Chapter 8: THE APPOINTMENT
The briefing room at Quantico smelled like coffee and bureaucracy. I'd arrived early, hoping to review case updates before the morning meeting, but Jack Crawford was already there—phone pressed to his ear, pacing the length of the room with the restless energy of a man receiving news he didn't want.
"I understand the concern. Yes. We'll address it." He caught my eye and nodded toward the coffee station, continuing his conversation. "If that's what's needed, arrange it. Use Alana's recommendation."
I poured coffee and found a seat, pretending not to listen while cataloging every word. Alana would be Alana Bloom—Will Graham's former student, current colleague, the woman who loved him without ever fully understanding him. Her recommendation for what?
Jack ended the call and dropped into a chair across from me. The lines around his eyes had deepened since Minnesota.
"Problems?" I asked.
"Politics." He rubbed his temples. "Will needs psychological clearance to continue fieldwork. The brass is concerned about his stability after the Nichols scene. They want an independent evaluation."
My coffee cup froze halfway to my lips. "An evaluation. By whom?"
"Alana recommended a colleague. Dr. Hannibal Lecter—psychiatrist, excellent credentials, published work on the psychological effects of violence exposure." Jack shook his head. "I don't like pulling Will from active investigation, but if it gets the bureaucrats off my back..."
Hannibal Lecter. The name landed like a grenade in the center of my thoughts.
"When?" My voice came out steady. A minor miracle.
"Lecter's coming to Quantico tomorrow. Initial consultation, then we'll see if ongoing sessions are warranted." Jack stood, gathering files. "The Shrike case is close to breaking. I need Will functional and cleared. Whatever Lecter can do to make that happen, I'll take."
He left. I sat alone in the briefing room, staring at my cooling coffee, while the implications crashed through my understanding.
Tomorrow. Hannibal Lecter would meet Will Graham tomorrow. The psychological manipulation would begin tomorrow. The careful destruction of Will's sanity, the isolation, the cultivation—all of it starting in less than twenty-four hours.
And I couldn't stop it.
---
My hotel room became a research station. Laptop open, files spread across the bed, the detritus of room service containers marking time's passage as I compiled everything publicly available about Dr. Hannibal Lecter.
The resume was impeccable. Johns Hopkins Medical School. Residency at one of the country's top psychiatric facilities. Private practice established in Baltimore with a client list that included the wealthy, the powerful, and the profoundly damaged. Published papers on the intersection of violence and identity, the psychology of predation, the therapeutic value of understanding darkness.
No red flags. No warning signs. Nothing that would make a reasonable person hesitate to trust him with a vulnerable patient's mental health.
Of course not. Hannibal Lecter was brilliant precisely because he left no traces. His mask was perfect, his person suit tailored by decades of practice. He'd killed dozens—maybe more—without raising suspicion. He'd served his victims to Baltimore's elite at elegant dinner parties. He'd written academic papers about the very psychology he embodied.
The monster hid in plain sight, and no one saw him because no one could believe such monsters existed.
I could warn Jack. Tell him Lecter was dangerous. Offer vague concerns about the recommendation, the timing, the convenience of it all.
And Jack would ask for evidence. Specifics. Reasons beyond "I have a bad feeling." I'd sound paranoid at best, jealous or unstable at worst. A consultant trying to undermine a respected psychiatrist's involvement—my credibility would be destroyed before the first session ended.
The only path forward was the long one. Prove Hannibal's guilt through evidence that couldn't be dismissed. Build a case that would convince Jack Crawford not through intuition but through irrefutable forensic documentation.
That would take time. Months. Maybe years. And every day that passed, Hannibal would be working on Will Graham, reshaping him into a weapon, destroying him by inches.
I ordered Chinese takeout because the thought of going out felt impossible. When it arrived, I ate cold lo mein directly from the container, not tasting anything, staring at Hannibal's professional photograph on my laptop screen.
Distinguished features. Elegant bone structure. The kind of face that cameras loved and witnesses remembered as "pleasant" and "cultured." Nothing in that image suggested the creature behind it.
Except, perhaps, the eyes. I'd seen animal documentaries about apex predators. The way they watched their environment wasn't curiosity—it was assessment. Calculation. The constant low-level evaluation of everything around them as potential prey or potential threat.
Hannibal's eyes held that same quality, masked beneath a veneer of civilized interest.
Tomorrow I would stand in a room with him. My Danger Awareness would scream. My body would want to run, fight, do anything except remain calm and professional.
And I would do nothing. Because nothing was all I could do. Not yet.
I finished the lo mein without registering its flavor. Pushed aside the containers. Opened a new document on my laptop.
Private file. Encrypted. Password protected.
I began typing: Hannibal Lecter. Initial Assessment. The countdown ends.
Tomorrow, I would meet the devil. Tonight, I would not sleep.
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