Author's note:  Well, here we are, the end of the story.  Whether or not there will be another sequel I don't know.  But this has been enormously fun to write, and I'm glad for those who found it fun to read.  Screaming Lamb, I'm sorry you don't get your wish in this one…but you never know.  Also, thanks to LoT for volunteering to be the basis for Isabelle Pierce.  (I have this bad tendency to abuse characters based on fellow Lecterphiles unmercifully, and other than campaigning for Detective Pierce not to be killed, LoT took it rather well.) 

                The prison was beginning to quiet down for the night.  Steel gates slammed shut on each cellblock.  Rebecca DeGould had learned to hate that.  She hated everything about this. 

                In the year since her arrest, things had gone to shit quickly.  Despite her father's best efforts, she had not been granted bail and had been detained during her trial.  They'd deemed her a flight risk.  On that, Rebecca had to admit they were right.  The system in Virginia was slanted towards the prosecution.  Juries were tough.  Given the opportunity, she'd have hopped a plane to Switzerland and gotten the hell out of town until the heat cooled.  In lieu of Bern, she had this cell. 

                She held a special hatred for her two little ingrates.  She'd offered them a second chance.  Her repayment for her efforts had been to have both of them switch sides and testify against her.  What was the most galling was that they were free.  In both cases, the governors of their respective states had given them quiet pardons.  In the grand scheme of things, this made little noise.  Far more clemency and pardon applications are granted with no fanfare every year than the public thinks.  And the sound and fury caused by the massive federal probe into state prison systems drowned out by far any complaints DeGould could have brought.   Ultimately there was nothing she could do about them; their pardons had both been signed and they were beyond her power. 

                A police officer who goes to prison has special needs.  Many prisoners will kill an ex-cop.  In most cases, a prisoner who is a former police officer is given a new identity to serve their time under.  In Rebecca DeGould's case, her attorneys had argued that there was so much publicity that it would be unfair to make her serve her sentence in either the Virginia state system or the federal prison system.

                She would have vastly preferred New York, where her father could have gotten her special privileges, but instead they'd sent her to California.  Here in the Chowchilla women's prison, Rebecca DeGant became simply another inmate, here to serve out a thirty-year sentence for her crimes. 

                She'd been given a job in the psychiatric service's office as a clerk.  It was galling.  She had a degree from Harvard, for God's sake.  Yet here she was, taking orders from nurses and psychiatrists who had gone to Cow College University. 

                As the prison began to lock down for the night, Rebecca DeGould sat alone in her cell and sighed. 

That day had brought her two letters.  Neither of them were angry letters from her father, furious that she had squandered her life over her desire for revenge.  Despite that, he was still hiring attorneys for her appeal.   No, these were far worse. 

                She looked over the first. 

Dear Rebecca, 

                By now you've probably wondered what I'm going to do to you in revenge.  Based on where you are, I could easily do so.  It would only take dropping the right word to the right person that you're a former FBI agent. You know how ex-police are treated in prison. 

                However, I'm not going to do that – yet.  I had nothing to do with what happened to you before.  I elected to show mercy to you, and in respect I shouldn't have.  This time, my mercy comes at a higher cost. 

                Serve your time and build yourself a life with whatever you can in prison, Rebecca.  You're going to be there for a long, long time.  If you leave me alone, I will do the same.  And that's all the mercy I will show you this time. 

                If you attempt to move against me in any way shape or form, then I will move against you.  You'll never be able to prove anything.  I can move behind the scenes too, when I have to.  I'll make sure it becomes known that you're former FBI.  Do you know what will happen then, Rebecca?  I'll make it easy for you.  They'll put you in protective custody – and in Chowchilla, that means the SHU. 

                I could be angry, and do so immediately.  You'd never be able to do anything to stop me, and after years in the SHU you would be as crazy as Brittany and Kiera testified you thought we would be.  But I am not that cruel, and perhaps I have learned something from this whole prison project.  Even the guiltiest parties deserve some consideration. 

                That's the mercy I will show you.  I have the axe over your neck; I won't drop it so long as you behave yourself.   Try and screw me, and I'll drop it with nary a drop of guilt.  I understand your lawyers are pursuing an appeal, and that's fine – that's your right under the system. You've got the best attorneys money can buy.  Maybe they can buy your freedom; maybe they can't.  We'll see.  But for now, Rebecca, I have the ability to make your life a lot more miserable than it is.  Keep that in mind. 

                                                                Clarice Starling

                                                                Section Chief, Behavioral Sciences

                                                                Quantico, VA

                What galled DeGould about it was that it was true.  Starling could easily obtain the name of a few prisoners and send them a letter easily and anonymously.  If they found out she was a cop, her prison term would be more miserable. 

                The other letter had arrived in an unmarked envelope.  Her profiler training told her straight off that it had been sent through an anonymous remailer.  But she had no way to act on it. 

