Warning for detailed bodily functions and mentions of non-consensual, clinical touching.
.
.
.
DATE UNKNOWN | LOCATION UNKNOWN
When a tap to Spencer's shoulder alerted him that anyone was near, he rolled around and shot up from the bed. Without any prompting, he started signing. "I need to use the bathroom. Immediately."
A hand tapped at his leg a few times in acknowledgement. His arms were jostled, and the weight of the chains fell away while the restraints remained. There was then a downward shift, and the cuff around his ankle was shimmied, wiggled. In the next moment, a hand to his shoulder urged him to stand.
Though the chain around his ankle hadn't been removed, the padlock shortening it must have been. It didn't tauten. Instead, a hand at his shoulder guided him past the foot of the bed and further into the unexplored east area of the room.
It was just as when Diane had guided him to a seat in front of Maeve blindfolded. He wouldn't dwell on this.
His right hand lingered at the foot of the bed for proper balance before it fell out of reach.
He counted, taking unsure but measured steps.
About sixteen feet from the footpost, the cuff at his ankle resisted and the woman's hands guided his own down as he was made to bend forward. His knuckles glided against the cool seat of a toilet that faced the north wall. Wrinkling his nose at having touched it, he overrode his disgust by reasoning on the certainty that it was clean.
Without thinking, drawing ever nearer an explosive need to use the bathroom, his hands went for the waist of his pants and his thumbs tucked between his skin and his boxers to slide them down. He realized a moment before he started pulling them down what he was doing, and his cheeks heated.
His captor was still near. She was right next to him. He just knew it.
This was humiliating. But between defecating—messily—in his pants or on an actual toilet, he chose the latter. He pulled his pants and boxers down and covered himself in one swift motion as he sat down, stumbling due to his improper aim. As he righted himself, a hand at his shoulder steadied.
Oh, god. This was mortifying.
His whole body seemed afire with his humiliation, and he wrapped his arms around his abdomen, legs clenched together, holding everything in. He was so very exposed in front of this stranger. He couldn't do this right in front of another person. Not this. He groaned and keened, unable to keep from speaking out. "Please. Please, don't watch me," he whispered through his clenched teeth. "I can't do this. I can't. You can't watch me."
The threatening bubbling from within warned him that he was mere seconds away from exploding. He was cramping.
When a hand rubbed at his back, he mewled and doubled over, his own hands now moving to cover his face in degradation. This was even worse. He would rather be anywhere else right now than be seated on a toilet with his pants and boxers wrangled at his ankles in front of a person who was complicit in his captivity. He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't!
It was clear that she bent down, for her hand moved to his sacrum, the heel of her palm rubbing in a digging circle; her other hand wove under his arms and rubbed under his navel, using the same pressure. Yes, she knew how to do this to get his bowels moving.
He clenched his teeth—
"Oh god, god —oh f-fu—"
—and, unable to hold it in anymore, pushed her hands away and wrapped one arm around his abdomen, fingers grasping at the fabric of his sweatshirt while the other remained on his face. He started urinating and wasn't even done before his bowel movement blasted out with an intense burning sensation, first gushing like a fire hydrant, then petering out to a pasty texture.
What had he been given? It was messy, there was so much splash-back, and incoherent thoughts rushed around his mind as he tried to come to terms with what just happened in front and at the hands of his captor. He gagged as the pungency assaulted him and as he continued to defecate days' worth of excrement.
The hand had returned to his back, patting and rubbing, squeezing his shoulder.
It took another few minutes to empty his bowels as he pushed and held his breath, pushed and groaned, and bore down on his pelvic floor to facilitate the passing of his stool, and by the time he was done, his right leg was jittering up and down, he was shaking, and his darkened vision kept flashing white and blue and black. He moaned, weak, tired, and in pain, head throbbing.
Lightheaded, he hadn't registered the meaning of a hand tapping the top of his hands until there was a pinch. He was unwilling to put up his hands, but he did so anyway.
"Are you done?"
He groaned and nodded.
One hand ruffled his hair and the other hand pulled away from him before pushing at his back so his chest could rest against his knees. He jolted when one of her hands touched his posterior to spread him in the moment before a spray of tepid water fell upon and between his cheeks, cleaning away any remaining fecal matter. His cheeks—on his face—were burning from his mortification and his chest tightened.
The spray ended, then the hand tapped at the inside of his left knee, urging him to splay them.
His hands moved in a flurry. "No, thank you. I can do this. I can do this, please." He needed to maintain some modicum of his dignity. He downright couldn't allow this to continue. Who in their right mind could? "Please, allow me to do this. Please."
There was a palpable pause.
The hand tapped his exposed knee, and the cold metal of a hose nozzle was tucked at his curled fingers. He let out a tremulous breath in relief.
He was sure to thank her before proceeding to do as she'd intended and washed his groin with the goal not to miss the mark and spray the floor, lest that error result in this confoundingly unearned privilege being revoked. When he was done, before he could even indicate that he was finished, the nozzle was taken from him, and in his hand was placed a hand towel to dry himself off. She wasn't affording him any privacy. He swallowed around a dry tongue at that knowledge.
Despite this, he stood and stepped away from the toilet, rushing to dry himself and working to pull up his underwear and pants.
Having this morsel of control in this situation alleviated some of his anxiety. He would be sure not to do anything that would make her regret giving him an inch. He would take each one until he had a foot, and then two—until he'd worked her enough to get out of this whole situation.
That scent of citrus and lavender combined with the cleaner wafted around him as he'd stepped away from the toilet and worked to dry himself. Ritualistic and obsessive. He was sure it took self-control on her part to allow him to clean and towel himself off.
Idle hands make fretful minds. As a caretaker who relinquished her role for a few moments to give her charge some independence, she then had to find some thing else to do instead. Cleaning the toilet bowl seemed like that something. Cleanliness and caretaking—these made her feel needed, important.
In truth, though, he was glad to have the smell go away to be replaced with the mildly scented—
There went another click in his mind—another piece to add to the puzzle. He sucked in a breath at the realization.
It was she who had cleaned the bathroom in the rest stop at Noah's abduction site. He was sure of it. And why not? The man had made quick work of abducting Noah and then maybe the two—or just this woman—had done all the cleaning. She would be easy to push and heft through a window, he supposed.
Lost in thought he was that it was the insistent tapping at his arm that pulled him from them. He hadn't noticed the dampened towel being taken from him. But he was turned and his cuffed wrist tugged down to bend forward. Water and a bar of soap, the scent of more lavender and herbs before another towel—a dry one—was put in his hands. This was all mild—until moisturizer was dolloped on his hand and her fingers began rubbing and massaging it in with unnecessary, lingering attention. He pulled his hands toward himself to preclude her from continuing her obsessive ministrations.
With a hand braced on his shoulder, he was rotated, guided back to the bed, where he was urged to sit. He swallowed at the weight of his cuffed wrists being manipulated and then weighed down again with chains.
