Author's note: This chapter was delayed by my kid's second birthday party – a lot of fun for him but exhausting for us, as we had to get the place shipshape and then had a bunch of jumpy kids and grandparents all over at once. But it's all over now, and my kid scored some pretty good loot, and I got to finish this chapter.
The beta state of consciousness is one that most humans are intimately familiar with, even if they don't know what it is. It is simply the conscious, aware, wakeful state. The delta state is the state of normal sleep. It was from the delta state of consciousness to the beta state that Charlene Starling returned the day after Dr. Lecter's escape from custody.
The room she was in was warm and pleasant, and she was lying in a bed. Her skin was scented with some sort of ointment that smelled pleasant. She wore flannel pajamas that were warm and comfortable. Her left arm lay across her abdomen in a sling. Drowsily, she opened her eyes. There was another presence in the room. A figure bent over her cautiously as she stirred.
"Momma?" Charlene asked sleepily, and blinked her eyes.
"You've been out for several hours," the figure said. A woman's voice, touched with the same drawl as her own. "You feeling OK?"
Memories began to come back to her slowly. "My…my shoulder hurts," she said.
"You were shot," the figure answered.
Charlene's eyes opened. "Am I…?"
"You're OK," the figure said. "The bullet went clean through your shoulder. Nothing broken. You should heal up just fine, the doctor says."
Charlene sat up in the bed and touched her right shoulder with her left hand. She could feel a bandage over it and some pain when she touched it. She grimaced. On the right side of her bed was a nightstand with a darkened lamp. She reached across for it, trying to reach the lamp's pull switch. The figure noticed what she was doing and reached across for it for her, as the figure had two arms.
Charlene's original belief that it was her mother in the room with her had been understandable, she having just woken up, but in error. It was not Patty Stenson but Clarice Starling who hovered over her. She looked at Charlene with a mixture of guilt and concern. After a moment, Charlene remembered why.
"Aunt Clarice," she said, the sleepiness banished from her voice.
"That's me, honey," Clarice said. "How're you feeling?"
"You shot me," Charlene said, and slid off the bed hurriedly. Her eyes locked onto Clarice's and watched her as she might watch a rabid dog. Her right arm was firmly trapped in the sling, but her legs worked fine. She backed away a few steps tensely.
"Charlene, c'mon," Clarice said. "I did, yes. I had to. But I never meant to hurt you."
"My ass," Charlene said. "I want my clothes and my gun. Now."
"We've got those for you," Clarice promised. "Charlene, now listen to me. No one is going to hurt you."
"You shot me," Charlene panted.
"You were going to kill a man who was on his knees in front of you and no harm to anyone," Clarice pointed out. "Now c'mon. Listen to me. We're going to help you."
Charlene watched her aunt tensely. Aunt Clarice had shot her. Shot her in order to save Dr. Lecter. She seemed remorseful, but that didn't change the facts. Aunt Clarice had shot her. Aunt Clarice could not be trusted.
Mr. Crawford had been right. Aunt Clarice had been brainwashed. Charlene had been a fool to believe her. Now, if Aunt Clarice was here, that meant so was Dr. Lecter, even if he wasn't right here in sight.
She'd been a fool to trust her aunt, and she would pay with her life.
"Git away from me," Charlene said, and backpedaled. She held her left hand up in front of herself to defend herself as best as she could. Her eyes flicked from Aunt Clarice to the door. The bedroom door was open. Beyond it lay a perfectly ordinary hallway.
She tugged on her right arm and then felt something between the fingers of her pinioned right hand. A rope. A rope extended from the sling under her wrist and circled her waist. She tried to move her right arm away from her body and found she could not. Loops of rope neatly held it to the line around her middle. Her right arm was tied around her. It wasn't a sling. It was half a straitjacket.
"Charlene, look," Clarice said. "I really need to talk with you. I felt terrible about having to shoot you. But I'm not going to hurt you now. I promise."
She seemed very believable. But it had to be a lie. Dr. Lecter must've done a real good job brainwashing her. Even the story she'd sold Charlene about being tortured in the hospital was probably a fish story. All along, she'd been Dr. Lecter's pawn. She'd probably look just as regretful when Dr. Lecter was cooking up some part of Charlene's guts and serving them with shallots and berries and stuff.
