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The smell of death and decay hung heavy over the warehouse, enough that wafts even reached outside. Will spotted two corners of the parking lot where officers had already been sick, and the on-duty sergeant was not-so-subtly staying out of eyeline of the open doors. Outside these cops’ area of expertise, then. Good, Will was counting on that.
Will barged right past the officer manning the police barrier, holding his old, defunct FBI badge up like he belonged and knew exactly what he was doing. The officer even lifted the tape for him: mission accomplished. The next bit would be trickier. Will stormed directly up to where the inspector stood before the forklift, and was unable to resist glancing up where the body was on best display.
And it was quite the display. The victim hung from the twin metal prongs aloft on the forklift, arms stretched wide. A metal, spiked collar ringed his neck, pulled tight around a choke-chain that hung from the ceiling. The man’s bare chest and back had been whipped and flayed, skin peeled back, twisted around until it formed a rope that was tied up neatly around the center of his chest.
“Who is he?” Will demanded of the inspector, before the inspector could get a word in edge-wise. Always best the set the tone himself.
“I’m sorry: who are you?” the inspector demanded in return.
Will could see how he would look through the inspector’s eyes: less bulky than your typical law enforcement, scowling, unshaven, his hair a wild mess of curls that hadn’t been combed. There were two ways for the inspector to interpret Will’s appearance: someone who didn’t belong, or just another man awoken abruptly far too early and angry about it. Technically, Will was both, but he leaned into the latter persona.
“FBI.” Will waggled his badge in the general direction of the inspector’s face without sparing him so much as a passing glance, as if the inspector were beneath his notice. The FBI’s reputation did the rest for him: an overly high level of self-importance, sticking his nose into another country’s jurisdiction, casually rude and oblivious about it. Will felt these observations roll, one by one, through the inspector’s mind. Saw them all track. Become accepted. The inspector didn’t even bother to double-check Will’s expired badge (fortunately).
“Luis Olabarri,” the inspector answered, slotting neatly into the role Will had assigned him. “He has numerous connections to organized crime, most notably smuggling.”
“Smuggling…” Will’s eyes were riveted on Olabarri’s corpse. It was beautifully done: skilled, flawlessly executed, more than a bit cheeky. “Why the dog collar? Any connection there?”
“He has been arrested several times in connection with illegal dog-fighting,” the inspector explained. “Never with enough evidence to charge him.”
Will sighed and fought against where the edge of his lips were threatening to twitch into a smile. Hannibal always had known exactly how to get Will to forgive him, the bastard. “Yup, this one is mine, all right,” Will acknowledged with resigned fondness. The inspector, of course, didn’t catch the double-meaning in Will’s words. “That a snuggle hitch?” Will squinted at the knot tied into Olabarri’s flayed skin.
The inspector looked a bit queasy. “Is it?” he asked right back.
“Sure is.” Will rolled his eyes in exasperation. Hannibal just couldn’t help but get cute, could he? Really, it was a miracle Hannibal hadn’t been caught a dozen times over, overconfident asshole that he was. Will shook his head ruefully and asked, naturally, “Where’s the letter?”
“Letter?” the inspector repeated suspiciously.
“This is definitely my man.” Okay, so maybe Will had a similar affliction for flirting with fire. Will cursed Hannibal, not for the first time, for showing Will just how much fun toying with law enforcement could be. Will turned back to the inspector, forced himself to be serious. “He must’ve left a letter. That’s what he’d do.”
“Indeed…” The inspector reluctantly removed a plastic evidence bag from his inner coat pocket. “Crime scene found this neatly folded on the floor directly in front of that pool of blood.” The inspector pointed to the stains beneath the uplifted corpse. “It’s some sick bullshit.”
Will snatched up the evidence bag and read the letter over once, committing it quickly to memory. Alas, he wasn’t going to get to keep this one, so it would have to live in one of the storerooms of his and Hannibal’s shared memory palace, where Will kept all the murderous love notes, drawings, and other evidence of Hannibal’s decade-long obsession with Will.
