Warnings/Features: Gen, casefic, oneshot, violence, language, Emily's POV, circa season 4, no spoilers, ~6000 words, kick-ass women kicking ass. The following fic contains content that some readers may find disturbing, reader discretion is strongly advised.
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters, nor do I claim to, nor am I profiting from this endeavor. This is for entertainment purposes only. Copyrights for CM-related intellectual property belong to Ed Bernero/CBS and company, whom I greatly respect.
A/N: Self-indulgent fic is self-indulgent. So this is just for...fun...or...whatever. Thanks to oroburos69 for the beta. Now, let's go play Guess The Paralytic! \o/
Wichita Falls, Texas
Monday, September 20th, 2010
19:13
"We're on our way. Traffic is at a standstill downtown," Hotch reports. "The police in the area have been notified and we have a unit checking out the second location, just in case. ETA forty minutes."
"I could walk faster than this," Morgan complains in the background.
Hotch ignores the comment, continuing in a steady voice, "Just sit tight and keep an eye on the place."
Tall trees surround the property, lush with summer growth and strikingly out of place in the otherwise barren countryside. Emily presses her hand against the chain-link fence. From here, she is as concealed by the foliage as the small house that rests in the centre of it.
The gate is open, inviting her, practically daring her to step onto the property—warrant be damned.
Emily surveys the area as effectively as she can from her post. Nothing moves. Not even the trees risk a breath or a sigh. The stillness is eerie, verging on surreal, while her mind races hazily and her body waits impatiently for action.
When she crouches, just a bit to the right, the glint of sunlight off a window snaps into view. She squints against the light, shielding her eyes with one hand, trying to—
"I see her," Emily whispers. A shot of adrenaline spikes in her veins at the realization. Long brown hair and a pallid complexion, just barely visible through the glass, but it's her.
"What?" there is a sudden rush in Hotch's voice, a slightly nervous lowered pitch that tells her this question is rhetorical and he knows damn well what she's talking about and where this is going.
She answers him anyway, already moving toward the gate, "He's got her in there, I can see her from here. I think...Hotch, I think she might still be alive."
"This guy is dangerous Prentiss," as if she needs to be reminded, as if five dead bodies in fifteen days aren't enough warning, "wait for backup."
Silence.
Hotch's voice is harder now, "That's an order."
A twinge of hysteria makes her want to laugh. She hasn't slept in forty-six—forty-eight? fifty?—hours and the world has softer edges now, brighter lights, simpler decisions. A fine balance of caffeine and adrenaline keep her standing.
But she's ready.
She's so ready the muscles of her calves ache and tighten in anticipation. So close. She could make the run, slip in unnoticed. The gate is unlocked—wide fucking open.
"I can't," she answers honestly. The rhythm of her breath shifts and falters as it escalates. Her pulse follows.
Morgan's voice comes on the line, sharp with admonishment and maybe even a hint of panic, "Don't do it, Prentiss. We're almost out of here, don't you fucking dare."
She's halfway across the property before she notices she's moving. It doesn't matter that she doesn't have a vest, or that her earpiece is hissing static more than words.
All she needs is one good shot.
"Prentiss?" Hotch.
She ignores him. He's pissed and worried, but not as angry as she'll be over a lost opportunity, another dead woman that she could have saved. He would do the same. It's ludicrous that he would deny her this when he knows, he knows, that this isn't a choice.
She can't stop now. Not when they're this close.
"Em, I'm turning off the freeway," JJ's voice cuts through her focus, even and calming. Emily hesitates. "I'm almost there, twenty minutes—" her voice drops off suddenly before she mutters, "Damn it." Her horn screeches across the static. She's probably doing double the speed limit. Twenty minutes away. Less, even. Time is suddenly daunting, so short she won't even notice its passing, so long that it could easily be too late. "Emily, you with me?"
"I see her," she repeats on a near silent exhale. And that's the problem. She sees them all. Dozens of photographs scattered in her mind, their faces, their blood, their clouded eyes—god, their eyes. Her mind won't stop parading them before her, and the unexpected slip of control over her orderly mental world disorients her even more than the exhaustion.
The patio door window is opaque, blurring her view inside, but she knows what she saw. One hand rests briefly against the wooden doorframe, the other tightly gripping the reassuringly warm polymer of her semi-automatic. She tries the door. It's unlocked.
