They were arguing.
He sat at the table, watching her resolutely. She stood, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sparking anger. He shook his head. He hadn't meant to set her off like that, but it was just an idea. He thought she needed to work on her ability to cope with dissenting opinions. It was late, and they were both tired. Profiling can be mentally tiring work, putting yourself in the shoes of people who commit unspeakable acts, and tempers can fray as the hours pass.
She glared at him. How could he suggest such a thing? Was he mad? Did he not respect her? She'd often privately wondered if he didn't think that she was less capable because she was female. That was something she would have to set him straight on. Damn quick, if you please.
Their first argument.
"Lisa," Will Graham said in the reasonable tones of men who feel unfairly accused by women, "we have to consider all the options."
"Don't tell me she fled the country," Lisa said vehemently. "I know her. She might leave, but not until she's finished whatever she's setting out to do."
"You don't have any positive proof that Dr. Lecter was responsible for Black Wednesday," Graham said delicately.
"Yes, I do," Lisa said, her eyes dancing sparks. "Susana commits a murder in Toronto. A murder that doesn't match any of her prior murders. She doesn't know these girls. She has no reason to kill them. But she does, and she does so in a manner that's very stylized. This took forethought and planning. The very next day, four people in Behavioral Sciences are slaughtered? And you think that's coincidence?"
"The possibility exists," Graham said defensively. "And even if she did, let's look at things. None of the witnesses have seen Dr. Lecter at the crime scenes. Two people at Warner's and Suttler's both saw a man leaving the scene, but not a woman. Now maybe she did have something to do with it. But we know she didn't."
"And what's with all this Dr. Lecter stuff anyway?" Lisa burst out. "Her name is Susana Alvarez. That's her legal name. She's never been Dr. Lecter."
"She used it as an alias," Graham said. "And it just helps me think of her that way, that's all. Does it matter?"
Lisa rolled her eyes and flapped her hands. "Fine. Call her Dr. Lecter if you want. But don't be surprised when people think you're talking about Hannibal."
"And the fact of the matter is, you don't know that Dr. Lecter did not leave the country. Suppose this was a signal. She's in Toronto. She knows we can't get her back without a lot of legal fuss, and she can fuss because she's on capital charges. So you think she comes back here, where we could get her with no problem at all? The first Dr. Lecter would never do that," he said, thinking back. "He would have done exactly what he did do: flee the country."
"He came back," Lisa pointed out.
"After seven years, and when he had to. And he just set up shop quietly. And it was a couple of months, then he and Agent Starling were happily shacked up in Argentina with nary a care."
The mention of her first cousin nettled Lisa, as it had ever since she entered the Academy. "Look," she said. "I know Susana Alvarez Lecter." In the heat of the moment, she did not have the faintest idea that she had referred to her cousin by the name she preferred. "I was the one who caught her, you know. She's cockier than her father was. She's got two main weak points: she likes the very best, just like he did, and she thinks she's smarter than everyone else. That's how I caught her. I figured she'd be living somewhere ritzy, and somewhere right under our noses. She knows this area. She's been here before. It would be either here or another big city, but probably here. I was the only one who thought that. Everyone else thought she was in another country."
Will simply looked at her. Despite the argument, he was interested in knowing how they'd caught Susana.
"I went looking for ritzy places to eat, ritzy places to shop, and ritzy places to live," Lisa said. "New townhouse development. Huge inside, no work at all outside, the complex does it all. They rake your leaves. There's a gourmet supermarket just up the street. It's right close to the highway so she could shop in the city. She was living less than twenty miles from Quantico. It was her type place. I thought it was likely she would be there. Went looking for single women who'd bought a unit in the past year or so. Got a list of fifteen or so. There she was, right there, driving a brand new Jaguar, working in a group private practice. Did some intel to see when she got home, when we could collar her. I did it. They wouldn't have caught her if not for me." She pointed at Will Graham.
"I don't doubt that, Lisa," Graham said. "I'm sure you did a lot of hard work and I'm sure you know her well. But she never was in jail before and she never had death penalty charges on her head before. Don't you think those two things might change her behavior? Pretty heavy-duty things, don't you think?"
