Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Fourteen
Tim's alarm woke him this time – 7am and alone. The apartment was quiet. There was coffee made, a recently used mug on the counter, a note scribbled, barely legible: The door locks automatically – T.
Will dressed and poured himself a coffee and stood in front of Tim's computer holding the photo of the Rangers in Afghanistan for a good and close inspection. Eventually he set it down, carefully back in its place, picked up a pen and scribbled his address in Virginia on a pad of paper and left.
It had rained overnight, but rather than cooling things down the dampness just steamed from the sidewalk as the sun hit and added to the humidity. Will was sweating when he got back to the hotel. He went to his room before looking for the others, showered, changed. Someone had brought his bag for him from Georgia.
Everything felt unfinished, incomplete. His phone pinged, catching him standing in the center of the room trying to decide what to do next. It was a message from Jack. Breakfast in his room, now. It was just after 8am.
There was no reason to ignore the summons though Will was tempted. He drifted down the hall and knocked.
"Good morning, Will."
Jack was alone. Will was expecting the team.
"The others caught an early flight back to Virginia. I wanted an opportunity to discuss the case with you."
There was room service set out on the table in the suite, a thermos of coffee, juice, fruit, pastries. Will was suddenly hungry, and still tired. He walked past Jack and sat in a chair by the table and poured himself some more coffee and selected a muffin and started eating. Jack watched him.
Will said around a mouthful, "Is it just the case you want to discuss?"
Seating himself across from Will, Jack poured himself a coffee. "I'm concerned, Will."
Will cocked his head, made the face, smiled wryly when he realized what he was doing, thought about Tim and the note. "About me?"
"About you. Now that the Chess Master is no longer, I'd like you to take some time off. Get your head straight. Maybe even a month or two."
"The trial starts in less than a month."
"Obviously, you'd have to come in to testify."
"Obviously."
Will set down his food, brushed the crumbs from his fingers, took a good breath and said, "I don't think the man the Marshal shot in the cave is the Chess Master."
Jack sat back, microscopic movements in his muscles performed a dance across his face.
"I've always enjoyed watching you do that," said Will. "You can…roll your eyes without really…rolling your eyes. I get to…see it…a lot. Especially lately." He dug back into his muffin.
"Do you want to quit, Will?"
"We've had this discussion."
"We're having it again."
"No, I don't think so. I want to catch the Chess Master."
"So, tell me, who was that in the cave, then?"
"A…fanboy of Dr. Lecter's. Check Hannibal's client records – he's in there and I think the Chess Master is, too." Will looked at Jack expectantly, looking for the face dance again, decided he looked tired. Welcome to the club.
"Hannibal's records are missing."
"All of them?"
"Most of them."
"I didn't know."
"I hadn't told you yet. Will it satisfy you if I tell you that we'll keep the case open?"
"While I take an extended vacation?"
A single, confirming nod.
"And we just…what…wait for another pair of bodies? That's a great idea. He should have his victims picked out just before I'm ready to come back. It'll help ease me into the work schedule again."
Jack was getting impatient. "Will, as far as I'm concerned, the Chess Master was shot dead in a cave in Kentucky two nights ago."
"Yeah, and I'm the Chesapeake Ripper." Will stood abruptly and walked out.
Will tried to reach Tim before he left for Virginia – two messages and a text. He got away from Jack at the airport and left another message asking him to look for a connection between the Kentucky victim, 'the disappeared WITSEC guy' as Tim called him, and the man Tim shot, the alleged Chess Master. Maybe he would respond if it were business. Will would've liked to have heard Tim's voice again before he left, a light drawl and surprisingly deep tones, would've liked more, some kind of acknowledgement of a connection or a suggestion for another…another what? Another date?
It seemed ridiculous, any expectations in the daylight seemed childish, and Will decided he would be smart to pay attention to the message Tim left him in the empty apartment that morning – The door locks automatically.
He slept on the plane, avoiding conversation, shared a cab with Jack to Quantico, shared work talk in clipped sentences and nothing else, picked up his station wagon and drove back home to Wolf Trap.
His dogs were glad to see him. He ate dinner on the couch to keep them company, went to bed early, catching up on the hours, woke early. He sat at his table drinking coffee the following morning, thinking, was in his car thirty minutes later on the way to Baltimore to see an old acquaintance.
Dr. Lecter was seated primly on his cot. The prison coveralls looked less stylish but equally as neat and worn as well as any of his silk and wool suits from his civilian life. He was reading a book, set it down on the small table attached to the wall of his cell, straightened it, lining it up perfectly, squarely, then he stood and turned to face his visitor.
"Good morning, Will." He raised his head and sniffed the air, studied his former patient carefully and carelessly. "You've put on weight. You look better." A knowing smile, small. "And you have a lover."
Will blinked, trying hard not to react though he knew it was wasted energy holding anything back from this man. Even behind bars he was dangerous. Will would never underestimate him. Never again.
"My personal life is pretty dull compared to yours, Dr. Lecter, even with the…addition…of a…lover." He looked at the chair the prison guard had provided but ignored it, choosing to remain standing. It wasn't wise to be rude to Hannibal Lecter.
