Chapter Text
CHESAPEAKE RIPPER MARTYRS MISSING FBI TRAINEE
Will shut his eyes. At least there were no photos this time, but there was a short biography of FBI trainee Miriam Lass. She was from Mississippi, the daughter of a truck driver and a part-time church bookkeeper, and she had clawed her way up from poverty to earn an undergraduate degree in psychology and, later, a PhD in criminology. She had nursed in her heart, her entire adult life, a desire to work for famed behaviorist Jack Crawford. He had sent her to her death.
"She died because she caught up to him," Mrs. Lass told Tattle-Crime. "We always knew she was a smart girl. We're proud of her. Always have been."
"She didn't go down without a fight, we know that," said Mr. Lass.
The phone rang. Will answered it without looking.
"Father Graham," said Crawford. He sounded tired. "Have you got anything for me? The Ripper left no evidence at the scene, as usual. That Bible verse is all we've got to go on."
"All I can tell you is that the scene was his confession," said Will. "I asked him to confess and seek forgiveness, and this was his way of doing it. We call it the sacrament of Reconciliation. Maybe he sought reconciliation with you, and that was why he gave you back Ms. Lass. Twice dead."
Crawford made a small noise that Will almost didn't hear, but it tugged at his heart. "If that's what he wanted, he would've done better to return her alive."
Will hesitated. He felt each word inside his mouth before he let it out. "Is there something you'd like to talk about, Agent Crawford?"
"No." Crawford's tone turned brusque and formal. "I just want to catch the bastard. That's all the reconciliation I need, Father."
He hung up. Will set his phone back down on his desk. He looked at Saul, who was sprawled on his side on the floor with his eyes closed. "This was my fault, wasn't it?" he asked Saul. Saul opened his eyes but didn't otherwise move, though his perked ears indicated that he was listening. "I asked him to confess, and he killed her. Her death is on my hands."
Saul lifted his head and looked at Will with what Will knew was not a reproachful gaze. He was projecting. Anthropomorphizing a dog.
"I know," he said. "It's not my fault. Or Agent Crawford's. It's not our fault that he's a serial killer."
But I'm still responsible, he didn't say, because he was talking to a fucking dog.
Will called Crawford again.
"What?" Crawford demanded.
"Have you read the Tattle-Crime article?" Will asked.
"God-fucking-dammit--pardon my language, Father. Yes, I have; what about it?"
"She's getting access to the crime scenes, somehow," said Will. "She must have an informant."
"You think I don't know that? Local cops are always happy to make a buck, is my guess. If it's one of my own team I'll hang them out to dry myself, though I won't be happy about it."
Will closed his eyes. He brought to mind the younger male technician, the one who'd looked up the chapter and verse on his phone. "Who's the one, ah, the younger man, with the beard?"
"Zeller?"
"I noticed he had, hmm, a long red hair on his sleeve."
Crawford swore and hung up.
-----
Will didn't take Saul to the vet the next day. Instead, he went to the kennel and picked up Ruth, Jonah, and Theo. "Dr. Lecter said you would come yesterday," said one of the staff. She was young and blond and pretty. Her name tag said Carrie.
"I got held up," Will lied. "Sorry about that."
"Well, it's all paid for," said Carrie. "I'll have Mike bring your dogs out."
Ten minutes later, a tall, gangly youth with long brown hair and pronounced acne scars brought out Will's dogs. They strained against their leashes as soon as they saw Will, ears up, and Mike dropped the leads. Will went down to his knees to greet them, and for a minute all of them were wriggling and yelping and stepping on and over each other in their frenzied enthusiasm. The dogs appeared fit and happy and healthy.
"Thanks," Will said, a few minutes later, after he had gathered his dignity and their leashes. "They weren't any trouble, were they?"
"Nah," said Mike, grinning. "They were a dream. Have a good day, Mr. Graham."
"Same to you."
