Hitchhiker Chapter 4, a criminal minds fanfic

Authoress Notes: Inspired by the film 'The Hitcher'.

Title: Hitchhiker

By: Clonksholic

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or any of its characters. Any original characters belong to me. I gain no profit from writing this, and do so solely to entertain.

Warning: Not recommended for ages under 18. INCLUDES VIOLENCE AND SEXUAL REFERENCES. POSSIBLE REFERENCES TO RAPE. Note the rating and warning dear readers; if such subject matter makes you uncomfortable, don't read it.

Summary: When Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss pick up a hitchhiker on a rural road on the way back from a case in New Mexico, a generous act turns into a fight for their lives.

MESSAGE TO MY READERS: Apologies for my long hiatus. Had an extremely long and severe episode of writer's block. Reviews are not necessary but I do love reading them and they're a great source of motivation since it makes me aware that this story is reaching an audience. I do hope you enjoy this chapter.

I'd also like to sincerely thank those of you who have reviewed so far; they've been a pleasure to read and extremely motivating. Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! :)

Hitchhiker

Chapter 4

Step 1. Inhibit her senses.

'Prolonged sensory deprivation will eventually lead to submission. Take away her hearing so that all she hears is the drumming of her own heart in her ears. Seal her sight so that the darkness begins to sting and crowds in. Take away the freedom to feel anywhere but her exposed skin. Take away everything. So that all she can anticipate eventually is where you will be next. You will eventually be all that remains in her mind. You will dominate her senses, her thoughts.'

Emily's eyes felt numb. The cloth around her face started to rub against the edge of her chin close to her neck, causing it to flare up and flush an irritated, inflamed shade of red. Emily's fingertips quivered.

She didn't know when it was coming next. With the blindfold having robbed her of her vision, her tactile senses were on full alert, crawling over her skin over and over again as it anticipated where the hot spear would fall next.

Here.

There.

Here.

She just didn't know when. Where-when –

A searing heat burned another wound into her chest as the instrument was placed on the skin once more, closer to the rim of her bra this time.

She should have been used to the pain by now.

She should have been and yet her skin still screamed for mercy, the waves of pain coursing through her body causing it to twist within its bounds in a futile attempt to escape from it, just to make it stop, make it stop and stop completely

A mixture of her heartbeat and Hotch calling her name became a muddle as the pain refused to disappear and her vision became white. The small burn somehow sent masses of army ants marching down every nerve of her body, as if someone had bore a hole into her skin and was twisting their finger in it maliciously.

Her hands found to the arms of the chair struggled, their desire to reach up to her hair and pull away the frustration of the ongoing pain unfulfilled by the wires that bound them to the wood.

Anything to stop the pain.

Anything.

Then everything came to a stand still as the heat in her chest rapidly diminished, leaving behind a dull, throbbing sensation that stung with each breath she took. Sweat rolled down her neck, aggravating a wound at the centre of her chest and causing it to sting.

She found herself breathing heavily, reality and vision slowly coming back to her like the fade in of a movie. She blinked, trying to ward off the darkness until she remembered the presence of the tight cloth around her face. Her sore throat told her that despite her efforts she had screamed without being aware of it during the ordeal. The cloth impaired her attempts to breathe deeply and at a slower pace.

The tap of a footstep was corresponded with the rapid beeping of the heart monitor.

He was right behind her.

Her breath caught midway in her throat and she felt herself choke.

She closed her eyes, attempting to control her breathing. It was over for now –

She heard herself scream out of surprise more than the pain itself as the hot poker stabbed its way through skin and muscle in the soft area between her neck and shoulder, deeper than any of the other wounds present on her chest. Her nostrils once again filled with the stench of her own burning flesh.

Warm liquid trickled down her arm, causing it to jolt instinctively. In the same second it hit her conscious that the heat on her arm was not due to the pain but blood as it seeped from the new deep wound.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face and dropped down to her collar bone, as light as the pad of someone's finger, the sudden contact causing her whole body to jolt and strain against her restraints until she realised its harmless nature once again.

