Samantha Bridges
Part 2
~
Lessons in Making People Mad
He watches closely, noting every detail. For once, it is not someone else, but himself, that is the subject of his attentions. She is dining tonight in the hotels superb restaurant. He wants to watch her somewhere besides the farmhouse. She wasted no time coming to Baltimore; it was hard for him to accommodate her plans on such short notice. He looks into the mirror, maroon eyes reflecting back to him. He carefully straightens the jacket and tie, one that he retained on his untimely departure from Florence. He misses Florence; perhaps he will take her there someday. He took Clarice to Buenos Aires, but she couldn’t overcome the emotions that related to him as a killer. She had returned to the States shortly thereafter, amazingly gaining her place back at the FBI. Perhaps… it would be a grand trip nonetheless. In making his decision he would spare no expense. Those plans lay in the future to be decided, and he carefully tucks them away. For now, he has a reservation to keep. He slips into the hall, and catches sight of her, back towards him, walking towards the elevator. Best to take the stairs then. She is a very elegant woman.
~
Emily sits at a small booth tucked in the corner of the restaurant. Soft strains of the piano in another room float on the air, putting her at ease. It has been a long time since she has treated herself to such luxuries and she enjoys them. The wait staff is considerate and consummate in attending to her. She looks across the dim dining room, candles flicker in sconces in the walls. As her gaze trails across another booth she feels a chill in her bones. Shaking it off, she turns back to the menu, perusing the dessert selections. Dinner had been a wonderful lobster tail and filet mignon. She remembers the last time she had filet mignon. Her heart aches, to her surprise, as she remembers the dinner that had been prepared for her that night. She selects the Penrose Room raspberries in cream, a recipe imported from the renowned Broadmoor resort in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The young server taking her dessert order looked no older than seventeen, and Emily reflected on that age as she spoke with him. She watched as he left the table and headed for the kitchen; she looked away before she saw him stop at another booth.
Dr. Lecter smiled at the young man as he motioned for him to stop. The man was gracious, ready to accommodate whatever his wish was.
"What did the woman order for dessert?" Lecter purrs, his voice as gentle as silk.
"Penrose Room raspberries in cream, sir."
Delicate, like her. "Please, send a glass of wine to her table. My compliments, of course."
A nod from the young man. "Of course. What wine, sir?"
"Chateau d'Yquem, vintage nineteen sixty-three if you have it."
A nod, and a smile approving of the choice. "I believe we do, sir."
"Thank you." He smiles as the man moves away. He can see Emily at her table, candle light playing softly on her hair, making the deep blue sapphire at her neck glow like a star. He reflected, the same wine he had offered Clarice, if not the same vintage. Dr. Lecter watches as the young man returns to Emily's table with the dessert and the wine. He is thrilled to see her blush as she receives the wine. She smiles and thanks the man and he walks off to tend to another table. Lecter catches the attention of his own server and requests the bill. He pays it with a Visa card held in the name of Dr. Edward Chilton. Dr. Chilton has very excellent credit and can afford the meal easily. He lays a very nice tip on the table and rises from the booth. Emily is not watching as he makes his way to her. The gentleman, he asks her permission before sitting across from her. For her sake, Emily does not react aversely as she sees him. Her eyes grow wide, but her voice is quiet and calm and she invites him to sit. She makes sure no one is nearby before glaring at Lecter.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, eyes flashing with trapped lightning.
"That's not very polite of you, Emily."
Emily has barely begun the game but is sorely tired of it already. "Right now, I don’t really care. Following me? Trying to get back to Clarice?" Her irritability is showing through in her eyes as she finishes the last raspberry. Her words have just the effect she was hoping for.
"Trying to tempt me, Emily?" Lecter's voice drops a notch as he hisses. Emily just watches, sipping the wine.
"Anything but, Dr. Lecter." She catches the eye of her server and passes him a credit card, ironically the same that Lecter bears in his wallet with Dr. Chilton's name on it. "I don’t play games, so if you want that, you'll have to trot back to Starling." She receives the receipt and signs her name to it, leaving the server a very generous tip. With that, she slides form her seat and walks from the restaurant, leaving Dr. Lecter alone. He carefully conceals his anger and follows a few steps behind. She has to wait for the elevator, there is no way she can climb ten flights of stairs in the spindly heels she is wearing. He steps into the elevator behind her and she ignores him, pressing the button for her floor. Within moments of the elevator's rise she is pinned against the wall. The elevator jolts slightly form the commotion and Lecter glaring at Emily.
Pushed a few too many buttons, Emily, she notes to herself, wondering if he is about to kill her. She winces at the pain in her wrist as he releases with his right and grasps them both in his left. She is in no position to fight back. Dr. Lecter is amazing in his speed and strength and Emily is not. She keeps her eyes locked with his, seeing the same hunger that she had seen in the house in them. She hears the jangle of metal and a quiet metallic click. She sees the handcuff he has placed on her right hand and then as he places the other cuff on his left.
"A little trick I learned from dear Clarice. It’s handy when you don't want your guest to run off unexpectedly." He backs from the wall, watching Emily as she touches the cold metal with her left hand.
The elevator stops and chimes quietly, and the doors open. Lecter carefully drapes Emily's light wrap over their wrists as he leads her down the hallway. They stop in front of her door and he waits, Emily stifles her objections and digs the card key out of her clutch. They are inside in moments and Lecter pushes her back into a chair at the little table by the window in the bedroom. With unerring ease he unlocks his cuff and locks it around the chair's arm. Emily is staring, and feels a prickle of fear in her mind. She opens her mouth to speak, but is stopped as he lays a finger against her lips.
"Shhh. Now, I will be right back, I need to run and get something from my room. No screaming or anything, Emily, we do not want to make a scene. Understand?" She nods, "Okey dokey then. I'll be right back."
He's gone and Emily's eyes scan the room, looking for something, anything. The only thing on the table is a note pad and a brochure touting the attractions in and around Baltimore. Great, just great…and to make matters worse Clarice would be here soon to go over the drawings. Lecter couldn't have known about that, could he? She tries to scoot the chair across the room, if she can reach the telephone…oops, the door has opened and she can hear the heavy footfalls coming across the room. Dr. Lecter is not happy when he finds her halfway across the bedroom.
"Industrious, aren't we? Let's just go back to the table now." He easily pushes the heavy chair back to the table and sits opposite her, untucking a small pouch from under his arm. Emily has a sick feeling in her stomach.
