A/N: Three within 24 hours. How's that?

See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 21

The ride to Denver from Albuquerque would normally take about six and a half hours. It took Ryan Morgan over ten.

He'd started out heading north on back roads, stopping first to mail his pictures of Charlie to the Albuquerque FBI office, in care of Agent Eppes. Highway 528 to 550 to 4 to 502 to 68 - winding his way through the Native American reservations north of town. He was clear-headed now, and could plan, although he was already starting to feel the need again. It was low at this point, just a simmer, but it was under control and not entirely unwelcome - it gave an edge to his thoughts. He was firing on all cylinders now, reassessing the situation as he drove. He would carry out his plan as he originally intended in Denver, which included targeting the Denver SAC, John McKelvey, and selecting a first victim associated with him. Agent Allison Cook, the focus of all of this, would be the second victim, and at that point, he would have his revenge. After that, he could either try for someone significant to McKelvey, for appearance's sake, or, if the agent had all of the people close to him too tightly guarded, Morgan could just be done with it. He'd finish Dr. Eppes off- the professor would be the icing on the cake, Morgan thought with a smile - and move on to another town, to continue his work.

For there was no question now, he would have to continue. It had become a part of him – the need to cut undeniable. The only difference would be that he would no longer need to publicize his victims. He could take them, cut them, and dispose of the bodies discreetly. It would remove a certain portion of his fun – the joy he got from mentally torturing the lead FBI agents – but it would also remove a large portion of risk. There would be no need any longer for the charade – Allison would be dead, her bastard father at the hospital in mourning. Morgan would have deflected any possible suspicion from himself to the unknown Flower Killer, and would be free to pursue his passion, under the radar.

He'd almost done that with the hooker – left her where no one would find her. He'd decided at the last minute that she would make a nice red herring – something to distract Agent Eppes and his team, while Morgan moved on to Denver. If he needed women in the next week or two, while he was setting up McKelvey, he would take them and dispose of them quietly. No one would know he was in Denver until he decided to let them know, with the first clue that he sent to McKelvey.

At the junction of Highways 68 and 64, at the small reservation town of Taos, he stopped to pick up more of that first clue. The route was dotted with souvenir shops, filled with western and Native American bric-a-brac. Most of them featured polished stones of various colors, some semiprecious, all of them inexpensive. He bought a fair amount at each of them, until he had a sizable boxful – not buying too much at any one shop, to avoid arousing suspicion.

It was while he was in Taos that he spied the small auto shop. It had occurred to him the white van might have been seen and remembered when he picked up the hooker. As he drove through Taos on his way out, he noticed the sign on the shop, which offered custom paint jobs, and decided to stop and inquire. It was a small place, the kind that appeared legit but did illegal chop shop work on the side; the kind that was fast and where questions were kept to a minimum. It was run by a young heavy-set Native American with an attitude, sharp eyes, and a group of Mexican immigrants for employees.

Morgan knew Eppes would be out for several hours yet and he was out of sight, covered with a sheet in the back of the van, which was windowless except for the front cab. The price was reasonable, and the owner estimated two hours to turn the van from white to blue. It wouldn't be factory-quality paint, but it was fast drying, and good enough for a delivery van. It was worth it, Morgan had decided, and he stood by and watched while they worked, to make sure they didn't open the vehicle. It had the added effect of making them work faster; they didn't care to be watched. Two hours later, cash exchanged hands and Morgan was the owner of a blue van, and a new set of contraband plates.

It had added two hours to his trip, and his meandering route and stops at the souvenir shops had added another two. He joined up with Highway 25 again at Raton, and had to stop between Ludlow and Aguilar to re-sedate his captive. Finally, that evening, ten and a half hours after he'd started out that morning, he pulled into Denver. He headed for the west side of town, toward a spot on the outskirts. It was a place he knew well; it was where it had all begun.

It had been a long drive, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the bruise he'd sustained on his lower back when he'd hit the bathroom doorframe that morning. Eppes would pay for that, he thought, and the notion gave him a flicker of anticipation. Eppes would most definitely pay for that.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Jill Cash took a sip of her iced tea, and watched the man across the table. They had gone out to eat that night – more out of necessity than anything else; no one appeared to be very hungry. She was beginning to understand that Charlie had a special place in the hearts of the L.A. team, and meant a good deal more to them than the fact that he was a consultant, or even the brother of their SAC. She had to admit, she'd been immediately attracted to him herself. It was Charlie's brother, though, who was concerning her now as she scanned the group.

