Not usually one to indulge anticipation, Special Agent Maximilian Ward, Director of the Behavioral Sciences Unit, found himself returning with atypical frequency to the name written neatly in his matte black and deceptively expensive planner in the hours leading up to the meeting.
Peter Graves.
An unassuming name, on the surface. Solid, common, American. The kind of name to which one didn’t give a second thought. Except, in this case, it was a famous name (or was it infamous?), and therefore warranted closer dissection.
Peter, from the Greek, meaning “stone;” Graves, from middle English, meaning “steward.” Appropriate, given the man’s occupation and familial history, both easily discovered in a cursory Google search had Max not already had that information stored deep in the recesses of his memory palace, filed away until relevant. So it was now, quite out of nowhere. The rare pleasant surprise.
The stony Mr. Graves (for stony he was, in the few filmed interviews he’d consented to give during his career) had distantly interested Max long before his assistant had brought the true crime writer’s name and request for a meeting to him with a barely repressed sneer. She expected a quick dismissal – vultures, after all, were not permitted in the hallowed halls of the FBI – but Max surprised her. He never granted media requests to discuss the Brackett case (for good reason, which she thought she knew and very much did not). He certainly never instructed her to arrange a meeting at Mr. Graves’s earliest possible convenience, and to clear his own schedule to accommodate him. She didn’t ask, but Max knew what she was thinking from the purse of her lips and the faint tang of scorn rising through her perfume: why this one? What made him different?
An hour before the meeting, Max opened a copy of Mr. Graves’s latest book and turned to the page listing his other works. There, at the very bottom, as if eager to be overlooked, was his single work of fiction. The Quiet of the Stream.
What, indeed.
Interest became intrigue. Max was curious about this Peter Graves. About his history, dark yet undoubtedly metamorphic; about his mission, illuminating the evils of men through his remarkably insightful prose; about what was concealed beneath the clear discomfort in his author photo on the back cover of the book in Max’s hands. Running a thumb over the black-and-white eyes, Max was tempted to call it a familiar stubbornness. There was no point, however. Not until he saw it himself.
A new voice joining his assistant’s broke through the frosted glass of his office and alerted Max to Mr. Graves’s arrival. Swift but calm, he put his computer to sleep, turned off his phone, and slipped both it and the book into his desk next to his gun and badge, where they would all remain until the meeting’s end. No disturbances, if he could help it; his assistant had already been informed not to interrupt for anything less than an act of God. As the door opened, Max rose from his chair and walked briskly around his desk to greet his guest. The scent that preceded Mr. Graves prompted a blink but otherwise did not break either his stride or his composure. It was a close thing, though. Underneath the person suit of Max Ward, Hannibal Lecter was nonetheless startled.
That damned aftershave. Something with a ship on the bottle.
The suspicions he’d been quietly nursing for days suddenly stood before him, fully formed and smelling like chemicals, dog, and damp.
“Mr. Graves.” Hannibal put on Max’s best FBI smile, not friendly, giving away nothing, and held out his hand. “Special Agent Max Ward. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” With his other hand, he gestured to a less formal sitting area to the left of his desk, underneath a wall of diplomas, an old family portrait, and a soft-lit lamp. His assistant closed the door behind her. Max didn’t notice. His eyes never left Peter, and would not any time soon. “Please, sit.”