From Barnes & Noble

The Barnes & Noble Review
Twenty-five years after Thomas Harris introduced the world to one of the most memorable literary villains of all time (in 1981's Red Dragon), he revisits his signature character with a chilling prequel that chronicles the horrific childhood of Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter.

As a child growing up in Lithuania, life is blissful for young Hannibal and his little sister, Mischa, living in the majestic Castle Lecter with their loving parents. Hannibal's carefree existence, however, is turned into a living nightmare when Hitler's armies invade the Soviet Union and his family is forced to flee. After more than three years surviving in the wilderness during Hitler's bloody eastern campaign, the horror of war finally finds Hannibal, and he is forced to endure a never-ending barrage of brutality: the destruction of his home, the death of his parents, the gruesome murder of his sister at the hands of starving thugs, etc. But Hannibal's life is spared when his uncle finds him and relocates him to France. Even as he matures into an educated young man, though, the haunting images of his youth compel him to seek some kind of vengeance…

With all the hype surrounding the publication of this book, there's a significant chance that the result will fall short of readers' expectations; but Harris pulls it off with a brilliantly restrained -- and powerfully moving -- story about the transformation of a sensitive, loving, intelligent boy into a cold-blooded monster. Hard-core fans of Harris's Hannibal quartet (Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, and Hannibal) will undoubtedly enjoy this read with some fava beans and a nice Chianti… Paul Goat Allen

From the Publisher

HE IS ONE OF THE MOST HAUNTING CHARACTERS IN ALL OF LITERATURE.

AT LAST THE EVOLUTION OF HIS EVIL IS REVEALED.

Hannibal Lecter emerges from the nightmare of the Eastern Front, a boy in the snow, mute, with a chain around his neck.

He seems utterly alone, but he has brought his demons with him.

Hannibal's uncle, a noted painter, finds him in a Soviet orphanage and brings him to France, where Hannibal will live with his uncle and his uncle's beautiful and exotic wife, Lady Murasaki.

Lady Murasaki helps Hannibal to heal. With her help he flourishes, becoming the youngest person ever admitted to medical school in France.

But Hannibal's demons visit him and torment him. When he is old enough, he visits them in turn.

He discovers he has gifts beyond the academic, and in that epiphany, Hannibal Lecter becomes death's prodigy.

The Washington Post - Douglas E. Winter

Harris's writing is assured, with elegant shifts of tense and point of view; perhaps it is the focused plot or the insistently visual style that acknowledges the inevitable movie adaptation, but simply in terms of craft, Hannibal Rising is arguably the best of his novels.

Publishers Weekly

Harris returns to fiction's most famous cannibal in this prequel about the origins of the dark yet endearing villain, Hannibal Lecter. Torn from his family and ancestral home in Lithuania during World War II, Lecter witnesses the violent death of his sister, Mischa, which becomes the catalyst for his future devious behavior. Through glimpses of Lecter's early life, listeners discover how Lecter came to be such a highly educated and cultured man as well as a cold-blooded killer. While a condensed version might have worked as backstory to a larger novel, when stretched to novel length, it feels coerced and lacking in comparison to Harris's previous novels. Unfortunately, Harris's reading of the novel further hurts the story. Every "Hannibal" comes out as "Annibal" and Harris's accents for his different characters feel trite. When characters lack accents, they all sound generic including Hannibal himself. Harris keeps a moderate rhythm and pace, but his voice doesn't capture the mood and tone that reverberates from a menacing person such as Lecter. Harris's demeanor is light and friendly where it should be dark and brooding. Simultaneous release with the Delacorte hardcover (reviewed online). (Dec.)

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Read an Excerpt

The door to Dr. Hannibal Lecter's memory palace is in the darkness at the center of his mind and it has a latch that can be found by touch alone. This curious portal opens on immense and well-lit spaces, early baroque, and corridors and chambers rivaling in number those of the Topkapi Museum.

Everywhere there are exhibits, well-spaced and lighted, each keyed to memories that lead to other memories in geometric progression.

Spaces devoted to Hannibal Lecter's earliest years differ from the other archives in being incomplete. Some are static scenes, fragmentary, like painted Attic shards held together by blank plaster. Other rooms hold sound and motion, great snakes wrestling and heaving in the dark and lit in flashes. Pleas and screaming fill some places on the grounds where Hannibal himself cannot go. But the corridors do not echo screaming, and there is music if you like.

The palace is a construction begun early in Hannibal's student life. In his years of confinement he improved and enlarged his palace, and its riches sustained him for long periods while warders denied him his books.

