A/N: Thanks, guys, for your patience in dealing with that cruel cliffhanger, and for your kind/dying of frustration commentary. I eat up all your comments like the cannibalistic treats they are, so much obliged to you. Now we're picking up right from where we left off...
"Just tell me. What did you do to her?"
A delicate cant of Hannibal's head. He doesn't answer.
Will snorts a breath. "You've made a mistake. There's no one else to pin it on, no one left to blame—no one except you. You won't get away with this. You won't."
They are all looking at him: Alana, Jack, Price, and Zeller.
Alana reaches out, lays a hand on his arm, squeezes.
"Snap out of it, Will..." And Jack actually snaps he fingers near Will's eyes, with no effect. It is as if a fine sheet of impenetrable glass separates Will and Hannibal from the rest of world.
"Will," Hannibal says, quietly. "I am not responsible for what happened to Agent Katz."
Will emits an animal snarl. Alana's grip on his arm tightens.
"Look at me," Hannibal continues. "Look at me with clear eyes. Allow yourself to relax and you will see. I am not to blame."
Pressure burning in Will's chest. It becomes so tangible it begins to smother him. "I am looking at you," he gasps. "And I know exactly what I see."
Hannibal's eyes like two dark embers, a slow burn. "What do you see?"
Jack doesn't let Will answer this. "Come on, Will. He was with me the whole time. He was not out attacking anyone."
Will ignores Jack. He leans toward Hannibal, as much as he can.
"If you hurt her… if you did anything to her… There is no cell on earth strong enough to stop me coming after you. I will make you pay for what you did—I will make you pay in blood."
Hannibal's eyes ignite.
"I think he better go back to his cell," says Jack. "Guards, can we get an orderly in here? Now?"
Will's lungs are burning, and the room seems to burn with them. A smoking haze through which Jack is talking, waving his arms, sending a guard away. Hannibal's eyes like lighthouse beams in the murk.
Alana remains by Will's side. Her grip on his arm has reached the point of pain.
"Will, look at me."
Her voice reaches him. The pressurized rage leaves him so abruptly he sways, off-balance. With her other hand Alana tilts Will's cheek, redirecting his gaze away from Hannibal, towards her. Will lets himself be led.
"Beverly is safe," she says. "Jack is going to the hospital now. What happened to Beverly wasn't Hannibal's fault, and it wasn't yours. Accusations won't help her any more than they're helping you. Please, Will. Come back to me."
"Alana…" He can hardly speak. His throat has closed up.
Jack backs away. He throws on his coat and motions for Price and Zeller, who both look stunned, to follow him out the door. He beckons Hannibal too, but Hannibal shakes his head. He stays seated, long fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, eyes intent on Alana and Will.
Jack looks doubtful, but he doesn't push further. "You got him?" he asks Alana.
She removes her hand from Will's face, slowly, tentatively, as if she has left something in precarious balance.
"I've got him," she says.
When Barney appears, he quickly discerns that imperturbable silence is what's needed from him. He unchains Will, nudging him along when he proves unresponsive. Alana and Hannibal remain with Will as Barney and a phalanx of guards accompany him back to his cell. Will isn't aware of any of it. All of his cognitive powers are engaged in the ruthless neutralization of his own imagination, a beast that batters against its restraints with no regard for its own wellbeing. It hungers to bombard him with images of Beverly near death, the slide of a knife, Hannibal's fingers winching tighter and tighter around her throat. He can't bear to see these things, not even within the confines of his mind. So he shuts himself down, switches off. His eyes go glassy, his movements mechanical. Dead Will walking.
He surfaces from his stupor when he is back in his cell. As Barney removes the cuffs and shackles, Will becomes aware of Hannibal speaking in an undertone to Alana.
"I cannot abandon him now. If I do, he will extrapolate his current misapprehensions into a scenario with little to no bearing on his reality. Will can only find the truth if I remain by his side, if he is allowed to watch me, test me, and see me as I am."
"You and I have never seen eye to eye on exposure therapy," Alana whispers back. "But you've been trying to get through to him for months, and he has shown no improvement. Continued exposure to you has only made him worse as far as I can see."
"But there is only so much you see," Hannibal reminds her. "You are not present for our sessions. Will has made progress. You must remember, Alana, that you have an effect on Will's mental state far more pronounced than any I might bring about. Has it occurred to you that his hostility might be precipitated not by my presence, but by yours?"
