It had been an unvoiced, though mutual decision to move out of the city. Hannibal's sense of obligation had quickly turned into a deep feeling ofresponsibility when it came to young Abigail Hobbs. It had led to Hannibal taking custody of her, and as the months went by and they became closer, a need to protect had festered deep in the doctor's chest. The media was a constant buzz in the background of their lives, Jack Crawford a near daily harassment. Abigail's former neighbors and friends bared their true faces to the light, shedding their kindly masks in favor of scorn and condemnation—retracting their once so freely given kinship and acceptance so quickly one would worry of whiplash. Their lips whisperedcannibal, their eyes screamed monster; their voices were drenched in contempt.
Though in truth Abigail had never been truly unaware of her father's peculiar eating habits, her involvement could not be proved. Still, the self-righteous mob concentrated their frustrations and aggression on Abigail's life, and, as the kindly uncle that took the orphaned girl in—and the one to kill the beast of a man that was Mr. Hobbs—Hannibal's reputation took a staining too, if only in tabloids like tattlecrime. It was time to move on.
Wolf Trap was only a two hour ride from Baltimore, but its small population and rural visage gave the sense of isolation; made the two hours seem like 200. The forest, fields, and wide spread properties gave one the sense of being in an untamed land—almost unconquered by man. It was a beautiful countryside spread, and was occupied by many of the upper class; almost an even split between honest working men and woman and aristocrats who called Wolf Trap their home.
The manor they settled on is larger than the house back in Baltimore, and comes with many acres of land. Forest cages the old mansion in, makes the shaded ride up the drive almost eerie. The grounds, however, are beautifully kept. About a mile radius has been cleared in a near perfect circle around the manor, instead replacing the old trees and wild shrubbery with neat gardens and cut grass. The realtor had suggested Hannibal keep the family who had previously cared for the land on his payroll. They were locals who played on traditional economy—were related and had worked on the grounds since they were children with their parents. If the work he saw now was their doing, Hannibal would be glad to keep them around for some time to come.
The manor itself was unique in appearance and elegant in style. Hannibal had chosen it specifically for the fact it was the complete opposite of the sharp, modern stone and brick of his Baltimore residence. It was a shout of southern history, like an old plantation, a streak of polished wood exterior in a world of cement and steel. It was… homey. More so than the other house, and was exactly what Abigail—and perhaps he himself—needed to settle into the idea of being a closer family.
"Wow," Abigail hummed excitedly from the passenger seat of the Bentley. "It's huge."
Hannibal smirked, gazing through the windshield as they drove around the back, where the garage was. They walked back around to the front and stood on the gravel driveway, taking in all three stories of their new home.
"I can't believe I'm actually going to be living in this. It's like something I've only seen in romance flicks—or horror films. Maybe I should be worried instead of excited," Abigail looked up at Hannibal then, grin bright. "I can't decide if it's haunted or if a serial killer lives in the woods—what do you think?"
"I think," Hannibal drew out, placing a guiding hand at his niece's lower back as he started for the front door. "One serial killer living in the house is enough."
Abigail laughed then, only a little bitter as she skipped off and up the wrap around porch and into the manor.
A month of living in the manor and Abigail is settling in just fine. A routine had started just last week with schooling—home tutors, of course, came to the manor Monday through Friday. Different teachers for different subjects on different days; Hannibal made sure she received nothing but the best of education. A friend was made, which surprised the doctor if only how quickly the friendship grew. Sarah Becket—daughter of the head groundskeepers, George and Diana Becket: she was just a year older than Abigail, a graduate from the local high-school and working alongside her parents to learn the trade so that one day she could take over for the aging couple. Sarah was kind and well mannered, and best of all, sheltered like most of Wolf Trap seemed to be. She did not know of the Minnesota Shrike.
Abigail spoke of Sarah highly, and tried her best to be sociable. Abigail wasn't quite comfortable enough to leave the safety of the grounds yet, and so Sarah took her to explore the surrounding woods when she was not busy, and when she was, Abigail often chipped in on the chores if no school lessons were planned.
Sarah was delighted with the company, though George… less so. Hannibal recalled the first time Abigail had dawned a pair of work gloves and decided to help. The man had grown pale, his eyes hard—he did not seem angry, just upset. One look at Hannibal's calm demeanor from his perch on the porch, however, had calmed the groundskeeper. Perhaps George had thought the doctor would be angry to see his niece working in the gardens? It seemed plausible. The previous owners seemed particularly old fashioned in that way, from what he had learned from both the realtor and some of the locals he had spoken to while in town, and of course the Becket's themselves.
