"THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS" (1991)

A woman's face BACKS INTO SHOT, her head resting against grimy wallpaper. She is tense, sweaty, wide-eyed with concentration. This is CLARICE STARLING, mid-20's, trim, very pretty. She wears Kevlar body armor over a navy windbreaker, khaki pants. Her thick hair is piled under a navy baseball cap. A revolver, clutched in her right hand, hovers by her ear. She raises a speedloader, in her left hand, locks it into her cylinder, twists and reloads.

WITH CLARICE - MOVING SHOT

as she runs around a corner, through a cloud of smoke. She shoulders aside the shattered door and rushes inside, gun at the ready in both hands...

CLARICE'S POV - MOVING - as she first sees, sitting on the edge of a bed - a FEMALE HOSTAGE. Black, late 20's, gagged, hands behind her back. Then, SWIVELLING... she sees a startled MALE SUSPECT, white, mid-20's, standing by a window with a rifle in his hands. He is turning towards her...

Clarice drops into a combat crouch, gun extended, and shouts.

CLARICE'S POV - SLOW MOTION

all natural SOUND suspended - as the Suspect faces her with a strange, pleading expression. The rifle is rising in his hands, but oddly enough, it is held across his chest, not pointing. Then another puzzling detail registers...

Clarice reacts, drops to the floor, rolling sideways, and -

THE "HOSTAGE"

pulls a revolver out from behind her back, still in SLOW MOTION, raising it in her untied hands. She fires repeatedly, flames leaping from the muzzle; the SOUND is an echoing roar in these close quarters, but -

Clarice has come up on one knee, beside an armchair, and is already firing back herself, two quick SHOTS, which send -

THE "HOSTAGE"

pitching over the bed, backwards, to shudder and lie still in a haze of gunsmoke. Clarice rushes to her, clamping one knee down on her gun hand, still keeping her covered in case of movement. HOLD for a few beats... then we hear the shrill blast of a WHISTLE from somewhere, off screen, as normal ACTION and SOUND are restored.

Clarice relaxes, lowering her gun. The lights brighten.

A class of about forty young FBI trainees, of both sexes, begins to rise from their seats, mingling and chatting.

Clarice nods amiably to the "Suspect", then gives her "Hostage" a hand up. It's ARDELIA MAPP, her roommate. Her broad, clever face breaks into a big smile, as they both remove ear plugs. Clarice's voice has just a soft trace of southern accent.

As Brigham joins them, Clarice can't resist a star pupil's little smile of pride. He frowns good-naturedly.

He takes out a steel-coiled grip flexer, drops it onto her palm.

He nods a direction, then moves off. Clarice, with her smile finally fading, looks out into the auditorium.

Ardelia who is helping Clarice unbuckle her bullet-proof vest, follows her worried gaze.

Crawford is watching a group of trainees on the firing range, as Clarice joins him. He looks tired, haunted. Between master and student, we sense a subtle, muted tug of sexuality.

They begin to cross the academy grounds. A group of trainees jogs by, in matching sweats, following a p.e. coach.

Clarice stops walking, goes very still. A beat.

Crawford doesn't respond, except to study her face.

He walks on again, at a faster clip. She hurried to keep up.

They're reached his car. His driver stamps on a cigarette, climbs in behind the wheel. BURROUGHS, his assistant, says something into a walkie-talkie, then opens the back door. But Crawford pulls her aside, a hand on her shoulder. His intensity is scary.

CRIMINALLY INSANE - DAY

CLOSE ON an ID card held in a male hand. Clarice's photo, official-looking graphics. It calls her a "Federal Investigator."

DR. FREDERICK CHILTON looks up from her card. A smarmy little peacock, behind a vast desk; he's conceived an instant, hopeless letch for Clarice. He smiles, stroking her card with his beloved gold pen.

NEW ANGLE - REVEALS CLARICE

now wearing a more feminine skirt suit. Hair neatly coiled, elegant shoulder bag, briefcase. He has rudely left her standing.

Clarice tires, unsuccessfully, to hide her distaste for him.

Clarice flinches as a heavy steel gate CLANGS shut behind her, the bolt shooting home. Chilton walks ahead of her.

A darker, even grimmer area. Heavy grids over the lights. Distant SLAMMINGS and faint, hoarse SHOUTS. They walk briskly.

He hands Clarice a small, dog-eared photo. Looking at it, she is stopped in her tracks. This pleases Chilton.

He turns, pushes a button. A steel door BUZZES slowly open, and BARNEY - a big, impassive orderly - awaits them in an anteroom. On its walls: restraints, mouthpieces, Mace, tranquilizer guns.

She holds out the photo. A beat. He grabs it, jaw twitching.

He turns on his heel, goes. Barney smiles reassuringly.

Sensing her tension, he indicates a nearby security monitor.

Clarice nods gratefully. She looks down the long corridor, takes a deep breath, walks into it. He watches her go.

MOVING SHOT - with Clarice, as her footsteps ECHO. High to her right, surveillance cameras. On her left, cells. Some are padded, with narrow observation slits, others are normal, barred... Shadowy occupants pacing, MUTTERING... Suddenly a dark figure in the next-to-last cell hurtles towards her, his face mashing grotesquely against his bars as he hisses.

Clarice flinches momentarily, but then walks on.

Clarice stops, at a police distance from his bars, clears her throat.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is lounging on his bunk, in white pajamas, reading an Italian Vogue. He turns, considers her... A face so long out of the sun, it seems almost leached - except for the glittering eyes, and the wet red mouth. He rises smoothly, crossing to stand before her; the gracious host. His voice is cultured, soft.

Clarice is surprised, but fishes her ID card from her bag, holds it up for his inspection. He smiles, soothingly.

She complies each time, trying to hide her fear. Dr. Lecter's nostrils lift, as he gently, like an animal, tests the air. Then he smiles, glancing at her card.

She sits in the folding metal desk-chair. He waits politely till she's settled, then sits down himself, faces her happily.

A pause, then Clarice takes the questionnaire from her case.

A tense beat, then a smile from him, at this small boldness.

She rolls him the questionnaire, in his sliding food tray. He rises, glances at it, turning a page or two disdainfully.

Suddenly he whips the tray back at her, with a metallic CLANG that makes her start. His voice remains a pleasant purr.

His every word has struck her like a tiny, precise dart. But she squares her jaw and won't give ground.

He steps backwards, then returns to his cot, becoming as still and remote as a statue. Frustrated, Clarice hesitates, then finally shoulders her bag and goes, leaving the questionnaire in his tray. But after just a few steps, as she passes -

The dark figure suddenly flings his palm towards her, and -

Clarice slows, stops. She shudders, but makes the very difficult choice to turn, walk back, stand again in front of -

The grim gothic pile of the asylum looms overhead as Clarice rushes out the front doors. She is badly shaken, almost stumbling, as she rubs at her face. She looks around for, and finally, with some relief, spots -

MOVING ANGLE - THE GIRL'S POV

a car - late 60's vintage - parked in the dirt road. A MAN, Clarice's father, is just climbing out. He's tall, handsome, and has a marshal's badge pinned on his dark suit. He grins, seeing her, and spreads his arms wide as...

