Return of the Lambs

Memories

The lamb fell silent as Clarice Starling leapt up.

In the first light, the eyes of Dr Hannibal Lecter stared at her from the last newspaper article pinned to the wall above her desk.

He had healed her and he had drugged her, he had fought her and trapped her.

He had carried her lifeless body from the pit with the pigs and had kissed her that night in the house, before making his escape.

She still saw the moment he had stepped back, the slight sigh and groan he had made as he did.

Starling thought of little else after the bureau had burst into the house and discovered both her and the corpse of Paul Kendler.

Two weeks after the incident, her name and face were splashed across the media. She knew, somewhere in the world, Dr Lecter would be watching her with eager eyes. Starling wondered if he was in Europe, somewhere where he could blend in effortlessly, but all of her leads had dried up months ago after a possible sighting in Canada.

Perhaps he would send another letter, a brief phone call with his well-spoken, rough voice echoing down the line, her name balanced on his lips...

Starling checked her voicemails and entered the bathroom to clean her face.Her passport and tickets were sat on the desk, her suitcase packed.

Starling decided to go to Prague after a brochure was pushed through her door. She didn't believe in coincidences, and the intuition that told her to go was the same intuition that had led her to believe that Paul Kendler was working with Mason Verger, which had been discovered to be true.

She had booked this excursion as a civilian because she needed time to process everything.

The bureau had reinstated her with a formal apology, but that former faith she held in it had been shaken - something she knew would have delighted Hannibal Lecter. 

She looked around the room once more and found nothing but a pair of maroon eyes, frozen in a photograph, staring back at her with glee.

Clarice Starling left.

It was the last time she saw that room.

-

Dr Hannibal Lecter is playing the piano.

Above him on the wall is a charcoal drawing of Clarice Starling, much like the one from his prison cell in Tennessee.

Dr Lecter plays to no sheet music, he has no need of it and has placed a scattering of newspapers in its place.  All show his former special agent.

He smiles slightly.

A breeze blows off the river and disturbs him, so, for now, we must flee, hoping we have not caught his attention.