Round and Round We Go

"I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place."
~Raymond Carver.

Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.

"We need to go," Dawson's tone was low, meant only to be heard by Eden. "I'm more than certain that Mac has everything under control here, and we need to start questioning people before they know what's happened."

She nodded in agreement, following him out of the study, where they'd spent more time flipping through notebooks, each page giving them more and more reason to dread.

As they passed back through the living room, Jude stopped for a moment.

"I've figured it out," she announced, to no one in particular. Then, with a slight turn around the room, she found Macaraeg again, speaking to directly to her as she pointed to the four-foot high stack of newspapers, "Have your crew take a look at those. It doesn't make sense. This man wasn't a hoarder—he was the exact opposite. Everything in this house is in order—pristinely in order. So why keep all these newspapers? And if he was keeping newspapers, why these ones specifically?"

"Consider it done," Mac gave a curt nod. Her face mask had been pulled down past her chin, but her forensic hood was still on, giving her the appearance of a wimpled nun and only further increasing the natural intensity of her dark features and sharp edges. Jude had no doubt that Mac would not only personally see to it, but she'd also find whatever significance was behind the stack of papers.

At this point, Judith Eden would take any form of reassurance, no matter how mundane or how slight. The tornado that Jessalyn's mood had predicted was finally here in full force, and when a twister hit, you simply had to learn to grab on to whatever you could.

Dawson was already outside waiting for her, standing with Cruz and O'Donnell again. No one looked particularly thrilled. The adrenaline rush had dissipated and now everyone was tired—tired and upset.

"We've got a slight detour before we head back," Jack informed her. "Somebody has to notify Della Fuller of her son's death—might as well be us."

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

The moment the phone rang, Jessalyn Keller knew that it couldn't be good news. She and Jonas had been on pins and needles for what seemed like an eternity now, waiting to hear from Dawson and Eden—no news was never good news, not in their line of work. Every minute that had ticked by since the SWAT teams' departure signaled another minute in which something had or would go wrong. You called immediately when it was good news. When it was bad news, you waited.

Jonas and Jess had been waiting over an hour. That was not a good sign at all.

"SSA Keller," she answered, though she knew it was Dawson.

"Keller." His voice was low, quiet, almost sorrowful.

Jude. Her heart seized in her chest, just as surely as if someone had reached into her ribcage and squeezed it in their fist.

"Sir?" There was no breath in her lungs, yet she somehow forced the word out.

"Are Agents Rossi and Reid still at the Academy?"

"Yes, sir. You told us to make sure they stayed put—and we have." She began fiddling with a loose strand of hair, which had been tucked behind her ear. Surely if something had happened to Jude, that would have been the first thing he mentioned. Surely.

Shostakovich, who was standing beside her, moved closer, his brows knitting in concern at both her words and her tone. She removed the phone from her ear and pushed the button for speakerphone. "Sir, I just put you on speaker—Jonas is here with me, no one else."

"Benjamin Fuller is dead—murdered, apparently."

Jonas interjected, "What? By whom?"

"Still figuring that out. But it gets worse."

"Worse?" Keller's worry amped up a couple of notches as she cast a glance back to her partner. Jonas didn't look too at-ease, either.

"Fuller left behind notebooks—notebooks and notebooks filled with plans and rantings and what-have-you. And Dr. Spencer Reid plays a pretty prominent role in all the ones we've read so far."

Keller didn't respond. Honestly, she didn't know how to. Jonas remained silent as well.

Jack made some kind of shuffling noise before continuing. "Keller, you and Shostakovich have to arrest him now—and make sure David Rossi's kept in the dark. Keep it quiet. The BAU's a tight unit—I want to find out who knows what before they know what we're looking for. And I don't want anyone else to know, either—if we're wrong, I don't want Spencer Reid's career to be a casualty of our mistake."

"Of course." She hesitated before asking, "Sir, is…is everyone alright?"

Jonas' eyes snapped up to meet hers. He knew what she was really asking (is Jude alright?). She simply stared right back at him, denying nothing.

"We're fine, Jess," Dawson's tone took on a softer edge. However, he quickly reverted back to his usual no-nonsense persona, "I need you two to take care of Dr. Reid. Pay close attention to his reaction when you tell him the charges. Then put him in an interview room ASAP—but don't talk to him til we get back. It'll be awhile—we're going to talk to Fuller's mother first—but I want you guys to spend the time observing. See how he deals with knowing that we're on to him. And I cannot stress enough how much we need to keep this quiet. Don't even make it look like an arrest."