"What…what is in there?" she asks, blinking away unbidden tears.
His voice is placid, calm as he answers the question, unfolding the pouch. "Nothing that will hurt you, I assure you. Did you really think I would hurt you, Emily?" The laugh, "You yourself said it, I cannot hurt the ones I love. You were so very close to the truth on that."
Keep him talking, keep him busy until Clarice can get here. "Ummm…why was I close, Dr. Lecter?"
"I do love Clarice, Emily. With all my heart. You, well…I have something deeper for you than love." He slides a syringe from the strap that is holding it in place, along with a tiny vial. With the care and precision of a practiced hand he filled the needle, tapping it to release the air. The needle itself is fine, Emily can barely see its glint in the light. He takes her left wrist pressing it down against the chair, firmly restraining her. "Now, Emily, hold still. I promise this won't hurt."
~
Burying the Screams
Clarice Starling steps from the elevator and enters the long hallway on the tenth floor. She glances quickly at the room number scribbled on the scrap paper in her hand then stuffs it into her pocket. She carries with her a large folder, filled with drawings and sketches done by Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She stops in front of the appointed door, shifts her load, and knocks on the door. Silence echoes for a moment before a female voice inside calls out.
"Who is it?"
"Clarice Starling." Why does this feel like a knock-knock joke, she wonders for a moment before hearing the locks snap back in the door. Clarice puts on a smile, preparing to meet Dr. Emily Christophersen for the first time. The smile fades as someone else entirely opens the door.
"Good Evening, Agent Starling." Dr. Lecter purrs, the sound of ripping cloth.
Starling is instantly set on edge, hand dipping down to the holstered sidearm on her hip. He places a hand on hers, stopping her in mid motion.
"I don't believe that will be necessary." He steps aside, opening the door wide. "Do come in, Clarice."
Always, no matter what, that same little thrill when he says her name. She steps inside warily, watching Lecter from the corner of her eye. "Where's Emily?"
"In the bedroom," he replies smoothly, placing a hand on Starling's back to guide her through the living room.
"Dr. Lecter, if you've done anything to hurt her, I'll…"
"You'll what, Agent Starling? Hurt me? Shoot me? Kill me?" he questions her empty threat as they pass into the bedroom.
"Take away your freedom," she finishes flatly, eyes on him.
"I highly doubt that." He looks to Emily, who is still handcuffed to the chair. "Emily, your guest has arrived."
Clarice gasped as she saw Emily in the chair. Slightly slumped and head tilted to one side. Her eyes had a strange far-away look to them as she looked towards Lecter's voice.
"What did you do to her?" Clarice is frightened as she stands still, unable to move towards the drugged psychiatrist.
"As I assured her, I will assure you, nothing that will hurt her. We are having a little therapy session. The same drugs I used on you after I took you from Mason's house. You do remember that, don't you, Clarice?" Clarice blinked and stared at him. He carefully slips the folder from underneath Clarice's arm and takes it to the table, laying it in front of Emily. "I see you brought my drawings. Did Emily tell you what I drew for her?"
"No."
He turns back to Emily, catching her attention. "You didn't tell Clarice what I drew for you, Emily? That is not very polite."
"Sorry." Emily replies, her voice soft and slightly slurred. Her eyes find Clarice and she tries to focus on her. "He drew me a lamb."
The dredging of the memory is palpable on Clarice's face. "Dr. Lecter…."
"Sit down, Clarice," he instructs, pulling the other chair back from the table. Clarice does and looks up at him. It is intimidating for even the people who have been closest to him to have Hannibal Lecter hovering over them.
Emily is watching Clarice intently, even through the drugged haze she still has a grasp on herself. Lecter steps away to fetch them some refreshments, and Emily whispers to Clarice.
"I'm sorry, Clarice." There is heavy remorse in her voice. "I didn't know he followed me here. I didn't know…"
"What has he been doing to you, Emily?"
A shake of her head as she answers. "Listening to screams, his and my own. He told me that I was like you, that you heard screams too." There was a slight innocence, partially imparted from the drugs. "What screams do you hear?"
Dammit Lecter. "The lambs. The screams of the lambs at the slaughter."
"Why do you hear their screams, Clarice?" Emily asked, still a psychiatrist. Somewhere deep in her brain she felt the strange effects lessening slightly.
A slow deep breath before she spoke. "Because I couldn't save the lambs."
Dr. Lecter stands at the edge of the room, listening to the conversation in slight surprise. Emily must have a very strong will to be able to conduct even the sketchiest session in her present state.
"Not even one?" Emily asks, head now upright and voice steadier.
"No."
"Do you blame yourself, for the loss of the lambs, Clarice?"
"Yes."
Emily's free hand came down on the table with a thump. "Don't. You blame yourself and that's why the screams keep coming back to you. Since then, haven't you saved many more things in your life?"
Her head bobs, nodding and Dr. Lecter is intrigued. Clarice had opened to him all those years ago, but it taken time and the use of the same drugs he had used tonight on Emily to get her to do so. Here, a woman she barely knew, was delving into her mind half drugged. It was very fascinating to observe.
"You can’t blame yourself for the losses in your life, you can’t live your life trying to serve what has passed." She smiles at Clarice. "Dr. Lecter helped you get past your father's death, but you never let go of that lamb."
Clarice found her voice, "How did you let go of your screams, Emily?"
She blinks, eyes dim slightly as she delves through memory. "I buried my mother." She whispers, voice lilting and heavy on the final D's in the words. "Buried her, and with the last clod of dirt, the screams from her fell silent." The lips curved upwards sadly. "I let go of the memories that she had given me and looked to the time before. When she wasn't screaming in my mind."
Lecter is now standing behind Clarice, looking down at the table and the picture Emily has picked, unseeing, from the folder. She passes it to Clarice, finger on the edge of it. Lecter cannot breathe as Starling takes the drawing. A little girl, sitting in a washtub with a bubble in her hands. Clarice knows who the little girl is, for she resides in her memory palace. Her mouth opened to name the girl but Lecter beat her to it.
"Mischa," whispered breath causing Emily and Clarice to look up at him.
Emily is a bit smug as she looks from Hannibal Lecter to Clarice Starling. "Even Hannibal hears screams, but the difference from you and I, is that those screams are his own."
