The man in the cream-colored linen suit ambled slowly up the broad staircase in the hotel lobby.  He exchanged casual nods with a few of the well-dressed guests he met in passing and took his time walking the hallway to his suite.  The very air here was almost edible, he thought as he slid his keycard through the lock and opened the door.   The rooms were decorated in a British Colonial style, full of dark native woods and gauzy lengths of white fabric.  After the long and arduous flight, such refinement was a welcome relief to his senses.  He took off his fedora and placed it on the coffee table, then strolled over to the fine antique secretary.  A lovely piece of work, worthy of the games that would be played upon it.  A soft knock drew his attention.  The bellhop stood at the door, a cart full of bags and packages at his side.

            “Your baggage and the items that arrived for you, Senhor Vuota,” he said in heavily accented English.

            “Favor entrar… por favor, poina os pacotes sobre a cama,” replied Dr. Lecter.  His Portuguese bore no trace of extraneous origin.  He stepped away from the door and allowed the bellhop to wheel his cart into the bedroom, where the elderly man neatly stacked the items next to the bed.

            “Muito obrigado ao Senhor,” said Lecter, producing two twenty reais notes from his pocket and pressing them into the bellhop’s hand.  The money was more than this man probably made in a week’s time, but small change by Lecter’s standards.  And good tipping ensured excellent, discreet service in Brazil, where corruption achieved heights only dreamed of in the States.

            The bellhop bowed and exited the suite.  Lecter went to the bedroom and began opening packages.  Within a few hours, he had added his own flair to the already luxurious appointments of the suite.  Strains of Bach surrounded him from the compact yet high quality stereo he’d had delivered, and a small, quality bronze graced the coffee table.  It gave him a thrill just to look at it.  “Fugit Amor,” he said aloud, his voice at once tender and playful.  He caressed it slowly, not caring about details such as fingerprints.  It was cool and smooth under his hand.

            He gazed at the sculpture a moment more, then turned his attention to setting up his laptop and installing the encryption software.  While waiting for the programs to install, he called room service for a cafezinho, the thick sweet coffee, and a light dinner. The food was tolerable, if plain.  His stomach appreciated the attention, even if his palate longed for something more amusing.  He thought of churrasco then, the amazing Brazilian way of barbequing meat he had become so fond of during his previous stay in the country.  But there would be time enough for that later.  He had more important things to attend to now.  Once his computer was ready, he logged on and caught up on the latest news from the States.  He was slightly surprised to see the massive publicity surrounding Clarice Starling’s reinstatement to the FBI.  “I hadn’t thought you could stomach going near them again, little Starling,” he murmured.  He scrolled down to see her picture and his breath caught in his throat.  The AP photographer had a modicum of true talent, he thought as he let his eyes linger on her face.  The light caught her short hair in extraordinary ways, and the overall effect was almost like a halo.  And yet her eyes were anything but angelic.  They spoke to him as clearly as words.  “I’m going to kill you, no matter the cost,” they proclaimed like a banner.

            He smiled then, right-clicking the picture to save it.  “And so, the game is afoot.”

 

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            Clarice Starling sat once more in her basement dungeon, a place she had never thought to see again.  She had been offered a more “appropriate” office, but she had declined politely, stating that she preferred familiar surroundings.  Oh, you’re hot shit now, aren’t you, Starling, she mused, finding the Bureau’s weak attempts at ass-kissing to be laughable.  Your stock rises and falls according to how many people Hannibal Lecter has felt like eating lately, very Special Agent Starling.  And, oh, when he has the audacity to consume one of the chosen ones, well, then, they’ll overlook your outrageous arrogance and your feminine sex and come crawling to you like slime.  They’ll ask to you to forgive and forget, to come back into the fold like the little lamb they think you are.  Not bloody likely.  This time, it’s on my terms.  Still, a part of her, locked safely away behind a wall of emptiness, throbbed painfully in anger at returning to the life that had so carelessly used her.  It was the part of her that had shed a single tear when she heard the click of handcuffs.  The part of her that still believed in something. 