Her head shot to the side as a clang of metal sounded from behind her. Her chest rose up and down rapidly in small movements in fear that breathing loudly would invite another stab that would instigate the waves of pain and the smell of burning live human flesh.

Her fingers fumbled about clumsily to find the tips of the arms of the chair, and grasped them tightly in an attempt to ease the trembling.

She felt the warmth of her breath against the cloth moisten her lips. She blinked, attempting to clear the opaque darkness that swirled before her eyes, the familiarity of the vision throwing her back to the night before yesterday when she had stared at the dark ceiling while counting sheep to call upon slumber.

To think that had only been several hours ago.

Her fingers delicately grasped at the handle of the mug, bringing it up to her lips where the hot brown coffee scalded the thin red skin.

She ran her tongue on the inner areas of her lips, feeling the texture turn from smooth to rough as the hot liquid aggravated the skin and caused it to immediately swell.

Now all she felt on her tongue was the rough stiffness of the cloth smothering her face.

Within her, emotions convulsed in violent waves; vulnerability tore at her from all directions. With each flinch her body made to each sound and presence of some sensation on her skin, where the pain she anticipated never arrived, teasing, she began to remember that she was not alone.

The comical image of her figure bound to a chair with each limb flailing at each sound and touch, and head jerking within its fabric prison in a futile fashion flashed before her uncontrollably as if watching a movie. Her cheeks flared up in humiliation, and she resisted the urge to shudder at the pathetic image she could not push away.

Hotch would have seen it all. Her screaming. Those clumsy, jerky movements like the futile twitching of a wounded animal as it attempts to escape despite its position within the jaws or gleeful glare of its predator.

Humiliation and shame clawed at her simultaneously with the flash of the same vision, returning with a stronger force each time she pushed it back and replaying like a stuck record.

She bit her lip, focusing on her breathing and relaxing her body. She prepared herself for the next round of assault. However this time she would not let them win. No one was going to hear her scream.

No one.

'Do this, and she will belong to you, and you only.'

She was trembling, her shoulders shivering as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her. Hotch remembered similar signs on a girl who had been a victim of her father and uncle's sexual abuse five months ago. He remembered it like it was yesterday.

The moment the policeman had grabbed onto the Sally's arm to stop her punches and pull her away from the boy she had been beating on the floor, she had frozen abruptly as if someone had pressed the pause button on a remote that controlled her body, eyes wide open to expose the whites around her pupils and expression no longer one of contempt but petrified with fear. Her gaze was unmoving from the tight grip on her arm, unable to pull away but too frightened to move in the fear that it could instigate the violence she had been conditioned to expect.

Extreme vigilance.

During the interview she jerked at every sound, every muscle tensed instinctively as her body had adapted to the years of grooming and careful training with a hyper sensitive anxiety system. Her eyes would glaze over when she was asked about her parents, and her hand would tremble when asked to draw her house.

Emily's hands fumbled about within its bounds until it found the arms of the chair and grasped it tightly; a safety net, in a manner similar to a drowning man who had finally found something to hold onto.

He could see her head making small jerky movements, reflecting her desperate attempts to overcome the prolonged occlusion of her sense. And when the sound and smell of burning flesh filled the room once more, he wasn't sure whether she was aware of anything but the pain itself, magnified in the absence of the usual sensory information.

Her screams lingered in his ears, piercing as the design of the room amplified its volume and caused a ghostly echo. Each blow was followed by sounds of short bursts of breathing, a physiological reflection of her panic.

Then there was the incessant beeping of the heart monitor.

He just wished the bastard would shut it off. It wailed over and over again, whiney like the sound of a distant baby's cry in an empty apartment. The sound would come and go, as if he was slipping in and out of consciousness, the screams transforming into a soft, melancholy lullaby.

When his head dropped so that his chin touched his neck, he would see the puddle of dark brown below his foot had increased in size. Each time, his vision would blur and darkness would lull him into a possible escape, until screams and the beeping somehow amplified once more.

