Hannibal Rising

by Thomas Harris

  The lights of Nemours dimming behind him, flat country now, and only the darkness ahead, the details of the gravel and the weeds absurdly sharp, insistent in his headlight, and the dark ahead swallowed up the yellow beam. He wondered if he joined the canal too far south—was the boat behind him?

  He stopped and turned off his lights, to sit in darkness and decide, the motorcycle shivering under him.

  Far ahead, far into the dark, it appeared that two little houses moved in tandem across the meadow, deckhouses just visible above the banks of the Canal de Loing.

  Vladis Grutas’ houseboat was wonderfully quiet as it motored southward sending a soft ripple against the sides of the canal, cows asleep in the fields on both sides. Mueller, nursing stitches in his thigh, sat in a canvas chair on the foredeck, a shotgun propped against the railing of the companionway beside him. At the stern, Gassmann opened a locker and took out some canvas fenders.

  Three hundred meters back, Hannibal slowed, the BMW burbling along, weeds brushing his shins. He stopped and took his father’s field glasses from the saddlebag. He could not read the name of the boat in the darkness.

  Only the boat’s running lights showed and the glow from behind the window curtains. Here the canal was too wide to be sure of making a jump onto the deck.

  From the bank he might be able to hit the captain in the wheelhouse with the pistol—he could surely drive him from the helm—but then the boat would be alerted, he would have to face them all at once as he came aboard. They could be coming from both ends at once. He could see a covered companionway at the stern and a dark lump near the bow that was probably another entrance to the lower deck.

  The binnacle light glowed in the wheelhouse windows near the stern, but he could not make out anyone inside. He needed to get ahead of them. The towpath was close beside the water and the fields too rough for a detour.

  Hannibal rode past the canal boat on the towpath, feeling his side toward the boat tingling. A glance at the boat. Gassmann on the stern was pulling canvas fenders out of a locker. He looked up as the motorcycle passed. Moths fluttered above a cabin skylight.

  Hannibal held himself to a moderate pace. A kilometer ahead he saw the lights of a car crossing the canal.

  The Loing narrowed to a lock not more than twice the beam of a canal boat. The lock was integral with a stone bridge, its upstream doors set into the stone arch, the lock’s enclosure like a box beyond the bridge, not much longer than the Christabel.

  Hannibal turned left along the bridge road in case the boat captain was watching him and drove a hundred yards. He turned off his lights, turned around and returned near the bridge, putting the motorcycle in brush beside the road. He walked forward in the dark.

  A few rowboats were upside down on the canal bank. Hannibal sat on the ground among them and peered over the hulls at the boat coming on, still a half-kilometer away. It was very dark. He could hear a radio in a small house at the far end of the bridge, probably the house of the lockkeeper. He buttoned the pistol into the pocket of his jacket.

  The tiny running lights of the canal boat came very slowly the red portside light toward him and behind it the high white light on a folding mast above the cabin. The boat would have to stop and lower itself a meter in the lock. He lay beside the canal, weeds all around him. It was too early in the year for the crickets to sing.

  Waiting as the canal boat came, slowly slowly. Time to think. Part of what he did at Kolnas’ café was unpleasant to remember: It was difficult to spare Kolnas’ life even for that short time, and distasteful to allow him to speak. Good, the crunch he felt in his hand when the tanto blade broke out the top of Kolnas’ skull like a little horn. More satisfying than Milko. Good things to enjoy: the Pythagorean proof with tiles, tearing off Dortlich’s head. Much to look forward to: He would invite Lady Murasaki for the jugged hare at Restaurant Champs de Mars. Hannibal was calm. His pulse was 72.

  Dark beside the lock, and the sky clear and frosted with stars. The mast light of the canal boat should just be among the low stars when the boat reached the lock.

  It had not quite reached the low stars when the mast folded back, the light like a falling star descending in an arc. Hannibal saw the filament glow in the boat’s big searchlight and flung himself down as the light gathered its beam and swept over him to the gates of the lock and the horn of the canal boat sounded. A light came on in the lockkeeper’s cabin and in less than a minute the man was outside pulling on his galluses. Hannibal screwed the silencer onto Milko’s gun.

