Lots of dialogue and action this chapter, but not how you think . . . But! It'll all lead somewhere soon! And regarding the character introduced in this chapter—have faith. They're at a different point in their lives in this 2013 timeline, and there's some stuff they've gone through more recently to make their character a bit more abrasive, so . . . enjoy :)

Some events from this chapter are taken from Criminal Minds episode 9x05 Route 66 with many a twist of my own.

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DATE UNKNOWN | LOCATION UNKNOWN
Today was a bath day and began like most other days, except the man wasn't here.

The woman went through all manners of her ritual by herself in slow and tender measures, taking her time to press her lips to his hands, to towel him dry, to clothe him and remove the brace, replace the buds and cured molding.

He waited with fingers and fabric pressed to his eyes to be redressed with a dry brace, but it didn't come. Instead, she laid him down and wedged her thighs under his head before she brushed her fingers through his hair.

While Spencer didn't understand the treatment, he accepted it. He hadn't done anything to deserve this, even if it was kind, even if it was benign.

He trusted that he was to be kept, but the revelation didn't allay his worry that he might do something to draw him closer to death's door. The threat of what punishment he would receive for opening his eyes if even for a moment was far too terrifying, and he found his fingers soon shaking against them.

He resisted when she pulled his hands away. If this was a test, he wouldn't fail. He wouldn't.

It was when she laid on the bed with him—laid astride him and weaved her arm around him—when her flush body jerked against him again and again that his stomach turned unpleasantly, unable to quell the thoughts of what her hands sometimes did in the passing weeks after her husband would rape him. Except it was two weeks now since any sexual encounters with the man, and her hands still kept to their newer course and were emboldening.

He hoped that she wasn't doing what he thought she was doing against him. He hoped it wasn't finally coming to this

But when her hands fell upon his again and there was a lingering dampness, he understood.

She was weeping. She was in mourning.

So, understanding, he didn't resist as she pulled his hands away from his face. But he wouldn't dare open his eyes. She kissed his hair, cradled his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks and his eyes, his forehead, his jaws; her thumbs brushed over his brows; she took his hands into her shaking hands and kissed them, breathed against him in jolting gasps and sighs. Her hands went to his face again and pressed it against her chest as she wrapped her arms around him, like she was trying to absorb him.

For hours, she didn't release him. Unmoving, Spencer accepted being encased in her warmth as she slept, and he, too, fell asleep.

In time, though, Spencer awoke to the foreign sensation of bodies rearranging themselves around him, of the woman unwrapping herself from him. Before long, a larger, calloused hand was pressed against his eyes, squeezing his face.

Spencer, terrified and breath speeding, vehemently shook his head, hands fluttering up. "I didn't look," he said. "Please, I didn't look. I didn't."

The hand pulled away and then tucked under his. "I know," the man said as an assertion of faith and trust, not fact. "But remember what I've said I would do."

"I remember. I didn't look. Please don't remove it. I didn't look."

The man clapped his neck and the hands tucked underneath his. "It will stay off just this once. You won't look."

Spencer nodded. "I understand. I understand. I won't look."

In the next moment, the man was seated upon the bed, his hand was wrapped above his ankle, and the thumb moved. The woman removed herself from the bed, but it seemed she was bent before it like a mother keeping watch over a sick child. Her fingers continued gliding in his hair, her thumbs wisped over his brows, and she pressed her quivering lips to his forehead, eyes, and hands again and again.

He was overcome, in this moment, with a great sense of sadness at the tenderness being shown by these two—so overcome with it that he wasn't sure if his lips quirked into a smile or a straight line, if the sound he made was a laugh or a whimper. But upon whatever sound he made, the hand at his ankle tightened.

His thumb swept over her hand; his fingers clenched tightly.

This was what he sought from them.

This he esteemed.

The birch tree. It's the symbol of new beginnings, regeneration, rebirth, hope, new dawns. It's almost always one of the first species to regrow in places of tragedy.

He knew that this was a significant day. On this late August summer day, their son was no more.


MONDAY, AUGUST 26, 2013 | WASHINGTON, DC
Over the weekend, Aaron—along with Beth—had hosted a sleepover for Henry, as Jennifer and Will would be spending the weekend away. It started out well, but ended poorly, with both boys distressed for two entirely separate reasons—to the point where Jennifer and Will had to end their weekend plans early and pick up their distraught, wailing son.

At some point after Aaron and Beth had turned the two boys down Saturday night, Jack came into the kitchen and with an expression devoid of anything recognizable, he asked his father if Uncle Spencer was dead. Aaron was gutted.

'Did someone tell you that, Jack?' Aaron had asked him.

'It's Henry. He says Uncle Spencer's lost,' was all Jack said in answer before the three were moseying back to Jack's bedroom, where they found Henry standing at the window cradling a flashlight to his chest, staring back at them in contrition.

Upon questioning the two about what was going on, Henry told Aaron that he was only helping a lost Uncle Spencer find his way home because Mommy and Daddy said they couldn't find him. It wasn't long until he—heartbroken at having upset his friend and also fearing he was in a slew of trouble—began crying.

Jack, in turn, became distressed, and Beth and Aaron had to separate the two children.

A mess. A huge mess.

When Jennifer and Will picked up their son, they had a candid conversation with Aaron and Beth about what Henry did and didn't know.

'I'm so sorry, Hotch,' Jennifer had said. 'He hasn't done this in days now, or maybe he has, and I just didn't realize it. I didn't know he brought the flashlight with him.'

Thankfully, it seemed that Jack hadn't managed to disabuse Henry of the notion that his Uncle was only lost.

Jack, at his age, intimately knew about death, knew about people like George Foyet. But Spencer's situation still hadn't been discussed with him, and now Aaron was finding that he would have to confront the issue head on. Even though he was nearly eight years old and better understood the horrors of the world, unleashing a new torrent of trauma on him—even as a soft blow—for someone he knew and liked was going to take a delicate touch. It was only more manifestation that the world could be a terrifying place.

Yesterday, Jack didn't want to talk about Uncle Spencer; he shut down, and all he wished to do was watch videos of his mother.

Today, Aaron was going to be leaving early and have father-son time with Jack to explain the situation as he knew best. Beth had flown out at the early hour this morning to head to Milan after being reassured that Aaron would be fine handling it.

Everything wrapped around this—Spencer's abduction, his self-doubt as a suitable leader, doubts of where things were going with Beth, and now this—over these past few months left him unwell. Physically unwell. Genuinely not well.

He couldn't sleep the whole night and was plagued with visions of a nightmare that had been assaulting him for weeks now.

His phone pinged just then and he looked at the urgent, all-caps group text from Penelope, indicating that there was a new, pressing case to do with a missing eleven-year-old boy. Well timed in the next moment, he received an Amber Alert message.

"Damn it," he sighed out, then winced at a particularly painful twinge in his abdomen. He responded accordingly to her before dialing Jessica. "Hey, Jessica, it's me," he drawled. "I'm really sorry, but I'm not gonna make it. We just got a high priority case. Please tell Jack I'm sorry."

Upon standing from his desk, though, he braced his hands atop it when his vision pulsed black for the briefest moment. Taking a drink of his water to help what he thought might be a little dehydration, he made his way from the office and headed to the conference room, marveling at how his head pounded.

"Ain't she a beaut?" David asked as he scrolled through the photographs on his personal tablet, screen tilted to Derek. "I just put in new brakes. She's running like a dream."

"Yeah, she looks good, man." Derek knocked his arm. "Good on you."

"Hey, sir," Penelope piped as Aaron walked into the conference room, to which Aaron gave her the tip of his head. And then she tilted her head. "Are you okay?" she mouthed.

Aaron, in response, gave another curt nod and held his hand up to her to allay her worry as he remained standing.

She tipped her body toward the screen. "So do you guys remember the case we took on a couple of years ago in Pennsylvania? The one involving the boys' bodies found near the Appalachian Trail? Baby Jay and Alex, the two of you weren't here, obvs."

Penelope clicked through some pictures of the boys, whose remains had long been identified. The last picture landed on that of two children—a boy and his younger sister—Robert and Ana Brooks.

