"RED DRAGON" (2002)

On a brilliantly lit stage, the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is struggling through the 3rd movement of Boccherini's Concerto in D Major ("Allegro piacere.") At center, a CELLO SOLOIST.

SUPER TITLE: BALTIMORE, MD. 1986.

The CONDUCTOR frowns. Something's amiss in the wind section. As the SOLOIST nears the end of her passage, he jabs his baton with grim emphasis, indicating the winds' next entrance.

THREE of the FOUR FLAUTISTS, instruments already poised by their lips, come in precisely on cue. But the...

FOURTH FLAUTIST is daydreaming. Catching himself with a start, he lifts his flute, but now is hopelessly off the beat. He eyes his fellow players, hoping no one noticed.

WE BACK AWAY FROM THE STAGE, wafting out with the MUSIC, PASSING OVER velvet seats, carpeted aisles, a stir of programs, WELL-DRESSED CONCERTGOERS...PASSING BY, without pause, one especially discerning face, whose owner is quite anonymous in the crowd... Then we return to that face, a few moments later, for a CLOSER LOOK.

HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D. - noted psychiatrist, arts patron, connoisseur - is trim, very neat, with a quality of coiled stillness. His eyes are blue, strangely pale. CLOSER on him, CLOSER STILL, until...

The Fourth Flautist comes in late, yet again. From Lecter's hyper-acute perspective, the hapless man's playing is physically excruciating, like a nail scoring glass.

Lecter's eyelids close, ever so briefly, in distaste. When they reopen, the pale irises are as fixed as a hawk's.

An elegant Georgian home, red brick, on a cobblestoned street. Lights glow warmly through its windows.

A candlelit table, exquisitely set. Around this are seated the ten very cultured MEMBERS OF THE SYMPHONY BOARD.

Lecter circles the table, pouring wine for his guests.

Laughter at this, plus some mock-distressed "ooohs."

Pleasant laughter. The Doctor smiles politely: touche.

Grave frowns at this, polite murmurs of concern.

Chuckles, laughter, one or two happy groans.

More chuckles, hearty laughter. Taking his seat at the head of the table, Lecter snaps loose his napkin. Looking around at his eager, expectant guests, he smiles.

Lecter, now in a cashmere cardigan, clears the dessert and coffee plates off the dining room table.

We hear the doorbell ring.

Lecter considers this. Looks down at his stack of dishes, then turns, heads towards the door.

His opening front door reveals a man in a dark overcoat and scarf, his breath steaming in the cold. WILL GRAHAM is pale, with dark watchful eyes. He's exhausted and never got a chance to shave this morning.

As Graham enters, he passes a brass plaque that reads "HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D./ Psychiatric Consultations."

A handsome panelled room, decorated with primitive art, fragments of Greek sculpture, many books. To one side is a leather chaise. A fire blazes, its light flickering over the men's faces. Lecter watches as Graham paces restlessly.

Under his navy jacket, we catch a glimpse of Graham's shoulder holster and Bulldog .44 Special. He gestures irritably.

Graham drops into a chair. Lecter, who's been waiting politely, sits behind his desk. Graham leans forward urgently. Despite his weariness, his face is alive with fierce excitement.

Lecter is very still; there is not a flicker of emotion; he just watches Graham, like someone studying an insect.

Lecter just watches and listens.

Pause.

Everything is very quiet in the room. After a moment's consideration, Lecter, slowly leans forward on his desk.,

He gently touches the Venetian stiletto, and lines it up with his blotter.

A quiet moment, the two of them staring at each other.

Lecter's eyes gleam in the firelight. Graham sighs.

Graham hesitates, then nods wearily. Lecter smiles.

Lecter goes out.

After a moment Graham rises, stretches his back. As he waits, he turns, glancing idly around. Something on a shelf catches his eye. He moves closer.

A Dogon tribal MASK, features contorted in rage or pain.

Graham is a bit disturbed. Not his idea of art. His gaze wanders...

A framed DAGUERREOTYPE of Edgar Allan Poe. A block of SHINY AMBER, with a SCORPION suspended inside. A beaded SIOUX QUIVER, with feathered arrows still protruding. And BOOKS... so many books. Some leather-bound, with worn, cracked spines, and very old. Some much newer.

Graham is interested. Looks closer at the titles...

Recettes Des Provinces De France... La Cuisine du Sacrifice en Pays Grec... Larousse Gastronomique. This last volume isn't pushed all the way back into place. And it has a red satin bookmark, noting a particular page.

Graham pulls out the Larousse, opens it to the marked page.

A recipe titled "Fantaisie de Ris de Veau." Beside which someone has written the word "Sweetbreads."

Graham stares at this...

VERY CLOSE ANGLE - "SWEETBREADS" -

Just the single word, inked in a fine, elegant hand.

Graham's eyes widen in a horrified leap of understanding.

He drops the book, turning, already pulling his gun free, only to find himself...

Face to face with Lecter, the pale eyes regarding him calmly. The Doctor's hand flicks out, quick as a striking snake.

Graham gasps, looks down...

The Venetian stiletto is buried to its hilt in his abdomen. Its handle is gripped by Lecter's right hand, while the Doctor's left hand now flashes up to seize Graham's gun, plucking it from his nerveless fingers.

Lecter tosses the gun aside and Graham's hands fumble at the knife, trying to push it away. But Lecter is immensely strong and has him pinned against the bookcase. His face looms close beside Graham's as the younger man struggles, gasping in this obscene embrace. The Doctor's voice is calm, soothing.

Graham writhes, though he's getting weaker by the moment. Lecter presses against him harder. Objects tumble from the shelves, SHATTER. The Doctor ignores the mess.

Graham jerks against him. Cries out.

Graham's eyes roll up. He's very close to passing out.

His lips are close to Graham's ear. A loving whisper.

Graham's eyes glaze over. He goes limp. Lecter grips him in both arms a few moments longer, making sure he's still, then eases his body to the floor, where it slumps like a rag doll's. Graham's eyes stare sightlessly, unblinking.

Lecter kneels. He leans over Graham, tilts his chin back, ready to slash his throat, when suddenly the Doctor himself emits a soft grunt. He looks down, surprised...

Half a dozen Sioux arrows, gripped in Graham's bloody fist, have been punched into his abdomen. Graham's eyes re-focus, staring directly into his. His face - sweat-drenched, contorted with pain - is very close to Lecter's.

Lecter rises, shocked, lurching backwards as he tries to pluck out the arrowheads. But they're deeply imbedded, and his stiletto interferes with his grip.

Graham pulls a second gun, a small .38 revolver, from an ankle holster, aims unsteadily, squeezes the trigger. The BOOM of the explosions, in this small room, is deafening.

NEW ANGLE - SLOW MOTION

As most of the slugs miss, smashing into the walls, but at least one catches Lecter in the upper chest, spinning him around, hurling him away. The Doctor topples over his desk, knocking the phone off, before coming to rest on the floor, on his side, unconscious.

Graham, holding his spilling guts in with one hand, keeps squeezing the trigger even after his gun is empty. Finally his hand drops weakly, the gun CLATTERING on the floor. He stares at...

Lecter's unmoving body.

Graham, through his faintness, becomes aware of a strange new SOUND. Dully he turns his head...

Lecter's phone is lying on the floor, its receiver uncradled, humming a DIAL TONE. Just a few feet away, but it seems like a mile...

Graham grits his teeth, then, with a supreme effort, manages to topple slowly over in the direction of the phone. Very weakly he reaches out one bloody finger, smearing the "O" button. After a pause, we hear a VOICE.

His eyes roll up in his head. He faints...

A MONTAGE of NEWSPAPER HEADLINES and PHOTOS, seen in GRAINY CLOSEUPS. Some soberly journalistic, others in the screaming tabloid style of The National Tattler. They are yellowed with age, and have been carefully taped onto the pages of a huge ledger: worn black leather with brass corners. Spidery, obsessive handwriting surrounds the photos. From time to time the IMAGES BLUR as a page is turned...

"Local Doctor Wounded, Under Arrest/ FBI Agent 'Extremely Critical'/ Details Uunclear in 'Hizarre Bloodbath'..."

(File photos of Lecter at a charity event, then Will Graham's Bureau I.D. photo.)

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter is Chesapeake Ripper/ Chamber of Horrors Revealed"..."HANNIBAL THE CANNIBAL!!!..."

(A photo of JACK CRAWFORD, Will Graham's FBI mentor, briefing a swarm of REPORTERS outside Lecter's townhouse.)

"FBI Agent's Condition Now 'Guarded'/ Chance of Recovery..." "HERO COP'S GHASTLY WOUNDS/ EXCLUSIVE HOSPITAL PIX!..."

(A photo of Graham, unconscious, in his hospital bed, his body a mass of tubes and bandages. The accompanying story has a byline, "BY FREDDY LOUNDS," with a smaller photo of the reporter's grinning face...)

"TRIAL OF THE CENTURY BEGINS!/ FIEND SERVED HUMAN ORGANS TO GUESTS!!!"..."Symphony Chairwoman Faints in Court..." "Lector's Captor Released From Hospital/ FBI Agent Will Testify..."

(Graham in a wheelchair, being pushed by his wife, MOLLY, as Crawford and other AGENTS hold their hands up, trying to shield them from flashbulbs and shouted questions.)

"HANNIBAL GUILTY!!!"..."Lecter Sentenced to Nine Consecutive Life Terms"..."CANNIBAL TO BE CAGED FOREVER!!!"

(Photo of Lecter, heavily shackled and closely guarded, being frog-marched out of the courthouse.)

"TOP COP TO LOONY BIN!/ 'STRESS' CITED..."

"Hero Fed Quits Bureau..."

A POWERFUL MALE HAND comes INTO FRAME, turning all the way back to the first page of the great ledger. Across this, in hand-illuminated letters, it reads "BeHold A GrEat RED DRAGON... ReVelAtions 12:3." The thick fingers rest for a moment on this title page, lightly. Lovingly...

A cluttered boatyard, adjacent to a weathered gray two-story beach house. Worksheds, trailered boats.

SUPER TITLES: MARATHON, FL./THREE YEARS LATER.

MOLLY GRAHAM, in spattered jeans and a painter's mask, is brushing varnish on the teak trim of a sloop. She looks up.

A white Ford rental car pulls into the yard, stops. JACK CRAWFORD gets out, stands looking up at her. His gray D.C. suit and office pallor look out of place here.

She pulls her mask off, staring down at him. Surprised to see him, then angry. Then scared.

She stares back at him, her face taut.

Crawford comes around a sandy corner, pauses as he sees... Graham, his forearms greasy, tinkering with a partially disassembled boat motor, mounted on a sawhorse. When JOSH GRAHAM, age 8, proudly slaps the correct wrench into his dad's hand, Graham rewards him with a smile.

Crawford, an intruder, feels a tiny jab of guilt.

Minutes later, Crawford and Graham sit at a picnic table with glasses of iced tea. Beyond them, high dunes, dense with sea oats. In the distance, Graham's house. The small talk is winding down; an uneasy silence.

FROM CLOSER UP, we see that Graham is now darkly tanned, thin but fit. He's wary of Crawford.

A brief silence. Graham looks away, down the beach.

In the distance, Josh is casting a surf rod. Molly stands watching him, hand on her hip, with spent waves creaming around her ankles. Crawford studies Graham's profile.

He takes a sip of tea, then looks at his glass. A beat.

He dips into his jacket pocket with two fingers. Flips two photographs across the table. Graham goes very still. With his fingertips, Crawford reaches out, nudges the photos straight, like a gambler displaying a winning pair of aces.

Graham looks at him a moment before picking them up.

Two snapshots. A pretty woman (MRS.LEEDS) followed by three children and a dog, carrying picnic items up a pond bank. Her husband (MR. LEEDS) waits on a blanket. Another family (the JACOBIS) stands happily behind a cake.

Graham stares at the faces, a long beat. A shadow passes over his heart. He turns his head, looking down the beach again, towards...

