A/N: Thanks again for the reviews!

Chapter 4:

Once home, Gil paced around as the minutes ticked by. In his head a familiar uncertainty that everything was going to be okay. His thoughts weren't of anything he wanted them to be. Hannibal was right when he'd written that in order to find him, to stop him, that he was going to have to start thinking like him again. Getting into the mindset of a serial killer had been something he'd been avoiding for over a decade. His unwillingness to see them, to dream—as Lecter put it—was exactly why Millander had slipped through his hands twice. If he let Lecter slip away, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

He had felt responsible after Lecter's escape because he could envision every kill that the serial killer would commit thereafter. He had nightmares for weeks about all the deaths. How anyone could think that Lecter was anything but something to put in the ground was beyond him. He wasn't even human. He ate humans. And that unhuman mind was something he had to get back into. The last time he thought Hannibal Lecter's thoughts, he wound up in a psych ward. He had to keep himself from falling too far inside the madness. He had to keep himself in the present while he traveled through the labyrinth of his mind.

One of the techniques Lecter had used in his therapy sessions was the use of a metronome. Lecter had an antique wooden Maelzel metronome from the 1880's that he used while learning the piano. At the start of a session, he would start it. Gil could sit and listen to the tapping for hours while he thought. The purpose of the metronome was to keep time, but it had become a tool he used to keep a foot on solid ground as his mind drifted into the darkness.

It was time to venture back into the darkness. As he stared at the white cinder block walls, his hand rubbed at the back of his neck as he let the feeling take over. He was starting to feel caged up, trapped, as he peered around at the open space of his townhouse. The white walls reminded him of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Recovering the mindset of Lecter, a cannibalistic killer, would require him to go back into the past. Back to a time when he had to do it once before...

...Back to the mental hospital…

A loud buzz sounded as the orderly, Barney, unlocked the door to allow him entrance into the wing where Hannibal Lecter was imprisoned. Down the long white hallway, last door on the left, there was a guard standing outside the door to let him inside. Just inside the door would be a chair waiting for him. He let out a breath and took a step forward. As the door shut behind him, he glanced over his shoulder and wondered if he was also going to end up an inmate. Would they let him back out? He'd have to wait and see.

As he started down the hallway, the sound of a metronome filled his head.

Tap…tap…tap…

With every step he took, his footsteps grew softer, slower, as if they were fading into a memory. A dream. In his mind's eye, that was exactly what was happening.

His legs were replaced with the wheels on a wheelchair that squeaked in the silence. The white walls of the psych ward moved on both sides of his vision as a faint throbbing pulsed within his gut. The scar tissue that'd formed in his skin itched and he wanted to scratch it but his hand wouldn't move.

The wheelchair turned and he entered into an open room with big windows. Out the window he was placed in front of was a tree. On the branch of the tree was a bird. It was small. Black and white in color. Hooked beak. It was a shrike.

His jaw twitched as he closed his eyes.

When he stopped in front of the cell door, his mind snapped back into the present as the memory faded away. The guard unlocked the cell door that had a tiny glass window. Peering through the window, he saw Hannibal lying on his cot, his back turned to him. He walked into the cell room and sat in the chair as the door shut and locked behind him. There weren't only bars that confined Lecter to the cell, but thick solid unbreakable glass, the kind used to keep sharks in aquarium tanks.

The reasoning was simple: Hannibal Lecter was a monster. One of those pitiful things that were sometimes born in hospitals. It's not fed, not loved or touched, and it dies. That was what Hannibal's mind was like. Dead and inhuman.

He wanted Lecter's opinion, or at least that was what he told him. Truth was he was there to remember. Look at him, and remember what crazy felt like.

Once Lecter took the case file that he had on the serial killer dubbed the "Tooth Fairy", he started observing the cell as he waited for Lecter to read over the file. He took in the order of Lecter's things, the books—

In his mind's eye the room changed once again.

A psychiatrist's office appeared around him. One with bookcases for walls, a desk in the middle, two chairs, big windows, antiques, along with the tap…tap…tap of a back-and-forth metronome. Sitting in the chair across from him was Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Forensic Psychiatrist.

