It takes him almost two hours to bring Beverly up to speed. From Cassie Boyle to Abigail, Will reconstructs the last six months of his life and Hannibal's increasingly prominent part in it, filling in the blanks that are his blackout spells, weaving Hannibal's movements around his own, a hidden choreography of machinations and lies. Will feels a perverse pleasure in recounting everything to Bev. At first she asks questions, tries to get the whole thing straight, but she lapses into a confounded silence as the story goes on. By the time Will reaches Abigail's ear, Beverly is drooping in her chair, elbows on her knees, hair swaying as she rolls her neck.
He finishes. Waits for her to speak. Keeps waiting.
"Um," he says. "It'd be great if you could... say something now."
She doesn't look up.
He nods in fear. "Now that you've heard everything, you believe me less."
When she looks at him, her face is blank, shell-shocked. "I don't believe you less. It's just a lot to wrap my head around."
"I get that," he says quickly. He has had months to come to terms with his own story, wild leaps and all, but some of it is hard for even him to process.
"It's just," says Beverly. "I just. Don't really understand. Why. I guess."
"Why what?"
"Why anything! Why anyone would do any of this!" She cradles her forehead as if it's about to burst. "I mean, of course, it makes sense for Lecter to frame you for the murders. You were out of it and losing time, you were the perfect fall guy—sorry. But then why send you after Tobias Budge? If Budge had killed you, then no more fall guy for Lecter. And if he really murdered Cassie Boyle to help you find Garret Jacob Hobbs, then why give Hobbs advance warning you were on to him? It's like he can't make up his mind whether he's trying to help you out or put you in the ground! And then there's the whole issue of why he's still hanging around you now. You'd think he'd want to get the hell out of Dodge, especially once you wised up and realized he was responsible for setting you up. You say he's an intelligent psychopath, Will—but this guy, he doesn't seem to operate by the rules of human logic. I mean, does he want to get caught?"
"No," says Will. "He's spent a lot of time picturing it: the media circus of a trial, the boredom and humiliation that comes with incarceration. He knows it's not for him. But he is willing to risk that outcome, he's willing to risk all outcomes, if it gets him what he wants."
Her eyebrows are raised. "Which is?"
He shrugs. "There is no one thing. That's what makes him so hard to profile; he never does anything for just one reason. He has a thousand reasons for doing what he does, which makes it look like he has no reason at all. There is no master plan, Bev. He doesn't know where this is going any more than I do. He makes his decisions one after the other, weighing all the options every time. Rolling with the punches. As the game changes, he adapts. He evolves. He won't get locked into any pattern of behavior, he knows better than that."
"Then how do we catch him?" she asks, in a low voice.
He answers immediately, with total confidence. "By thinking like him. Playing loose, the same way he does. The only problem is…"
"What?" Her voice rises. "What's the problem?"
Will gathers himself. It takes courage, after being left alone for so long, to share his biggest fears with another human being. He says:
"Me thinking like him, that's one of the things he wants… and he wants it bad."
Beverly, brazen and honest, with her keen scientific mind and limited patience for the inexplicable, simply stares at him. It is clear he has ventured into terrain she is ill equipped to explore alongside him.
"Ok," she says, though clearly she isn't. "I can't say I get that, but here's what I do get." She claps her hands together, signaling her return to a safer subject. "We need to build a case against Lecter, and it can't be circumstantial. We need hard evidence. DNA."
"He doesn't leave any DNA at his crime scenes."
"But he takes it with him, doesn't he? He takes trophies. The organs, probably other tissues samples, too."
"I don't know what he's doing with the organs," Will says quietly, unwinding the endless scroll of options in his mind. "But yes, they're definitely important to him. He preserves them. He respects them, far more than the bodies he takes them from."
"So he has the organs stashed away in jars of formaldehyde or something. This guy is a meticulous hoarder; I've seen evidence of that myself. All those journals and receipts he keeps. He's a really organized pack rat. He must've stored samples from Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schuur for months so eventually he could make those fishing lures for you. Odds are, he's sitting on a treasure trove of evidence that could put him away for centuries. We just have to find the X that marks the spot."
