Hannibal Lecter is unused to the FBI facilities in Richmond, Virginia, preferring instead the sleek architecture and rich furnishings of the Baltimore headquarters, but he nonetheless strides inside as if he owns the place, his coat billowing behind him like it is caught in a draft. There is a great anger brewing inside the doctor, but his expression betrays none of it. The miniscule change in the set of his mouth provides the sole clue to his inner state, but it is only noticeable to those familiar to the doctor and to those with uncommonly good perception.
Jack Crawford is both of these things, but he is quite distracted and therefore does not notice the harshness with which the doctor clears his throat, prompting Jack to turn.
"Doctor Lecter, what a pleasant surprise," Jack says, smiling broadly and exposing the prominent gap between his two front teeth. The slight dental imperfection gives the special agent an air of friendliness and reliability, hiding the fact that he is indeed highly trained and just as highly dangerous. Jack has long considered it an advantage.
Hannibal offers a tight smile in return, and Jack once again fails to detect the rage behind it.
"Jack," Hannibal begins, "this is the second appointment Will has missed due to this case."
Jack's face falls. "My apologies, Doctor Lecter. We've all been so preoccupied here that –"
"You may recall," Hannibal interrupts, "that I was hired at the behest of Doctor Bloom to provide my services to Will as a favor to you. According to you, the damage these cases do to his mind renders those appointments absolutely necessary. If I am unable to help him because he is too occupied with a case, my efforts become useless."
Jack seems poised to reply when a nearby door bursts open, and a woman in handcuffs is pushed unceremoniously through it. A guard emerges afterwards and leads the woman past the two men and down the hallway. As they pass, Hannibal gets a good look at the woman – young, dark-haired, somberness in her eyes. He also catches her scent and inhales deeply.
Scientists say that Rohypnal has no odor, but that is only when it is dissolved in liquid. Once it leaves the pores, Hannibal Lecter's extraordinary nose easily distinguishes its bitter, faintly acrid aroma. It is also not the only component of the drug cocktail he assumes has been administered to the girl sometime in the past twenty-four hours. No, there's Valium, Xanax, and the doctor also detects hints of various herbal sedatives that even he cannot quite identify. If the information with which Will had so generously supplied him is to be believed, this is the same combination of drugs found in the veins of both Martin Bishop and Richard Booth.
"Well, Doctor Lecter," Jack says, gesturing at the woman's retreating form, "your patient won't be tied up in this case much longer. We've caught the killer. Her name's Tracy Hicks. Will may have mentioned her; she's worked here for a little over three months."
If he were anyone other than Hannibal Lecter, the thought that would spring to mind would be something along the lines of "Bullshit", but the doctor is more refined, and so he simply nods in approval, all the while thinking to himself, No, you're wrong. She holds her head high, but there's a weakness in her that you're too blind to see.
"I see," Lecter says pleasantly. "Where are they taking her?"
"She's submitted to a drug test. Standard procedure."
"And where is Will?"
"I sent her to interview the sister. We've got a witness, but no definitive motive so far. Knowing Will, he'll take one look at the house and be able to tell me her motive, preferred laundry detergent, and favorite color."
Again, a less sophisticated man would think "Bingo" at this moment, but Hannibal is anything but unsophisticated, and so he simply asks,
"What is the address? I assume it is near where the bodies were found."
"Out of the way house in Ravensworth."
"Thank you. I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Jack," Hannibal says, the picture of innocence.
"Nonsense. You're welcome to come down anytime."
Hannibal turns away. He has what he needs: a name, an approximation of an address. All he needs is a phonebook. The most important thing he has is a powerful hunch, but if there is any possibility that Will is in danger, a hunch is enough.
Doctor Lecter doesn't pause to consider why he should be so preoccupied with the young criminal profiler. The explanation he offers himself is simple; Will is a friend, a like-minded soul, a man with immense potential if only he could be led in the right direction. Hannibal doesn't stop to contemplate the idea that his obsession, and yes, there is no point in calling it anything else, is merely the manifestation of a desire that is at once carnal and spiritual, a lust and a salvation.
And there is another option that Hannibal refuses even to acknowledge; it is too dangerous, too unwieldy, for Hannibal remembers the pain he felt when last he allowed himself to love.
"One or two sugars, Mister Graham?" Dinah Hicks calls from the kitchen.