~
Admittance
Emily awakes the next morning to find herself lying in her hotel bed, covers tucked gently around her. She had no recollection of how she got into bed, nor much of the events from last night. She rubbed at her wrist, relieved that it no longer bore a handcuff. That she did recall. And the needle slipping into her arm, but beyond that, well, it was quite a blur. Wobbling, she pulled herself from the bed and made it to the bathroom before the nausea hit her. Her head pounded and she sat on the cool tile floor, back against the bathtub. Something she had done to piss him off. In the restaurant, yes, she had provoked him, but she knew she had done more later on. Dimly, she recalled Clarice's face, and the tears. Great, was she running around making people cry and not remembering why? A knock on the door brought her to her feet. She grabbed a bathrobe and slipped into it as she padded across the room. Nothing out of order in the living room, she noted. She peeked through the peephole and didn’t see anyone out there. Great, not only do we have amnesia but we're hallucinating now too? She cracked the door anyhow and looked down to find an envelope tucked under the door sill. She plucked it and closed the door, careful to lock it again. She sat on the plush sofa and looked at the envelope. The fine copperplate script was recognizable immediately. She slid a finger under the flap and had the mental image of Dr. Lecter's pointed tongue running along it, moistening the glue. She shook it off, and finished opening the letter. Two small white pills slipped out and she pulled the sharp creased note to read it.
Dear Emily,
Our little session had some unexpected results last night. I did not foresee that you would be able to root out Clarice's problem with screaming lambs so quickly. Nor did I expect you to address my own screams. I am leaving for Vermont this morning and should be gone from the hotel by the time you read this. Do not worry about the expense for your room, it has been covered. Psychiatrist to psychiatrist, I would like to have a discussion when you return. Enjoy your lunch with Clarice today. I will see you upon your return. Ta ta.
Hannibal Lecter, MD
PS- I thought that you might find the following poem rather interesting. It is by one Samantha Bridges. Also, the pills I have included should help with your headache, an unfortunate side effect of the drugs I used. Feel better, Emily. -H
Emily unfolded the second piece of stationary find the poem, inscribed in his precise script.
Silences echo in the palace deep
lilting down the corridors.
room to room the spirit flies
looking in on memory.
vaulted ceilings in glit'ring night
scored by beams of purest light
cumbered walls of granite gleam
grey on grey, stone on stone
colored by the richest tapestries
echoing our histories
footfalls in the palace deep
traverse the length and breadth
dare to trespass the final threshold
'neath a canopy of starlight
Emily sighed and refolded the note, but kept the poem in her hand with the pills and went to get some water. She reread the poem while sitting on the edge of her bed, wondering at it. She set it on the table, along with the envelope, as she passed back into the bathroom. The memory of a little girl danced before her eyes as she touched the table. A little girl smiling, a bubble in star shaped hands. It frustrated Emily to no end not being able to recall what had happened. She resolved to ask Clarice about it later; for now, she slipped from the robe and her silk pajamas and ran water in the tub. Time to join the land of the living.
~
Emily sags in the seat in first class. She is still tired and not wanting to go back to Vermont. He will be there, waiting, when she walks in the door. She doesn’t want to deal with him right now, but she must. She slips the Walkman from her briefcase and puts on her headphones. The tape is from lunch today with Clarice. Her mind begins to wander as she listens to the tape. She has a window seat and she looks out the small oval, eyeing the tarmac as it rolls beneath her. They taxi slowly to the runway and Emily listens to the idle chit-chat on the tape. The lumbering jet pauses at the start of its takeoff roll, and she feels the vibrations and roar as the engines spool up. She is pushed back in her seat as they begin the roll. The bump of the gear leaving the runway and they are airborne. Emily releases her grip form the armrests and opens her eyes. She had squeezed them shut unknowingly right as the plane accelerated. She looks out the window once more, seeing the city spread beneath them. Clarice's voice is clear in the head phones.
"Did he write this for you, Emily?"
"No, it was penned by a Samantha Bridges. What do you make of it?"
"A description of a memory palace."
"Memory palace. A mnemonic device used by ancient scholars, correct?"
"Ummm, yes. Where are you going with this, Emily?"
"Dr. Lecter helped you build your own, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"With room for her. The little girl in the drawing?"
A sharp intake of breath, Emily blinks as she listens. "Yes. Mischa."
"He couldn’t save her, but he couldn’t let go. Did he tell you why he put her in your palace and not his own?"
A five second pause, Emily tapped the time out on her armrest. "Not that I recall. Why do you want to know, Emily?"
"For the profile. It may be the missing key I need. May I ask why you are having me do the profile for you?"
"The FBI is making plans to attempt to recapture him. Everyone else with contact with him is dead. Crawford, Graham, Krendler. I'm the last one. So, even with the past events, they want me on the case."
"I see." Two second pause. "Clarice, you know that I can’t just turn him over to you."
"The same problem I have. He gets to you, doesn't he?"
A deep sigh on the tape, echoed by another from her lips as she listens to her reply. Her mouth moving to echo the words. "More than I'd like to admit."
~
A Viewing of the Soul
Relief swept over her as she entered the farmhouse, finding it empty and herself alone. On the flight back and the drive home from Montpelier, she had convinced herself that there would be a monster lurking in her living room upon her return. But within her relief, she felt a little saddened by his lack of appearance. She wanted to confront him, strip him down to his soul and examine him piece by piece until she was satisfied. That thought in itself made her wonder momentarily about her own sanity. He could do the same to her, and he had already begun. She left her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, taking the briefcase into the office. She removed her file from the case and dropped it on the desk. She had promised the finished profile by Friday. Three days in which to complete the dissection of the monster. Enough of the dissection to appease the FBI, but not enough to appease her own thirst for knowledge.
~
Dinner was a sordid affair for Emily that evening. She didn't feel like leaving the house to go into the village, get something from the store. Nor did she feel much like cooking; in the end, she rooted a Tupperware container of chili from the freezer. Even after going through the motions of preparation, she didn't feel like eating it. The night was moving slowly, like it was mired in the moment. Emily sat on the couch, scratching her notes and talking to the tape recorder. Slowly building the psyche of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Sometime around midnight, she stops, returns to the kitchen looking for a bottle of wine. The Santa Ema is gone, but she wants something more than that. Her father's image tingles at the back of her mind, watching him in the basement, his small wine cellar. She had adored the bottles since she was young, knowing that they were special, but not knowing how. She finds herself at the basement door, hand resting on the knob. Memories flood through her, and she succumbs to the past.