                Dear Former Agent Rebecca DeGould,

                I see from the local media that you've been publicly shamed and sentenced to spend a large amount of your life in prison for your crimes.  Normally, I'd have some sympathy for you.  After all, I, too, was once judged too dangerous to be allowed into society. 

                However, your target in this matter was a friend of mine, and I have not yet forgotten that you attempted once to use my wife as a pawn in crafting Clarice's doom.  At this point, you must feel rather disconsolate.  In lieu of Clarice's doom, you've painstakingly built your own.  Odd how these little things work, is it not? 

                I must add a bit more to your disconsolation. 

                Agent Clarice Starling had nothing to do with Gregory Lynch's attack on you.  I told him to attack you.  The sexual assault I will apologize for: that was his doing.  I did not order that.  Such things are rude. 

                But for what it's worth, Inmate DeGould, your attack on Clarice Starling was in error.  She was, simply put, not responsible. I daresay she would have demanded I stay my hand had she known what I was planning, even for you.  Your life stands in ruins…for nothing. 

                How does that make you feel?

                                Your pal,

                                Hannibal Lecter, MD

                Rebecca DeGould let out a long sigh and lay back on her bunk.  She stared out the barred cell door at the ugly green cement walls that constrained her.  The cries of inmates echoed up and down the run. 

                "This is not over," she whispered.  But no one heard.

…

                The water was calm as it lapped the shores of the mansion in Watson's Bay.  The excited shrieks of a little boy echoed across the water.  Michael Litton, troubled not at all by the brief time he had spent in a killer's cage, ran across the deck and peered down at the water.  He extended a bare toe into its depths, felt the water, and pulled it back.  He ran back to his parents sitting on the deck, hands flung into the air, and plopped his damp body eagerly on his father's lap. 

                Hannibal Lecter smiled tolerantly at his son.  In front of him was a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald.  The headline across it read Cannibal Killer found insane.  According to it, the Scottish pathologist who had attempted to emulate Hannibal Lecter would emulate him in yet another way.  He would be incarcerated in a maximum-security psychiatric hospital in the countryside of New South Wales.  

                Dr. Hannibal Lecter found that awfully amusing.  He wondered if the director of the facility might be amenable to a few Chilton lessons.  After all, if Dr. McGregory wanted to imitate him, he really ought to get the full treatment.  Perhaps one day another killer would arise, and Detective Pierce might visit him to quiz him for his knowledge.  That would be quite amusing in and of itself. 

                The detective herself had been lauded for her capture of the Cannibal Killer.  There had been talk of establishing a national profiling center akin to Behavioral Sciences.  Dr. Lecter privately found that extremely amusing.  If they did, he rather hoped they put Detective Pierce in charge of it.  He would much rather have her running a department and dealing with the politics that rode along with such things rather than tracking him down. 

                But he himself had what he wanted.  Peace and quiet.  Clarice had told him of her final gift in a letter.  She had her own path to follow, and now that included another male presence in her life.  Although part of that tore at him, he would bear it quietly.  After all, Clarice had learned to live with it years ago. 

                He turned as the door opened and watched his wife emerge out onto the deck.  Michael slipped from his lap and ran to grab his mother around the knees.  Calmly, she bent down to greet him, then turned her attention to her husband. 

                "How was surgery?" Dr. Lecter asked calmly. 

                "Fine," she said.  "Had a pacemaker implant in the morning. Then I got to assist over at St. Vincents for the heart transplant.  That was fun." 

                Dr. Lecter nodded.  That was rather a coup for her professionally.  She wasn't a transplant surgeon by trade, but her skill in the operating room had not gone unnoticed.   She'd done more cardiac work here and become expert at it over the past few years. 

                "Excellent," Dr. Lecter said.  "It seems Clarice has news of her own." 

                Even now, he could see her hands tremble at the sound of that name.  He sighed.  But perhaps hearing this would satisfy her.  The shadow Clarice had cast over her was largely in her own mind. 

                "What would that be?" she asked guardedly. 

                "She's getting married," Dr. Lecter told her calmly.

                She never would have admitted the relief that played across her face upon hearing that.  Dr. Lecter stored it away in his memory palace.  He would not court domestic discord by reminding her of it, but it was there. 

                "So she's marrying her New York fellow," Erin observed. 

                "Indeed," Dr. Lecter agreed. 

                "How do you feel about that?" she asked.  Her eyes fixed his. 

                Dr. Lecter knew that the answer to the question might invite a glare that would scorch his collar.  He smiled pleasantly.  Between them, Michael bounced up and down excitedly.  

                "I'm glad that she will be happy," he said simply. 

                Erin seemed pleased with the answer.  "All right," she said. 

                "By the way," Dr. Lecter said, steering the conversation elsewhere, "we have dinner reservations tonight." 

                "I know," Erin assured him.  "Sunni will be by at seven.  She'll watch him."  She smiled.  "He's got a new video to watch." 

                Dr. Lecter grimaced.  "Better her than me," he observed. 

