Chapter 37

T + 8 weeks, 5 days

T2 – 7 weeks, 2 days

BAU headquarters

Quantico, VA

Emily

That was where Garcia found them a few minutes later. "Hey," she said. "What's wrong?"

"Later," Emily said as Spencer rubbed his face, clearly not crying but not by much. "What's up?"

"I activated your new phone and it started ringing off the hook." She handed it over, and proceeded to go to Spencer's side.

Even as Garcia was pulling Spencer into her hug, Emily found herself frowning at the five dozen or so voicemails left for her, all from the same, familiar number, "Yeah, Clive?"

T + 8 weeks, 5 days

T2 – 7 weeks, 2 days

Somewhere Else

Sara

Sara woke up slowly, found herself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. One thing you could tell right off from Father's apartment, it was square; square spaces inside a square frame of a square building. But this roof rose, to a high, cathedral peak. Not a grand one, it had that usual curdled cheese texture much beloved of landlords everywhere, but peaked.

This was not her bedroom.

She sat up slowly, her head feeling stuffed with cotton and mould, the world slowly spinning around her. She felt desperately thirsty and that space past hungry where you don't even really feel it anymore and incredibly sore, like she had been...she quickly lifted her skirt and pulled down leggings and underpants. No, she had not been raped. There would be blood if she had. But whatever had happened had tugged on every single stitch, and enough that she felt sore and bruised everywhere she could. And her bags and bandages needed changing, badly.

She sat up gently, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and looked around. There was a bed, no headboard, and that was all, what looked like a large closet, two doors, one open, one closed, and a large window with the blinds closed. She managed to get to her feet, and then gingerly staggered over to the open door first. It was a bathroom, large and roomy, with lots of counter space. Someone had left some generic toiletries there, bar soap, cheap shampoo all large sizes, a toothbrush and a stack of those small, disposable cups. Wherever they were the water tasted faintly of pine boards. There were also bags from a Costco, of all places, which held exactly the medical supplies she needed, and all the medication she was taking, although the name on the bottles read "Suzy Sizemore." The cupboard turned up towels, more of the toiletries, cleaner, gloves, that sort of thing. Not one to look any gift horse in the mouth she set about changing everything, just as she had seen the nurse do so many times. It was harder to do it on yourself, but she managed neatly enough.

Once that was done she went back to the bedroom to sit on the bed and think, or even just to sit. It hurt to walk still; it pulled on her stitches when she did. Those stitches were supposed to dissolve in the next two weeks, but until they did it was going to be tricky. She sat there trying to think for a moment, to remember. She really didn't remember a thing. But as she tried she saw, leaning against the closet door and within easy reach of the bed, one thing that made her smile.

Now you would think, given that her high school had had a strict uniform code, that every girl there would take the opportunity to express their individuality wherever they could. Not so. When she had been in high school, the in thing had been British leather school satchels; everyone had carried them as book bags. When she returned to her Father's apartment she had found hers still stashed in her closet where she had left it when she went off to college with a larger, somewhat more rugged version of the same. Hers had been a very traditional chestnut brown, unlike the red or navy blue preferred by the other girls, with her initials stamped on the flap. She had been using it to stash the things she really did not want her brother or the nurse, neither of whom had any sense of boundaries, going through. When she pulled it over she found that it was exactly the way she had left it. Her journal, her e-book and cord kit, the etui she had just finished, which now held her measly stock of needlework supplies, her letter writing kit, her drawing supplies, the watercolor kit Stephen had given her in Germany, her new Court copy of Capellanus with a small print of The Accolade pasted to the front cover, as it should be. And every precious letter from Spencer.

Okay, she thought, so if I'm not where I should be, at least whoever brought me here thought to bring my bag. But really, what fresh hell is this?

Now that the pain of changing bandages had eased she got up to explore a bit more. There were clothes in the closet, cheap stuff, sweats mostly, nothing she would ever choose for herself, but all in her current sizes. Between that and the medical supplies someone had clearly planned for her to come here, someone who knew her well enough to know what she needed, but not well enough to know her tastes. The window looked out over a parking area and a strip of garages, with more, similar buildings in the distance. It was also a sunny sort of midday, even though it felt much like supper time.

That left the closed door.