Clarice, in a combat stance, and wearing a sound-muffling headset, is squeezing off ROUND after ROUND at

Clarice stares at it, deftly working her speedloader. Then she puts a final, emphatic shot right through THE FIGURE'S FOREHEAD.

CLOSE ON a microfilm monitor - a grainy newsphoto of Dr. Lecter, scrawling past, with an accompanying story ("New Horrors in Cannibal Trial"), dated 1980.

Clarice is punching keys on the terminal. Other trainees study at nearby tables.

She pauses, jotting a note on her pad, as Ardelia comes by, carrying an armful of books.

Ardelia stares at her, figures it's a put-on, laughs.

Clarice grins, as Ardelia indicates a phone receiver resting on the check-out desk, then moves on. Clarice picks it up.

Crawford, in a cardigan, sits in a wing chair in the book- lined study of his suburban home. He turns the pages of Clarice's memo as they talk. His tone is sharp.

She pauses, expecting some soft of approval for her cleverness.

She slams her receiver into its cradle.

A private nurse, in white, stands marking a clipboard chart, as Crawford enters his tidy bedroom.

The nurse nods, hands him the chart, and goes. He glances at it, then sets it aside. He crosses to -

An orange neon sign, streaked with rain, identifies out location. It looms over a hurricane fence, topped with barbed wire. Inside, row on row of garage-sized, cinderblock sheds.

Clarice, kneeling before a closed, roll-up metal door, takes a FLASH photo of its sealed padlock. EVERETT YOW, a fat, 60ish Chinaman, holds an umbrella over them both. He looks unhappy.

She opens the padlock, using a fat ring of tagged keys, then sets aside both keys and lock.

Slinging her camera over a shoulder, she tugs at the handle, but the door won't budge. Another tug, harder - no good. Mr. Yow stoops to help, puffing hard, but it's firmly stuck. He sighs.

Clarice crosses to her Pinto, which faces the shed, reaches in to turn on her headlights. Mr. Yow blinks in the sudden brightness. Then she opens her truck, rummaging inside, and returns with a bumper jack, a flashlight, and a rubber floor mat.

She gives him her flashlight and camera, drops the mat on the ground, then sets the bumper jack in place, under the center of the door. She pumps on the jack handle as the door SQUEALS slowly up, but it won't go higher than about 18 inches, despite all her exertions. She spreads out the rubber mat on the cement, takes the flashlight from Mr. Yow, then lies on the mat.

Clarice, backlit, peers under the door. She reaches in, makes a sweep with her flashlight. We catch shadowy outlines - boxes, then the flattened tires of a car... SOUND of rain on the tin roof, and other noises, too - small RUSTLINGS. Mr. Yow's chubby face appears down beside Clarice's.

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

Clarice pulls her head back out again, reaching to take her camera from him. She hands him a card, trying to appear nonchalant.

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.

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.

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.

Clarice recoils, alarmed, then steadies herself.

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.

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.

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.

A loud clap of THUNDER, as a flash of LIGHTNING illuminates the eerie towers and barred windows of the asylum.

MOVING ANGLE on Clarice as she climbs from her car, runs through heavy rain towards the main entrance, where a guard admits her.

On a noiseless TV screen, an evangelist rants, waving his arms. Behind him, a swaying choir in gaudy robes.

PAN TO Clarice, with her wet hair plastered flat, sitting on the corridor floor to one side of this TV, which has been stationed so that Dr. Lecter cannot avoid seeing it.

The food carrier suddenly SWISHES out of the cell, making her jump up. In its tray is a clean, folded white towel. She hesitates, then crosses, takes this.

She sits again, rubbing her wet hair. When he finally speaks, he's on the floor, too - a deeper, hunching darkness in the shadows, occasionally striped by the flickering TV light.

Dr. Lecter slowly turns up the rheostat in his cell. As his lights rise, we see that the cell's been stripped bare. Gone are his books, drawings, mattress - even his toilet seat. She stands, too, startled. They face each other.

But Dr. Lecter only smiles, enigmatically.

As Clarice stares at him, unsure how to respond -

NIGHT

CATHERINE MARTIN takes a long toke from a bong pipe. She is 21, a tall, big-boned, rather fleshy girl with long brown fair. Her head is on the lap of her boyfriend, CODY; they're sprawled on a couch in the den of her well- furnished apartment. The TV in on, with low SOUND.

He starts to rise, but she pushes him back.

She rises, goes out the front door.

Catherine straightens, with her bag of groceries, shutting her car's back door. She sees, a short distance away -

Catherine hesitates, then crosses towards the man.

His voice is odd, strained, very soft. A fog lamp, set on end on the ground, distorts his features from below. We can't get a good glimpse of his face, but his body is plump, above average height; he's in his mid 30's. She sets down the bag, then together they easily lift the chair into the truck.

He climbs inside the truck, ducking under a small hand winch, and grabs the chair. She hesitates again, but climbs in after him; together they slide the chair forward, behind the seats.

Suddenly, in the shadowy dark, he clubs her over the back of her head with his cast. She moans, slumps unconscious, sliding off the armchair to lie on her stomach. He pulls off his cast and sling, tosses them aside, then hops out of the truck, grabs his lamp, climbs back inside, and pulls the door shut. He bends over her face with the lamp. We hear her shallow BREATHING.

He peels back the collar of her blouse, reading the size tag.

He carefully slits her blouse up the back, with a pair of bandage scissors, peeling apart the two halves. There's no bra strap. He strokes her bare skin delicately, very happily.

LOW ANGLE - CLOSE - on Catherine's grocery bag, as her blouse is tossed out beside it. SOUND of the truck's motor starting. The truck backs up, one rear wheel knocking over the bag, partly squashing it. Then is drives away, taillights shrinking, as a lone orange rolls slowly away from the bag...

CLOSE ON a large video screen, where a BLURRY image gradually sharpens, resolving into two separate pieces of fabric.

Clarice sits at a long table, with other trainees. Ardelia is beside her. Other tables and students in the background. Each trainee has his own microscope. Clarice is tired, but straightens, hearing -

Clarice and Brigham walk briskly down the hall, passing other trainees. He carries a small canvas bag.

Brigham steers as they pass hangars, parked planes, an airstrip. Clarice holds a big fingerprint kit and a weekend bag.

Clarice absorbs this in silence as they stop near an ancient, rather dilapidated Beechcraft. Its door is open, the twin props and beacons already turning. Brigham turns to her, holding out his small canvas bag.

Clarice opens the bag, stares at the big blue gun nestled in its shoulder holster. She looks up at him, touched.

She nods, climbs out. Then she looks back in at him. They're both moved by this rite of passage, but a little embarrassed.

CLARICE'S POV - Out the plane's window, at the landscape far below. Wisps of cloud, a quilt of farms.

Clarice turns from the window, looks at a think folder in her lap. The cover reads "Case File: / BUFFALO BILL." Clarice is moody, distracted. She hesitates, then opens the file, begins to scan.

Clarice hesitates again, then flips this photo to look at the next. It makes her flinch, just slightly. Quickly she turns through several more photographs, trying hard to concentrate.

The pilot adjusts a valve. Crawford turns to her again.

A COLOR PHOTO - IN CLARICE'S HANDS

shows a pretty, plump-cheeked brunette, in her high school graduation cap and gown. She smiles at us with touching optimism.