Molly and Josh, as she adjusts the boy's backswing. His son nods, then strides forward, frowning with concentration, and casts again. When she glances this way, her smile fades.

Graham sits on the side of his bed, staring out towards the moon. Still almost full. Molly watches from nearby. A silence.

[missing from source: printed page 13A (SALMON revision, the start of the Graham and Molly bedroom exchange) is not in the scan; printed 13B follows printed 13; PDF page 23, printed page 13B]

For a terrible instant her face crumples. Graham hugs her. She hugs him back fiercely.

In moonlight, Graham stands looking down at his sweetly sleeping son. Reaches gently to smooth his hair.

Graham embraces Molly, then Josh, a quick, awkward farewell. Then he picks up his overnight bag, trudges across the sandy yard towards a waiting taxi. Watching him go, Molly hugs Josh tightly to her side, as if a cold wind were rising...

A two-story brick home, set back from the street on a wooded lot. The windows are dark. One yard light burns. A patrol car waits at the curb, TWO COPS dimly silhouetted inside.

SUPER TITLE: LEEDS HOUSE. ATLANTA, GA.

Graham's flashlight beam shows a long porch, with lattice screening giving privacy to the back door.

The beam picks out deck furniture, kids' bikes, a coiled hose. It passes over, then returns to... a wicker dog bed and plastic bowl.

Graham looks at these. Then takes a microcassette recorder from his pocket, holds it to his lips. Flicks it on.

He turns, aims his flash at the back door. Sees an Atlanta PD seal across it. Above this, the single glass pane is missing, replaced by a plywood patch.

Night lights glow on the counters as Graham unlocks the door, comes in. He removes his set of keys, softly shuts the door. Stands very still, taking in the house. Sensing madness like a bloodhound sniffs a shirt...

Finally he trusts himself to move. Crosses to the stove, turns on its hood light: cold neon bathes him. He turns.

Gleaming copper bowls. Framed samplers. Kids' art under fridge magnets. Happy snaps of the five dead. All-American smiles. Mrs. Leeds was very beautiful.

There's a SUDDEN LOUD RING behind him. Graham starts at the noise. Turns quickly, eyes darting in fear...

A phone. After a SECOND RING, the answering machine CLICKS ON, and we hear a WOMAN'S RECORDED VOICE.

The machine BEEPS, but there's only a DIAL TONE. Hang-up.

Graham stares at the answering machine.

Slowly, quietly, Graham climbs the stairs.

Graham stands in the dark hall outside the master bedroom. The door is ajar. He hesitates, then softly pushes it open wider. Steps onto the jamb. A long beat. He has to steel himself to reach in beside the door, turn on the wall switch...

Bloodstains shout at him from the walls, the mattress, the carpeted floor. The very air has screams smeared on it.

Graham jerks back out into the hall, turning away from the terrible sight. With his back against the wall, he fumbles out his tape recorder, keys it.

Light from the open door shows great dark stains on the hall carpet. Matted slide marks join in a wide trail that leads from other bedrooms towards the master.

Graham's eyes travel over twin beds with bloodstained pillows. Scattered toys, rows of dolls, stuffed animals... He is puzzled, keys his mike.

He stands over Mrs. Leeds' position in the grownup's double bed, where the bloodstains are thickest.

His eyes squeeze shut, his head sags onto his recorder.

Graham swallows three Bufferin, scooping up water in his hand from the faucet. Splashes more water on his face.

When he straightens, he's looking at himself in the shattered mirror of the medicine cabinet. Traces of red fingerprint powder. Several shards are missing. He reaches to the sink for his little recorder. Gathers himself again.

He lowers the recorder. Stares for a few moments at his own distorted image. Standing right where the killer stood.

A high-rise hotel, downtown. Stars twinkle beyond the glass towers. Only a few windows are still lit.

Graham hunches over a coffee table in his room, studying the case file. A binder is open and photos, lab reports, sketches and charts have all been removed, spread out.

He rubs his eyes, exhausted. Reaches for a miniature bourbon. Empty. He rises, starting for the minibar, then a thought freezes him. He turns back, looks at the table. Then he kneels, searching quickly for a particular photo. Finds the one he wants...

The daughter's bedroom. Atop the bureau, a row of dolls, in various sizes, sitting lined up in a neat row. Their glass irises seem to look at Graham.

Graham starts to tremble. Seeing, in his mind's eye...

The mirrored eyes of Charles Leeds, who's propped up, head canted, jaw slack. They seem to gleam with life. Next to him - BELOW US - is Valerie Leeds, her dead face on her pillow. In her upturned eyes, also mirrored, we catch, just for an instant, the reflection of a shadowy male face.

Graham is stunned and exhilarated, both at once, by this imagined glimpse. He grabs his microcassette recorder.

He rises, pacing, on fire. His recorder is forgotten.

He stops. Turns. Stares down at the photos. He drops to his knees, scrambling through the reports till he find the on he needs.

Graham stops. Stares into some dark inner distance, seeing...

The killer's left hand, still gloved, peeling the plastic glove off his right hand. A puff of powder drifts down onto the pale bare skin of: Mrs. Leeds' leg...

Graham is shocked, exultant. And furious.

In another semi-darkened bedroom, Crawford is also working late, sitting at a desk while he studies reports with his reading glasses on. When his PHONE RINGS, he glances at the red digits of his alarm clock. 4:12. He picks up the phone.

INTERCUTTING -

Crawford's breath catches. He stares into the darkness.

In the early morning light, TV vans are double-parked, with CAMERA CREWS and REPORTERS setting up shots, starting their remotes. A huge story unfolding.

A large frontal view of a set of teeth, upper and lower, is tacked to a bulletin board. DR. PRINCI, the chief medical examiner, moves in front of this photo enlargement. He holds up a white dental cast which matches the photo.

There are about THIRTY DETECTIVES assembled here, sitting at schoolroom desks. Several heads now turn as they look back curiously, or with a hint of territorial hostility, at...

Crawford, sitting at the back. His face remains studiedly neutral. Graham, beside him, is uncomfortable in this very public, emotionally charged setting.

Some nervous LAUGHTER at this, MUTTERS among the cops.

Sitting to one side down front are BUDDY SPRINGFIELD, Chief of Police, a burly man in shirtsleeves, the COMMISSIONER, a tough-looking black man, and some city government SUITS.

Crawford raises his eyebrows at Graham, who looks uneasy.

Graham stands, walks forward reluctantly. It seems a long way. As he passes the seated detectives, he hears their whispers - "Lecter... Guy that caught Lecter... Thought he died... Nah, but the sumbitch 'bout gutted him... "

When he turns to face them, something in his eyes makes the detectives go very still.

The detectives watch him intently. The killer's enlarged teeth grin behind Graham, like those of a jack-o'-lantern.

A WOMAN DETECTIVE in the front row speaks up quietly.

She's disturbed by his intimacy with the killer's feelings.

A brief, uneasy silence, as he heads back to his seat. Springfield replaces him at the front of the room.

The detectives all start noisily rising, grabbing gear.

His stern bass voice sinks them back into their seats.

SOUND UPCUT - the many NOISES of a busy police department, on full alert. RINGING PHONES, WHIRRING COPIERS, VOICES.

Springfield, behind his crowded desk, searches through papers, finds a field report. Graham sits in front of him, exhausted from his sleepless night. He takes the sheet, scans it.

Graham exchanges a glance with Crawford, who stands off to one side, MURMURING into a phone, jotting down his messages. Other COPS pass by in the hall outside.

Crawford hangs up in time to see Graham consider this. His voice, when it comes, is soft, his mind ranging far away.

Springfield looks at him a moment, impressed, before his attention is pulled away by his RINGING phone.

He listens. Looks at Crawford.

Crawford comes over, takes the phone.

He listens, his expression changing. Then looks at Graham.

Graham turns, gazes out the window. His face is blank, closed like a lifer's. Springfield glances at him curiously.

Crawford hangs up. Springfield looks at him, waiting.

Springfield turns, staring at Graham with amazement, but also something very close to aversion. Graham can feel it.

After a moment Graham rises abruptly, walks out. The big cop's troubled stare follows him all the way out the door.

Graham slips out a side door. In the distance, on the front steps, REPORTERS, PHOTOGRAPHERS, and TV CREWS, held back by manned barricades, SHOUT questions at the Commissioner.

Graham turns, striding away from all this fuss, when a SMALL MAN darts out of an alley ahead of him, SNAPS his picture. His face pops up from behind his camera.

Graham keeps going. Lounds scuttles sideways ahead of him.

Graham moves swiftly, forcing Lounds up against the wall. His face is scary, but his voice stays low, very intense.

A hand grabs Graham's shoulder from behind. It's Crawford. He pulls Graham, with some effort, away from the reporter.

They move away, down the sidewalk, walking swiftly. Lounds in undaunted. Hovers cockily, shouting after them.

A MOTHER tries to soothe her restless TODDLER. At another table, A FAMILY eats pancakes. WAITERS come and go. Normal people, far from the world of slaughter.

Crawford and Graham sit nearby, in a booth. Graham is watching the mother and child. He's still upset.

A beat. They look at each other.

Graham looks down at his untouched plate. When he looks back up Crawford is still staring at him.

Graham glances again at the family eating pancakes. Then back at Crawford, his face pale and tense.

A grim Victorian pile of a building looms out of misty rain. Meshed and barred windows, razor wire-topped fencing, and a security checkpoint, manned by uniformed GUARDS.

SUPER TITLE: BALTIMORE STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE.

Perched behind his ornate desk, eyeing Graham greedily, is DR. FREDERICK CHILTON, the hospital's Chief of Staff.

Graham glances politely at an elaborate paper swan.

A heavy steel gate CLANGS shut behind Graham, the BOLT shooting home. He's carrying a thick manila file. Chilton walks ahead, still peevish. He glances back at the file.

They're descending into darker, danker regions. Sweating stone walls. Distant BANGINGS, forlorn, echoing CRIES.

Graham doesn't reply. Another steel gate CREAKS open and he goes through. Chilton follows, irritated.

Graham hands his .44 to a GUARD, as ANOTHER passes a wand over him, while a THIRD examines the contents of his manila folder. A FOURTH GUARD watches monitors. In locked cases are guns, mouthpieces, Mace, restraints, and padded gloves.

One guard nods to another, who pushes a button. A final, massive steel door WHOOSHES open, and Graham, after taking back his manila file, walks through into a dark corridor. Chilton can no longer contain himself.

The closing door erases Chilton's bewildered reaction.

Graham turns, looks down the corridor. The cells to either side are dark; only at the far end is one lit.

Graham takes a breath, gathers himself. This is the hardest thing he's ever done. Then walks quietly in that direction. Shadowy FIGURES, low MUTTERINGS in the barred cells he is passing...

Lecter's is different: higher security. A thick barrier of plastic, with a pass-through tray. Inside, a bolted-down sink, toilet, table and bookcase, with many softcover books. The Doctor lies on a cot, turned to the wall, apparently asleep. An issue of Italian Vogue lies open beside him.

Graham is looking at Lecter's back, trying to master his dread, when he's startled by the soft, abrupt VOICE.

He rolls over, opens his eyes. The pale irises rake Graham.

Lecter picks up his magazine, then rises politely.

Lecter crosses, returning his magazine to its tidy shelf.

Lecter turns. Comes closer, staring into Graham's eyes.

Something flickers and dies behind the strange pale eyes.

Graham doesn't flinch, though Lecter's eyes claw his.

Graham is sickened by his sudden avidity.

Graham walks away. Lecter raises his voice.

Graham pauses. Then returns, looks at him.

After a moment Graham stuffs his file into the pass-through, SLAMS it in. Lecter looks at the folder a moment, then runs a finger lovingly across its cover. He smiles brightly.

Graham paces next to a soda machine. He pulls off his suit jacket revealing that his shirt is soaked with sweat. He sits down on a bench nearby, waiting.

