Maryann knew now why cats paced in front of windows.
She refused to wander outside to check the grounds again, for fear of getting dirt under her painstakingly cleaned nails. She also refused to dally any more in front of the mirror, because a business meeting did not need so much makeup, or care.
That was what it was: a business meeting. Maryann had no illusions. But what was to stop her from inciting more interest? It could do nothing but pay off. She wasn't sure what was brewing between herself and the accented doctor, but she was curious all the same.
She sensed that this feeling - whatever it was, cartwheeling like an amoeba within her - was not something to be ignored. A piece of paper and an attitude of business would not stand in her way. But she did not view it as a concession to basic human tendency. No, in her mind, it was a bravery.
So she stood in the sunny window, watching the driveway like a hawk, and gathered some courage.
The doctor was exactly four minutes late. She chalked it up to the difference in clocks, and blamed the prime meridian for staying constant.
A brush of a fluffy tail across the scar that crept up her ankle kept her from reaching for the knob. Let him come to you, Juju's knowing green eyes said, looking up at her.
Cats always did know how to work the opposite sex. Maryann swallowed and stayed her hand.
Hannibal closed the door to his modest-looking but expensive car with the softness foreign-made machines elicited. Taking in the scene with his typical sharp perception was enlightening. The familiar pickup truck sat in the drive, with an array of tools in the bed. The smell of new wood mulch in the beds, the gardenia near the door, and the nearly overwhelming cleanliness of nature's purity claimed him in all five senses. The cannibal considered himself an elevated being, on a mental level. But to be brought to a base level by creation, and not be bothered by it, was a true grace.
He ambled slowly up the flagstone path nibbled on by huge bushes, marveling that there were in fact three colors of blooms in the Lavendula family: white, purple, and pink. And how they assaulted his nose and brain with their tender, sappy scent! If he were given to animal tendencies other than his darkest ones, he might have permitted himself to roll in the bushes.
He sufficed to rub the slightly sticky, dusty-green leaves between both palms, and was pleased to carry the smell along. Antiseptic, and masculine but not assertive, more pervasive. Much like him.
The house itself was modest, gracefully aged, and well-kept. It suited what he knew of the woman who dwelled in it: functional, but elaborate where capable, and eloquent everywhere else. The rain chain hanging from the eaves was clearly hand-fashioned from tiny aluminum tart pans. The ferns hanging on the small porch were not matched, between or within their pots. A white wisteria, heavy with blooms, burdened the arbor snug against the threshold.
In fact, that seemed to be the recurring theme of the front beds: white flowers or silvery leaves. A favorite of Maryann's? He would have to remember.
Her abode's old-wood door was clearly original to the house, complete with antique width and undersized knob. The doorbell was wrought iron shaped like a triskelion around the button. He wondered why up until the door opened.
A vision in dove grey beamed up at him. "Doctor Lector! I'm glad you're here!"
Even her blatant regression in regards to his name did not faze him, though it did inspire him to reply where he might not have. "Maryann, I am quite glad to be." He mustered a smile to back it up. This gardener, who ran around in worn sneakers and a baseball cap, did not don a dress lightly. She was definitely on the same page as he, though she was reluctant to voice as much. No matter: he had eyes.
"Would you like to come in for some tea?" she asked, opening the door wider.
Hannibal could smell her perfume, real roses and jasmine, as he brushed past her indoors. The house was windowed freely with minimal curtains to interrupt the sun, which danced across the wooden floors and tasteful rug with joy. The furniture was not new, but clearly comfortable, and the low table between two chairs was set with a teapot, cups, and accoutrements.
"I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the place," she remarked, closing the door behind him.
"No," he replied to her back. The dress was knee-height in the front, and the rounded quasi-train brushed her shapely calves. Feminine soft grey, with thin black trim, in a fabric that would surely soothe the skin it rode on or tantalize the hand it was touched by. "The GPS brought me right to it."
"Good. Please, sit," Maryann indicated, a gracious host. She was surprising herself with the steadiness of her nerves, though they fluttered mercilessly in her stomach. He seemed so much taller indoors than she. And his casual shirt still had a collar, though no suit jacket or tie. She'd expected no less.
They retreated to the chairs and idle chatter about the route he'd taken on the drive. With all the care of a geisha, she poured his cup first. The steaming bronze-red tea was lifted, without sugar, to his nose.
