CHAPTER SIX: FIZZING WHIZZBEES

6 hours ago…

Will Graham's P.O.V

"Do you think she knew the guy down by the stream?"

Will asked as he stared up at the hooded sockets of the stag skull, eyes following the trail of blood from the stained roses masquerading as eyeballs, as the rivet dribbled down the small crack where two bone plates were fused by age. In the blink of his eye, hidden between the flutter of lashes, Will saw a blackened field, burnt and cast to desolation, ash and bone shards scattering the very ground to hilly inclines and dips. A stallion, a beast of a horse, with hair as red as blood, mane of fire sparking in the wasteland of air, so incandescent, twisting and dancing up and away, stood in the very centre, smoke trailing from its skinned face as it huffed and stomped it's front hoof. By the time his eyes opened, the image was gone, replaced back with the stag and roses. Nevertheless, Will held onto that image, clinched it tight and fastened it down, as Hannibal Lecter's voice drifted over from his side.

"Somebody's brother?"

Will shook his head. The stallion, as with the Ravenstag, was not a simple meander of his imagination. Will did not have the luxury of such faineant propensity. This, as with the Ravenstag, with its bony white face stripped of skin and muscle and tendon, mane of sparking and spitting fire, and bloody coat of crimson blood, was his first look, his first true glimpse, at this killer.

"Not somebody. Abigail said he asked if she helped her dad while he took his sisters lungs while she was alive."

Hannibal hummed beside him.

"The young woman on the stags head."

Will scratched at his beard.

"Cassie Boyle had a brother. Nicholas. But Garret Jacob Hobbs didn't kill Cassie Boyle."

The War Horse and the Ravenstag, what a pretty pair they made. Monstrous. Dreadful. All things wrong in humanity malformed into reality through his own sick mind. In the back of Will's head, he heard the howling neigh of the War Horse, felt the brush of a raven's feather on the back of his neck, and there, right there, heard the stomping of hooves as the beasts threatened to run. Around they would go, circling him, circling each other, ellipse, encompassing. Will didn't know what it all meant just yet, not the War Horse, or the dance it and the Ravenstag was beginning, but he knew discernment would come later, after he had time to put together the jigsaw, to connect the little clues and images flashing in his minds eye.

"I know. Garret Jacob Hobbs would have honoured every part of her."

The creaking of the steps alerted Will to the arrival of a new person. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was, as Jack Crawford came sweeping around the corner in his thick coat, face scrunched tight by frown and down turned lip, flinty as he was angry.

"You brought Abigail Hobbs back to Minnesota to find out if she was involved in her fathers murders and another girl dies. You said this copycat was an intelligent psychopath, Will. That there would be no traceable motive. No pattern. That's two girls from the same area, two girls who have links to both Garret Jacob Hobbs and Abigail Hobbs. Both times, deer have been incorporated into the killing. You said, Will, he wouldn't kill again this way. You said."

Ah. The Ravenstag. Will had first began to see it, in all its smoky beauty, right after he had first saw Cassie Boyle's crime scene. To him, in his mind, that was the copycat. Sleek. Refined. Astute. Dark. And even though he saw it now, malingering in his senses, he too saw and felt this bloodied ablaze War Horse. Which, to Will, could only mean on thing. They were two removed identities. This War Horse was chaotic. Vulgar. Unabashed by its own horrid state, proud in it nearly, scarred and bloodied. Just as astute but in a raw way, filled with anger and startling energy. A star in supernova. It could mean only one thing if he was seeing two at the same time.

"This is not the copycat."

In another blink, he was back on that barren field of wanton devastation, the War Horse on one side, the Ravenstag on the other. The War Horse was flicking its main, casting flame up high, crowning itself in its own blinding wrath, legs kicking and prancing on bone as its slick crimson coat flexed over mangled muscle. The Ravenstag bowed, bucking its back, hooves steadying, readying. Any second now, they would charge. Will knew it. He could feel it. Back in the attic of the Hobbs hunting cabin, Jack looked Will dead in the eye.

"Do not stand there and tell me that, Will."

Given, it would be what no one wanted to hear, least of all Will. His mind was already full and leaking from so many other creations, still preoccupied by the apparition of Garret Jacob Hobbs, but, sadly, it was the truth. The Ravenstag and the War Horse. Separate. Perverse. Alive. Why he was seeing the two, together at that, all but as if they were preparing to fight, Will did not know just yet. There was a connection there, he knew that, but how deep and what shade that connection took was just, barely, out of his reach.

"It is not the copycat, Jack."

Jack's eyes glinted like the War Horse's burning mane as he rolled his jaw, still looking at Will straight on. Never one to be good at maintaining eye contact, there was so much more to see without the distraction of eyes, after all, Will found his own gaze breaking away like a chip from a melting glacier, sinking to the deep, over to the corpse of Marissa Schurr, back to the bloody roses in the stag's skull. Still, as far as Will sank, down and down and down, Jack's ineffaceable voice reached him.

"So, what? There's another killer? In the same area? Three serial killers operating in the same damn area, with similar modes of operandi, in the same fucking year?"

Will sighed deeply.

"No. They're completely different. Garret Jacob Hobbs honoured his victims. He consumed them so, forever, they could be a part of him. The copycat humiliated Cassie Boyle. She was nothing but a piglet to butcher and showcase."

Jack pressed in at his shoulder, cocking his brow.

"And this one?"