Emily switches off her earpiece to silence the disputing voices in her head, and swings the door open—recklessly, part of her points out, but there is no more room for caution or hesitation on this case. She will not let this bastard win.
It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim surroundings but the woman's slumped body stands out, her pale skin bright in the shadowed house.
The unsub's kitchen is laid out before her, messy and sparse. Wilted lilies are scattered across one low countertop.
The table is set for two, plates littered with uneaten food—rotting, she notes optimistically. Maybe he left. Maybe he heard her coming and made a break for it. Somehow that thought doesn't make things better. She refuses to acknowledge the thick cuts of meat on the white porcelain dishes. She doesn't want to know.
Emily steps across the threshold to get a better look at the kitchen's only occupant.
Her eyes are open and glassy.
Her chest doesn't visibly rise or fall with proof of life.
She sits on a polished wooden chair, half sprawled across the table like the discarded lilies, so inhumanly still that Emily almost doesn't wander forward.
The woman blinks.
Emily is immediately at her side.
"Marian?" Emily urges, checking her pulse, the dilation of her pupils, counting her heartbeats. "I'm with the FBI; I'm going to get you out of here. Are you injured? Can you move?" She runs a hand down the woman's back, checking for visible injuries and finding none.
She receives no response aside from another light fluttering of eyelashes, but it's enough. Marian's gaze is frozen, yet startlingly aware. Whatever he's drugged her with isn't sedating her, but she isn't even able to lift her head from the table.
Emily debates moving her, hastily measures and weighs the risks involved, but possible injury is better than waiting around for possible death. Decision made, she holsters her gun and wraps Marian's arm over her neck, bracing the woman's weight against her side with one arm around her waist.
All they have to do is make it out quickly. Reach the fence, the road, the truck. Easy.
She starts out the door, stumbling at first, but Emily adjusts to the unbalanced gait quickly and shuffles through the long grass. This time she's acutely aware of just how large the property actually is. They inch forward, covering as much ground as possible with every step, and slowly close in on their escape route.
Closer. Just a bit farther. If she can reach the road, she can reach the truck. Its keys still rest on the worn leather seat. Get her to the vehicle, backup is on its way, then it's only—
She halts, and her heart stops for a moment.
The gate is locked.
A cold douse of shock leaves her fingers numb and her legs weak, but she shakes it off, pushes it to the side. She can try shooting the padlock off, but there's no guarantee they'll make it out once they've alerted him, no way to be sure that he hasn't been alerted already.
For the first time on this case, Emily picks the safe route. Marian is heavy against her, a dead weight, unable to support herself. Certainly unable to scale a fence topped with barbed wire, weather the fall, and make a run for it.
Emily shifts her weight, hauling her charge farther along the fence through dense undergrowth that claws at her arms, until she finds a point of weakness. The chain-link is looser in the corner, bent just the slightest bit.
Carefully, she lowers Marian to the ground. Just a few angled tugs and the wire is pulled back enough to facilitate some movement.
Emily turns back to Marian, only to see that she's managed to flip over onto her stomach and regain some control over her faculties. This is good—no, fantastic. She's improving, so whatever the hell he'd drugged her with had to be wearing off. The optimistic relief swells in Emily's mind. They can do this. They will get out of here safely.
"Marian, you're doing great," Emily whispers encouragingly. Marian whimpers, seems startled at the noise, then abruptly sobs. Emily isn't sure what to do. Comfort her? How? "Marian? Shh, listen. Everything's going to be alright," she promises. "We're almost done. I need you with me on this." Yes, that calms her. Thank god.
Nearly there. Emily kneels beside her, already wrapping a hand around her waist to get some leverage. "I'm parked half a mile south, we just need to get you under this fence first. Can you help me?"
Marian nods weakly and Emily wastes no time getting her to the corner and maneuvering her through. When Marian is finally safe on the other side, the rush of triumph and elation hits Emily like a wave.
It's these rare moments that the reason she does this job becomes astoundingly clear.
She turns the dial of her earpiece, ready to get this over with. No time to waste.
"Hotch, I've got her. She's alive but needs a medic, and we're leaving now."
Almost there, she chants, almost there, almost there, almost there.
"Prentiss?" static eats away at Hotch's voice.
She taps the plastic in her ear, repeats herself while watching Marian inch slowly away and prepares to join her. No response. She twists the spiraled cord and the signal snaps into place, clearing away the noise.
