Échelle de Cruauté

"Dr. Michael Stone of Columbia University has created a scale to measure the severity of evil acts.

Basing his analysis on the detailed biographies of more than six hundred violent criminals, Stone has created a twenty-two level hierarchy of so called evil behaviour, which loosely reflects the structure of Dante's Inferno. He traces two salient personality traits that run the gamut from those who commit crimes of passion to perpetrators of the worst of acts: sadistic torture and murder. One trait is narcissism, as exhibited in people who are so utterly self-centred that they have little or no ability to care about their victims. The other is aggression, the use of power over another person to inflict humiliation, suffering, and death.

The more heinous the crime-and the more rational the criminal-the higher the killer is ranked on the scale. He has named it 'Échelle de Cruauté', or 'The Scale of Evil'."

As he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, Will Graham realised there needed to be a twenty third point tacked on the end of the scale. He was sure, somewhere beneath the flashes of memory that assaulted him and the dark calm that descended over his mind, that the Ripper would appreciate being so unique as to require a classification all to himself.

Chapter 1

Le Monde du Vivre

AN:
Welcome back followers of the macabre.
So this sort of came pouring out over the space of a few days rather than the space of a few weeks as it was supposed to. I guess even I couldn't wait for everything to come together again into some semblance of order, and for Hannibal to enact his plans, taking them to the next stage.
As ever, feel free to leave comments on anything you wish and point out any mistakes (I try my best but tend to miss them here and there).

Title translation:
"Le Monde du Vivre" - 'The Living World'

The sound of rain against glass and a soft, almost constant hiss. Her eyes felt heavy and the world was dark. She could smell flowers, a sweet, powdery scent. There was something over her face and a rush of air, then nothing, air, then nothing. She forced her eyelids open. It was difficult, more than it should have been. The slits revealed a white ceiling with an offset square of cool brightness set upon it. Sunshine through clouds.

Alana Bloom had an itchy nose.

When she lifted her arm to scratch, it felt as if there were thick hairs wrapping around her wrist and bicep. She shook it wearily and then managed to look down, chin against her chest. She frowned, feeling woozy. Wires, there were lots of wires. At first she thought that her vision had blurred, then she realised, as she began to feel memory creeping up on her, that she was looking down through the opaqueness of a respirator mask.

By the time she had managed to fumble the mask off there was a nurse in her room and the doctor had been called.

"Alana? My name is Doctor Gareth James," a young face under a crop of dark, black hair said to her, "please relax and let us make you a little more comfortable."

"Where am I?" she asked, shocked by the whispering sound of her voice; hoarse and barely there.

"You're in hospital, you were badly injured," he said as someone began adjusting her bed, tipping her top half up and allowing the rest of the room to come into view, "once we get you sorted I can explain, alright?" she thought she might have nodded but wasn't sure if the doctor noticed as he turned to the nurse, "Janet, could you get the cart? I want Miss Bloom's bp and heart rate, and we'll need a couple of bloods taken."

The explanation he gave, after they poked and prodded and made sure everything was working properly, began to match up with vague, appalling memories lingering around her consciousness. Funny, considerate Agent Hemmingway was on the floor holding his throat as thick red gushed down his white front. There was someone holding her chin up and a hard plastic funnel was jammed into her mouth while she struggled. She couldn't move her hands and there was a cold, noxious fluid gurgling in her throat.

She felt nurse Janet's hand around hers and realised she was crying, the tears choking as she tried and failed to stop them.

It became a litany of nurses followed by doctors followed by consultants followed by meetings with the physiotherapist. Even being in a coma for only five days, she was told, was something that was going to take a long time to get over.

"You don't just get up and start running around again after a couple of weeks I'm afraid," the Physio, Elaine Barber, said through her thin lips, her mousy brown hair pulled back tight into a bun; her eyes were kind behind her rimless glasses. Alana appreciated that, "it's not like in the movies. But you've done good already, Alana. No kidney damage, minor liver damage, the toxins are flushing out. Now all we have to do is get you back on your feet. Don't think we're starting from base-camp."

"Expecting me to scale the north face?" she huffed out with a hoarse smile, "I'm a lousy climber."

"Oh!" Elaine smiled and laughed loudly, making the small hospital room light up with the sound, "That's great, just what I like to hear. Got your sense of humour back already I see. You're going to be fine, honey. Just fine."

She hadn't been brought in with any belongings and the nurse, Janet, ended up letting Alana use her phone to call her mother (don't tell anyone I let you, Janet said, not even supposed to have it on me). So then the constant litany was followed by visitors. Her colleagues from the FBI academy, academics, teaching assistants, a few students. Her stepbrother and mother showed up as soon as they could get the flight out. She wished that the reunion could have been under better circumstances and told her frail mother not to cry, she would be ok.

Flowers were brought in and replaced the wilting carnations and roses sitting on her bedside table. On two different occasions Beverly Katz showed up, then Brian and Jimmy from the lab. Neither said anything about the two men she had expected to see before now and Alana didn't ask. She lay there and waited, not knowing why she couldn't voice her fears.

After another two days the knock at her door revealed a welcome sight.

"It is good to see you sensible again," Hannibal's smile had always made her feel a little lighter.

"Have I ever been sensible?" she asked with an awkward smile, sitting up in her bed with a kindle in her hands; her mom had brought it and Alana was glad, 'I know how quickly you get bored hun. Don't want you going crazy before we can get you out of here'.

She looked behind him for familiar blue eyes beneath unruly curls but the door closed with no one else to show for it.

"Well, I always thought you the most realistic of my pupils," Hannibal said, walking in to sit down on the chair to her right, between the bed and the window; a small Tupperware was placed onto her bedside cabinet, filled with something which moved like liquid but she could see the chunks.

"Something from your kitchen?" she asked hopefully, distracting herself from asking more pertinent questions, "the food here isn't anything to rave about."

"Spinach and chicken potage. All of the iron and protein you could hope for. Honestly? I think it simply warms the soul."

"I could do with a little soul warming."

His eyes were clear but something was wrong, she knew, something was off. Alana fidgeted, putting her kindle down by the tub. She rubbed her hands together, fingers cold. Hannibal waited, as if he understood perfectly that she had something on her mind and needed to say it in her own time. He had always been so very patient with her. Supportive and encouraging. She tried to focus on those times as a distraction but it failed miserably.

Why has no one said anything? She thought again and again, Why won't anyone talk about him? The thought of it made her eyes water slightly until there was a sheen there.

"Hannibal?" she said after a pause, sniffing loudly and hearing the hoarseness in her voice return, "Where is Will? I haven't heard anything, I thought he would have come to visit. I mean..." she thought of the kiss but knew, she knew, that wouldn't have kept him away; she looked back to Hannibal who was worrying her with the look of sympathetic grief only just evident on his face, "where is he?" she whispered.