"Are you refusing to answer the question?"

"What question?"

"The only question that matters." Lecter had asked him if the reason that he felt so bad was because killing Garrat Jacob Hobbs had felt so good. "Does that challenge your sense of morality, Will? That only baddies feel good when they kill."

"They get a sense of enjoyment. I didn't feel enjoyment. I felt satisfied. Just. I did the right thing. There's a difference."

"Just," Lecter repeated back to him. "A sense of righteousness. How biblical. You believe in God, Will?"

"I do."

He stared over at Lecter, right into his blue eyes that had a speck of maroon in middle. He grew confused when the doctor asked, "Are we not all made in God's image, Will? God kills all the time."

"Are you trying to get me to admit that it's okay to kill? Look, Doctor Lecter, what I felt then doesn't matter now."

"But it does—"

"It doesn't."

"If it didn't matter to you, dear Will, you wouldn't be here. You've already practically admitted that you wanted to kill Hobbs. That's why you're feeling so bad about it now. You're riddled with guilt like the bullets you shot into his body. You didn't shoot him once, not even twice…You emptied your gun into the man. Was it simply from rage and fear?"

He blinked and looked away, up and around at all the books that lined the shelves. The American Journal of Psychiatry, The Journal of Abnormal Psychiatry, and The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry next to a copy of Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter was a chef—

Tap…

"He stopped eating."

He re-opened his eyes when he heard the woman doctor speak those words. The psychiatrist's office faded, Lecter's cell faded, as the white walls of the psych ward reappeared in his vision.

Looking out the big window, the shrike was gone.

…Tap…

"He stopped talking," the doctor spoke again behind him.

The doctor was talking to someone whom he couldn't see. Then, he smelt her. The suntan lotion. Her perfume. Ocean salt on her skin from being out on Virginia Beach, the boardwalk, and the pier. She loved the ocean. It was Molly.

…Tap…

He felt her pulse under his fingertips. The steady beating of her heart. It thumped past his skin and into his hand as he closed his eyes and listened to the life beat that he felt. He wanted her heart. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. Spread her open on top of table, linoleum knife slicing open her chest cavity. Her heart in his hand—

…Tap…

A pain filled his gut. Looking down, he saw a buck antler impaling out of his body. The antler morphed into the blade of a linoleum knife. It dug into his stomach as he was nearly disemboweled. Blood seeped out between his fingers as his hand tried to stop the blood flow. Feeling his life drain through the blood that spread down his leg, he was lifted up into the darkness that engulfed the room.

…Tap…

Suspended in the air as if he were floating…

A small hand reached out of the darkness and touched his hand. He glanced down and there stood a boy. A young boy with blue eyes and blond hair. It was Kevin.

Tap—

The metronome stopped.

The darkness cleared and he felt grounded, no longer floating into the black emptiness, as the psych ward reappeared.

He smiled as Kevin's blue eyes lit up as he said, "Daddy!"

There was a knock at his door. He dropped his hand from the back of his neck, took a deep breath, and then picked up his gun. Gil told himself that he wasn't being paranoid, but realistic. It could very well be the FBI Agent getting there early. Then again, it could be someone a lot worse.

He checked the peephole and saw it was Sara. He let out a breath, sat his gun down, and opened the door. Her smile was soft as she walked inside with a bag of takeout in her hand. He'd wanted to give her some time if she needed it so he hadn't gone back to her place like usual.

"I figured you wouldn't feel like eating, so I grabbed something light." She sat the food on the table.

He had so many things in his head he wanted to say but had no idea where to start. Sara didn't give him the chance as she pulled him into a hug. He quickly hugged her back as he eased into her arms.

"I'm sorry about your doctor friend."

That almost did it. He almost broke. Nodding into her shoulder, he closed his eyes and willed the emotions away. Even though he hadn't known Joy well, he still felt her loss. The world lost two good people. Their children lost both their parents. He'd seen the photographs in the house. Joy and Daniel had two kids, two boys, and both were away at college.

Sara kissed his neck, then his cheek, and then his lips found hers. There was no interest in anything other than that kiss. It helped to settle his mind in a way that he never could. Then his stomach growled. She chuckled into his mouth.