The hand patted his shoulder and then ruffled his hair, and he tilted his head away at the gesture. He knew it for what it was: a sign she was pleased by his good behavior .
It wasn't good behavior, but rather survival and planning. And he sought to unfeel her touch.
She did pull away from him, though, and little time passed before the NG tube shuffled, and then his stomach began to fill. It was so bizarre a sensation, the distant passing of the liquid or shake through the tubing.
She tapped his hands and he raised them in reluctance. "You won't have to worry anymore about milk bothering your stomach," she asserted.
A chill swept through him, and his hackles rose. But as she continued, he found his hands trembling over hers while she spoke and fingerspelled.
"And you'll continue to take your riboflavin and magnesium supplements."
It was an overt, daring admission that they had watched him for many days—watched him pop a lactase pill every so often—and that they had his satchel, wherein he kept those things, or had, at the very least, had gone through it and took whatever they seemed of importance to fulfill their own fantasy before disposing of it.
It would make sense that they were meticulous and thorough in watching him before being abducted: they could determine what he did and didn't eat, if he had aversions to any foods, and thus try not to introduce any potential allergens.
He was suddenly unwell.
—
Spencer later awakened after a dreamless and heavy sleep—where he hadn't even remembered falling asleep—covered in a sheen of sweat, nauseous, and with a swelling headache. When he shifted in discomfort, though, that discomfort was eclipsed by something far more alarming.
There was something slick between his buttocks.
He let out an aborted groan of displeasure. Numbed, he did the only thing he knew to do and tucked his hand into his pants, into the cleft of his posterior, pressing a finger against his anus before pulling his hand back out. He rubbed his fingers together, tested the texture of whatever was put there, and gave a clinical sniff to test if he could detect blood. He tilted his head at the curious scent of aloe.
Aloe, petroleum jelly—these were natural means to alleviate the burn of a bowel movement. It did. But he was appalled that a hand had been there at all and had no doubt that this was the woman's doing. It was also telling of how little his bodily functions and the healing processes that went along with it bothered her. She wasn't too shy to handle him like he was, in fact, a bed-ridden patient.
Perhaps she was a nurse, or she must have been exposed to many procedures during someone's sickness and became their primary caretaker. If he was a surrogate and the actual patient had died or was removed from her care, she might be caught in an endless loop of guilt. If she'd injured the person she cared for, this could be recompense. Still too many maybes, not enough absolutes.
Beyond reasoning on what her background might be was the other light of understanding: this was how she showed control over him. He would have to rely on her for his basic needs. No matter how uncomfortable it would make him, or how degrading and undignified it was to him, she would override any of his misgivings and take authority over him. And from her actions earlier, that simple act of ruffling his hair, she was also to provide him physical and emotional comfort.
Again, such manipulation was dangerous and had a much stronger psychological impact than any physical assault.
If he misbehaved, both—or she, if solely she handled his nutrition and this type of care—could withhold food or conversely overfeed him until his stomach ruptured; they could poison him; they could let him urinate and defecate right on his bed or as far from it as his chains would allow. She could refuse to tend to him if he were beaten or raped. All these things could be used to humiliate him, dehumanize him, punish him.
But behavior, it seemed, was rewarded, too. She'd allowed him to hose himself down while on the toilet, wipe himself down. He still didn't know why. And, of course, he was given clothing. It was a mental tug of war, and, again, these two played their games well. He had yet to interact with the violent counterpart again, and this could be to lull him.
The point was that his body would not be his. The only things that belonged to him were his decisions and his actions, and it seemed that the consequences of those two would be reaped upon him in a kind or cruel manner. It was much like the muzzle, where the responsibility was laid upon him whether to speak or not.
This approach proved that she was no weaker than her violent counterpart. His two captors weren't unequal in their control over him, but complementary, symbiotic. Both were dominant. Trying to turn them against each other might be a fruitless endeavor—dangerous, even—and he might need to take on a much subtler approach.
His lethargy could explain why he slept through such a violation. He must have been drugged again when she fed him. He hoped this wouldn't always be the case. He wasn't in any physical pain, but he could well be coming off a pain inhibiting drug. Again, he had half a mind to rip out the tubing, but he knew that this action wouldn't prevent them from drugging him through other means. At worst he would be punished for it. There was no point in removing it.
But the disquiet—the panic that anything could have been done to him in whatever span of time he'd been asleep or insensate—was stifling.
Was his memory of an event erased? He couldn't recall any kind of physical sensation. Could he have also been assaulted while he slept? Assault during insensibility was a categorical precursor for necrophilia. Maybe, like Dahmer, they were into partialism and the hands of previous victims were used for gratification.
"Oh god." He stared down at his open palms as if he could see them, see the microbes, the strings of foreign DNA. "Oh god." Anything—anything could have been done to him and he wouldn't know it. He couldn't—he couldn't dwell on the what-ifs. It was illogical to fixate on such an unknown entity.
While his trembling hands swiped at the bed sheet to remove whatever might have been done to them, his thoughts shifted to that of Tobias Hankel again, to his inability to escape the transgressive gravity of the drugs when he was addicted to them. It had been a blessed escape from the constant chatter in his mind—the painful ones, the dark ones.
He couldn't allow that slip. He didn't want to be drugged here. Dr Dale had taken samples to test these very things, and they were expecting to hear back from the local Bureau lab before he'd been abducted. He wondered what the results would be. Considering Noah's proclivity for extreme exercise and sports and weighing that with her detection of muscle atrophy, it would make sense that these two kept him in a near-constant drugged state for many weeks crawling into the months he'd been in captivity.
What if they induced a stupor or made him soporous for most of his captivity?
He moaned, began swiping his hands over his face in distress, and recoiled at the texture of the leather and fabric and at the potentiality of his soiled hands transferring whatever might be on them to his face. Unable to calm himself, his hands began to rub at his thighs.
Wouldn't it be better to not know of anything at all? No pain, no suffering—just a blissful nothingness. Was it wrong of him to want such a thing? Folding into a pleasant numbness, fading every worry, every pang, every waning happiness until they blurred and he couldn't tell them apart—was it wrong?
"No." His hands stopped. "No."
He and Derek had worked hard for his sobriety. These two had already begun taking that away from him.
No, he didn't want to be drugged. He wanted to be at full mental capacity so he could continue to work the case from his end. It was further impetus for him to continue cooperating with his captors. He couldn't give them any reason to want to do such a thing to him, though, he knew, it wasn't in his control.
Though still tired, he refused to fall asleep. They might drug him again while he slept. In fact, there was no guarantee that he wasn't alone or being watched. To be safe, he might need to internalize his thoughts and be careful not to speak aloud, lest he be punished for that, too.
And so he thought.
He and Alex had signed often when travelling and stopping at the different stops that Noah and his friend had made. They signed at the officer's precinct, inside and outside. They signed when the team would gather for lunch outside and when they had dinner together. In the foyer of their hotel, outside the hotel, at local coffee shops, he had signed with Alex. At the Ranger's station, too. It was becoming a comfortable thing for him to fall into that he didn't realize how often he did it.