            She shuttered the windows of her soul more tightly, picked up the phone and looked it over carefully.  The tap was well placed, but it was there.  She shrugged and dialed anyway.  Let them listen, she thought.  Like it will do them any good.  They have no idea what to do with the information they’ve got, they don’t know the person they’re up against.  That’s why they need me.

            “This is Special Agent Starling, I need to speak with the Assistant Director,” she said to the secretary.

            “Right away,” gushed the voice on the other end, and Clarice smiled.  That had never happened before.

            “Noonan here.”

            “This is Clarice Starling, and we need to talk about the things I’ll need for my investigation.”

            “Certainly.  What can I arrange for you?”

            “I’ll need a couple good agents for field work, preferably ones who’ve worked on serial killings before.  Ones who don’t spook easily.  And I’d like to review their files, make sure they’ll be compatible.”

            “I have a few in mind, I’ll send someone over with the materials.”

            “Good.  I’ll also need a fast computer with lots of memory and someone from crypto to give me a crash course.  A dedicated T1 line would be nice.  Also, do you think I could have my cell phone back?”

            An embarrassed pause.  “I think we can do that for you.”

            “Okay.  I’m going to speak frankly here, Mr. Noonan.  You and I both know how close I was to Lecter the last time.  I want no interference from you or anyone.  This is my show, and I’ll play it as I see fit.  I will tell you what I feel you need to know when I feel you need to know it.  There will be no leaks, because no one outside my circle is going to have any access to this investigation.  I am here because Lecter needs to be caught and there is no one more competent to do that.  If I believe I am being hampered in any way, I’m gone.  Do you understand me?”

            “Yes, I think I catch your drift.”

            “I’ll let you know which agents I pick.”  Click.

            Noonan stared at the phone in his hand.  The brass were going to have a bird when they found out about this.  But every word she said was true.  They needed her, and there was no other way.

            Clarice Starling drummed her fingers on her desk and smiled.  She would have everything she required, or there would be hell to pay.  She stretched in her chair, arching her back and extending her arms.  It felt good to be in control, very, very good.  She wondered if this was how Lecter felt all the time.

 

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            Hannibal Lecter paced around his suite, gathering his thoughts.  Looking out over his balcony, he could see the fabulous sunset courtesy of the pollution over Sao Paulo.  But near the sea, the breeze was sweet and he inhaled gratefully.  Inspired, he gathered a box from the bedroom and brought it to the secretary.  He looked at a pair of cotton gloves without donning them.  She would hardly need technology to verify the veracity of this note.  He withdrew his stationary, thick and cerulean blue, with a deckle edge, and a fountain pen.  He took his time with his little rituals, filling the pen with jet-black ink, placing the blotter just so, smelling the scents of civilization.  Finally he put nib to paper and began to write.

“My dear Clarice,

            I apologize for my hasty departure on the occasion of our last meeting.  I feared the party-crashers would quite ruin our little soiree.  I am glad to know you recovered from our encounter without any lasting physical effects, but it pains me to see that you have returned to the embrace of your lackluster former lover.  I must be losing my touch, for I had not detected any of the battered woman’s syndrome in you.  Ah, well, there is always more to learn.

            And what have you learned, little Starling?  How did it feel to watch your tormentor tormented?  Was the flush I saw on your face anger?  Excitement?  Envy?  Lust?  Or simply too much wine?  Tell me, what were you thinking when you closed the cuff around my wrist, when you locked us together?  Where did you hope that path would lead you?  What do you think your daddy would say if he knew?  Remember, don’t lie, or I’ll know.

            I see that you are back on the case, so I feel I must do you the same courtesy.  A psychiatrist needs practice to keep the skills sharp, and you’ve always been my most interesting patient.  How are the lambs doing, anyway?  You still owe me an answer for that one.  I’ve never tried long-distance therapy before, so I’m not sure how this will work, but I’m sure that, once again, we’ll have a lot of fun.

            A personal in the Tattler will always reach me.  Address it to A. A. Aaron, of course, and do let me know how your relationship is working out.

 

Your most curious correspondent,

Hannibal Lecter, M.D.

