Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Six
"And what have you done so far, Will, to recover him?"
Alana shuddered. His voice was tinged with pleasure. She studied his face, professional interest, open curiosity, rubber-necking at a car crash. There was nothing but amusement just discernible in the hair-breadth wrinkling of the skin around the eyes, a greedy enjoyment of the torment. Hannibal was the devil, feeding on souls. Today's menu featured Will's soul, wrapped in fear, helplessness, and anticipation of heart-break.
She felt safe staring; Hannibal was completely engrossed in his phone conversation with Will. It was a rare opportunity for a psychiatrist to study an unusual form of psychopathy unhindered, but she was too distracted by her own emotions to take full advantage of it. Still, she was glad that Dr. Chilton was banned from anyone connected with the case at this point, even if it meant that no one was here for disinterested and professional observation this morning. The academic advancement of psychiatry could wait.
They'd been looking for Tim for three days. The Chess Master was clearly out of his routine and no one, not even Will, could anticipate his next move with any certainty. It seemed unlikely to everyone that they'd find the Marshal alive now. The odds were against it.
Alana still hoped Tim might show up, even if Will had given up. She listened while Will spoke about him, about their relationship, grieving. Consider what you know about him, she said, he might still reappear. She offered the idea that he might stagger into work one morning having run off on a bar binge to forget about Will and whatever else he clearly had in his past that needed forgetting about. But Will said that wasn't his character, he said Tim would put up an invisible barrier between whatever was bothering him and his duties and get on with it. And Will was usually right about people.
Desperation drove them back to Dr. Lecter – a phone call mediated by Alana, someone Will could trust. There was nothing more they could do to Hannibal, nothing to threaten or coerce him with. He was already serving twenty-four back-to-back life sentences, so he was free to help, or not, but he seemed willing to talk and willing to assist by providing some information this morning. It amused him to do so.
"He's been watching you track him, Will, since the FBI became aware of his existence. And he watched your lover follow you to your hotel and leave in the morning. He has been a wonderful source of information while he attempted to beat me at my own game, as the saying goes. You might want to consider how he would do that." Hannibal turned and smiled at Alana. "It is precisely because he is driven by his pride that I find him so uninteresting. It makes him rather predictable, but useful. You, however, are not predictable, Will. What will you do next? I am giddy with anticipation."
Alana could picture Will's reaction to that statement, a man so desperate to stay out of the limelight forever caught firmly in it. If she pitied anything about him, it was just that. All he wanted was to be left alone and he rarely was, at least, not on his terms.
Hannibal was listening, smiling patiently. He said, "Paul O'Keefe is not satisfied being himself. What skin do you suppose he is wearing when he faces the world?"
His eyebrow twitched in surprise, a small movement. He pulled the phone from his ear and the smile didn't drop. "Run, Will, run," he said softly then nodded to Alana, always the gentleman. "Excuse me for ignoring you, Dr. Bloom, but our mutual friend is like a bloodhound on the scent. He ended our conversation rather abruptly." Amusement again. He set the phone on the tray and pushed it through the barrier to the hallway.
"Is he your friend still, Hannibal, considering everything you've done to him?"
"Oh yes, I believe so. He'll visit again when this is all over." He tilted his head slightly. "You look tired, Alana, and you've changed your perfume. Shalini – it suits you and is especially appropriate considering your surname. Do you wear it for anyone in particular?"
Alana smiled for what was – with Will, with Hannibal. "I'm married to psychiatry, Hannibal. You know that."
"Are you?"
She checked any response, reminded herself that he ate people.
"Manifestos, check manifestos on flights from Lexington, Louisville, or Cincinnati to Atlanta between these two dates." Will rapid-fired the information to Jack on the phone.
"What are we looking for?" Art was standing next to Will, made himself part of the FBI team's conversation.
"Names of successful people – an alias. It might just be a surname, maybe a first name only or a combination. Go with world class chess players first." To Art he added, "Car rentals – I need a list of all rentals between those dates. Let's start with Lexington."
It didn't take long to get the rental databases. Rachel printed them off and brought the information over to Will then she doubled back and printed out a list of international chess champions and she and he stood comparing names, one with the other. Art stepped up behind them and read over their shoulders, starting from the bottom. He caught it first.
"Karpov – there it is, right there." He reached over and pointed. "Isn't that the name from Tim's report? We're looking for a red Ford Taurus. Read me off the license plate number – I'll get a BOLO out."
"Not the vehicle I was expecting," said Will.
"It's just a matter of time." Art spoke to the room at large, consoling himself.
And it took time. Will found the waiting excruciating. He needed to be doing something. Eventually he stood up and headed for the door.
"Where are you going, Agent Graham?" The scolding came from Art.
"I'm going to look again."
"Where?"
"Carter County. Near the caves."
"And were you planning on walking there?"
"I was hoping to…borrow a car."
Art huffed. "Will, he could be anywhere."
"I have a…a hunch," said Will, hoping; it usually worked with Jack.
"You sound like Raylan." Art blew out a breath and rubbed his bald spot. "Rachel, go with him."
Rachel touched Will's arm. "I'll drive."
"It feels good…to be moving," Will said once they'd cleared Lexington and were heading east. "Even if it might be in the wrong direction. I don't like being on both sides of an investigation but…it always seems to turn out that way."
"It's a hazard of the job, I guess, considering what they expect of you. Tim explained some of it to me," she said when he looked over, puzzled. "He doesn't like it."
"What's it to him?" It came out sharply and Will felt a bit peevish saying it. It was difficult to be level-headed at this point.
"He's a hard man to reach but I think you've come closer than anybody. Don't let up if it's important to you. He'll cave eventually." Rachel grimaced at the expression after it escaped her lips. "Do you think we'll find him?"
