Betrayal II
by elfin


The underground parking garage was empty except for one car.

Next to the Ford, its driver lay on the hard, rough floor.

Above him, a dark man wearing a black coat kicked him again and again, silent and uncaring as he listened with distant fascination to his victim's cries.

A sound between a sob and a scream was forced from the weaker man's throat as a foot landed hard in his chest.  Already broken ribs cracked further under the pressure.

Curling into a painful ball, he rolled, trying to get away from his attacker.  But the heavy boot followed him, bruising the top of his thighs with another hard blow.

Feeling the man step over him, he started to form a plea on his lips.  But the words were choked off by a sudden, intense pain in his groin and he looked up into the dark with unseeing eyes.

A heartbeat later, the boot connected with his chin and his head snapped back, skull hitting the concrete floor with a crack.

Everything went black a second before he threw up.

*
 
Dr Carlton, Dr Chilton's replacement since the doctor had vanished without a trace, rested against the toughened glass of Lecter's cell and regarded him with cruel amusement.

"Was this you?  Did you do this?"

Lying on his mattress, arms folded across his chest in a parody of a vampire, Lecter let out a deep breath.

"Exactly what do you believe me capable of locked down here?" he asked calmly.

"Graham's disappearance.  It's been several days now and the FBI's no where near an idea about where he might be, or who might be holding him.  They don't even know if he's still alive.  Or if he's missing any more... body parts."

In a way, Lecter hated Carlton more than he'd hated Chilton.  Chilton had been a mere annoyance.  Carlton was a mean son-of-a-bitch.  He disliked everyone and had a vicious streak a mile wide.  He wasn't fascinated by Lecter professionally, but personally.  Hannibal had come to realise, very early in their acquaintance, that Carlton got off on the idea of imprisonment, of restraint and of some imagined ownership of those under his 'care'.

Lecter was already planning on eating as much of him as he could get his teeth into in the very near future.

But at the moment he had other concerns. 

Will Graham.

He'd vanished from the Toronto Museum parking garage six days ago.  His car had been found unlocked, and next to the keys on the ground forensics had identified several spots of blood that matched Graham's type.

None of this had come to Lecter as any great surprise.

Graham had been abducted and taken to a small, remote place about two hours north of Toronto.  He had been dropped bodily into an underground bunker and sealed inside.

Every twelve hours, a loaf of bread and a bag of ice would be thrown down into the same narrow shaft he'd been forced down.  If he approached the base of the shaft while the hatch was open, he would be hit with a jet of ice-cold water, strong enough to knock him off his feet.

The hatch opening at noon was the only light he saw, and if he'd been resourceful, he'd have used those precious seconds to get an idea as to the extent of his prison.

A chemical toilet in one corner flushed out to a septic tank that was emptied frequently.  Along the opposite wall, a hard mattress would be his bed.  These were the only things in the seven-foot by ten-foot bunker.

Hannibal knew this because he'd bought the bunker many years ago from a friend who'd had an interest in Canadian land development.

He knew Graham was there, because he'd arranged for him to spend some time contemplating his betrayal of Lecter.

What had come as something of a surprised was when the top of a man's little finger had been sent to him by FedEx.  He'd been so concerned he'd handed it over to Jack Crawford - he'd insisted on Crawford - for analysis.  Again, blood type matched Graham's.  And this time, so did the print.

When Crawford had come back personally to give him the results, the seasoned FBI agent had been as pale as the sheets on Lecter's mattress.  He'd pleaded with Lecter to tell him where Graham was, who had him, what he wanted in return.  But Lecter had turned from him, and he'd had to leave.

Now, Dr Carlton was trying to goad him but he wasn't really listening.  He'd had years of experience in tuning out unwanted noise.  Physical damage to Graham had not been a part of the deal, above and beyond what it took to get him out to the bunker in the first place.

Yet the finger - that mutilation - was evidence that more interaction had occurred than originally agreed.

Something Carlton said penetrated his ears and he sat up, rather too quickly.

"Clarice Starling?"

"Yes," the man seemed bored now, "she's outside, asking to talk to you."  He pushed off the glass.  "Well?"

"I'll speak to her."

Carlton smiled obscenely and winked.  "Thought you might."


To see her again touched him more than he'd imagined it would, but her appearance meant that the FBI was very concerned and it notched his own worry up slightly.

"Clarice," he smiled as he murmured her name.  "It's been too long.  Do what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

She didn't hesitate.  "Where's Will?"

He raised his eyebrows.  "Will?"

"Will Graham, the man you've had abducted and possibly even killed.  Where is he, Dr Lecter?  Where's his corpse?"

There was a stony hatred in her eyes, one that hadn't been there even the first time she'd faced him.

The effort it took to keep his neutral expression surprised him.  "I don't know what you're talking about, Clarice.  I had nothing to do with ex-Special Agent Graham's disappearance."

"Really?  He's put you here twice.  It makes sense you'd want your revenge, Dr Lecter."

Revenge.  The word sat uneasily with him.  He'd imagined himself above all that.  He was teaching Graham a lesson, that was all.  He'd given specific instructions for Graham to be released after seven days.  A man could easily survive those conditions for that length of time.  Physically, at least.  As long as he didn't chose to end his suffering prematurely.

But now, Graham had an open wound.  If left to fester, if not properly treated, it would become septic and would quickly start to leak poison into his system.  He'd been dying, if not dead when the hatch was opened for the last time and he was freed.

"Dr Lecter?"

He blinked.  "Pardon me, Clarice.  My mind... wandered for a minute."

"Your mind never wonders, Dr Lecter.  Are you thinking about him?  What you've done to him?"

