Author's notes:
- When I initially wrote the last chapter, I was under the impression that identical twins with the same DNA could be of different genders. In fact, I'm only learning now that's not possible. So I've had to do a bit of on-the-go story changing and change identical twins into fraternal twins (who share up to 50% of genetics.) My mistake for not doing my research beforehand!
"Jesus," Morgan murmured.
"I know. I should have warned you it was a tearjerker." The emotion was evident in Garcia's voice. "It's just lucky I was prepared this time round." They heard her blowing her nose, not loudly but quite sharply.
"That kind of background for this UnSub would make perfect sense," Rossi declared. He'd been processing all the information while sorting through the emotional aspects of the case. "Repressed feelings created in a closed home growing up is a breeding ground for extreme resentment and rage."
"But that's just a single characteristic. It doesn't change the fact Evelyn Barrymore is dead," JJ pointed out. "And even if she wasn't, the evidence would indicate a male perpetrator since the ME clearly stated that Bridget Silver was raped, right?" Morgan nodded.
"Garcia, was Eve an only child?" Emily asked.
"Let me double-check that for you right now." The sound of computer keys clattering at what seemed like a thousand words a minute came through the speaker. "Here we are… oh wow."
"What is it?" Hotch said.
"Not only was she not an only child, she had a brother that was born on the exact same day at the exact same time which means -"
"Same DNA." Emily let out a deep breath and straightened up. She felt as if the giant knot of nerves in her body was starting to loosen - ever so slowly. "They're identical twins."
"Actually fraternal twins. Identical twins are of the same gender," Reid corrected. "It's a common misconception that all twins would share the same DNA, but fraternal twins can share up to only fifty percent of the genetic code."
"Which would explain why nothing came up on the standard tests. They didn't go deep enough," Rossi finished.
"What was the brother's name, Garcia?" Morgan called out.
"Just bringing that up right now… Got it! Paul Edward Barrymore. Moved to New York in January, no employment records – looks like he's living off government assistance and some small savings from his mother."
"January. That was three months after his mother died," Emily remarked.
"Had to have been the trigger," Morgan said. "Sister takes her own life and then his mother dies just a few months later; it had to drive him over the edge. With the type of personality his mother is said to have had, I wouldn't be surprised if she helped fuel his rage."
"I'm sending you his address now." Garcia quickly sent the data to each of the agents' phones. Brighton looked over at Rossi's. "Brooklyn," the detective murmured.
"You know the neighbourhood?" Hotch asked.
Brighton did – only too well. He nodded. "Had a double homicide a few blocks away last year. Two men killed execution style. Thought it was just typical gang violence until we found out one of the victims worked with the local youth shelter. Turns out the other victim had recently had an argument with his neighbour over who owed who money over a TV. Neighbour came in with a gun to settle the score and the other guy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn't find the bodies until three days after they died. Neighbours on the floor were all in their apartments at the time, but of course, when we asked, they all said they didn't see or hear anything."
"A neighbourhood where when things turn ugly, residents are unwilling to call in the police," JJ surmised. "The ideal place for someone to keep someone without fear of being caught."
"And here's one more thing to add to the creepiness scale – Barrymore lives in the basement apartment," Garcia pointed out. "You know… basements and serial killers kinda go hand in hand."
"So he's our UnSub!" Emily could barely contain the excitement in her voice. It was a great struggle to stop herself from sounding too excited.
"He's almost certainly at least one of them. Reid and Prentiss are with me, JJ and Morgan are with Rossi." Hotch's eyes surveyed the men and women in front of him. "Let's go."
Angie was crying again.
Not from pain or fear – she was either beyond those or had forced them from her mind. No, her tears were of relief.
Relief because she knew she was close to escape.
Angie had decided a long time ago that she was not going to be the object of this sick monster's twisted desires. She didn't know what he had planned for her next and, quite frankly, she no longer cared. She had no desire to become another one of his victims; whoever they were – however many there were – she couldn't allow herself to become one of them.
She was going to escape - one way or another.
As she twisted her wrists in the increasingly loose chains, she knew she was just a few moments away from freedom. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to get it, but she was going to get it.
Twist and turn.
