Chapter Text
"I had now found my first friend, and so my life was truly begun."
Hannibal Lecter locks the door to his private psychotherapy office and walks the short distance to his home.
Ever since completing his residency in '91 he's practiced here, in the China Beach neighborhood of San Francisco where up until five months ago he'd lived with his fiancé.
He enters his house and methodically gathers last-minute items before loading them, his suitcases, and boxes of cleaning supplies into what he still considers his 'family car.'
"Our 'baby car," Roger had told him, pressing the keys into Hannibal's hand and a kiss to his lips; a symbol of new beginnings. How did I ever fall for such a cheesy line?
Hannibal pushes the ignition button and the engine purrs to life. I really should off-load this; preferably well under Blue Book. But I have to admit...the kalakutpisa knew how to pick a car... too bad he just couldn't keep his dick in his pants.
Hannibal backs out of his garage and into the street; and just like that, the cares of the week drop- away like a discarded sweater.
He's off; driving North the two hours to his vacation home, a one hundred and twenty year old house constructed of hand-hewn, old-growth redwood, painted a rich, chocolate- brown and nestled, snug as a nesting quail, in a bend of the Russian River.
Paul, its co-owner had called a couple days ago, offering him the use of the house for the long weekend.
"We can't go because of this flu. Can you? Someone needs to go and check it out; make sure nothing was damaged in the storm or "seasonal guests," Paul's favored euphemism for squatters.
The little towns closest to Hannibal's River House, had been recently slammed with massive storms, a fairly common occurrence, and the subsequent flooding had wreaked havoc on the tiny communities.
Built well above the flood plain, the house had, long before Hannibal and Paul owned it, a reputation of being an informal flophouse for locals needing a temporary place to stay until the waters receded. Paul had never felt comfortable with the arrangement, but Hannibal didn't see the harm, especially since flood victims were typically grateful as well as respectful of the venerable old place.
But an empty vacation home tends to attract its fair share of drive-by looters too, and both men agreed that those had proven troublesome.
After their first burglary, six years ago, the friends had finally followed the previous owner's advice; keep a downstairs window unlocked. If someone wants in, they'll get in, so why not avoid costly repairs?
Hopefully, if anyone's been there, they were well mannered and are long gone, Hannibal thinks as he waits to cross the Golden Gate, because I'm not thrilled about that alarm system Paul's threatening to install. Besides, there's nothing left of value since they prised-off the ivory piano keys; except maybe the chandeliers, and those weigh... what...four...maybe five hundred pounds each?
As he idles in traffic, Hannibal cues-up one of his favorite Miles Davis albums, "Live at the 1963 Monterey Jazz Festival" recorded the year he'd turned one.
He taps the steering wheel as William's lays down a beat, and the traffic begins to inch along: bridge giving way to open freeway, freeway to highway, highway to country roads.
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Its late afternoon by the time Hannibal reaches the first little village. And though the air is chill and damp, he rolls his window anyway, relishing the scents of rain-freshened redwoods and churned-up river mud.
"Where the 'sleaze meets the trees' the old-timers who remembered this place back in the fifties had joked. Created by turn of the century San Franciscans as a tourist destination, the area had fallen on hard times mid-century, until the 60's, when members of the LGTB community began a Renaissance of sorts; taking over many of the closed and failing business and breathing new life into the tiny resort towns.
Hannibal had been a child living in Lithuania at that time; a country still under the yoke of Soviet control. But Glasnost was looming on the horizon, and by the time Hannibal had graduated from university, the former Young Pioneer had decided he wanted to attend medical school in America. He applied for, and was accepted in a cultural exchange program, had kissed his family goodbye, left for UCSF and his new life and had never looked back.
He passes the Dawn Ranch Lodge and grins. This place held fond memories for him back when it was 'Fife's, a wildly popular 'gay resort' in the 80's and 90's. He and other interns and residents would drive up from The City to pass "lost weekends" and summer holidays in the rustic cabins.
Young, curious, and a stranger in a strange land, Hannibal had felt safe and nurtured there as he explored his sexuality. Exciting, halcyon days, full of good friends and laughter, even as the storm clouds of the AIDs epidemic had begun to gather and blow cold.
