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The sun was barely setting and Franka’s shift at the Johns Hopkins Hospital would start in thirteen minutes. Dr. Okoniewski wanted them to start with Mr. Plenser’s naso-gastric tube.
What drew her eyes to the park on the other side of the street was the bright blue, almost neon-like, clashing with the grays and whites of the ground, the emerald shades of the trees. She narrowed her eyes, then she started running. The blue of a manual ventilation balloon. The small movements of it being pressed, and again, and again, like a tiny, magical animal struggling in the bushes and the cold grass.
She knelt by the lying man. He was flat on his back, ashen, lids shuddering over moving eyes, the tube taped to his lips, another man with him. She went for the pulse on the injured man’s neck. But she stopped and stared at the hands holding the balloon. Above, she met the eyes of Hannibal Lecter. “Ms. Marshall,” he greeted. “You still have the night shift. It’s a shame.”
She started to back away. “Dr. Lecter.” The news, the killing, the escape, older memories, all together. She swallowed. Her head went light.
“Please, come,” he said, holding her gaze. “I’ll need you to hold this.”
She hesitated. Her shaking knees fell back on the frozen ground. “How long has he been like this?”
“Thirteen hours.”
“You’ve been doing this for thirteen hours?”
“I used a portable respirator while I transported him here.” He tilted his head toward her hands. She moved them near his. She felt like stone and crystal. It was fear, if she had to guess. “If I give you instructions, you’ll remember them?”
She nodded hurriedly.
“I was able to keep him hydrated, but hyponatremia settled in. He’ll require intravenous feeding as soon as possible.”
“Trauma?”
“A blade to the chest, thigh and face. A sprained hip. He may also have aspirated sea water.” He stopped and waited until she met his eyes. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He slid his left hand off the balloon and she replaced it, then the other. Their fingers brushed. He sat back on his heels, mud clinging to the knees of his pants. She concentrated on the rhythm and did not see him making sure that everything was set. But she did notice the hand he lay flat on the man’s chest, under the thick, large coat he was wrapped into.
“Was there a decline in brain activity?”
“No. He was initially lucid.” He pulled his hand back. “His sleep simply deepened.”
She saw him put things together in a bag and brush a few pine needles from his sleeve. “Who is he?”
He watched her keenly. “He’s everything,” he said. “If you have your phone with you, I’ll save you the yelling.”
“In my coat. On the left.” He took her phone.
He went through her contacts and dialed the hospital’s front desk. It didn’t take a lot of explaining. As soon as he placed the phone down, two security guards started from the parking and sprinted to the park. Franka saw them from the corner of her eye, but kept her head down, watching her fingers press and let go, press and let go, press and let go. She also made sure not to see which way he went.
He walked for a long time. Morning had changed into day, cars filled the streets, and after a while, it was better to walk through land to avoid attention. It felt very much like floating.
During the three hours it took him to reach the BSHCI, Hannibal the greatest joy and the deepest affliction had superimposed in his mind, but, together, they felt fair and whole. When he reached the hospital, the tears had dried on his face.
Clenching his right side, he climbed the stairs to the main entrance. The guard on post there coiled slowly in his booth when he saw him. Hannibal raised his hands before the young man pulled out his gun. He was ordered not to move and he did now, then to kneel and he did. They removed his coat and yanked his arms into cufflinks.
Once he had been bound, among others, Denise Barney came out on the vast porch to see him. “Good morning, Denise,” he said. “I’d like my old accommodations back if they’re still available.”
“I’ll see what we can do,” the broad-shouldered woman answered. She nodded to Hannibal’s side. The stitches had pulled somewhat and blood now stained his shirt. “We should take care of that first.”
“If you please.”
Hannibal closed his eyes as they strapped him to the dolly and rolled him to the medical quarters. He was entirely still on the gurney as they restrained his wrists, his ankles, then his arms, his torso and his head and, finally, his mouth. His eyes grew unfocused, not because of the sedatives as much as because of the memories they brought back.
Overnight, the fever had become worse. Will was shaking in bed.
His heartbeat slowed down and Hannibal watched, pain fighting with the growing hollow devouring his mind. He didn’t call it fear.
Before he lost consciousness entirely, Will told him, “You can eat me. Once I’m dead.”
Hannibal’s hand was in Will’s hair when his head tipped back, the neck going soft. His breathing became rough and trapped. And there came the moment when Hannibal understood that Will wouldn’t die. Not exactly.