She stares at him, her eyes wide. "So you're implying I should be the one who leaves him?"
"Not at all."
A tremor in her voice. "I should. I know I should. I have turned this into such a mess."
"You've had help. We don't weave our webs alone." Hannibal reaches out to touch her, but then, with the merest flick of his eyes, he sees Will watching him and checks the movement. "He needs you, Alana," he continues. "Please stay."
Barney and the guards finish freeing Will and file out of his cell. Will stays how they left him, with his hands against the brick wall and his head dipped.
"You're both staying here," he says.
He can feel Hannibal and Alana staring at his back—Hannibal with curiosity, Alana with shock, as she didn't realize Will was present enough to hear their conversation.
"Are you sure?" she asks him.
Will moves away from the wall, still not looking at them, and drops bonelessly into a seated position on his cot. He rubs at his face as if trying to scrub it off.
"It isn't up for debate," he says.
They wait, a triptych of tension. Alana makes a few attempts at conversation, but Will's answers are so monosyllabic and disconnected that she soon relents. Instead they sit in the turgid silence of a sickbed vigil, although the person for whose health Will fears is miles away.
A phone rings. Hannibal reaches into his coat pocket—the right coat pocket, the pocket from which Bev was planning to extract his key, a passing association that makes Will ache—and pulls out his phone. He looks at the number and stands up. "Excuse me."
He takes the call and begins pacing in tight strides by the far wall. Will and Alana watch him, but they may was well be watching the wall: Hannibal does more listening than speaking, and displays zero reaction to whatever he's hearing. When he hangs up he simply stands there, his shoulders raised, staring hard into the bricks. Will feels a tide of hatred rising; he needs Hannibal to speak.
Alana prompts him. "Is there news?"
"Not concerning Miss Katz." Hannibal voice is strange, shivery. He turns, revealing to them his rigid profile. He brings a hand up to rub, apparently unconsciously, at his bottom lip.
Will's eyes widen. Alana stands.
"My colleague, ah…" Hannibal collects himself and tries again. "Bedelia du Maurier has disappeared."
Alana, stricken, takes a step towards him. "What happened?"
Hannibal gives a helpless shrug. "They don't know. One of her neighbors reported a break-in, but when the police arrived at her home, no one was present. Some of her clothing and jewelry are missing, but apparently nothing else was taken. She has simply… vanished."
A tide of rage rising inside Will. He hasn't seen Hannibal this vividly emotional since that terrible morning of the ear, when Hannibal knelt in despair and pleaded with Will to turn himself in. Will has forgotten Hannibal is capable of this, that Hannibal can mold his emotions into a distress not only believable, but compelling.
He compels Alana now. The intensity of his feeling draws her forward, for she is forever magnetized by other people's pain. She stands beside Hannibal, not touching him, but watching him very closely.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"She has not left her home in years." Hannibal wipes the side of his face. "I can't help but worry this might—this might be related to the Ches…" And he chokes, the words so monstrous he can't bring himself to speak them.
The tide of rage has reached its height. Will is shaking, his fists white-knuckled at the cot's edge.
Alana throws her arms around Hannibal. "You can't be sure of that. I know your first instinct is to think ahead, to consider the likelihood of every possibility, but right now it's pointless. You'll only torture yourself. Just wait and see. Wait and see."
As Alana draws him against her shoulder, Hannibal glances up and sees Will staring at him from out of the tops of his eyes, a flat blank stare that nevertheless communicates his unholy fury. Hannibal's grief-stricken expression does not alter, but he returns Will's stare unblinkingly, sopping up his anger.
After Hannibal has had his fill of consolation, they return to a silence even heavier than before, laden as it is with hidden resentments, private hopes, the unbearable unsaid.
Twenty minutes later, the gate rolls back and a host of dark-suited people march down the corridor like an oncoming funeral procession. Jack is at its head. His eyes jump from Will sitting on the cot with his head bowed, to Hannibal and Alana, who both stand up when they see him.
"How are we doing over here?" Jack asks, a little threateningly. "We doing better?"
"We're ok," says Alana. "Jack, what's going on?" She gapes at the black mass of agents congregating behind him.
By way of explanation, Jack says: "We have a big problem."
Will whitens. "Where is Beverly?"
"Right here."
And from behind the mass of dark suits, out steps Beverly. Alive. Smiling.
For a moment Will can't speak, can't move, can't feel.
