This chapter looks long (because it is), but it's a very dialogue-heavy chapter. I hope you enjoy! Please make sure to read the endnote!

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THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2013 AT 2:10PM | SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
"Jones and Davis are comin' in with a regular burnout. Three guesses who."

The deputy who said this shook her head in amusement, chewing on her gum in boredom.

Everything around here was just so boring. Boring, boring, boring.

Life was drab up here. They mostly dealt with druggies, distributors, drunk and disorderlies, people violating their probation or lapsing on paying alimony or child support. On occasion they had something they could sniff and dig into with a little more fervor, like a suspicious death or a battery-and-assault or an assault with a deadly weapon and it would get the blood pumping. The cases waxed, but they mostly just waned.

Things had been exciting for a few weeks, though, what with that Stokes State Forest case that had the FBI over here for nearly a week before one of them had gotten nabbed. A few deputies felt the adrenaline rushing whenever they had to fulfill an assignment for them for those following days. But things just hadn't moved much with it. Lots of dead leads to follow through with if they were in their jurisdiction.

Utterly boring.

The only excitement came with the tourism and news outlets. Irritatingly enough, no copycats. Sometimes, though, the stars aligned in their favor and they would have something that stirred some interest, as would be the case shortly.

"We're on a streak this month, huh?" The other deputy said sardonically, sitting back in his seat. "Alright, I'll take a bite." He put out a finger every time he mentioned a name. "It's gotta be . . . hmm. Okay, Brundler, Aberdeen, or Rivera."

"You're not wrong with one of those, my friend."

"Ah, ah, ah. Okay, umm—"

"I'm tellin' you, man! That was all my stuff! I weren't gonna sell none of it!"

The voice boomed from the entrance, and the two deputies looked at each other knowingly. "Aberdeen," they both droned in unison. Surely enough, a scruffy, gangly man with auburn hair and a pale and patchy visage was marched towards the booking area, flanked by the two deputies, Jones and Davis.

"Say whatever you want, Aberdeen," one of the deputies holding the resisting man said.

"Please, keep talkin' without representation," the other deputy urged. "It works for us. You just got back out and you're already lookin' for trouble again. It's almost like you wanna go back in the hole, huh?"

"Man! You guys need to let a dude live, okay? Y'all wouldn't've seen me if you weren't goin' for your donuts and coffee. What's it now, Davis? You pregnant? Gotta feed that baby in your gut? Or're you just packin' on another twenty since I last saw you?"

There was a resounding thud and then the man ground out his shock. "That's police brutality!" he decried.

"Damn, Davis! Come on, man!"

"What was?" Davis donned an innocent expression. "Didn't see anything. Did you guys see anything?"

The voice had drifted through the bullpen where the other officers were, and no one answered.

"Oh my god, man! Ya'll are bastards. All o' ya'll!"

"Yeah, yeah, tell it to my preacher."

"Oh-ho-ho! You got a preacher, Davis? Sundays must feel good to you, you lyin' sack of sh—wait, wait, wait." Aberdeen resisted being wrenched about and kicked his chin to a picture on the wall. "I know that car."

"Mm. Yeah, sure you do."

"I ain't lyin', man! I know that car, when I find that son of a bitch what was drivin' it, I'm gonna beat his ass to—"

"You're just tryin' to get out of going behind bars again, Aberdeen. We're not idiots."

"No, see, that dude—he pinched me out of a couple of thousands!"

"Pinched you, huh? Sounds like you were gonna be distributing it to me. That an admission?"

But Jones, the other deputy, was interested. "When, Aberdeen?"

"Like four years ago or somethin'. But I'll tell you what—that picture ain't right."

The lull of activity stopped. Heads turned.

Even Davis blinked and straightened. "What do you mean, It's not right?"

"Cuz that car, it had like . . . three or four of those sticker things on it." He pursed his lips and his gaze ticked up. "Yeah, no—four of 'em."

Jones tipped his head and his brows ticked up. "Where?"