All he wanted to do was look away, place his hands over his ears and make the sound stop. His bound hands tightened against their restraints each time the series of beeps sped up, accompanied by a scream or the sound of singing flesh.

On the final blow the metallic scent of blood stung his nostrils, jolting him back to reality. His body responded with full alert to the familiar scent, eyes searching for signs of life in the female agent reflected in the mirror above him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her head lolling against her left shoulder in an attempt to escape the pain shooting through her right. With each trickle of blood Emily's arm jerked and her body was sent into a mode of panic, instigating then halting the pattern of rapid breathing and beeping as she became aware of the identity of the sensation trailing down her arm and chest.

Within the team, Prentiss had established herself to be the strong, stubborn, reliable character she was. She wasn't one to flinch in the presence of death, or the suspect with the unnerving stare. She would look them in the eyes, bulletproof as she asked the questions and drew from them answers that guided them to their next step.

Yet now, with her weapons taken from her and the heart monitor providing a window behind her tough façade; her resolve was slowly being eaten away. The rapid beeping shattered all the outwardly defenses she had so carefully set up as perfected throughout her time on the job.

It stripped her of her privacy; a weapon into the workings of her mind, translated through the uncontrollable physiological reactions of her body. It stripped her of her power; because even if her face, body and emotions were trained to not react to his touches, to be able to withstand all the forces that befell her body, the moment her heart started beating she would no longer be able to lie to herself, challenging her tenacity.

He knew how it would affect her.

'I can do this.' 'He cannot break me.' Each time she would rebuild the part of the walls that were broken, each instinctive flinch, every increase in the beeping of the heart monitor would contradict her mental resolve and tear it all down.

Then the cycle would repeat, each time making it harder and harder to stand back up.

But he knew it was only a matter of time before she broke. Stripped from both her dignity and the door into her mind wide open; there was only so much a person could take.

The plane was silent, no different from any other case. The atmosphere was what made it different. None of the team members were sure what they were walking into.

Rossi's heart felt heavy as he dumped the hot water into his cup of coffee.

His hand reached for the jar of sugar nearby, knowing that Emily's hands had once opened it too – then opted for none as he always did.

'So the first murder victims were found on the borders of Arizona, just on the outskirts of Pima County,' Penelope said. 'A total of seven young families and couples were targeted, all found by passing drivers approximately a day after their deaths.'

When Penelope paused at the next few details, finding it difficult to continue, JJ spoke up; 'The first couple that was murdered was the Lees; Gina suffered multiple lacerations, signs of violent sexual assault and prolonged physical torture and both her and her husband were killed by a single shot to the head from behind.'

'And the other six murders?' Derek prompted as Rossi sat down beside him, sipping the scalding coffee.

'They occurred approximately within three days of one another,' JJ continued. 'The second victims were the Williams, who their cousins say were returning from having visited them the day before they were murdered.'

'The MO matches the Lee's case. The only difference is that the Williams had a child; the ME says Bobbie was the first to be murdered by a shot to the head. His time of death is reported as approximately two days before his parents'.'

'So his target's on the couples only; the relationship between the man and the woman; he takes out the kid because he's insignificant to his needs,' Rossi evaluated.

'It looks as if the women were tortured outside the car,' Derek said, skimming down one of the sheets in the manilla folder. 'There were little to no traces of blood in the car asides from those that came from the final gunshot wounds; there should have been more considering the extent of their injuries.'

'If you have a look at the geographical locations these murders took place,' Reid piped up, hands gesticulating wildly all over the map he had drawn red circles on. 'You'll see that they all line up along the borders; the perfect place for a serial killer to be able to target vehicles that are passing by.'

'Isolated, a lot of these areas don't have reception,' JJ said.

'So how does he get their attention?' Rossi questioned. He finished the remainder of his coffee in a single gulp, savouring the scalding sensation as his throat protested at the sudden presence of the hot liquid.