Will nods, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He proceeds carefully. "You realize… that when you say 'we'… what it's really gonna mean is you?"
By the look on Beverly's face he knows she is well aware of this eventuality. "Just tell me where to look," she says.
He smiles at her in dazed appreciation. "You know he's dangerous, right?"
She rolls her eyes. "He has killed at least twenty people, Will. I think I know what I'm dealing with here."
"You don't," he says firmly, and her face falls. "Sorry," he gulps, "but you can't know. Hannibal Lecter isn't your textbook psychopath. There is no profile for him, no rubric. He's like no type you've ever dealt with. If he finds out you're helping me—and he will find out, it's a given—then he will neutralize you."
"Just say what you mean." Her face is grave. "He's gonna try to kill me."
"No." Will's voice climbs higher with frustration. "See, you don't understand him! That isn't what I mean. Of course he could kill you, but that doesn't prove he's going to. If he murders an agent involved in his own investigation, then he exposes himself. No. He won't risk it. He'll find other ways of stopping you. Maybe he'll set things up so you can't see me any more. Or he'll have Jack pull you off the Ripper case. If you make too much trouble for Dr. Lecter, he'll find a way to damage your credibility, lose you your job. I don't know exactly what he'll do, but one thing's for certain."
He leans forward until his face is almost against the bars, his voice shivery with dread.
"Beverly, he's gonna talk to you. He'll tell you I'm sick, that I'm a liar who's taking advantage of you, that it's in your best interests not to believe a word of what I say. He'll try to get close to you if he can. He'll cozy up, disarm you by seeming to know a lot about you. He'll be friendly, sympathetic, understanding. You have to be ready. Put up walls that don't look like walls, defend yourself without tipping him off that you're defending yourself. You think you can do that?"
She gives a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah. Sure."
"Bev—"
She waves both hands to silence him. "Will, you know I have no idea what I'm getting into here, so I'm not gonna pretend like I do. Right now I feel as though I'm doggy paddling in the middle of the Mariana Trench, but I can handle myself. You've got enough to worry about without worrying about me. Ok?"
He examines her, from head to toe. He thinks she looks shaky, but steadfast.
"Ok," he says.
"What about this stuff?" She lifts the pile of forms in her lap, the only incriminating evidence they have against Hannibal. "Jack sent us looking through those medical records. What do we tell him we found?"
Will merely cocks his head.
She sighs. Drops the forms. "You want me to hide evidence from Jack."
"I want you to hide what you know from Hannibal Lecter."
"You're obstructing the Ripper investigation," she says, aghast.
"Dr. Lecter is the one obstructing it," Will says. "Beverly, this is the Ripper investigation. You and me and what we know. The other investigation, Jack's investigation—it's a joke. They don't have the scent and they never will. Dr. Lecter will make sure they're just chasing their tails."
"Jack is desperate to catch the Ripper," Beverly says. "You know that. It's all he cares about right now. I can't take that away from him."
"You have no choice."
Her eyes go wide. "Of course I do! Both of us have a choice here, Will. Always. So I have to insist, when we get what we need to dig Lecter's grave, we take it back to Jack. He's our first stop. I want it to be Jack who makes the arrest."
Will shakes his head. Beverly and her incorruptible loyalty to Jack; usually he respects it, but right now he considers it a massive inconvenience.
"He's too close to Lecter, you said so yourself. He won't believe us. It's possible he may never believe us, no matter what hard evidence we throw at him. I'm sorry, Bev, but we have to go over Jack's head on this. When the time comes, we show what we have to Petersen, to the Attorney General, to state police and local PD even. Hell, peddle it to Freddie Lounds for all I care. Anyone but Jack."
"No," Beverly says, flatly. "Out of the question. I'll hide evidence for you, Will. I'll lie through my teeth to everyone I know. I'll wade through the dumpsters behind Hannibal Lecter's house. But I won't give Jack the shaft. That's where I draw the line. We're just going to have to build a case so solid that even Jack will admit it's watertight."
