Killing Time in St. Louis

Running With The Deer

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Summary:       Dr. Lecter kills time while hiding out in St. Louis

Timeline:         This is set during the last chapters of  SOTL. 

Rating:            NC-17

Copy:            Part 1 of 2

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Hannibal Lecter rose gracefully from his king-size bed and ambled to the window of the hotel suite. As was his habit each morning, he made a quick assessment of the weather and admired the view. Today, it was overcast, threatening to rain, which accounted for the throbbing in his sinuses. The last few days, the collagen injections he’d given himself had all but ceased to pain him, but a drop in the barometric pressure could bring it back. He sighed, and proceeded to the bathroom. In the mirror, he noted with some satisfaction that his internal discomfort didn’t show on the outside. He’d done an admirable job, and barely recognized his face. 

He took a leisurely shower, keeping the water at a lower temperature than he normally preferred, to avoid the effects of steam. Back to the mirror again, where he decided to remain unshaven today. The stubble wasn’t pronounced enough to look unkempt—that would never do—but sufficient to enhance the overall effect of his “new” face. 

For breakfast, he elected to forego room service. After keeping largely to his room for nearly a week, he had developed a low-grade case of cabin fever. His affairs were in order: the South America tour departed from Chicago in two more days; letters to Barney, Chilton, and Clarice Starling were tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d mail them from here, just before he left town. 

The elevator hummed softly as it lowered him to the lobby level. On his way to the front entrance, he took stock of each employee behind the registration desk, and every waiting bellhop. None of them took the slightest notice of him, other than the requisite smiles and nods of the head. The last time he’d shown his old face to anyone—when he’d returned from the pharmacy with the collagen, Novocain and syringes—one clerk had addressed him as “Mr. Wyman,” so he was known. The same individual appeared not to recognize him this time. How fortunate for the clerk. 

The city smelled reasonably fresh this morning. He took his time at a coffee shop a few blocks away, where he tolerated the substandard food and perused the morning paper. His notoriety had drifted back to page six of the national news section; he was irritated at Chilton’s self-aggrandizing quotes, the writer’s sloppy grammar, and the tabloid-style editing. He paged hastily toward the front of the section, smiled, and acknowledged the warmth that radiated in his loins as he spotted a small photo of FBI trainee Clarice Starling, still on mandatory medical leave, though largely unhurt after her close brush with death. His eyes lingered on the image, before skimming the article around it. 

The demise of “Buffalo Bill,” now best known as Jame Gumb or “Mr. Hide,” was still fresh news. The paper maintained a list of the killer’s identified victims, which expanded regularly, and now came to eleven. The doctor reflected that had he been left at large, Gumb would soon have surpassed his, the doctor’s, level of accomplishment. But now, only one of them still walked the earth. Only one enjoyed the prospect of future delights. Such was the difference between professionals and amateurs, he thought with a smile, sipping his coffee. 

The rest of his read was a bore. He folded neatly folded his portion and prepared to deposit it on the empty adjacent table. Atop the pile, face down, was the local section, featuring display advertisements for such local business establishments as “massage parlors” and “lingerie modeling services.” Lecter eyed the grainy photos of young women, all with similar cleavage and pouting faces, and sourly estimated that their collective IQ was a good thirty points lower than that of… 

He caught himself, drew a breath, and looked out the window, drumming his fingers, acknowledging the source of his faint unease and discontent. It was simple regret at unfinished business. Unfinishable business, he amended. Even Clarice Starling was not worth the risk of capture and re-incarceration. His artistry with the jailers at the Memphis courthouse would surely earn him a place on death row this time—and although death was preferable to even one captive hour in the company of Frederick Chilton and his ilk, he had no intention whatsoever of being forced to experience either. 

When he found his eyes returning to the faces of the women, he briskly pulled some bills from his gold money clip and placed them under the check. He left the diner, walking rapidly down the unfamiliar street, hoping to find some small, interesting shop or gallery to soothe his sensibilities. Frustration was the order of the day, it appeared, as his travels brought him to a seedy grouping of off-track betting parlors, convenience stores with bulletproof pay windows, and second-hand stores that emitted odors of incense and cheap cosmetics. 

He stopped, reversed direction back to midtown, and nearly collided with a woman emerging from a package store. One glance, one whiff, told him all of her story. She was a prostitute, most likely heading home for a few hours of drugged sleep. She’d had a busy night, entertaining over half a dozen men, one of whom had an incipient case of tuberculosis. Lecter averted his face from her and quickened his step, quite cognizant of the woman’s amused stare at his retreating back. 

Thunder rumbled and Lecter was confronted with a quick choice. In order to stay out of the rain, he could return to the hotel, or find some other place to amuse himself, probably for the entire day. He was so weary of his suite, and his own company, and had absolutely no need for additional sleep. Taking stock of his surroundings now, he spotted a large, ornate multiplex movie theater and decided he could do worse than a few hours of cheap entertainment. At this time of the day there would be few patrons, so he could sit in the dark in relative peace, unassailed by body odors. At the concession stand, he ordered a large box of SweetTarts. He could suck on them interminably, and the tartness would stave off thirst and keep his sinuses clear. 

Nine hours and four features later, he walked out into the pedestrian traffic of the Friday evening rush hour, hungry and even more irritable than before. He’d seen one or two notable acting performances and enjoyed a smattering of creditable (albeit loud) orchestral arrangements. But he’d also been unpleasantly reminded of his celibacy, as nubile actresses casually exposed themselves to him in all their wide-screen glory, only to be caressed and mounted by inarticulate and overpaid boy actors. Adding to his distaste was the Academy Award-winning status of these mediocre offerings, and the so-called adults who dragged their preschool children into theaters to watch, uncomprehendingly, along with them. Rudeness and ignorance everywhere. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. 