"I didn't think I would have the pleasure of your company again until after the trial, Will. What brings you here on a Saturday? A game of chess, perhaps?"
The question startled Will; he hadn't expected Hannibal to be so direct. "I assume they're…both…former patients of yours?"
A small movement of his head gave away Lecter's surprise, and pleasure.
"Yes, I know there are two of them." Will gambled on certainty. "Was Kentucky arranged all for me?" he asked. "I'm flattered."
"A knife at your throat – did you feel then what it must have been like for Abigail Hobbs?" Hannibal narrowed his eyes, watching Will intently, watching as Will swallowed hard, a hand coming up instinctively, protectively to his neck.
"Yes," he breathed, upset that Hannibal would reference her at all. His lack of remorse was well-documented, but still disturbing to witness. Will flicked his eyes down the cold hallway to the exit, reminded of the cave in Kentucky. "I didn't much like it."
"And how have your dreams been lately?"
A sneer, and Will responded coolly, "If we're going to start analyzing my dreams, I'm going home. It's…so…very…boring."
Hannibal held his eyes and smoothed the front of his prison jumper, reminding Will of evenings in the elegant office, the shared ideas, still so composed even here behind bars that it made a mockery of Will's attempt at disdain. Will looked away again, again disturbed, cursed his own feelings.
"So, Frederick Hayes was thwarted by a US Marshal – a taste of the Wild West. It's a thrilling tale. Growing up in Europe as a boy, I was always fascinated by stories of the American West, gunslingers and outlaws, cowboys and Indians, though today we would say 'First Nations Peoples,' of course, and of course, in Europe, we played Indians and cowboys, always fighting to be the Indian, the Noble Savage."
"We're all savages, Dr. Lecter."
Hannibal pressed his lips together, acknowledged the truth in the statement with a small bow.
"Yes, he was…thwarted…by a US Marshal. I was reckless...as you'd imagined I'd be. Did you suggest the plan?"
Hannibal's smile grew in miniscule and telling movements, another wrinkle at the eye, more tuck at the corners of the mouth, all neat. "A difficult shot, I hear, no room for error. He has a steady hand."
Will nodded, his suspicions confirmed, confirming, in return, Hannibal's statement. "I was lucky the Marshal showed up, or…we…might not be having this conversation."
Hannibal stepped softly and deliberately to the bars separating him from his prey, coldness emanating across the space between them. "I do not believe in luck. Luck is a gambler's dream. I believe in skill and preparation. Is he an understanding lover, Will? Or does he have his own demons that drive him to solitude? How many kills, do you suppose? What souvenirs did he bring back with him from Afghanistan?"
Will was not prepared for so aggressive and complete an intrusion. He twitched a shrug and involuntarily backed up a step and regretted the movement as soon as he'd done it. Hannibal's smile morphed from mimicked social pleasantry into something feral, pitiless.
Will turned and left quickly, too late now to take back anything he'd given away. He'd gotten what he came for, confirmation of Lecter's involvement, confirmation of a second killer, but as trade for the knowledge, he'd given up much more.
"I listened," Jack Crawford said, turning away from the verbal onslaught, "when you told me about your suspicions. I went with Dr. Bloom yesterday to visit Hannibal. He gave no hint of any knowledge of this current case."
"Oh, he knows – he hinted all over the place with me." Will gestured violently.
"You went to see him?"
"Yes, I went to see him. He asked…if I…wanted to play chess; he mentioned the man shot in the cave in Kentucky by name; he knows about…Deputy Gutterson."
"Will, you're tired. Maybe you let these things slip. What else might you have told him?"
"Fuck you." It was said softly, without much heat.
It was convenient that Will was officially on vacation. Jack would likely forget the vulgarity before Will arrived back in the office in eight weeks, at least the verbal transgression would have diminished to insignificance. Will wasn't going to take it back. A sliver, down to his core, was angry, would never not be angry. He walked out of Jack's house.
Will jabbed his finger for the sixth time, stuck it in his mouth to stop the blood dripping on the fly he was tying. He tossed the tweezers on the table, giving up for the day, picked up his cell looking for messages that weren't there, dialed again, waited, left another message, tossed the phone down too. Standing, he paced the room, stopped at the door to let the dogs in, scratching. As they ran past him into the house he sighed, glanced at the clock on the stove. His gang of strays arranged themselves in front of the hearth, looked at him. Will looked back.
"Sorry guys, I'm going to have to leave you again. Do you want me to call Harry to look after you?"
The Jack Russell barked.
"Okay, Harry it is." Will picked up his phone again, dialed his neighbor to make arrangements, packed an overnight bag and locked the door on the way out.
"What're you doing here?"
Will had woken with a start when someone rapped on the window of his Volvo, rolled it down to a puzzled greeting from Tim. He opened the door and stepped out onto the road to talk.
"It's the only...way to speak to you, it seems – face-to-face. You don't answer your phone."
Tim frowned. "Let's get this straight now, okay? I don't do this." He gestured between them.
The words weren't harsh; they seemed a little desperate to Will's ear. He made the face for Tim and said, "Me neither. That's…quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
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