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Coming Home

His eyes opened to the washed out grey's and whites of early morning. He lay on his side that faced the only curtain covered window in the room. He turned over and stretched out his legs to the end of the hotel bed and looked up the ceiling which was shrouded in the last of the night's shadows. He pushed one hand through his hair and yawned. He had to get up because the light meant that it must be close to 8 am and he had an appointment in an hour.

He turned over and reached for his phone. It was 7:52 am. One finger hovered over a familiar speed dial, but he didn't allow the digit to press down on the key. No, he'd get up, shower and get breakfast. Then he'd get in his car and go see his mother, just as he'd promised. He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. Why did it still bother him so much to visit here. Nearly fifteen years had passed since he'd had her committed for her own good, but he still felt like that eighteen year old man-child.

He shook his head, yawned again and walked slowly to the bathroom. He was home again, that was the problem. It didn't feel like his home anymore, or not just his only home. Quantico was the place he lived, but Las Vegas was the place he'd come from for better or worse.

At least the water was hot in the shower and he liked the smell of the little bottle of shampoo provided by the hotel. He dressed in his usual cords, dress shirt and sweater vest. He tied the laces to his dirty blue Converse shoes and ran a comb through his hair. He grabbed his messenger bag from the chair near the door. His coat hung over the back of the chair along with his purple scarf. It was 38 degrees outside, but no snow, which was better than Quantico weather. He hurried out the door and down the hall to the elevator. If he really hustled, he could have a nice breakfast before he went to Bennington.

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His hands gripped the steering wheel very tight as he piloted the rental car down The Boulevard as was the nickname given Las Vegas Boulevard by locals. His heart beat a little too fast and all he could think about was his mother and how she'd be that day. Would she be amiable, or would she be depressed and irritable. He almost hoped that she'd think of him as one of her students because she'd always been happiest as a teacher.

A cloud passed over his car fifteen minutes later when he pulled into the parking lot of Bennington. The sky was blue, but the cloud had pewter edges as it temporarily blocked out the sun in the eastern sky. The news hadn't said anything about a storm, but he supposed that anything was possible.

His mother sat in the common room with a book on her lap. She wore a festive red sweater with a black skirt and pink fuzzy slippers. He smiled and when she looked up at him before he even said anything, he knew it was going to be a good day. She smiled back at him and he saw the woman she'd been when he was a small boy.

"Hello," she said enthusiastically. "How are you, baby?"

He sat down across from her and took her hands. "I'm fine, Mom. How are you?"

"I'm so glad you're here. I thought you might have a case."

"We did, but I made it out here last night. The flight was delayed for a couple of hours, so I got in later than I thought."

"Did you get enough sleep? You look so tired."

He thought about the dream of Maeve that had woken him in the middle of the night.

"I slept okay."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He looked around the room instead of in her eyes. Someone had put up a Christmas tree in one corner of the room near a rectangular window. It had a multitude of different ornaments and for a minute he only stared until he remembered that the Administration of Bennington had asked the families of their patients to bring in ornaments or send them. He'd found an ornament at an antique shop in Washington DC that was hand painted. It had come from an estate sale. He'd found two of them and the second was on the tree in his apartment. It was round and featured a scene that reminded him of Thomas Kincaid because if its light and beauty.

"Spencer?"

"Sorry, Mom, I was looking at the tree and the other decorations. It's beautiful this year."

"Yes, it is. I like all the fir boughs and the lights on the tree, especially when the sun goes down, but I wonder why you're distracting me."

"I'm not distracting you."

She reached over and took his hand. He squeezed it tight and bit the inside of his cheek so hard he flinched.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I wish I could be there for you all the time."

"I know that, mom. I'm sorry I upset you. It's Christmas, and I wanted everything to be perfect."

"It is perfect," she held his eyes with her forthright stare. "We're together and nothing can change that."

He held onto her hand for a long time. It was so good to have human contact. He felt tears in his throat, so he cleared and squeaked out. "I killed a man."

She didn't react, in fact, something in her eyes told him that she'd been waiting to hear something like his confession for a weeks. "I knew there was more to the story then what you wrote in your letter, but I didn't want to pry."

"I couldn't let another person I care about be killed."

"Of course not," he mother agreed. "You're a fine man, Spencer, the best I know. If you felt you had to kill to protect, then I'm proud of you."

"How can you be proud of me when I let my emotions cloud my judgment? I didn't call out a warning, I just shot him, in the back. Do you know what that makes me?"

Her hand squeezed his fingers so tightly, he tried to pull away, but she was stronger than she looked. "Don't," she commanded in a tone he knew. "You are not a coward. You knew he was armed and that he'd kill your friend."

"How can you have so much faith in me? I let down the only person I've ever loved after you. I let her die."

He couldn't keep back the tears now. They spilled over his cheeks and he went back to staring at the tree because her eyes were full of pity and sorrow for him and it cut him to the bone.