The trouble came with the fact that Sign language—like any other language, like any other form of communication—was an exchange. He wasn't the only one who caught the eye of his captors—Alex must have, too. Every further understanding of his situation highlighted the reality that Alex might be dead. Cold unease spread from the pit of his stomach—one that he couldn't allay.
Within another hour, the woman returned, and he was led to the bathroom again. He only had a need to urinate, but she still made him sit to do it, and when done he was instructed to clean himself before washing his hands. Back to the bed he was led, and her knee pressed against his leg to induce that proximity.
With a tap-tap upon his hand, he swallowed in trepidation at what she might say this time. "Is there anything you need to be more comfortable?"
He balked. Anything I—this woman is not delusional. This was a game of manipulation. Of course, there was something that would make him comfortable: his freedom.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked with the flutter of his hands. "Are either of you deaf?"
She took his hand and pressed it against her neck. He rolled his eyes at the non-answer, at the laughter meant to make him doubt his understanding of the situation.
Wrenching his hand back to himself, he continued. "I know what you're doing. This won't work. You took someone who knows these games. This won't work with me."
He waited.
Tap-tap. "Is there anything you need to be more comfortable?"
If there were a table before him, he might upend it in a Derek-like manner. He puffed out a breath from his nose. "Okay, I'll play," he said. Thinking of the least consequential material things, he answered, fingerspelling for a lack of not knowing the signed counterparts. "A watch. A tactile watch."
"No."
He straightened his lips. "Why not?"
"No. Don't ask again."
He wasn't being very cooperative, he knew. He was being petulant, if he were honest, making bad form of this compliance lark. Something simple, then. "Deodorant," he said. "And—lip—lip—"
"Chapstick," she fingerspelled. "You can say lipstick. Lipstick. I understand. It's okay to forget. It's because you're sick."
He straightened his lips in distaste. If she was yoyoing, she was doing a bad job at it. But if she was indeed manipulating him . . . if she did these things with previous victims, they might have become entrapped and confused by her with enough time.
"Yes, thank you. Deodorant and lipstick." And then he added, "Please."
She tapped his leg and then his hand. "Sleep." She rubbed his shoulder, kept her hand there, and urged him to ease down to the mattress.
"Wait, please," he started, tensing his body, resisting the little push. There was an acknowledging tap on his shoulder. "I was with someone when you took me."
The hand on his shoulder clenched.
"I just want to know that . . . that nothing happened to her."
With a tap-tap he brought his hands up. "Took you? You're confused," she said. "It's because you're sick."
He bit back an incredulous bark of laughter at this response. This was ridiculous. "No. I'm not confused. Tell me of her. I need to know that nothing was done to her after you took me. I'm cooperating with you. This is all I'm asking of you."
"You're very confused. You weren't taken. Once you're better, you won't think this way. Trust me."
"I'm not confused. Are you?" He held up his wrist. "What do you think these are? You asked me what will make me comfortable. You're not—you're not"— he straightened his mouth in frustration at his lack of fluency and fingerspelled where he didn't know the proper word—"you're not delusional. I know this. If you were, you wouldn't ask me what would make me comfortable. You would already know if I'm whoever you want me to be."
Her hands took his, squeezed and shook them in a vice-like grip. And then she tucked her hands into his and spoke with aborted, jutting gestures. "Stop this. Now."
"Please. Have you two killed her? I—please—I just want to know that she—"
"You won't see her again."
Spencer swallowed. The implications were multifold. "Because you plan on killing me like Noah and the others," he supplied, "or because you killed her?"
"In —, nothing dies," she answered. "Do you know this word? Nature?" She'd fingerspelled it. And then she gave its proper word: "Nature."
I know it now. And you're definitely not delusional at this moment. You wouldn't teach me if I was already fluent. Or you should have at least asked if I remembered it. This was all about manipulation.
"In nature, nothing dies. You'll just come back to me. I know it. Go to sleep. Now." She gave him an insistent, strong push to the mattress.
He laid down.
He had tested her patience and while it was persistent, he knew not to push it more than he had already.
And she never answered either supposition. He was to die like Noah, like the others, and Alex just may be dead because of him.
He was unable to sleep, tormented with the thought and terrified at the prospect of them returning to drug him again and doing whatever they wanted with his body while he was unconscious.
—
He had to use the bathroom again. The need grew as the hours passed.
About ten hours passed since his last interaction with the woman. He shouldn't complain over the monotony; it was better than any violence he might face. But, again, brainwork on his own terms was preferable. This seclusion, isolation, lack of stimulation, and lack of sensory input would atrophy his brain. Not just figuratively; it would literally, neurologically—scientifically and quantifiably—cause parts of his brain to deteriorate, the parts that would affect his ability to recall, calculate, formulate, connect and link facts that would facilitate his ability to act accordingly. He couldn't abide this.
But at the clap on his shoulder, he jerked and sat up. Another tap-tap on his hands preceded a simple mention of Toilet.
Without a fuss, he went, trailing his right hand against the wall for stability and to at least feel its texture skimming the tips of his fingers. Mental cataloguing. He would start this. He would do this for his actions, catalogue their reactions, slot things into his own profiles.
After he had another mortifying bowel movement, he wasn't given the hose, even though he asked. This was punishment, perhaps, for egging her hours ago. She made him bend forward so she could spray between his buttocks, urged him to spread his legs so she could clean his genitals. He swallowed his nausea and cooperated, knees bobbing. After being toweled, after his hands were cleaned at the sink, he was led back to the bed where he was then fed.
In about half an hour, a hand tapped his foot. He'd been sitting in the corner of the bed, one leg propped up and another stretched out, and had been idly fingering the NG tube. He pulled himself forward at the taps and sat at the edge of the bed. The woman tapped his hands. He raised them and she said the singular word Bath.
"May I do it myself, please?" he responded likewise, hands shaking in trepidation.
"No."
Again, he didn't make any fuss. It had been worth a try. Compliance was necessary. But he wasn't looking forward to this.
It was then that a larger hand fell upon him, though, and he stilled.
He supposed the woman readied his bath, for she didn't involve herself in the next steps as the man uncuffed his hands and his shirts were tugged at, indicating that he should remove them. He made quick work of it, not wanting to repeat any of what had happened during his first encounter with them and dropped his sweatshirt to the floor. His wrists were then recuffed with lighter restraints that were weighted with a length of chains between them, left first, then right.
A light smack to his head startled him to flinching and freezing. The sweatshirt was shoved back in his hands, and he couldn't understand why. It was nudged at his chest, and he dumbly took a bracing step back.
His hands were manipulated along with the sweatshirt that was then wrenched from him: his hands were taken, he was made to hold the shoulders of the shirt, and then the cuff of the left sleeve was tugged. The fingers of his left hand were dragged to the cuff of the sleeve. Then his hand, along with the cuff he held, was thrusted inward toward his chest.