Unsurprisingly, the letter was written in Hannibal’s characteristic elegant, flowing calligraphy. Just the way a love letter should be written.
It read:
Dearest Beloved,
Every heart I eviscerate, every throat I bleed, every stomach I gut – I imagine it is you. Would you cry out for me as I wrung the life from your sweet lips? Would you gut me in return, until our bodies bled out into one pool, inseparable and undistinguishable? Will our bones comingle until we dissolve to dust, forever one?
Let us find out.
An even greater treasure awaits you, one that I know you’ll enjoy and appreciate, as no one else would. I have been waiting to give you this for some time, and finally the occasion warrants it. How would you like him served, I wonder?
Tartare might be traditional, but perhaps too gauche for such a momentous day. A nice blood stock, perhaps. Given your constant and unwavering devotion to catching me, I might even cater to your tastes tonight. Cayenne and paprika, perhaps? Thick and hearty with the meat juices dripping off the bone. You do seem to like it best that way.
Offers like this come so rarely in life, I find. Can you truly say that you have experienced even a fraction of what you feel when on the hunt for me, with any other? You itch for the chase – the kill – just as I do. It is in our shared nature, the two of us with one heart, one soul. This is what I offer you: a chance to relive the early days of our mutual pursuit. Catch me if you can. Stick your knife in me and rip me open from belly to sternum. You will find me quite sweet, I know you will. Just as I find you.
Revel in this, our greatest moment together, the culmination of our Becoming. We continue to change each other, to challenge each other, to emerge together as one unified chimera. This work before you is merely a sampling of what I would do to you, were you at my side. You are under my skin, and so it is only fitting that I crawl under yours. I will bury myself there, or you in me – there has never been any difference between the two.
Remember always this: You are mine and always have been and always will be. I would burn down the world for you. This is but an insignificant sliver compared to the masterpieces that lie in wait for us. Come for me soon, my love, for already I miss the scent and taste of you. I will taste you again before the day is through and you me, as is fitting. You know where to find me. Only you could ever know. It is how I know we were made for each other.
Eternally yours, in heart, soul, life and death
Will snorted once and dearly hoped he wasn’t visibly blushing. That would be an awkward one to try to explain to the inspector. “I see time hasn’t reined in our florid romanticism in the slightest.” He sighed and took one last moment to savor the letter. “Thanks,” he said, then handed it to the inspector, and stalked back out the door.
Will could feel the inspector’s eyes on his back, could practically hear the questions percolating in the inspector’s throat.
“Wait!” the inspector called out just as Will reached the door.
Will paused for a moment and braced himself against the frame. He didn’t let himself look back.
The inspector paused, as if trying to decide where to begin. “If I need to contact you… Who are you again?”
“‘Dearest beloved’,” Will quoted back obliquely, and then walked right out of the circle of police officers. Hannibal was such a terrible influence on him, and not even in the most obvious ways.
Will ducked back into his truck and, as he was turning around in the lot, saw that the inspector had followed him out and was frowning, puzzled, between the letter in his hand and in Will’s direction at Will’s parting remark. Will wondered when the inspector would figure out that Will’s words had been the literal answer to the inspector’s question: Who are you? Will wondered if the inspector would ever figure it out.
And then, with a jaunty wave, Will peeled out of the lot. It was the most alive he’d felt in months, adrenaline coursing through his veins and blood pumping through his heart. So close to being caught, and yet at the same time so far away.
When Will found Hannibal, Will was absolutely going to murder him.
***
The very obvious clue that was staring the inspector in the face was, of course, that the letter’s contents were complete nonsense. Elegant, effusive, melodramatic, heartfelt nonsense – Hannibal’s nonsense always was – but nonsense nonetheless. Exactly nine characters in that letter mattered, the first letter of each paragraph: De La Torre.
Will didn’t need to google who that was. Will had been seething at the news just last month. The shelter Will volunteered at had taken in four of the litters from the police raid on De La Torre’s compound, and that was two more litters than they’d had room for, but all the shelters in the area had gone overboard to provide space for all those mistreated animals.
