Hannibal wakes late the next day, the high sun confusing him for several moments. It's been a long time since he'd slept in, his body having become regular enough with waking that he no longer needed to set an alarm for work each morning. His outing two evenings ago certainly hadn't helped, though it seemed the direct culprit was the hours he'd lain awake the previous night with his thoughts in a swirl.
Chilton. And Will. He'd turned the names over in his head as he tried to find grasp at any explanation for the connection. He feels close, maddeningly so, as if there's something big broiling just beneath the surface. And he can't shake the thought that everything he knows so far is because Will let it be, and that rest will come in his design.
He settles for leftovers for breakfast and brews himself some coffee which he accidentally adds too much milk to. He drinks it anyway, sitting in the chair at the table that faces him towards the front window, and mentally nudges himself when he realises he's waiting. He leaves the plate in the sink and takes a glass of tropical fruit juice to recline on his couch with along with a classical CD.
He'd gone into this certain that he could unravel Will Graham by tangling himself, playing the game until he was deep enough to see through it, like how getting lost is the only way to navigate a maze in which you have no idea where to go. Yet, something seems to have changed along the way, and now he finds himself wondering if the maze has no end after all. If their connection now is something living, twisting and changing at every turn until it wraps around again.
He even picks up his home phone just before lunch, and holds it against his ear before his finger freezes blankly over the dial pad. He remembers also then that his state has left him dependant on the research of others. He could get away with asking Alana about Chilton, but perhaps not so much with something as obvious as Will's phone number.
So he calls Alana instead, and gets told to wait as she makes her way out of the station to somewhere she can speak without being overheard. Always a cautious one.
"I looked into Chilton," she says once the soft murmur of background chatter dies completely away to be replaced by the irregular growl of passing car engines. "Turns out it's a little more complicated."
Hannibal presses the phone harder against his ear. "Yes?"
"I found his records from New Orleans. He was there when Will Graham tried to join, but he wasn't a psychologist. At the time, actually, he was the police surgeon."
That draws a frown. "Then why was he advising on a recruit's mental state?" He'd given Alana a rundown the previous day of Chilton's assertions to him. It had made her information seem at least somewhat like an even exchange.
"Exactly. It wasn't an official opinion, though it seems he was strong enough about it that they ended up listening to him. He was probably right to some degree as well, Graham's file has a lot of notes about an empathy-related disorder, from a couple of different reviewers who didn't agree about what exactly that meant. They finally decided he had too much potential to be dangerous, likely at Chilton's insistence if he's telling the truth."
"I see." Hannibal runs over the new information, mentally slotting it into the portrait and timeline that he'd almost inadvertently amassed of Will in his head. His frown deepens when things only become even less easy to correlate.
But then Alana continues, "Anyway that's not the point," and his ears perk up again. "After Graham was denied, an 'anonymous tipster' revealed to the NOPD that Chilton had actually failed out of med school. It's why he moved states, and probably why he switched to psychology."
And that has Hannibal's brain whirring. It doesn't really latch, though, but while he doesn't know what he's sure it's something.
"I talked to Doctor Du Maurier, it seems Graham sent Chilton his first published book to rub in his face how successful he'd become. Then brought him on the official review board to add insult to injury, I guess, and kept going with each new draft."
"I see," Hannibal says for the second time once she finishes. He's staring, not at anything in particular since he's facing towards his blank wall, but his gaze is locked as his thoughts race. Then he clears his throat, and blinks several times. "First Lounds and then Boyle, should we think about protection for Chilton? And Hobbs, for that matter?"
Alana hums in thought for a moment before answering. "You could say there's a pattern, I suppose, though motive is still as much of a mystery as ever. Plus there's the fact that we're not supposed to know who Hobbs is yet."
"But surely you'd have looked her up after seeing her name on the list? That she's in personal contact with the author she reviews too isn't too large a leap to make."
A sigh, a slow one. "Alright, I'll speak to Jack. We'll probably have to bother Chilton on leave anyway, at least just to ask him ourselves."
"Good." Hannibal pauses, then adds, "Thank you, Alana."
"You're welcome. I'll talk to you later." And then comes the click of disconnection.
He unpeels the phone from the side of his face after a few seconds, and sets it carefully back down on its stand. "Will Graham—" he mutters to himself, and it's supposed to be the start of a sentence but he finds himself cutting off right there. Inadvertently, it ends up sounding something close to reverent.
Lunch is more leftovers, eaten off his breakfast plate fetched still unwashed from the sink. Then he decides he can't stay in anymore and changes into a smartly casual outfit to head out to the local park. He receives a text from Alana as he's leaving informing him that they'd attempted to contact Chilton but had been unsuccessful, and would continue trying.
