Thank you, all, for the kind reviews. I'm glad that you are enjoying this so much. As for buying the rest of this story, dear Steel, you can bribe me with some Ben & Jerry's ice cream (Peanut Butter Truffle, please) or just keep up the reviews!

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The late afternoon sun has drawn a myriad of joggers from their homes, having banished the clouds and rain for at least a short time. The path she runs is conspicuously absent of other runners. It winds back through the woods, that afternoon sun being filtered through the last of summers green leaves. Autumn will be quick in her coming, soon bringing a crisp breeze to the air, and changing the leaves to a lovely rustic patina. For now, that could be a thousand years distant. A few puddles dot the gravel trail in the more shaded areas, and she is careful to avoid them.

Running has always been an escape for her. A place where she could go, and not have to think about everything else. She was just herself, then. She felt the good ache working its way up her calves. Her breath and steps are measured, and her high ponytail swings behind her. She barely feels the strands as they brush against the damp of her neck. The belt pack around her waist contains a water bottle, which is held in its holder by an elastic strap. A drop of liquid beads at the top of the spout, sparkling like a diamond in the sun. Feet continue to crunch the gravel, as a single runner emerges from a convergent trail. She ignores him as he passes, keeping her mind focused on the task of running.

Unfortunately, as that other runner's image dwindles in the distance ahead of her, she does not remain focused. Within s second, Clarice's mind has found a much more interesting subject. She blinks, once, as the answering machine message plays through in her head, and her feet tangle below her. She thrusts her hands out before her, trying to cushion the imminent fall. Gravel bites into the soft flesh of her palms, and more into her knees. She grunts as she slides downward, face inches from the gravel. Clarice pushes herself up and rolls to a sitting position. Carefully, she brushes the gravel from her hands and knees, wincing at the scrape that reddens her left leg. The knees are also skinned bare, and she hisses at the pain as she stands.

The walk back to the Escort is long and painful. Now the right knee has begun to trickle blood, and a single rivulet worms its way down her shin. Her palms hurt, but they don't bleed. Only the first layer of skin was stripped away, making them rough and sensitive. She digs the keys from her belt pack, and clenches them in her teeth as she pours some water in her hands. It stings as it washes over the abrasions. The powder blue sub-compact sits in the shade beneath an oak tree in the parking lot. The trunk is opened first, and the first aid kit withdrawn from the pile of junk in the trunk. She rests against the split-rail fence, foot resting on the chrome bumper as she dabs at the bleeding spot on her knees and legs. She rinses the blood away, frowning as the water spills into her socks.

As she returns the kit to the trunk, the hard mount phone in her car has begun to ring. She slams the trunk and fights to get the key into the door, never noticing that the door was already unlocked. It is finally flung open and the phone grabbed from its holder. She tugs to untangle the power cord as she answers it.

"Hello?"

A bead of sweat trickles from her forehead to the bridge of her nose as she waits for an answer. "Clarice?" she sucks down air, not realizing that she had been holding her breath. "Its Graham."

"Hey, yeah. What's up?" she turns and sits in the drivers seat, twisting the keys in the ignition.

"Justice called back. We've got adoption papers on the supposedly dead son. The kid was adopted by the Conrad family. The name that he's listed with is Darryl Conrad."

A smile lights up Starling's face. "Damn! That's great!" A burst of static crashes through the phone. "Graham? Graham, are you there?"

Will Graham's voice comes back, broken and static filled. "…Bad connection. Starlin… Jack will call you… Get it all…. Tomorrow…" she can't piece anything together and Graham is gone before she can ask for him to repeat it. Sighing, the phone is returned to the holder. She pulls the door closed and starts the Escort, listening to the familiar whine as its engine turns over. Oh well, best to get home and wait for Crawford to call her. They were so close.

*****

Graham had the same thought as he drove back to his hotel room. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and he was playing with neither. He hoped Starling had gotten the gist of what was happening, the phone had passed into a dead zone as he drove. Tomorrow, everything was going to come to a head. They had to move fast, before any more women were murdered. Even though it was only four in the evening, Graham was exhausted as he parked the rental in the lot. He could sleep for days, if his mind and body would let him. Well, a good shower and eight hours of sleep would have to do.

Will unlocked the door and returned the key to his pocket. Even after all these years, Will Graham could still tell in an instant when something was wrong. He can't tell you whether it is a smell in the air, a feeling, or just some other sixth sense that tells him this, he can just tell you he knows. Four steps into the room, past the bathroom and within reach of the light switch. The curtains are closed but there is still enough light for adjusted eyes to see in the dark room. Graham has the disadvantage, and chills run through his spine as he hears the voice from across the room.

"Leave the lights off, Will."

Graham's head snapped towards the sound. Squinting, he could make out the figure. Slim, upright in the chair, legs crossed at the knee. Fear floods Graham as he feels those eyes on him, watching him.

"Atrocious aftershave, Will. You know that it doesn't cover the smell of you fear." The figure is rising, walking towards him. Graham doesn't move an inch. He can feel the clamminess that has taken residence in his previously dry hands. His visitor is standing next to him, and the hand is extended, reaching for the light switch. Graham blinks as the lamps illuminate the room, and again as he looks directly into the maroon eyes of the man that fills his nightmares.

"Dr. Lecter."

"Really, Will, do you think I'd forget about you after all these years?" He waves his left hand to the table he has just risen from. Graham notes the scar on his hand and the lack of his sixth finger. He swallows, meaning to speak, but he is cut off. "Come have a seat, Will. We have much to discuss."

"Your hand…" Graham asks as he compels his legs to move to the table. Hannibal holds it up to the light, turning it as if examining it for the first time.

"Yes. I got that rather identifying feature removed. It aches a little in the cold, and causes some stiffness when I play, but otherwise is okay." He waits until Graham is seated before he settles down across from him. "Now, tell me of this man you and my little Starling are chasing."

Graham looks up at his tormentor, sees the calm face, and knows he will not compromise. He has no choice but to tell him everything.

"His name is Darryl Conrad…"

*****