Red Dragon (Hannibal Lecter 1)

“We’ve had no reason to think so. Lecter just suggested it to him, urged him to do it.”

“It’s a clammy, sick feeling.”

“I know it is. You and Willy are safe at Crawford’s brother’s house. Nobody in the world knows you’re there but me and Crawford.”

“I’d just as soon not talk about Crawford.”

“It’s a nice place, you’ll see.”

She took a deep breath and when she let it out the anger seemed to go with it, leaving her tired and calm. She gave him a crooked smile. “Hell, I just got mad there for a while. Do we have to put up with any Craw-fords?”

“Nope.” He moved the cracker basket to take her hand. “How much does Willy know?”

“Plenty. His buddy Tommy’s mother had a trash newspaper from the supermarket at their house. Tommy showed it to Willy. It had a lot of stuff about you, apparently pretty distorted. About Hobbs, the place you were after that, Lecter, everything. It upset him. I asked him if he wanted to talk about it. He just asked me if I knew it all along. I said yes, that you and I talked about it once, that you told me everything before we got married. I asked him if he wanted me to tell him about it, the way it really was. He said he’d ask you to your face.”

“Damn good. Good for him. What was it, the Tattler ?”

“I don’t know, I think so.”

“Thanks a lot, Freddy.” A swell of anger at Freddy Lounds lifted him from his seat. He washed his face with cold water in the rest room.

Sarah was saying good night to Crawford in the office when the telephone rang. She put down her purse and umbrella to answer it.

“Special Agent Crawford’s office. . . . No, Mr. Graham is not in the office, but let me . . . Wait, I’ll be glad to . . . Yes, he’ll be in tomorrow afternoon, but let me . . .”

The tone of her voice brought Crawford around his desk.

She held the receiver as though it had died in her hand. “He asked for Will and said he might call back tomorrow afternoon. I tried to hold him.”

“Who?”

“He said, ‘Just tell Graham it’s the Pilgrim.’ That’s what Dr. Lecter called—”

“The Tooth Fairy,” Crawford said.

Graham went to the grocery store while Molly and Willy unpacked. He found canary melons at the market and a ripe cranshaw. He parked across the street from the house and sat for a few minutes, still gripping the wheel. He was ashamed that because of him Molly was rooted out of the house she loved and put among strangers.

Crawford had done his best. This was no faceless federal safe house with chair arms bleached by palm sweat. It was a pleasant cottage, freshly whitewashed, with impatiens blooming around the steps. It was the product of careful hands and a sense of order. The rear yard sloped down to the Chesapeake Bay and there was a swimming raft.

Blue-green television light pulsed behind the curtains. Molly and Willy were watching baseball, Graham knew.

Willy’s father had been a baseball player, and a good one. He and Molly met on the school bus, married in college.

They trooped around the Florida State League while he was in the Cardinals’ farm system. They took Willy with them and had a terrific time. Spam and spirit. He got a tryout with the Cardinals and hit safely in his first two games. Then he began to have difficulty swallowing. The surgeon tried to get it all, but it metastasized and ate him up. He died five months later, when Willy was six.

Willy still watched baseball whenever he could. Molly watched baseball when she was upset.

Graham had no key. He knocked.

“I’ll get it.” Willy’s voice.

“Wait.” Molly’s face between the curtains. “All right.”

Willy opened the door. In his fist, held close to his leg, was a fish billy.

Graham’s eyes stung at the sight. The boy must have brought it in his suitcase.

Molly took the bag from him. “Want some coffee? There’s gin, but not the kind you like.”