And this one. As if it could be so simple. Sometimes Will didn't understand what he saw, perhaps that was why his imagination was so terrifying. He didn't have full control or perception of it, but he usually got there in the end. It was about interpretation, you see. Will saw, and Will interpreted. Yet, interpretation took time, effort, things Jack Crawford's lack of patience often beleaguered. Nevertheless, at least now he was considering there was another one. That was one step forward of many. Will shook his head until he could feel his curls whipping the skin of his forehead. He was being too harsh.

Jack was shrewd. He knew when to push and when to step back, when to listen and when to question. He was a leader through and through. Still, this murderer, this War Horse, made Will feel… premeditated Chaotic, disciplined enraged, little pockets of energy bursting under his skin like blisters and boils, bubble wrap filled with puss, contrarily anachronous and restrained. This person, this killer, they were invasive. Overriding. Nigh magnetic. They invaded, seeped in from any tiny crack and spread like a virus, taking one cell at a time.

"This is a proclamation."

There was a long draw of silence as those around him took in his answer that, really, was no answer at all. Finally, Jack pushed on.

"A proclamation? Care to elaborate on that?"

Elaborate? How could Will elaborate in any way others would understand? Will saw, Will interpreted and then he had to morph that into something recognizable to those outside his own mind. Sometimes it felt like those around him were blind and he was tasked with the insurmountable labour of describing what colour smelt like.

"They're sending a message. I am here. This is me. I see you. Check Marissa Schurr's car insurance policy."

Jack's rebuff was instant.

"Why?"

Finally, magically, thankfully, Will could drag his gaze away from those bloodstained roses housed in stag skull. Magnetic. Simply magnetic. But that was the test, Will knew. This killer wanted him, or any who saw this, to be enraptured, taken in by the shiny, over exaggerated showmanship which concealed the true hints.

I dare you to look deeper.

Bending down on his haunches, by the feet of Marissa Schurr, Will dipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a bull point pent. Marissa had been pinned to the wall, antlers used as meat hooks. However, her feet did not touch the ground. No. They were a few inches off, elevated, another crack for which the War Horse to creep, a thousand other cells for it to take over. Another clue. Using the tip of his bull point pen, Will lifted Marissa's blue pinky toe. The sole of her foot was slick and black. Just as he thought. Will knew two things from this one chomp of a sugar cube.

The killer knew the body would begin to sag from the weight and the antlers in a matter of hours, and so, the clue would have been sullied if he, or those around him, had not been fast enough to catch it. The killer was testing how fast, and most importantly, how smart they were. That also meant the killer knew he, and they, would be seeing the body in a time frame acceptable to this restraint. Secondly, well...

"On her feet is motor oil. Brushed on. Slow. They took their time with this part. She's naked, all apart from her underwear and the two ankle bracelets. Silver. Thin. The kind you give at newborn christenings. Only these are bigger, made recently, just for this purpose. However… It's not her name inscribed. Jude Harlow 2016-2017. And the other, Marie Mandez, 1965-2015."

Will felt the hot breathe of the War Horse flutter across his face as it puffed. It smelled sweet, like ripe pear, and acidic bleach with a dusting of copper. Decay and fire and blood. Hannibal added his two cents to Will's burning bucket.

"You believe the killer is grieving? The loss of a child and wife is a reasonable motive for the break in psyche for this to-"

Will pulled the pen back, letting the pinky toe flop back into place as he stood once more, rolling his neck and tugging on the hem of his shirt. God. It was hot. Sweltering. Was that in his mind too? Was this how the killer felt? Cloaked in hell fire?

"No. Different people. Not related. Not at all. Don't you see?"

Will could feel Jack's dark eyes smouldering into him, or perhaps he was charring already. Still, he pushed on. Him and Jack were the same that way. Stubborn. Stepping closer to what remained of Marissa, Will turned his attention to her head balanced in her stitched, cradling hands. Once again using the bull point pen, he missed the striking viper darting out her swollen cracked lips, and pulled the flesh down. The viper was a red herring.

I tell lies, see my tongue of lies, do you lie too?

The killer thought Marissa lied, and, as with the feet and bracelets, they were begging for someone to look deeper than the show put on. Lies are like a play, glitzy, bedazzling, the truth is backstage with the lights and the costumes and the makeup. Take a look. Peep behind the curtain if you can. Leaning in until his own nose nearly touch Marissa's, Will sniffed. He was correct. He pulled back, nearly dropping his pen with his shaking hands as he yanked it free from the black mouth.

"There's alcohol. Some residue pooling in the gum of her mouth. Brown. Whiskey, I believe. Rubbed on and inserted post-mortem. The bracelets, the motor oil, the addition of alcohol..."

Hannibal Lecter finished the garbled sentence for him, compressing it in a way Will was finding difficult.

"Drunk driving and hit and run. This killer knew Marissa had, inadvertently, killed. Perhaps this killer is a relative of the deceased? Vengeance is a powerful motivator."

Too easy. To clean. That was the play. The truth was backstage. This killer worked in layers upon layers, like assemblage. Will had to peel them back, slither by stinking slither, as one had to draw a curtain back by pull and pull of rope until your palm got friction burn. In his silence, Jack, as he always did, asked the one question Will despised more than anything else.

"What do you see, Will."

Then again, it wasn't a question was it? There was no question mark in his voice. Just a demand. What do you see Will? He saw a fucking War Horse made from fire, blood and bone raging against the horizon. That is what he saw. But Jack wouldn't understand that. He would not be able to feel what Will feels, and it would be lost on him. It was lost on everyone. So very lost. Slowly, ever so slowly, Will closed his eyes. He felt a whoosh, a pendulum swinging, golden light.

