A/N: Thank you so much for your patience. I just want to say that I deeply apologize for the long delay in updating but I didn't want to post until I got all the rest of the chapters completed. Anyway, thanks again for reading! And if you haven't already, please leave a review; I'd greatly appreciate it.

Chapter 22:

The streets that made up the business center of Billings, Montana were busy that afternoon. Car horns sounded every other second as brake lights flashed on and off along the line of cars lined up outside the clerk's office. Everyone was in a hurry to go somewhere and nowhere all at once. What was the use of life to go ten feet, enter an intersection, only to be hit by a car speeding through a red light? And that had been what her life had consisted of for years. She was always speeding toward the red lights. Speeding towards death. Seeing herself in that pine wood box in place of her dead father with no one around to miss her like she'd missed her father. Alone in the world. Alone in her life and in her death.

"You ever think about him at all?" Barney had asked her once. Her response: "Well, at least thirty seconds of every day. I can't help it. He's always with me, like a bad habit." And that was what her life had become, a bad habit that she couldn't quit.

She not only thought of him, but he had thought of her. The only one alive that'd miss her if she were gone was him. The world was more interesting with her in it, he'd said. She belonged there, in that world, where they both existed. It'd troubled her for a long time as to why. Why didn't Hannibal Lecter want to kill her? Why keep her alive? Deep down she'd suspected but it wasn't until that night at Paul Krendler's lake house that she let it take over. It'd been so hard to accept but at the same time the easiest thing to embrace. She had no other choice. He'd been there, in her head, for a decade.

He had never left. It was as easy as reaching out a hand to another and taking hold. No fear of where they were going. Just gone. She'd fallen in that deep dark place that he'd carved out inside of her with every encounter they'd ever had. Piece-by-piece an expert butcher had split open her mind and laid her to waste.

Crawford had warned her upon their first meeting. "Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head."

It had taken her reading up on the original case, going over the newspaper reports on the trial, when she approached Crawford in his office. She had questions about the Special Investigator who'd caught Lecter.

Crawford stood at his filing cabinet, searching the files, as he told her, "You've come to ask me about Will Graham?"

"He is the reason you warned me about letting Lecter get inside my head. I want to know what happened to him. His name's in the casefiles but that's it. There is no mention of him in any of the newspaper reports, but he was the one who caught Lecter, and he'd been there, at the trial."

Crawford pulled out a file and finally turned to face her. Having looked over the newspaper reports, she noticed that he was much thinner than he had been five years ago. He also didn't wear glasses back then. Sitting behind his desk, he took a sip from the coffee cup in his hand before setting it down beside the file. "It had been there, so was his picture. We exchanged his name and photo for mine."

"Why?"

Crawford didn't answer that as he took another sip of the coffee.

"Graham ended up in a psych ward after Lecter. Did he go crazy? Did Lecter make him hurt anyone—"

"God no," Crawford interrupted before letting out a deep breath. This was a subject he wasn't comfortable talking about, but he went ahead and said, "But that's not saying that Lecter didn't try to make Graham a killer."

Her eyes once again took in the photographs of the crime scenes, the images of Buffalo Bill's victims, as she asked, "You want Lecter's help in finding him, don't you? Wouldn't it be helpful for me to know how it'd been done before. Graham caught three serial killers…How?"

"He has something that we can never understand."

"Which is?"

"Pure empathy. Along with the most complex and imaginative mind I've ever come across. He's able to take the point of view of anyone. Me, you, and even Hannibal Lecter. He can get inside our heads just as well as Lecter can. Only Graham doesn't want to manipulate our minds once he gets inside, but Lecter does. Lecter wants to twist and turn you around until he has you right where he wants you. In his control."

"Was that why Graham went crazy? Lecter took control?"

"No," Crawford said as he leaned back in his chair as he stared across the room as if remembering something so far in the past that he had to really work at remembering it. "The only problem with Graham was…he could get lost in his own complex mind. His dreams started to blend into reality. He couldn't separate himself from Lecter. They had…become one, in a sense. It's scary to think that someone could completely change right in front of you. One second, they're the guy you've known for years, the next, a complete stranger. He had to get himself right. Therapy helped. So did retiring at twenty-three years old and moving to Florida."

