Chapter VIII

She grabbed a sad turkey club at a deli after taking a cab from the airport into downtown Memphis and practically inhaled it, parked at a table in a flimsy plastic chair. Getting through airport security had been interesting, but she supposed she'd get used to presenting her weapon and flashing her badge. She'd seen the surprise on some of the boarding passengers' faces -what's that girl doing with a gun? And who knew if she'd even end up graduating in January with the rest of her class and getting assigned her own weapon? She was in so deep now that it almost seemed preferable to do the six months over again. If they didn't catch Buffalo Bill, if Catherine Martin died, she simply couldn't carry on with the case. She'd be recycled, and that was it.

After a late lunch she headed to Catherine's apartment, a fifteen minute cab ride away. The building was nicer than what the average twenty-four year old could afford, but she supposed being the daughter of a senator must have its perks. Two plain police cars were parked out front, recognizable to her from the radar on the dashboards. She paid her driver and went into the lobby, where a policeman held up a hand.

"Woah, who are you?"

She held up her badge. "Agent Scully, from the F.B.I," she said, thinking it wasn't exactly true.

He nodded. "Okay, then. Fifth floor."

She thought perhaps the security was a little light -lobby door didn't have a code, no security guard, she hadn't seen cameras. Anyone off the street could have easily slipped in as an unremarkable tenant. Everyone looked unremarkable, until you had an idea of who they were inside. She could have been a criminal, but with a badge and a cool demeanor she'd gotten past a policeman without even saying hello.

The elevator was new and clean, with shiny buttons and a phone for emergencies. She tucked her hair behind her ears when it came to a stop and looked around when the doors opened. Apartment 7B, 7B...Just down the hall and to the left -the door was even propped open with a yellow wet-floor sign. Catherine hadn't even been kidnapped in her apartment, it had apparently happened in the parking area behind the building, where Crawford and Mulder had appeared on television, ducking under yellow crime scene tape.

She walked through the open door and down a short hallway that, to the left, opened to a living room. To the right, the kitchen. Sitting on the small sofa in the carpeted living room was a young state trooper, who set down his newspaper to look at her.

"Hi," she said quietly, holding up her badge. He smiled a little, then relaxed, going back to his paper. A box of latex gloves sat on the low coffee table, and she bent to take two, slipping them on and walking carefully around the room, absorbing it all.

On a mantle above a fake fireplace there was a collection of framed photographs -pretty, blonde Catherine with her friends, her parents, a picture of a man her age, potentially a boyfriend. She picked up a silver, woven frame and studied the picture inside. It was the only one with recent fingerprints to mar the almost indiscernible covering of dust on the glass. There stood the senator, her arm around her daughter at a graduation -from George Mason. She put the picture back and moved across the hall to the kitchen, again glancing around, trying to get a feel for Catherine.

Inside the refrigerator among various staples she saw a row of Diet Cokes, a plastic box of squishy strawberries, and a paper carton of milk that, when she picked it up, was half-empty. That's what Catherine had been doing before she was abducted -she'd just gotten back from grocery shopping. She shut the door. A big reel-to-reel tape recorder had been set up on the breakfast counter, attached to Catherine's phone. Two new red phones were hooked up as well.

The bathroom yielded nothing of interest. She put down the toilet seat, wrinkling her nose slightly at the fact that the policemen were casually helping themselves to the girl's bathroom while she was being held captive somewhere. In the medicine cabinet above the sink she found a packet of Ibuprofen, various lotions, Q-Tips, a bottle of Elizabeth Arden's Sunflowers.

She went through to the bedroom -the bed with its flowery duvet and blue sheets still unmade, slippers on the floor by the bedside table. Catherine had been reading a romance novel. On top of the low dresser, in front of a mirror, was an open, multi-tiered jewelry box. With her gloved fingers, she picked through various earrings and bright bracelets. She turned the key on the side of the box and a tinkling refrain of some ballet she couldn't remember came out.