Derek spoke up, voice gritty. "Yeah, Shane Wyland. He's a prolific pedophilic and hebephilic serial killer. Still at large."

"Can you get us up to speed on this one?" Alex was swiping through the case file on her tablet.

Penelope gave a deep nod. "Yeah, so, Shane Wyland targets and abducts boys ages eight to twelve while they're camping or hiking in the woods with friends or family, and he normally keeps them captive for the winter months, during which time he molests and likely rapes them." Penelope's voice petered down, her gaze lowered, and she shook her head in distaste. "We took on the case when a, um, body was found. That very night, when little Ana had to use the bathroom and her brother went to keep an eye on her, Shane Wyland used her as leverage against Robert.

"Over the course of their abduction, Wyland assaulted Robert. The two children devised a plan, Ana escaped, and we were later able to find Wyland's bunker. By that time, though, Wyland went into nearby Jonestown, bartered Robert to another offender for pain-killing drugs that he used for his degenerative disease, and in that time took off when police presence closed in on the location. He's not been seen since."

Alex expelled a loud breath. "That's unbelievable. And he's still a fugitive at large."

"Yeah," David murmured.

"That must be frustrating."

Derek's eyes were trained on his tablet, and he tapped at it, irritated already.

"Last summer, twelve-year-old Jason Smith of Palmerton, Pennsylvania ran away from home. He was a regular runaway and while search has been put out for him, he eventually just became a poster boy. This morning, his body was found near the Delaware Forest in Monroe County, PA, and it was at most two to three days fresh."

"Some residents think they may have spotted Wyland in town last week in Wind Gap on Thursday. That brings us to"—the picture on the screen changed to that of a new family of four—"the Davis family. Catherine and Dustin, both 36, and their sons Gunther, eleven, and Brandon, four. Gunther is missing, and the rest of the family was annihilated. It's highly suspected that this is Wyland."

Aaron shook his head, furrowing his brows. "If this is Wyland, Jason may have been opportunistic but got too old for him. But with Gunther, he didn't want to leave any witnesses behind like he'd done with Ana and her parents. He's learning."

"Killing them all gives him more time to make his getaway with Gunther before people caught on to him missing, too," Derek said darkly.

Penelope breathed out. "This case is so fresh that there aren't even pictures yet. The rangers that found the bodies said the Davises were first-time campers. They'd gone and done a round of all campers who checked in after Jason's body was found, got to the Davises' campsite, and found carnage in both tents, and signs of a struggle."

"So if this is him, he's gone outside of his comfort zone by abducting a child in the summer instead of in the fall," Jennifer began. "And it looks like he's been traveling further up northeast despite his disease."

"Understandably, the rangers want this to be dealt with swiftly ," Penelope began. "They can't determine yet how long ago the family was killed and how long Gunther has been missing. As such, they've requested our assistance to work alongside an agent on the FBI Fugitive Task Force who's been working this for a couple of months now, going in and out undercover to try to suss Wyland out."

"We know how time sensitive these cases are," Aaron began threadily, not lifting his gaze from his tablet, but quirking his brow emphatically. "They'll be, uh, expanding the Amber Alert"—he sucked in a bracing breath—"every hour . . ."

"Sir?" Penelope urged.

Aaron straightened his lips and turned. "Excuse me." He barely moved away from the table before he collapsed to the floor.

"Hotch?"

"Aaron!"

The flurry of action had everyone upon Aaron in moments. It wasn't long before paramedics were called and EMTs were flooding into the conference room and attending to him. Everyone stood back and allowed the professionals to look after him.

"We gotta move forward with this case," Derek said in resignation, staring sightlessly as Aaron was loaded onto a gurney. "We can't—we gotta find this kid and get Wyland. They're expecting us."

David blinked at Derek and gave his head a tilt as his expression steeled. "How do you wanna handle this?"

"Same way we'd handle it if Hotch were here."

"I can go with Hotch, guys," Penelope piped up, giving Derek's arm a reassuring squeeze. "I can just grab my laptop and go with him now in the"—her head swiveled—"excuse me?" She'd turned to one of the EMTs. "Excuse me—is it alright if I—can I please ride with him?"

"Yes," the woman answered. "Now, though, ma'am."

And Penelope turned back to Derek. "I can go, Derek, and I'll contact Jessica and Beth and help you guys on the case while I'm at the hospital."

"Thanks, Garcia," Derek said. "Alright, then, guys." He looked out to Jennifer, Alex, and David. "Let's head out. Not in thirty. Now."

The dwindled team broke apart as soon as they landed at an airstrip after Derek instructed them with how to proceed: David and Alex were to interview the local campers who weren't too far from where the Davises had been and look at the tents after the scene was processed; Jennifer was in the woods with SAR, giving them assistance on how best to cover any ground.

On the separate drives, Penelope called them via conference and informed them that Aaron was bleeding internally and that a laparotomy would be performed to assess the cause. Additionally, after running a blood test, they found that he had a low blood sugar level.

Jessica was informed, and Beth was unable to be contacted.

When Derek arrived at the Sheriff's precinct in Stroudsburg, he was introduced to Sheriff Miller, Head Ranger Wilkinson, and the agent from the Fugitive Task Force, Agent Luke Alvez.

"You can call me Wilks, Agent Morgan," said Head Ranger Wilkinson, shaking Derek's hand. "Bad news about your unit chief."

"Mm, thanks," Derek murmured.

"Luke or Alvez is fine for me," Agent Alvez said. "I've looked over the Wyland casefile, and anything you can add in will assist me in doing what I can on your end."

"Thanks." Derek then looked at the large map. "Wilks, this is the most complete map of this stretch of the Appalachian Trail and Delaware forest, yeah? And these are the maps of where SAR are currently covering?"

"Yes," said Ranger Wilkinson.

"Okay, we can assume that Wyland's been walking at about three miles per hour," Derek asserted. This was what Spencer had suggested last time they took on the case, when he had thought that Wyland was with only one child.

Luke spoke up. "Giving them time to rest, take out about eighteen hours. It's been determined that the Davises were killed the night they first arrived, and it's been"—he checked his watch—"it's been 63 hours since then. So they've likely been travelling at most for 45 hours. We're looking between ninety to 126 miles covered if he's continued walking."

"Damn," Wilks murmured. "That'd take him anywhere in PA, or even up into Jersey."

"Yeah."

"Thing is that Wyland has a degenerative disease that's slowing him down," Derek said. "In the two years since we were onto him, he's obviously remained in-state, but he's only moved a little further up along the trail. I think we need to operate on the premise that he'll stick to a smaller area."

"Mm, right," Luke murmured. "Wyland was seen in Wind Gap right outside the trail, but the Davises were killed about ten miles north here off the trail. Before that, when y'all were close to arresting him, he was in Jonestown. It's eighty miles difference from Jonestown to the abduction site, and just ten miles from Wind Gap to the abduction site," Luke said. "And he's moving north along the trail towards Jersey."

Derek sighed, turning to Wilks. "Any caves, any mine shafts within this area? Last time, that's where Wyland's bunker was."

"I know of 'em, but there's probably some that are undiscovered," Wilks answered.

"Then assuming that he's still moving north, we'll need to rake this area with a fine-tooth comb," Derek asserted.

Luke spoke up. "Best way to do this is to go beyond that radius you've set up, and work from the outside in so that we close in on him on all sides, control the very edges of his path."

"Mm." Derek nodded in agreement. "We need to do whatever we can to make sure that Wyland doesn't get pressured to kill Gunther. He will feel the walls closing in, and when he does"—he swallowed. He thought he was over this—"he won't hesitate to get rid of him, and possibly even himself. He won't want to go back to prison."

Derek's phone rang, and he put it on speaker.

"Hey, JJ, you're on speaker."

"Hey, so"—Jennifer puffed out an aborted breath—"one of the dogs followed Gunther's scent to West Fork Martins Creek. The scent goes cold from here."

Derek sighed after looking at the map. They were definitely moving northeast to cross into Jersey.