A flicker of curiosity crossed his features. "What is this witch's brew?" he asked, accent teasing.
She grinned at him, hefting her own cup delicately. "Taste it first, then I'll tell you."
Maroon eyes accepted her challenge and he sipped. Sweet, almost tobacco-like complexity, with genuine spices both common and not-so. "Some kind of chai," he surmised. "But the base component is unfamiliar."
"Rooibos," she asserted. "African herb. Called 'red tea' on store shelves."
"Marvelous," he agreed. But not so sweet, spiced, and warm as the woman sitting across from him.
On the wall next to the fireplace, there was an artistic rendition of a biological diagram, named 'The Sprouting Seed'. It showed the stages of growth of a plant, and the second illustration drew his attention. Out of the simple seed poked a single, ambitious root. A line drawn to it labeled it the radicle. He wondered what it felt like for the seed to sprout its first root: a little pain, compelling hope, a dream of the future?
Her smell wafted over him again, and he felt a radicle prick out of his own heart.
It amused Maryann that her house suited him. But was that true? His scintillating personality hinted at great depths, the likes of which she was only beginning to scratch the surface of. All the same, the distinct air of a quandary tainted her idea of him: he a warm-blooded reptile in a suit, an oxymoron of demeanor. His house was cave-like and modern. Hers was homey and sunny. A reptile needs both retreat and exposure to live, to moderate their temperatures, mused Maryann internally.
Yet, the longer she spent around him, she got the serious impression the doctor didn't really need anything. He chose to have certain things, but he didn't need them. She wondered faintly if she would be one of those things, given the privilege of being in his orbit without the ultimate ascension of being necessary for his existence.
But Maryann's thoughts were too deep and dark for the moment. She pushed them aside, continuing to talk lightly with him while they partook in refreshment.
The cats made an appearance from their columnar caves, sauntering closer in query of the lanky stranger. "Doctor Lector, meet Jinx and Juju," said Maryann. "Don't you two go getting cat hair on him, now. Be careful, they're not overtly friendly."
Hannibal uncrossed his legs, replacing his teacup on the saucer. Slowly, he leaned over his knees and extended a single finger towards the white cat's nose. "Juju, is it?" he asked softly as the cool nose touched his fingertip. "A pleasure."
The cat pressed her body against his palm, arching sensuously, and when he withdrew, staggered closer. With a warning bunch of her haunches, she leapt onto the arm of his chair daintily, and settled into the valley between his hip and the chair.
Maryann's mouth was agape when Hannibal looked over. "That cat barely tolerates me, and I feed her!" she said, shaking her head incredulously.
"Cats have always liked me," Hannibal explained with a shrug. Cats were killers like him, after all. Killers without hunger as a motivation. This one seemed to find comfort in a kindred spirit. They were lax until they weren't. They were acquiescent until there weren't. They were friendly until they weren't. She purred at his light touch, and the doctor smiled. "We kept several mousers when I was a boy. They would leave their kills outside my bedroom door at night."
"These felines tend to leave more unspeakable gifts outside of my door," muttered Maryann into her teacup.
Hannibal chuckled, and could tell she was impressed.
But the cannibal could not fool the black one. The other cat - Jinx - kept his distance, coldly eying the group from atop his carpet cave. His golden eyes seemed to judge Hannibal's soul, and find it sorely lacking. As his companion found comfort in Hannibal's like-nature, Jinx seemed threatened by it.
Perhaps he sensed what Hannibal's intentions towards his mistress were. The doctor licked his lips.
"Black cats are bad luck in this hemisphere, but white cats are bad luck in the East. The way I figure it," drawled Maryann. "If I keep one of each, they ought to cancel each other out."
"Interesting theory. How is that working?"
The gardener nodded in stoic Jinx's direction. "Slow." She set down her own empty teacup. "Would you like to see your plants?"
"Yes, let's."
After carefully extricating himself from the white cat, Hannibal followed Maryann through the gleaming, well-used kitchen and out the back door. "Don't trip," warned Maryann, indicating the pile of boots on the sheltered stoop. Hannibal spied ankle, rain, calf, and below-ankle boots in a tumble, all coated with dirt. When he lifted his eyes from the pile, though, he was momentarily stunned at his vision.