"At first, yes," Lisa said irritably. "That's why she went to Toronto, so she could fight extradition if she got picked up. But it wouldn't affect her behavior permanently. She is what she is. I'm telling you: she's here, and she's going to stay here until she's done. I agree she's got an accomplice. I thought that the night she escaped. But she's not going to sit in Buenos Aires and talk to him on the phone. She wants to be here, so she can take over if things go wrong."
"You're quite sure on this," Graham said calmly.
"Will," Lisa said firmly, "I know her better than anyone else in the FBI. I know what she likes to eat, what she likes to shop for, and how she likes to live. I am not wrong on this. She is here, she is not going to flee, not until she's done what she's set out to do."
Will Graham chuckled shortly and thought for a moment. Lisa was so vehement. That was good and that was bad: it was all well and good that she was determined to see her cousin behind bars, but she was so dead set on it. She didn't take well to having her theories questioned. He supposed she felt some guilt about her cousin's escape and her unwitting hand in it. And it was late and she was young. Well, he'd have to correct himself there – everyone was young compared to him.
He let out a long, slow breath. He smiled to diffuse the situation as he spoke.
"And who am I to argue," Will Graham said slowly, "with the profiler who caught Dr. Lecter?"
Lisa sighed. "Will…that's not what I meant. I know you mean well. But we can't bluesky about whether or not she's fled the country. She hasn't. I'm telling you. She is responsible for the deaths of many federal officers, and that includes Black Wednesday."
The hardest part of profiling is getting all the facts in front of you. It is relatively easy for a good profiler to walk in the shoes of the UNSUB once they have it. It is the tiresome, tedious details of studying a crime scene that makes profiling such a difficult job. Will thought that perhaps it was time to call it a night.
"Look," he said, "it's late and we're both cranky. Maybe we ought to pick this up tomorrow after a good night's sleep." He yawned, exposing his teeth – still his own, even after all these years.
"All right," Lisa hedged. "See you tomorrow?"
"I'll need a ride," Will said. "Haven't driven since you were in diapers."
Lisa chuckled. Will seemed to enjoy playing the crusty old man at times. When he was in a better mood, he had tried telling her that when he was on duty, pterodactyls flew around Quantico. She'd asked him if that meant cavemen had roamed its grounds when she was born.
"I'll pick you up," Lisa said, laughing in spite of herself. Laura Miehns stepped forward from where she had discreetly secreted herself while they argued. She insisted on making Lisa wait in the unit while she checked the hallway. She also required Lisa to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Lisa counted herself lucky: the HRT commandant would have probably preferred to keep Lisa in a metal box and wheel her from place to place, given her druthers.
After they left, Will Graham looked desultorily around the small apartment he called home now. Assisted living complex, they called it. They'd told him when he moved in that he would have as much independence as he was able. The staff was there to help. There was a good medical staff available, which was comforting to a man of Will Graham's age.
But there were some things he found annoying. The staff was unfailingly polite to him, but he could always sense the polite contempt that the young held for the very old. The electric outlets all came equipped with built-in covers. Apparently they were afraid that if he were left to his own devices, he might try jamming a fork in the outlet for kicks. It also vaguely bothered him that complete strangers had access to his apartment.
But in this he was luckier than most. He had an HRT bodyguard assigned to his door. No one got in or out. The fellow seemed nice but quite professional. So far, he had simply stayed outside the door and left Will Graham to his own devices. Will preferred it that way.
Above him, Will knew, were the less fortunate denizens of the home. There lived people who could not take care of themselves in any way shape or form. It was more nursing-home-like up there. Will would occasionally have a staff member cook him dinner, and they would clean the place for him. That was just fine. He had a special chair with a motor. When he flipped a switch, the chair would rise to an almost-standing position. It made it easier for his creaky old bones to stand. It was also a lot of fun, and his first night here he had played with it ceaselessly, vrummm up, vrummm down.
The staff wondered about Lisa. He could tell that. One aide had politely asked if Lisa was his daughter. When he'd said no, he could tell without needing to ask what they were thinking. It made Graham laugh. A man of his age, having an affair with a woman who could have been his granddaughter. Yeah, sure.
