his shoulder, paranoid, never able to have a normal existence. His fingers traced the sergeant's stripes on his shoulders, thin pieces of yellow cloth paid for with deceit, blood, and death. So much for fame and glory. His life would be a living hell of his own making. He even began to envy Bowman. At least HIS troubles were over.
Hannibal always keeps his promises, and so do I. Oh, yes, a promise, although he would never be sure. He would never know. Only now, did he know the meaning of true terror.
----------------------------
In her third stolen car, Clarice Starling clicked off the cell phone and tossed it out of the window. It couldn't be used again. She had been cutting it very close timewise, but she had to make sure Layton wouldn't be getting any sleep for quite some time. It might give him time to think. She would not call on him. Layton wasn't worth the time or the trouble. But he need never know that. Clarice ran her fingers through her black wig and readjusted her brown contacts. She had learned quite a few things from her stay with Hannibal. Hannibal...she almost smiled. Her current stolen car was a black super-charged Jaguar, sleek and elegant. Surely Hannibal would have approved.
The bright-red necklace of rubies was settled carefully around her neck. The vibrant stones caught every ray of emerging sunlight and set off a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors dancing every which way. She would remove it before reaching the airport. It would be too memorable and easy to identify. But now she savored it.
The robotic voice she had used for the conversation was gone and her hard-set jaw line began to tremble slightly. Her eyes were dry, though, as she glanced in the rearview mirror. Hannibal lay in the backseat, carefully wrapped in the pure white sheet from the bed where they had first made love. Clarice knew that the FBI would have given him a less than decent burial.
She would stop on the road along her way by a small struggling mortuary. They would ask no questions when they saw what she would pay them. She would cremate the body; it was inconceivable that Hannibal would ever want to be buried in the ground. She would imagine him laughing as the corporeal body blazed and sent sparks toward the sky. But his final resting place would be her heart.
Hannibal wasn't dead. Of course he wasn't. Not as long as she went on thinking and feeling. He was there in the seat next to her, perhaps shaking his head as he chided her for her hastily prepared disguise. Utterly unacceptable, he said, I would catch you in a second, Mrs. Robinson. Or maybe he was looking at her softly, love shining deeply in his eyes.
Clarice smiled as she touched her abdomen gently, and for a moment, even she could feel the life growing inside her. A deep, warm, tingling sensation like electricity. Out of the ashes of death and destruction, new life would arise. It was only the beginning, in more ways than one. The child would grow, would be extraordinary. And, Clarice vowed, the child would know of his or her father. Would know who he really was. Would know that in the few weeks they had had together, they had loved a lifetime.
Hannibal had spoken very highly of Florence, and the city was sure to be glorious this time of year. There would be no better place to start over. She had all the time in the world. Driving along the deserted rural road, Clarice opened the glove compartment of the Jaguar. As she sorted through the CD's she found there, she saw that the previous owner had had quite an acceptable taste in music.
She decided on Scarlatti.
FIN
Only the Beginning
Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. --Martin Luther King, Jr.
......
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. The house was empty, still, and almost silent but for the soft chatter of a police radio outside. Moving through the hall now, past the staircase and into the living room, where the entire mood changes. Completely filled by men in blue and yellow, opening drawers, probing corners, and by all means giving a wide berth to the scarlet pool staining the carpet in the middle of the floor. Flashbulbs popped over and over as every inch of the room was photographed.
Sergeant Layton ran his hand gently across the coffee table, feeling the soft wood with his fingertips, before kneeling by the stain and taking out his knife. He would send samples of the blood to the lab to determine the origin, although there was hardly any need. FBI agents were already treading around it as if it were poison. They had followed the blood trail to the house to find it deserted, but by no means unfriendly. Every door had been flung wide open and there was even a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter with "Help yourself" written neatly on a note card beside the tray. The cookies were currently being analyzed for toxins.
Layton had arrived at the scene before anybody else. The other agents were occupied over the body of Frank Bowman found in an alley. It had been some time before the FBI could get bloodhounds to track Lecter's path. And there was so much blood all round, that the trail was hard to follow and even more impossible to find. Layton, of course, could not tell them where to go but had arrived at the house in time to remove the electronic bug and destroy all evidence of its existence.
The surrounding neighborhood was being scoured for the bodies of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Layton could have told the agents not to bother with one of the bodies, but he had said nothing, allowing them to hold out the hope that perhaps it wasn't true. That maybe Starling had not done the unthinkable.
Layton finished cutting out a red square of carpet and dropped it gingerly into a plastic evidence bag. Lecter was most likely dead, and Layton felt emptiness inside his body eating away like a disease. He had betrayed and been betrayed in return. And now his best friend was dead. He refused to believe that Bowman had purposely killed Lecter after he had warned him specifically not to. An FBI agent, about five years older than Layton, walked up to him with a hand radio. "One of our scouts just phoned in. Starling's Mustang was found abandoned in a ditch a few miles from here."
Layton sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Put out a description of Starling and canvass for any reports of stolen vehicles."
"You think she's still alive, sir?" He noticed the difficulty the man had in saying the word "sir".
"I don't think, I KNOW, agent. As should you, that is, if you weren't all busy burying your heads in the sand," he snapped bitterly, as much out of irritation as a sense of failure. Starling could be anywhere on the continent by now. Those idiots had taken too much time.
