Hey guys! Sorry about taking so long to post. Finals, then holidays, then work and then a horrible case of writers block. Thank you to everyone that reviewed! It was awesome to see how many people liked one of my stories! Anyway, here's the next chapter, inspired to due to the endless Criminal Minds marathons that have been on TV. One of my favorite characters makes a guest appearance, though this will probably be the only time he shows up since it's not a cross over. Thanks again!
^KageBecks27^
How could I have let this happen? How could I have let this Fou take my Angleterre! Rage and guilt battled for dominance, whirling like a hurricane inside. Back and forth. Rising and falling. Shifting and boiling. I should have been there sooner! Lithe fingers clutched his beloved's white silk scarf, something Francis had rescued from Arthur's house, praying for death of that salaud. Sapphire eyes became jaded and sharp as rage won out. The same lithe fingers that had once lovingly caressed Arthur's cheek, had gently intertwined with his lover's hands, that now cradled the soft fabric that reminded him so much of Arthur's creamy complexion— he now dreamed about wrapping them around this kidnapper's neck until the life slowly seeping out of him. Francis' entire face smoothed into a mask of sculpted marble, icy and unforgiving. He would find this man, before the police did, and he would make sure nothing was left for them to find.
"Mr. Bonnefoy?"
Reality rushed back to Francis— ringing phones, shuffling papers, shouting criminals and slamming doors roaring to full volume. Stale coffee and body odor assaulted his nose as the atmosphere of the precinct permeated France's self imposed isolation. Hard sapphire drifted away from the silk scarf clutched in a death grip to meet the tired gray eyes of the Inspector before him.
"Mr. Bonnefoy, my name is Inspector Jones. I'm working on Mr. Kirkland's disappearance," the tired voice came. "I need to ask you a few more questions."
"Of course," Francis replied, sitting up straighter in the chair he had been provided.
"Right," huffed Jones before plopping down in a chair opposite of him. "Alright, I'm going to be straight forward Mr. Bonnefoy. Have you heard of the recent murders that have been taking place?" He waited for a nod before moving on, turning to glance at the white board covered with pictures of the victims, five while they were alive and the gruesome pictures of how they were found. Gray and blue eyes watched as Arthur's picture was placed among them with a question mark next to his solemn face. "We are still trying to figure out if it is connected to Mr. Kirkland's disappearance. The only thing is, no one can say for certain why he was taken. All of the past victims have been…have had… certain tastes in relationships. Were you aware if…"
"No," Francis replied quickly, but sternly. Inside he flinched. Arthur and he were lovers, had loved each other longer than either would care to admit. Arthur was fickle though. He wasn't one to let others know of his personnel life, he was a true gentleman in that way. Thus, his preference was not something he broadcasted.
The Inspector looked startled for the first time since Francis had seen him. He cleared his throat, reigning himself back in. "A-are you sure? This serial killer targets…"
"Inspector Jones, if you were to observe most of the people in our occupation you could make the same mistake. In our line of work, most of our associates are men and we work long hours. There has been more than one occasion where I have stayed over my colleagues' home while working on a new policy or treaty. If not then we leave at all hours of the night and early morning." Francis had barely even batted an eye. "Work barely leaves any time for solid friendships, never mind relationships. You become friends with those you work with, even if you hated each other at one point. Arthur and I are an ideal example of that."
Jones stared him down, letting everything sink in. This didn't fit the serial killer's usual signature. Everything else was in place; abducted from home, same strain of drug used to render them unconscious, no forced entry… but a crucial piece was missing. "Mr. Bonnefoy, there is a chance this is not the same killer. Even if this is a case of mistaken identity, a key piece of M.O. is missing. The killer leaves a picture of his victim with a message on it. Did you see anything when you entered Mr. Kirkland's home?"
"No," Francis replied. He fought to keep his tone even and his posture relaxed. His hand snuck into his pocket where the picture resided. The crumbled wad was nearly completely ruined from being torn open and crushed repeatedly. It was Francis' only connection to the man who had taken his Arthur, and he wasn't about to give that up. His jaw ached as he struggled to keep it from clenching and lips pulling back in a snarl. He wanted to be out on streets, hunting this monster down like the worthless beast he was, but he couldn't. Francis had no idea where to start looking. He wasn't home where he could get any lab he wished to go over Arthur's place with a fine tooth comb. He'd have to do it on his own, not that he'd have it any other way once he got his hands on this démon. As to what happened after he found the man…
well, diplomatic immunity would take care of the rest.