"We...no one knows," he admitted, clasping his hands and looking straight ahead, staring somewhere in between the wall and the cabinet, "he has been missing for a week and a half."

"He's missing?" she said, her brow furrowing with worry, "wh-what does that mean, missing? Is he just not picking up his phone? Because, believe me, he's done that to me before and you really have to hunt him down. I've heard, when he gets upset, I mean, he can go under for weeks and..."

A hand on hers. Alana halted her words so quickly that she almost swallowed them. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Hannibal looked weary when she returned her stare to him.

"Jack Crawford believes..." he hesitated again, tipping his head down slightly, "there have been incidents, since you were hospitalised."

"Gideon?" she asked, having to force the name from her lips quick enough to avoid a memory of grinning teeth.

"No. Let us just say Abel Gideon is lucky to be alive after Will had his way with him."

"What?"

"That is not important, not right now," Hannibal waved over his loaded statement and continued, "Jack believes that the Chesapeake Ripper is responsible for a set of recent homicides," Alana swallowed on hearing the name, "at the third crime scene...he found Will's wallet and identification amidst the bodies."

For an absurd, frightening moment Alana truly believed that Hannibal would say Jack thought Will had lost his mind and killed someone. It was fleeting and sickening and she berated herself moments later for even thinking it was possible. Kind eyes and a soft, jerky smile fluttered in her memory. I never told you how much I cared about you, she thought as she started to cry, oh god I never told you. She did not need to be told, there was only one conclusion left, but Hannibal voiced it regardless.

"He believes that the Chesapeake Ripper has him."

It was late and Donald Sutcliffe really couldn't be bothered to stop when he saw the flashing, yellow hazard lights on the road. Just keep driving, he told himself, just keep going and you'll be home before you know it.

Then, just as he was about to pass, he found himself slowing and pulling in. It was difficult to pass people in need, he thought as she shook his head. He stepped out of his car and looked back at a tall figure approaching.

"Need a hand?" he asked, only just then realising that the vehicle was, ironically, a tow truck; then the figure walked close enough to the light from his car to see and his eyes widened in surprise, "Hannibal? Is that you?"

"Donald," Lecter said in his soft accent that Sutcliffe had always envied for its demure quality, "well this is a surprise."

"What happened," he joked, "swap the Bentley for something a bit more practical?"

"Not at all," Lecter said with a smile, "just something I was going to use and, of course, it breaks down on me. The irony is not lost. You would not, perchance, have jump leads in you boot?"

"Actually no," Sutcliffe said, "I don't, sorry. Umm, do you want me to call a service? Bound to be somewhere near."

"Not necessary," Lecter said, "I would prefer to see if I can fix the problem myself first."

"Same old Hannibal," Sutcliffe said, grinning, "what do you need me to do?"

"If you could take the driver's seat and turn the ignition when I ask, I would be most obliged," Hannibal said as they walked back towards the flashing truck, smiling to himself as he added, "I think it might just be a little problem that needs taking care of."

It had been one month since Jack Crawford had watched Will Graham walk into the crowd, as car horns blared for him to move out of the damn way and the sting of Will's words still struck at him, and he had decided to put his foot down on the gas rather than follow that retreating back and demand answers. As he sat in his kitchen at four in the morning, eating a hazelnut yoghurt at the breakfast bar, he wished, not for the first time, that he had gone after him and given him a piece of his mind.

Made him go back to Quantico with him, even if it had meant facing up to a review board or worse. At least then, he thought bleakly, he would have been safe.

"You know I thought I was the only one who ate those things."

Jack turned to look at his wife standing in the doorway, dressed in a light nightdress under a heavy dressing gown; she looked tired, but then Jack couldn't tell the difference between tired, sick and tired, and resigned anymore. He looked down into the empty yoghurt pot, held in both hands, and turned it slightly.

"I hate them," he shrugged, "but..."

"You were hungry and there was nothing else," she finished for him, walking to the fridge and opening it; she looked up and down, "I'll go to the store tomorrow."

"No, I'll go," he said quickly, "I've been meaning to, just keeps slipping my mind."

"Well, there's a lot on it," she said, "your mind, I mean."

He didn't reply. He knew she didn't want to hear it. Had probably heard enough of it already. He remembered her face when he'd told her, after a small amount of half hearted badgering on Phyllis's part, why he hadn't been home very much recently and, when he had, why all he did was sleep. He wasn't sure what she would think, whether she wouldn't care, would care too much, or would judge him as badly as he did himself. Maybe she did all of them, but what she had said struck deeper than any rebuke could have. Four words said in a low voice as she stared at her hands.

"That poor, sweet boy."

Then she had left the room. Left him standing there on his own with the weight of two lives resting on his shoulders. Not a boy, he had wanted to tell her, a man who knew what he signed up for when he took the job! Desperate words meant to rid him of his guilt. He couldn't bring himself to say them.

They'd looked back through everything, twice, three times, four times over already. Nothing to tell them where Will had gone that night. No sign of his car, no sign of his phone, no sign of just about anything. The hospital had run the blood samples they'd managed to take while Will had been out for the count and had been able to tell them he was suffering from a severe infection but, without further examination, they had no idea where it was stemming from. Beverly had looked back through his medical history but could only see one appointment with a neurological specialist, Doctor Sutcliffe, which apparently hadn't come to anything.

Smoke and more smoke. Even Abigail Hobbs had been sucked into the void along with Will. One whole month and not a trace of either. He had been over and over in his mind, trying to make his theory of her fit. For a frantic few weeks he had even wanted to pin Will's disappearance on her as well. Only Will had been right; usually was, irritatingly. Jack couldn't see her doing the things he had wanted to believe she could. He couldn't see Abigail as the killer her father had been.

He looked up at her now as she closed the fridge.

Bella, Bella, Bella!

She was still so beautiful to him, no matter what. No matter what happened she would always be the woman who had linked her arm with his as they walked along the promenade and had told him the names of the constellations. His beautiful, bright Bella.

"Hey, c'mere a minute," he said.

She gave him a small frown but walked over to stand beside him. He reached up and touched her cheek softly before leaning in for a kiss. She tasted faintly of toothpaste. A hand appeared on his shoulder and he leaned back.

"I love you," he said.

"I know," she replied tiredly, rubbing his shoulder, "come back to bed. You'll do no one any good exhausted."

It wasn't that he was jealous, not really. His home was just as grand and his car was just as elite, but still, Donald Sutcliffe had to admit that he admired the refined nature of Hannibal Lecter's house.