Aberdeen's face pinched in irritation. "On . . . the bumper? Where else would they be?"

"No, no—where did you see the car?"

"Oh! Yeah, I dunno, maybe I was out in Dover?"

"Is that a question or what, Aberdeen!"

Aberdeen's hands splayed out in a gesture of good will. "Alright, alright, boys. I'll give you a bone. It was definitely in Dover, okay?"

"Near the bridge?"

"Eh. Maybe; maybe not."

Jones rolled his eyes. "What else do you remember about the car?"

"You seem in-ter-es-ted"—Aberdeen over-enunciated, mouth twisted in rotten grin—"to know what I know, hoss." He hissed the last word.

"It's been years since you've seen it—if you've actually even seen it, Aberdeen. How do we know you're not just makin' this up, mm?" Davis asked.

"Davis, cool it. Let me handle—"

"'Cause I don't forget the people who take my shit, bro! They get fried into my brain."

Davis rolled his eyes. "M'yeah, there's lots of things that've fried your brain," Davis responded. "You're a jun-kie!"

"And I can't even call you a pig, 'cause that'd be an insult to swine. They're very intelligent creatures, y'know."

"Ey! Ey!" Jones interjected. "Concentrate on me, Aberdeen; forget him. The stickers? His face? A-ny-thing!"

The detainee's face lit up with something nefarious.

"Aberdeen!"

"Come on, guys. Y'all think I don't know my way around this by now? I'll tell you a clue so y'all know I ain't lyin', and after that, I ain't tellin' you nothin' else without representation. You get me?"

Jones rolled his eyes. "Fine. What is it?"

"Philadelphia."

"Philadelphia?"

"I said what I said," Aberdeen hissed, smug. "And thassit. Now get me a damn lawyer."

Philadelphia could mean a lot of things, but for that case there was significance. One of the decals on Frederick Collin's car was, in fact, the Liberty Bell. It and Philadelphia were practically synonymous.

There went that adrenaline rush.

"Philadelphia," Jones repeated. "And you remember his face."

"You got a hearin' problem, hoss? Did I stutter before? I don't—forget—the people—that take from me."

"Davis, call the Sheriff to the interrogation room. Right now. You win, Aberdeen. Let's take a walk."


WASHINGTON, DC
"Chief Strauss." Aaron knocked on the open door.

Erin looked up at him from her desk, and she ushered him in.

"I just received a call from the Jersey Sheriff's precinct regarding Agent Reid's case."

Erin removed her glasses and looked at him in disinterest. "What's the latest?"

Aaron knew what she might be thinking. There had been multiple developments over the past months that led to more mystery and no sure resolution. Surely she was disillusioned with this case and wondered how his unit had the energy to keep getting reinvigorated by any change. In truth, there was acceptance at this point. It was only a matter of time before Spencer's body might turn up, or—if not that—another man might go missing and they could confirm that Spencer was being replaced by a new surrogate.

"While booking a repeat offender, he saw the flyer regarding Frederick Collins' mustang in its original state and seems to have credible information."

"Well that's not much to go off of, Aaron," Erin murmured, unconvinced. "Sounds like someone just trying to get out of being taken in. What was he being arrested for?"

"Ah, apparently for possession and possibly distribution."

Erin flicked her wrist and her fingers fluttered as her gaze trained back on the paperwork in front of her, picking up her glasses. "I've heard enough. There's nothing credible about the source and therefore nothing credible about his information."

"He seems to know about the other decals that were photoshopped out of the picture."

She paused and the glasses clicked against her desktop again.

"I think the source is credible," Aaron reasoned. "These kinds of people, Erin—they're profilers in themselves. They read and know people. He even claims that he doesn't forget the face of someone who's wronged him. I believe that this might develop favorably."

"Aaron, I've already told you, I cannot just send you up there anytime that you feel you have a lead."

"This could be a very credible one. Just like last time, just one or two of us can go up, get additional information, provide needed consultation. Either way, he's caught onto the interest. He's now seeking representation and is refusing to sit with a sketch artist until he speaks with an agent to cut a deal."

