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The FBI arrives at the house on the cliff thirteen hours after Hannibal Lecter escapes from custody. When the cars pull up with flashing lights and loaded weapons they find a quiet home made of glass, perched on a wind swept crag above the Atlantic Ocean. Francis Dolarhyde’s dried blood crunches beneath their boots as they secure the perimeter with practiced efficiency.
Waves lap against the smooth stone of the cliff, gouging a deep v into the rock. A small beach sits at the foot, waves beating ceaselessly against it’s rocky shore. Among the seaweed and crumbling stone they find Will Graham, arms wrapped around a limp and battered corpse. Though his clothes are long dry, fresh blood wets his lips and fingers as he cracks Hannibal Lecter’s ribs open, mutilating the clammy flesh as his fingers dig inside, seeking the sacred muscle he knows is hidden within. He brings it to his lips, tearing into it ravenously and with the ferocity one would expect from someone who had not seen food in weeks. Warm blood trickles down Will’s chin as he hums softly, eyes closed in rapture as he honors Hannibal in the only way he knows.
When Jack arrives, they are dragging him back from the bloated corpse, kicking and screaming weakly. They pry what remains of the ragged heart from his fingers despite his protests. With a guttural cry, Will twists free, breaking one agent’s arm when he sees someone moving to inspect the body. He grips the agents by the throat, throwing them against the bluff with a sickening crunch, the body going limp immediately, before stumbling to Hannibal’s side. A broken sob is wretched from his chest as he twists his fingers into the torn fabric of Hannibal’s sweater and buries his nose in his flaxen hair. Blood smears Hannibal’s features as Will places kiss after desperate kiss on his cold and pale skin.
It takes three agents to restrain Will with zip-ties and a stun gun. As they escort him to the police cars, Jack Crawford turns away from his blood drenched smile. On their way to Quantico Will presses his face against the glass, tears and snot and blood smearing against the window. He begs again and again to see Hannibal’s body, to just have a piece of him to keep inside him forever. Some green agent takes pity on him, sneaking a scrap of blood drenched fabric into the holding cell. Will snatches it immediately, pressing it to his nose and inhaling deeply as though it is an expensive perfume. Though he does not thank the agent, a small, sad smile spreads across his face.
From his cell, Will submits a formal request that Hannibal’s body be turned over to him, as he is the closest thing to next of kin. The request never makes it past the new BSHCI administrator’s desk. They cremate Hannibal after cataloging his injuries and determining that he died of blood loss a short while after Will dragged them to shore. His ashes are added to the heaping mound outback of the Baltimore General Hospital.
At the trial Will combs his hair back and shaves his beard, a blood red tie around his throat. A long, twisted scar stretches from the corner of his lip to the middle of his cheek, giving him a perpetual half smile. Some of the nerves on that side of his face must have been damaged, as his eyelid droops slightly. He admits to using a pocket knife to open Hannibal’s chest and attempting to eat his heart before the police restrained him.
His lawyer has a bleached white smile and too much Botox. But he pleads a successful insanity case, landing Will in psychiatric custody for the rest of his life. The needle was assured after they way he butchered Dolarhyde, but with Hannibal’s money he can afford the best lawyer on the east coast.
Alana comes to visit him once. Just the sight of Will makes her blood run cold. The white jumpsuit makes the dark circles under his eyes look even more pronounced, and the crooked smile that stretches his lips looks crazed and hungry. He moves the same way Hannibal did, lithe and predatory, eyes never wavering from her. His words carry the same lyrical pattern that Hannibal’s did. When she mentions Stockholm Syndrome he lets out a low laugh, striding to the glass wall of his cell and placing a hand against the cool surface before fixing her with a piercing gaze. Alana knows within seconds that Will Graham is truly lost.
Freddie Lounds pays off one of the orderlies to let her in after hours. Her camera shutter clicks rapidly, taking in the vaulted ceiling of the cell that once housed Hannibal Lecter when Alana Bloom was in charge of the BSHCI. Will Graham slumbers peacefully, no longer sweating through his pajamas or waking screaming. Instead, his chest rises and falls steadily as his hands lay clasped over his stomach. The next issue of Tattle Crime sells more than three time the usual circulation after it boasts exclusive pictures of the elusive Will Graham, tucked away in his luxurious cell while the world around him spins madly on.
Molly and Walter are taken into protective custody. They settle in Florida with fresh names and haircuts. Nobody connects the new neighbors with the cannibalistic FBI agent flooding all of the news channels. Hollywood makes a movie because what other response would they have? Some of the boys in Walter’s class invite him to see it when it comes out. When Molly firmly says no they try to assure her that it’s just a harmless horror flick. She knows better than to make Walter relive the last few years of his life, even if it means sacrificing new friends.
Time passes and Will sits confined to a cell, hardly speaking or interacting with the orderlies expect for the cursory “thank you”s when they deliver meals and clean his cell. Every now and then they catch Will talking to the empty air around him. He smiles and laughs as though he is talking to someone only he can see. Whoever it is makes him look more human; the color returning to his cheeks and his eyes shining with pure joy.
Months become years and years become decades as Will’s hair silvers and lines form around his eyes and mouth. Even beneath the veil of old age, that he wears rather handsomely in the same way Hannibal did, the beast still lurks, ready to bear its teeth at the slightest hint of opportunity. He feigns a seizure and rips off part of a nurse’s ear and cheek when she tries to take his pulse, swallowing them down with a grin. Her blood looks almost comically red as it seeps into his white jumpsuit. The orderlies learn to ignore his soft humming as he makes his bed or sits quietly, leaning against the glass barrier. Everyone knows he is the FBI’s dirty laundry, hidden away and forgotten in the basement of the BSHCI.
The staccato clicking of heels echoes through the basement of the high security cells. Will can smell cheap perfume and fear as the heels come to stop on the other side of the glass. The individual clears their throat, trying to tear his attention from the clouds visible through the small skylight above. Little do they know that they already have Will’s attention.
Another clearing of the throat and Will turns his head slightly to the side, taking an appraising look at the young woman standing before him, briefcase clutched tightly in one hand. She gives him a tight smile and Will already knows that this girl, this young hopeful woman, will age and die much too quickly. She will go hunting for things she should never want to find, all in the name of Jack Crawford, a man that she trusts despite sending her into the belly of the beast. He knows that Jack Crawford is making the same mistake he made with Miriam Lass all over again, and Will’s not going to do a damn thing to stop it. She shifts her weight to one foot and opens her mouth and Will knows she is done for.
“Mister Graham, my name is Clarice Starling. May I speak with you?”