She ended the kiss and pulled him over to the table. "I'll put water on for tea."

He sat down and took out the takeout boxes while Sara filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. All this domestic bliss was easy enough to fall into. It helped him to relax.

As they ate, he said, "You're taking this surprisingly well."

"You're still you." She took a sip of tea before telling him, "I'm not naive enough to think that you didn't have a life before we met. Granted, this wasn't anything near what I was expecting—"

"Being an FBI profiler wasn't at the top of your list?"

She smiled. "I figured you were a workaholic who seldom dated. Married to the job—"

"Are you sure you're not the profiler? Because that was my life once I got to Vegas. Everything before that, it feels like it was someone else's life. A life I thought was over…until last night. I couldn't say anything—"

"I know. Gil, I'm not upset."

She didn't appear upset, but sometimes looks were deceiving. He had to take her word for it.

A while later, they'd both showered and then he laid down on his bed with Sara straddling his waist. She wanted to give him a back massage. As her hands kneaded the tension out of his muscles, he tried not to think too much.

"He was the one who cut you, wasn't he?"

His breath caught. Pushing it out, he tried to not tense up. He hadn't thought about it in years, and then he took his shirt off in front of Sara for the first time.

It'd been a long time since he was in the company of a woman. He peered down at her and wanted all of her, all at once. Her hands yanked the shirt out of his pants then they went for his belt. He was working on her bra and once he had it off, his mouth latched on to her breast. She got his belt undone and zipper down.

He sat back on his legs and yanked his shirt up over his head. As he leaned down to kiss her again, he felt her hands on his skin, making him tremble at her delicate touch. The tips of her fingers skimmed over scar tissue. She froze and pulled away.

"My God, what happened?" she asked as her hand traced the scar. It curved up from his right hip, across the top of his abdomen, and stopped at his left rib.

His hand grabbed hers as he looked down at the scar as if he'd forgotten all about it. Most of the time he did. His eyes avoided it when he showered and when he shaved in front of the mirror. Once dressed, it was out of sight and out of mind. The only time he remembered was when someone else saw it.

"Old injury," was all he said as he intertwined her hand in his and silenced any more questions with a kiss.

She didn't ask about it again, but her eyes would land on it while they laid in bed, or when they showered together. Her fingers would rub and trace over it sometimes while he tried to sleep.

Rolling over onto his back, he grabbed hold of her hips. Her hands rubbed his chest, easing his tension. She wasn't demanding anything, wasn't trying to force him to tell her anything, but she deserved to know. They were in a relationship. Trusting his partner was important. He used to talk to Molly about everything up until he stopped talking. His disconnect was what ruined what they had. The last three years of her life he'd lost due to his silence and distance. He didn't want to ruin this with Sara.

Before he could speak, she said, "I know that you probably don't want to talk about it, but—...I just—I want to know what we're dealing with."

He held back a smirk at her rashness. Though at times an annoyance, he'd started to find it endearing. It was just who she was. Where he had a ton of patience, Sara could be highly impatient.

She saw his smirk and smiled to herself. "I'm jumping the gun again, aren't I?"

"Yeah," he said as leaned up as she bent down. Their lips meet in the middle. Resting back down into the bed, he let out a breath. There was no easy way to say it, so, like a Band-Aid, he decided to rip it off in one quick swift motion. "I, uh…I was in Lecter's office, asking him questions about the Chesapeake Ripper case…"

The serial killer was on a spree, killing two more people in as many days. This last one was Dorene Ibale, a Princeston student, and a former patient of Dr. Lecter's. Dorene Ibale's parents were from the Baltimore area and had tried to get their daughter help for her increasingly erratic behavior by having her meet with a friend of the family during her summer break from college. That family friend was Hannibal. That was eight months ago.

He'd talked to the doctor previously about one of the other Chesapeake Ripper victims, a bow hunter named Jeremy Olmstead. Lecter had treated Olmstead years prior while he was still a practicing physician. Two victims that he knew of who had direct contact with the renowned psychiatrist.