'He could possibly ambush them from behind; using his own vehicle to target his random victims?' Derek speculated. 'A collision from behind would give him an excuse to approach them. Get close, threaten them with a weapon, then overpower them.'

'With the number of families and couples he's targeted; he would need an excuse that gets him much closer to them than that,' Rossi said. 'It needs to be much more personal.'

'Plus there were no damages observed on the victims' vehicles of that magnitude,' JJ added. 'Most of them were found in perfect condition.'

'Well the dates the victims were found are consecutive,' Reid suggested. 'It almost forms a perfect circle until the route changes back to New Mexico, it's like he's travelling in circles. The murder that occurs after the previous one is located in the borders of the county that is right beside the one where the earlier victims were found.'

'He's an opportunist,' Rossi said. 'He doesn't travel to his victims; his victims come to him.'

'Alright, so you're out there on the rural road, you know cars and people are scarce in number. The next town with a phone or supplies is miles away. If you're driving out there, what do you stop for?' Derek questioned, surveying each of his team mates.

'Someone or something in distress.' Rossi said, brow raising in awareness.

Sleep tugged at her eyelids. Sometimes her head would loll and drop, throwing her into a violent cycle of nightmares that jerked her awake into a state of semi-consciousness for a second before fatigue grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the hellish depths of her unconscious again.

She shook her head in a futile effort to ward off sleep and escape the stench of her own blood and burnt flesh which flawed at her nostrils. When her lips parted to take a breath, she tasted blood. Flames and heat dried her mouth until the stench of rotting flesh stuck to the insides of her neck and began to smother her.

She felt herself choke, chest and back heaving as she attempted to dispel something, anything from her body to stop the sensation. It clawed its way out of her neck, pulling a sticky, brown trail behind it. She felt herself cough a final heave, and she saw her own throat as it ripped itself from the insides of her body and onto the floor in a bloody, sticky mess.

Beep.

Scattered shards of red flooded her vision. Slowly, the blurriness eased, causing the shards to form and reveal a bunch of roses by her head. Light filtered in from the window on the wall to her other side, white curtains grazing the edge of the bed. She sighed deeply and heard the echo of her breath into the mask.

Her gaze focused on the sleeping figure behind the roses. He looked at peace, the gash on his cheek covered by white gauze. The light illuminated his face, erasing every scar and straightening every wrinkle.

Her fingers twitched, grabbing onto the soft white bed sheets and stroking them gently like a cat.

Beep.

The floor beneath her feet came into focus as her vision finally began to obey her commands. Her head felt heavy as if someone had forced it into a metal vice and tightened it. Each movement of her neck tugged at the wounds on her chest, causing them to protest and drawing from her frustrated hisses of pain.

Her heartbeat had returned to normal.

For now.

She wasn't sure how long she had been out. She did not know what time it was. She cringed as she tugged at her wrists, having forgotten about the restraints, causing the ropes to rub against the sore, chaffed skin once more.

She glanced up at the mirror, eyes narrowing as she spotted the pool of dry blood near Hotch's foot. A slight bump protruded from the ankle part of his pants, and she realised that during the hour or so she had been separated from her supervisor prior to her ordeal, him and John must have engaged in a spar that ended worse on his end.

She watched as Hotch's chest rose and fell in a soft rhythm of sleep, no doubt having temporarily succumbed to his fatigue and injuries.

Emily took a deep breath and tugged at the ropes that bound her hands behind the chair, lips pressing together as she forced her right hand against the tight, rough texture of the thick rope. Her hands suddenly halted as the monitor sped up once more, the beeping incessant and annoying to her ears.

She breathed deeply and slowly once again, getting her heartbeat under control. Then, she slowly began to work at her wrists again, working slowly but meticulously and finding almost a rhythm between her breathing and pulling out her right wrist.

Her skin finally split open on one side of her wrist, causing her to hiss in pain. She bit her lip, attempting to ignore the pain and the increased beeping of her heart as she forced a final pull of her right wrist and held it there against the biting rope in frustration.

