Morgan lay idly upon the settee, his legs stretched out before him and his favorite gun (which he had lovingly named Clooney) hanging upon a finger of an outstretched hand. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling which seemed to expand forever above him. It was easy for him to lose himself in the fantasy that nothing else existed: there were only the black stairs spiraling around and around in a dizzying way along the oddly translucent white walls until they reached the domed glass ceiling at the top but soon the sound of a refrigerator door being slammed brought back into reality.
"There's a situation in the fridge," a short woman dressed in all-black with silver wedding rings sewn across her collar stepped into the room, breathing heavily. It never ceased to amaze him that she didn't simply choke on the overabundance of oxygen that she took in on a daily basis. She always seemed to be panting (usually in excitement or anticipation) or struggling for breath, giving her a distinctly hound-on-a-trail like impression. She surveyed the mess of fine cigars, wads of cash, and impressive, glinting weapons on the coffee table with satisfaction before turning her green eyes on Morgan. Here he was surrounded by an overabundance of wealth and pleasure and yet he was fast asleep. Five years she had been in the business and still the site of diamonds and mutilated things brought on the excitement that she thought would cease with her amateur days. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen even though she knew that Morgan did not see her. "There's a situation in the -"
"I know," he said without opening his eyes. "Last night another bag of human fingers appeared in the back of the fridge. Any idea who could have put them there?" The woman paused and stared at him in obvious embarrassment.
"Well, I don't…"
"…know who could have put them there?" he laughed. "Did I forget to mention that they were all ring fingers? Mind you, all of the rings were missing…"
She snickered and pounced on the couch in front of him. She sat still for a moment with a pillow hugged to her chest and listened with a reverent attentiveness to the song playing on her iPod. It was the current 'theme song' of the Company thus she had memorized every bridge and breath within the first hour that it had been played at one of Percival's lavish parties.
"This leather jacket's ripped
It tells stories though it's worn
It has seen the man that was never, ever born
It knows my solitude, it brings warmth to my pain
It keeps out the sunlight and lets in the rain
It keeps out the sunlight – ooh, and it lets in the rain."
"You know, Derek," she said with an enamored glint in her eye. She began to sway side-to-side in time with the jazzy tempo. "One man's treasure is also another man's treasure. But both men's treasure is my absolute right – HA!" She slammed her fist on the cushions and Morgan jumped. He liked Terrence because she seemed just a bit more human than the rest of the Company yet sometimes the lusty inhumanity that drove them all did surface and mar her otherwise harmlessly playful demeanor. The phone began to ring and he straightened up to reload his gun.
"Get a life," he said in a smooth voice before aiming his gun at the wailing object.
BAM!
And the poor telephone was no more.
Terrence stared wide-eyed at the white shards that bounced around her sneakers before looking up at him with the same comical look of surprise. "Bad day?" she asked.
"Just…uneventful," he said slowly, "So yes, I had a bad day."
"Right….right." She looked away and began to pack the money in tiny black bags, all the while conscious of the fact that Morgan was watching her with those black-as-night eyes of his. She began to hum along with the music uncomfortably.
"My last love has shipped
She knew my heart, but she was
A star gazing woman and she left me because
I had an old leather jacket and a faux-golden cane
Her polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain
Baby, Her Polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain…"
"You have something you want to say to me, Terrence?" he asked, scrutinizing his gun with unabashed adoration. When the sunlight filtering in through the windows caught the black metal and illuminated every line and twist of the powerful machine it just looked so…sexy. She bit her lip.
"Derek, I –"
"I told you not to call me that."
"Okay, Terry. Look, I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't tell you this but people are starting to talk. You know, the Company? There have been rumors…"
"Uh-huh…" he pulled the slide back with a loud snap and inspected the barrel with satisfaction. He knew damn well about the rumors.
"Dere-Terry, they're beginning to question your authenticity. No one knows where you came from! Not that it matters to me…"
"I came from the Company in Las Vegas. They all know that."
"Right but, Terry," she put the wad of cash that she had been counting back on the table and sighed. He could tell that she was trying to decide on how best to disguise her next sentence so that it would not sound like the suspicious whispers that floated around the Company. "They...you…you're…well, Terry they know that you're from Las Vegas and the Company over there confirms it but nobody really knows who you are. I mean, I know that the Company operates on secrecy but every man and woman in it has a story or profile, even if they don't speak much of it. Hell, Bobby is practically mute but everybody knows how he works and it's easier to trust him that way," she quickly put her hand over her mouth, "not that dependability is an issue…point is, you just showed up a few months ago out of nowhere – no record, no surefire verification, and no story to your name. All anybody knows about you is that your name is Terry Moore and that you came from Las Vegas. Even I don't know what your damn favorite color is and I'm your best friend," she murmured under her breath. Derek scratched his head with the barrel of his gun and gave her that same infuriatingly knowing look.
