I clutch his arm to keep him still. "Is she alright?" I screech, mid-flurry of panic. You know that feeling when terror completely overcomes your body? When every bone in your body has a shrilling chill to it. I have that. Right now.
He stops to catch a breath, but his not-so-quick response to me only keeps me panicking that much more. I wipe invisible sweat off of my forehead with the back of my hand. I say invisible because I'm not really sweating, but it feels like I should be. When my hand brushes across my forehead, it isn't damp.
"She's alright, technically," he finally spits out. It's enough to make me lose the tightness in my chest, at least. "But she was admitted into the hospital in Chicago, just like Will."
My thoughts start taking drastic turns and twists as I start forming ideas, at a desperate attempt to make sense of the situation. As of right now, it's making zero. "How could Michael fly to Chicago in that short amount of time? He's not us, he doesn't have a jet at his beckon call. He has to buy a plane ticket, wait at airport security, ect. ect. That'd take too long."
Morgan looks confused at this right away, and like me, starts conspiring deep within his brain. "Maybe he got someone to do it for him?" he concludes, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps, I think, but it's not good enough of a theory for me to jump into directly. I pace past him, then turn around and pace the opposite direction, just to keep my legs moving along to the rhythm of my thoughts.
I spot a quick glance at Morgan in the reflection of a glass window. The sky is dark, and by now, it's gotta be at least seven in the afternoon. The roads are slick and wet and cars are streaming in and out of the hospital parking lot. I see one car in particular zip right out of his parking space, then speed down the rows of parked cars and then make a sharp turn right, and pulls out into the main road. My thought, somehow, captures this stranger and refuses to let go. Why are they speeding? Did they just receive bad news? Are they hurrying home to tell a loved one that another loved one won't be making it home? But why hurry? Why hurry to inform someone on bad news? No one ever hurries for that. It's common and natural human behavior to duck and hide when faced with tragedies. We certainly don't scurry our way out of the current situation, eager to burst someone's bubble.
But then I think, maybe they're in such shock of what they've just been informed that they're not concentrating on their speedometer. No, they are thinking of ways to tell said loved one about the one that just passed on. They are making rapid turns and speedy passes because their mind is elsewhere. Their mind is in such a state of shock, the brain's way of not plummeting head-first into agonizing truthfulness right away, that they don't even realize they're putting their own life at risk. That, and of others. At that one sight of that one car speeding off, it stays with me. I know I'll never know why they were speeding, but I still find myself wondering why. Or maybe I don't want to know.
The sounds of cars honking faintly and clipboards clipping pieces of paper down and people walking the hallways fills my ears. But one particular sound drowns out all of the much louder ones. It's the sound of an older woman. "He's not doing so well," she informs someone. I feel myself straining my ears to hear clearer. "I thought he was doing better this morning." The sound of another woman heaving a sigh follows directly after the first woman finishes her sentence.
"Are we going to tell the family?" asks the second woman. She sounds tired and drained and like discussing life or death of a patient is of the norm. And technically, it is for me too. But somehow, for some reason I can't place, this triggers my heart to go haywire. In a really, really lonely kind of way. My heat feels like it's swamped with heavy sadness.
The first woman sighs too. "I'm not sure. Let's wait a while, huh? See if he progresses." the woman then pauses, her clipboard makes a click and adds, "Though it's unlikely."
My heart still feels full. Like I've just overstuffed it with a big feast or something. It's strange how closely it resembles overfilling yourself with food. I can't explain what's happening to me right now. I've seen too many deaths to count, too many grieving family members, too many tears cried in front of me and anger words spit out at me as if I killed so-and-so's spouse or child or aunt or uncle. But right now, standing frozen solid, in front of a big glass window that shows me the lonely early November outside, something hits me. Hard and quick like I've just been stabbed in the back. First, my heart's initial reaction is to protect itself. It goes into shock. But then it slowly becomes less numb, and I begin to feel. I begin to see that death is so easy. It takes you so quick it's almost hard to see. Usually, it turns out, it is.