Will rubs his face. He knows beggars can't be choosers. He has to accept the help he's given, no matter what stringent conditions it comes under.
"So?" she prods him. "We do things my way or what?"
Finally he nods. "Your way," he mutters.
He doesn't tell Beverly that her way is probably going to involve catching Hannibal Lecter red fucking handed.
The pendulum swings. He is Hannibal Lecter, and he is walking through rose bushes, stalks swaying in the wake of his gardening boots. The flowers are in full bloom, and even at midnight some of them are so bright they appear almost phosphorescent. He passes blossoms white, downy, tender purple and sunset-streaked. He ducks under aromatic climbers, avoiding both the thorny and the delicate. The thick grass muffles the sounds of the dolly cart he drags behind him. He approaches the bower, the proscenium arch he has selected to frame his work.
He is sated and sedate, having already taken his enjoyment in a less exposed locale. Alexander Freskin and Jacqueline Calvina died on the way to the municipal gardens; he timed his incisions to make sure of this. Now what rolls behind him on the dolly is only meat, and he knows all there is to know about the handling of meat. This meat he wants just fresh enough to manipulate before rigor mortis sets in.
He moves with deliberation, an almost balletic level of grace. He has rehearsed this in his mind, has approached the rose bower from every available angle at all hours of the day. He has chosen this path of action and this moment in which to act. Upon review he is pleased with his choices, and he becomes even more pleased as he unpacks his tools and begins the assembly.
With pleasure comes control. His limbs sing with power. For him, joy and command have always complemented one another. He works his shears, trades out his chisel for his smaller-sized gouge, wipes some congealed fluid from his heavy-duty gardener's gloves. The summer night feels good on the back of his neck and the air is sweet with just a trace of rot. He is glad he decided to do the drilling while Mr. Freskin and Miss Calvina were still alive; it saves him time and effort now. Breaking the ribs in advance was also a canny thought as it has rendered the torsos extra malleable. He entertains himself while he works by switching back and forth between thinking of his material as inanimate and animate. They are objects now, clay he can mold into the shape of his choosing. But they were formerly human beings, creatures capable in life of both wit and splendor, who squandered their inborn potential on trifles, on the most banal and petty of concerns. But he can help them rediscover their greatness in death.
The work approaches completion. His pleasure mounts. There is no more powerful feeling than the recognition that one's handiwork bears some small resemblance to the vision in one's mind. He realizes, as he laces rose stems through the hole in Mr. Freskin's sternum, that he is smiling with all his teeth. He isn't often driven to this expression of feeling, and he makes a note of it for future consideration. He classifies this as euphoria, he files it away as sublime. Removing a smear of gore from his goggles, he could almost laugh. Almost.
He takes a step back, appreciates his work as an outside observer might. As a parks employee on his morning rounds, who has just noticed the broken lock on the garden gate and ventures inside not knowing what's in store. He sees a couple embracing on the bench underneath the rose bower, their bodies wound together like braided silk. For a moment he believes that there are trespassers in his garden, and that these trespassers are alive. Who could blame the parks employee for making this mistake, for the lovers do appear awake and aware. Her neck strains as she tilts into the kiss. His arms clutch her in a literal death grip, fingers individually tensed. Neither of their faces can be seen; the lovers have swallowed each other up. Their clothes are only a little bloodstained, but slicks of red emerge from the holes in their chests and arms. Through these cavities he has threaded great bunches of red roses, velvety evocations of blood spray. Very nice. Dramatic, if he says so himself.
He leaves the hypothetical parks employee behind, and instead imagines seeing his lovers through the eyes of someone else, someone whose opinion matters to him very much. His perception revolves, refocuses. The mirror confronts the mirror with a collision of infinities. Sight within sight within sight. The lovers come alive again and embrace over and over and overandoverandover—with compliments from the chef, Will.
The pendulum stops.