Here in the hot darkness of his mind, let us feel together for the latch. Finding it, let us elect for music in the corridors and, looking neither left nor right, go to the Hall of the Beginning where the displays are most fragmentary.

We will add to them what we have learned elsewhere, in war records and police records, from interviews and forensics and the mute postures of the dead. Robert Lecter's letters, recently unearthed, may help us establish the vital statistics of Hannibal, who altered dates freely to confound the authorities and his chroniclers. By our efforts we may watch as the beast within turns from the teat and, working upwind, enters the world.

Chapter 6

"Do you know what today is?" Hannibal asked over his breakfast gruel at the lodge. "It's the day the sun reaches Uncle Elgar's window."

"What time will it appear?" Mr. Jakov asked, as though he didn't know.

"It will peep around the tower at ten-thirty," Hannibal said.

"That was in 1941," Mr. Jakov said. "Do you mean to say the moment of arrival will be the same?"

"Yes."

"But the year is more than 365 days long."

"But, Mr. Jakov, this is the year after leap year. So was 1941, the last time we watched."

"Then does the calendar adjust perfectly, or do we live by gross corrections?"

A thorn popped in the fire.

"I think those are separate questions," Hannibal said.

Mr. Jakov was pleased, but his response was just another question: "Will the year 2000 be a leap year?"

"No-yes, yes, it will be a leap year."

"But it is divisible by one hundred," Mr. Jakov said.

"It's also divisible by four hundred," Hannibal said.

"Exactly so," Mr. Jakov said. "It will be the first time the Gregorian rule is applied.

Perhaps, on that day, surviving all gross corrections, you will remember our talk. In this strange place." He raised his cup. "Next year in Lecter Castle."

Lothar heard it first as he drew water, the roar of an engine in low gear and cracking of branches. He left the bucket on the well and in his haste he came into the lodge without wiping his feet.

A Soviet tank, a T-34 in winter camouflage of snow and straw, crashed up the horse trail and into the clearing. Painted on the turret in Russian were AVENGE OUR SOVIET GIRLS and WIPE OUT THE FASCIST VERMIN. Two soldiers in white rode on the back over the radiators. The turret swiveled to point the tank's cannon at the house. A hatch opened and a gunner in hooded winter white stood behind a machine gun. The tank commander stood in the other hatch with a megaphone. He repeated his message in Russian and in German, barking over the diesel clatter of the tank engine.

"We want water, we will not harm you or take your food unless a shot comes from the house. If we are fired on, every one of you will die. Now come outside. Gunner, lock and load. If you do not see faces by the count of ten, fire." A loud clack as the machine gun's bolt went back.

Count Lecter stepped outside, standing straight in the sunshine, his hands visible. "Take the water. We are no harm to you."

The tank commander put his megaphone aside. "Everyone outside where I can see you."

The count and the tank commander looked at each other for a long moment. The tank commander showed his palms.

The count showed his palms. The count turned to the house. "Come."

When the commander saw the family he said, "The children can stay inside where it's warm."

And to his gunner and crew, "Cover them. Watch the upstairs windows. Start the pump. You can smoke."

The machine gunner pushed up his goggles and lit a cigarette. He was no more than a boy, the skin of his face paler around his eyes. He saw Mischa peeping around the door facing and smiled at her.

Among the fuel and water drums lashed to the tank was a small petrol-powered pump with a rope starter.

The tank driver snaked a hose with a screen filter down the well and after many pulls on the rope the pump clattered, squealed, and primed itself.

The noise covered the scream of the Stuka dive bomber until it was almost on them, the tank's gunner swiveling his muzzle around, cranking hard to elevate his gun, firing as the airplane's winking cannon stitched the ground. Rounds screamed off the tank, the gunner hit, still firing with his remaining arm.

The Stuka's windscreen starred with fractures, the pilot's goggles filled with blood and the dive bomber, still carrying one of its eggs, hit treetops, plowed into the garden and its fuel exploded, cannon under the wings still firing after the impact. Hannibal, on the floor of the lodge, Mischa partly under him, saw his mother lying in the yard, bloody and her dress on fire.

"Stay here!" to Mischa and he ran to his mother, ammunition in the airplane cooking off now, slow and then faster, casings flying backward striking the snow, flames licking around the remaining bomb beneath the wing. The pilot sat in the cockpit, dead, his face burned to a death's head in flaming scarf and helmet, his gunner dead behind him.