The file lies open on Lecter's table. He stares down at the pages, his eyes filmed with thought. A pause.

Graham, in the corridor, sits in a folding chair. Wearing his suit jacket again.

Graham gets up abruptly, starting away.

His words pin Graham in place. Each one drilling into his back, like tiny, precise darts.

Graham turns, looks at him. Tries to steady his voice.

He returns to his cot, reclines, shuts his eyes, and instantly transports himself to Caravaggio's Rome.

Graham, staring, feels like his skin has been peeled off.

Hurrying out of the madhouse, Graham stops, shakes his head, trying to clear his brain. Lecter still crawls in there like a fly.

TELEPHOTO ANGLE on him, and the rapid WHIRR of a motordrive, as a SERIES OF PHOTOS are SNAPPED: Graham regaining his composure, then heading towards a pay phone on the corner.

The little reporter is staked out behind a van in the parking lot, studying Graham intently.

He's with a PHOTOGRAPHER, who looks up from his camera.

Graham stands at a pay phone; we hear Crawford's voice.

Graham, frustrated, shuts a drawer in Charles Leeds' desk. Looks around this cozy panelled room...

Plaid sofas, hooked rugs, bookcases, a model ship... and a big TV set, in a fancy wooden cabinet. Drawers beneath.

Interested, Graham walks over. Kneels to open a drawer. Sees a jumble of videos - kids' movies, grownup classics - and a bulky padded mailer. When he tips this, small loose VHS-C tapes spill out. He flips through the handwritten titles...

"POOL PARTY 6/2/86"... "SUSIE'S DANCE RECITAL 2/9/86"... "BOBBY'S BIRTHDAY BASH 12/4/85."

There's also a full-sized VHS tape, in a handsome plastic container, mocked-up to look like a Hollywood movie. Graham lifts this for a closer look...

The title is "THE DEEDS OF THE LEEDS!!!" Glossy photos of the family members, with each face outlined by a star. The dog, a gray Scotty, gets his own star, too. Lettering at the bottom reads: "A FEATURE-LENGTH VHS COMPILATION!"

On the TV screen, the tape's opening credits are just ending. Bouncy CANNED MUSIC underneath. The opening shot is the little Scotty, asleep in a big leather chair...

Graham glances down. He's sitting in the same chair - the dead man's chair. He touches its arm. Then looks back at the TV screen...

SOUND of a door opening. The dog jumps up, tail wagging, trots towards the kitchen. VIDEO CAMERA FOLLOWS him, UNSTEADILY. The back door opens and Mrs. Leeds comes in with groceries. The lattice, behind her, hides the yard.

She blinks, laughs in surprise, as the three children rush in past her, in a noisy, squabbling tangle, and disappear. She sets her bag down on a counter.

She leans over, shakes out her tousled hair, combing with her fingers, then straightens, striking a mock-glamorous pose. The gesture is touching, oddly intimate.

Graham, watching, feels his heart pierced.

Molly wakens to her RINGING phone. Picks it up, glancing at her clock. 12:34. Outside her window, distant surf.

INTERCUTTING -

As Graham watches his TV screen, with the SOUND MUTED.

On the TV, a new scene, a pool party with family and GUESTS.

The VIDEO CAMERA SNEAKS UP on Mrs. Leeds, very sexy in a floral bathing suit, as she chats with a WOMAN FRIEND...

CAMERA ZOOMS IN on Mrs. Leeds' cleavage, BLURRING a bit. She laughs, getting up, blocks the lens with her hand, saying something in protest.

Graham gently hangs up the phone.

ON THE TV SCREEN, the ANGLE SHIFTS, BLURS a moment, then AUTO-FOCUSES, as Leeds extends the camera in one hand, pointed backwards, to catch himself and his wife kissing. Their guests silently laugh and applaud

Graham stares at the TV screen, haunted by this image...

Graham, at the wheel of a rented Buick, CRUNCHES past a Realtor's "FOR SALE" sign, then stops. He's looking at...

A big split-level, with small outbuildings, flanked by a white-fenced pasture. Behind the house, thick woods. A red van marked "SAFESHIELD" is parked in the gravel drive.

SUPER TITLE: JACOBI HOUSE. BIRMINGHAM.AL.

Graham, on a flagged patio, stands by a kneeling WORKMAN who is installing a wrought-iron security gate over a set of shiny new aluminum-framed sliding glass doors.

Graham glances towards the front yard. Sees another big house, with good sightlines. He turns back, puzzled.

The workman follows his gaze past some shrubbery to a set of concrete steps, leading down to a basement door well.

The man gives him a curious glance.

A small, shallow depression. The location is marked by a fresh triangle of yellow crime-scene tape, tied to sticks.

Graham kneels, touches the earth. To one side he finds a childlike bouquet of flowers, dried and withered. It crumbles in his hand. His expression changes as a new thought comes to him. He pulls out his recorder, flicks it on.

He turns slowly. Stares. Head-high brush runs out from the fence about thirty yards. To where the woods begin...

Graham has taken off his blazer. His shirt, under the leather shoulder rig, is drenched with sweat. He's on his hands and knees, exploring the dense carpet of pine needles and dead leaves, when something catches his eye...

The pop-top from a soda can. Near this is a thumb-sized branch, neatly severed. Brown withered leaves amid the bright green undergrowth.

Slowly, slowly, Graham's eyes travel from the pop-top and the clipped branch to the tree behind it. Then up its trunk...

Climbing, already well up in the tree, Graham reaches for a thick limb just above him. Pulls himself up by it, panting, then leans around the trunk...

He stares at something OUT OF SHOT, a long beat. Then he hauls himself into a sitting position on the big limb, which juts out at a right angle. He turns his head: the branch was cut off to improve the view. He looks across the open air...

A clear view of the back and side of the Jacobi house. The cat's grave... the flagstoned patio, sliding doors... and then, on the second floor, the master bedroom window.

As Graham looks at this, he is seeing, in his mind's eye...

Night. The moonlit house. A bright square of window. MRS. JACOBI, hair wet from her shower, walks across the room. Passing the window, she starts to slip off her bathrobe...

Graham, staring at the same window in daylight, whispers.

He turns his head, looking at the tree trunk again.

On the trunk, a patch of outer bark has been shaved away, exposing green inner bark. Centered in this is a curious carving; it looks like a stake piercing a hollow rectangle.

CLOSER on the strange carving, until it FILLS THE SCREEN...

A weathered sign CREAKS in the wind. A jagged crack down its middle makes it resemble the tree carving. Its peeling letters read "DOL--HYDE/ NUR--ING/ H-ME." Beyond this, a gravel road slithers up a low rise to an old country-Gothic house.

SUPER TITLE: ST.CHARLES, MO.

A verandah surrounds the tall, once-grand house. Down its crumbling length, ancient rocking chairs stir in the breeze, ridden by ghosts. MOVING ANGLE, past these, approaching the front door, as we hear a LITTLE BOY'S VOICE, oddly muffled, wet-sounding. And tearfully scared.

MOVING ANGLE, down the long dark hall, passing a LOUDLY TICKING tallcase clock. Ahead of us, an archway, opening off to the right. At the end of the hall, a grand staircase.

WE PASS an oil portrait of a stern, gray-haired old woman - GRANDMOTHER DOLARHYDE - wearing a 1940's dress and holding a dyspeptic-looking Pekingese. Her features and hair style make her resemble George Washington on the dollar bill. Her crooked teeth, revealed in a grim smile, match the dental mold we saw in Atlanta.

THROUGH THE ARCHWAY, we catch a glimpse of a former ballroom, later converted to a downstairs ward. Rows of dusty-sheeted cots, each with its bedpan.

A big TV set, a couch, and some armchairs are down at one end, along with two or three old-fashioned wooden wheelchairs.

One alcove of this ballroom, formerly a dining room, was converted at some point to Grandmother Dolarhyde's bedroom

AS WE START UP the staircase, we are becoming aware of a new SOUND - a RHYTHMIC THUMPING, accompanied by LOW GASPS...

MOVING ANGLE, down a long hall, towards the open doorway of a garret room. The room is lit reddish, with swirling points of light, as if it were in flames. The THUDS and GASPS are LOUDER, accompanied by a kind of FRENZIED WHIMPERING...

MOVING ANGLE, past a lonely twin bed and nightstand. Then a shadowy alcove with a tall steel gun safe, and the doorway to a bathroom. Overhead, a mirror ball spins, firing off reflections from a red spotlight...

WE COME AT LAST to a workout area - barbells and a weight bench, where a thickly-muscled MAN, wearing gym shorts, is flat on his back, pumping iron. He GASPS, punishing himself to some new standard of perfection. He wears a stocking mask, rolled down over his face. His sculpted physique is reflected from tall standing mirrors.

The man on the bench WHIMPERS, remembering.

The man CRIES OUT, then drops his barbell onto the uprights with a CLANK. He lies there trembling, drenched with sweat.

On his nightstand, two squat glasses, each holding a set of dentures. One set is "normal." The second set is the crooked yellow teeth that were once Grandmother's. They match the dental mold we saw in Atlanta. Powerful fingers REACH INTO FRAME, scoop this second set from its glass.

CLOSE ON a shattered mirror, over a medicine chest, with many shards missing.

SOUND of SHATTERING GLASS. The BOY'S VOICE CRIES OUT.

After a moment, the GROWNUP MAN steps in front of the mirror. He has rolled the stocking mask up to his nose; we see only his lower face, weirdly fragmented by the mirror's missing pieces. His cheeks look strangely hollow. He has a surgically repaired cleft palette.

His big hand covers his mouth for a moment. We hear a MOIST CLACKETY SOUND. When it comes away, he has inserted his Grandmother's stained dentures.

The crooked yellow teeth gleam, just for an instant, in an awful rictus of a smile.

A semi-human Dragon, on an art poster, looms over a reclining woman. In its niche beside the gun safe, lit by candles, this poster forms the centerpiece of a shrine. As we look at the fiercely-muscled Dragon, the GRANDMOTHER'S VOICE morphs slowly into a DIFFERENT VOICE - the deeper, more spectral, MALE VOICE of the DRAGON Himself.

Crouching below the poster, his back to us, is the muscular man. He has close-cropped brown hair and is now wearing a silk komono. He spins the combination lock on his gun safe, then opens it, REVEALING camera equipment, a 9 mm. Glock with a homemade silencer, a sawed-off shotgun... and his huge black ledger. Carefully, reverently, he opens this, resting it on a small table. The safe is large enough for him to stand upright. He switches on a gooseneck lamp.

Across the first page, in hand-illuminated letters, we see again the words "BeHold A GrEat RED DRAGON..."

The man leans over, his face in shadows, and picks up a new clipping from a loose pile of newspapers on the floor. Carefully he presses this into place on a blank page...

Will Graham, in the photo snapped outside the asylum. Above this, Freddy Lounds, grinning in his by-line portrait, and the screaming Tattler headline, "INSANE FIEND CONSULTED IN 'TOOTH FAIRY' MURDERS/ BY SAME COP HE TRIED TO KILL!!!"

A red marker pen appears, angrily slashes out the words "TOOTH FAIRY," then circles Lounds' face. The offending page is turned, then a couple more, before the thick fingers pause...

Hannibal Lecter, tuxedoed and suave, from an old pre-arrest society photo. There are many Lecter photos. He's an idol.

The man's thick fingers hover over this page for a moment, then touch the Doctor's face admiringly...

Graham walks down a narrow corridor as a GUARD opens a barred door ahead of him, then crosses through a checkpoint cage as a SECOND GUARD opens another barred door. He's carrying an 8x10 color photo of the curious tree carving. Emerging into a two-story gymnasium, he sees...

Hannibal Lecter walking directly towards him. Smiling brightly. No bars between them, no security glass...!

Graham pauses, unable to keep his heart from pounding.

At the last moment, just six feet away, Lecter is brought to a halt; there's a rattle overhead.