Will feels as though his heart, too, has stopped. He presses his hand to it, feels it knocking against the bars of his ribs. He realizes his other hand is crushing the photograph, a crumpled glossy ball under his fingers. Hastily he smoothes it out. Now there are creases bisecting the lovers' entwined bodies. He feels a spike of annoyance at this marring of his work.
Not his work.
He closes his eyes, breathes heavily through his nose. With effort Will shakes off the heavy mantle that is Hannibal's perspective, and tries to slip back into the ill-fitting confines of his own. Jack sees that he is stirring and walks towards the bars, summoning the BAU team back over. They wait for Will to break the silence.
"He took their hearts," he says. It isn't a question.
But Price shakes his head. "He only took Alex Freskin's heart. He left Jacqueline Calvina's in her chest."
"The Ripper must have thought she was a real heartbreaker," says Zeller.
"No hearts were broken here," Beverly says. "Organ removal was impeccable as always. The Ripper also took Freskin's kidney and Calvina's spleen, pancreas, and thymus."
"You think there's some significance with leaving the woman's heart?" Jack asks Will.
"Everything with the Ripper is significant," Will says, rubbing the clammy sweat from his brow. "This is his statement, and every part of it can speak."
"What is it saying?"
"Happy Valentines Day?" guesses Price.
"It's August," Zeller reminds him.
"Then somebody should get the Ripper a calendar," Price says.
They stop their chatter at a look from Jack.
"The Ripper doesn't think we can catch him. This is,"—Will swallows his bile—"an escalation."
Jack is standing in profile with most of his face in shadow. Will can't really see his expression, but the other man's exhaustion is like a shroud hanging over him.
"You think he's taking this to a new level?" Jack asks, gravel-voiced.
"Don't you?" Will says. "He killed two at once. Instead of displaying the victims at the kill spot, he transported them to a worthier site. He built a wooden frame around the bodies to keep them upright. It must have taken him all night."
Price chimes in. "He drilled those holes in their chests and biceps while both victims were still alive. When he arrived at the garden, he lined up the holes so he could tie the bodies together with the roses. It's incredible that he did all of it in advance, off site, and everything still matched up perfectly and allowed for such… natural positioning."
"Looks a lot like Rodin's The Kiss," Zeller says, showing them a photo of a marble sculpture on his iPad. And then, miffed by their startled expressions: "What? Can't I know about art?"
"The roses the Ripper used aren't a species that grows in the rose garden," Beverly says. "He brought them with him. It's a Hybrid Tea strain, if anyone's interested. Rose breeders call it Deep Secret."
"Deep Secret," Jack mutters with a sigh.
"This isn't a crime scene," Will says to him. "It's an installation. A happening. The confidence at work here is staggering."
"The more he kills, the more ambitious he gets," Zeller says. "Pretty standard for a serial killer."
"Nothing about this is standard," Beverly says quietly.
"What I want to know is whether this is it," Jack says. "The Ripper has already killed three this cycle. Is he about to close the window?"
"I can't be sure," Will says truthfully. "But he killed four last time, Jack. Escalation implies he's building up to something. And that something probably isn't silence." He catches Beverly's eye as he says: "I think the Ripper's just getting started."
"Were you holding anything back?" she asks him afterward. Beverly has stayed behind on the pretense of tacos, but really they're talking shop.
Will chews his steak taco as he thinks. Finally he shakes his head. "Nothing material."
"Killing two at once, that's a pretty massive change in his M.O. You've gotta have some theory on why he did it."
Will shrugs. He wonders when Beverly will finally give up on asking him why.
"Have you considered that the explanation could be you?" she says, putting down her fish taco.
"Could be me what?"
"Lecter is showing off for you. Without realizing it, you might be egging him on."
He feels a surge of distaste. "You think I encouraged him to do this?"
"I'm not saying you're doing it deliberately. But yeah. He knows you're investigating him. Don't you do better work when you know you have someone looking over your shoulder?"
"I am not the only member of his audience," Will grumbles. "He has the whole Behavioral Sciences division after him. There's major news coverage. . He always has people watching."