"Hey, Emily!" It is the taunting call of her cousins, echoing up the stairs. She turns from her practice at the piano, looking towards the sound. "Come play with us!" Laughter echoes up the stairs and reaches Emily's ears. She looks at the piece she is supposed to be practicing, and weighs the decision to play against the monotony of scales. She slides from the bench and goes to the stairs.
"Hey Emily!" The call comes up the stairs again, and Emily peers around the door. She doesn't like the basement, they had found Daddy down there. But the need to play with her kin is tugging at her. They are all older than her, and all but Sheila are male. Sheila is a tomboy to the grandest extent, and hers is the next voice that comes to her ears.
"Emily, come play with us."
"I'm coming!" she calls back. She edges down the stairs, careful in the dim basement. She sees her cousins and moves towards them.
"Hey, Emily. Look at this!" Sheila and Stephen are facing her, grinning and Martin has his hands behind his back. Emily steps forward.
"What? What is it?" She is curious to see what Martin has behind his back. Sheila and Stephen are giggling.
"Worms!" Martin cries, flinging a handful of worms and dirt at her face. Emily screams throwing her hands up to ward off the surprise. The three cousins think it’s a riot and as Emily blinks, wiping the dirt off her face she sees them laughing at her.
"That wasn't funny, Martin," she chokes out, trying not to cry. Since she had been forced to join the family, they had resented her.
"Yes it was. You should have seen your face."
"No it wasn't. Now apologize or I'm going to…"
"Going to what? Run and tell my mommy?" he laughs, his lean figure at least a head taller than Emily. "She doesn't care. Your daddy can't protect you anymore either."
Anger flares in Emily and Sheila is the only one to see the fire in her eyes as she lunges at Martin. He falls hard to the floor and by the time Sheila pulls her away, he is unconscious. Stephen kneels next to his brother, looking at the bloodied face. Emily has broken his nose, although she won't know that until later.
"Look what you did!" Stephen cries.
"He was only playing a joke Emily." Sheila adds, looking from the blonde headed girl to her prone brother. Emily isn't listening; she is looking at the cut on her knuckles. Blood is welling from it and she presses it to her lips. She turns away form her cousins and goes back up the stairs. Water is heard running followed after a few moments by the sound of the piano. She feels no pity for her cousin, who is being helped up the stairs now. She practices her scales, eyes firmly fixed on the sheet music in front of her. She sees the three pass by, headed for the stairs, reflections in the hall mirror. She smiles, stopping her practice and raising the bloodied knuckle to her lips. No pit;, in fact, she feels rather good.
~
She is standing at the bottom of the basement stairs, looking about in the dark. Her hand finds the light switch, illuminating the basement. She walks to the door to the wine cellar and pauses. If she looks carefully, she can still see traces of Martin's blood on the concrete floor. She opens the door and peruses her father's wine selection. She lifts a bottle, studying it in the dim light. The contents are the color of Martin's blood, and she wonders on the events of the past for a moment. She sees Dr. Lecter's face before hers, a reflection in the wine. She recalls the pleasure she felt in injuring her cousin, the taste of the blood on her knuckle, and blinks, coming to a realization. Her pleasure in violence, does it make her any less of a monster than her mother, or Dr. Lecter?
~
Just Alike
He finds it perversely amusing as he listens to the messages on his cell phone. It is the fifth call in the past two days; she is starting to sound desperate. He muses about her request as he walks along the far side of the lake. Should he or shouldn't he? Professional courtesy if he does comply. Nothing more, but can he promise himself that? She has come to the realization of what she buried inside herself so long ago. She has drawn the monster out, looked it in the eye, and didn't flinch. But, he wonders, coming around the lake, his path now angled to the house, what will she do if the monster consumes her? Will she accept it, acknowledge its presence within herself? Or will she be crushed by it, and lose it all? Pity if she is crushed by it. He sees the light in her bedroom flick on, bright in the coming darkness. He watches as her silhouette moves in the light, and he decides. He will comply with her request; she needs to know that she is just like him.
~
The phone rings. Once, twice, Emily tenses under the sheets waiting for a third ring. It doesn't come. She lets her eyes close, desperately seeking the sleep that will not come. When she does sleep, she is tormented by her dreams, which she cannot escape. She keeps seeing Martin's face, with the blood spreading to the concrete floor and the looks of accusation in her cousins' faces. She keeps feeling the pleasure surge up in her, the taste of the blood on her lips. Her eyes flick open, looking into the dark room that surrounds her. Growling low, she cast the sheets off and sits on the edge of the bed. The night air prickles her skin; goosebumps rose quickly and she shivered. She padded to the bathroom and took a heavy chenille robe from the hook by the door. She makes her way downstairs, listening to the old house creek and settle in the dark. She doesn't turn on any lights, making her way through the main level by memory. The wine she brought upstairs has had time to breathe and she pours the ruby liquid into a crystal glass. She leaves the bottle on the counter, taking the glass with her into the front room.
~
He sits in the corner, and notices that she doesn't turn on the lights as she makes her way into the kitchen. He listens to the soft clink of the crystal and the heavier one of the wine bottle against the tile. He can feel her as she comes into the front room, and the crystal on the wood of the piano. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is seated to the left of the piano, in one of the Queen Anne chairs by the window. He can smell the wine, mingled with her scent. He can smell the fabric softener in her skin form the sheets that she has laid in, the scent of Crabtree & Evelyn Jojoba Oil lotion too. He hears the lid covering the keyboard lift, creaking softly as the hinges need to be oiled. A first few tentative notes chime softly from the keys, her fingers exploring in the dark. He admires her deftness and ability as a melody softly emerges. She coaxes song from the darkness, pouring herself into the music. He rises, coming to stand behind her. He reaches for the glass of wine and she freezes, the last note hanging in the air. He raises the glass to his nose, taking in its bouquet. He sips the wine, and lowers his hand, preparing to replace the crystal on the lid. Before he can, a hand shoots out, shattering the wine glass and continuing to hit him.