He walks for about half an hour before he reaches the small field and playground, the sunlight pleasantly warm and the lightest of breezes picking up the air. The bench is free and he takes it to sit back casually on. Over to the right is a small pond, and a toddler runs around it happily chasing the ducks. His mother, or perhaps babysitter, watches with amusement from where she leans against a tree-trunk, eating a croissant which she occasionally picks some bits off to toss at the hopping birds. Hannibal feels a small smile curl his lips. He wonders if Will was ever that carefree when he was a child.
He stays there for sometime, letting the chorus of quacks and giggling of children lull his thoughts. No real progress is made, as is becoming expected it seems, instead he finds himself drifting slowly through his envisioned construction of Will's life, mental eye lingering from his wicked smirk to the way his face contorts in the peak of pleasure. Would he be writing now, or maybe enjoying the sun on his beachchair? Or fixing another motor in his shed, screwdriver glinting where it sticks out sharp and deliberate from his hand.
He buys dinner from an organic deli down the road, small but more than good enough for even his high standards. It's already evening as he makes his way back home, the sun glowing red from it's position low on the horizon. And it's almost gone by the time he gets the second text.
It comes in just as he's stepping up to his front door. He pulls out his phone at the buzz, and frowns a little at the unfamiliar number. He draws the message up with a swipe of his thumb.
You're the only one who still sees properly. He's gotten to the rest of them, twisted their minds around like he does. But you know, you agree, he needs to be put away.
If you want to see Will Graham for what he really is, come now.
- FC
Below is an address. Hannibal reads the text three times before he slowly lowers his other hand from the doorknob and takes up his keys again. Then he opens the map function and types in the destination, already turning back to his car.
It's not right. That much he can feel. For a start he has no idea how Chilton got his number, unless he asked it from Jack which seems unlikely given the nature of his contact. And then there's something that seems oddly familiar about the address, but he can't quite recall what. He shouldn't go, yet neither can he ignore it. He should call back-up, but he can't do anything official without going through Alana, and there's no time for that now.
It's not until he's almost there that it hits him, as the street he's driving down is recognised in a sudden click of cogs. In a second his hands tense on the wheel, and his foot drops.
He's heading to Abigail Hobbs's apartment.
It's fully dark by the time he pulls up and stops in the driveway, ignoring the multiple no parking signs. The light to Abigail's apartment is on. He doesn't bother to turn off the car, just jams on the handbrake and leaps out.
It's too sudden. From a day of quiet to this, he should have expected something. His mind races as fast as his feet, jumping without really concluding. One phrase rings though, clear, propelling. If you want to see Will Graham for what he really is.
He presses every button on the intercom, and wrenches open the door as soon as someone answers without hearing the greeting. The lift is ignored as he races up the stairs, one hand reaching for his gun and ripping off the safety. The door to 301 is ajar, and he enters barrel first.
He stops again as he sees, and inhales in a rush. A young woman whom Hannibal recognises from his research stands in the kitchen, eyes sightless and red spurting from her throat. A bloody cooking knife lies at her feet among the dark drops and splashes that cover the grubby tiles beneath her. The only reason she's upright is the man who supports her, arms around her shoulder and back turned towards the door.
Hannibal recognises the spray as arterial, she's bleeding too fast. She might as well be dead already. But then training, and adrenaline, take over, and something snaps into place around him. Something he calls his police persona, but which has quietly whispered to him things much darker in the times between the silences. And all of a sudden the panic floods away from his mind to be replaced by deadly calm. "Let her go," he says, cold, distant to his own ears, and the man turns.
"Lecter?" Chilton's voice is strained, surprised. "It was—you have to help—"
"Move away from her," Hannibal repeats, louder, heart pounding too loudly in his temples for him to properly listen. He takes a step forward.
Chilton doesn't move. "She's going to bleed out," he says in a rush, words tumbling over each other. One hand moves away from Abigail's shoulder, and towards his belt.
Hannibal steps again, closer. "Raise your hands, and move away from her." His voice steels to its hardest and this, this is familiar. The weight of a weapon in his hand, an easy target in front of him. His pulse is racing, and he doesn't want to think on how it's not entirely in fear.
Chilton still doesn't obey. "She's going to die!" Chilton says, now almost a cry, eyes darting and sweat beading on his lip. The fingers of his free hand spread, stretching into an open palm like he's trying to communicate something, then plunge into his pocket.
And Hannibal pulls the trigger.