"I am sorry, dinner is not exactly to plan," the door was answered by a subtly flustered Hannibal wearing a chef's apron beneath a deep maroon shirt; he accepted the bottle of wine offered and motioned for Sutcliffe to enter.

"Did you know you have five dogs in your back garden?" Sutcliffe asked, looking over his shoulder as Hannibal walked into the kitchen.

"I am quite aware," Hannibal said, a small quirk to his lips.

"Wouldn't have taken you for an animal lover," Sutcliffe said, "too many extraneous messes."

"They do not belong to me," Hannibal said, "I am watching them for a friend. I hate to ask this of a guest, but would you mind slicing these for me? Finely as you can."

Very soon Donald found himself cutting green peppers into thin slivers while Lecter busied around the kitchen putting everything together.

"Seems like I'm helping out a lot lately," Sutcliffe said as he sliced.

"Yes, I am most grateful for your help with the truck," Lecter said, not even sparing him a glance, "it was fortuitous timing."

"If that's what you want to call it," Sutcliffe shrugged.

A silence which he could only describe as precarious followed his statement. Hannibal pulled a slim rack of ribs from the oven and placed them on the counter before looking up. After a moment's scrutiny beneath those steady eyes Sutcliffe wished he could just shrug it off. Don't start what you can't finish, he told himself sternly, I'm not here to be a dupe.

"Am I wrong?" he pushed further, "Only I read in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago that our mutual friend has conveniently gone missing."

"I do believe he was friends with only one of us," Hannibal said, pulling out a large carving knife from a dedicated drawer.

"Don't beat around the bush, Hannibal," Sutcliffe said, "Will Graham goes missing and all of a sudden I'm bumping into you on country roads and getting invites to dinner. If you're worried I'm going to say something to the Feds about our agreement then don't sweat over it. I'd be in just as much crap as you if I did."

"It did not cross my mind that you would," Hannibal said; bullshit, Sutcliffe thought, though he didn't voice it, "but sometimes it is better to test the waters before diving into them."

"Don't tell me..." Sutcliffe looked up, "you're part of the investigation looking for him?"

"I will take it as an insult that you are so shocked," Hannibal said as he finished his carving (perfectly done, Sutcliffe noted with annoyance), put his knife down carefully and walked around the counter, "Will Graham is a very dear friend of mine. I wish nothing more than to see him safe."

"If you're found to have been hiding his illness so you could perform a psychological study, you do realise your career is over, right? Over as in 'never-coming-back' over?"

"I am well aware."

"Wow."

"Should I even ask?"

"Nothing," Sutcliffe shrugged, "just that you must be really into this guy to risk it."

"It is not often that one finds someone they could consider a soul mate."

It was such a surprising confession that Sutcliffe stepped back from the counter to turn and look at Lecter. He needed to see his face to gauge the sincerity there. Only he picked just the wrong moment, ending up colliding with Hannibal as he walked back around the counter, elbow jarred and his hand slipping, sending the knife in his hand straight across his index and middle fingers.

"Shit!" he couldn't contain the curse at the flaring pain in his hand.

"Apologies," Hannibal said strictly as he quickly took hold of his shoulders and steered him to the sink, "I should have warned you how sharp I keep my knives."

"I shouldv'e guessed, I suppose," Sutcliffe said, hissing as Hannibal deftly began wrapping a tea towel across his wounded hand, "your scalpel was never dull, after all."

"Wait here and I will fetch my kit," Hannibal said before leaving.

Well, Sutcliffe thought as he stood, his hand pulsing in stinging agony and the smell of wonderfully cooked meat and fresh vegetables mixing with the iron tang of blood, if he was going to be cut open and then put back together in anyone's house it might as well be Hannibal Lecter's. His stitches had always been the most highly praised when they trained together, as had his incisions.

Brian Zeller cursed his way around the parking lot.

"I swear, if I find out who owns that fucking Volvo that keeps parking in my spot," he said tiredly, "I'm going to put something in their engine that they'll never forget."

"Sugar in the gas tank?" Beverly suggested with a yawn.

"I was thinking graphite under the distributor cap," Brian said with a shrug, "but if you're thinking gas tank metal filings are better than sugar. Or styrene; freezes up the engine couple of miles down the road."

"I'm not going to ask why you know all this," she said, raising her eyebrows as they finally found an empty space.

"Misspent youth, followed by spending my adult life surrounded by chemicals and chemists. Word of advice? Never piss off a chemist."

"Well, I'm just glad it was my carburettor which was giving mine trouble, or I'd be suspicious."

"I didn't do your car in," Brian almost sing-songed, "come on, I'll get the coffee on if you mock up the charts."

It looked like she was the first one in. Beverly turned on the lights and set about flicking on the various switches on the walls, turning on her myriad of machines, listening as the printer booted up with a series of clunks and whines, logging in at her PC and pulling up the charts she had started the night before. She called Trace and was glad Mallory Dhvarnas was already in and answering the phone. Mallory was new and green, a tiny lab tech who looked about fifteen in her white coat, but she was bright and enthusiastic and Beverly soaked it in. She spent a couple of minutes just talking, because she needed it, and then Mallory said she'd send over the results for the fluid they'd found near the latest body.

Then, once she was done, she printed everything out and headed along to the autopsy room.

Today she imagined Will to be wearing his scruffy blue jeans, the red shirt that she'd always thought he must have had since he was a teenager to get it that faded, sleeves rolled up, and his thick rimmed glasses to ward off having to look anyone in the eye. She imagined that he nodded to her as she entered and she gave him a smile.

"What d'you think?" she said as she opened the third drawer and, with one strong pull, rolled out their latest find, "you would have loved this, but I think you would have hated it too. You don't like traumatised kids, yeah? Me neither."

The silence was telling so she filled it by snapping her fingers a couple of times, listening to the sound ring against the steel walls.

"I think whoever did it has problems with family," she hypothesized distantly as she rolled out the next drawer, "Maybe he's an orphan. It seems like he doesn't get it, or maybe gets it too well. I mean who else takes mom and dad and leaves two kids asleep in the next room to find this in the morning?"

She imagined Will would have said something dryly analytical, maybe like he wants to foster an independence that he never had or he didn't plan well, ran out of time; happens to green killers too eager for their first taste. Will had never postulated on 'someones' or 'perps' or 'this or that person'; he had worked in 'he did' or 'she did', like they were next door neighbours he was reluctantly getting to know. Beverly had tried, briefly, to change her way of thinking into that dead certainty but it didn't take. She felt too close to them when she talked that way; it had scared her.

She put her paperwork onto the table and sat down, waiting for the others. It always felt wrong, sitting here acting as if nothing was happening. She knew life kept going and they couldn't stop for every bump and hiccup, but the thought of Will falling to the wayside made her insides churn. It was as if the world itself was rolling on without them.