Will pulled up to De La Torre’s residence. De La Torre was out on parole, in his giant mansion with its tennis court, twin infinity pools, and onsite orchard, while De La Torre’s victims cowered and whimpered and shivered in their kennels and hoped forlornly for adoption. De La Torre’s gates had thoughtfully been left open: Will wasn’t much for climbing fences these days after his umpteen shoulder wounds. There were no police cars. That meant that Will was first on the scene.
Will walked through the open front door and was delighted to discover that, as expected, he wouldn’t need to search the entire complex. After all, Hannibal wasn’t trying to play subtle here. He had, in fact, strung up De La Torre in the entry hall, dangling from the chandelier right in front of the spot where Will entered.
It was a wonder no one had found De La Torre first. But, then, given what a shit De La Torre had been, he probably wasn’t exactly swimming in friends and family.
Since Will did have De La Torre to himself, with no witnesses and no police, he allowed himself to savor the moment. His eyes shut slowly, almost lazily. He didn’t need the pendulum to see through Hannibal’s eyes; the two of them were one and the same these days.
Hannibal had taken his time with the presentation here, too. The rope was made a fine-quality jute, and Hannibal never lacked for artistry in tying it. It wound around De La Torre’s nude corpse, looped neatly side by side, with a perfectly straight line of knots running up De La Torre’s spine. Additional ropes wound down De La Torre’s four limbs, pulled taut, and together with the rope hanging from the chandelier forced De La Torre onto all fours. Will would say like a dog, except he would never degrade dogs by comparing them to De La Torre. Hannibal must’ve cut De La Torre – again and again – between each of the ropes, because the edges between them ran red over De La Torre’s stomach, and the blood had sunk deep into the white carpet beneath him. A muzzle enclosed De La Torre’s face, dual purpose: to silence his screams while Hannibal killed him with a thousand cuts, and also to hold the piece of paper slipped neatly between one of the leather straps and De La Torre’s forehead.
Will plucked the letter free more than a little possessively. This one would be his to keep. The paper was fine parchment, and the grain caressed Will’s fingers. Will hadn’t been able to feel the last one through the evidence envelope. Will raised the letter to his nose and sniffed it. A subtle scent – scents were perhaps the one thing Hannibal did do subtly – and the one that had been missing from Will’s bed when he awoke this morning.
The thought irked Will once again, and he snapped the paper once in the air to unfold it:
My dearest beloved Will,
You have seen the sight before you a thousand times before. It is one of a million ways I dream of killing you, and one of the million ways you dream of killing me. Remarkable, isn’t it, how the vilest filth can be transformed into the most sublime beauty with the proper artist and inspiration?
You have been my one and only Muse from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Sometimes, I think you inspired me even before then, as if all my life I had merely been waiting for you to arrive, to share my vision.
I know it was not the same for you. That first day in Uncle Jack’s office, your disdain was pure and wild and exhilarating. I was enamored even then, I think, although I did not understand yet how deeply. It is all too rare to find in this world someone who genuinely provides a challenge. A kindred spirit who drives one to be a better man. A companion in the best times and the hard times. Someone who understands.
There is no question in my mind that you are the only such person for me. And, I believe, you would agree that I am the only such person for you.
You know, then, what awaits you.
You know, then, where I await you.
I know you will forgive me my little indulgences, as you always have before. As I have for you.
Accept this as my most devoted offering. I will bleed for you for all my life, if you’ll let me. Come home to me.
Yours eternally,
Hannibal
Will rubbed a hand over his eyes. Only Hannibal would think that either of them was a ‘better man’ for what they’d done to and with each other. From Hannibal’s perspective, it made perfect sense: ‘good’ was beauty in art, intelligence, creativity. And, say what one might about all the people they’d killed together, but no one could say that Hannibal and Will hadn’t improved each other’s craft.
Well, maybe one other person thought the same way, saw the same beauty and purity in the act of death. Will chewed on his lower lip and let the admission wash over him. Yes, he was better for having met Hannibal. The shadow of a life he’d lived before, the killer attempting to claw its way out of his brain and driving him half mad in the process, the person suit he’d worn awkwardly and without poise… Hannibal had saved him from all that, let him Become his true self.