"Just one is fine, thank you," Will replies. He sits in an armchair patterned in kitsch green floral across from a weathered rocking chair in the living room. The house is warm and pine-scented, but Will cannot ignore the feeling of deep discomfort in the pit of his stomach. He glances at the mantelpiece to distract himself and observes a series of family pictures that seem to be placed in chronological order.
To the far left is a photograph of two attractive parents and their daughters – one, a coltish teenager with dark eyeliner, the other barely a toddler. Will assumes the teen to be Dinah, as it would explain the age difference between she and her sister. There are no other photos that show all four family members together at the same time. A divorce, Will thinks. One picture shows slightly older daughters with their father at Thanksgiving; in another he sees an elementary school age Tracy with her Mother, a Christmas tree in the background.
In a far right picture, Will sees whom at first he believes to be Tracy at about thirteen proudly holding a gold trophy in the shape of an archer. Then he notices that the outline of her face is all wrong, the shade of her hair different, and he realizes that this is not s picture of Tracy but of her sister. The photos aren't in chronological order at all.
Dinah was the archery champion, then, he thinks to himself, but he convinces himself that it doesn't mean anything.
"Careful, it's still hot," says a woman's voice, and Will turns to see Dinah Hicks emerge from the kitchen holding to steaming mugs of tea. As Will accepts his, he notices the worn calluses on the woman's fingers, calluses consistent with a lifetime of pulling back bowstrings.
Dinah sits down in the rocking chair opposite Will and crosses her legs at the knee.
"So Mister Graham," she begins, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"
Will glances at his mug, unsure of how to reply.
"Your sister has just been charged with the murder of two men," he says slowly.
Dinah stares at him for a moment and then sighs.
"I was hoping it wasn't going to come to this," she says regretfully.
"If you can give us any information that might explain your sister's actions, we would be extraordinarily grateful."
Dinah rises and crosses to the mantelpiece. She sets down her mug and lifts the Thanksgiving photo up to her face. "The divorce was difficult for Tracy," she says heavily. "Dad cheated, of course, but that wasn't the sort of thing you tell a girl her age. She didn't find out until a good ten years later. She told me she'd always suspected, but it wasn't until then that she got up the courage to ask me. That's when Dad disappeared."
Will straightens. He'd assumed the killer to be a jilted lover, but no. Here was the root of all the anger and pain, the sins of the father, the birth of a killer. Dinah sets the picture back down on the mantelpiece and glances at him.
"Drink your tea Mister Graham. Don't want it to go cold."
Will complies. The warmth diffuses across his tongue and down his throat, an excellent antidote for the freezing weather. The tea tastes unassuming, though Will does not think he has ever had this brand before.
"We all figured that Dad had run off with someone younger and didn't want to pay child support anymore," Dinah continues, "but I knew the truth. Tracy definitely knew."
"Your father is dead, isn't he?" Will asks.
"Unfortunately," Dinah confirms with a sigh, "but we thought it was best to let Mom keep on believing otherwise. Besides, I needed to protect Tracy. I've always protected her."
Will leans forward in his chair. "Dinah," he pleads, "the best thing you can do for your sister now is to tell us everything you know."
"Of course." The woman turns away from the mantelpiece. "I think I need a moment, if you wouldn't mind."
"Whatever you need."
Dinah nods and vanishes back into the kitchen. Will relaxes back into his chair and takes another long sip of his tea. He detects something off about the taste this time, something slightly salty. Deciding that he does not trust these homemade herbal recipes, he sets the mug carefully down on the coffee table.
"Sorry for the wait, Mister Graham."
Will looks up and freezes. Dinah enters the room casually, a bow and quiver of arrows held loosely in one hand. She sets them down on the mantelpiece and begins to pull on her gloves. Will reaches instinctively for his gun, realizing too late that he had taken it off while still at the station.
"If you'd had a gun, I would have shot you the second you sat down," Dinah explains. "But it looks like we're going to have a bit more fun. If you refuse to play, I can always get my shotgun. That's how I killed my father, you know. But a gun's messy; it lacks finesse. It's all about the result, not the hunt." She begins to examine the bow, checking for imperfections, and Will carefully rises from his chair. Dinah pretends not to notice. "For the first couple years, I could draw them to me myself, but after a while all they want is fresh meat. It pays to have a pretty little sister."
