Epilogue:

 

It was a cold, gray Sunday in Baltimore. Barney stood outside the isolated cell at the end of the hall, twisting his big hands and trying to decide whether to speak to the current occupant or not.

The cellblock was as deserted as it ever got. Barney had pulled a double shift, and his partner on rotation, Alonzo, had bugged out at the lunch hour and was already forty-five minutes late coming back. It was now or never.

He finally made up his mind.

"Dr. Lecter? Hello? Are you talking to people today?"

He waited.

"Not PEOPLE, today, Barney, I think,” the soft, rarely used voice finally said. "Not just anyone. I might talk to you, though. What would you like to talk about?"

"Crows," said Barney, and wisely clammed up.

A full minute passed.

Then Dr. Lecter flowed up out of his bunk and came to the front of the cell, eyeing Barney closely.

"Crows?" he asked. "What about crows?"

"Well," Barney said, and took a mauve envelope out of his uniform pocket. "A crow just delivered this to me when I went outside for a smoke an hour ago. It's a letter."

Dr. Lecter stared intently at the big orderly.

"I can see that, Barney," he said at last.

"It's addressed to you," Barney explained further. "Just your name, no stamp, no street address. But, hey, who needs it? Hand delivery. Beak delivery, I mean."

Dr. Lecter spoke very softly, very precisely.

"So, what you're telling me, Barney, is that a bird, a crow, in fact, gave you that letter you're holding right now? Put it in your hand with his beak? Is that right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Barney, forgive me for asking, but are you feeling quite all right?"

"Yeah, I know how it sounds. But that wasn't the weird part."

Dr. Lecter had found himself at a loss for words only a very few times in the course of his life to date. This was one of those times.

More time passed.

"Oh?" Dr. Lecter said then. It was all he could think of, for the moment. "What was 'the weird part', Barney?"

"It was what he said," Barney answered, determinedly impassive. "He TOLD me to give you this letter. The crow. And he said to tell you to have a nice day."

"The crow," Dr. Lecter repeated. "Said I should have a nice day. I see."

 "Look, I opened it, of course, fluoroscoped it, the whole security thing. But I didn't read it, or run it through the censor's office. It kind of seemed like a special case, if you see what I mean."

"Yes. I do see your point, Barney. May I ask, have you noticed any little gaps in your memory today? Any lost time, or anything like that?"

"I'm not hallucinating, Dr. Lecter. It was a crow. Here's the letter, right here. And I could get in major shit with Chilton, just giving it to you, like this."

Dr. Lecter stared at Barney for awhile.

"ARE you just going to give it to me, Barney?" he asked, after a time. "That doesn't seem like you. If you'll forgive my saying."

"Yeah, well, I am, though. Strange days. I'm no fool. A talking crow doesn't hand me a letter every goddamned day. There's something special going on here. I'm not gonna get in the way."

Dr. Lecter had rarely seen Barney so adamant, not in all the years they'd known one another.

Maybe there was something special going on here.

"So,” Barney went on. "I have to ask you to make me a promise. You have to promise me you'll never let anyone find out I gave you this letter, unread and all. It'd be my job. Would you do that? I know if you say you won't, you won't."

"I'm flattered by your confidence, Barney. Very well, then. I promise."

"Okay," said Barney, satisfied.

"Perhaps you'd better give me the letter now, Barney," Dr. Lecter said, after a pause.

Barney put the mauve envelope in the food carrier and sent it through. He watched Dr. Lecter pull the carrier open on his side of the barrier, and watched him pull the letter out. And then, because he was a man with a rare and wonderful natural instinct for courtesy, he turned around and walked away.

Dr. Lecter took the curious object over to his bunk and sat down. He looked at the single line of handwriting on the envelope.

"To: Hannibal Lecter, M.D."  the line read.

In a flowing and precise copperplate hand that looked vaguely familiar to Dr. Lecter, although he could not quite place it.

He tapped the envelope against his teeth, then inhaled whatever scents it might provide.

Fresh hay. New mown grass. Straw. Faint metallic scent, perhaps of medium gauge wire, a copper/aluminum alloy. Other herbs, and some unidentifiable perfume blend, clearly made for a feminine wearer, quite appealing. Ink. Charcoal. Oil pastel crayon. Wind. Rain. Feathers.

Crow feathers. Dr. Lecter had put enough plump crows into enough stock pots over the years to recognize that particular scent beyond any doubt.

He opened the envelope, and took out a folded sheet of mauve stationery, covered with the same fine handwriting as the address line on the envelope. And a folded sheet of parchment, a drawing.

He unfolded the drawing first. A charcoal and pastel rendering of a lovely woman in a cornfield. Odd light. A sort of surreal clarity to it. Quite well executed. The style, once again, with an elusive familiar quality that he could not quite identify.

It was really very intriguing, all of it. No problem quite so absorbing had come his way in four or five years, at least. Dr. Lecter was delighted.

He unfolded the letter.

And this is what he read:

 

Dear Dr. Lecter:

You don't know me, but I feel as if I know you.  Quite well. I have it on very good authority that you and I have a great deal in common. More than might normally be imagined. So, perhaps you'll excuse my presumption in writing to you without a proper introduction.

If you're anything like me (and, at the risk of being repetitive, I'm told that you are very much like me) the laws of time and space, as well as the true nature of reality, are matters of some interest to you. You will have, no doubt, formulated theories in regard to these subjects, and you will also have noted that the vast majority of your fellow Effbeeye residents hold your ideas to be absurd, or even altogether deranged.

