Hannibal- Another Retelling

A revision of the story between Clarice and Hannibal. Hannibal was not captured; these characters met under different circumstances. A brassy, determined young agent escapes from a haunting past into a new life as a new person. In this new town, with a new job, no connections, or desire to arouse attention, can Clarice make another life for herself?

Loosely mentions events from the books: Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, & Hannibal.

The characters are not my own. That honor belongs to Thomas Harris.

This is my story:

Clarice glanced at her new identification, Clarice Thrush, Caucasian, 36 years old, and, she shuddered, Ethologist.

What a joke. Clarice thought angrily.

Once an FBI Special Agent in the Behavior Analysis Unit taskforce was now shunned by notorious Deputy Assistant Attorney General Paul Krendler and Senator Ruth Martin.

Had the noble Senator forgotten that her daughter was alive because of the efforts from Clarice and Chief Jack Crawford?!

It didn't matter, Clarice thought. Mr. Crawford had been forcibly retired and decided that it was best if he cut ties with his youngest protégé.

All because of the failed drug raid and the aftermath of her partner, John Brigham's death.

As a last gift from her mentor, Mr. Crawford advised Clarice Starling to use her minor degree in ethology (the study of non-human animal behavior), change her last name, and relocate. He reasoned that because of her poor image with media and Paul Krendler out for her blood, a true fresh beginning was in order. Hidden behind his words were his true meaning, 'you'll never work in law enforcement again without becoming a joke.'

An ex-agent, Will Graham, had a hand in her current whereabouts and provided tips on avoiding the spotlight.

In other words, give up the badge.

So here she was, Clarice Thrush, starting over in Chesapeake, Virginia in a shitbox of an apartment near to the zoo. Where she would study the animals, train them with response stimuli, and document their progress.

She may as well record their bowel movements.

Her savings account had been drained the hour after her final deposition on the drug bust. With her assets liquidated, she said goodbye to her only friend in the world, Ardelia Mapp, and when the out of state judgment granted her new name, she said goodbye to Baltimore.

Clarice sold her Mustang, splurged and purchased a remodeled vintage Harley Davidson Sportster motorcycle, and charged south with only the clothes on her back.

She stared out of the window into a fashionable brick building at a sign that read, Psychiatric Doctor H. Lecter MD.

She cracked her neck and studied her surroundings. The apartment came with meager possessions: a flowered sofa, empty bookcase, desk, bed, drawers, and a few dishes. Clarice grabbed her expensive bag and walked in her cheap shoes down to the local GRAB-N-GO.

Once the groceries and cleaning supplies were purchased, she strode to the DOLLARMART, loaded her cart with the bare necessities, and nearly ran over someone.

"Oh shoot! My apologies, I nearly ran you down!" Clarice exclaimed.

The sleek, stylish man with a subtle, red glint in his eyes stared, "Quite alright, miss. It was my fault for walking in the path of such determination." His voice had a metallic ring, as though it hadn't been used often.

She smiled. "Well, I don't know about all of that."

Never breaking eye contact, the man observed, and said "Well, of course you're determined. The no nonsense purchases in attire have given you away." He peeked into her basket with the briefest of glances. "You have chosen the absolute bare minimum; 5 pairs of black trousers, 5 crisp tan button down shirts, 2 pairs of jeans, and under garments. Should I say congratulations or give my condolences on your new career?"

"I'll let you know." Clarice said dryly and observed a piece of mail with a return address tucked just underneath his pocket lapel. "You must be Doctor Lecter. I saw your practice across from my new apartment." She held out her hand.

He bent at the waist as he theatrically took her palm. His white fedora hat hid black hair specked with silver. His red lips hovered over her skin, never quite touching. Instead, he inhaled deeply. "Ah, I thought I caught L'Air du Temps."

Slightly confused, Clarice hadn't worn that perfume in days. In fact, her former roommate now owned the tiny, half empty French bottle. "That is a keen sense of smell, Doctor."

"And what am I to call you, miss? Little bird, perhaps? My keen sense of smell," He mocked, "is accompanied by sharp eyesight as well."

So he recognized her. Clarice's smile dropped a degree. "I go by Clarice Thrush."

"How interesting. It seems fitting though. A starling, for instance," He thrilled when she flinched, "nestles in with a thick, like-minded flock. No doubt your starling mommy and daddy were of this flock; coated in the dirt and sameness of their flight. But you never settled comfortably. A thrush amongst starlings. Dull, brown, and boring until it opens its beak and elicits the most harmonic melodies. An ambitious little bird, the thrush. And where did all of your ambition land you?" His voice was hypnotizing and harsh; it caused the surroundings to fade away.

She imagined herself as a child; waking in a cold sweat to the shrill sound of screaming lambs. Her breath wisped out in foggy puffs.

But no.

Clarice was here in the checkout aisle of DOLLARMART conversing with a man who could see straight into the very core of her soul.

"Keen smell and sharp eyesight, Doctor, have given you one failing in observation." Clarice watched his eyes sweep her over once more; trying to notice a missing detail to his scrutiny. "I am not your patient." She gave him a tense smile as the noise of the dollar mercantile flooded her senses once again.

