Chapter Four:  Détente

            Starling opened sore eyes to a stillness far removed from the alarm clock squawk that usually occasioned her arousal from sleep.  A moment of disorientation, a rush of memory… and she was suddenly wide awake, standing beside the bed, her skin covered in goose bumps and her empty hands searching for distant weapons.

            She fought down the panic and licked dry lips.  She thought she’d left some water in the pitcher last night.  Turning to look, she saw it was full.  And there was a crisp white square of paper leaning up against it.  And, of course, the familiar, slanting hand.  He’d been here.  While she slept, he could have killed her.

            Oh, what a fool she had been.  Stripped of fatigue and adrenaline, seen with the crystal clarity of hindsight, the events of last evening seemed nothing short of surreal.  And stupid.  She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, hard.  She sensed a headache coming on already.  She stood on her tiptoes, stretched with hands raised high, then swung down and pressed her palms against the floor.  The blood pounded in her ears while she held the pose.

            He’s probably far away by now, she thought, and was completely unsure how she should feel about that.  That note is probably some more of his “some of our stars are the same” crap.  And then what?  Go home?  Back to the Bureau, like a good little girl.  Shit.  She’d kissed her job goodbye yesterday.  Good thing there’s some needful in the bank.

            She straightened up, and her eyes went again to the note.  She walked around the bed and took it in her hands, against all her better judgment.  Evidence.  This is evidence.

            Whatever.  She closed her eyes.  The paper was smooth and stiff.  She raised it to her nose and waved it back and forth a few times.  Musk and sandalwood, and likely a few more things she didn’t have names for.  It smelled expensive, and decidedly masculine, but very restrained.  Elegant.

            She ran her fingertips over the back of the note.  Fountain pen, she decided, without the telltale ridges of rollerball or gel pen.   Enough.

            She opened her eyes and began to read.

 

“C. —

I hope you will do me the honor of joining me for brunch.  If you will be so kind as to pull the bell, I’ll begin the preparations while you attend to your morning needs.  Make yourself at home.

H.”

 

            She exhaled through pursed lips.  When she inhaled, the scent caught her again.  Well, why not?  What was she going to do, sneak downstairs, grab her cuffs and a candlestick, and go after him in the kitchen?  She laughed.  Not likely.  Not after the promises she’d made.  But she should at least…

            No.  She was done with should.  She’d made that clear to Pearsall and the others already.  Now if she could only clarify it to herself.

            She reached over and pulled the bell rope before she could argue the point further.  She heard a distant peal, a light and airy tone.  She stepped resolutely over to the armoire and opened it.  Taking the robe from its hanger, she wrapped it around her, and tied it at the waist.

            The hallway was just as she remembered it.  Only the bathroom door stood open.  Her fingers itched to open some other door, just to see… but that would be rude.  Barney’s words came back to her, and she decided on the course of prudence with a wry grin.  Maybe later.

            She went into the bathroom, found implements on the counter.  She brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and splashed some water on her face.  Good enough.  No makeup, no perfume… hell, no clothes.  Wait.  She scanned the bathroom, fast.  Nope, no clothes.  God, no underwear!  She tried to remember which pair she had been wearing yesterday, and failed.  Oh, God.  He’s seen my underwear.  Looking him in the eye is going to be interesting now.

            Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of food.  Yes, food sounded wonderful.  An anchor, to weigh her down before she drifted away on the wings of insanity.  But at least she’d be in good company.

            The wood stairs glowed in the warm light.  She made her way down and into the hallway.  Her gun glinted silver like a beacon there on the table.  She longed to take it in her hands, to polish it on the wine-colored robe, and to feel the weight of it strapped to her side.  It was an act of will to turn into the dining room, but she did it.  She stopped a moment in the doorway… just to appreciate the view.  The room was bright, and the sunlight sparkled on the crystal and silver that seemed to be everywhere.  Two places were set at one end of the long table, in a spot made a little more intimate by an arrangement of flowers.  Calla lilies.

            She decided that not everything had to be a symbol or a game.  Or she’d go mad, if she weren’t already.   The sounds of cooking snatched her from that thought, and her stomach rumbled again.  Good smells were coming from the kitchen, and one of them was coffee.

            It called to her.  Coffee.  God, did she need some coffee.  She let the thought pull her into the kitchen doorway.  He was standing with his back to her, bent slightly over the stovetop.  White shirt, black slacks.  The smells were overpowering at this range, and her gut twisted.  Hungry.

            She saw his head come up, though she hadn’t made a sound.  Even her stomach had behaved.  She was nonetheless betrayed, and she knew it.

            “Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” she said, wanting to get in the first words.  Since she knew from experience that she’d never get the last.