"Hey," says Bev. There is a curving cut across her left temple and her right arm is in a sling. Even though her smile is very tired, there is still a trace of slyness at its corner.
Will stands up and staggers to the bars. "You're ok."
"Yeah," she says. "Relatively speaking."
Alana makes a noise of relief. Will looks to Hannibal in triumph—how could he have let Beverly escape?—but to his surprise, Hannibal does not look angry, or foiled, or especially affected by Beverly's reappearance. If anything, he looks confused.
"What happened to you?" he asks Beverly, nothing but polite curiosity in his voice.
Beverly meets his eyes steadily, but lets Jack answer the question for her. "The Chesapeake Ripper tried to attack her."
Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "Tried?" he echoes.
"We don't know he was the Ripper," Beverly corrects Jack, smoothly.
"Come on, Beverly," says Jack. "Freddie Lounds runs a story naming you as one of the investigators on the Ripper case, and suddenly an unidentified man jumps you a block away from the Baltimore Field Office?"
"Well," says Bev, shrugging her uninjured shoulder, "when you put it like that."
Will rubs between his eyes. "What exactly happened?"
"I was walking to my car when he came at me from behind." Beverly gestures at the swollen cut on the side of her head. "I don't know what he hit me with, but he did it hard and fast. I was pretty disoriented, so I'm not sure what happened next. I know he took my gun, but I fought him and he dropped it. Then he tried to drag me into his van, but I stuck him in the thigh with my car key. Got away long enough to trigger a car alarm, and the noise spooked him. By the time I even thought about memorizing his license plate, he was driving away."
"You had a nasty knock to the head," Jack says consolingly. "You kept your cool, Bev. You did great."
Beverly doesn't settle for the compliments. Instead she makes a big show of trying to remember the color, make, and model of the van. Will watches her and sees a design forming. Again he glances at Hannibal (who does not appear to be concealing a wound on his thigh), and sees on the other man's face an expression identical to his own, a look of calculation, perplexity and faint amusement. Hannibal becomes aware of Will watching him and the expression disappears, like a stone sinking into the deep.
"Did you get a look at his face?" Alana asks Beverly.
She shakes her head. "He was wearing a balaclava. White guy, average height and build, dark eyes. It's not much help. But what I do have is his blood on my car key. Hopefully it'll give us something to go on. "
"I'm glad you're ok," Alana says, and after a moment of deliberation she comes forward and gives Beverly a hug.
"Amazing, isn't it?" Jack says, proudly. "That she got away so lightly."
"Incredible," says Hannibal, without inflection.
"The Ripper isn't used to dealing with someone with Beverly's level of training," Jack says. "He got a jump on her, but she got one back at him. She surprised him. And he hasn't dropped a body since the attack. I think she rattled him. She might have stopped his spree."
"I hope so," says Beverly, who is looking at Hannibal again. "But we can't be certain he won't try something like that again."
With sudden and perfect clarity Will sees the endpoint Bev has been steering towards. Fast as lightning he switches personas. He crosses his arms, leans against the bars, and again becomes the expert consultant, relaxed, businesslike, and about to deliver an unbiased opinion.
He says: "The Chesapeake Ripper wanted to kill one of yours, Jack. He wanted to hurt you, the same way he hurt you when he killed Miriam Lass. And Freddie Lounds gave him exactly what he needed to make it happen. She printed the names of all the major players in the investigation. Now he has that list, he can take his pick."
Jack nods grimly. "Freddie Lounds has a lot to answer for. I can't risk leaving any of my people out there without cover, so everyone whose name she printed is getting a protective detail courtesy of the Security Division."
"These four are mine," Beverly says, pointing behind her at the men all built like linebackers.
"Zeller and Price are covered, and I'll have a team with me from this moment on," says Jack. "I'm assigning Rutgers and Rezchek to you, Hannibal."
Will turns to Hannibal expectantly and is gratified to witness a shadow descending over the other man's face. "You need not waste your resources on me, Jack," he says.
Jack tries for an indulgent smile, but he's clearly losing patience. "Now you're not scoring any points by being gallant. Your name was in that article same as ours, Hannibal, and you're a member of this investigation. You're getting protection, I insist on it."
Beverly and Will glance at each other, eyes glittering.
Hannibal remains adamant. "If the Chesapeake Ripper is targeting FBI agents, then he presents very little danger to me."