"C'mere, honey, give Grampa some sugar," he said to the empty air, and snickered to himself in the lonely room. It sounded weird, but hell, he was ninety years old. He should be allowed some black humor if so he chose. He wondered idly what the front desk would do if he called down and asked them to send up a shapely young aide to give him a bath and decided that he was becoming depraved in his extreme old age.
Still, it was a nice place, and the government was paying for it while he was up here. He didn't mind helping at all. It gave him something to do. And the search for Dr. Lecter, while frustrating as anything, made him feel useful again, needed again. Molly had died twenty years ago; his son – he never thought of him as his stepson anymore – was fifty himself, two grown grandchildren and a great-grandchild on the way. All there had been for Will to do was rock on his doorstep and wait for death to come get him.
But not anymore. Now there was someone to hunt. And his old department needed him. The hunting had not changed, but the tracking methods had. Will was glad for Lisa: when he had last been an active agent, PC's were still toys. He didn't know how to use them well. Lisa did. She'd showed him how she searched records to try and find Susana, looking for extravagant purchases and trying to nail them down. There was something pleasant in watching her, knowing that the law enforcement of the next generation would be equally equipped to use the computers, as well as the crooks. Will found it sad and amusing at the same time: he felt like such a relic as she surfed through databases and pulled things off the Internet. He had manfully fought the urge to flap his arms and scowl All these newfangled computers, flibbity-floo, though, and that had to count for something.
She'd also insisted on seeking out other women under a death sentence and seeing if Susana had borrowed any of their identities. Graham thought she was off base on that. That had been a bit of cutesy Dr. Lecter had indulged herself in while she was holed up in Toronto. She'd be playing it more conservatively now.
He listened to the bits of life that he could hear. Mrs. Moore, next door, talking to a doctor. He could hear her through the walls. They were on the thin side. Presumably the builders had figured the residents would be stone deaf and unable to hear each other. Oh, stop being such an old coot, Will.
"Oh, you're such a nice young lady," Mrs. Moore was twittering. "I hope you stay here. Some of the doctors here are just so rude, you know." Will tuned it out. Mrs. Moore had things to say about just about everything. The doctors were rude. The aides didn't clean her apartment adequately. They didn't cook food the way she wanted. God only knew how the doctor she was talking to avoided this opprobrium.
A quick rattle and squeak of a cart being pushed along the floor. Will tilted his head. Medication call? No, it was too early for the dope cart to be around with its little pills guaranteed to bubble away the trouble of old age. Or at least dope you up so you didn't complain about it. He chuckled. His grumpy old man mode seemed to be in rare form tonight. But hell, if you couldn't be a grumpy old man as a ninety-year-old widower, then when could you be?
A jocular hey from whoever was pushing the cart. A clipped, official "Hello," from the guard at his door. He wondered who was pushing the cart. Some young buck, of course, confident that old age would never steal his strength, unlike the dried-up husks he served.
Now there was the tumble of cardboard boxes from the cart, rumble bump bump. Plastic bottles rattling on the floor. A curse from the attendant.
"Hey man, could you give me a hand with this?"
A sigh from the door guard as he considered the request. Footsteps from the door as he meandered away to help. Careful there, sport, the oldster you're guarding might wander off on you while you're being a Boy Scout. He sighed.
There was a muffled grunt and a thud outside. Graham suddenly shivered. It was not repeated. The hall was silent. He pricked his ears for sound. There it was, someone whistling in the hall. 'Amazing Grace'. He heard the squeak of the wheels again as the cart moved down the hall. The whistling went with it.
Quit being such a scared old man. You've got a guard. No one's going to do anything to you – if they were, they'd pick someone who didn't have an armed member of the HRT at their door.
Will sat in his chair, feeling a strange sort of uneasy free-floating nervousness. It had been half a century since Hannibal Lecter had gutted him. But it was that same feeling, the feeling he'd had in his office, looking at the psychiatrist talking so calmly to him. But he was no longer a hale forty. He was ninety and he was frightened.
Will glanced over at the phone. He could call Lisa. She would come for him. But no, she was tired, and what was he going to do? He had little doubt that Lisa would comfort the old man with the heebie-jeebies, but she would think less of him for it. She'd deny it to hell and back, but in her heart she'd think of the old man who got frightened and needed his hand held.
He closed his eyes and sank his head back against the headrest of his chair. His heart was pounding. He took deep breaths. Careful on that ticker, Will – it's a long time out of warranty. He thought about how paper-thin the walls of his heart must be after ninety years of beating, and made himself think about something else.
Mrs. Moore. He could hear Mrs. Moore through the walls. Concentrate on the old biddy.
"Ooooh,, that smarted," she said indignantly. He could hear it clear as a bell, as if she was standing in his living room instead of her own bedroom. "What was that for, doctor?"
"That's to help you sleep, Mrs. Moore," the doctor answered with the patience of a saint.
"How am I supposed to sleep after you stabbed me with that? There's a huge hole in my arm. It hurts. I can't go to sleep with my arm hurting."
"It won't hurt for long, Mrs. Moore," the doctor sighed. "Soon…you won't feel a thing."
Will's eyes leaped open. It was neither the words nor the voice, strictly speaking. But there was a mocking tone in the voice he remembered. The aural equivalent of the superior expression that Hannibal Lecter had always adopted.
With trembling fingers he pressed the switch on the arm of his chair. Vrrrrmmmmmm. The motorized chair rumbled slowly, up, up, up. Much too slowly. Will felt sweat break out against the back of the oxford shirts he still insisted on wearing. Up, up, and still only halfway.
Calm down, Will. Just tell the guard you think something's up. Fear paralyzes the mind. Don't…you've lived through much worse. It's nothing. You're going to feel like such an idiot. You are. The guard will be there and Mrs. Moore will be biddying away until her damn shot takes effect.
It seemed to Will Graham that he had lived another ninety years in the time it took the chair to raise him to that almost-standing height. Finally, it did. He walked to his door with the short, hesitant steps of an old man. His blocky old hand splayed out and he grasped the easy-to-open handle. He'd had a touch of arthritis in his hands – nothing too bad, thank God. But when he gripped the doorknob his knuckles sang with pain. He closed his eyes. Just psychosomatic, Will. Now quit it. You're just a silly old man with the spookies.
He turned the handle. Already he was drawing in a long breath, in order to tell the guard to please call down and check on Mrs. Moore, please. He envisioned how the guard would simply nod at him professionally: "Yes, Mr. Graham." Any contempt hidden behind his razor-sharp military manners.
He peered out into the hallway.
The empty hallway.
Will Graham looked around for his guard or the man with the cart. He saw neither. He began to tremble. His voice was papery and wheezy when he spoke. The querulous voice of an old man.
"Guard?" He couldn't remember the guard's name. "Agent? Are you there?"
The mocking silence of the empty hallway was all the reply he got.
Years ago, Will Graham had been a hero. He had tracked down killers, saved lives, and protected the weak. He was proud of that. But now, the aim that had taken out Garrett Hobbs was gone, his eyes behind thick glasses and his hands too trembly. The man who could run, fight, and defend himself and others was long gone. Age and time had stolen his ability to shoot, to punch back. So one must forgive Will Graham for being frankly terrified as he saw that his guard was no longer there.
He let the door close and fumbled at it. The deadbolt was too thin and hurt too much for his fingers to grasp it. But he did hit the lock button on the handle itself. It would do. It would have to. Slowly, Will turned and began to shuffle back towards the phone.
When he had been a much younger man, this trip would have been barely worth mentioning. Five or six big bounds across the floor, and the phone would be in his hand. But he wasn't anything even resembling young, and the thirty feet between his front door and the kitchen phone seemed like thirty miles. But Will was as determined as he had ever been.
You're just being a silly old man. But Lisa's bodyguard there, that's the leader of the HRT. She'll kick his ass for leaving his post. C'mon now. Laugh at me all you want, Lisa, you too Laura. I've been on the job myself, and right now two armed FBI agents are just would make this old man feel a LOT better. I know it's probably nothing. But right now, I don't care. Just humor me. You'll understand when you're old ladies.