            He turned to face her.  “Good morning, Miss Starling.  I trust you slept well?”

            “I did,” she said, while turning some interesting thoughts over in her mind.  “That smells wonderful,” she added honestly.

            “Thank you.  I’m just finishing up right now.  Perhaps you’d take the coffee service in for me?”  He gestured with his spatula over to a silver tray.

            “Of course,” she replied.  “Can I help you with anything else?”

            “No, thank you, I’ll just be a minute.”  He turned back to the range.

            She went to the counter and lifted the tray.  Bone china cups and saucers rattled a little as she walked.  Returning to the dining room, she looked around.  Settling on setting it on the sideboard, she took a chair.  True to his word, he came in a moment later, pushing a service cart.  A pitcher of yellow liquid, a toast rack, and two covered dishes sat on top.  She leaned back in her chair.

            He poured from the pitcher into the crystal goblets at each place, set the toast rack on the table, and put one of the covered dishes in front of Starling, and the other at his own place.  He removed the lids, set them on the cart, and rolled it back into the kitchen returning swiftly.  “Would you care for coffee?”

            “Oh, yes.  Thanks.”

            He took up the silver coffeepot and filled her cup and his own.  Placing cream and sugar on the table, he took his own seat.

            The food in front of her was gorgeous.  Thick brown and black slices of peppered bacon flanked a fluffy omelet topped with grated cheese.  Parsley sprigs and small orange flowers garnished the plate.  She reached for her napkin and spread it over her lap.  He did likewise.

            Just as her hand hovered over her fork, he spoke.

            “I hope you’ll enjoy your meal.  There is one rule I insist on at my table, however.”

            She snatched her hand back like a guilty child who forgot to wait for grace and felt a little heat in her cheeks.  “And that is?”

            “I do not allow conversation of unpleasant subjects at breakfast.  No work-related subjects, no politics, and no religion, nothing of that sort.  There is enough time in the day to deal with those matters.  Breakfast should be a relaxing experience.”

            She thought about the many Egg McMuffins she’d scarfed in surveillance vans and smiled.  “That sounds like a good rule to me.”

            “Excellent.  Would you like some toast?”

            “Mmm.  Yes.”

            They passed a goodly time at table, and the food lived up to all of Starling’s expectations.  She had read pages about Lecter’s culinary exploits, and was in no way disappointed.  After asking about the ingredients in the omelet, she was treated to an entertaining lecture about the Grúyere region of France.  A comment about the jam, and she heard tell of lingonberries and matching grapefruit juice, instead of orange juice, with them.  The acid content, of course.

            Finally she could eat no more, and was reduced to sipping her coffee… full-bodied, flavorful, and tasted like it was roasted this morning.  Not that she would doubt it.  He set down knife and fork and picked up his cup as well.

            “Shall we adjourn to the living room, Miss Starling?”

            She thought a moment, and decided that she should wait until they’d left the table to spring this particular question.  “That would be nice.”

            He got up, disappeared into the kitchen, came back with the cart.  Loading it up with the detritus of their meal, he pushed it back through the door.  When he returned, he took up the coffee service and led her through the hallway into the living room.  A plush couch and chairs were arranged around a low table before a fireplace.  He set the tray down and gestured for her to take a seat on the couch, while he made himself comfortable in on of the armchairs.

            She opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it, and opened it again.  After all, a poorly humorous opening couldn’t be much worse than a ham-handed segue, and he hadn’t killed her for that.  Of course, he had been incarcerated at the time…

            “Well, Dr. Lecter, if your goal was to stuff me into submission, you succeeded admirably.”

            He smiled, just a little.  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Miss Starling.”

            “I did.  May I ask a question, Doctor?”

            “Of course,” he replied with an inscrutable expression.

            “Why the sudden change in address?  I would think that my given name would be appropriate to… your age and station.  You’ve never hesitated before.”

            He looked at her a moment, making eye contact and holding it until she felt herself begin to blush under the force of his gaze.  “The short answer is that you are a guest in my home.  The long answer is somewhat more time consuming.  What is your favorite color, Miss Starling?”  His tone was even, but held a hint of something more dangerous.

            She felt the challenge in the ordinary words like a knife blade across the back of her neck.  She took a deep breath silently, knowing that he’d register the rise of her rib cage anyway.   “Please call me Clarice, Doctor.  Blue.  What is the long answer?”

            “As you wish, Clarice.  The long answer is that I am uncertain whether or not the term “Agent” still applies, and I had wished not to distress you unnecessarily by bringing it to your attention.  I did not feel it appropriate, in these unusual circumstances, to call you by your given name without first being invited to do so.  It would imply a… familiarity that could easily be misconstrued.  Tell me, which particular shade of blue do you like best?”

