Clarice Starling's pager went off in the busy main hallway of the FBI headquarters building. She glanced down at it and blinked. The number was Jack Crawford's cellular phone. Quickly, she scurried to her cubicle and dialed the number.

"Hi, Starling." Crawford's tone was all business. "You busy?"

"Not really, sir. I just have to write a 302 on the drug raid on Tuesday."

"I heard about that. Nice work. Listen, I need you to put that on hold and get out here."

"Sir?"

"It's a bizarre story. Local police called us in – it was a kidnapping, but there are some weird parts. Unknown organ donation." He chuckled sardonically. "I think they called us in because they were hoping we'd be able to make heads or tails out of it. I'm going to have the case file digitized and sent out to you."

"I'll be right here if you need me," Starling affirmed. This might be her best chance to get into Behavioral Sciences permanently. Inwardly, she wondered why she was being called in. Crawford answered that for her as if he had plucked the thought from her head.

"Listen, Starling, I got something to fess up now. I don't want you to get mad."

"Okay," she said, her accent turning the word into something exotic.

"The victim is not talking to me. Froze up the minute I came in. I've tried the other two agents I brought with me – Witt and Meyer, I think you know them – and nothing. She's not doped up and she's cooperated with the hospital. So I'm kind of hoping another young woman might get her to open up. Switch the face, you know. Take it easy on her, though." He sounded guilty, as if admitting Starling was indeed a young woman was some sort of crime.

In fact, Starling was not offended. She had dealt with interrogations before. It wasn't offensive that sometimes one officer might make someone freeze up while a different officer could get them spilling their guts out. It was fact. And Starling was perfectly willing to kid-glove a victim into getting a statement if she had to. It wasn't her preferred approach, but she had developed the ability.

"I'll be happy to help," she said. In a lighter tone, she added, "I'll be very gentle. No broken bones. I promise."

"OK. Great. Drop down to Behavioral Sciences to pick up a copy of the case file, then get to the airport and get yourself here. I need you here ASAP."

Starling did as she was told. Behavioral Sciences was in the basement of the building, but still she was thrilled to have the opportunity. It was certainly better than running around Newark with a shotgun. The secretary there already had her name, wished her a good morning, and gave her a manila folder and a plane ticket.

"Get a move on, Agent Starling," she chirped. "Mr. Crawford wanted you on the first flight I could get you. Your flight leaves in half an hour."

Starling nodded, thanked her, and hauled ass for the door. Fortunately, she was able to cadge a ride from a friendly D.C. patrolman who had a thing for the FBI, and made it to the airport in record time. Airport security slowed her down a bit, nervous about letting a rushed and admittedly armed woman onto the plane, but her FBI credentials got her through that.

On the plane, she actually had a moment to look at the case file. Kidnapping of a 22 year old woman. Reported missing nine days ago after she hadn't come home by her roommate. Appeared heavily drugged back in her place of employment a week later. Victim confused, cooperative with local authorities, stated she had received an illicit kidney transplant from her kidnapper. Incisions on her back, plus the fact that she no longer appeared to need dialysis, appeared to bear this out. Blood tests revealed standard medical dosages of various immunosuppressants, as well as high levels of sedatives and hypnotics. Starling wasn't a biochemist, but she knew a bit about drugs, and whomever had done this knew damn well what they were doing.

Starling was puzzled. Despite the urban legends, organ thefts just didn't happen. But somehow they had. Weirder still, they didn't have any idea where the kidneys had come from. Erin Lander, the victim, was apparently the recipient, not the involuntary donor. She had tentatively ID'ed the perp as a Dr. Robert Lawson, who had seen her at the coffee shop she worked in. The detective who had talked to her had noted that he had some questions about the ID, as she had been fuzzy on some details but very clear on others.

In attempting to make sense of her story, the local police department had called in Behavioral Sciences. Starling figured that was because they had no idea what to do with a real, honest-to-God organ theft case. Then Jack Crawford had gone out himself to have a look, and it looked like hell had broken loose.

The victim panicked on seeing him. She became hysterical, refused to speak to him at all, and had to be sedated. Crawford's notes indicated that it seemed she was antagonistic to him personally, since she was calmer (but no more cooperative) with the other two agents he had brought with him. She couldn't help but feel bad for him for that: Jack Crawford was very good at what he did, but he was not a cruel man. It must've stung him to be personally rejected like that. But Starling saw something in that, something he might have missed: did the perp know Crawford? Had he prepped her? Or did she know Crawford from somewhere else? Was there someone else she was confusing him with?

Starling jotted down these notes as the plane banked and began to land. At the airport, she walked straight to the rental counter. Crawford's efficient secretaries had arranged for a car as well as a flight. She asked for and got directions to the hospital. The car was a dark gray Lumina. It was comfortable and had reasonable performance, but was nothing like her Mustang.

At the hospital, she flashed her ID and was directed to the floor Erin Lander was on. When she stepped from the elevator, she saw Jack Crawford sitting on a bench nearby. He looked exhausted. When he saw her, he brightened and stood up.

"Hi, Starling," she said. "Sorry to drag you out here on such short notice."

"No problem, sir," she said. "So what can you tell me?"

He shrugged. "You've already read the case file, right."

"Yes, sir."

"I talked to one of the doctors who examined her," Crawford said.

"Anything interesting?"

"Yep. Erin Lander suffered from kidney disease as a young child. She had required kidney dialysis for many years. When they examined her, they discovered two incisions along her mid to lower back. They found two kidneys…but they were in perfectly good health and functioning perfectly. They were recently transplanted into her, probably within the past few days."

"By a surgeon?" asked Starling.

"That's what's weird. Well, the whole thing is weird, actually. Kidney transplants are normally implanted in the abdomen, where they're easier to get at. Erin Lander's transplant was right where the kidneys normally lie. That suggests it wasn't a trained transplant surgeon. Also, the incisions…" he paused. "The incisions are curved in a 'f' shape on each side. That's not normal, either, and there's no reason to do it that way."

"Curved?" Starling asked intently.

"Like a violin. But the stitches,…" he trailed off. "The stitches were perfect. Veins, arteries, tubes…everything works just fine."

"Weird."

"Yeah. Everything about this case is weird."

"Any ideas?"

He shrugged. "Unless you can get more out of her than the local detectives did, all I can think is that this was some kind of dry run for an organ-theft ring." He turned and began to walk down the hall. Starling followed him. He stopped at a door. On it was a small placard reading, "Lander, E.