She was just turning to open the closet when the bedroom door swung open wider and a tall, intimidating woman walked in. Under a façade of well-applied makeup and an elegant French twist, her eyes were red-rimmed.

"Who are you, please?" Senator Martin asked. "I thought the police were finished looking through her things."

"I'm Dana Scully, Senator," she explained, "from the F.B.I."

"Dana Scully," the woman breathed, as if the name was familiar to her. "Paul? Would you come in here, please?"

After a moment, during which she slipped off her gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of her coat, Paul Krendler, from the Justice department, came through. She recognized him from a picture on the wall at the Academy.

"Miss Scully, you may know the Deputy Attorney General, Mr. Krendler," the senator continued. "Paul, this is the trainee that Jack Crawford sent to Lecter. She lied to him, pretending to have my authority, and thus jeopardized this entire investigation." Senator Martin's eyes were cold and unforgiving. "Now she has the further gall to invade my daughter's privacy, again without permission. If her little games have killed my baby…"

Overcome, she hurried out of the room, a hand over her mouth. Krendler shut the door behind her, pointing sternly at Dana.

His jaw tightened. "You're out of line, Scully, and you're off this case. Get back to Quantico."

"Sir, Mr. Crawford instructed me to-"

Krendler shook his head. "Your instructions are what I'm giving you now. Jack Crawford answers to the Director, and the Director answers to me. My God, Crawford's losing it!" he exclaimed. "He shouldn't even be on this, with his -Oh, never mind. How the hell did you get in here, anyway? He gave you some kind of ID? Hand it over."

"I need the ID to fly with my gun," she said stubbornly. "The gun belongs in Quantico."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "A gun. Jesus. Turn the ID in as soon as you get back. The gun, too. Be on the next plane, Scully -there's one in ninety minutes."

Burning with frustration, she started for the door, walking past him, then turned before her hand touched the doorknob. Krendler turned, looking down at her.

"Mr. Krendler, Dr. Lecter trusts me. Or at least, he used to. If I could just-"

He held a hand up to stop her. "Lecter has already named Buffalo Bill."

Her mouth dropped open. Krendler took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to her. She took it and began to skim.

Louis Friend. Hair: blonde. Eyes: blue. Strongly built, about 150lbs...

"He gave us a perfectly good description, and we're on it now, so we won't be needing your little novelty act any longer," Krendler said. "Or his, either. He's under close guard at the courthouse, pending a prison transfer. Get on the next plane, Scully."

She looked up from the paper. "Sir, doesn't this 'Louis Friend' strike you as a little, I don't know, phony? Vague?"

Krendler moved in close to her, pale with anger, and snatched the paper back. "Do you need a police escort, Scully? Or do you think you can find the airport by yourself?"

"I can find it by myself, sir," she said firmly.


She took another cab to a rental car agency, rented a Pinto, then drove to the F.B.I Memphis field office to pick up the drawings hopefully sent by Mulder. If she was lucky, she could see Lecter before the end of the day. When she arrived, however, the drawings weren't waiting for her.

"Could I please use a phone?" she asked the secretary, a middle aged woman who looked good-natured for a government employee.

"All yours, honey. Just sit behind the desk while I run to the ladies' room."

She sat down and dialed Crawford's number, praying he'd pick up, and thanking God when he did.

"Mr. Crawford, sir," she began, "I just ran into Mr. Krendler at Catherine Martin's apartment. He kicked me off the case and wants me to come back to Quantico."

He coughed. "Yeah, that was bound to happen."

"Sir, there's still time for me to see Lecter if I hurry. Agent Mulder was supposed to send me some of Lecter's drawings, but-"

"Scully, calm down," Crawford said, and, oddly enough, she was able to. "Columbus faxed us their records and we're cross-checking right now. I sent Agent Mulder down to Memphis. His plane should land in about an hour."

"Why is he coming to Memphis?" she asked.

"You're not going to like this," Crawford said, "but he didn't want you to have to deal with Lecter without backup, and I agreed. He's bringing the drawings with him. You got a car?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Go and wait for him at the airport, then head over to Lecter. It's probably our last shot, Scully."