It was quiet and she stared at the wall.

"I know you're ok," she said, hating that she had to whisper it for fear of jinxing herself, "you are, right?"

It was in the quiet that she felt the worst. She looked down at the floor, let out and puff of breath and closed her eyes.

Phyllis Crawford had decided, on waking up that morning, that she was feeling impatient today. Impatient to get out of the shower because it bored her, impatient to see her husband come home not looking like he'd had another chunk ripped out of his waning ability to cope, impatient to have the nurses stop lecturing her on how much longer she'd have for certain if she would agree to the course of chemotherapy, impatient for things to come to a god damned finish and leave her out of this constant, endless waiting.

Most of all she was impatient to arrive at her appointment and have her weekly dose of being regarded with calm, analytical professionalism and a surprising lack of judgement.

"Good afternoon Mrs Crawford," Dr. Lecter greeted her courteously, as always, "please come in."

Though recently she felt the last one had been tainted somewhat. Not that she resented it, more that she felt she didn't have the energy for it and that, in itself, made her feel like a terrible person. The last thing she needed right now was to think that being selfish was a sin. Yet, feeling sorry for Dr. Lecter even as he helped her was as difficult not to do and it was tiring.

"I've never been good at being truly sure of anything," she said tightly as she sat in the chair, unable to relax, "it's a definite concept. I don't like definites. Or I suppose I didn't before all this."

"Definites tend to impose themselves on our lives," Hannibal agreed, "rather than be something we choose."

"I suppose I should be forgiving," she said, taking a sharp sigh, "only I don't know if that is a definite or not, it's more..."

She hesitated because it was precariously close to being something she actually wanted to talk about. Phyllis had already told herself that she would keep those for herself, or maybe Jack when everything was coming to an end. Yet, when she looked up she found Dr. Lecter watching her patiently, face unassuming and calm, and the words seemed to tumble out without her giving them full permission.

"It is more like forgiveness is a profound state," she said, "I've been having a lot of those recently. More unconscious than conscious. I found myself staring at a tree yesterday. Can you believe that? A tree, as if I'd never seen one before. And I was thinking, look at that, what a beautiful thing. Why have I never noticed what a beautiful thing trees are up until now? Why have I been left with such a small amount of time with which to appreciate all these beautiful things that I'm noticing for the first time?"

She laughed, low and barely there.

"Then you know what?" she asked; Hannibal shook his head lightly in response, "I realised that being profound is so very boring. Everything is so overdramatic and time consuming and indulgent. It takes forever and it has no point in the end. I remember the times when I used to be spiteful and angry and passionate and...and it seems so much more. Now I know that everyone should cherish being a petty little fool sometimes. It means you aren't dying."

It may have been the first time she had seen Hannibal Lecter genuinely smile, beyond simple politeness. She wondered if most things he did now had the same veneer of fake calm overlaying a tumult of emotion that was a constant in her life. Somehow she couldn't see that for him. The man was a solid state of control at all times, relaxed and seemingly carefree but rigid and reserved.

Only she could see the tightness in his shoulders sometimes, the thinness to his lips whenever conversation steered towards love and companionship. She wished she didn't have to feel so very sorry for him.

"Then you perhaps feel that forgiveness should be less profound?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"I think I've realised that forgiveness is..." she searched for the words, "you don't choose to do it. You can't. It simply happens to you."

"Has forgiveness simply happened to you?"

"I'm in between deaths at the moment," she said with a grim smile that travelled nowhere near her eyes, "things have become a lot sharper and I think I'll just have to wait my turn to find meaning."

"The punctuation at the end of a sentence gives meaning to every word, every space that proceeded it."

"They moved my punctuation mark, Dr. Lecter. They're always moving it. And you moved my meaning."

"I hoped to let you see your own meaning, not manipulate it."

"I'm not here because I want to be here. I'm here because I won't abandon Jack, not again."

"Love and death are the great hinges on which all human sympathies turn," Lecter said, tipping his head slightly to the left and down (lips thinning, she noticed) "what we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others, that lives on beyond us."

As she left he walked her to the door, holding it open like a courtly gentleman, always out of arms reach. She walked through and tipped her head in gratitude. She was at the doorway back into the lobby before she stopped, turned and spoke before she lost the will to.

"Would you forgive him?"

Dr Lecter stopped in his tracks, turning back sharply to regard her as a startled rabbit would a fox. She thought he looked charmingly anxious for all of a couple of seconds before his mask slid back into place.

"I am sorry, who do you mean?" he asked.

"The Chesapeake Ripper," she said, not sugar coating it, "he took something precious from you. I was just wondering how far forgiveness could stretch, if even you could give it. If maybe...anyone could ever hope to be forgiven, even by someone they hate."

He considered it for far longer than she'd expected him to. Honestly she had thought he might politely decline an answer or even ignore the question altogether. Instead, she was given something she did not anticipate.

"I would hope that he would expect forgiveness, as any other would. Whether he receives it in return, that is perhaps up to your factor of 'just happening'."

"You miss him, don't you," she asked, "Will."

"Every day for three months," he said without hesitation, so much so that he seemed to surprise himself with the admission and lifted his right hand to fuss with his tie for a moment, smoothing it flat, "apologies, Mrs Crawford, but I must prepare for my next client."

"Of course," she said, refusing to apologise for her words; she felt they were somehow justified.

Everyone deserved to be reminded of those they loved, she thought, even if it hurt.

"You really are doing tremendously well," Hannibal said with a small smile as he watched Alana Bloom walk the length of the room without crutches, "quite the survivor."

"I thought it was going to be worse," she admitted, "honestly? When this started I thought I'd never be able to walk again without something there holding me up."

"The human body's ability to adapt and overcome has never ceased to amaze me," he said.

"That why you moved from medicine of the body to medicine of the mind?"

"I believe the same philosophy can be applied to a wounded mind. Time and perseverance: the two great healers."

She stopped when she reached the doorway, holding out her arm to steady herself against the handle. It took a few minutes to build up the need to say it, enough to overcome the want to never voice it.

"No news?"

"...No. There have been no developments."

"I thought Beverly said they might have found his car."

"False alarm."

"Ok. Well..."

The hand on her arm allowed her to walk back to her sofa without fear of falling. It was nice, being home, even if it was difficult getting around. She made do. Like Hannibal said, time and perseverance. Only it didn't seem to work for her mind as well as for her mending physicality.

"You don't actually have to cook me dinner," she said, smiling softly as he sat down beside her on the couch and opened the three pill bottles lined up on the coffee table, "I can just order in."