Graham glances up, sees the metal track, suspended from a grid below the ceiling, that holds Lecter's sturdy leash- restraint system. GUARDS with slung rifles watch his every move from the second-floor jogging track.

The Doctor is harnessed and handcuffed, though not muzzled. His eyes are bright and curious, like a bird's.

Graham holds up the photo.

Lecter studies the image briefly.

Lecter turns, moves in the other direction. His leash allows him to walk in an oblong oval, which is painted on the floor. Graham walks along beside him, careful not to stray inside a second, larger ring that marks the safety perimeter. He has to move quickly to keep up with the Doctor's pace.

Still striding, he nods towards the photo.

He stops abruptly, turning towards Graham.

He takes a sudden step towards Graham, lightning quick. Graham steps back involuntarily. Lecter smiles.

In the background, an air-horn sounds briefly. Graham turns his head, sees a caged red light flashing on the wall. He turns back at Lecter, whose pale eyes have never left his.

He points his cuffed hands at the photo.

As Graham stares at him, we hear a SOUND UPCUT: a clanging of steel, then BARNEY'S VOICE.

Lecter does as commanded, quite meekly, while behind him BARNEY and a TENSE SECURITY GUARD open his door and enter the cell. The security guard levels a large-bore air rifle, while Barney has a can of Mace and a phone, its long cord trailing down the corridor.

BARNEY sets down the phone, then they both back out quickly, eyes always on Lecter, and SLAM his door.

He waits, hearing their footsteps recede. He's looking at the phone. Its' rotary dial has been replaced by a blank metal plate. A red light blinks. When he's sure the guards are gone, he picks up the receiver.

Lecter presses down the phone's hook, one quick tap. Then, before the line can go dead, he taps it again, in a quick, intricate rhythm: one tap, pause, then three, pause, then more, as the phone reads his clicks as dialing...

Graham is at an information desk, where a pretty young BOOKSELLER with a flash of green hair is studying a copy of Bartlett's. She runs her much-ringed fingers down a page.

She flips pages quickly, finds the right quotation.

Lecter lounges on his cot, cradling his receiver. We hear a WOMAN'S VOICE on the other end of his line.

The Doctor hangs up. Smiles thoughtfully.

Strange, ethereal images slip past our eyes - angels and devils, feverish colors - as Graham sits at a table, flipping through a large book of Blake's watercolors. Until one especially startling image makes him stop, look closer...

The same painting as in Dolarhyde's shrine. A horned, winged, thickly-muscled man-dragon, with human legs and a tail. He's poised in sexual menace above a reclining, helpless woman; she is apparently wrapped in flames.

Graham's eyes travel down to the caption...

"The Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun, c.1803- 05/ Brooklyn Museum of Art."

As Graham stares at this, struck by its eerie power, the cute bookseller comes up, glances over his shoulder.

She smiles, flirting a bit. Graham smiles back.

A large, flat-roofed, dun-colored building, nearly identical to all the others in this vast industrial park.

SUPER TITLE: ST. LOUIS, MO.

A HUM of MACHINERY as WE FOLLOW a MAN with cropped brown hair, broad shoulders in a white lab coat, through a labyrinth of corridors; we catch glimpses of rooms dense with some sort of hi-tech equipment. Other WORKERS, passing in the hall, glance briefly at the man's face, then away, out of respect or perhaps uneasiness.

A sign beside a door reads: "INFRARED SENSITIVE MATERIALS IN USE. NO SAFELIGHTS. NO SMOKING. NO HOT BEVERAGES." The red light is on above this sign.

A THICK FOREFINGER reaches out, pushes a button. After a moment, the light turns green, and the brown-haired man OPENS the door, ENTERS the light trap, then RAPS on an inner door.

WE ENTER into cool, almost absolute darkness. A GURGLE OF WATER, the slight CREAK of a desk CHAIR. The man's voice is shy, cautious. Every word is carefully weighed.

Dolarhyde moves through the dark. SQUEAK of the stool as he sits. The RUSTLE of her LAB APRON. Very close to him.

A DOOR CLOSES on RUBBER SEALS. The HISS of a VACUUM LOCK. Then the slight SQUEAK of her SNEAKERS as she passes him. After a moment the lights come on.

REBA McCLANE stands by the door, smiling in his approximate direction. She has a handsome prairie face, a page boy, freckles. Her eyes make small, random, unseeing movements.

DOLARHYDE stares at her, surprised. We see his face clearly for the first time, even as Reba cannot. A white scar line runs from his upper lip to his nose, but his features are otherwise unremarkable, even attractive, except for his wary, predatory eyes. They flash towards...

Her white cane, propped in a corner...

Then back to the woman herself. He can stare at her all he wants. A strange and wonderful freedom.

She crosses the lab unerringly, stops by a refrigerator, opens it without fumbling, bends over to reach for something on the back of a shelf.

She turns around with a small shrink-wrapped package, holds it out in his general direction.

Dolarhyde takes the package. Disturbed and aroused to be alone with her. Almost touching... SOUND of the DOOR, behind them. They both turn as a co-worker, RALPH MANDY, pokes his head in with a breezy smile.

Spots of color appear in her cheeks.

Before going, he leers at Dolarhyde, tilts his head towards Reba, then pumps his forearm lewdly. Hot stuff, huh? The door BANGS shut behind him.

Reba crosses angrily, starting to collect her handbag, raincoat, headscarf and cane.

Dolarhyde is startled, uncertain how to respond.

Reba pauses, looks in his direction. Smiles gratefully.

POV ANGLE, through a rain-streaked window, as Reba follows a concrete divider across the parking lot, tapping the edge with her cane, until she reaches a bus stop. She stands under the shelter waiting.

Dolarhyde, a hundred feet away, watches her from behind the closed window of his van. After a moment he makes an unprecedented, impulsive decision. Starts his van.

Reba looks up at the SOUND of the VAN as it splashes up beside her, then idles. The window WHOOSHES down.

She is surprised, then pleased by his unexpected chivalry.

Dolarhyde eases up to the curb in front of a duplex in a quiet neighborhood. Glances at her mailbox to be sure he's got the right address. Then, gripping his steering wheel tensely, he stares straight ahead through his wipers.

Reba, beside him, measures his quiet as shyness.

He turns, looks at her. Her pretty face. Her unseeing eyes, glowing like mirror shards in the dashboard lights. After a moment his silence makes her smile falter a bit.

Reba stands her cane in a corner and is suddenly free. She moves about with amazing ease, hanging her coat in a closet, dropping her bag on a chair, switching on lights. She's nervous, excited, not much used to men in here.

He watches closely, fascinated by her physical assurance.

Reba turns away from her refrigerator with a whole pie, sets it down on her center island, where Dolarhyde sits stiffly upright, on a stool. Nearby, she has started coffee.

She goes to a wood block, removes a knife, testing its sharpness with her finger. She sets it down near Dolarhyde. He looks at the gleaming blade.

He stares at her with renewed wariness. She misreads his silence as tact, smiles appreciatively.

She spans the pie with her fingers, bringing her thumbs together to locate its center, then marks this with a tooth pick. She puts the middle finger of her left hand on the toothpick, her thumb on the edge of the tin.

He picks up the knife, feeling its power. Looks at her.

She smiles. Extends her palm.

He makes himself reverse the blade, placing the handle gently on her outstretched palm.

She cuts him a piece of pie, guiding the knife with her left index finger. He watches her handle the bright blade. Snick snick. She sets his piece out on a plate.

She finds him a fork in a drawer, sets that by his plate.

She stops, suddenly self-conscious. Looks his way.

Silence. She moves closer to him. He's barely breathing.

She holds her hand out, waiting. He stares at her, astounded. Then takes her wrist between his thumb and forefinger. A living woman, strange feeling...

He brings her fingers close to his teeth. How easy it would be to snap them off. Snick snick. He can't let her touch his mouth. He cannot. But by a great effort of will, he spares her life.

He holds her wrist away and releases it. Her hand settles to the counter top, fingers trailing like an averted glance.

She nods, sadly. He rises, heads to the kitchen doorway.

He turns, looking at her. Still furiously aroused, at war with himself. But his voice is soft.

He goes out into the living room, and she listens for the CLICK of the LOCK as he pulls her front door closed behind him. She shakes her head wryly - what an idiot I am! Then, after a moment, puts her fingertips gently on the stool where he was sitting. Still warm. She smiles.

The massive headquarters of the FBI looms over Pennsylvania Avenue as cars and taxis stream by. We hear OFFICE SOUNDS.

SUPER TITLE: J.EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

Graham is using a borrowed desk in a far corner of the special task force office. Walls and bulletin boards are covered with case photos, maps, lists, assignments. In the b.g., other AGENTS are also working phones or conferring.

BYRON METCALF, an overweight good ol' boy, leans back in his leather desk chair, looking out his window.

INTERCUTTING -

As Graham glances down a file, ticking off the name.

Crawford enters the task force room, spots Graham, hurries towards him, looking unusually tense and excited.

Crawford twirls a finger. Hang up, it's urgent.

He hangs up. Looks at Crawford expectantly.

Graham stares at him. His mind already racing...

A uniformed CLEANING MAN is wiping down the sink with a wad of toilet paper. As he spins a new handful off the roll, two loose pieces of tissue come loose, settling to the tiles. He stares at the dense, spidery handwriting on them...

Lecter sits on a metal bench, his back against a cinderblock wall. Quite relaxed, eyes shut, apparently daydreaming. His wrists are cuffed behind his back.

Lecter's eyes open. Across from him, through the steel bars, is see a narrow band of corridor.

The other agents fall silent, looking towards the huddled Graham and Crawford, picking up on their excitement. Three of them - BAKER, RANKIN, and WILLINGHAM - drift this way.

Crawford looks at him a moment, then grabs up a phone receiver. Punches one of the blinking orange buttons.

He hangs up. Looks at the tense faces of his gathering team.

An FBI helicopter flashes by, with the Potomac below and the Washington monument in the distance.

Graham climbs out the door of the helicopter, ducking his head against the heavy wash of air from the still whirling blades. He's carrying a document case.

He hurries towards Crawford and Baker, who's propping a door open. As Crawford grabs the case, Baker says something into his walkie-talkie.

The note, on two pieces of toilet paper, is now within a plastic sheath, clipped atop a light box. The top piece has a ragged hole where part of the text has been torn out. More of the text, near the tattered edge, has been inked over.

On the second piece of the note, below the signature ("AVID FAN"), are two deeply indented semi-circles: bite marks.

A white-gloved technician, BEVERLY KATZ, squeezes a remote as her tripod-mounted camera FLASHES motordrive photos.

Under a powerful magnifier, she reaches inside the plastic sheath with fine tweezers, removing a tiny piece of brown hair from the paper fiber. Carefully, with maddening precision, she places this hair in a glassine envelope.

Crawford, beside her, glances at his watch.

Graham hands Katz a copy of the killer's dental mold. She holds this up to the impressions on the note. They match exactly. She looks at Graham and Crawford, excited.

The holding cage and the corridor outside it suddenly go dark. Lecter looks up, interested.

Crotchety old JIMMY PRICE stares unhappily at the porous toilet paper as a TECHNICIAN scans it with a helium-cadmium laser. As the paper fluoresces, glowing smudges appear on it: oily stains, perspiration. No readable prints.

The old man, frustrated, turns to Crawford and Graham, shakes his head. Nothing he can do for them.

The BUILDING SUPER, in overalls, strides down the shadowy corridor, carrying a toolbox and muttering irritably to himself, as instructed.

As the super passes the holding cage, keeping well clear of the bars, Lecter's eyes follow him. The man's giving a pretty good performance, not overplaying it.

A text analyst, LLOYD BOWMAN, a thin, bespectacled chinese man, places the two parts of the note, with tweezers, between pieces of glass. Crawford and Graham hover nearby.

Bowman focuses a small TV camera on the note, then darkens the room till there's only the dull red glow of a lamp and the blue-green of his monitor screen.

