Disclaimer see Chapter One.
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Chapter Three: Somewhere a clock is ticking
Promise me you'll survive. That you won't give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless.
(Titanic)
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'It will be me.' Emily's voice broke through the temporary silence like thunder.
'No, Fuller! I will do it. Emily, I will- '
'No,' Emily interrupted Hotch calmly. Her hands had stopped shaking and her heart wasn't beating too fast anymore. She actually felt relaxed. Maybe because she finally knew where all this was leading. Her eyes were focused on Hotch and she met his pleading dark eyes with a gentle gaze.
'You, Hotch, will walk out of here. You will go home and tonight you will give Jack a hug and tell him that you love him.'
'No. No, Emily!' Hotch tried again, angrily pulling at the rope around his wrists.
'Let him go, Fuller,' Emily said, ignoring Hotch. She let her eyes move to Fuller, who was looking at both of them intently, as if he was watching a very interesting political debate; he was toying with a hunting knife.
'I will stay.'
A cold, yet malicious smile crept over the FBI agent's face as he nodded.
'Yes,' he said and stepped towards Hotch, the knife in hand. But he was still looking at Emily. 'That you will.'
Fuller stood in front of Hotch, who was looking at him with disgust clearly written all over his face.
'Emily- ' Hotch started, but suddenly Fuller hit him square in the face. Hotch let out a groan and fell to the side. The bonds barely kept him upright. A trail of blood made it's way down the right side of Hotch's face where the knife's pommel had hit his temple.
'No!' Emily screamed. 'You bastard! You said you wouldn't hurt him! You said you would let him go.'
'Shut up, Emily. I will let him go,' Fuller gave back; this was getting better and better. He cut Hotch's bonds and as the body of the unconscious agent fell forward, he caught him. 'But, Emily, do you really think I am stupid enough to just cut him loose and risk him going at me? By now you should now better.'
With these words Fuller carelessly dropped the knife to the floor and dragged Hotch out of the room, leaving behind a shaking Emily. Only slowly she managed to get her breathing under control.
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Waiting and not knowing how Hotch was, was indeed another form of torture. Fuller had been right. As the minutes stretched out to feel like days, Emily found herself wishing for the defecting FBI agent to step through the door and continue the torture on her body, but stop that on her soul. Her thoughts were centering around Hotch. She knew there was no way she could doubtlessly find out whether or not he was indeed fine, even if Fuller was to step through the white door right now. All she could do was trust on Fuller's sadistic side and hope that it would bring him some kind of sick satisfaction to keep Hotch alive and to feed off both their worries and fear. But the profiler in her knew that by actually keeping Hotch alive, Fuller was giving up his cover and was running the risk of getting caught. And that meant that either he was too cocky for his own good, or he had a water-tight back-up plan.
As Emily's thoughts started repeating themselves, she focused on something else. First on her breathing and then she started counting the seconds.
… 14, 15, 16 …
… 55 …
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For the first time in almost four days, Hotch felt comfortable. He was lying on something soft. His hands were free and spread out left and right of him. He reveled in the feeling of the softness of whatever his cheek lay on. He fisted his hand into the material. His knuckles ached as his fingers dug into the clammy forest soil. The pain triggered something and pictures started to flash in Hotch's mind. But they were too fast and he couldn't hold on to a single one.
Around him he could hear birds sing and the wind whistling through leaves. He hadn't felt this free and save since he had bought Prentiss the coffee, just before Fuller had taken them. Hotch thought about opening his eyes for a moment, when the pictures started popping up again. One came up more often than the others. It was Prentiss smiling at him, as she took a paper cup filled with steaming coffee from him.
Strangely the next picture also showed Prentiss, but this time she wasn't smiling. There were cuts and bruises on her face and her eyes were strangely empty.
Hotch opened his eyes abruptly.
He was lying on brown forest soil. The cold was already creeping up through his ragged clothes and the front of his shirt was wet and dirty. Slowly he pushed himself up. First on all fours, then on his knees. He had to take a few deep breaths, as a stabbing pain hit his temple. Hotch reached up and felt dried blood covering the right side of his face. His vision was still slightly blurred at the edges, but he willed his legs to carry him nevertheless. For a few seconds he felt like he had a real bad hangover.
He looked around. There were trees, only trees, as far as he could see. Mostly oaks and a few beaches surrounded him. And Hotch didn't know where he was. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead, as he tried to piece together the last few hours.
Fuller had stood in front of him, with a knife in his hand and he had hit him. Hotch touched the caked blood again. That was where the head wound was from. The next thing he remembered was darkness, pitch-black darkness and a bumpy ride. He hadn't had much space or air and he had faded in an out of consciousness. As hard as he tried to remember, he didn't know how long the ride had been.
Exasperated Hotch started to walk straight ahead. Out of that direction the most light seemed to be coming. And light hopefully meant a street and people.
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Emily was nearing sixty seconds again for the umpteenth time, when the door behind her opened. Instantaneously the agent felt exactly like she had felt on her graduation. All squirrelly.
'Emily,' Fuller said as soon as he was in the room. He walked over to the table and put something on it. His body hid whatever it was from Emily.
Then he turned around, a boyish glee in his eyes. 'I have things to do, lots of things to do. My studies were very successful. So I'm afraid I don't have much time to talk. But you don't have much time left, either. See!'
A clock was revealed, as Fuller stepped aside. It showed 11:53:22. The seconds were counting down.
'I allowed myself to deduct the time it took me to get Agent Hotchner out of here. Which means now you have eleven hours and fifty-three precious minutes left. Oh, make that fifty-two. Time flies.'
He patted the clock fondly. 'Anything you want to say?'
His performance would have been comical, had Emily been watching it on a stage or a TV screen. But now she only hoped that he would give her the remaining eleven and something hours.
'Is Hotch alright?' she asked and looked at Fuller with fearless eyes. Now that her time was literally running down in front of her, Emily felt calmer than she had since the first minute Fuller had tied her to the chair. It would end soon; one way or another.
'He will be, if he ever finds his way out of the forest,' Fuller replied and walked towards the door. He stood behind Emily, the door already open.
'I guess it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, dying for someone you care about, someone you love, even.' Fuller laughed and the door shut with a thud.
Emily shuddered.
Eleven hours and fifty minutes. How fast two minutes could pass.
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Hotch was stumbling and tripping. He had fallen twice already, but he kept on going. Somewhere along the way all the pain had vanished. Hotch was walking on autopilot. The only thing he was thinking about was one foot in front of the other, just one more step. Because he needed to help Emily.
Suddenly the ground became steep. The soil under his feet afforded no hold and Hotch felt himself sliding away. He all but crawled up the last few meters. The first thing he saw was asphalt, forming a straight, gray street. Never before had something so trivial seemed more beautiful to Hotch. He heaved himself onto his feet and started walking again. There would be a car somewhere; there had to be.
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