…
In the hallway, Susana Alvarez Lecter stepped out and checked her watch. Lieutenant McNeely would be coming up on eighteen hours locked in Joellyn Mackey's bathroom. The bathroom was approximately the same size as Susana's cell had been. A blanket laid down in the tub made for as good a bunk as Susana had been expected to sleep on. True, McNeely hadn't had someone checking in on her every fifteen minutes, but then again she would only do the one day. Susana had neither killed nor tortured the lieutenant: McNeely had been civil to her. Plus, Susana knew that she would be dead if not for the lieutenant. While that chafed at her – she hated to owe anyone anything – it also meant that Kelly McNeely was a member of a very rare group: those who Susana would refrain from killing even when offered the opportunity.
Susana had every intention of letting the lieutenant out once she'd spent 22 hours locked in. After all, fair was fair. The lieutenant had always been polite to her, and had made sure not to be late for her out time. But she deemed it fair to lock Susana down for 22 hours a day, so she would know herself what it was like. True, she hadn't kept Susana in cuffs in her cell, but then again, she was getting out after only one day in lockdown. It evened out.
She saw Luke rolling his cart down the hall, and she knew that the body of the guard was under it, covered by a white sheet. It wouldn't do for concealing him forever, but good enough for now. She waved to him. In his scrubs, he looked like every other aide here, muscular, clean-cut, and friendly. He waved at her, and crossed himself and then looked up, signifying that the guard was dead. She gestured at the door behind her with a thumb. Mrs. Moore had gotten a big enough shot of Pavulon that if she wasn't dead now, she would be soon.
She slipped out of the doorway and kicked off her shoes. Sensible flats; this was work after all. She picked up the flats and stuffed them into the pocket of her lab coat, where they were separated from the flat profile of the 9mm she wore on her belt.
Luke carefully trundled the cart containing her supples and the dead HRT guard into Mrs. Moore's apartment. She was pleased. The HRT guard had barely suspected a thing. She was surprised the man had left his post, but Luke had that effect on people. He looked completely open and trustworthy, just a working joe doing his job. The guard hadn't expected it, even when the Harpy she had given him slashed into his midsection.
Luke came out and smiled at her. He reached out and took her chin, tilting her face up to kiss her. That surprised her and irked her a bit: this was work. Once they were done with their work for the night he could make out with her all night, if so he chose. But oh well, it wasn't that bad.
"Good luck," he whispered.
"Thank you," she whispered back, quite pleased that he hadn't said "God be with you" or some holy crap like that. He was eminently trainable, after all.
Her nyloned feet were silent on the carpeted hallway. She plucked the passkey from her pocket and approached the door. She closed her eyes and thought of her father. She would make him proud.
…
Will moved forward as fast as he could, but the phone seemed to stretch away from him, mocking him. His heart pounded. He could feel sweat forming on his forehead, dripping down and stinging his eyes. Finally, he was there. He grabbed up the receiver. It seemed amazingly light in his hands. Not like the old workhouse Bell Telephone phones.
He stared stupidly at the keypad. What was Lisa's number? He couldn't remember it. No. No. This couldn't be. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn't. But he wasn't going to die because he couldn't remember a phone number.
Calm down. Think. You've still got your mind. You don't remember her phone number…because…,
His ears pricked. Was that something outside? A scrape of someone walking by? No, no. Too quiet. His imagination playing tricks on him.
You don't remember it because she wrote it down for you.
Ah yes. There it was, a yellow Post-it stuck to the wall by the phone. LISA'S CELL printed on it. Will punched in the numbers with shaking hands. There was an awful moment when he realized he'd misdialed. He punched the flash switch and started again. An electronic ring burred in the receiver. Will began to pant.
The phone rang again. And again. Damn cell phones, they always rang six times for you before the phone on the other end rang once. Thank God he hadn't gotten that 'The person you are calling is unavailable or has left the calling area' message, something he cordially detested. Her phone was on. Thank God for that.
Dammit Lisa pick up this phone! he thought, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, as if he could force Lisa to pick up the phone from here through sheer force of will. Behind him, unheard in his panic, the lock button on his door popped open.
He heard the bizarre clack and rattle that you hear when someone is lifting a cell phone to their face. Then, blessedly, Lisa's voice.
"Hello?" Thunk rattle thud. "Oh, hi Will."
"Lisa," he said urgently. His heart was racing and he was hyperventilating. "Come back. I need you to come back."