Bowman glances at him, intrigued. Graham rubs his temples.

The tattered edges, smeared with ink, appear MAGNIFIED on his monitor. As he mashes the glass gently, these edges flatten, becoming less jagged. He's muttering to himself.

Below the words "I HOPE WE CAN CORRESPOND..." we can now make out, through the vermilion ink smears, fragments of writing. The tops of letters.

Crawford and Graham stare at him. Yes. They're both really jazzed now, their thoughts racing.

Bowman and Crawford look at him.

Graham snatches up the two pieces of the note, still sandwiched in glass, and puts them in the document case.

Graham sits looking out a window at the Washington landscape as it flashes by below him. He holds the case on his lap.

Special Agent Rankin, whose face we recognize from the Task Force Office, kneels by Lecter's toilet. He wears the borrowed overalls of a maintenance worker, but with white cotton gloves. Very carefully he's replacing the two pieces of the note back onto Lecter's toilet roll, exactly as they were.

Rankin slips out of the open cell door, slams it, peels off his gloves, then quickly grabs a mop from a bucket, just as Lecter appears at the end of the corridor, being wheeled back towards his cell on a hand truck, under full restraints.

The Doctor's masked face glides closer and closer, moving with eerie smoothness, as if he can fly...

As Lecter passes him, Rankin averts his gaze. Lecter's eyes rake over him briefly.

Graham, Willingham, and Chilton watch on a MONITOR as Lecter's guards push him back into his cell, stand him upright, and begin the careful unstrapping process. Rankin continues to mop nearby, moving gradually away from the cell.

Graham and Willingham exchange a tense glance. Did it work?

Crawford, on a phone, swivels towards Graham, who is just returning, accompanied by Bowman. Nearby, a fax machine is starting to CLATTER.

He hangs up and the three of them gather impatiently around the incoming fax. Finally Crawford rips it from the machine. He spreads the flimsy out on a desk. They huddle over it.

Bowman sits down, aligns the fax precisely with the corners of the blotter. He studies it intently as Crawford calls over Baker, one of the other agents.

As Baker rushes to a phone, Crawford looks at Bowman.

Bowman is already stuffing the fax into his briefcase.

He hurries out. Crawford looks at his watch, shakes his head.

They look at one another unhappily. A beat.

Crawford finally nods. Reaches for his phone.

Copies of the tabloid RATTLE down a metal conveyor belt, dropping into open racks, where other machines bundle and wire them, then roll them along. Dust rises as PRESSMEN move about. The NOISE is THUNDEROUS.

SUPER TITLE: NATIONAL TATTLER BUILDING, CHICAGO, IL.

A hand reaches into the stream of descending newspapers, pulls out a copy. A PAIR of FBI AGENTS, wearing headsets against the din, ignore the front page news ("HEAD TRANSPLANT!", "ASTRONOMERS GLIMPSE GOD!!!"), flipping instead to the back pages, the classifieds, till they find...

Lecter's small boxed message, beginning "DEAR PILGIM..."

The ROAR of the PRESSROOM now CROSSFADES to the RINGING of...

...a TELEPHONE on Crawford's bedside table, waking him. He grabs the receiver, then takes a quick glance at his WIFE: still sleeping. He rolls away from her, murmurs.

Bowman, exhausted, sits amidst books, scrawled legal pads, wadded papers, and propped-up Polaroids of Lecter's cell. He's staring at a copy of The Joy of Cooking.

INTERCUTTING-

In the distance, beyond Graham's hotel, the White House is illuminated. Fountains splash on the Mall.

Graham, in a tee shirt and boxers, sits up on the edge of his bed. He turns on a lamp, glancing at his clock: 1:23.

Crawford, still in pajamas and slippers, is now sitting on the edge of the bed. He's got on his reading glasses.

INTERCUTTING -

As Graham is abruptly on his feet. Staring, with horrified prescience, at his own face in the bedroom mirror.

Graham's receiver dangles, abandoned...

A SWAT TEAM, shotguns propped on their hips, has formed a defensive cordon around the yard, as DEPUTIES emerge from the house, shepherding the frightened Molly and Josh. Still in pajamas and robes, they look stunned, more like prisoners than people who've just been rescued...

Preceeded by a PAIR OF FBI AGENTS, and trailed by TWO OTHERS carrying their bags, Molly and Josh emerge from a private jet, climbing down its steps to a runway.

Graham is waiting for them on the tarmac. His eyes meet Molly's. She stops. He steps forward, a bit tentatively. She looks him up and down, then comes to him with a light kiss. Josh walks up beside his dad, a bit uncertainly. Graham drops to one knee to hug his son. THE FBI AGENTS ease a discreet distance away, their eyes scanning the small hangars nearby, the fringes of the airfield...

THREE BIG ORDERLIES are methodically stripping Lecter's cell of books, drawings, mattress, clothes - everything that isn't bolted down - and dumping these into a laundry cart.

Lecter, unmasked but strapped on his hand truck, is forced to watch from a corner. There's a curious grace about him, a calmness, even in restraints.

At his desk, Chilton stirs some personal papers with his gold pen. Smirks at the Doctor, enjoying his humiliation.

Chilton reddens, staring at him. Then snaps at an orderly.

AERIAL VIEW of an old white clapboard farmhouse, bordered by a barn, split-rail fences. Beyond these, wide fields, distant woods. Two unmarked SUVs are parked out front. Golden light, almost dusk.

Graham and Molly sit on a glider. A silence.

Graham is helping Josh unpack his duffel, as the boy lines up his few salvaged treasures on a bureau.

Graham is immeasurably saddened. Looks for words.

Josh digests this silently for a moment.

Josh nods. Graham is moved by his son's courage. Scoops him into his arms. Josh returns the hug gratefully.

Bullet holes punch into bales of hay, kicking up dust and straw as they miss their target: a large milking can.

Molly, the shooter, stands holding Graham's .44 in both hands. When she pauses, Graham reaches out, steadies her grip. They're both wearing earmuffs. The gun is heavy, its recoil hard to handle, but she keeps on gamely trying.

Finally one bullet punches a hole in the can, low and to one side.

When the gun finally clicks empty, he gently takes it away from her. She looks at him, tries to smile. But his expression is that of a man who has witnessed an irrevocable loss.

Freddy Lounds, seen through a two-way mirror, slouches at a bare Formica table, smoking nonchalantly. Graham and Crawford stare in at him through the glass.

An old brick apartment building, in a mixed, partly commercial neighborhood. We FOCUS on the third-floor corner unit.

Graham sits at a desk in a blandly furnished efficiency. Propped beside him is a brutish "artist's rendition" of the killer. Lounds, notepad at the ready, interviews him while a Tattler photographer records the event. Crawford watches laconically from the sidelines.

He catches Crawford's eye. Crawford mouths: "Lecter."

Crawford drifts behind the photographer, craning his neck to study what he's framing. Lounds catches this move.

The photographer nods, FLASHING away...

PHOTO ANGLES: Behind Graham, down in the corner of the window, a restaurant sign ("HONG FAT NOODLE CO.") and street sign ("31st STREET NW.") clearly indicate our location. Graham and the telltale signs are caught together, FRAME after FRAME.

Crawford catches Graham's eye. Nods: the photos look good.

He waves for his photographer to pack up. Smirks at Crawford.

He breezes out, followed by his photographer. Graham rises, looking sourly at the artist's rendering. Shakes his head.

Crawford looks at him searchingly.

At a sidewalk stand, bundled newspapers have been dumped into a pile. The NEWSIE, in his apron, is sorting and checking off his deliveries. His kiosk is still dark, shuttered. Late night, not much street activity.

MOVING ANGLE on a pair of black zippered boots as they approach the squatting newsie, then stop behind him. The boots' owner stares down at...

The front page of the Tattler, quartered by twine: "TOOTH FAIRY IMPOTENT!!!/ TOP SLEUTH REVEALS HIS LURID SECRETS," above a smiling photo of Lounds and Graham. Graham's arm is around the reporter's shoulders: best of buds.

This silent, looming presence makes the newsie uneasy.

A switchblade blooms in Dolarhyde's hand. Flashes down. The dealer stares, alarmed, as the twine on the bundle parts with a POP. A clean copy is plucked from the center, spilling the rest. Then Dolarhyde walks away, as his silver dollar RINGS on the sidewalk. The newsie rises, flushed.

In three strides Dolarhyde is back. Right in his face.

Dolarhyde turns disdainfully, strides away, as the man's frightened gaze follows him.

A black 280ZX comes down a city street, makes a fast, cocky turn into the entrance of an underground parking lot.

Lounds, behind the wheel, swoops down a ramp, then through the vast underground lot. He's evidently early; the lot is almost empty. He SCREECHES to a stop, staring in annoyance...

A big black van is in his parking space.

Lounds climbs out of his car, leaves it idling, and stalks over to the van. A shadowy figure can be seen inside.

Lounds bangs rudely on the van's window, then points at the painted words on the wall: "MR. FREDERICK LOUNDS." The van's dark window powers down with a soft WHOOSH.

A powerful left hand fires out, grabs the back of Lound's neck, jerks his face forward into a soaked rag held by the right hand. He struggles a few moments, then goes limp.

The black van emerges from the garage, turns sedately right, passing a fat SECURITY GUARD, smoking under the paper's big front sign.

As the van starts up the long hilly block, away from the building, a gray sedan is approaching from the other direction...

The sedan pauses as the fat guard crosses the sidewalk to greet its occupants: TWO FBI AGENTS in dark suits. One of them flashes ID. Impressed, the guard points helpfully towards the garage's entrance, and the sedan continues that way.

Lounds is semi-concious but oddly upright. His eyes flutter, then open. He's disoriented. Stares woozily...

The dusty old ballroom SWIMS INTO VIEW. Sheeted cots and bedpans. Tall draped windows darken the room...

Lounds tries to turn his head, cannot. Cries out softly as something tugs his hair. His eyes strain downwards...

He's wearing only underpants. When he tries to lift his right arm, we see his skin stretch. From the soles of his bare feet to the back of his head, he has been glued into one of the old wooden armchairs. He's fighting panic, even before he hears SOFT FOOTFALLS, approaching from behind.

The FOOTSTEPS STOP. Ominous silence. Lounds becomes shrill.

Lounds is confused, thinking fast. Tries to steady his voice.

The old chair CREAKS as it begins to turn.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he slowly revolves.

Lounds opens his eyes, very reluctantly, and finds himself blinking into a glow of white radiance...

Dolarhyde stands before him, starkly lit by the beam of a slide projector, with his "normal" teeth inserted. Now he slowly turns his back on Lounds, dropping his kimono...

His great back muscles flex, rippling the fantastic tattoo that reproduces Blake's monster. Wing roots flare over his ribs. The brilliant tail drops along one leg, curling about his calf. The Dragon turns his head slowly, looks over his shoulder at Lounds, with his awful rictus of a smile.

Dolarhyde pulls the robe back on as he moves OUT OF LOUND'S VIEW. A blank square of wall is left as a screen.

Dolarhyde raises a remote control, CLICKS it. Blake's Red Dragon fills the wall, beamed from a projector on a table near Lounds. Dolarhyde stands behind him.

Dolarhyde begins to rapidly run through his other slides. CLICK. Mrs. Jacobi alive. One of his own surveillance photos.

CLICK. Mrs. Leeds alive. Another distant surveillance shot.

CLOSE ON Lounds' horrified gaze, as more slides CLICK on, one after another. He is near tears.

Dolarhyde comes closer, hovers over him. Eyes flashing in cold fury.

A tape recorder sits beside the projector. Dolarhyde lifts its microphone, clips it onto the chair near Lounds' head.

He squats, bringing his terrifying face very close.

Lounds is near fainting. Dolarhyde switches the recorder ON, then looks at him again.

Sunset; the sky over the old house is now a purple bruise.

Close by Lounds, the tape recorder is still running. He looks drained, but more hopeful. He always was a good talker.

