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Graham went back to Shiloh one time and one time alone, when the edge was gone from the ache in his scars and he was no longer surprised to find the side of his bed that Molly had occupied empty when the morning came. She wrote from Oregon for a while. She sent pictures of Willy with his pony. Graham didn’t answer her letters, so Molly stopped sending them.
He did not go to Shiloh in April for the anniversary of what passed in 1862. He went instead in the tail end of December, when the temperature dropped to just above 30 degrees Fahrenheit and a thin dusting of snow covered the grass. There were fewer tourists in the winter and Graham liked that. He had known he had to go back to Shiloh for a long time. It was Shiloh he dreamed of when he had slept and woken to find Molly had left for the last time.
It was not cold enough for Bloody Pond to sustain much ice. Graham kicked a stone into the frigid water and watched it sink. He dreamed less now than he used to, but when he’d slept in his seat on the flight to Tennessee he had.
His dreams slipped away when he’d opened his eyes, but he’d been left with one impulse; call the Hobbs girl. He hadn’t seen her in a long time. He wasn’t sure how old she was now. He didn’t even remember her first name. Adelaide, maybe. Something like that. He made a mental note to find out what he could once he was done in Shiloh.
Graham’s mind went back to murder as he looked over the pond, as it had when he’d last stood on its shores. He thought of Dolarhyde, more exploded from within than shot. He was still in the hospital when he saw the pictures. Crawford didn’t want him to see them. He insisted.
Those parts of him that knew murder sprung to life when he looked at the pictures. Mercy isn’t home, leave a message. He was proud of Molly, his Molly. His heart bled for Dolarhyde the child, and he might have shed a tear for the pain and loss of innocence that bloomed into the darkness of that dead man’s heart. But when he looked at the wreckage of the Dragon he saw a Beast, slain. A blight on Man extinguished by brave, brave Molly Foster Graham.
She signed her last letter “M. Foster”.
Graham kicked another stone into the water. He saw his reflection scattered over the rippling surface like the Dragon saw Himself reflected in so many shards of a mirror. Perhaps Dolarhyde’s monstrosity wasn’t what he resented. He closed his eyes and imagined the pictures again.
There are no monsters. Only man in all its shapes.
He knelt down closer to the water. His reflection seemed still from eye level, but at a lesser distance it moved and distorted. The longer he looked, the less it looked like a reflection at all.
Graham was used to his scars like he was used to the cold side of his bed.
He left Shiloh on Christmas Eve. There was a card in the P.O. box for him on Christmas morning, but he knew better than to expect it was from Molly.
It sat unopened for almost a month before the last trace of Molly’s scent was gone from the bedroom.
Dear Will,
On the Holiest of days, give a moment of your thoughts to the pilgrim. I’ll go easy on you. Let’s not count him your third. He was his own victim, though you are not without responsibility. You can, of course, feel as if you are. It is Christmas!
Your face often graces my dreams. I am doing you a terrible disservice by having no accurate image of you. I do wish I could see your scars in person. You must be all the more remarkable for them.
Perhaps you’ll pay a visit.
Yours,
Hannibal Lecter