"I would not hear of it," Hannibal looked affectionately affronted, "I have something very nutritious in store. It will have you running again in no time. Now, I believe you are to take these?"

"Doctor's orders," she said with a wobbly smile, "could I ask you to get me some water?"

"Of course."

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid, but the feeling had been getting stronger and stronger these past few weeks. The dreams had been getting worse, as had the nightmares. Sometimes she couldn't tell which was worse, the nightmares where she screamed and screamed and no one came to help her, or the bog standard dreams where she walked into the lecture theatre at Quantico and Will was standing there, sorting through his notes and wearing that small frown that always wrinkled his forehead when he concentrated.

"Here you are."

She took the glass and then swallowed the pills, one after the other. She finished the water and put it down with a clack on the glass coffee table. The sunlight was low in the sky and it cast odd shadows in the open plan of the apartment, stretching long and thin over the wooden floorboards. She wondered, briefly morose, if Will could see the same shadows she was seeing wherever he was.

Or if he couldn't because...

"I don't know how long I can keep this up," she admitted to the silence.

"I know," Hannibal said, sounding calmly resigned.

"Every day I think about where he is, what he's thinking, what I'm thinking back," she said, pushing her hands into the soft material of the sofa, "and every day I get nothing. There's nothing there and I don't know how long I can last before it eats me alive."

"There is no answer more hated than no answer at all," Hannibal said, looking to her.

"Don't do that to me," she said, her tone blatantly upset; he frowned lightly, "don't sit there and hide behind your methods. I can't have you distanced too. I need someone here, someone who knows what I mean, someone who..."

The hand on hers made her jerk backwards in memory, to the hospital where Hannibal had placed his hand on hers for comfort. A comfort. Yes, that's what it was. That's what she needed. Couldn't she have that? Just that, while she held onto her dreams and her nightmares and wished, justwished...

She had pulled him into the kiss before she got the chance to deliberate it. Deliberating would have only stopped her. She was scared that he would push her away but instead there were a few moments of no reaction at all, then a hand. A hand against her back, holding her steady. She was not encouraged but she wasn't rejected. When she pulled back she didn't have the energy to feel mortified.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, "I shouldn't have."

"It is alright," Hannibal said, surprising her, "we are both grieving. Closeness with another is a natural craving when suffering loss. We are both grieving for Will," he looked past her, as if seeing something that wasn't there, "We are both a little lost in his wake."

That they fell back together wasn't something she could claim as inevitability, Alana thought, but at the very least Hannibal's sure hands and warm lips kept the nightmares at bay.

By the time she pulled into her driveway Beverly Katz was in tears. She couldn't stop, she just couldn't stop. She wanted to, so very badly, but she couldn't.

The last time she had cried like this had been at her father's funeral. That same inability to stem the sheer emotion welling up inside and flooding out. She berated herself for it, felt thoughtless for it. And the stupidest thing, she thought angrily as she locked her car and jogged to the house, had set it off.

"Hey hun?" she heard Nigel calling from the kitchen as she clumsily locked the door, "Did you get that white wine? Just this sauce has turned into kind of a disaster area, so, yeah I think we should just drink the bastard instead of using it to..."

Hurrying down the corridor had been her plan; quickly into the bathroom, calm down, tidy up, no one would have to know. Only once she was inside and she heard Nigel's voice it only made it worse. She stood leaning against the corridor wall with her hands pressed against her mouth. When she looked up he was standing in the doorway staring at her in shock, sleeves rolled up and apron around his waist. Another two seconds passed and suddenly she was enveloped.

"Oh god, is everything alright?" he asked quickly, his hug tight, "Did they..." he started delicately, "have they found him?"

"No," she said, her voice tainted with sobs as she shook her head, "it's nothing I just, god, I just feel like shit today."

"Hey, ok, it's not nothing," Nigel said with a small laugh of disbelief, "you don't breakdown for nothing."

"It's stupid," she said, pulling back a little and hugging her arms around her waist, "god, I'm such an idiot, I just..."

He backed off and waited for her to talk in her own time. She appreciated it even though she wished he would just hold her again. It had felt nice, curbed the irrational fear in her. She looked back to him and wiped her eyes harshly.

"I was..." she cleared her throat, "I was driving out from work and I turned right, you know to come home? Automatic. Then I remembered you wanted wine, so I had to drive right up to the intersection and back and..." she shook her head, "you remember Will's boyfriend, right?"

"Dr. Lecter the head chef?" Nigel said, lifting his eyebrows and letting out a sigh, "after his in depth lecture on the proper way to make dauphinoise potatoes how could I forget him?"

"He made two comments, Nigel, honestly," Beverly shrugged off Nigel's rebuke, hands on her hips, "anyway, look it's just I drove back past work and I guess Alana Bloom has been coming back in to do a trial run of lectures again. She was pretty bad after the attack and it's taken her months just to get back on her feet so...god, I'm rambling aren't I?"

"You sure are," he smiled.

She took a breath and felt foolish.

"I saw them kissing in the parking lot," she said finally, shrugging even as she felt tears escaping down over her fraught smile, "and I ran a red light doing it. I just thought..." even thinking it made it seem real, "I just thought that's it, isn't it. Will's gone and we're never going to see him again. If someone you love gives up on you, you're gone right?"

"Oh Bev," Nigel shook his head, looking like he'd love to give her an answer that he didn't have.

"It's been four moths Nigel," she said as if he were trying to argue with her, "and nothing, not even a ransom, not a body part in the mail, nothing."

"I know," he said, nodding.

"He doesn't deserve it," she said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, "Will. We should have been there for him and we weren't. Now even Hannibal's given up on him. I can't stand it, this. We just keep going on as if nothing has happened, but it has and no one wants to say it. Fucking hell, I hate this."

Nigel seemed to understand it was time to move back in and Beverly returned the hug this time. She held him as tightly as he held her. She realised she was no longer crying but the horrible, sinking hollowness hadn't left her.

"How long would it take you?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"To give up on me?"

"I wouldn't," an instant answer as Nigel pulled back enough to look her in the eyes, "not ever. Even if they showed me a body I don't think I could really...jees this got morbid. Put it this way," he said, kissing her softly, "I love you, I'll always love you and as far as I'm concerned there's no one else for me. And if Doctor Prissy Pants wants to give up on Will then let him. Doesn't mean you have to."

The smile was almost involuntary but she was thankful for it regardless.

"Oh god," she managed to laugh through her choked up throat, smothering the sound into Nigel's shoulder, "please don't ever let him hear you calling him prissy pants."

"Well he is," Nigel said, looking pleased that he'd managed to put a smile back on her face, "I mean who wears a green, blue and yellow plaid suit in this day and age?"

