The Mustang boomed along the highway. It hunkered over its wheels like a crouching cat ready to pounce. It was twenty years old, but exceptionally well maintained. Its current owner kept it in near-showroom condition for the sake of its prior owner. Aerosmith's 'Permanent Vacation' boomed from the speakers. It was doing well over the posted speed limit, but the driver was unconcerned. Her FBI identification had spared her tickets in the past.
Ahead was the exit. Charlene consulted the directions she had pulled off Mapblast and dropped the Mustang into a lower gear as she got into the right lane. Straight shot to the exit. She pressed the accelerator. The car, lovingly re-engineered with performance parts by the engineers at Roush, blew forward with a surge of power. The needle crept up to eighty quickly enough to please her and the exit grew closer. She grinned humorlessly at her reflection in the mirror.
She drove down the main road, drumming her hands on the wheel nervously. Up two streets, then right. Then she was on a secondary road that stretched for miles into the clean green countryside. Nothing but verdant green fields and the occasional red barn or silo stretched for miles. Charlene found herself thinking of the rural West Virginia town in which she had grown up.
Then there it was, the squat concrete buildings of the psychiatric hospital reaching up overhead. Cyclone fencing separated it from the land of the sane. A sign outside announced this to be GREENWOOD PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, A VETERANS ADMINISTRATION FACILITY. It gave Charlene the creeps. Yet the place looked somehow normal. Take away the fences and concertina wire and it could have been a college or something. But it wasn't. It was an asylum. Crazy people were kept here so that they couldn't hurt other people. This was a VA hospital, so all of the inmates – patients, Charlene admonished herself, they were patients – had served the United States at some time or another in their lives. As she was doing now. As her aunt had done before her. Like the others, Clarice's reward had been to end up here.
Charlene pulled in at the gate and stopped to eye the gate guard. The guard lifted a clipboard and gave her an appraising look. Charlene fumbled out her ID and flashed it. She was tense and it showed. It had been a few days since she had gotten back. Mr. Crawford had told to wait, but she couldn't. Staring at her apartment walls and wondering what in God's name had been going on with Aunt Clarice had driven her crazy.
"FBI, Special Agent Starling," she said. "I should be on the list."
The guard consulted his clipboard again. "OK," he said. "Visitor parking is up ahead. Follow the signs." He pressed a button and the gate rolled back with a loud buzz. Charlene moved on deeper to where her aunt was being held.
She parked the Mustang in the visitors' lot. Ahead was a building marked ADMISSIONS. A smaller sign informed her that ALL VISITORS MUST REGISTER WITH ADMINISTRATION. Obedient to the rules as always, she entered through the double doors and flashed her ID at the receptionist.
Again, she identified herself.
"Oh, yes," the receptionist said, betraying only slightly more interest than the gate guard had. "You'll need to see Dr. McQuerry first. That's her psychiatrist."
Charlene frowned. "I thought Dr. McQuerry was the hospital administrator," she said.
"He is. He's taken a special interest in Miss Starling's case. Have a seat there and I'll page him."
Charlene sat and waited. The place didn't seem anything special. Faded linoleum, fluorescent lights that buzzed incessantly, and gray walls. On the other hand, it didn't seem like a place that was particularly sad. There was no trace of the misery she'd expected. It wasn't that bad. Just…not fancy. And that was fine. She'd done without fancy most all her life, hadn't she? Maybe this was a place where Aunt Clarice could heal.
She sat back and waited. The receptionist smiled a big plastic smile at her occasionally. She found herself wondering if she would have to leave her gun before she could meet Aunt Clarice. Probably she would – this was a maximum-security psychiatric facility. They wouldn't want loonies running around with purloined pistols.
And here was where they were holding Aunt Clarice. No, she told herself, helping Aunt Clarice. They're gonna make her better here. Aunt Clarice would have some troubles adjusting, sure. Hannibal Lecter had controlled her mind for so freakin' long. That would take time. But eventually she would come back and be well. Things would be set right again.
An older man walked up to her. He wore a cheap gray suit with a lab coat over it. His tie was striped blue polyester. His shoes squeaked. Charlene glanced down at them. Twenty-dollar Payless wing tips. An inexpensive sweater was under the jacket. His hair was a mass of wild clocksprings of gray curls. He adjusted a set of inexpensive horn rims and smiled prissily at her.
"Hello," he said. "I'm Dr. McQuerry. I'm the chief of staff of this facility." He had a glib way of speaking that struck Charlene as insincere. But she knew how to behave, and so she stuck out her hand and smiled.
"I'm Special Agent Starling," she said, not volunteering her first name.
"I see. Here for Clarice, are you?"
Charlene nodded.
"Very well, then. Come with me, please. I'm Clarice's psychiatrist."
"How is she doing?" Charlene asked.
"She's doing as well as one can expect. She's been resistant to therapy – she continues to believe that Dr. Lecter is a wonderful man and consistently denies that he forced her to stay." He gestured. "We keep the women in a secure building on the back of the facility grounds. Keeps them away from the male patients that way."