She took a deep breath. "I won't let you down, sir."

He chuckled. "You couldn't let us down. I've got to go. Good luck."

"Thanks," she said. She'd need it.


At the arrivals gate she fiddled with her pen and small notepad, jotting down notes and listening to periodic overhead announcements, sometimes checking her watch.

Louis Friend

Iron…

Define…

Foul…

Fiend…

Lone…

Foil…

Soul…

Self…

Sulfide…

"Arrivals from Washington-D.C, flight 1013, at gate seven," a woman's clipped voice announced, and Dana looked up at the gate she was standing in front of, then moved down two, still looking at her notepad, continuing to decode. Suddenly, looked down at the paper. It was right in front of her.

Iron Sulfide.

"Scully," Mulder's voice carried over, and she looked up.

"Did you bring the drawings?" she asked, thrilled with her discovery but anxious to put it to use.

He chuckled. "Missed you, too." He handed her a rolled collection of butcher paper and charcoal sketches. In his other hand he had a small overnight bag.

"Lecter's at the courthouse downtown," she explained, leading him out of the airport and to the car. "If Kendler sees me, or if he's called over in advance, it's over."

"Don't get too excited, Scully. You're a trainee. I doubt they're going to put up a Wanted poster not even two hours after Kendler kicked you out," he teased.

She walked around to the driver's side as he put his bag in the back. She handed him the drawings once they were both inside and pulled out of the spot quickly and efficiently, glancing at the sky, which was darkening.

"We don't have much time," she said, "and I don't know when the courthouse closes."


As it turned out, they had to park two blocks away, there was so much excitement and security. The courthouse was a massive Gothic stronghold. An armada of police cruisers were parked at the curb, red and blue light dancing over any windows. To the right she made out Dr. Chilton in front of a sea of interviewers and cameras, preening. She ducked her head, although she doubted it would ever be a good tactic for disappearing -her red hair made it hard to hide in plain sight.

"Okay," Mulder said, "your doctor card isn't gonna mean a damn thing to these guys. Time to play F.B.I."

They walked up to the foot of the steps and were immediately blocked off by police.

"Where do you think you're going?" This officer had a very sturdy, intimidating build, and knew it. His thumbs were hanging in his belt loops, near his gun. He looked at them both.

"F.B.I," Mulder said, raising his badge, and she raised hers at the same time.

The officer narrowed his eyes at her. "Both of ya?"

Mulder nodded. "We appreciate all the extra security you're providing. You guys are really first rate here in Memphis."

Well, she never thought they'd be sweet-talking themselves into a courthouse to meet with a serial killer.

The police officer nodded, flattered, and waved them through. She smiled at him, and caught him blushing.

Inside, they approached a desk. More police flanked the ground floor, the static buzz of radio communication echoed periodically. A man identified as a Sergeant Tate looked up from his chair behind the command desk as they entered.

"'help you?" he asked.

"We're here to talk to Lecter," Mulder explained. Tate looked them over suspiciously.

"Identification?"

Mulder handed over his badge, and she followed his lead a little anxiously. Tate handed Mulder back his badge and looked up from hers to match the photo with the face, looking somewhat doubtful. After a moment, though, he seemed to reconcile himself to the fact that they were there.

"Are you with Mr. Krendler's people?" he asked.

"We just left him," she supplied. A half-truth.

Tate chewed on a piece of gum. "Access to Lecter is strictly limited. We've been getting death threats."

They stood in front of him, unfazed. He sighed. "Log in and check your weapons."

As Mulder was logging in, she looked around the lobby. It looked like an armed fort. Cops with shotguns guarded the front door, both ends of the hall, the foot of the stairs, the single elevator. More of them were coming and going.

"Scully," Mulder prompted, and she took the pen and signed in on the sheet, then reached inside her coat and through her jacket to carefully take Beaumont's gun from its holster and set it on the desk beside his.

"Officer Murray? Take these two up to Lecter," Tate said, and a young officer walked over, waving them to the elevator.