"We—don't—negotiate—with these kinds of people, Aaron!"

He gave a gentle tilt of his head and endeavored to affect a plaintive expression. "We negotiated a deal with Collins in nearly the same manner. That deal was able to close a four-year long cold case, and it's led us to this very point. That car, Erin, is key evidence that we cannot ignore. If it's not the perpetrator that this convict's run into, then it's a potential victim. We cannot ignore this."

She blinked up at Aaron in irritation, elbows now perched on her desk. With a loud breath and a long-suffering roll of her eyes, she sighed out, "You have no cases."

"Not at the moment, no."

"I'll give you two agents. One workday. Contact the Newark Field Office, apprise them of the development. I want them to take lead."

Aaron expected no less from her—had known that this would be the eventual turnout.

"Aaron, this is the last time I can sanction this for the unit. We've given the precinct more than enough information to work with, and the Newark Field Office is equipped and capable of taking this on permanently."

Aaron nodded. "I understand. Thank you." He turned.

"Aaron."

He tilted back. "Ma'am?"

Her voice was softened yet her eyes were already on the papers held before her. "Keep me updated."

"Of course." He left and made his way back toward the bullpen and offices. With urgent knocks and hails, everyone was in the conference room within minutes. Standing above them, he wasted no time:

"I've received a call from Sheriff Reiner, and it seems there's a new lead in Reid's case," he said, quick to get to the point and detail them on the specifics.

"Well, this could be somethin'," David murmured, leaving empty words of hope unspoken.

They were almost three months shy of fully coming to terms with Spencer's abduction, just becoming more comfortable with the absence of his presence and of its permanence.

"So how are we proceeding?" Alex asked.

"Garcia, you're going to start digging up anything you have on this Aberdeen person. We need to stick him with whatever we can. I don't want another Frederick Collins."

Penelope nodded. "Oh, yes, absolutely on it, sir. No more rotten people getting away with terrible things, yes."

"Two of us will go up. I'm to contact the Newark Field Office and I'll have Agent Alvez take point on this."

"Alvez?" Jennifer parroted. "From FTF? And wasn't he based out of the New York Field Office?"

"He was," David answered. "And last I heard, he resigned that post at the end of August when a bird"—he gave an unsubtle head-tilt in Aaron's direction—"nudged him to go for the Newark Field Office because it might need his expertise more."

Jennifer hummed. "What changed? I thought he liked the thrill of the chase."

"He did," David responded. "Something about the Shane Wyland fugitive case alongside another traumatic one he'd dealt with just prior shook him. I think he was convinced to give profiling a chance and that he's working his ranks up to join the BAU eventually."

Aaron took a brief moment to explain. "If there's nothing to advance this case after this point, it's going to be turned over to the purview of the Newark Field Office for multiple reasons. Our proximity to one of the victims—to Reid—as well as Blake's personal involvement and attack make us ill-equipped to objectively revisit this case over and over. We've done a good job to this point of following through with direction above us, but that doesn't mean we're not on thin ice. We've managed to only get slaps on the wrists for years. But we tend to get tunnel vision, and we do things that have repercussions." He then shrugged. "So we do what we can so that when these guys are caught, the case is solid and nothing can be thrown out because of misconduct.

"Once this case is turned over, we won't even be needed in an advisory capacity. Honestly, we've given this casefile as thorough a behavioral profile as possible. But I'd be damned if we're not even advised on things or asked to consult. Agent Alvez's personal experience with a past case gives him a certain drive to get down to this and keep us as involved as possible even when we have to be taken off."

"Hm. Well damn," Derek murmured.

"And on that note, I'm shortlisting either him or another agent to be grafted into the team eventually."

Jennifer tipped her head into her hand uneasily, Penelope let out a moan, and Derek clenched his jaw.