On reflection, you will also have decided, I am sure, that your fellows, all of them, are wrong, and you are right.

You ARE right. I can attest to it. You may indeed be deranged; certainly I've occasionally had cause to question my own stability. But that does not mean that you are wrong as to the true nature of things; we both know that sanity and accuracy are not interdependent.

Time does NOT flow in only the one direction, and reality itself is multifarious and conditional. What a hopelessly boring universe this would be if it were not so, don't you think? Of course, you will hardly require any confirmation from me - these facts are self-evident, if one knows how to look.

I've been giving some thought to what I believe is your current situation. Mind you, my calculations regarding interdimensional time correspondences and reality vortices are, as yet, incomplete, but I feel reasonably secure in my estimation of what point you currently occupy in the space-time continuum.

If my preliminary findings are correct, you are presently incarcerated in a maximum security facility for the criminally insane.

A measure nominally undertaken for your own good, though highly punitive in fact. One must follow one's own counsel, as we well know, and whatever modest predations you may have undertaken in the past must necessarily pale in comparison to the unmatched malice of Whoever is in charge. If Anyone. It is a pity that this eminently sensible point of view is so difficult to comprehend for the substandard mass mind of society at large.

It's hardly worth arguing the point, is it? I never bothered with it, anyway.

If you'll forgive a personal observation, you probably find your confinement as onerous as I did mine. You will, of course, have utilized your inner resources to maintain your psychic freedom and to preserve the integrity of your vision, but it can be difficult to remain completely undaunted in the face of years of imprisonment.  I am not ashamed to admit that I occasionally toyed with the idea of suicide as the only available escape vehicle during my own years of detainment. It would have been easy for me to avail myself of this option, and I'm sure it would be equally easy for you.

The nights can begin to seem interminable, can't they? Especially the nights. I remember full well.

Which is why I write. I have reason to believe that certain beneficial events will transpire in your future, perhaps your near future. Opportunities will present themselves and you must be prepared to seize them. You will not die in that dungeon cell you inhabit (by the way, I imagine that you must crave a view at this point, if my understanding of the word "dungeon" is correct;  I had the advantage of an outdoor setting during my own imprisonment and think that I was the more fortunate of us for it).

At some time in the future, you will meet a young woman. That may seem unlikely to you now, but please bear in mind that I do make these predictions on the basis of facts. In my corner of the vast continuum we all share, the events I relate to you now, however farfetched, have already taken place.

You will meet a young woman. You'll know her by her quick wit and extraordinary courage, if not by her beauty, which, incidentally, you will find considerable. I have not succeeded in determining what this woman's name is, although I have gleaned that her surname has something to do with birds. For whatever that's worth. Please forgive me for this lapse in clarity.

You must make every attempt to create a favorable first impression on this woman. Engage her intellect, play on her curiosity, enlist her sense of humor; that would be my advice. The corresponding individual in my own reality cannot resist a puzzle, not if it meant the firing squad. It may be that such an approach will work equally satisfactorily in your dimension.

One other word of advice: do try not to criticize her shoes overmuch. You'll be sorely tempted, I expect, but you may find this woman to be absurdly sensitive about such things. Never fear, you'll be in a position to offer her some much needed guidance eventually.

You'll like her. She's interesting. You'll see.

She will also be instrumental in your prospective escape. Indirectly, perhaps. Unintentionally, perhaps. You'll find this woman's value schema to be as ludicrous as her shoes, initially, but please be assured that she will, in one way or another, let you out.

I was set free. You will be too, I am certain of it.

You will, of course, be alert to the specific possibilities as your own situation unfolds. I cannot predict the exact events, only general trends, but whatever measures you decide on will, no doubt, be adequate.

There are other things I might tell you about your future, but I fear you would not believe me if I did. I'm well aware that I have already taxed your credulity greatly as it is. Suffice to say that you may one day find yourself reconsidering your longest held opinions regarding the possibility of happiness and the existence of hope.

Happiness and hope. Chimerical and insubstantial to be sure, but not as wholly out of reach as you might think. I cannot offer you any acceptable rational argument for this assertion, but I venture to remind you that reason is not everything. There are other forms of perception, and other forces in the world. In years to come, you may have occasion to remember I said so.

In closing, please know that I wish you the best of luck, and hope you will not have to wait much longer for the end of your current travail. Indeed, we all wish you well. Dorothy, in particular, requested that I convey her regards to you, and asked that I add the enclosed charcoal and pastel drawing to this letter.

My gift to her, originally, now her gift to you. A more fitting exchange, I think, than I could ever hope to explain in a single epistle. Memorize this face, Dr. Lecter. It's vital that you do.

"And tell him again to lay off the shoes!"  -  so she insists I add.

(I quote, of course - her verbal style offers a regrettable but strangely engaging informality)

If ever you happen to be in the vicinity of a tornado, by the way, please do find an appropriate vehicle (a Roush Mustang will do, and so will a hot air balloon) and come visit us over the rainbow. We'd all love to meet you face to face.  Bring Ms. "X", too, should that prove feasible. I have already secured what I believe to be an adequate means for your return trip, and I think I can promise you an interesting, possibly even an astounding time.

Sincerely,

The Scarecrow

Esq.