A/N: I posted 2 chapters, please read Chapter 22 before this one. Thank you!

Chapter 23:

He felt the entire lab watching him. Peeking, curious watchful eyes trying to understand the man perched on top of the conference table as his eyes roamed over the evidence boards. Unlike their eyes, he wasn't seeing anything in front of them. They were looking inward as he saw a completely different world that existed inside his head.

He imagined his worst nightmare.

Sara's hand was on his chest. Her touch sent a ripple through his body as he closed his eyes and heard her laugh. A sigh that left a hot breath against his ear. Taking her hand in his, he brought it up to his lips and kissed her palm. A coldness tickled at his legs from the air conditioning as the room was bathed in the glow of the moon outside the window. The moonlight was a lie in his mind, but one he accepted.

Whispering into her ear, he said, "Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight? It appears quite black…"

Rolling her over, he dug the knife into her chest. He leaned back on his legs as he glared down at the woman under him. In the moonlight, he saw the black stream that spread out from the growing gash in her chest. He felt the warmth on his hand as he held her down by the neck. Felt her skin under his palm, the heartbeat on his fingertips that faded as did the light in her eyes.

As the bright light of the conference room lit up the room like the light he imagined in Sara's eyes, in his mind everything went dark. The familiar tapping of the metronome that sat beside him on the table helped him to follow his worst nightmare down into the dark depths.

Tap…tap…tap…

In the dark, a pendulum swung back-and-forth as he felt his body drift into the void until he visually saw himself falling. Down through the darkness his weightless body kept falling as he closed his eyes.

…tap…tap…

As he fell he heard words in his head. Words that echoed with a metallic ting that shivered up his spine. "Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt in solitude, where we are least alone," as Lord Byron wrote. I am not alone with my thoughts. I am not alone, after all this time. You hear me. Soon, so will she, and she will know, as we disembark on our journey, that you must admit how you have failed in your pursuit. In your hunt. Perhaps, individuality was your downfall. In its imperfections of what is known as humanity, creates perfection. In all its ugliness, aren't we all the same? Accept the imperfections, accept how ugly you can be, Will, rip yourself away from your individuality, and embrace how very much alike we are.

…tap…

His thoughts were not the thoughts of Will Graham, or Gil Grissom, but those of Hannibal Lecter. He still resided within his body and in his mind, and because of that he knew what must be done.

He—No, not he, but we, needed to be stopped. My life, and others, depend upon its fall. The fall down into…

…tap—

Opening his eyes, he stood in front of a house under a grey sky. Storm clouds loomed overhead. On his face he felt sprinkles of rain. The wind was blowing hard against his face. In the air he smelt the blossoming buds of the spring flowers: delphiniums, larkspur, peony and ranunculus, dianthus and daffodils. Lecter liked gardening. He took great care of his garden, the flowers, and all the plants that adorned his home in Baltimore, Maryland.

He leaned against his cane, feeling his hand tighten around the handle, as he re-opened his eyes and stared up the walkway. French doors opened into the foyer of the brick manor house on an acre of land just west of east Baltimore. The home was exactly what he expected, like stepping back in time into an equally grotesque yet spectacular display of furnishings and accents and decor. Very flamboyant, and awe-inspiring. The need to be superior in every way. Everything seemed to be on display from the French settees to the vases, the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling and the tapestries on the walls. The kitchen that would make any chef envious. Gold- and silver-plated knives and plates and the China tea set.

Sweat rolled down his back as he stood in front of the basement door. The house had been sealed ever since Lecter had been arrested. He'd spent months in the hospital recovering both from his physical injury and from the mental one. In his mind he'd already seen the basement, the one that made Officer Stewart put in his walking papers. Emotional problems.

His cane hit the top wooden step first and it echoed down in the chamber. The dungeon of evil awaited as he took his first step down into the darkness. There was a chain hanging from a ceiling light and he reached for it to click it on. The rush of what he saw filled his vision as he stood on the last step in composed shock and awe.

The first thing he noticed was a rectangular metal frame that was slightly off the floor. It had two rollers, one at top and one at the bottom. He looked at the bench with vice grips at the top to hold down a person's hands and the locking mechanisms at the bottom for the legs. As he got closer to it, he saw how it worked as in his mind he pictured one of Lecter's victims being strapped down into it. "Chain the wrists up to this roller," he spoke softly, "fasten the ankles to the bottom restraints. The victim is completely vulnerable to whatever I want to do…" He envisioned all the ways he could inflict pain. "Burn them, remove their fingers or organs, or…crank it to dislocate their joints. Rip off their limbs." He looked at Will in the mirror on the wall next to it. His face pale against his sharp blue eyes. "The most gruesome aspect of being stretched too far is the loud popping sound of snapping cartilage, ligaments, and bone. It's not for the faint of heart."