"Ah. Fold it," he murmured. In the next moment, upon feeling another light smack upon his crown, he cringed and bunched up the fabric over his mouth. He hadn't meant it. It just escaped.
Instead of further rebuke, the hand tap-tapped at his chest to hurry him along, and he folded his shirt into what he was positive was a messy, malformed semblance of a quadrilateral lump of fabric. He couldn't be held responsible for how it looked. He handed the shirt to the man, who took it. At a sudden but sufferable clap on his neck, he flinched. And then his hands were tapped again, and he lifted them with hesitation.
"Do the next one neatly," he was told. That answered the question of if he could speak in this manner, too. And also told him that—no—his folding wasn't up to par.
Was this man as obsessive about cleanliness and order as the woman was?
Tap tap. "Do you understand me?"
He nodded.
"No. Tell me that you understand."
Spencer paused and unhinged his jaw before clicking his teeth together. It was a small test. A little trick. He straightened his mouth. "I understand," he signed.
The hand clapped his neck again, and he squared his shoulders like a turtle in defense. But his t-shirt was pressed against his hands, and he took more care into folding it and handing it to his captor.
The man clapped his hand on his neck a third time, and Spencer understood. This was congratulatory.
It was strange what this recalled to mind. Of all things, this reminded him of his father, who did the same when he was a little boy. If he did or said something well or excelled at something, his father would give him a single solid clap on the shoulder, or on the back of his neck, or on his knee; he would ruffle his hair or give him a high or low five.
He also did it when he was disappointed or upset with him, but it was never unkind, and never painful, usually on his arm, and the hand would linger and squeeze.
He had done that very thing the time he had heard his mother and father arguing with each other. Unable to sleep, Spencer began rubbing his feet together like a cricket, putting his hands on his ears as he chirped and hummed. These were noises he made often as a little boy when he was learning to find his voice. On rare occasions, he was brave enough to beckon his mother or father to his level so he could whisper in their ear. He began to count until he reached a ten-minute mark while keeping it up—the hum-chirping—before he lifted his hands away from his ears and separated his pleasantly numb feet and heard quiet from beyond his room. His father came into the room soon after, sat on the bed, squeezed his arm, and spoke to him, professed his love for him.
He hadn't known, then, that the arguing was about himself and about Gary Brendan Michaels.
He shook his head of the meandering thoughts as the man bent down to jostle at his leg, and the padded cuff fell away. From the hem of his ankle was a tug, and he knew it meant that he should remove his pants and underwear.
He swallowed, but he made quick work of it, tried to control his shivering as he stood to remove them before sitting and stooping over to hide his groin as he perfunctorily folded each garment and handed them to the man. A hand then clapped just above his bare knee.
No. His reaction was immediate, jutting that knee to displace the hand there. The neck wasn't ideal—no part of him was ideal—but the knee was downright disallowed.
Before he could dwell on it, the sweatshirt was handed to him again. He didn't need to be told; the man wanted him to redo it. Something akin to shame flooded through him as he refolded it, heating his cheeks with the unspoken chastisement. He handed the shirt back to him.
And then the hand clapped the back of his neck again, remaining. He sucked in a breath as he, seated naked at the bed, felt his captor press closer before his head was tilted with the other calloused hand. The leather muzzle was manipulated, uncinched, removed, leaving just the blindfold. The cups over his ears and then the earbuds were plucked out, ushering in clear sounds of jingling keys, rustling fabric, a squeaking faucet and sloshing water, the loud ventilating fan.
In another moment, another set of buds were pressed at his lobes. These, too, actively cancelled noise, for everything dimmed again to nothing but a whispery hiss.
Generated soundwaves out of phase with surrounding noise. Destructive interference.
These would need to be powered, switched out. The lengths they went just to occlude his hearing to complete the fantasy. He resisted the urge to pluck them out. It wouldn't be difficult. And yet, molding pressed to the lobes, pushed the buds in further into his ear canal to create that suction while fingers worked at fitting them properly. Not comfortable in the slightest. Terrifying, if he were to be honest.
Comply, he told himself. Roll with this for now. There's no violence. There's no excessive force.
He knew that they would be left to cure to his specific shape. His lobes were squeezed, cupped with leather, fitted into them. So particular, the use of leather. Obsessive and ritualistic in its own right.
He was fine to comply until both hands were upon his face. Sucking in another breath, his head was tilted side to side, left and right, the man's hand gripping under his jaw, tipping his head again up and down. He couldn't fathom what the man was doing but feared the implications.
Was he being inspected? If so, what for? Was he . . . marketable to a certain audience? Was this an aspect that they'd never considered? That the captors catered to a niche paraphilic people? Was he being displayed through video on some snuff BDSM porn site? No. That wouldn't explain many things in the profile—the remorse, the guilt. It was an inspection, yes, but Spencer couldn't fathom what for aside from some type of fetish.
It seemed the man was done, though, and he was given little time to dwell on these thoughts; the back of his neck was clasped, and he was heaved to standing. He put his hands between his legs to cover himself before he was marched forward toward the tub.
He settled into the warm water, unable to control his shivering for what he knew was to come. This time he could anticipate all of what would happen, though, and he would be able to better control his reactions and bear through this.
Such wasn't the case.
A cuff closed around his ankle, and he couldn't suppress a soft hum of a whimper. The length of chain was longer than it had been with his first bathing; he could settle the foot to the floor of the tub. But he couldn't bend his foot back enough or his fingers forward enough to reach. It was a precise length for each limb to prevent the reach, to prevent another bout of struggling as had been done the first time.
It began as it had before, starting from his head then moved down to his tender, bruising neck. And yet, this time—once the towel moved past the neck—his head was pulled back by a calloused hand under his chin until his blind gaze was angled and his neck rested upon a folded towel. The hand then moved his forehead and remained there.
This hadn't been done the other day, and he found his stomach pinching with dread. He was barely a few days into interacting with these people, yes, but he was sure that he was going to be settling into a set pattern. Deviations from patterns presented unknown variables.
His fingers wriggled before his hands clenched and he was consumed with a bone-deep shiver as his anticipation mounted.
He would have to abide this—become accustomed to this bathing ritual—if he was to prolong his existence here, but he found it difficult.
Foam lathered over his neck, his jaw, his face, and he hitched his breath when a cold, sharp, steel blade found a place above his clavicle. A nasal hum stuttered out as the tongue of metal licked up the column of flesh to his jaw in one slow but fluid, practiced stroke. It found a new spot above his clavicle and it dragged up under his jaw again. While the enforcer shaved him, the caretaker continued to wash his body: shoulders, upper arms, forearms, and wrists under the cuffs.
Again, her hands lingered on his fingers, cleaning them front and back, under his nails, massaging them, just as she had done with the previous bath. This time, there was no barrier but the distinct attention her fingers gave his own, the forced intimacy as she manipulated his hands in hers, taking care to trace her fingers over his.