"Sounds like we're going to be served up on a platter," Mulder joked in her ear. She only clutched the drawings, trying not to bend them, as her stomach kept flipping and her heart quickened.

"Don't say that," she said quietly, and he put a hand on her back as they went into the elevator with Officer Murray.

"I'm right here," he said quickly. "You say the word, I'll get you out of there."

The elevator was a metal-caged and old-fashioned, and it creaked as it crawled up five floors. Murray looked at them. "Shoot, we haven't had this kinda security since the President came through town," he said.

She was too nervous to talk, so she just raised her eyebrows, trying to look impressed.

"Every cop in Tennessee wants a look at this guy," Murray continued. "'sit true, what they're saying? That he's some kinda vampire ?"

Mulder hesitated a moment before answering. "I don't have a name for what he is."


Another man, introducing himself as Officer Pembry, sat behind another desk. He examined Lecter's drawings skeptically, then looked up at them.

"You wanna let me know why this creep is getting visitors at almost seven at night who are bringin' him some old drawings?"

"Please, sir, it's imperative that I speak with Lecter," she insisted. "Tonight."

He raised an eyebrow. "You know the rules, then, ma'am?"

She nodded. "Yes, Officer Pembry. I've questioned him before."

"You goin' in with her?" Pembry asked Mulder.

"Yeah, standard procedure," he bluffed.

She took the roll of drawings from the desk and held them in her hands like a dear book, close to her chest.

Pembry waved them through an open door into a large, sparse, octagonal room. To the left, slouched in a chair, was another man, who nodded at them and stood to leave and join Pembry, giving them privacy.

A massive, temporary iron cage was installed in the middle of the room, bars wider apart than she would have liked. Inside the cage there was a cot and a small table, each bolted to the floor, and a flimsy paper screen hid a toilet. Dr. Lecter was sitting with his back to her at the desk, studying the Buffalo Bill case file, still wearing his uniform from the asylum, even paler under the bright light.

The room was so open, there was really nowhere for Mulder to conceal himself, or stay back without being noticed.

"Good evening, Dana," Lecter purred suddenly at the sound of her heels, turning, his eyes lighting up at the sight of both of them. Two in one. "And Agent Mulder, how rude of me. No gate to hide behind now, is there?"

Mulder didn't say anything, but she felt him tense behind her. It wasn't from fear -he was angry. She didn't know if she could deal with a psychopath behind bars and Mulder's fury in the same room, but neither one could leave.

"I thought you might like your drawings back," she said, bravely walking across the parquet floor, hesitating for an instant before leaning over the barrier to slip his drawings through one of the bars. "Just until you get your view."

"How very thoughtful," Lecter said sarcastically. "Or did Crawford send you here for one last wheedle -before you're all booted off the case?"

She shook her head. "No, I came because I wanted to."

He clicked his tongue. "Agent Mulder isn't here because he wants to be," he said, looking behind her. "He's here for you." A beat. "Pity you tried to trick me, isn't it? Pity for poor Catherine...tick-tock...tick-tock."

She sighed. "Your anagrams are showing, Doctor. Louis Friend? Iron sulfide ? Also known as 'Fool's Gold'?"

"Did you figure that out yourself, Dana?" he asked.

She nodded once.

"Mulder, you've done fine work," Lecter remarked, glancing over at him. "Maybe she'll inherit a photographic memory from her teacher as well." He spun in his chair playfully.

She began to walk along the cage until she was more or less across from him, trying to keep his face in sight, hoping Mulder was still nearby.

"You were telling me the truth back in Baltimore, sir," she pressed. "Please, continue."

"Well, I've read the case file. Have you? Everything you need to find him is right in those pages."

She bit her lip. "Then tell me how."

"First principles, Dana. Simplicity," his S's sounded snakelike. "Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?"

She scrambled her thoughts in her head and grabbed the first one she could see clearly. "He kills women," she whispered.

"No!" he cried, and she flinched. "That is incidental," he said, calmer.