She sighed. "Oh, Will," she said. "Don't be mad. I guess I should apologize, I get carried away. But you know, it really means a lot to me to catch Susana…it's hard for me because she's my cousin. I'm sorry if I was mean, I was just…oh hell."
"No, no," Will said. "There's someone here. My guard's gone. And I…,"
"Will?" Her voice was concerned. "Will, are you OK? Maybe you should call 911 or down to the desk. Do you want me to call there for you?"
"No." He struggled to keep calm. "There's someone here, Lisa. Come back. I need you back. Now."
"Will?" He could hear her tone constrict. "OK, I'm turning around at the next exit. I want you to sit down and wait until I get there."
Will Graham froze. He could almost feel his heart stop for several moments. His hand gripped the smooth plastic of the phone handset uselessly.
He felt breath. Hot breath on the back of his neck.
…
Lisa Starling was on the Beltway, heading for her condo. She was tired and annoyed. She didn't understand why Will was quarreling with her. Well, wait. Yes, she did. He was simply trying to make her think. But dammit, she knew that Susana was around. Why couldn't he accept that she knew her cousin best?
Behind her was Laura Miehns's unmarked prowl car. Lisa grinned and put the Trans Am up to eighty to test her keeper. The prowler dropped back but caught up quickly. Ha ha.
Susana. Susana Susana Susana. Where was her damn cousin anyway? Somewhere local, that was for sure. The Black Wednesday murders all indicated a killer familiar with the area. And somehow she just knew her cousin wouldn't stay too far from whatever she had unleashed.
So…what was her goal,anyways? To cripple Behavioral Sciences? That seemed to be the most likely scenario. Susana would know that it was BSU who had tracked her down. Did she think that by wiping out a few profilers that they wouldn't get her again?
That thought led to a more unpleasant one: What if Susana targeted her? Lisa had always thought that her cousin wouldn't kill her. It wasn't because of anything so mundane as family. No, that was not Susana. But Susana had never known any relatives other than her mother and father. Lisa believed that Susana was fascinated by the idea of having relatives. That she was more like other people than she had thought. Therefore, she wouldn't kill Lisa because she would lose the only relative she had ever known other than Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling.
But maybe that wasn't true anymore. After all, Susana had to know that it was Lisa who had tracked her down. And Susana believed quite firmly that she would be sentenced to death for her crimes. Given those options, Susana just might decide to wipe out the resident expert on her, cousinhood be damned. It made for unpleasant thoughts. She was glad for the baleful headlights of the prowler behind her.
Her phone rang. She reached into her pocket and held it to her ear. It was Will.
"Oh, hi Will," she said.
"Lisa," he said. "Come back. I need you to come back."
The conversation ran its course. Lisa thought at first that he was upset about her leaving angry at him. Now she was worried that he might be having a heart attack.
"OK, I'm turning around at the next exit. I want you to sit down and wait until I get there."
There was no reply.
"Will?" she asked, her tone panicking. The phone clicked. She heard a muffled thump. Then the phone was lifted again.
The voice that spoke was not Will's. It spoke three words. Three words that chilled Lisa Starling's blood in her veins and provoked a scream that made the windows of the Trans Am tremble.
"Well, I declare," Susana Alvarez Lecter said into the phone.
Lisa Starling screamed and slewed across the Beltway.
"Susana?" she shrieked into the phone. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare hurt him, you fucking bitch!"
"Why, Lisa," Susana returned calmly. "That was rude. And just what is it with you and older men anyway? I mean, Ralph Lima was sixty or so. And this…my, my, Lisa. Got any unresolved issues about your father?"
Lisa got control of the car again and gripped the phone firmly. "Susana, goddam you," she said. "If you hurt him I swear to God, I'll hunt you down myself." Inwardly, she was still panicking. I just left ten minutes ago! Ten freakin' minutes! How the hell did she manage that?
"Idle threats, Lisa Starling." Susana sounded amused. Lisa could hear Will moan in the background. It stabbed her deeply. She began looking immediately for somewhere to turn around.
"Lightning strikes twice, sometimes, Cousin Lisa," Susana Alvarez Lecter said thoughtfully. "Unfortunately for Will…so do Lecters."