Her preferred way of escape – escape back to the free world where the people around you didn't beat you and lock you up like an animal – was not going to be easy. Between her and it lay a locked door, solid concrete walls and a crazy psycho intent on causing her pain. She had no idea how she was going to get past them all, but she damn well was going to give it her best shot.
Twist and turn. Twist and turn.
Relax.
Take ten seconds.
Breath.
Start again.
The other way of escape… well, she didn't want to think about that. She wasn't ready to go there yet. Not ready to accept that reality.
But… if it came down to it, well, she wasn't going to allow this bastard the pleasure of knowing that she went down quietly.
Twist and turn. Twist and turn. Twist and turn.
Angie didn't know how long she had left to live. The next time he came in, he might decide to simply get rid of her. Or he might decide that he wanted to have some more 'fun' with her beforehand. Either way, she wasn't going to play by his rules anymore. She was going to retake control of her life.
The cuffs jingled. Angie felt herself drop a fraction of an inch, pause for a second, then drop down as her hands finally slipped through the metal.
Her landing wasn't as smooth as she'd anticipated. Normally landing from just her toes onto the full weight of her feet would've been the easiest thing in the world. But then again, normally she hadn't been beaten like a dog on the legs until she could no longer feel them. As her weight came down on her souls, her legs gave out, causing her to stumble and then crumple on the cold floor.
Angie froze. Her landing had caused a notable thud and now feared that it may have given her away. She didn't move, hardly dared to breathe as she listened for any signs that might indicate her kidnapper's return.
There was nothing – nothing but a deafening silence.
Allowing herself to release a pent-up breath, Angie took a moment to get her heart rate down before taking in her surroundings.
Being hung up like a cow in a butcher shop tended to make a person see things in a different light. Imprisoned in her chains, she hadn't really bothered to try to examine the room. But now, free and with her eyes now adjusted to the low light, she saw what she had been overlooking.
The room was actually bigger than she had thought. What she had thought was just a dark wall on the far side was actually a whole other section to the room, about half as large as the rest of it. A large pipe ran horizontally along the ceiling and down the side of the wall. The walls were concrete like the others, but Angie could see, glinting in the darkness, the glimmer of metal in the centre portion near the bottom. Chains and manacles of various sizes had been screwed into the concrete, almost like for holding dogs – except some of them were way too high up on the wall to hold a dog. A metal table off to the side stood empty except for what appeared to be a toolbox on top; Angie didn't want to know what was in that. On the other hand, there was no mistaking what were the dark stains in the middle of the floor in that section – pools of dried blood.
Angie felt as if she might vomit. The mere thought of what this psycho had done to other people just a few yards away from where she was made her sick to her stomach. She felt the bile rise up in her throat and had to fight the urge to retch.
Ignore it, she told herself. Find a way out.
Taking another couple of deep breaths, she looked around for any possible ways of escape. Wherever he'd taken her, she realized, it was clear he didn't count on her getting away. No windows, no vents. Just one door. And a crazy killer on the other side of it.
Crazy…
A person would have to be crazy to try to leave the same way he came in.
Even if that was the only way out of here.
Unless a person was desperate. Really desperate.
Desperate enough to risk everything for a chance of freedom – to escape from certain death.
Especially if she hadn't heard the door lock the last time he left…
Slowly, carefully, Angie pushed herself up using her hands. She straightened up, her legs wobbling under the pressure of her bruised and punished muscles. She took a moment to just stand and get her balance back before taking her first cautious step towards the door.
The pain came soaring through her limb like a freight train, causing her to collapse in agony to one knee. It was so intense it felt like molten lava was being pumped throughout her leg. The blood flow in her lower body had been disrupted after being hung up for so long and now her body was trying to make up for lost time by flooding her bruised legs with fresh blood. The nerves in that area, however, had not yet adjusted to the change and were all reacting at once to the new stimuli.
Angie bit her tongue to keep herself from crying out loud. She knew that if she attracted her kidnapper's attention, she'd likely be dead much quicker than whenever he was planning. She bent her head to try to minimize the pain until it faded and saw for the first time how much damage had been done to her wrists; the flesh was raw, red and bloody and almost certainly on the verge of infection. She felt no pain here and hoped she hadn't damaged the nerves beyond repair. Still, she couldn't worry about that now.
