Chapter Nine:  Parley

            The smell of coffee woke her, finally, and by the slant of light she made the time well past noon.  She got up, smiled when a search of Dr. Lecter’s bathroom did indeed produce a razor she could use without slicing a foot off, and attended to her morning toilet.  A strange sound attracted her attention as she sauntered down the stairs, and she was a bit startled to realize that it was her own humming.

            A pot of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, and a plate piled high with melon and berries were waiting for her on the dining room table, along with a note telling her to go ahead and eat, he would be away for a bit.  She smiled, knowing that he was leaving her an out if she chose to use it.  In case she’d woken up to regret.

            She ate with relish.  Taking stock of her mood, she found that, far from being guilt-wracked and weepy, the only thing amiss in her world was the absence of a cold Coke.  Well, that and the fact that she still had no idea where her life was going from this point on.  But she was content to let that one lie for a little while.  She got up to check the fridge, knowing as she did that it would be a futile endeavor.

            As she was closing the refrigerator door, she heard a rhythmic sound, coming from outside.  Curious, she went into the little back hallway and looked out the door.  There was nothing amiss on the patio.

            She stepped out into the bright, clear air, smiling as a crisp breeze touched her skin.  The bay was gorgeous, a deep, wintry blue, and the waves sparkled.  She turned to her left, following the sound, and motion caught her eye.

            Dr. Lecter was wielding a large, apparently very sharp axe, splitting wood on a stump.  Judging by the pile next to him, he’d been at it for quite a while.  His oversized gray shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, and the tails flapped in the light wind.  She watched him work, his pale skin flushed with heat and exertion.  As she looked on, a particularly brisk gust blew the fabric from his shoulders, binding his arms.  Smoothly, he lay down his tool and shrugged the shirt off, tossing it over onto the woodpile.  He bent, retrieved the axe, and resumed chopping.  She stayed there a moment, fascinated at the rare sight of the unguarded man.  Ideas began to bubble as she wondered what his devious mind had put on the agenda for today.

            Starling turned back into the house, closing the door softly behind her.  The sight of Dr. Lecter in blue jeans was one she knew was going to stick with her.  And it did, the whole while she was rummaging through the kitchen, squeezing limes and lemons and watching the juice fizz as she added a smidgen of sugar and the seltzer she’d found.

            She eventually located a tumbler that didn’t quite look as if it had come out of a museum display and filled it.  Setting the glass on the table, she went to the hallway and pulled on her boots.  She grabbed a towel and the glass on her way out the door.

            He was still hard at work, and she could see the sweat on his skin as she approached.  He was concentrating, as is important when swinging large, sharp objects, and didn’t seem to notice her until she spoke.

            “Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter.”

            He froze for an instant and his eyes darted to the left.  Tossing the wood he’d just split onto the pile, he swung the axe once more, letting it bite into the stump.  “Hello, Clarice,” he replied, wiping his forehead with the heel of his hand.

            “Thirsty work,” she said, offering him the towel and the glass.

            “Thank you.”  He wiped his face, chest, and hands with the towel and slung it over his shoulder.  Taking the tumbler from her hands, he drank deeply.  “Refreshing.”

            “Yes.  Yes, it is,” she said, trying not to look at his chest and failing dismally.  He was sleek and firm, practically hairless, and his shoulders seemed broader than she remembered.  She knew plenty of thirty-year-old men who would kill for his abs.

            And his arms… she recalled their strength, when he’d held her close, and kissed her senseless… his mouth, searching her own… the jolt she’d felt, all the way to her core… she could admit to herself now that there had been a terrifying attraction from the very first time they’d met.  And every single time thereafter.  Including now.  Which made rational thinking very difficult. 

            “Clarice?”

            He was staring at her, one eyebrow raised.  She blinked.  “I’m sorry, Doctor?”

            “I said, what would you like to do today?”

            A thousand replies jostled for prominence on her tongue, and it took her a moment to sort through them.  “What would I like to do today?” she repeated slowly, lifting her eyes to the horizon.