"Derek," she began, sighing out, "they found all of Gunther's clothes down in the creek, and a sheared clump of his hair, too."

Derek ticked his head and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remove anything intrusive. "That's probably what he was doing in Wind Gap. He was spotted near the indoor flea market there. Probably brought kids clothes."

"So he's . . ." Jennifer paused and her voice shook, though Derek couldn't tell if it was from profound sadness, one of her rare displays of untapped anger, or if it had to do with the terrible timing of all of this. "He's changing Gunther's appearance. He's planning on travelling with him."

"Hey, um, JJ, was it? This is Luke Alvez from the FTF. Definitely looks like he's heading into Jersey."

"Unbelievable."

"Mm," Derek hummed. "Looking like this case might take us back to Worthington, the National Recreation Center, Stokes, or High Point if he manages to get far enough."

Jennifer groaned on the other line. "Damn."

"I feel like something's goin' over my head here," Luke said with an impatient sigh.

"We had a case back in April around there," Derek said evasively. "It's gone cold."

"Ah, I got you," Luke responded, kicking his head back. "The unsub's a fugitive or . . ."

"No. We dunno their identities yet, and they . . . abducted someone while we were on the case. We had to leave it behind."

Jennifer was silent on the other end of the line.

Luke shook his head. His jaw tightened, his brows furrowed, and with a strained voice, he said, "I hate those cases. I know a thing or two about 'em, and they eat at you. I need to be able to catch a bastard."

Wilks spoke up. "If you say that the guy has an injury or some type of degenerative disease that's slowing him down, then he's going to avoid this area of the Kittatinny Mountains." He then pointed to the map, tapping it twice. "This end of the Appalachian trail, there's tons of pedestrian traffic."

"Right. He'll want to avoid people at all costs, so he'll try crossing the Delaware at some other point," Luke said, leaning closer to the map. He then pointed to a small island right in the middle of the two states in the Delaware River. "Right here. This Arrow Island place. A separate SAR team should mobilize and see if he's trying to lay low here."

Within less than half an hour, a different SAR team was scouring the small forested island in the middle of the Delaware River.

When Aaron woke up, he was in the backseat of a car—the very same one David showed Derek earlier, he was sure—and David was in the front seat wearing a ridiculous, old-timey outfit—gloves, hat, and all. Hadn't they been going on about a new case?

At a perturbing chill and upon looking down at himself, he realized that he was wearing a hospital gown. And only a hospital gown. "What—"

The car rolled to a stop, though, and he stepped out, walking the red carpet to a door that was opening and—

He was inside, now, and a red balloon was floating before him. Curious, he followed it, and upon taking the footsteps, the echoing click of his heels in the empty lobby of the old theatre alerted him enough to look down and start at the tailcoat suit in which he was outfitted.

Ah. This isn't real. Of course it's not.

He followed the balloon that moved with purpose into the auditorium. A lone person was sitting within the rows and rows of seats, alight from a large, white screen on the stage. No, he realized, there was someone else sitting in the unlit shadows of the auditorium but was clouded and obscure in form. Naturally, he went to the familiar one.

He knew that silhouette, even if he could only see a part of it. He knew it well. Heat pooled behind his eyes, and they stung as he walked toward her.

She was so beautiful—radiant—and she glowed in that shining, satiny sage dress, glistened with the lights bouncing off her large, dark earrings.

"Hi, honey," Haley said as she looked over at him, smiling.

Oh god. Haley.

"I saved you a seat."

He moved toward her, she extended her hand to him, and he took it.

"You look so beautiful," Aaron said tearfully.

Haley chuckled. "You're not so bad yourself." She gave him an up-and-down once over.

He nearly fell into the seat, overwhelmed. "I miss you."

"I know."

There was a love in her eyes that he hadn't seen in years. Years. Before they divorced. Before things had taken such a terrible turn.

With a click and a whir, Haley turned excitedly to the white screen. "Ooh," she gasped in pleasure. "It's starting!"

So Aaron watched.

They were scenes of him and Jack.

"Oh, look how happy he is!" she sighed out. Yet with the next scene, her tone became playful and nefarious. "Who's that?"

"Her name is Beth."

"He's gotten so big." Haley's voice broke, and she gave a melancholy hum.

Aaron looked at her, while her eyes were glowing with her tears and the light of the screen, her expression was soft and content. Again, Aaron looked at the screen.

"Oh, she's really good with him."

Speaking around a lump in his throat, Aaron's voice broke as he spoke. "She's not you, and I think that—"

"Oh!" Haley gasped.

The fond scenes had flashed into devastating ones:

There was Elle laying in the hospital bed after she had been attacked in her own home by Randall Garner. In another moment, she was standing at her father's grave, apologizing.

There was the team in Sarah Jacob's apartment after Frank had left the carnage of his work behind on her body and on the walls while Jason was temporarily evading the authorities.

Spencer was being beaten by Tobias, and then he was gasping, pitched breaths scratching out before his body went still.

Penelope was laying in the hospital bed after having been shot.

Emily sitting in the jet, her face purpling with bruises and cuts she sustained from being beaten by Benjamin Cyrus.

"Aaron, what is this all?"

Spencer was laid up in the hospital, recovering from the Anthrax-strain poisoning, and then in another, he was in crutches, holding up himself with his shattered knee.

Aaron watched, then, in fascination as George sat atop him, stabbed him again and again with a deliberate hand. And then there was Haley and Jack swinging on swings, and then Haley was laying on the floor, bloodied.

"Aaron, please make this stop."

Emily was being rolled from a gurney into a hospital with a large wooden shaft boring through her, he and Jennifer consulted with each other, they were burying a coffin filled with bags of sand. The team fell apart, and he was reassigned to a task force that took him overseas.

"Aaron."

In flashes, Aaron saw Spencer begging him for help, Maeve being murdered alongside Diane, the car accident, Alex's body being rolled into the ambulance. He saw the director trying to break up the team. And at last, he and Haley saw the recurrence of that dream he'd had just earlier, that which had woken him, that which was an ever approaching reality haunting the corner of his mind: Spencer's battered, pale, stiff body, devastated and splayed on the side of the road with a white bed sheet fluttering around him as cars drove by.

"Oh, Spencer! Aaron, what's happened?"

Aaron turned to Haley. "I'm not enough, Haley," he gasped out, ashamed. "I keep failing."

"Oh, stop beating yourself up," she said softly. "You're a great dad. And you're an amazing leader. You always have been."

Aaron was tearful, and his voice couldn't push beyond that of a whisper. "It's hard. Jack misses you."

"Well, then you should talk about me more," Haley retorted in feigned upset.

Aaron looked at her again, and felt like his face was drenched in fluids coming from every orifice. A childish mess.

"You should talk more, period." She touched his face, wiped it. "He's not like you, Aaron. He needs to hear the words."

They looked back at the screen, and it was another fond memory of Jack making a goal in soccer. Haley whooped, encouraging him.

The scene then turned to Aaron and Spencer. They both watched as Aaron and Spencer first met when he was still a mousy, anxious graduate of the FBI Academy and when Jason had asked him to be Spencer's training agent. There was Spencer being invited to dinner at his home, and Haley shoving enough food on his plate for two people.

Haley barked in laughter. "Hah! Do you remember that, Aaron? Spencer was so shy back then. Is he still?"

In another scene, he and Spencer were at the shooting range, and Spencer was frustrated.

In another, Spencer was swallowing nervously, looking up as Aaron and Derek approached his desk and nodding in understanding as his face broke into a nervous smile. In a flash, they were at the BAU bullpen and putting his packed things on his new, permanent desk.

He and Spencer and Derek and Penelope were working their first case together.

Spencer was unable to contain himself at the start of a new, pressing case when Aaron asked him to go to the FBI Academy to fetch Jason, who'd begun guest lecturing there.

Spencer was wearing a silly hat and telling Jason and him about Jennifer calling him Spence with a puckish smile.

Spencer aimed a small gun at Philip Dowd and put a bullet right between his eyes.