                "Well, let me get changed," she said.  "I suppose you'll be sending a letter to Clarice, then.  Leave it on the table.  I'll send it off in the morning." 

                Dr. Lecter nodded and watched his wife go.  He sat with his son and watched him play on the deck.  For a moment, he thought. 

                He had never expected his life to take the turns it had.  His early years in the United States; the dark years of incarceration.  Then his first meeting with Clarice and his subsequent escape.  His first meeting with Erin.  The lonely but luxuriant years of Florence.  How wonderful and yet how lonely it had been.  Then, his return to the United States, and his second meeting with both women.  How hard it had been to be forced to give her up.  But it was the way of things.

                "Be happy, Clarice," he whispered.  "Be well."  He took a long moment to gaze across the sun setting on the water, bright red and flickering on the water. 

                Then he took his son's small hand and brought him inside.

                …

                The small stucco house sat next to the others.  A battered '88 Roush Mustang sat in the driveway.  Parked behind it was a red Dodge.  The sounds of crackling oil cooking in a skillet rose from the kitchen.

                Paul DaSilva stood over his stove, humming a merry tune as he cooked.  Deftly he transferred the contents of the pan to a large serving platter.  He glanced around to see the form of Clarice Starling appearing around the corner. 

                "Heeey," he said.  "How was work?" 

                Clarice chuckled.  "Just fine," she said.  "The usual.  Meetings with Justice, shepherding a few Senators around, all that.  Politics." 

                "Hope you're ready for Sunday," he said. 

                Clarice chuckled and nodded. 

                "I am," she said softly.   She glanced over at the clock.  "'Delia's late." 

                "She's working late," Paul agreed.  "She'll be here."  He glanced out the window.  Ardelia had bought a place two doors down with her half of the insurance money.  Clarice found that best; she had her space with Paul, but 'Delia was right there when they wanted to be together. 

                 Paul had transferred down from the New York field office several months ago.  Other than being deprived of his beloved Yankees and Giants, he had done fairly well down here.  He wasn't part of Behavioral Sciences, just the regular FBI office.  That was good.  Clarice Starling ran Behavioral Sciences.  Having her fiancé working for her would have been a conflict of interest. 

                "I got email from Brittany," she said.  "She and her fella are going to try and make it up here." 

                Paul chuckled easily.  "Hope she's better about email now than she was," he quipped.  After the trial, Clarice had managed to drop a word with the FBI office in Miami and gotten Brittany in there in a secretarial position.  The concept of email had been a new thing to the former prisoner, and for a bit of time Clarice's mailbox had been deluged by chatty email.  Even so, she'd found it more amusing than anything else.  There was something delightfully ironic about getting email from [email protected] and seeing Rebecca DeGould sent off to Chowchilla.

                "Fella?" Paul said, his eyebrows raised. 

                "Yep," Clarice said.  "That case down in Florida.  Leon Speer.  He was convicted for a murder and finally exonerated.  You saw it on the news.  Well, she'd written him in prison and now they're an item.  She says he understands her.  I told her she could bring him." 

                Paul chuckled.  "Ex-felon love," he said.  "Gotta love it.  It's so heartwarming."

                 She gave him a mock scowl, amused by the way he pronounced it hotwahming.  "Now, now," she said.  "They're just people." 

"Yes, ma'am," he said, pretending badly to look abashed. Then a thought crossed his mind and his face wrinkled.    "Hey, wait a minute," he protested.  "If she marries him, then her name's gonna be--,"
                "Paul," Clarice cut him off, stern as her Appalachian forebears, "they're happy together and that's all that matters.  There's enough misery in the world as it is."  A forefinger waggled at him in displeasure. 

"I better stick to my penne before I get in more trouble," Paul pondered aloud. 

Clarice eyed him with mock suspicion for a few moments before cracking a grin. 

"Maybe," she said.

A knock at the door turned her head.  Ardelia was waiting outside.  Clarice smiled and let her in. 

"Hi, Clarice!" she said.  "Sorry I'm late." 

Clarice chuckled.  "That's fine." 

"You ready for the big day Sunday?" Ardelia challenged. 

Clarice nodded. 

"You nervous?"

Clarice smiled.  "No," she said. 

Sunday.  Her wedding day.  A day she'd never known would come. 

Over dinner, they chatted pleasantly.  Clarice found her mind wandering.  She thought of Dr. Lecter in his cell all those years ago, caged and malignant.  There were other sides to him, as she'd found out over the years.  But there had always been a darkness to him, no matter how calm he had gotten in the meantime. 

A shade.  He had been a shade over her for years.  A dark presence in her thoughts.  He had been her teacher.  He had been her prey.  And he had made his own choice to go with another.  Even then, his shadow hung over her life.  She'd let him go before, physically.  Now she would let him go from her mind and heart.  It was what he wanted her to do, she believed.  He would want her to be happy.

Shades cast no shadows, Clarice Starling thought, and then she let him go.