A feeling of ice water trickles down Hannibal's back as he thinks of That Time; when, friends, colleagues and even a former boyfriend had been struck down by a terrifying and little understood plague.
Young vigorous men, transformed, sometimes in the matter of months, into gaunt, hollowed-eyed, depleted shells of themselves.
The old, familiar nausea sweeps over Hannibal and he's tumbled headfirst into unwanted recollections: empty bars, boarded-up bath houses, false hopes, rumors and whispers of rumors, stomach churning fear waiting for test results, more tests, a government seemingly complicit in a community's suffering, Gaëtan Dugas, Ryan White, And The Band Played On...thousands upon thousands of quilt squares.
Hannibal shakes his head. Don't go back there, he cautions himself, Think about now...think about this weekend...think about food.
He drives until he spots a grocery store and stops for supplies and is pleased to see shops are already drying-out and business has returned to normal. Hannibal stows his purchases and climbs back in the car for the final leg of his journey; a quick drive through second growth forest, a bend in the road and then... he's there.
Three whole days of no calls, patients, or emails.
Heaven.
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Ten minutes later finds him pulling up to the narrow parking strip outside his river house.
Surrounded by towering redwoods, and built on a gentle slope, the house's two thousand square feet can only be experienced by walking through its floor plan. Hannibal unlocks the front door and steps directly into the purely functional kitchen, practically identical how it appeared the first time he saw it six years ago.
"Welcome gentlemen! Here is the kitchen, complete with all the modern conveniences."
Hannibal had almost laughed aloud at the ancient man's claim, though he had to admit, the kitchen would certainly qualify as 'modern' in many parts of the world.
"My Uncle Rollin ran this place as a cat house and speak easy all during the twenties and thirties; told us kids he'd won it in a card game."
After the lackluster kitchen, pushing through the swinging door and into the dining and living rooms had been a glorious revelation; Alice entering Wonderland.
Large, beautifully proportioned rooms, high, timbered ceilings, masterful carpentry and plasterwork, multi-paned casement windows which brought the outside in, manor-sized mahogany dining table, enormous Waterford crystal chandeliers.
"Holy shit!" Had been Paul's elegant response.
"Nice, huh?"
Then, with twinkle in his eye their host had asked whether they would be interested in a little wager.
"A bet?"
"Of sorts. I'm thinking, smart, young doctors such as yourselves should have no problem figuring out this home's little secret."
Feeling like characters in a novel, the friends had agreed; stalking through the house like a couple of tweed-suited detectives. They'd knocked on walls, pushed fireplace stones, tested cupboard backs, peered behind paintings and into closets. They'd scoured the whole house, but eventually had admitted defeat.
"Hee, hee, hee! Well...guess the old place's secret's still safe! Though not from lack of trying! "
"So... what is it?"
"Ah... well... that's for me... the ghosts...and the next owners to know."
"Ghosts?"
Hannibal couldn't help the thrill he'd felt from that single word, even as Paul had given him some side-eye.
"We'll take it," Hannibal had blurted impulsively; ghosts, a mysterious ' secret', Waterford chandeliers, the baby grand, a massive claw-footed bathtub, utter peace and beauty in a community he'd cherished for years?! Hannibal was smitten.
Luckily for the future of their friendship, Paul and his wife had agreed to sign-on as co-owners.
The old house was theirs.
The day after escrow closed, the seller had shown revealed "the secret."
He demonstrated how to activate an internal spring, causing a section of wall to pop open and reveal a small room.
"There you go gentleman, your very own Prohibition-era bolt hole! I call it 'The Secret Room."
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It all worked-out in the end. And the secret room has proven to be invaluable.
Hannibal closes the front door and places the groceries on the counter.
His cheerful mood ends abruptly when he sees that cupboards hang open, and dirty dishes fill the sink.
Hannibal knows neither Paul nor his guests would ever leave the kitchen in such a condition.
So...we have had a visitation. Hannibal grimaces at the dried mud on the linoleum. I wonder if they're still here? No car but they could be docked on the river. He stands still, listening intently for sounds of occupation.
Complete and profound silence.