"Hotch, I've—" She cries out in surprise when hands wrap tightly over her mouth and waist, immediately attempting to free herself and reach her holstered gun. A needle tears through the skin of her neck, plunging at a deep angle toward her collarbone, and she can feel the foreign liquid melt into her bloodstream, burning, itching, dispersing faster than she can remember how to breathe.
Horrified, she watches her hands drop.
Her knees give out a moment after. Her body is suddenly too heavy, so very, very, heavy. Her muscles aren't strong enough to hold her up.
She blinks to clear her vision, and the world stays dark.
Emily's head lolls forward, and all she can think is, Oh, so that's how he did it.
...
Rossi pulls out a drawer in some nameless deputy's desk, slams it, opens another, and roots around inside until he finds a blue highlighter.
God knows why it needs to be blue.
But Emily isn't about to judge.
She's been meticulously recording military time—18:07—on her notes to keep track of the hours, since her circadian rhythm is completely screwed up with lack of sleep. Having to switch from her notebook to a lined paper-pad halfway through the day had irritated her beyond reason.
They are all on edge.
Rossi glances up, spins his chair to face them, and asks, "What do we have on Sarah Abberhaus?"
The A/C broke down an hour ago, and she's starting to feel claustrophobic being surrounded by so many people in such a sweltering building.
"Nothing new to go on. The ME estimates time of death to be about four hours before she was found, putting us at just after seven last night," JJ offers, handing him a deceptively thin file. "Missing a total of fifteen hours. Cause of death was asphyxiation due to manual strangulation, just like the others."
They were too late. Again. And now they were about lose another one.
The first two victims were still unidentified, found ten days and ten miles apart.
Number Three, Vicky Cross, put the heat on the local PD seven days later.
But it wasn't until another unidentifiable body turned up after only three days and Sarah, Number Five, was reported missing, that they had panicked enough to call in a favor.
No one's ready to discuss the state Sarah was in when her body was found.
She was worse than the others.
Emily looks around at her colleagues, wondering absently who will be the one to bring it up and delve into that necessary but dangerous territory.
There's no telling Hotch's reaction at this point. He'd taken this one harder than usual, being the first responder and unable to apprehend a suspect after a frantic day-long search and many futilely spent bullets.
And that's why Emily opts to keep her mouth shut.
It isn't easy.
The fact that she's slowly boiling to death in the heavy bullet-proof vest doesn't make it any easier.
"Zero premortem bruising or lacerations on the rest of the body. The bruising on her neck is minimal. There are no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles," Morgan notes. "No defensive wounds. He's gotta be subduing his victims somehow. Chloroform, ether, ketamine..." the like Frank is left unspoken as Morgan's voice trails off. He flips through the toxicology protocols. "Why weren't any of them checked for that? We've only got a green light on alcohol and a handful of drugs classes here."
Hotch catches Nameless Deputy's arm before he reaches his desk. "We need another tox screen," he demands. The man nods obediently.
"They're already overtaxed, Aaron," Rossi counters. "That could take all day—if we're ridiculously lucky. We don't have enough time or resources to be waiting around on this."
She glances at her watch—18:10—but it makes no difference. They ran out of time before they got here. Every minute now is borrowed, and it's his victims that suffer for it.
Hotch frowns, but concedes, "Then we'll proceed under the assumption that he is drugging them until we have more to go on."
"If the toxicology screen came out clean, he may not be using common or controlled drugs," Reid offers, his voice betraying his enthusiastic and unmonitored intake of caffeine. "The buildup of marine biotoxins in the tissue of shellfish can induce something called Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning when dangerous quantities of saxitoxin are ingested by humans. Symptoms of paralysis can set in almost immediately and can result in respiratory arrest within twelve hours. And atropa belladonna, better known as deadly nightshade, was frequently used as an easily available heavy-duty sedative during ancient surgical procedures."
Reid fidgets in his chair.
His exuberance for the topic is met with silence.
Emily shrugs out of her unstrapped Kevlar and drapes it on the back of her chair, reveling in the newly introduced air.
JJ takes a measured sip of her coffee, her lips pursed contemplatively. "So you're saying it could be anything?"