Nevertheless, George was never anything but kind to Abigail, and so the incident quickly left Hannibal's mind, and the girls grew closer.
"Sarah?" Abigail called, walking down the narrow gravel path that led to a large storage shed, tucked back in the woods as to not take from the beauty of the main manor. The shed mirrored the off white wood paneling of the house, ridiculously meticulous for a shed hidden from the view of visitors—it even had a small garden of its own for crying out loud. Abigail made her skepticism and confusion clear the first time Sarah had brought her along when the older teen needed a pair of sheers for the hedges, but Sarah had laughed and defended the notion.
"These lands are old, you know. It's just how things were back then. People wanted to see the intricate gardens, not the workers who made them or the supplies they used. It'd take away from the magic of the manor."
Abigail conceded the point, the lands were old. George had even shown her where the workers, and at some point slaves, had lived—off at the border of the grounds. It was nice like the manor, though obviously not as big or fancy. It had three rooms though, and Abigail was surprised to find they were furnished—lived in even. Apparently, now that they didn't have to worry about Sarah getting to school, the Becket's preferred to live on the grounds and made use of the old workers quarters. Abigail felt oddly guilty for not knowing. Sarah laughed at that too.
"Sarah, you back here?" Abigail had already checked the Becket's residence and found it empty; had thought maybe they were cleaning up some of the yard tools. It was Sunday though, supposedly their day off—Sarah hadn't said anything about leaving.
Abigail opened the creaky shed door, finding it empty save the tools. Perhaps George and Diana had needed Sarah's help for a supply run…?
Movement in her peripheral caught Abigail's attention, "Sarah?" she called as she turned around. The movement turned out to be from a slowly wagging tail, fluffy and brown and belonging to a panting dog.
"Um, good boy?" Abigail said hesitantly, unsure if the animal was friendly. The dog, apparently, took that as an invitation. Oblivious or just uncaring of her obvious wariness, the dog trotted up and sat, almost expectantly, at her feet—tail wagging and lips pulled back in what seemed a smile. That's when she noticed the old leather collar and metal tag.
"I didn't know Sarah had a dog," Abigail said with a frown. She reached for the tag, flipped it over and saw in worn letters the name 'Winston'. "Funny name for a dog… I don't suppose you know where Sarah is, do you?"
Winston licked her hand in reply, snuffled, and ran off back into the woods, returning with a sturdy stick.
"Um, I hope you don't expect me to touch that. It's covered in drool."
Winston whined, tail drooping slightly as it slowed in its constant wag. He stared up at her with big brown eyes and did his best impression of a kicked puppy.
Abigail sighed.
"Okay, fine, but just one time."
Hours later, Sarah found them still playing fetch in the woods—Winston panting and Abigail sweating, smiling. Sarah seemed shocked to see the dog, which apparently was not hers. Abigail thought she saw a flicker of—something—shining in Sarah's green eyes when she spotted the mutt, but the older girl just hugged Abigail in greeting, pointing out how late it was and suggesting they make their way home. She didn't so much as pet Winston.
"He just… walked on up to you?" Sarah asked as the threeof them made their way to the manor. The sun was beginning to set, darkness choking the woods. Sarah side-eyed Winston warily as he walked next to Abigail.
"Yeah, that's why I thought he was yours. He's just so friendly, and pretty well kept—if you ignore the dirt. Do you think I should post fliers or something for a missing dog?"
Sarah hummed noncommittally, still eyeing Winston, biting her lip nervously. "I don't know, I guess. Look Abby, it's been a long day—I'm just gonna head home, alright?"
"Oh," Abigail said, confused and a little put off. Sarah usually joined them for dinner on Sundays. "Yeah that's okay, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow then, when my tutors leave?"
"Uh, yeah," Sarah said, waving stiffly, still staring at Winston. "Tomorrow. Bye Abby."
That was weird, Abigail thought. Maybe she's scared of dogs?
It took everything Abigail had for Hannibal to let Winston in the house and not call the pound. After a good twenty minutes of debate, Hannibal relented. Sort of. Abigail had to give Winston a good wash down before he was allowed anywhere near the house, and even then he was restricted from almost every room except for Abigail's and the back sitting room. It was more than Abigail had thought she'd get with Winston, and so counted her blessings and scrubbed the dirt out of the dog's fur and fed him some leftovers from a previous night before dinner was ready.
Clean and dry, Winston's coat shined in the light—even Hannibal gave an approving head nod as she led him through the manor and into the back sitting room while they ate. Winston curled up under the coffee table and didn't make a peep until Abigail came back for him before bed, sharing her bed with the dog and sleeping soundly with her new companion.