            Silence.  And then some.  He began to speak.  “I thought we might…”

            “What I would like, Dr. Lecter,” she interrupted, suddenly certain, “is to have a quiet day.  Listen to you play, maybe.  Turn on the TV and catch a movie.  Talk about the weather.  Play a game of cards.  Something… something ordinary.”

            “Well, perhaps…”

            “It occurs to me,” she continued, barely acknowledging that he had spoken, “that practically every minute we have ever spent together has been charged with some sort of life-threatening intensity.  I wonder how long we could last without escalating a simple interaction into a melodrama?”

            He spread his hands apart.  “So you want to play just plain folks, is that it?”

            “Would that be so wrong?”

            He shrugged.  “Unrealistic, Clarice.  There are still lives at stake here.  Or have you forgotten that I’m on parole?  Nothing you have said or done has changed that.  Oh, I admit, your reaction yesterday was reassuring, but for all I know, I’m one wrong move away from you driving off into the sunset and coming back with a SWAT team in tow.”

            “I wouldn’t do that,” she said instantly.

            “Really,” he said, enunciating every single letter.  “What if you saw something, felt something, that made you think it was the right thing to do?  What if I regaled you, right here and now, with the tale of how I made the Wound Man?  Or of what it felt like to pull a knife through Will Graham’s guts?  To watch Pazzi’s face as I disemboweled him?”

            She closed her eyes and threw her hands up in front of her face.  Of all the places she didn’t want to go…

            “Had enough, Clarice?  Or would you like to hear more?”

            He had closed in on her, and she could feel his breath on her cheek as those last words hissed against her ear.  Musk and pine, sweat and sawdust, filled her nostrils.  She began to shake, first her hands, then her chin.  Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and whipped her head around to face him.

            “You want story-time, Doctor?  You want to hear about the time I shot a mother carrying her child?  The time I fired a bullet through the dark into Jame Gumb’s chest?  Is quid pro quo the kind of game you want to play?”

            “It beats Scrabble,” he said, without missing a beat.

            He held her eyes for a minute, and then she dropped her head into her hands.  “You see what I mean?” she muttered into her palms.  “Every single fucking time.  Without fail.”

            He actually laughed at that, and the sound tickled her until she laughed too.  She raised her head and favored him with an appalled stare.  “You know what I just realized?  You and Jack Crawford actually agree on something.”

            “And what could that possibly be?” he asked.

            “I should never forget what you are.”

            “And what is that?”

            “I have absolutely no idea.  But it seems to be important that I find out.”

            He smiled then, and licked his lips.  “You’ve gotten better at changing the subject, Clarice.”

            “Have I?” she said with mock innocence.

            “Yes.  A far cry from our time in Memphis.  But I’ll do you a favor, just this once, and remind you.”  He paused, and she swore she could actually see his eyes light up.  “You actually do want to hear my stories.  And you want to tell me your own.  You don’t like to admit it, but a part of you has been trembling with curiosity ever since I broached the subject.”  He stepped closer, closing the distance between them again.  When he was just a handspan away, he spoke once more, fixing her in his unblinking gaze.  “And, what’s more, you love it when I tell you these things.  When I read you like a book.”  He ended in a whisper.  “You can’t get enough.”

            It was true, and it thrilled her, and she knew in an instant that he loved it too.  But all at once she realized what he loved even more.

            She leaned into him, brushing her palms against his pectorals, feeling them bunch under the slight pressure of her touch.  “There are a lot of things I want from you, Dr. Lecter,” she said, her voice husky.  She looked up at him through lashes lowered.  “And you’re pretty good at changing the subject, too.”

            She stepped back, turned, and walked towards the patio.  When she’d gone a few paces, she looked over her shoulder.  He was still standing there, absolutely motionless.

            “Aren’t you coming?” she called, and sniffed the air.  “Better bring some of that wood.  It smells like there’s snow on the way.”

            She grinned all the way back to the house.

