Chapter Text
“Well, that should do it,” Saul Goldberg said, putting the final pin in the hem of Hannibal’s new trousers. Getting up stiffly, he groaned as his knee joints popped.
“Thank you, Saul. When will the suit be ready?”
“You can pick it up next week,” the old tailor said, helping Hannibal slip off the pinned jacket.
Saul had been Hannibal’s tailor for over twenty years. At the age of seventy-three he was stooped, moved with a pronounced limp from an old gunshot wound, and his hands showed signs of arthritis, but he was still spry, and in his day he had been a renowned hunter with over 50 kills to his credit, making him a member of the elite Platinum Hunt Club. That was one of the reasons Hannibal had initially chosen him. Not only did the man have a reputation for being an exceptional tailor, but being a former hunter himself he had mastered the technique of tailoring a suit to perfection so that guns could be properly concealed without telltale bulges, and knives and other weapons could be cleverly hidden in sleeves and collars with quick and easy access.
“Have you received your notification yet?” Saul asked, placing the jacket on a hanger.
“Not yet. It should be arriving any day. It appears the government is behind on sending the notifications out.”
The tailor laughed. “So what else is new? Yet the anticipation makes it all the sweeter, does it not? Like foreplay,” he said knowingly, waggling his bushy gray eyebrows. “Oh, to be young again with the anticipation of the hunt making my blood sing. But my days of hunting are well behind me,” he said wistfully.
Hannibal had to admit that every time a hunt approached he did feel more alive than at any other time.
“What number kill will this be for you?” Saul asked.
“This will make 49.”
“And then when you play victim and kill your hunter, you will have 50, putting you in the Platinum Hunt Club!” the tailor said excitedly. “You will be among the elite with me,” he said proudly.
“It would be an honor seeing my name displayed alongside yours amongst the very best,” Hannibal said, inclining his head respectfully toward the tailor.
“It will be my boy; it will be. I have faith in you. And I suspect a good kill will do you a world of good. You seem tense today, and nothing helps with that like a good kill. Just don't get careless,” he warned, wagging a gnarled finger. “All it takes is a single slip for me to lose one of my best customers.”
“Don’t worry. After 48 kills, not much surprises me.”
Heading back to the office, Hannibal felt his spirits lift as he saw a messenger drone hovering near the entrance to his office.
When he approached it, it scanned his face and said in a pleasantly digitalized female voice, “Identity verified as Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I have a delivery for you, Dr. Lecter.” And then a slit in the middle of the device opened, pushing a large white envelope half-way out. “Please place your thumb on the ID pad to verify receipt,” the voice said. Hannibal placed his thumb on the small ID pad, and the voice said, “Verification complete. Please take your delivery.” Hannibal took the envelope and the drone said, “Have a pleasant hunt, Dr. Lecter,” before flying off.
Hannibal took the envelope inside, making it just in time for his 1:00 appointment. Franklyn Froideveaux was already in the waiting room fidgeting nervously, so he gestured him into his office.
Hannibal saw Franklyn eyeing the envelope as he walked to his desk. He knew the rude little man would ask about it, and, sure enough.
“Is that your new Victim Notification?” Franklyn asked excitedly, and Hannibal knew he was hoping Hannibal would open the envelope in front of him, which would, of course, be a breach of etiquette, as well as a violation in the eyes of the law. No one except the hunter was to know the name of their victim. This prevented anyone from giving the victim a heads-up as to who their hunter was.
Hannibal smiled pleasantly, picturing opening the envelope and finding Franklyn’s information inside. “Yes, it is,” he said, placing the envelope on his desk unopened and sitting across from Franklyn to begin their session, putting an end to that line of questioning.
As Franklyn rambled on, Hannibal found himself uncharacteristically distracted, checking his watch repeatedly as the minutes seemed to tick by in slow motion. You would think it was my first hunt, he thought. Saul was right, I am tense lately. I really need this kill.