"Understood, sir." She hung up the phone, turning her attention back to Jonas.

"C'mon." She sighed. He followed dutifully. He didn't mention Jude, or his shock over Dr. Reid, though Jess could still sense his thoughts on both subjects.

It mattered, but not right now.

Her brain swirled through a myriad of thoughts. Even Dawson seemed confused—a state she'd rarely ever seen her chief in. He'd used the phrase if we're wrong, he'd not wanted Dr. Reid to be tainted if they were making a mistake—but in the next breath, he was saying we're on to him, with the certainty of a man who knows the suspect is guilty. In a way, she understood the wishful thinking that came from realizing your perp was actually someone you liked—you were more open to the possibility of being wrong, more willing to dismiss the feeling in your gut.

Currently, her gut was murmuring that something wasn't right. The problem was that she wasn't sure what that something was.

Dora Carrington was pumping her legs double-time down the hallway—Chief Cruz had called to inform her that the bust had been…well, a bust. He hadn't given any other details, but she'd sensed that there was a lot more going on. Unsure of what else to do, she'd decided to head down the hall to Sura Roza's temporary office, to offer whatever help she could. Given Roza's less-than-jovial personality, Carrington would most likely be met with a rebuff and a dash of disdain, but at least traveling up and down the halls gave her something to do.

She was moving so quickly that she'd almost developed tunnel vision—however a sudden movement to her left caught her attention and she spun towards it, more out of surprise than actual curiosity.

However, what she saw certainly did pique her curiosity.

The movement was simply a door being closed—by Jonas Shostakovich. Over his shoulder stood Jessalyn Keller, who was standing in front of a third person, Spencer Reid.

Something about Keller's body language didn't match up. Carrington couldn't put her finger on it—it was only a flash, gone in the blink of an eye as the door shut—but she knew something was wrong. Keller's tense frame, Shostakovich's expression—the intuition sensors in Carrington's brain were definitely blaring at all the raw data her eyes had taken in, though her mind couldn't quite process it into a proper narrative.

She wheeled around on her heel, holding her breath as she held her ear against the closed door. She didn't even give herself the chance to think about what she was doing—or what she'd say if she were caught.

She'd never disliked Dr. Reid, and she'd certainly never wished him ill, but since Jordan's sudden involvement in the case, Carrington would have to admit that she'd become more…concerned with his well-being.

Keller was speaking—her voice was hurried, anxious, yet the words were muddled through the door.

"…conspiracy to…terrorism…Please…hands behind your head."

You didn't place your hands behind your head unless you were under arrest.

Carrington continued her flight like a bat out of hell, actually going the opposite direction of her intended target. She didn't notice and didn't care—her mind was swimming and swirling with the scraps of words she'd heard, paired with the things she'd seen. Behind her, she heard the door opening, and she slipped through the nearest doorway, which thankfully happened to be an empty classroom. She turned out the lights and kept the door open just a crack, just enough to see into the hallway. Her inner voice was screaming at her insane actions (what do you think you're doing, Dora—have you become some secret agent spy now?!).

She held her breath (not an easy feat, considering that her adrenaline level was forcing her lungs to work double-time) as she listened for footsteps. They came closer and she instinctively shifted further away from the crack in the door, further away from the light which could slip in and reveal her hiding in the shadows.

The footsteps continued. She leaned forward to see the backs of Reid, Keller, and Shostakovich—the behavioral analyst was between the other two, and they seemed a little close for comfort. As if they were physically hemming him in, cuffing him without handcuffs, in a way.

His hands were moving, swinging freely by his side. He definitely wasn't cuffed. But the unnaturally ramrod-straight set of his shoulders and spine showed that he certainly wasn't at-ease.

Carrington opened the door a little wider as they moved further away—then the trio turned down the corridor.

She knew what lay in that section of the Academy—the interrogation rooms, designed for mock-ups, but still fully-functional. She'd helped Chief Cruz make sure that they were outfitted with everything they'd need for future interviews, so that as soon as a suspect was brought in, there wouldn't be a moment wasted on tracking down this recorder or that set of transmitters.

She hurried down the hallway after them, trying to close the gap between her and the unfolding drama. However, she slowed before she reached the corner, stopping for a moment and listening to make sure the trio was still walking down the hall, unable to hear her own footsteps.

Painstakingly, she crept the last few yards to the turn in the corridor, carefully peering around the corner.