"Hannibal…" Alana shakes her head bemusedly. "There's a serial killer on the loose who has a list with your name on it."
"I can take care of myself," Hannibal says, raising his chin.
Jack rolls his eyes. "Whether you like it or not, you're taking Rutgers and Rezchek with you when you leave this hospital. They're two of the best; they're gonna be very discreet. Your patients won't even notice they're there and probably neither will you. They won't interfere with your daily life or inconvenience you in any way, I promise."
Hannibal is taking slow breaths through his nose.
"Dr. Lecter," Will says, with a mask of solicitousness over his glee, "you're always the first to offer help when others needs it. Now you have to accept our help in return. Admit it, you need protection…around the clock."
Hannibal says nothing. The fingers of his left hand are spasming.
"Let us protect you," says Jack.
"If you insist," Hannibal says, quietly. "Thank you, Jack, for taking the trouble."
"Good man." And Jack thumps Hannibal's shoulder. "You know it's no trouble. I'm going to sleep a lot sounder knowing they're with you."
"I know I will," says Will.
Hannibal excuses himself not long after, claiming he needs time to prepare for his first patient of the day. He says his goodbyes with unfailing politeness, but Will can feel violence pounding underneath every pleasantry he utters. Even Hannibal's immaculate control has its limits, and they are fast approaching. He stops in front of Beverly, looming like a specter.
"I am pleased to see you safe," he says. "And with these gentlemen's assistance, it seems likely we will all remain that way."
"Uh huh," says Bev, unshakable.
Hannibal avoids Will's eyes until the last possible second, but he can't leave without a glance. Will has been waiting. He gives Hannibal a wave, wiggling his fingers ironically, and the lids of Hannibal's eyes slip slowly downward. He turns to leave, the two agents following him out—and it is the most glorious of glorious sights.
Will is desperate for a chance to talk to Beverly alone, but he doesn't get the opportunity until almost an hour later, when Jack and Alana leave to take a meeting with Dr. Chilton. Beverly, equally eager for a private chat, sends her protective detail out for coffee and sidles up to the bars. Underneath her grin Will senses trepidation.
He points at the cut on her temple. "Pipe?"
"Leather sap," she says, and points at her left arm in its sling. "And this was from a beanbag gun. Both were courtesy of a guy I know in ballistics. It's his blood on the keys, too. He had way too much fun helping me out with this, it was kind of alarming, but don't worry, he'll stay quiet. He owes me a huge favor."
"He's not the only one," says Will. "Beverly, you're a genius."
She smiles. "I know."
Will is still putting it all together. "So does this mean you were the leak? You gave that list of names to Freddie Lounds?"
She looks a little offended. "I gave her the list, but I wasn't the original leak. I wouldn't do that to Jack. I don't know who else was talking to Lounds last night, but whoever they are, I'm grateful for the inspiration. I needed a believable reason for the Ripper to come after me, and Freddie Lounds provided me with one only minutes after I emailed her my anonymous tip. Gotta hand it to Lounds, she works fast."
Will shakes his head, beyond impressed.
"I told you there were other ways of stopping Lecter," she says.
"You did." And some of Will's warmth disappears. "But you should have told me what you were going to do. I thought…" He swallows. "Well, you know what I thought."
"Yeah…" Suddenly Beverly looks a little ashamed of herself. "Guess that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever done, huh? I was just sick of watching you play the World's Largest Chess Game, especially when it became clear I was just a piece on the board."
He winces. "You're more than that, Beverly."
He shifts, wanting so badly to be sincere, to be himself, but the persona—for now even honesty has become a persona—fits him strangely, loosely, all awkward angles. He has spent too much time pretending.
"You were right," he says. "About me, I mean. I was losing perspective back there. He makes me lose perspective. But you woke me up. And I shouldn't take you on a guilt trip for that, not when I was the one who risked your life for real."
She takes a step closer to the bars. "I risk my own life, Will. I risk it every day. You don't have to apologize."
"Well, neither do you."
"Ok," she says. "So we're agreed: neither of us has to apologize, but both of us are gonna do it anyway."
Will smiles. "Sorry."
She smiles back. "Sorry."
"Beverly, I don't deserve you."
"Shut up," she says. "You do."
Baltimore waits on tenterhooks for the Ripper to strike again. Jack and the BAU make regular visits to Will's cell throughout the day, but with little to report. Hannibal doesn't reappear at all; probably too busy plotting ways to shrug off his protective detail. Beverly's plan has done the trick. The body count stays at eight. All is quiet in the Chesapeake Bay. The spree appears to be over.