"Hey, look at me," he finally said after a moment had passed. She looked up at him and found herself drawn to his mischievous eyes. He was going full Charmer Mode, she knew, but she was not complaining. "You know I love you, right?"
"Well…"
"Just say yes."
"No."
"A 'no' from you is a 'yes' for me, baby," he said, flashing his white teeth at her. She couldn't help smiling, "And you know that I appreciate everything that you tell me. But everybody has their own secrets. And so far secrecy is the only thing that has kept me safe all of these years."
"But Percival…"
"As far as I'm concerned, Percival can go and –" her eyes widened drastically at his next words and she quickly put her hands over her ears. It was a well-known fact that she, along with a hundred other members, had a dangerous infatuation with the man.
"See?! This is exactly why half of the Company doesn't like you. Only you would say something like that."
"Well, maybe that's because…" he sighed and decided to let it drop. He knew that what she said was true: sooner or later the rest of the Company would find it necessary to take a closer look at his resume. Terry Moore had performed a few notable feats in his amateur years but those were fading fast in the minds of the others. It would be easier for him to simply relocate to a new base but he had business that he had to take care of in New Orleans. Besides, Morgan wasn't a man to run away from his problems. No, he preferred to take them head-on. A peaceful sort of silence descended upon them once again, flavored only by the husky voices of the fine singers and the hissing of trees as they brushed against the sides of the mansion. The mansion (a luxuriously spacious building with more window than drywall) had originally been owned by the late Terry Moore so no one had thought to think twice when Morgan had decided to settle in. It was relatively easy: most of the Company had only known Terry on paper and the few that had visited him couldn't care less about the movements of the young man anymore. Morgan figured he had three, maybe four months before people became suspicious enough to investigate but he would be long gone and onto other business before they truly realized what hit them. He continued to watch her.
"You know, the latest-" suddenly he sat bolt upright and flicked his wrist in a violent manner. Terrence didn't even realize what had happened until she looked down and saw a knife pinned to the thick stack of dollar bills beneath her fingers. It was the money that Morgan had taken the night before, after he had murdered Eric. The guns and fine cigars were his, too.
"What are you doing?!" she yelped in surprise.
"That one stays where it is."
"No…" she said slowly. Her breathing began to get heavy again which was a sign that her murderous personality was beginning to take over, "That one – along with my share – is going to Percival…like it should."
"I already paid my dues to the Company," Morgan growled. He stood up and only then did Terrence realize just how darkly intimidating he could be. She watched him stroll over and casually slip the bundle in the pocket of his suit after taking out a small sheaf. "You see this?" he held the sheaf up to her nose and she swiped at it, "Ah-ah-ah. This right here is a class-A example of money tainted by the dirtiest hands that you have the pretty little fortune of never seeing. Thanks to me, those hands will never taint anything again. This money is going back to where it belongs."
"You're one to talk so righteous, considering you're present company which 30% of all of your profits belongs to! Derek, if you won't give it to me I'll take it from you!"
"You don't want to do that..."
The two stared at each other. Terrence stood ready to pounce as Morgan stared down at her with pitiless eyes. Just as Terrence struck him as disturbingly playful Morgan struck her as a cool-headed, cocky man whose confidence masked a deeper immorality that only the dead had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. He wouldn't hesitate to slice off her hands if it helped him to achieve his means, this much she knew. She laughed.
"I'm just kidding!" she exclaimed. She was wrong to think that punching his shoulder would lighten the mood. "Hey, we have a good thing going here! Let's not ruin it with petty threats and money and stuff, eh, Terry?" She held out her hand. For a minute she thought that he wasn't going to take it and she mentally took stock of the quickest path to the nearest weapon (the poker near the fireplace would have to do) when suddenly he smiled and grasped her hand.
"I couldn't agree more, my friend. Now get out of here before I start causing some real trouble. Go on, now. Shoo."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked towards the door. She paused with her hand on the golden handle and slowly turned towards him "Hey, Derek? I'm the only one that you've ever told your real name to, right? Remember that. You trust me." With that she slipped out the door, slowly easing it closed behind her.
Morgan sighed and fished the disposable gun that he had used last night from his suitcase. He tried to remember what he had been thinking about before she had interrupted his train of thought. It had brought him a strange sense of pleasure, whatever it had been or whoever it had been. He threw the phone up in the air and then just as quickly whipped a second gun out of its hidden holster. He clipped the phone right in midair with a precision that would have sent Ripley into a fit and watched as the little black pieces went cascading about the room like black raindrops racing through yellow sunlight.