~
Emily is intent on her playing when she feels movement behind her. She waits and hears the wine glass being lifted from the wood. Her fingers leave the keys and she begins to turn on the bench, chenille sliding easily on the polished wood. The hand and the glass are coming back down as she strikes. She doesn't feel the crystal slice her hand as she hits the mass the arm is connected to. She hears the intruder's breath escape and the feet lose balance. She jumps from the bench, scrambling for the light switch across the room. She blinks as the room is illuminated, trying to adjust her eyes. She looks down to see Dr. Hannibal Lecter pushing himself up off the floor. She rolls her eyes and steps over to help him up.
"That wasn't necessary, Emily. I was only tasting your wine."
She fixes him with a glare, eyes slightly bloodshot. "Serves you right." She looked at the mess of wine and shattered crystal on the rug. "What the hell are you doing in here?"
"You aren't sleeping much anymore, are you Emily?"
"No." She is crouching, picking up the larger pieces of the wine glass. She is very aware of his eyes on her. She stands and takes them over to a small wastebasket in the corner, breathing slowly returning to normal. She comes back to the piano bench and sits down on it, hands on her knees.
Dr. Lecter takes her right hand, making her wince slightly as he applies slight pressure on it. Blood wells from a cut on her knuckles. "You're bleeding, dear doctor."
Emily takes her hand from him, placing the knuckle to her lips, tasting the blood. Her actions register and she pulls it away, dropping it to her side.
"You did that on purpose," she accuses.
"Ummmm. So I did, Emily. May I ask, how do you feel?"
She is rising and walking from the room; he stands hands at his sides, watching. "Go away, Dr. Lecter."
"May I remind you, you called me and asked for my help."
"Not at four thirty five in the morning," comes her reply; she is in the bathroom running water over the cut. She looks in the medicine cabinet. No Band-Aids. She isn't about to go upstairs and leave Lecter down here alone. She doesn't want him wandering around her house unsupervised right now. That, and it would be rude. A wry smile twists her lips as this thought comes to her. She comes out and finds that he has turned on the lights in the hall and the living room. Obviously, he is not going away.
Emily finds him sitting on the couch, waiting patiently. She glares at him and sits down on the opposite end, out of his reach.
"Fine. What do you want?"
He shakes his head. "Tsk tsk, Emily. Right question, wrong person. You were beginning to sound quite desperate in your messages."
She called him, but now she didn’t want to admit anything to him, not after what she just did. "Maybe. Look, I changed my mind, I can handle this on my own."
"Really? Let me ask you then, one little question, how did it make you feel?" He leans slightly forward; Emily can see the depths of his pupils even from across the couch.
"How did I feel? Feel about what, Dr. Lecter?" she is stalling, fumbling for time to organize her thoughts.
"Formalities again. I thought we had moved past that in private. Ah well, back to your question. How did you feel about what you just did, doctor? Did it bring you pleasure to see that you had hurt me? Don't lie now."
"Yes," she whispered, then repeats a little louder. "Yes."
A smile and a nod. "Good. I thought you did. Now, did you find the taste of blood on your lips to be pleasant? The warmth of it on your tongue?"
Her mind whirls as she considers this. She did find it nice… "Yes, I liked it more than the wine." She hears her voice as if from a distance. She feels to be a spectator, watching herself answer his questions. "The wine was the same color, you know."
"Yes, I know. Now, doctor, tell me, did you ever taste Martin's blood?"
Emily can see herself, spindly and eight years old again, her reflection in the mirror. She is washing blood from her face and hands. Not her blood, his. Martin's blood. She looks at her right hand, the one that she cut the knuckle on, looks at his blood on there too. Emily looks in on her past self as the little girl flicks her tongue out and laves the back of the hand, tasting the blood. She hears her voice telling Lecter of the incident; she sees the glow in the eight year old's eyes.
"Very good, Emily. Look at me now." She raises her eyes to his, not noticing that she had been staring at the floor. He presses a knife into her hands. The handle is warm from his pocket and she flips it open, flashing it in the light.
"Nice." There is silvered light reflected on her face, playing across her lips.
"It is, isn't it? Now Emily, if I were to offer you the chance to have my blood, would you?"
She looks at him, eyes glowing as she considers. "Your blood?"
"My blood Emily, my flesh as well; I believe you'd like that." His eyes flick to the blade, curved and wicked, then back to hers. Yes, he can see it now, emerging from the room in the palace where it was locked.
She considers silently then brings her legs up under her on the couch, crawls towards him. She lays the blade against his throat, drawing a drop of red. He watches her, not moving, making nary a sound. "Can you do it, Emily? Or will it make you every bit more of a monster to know that you killed me? Come now, your mother would be proud of you."
Her eyes reach into his, and she pauses, pressure constant on the knife. He can see the change in her face, as the realization hits her. He feels the blade leave his throat and sees her head drop, her breath warm against the cut. His breath catches as she pushes on it with cool fingers, easing the blood to her waiting tongue. It is a very provocative feeling to have her tongue on his throat. She pulls back from him, meets his eyes as she flings the knife across the room. There is a tiny drop resting on her lips and Dr. Lecter lays his index finger on it, taking it form her lips.
"Why didn't you do it, doctor?"
"Emily," she corrects, she feels tired and drunk. "I couldn't kill what I saw."
"What you saw Emily? Was it a monster? A monster who kills?"
A shake of the head and she leans back against the couch for support. "No. There are reasons behind your hunger, Hannibal. I couldn't kill you for that, because I have those same reasons. I understand you."
A smile, and he brushes hair that is dampening with sweat back from her cheek. "Do you know who Will Graham is, Emily?" A nod, the name registers in her eyes. "I told him something once, but I feel that it fits you quite aptly."
She is quiet, and something tells her that he is about to tell her something important. She struggles to quiet the roaring in her mind. "And that is?"
"That you and I are just alike. Just alike, Emily." A wink from him and she blinks.
"Just alike. That's what I saw." She mumbles and tries to stifle a yawn. All the missed hours of sleep are catching up to her. Her eyelids are heavy and it’s becoming a struggle to keep them open. Lecter notices and rises form the couch. She watches as he goes to the blanket chest across the room. He motions for her to lie down as he unfolds the blanket. Emily does, and she feels the blanket being tucked around her.
"Now, before you drift off to sleep, do you remember what I told you, about my not being able to kill you?"
A sleepy nod. "You said that I was so close to the truth, that you couldn't kill the ones you loved. You love Clarice, but you said you felt something deeper for me."
"That's right. Do you know what it is?"