            Once inside, she refused to look back.  Instead, she pulled off her boots and went into the library.  Browsing the shelves, she smiled when she heard the sound of firewood being deposited in the next room.  She found a volume of Shakespeare and lifted it down.  Shakespeare was good.  Literate.  Edified.  Of course, it was Hobson’s choice, since Shakespeare was the only name she immediately recognized.  But it would do.

            She settled down onto the leather couch, wrapping a wool throw blanket around her.  She looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and saw Lecter enter the room, shirt on and emphatically buttoned, carrying an armful of wood.  He crossed the chamber and deposited his load into the brass wood box.

            He straightened up and looked at her, his face a blank.  “I’m going up for a shower,” he said.

            “I’m reading a book,” she replied, her expression equally uninformative.

            If one had been looking very closely, it might have been possible to see Lecter’s eyebrows twitch.  He said nothing, however, and merely exited the room.

            Her face broke out into a smile as she began to peruse the sonnets in earnest.  She heard the pipes of the old house begin to sing their low, rushing refrain, and bit her lip.  A muscle in her calf began to tense and release, tense and release.  She drummed her fingertips on the paper, temptation and prudence waging a vicious war within her.

            There could be no question what she wanted to do, and the very daydream caused her pulse to quicken.  She imagined slinking upstairs, sliding a bobby pin in the lock, opening his bedroom door, seeing the steam floating on the moist, hot air, tiptoeing towards the bathroom, shedding her clothes like a snake sheds skin, feeling the water pound against her back, feeling his mouth…

            And then feeling his incisors deep in her jugular.  No, prudence definitely won this round.  She examined herself closely, sinking back into the deep soft cushions, the book lying unheeded in her lap.  There was really no trace left of allegiance to anyone else.  It was simply herself she was concerned with.  What would become of her, if she joined with him?  Would she lose herself in his life?  The swank surroundings, the crystal and jewels, the china, the silks?  Would she still like the Stones?  Would she forget how to swear?  Would she become a monster?  Was he one?

            She wanted more before she made up her mind.  Not that he’d actually hurt her like that, not physically, she thought as she began to read again.  But he had many more deadly weapons in his arsenal, and most wouldn’t even leave a mark… to the eye, at least.  But she knew she’d feel the scars on her soul forever, if she made a wrong move.

            Wrong move.  She looked up from the pages, sighed, and closed her eyes.  Again with the chess match, the duel, the game.  As much as it frustrated her, she knew… this is what had been missing from her prior swains.  The boring Pilch, all those gray men in gray suits, even John Brigham, it was just the prosaic, formulaic predictability of interaction, Tab A and Slot B, not much more than mere mechanics in the end.  Nothing to venture, nothing to gain.

            Pursue this, and put your very life into the pot.  Ante up, girlfriend.  Dealer’s waiting.  Play or pass.

            She’d hear his stories, first.  And then decide.  Can’t put it off forever.

            Something, some change in the air, made her open her eyes.  He was standing over her, watching with unblinking eyes.  Hair slicked back, dove-gray raw silk shirt, open at the collar.  Charcoal gray wool trousers.  Black leather belt.  Pearl buttons.  Armed to the teeth in elegance.  She smiled and swung her legs down, making a space for him on the sofa.

            He sat.  “Shakespeare?” he inquired.

            “Yes,” she replied, and handed him the volume, still opened to the page she had yet to read.

            He cast his eyes down briefly at the page, swiftly swiveled his head and caught her in his gaze.  “Clarice, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

            She would rather be burnt at the stake than admit she hadn’t the faintest clue what he was talking about.  What the hell was on that page that made him say that?  Time to bluff.  “Perhaps there are a few things you don’t know about me, Dr. Lecter.”

            The corner of his mouth turned up slightly.  He made some show of clearing his throat, and began to read.

 

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

 

            She did her very best not to writhe, but she could not contain the blood that suffused her cheeks.  “It’s one of my favorites,” she said too quickly.

            “Ah.”  There was obviously no fooling him.

Best to try her new-found subject-changing talents.  “So, Dr. Lecter, you were going to tell me a story?”