Crawford steers, following a highway patrol car along a winding mountain road. Clarice has the file open on her lap. He glances at her, inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

He studies her a few moments, measuring her anger.

A shadow of regret passes over his face, but he answers sternly.

She starts to answer, then is silent. He is right. By now the two cars are entering a tidy little town - tree-lined streets, wooden houses, one-story shops, mountains in the background. They slow, turn.

Clarice nods, silently; it's as close to an apology as she's likely to get. She stares out the windshield.

Crawford parks too, then kills the engine. He turns to her, removing his sunglasses, gestures to the case file.

One of the troopers, impassive in his sunglasses and hat, peers in through Crawford's window. Crawford nods to him, then turns back to Clarice.

SOUND of organ music, as Clarice, carrying her fingerprint kit, mounts some steps to the sidewalk. She stops, seeing -

IN FLASHBACK - LOW ANGLE, MOVING

as we approach, down the aisle of a country chapel, an open wooden coffin. Sad country faces turn, looking at us from the flanking pews. The b.g. organ hymn is "Shall We Gather...?"

THE SAD, 10 YEAR-OLD CLARICE

in her best dress, is reluctantly approaching the casket. Her hands are held by the plump hands of unseen matrons.

A young deputy, several state troopers, and a SHERIFF are all waiting, as Crawford and Clarice enter. The dim, cluttered corridor doubles as storage space - there's a treadle sewing machine, a soft-drink machine, a tricycle. The MUSIC is closer. Crawford shakes hands with the sheriff.

He casts a sidelong, unhappy glance at Clarice.

He indicates Clarice with his eyes. The sheriff hesitates, nods, then lets Crawford guide him into a small office, closing the door behind them. Muffled WORDS from there.

ANGLE ON THE OFFICE DOOR

as, after a few more moments, the sheriff and Crawford emerge. The sheriff, still not very happy, addresses his deputy.

Crawford, in one corner of the room, has set up a Litton Policefax fingerprint transmitter. SOUND of many men's low voices, in background. He is on the phone, and has to speak loudly.

He looks around, frustrated by the noisy circus atmosphere.

The men look at one another, a little bashfully, then begin to to file out, whispering among themselves. As they go, a bright green body bag is REVEALED, tightly zipped, lying on a porcelain embalming table. It is almost the only modern object in this Victorian room, with its glass- paned cabinets and faded wallpaper, decorated with cabbage roses.

She steadies herself by raising her camera, takes a FLASH photo.

LOW ANGLE - LOOKING UP, FROM BENEATH TABLE

as Dr. Akin gently lifts aside one of the dead girl's arms. A piece of fishing line, with multiple hooks, is still snagged around it, dangling. Crawford leans in for a closer look.

He leaves, and Clarice leans INTO SHOT, taking another photo.

She takes another FLASH, then quickly reloads film.

Crawford and Lamar both look at her curiously.

SIDE ANGLE - CLOSE ON THE DEAD GIRL'S FACE

staring blue eyes, short reddish hair. Clarice sets the Polaroid, with its special attachments, against the face, while Lamar gently retracts the lips. Each time the camera FLASHES, there's a bright glow inside the cheeks.

NEW ANGLE - CHEST HIGH

as Clarice examines a developing print.

She hands the print to Crawford; he and Lamar look at it, as she searches in her kit.

Clarice holds up a pair of forceps. She glances at Crawford, who nods. She bends over, partially OUT OF SHOT, and after a few moments reappears, holding up a small, brown cylindrical object. She turns this in the air, as they all stare.

Clarice and Crawford exchange a glance.

Clarice takes a jar from her kit, carefully drops the cocoon inside. SOUND of the men's heavy efforts as they turn over the body, off screen. She seals the jar, staring into it at the cocoon.

She turns to look.

NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT

as Clarice looks at Crawford.

Clarice raises her camera, leans in for another FLASH.

Clarice sits outside, with her head on her knees, drained. She looks up wanly as Lamar appears, offers her a can of Coke.

She smiles, touched, and takes the can. When Lamar sees Crawford coming outside, he tactfully departs. Crawford sits beside her; there's a brief silence. She soothes herself with the can.

She looks at him a moment, then offers the can. He opens it.

He looks at her for a moment, then sips again.

A shadowy male figure looks down at us, leaning over the edge of a deep hole. He holds a little white poodle in his arms, stroking it. This is MR. GUMB, aka "Buffalo Bill."

REVERSE ANGLE - UP TOWARDS MR. GUMB

The little dog squirms in his arms, BARKING excitedly.

SIDE ANGLE - AT PIT BOTTOM

as Catherine kneels, turning slightly away from him.

She unzips her jumpsuit, part-way, then squeezes some of the lotion onto a palm. She reaches inside her suit, rubs it on.

A sudden blinding glare of light silences her. She looks up, shielding her eyes.

Clarice is at her desk, exercising her right hand with the grip flexer, while simultaneously studying a thick law book. Ardelia sticks her head in the door, excited.

CLOSE ON a TV screen, filled with a photo of Catherine Martin.

The photo disappears, replaced by the TV ANCHOR himself.

BACK ON THE TV ANCHOR

Clarice is moved by what she sees. Other trainees are all around her.

2ND TV ANCHOR (V.O.) Meanwhile. in Memphis, the investigation continued throughout the night, as state and local authorities were joined at the kidnap scene by agents of the FBI...

REC ROOM ANGLE - FAVORING ARDELIA

as the other trainees send up a brief, ironic cheer. But Ardelia turns sympathetically towards the troubled Clarice.

The massive Victorian building looms over Constitution Avenue. Clarice quickly mounts the steps, carrying a small plastic box.

Clarice, now accompanied by a museum guard, walks through an eerie landscape of dinosaur bones - crouching skeletons with blank eye sockets, gaping fangs.

CLOSE ON an live, enormous, rhinoceros beetle, as it weaves its clumsy way among the men on a chessboard, before finally stepping off the edge, onto a lettuce leaf.

They look up, delighted to see Clarice in the doorway. Both men are hopelessly smitten by her.

MOVING ANGLE as Clarice and the two men go briskly down a hall lined with mounted insects, in all shapes and sizes. Roden peers at Clarice's new cocoon, in its box.

He looks up at her, shyly. A little moment passes between them, before Roden straightens, exultant.

He moves aside for Clarice to get a closer look at Pilcher's specimen. She leans forward, intently.

As the two men stare at her, puzzled, we hear a SOUND UPCUT - the wail of police SIRENS - and...

An awesome armada of police vehicles swings through an intersection, while normal traffic is held back by highway patrol cruisers.

The lead cars turn off, hit the entrance ramp to the freeway - SIRENS going, tires SQUEALING, red flashers...

The van is crammed with an impressive array of hi-tech equipment, all CLICKING and HUMMING. Burroughs is talking quietly on a scrambler phone, while another agent works a computer.

Clarice looks at him, surprised.

Chilton approaches, walking briskly down a corridor in the administration wing. He looks quite agitated.

Chilton falls into step beside Clarice, who has her briefcase. He points his gold pen at her accusingly.

She stares at him, with pity and distaste, till he lets go.

She walks away, leaving him speechless with frustration and hostility. He clicks his pen, watching her go.

Dr. Lecter sits at his table, languidly sketching with charcoal on butcher paper.