No response, except for an odd NOISE. We've heard it before. The MOIST CLACKETY SOUND of dentures being inserted...

The old wheelchair is abruptly spun about, and Lounds finds himself staring directly into the face of Dolarhyde. The brown-stained, crooked smile of the Dragon. Who now lunges forward, his fangs parting to rip off Lounds's lips...

The fat security guard is out front again, at his sidewalk post, munching a donut. It's very early, no traffic. He hears a STRANGE SQUEAKING NOISE. Looks up the hilly block...

It seems to be coming from up there, over the brow of the hill. Getting LOUDER. Then shrill, high-pitched SCREAMING...

The guard's head cocks in puzzlement. What the...?

A human fireball appears, rolling down the middle of the street, trailing smoke and flames. It veers, strikes a parked car, overturns, one wheel spinning while flames envelope the blackening figure of Freddy Lounds.

The spools of a cassette tape turn slowly, next to a padded mailer. The mailer, sealed in a clear evidence bag, is addressed to "Will Graham, c/o FBI Headquarters, Washington."

Crawford, his face dark, sits at the head of the table. Around it: Bowman, Katz, Price, Rankin, Willingham, and Baker.

No one wants to look at Graham. He sits a little apart from the others, staring at his hands on the table, as if they belonged to someone else.

Crawford reaches out, punches the stop button.

Crawford looks at him. Graham stares at the table. Crawford, expressionless, pushes fast forward, then after a moment punches play again.

SOUND of the wheelchair CREAKING, then horrible, part-muffled SCREAMING. After a few seconds Price reaches out, turns it off. Even the old man, forty years on the job, looks shaken.

A long, awful silence. Finally Crawford clears his throat.

A glance at Graham, still far away. The others shift uneasily.

They look at him. He rises, crosses to a wall map.

He draws a big circle, in red marker, with Chicago at its center. Looks at Rankin, Willingham, and Baker.

They nod, jotting notes. Crawford's energy, his ruthless determination, are lifting everyone's spirits a bit.

The others rise, with Bowman taking the evidence bag and tape player. Crawford and Graham are left alone. A beat.

Crawford waits. Graham shakes his head. Frustrated, bitter.

Crawford looks at him unhappily. A long beat.

Lecter smiles up through the plastic barrier. He's sitting on the floor, his back to the wall of his denuded cell.

Graham sits on the corridor floor, close to the barrier.

Graham's voice tightens. An enormous effort of control.

Something moves behind the pale eyes, like sparks in a cave.

Reba sits next to Dolarhyde as he drives. His fingers tap playfully on the steering wheel. He's still high from Freddy.

She hears the smile in his voice. She's happy too.

DR. WARFIELD, a middle-aged black veterinarian, guides Reba across a tiled floor by one elbow. Dolarhyde is behind them.

DR. HASSLER, in a lab coat and head mirror, turns away from his patient to smile at Reba.

She is excited, nervous. Turns her face, searching.

Gripping the edge of a steel work table with her left hand, she reaches out slowly with her right till it encounters a thick coat of fur. She flattens her hand, then moves it gently, tentatively at first, across an orange- and black- striped pelt...

Reba's face makes quick, jerky movements - blindisms - that she has spent years schooling herself against.

Warfield and Hassler see her forget herself and are glad.

She moves on, circling the table. Under hot lights, a drugged, sleeping Bengal tiger lies on his right side.

Ten feet long, 815 pounds. Reba looks tiny beside him, and so vulnerable.

Her hand trails down the tail, then over the furry testicles. Briefly she cups them, then moves on...

Dolarhyde, watching from the shadows, is tense with his own excitement. A bead of sweat trickles down his face.

The tiger's eyes are open. His tongue lolls wetly from his mouth, where we see a broken fang. Reba feels his ears, the width of the head, and then, very carefully, touches one of the incisors. She is flushed, elated...

Dr. Warfield puts his stethoscope in her ears, then guides her fingers downward with the diaphragm.

Dolarhyde stares, transfixed, aroused by the great beast, the woman's living proximity to such power...

Her hands on the rhythmic chest, her shining, joyful face upturned, Reba is filled with the tiger heart's BRIGHT THUNDER...

...which now CROSSFADES INTO the LOUD TICKING of a CLOCK, as Reba's cane, exploring, taps along the hall. It passes the base of the tall clock, finds the edge of the ballroom's archway, then open air beyond. She mutters to herself.

She pauses, turning her face back towards Dolarhyde.

He looks at her from inside the front door. Astounded at himself that he's brought her here. The CLOCK ECHOES a bit.

She brushes against a fringed lampshade, touches it.

He glances up uneasily at Grandmother's portrait.

SOUND UPCUT - Bix Beiderbecke's "Rockin' Chair," ECHOING slightly, as it is played on...

...a wind-up gramaphone, to one side of the vast room. Outside the tall windows, the light is fading. Almost dark.

Reba, in a big chair, sips beer from a bottle, listening to the old-timey jazz. Dolarhyde sits on a couch nearby, uneasily upright, facing the TV. His palms rub sweat on his thighs.

He looks at her, his predator's eyes suddenly wary.

She catches the edge in his voice; it puzzles her.

He looks away. His reflection stares back at him from the blank TV screen. This disturbs him.

His face darkens; he's dangerously silent. She senses it.

The MUSIC has STOPPED; the NEEDLE SCRATCHES. A tense pause.

He rises uncertainly, starts towards the record player. She drains her bottle, then rises, too.

She steps forward, brushing against him. He freezes, alarmed.

She finds his mouth with her fingers and kisses him, quickly, lightly, before he can stop her. Then pulls away as he stares at her, astonished.

As the toilet FLUSHES, Reba turns away from the sink, locates a towel. Then she pats her hair, primping a bit. She can't see that the medicine cabinet's mirror has been removed. She can't see Grandmother's teeth, waiting in their squat glass. Blackened by dried blood...

As Reba navigates back into the room, the Beiderbecke is PLAYING AGAIN. Dolarhyde kneels by the TV, feeding a tape into the VCR. He rises, holding the remote, crosses to Reba. His voice sounds thick, almost frightened.

He's steering her towards the big chair. Instead she releases his arm, goes to the couch, sits. This unsettles him a bit.

He sits on the other end of the couch. Looks at her warily. Then switches ON his VCR remote. He MUTES THE TV SOUND, as the Beiderbecke CONTINUES TO PLAY...

On the TV, a home video. KIDS in a big hedged back yard having a water battle, circling and laughing. TWO BOYS and a YOUNGER GIRL. This family (the SHERMANS) is new to us. Behind them, a large handsome house. A dog runs about, barking silently.

CAMERA MOVES SHAKILY to catch MRS. SHERMAN as she comes outside, through a screen door, carrying soda towards a picnic table. CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON HER... a beautiful woman in cutoff shorts and a skimpy halter top.

Reba slides closer to Dolarhyde on the couch. Their thighs brush together. He tenses. She smiles, snuggling closer.

Reba leans her soft weight against Dolarhyde's shoulder. He glances at her uncertainly, then back at the screen.

In the video, another day. DAD on the rec room sofa with a beer, looking a bit drunk. Rain outside the transom window. CAMERA PANS to Mom and the two younger kids, rummaging through an old trunk. Dress-up fun in front of a tall mirror. Boas, big shoes, a cowboy hat. The oldest boy must now be the cameraman...

Reba stretches up to nuzzle Dolarhyde's cheek, the side of his neck. Whispers into his ear.

Her hand is moving, down below. She smiles wickedly.

He's tense, incredibly aroused. Sits very still, forcing all his attention on the screen, as slowly, carefully, Reba's lips brush down his chest, then his abdomen, until her head moves OUT OF FRAME...

In the video, Mrs. Sherman, in a big garden-party hat, turns, striking a pose for the CAMERA, her hand at the back of her neck. There's a cameo at her throat. Dolarhyde FREEZE-FRAMES this moment...

Staring at the TV, Dolarhyde trembles. Sweat trickles down his temple. After a few moments his jaw tenses, his head arches back...

On the arm of the couch, his clenched fingertips pop through the upholstery.

ANGLE ON Mrs. Sherman's beautiful, frozen face, as the scratchy JAZZ CONTINUES, and WE MOVE CLOSER AND CLOSER on her radiant, doomed smile...

Dolarhyde wakes up, puzzled for an instant because he's not in his garret bed. His eyes widen as he remembers. He smiles shyly. Turns his head to the pillow beside him. No Reba.

He sits up, naked under the twisted sheets of Grandmother's old four-poster. Her clothes are strewn across the floor, but she's gone. His smile fades.

In a rising panic, wearing only underpants, Dolarhyde rushes out into the hall, looks up and down it. No Reba.

He turns with a start, looks at the old woman in the portrait.

He backs away from her, frightened, and then has a terrible thought. He turns, racing towards the stairs.

Dolarhyde pounds up the steps, whimpering a little as he flings himself around the turns.

He steps into the doorway, panting a bit...

She's not up here, either. His frightened face stares back at him from the workout mirrors.

He rushes across the garret to his gun safe, hastily works the combination lock, yanks open the door. His great ledger, camera equipment, shotgun and Glock are all neatly arranged, undisturbed. He backs away from the safe, wild-eyed, confused.

Dolarhyde looks up, wailing at the Dragon in the poster.

Covering his ears against the awful sound, he spins away, towards the window. Then he spots Reba, through the panes. She's down in the yard, wandering about.

Reba turns around and around, trailing her hands on the silks of the tall meadow grasses. Enjoying the sun's warmth on her smiling, upturned face. She wears Dolarhyde's kimono.

Dolarhyde stares at Reba, the Dragon roaring in his head.

Dolarhyde lurches to the safe, grabs the sawed-off shotgun, sticks the muzzle into his own mouth.

He squeezes his eyes shut. His finger tightens on the trigger. The Dragon's voice softens a bit, cunningly.

Dolarhyde lowers the shotgun, trembling.

Still terrified, he finds himself staring at the printed words across the bottom of his poster...

"...BROOKLYN MUSEUM OF ART."

Dolarhyde pulls up in front of Reba's duplex. His frenzy has passed but he's still tense, darkly brooding. Reba sits beside him in a hurt, puzzled silence. Finally she breaks it.

He looks at her yearningly, as fear strains his voice.

Her jaw clenches. Angrily she opens her door, climbs out with her cane. As he drives away quickly, she stands on the sidewalk, her face turned after him, tears in her eyes.

Resting on a long table are four big FedEx cartons, already opened. Some of the unpacked contents are spread out: letters, photo albums, kids' school notebooks. We catch a glimpse of a silver-framed photo: the Jacobi family.

Graham, hunched over the table, searches obsessively through the last carton. Something near the bottom catches his eye. His expression changes.

He lifts out of the carton a plastic ziplock bag. Holds this up, staring at the loose VHS-C tapes inside it...

SOUND UPCUT: Bach's Keyboard Concerto in F Minor, which CONTINUES UNDER the following...

Lecter carefully caresses some pear sauce onto a sliver of foie gras, then lifts this from its plate with a silver fork. Lets it hesitate by his lips, an exquisite self-torment, before his tongue emerges pinkly to savor it.

WIDER ANGLE REVEALS that his cell has been fully restored. The Doctor is dining calmly at his table, which is covered by fine cloth and exquisitely set with bone china, a glass of wine, even a vase of fresh-cut roses...

Dolarhyde gets out of a taxi, then leans down, pays the CABBIE, who drives away, leaving him on a sidewalk. JOGGERS pass him, DOGWALKERS. He has a knapsack over one shoulder. He turns, staring up at...

A massive Greek Revival building, with botanical gardens.

SUPER TITLE: BROOKLYN MUSEUM OF ART, NYC.

A videotape plays, with its SOUND MUTED. In the tape, 9- year old DONALD JACOBI blows out the candles on a birthday cake, as his family watches. A time/date stamp reads "1/18/89."