Keller was opening the door to an interview room. Reid and Shostakovich stood back slightly. For the first time, Carrington could see Reid's face—he looked absolutely shell-shocked, and as pale as a ghost. Keller disappeared into the room. Reid followed her. Shostakovich remained in the hallway.

Keller appeared again, closing the door behind her. Carrington didn't risk it—she turned and hurried down the hall as quietly as possible.

It was real. It was happening.

She shouldn't do it, but she had to.

Despite her fumbling fingers, she quickly found Jordan Strauss' number in her cell and hit the dial button.

Della Fuller's House. Southbridge, Virginia.

"Why can't Ben answer these questions himself?" Della Fuller nervously played with the strand of pearls around her neck, her gaze darting from Eden to Dawson and back again. She'd already allowed the two agents to sit in her living room, so it wasn't as if she were being obstinate or unwilling to cooperate—she was merely curious, and slightly anxious. The latter reaction probably came from being the mother of a federal agent who worked in a building that had been bombed less than 48 hours ago.

"He's been out of reach at the moment." Even as Jude offered the warm smile of reassurance, she knew that she'd chosen the wrong words.

"Out of reach? What does that even mean? Oh, god, is Ben missing?" All color drained from Della's face at the horror of such a thought. Sadly, Jude realized that in a few minutes, the woman would be wishing that her son was only missing. But for now, there were pretenses to keep up.

"Mrs. Fuller, we don't believe there's any reason for concern at this time—we're just checking in on all of our agents, making sure everyone's coping well, given the events of the past few days," she infused her words with a little thicker English accent, allowing them to soothe the worried mother's mind. The woman seemed to accept this, merely nodding in understanding and pushing back her fears.

It was standard procedure to try and get as much information about the deceased's life and personality before the people being interviewed were aware of the person's death—their memories would be unclouded from the haze of shock and grief, and they also weren't saddled with that weird cultural desire not to speak ill of the dead, no matter how true the ill words were.

Still, it never made Judith feel any less manipulative. Jack knew this—he gently reached out to briefly rest his hand over hers (I'll handle it, Jude).

Della Fuller didn't miss the little gesture—her eyes flickered up to Jude's face, rimmed with surprise.

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This woman really had the wrong idea.

"Who were Ben's closest friends?" Jack kept his tone filled with warm concern, using the nickname that Della had used for her son. "Who would he go to, if he were upset?"

"I…I don't know," she visibly balked at the realization. "I really don't know….Ben had friends in high school, a few buddies who were always around—but honestly, I don't think he's spoken to any of them in years. At least since he went to the Academy."

"What about friends from work?"

Again, her face scrunched into a thoughtful and slightly-disturbed expression. "No, he's never really mentioned anyone….I'm sorry, he's not a big socializer. Never has been, really. But especially after joining the FBI—I asked him about it once, and he said it was best not to get too attached to coworkers. Said they were always transferring, that sort of thing. Seemed like an odd reason, but then again, I've never been in a position like that and…and Ben's very—he's a deeply emotional boy. He's the kind of person who is a friend for life, you know?"

"Except he's no longer friends with his buddies from high school," Jack pointed out.

"Well, that wasn't his choice," Della looked down, flicked an imaginary piece of lint off her knee. "One of 'em died overseas—Afghanistan. The other two got into drugs. Obviously, they didn't want anything to do with Ben, once he decided to join the FBI. It's funny, but that's how a lot of folks around here got—you think they'd be proud that one of their own became a Special Agent, but they all act so weird around him, like they're afraid he'll arrest them for any little thing. As if he would—he spends all day working with computers!"

She laughed at that, as if the perceived glamour and danger of her son's life was woefully out of touch with his reality (not that she wasn't far off the mark, Jude admitted—except for the part where her son became involved in domestic terrorism).

"Is that why he lives in a cabin, out in the middle of nowhere?" Jack's voice was lined with a hint of compassion. "So he doesn't have to deal with everyone ostracizing him?"

Della's face contorted into a look of sorrow. She sighed, looking away for a moment. "I'm sure it has something to do with it, now that you mention it. But I always assumed it was…it's his father's cabin. A project they worked on together, before my husband died. I used to think it was so silly—building a cabin less than five miles from your actual home. But my husband always insisted it was the principle of the thing—being able to get away and stay away, even if only for a weekend. I thought Ben moved out there to be close to him—close to the memory of better times, you know?"