Lothar alone survived in the yard and he raised a bloody arm to the boy. Then Mischa ran to her mother, out into the yard and Lothar tried to reach her and pull her down as she passed, but a cannon round from the flaming plane slammed through him, blood spattering the baby and Mischa raised her arms and screamed into the sky. Hannibal heaped snow onto the fire in his mother's clothes, stood up and ran to Mischa amid the random shots and carried her into the lodge, into the cellar. The shots outside slowed and stopped as bullets melted in the breeches of the cannon. The sky darkened and snow came again, hissing on the hot metal.

Darkness, and snow again. Hannibal among the corpses, how much later he did not know, snow drifting down to dust his mother's eyelashes and her hair. She was the only corpse not blackened and crisped. Hannibal tugged at her, but her body was frozen to the ground. He pressed his face against her. Her bosom was frozen hard, her heart silent. He put a napkin over her face and piled snow on her. Dark shapes moved at the edge of the woods. His torch reflected on wolves' eyes. He shouted at them and waved a shovel. Mischa was determined to come out to her mother-he had to choose. He took Mischa back inside and left the dead to the dark.

Mr. Jakov's book was undamaged beside his blackened hand until a wolf ate the leather cover and amid the scattered pages of Huyghens' Treatise on Light licked Mr. Jakov's brains off the snow. Hannibal and Mischa heard snuffling and growling outside. Hannibal built up the fire. To cover the noise he tried to get Mischa to sing; he sang to her. She clutched his coat in her fists.

"Ein Mannlein . . ."

Snowflakes on the windows. In the corner of a pane, a dark circle appeared, made by the tip of a glove. In the dark circle a pale blue eye.

Excerpted from HANNIBAL RISING by Thomas Harris Copyright © 2006 by Thomas Harris.

Read a Sample Chapter

The Thieves of Heaven

Random House

Chapter One

Chapter 1


Stained glass-they don't make it like this anymore: brilliant purples, deep rose, rich gold, all melded to depict the Gates of Heaven, the centerpiece of an old-fashioned, whitewashed church. The morning sun filtered in, casting colored shadows upon the host of parishioners, some there because they wanted to be, most because they had to be. And like in any house of worship, no matter the denomination, there were the people who sat in the front pews as if their proximity to the altar made them closer to salvation. The ladies in their fine dresses, the men cologned, blazered, and adorned in their best silk ties, all thinking it was the clothes that made the saint.

Behind the pulpit stood Father Patrick Shaunessy. His close-cropped hair was pure white and in sharp contrast to his stern black eyebrows. His stubby arms, buried deep in the folds of his voluminous green cassock, moved with the Irish lilt of his voice. For years he had preached to his flock, many hours spent on his words of wisdom, but he never failed to wonder whether he had ever gotten through to a single individual. Now, just as in his youth, there was a constant rate of crime, adultery, and a general exodus from religion. People, it seemed, put their faith in technology, science, and sex, believing only in the tangible. If you can't strokeit, don't believe it. Not sure why, Father Shaunessy preached on with the hope that he would save at least one soul from this world gone to confusion.

The priest may have been a slight man; some would say he bordered on puny-he had had fleeting dreams of being an equestrian legend, racing for the roses at Churchill Downs-but his voice, that was his gift, for his voice was as large as his body was small. And it was this voice that now boomed out over his congregation.

"You cannot steal salvation, like a thief in the night. For it is not perfection of life on this earth for which we strive, but perfection of faith. Faith in God will provide us eternal life, faith alone is the key that will grant us eternal salvation."

He gathered up his papers and, as if for emphasis, murmured, "If you open your missal to 'Morning Has Broken,' page one hundred and three."

The congregation joined in song, and while it wasn't Cat Stevens, it was on-key and hopeful, filling the air, echoing off the rafters.

Near the rear of the church, tucked away in the back, almost as if in hiding, sat Father Shaunessy's greatest fan. If the woman was trying to hide, it would be a daunting task; the auburn curls spilling down her back like liquid fire made her impossible to miss. With an air of confidence and a missal in hand, she sang quietly to herself; an action that stood in stark contrast to the rest of her life. She had been hard to contain for more years than anyone could remember. Since the age of thirteen, she had been one of those contradictions-learning of the seven deadly sins at Catholic school during the day, then running around at night, trying to commit all of them. And though the years brought temperance and a sense of responsibility, she would never totally abandon her wild roots. Saturday night usually found her out dancing, but almost every Sunday, no matter the weather, no matter her health, no matter what, she could be found in the same seat at eleven a.m., her head bowed, quietly thankful for everything in her world. Although she didn't always agree with the Church and her manner would never get her nominated for sainthood, Mary St. Pierre's faith in God always rang true.