She laughed into his shirt and let him continue deconstructing Lecter's fashion sense. Somehow he'd managed to find the mote of rationality she'd overlooked.

Doesn't mean you have to. And she wouldn't.

Half three in the morning and Donald Sutcliffe was woken by, what proceeded to sound like, something falling softly down the stairs. He blinked, patted around for the light switch, and had an odd moment where he opened his mouth to tell Barbara to stay in bed while he checked it out.

"God," he said to himself, rubbing his face as he sat up, "get a grip."

Two and half years since his divorce and he still found himself waking up expecting to see her face. A spike of jealousy gnawed through him as he got up and grabbed the baseball bat from his cupboard. He wondered if David, what was his second name? Brass? Brissen? He didn't care. He wondered if he gave her as good of a life as he had or if the they were just poor schmucks together now. He always ended up wondering spiteful things when he woke up alone.

He took a deep breath and reigned in his temper, just a little, holding the bat tightly as he walked along the landing to the top of the stairs. There was nothing there. He crept down the stairs slowly, careful not to catch the ones that creaked. The living room was quiet and a little cold, the kitchen smelling slightly of onions, but he couldn't see a lurking intruder or anything out of place.

He sighed roughly, rubbing at his face.

Like he didn't get enough sleep already, he thought as he trudged back up the stairs to bed.

It was dark and the phone was ringing. Jack Crawford jerked awake with a snort and pulled himself up against the headboard, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp. He heard Phyllis moving beside him and quickly answered the shrill ring.

"Yes?" he asked tersely.

"Jack..." a voice said, barely audible, "Jack..."

"Who is this?"

"Jack... it's Will."

"Will?" Jack's brain tried to snap him wide awake, "wh-"

"I don't know where I am," it was recognisable now, Will's voice, though somewhat hoarse and soft.

"Th-think," he ordered blearily, "Do you remember where you were taken?" do something, do something. He scrambled for the covers while memories of Miriam flashed through his head, "Will? Speak to me!"

"I can't see anything," Will said after another agonising moment, "I was so wrong. I was so wrong about everything. Please... Jack... I don't want to die like..."

Beep beep beep beep beep...

Jack sat with the dead line in his hand until he realised Phyllis was pulling herself up to sit beside him, her face concerned and brow furrowed in a frown. Jack Crawford felt sick to his stomach and furious all at once. His head swam and he put the phone down heavily even as he was unable to let go of the receiver.

"What's going on?" she asked.

He looked at her and swallowed, hoping that the sheer panic did not show on in his eyes. Reaching out to touch her face was the only grounding thing he could think to do.

"I have to go into work," he said.

"I already told you, it was the same, almost word for word," Beverly said, "I looked at the transcript of the conversation you had with Miriam Lass, and Will's is almost identical. And no, before you ask, I couldn't trace it. It didn't even show up on your records."

"Just like last time with Miriam," Brian said, shaking his head.

Sombre. That was how Jimmy Price would describe the atmosphere. Grave. Their boss, always a driving force, looked like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was at that moment. In a truth which Jimmy would never voice, he thought Jack Crawford looked like he was as culpable for Will's disappearance as the Chesapeake Ripper was.

"Let's go over this one more time," Jack said eventually, "maybe there's something we missed."

Nearly five months down the line, Jimmy Price thought as he looked around the room at the cork boards carefully covered in papers and photographs, and the similarly stacked table, he really didn't think there could be anything they'd missed. But maybe the phone call could reverse that, he thought, the phone call that gave them all hope even as it taunted.

"I've been through his notes a thousand times," Beverly said, sounding tetchy, but then Beverly always did when someone pushed for evidence that wasn't there; she was pragmatic and thorough, more so than any of them Jimmy thought, "everything is still the same as last time we looked."

"Most things he left us aren't very helpful, I guess Will kept what he thought in his head and didn't write them down," Brian said, lifting up a printed sheet of paper and scratching his jaw "only thing we have is this. He hadn't changed his profile on the Ripper other than a few scribbled notes."

"Tell me," Jack said, rubbing tired eyes.

"You already know them," Brian said without thinking.

"Then let me know them again," Jack said loudly.

Brian nodded, refusing to argue, and focused on the paper in his hands.

"In the margin beside 'he thought of himself as an esthete, a superior being to those lowly creatures whom he slaughtered' he's written..." he cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows once, sharply, and tipped his head in resignation, "he's written 'because he is' in black biro."

Well, certainly sounded like something a madman would write. Not that Jimmy hadn't always suspected that Will was more than a little unhinged, just that they generally never really saw it on paper. It was the sort of note, Jimmy thought as images of Gideon shifted through his head, that someone able to nearly kill a man with his bare hands would make. But then Jimmy had always liked Will; he was fiercely intelligent, loyal and didn't hesitate to speak his mind, no matter how it sounded when it came out his mouth. Jimmy felt his diverse feelings were difficult to reconcile.

"How bad was Will's fever exactly?" Jimmy asked, looking to Jack.

"...Pretty bad," the man sighed, looking away, "think it peaked at one hundred and eight."

"Jesus," Beverly shook her head, "he was lucky to be standing. He must have been out of his mind with something like that in his system."

"Well," Brian continued, "the other notes are just as, umm, controversial. The last one is the only one which makes it sound like he was maybe making progress. All it says is 'Bressinden, hyphen, Personal, full stop, Empathy, question mark'."

"Will found something out about Bressinden's murder, we've already got that," Beverly said, picking at her lip with thumb and forefinger, "but what? He sent me a text that night, said he was looking into something from home. But he also said," she leafed through a couple of papers on the large desk between them before finding what she needed, "he said 'I keep thinking about the things we're already missing' then 'why was Bressinden so personal, why leave a note'. There's something in there, something about the page left in Bressinden's mouth."

"The Iliad," Jimmy said, tapping a few keys on his laptop to bring up an enlarged photograph of the torn page on the projector, "attributed to Homer. Full of blood and gore, I guess that makes it relevant on some level."

Jimmy heard the door open but was too busy talking to turn and look.

"And liars," Jack said, staring at the blood stained lettering, "why do you think the Ripper chose this particular page? And why tear it in half?"

"Perhaps it is what is different," came a familiar voice from over his right shoulder; Jimmy looked up to find Hannibal Lecter standing there, oddly subdued in a grey glen check suit and matching tie over his white shirt, looking up at the projector screen, "and not the same, that we are supposed to see. I am sorry I am late, I was detained unexpectedly."

"Nothing major I hope?" Jack asked.

"Domestic issues," he said, smiling politely, "nothing to worry over. I..." Jimmy looked up when Lecter hesitated; he didn't think he'd ever heard the man do so before, "you told me you had a phone call."

