A/N: Thanks again everyone. I never know if what I'm writing is coming across how I want it to. I mean, in my head I think it does, but I'm biased. So, I'm glad for the feedback letting me know that I hit the mark. Thanks and as always, any and all comments are welcomed.

I want to get chapters 14 and 15 up before I go on vacation for a week. Hopefully that works out. I'm working on 15 now, but I don't know if it'll be done in time. If not, here's at least the next chapter.

Chapter 14:

It started off like any other day. A jog with his dog. Through the trees and back roads of Virginia, he and Jack got in a solid ten miles before he showered, ate breakfast and then left for work. Arriving at Quantico half an hour before he had to be there, per usual, he poured himself a cup of coffee and handed it off to his old buddy from the academy, Derek Morgan, and then headed to his office.

There were reports, memos, and all kinds of new BOLO's and additions to the FBI's most wanted. His job was to—The top report was from Las Vegas. The FBI's field office had a possible confirmation that Hannibal Lecter was in town. Grabbing the report, he sat the cup down on the desk, splashed some coffee onto his hand, and then left the office. He had to talk to his Unit Chief, Special Agent Rick Culpepper.

He spotted his supervisor in his office on the phone but the door was open. If the door was open then it was okay to go in. Giving a tap on the doorframe, Culpepper glanced up from the file in front of him and waved him inside.

"We're sending someone out with Director Pearsall. Expect their arrival in five hours," Culpepper said before hanging up the phone. "What can I do for you—"

"I want the Lecter case."

Culpepper leaned back in the chair as he said, "I already assigned it to Agent Lyhan."

"I understand that, but I've been studying Lecter since—"

"We've all been studying Lecter—"

"Not as long as I have. I also have a unique perspective on this case and the profiler who caught him. Will Graham."

Culpepper huffed out a laugh as he said, "How can you possibly—"

"Will's my dad."

Culpepper's chuckle abruptly stopped as he stared up at him in shock. "He's your father?"

"Check the records. He was married to Molly Foster, maiden name Collins. She was my mother. I was three years old when they married. He raised me. Will—He knows Lecter's mind, and I know his. He's in Las Vegas, isn't he?"

"How'd—" Culpepper stopped himself as he let out a breath. "He was on the international news a while back. You saw him."

"Look, I know you were out there before, you met him. So, you know how he gets first hand. He'll need someone to reel him in. I'm the guy for the job, okay. He trusts me already because I'm his son. You send him Lyhan, it'll end up like last time, only worse—"

"Lyhan's not only a field agent but profiler—"

"He's a lousy field agent and you know it. Great at profiling, but…he never knows the right questions to ask. Besides, Will's going to be all the profiler we'll need."

"He goes by Gil now. Gil Grissom."

"Right," he said with a nod.

Culpepper finally gave a nod as he said "All right, Collins, you want the Lecter case, you got it. And since you're stealing it away from Lyhan, you can tell him yourself that he's off the case. And when it all goes sideways—"

"It won't."

Culpepper had a smug smile on his face as he said, "Duly noted, Agent Collins. I hope they're right about you."

He narrowed his eyes as he shook his head. "Meaning?"

"I assigned you to my team because they said that you're a 'fisher of men'. Not in the biblical sense. You know how to catch 'em. You bait and hook, and reel them in. You're patient, smart, and, as you put it, know the right questions to ask. Don't prove them wrong."

He wondered who the "they" were, but figured it had to be other agents. Before he left the office, he asked, "Did you know who Grissom was?"

Culpepper smirked. "Of course I did. I even teased him about his bugs. He did write the literature on how the FBI's crime lab determined time of death by bug activity. I sat in on his class at Quantico when I went through training; that was before Lecter. Graham was my age, already a professor. Smart guy. Careful with your daddy. He may be smart, but he's also reckless and stubborn as hell. He went to talk to a serial killer without informing anyone or requesting backup. The only reason he's still alive now is pure dumb luck."

He remembered his dad well. Hopefully, that stubbornness would be exactly what they needed to catch Hannibal Lecter and put him away for good.

A jolt to the back jerked him awake. He blinked into darkness and coughed against the smothering heat. The floor under him tilted, sending him slamming his shoulder into the side wall. A groan rumbled out of his dry mouth. It felt like they were hitting turbulence but he knew he wasn't in a plane. The terrain had shifted from smooth to rocky, which had sent him rolling from where he'd been lying unconscious on his side in the vehicle.

He tried to shake the fogginess out of his head, but it didn't work. He was groggy, dehydrated, and it wasn't solely from the heat. Drugged. He had to have been drugged. There wasn't much he remembered, but what he did know was that this was by his own choosing. He remembered opening the front door and then—

Then what? There was more to it than that. He knew because he had a sheet of folded up paper in his pocket that hadn't been there before.