Hannibal puts his perishable groceries away and closes the massive, old Frigidaire. He turns left and follows the muddy trail through the front bedroom and into the bathroom. Hannibal takes a quick leak and washes his hands at the Edwardian sink; separate taps for hot and cold water both of which run cold, the ancient beast of an oil heater presumably beyond the keen of modern-day squatters.
Hannibal's mood dips further when he goes to dry his hands; no towels. He turns, and feels the first flicker of actual anger when he sees the filthy condition of the bathtub.
River silt...no hot water...not ideal conditions for bathing... but they could have at least rinsed it, he grumps, wiping his hands on his slacks and continuing through to the back bedroom.
Bingo.
The twin beds are rumpled. Two of his missing towels, stiff as boards, hang at the foot of their iron frames. Hannibal half-heartedly sifts through the bedding but finds nothing to identify whom, or even how many people have been bunking here. He walks past the beds and, on a whim, into the storage room.
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He opens the door to step inside the long, narrow space, built, for some long-lost logic, behind the living room's massive stone chimney which makes-up one of its walls. The second and third walls are windows giving the room a bright, greenhouse effect.
Hannibal feels the chimney's stonework; a whisper of warmth.
As he's leaving, he trods on something.
It's a Little People figure.
He casts his eyes down and around; the bare wooden floor is littered with figurines;somebody has been putting Paul's vintage Fisher Price toys to good use. They stand lined-up and in little groups, the way a child would arrange them at play. Hannibal frowns consideringly. Nowhere had he seen signs a child had been staying here; his mind flits nonsensically to ghosts.
"Ridiculous."
He leaves everything as he found it and walks back thorough the bedroom and out the door which opens directly into the living room.
As always, he takes a moment to admire the space: smooth, painted redwood floors sprinkled here and there with threadbare Oriental rugs, vaulted ceilings, quaint Victorian rattan armchairs and couches, a baby grand piano with its now plundered ivory keyboard, the wall of windows beyond.
Hannibal walks over to gaze at the view the original paterfamilias had chosen for his family's vacation home: a wide, green U of a river thickly lined with redwoods, California buckeyes, bays, oaks, and madrones. A view, for all intents and purposes unchanged since the first family travelled here by train one hundred and twenty years ago.
Other than the rippling water, there is no other movement or signs of life. Even the other homes, strung-out along the banks like pearls on a necklace, are obscured or completely hidden by trees. Then Hannibal remembers he has a mission.
He returns to the fireplace, grabs a poker and stirs its contents; no glowing coals or retained heat. Clutching the fire iron in his hand he calls out.
"Hello! If you're still here, I'd like to meet you!"
His voice thunders across the quiet space.
Hannibal waits a beat before striding through the living room, formal dining room, and out the glass doors to the enclosed side porch. He turns and descends the steep staircase to the lower level, pausing once to listen for running feet or slamming doors; nothing.
He reaches the bottom and steps into the 'Pool Room.'
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So...this is where they spent their time.
The antique pool table's felt top is piled with clothing, garbage bags, muddy towels, and dirty dishes.
Hannibal casts his eyes around and shakes his head in disbelief; there's a full day's work here.
He walks between the pool and ping pong tables and pulls open the closet; nothing but stacks of old boating supplies and items for the beach. He checks the little recessed wet bar, bathroom, and finally the back bedroom and its closet under the stairs.
Nothing but more dirty dishes and garbage.
Well whoever was here is gone. Strange they didn't clean up or take their stuff; maybe they were scared-off?
Hannibal pulls open the deck's sliding glass and steps out into an indigo dusk and the good scents of river and forest. He breathes in bracing lungfuls and feels his spirit's lift. Okay...I can do this! Brrrrr! Time to go light the heater and start a fire. At least they didn't use up all the logs...maybe I'll barbeque that salmon in the fireplace. Hannibal goes back inside to begin his chores. He has just closed and locked the glass door when a sudden movement catches his eye. Startled, he spins, and drops the poker which crashes to the ground. What he'd assumed was an empty, discarded sleeping bag... is wiggling.
Hannibal stares in astonishment as a tiny, oval- shaped face appears and gapes up at him.