Author's note: Yes, that was a nice and happy chapter last time, wasn't it? Well I decided to cut Clarice a break. Said break has run out though. So here we are…on with the show. LoT, you asked for bad guys, and you have gotten your wish.
The morning light entering Clarice's bedroom window forced her to rouse out of her bed. She grunted, not wanting to give up the warmth and comfort of her bed. But it was time, and she had to drop Charlene back at the hotel before heading in to work. Once she was out of this one meeting, she would be able to meet Charlene again for something else.
She threw on a robe over the T-shirt she'd worn to bed and ambled out into the living room where her niece slept on the couch. When she tried to wake Charlene, the girl simply groaned and tried to hide under her pillow and blanket. Clarice grinned.
"C'mon," she said. "I gotta get you back to the hotel before your teacher comes and whomps my butt."
Charlene grumbled something unintelligible, but opened her eyes owlishly and let her aunt steer her to the shower. About ten minutes later, she got out and left the shower to Clarice. Clarice thought for a minute: she'd grab the kid some breakfast at Mickey D's or something.
While Clarice showered, Charlene Stenson opened the front door of the duplex and walked out into the sunshine of another nice Virginia day. She was enjoying the chance to visit with her aunt; she hadn't seen her in years. Her mom had occasionally voiced the idea that Aunt Clarice thought she was better than her kin, but it didn't seem that way to her. Aunt Clarice had nagged her about college, but that was sort of understandable.
Charlene Stenson was not stupid, and she knew that college would be the best choice. The problem was in getting there – it was probably way cheaper when Aunt Clarice had gone. They said a college degree cost a hundred thousand dollars these days at some places. Where the hell was she supposed to come up with that sort of money?
There was a jogger heading up the street towards her, and Charlene looked briefly at him. Across the street from Aunt Clarice's duplex was a dingy gray van that wouldn't have been out of place in the small West Virginia town she lived in. Other than that, the cars round here were right fancy. Aunt Clarice's Mustang was parked in last in the driveway. Miz Mapp—Ardelia, Charlene reminded herself, she'd said she wanted to be called Ardelia, even though you were supposed to call adults you didn't know by their proper names—her little red car was there in front of it. Japanese, Charlene supposed. Mitsubishi, but it didn't have what model it was on the back of the car.
This was sure a nice place, she thought, but she had no idea how she might ever get there. No, she thought, it was more likely she would follow her mother. Get a job that paid wages and start earning some money. Stand on her own two feet, that was right. She didn't want to be a drag on anyone. Her momma might not have no college degree on her wall but she had worked all her life, ever since Charlene had been a little girl.
The jogger was closer. He was bald and had a goatee. He grinned at Charlene and waved. She waved back and decided to have a look at Aunt Clarice's Mustang. The love of fast automobiles ran deep in Starling veins, and Charlene took careful, critical notice of the tires. She opened the door so she could pop the hood and examine the engine. As she passed around the back, she noticed it was a Roush Mustang and nodded. Now that was right impressive.
Then, suddenly, there was a sound behind her. She turned, expecting it to be Aunt Clarice or maybe Miz Ma—Ardelia. But it was the jogger, who had detoured up the lawn and jogged up the driveway. Charlene frowned at him.
"Hey," she said. "Whatcha doin here? This is private property."
"Oh, actually, I just wanted to ask you something about the car," he said. "Killer car, ain't it? Just wondering if it was for sale."
"I don't think so," Charlene said, her blue eyes distrustful on his. "It's mah aunt's car. She'll be out in a minute. You'd have to ask her."
Dave McCracken nodded. "Fine," he said, and then took a step closer. This was going to have to go very carefully. He'd planned to wait her and catch the Starling bitch when she got out and then have some fun with her, but this looked like it might be way more fun. The little bitch was obviously Starling's niece; she sure as hell didn't look like she was Mapp's. This would teach Starling a very very valuable lesson about who to screw with.
He grabbed her arm with his left hand and reached back to the back of his shorts with his right.
"Hey!" Charlene said. "What the hell you think you're doing?"