A smile on her lips, eyes closed. "Because we're just alike."
"Very good. To kill you would be tantamount to killing myself. Now get some sleep, we can discuss things again when you're rested."
"Just alike," she whispers once more as sleep takes hold. Finally, the dreams do not haunt her.
Dr. Lecter watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, then turns away to find his Harpy. He closes the blade and dims the lights. As he looks at her in the dark he speaks to himself.
"Now, Emily. Now that you know the truth, where do we go from here?"
~
Where We Go From Here
It is strange to see a known serial killer and psychopath sitting on a couch in a perfectly normal home with his arms wrapped around a woman lying curled against him. It is also strange to see the tenderness in his eyes as he watches her fingers exploring the blade she holds. The sunlight catches on the mirrored steel and flashes across their faces. It causes him to blink, leaving a trail of spots across his eyes. She closes the blade and lays it on the coffee table. Two days ago, she didn't look like a woman who could take a life. Last night as she lay sleeping, she looked as innocent as she had as a child. And now, as he brushes a finger across her hair, feeling her contentment in the moment, she still does not look like a monster. She looked like Emily. Sweet, sweet Emily. She had surprised him with the readiness with which she had accepted everything. She had accepted the monster, taking it as a true part of her, not just something that was to be locked away in a dark room. It was no longer a part of her to be shunned. She had accepted him for what he was, and had acknowledged that they were just alike. So much more than love, he kisses the back of her head and she is now gently waving her hand in time to the music. She is more than he had ever hoped for, she would complete him in ways that Clarice had not, could not.
Ah, Clarice. Clarice hadn't tried to capture him once she knew where he was. Still hadn't tried when she came into Emily's hotel room and found him there. No matter how much she loved him, she would never tell him to stop. And on the same note, she could never bring herself to deny him his freedom, or his life. Clarice had her place in his heart, shared her place in the world with little Mischa. She would always be his incorruptible little Starling. She needed only a mirror to show her soul, her deeply ingrained morals and dedication. She would continue to serve the undeserving masters, for it was what she did. And she would continue loving him, for it was also what she did. He feels Emily's head turn in his arms, pressing against his shoulder He looks at her, the pale grey-blue eyes that are as deep as the ocean itself.
"Hmmm?" She has said something, but he is not sure what.
"Tell me again, tell me of Florence." She has the voice of a child at that moment, wanting nothing more than to hear his voice.
He is indulgent. "Of course, Emily."
She closes her eyes and lets him color her world. He is swiftly carried back there as he spins the tapestry for her. He steps into the Palazzo Capponi in his memory palace, and stands there, inviting her to join him. The smell of the old parchment is heavy in the air, dousing the place with age. She runs her hands over the manuscripts that lay on the desks, feeling them against her fingertips. He watches her with wonder, as she feels the vellum pages and closes her eyes, enthralled. She spins away from him, wandering through the halls. She finds the stairs to the servant's quarters, looking back to him for permission as she mounts the stairs. He nods, following her as she eases upwards. She is speechless as she sees the large painting of the Madonna hanging above the narrow bed. She involuntarily mimics the tilt of the Madonna's head, her eyes meeting the almond shaped one of the painting. She looks back to Lecter and smiles, then she is gone, back down the stairs and heading into the library where she had entered. He takes her hand as he leads her outside, into the sunlit streets of Florence. He introduces her to the sights and smells of the old city, and she is delighted. He watches as she walks along the bridge over the Arno, the late afternoon sun playing her hair and turning it to a pale gold. She was meant for Florence, and he is filled with delight when she turns back to him, smiling as the sun sets behind her. The moment is shattered, as a phone begins its insistent ring.
Emily opens her eyes and lets out a low growl. The phone in the kitchen is ringing, trying to coax her into answering it. Hannibal watches as she moves from her comfortable position against him and walks to the kitchen. He listens to her voice as she answers the phone, and he can still hear the beginning Italian she was speaking to him in the Palazzo Capponi. He hears the change in her voice before he senses the danger. Her sentences become quick, chopped to a few words. Her goodbyes to the caller are laden with fear and anxiousness. She emerges in the living room, eyes dim as she comes back to the couch.
"What is it, Emily?" Instinct causing his hand to reach for the knife that is lying on the coffee table.
"The tabloids are running with a story, that I was helping the FBI. On the reopened case." Her words are flat; she is contemplating her future. "Clarice wanted to let me know, she's on jump-out squad tonight. She had wanted to call later, but that prevented her from doing so."
Damn the Tattler and all the others. It is partially the result of his doing, trying to provoke her before by telling them that she was working on a profile for the FBI. "Emily, I'm sorry…" The words sound strange in his mouth. Has he ever really apologized to anyone before? She is shaking her head.
"No. They've been talking to the people in town, my patients. Mrs. Grimes. She saw a photograph and recognized you." She is shaking her head as he is rising to his feet. "Clarice is being pulled from the case; they're afraid she might let you escape again." A humorless laugh and she closes her eyes, running her hands through her hair. "God. I knew this was going to happen, but not so soon. Dammit, why did I listen to you when I got the request to do the profile?"
She opens her eyes and realizes that he is no longer on the couch, nor in the living room. She can hear his footsteps in the front hall. No, no, no. She knows what he is going to do and she is powerless to stop him.
~
Requiem
The house is quiet in the pre-dawn hours, Emily is curled in her bed, unaware of the commotion that is building on her front lawn. By five, the phone has begun ringing incessantly, and she finally goes to the extent of disconnecting every phone in the house. Silence, blessed silence that lasts about five minutes. Then comes the doorbell and the knocks on the front door. Emily answers it the first time and not so kindly tells them to get the hell off her porch. Strangers wandering her property, trying to peer inside her private life to see if He was there. By seven she has locked all the doors and closed all the curtains. It is rather odd to turn on the TV and find your own home on the screen. All the news channels, each with their own reporters standing on her lawn, speculating on her relationship with Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter.
"Dr. Lecter," she corrects as she grabs her cell phone from the charger. She is glaring at the TV as the person she is calling picks up.
"Sheriff's Office," comes his soft New England accent.
"Vergne, it’s Dr. Emily Christophersen."
"Oh, hey, Doctor. You're the talk of the town right now, what can I do for you?"
She is rolling her eyes and trying not to scream at him. She had never met a man that fit the popular image of the country hick better than Vergne. "Vergne, get up here and get all these people off my property before I decide to have them all arrested for trespassing."