We take - I take - life for granted because as long as we're still breathing, it's still there. And it feels like it's always going to be there. First I feel so stupid for finally succumbing to this. I should have learned this the very first time I saw a mutilated body or witnessed a suicide-by-cop or anything of that nature. But no, I'm realizing it here. It's breaking my heart and scaring the hell out of me all at the same time. I want to scream and hold onto something just to remember that I still feel. I'm not slipping away. No, I'm still alive. Even if sometimes it feels like I'm not really alive much at all.
"JJ," Morgan finally says to me, bringing me zipping back to reality. I blink a few times and turn to him. "What are we going to do?"
I'm not sure what we're going to do. Why is it suddenly on me? It's not like I'm the profiler. "Why don't we talk to Diana?" I suggest.
He pauses. "Fine, what do you have?" I snap at him instantly. "It's not like we've got many other options -"
He raises his hand and cuts me off. "That's not bad." he says, kind of smirking. He pulls out his cell phone, but a nurse who is strolling by with papers gives him a warning look. He smiles at her pleasantly and he motions for us to go outside. It's freezing out here. I give him a look and he points to his car. His car, as in, Hotch's car. Hotch has probably called, at a random estimate off of the top of my head, seventeen times. He wants his car back, no doubt. Guess he'll have to wait.
We climb into the car as the sound of ringing pours through the tiny speakers on Morgan's phone; it's on speakerphone and he's calling the center in which Diana is staying at. I look at the bright blue numbers on the digital clock on Hotch's car radio. It's 7:45 P.M. and it's insanely dark out. I can see the moon peeking through a couple thin branches on a partially bald tree behind the side of the hospital. It's so bright and beautiful and full. It feels like it's been forever since I've acknowledged the moon. Or a sunset or sunrise, for that matter. It's just one of those many beautiful things in life you take for granted after seeing it so many times. I can just see myself driving to work, cursing at the glaring sun, pulling down my visor and my sunglasses. Same goes for the drive home.
Finally, a voice enters the cell phone. A few sounds of mumbling, a quiet seemingly shy girl introduces herself and asks if we need help. "Yes, I'd like to speak to a patient if that's possible," Morgan glances at the clock. "I know at this hour it's unlikely."
"We usually don't allow interactions between patients at this kind of hour. Is it an emergency?" she says this with a knowing sigh; evidently she's caught wind of Diana's son dying.
"No," Morgan says dully, like he sees where this is going. I slap his arm and he pipes up. "Actually, it kind of is. See, we're FBI. We worked with her son. It's important, Miss, actually, and it won't take very long." I raise my eyebrows, clearly impressed. I'm so surprised he can switch his tone and attitude so convincingly in a matter of milliseconds.
She pauses, heaves a sigh that says she has no other choice then says, "Hold on, I'll let you speak with her," a smile that says Morgan has just gotten his way spreads across his face. He's being slightly cocky about the fact that he always gets his way, but tonight it doesn't bother me one bit. "Please make it quick though, it's imperative Diana gets her rest. She's been switched to a different medication since...well, what recently occurred." I know she's talking about Reid, Morgan knows she's talking about Reid, but I still get this eerie chill like a freak burst of wind seeped through an opened door. I'm almost afraid to turn around. I'm afraid Reid'll be there. Maybe he's the cause of the chill. Either way, I don't bother looking.
"Absolutely, we'll be quick, I promise." Morgan reassures her sweetly before a soft click and rather quickly, Diana's voice fills the car. She sounds sad and tired, but her voice still sounds warm, like maybe she's happy to be talking to us.
"Diana!" I nearly cry out; I really miss her all of a sudden and I feel like we haven't spoken in ages. So much has changed in such little time. Despite the fact that we've done so much in only a few hours, it feels like time's suddenly cramping in on us and suffocating us. Like we're paddling, thinking we're reaching the end, but all the while we're actually sinking.
"JJ?" she asks, like she's not sure of herself; the way she says it makes me frown. Morgan catches my disappointment and gives me a look. I know what he's trying to say.
"Yes, it's her, Diana," Morgan says nicely. Beneath his niceness is a firmness as well, which tells me he's not beating around the bush right now. "We need more information on Michael, if that's possible."
There's silence. I catch Morgan's eye. "Diana? You there?" Morgan asks after a long pause. Maybe she's too burdened to speak?
"Yes, I'm here," she says casually, like we weren't just hanging on a line waiting for her answer. "You said some name of some sort?"