McCracken produced a knife. "Listen up, sweet thing," he said. "You're gonna come with me. Behave and I won't cut you."
Charlene let out a piercing scream. Dave McCracken twisted her arm around, maneuvering her against the Mustang, slamming her on the trunk of the car like a cop arresting a suspect. That made him grin. Then he re-firmed up his grip, pinning her arm behind her, holding the knife up to her throat.
"Now listen," he hissed. "You're not a dumb chick. Be smart and you'll be OK."
Her arm was ice in his grip where he held it. The point of the blade pressed against the soft skin of her throat. She felt her pulse beat and quivered. Better to do what he said for now, wait until he put the knife down. Was he gonna kill her? Who the hell was he? How could this happen to her?
"Now walk. And be quiet. Over to the van."
Terrified, breathing shakily, Charlene complied, walking quietly down the driveway. Ahead was the dirty gray van. North Carolina plates, she noticed. She carefully memorized the license number. The guy would have to put the knife away to open the door. That would be her chance. She'd kick him backwards and run like hell back to the house.
Instead, he made her open the door herself with her left hand. She felt tears start, knowing that if he got her away she might never survive. But the edge of the blade was right there, caressing her throat obscenely. The inside of the van smelled like a trash barrel and she winced.
He forced her across the van, where a pair of handcuffs was attached to the wall. McCracken clapped one on her wrist and told her to sit down and shut up. Shakily, she complied. The van seemed like the rolling den of some sort of animal. On the floor, not far away from where she sat, was a suspicious looking dark stain.
She sat in the dirty back of the van, her arm over her head, and tried to look around. The van had no windows. No one would see her here. No one would help her. But she had to do something.
Outside, across the street, she heard Aunt Clarice. "Charlene? Charlene, you out here? Where the hell'd you go? I gotta get you back to the hotel."
That broke the dam of fear that had held her thus far. Charlene Stenson tried to turn and took a deep breath.
"AUNT CLARICE, OVER HERE!" she screamed. From the driver's seat, Dave McCracken scowled and turned around, his arm raised to smack her one. Charlene raised her one free arm to block him.
"IN THE VAN, AUNT CLARICE! SHOOT HIM! SHOOT THE BASTID!" she shrieked, and then McCracken did smack her one, a hard, vicious blow across her mouth. She felt her lips tear on her teeth and tasted blood. The back of her head collided with the metal wall of the van and she saw stars. Then the nasty growl of the engine started, and then they were away.
…
Clarice Starling was getting dressed when she heard the first scream. Today was an office day, so it meant dressing nice: a dark blue pants suit, her new pumps, and a shell. She was buckling on her holster when she heard Charlene shriek.
"Charlene?" she asked, and headed out of her bedroom. No Charlene in the living room. The scream had sounded like it came outside. Was she looking at the car? Probably. Maybe she had banged herself with the car door or something.
Then came the rumble of a male voice. Clarice couldn't make out what it had said, but she didn't care for the idea of some guy in her driveway, especially with her young niece around. With a sudden apprehension settling in her stomach, she grabbed her .45 and began striding towards the door.
Out in the driveway was nothing. Everything was just as it should have been in her quiet little piece of suburban paradise. A dog barked. The wind blew. There was a van across the street that she didn't recognize. A dingy gray van pretty coated with road-dust. Damn thing looked like someone had driven in from Arizona in it. Clarice's eyes narrowed.
"Charlene?" she called.
There was no reply.
"Charlene, you out here?" she tried again. "Where'd the hell you go? I gotta get you back to the hotel."
At first, there was nothing. Then, a high-pitched, terrified scream she could barely place from across the street.
"Aunt Clarice, over here! In the van, Aunt Clarice! Shoot him! Shoot the bastid!"
Clarice Starling did not have all the pieces, but she had enough to realize what the hell was going on. Attempted kidnapping. Her heart rate larruped up from sixty beats per minute to a hundred and twenty in the course of a few seconds. Adrenalin dumped into her system. Her eyes widened.