‘Better.’
It was a funny word. So relative.
There was no hidden cypher in this letter, not like the other. Hannibal had trusted Will to find De La Torre’s body first. Hannibal had always had such faith in Will’s ability.
Will refolded the letter carefully and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, right next to his heart. With only Will as the recipient of this letter, Hannibal had spoken more openly and less cryptically. His prose was still hopelessly purple, though.
Will had grown fond of that too, over the years, as exasperating as it could be.
Will backed out of De La Torre’s residence and left his body for the police to find. He wondered how long it would take for them to make the connection. It had been a long time, now, since Will had worked with the authorities, rather than against them. He found that he truly didn’t miss it, beyond – of course – the frustration at seeing any job incompetently done.
That life was long behind him now, bridges burned and foundations grown over and slowly worn away. He was a new man, had been Becoming more and more so for years.
And that man knew exactly where to find Hannibal.
***
Will opened the front door to excited whimpers and wagging tails. “You’re not fooling me,” Will said, giving Goldie a scritch behind the ears when she nosed his palm persistently, “I know you’ve already been fed.”
Will made his way to the kitchen, which was emitting a delightful aroma. He tipped open the lid of the pot on the stove and breathed in deep. Jambalaya. And Will had no doubt who the mystery meat was.
Will slid past the kitchen island and snagged the largest of the kitchen knives as he went. It had always been his favorite; the stainless-steel handle fit naturally into his palm and warmed to his touch. Armed thus, Will opened the door to the pantry and found the trapdoor at the back open and the stool and mat that usually rested atop it pushed tidily into one corner. The lights were on in the root cellar, and Will slowly and silently descended the stairs.
Hannibal had his back to Will, his jacket folded over the back of one chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the hidden strength beneath his finery. Will cocked his head to one side and admired Hannibal’s biceps with unashamed voyeurism; it wasn’t often he caught Hannibal off guard and got to just look without Hannibal looking back in return.
This was one unintended benefit of sharing Hannibal’s bed night-in and night-out that Will quite enjoyed. Hannibal’s nose could no longer detect Will on entry, because the combined smell of the two of them, pressed into each other’s skin by a thousand kisses, make them indistinguishable. Will’s scent was now Hannibal’s scent, and Hannibal’s nose alerted him to nothing at all.
Instead, Hannibal’s attention was captured, fully, by the man he’d captured (fully). The man was tied to a chair facing Will, and although he had a cut under one eye, he was otherwise still surprisingly healthy. The man saw Will first, and Will had a moment of recognition as their eyes met. The man’s – no, the inspector’s – eyes widened in surprise and hope as well, and Will dove in for the kill at the same time.
“Don’t move,” Will ordered before Hannibal could turn on him. Because, of course, Hannibal had seen his captive’s reaction, even if he hadn’t sensed Will. Will pressed the knife against Hannibal’s throat and used his other arm to grab Hannibal about the waist and hold him tight against Will’s body so that Hannibal couldn’t twist away without slitting his own throat.
Hannibal’s head fell back against Will’s shoulder, baring himself, and Will could feel the bob of Hannibal’s Adam’s apple where Hannibal breathed in a deep, needy gulp of air against Will’s knife tip. “Will…” he whispered with revered awe into the space between them.
“Oh, thank god…” the inspector gasped out with a sob. “This man… He’s… He already killed Luis, oh god…”
“De La Torre, too,” Will provided. His thumb caressed the skin of Hannibal’s throat where Hannibal had also failed to shave this morning and felt the heat and sweat of Hannibal against his skin. Never once, though, did Will let up on the knife; Hannibal was too swift at reversing their positions to allow him even a moment’s relaxion.
“Ah good,” Hannibal said brightly, “you and Inspector Martin are already acquainted. That will save us time on introductions.”
Will pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and snapped one cuff around Hannibal’s right wrist. Zip-ties were more effective for this, of course, but Will respected the aesthetics of the situation, and so did Hannibal. “Inspector Martin, is it?” Will repeated. “He was the inspector in charge of Luis Olabarri’s crime scene.”