Beverly returns to Will's cell in the late afternoon. "Look what I've got," she says, and with her uninjured hand she pulls out a stumpy silver key, ludicrously ordinary looking. "I'm the proud new owner of a secure unit at Elite Storage Solutions in West York, Pennsylvania."
"Congratulations," says Will.
"I'm thinking Rezchek and Rutgers aren't gonna stop Lecter for long. We should take advantage of this time and get to that storage unit before he can give his protective detail the slip and dump more bodies. You're sure there's more where those came from, right?"
"Pretty sure. Only two of the eight bodies from the spree were frozen, and neither of them was Miriam Lass."
"Definitely not. We have Miriam's prints on file, and both those frozen bodies are still unidentified. Actually we haven't been able to identify any of the spree victims yet."
"One of them is du Maurier," says Will.
"We suspect one of them is du Maurier," Beverly corrects him. "We can't know for sure. They're gonna have to go by dental records to identify them. It could take weeks. Jack's not happy about that."
"I bet." Will sighs.
Beverly looks suddenly bright-eyed, devious. "He's coming here at six with Price and Zeller for a full briefing. Lecter will be there. So… I'm thinking I should hit him then. Pickpocket him, I mean."
"What, tonight?" Will's mouth drops open. "In the middle of the briefing?"
"Why not? Strength in numbers! The briefing should keep him good and distracted, and besides, I'd much rather be sticking my hand in Lecter's pocket while we're all surrounded by bodyguards."
"You have a point there. But Beverly, I think you're forgetting something. You only have one hand."
She shrugs with her usable shoulder. "I'm a southpaw. I only need my left."
"That's insane."
"Says the man in the insane asylum. Awww..." And she cocks her head, considering him. "Will, are you worried about me?"
"Of course I am," he says, a little embarrassed. "I just spent half of last night thinking you were dead. I don't care to repeat that experience."
"You won't have to." Beverly flicks the key between her fingers, a deft flash of metal against skin. "Trust me, ok? I can do this."
He wants to believe her so very, very badly.
In preparation for the briefing, Barney unfolds a line of chairs in front of Will's cell, and suddenly the tiny space feels like a little theater awaiting its audience. Beverly is first on the scene, her one functional hand buried nervously in the pocket of her coat. She must be playing with the little key, practicing her sleight of hand. Can she ever be smooth enough to fool Hannibal Lecter?
Price and Zeller arrive with their respective security teams. Jack appears a little later, looking so completely exhausted that he appears diminished, less solid somehow. His voice has gone a little hoarse from all the shouting he's done the past twenty-fours hours, and he still hasn't stopped. He manages to have three loud phone conversations in three minutes as they wait for Hannibal to arrive for the briefing. But the next person to appear in the corridor isn't Hannibal, but Alana.
"What are you doing here?" Will asks.
"Jack asked me to be here," she says, nodding tersely at the man himself, who is leaning against the far wall as he talks on the phone.
"Does this mean you're back to consulting on the Ripper?" Beverly asks.
"Not officially," says Alana. "I admit it's hard to avoid this particular investigation with both Will and Hannibal consulting on it, but I have another obligation I'd describe as pressing."
Will looks at her questioningly, and she sighs. "Your trial. It's on Tuesday."
"This Tuesday?" Will has completely forgotten. "Oh."
"'Oh' indeed," says Alana. "Someone's going to have to prepare for it, and I'm thinking that someone probably isn't going to be you."
"Uh," says Will.
He doesn't get the chance to defend himself, because at that moment the corridor gate rolls back and Hannibal appears, flanked by Rutgers and Rezchek. He has made up for his rumpled appearance of the night before by paying even more meticulous attention to his wardrobe than usual. Not a hair is out of place and his cream-colored suit emits a sumptuous glow from underneath his camel hair coat.
Will can feel Beverly tensing, steeling herself as she performs an instantaneous visual reconnaissance of her mark. As Hannibal finishes greeting Jack and Alana, he removes his coat and folds it carefully over the back of one of the chairs. Beverly's eyebrows leap and she throws a delighted look at Will. How much easier it will be, pickpocketing a chair.
Jack finishes with his phone call. "Let's get started," he says.
