Will could afford to sleep in on these crisp autumn mornings.
Fish, luckily, cannot regulate their own body temperature. They do not start biting until the sun rises to warm their flesh.
The sun was well in the sky when Will filled his thermos and packed his truck. The dogs crowded in the window to watch him go. He waved. Winston and Charlie barked as their curled tails knocked around the blinds.
The drive to the Occoquan River was tranquil. The leaves did not appear frosted at first glance, but glinted in the sunlight. He drove with the radio off.
Since killing Garret Jacob Hobbs, he was easily overstimulated.
This had been his first time fishing in two weeks. At first the rod was too close to the gun. Looking at his tackle box made him think of the word lure, which made him think of the words kill and murder. He would see Abigail's terrified, gasping face staring up at him.
His psychiatrist had encouraged him to pick up the rod again.
He was a strange man, Dr. Lecter. He had the restrained manner and quiet voice of all psychiatrists, but his eyes were intense. They were a predator's eyes: wide set and still. He was a dandy, but with surgeons' hands.
Will suspected him. He wasn't sure of what.
When he walked into Abigail's hospital room and saw Hannibal there, clutching her hand, Will realized they were all bonded. Trauma had a way of branding people with the same indelible mark.
Trauma also brought out the best and worst in people. He did feel comfortable with Dr. Lecter; he was thoughtful. He was also getting interesting.
The river would make for decent fishing today. It rolled at a steady pace, not too gentle.
Will put on his gear and slid down the bank. He felt a chill as the water hit his knees, but the sensation soon melted away. He was wary, but excited. At home again.
Dr. Lecter would be happy to hear that Will had done this. Hannibal Lecter, MD. It was a rare name, particularly for an European. Will assumed it was a family name.
He wasn't sure which one to use. Dr. Lecter assured him Hannibal was fine, even preferred. And Will did use it, most of the time. But it had a familiarity to it that was uncomfortable on the tongue. He had never before seen a doctor who asked for the first name.
How do you see me?
The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.
The fly hit the water with a gratifying splash. He was hoping for trout this afternoon.
In the woods, there was never true silence. Leaves rustled with one another, birds called out to mates, and small mammals made scurrying noises in the brush. The wild background highlighted that Will was the only human around. It also brought to mind the central struggle of his life: he always wanted to be alone, but was incredibly unhappy.
He started to look forward to his Friday appointments. When his phone rang, he expected it to be Hannibal. When this was not the case, he felt minor disappointment. Now that he could have regular conversations, words built up within him. Phrases, insights, even the occasional joke burned in his brain, begging for an audience.
The line tugged, then raced away. Will jerked back in return. The creature on the other side dived down, then swam with an awesome force. Will recognized the pattern. This was going to be a fight.
The fish struggled and struggled, relented for a while, then yanked again. Will knew it would be exhausted by the time this was over, too exhausted to keep living.
As it came into view, Will's hunch was confirmed. A northern pike, two feet long, flung its head back and forth. Will reeled it in. His biceps stung.
Northern pike look like freshwater barracuda. They are streamlined with narrow, mean faces. Their teeth are perfect for biting: plentiful and needle-sharp.
This one was heaving; its gills spread apart and came together rapidly. Will would have it for dinner.
Pike are solitary predators. They are contentious and eat anything smaller than themselves.
It was not lost on Will that he would be the death of this fish, who had once been the tsar of this patch of river. He had killed many animals before without thinking much about it. It was the natural order of things, the structure of the food chain.
Killing another person was not natural.
He did not believe that it came easily to anyone. Not Hobbs, not the Chesapeake Ripper. They delighted in it, but it could not have been easy, at least not the first time.
Will told himself that he hadn't savored watching the spark drift from Hobbs' eyes, that it was ugly. It was. The blood on his hands, though long washed off, refused to disappear. Flashes of Hobbs accompanied cold sweats night after night.
And yet...he had felt so powerful. So in control. Dr. Lecter assured him that this was acceptable.
He saw Hannibal in the night too. Hannibal, with cheeks that rivaled Mount Guyot, with eyes that were shrewd and emanated perception. Some nights his figure was predatory. Others, it was comfort.
Occasionally the dreams were intimate. Hannibal, amorphous and dark, would slither his limbs around Will's waist. When he woke, Will felt aroused and ashamed. He knew the therapeutic thing to do would be to tell his psychiatrist. He decided he would never do that.
The northern slowly passed in the mesh basket. The calm roll of water over its gills was not enough to save it. Will thought that he had actually seen its last breath, but his imagination was especially alive this morning.
No other fish were biting. They knew a pike was recently in the area. He pulled his line in.
He placed the northern on a bed of ice in his cooler. Its mouth hung open, displaying a row of formidable teeth. Teeth that were of no use to it now.
At home, Will would gut the fish, cut fillets, and fry them. Pike meat was mild and flaky and easy to eat.
Later in the week, he would arrive at Dr. Lecter's office in the afternoon. They would talk for much longer than other psychiatrists and patients in the city of Baltimore, probably into the evening. There may or may not be alcohol involved. Will would tell him about the northern pike, and he would be glad.
On his return to Wolf Trap from the Occoquan, Will felt ready for music. He turned on the radio, which was set to an unobtrusive classic rock station. He kept the volume low. Baby steps.
He recognized the tune, and his ears picked up the odd verse. He listened only casually. His mind was a few days ahead.
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby,
edgy and dull,
and cut a six-inch valley
through the middle of my soul.
At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet,
and a freight train running through the middle of my head.
Only you can cool my desire.