She eased it open and peeked. She only had time to realize that the door opened into a barren, open kitchen before she spotted the men sitting at the folding table in the far room, the only furniture in there. And just as she spotted them, they spotted her.

Stephen got up quickly and came over to her. Good Morning, Ladybug. How are you feeling?

What's going on? Where are we? She wasn't really looking at her brother, though. She was watching the other man at the table. Shorter, middle aged, dark hair, dark, hard eyes, he'd been coming around for the better part of two weeks, always off in Father's old office with Stephen. Pat Mannan. She watched him to watch his lips carefully, lip reading was more difficult than most imagined, and her head was still not at all clear.

"You need to tell her what's going on. We must have her cooperation."

She looked up at Stephen. She couldn't see his lips clearly enough from this angle, but the way he nodded, the attitude of his body said that he was both, agreeing with Mr. Mannan, reassuring him, and lying to him all at once. Then he turned back to her, was trying to be calm and soothing, but was clearly nervous and scared and annoyed with her. Go on back to bed, Ladybug. You ought to get more rest.

Now she bloody well hated it when people hid things from her, and she hated it when people acted like she was stupid because she was deaf, and they tried to make decisions for her. And Stephen knew all that, he had witnessed enough battles between her and Father over the years over that very sort of thing. But she still felt sick in the head, and sore in places she didn't even want to think about, and what was she supposed to do, storm out? She could barely creep across the room without pulling a stitch. Stephen, what is going on?

Don't worry, we're safe. Just go lie down. He was clearly trying to keep both her and Mr. Mannan happy, and clearly not succeeding at either.

Or at least not with her, bothersome brother, Is there anything to eat? I'm starved. Maybe that would delay him long enough for her to stay out here and pick up on at least some of the conversation.

Or not, I'll make you a tray in a minute. Go on now. With that he practically pushed her back into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

She went back to the bed and gingerly flopped. The last thing she remembered was her brother bringing her one of those nasty vitamin protein milkshake things. Before Pieter took her she had tried to avoid chemicals in food, preferred organic and cooking for herself when she could, because eating too much processed crap made her feel sluggish and out of sorts. Now for, what was it, going on a year and a half she had eaten nothing but, chalk that up to one reason for feeling awful. But now that she thought about it, back when she was first rescued they had been giving her something for the pain and something for the anxiety and the combination had made her sleep for hours and hours and left her with this same, fuzzy, cotton and mould feeling in her head. Once she realized what was causing it she had stopped the stuff for anxiety and took the pain pills sparingly, preferring to have her mental faculties intact. But the chemical sweet taste of the vitamin drink would have covered up the taste of crushed pills, wouldn't it? My own brother drugged me, she thought, and brought me here, probably at Mr. Mannan's request.

What the hell?

Not that there was anything she could do about it, not in her present state. Not and risk missing her next surgery. That was a frightful thought. Thankfully any competent surgeon could do that one, that didn't require a specialist like the last one had.

Bother.

She looked about the bed, wondering what was missing. Something was... Damn it, the bastard. He forgot to grab Percival. Her unicorn was gone.

Hell.

Well, there was one person she could still turn to. One person in all the world she still could trust.

She got up and carefully crept out to the door again. Now her brother and Mr. Mannan were right there, in the kitchen, the strange man leaning against the counter looking right at her. Really, Pieter he was not. She met those eyes head on. If only I was healthy, she thought, cooperation my ass.

Then Stephen stepped around the refrigerator, with a spoon in his hand. What's up Ladybug? I'm heating up some soup.

Tinned soup, lovely. Where is the phone? No, she thought, I am not asking permission. I have every right.

Stephen hesitated a moment. We don't have one yet.

Her brother was a horrible liar. There is a mailbox here, yes? We are getting mail?

Yeah, Mr. Mannan here is going to be bringing our mail from New York for us. And I'll go put your letters in the box for you.

I can get to the front door Stephen.

It's not at the front door, bug, the mailbox is down at the far end of the block.

She nodded and closed the door, leaned on it a moment. Trapped. Perhaps not as much a prisoner as she had been, a prisoner with comforts now, but a prisoner nonetheless.

She would not cry. She was far too angry to cry.

Once back at the bed she pulled out her writing kit and checked. Yes, she had sealing wax. Hopefully it would be enough; she had no idea how to code anything.


Dear Spencer,

Something very strange is going on. I need your help...