From the central flagstone pad on which they stood, gardens sprawled forth in glorious, vibrant splendor. Trees in various textures studded the grounds artfully, and the paths were both swallowed and remitted in balance by the exuberant plants. Distantly, a fountain gurgled, and birds sang, and the wind whispered, and a chime called like a meditation bell.
The stammer of scents was wonderfully overwhelming.
"I can see I made the correct choice," Hannibal murmured. "By hiring you, I mean."
"Doubly noted, Doctor," she replied. "I rarely find such willing blank slates." She gestured to the right path with a smile. "I'll give you the tour later. The greenhouse is this way."
Hannibal trailed behind her a few paces, dividing his attention between the demure triangle of bare back showed by her dress, the alluring flutter of the quasi-train, and the next fascinating thing to catch his eye.
So far, she'd been setting the tone for their meeting, and seemed comfortable in the role. When she had tipped her head to set down her teacup, though, he had glimpsed the throb of her slightly elevated pulse. She was just as aware of him as he was of her. Greedily taking in the saucer-sized dahlias in a tumble of colors, he resigned himself to patience, but vowed to push opportunities to get under her skin. The sun that beamed down could not dissuade his darkness.
The greenhouse was not glass, as he'd imagined. Nor was it small and quaint. In fact, it seemed about a third the size of her actual abode. They approached the plastic-on-metal-pipe structure, the translucent walls hiding amorphous masses of green within.
"Welcome to my playground," Maryann chuckled, holding open the plastic door for him.
Hannibal had to duck his tall frame under the door and simultaneously step over the six inch threshold. A long aisle flanked by two benches filled with trays of plants large and small greeted him. Entering the warm, humid world was engrossing to his intelligent mind. In interest, he bent close to what at first glance seemed to be an empty tray of dirt. Upon the change of his viewpoint, he could make out infinitesimally small dots of pale green peeking from under the peat, like men from under manhole covers.
"Those are for my own personal use," explained Maryann, bending to match him. "Salad leaf basil. I have a bit of a pesto fetish."
Hannibal chuckled and looked sideways at her. Their eyes met for a split second and held for two more, before she skittered her gaze away with a faint blush. "Your plants are over here."
Hannibal turned to take in the fairly staggering amount of trays. "It seems like an excess," he commented.
"It always looks like more when it's in here," Maryann clarified, gesturing at the plastic walls. "This is only the spring section, part of the summer section, and a few of the perennials besides. See here, meet your rosemary plant!" She tugged a gallon-sized tub out of the lineup and presented it to him. The piney, Mediterranean scent permeated the air.
"Here are your tomatoes, eggplants, and other summer stuff. The herbs are over here, I'll put them in with some protection to speed them along. The broccoli raab is over here, wait until you try that, even the flowers are edible! A crapton of lettuce, ten different varieties. And don't forget, I've already direct-seeded lots."
"All of that is growing, by the way," Hannibal mentioned, smiling at her exuberance. He found he was prone to that reaction. "Upon showing off my new garden, I was given the opportunity to send another potential client your way. Jack Crawford."
Maryann squinted at a tag in a tray of exposed bulbs in consideration. "He hasn't contacted me yet. How do you know him?"
"I am a consultant for his division in the FBI. He is my supervisor."
The gardener turned wide eyes to him. "Whoa! I knew you had your personal practice, but I didn't know you helped the FBI. What does that entail?"
Hannibal hesitated, as he might have done if he were normal. "We hunt monsters. Serial killers, mostly: the deviant minds that pose a conundrum to the usual FBI analyzers. Myself and a few colleagues get into killers' brains, and Jack and his are the legs and guns."
Maryann tested a nail sticking out of the bench with an errant fingertip, frowning as she rested the other hand on her hip. "That sounds... dangerous. Mentally so, anyway." She visibly swallowed her obvious worry, cocking her head up at him. "But, I suppose the best person for the job would be someone who deals with mental for a living. Aren't you afraid of all that... darkness rubbing off on you?"
The doctor looked up at the purlin running along the spine of the structure, noting the insects hopelessly trapped in its terminus. A few nondescript butterflies, a couple of bees, and a multitude of flies tapped stupidly against the plastic. "The only difference between a psychiatrist and a serial killer is the intent. Both groups know morality, but one choses to obey it and help others while the second disregards it."
"So you think humans have the capacity for both?" She asked. "Not born one way, or another?"