"No, not just anything," Reid clarifies. "Drugs like valium and rohypnol are effective in the right doses but can take twenty to thirty minutes to kick in depending on how the drug was administered. The unsub would have to know exactly what dosage of what drug will keep them alive and immobile for the entire period he has them, and assuming the lack of defensive wounds indicate that they were incapacitated immediately after or during an opportunistic abduction, he'd need something fast acting that wouldn't be tested for in a routine tox screen. Like the succinylcholine in Pittsburgh. The faster the drug kicks in, the shorter the duration tends to be. He'd have to keep dosing them."
"Could be a medical doctor? Pathologist, maybe?" Emily suggests. "He'd have frequent contact with human remains, and he's probably experimented before graduating to homicide. Class A misdemeanors aren't going to put this guy in CODIS, but he could have a record."
"He'd need to know how to administer the drug, too," Morgan says. "Coroner didn't find any needle marks, or anomalous chemicals in the stomach or lung tissue."
Rossi nods. "Injection or inhalation is going to be the fastest route. Can't rule anything out. The postmortem mutilation could easily have erased evidence of an injection site."
There it is, slipped in so subtly that Emily isn't even sure Hotch noticed.
Hotch seems unfazed, which Emily takes as a good sign.
"Garcia," he starts, looking at her colorful form through the laptop screen, "you and Reid narrow down the suspect pool based on occupations with access to the most relevant sedatives and paralytics. Morgan, something had to set this guy off. A recent loss or rejection by someone fitting the general description of the victims, someone the unsub had a strong emotional attachment to. Find the stressor, and we can cross-reference with our list of suspects. Rossi and I have a meeting with the D.A. on 7th. Prentiss, JJ? We need to re-interview Marian Kaplar's husband and children. See if they saw more than they realized this morning."
"Ah, sir?" JJ asks. "What about the press conference? The media is feeding off the panic, and the chief of police said they've surrounded city hall."
"City hall?" Rossi questions.
"They're blaming the new mayor for budget cuts to the police force, and being soft on crime. Plus there was this whole sordid male prostitute rumor...but it doesn't matter. The man is not well liked at the moment. It won't be long before they turn their sights here, though. There are already news vans showing up outside, and people are starting to pack up and get out of town. The highway is absolute chaos."
"You go ahead, I can handle the family," Emily offers.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Go put out some fires."
"It shouldn't take me long. I'll meet you down there."
Hotch glares at Nameless Deputy, who is now sitting back at his desk. "We're running out of vehicles."
The man hastily stands, digs through his pockets, then holds out a set of keys. "'96 Ford F-150. Black. Parked out front, ma'am."
As soon as she's out on the road, the severity of the chaos this unsub has unwittingly created makes itself known.
People are actually leaving. Packing-their-things-and-loading-up-the-kids leaving. Partly out of valid survival instincts. Mostly out of the over-blown hyper-aware fear induced by the local media.
Newspaper sales are at a record high, and she'd actually seen JJ snap at a reporter today.
The fear was taking over, creating its own mob mentality and perpetuating itself, an endless cycle. Their failure to get to Sarah Abberhaus in time hadn't helped matters.
They've been in the city two days, dropped everything to come here, but it still wasn't enough. As the unsub spirals out of control, the city is spiraling with him.
...
"I knew you wouldn't leave without me, Lisa, I knew you come back," he whispers, holding her against him in a standing position and running his fingers through her hair.
His desperation is raw and unconcealed. Emily can feel his hands shaking against her cheek, clumsily knocking her earpiece to the ground.
Her team's distressed voices are silenced.
His lips brush her ear as he speaks, "This time, we go together."
She is lifted off the ground. Her eyelids remain closed, too heavy to open, but she is just as awake as she was coming here. More, even, now that the panic is setting in.
Birds coo, grass rustles, and every step the unsub takes is jarring and loud. She thinks she might be sick from the motion alone.
The sun is still warm on Emily's skin, but less so than the seventy-three degrees earlier in the day. It's setting slowly, drawing the moment out to linger in the sky. But her mind is already dark.
Her muscles are liquefied, as though wet concrete has been poured into her bones and skull, but her heart still races and her lungs still fill with air.
The shuffle of Marian's labored movement fades until Emily can no longer hear her at all. She focuses on his steps, trying to determine his destination. Ten become thirty-one, forty-eight, sixty-seven, until she loses track and all sense of direction.
