Lily of the Valley

Chapter 1

The disorientation when we wake in an unfamiliar place can cause anxiety that comes in a short but powerful burst, like the crack of gunfire. Clarice Starling wakes, the sound and smell of gunfire the first memory that drops into her consciousness. Her heart suddenly beats wildly, though she doesn't move, as though paralyzed from a nightmare. Nor does she risk opening her eyes, though her nostrils flare. She doesn't need to open them to know she is not in her own bed. She lies supine, the surface beneath cold and hard; she knows at once that it is some kind of surgical table. Whether it is instinct or her worst fear which happens to be true is impossible to tell.

It is in fact a general purpose surgical table, a Skytron 6500 Elite which Raymond Hiltman had bought online for just under $9,000, though this was of course before shipment fees which rounded it up to nearly $11,000 in total. He had perused for some time before selecting it, deciding it was a drop in the bucket and well-worth the investment. Contrary to what one might presume, given his extracurricular activities which had lead Special Agent Starling to his whereabouts, it does not sit in a dark and dank dungeon. After he had become suspect after the suspicious amount of elderly patients that had died under his care, he had fled, naturally. His account dwindled quickly, as he had used much of his money quickly while he still could, and used it wisely for the purpose of relocating himself.

The purpose of the surgical table upon which Starling lies was to begin a concierge practice under his new identity in Elkton, Maryland. It had been nearly a year since he had killed anyone, and he knew it was not wise to begin with this woman. Yet as he had cleaned and dressed the wound in her side, he considered...There's no other way, now.

A day later and she had been recovering nicely. He watched her from the other side of the room with a long finger draped over his mouth. She had known before he had invited her in. She continued with casual questions and an air of polite, almost apologetic routine. It was phenomenal, really. The only reason he'd known it was a facade was because he'd been warned anonymously. Still an issue I can't let trail off, he'd thought.

She'd been quick, quicker than he had anticipated. He was close when he came at her, no more than an arm's reach away. It was too close for her to pull out her pistol and aim it at him properly, but her arm was out of his grasp and her foot had taken out a leg before he'd had time to even process. He took a knee, but grabbed hold of her sleeve as he went, and her footing became unbalanced for a moment. He wrenched her arm hard and she cried out, hit him in the throat. He let go, putting a hand where she'd struck him and choked.

She reached for the Yaqui Slide at her hip again, aimed for his chest as he pulled her knee forward. She clipped him in the shoulder as she fell. Then he was on top of her, stepping hard on her hand holding the pistol until she let go. His arms were around her neck, and then she was finally out. He had leaned against the refrigerator for a moment trying to catch his breath. Jesus.

Clearly she had not known for sure until she'd arrived, other wise she wouldn't have come alone, so that was good. But now was the matter of what to do with her. Then came a phone call which answered both questions he'd had since the whole thing started. Who had warned him, and what to do with her. He'd gone to meet with someone named Cordell on Tuesday morning when Clarice awoke.

After a few moments Clarice began returning to herself, and she finally opened her eyes. The room was dim, but pleasantly so. A fan above her was on low and the walls were painted a a calm, neutral color. It was very clean. There was something about the room that disconcerted her, and she found quickly that it was due to being underground, at least partially. She turned her head, wincing. She was instantly dizzy, but saw a small window that showed ground.

She moved her head back to face forward and tried moving her arms. She felt a sting in her hand that grew as she focused on it. She raised it to avoid moving her head to see an IV protruding. The house was still and quiet, and she looked at the window again, despite the dizzying effect. There was no way she would fit through it.

There was also no way of knowing if the house was empty or not, whether it was just Dr. Hiltman if he was home, and if he wasn't, how much time she had left before he returned. She breathed in deep and out slowly through her nose. Okay...do it or don't.

Removing the IV wasn't pleasant, nor was sitting up. A papery sheet had been laid over her, and she wore a hospital gown. On her feet, she lost balance and slammed into the side of the table, knocking the wind out of her. Her knuckles were pale as she gripped the side of the stainless steel, and when she released her grip, the warmth of her hands left marks that evaporated almost instantly, and as they did, her memories continued to effloresce in contrast. She shot him, and then he was on top of her. She held back anger that she'd let him overpower her, anger at the reminder that she could be overpowered. If she had let that happen with Jame Gumb...she swallowed on it hard. Time to think, time to act. She made it to the window.

She couldn't see much, but it looked out onto a backyard. For all intensive purposes, she appeared to be in a pleasant suburb. She had to lean against the wall for long minutes. If she fell at a bad angle, if she fainted, she could not only pass out but end up with a concussion. For all she knew, this was her only chance. Don't ruin it by being overzealous. Don't overestimate how far you can push yourself. Don't roll too deep.

The door was locked of course, though it didn't take long to find what she needed. She found a nearly empty water bottle on the workbench against the wall and used the syringe to tear it into the proper shape. Wedging it in between the door jam and the bolt, she grabbed the knob and began rocking back and forth with downward pressure. She was weak, and it took longer than it should have. She was hesitant to even use all the strength she did have, for fear of making noise. It was safer to assume he was home. After a few minutes of careful movement, it popped right open.

The next room was a laundry room which had the stairs leading up to the ground floor. It was cooler in this room, and the draft reminded her of what little she had on. She glanced at the washer and dryer. Wouldn't hurt to check. I don't want to fight, but I really don't want to fight wearing a napkin with yellow flowers on it. The dryer was partially opened and she open it all the way at a crouch. Towels. Goddamn and shit fuck.

The door at the top was padlocked. She had to go back downstairs into the makeshift surgery room to retrieve the syringe. When she had it in her hand, a groaning, vibrating noise reverberated from the other side of the house. It was the unmistakable sound of a garage door opening. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She went into the laundry room closing the door behind her. She glanced at the dryer, and almost closed it, the way it had been before. Gripping the syringe in her hand, she went behind the stairs and waited. While she waited, Starling weighed something in her mind.

Any good hunter knows that when killing a deer, you must do so cleanly. If you shoot it anywhere, it will most likely hobble off wounded. It may well die eventually, but then it is a wasted tragedy. To kill it cleanly, you must shoot it in the vital organs. But a human is not a deer. A human is more like hunting a lion, as when one shoots a lion any old place, it will not hobble away, it will charge.

Where precisely to hit in a kill zone on a human being is often not properly trained, and if it is, it is trained poorly. The only way to incapacitate a man by gunshot is to either shut down the CNS or shut off the supply of oxygen to the CNS. Clarice Starling does not have a gun, but a small needle in her palm, nor does she have even half her strength, prowess or dexterity. Fighting was a bad idea, it was beyond a bad idea. The best option, possibly her only real option was to wait until he had crossed the room and opened the door, make a break for the stairs and lock him in.

Unless of course, he immediately locked the top door upon entry. And unless he heard or saw her immediately. And unless she couldn't make it up the stairs in time, which was in all unfortunate reality, quite likely. The room wasn't long, and it doesn't take long to open a door and see what or who is not inside. No training had prepared her for this situation.

I'm still alive. Keep breathing. You're not a waitress. You're not a nurse, or a bank teller or a lounge singer. You're not a senator's daughter. You're not a deer.

Before the footsteps above her reached the basement door, she listened, and found that she heard more than one male voice.