"And now?"

"Now?"

"I mean, where is he? Why isn't he here helping—"

"He's a ghost, Starling. Graham no longer exists."

After she'd left Crawford's office, she'd contemplated that last bit of information. She realized what she would have to do to find the man who'd been killing all those women. It wasn't just about thinking like the serial killer, but feeling what he felt.

"What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?" Lecter's voice filled her head.

She would have to get inside and empathize to understand why. It wasn't just how the killer killed, but why he started in the first place. She'd learned the truth about Graham long after that talk in Crawford's office. The reason for the change in the newspaper articles, the revisions in books, and the mysterious man whose life ended the moment Lecter escaped federal custody. He'd gone into hiding and became someone else. Graham had become a ghost.

Lecter's words were back in her mind, taunting her with her deepest desires. "We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?"

But it was no longer about what she wanted. It was what had to be done, regardless of her own wants. Stepping out of the doors to the clerk's office were three people. Two of Graham's CSIs, and a Las Vegas FBI agent who was slipping on a pair of sunglasses. Only one of them would help her to service her and her purpose. As the CSI's walked off down the street towards a vehicle, she pulled out her old FBI ID and badge that she'd taken with her when she'd disappeared and approached the agent.

Flipping the ID wallet open for a brief moment before closing it, she told him, "Agent Reynolds, Billings office. I've been assigned to you."

"Agent Greenfeld," the agent said as he shook her hand. "I thought Agent Grant—"

"Agent Grant's awaiting my report at the office. Do you have anything to report, Agent?" she asked as they started for Greenfeld's SUV.

"In fact, I do. We recovered property records and we're heading out to the Collins ranch, take a look around. Want to join me? I'll notify command once—"

"I know who to call to get things done," she told him. "Why don't I handle all the Billings communications? You can drive."

Greenfeld opened the driver's door as he smiled at her and said, "You got it."

As she slid into the passenger seat, her own words from years ago echoed in her head. Words that trembled out of her mouth as she told Lecter her deepest pain. "First I tried to free them. I... I opened the gate to their pen, but they wouldn't run. They just stood there, confused. They wouldn't run."

Right then she knew why the lambs didn't run. They didn't know any better. They had no idea they were about to be slaughtered.

He was laughing. The sound of it brought tears to his eyes as he doubled over and felt his breath leave him before he sucked air back into his lungs, paused, then erupted again in laughter.

Wet beach sand flew up in the air as his bare feet ripped over top of it as he kept running. Waves broke around his toes and he kept going, laughing with every splash that hit him on the way down.

He didn't look behind him to see how close he was or if he was gaining on him. He'd thought he was faster, home free, until he felt the hit against his back before being dragged sideways as they both fell into the crashing waves.

Breaking through the water, he clambered up on his wobbly legs as the ocean water kept crashing all around him, making it hard to run, but he was still laughing. Even when bigger, stronger arms wrapped him up and tossed him back down into the water. He felt himself sink, letting himself just float a moment in the clear blue water, before those same hands that had grabbed him up to toss him in grabbed him up to pull him back out.

He was lifted up and his arms immediately wrapped around his dad's neck, his legs around his waist and felt his dad's arms wrap around his body. His dad stumbled slightly as the waves knocked into them before he felt the ripple of a laugh in his chest.

Smiling, he started laughing again, saying, "I got you good that time, didn't I?"

He'd been trying to figure out a way to get back at his dad for a week. And it took him that long to think up the perfect way to do it. Last night, while his dad was passed out drunk in the hammock, he'd pulled off about 5 feet of line off his dad's fishing reel and cut it. Then he reeled in the loose line back onto his reel. That morning, he watched as his dad put his favorite lure on the end of the line and gave a mighty cast. The 5 feet of line came off the reel and the lure kept going until it plopped into the ocean. Goodbye fishing lure.

He started laughing until his dad's eyes landed on his and they were anything but amused. His dad was so angry that he took off running towards him. The moment he turned to run, it hit him again how funny it was. He couldn't help but keep laughing.

Maybe if he kept laughing long enough then eventually his dad would start laughing too. His dad hadn't laughed in months.