Aaron held up a placating hand. "I'm still trying to hold that off as long as I can. I have confidence in us; we're a damn good team as we are. But I have to keep these in mind because the director will want to—to fill in this position eventually. All clear?"

Jennifer straightened her mouth and cleared her throat. "Clear, yeah," she said in a softened voice.

"So, two of us will go up and work with Agent Alvez on the developments. Alex and JJ, I want to send you two up to start tomorrow. I want Aberdeen to stew a little. JJ, if there's anything we can end up strategizing for the media, we can discuss it together and you can be the mouthpiece."

Jennifer straightened in her seat and nodded.

"Alex, from what I've been told, Aberdeen has a certain tone and vocabulary that I think—linguistically—you stand a greater chance dissecting in an observational capacity."

Alex tipped her head in an aborted nod. "I'll see what I have to work with."

Aaron let out a breath and squared his shoulders. "This is our last chance to be brought on in an investigative capacity. Let's get everything we can out of this. I'll let Sheriff Reiner know you're arriving tomorrow."


FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2013
Jennifer and Alex elected to drive up together far before the dawn hour. By the time Jennifer, Will, and a sleeping Henry arrived at Alex's home, she was already sitting in the driver's seat of her vehicle. Jennifer knocked on her window, they exchanged words, and a moment later, Alex stepped out of her car and went to the passenger's side before Jennifer sat in the driver's seat. Once they rolled off and waved at Will, he drove away.

"You brought your go bag with you," Alex said after a short spell of silence.

Jennifer straightened her lips in an uneasy expression. "Yeah, well, you never know."

"Mm." With a tight smile, Alex kicked her head back over her shoulder. "Mine's in the trunk. In my opinion, it's a Friday and there's no true imperative to leave before the end of the weekend when using my personal vehicle. As long as that's alright with you."

"Oh, more than alright with me," Jennifer said. "I think we're of the same mind."

Alex chuckled.

Jennifer sighed, shaking her head. "I've become desensitized, Blake. I feel terrible saying it, but then something like this pops up and the whiplash is just . . . "

"I know," Alex agreed. "Trust me, I know." She, too, sighed as she continued, "It's like every time something develops, we're equidistantly closer to ending this and just as far away from its resolution. It's numbing."

"I'm sure that"—Jennifer gave a mirthless laugh—"Spence would probably have some . . . physics term to equate that feeling to."

Alex unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth with a click, smiling fondly and giving a genuine chuckle. "Wouldn't he, though."

Jennifer sighed. "Oh, Spence," she murmured. She didn't know how to continue her words aloud. She wanted to say Please be okay, but she knew that he was far from okay. She wanted to say We're coming to save you. Please hold on, but that would imply that he was still alive, and she was afraid to hold on to that tenuous hope, too.

Instead, they lapsed into silence, and they each thought.


SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
"Blake, JJ, hey," Luke greeted Alex and Jennifer at the precinct.

"Hey, Luke," Jennifer responded. She skipped the pleasantries. "So you're caught up with everything?"

"All caught up." He ticked his head. "Stevens was gonna be on this, too, but he's headin' another case down in Newark. So. If y'all don't mind havin' just me to work with."

"We'll take it," Alex said congenially, to which Jennifer nodded.

"Cool, hah. And you're lookin' good, by the way, Agent Blake." To this, Luke gestured to her arm and rotated his own a little. In familiarizing himself with this case over the past couple of months with Aaron, he knew the more intimate details and thus better understood the need she had months ago to use the sling.

"M'yeah," she drawled. "Thanks." With a wink, she added, "It still smarts a little from time to time, but I'm getting there." She turned the conversation to him, though. "And you're settling your roots down a little more, instead of FTF, hmm?"

Luke tipped his head. "Yeah, nah, well . . . I think it's time to open another chapter—see where things take me. Agent Hotchner's been talking to me and Stevens for a good couple of months about this case now. So"—he kicked his head—"I think we can get down to all of this."

"Let's do it then," Jennifer said with a nod.

