William Hurst had spent three gruelling years at the University of Washington, but he still found the fine red brick expanse of the campus a familiar and inviting vista. He traversed the steps down into the 'Red Square' and paused as the grand facade of Suzzallo Library rose before him with its overwhelming gothic architecture and traditional stained glass windows. To most people, it seemed an intimidating structure, one that commanded respect and demanded that time spent inside its cathedralesque interior be as sacred as worship.
But for Willy Hurst, handsome blonde grad student and aspiring psychologist, the Library was a sanctuary of study. He preferred it to the Allen Library and medical research libraries, and enjoyed volunteering there as a research assistant during his few empty hours. As he pushed through the tall double doors, the many tiered roof met his upward gaze. Adjusting the overdue books under one arm, he smiled for a moment at the dusty ceiling and the shadows that the fading light cast through the stained glass windows. Then he made his way over to the desk, dropped off his books, and picked up his volunteer tag.
Just like clockwork.
"Excuse me, young man, but I was wondering if you could perhaps point me in the direction of the Brendon Psychology Collection."
The cane bearing old man smiled bashfully up at him through a thick beard, his voice betraying a thick Franco-Germanic accent.
Willy was charmed despite himself.
"It's just over here...anything I can help you with?"
"In fact, there is. I have here a special dispensation from the dean of the library for the rental of the entire James Baldwin collection."
"Wow. You're definitely going to need some help with those. You got a vehicle, Mr...?"
"Professor Tercelle, of the Unversität von Luxemburg."
"Willy Hurst."
"Pleasure to meet you, William." Tercelle said gravely as he followed Willy down the hall to the Brendon Collection.
"Likewise, Professor. Luxembourg, huh? Long way to come for a bunch of library books."
"Unfortunately, this is the only complete set in the western hemisphere."
"Is that so," Willy said as he began to load books onto a handcart. "I don't think I could get through half of these. I hope they'll be some use."
"I expect so," Tercelle said, tapping his cane perfunctorily against his leg. "Tell me, William, are you planning to enter the psychology field?"
"Yes sir, I am. Pediatric psychology and therapy."
"Enjoy working with children, do you?"
Willy nudged the fire escape doors open with a foot. Tercelle watched idly as the young man wrestled with the cart, and finally got it out the doors and onto the ramp.
"Well, I know I didn't have the best childhood. Would've been really nice to have someone to talk to, someone who understood me. Best time to get 'em is when they're kids. By the time they grow up, not much you can really do to help them, not if they don't want to change."
"That's a very logical outlook, William. It's just the van over there. It should be open."
"Thanks."
As Willy finished loading the books into the conspicuously empty van, he noticed the Professor watching him through the side mirror, a smile forming on his lips. He frowned as the man began to peel away the shaggy whiskers away from his face. Horror bloomed in his heart as he realized the countenance grinning at him was that of Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter. Before he could make a move, Lecter flipped the cane up and landed a solid blow on the back of his skull. Willy crumpled, a small trickle of blood blossoming across the back of his neck. Unhurredly, Dr. Lecter collected Willy's unconscious body and piled him into the back of the van with the remainder of the Baldwin books.
Pulling on a pair of oversized sunglasses, Lecter started the ignition and waited for it to warm up. In the mean time, he calmly licked the blood from his fingers.
"One week. That will be sufficient. Don't you agree, William?"
Willy moaned in pain, his clouded eyes rolling up to regard his assailant.
"Yes, I thought you would approve. Shall we?"
---
"Investigator Graham, this is Fran Delacroix. I'm sorry, but there's no record of any Thoraby's Boutique on our wholesaler's list. Again, sorry it took us so long to get back to you."
Clarice punched the rewind button on her tape machine, and wandered back over to the coffee table where the two investigators had spread out the evidence accumulated so far.
"Thoraby's. Hey, Graham, how do you think that's spelled?"
Graham leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes.
"Maybe..T-H-O-R-A-B-Y. Why? Do you think it's an anagram?"
"It's possible. Lecter had us all on our toes during the Gumb case with his word jumbles."
Clarice unplugged her laptop and brought it with her over to the couch. Working quickly, she called up her anagram program and entered 'thoraby' into the field entry.
A spark went off in Graham's head.
