Manipulation

"What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?"

Ovid, Metamorphoses

Bedelia du Maurier weakened.

She wasn't normally a weak woman. She'd always been famous for her strength in the face of the impossible stories and heartbreaking pain her patients shared with her.

This was different. Ever since the attack, something had changed. Except, she was beginning to realize it wasn't the attack itself that had effected the transformation in her relationship with Lecter. It was Hannibal's defense.

Before the incident, they had been doctor and patient, colleagues with mutual interests. Afterward, he was the man who had saved her life. It was all about the power, and Hannibal, she now saw, had taken his opportunity to seize control. He'd never let go.

Bedelia picked up her home phone, too afraid someone would trace her mobile. "Hannibal?"

"I'll come over," Lecter said smoothly, calm and composed. It was obvious from her scattered, worried tone that Bedelia du Maurier had become a liability.

"They—have someone watching my neighborhood," she answered breathlessly.

"Then we'll speak on the phone," he said, slightly frustrated. He'd hoped to take care of the problem right away, but he would settle for finding out exactly what she knew and had potentially told Crawford.

"They know about the encephalitis," she began, "and they're wondering about Abigail. I'm afraid—they're putting things together, Hannibal."

"Putting what together?" he asked gently. "Will's physical condition is unfortunate, but it hardly impacts the evidence of the case."

"Where is Abigail?" she asked. "If Will killed her, what did he do with the body?"

"There's no body, Dr. Du Maurier," he said quietly. "Abigail was the one I was able to save. I knew Will planned to kill her, so I rescued her. She has a new name and a new life, beyond Crawford's clutches or Will's delusions."

He could hear Bedelia's breathing even out on the other end of the line. "Where is she? If you're not involved, tell me where she is."

In the seconds that followed, Hannibal weighed his options. He could refuse to tell her, but that would be counterproductive, since it would only inflame her further and possibly prompt more communication with the authorities. Telling her would buy him the trust he needed to solidify her silence, at least for a few hours.

"She's in New York," he said, "studying fashion design."

"You can prove this?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered. "I'll come visit you after dark. I'm good at evasive measures. You're surveillance friends won't be any the wiser."

"All—right," she answered, and he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was on his side, at least for the moment, and one night was all he needed.

"Fashion Institute of Technology," said Sherlock Holmes rapidly, punching letters into his smartphone while he paced in front of his hotel room dresser.

"How do you know it's that school?" asked John, hardly less keyed up than his friend by what they had just heard.

"That's the only school Lecter would send her to," answered Sherlock. "It's the best. Some day, when this is all over, I'll give you all the deductions, but there's no time now."

"Fine," John rejoined. "I trust you, but what are we going to do?" He breathed deeply, remembering his military training.

"Call Dr. Bloom," Sherlock replied. "Lecter is going to try to kill Du Maurier tonight."

"How do you know that?" Watson asked. Noting his friend's glare, he continued, "I trust you, but if Bloom is going to get Crawford or the police, she has to have a reason that makes sense to people who aren't you, and they can't use an illegally wiretapped phone call as actual evidence."

"He knows he can't trust her any more, since she turned informer on him. There's no reason for him to tell her where Abigail is unless he's sure he has nothing else to worry about. If she lives, she can talk. He's not planning to let that happen."

With that, John Watson picked up his own mobile and punched in the number for Alana Bloom.