She had to get out of here. God only knew where her gun and clothes were. Heck with 'em. She could replace those. She couldn't replace her life. Get out of here, away from her nutty aunt and her cannibal lover.
Charlene feinted left. Aunt Clarice moved to stop her, holding her hands up as if Charlene was being unreasonable in not wanting to become Dr. Lecter's dinner. A look of regret and pain crossed Aunt Clarice's face. But she fell for the feint, moving a bit closer to intercept her niece.
Charlene lunged. She dodged right, bringing her closer to the door. At the same time, she brought up her left arm and punched her aunt as hard as she could in the jaw. Clarice staggered, her hands rising to her face. That was her opening, and she took it.
Charlene Stenson Starling ran through the short hallway as if all the demons of hell were pursuing her. Her bare feet slapped the carpeted floor. When the hallway ended, she glanced quickly both ways. The left led to a bathroom. Charlene turned right and then stopped dead. A chill ran up her spine. The color fell out of her face.
To the right was a small landing. Below that, a stairway. At the base of the stairway was a wooden front door. On the landing was Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He had some medical instruments arranged on a table, and he was calmly filling a syringe from a vial. He turned when he heard her and gave her a surprised look. His head tilted like that of a parrot.
He was free and she was unarmed. She had to get away. God only knew what was in that vial. God only knew what the sick bastard meant to do to her. Some part of her would end up in a cooking pot if she didn't do something.
Clarice hollered something from the bedroom. Footsteps came padding soft on the carpet. Dr. Lecter took a step towards her. Charlene's eyes widened and she dodged helplessly, her body straining towards the stairway as if mere desire alone, if strong enough, could teleport her six feet or so to the safety of the stairs.
Dr. Lecter pivoted with the grace of a dancer. His slender fingers slipped easily into the rope around Charlene's waist. He knew it would hold. He'd tied her arm there himself. Charlene's feet tottered over the bare space of the first stairway riser. Then Dr. Lecter gently pulled her back and bore her to the floor easily. He lowered his body so that he was sitting on her legs. She couldn't rise and couldn't kick. Dr. Lecter had learned a great deal of how to restrain people, from both his own prior victims and from his time in the asylum.
Clarice appeared around the bend of the hallway, rubbing her jaw. She squatted behind her niece and calmly took hold of her free left wrist, pinning it against the small of her back. Dr. Lecter calmly uncapped the syringe and examined its contents.
With her free hand, Clarice patted Charlene's shoulder calmingly.
"It's OK," she said soothingly. "Dr. Lecter's going to help you."
Pinioned and helpless, Charlene did not share her aunt's opinion. Her eyes remained firmly locked on Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter the sociopath, Dr. Lecter the murderer, Dr. Lecter the monster. And now she was in his grasp. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her body poured useless adrenaline into her system.
"No, it ain't OK," she quavered. "He's not gonna help me. I don't want his help. You know what he's gonna do to me, Aunt Clarice. You know."
Her brains? Her kidneys? Her liver? What torment for her was brewing in that devil's mind behind those maroon eyes? Or was it something even worse, something more horrible that he had planned for the agent who caught him? He hadn't killed Will Graham, but that sure wasn't for lack of effort. Charlene had seen the doctor's crime scenes. She harbored no illusions of what he was capable of.
She strained again, trying desperately to throw him off. Her right arm was immovable in its bonds. Aunt Clarice's grip on her left was inescapable. She was murmuring comfortingly into Charlene's ear, as if it would make the transition from FBI agent to meal easier for her. Dr. Lecter favored her with a cool smile.
"This isn't a promising start, Charlene," Dr. Lecter said mildly. "But…I've had worse."
The needle stung her upper arm. Charlene let out a wail of despair. But that was all she would allow herself. She wouldn't give the monster the pleasure of hearing her beg. It wouldn't do any good. But she let herself wail once, knowing she was irretrievably lost. Her sight began to blur. Dr. Lecter's eyes burned on hers, cruelly magnanimous with cold victory. Behind her, her brainwashed aunt still murmured calmly to her. She'd probably keep doing it right until Dr. Lecter sawed the top of her head off or pulled out her kidneys or whatever atrocity he had in store for her.
Then the darkness closed in, and Charlene knew no more.