"Why all the concern?  Or is this Jack Crawford asking the questions?"

But she had her teeth in and she wasn't about to let go.  "Tell me where they have him.  Don't do this to him."

"For the last time," he spoke in measured tones, "I don't know where he is."

"Bullshit!"  Turning she smacked her palm against the thick glass.  "He trusted you, you son-of-a-bitch, God alone knows why, but he did!"

"And I trusted him!"  His suddenly raised voice surprised them both, and he took a deep breath before continuing.  "I thought because he'd let me fuck him he wouldn't betray me."  There was still venom in his now quiet tone.  "I was wrong."

He didn't miss her expression, her shock at his words. 

She stared at him.  Graham had caught him a second time but at what price?  What the hell was it between them that kept them hurting one another over and over?

"I don't know where he is," Lecter stated slowly.  "I didn't have anything to do with this."

*

There was barely hidden repulsion in the newsreader's expression when she turned to the second top story of the morning.

"The FBI has matched the DNA of semen and excrement sent to their headquarters yesterday as coming from ex-Special Agent William Graham, who vanished eight days ago. 

Graham, whose notoriety comes from having been the man to capture Hannibal the Cannibal, twice, was feared dead before this development.  But forensic scientists say that he is still alive, or was when the samples were taken. 

The meaning of the gesture, though, is still unknown, and the FBI are asking for anyone who might know anything of Graham's whereabouts to come forward."

Lecter tuned out the rest of the broadcast.  Starling had ordered the television to be left on the news channel outside Lecter's cell, twenty-four hours a day. 

He knew that she was hoping the constant updates on the complete lack of the FBI's progress in finding Graham would lead Hannibal to tell them where he was.  She was convinced he knew.

Until this morning, it hadn't made any impact.  But he'd expected news of Graham' release.  He was sure now that this new thing with the bodily fluid samples meant the men he'd hired weren't going to stick to the plan.

Admitting he knew would bring the same dreary punishments - his drawings and his books would be taken from him, mattress and toilet seat removed.  Petty things that had never bothered him and never would.

It was easy, then, to weigh the punishments against the idea of losing Will Graham forever.  Will was the only person he'd ever truly loved.  Hannibal even understood the betrayal in an odd way.

Turning, he hurled himself at the glass of his cell and started to bang his fists on it until Barney came running as best he could along the stone corridor.

"I have to see Clarice," Lecter hissed urgently, "get her here now!"  Barney's eyes widened.  He knew what was going on.  "Get her here!"

Barney nodded in jerks and turned, running back, shouting at his colleagues at the other end of the corridor.


Less than fifteen minutes later, Clarice was standing before the glass, panting softly, shirt hanging out over her trousers, FBI jacket hanging off her shoulders.

"Where is he, Dr Lecter?" she gasped, hands on the glass, all protocol gone.

"Before I tell you, I need one thing."

"Tell me!"  She was instantly outraged, vindicated in her belief that she'd been right about his involvement.

"No.  Not until you've answered my one question."

She took a deep, calming breath.  "Ask, then."

"When I told you about Will letting me fuck him, were you jealous?"

She stared in disbelief.  "What?"

"Will's life is on the line, Clarice, how much time do you have to play?"

"All right!  Yes.  I was....  I don't know why...."

"Thank you."  He gave her specific, exact directions to the bunker north of Toronto, and as he spoke, she relayed the instructions via cell phone to the local cops and the FBI.

*

It was pitch black when they opened the hatch.  The stink coming from the chemical toilet was appalling.  They hoped that was all it was.

Starling shone her torch into the hole in the ground.

"Will?  FBI, Clarice Starling."  The floor was only eight feet down, and she dropped the distance, crouching as she landed.  "Will?"

Shining the strong beam around the dark prison, she found him.

"Will?"  Upwards, she shouted, "I've found him!  Get some medics down here!"

Crossing the cramped space, she knelt on the edge of the mattress on which he was seated, curled into the corner, knees pulled up under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs.  His head was slumped forward, eyes open and staring.  He was completely still, even when her fingertips pressed into this throat to find a pulse.

Relieved when she found one, strong albeit not too steady, she pushed her fingers up into his dirty, greasy hair.

"It's okay, Will.  You're safe now."

He didn't give any indication that he even knew that she was there.

Two medics dropped down into the bunker, bringing with them two large torches each that they arranged in a semi-circle to give themselves light enough in which to work.

First thing into Will's body was the long needle of an IV valve, into which they plugged a saline drip that they got Clarice to hold. 

Next on the agenda was his injured left hand.  It had been crudely dressed, but the white bandage was caked in dried blood.

"Okay, let's take a look at this hand."  Drawing it away from Will's legs, one of the medics removed the old bandage and cleaned up his little finger.

The top had been sliced off at the first joint, below the nail.  It was a clean cut.  There was obvious infection, but at the hospital they'd give him a shot of antibiotics.

They dressed it again and went in search of other injuries while being as non-invasive as possible.

After half an hour, they man-handled an unresponsive Graham out of the bunker.  Above ground, Clarice watched as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance.

His eyes were open, and once left alone, he curled himself into a ball on the gurney and stared out from behind dead eyes.

A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, over his leather jacket and the warm grey sweater he'd luckily been wearing when he'd been taken. 

Clarice sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the edges of the blanket around him. "Will?  We're going to get you to a hospital, okay?"  Nothing.  He was barely breathing.

A couple of minutes later, the ambulance started off for the nearest hospital at the centre of a convoy of police cars, sirens and lights.  Buried somewhere deep in his own mind, Will was hiding away from a world that had finally become too painful to bear.


elfin

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