He uses his own hand and forearm as a model. His other drawings, books, and bedding have been restored.

Clarice, sitting again at the desk-chair, is taking papers from her briefcase.

He is silent. She rises, moves closer, carrying papers.

His face remains neutral. She puts the papers in his food tray.

A measured beat, before he rises smoothly, crosses, and looks down at the papers, without touching them.

She looks at him. A beat. They are standing uncomfortably close.

Clarice cannot bear the feverish excitement in his eyes. She looks past him, hesitating again.

Suddenly Dr. Lecter snarls, loudly, stretching. Clarice take a sharp step backwards before he smiles, turning his movement into an elaborate yawn. He gathers the papers from his tray.

VERY CLOSE ON a cocoon, split along its back, as a living Death's-head Moth wriggles torturously free. Trembling and damp, the new creature clings to a sprig of nightshade.

We pass a row of female mannequins, some nude, some wearing colorful leather jackets, designer knockoffs, in various stages of completion... then a huge maroon armoire, in Chinese lacquer; its double doors are slightly ajar... The jaunty background. MUSIC is growing even louder: Fats Waller singing "Bye Bye Baby." And now we hear something else, too - the rapid CLICKING of a sewing machine...

We TURN another corner, and there is Mr. Gumb himself. As we APPROACH, his wide back is to us; he's hunched over an old-fashioned sewing machine, humming cheerfully, and working a piece of material that we mercifully cannot see. A female wig rests near him on a head form. He wears a hairnet and a beautiful kimono, and pumps the treadle with his bare feet.

Next to Mr. Gumb is an antique phonograph - source of the MUSIC. His little dog, Precious, perches by his plump ankles. As we PASS Mr. Gumb, Precious scurries away from him, panting happily, and we FOLLOW the little dog down another corridor, the music starting to fade behind us...

At the end of this final corridor, the cellar widens into a low-ceilinged chamber, with two additional doorways, and in the center of this is the gaping circle of the oubliette. Precious sniffs her way over to the edge - excited, tail wagging - than BARKS happily as we hear a hoarse, ghostly moan from below.

MOVING ANGLE - CLOSE ON Dr. Lecter's slippered feet, which rest on the shelf of a rolling hand truck. RISING along his tilted form, we see that his ankles are linked by steel restraints... his legs, waist, upper torso, and arms are bound by heavy canvas webbing... beneath the webbing is a strait-jacket... and over his face is a hockey mask.

Chilton lounges on Dr. Lecter's cot, casually reading his large stack of private correspondence, and making notations with his gold pen on a little pad. Another orderly mops the floor.

Barney props the hand truck into position, then both orderlies go. Chilton finishes another letter, sighs happily.

Tossing letters onto the cot, he rises, crosses out into the corridor, and bends to remove a small tape recorder from underneath Clarice's desk. He waggles it triumphantly at Dr. Lecter.

SIDE ANGLE - TWO SHOT

as Chilton, back in the cell, leans tauntingly close to the front of Dr. Lecter's mask.

CLOSE ON Dr. Lecter's glittering eyes, behind their slits.

CLOSE AGAIN ONDR. LECTER'S EYES

as they shift restlessly, away from Chilton - then suddenly lock onto something. They widen with interest.

DR. LECTER'S POV - EXTREME CLOSEUP

On the cot, carelessly left there, lying half-hidden under the letters and the rumpled sheet... is Chilton's gold pen.

A beat. Dr. Lecter is silent. Chilton sticks his face INTO SHOT, almost intimately close to the mask. He is agitated.

MOVING ANGLE - as the very impatient Crawford, clutching a folder, strides down a hall beside DR. DANIELSON - early 50's, severe, in a lab coat. Nurses, doctors, glance as they pass.

Danielson enters a cramped, stainless steel nurse's gallery, with Crawford following, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

He takes a black & white photo from his folder, slaps it down in front of Danielson. From our angle, we can't see it clearly.

Burroughs sticks his head in, looking for Crawford.

Burroughs hurriedly retreats. Crawford strains for patience.

Crawford is on the scrambler phone. Burroughs watches silently.

HAYDEN BURKE, the FBI Director, swivels in his big chair. Lean, late 40's, very distinguished. His desk is flanked by flags.

Listening to the answer, he looks uncomfortably across his desk at PAUL KRENDLER, the Deputy Attorney General - 40, very tanned, modish haircut. Krendler is irritable, impatient.

Burroughs starts to make an objection, but Crawford stills him with a hand motion. He is taut, frustrated. Long pause.

Clarice opens her door, stares out at Crawford. She's just slipping on her blazer, over her shoulder holster. She's furious.

MOVING ANGLE on Clarice and Crawford, as they walk along a sidewalk, sipping from paper cups. The surveillance van trails them slowly, radios CRACKLING.

He looks at her steadily, then nods. They walk on.

She smiles at this acknowledgment; he never thought she's quit.

CLOSE ON Dr. Lecter. Behind his mask, the alert, searching eyes.

The officers turn away, Boyle signing a clipboarded form.

Chilton instinctively pats his shirt pocket for his gold pen; it's gone. He searches other pockets, with growing unhappiness.

NEW ANGLE -DR. LECTER AND SEN. MARTIN

as she stops, struck by the bizarre spectacle of his restraints. The others instinctively keep a distance, but Chilton, with theatrical relish, unstraps and removes Dr. Lecter's mask.

They stare at one another for a long moment: the Senator tense, almost haggard, the madman with his unearthly poise.

He assistant unsnaps his briefcase, reaches for the form.

Krendler raises a pad, poised to take notes.

He flicks his tongue obscenely.

The Senator stills him with a hand. She is trembling.

They start towards the car, but he calls out, stopping her.

CLOSE ON scraps of food - peas, chicken bones - lying on the cement floor of the pit, near the foil tray of a TV dinner.

She hurls the bucket upwards.

AT THE LIP OF THE OUBLIETTE

the bucket sails out, bounces LOUDLY, then falls back inside.

ANGLE ON THE DOG, PRECIOUS

who is elsewhere in the basement, worrying a toy. She cocks an ear, making a low GROWL, then sets off to investigate.

Precious with her tail wagging, BARKS - greedy but suspicious.

CLOSE ON a framed photo of Sen. Martin and Catherine, held in Clarice's cotton-gloved hands. Powdered fingerprints on the glass.

Clarice glances up from the photo, smiles disarmingly at -

A young STATE TROOPER sitting in Catherine's easy chair. He smiles back at her, then relaxes, returns to his newspaper. He also wears gloves.

Clarice closes the refrigerator door, glances around.

A big REEL-TO-REEL TAPE RECORDER has been set up on the breakfast counter, attached to Catherine's phone. Two new red phones are hooked up as well.

Clarice slides open the medicine cabinet's mirror, looks inside. She reaches in, pokes carefully amongst the lotions.

A ceiling hatch bangs open, sending up dust clouds. Clarice, lit from underneath, pokes her head through, looking around.

Flat on her back, Clarice wriggles out from under Catherine's bed. She sits up, brushing dust from her face and hair.

CLOSE ON an open, multi-tiered jewelry box, resting atop a bureau, as Clarice's fingers pick through costume jewelry.