"What about 'Bathory'?" he asked, leaning up from his reclined position.
"Like the Countess?"
"Elizabeth Bathory, she used to drink the blood of young girls."
"Virgin girls, actually..." Clarice corrected, and then trailed off as a sudden wave of realization washed over her. Without explanation, she jumped up and went over to the wall safe where she kept her personal documents, firearms and various other incriminating articles. Twisting the dial, she popped open the lock and withdrew a folded sheet of thick white paper.
"He's made a reference to Elizabeth Bathory before...I didn't think it meant anything, just his way of...you know, needling me."
Graham accepted the letter gingerly. "You didn't submit this to the FBI?"
Clarice shrugged.
"I didn't see the point. They wouldn't be able to track it, and it could've put me in jail."
"Okay, that's a good point." Graham set it down with the rest of the evidence. "So we have Elizabeth Bathory, locker 1279, and?"
"Shit?"
"Shit."
The phone rang. Clarice went to get it while Graham peered down at the letter.
---
1972
"Her name is Amanda Crawley, she was just hired by the Baltimore Philharmonic orchestra. She's a violinist. Says she was with friends at the time of the murder, and they check out."
"Amanda Crawley? Funny thing," Dr. Lecter said as he accepted the photograph from Graham. "I serve on the board of directors, I approved her application. Excellent young talent. Although, I doubt that she bronzed Mr. Whitter."
"Yeah, me too. I'm thinking co-worker," Graham said abysmally. "If they check out, then this is another one for the unsolved dumpster. There's just nothing there."
"Perhaps your friend is a 'repeater'," Dr. Lecter suggested, flipping through the report. Graham propped his elbow on the armrest and grasped a handful of his own hair, frustrated.
"Do you think so?" he asked hopelessly, glancing up at Dr. Lecter's kindly countenance.
"Let us say I suspect so. Although," Dr. Lecter paused, and steepled his fingers, resting his chin on his fingertips. "Time may tell you."
"God. That's terrible. I must be terrible at my job, if I have to wait for a murder to occur in-"
"William," Dr. Lecter interrupted sharply, standing up suddenly. "Murder is not something you or anyone else can prevent. Blaming yourself for it is not only redundant, it is arrogant and self indulgent."
Shocked into silence, Graham stared at the doctor. Then slowly, he nodded his agreement.
"You're right, Dr. Lecter. I'm sorry. I'm moping, I have no right to."
"Take some time off, Will." Dr. Lecter said gently.
"Think it'll do me good?"
"I believe... by Christmas, something will surface."
And on December 27th, on a frigid windy day, something indeed did surface- in the middle of Lake Michigan.
---
Out on the Washington Peninsula, a little town named Sequim boasts 365 days of sun. A cozy idyllic cluster of green fields, corner stores and seafood restaurants, it sits nestled between the north end of Puget Sound, and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. In addition to having unique weather patterns, it is also the self-proclaimed capital of lavender. Miles north on highway 101 is Dungeness Spit, famous for its vistas of the intimidating Olympic Mountains, its kitchen worthy crab population, and the so-called sandy spit that stretches out across the water for miles.
A ten minute walk from the Spit, a sizeable bungalow lays a mile from the highway. Although the field behind it is shaded by lush evergreen trees, its face has been bleached yellow by the sun. Over the years it has been added to, adding to its mismatched charming demeanour.
When Molly pulled up to the gravel driveway in her rented sedan, the smell of frying crab met her nostrils. Yanking back the parking break, she smiled to herself and got out of the car. Opting to leave the luggage in the car for the moment, she crunched her way up the path, and pushed open the screen door.
The background noise of the television was audible from the living room. Smiling to herself, Molly made for the kitchen with the intention of inspecting the chef's work. Chunks of crab were frying in the pan with finely minced garlic, lemon and just a hint of...
"Rosemary? Hey, Willy...don't you think it might overwhelm the crab?"
A hand reached around from behind her, holding a cloth soaked in chloro-form. Molly tried to scream, but the ether had started to fog her brain. Despite her fading senses, she immediately identified the owner of the hand, and the petulant voice that purred in her ear, a mockery of amiability.
"Very astute, Molly. I find, however, in finely measured proportions, it sets off the lemon quite nicely."
Blackness took her.