Her head rests against his shoulder. The scent of decaying lilies permeates his shirt. She's going to be sick.
They stop abruptly and Emily is overcome with anticipatory vertigo, expecting him to drop her.
She should have known better, she realizes. She has the profile, knows how this guy works. But there's always the risk of the unexpected, that uncontrolled variable of human will, the remote possibility of an effect in the absence of a cause.
He lays her down gently on the grass, pushes her hair back from her face, straightens her shirt, places her hands neatly over her stomach.
She can't have a panic attack now. Emily forbids herself. She can handle this.
Nausea stings the back of Emily's throat and her chest feels more and more compressed with every inhalation. She can't breathe, she can't see, she can't move.
Her thoughts circle sporadically, revisiting again and again the women he murdered, and she wonders if he brought them to wherever he has brought her.
They were awake when he killed them. Paralyzed. Terrified.
The prospect of lying on blood-soaked grass almost makes her grateful for the lack of visual input. Her mind can provide that image all on its own.
...
"We've got a name," Garcia announces, her voice distorted by the fluctuating cell connection Emily has put up with since leaving the city. "Dennis Elder, forty-two. He is—oh, was, a veterinarian at Wichita Falls animal clinic. His license was revoked in August...Ouch. Just a year after his wife hung herself in their home in September '09. She was the same age range as the vics, same pretty eyes and dark hair."
"Tell me we've got an address, too, baby girl," Morgan implores.
"Sugar, I've got two. An apartment in the city, and a lovely desolate little patch of land about twenty miles west that his late wife inherited. Looks like he's been recently evicted from the former, so I'm betting on door number two. You're looking for 3614 Fowlkes Station Road, Electra. Not far from North Fork Buffalo Creek Reservoir and...You know what, I'm just going hook you up on your GPS."
"You're a goddess," Morgan adds affectionately.
The grueling drive out of the city becomes far more interesting as Emily realizes where she is. She slams the brakes and U-turns in the middle of the empty road. "I just passed the area, I'm turning around right now."
...
He stands and she can feel him near her, studying her.
Sick, impotent, bastard.
For a moment she wonders if he'll just leave her here.
The walk was, to her best approximation, no more than five minutes.
Marian could have gotten away in that time, but probably not far. Not the half mile to the car, in her state. It would be easy for him to find her again.
Emily can't allow that.
But as long as he stays occupied here for a while longer, it won't be a problem.
Twenty minutes was at least ten minutes ago. Maybe more. God, she hopes it was more.
She just has to hold out until they can get here. And they will get here.
Emily trusts her team without reserve. JJ said she'd be here, so she'll be here. It's only a matter of time.
He comes closer, dropping down next to her and lifting the Glock 19 from the holster on her hip. Its weight leaves and she suddenly feels exposed.
Emily's body refuses to cooperate, but she can't quite think straight either. Her mind is strangely disjointed, fragmented in a way she isn't entirely able to grasp.
Move, Emily demands herself. She mentally resists the paralysis, but all the conscious effort in the world can't free her from this chemically-induced nightmare. She is trapped, and the panic is mounting.
Sharp blades of grass scratch her bare arms.
As the sound of him shifting beside her dies down, Emily can't stop thinking about being found by her team, disarmed, with no defensive wounds.
She'll be dead and they'll see she didn't fight him, didn't try hard enough.
She should have scratched him, bitten him, beaten the shit out of him. Better yet, she should have taken him down before he had the chance to attack.
He has her gun, her gun. As if the whole situation weren't mortifying enough.
Emily tries to speak, but her tongue won't obey, nothing comes out but air. Still, it has to wear off eventually.
She tries to move her fingers, tries again and again and again. She will move, damn it.
He stirs and her thoughts still. Waiting. Alert.
His hand touches her face and she flinches inwardly at the contact. Outwardly, she is deathly still, just the way he likes it.
He brushes the pads of his thumbs over her eyes, forcing them open, and the world is suddenly visible again. Her view is only of the sky, but it's something. She tries to look at him, but finds her eyes have betrayed her as well.
A field of yellow rests in her peripheral vision and she realizes that the uncomfortable grass wasn't grass at all. Wheat. Canola, maybe. She doesn't know, doesn't particularly care, but the golden hue wavers in the breeze at the edge of her vision.
It reminds her of the desert.
Her lips are dry.
He lies down next to her.
