a/n: Probably only 2 more chapter left, but maybe 3. I'm not quiiiiite finished writing yet.

Would love to hear from y'all!

some days i'm bursting at the seams
with all my half remembered dreams
and then it shoots me down again
David Gray, "Ain't No Love"

Hotch pulled Sheriff Willett into his office after he and Jack were through with it and a few minutes later they emerged grim-faced. "He's a good man, Agent Hotchner. I don't know what to say other than that."

"We don't think he's our UNSUB. We just think he knows who is."

"His own brother. Down here, family's everything, and that family's been through a lot. Drunk-ass Daddy ran off. Oldest died in Afghanistan. Mama died last year. Mateo's all Gabriel's got left, and vice versa." He gave a nonplussed shake of his head. "If he is coverin' for him, well…it ain't right, but I almost understand it."

Hotch said nothing, but now, in the SUV on the way to the Mendozas', the words echoed in his head. To him family ties were more like suggestions. Except for Jack, of course. What would he do if, twenty years from now, he discovered Jack had murdered eight women? Would he turn against every law-abiding instinct he had and try to protect him?

"He might have thought he would stop," Jackson said, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear her. She rode in the front seat for once, with Emily and Reid in the back. "I don't think he would let him keep killing. Monica's disappearance was what was tearing him up so much. If he thought he would stop, maybe…he thought covering for him was an acceptable moral sacrifice."

He gave her a sharp glance, and she shook her head. "Not reading you, sir. Just…thinking about what Sheriff Willett said." Her eyes closed, briefly, then opened again. "I don't know that I have any family I'd do that for, but…there have been people in my life I would have."

"Daniel Talbot?"

She made a low noise of disgust. "No. He was my partner and I thought my friend, but no. If he thought any differently, he would have told me what he was doing."

"I just hope we find Monica," Prentiss said. "Maybe Mendoza didn't come in today because he confronted his brother and something happened between them."

A frown formed between Jackson's brows, and she caught Reid's glance in the mirror. He knew something was up. He had his suspicions about why he'd covered for her last night, and about her conversation with Hotch earlier, but he knew (hoped?) she would tell him in time. When she was ready. For now he'd wait, and they'd work the case, and she would know he was there if she needed him.

The Mendoza brothers lived in the lower half of St. Martin Parish, the part cut off from the body by Iberia Parish slicing through like Moses parting the Red Sea. They passed out of Sheriff Willett's jurisdiction and back into it again, and eventually they pulled up in front of a small shotgun-style house within spitting distance of the bayou.

"No wonder he knew that water so well," Reid said as they got out. "It's literally his back yard."

The entire team was there (minus JJ), along with Sheriff Willett and two of his deputies. None of the latter looked happy, but that wasn't surprising. Willett had worked hard to clean up his department, and now one of his hand-picked deputies had possibly aided and abetted a serial murderer.

"Let me knock first," Willett said. "He'll answer for me."

"Gabriel might not be calling the shots in there, Sheriff," Hotch said. "If he and Mateo had a confrontation, and Mateo won…." He trailed off with an ominous frown. "We need to follow protocol. Weapons drawn, a team at the backdoor and a team at the front."

"Shotgun style house," Reid remarked. "They were called that for a reason. Straight shot from the front door to the back."

"Through every room, right?" Prentiss said. "There's no hallway to speak of?"

"Depends on the era, but possibly not," he said.

Hotch adjusted his vest and pulled his weapon. "Sheriff, you lead from the front. Take one of your deputies, Morgan, EJ, and Rossi. Your other deputy, Prentiss, and Reid are with me around back. We're looking to make arrests here, not to kill. Hold your fire unless fired upon, understood?"

"I got no desire to kill my man or his brother, Agent Hotchner," Willett said. "I hear you loud and clear. Boudreaux, you're with me. Verret, with Agent Hotchner."

"Good. Stay low, stay quiet. Don't move on the front until we're in position. Let's go."

They split up and scattered. Sheriff Willett paused his group at the front door and waited for Hotch's signal through the radio before he gave the door a sharp rap. "Mendoza, it's Willett! Where the hell are you? We got a woman to find and you're slackin' off work?!"

Silence.

