Author's note: A bit on the short side, but here we are with some angst.
The abandoned factory was quiet. Machines stood unused and still, dust motes dancing in the air around them. The only sound echoing off the concrete and steel walls was the sobbing of a young girl.
Charlene Stenson knelt in the basement of the factory, dressed only in a dirty T-shirt. One hand was cuffed awkwardly to a pipe on the wall behind her. Her bare legs were curled under her, dirt on her knees and calves. Her captor had left her down here for several hours, all alone in the dark. She thought there were rats in the building. She could hear them scurrying and squeaking in the walls. She hated rats. If one ran over her, with her cuffed like this, she didn't know what she would do.
Her lip was swelling where he'd hit her. She could feel the wound with her tongue and hated it. Other than that, though, he hadn't hurt her…or done anything else. He'd taken her clothes away and cuffed her to the pipe and pretty much left her down here with the rats. She hadn't eaten much since he had captured her, but she wasn't that hungry. Terror and fear stole her appetite. That was just as well, as providing food for his captive was not terribly high on Dave McCracken's list of priorities.
She heard a heavy metal door swing open and cringed. Aunt Clarice wouldn't cringe, she supposed; Aunt Clarice would stand up tall and spit in his eye. But she wasn't Aunt Clarice and she was afraid.
Dave McCracken stood silhouetted in the doorway, a stereo tape recorder in his hand, a cruel smile wreathing his face. Broken teeth glittered at her. He strode in and placed the boom box not far from her. He inserted a cassette and then turned to her.
"Hey, baby," he said. "You and me are gonna make some sweet music."
Charlene cowered and held up her one free arm in order to defend herself. McCracken threw back his head and laughed.
"Yeah, right," he sneered. "Don't make me laugh, sweet thang."
"You hurt me and you'll regret it," Charlene said, mustering her faltering bravery.
"Ooooh, is yer auntie gonna come git me?" McCracken chuckled. "I don't think so."
He pressed RECORD on the boom box and cleared his throat.
"Hey, Starling!" he shouted. "Starling, you listening? Let's have some fun."
He stepped forward and grabbed Charlene's cuffed hand. His thick fingers settled around her pinky finger and bent it backwards. Charlene let out a shriek of pain and tried to pull it away. McCracken laughed cruelly. His other hand flashed up and across her face. The flat, fleshy sound echoed in the room, bracketed by Charlene's scream and McCracken's laughter.
"Let's get this party started, Starling," he yelled at the boombox. "I tell you what. You locked me up for five years."
His boot pistoned forward against his victim's unprotected ribs. Charlene sobbed and tried to roll into a ball as much as she was able. Slowly, viciously, McCracken kicked her twice more, grinning at each choked-off scream.
"Five years, Starling. So I'll tell you what. Five tapes. Five tapes I'm gonna send you. And in the last one…you're gonna get something you'll love. You called me a serial strangler. Well hey bitch, you're gonna get to hear what your little niece sounds like when I get my hands nice and tight around her neck."
The sound of blows and screams echoed in the factory for a little while longer, then there was only sobbing. McCracken felt winded, but pleased with himself. He watched her cower on the ground. Now she knew who was boss round these here parts. He could see bruises forming on her legs and arms. Good, it'd be a good lesson for her. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling the tobacco quite deeply.
…
The Washington Monument was a great spike of white against the night sky, reflected pleasantly in the waters of the reflecting pool. A few people walked around the plaza, looking in at the calm waters. There were not so many as you might think, as it was quite late at night. A lone woman in a dark coat scurried out along the plaza to one corner of the reflecting pool.
I cannot believe I'm doing this, Clarice Starling thought. I am an FBI agent and here I am in cahoots with…a serial killer.
A solitary man stood nearby, also wearing a dark coat and a fedora. A very nice silk scarf was tucked into the lapels of his coat. He nodded calmly at Clarice Starling as she approached.
"Good evening, Clarice. The monument is awfully pretty at this time of night, is it not?"
Clarice's eyes burned at him. With what, it was hard to say. The trauma of Charlene's kidnapping, the pain of knowing what the man who held her was capable of, and perhaps the knowledge that part of her wanted to go back. Clarice didn't want teacups to leap up off the floor, nor did she mean to bring back the dead. She wanted time to roll back so that she could be standing in front of Dr. Lecter again, with his words echoing in her ears: Tell me Clarice, would you ever say to me 'Stop, if you loved me you'd stop'?
But now she couldn't, and couldn't cleanly. Charlene needed her. That overrode everything. And so here she was, handing over confidential FBI files to a serial killer.
"Yes," she said, and fumbled for her briefcase. From it, she extracted a thick manila folder. Déjà vu swept over her, except this was the Washington Monument, not a basement cell in Baltimore. She stood a few steps away from Dr. Lecter, afraid to get too close to him. He simply stood calmly, watching her and not moving to narrow the gap. She held the file out stiffly to him and he accepted it graciously.
"Here," she continued. "McCracken's criminal record. The profile I worked up of him. VICAP. The whole nine yards."
"Why, thank you, Clarice," Dr. Lecter said calmly, and opened the folder. He flipped through the pages with a gloved thumb. "Let me have a look at this, and I'll let you know as soon as I have a chance to…digest." He smiled.
Clarice's eyes on his were wary. Did he think this was funny? It seemed he did. It was a stark reminder of what he was.
"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," she whispered.
"And don't be so upset," Dr. Lecter said. "We'll find her." He drew himself up and turned to leave. "I'll call you shortly, Clarice, as soon as I have something."
He began to walk away, his stride quick and businesslike. Clarice Starling took a deep breath as she watched him go.
"Wait," she said suddenly.
Dr. Lecter turned around and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Yes, Clarice?" he said, and there were a few moments of silence while she gathered the courage to ask her question.
"What if…what if you get caught?" she asked suddenly.
Dr. Lecter seemed vaguely disappointed. "I shan't," he said. "I've been exceedingly careful. The only officer of the law who could track me is you."
Then he was gone, disappearing swiftly behind the white obelisk of the monument, and Clarice found herself feeling empty. She strode back to the Mustang and headed back to the duplex as quickly as she could.
On Clarice's front door was a plain white manila envelope. Curiously, she took it and shook it. There was something inside. She opened the envelope to find a cassette tape. She stared at it for a few moments, wondering what the hell it could mean, and then put it into her cassette player.
The screams and coarse words, coarse words aimed at her cut her to the bone, and as she listened to Dave McCracken torturing her niece her brain lit up with rage and grief. She would see McCracken dead for this. She stopped the tape halfway through, her hand on the wall to support her, and then she sank down into a chair and cried openly for the first time in years. She did not notice Dr. Lecter watching her from across the street.