Chapter Text
Hannibal unpacked radishes and butter and greens from his market bag and put the vegetables away. The new refrigerator, stainless steel, pristine inside and out, sat at odds with the more rustic details of the kitchen, but almost any model would. Will had offered to build some sort of wood panelling onto the front, but he’d had to leave before they could properly discuss it.
His plane would still be in the air. Hannibal had thought of him often as the sun climbed toward the zenith and fell again toward the gold of late afternoon, vermeil on grass wet from rain. Will’s roof hadn’t leaked. Hannibal would tell him when he called. Assuming he did. He’d be tired after the flight.
Winston whined low in his throat and pushed his head against Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal rubbed him behind one ear. Winston seemed to know Will was gone, but perhaps that wasn’t surprising. The entire house was possessed of a palpable air of absence.
Hannibal cooked too much that night. He and Winston both dined on veal and pork sausage, and Winston licked the sauce from his bowl until it was spotless.
*
Will didn’t sleep on the plane. Part of it was the knowledge of what was waiting for him in DC, but most of it was the possibility of airing his nightmares in public. He chose exhaustion and walked off the plane in Dulles with a mist around him made up of stifled dreams and the ghosts of his past.
Beverly met him at baggage claim. He blinked at her, unsure for a moment if she was real.
"I was going to get a cab," he said.
She hugged him tightly enough around the middle that his breath left him with an unfortunate squeak. "Don’t be stupid," she said.
"I didn’t tell anyone when I was getting in."
"I work for the FBI. It was super hard to figure out."
He smiled down at her. "Okay. I’m glad to see you."
"Good, because you’re staying with me."
"I have hotel reservations."
She gave him a look that repeated her earlier statement about his intelligence. "I have a guest room. You don’t want to stay at a hotel."
"I was pretty sure I did."
"You associate them with crime scenes. We all do. It’s basically the only reason we ever get to go anywhere. Come on."
She grabbed his bag and started walking. He trailed after her. She was right. Crime scenes and his childhood, neither particularly good associations.
Beverly slung his bag into the back of her car, which was parked just outside baggage claim, guarded by airport security.
"Nice abuse of power," he said as he got in.
"When you travel with Katz, you travel in style. What do you want for dinner?"
"I’m not really hungry."
"Great, we’ll get pizza and I’ll eat it all."
"Beer. Coors."
"You drink shitty beer," she said.
"I missed it. Kind of hard to get in France." Impossible if you lived with Hannibal Lecter.
"You really like it there?" she asked.
"It’s warm. You can feel the sun."
She made a face. "You came back just in time for early winter. The temperature’s dropping and it’s supposed to rain for the next forever."
"At least you’ve got shitty beer."
She smacked his arm. “Charley will be glad to see you.”
“You kept him?”
“I wasn’t going to. I even took him down to the shelter.” She cut across three lanes of traffic and pulled in between two semis. “I thought he should go to someone who doesn’t work all the time.”
“But?”
“They said he was too old and they’d have a hard time finding him a family and was I sure I didn’t want to keep him and then he looked at me …"
"Yeah, that's how they get you," Will said.
*
He did eat pizza in the end, more than half once he got started. He’d eaten Hannibal’s packed lunch during a five hour layover in Munich and nothing since then. He and Beverly sat next to each other on the sofa while she flipped channels. Charley put his head on Will’s knee and looked at him soulfully until Will scratched his ears.
“That’s the look,” Beverly said. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. Don’t give him any pepperoni.”
Charley shuffled over to lean against her leg. She sighed and bent down to kiss the top of his head.
"Seems like you two get along pretty well,” Will said.
“We do okay. I don’t know how you coped with seven. How’s Winston? Who’s watching him for you?"
"A friend," he said.
Beverly glanced over at him. "A friend, huh? Did you learn French?"
"A little, but he speaks English."
"Neighbor or something?"
"Yeah, he lives pretty close. He’s not the best with dogs, but Winston’s always been well behaved. I think they’ll be all right.”
"What’s his name?" she asked, too casually.
"I’m not telling you his name.”
“Why not? What am I going to do, quiz Interpol about him?”
He just looked at her.
“I would never,” she said. She took a bite of pizza. “You’re all alone over there. We worry about you.”
“We?” he said.
“Everyone. Okay, everyone except Zeller.”