Clarice closes the box, and is just turning away when a figure suddenly looms INTO SHOT, giving her a bad start; she cries out softly.

Senator Martin is revealed, staring at her suspiciously.

Krendler enters from the hallway, looks at Clarice.

Overcome, she hurries from the room. Krendler shuts the door behind her, points sternly at Clarice.

Clarice, burning, starts for the door, then turns back.

Clarice reacts, surprised. Krendler takes a folded computer sheet from his pocket, shoves it at her. She takes it, reads.

Krendler moves in very close to her, pale with anger.

The old courthouse is a massive Gothic stronghold, with an armada of police cruisers parked at the curb.

Clarice climbs from her rented car, SLAMMING the door angrily. Holding a rolled-up pile of papers - Dr. Lecter's drawings - she starts determinedly up the steps. A nearby commotion makes her pause.

Dr. Frederick Chilton in a sea of interviewers and mini- cams, is preening grandly.

Clarice carefully avoiding his gaze, slips up the steps and inside.

SGT. TATE, a Memphis policeman, is studying Clarice's ID. He looks up at her from his command desk, a bit doubtfully.

He picks up a phone, murmurs into it. As he does so, Clarice glances around this main ground floor lobby.

Clarice and OFFICER MURRAY, a young patrolman, ride up in an old-fashioned, CREAKING, metal-cage elevator. He is excited.

Pembry, at a desk by the door, looks up from examining the unrolled pile of Dr. Lecter's drawings.

He waves her on her way, but retains the drawings for now.

MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE

as she crosses the big, spare, white octagonal room. A massive, temporary iron cage has been installed; Officer Boyle sits facing its barred door. He rises, nods, moving away to allow her privacy.

She stops at a striped police barricade, before his bars.

He spins in his swivel chair, stops neatly. A coy smile.

He spins again in his chair, playfully.

MOVING ANGLE - FAVORING CLARICE

as she circles the cage, trying to keep his face in sight.

CLOSE ANGLE - TWO SHOT

as he rises, pained by her ignorance, and crosses to the bars.

She turns from him. He presses closer, gripping the bars.

A third cowboy stretches out the lamb's neck, raises a bloody knife. Just as he's about to slice its throat -

BACK TO THE ADULT CLARICE

staring into the distance, shaken, still trembling from the child's shock. We see Dr. Lecter, over her shoulder, studying her intently.

The tiny figure stops, and after a few moments sinks to the ground, hunched over in dispair.

Clarice struggles, pulling free of them for a moment.

He holds out the file, arm extended between the bars. She hesitates, then reaches to take it.

VERY CLOSE ANGLE - SLOW MOTION

as the exchange is made, his index finger touches her hand, and lingers there, just for a moment.

MOVING ANGLE - MR. GUMB'S POV as he pushes a rolling rack of completed leather garments, each wrapped in plastic, down as aisle. SOUND of many sewing machines, all clattering at once, as he passes row on row of work tables. The seamstresses, mostly black or Hispanic, glance up as he passes, then quickly avert their eyes, his presence disturbing them in some nameless way.

A thin FOREMAN in a flowery shirt, sees him approaching. He rises from his desk and comes over cheerfully, as the rack rolls to a stop.

He seizes one of the dangling jackets, pulling up the plastic wrapper. He examines it, stroking the sleeve.

The foreman quickly releases the jacket.

Mr. Gumb's hand reaches INTO SHOT, snatching an envelope from him. The foreman is watching him walk away, as a seamstress comes over to take the rack of garments. The foreman is vaguely troubled, but shakes it off. He strokes the jacket again, admiringly.

SOUND UPCUT - Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations...

Clarice, in a line of other passengers, is moving slowly towards a departure ramp. Through a huge plate glass window, we can see her plane. She glances back over her shoulder at

A pair of UNIFORMED COPS brawny and impassive, their arms folded, waiting to make sure she board the flight.

Clarice sighs, turning wearily back towards the jetway. The BACH CONTINUES, as we...

NIGHT

CLOSE ON a steaming, rather elegant dinner tray, being carried by Pembry, as he approaches Dr. Lecter's cell.

Pembry grunts, sets the tray down. Boyle joins him, handing him a riot baton and a Mace cannister, which Pembry fastens to belt clips. Boyle is similarly armed, and carries a ring of keys.

Dr. Lecter sits on the floor, legs straight, then wriggles backwards. He stretches his arms behind him, hands and wrists through the bars, with two bars between them, and clasps his hands.

Pembry comes around the cell to squat behind Dr. Lecter. He tugs his hands farther out, rather roughly, handcuffs his wrists. He shakes the cuffs, making sure of them, then nods to Boyle.

NEW ANGLE - AT CELL DOOR

as Boyle picks up the dinner tray, and Pembry crosses around. Pembry takes the keys from Boyle, unlocks the cell door, and pushes it inward. Boyle goes inside with the tray.

NEW ANGLE - FAVORING BOYLE

as he finishes clearing the drawings, then turns back towards Dr. Lecter, stooping to pick up the tray.

VARIOUS ANGLES - EACH BLURRING INTO STOP-ACTION

Pembry starting into the cell, reaching for his riot baton...

Dr. Lecter smashing against the cell door, driving it into Pembry, pinning him across the chest, against the door frame...

Boyle, on one knee on the floor, digging desperately in his pants pocket for his handcuff key...

Pembry's hand, mashed against his body by the door, as he strains frantically to reach the baton at his waist...

Pembry's eyes, widening in horror as he stares at...

Dr. Lecter's bared teeth, flashing towards him...

Dr. Lecter gripping Pembry's face in his jaws, shaking it like a dog shakes a rat...

Boyle finding his key, but in his terror dropping it...

Dr. Lecter yanking the mace can and riot baton from the dazed Pembry's belt, spraying him in his bloody face, then clubbing him to his knees...

Boyle, mouth open in a silent scream, finding his key again, unlocking the handcuff, but then, as he starts to rise, seeing...

Dr. Lecter standing over him, with the riot baton raised high; he swings it viciously down, again and again and again... Then normal SOUND and MOTION are restored as we go to -

PEMBRY'S POV - PARTIALLY BLURRED, THEN CLEARING

Above the desk, hanging from pegs, are his and Boyle's holstered revolvers...

The bronze arrow above the elevator swings towards "5," then indicates a stop there, at the top floor.

A GUNSHOT, and then, moments later, TWO MORE quick ones, echo down the nearby stairwell. Sgt. Tate jumps to his feet, grabs a radio mike, as the other cops stir, confused and noisy.

Sgt. Tate lifts the microphone again.

HIGH ANGLE on Sgt. Tate as he leads a five-man squad, all in bulletproof vests, up the stone stairs. They move fast but carefully, covering each other from landing to landing with drawn revolvers, shotguns. The distant Back MUSIC makes a ghostly echo in here...

A thin rectangle of light on the floor from the open elevator door. We can't see inside. The MUSIC sounds closer.

MOVING ANGLE - OVER TATE'S SHOULDER

as he reaches the side of the elevator, hesitates, then spins to point his gun inside. It's empty. He backs away.

ANGLE on the door, from inside, its lettering reversed on the frosted glass. The Bach is VERY LOUD.

After a moment the door is shouldered open, hard enough for the glass to shatter, Tate following his gun inside, moving low, then other cops appearing behind him in the doorframe. They all freeze, staring in utter horror.

