Fortune's Fool (Hannibal Fanfiction)

XII: Fevers and Fair Grounds

Hannibal took a different route back to the hotel than Will would have, following Route 90 onto Interstate 610 and taking it into Metairie where it merged with Interstate 10. If Will had had the energy, he would've told Hannibal that he should've turned onto Interstate 10 much earlier, because his current route was very inefficient. Instead, Will pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to quell the nausea that still roiled in him. The scenery flashing past didn't help with his queasiness, but he didn't want to close his eyes. He could still hear the echo of the maliciously gleeful voice in his head saying "we're just alike," and he didn't trust his grip on reality enough to sleep.

However, as they drove down Interstate 610, something about the area pinged Will's brain as familiar. The feeling strengthened until they passed along a bridge over the Bayou St. John and Will caught sight of a small green sign: CITY PARK.

He was immediately flooded with memories. If they were passing City Park, then they must be close to the Fair Grounds. Will had been to the Fair Grounds only a few times, but each time was vivid in his memory. On the rare occasion that his father had had any extra money, he would take Will there as a treat. It wasn't until much later that Will realized that his father had a gambling problem and that he had been using Will as an excuse to gamble at the race course slot machines, but he tried not to let that soil the good memories he had.

In the summer, the Fair Grounds had horse races and jazz festivals; in the autumn, it had the annual traveling carnival. Will could never afford entry to the races or festivals, so he had always spent those afternoons wandering the nearby cemetery. But the carnival had been free. Sometimes he would have enough change to buy funnel cake or cotton candy or take a ride around the Ferris wheel. Will's chest ached from nostalgia, and he closed his eyes to ward off the pain. As soon as he did, the thought came unbidden: the killer would enjoy the carnival. He opened his eyes. Fuck, he didn't have the energy for this right now.

Thankfully, City Park passed in a matter of minutes, as did his nostalgia. Will kept his forehead pressed against the window in a desperate attempt to feel less feverish. Any other time, he would've been hyper-aware of Hannibal's concerned glances in his direction, but if Hannibal was doing so now, Will was oblivious. Getting to the hotel so that he could finish his breakdown in peace was his only priority.

Eventually, they reached the hotel and parked. Hannibal came around to the passenger side and opened the door for Will, holding out his arm as if...well, as if he were a Victorian gentleman and Will were the lady he wanted to woo. I'm really losing it if that's what came to mind, Will thought, a little hysterically, but he took Hannibal's arm, anyway.

He was so focused on not falling over while also not leaning too heavily on Hannibal — Christ, how did he manage to still smell good after they'd been trekking around crime scenes all day? — that he didn't catch the reaction of the desk clerk as they passed by, if there was one. The tiny part of Will that was still coherent derived pleasure from how uncomfortable the prejudiced old man would be by their proximity. It served him right, really.

When they reached their rooms, Hannibal slipped the rental car keys back into Will's jacket pocket and asked, "Where is your room key?"

Will shook his head even as he gripped Hannibal's arm tighter to keep from getting too dizzy. "You don't have to. I'm good from here."

He could feel Hannibal's arm muscles moving under his fingers as the older man glanced at him. "Are you sure?"

Will wasn't sure, but he forced a "yes" from his lips and let go of Hannibal's arm.

If Hannibal was skeptical, he kept it to himself. Instead, he said, "Drink plenty of water and lay down. Rest will do you some good," and stepped away from Will.

After fumbling with his room key, Will closed his door behind him with a loud snap. Relief washed over him. He was finally alone. He kicked off his shoes, chugged a glass of water and some aspirin, and then flopped onto his bed, too exhausted to change clothes.

This fucking case couldn't end soon enough.

Will was still unsure about closing his eyes, but Hannibal was probably right that he needed to rest. He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. A headache throbbed incessantly at his temples. He considered crawling under the sheets, but the room felt burning hot. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and pressed his face to a cool part of the sheets with a whimper.

He must have dozed off eventually, because the next thing he knew, he was walking through the old cemetery by the Fair Grounds. The sun was hot and high in the sky, but dark clouds lurked on the horizon, promising a storm. Will kicked at the crumbling ground with scuffed tennis shoes. Jazz wafted on the breeze from the music fest he didn't have money for, and he wrapped his hand around the loose change in his pocket and squeezed until it hurt, until the metal bit into the palm of his hand.

The cemetery's old tombs were ostentatious and intimidating in their grandeur, carved out of marble or weathered stone. Ahead was the tomb he remembered most vividly: while the rest had bare crosses or winged angels mounted on the roofs, this vault had a towering cross on which a figure of Jesus hung, his face contorted in pain, a crown of thorns on his head, and blood dripping from the gash in his abdomen. Will could imagine his marble chest heaving as he slowly suffocated, every rib starkly visible from starvation.

His father didn't take them to church regularly, but the memories that Will retained from their infrequent visits were hazy and unpleasant: sweating profusely in dress clothes that were several sizes too big or too small for him; muggy air made all the worse by the closed windows and congregation packed into the sanctuary like sardines; an old, white preacher pounding the pulpit with his fist as he yelled about hellfire and damnation. Mounted above the altar was a larger-than-life stone depiction of Jesus in agony on the cross, glorified for all to see. "The Passion," they called it.

Will would always remember the twisted face of pain, and how the parishioners around him never spared so much as a second glance at the portrayal of pure agony hanging on display.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as he approached the tomb. It was so tall that Will had to crane his neck to see the top of the cross. If he dared to climb the steps up to the entrance of the vault, he still wouldn't be able to reach Jesus's bony feet. Maybe that was a deliberate design choice; maybe he was supposed to ignore his suffering, just like the adults in his congregation did. Or were they unable to truly see the human being on the cross and understand his pain? Was the body on the cross no more than a body to them?

Will took another step forward but was distracted by something to the right of the tomb. Where another stone vault should be, there was a gaping hole in the ground. He could've sworn it wasn't there a moment before. Nobody buried their dead in New Orleans — at least, nobody who wanted their dead to stay buried during flooding season.

The hole stretched so deep that the bottom was not visible, fading into a menacing pitch black maw. Will stepped forward but froze near the edge. Planted into the hard ground next to the hole was a stone plaque.

Engraved into it were the words Will Graham, 1975-2010.

Will stumbled backwards, turned, and ran.

The sky was completely clouded over now as he weaved between the old stone tombs and sprinted for the Fair Grounds. The thunder rumbled much closer now. The jazz fest was gone, replaced by the thin spokes of a Ferris wheel silhouetted against a lightning-jagged sky and colorful pop-up tents flapping in the breeze. The whole place was empty.

No matter how hard Will pushed his legs, he felt as if he were running through molasses. There was no one around to help him. He was alone. Desperate for an escape, he ducked into the dark doorway of a nearby tent just as another peal of thunder rumbled overhead and the sky let loose a downpour of rain.

Then something grabbed him.

Will jolted upright in bed, clutching his chest. The fabric of his shirt was wet under his fingertips. He climbed out of bed on shaky limbs and downed another glass of water from the bathroom sink. In the mirror, his reflection looked back at him, pale, sweaty, and wan.

Only one thing echoed through his nightmare-jumbled head on repeat:

The killer would like the carnival.