…tap…

Stepping away from the medieval torture device known as simply the "rack", Will's shadow followed him as he ventured further into the dungeon. In the silence of the dungeon, in the tainted deathly air, he heard screaming from the trapped souls that had once so desperately tried to escape. He felt them all around him, inside his own soul that seemed to seep out of him and pooled into his shadow, leaving him feeling cold and empty.

It was a brick basement and he saw how Lecter carved out arches in the brick and mortar, or so he thought at first glance. Standing in front of a wall, and with closer examination, he realized what he was seeing. His jaw dropped as he saw the bones. He'd read that the Catacombs of Paris held the remains of six million people. The catacombs had a wall, the Crypt of the Sepulchral Lamp, that was made of human bones. He wondered how many bones made up Hannibal's wall.

Next to the wall was a butcher's table.

…tap…

On top of the butcher table, he envisioned a human body spread eagle with its back exposed up to him. Using the butcher knife, the head would be removed first, then the limbs, leaving the torso. His finger trailed along the spine as he grabbed hold of the shears and started to cut. Spatchcocking was a technique that removed the spine of a chicken in order to flatten it in order for it to cook more evenly. He'd want all the bones removed before cooking. The bones of the spine would go into the wall along with all the others.

…tap…

Next to the door to the wine cellar a shoji screen separated half of the basement from the other. Sliding the door open, he entered into the most unexpected area of the dungeon. It was more meditative, and less horror filled. He heard no screams in the air, felt no souls trying to escape out their tortured hell.

Will's shadow left him at the door as he stepped through and shut the shoji screen behind him. The room was filled with Japanese decor from the table lamps to the tatami mat on the floor. On the air he smelt incense on the air. Buring incense was thought to purify the air and to bring forth buddhas, or gods, or even demons. He saw the plum branches in the stone and marble vases, and the ancient samurai swords that lined the wall, and wondered who this shrine was dedicated to.

That was what the room was. It was a shrine. A red and gold floral pattern kimono was wrapped around a mannequin. Reaching out, his fingers brushed over the silk fabric. It was beautiful; just as lovely as the woman who'd worn it, he imagined. The letter "M" was embroidered on it.

M….M for Mischa? No, he thought as the name formed in his head. He'd seen it in the leather journal that'd been found in the Capponi library in Italy. M…M for Muraski. Lady. Lady. Muraski. Heather.

…tap…

His eyes caught sight of the mask the moment his finger left the kimono. It was across the room on display on an old ancient wooden table.

"He has a strong sense of…regulating derogatory behavior," he had told Kevin. "He tries to make himself important, feel superior and above everyone else. One of the ways he does that is through assessing courtesies, politeness. He is always polite, but it's superficial. It's a mask; a facade. It's not real. Like I said, he believes himself to be God-like."

Nearing the table, he eyed the mask that, even without eyes, bore right into his cold heart. The samurai wore masks that resembled demons in order to protect their faces from damage as well as to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. The masks were called men-yoroi, and they could take on many forms. Some were used to fully cover a samurai's face, while others only partially covered their faces.

The one that bore into him was used to only cover part of the face, leaving the eyes and forehead exposed. It was brown in color, and as his fingers touched it, lifting it up to his face, he felt its purpose as he placed it against his own face.

…tap…

Out of his mouth came a German children's song, a nursery rhyme. "Ein Männlein steht im Walde ganz still und stumm," A little man stands very still and silent in the forest. "Es hat von lauter Purpur ein Mäntlein um." It wears a cloak of pure purple. As he sang the words, he felt a wetness on his face. The wetness wasn't from tears but from the snow that rained down all around him as he opened his eyes and looked up into the void above him.

"Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein." Say, who may the little man be, he heard another voice singing the words to the song.

Looking down at his side he saw a little boy next to him. The boy had black hair, blue eyes, and wore a grey jacket and pants with knee-high boots. Singing along with the little boy, they shouted their words up into the void, "Das da steht im Wald allein…Mit dem purpurroten Mäntelein?" It's standing alone in the forest…With the crimson cloak?

Snow and ash mixed from the raging fire that surrounded him but didn't engulf the room. The little boy wasn't afraid of the flames as he reached out to touch it.

"Would you have fed me to your little sister in order to keep her alive because you loved her?" he asked the little boy.