"No movement back here," Hotch muttered into the radio. "Let's take it on my count. One, two—three! FBI, we are armed!"

"St. Martin Sheriff, nobody move!" Willett said, bursting through the front door at the same moment Hotch's team came through the rear. They could see each other at opposite ends of the house, and the two teams scattered to search the rooms.

Empty. Neither Gabriel nor Mateo Mendoza were there, and there was no sign of Monica Dupré. The place was small but homey, a little shabby, but in that lived-in kind of way. It was neat, one bedroom more so than the rest of the house.

"This must be Mateo's room," Reid said as he tucked his weapon away.

"How do you know it's not Gabriel's?" Boudreaux said from the doorway. "Or the dead brother's?"

Reid waved a hand around the room. "There are pictures of every family member except Mateo—unless it's a group shot, but even then there's just this one of the entire family. In general, most people don't have pictures of themselves in their bedrooms."

"Huh," he said. "Hadn't thought-a that, but I guess you're right."

He wandered over and opened the closet door. "No uniforms."

Boudreaux' mouth curled in a half-smile. "Smart. Guess y'all FBI boys know somethin' about somethin' after all."

Reid gave an embarrassed grin and tried not to blush. "Yeah, maybe so. Sometimes."

Hotch poked his head in the room. "Find anything?"

"No," Reid said. "It's clean, like we profiled. Anything in the deputy's room?"

"No," Hotch said. "Mateo Mendoza might not be our UNSUB. There's no evidence here. And certainly no Monica Dupré."

Reid's face scrunched in thought as he pulled on a pair of gloves and started going through Mateo's drawers. Everything was perfectly folded and perfectly stacked. "He fits the profile. It's possible Deputy Mendoza found where his brother had stashed the bodies and moved them to that spot in the swamp."

Boudreaux had moved to peer over Reid's shoulder as he inspected the drawers, but now he tilted his head back toward Hotch. "Just bad luck the giggers found 'em, then?"

Hotch lifted a brow. "Possibly. But maybe not. If Deputy Mendoza is as familiar with these bayous as he says, then surely he would know routes popular with hunters and tours. It's possible he intended the bodies to be found sooner rather than later."

"He wanted his brother to get caught?"

"Not necessarily," Reid said. "But…maybe, at least subconsciously." He frowned and shut the drawer he'd been examining. "All of this is just speculation, of course."

There was a commotion from one of the other rooms, and Morgan's voice rose above it as he ran toward them. "Hotch? I think we found somethin'. There's an empty lot next door with what we thought was an abandoned house, but Garcia did some digging and the lot's actually owned by the Mendozas—and they're paying for electricity over there."

"Shit," Boudreaux said.

Hotch glowered. "My thoughts exactly, Deputy. Morgan, grab Sheriff Willett and EJ. Reid, stay here and keep digging. Radio if you find anything, and we'll get a CSU team out here." With that he rushed off, barking orders into the radio on his shoulder as he went.

Boudreaux let out a low whistle. "He sure is a lot, ain't he?"

Reid shrugged. "He can be. But so is the job." He took a step and paused. The floorboard beneath his foot had shifted. He stepped back again. "Deputy, do you have a pocket knife?"

He unfolded it and handed it over. "Find somethin'?"

"Maybe." He wedged the blade under the edge of the floorboard and popped it out of place. In the hollow space under the floor was a metal lockbox, the kind sealed with a combination lock.

"Pop it, or see if we can figure out the combo?" Boudreaux said as he dropped into a crouch across from Reid.

Reid made a thoughtful noise. Then, "Would you go find Agents Prentiss and Rossi for me, Deputy?"

"Yeah, sure thing." He pushed to his feet. "Don't guess I gotta tell you to wait before you open that box."

He smiled, briefly. "No, of course not. Thank you, though. I appreciate your thoroughness."

"Anytime, Dr. Reid," he said with a wink.

Reid's eyes widened, but before he could react Boudreaux was gone. He made a mental note to talk to Jack about this later, because maybe…the deputy had been flirting with him? Wasn't that what winking meant? He wasn't sure, and he hated trying to decipher people's faces and vocal inflections. Give him a written code any day.