As Will creeps towards the front door, he suddenly feels sluggish, dazed. Normally he wouldn't worry, but now one burst of speed could mean the difference between life and death.
"You mustn't blame Tracy," Dinah says, picking up an arrow and looking critically at it. She doesn't seem at all bothered by Will's escape. "She wanted nothing to do with it. But put a little something in her drink and a girl can barely remember what she did last night."
Are you the fisherman or the lure? Will thinks to himself, but his mind is so scattered he can't comprehend what that means.
"Martin Bishop was a fat piggy," Dinah says, looking coldly at Will. "He barely gave me a chase at all, but you look like you take care of yourself, Mister Graham. I'll have plenty of fun with you. Good thing you didn't drink too much of that tea."
Will glances in horror at the enamel mug on the coffee table, realizing too late that he's been drugged.
"Let's see how fast you run," Dinah Hicks growls, raising her bow and arrow.
Will wastes no time darting to the door, frantically turning the lock, and bolting out into the night. Dinah follows leisurely and stops at the front door. She waits for the dark-haired man to disappear into the woods that surround the house, and then she closes her eyes.
After a count of ten, they open, and the hunt begins.
"Jack? The results of the drug test are in," Beverly Katz says.
Jack immediately notices the lack of enthusiasm in the young woman's voice and he takes the results from her, concerned.
"We found traces of Rohypnal, Valium, Xanax, and Valerian in her system," Katz informs him as he studies the papers.
"Those are the same drugs administered to the victims."
"Exactly. Also, remember how you wanted to know who was tending the bar the night Richard Booth went missing?"
"Yeah."
"Well, the owner initially said it was his son, but it turns out he asked someone else to take his shift."
"Who was working then?"
"The suspect's sister, Dinah Hicks."
Jack stares at Beverly, and their exchanged glance shares confusion, then realization, and, ultimately, fear.
"Will," Jack breathes.
Too little, too late.
Will runs, gasping, through the woods, pine needles and branches stinging his face, his feet stumbling over roots hidden in the snow. The sedatives he has consumed are not debilitating, but the full moon above does swim in front of his eyes, and his muscles scream in protest at the activity.
Still, he knows he cannot slow, for he hears the crunching of footfalls close on his heels. The huntress has not released an arrow yet, but she will soon; he is sure of it.
His foot catches on a rock, and he hits the ground hard, tearing his left sleeve at the elbow. The forest is deathly cold, but his winter coat still hangs in a murderer's closet, and it can't help him now. Breathing heavily, Will scrambles to his feet and begins to run again, but the fall has cost him precious yards, and now he can nearly hear Dinah's breathing as she closes in behind him.
Without warning, she looses an arrow. She has never missed before, but Will hears the whistling sound seconds before it hits home, and he veers to the right. Instead of killing him, the arrow digs a long bloody furrow in his left side before striking a tree, and Will lets out a sharp cry of pain. He stumbles but manages to right himself and keeps running. He can see the road through the trees, a pair of headlights far in the west, approaching him. Perhaps he can catch the attention of the driver.
His pounding heart causes the wound in his side to bleed profusely, staining his shirt dark crimson. He presses a hand to the wound, feels it sting, presses onward.
Another arrow whistles by, missing Will my mere inches. She's underestimated his speed, but speed will mean nothing when exhaustion and pain overtake him and he collapses. The drugs too are beginning to take stronger effect. All Will Graham wants to do is sleep, but he knows that if he falls, he will sleep forever.
Mustering one final surge of speed, the criminal profiler bursts out onto the road. At the same time, an arrow comes out of nowhere and lodges in his calf, not deep, but painful nonetheless. Will groans in pain, makes it a few more yards, and then he collapses near the edge of the road. The pain in his leg and side dull to nearly bearable as he turns to look upon his fate.
Dinah Hicks strides out into the road, the final arrow poised, her mouth set in a determined grin. She raises her arms, draws back the string, and –
Suddenly she is awash in the yellow glow of headlights, and she barely has time to look in startled surprise at the speeding car barreling out of the west before it strikes her and crushes her beneath the wheels. Will stares in shock at the car for a moment before he recognizes the profile of the man seated in the driver's seat. Slowly the man opens the car door and steps out onto the road.
With his long coat trailing behind him in the cold winter breeze and the incandescent shine of the headlights at his back, Will thinks that Hannibal Lecter has never looked more like an angel.