"It was Will," Jack said defiantly, as if expecting to be questioned, "I'm certain."

Lecter watched Jack for a few seconds before breaking eye contact and looking down at the table before him. Not that Jimmy would ever dream of saying it to the man in person, but he thought Lecter looked reasonably lost at the news. He watched as the man leaned down against the table with both hands, weariness evident across his slumped shoulders.

"Then he is alive," was all Hannibal said, closing his eyes.

"I'd stake my own life on it," Jack said.

"The phone call was just like Miriam's," Beverly said; Jimmy wondered why she was giving Lecter the cold eyes but didn't speak up, "nearly word for word. We think Will was being made to recite it."

"Will always told me that Miriam was different, just like he insisted Bressinden was too," Jack stated, "he said that the reason we never saw a body was because the Ripper had no reason to humiliate her, just to get rid of her. Said he might even have respected her."

"She found him," Hannibal said, "not many can claim that."

"You think he'd do the same for Will?" Brian asked, his brow held low, "I mean Will was hunting him, actively hunting him. Will said the Ripper thought it was a joke we were even attempting to catch him. Wouldn't he find Will funny then, the same as everyone else?"

"I don't think so," Beverly said, frowning as she picked up a picture of Bressinden; Jimmy noticed that Hannibal was watching her intently.

"What is it Bev?" Jimmy asked.

"I just..." she shook her head, rubbing at her right eye, "Will thought the Copycat was showing off for the Ripper until he realised they were one and the same. Then he said the same thing in the car remember? He thought the Ripper was just 'showing off'. What if...what if the Ripper was showing off for Will?"

"Why pick out Will?" Jack asked, although he sounded interested, "Why not all of us?"

"Because not all of us had a relation to David Bressinden," Beverly said, "and Will seemed to think there was something different about that kill. Maybe the Ripper wanted to, I don't know, give him a gift? Impress him?"

"Well it seems kind of pointless," Brian said, "I mean how would he even know if Will was impressed or not?"

"I don't know," Beverly admitted, "but it's something."

A natural break in conversation. Jimmy swallowed down the need to chip in and looked at the disarray of papers on the table, trying desperately, he thought, to lead them somewhere useful if only they could see it.

"Jack," Jimmy heard Hannibal walk around behind him as the tall man approached Crawford, "may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Yeah, of course," Jack nodded before walking with Lecter outside, the doors closing behind them.

"I don't understand why I'm even here, to be perfectly honest with you agent Crawford."

Jack had already decided he didn't like Donald Sutcliffe. The man was all smiles and pleasantries, but there was an underlying frustration and coldness there that didn't sit well with Jack. What was it Will's addendum to his profile had said? A convincing monster who smiled and laughed before gutting you unawares. Yeah, Jack thought as he watched Sutcliffe under the hot lights, he could see that.

"You're here because it has come to our attention that you have links to an ongoing investigation," Jack said, "into the disappearance of a William Graham. I believe you treated him, about two months ago?"

"Treated might be a little presumptuous," Sutcliffe said, holding up a hand, "he was referred to me by a colleague who thought he might have been suffering from neurological issues. I did a scan, ran some blood tests, even had a follow up appointment but he never kept it. I didn't find anything and I never saw him again after that."

"And that colleague was?"

"Just a colleague," Sutcliffe said.

"Answer the question, Mr. Sutcliffe," Jack said, sitting back in his chair and regarding him coldly.

"His name's Hannibal Lecter," Sutcliffe said, trying to make it sound light but the name came out heavy, "I guess you know him."

"Sure do," Jack said, not looking as surprised as Sutcliffe would have liked he was sure, "so you wouldn't have had contact with Will Graham through Dr Lecter?"

"None whatsoever. I've been to Hannibal's maybe twice for dinner since he contacted me, and not once did I see, speak to or even hear of Will Graham. I don't think you could really call me part of your investigation if this is all you've got, agent Crawford."

"Well, in fact, that's not exactly all," Jack said with faux hesitation, leaning forwards to clasp his hands and regard Sutcliffe, "you see Dr Lecter came to see me yesterday. Told me something interesting about your wife, Barbara?"

"What the hell does..?" Sutcliffe bit out, sitting up straight, face furrowing.

"Said that you were telling him about an affair she had with a man named David Bressinden," Jack said.

"I'm sorry," Sutcliffe said angrily, "do you mind telling me what the damn my private life has to do with Will Graham?"

"As I said, it's part of an ongoing investigation," Jack shrugged, looking unconcerned, "although I am sure you heard about it, right?"

"About what?" Sutcliffe all but shouted.

"David Bressinden's rather unfortunate end," Jack said significantly, "No? It was all over the trained as a surgeon before moving into neurology, isn't that right? I heard you were pretty good too.

"You see, Will's case isn't as simple as a missing persons. We're also on the lookout for a bigger fish. You work near the George Peabody library, don't you Donald?"

A telling silence in which Sutcliffe sat in his chair, staring, before he backed down into it and put his fingers to his lips, rubbing the flesh. He looked up at the agent standing impassively by the door before turning back to Jack.

"I want to call my lawyer."

"Last time I fucking do anyone a god damned favour."

He'd been stupid, stupid and greedy. It was always a failing, it wasn't like he didn't know it, just that he had difficulty dealing with it. And Hannibal Lecter had exploited that fact, just like the man did best.

Donald remembered him, oh he remembered him, because at the time he'd envied him just as much as he still did now. Hannibal the top of the class master of anything you put in front of him. It was spiteful to watch him rise up, always being two steps behind. Watch him sweep the Novartis Research award with that fucking paper on the bio-mechanical properties of tissue-engineered grafts implanted into the arterial circulation.

"You piece of shit," Sutcliffe said as he put his foot down on the gas and overcompensated as the wind buffeted the car, "why do you even remember that? Couldn't stop watching him succeed could you? Now he's here fucking you over!"

Well the lawyer would see about that. He was out under suspicion because they had nothing to hold him on except a hunch (yeah, sure, he thought, a hunch brought on by Lecter he was sure). Once he got home and sorted his head he was going to make an appointment with his lawyer at his office and sort all of this madness out.

Best case scenario they suspended his licence and he could move to another practice discreetly. Worst case scenario he lost his job and the stigma followed him like a bad smell.

"Ah fuck," he said, feeling his face fall and wanting nothing more than to beat something until his hands bled, "fuck! Fuck, fuck, fu-!"

If he'd had both hands on the wheel, he thought, he might have been able to pull out of the way faster. As it was, he barely swerved the oncoming car. His heart raced as he spun the wheel and slammed the breaks, listening to the squeal of tyres and the shattering sound of something heavy and metal rolling down a hill. Crash, crash, crash, hiss.

