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The Soulmates From Hell

copyright 2000, by MsLecter

Disclaimer:    The character Dr. Hannibal Lecter was created by Thomas Harris.  The character Catherine Tramell was created by Joe Eszterhas  and was produced and distributed in the United States by TriStar Pictures. They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect.  No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this site.

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The body of her detective lover, Nick Curran, lay before her, riddled with stab wounds, each trickling blood. A few minutes ago the neck wound had been spurting blood like a fountain, she recalled. What a rush it had been! Now she felt almost remorseful. Nick had loved her, and he had been a passionate and satisfying lover; just his memory still had the capacity to force a spasm of pleasure from her womb. But like most men, he had become possessive--jealous that Catherine wouldn’t give up her lesbian lovers for him.  Why were men so arrogant? Didn’t they know that the very fact she was bisexual--and unashamedly so--meant that no single man (or woman, for that matter) could ever completely possess her? Nick had been such a fool to believe that he could, and now she despised him for it. He could have held such an important place in her life, if he had only accepted that place. Now he was gone, and she hated him for forcing her to eliminate him. But it was a done deed, she thought grimly, as she watched the body stiffen with the early stages of rigor mortis. She would have to dispose of the body, which would be a chore. And when the San Francisco Police Department began to miss him, she would be the first suspect. That was dumb. Catherine berated herself for her impulsiveness. Not quite a month ago, she had barely escaped charges in the death of a previous lover, Johnny Boz, by stacking the deck with clues implicating another woman. Nick had conveniently killed Beth, thinking her about to pull a gun on him. Now his death would stir up all the old suspicions again. She couldn’t believe her own carelessness--after all, her intelligence and training in psychology should have prevented her from acting rashly. But once she had seen Nick smile smugly and inform her that now they were living together, he was sure she’d no longer need her female “friendships”, she’d seen red. He’d only made it that much worse when he had tried to blame her anger on premenstrual syndrome!  To have a man, even Nick, use that to patronize her only sealed his doom. Of course, he had apologized, she had to admit. And he had wanted to make it up to her in bed, to which she always responded with fervor. Perhaps if there had not been an ice pick under the bed. . . but that was all water under the bridge now, she thought ruefully. Nick was dead, and she had done him. And now she had to dispose of the corpse, clean up the mess, and leave the country before the SFPD and the FBI put two and two together.

Sighing, she wrapped layer after layer of sheets around Nick’s lifeless form. Then she dragged him outside and loaded him, with difficulty, into the trunk of her white Lotus.  Then she went back inside, showered, and cleaned up as much of the blood as she could in the bedroom. Luckily, he had only splattered across her and the sheets for the most part.  He’d soaked through to the mattress pad, which she’d used in his wrapping, but not all the way to the mattress itself. She used Clorox on a sponge to clean up the splashes of blood that had found their way to the wall behind the bed and the carpet below.  

Then she slipped into jeans, a denim jacket, and sandals--no underwear--and drove down the highway north of Frisco, north of Stinson Beach, until she reached Big Sur in the wee hours of the morning. Finding a likely-looking overlook, she screeched the Lotus to a stop. She peered over the cliff; far below the surf crashed unmercifully on the rocky beach. She opened the trunk, pulled Nick, still wrapped in the sheets, out onto the gravel.  Once she was sure no traffic was coming, she pushed the mummy-like parcel over the cliff’s edge. She could barely hear it splash in the surf below. 

Back in San Francisco, Catherine made urgent plans for immediate travel. She wired fifty million dollars to her Swiss bank account; another ten million she put in a special account for her dear friend Hazel Dobkins--to whom she was entrusting the mansion in Frisco as well as the beach house at Stinson. Her explanation to Hazel was that she needed to travel abroad for a while to attend to various business interests she’d inherited from her parents’ estate--and that she’d be out of the country for months. Hazel had accepted Catherine’s story and eagerly agreed to care for her younger friend’s property until she returned to San Francisco.  

Catherine obtained a cashier’s check for another twenty million dollars to take with her on her journey. Wherever she went, she intended to go first class, to live like a queen.  Even if she was on the run, she had no intention of living a bargain-basement lifestyle. She went to her safety deposit box at the bank and removed the passport and driver’s license she’d obtained some years ago in her pen name, Catherine Woolf. Developing that
identity for government purposes had required some fancy footwork and considerable expense, but now the expense was worth it. Nick, his partner Gus, and police shrink Beth Garner, nee Lisa Hoberman, would have seen through it pronto; but they were all now dead. Hopefully it would take the rest of the SFPD a couple of days to track her under her nom de plume, she figured. By then, she’d already be in Acapulco, planning her next move.