"They're calm. Collected. In control. They take their time. Precise in everything they do. Every cut, every stitch, every addition is thought out, executed with calculated accuracy. Death is not a new game for them. It's familiar. Old. A friend they know well and truly that has come knocking on their door throughout their lives. They've learnt to knock back. They know how to speak through it, how to work it like clay."

Yes. This Killer was chaotic, volcano clashing with tornado, but there was also a resounding clarity to them. There was a logical reason behind their visceral madness. The synchronisation of chaos. This is what Will was seeing. What he was feeling. The phenomenon of synchronised chaos. When two, or more, dissipative chaotic systems are coupled. This person was split, so to speak. One of them was cold. Calculative. Practised. The other was raging. Impassioned. Full of energy and fire. This, Marissa Schurr… This was those two halves, those two chaotic systems operating in the same fleshy prison, merging into one terrifying being. A being who was both cold and fiery, calculated and impulsive, practised and raw. Both the best and worst of each one. Split no longer.

"They've lost and killed before, but never like this. They see themselves as a martyr. The crown of thorns forever embedded on their brow. Look at it. Marissa's head is cut off, detached, clasped in her own hands almost as if it is an offering to the gods themselves. This is what they made me. This is what they took from me. This is what they stole. They took, and took and took and took. Well, take it back. It is mine no longer."

There was no doubt in his voice. No hesitancy. Will was as sure as he was the sun would rise tomorrow. You did not do this, not this, never this, if you had not killed before. Yet, vice versa, he knew this was the first time the killer had killed in such way. If so, it was so, Will knew, how good would they get in time? They were purposefully trying to gain attention. They wanted this saw, felt, and understood. This was their proclamation.

I dare you to look deeper.

"And I killed it. That martyr. I took control back. I took my life back. I took my face back. This..."

Will's eyes opened and he was met with the rose petals of blood.

"Is me. It is what I've always been. I-… They could not see until know."

Will coughed, breaking just a little, as he ran a hand through his hair. He felt split too, jumbled, scattered. He began to pace, eyes falling away from the body as the clues, so many fucking clues, shouting at him, screaming at him, began to stitch together in his mind, in the same damned golden thread the killer had used on Marissa.

"The killer likely lost their parents young. Perhaps even before they could form memories of them. Other people, friends, relatives, gone. But it's not a loss, not to them. Not any more. It's-"

Will tugged that mental rope, he yanked and heaved for all his worth, and finally, the curtain lifted, he looked deep enough, and there was the backstage. There was the truth. He froze.

"It's all about balance. You take a life, a life is owed in place. Shit… Jack."

For once, Will found himself willingly initiating eye contact.

"This isn't just a testimony. This isn't a personal manifesto. It's not just a proclamation."

The War Horse. The War Horse. The War Horse. He had saw it all along. It had only taken him time to interpret it.

"It's a declaration of war."

Will could feel Hannibal's hand come to rest on his shoulder, but Will could not shirk it off, he could not breathe, he could not move. He saw the War Horse, on its back astride a veiled rider cloaked in black scaled cloth as slinky and shimmering as oil, cascading from head to toe until there was only a hint of a form, their own crown of fire circling their bent head. They, the War Horse and the Veiled Rider reared up, hooves to the sky, and Will could see it, a long stick, a weapon, in their hand as they pointed it right at him and-

"Declaration of war?"

Hannibal's question forced Will back into reality and even he, as experienced as he was, could not fully hide the sag of his shoulders or the notched breath. Trying to bring himself back to himself, Will jerked his glasses off his face, using the hem of his shirt to diligently scrub at the lens. As his fingers shook, as he still heard the pounding of hooves on bone, Will scrambled together what little he could and hoped they could see as he did.

"Balance. They're seeking balance. This is not the first they've killed, but it is likely the first… Produced this way. However, their motive has stayed the same. They won't attack innocent people. They find it uncouth. Don't you see? Balance must be restored. When you take a life, you owe one in return, and they, this killer, will come riding."

Jack's answering voice was edgy, like a cornered fox, undecided whether it wanted to run or fight. Will did not blame him. He felt the same. This was unique.

"What are you saying Will?"

Jack knew what he was saying. As did Hannibal. They all knew. Yet, none of them wanted to acknowledge it. It blurred the lines. Made shades of grey invade their comfortable black and white world. There was a sympathy to see and feel with this one. They had a conscience, as twisted as it was, a moral and ethical code, as deranged as it was, that was understandable.

"This killer only kills killers, Jack."

And I dare you to say that ten times fast. This murderer, this killer, a serial killer in the budding, only killed other serial killers. And if this was their first, no, not first… Second, only their second… They were good. Too good. Perhaps, Jack had finally bit off more than he could chew. Perhaps they all had.

"Maybe if Marissa had informed the police, if she had only did it once, she would have likely been looked over by this killer. But she didn't. She went back out and she repeated the same actions that caused the first crash. That shows a pattern, a pattern this killer doesn't like. In death and killing, once is an accident… Twice is a design. The more someone kills, the higher their body count, the harder this one will come for them. Marissa had only killed twice, involuntary manslaughter doesn't mean much to this killer, but even so, she was only used as a canvas to get this message across, nothing more than a scrap of paper to jot down upon. I am riding. I am coming. I see you."