Donald Sutcliffe sat, shaking and panting clumsily as the wind raged outside, his hands tight around the wheel of his car. He peered up into his rear view mirror, only just able to see the underside of the trees lit up by white steam and red brake lights.

"Jesus," he said, his voice shaking, "oh god. Shit."

He stumbled as he left the car and had trouble closing it against the stormy gale, hurrying over to the bank. It was steep, leading down into a thick mess of trees, with the truck ploughed deep into the trunk of one, splintered and buckled. The bonnet hissed out steam and the cabin was still.

"Anyone..." Sutcliffe shouted over the wind, realising his voice was wavering and clearing his throat, "anyone ok down there!?"

A creak at the car door. He sighed in relief, closing his eyes, then started scrambling down the bank. It was a difficult, steep and not much purchase, but he made it, tumbling a little as he reached the bottom just as the door opened. A man fell out onto the dark grass, thick black coat and black fleece hat. The wind was blessedly stemmed down by the forest.

"Hey, I didn't see you coming," Sutcliffe said as the man wavered to his feet, recovering quickly, "you crazy bastard, you were going the wrong way! You nearly hit me! Are you...are you alrig-?"

He wasn't allowed to finish. The man sprang like a poised cat, grabbing his left shoulder in powerful, gloved hands and wrenching. Sutcliffe called out in alarm, trying to back up, but he tripped on the roots of the trees and the slippery leaves. The man was on him, dropping his knees to either side of Sutcliffe's thighs. Donald tried to scramble backwards but found his hands grabbed and held while a soft, powerful smelling cloth was clamped over his mouth and nose. He struggled wildly, letting out incoherent, muffled yells as he tried to shout, tried to call out...

It was as he hauled in his first lungful of chloroform that he caught sight of the man's face, blinking red, black, red, black in the stuttering light from the tailgate.

Hannibal Lecter looked as if he were regarding a small, mildly interesting insect which had crawled onto his shoe.

Miriam Lass found it difficult to walk what with the ringing in her ears and the woozy shake in her head. She stumbled against the car door, the knife in her right hand grasped tightly, and listened to the hissing sound of steam escaping into the cold night air. Scrambling up the bank was even harder. She couldn't let go of the knife, she thought over and over, don't let go of it, don't let go of it.

She looked back to the car behind her, ploughed into the tree, the bonnet furrowed like a discarded candy bar. The man behind the wheel wasn't moving. She wanted to take her eyes off of his leaning form but she couldn't.

At the top of the verge she found the road. She wobbled dangerously on the edge, nearly tipping back towards the slope, but found her balance and walked out onto the dark asphalt.

The sound of screeching tyres didn't reach her until she turned to find twin bright lights illuminating the darkness. She looked up, shaking, wide eyed and numb, as a woman stepped out of her car and held a hand to her mouth.

"Oh my god," the woman breathed, "are you ok?"

Miriam dropped the knife and fell to her knees.

"She's alright?"

"Yes Jack, she's ok, just a bit shaken up."

The ground and the walls were alight with dancing red and blue lights, and sirens as further back up arrived. It was windy, blowing a gale more than they needed, and they huddled around the SUV as Jack Crawford stood amongst them looking like a bull ready to break the door down.

"But she can't tell us where Will is?"

"She doesn't know," Brian added, grabbing at his hat at the wind picked up, "She can't remember much."

"Does she remember stabbing Sutcliffe to death?" Jimmy asked,

"Yeah, yeah she remembers that," Beverly said, "not that she seems too rough about it."

"Can't blame her," Jimmy added.

"Look, what we need now is focus people!" Jack shouted over the gusts of the storm "We're searching his house as we speak but so far, nothing useful other than the hell he has in his basement."

"What, he got some sort of torture dungeon down there or something?" Jimmy sounded like he was trying to joke to lighten the mood.

"Don't joke about it Jimmy," Jack said darkly, "you'll see the photos soon enough. Anything from Sutcliffe?"

"Just what he had on him," Jimmy said, looking abashed, "wallet, phone, keys."

"Brian, you take the phone, see if he made any calls, see if he has anything in there that can give us a clue," Jack said quickly and Brian nodded, rushing off, "Beverly I want you through his finances like a house on fire, you got me? Timeshares, rented property, storage lockers; he has it? I want to know about it."

"I'm on it," she said, nodding determinedly as she pulled on her hat, keeping her hair from flailing wildly.

"Jimmy take the wrecked tow truck and Sutcliffe's car, it's in his garage."

"Right away!" Jimmy turned and hurried to the nearest tech to begin having the vehicles hauled to the lab.

An hour and a half later Jack got a call from Beverly Katz that made him pump his fist in the air, regardless of the looks he was getting from the agents around him.

"He has a cabin up near Midland Park, I'm sending you the details," she said as Jack rushed for the parking lot, "looks like he must have paid in cash but the security deposit had to go through a transfer. It came from Sutcliffe's account. I called the owner but I can't get a reply."

"You know where it is?"

"Heck yes I do because I'm sitting outside it right now."

"Wait for me, do not go in there alone."

"I'll be here."

By the time Jack arrived, a cavalry at his heels, Beverly Katz was standing by the front door of what appeared to be a pleasant cabin in the woods, hiding on the porch from the downpour of rain which had started half an hour ago.

"It's locked!" she called as Jack, agent Conrad and agent Benning rushed to her side while the others set up a perimeter.

"Conrad, get it open!" Jack shouted.

The stillness of the cabin was belied by the belting of metal against wood followed by rushing feet and thundering rain. It seemed too homely inside, too cosy and nurturing. Jack, weapon drawn, hurried through the living room with its sofas and its fresh flowers, out into a short hallway with his team at his heels. He looked back and signaled the other two to one room, and Beverly to join him. They sidled out purposefully, each taking up position.

Jack counted down with his fingers; three, two, one, crack as wood splintered and they rushed in. Jack darted into the dark room with Beverly behind him, weapons up. A small bedroom greeted them, cold and unlit and empty.

"Shit," he heard Beverly curse.

"Agent Crawford!" an urgent cry from the next room stopped his heart from plummeting.

The other room was not dark, instead barely lit and filled with a smell that clashed with the comfortable and domestic setting; it smelled of hospital.

"I knew it," Beverly said with a guttural joy in her voice as she stood beside him, staring into the room where agent Conrad and agent Benning looked back, holstering their weapons, "I knew it."

Despite the pallor of his skin, his closed eyes, the slightly sunken state of his face, the wires slinking up against his skin like leeches and the plethora of machinery he was hooked to, if the EKG machine by the bed was to be believed then Will Graham was alive.

Jack Crawford holstered his gun and, without warning, let out a whooping yell of triumph.