What was it? A woman at the door. Starling. It had to be. She said something…Needed to use the phone? That's right. She was locked out. Or, so she said.

He remembered now. He put himself here. He had choices. This was his choice.

"Can I help you?" he asked the woman on the front steps to Gil's townhouse.

"I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Gil's neighbor, live right next door, and I locked myself out. I was wondering if I could use your phone—"

"Sure," he said as he opened the door wider to let her inside as he moved away from the door and further into the living room.

He heard the accent immediately though she tried to hide it. West Virginia. A John Denver song popped into his head as he smiled slightly at the woman that he knew to be Clarice Starling. It wouldn't be Lecter. Lecter would be more interested in his dad.

She was there because he was the target all along.

"Gil doesn't have a home phone, switched over to cell. Let me go grab mine," he pointed over his shoulder to the kitchen. "Be right back. Don't mind the dog, he can stay outside."

He went through the kitchen and down the steps to the guest room, grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand, ignoring his gun on the table by the door and then went into the office. Opening the package of printing paper, he pulled out a sheet and stuck it into the tray and then ran it through the printer as a test page. Taking it with him, he folded it up and stuck it into his pocket.

Going back up the steps, he kept his eyes on the cell, ignoring her presence behind him, as he walked through the kitchen and said, "It's down to one battery, forgot to put it on the charger, but it should be—"

He felt a sting in the back of his neck, felt his legs grow heavy as his vision blurred. That was quick, he thought right before everything went dark.

His wrists were bound in front of him and his legs felt weak. Scanning his eyes around the back of the vehicle, he didn't see much. It was dark. That meant no windows. Box truck? He heard metal clanging against metal. He'd heard a sound like that before while scuba diving. Oxygen tanks hitting each other on the deck of the boat. Were there oxygen tanks in the back of the truck? Oxygen tanks because he would need air?

The floor tilted again as the vehicle accelerated uphill. He rolled away from the wall, tumbling forward over his body until he hit something solid. A muffled scream of pain escaped his throat as his head hit the floor. His vision grayed and he fought back against the darkness that threatened to engulf his head. It was a struggle to stay focused as the road wound left and then right, up and then down. Las Vegas was flat. This wasn't flat. Mountains? Where was he?

Coughing painfully out of his dry throat, he rolled onto his back, and then his right side as his fingers ran over the thing he hit. It wasn't the back of the truck. It wasn't metal at all, but smooth. Long, wide, and smooth. It was curved at the top. After he thoroughly inspected it like a blind man, his only conclusion was that it was a coffin.

Coffin. Oxygen tanks. Air to breathe.

Burying him alive?

That made no sense, though. Unless it was a ploy. Send the CSI's one way, only for him to be taken elsewhere.

Or…

Closing his eyes, he laid on the floor of the vehicle as he thought about the probability of being buried alive. While he thought about it, preparing himself for that possibly, he also listened. There was nothing but the hum to the engine, the roar road under him, and the radio. He heard music. What radio station? Local channel?

Where am I? Tell me. Straining to hear better, he tried to move his body closer to the music as he rolled onto his stomach and then army crawled along the metal floor towards the sound. The vehicle stopped and the momentum took him forward, but he was able to stop himself before hitting his head again.

They stopped. He only had a few seconds. Reaching into the pocket of his joggers, he pulled out the folded up blank sheet of printer paper and tossed it into the corner. The darkness lifted as bright light blinded him when the door opened, causing him to clench his eyes shut in pain. There was no voice speaking to him, only the sting he felt in his neck.

He was losing consciousness fast. A laugh nearly escaped around the gag as he felt his body slump against the metal floor. Agent Kevin Collins, fisher of men. He just hoped that this time the fish didn't swallow him whole.

That was his last thought before the darkness did just that; swallowed him up.

Once again Gil was standing in the middle of his home office with his eyes taking in everything with a much clearer perspective. The chaos in his head settled, all the noises gone, and the world around him was no longer distant and out of focus. No longer falling, he was completely present in the moment and able to fully process the scene. Behind him, pressing her back against his, was Sara.

She was also taking in the scene with much sharper eyes and clearer head. Her emotions no longer tangled up with his, distracting her thoughts and worrying her. She said that she could feel him, much like he felt her. Her empathy matched his own at times, and he had to remember that. What he felt, she also felt, and right then he had to be calm and under control.