She tried to search again, miserable.

"What is the first and principle thing he does? What needs does he serve by killing?" He looked past her shoulder. "Oh, Mulder, don't tell me you really don't see what's right in front of her eyes."

She looked up. "Anger," she tried. "Social acceptance. Sexual frustra-"

"No!" he cried again, but she held her ground. "He covets. That's his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Dana Scully? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer, now."

She looked at him. "No. We just-"

"No. Precisely," he said, and she felt her stomach jump. "We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Dana? I hardly see how you couldn't. And don't your eyes move over the things you seek?"

She crossed her arms. "All right. Yes. Now tell me how, please."

"No," he said, smiling. "It is your turn to tell me, Dana. You don't have any more vacations to sell on Plum Island. How did you feel that morning, Dana, when you were five years old?"

She sighed, stalling, feeling a ripple of fear in her belly. "Doctor, we don't have enough time for any of this now."

"But we don't reckon time the same way, do we, Dana? This is all the time you'll ever have."

She heard some radio static from outside and suddenly thought of Krendler. Had he found her? She looked quickly to the door, then met Mulder's eyes.

"No doubt Agent Mulder has warned you about divulging personal details to me," Lecter said, while she looked at Mulder. "But sometimes it takes time to find a good psychiatrist. Some people aren't made for each other."

She scoffed, looking back. "And you think you and I are?"

He cocked his head. "Everyone needs someone to listen to them. And I have a feeling no one's listened to your particular story in some time, or perhaps ever at all."

She bit the inside of her cheek. He was right, and he knew it.

"You woke up one morning and found your sister dead. Something must have woken you, Dana. Death doesn't always announce itself. What was it?"

She looked down, then back up at him. "Birds. It was dawn."

"You heard the early spring birdsong and woke up. And…?" His eyes were on her now, unblinking, like some reptile.

"And she wasn't moving in her crib," she bit out.

Lecter clicked his tongue. "How did you know, Dana? At five years old, the difference between death and sleep is hardly noticeable…"

She stretched in her bed, rubbing her eyes with her fists. Her toes were cold. It was March, but she was still wearing the winter nightgown with the embroidered strawberries. Some sort of bird was outside, chirping, whistling. She sat up and yawned, climbing down from the small bed that used to be Melissa's before she got her own room and wandering to the window between the changing table and the baby's crib.

"She just looked so still," she said softly. "I went to get my mother."

Lecter sighed, impatient. "You're skipping steps."

She walked to the window and dragged the small step stool by the changing table over, pulled the light blue curtains apart, peeking out, pausing to draw with her finger using the condensation on the chilled pane. A smiley face. A heart. A sun. A sailboat. Two stick figures, holding hands. Birds were perched on the still-spindly, bare branches of the cherry tree next to the house and, as the sun peeked through the clouds in a rose-hued, some of them chirped. She smiled.

"I went to the window, and looked outside. The sky was beautiful. There were birds in the trees." She wrinkled her brow, remembering. "Larks. Robins. I didn't know they nested where we lived."

"Yes...what happened next?"

She felt her face twist with the effort to contain her emotions.

Sometimes, early in the morning, she could smile at the baby and hold her before she started to fuss and her mother came in to feed or change her. She hopped off the tiny step stool onto the carpet and picked the stool up again, walking to the crib and repositioning it, climbing up the two steps to look down.

"Maggie," she whispered, stroking a finger over the baby's soft cheek. When that didn't wake her up, she tickled the palm of her tiny hand. Sometimes her sister would grasp onto a finger and wake up that way.

"I went to the crib, we slept in the same room…" The pain was coiled around her heart like a snake squeezing the last ounce of life from its prey. "I tried to wake her up, but she wouldn't..."

"Wake up, Baby," she said, shaking her sister's hand a little. There was drool coming out of her little rosebud mouth, and Dana wiped it with the edge of the small blanket in the crib. Her sister's lips looked purple. She hurried down from the stool and to the light switch on the wall by the door, stretching up to flip it on, then dashed back to the crib. In her rush she tripped on the stool and caught her mouth on the straight edge of one of the beams, blood filled her mouth and she cried out.

