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  Red Dragon

  ( Hannibal Lecter - 1 )

  Thomas Harris

  In the realm of psychological suspense, Thomas Harris stands alone. Exploring both the nature of human evil and the nerve-racking anatomy of forensic investigation, Harris unleashes a frightening vision of the dark side of our well-lighted world. In this extraordinary tale—which preceded “The Silence of the Lambs” and “Hannibal,” Harris introduced the unforgettable character Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And in it, Will Graham—the FBI man who hunted Lecter down—risks his sanity and his life to duel a killer called…

  The Red Dragon

  A quiet summer night… a neat suburban house… and another happy family is shattered—the latest victims of a grisly series of hideous sacrificial killings that no one understands, and no one can stop. Nobody lives to tell of the unimaginable carnage. Only the blood-stained walls bear witness.

  All hope rests on the Special Agent Will Graham, who must peer inside the killer’s tortured soul to understand his rage, to anticipate and prevent his next vicious crime. Desperate for help, Graham finds himself locked in a deadly alliance with the brilliant Dr. Hannibal Lecter—the infamous mass murderer who Graham put in prison years ago. As the imprisoned Lecter tightens the reins of revenge, Graham’s feverish pursuit of the Red Dragon draws him inside the warped mind of a psychopath, into an unforgettable world of demonic ritual and violence, beyond the limits of human terror.

  Thomas Harris

  Red Dragon

  One can only see what one observes, and one observes only things which are already in the mind.

  Alphonse Bertillon

  …For Mercy has a human heart,

  Pity a human face,

  And Love, the human form divine,

  And Peace, the human dress.

  William Blake, Songs of Innocence (The Divine Image)

  Cruelty has a Human Heart,

  And Jealousy a Human Face,

  Terror the Human Form Divine,

  And Secrecy the Human Dress.

  The Human Dress is forged Iron,

  The Human Form a fiery Forge,

  The Human Face a Furnace seal’d,

  The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.

  William Blake, Songs of Experience (A Divine Image)

  Chapter 1

  Will Graham sat Crawford down at a picnic table between the house and the ocean and gave him a glass of iced tea.

  Jack Crawford looked at the pleasant old house, salt-silvered wood in the clear light. “I should have caught you inMarathonwhen you got off work,” he said. “You don’t want to talk about it here.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anywhere, Jack. You’ve got to talk about it, so let’s have it. Just don’t get out any pictures. If you brought pictures, leave them in the briefcase—Molly and Willy will be back soon.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “What was in theMiami Herald and the Times,” Graham said. “Two families killed in their houses a month apart.BirminghamandAtlanta. The circumstances were similar.”

  “Not similar. The same.”

  “How many confessions so far?”

  “Eighty-six when I called in this afternoon,” Crawford said. “Cranks. None of them knew details. He smashes the mirrors and uses the pieces. None of them knew that.”

  “What else did you keep out of the papers?”

  “He’s blond, right-handed and really strong, wears a size-eleven shoe. He can tie a bowline. The prints are all smooth gloves.”

  “You said that in public.”

  “He’s not too comfortable with locks,” Crawford said. “Used a glass cutter and a suction cup to get in the house last time. Oh, and his blood’s AB positive.”

  “Somebody hurt him?”

  “Not that we know of. We typed him from semen and saliva. He’s a secretor.” Crawford looked out at the flat sea. “Will, I want to ask you something. You saw this in the papers. The second one was all over the TV. Did you ever think about giving me a call?”

  “Why not?”

  “There weren’t many details at first on the one inBirmingham. It could have been anything—revenge, a relative.”

  “But after the second one, you knew what it was.”

  “Yeah. A psychopath. I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to. I know who you have already to work on this. You’ve got the best lab. You’d have Heimlich at Harvard, Bloom at theUniversityofChicago—”

  “And I’ve got you down here fixing fucking boat motors.”

  “I don’t think I’d be all that useful to you, Jack. I never think about it anymore.”

  “Really? You caught two. The last two we had, you caught.”

  “How? By doing the same things you and the rest of them are doing.”

  “That’s not entirely true, Will. It’s the way you think.”

  “I think there’s been a lot of bullshit about the way I think.”

  “You made some jumps you never explained.”

  “The evidence was there,” Graham said.

  “Sure. Sure there was. Plenty of it—afterward. Before the collar there was so damn little we couldn’t get probable cause to go in.”

  “You have the people you need, Jack. I don’t think I’d be an improvement. I came down here to get away from that.”

  “I know it. You got hurt last time. Now you look all right.”

  “I’m all right. It’s not getting cut. You’ve been cut.”

  “I’ve been cut, but not like that.”

  “It’s not getting cut. I just decided to stop. I don’t think I can explain it.”

  “If you couldn’t look at it anymore, God knows I’d understand that.”

  “No. You know-having to look. It’s always bad, but you get so you can function anyway, as long as they’re dead. The hospital, interviews, that’s worse. You have to shake it off and keep on thinking. I don’t believe I could do it now. I could make myself look, but I’d shut down the thinking.”

  “These are all dead, Will,” Crawford said as kindly as he could.

  Jack Crawford heard the rhythm and syntax of his own speech in Graham’s voice. He had heard Graham do that before, with other people. Often in intense conversation Graham took on the other person’s speech patterns. At first, Crawford had thought he was doing it deliberately, that it was a gimmick to get the back-and-forth rhythm going.

  Later Crawford realized that Graham did it involuntarily, that sometimes he tried to stop and couldn’t.

  Crawford dipped into his jacket pocket with two fingers. He flipped two photographs across the table, face up.

  “All dead,” he said.

  Graham stared at him a moment before picking up the pictures.

  They were only snapshots: A woman, followed by three children and a duck, carried picnic items up the bank of a pond. A family stood behind a cake.

  After half a minute he put the photographs down again. He pushed them into a stack with his finger and looked far down the beach where the boy hunkered, examining something in the sand. The woman stood watching, hand on her hip, spent waves creaming around her ankles. She leaned inland to swing her wet hair off her shoulders.

  Graham, ignoring his guest, watched Molly and the boy for as long as he had looked at the pictures.

  Crawford was pleased. He kept the satisfaction out of his face with the same care he had used to choose the site of this conversation. He thought he had Graham. Let it cook.

  Three remarkably ugly dogs wandered up and flopped to the ground around the table.

  “My God,” Crawford said.

  “These are probably dogs,” Graham explained. “People dump small ones here all the time. I can give away the cute ones. The rest stay around and get to be big ones.”