Tate crosses, kneels to see for himself. Murray looks green.

The other cop, checking the cylinder of Pembry's gun, holds up one finger to Tate.

VARIOUS ANGLES on a floodlit scene of barely controlled pandemonium. Flashing red lights, men shouting commands, SIRENS in the distance. SWAT members, in full gear, leap from a black van... fan out... swarm up the steps... EMS orderlies unload a gurney from an ambulance... Cops kneel for cover behind cars, aiming guns and rifles up at the windows...

A trio of EMS orderlies work fast over the body, already strapped on its gurney. Then bandage a big plastic airway into place, over the butchered face, checking for a pulse at the neck. Young Murray crouches, sickened, gripping a bloody fist.

One orderly massages the heart. Another is popping a plasma bag, ready to insert the needle, when the body starts convulsing.

Quickly the gurney is elevated, wheeled out of the room, with cops rushing forward to open the doors, help push, SWAT men are running by in the hall, automatic rifles at the ready...

Sgt. Tate, riding down with Jacobs, has his radio out.

A spot of blood falls on his cheek. He and Jacobs stare at each other. Another spot hits his shoulder. They look up.

Sgt. Tate motions for silence, as both men draw their guns.

The elevator doors open, and Tate and Jacobs hurry out, stepping quickly to the side. Tate reaches back in and -

OTHER COPS are rushing up to them, curious, as Tate frantically pushes them aside, gesturing for silence.

Two SWAT officers, PETERSON and KUBELL, turn a key, unlocking and opening this floor's elevator doorway. The shaft is dark. Lying prone, they inch up to the edge, Peterson extends a mirror, on a long pole, out into the shaft.

Peterson nods to Kubell, who switches ON the flashlight, as Peterson shouts down the shaft.

ANGLE ON THE COPS AGAIN

as Peterson mutters to Kubell.

A small army of cops is now covering the elevator doorway, from both sides. Tate crouches next to the SWAT COMMANDER.

The SWAT commander hands his radio to another cop, then looks at Tate. A long, tense moment. Then he waves a signal.

In the rear chamber, a young EMS ATTENDANT is braced against the vehicle's sway. Behind him, the stretchered form of his patient, and, through a curtained opening, the driver. SOUND of the siren.

Behind him, in slightly BLURRED FOCUS, the bloody figure sits slowly upright...

Suddenly he stops, becoming aware of a strange HISSING. He turns, puzzled...

MOVING ANGLE on the EMS ambulance, as it races along normally, its SIREN blazing, the heavy flow of traffic parting to make way for it.

Then suddenly it begins to weave erratically, changing lanes, before drifting dangerously to a full stop, almost side-ways. Cars swerve to avoid hitting it, HONKING angrily...

A BIG GREEN INTERSTATE SIGN

... that reads "Memphis International Airport / 2 miles."

CLOSE ANGLE - THROUGH AMBULANCE WINDSHIELD

Dr. Lecter's face is slowly REVEALED, as he wipes across it with a fistful of gauze, tossing it aside...

MOVING ANGLE, rushing with dizzy swiftness over the prairie, over waving grasses... a long passage... before we come at last to the girl Clarice, sitting with her lamb, hunched in despair. She rises, her face tear- stained, and turns from us. Holding the lamb, she starts back the way she came...

MOVING ANGLE, very rapid, down this road... coming at last to a stopped highway patrol car. Clarice, with her lamb, is standing in the car's headlights. She starts wearily towards the sheriff...

CRANE ANGLE - sweeping rapidly DOWN into the barnyard towards the arriving highway patrol car, as it stops... RUSHING to the little girl as she steps from the car, holding the lamb.

The dark figure of the rancher ENTERS FRAME. As he roughly takes the lamb from her, we HOLD on a CLOSEUP of her face - stunned, blank. She EXITS FRAME...

MOVING ANGLE - CLARICE'S POV as she walks towards the open barn doorway... It looms CLOSER... The rancher is revealed, a shadowy figure, pinning the lamb on the killing table. His knife hand sweeps up high, then holds... He turns TO CAMERA, his face breaking into the light - and it is the face of Dr. Lecter. He smiles his terrible smile at the young Clarice...

MOVING ANGLE - coming in very CLOSE on the adult Clarice's face -shocked, devastated - as she stands alone by the dangling receiver...

CLOSE ON a shower head, as water suddenly blasts out. Clarice moves INTO SHOT, as she scrubs her face and hair compulsively, almost desperately, unable to get clean...

Clarice is hunched on her cot, in a bathrobe, her hair wet. The Buffalo Bill case file, a think bundle, rests by her feet. Ardelia hovers anxiously nearby.

Clarice looks up. Her eyes are red-rimmed with exhaustion, and something close to despair. She reads Ardelia's thought.

Ardelia sits beside her, touches her arm.

Ardelia stares back at her. SOUND UPCUT - the low throb of a washing machine...

Clarice has spread out the case file across two washing machines. Ardelia, cross-legged on a dryer, studies another pile of forms. Nearby is their laundry basket, detergent box.

She holds up the map, with its location markings for the kidnapping and body dump sites. Clarice takes it, looks.

NEW ANGLE - TWO SHOT

as Clarice looks up at Ardelia, puzzled but excited.

They search among the inserts. Clarice finds the graduation photo.

Clarice moves, on fire, unable to keep still.

She stops, turns. She grabs the photo of Fredrica from Ardelia, stares at it. She looks up, trembling.

Clarice and Crawford are seated in front of Director Burke, who's at his desk. Another chair is empty, because Krendler is pacing. All four are nearing their boiling points.

A long silence, as they all struggle to regain composure. Crawford, who was at the point of striking Krendler, finally retakes his seat. Burke looks sadly at Crawford and Clarice.

Clarice and Crawford stare back at him, drained. A long and very painful silence. Not even Krendler looks happy.

Clarice and Crawford walk out slowly, stand there a moment, not knowing what to say, not wanting to face each other.

He stares at her sadly. He looks, for the first time, defeated, old beyond his years.

He stares at her, a long moment. Catherine's life. Clarice's passion, and future. His loyalty to the Bureau. Call it.

She raises her hand to him. She wants to touch him face, or his neck, but can't. Finally she takes his money and card.

He watches, frightened for both of them, as she backs away, smiles, then turns, racing towards the surveillance van.

SOUND UPCUT - the scratchy recording of Fats Waller SINGING, as we...

CLOSE ON the needle of the Victrola, on the spinning record, as Mr. Gumb's fingers lift away. MUSIC continues in background.

CLOSE ON the moth cage, as Mr. Gumb's fingers search through the humus, and find a plump new cocoon, lifting it out. The door of the cage is left open, and one or two of the adult moths flutter out.

CLOSE ON a clean towel, beside the sink. The cocoon is gently placed in readiness alongside four shiny skinning knives.

CLOSE ON a stainless steel Colt Python, with a six-inch barrel, as the cylinder is spun, and the hammer gets a practice cock. The metallic CLICK is deep and loud. A note of alarm has entered Mr. Gumb's voice.

LOW ANGLE on Mr. Gumb, wearing the kimono, as he walks through his sewing workroom. His back is to us; he is looking anxiously under the furniture. He stops, straightens. Genuinely scared.

