Screamer
by Shamaho
Disclaimer- I do not own the works of Thomas Harris, which includes characters, places, events or anything within his text. I do own everything else however, and beg that if anyone wants to use my characters, places events or anything contained herein, please give me credit, and if this should be posted anywhere, just let me know where it will be.
Notes- This story was named for the Good Charlotte song 'Screamer'. When the story is finished, I'll post the lyrics at the end of the final chapter.
As my real name is not Sharon Mahoney I decided I liked the name enough to use for my main character. I do know someone with the name Sharon Mahoney, she does live in D.C. but she is in no way affiliated with the F.B.I. or Thomas Harris, any other characters listed are fictional as well as their names, if any name is that of a real person, it is pure coincidence.
Finally, this is NOT a Mary Sue fic, this character was not created for a love interest to Lecter in any way, if anything, they'll be friends, but I am a firm believer in Clarice/Lecter and don't think I could stomach writing a Mary Sue fic. I know most younger teens and below think the word 'love' used is always a clue to a sexual or romantic relationship, and it isn't. I use it a lot in my work and often times for describing the relationship between friends so let's try to keep the Snicker's down, eh? Go get a candy bar and if anything looks funny, take a bite, if the bar is gone by the end of the chapter, you've got some work to do. Not being mean or bitchy, I'm trying to be helpful.
Summary- Five years after the end of 'Hannibal'. Dr. Lecter decides to come out of hiding one last time, only when he returns to the District, he finds that Clarice Starling isn't there, and only one F.B.I. agent knows where she is. In order to get the information out of her, he has to help her with a few problems of her own.
Chapter One
An Old Friend
Clarice Starling's home, Georgetown, Washington D.C. Early April, 2006.
The house had pretty much stayed the same since the last time he had come here, weather had rusted the iron handrail on the stairs but other than that there were no Easter decorations forgotten to be taken down, not that a non practicing Lutheran would hang Easter decorations. He had once thought, perhaps, that she had hung them for the little lambs, a reminiscence of those brief two months in Montana, but he could see now, they still clearly bothered her. He decided it would be best to go through the back, less chance of being spotted. Upon entering the open back door (funny, after all she'd been through she still left the back door unlocked) the first thing he noticed was the unearthy neatness of the house, it hadn't been quite so neat when he'd been there last but then he had read in the paper a week ago that she had taken a vacation so he imagined she had plenty of time on her hands.
He moved into the back, where the living room was and saw it had been rearranged. The couch faced the opposite way, the back of it faced him, and on it, he saw a woman sitting, dark hair, long and sleek. Maybe she'd dyed it again? Or maybe he was in a world of trouble. Before he could think his foot pressed a bad floorboard and the woman whirled around, he was in a world of trouble, because it was certainly not Clarice.
The first thing he noticed was the click of a gun, she swung up in a graceful motion from the seat, raised the Colt .45, which was always under a cusion in case it was needed, her brave, deep grren eyes locked on his, her breathing was harsh, he could see it from across the room. He raised his hands in surrender, shook his head. "There's no need to raise that at me, I'm not here to do you any harm."
"I know who you are," she growled, her heavy southern accent branding each word. "And I know who you want, she isn't here."
"I had assumed that, please, put it down, I won't come any closer." She was hesitent, but lowered the weapon to her side, stood almost helpless before him.
"Well, well what do you want? I already told you, Clarice isn't here."
"What is your name?"
"Beg pardon?"
"What is your name?"
She felt much safer, oddly, so she set the weapon down on the sofa and then paused, took it and placed it on the table, motioned to the cough. "Come over here and talk, this is awkward." She knew it was risky on her part, but something told her he had no interest in harming her, she was always one to follow her gut. He obliged, sat on the couch and so she sat across from him on a chair, pulled her feet up with her and fumbled with her hands in her lap, slightly mebarrassed by her rash actions. "My name is Sharon."
"Lovely, Sharon what?"
Her eyes met his, steely and cold, searching for an explanation, but his own gray-blue eyes did not hold the answer. She sighed, exasperated and blew at a piece of her hair that was in her face. "Mahoney, my name is Sharon Mahoney."