"I'm not sorry I did it."

"Why did you do it?" his dad asked him without any anger in his voice.

"I was angry."

"About?"

"Last week…You forgot."

He tried to keep the tears out of his eyes. He wasn't a baby, he shouldn't be crying, nor hugging his dad and holding on for dear life while he did it, but he did both because he was desperate. He could feel his dad slipping away and he didn't want him to go.

His dad didn't say anything for a long moment, and he wasn't going to tell him because he wanted to see if he even knew—

"The Championship game. Oh, Kevin…I'm so sorry—"

He unwrapped his arms from around his dad's neck to push against his shoulders. He was way too big, too tall, for his dad to keep a hold of like he'd been able to do when he was so much younger. He felt himself start slipping out of his dad's hands as he said angrily, "You said you'd be there but you weren't." No matter how hard he fought the tears they kept coming. "Instead, you got drunk again and—"

His dad let go. He fell down into the water and came up sputtering, stunned as he glared up at the man who had dropped him. His dad was staring at something across the beach. When he turned his head to look, he didn't see a thing. The look on his dad's face told him differently.

There was something there and he knew exactly what it was without ever laying eyes on it himself. A monster was hidden in the daylight, and it scared his dad so badly it made him want to do the one thing that he didn't want it to do: destroy the only man he would ever love.

He didn't want the monster to destroy his dad. He didn't want it to take his dad away from him or his mother. But it was, and he had no way of stopping it. It wasn't right. His dad slayed the monsters. He fought them. He didn't run away.

"Dad," he said in warning, but when he turned back around to look at him, it was too late.

With his head bowed and shoulders slumped in defeat, his dad walked away.

"Dad," he softly called out again to his retreating back. A hesitation in his chest as he felt the fear grip his chest. He was losing him. "Dad," he called out a little louder, hearing the tremble in his voice. He didn't want him to leave, not again. As his dad stopped at the garage door, he yelled out in anger, "Dad!"

His dad opened the door and disappeared back into the garage where he knew a bottle of whiskey was waiting.

He cursed under his breath as another tear broke and rolled down his face. Shaking his head, he kicked the water as he yelled towards the empty horizon where his dad once stood, "You—coward!"

Blinking his eyes open, the first thing Kevin saw was a vaulted ceiling and wooden beams. It was the roof of a barn. Sunlight streamed through the big windows and slits of wood that made up the wall. His head felt heavy, thoughts foggy, as he felt the itchy dryness in his throat and thickness in his mouth. He gagged, rolled over, and felt his stomach turn as he dry heaved into the wooden floor. He was so thirsty and hungry as his stomach ached and muscles clenched.

As he laid there, trying to produce saliva into his dry mouth, he remembered what had happened. Waking in the back of a vehicle, a truck or van, feeling a casket with his hands, and then nothing. He'd been drugged and knocked out cold for who knows how long. Was it only hours or days?

He coughed into the floor, groaned out the pain, and finally reopened his eyes to take a look around. He was walled off inside a pen with a tall wooden gate. At the top of the gate, stretching from one side of the wall to a pillar, was barbed wire. Getting up to his feet, he walked over to the gate and peered out through the slit between the wooden boards. There were metal fences lining the wall opposite him. He realized what they were immediately. He was inside a sheep barn and those were lambing pens. The barn stretched for about fifty yards in length and twenty-five yards in width, and about seventeen feet high.

Pushing on the gate, it caught as he heard the clink of a chain. He had to press himself up against the wooden boards to look down along the gate and side wall where he spotted the chain and padlock. Locked in. He looked up and around the pen and didn't see any way out. He couldn't climb up and over due to the barbed wire and the only way out was chained and locked. He had no clothing except for his shirt and jogger pants. He didn't ever have shoes or socks on his feet.

Going over to the wooden wall where the sunlight slipped through a crack, he pressed his head against the wall and closed his right eye to see through the crack. A house was in the distance. It was old, rundown, and he recognized it at once. Letting out a breath, he pushed off the wall as he knew where he was.

He was back in Montana. On the sheep and horse ranch that had belonged to his grandfather. It was now his property. His granddad had left it to him in the will. The ranch was his, but it wasn't his home.