LOW ANGLE - OVER THE PIT OPENING

Towards Mr. Gumb, as he stops at one of the doorways of the oubliette chamber. He stares inside; his face in shadows.

From the distant bottom of the pit, we hear Catherine's voice.

Mr. Gumb's fist flies to his mouth, and he sags against the doorframe. A little groan escaped him; the dog answers with a series of YIPS.

UPWARD ANGLE, FROM THE PIT BOTTOM

as Mr. Gumb's dark shape leans cautiously over the edge.

Catherine yanks the dog up, into his line of fire, screaming at him,.

Tucking the dog under one arm, she grabs its muzzle, twisting the head. The dog WHINES piteously.

And abruptly he vanishes. SOUND of his footsteps, rushing off.

HIGH ANGLE as a rented sedan pulls up to the curb, stops. After a moment Clarice climbs out, a bit stiffly. Double- checking this address, she glances up from a folded street map to -

AN OLD, THREE-STORY WOODEN HOUSE

in a row of similarly shabby homes, all backing onto a narrow river. A path of boards, laid over mud, leads back along this house towards the brown water. SOUND of hammering from there.

An awesome huddle of pigeon coops sprawls by the brackish water. The birds' COOING mixes with the HAMMERING. A tall, gaunt man in a knit cap is obsessively pounding nails into a new coop.

He stares back at her, warily.

HIGH ANGLE - LOOKING DOWN as Mr. Bimmel leads Clarice up a steep flight of steps. The bannister is worn, sags a bit.

Clarice pauses, at the landing, to look at a framed photo: the familiar graduation portrait. Others pictures show Fredrica as a young girl, toddler, infant - plump and hopeful at each age.

CLARICE'S POV - MOVING SLOWLY as she takes in flowery chintz curtains... posters of Madonna and Blondie... a twin bed, with worn, stuffed animals on the pillow... . a big sewing machine in the corner.

She turns, looks again at the unfinished dress. Suddenly she straightens, her attention riveted by something...

Clarice paces, in an exuberant rush, amidst the worn furniture.

Crawford sits at a communications console, with Burroughs, in headphones, by his side. This forward section of the cabin is crammed with hi-tech equipment, all lit up and WHIRRING. Through a window we see clouds, part of the jet's wing.

INSIDE THE JET - MOVING ANGLE

from the rear of the cabin forward, as we slowly PASS the twelve-man HRT. They're seated in full gear, hardshell armor, quietly checking and rechecking their bulging cases of weapons - silencer automatics, shotguns, stun grenades...

Clarice tries hard to swallow her disappointment.

Clarice walks slowly across the yard, absorbing all this news, before suddenly leaping into the air and pumping her fist in triumph, with a happy yelp. Then she sees -

The FBI turbojet is parked, its gangway down. Crawford, Burroughs, and the HRT squad, carrying their bags of weapons, CLATTER rapidly down the metal steps...

STACY HUBKA - short, perky, early 20's - sits nervously at her desk, talking to Clarice, who jots in her notebook. In the background. beyond them, bank tellers, lines of waiting customers, MUZAK.

Clarice reacts, disappointed at the ending of this trail.

Suddenly she's fighting tears. Clarice reaches to hug her.

WIDE ANGLE on what appears to be, at first, a calm, ordinary neighborhood of working class two- and three- story houses. But the street is strangely quiet, deserted.

After a few moments, we become aware of movement - armed, dark-clad figures creeping swiftly and in silence from shrubs to garage corners, from parked cars to porches, appearing and then disappearing...

CLOSE ON Mr. Gumb, as he settles a big pair of infra-red night-vision goggles over his eyes. Moths flutter past his face. His mouth is set in a grim line...

An HRT cop, prone beneath a hedge, is joined by a 2nd HRT Cop, who throws himself to the grass beside him. They both take aim with their scoped rifles at -

CLOSE ON a fuse box, as Mr. Gumb reaches in, flips a switch. The lights go out. SOUND of a second switch, and the cellar is bathed in a green glow...

A little boy, riding his tricycle in his driveway, is suddenly startled to find himself staring into the grim face of -

A MEMBER OF THE HRT

crouched by his garage, armed to the teeth. As the little boy starts to cry, the cop pulls him into the shadows, covering his mouth.

Mr. Gumb, in his kimono and goggles, creeps silently through his workrooms - knees bent, painted toes places ever so delicately, the Colt held aloft - as more moths flutter past him in the eerie light...

A florist's van turns the corner, comes slowly down the street and stops at the curb in front of the split-level. The driver, in a gray deliveryman's uniform and cap, climbs out of the cab, walks briskly to the panel door, on the street side of the van, and slides it open. He leans in, comes out with a long, thin red-ribboned floral box, starts calmly towards the house...

MR. GUMB'S POV - MOVING ANGLE on the top of the oubliette, a glowing green circle in the dark, as it draws closer and closer... and then Catherine comes INTO VIEW, at the bottom of the pit. She is crouched, exhausted, staring straight up at him - but she can't see him in this infra- red darkness. Precious is curled into her stomach, asleep. The futon is up to Catherine's waist, but there's a clear shot at her head and neck.

MOVING ANGLE on the "deliveryman," seen from behind, as he mounts three steps to the split-level's front porch. Tucked into the small of his back if a 9 mm. automatic.

THE "DELIVERYMAN"

settles the floral box in the crook of his left arm, reaches out with his right hand towards the buzzer...

Slowly, savoring the moment, Mr. Gumb aims the big Colt, which is already cocked, using both hands... He is just about to squeeze the trigger, when we hear his DOOR BUZZER, surprisingly loud and close by. He turns, startled, and sees -

A DUSTY BLACK METAL BOX

the extension buzzer, mounted high on the wall, which is making the hideous, grating JANGLE. It finally stops, but not before waking Precious, who starts frantically BARKING, off screen., as -

HIS POV - THE PIT BOTTOM

where Catherine, hearing but still not seeing him, quickly yanks the futon over both herself and the dog. Instantly the two of them become one squirming, indistinguishable mass.

The door opens, on a chain, and Clarice peers in, smiling.

Mr. Gumb frowns out at Clarice. For the first time ever, we get a well-lit view of his bland, pale-eyed moon of a face.

The "deliveryman" yanks a 12 lb. sledgehammer from the floral box, swings it with all his might against the door knob, blowing it through as -

Mr. Gumb starts to close the door, only to have Clarice push back against it, politely but firmly. She holds up her ID.

A bedroom window disintegrates as a flash grenade is shot through it, EXPLODING on the floor. An instant later, a black-clad HRT cop dives through the shattered glass, rolls across the floor, comes up on one knee swivelling his sawed-off shotgun...

Clarice and Mr. Gumb, still eyeing each other through the door crack...

MOVING ANGLE as Burroughs moves quickly down a hallway and enters the living room, where Crawford is standing, with his gun held down by his side, surrounded by several other cops. Burroughs shakes his head: Nothing here...

Mr. Gumb glances briefly over his shoulder, towards his kitchen, then turns back to Clarice with a smile.

ANGLE FAVORING THE COLT PYTHON

which rests on a counter, just inside the open kitchen doorway. THROUGH this doorway, we watch as Mr. Gumb, at the end of his front hall, slips the chain. Clarice enters, closing the door behind her.