“You don’t need to worry. He’s just a guy. He’s fine."
She studied him, pizza slice sagging in her hand.
“What?” he said.
“You like him,” she said.
“I wouldn’t leave Winston with someone I didn’t like.”
“You’re defensive of him.”
“You’re treating this like an interrogation,” he said.
She looked away. "I watched you go off the deep end, and that was our fault – my fault – and now you won’t tell us anything and you expect me not to worry? I don't even have a mailing address for you. I'd have to bribe someone in HR just to send you a Christmas card.”
He turned toward her, unsure how to take that. He hadn’t thought anyone would care that much about keeping in touch. Charley nudged at his hand, and Will scratched his ears, grateful for the distraction. “It wasn’t your fault I got sick,” he said. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“It was my fault I didn’t notice.”
“You barely knew me.” She barely knew him now, though she seemed determined to change that. “I wasn’t your responsibility. I’m not your responsibility now.”
“I’m just saying, you’re not alone. Or at least you don’t have to be. And I express concern by being nosy and bossy. Get used to it.”
He smiled. “Okay. Still not telling you his name. Don’t harass my neighbors.”
“Your mysterious neighbor who’s teaching you French and who you trust to take care of your dog.”
“Who said he’s teaching me French?”
“But he is, isn’t he? I don’t buy that you’re learning on your own so you can chat with the locals.”
“Maybe,” Will said.
She looked at him, considering. “Well, good. I’m glad you’ve got a friend over there."
The TV cycled around from an ad for fabric softener to an ad for the ten o’clock news. The Candlelight Killer adds a local woman to his body count. Sources at the FBI confirm the connection based on—
Beverly stabbed at the remote until she got the mute button. “Sources at the FBI,” she muttered. “Like hell.”
"Your case?" Will asked.
"Yeah. We just got it.” She glanced at him and then back at the TV.
"Is Jack going to ask me about this?"
"Not if I can stop him?"
He looked at the crime scene tape on the television and then looked away. He didn’t want to know the details. He didn’t want to see. "I’ll let you try," he said.
She squeezed his shoulder. "Good."
He couldn’t imagine that she’d succeed, but it meant something that she’d make the attempt.
*
An hour later, he was alone in the guest room, unpacked, his suit hanging in the closet. He took out his laptop, checked his email, and hesitated. It was nearly three in the morning in France. Will didn’t know if he wanted to risk having the call ring out because Hannibal was sensibly asleep. He already felt isolated, despite the sounds of Beverly still moving around in the kitchen, clinking dishes and running water.
He thought of Hannibal washing the breakfast dishes that morning while Will finished packing. They’d said almost nothing to each other.
He pulled up Skype and made the call.
Hannibal answered almost immediately. He was bare chested, hair soft, eyes cast in warm shadows from the lamp behind him. He lay in bed, covers pulled up and computer balanced on the pillow beside him. Something in Will’s chest hurt when he looked at him.
"Hi," Will said. He felt winded.
"Are you well?"
"I’m here. Flight went okay. I’m staying with Beverly."
"You had a hotel. You never checked in."
"Of course you checked. She picked me up at the airport. How’s Winston?"
Hannibal redirected the computer to show Winston at the foot of the bed. His tail thumped once in his sleep and lay still again.
"You’re not supposed to let him on the bed," Will said. He’d left so many places behind in his life, but never one that felt like home before.
"He doesn’t listen to me."
"You haven’t even tried."
"He misses you," Hannibal said. "I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m hardly inclined to anthropomorphize your animals, and I’ve never seen him behave as he did today.”
"What was he doing?"
"A systematic search of the house and grounds. The rooms from the top down, the yard in a more or less spiral pattern. He paid particular attention to the edges of the pond."
"Are you sure he wasn’t just looking for frogs?"
"No," Hannibal admitted. "He did find some. And he was easily distracted with food."
"What did you make for dinner?"
“Veal and pork sausages. Smothered cabbage with onions and sherry vinegar. How was your lunch?"
"It was good, thanks. I ate in Munich."
"Did you find a pleasant view?"
There had been a note included with the lunch instructing him to find somewhere to eat that wouldn’t disrupt his digestion with surroundings that jarred the eyes or ears. He’d wanted to keep it, but shredded it and flushed it instead. The FBI was too familiar with Hannibal’s handwriting, and accidents happened.
"Will?"