He feels under attack, precisely because he knows Beverly is right. But he can't admit to that. Having someone in his confidence is all he has ever wanted, but now that he finally has it, he finds that it is often a very uncomfortable experience. There are things he'd rather Beverly not know.
She looks at the Ripper side of Will's evidence wall, where he has taped a photo of the two corpses the team has dubbed 'The Lovers'. "I can't do what you do," she says, "but even I can tell that this feels different from his other murders. This feels personal."
Will senses her eyes on him, but he can't meet them. His face feels hot. "You're right," he says. "It is personal. But it isn't about me."
"If not you, then who?"
He pokes at the remains of his taco. Beverly doesn't know about Alana, and Will can't bring himself to share with her the gory details. 'The Lovers' is Hannibal's love song, Will is certain about that. Through this gruesome display of artistry, Hannibal is exploring his own capacity for romance. He left Jacqueline Calvina's heart where he found it. He could have destroyed it utterly, but chose not to. There is real emotion in his choice. An affection just one shade darker than devotion. Will isn't sure whether he feels relieved or repelled by the notion that what Hannibal feels for Alana is real.
Beverly is frowning at him. She doesn't enjoy being coddled or lied to, but she'll have to learn to live with both. He and she may be partners now, but Will is incapable of full disclosure.
She sighs and pokes dejectedly at a sprig of cilantro, a sign that she has given up the fight. "I may have found something," she says. She slides out a yellow legal pad. "I was thinking about the way Lecter times his crimes. A short window, followed by long periods of inactivity. Those periods can last anywhere from four months, which is the length of his most recent, to twenty-six months, which was the length of the break he took after killing Miriam Lass. That's a lot of variation. Makes you wonder if he's killing when he gets the opportunity, or when he gets the urge."
Will shrugs, wipes sour cream from the corner of his mouth. "Little of both?"
"Maybe. But here's the thing. You probably know that Lecter likes throwing dinner parties. Big black tie affairs: twelve to fifteen guests, courses numbering in the double digits, hors d'oeuvres, wine pairings, live music, the works."
Will nods. "He invited me once."
"Did you go?" She looks so surprised he almost laughs.
"What do you think?" He smirks. "Not exactly my scene. I dropped in on him beforehand, and I saw he had hired sous chefs to help him prepare the food. It took all the self-control I could muster not to run away screaming. But what does this have to do with the murders?"
"I'll get to that in a sec. Esmeralda Vance, she's big on the Baltimore social scene and she loves tweeting about the fancy events she attends. She went to the last four of Lecter's dinner parties, and she tweeted about them. And guess what? The dates of her tweets match up with the dates of the last four Ripper cycles. Every time Lecter finishes a cycle, he throws a party."
He motions for her to pass him the legal pad. He looks at the dates she has noted down and sees that she is exactly right. "Cause for celebration," he mutters.
"It's more than that," she says with relish. "Think about it. It's a great cover. It takes a lot of work to organize an event like that. It requires Lecter to be out a lot, always on the move. He has to buy things, hire personnel, get his place ready for the big day. Lots of people to meet, lots of appointments to keep, lots of phone calls: ready alibis for every hour of every day. He'd have workmen coming in and out of his home, which gives him access to a van, professional cleaning supplies, moving materials. He gets what he needs for his crimes, and nobody notices a thing because all it looks like he's doing is party planning."
"It's just like him, to hide his crimes behind a veneer of visibility." Will looks at her in wonder. "This is great work, Bev."
"It's still circumstantial," she says modestly. "But at least we're getting closer."
"The real question is whether he's planning a party now. We have to find out what services he's using, talk to them, see if they've noticed anything out of the—"
Beverly waves a hand to shut him up. The orderlies are opening the gate at the end of the corridor. Beverly immediately hides the legal pad, which gives Will a pretty good idea of who the new arrival must be. They both return to munching what's left of their tacos. Discreet footsteps as Hannibal approaches. They both look up at him—he is standing with his coat folded over his arm, and since Beverly and Will are sitting on the floor, he appears to them almost monolithic.