MOVING ANGLE - towards the front door, as frustrated HRT cops file out of the empty house, rifles slung across their shoulders.

Clarice, pulling her notebook from her shoulder bag, glances around the musty-looking room.

Overstuffed furniture, porcelain figurines. One archway onto the front hall, another onto a dining alcove, and through there, the kitchen. Mr. Gumb is crossing to a rolling desk, raising the top. He bends over, begins poking through cubby holes. His tone is casual, neutral.

Mr. Gumb stiffens, almost imperceptibly. His back is to her, as he continues opening drawers, rustling papers.

CLOSE ON MR. GUMB'S BACK

as he continues his rummaging.

Out of the folds of his kimono crawls a Death's-head Moth. It creeps slowly to the center of his back, raising its wings.

Very carefully, she drops her notebook back into her bag, lowers the bag to the floor. With her fingertips she brushes back the edge of her blazer, loosening its drape.

Clarice hurries inside, moving low, swivelling her gun.

The distant SCREAM of Catherine Martin, somewhere down there in that killing maze.

BEHIND HER, ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER

there's an empty space; the Colt Python is gone.

MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE - hurrying down the steps. More SCREAMS; they seem to be coming from the left door. Clarice goes that way, entering a brick-walled passage - pipes over-head, naked bulbs. The lighting, though dim, is incandescent; Mr. Gumb has switched off his infra-red system. Clarice comes to a T-shaped intersection, stops. Another SCREAM, again to her left, and the BARKING of a dog...

Clarice moves in, hugging the wall, gun swivelling...

Ignoring Catherine, whose shouts turn to sobs, she backs away, turns, picks one of the other doorways, moves into it quickly.

CLARICE'S POV - MOVING down this passageway, towards a new room... pausing at the doorway, straining to hear... no sound except Catherine's CRYING, not in the background., and Clarice's own RAPID BREATHING. Then she crouches - LOWER ANGLE - bursts forward, through the doorframe, sidestepping...

Clarice weaves back and forth, half-crouched, gun out, back to the wall. Her face glistens with sweat, as she takes in...

HER POV - MOVING NERVOUSLY

Mr. Gumb's sewing machine... his swivel chair... the old Victrola... Big moths are crashing into the light bulbs, overhead; they're everywhere. Suddenly, from just behind her, a CLICK and a HUM, and -

Clarice moves past the mannequins, all of them naked now... then quickly past the huge Chinese armoire, ready to shoot into it. Its doors yawn open; it is empty except for several padded hangers... She moves on, past the big sink, with its DRIPPING faucet... the counter, with its gleaming knives... the rows of chemical jars. At the end of this room is

Passing again through the workroom, Clarice pauses, seeing a half-curtained door, to one side, that she had previously skirted. She crosses to the door, listens and hears no sound inside, takes a deep breath and reaches for the knob. She twists it, and, as it turns, shoves hard and follows her gun inside, all in one quick move...

An old-fashioned bathroom: tiled floor, sink, toilet - and a big, free-standing tub. An opaque shower curtain, suspended from an oval ring, hides whatever might be inside.

She leans in, stares more closely, not understanding, at first, that she's seeing -

A FEMALE HAND AND WRIST

sticking up from the tub, which is filled with hard red- purple plaster. The hand is dark and shrivelled, with pink nail polish and a dainty wristwatch. As -

Clarice emerges from the bathroom in a half-crouch, arms out, both hands on the gun, extended just below the level of her unseeing eyes. She stops, listens. In her raw- nerved darkness, every SOUND is unnaturally magnified - the HUM of the refridgerator... the TRICKLE of water... her own terrified BREATHING, and Catherine's faraway, echoing SOBS... Moths smack against her face and arms. She eases forward, then stops again, listens... She eases forward again, following her gun, and creeps directly in front of, and then past -

CLOSE ONCLARICE - LOW ANGLE -

with NORMAL SPEED RESTORED, as the side of her face hits the floor, and she is gasping, stunned by the noise and flames; there is blood on her check, and an ugly powder burn, but she ignores them, twisting to yank her speedloader from her jacket pocket, locking it blindly onto her gun's cylinder, reloading, right in front of her face, then rolling onto her stomach, aiming her gun upward again, blinking her dazzled eyes, straining to locate him in the darkness... Where is he, where...? Then, as the ECHOES finally fade, she hears something else - a tortured, sucking, WHISTLE from perhaps eight feet away...

MOVING ANGLE - WITH CLARICE

as she crawls forward, on her elbows, following her gun, until it bumps against Mr. Gumb's shoulder. He is lying on his back, chest a bloody mess. She slides her muzzle against his head, hard, but he doesn't move; another shot isn't needed. He stares upwards, through his goggles, bloody lips working. He tries to speak, but cannot. One hand reaches slowly upwards, the fingers twitching, as if to seize something, overhead... Then a final, ghastly groan, his hand drops, he is head. Clarice feels for a pulse at his neck, making sure. Then, and only then, does she permit herself to roll over, collapsing onto her back beside him.

The front porch of the tall Victorian house is bathed in a glare of TV lights, police and ambulance flashers. Cars and vans and even a firetruck choke the street; cops, reporters, EMS workers and curious civilians swarm around the ineffective barricades. The BUZZ of their voices goes even higher as

AN OHIO HIGHWAY PATROL CAR

pulls up, stops, and Crawford climbs out of the back seat. He makes his way anxiously through the press of bodies, stopping when he sees Clarice.

THEY LOOK AT ONE ANOTHER

for a long moment, Crawford choked with pride for her, with sorrow for her ordeal, with love, but unable to find any words. And then he does.

And then all at once she is sobbing, her knees giving way, but he is there to catch her, he is hugging her fiercely. HOLD ON them for a long beat.

The forty members of Clarice's class, resplendent in their best dark suits and dresses, rise, cheering themselves, then turn happily to wave to their audience, as APPLAUSE mounts. Beyond them, on a gaily tented platform, the Director stands behind his podium.

A LOUD party is underway - food, beer, dancing - as the new grads celebrate ferociously. Ardelia weaves her way through the crowded room, reaches Clarice, who is flanked by her special guests - Pilcher and Roden, the two ardent scientists. Ardelia has to shout at Clarice over the din.

She nods to Pilcher, leaves them. Roden, who is quite happily drunk, grabs the startled Ardelia around the waist.

Ardelia looks at Pilcher, confused.

Clarice picks up the dangling pay phone, speaks happily.

She freezes, stunned by the familiar voice. Then she turns, waving frantically towards

Very beautiful, glittering with countless stars.

As Clarice reacts, the fill weight of his words sinking in.

But only a DIAL TONE comes from the phone. She is still staring at her receiver, in shock, as we -

Dr. Lecter sighs, sets his phone down, then rises. Popping an orange section into his mouth, he turns towards the brightly lit house. Stepping delicately over the sprawled body of a uniformed security guard, he walks in through open french doors.

In a swivel chair, amidst the wreckage of his papers and books, is the writhing figure of Dr. Frederick Chilton. The extreme intricacy of his bindings recalls Dr. Lecter's own former restraints. His screams are muffled by the tape over his mouth; he stares at Dr. Lecter like a rabbit trapped in headlights.