His fingers twitched, and he wanted to clench them, but he allowed this, if just to keep in compliance, if just to please that woman so that she in turn would begin to lower her guard.
But this whole ritual was startlingly intimate, personal in a way he hadn't registered the other day with the first bathing, and his discomfort was acute due to its bizarre nature and knowing that at least one of these people that he was being handled by was a rapist.
He was unable, unwilling, and downright too terrified to object to this—physically frozen apart from the increased shivering—had to keep himself from jumping as the towel scratched across his chest, down his abdominals, below his navel as the blade touched the bottom of his jaw and skimmed up his cheek. It was an overwhelming, tactile bombardment.
He couldn't control his limbs or his deep and long inhalations along with aborted, short exhalations.
His mind was whirring, and distinct walls slotted around him. He wasn't within himself at the moment, peered up at himself trapped in a transparent sarcophagus floating overhead. Or was he staring down at himself from above? Everything that was happening to him was right before his eyes, but his skin was numbed. He knew this for what it was at this moment, understood with a clarity that somehow, this second bathing was more difficult for him to process than the first time.
As he was being cleaned and the towel scrape scrape scraped below and went lower, and the blade upon his face scrape scrape scraped across the sensitized skin, distress overcame him when the towel again went across his pubis and then wrapped around his penis. A distinct and great warmth—a boiling heat—leaked from him, pooling from the apex between his legs, and he flushed with abject shame as his bladder gave way to his fear with her hand still there.
This time, he felt it happening and the woman did too, for her hand retracted. Mortified, his hands began to move of their own volition, his voice came out in a weak and quivering drawl, and his fingers moved to cover his lips.
The shaving was done just a few seconds later—painless, quick, and clinical. His face, jaw, and neck were wiped with a rag, and then the man finally let him go, hand peeling away from his forehead. He shot forward and clenched his jaws, hands moving. "I'm . . . I didn't . . ."
But her hand gave his leg a benign pat, and he shuddered out a breath. Even the man's hand squeezed his shoulder before giving him three rough pats.
This was dangerous. Dangerous.
The water was draining, cooler air was brushing against his skin, and then a continuous, warm and gentle rainfall touched his skin. She continued to bathe him, hands moving to his back, and then to his lower back, and then to his posterior, where it dipped in between to clean him, and nothing more. He jerked and gritted his teeth, but an aborted sound left his lips, and he trembled as he covered his mouth again.
Again, nothing happened to him for it. In fact, he instead received what he could only surmise was a reward. He wasn't sure what behavior warranted it, but he did something right. Or. Perhaps it was to reward him for having done nothing wrong, for cooperating.
A toothbrush was prodded at his fingers. Numbed, he went through the motions of brushing his teeth. The water pressure turned up to flush it all down, beat against his skin. When he was done, after rinsing his mouth and the brush was taken from him, moist fingers carved over his lips, his jaw, down his neck, rubbed into his skin, and his face was patted with a towel. His fingers latched onto the links of chains stemming from his wrists, and his hands clenched in further perturbation.
Dangerous. This forced intimacy is dangerous. This is—
He was rinsed a last time, the water was shut off, and the chains loosened from the wall. They were tugged and he was urged to stand as his leg was released from the cuff. He was ushered out of the tub, wiped down, and led to the bed, where his cuffed wrist was gripped.
So inundated with thoughts of how physical this had been that he couldn't tell with any assuredness who was near him, whose hands were upon him and controlling him. What he just experienced was a familiarity that bordered on sensuality.
He was forced to bend down to feel the fabric beneath him. Folded above the mattress were new, clean garments. He didn't hesitate to put on the underwear and then the sweatpants. A hand pressed at his shoulder, urging him to sit. An experimental sniff told him what he expected—the bedsheets were new. His leg was then tethered, his wrists were released, and a t-shirt pressed at his hands.
The bed dipped to his left, the heat wafted upon his face and hair.
Dangerous, his mind puttered again. Danger, danger, danger. This was manipulation at its very core.
The scent of that cleaner—a scent he still couldn't identify beyond citrus and lavender—came from across the room where he had just bathed as the heat continued to whirl about him.
In time, it kicked off and he was given his folded sweater, which he put on. His hands were taken into the woman's for a brief moment before the cuffs went around his wrist. At its sensation, a soft breath exited his nostrils before his other was taken.
He was left alone for a few minutes before the larger, more calloused hands of the man tilted his head. The muzzle returned and what before was a soundless exhalation was, again, a vocal, stuttering hum of displeasure as his ears were cupped and the leather tightened, cinched.
It was all finished.
The woman tap-tapped his hand. At his reluctance she tapped again. The third set of taps was insistent, and the pinch of his flesh was enough for him to raise them.
"How do you feel?" She added a little U shape after she drew the question mark in his thigh.
This was, beyond question, nothing to smile about.
It was the same violation as the first time they had bathed him, but this experience—lacking the violence preceding and during the first bathing—was worse. The first time was panic, confusion, and shock. This time was discomfort, sensation, and intimacy. And it portended, with its practiced enforcers, that this would not be the last.
Would he tell her that, though? No.
"Clean," was his neutral answer. "Thank you." He would be remiss if he didn't add that. To show gratitude was to show appreciation for what they were doing for him. Lie.
Her hand patted his jaw, laced in his hair, rubbed.
There it was again, that danger.
There was no room for ambiguity on her part this time, though. His hands were tapped and he lifted them to avoid that pinch.
Pressing her hands into his, she affirmed, "Good boy."
Jason's words echoed in his mind: He cannot break you. He was complying. He was surviving. He knew this. But she was infantilizing him—they both were—and this was a dangerous game.
—
His food from earlier had been drugged again. He'd found himself dozing off in short intervals not long after the bathing.
During one bout of wakefulness, while he thought of the woman's infantilizing him, his mind wandered to inconsequential things:
What she fed him was again disagreeable—not just to his stomach, but to his taste buds and nose, for he was having bouts of burping and hiccupping, and was passing gas again as his stomach cramped. Its pungency was vexing, the lingering flavor nauseating. The blend of flavors was unfavorable this time around—not that the others were favorable—and he could taste some of his least favorite foods, things that would never touch his lips.
Inconsequential, yes, but his mind worked in tangents, where strings of webs and halls all connected to each other in meandering ways. The recollection of the first time he had bottle-fed Henry when he was but a couple of months old came to mind.
Spencer spent a small handful of hours at Jennifer and Will's new home on a Saturday afternoon, and Penelope was there, too.
'Training,' Jennifer had called it, 'because in another couple of weeks, I need my date night with Will, and you, Uncle Spence, or Auntie Penny will be watching this little mister.'
Jennifer corrected Spencer's posture so he was properly cradling Henry to be bottle-fed, and Will had handed him the warm bottle. The two instructed him that he first had to check the temperature of the liquid against his inner wrist, even though they used a bottle warmer.