"I apologize for interrupting," Hannibal says. "Please don't stop on my account. Finish your meal."
Beverly, who has tensed to her knees, slowly sits back down.
Despite his words, Hannibal doesn't leave them to it. Instead he looks at Will. "If you felt the hospital food inadequate, you might have told me. I would gladly prepare you something myself."
"I don't want to inconvenience you," Will says acidly, with his mouth full. "I know you're a busy man."
"I am never too busy to cook for you."
Will swallows his mouthful of steak and turns to Beverly, who is watching him with eyes slightly larger than normal. "Dr. Lecter prides himself on his cooking," he says to her, as if she doesn't know. "It's a hobby of his." He stabs a look back at Hannibal. "One of many."
Beverly composes herself, and when she turns to Hannibal her voice is easy, casual. "Jack raves about your food. Says it's better than what you get in a fine restaurant."
"Jack is very kind," Hannibal says. He is looking at Beverly closely, a clinical examination. "If you are curious about my cooking, Agent Katz, you are welcome at my table any time you like."
"Thanks for the invitation," she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. "But I think it'd be lost on me. Fine dining isn't really my thing. I prefer my food fast and wrapped in branded paper. Ask Will."
"Beverly's been nice enough to do deliveries for me," Will says. "For which I'm very grateful."
Hannibal looks his way again, and in the black vacuum of his gaze Will can't tell what he's thinking, what he may suspect.
Beverly throws away the taco wrappings and is about to climb to her feet when Hannibal extends one hand to her, all chivalry. She takes it, and he helps her upright.
"Thanks," she says.
"You shouldn't sell yourself short," Hannibal tells her. "I suspect you have more of a taste for the finer things than you may yourself believe. If your palate lacks sophistication, then we must do all we can to expand its range."
Beverly looks only a little taken aback. "Well," she says. "You can try to educate me, if you really want to. But I have to warn you. You may be biting off more than you can chew."
She reaches for her bag, slings it with ease over one shoulder. "See you, Will." She turns back to Hannibal. "Oh, and Dr. Lecter, before I forget. You need to make an appointment to come down to the lab so we can take some samples."
"Samples?" Hannibal asks her, politely. "From me?"
"It's nothing too invasive, I just need a cheek swab. And Jimmy will fingerprint you. Elimination prints. Since you're coming to crime scenes now, we need your information on file so that if you happen to leave a hair or a print behind you, we don't mistake it for a lead on the Ripper."
"You believe I will contaminate your crime scenes, Agent Katz?"
"Not consciously," she says with a smile. "But even the most careful person can leave traces of himself behind. Swing by the lab tomorrow at whatever time works best for you, ok?"
"With pleasure," says Hannibal. "I will call ahead."
"Great. See you when I see you." Beverly glances at Will for only the briefest of moments, and then she walks away, hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket, looking nonchalant.
Hannibal and Will both watch her go. "She is a little uncouth," Hannibal says, "but she has spirit."
"She isn't afraid to say what she thinks," Will says, "that's for sure."
"And you appreciate that? Having someone in your life who speaks to you honestly?"
"I do." Will lets a taunt into his eyes, but his tone is polite.
"I am surprised," Hannibal says, though he doesn't sound it. "I would think that for a man in your position, the plain truth—as Agent Katz sees it—would be an unwelcome companion."
"I don't like liars. I never have. I see through them."
Hannibal makes a gentle noise of agreement. "So do I."
For a moment they just stare at each other, their faces quite opaque. Two shuttered windows.
Will leans against the bars, examining Hannibal. "You're looking tired. You pull an all-nighter?"
Hannibal lets him look. "My practice keeps me very busy."
"Plus you're consulting on the Ripper case. That must take up a lot of your time."
"I am happy to make myself useful to Jack," Hannibal says, as he sits on a folding chair. "I know what kind of strain the Ripper puts him under."
"You do indeed," Will says. "Jack asked me whether 'The Lovers' is the Ripper's way of closing the window with a bang, or whether he still has more ripping to do."
