Chapter Text
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Hannibal ensured recreating what occurred next was neigh impossible for future investigators.
Unfortunate that he had not had time to prepare a proper breakfast for himself and Will, but he made do. Will observed his movements with wary eyes.
The day was very warm, the sun far above drawing what little water there was from the ground. The wind was strong, ideal.
When Alana entered the house with her key, Hannibal was waiting for her. He grasped her from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth before she could cry out, neatly slitting her throat with a linoleum knife.
His only regret was that he hadn't been able to see her face while he did it, but watching Will's wide-eyed response was sweet enough, a perfect compliment to the warm spray of blood flowing down his fingers as he held his former wife's limp body in his arms in a final embrace.
He left Alana slumped on the floor of the kitchen, her hair blackened with a spreading pool of blood.
After eliminating Alana, there was little time to spare. She may have notified Freddie or Jack of her visit, and either would grow curious and concerned after a prolonged silence on her part.
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Hannibal tipped an entire bottle of oil into the rarely-used frier, filled to the rim, lighting a gas flame beneath it. It would take less than twenty minutes to arrive at the boiling point. He plugged in every electric appliance in the house, apart from the lights, which would draw neighborly attention, fixing each to the highest setting and flipping on all the switches. He kept Will close, so that the boy would not follow his example and accidentally electrocute himself.
The house rumbled, a slight odor of burning plastic pervading the air.
He ignited on the gas in the oven, shutting the door having made sure the flame was lit. He went upstairs, covering his daughter's body with her pink beanbag chair, stuffed with polystyrene foam, dragged in front of the electric fireplace where she had loved to loll before in winters past. He poured Alana's cheap alcohol over her body. Had she still been alive, the pain would have been unbearable.
Hannibal's foresight had ensured that he had already sorted out his essential possessions and papers, including impressively forged Swiss passports for himself, as Gaspard Itard, and Will as his son, Victor, a playful nod to the the Wild Child of Aveyron legend. Many years ago he had set up a Swiss bank account under this alternate name, should an occasion arise compelling him to flee the States; he had always securely siphoned a portion of his income into the Swiss account, but only recently with greater acceleration.
He carried Will and their modest luggage into the car parked in the garage, hidden from prying eyes. Hannibal briefly returned to the house, into his study, setting a match to his beloved library of priceless books, to his wastepaper basket of insignificant papers, bills and letter. He had never cared much for smoke of any kind, apart from that above a grill, but he could see the allure of pyromania, of watching drapes begin to smolder before one's very eyes.
How easily things were destroyed. He passed back through the kitchen, his former pride and joy, where the oil started to bubble. The house smelled of burning, but the fire alarms were all disabled.
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By the time the kitchen erupted, all traces of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were long gone. The dark fumes from the burning household synthetics kept the firemen from entering the house in time to retrieve the bodies intact. The bodies were molten-soft and charred almost beyond recognition, removed too late from the inferno. Alana was recognized by her melted rose-gold wedding ring, although its engraving had long since fused with her skin, which she strangely had continued to wear past her separation with her husband.
Masses of smoke billowed over the quiet, upscale slice of surburbia while neighbors clustered on their manicured lawns, peering into the flaming husk of a house.
Jack Crawford was driving to the house as the fire engines arrived, sirens blaring. His face grimly set, he watched the firemen hurry to curb the blaze as the first floor was inundated in flames. The windows had not burst yet, although the heat was extreme.
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In the first class section of a transatlantic flight, a sharp-faced, well-dressed man sipped a flute of champagne. Although he had reserved both reclining seats beside each other, the occupant of the one by the window sat curled on his lap, suckling his thumb sleepily. As he pressed a kiss to the drowsy boy's curls, the man's eyes seemed to glitter darkly with promises of raptures to come.
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