It seemed a ridiculous question but Will knew she wanted to add the descriptor 'alive' and couldn't bring herself to say it.
"No." That was his first reaction, then, "Yes," because that's what he had to believe, then, "I don't know." You never get used to it, he thought, never. "Once a killer starts deviating from his pattern, his design, it's…it's scary. Honestly, I have no idea what we'll find."
He was glad she was driving.
The car was spotted later that day at a horse farm outside the city limits. Art and Raylan arrived with a warrant, already signed and just waiting for an address. Now they had an address – a rambling multi-million dollar estate home, the owner living alone, recently divorced. The smell of rotting flesh hit the team as soon as they entered the house. Raylan followed the odor down the stairs, Art hurrying behind him. A freezer-full of meat sat oozing on the basement floor. Raylan stepped over the pile and opened the lid on the freezer nearby, still plugged in and running.
"Damn." He looked bewildered, not particularly upset.
Art felt it safe to peer in, stared trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at. He wiped a hand over his face in relief. "Holy shit. Well, I think we're on the right track." He waved over one of the County Sheriff's men, nodded at the freezer. "Wanna bet this is the owner of the house? Find a photo. And someone get on the DMV and find out what kind of car this guy drives and get the license plate number."
"Okay, I got it." Rachel hung up. "They found the Taurus and a guy covered in white paint in a freezer. It's not Tim," she added quickly, handed Will her notepad and pulled back onto the road. "They think he's traded vehicles. We're now looking for a silver Ford, brand new Super Duty." She glanced over to see if Will understood, answered the question on his face. "Big pick-up."
"Right."
"Will, we passed one a mile back."
She turned the car around and stepped on the gas.
When the door opened, Tim put every bit of the force of his rage into a standing two-legged drop kick. He didn't think he was going to get another opportunity – it was a move of desperation. Tim's bound feet, legs coiled and released, caught his captor in the stomach full force and knocked the wind out of him in a rush and he buckled and collapsed. Tim didn't fare much better. The difference in mass was considerable and for Tim it was like hitting a solid wall. He bounced off and landed on the floor hard, screamed for a breath and then scuttled, still bound tightly, to his tormentor, pulled his legs over the man's head, sandwiching his neck between his knees and squeezing as hard as he could.
Bull strength pulled Tim almost completely off the floor as the Chess Master tried to stand and put distance between himself and the attack. The man struggled to breathe, fell back to his knees, mouth gaping for air. He reached to his side and pulled a knife and wrestled for a grip on the hilt then swiped at Tim's face. Tim twisted clear, growled, tightened the vice. The knife came up a second time aiming for leg and Tim twisted again, and the blade sliced through his pant leg into flesh. He screamed a curse and held on and the knife came up again then Paul O'Keefe's head exploded outward, blood and tissue spraying the floor, the wall. Tim shut his eyes and felt the drops splash across his face and the body dropped hard on top of him.
"Fuck!" Tim yelled, pain and surprise and fear, rolled and kicked to get out from underneath the dead weight and wriggled his legs free. "Fuck!" he yelled again and struggled frantically against the ties on his wrists.
He felt a hand on his leg and panicked, finally panicked, kicked out and tried to move away.
"Tim, stop!"
Will. Tim rolled again, opened his eyes, focused. Will.
"Tim, it's okay. It's over. God. Stop moving! Stop. Let me untie you."
Will was holding his sidearm, waving it recklessly.
"Put that fucking thing away." Tim flinched, breathing hard. "Jesus Christ, you're gonna hurt somebody!"
"Okay. Okay." Will slid his gun into his holster, stepped over Tim, slid a hand across his chest and through his hair then knelt behind him and started tugging at the restraints. His hands were shaking. "I need a knife or something. God, these are tight."
"Borrow his, for fuck's sake! He won't mind."
"Right."
Another step over and back and Will sawed at the ropes then moved down to work at the ties on Tim's ankles, dragging a hand possessively over Tim's leg as he did. Tim fumbled with the remains of the ropes around his wrists, fingers aching, shoulders aching. He kept twitching his eyes over to the body.
Rachel appeared at the door. She'd been yelling for Will, but both men were so caught up in the action that her voice hadn't registered with either.
"Goddammit! You just disappeared!"
Will wasn't certain whom she was speaking to. She hurried over and helped Tim with the ropes and wrapped her arms around him and sobbed, once. "Asshole," she whispered. "No more chess for you. You're sticking to firearms. It's less dangerous." She took his face in her hands, looked at him seriously. "Are you okay?"
"I'm thirsty. I'm really thirsty. And I want the fuck out of here." He struggled to his feet, Rachel and Will finally helping him. His gaze shifted again to the body then to Will. "I had him. I had him! You didn't… You didn't have to shoot him! I had him!"
"Tim," said Rachel, soothing. "Calm down. It's over."
He stumbled past them to the door and up the stairs.
"I'm okay. I said, I'm okay! Fuck off! I just need a shower."
Will stood outside of the crush of law enforcement personnel, far from everyone, leaned against Art's car and watched Tim push everyone away, watched Art finally take hold of his arm and forcefully lift him from the step and march him to the waiting ambulance – a few whispered words, a stern look and Tim went meekly enough. He shot a glance at Will, one quick expression of anger before the doors to the back of the vehicle shut and it started on its way.
Rachel had walked over beside Will when Art took control, was witness to the look and turned surprised to Will. "What did you say to him?"
"Nothing."
"Well then what did you do?"
"I…pulled the trigger. He did me a favor, teaching me how to shoot. But I don't think that's what he wanted."
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