Chapter Text
Hannibal Lecter was sitting at his desk scanning the “Personals” section of Tattlecrime.com on his iPad looking for a very specific ad, an ad that appeared here every year on May 1st, although the wording always varied. He knew the key word that would appear in the title of the ad and he quickly skimmed over and dismissed ads such as “Clean, sexy guy seeking a hottie for dirty fun,” and “Horney meet and greet,” and “Park your mouth on my …” Hannibal skimmed faster. People never ceased to amaze him with their pathetic attempts at connections. Ah, finally, here was the ad he was looking for: “Hunting for that special someone? We’ve got what you’re looking for.” Hannibal read through the rest of the ad and deciphered the coded message within. The code would be a website address that would take him to a webpage detailing this year’s Hunt.
He typed the web address into his tablet and took a sip of wine as the website loaded. He glanced quickly through the contents and smiled. Yes, they had some wonderful participants planned for the Hunt this year.
The website was fairly simple. It had a pretentious blood red background and in bold white lettering gave the date of the Hunt (June 1-3, one month away); the time; the location to arrive at in order to be picked up by a private plane that would take the hunters to a secluded island off the coast of Cuba; the price of admission ($100,000); and information where to transfer funds to a bank in the Cayman Islands. Then below that were pictures of the people they were planning to have as participants (albeit unwilling ones) for the Hunt. Below each picture was the participant’s name, age, height, weight, and a snippet of background information. The pictures currently included one New York street cop, a Chicago rookie cop, one Seattle precinct captain, several young men from the military, including one Green Beret and one Special Forces, a martial arts instructor, a triathlon contender, and on and on, including three attractive women, one of which was a long distance runner.
Although most hunters preferred hunting men because they were physically stronger and faster, Hannibal knew some of his fellow hunters were sexual predators who enjoyed raping and murdering their victims, so management of the Hunt always made sure to throw a few attractive women into the mix, although it was not unheard of for the occasional man to be found dead with his pants around his ankles.
Twenty-three pictures in total. The quality of the participants this year was outstanding. He wasn’t surprised. Last year he and several other hunters had complained about the lack of quality of the participants. They just weren’t challenging enough: too easy to catch, even easier to kill. Well this year they were certainly making up for it.
Hannibal already has his eye on Daniel Richmond, the Green Beret—26 years old, 230 pounds, six foot three inches of solid muscle. Oh, yes, this was exactly the type Hannibal liked to hunt and bring down. The picture of Daniel appeared to be a shot taken from a long-range camera that showed him in uniform looking relaxed, exuding the kind of confidence that says, “Yes, I’m that good.” He would be a worthy opponent. Hannibal smiled and licked his lips in anticipation. He would do a thorough web search on Daniel and some of the others who looked promising when he had more time.
Hannibal had been attending the annual Hunt ever since he found out about it four years ago when Joseph Everett, a new patient he was treating, turned out to be an undiagnosed psychopath and had mentioned the Hunt to Hannibal—bragged about it actually—feeling secure in the fact that Hannibal could never speak of it due to doctor-patient confidentiality. Hannibal had questioned him about it in the guise of a concerned doctor, but he had been very excited after hearing the man’s description of it and how to find the invitation in Tattlecrime.com (it was always on May 1st, always in the Personals, and always would have the word ‘hunt’ in the title) as well as the key to deciphering it.
Shortly thereafter the man had been gunned down by the FBI after being caught red-handed, quite literally, with his latest victim. Hannibal had been relieved because he didn’t want to participate in the Hunt with anyone who lived in the same town and knew who he was. Hannibal had actually been wondering how he could tip off the FBI to the man’s identity, but the FBI had beat him to it.
The Hunt was limited to 30 hunters and 30 participants, providing a 1:1 ratio and giving everyone a chance for a kill. Thirty hunters at $100,000 brought in a tidy $3 million to management of the Hunt. What Hannibal liked most about the Hunt though was that the hunters and prey alike were turned loose in the jungle on even footing. No weapons of any kind were permitted, only your brains, will, ingenuity and, of course, savagery.
Hannibal scrolled to the bottom of the website and leaned forward suddenly, his interest peaked. It seemed that management had added a new twist this year. With 23 pictures currently on the website, that left 7 spaces without pictures. For the 7 remaining spots management was asking if the hunters would like to purchase a spot for a specially selected participant of the hunter’s choosing for an additional $25,000.
Hmm, nice touch, Hannibal thought. He sat back in his chair and thought about this for a moment with his fingertips steepled in front of him. There was a fascinating, very intriguing, very smart FBI consultant who was getting a little too close for comfort to his alter ego, the Chesapeake Ripper. This consultant was actually instrumental in the discovery and death of Joseph Everett, his former patient. Hannibal had thought about killing this young man himself, but he didn’t like killing people he had associations with, and he had actually met and worked alongside Will Graham on a few occasions.
