Smiling indulgently, Dr Lecter sat back in his chair. The dark blond man who sat opposite him, shielded only by the wide expanse of mahogany desk, looked more uncomfortable than most of his patients, never mind his victims, ever had the decency to look. "You're not on trial, Will," the doctor tried to reassure. For some reason he couldn't fathom it seemed important to make his new friend feel at ease. "You came to see me, remember?" Will Graham finally stopped looking around the strange office and gazed directly at the psychologist whose advice he sought. "I know. I'm sorry, Dr Lecter. I get nervous around doctors." "All doctors, or just those with an interest in your mind?" His odd question was answered with an uncertain smile and he sat forward. "It can't be pleasant, spending your life chasing men and women whose thoughts bend to killing and mutilation on the slightest whim. You try to think like them, try to become them. And as you get closer to them, you start to lose yourself." He could tell by the changes on the attractive face, the way it closed down suddenly and the emotions were blocked from even the expressive grey eyes, that he was on the right track. "Let me attempt to put you at ease," Lecter suggested after a short silence. "There's a psychological test that doctors have used on many serial killers and had positive results. I don't hold by testing such men myself. If they're clever enough to avoid capture long enough to make their crimes serial, then they are certainly clever enough to see through such trivial attempts at psycho-analysis." He smiled and shrugged. "But I'll indulge these people this once. "There is a girl. While at her own mother's funeral she meets man she does not know. She thinks he is wonderful, her dream man, the man she would surely marry. She falls in love with him at first sight, there and then, but does not think to ask for his number and later, despite many efforts, cannot find him. A few days later the same girl kills her own sister. Why?" Will frowned, thinking it over. Lecter sat back again, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the tips. He carefully assessed the FBI investigator before him, trying to ascertain the level of threat that he posed. Lecter had been convinced, upon first meeting Will, that the man was too young and too naive to be anything but a small distraction. Now though, no more than twenty minutes later, he was beginning to suspect that Graham would be a danger to him if he did not act soon to divert or end his investigations into the unimaginatively named 'Chesapeake Ripper' very soon. After some minutes of contemplation, Will tilted his head to one side and parted his lips to speak. Lecter was momentarily distracted from his immediate thoughts by the innocent gesture. But Will's answer brought Lecter's attention completely back to the problem at hand. "Because she hoped this man she'd met would turn up to her sister's funeral if he'd turned up to her mother's." It was the answer given by ninety percent of serial killers tested. Never before had Lecter known an innocent man give that answer, for there were so many other reasons that should have occurred first to a rational mind. Lecter stared for just a moment too long. "Is that the wrong answer, Doctor?" "No!" Too fast. "No, not at all. It's a very interesting answer indeed." He regarded Will with renewed respect while his mind weighed up the potential solutions to what had quickly become a very pressing issue. But there was another surprise waiting in the wings. Will was returning his steady regard now, his confidence boosted by the doctor's study of him no doubt. "I need your help profiling the killer." Lecter smiled to himself. He'd often found that simply waiting for a solution to present itself was so much easier than forcing one. "And in return, Will?" His eyebrows furrowed. "In return?" "I want to help you, not just with finding your serial killer but with your nightmares too, with the confusion in your head." Lecter saw the question forming on the other man's lips and brushed it away with a flick of his elegant wrist. "You haven't slept properly in years, you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that in your eyes and your pallor. You hunt down killers, anyone could take a fairly accurate guess at what effect that has on the fragile human mind." "I don't want to talk about it." "I know you don't. But you should. That's my offer, Will, take it or leave it." He seemed to think about it. But after only a few seconds he pushed back his chair and stood, shaking his head, not looking at Lecter any more. The doctor followed him up and stepped around the desk, blocking Will's immediate path to the door. Reaching out, Lecter stroked his knuckles over Will's wrist, down the back of his hand and along his fingers, keeping the touch light while there was no denying its intimacy. "Don't run, Will. You're only running from yourself and in the end you'll never be able to go fast enough or far enough. Let me help you." Still the young man didn't look up. But neither did he try to escape. They simply stood together, the backs of Lecter's fingers pressed against those trembling beneath them. Finally, Will nodded. "Just promise me something," he whispered softly. Moved by the sudden affection he felt for this stranger, Lecter replied, "Anything." "Promise you won't hurt me, when our profile eventually points me to you." |