Using all her strength and willpower, Angie forced herself to stand and took another shaky step towards the door. The pain wasn't as big a shock to her this time but it still hurt like hell. She ignored it and kept walking, step by step, until finally she reached the steps leading up the door. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated and used the wall for balance as she lifted one foot onto the bottom step, then the other. She repeated this action for every subsequent step and, fortunately, was able to reach the door in less than a minute.
Angie paused for a moment, bracing herself. Please don't let it be locked. She wasn't sure what would be worse – finding the door locked after her struggle to reach it or finding it unlocked and the man on the other side waiting for her.
Only one way to find out. Taking another deep breath, she took hold of the knob and turned.
"I've got some more info on Paul Barrymore," JJ said into her cell phone. She balanced her tablet in her other hand as Morgan steadily increased their speed to keep up with the other van right beside them. "In ninth grade, he was suspended for sneaking into the girls' locker room to spy on them while they changed. His counsellor reported that he considered such behaviour normal and something every man did, even with his closest relatives."
"Sounds like he was just getting his start," Hotch replied as he gripped the steering wheel of his own van.
"It goes deeper than that. That kind of attitude suggests this kind of behaviour was planted in him at a young age. A child doesn't usually develop those behaviours unless they were encouraged by an authority figure," Reid pointed out.
Morgan added, "Like his mother."
"We theorized this UnSub had a sexual relationship with an older female such as a mother," Rossi said from the back of their van. "That might explain how he developed such unhealthy views of women."
"So his mother plays both sides of the fence," Emily said from beside Hotch. She held the phone while the former prosecutor cranked up the speed past a line of cars stopped at a red light. "Tells her children that all members of the opposite sex are evil and at least in the son's case encourages him to kill them."
"Using religion as justification," Rossi replied grimly.
"It's possible she also may have planned to try to mould Eve into doing the same to men. She viewed her husband as a drunk and a failure, so why not try to get her daughter to act as an instrument of God to punish them all?" JJ continued. "Eve's leaving prevented that, so she focused her efforts on her son. Abused him, corrupted him, twisted his views of sex and women and made sure he knew what she wanted him to do."
"But how does a freak like this get mixed up with an extremist group who bombs buildings?" Brighton asked from beside Reid. "That's what I don't get." In fact, there was a lot the detective didn't get; he was still trying to grasp the fact that a man he had in custody was almost certainly innocent of the crimes of which he was accused.
"We'll find out once we interrogate him." Hotch shifted gears and increased their speed. "And he'd better have the answers."
The door opened.
Angie could hardly breathe as the entrance to her prison swung slowly open. Light from the hallway caused her to squint; so long had it been that she had been in anything other than total darkness. But one thing was for certain – there was no one waiting for her in the hall.
She could have kissed the ground right there and then, but she didn't want to risk getting on her knees; she didn't trust that she'd be able to get up quickly again. So she stepped forward into the light.
The hallway honestly wasn't that much better than the room she'd been imprisoned in. There was only one light in all the ceiling, a single bulb hanging on a chain which flickered and dimmed uncertainly. The walls were also concrete here, but had been painted a horrible lime green colour. Chunks of the wall were cracked and crumbling on the floor, giving the impression of one of those old hotels in the horror movies where the killer murdered the guests one by one. A strong odour of cleaning fluid permeated the area. It was so strong Angie almost had to hold her breath to stop herself from coughing. Regardless of whatever clean-up job had been attempted, the floor was covered in dirt and grime. Something that looked suspiciously like a cockroach scurried along the far end of the wall and disappeared into a paper-thin crack.
Shuddering and giving her head a shake, Angie tried to focus on the task of escape. There several doors along the opposite side and one at the far end of the hall. She had no idea which one led to the outside but then again it wasn't like the kidnapper was going to hang a sign up that said ALL ESCAPING VICTIMS THIS WAY PLEASE next to it. In her experience though, when a door was at either end of a hallway, it usually meant it led to somewhere new; in this case, hopefully to freedom.
As quickly and quietly as she could, Angie made her way down the hall. The light in the ceiling swayed as she moved past, casting shadows on the wall. She thought she could feel a breeze tingle the back of her neck. Then again, maybe it was the fear trying to creep up on her.