The sun is nearly gone, leaving a long trail of red and orange smeared across the sky. It must be getting late. She can almost see stars. Emily had hoped to sleep tonight. If she lives through this, she may never close her eyes again.
A muted click, and cigarette smoke fills the air.
A smoker. Not in the profile. She'll have to bring it up later, so Reid can analyze the hell out of it for three hours and come up with all kinds of entertaining theories for the trip home.
It's colder now.
She wishes she'd worn something else. A jacket, perhaps. Emily hadn't considered this morning that she might die in her least favorite tank top and a faded pair of dress pants.
Could be worse, Emily supposes.
Though her mother would be scandalized.
She should have tried harder to make that lunch with her last week.
His voice is soft but shaky when he finally asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"
She's caught off guard when he breaks the silence. Emily hadn't expected talking, even the one-sided monologue kind.
Actually, she'd rather avoid the talking altogether. What is there to say, really?
"I could have helped you," he continues, "and you just—you took everything with you. Everything."
Being the living fantasy replacement of the guy's dead wife is even more disturbing than just being the living fantasy. He chuckles sardonically and leans toward her until she can feel the warmth of his breath on her shoulder.
"You should never have left me."
His fingers grip her jaw and her heart doubles its speed.
When he tilts her head to the side, she sees him for the first time and her initial impression is confirmed: he's no one. Average. Completely unremarkable. Won't the neighbors be surprised.
He watches her without ever making eye contact, unwilling to actually acknowledge her and jeopardize his tenuous fantasy world with something so mundane as guilt.
She wonders why he bothered opening her eyes in the first place. Maybe he just wanted an audience. Maybe he got off on making his victims watch.
Her eyes are dry, itchy. She tries unsuccessfully to blink, but feels a small twitch in her jaw. Encouraged, she tries again, managing to grind her teeth just the slightest bit. Progress.
The disgusting son of a bitch chooses this moment to sit up, digging his half-smoked cigarette into the dirt with his fingers and lifting her gun.
He weighs it thoughtfully, examines its exterior, then lifts it to his temple.
Emily watches as he mutters to himself. She's just as unsure as he seems to be at his resolve to pull the trigger.
Experimentally, he changes his angle, silently pressing the muzzle under his chin. Apparently he's done talking.
After a moment, he places it between them on the ground, seeming satisfied.
When he stands, she loses sight of him and is startled when his weight is suddenly pinning her down.
He straddles her waist, running his hands up her arms to her collarbone, leaving her head tilted to the side. Coward.
His hands move to her throat and the grit of dirt on his palms rubs across her skin. She can feel everything, and can do nothing.
As his hands tighten, her pulse thrums against them, stronger and stronger until it becomes a pounding beat in her head.
...
Emily flips to the last page of her notebook, realizing that she is in dire need of another one, and scrawls 12:14 neatly in the left margin.
"There's almost no cooling off period between each homicide and abduction. These are spree killings," Hotch explains, pacing in front of the crowded room, "and he will not stop until we have stopped him. He's obsessed, addicted to power and control. And aside from the postmortem mutilation and necrophilia, he may be cannibalizing his victims. He's not in the system, so no prior convictions, but if we can bring him in alive we'll have more than enough forensic evidence to convict, and the District Attorney will be aiming for lethal injection. His treatment of his victims both before and after death suggest a degree of remorse—"
"So, what? He's sorry?" an officer to Emily's left scoffs. "Looks like a hell of a lot of anger to me. He's cutting them open and playing with their insides, and we're supposed to believe this freak has a conscious?"
"We aren't minimizing what he's done, Deputy," Hotch states in a low don't-fuck-with-me voice. "The fact that the disfigurement and indignity of the body occurred after death tells us that this man is not a sadist. He dresses them afterward, smoothes out their clothes, their hair, leaves the bodies covered in places he knows they will be quickly found. He isn't keeping them alive through the torture, or even the rape. What he's getting from this is some other form of personal satisfaction, and the sooner we can find out what that is, the better our chances of apprehending him."
Reid pipes up from the front row, "Typically necrophiliacs engage in this particular sexual fetish out of a paralyzing fear of rejection, or an attempt to reenact a relationship they've lost. In a way, he's fashioning his ideal romantic partner, someone who can never resist, judge, or abandon him."