Beside her in the pew her husband sat silently, his lips tight in protest as he contemplated the singing congregation. A shock of unkempt brown hair framed a strong face, striking, yet worn beyond its thirty-eight years. The man fidgeted. You could see in his dark eyes that his mind was already at the exit. To date, Michael St. Pierre had never told his wife of his diminishing faith, and now was definitely not the moment to do so. They already had enough issues to deal with.



Mary and Michael exited the church amidst the throng of parishioners all angling to shake their pastor's hand, hoping against hope that maybe some of the priest's holiness would rub off on their own souls.

Father Shaunessy went through the motions with a cordial nod to each, thanking them as they complimented his sermon, his slight smile hiding the question in his mind: If quizzed, could anyone of them repeat a single sentence, let alone the daily moral? But then his face lit up, for he had caught Mary St. Pierre's eye.

"Beautiful sermon, Father," Mary said, looking down on the little priest. It was almost as if she was talking to a child, the disparity in their heights was so extreme. Concerned her size would make him uncomfortable, she was always careful never to wear heels to church, but even in her flat shoes she pushed five feet nine.

"Thank you, Mary." He clasped her hand in his. "I can always count on your smile when I'm at the altar." Father Shaunessy didn't acknowledge Michael. It was as if he wasn't there at all. Sensing her husband's discomfort, Mary smiled, pulling him close.

Finally, as an afterthought, not wishing to offend Mary, the priest nodded to Michael. "Mike."

"Patrick," Michael begrudgingly mumbled back.

The line of glad-handers behind Mary was growing long and impatient. Reluctantly, the priest released her hand. "Peace be with you, child."

"Thank you, Father. And you."

The St. Pierres headed down the tree-lined walk toward the parking lot as Father Shaunessy
continued to greet his well-wishing flock.



The '89 Ford Taurus pulled out of the church lot and headed east. Its dinged and pinged body may have been old but it was clean. Michael drove, silent, focused on the horizon, lost in thought. Mary knew Michael was hurting again. Her husband was retreating to that world where he shut out everyone to tackle his problems all alone. It was a wall she always fought to break down, and each time required a new strategy. Her eyes twinkled and she smiled, reaching out to touch him.

He glanced over. "What's up?"

"Just brushing something off your shoulder."

"Dandruff?"

"No. The chip."

"What?" Michael was genuinely confused, moving as if he had a spider on him. "What chip?"

"The chip on your shoulder."

Michael grimaced, trying to hold on to his bad mood.

"Pat is not a bad guy," Mary said.

"He looks down on me, like I'm going to infect his congregation or something. I thought priests were supposed to be forgiving." There was bitterness in his voice.

"It's pretty hard for a man that short to look down on you, Michael."

"Take a look at the world through my eyes, Mary." Michael's eyes never left the road.

Mary hated when he snapped. It wasn't often, only on Sundays and generally within an hour before or after Mass. She knew it was difficult for Michael but it was only an hour out of his week. She did see the world through his eyes; it was something she was always able to do, and as far as she was concerned, he could use a little peace in his life. "Why do we have to go through this every week?" Mary rested her hand on his leg in reconciliation.

An uncomfortable silence filled the car.



Cars by the dozens lined the sides of the road. Music, sounding like Springsteen, blared from somewhere. The roar of the ocean was not far off; a sea breeze filled the air with that unmistakable summertime smell. Mary walked up the slate path to a weathered gray Cape Cod house with Michael an obvious five steps behind her, still silent and stiff. She rang the bell. No answer. She rang again as Michael finally caught up. Mary grabbed the handle, opened the door-

"I don't know if I'm really in the mood for this," Michael warned.

"What are you in the mood for?" she demanded, her patience seeming to wear thin.

Michael said nothing.

"We'll say our hellos and good-byes within a half hour and be home before two."

She took his hand and led him inside. The rooms were dark, suspiciously empty. Mary wound her way toward the back of the house, through a simple living room, past the dining area, muffled noise growing with every step. She came to a sliding glass door, a large curtain across it.

"Remember to smile," Mary whispered.

She pulled back the curtain to reveal a party. Not just any party-this was a party to end all parties. A sea of people filled the back terrace, spilling out onto the beach. Three barbecues blazed, their flames licking the sky. If there was any meat on their grills, it had long since been cremated and returned to the gods. Large speakers spewed "Candy's Room," Springsteen's wailing voice having a hard time competing with the festive uproar.

Mary tugged Michael's hand and they dove into the mayhem, squeezing their way through the drunken throng. As she tugged Michael to breathing room at the back of the terrace, they spotted a huge bear of a man walking toward them. People parted, as if out of respect for royalty, nodding and slapping his enormous back as he went by. He was a heavy man, not fat but not muscled, either, just big and burly. At six feet five, he towered over everyone. His sandy blond hair reminded you of a surfer but they probably didn't make boards big enough for him. Mary was instantly swallowed within his girth as he hugged her tight: a gentle giant caressing a dove.