Suddenly he remembered who he had been thinking of. The man at the bar, the one with the IQ of….he smiled. 187. Something about the sunlight that shone through the crystal windows had reminded him of the man's face. He realized that he didn't know the man's name and this struck him as unfair. The kid had certainly made an impression on him and, due to that, Morgan found him irritatingly unforgettable. He would just have to find out his name. And maybe get his handkerchief back. Or perhaps the latter was unnecessary.
Morgan stuffed the money in his pocket and stepped outside with a clear plan of action in his mind. It was only when he found himself driving faster than usual on the freeway did he realize that he had just been making excuses to see the kid again.
xXxXxXx
Later on that afternoon a handsome man in a black suit showed up at the Hartley residence, claiming to have found a wallet filled with cash on the sidewalk that didn't have any form of ID in it and could it possibly have belonged to them? Mrs. Hartley, a petite African American woman who had lost her son to the hands of a heartless man over three years ago, had sworn that it couldn't have belonged to her and that he should try the next door neighbors. The man had shook his head and insisted on her holding on to it.
"Whoever it was obviously has more than enough money to keep him satisfied. I don't think that anyone will be coming back for it, miss. You take care now."
With that he had walked away, his eyes unusually dark beneath his black sunglasses.
xXxXxXxXx
Reid sat on the balcony of his hotel room, poring over a thick book of criticism on the works of Sir Conan Doyle. He wasn't one to sit outside and 'enjoy' the sunlight (too often it gave him headaches) but Ethan was adamant in his texts when he told him to leave the cold confines of his hotel room and make peace with the New Orleans sun. So he had thrown on a pair of sunglasses, grabbed the nearest book, and submitted himself to a day of reading in the sunlight. He himself had submitted an essay of critiques on the subject but the editors had rejected it. Something about him using a psychological profile to compare Sir Conan Doyle to a mission-oriented serial killer in order to get a point across had rubbed them the wrong way. Now he read through the essays at an almost impossible speed, his lips moving silently as he took in the tiny black words on the page. He had basically been saying the same things in his essay...he'd just been saying it in a different way. His cellphone beeped and he picked it up. There was a single text from Hotch with a link attached to it.
I received this from an officer in Nevada. Do you mind taking a look at it when you have time?
P.S. I hope that you're enjoying the weather out there.
Reid opened the link and scrolled through it quickly. It was a letter of concern from a commanding officer on a trending crime rate that seemed to be crossing state lines. There was also an attached chart showing a spiked increase in crime that didn't seem to be completely out of the ordinary (a fact which the officer admitted to.) There was also mention of some company…an exceedingly patient killer…a man named –
"Ah, I told you someone was using that room. Hello there!" Reid looked up and saw a man leaning out of the balcony in the room next to him. A woman was leaning over his shoulder. When she saw Reid looking she smirked and left the balcony. Reid pursed his lips in a smile and waved back at the man.
"The name's Percival. I'm the manager of this place. Wellll, I basically own it but no one wants to admit that."
"Ah," Reid said, unsure of what else to say. He was hoping that the man would go away but he could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to talk. He closed his book regretfully and stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he did so.
"My friend and I have a bet going," he said, crossing his arms over the black railing. He struck Reid as a man constantly up to no good and that his talking to him was only a slight deviation from his usual mischievousness.
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"She thinks you're a painter. She says you have those fine, graceful hands needed to hold a paint brush steady. I think you're a student desperately trying to earn your degree, judging by the way that you're finger has been moving across that page," he gestured unnecessarily at Reid's hands, "Now, I have fifty bucks and a spare favor on this one, so how about you just tell me that you're a student and we can get this over with?"
"Actually I'm a part of a special branch of the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We help the departments catch serial killers by providing them with psychological evaluations which the Unknown Subject is likely to follow judging by past –"
"You're FBI, huh?" Reid could hear the sudden interest in the man's voice, "You catch the bad guys?"
"Well, yeah…"
"You hear that, Jordan?" he called to the woman in the room behind him, "He's FBI. Isn't that wonderful?" The woman said something that Reid couldn't hear and the man laughed. He turned back to him with a pantomime of a smile on his face. "What's your name, cowboy?"
"Spencer Reid," Reid said slowly. He didn't like the man. He didn't like him at all.
"Well, Mister Spencer Reid. If you ever need anything – anything at all – I'm usually in room 221. You should stop by for tea and scrambled eggs sometime. I swear, Jordan makes the best scrambled eggs that you will ever have the pleasure of experiencing."
"Thanks…I'll consider it."
"Don't let me down, cowboy." He cast him a salute, turned on his heel, and went back inside. Reid returned to his seat and reopened the book in his lap. But he couldn't focus anymore. He was beginning to wonder if telling Percival that he was an FBI agent was a good thing.