"Are you sure," Inspector Jones pressed, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "This is very important. If there's anything you could tell us, it might help us discern whether this is indeed the serial killer or a copy cat. Now think back, do you remember anything at all?"
Francis stared at Jones, trying hard to make it look like he was thinking. After calming his boiling blood, he brought his jaded stare to gaze at him. "No, I'm sorry." The exhausted look in Jones' eyes made him reconsider his path. "Wait, now that I think of it, there might have been footsteps. Almost like someone was running away." Continuing to meet his gaze, he forced some hopeful curiosity into his voice. "Do you think that could have been him?"
A new spark glinted in the Inspector's eye. "Did you hear a vehicle drive away? Any voices?"
"Non. It must have been covered up when I dropped the wine bottle I brought to celebrate a business deal going through."
"Hmmm, it's possible then," Jones muttered before sitting upright in his chair. He glanced around as more officers started filing into the room and taking up positions around the white board. "They're already doing the profile," he whispered to himself before bringing himself back to his witness. "I want to thank you for your time Mr. Bonnefoy. If I may, we have to ask that you stay in the country incase we have more questions."
"Of course," Francis assured while ignoring some of the glances he was getting from the officers now filling the squad room. "I don't plan to go anywhere until Arthur is found and this Fou is apprehended." He moved to stand, making sure the picture still concealed in his pocket didn't make any noise.
"S-sure," Jones replied, slightly off set by the French slur as he stood with him. He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on the French diplomat's shoulder. "Don't worry Mr. Bonnefoy. We'll catch the man who did this."
"Merci Inspecteur Jones," Francis said while resisting the urge to brush the hand away. "I have no doubt that you will." But not after I'm through with him first. He slowly walked out of room, dodging around the officers while waiting for them to start up with the "profiling" as the good inspector had put it. Hearing nothing, he ducked around the corner and waited, leaning up against the wall and looking very much like he was staring off into space in distressed thought. Any hint on where to start looking would help.
"Alright gents, listen up. Mr. Reid is the specialist that the FBI sent over from their Behavioral Analysis Unit. He's going to be helping us with a profile of our killer and give us an idea where to start looking."
"It's Doctor Reid actually," a young voice chirped back.
"Right, right. My apologies Doctor Reid," the stern voice replied, trying to keep calm.
"It's alright, happens more than you think," the voice that belonged to the Yank came back before he cleared his throat. "Now, according to the patterns and victimology of his targets, you're looking for a male in his middle twenties to late thirties. He's between 5'10 and 6 feet, approximately 1.8 to 1.82 meters tall. Footprint indentations taken from multiply crime scenes places the Unsub somewhere are 160lbs."
"Unsub?"
"Unidentified Subject. Now this Unsub will have an average build, but is strong since he must carry his victims who themselves have a strong build. Now the fact that he uses a sedative to incapacitate his targets suggests that he has entered the house previous to their capture. He likes to watch them and most likely approaches them so he is last thing they see before they fall unconscious."
"So he hides while the drug knocks them out. Sounds like a coward to me."
"While that may seem the case, let's not forget that the Unsub decides to strike in broad daylight, as if he has no fear of being caught. He even leaves pictures to taunt the police and further victimize his targets. This suggests a highly organized killer, someone who does extensive surveillance of not only his victims but also the neighborhoods they live in." A pause and then the sound as Dr. Reid pointed at some of the pictures. "The aggression and violence on the bodies of the victims appears to be chaotic and actually impulsive in nature."
"So are we looking for a team then?"
"Unlikely, while there is a discernable difference in behavior; it points more to a multi-personality disorder than two people. So be on the look out for suspects with a history of mental health problems. Now the fact that the men are kept for three days and the burns on their arms and legs suggests a religious influence."
"So a religious wanker trying to purge the city of the homosexuals," an older voice chimed in.
"Well yes and no. The sexual nature of the violence suggests something deeper. The Unsub himself is most likely homosexual but was brought up in a strict religious household. He would have been taught that his urges and feels were wrong and even brought on by the devil. This would lead him to take out his rage on openly gay men. By killing these men, he is trying to kill that part of himself."
"But what about Mr. Kirkland? Does that mean that he was gay?"
"Mr. Bonnefoy doesn't seem to think so. And there is no evidence that he is. No one has seen him out on a date or have any men over to his house other than business associates and, again, Mr. Bonnefoy has offered other explanations," the voice of Inspector Jones rang clear above all others. "Even with some missing pieces, the evidence doesn't point to a copy cat. The frog probably scared the bastard off."