Outside the Marcus, a flurry of activity as new guests arrived. Lecter slipped into the lobby, appreciating the dry warmth after the day’s unrelenting wet chill. The place was moderately crowded, and he decided to park in an overstuffed chair for awhile and do some people-watching. Sooner or later, he’d have to sequester himself in his room again, and he wasn’t yet ready for it. 

The first person he set eyes on was a stunning woman, tall, in her late twenties, in a short dress under a long mink coat. Long, auburn highlighted hair, too much makeup…he assessed her accurately as an expensive escort, a rich relation to the trollop he’d encountered that morning. She waited with some impatience near the elevator, donning a manufactured smile as a well-dressed executive type approached her. The man was probably no more than thirty.  From several yards away, Lecter caught their scent and watched with no surprise as the pair proceeded to the elevator and disappeared from view. 

Observing, he had been observed. “Good evening, sir!” Lecter looked up to see a young man in a black leather bomber jacket, standing by his chair with a knowing smile, extending a business card. “Welcome to St. Louis. Will you be staying overnight?” 

After a moment’s consideration, Lecter nodded politely, knowing that a scathing remark might bring the wrong kind of attention. He already had a feeling he knew the topic of this conversation, and found himself more interested than he would have liked. 

The young man spoke rapidly, in a nasally inflected tone. “My name’s Romeo, at your service, and I just wanted to let you know that if you’re in town, by yourself, you don’t need to feel any kind of loneliness, and it’s perfectly natural for a traveling businessman like yourself to feel a need for companionship…” 

Lecter accepted the man’s calling card and let the spiel roll on without really listening, until his new friend said
“…maybe not the usual kind of lady, someone you could talk to all night if you wanted, not someone cheap—” 

“Do you know a woman like that?” he interrupted, and inwardly cursed at the greedy light he saw spewing from the pimp’s eyes. 

“DO I?” replied Romeo, sounding now like a windbag used-car salesman. “All you have to do right now is tell me your room number, and I’ll get her up to see you within an hour…” 

Lecter rose to his feet, having made a decision. He motioned Romeo to follow him toward a side entrance, away from eavesdroppers. In a low voice, he negotiated the details, gave the number of his room, handed the man a twenty-dollar deposit, and left him with some instructions. “A non-smoker, no perfume, no hair spray, and she should bring a change of clothing for the morning. And if she isn’t clean, not up to my standards in any way, the entire transaction is off.” He resisted the temptation to fix the low-life with a threatening glare, hoping to preserve some measure of anonymity, at least until he could depart this place for good. 

Romeo never lost his good cheer. “Sir, satisfaction is guaranteed. You’ve found the best, so forget the rest…” Lecter tuned him out again, and soon the elevator returned him to the peace and order of his suite. He undressed and headed for the shower again, wanting to be ready, hoping it wouldn’t be a long wait. 

St. Louis was cloaked in a dense fog, obscuring Dr. Lecter’s accustomed view of the MacArthur Bridge. He stood at the window, seeing little more than his image reflected in the dark glass. His pulse was calm, respiration slow and quiet—but his ears registered every voice, every step in the corridor outside, and listened with some impatience for the sound of the elevator bell. 

The television was on, tuned to the network news, with the volume muted. He glanced at it, and saw a picture of his old face; the story undoubtedly was a filler, a newsless “update” on the whereabouts of America’s most famous fugitive.  But he took the precaution of using the remote control to dial up a video music channel that didn’t carry news. It wouldn’t do to have his guest idly switch on the TV during at some odd moment and see such an item—he did, after all, still have eleven fingers. 

He pressed the power button and was gratified to hear a soft knock at the door. With one last, quick glance around the room—the bed, visible through the bedroom door, invitingly made, money and belongings stored securely, a bottle of champagne on ice with two glasses waiting on a small table—he moved to greet his visitor. 

He peered out through the security lens first, and observed a petite, pale woman with clear blue eyes, standing alone holding a small needlepoint satchel. This immediate first impression was more than satisfactory; he opened the door with a benign smile. 

“Lloyd?” the woman asked in a gentle voice. 

Lecter nodded and smiled. “How very nice to meet you…?” 

“Robin,” she replied, and Lecter knew immediately that this was her real name. It fit perfectly. Unless his needs had totally clouded his perceptions, this woman was no professional. She was doing this to pay the rent, and had somehow gotten herself into a business arrangement with the unsavory Romeo. Lecter felt a fresh surge of distaste for the smug young pimp. 

He stood aside as she entered the room, and enjoyed the healthy, innocent air that drifted behind her. Well, at least the young delinquent knew how to follow instructions, he grudgingly conceded. Non-smoker, no extraneous cosmetics, clean, and apparently ready to spend the night. Having inventoried her by scent, he now took visual note. 

She was fragile and small-boned. The strawberry blonde hair had been permed, but not colored. Under a scratched leather coat, she wore a pale green cardigan sweater (more fun to unbutton, and therefore, he guessed, she had on a bra that hooked in the front), a short, clingy gray skirt that came to mid-thigh, black sheer stockings and very high shoes that brought her almost up to an average height. Nothing special, but not objectionable, either. He offered to take her coat, and as she shrugged it off, she cast a shy glance at him. In her eyes, he saw little to intrigue him. She was a person of limited vision, someone who had no future but wasn’t even smart enough to know that. Hannibal Lecter processed and digested all of this in a second or two, long before he finished hanging her coat in the small closet, and resolved to enjoy the girl for what she was. With some irony, he realized that Robin was likely to get more out of the encounter than he ever could. 

Part 2

Copyright 2001, Running With The Deer