She can hear him sitting upright in his chair and shifting. "Will do, Doctor. We'll be glad to, anything for the local celebrity."
And this is the reason why she hates men. "Thank you, Vergne," she manages to stay polite but hangs up before he can reply. If it's not one thing that irritates her it’s another.
~
The news about Mrs. Grimes’ unfortunate demise takes front page two days later, fortunately dropping Emily from that position for at least a little while. Vergne and the other law enforcement officials are terming it a suicide. Emily knows better. Unfortunately, the local death is quickly overwhelmed with the next phone call she receives. As she hangs up the phone, the world begins to crumble at her feet.
~
Emily didn’t know what had happened overnight, but was soon brought aware of it. She is sitting in the living room, her body and mind numb. The grief is overwhelming. She hears the doorbell ring again and again, she sits still, listening. Then a knock on the door, still she does not rise to answer it. She hears the glass break and she leaps to her feet. She sees a leather gloved hand dutifully undoing the deadbolt and snaking back through the broken glass. Anger flares in her, bringing her body to life. She snatches a leaded crystal vase and prepares to subdue her unwanted visitor. She is not in a mood to be trifled with. The door swings wide, and he steps in. She drops the vase, letting it shatter on the floor. She runs to him, ignoring the glass that cuts into her slippers. His eyes are dark and clouded, she can see the pain etched in his face. He deftly closes the door behind him, ignoring the pain that is in his hand. She reaches out to him, pale hand caressing his cheek. Feeling the tears that had dried stiff there. She buries her face against the cold of his coat, and he receives her. Together they stand, lost for time, in mourning of another's passing.
~
The room is cold as Emily carefully tapes the heavy plastic in place of the window. The glass has been swept from the floor and disposed of, but she still trod gently. Her right foot is wrapped in medical tape, holding a gauze pad against the cut she received. Dropping the roll of electrical tape back in the tool case, she carries it back to the kitchen. She is taking pains to be quiet, and she slips into the living room. The only sound is the crackling of the fire, and still its warmth does not touch her. Dr. Hannibal Lecter sits asleep, tucked into a corner of the couch. Emily removes a blanket from the chest under the window and brings it over to him. He does not stir as she nestles in beside him, draping the blanket over them and resting a hand against his chest. She wishes with all her heart that she could change what has happened but she cannot. Tears trickle from her eyes as she sits there, staring unseeing at the fire.
~
Late afternoon in West Virginia. The sky has cleared for this one afternoon, as if God had wanted to look down on the somber ritual. Emily is standing at the graveside, looking on with disbelief. What didn't seem real two days ago is now unbearably so. From the corner of her eye she catches movement. Ardelia Mapp has tilted her head back to the sky, as if trying to see her once more. Emily feels the tears that she had so carefully guarded begin to slip. The priest speaks the last word and it seems to echo in the cemetery. Ardelia is the first to step forward, at the priest beckoning, and lay her flower on Clarice Starling's coffin. A yellow rose, the symbol of friendship. Ardelia stares at the casket for a long moment before turning back into the arms of the man who accompanied her. Emily watches as other colleagues from the FBI file forward and do the same. All bear roses, of yellow or white, placed on the white casket. Emily steps forward last, a bright Stargazer lily clutched in her hand. She chose the flower remembering Clarice had told her how beautiful she thought they were. That had been less than a month ago. She laid the lily atop the roses and pressed a hand to the casket, feeling the cold through the leather gloves she wore. A breeze blew at that moment, like Clarice saying goodbye.
She returned to the cemetery that night, and slipped in under the cover of darkness. She had played in cemeteries as a child and they did not frighten her. Her right hand was resting on Dr. Lecter's elbow as she guided him through the rows of headstones. Finally they came to the freshly turned earth that marked Clarice's grave. Emily released his arm and stood back, silent and watchful as he knelt at the grave. A sliver of moon shed its silver light on them and with that and the stars, was the only light. She heard the quiet tears as he placed the single red rose on the grave. One red rose amongst the white and yellow, one chance for true love amongst the friends. She laid a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was still there. His left hand came up to grasp it and she lowered herself to kneel beside him. Once again a breeze lifted and caressed their tear streaked faces. Lecter stood, laying a hand against the headstone in final farewell, and offered his elbow to Emily. Together, they left the cemetery with an angel watching over them.
~
Dare to Trespass the Final Threshold
She closes the door on the outside world, and traces a finger down the window pane, since replaced. The house is warm with the smell of the fire and the enticing aroma overlaying from the kitchen. He has mourned and moved on; she has been the one standing watchful at the door. Not watchful enough, because they have found her. Calls on the cell phone from Ardelia, letting her know that she should leave. She glances in the direction, considering, weighing the fates. Could she possibly turn her back and run, leaving him to the wolves? He comes through the front room and into the hallway, glass of wine extended in his hand. She receives the wine, but cannot look at him as he stands there. Could she allow herself to lose the one being that had truly come to understand her? A sip of the wine and the warmth of his hand on her shoulder makes the decision for her. She cannot.
~
Emily hurtles down the basement steps, unheeding of the dangers that await below. She finds the light switch and throws it, illuminating the damp subterranean room. Quickly, where is it? Her father kept his knives and guns down here, locked away from her. Her aunt never bothered to get rid of them when she moved her brood into the house, and the boys never knew about them. If they had, the gun safe would have surely been pillaged and more deaths would have been felt in her aunt's family. Frantic, shoving the old boxes and chairs out of the way. Dust clogged her throat and she heard steps coming up behind her. She looks around, trying to remember the placement in the basement. Following her father down here when he was going to go hunt. There, in the far right corner, near the old clothes chest from great grandmother. She points, and Hannibal Lecter moves the chest out of the way. Standing tall is her father's gun safe, and she quickly turns the old combination lock on it. It creaks on old hinges as she pulls it open, looking past the ammunition on the top shelf she seizes what she needs and waves Lecter back upstairs. Pausing by the old wine rack, Emily chooses from her father's prized collection, knowing that he would approve of her selection. She ascends the stairs and closes the door behind her. Dr. Lecter is waiting in the dining room, standing at the far end of the table. Emily hands him the box she has taken from the gun safe and sits in a chair, trying to breathe again. The dust and mold has done no good for her allergies.
