Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris Read Free Book Online Page A

gardening tools, rope, a few carpenter’s tools. First Monitor set his lantern on a keg and raised his stick. He held up his bandaged hand.
    “Time to pay for this.”
    Hannibal seemed to cringe away, circling away from the light, feeling nothing he could name. First Monitor read fear and circled after him, drawn away from the light. First Monitor got a good crack on Hannibal’s thigh. The boy was at the lantern now. Hannibal picked up a sickle and blew out the light. He lay down on the floor in the darkness, gripping the sickle in both hands above his head, heard scrambling footfalls past him, swung the sickle hard through the black air, struck nothing, and heard the door close and the rattle of a chain.
    “The advantage of beating a mute is he can’t tell on you,” First Monitor said. He and Second Monitor were looking at a Delahaye parked in the gravel courtyard of the castle, a lovely example of French coachwork, horizon blue, with diplomatic flags on its front fenders, Soviet and GDR. The car was exotic in the way of pre-war French cars, voluptuous to eyes accustomed to square tanks and jeeps. First Monitor wanted to scratch “fuck” in the side of the car with his knife, but the driver was big and watchful.
    From the stable Hannibal saw the car arrive. He did not run to it. He watched his uncle go into the castle with a Soviet officer.
    Hannibal put his hand flat against Cesar’s cheek. The long face turned to him, crunching oats. The Soviet groom was taking good care of him. Hannibal rubbed the horse’s neck and put his face close to theturning ear, but no sound came out of his mouth. He kissed the horse between the eyes. At the back of the hayloft, hanging in the space between double walls, were his father’s binoculars. He hung them around his neck and crossed the beaten parade ground.
    Second Monitor was looking for him from the steps. Hannibal’s few possessions were stuffed in a bag.

13
    WATCHING FROM HEADMASTER’S window, Robert Lecter saw his driver buy a small sausage and a piece of bread from the cook for a pack of cigarettes. Robert Lecter was actually Count Lecter now, with his brother presumed dead. He was already accustomed to the title, having used it illegitimately for years.
    Headmaster did not count the money but shoved it into a breast pocket, with a glance at Colonel Timka.
    “Count, eh, Comrade Lecter, I just want to tell you I saw two of your paintings at the Catherine Palace before the war, and there were some photos published in
Gorn
. I admire your work enormously.”
    Count Lecter nodded. “Thank you, Headmaster. Hannibal’s sister, what do you know?”
    “A baby picture is not much help,” Headmaster said.
    “We’re circulating it to the orphanages,” Colonel Timka said. He wore the uniform of the Soviet Border Police and his steel-rimmed spectacles winked in concert with his steel dentition. “It takes time. There are so many.”
    “And I must tell you, Comrade Lecter, the forest is full of … remains still unidentified,” Headmaster added.
    “Hannibal has never said a word?” Count Lecter said.
    “Not to me. Physically he is capable of speech— he screams his sister’s name in his sleep. Mischa. Mischa.” Headmaster paused as he thought how to put it. “Comrade Lecter, I would be … careful with Hannibal until you know him better. It might be best if he did not play with other boys until he’s settled. Someone always gets hurt.”
    “He’s not a bully?”
    “It’s the bullies who get injured. Hannibal does not observe the pecking order. They’re always bigger and he hurts them very quickly and sometimes severely. Hannibal can be dangerous to persons larger than himself. He’s fine with the little ones. Lets them tease him a little. Some of them think he’s deaf as well as mute and say in front of him that he’s crazy. He gives them his treats, on the rare occasions there are any treats.”
    Colonel Timka looked at his watch. “We need to go. Shall I