"Hey, kid, what's up?" Rossi said as he and Prentiss strolled in. "Boudreaux said you might've—oh shit. Where was that?"

"Down there, under the floor. Should I pop it open or see if I can figure out the combination?"

"Try Felipe Mendoza's birthday," Prentiss said. "It was in the stuff Garcia sent."

"I remember," Reid said. It was a good suggestion. He would've thought of it, too. Eventually. He dialed in the numbers and gave the lid a little tug. It opened.

"Ding ding ding! Tell the lady what she's won," Rossi said.

"The jackpot." He reached in and pulled out a gold necklace. The charm was a name spelled out in cursive: Sierra.

"Sierra Landry's necklace," Prentiss said. "She's wearing it in her picture on the missing poster."

"Eight pieces of jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets, rings. JJ and I took an inventory from the parents. We can cross-reference." He let out a sigh and dropped the necklace back into the lockbox. "Time to call in CSU," he said. "It looks like we have our UNSUB."

The house in the lot next door contained three chest freezers, one with some wrapped meat ("Probably from huntin'," Willett said), and the other two empty. It seemed improbable that only three freezers could store eight bodies, but maybe there'd been more at one point.

"Maybe that's why Gabriel came snoopin'," Willett said. "High electric bill got him suspicious. He walks in to find six or seven goddamn freezers full-a bodies."

"It's a thought," Hotch said. "CSU can examine them for any signs of human tissue. Let's check out the rest."

The small house was shotgun style, like the one next door, but clearly no one lived here. It was empty except for the freezers, and it didn't seem to have any running water.

"Hotch, look at this," Morgan said. He pulled a light cord that hung from the ceiling in the room furthest back. The windows were blacked out with paint, and the walls were all painted black too. There was weather stripping around the door so that no light could seep through.

Hotch and Morgan stood in the center of the room with matching grim expressions. Jackson was closer to the front of the house, and at the sound of Morgan's voice she headed back that way.

"Morgan, what did you—ahh!" She crossed the threshold into the room and immediately jerked back again with a little cry of horror. Hotch surged forward and caught her before she could fall, but she shook off his hold a second later.

"Don't!" she said. "Don't touch me!"

He held up his hands, palms out. "It's okay, EJ. Not touching. Try to breathe. Tell me what you saw."

Sheriff Willett wandered in from the front room, face twisted in confusion. Hotch ignored him and concentrated on Jackson, but Morgan herded him away.

"Let's go check the lot," he said. Might be somethin' out there worth seein'."

Jackson stood frozen, hand pressed against her forehead, face alarmingly pale.

"Is that where he was holding them?" Hotch said, his voice low and soothing.

She nodded once, a rough jerk. "Killed them, too," she breathed.

"Who? Could you tell?"

"Didn't get an actual look. Just—the emotion." She took a deep breath. Squared her shoulders and hardened her jaw. "I can go in."

Hotch's brows drew together and his mouth thinned. "EJ, no. That's not necessary. After Montana—"

"It's fine, Hotch. I need to know." Her eyes flicked up to his. "It's okay. I promise."

The muscle in his jaw danced as he searched her face with his searing eyes. At last he nodded, reluctantly, and stepped aside. He knew if he went in with her he'd just get in her way, so instead he hovered in the doorway ready to help if she needed him.

She drew in another long breath and walked across the threshold. Immediately she shuddered, and her eyes squeezed shut. "Monica was here, recently," she said. "He—took her. I think." Her face scrunched. The line between her brows deepened. "They were all here. In the dark. He kept it dark. They never knew what time it was, what day. There was just…dark. Everywhere. Always."

She clenched her hands into fists and sweat popped out on her forehead. "He strangled them here. Suffocated. Didn't shoot. Didn't drown. Didn't stab. Nothing with blood. Some of them died here, not all, but he kept them all like dolls in the dark. He—sat here—with them. He—talked to them. He—held—he held them down—Hotch!" She reached for him with both hands, her eyes wide and wild. "Hotch!"

He grabbed her round the wrists, where the flannel of her shirt kept him from touching her skin, and hauled her out. She came slowly, like something held her there. He had to pull harder than he would've thought possible, so that she let out a soft exclamation of pain. But then she was over the threshold and falling against him. He caught her to his chest with his arms around her, his hands carefully twisted away from touching her back, even through her clothing.