He didn't seem nervous at all walking on the open grounds. Charlene saw why. The patients were restricted in where they could go. The buildings were surrounded by fences, and the patients were herded into them like dogs in a run. A few of them turned and stared at her. One moon-faced old man standing by a nearby building put his fat fingers through the wire mesh and grinned at her crazily.
"She's here to see me," he sang out merrily. "That's my daughter."
Charlene looked uncomfortable. "I'm not your daughter, sir," she murmured. "You've got me confused with someone else."
"No, no," the old man said. "I knew my daughter was coming to see me today. She said so."
"Perhaps so," Charlene told him, "but I'm not her."
Dr. McQuerry sighed. "Freddy, go back inside. We're busy."
"But I want my daaaauuuughter," the old man said, and his face crumpled into a mask of sadness. "She never comes to see me and she says she will and today's the day. I just know it."
Dr. McQuerry gave the man a consternated look. "Freddy, your daughter isn't coming. Your daughter hasn't come in twenty years. Now go inside."
He continued on, never even breaking stride, never looking at the old man as he slowly dissolved into tears. Charlene cast a glance backwards and suddenly felt uncomfortable.
"Poor devil," Dr. McQuerry said. "He shot his wife twenty years ago. Post-traumatic stress disorder, apparently. He's been here ever since." His tone was indifferent and bored. "His little girl was five then. He's convinced she's coming to see him. Every day for the past seventeen years or so, as soon as he got outside privileges, he waits there for her."
Three freakin' years till they let him outside? Jesus Christ on a pogostick, Charlene thought.
"What's her condition like, Dr. McQuerry?" she asked to change the subject.
"Well, as I said, she's doing acceptably well," the doctor sighed.
"What sorts of tests has she had?"
Dr. McQuerry gave her another prissy, patronizing smile. "Tests? What did you mean, Agent Starling?"
"Oh, I don't know," Charlene said. "House-Tree-Person? Minnesota Multiphasic? Thematic Apperception?"
"You've got some knowledge of the field, then. No, we haven't tested her yet. It's sort of an adjustment period for her." He shook his head slowly. "The poor thing. I'm trying the therapeutic approach. Besides, you know, your aunt also has knowledge of psychology. I'm not sure what testing is going to do. She can skew the results if she wants. Dr. Lecter seems to have done his work very well."
Hearing that name brought the flames of rage in her gut back into full roar. She decided the doctor was probably right. Aunt Clarice would need adjustment. Charlene would help her any way she could.
The women's building was tucked in the back of the facility like an afterthought. Double rows of fencing separated it off from the rest of the hospital. It was an unlovely building, utilitarian and institutional. Charlene could see shadows flitting back and forth behind the windows. Was one of them her aunt?
"You don't seem to have many female patients here," Charlene observed.
Dr. McQuerry shrugged. "It's a VA facility, Agent Starling. Our patients are all veterans. There just aren't that many women who qualify for placement. We have six, including your aunt."
Charlene glanced back at the other dormitory buildings and noticed that some of them sported recreational equipment around them. Basketball hoops, a sagging volleyball net, and the like. The women's' building sported no such amenities. She scowled, looking away from him so he wouldn't notice.
"What do the women here do for recreation?" she asked, trying to make the question sound casual.
"They have a field out there they can recreate outside on," Dr. McQuerry said, gesturing. 'Field' was being rather generous. It was a bare, muddy patch of ground that ran right up to the first barrier fence. "It's harder to recreate the women outside. The law mandates that they be kept out of sight and sound of the male inmates."
Charlene felt like pointing out that there were ways to comply with that other than simply choosing to screw the female patients over, but she held her tongue. She didn't want to antagonize this guy. Not if he could help her aunt. Helping Aunt Clarice was what mattered.
"I just noticed they don't have any recreation equipment," she said.
The doctor shrugged. "They've never expressed any interest in having it," he said. "Most of them are much happier staying inside and watching soap operas. The Young and the Restless is very popular."
Charlene bit her lip to avoid saying anything. Now hold on, Charlene. Mr. Crawford said this was a good place. He wouldn't have put Aunt Clarice here if it wasn't. And maybe the other women would rather watch TV than go outside. But Aunt Clarice is gonna want to go outside and run and stuff.
"Does my aunt have outside privileges?" she asked.
Dr. McQuerry shook his head. "She's too new. They'll be available for her to earn, just like everyone else here."
"What are the criteria to get them?" Charlene asked calmly.
"Six months of good behavior. No staff assaults, no attempts at escape, and no other major infractions." he answered.
Six months? Charlene thought of having to spend six months trapped inside a bland little building like this and found herself shivering at the thought.
The aide buzzed them in. At first, Charlene thought, it wasn't so bad. There was a lounge of sorts with a TV room. A few lost-looking women were clustered around it. Their eyes looked blank and their expressions zombielike. They barely moved and didn't seem to notice her. Instead, they simply stared at the soap opera with glassy eyes. Charlene shivered. She counted the women. Four.
"Women's maximum security is down in the basement," Dr. McQuerry said, and escorted her downstairs. There were black barred gates and security doors seemingly everywhere. Aunt Clarice wasn't breaking out of here, Charlene decided. Houdini couldn't break out of here.