"It's highly possible…" Reid's voice droned on, but Francis had heard all he need. He had a few ideas of where to start his search, but he had to do a bit of shopping first. Striding out of the precinct with a threatening air, eyes like stone. Dark skies swirled overhead, threatening with an impending storm.
The sound of black light weight combat boots echoed on the cold streets of London, a cold mist hanging in the air. Francis' hands were shoved deep within the pocket of his black overcoat, the collar turned up to keep away straying eyes. A black turtleneck sweater hugged his taunt frame as his legs carried him down another back alley. A few shady characters stalked around the corners, watching him with mild interest. It was not everyday that they saw such a sight, but his murderous aura did better keeping them at bay better than the revolver tucked in the back of his navy jeans. His once jovial face hardened gravely, shinning eyes cold like ice and as unforgiving. They were half covered by tinted sunglass worn low on his nose.
The sky smelled of rain, air electrified with soon to strike lightning. The weatherman had called it a sudden low system from some oceanic storm, but Francis knew better. With Arthur gone, the country would start to deteriorate, weather would turn bad and natural disasters would strike. It wouldn't take long for the economy to fail and recession to strike. The time clock was ticking: according to the police the killer kept his captives for 72hours. Arthur was taken 6 hours ago.
The sound of his phone ringing suddenly ripped through the silence, making a man not far from Francis start and spill his coffee. Without braking stride, France flipped the phone open. "Bonnefoy," he answered, voice even.
"Francis! God, we just heard the news. It's all over BBC and CNN now," America's urgent voice came over the phone. It sounded like he was running.
"America," Francis replied. "What are the reports saying?"
There was a pause as it sounded like Alfred was talking to someone else. "Shit, just–Damn. The Prime Minister's aide has been reported missing. Uh...house broken into during the afternoon...Afternoon! Francis! Jeeze, what the hell happened? They aren't saying anything else!"
"They probably don't know anything else," Francis reasoned. "Arthur's missing, kidnapped by a serial killer."
"WHAT!" Alfred's voice broke as he started to panic. "Shit shit shit! Ah fu- Just...Just hold on Francis. Mattie and I are gonna be there as soon as we can. We'll get Arthur back. Come on Mattie, the plane's waiting for us!"
"I'll get him back Alfred," Francis shot back as he stopped in front of another house marked over with police tape. An earlier victim's home. "Just stay out of the way."
"W-what? Francis, what's with you? I know this has to be hard on you. You and Arthur are together but I've never heard you sound like this before."
"No one takes my Angleterre away from me," Francis growled into the phone.
"Look, Francis, you're scaring me a bit. Just calm down alright, Matt and I are boarding now. We'll be there in six hours." Another heavy pause took over the line. "I know you're pissed, and I know you think you know how to handle this, but we're dealing with mortals here. We can't afford to treat them the same way we do each other."
"I realize this Alfred." Francis ducked around back of the house, looking for someway to get inside. No doubt the police would have locked the doors and windows, but he had to double check nothing was wired to an alarm. Another hand snuck into his inner pocket, pulling out his lock picking kit.
"I don't think you do, Francis," Alfred snapped back.
"Alfred, there is something you don't realize. Over the centuries, I have watched mortals destroy everything around them. I refuse to let this happen to Arthur."
"Fine, just don't do anything stupid alright. Matt says he'll never forgive you if you do something stupid."
"I'm not going to sit around and do nothing America. I'm going to find him."
"Damn it Francis! We're dealing with a serial killer— someone who hunts people for some sick and twisted fun!" Alfred shouted into this phone. "We don't know what he's capable of!"
A grim and somber smile found its way onto Francis' face as he pulled out his first tool. "I have a feeling no one knows what I'm capable of, America." Francis snapped the phone shut before turning his attention to the lock.
Alfred stared at his phone with a look of anger and horror on his face. Matt gazed at him with confusion. "Alfred, what's going on?"
"I'm not sure Mattie, but I don't like it. We've never dealt with him when he's like this before." He paused, before shifting through his phone with a sigh.
"Who are you calling?"
"Probably the only person who could handle Francis when he like this, other than Arthur." He brought the phone up to his ear. "Russia."
Thanks again guys! I promise to try and get the next chapter out sooner. Please enjoy and review ^_^