The blue eyes of the boy turned towards him as he answered without thought or consideration. "Yes."

"Why?" he asked the little boy.

Together they answered, "Love." That word vibrated in his head as he felt the heat of the flames growing closer. "I love myself that much." He felt himself smile behind the mask and wondered if he'd been the conjured demon brought forth by the incense that lingered in the air. Staring into the little boy's eyes, he saw the raging blue eyes with a hint of maroon staring back at him before they twinkled with amusement. "I know why the cloak is crimson red."

…tap…

The little boy smiled wickedly at him as he asked, "You do? Tell me."

"It's soaked in the blood of his enemies." He turned the mask away from his own face to cover the boy's with it. Staring at the boy who was surrounded by the same flames that surrounded him, eyes darkening into pleasure behind the mask, he said, "Hello, Hannibal."

"Hello, Will," the boy said before his hand latched onto the mask and held it to his face as his other hand started waving around and into the flames as if he was conducting an orchestra.

…tap…

When he was a boy, he heard voices while he slept. In his dreams he dreamed of becoming all those voices in order to understand what they were trying to tell him. While awake, he would stare into their eyes trying to figure out their minds, why they did what they did and felt what they felt because it hurt him to feel. Did it hurt them just as badly?

Why kill if it hurt to do it? He'd sit for hours thinking about it, thinking about the pain and how to get rid of it. He'd gone numb the day his father died. He'd felt just as dead. His search as to why his father had died, his search in trying to understand the difference between heaven and hell, he'd gone searching for his own demons. It wasn't so he could tame the darkness that laid buried on the inside, but to understand it in him so he could understand it in others. He grew to understand that people didn't kill because it hurt them, but just the opposite. And anyone who got pleasure from killing was monster. If he could understand the monsters, then he could stop them.

He still wanted to stop the monsters because he was the same boy, the same man, he's always been. A dragon slayer.

He was also an arsonist. He wanted to burn it all down and relish in the flames.

…tap…

The fire spread out until it was burning the entire floor of the room but didn't devour anything in it. It was as if the flames had always been there, swirling around the floors and into walls like the blood that filled the drains.

"You couldn't afford for me to get close, could you?" he spoke as his hand reached out to touch the Samurai swords. "This was what you were hiding from me. I didn't see it the first time. How this was where you held your secrets. But I know now. With Jack's murder…you knew that the FBI would be at my door. I would've had time to find you. You didn't want me to have the time. So, you killed the Hayashi's. Everything moved so fast. Then Heather, and then Kevin…Like an avalanche, I wouldn't be able to get out of the way. You wanted to bury me under it all. Get me so wound up, so angry, that I'd be kicked off the case. You couldn't have me focus on the only murder you wanted. You wanted Crawford, Bloom, and you wanted Sara."

The heat from the flames grew hotter around him but instead of letting it burn him, to make him turn and run away, he did as the boy did and reached out to touch it. The heat was only an illusion as the touch of the flames were cold. They were as cold as Lecter's heart.

"Even though your profile changed, some things are fundamental. How you see the world, people, your fantasy, they don't change. We are the same, Hannibal. We're both great gods. We're enemies to one another, but…there are others who have wronged us even more. Sinned against us. Clarice did the most sinful, unforgivable thing to you." King Lear's quote "I am a man more sinned against than sinning," filled his head. Just like Lear, Lecter sinned, but he believed he was more sinned against because the people he loved did the most unforgivable thing.

"You fear me because I've committed the one unforgivable act. I know you." As Heather's words filled his head, he felt a long-forgotten pain fill his chest.

"She betrayed you, by loving you…What's left of you to love. It was nearly incestuous." His eyes landed on the kimono and knew that Lecter's Aunt, Lady Muraski, was the one who'd worn it. His Uncle's wife had been Lecter's second love.

"M is for Mischa," the little boy said as he wrote out the name of his sister into the snow and ash covering the floor.

His first was his sister.

Kneeling down in front of the little boy, he said, "Was your love for her more than brotherly? The only human contact you had as a child was with family. You only had each other, and with having no other outlets, two siblings could develop a romantic interest in one another. It wasn't something born inside them but developed due to the environment. Human instincts, desire, could overrule any moral dilemma about being brother and sister. Given the circumstances, and the mentality of a child's mind factored due to war, and the fact that you're a born monster, it's possible."

The boy's eyes lifted up to his as he asked, "You think I was born a monster?"