Jude nodded, though her heart ached at the realization that Della Fuller's memory of that cabin was soon to be ruined by what had happened there tonight.

Jack Dawson gave a hum of understanding, waiting a beat before continuing, "Mrs. Fuller, when you spoke to Ben last night, how did he sound?"

"How did he sound? Like always, I guess. It was hard to tell how things were affecting him—and goodness knows, I tried. But he's a very private person. And he's always been a bit…morose, I suppose is the word for it. A bit like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh."

An odd reference, but Jack Dawson didn't comment on it. Instead, he nodded, allowing Mrs. Fuller to continue.

"He didn't—he isn't depressed or anything horrible like that…."

Judith Eden bit the inside of her cheek to keep from retorting that depression wasn't anything horrible, and there was no reason to adopt such a tone, as if that were the worst accusation that could be leveled at her son—her son, who'd bombed a fucking building filled with innocent people.

"He just is kind of…flat. He stays at one level, most of the time. Doesn't get excited about much, doesn't get upset about much. I'm not saying he wasn't upset about what happened yesterday—god, he's not a sociopath."

Psychopath, Eden's mind internally corrected her. If Benjamin Fuller had been either of those, he would have been a psychopath—well-educated, cool, calm, meticulous and methodical, able to appear normal to the people around him, able to control his emotions and hold down a steady job. A sociopath would have been his polar opposite.

"Of course not," Dawson reassured her, and something in his tone informed Jude that he'd mentally made the same correction. Unaware of the undertone, Della smiled gratefully at his understanding.

"He's just…harder to read than the average guy," she added another layer, another smile, another step to distance herself from anything she might have implied in her previous comment. That smile quickly slipped away, "I think he was still in shock over it all, really."

"What did he say, exactly?" Jack Dawson had to will his muscles not to tense, not to give any outward sign of how important her next answer just might be.

"Not much—he assured me that he was fine, that the bomb didn't go off anywhere near him or his office. But he kept—he said it a few times, he said he couldn't believe how many innocent people got hurt."

Jude sat back slightly. That certainly was a new twist—a bomber who felt badly for his victims. Whether it was remorse or simply incredulity that his plan hadn't gone accordingly, was still to be decided.

"Did he say anything else?"

"No. He just told me that he was going to stop by and see me on Saturday, like always—I can still manage just fine, but he likes coming over to take care of the yard work. I think he plans on clearing out the gutters, something like that. I could do it myself, but I let him because it's his little way of showing he cares. His father really would be proud of him."

Judith Eden was fairly certain that his father would be the opposite of proud, at this point. But who knows? Maybe Father Fuller had also held a burning desire to blow up the FBI.

Dawson glanced down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him—this next question was going to be tricky to navigate, even under the best of circumstances.

"Mrs. Fuller, have you noticed anything different about Ben lately?"

"Different? Different how?"

So this definitely wasn't going to wrap up easily. "Has he mentioned any new friends, started acting withdrawn or otherwise different—has he mentioned possibly going on a trip, anything like that?"

"A trip?" She scoffed at the idea. "Where would he go? It's the middle of February, and the only places he'd visit would be within the continental United States."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he hates flying, so Hawaii's out of the question, and he's the reddest-blooded American I know. A total patriot—only buys American, only travels in America." She had the good grace to cast a slightly-apologetic smile in Jude's direction. In that moment, she reminded Jude of Jessalyn's mother—the always on-point and always aware of everyone else's feelings Southern belle.

Jude gave a small smile back. It took more effort than it normally should have.

"So, no difference in behavior?" Dawson clarified.

"No—but then again, I guess I'm not the best judge," Della shrugged easily. "I see him once a week. I'm sure his fellow agents could give you a better answer."

As if suddenly realizing something, she leaned forward, "Have you checked with one of them? Maybe he's out having a drink—or visiting the hospital."

"Ma'am, you've already said that he makes a point of not making friends at work," Dawson quietly reminded her.

"Oh." She sat back. "That's right."

And then, it was as if the full gravity of the situation fell upon her shoulders, "Well, if he isn't home, and he isn't at Quantico and he doesn't have any friends to be with, where is he?"

Regardless of how Jude felt about the woman or her son, this was always the moment when her heart truly snapped.