            He breathed a small sigh.  “Perhaps I should start the fire.  It’s getting a bit chilly in here.”

            “Of course,” she said, rising from her place.  “I’ll fix us something warm to drink.”

            “That’s really not n—“

            “It’s my pleasure, Doctor,” she said, and got out of the room before he could supply an argument.  It was fabulous to be pampered, but it just wasn’t her style.  She needed to do things, useful things.

            She recalled how Ardelia had banned her from using the coffeemaker, and decided that tea was probably the least fuckupable warm beverage in her repertoire.  Searching for tea bags, she found only the loose variety, in an assortment of small canisters on the counter.  “Of course,” she sighed to herself, then found a tea ball and teapot and got to work.

            She returned to the library carrying a silver tray filled with all the accoutrements, and found a fire blithely flickering in the small brick fireplace.  Candles were lit all around, light bouncing off the warm oak shelves, and the thick brocade drapes were pulled shut against the fading vestiges of daylight.  The atmosphere thus created was cozy and intimate, a far cry from the very conscious grandeur of the front room.  He was at the piano, playing a piece she didn’t recognize.  It was soft and sad and lonely, and not at all like anything she’d ever imagined would come out of him.  She set the tray down on the sofa table.

            He turned when he heard the sound of metal on wood.

            “May I pour for you, Doctor?” she asked, feeling a little off-balance, like a girl playing dress-up in too large shoes.

            “Certainly,” he said, rising from the piano bench to take a place on the sofa.  He waited while she filled a cup and passed it over to him.  Taking a sip, he said, “Earl Gray.  Excellent choice for a cold winter’s day.”

            “Thanks,” she said, filling her own cup and coming around to sit on the other end of the sofa.  The fire had begun to warm the room, but a damp chill still lingered in the air.  She reached for the blanket and spread it over her lap.

            They sat there a moment, the only sound the crackling of the logs, until Lecter made his gambit.

            “Which story did you want to hear, Clarice?”  His head was slightly inclined to the right, his eyes softly focused on her face.

            She swallowed.  “Tell me about Will Graham.”

            He leaned back and closed his eyes.  “Imagine that you are simply going about your work, doing what must be done, and then suddenly, you find yourself face to face with someone you’ve never met.  That someone looks at you and you know that he’s seeing straight through every defense you possess, stalking all uninvited through the corridors of your mind.”

            “That’s not a real big stretch for me, Dr. Lecter.”

            He laughed, and it was like the grating of a rasp on a sheet metal burr.  “No, I expect it wouldn’t be.  But ponder this: in your life, there have been some few people who knew you.  Or, at least, knew some of you.  Some people you let in.”

            She slowly nodded her acknowledgement.

            “I never let anyone in, Clarice.  Never.”

            She let the thought roll around in her head, trying to imagine.  “That must have been terrifying.”

            He shrugged.  “It was unpleasant.  But, more to the point, it made me vulnerable, and I knew it.  He had to be stopped.  It was him or me, at that point.”

            She pressed her lips together, and he saw the minute gesture.

            “The black hats have at least as much instinct for self-preservation as the white hats do, Clarice.  Usually more.  When you shot Evelda Drumgo, you did it because she had left you no choice, isn’t that correct?”

            His words conjured the image in her mind… the blood, the glass, the pain.  She nodded again.

            “Leave your ingrained sense of justification out of it for a moment.  Consider this: You felt what you were doing was right.  Evelda felt what she was doing was right.  Will Graham felt what he was doing was right.  And I felt what I was doing was right.”  He paused, giving her time to reflect.  “Who decides?”

            “Who decides,” she repeated, a furrow appearing on her forehead.

            He was still and silent, apparently done with his story.

            “But, Dr. Lecter,” she said, “that’s not what I wanted to know.”

            He raised an eyebrow in query.

            “I’m not an idiot, Dr. Lecter, and I could have told you at least that much of the story myself.  What I want to know is what did you feel while you were doing it?  What were you thinking about?”