"Yes," he said as he stared into the boy's eyes. "My heart will never bleed for you, Hannibal. Sara said that two oxygen tanks went missing from Desert Palm Hospital. Kevin went to Montana with Starling—There was a flight that had been delayed for half an hour due to crew reassignment…Its destination is Europe. The oxygen was to keep her sedated for a long time. But where in Europe? Where did you take her?"

The little boy smiled that wicked grin and started writing another name in the fallen ash and snow on the floor. "S. S is for Sara."

…tap…

What was familiar to Hannibal? What was his safe place? Lecter's safe place was the same as his safe place. His mind. Where did he live in his mind? His memory palace. And what was Lecter's memory palace? His eyes roamed up and around the basement, saw the arches, and the catacomb walls. "A castle."

Lecter was a hard man to read. He didn't know if he was impressed, amused, or highly concerned. "Have you ever heard of a memory palace, Will? I've committed to memorizing a castle I once knew. The hallways are lined with tapestries and paintings, like photographs, images that I've committed to memory. People. Places I've been. Each room in the castle has wardrobes, drawers, closets, desks, chests, books and manuscripts and when I open these things, or enter into a room, I find the memory I'm looking for. A memory I've specifically placed there, in that specific spot. And when I take it out to view it, I see it as clearly as if I were there. Vividly, every detail, even the smell…taste…" He seemed to have ventured away as he closed his eyes, then they opened. "How do you recall your memories? Enlighten me with your perspicacity."

"A castle I once knew. Why a castle? This…castle…" his voice drifted as his own words about love came to mind.

…tap…

"From my experience, it's not about the place but the people there that make it home. Scenery is secondary."

Kevin met his eyes. His blue eyes held a lot of sadness. Then he smiled slightly and seemed to be fine. Though, the sadness was still there. "Home is where the heart is?"

He felt a faint smile as he again realized how much he'd missed Kevin. The familiarity of home within his heart. "In my case it was about a thousand miles away; separated by farmland and mountains."

"His heart. He left his heart here. He had already given it to someone else," he spoke as the flames spread out of the room and started burning the door to the wine cellar.

…tap…tap…

Following the trail the flames left him, he headed towards the wine cellar. He pushed open the burning door and took a step inside. Rows upon rows of wine greeted him as the fire followed him inside, burning the floor and walls and ceiling. It engulfed the room but left the rows of wine untouched.

Grabbing a bottle off a shelf, he turned it in his hand. Soot covered the label. Using his thumb, he wiped the soot away to reveal the name. Domaine Armand Rousseau. France. He grabbed another bottle off the top row and rubbed the soot off the label and read Château Lafite Rothschild. Bordeaux, France.

…tap…tap…tap…

Lord Byron, the Corsair. Pirate Jean Lafitte. French. New Orleans, LA, French Quarter.

"There's a purpose," he told the room full of FBI agents. "For example, Lecter likes to draw and one of his drawings that he had displayed in his cell at the state hospital was of the Duomo seen from the Belvedere in Florence, Italy. It should've been painfully obvious to the FBI where Lecter had escaped too."

Agents looked over at Pearsall who said, "Lecter was, indeed, living in Italy."

"How'd you know that?" a voice asked from the group.

He stared at Pearsall for a brief moment before addressing the group. "Besides the fact that I've seen his drawings myself? He has a deep love for the place. It has culture, art, and all the fine food and etiquettes of Europe."

"Why does that matter?" asked another voice.

He was confused by the question and the only thing he could think of to say was, "It matters to him. Imagine being locked away, with no view, horrible food, and unable to breathe fresh air and then one day...you're free. Where would you go? What would you do? Lecter, if anything, is a purest. He stays true to the parts of himself that makes him...him, no matter where he chooses to live."

…Ta—

He stopped the metronome's tapping as he slid off the conference room table and grabbed the photo of the leather journal that Lecter had used to jot down his family history as he remembered his dream on the plane ride out to South Carolina.

Fingering the journal, he could feel the grooves where the sides had been worn down. He had to turn on his flashlight so he could read the small writing that filled the pages. As he read over the family tree, he'd realized that it was Lecter's family. Shining his light over the manuscript that was next to the journal, he saw that it was historical records. Lecter had been researching his family history. Once he got to Lecter's immediate family, he frowned and stared at the information. It completely stopped.

Both of his parents had been killed during World War II, and he had a sister: Mischa. She was also dead but there was no description or reason for her premature death. Lecter was the only child after his sister had died. There had only been two surviving members of his extended family: Count Robert Lecter, an Uncle, and his wife, Lady Murasaki Lecter. She was Japanese.