The door at the end of the hall was unique; while all the other were grey and made of a rather thin type of material, this one was dark, wooden and thick. The handle was rusted, though, indicating that perhaps it hadn't been attended to in some time and was easy to open. Angie took hold of the knob, turned and pushed.
Nothing.
She tried again. Still nothing.
She tried pulling the door towards her and it moved maybe half an inch before catching.
"No," Angie murmured. "No, come on."
She pushed back against the door and then pulled again. The door shifted ever so slightly and stuck exactly where it was. She tried again. And again. Each time produced the same result. Angie looked at the door trying to find any reason for the block; through the crack between the door and the wall, she could see the shadows of at least three heavy bolts locking it tight.
"Shit!" Angie swore, twisting the knob frantically. This wasn't happening. Not now. Not right goddamn now! Forgetting about being quiet, she began pulling and yanking at different parts of the door, trying to find some kind of weakness.
"Going somewhere?"
She spun around and froze, the fear seizing control of her body.
The man stood just a few feet away. On the index finger of his right hand balanced a key ring with several keys on it. He shook them several times before sliding them into his pocket. A mean expression crossed his face as he took a step towards her.
Morgan's van screeched to a halt in front of the red-bricked apartment building about half a second behind Hotch. The three occupants piled out to join their teammates who were already out and drawing their weapons.
"Which number is it?" Hotch asked to no one in particular.
"6B," Reid responded as he flicked the safety off his Glock. "It's the basement apartment on the north end."
The team quickly made their way around the corner and found the door to the apartment in question. The peeling wood and overgrown weeds surrounding it gave it a rundown, un-kept look, somewhere most decent people would go out of their way to avoid. It gave more than one of them an uneasy feeling to think that a young woman was being held there.
Hotch gave a look around as if to say 'ready?' When no one objected, he nodded to Morgan.
The former Chicago PD officer delivered a swift kick to the door and knocked it open.
Angie could barely hear anything else over the noise of her heart pounding in her ears.
"I figured you were lyin' about turning to God. Made me wonder what else you were lyin' about." His voice was scarily calm as he took slow steps towards her. "Guess all that stuff about not trying to escape was one big lie too."
She felt herself begin to tremble uncontrollably. "Please…" Her plea little more than a whisper.
"Hardly surprising. All women lie. It's what they do. Whores and sluts and witches – all of 'em. Well," his eyes hardened even more. "There's a price to be paid for that." He reached out for her.
At that moment, Angie's fight or flight response took over. In the split second before he grabbed hold of her arm, she noticed that the door closest to her behind him was partway open, likely how he got into the hall. As he took hold of her, Angie morphed back into her days on the soccer field and let loose with a kick that hit him in the crotch. Caught completely off guard, he shouted and doubled over in pain; as soon as he let her go she ran past him through the door and found herself in another hallway.
This one didn't seem quite as dirty as the other one but was much darker. There were no windows and barely enough light coming from a tiny bulb at the opposite end that she could barely see where she was going. Angie ignored that fact and ran as fast as she could to the opposite end of the hall, her feet slapping against the concrete.
She all but slammed into the door at the other end. Choking back sobs and gasps she grabbed hold of the handle and pulled hard.
Locked.
"No…" She barely recognized the high-pitched terror in her voice. She threw a panicked look behind her, but couldn't see anything. Yet she could hear sounds just out of her sight, ones that indicated her captor was coming for her.
"HELP ME!" Angie whirled around and pounded on the door with hands and fists. "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!" She didn't care who or what was on the other side. All she knew was that if she didn't get out right now, she was dead.
She rattled the handle frantically. "HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE!"
As Angie twisted and turned, there was a sharp crack as the handle snapped off in her hand. She stared down at it in horror. "No. Please God…"
An arm wrapped around her throat and yanked her against a body. She choked and gasped for air, letting the handle fall to the floor. The sharp points of an unshaven face scratched against her skin.
"Bad move," the man growled in her ear.