She clung to him a moment, her fingers curled in his shirt, and she trembled all over. He wanted to stroke her hair, soothe a hand down her spine, but instead he stood rigid.

"Please," she breathed.

"What? What do you need, EJ?"

"Touch me. Just—somewhere. Please."

His heart hammered once, hard. He hesitated, but then he let his palm fall to the top of her head. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and he trailed his fingers around the curve of her skull until his hand rested against the back of her neck. He held her there, unmoving, and gradually felt the tension drain out of her.

He kept his mind on the sweetest, most joyful thing he could think of: his son. Jack's smile. The sound of his laugh. His face smeared with carrots. The way he came running when Hotch walked in the door at night.

Finally she straightened and swallowed. He let his arms fall to his sides again. She scrubbed the heel of her hand over her eyes. He could sense her embarrassment. She wouldn't look at him, and her cheeks were flushed, the rest of her face pale.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His lips moved in the brief suggestion of a frown. "You don't have anything to apologize for. I shouldn't have let you go back in."

She glanced over her shoulder at the hellish little room. "It wanted me," she said. "The dark. It wanted to keep me, like it kept the other women."

He grimaced. "Elliot—"

"I know how that sounds," she said. "But you felt it too."

He fell silent. He'd felt something, but he had no idea what. It should have been easy to yank her slight form a few feet across the rough wooden planks of the floor, but instead it had felt like trying to haul someone twice, three times her size. Like pulling an insect from sap just before it petrified into amber.

"I don't know," he finally said.

Their eyes met, and her look was almost scornful. "Don't be disingenuous, Aaron. It doesn't become you."

He opened his mouth to reply, but she forestalled him with a quick shake of her head. "It doesn't matter. I know where they've gone, and I understand now why Gabriel moved them there."

She looked back at the room again, her normally clear eyes clouded with ghosts. "It was for the sunlight," she said. "He wanted to get them out of the dark for good."

"Well you can't go alone," Sheriff Willett said. "You don't know these bayous. You'll get lost. It's like I told you that first day—"

Hotch held up a hand. "Don't worry, Sheriff, she's not going alone. Are you, Dr. Jackson?"

She glared at him, but eventually common sense won out over her stubbornness and she sighed. "No, of course I'm not. You're right, Sheriff. I need a guide."

"And backup," Morgan said. "You get that, don't you, pint size?"

"Yes, Derek, I do. But we don't have time to stand around and argue about it. Mateo has Monica, and they've gone to the swamp, and Gabriel's gone after them. We've got to move before Mateo kills her. But if I show up with a team of Feds…" She trailed off with a brief shrug.

Hotch studied her through shrewd, assessing eyes. Finally he gave a crisp nod. "Sheriff, would you mind accompanying her? You can be both guide and backup, and Mateo might listen to you as someone in a position of authority over his brother. Who else of your men knows the swamp well?"

"Boudreaux probably the best," he said, "but Verret's no slouch either."

"Good, then with your permission, Deputy Boudreaux and I will be in a second boat, a bit behind you. Morgan, I want you and the team waiting for us at the dock with Verret ready to get to us if we need more backup."

His mouth twisted and he cast Jackson another long, probing look. "A remote swamp isn't the arena I'd choose for this, but I trust EJ's instincts. Does anyone have anything else to add?"

Silence all around.

"Good. Then let's go find Monica Dupré."

They scattered, but Reid pulled Jackson aside before she could get very far. "Are you okay?" he said. "Morgan said something happened at the other house."

Her eyes were still shadowed, her face tight, but she managed a thin smile. "I'm okay. I just—Mateo Mendoza isn't a sadist, and he doesn't hate women, but…even someone armed with a great deal of indifference can do a lot of damage."

He lowered his voice further. "Are you sure this is a good idea? It's their turf out there. You're the interloper."

"I know," she said. She looked up at him, determination straightening her spine. "We can't abandon her. And what about Gabriel? Maybe he followed them out there; maybe he's Mateo's hostage. Either way, we have to do everything we can."