When the time was finally up, Hannibal walked Franklyn quickly to the door.
“Have a good Hunt,” Franklyn said cheerfully. “Please don’t be gone too long—”
“I’ll try,” Hannibal said, cutting him off before practically shutting the door in his face.
Walking quickly back to his desk, he picked up the envelope, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the flap, itching to rip it open. Taking deep breaths, he realized he was showing an uncharacteristic lack of control, and lack of control was a weakness, especially in a hunter. He set the envelope down and forced himself to wait until he got home this evening to open it.
Instead of taking a taxi home after work, Hannibal decided to walk. He wanted time to calm down, to do a little meditative breathing to relax. There was no sense in acting like an inexperienced youth receiving notification of his first hunt.
As he walked he kept his eyes strictly to the front. Staring at anyone was practically asking for a bullet if the person you looked at happened to be serving as a victim. Victims were typically high-strung, on edge, thinking anyone who looked at them was their killer. As a result, many an innocent had gotten shot or stabbed accidentally. Accidental maimings and killings were heavily frowned upon and came with severe penalties.
As he walked on, a small drone carrying a talking billboard flew by slowly a few feet over his head offering spotter services to the public.
"Victims!” the man in the billboard exclaimed. “Why take chances? Using one of our accredited spotters will increase your chances of turning the tables on your hunter. Let us locate your assigned killer. Pay only after you get them!”
As annoying as he found those talking billboards, it did remind him that he needed to call his own spotter as soon as got home to put him on standby.
He crossed the street, quickening his stride. He could hardly wait to get home now to open the envelope and discover who his victim was. Would he get someone clever or stupid? Rich or poor? Would they have an organized spotter service, or try to go it on their own? He just hoped it was someone who would provide him with a real challenge. The excitement of the chase followed by a satisfying takedown always made him feel young again.
A block or so away he heard gunfire. Two quick shots, and then a final one. Some hunter had got their victim. Or perhaps some victim had turned the tables on the hunter. Either way, good for them. He wished he had been there to witness it. He could just imagine how satisfying it must feel.
When he arrived home the first thing Hannibal did was call Peter Bernadone, his preferred spotter. The man worked at an animal shelter between calls, and he was one of those shy, unremarkable people who blended into the background that nobody looked at twice, which was exactly what you wanted.
“Hello, Peter? It’s Hannibal Lecter.”
“Oh, hi, Dr. Lecter,” the soft voice said.
“I'm going out on a hunt, Peter.”
“That’s good, Dr. Lecter. You want me on standby then?”
“I do, Peter. I don't expect to be gone more than a week or two; then I'll probably get my notification of Victim Status within a month of the kill.”
“Just let me know. Have a good hunt, Dr. Lecter.”
“Thank you, Peter. I’ll call you as soon as I receive my notification.”
“Yes, sir.”
Although Hannibal was good at reading people and spotting anything out of the ordinary, it was a wise safety measure to reserve a first-class spotter. After he had made his kill as a hunter, he would automatically be designated as a victim, and Peter would help watch his back. He had used Peter before after a recommendation from a friend, and what a wonderful spotter he was. Uneducated, unsociable, but what an eye for people. He was a natural. He could tell an out-of-towner at a glance and was devious at rigging ambushes to slow the hunter down. No one was allowed to harm a hunter or victim except the person assigned to them, but spotters were allowed to slow them down.
Hannibal poured himself a brandy and then took the envelope to his favorite chair. He was pleased to see his hands were steadier now as he ripped it open.
Pulling out the information contained within, he studied the pictures first while sipping his brandy. His first thought was that it was a shame to kill such a handsome young man.
Then he looked at the data.
William Graham, Omega …
He froze, feeling uncharacteristically shocked. Wait—what? His victim was an omega?
He looked over all the data, which included the victim’s address and the usual descriptive data.