"Maryland is a small state, Will. I'm certain I've had direct contact with most, if not, everyone in one way or another. Aren't we all six degrees separated from one another. Coincidence—"

"Einstein said that 'Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous.'"

"You see these trivial connections as God's will?"

"I see them as connections. That's all," he said. "What they mean, I don't know yet. For one question, there are endless answers unless it's an absolute. Right now, I have no absolutes. The killer could be killing people that you've had encounters with because he has a grudge against you. A former patient, perhaps?"

"Hum," Lecter hummed as he gave that some thought.

Every time he sat in Lecter's office, he always saw something he didn't notice all the other times. He'd been a patient of Lecter's himself a few years ago. His sessions ended a year ago, but he still visited due to the comradery they've built. Sometimes he just needed a sounding board. Crawford was limited in his understanding of certain things, whereas Hannibal always had a way of making his mind think. And think it did.

What he noticed today were the very old medical books and journals behind Lecter's desk. One of which was by Hans von Gersdorff. It was the 'Feldbuch der Wundarzney', translated to the "Field book of surgery", 1517. Gersdorff had been a well-known surgeon of his time. Published instructions on various medical procedures such as amputations.

He hadn't actually read the book by von Gersdorff, but he'd read Johann Ludwig Choulant's 'History and Bibliography of Anatomic Illustration' while obtaining his Doctorate. Though a Ph. D. and not an M.D, he's always been fascinated by medical procedures, including medieval ones ever since he was a kid performing necropsies on the dead animals that he'd brought home.

In the book he remembered all the illustrations, specifically the section dedicated to von Gersdorff. The drawings were grotesque but also very informative. There was the Die Eingeweide (the intestines), Aderlasspunkte (Points for blood-letting), Die Knochenanatomie (Anatomy of the skeleton), and Der verwundete Mann (The wounded man)—

—Wound man.

In his mind, he pictured the diagram, all the weapons that had been inflicted into one man's body to demonstrate all the types of wounds: a bow, arrow, spike, dagger, sword…The bow hunter's photo flashed in his head. Olmstead's mutilated body overlaid with the diagram of Wound Man was a perfect match.

The Chesapeake Ripper used Olmstead's body to create Gerdorff's "Wound Man". The serial killer had also removed Olmstead's liver and thymus, and Ibale's heart and intestines for eating. The Ripper was a cannibal. He cooked and ate his victims…

Hannibal was a chef.

He believed in God, and that coincidences were God's way of remaining anonymous. All the coincidences led him to the one person who he knew to be the Chesapeake Ripper.

Their eyes met. He'd perfected the blank stare while playing poker as he never wanted to give away his tails. He hoped he hadn't, but there was something in Lecter's eyes that told him otherwise. His tail was exposed. Lecter knew.

"You say this last victim was Dorene…?"

"Ibale."

"Professor Lauren Ibale's daughter. I might still have a file on her. She wasn't a patient for very long. Too busy running around with boys, if I remember correctly. Let me check my old files, and when I get back, we can further discuss God's will." Lecter stood and rounded his desk to go into the next room. He closed the door.

He immediately stood up and went to grab the phone off Lecter's desk but stopped himself. What if Lecter had a phone in the other room? He would see that someone was on the line. He could pick up the other phone to eavesdrop. Thinking quickly, he remembered the payphone out in the hallway.

Leaving the office, he grabbed the receiver off the payphone, dropped a quarter in, and dialed the local task force working the case. Crawford was with them, in their office, at the police station. Keeping his eyes on the closed office door, he spoke into the phone once it was answered, "This is Will Graham. Get me Jack Crawford."

The seconds ticked by as he waited; the ticking echoed in his head like the metronome that Lecter always used during his therapy sessions.

Tick…

His breathing started to quicken.

…Tick…

Reaching up, he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

…Tick…

The fingers of his right hand started tapping the top of the payphone as he glanced at his watch on his left wrist.

Tick…"Come on, Jack—"

"Crawford."

"Jack, it's Graham. It's Dr. Lecter—"

"It's loud in here. Say that again, Will."