It wasn't where his heart was, and it never would be.

The Sheriff's car came to a stop in front of a red metal gate blocking off a gravel road. As the dust continued to swirl in the air, Warrick got out of the passenger side with his field kit in hand as a black BMW parked beside the sheriff's car. Stepping out of the driver's door of the BMW was FBI agent Greenfeld. Warrick saw, sitting in the passenger seat, a woman. He couldn't see her clearly through the tinted windows of the BMW.

"You picked up a hitchhiker?"

Greenfeld glanced back at the car and said, "No, she's an agent with the Billings FBI office. She's on the phone with them now. We'll be getting reinforcements soon."

He gave a nod before walking towards the gate that had a private property sign posted. The gate was open with the chain and lock that had once been securing it missing. Going on for miles in both directions was a wooden property fence. "According to property records this is the property line of the Collins ranch. A half mile up the road is the main house. A hundred yards from the house is a lake. There are three barns on the land, a sheep barn, horse barn, and a slaughterhouse."

Greg had his camera out and took photos of the gate and the gravel road and property before saying, "Looks a lot like Vegas. Very flat and brown."

"There haven't been any sheep grazing on this land since the owner died. The deed to the land is now owned by Agent Collins."

"Why didn't he sell it? This is Yellowstone country. Isn't that like prime real estate?"

Warrick shrugged and said, "Maybe he wants to keep it. Retirement years."

"I'd take mine on an island somewhere."

"To each their own." Warrick pulled on a pair of latex gloves before kneeling down to remove the fingerprinting kit.

Agent Greenfeld was back at cars having a few choice words with Sheriff Warner. He tried to ignore it as he got to work dusting the red metal gate for prints but he couldn't help but eavesdrop as the conversation grew louder.

"You deliberately withheld vital information—"

"I didn't withheld a damn thing—"

"You were the Deputy on scene with Sheriff Arbuckle that night Starling ran away. You transported Starling to the orphanage, with the lamb still in her arms—"

"That was over thirty years ago. One incident among hundreds, if not thousands, of incidents I've been a part of in my near forty years with the Sheriff's department. How was I supposed to remember one little girl—"

"She wasn't just one little girl," Greenfeld said before dropping the hammer on the Sheriff, "she was the niece of Sheriff Arbuckle's best friend. Conner Collins. I have it on good authority that they grew up together, teammates on the high school football team…And Sheriff Arbuckle was the best man at Conner's wedding. You're trying to tell me that you never thought or talked about it since?!"

Warrick looked over his shoulder just in time to see the heat spread up into Sheriff Warner's face. He thought the man was about to take a swing at the agent before he stepped up to him and dropped his voice so low he could no longer hear what was said.

Greg glanced at him with wide-eyes and a question in his eyes before asking, "You think the Sheriff knows more than he's saying."

"Everyone always knows more than they're saying, Greg, especially the police. That's where we come in. We find the things not being said and expose it." He slipped on his sunglasses as the overcast sky opened up and the sun's heat started to beat down on them. It was going to be a hot one.

Greg pushed open the gate and they both saw the tire tracks in the dirt and gravel. His eyes followed the tracks as far as he could see along the road. In the distance, beyond the horizon, there was a house and barns and just past those a lake. "Think Agent Collins is here?"

"That's a safe bet. Whether Starling is still here, though…"

"You don't think she'd stick around?"

Warrick shrugged, asking, "What would be the purpose of sticking around? She'll either get caught or killed."

Greg nodded as he looked around and asked, "When's backup arriving? Didn't Agent Greenfeld call in the local Feds?"

This was a rescue mission for an abducted FBI Agent by a fugitive FBI agent. Warrick was expecting SWAT, dogs, and half of the local FBI field agents to arrive on scene. So far, it was only the four of looked back at the FBI agent and then up into the sky expecting helicopters to encircle the area at any moment. He heard the caw from a hawk overhead, the wind, and the gravel crunching under his work boots as he walked back towards the fence.

"Hey, Agent Greenfeld," he called out, "when are the reinforcements—" Warrick was cut off as he saw the woman who was the passenger in Greenfeld's car get out.