"What did you tell him?" Hannibal asks.
"I told him to expect another body. Was I right?"
Hannibal performs his version of a shrug.
Will sighs. "Doctor, I'm just asking for your opinion as a consultant on this case. Do you agree with my assessment or not?"
Hannibal chooses his words more carefully than usual. "Jack asked me the same question he asked you, and my answer was not dissimilar to yours. What did you think of 'The Lovers', Will? What is your, ah, professional assessment?"
Will restrains himself from rolling his eyes at Hannibal's blatant fishing for compliments.
"I think it was perverse," he says firmly. "And arrogant. The Ripper's reach is exceeding his grasp. He is striving for something meaningful, but there's no meaning in his murders. It's just empty posturing. Play-acting, just like everything the Ripper does. He thinks he's saying something about love, but he is just whistling into the wind."
Will is lying through his smirk, telling Hannibal everything Hannibal doesn't want to hear. He watches with detached amusement as Hannibal's annoyance takes root and grows.
"You think the Ripper can't feel love?" Hannibal asks quietly.
This time Will answers truthfully. "He feels something. It isn't love."
"And you are an expert on what love is, and what it is not?"
"I'm an expert on the Ripper."
Hannibal's eyes are diamond hard. "I think you might be whistling into the wind yourself, Will. You comprehend too much, and not enough. You think the Ripper can't understand love because of his fascination with death, but the reverse is true. Death and love walk together hand in hand like the most faithful of intimates. Anyone with an appreciation for the former must have a deep comprehension of the latter. And if you are afraid of death, it stands to reason you must be afraid of love."
"You're saying I'm afraid of love?" Will asks, sneering.
"Deathly afraid," says Hannibal. "You are afraid of the trust that comes with love. You are afraid of losing that trust. You are afraid of losing what you love."
Will is shaking. "And what about you, Dr. Lecter? You afraid of losing what you love?"
Hannibal's expression is inscrutable. "I understand that loss is inevitable. I am prepared for it, whenever it may come."
"You're prepared for it," Will hisses, "because what you love you're never gonna lose. The only thing you love is yourself. Haven't you noticed that everything you covet is just a pale reflection of you? A hall of mirrors. You want to know why you're lonely, Dr. Lecter? It's because reflections make for poor companions."
Hannibal takes a very slow breath through his nose. There is a subsonic rumble in that breath, the stirring of a volcano on the boil.
"They do today," he says quietly, as he stands up and collects his coat. His gestures are very controlled, very deliberate; Will knows he is almost on the point of violence. He shrinks away on instinct as Hannibal steps to the bars.
"You spend a great deal of your time worrying about others, Will. Perhaps you ought to worry more about yourself." He turns to go. "Sleep well."
Will doesn't sleep well. His dreams are all tangled together, a confused profusion of images. A prison guard with an automatic rifle stands over him as he sleeps. Red roses bloom on the antlers of the raven-feathered stag. Alana reflected in a broken mirror. Dr. Chilton laying silver coins over Will's closed eyes. Beverly dealing out playing cards, and every card is a heart. Abigail cutting off her own ear with a hunting knife. Jack digging a grave on an empty beach.
He wakes up, his head pounding in time to his heart. He is groggy and disoriented, and it takes him a long time to feel fully alert. He has a funny feeling like all the furniture in his cell has been moved around while he was asleep. But that is impossible; it's all bolted down.
Then he sees. On the wall above his bed—the evidence wall for the copycat, not the Ripper—there is a new addition. It has been taped on top of the other photographs, as if it trumps them in importance. It is not a photograph, but a drawing, done with charcoal on a sheet of thick yellow paper. Delicate lines delineate the naked form of a woman lying in bed, the sheets rippled around her ankles as if she has just kicked them off. Her expression is private, contemplative, fond. Will can tell the drawing was made with great affection and understanding of its subject. The subject is unmistakably Alana.
The drawing has no signature. It doesn't need one.
He stares at it. He doesn't take it down. It's hanging just above where his head was lying moments before, when he was so uneasily asleep.