Will, the Puppy - Chapter 1
The reason why Hannibal Lecter was inside a car parked on a street corner in a disgusting neighborhood at two in the morning was simple indeed. He was hunting.
Earlier that afternoon, the psychiatrist went to the Coffee Shop near his office. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. Precious coffee, hot and sweet. It is no secret that a good coffee greatly improves a person's mood and Hannibal had to agree. After listening to the bullshits of his patients all day long, he loved to be able to give himself that pleasure. He always took the coffee cup from the barista's hands with a small smile, and maybe not even Hannibal knew that.
Hannibal was leaving the shop, walking towards the curb where his car was parked. His blond hair was tousled by the unexpected wind and his amber eyes had to adjust to sunlight, but he didn't mind. He was in good mood. After all, the day was sunny, Franklyn Froideveaux had canceled his appointment (thank God ), and he finally had his precious coffee. Nothing, absolutely nothing could ruin this day. Except...
He had not seen the man coming towards him cause he was taking a sip of his coffee, happy and carefree. They collided. In a split second Hannibal had coffee in his hair and his suit was, in a word, ruined.
The Ripper inside him only took a second to analyze the situation. That Pig in front of him was wearing a dirty pair of jeans with grease stains and his jacket was not in better conditions. He was tall and out of shape, his hair was cut in military style and he reeked of cheap beer. The man looked at Hannibal with drunken eyes.
Hannibal could have forgiven the crash, Hannibal could have forgiven the fact that he just had a bath of coffee and the fact that one of his favorite suits were ruined. Part of this was his fault cause he was not paying attention. Accidents can always happen. But then the man had to seal his fate being rude.
"Watch where you walk! Asshole!" He screamed and spat in Hannibal's shoes.
Hannibal held his breath. "1,2,3,4 ..." he mentally counted to ten and smiled. He had made his decision.
"I'm sorry, sir." He said to the man who snorted and walked away limping.
Hannibal threw the empty cup in a dumpster nearby and watched as the man crossed the street and walked toward his old truck, which he got inside. Hannibal took a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote in his hand the number of the plate of the car of his soon-to-be prey as he walked away from that street towards his office.
A quick internet research revealed to him that the car belonged to Andrew Webber, age 40, retired soldier. He had quit because of an injury that left him lame in one leg. He worked at a car repair shop and lived in Baltimore. He had no wife or children. Easy prey. Hannibal managed to find Andrew's address in less than five minutes of research. Funny things you can find on the internet. This Andrew Webber would pay for his rudeness, just in time, because Hannibal's fridge was getting empty.
Hannibal remained inside his car 'til right time, whence he could see the house of his prey. Hannibal was patient. He waited until all the house lights were off and then he waited a little longer, allowing time until Webber was asleep.
The Cheesapeake Ripper raised.
Hannibal got out of the car and opened the trunk. He grabbed his briefcase with all the necessary apparatus to kill his prey and turns it into something of value, since this was his work: taking from the society these lowly creatures. Killing Andrew Webber was a favor that he paid to the world. A brief research on the internet also told him that he had been arrested a few times for inappropriate behavior near a school. That was an understatement to say that he was a pervert. Hannibal never saw himself as a vigilante, but he felt a special pleasure in killing his prey when he knew that the victim was not a victim at all. He walked calmly to that house across the street and into the darkness of the night. No one saw him.
The Ripper reached the back door of the house. He wore latex gloves and a plastic apron. He wouldn't get dirty with that pig's blood and leave any trace. He turned the doorknob, finding it open. Again, easy prey.
The back door opened into the kitchen. The disgusting smell that invaded his sensitive nose was almost enough to make him puke. The whole house looked like a pigsty. Papers were thrown to the floor, just like pizza boxes and old newspapers. What a filth place.
Webber lived alone, then he would have no problem in killing him in his own house. He found the stairs to the second floor and climbed it with no difficulty in the darkness. There were three doors upstairs, Hannibal tested one by one, until he find Webber's bedroom.
Silently, he got in the bedroom and saw the man was fast asleep, snoring loudly. The smell of sweat and beer were poignant and Hannibal mused that perhaps the man was in an alcoholic coma.
Hannibal placed his briefcase on the floor and grabbed his beloved silver sharp scalpel. He smiled again, remembering the play "Sweeney Todd" that he had attended and cheered up that same week.
"These are my friends, See How They glisten. See this one shine, How he smiles in the light. My friend, my faithful friend ... " he sang softly regardless of whether the man were waking up or not, after all, he should be so high that Hannibal doubted he would wake when he finally cut his throat.
He approached the bed with the scalpel in his hand and he was right, Webber didn't opened his eyes as Hannibal cut his throat and saw his blood squirting. Soon, Webber was dead, the sheets were wet and red underneath him.
The killer smiled. He loved that part.
He had walked away from the body. Now he had work to do. He returned to where he had left his briefcase on the floor and knelt. For now he would need other tools to get the organs that he would prepare carefully and savor with delight after making his art. He wiped his scalpel when something caught his eye. Hannibal heard a noise in the room, so low that if it were not for his acute hearing, he would not have noticed. It was a sound like a whining dog. He stood slowly paying attention because he did not know whence the sound came from. Then he heard it again and realized that the sound came from under the bed.
He held his scalpel tight and silently approached the bed again. The sheets touched the floor and hid who or what was there, then Hannibal had to bend down and with a quick motion, he lifted the sheet.
Hannibal knelt and looked. He had to stifle a surprised expression.
Under the bed was a boy, or at least that creature looked like one. He was huddled, lying on the cold hard floor in a foetal position. He had his eyes shut tight, he was shaking, that sound that Hannibal thought to be a dog were actually a sobbing boy.
A witness? Who was that boy? That was not in his plans. The files said Webber lived alone.
Hannibal was angry. How could he miss that. He was so calm and sure that this would be an easy job, that had missed the most basic rule, check the place.
What would he do with this boy now? This was a setback, an obstacle which he would have to get rid of.
Angry, Hannibal leaned over and with his free hand he tried to reach the boy, but the boy started screaming and thrashing. Angrier, Hannibal almost went under the bed too, stretching his body to be able to pick up the boy. When he finally managed to reach the boy's arm, the boy had struggled even more, but Hannibal was stronger and managed to drag him out of the bed, squeezing his wrist to the point of making him scream.
Hannibal was angry. He was angry with himself for being careless and he was angry with the boy. Yes, he was angry with the boy. Why did he had to be there to disrupt Hannibal? The Ripper hated setbacks. Hannibal drew him away from the bed, he was half blind by rage, and he would have dragged the boy outside the room if something hadn't made him stop. It was as if the boy had clung on something not to be dragged, but no. When Hannibal looked back, he realized that the boy had a collar on the neck, attached to a chain tied to the bedpost.
Hannibal looked at him for a moment and went into shock.
The boy was naked, dirty from head to toe, his little body curled up like a ball. His skin was pale and even with that poor lighting, he could see that his body was covered with bruises and wounds and his black hair was curly and covered his forehead. He was not a child, he should have fifteen years old, or something close to that. He was thin and smelled like the bathroom was a forbidden thing.
Hannibal would kill him, he really would kill him.
The boy cowered and trembled as if Hannibal was the devil himself. The boy tried to get back to under the bed, but Hannibal held him tight by the shoulders and for a second their eyes met and... everything changed.
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