Hannibal's spectre is a tower that casts a long shade, and no matter how far Will walks in either direction, he'll never be free from its grasping influence--or able to touch its bloody masonry with his own hands, ever again. (At least, as long as he remains here in Rubilykskoye.) Jack Crawford looms just as large in the halls of his mind, veiled by guilt and regret; bedrock fractured by a sinkhole. There's no word to describe the emotion that flashes across Will's face at his name, and self-consciously he chafes a hand against his stubble, rubbing the angle of his jaw.

"Jack Crawford, christ." A beat, and then it hits him just how weird that reaction might sound. "Sorry, I just--" he clears his throat, stuffs both hands back into his pockets, "--wasn't expecting that. Hearing that name again, I mean." Hearing Hannibal's name, a whisper and a promise, in all the things that Clarice leaves unsaid. Will takes a breath and pushes on. "Anyway, um. How is he? When did you last see him?"

(Before or after Will and Hannibal left Francis Dolarhyde's butchered body for him to find on the cliffs overlooking the waters of the Atlantic?)