"Okay, let's run through this," he said as he saw in his mind the events as if they were happening right in front of him. Walking past the door, out in the hallway, he saw Kevin, post-shower, towel around his waist. "Kevin showers, given the wet towel on the floor. Changes clothes—"

"Suit hanging in the closet," Sara said, finishing his thought. "Nick found dirty dishes in the sink. A pot, skillet, a bowl and plate—He had time to cook and eat before coming down to get some sleep, but he couldn't sleep."

"He just learned that Clarice Starling is his cousin."

"Jack was outside," Sara said. "He let the dog out."

Giving a nod, he said, "So, he had to go back upstairs…" In his mind, he saw Kevin walking back down the hallway. Having changed clothes, he was in a t-shirt and joggers. The same outfit he remembered Kevin wearing in Virginia. "Jogging pants, t-shirt, no socks…and his flip flops weren't by the front door."

"Pretty accurate description to give to the police of what he was last wearing."

"There was a knock at the door—"

"Jack started barking—"

Gil frowned as he looked around the office. "There was no struggle anywhere upstairs or down here."

"Lecter got him at the front door?"

"Not Lecter," he corrected. "Starling. Lecter was too busy distracting me at the hospital while Starling came here to get Kevin. What's missing?"

Sara was quiet and so was he as they both went over the rooms again in their heads. He saw the guest room perfectly as if he were standing inside of it. Gun on the table by the door, bed, nightstand, luggage opened on the floor, suit hanging in the closet, phone charger cord plugged into the wall—

"Cell phone," they both said in unison.

Then Sara said, "It was taken. Why? She wouldn't want us to be able to track it—"

"Not yet anyway. It might end up being used as a decoy later. Send us in one direction while they go off in another."

"What was Kevin doing in the office to begin with?" she asked. "He didn't come in here to look through old photographs."

"Research?" he said as he stepped away and touched the desk chair while looking at the desk, the computer and printer. The printer was on, but the paper tray door was open. "Tray's empty." He saw the open package of printer paper on the floor beside the box. "He went into the closet to get the printer paper and found the box."

Sitting down in the chair, he once again took in the photograph of them on the beach in Florida. Picking up the photo album, he flipped it back to the front and smiled at the first picture in the album. Kevin had just turned three years old, and he'd taken him and his mother to the opening of the National Air and Space Museum on the National Mall on July 4th. In the picture, Kevin was up on his shoulders, trying to be as tall as the space shuttle they were standing in front of.

"Cute kid."

He closed the album and put it aside on the desk. "I didn't see any photos of us, me or his mother, in his house. I never thought that maybe it was because he didn't have any. His grandfather had to have had pictures of his mother, but…they weren't the ones he wanted."

"Why not?"

He didn't have to consider it before he answered, "I wouldn't have been in any of them. His grandfather didn't like me very much. Thought I was bad news. He wasn't wrong."

"This isn't your fault, Gil."

"Not completely, no…but I knew that going after serial killers could put me at risk. I brought that risk home with me, and now Lecter has Kevin."

Sara didn't say anything after that about it. If he wanted to take on that burden, the blame, then it was his choice. It sparked a fire inside that he needed. He could not fail his son. It wasn't an option.

Inside the box were more photos and documents he hadn't seen since he boxed it all up and threw it into the back of his pickup truck. He remembered that day well. Winston in the passenger seat, the beard he'd had for a few years shaved off, hot and humid as he set off for Quantico.

Between some old letters and Father's Day cards, he spotted an unopened expensive mauve stationery envelope. The handwriting was familiar. He'd forgotten all about it. It was from Lecter. He'd sent it to his home in Florida.

He was scrubbing his hands clean, using some Gojo hand cleaner to remove the oil and grease, when Kevin walked into the garage with an envelope in his hand.

"What's that?"

"Letter for you."

After he dried his hands, he reached for the envelope and stopped himself. He didn't even have to see the handwriting to know who it was from. He'd seen that stationery several times over the years, but always through the FBI's correspondence address. Lecter had obtained his home address, of course he'd send one there. Then he realized that Kevin was holding it and snatched it out of his hand.

Kevin, startled, asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing, just a letter."

"Dad, are—"

He walked around Kevin and headed out of the garage. They had a fire going on the beach and he was half tempted to burn it. Then he stopped as he spotted the Dragon watching him from a distance. A gnawing started in his gut where scar tissue reminded him daily of his biggest mistake. He'd never leave himself vulnerable by underestimating Hannibal Lecter ever again.

Looking down at the letter, he figured he could keep it. Maybe one day, he might read it. Today wasn't that day.

Molly asked him about it but he didn't know how to tell her that a serial killer sent him a letter to their house. He didn't want her to worry. She was already afraid enough for the both of them.