He nodded to himself, seemed to think, and extended his hand. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
She watched it, seemed to check it for a razor blade, or even a buzzer, then took and shook it. "It's um, well a pleasure to meet you."
"You're very well spoken, save the pauses, Miss Mahoney, where did you attend college?"
"I went to Georgetown." She said simply, she slowly withdrew her hand and fixed him with an amused, surprised expression. "Forgive me Dr. Lecter, but this is very strange, I'm sitting with you in my living room having a friednly chat."
"Is that so strange?"
"You're a serial killer, a cannibal, why didn't you kill me when you saw I wasn't Clarice?"
"I sensed no danger from you, and I have not killed you yet because you have been as courteous as you can in your state of shock. Speaking of, where is Clarice?"
"On vacation."
"Yes, but where."
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that doctor, I promised her I wouldn't." She let her legs fall, he did not look at them. He decided instead to study her, she was charming, not much but a bit younger than Clarice, maybe 36 or 37. Her dark, long hair was straight, apparently by an iron and some product, her eyes were the strangest shade of green he'd ever seen, deep like evergreen yet soft like a green olive. She had an articulately molded face, strong bony features, a straight nose and smooth pink lips, not thin but not overly thick either. In the tank top and sweat pants he could make out some of her shape, mostly upper body. The fierce molding of muscle showed she was a very competitive person, not one to give up until her body begged for mercy, he had a feeling her physical instructors at the academy had been very pleased with her. Her intellect was also very sharp, so he imagined she was one of their top graduates.
"I see," he managed, coming out of his thought. "Well then, I supose there is no need for me to stay, when you do see her don't frighten her with my visit, just tell her I said 'Hello'. Goodbye Miss Mahoney."
She was surprised by the abruptness of his decided departure, but smiled softly and nodded, stood and shook his hand again. "Well, um, if you're around in a while, stop by and say hi, I won't tattle."
He smiled kindly and nodded, did not respond, but nodded. He left the same way he came, and so Sharon flopped down onto her chair and shook her head. "That girl is crazy."
F.B.I. Headquarters, employment archives, the same night
It took Lecter about an hour, but he finally found Sharon's dossier in the unorganzied mess of file cabinets, he sat down, made himself comfortable in the part of the room stupidly unfilmed on camera (not that it mattered, the camera had a bag over it) and carefully opened the large slab of paper with his gloved hands. He read the following fragments and skipped past some parts which did not interest him.
Now, let's see.
Name: Mahoney, Sharon P.
DOB: 26 June, 1969.
POB: Richmond VA.
Blah blah blah, come on now.
. . . . (from brief biography made from some background check) At 22 Mahoney wed rock frontman Jerome Hardsten, thirteen weeks after graduating from the University of Virginia. At 25 she gave bith to twin sons (Mr. Hardsten is an identical twin) and shortly after began training at Quantico, but dropped out for reasons never stated. In 1996, their twin sons, Atticus and Ashton Hardsten were kidnaped and found slughtered just three days after reported missing, both parents were ruled out and when saliva was found in one toddler's eye, the killer was apprehended and tried guilty. Hardsten filed for divorce a year later, citing 'irreconcilable differences', but it was found in trial and proven that Mahoney had been beaten by Hardsten on a number of occasions, two of which occurred during her pregnancy. She again began training at Quantico at 30 and graduated five years ago.
This goes to fairly recent times, I wonder why Pearsall wanted it.
. . . . (from interrogation when twins were found murdered).
OFFICER FAZIO- Mrs. Hardsten, can you think of anyone who would want to do your sons any harm?
MRS. HARDSTEN- No, no, Christ no. . . . . Do you think I hurt my babies?
OFFICER CROSBY- No ma'am, but we want to know if you have any enemies that would hurt them.
HARDSTEN- Not that I know of . . . .
Poor girl.
. . . . (a letter from Jerome Hardsten dated July, 1997) I can't take it anymore, you want to know why those babies are dead? They're dead because you're just another corn pone country pussy, Sharon! You could never be a good mother to them babies and you really have sucked at being a wife to me.
Hmmm, interesting. Well, time to go.
Ok, tell me what you think, I need something to go on, here.