He sends out to the orderly station the various milling members of everyone's protective details, so that the BAU might have some privacy and space for the briefing. They take their seats. Beverly acts quickly and sits down on Hannibal's immediate right, while Alana takes the chair on his left. Will pulls his own chair up to the bars and sits at its edge. Meanwhile Jack prowls in the empty space between the line of watching people and the bars of Will's cell.
"I received something very interesting in the mail today." He holds up a padded express mailer. "No return address. No contaminants. No fingerprints. Guess what's inside."
Jack doesn't wait for them to guess. Instead he dumps the contents of the envelope on to Zeller's lap. Zeller stares down at the heap of leather.
"Uh," he says, "wallets?"
"Wallets," agrees Jack. "Eight of 'em."
"The bodies from the spree," Will says. "The Ripper is identifying his victims for us."
"That's surprisingly helpful of him," says Price, wide-eyed.
Hannibal, who has his hands politely folded in his lap, ghosts a smile. (Beverly stares at his coat through the sides of her eyes.)
"Who were they?" Will asks quietly.
Jack reads out the names of the victims: "Dr. Avery Hauser, Dr. Paul Lubbock, Dr. Redford Josephs, Dr. Daniel Epstein, Dr. Arianna Ruiz, Dr. Delores Burns, Dr. Emily Lin, and Dr. Bethany-Ann Manson." He looks up, grimly. "Notice anything?"
Zeller toys with the wallets in his lap. "They're… all doctors."
"Yes," says Jack, sarcastically, "they are." And he turns on Will.
"You told me one of these people had a personal connection to the Ripper," he says, aggressively.
"That was Dr. Lecter's theory actually," says Will. He speaks quietly, distractedly; he is still processing the fact that Bedelia du Maurier's wallet was not in Jack's envelope.
Meanwhile Jack rounds on Hannibal. "How am I supposed to know which one? I've got eight doctors here, all from the Baltimore area. We believe the Ripper was once a doctor from the Baltimore area. We trace the contacts of each of these victims and we're gonna end up with a list of just about every person who's ever practiced medicine in the Baltimore area!"
"That does seem likely," says Hannibal, apologetically. (Beverly watches him, her hand twitching nervously in her lap.)
Jack's expression darkens. "I thought we'd come out of this with something solid on the Ripper. Something I could use to narrow down the field. But even after tonight, even after his so-called 'spree', we are no closer to understanding who this guy is or how he works. He is ten moves ahead of us—perpetually ten moves ahead. He killed six people last night. In addition he dumped two bodies." He waves the express mailer like a battle flag. "He is mocking us. He has always been mocking us, and I for one am sick of it."
"We all are, Jack," says Beverly.
(She shifts on her chair, moving slightly closer to Hannibal.)
"Meanwhile," Jack continues, "I got a leak I can't seem to patch. Freddie Lounds was crawling over every crime scene last night like white on rice. I made a statement, off the cuff, that somehow managed to make it on to an hour later. Somebody's been talking to Lounds and I wanna know who that somebody is."
At this, Hannibal finds Will's eyes and if Will had any doubts before, they all disappear now. Hannibal has been leaking information to Freddie Lounds.
(Beverly reaches down, scratching an itch on her pant leg.)
Jack continues lecturing them about loose lips' propensity to sink ships; it's clear to Will that Jack suspects, or is at least worried by the possibility, that the person who has passed information to Freddie Lounds is currently inside this room. Zeller and Price both look pretty twitchy at being spoken to like this. Thankfully Beverly is too distracted by Hannibal right now to look guilty. Alana looks stern and annoyed at even being included in this covert interrogation. Meanwhile the leak himself sits upright and alert in his chair.
(Beverly's itch is scratched; she straightens up, empty-handed.)
They take a short break for Jack to make a phone call. Jack obviously intends the leak to stew in guilt for a while, until he or she is driven to confess. Hannibal and Alana stay seated, speaking quietly together. Beverly comes over to Will and whispers, almost inaudibly, "This is impossible. Every time I thought about trying something, I could feel him…watching me. I feel like he's watching me now. He never stops."
Will nods, unsurprised. "He's not an easy mark. We need to distract him."
Beverly's face looks strained, desperate. "How?"
"Leave it to me."
She does not look happy about this.
"You say I have control over him," Will continues. "And maybe you're right. I can't command him to stop killing, but I can command his attention for at least a minute. Trust me, Bev."
When they reconvene, Jack immediately asks: "So…any of you want to tell me something?"