"How did you try to wake her, Dana?"

"I touched her cheek…" Her eyes filled with tears. "I tried to hold her hand."

Climbing back up the stool, she kept one hand over her stinging mouth and reached the other down, grabbing the baby's hand, then recoiling, realizing that it was ice cold. The baby's skin was tinged blue. And then she started screaming.

"She was so cold." She felt the memory like a gunshot through her chest. "And I started screaming."

Her mother running in, first bending to Dana, tipping her chin up to see why she was bleeding.

"No!" she sobbed, still holding her baby sister's hand and shaking it insistently.

Her mother pushed her away to grab the baby. Then a sequence of events that passed in a blur in front of her five year old eyes. Her mother screaming for Melissa, her older brother wiping his face as he came in, trailed by Charlie. Her mother screaming for her brother to call the doctor. Her mother crying, Melissa picking up Charlie, and Dana standing with her cold feet in her blood-stained winter nightgown, frozen by the window. Soon the noise from inside the house was drowned out, and all she could hear was birdsong, just on the other side of the pane.

"You thought it was your fault, didn't you?" Lecter pushed, a thrill in his eyes.

She looked directly at him, her eyes burning, full of tears, but she kept still. "Yes. But there was an autopsy. It wasn't my fault!" she insisted stubbornly

Sleepless nights where she sobbed in her bed, all alone in the room now, and her mother or father came in to comfort her, crying themselves, assuring her that it was no one's fault.

"I read up on you, Dana Katherine Scully, M.D," Lecter said. "That's why you became a forensic pathologist, isn't it, Dr. Scully?"

She sniffed, but didn't answer him.

"You still wake up, sometimes, don't you?" he asked. "You still wake up in the dark and hear the birds singing?"

She looked at him, gathering herself. "Yes."

"And you think if you can discover the cause of death for everyone else, that will make it go away? And you think if Catherine lives, you won't wake up in the dark ever again to that haunting, beautiful birdsong around the silence?"

"I don't know," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don't know."

He leaned back. "Thank you, Dana," he said softly, like she'd given him a gift. "Thank you."

The gunshot of pain was spreading through her, tearing her apart. "Tell me his name, Doctor!" she cried, her voice louder in desperation.

He seemed to consider it, taking a deep breath, and she heard footfalls in the back. Maybe Mulder, maybe Pembry. God, let it be Mulder.

"Dr. Chilton, I presume?" Lecter said cooly.

She jumped and turned just as Chilton was walking inside, flanked by three officers, one carrying her coat and weapon.

"I think you know each other."

"Okay," Chilton said, like he owned the place, "let's go, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder. This certainly isn't follow up."

She rushed toward the cage. "It's your turn, Doctor," she insisted. "Tell me his name!"

"Out!" Chilton cried, grabbing her arm. She heard a noise of outrage from Mulder, and one of the officers next to her.

"Sorry, ma'am, you're banned from Lecter from now on."

She struggled against them, and Mulder rushed forward, rattling the bars on Lecter's cage and pointing a shaking hand at him.

"You're a monster," he hissed, followed by a soft laugh from Lecter.

"Oh, Agent Mulder, your problem is you need to get more fun out of life!"

Mulder started walking after her as Chilton dragged her off.

"Brave Agent Scully," Lecter said, "you will let me know when those birds stop singing?"

"Tell me his name, Doctor!" she pleaded, but Chilton's grip tightened.

"Dana!"

She widened her eyes at Lecter, standing in his cage.

"Your case file," he drawled.

She made a break for it, almost crashing into Mulder on her way, who blocked Chilton while she ran back to Lecter, holding out the file for her, his face teasing. She threw out her hand and grabbed the file.

"Goodbye, Dana," he whispered, and his index finger stroked along hers. She tore the file from his hand and turned, not looking back as she hurried willingly out of the room, Mulder's strong arm around her shoulders all the way back to the car.