They didn't have a facial composite of Starling, but he did remember what Grissom had said that she'd looked like: about five foot six inches, auburn hair, and freckles. There was a gun in her hand. She aimed it right at Greenfeld.

"Gun!" he yelled the moment the trigger was pulled.

His hand was on his own belt as Greenfeld dropped dead in front of him. His gun wasn't there. It was in his field kit.

Sheriff Warner barely turned before the gun fired another bullet, dropping Warner right beside the FBI agent.

Warrick turned towards Greg when he saw where Starling was aiming next. "Greg! Get down," he ordered as he ran towards him.

The moment he heard the shot, he felt an impact in his back that sent him forward, falling into Greg's arms who caught him as they both went down. His vision blurred along with the pain he felt. It got harder to keep his eyes open as the pain spread wider, further, reaching his head.

He closed his eyes against it.

"Warrick," Greg's voice trembled as he rolled him over and checked for a pulse. He could feel the beating of Warrick's heart under his fingers. Then he felt the barrel of a gun against his head. Clenching his eyes shut, his jaw tensed as he prepared for impact. For death. "Please, don't," he gritted out between his teeth, praying for a miracle.

It came as he felt the pressure disappear from his head. He wanted to relax but the pulse under his fingers was slowing. Opening his eyes, he saw Warrick unconscious on the ground. He had on his field vest but didn't know if he'd been hit or how bad it was.

"Oh, please, be okay," he found himself saying before turning his head and seeing the woman standing over him. It had to be Clarice Starling. Who else could she be? "Why—"

"You work for him, don't you?"

"For who?" He had no idea what was going on. He was stunned and confused. Mostly in shock. Warrick had been shot. Agent Greenfeld and the Sheriff were dead. "What?"

"You know who!" she yelled. "Graham!"

"You mean Grissom?" he asked. It was hard to think clearly. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe. Focusing on sucking air in his nose and blowing it out as he felt his insides twist up and squirm around like eels. He was going to get sick.

"Las Vegas CSI," she said before pointing the gun back at his head. "Get up!"

He was panicking, like he'd done after getting blown up in the lab. Fire all around him, pain in his back and head. The ground was shifting under him as his hands shook and mouth went dry. His hands kept shaking.

His hands…

"Greg, your hands are shaking."

"No, they're not." It was a worthless lie. Of course they were. His whole body was shaking, wasn't it?

Grissom took the paper out of his hand and told him, "Hold your hands out."

Reluctantly, he did as he was told and held his hands out flat, palms down, and watched as they shook. "Uh ... they've been shaking ever since…" Fire. Pain. His back was on fire and he couldn't move. His eyes jerked to the DNA lab next door. "I can't really make it stop."

"Is it affecting your work?" Grissom asked. He heard the worry in his voice.

He wanted to ease his worries so he laughed a little, saying, "Well, if I was a bomb expert, maybe." Grissom didn't laugh; didn't even smile. "No, I…I think I have it under control."

He was expecting anger, or a dismissal telling him to leave the lab that he was no longer fit to do the job. Instead, Grissom told him, "It'll stop. If you need me, I'll be around."

It'll stop. Spoken like a man who knew from personal experience. And it had stopped, and it wasn't just due to finally admitting that he needed therapy. Everyone at the lab had his back, encouraging him to keep going, including Grissom. He wasn't damaged goods, he could still do the job. He was still breathing.

It'd stop. It would stop. Stop! His hands finally stopped shaking as he pushed back the urge to throw up and said, "Warrick needs medical—"

"I said get up," she yelled.

Scrambling up to his feet he had to let Warrick go. His body slumped into the dirt under the sun and laid there. Gun in his back, Greg took one last glance over his shoulder at Warrick, before he was shoved forward.

Angrily, Starling ordered him, "Move. Start walkin', CSI. Now," she gritted out.

Keeping his eyes forward on the golden prairie, gravel road winding up and around a hill at the horizon, he started walking. Over that hill he'd be able to see the house, the barns, and the lake behind it. The Collins Ranch where, hopefully, FBI Agent Kevin Collins would be waiting for them.

The plane had touched down at Billings Airport twenty minutes ago and Captain Brass was just now exiting the damn plane. So far, not a fan of Montana. He stepped out of the terminal and saw Detective Nowlins, who had come with him, talking with the deputy who'd greeted them at the terminal.