Morgan sighs almost inaudibly. "Yes, Michael Cleveland, do you remember?"
She pauses, something falls somewhere and she's fumbling, trying to reach for it. She's groaning like it's a pain to crouch down or something. For a moment I think she's completely forgotten about us being on the phone with her. "I'm still here," she says, this time her voice sounding far away like she put the phone down and she's now at the other end of the room.
"Diana, are you alright?" I ask.
She takes a while to respond. "Yes, I'm alright," she says softly. She sounds close to the phone now and more comfortable. "You wanted to know about Michael, you said?"
Now we're getting somewhere. "Yes." Morgan and I both say at the same time. We then look at each other and smile.
"What do you need to know?" she asks, sighing. I can tell she's tired. I feel horrible for keeping her awake and depriving her of rest if she's on new medication and all.
"Is there anywhere Michael ever took Reid that was special to him?" Morgan asks. "Any place Reid and Michael maybe visited a lot?"
She pauses. I hope we're not pushing her. I hope we don't shove her until she cracks. What if she starts going ballistic because she can't remember? I don't think I can handle, on top of everything else collapsing on top of me, the weight of that too. "I don't really remember." she finally says.
"Try." Morgan practically commands. I shoot him a look. He gives me one back. I can't believe he's pressuring her to strain herself to remember. A woman in her condition, whose suffering through the loss of her child? How dare he burden her with this. How dare I go along with it. But the thought that she's the only one who knows Michael well enough dawns on me and I realize that it's not our fault; we didn't have any other choice.
"I'm trying," she says sadly. "I can only think of one place -"
"Where?" Morgan prompts.
"-It's in the woods and I doubt he'd go there still -"
"Diana, where is it?" Morgan's now very stern. I don't think he realizes how rude he sounds right now. But I'm too wrapped up in hearing about said location that I can't correct him on his manners.
"It's," she pauses, groans. "It's - oh, God - I don't even remember."
Morgan rolls his eyes at the driver's side window. I slap his arm and mouth, "I saw that," and he shrugs one shoulder carelessly. It's not that he's intentionally being heartless, it's just when he's determined, there's nothing he's willing to be patient for. I know this, I just wish Diana does.
"Can you explain the place?" I try, sounding more helpful and reassuring rather than pressing her with questions in a cop-interrogating-suspect kind of tone.
"It was in the woods, like I said. It was always muddy when they went there, I know that, because they came back with their clothes drenched in mud. I'm not entirely sure what they did there. I think there's water by the place, too."
I'm thinking. JJ, think! I try to picture a woodsy area with water and dirt. Maybe it's because I don't live in Vegas, you know, that might have something to do with it. Morgan snaps his finger, hit with an idea, and grasps his phone intensely. "Thanks, Diana, you've been a real help." and then hangs up on her.
"Whoa, Morgan, what the hell?" I ask. He accelerates hard and we're speeding out of the parking lot, just like the stranger did, and I'm clutching onto my seat. Then, he flicks on the sirens like we're heading to an emergency and we're peeling down the road fifteen over the speed limit.
Morgan doesn't tell me where we're going. It's really starting to piss me off. I watch the trees; they're a bunch of blurs, which indicates to me just how fast we're going. Apparently we reach the destination, because he brings the car to a screeching halt. I bounce forward a little but my belt stops me and settles me in my seat. That, and I reach for the glove compartment naturally.
He pulls the keys from the ignition and stares straight ahead. Once the pounding of my heart in my chest slows and I start breathing again, I look ahead as well. We're in the woods. Naked trees surround the wet grass. Branches are going out everywhere, and I'm scared if we start walking we're going to get poked in the eyes.
"You know, this isn't the special place that Diana was talking about," I inform him. I mean, he must know that. He gives me a soft nod then opens the door. I hear leaves crunch under his steel-toed boots as he walks past the car and into the darkness, with no source of light whatsoever. I groan loudly, still in the warm car, too comfortable to bother with following him. But the further he walks, his body starts becoming nothing but resemblance of a shadow; slowly all I can see is the outline of his shape. Before he gets much farther, I unbuckle and hop out of the car. First I'm slowly walking to him, thinking I've got the right path...I listen closely to the sound of leaves crunching ahead of him.