Hannibal had met Will for the first time in Jack Crawford’s office when Jack had asked them both to provide a profile on a case where eight teenage girls with very similar looks had disappeared without a trace, presumed to be dead. Will Graham had given his observations first, and Hannibal had been stunned and fascinated at how this seemingly shy young man had looked at the evidence and seemed to embody the mind of the killer. He started ticking off points, from the killer’s motive, to how he was choosing these particular girls, to why no parts of the girls were ever found. And he used the word “killer,” not “abductor” because he stated unequivocally that the girls were dead. Less than 48 hours after that, Hannibal was with Will when he figured out that Garrett Jacob Hobbs was the “Minnesota Shrike” and shot him dead in his own home. It was one of the most surprising and unexpectedly enjoyable days of Hannibal’s life.
If Hannibal was being totally honest, he also had to admit to a slight stirring of physical attraction to Will during the same case when he had arrived at Will’s hotel room early that same morning to bring him breakfast and try to get him to open up a little bit, and Will had answered the door half asleep with mussed hair wearing a t-shirt, boxer shorts, and a grumpy attitude that he had found surprisingly endearing. Hannibal had tried to ignore these particular feelings, as they were decidedly inconvenient and could never go anywhere, but they kept tapping him on the shoulder at unexpected times and saying things like, Doesn’t he look cute when he’s trying to hide behind his glasses? or Doesn’t he look delectable covered in Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ blood? Hannibal had actually become aroused when he had walked into the Hobbs’ kitchen with the smell of gunpowder in the air, Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ bullet-riddled body leaning up against the kitchen cabinets, Abigail Hobbs bleeding out all over the floor, and Will covered in blood. He’s had had a brief mental flash of throwing Will down on that bloody floor and taking him. He’d had to pause in the doorway a few seconds to regain his composure. Fortunately Will had been too upset at the time to notice anything amiss.
Hannibal shook his head. He was getting distracted even thinking about Will and he could feel his body starting to stir. This could never go anywhere, even if Will was interested, which he didn’t seem to be. He had actually told Hannibal to his face he didn’t find him that interesting.
Jack Crawford had tried to get Will to submit to therapy with Hannibal after that case to make sure Will was stable, but after Hannibal had “rubber stamped” him hoping to get him to relax and gain his trust, Will had never come back for therapy saying he didn’t like anybody inside his head. It was a shame really because Hannibal had been considering trying out some rather unorthodox methods to study the remarkable mind of Will Graham. After that Hannibal would sometimes see Will at crime scenes when asked by Jack Crawford to consult on cases with the FBI, and the young man was consistently a source of fascination. He had never seen anyone’s mind work the way Will’s did. Will could read a murder scene the way an architect could read blueprints. He was too good at reading murder scenes and, by association, murderers.
Hannibal had actually heard Will profile the Chesapeake Ripper/himself. He described the Ripper as, “In his thirties or forties. He has some sort of medical training. He's got real physical strength combined with an older man's self-control. He's cautious, precise, and he's never impulsive. He'll never stop. He’s got a real taste for it. He regards his victims as no better than pigs, he abhors rudeness, and many of his kills are acts of humiliation for the victims.”
Yes, Will was dangerous. He would eventually figure out who the Ripper was, it was just a matter of when. But now it seemed that providence had given him a solution to his problem. He smiled as he checked the box indicating he would like to purchase a spot for a specially selected participant, and then typed in: “Will Graham. Lives in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Works for FBI, Quantico, Virginia.” He then attached a picture of Will from a recent Tattlecrime.com article and hit the send button. He took another sip of his wine and smiled. This would be a very interesting hunt indeed.
* * *
May 16th
Will Graham and Beverly Katz were exiting The Bang-Bang Bar, a local bar where a lot of the FBI crowd hung out. Will normally avoided going to places where he needed to be “sociable,” but Bev had talked him into it after a particularly long day at a particularly gruesome crime scene that had left him feeling tightly wound and on edge. He usually refrained from going out with any of his co-workers, but Bev was one of the few people that Will felt comfortable being around. She would always do most of the talking, which took the pressure off him to talk, and some of the stories she told about life with her six brothers had him laughing so hard he could barely catch his breath, and it felt really good to laugh.
At about 9:00 he decided to call it a night. He needed to get home and take care of his dogs. He had installed a doggy door into the back door of his cabin so the dogs could go in and out freely to use the bathroom or stretch their legs, but he still needed to get home and feed them. He had their homemade food already prepared in the refrigerator; it just needed to be warmed up.
Bev decided to call it a night as well and they left the bar together headed out to the parking lot and their respective cars. It was in the 60’s and the air was cool and crisp, and when Will looked up there were millions of stars visible in the sky. He smiled because he loved nights like this. He was just about to point out the night sky to Bev when he felt a sting in his left shoulder. He looked over at Bev to ask her if she’d take a look and see if a bee or something was on his jacket when he saw a tranq dart sticking out of her shoulder and a perplexed look on her face, and then her eyes rolled back and she started falling. Will’s mind started to go into panic mode but was quickly swallowed up by the darkness. He didn’t even feel it when his face hit the blacktop of the parking lot, nor the hands that grabbed him and loaded him into a waiting van.