Hannibal tsked at Inspector Martin disappointedly. “Such a conflict of interest. Investigating the death of your own coconspirator? What will the Policía Nacional say? Will, did you know that Inspector Martin here has been acting as protection for Señor Olabarri’s dog-fighting ring? Enforcing payment of debts, warning of police raids: you know how such organizations operate.”
Will ran the chain of the handcuffs around the metal leg of the dissection table and slapped the other cuff around Hannibal’s left wrist, chaining Hannibal to the table. It was a heavy, sturdy table, bolted solidly to the floor. Still, Will didn’t relax his knife. “You don’t say. You know, I would swear that I saw more tails wagging upstairs than there should have been.”
“Three that I found on Sr. Olabarri. I trust that you will forgive me the presumption,” Hannibal said. “I did keep them in their crates for now, so that you can properly socialize them with the rest of the pack.”
“Goddamn it, Hannibal,” Will swore as his heart melted and a slow heat burned in his belly, comforting and familiar. Hannibal pressed back against Will’s body knowingly in response.
“You need to call for back-up,” Inspector Martin was babbling, his voice flooded over with stunned relief. “Here, untie me.”
Will ignored Inspector Martin entirely. “Speaking of presumption… I awoke this morning with cold sheets beside me. You know I don’t sleep well when I don’t know exactly where you are, Hannibal,” Will chided, and sunk the sharp edge of the knife into Hannibal’s skin just a little, just enough for a droplet of blood to join the sweat beading down Hannibal’s neck.
“Nor do I, without you,” Hannibal replied immediately, fervently, and surrendered himself further to Will’s blade. “Perfectly justifiable paranoia on both our parts.” Hannibal sounded so pleased at the notion of their complete codependence on each other. “Tell me: how will you punish me?”
Will snorted. “How do you think?”
Hannibal flicked his tongue over his lips. “I may have something that will affect your decision.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Will agreed with a scoff. “You always do, don’t you?”
“If you’ll try my right trouser pocket?”
“Sure,” Will agreed easily, “but if you say you’re just happy to see me, I really will slit your throat.”
“Would I?” Hannibal asked, mock-offended.
“After all this time, I doubt there’s anything you wouldn’t do.” Will dug in Hannibal’s pocket, found the box there immediately, but of course he’d already known what he would find there.
Will lowered the knife just for a moment, enough to open the box’s lid. A sob of rapture escaped his lips at what was inside. Once, Will had worn a ring of gold and light: a fantasy bauble that let Will play pretend. This ring was nothing like that: even the harsh overheat lights seemed to shy away from the nearly black metal of this ring, and it was smooth all around, no inconvenient niches or crannies for blood to get trapped in. Slowly Will removed the ring from its box and slid the band onto his finger, hands stretched out in front so that Hannibal could see it.
Inspector Martin saw it too, of course, and his brow furrowed as he finally began to piece together that his ‘rescue by the FBI’ was not what it seemed.
Will’s lips pressed against Hannibal’s ear from behind, and he nipped once at the shell just a shade too aggressively: not to actively harm but enough to elicit a wince. “You have put me out extremely today,” he accused Hannibal, “making me run all over town, hunting bodies.”
“An unfortunate consequence,” Hannibal conceded. “I needed you out of the house to prepare my little surprise.”
“Still,” Will purred against Hannibal’s ear and brought the knife back to his throat just once, just for a quick play-nick, “I am very displeased. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, about all the ways I’d like to kill you. Would you like me to show you?”
Hannibal let out a groan of ecstasy at the thought.
Will stepped around Hannibal at this. “Then accept this, as my little engagement present.” Finally, Will turned his gaze and knife in Inspector Martin’s direction. Will gave him an unapologetic smile. “Got to keep my blushing bride-to-be happy, don’t I?”
Inspector Martin’s eyes widened, and Will saw, with exquisite perfection, the moment that realization finally dawned fully:
“Who are you?”
“Dearest beloved.”
Oh, Will and Hannibal’s engagement dinner tonight would be a feast, indeed.