A/N: Pant, pant - click, click, click... that's the sound of me trying to keep up...

See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 14

Charlie stared numbly at his captor, who was going about the business of packing. His body ached from his hours of confinement, strapped motionless to the wooden chair, with his hands bound behind him. Even worse than that, though, was the ache in his soul, the crushing despair. His mind was still reeling from the shock of finding himself in this position, from his witness of Joanie's horrible end. Added to that were the feelings of sadness and betrayal at Amita's apparent infidelity. His brother's flat refusal to acknowledge their relationship, however, was the final thrust of the sword. When he'd realized that Morgan had Don on the line, Charlie had been about to call out until he'd heard that exchange, and it had literally sucked the air out of him. Even though he told himself, desperately, that Don hadn't meant it – that he was playing some kind of game with the killer; he couldn't squelch the doubt, the suspicion that the people he cared about most apparently didn't quite feel the same way about him. On top of all that, there was just one more minor issue - he was facing torture and death at the hands of a lunatic, who so far, no one had been able to stop.

He shifted uncomfortably. The summer afternoon sun had warmed the warehouse, and his T-shirt and jeans were sticking to his skin. The air was thick with the smell of blood. Joanie had finally ceased her weak moaning sometime midday, and although Charlie refused to look to his left where she lay strapped to a board, he knew she must be dead. The smell and the buzz of flies made his stomach turn, and he closed his eyes for a moment. That only seemed to make it worse, and so he opened them again, bleakly watching his captor.

Jill Cash had been right when she guessed that the man might be good-looking. In fact, he looked like a model, with chiseled features, flawless skin and teeth, and bright blue eyes beneath a thatch of light brown hair. In fact, for some reason he looked familiar, but Charlie couldn't say from where. His smile could be engaging, Charlie was sure, when he wanted it to be. He imagined the man was quite capable of submerging the cruelty in those eyes, of turning on the charm. Muscles rippled in the killer's arms as he folded sheets – he looked powerful, and would not be easy to overcome even if Charlie got the opportunity.

Not that an opportunity would present itself. The man seemed to be careful to maintain control over his victims. Charlie watched as he began unscrewing metal objects from the floor. They were tie-offs, like the sort used on boats for attaching ropes, and the killer had used them to tie his victims down on the floor when he tortured or raped them. Charlie looked away, and shuddered. At least, if the man was taking them up, he obviously wasn't planning to use them for Charlie soon.

He looked back to find the man watching him, and he felt an icy sensation pass through his body. His heart began to pound as the killer put down the screwdriver, stood lazily with a smile, and strolled toward him.

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Ryan Morgan squatted in front his captive and smiled up into his face, studying him. His eyes roved over him, taking in the light sheen of sweat on his skin, the tension in his body, the mixture of emotions in the dark eyes – wariness, fear, and a bit of defiance. He took his time with his perusal, letting his gaze wander over the dark curly hair, the slight body. He knew he was making the professor extremely uncomfortable, and he reveled in the fact.

He finally spoke, smiling, his voice deceptively gentle. "Were you watching me, Charlie?" It was a question, but he gave it the inflection of a statement, and used his victim's first name purposely.

Charlie blinked in surprise at the question, and took a shaky breath. "No."

Morgan's face hardened, and he rose to his feet. "You're lying. You were watching me. You're trying to tempt me."

Charlie shook his head, vehemently. "No – no, I wasn't." He dropped his eyes, trying to control his breathing – panic was making it rough, uneven. "I won't do it again."

"So you admit it!" exclaimed Morgan, his voice rising, his face twisted in anger.

"No!" insisted Charlie, looking back up at him fearfully. "I don't – I didn't -,"

Morgan stood over him, hands clenching and un-clenching, then suddenly lashed out with a vicious backhand. It connected with the side of Charlie's face, and his head whipped around with the force of the blow. He tasted blood, and the room reeled. He fought off the dizziness and righted himself, and sat with his head down, trying not to tremble, keeping his eyes on the floor. His mouth was filling with blood, but he was afraid to spit – afraid of provoking the man in front of him. His cheekbone was throbbing, and he could feel a cut on the inside of his cheek, but he was barely aware of them; terror took center-stage.

Morgan stood, watching him, chest heaving in anger. "Don't make me angry, or I will have to cut you sooner than I want to, understand?"

Charlie nodded; his eyes still on the floor, unable to speak around the mouthful of blood.

"I didn't hear you."

Charlie turned his head and spat blood on the floor, cringing slightly as if expecting another blow. "Yes. I understand."

He sat motionless, head down, until he saw Morgan's feet cross the floor and stop back at his work area. He stayed that way until he heard the killer pick up the screwdriver again, and closed his eyes with a shudder.

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Megan Reeves emerged from the elevator doors and strode across the bullpen. She headed for the conference room, but altered her path as she caught sight of two familiar heads bent over a computer monitor. Larry and Amita looked up as she pulled up next to them, slightly breathless, and Larry immediately rose to his feet. "This is unexpected," he exclaimed. "I thought you weren't coming back until next week."