Reid shifted his weight from one foot to the other and twisted his hands together. She wasn't going to like what he had to say next, but it seemed like no one else had brought it up. It might as well be him. "What if Deputy Mendoza's not his hostage, but his accomplice? What if we're being lured out there into a trap?"

She flinched, but it was clear the idea had occurred to her. "I didn't sense Gabriel in that room." She crossed her arms and ducked her head. Squeezed them tight around her like a personal hug. "I would know, Spencer," she said, barely above a murmur. "He wasn't there. He's not the one who hurt those women."

His deep-set hazel eyes were worried as they scanned her up and down. Finally he nodded. "Okay. Like Hotch said, I trust your instincts. Just—please be careful." He frowned up at the sky. "I think it might storm."

"That's your worry?" she said, mouth quirking. "Some rain?"

He shrugged. "It's an easier thing to worry about than—anything else."

That she could understand. She grabbed his hand in her own and laced her fingers through his. "I'll be okay. Sheriff Willett will have my back, and Hotch and Deputy Boudreaux will be right behind us. And everyone else will be on the shore if anything does go wrong."

He nodded and gently extricated his hand from hers. He knew the touch was more for his benefit, and that she didn't need to see all the worry and disastrous scenarios dancing through his head. "I'll see you when you get back, okay?"

"Yep." She leaned in to whisper: "And you can tell me what it is I just saw about Deputy Boudreaux."

He turned bright red, but before he could say anything, she just laughed, nudged him, and walked away. "You're mean, Jack," he called after her, "but I still don't want you to get eaten by a gator!"

"Don't worry, Dr. Jackson. I'm not lettin' you get eaten by anything," Willett said as she joined his briefing.

"Thank you. I have every confidence in you."

"Quicker this way," Willett said when Hotch asked him about their route, and the deviation from how they'd gone in the past. "Comin' at it from the south instead of the north. Maybe he won't be lookin' for us from that direction." He showed them on the map, but it wasn't detailed enough to depict all the waterways they'd be navigating to get there. "It's still quicker overall headin' north to get out, so the original launch spot should be our rendezvous point. Just from down here, we can make it to the dumpsite faster by water than drivin' all the way up there first."

Hotch nodded. "I see. It's your bayou; we're just the visitors."

He grinned, a flash of white teeth against dusky skin. "Another thing: jeans ain't gonna work. Too heavy when they get wet. Waders won't let you move fast enough." He frowned down at the map. "Goddamn. Hey, Verret, that outdoor store you like so much, where the hell is it?"

She peered over his shoulder at the map and pointed. "There, give or take. I can send you the address." She cut Jackson a quick look. "They'll have what you need."

"Water's gonna be pretty cold," Willett said. "The key'll be layers. Long johns under nylon pants. Gaiters. Y'all already got waterproof boots, so that's good. Your FBI jackets should be fine, too. Gonna need a good pair of synthetic gloves if you don't have any. You don't wanna get bogged down by water, and you sure as hell don't want hypothermia. Think silk, nylon, neoprene—not cotton."

He glowered up at the sky much as Reid had just done. "Also looks like rain. That'll drop the temperature and complicate things. I'll pass out clip-on beacons when we get to the landin' spot. Do not separate yourself from your beacon, no matter what happens. They're a light and they got a GPS tracker embedded in 'em."

"Aren't we trying for a degree of stealth here? Doesn't wearing flashing lights on our clothes defeat that?" Hotch said.

"They're water activated, like on airplane life jackets. You go in the drink, your beacon turns on. But stealth ain't too high a priority here: they'll be able to hear the boats comin' for miles."

"Good point," Hotch said. "Reid, how long till sunset?"

He glanced at his watch. "Two hours, eighteen minutes, roughly thirty-two seconds."

"Meanin' it'll be dark by the time we get out there." Willett sucked his teeth. "I don't like any goddamn thing about this, but there's a woman's life at stake, and maybe one-a my deputies', too. Let's get this show on the road; maybe we'll at least be out on the water before it gets full dark."

CSU had arrived by then, and Hotch left Rossi and Reid in charge while the rest of them loaded up squad cars and SUVs and headed out on a shopping trip before hitting the swamp to confront Mateo, and possibly Gabriel, Mendoza.

screw your courage to the sticking place, it's time for the swamp