"Mrs. Fuller," she reached out—not actually taking Della's hand, but allowing herself to be easily accessible if the woman was the type who wanted physical comfort (you never knew until the reality hit—some people held onto your hand like a life raft, some hugged you, some collapsed, some didn't want to be touched at all). She kept her voice low, full of compassion but also full of certainty, "About an hour ago, we found your son's body. He's dead, Mrs. Fuller. It appears that he was murdered."

No need to tell her all of the details just yet. She needed to absorb one shock before she was dealt another.

Jack Dawson took a deep breath of the cold night air as he wearily trudged down the front steps—he would have handled the notification, but he had to admit, he was glad that Jude had chosen to. Eden was by far his most compassionate team member, and her ability to read human behavior also allowed her to adapt her approach to whatever the recipient's needs might be.

Della Fuller had needed an anchor, someone to tie her to reality. She'd clutched Jude's wrist with such fervor that Jack knew there would be red marks left behind. Jude had been gentle, but firm—she didn't allow Mrs. Fuller to believe for a single second that there had been a mistake, that her son could possibly still be alive. She'd also informed the woman that the person responsible was directly linked to the bombing—and not unkindly, she'd told Della that she would probably read some very unfavorable things about her son in the near future. She tried to soften the blow as much as possible, and Della Fuller had seemed to understand and appreciate her efforts.

Jude slipped out behind him, exhaling with a slight whistle. It hadn't been easy, going over a few more questions with Mrs. Fuller after she'd learned the truth about her son's death, but it hadn't blown up in their faces either, so it was a win on some small scale.

"Ready, Guv?" She only called him that was when she was trying to lift his spirits—though this time, he got the sense that she needed to raise her own as well.

He gave a small nod as they continued to the SUV parked in the driveway. He gently stopped her, giving her a moment to face him fully before he quietly asked, "Y'Okay?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully, her dark brows quirking downward into a pained expression. "But I know I will be, by the time we get back to Quantico."

He understood what she meant—my emotions are still all over the place, but I'll have them back in their boxes by the time I need to do my job again.

He gave a curt nod, "Can't ask for more than that."

He moved to the driver's side, but her voice stopped him.

"Jack…are you OK?"

He turned back to her. With a light shrug, he held out his hands helplessly, "I don't know, Jude. It's one of those nights where I just don't know anything."

She took a beat to study him, her big brown eyes swallowing every inch of him with the clinical curiosity of a seasoned investigator who also knew him as deeply as a friend. He knew she was looking for something—and he knew why. Jude, highly perceptive individual that she was, had sensed that something wasn't being said on his end, that he was mulling over something in his mind, and she wanted to know what it was and why it was bothering him.

But Jack wasn't ready to speak those thoughts aloud. So he simply confessed that. "Jude, I'm not ready to share—not yet."

Now it was her turn to nod in understanding as she moved towards the passenger door of the SUV. Jack was a quiet man, a thinker, a brooder, and she knew that he preferred to work out all the kinks of a line of thought in the confines of his own mind before voicing them aloud. She'd noticed the silence, he'd acknowledged that her guess was correct and had promised to tell her whenever he'd worked it out, and really, there wasn't any more she could ask for. Pushing for more wasn't just rude—it'd put more pressure on him, keeping his mind from being relaxed enough to unravel whatever tangle was batting around his brain.

She waited until they were pulling onto the street before she spoke again, "It's like a puzzle—but some of the pieces are from a different one. She says he didn't have friends at work, but he would have had to have been close to Reid—"

"Men don't tell their mothers everything," he reminded her. "Besides, collaborators isn't always the same thing as friends."

"Perhaps. But then she says that he kept mentioning all the innocent people—seems a bit out of character with a bomber, dunnit?" She cocked her head to the side as she turned to watch him. "I mean, why care? Unless his concern was for the fact that the bomb didn't reach its intended target."

"Which technically included Dr. Reid." Dawson added. He was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth now. "But part of our theory brushed against the idea that the person who sent it would send it to himself, to divert suspicion, knowing full well that it would never reach its intended destination."

"Then why would Fuller be surprised when it did exactly as it was supposed to do?"

Jude's question hung in the air for a beat.

Her chief pulled the car onto US 1 South, revving up the car's engines as he sped back towards Quantico.

"Call Joe and Jess," he told her, nodding towards her cellphone, which was in the cup holder (she always left her phone in the car for notifications, it was an odd way of paying her respects). "Tell 'em to have Rossi and Reid ready for interviews as soon as we get there. I get the feeling that we're jumping from the frying pan straight to the fire with this one."

"Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning."

~T.S. Eliot.