Graham grips a remote control, very intense, utterly focussed on the TV screen. Crawford is impatient.

On the TV, the SCENE ABRUPTLY SHIFTS. Now the whole family is outside; Mom has the camera. The outside basement door swings open, and MR. JACOBI comes up the steps carrying a new ten-speed bicycle, festooned with balloons and ribbons. Donald rushes over gleefully, hugging his Dad then wiggling the handlebars.

Stubbornly he stabs the remote, rewinding. Crawford sighs.

Dolarhyde walks down a corridor, past massive American oils. He's carrying a notebook, a hardback biography of William Blake, and has a special pass clipped to his shirt. No sign of his knapsack. He's accompanied by a docent, MS. HARPER, a sensible-looking woman, severely pretty.

Something in his piercing gaze unsettles her, just a bit.

Outside Lecter's cell are a PAIR OF CATERERS, in chef's starched whites, with a stainless steel cart. Both very nervous. One man warms veal on a chafing dish, while the other cautiously lowers the soup course into Lecter's pass- through. The BACH IS PLAYING from a portable stereo on a second cart. This also holds a TV set and VCR...

The Doctor, as he rises to take the covered bowl, comes face- to-face for a moment with the frightened chef. Nods to him politely: Thank you.

On the TV screen, Jacobi again brings the bicycle up the steps of the basement stairwell. The door swings closed behind him. A padlock hangs from it. Graham FREEZES THIS FRAME, then rises, crossing to point at the screen.

Crawford looks over his glasses at the screen. He's got the case files spread open in front of him.

Graham looks at him. Crawford's expression changes.

Graham's mind races. Something teasingly out of reach...

They stare at each other, as it hits them both at once.

Dolarhyde stands at a counter-height work table as Ms. Harper reverently opens a flat black case in front of him.

Dolarhyde is tense, almost trembling. They both look down at the case's contents. Ms. Harper smiles.

The original Blake watercolor rests on black cloth. The Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed With the Sun. Small but powerful. Stunning in its color and detail. Like a glowing jewel...

Dolarhyde leans closer, transfixed. Ms. Harper glances at him, pleased by his passion. Then back at the painting.

With intense pleasure, Lecter takes a sip of blood-red wine. He glances up, over the rim of his crystal goblet...

A security camera, high in the corner. Its light is on.

The Doctor raises his glass in a silent toast...

ON A MONITOR in the security stronghold, Chilton watches as Lecter smilingly mocks him. He turns away, furious, then storms out, as the guards try to stifle their smiles.

The BACH SOARS LOUDER AND LOUDER, MIXING now with...

...the SPECTRAL ROAR of the DRAGON, inside Dolarhyde's head as he stares, sweaty and trembling, at the Blake watercolor.

Dolarhyde's hand slips inside his shirt...

Ms. Harper's whole attention is on the painting...

Dolarhyde pulls out a blackjack, slugs Ms. Harper over her ear. As she goes limp he catches her in his arms, eases her with surprising gentleness to the floor.

For a moment suspended in time, he is alone with the Red Dragon, alone and staring... Then he snatches up the watercolor, stuffs it into his mouth, chewing hard.

A door opens as a SECRETARY enters from the next office, glancing over a letter.

She glances up in time to see Dolarhyde poking the last bit of paper inside his cheek. Looking back at her with eerie calm, he swallows. Ms. Harper is crumpled at his feet.

As the secretary freezes, eyes widening with fear, he lunges towards her...

Dolarhyde walks briskly down a corridor, past ambling, unsuspecting TOURISTS. He is exhilarated, joyous, invulnerable. He vanishes amidst the crowd...

Crawford is on the phone, over in the corner of the room, while Graham continues to stare at the TV screen. The Leeds videotape is now playing.

On the TV, the Leeds' gray Scotty perks up his ears, runs to the kitchen door. Valerie Leeds and the children come in carrying groceries.

Graham is muttering obsessively to himself.

Crawford isn't offended. Senses that Graham is very close to some breakthrough. He is rocking slightly in his seat.

Graham reverses the tape for a few seconds, starts it forward again. Mrs. Leeds and the children enter. The door is behind them. Latticework hides the back yard.

He picks up the plastic container that held the videotape: "THE DEEDS OF THE LEEDS!" The family mocked up as Hollywood stars.

Crawford stares at him.

Crawford holds out the receiver. Graham rises, grabs it.

As Crawford follows Graham's thoughts, picking up on his excitement, his eyes grow narrow and bright.

Crawford picks up the plastic container. "THE DEEDS OF THE LEEDS!" Turns it over to read the manufacturer's label on the back:

"CHROMA-LUX, INC./FILM & VIDEOTAPE SERVICES/ST. LOUIS, MO. 63102."

Graham looks up from the receiver. Stares at Crawford like a man who's seen a ghost. His voice is hushed, awed.

Lecter, in his cell, is like a spider at the center of his web, keen to every distant vibration. Now he watches as...

On the TV screen in his corridor, Valerie Leeds leans over, shakes out her tousled hair, then straightens, striking her mock-glamorous pose: that touching, oddly intimate moment that fatally caught Dolarhyde's eye.

Lecter takes a tiny, delicious sip of her doom, sweeter than any sauterne. His eyes close slowly in ecstasy...

A small jet races west, towards the setting sun.

Crawford, looking worried, comes down the jet's aisle, drops into a seat next to Graham. Shows him a fax.

Graham looks at him, startled, then takes the sheet.

A long, uncertain beat. Then Crawford nods. He takes back the fax, looks at it. Shakes his head.

Crawford looks at him, surprised.

In the parking lot of the factory complex, under sodium lights, Dolarhyde pays a TAXI DRIVER, who departs. He's back in everyday clothes, carries his knapsack. Freed of the Dragon, he looks happier, more relaxed than we've ever seen him. He starts towards his parked van. Then stops.

The buildings are mostly dark, just a scattering of cars in the lot. And yet... five or six of these are clustered near the loading dock, by the delivery vans. A woman - a SECRETARY - gets out of her car, hurries inside. Summoned here hastily - her hair is in curlers under a scarf.

Dolarhyde hesitates, sensing some disturbance. Cautiously he follows the woman into the building...

Dolarhyde edges around a stairwell corner, looks down...

A long corridor. Lights on in one of the offices, behind a frosted glass door that reads "PERSONNEL DEPT." Inside this room, SHADOWY FIGURES. INDISTINCT VOICES.

As he's puzzling over this, another noise, nearby - RAPIDLY APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS - makes him pull back, out of sight.

The secretary from the parking lot comes by him, in a hurry, carrying a heavy armload of ledgers. She reaches the door of the personnel department, pecks on it with her toe.

Will Graham opens the door for her.

Dolarhyde freezes, stunned...

The woman goes in, the door closes behind her.

Dolarhyde backs away, then turns, his running shoes quiet as he rushes back downstairs towards the exit.

Dolarhyde races across the parking lot, leaps into the driver's seat, shuts his door, yanks his valise from under the seat, claws it open. Pulls out his Glock, jacks a round into the chamber. He's panting, almost frantic. Looks out his window.

No one coming...

He forces himself to take deep breaths. Then he lays his pistol on the console, covers it with a T-shirt. He starts his engine, then drives slowly and quietly away.

The Personnel Manager, MR. FISK, looks worriedly at Crawford.

His secretary is grimly guarding the pile of ledgers and time sheets. Graham hovers nearby, frustrated.

Fisk looks back at him unhappily.

Reba's standing outside her front door, saying good night to Ralph Mandy. His red motorcycle is parked at the curb.

Impulsively he leans forward, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. Reba accepts this.

POV ANGLE, through a windshield, as they separate. Reba smiles. She turns, unlocks her door, as Ralph stands by...

Dolarhyde stares at the two of them from his parked van, his eyes turning hard. A grim new resolve is flooding into him.

Ralph waits gallantly while Reba closes her door, bolts it from inside. Then he turns, starting towards his bike... but Dolarhyde is blocking his way.

Dolarhyde shoots him in the face, two quick little PHUTTS from the silenced Glock. Ralph's body tumbles behind the shrubbery. Then Dolarhyde turns, calmly rings the doorbell. He waits. After a moment, SOUNDS of the door being UNLOCKED again. Reba opens it, annoyed.

Dolarhyde claps a chloroformed cloth over her face. She struggles briefly, trying to cry out, then goes limp. He catches her as she sags.

Crouching with Reba, his feverish gaze darts up and down the street. No witness. His eyes linger for a moment on Ralph's red motorcycle, then shift to his corpse, crumpled behind the hedge. His mind races. What now...?

Fisk looks tensely at Graham, as he breaks into the standoff.

Fisk and his secretary exchange a worried glance.

Graham and Crawford exchange a glance. Got him.

A dripping towel rubs across Reba's unconscious face, which stirs, then shakes from side to side to escape the wetness.

Her eyelids flutter open. She's slumped on the couch, dazed, disoriented. Dolarhyde sits beside her, very distraught.

Abruptly she struggles to rise, but his big hands on her shoulders push her back. He hisses.

His palm covers her rising shriek.

A caravan of cars and vans streams across a Missouri River bridge, speeding west quickly but silently. St. Louis PD, St. Louis SWAT, FBI. Mars lights flashing to clear traffic, but no sirens. Once across the bridge, the caravan swings right onto North River Road...

Dolarhyde still grips her mouth. He leans closer to her, his eyes blazing. Their faces almost touching.

She shakes her head, very scared.

She starts to shake her head again. Then she does know. Slowly she nods. He uncovers her mouth.

He grips her face again, shutting off the sound.

In the lead car, TWO DEPUTIES are in the front seat; one driving and one consulting a map. The radio CRACKLES with low, urgent VOICES, coordinating the racing task force.

In the backseat, Graham is checking the load in his .44 Special. He looks at his fingers, discovers they are remarkably steady. He glances beside him at...

Crawford, who has caught this moment. Their eyes meet, briefly, then Crawford nods: You'll be okay.

A row of gasoline cans, their caps already removed. One by one, Dolarhyde's sneaker is kicking them over, as the liquid spills out, spreading over the floorboards...

Dolarhyde pauses, looking up sharply at his ceiling.

He picks up a can, frantically splashing the cots, the drapes. Reba's head turns sharply, reacting to the smell.

Suddenly he's beside her again, holding his shotgun.

She touches the muzzle.

She nods. Tears streaming down her cheeks.

The cold muzzle now rests in the hollow of her throat.

He sobs helplessly, great spasms racking his body. Then he's up again, lurching away, still gripping the shotgun as he fumbles with a pack of matches. Strikes one, tosses it. It lands with a WHOOSH as flames rise instantly. Thick black smoke begins to fill the air...

Reba, terrified, gets to her feet.

Dolarhyde sways in front of her, backlit by flames, in hellish torment. Slowly he raises the shotgun.

The muzzle trembles in his hands. He hesitates, stricken.

CLOSE ON Reba's face, as she extends her hands pleadingly.

BOTH BARRELS of the shotgun EXPLODE at once. Blood spatters her face. She staggers back, stunned. Then hears the HEAVY THUMP of a BODY hitting the floor.

She turns to run, but stumbles choking into the couch. Smoke everywhere. She claws her hands through it, gasping. Backs away from the couch, turning helplessly. Which way? She takes a few tentative steps, arms extended, then stumbles over something, falls to her hands and knees.

Her fingers trail across the floor till they encounter a dead hand, gripping the shotgun... then travel up the arm, the shoulder... finally sinking into the horrible mush of the face: pulp, bone splinters, a loose eye.

Gagging, choking, she falls backwards, then scrambles up again. Flames rise behind her, CRACKLING, shooting up the drapes. Flames and smoke everywhere. She turns desperately... Which way? Then a new sound: the BONG of the hall clock...

Her head turns. BONG BONG. Where is it...? There. That way. BONG BONG... Crouching low, under the smoke, she feels her way across the ballroom, bumping into cots, righting herself, moving towards the archway, towards the sound. BONG BONG. Under her breath, a desperate chant...