"Baby," she got up from her chair and sat down right next to him. She pulled him into her arms and held him close as though he were a child again. "You didn't let her down."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know your heart and soul, son. You had enough courage to send me here when you were so young."

"But, mom, I -"

"No, don't say it," she said. "You did the right thing even if I punished for years afterward. You did what you had to do. I'm sorry I made you feel so badly about it."

"Mom, it's okay. I don't feel that way anymore."

He was surprised to see tears in her eyes, but she was very calm. "I'm glad, sweetheart. Now, you have to forgive yourself for what happened to Maeve."

"I don't know if I can."

She grinned at him and he felt his mouth turn up in response. "You can, because you are my son."

He blew out a deep breath. "I'm trying to believe it."

"Why don't we play a game of scrabble? I feel very lucky today."

He laughed and something in his chest broke free. 2013 had been one of the worst years of his life, but everything, whether bad or good eventually ends. He had to think that better things were on the way for the new year.

"Merry Christmas, Spencer."

"Merry Christmas, Mom."

"Now," she said as he rose to get the scrabble game. "You better bring your awesome powers of concentration because I intend to win."

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He pulled his coat around his middle and pushed his gloved hands into his pockets. He'd found that he couldn't concentrate on watching his hotel television or read any of the books he'd picked up at the airport in DC. So, he'd pulled on his warm clothing and headed out for a late night walk.

The sky over head was clear, but he couldn't see the stars. There was too much light pollution, but he hadn't come out to stargaze. Cars passed him on the street as he walked. Their headlights swept over him and the buildings around him as he headed west.

People hurried around him as he walked. They all seemed to have a destination in mind, but he didn't care where he washed up. He just wanted to clear his head. Despite spending the afternoon with his mother and playing three games of scrabble, he knew it wasn't that simple to let go of all the emotions that were twisting up his gut.

Lights from the myriad of casinos made the air glow around him. It was like Christmas lights all year when night came to Las Vegas. There were a few Santa's ringing their bells for the Salvation Army in front of a couple of small markets and two casinos. He dropped a few dollars into one red kettle and crossed the street with the Santa's "Ho, Ho, Ho, young man. Merry Christmas."

He walked another block and turned another corner and hailed a cab. He gave a familiar address to the driver and sat back to watch more of the Las Vegas lights fly by.

"You from around here," the cabby asked.

"Yeah…"

Reid dismissive tone didn't deter the man from talking. "I just mean that most tourists are goin to the shows or to drop their hard earned cash into our economy. There ain't many people that ask for this part of town."

Reid looked at the driver who was white, portly, and dark haired with a full beard and a cap on his head. He smiled like a small child, but his eyes were cold.

"I grew up here," Reid said and turned his attention back to the windows.

He ignored the cabby's attempts to talk to him. When he got to his destination, he gave the guy a decent tip, but the guy didn't so much as thank him. Reid shrugged his shoulders and turned to the house. He stared up at it even though it was completely dark. He didn't know who lived there, but he didn't care. The familiar lines of the roof, the shape of the windows and the length of the porch were all such a part of his life, that it made the tension in his neck go away. He wished he could go up and open the door and go up to his room. He wished he could sleep in his bed after his mother read a story to him. He wished he could show Maeve the tree in the back yard he'd read under during the summer.

He blinked against the tears that still came too easily these days. He turned away from his old home. He didn't belong there anymore. He walked to the curb, crossed the street and walked five blocks until he found an old Catholic Church, Our Lady of the West.

When he was a boy, he'd walked to this place to look at the light and the life-sized Nativity Scene in the front and to the right of the grey stone steps. The spires of the church reached into the sky as though they were trying to find the hand of God. He looked at the arch shaped windows outlined in more grey stone. Finally, he turned his eyes back to the Nativity Scene.

There were shepherds, and wise men in their robes and turbans. The animals were arranged around bales of haw strewn over the yellowed grass. There were camels, donkeys and sheep, but the figure that always drew his attention was the Mother of God, Mary. She wore blue robes and the one that had sculpted her face, had given her an angelic aspect. Someone had placed a light so that her face seemed to be lit from within. She smiled and looked down at the manger that stood in front of her and Joseph. He looked over at the carpenter and tears crept into his eyes because he recognized the adoring look the artist had given Joseph.

He was about to turn away when, suddenly the wind died down from ruffling his hair and teasing chills from his bones. He heard something that made his heart jump into his throat. It simply couldn't be. He automatically took a couple of steps toward the manger. He stopped, looked around and saw that there was no one on the street. He could hear traffic on the street, but there was no one of foot near him.

He heard the sound again. It was so soft and plaintive, he thought it must be his imagination, but he took another three steps up the lawn to the Nativity Scene.

He looked back again, but no one walked the streets. How could that be on Christmas Eve? The sound came again, and it was louder this time. It was real, but he didn't know how that could be. He hurried to the manger and looked down into the straw. For the first time since Maeve died her face wasn't stuck behind his eyes. In fact, he couldn't think of anything but what lay on the straw.

"Where did you come from?" He squeaked.