It seemed like déjà vu; like Mike Shire all over again. Eppes had the same tight expression on his face, as if he was trying mightily to hold in the tension and if he relaxed just a bit, it would all come spilling out. He was toying with his food, and looked tired and grim. He looked up and caught her eye, and then looked away, reaching for his water.

--

Don used his water glass as an excuse to avert his gaze from Jill Cash; like Megan, she seemed to have eyes that could see right through a person. He wondered if that attribute was something they'd possessed before they'd gone into profiling, or developed because of it. Maybe both.

Earlier that day, they'd gone into the Albuquerque office after viewing the site. SAC Jack Martinez had set several things in motion, putting out an APB for the van, organizing a search for witnesses who might have seen the victim being picked up, collecting preliminary reports from the crime lab. In the middle of the activity, an express mail envelope had arrived, addressed to Don.

He'd opened it with unsteady hands, unaware of how similar that telltale tremor was to Mike Shire's, only days before. In the envelope were pictures of Charlie, bound to a chair, dressed only in boxers. Jill Cash had uttered a low exclamation of distress at the sight, and Don's heart had dropped. In one picture, Charlie was obviously out, sleeping or unconscious, his head drooping so low they couldn't see his features under the mop of curly hair. In the other, he was awake, and looking into the lens of the camera, his expression a mixture of tension, fear, and despair. He was bruised, and appeared tired and on the thin side, but at least he was alive when the shots had been taken. The chair was sitting on some kind of dark colored carpet, and the wall behind it was painted white. It could have been anywhere.

Don had stared at the photos with a bleak expression, and then looked again, a double take, turning even paler. He glanced around the group, wondering if anyone else had noticed, but when no one said anything, he looked back, hoping he'd been mistaken.

He'd looked at the picture again, and his gut threatened to bring up what little was in it. He was sure – Charlie's chest was bare. His brother didn't go around without a shirt too often, but he'd shed it on occasion, enough to for Don to know that there was normally hair on that part of his anatomy. The killer must have shaved it or forced Charlie to do it. Either way, it was an indication that in spite of the recent female victim, the man's sick mind was on his brother, that he'd possibly been touching him, or worse, and Don felt a sudden surge of nausea. He had risen suddenly and stumbled away, out of the conference room, heading for the restroom – thank God, it was Albuquerque, and he remembered where it was. He made it inside, just barely, and lost the contents of his stomach in the toilet – the sandwich he managed to choke down at lunch had just become a lost cause.

He had stood, coughing, and heard the soft swoosh of the door, and then felt a solid hand on his shoulder, briefly, a touch of reassurance. Colby, asking if he was okay.

Don had taken a swipe at watery eyes and cleared his throat, muttering that it must have been something he'd eaten. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to talk about what he'd just realized. Instead, he stepped over to the sink, avoiding Colby's eyes, and splashed some cold water on his face, saying he'd be out in a minute.

--

Now at dinner, hours later, he could feel the nausea rising again as he thought of the pictures, and he pushed his chair back abruptly. "I'll be back in a minute," he muttered, and turned and made for the restaurant entrance; head swiveled away from them, but keenly cognizant of the others' eyes on him.

Outside, he took a deep breath of dry air, still warm even though it was evening. The sidewalk and the stucco from the building radiated heat – temperatures dropped quite a bit in the desert at night, but in the summer they were so high to begin with, the drop only brought them to a barely bearable level. Yucca plants dotted the rock bed that served as landscaping; their spiky silhouettes sharp in the lights from the parking lot. He heard the door open and shut behind him, but he didn't turn. Solitary female footsteps. 'Megan,' he guessed, and shot a surprised glance over his shoulder as Jill Cash spoke.

"You okay?"

He turned away again and ran a hand over his face, with a short derisive snort. "Define 'okay.'"

She was silent for a moment; then said, "You need to talk about it, you know. You can't hold it all in. That's what Mike did, and you can see where it got him."

It was Don's turn to be silent - for so long, that she thought he wasn't going to reply, and she was about to turn around and go back inside, when he said, "His chest was bare - in the pictures – it was bare."

She frowned. "You mean he wasn't wearing a shirt."

He turned and looked at her, agony in his eyes. "I mean, the killer – somebody – removed the hair from his chest. What does that mean?"

She felt an icy sensation settle in the pit of her stomach, but she tried to keep her face expressionless. "I don't know."