Will laughed. Marissa was the merging. She was the message. She was the christening. Nevertheless, who was the message for? Who was this killers real target? This was meant for someone. Will startled as he heard a phantom shot ring in his ear. He saw Garret Jacob Hobbs fall. He saw the blood. He saw the smile. He was a killer too. Do you see?

"They won't stop, Jack. They won't."

Woefully, Will didn't know whether he was talking of this killer any longer, for he knew they would not stop, or the damned visions that haunted him, for they weren't stopping either, no matter how much he tried to distance himself. Jack ran a tired hand down his face, pulling at the stubble of his jaw. He looked old then. Old and tired and beyond his years.

"And you're sure they will strike again?"

Will nodded. This message wasn't directed at him. Not directly. Will was a conduit. This was a warning, Will was only the alarm system this killer had decided to use to blare their message to the masses. That was… Worrying. This killer knew enough to know he saw. They knew Will would understand. Again, they were betting on it. They, Will, Jack, all of them, had played out exactly as this killer wanted them too. It was an odd feeling, to realise there were strings attached to you, strings someone from a shady perch was pulling and twisting, making you dance to the song in their head.

"Yes. They've done this before. Perhaps a survivor of an attack? A living victim of a serial killer? They've gone toe to toe with a killer before, and they've won. They keep winning. They restored balance. That is what they are after. That is their motive. That is their justification. That is their design."

Will turned to look at poor Marissa once more. Her head clasped in her own hands. He had been right before. Partially. It was both a sacrifice to the gods, symbolic of the transformation this killer had undergone, shedding the faces and masks forced on them by others, but it was also symbolic of a scale, weighing Marissa's virtue. The scales, and this killer, had found her lacking and she had paid the price for that deficiency.

"They're trying to say something with this murder. It's a warning. The black spot, so to speak. They're heralding their coming like the four horsemen. On a red horse War rides. It's flamboyant in its openness. Almost arrogant. This is who I am and I am proud to be this way. Death is my game."

The War Horse. The Veiled Rider. That was who Will had been seeing all along. One of the four horsemen. War. Bloodstained. Wrathful. Measured. Controlled. Contradictions in balance. Two chaotic systems on a scale lastly levelling out. A killer who only kills killers. They had their own way of seeing too. They must have. They had saw Marissa's guilt when no one else had, not even the police. Waving a hand at the stag skull, Will pointed out the roses.

"Painting the roses red. Alice in wonderland. They're fixing your mistake. You have a price to pay, and you've been running, and they've come riding in to collect. It's a fucking warning, Jack. A declaration of war. But Garret Jacob Hobbs is dead, they wouldn't concern themselves with a debt already paid, so why now? Why here? What's drawn their attention so snarlingly?"

It came to him then. It came and it crashed and it stole his breathe away.

"The copycat..."

Jack frowned.

"What?"

Will was in movement, all of him, his hands gesturing, his chest heaving, his feet pacing. There was nothing still about Will. All his atoms, all of them, were crashing and circling and he could hear the stomping of hooves matching his heartbeat. This is what the War Horse felt like. This was what the Veiled Rider felt like. This was the Killer. A being in invariant motion, zapping from one point to another, jumping like atoms through space and time.

"The copycat has drawn they're attention. This murder, this warning is for him. I see you. I know you. I feel you there and here I come on the count of ten."

A voice spoke up by the railing of the stairs.

"Abigail Hobbs too, I suspect. She is, after all, under investigation for complicity in her father's murders. This killer is obviously good at knowing things. They knew Marissa had been involved in a car accidents with two deaths without the police knowing. This killer could believe Abigail was participating in her daddy's night time feasts. If so, and if this killer really only targets other killers, than Abigail is in the line of fire."

It was Hemlock, Will found, as his neck twisted as his gaze darted to her. He had, in all honesty, forgotten she was there, so swept up in Marissa and this War Horse. She was perched on the bannister of the stairs, easy, mellow. She had stripped herself from her jacket, rested her elbows on her bent knees which were propped up by the middle bar of the railing, chin perched on fist, with her shoe laces undone, onyx hair down and half-hazardous around her shoulders.

There was something wrong in that image. There had been something wrong with it all day, since Will had met up with her and the rest this morning to travel to the Hobbs cabin. Hemlock, since Will had known her, always wore the leather jacket two sizes too big. Her hair, in its overambitious curls, were always swept up in a tight bun. She always kept her back to a wall, Will had found, and here, now, she had it out in the open, towards the stairs, almost challengingly. And her shoes, well, they were always knotted to balls of tangled laces.

A kite with no string. That was what Hemlock reminded Will of that day. A kite with their string cut, sailing up into the sky, loose and free. Between a heartbeat, between the clatter of hooves pounding in his head, Will saw her with a crown of fire, tears of blood and smoke whisping from the corners of her mouth. He saw the War Horse rearing proudly in her emerald eyes.

Will scrubbed at his eyes harshly as he heard the thud of Hemlock jumping down from the bannister. He was tired. He was seeing things. Making dots where there were no dots. That was all. By the time his eyes were open and back on Hemlock, the crown of fire was gone, so was the smoking mouth and bloody tears and the War Horse in her eye. She was smiling softly, padding over, placing a palm on his arm gently, her thumb flicking back and forth like a pendulum. Will felt calmer. Settled. Himself once more as his foot stopped tapping on the floor. He had not realised he was doing that.

"Can you see anything personal about this killer, Will? Something that could begin a personality profile?"

Right. Yes. Hemlock couldn't work until she knew what a person was like, how they felt, their motives. That would explain why she had been silent up until this point, waiting for Will to get his shit together to give her the emotional foundation she could build behavioural patterns from, and then, hopefully, tell them what this killer was going to do next. Coughing once more to clear his throat, Will concentrated on the small hand on his biceps, hoping the delicate fingers and brushing thumb could keep him grounded. It worked.

"They have a high IQ. It helps them plan, manipulate and exploit those around them. They're good at lying. Real good, Jack. They could look you in the eye and tell you the sky was red, and you would believe them. They cheat for the thrill of it, just to see if you, or anybody, would pick it up. They'll do it right under your nose too, just to prove how stupid you are. They get a thrill out of it. Another game won. They have no regard for their own safety or those around them. They can be impulsive and reckless when bored. They need constant stimulation. They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always planning. Always. When pushed, or cornered, they'll get extremely aggressive. They have a complete disregard for right and wrong construed by others. They follow their own morales, as… Alien as we might find them. They can be cold and unfeeling in emotionally charged environments. Callous. Harsh. Critical. Yet, you'll find it endearing. You'll think it nothing but sarcasm or dry wit. They love mind games, its one of the only things that excites them beyond the boredom they so often find themselves trapped in."

Hemlock's hand was warm. He could feel it seeping in through his shirt, over his skin, right down to the bone.

"They're… They know how to wear many faces for many occasions, but that is all it is. Masks. Sometimes the masks slips and the people around them would see their true face, but, well, this killer is smart, they'd have the mask back on so fast and so tightly, those around them would begin to question their own sanity. Sometimes, I would bet, they do it on purpose just to see the people around them become unbalanced. People don't interest them. Not often. People are daisies in an open field. Pretty to look at sometimes, but just as easy to trample, and even more entertaining to rip their petals off one by one. They're charming and witty, but secretive. No one has ever really known what goes on in their head. Not really. No one has ever really seen their true face. Not fully."

And here came Will's own warning.

"Only, you would never know any of this. No one will. You would only ever know the mask they show you and, Jack, don't mistake me for this, you won't see through it. As soon as they've seen you, they've already picked you apart in seconds, stripped you right down to your atoms, created a mask just for you from the substance of your own mind, and you will buy it hook line and sinker. This killer will be the last person you expect. The last person anyone suspects."

Gradually, Will could feel Hemlock's hand fall away from his arm. For a flash, he wanted to reach out and grab it. Bring it back. Feel its warmth. But Hemlock was already turning away, back towards the stair case, the fingers of her hand flexing in pairs of three and one. She was either upset about something, hurt, or she was holding back laughter. She only ever flexed her hand in those two extremes. Never between. And Will had not noticed until that very moment how very closely he must have been watching Hemlock before to have picked that tick up. Jack whistled low and long.

"That's a lot to read."

Will pictured his dogs. Winston. George. Clarice. Scruffy. All of them. He pictured them and his bed, and his house with snow on the ground, painting the landscape white. Home. He wanted to go home. Yet, even here, trying to envisage home, his imagination was not fully under his own control. He pictured Hemlock on the porch, crochet blanket hung around her shoulders, hair down and free, dog toy in hand, playing with Winston on the steps, and there, through the window, the light slicing through the glass, he could see Hannibal in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to elbow, needing some dough of some sort that would be as fancy and intricate as the whole meal put together. Hemlock would call him a ponce for it, but she'd scoff it down all the same and even go for seconds. And Hannibal would call her impertinent for tracking mud into the house, though there would be a smile on his face as they both cleaned it up. And they would turn to him, call-

For once, Will forced himself back into the room and adamantly stayed there. Far from his imagination. Far from home. Far from this unexplainable image of Hannibal and Hemlock and all the nasty little connotations that brought with it. Focus.

"As I said, they've been very open in this… Message. They want us to know them, Jack. They're betting on it. This, well, it's another game to them. I see you, but can you see me? Peek-a-boo."

Again and again, it was Hannibal who precisely narrowed it all down, everything, to a single sentence that meant everything Will had ranted.

"A high functioning sociopath."

Hemlock kicked back against the bannister, crossing her arms over her chest, her head cocking to the side and Will realised she wasn't hiding laughter, nor anger. She was hurt.

"Like the copycat?"

She spat it out like one would a fish bone half eaten from their mariners pie. With a scratchy voice, a slight taste of betrayal and a taut sort of anger lurking underneath it all. Will was quick to answer, not quite sure why he wanted to underline the differences between the copycat and this killer as deeply as he did.

"No, the copycat is a psychopath. Psychopaths completely lack all forms of empathy. A sociopath, however, still contains some underdeveloped fraction of it. Not a lot, and it's harder to emotionally connect, but there is… Something still there. It's crooked, it's weeping, and its very small, but it's there. This killers motive, if I am correct and they do target other killers, could be some distorted moral compass, however shrivelled, still active."

But, in the end, it was Jack who burst with anger.

"We came here for Abigail Hobbs, to see if she was involved in her fathers murder, and instead of an answer, I'm left with the conclusion that I have both a psychopath and a sociopath playing battlefield in my jurisdiction? Am I to be expecting more bodies while these two duke it out?"

Will laughed. He really couldn't help it. All the while, the stomping of hooves came crashing back into him. Circle. Around. Around. Around.

"Only one if this killer gets to the copycat first. If not… Yes. Many. Neither one will give in, Jack. It's not in them."

Hannibal stepped forward, away from Marissa and closer to Jack.

"Abigail Hobbs is not a killer. But she could be the target of one, as Hemlock rightly pointed out."

Jack considered this for a while, before he reigned his own anger and frustration in, tugged on the lapel of his coat and nodded to the doctor.

"I think it's time Abigail Hobbs left home permanently. Doctor, would you be good enough to collect Abigail and all her belongings and escort her out of Minnesota please? Hemlock? If you could accompany the doctor, and please, keep and eye on Abigail, perhaps looks for signs for her involvement in her fathers crimes, or clues to see if this… New killer will, in fact, target her too. I would appreciate it."

Hannibal was the first to nod as he headed towards the stairs. Hemlock lingered in the shadows, watching, before her green eyes drifted to Will's own blue. They stayed there, pinned, watching, searching. For what? Will did not know, but as a small smile broke across her face, as the hurt and anger bled out of her skin, he thought she might of found what she wanted there, in the dip of his dilated pupil. Inclining her head just a fraction in his direction, an odd sign of respect from Hemlock, she too was slinking to Hannibal's side before the two began to head down. Will went to follow, but Jack reached out, grasping at his shoulder.

"Not you Will. I need you here."

Reluctantly, he nodded. There would be no dogs today. No home. Once again, that damned image of Hannibal and Hemlock gleamed across his mind like a sunbeam breaking through shut curtains. This was a curtain Will didn't want to open, a rope he refused to pull right now, and so, instead, he let the little sunbeam warm him as much as its frail golden light could as he turned to face Marissa again.

2 hours ago…

Hannibal's P.O.V

The Hobbs residence was swarming with police, paparazzi, disturbed neighbours and livid locals. It was a curious circus of discord, Hannibal would admit. Withal, even more intriguing, to Hannibal at least, was the three individuals with him as they pulled the car through the crowd and rolled up onto the driveway. Doctor Alana Bloom was in full professional armour, voice fleecy and mild as she twittered maternally to Abigail Hobbs in the back seat of his car. Abigail herself was wonder struck by the crowd around them, screaming, yelling, demanding statements or justice, as she fiddled with the scarf draped around her neck, her face flaring sickeningly from blue to red from the flashing sirens of the line of police cars blockading the house. And Hemlock, well.

Hemlock was beside him, in the passenger seat, one dainty leg crossed over the other, hands laxly interlocked in her lap, completely still. If not for the eyes and face, one could comfortably say it was a completely other person sitting in this very car. She had changed back in the motel, when he and she rode back to pick up Abigail and Alana to bring to the Hobbs residency, and the shift had almost been too much, for even Alana had picked up on the drop with an almost shocked, don't you look smart, Harry? Of course, Hemlock had quickly repulsed any shock with a weary rub of the back of her neck as she stuttered through not wanting to embarrass anyone, especially Abigail, by running around in torn jeans and timberlands when there would be so many people watching.

Yes, gone was the leather jacket, holey jeans and scuffed boots, and with it, that sort of haggard child-like innocence she had carried. In their absence stood a thin high neck top, sleeves cropped to the elbow, a green so dark it was almost as black as the rest of her outfit. High waisted slacks made her legs seem longer than her short height really allowed them to be, and the pressed crease running down the front gave her an air of steady expertise. The blazer was nothing special, but the silk lining matched her top, as did the sleeves, the lapels thin and sweeping, with a little broach on the left pinned over of a snake wrought in coiling silver and emerald eye, wrapping around a lion hewn from gold. On her feet dangled a pair of shiny black brock shoes, neatly bowed and laced, and her cigarette slacks left a tiny slither of pale ankle on show, not quite meeting shoe. Her hair was down too, just grazing the slope of her shoulder, brushed to obedience and glimmering in the flashing lights, half pinned behind her small ear.

She had seemingly aged ten years in a matter of hours, no longer a scraggly teen who wished to blend and hide in corners and crooks. There was a keenness to her features, marble cut, as the shadows that had, only yesterday, haunted the dip of her sockets was bleached away by a good nights sleep. The first in a long time, Hannibal would say. There was colour returning to her face too, to the swell of her lips and the arch of her cheeks, a blush of an apple. This was Hemlock.

Not that ragged, twitchy teen, but this person besides him. This was who she had always been, having shredded her baby skin by Marissa Schurr's teeth. Composed. Piercing. Growing into her own body in a way not many would understand. But he did. To people like them, their bodies were a weapon, a tool. Hemlock had grown tired of playing the beaten down teen, she had outgrown that skin long before they had met, he was sure, and now, having finally accepted who and what she was, she was beginning to sharpen it into something to intimidate, to instil a sense of ownership. Nothing said listen to me, I know what I am talking about, you can trust me, I can lead, like a suit could, and Hannibal should know that, as it was his own personal indulgence too.

Hannibal had been impressed, near inspired by Hemlock's handling of Marissa Schurr. She had… Surprised him. That alone not many could boast. Will Graham had furthered this by his unwavering delve into her mind through Marissa's body, another engrossing thing to bare witness to. A killer who killed killers. How very fascinating. There was so much possibility there. So much. More than he had originally gave Hemlock, and, rarely, Hannibal was actually glad to be surprised. You see, the truth laid in the prey, and to really see Hemlock, he needed to see what her choice of prey was. You could tell a lot about a killer, no, a person, by what they chose to consume or eat. Killers were no different. People who ate piglets and veal, often had inferiority complexes, the need to dominate those weaker around them to feel empowered. Garret Jacob Hobbs had an inferiority complex. Those that inflicted extra pain on the animal before slaughter were lashing out, trying to expunge their own feelings of pain.

Hemlock had chosen something to symbolize herself. In a way, she was a cannibal too, spitting and slitting her own kind. It wasn't in self loathing. It was in a sense of the hunt. That was what Hemlock enjoyed. The chase, and what better chase was there to have but with people who thought, fought and talked like you? None. And here she was, sitting beside him, beginning another hunt with him that she did not know, not yet, was with him at all. What would Will's prey be? A question for a later date, Hannibal thought. One by one, they exited the car.

Strolling towards the house, Hannibal made sure to keep tight to Hemlock's side as Alana fussed over Abigail. Nearing the door, a woman's shout rang out, as a shadow lurched away from the crowd at the gate to the house, running towards them. A cop gave chase, but the distraught woman was faster.

"You killed my daughter!"

The mother from yesterday. Hannibal cut a glance down to Hemlock, only to see her watching the woman, eyeing the streaming tears and snot collecting in the cupids bow of her thin lips. There wasn't even a wince. Hannibal would have to teach her to hide those little sociopathic tendencies better. As Alana went to intercept Abigail, who was tottering over to the woman, stuttering through this or that regret, Hannibal slid in towards the woman, hiding Hemlock from view. Looking back over, he was met with a smile. Small. Barely there. Just a hint. Yet, Hemlock was smiling. At him. She wasn't watching the woman at all. Hannibal smiled back.

Another surprise. Hemlock had done that on purpose. She wanted to know what he would do. Did she already have suspicions that it was he, Hannibal, that was the copycat? Unlikely. What was it Will had said? They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always planning. Always. She was planning something. She wanted to know whether he would cover for her, how far that oath of 'confidentiality' extended, and whether he was going to become a difficulty. By the grin, she liked the answer. She possibly didn't suspect he knew it was her who was the one who had… Worked on Marissa, but she was testing his boundaries in a way he, nor anyone, could openly question without giving too much away. Therefore, something was going to happen tonight. While he was present.

"Why did you come back here? Why did you come back here!"

Eventually, a cop in full uniform came jogging over, clacking something into the walkie-talkie latched to his puffed jacket, as he began to escort the distraught women back to the street. By the time they reached the porch of the house, they were stalled once more as someone stepped out of the umbrageous corner of the house, hair gleaming carmine in the orange light of the decking. Miss Freddie Lounds.

"Abigail!"

Hannibal addressed her.

"Miss Lounds, you're on the wrong side of the police line."

The reporter jostled passed a cop, towards them, as, yet again, another came darting over from the line surrounding the house, holding the rabid masses at bay.

"I've been covering the Minnesota Shrike long before you got involved."

How very rude. The police officer made it to them, snatching up Freddie's arm as he began to drag her away, but the persistent reporter was not finished without getting to say the final words, as she heaved in Abigail's direction.

"I want to help you tell your story. You need me now more than ever!"

Alana was already trying to herd Abigail into the house, away from the circus outside, but the teen was beginning to put up a weak fight.

"I want to talk to her."

Alana shook her head.

"No. No you don't."

Alana shouldered the front door open as Abigail gave up the fight, following compliantly with bent head. Hannibal went to follow, but he could hear a scuff of a shoe, the dull pad of steps walking away. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Hemlock walking towards Freddie, steps slinky and hands shoved into the pocket of her slacks. With a nod to Alana, to show they would catch up, Hannibal followed after Hemlock.

"I'm not the only one lurking around, peeping inside the windows. You need to monitor those police lines more carefully."

Hannibal did not interfere this time. This time he watched. Stopping the police officer, Hemlock turned her attention to Miss Lounds.

"Have you seen a young man, mid twenties, ginger hair? Unwashed?"

Well. Hemlock was intransigent about establishing Nicholas Boyle as a threat, wasn't she? Was she hoping he would come tonight? Hannibal thought so. She wouldn't be looking for him, trying to spot hints of his presence, if she did not want him here. For what, exactly, was beyond what Hannibal was willing to say or guess. Hemlock had surprised him twice this day, a third time and that was establishing a pattern he would rather not have entrenched. No. Hannibal Lecter was all too happy to sit back and simply watch the show Hemlock was quite obviously fixing for.

"I'll tell you if I saw him, if you tell me why it's important?"

Miss Lounds haggled with a grin just shy of being too toothy. Hemlock returned the gesture, but there was no question, hers was all tooth.

"Can I have your number?"

Miss Lounds scrabbled into her coat pocket, but Hannibal turned his eye to the police officer. His face was blank, ruddy, eyes glazed as he stared over their heads at nothing at all. Hannibal frowned. There was obviously a security leak happening right under his nose and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, happening behind his eyes, as if someone had reached in and flipped the switch off.

"Of course, here! If you want to speak about anything, anything at all, I can keep it strictly confidential."

Miss Lounds handed over a tatty business card, her own number scratched out and re-written in by blue biro. Hemlock took it without ever meeting Lounds's skin with her own, shoving it down into her breast pocket.

"Oh, I'm sure it will stay just between us. If I were you though, I'd leave, but stay close. I'll give you a ring later."

Hemlock lifted a hand and clicked, merely clicked, and the police officer came back to himself, thawed, as he began to drag Freddie back towards the line.

"Hemlock?"

"Tonight is going to be a strange night, Hannibal. You're going to see strange things. Hear strange things. Perhaps even do strange things. However, as my therapist, and more importantly, my friend, I'm hoping you can deal with strange. Will's in danger. We both know that. Will is my friend too, and I'm doing what I can to protect him. The same I would do for you. Now, is this going to be a problem? Can you handle strange doctor Lecter?"

