Stages of Love

Chapter Two: Grieving


Later, after the aphonic Agent Haines took her home, she reflected on what would really happen tomorrow. It didn't look like they would try to prosecute her, although they had ample reason for doing so. Of course, prosecuting her would also reveal the extent of Krendler's involvement with Mason Verger, an embarrassment Pearcell surely wanted to avoid. She wondered if Pearcell was on Verger's payroll as well. Even after his death, he was sure to have enough friends in high places to silence any hints of scandal. No, the FBI would not take the chance. They would save face by firing her instead.
Clarice sighed, pulling off the black police issue jacket, followed by the low-cut gown underneath. She debated for a moment on what to do with the dress, and then decided that it was a lost cause and shoved it into a bag, followed by the shoes. The bag went to the back of her closet and, stripped down, Clarice padded into the bathroom and turned on the tap. As she waited for the water to warm up she stared into the mirror. Goddamn, I looked like hell. A wry smile crossed her face. I feel like it too.
Her eyes fell to the neat row of stitches on her shoulder. The doctor at the hospital had complimented her on her field first aid.
"I couldn't have done a neater job myself." He beamed at her, obviously thinking she had done it herself. She didn't have the energy to correct him. She could just imagine the look on his face if she told him that Hannibal Lecter, convicted murderer and cannibal, had laid that tidy line.
She fingered the black threads now, wondering if they would leave a scar. Of course they would. The whole evening would.
Turning away from the mirror, Clarice stepped into the hot shower, letting the water carry away the ugliness of the day. She closed her eyes, trying to forget the sight of Hannibal Lecter cutting into Krendler's brain with ruthless precision. He had assured her that Paul felt no pain, knowing that it didn't really matter to her; it wasn't the reason she tried to bargain with him.
Why had he done it? Oh, she knew that he hated Krendler for the way he'd treated her but...But to do it there, in front of her. He'd intended her to watch him do it. Why? To what purpose?
Was it a payoff on his previous invitation to help her? Was it to make them "scream apologies"? Or was it more basic? Had he set himself before her in all his murderous glory so that she could hold no illusions as to what he was? Had it been his attempt at stripping away the romantic veneer of civilization and showing her the monster within?
"My dear doctor, I already knew that," she said softly to herself.


Or maybe she was completely wrong and he had done it only to play with her. Still, she could not forget his words, sincerely spoken.
All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror.


She turned off the water, emerging wet and shuddering from the misty depths. She rubbed her skin ruthlessly with a towel, and ordered his voice just as ruthlessly to silence. She toweled her hair and left it tangled down her back. Pulling on an old pair of sweats she padded out of the bedroom, feeling more like herself then she had all evening. She went to the kitchen for some water. Coming back, she notices that her answering machine was blinking. She had a message. She leaned on the edge of her overstuffed chair and pressed the play button.
His metallic voice came out of the machine.
"Well hallo Clarice. I must say I enjoyed out last encounter, painful as it was. What now little Starling? Provided you will not be prosecuted for losing me, what now, hmmm? Will you follow me, Clarice? Will you act without the auspicious support of the FBI?"
He over enunciated the initials sardonically before his voice dropped to a midnight tone.
"We could have some fun." She shivered, recognizing the invitation from the time they had spoken at Union Station. There was a moment's silence, punctuated by background noise before his voice continued.
"Well, I have to go, ex-Special Agent Starling. Catch me if you can. Ta."
She listened to the message three more times before erasing the tape. He was challenging her, she knew. But to what end? And where to start?
The message itself had revealed the answer. At top volume the background noise resolved itself into a voice.
"Last call, Flight 229, departing for Florence at gate 17."
He would not be in Florence, of course, but he would not have allowed her to hear the loudspeaker unless he wanted her to go there. With anyone else it may have been random chance but with Hannibal Lecter it was an invitation.
“Okay, Doctor,” she said aloud. “I’m game.”


The next day she submitted her resignation to Pearcell.
"Is this what you want Starling?"
She gazed at him, unbelieving. "Do I have any choice?"
He looked away. "No, not really, but I appreciate you not making any trouble about it. It will make things easier for you."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that the FBI would sweep it under the rug as quickly as possible.
"You know Starling, you had real promise. You could have come a long way here."
"No, I couldn't. I could never have gone anywhere here,” she said and for the first time really saw the truth in it. Lecter had been right. They hated her. They didn't care about the innocent. They only cared about washing the other hand, and playing politics and advancement. She wasn’t like them, had never been like them. She was glad it was over, actually had the urge to laugh at Pearcell as he held out a hand to her. Instead she took it and let him be the good guy.
Later that day she cleaned out her savings and booked a flight to Tampa.