Once home, Will crated Saul and put him on the porch while the other dogs waited in the Volvo. Only when he was sure that Saul was secure did Will open the hatchback. The dogs bounded out, up the front steps, and right up to the crate. They sniffed each other through the bars, wagging their tails. Theo barked, but Will shushed him. Saul didn't bark at all. He bowed. This was going to be all right, Will thought.
-----
All the windows and doors stood open. Cold, fresh air blew through the house. The dogs gamboled in and out, tongues lolling and tails wagging. Will sat at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad and a pen, writing a letter.
His phone rang. The screen said PRIVATE NUMBER. Will answered it.
"You got Zeller fired," said Lounds.
"You got him fired," said Will. "I'm sure you have a backup plan for him. He won't be the first informant you've screwed."
"What the hell do you care? And what's going on with you and the Ripper, anyway? Zee told me the going theory is that the Ripper's found God and he's going into retirement."
"I don't know," said Will. "Maybe. I'm not actually psychic, you know."
"Well, remember that you owe me. If the Ripper gets in touch with you, I'd better be the first one to know it."
"You'd better lay low," said Will. "Crawford's going to come after you next. He threatened me with obstruction of justice once, you know."
"They're just threats. He can't arrest me for writing an article."
"No, but he can sue you, just like anyone else. Good afternoon, Ms. Lounds. Thank you for calling."
Will hung up and finished his letter. It contained a full profile of the Chesapeake Ripper and a description of how Dr. Hannibal Lecter fit that profile.
If this letter has fallen into the hands of law enforcement authorities, it means I have disappeared under mysterious circumstances and am most likely dead. I suggest searching Dr. Lecter's home. Pay special attention to his meat; I recommend DNA testing.
Please ask Agent Crawford of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit if he would like to adopt one of my dogs. The rest may go to members of the parish who are able and willing to take one in. The long-haired dappled one, Saul, I recently found on the street and may have a microchip. Please return him to his family if possible.
God bless you and keep you,
Father William Graham
In a separate letter, he left instructions for the priest who would be assigned to his parish.
Will folded them both into a blank envelope and sealed it. He sat for a moment with his pen poised over the white paper. Finally, he addressed it TO THE POLICE WHO HAVE COME TO SEARCH MY HOME FOR EVIDENCE and left it propped up inside the medicine cabinet.
He microwaved a burrito for dinner and ate it on the porch with his dogs sprawled around him.
Dear God: Thank You for this miraculous world that You have created. The path I've walked has been difficult at times and strewn with rocks and fallen obstacles, but it has led me to You and Your blessings, and I would not ask for anything different. No, Lord, not even Hannibal Lecter, for he is one of Your creations as well. Typhoid and swans, Lord. It all comes from the same place.
Was this a test you set before me? A test of my faith, a test of my theology? I believe that You are love, Lord, and that all those who love know Your face, Your touch, Your blessings. I love, and so I know that You are always with me, and I know that You will be with me for whatever comes after.
When the processed lump of beans and cheese sat leaden in his stomach, he picked up his phone and texted Hannibal. He spent ten minutes composing the message.
If you would like reconciliation, please meet me in my office tomorrow morning at 9am.
He swallowed and let the phone fall into his lap. His hands shook. Hannibal did not reply. Will stayed on the porch until the sun disappeared behind the trees and the cold and dark came out to claw against his bare legs and feet. The dogs had long gone back inside. Hannibal still had not replied. Finally, Will turned off his phone.
-----
Will opened his eyes on a gray and gloomy beach. Charcoal clouds with bulging bellies hung low over the slate-gray sea, and a chill wind whipped past Will and flung cold spray in his face. Gritty sand clung to the bottoms of his feet. He curled his arms around himself as Hannibal stepped out of the white-topped waves, bone-dry and pristine in one of his three-piece suits. Stars rained from the sky to hiss their deaths in the sea and on the shore.
All around him gathered Will's parishioners, and more: Mrs. Smrha, Agent Crawford and his technicians, and even Freddie Lounds. They crowded past Will with apologetic looks, their shoulders hunched, and when they got close enough to Hannibal, they applauded. Hannibal smiled and bowed. He caught Will's eye and winked at him.