 

P.S. – I’ve enclosed a few items to assist you in the course of your therapy.  Please, use them wisely.

Ta-ta,

 

H.”

 

            Lecter folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and closed it with his customary wax seal.  He procured a sturdy small box and opened it.  Inside lay a cheap mirror framed in pink plastic and an unusual map that did not depict any place on earth.  Rather, it was a well-done star map, accurate and lovely, the constellations of the Zodiac shadowed by depictions of their ancient associations.  He took out the map and wrote upon the bottom in his flowing copperplate hand,

“So, Clarice, where do you find yourself?  I know you think of yourself as a huntress, but look closer and tell me, where in the heavens do you reside?  And where do you see me?  Your father?  The F.B.I.?  Hmmmm?  Remember what I once told you, and know it to be true.”

            He folded the map and replaced it in the box, taking out the mirror instead.  He set it on the secretary and placed his thumb in the very center of the glass.  Slowly he pressed his full weight down, exerting increasing pressure until he heard a crack and felt the sting in the ball of his thumb.  The mirror shattered, the pieces held together still by the gaudy frame.  He allowed his blood to drip down onto the glass, seeking out the fracture lines and outlining them in vivid crimson.  He sucked the small cut then, savoring the taste, and blew gently across the mirror to dry it.  He packed up the items, folding them in navy blue tissue paper, and laid the letter on top.  He closed the box, wrapped it, and prepared it to be sent to his remailing service.

            He allowed himself to relax then, going to the suite’s bar and preparing a caipirinha with the excellent cachaça provided by the hotel.  He rolled the lime in his hands, squeezing it with calculated pressure.  He cut it in quarters and dropped it into the crystal glass, licking the juice from his fingers.  He sprinkled the lime with sugar from the china bowl and added ice from the mini-fridge.  Over the top he poured the potent sugar cane liquor and inhaled the fragrance of the sweet and sour cocktail.  Not Lillet and orange, but possessed of its own charms, he considered.  Life in South America had a certain edge that Europe did not.  Thinking of Starling’s eyes, he smiled.  I may need that edge, thought Lecter.

 

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            Starling was reviewing the files Noonan had sent her.  There were some very good options.  This Amanda Stewart, she had not worked on a serial case but she was technically excellent, with a pattern of submissiveness that should suit Starling’s cause nicely.  And Dale Cooper… Starling was fascinated in spite of herself over his history.  She was vaguely familiar with the Twin Peaks case, it being an unusual example of serial murder, but reading the transcripts of his tapes she discovered a very interesting individual lurking behind the façade Cooper had obviously erected after the grim assignment.  A person severely affected by the contours of the conflict of good and evil.  She wondered briefly if his experiences were anything like her own.  She went on to peruse Cooper’s intelligence and psychological test results.  Hmmm.  Quick-witted, intuitive, a strange straight arrow given to unexplained leaps of insight.  It could be fun to watch him react to the conundrum that was Hannibal Lecter, she thought.  And to see Lecter’s reaction to him.  Or am I turning into Jack Crawford, she mused, dangling bait on a hook?  Does it matter?

            She almost set the file aside, then stopped.  This was the first flicker of interest she’d had in any human being except Lecter in… she couldn’t remember exactly how long.  It could be dangerous, she thought.  But to whom?  Acting more from instinct than anything else, she lifted the phone and informed Noonan of her choices for her assistants.  They would be at her disposal starting tomorrow, she was told.  Splendid, she thought, stretching in her chair again.

            It was at that moment that the mail clerk knocked and dropped off the day’s materials.  Editions of papers from the London Times to the Tattler made up the bulk of the delivery.  There was a package, though, and Starling felt her nerves kick into high gear as she picked it up.  Probably nothing, but…  A bolt of cold shot through her spine as she looked at the postmark.  Las Vegas.  Trembling slightly, she reached for her pocketknife and slit the box open.  Inside she discovered another parcel, this one unmistakable in its origins.  Blue ribbons bedecked silver paper and the card bore the image of a lamb.  Inside she read her name.  “Special Agent Clarice Starling.”  She let out a long slow breath, took another, and opened the gift.