Feeling annoyed now, he got up and paced for a few moments. He had never killed an omega. What would be the point? Would an omega even put up a fight? What was an omega even doing in the Hunt? Putting your name in the Hunt was voluntary. Perhaps it was simply a typo.
He hesitated a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Emotional Catharsis Bureau, Information Section,” a man's voice answered.
“I just received my notification, and it appears that my victim is an omega. I was wondering if that is an error.”
“Name and location of the victim?”
“William Graham, New Orleans, Louisiana.”
Hannibal heard typing and then, “Yes, it's all in order, sir. Mr. Graham registered with the board under his own free will. The law says omegas have the same rights and privileges as alphas and betas.”
“Could you tell me how many kills he has?”
“I'm sorry, sir. The only information you're allowed is the victim's legal status and the descriptive data you have received.”
“I see.” Hannibal paused. “Would it be possible to substitute Mr. Graham for another?”
“You can refuse the hunt, of course. That is your legal right. But if you refuse a hunt for any reason, you automatically are put into Victim Status and then have to wait until you fulfill Victim Status to apply for another hunt. Do you wish to refuse?”
“No, it’s fine,” Hannibal said. “Thank you.”
He disconnected the call and went to the kitchen to think. He did his best thinking while cooking.
If he refused this hunt, it would delay his goal of reaching 50 kills and being inducted into the Platinum Hunt Club by several months. It was frustrating and annoying. More and more lately omegas had been trying to prove themselves equals to alphas and betas. But why an omega would put their name in the Hunt, he had no idea. Omegas weren’t aggressive. But they were free citizens, he reminded himself.
The Emotional Catharsis Board had been established initially for alphas and alphas only. The board had been formed at the end of the third world war. The third world war had nearly destroyed the planet, and at that time there had been a driving need for permanent, lasting peace. The reason being that everyone knew another world war would result in the total annihilation of all human life on the planet. So the peace following the third world war needed to last for all time.
Governments asked their advisers to come up with answers as to why peace had never lasted in the past. They determined it was because alphas liked to fight. Alphas weren't angels. They weren't fiends, either. They were just human beings with a high degree of aggression and combativeness. These advisors recognized the validity of competition, love of battle, strength in the face of overwhelming odds. These, they felt, were admirable traits for a race. The tendency toward violence, they found, was inextricably linked with ingenuity, perseverance, and drive. Without them, they determined, the race was bound to retrogress.
So then the problem became how to keep this tendency toward violence, yet somehow keep the race from destroying itself. The way to do this, they decided, was to rechannel human violence. Provide an outlet, a way to express that violence. The first big step was the legalization of gladiatorial events, complete with fights to the death.
But more was needed. Violent virtual reality games worked only up to a point. People needed the real thing, and there was no substitute for murder.
So murder was legalized, on a strictly individual basis, and only for those who wanted it. The governments were directed to create Emotional Catharsis Boards.
After a period of experimentation, a set of uniform rules were adopted. Anyone who wanted to kill could sign up at the ECB. Giving certain data and assurances, they would be granted a victim. Anyone who signed up to kill, under the government rules, had to then take a turn shortly thereafter as victim — if he or she survived.
That, in essence, was the setup. The individual could commit as many murders as they wanted. But between each, they had to be a victim. If the hunter survived Victim Status by successfully killing their hunter, they could choose to stop, or sign up for another kill.
The victims' names were selected at random by a computer at The Emotional Catharsis Board, and then notifications were generated. A hunter was allowed one month in which to make the kill. He was given the name of his victim, address, and description, and was allowed to use whatever weapon he saw fit. He was not, however, allowed to wear any sort of armor.
The victim was notified a week before the hunter was. They were only told that they had been chosen as a victim. They did not know the name of their hunter. The victim, however, was permitted to wear their choice of armor. They could also hire spotters. The victim could use any type of weapon or arrange any kind of ambush to kill the hunter.