"Captain Brass, this is Deputy Howard. He said that Sheriff Warner hasn't responded to any calls and the Las Vegas FBI field agent, Nathan Greenfeld hasn't called in since arrival."

"Those CSI's you've sent out to us are missing as well," Deputy Howard told him as they started towards the exit. "Last anyone's heard from them, they were at the Clerk's office."

"How about the Sheriff?"

"He called in a 10-7 shortly before noon and never radioed back in service."

"A, uh…10-7?" Brass asked as he left the airport and saw the setting sun. It took them all damn day to get out to Montana. The sun would be completely set in a few short hours.

"Sorry, sir. That's Out of Service, during shift."

Approaching the Deputy's car, Brass looked back at Detective Nowlins and told him, "Check in with the Vegas CSI's. See if any of them heard back from Sanders or Brown."

Nowlins had his cell phone out as they rounded the car and got in. Brass dropped into the passenger seat while Nowlins got into the back of the car. Deputy Howard pulled the car away from the airport and headed into the city.

"Any thoughts on where they could be?"

Deputy Howard glanced his way and said, "I have a hunch. An old ranch that used to belong to that FBI agent's grandfather. Andy Collins. I have it on good authority that they reviewed the deeds to that property before leaving the Clerk's office."

"Then, Deputy Howard, that's where we're going," Brass said as he turned to look over his shoulder at Nowlins. "Anything?"

Nowlins answered, "Not a peep."

Kevin was trying to pry the gate open when he heard the barn door open, saw the bright sunlight shine over the dusty dirt floor, before it was closed. Footsteps neared. There were more than two, but it sounded like four footsteps, nearly in unison, coming his way.

"Get down," he heard a woman call out. "On your knees. You know the drill."

He licked his dry lips as he pressed against the wooden gate and tried to see what was going on. A woman appeared in front of him. The woman in Vegas who knocked on his dad's door. "Hey, cuz. Long time, no see…Huh, Clarice?"

She ignored him as she used a key to unlock the padlock and unwrap the chain. Without a word, she gestured with the gun for him to walk out while keeping her distance. He took a couple steps out, looked to this right, and saw kneeling on the floor Greg Sanders. Panic shot through him but so did relief. They were there? They found him, but…where were the rest of them?

Greg went to speak when he quickly cut him off, saying, "Don't speak unless I ask you a question."

Greg snapped his mouth shut as his eyes widened. He hadn't meant to be so forceful, but until he figured out Starling's state of mind, he didn't want anything to set her off. Greg gave a nod as he pressed his lips together.

"Down, next to your friend," Starling called out behind him.

Letting out a breath, he turned around and knelt down beside Greg. Facing Starling, he gave her a once over and noticed her formal suit jacket and heels, and the gun holster on her hip. Very formal looking. He bit his bottom lip as he noticed a bulge under the top portion on the left sleeve near the shoulder. He wondered what that could be. It was too high up to be a weapon.

How to start this, because despite having him there, face-to-face, it seemed like Starling was waiting on something. Or someone. Was she expecting Lecter to show up? Was she waiting for the real FBI to arrive? What question to ask?

His dad's voice filled his head, saying, "Are you sure that's the right question to ask to get the answer you really want?"

"Greg," Kevin said without taking his eyes off Starling, "did you ever find out who Hannah was?"

"A lamb," Greg said from beside him.

Kevin saw the impact that word had on Starling. She responded to it. It was subtle but there in the way her arm wavered and eyes softened. "A lamb?" he asked Greg.

"She saved it from being slaughtered, probably took it out of this barn. That's why your grandfather sent her away to the orphanage. Pretty ridiculous if you ask me. She was just a kid."

"What happened to it?"

"Well, at first, she was able to keep it, but it was finally taken away. Back to the ranch."

"They killed it," Kevin said with a nod. "You weren't able to save it."

Greg looked at Starling as he told her, "It wasn't your fault. He was angry and it cost him his marriage. Your Aunt divorced him for what he'd done—"

"Greg," he said, "that's enough—"

"No, it's not," Greg said, cutting him off. "She needs to know she was good enough—"

"Stop your lying," Starling coldly said as she glared over at Greg.