Guns drawn, the agents poured into the apartment and were almost immediately overwhelmed by the state of squalor of the place. Trash lay everywhere, food containers and dirty dishes were sprawled over the floor. The couch in the living room area was almost unrecognizable under the mountain of garbage that covered it. A chair that might once have been made of green fabric was now brown and torn. The bedroom, which contained just a mattress on the floor and a few piles of clothes nearby, was not much better. Black garbage bags were placed over the windows, blocking out the sunlight. A heavy odour of stale air and garbage hung in the air.
"Clear!" Morgan shouted from the kitchen.
"Clear!" JJ responded from the living room.
"He's not here," Hotch responded, exiting the bedroom. "No sign of Kim Seo-yeon?"
"Not a trace." Brighton appeared beside Rossi from the bathroom. "He must have fled and taken her with him."
"But where else could he go? His place is in the radius of all the dump sites and he doesn't have anywhere else he could feel safe," Reid argued, holstering his weapon.
Morgan shrugged. "Maybe we missed something."
"Or maybe we're just not looking hard enough," Emily argued.
"I'll see if there's anywhere else he might have gone to refuge. Maybe there's a pattern we overlooked somewhere."
Morgan pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. As he spoke to Garcia and the others began milling about looking for clues, Emily took a look around her. There was something they were all missing, she was sure of it. She wasn't sure if it was her professional instinct or what, but there was something out in the open that was being overlooked. What was it?
Emily took a sweeping glance around the living room. Though there was plenty to see, her attention was brought towards the heavy brown chair sitting right in the middle of the room. Even though it was clear Barrymore cared nothing about order, the way that piece of furniture was placed just...didn't look right.
On a hunch, she walked over towards it and, with a little effort, pushed it back.
On the floor in front of her was a metal trapdoor.
Emily reached down, grasped the handle and pulled it up. Beneath the ground she could see a wooden ladder going down about twelve feet into a tiny dark area. A few feet away, she saw a solid door with a bolt securing it. A glitter of light caught her eye on the wet ground nearby – a broken off door handle.
A look of determination crossed her face. Drawing her weapon from her holster, she flicked on the attached light, crouched down and started down the steps.
Angie screamed. She struggled. She cried.
Every pent-up emotion inside her came flooding out in a massive wave. She wasn't thinking rationally anymore. Everything going through her was pure instinct to survive.
Her captor dragged her back to the first hallway. Angie expected him to drag her back into the room she'd been imprisoned but instead held her in an unbreakable chokehold while he fished out the keys in his pocket and approached the door at the end. Angie heard the clanging of bolts as the door was unlocked and opened up. It was only when he pushed her though that she saw that on the other side was an empty small room.
"No! No, PLEASE!" She began struggling harder, desperately trying to break free, but the man was much bigger and stronger than her. He threw her onto the floor.
"You're gonna regret your lyin' ways, bitch." His eyes were murderous as he stared down at her. His hands went to grab her.
Angie made a mad dash for the still open door, crawling on hands and knees. He caught her easily, dragged her back and then pinned her face down into the filthy floor. Angie continued to fight, and then stopped when she felt the cold touch of sharp steel against her face. Leaning close, he put his mouth right against her ear. "Go ahead and struggle, darlin'; I love it when they fight."
Squeezing her eyes shut, Angie felt the tears run down her face...
"FBI! Drop the knife and let her go!"
Paul Barrymore's head jerked up as another person burst into the doorway. He saw a woman with dark hair tied in a ponytail wearing a bulletproof vest with the aforementioned acronym blazoned on the front of it. In her hands she held a gun that was pointed unwaveringly directly at him.
"I've got three places I can hit you from here, Paul: in the head, in the arm, or in the dick. In the head, you'll have the least pain but you'll die knowing it was a woman who beat you. In the arm, you'll be in a hell of a lot of pain but you'll live and will know it was a woman who beat you. In the dick is where you probably deserve it and my preferred spot; you'll be in a hell of a lot of pain, you'll never be able to piss standing up again and you'll live knowing it was a woman who beat you. It's time you learned to take women seriously. So what's it gonna be, Paul – head, arm, dick or surrender? You've got three seconds."
Paul stared at the no-bullshit face on the armed federal agent holding him at gunpoint from a distance of only a few feet away and he dropped his knife.
TBC…
