The Silence of the Lambs Page #8

Clarice turns onto her back, starts squirming under the door.

MR. YOW

You're going in there?

CUT BACK TO:

EXT. STORAGE UNIT NUMBER 31 - DUSK

Clarice pulls her head back out again, reaching to take her

camera from him. She hands him a card, trying to appear

nonchalant.

CLARICE:

Mr. Yow, if this door should fall

down -ha ha! - or anything else -

would you be kind enough to call

this number? It's our Baltimore field

office. They know you're here with

me... Do you understand?

MR. YOW

Might I suggest tucking your pants

into your socks? To prevent mouse

intrusion.

CLARICE:

(beat)

Good idea.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. STORAGE SHED - DUSK (VERY DARK)

Clarice squirms, on her back, through the narrow opening. As

she squeezes all the way in, she snags one thigh on the metal

edge of the door. She curses softly, shining her flashlight

on her ripped khakis - there's a small streak of blood.

MR. YOW (O.S.)

Okay, Miss Starling?

CLARICE:

Okay, Mr. Yow...

She shines her light around. In its narrow beam, we see -

CLARICE'S POV - UPWARD, SHIFTING

spiderwebs, everywhere... high stacks of cardboard boxes...

a few dusty pieces of furniture... the big car, oddly long

and tall, covered with a tarp... Suddenly there's a scurrying

of loud MUSICAL NOTES. Clarice turns, scared, her beam

capturing... an old upright piano.

MR. YOW (O.S.)

You're playing a piano, Miss Starling?

CLARICE:

That wasn't me.

MR. YOW (O.S.)

Oh.

Clarice crawls a bit further. There's hardly room to stand,

but she finally manages to wriggle upright, clawing away

cobwebs, next to the car. Holding her light under one arm,

she takes several FLASH photos of the shed's interior, ending

with the car. Then, slinging her camera over the shoulder,

she folds back the tarp, resting it on the roof. The resulting

clouds of dust make her cough.

THE CAR:

is an antique beauty, a 1931 Packard. It's very dusty, despite

the tarp. Curtains close off the back passenger compartment,

but there's a narrow gap in them. More mousy RUSTLINGS.

CLARICE:

peers in through the gap, aiming her flashlight.

HER POV - SHIFTING

as the thin flashlight beam picks out: the broad back seat...

as open album of lacy, old-fashioned Valentines... a crumpled

lap rug, on the floor... and then a pair of women's shiny,

high-heeled pumps... Above these, the hem of a fancy satin

evening gown - and a pair of pale, stockinged legs.

Clarice recoils, alarmed, then steadies herself.

CLARICE:

Mr. Yow? Oh Mr. Yow...? It looks

like somebody is sitting in this

car.

MR. YOW (O.S.)

Oh my! Oh my... Maybe you better

come out now, Miss Starling.

CLARICE:

Not yet! - just wait for me.

(under the breath)

Maybe in about two seconds.

She leans down with her camera, takes a FLASH through the

gap, then tries the door handle. Locked. So is the front

door. She looks around, aiming her light, and locates a tangle

of coat-hangers, sticking out of a carton of bric-a-brac.

She pulls out one of these, straightens it quickly, bends

the tip into a hook.

CLOSE ANGLE:

as she jams this tool inside the join at the top of the back

passenger window, then fishes around till she can snag the

inside door latch, pulling up. A satisfying CLICK.

Clarice opens the door - it hits stacked boxes, and won't

open far - then very cautiously leans inside, aiming her

flashlight.

HER POV - MOVING LIGHT BEAM

revealing more of the evening gown... a pair of hands, in

white, elbow-length gloves - one rests on the lap, the other

atop a large, beaded, drawstring evening bag... thick strands

of costume pearls over the breasts... and finally the white

neck stub of a female mannequin. No face or head.

CLARICE:

sighs with relief. She takes a couple more FLASHES, then

very carefully lifts out the Valentine album, holding it by

the corners, and setting it atop the car. Then she eases

herself inside, onto the back seat, as the springs SQUEAK

loudly.

ONE GLOVED HAND slides off the lap, brushing Clarice's thigh.

Clarice starts a bit, then pokes at the gloved arm, hard.

She peels back a bit of glove, revealing the white, synthetic

elbow. She smiles, shaking her head at her own jumpiness, as

she reaches over the mannequin's lap to loosen the evening

bag's drawstring.

A SEVERED HUMAN HEAD stares back at her, as the beaded

material slides away.

Clarice lurches back, gasping loudly, and several long, heart-

pounding moments pass before she can make herself look more

closely.

The head bobs gently in a pool of alcohol, in a laboratory

specimen jar. It is a man's head, but grotesquely transformed,

by the addition of heavy makeup, earrings, and a sodden wig,

into a woman's face. Over the years the makeup has smeared

badly, and the pupils have gone almost milky white.

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