But soon, the comforting sound of Morgan stomping on leaf after leaf distances and then it's gone. I start panicking. I can't see a thing. "Morgan?" I whisper very softly. There's not a house for miles as far as I can see, and I doubt anyone's sleeping in the bushes, but I still feel compelled to talk very low.
"Morgan!" I shout hysterically. Oh, screw being quiet, I'm lost. "Morgan!" I cry out this time, desperation and pure terror coming out sounding very whiny. "I can't see you!"
I stand remarkably still, listening for any sound of Morgan. Nothing. I start spinning in circles, looking for the car. But I can't see a thing. See, I suffer through a thing called night blindness. It's such a thing, really; it makes it very hard for me to see in the dark. Like, at all. I'm so annoyed and pissy and confused I want to cry. "Dammit, Morgan!" I scream, shoving my boot hard into the ground. I feel six years-old stomping like a child not getting their way, but right now, I don't care. Anything to keep me from pulling my hair and screaming.
I hear crunching again. My heart feels safe again. I let out a breath of relief, which turns into white smoke in the air and fades. I can't believe it's this cold out. I guess being scared shitless makes you forget how freaking cold it is. "Morgan, you dumbass," I say snappishly, turning around. I see the outline of his shape coming into picture. The closer he walks toward me, the clearer he gets. "You should've brought a flashlight."
Slowly the outline becomes bigger. He almost looks too skinny to be Morgan. When the shape and face of the person turns visible, I realize it isn't Morgan after all. It's a curly-haired man with dirty fingernails. He reaches toward me, and I back away. Instinctively I reach for my gun. Then I remember I left it at home.
"Can I help you, Miss?" he asks me. He sounds very cold. I know this because his teeth are chattering. I shake my head.
"I'm here with a friend, I just can't find him right now." I tell him. I'm hoping if he knows I'm not alone, he won't try anything.
He nods, then smiles. He actually has a very pleasant smile. And from what I can tell, nice green eyes. Or I think they're green. I'm not too sure. "Is he dark? Bald? Pretty big guy?" I nod right away. He points to his right, slightly behind him and smiles. "He's back there. Not too wise to be out here without any light," he cocks his head and grins. "Like you said."
I feel myself blushing. I guess I didn't have such a good first impression. "Sorry 'bout that, I'm not normally so bitchy..."
He raises one hand and shakes his head. "Please, don't worry about it," he starts walking to where he pointed. To apparently where Morgan is. I follow him. "I'd be bitchy too if my friend got me lost in the woods, in the dark."
"I know, right?" I laugh.
He nudges my arm and extends his hand. I try to look past his dirty fingernails. I shake his hand with a friendly smile plastered on my face. "I'm Blake."
"Jennifer," I say. Then I add, "My friends call me JJ for short."
The further we start walking, I realize the light far in the distance isn't the moon, but a light from a wooden cabin sort of place. "Is that a restroom?" I ask. It reminds me of when I'd visit the park with my family as a kid and it would have oddly placed restrooms all around.
"No, it's a cabin." he digs his hands into his jeans pocket. The closer we get to the light from the cabin, I see his outfit. Camouflage shirt, camouflage pants. He must have been hunting. "There's a few around here, believe it or not."
"You can hunt here?" I ask.
He laughs. "No way, you can't hunt this close to a place where people stay; I mean, what if my aim sucked and I shot it through a window in the cabin?" I shrug. He smiles cockily. "Good thing my aim is real good."
I laugh. "Um, I doubt you'd know, but do you know Michael Cleveland?" I ask him. I stop walking and face him. "Has he stayed here?"
He shrugs one shoulder. "He visits here a lot, actually. He's big on the woods, apparently."
I nod super-fast. "Is he here now?"
He motions his head to the cabin that's only about five feet from us now. "In there."
I begin to worry. Where the hell is Morgan? "Okay, thanks." I look around me, and I can tell by the way I'm looking, I'm making him paranoid.
"Your friend's inside." he tells me. My heart starts pounding. The sound of a gun shot echoes throughout the woods, and I instinctively push Blake into the ground in a ducking position. I lay there, my face buried in his chest, scared to move an inch. But more than anything, I'm scared for Morgan.