  Vladis Grutas came up the front companionway and stood on the deck. He stretched and threw a cigarette into the water. He said something to Mueller and put the shotgun on the deck among the planters, out of sight of the lockkeeper, and went below again.

  Gassmann at the stern put out fenders and readied his line. The upstream lock doors stood open. The lockkeeper went into his booth beside the canal and turned on bollard lights at each end of the lock. The canal boat slid under the bridge into the lock, the captain reversing his engine to stop. At the sound of the motor, Hannibal sprinted onto the bridge in a low crouch, keeping below the stone railing.

  He looked down into the boat as it slid beneath him, down on the deck and through the skylights. Skylight sliding under, a glimpse of Lady Murasaki bound to a chair, visible only for an instant from directly above.

  It took about ten minutes to equalize the level of the water with the downstream side, the heavy doors rumbling open, Gassmann and Mueller gathering in the lines. The lockkeeper turned back toward his house. The captain advanced the throttle and the water boiled behind the canal boat.

  Hannibal leaned over the railing. At a range of two feet he shot Gassmann in the top of the head, up on the railing now and jumping, landing on Gassmann and rolling to the deck. The captain felt the thud of Gassmann falling, and looked first to the stern lines, saw they were clear.

  Hannibal tried the stern companionway door. Locked.

  The captain leaned out of the wheelhouse. “Gassmann?”

  Hannibal crouched beside the body on the stern, patted the waist. Gassmann was not armed. Hannibal would have to pass the wheelhouse to go forward, and Mueller was on the bow. He went forward on the right side. The captain came out of the wheelhouse on the left and saw Gassmann sprawled there, his head leaking into the scuppers.

  Hannibal scuttling forward fast, bent over beside the low deck cabins.

  He felt the boat go into neutral, and running now he heard a gun go off behind him, the bullet screaming off a stanchion and fragments stinging his shoulder. He turned and saw the captain duck behind the aft cabin. Near the forward companionway a tattooed hand and arm were visible for a second, grabbing the shotgun from beneath the bushes. Hannibal fired to no effect. His upper arm felt hot and wet. He ducked between the two deck cabins and out onto the portside deck, running forward low, up beside the forward cabin to the foredeck, Mueller crouched on the foredeck, standing when he heard Hannibal, swinging the shotgun, the muzzle hitting the corner of the companionway for a half-instant, swinging again, and Hannibal shot him four times in the chest as fast as he could pull the trigger, the shotgun going off blowing a ragged hole in the woodwork beside the companionway door. Mueller staggered and looked at his chest, collapsed backward and sat dead against the railing. The companionway door was unlocked. Hannibal went down the stairs and locked the door behind him.

  At the stern, the captain, crouched on the after-deck beside Gassmann’s body, fumbled in his pocket for the keys.

  Fast down the stairs and along the narrow passage of the lower deck. He looked into the first cabin, empty, nothing but cots and chains. He slammed open the second door, saw Lady Murasaki tied to the chair and rushed to her. Grutas shot Hannibal in the back from behind the door, the bullet striking between his shoulder blades and he went down on his back, blood spreading from under him.

  Grutas smiled and came to him. He put his pistol under Hannibal’s chin and patted him down. He kicked Hannibal’s gun
away. Grutas took a stiletto from his belt and poked the tip into Hannibal’s legs. They did not move.

  “Shot in the spine, my little Mannlein,” Grutas said. “Can’t feel your legs? Too bad. You won’t feel it when I cut off your balls.” Grutas smiled at Lady Murasaki. “I’ll make you a coin purse to keep your tips.”

  Hannibal’s eyes opened.

  “You can see?” Grutas wagged the long blade before Hannibal’s face. “Excellent! Look at this.” Grutas stood before Lady Murasaki and trailed the point lightly down her cheek, barely dimpling the skin. “I can put some color in her cheeks.” He drove the stiletto into the back of the chair beside her head. “I can make some new places for sex.”