"You're sure they are in here, Emily?" asks Lecter, prying the lid open.
"Yes. I put them in there the night mother killed him," she nods, rising to help with the lid. She remembers cutting her finger on one of them when she dropped them into the box. Daddy's knives had glittered in the beam of her flashlight. It hadn’t kept Mommy from killing him though, but it might keep her and Dr. Lecter alive. The lid finally opens and Lecter lifts the neatly folded pillowcase away. Nested below are four knives. Emily couldn't resist the urge to reach in and touch them, once again slicing the right index finger. Like she had when she was six, she took the finger and stuck it in her mouth, sucking on the wound. Lecter had a tight little smile on his face.
"Well, at least they are still sharp," she remarks, looking at her finger.
He lifts one of the knives out, looking at in the light. It is a Harpy, much like his own. A small trace of blood mars the blade where Emily just cut herself. He wipes it carefully and hands it to her. "Take this one, Emily. I needn't warn you that the blade is sharp."
She nods and feels the knife in her hand. It is cold and the years weigh heavily on it. She looks at Lecter, feeling a little odd. He sees the look in her face and gently takes the knife from her hand, laying it on the table. It glints against the toile tablecloth. He carefully takes hold of her shoulders and he looks into her eyes.
"You don’t have to do this, Emily." He is only telling her what she already knows. She nods, listening. "You can run now, leave me here to face them on my own."
"You know I can’t do that," she shakes her head, deep regret etched in her face. "I owe it to Clarice to get you out of here." More than that, she tells herself, I owe it to me, to him. But what does that make of me, to loose a monster on the world to roam free once again. The breath is stilled on her lips as she ponders this. He sees her pause, and allows her the reflection. For the first time she can see herself in herself. "Dammit, Doctor," she growls when she breathes again. He releases her shoulders and presses the Harpy back into her hands.
"Go, Emily."
She looks into the maroon eyes before stepping away from him. Her footfalls echo down the hall and he hears the door open, then shut again. He wonders for a moment why she has listened to him. The knock comes sharply on the door and he hears it open again, accompanied by her voice. He listens, still and quiet in the dining room. Carefully, he removes his shoes and moves towards the kitchen and the entrance from there into the front room. His own Harpy is in his hands as he moves behind the piano.
~
"Dr. Christophersen, you're okay and all?" asks the overfed Sheriff. He has two deputies in tow, both looking about nervously as they stand on the porch.
"Yes. Thank you for coming Vergne. He's knocked out upstairs, I think I got him good with the vase." She is speaking to him as a friend, her voice shaky as if she were truly frightened.
"Well, you did good by calling us. Just stay down here while we go and collect him, okay?" In his mind's eye Lecter can see Emily nodding acquiescence. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore than you already are."
Hurt? Lecter's nostrils flare. What did Emily tell them on the phone. He moves closer to the hall entrance, careful to stay out of sight. Vergne is turning, weight heavy on the floorboards as he moves to the stairs.
"Come on boys," he calls to his deputies who are still on the porch. They step in nervously nodding at Emily. They aren’t used to dealing with the capture of known serial killers. One of them catches movement out of the corner of his eye and stops, looking into the front room. A faint reflection in the black piano.
"Hey Vergne, there's someone else in here," he calls as he decides to move into the front room. The other deputy and Sheriff Vergne decide to follow, causing Vergne to come back down the stairs. The first deputy is just drawing his gun when Lecter's arm flashes out and slits his throat. The second is too surprised to do anything and is quickly taken down as Lecter comes into the hall. Vergne has hit the bottom of the stairs and he pushes Emily backwards as he draws his sidearm. He has a shot off as the second deputy falls to the ground. Dr. Lecter feels the bullet graze his shoulder, he drops slightly. Emily grips her Harpy and lunges forward as Vergne takes aim for a second shot.
"Sorry, Vergne," she whispers as the knife comes across Vergne's throat. She releases him and drops clumsily to the floor, Vergne's weight falls atop her leg. She looks up as she pushes him off to see a feral smile on Lecter's face.
"That's my girl."
~
Epilogue
The sounds of the first Met opera broadcast of the season echo over the speakers in her small office. She sits in her chair, contemplating the music and the shaft of sunlight that lies across the mahogany desk. She watches dust sparkle in the sunlight, and wonders. Finally, she picks up the mail that is on the corner of her desk. Most of the envelopes get tossed into the wastebasket with the remaining few being stacked in her designated 'Bills' corner. The last envelope is a surprise. She carefully opens the envelope to find another inside, her name printed in fine copperplate script. Her breath catches as she opens it and slides the fine linen paper from the envelope. Slowly, she unfolds the letter and begins to read, head bowed in the shaft of sunlight.
Dear Emily,
Or should I address it to Dr. Amelia Christen now? I do approve of the name change, but to me you will always be Emily. Sweet, sweet Emily. It took some doing to find you, but I managed. Did Colorado's winters not suit you? Yes, I have been keeping track of you, not easily though. You learned how to hide rather well, something learned in your youth perhaps? No matter, I am only glad to see that you are well. A question for you, dear Emily Amelia, before I take my leave, and a simple request. Do you ever regret what you did? I would rather think not, seeing as you and I are just alike. You don't have to answer now, but someday I will ask you again. My request is simple, that if you ever wish to see me, place an ad in the agony column of the national edition of the Times and in the International Herald-Tribune on the first of any month, addressed to A.A. Aaron, so that it will be at the top of the column. I will understand completely if you choose not to see me again. If that is the case, I will consider this our final correspondence and consider the matter closed. Although, I will never forget you Emily. Stay well.
Sincerely Yours,
Hannibal Lecter M.D.
Emily stared at the letter as if it contained him in it. Her mind was wandering through the past when the shrill cry from the baby monitor brought her to reality. The sun was no longer stretching through the window as she rose, leaving the letter on the desk blotter. She ascended the stairs and stepped into the cheerfully painted nursery.
"Shhh. Don't cry, Mommy's here." she told the little girl in the crib. As if in understanding the wail stopped and the baby considered her for a moment. Emily clicked on the light that sat on the dresser and looked at her daughter's eyes. She plucked her form the crib and stood by the window as the sun set over the Bay. No matter what light she looked at them in, and no matter how hard she tried to deny it, her daughter's eyes would always be maroon.
Fin
Copyright 2002, Samantha Bridges