It went on and on: Spencer reasoning with Theodore Bryar to deescalate a perilous situation; calming an enraged and mourning Eric Miller; taking care that Nathan Harris got the help he needed and then saving his life; removing his Kevlar vest in objection of what a case was turning to be and later standing before Owen Savage, protecting him from shots that would surely kill him if those around were to open fire; fending off Chester Hardwick with the power of his words; approaching him and requesting that he conduct a series of interviews in an effort to draw Adam back out of Amanda Jackson. There were a plethora of other moments where Aaron was so proud to have been Spencer's training agent, and later his superior, and later his friend—where he was proud to have helped Spencer grow into the person he had become.

But there was Spencer, again, with Tobias Hankel; there he was standing in Aaron's office and lying about his recent behavior and evading questions about his drug habit; there was Spencer cleaning out Jason's office; there was Spencer mourning Emily; there was Spencer on his knees before the dead body of Maeve, shoulders quaking.

"Oh god, Haley," Aaron gasped out. "I've failed him."

With a disgusted and dejected air, Alex and David came from the ME, where they went after viewing the murder scene.

"What's going on, guys?" Derek asked.

Alex sighed and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Wyland didn't wait to get to any bunker to assault Gunther," she said.

Derek straightened and gave them both a grave look.

"What are you saying?" Luke asked darkly.

David shook his head, and Alex's hand tucked under her neck, fingers rubbing at her clavicle. "We just came from the ME and CSU also ran an AP Test on scene. There were sperm clusters inside the kids' tent."

"Shit," Luke ground out, jaws tightening. "You're tellin' me that this son of a bitch killed this kid's family and he assaulted him at the scene."

Alex's eyes slipped closed, unable to imagine the fear or the pain that must be going through Gunther.

"The family wasn't tied up or anything," David murmured. "Evidence is showing that Brandon was murdered in the kids' tent with Gunther there, and that his body was dragged to the parents' tent. It seems that they were killed first."

"How were they killed?" Derek asked.

"All three of them with a single laceration at the throat from one ear clear to the other. Damn near severed Brandon's head off."

"Damn," Luke spat out. "This son of a bitch is ruthless." He was turning red in the face.

David regarded Luke incisively but said nothing.

"Mm," Alex agreed, rubbing her clavicle with more fervor.

"This violence is definitely an evolution in his MO, like Hotch mentioned," Derek said. "Last time, Robert says Wyland threatened to hurt the family. This time he just takes 'em out, ensures the kid's cooperation, and has greater time to enact his transgressions on his victim."

"But he didn't have the sense of self-preservation to wait until he had secreted Gunther," David added. "His urges are too compulsive, so we might be looking at someone who's devolving."

Derek looked down in thought. "They did the same thing," he murmured.

"Who did what?" Luke asked.

Derek cleared his throat. Being up here, the proximity to where everything was centered, the timing—it all brought back the fresh memories. "The, uh—the case that I mentioned to you earlier."

"Yeah?"

"The perpetrator—one of the perpetrators." He debated on how to explain this. "After staging an attack, instead of just abducting their—their victim, one of the unsubs took the time to asphyxiate them before abducting them. It was a compulsion."

Luke quirked his lip. "But he left behind a witness."

"What?" Alex asked, nearly gasping the word out.

"Your unsub." Luke looked at Alex, then at Aaron and David. "On that case. He left behind a witness. Someone obviously recounted the event."

"Mm. Yeah," Derek said tightly.

"This guy, Wyland, he's covering all his tracks, though," Luke argued. "One and done, slice their necks and leave no room for error. Leave no one to survive."

"Yeah, the, uh, witness that survived that attack on that case . . . shouldn't have," Alex said. She reached into her bag and pulled out her sling. Of a sudden, there were pangs all over her chest and belly, and the smarting of her clavicle was too intense.

The air was heavy; it weighed upon them all, including Luke, who watched as David helped Alex with the sling.

There was no one to be found at Arrow Island, but there were signs of foot traffic and a shoddy campground that might have been left mere hours ago.

"He probably did it at night," Agent Alvez reasoned. "Hopped over North Delaware Drive, went past the tracks, crossed the river at Arrow Island and camped out there for a couple of days. Leaves predawn in the morning, hits Route 80 in Jersey and is probably well into the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Center by now."

The Unit simultaneously worked on informing the media. Shane Wyland and Gunther Davis' faces were blasted everywhere that they could be, both in Pennsylvania and in New Jersey, in media outlets as well as variable-message signs on roadways. Campers, off-trail hikers, and thru-hikers were all informed to keep an open eye for the two, but not to approach or engage due to the delicacy of the situation.

People on the tip line were none too kind, though:

'Yeah, no. I'm pretty sure that these FBI guys have a pretty bad track record at this point of helping in these cases. Leave it to the locals. We know how to handle our own.'

'Aren't these the same agents that lost someone on their watch pretty much not too far from here? Like a cop or another agent or somethin'? Guess that kid's as good as gone.'

'This is really close to the Stokes State Forest, agents. Just my two-cents, but these cases might be related. Are you gonna let little Gunther disappear like you did with Marion Knowles and that law official?'

They were largely ignored, but they did leave many of the rangers and Luke with questions.

"I haven't been able to get into contact with Gunther's next of kin, Derek," Penelope said into the phone. "I can't take not having anyone to inform. This is giving me anxiety. And Hotch is still in surgery. I have agita and you know I don't deal well with it. What if we don't catch him and he—"

"Pump your breaks, Garcia," Derek suggested. It seemed like everyone needed to lately. "You good?"

"Yeah, no, I'm good. I'll talk to you guys later."

Luke, who'd overheard the exchange, gave Derek a hard stare. "What's with the techie?"

"It's no big deal, man."

"I just feel like this kid's life is on the line, yeah? And for some reason, I feel like your guys' heads aren't in the game. I know y'all are worried about your unit chief and you have that case up in Jersey and all, but you good to concentrate on this?"

Derek sighed, tried not to take the abrasive tone personally, and went for a professional bearing. "Nah, you're right. We haven't been very present with this case. Moving forward that won't be an issue for you."

"I mean, I get it, by the way. I had a bad case a few months ago, too, man, and since then . . ." He sighed, shook his head, and his face reddened again—not for the first time today—as his jaws clenched.

"It's all good," Derek said. He gave an aborted sigh. "Listen, you're trying to do your job and we're trying to save this kid. I was just—"

"Bro, bro, you listen. Don't explain anything to me. I get it. You guys seem to be gettin' a lotta heat from the media and from the tip lines, and it's not an easy case. I get it, man." And then he cleared his throat. "The person that was abducted while you guys were on your case a few months ago," Luke began. "It was an agent, wasn't it? Someone on your guys' team? You guys are the agents from that unit, yeah?"

Derek cleared his throat. "We're—we're tryin' to keep things low key if you feel me, so—"

Luke shook his head. "Daniel Cullen."

"Who?" Derek asked. "Wait, isn't that the perp that people called The Crimson King? Damn, that was you that got him?"

"Same guy," Luke answered. "Back in March, after we'd just finished a case down in Mexico, me and my partner—we were tasked to apprehend Cullen. So my partner decided to go undercover so that we could lure 'im out, yeah?"

Derek sighed.

"I tell people that we caught him in the act. It's true. Except something went wrong, and Cullen had my partner. You know what the asshole kept telling my boy? Try not to flinch. He kept telling him not to flinch every time he cut him up, and when my partner did , he cut him again like it was all some damn joke."

Derek blinked something out of his eyes, trying to disappear the images of Spencer being beaten, whipped, strangled him, or raped. His stomach jittered, and he had to suppress a groan. He couldn't. He was healing over this. They were all trying to heal over this at this point.

"We finally caught him, but it wasn't worth nearly losing my partner who's now going through all kinds of therapy. He's not the same guy anymore."

Derek's chest tightened. God. But he turned his attention to Luke, who was willingly giving of himself to Derek and trying to empathize with him, and he would be remiss if he didn't acknowledge that. He struggled to find the right words.

"It's—that's—that's heavy, man."

"Yeah," Luke agreed.

"I'm sorry about your partner."