A soft rustle of clothing smashed through her concentration. Her gaze to shot up from her lap and frantically glanced around her; expecting the taunting gaze, expecting the rough hands – until she realised it had been Hotch shifting in his chair.

She looked up to the mirror just in time to catch her supervisor's gaze lingering on the burnt marks on her breasts. She suddenly felt exposed. Images of her pathetic figure jerking about in the chair flashed through her head once more, sending a chill of shame down her spine. Feeling vulnerable, she tilted her head slightly to hide behind her hair so that it fell around her neck and close to her chest.

Her cheeks threatened to flush as images and clips continued to flash across her mind.

'Is it really bad?' She asked, almost in a joking manner, trying to deflect the awkwardness and vulnerability that she felt with her supervisor's unbroken gaze.

Hotch did not answer, averted his focus to meet her gaze in the mirror.

She glanced at the man's foot, raising a brow questioningly.

'Does it hurt?'

'Does it hurt for you?'

She averted her gaze, managing a sheepish half-grin. 'Right.'

A moment of silence ensued between them, the heartbeat monitor the only sound that echoed through the room.

'Do you think they know yet?' Emily asked, the sentence trailing into a hiss as the wire finally cut into her wrist as she gave it another strong, sharp jerk.

'Leave the binds alone,' was Hotch's response. 'They've been adjusted for the width of our wrists; it's impossible to pull them out.'

Emily's movements came to a stop, and her gaze trailed to where Hotch's arms disappeared behind his chair. She wondered for how long he had struggled before realizing its futility.

'They would by now,' Hotch said. 'The bigger question is if they'll get here.'

Or how they'll find us. In what state and where.

Hotch dropped his gaze from the mirror, closing his eyes. Plagued by the waves of exhaustion, and the pain in his foot and back that slowly seemed to intensify with every minute that passed by as the adrenaline dropped from his bloodstream, he was finding it harder and harder to push away the images that appeared across his vision like the scenes of an incoming nightmare.

The blonde hair that had stretched across the metal bed in all directions began to transform into a brown so dark it looked black, drenched in blood as it clawed out and stretched towards the edges of the tables as if searching for its way to escape.

The face of the blonde shifted into one that was too familiar that it disturbed him with how clear it was; the long black eyelashes lying against her cheeks, the pale skin that was once the colour of porcelain now the grey shade of a corpse at a morgue. Except she would never get the departure she deserved.

It was finally happening.

He watched as something in Emily snapped. Her struggles became more frenzied, aimless, the way a rabbit struggles within a man-made trap in the hopes that something will trigger its escape; futile struggles that one does when cornered and the instinct takes over logic as the mind is temporarily obliterated in an animalistic desire to run.

John roughly pushed her towards the metal platform where the blonde had once lain, the surface now spotless and the tell tale signs of death washed away with the blood.

Here, in this moment, their badges meant nothing. Their experiences meant nothing. His strength and status as the team's unit chief meant nothing, as his bound hands that would have once reached for his glock within a split second, be able to rip the man off the struggling figure with hardly any effort, were now useless.

Then, Emily was no longer Emily anymore. She was forced from his focus as his trained gaze scrutinized on John for patterns in his movements; something that could later become of use to apprehend him.

Unsub and victim.

That's all they were. Like he had been trained, like he had practiced up until this whole time.

'Hotch.'

But when his gaze snapped back to her at her voice, his subconscious resolve to distance himself faltered.

He saw fear, matching the one that weighed down his heart, and he saw Emily; her head forced against the metal platform, figure bent and wrists held behind her back.

'Don't watch – look away.'

But he couldn't. He had to hold her gaze, as if doing so would not keep the Emily from slipping away and be replaced by the same hollow gaze of the rape victims they had come in contact with so many times.

Not her. Not a member of his team.

'Please. I don't want anyone to see this.'

'Hold on,' he said, voice barely above a whisper. 'Please hold on.'

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