Will gave him smile that felt on the verge of cracking. "It was fine. I watched the planes take off. What did you do all day? Have you been to the new house?"
Hannibal looked at him steadily for a moment and then began to speak. He talked about letting Winston search the new house too, about the tomato plants that had grown unaided in the disused garden, about the color of the pond water, the sunlight on the walls, the cracked tiles on the kitchen floor.
"I will go into town to choose new ones tomorrow. And I’m having the stove professionally installed," he said.
"You can’t rip out the whole floor because of three broken tiles."
"Seven. And what is the alternative? Live with them as they continue to disintegrate? They are decades old. There will be no chance of matching the pattern."
"Three. The other four are barely chipped."
"Call it three then. My point stands."
"Can’t you get some that sort of match? Or blend in or … something?"
"I’m certain I can have the work completed before you get back."
"That’s not the point," Will said. "It’s a waste."
"It’s my money to waste."
"It’s our house. Hell.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Are we really arguing about tile?"
"Yes. And it’s my kitchen. You agreed."
Will sighed. "Yeah, okay. It’s your kitchen. You’re right."
Hannibal paused. "Perhaps I could find someone to copy the pattern. It is only seven tiles, and they do suit the feel of the room."
"Isn’t that kind of thing expensive?"
"It is still my money. Incidentally, the man is coming in the morning to install the air conditioner for the kitchen."
"You didn’t wait long for that."
"I saw no point in waiting." Hannibal readjusted the screen and left his hand on the edge of it. Will could see tendons standing out with the strength of his grip. "Did you sleep on the plane?"
"No."
"You must try at some point."
Will slumped down against the pillows. "I know."
"Lie down. Leave the connection open."
"It’s okay, you don’t have to—"
"I will be awake for some time in any case. I’ll end the call when you fall asleep."
"Okay."
Will set the computer on the beside table and shuffled down under the covers. He switched off the light. He could hear Hannibal and Winston breathing an ocean away. Hannibal didn’t talk to him. He just picked up a book from the pile he kept next to the bed and bent over it. Will watched him read for a few minutes, as he did almost every night, and his eyes closed on their own.
*
Will drove out to Wolf Trap the next day. The familiarity of his old house came as an illogical shock. It had only been a few months; of course it wouldn’t look any different, but he felt as if it ought to be crumbling, as if his own ghost should haunt the attic and wander the fields at night.
Just as well it didn’t. He had to get it on the market, and persistent specters probably weren’t a selling point for most people.
He let himself in and looked over the floors, the baseboards, the walls. He knew it was structurally sound, and the water heater was only a year old. The dogs had scratched up the wood floor in places, but he could fix that. Well. Three weeks. He’d probably have to pay someone else to fix it. The baseboards should be painted.
All his stuff had to go, either to France or to charity or out with the trash. The last time he’d moved, everything he owned had fit in a suitcase and three boxes. Now he had furniture.
He made a half-hearted start on packing up some of the fishing gear and then went out to take a look at the barn. One glance at the interior convinced him it would have to be sold as it was. It would take days to clear out and no sane charity would want any of his collected junk. The new owners could trash it if they wanted to.
A car pulled up. Will heard the ghostly echoes of his dogs running to meet it, but he didn’t follow them. He stayed where he was and placed mental bets: Jack or Freddie?
"Graham! I have been calling your hotel every five minutes, I thought you got kidnapped or something. Again. Where the hell were you?"
Freddie wore a scarlet skirt suit and a tiny round leopard print hat. She walked briskly toward him through the mud with no care for her bright red heels.
"Nice to see you too, Lounds."
She joined him in the doorway of the barn and put her hands on her hips. "No, seriously. Where the fuck were you?"
"Beverly picked me up at the airport and told me I was staying with her."
"You couldn’t have called?"
"I try not to talk to you on less than six hours of sleep."
"Fine, valid point, but you could’ve emailed or something. What are you doing out here?"
"I have to sell the house."
That seemed to bring her up short for a second. "You’re really not coming back? You’re just going to live in France forever?"
"What’s wrong with France?"
"Does anyone even get killed over there?"
"Low murder rates are usually considered a plus when you’re looking for somewhere to live."
She stepped past him into the barn, whipped out a flashlight, and started poking into the dark corners. "Aren’t you bored though?"
"No."