"I'm sorry about your teammate, man. Even though what happened to my partner happened months ago now, it's still fresh and I"—Luke swallowed—"I'm not gonna say I know exactly what you're goin' through, but I get it."

"Thanks."

"So he's been missing for . . ."

"Since end of April," Derek said in a thready voice. "One of the last vics that they kept in captivity—he was killed in a three-and-a-half-month span and we're a couple of weeks past that point of when our teammate was abducted. We don't know if there's a timeline these guys are working with but . . . unsubs usually accelerate their timelines. So it's just . . . it's just adjusting to the reality. The kid's a brother to me, you get me?"

"I get you. Sorry, man."

"And stuff that's goin' on with this case—the fact that we're also dealing with things in Jersey that happened in pretty much the same area—it's—"

"It's a lot," Luke finished.

"Yeah."

"I get you. And to be honest, this case is makin' me rethink a lotta things."

"Yeah?"

"I've never been good at sitting around brainstorming things about guys like Wyland or Cullen. I need the chase, you feel me? But, after Cullen . . . and now I've been chasin' after this guy for a couple of months—I dunno, man. The things I've had to see and hear when I've gone undercover just so I can catch this guy—I feel like something's gettin' snuffed outta me. For sure I just wanna find this bastard. But I'm having doubts if I wanna keep working in the task force."

"Well, we could use you for this case," Derek said, voice shifting to a light tone. "Have your mid-work crisis after we catch this son of a bitch."

"Ah-ha!" Luke laughed. "Yeah, I'll wait 'til I'm done with this guy first. After that, I dunno." He shook his head, clearing something from it.

"Oh, Aaron," Haley sighed out. "Don't do this to yourself. You didn't fail him. Stop this. Let me see Beth again."

And there Beth was. She was running with him; she was smiling at him and he at her.

"She's cute ."

Another person was moseying into the aisle, spilling a carton of popcorn, excusing himself, apologizing. Aaron looked to the darkened corner of the theatre and saw that figure was still there, so this was someone else plunking right next to Haley despite all of the empty seats surrounding them.

The nerve—

The hoodie drew down, and Aaron started. "What's he doing here?" he gritted out, angered, frightened, disgusted at the sight of the very man who'd murdered his wife, attacked him, stabbed him, robbed him of so many things.

"Oh, it's okay," Haley said distractedly, barely bothered that the man sitting next to her was the man who took her life. "I invited him."

Invited hi—

The scene changed again.

"Wowza ," George said, leering. "She is hot. "

"Mm," Haley agreed. "Isn't she?"

"I would tear that up." George laughed at his own joke.

Why is she smiling?

"Hey." George turned bodily to Aaron. "I bet she's a real tiger in the sack, huh?"

To Aaron, this was goading, needling, and he knew well the implications of those words.

And George did just that: "I wonder how that works, buddy, since—well"—his gaze ticked down and he gave a sobering wink—"you know."

Aaron's face hadn't faltered. His shoulders hadn't fallen. His hands were still braced on the back of his seat and on the seat in front of him. He was still facing George, poised, muscles taut, and ready to do to George what he had done to him. With his two hands, he would kill the man right here.

"Oh, popcorn?" The popcorn was offered to Aaron.

"No."

"Would you like some?" It was offered to Haley.

"Ooh! Yes, thank you!" Haley responded pleasantly, taking some and eating it.

The three turned back to the screen. In the corner of Aaron's eye, the glint of George's revolver shone in the dark arena before it pressed against Haley's belly and fired.

In the few remaining hours of the day, Penelope dug into the deep recesses of Shane Wyland's history, far beyond the surface of what she'd done the first time they dealt with him. Everyone had sobered. CSI had uncovered evidence of additional heinous activity at Arrow Island.

Derek and David were looking at a map covering surrounding states. "Yo, Alvez," Derek started, "is there anything in the profile we've gathered that doesn't track right with you?"

"Mm." Luke tilted his head, patting his fist against his chin. "You might not like it much."

"Well then we're all the more eager to hear it," David urged.

"Okay, so, when it comes to tracking a fugitive," Luke started, "you can't analyze his actions on the outside without taking into account what he did on the inside."

"Mm, and what was it he did on the inside?"

"Well in the original case, didn't he go to one of the guys he did time with while he was in prison?"

"Yeah?"

"So the guy established connections while he was incarcerated and while he was at that halfway house, right? I was just looking over that list of inmates that were in that same building as the guy he got his drugs from. You think Wyland only ever had dealings with just the one dude?"

David kicked his head back. "He's still connected to some of them. He kept them as a resource."

"So I think what we have to do is figure out why he keeps heading up towards Jersey when he's originally a Pennsylvania native and would feel safer in this element."

They called Penelope and had her check the list of those parolees that shared the address at the halfway house in Harrisburg.

"Wait, guys," Penelope said, keyboard clacking. "Wait. Okay. It looks like one of them—Gregory Rogers—moved to Blairstown up in Jersey back in March," Penelope answered. "It's a short hop and a skip from the Appalachian Trail. And he went into prison back in the 90s for some really perverted stuff."

"Thanks Garcia," Derek said. He looked out at the Sheriff, David, and Luke. "So there's a chance he's headed up to Blairstown for a haven. These dudes networked with each other. Garcia, get local PD to run surveillance at Roger's new residence. It's likely Wyland's headed there."

"On it."

"And we'll intercept Wyland on our end," Luke added.

While mobilizing, what Derek predicted came to pass: Shane Wyland didn't get any further than the Delaware National Recreation Center before people recognized him and Gunther. It was close to sunset, and Shane had taken Gunther to another creek right in Worthington State Forest. He was hemmed in, and he began with his demands.

They were already crossing the Route 80 bridge to get into New Jersey. Derek and David were with Luke, and Sheriff Miller, Derek, Alex, and Jennifer were in another SUV following suit along with other law enforcement.

"We're gonna follow your lead, Alvez," David said. "But are you familiar with hostage negotiation techniques?"

"Gotta admit I'm really not," Luke said.

"You wanna tell Wyland first and foremost to talk to you. Have him confirm that Gunther's alive and that he's okay since we wanna try to establish trust with him. He gives us a sign of faith, we can give him one, too."

"Okay."

"Build rapport with him and be patient with him. Listen to him actively and—"

"Yo, Agent Rossi, I'm not too proud to admit when somethin's a little too high above my head. I've already mentioned it to Morgan, but I'm not really a brainwork type of guy. I'm pretty damn tired of sitting patiently and holding these kinds of peoples' hands. I don't wanna get that kid killed. Take me out of negotiating. Let me handle tactical."

"Whatever's needed to make sure that we don't lose Gunther," David said. "And that this time, Wyland gets put in a five by eight where he can live out whatever life he has left to live as a failure instead of dying thinking that he's accomplished something."

Luke shook his head, clenching his jaws as a grim smile split his lips. "Mm-mm. I'm not there yet," he murmured. "Wouldn't mind putting him six feet under, though."

And David truly looked at this agent.

Shane Wyland was backed into the wall of a rocky, mossy gorge. Gunther—dirty, frightened, and sniveling—was pressed against his captor who held him up like a shield.

"Please! Please, help me!"

Derek ordered that anyone who wasn't a law official be cordoned and cleared from the scene. The agents and Sheriff Miller were keeping their distance, and Luke was setting himself up tactically after having assessed the best angle to get to Wyland without him noticing.

"I will slice this kid just like I did to the rest of his damn family if you don't—back—off!" Shane screamed, pressing the bowie knife under Gunther's jaw.

"I understand, Shane," Derek responded in a low voice.

"Please, sir—"

"Shut up!"

"Shane," Derek began. "Hey, man. Look at me." He pulled his hand away from his gun and held them out. "I'm holstering my gun, okay?" He did just so. "We need to be reasonable, Shane. We can't just let you get out of here. There are a lot of families—a lot of lives that you've damaged."

"Hell if I care about them!" Shane hissed. "I ain't goin' back to jail." He shook Gunther, who was now sobbing, for emphasis. "I know what goes down from here, gentlemen . So I may as well take this kid down with me."

The knife pressed further into his flesh.