"Is she the only one down there?" Charlene asked as they descended and cleared yet another set of gates.
Dr. McQuerry shook his head. "No," he said indifferently. "We've got another one down there. She attacked a staff member."
"When will she be eligible to come off maximum security?" Charlene asked.
"Your aunt? Thirty days from her admit date. Another few weeks. The other one is a disciplinary matter, so she comes up for reclassification every six months."
Charlene thought Dr. McQuerry needed some refreshing on patient confidentiality laws, but didn't say anything. She was uneasy. Something wasn't right here.
"Your visit with your aunt will take place in the visiting room down here," Dr. McQuerry said, bored. "There will be an orderly watching. She won't be in restraints for the visit, and you'll be able to touch. Just stay in your seat and she'll stay in hers. Do not give her anything. If you have something to give her, call in the orderly. It's the same the other way around, but Clarice knows that and she's behaved herself reasonably well so far."
Charlene nodded.
"You'll need to check your gun and anything that could be used as a weapon at the desk," Dr. McQuerry continued. Another gate rolled open and Charlene set about disarming herself. The orderly behind the desk's eyes widened when Charlene took the .45 from her holster and unloaded it. She dropped the extra clips for the .45 in the metal bin too.
"Big gun," the orderly observed. He was tall, Hispanic, and well muscled. His arms were heavily tattooed. His English was accentless. "Wow. If you ever have to arrest me, ma'am, don't pull that cannon out on me. I'll be nice and calm for you."
Charlene grinned nervously. Dr. McQuerry muttered something about having other things to do and left. The orderly stuck out his hand.
"I'm Raul," he said. "I'm the orderly down here. The marshal round these here parts, you could say." He hitched an imaginary cowboy hat on his forehead and grinned.
"Charlene Starling," Charlene supplied and stuck out her own hand. It was swallowed up in his grip.
"You got handcuffs?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Stick 'em in there. Anything else metal, put it in there too. Even your car keys. I know it sounds strict, but if McQuerry catches you, he'll suspend visitation. Nothing hard can go in with you."
Charlene's eyes narrowed. "Can he do that?"
"Yup," Raul advised. "This is lockdown."
Charlene took a deep breath. But Raul seemed to be friendly, and she knew all about working joes having to enforce the rules that the bigwigs set down. So she dropped her keys and handcuffs in the metal box. Raul put the bin under the desk and flicked a switch. The final gate buzzed open. Raul led her through to a room with a scarred metal table and two chairs. The cells themselves were down the hall. She could not see into them. She sat down in one of the chairs and swallowed.
"It's all OK," Raul said. "I got to get her. Just be a minute."
"Could I see her cell?" Charlene asked.
Raul shrugged. "There's no rule that says you can't," he said casually. "I'll ask her first, though, and if she says no I'll have to ask you for a pretty good reason why. Down here in Max we don't like to rile 'em up any more than we absolutely have to."
Charlene nodded. Raul ducked out of the room. She heard another gate buzz open. Then she heard Raul's voice, friendly and jocular.
"Hey, Clarice. Got a visitor for you. Wanna come on out for me?"
Her aunt's voice filled her ears for the first time since Argentina. Buzzy and hard to hear, coming through a speaker. It had only been the second time in years that she had heard it. Charlene sighed and put her hand to her forehead.
"Hi, Raul. A visitor? If it's Crawford, let me save you time. I don't want to see him."
"Not Crawford, and I know from last time. I think they heard you cussing him out in the next county last time. It's a young woman."
Charlene's jaw dropped. Crawford had tried to visit Clarice before? After he'd told her – a family member, no less – to wait?
He's an expert, she told herself. Just trust him. He's trying to do the same thing you are and help Aunt Clarice.
A pause. "My niece?"
"I suppose so. She looks like you. C'mon, Clarice, you know I hate shouting through these things. How about you come on out and we'll talk like civilized people."
There was a buzz of a door and a heavy metal clank. Then Charlene could hear footsteps. Raul's heavy black oxfords combined with the wshh of paper slippers. For a moment, Charlene bit her lip and found herself feeling very nervous. Had this been a bad idea? She cast her eyes around the place. Maximum security. Lockdown. They were keeping her aunt Clarice in lockdown.
A voice outside, transmitted through normal air and not a microphone: "Do you have to hold my arm, Raul?"
Raul's voice, regretful but still friendly. "Fraid so, Clarice. It's the rules. It's either that or cuffs or a jacket. It's the rules. Gotta take that up with McQuerry. Out of my hands."
A short, bitter laugh followed that. "Then do what you gotta, Raul," Clarice said. "It's OK. I'm not gonna bother appealing to Dr. Stalin."
The door to the visiting room opened. Charlene tensed. She felt a lump form in her throat and tears rise to her eyes. She forced them away resolutely. She wasn't gonna cry in front of Aunt Clarice. Not after all this time. She had to be strong. She needed to be. Aunt Clarice had been strong for her.
A shadow appeared in the doorway.