Crawford leaned in close, even as his palms slapped against each other. "Who is there like Hannibal Lecter?" he wondered. "Who can fight against him?"
Freddie Lounds raised her hand, as if she were at a press conference. "Are you interested in putting out a memoir?"
Hannibal held out his hand, palm up, toward Will, and the crowd parted to clear a path between them. Their stares pressed against Will like a physical weight. His lungs burned with breathlessness. Will didn't take his eyes from Hannibal, and he didn't move. He put his hand out to the side and felt the weight of a sword in his palm. Its heat made him ill. Hannibal tilted his head like a curious cat. "You're bleeding," he said.
Will looked down. A crimson stain spread outward from the center of his chest, but it didn't hurt. "It's the blood of the Lamb," he replied.
A shrill, electronic squeal shattered the dream.
Will gasped awake all at once, heart pounding. It took him a long few moments to find his alarm, and afterward he lay in his mussed sheets until his heart calmed down enough that he no longer felt like dry heaving over the toilet. His bedclothes reeked of sweat. He forced himself out of bed and into the shower. His knees trembled so badly that he had to sit, and he stayed there on the floor of his bathtub until the water went cold. His forehead radiated pain. He'd left his medication at Hannibal's house, two days ago.
His stomach threatened to turn inside out at the mere suggestion of breakfast. Will started coffee and poured the dogs' food. They wagged their tails harder when they saw the carton of eggs. He had exactly four eggs left, and he cracked each one over a bowl of kibble. They did their untidy gobbling on the back porch as Will refreshed their water dishes, filling them to the brim. He left an extra bucket of water on the back porch, just in case, and propped the door.
Saul tried to follow him out the front door. "No, you stay here," Will said. "Stay." Saul just cocked his head and wagged his tail. "Stay!"
It began to snow on the way to Baltimore. Will kept the stag in his rearview mirror all the way there.
-----
The church was dark. Will had forgotten that it was New Year's Eve. He stood for a moment on the sanctuary steps, watching flakes drift down from the sky, before he let himself in. The building seemed to hold its breath. Will walked up and down the empty pews, his footsteps muffled, before finally approaching the altar. He knelt.
When he finished praying, he rose and left the sanctuary. He locked the doors behind him and went up to his office. There, he changed into his cassock and put on his collar. He didn't usually wear the cassock when he met with people in his office, but this seemed like the occasion for it.
Five minutes until Hannibal was due to arrive. Will sat at his desk and pulled his battered old Gideon Bible toward him. He opened it to a random page.
Psalm 27
Triumphant Song of Confidence
The Lord is my light and salvation;
Whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life;
Of whom shall I be afraid?
When the wicked came against me
To eat up my flesh,
My enemies and foes
They stumbled and fell...
Will smiled.
A knock sounded at the door. He glanced at the clock. Hannibal was a few minutes early, but that didn't surprise him. "Come in."
Hannibal looked the same as he always did, dressed in a plaid suit with a pearl-colored shirt and a silver-and-red paisley tie, his hair gelled back in that fashion Will had always loathed and never told him. Will did not expect the stiff heat that sprang up around his eyes, and he blinked until it receded. He offered Hannibal a smile, and Hannibal was quick to smile back.
"Will," Hannibal said. "It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too," Will said, and meant it. "Take a seat." He motioned to the chairs by the window. Hannibal chose the one closest to the door, and Will took the one opposite. The orchid on the windowsill drooped in a neglected fashion.
Hannibal sat forward, his elbows on his knees. Will mirrored him. "So," said Hannibal. "You are offering me the sacrament of reconciliation, as you call it."
Will gave a single nod. He pressed his palms together between his knees. "I am."
Hannibal tilted his head and gave Will a slow blink. "Will I need to do penance?"
"That depends," Will replied. "Why don't you begin by telling me your sins?"
---end---