Usually Bedelia was asleep at this hour, but presently she sat at her dining room table, fingers wrapped loosely around a cup of chamomile tea. She had been unable to sleep for several days now.
She closed her eyes and focused on a slow inhale.
One...two...three...exhale. Four...five...six...inhale.
Seven...eight...nine...exhale.
Ten...eleven...tw-a sharp intake of breath as she startled.
There was a knock on the door. At this time of night? A series of loud, urgent knocks. She felt her heart race, the beats reverberating in her skull. She rose and grabbed her phone, placing it behind her back. With shaking hands she turned her doorknob, and opened the door several inches, merely enough to slowly peer outward.
"Hannibal?!"
The man before her stood erect, but his face glistened in the lamplight. His lips were parted slightly, and his breaths were loud.
"Dr. DuMaurier."
His hand hovered over his chest; he wasn't donning his usual jacket, but was in a light blouse with a dark stain his palm nearly obscured.
"You're covered in blood." She said it as though she were stating a simple fact, but fear was incredibly close to seeping into her tone.
"Yes."
"Is it yours?"
"Yes, I think so."
She stepped aside and he entered her home; she led him to her couch, and he sat. She felt his forehead; it was cool. As she searched through her closet for a blanket she called, "What happened?"
"I was stabbed," he said. His voice lacked its usual body.
"By whom?" She draped an old afghan over his shoulders and retrieved the phone she had placed on the cabinet. Her heart was racing.
"He's gone, now."
"Gone?" she repeated.
"Yes."
Bedelia shifted her weight to her left foot, phone dangling in her right hand. "Why didn't you call the police?" She looked at him; his eyes were lowered. "You're injured."
"I fixed it." He paused, and licked his lips. "I thought I had." He spoke quietly and slowly.
"Why did you come here?"
His breathing was noisy and shallow. "I..." He made a small movement with his head. "I was driving, I...don't remember."
Bedelia shifted her weight again, to the right foot. "The person who attacked you is-" she took a deep breath "-gone?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to tell them you were attacked by a random assailant on the way here."
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch's frame. She called 9-1-1, but it would be some time before the ambulance arrived.
"Hannibal." Bedelia sat beside him, cupping his chin in her hand and turning his face toward her. His eyes fluttered open. "Hannibal, I need you to stay awake."
"I'm awake," he said, sitting up.
"The ambulance is on its way," she said.
"Thank you."
Bedelia eyed his chest. It didn't look as though the crimson blotch had increased in size. Still, she wondered if she should attempt something that would staunch bleeding.
"Why didn't you call an ambulance, yourself, Hannibal? Surely you knew at some point your self-surgery was a failure."
"Too much trouble," he muttered.
"Too much trouble for yourself," she said, "or for the EMTs?"
"Yes," he said, and closed his eyes. His breaths were quick and his face was contorted.
"Help will be here soon, Hannibal."
"I think I'm dying," he said, eyes still shut. "Am I dying?"
She shook her head. "Is someone dying tonight?"
"Oh, yes," he said, lying back.
"Yes?"
"The girls," he murmured, "over and over again…"
He became quiet and over the next half hour drifted in and out of delirium. He would mumble phrases she didn't catch, then lapse into silence. She thought, once, that he mentioned some girl's name in particular; he seemed very distressed.
Finally the ambulance came, and after it left, Bedelia was able to sleep for the first time in days. Her slumber was sound and peaceful. When she awoke, she wondered if everything that occurred that night had been a dream.
She watched the morning news at ten. The Chesapeake Ripper, it reported, had struck again; the latest corpse was displayed not far from Baltimore's mental hospital, with its brain removed.