G H O S T S
part one by JetNoir
There are many things in this world that we don't understand.
It's simply inevitable. In the end, we are merely human, and flaws are inherent in our nature. Nobody is perfect. Perhaps we should be glad of that.
A philosopher once wrote "Cogito Ergo Sum". I think, therefore I am. So are we merely the sum of our thoughts? Or more? Is the concept of a soul so difficult to believe - and what would be the effect of the absence of one, in a being? Catastrophic, or indifference?
In a world where evil is so vast, and widespread - should we really care about such things?
For in the end, the world holds many different secrets - and some of them hurt more then others.
--
Los Angeles, CA
It started with a man.
The hotel room was boring, with no noticeable style, except that of standard hotel room - 101; and the man resented waiting here. He had been waiting for so long now, well over a decade, and his patience was starting to wear thin. The man's name is unimportant at this early stage, and what should be made clear are his intentions.
Violence was his intention.
The man is currently lying on his back; on the hard, uncomfortable bed, completely alone. With a snort, his eyes open, just a slit, the pupil's glinting. With a large rough hand, he rubs under his nose; where his recently shaved moustache resided. He is unhappy. He wished to do violence.
This wasn't violence without intention, mind. No, that would be nothing but anarchy; and chaos was not his aim. The violence must be perpetrated carefully, and with intent.
To strike against those who have wronged him, have crossed him. Anyone who dares stand in his way.
There would be revenge, in time. Pain, suffering, misery.
There would soon be blood.
--
Five Days Later
Chicago, IL
Police swarmed the small hotel room, one of the cheaper residences of the prestigious Drake Hotel, responding to a hysterical maid's sickening discovery.
"A month in this room costs more than my yearly salary," snorted Detective William Hart, stroking his carefully maintained eyebrows, "and what do we have here?" His gaze turned to the blood splattered room. Red streaked across the room, all emanating from the body, laying face down on the bed.
He was talking to Officer Jim Wood, green out of the Academy, as well as in the face: "Her name is Laura," he sputtered, desperately fighting the urge to throw up, "Laura Smith. She's…I mean was a prominent businesswoman, deputy vice-president of Forbes, Inc."
"The electronics people?"
"Yeah, she handled sales."
"I presume she had a home in Chicago. Why was she here?"
"Crime Lab are still doing tests," said Wood, "but our interviews seem to think she was a regular visitor. With a man, I mean."
"Aha," said Hart, "that makes sense. We'd better check it's not the husband though. These things happen."
"Yes sir."
"Now. What do the forensic people think happened."
"No forced entry. He had a key, probably swiped. It's all electronics these days. You know, cards and such. She was asleep, and he stabbed her in the back. Straight through the heart."
"And then he had some fun," Hart murmured, wincing a little. It was a grim scene.
"And there's this sir," said Wood, tapping Hart on the arm, and leading him around the corner.
"Oh, hell," said Hart. On the wall, round the corner (near the en-suite bathroom) was a message on the wall. Written in blood.
'I have returned. I am now travelling to Washington. I want Starling, of the FBI. Only then will the slaying stop.'
"Get me the FBI," Hart snapped.
--
Arlington, VA
Once upon a time, the Federal Bureau of Investigation refused to accept women within it's ranks, believing them to be weaker, and less capable than men. If those agents had seen Clarice Starling's handling of the horrors thrown at her, then it is possible they would have reconsidered their position.
It is three months since Dr Cordell Doemling had sworn to a Senate Oversight Committee that Hannibal Lecter had murdered the crippled and disfigured Mason Verger. What had actually happened was that Dr Doemling had murdered Verger, at Lecter's existence; and only the two of them knew it. Of course, Clarice Starling had her own theory; but as she was unconscious at the time of the aforementioned murder, she was hardly able to stand as a witness.
"You know, 'Delia, if Cordell did murder Verger…well I don't think that he really had it in him." Clarice Starling was standing in Ardelia Mapp's tidier side of the house they shared; the two Special Agents of the FBI making a simple Tagliatelle Bolognese. The rich smell of tomato, basil and garlic rose, and wrapped itself around the two women.
"Well," said Mapp, "it don't matter either way, girl. One monster is dead, the other gone. I'm just sorry I missed it all."
"Why'd they send you to Russia of all places?"
"Some 'cross-cultural' exchange thingy. Load of nonsense, but there are two things the Bureau exceed at. Politics and bureaucracy . Least they had the sense to reinstate you after this whole mess. I still can't believe Johnny and Crawford are gone."
"For good," said Clarice, sighing, "I'm just glad you're back safe. It was a long assignment."
"Yeah," said Ardelia, "but I'm home know. Though you never do know what's coming around the next corner."
--
Lithuania - 1939
"Anniba!"
Hannibal Lecter looked up and smiled slightly, seeing his little sister, Mischa, hurtling toward him. The sun was bright, and the field full of warm-coloured flowers. A gentle summer's day.
On his way towards him, Mischa tripped and fell, nose banging onto the soft dirt. It wasn't a bad fall, but nether-the-less, she began to howl, a screech that cut into the young Hannibal's soul. He rushed forward, dropping to the ground, and gently turned her over. His hand touched her tear-streaked face, and wiped the salt-water away.
Looking into her brother's calm maroon eyes seemed to soothe her, and her voice settled.
"There," said Hannibal (in Lithuanian), "everything will be alright, Mischa."
But it wouldn't be. In less than half a decade, Mischa, and all of Hannibal's immediate family would be dead.
And he would be alone.
--
New York, NY - present day
Opening his maroon eyes, Hannibal Lecter calmly walked past customs - the memory vanished, locked within his memory palace - with a disguise fitted elegantly on his face. The surgical re-attachment of his hand had been a long process - three months of rehabilitation, but it worked just as well as before; with only a faint, thin red scar, proving anything was wrong in the first place.
He decided not to linger in JFK Airport, he was eager for a good meal, and there were several restaurants he would visit before moving onwards. It had been a long flight, but now he was back, and willing to return to his old ways. The Mason Verger affair was none of his concern, and he was reasonably confident he could evade capture.
For now, it was time to have a little fun.
And what fun he would have.
--
Washington, D.C.
The body of Patrick Cassidy was discovered half an hour after he died, his shirt ripped open, strangled. Bluish black marks were apparent on his neck, as was the large word: 'Return', carved into his chest.
DCPD wasted no time calling the FBI.
--
Some secrets hurt more than others, but of they were revealed, then they would be secrets no longer. Eventually the truth will come out, and all revealed; but until then a dangerous game must be played.
Just never forget that truth is a fluid concept.
to be continued…
Note: I seem to be coming out of a case of writer's block, so am not sure of how this came out. I am not very objective of my own work, but I rather like this. I'm working on a new chapter of The Witness, but it's progressing slowly. As always, reviews are deeply appreciated.
Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir