The audacity of Freddie Lounds made Hannibal's teeth ache to set themselves in her flesh. Will Graham was his plaything, not her tabloid fodder. And the sharp anger at having someone else try to play with his new toy was nearly enough for him to kill the journalist right there. But, no. Lounds would prove useful in the long run, and someone was bound to know she had come to his house, which made killing her outright shine a suspicious light on him. That would not do. Hannibal let the pale redhead go, but sternly.

Will Graham was slowly starting to open up to him, cresting the earth like a spear of asparagus pointing its dark, scaled crown towards the sun. Unfamiliarity between them was a small barrier to Hannibal, and in due time, even that would fall. Patiently, he would pluck the scales off the spearhead, so subtly as to be unnoticed until it was too late.

He agreed with Will on feeling responsible for Abigail Hobbs, but certainly not for the same reasons. Hannibal's care was simply an outer interpretation of the insatiable curiosity he held for the little blood-drenched fledgling. The most basic psychology question played out twofold in Miss Hobbs: nature, or nurture? Was she by the nature of her father a killer? Or was she, by presumed nurture, shielded from any homicidal tendencies? These questions and more begged answer. The cannibal wished she would wake up, so that he could tighten his bird snare around her foot.

The mushroom killer made Hannibal think of his own garden, teeming with - bacteria, was it? - in his front yard. He could appreciate the idea of using people as living fertilizer, if not the entirety of the concept. His was the realm of music, manipulation, and murder. If Miss Shule were a killer like him, she might grasp the art and complex beauty that was just beyond his capacity for interest.

He wondered... was is possible for him to twist her into a killer? The thought held merit, but he filed it away for revisit. Hannibal was having too much fun gobbling up whatever she lay before him, ravenously devouring her personality and relishing that she demanded nothing back.

Oh, how he loved to take in personalities. The more complex, the better, and the longer they took to unravel. When he was done slurping them up like a long strand of spaghetti...

he would wipe his mouth...

and kill them.

In a way, it might even be a form of bulimia. Having eaten his fill, he would terminate the digestion, killing his meal after having metaphorically, nonphysically swallowed it down. As though by eating their personalities, he was nourishing himself, and by killing/'vomiting' them up, he was rejecting their shallowness and hideous humanity. They fed him twice; his darkness and then his body. It was fitting for such useless souls to serve a double purpose, in some way.

But the finite selves of his quicker kills were not at nourishing, to either aspect of himself that needed feeding. In a way, coaxing his longer-term kills into the shape he desired was much like Miss Shule's gardening: he was growing his own food exactly the way he wanted.

But he would never kill where there was mystery, or before his meal was finished. It showed in his number of victims how many simple people masqueraded as worthy of the world, who pretended to be the finest vintage when they were simply water. And in his taking of their lives, he turned them from water to wine.

If it was boiled down, his kills were the perfect celestial alignment of disgustingly finite personalities (that held as much culinary interest as a saltine cracker), a motive (usually to fill his freezer), and an opportunity (but he would pierce the very fabric of fate with his own knife to arrange the time and place, so really, opportunity was a moot point).

Back to Miss Shule - she seemed merry to give him much of herself, without requesting more than his occasional attention. Her strand of spaghetti, unless incredibly misleading, would take him a while to eat.

No, he was having far too much fun with Miss Shule to form her with his shadowy fingertips.

But then, circumstances changed like seasons. There was always a chance she'd pose him some question that desired answer for, and he'd plunge his marionette strings into her (born on the needles of his sharp brain) just like anyone else.

Dear Dr. Lector,

It is my belief that a client should know what their soil is like, and count it as pride. I understand if you care more about results than the dirt itself, but hey, until something goes in the ground, you're paying me to manage dirt. This, I am compelled to give you updates on your dirt. (Emoticons are unprofessional, so just imagine a smiley face here, please).

I am thoroughly pleased with the quality of the soil I turned for you yesterday, and I believe it will make for a fantastically abundant garden. Your soil is, within a ten-percent margin:

30% clay (great for chemical conductivity!)

40% silt (a little high, and could make the soil too tight, but the amending will fix that)

20% sand

10% organic matter.

I have used my soil analysis kit to get accurate readouts on the nutrient levels, and the annotated results are as follows:

Nitrogen: adequate due to the grass thatch, but more will be necessary as the season progresses

Phosphorus: lacking

Potassium: lacking

Micronutrients: lacking.

Please don't be offput by the 'lacking' elements. It is part of our contract for me to amend the soil to the levels of fertility it needs. This analysis is typical of Virginian soil.

Soil chemistry is a fickle thing. Once the soil is turned, the biological and microbial life blooms afresh at the ingestion of oxygen. This takes a few days to hit peak, and that is when I will see you next, with amendments in tow.

Until next time,

Maryann Shule

Bee All Gardening

Hannibal smiled inwardly, enjoying her turn of phrase and syntax like a fine wine. His previous thought of twisting Miss Shule resurfaced, but found nothing to gain foothold on. She'd been nothing but an open book thus far, save for...

Ah! That instance with which she had politely yet so vehemently declined his invitation into his house was nagging, and it filled Hannibal up as only a psychological puzzle could. If pressed, would she yield her secret? If imposed upon, would she insist on refusing shelter? He would investigate soon, when the opportunity presented itself.

To tie himself over, Hannibal nibbled at the neuroticism that Will crumbled onto his plate. "Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time. And are we not created in his image?"

The ever-so-slight flutter of the rustic man's face muscles was delectably well seasoned.

Dear Miss Shule,

Thank you for your diligence and devotion to our project. I appreciate any and every act of the sort, even, as you put it, 'managing the dirt'.

I find the chemistry aspect of soil to be something of a mystery, but am heartened by your keen understanding. Am I to assume that it is your education serving you well in this?

Even this supposedly boring stage of the undertaking is delightful to me. I find the smell of soil to be soothing and - pardon the pun - grounding. Please excuse, then, my seeking of clarification: what sort of soil bacteria were you referring to? What comes to my mind are the beneficial strains living in the intestines, and the malevolent types that cause wounds to infect.

I look forward to our next meeting.

Sincerely,

Dr. Hannibal Lector, Psy. D.

Hannibal sent the email and booted down his computer. Shrugging into a jacket and stepping into shoes, he walked onto his graceful front porch, bathed in the halfmoon's wane light. The air was cool, almost cold, and his breath was given ghostly form for a few inches before his face.

He crossed the grassy lawn leisurely, enjoying the night. The whisper of grass under his feet, the lethargic trill of hidden crickets, the faint sigh of a distant breeze, and the inky darkness was peaceful to him. He felt like he belonged in the night's embrace.

Coming to the edge of the disked plot, he bent down and grabbed a handful of soft earth, letting it crumble to a comfortable amount in his fingers. As he had done before, he took a pinch from the pile, dropped the rest, and lay the teaspoonful across his palm.

One billion bacteria. He could almost feel them stirring sleepily in the creases of his hand.