"Lecter's the Chesapeake Rip—"

The phone dropped from his hand as a sharp pain ignited in his gut as an arm wrapped around him from behind. His left hand grabbed onto the hand that held the knife. His right hand reached for the gun on his hip that he couldn't reach due to the arm blocking it. He felt the pain, the warmth of the blood on his hand, as the knife started slicing, curving up and around to his left rib.

He felt his blood pouring out down his body, his heart beating in his ears along with the pain.

Lecter spoke into his ear, "There's only one God here, dear Will, and it's not yours. For this is MY will."

He was bent backwards, lifted up off his feet, then dropped to the floor as the knife was yanked out. With his breathing coming in gasps, heartbeat hammering in his ears, he looked up and saw the man standing over him.

It was no longer a man, but a horned monster. That pitiful thing…

Feeling his body growing numb, he closed his eyes and floated into nothingness.

"There was another door," he said as he blinked back the memory. "Patient's exit. He'd taken his shoes off, snuck up behind me." Sara had tears in her eyes. "Hey," he said as he reached up and used his thumb to wipe a fallen tear away.

Her hand on his face as she leaned down and kissed him again. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled them over and ended the kiss. Leaning over her, he kissed her chest. Her fingers ran through his hair as his hand rubbed over her body.

"Where'd the name Gilbert Grissom come from?"

"My family," he said as he kissed her neck. Letting out a breath, he lifted his head as he told her, "It's my name. I was born William Gilbert Arthur Graham." On seeing her amused smirk, he said, "I know. My parents wanted to honor both their fathers. So, William for my mother's father, and Gilbert for my father's father, and Arthur for my father."

"And Grissom?"

"My mother's maiden name. After my dad died, my mother moved us to Louisiana for a few years. My uncles in Lake Charles taught me all about boats and repairing motors when I was a kid. My father taught me botany. I learned art from my mother." He stretched out, lying nearly on top of her. "I don't know where the hell everything else came from."

"Everything else came from this," she said as she touched his head and ran her fingers through his hair. "Uniquely you."

He huffed out a laugh as he peered up at her. "I gave up my career after Lecter. Before that case, I was an entomologist who worked in the FBI's crime lab. Taught at the Academy. I was so young. Thought I was invisible. Found out I wasn't. I gave up my life, moved to Florida. Going into Witness Protection was when I regained my life back. This is what my life should have been if I hadn't let Jack Crawford talk me into profiling serial killers."

"How did you end up working for the Feds?"

Thinking back, he told her, "I was working as a CSI in Minnesota with my mentor, Philip Gerard. We had a serial case on our hands. Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The FBI were called in to help." She cupped his face and he leaned into it and kissed her palm.

He had to tell her. She wasn't naive enough to think that he didn't have a life before they met.

"I was married." That surprised her but her hand didn't leave his face. "She had a son. We divorced a year after the Dolarhyde case." Her eyes didn't change. Her thumb was rubbing over his bearded jaw. "You should think about taking a trip—"

"I'm not leaving—"

The fear grew the angrier he got, but he knew he couldn't force her to leave. "Sara—"

"Gil," she shot right back. "There's no way I'm leaving you."

"It's for your protection."

"Who's going to protect you?"

As those words hit him, he kissed her. He kissed her for the hell of it. Kissed her for staying. For wanting to protect him. Kissed her for still loving him despite all the reasons why she shouldn't.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked as he rested his forehead on hers.

"Right now, you're going to make love to me."

Smiling, he teased "Am I?"

"You are," she said as she grabbed him behind the head and pulled him down to meet her lips.

They made love, soft and slow, until they were both satisfied. They had no time to sleep before the meeting. Sara kissed him goodbye before leaving to go home to take care of a few things. He never enjoyed watching her leave. This time it only made him nervous.

The nervousness increased when there was another knock on his door a little before eleven o'clock. Once again, he grabbed his gun and opened his front door. He saw a man standing with his back to him. From the back, the man looked solid and confident, shoulders back, head straight, almost like a soldier. His hair was a lighter shade of brown.

The man turned and he saw a pair of blue eyes that caused him to gasp. He'd gotten taller, they were the same height. He was 30 now, but his eyes were the same. The eyes always stayed the same.

