"A lovely thing about Christmas is it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together." -- Garrison Keillor
"Did you know the average square mile of land in Montana contains 1.4 elk, 1.4 pronghorn antelope and 3.3 deer?" Ruth inquired as they aimed for the SUVs.
"Really?" Rossi humored her—because it was Christmas—and feigned interest in her absorbent facts.
"Yeah, and did you know in 1888 Helena had more millionaires per capita than any other city in the world?" Ruth looked and Rossi nodded, as if he were listening. "Also, did you know that out of every state in the USA, Montana is the one I hate the absolute most?"
"That I did not know." Rossi slid his hands into his jeans. "Why do you hate Montana?"
"Well," She went for the driver's seat, but Hotch beat her to it. She grumped and climbed into the back with Spencer and Morgan. "When I was 19 I went to visit my grandparents, slipped on Montana's stupid slippery grass and took down their mailbox and my four front teeth. These are veneers. Could you tell?"
"Ruth, you have got to be the most accident-prone person I know." Hotch glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted Ruth sitting behind him.
"Yeah, I get that a lot. Actually, you'd be surprised how often people tell me that." Ruth mused, rubbing her chin.
"I don't think so." Derek laughed. "I'm going to guess just about everyone who has known you for more than… three weeks."
Ruth blinked. "That sounds about right." She mumbled, crossing her arms. "It's not like I mean to. People and inanimate objects just have it out for me!"
"How can inanimate objects have "it out" for you? Objects can't think, or devise plans or even feel anger, or any other emotion." Spencer explained, watching her accepting this.
"I'll accept the blatantly impossible over accepting the fault of being a klutz any day." Ruth crossed her arms, "Besides, you guys can be accident-prone, too. I'm just a whole lot more… so really I should feel special."
"Ruth, trust me, nobody thinks you aren't special." Derek chuckled.
Ruth smirked, but it slowly faded. "Hey!" She hit him in the shoulder. "That was an insult!"
"But not untrue." He grinned, slouching low in the seat so Ruth couldn't reach him again.
"Okay, some people just don't have the right kind of Christmas spirit." Ruth watched as the crime scene collectors were still shuffling through the debris and wreckage of the front yard. All the Christmas decorations were torn up and broken, or thrown into the road, with bits and pieces laying all over the yard. "They should call this guy Scrooge. Or Holiday Spirit Ruiner. Or the Grinch!"
"How 'bout sicko? Maniac?" Derek almost hissed as he, too, watched the scene move before him. "Can you believe this man was here not but 15 hours ago?"
"It's amazing to think how close you come to stopping a crime, only to be deterred by a few hours, or even minutes." Rossi walked up behind them, "Ready to go inside?"
"I guess so." Ruth grimaced and followed the two men inside. The living room was covered in pools of blood. The bodies, being carted out beside them, could be palpably felt as they descended earth. Ruth's heart thumped faster in her chest.
"The children are upstairs, still." A woman in a blue FBI jacket said to Ruth and Derek. "First response went up there and puked in the hallway. Other than that, not that many people have gone up. The strongest, most experienced agents can get deterred by three dead kids."
Ruth frowned at the thought, but nonetheless, peeled herself away from Rossi and Derek throwing hypothetical situations around the room. She passed Hotch talking with the chief of police as she slowed her steps up the stairway. The gray carpet on the stairs were stained with bloody footprints, and she followed them up the stairs and around the corner, down the hallway, passed the first response's puke and stopped at a door, closed tight, with sunlight breaking through the space underneath. She looked around the empty hallway, the smell of ruined Christmas spirit, vomit and death all around her. She argued with herself in her mind on whether or not to go inside. Would she, too, react like the first response and blow chunks all over the hallway? Like every other case with murdered kids, will she envision them as her nieces and nephews? Will this case break her like an egg?
She opened the door, quickly, while still arguing with herself. She followed the footprints on the hardwood inside, and took a deep breath as she stepped inside. A twinge hit her side as she saw them. A little girl with a big red bow in her hair. A boy in dinosaur pajamas. The shake in her knees caused her to lean against the wall. She heard a little shuffle in the closet, which made her jump and reach for her gun. She saw a little hand escape into the closet and the door close with a rattle.
"Hello?" She said, feeling a little dumb, knowing she wouldn't get a response. "It's okay. I'm with the police." She knelt down by the door. "I'm here to help you… I won't hurt you."
The door, ever so slowly, opened back up. Ruth's breathing became labored to a pant, and her face flushed with red and her head ached. She knew what was happening; the third child survived. She couldn't wrap her mind around it, though, as she nearly fainted where she knelt. Slowly, out scuttled a little brown-eyed, blonde haired boy. He had bruises around his neck, and on his wrists. He couldn't have been older than four or five.
"Hey, there, little guy." Ruth gave him an almost elated smile, feeling soft tears rise in her eyes. He looked so much like her nephew. "Are you okay?"
He shook his head and glanced at the two other kids. "Are my mommy and daddy dead, too?"
She swallowed hard and slowly nodded. "I'm sorry… but I'm going to find the man who hurt your family. I promise."
He stared at her, and then said, "I'm Toby."
"Hi, Toby. I'm Ruthie." She held out her arms, "Do you want to come with me?"
He nodded, and climbed to his feet. Ruthie picked him up, and wrapped her arms around him, carrying him out the door. She felt her heart thump against she chest as she slowly made her way down the stairs. "Hotch."
Hotch turned around and saw her, his eyes widening. "Ruth—what—"
"He's alive." Was all Ruth could say before Toby turned around to see the police officers, scuffing around his home. "I don't… I don't know what to do next."
"I'll call for an ambulance." Hotch pulled out his cell phone as the rest of the team came over to her.
"Hey there, little guy," Derek leaned over Ruth's shoulder to see the boy. "How are you feeling?"
He quivered a little, and clung to Ruthie tighter. He turned his head and whispered something into her ear. "What do you mean?"
"His skin." Toby replied, looking back to Derek.
"It's okay, buddy," Toby began crying, holding onto Ruth tighter.
"What did he say?" Spencer watched as she cradled the young boy, swaying him gently.
"He said the man that hurt his family has Derek's skin." Ruth glanced to Derek, and he tensed.
"So we're looking for an African American who targets predominantly white families? Could it be a racial statement?"
"It could be anything, at this point." Rossi put his hand over his forehead. "What a Christmas this is turning out to be."
REG:
I know. I deserve all the written abuse for being so slow. The good news? I got the Easy Cut and Bake Brownie Pan, if that even is it's real name. The bad news? It bakes lousy gluten-free brownies.
The extra good news?
Hopefully, y'all love me enough to still review me, even if I am complying with rule 123 of Incapably Continuing Tasks: The Failed Writer's Guide to Utter Douchebaggery.