Through the windshield, passing fields, patches of woods - then a red glow in the distance, flickering against low clouds. The deputy with the map points excitedly.

The driver stomps his accelerator; the car ROARS forward. The other deputy hits the SIREN. Crawford grabs their microphone from the center console.

Graham leans forward, between the two deputies, staring as the glow brightens and swells, coming closer...

The lead car ROARS past the nursing home sign, SIREN SCREAMING, as the other cars and vans follow.

The whole scene is eerily lit by their flashing mars lights, as well as by the rising flames...

Suddenly a WOMAN looms in front of them, bathed in their headlights, lurching blindly into the car's path...

The driver, cursing, slams on his brakes as...

... the car skids to a stop, fishtailing, slewing gravel, and just misses smashing into Reba. The following cars and vans veer quickly into the fields, bouncing and swaying over the rough ground.

Then Graham and Crawford are out of their car, racing towards Reba. Graham gets there first, holds her arms, his face close to hers, both their faces red in the firelight.

She's bloody, sooty, half-deafened. Her mouth is working, but nothing will come out. He shakes her gently.

Deputies and SWAT cops are racing by them with drawn weapons. Graham and Crawford look at the burning house, then back at Reba, at her sightless eyes.

Graham runs on impatiently. Crawford takes her arm.

He eases her onto the bumper of a police car, sits beside her, his arms around her, while she sobs into his neck.

Graham races up the steps to the front porch. The front door is a mass of flames. He hurries along the porch, despite the searing heat, almost frantic to get inside. Which way? Which way? Windows are shattering, more fire leaping out, boiling black smoke. A deputy hurries up, shouts at him.

Graham shakes him off, staring into the inferno in a trance of frustration, of unspent fury. Only when the man grabs his arm, physically yanking him backwards, does he finally start to come to his senses. As Graham and the deputy stumble back down the steps and into the yard...

The top of the house explodes, the garret and center roof disintegrating in a vast fireball, as the ground shudders and the WHUMP of the shockwave rocks the police cars...

And knocks down Graham and the deputy.

Crawford, still with Reba, rises, watching anxiously...

But Graham and the deputy scramble to their feet again; they're okay. Sparks and debris rain down around them.

The deputy moves off, but Graham turns back, transfixed, staring at...

The rocking chairs on the porch, moving eerily as flames take them. One last ride for the ghosts. Dolarhyde's van is ablaze; now its windows shatter as the gas tank EXPLODES. Trees burn, shrubs; the entire hilltop is a raging hell.

He stands there, a long time, watching the house burn...

Reba McClane, in a hospital gown, sits up against a pillow. Both arms and one hand are bandaged from burns. Her face looks pale, still troubled. Graham is beside her.

He sees tears glinting in her eyes. Leans closer.

She looks towards him curiously. Gently he takes her hand.

She shakes her head, waves him towards the door. But she can't completely hide, at the end, a very Reba-like grin.

As Graham leaves Reba's room, he sees Crawford sitting in the hall. He's holding something, a thick black book: Dolarhyde's great ledger. Crawford rises.

He gives the ledger to Graham. For a moment their eyes meet.

Graham nods: Thanks. Crawford smiles, walks away, leaving Graham alone. He sits, the ledger on his lap. Hesitates, then finally opens it, meeting the Red Dragon at last...

Graham's POV, as he turns the pages: news clippings, scrawled handwriting... and then, loose between two pages, a yellowed photo of a little boy, shyly hiding his mouth as he clings to the skirt of his stern-looking Grandmother on the porch of the old house...

Graham stares at this image.

Molly and Graham sit together on the dunes below their house. They're in shorts, barefoot. A driftwood fire, built in the sand, flickers before them. He stares pensively at the flames.

Molly looks at him a moment, then kisses him. Josh comes up from the surf line, happy to see them smooching.

Josh, inside the walk-in pantry, rummages until he finds a Hershey bar, a box of Graham crackers, and a bag of marshmallows. He rips this open, chewing one, as he exits the pantry, reaching for the door. When he swings it closed, Francis Dolarhyde is revealed, standing behind it.

Josh freezes, speechless, staring into the crazed yellow eyes. Dolarhyde's voice is soft.

Graham looks up towards the house.

She laughs as he rises, starting up towards the house. She tosses more wood on the fire.

Crawford, in his reading glasses, is taking down his task force maps and photos, putting them away in archival cartons. His PHONE RINGS and he picks it up.

Jimmy Price, looking upset, clutches a receiver. Behind him, on a steel table, charred bone fragments.

INTERCUTTING -

As Crawford, startled, looks down at his desk. Resting there are Grandmother Dolarhyde's shattered, blackened dentures.

Price grabs for a fax, scans it.

Crawford turns, staring into the distance out his window.

As Graham pads barefoot through his living room, he pauses. Something is tugging at the edge of his eideteker's consciousness. He stops, turns, scanning the room more closely. Something is subtly different...

Graham's gaze travels across the couch, coffee table, the foyer, seen through its archway, then bookcases, framed pictures... wait. Returns to the foyer. Rug, coat rack, and an antique console, with a glass bowl of seashells resting on it. A mirror, seen at an oblique angle, hangs above the console...

The mirror is cracked. One long shard is missing.

Graham stares, stunned, his mind racing. Barely able to accept what this could mean...

Suddenly the phone rings, close by his side, making him start. He reaches for it, then stops. Can't give away his position.

As the phone continues to ring, insistently, Graham stares fearfully towards the stairs, leading up to the second floor.

A light is on up there. The answering machine clicks on.

A wooden block of knives. Graham quietly slides a butcher knife from its slot. In the distance, the machine beeps.

As quietly as he can, Graham mounts the steps, the butcher knife gripped in his right fist. Crawford's desperate voice can still be heard from downstairs.

Graham's head edges into view at the top of the stairs. He looks down the hall, his eyes at floor level...

Five doors. Two per side - Josh's bedroom, bathroom, guest room, closet - in a gallery around the railed staircase. Master bedroom down at the end. Each door a potential ambush.

Graham climbs higher, standing in a half crouch, then follows his blade's point, edging down the hall. His heart pounding. Every sense tortured to a razor's edge...

His bare feet slip quietly over worn floorboards, carefully skirting the known loud spots...

Standing by Josh's door, he takes a deep breath. Tightens his grip on the knife. Then quietly pushes the door open further...

Dolarhyde stands by the bed, gripping Josh by one powerful forearm. His knapsack lies on the bed. The shard of mirror is poised by the boy's right eye. The handle end is wrapped with a dish towel. Dolarhyde's mad gaze meet Graham's.

Graham hesitates, looking into his son's terrified eyes. His mind racing frantically...

Graham tosses his knife to one side. Dolarhyde smiles.

Josh, in his fear, has wet his pants. Graham sees this, and something clicks in his mind. One last, desperate chance. He stares into his son's eyes, willing him to understand, even as his voice becomes harsh and grating, very loud.

Josh, confused, begins to whimper. But the effect on Dolarhyde is amazing. He freezes, startled, his eyes going wide...

Dolarhyde's mouth is agape, working soundlessly.

Josh is sobbing. Dolarhyde looks down at him, upset by the boy's crying. Disoriented, he begins to whimper too. The shard's point drops a few inches, trembling in his hand.

Dolarhyde roars with fury, releasing Josh in order to attack Graham. He swings the shard in a wide arc but misses as Graham steps backwards. Dolarhyde is left momentarily off-balance.

Josh darts around Dolarhyde and out the door. Dolarhyde, recovering his balance, starts after him, but Graham steps into his path, blocking him. Low, hands spread...

Another slash. This time, Graham's chest is lightly scored...

The third slash, a huge swing, another miss, leaves Dolarhyde momentarily off balance...

Graham plucks a second, smaller knife from behind his back, plunges it to the hilt in Dolarhyde's thigh. Dolarhyde screams. Graham runs out into the hall. Dolarhyde starts after him, staggers, rights himself. Tossing away the shard, he turns back to the bed, snatches up his knapsack.

As Graham runs down the hall, Dolarhyde lurches into view behind him, the knife still waggling in his thigh. He's fumbling in his knapsack. He pulls out his Glock as Graham runs into the master bedroom, slamming the door.

Graham locks the door, just as Dolarhyde smashes against it. The panels seem to bulge inwards. Graham pushes back, with all his weight. He turns, sees...

Josh, hiding under the bed, wide-eyed.

Josh shakes his head. Staring at his father's torn chest.

Another smash against the door. Then another. Another. The trim around the hinges is starting to splinter...

Graham runs to his closet, flings open the door, pulls down a shoebox from a high shelf. Takes out his Bulldog .44 and flips off the safety. But when he turns back towards the door, everything has suddenly gone silent. Not a sound out there. And then, after a few moments, a distant, female voice, calling out.

Graham's eyes meet Josh's. Pierced by a new fear.

Graham drops prone, staring out through the crack between the door and the jamb. He sees...

Molly's head appearing as she comes up the stairs. Puzzled, she looks down the hall. It's empty.

She stops. Looking his way. Her expression changes as she sees the battered door. Then she approaches, moving down the hall more warily. From his low angle, he can now see only her bare feet. They come closer, then stop, just outside the door. Inches from his eyes.

At the end of the hall, Dolarhyde's running shoes appear, behind her, slipping out of the bathroom. They come closer and closer, silently, one shoe leaving bloody prints...

Molly drops, flattening herself on the floorboards, as...

Graham rises to one knee, aims the .44 at the door, at waist level, squeezing the trigger...

Dolarhyde is firing the Glock, his bullets punching through the door at chest height, over Molly's prone figure...

The BOOMS are DEAFENING, the entire hallway becoming a smoky, flaming hell as the door is shredded, SHOT after SHOT...

And Dolarhyde is hit in the chest, the thigh, smashed backwards and falling to the floor...

While Graham also rocks backwards, hit in the shoulder, and with his cheek sliced open by a flying splinter...

And then, abruptly, the guns fall silent. Smoke is everywhere.

Molly turns, terrified, looking behind her at Dolarhyde.

His body lies still in a pool of blood.

Rising, she looks through the shattered door at Graham, who's lying on his back. She reaches in through a gaping hole, unlocks the door, rushes inside. Kneeling, she cradles his head. He's barely conscious, his eyes trying to focus on her. Then they look past her. He struggles to speak through a mouth filled with blood.

Molly leans closer, trying to understand. Graham whispers urgently.

A moment of stunned comprehension. Then she reaches down, grabs the .44, spinning around on her knees, her arms already rising with the muzzle as...

Dolarhyde's crazed eyes meet hers. A bloody wraith, trying to rise. It takes all his last strength to lift the Glock, but before he can squeeze the trigger again, Molly shoots him three times in the face. He's punched backwards, dead.

Molly is gasping, making soft inarticulate cries. She turns, looks at Josh, still hiding under the bed. Then at Graham. He looks at her weakly, then his head sags back. Stops. He may be dead.

Lecter sits at his desk, writing a letter. His cell has been restored to its former appearance: books and drawings, bedding and toilet seat; no trace of his fine meal remains.

He looks up thoughtfully, into some far distance.

AERIAL VIEW of a sloop, under easy sail, somewhere in the Caribbean.

SUPER TITLE: ONE YEAR LATER.

CLOSER ANGLE - Graham stands by the lifeline, near the bow. He's bearded now, his hair longer; he looks older. He's reading Lecter's letter.

Graham drops the letter overboard, watching for a few moments as it swirls away in the boat's wake. Then he turns, walking back along the deck to rejoin Molly and Josh at the wheel, as the sloop sails gracefully away, over perfect gin-clear waters...

Lecter, still composing his letter, ignores Dr. Chilton, who hovers gloatingly out in the corridor.

Lecter becomes very still. His back remains turned.

He starts away.

Lecter considers. Behind the strange pale eyes, something moves, the first quickening of wondrous new possibilities.

THE END.