As they walked toward the interview room, Luke turned back to them. "So I want you guys to know," he began. "Yeah, our field office is heading this, but I'm not gonna step on your toes or anything like that. I know what it's like for a teammate to be in bad hands; I know where you guys are coming from. I'm fine to let you steer things however you need it to go."

"Eh," Alex began, scrunching her nose. "Speaking for myself, I trust your judgement."

"Seconded," Jennifer agreed. "And we want to keep things as kosher as possible and do whatever's needed to be done by the book. We have . . . a very huge lens focused on us, and we're trying to stay out of it."

"Gotcha. Okay, then," Luke said, nodding. Incisively, he added. "Y'all are a little rogue."

"Well . . ."

"Ah-hah! Worry not. I like that. I can be, too, trust me. Sometimes things need to be done a little off script, if you feel me."

"Not too much, though," Alex chided with a little grin.

"On that note, though, Luke," Jennifer continued with a note of seriousness, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be able to help coordinate any liaising with the media."

Luke lowered his jowls and shook his head. "Oh, no, yeah. Please. By all means; take it. I don't want that job at all . And I know that was your expertise for years."

"Amazing; thanks. But it'll be good to wet your feet in that area if you can."

"For sure. Anyway, I can handle questioning on Aberdeen," Luke said, "and Blake, I know you have a history with linguistics. If there's any time at all where you catch something and you need to dive in, go for it."

"Will do."

Stuart Aberdeen, along with his court-provided attorney, sat in the interrogation room. He'd slept in a holding cell the previous evening—something agreed upon by him, though reluctantly, and his attorney—and they had discussed their angle. He looked as smug as a little weasel on the other side of the glass. Jennifer, Alex, Luke, and Sheriff Reiner were all in the observation room, and the latter three were fully apprised of all the latest developments.

In turn, they had something over Aberdeen that he hadn't been taken in for a few years ago—something that he had been suspect of but that hadn't been able to stick at that time—and there was no statute of limitations on it. They found the glue that would without question put him away for years.

He didn't need to know about it for now, and after the terms of his deal were relayed and met, it wouldn't be long until the warrant for his arrest would be issued. Sheriff Reiner had a savvy, blonde technical genius to thank for it all.

"God forbid this doesn't lead us anywhere, though," Sheriff Reiner groused, enervated. "I'd finally like to nab the bastards behind all this."

"Mm," Luke mumbled. He had a box of the convict's files. The man had been imprisoned twice within his lifetime already but had been arrested and found innocent or without sufficient evidence to incarcerate him three times as much; he would use any opportunity to waive a new sentence, even by providing false information.

"Ready, Blake?" Luke asked.

"Let's get in there," she said. The two walked in.

"Mr Aberdeen and Counselor Reicher, pleasure to meet you both." Luke extended his hand, which they shook. He saw how Stuart was unable to hide his irritation. "I'm Agent Alvez, of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and this is Agent Blake."

The two agents sat.

"Yeah, yeah—how do you dos and all that jazz," Stuart mumbled, waggling his head with an irritated expression. He leaned forward. "I want my deal. I'm not fixin' to spend another night in a holding cell, you got me, hoss?"

"Mr Aberdeen . . ." the attorney said in an admonishing tone.

"Don't Mr Aberdeen me," Stuart hissed. "I had to wait hours before you guys came to get my statement."

Luke kept his response pleasant and acquiescent. "Hey, man, apologies, yeah? I'm sure you understand how this stuff works. There's a bit of delicacy around all of this that needed to be addressed before we could get back to you."

Stuart's face contorted into one of disbelief and irritation. "C'mon. Don't patronize me, bro. I'd think that if y'all needed the information I got—you know— post-haste, y'all'd've been here a whole lot sooner."

Alex, who had been sitting quietly, blinked. Y'all'd've. Oh boy. She knew it already—she was going to have to pay even closer attention to his speech. His vernacular had no bearing on his intelligence. This was a smart man that they were dealing with, and over-enunciation of his words, the phonetic precision of some letters—such as Ts and Ds—spoke to a pedantic, narcissistic personality.