Gunther screeched and broke into begging again. "Please, please, sir, please, don't! I just wanna—please, let me go! I just wanna go home!"

"Wyland? Wyland?" Derek's hands were held in front of him in a calming gesture, head crooked. "You're not gonna kill him, you hear me? You're not gonna kill him. This ends in two ways: peacefully, with Gunther safe and you taking a ride, or this face is the last you see."

"No. No. I'm not goin' to jail , so we're at an impasse"—the knife pulled away from Gunther's neck as it was waved at Derek—"'cause I'll slice him open before you riddle me with any—"

A shot echoed out, Wyland's head snapped back, and the bowie knife dropped from his hand as he roared, falling to his side. Blood soaked his forearm where the bullet had struck him. In the same moment Gunther wailed and bent forward on his hands and knees in abject terror.

Derek dove forward to pull Gunther away from Wyland, who went for the bowie knife again, and David rushed ahead to kick it further away from the scrambling fingers and then wrangle the monster.

Derek turned with Wyland and he looked up to catch Luke pulling up his long range rifle from his vantage point at the top of the gorge.

"Hey, guys. How is he? How's Gunther?" Penelope sounded doleful on the other end of the line.

Jennifer gave a soft sigh. "He's pretty traumatized by it all. He passed out from the stress of the last few days, but he's going to make it."

"Oh, oh, good."

"I'm behind the ambulance and headed to the hospital. Alex is in the ambulance with him."

"The poor thing. I finally got a hold of his closest relatives. A maternal aunt. She lives out in Minnesota and she's flying over."

"Oh good."

"Not really," Penelope drawled in hesitation. "She had a record seven years back of being drunk and disorderly, so CPS is also heading over to assess if she'll be fit to look after Gunther. If not, then . . . he'll be put into the system."

"God . . . An innocent weekend getaway that turned into the most horrific three days of his life. And things will never be the same for him."

"Ugh. I hate this. It's so unfair."

"That was a damn good shot, Alvez," Derek acknowledged.

Luke shook his head. "Took a lot for me not to put it in his head."

"I know. But now that kid is safe, and there's another high-ranked fugitive off the Most Wanted."

"Mm. Nothin' was gonna talk him down from the edge. I just knew it. Knew I had to take that shot. I just . . . That kid's gonna have to live with that additional horror, and I made that call in that split second."

"It was a good one," David said from the front seat. "What you did was that you saved Gunther. In the end, that's what matters the most."

Luke cleared his throat and swallowed. "I gotta admit that saving that kid's life did more for me than taking down Wyland."

"You ever think about being a profiler?" David asked.

Luke sighed. "I was telling Morgan earlier. I'm not good with the whole sitting and thinking bit. I'm more of a manhunter. I don't really think I'd be much good as a profiler."

"I disagree," David argued. "You have the seed there. From where I'm sittin', you did us a lot of good on the case in just the mere hours we worked together. Profiling is just as good as manhunting. It's mind-hunting."

Luke lowered his jowls and nodded, mulling over the words. "Mm." And then he shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "These past few months, and now this . . . I dunno. It's . . . usually that thrill of the catch for me."

"Meh." David shrugged his shoulders. "You know, a guy I know who's pretty hard on himself—he's said to me before that he tries not to think about the ones he's gonna catch and prefers to think about the ones he's going to save." David turned back to Luke. "Mm? The ones we're collectively going to save."

Luke quirked his brow, expression dubious. "Y'all don't wanna catch the guys that have your teammate?" As soon as the question left his lips, though, he regretted it. He immediately sought to save himself, and to spare Derek. "I sorta figured it out over the day, between your reactions and the stuff that came through the tip line."

"Of course we want to save him," David answered. "And sussing that out didn't take a lot of profiling, but maybe in a few months or years' time, you'll be able to figure out how I know you had a conversation with Derek about it, or how I know that you've also had a partner or teammate who's gone through something similar recently and that's why you were unable to check yourself often during this case."

Luke looked over to Derek inquisitively; Derek, in return, shook his head, making a slicing motion near his neck a couple of times, effectively telling Luke not to argue while he was ahead.

"Sometimes we have to focus our attention elsewhere, though," David continued, "and work on the active cases." And then he shrugged. "Anyway, I don't say this lightly, or to just anyone. If you're having doubts about how to continue your career as a federal agent, give profiling some thought. Your call about the reason why Wyland was headed to Jersey was pretty solid. It's not profiling but as a start, I hear the Newark Field Office can use a good SSA."

Upon the blast of the bullet in the empty theatre, Aaron recalled punching George in his old home. He was slamming his body onto the floor. He was seeing that vision again of Emily being wheeled into the hospital. And then he was receiving another phone call from Sheriff Reiner and being told that there was another body, and this time it was Spencer. He was seeing that ravaged body laying still under that flapping white sheet.

There was another flash, and he was here again. "Haley!" He pulled off his jacket and pressed it against her abdomen. "No, no, no, no. I need more pressure!" He then screamed to the back of the hall, "Somebody help me!" To the shrouded silhouette: "You, please, help me!"

"Would you pipe down a little bit?" George asked in irritation. "Good Lord, my man."

Haley was enjoying what was on the screen, unphased by the bullet wound, unphased by the blood pouring out of her.

Why weren't they seeing this as urgent? Why were they not bothered by this? Aaron looked at the wound before looking straight at her. "Haley, I'm sorry; this is all my fault," he said in one breath.

"Oh my god, come on," George groaned in impatience.

Aaron was looking after the wound, though. There was so much blood. His hands were covered in it. "I can't stop the bleeding," he said, voice pitched in desperation. And then he sobbed: "I can't stop the bleeding."

He was looking at her again, and she finally turned her eyes from the screen to him. "It's okay," she cajoled. "You're not supposed to."

"She's right," George agreed, impatient. "So can we watch the show?" He whispered out a snarky, sarcastic Thank you.

Aaron looked at the both of them incredulously before looking back at Haley. "Haley, I'm sorry, this is all my fault."

"Mm-hmm," Haley murmured, distracted by what was on the screen, not registering Aaron's words. Next to her, George was still eating the popcorn. Breathless, she sighed out at something on the screen, laughing again.

Then she gasped.

"Ooh, what's this?" George hissed, tickled.

Aaron turned to the screen again, and there it was again. Why did this keep showing up?

Alex was being taken into the ambulance.

"Who's that?" George asked. "She's new. A little old for my tastes but it looks like someone went to town on her the way I like to. Looks a little too alive, th—Oh! There goes my friend, Derek Morgan."

Derek was bounding towards a distressed Jennifer in the nighttime scene.

"There's Ms Jareau. Oof, I would've loved to have torn her to shreds, too, you know. Mm-mm-mm; she would have been scrum-diddly-umptious! And there's David Rossi. Where's Ms Prentiss? Where's that bookish one? Dr Reid?"

Jennifer and Derek were coming past the line of trees, and Jennifer was distressed. The scene flashed to pictures of Noah in the mortuary, of Zachary in the forest, of Marion at the overlook, and then of Spencer on the side of the highway.

"Aaron Hotchner!" George decried. "Don't tell me—"

There was Maeve in a photograph. Another with her and Bobby Putnam. And then Maeve and Diane with their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek, with Spencer standing before them, pleading, and Maeve said something to Spencer. Diane, tearful and resolute, turned the gun on herself and pulled the trigger.

"Ohoho, damn," George murmured in misplaced glee. "Although, I mean, I sure woulda loved to see that pretty girl there stab the other one a few times instead. Just my two-cents, y'know? Stabbing? More fun. Guns are too quick. But stabbing . . ." He groaned a vulgar moan and trembled. "Oof! So, so fulfilling. Trust me, I would know. Right, Aaron?"

The film ended with the words The End emblazoned in white on the black background.

George groaned licentiously, kicking his head back then sighing out. "That. Was. Awesome."

Aaron was aghast.

"Well," Haley started.

Aaron turned to her.

"It's time to go," she finished.

He looked down, and there was no blood.

"I gotta go relieve myself, if you get my drift," George asserted, winking. "I'll meet you guys out in the lobby, all right?" He leaned over and good-naturedly patted Aaron's arm.