"A tough, little thrush. Yes, you are." He tipped his hat, purchased a gallon of bleach, and left the store. "Until we meet again, little bird."

"Goodbye, Dr. Lecter."

His observations made her throat thick with hurt. She hoped that she had hid it well. His words had shaken her spine just the same as when she had unloaded her revolver into Jame Gumb's chest. And into Evelda's.

Clarice made her final purchases, loaded each arm, and bustled down the sidewalk only to have a young woman step into her path.

She reminded Clarice of Evelda Drumgo. The HIV positive mother that had been gunned down by former Special Agent Clarice Starling. Would she always be haunted by that woman? "Can I help you?" She addressed the woman blocking her route.

The homeless woman had attempted to put on a show. Her pupils were dilated, likely from drugs, not starvation or fear. There was no foul, human stench or odor and even the woman's clothing seemed only crumpled, not dirty. A ploy. This woman was desperate for drugs, not food or water or shelter.

"A few dollars to spare? I have a child." The homeless woman stretched her arms out towards a teenage boy. Yes, those were definitely needle marks on the wrist.

Clarice gestured to the boy and made it clear to the woman that she was to stay put. "Help me with these groceries and I'll pay you in food." She offered to the teenager who was nothing but knobby knees and malnourished bones. He eagerly nodded his head. "Madam, I ask that you stay here. Your son will return to you momentarily." The official tone of her voice was clearly the "penal code" policewoman coming out. It would be a long road indeed to remove that tone from Clarice's voice.

The woman grumbled, but couldn't press her luck.

The boy picked up every mercantile sack and followed Clarice into the apartment building. She unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. "When is the last time you had a decent meal?"

"I ate a day ago." He replied timidly.

"Where do you live? And if you tell me that you live in that alley, I'll contact the Sheriff straightaway. Don't you dare lie to me." Clarice passed him a glass of milk and made him a plain bologna and cheese sandwich. "Your mother is a drug user and I know you'd rather stay with her than be in state care, correct?"

He nodded assertively with a mouthful. "She's my older sister. We live with my grandparents. Though, they don't make much money. We're not supposed to be there."

Clarice nodded in understanding. It was likely that the grandparents were incapacitated and on state care themselves. Which would explain his slight protective attitude. A fixed income left the teenager and his crackhead older sister to fend for themselves. "Get yourself back in school and I'll give you a part-time job a few hours a week." She watched him shift uncomfortably. "No exceptions for hard cash well earned. I want to see homework or report cards or something each time I see you. What's your name?"

"Joe Banks." The teen responded in stuttered confusion.

"What's your real name?" She demanded.

"Ian Baker." He said as he unabashedly pushed his empty glass towards the milk jug.

"Ian, help me put these groceries away, wash the dishes, and then you can come back tomorrow." She pulled out a few dollars. "We'll settle payments each day, okay? It won't be much."

He nodded and briskly got to work as Clarice started a load of wash for her new clothes, contacted her new boss for her schedule, and made another sandwich for the boy. "Take that for your sister."

"Deal. Thanks Miss Thrush."

(O)

Hannibal observed through his office window, an acne-faced teenager leave the apartment building carrying a sandwich. He doubted that the former Special Agent would lure the teenager into the throes of passion, as it would create attention. And dear Uncle Jackie Crawford undoubtedly advised the little bird to steer clear of such trouble.

Neither would the little bird would not trouble herself with the inexperience of a mangy, teen boy. Who was now holding out the sandwich to his companion? Curious.

The grotesque female shouted severely, threw out Clarice's charity, and smacked the boy across the temple. He passed her a few dollars and pointed down the street.

Interesting.

He could just make out the word's the drug addled female shouted. 'Well! What did it look like?!' She nodded greedily and looked back up to the second floor window of the apartment where a shoddy fire escape stairwell led.

Infinitely interesting.

Hannibal touched the speaker to his receiver. Brenda, his secretary answered, "Mrs. Novak, please cancel my plans for this evening. You and your husband may use the opera tickets if you wish." She muttered her thanks. "Use the rest of the day to make your arrangements. I can see to the patients myself."

Former Special Agent Clarice Starling now hidden in nowhere Virginia. But how could she think that she could hide? Her very countenance, the unmistakable gunpowder scarred in her shapely cheek from the murderous Buffalo Bill, and red hair paired with bright eyes. He didn't think this little bird was a fool. Starling or Thrush. Whichever she was, she was not a fool.

Hannibal used the morning for sketching and glancing out of the window across the street.

A sudden craving for Lumache in a red wine based fettuccini, with olives, and crisp basil. He kept a divine supply of fresh snails on the arm of a French lad. The mollusks fed off of the decomposing flesh of succulents and oddly enough, Pierre Robear. Once a pastry chef, now rests in a damp snail garden in a cave outside of the city.

Maybe Pierre's decomposing body wouldn't mind a companion? Hannibal mused before greeting his next patient.