A lamb to the slaughter, Kevin thought as his mind raced as he tried to make connections. Everything with Lecter had a reason. What did his dad say? Lecter liked riddles and games. Lecter would apply meaning to that, metaphorically, even literally. Lambs represent the innocent. Clarice was innocent. Just a little girl. Treated unjustly. Innocence being taken away.

Sacrificial lamb. A person being sacrificed for the greater good to prevent others from being harmed or destroyed. And Hannibal Lecter was a destroyer of people. Tbose had been the words he'd read in the profile his dad had written up in the Chesapeake Ripper. His eyes lit up as he realized what was going to happen. How Lecter wanted this to play out.

His eyes looked up, searching the ceiling, as his face felt numb at the sight. "What'd you do?" he asked as he stared back into Starling's eyes as the realization led to tears stinging his eyes. "Clarice…"

What was the right question he needed to ask to get the answer he really wanted?

She went to aim the gun back at Greg when he yelled out, "Put it back on me! I'm the one you want." There was no reasoning with her. Lecter had gotten so far inside her head that he didn't know if there was any way back out.

There had to be. Even his dad said he wasn't able to get rid of Lecter's thoughts, only that he'd learned to live with them. Bury them down until they were nothing but a whisper. But they still whispered. His dad still heard Lecter's voice in silence, in the bottle of a whiskey bottle, and in his dreams.

"You know the one thing I keep coming back to?" Starling's eyes fell on his as he said, "Hannibal Lecter doesn't love. He's incapable of it. You know it. You've seen it. The destruction he causes. How he effortlessly takes people apart, piece by piece until they are in pieces, ready to eat, right in front of him. That's what brings him joy. It is the only thing that he loves. You know exactly what you are to him. A fantasy. Once that fantasy breaks…once it dissolves…" She flinched. He saw with the blink of her eyes, the twitch in her jaw. "It already has, hasn't it? The fantasy's over. You were never planning on walking away, were you?"

"It's for the greater good," she said. "It's the only way to protect anyone else from getting destroyed. We just all have to go. It's the only way to end it, to stop it—"

"No it ain't," he exerted with such bravado that it caused her to still at his tone. She wavered again as the gun moved from Greg over to him, but it dropped a little. Shaking his head, he told her, "That's not you. Okay? This isn't you talking. That's him."

"How would you know?!"

God, she was so angry. But that anger was breaking through the cracks. And in between the cracks was where Clarice Starling was trying to punch through to get out. "Because I've heard it before," he told her. "I've seen it all before. You're not the first person to fall victim to his manipulation."

"Just because your daddy—"

"My dad beat him because he was stronger," he said as he felt the tears in his eyes. He'd been so wrong about his dad. He hadn't been a coward. If he had been, Lecter would have won. "His love for people was stronger than Lecter's hate for them. And because he loved us, he did the only thing he could do and that was to run away. I thought it made him a coward, but I was wrong. You're just as wrong if you think you have no other choice than this. You're strong, Clarice. You can get out from under him. You can break free of his thoughts, because you are stronger than Hannibal Lecter. I know that much. If you weren't, you wouldn't have been trying to save Hannah, that innocent lamb, all over again. Only this time, she's inside you. Grab her up, grab that little girl you were up and run. Run as far away from Lecter as you can get—"

Starling screamed out as she dropped her arm and turned away from him in pain and anger.

He'd seen the tears in her eye before she turned her back to him. She was so close to the edge; he didn't know if pushing her over would save her…or kill her. All the things she'd done for Lecter, the people she had killed while under his control, might be too much.

He saw Starling trying to regain her composer. Like a tornado, she was regrouping and if he let her gather up all Lecter's thoughts and his lies then she'd turn around ready to destroy them all.

"He's not that easy to get rid of. You don't just run away from Lecter. He's always with you. You have no idea what it's like to have him in your head." Starling turned around and he saw it. Her resolve was staring him in the face.