Picking up the mauve envelope, he felt Sara behind him as he flipped it over, removed his pocketknife, and slit open the top edge.

"Who's it from?"

"Lecter," he said and felt her tense.

"Should you be handling it without gloves?"

"It's a letter from nearly twenty years ago."

"Still."

He pulled out the letter, sat the envelope down, and then leaned back in the chair as he opened it up to read.

Dear Will,

Here we are, you and I, languishing in our prisons. Mine by your doing, and yours by your own. You have your pain and I am without my books, the learned Dr. Chilton has seen to that.

We live in a primitive time, don't we, Will? Neither savage nor wise. Half measures are the curse of it. Any rational society would either kill me or give me my books.

Why do they keep us alive, do you think? Some tainted pleasure in catching a monster, locking it up, and watching in awe at its wonder. How can someone like him exist?—they ask. Study and poke it under the guise of scientific research.

You don't need them, Will. They'll do the same to you, if they haven't already, just with less sneering and conniving. They'll call it…therapy.

I wish you a speedy convalescence and hope only my bite mark remains to remind you why you don't go around poking monsters. We bite back. Don't we, Will? Dolarhyde found out for himself, right before he died, that you bite back harder. What a cunning boy you are, Will. Until we meet again, I will be right here where you can always find me.

I think of you often.

Hannibal Lecter

"What does he mean by bite mark? You were injured?"

He winced at the memory of Dolarhyde's knife slicing across his face. "Yeah. It healed."

Sara picked up the envelope and read it, saying, "This wasn't sent to the FBI, but a Florida address—Your home?"

"Lecter obtained it from a secretary."

Sara walked around him, thinking, as she tapped the envelope against her palm. "The mobile proxy server was found behind the desk, along with your other computer equipment. How and when it was planted—"

"Before we even knew Lecter was in Las Vegas. He'd been in my house. It was how I knew the numbers on Crawford's body were referencing King Lear."

"He knew what you were reading. That's why you said you wanted a dog."

He mapped the route up from Argentina to Nevada and then out east to South Carolina. "They flew here first. Met with the Hayashi's, built a rapport…Got into my house. Left. Went to South Carolina to kill Crawford, then came back out here to kill the Hayashi's. When I got back from South Carolina, I never checked the house. Everything happened so fast—"

"The biomedical box delivery, Flamingo hotel, and then the hospital—You didn't have the time to come back here and check to see if anything was planted or missing. I could've checked, or Kevin, if you would've told us."

He sighed as he felt the guilt hit him in the chest. She hadn't meant for it to sound like blame, but he couldn't help but feel the blame regardless. Kevin was missing, and he'd known that Lecter had been in his house and hadn't said anything.

"That sounded like blame. I didn't mean—"

"I know," he cut her off before she could apologize. Now wasn't the time for this, but she was right. He should have said something.

The letter in his hand was another indication of how he kept things from those he loved. Would it have been better had he told Molly that Lecter had written to him? Probably not. It would have made it worse. She would have moved long before he drove her to it.

"Lecter was here, and he likes to leave you notes…Maybe he left something."

As Sara spoke those words, in his mind he saw Lecter walking through his house, into his bedroom, and finding the book of Shakespeare on the nightstand.

Lecter's hand reached down and licked up the book. His fingers thumbed over the pages until he got to King Lear Act 3, scene 2…

He got up, grabbed the camera, and left the office with Sara right behind him. "Bring your kit."

Going up the steps, he entered the kitchen and headed across the living room towards the stairs. Crossing his bedroom floor, he saw the Shakespeare book on the nightstand. Raising the camera, he took a picture.

"Gloves—" Sara was already handing him a pair out of her pocket. Once he slipped the gloves on, he flipped the book open and saw the same mauve stationery envelope. "Son-of-a-bitch," he muttered under his breath.

He sat it down on the nightstand and took another picture of the envelope in the book before handing the camera off to Sara as she handed him the UV light and glasses. Once he checked over the envelope and found nothing, he once again took out his pocketknife and slit the top off the envelope. Then he pulled out the letter, checked inside the envelope, and then returned it to the nightstand, leaving the letter in his hand.

Sara pulled out her fingerprinting kit to dust the book and envelope for prints as he sat on the bed and read the letter.

Dear Will,

A brief note of congratulations for finding this note, though too late to have saved poor Crawford. I used to admire you enormously. Rooted for you. What a cunning boy you once were. Once what was so clever and deadly has now been neutered. That insipid wench, though her loins so sweet, tamed you.

He lowered the letter and saw Sara's eyes on him. She was eagerly awaiting to process the letter.

"What is it?"