Will clears his throat. "I do."
Jack raises his eyebrows. Will hates Freddie Lounds, wasn't on any of the crime scenes, and doesn't have access to a phone; he's not exactly a likely leak.
"What is it, Will?"
"I have a theory about the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper."
Will's voice is strong, confident, though he is determinedly not looking at Hannibal.
(Meanwhile Beverly is watching Will, eyes bright, expectant.)
Jack stares. "Go ahead."
"You may have heard a woman disappeared last night," Will says. "I thought she might be one of the spree victims, but that's not looking likely now we have their wallets. Her name was Dr. Bedelia du Maurier."
"I know about Dr. du Maurier," says Jack, with a swift look at Hannibal.
"I informed Jack of Dr. du Maurier's disappearance," says Hannibal, with sorrowful dignity.
"It can't be a coincidence," says Will, "that du Maurier disappears on the same night as the Ripper's murder spree."
Hannibal's fingers close around his knees, he is suddenly thrumming with nervous energy. (And Beverly's left hand drifts down, down, towards the pocket of his coat.)
"What are you suggesting?" Jack asks. "That du Maurier was also killed by the Chesapeake Ripper, but he hasn't had the chance to dump her body?"
"That's not what I'm suggesting," says Will. And now he looks at Hannibal. "What if Dr. Chilton was right about the Ripper? What if this spree really is his final masterpiece? His last hurrah? His Ninth Symphony? One final chance to fool the FBI, to publicly embarrass Jack, to get rid of whatever bodies he's been hanging on to all these years? And once he's finished, once the spree is over, the Ripper retires. No more murders, at least not in the Chesapeake Bay."
Hannibal stands up slowly, his eyes boring into Will. (Beverly's hand dips into the coat pocket.)
"Maybe," says Will, "the Ripper has already left Baltimore. Picked up sticks and packed her bags."
"Bedelia du Maurier has nothing to do with this," says Hannibal, in a voice low and envenomed.
(Beverly removes her hand from her coat and throws Will a frustrated look—no keys.)
Jack meanwhile is electrified. "Du Maurier's a shut-in," he says. "Or at least, she's let the world believe she's a shut-in. No alibis for any of the murders, and ample opportunity to commit them. I gotta admit, the few times I interviewed her, I knew she wasn't being straight with me. She provided only grudging cooperation. She was hiding something. I'm certain of that."
(Beverly leans over, trying surreptitiously to reach with her left hand into the left pocket of Hannibal's coat. It's further away from her, a real stretch.)
"Bedelia had her secrets," says Hannibal, who doesn't notice anything of what's happening behind him, "but she was not a serial killer."
"But how can you be sure?" Jack asks. "As for me, I find it hard to accept a woman that small could have butchered over twenty people, but it isn't outside the realm of possibility. What do you really know about her, Hannibal? Do you know if she had surgical training?"
Hannibal doesn't answer the question. "I was very close with Bedelia du Maurier. I was keenly aware who she was, and of what she was capable. I know without a doubt she is not the Chesapeake Ripper."
"You were her patient," Will says. "And psychiatrists don't tell their patients everything. You know that, Doctor. You know that very well."
Hannibal's eyelids slide lower.
(Beverly straightens up again. She displays for Will her empty hand. No keys in either of Hannibal's pockets. They've hit a dead end.)
If the keys aren't in Hannibal's coat, then there is only one other place they could be. Will glances at Hannibal's suit jacket. There is a slight bulge in his right pocket; he should have noticed sooner. Hannibal's suit is fitted to a T. It will be all but impossible to reach into that pocket without him noticing, even if Will accuses his dead sister of being the Chesapeake Ripper.
(Beverly throws Will a look of frustration and helplessness. She's asking what to do.)
Will can't answer her, because suddenly Hannibal is staring at him in something like alarm. Clocking the drift of Will's eyes, Hannibal has become aware of the silent messages passing back and forth over his shoulder. He half-turns, looking for Will's conversation partner.
Ok, Will thinks, in blind and breathless panic, Plan B.
He reaches through the bars.
For a bare instant, no one notices anything has happened. Jack continues talking, constructing various scenarios in which Bedelia du Maurier could be the Chesapeake Ripper. Even Hannibal doesn't immediately register the change in his circumstances. His head tilts very slowly down and he stares at Will's hand fisted around the creamy lapel of his suit jacket. He blinks at this hand as if he has never seen one before, a look of fond puzzlement settling over him. He looks back up at Will and smiles, faintly. What are you up to?