She looked over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose at him. "I’d be so bored. Is there anything interesting in here? Was Lecter ever in here?"
"In my barn? No. What would he be doing in my barn?"
"I don’t know. Storing body parts ideally. You don’t have to sell it. We could give tours."
"Hannibal’s been to my house twice. Once to feed the dogs and once to break your wrist and slice open my back."
"Oh, good point! The tour should be of the house. And we could say—”
"No."
She affected a pout, though her eyes were amused. "You’re so boring, Graham."
"That’s why I’m not bored in France, despite the low murder rate."
“So you’re just leaving all this stuff? You can’t take it all to France, right?”
“I’ll take the fishing gear. Probably not much else.”
“Hey, what’s this?” She ducked into a corner next to the freezer and came back with his rifle.
"What’s it look like?"
"You don’t want it? Can I have it?"
He took it from her and set it against the wall. "No."
"Why not?"
"Can you shoot the gun you’ve got? Did you ever get lessons?"
"They make you take a course before you can get a concealed carry permit."
Will eyed her. "Yeah, they do. Do you actually have a concealed carry permit?"
"I could have one."
"Do you?"
"Maybe. Not. So what?"
"Do you have a gun on you right now?"
"You’re not a cop anymore, Graham."
"Let’s see it."
She took it out of her purse and held it up. "Look, I took lessons, okay, Dad? I know how to shoot it and clean it and all that. I just didn’t get the permit."
"It wouldn’t be that hard. Virginia’s a shall-issue state." He gestured toward the door. "Show me."
“No. What for?”
“So I’ll know you’re not going to shoot your foot off,” he said.
"Are you actually worried about me?"
"Yes."
She studied him for a second with an uncertain expression and then strode past him, shoving her purse against his chest as she passed. "Fine. Hold that and tell me what to shoot."
She’d clearly gotten some training. One of the three cans he set up for her went flying with a metallic ping.
She frowned. "I was doing better on the range."
"How long has it been?"
"A few months."
"You have to keep in practice."
She shot him an irritated look. “I guess you’re going to show me how it’s done now?”
"I haven’t fired a gun since I shot Abel Gideon. And I wasn’t that good to start with."
"Then what’s with the high and mighty act?"
“In all the time I was a cop, I never once saw a civilian successfully use a firearm in self defense. Statistically speaking, you’d be better off with a baseball bat.”
“That’s encouraging,” she said.
"If you’re uncomfortable with it, you shouldn’t carry it. If you’re not prepared to use it, you shouldn’t carry it. That’s all I’m saying.“
"Sometimes you actually sound like a cop."
"Thanks."
“It wasn’t a compliment. Okay, so I’ll practice. Are you offering lessons?"
"No. Try Cade. His scores were good.”
"Cade doesn’t like me anymore."
He leaned against the side of the barn and watched her reload. "What’d you do to him?"
"Nothing! He just stopped returning my calls."
"Something must’ve happened."
"Yeah, I slept with him."
"Something other than that."
She gave him an odd look. "Plenty of guys don’t need any other reason to stop calling, Graham."
He watched her take aim and take out another one of the rusted cans.
"I know what you mean though," she said. "I would’ve thought that gigantic stick up his ass had thou shalt call the morning after written on it somewhere. Whatever."
Will’s phone rang. He recognized Jack’s number on the caller ID. "Hello?"
"Will. Welcome home."
"Thanks."
Jack hesitated for nearly a second, maybe weighing courtesy against the imperative of murder. Murder won. "Got something for you to look at."
"Is that Crawford?" Lounds hissed. "Tell him we have a schedule! You are not here to look at bodies. I don’t want you all fucked up when we go on The Tonight Show."
The Tonight Show?, Will mouthed at her, something close to panic ringing in his ears.
"Will, you with me?" Jack said.
"I’m here."
"Will you come? It’s close."
"I’ll look at it. I’m not promising anything."
Will took down the address. "The Tonight Show?" he said to Lounds when he’d hung up.
"Was it Crawford?"
"Yeah, he always calls the morning after. You didn’t say anything about television. You said interviews. You said press conferences."
"You’re a big deal, and Hannibal the—”
"Don’t."
"Fine. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is an even bigger deal. The two of you together are the deal of the century."
"The century’s barely started. People will find something better to talk about."