Lady Muraski was married to Lecter's uncle Robert. Robert was a Count. He would have lived in a castle, a château. Was it in France? Has Hannibal Lecter gone home?

There was a buzzing in his head as he smelt smoke lingering in the air. Moving past the door, he headed out into the hallway as the eyes continued to stalk after him. He passed the DNA lab, A/V lab, and Trace. At the end of the hallway, he entered the ballistics and saw Rich test firing a semi-automatic into the tank.

Once he was done firing, Rich removed the ear protection and safety glasses and raked the slide of the gun back. Taking one look at him, he asked, "What can I do for you, bug guy?"

"I have a question for you. A standard 9 mil travels at 1,100 feet per second, penetration is 12 inches. I need a round to go four or less, from close range, without perforating the body. Now, I heard of the bullets that US Marshals use. Pre-fragmented rounds. Lead shots sealed with a clear epoxy plug."

Rich was confused as he asked, "Why do you want to shoot someone at close range without the bullet passing through the body?"

"The bullet's grain weight—"

"Needs to be heavy," Rich picked up what he was saying and continued, "but with penetration of only 4 inches…40 percent load instead of a hundred percent. What we're talking about is a 9 mil bullet that's slow in velocity, yet powerful."

He gave a nod. "Instant stop."

Rich smiled at him in admiration. "What's the question again?"

"Can you make me one in two hours? I would do it myself, but I have somewhere else I have to be."

Rich gave a nod, saying, "Sure. Better yet, I'll have it ready in half the time. Anything else you need?"

"Yeah," he said as he started to leave the ballistics lab, "Kevin's dog."

Enroute to retrieving Kevin's dog from Animal Control, he made a lot of phone calls to the Director of the Lab, the Sheriff, and of course the Las Vegas FBI field office. Once he got Jack safely into his vehicle, he went back to the lab. Then while getting ready to leave for the airport, he got a phone call from Brass that Clarice Starling was in custody, Warrick and Greg were relatively okay, but that Kevin had been shot. He was in surgery. His heart nearly dropped into his chest as he wanted to go be with his son, but he needed to find Sara. After thanking Brass for the phone call, he shut off his phone and left it in his locker at the lab.

Grabbing his jacket, his gun and the bullet Rich made for him, he grabbed hold of Jack's leash as they left the crime lab and got into the back of the FBI's awaiting SUV.

Turning around in the passenger seat was Special Agent Rick Culpepper. Kevin's boss. "Dr. Grissom, we meet again. I heard Agent Collins is in surgery."

He gave a nod as he asked, "Shouldn't you be there?"

"Shouldn't you?"

His jaw flexed as the SUV pulled away from the curb. Culpepper was already getting on his last nerve. "Your agent is currently laid up in a hospital undergoing surgery. His life is supposed to be your first priority—"

"He's your son. Isn't he your first priority—"

"Whereas my CSI is still missing," he said, cutting Culpepper off. "Taken by Hannibal Lecter; a serial killer that you've failed to locate and apprehend for over a decade. Make no mistake, Rick, you're only invited because you have the jet to get me there faster than a commercial flight."

"Don't call me Rick. It's Agent Culpepper. Special Agent—"

"Actually, it's Agent Asshole as far as I can tell."

Culpepper's face turned red as he pointed at him and said, "You better watch it. You think—"

"I do think. I think I'm the only one who's done any thinking for the past twenty-four hours, don't you think, Rick? I'm the one who found Lecter—"

"We don't even know if you found him! You honestly believe he's in France? You're willing to bet your life, Sidle's life, on that—"

"Yes," he cut him off again. "I am."

"If I'm sending my people halfway around the world—"

"You're either going to have to trust me or not, pal, because I can't explain it. I never could."

Culpepper studied him for a long time before smiling slightly, saying, "That's the Graham I remember from my academy days. Hot-headed and arrogant."

"Confidence isn't arrogance."

"So they say. I'm trusting you on this one, Dr. Grissom. Just don't get us killed." Culpeper didn't say anything else about it as he turned around in his seat as they sped through the Las Vegas streets towards the international airport where a jet would be waiting for them to take them to their destination.

He didn't even know how to explain to anyone how he knew other than the bottles of wine. It wasn't much to go on, but he knew that was where Lecter wanted to live and where he wanted to die.

He'd gladly take any, and all things, that Hannibal wanted away from him. Rip them away from him just like Lecter had ripped the lives away from all of his victims.

TBC…One more chapter to go and then the epilogue.