He knew this already, and was quick to Did-you-know them everything he now knew about breastfeeding: the statistics about it versus bottle-feeding along with formula feeding versus breast-pumping—'Is this your breastmilk, JJ? I'm merely curious; this is no censure on how a woman should go about feeding her child'; how breastfeeding would affect early brain development and its connection to higher brain-functioning and higher IQs—'You know, despite her psychiatrist and my father's insistence, my mother apparently refused to go back on her medications after I was born so she could breastfeed me. Did it until I was well past two years of age. Again, this is no censure on you, JJ. But. If you want him to get into Yale. . .' which he ended with a puckish snicker, tipping his chin to her chest with quirked brows; oxytocin and its physiological effects on both infant and mother and how it would foster bonding, and at its other end the sexual arousal and orgasm related to breastfeeding—'You shouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed if this has happened to you, JJ. It's a normal and natural phenomenon'; shared with them the concept of breast envy.
In between, Jennifer had to chide him—'Spence, please feed my baby'; Will had to take the bottle, rewarm it, and hand it back to Spencer— You can feed him while you talk, you know'; and the rewarmed bottle had waved in his hand as he prattled on and on despite being urged by Penelope— I swear, boy genius. If you don't hush your mouth about all this boob-talk and feed my godson, I will revoke your title as godhusband.'
He hadn't shut up until the moment after he finally drew the bottle to Henry, and the infant had latched onto the nipple of the bottle. Spencer chuckled and he watched Henry drink feverishly, eyes roving about and sometimes slipping closed. Afterwards, Spencer had pulled the empty bottle away and glossed a soothing finger over a silvery gold eyebrow, sighed out and chuckled again as the large eyes slipped closed again upon the gentle sensation and Henry gurgled and hummed.
Penelope was beside herself taking picture after picture of the four of them, or just of Spencer and Henry, and he had flushed at all the attention.
He turned the tired infant to his own chest, placing the head on his shoulder, and began to burp him as he had read to do, and as Jennifer and Will showed him. There was no Did-you-know to be spoken but rather an internal I-hadn't-known as he cradled Henry.
He rubbed the little back and patted it, and he found himself rubbing his jaw against the fuzzy, blond tufts of hair and warm head as he began to sway his body left to right and back again, rocking up and down. The feel of that softness on his cheek was pleasant against his skin, and something flooded him from his chest into all his limbs. That sudden little burp and then a little lingering toot that Henry made caused him to bark in shocked pleasure and kick his head back in such uncontrollable fits of laughter that Will had to scoop his son up before Spencer fell backwards along with him.
He laughed in this moment, too, and then the flood of warmth from the memory turned frigid as soon as he moved his hand up to remember the feeling of that bundled weight on his left shoulder. He instead felt the draw of the leather and chains.
That little inconsequential thing, that little person who had opened such a strange and new world—he might never again see his godson.
THURSDAY, MAY 2, 2013–ONWARDS
"It's likely that Collins isn't involved," Aaron told Jennifer, Penelope, and David, who had remained in the conference room at his behest.
Penelope was inconsolable, wailed Who took him? Who took him; Jennifer's widened eyes and her lost gaze were glassy, and clasped a hand at her neck. David rolled his eyes in distaste.
Aaron called Erin Strauss to update her on the Frederick Collins issue and made sure not to divulge anyone's names when he informed her that an oversight was giving the suspect a small bit of leverage over them. 'There was an issue,' he'd said, knowing the blame would be shifted on him.
With an impatient sigh, she told Aaron to make the deal; that car was key evidence.
As it turned out, Frederick had a small hiding place for the evidence that he'd concealed in a metal tin stowed away in a metal vent, and they found everything that he spoke of—hair, a bloody piece of fabric, and pictures of his vehicle where he had left it behind, in Newark, New Jersey. Penelope tracked down the investigators who were on the hit-and-run case, informed them that they had a viable suspect who was coming forward in admission to the crime, and that there was a team of forensic technicians who would be running analyses on the evidence.
There were multiple photographs of the charcoal grey Mustang—shown in a wide view, and with closeups as well. On the rear bumper, there were distinct, black decals: one of the Liberty Bell, one of the Knights Templar, one of a distinct telephone booth, and lastly, one that had the following words written on it: Those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it.
Beyond the car in one of the pictures, the date of November 8, 2009 was visible, as well as the time of 7:42pm and the temperature, all written on an electronic billboard. He had these same pictures, which he had taken with his phone, in a private and well-hidden cloud folder, and these would be sent to the digital forensics techs to assure that they weren't digitally altered, which they doubted, as other pictures had the time changing, and all of the information at various angles. In the wide-framed picture, they could also see that he had parked his car in a free spot on a street perpendicular to a large post office.
A quick call confirmed that they kept logs of security footage extending years back in their database. If other buildings in that vicinity also had CCTV and logs going back that far, maybe they might see whoever took Freddie's car, and that footage might draw them just one step closer to their perpetrator.
The conditions of Frederick's deal were multifold:
He would pay the double-fine of the hit-and-run, a cost that ran from $2,500 to $5,000 per person hit. In place of serving a jail sentence for a double hit-and-run while intoxicated, he would instead do community restitution for up to and not exceeding three years. He would not get any jail time for this, which, for a double hit-and-run, could have been as long as a year.
In addition, he didn't want his name to hit any paper—physical or online—any social media, or anything for his crime against the two teenagers or for this current case. His face had been covered when entering the precinct as a precaution, and they had entered through the back either way. He'd been protected from the public's eye as far as law enforcement was concerned. This being the case, his victims and his victims' families would never know of his involvement.
In return for these things, he was willing to lose his license for up to three years.
None of this would cover the physical or emotional damages done to either of these victims—one of whom was now a paraplegic, and another of whom had severe brain injury and was unable to take care of themselves.
It was a Faustian bargain that might—at best—lead to more clues regarding the car but would at worst lead them nowhere. Either way, it legally liberated a man who deserved no such exemption for his deeds and who would no longer have obligations to those who he'd wronged. Absolution was given to a monster.
The Federal Bureau of Investigations would meet every demand.
And so, the name Frederick Byron Collins, once the unit's prime suspect and a man who would have been dubbed for life as The Linen Assassin and The Stokes State Slayer had he been convicted, began to fade from their periphery.
—
By late Friday morning, Frederick Collins was empirically declared the perpetrator of his crime from October 31, 2009 when he hit two teenagers walking down the road after a Halloween party. The evidence did, indeed, corroborate with the cold case of the two hit-and-run victims. He was cleared of having any involvement in Spencer's abduction or in the crimes surrounding his abduction. This was publicized in so few words.
The media wanted to know why the viable suspect that was in custody was not a suspect at all, why evidence had led to him in the first place, and why the FBI—who was holding up their end of the deal—made no public mention of his name or character.
'Did he have a predisposition to criminal activity?'
'Did he have a similar conviction before? Should the public be wary of this person of interest?'
'Who is the law official that's missing? Has he or she been found yet? If so, what did The Linen Assassin want with him?'