There was a honk of a car off in the distance.

"I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed."

Hemlock began to amble back to the house, but Hannibal could see her smile flicker in the pulsing lights of red and blue.

"Easy. The Scarecrow from The Land of OZ. All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art. Roman Payne, in Rooftop Soliloquy. Do you think I create good art, Hannibal?"

She knew. At least, she knew he knew that Marissa was hers. Hemlock had not underestimated him. She saw him, his intelligence, and she knew he would make the link as soon as Will started speaking. Had that been what she wanted? Hannibal didn't think she thought he was the copycat, but she was beginning to realize he was not as he seemed, him not pointing her out when it was obviously her being described by Will, even after their therapy sessions, had emphasized that. In all likelihood, she had probably tracked Garret Jacob Hobbs back to him and believed he was his therapist who, as Hannibal had done for her, not alerted the authorities when the warnings were ringing clearly. If so, she might see him as an open ear, explaining why she had suddenly shifted to contrite openness. They're always in movement, Jack. Always thinking. Always working. Always.

Or, perhaps, this was another game to play, another chessboard being set up, something to pass the time before the 'copycat' replied. Hemlock was so fond of them, games, and Hannibal thought she might be quick enough to play more than one at a time. His girl was a smart girl indeed. Hand on the front door knob, Hannibal looked down at her.

"If you remember correctly, it was I who endorsed your efforts into art. Assemblage, in point of fact. However..."

The clank of the front door handle turning overrode Hannibal's hushed voice as he leant down, towards her ear.

"The antlers and skull were lopsided."

Hemlock's lustrous laughter followed them both through the mouth of the house.

NEXT CHAPTER: We finally loop back around as everything comes to a head in the Hobbs house.

Some Notes on this chapter:

1. I liked the imagery of linking Hemlock to one of the four horsemen. However, it would have been pretty cliché, at least in my view, of connecting her to death. That's a trope, a well deserved one at that, that many have already used. I wanted a fresh take on it. And, with Hemlock, how I have her, I think she fits the concept of War a lot better than death. Harry, even in canon, has throughout his life been in constant conflict (War). Conflict with Vernon and Petunia and Dudley, conflict with Snape, Albus and Draco, even his/her best friends have underlying moments of conflict. And most importantly, he/she's been in war with themselves. War seemed to be a good fit for Hemlock. Plus, in this fic at least, she seemingly carries conflict around with her, spreading it, like Will said, like a virus that creeps in through the littlest cracks. Additionally, this imagery of the four horsemen becomes a pretty constant thread in this fic. Conquest, Famine and Death (The original four horsemen) all come into play. Don't worry, Abigail isn't one of these, but the roles do get fit with some of our favourite characters (Can you guess who?), and you obviously know Will and Hannibal will be two of the three (but which ones? ;)).

2. I just want to emphasize not to take anything at face value with this fic. Everybody, and I pretty much mean everybody, is using everybody else around them. Its a complete tangled bed of weeds my friends. Apart from Will. Will just wants to go home, lmao. However, especially when we're outside Hemlock's own P.O.V, don't take what she says/does as it is. As Will said, she's a person of many faces, she mimics what the other person reflects on her. I wanted that to come through in my writing.

3. I am not intentionally dumbing Will Graham down, and I fear that may be how it is coming across. Honestly, that is not my intention. However, the way I view Will is, for those close to him, such as Abigail, Hannibal, and in this fic, Hemlock, Will has great big blinders on. In the show, it takes Will a very long time to clock onto what Hannibal is, and even then, there's a reluctance there, or that is what I read into it. I think he knew for a long time, he just didn't want to see it. He also stoutly refuses to see Abigail as what she is even when all the clues are pointing to it. That's what I'm trying to bring into this fic. Will has an almost blind loyalty and optimism for those he connects with. He sees the best in them, but, unfortunately for him, he can't really recognize the not so good parts lol. That's why, in this chapter, I really wanted a scene where Will looks at Hemlock, sees that fire crown, sees what's really lurking underneath, obviously knows what that is hinting at, but still, denies it because, no, Hemlock is his 'friend' and she wouldn't because she's a good person. It's not that he's being stupid, he spots the hints alright, he just hopes there's more, and that's what I adore about Will. He sees the small slither of good in people and he holds on tight to it (In the earlier seasons XD) and he doesn't give up hope. I also think that's what attracts people like Hannibal and Hemlock to Will. No one wants to be seen as a monster, hated for what they are, Will offers something not many would. Hope.

4. Is Harry going to find out about Hannibal before Will? Short answer? No. That remains for Will. I don't want to give too much away, but Hemlock suffers from big blinders like Will. In part due to her arrogance, and partly because Hannibal's already wormed his way in a little and Hemlock, if she has only one good virtue left any more, she's loyal. Which, is obviously going to cause huge fucking tension and conflict when Hemlock does find out about Hannibal. Oh, she knows there's more to him, but she's not linking him to the copycat killer or anything else for a while. And while she's not connecting the dots, as she should, Hannibal, as Hannibal does, is digging deeper and deeper. As I said, dear reader, this is a tangled bed of weeds indeed!

THANK YOU ALL for the lovely follows, favourites and reviews, they all made me smile and keep me coming back to this fic. If you have a moment, please drop a review and hopefully, the next chapter will be out soon!