  Lady Murasaki said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on Hannibal. His fingers twitched, his hand moved slightly toward his head. His eyes moved from Lady Murasaki to Grutas and back again. Lady Murasaki looked up at Grutas, excitement in her face along with anguish. She could be as beautiful as she chose to be. Grutas bent and kissed her hard, cutting her lips against her teeth, his face crushed over hers, his hard empty face paling, his pale eyes unblinking as he groped inside her blouse.

  Hannibal got his hand behind his head, pulled from behind his collar the tanto knife, bloody, bent and dimpled by Grutas’ bullet.

  Grutas blinked, his face convulsed in agony, his ankles buckled and he fell hamstrung, Hannibal twisting from under him. Lady Murasaki, her ankles bound together, kicked Grutas in the head. He tried to raise his gun, but Hannibal seized the barrel, twisting up, the gun went off and Hannibal slashed Grutas’ wrist, the gun falling away and sliding on the floor. Grutas crawled toward the gun, pulling himself on his elbows, then up on his knees, knee-walking, and falling again, pulling himself on his elbows like a broken-backed animal in the road. Hannibal cut Lady Murasaki’s arms free and she jerked the stiletto out of the back of the chair to cut free her ankles and moved into the corner beside the door. Hannibal, his back bloody, cut Grutas off from the gun.

  Grutas stopped and on his knees he faced Hannibal. An eerie calm came over him. He looked up at Hannibal with his pale Arctic eyes.

  “Together we sail deathward,” Grutas said. “Me, you, the stepmother that you fuck, the men you have killed.”

  “They were not men.”

  “What did Dortlich taste like, a fish? Did you eat Milko too?”

  Lady Murasaki spoke from the corner. “Hannibal, if Popil takes Grutas he may not take you. Hannibal, be with me. Give him to Popil.”

  “He ate my sister.”

  “So did you,” Grutas said. “Why don’t you kill yourself?”

  “No. That’s a lie.”

  “Oh, you did. Kindly Pot Watcher fed her to you in the broth. You have to kill everyone who knows it, don’t you? Now that your woman knows it, you really should kill her too.”

  Hannibal’s hands are over his ears, holding the bloody knife. He turns to Lady Murasaki, searching her face, goes to her and holds her against him.

  “No, Hannibal. It’s a lie,” she said. “Give him to Popil.”

  Grutas scuttled toward the gun, talking, talking. “You ate her, half-conscious, your lips were greedy around the spoon.”

  Hannibal screamed at the ceiling, “NOOOOO!” and ran to Grutas raising the knife, stepped on the gun and slashed an “M” the length of Grutas’ face screaming “‘M’ for Mischa! ‘M’ for Mischa! ‘M’ for Mischa,” Grutas backward on the floor and Hannibal cutting great “M”s in him.

  A cry from behind him. Dimly in the red mist a gunshot. Hannibal felt the muzzle blast above him. He did not know if he was hit. He turned. The captain stood behind him, his back to Lady Murasaki, the handle of the stiletto standing behind his clavicle, the blade through his aorta; the gun slipped from the captain’s fingers and he pitched forward on his face.

  Hannibal weaving on his feet, his face a mask of red. Lady Murasaki closed her eyes. She was shaking.

  “Are you hit?” he said.

  “No.”

  “I love you, Lady Murasaki,” he said. He went to her.

  She opened her eyes and held his bloody hands away.

  “What is left in you to love?” she said and ran from the cabin, up the companionway and over the rail in a clean dive into the canal.

  The boat bumped gently along the edge of the canal.

  On the Christabel, Hannibal was alone with the dead, their regard fast glazing. Mueller and Gassmann are belowdecks now, at the foot of the companionways. Grutas, herringboned with red, lies in the cabin where he died. Each of them holds in his arms a Panzerfaust like a big-headed doll. Hannibal took from the arms rack the final Panzerfaust and lashed it down in the engine room, its fat anti-tank missile two feet from the fuel tank. From the boat’s ground tackle he took a grapnel and tied the line around the top-mounted trigger of the Panzerfaust. He stood on deck with the grapnel hook in his hand as the boat inched along, bumping gently against the stone border of the canal. From the deck he could see flashlights on the bridge. He heard yelling and a dog was barking.