The cops are tired, irritated, and not the slightest bit impressed. Murmurs erupt through the crowd and Emily can already see the counterproductive arguments about to ensue.
Attempting to intervene early, she adds to Reid's statement, "He's isolated, lonely. Highly sensitive to rejection, or even the possibility of rejection." Someone snickers in the back and she pauses until there is silence. Respect is going to have to be demanded. No one here has time for petty disputes. "By mutilating the bodies, he is expressing anger, either with the source of his anxieties, or himself. The cannibalism, on the other hand, is better viewed in this case as an attempt to further possess his victims, make them a physical part of himself. That way, in his mind, they can never leave."
"He's dangerous and devolving fast," Rossi summarizes, leaning against a table with his arms crossed. "It's only going to get worse before it gets better. On arrest, suicide by cop is an outcome you should be prepared for. Our best chance of finding Marian Kaplar will be bringing him in alive, but we need to be realistic. He's going to do everything in his power to keep reliving his fantasy, and that means you need to be ready for anything."
...
Emily hadn't realized just how fast the pain would set in.
The pressure on her neck increases and her muscles start to ache and burn, mimicking the crushing, choking sensation in her throat until her lungs are burning up with the rest of her.
She can't twist away—needs to, desperately, frantically.
If she can breathe, just breathe, she's certain it will stop hurting and clear away the shards of glass clogging her veins. Her fingers twitch, digging into the dirt, but she can't hold onto her thoughts long enough to make something of it. There is nothing but panic and lack and need.
Her blood has been interrupted on its way through her body. Her heart pumps harder, attempting to compensate.
The dreamy lightheadedness kicks in almost immediately and quickly amps, distracting her from the pain and panic by fogging her mind, but she fights the reprieve, claws her way back to consciousness every time it sucks her under. She needs to stay awake.
Stay awake.
She can't stay awake.
The golden field—desert—blackens—burns—at its edges, shriveling up—blowing away— in her vision like a photograph consumed—devoured—by flames.
She blinks rapidly to clear the sand from her eyes, but only makes it worse, triggers a storm so deafening she can barely hear her name entwine with the wind, growing louder and louder.
The hands release her suddenly, and the desert slowly crumbles and shifts back into a field, clearer with every gasping, choking breath.
It takes Emily awhile to be confused. Her thoughts fluctuate and reorder until she can find herself in them again.
Her lungs still burn, her head pounds, her muscles ache. She feels like shit.
She should be doing something. Move. She needs to move.
Emily lifts her right arm slightly. Her skin tingles and gravity is especially demanding at the moment, but if she can just—
"Emily."
She hears it clearly this time. Closer than before. It takes a disoriented moment to place the voice, but when she does Emily knows that her twenty minutes are finally up.
A soft set of footsteps come first, closing in on her location. Familiar. Determined. Definitely JJ.
"Emily!" JJ shouts, her voice laced with equal parts worry and relief. Emily groans, then coughs uncontrollably, ridiculously proud of the small but intentional movements she's regained.
Focus.
They've got to get out of here.
Someone's missing, she remembers.
A shot rings out and she starts, her legs twitching in response. Emily grabs onto the sensation, trying to recapture it and manages to flex her hands.
A flurry of movement ensues, just beyond her field of vision. Grunts and gasps and landed blows.
Emily's mind reels, grasping onto whatever concrete ideas present themselves.
The unsub is alive.
JJ came alone.
JJ missed.
JJ never misses.
He must have ambushed her. She can hear them directly behind her, but all she can see are yellow stalks obscuring the sun as it finally melts into the horizon. Emily struggles to turn over, failing.
Another bullet cracks through the air, and a cloud of dirt explodes three feet away from her. She tenses.
Then another.
Then nothing.
Her rapid breathing is thunderous in her head. She almost doesn't hear it, almost overlooks the strangled sound. Strenuously she twists onto her stomach, pulling at the grass for leverage.
The world wavers, shifts, then resets itself.
She can see their shadowed forms under the night sky. He's managed to push her to the ground. They struggle for possession of the gun.
Gun. Singular.
Emily blindly gropes the ground beside her, desperate and panicked until her fingers brush the hard edge of the barrel.
She lifts her head while clutching the weapon tightly, in time to see the gun slipping from JJ's grip and twisting inward.
Emily focuses, aims, fires.
And there it is.
One good shot.
...
FIN