Will returns the smile. Then he yanks back on his fistful of fabric and smashes Hannibal's face into the bars of his cell.
Alana gasps. Jack screams, "WHAT THE—"
Everyone is stunned, Hannibal most of all. No one intervenes as Will thrusts both arms out, spinning Hannibal around until his back is to bars. With one arm he grabs Hannibal's chest; the other he wraps around his throat, Will's bicep pressing into Hannibal's windpipe, the bars digging painfully between them.
"Will, stop it!"
"Get help! Now!"
"Let him go, Will!"
Hands reach out, trying to rip Hannibal from Will's grasp. "No," says Will. "No no no no no." His shoulder joint burns at the terrible stretch, but he hangs on for all he's worth, so that the people attempting to part him and Hannibal only succeed in throttling Hannibal further. Hannibal kicks weakly at the floor, trying to regain his balance.
The other inmates are hooting gleefully, banging at the bars in solidarity. "Get him, Graham!" they chant. "Get him, Graham! Get him, Graham!"
Will grapples at Hannibal's chest, hooks his fingers around the right pocket of Hannibal's jacket. A harsh noise of ripping fabric—he tears the pocket clear off the jacket, and Hannibal's keychain falls with a clatter to the floor. Will can't see Beverly, he doesn't know if she's making the switch—he can't see much of anything besides red rage and the side of Hannibal's face, pressed up close to his.
Jack appears right in Will's eye line, his face a frozen mask of shock. "WILL, LET HIM GO."
"I can't do that, Jack," says Will. "Sorry. You wanted me to catch the Chesapeake Ripper, didn't you? Well, I've got him now."
Hannibal's hands come up to grip Will's arm. He isn't trying to throw off Will's hold—he's steadying him. Urging him on.
At this moment a distant, increasingly dormant part of Will understands that if Hannibal approves of what Will is doing, it would be safer and wiser for Will to stop doing it immediately. But he can't stop. He will never stop. He doesn't care if Beverly makes the switch. The key doesn't matter. The storage unit doesn't matter, not if Hannibal is dead. Nothing matters now except Will's arm around Hannibal's throat, the strange possessive clutch of Hannibal's fingers around Will's elbow, the little grunts of air forced out of Hannibal's nose as Will relentlessly squeezes the life out of him.
"If no one will stop you," Will wheezes, "then I will…"
Hannibal's grip on Will's arm begins to slacken. Will's heart is singing, singing in his chest, an aria of rage and wild joy. He isn't aware of himself anymore. He cannot hear himself laughing.
The rolling thunder of footsteps approaching. A horde of orderlies closing in. Barney is unlocking the cell door with one hand, aiming a plastic tranquilizer gun with the other. Will has only seconds left. Hannibal is still awake, still holding Will's arm. There isn't enough time left to kill him. How disappointing.
An urge slinks out from the darkest recesses of Will's mind—a sharp-clawed, red-eyed urge, searing and famished and undeniable.
"Something to remember me by," he gasps in Hannibal's ear. And as Barney throws open the door of his cell, Will lunges forward, presses his own forehead against the bars, and sinks his teeth into the sculpted flesh of Hannibal's cheek.
A chorus of screams.
Hannibal makes a noise in his throat, huk. A torrent of hot copper in Will's ravening mouth. He feels a sharp burn in his arm where Barney's tranquilizer dart has hit home. Orderlies tackle him from every direction and finally Will is forced to let Hannibal go. The whole world knocked askew. Will lands face first on the floor and bites his tongue. Suddenly he can taste his own blood mingling with Hannibal's, an effervescent sweetness on his palate.
Hannibal staggers, one trembling hand cupping his cheek. Blood slides down his neck, staining the collar and shoulders of his impeccable suit. Alana and Beverly rush forward, but Hannibal knees hit the floor before they can catch him. He sways, his face deathly white.
This is the final tableau Will sees before he fades away: Jack standing far back, arms raised protectively to his chest, shaking his head as if denying the reality of the events he has just witnessed; Zeller and Price frozen and goggling like age-old sculptures; Alana and Beverly kneeling over Hannibal, both women's faces twisted with dumb horror; and Hannibal, half collapsed, visibly shaking, staring at Will not in shock but in rapture.
Will says a silent goodbye to his career as an FBI consultant before he passes out.