"He's, uh…" He shook his head as he took a breath. She was going to read it at some point. "Referencing you, or at least, his thoughts of you."

She sat beside him and took an edge of the letter between her fingers and started reading. "What's insipid?"

"Means lacking flavor, or vigor. Tasteless."

Her eyes shot up as she said, "I've been called worse. I thought he used the c-word."

"The c—" He stopped himself as the word formed in his head. "Oh."

Refocusing on the letter, they read the rest together.

We have all found a new life, but our old lives hover in the shadows. Crawford often offended me with his ignorant closed-mindedness, but he did enlighten me on one thing—his lack of devotion to you. Some friend he was, am I right?

Did he ever visit you, Will, once you became damaged goods? Or reach out after you changed your name? Not even a hello from someone who claimed they were a friend.

You were only useful to him when it was most convenient for him. You were nothing more or less than the mongoose under the house when the snake slithered by.

You know, Will, you worry too much. You'd be so much more comfortable if you were relaxed with yourself. We don't invent our natures; they're issued to us along with our lungs and pancreas and everything else. Why fight it? Why fight the inevitable? We are what we are.

I want to help you, Will, always have and always will. I'd like to start by asking you this: Why do you delight yourself in wickedness only to berate yourself for the delight?

What lies within your shadow, Will? Think about it, and remember that it's dark on the other side, and madness is waiting.

Don't worry, I'm always rooting for you, Will. I hope I didn't come all this way for you not to kill anyone.

Always and truly,

Hannibal Lecter, M.D.

Sara had been so silent next to him that when she spoke it made him flinch. "They almost read like love letters."

He eyed her as he thought about that. He sure as hell was not going to entertain those thoughts.

Sara was smirking. "Is there a reason why?" As he continued to look at her in confusion, she said, "Did you ever…reciprocate?"

Then it hit him as he nearly gaped and said, "Sara—"

"What?" She was blushing and almost laughing. "I thought maybe—"

"Stop thinking."

She did start laughing then, almost making him smile at the ridiculousness of her questioning. "I'm sorry, this is how I process. It's either get really angry, or laugh. I'm choosing to see the humor in it." Leaning into him, she gave him a kiss to settle the laughter.

As he kissed her back, he remembered something he'd told a survivor of a serial killer long ago. You didn't draw a freak. You drew a man, with a freak on his back. There is nothing wrong with you.

She must have felt his distance as she pulled back and asked, "What is it?"

"Something I remembered. Someone once said that when making friends we try to avoid those who foster dependence and feed on it. Lecter is that friend you don't ever want to find."

"You think he's your friend?"

"No. I think you're right; they do read like love letters…from someone insane enough to think we were ever friends. Print it," he told her as he handed her the letter while standing up to leave.

He had a lot more thinking to do.

"Gil?"

Stopping at the door, he turned back around to face her. Like he'd told Lecter about being scared of Clarice because she was so much like him, he was terrified of Sara for the same reason. She could destroy him in both the best and the worst ways possible.

Sara hesitated, unsure that she wanted to venture down the road she was about to embark on. There was no turning back. "He said that you delight yourself in wickedness—"

"I don't. I tolerate it. With this job, don't we all?"

She went on, asking him, "You catch these killers by getting into their heads, do they ever get into yours? I know you changed your eating habit, but that's because you were in his head, right? I'm just asking because you talked to him on the phone, and—"

He almost didn't answer. He wanted to give her peace of mind, because unlike himself, he never knew what that felt like. But she had told him that she wanted to help him carry his burdens. She wanted to know. And he would never lie to her. Walking back over to the bed, he sat down and took her hand into his. "Sara, I uh…I have such…strong intuition that sometimes I get lost. Do I let the killer in? Not always, but it has happened…and in those moments—I get confused."

"Are you confused now?"

He squeezed her hand and shook his head. "No. I know who I am, and I am who I have always been."

"Then answer me honestly. If you were to catch him, Lecter, would you kill him?"

He felt his chest tighten at her question and wondered why she was asking. Then he realized it didn't matter why. What mattered was his answer. "I don't want to kill him. I never did, though, I have thought about it."

"If not his life, then what?"

"His freedom. I've always wanted to take away his freedom."

"He escaped prison once before."

He smirked, saying, "His freedom to be."

She wrinkled her head in confusion, working it out. "His freedom to be? How can you do that, if not death or prison?"

"Let me think about that one," he told her before he got up and started to walk away. He stopped as he felt a feeling stirring that he hadn't felt in a long time.

His freedom to be. Those hadn't been Gil's words. That was spoken by Will. And Will was so much closer to the edge than he wanted him to be.

TBC…