The next morning Abigail woke alone. At first, she thought perhaps Winston had been a dream, but as the sleep left her eyes and her head became clearer she knew that not to be the case.
"Winston?" She called from her four-poster bed, expecting him to squirm out from under the frame—tail wagging and tongue lulling. There was only silence.
She made her way to a busy kitchen where Hannibal was making breakfast before he had to head to Baltimore for work.
"Good morning, Abigail," the doctor greeted kindly. "How did you sleep?"
"Um, good," she answered lamely. "You haven't seen Winston, have you?"
"No, I had assumed he was with you, getting dog hair all over your bedding."
"He was—I slept with my door closed, but he wasn't there when I woke up."
"Odd," Hannibal replied with a slight frown. "Perhaps you did not shut your door as tightly as you thought."
"Maybe, but I—" Abigail was cut off by an enthusiastic bark. She turned and looked out the kitchen window, surprised to see Winston prancing around the front yard.
"Mystery solved," Hannibal commented, setting two plates of protein scramble on the small, set kitchen table before he too looked out the window. "Though I do wonder how he got outside. Perhaps George let him out to relieve himself early this morning?"
"I guess," Abigail murmured, unsure. She sat down at the table to eat her breakfast, shrugging it all off as the sounds of a happy dog at play mixed with the normal morning noises.
Abigail did end up making fliers for Winston, and for the first time, ventured with Sarah—who was steadily growing less apprehensive of the dog—into town to put them up. No one called, though Abigail persisted for a full week and a half. She'd be lying if she said she was disappointed. Abigail had grown attached to the scruffy fluff that was Winston the dog.
Hannibal Lecter stood stiff in the doorway of his study, sending the hardcover medical book laying open on his desk a suspicious look. He knew for a fact that he had closed it before he'd left for work that morning. Abigail had left as well, early for a Friday, to help the Becket's buy supplies in town. No one else had access to the manor—only George had a spare key, and Hannibal very much doubted the man, or his wife or daughter, would ever stoop to breaking and entering.
Hannibal went to the desk and closed the book, a thoughtful expression clouding his usually stoic face.
He chalked it up to negligence on his part, but kept a better eye on his surroundings just in case.
With him now actively looking out for things not being where they belonged, Hannibal was beginning to notice how much it was actually happening within the manor.
Books missing from shelves only to be found halfway across the house, CD's being rummaged through and the wrong one being left in the stereo, doors ajar when Hannibal was certain he'd closed them behind himself, lights being left on in obscure and hardly used rooms—he was beginning to suspect that perhaps Sarah Becket was snooping around. At first, this theory fit well, and he decided to deal with it at a later time, when he got better proof. If that were the case, as he was certain it was now, he would have to handle the situation carefully. Not only did he wish to keep the Becket's employed for their hard work and knowledge of the grounds, but Abigail so very much adored Sarah, and it was hard for her to make friends now with her father's crimes hanging over her head.
Yes, it was a delicate situation indeed, though not an urgent one. There was nothing incriminating in the house for Sarah to stumble upon—Hannibal simply had not had the chance for his unusual hobby since the move from Baltimore—and so the doctor went on, amused but no longer concerned.
More dogs started showing up after Winston. Abigail wasn't sure where they were all coming from, but they had old collars and worn tags proclaiming their names—but no address or number of contact for the original owner. It was all very strange, especially since they all seemed to get along so well. Abigail read that dogs were usually territorial and prone to fighting when it came to intruders in their home, but if anything the dogs seemed more relaxed with the bigger their numbers got.
If Hannibal had been reluctant with Winston, he was a stone wall that could not be moved with the others. No matter how man baths Abigail gave, only Winston was ever allowed in the house, and it wasn't until George volunteered to make a kennel at the back of the manor that Hannibal relented on calling the pound.
There were six mutts in total, all mixes and quirky little things of all different shapes and sizes.
Abigail adored them, and if the small smiles Hannibal gave was any indication, the threats of the pound never had much truth in them.
The kennel turned into a group project for Sarah and Abigail, with George and Diana giving little instruction and all the supplies. Abigail didn't mind, and decided that caring for the animals would be her job, even cleaning up the kennel when it got dirty.
The kennel itself ended up being a couple of big, fenced in dog houses, each wood paneled and off white just like the house. Abigail couldn't stop the stupid grin she got when she was painting them, because damn it if everything had a theme at the manor, even the dog houses.