"The party can now officially start," the big man growled. He released Mary from his clutches, turned and embraced Michael, who couldn't have been more embarrassed as the wind was crushed out of him. "As usual, you're late," he roared.

"Church," Mary defended.

The giant looked right into Michael's eyes and asked: "Bubby?"

"I was praying for that large, whiskey-pickled soul of yours."

The big man's eyes became stern. "Excuses, excuses." He grabbed Michael's head in his enormous hands and pulled him close. "They're just like assholes-everyone's got one and they all stink." He planted a noisy kiss on Michael's forehead before releasing him. "Glad you made it."

Michael finally relaxed.

Paul Busch didn't drink to excess except when he had a really good reason-which was rarer than rare-didn't smoke, and drugs had always been his enemy. In fact, other than a weakness for junk food, Paul was probably one of the cleanest-living men you would ever find. Except for once a year. Once a year around this time, Busch had his Memorial Day weekend blowout. Everyone he had ever met, spoken to, beaten up, kissed, coached, hugged, or married was invited to help him kick off the summer. This was his appreciation-of-life festival and thank-you to all the living, and since he paid the freight he felt entitled to partake in everything, including the alcohol. Hence, his current clumsy, grinning state.

The sound of giggling, screaming children rose above the pounding music drifting over the crowd, the noise getting closer by the second. And suddenly they were there, as if materializing out of thin air, a boy and girl no more than six, Irish twins. Robbie-older by eleven months-and Chrissie Busch, a pair of towheaded blonds with smiles that could warm the depths of the ocean. Charging through the partygoers, they leapt into Michael's waiting arms.

"Come on the trampoline-" Robbie shouted, pulling Michael left.

"No! Sand castles!" Chrissie tugged to the right.

"Hey, guys, how about a hello?" Busch admonished his children.

"It's OK," Michael said, loving the attention.

"Give the man a break, let him at least get a drink." Busch tried to pull his kids off.

"But, Daddy . . . he's the only one here that'll play with us," Robbie pleaded.
Busch looked his son straight in the eye. "That's because he's the only one here with your advanced level of maturity."

"It's OK," Michael repeated, crouching down to the kids.

"Dad, please . . ."

Busch may have been a strong man, probably the strongest you'd ever meet, but when it came to his kids he was more than weak, he was putty. Throwing up his hands, he turned to Michael. "Suit yourself, but if they kill you, don't come crying to me." Busch grinned and put his arm around Mary. "Care to have some fun, beautiful lady?"

And they vanished into the crowd.

Michael and the two children sat down right in the middle of the party crowd as if they were sitting in their own private playroom, and in a magical fashion Michael raised his arms and waved both hands, showing they were empty. The two kids looked confused, exchanging glances. Then he reached behind their ears, pulling from behind each a small stuffed elephant. The smiles couldn't have been wider.


Sitting among a coffee-klatsch of women, Mary listened to the mile-a-minute chatter. The women had gathered, sipping umbrella drinks and gorging on chips and salsa. The conversations ran from gossip to their disappointing marriages back to gossip, none of which Mary could relate to. Next to her was a woman who had no patience for the pretentiousness of these ladies. Jeannie Busch sat back watching the diverse cross-section of her husband's friends and their wives mingle, chat, and drink, all the while barely concealing her contempt. Jeannie hated parties. All the phony smiles and insincere gestures seemed to dissolve to truth as the alcohol washed away the carefully constructed facades. Not that she didn't enjoy the company of her girlfriends, but this was her husband's party and she chose to keep her friends away, not wishing to expose them to the lunacy-that is, all her friends except Mary. Mary was Jeannie's anchor, her rock. She would help her keep her lip in check lest she pop off in her tough, take-no-prisoners fashion to one of Busch's inebriated buddies or boss-or worse, his boss's wife. One's true character was usually laid bare by drink and in general Jeannie didn't like what she saw-but she wore her smile and nursed her water every Memorial Day, because Jeannie hated parties but she loved Busch.

"How's the new school, they treating you all right?" Her husky voice cut through the banter.

Mary nodded, her hair glowing like embers in the midday sun. "I've got twenty-six of the cutest kids you've ever seen."

"Couldn't take that many," Jeannie remarked, pulling her sandy brown hair into a ponytail. "My hands are full with my two munchkins from hell."

Mary smiled. "I'd be happy to take them off your hands."

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Excerpted from The Thieves of Heaven by Richard Doetsch Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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