            He tilted his head forward, tipping his chin toward his chest, as if measuring her.

            “One of the great failings of this culture, Clarice, is that it posits that beauty is to be found only in the sweetly dyspeptic, hearts and flowers, pleasing to the eye world of a thirteen-year-old girl.  Oh, there are those who pretend to know better, those who like their pseudo-Gothic ‘darkness,’ but very few people in this world have the mettle to come to terms with the full range of life on earth.  And that is where beauty lies.”

            He sat forward, leaning in towards her.  “Certainly, the David is beautiful in his perfection of physique.  But the broken and battered body of a man is just as beautiful, in a different way.  The Mona Lisa’s smile is justly famous.  Unfortunately, there are not many save myself who could truly appreciate the beauty in the grimace of pain that twisted Mr. Graham’s features as I cut him.”

            He took a breath, hesitated a fraction of a second, and took Clarice’s motionless hand in his own.  “I don’t want you to misunderstand me.  Had there been other options open to me, I would not have chosen to hurt Will Graham.  However, since it was essential, I chose not to waste the moment in idle and ultimately banal regret.  It was an experience; I savored it to the best of my ability.  As I would do in any other situation.”

            For a long while, it seemed that the pressure of his hand on hers was the only sensation in her world.  At last, she spoke.

            “I wish you had been there, when I shot her.  I wish you could have seen.  Maybe you would be able to show me the beauty.  All I saw was ugliness and pain.  Lives wasted, for nothing.”

            “Clarice.”  It was a whisper and a command.

            She looked up at him.   He spoke.  “What makes you think your point of view is any less valid than mine?”

            To that, she had no answer.  But he understood anyway.

            “I don’t want you to be anything that you’re not.  What I would like is for you to become all that you are.  If you feel that you can best do that somewhere far away from here, so be it.  But if you think you can do it here—“

            Propriety, she thought suddenly, dictated that she sit back and shut up.  That she not press the point, but wait for him to get to there eventually.  Well, Emily Post could go hang.  Since the very first day, down in the dungeon, propriety had been a useful guide through the deadly minefield of their acquaintance, but it could not take her where she needed to go.  Time for a new set of rules.   “And what about you?”  Her voice was thick, her accent strong.

            He faltered, voice trailing off into nothingness.  He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.  Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak, but did not.  Finally, he closed his eyes and became very still.  His tongue appeared and swept across his lips.

            “I thought I was complete, finished, sufficient unto the day.  And then you walked down the corridor, so full of… full of faith.  Belief.  Trust.  But you had vision, and honesty, and strength, to put behind it.  A warrior of virtue.  And yet, the things you believed in… I knew they would betray you.  I knew they already had.  Jack sending you to me, a lamb to the slaughter.  I was curious to see how you would take your fall.”

            A tear fell, unheeded, down her cheek.  He continued, unaware.

            “And we talked, and you surprised me.  No one had done that since… well, since Will Graham, to be precise.  You were as interested in me as I was in you.  And not in the voyeuristic, zookeeper fashion that I had become so odiously familiar with.  You really wanted to know.  Because you felt the kinship, maybe even before I did, didn’t you?  You wanted to understand me so you could understand yourself.”  A beat.  “So do I.”

            He stopped. She reached a hand out, touched his face, tracing her finger from temple to chin. His eyes remained closed but she could feel the tension locking his jaws, the tightness around his mouth.

            He was barely even breathing.

            She put her palms on his cheeks, held his head in her hands. "Some of our stars are the same," she whispered, bringing her face close to his.

            His eyelids flew open and, for the first time, the maroon whorls were calm, the dilated pupils invited her to enter, and his gaze caressed her without stinging.  A ragged gasp.  “Clarice,” was all he spoke.

            It was enough. She didn't need to hear more, but stopped whatever words he might have said, and whatever words he couldn’t say, with a kiss.