"After what you told me this morning, I was hardly going to stay there," she chided him gently. "I came back to see what I could do."

He looked at the clock on the wall and his eyebrows rose. "Four-thirty, and it must have been near eleven a.m. your time when I called you. Alan has been trying since last night to get a flight back from Chicago – I'm surprised you were successful."

Her mouth quirked. "Alan didn't have the option of volunteering as an air marshal. If worst came to worst, I was going to bump someone." She looked at Amita with concern. The other woman looked exhausted, bedraggled. "How is it going?"

"Okay." Her voice was quiet, and the tone contradicted her response. "We've nearly finished the programming. Once we're done we'll need to run it – I'm projecting we'll have results between seven and eight tonight."

Megan gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. "I'm heading into the conference room." She looked at Larry, her eyes filled with sympathy and concern. "I'll talk to you later."

She made her way to the room and stepped inside the door. Don's head came up as she entered, and relief flooded his face. He looked stressed – they all did, especially the man on the far end, who she didn't recognize. "I came back early to see if I could help," she said.

Don had risen to his feet. "Thanks," he said quietly. "We can use all the help we can get on this. Megan Reeves, this is Agent Mike Shire, SAC of the Seattle office, and Agent Jill Cash, profiler." She moved forward and shook their hands, and nodded at Liz, Colby, and David.

"I thought Wright was in on this."

"He is," said Don. "He's been in and out. He'll be back this evening at around seven; we're meeting again as soon as the program is done." He ran a weary hand over his face.

Megan nodded. "Okay. Larry gave me the main points, but no details. Would it be too much trouble to catch me up?"

An hour later, she was almost wishing she hadn't asked that question. They'd just finished watching the most recent video, and Don had recounted his last conversation with the killer. She could see the strain on his face, hear it in his voice. He looked beyond exhausted, and most definitely shaken. Probably how Mike Shire had looked at one time, she thought. Shire was well beyond that point now – he seemed ready to crack, and she wondered why Wright had left him on the case.

She looked at Jill; out of respect for the other profiler, she wanted to get her opinion. "What's your assessment?"

Jill gave her a slight nod, an acknowledgment of appreciation at Megan's recognition. "We think he's a Caucasian male, probably early to mid-thirties, good-looking. He has medical background, probably surgical training, perhaps was once a doctor or an intern. Based on the fact that he's able to get close enough to his victims to inject them, we think he can be quite personable when he wants to be. Our office has run a list of doctors or interns of that age who have recently left the medical profession. Unfortunately, it is both extensive and incomplete. We've hit the bigger hospitals and medical universities in the larger cities, but it's tougher to get information out of the smaller towns. That could take weeks, and it will take days to process the names we have already."

"We're certain the only victims have been in Seattle or L.A?" asked Megan.

David spoke up. "We did find one M.O. that looked suspiciously similar – a woman in a small town in Wyoming, and a note was left for the local law enforcement there. The note was left after the fact though, and didn't reference birds or flowers. That murder happened about a month before the first murder in Seattle."

Megan's brow furrowed. "If it was him, it could have been an initial victim. The question is; what triggered the behavior?"

Colby frowned. "You mean, what motivated him to do this?"

"Not necessarily," said Megan slowly. "The motivation might have already been there. The trigger is what prompted him to start acting on those urges." She looked at Cash. "I see a sexual component to this, apart from the rapes. Do you?"

Jill nodded. "Yes. There's no doubt that he derives the majority of his satisfaction from the act of cutting his victims, and from the power trip he gets by manipulating law enforcement. And it appears his need for that gratification is escalating."

Megan shot a glance at Don and Shire. She hated to speak of this in front of them, but they couldn't ignore the discussion just because the SACs were connected to the victims.

"I agree. I think the rapes are just an outlet – a way of assuaging his urges as long as he can, until he gives into the ultimate source of pleasure, cutting his victims. The rapes and the torture serve two purposes – as a means of taking the edge off his desire, and also a way of creating mental trauma for the victim's family members and law enforcement."

Don stared back at her, his eyes dark. "So where does this put a male victim?" He tried, but he couldn't quite keep his voice steady.

Megan looked at him, her face softening with sympathy. "I don't know. As far as the cutting goes, he might not differentiate between male and female when it comes to that – in fact, I would guess not. How he views rape might be another story – he might shy away from that with a man. One point in our favor is the fact that he has never picked a male victim, until now. That might indicate his urgings are primarily heterosexual. It's impossible to tell; we need to remember that rape has less to do with sex than it does with aggression, and hate. "

Don slumped in his chair at her words, then suddenly rose and began pacing impatiently, with repeated glances out of the conference room window toward Amita and Larry. "We need to find the location where he's keeping them. He indicated that he's leaving the area soon – we need to get to him before he does."

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End Chapter 14