Catherine had written letters to the mortgage company, power and light utilities, phone company and other essential services, including checks to cover her household expenses for up to two years. She wanted to take care of all this up-front and save Hazel the hassle. The rest of her mail, she intended for the Postal Service to hold.  Nothing was that critical. If she ever returned to San Francisco, she’d pick it up then. When she arrived at the nearest post office, she was annoyed. A long line of customers were there ahead of her. What the hell?  She didn’t live on the side of town where residents picked up welfare checks on the first of the month and congregated at the post office to pick them up and pay bills. So what was the rush? Then a customer explained. People were eager to vote on Elvis stamps. They were picking up ballots to vote on whether the upcoming stamp honoring the late rock star Elvis Presley would feature him as a young man or older, closely to his untimely death. Catherine scowled, suddenly wishing that Elvis had been the retired rock star she’d murdered instead of Johnny Boz.

The line snaked through the post office, winding around so that sooner or later one had to pass the FBI “most wanted” posters on the rear wall. Catherine, growing paranoid from her wait, glanced up at the pictures, half-expecting to see her face there already--wanted, for murder, suspected murder, and flight--although she hadn’t flown anywhere yet. One of the posters caught her eye, and she smiled. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist-cum-cannibal, was still at large, she noted. The notorious serial killer from Baltimore had escaped a little over a year ago, she recalled. Hazel had eagerly filled her in on all the details, having seen the story on “America’s Most Wanted.” While still in prison, Lecter had become involved with the FBI over the “Buffalo Bill” serial murder case; he had given them clues that helped the feds nail that killer. But during the course of that investigation, Lecter had managed to escape from a holding cell in Memphis--at the cost of multiple lives. Catherine snickered. She had considerable admiration for Dr. Lecter. Probably his mind was on a par with her own, or even greater. After all, FBI spokesmen had described him as a “genius psychopath.” She took a closer look at the poster, but the mug shots displayed were old and slightly faded. All she could tell about the diabolical doctor’s appearance was that he was middle-aged, had dark, slicked-back hair, and rather penetrating eyes. She chuckled, saluting the ultimate criminal. Tough sh*t, FBI, she thought. You’ll never find that bird now. He’s flown the coop for sure.  Long gone.

The line began to move, and Catherine quickly dismissed Hannibal Lecter from her mind.

The night before she was supposed to leave, her paranoia was at an all-time high.  Smoking that joint hadn’t helped, she admitted to herself; but she just couldn’t count on the SFPD to be stupid. She had to do something which would ensure her safe passage out of the country. She took the white Lotus to the late Johnny Boz’s club one final time.  Once inside, she went to the bar and purchased a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and danced with whomever she found attractive--the black body builder, Leon; she even let him give her a snort of coke back in the “men’s room”; the Mexican friend of Roxy’s; she owed her a dance in Roxy’s memory, at least. But they weren’t what she needed. By midnight, Catherine was pretty high. Despite the drugs in her system, she was getting frustrated.  The right partner hadn’t presented herself, and time was running out. She had to be on that plane to Acapulco by 7:48 a.m., she reminded herself.  Then a tall blonde, just her size, and with a face possessing the same aristocratic bone structure, strode onto the dance floor. She was wearing a black leather jacket, jeans and boots; Catherine smiled seductively and joined the woman. They did a sensual bump-and-grind to the beat of the raucous Hammer rap tune playing. After a few minutes of this, the woman (Catherine had
learned her name was Shalimar) was salivating in desire. Catherine continued the flirtation, luring the leather-dyke into the ladies’ room. 

“Come home with me,” Shalimar was begging her.

“Better than that,” Catherine purred. “You come to my place.  I’m dying to get inside your leather.  I’ve got an idea--why don’t we trade outfits?”

Shalimar looked confused. “What?”

“Before we leave, let’s swap. We’re about the same size. Let me wear your clothes, and you wear mine.” She indicated her glittery gold minidress, and at last the other woman got the message. 

“Sure, if that’s what turns you on,” Shalimar replied. She slid her arms around Catherine’s waist and began kissing her eagerly.

Catherine returned the kiss and held the embrace for a few minutes. Then she insisted. “Let’s swap clothes. Now.”

Fifteen minutes later, the Lotus roared out of the parking lot. Catherine had convinced Shalimar to drive--on the grounds that she herself was drunk and not eager to get a DUI. But she was still sober enough to navigate, Shalimar noted, as Catherine directed her through the San Francisco neighborhoods. The route led them closer and closer to the bay; this wasn’t anywhere near where Catherine had said she lived.  Suddenly a rapid turn sent them down a steep grade towards a pier. In an instant, Catherine reached behind her into the back seat, retrieved a tire iron, and swung it at the back of Shalimar’s head. The driver was rendered unconscious immediately. Just before the car reeled out of control, Catherine quickly took her keys from her own handbag, grabbed Shalimar’s purse, and jumped out the passenger side door--seconds before the Lotus crashed into the guard-rail protecting the road from the rocks below. The car flipped and caught fire immediately, creating spectacular fireworks when the gas tank exploded. Having effectively staged her own “death”--it would take a few days for the San Francisco Police Department to check dental records--Catherine never looked back as she strolled nonchalantly to a 7Eleven half a mile away. She took the money from Shalimar’s billfold and tossed the purse into a trashcan. then she called a cab from a pay phone and rode calmly back to her mansion.

The next morning at 7:40, “Catherine Woolf" boarded a plane for Acapulco.


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