Don continued, his voice impatient. "Did he remove it? Did he make Charlie do it? What does it mean? Why would he do that?"

"It obviously is trespassing on something we'd normally consider personal," said Jill slowly. "As to why – we can only guess."

Don dropped his eyes, gazing blankly at the pavement. "So to answer your first question – no, I'm not okay." He raised his head, his dark eyes sharp with repressed emotion. "I'm not okay that this bastard has my brother, I'm not okay with the fact that I'm getting nowhere with this case, I'm not okay that we have no leads – no idea who or where this son of a bitch is. I'm not okay with any of this." He stepped around her and strode back toward the restaurant entrance, and she silently watched him go.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

'Mom?' Charlie flung a quick look over his shoulder, but his mother was on the other side of the park, chatting with a neighbor – within sight, but well out of earshot. He jerked his head around to face forward, and took a nervous step back from the tree line, and the man advancing out of it.

"Come here, son," he said kindly, but his eyes glinted with a look that registered uneasily on Charlie's eight-year-old subconscious. The man had heard Charlie's tentative call, and he looked in the direction of his glance, assuring himself there was no one within the boy's vocal range. "That's a metal detector you've got there, isn't it, boy? If you come into the woods a little ways, I can show you where you can find a bunch of coins."

"That's okay," Charlie stammered, clutching the device to his chest. "My mom said I'm s'posed to stay where she can see me." She hadn't said that - he was a little too old for that, but the man was making him apprehensive, and he knew he shouldn't be going anywhere with a stranger.

The man took another step closer. "Think about how surprised she'll be when you show her all the money you found." He stopped short suddenly; his eyes traveled over Charlie's shoulder, and at the same time, Charlie heard approaching footsteps, and turned to see Donnie bounding towards them. He pulled up next to Charlie; his cheeks flushed from the run, and put an arm around his younger brother, his thirteen-year-old face inscrutable. He looked somehow older than his years with his eyes narrowed, assessing the man in front of them. When Charlie turned back to look at the man, he was disappearing into the trees, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Donnie." Charlie took a deep breath as his eyes fluttered open, and he blinked, the look of relief fading into confusion, as he took in his surroundings. There was no park, no Don – only a large room with tiled floor and walls, with rusting metal sinks, and hooks hanging from the ceiling. There was a man there, though, and Charlie's heart lurched with renewed fear as he spied his captor. His wrists and shoulders ached, his body felt strangely heavy, and he realized that he was hanging by bound hands from one of the hooks, his feet just barely off the floor. Judging from the darkness outside and the pallid glow of two bare bulbs in the ceiling, it was nighttime, wherever they were. It had to be somewhere remote; the dusty sash windows were cracked open; and Charlie could catch scents of pine mingled with the musty smell in the room. The faint buzz of a generator wafted through the window.

Ryan Morgan smiled, and strolled forward, casually picking up his baton from the table, and swinging it as he walked. "Your brother's not here," he said softly. "Too bad for you." He stepped closer, and the light in his eyes reminded Charlie of the man in his dream, dredged up from his subconscious memories. "You thought you were pretty smart this morning, with your little maneuver. You realize; I haven't forgotten. You will pay for that." He swung the baton suddenly, and it smacked sharply on Charlie's bare ribcage.

Charlie bit back hard on a cry of pain, trying to breath through it. Morgan traced a lazy finger down his chest, and Charlie willed himself to stay still, to avoid cringing at the touch. Have some backbone, stay strong…

"You need to understand; I will not tolerate disobedience." Morgan moved slowly around behind him, then suddenly reached up and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking Charlie's head back. Charlie felt the man's face against his, his cheek against Charlie's, and this time, he couldn't suppress a shudder.

Morgan whispered in his ear. "The only question is, how will I make you pay?" He suddenly released Charlie's hair, stepped back around to the front of him and pushed hard, and Charlie felt the hook slide in its track in the ceiling, his body racing backwards until he hit a wall with a thump. He was in a small, now apparently deserted meatpacking company, he realized suddenly, his gut lurching along with his body as he smacked into the wall. The hooks were undoubtedly what carcasses had been hung on. That morbid thought didn't have time to register before the killer was again in front of him. He pushed Charlie against the wall with his body, and Charlie gasped and turned his head away from the face so close to his, trying to quell the nausea and terror that rose in him as the larger man pressed into him, the powerful body straining against his. The killer whispered again, his lips brushing Charlie's ear. "You didn't answer me, Charlie. How should I make you pay?"

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Chapter 21