Ooooh. One mustn't forget the disclaimers. One day I will learn to put them in the first chapter. One day. As always, the dear characters of Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Special Agent Clarice Starling are not mine, I am only absconding with them for a time, for my own diabolical purposes. To add to the list this time are Jack Crawford, Will Graham, Paul Krendler, Jame Gumb, and Francis Dolarhyde. All aforementioned characters are property of Thomas Harris. Our yet unnamed killer, his victims, and assorted cops are mine. As always, they will be up for rent. (I think I got everyone accounted for.) Do enjoy dear ones, but fair warning, there may be gore in future chapters. Okey dokey then, here we go.

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Darkness. The sound of a knife against a sharpening stone cuts through the silence. In the kitchen shadows someone hones the knife blade, testing it against a phone bill left laying on the counter. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window above the sink a man examines the knife edge. Satisfied, he returns the sharpening stone to the drawer he removed it from. The phone bill is also aligned on the counter precisely where it was before it met with the blade. He is a very neat and conscientious man, bowing to order, as order was what ruled his life.

The upstairs hall is quiet and dark, much warmer from the rising heat of the fireplace. He is careful to make sure the lambskin gloves he wears are snug. Careful measured steps, counting as he goes. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. He stops at seven, hand reaching for the brass doorknob, turning it ever so slowly. The door opens on well oiled hinges and he steps into the room. A woman lies asleep in the bed, chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. He waits until his own breathing pattern matches hers. Perfect harmony. He takes the five steps to the bed, the knife seemingly floats in the darkness, as he wears all black. The lamp on the bedside table has a pull chain, which he tugs, illuminating the twenty-five watt bulb under the shade. The woman moans and rolls towards the sudden light, eyes opening as a hand reaches from beneath the covers to turn it off. The seeking hand meets with resistance and her eyes open fully. Her mouth opens to scream but is silenced as a gloved hand clamps over it. The knife glints in her eyes, unable to tear her focus away from it. A smile is playing on his lips as he studies her fear.

"Hello." his voice is soft and mellifluous, not what one should expect of a killer. She whimpers and the knife slices clean across her throat. He lays it on the bed next to her as he turns to leave the room.

"Goodbye."

*****

Morning's first light rouses Special Agent Clarice Starling from the comfort and protection of her bed. She makes her way through the morning routine, eyes half open. As with much of America, she is never truly awake until she has had her first cup of coffee. The duplex is silent as she makes her way into the kitchen, still damp hair wrapped in a towel. A morning smile as she scoops the coffee into the filter. Mr. Coffee, a woman's best friend. The ringing phone almost makes her jump and she fixes it with a glare. Way too early for anyone to be calling, she tells herself, taking the receiver from the wall unit. Maybe its someone telling me that I just won a million dollars.

"Starling." a beat of silence before the caller replies.

"Starling, its Crawford. Did I wake you? I'm sorry if I did." she can tell already that he truly is sorry if he had awakened her. Unfortunately, she had been up for an hour already.

"No sir." she replied, the accent of pure West Virginia was very evident in her voice. Damn the early morning, it always was nice to talk to the big boss and sound like a hick. "How can I help you, sir?"

A shuffling of papers as he speaks, someone else talking to him in his office. "Starling, our guy struck again last night. I need you down here as soon as possible." Our guy. Starling's eyes lit up and the cobwebs were instantly cleared from her head. Our guy, called such since he had yet to acquire a nickname form either the police or the media.

"Yes sir. I'll be there shortly."

"Good." It was all he offered as a goodbye as he hung up his phone. Starling returned the receiver to its wall unit and looked at the coffee and filter in her hand. Hot damn. That brought the number of murders to four, and they were still no closer to catching this guy. She shoved the filter into the Mr. Coffee and turned it on, leaving it to do its work as she trotted back to her room. By the time she returned, properly attired for work at the FBI, the coffee was ready and she poured it into a travel mug from a nearby gas station. Grabbing her keys from the rack on the wall, she left the house.

The engine in the '86 Ford Escort turned over quickly and whined, reminding her that she needed to take it in once again to have it looked at. While her Pinto had been trusty, the Escort seemed to be determined to see how many problems it could create for her. She let it idle for a few moments, hoping the whine would go away. It did, and she dropped the stick shift into reverse. She would've preferred an automatic, but was relegated to the five-speed sub-compact after the Pinto died. Fully out of the duplex's driveway, she stomps the clutch and drops the powder blue car into first. While it wouldn't set any land speed records, the little car had slight pick-up and she floored it as she pulled out of the cul-de-sac, earning a glare from one of her neighbors.

*****

Jack Crawford's office is very different from the hole in the basement she is relegated to. Not better, since it is painted with what seems to be leftover paint from a battleship hull, just different. He is standing behind his desk as she enters. He has the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the caller, and he waves for her to take a seat. She does so, smoothing the hem of her skirt over her knees, hands then placed neatly in her lap. The handset is replaced in its cradle and he takes a seat behind the cluttered desk. Starling watches as he dry swallows a couple multi-vitamins then pulls a folder from a stack on the far right side.

"Julie Simms." he opens the folder then turns it to face her, a photocopy of an enlarged yearbook photo smiles from the up from the folder. He continues his recitation as Clarice examines the picture. "Age twenty three. She was found this morning when her boyfriend came home. Death resulted from a cut throat."

"Same approximate height and weight as the others?" she asks, not looking up from the picture.

"Yes. Five foot three inches tall, one hundred fifteen pounds. All have been under one twenty five. Starling, I want you to go down and look through her house. See if you can turn up anything, anything, that would connect her to the others. We're still bone dry on the connection."

"Yes sir." she replied. She knew that this was her cue to leave, and she reached to take the case folder with her. She was to the door when he spoke again.

"Starling, I pray that this case won't turn out like the last one."

"Yes sir." she wondered if he meant her almost getting killed by Jame Gumb or the interest Dr. Lecter had taken in her. Both, she decided, would be nice to avoid on this one.

*****