They didn't shut the gate very often at night, the fence just being a precaution for occasions where a bunch of dogs running around willy-nilly would be inconvenient. The dogs seemed to like the kennel well enough, most of them opting to actually sleeping in the dog houses rather than in the grass outside them. Abigail bought food bowls and kept an eye out for new dogs, didn't bother making fliers anymore and hadn't since the fourth one. It was disconcerting sometimes, when all the dogs—even Winston—would disappear for hours at the same time, but they always came back; always happy and healthy and the same drooling goofs from when they left.
Abigail was, though a little dubious of the weird habits of her animal friends, content.
Hannibal held his coffee mug snug in his hands as he ventured into the chilly morning air. It was a Sunday, the Becket's day off and Abigail was, as usual, sleeping in. It was one of the rare moments he got to himself nowadays, and he made a point each week to enjoy his Sunday solitude.
Walking off of the porch, Hannibal had his sights set on one of the benches in the vast garden of the front lawn. Over the months he had been living at the old manor, Abigail and the Becket's had slowly been adding onto the grounds already expansive gardens—trees that blossomed, bushes that bloomed, fountains for the birds as much as decoration. He swore he overheard Abigail discussing a hedge maze for the backyard the other day with George, and Hannibal wasn't sure what he felt about that, especially when the older man didn't protest the idea.
Sitting down on the morning chilled, intricate metal bench, Hannibal admired the view: the trees that made this corner of the gardens feel enclosed were green and healthy, the flowers that seemed to bloom despite the weather. He listened to the symphony of early bird song and the soft noises of crickets, that is, until a sound much like clippers caught his attention.
Hannibal looked over his shoulder and nearly startled at the hunched over figure behind him, gloved hands snipping at old flower blooms and pulling up wayward weeds. The doctor stared for a moment, bemused. The only workers currently employed to his knowledge were George, his wife, and their daughter—so then who was bent over the small rose garden, preening the thorned bushes when the sun was barely up?
Hannibal cleared his throat, and watched calmly as the man startled from his work.
"Oh—I—I didn't see you there," The man mumbled nervously, leaning back from the bush he was working on and—oddly—looking a bit to the left of Hannibal's head. "I hope I didn't disturb your morning coffee, sir."
"Mm, I don't believe I have seen you on the grounds before—might I ask who you are, and what you are doing out here so early in the morning?"
The nervous man rubbed at his stubbled jaw, unbothered by the dirt he smudge on his face with the action, or perhaps unaware he was doing it.
"Me? Oh, I uh, I take care of the gardens—sometimes. It's calming. I like the flowers, and I like the quiet of the early hours too," the man fidgeted with the clippers in his hand, looking back down at the rose bush he had been pruning. He rubbed his free hand restlessly over his dirtied jean clad thigh. "Will, by the way. Um, my name's Will."
"Hannibal Lecter," the doctor introduced, though it was probable that Will already knew who he was. He wondered if the younger man was newly employed by the Becket's, but from what he said it was far from his first day working at the manor. "How long have you worked here, Will?"
"Many years; since the previous owners of the manor," Will replied almost morosely. A small smile soon took the place of his grim frown, however, as the man once again looked up at Hannibal (though at his chest this time, still avoiding eye contact). "You take much better care of the place. The others didn't allow for much expansion—nature's meant to grow, not be contained."
Will returned his attention to the roses, clipping old and dying blooms off the bushes.
"I find it curious that I have never seen you before," Hannibal said conversationally after a few beats of silence, picking up the slack for the man's obvious social inaptitude. Will shrugged one shoulder distractingly, persisting in his work.
"I'm not very good with people. I've always been better with plants and animals."
Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement of the non-answer, facing forward again while sipping his cooling coffee as he mulled over the puzzle that was Will. His psychiatric mind was already hypothesizing and discarding possible diagnoses: Aspergers, maybe. Not enough data to say, but surely something on the Autistic spectrum? That could explain why Hannibal had never seen Will before; why the Becket's had never mentioned having help with the grounds keeping—people were not always so accepting of the mentally ill, or those whose minds simply functioned differently. Were the Becket's ashamed of Will? Or perhaps they thought Hannibal would be disapproving—that theory made less sense, as the Becket's knew the doctor's profession.
Hannibal turned on the bench again, looking over his shoulder to inquire more from the gardener, but only found empty space where Will was once hunched over.
"Will?" Hannibal looked around, puzzled. He stood when he still couldn't find the man in question, brow furrowed.
"Hannibal?" Abigail called from the direction of the manor. Bemused, the doctor gave one last cursory look over the enclosed section of the gardens—gazed over the trees and high bushes, down behind the bench where Will the gardener had been not minutes ago—before turning slowly and heading towards his niece.
Strange, he thought to himself, and made a mental note to ask George about the mysterious man at a later time.