Layton was so engrossed in thought that he did not notice the phone ringing until the agent tapped him on the shoulder. The tracers got into place and started their equipment as Layton carefully picked up the portable phone from its cradle on the coffee table, not knowing that it was the same phone used by Clarice so many weeks ago on that fateful night.
"Hello?"
A soft rumbling sound from the other side of the line, like that of a car engine, before the voice came, "Don't bother with a trace, I won't be on long enough." She didn't sound worried or hurried, but spoke with a matter-of-fact tone that made Layton uncomfortable despite himself.
"Where are you, Starling?"
"I do hope you enjoyed those cookies. I set them out especially for you. It's Agent Layton, right? Oh, I'm sorry, SERGEANT Layton. How did your promotion feel? Was it everything you wanted?"
"Starling--."
"No, you listen. I talk. Otherwise, this conversation will be over. Got that? Very well. I know the press will destroy what little remains of my reputation. I will go down in history as the Bride of Frankenstein, toted on the shoulders of the tabloids like the queen of fools. Well, Agent Layton, that is most unfair. The whole world should know the real story, it should be told in newspapers around the world. Respected printings, mind you. The truth deserves to be known. Or have you also sold out to the empty scruples of righteousness of what has become of the FBI? I figured as much." She paused for his reply.
"I can't promise that. Turn yourself in and I might consider--."
"No, no, Michael." Layton shivered as he heard his first name uttered. "There's no negotiating in this matter. Either you will or you won't. You know the truth. Use it as you will. The TRUTH, Michael. Do you still remember what the word means? Or maybe you might be more interested to know that I'm driving along a rural interstate on my way to West Virginia in a stolen Toyota Camry license plate number 3756XP."
"Really, Starling? That's interesting to know--."
"No, not really. But wouldn't life be easier if everything were that simple? It's not that simple, Agent Layton. And it never will be no matter how hard you try to change that. The newspapers won't be able to decipher the true story unless you let them know. And if you don't, you'll always have this taped conversation. You could get rid of it, of course, but see what the public will do. They find out, they always do. Checkmate, Michael."
"Starling, stop running. You'll never get away. It's OVER."
Clarice laughed, the sound crisp and mocking over the phone. "There are some things I could tell the FBI about YOU, you know. Over, agent? I think not. In fact, it's only the beginning. I might have plans of calling on you. Ta-ta, Michael. Sleep well."
"Star--." Click. The phone went dead in his hands. Layton whirled around to the tracers. "Well?"
"No good. Three seconds more and we would have had her. I'm sorry."
Layton's hands shook as he replaced the phone in its cradle. Already, the tendrils of fear were beginning to creep over his body. For all the rest of his life, he would be looking over his shoulder, paranoid, never able to have a normal existence. His fingers traced the sergeant's stripes on his shoulders, thin pieces of yellow cloth paid for with deceit, blood, and death. So much for fame and glory. His life would be a living hell of his own making. He even began to envy Bowman. At least HIS troubles were over.
Hannibal always keeps his promises, and so do I. Oh, yes, a promise, although he would never be sure. He would never know. Only now, did he know the meaning of true terror.
----------------------------
In her third stolen car, Clarice Starling clicked off the cell phone and tossed it out of the window. It couldn't be used again. She had been cutting it very close timewise, but she had to make sure Layton wouldn't be getting any sleep for quite some time. It might give him time to think. She would not call on him. Layton wasn't worth the time or the trouble. But he need never know that. Clarice ran her fingers through her black wig and readjusted her brown contacts. She had learned quite a few things from her stay with Hannibal. Hannibal...she almost smiled. Her current stolen car was a black super-charged Jaguar, sleek and elegant. Surely Hannibal would have approved.
The bright-red necklace of rubies was settled carefully around her neck. The vibrant stones caught every ray of emerging sunlight and set off a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors dancing every which way. She would remove it before reaching the airport. It would be too memorable and easy to identify. But now she savored it.
The robotic voice she had used for the conversation was gone and her hard-set jaw line began to tremble slightly. Her eyes were dry, though, as she glanced in the rearview mirror. Hannibal lay in the backseat, carefully wrapped in the pure white sheet from the bed where they had first made love. Clarice knew that the FBI would have given him a less than decent burial.
She would stop on the road along her way by a small struggling mortuary. They would ask no questions when they saw what she would pay them. She would cremate the body; it was inconceivable that Hannibal would ever want to be buried in the ground. She would imagine him laughing as the corporeal body blazed and sent sparks toward the sky. But his final resting place would be her heart.
Hannibal wasn't dead. Of course he wasn't. Not as long as she went on thinking and feeling. He was there in the seat next to her, perhaps shaking his head as he chided her for her hastily prepared disguise. Utterly unacceptable, he said, I would catch you in a second, Mrs. Robinson. Or maybe he was looking at her softly, love shining deeply in his eyes.
Clarice smiled as she touched her abdomen gently, and for a moment, even she could feel the life growing inside her. A deep, warm, tingling sensation like electricity. Out of the ashes of death and destruction, new life would arise. It was only the beginning, in more ways than one. The child would grow, would be extraordinary. And, Clarice vowed, the child would know of his or her father. Would know who he really was. Would know that in the few weeks they had had together, they had loved a lifetime.
Hannibal had spoken very highly of Florence, and the city was sure to be glorious this time of year. There would be no better place to start over. She had all the time in the world. Driving along the deserted rural road, Clarice opened the glove compartment of the Jaguar. As she sorted through the CD's she found there, she saw that the previous owner had had quite an acceptable taste in music.
She decided on Scarlatti.
FIN