"Okay," Haley said, smiling at George fondly.

Aaron didn't understand. He didn't understand, and he hated it. It was disgusting. George killed her! How could she be so complacent with her murderer? The rage was blinding and in a flash, she and Aaron were exiting the hall and were back in the lobby.

"Well this was . . . interesting," Haley said, voice even. " Loved the parts with Jack for sure."

"I don't want you to go," Aaron said.

Haley laughed. "What about Jack?" She looked back at him as she continued to the lobby doors to go outside. "And . . . Aaron, what about Beth? Jack needs you. The team needs you. I think there was a reason why you kept seeing them more than you saw her. They need someone who can still keep them together to get through what you're all going through—what you know is probably a reality."

"I like her."

"I do, too. Jack does, too. But I think you're not being fair to her. She's got a career of her own, and she keeps getting those offers overseas. You're at a crossroads and your devotion right now is . . ." She gave an ambiguous hum. "Well, It's a little divided. Juggling a relationship, bringing up our son, and dealing with the team as they are—something's gotta give. You can't juggle too much, and you can't be disingenuous to her."

Aaron sighed. From the corner of his eye, a shadow flitted, and he tried to catch its form. That little distraction was enough for Haley to continue her way out the cinema. He rushed in front of her, halting her in her steps.

"I want to stay with you."

"Oof. Running from your problems, Aaron Hotchner?" Haley tutted. "Well we both know that's never been your way." Her face softened. "I know you're the big boss man, but you can't always blame yourself when something happens to someone on your team." She began gliding past him. "Sometimes you just go where the wind sets your sails. Go with the flow, ya know?"

"I don't know how," he gasped out desperately.

"Of course you do. Happiness is a choice. Your happiness comes from Jack first and foremost. It next comes from working with a team of people devoted to saving lives and putting away people who make the world a nasty place. You're a bit hesitant to highlight that reality for Jack again, aren't you? Afraid of letting our son become that much more world-weary?"

Aaron blinked. "You're also feeling guilt, which is an anchor. Guilt for not being a better husband, lover, protector, or leader. Am I wrong?"

A frustrated puff of air escaped Aaron's nose. "No," was the simple answer.

"I didn't think so. So draw the anchor up, and continue sailing, mister. You worked up from being the worst fourth pirate in the history of a play to being the captain, ya know? Or Unit Chief." She winked.

They were outside, now, and Aaron felt the chill upon his skin. He was in the gown again.

"But how? How do I lead without feeling like I've failed everyone?"

Behind Haley, David was waiting for him, leaning against his car.

"Get outta your head." She said it like it was the most obvious answer, smiling at him long-sufferingly. "The heart is the one that knows, so follow it, and let it be your strength. Use it to love Jack. And use it to have compassion for the people you save and to lead the ones under you with tenderness and care. Because, Aaron, those teammates of yours are a little worse for wear."

"Hey, what gives!" It was George. He was holding the string of the red balloon Aaron had seen earlier, and his clothes were changed. "I thought we were gonna meet in the lobby!" No one answered him. "Oh, anyone gonna catch the subway downtown?" he asked. "I hear it's gonna be a hot one." He chuckled. "No?" No one answered. "Alright then. Hey. This was great. Yeah?"

Again, Haley was looking at George with that strange, familiar fondness, and Aaron just couldn't understand it.

George moved toward Haley, embracing her. "We gotta do this again."

And then George moved to him, embracing him too. "Take care of yourself, alright?" He squeezed, groaning in appreciation.

Aaron's stomach turned.

"Jeez Louise, loosen up a little bit, will you?" George's said in concern. "Would it kill you to smile? Seriously." He gave Haley one last look before taking to the street. He disappeared before he had even crossed it fully.

Aaron's gaze glided back to Haley, who smiled at him. "Think about what I said about Beth. And don't overthink things with Spencer. Don't blame yourself about him, okay?"

She approached him and took his hand, placing something warm and circular in it.

Oh god, no, Haley.

She tightened her hand over his, and leaned forward.

Oh god.

They kissed, and she pulled away. "Goodbye, Aaron," she said. "And yes. I still love you, too." It was said softly. "Think about Beth. Or, maybe, I dunno—you always figure out how to work things out."

She pulled back and began to walk away from him, looking at him fondly. She, too, disappeared in the street.

Tearfully, Aaron looked down at the ring, then made his way to the car with numbed footsteps. He sat in it, and David closed the door for him before walking to the driver's side, sitting in it and starting the engine.

As the car began to pull away, that shadow flickered in the corner of Aaron's vision again, and he took one last look back at the theatre, jolting. Spencer was standing there watching him, but his figure was watery and undulating, not at all discernable like Haley or George.

"Rei—"

His body ricocheted as something collided against their car.

The wrenching of his body into a softened bed below him was jarring. Opening his eyes, Aaron found that he was looking heavenward, and a steady, rhythmic beeping droned on.

"Hi? Sir?" Oh, that was Penelope's voice.

He blinked and looked to his right.

"Welcome back?"

And Penelope's face, split with a warm smile.

Oh, how glad he was to hear and see her.

"Do you feel okay?" she asked in concern. "Do you need anything?"

He swallowed. "What happened?"

"Uh, y-you collapsed. And . . . and they performed emergency surgery because you were bleeding internally. And, sir, you had extremely low blood-sugar levels. You also had a hernia at the site of one of your"—she took an intake of air—"one of your old stab wounds. There was a perforation in the lining where your innards decided—to—become an outtard. But you're fine! There were some complications with the operation, but you're"—again, she took in a gasp of air, pleased, relieved—"you're ok. I mean, you're, like, as healthy as a puma." She prattled. "A bedridden puma. But my point is you're gonna be fine."

Aaron swallowed.

"Sir?"

"Mm?"

"Sir—all of this. All of it. Are you stressed, sir?"

He swallowed again, and heat built behind his eyes.

"Because. We . . . I understand. Noah was killed three and a half months in. And"—she now swallowed, and she blinked tears from her eyes—"and it's been a couple of weeks since that three-and-a-half-month mark—since they took Reid."

Aaron swallowed again and was unable to focus on Penelope's words without wanting to roar. "Where's Jack?" he gasped out.

Her face fell at his evasion. "He's at home with Jessica. Shall I send for him?"

"Please."

Again, she was nodding.

"Uh, and I need my phone."

Penelope handed it to him.

"Thank you. I . . . I need to call Beth."

She was putting things in her bag, expression glum and doleful. "Okay. I'm gonna call Jessica"—she stood up, wrapping her bag in the crook of her elbow—"and let the team know you're ok."

It happened before he was ready. Penelope was plunging herself forward and squeezing him.

"Oh!" he gasped out.

"I'm sorry!" She rushed out, pulling away, hands flexing.

"It's okay."

"Sir, I'm sorry," Penelope said. She became tearful. "I'm just—I'm—I don't look it, but I'm really happy you're back." She paused and breathed out a heavy sigh. "My heart can't handle these things."

"Garcia." He paused. He could barely get his voice around the lump in his throat. Haley's manifestation said that he needed to have more compassion with his team. He thought he had been compassionate. But maybe it hadn't been enough.

"Sir?"

He needed to be better for them. He knew what everyone was thinking and feeling at this point—exactly what Penelope had just said, that Spencer could be dead at this point. They needed to begin shifting their focus, and he needed to be the one to help them in their silent mourning. He had done so when they thought Emily had died.

"Penelope."

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"Hm?" Her eyebrows perked up.

"Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for your compassion. I never thank you enough for being you."

"Oh, jinkies, sir . . ." Penelope wiped the corner of her eye and snickered. "Wild horses, sir. Just wild horses. Thank you for being you." She winked. "You're sorta the best and softest under all that—" She stiffened and pretended to be adjusting an invisible tie at her neck as her face became stolid.

He smiled in genuine amusement, laughed. "Don't ever change, Garcia."

"Oh, is that an order, sir?" she quipped.

"Not an order. A request from someone . . . who cherishes you for everything you are."