There were stiff penalties for killing or wounding the wrong person, for no other murder was allowed. Grudge killings and killings for gain were punishable by death.
The beauty of the system was that the people who wanted to kill could do so. Those who didn't want to kill didn't have to.
At the end of the first ten years, an estimated third of the world's civilized population had applied for at least one murder, the majority being alphas, but some betas had signed up as well.
Philosophers shook their heads, but the practical men were satisfied. War was where it belonged — in the hands of the individual. There were no longer any big wars, just hundreds of thousands of small ones going on all over the world on a daily basis.
Hannibal didn't especially like the idea of killing an omega, but he wasn’t going to lose out on his 49th kill and delay getting into the Platinum Hunt Club.
He spent the rest of the evening memorizing the data on his victim.
William Graham lived in New Orleans, which wasn’t ideal. Even if he attempted to dress like the locals, his unusual looks would stand out and spotters would pick him out immediately. Also, the way he spoke would send up red flags to anyone he spoke to. He preferred hunting in large cities, like New York or Chicago, where the populace was a melting pot of people of all types and he could blend in. He would need a cover. Looking on the internet, the International Mental Health Awareness Conference was in New Orleans this weekend. That was perfect! Since he was a psychiatrist, he could actually register and go as himself. It was the perfect cover.
He went to work booking his reservations and canceling his appointments for the following week. Even if the kill was quick, he would stick around a couple of days and do a little sight-seeing.
Looking at William’s photos, his age wasn’t given but he looked to be in his early twenties. Young and an omega. Sighing, Hannibal didn’t anticipate this hunt would be very satisfying or cathartic, but then later on he could look forward to thwarting his own hunter and killing them when he was the victim.
~~~⊰X⊱~~~
After arriving in New Orleans, he checked into a hotel he had chosen right next to the convention site, only a couple of miles from his victim's address. If any spotter checked up on him, nothing should send up a red flag.
The clerks at the hotel were smiling and attentive, which bothered Hannibal. He didn't like to be recognized so easily as an out-of-town killer. But then he saw them treating all the guests the same way, so maybe they just assumed all out-of-towners were hunters.
The first thing he saw in his room was a pamphlet on his bedside table, How to Get the Most Out of Your Emotional Catharsis, with the compliments of the management.
Apparently, they did get a lot of hunters. Hannibal smiled and thumbed through it.
The following day Hannibal went next door to the convention center, picked up his attendee badge, and then left. The badge would be a useful prop.
Since it was his first visit to New Orleans, he spent the afternoon just walking around, getting a feel of the city, its food and culture. After that, he wandered through a few stores. Martinson & Black was a fascinating store. They had a Hunter-Hunted room with specialty items. There were lightweight bulletproof vests for victims, and hats with bulletproof crowns. There was a display of the latest in small sidearms that could be easily hidden. He picked up a camera that could shoot a small caliber bullet. As a young man he had loved novelty items like this, but not any longer.
When he spotted a tiny knife with a wickedly curved blade, he couldn’t resist buying it.
Later on, he took a taxi through the victim’s neighborhood and past his place of business, which was a small, nondescript repair shop. He didn’t stop because he didn’t want to get spotted. He wore a hat and sunglasses so no one could get a good look at his face.
As the taxi dropped him back off at his hotel, two men from the Department of Sanitation were standing by waiting to cart away a freshly killed corpse while a police officer scanned the hunter and victim’s thumbprints to check the validity of the kill.
“It’s a legitimate kill,” the officer said, to which the gathering crowd started applauding. “What’d you use,” the officer asked, examining the bullet hole. “An M-49?”
“No, I used the new XRM-7. It’s lighter and more accurate.”
“Nice shot,” the officer said admiringly.
“Thanks,” the man said proudly.
A drone that had been hovering overhead asked “Would you like a photo?”
“I would,” the hunter said, going to the corpse and posing. He put his foot on the body while holding up his weapon and smiling widely at the drone.