"Hope not," Lounds said cheerfully. "We are going to make the New York Times bestseller list. We might make it to number one. Christopher Goffard can suck my dick."
"Who?"
"Pulitzer Prize winning – oh, never mind. Where are you going? The Candlelight Killer crime scene?"
Will returned her purse. "Clean your gun. I’ll call you later."
"Is that a promise?" she called after him.
"Yes."
*
Jack met Will at the tape barrier and lifted it for him to duck under. He clapped Will on the shoulder and then pulled him into a brief, rough hug, which took Will so much by surprise that he didn’t even consider returning it before it was over.
"You look better," Jack said.
"I feel better."
“Before we do this, I want to know how much of what happened to you before was the encephalitis. If it hadn’t been for that, you would’ve been all right?"
"The encephalitis didn’t put me in a psychiatric institute for three months, Jack."
"No, that was Lecter."
"Part of it was Lecter."
Jack looked at him with such concern, and Will knew it was real concern. He also knew that Jack always came down on the side of the victims. There was no point in making him wade through guilt to do it.
"You didn’t force me to come here," Will said. "Show me."
The body was gone, removed to the BAU lab sometime last night, but Will could see its shade lying at rest on the satin lining of the polished coffin.
"They all had coffins?" Will asked.
"Yeah. We’ve traced them to a lot bought from a defunct funeral parlor seven years ago. The guy who bought them had a fire in his warehouse two years ago."
"You think the killer set the fire and walked off with the leftover coffins?"
"There was a moving truck in the neighborhood that night, but it dead ends there. No one saw the coffins being moved, no security cameras. Nothing."
Will paced around the coffin. Dark wood reflected the shadows of those who stood around it. He moved in its slick surface and so did the killer. Placing the body just so. Flowers on her breast. Candles. He saw the wax drips.
"He took the candles with him, or was that forensics?"
"Him. Also the same as previous crime scenes. Nothing remarkable about the wax. He could’ve bought them anywhere."
So why take them away with him? The same candles for each woman. What happened when the candles burned too low?
Will looked at the coffin. "Was the top open or closed when you found it?"
"Closed."
"Have you looked for blood?"
"Not yet. There were no recent wounds on the body."
Jack called for luminol. They switched off the lights. One word glowed on the inside of the lid: BABYLON.
The room breathed around Will, and the scene came alive. He watched the killer cut his finger, lie down in the place where he intended his victim to rest, and write this signpost for her to read. He saw the red of blood in place of the blue glow of luminol, and his stomach lurched with memory.
He turned away, back and head both aching with tension. He shoved his hair out of his eyes and thought of Hannibal cutting it in the middle of the night, the quiet snick snick of the scissors. Hannibal saying he preferred it long. Hannibal holding him on the couch and telling him fairy tales until he fell asleep. His breathing slowed little by little.
"Well, that’s something," Jack said.
"It’ll be the killer’s blood, not the victim’s."
"I’d like you to attend the autopsy."
Will nodded wearily. "When?"
"I’ll give you a call."
"I’ll make it if I can, but that’s not why I’m here," Will said.
"You don’t think this is a little more important than your book tour?"
Of course there was nothing to say to that. He’d just have to hope they didn’t conflict. The Tonight Show. Fuck.
He made his excuses and was about to make his escape when he noticed someone watching him from the shadows near the door. Cade stepped forward with his hand extended.
"It’s good to see you, sir," he said.
Will shook his hand and took in the harder set of his face, the tension between his eyes that presaged a frown line. Will nodded to him and gestured him outside into the late afternoon sun.
"Bad case?" he asked.
"They’re all bad," Cade said.
"Does Jack still have you trying to get in their heads?"
Cade nodded.
Will looked up and down the street and spotted a drug store. "I’m going to buy some aspirin. You coming?"
"I’ve got aspirin if you want, sir."
"I think I’ll need my own."
They walked down to an aging Rite-Aid and wandered the aisles.
"You can request a transfer," Will said.
"I’m just starting to get good at it. I caught the last two. But this guy … I don’t know. I’m glad you’re here."
"How often is he taking them?"
"More often now. He’s escalating. We’ll probably have another one before you leave. Are you coming to the autopsy?"
For a moment, he looked like the hopeful young man Will had left behind. Will sighed inwardly. If they had anything on this afternoon, Lounds would have to rearrange it.
"Yeah," he said. "I’ll be there."