            The double whip stung.  Her first impulse was to lash back, but she controlled the words, if not the spark of anger in her eyes.  “Cadet blue, Doctor.  What is your worst memory of childhood?”  She was quite proud of the neutral tone she managed.

            He didn’t even blink.  “The death of my sister.  Do you prefer sapphires, as well?”

            Wow.  OK, just… wow.  “Emeralds.”

            “I’ve never seen you wear them.”

            “I don’t have the kind of money you need for good ones.”

            “Why did you stop just there, Clarice?”

            “Stop what?”

            “Don’t even try that, Clarice, it’s beneath you.  Why did you stop?”

            “Because I felt that, under the present ‘unusual circumstances,’ it would be rude of me to continue in that vein.”

            “And I thought we were building such good rapport.  Are you certified in therapy, Clarice?”

            “No.”

            “Of course not.”  He smiled, deadly.  “Perhaps you’d care for a demonstration of therapeutic technique?”

            “I think I’ll pass, Doctor.  Catherine Martin is alive, well, and married in Tennessee.  You’ve got no chips to put in the pot.”  She felt the shivers start, pressed her hands firmly against her lap.  This was not going as well as she had hoped.

            “You count your life so cheaply, Clarice?”

            “My life is not at stake here.”

            He was at her side before her soft drawl had finished enunciating the final syllable, his hand grasping the back of her neck, just tight enough to pinch a little.  “Would you care to wager on that?”  She could feel his breath, warm, on the side of her face, and forced herself to look straight ahead.  There was a bronze figurine on the mantel, which would do for a focus point.

            “I would, Doctor.”

            “You sound very sure,” he almost purred.

            “I am.  You won’t break your word.”

            “And why is that?”

            “Because it’s all you’ve got, Dr. Lecter.  You have no friends, no family, no career, none of the trappings and trifles by which we latch ourselves to the world.  All you’ve got is your own self-image.  And that would shatter if you broke a promise.”

            “Do you feel better now, Clarice, now that you’ve worked that out for yourself?”

            She froze, though her heart still hammered in her throat.  God damn his lousy soul to hell.  She had been nervous, she had wondered…

            He got up, flowing as smoothly as a cat, and took his place back in the armchair.  Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back and crossed his legs.

            She needed to say something, anything.  “Is that the way they taught you to do it at Maryland-Misericordia, Doctor Lecter?”

            “No.  Tell me this, Clarice.  Why should I trust you?  Do you even know why you’re here?”  He pinned her under his eyes.

            She could still feel the touch of his fingertips, the vibration of his voice against her ears.  She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t stand to look at him, bent her head down, let her hair fall forward, clasped her hands together…

            “Look at me,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

            She raised her head so suddenly at his command that she looked like a marionette on strings.  A thousand responses, excuses, and explanations flashed through her mind so fast that her tongue quivered.  “No.  I don’t know why I’m here.”

            “Well, now,” he replied.  “That’s better.  Why won’t you harm me now, Clarice?  You know I can’t kill you.”

            “I told you.  I respect your right of sanctuary.”

            “Hardly, Clarice.  I would hesitate to use your hasty, clumsy rationalization as my only shield.  Why won’t you take me down, bring me in?  Why aren’t you going for your gun this very instant?”

            “Because… because…”

            “Here, I’ll make it easier for you.”  He reached into a pocket, pulled something out, tossed it into her lap.  It was a folded silver knife.

            She unfolded it as he watched, mechanically tested the blade against her finger.  Razor sharp.  He lowered his hands and spread his arms out to the sides.  “Do it, Clarice.”

            “No!”  She folded the knife and threw it back at him, hard.  He caught it easily, and put it back in his pocket.

            “Why?”

            “I don’t want to!” she yelled like a child.  She tucked her legs up underneath her and leaned against the arm of the couch, burying her head in the crook of her elbow.  Her shoulders shook, and the tears that had been burning for days came.

            She had no idea how long she wept, but as her last shuddering sobs faded, she felt a touch on her shoulder.  She hated the idea of looking up, hated it with a tightening around her temples and a tensing in her gut.  She did it anyway.

            He set a steaming cup down on the table.  “Tea with chamomile and a few other things.  It will help you relax.  I suggest you take a nap… the few hours of sleep you got last night were not enough to truly rest you.  I will be gone for a few hours… but I will come back.”

            He started to leave the room.  “Dr. Lecter?”

            “Yes, Clarice?”

            “Do you trust me?”

            “With my life.”  And he left her alone with her tea.