Fortune's Fool (Hannibal Fanfiction)

XI: Just Alike

Will stood at the bottom of the stairs with his eyes closed, carefully regulating his breathing. Only when he was certain that he had a secure grip on this case did he open his eyes.

It was dusk, the last of the light seeping from the edges of the sky. Every day, evening came a little sooner. He stared up at the second floor apartment. A faint light glowed from behind the blinds. He knew that he wouldn't be caught waiting out here; he had scoped out the area for the past few nights, cataloging when various residents entered and left their apartments. The woman in Apartment 201 came home every day at the same time and never had any evening social engagements.

All the better for him, all the worse for her.

Will ascended the stairs, stepping carefully so as to avoid any loud creaking. Tucked in his jacket was a plastic grocery bag of bottles of lye. He paused at the top of the stairs to grip the small, bent piece of metal in his pocket. He was ready to do whatever it took to get the job done, but he preferred not to spend precious time jiggling the lock if he could help it.

Thankfully, the lock was in bad shape. Either the woman had forgotten to lock it or hadn't been successful in her attempt, because it didn't take long for Will to get in. He eased the door open, keeping the lock pick in his hand as a makeshift weapon.

Inside, a faint lamp glowed on a side table in the far corner. The only other furniture in the room was a battered couch, a plain wooden chair, and a flat-screen TV sitting on the floor. A doorway in the opposite wall opened into a darkened kitchen, and a hallway on the left led to the rest of the tiny apartment. Will moved swiftly and silently across the living room and ducked into the shadows. Faint sounds emanated from the first room off the hallway, and flickering light danced under the door. Will fingered the sharp tip of the lock pick and crept closer. Putting his ear against the door, he heard soft music playing, and beneath that, the splashing of water in a tub.

Will smiled. He wouldn't even have to draw a bath; the woman had done that for him. How thoughtful. The doorknob turned easily, so he swung the door open and strode in.

The woman was lounging in the bath, pale pink bubbles engulfing all of her except for her head and shoulders. The only light in the room came from a series of fat, white wicker candles set up around the rim of the tub. The woman's head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, and she let out a strangled scream.

Will lunged at her, and in the resulting scuffle, he knocked one of the candles into the bath. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub as the candle thudded to the bottom and went out. Two candles were knocked in by the woman's frantic kicking, and another narrowly missed setting Will's hair on fire when he hit it with his elbow. The latter was a blessing in disguise; the candle hit the woman before it fell in and gave Will the chance to find purchase on her slippery skin. The woman's screams were muffled as he shoved her under the water, falling to his knees in the huge puddle on the tile floor. There was nothing the woman could do to free herself. The inside of the tub was too slippery, and there was nothing for her to grab onto except for Will's wet jacket. He held her under until she stopped moving. Then he sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily.

This was his design.

Will stood and stripped off his jacket, taking out the old grocery bag of lye. He hadn't had to buy a suspicious amount of it, since he'd already had a mostly full container under his sink. Then he sat down on the toilet lid to wait. His knees were not happy that he'd fallen to the floor so hard. When he was sure that the woman was dead, Will pulled her body into sitting position, or as close as he could get to it.

He uncapped the first bottle of lye and wrapped the jacket over his nose and mouth to shield himself from the fumes. The reaction of lye with water was not a pleasant one, especially if the water was already heated, such as in this case. He poured the lye into the bathtub.

As the lye and water mixed, it steamed and hissed, bubbling almost like acid or boiling water, which it was — boiling, that is. Will poured slowly so that it wouldn't splash, but he had on long sleeves and pants, closed-toed shoes, and gloves, just in case. The reaction was enough to raise the water temperature to its boiling point and then above. Whatever bubbly soap the woman had put in the water seemed to help the reaction along, but Will poured in the two bottles of lye anyway, just to make sure. Then he dropped the empty bottles back into the bag, pulled his jacket back on, and tucked the incriminating evidence inside of it.

He stood in the doorway of the bathroom for a moment longer, lingering even as noxious fumes filled the air. It was strangely beautiful. Poetic, even: a murderer found murdered in her own home. The light from the remaining candles flickered off the surface of the sudsy water pooled on the tile floor and sent shadows across the ceiling. And in the midst of it all, the woman lay propped up in the bath, the lye mixture bubbling away. Will's lips twitched up into a vague smile.

"This is my design."

But before Will could turn away, a gust of wind extinguished the candles and plunged the room into darkness. He took a step back; his back hit something where there should have been nothing but air. Hands gripped his shoulders painfully tightly, but when he opened his mouth to make a noise, nothing came out.

"This IS your design," a hissing voice whispered in his ear, glee dripping from every word. "And do you know why?"

Will struggled desperately, but he couldn't free himself as the voice slipped in and rattled around the inside of his skull: "It's because we're just alike."

Will's eyes fluttered open, a scream caught in his throat. For a moment, fear that he hadn't woken up glued him to the spot — something still had a grip on him, although it was no longer too tight. But then he heard Hannibal saying his name, and he yanked himself away, spinning around. Hannibal stood only a pace or two from him, concern creasing his brow and his hands up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, Will. I know you don't like anyone to interrupt you, but you nearly collapsed where you stood. You could've hit your head."

Will swallowed thickly. His throat felt dry and scratchy, he was covered in another layer of sweat, and his head pounded so hard in his skull that he feared it would break through and splatter all over the tile. The world tilted dangerously. He shoved past Hannibal and escaped from the apartment, down the rickety stairs and across the yard. He made it to the edge of the cemetery before he threw up.

Hannibal joined him a minute or so later, his eyes roaming over the vomit and then Will, who was shakily wiping his mouth with his hand.

"The smell," Will said. "I think it was the smell."

Hannibal mercifully didn't comment. Instead, he gently slipped his hand into Will's jacket pocket and took out the car keys. "Are you steady enough to walk?"

"Um. Maybe."

Hannibal took that as a "no" and slipped his arm through Will's. Will gripped the proffered arm with both hands, feeling too sick to protest. Hannibal helped Will into the passenger seat and then got into the driver's seat, starting up the car as he looked over the map.

"The killer," Will croaked. "He —" He cleared his throat and laid his head back, eyes closed. "It was another vigilante kill. Better planning this time. He's...he's gotten a taste for it. This won't be his last kill."

Hannibal hummed. "Jack will be delighted to hear that."

Will didn't respond; he didn't trust himself to open his mouth again.

They drove back to the hotel in silence.