For most of the questions hurled at them, the answers were neutral at best—
'In further looking into our prime suspects' history, we're absolving him of any involvement in the crimes surrounding Marion Knowles' murder and the murder of two other victims.'
'We don't have insight into this at this time.'
'Yes, we can confirm that aspect of the crimes.'
'No, this does not have the markings of criminal enterprises, gangs, and syndicates, but rather of a pair of serial killers; we continue to urge people to remain vigilant—as these two individuals are extremely organized with their method of abduction—and urge people to continue calling our tip line for anything.'
'For the privacy of all those involved, the identity of the newest victim is being withheld.'
—the last of which was, to the public, another definite Yes that the newest victim was a law official—or at worst the answers were given in the form of We have no comment on that at this time.
As a matter of procedure, only Aaron or Jennifer liaised with the media outlets, and Derek and David continued to use the back entrance when entering or leaving so that no one could detect if any one of them was missing.
But any sleuthing would have made it obvious: if an FBI agent was missing, it was the young male who had been at the sidelines the day that the whole unit was presented before media outlets the morning after they discovered Noah Turner was Victim A. If this was based on the victimology that was released at the outset a week ago, then it was that agent. Or the perpetrators could have taken any law official as ransom.
Marion's family, still unable to gain a full understanding of what he went through and why, returned home with his body for him to be buried down in Florida.
The team did, however, later release additional information to the public.
They received the photograph of the facial reconstruction of Victim C, Penelope had run it through every possible database nationwide, and she came up empty. Given that it was confirmed that he abused drugs based on his remains, it was concluded that he may have been homeless. Young and homeless for long enough that no one missed him. They might never know who he was.
As the Post Office was a federal entity, getting surveillance from them involved no legal hurdles, and they did have logs of digital security going back to when they'd first installed the security back in the early nineties, and where they got more and more advanced technology as the years passed.
This was also at the edge of a municipal area. There was a library across the street from where the car had been parked that also had years' worth of surveillance logs in their databases, and there were lampposts with CCTV with the same.
They did indeed find footage of the vehicle being stolen on the very night that it had been left there. Whoever it was, a person wearing a hoodie, he had kept his head down, and had loitered around the area for a couple of hours according to varying wide angles. He first passed the vehicle and looked inside. He left it alone. Less than half an hour later, he wandered near the vehicle again and tucked his hand into the sleeve of his sweater, testing the door without leaving his fingerprints behind. He reached in and they surmised that he had grabbed the keys, for just seconds later, he was walking away from the car again. He looked back, extended his arm for a few seconds, and then he left again.
Less than another hour later, the same person could be seen running into the frame toward the car with its lights flashing again, opening the driver door, sitting in the seat, and driving the car off.
No matter the angles of the surveillance videos, the face of the person hadn't been caught beyond a flash of his skin, and the quality of the videos weren't clear enough to make any specific distinctions since this occurred by nightfall. No digital enhancing would do any good. There was nothing significant about what he wore to identify him.
Until there was more conclusive evidence, they thought it safest to keep this footage at the chest for now.
It was Jennifer, again, who spoke for the team:
"We are prepared to release to the public additional information regarding the perpetrators responsible for Marion's murder. We believe that these two late model vehicles are involved in some way with the crime."
Jennifer held up two pictures, one of a red Shelby GT500 Mustang, which wasn't, of course, the picture of the actual car involved in the collision; and she held up another of Frederick's charcoal grey mustang, front, and back. His license plate was censored in the image, and three of the four decals had been photoshopped out of the picture to keep the rest to their chest. If someone saw this vehicle, they might remember all or more of the decals—though not necessarily the details about them—and they would know for sure that this tipster was viable—or their unsub. "This dark colored Mustang was last seen in the Newark, New Jersey vicinity on November 8, 2009.
"Additionally, we are releasing a photograph of a facial reconstruction of whom we believe is one of the victims found in Stokes State Forest." She held up another large photograph of Victim C's reconstruction, taken at various angles. "If this person looks familiar to you, or if anyone has any additional information about these two vehicles, please call our anonymous tip line."
Aaron thought that this already had enough traction, and that it would continue to grow online, so he stopped Penelope from decimating any more videos regarding the abduction. It was the greater evil, but sometimes it was better to let the public have its heyday, and let the fervor die after a while.
—
This was where late Friday afternoon found the team.
With a profile that they still couldn't make heads or tails of, with evidence pointing them in no clear direction, they were spent, dry, immotile, certain that Spencer's captors had disappeared him and that he would be or had already begun experiencing inexplicable torture at their hands. They had confidence that he would try to work this case best as possible on his end while doing whatever he needed to do to survive.
Both Aaron and Erin had been working together over the last day and a half on how to approach all of this with the director, but things were looking grim.
And finally, the dreaded call from Chief Erin Strauss came in, at half after four. Everyone was already gathered in the conference room, but Aaron kept the phone to his ear.
She began, sighing out with a tone of genuine regret. "I've just spoken with the director, Aaron."
Aaron's heart stuttered, and a cold settled over him. He took just a quick moment to breathe, and he turned his back so none of the other members could see him.
"Aaron?"
"Yes, apologies," Aaron rushed out. "How will things be proceeding?"
"I'm sorry, Aaron. You know how some of these cases go. Even your team hasn't had a 100% success rate. Before Dr Reid was abducted, you'd already been on the case longer than is customary for your team, and evidence had already been leading you nowhere. With nearly another week having passed, the Director can no longer rationalize or sanction the amount of time or resources being used to keep you all up there. He's moving to label this case as inactive so that the local Sussex County jurisdiction can continue to pursue it, the jet is to take flight to base this evening, and you all will be put on desk duty starting Monday pending review. And even then, with Agent Blake also out of commission, things will be busier for you if all goes well. We'll likely have to look into an agent filling in these deficits."
Aaron breathed. "I understand."
"I'm sorry, Aaron. This is out of my hands."
"I understand, Chief Strauss, and I'd be remiss if I didn't thank you for all you've been doing for us, for Dr Reid, up to this point." He then paused. "Agent Blake . . . she won't be cleared to fly and may still be in hospital for a few more days of acute care, or she can be transferred to a hospital in or around the DC area depending on what the doctors think is best."
There was a suggestion there, and after a pause Erin must have picked up on it.
"Mm. Yes, one of you should remain behind until she can travel down. Next week. On Tuesday. I believe that David drove up for a guest lecture. It's a practicality."
"Thank you, Erin."
"I am very sorry about Dr Reid."
Aaron didn't like the sentiment. She was already writing Spencer off. "Thank you," he said, despite himself, and he ended the call, pocketing his phone.
Back still turned, Aaron had to prepare himself before he could face his team. What was now boiling in the pit of his belly couldn't be displayed. He couldn't show weakness.
He turned around and upon seeing them, he didn't have to tell them what they already knew. He was burdened with duty.