Penelope's face softened, her eyes glistened, and she placed a gentle hand on his. "Oh, Hotch, sir. You're not allowed to make my heart this full."

Penelope did as Aaron asked, and while he waited for his son and Jessica, she glowingly told him of how well the team did saving Gunther and apprehending Shane Wyland successfully.

Gunther's aunt had been interviewed heavily by CPS, and they were going to send a social worker to her home in a few days' time when she would travel back west. If she wasn't found fit to take care of him, then he would be entering the fostering system. But according to Jennifer and Alex, she seemed to have been working off her addiction for over five years and may be in the position to look after her traumatized nephew.

So, the team did well without him, yes, but he wanted to be sure that they would do well with him.

David knocked on the door to Aaron's room to announce his presence before he walked in. When Aaron turned to the doorway, he gave a brief smile.

"Dave, hey."

"How ya feelin', Aaron?" He eased into a chair at the bedside.

Aaron tipped his head. "Better than I was. Better than I've been these past couple of weeks, honestly."

"Mm."

"Explained everything to Jack while he was here."

David's eyebrows ticked up. "Ah. Not exactly the father-son time you'd been planning on, eh?"

"Mm, no. Second time he's had to do a hospital visit like this. Second time I've had to break awful news to him while I'm bedridden."

"One word, my friend. Therapy. And maybe for you both."

Aaron leaned his head back, smiling despite shaking his head. "Mm. Yeah."

There was a beat of silence.

"I hallucinated plenty while I was out, Dave."

"Oofa. Anything good or . . ."

"A few. But I kept seeing all these damn montages of ways I've just . . . failed this team. I saw Jack and I saw Beth in them, too. Haley was there, and"—he swallowed—"so was Foyet."

"Mm."

"You too. Driving me around in that classic you're fixin' up."

"Get outta town. It's not in driving condition quite yet. Hallucination Me ain't very responsible. Very ambitious dude."

Aaron laughed. "Mm." He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Reid was there, too. But he wasn't . . . he wasn't full or realized like Haley or Foyet. I only kept catching glimpses of him until the very end. Like some kind of specter. They're dead, and I see them as flesh and blood. But Reid. It's like he was caught somewhere, Dave. Like somewhere in my gut, he might not be gone."

"Mm."

"Schrodinger Reid."

David puffed out a genuine laugh, kicking his head back. His smile sobered. "Lord. The poor kid."

"I wanna believe he's still out there, Dave. I do. But."

"But there comes a time where we have to accept. We're continuing to do right by him, though, Aaron. We are. And we can do more."

Aaron sighed.

"Derek did a damn good job taking lead on this case, Aaron. We're not in over our heads. And there are people we can catch."

Aaron swallowed.

"But if you are . . ." David drawled, "if things are getting to be too much . . ."

"I'm not old news and washed up quite yet, Dave," Aaron quipped. "But I understand your message."

"Good. So." David plopped a folder on Aaron's lap before leaning back in his seat.

"What's this?" Aaron took the folder.

"That list of yours? Add this one. Personnel file of one Agent Luke Alvez." He then pointed to it. "He's good. I think good enough to go on your list."

"Ah . . ." Aaron took it, opened it, and peered at its contents.

"But"—David lowered his jowls—"not exactly a good fit right now. He's a bit moody; needs some time to get to a better place emotionally. Probably might take a good couple of years for that to come. This year's been a bit tough on him."

Aaron was going through the personnel file with cursory glances. "Mm," he hummed in agreement, eyebrows lifting.

"I have a proposition for you, though, Aaron, and hear me out. Despite what the director or Erin may want or believe, I don't think we need anyone to fill the gap we have right now. Like I said, Derek did a damn good job, we saved Gunther, and we've been holding our own for months. But I have an idea with this Alvez fellow 'cause I planted a seed there, so just hear me out and work with me on this."

SEPTEMBER–MID-NOVEMBER
In mid-September, Noah's mother, along with Sonja and one-month-old Noelle, announced that they were to hold a public funeral for Noah in the upcoming days although he was long cremated. Following the days after they posted on his Facebook page that the search for him was over, they had been private and silent regarding the nature of his death, as had been his friends, and only small local papers posted any blurbs about him. These were, at first, at the request of the investigators before a law official was taken.

However, after these months of silence and discretion regarding any involvement with the New Jersey murders, they publicized that he was a victim of the perpetrators known as The Linen Assassins in some circles, and The Stokes State Slayers in others. It was the discovery of his body that had spurred on the local officials and the FBI to begin their investigation in the first place.

Some people betrayed doubt about this with claims that the three were simply trying to garner sympathy. Others used their investigative prowess to prove that Noah was indeed a hapless victim, giving sightings of the FBI in areas where he frequented and his workplace, and they compared the date of the late-April Facebook post to the times when the multiple broadcasts were made about Stokes State Forest.

Over the course of the next few days, newspapers and online journals published additional articles about the lives of Noah Turner, Marion Knowles, and about many other things relating to these murders. Often, these outlets called or sent emails to ask for exclusive interviews from Mrs Turner or Sonja, and even to Javier, Nate, and Terry, their girlfriends, and Noah's workmates. Most interviews were refused, as they all just wanted their privacy, or the bare minimum was publicized.

Mrs Turner and Sonja asked, however, that people assist officials in whatever capacity they could to help find the latest victim, who might still be alive and who might be experiencing unspeakable abuses—the same kind of abuses that Noah had suffered.

Many people speculated on what these might be.

One week after that announcement, Mrs Turner was returning home from food shopping. On her front doorstep, among other floral arrangements that people were leaving for her and Sonja (who now lived with her), she found a large and heavy but lovely glass-and-wrought-iron terrarium with curious plants in it. She asked her neighbors to help her bring it in because she couldn't do it herself.

Among the other floral arrangements, she treasured it most, for it was unique, she thought, and it had instructions on how to care for the three plants within like someone giving her something to nurture, a sense of purpose. So she put it in her living room, which received the most sunlight, and began to parent and cherish the lovely plants within, just as instructed, and she watched them flourish.

In Quantico, Virginia and in Washington, DC, the Behavioral Analysis Unit were abreast of the announcement made by Mrs Turner and Sonja. Penelope baked a large batch of moist, plump cookies, Jennifer bought a large floral arrangement, and David wrote three generous checks—for Mrs Turner, for Sonja, and for little Noelle—and stuffed them in an envelope. The team as a broken whole wrote sentiments in a sympathy card. All of these were hand delivered to Mrs Turner via a same-day courier service.

Elsewhere, Dana Bridges also received a generous check for herself and one for little Maddie from one David Rossi. With the money given to her, she moved out of her parents' home and began turning her life around. By the beginning of October, she returned to Stroudsburg, finding work and renting an inexpensive place for herself and her daughter, one large enough to accommodate Chelsea, whom she began the process of trying to adopt. Within days, she also received a terrarium just the same as Mrs Turner.

The team came to accept Spencer's death. There was far too little to go by. Tips died out, DNA didn't match, facial reconstructions weren't recognized.

This was a dead and cold case, as cold as the nights were becoming.

So, they would await a call from the Sussex County Sheriff's precinct, when Sheriff Reiner would inform them that another male victim was taken. It would confirm the truth they already knew.

In the meantime, though, they didn't let their hands tire. They would do right by Spencer. They were doing right by him. So long as they were still able, they would find his killers, and they would mete out justice, down to the very letter. There would be retribution for him. Aaron and David would work jointly with the Newark Field Office.

Little Henry flashed the light on occasion, but what had been a near nightly ritual became a twice-a-week ritual; and then once a week; once a month.

The call did come one day, in mid-November. Near the end of the work day, Aaron Hotchner was contacted by the Sussex County Sheriff's Department, and it spurred everyone in a last ditch effort to find the people who had taken Spencer from them— who had taken others' lives—and put them away permanently so they could hurt no one else.

Except, what they thought was a little trickle, a shard, and a mere fragment became—in fact—a torrent, a mosaic, and a mass that led them directly to a Spencer Reid they no longer recognized.


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And yet. Please take this as a fair warning for next week's chapter. It will not be pretty.