There was a brief flash and the drone said, “The photo will be sent to the electronic address we have on record. Have a nice day!” then flew off.
Many hunters liked to keep electronic scrapbooks to either reminisce on past hunts, or to keep to show their children and grandchildren someday. Hannibal had no family, so he simply kept a record of his kills in his extensive memory palace.
The Sanitation workers took over then, hauling the body away.
Hannibal regretted that he had just missed seeing the kill. It was an excellent shot and he did enjoy observing the work of others.
He went to the hotel’s four-star restaurant for dinner and then went to bed early.
Tomorrow he had a lot to do.
~~~⊰X⊱~~~
The next day, with the face of his victim ingrained in his mind, Hannibal walked through his victim’s neighborhood. He didn't look closely at anyone. Instead, he moved rapidly, as though he had a destination in mind. He was wearing a lightweight beige linen suit, a white shirt with no tie, sunglasses and a fedora, all clothing he had used for a previous hunt in Florida and which seemed suitable for this region. He was also wearing the lanyard with his convention badge.
He passed several bars and stopped at one for a drink. Then he went on, down a side street off Esplanade Avenue.
There was a pleasant sidewalk café there. As Hannibal walked past it, his steps nearly faltered as he spotted Will Graham sitting at a table less than ten feet away from him. He could never mistake that face or that hair. It was him, and he was seated at a table just out in the open staring into a drink. He didn’t so much as look up as Hannibal passed by.
Hannibal walked to the end of the block. He turned the corner and stopped, his mind bombarded with different emotions: surprise, excitement, and anger.
Was the boy stupid, exposing himself in the open like that? Did he think he lived a charmed life?
Hannibal hailed a taxi and had the man drive around the block.
He was still just sitting there.
Hannibal took a careful look. Sitting there, he seemed even younger than his pictures, but Hannibal couldn't be sure. He would guess him to be not much over twenty. His dark hair was a bit longer than in the pictures in a riot of curls that gleamed in the sunlight. His expression, as far as Hannibal could tell, was one of resigned sadness.
Wasn't the boy even going to attempt to defend himself?
Hannibal pulled out his cell phone and called the ECB.
“Are you sure that a victim named William Graham has been notified?”
“Hold on, sir.
Hannibal tapped his fingers on his knee while the clerk looked up the information.
“Yes, sir. We have his personal confirmation. Is there anything wrong, sir?”
“No, just confirming,” Hannibal said, disconnecting the call.
He supposed it was no one's business if the boy didn't want to defend himself. He still needed to kill him. However, having him not even try to elude him was just going to take all the fun out of the hunt. The part he enjoyed most was the pursuit, having his victim try and outsmart him.
Feeling let down, he postponed the kill for that day and went on an architectural tour, which lifted his spirits somewhat.
After dinner, he returned to his room. Then he lay on his bed and glared at the ceiling.
All he had to do was put a bullet in him. Or he could slit his throat, but that was often frowned upon because of the mess it made. He could just step up behind the boy and snap his neck, quick and neat, no blood.
Will Graham was being a very bad sport about this, Hannibal decided resentfully, and went to sleep.
~~~⊰X⊱~~~
The next afternoon, Hannibal walked by the cafe again. The boy was back, sitting at the same table. Hannibal hailed a cab.
“Drive around the block very slowly,” he told the driver.
“Sure,” the driver said, grinning with sardonic wisdom.
From the cab, Hannibal looked for spotters. As far as he could tell, the boy had none. Both his hands were in sight upon the table.
An easy, stationary target. Hannibal should just shoot him from here and get it over with. The foolish boy wasn’t even worth the effort of getting out of the taxi.
Hannibal took the gun out of the hidden pocket. “Slowly, now,” he told the driver.
The taxi crawled by the café.
Hannibal took careful aim, centering the boy in his sights. His finger tightened on the trigger.
- TO BE CONTINUED -