His eyes met hers again. "Yes. And what a thin, permeable line a simple choice is in implementation."
Maryann held his gaze, and he could see the turnings of her mind. She was seeking that line within herself, feeling around for it in the dark. The gardener shivered in the warm greenhouse and broke his stare. "Brr, Doctor, you're giving me chills!"
The cannibal smiled a predator's smile unseen by her, and replied, "My apologies, Maryann." As he turned to follow her out of the greenhouse, he noticed a few trays of plants in the corner of the structure, off the bench. They were mottled brown and green, streaked with purple, specked with sickly white. They were so unlike the rest of the healthy inhabitants that Hannibal asked, "What are those plants for?"
Maryann's back stiffened slightly and she hesitated before answering. "A client backed out of a contract. I had no use for his plants, so I'm disposing of them."
Hannibal noticed the spray bottle hanging nearby, which had clearly announced itself as RoundUp. "With poison?" He could sense something in her posture, in her voice, that brought his inner manipulator into play. "Why?"
Another laden pause. "I want to see them die slowly," she said, the sensitive truth making her tone bite like diamond blades.
The cannibal took another step closer to her ramrod spine. "Why?"
She shivered again, this time, at the heat of his body close to hers. "Because... he hurt me." Baa, baa black sheep echoed through her psyche, the man of her nightmare warring for attention with Hannibal as he had in her dream. Hannibal was standing exactly how he had in her dream the previous night, and it was making her faculties fuzz into discord. It was an uncanny resemblance: the control housing the passion; the elegance hiding the chaos; the primitive threat posed by proximity masked by her perception of his intent. Though the rest of the world was momentarily unclear, she could sense him with stunning clarity.
Hannibal considered the nape of her neck, the jutting seventh cervical vertebrae. When he spoke again, she could just barely feel the brush of his breath against her hair. "The same one who scarred your foot?" He'd seen the mottled skin peeking out of her shoe. She'd not tried to hide the physical side of the wound, but he was starting to think her pleasantness was to mask the emotional scar.
That seventh vertebrae facilitated the turn of her head, the merest glimpse over her shoulder. A peek of green.
Maryann wasn't sure she should answer. He'd noticed her scar, eh? She didn't owe him an answer. Yet, there was a feeling rising inside her to let someone in, see her wounds. Who better than a psychiatrist?
Except, he wasn't just a psychiatrist to her. He was becoming more than she cared to admit, with a rapidity that was approaching fearsome.
She couldn't deny him. The thought was disconcerting.
"Yes. The same," she replied.
Her soft tone overlaid a tightness of spirit that made Hannibal's darkness purr. She'd handed him the first weapon to use against her.
But what now? What would this construct of himself do in this situation? (If there was, in fact, a construct at play and not just that tiny, steadily growing part of himself he refused to acknowledge...)
Hannibal raised one long-fingered hand and laid it with the utmost care on her shoulder. The bunched muscle was warm and solid against his palm. He squeezed gently to challenge it, in reassurance to its owner.
Her proud head bowed, and the cannibal smiled. He'd won.
But the moment passed, and she shed his comforting touch with the air of one who wished she wasn't weak.
She moved towards the door, looking up at the trapped insects above her. "Could you spot me?" she asked, stepping onto the threshold at the door of the greenhouse. That look over her shoulder, with her body in profile, made his heart skip one methodical beat.
Hannibal stepped up, wrapping his hands around her waist, thumbs at the small of her back.
She reached up, stretching her body under his touch, trusting his hold wantonly. Cupping her hands carefully around one fluttering sulfur-colored butterfly, she set it free outside the door. As she repeated the process, Hannibal couldn't resist the desire to rub his thumbs in circles over her kidneys.
The gardener glanced down at him, a gentle, knowing smile gracing her lips. There was a certain hope in her eyes. For a moment, they were simply a woman and a man: maroon eyes meeting green, melding.
The doctor carnally wondered how the skin under his fingers might taste. His darkness wondered how the kidney underneath it might sauté.
Author's Note:
QUESTION: CAN YOU ALL SEE THE BEE IMAGE AS THE STORY'S COVER IMAGE?
I apologize for the hiatus, my faithful readers. Thank you for your patience. I'm amazed at how much attention this story gets, even when the TV show is not currently airing! All the favorites and follows are quite encouraging.
This one's for you guys! Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving week!