Automatically, her hand went for the .45 at her side and she began to run towards the van. The engine started and the van lurched into gear. Clarice stopped, standing in a perfect Weaver stance, and brought the gun up to bear. Her eye saw; her hand tracked. Her brain made a decision, and she fired at the left rear tire of the van. She missed by a few inches; the dented chrome bumper developed a large hole.
Clarice ran forward. "FBI! STOP THE VAN!" she screamed. The driver of the van did not stop. Rather, he slammed down the accelerator. The van raced towards the end of the street. Clarice stopped again, bringing up the pistol again to shoot.
But she didn't know where Charlene was in the van, and at this range, she couldn't be sure she wouldn't hit her. Clarice turned and ran back to her house, meaning to get in the car and give chase. Ardelia stood in her door, staring blankly at Clarice.
"Reesey, what the hell you doing shooting in the front yard?" she asked blankly.
"Call the cops," Clarice yelled. "Some psycho got Charlene!"
The color dropped out of Ardelia's face, leaving it an ashy gray. Both women were trained FBI agents, and knew better than to sit around and bawl when things went to shit quickly, as they had. But from Ardelia's face, Clarice could tell she felt the same thing Clarice did herself: This can't be happening. To me? To us? No way.
But to her credit, Ardelia dived back into her half of the duplex and grabbed the phone, swiftly punching up 911. Clarice jumped into the Mustang and revved the engine with a mighty roar. She dropped it into reverse and boomed out of the driveway.
She made it up the quiet residential street in a matter of just a few seconds. Her head whipped back and forth. The van was disappearing towards the highway at a high rate of speed. Clarice slammed down the accelerator herself. All she had to do was get close enough to shoot. She had practiced shooting left-handed. It was tough and she had trouble with it, but if she got close enough she could take out the tire.
The Mustang closed the distance swiftly.
"Hang on, Charlene, I'm comin," Clarice said tightly to herself.
A hundred yards. Ninety. Eighty. Getting closer. If she could fire right-handed she'd have taken the shot, but firing through a windshield would've screwed it up anyway – no telling where that bullet might go after having to crack through the glass. Damn, next time she'd get one of those English cars with the wheel on the right.
Heading up the street on the other side was a school bus. Clarice noticed it and kept her eyes on the back end of the van. Just what I need. A bunch of schoolkids. The nose of the Mustang crept closer to the van.
Then suddenly she noticed the yellow turn-signal light on the bus was flashing, and the school bus full of kids was lumbering into her lane, turning left slowly and leisurely. Clarice's eyes widened and her foot slammed on the brake. The bus driver gave her a dirty look. The bus itself meandered slowly, taking the turn leisurely so as to keep its charges safe.
The Mustang stalled out as it came to a stop. Clarice punched the clutch down viciously and revved the engine. She pounded the wheel with her gun hand. When the bus was finally out of the way, she slammed down the gas and started anew. Then she pulled over swiftly, horror leaking slowly into her gut as she realized what had happened.
The van was gone. Disappeared. And she didn't know which side of the highway it was on.
Clarice Starling got back in the car, defeat and horror filling her, and she felt tears prick her eyes for the first time in years. Her sister had trusted her. Her niece had come up to see her. And some psycho had grabbed her out of Clarice's driveway just as neat as you please. She drove back to the duplex slowly, her eyes wide with horror, already hearing the sirens of approaching police cruisers. 'Delia stood there in the driveway, cordless phone in hand. She looked equally horrified.
Two police cruisers came screaming around the corner as Clarice pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. They pulled up at the curb and disgorged a few local boys. Clarice could hear voices, the metallic chattering of police radios, and the slamming of car doors. The symphony of tragedy's aftermath.
One of them came up and identified himself to her as Officer Munson. He began to ask her a few questions she already knew he would ask. Her voice sounded vague and lost to her, and she was only peripherally aware of answering at all. Some psycho had invaded her home and kidnapped her niece. Her attempts to make the world safe had met with complete failure. The hand of evil had swiped aside all her precautions and swiped her fifteen-year-old niece with no more difficulty than someone grabbing a set of car keys. She'd been trusted to keep a lamb safe…and she had failed.
For the first time in many years, tears of shock and pain began to prick at Clarice Starling's eyes.