            It was like kissing ice.  She could sense his hesitation, felt his hands trembling at her sides, and then he melted, just a little.  His arms wrapped around her waist, her hand went to the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into her.  He lifted her onto his lap; she straddled him with her knees.  With a ferocity that amazed her even as she gave into it, she pressed him into the cushions, forcing her way into his mouth, digging her fingers into his back, grinding her hips into him.

            At first, he seemed to resist, his mouth hard against hers.  And then he surrendered, allowing her in, his hands splayed across her thighs, pushing her down against him.  She could not stop exploring him.  The subtle, nubby texture of the raw silk against her cheek as she trailed her tongue down his jaw line, sucking at the flesh beneath his ear.  The scratch of the thick wool as her fingers journeyed around his waist, pulling him up by the seat of his pants.  The cool, slick smoothness of his buttons as she nimbly pried each one out of its hole.  She tugged his shirt out of its confinement, spreading it open, baring the muscles she’d sampled so briefly earlier.  She bent her head down, letting her hair fall against his skin, teasing him with a feathery caress.  The salty flavor of his nipple in her mouth as she grazed it with her teeth. She was delirious; she was desire itself.  Tasting, touching, feeling his strength, coiled beneath her, straining against her.  She gasped.

            He growled, and she felt him take his passion off the leash, relinquishing control.  Suddenly she was being devoured, whole, his mouth marking her lips, her neck, her earlobes, the skin over her breastbone.  His fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her head back, arching her back so that the thin fabric of her blouse stretched tightly over her breasts.  He kept her there a moment, until she felt as if she would break, and then his other hand drew the shirt from her slacks and pulled it over her head, pinning her arms behind her.  His fingers scrabbled at her back, freeing the clasp of her black, lacy bra.  It followed the shirt, and she was bare, unshielded from his onslaught, and he pressed his face against her chest, rubbing and tasting and sucking and kneading.  She writhed beneath the pressure, tossing her head from side to side, rocking against him, feeling like her body was a wire, and he the electricity running through her.

            But for all his fevered attacks, she needed more, and began to twist her body, struggling out of the bondage of fabric, leaning back as far as her supple joints would take her.  He raised his head and their eyes met for a second.  The feral gleam in his gaze sent a pulse through her, and she bucked against him, remembering when she had seen that expression before, on black and white video that couldn’t come close to capturing the uninhibited intensity of his passion.

            He pressed a hand against her sternum, forcing her back even farther, and she was laid out before him, white skin suffused with blood, like a blushing rose.  His other hand moved to the button at her waist, and he tore her slacks open, fingers diving inside.  She moaned and quivered, moving against his hand, her arms straining and pulling, finally freeing herself from his snare, and she reached up to touch him…

She was rising, she was falling, he’d picked her up and thrown her against the couch.  He stood, backlit by the fire, a silhouette with glowing eyes, and as he advanced upon her she didn’t know if this was right or wrong or where they would go from here but she did know it was unavoidable, their need irresistible.  He let his shirt fall from his shoulders, caught it as it fell, and flung it aside.  She arched her back, her hands clenching air, biting her lip as she watched him approach.  He reached out his arm, extending a hand towards her face, and she caught his finger in her mouth, circled her tongue around it, sucking at it.  He pulled away, quickly, and in movements almost too fast to follow, ripped the slacks from her legs, the fabric slithering across her skin.  He threw them over the couch, and tore more black lace from her body.  She lifted her hips, felt leather, cool to the touch, his hands burning a brand down her legs.

She could not stay still, but sprang up, her fingers working the buckle of his belt, the button, the zipper.  His hands moved across her head, grabbing fistfuls of hair, as she slid the wool trousers to his ankles.  He kicked them away, slipping out of his shoes, and she opened her hands, running splayed fingers over black silk, reveling in the stiffening of his body as she eased the boxers down.

She looked up through lashes, and their eyes met again.  The hunger she saw paralleled her own.

As he came down upon her, it was thrust and parry, sally and sortie, no retreat and no return.  They invaded each other, ground given and taken, and as the battle trumpets sounded their clarion call, they each knew the victor’s spoils of war.