Chapter 10: THE SHRIKE FALLS
The convoy tore through Minnesota backroads at speeds that made my teeth ache from clenched jaw muscles. Three SUVs, sirens wailing, Jack Crawford's voice crackling through the radio with updates that grew more urgent by the minute.
Garret Jacob Hobbs. Pipe threader. Father. The Minnesota Shrike.
The identification had come together in a rush of converging evidence—employment records matching the construction sites, a partial fingerprint from the sixth victim, and Will Graham staring at a map with that thousand-yard focus before saying quietly, "He's local. He works with metal. The antler mounts are too precise for amateur work."
Then Crawford's phone had rung. Hobbs wasn't answering at his workplace. His wife had called in sick for him. And someone—somehow—had tipped him off.
My Danger Awareness had been humming since we'd left the FBI field office. Now, as the Hobbs residence came into view, it crescendoed into a scream.
"Blood on the porch," someone shouted.
The SUVs hadn't fully stopped before agents were spilling out, weapons drawn. I stayed back—consultant, not tactical—but close enough to see Will Graham sprinting toward the house with Jack Crawford on his heels.
A woman lay crumpled on the front steps. Dark hair, spreading crimson, eyes open and seeing nothing. Mrs. Hobbs. The Shrike's wife.
From inside the house: screaming.
Will disappeared through the front door. Gunshots followed—one, two, three, more than I could count. Each report punched through the morning air like a physical blow.
Then silence.
I moved without deciding to, crossing the lawn on legs that operated independently of conscious thought. The porch steps were slick with blood. I stepped around Mrs. Hobbs's body, noting automatically the defensive wounds on her hands, the position of her arms. She'd tried to stop him. She'd failed.
The interior was chaos. Blood spray decorated the kitchen cabinets in arterial patterns. A man lay crumpled against the counter—middle-aged, thinning hair, the soft features of someone's harmless neighbor. Garret Jacob Hobbs. Nine bullet wounds visible, probably more hidden by the body's position.
And on the floor, Will Graham knelt with his hands pressed against a teenage girl's throat.
Abigail Hobbs. Alive, barely. Her father had cut her throat before Will shot him, and now Will was the only thing keeping her blood inside her body. His hands were crimson to the wrists. His face was blank, gone somewhere far away, operating on instinct while his mind processed what he'd just done.
"Paramedics!" Jack Crawford's voice, somewhere behind me. "Get paramedics in here now!"
I stood in the doorway, watching Will hold death at bay through pure stubborn pressure, and my Scene Reading activated without permission.
Fragments: Hobbs in the kitchen, knife in hand, daughter's eyes wide with betrayal. The phone call that had sent him spiraling—warning, exposure, the end of everything. His wife trying to stop him. His daughter running. The knife catching her, dragging across her throat as Will burst through the door—
I forced the vision down, grinding my teeth against the intrusion. Not now. Will needed an anchor, not another witness to his trauma.
The paramedics arrived in a blur of equipment and shouted instructions. They pried Will's hands away from Abigail's throat, replacing his desperate pressure with professional tools. He stood slowly, movements mechanical, and stared at his blood-covered palms like they belonged to someone else.
"Will." I kept my voice low, even. "Will, look at me."
His eyes found my shoulder. That was the best he could do. I'd learned that about him—direct eye contact was an assault he couldn't defend against.
"You saved her," I said. "She's breathing because of you."
He didn't respond. His jaw worked, trying to form words that wouldn't come. Behind us, paramedics loaded Abigail onto a stretcher. Someone was covering Mrs. Hobbs with a sheet.
"We need to secure the scene," Jack said, appearing at my elbow. His voice was controlled, but I could see the cost of that control in the tension around his eyes. "Will, go with the paramedics. Make sure we get a statement from the daughter if she wakes up."
Will walked out without acknowledging the order. His footsteps left bloody prints on the hardwood.
Jack watched him go, then turned to me. "You're my scene man now. Tell me what happened here."
I walked the house carefully, staying clear of the worst contamination, letting my professional training guide me while my abilities whispered context. The kitchen told the clearest story: Hobbs had been cooking breakfast when the phone rang. The pan on the stove still held burned eggs. Whatever news that call delivered had transformed a morning routine into a murder-suicide attempt.
Someone had warned him. Someone who knew we were coming.
I filed that suspicion away for later examination and focused on the evidence I could actually document.
Three hours later, I sat in the hospital waiting room with a cup of coffee that had gone cold in my hands. Will occupied the chair across from me, showered and changed into borrowed clothes, but his eyes still held that distant quality of a man who'd left part of himself in a killer's kitchen.
Abigail was in surgery. The doctors were "cautiously optimistic," which meant they didn't know if she'd make it and didn't want to commit either way.
I didn't try to make conversation. Words would be wrong—too small for what had happened, too presumptuous for a connection we hadn't yet built. Instead, I sat with him in the silence, two men waiting to learn if a girl would live or die, and let the quiet be enough.
My phone buzzed once—a text from a number I didn't recognize. I understand Will Graham was involved in today's incident. I hope he's receiving proper support. — H.L.
Hannibal Lecter. Already circling.
I deleted the message and put my phone away.
Around hour four, a surgeon emerged with news. Abigail had survived the procedure. Significant blood loss, but the wound had missed her carotid by millimeters. She'd need extensive recovery, possible speech therapy, definite psychological support—but she was alive.
Will's shoulders dropped fractionally. The first sign of human response since we'd left the house.
"I'm going to check on her," he said, voice rough from hours of silence.
"I'll be here."
He walked toward the ICU with the careful steps of someone navigating unfamiliar terrain. I watched him disappear through the double doors and thought about the connection that had just formed. Will Graham had killed a man to save a girl, and that girl would now be the focus of his guilt, his hope, his desperate need to prove the violence had been worth something.
Hannibal would use that connection. Would cultivate it, weaponize it, turn father-figure impulses into tools for manipulation.
Unless someone else got there first.
I finished my cold coffee and went to find more. The vending machine near the elevator fought me for thirty seconds before reluctantly dispensing something that claimed to be French roast. I drank it anyway, grimacing at the burnt taste, and made plans.
The Shrike was dead. The immediate crisis was resolved. But the real game—the long game—was just beginning. Somewhere in Baltimore, Hannibal Lecter was preparing to offer Will Graham exactly the support he needed in exactly the wrong ways.
I needed to be faster. Smarter. Better positioned.
The elevator dinged. A nurse emerged, pushing an empty wheelchair. Normal hospital rhythms continuing around extraordinary events.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Jack Crawford's number. Time to discuss next steps. Time to stay close to this investigation and the damaged empath at its center.
The game board had changed. I needed to change with it.
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