"You don't have to do it this way—"

"I tried to be him, I tried—"

"Him? Him who?" Kevin asked in confusion before clarity hit him. She meant his dad. She tried to stop Lecter by becoming the only person who ever did: Will Graham. "You figured the only way to do it was to go off with him. How do you stop the devil? You can't do it from a distance. You saw him, when he saw you that night at the lake house, you saw him because you empathized. You saw his love for you, and turned it inward, like you thought my dad would do. That was how he got inside of you, wasn't it? But just like he got inside you, you got inside him. That was how you were going to break him, by destroying his love for you. You thought it'd rip him apart. That's why you went away with him. It wasn't because you loved him…It was because you wanted to take everything away from him."

"Congratulations, Agent Collins, you're absolutely right," Starling said as she raised the gun and aimed it right at him. "Everything, and everyone, to stop it. That includes you."

Kevin sucked in a deep breath of air and held it, and then let out as a tear fell. "I never took you for a coward, Clarice. You do this, he's won. This won't kill. It'll set him free. And I know you don't want him to win."

Shaking her head, she told him, "You don't understand. He already won. Any last words?"

He felt his jaw flex as he went to shake his head but movement out of the corner of his eye and behind Starling caught his attention. Movement again and he saw the person stepping up behind Starling with a gun trained on her. "Yeah. Matsya Nyaya. The Law of Fish; the big fish eating the small fish. Today, Clarice, you're the small fish."

"Clarice Starling," Warrick called out from behind Starling. "CSI Brown, hold it—"

He watched the realization hit her as her face dropped along with her aim as she went to turn around. "Don't shoot," he screamed out to Warrick as he sprung forward as he heard a gunshot. He plowed into Starling, taking her to the ground as he felt a pain ignite his leg. Wrestling the gun out of her hand, he wrapped his sweaty hands around it and pointed it at her as he called out to Warrick, "Are you okay?" without taking his eyes off of Starling.

"Why'd you stop me from shooting her? She could have killed you!"

Warrick's words entered his head the same time the pain sent a blinding shock up to his head. He grunted out as he finally looked down and saw the blood running down his left leg from his hip. The gunshot had been for him.

Greg ran over to Warrick as he looked at his back, asking, "You were shot in the back. I don't see any blood. Did it hit the vest?"

Warrick said, "I think, it hurts to move, but…yeah, the bullet caught the vest. I got lucky. I radioed in for backup. Brass is here. They should be here soon. Got these," he said as he pulled out a set of handcuffs, "off the Sheriff," he said before handing them to Greg. "Do the honors, Greg. Lock her crazy ass up."

Greg walked over to him and knelt down beside Starling and handcuffed her. She didn't even put up a fight. "What were you talking about? What was she planning on doing?"

"Kill everyone, Greg, including herself. Murder-suicide. She was going to lure everyone out here to the barn and then kill us all." Eyeing Warrick, he told him, "Because if she dies, we all die." Reaching down, he yanked down her suit jacket to reveal the device strapped onto her arm.

"What is that?" Greg asked.

"Dead man's switch." His eyes lifted back up to the ceiling of the barn.

Warrick's eyes followed along with Greg's. In the exposed beams were rigged explosives wired to explode the moment Clarice Starling died.

"We need to get the hell out of here," Warrick muttered under his breath.

Greg helped him pull Starling to her feet and as they all left the barn, he heard the propeller of a helicopter in the distance. Collapsing a few feet outside the barn, he hit his knees and fell forward as his leg went numb, like it'd broken off his body. He couldn't move. Everything hurt like hell and his body felt so heavy. All the energy he had was gone as he struggled to stay awake.

"Kevin!" he heard Warrick's voice before he felt someone by his side.

Warrick wrapped his arms around his shoulders and lifted him up to his feet and pulled him along. Up in the distance, he saw the police and headlights of the cars coming over the hill right towards them. Then it got hard to see anything.

"See that," Warrick said. "You're going to be alright. The cavalry's here."

The only person he recognized getting out of the cars was Captain Jim Brass. Warrick held up his hand as Brass called out, "Warrick! Greg!"

"Yeah, we're okay. Kevin needs a doctor," he heard Warrick say as he felt his body drop as if he'd been let go.

He fell to the ground as his vision blurred into darkness. He drifted there for a long time.

TBC…