Penelope, at her seat, had her face smothered into Derek's chest to muffle her weeping. Derek, while comforting her, had a far-away look in his lowered eyes and under thick, furrowed brows. Jennifer flanked Penelope, and one of her hands was pale with how mightily Penelope was grasping onto it; her other hand cradling her own face.
David's bearing was of somber resignation.
Aaron breathed again, uncharacteristically averting his eyes though his body was facing them. His scripted words came out clinical, unwavering, but soft: "This case is now being filed as inactive"—Penelope's body jerked as she barked a sob—"and will fall under the purview of this precinct. We're to return this evening and we'll be put on desk duty starting Monday."
They knew they had nothing to say against this. This was just how some things went. Logically, this was what had to happen. But their hearts were breaking, and Aaron saw it on each of their disappearing faces—in Jennifer who lowered her forehead into her hand; in Derek, who shut his eyes and turned his gaze heavenward, letting out a pained sigh; in Penelope, who hadn't even peeled away from Derek's chest.
"David—a word?" Aaron walked towards the doorway.
David followed him, and once they found a quiet corner and his eyes swept over Aaron, he spoke. "How are you holdin' up, Aaron?"
Aaron couldn't hide his distress anymore, and heat built behind his eyes. He spoke in a thready voice, shaking his head. "I tried to send Reid back to the hotel on Monday. I told him I'd drive him myself."
David sighed. "Nope. Don't do this to yourself, Aaron. If you had, then it might be you in that hospital bed instead of Alex, or worse. There's no good angle to look at this."
"No, no," Aaron reasoned. "The unsub wouldn't have tried that during the day. All of the abductions happened by nightfall. I should . . . I should have insisted more that he go back to the hotel, Dave. Reid might have been spared this if I'd been more insistent."
"Aaron, don't be fatalistic. Whether it was Monday or it was today, or hell , a month from now, I get the feeling that nothing would have deterred our unsubs from taking the kid," David reasoned.
But Aaron was unable to let the reasoning sink in. His words nearly gasped out as he tilted his head down. "I couldn't protect him, Dave. Within less than half a year, I've failed him twice." He balanced his head onto his fingertips.
David shook his head. "You didn't fail him, Aaron. Not now, and not when Maeve was murdered. We're a team; no one is at any greater fault than the other for what's happened . . ."
Aaron let out a heavy, lamenting sigh. "For these unsubs—whatever their motivation before—we still don't even know what it is—but subjugating a law official is going to give them a transgressive high. It's inevitable. Reid's time with them—however short or long—is going to be unpleasant." He shook his head. "The power, Dave—the power and control they'll have over someone who's in a position of authority—Morgan mentioned this the other day and it"—he swallowed around a dry tongue—"it's real, Dave."
David's hand was gentle on Aaron's shoulder, and he was filled with a compassion that he hadn't spared Aaron years ago. This was different; this was more personal. "I've told you this before, Aaron, remember? This? What you're doing? This is your ego talking. You don't blame yourself for this. You don't. You can't. None of us saw this coming. None of us. Don't be Shaunessy—don't be Gideon— blaming yourself for these inevitabilities."
Aaron's shoulders rose and fell with a large breath, but he was still unable to lift his head, lest David see the errant tear that crept from his eyes.
David gave him a double-pat and let his hand linger. "Don't dwell on this right now, Aaron." Seeking to change the subject if only a little, David twitched his eyebrows up and asked, "Was this what your word was going to be about?"
"No." Aaron sucked in a nasal breath and recentered himself. He wiped a hand across his face and straightened, muscles less tense, expression neutral. "No, I—you drove up here. Alex is going to need someone to drive her back down to DC."
David's eyes alighted with understanding, and he pulled his hand away. "Mm. If I stumble onto additional information while I'm up here waiting for her to convalesce . . ."
"Whatever you can gather, Dave." It came out as a desperate plea. "Whatever you can gather."
"Erin is . . . aware of this."
"She basically sanctioned it."
David squinted his eyes, shaking his head. "She can be like that sometimes."
—
Sheriff Reiner gave his word that he would handle this case with utmost diligence, and the other deputies expressed their condolences to the team. But one of their own, a brother in arms, was in trouble, and they would make sure that they would get these bastards.
Upon those bold declarations that didn't hearten anyone, the BAU packed up all the things that they'd brought with them, all the books that Spencer had bought the previous week, and they left the precinct through the back, unobtrusive as they had arrived almost two weeks ago.
Sheriff Reiner was advised on how he should contact the media outlets and give the latest developments on the case. As there was no explicit restriction yet, Aaron requested that he let him know of any developments.
Aaron, Derek, Jennifer, and Penelope went to their hotel rooms, packed all of their and Spencer's belongings, and visited Alex once more before they took the drive to the jet at the Morristown Airport and boarded it, leaving behind two team members and a missing one. There, they would sit in silence, grieving, feeling powerless and defeated, consumed with a palpable, tangible distress. When they would land home, they would go to their empty places, or wrap their arms around their children, their spouses, around no one or around each other, and for months, they would ache.
David took all of Spencer's books to his hotel room to continue to delve into and for lack of anything better to do when his mind needed a break, for some of the books were for recreational reading. He would spend the next few days poring over everything front and back, visiting Alex and going over whatever he could with her, giving her a few of Spencer's recreational books to help her bide the time, assisting her where needed with her therapy before returning to his home after making sure she was situated in hers and feeling a terrible ache.
Alex—after being told by the team what the director now sanctioned—leaned her head against her pillow, breathing out as a single tear slipped past her closed eyes, resting from the exertions of her latest therapy sessions, feeling worthless in her state of being unable to assist to her fullest capacity to bring Spencer back to safety. She would spend the next few days thinking of Spencer with a profound hurt from his absence, but she would expend herself to help David in whatever capacity she could. Her chest would hurt when she found it hard to breathe, and she would sweat when she pushed herself at her therapy sessions, all before David would take her from the hospital, drive with her in silence, and make sure she was situated at her home where she would ache.
—
For months, public interest in the case of The Linen Assassins—or as some would also call it the case of The Stokes State Slayers—would wax and wane. An urban legend was born.
Theories amongst the most discerning of amateur, self-purported gumshoes would be passed around. Bereaved families and friends would have no resolution or full comprehension of what their loved ones suffered before they died. And bereft members of a shrunken elite unit of profilers who analyzed the country's most deviant and depraved minds were reminded time and again that they hadn't the power to deliver one of their own from the hands of those who caused that suffering.
But before Spencer Reid was found, he would come to know it all intimately, dangerously.
And yet.
.
.
.
If you're ever interested, I urge you to go to handspeak or lifeprint. Both of these websites are like ASL dictionaries with comprehensive videos to correlate with various words in sign language, as well as lessons in syntax/grammar, and also common full sentences. In a way, you can interact with/get a sense of things.
Sorry if things seem a bit slow. I'm getting Spencer used to what he'll be dealing with before he's thrown into bedlam. But on that note, in the next chapter, his captors wake up and choose violence. Ta.