  He dropped the hook into the water. The line snaked slowly over the side as Hannibal stepped onto the bank and set off across the fields. He did not look back. At four hundred meters the explosion came. He felt the shock wave on his back and the pressure rolled over him with the noise. A piece of metal landed in the field behind him. The boat blazed fiercely in the canal and a column of sparks rose into the sky, whipped into spirals by the fire’s draft. More explosions blew the burning timbers wheeling into the sky as the charges in the other Panzerfausts went off.

  From a mile distant he saw the flashing lights of police cars at the lock. He did not go back. He walked across the fields and they found him at daylight.

  57

  THE EAST WINDOWS at Paris police headquarters during the warm months were crowded at breakfast time with young policemen hoping to see Simone Signoret take coffee on her terrace in the nearby Place Dauphin.

  Inspector Popil worked at his desk, not looking up even when the actress’s terrace doors were reported to be opening, and remained undisturbed at the groaning when only the housekeeper came out to water the plants.

  His window was open and he could hear faintly the Communist demonstration on the Quai des Orfèvres and the Pont Neuf. The demonstrators were mostly students, chanting “Free Hannibal, Free Hannibal.” They carried placards reading DEATH TO FASCISM and demanding the immediate release of Hannibal Lecter, who had become a minor cause célèbre. Letters in L’Humanité and Le Canard Enchaîné defended him and Le Canard ran a photo of the burning wreckage of the Christabel with the caption “Cannibals Cooked.”

  A moving childhood reminiscence of the benefits of collectivization ran in L’Humanité as well, in a piece under Hannibal’s own byline, smuggled out of the jail, further bolstering his Communist supporters. He would have written as readily for the extreme right fringe publications, but the rightists were out of fashion and could not demonstrate on his behalf.

  Before Popil was a memorandum from the public prosecutor asking what could positively be proved against Hannibal Lecter. In the spirit of retribution, l’épuration sauvage, remaining from the war, a conviction for the murder of fascists and war criminals would have to be airtight and, even justified, it would be politically unpopular.

  The murder of the butcher Paul Momund was years ago, and the evidence consisted of the smell of oil of cloves, the prosecutor pointed out. Would it help to detain the woman Murasaki? Might she have colluded? the prosecutor asked. Inspector Popil advised against the detention of the woman Murasaki.

  The exact circumstances surrounding the death of the restaurateur Kolnas, or Cryto-Fascist Restaurateur and Black-Marketeer Kolnas, as he was known in the papers, could not be determined. Yes, there was a hole of unknown origin in the top of his skull and his tongue and hard palate were pierced by persons unknown. He had fired a revolver, as a paraffin test proved.

  The dead men in the canal boat were reduced to grease and soot. They were known to be
kidnappers and white slavers. Was not a van recovered containing two captive women, by dint of a license number provided by the woman Murasaki?

  The young man had no criminal record. He led his class at medical school.

  Inspector Popil looked at his watch and went down the corridor to Audition 3, the best of the interrogation rooms because it received some sunlight and the graffiti had been painted over with thick white paint. A guard stood outside the door. Popil nodded to the guard and he pulled the bolt to admit him. Hannibal sat at the bare table in the center of the room. His ankle was shackled to the table leg and his wrists to a ring in the table.

  “Take off the iron,” Popil told the guard.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” Hannibal said.

  “She’s here,” Popil said. “Dr. Dumas and Dr. Rufin are coming back after lunch.” Popil left him alone.

  Now Hannibal could stand when Lady Murasaki came into the room.

  The door closed behind her and she reached behind her and put her hand flat on the door.

  “Are you sleeping?” she said.

  “Yes. I sleep well.”

  “Chiyoh sends her good wishes. She says she is very happy.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Her young man has graduated and they are betrothed.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased for her.”

  A pause.

  “Together they are manufacturing motor scooters, small motorcycles, in partnership with two brothers. They have made six of them. She hopes they will catch on.”

  “Surely they will—I’ll buy one myself.”

  Women pick up surveillance faster than men do, as part of their survival skills, and they at once recognize desire. They also recognize its absence. She felt the change in him. Something was missing behind his eyes.