His brain immediately realized that Kevin's last name was Collins. Molly's maiden name. Foster had been his father's last name. FBI Agent Collins was Kevin, his stepson. He looked like his mother: stern lips, narrow nose, and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. There were shades of his father in the man he became. The brown hair and hardened jaw.

"I apologize for being early." Kevin glanced down then looked back at him. "It's good to see that you're well-armed."

He went to say something but stopped. He quickly put down his gun and moved aside so Kevin could come in.

Kevin handed him the casefile that had been in his hand. "We've got three murders that we know of that were done by Lecter. This last one here, Joy and Daniel Hayashi, are numbers four and five. I hear that your lab is the second best in the country after us. They have my confidence and the Bureau's to do a good job."

He was surprised that Kevin started right in on the case, but he appreciated it. He gave a nod and realized he hadn't spoken a word.

"If this is going to bother you—"

"It's not," he said before saying, "It's good to see you."

And he meant it. It wasn't until that moment that he realized how much he missed him. It was like a train hit him in the chest followed by a sense of pride, and love.

Kevin nodded. The small smile that crossed his lips made him finally relax, but only a little. "You too. I, uh, I could use a cup of coffee."

As he made the coffee, Kevin walked around the townhouse as he took everything in. The butterfly casings on the walls, photographs, and the artwork. The plain white walls and open space. No photos of family, not even friends. It didn't take long before he poured two cups, one for himself and one for Kevin. He took a few cautious sips before placing it down and stared into it. He was used to silence; he could let it drag on forever.

"Was it a ploy or what?"

He flinched back as he jerked his head to look at Kevin. He sighed and tried to word his thoughts right so as not to mess them up. "What I did was to protect not only my life but the lives of everyone I ever cared about. That included you."

"That's why you faked your own death—"

"Technically, the FBI did that, I just…didn't protest."

Kevin seemed to think about that as his eyes darted around, much like they did when he was a kid when he was trying to figure out what to say. "Witness Protection. You ran away—"

"Kevin—"

"It's Agent Collins. We're not friends. You don't know me."

That sentence felt like a knife to the heart. Yeah, he didn't know Kevin, but he did know the FBI and Lecter. "You can't go after him. Turn it over to somebody else."

Kevin placed the cup down. The stare made Gil second guess any thought he had about telling him anything else. "I can't go after him? You don't give me orders, Will. You don't have the right."

He blinked back in sudden fear from that stare. Fear had always been his driving force. He held so much fear. However, he wasn't the man he was because he backed down when faced with fear, it was the exact opposite. He didn't know when to back down.

"You're right, I don't know you and I lost my right to order you around a long time ago. What I do know is the man you're going after. And Hannibal Lecter is the reason why I'm here in Vegas, and the reason why I didn't protest when the FBI decided to insinuate that I had died. If I hadn't left when I did, I could have very well been killed. There isn't a single day that goes by where I've regretted that decision. Seeing you here, alive and breathing, that should have been my reward for that sacrifice. Instead, it's my worst nightmare because you're telling me that you're putting yourself in Lecter's line of sight. And what scares me the most is that I don't know whether or not you'll live long enough to regret that decision."

Kevin worked his jaw in anger as he looked away in deep concentration, lost in thought, before asking, "Is it true that Lecter gave Dolarhyde our home address in Florida so he could kill us?"

"Yes. Hannibal wanted you dead when you were just a kid. He's not going to hesitate to do it now. Kevin, son, please, don't do this."

"So now I'm your son?" Kevin shook his head. His face was red, lips stern, just like his mother when she would get angry. "Whether you like it or not, I'm the lead field agent on this case. I'm supposed to drive you to the meeting as a precaution. I'll tell them you refused…Dad."

He knew Kevin said that out of spite, and it hurt.

Kevin left, shutting the door behind him.

His head hurt as he felt everything that was his life starting to come undone. There was nothing he could grab onto or no safety net under him as he felt as if he was in a free fall. Everything was out of control.

Spoiled secrets. It didn't take long.

TBC…

PS: The actor in my head for Kevin is Sam Worthington. That's who my brain decided on and it works for me.