"You're right," Luke said amenably. "That's our bad." Give the man a leg up. Make him feel superior. The fall would be tremendous. "So we gotta know the conditions of your deal before agreeing to it or negotiating with it, and confirm the viability of the information you have."

"Nah. I don't wanna negotiate. I got my terms, and I want them met."

Alex's expression was cool, but internally she was brimming with irritation. She could only imagine the frustration that Aaron and Derek had felt when they'd dealt with Frederick Collins.

"Okay, so tell us what those terms are."

"No hole, no fine, clean record. Wiped. Including how I got to know the guy with the car. Our encounter weren't exactly under . . ." he was drawling his voice "Mm. It weren't exactly under irreproachable terms, if you get me. I'll be a"—he tugged on his shirt as if he were tugging on the lapels of a suit—"a reformed member of society, you get me?"

Luke smiled at him disingenuously. Stuart was going away, if one Penelope Garcia had anything to do with it. "I got you, man. We'll concede so long as all the information you provide us regarding this case is credible."

"Good." Stuart winked, shimmying back into his seat. "See, Esquire?" He turned to his attorney. "You gotta know how to play with the big guns." He winked again as he said this, but beyond his periphery, the attorney rolled his eyes long-sufferingly. "And I want restitution for what Davis did to me yesterday. This"—Stuart circled his hand over his face, where he was sporting a bruise on the side of his forehead—"happened here at this well-reputed establishment. And I know they got cameras in here to prove it but that the footage will be conveniently damaged or some shit."

"Oh yeah, of course, Stuart." Luke nodded.

"Right on," said Stuart with a large, rotten-toothed smile. "Right"—the tongue click—"on."

Oh, Luke almost wanted to be the one to put the cuffs on him, just to see that smile fall. Pesky, blood-sucking insect.

"Tell us what you know, Stuart," Alex started, "about the car and its driver."

And so Stuart did just that. He provided intel on a young man whom he had met a few years ago in mid-autumn, apparently driving Frederick Collins' car. Although he didn't perfectly quote one of the decals, he correctly described all that were on the back of the Mustang.

They concentrated on what he had to say about its driver, a young man in his mid-twenties who was fresh to that particular scene, according to Stuart, and who couldn't have been a drug user for more than half a year. He was just under six feet, olive-skinned, freckled, had ice blue eyes underneath thick eyebrows and a smooth forehead, , he was on his way to a full beard, and his auburn hair was curly, wavy, and long.

And then Stuart veered off with a quick tick of his eyebrows. "A real pretty boy, if you asked me. Not the type you'd see around there, and not the type you'd think was into what he was into, but—you know—half the time that's how it is, right? I'm sure if he cleaned himself up real good, he wouldn't'a been on the streets for much longer. But that was the kinda guy . . . oof, you could tell he was lookin' to escape some crazy shit up here"—he tapped his head—"you know? Jonesin' to shut out a lotta bad stuff."

In continuing, every day that Stuart had gone back there, he had seen this man—for four days—and he had slept in or took drugs behind the locked doors of the Mustang, mostly. Any of the days where they interacted, the young man had been reticent but piercing; I mean really heavy on the eye contact, and acted like a person who was in denial of what he was partaking in.

"Had shame written all over him. I know these kinda dudes. The ones who can't believe they're messin' with this sorta thing or who can't believe that they're in company with people like me or the other bums that were down there. You know, those people who refuse to believe that they're drug users and who still think they can stop if they wanna. They usually get the best stuff to take their mind off things, y'know? It's pretty easy to get those kinds to come back again and again."

But when he did speak to him, he had a strange lisp, like he had a speech impediment.

To this, Alex perked. "Explain this speech impediment?"

Stuart shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. He just talked weird. He honestly didn't talk much, and I can't remember the voice that well, but it was just weird, yeah?"

Alex tilted her head, thinned her eyes, and pursed her lips. "Hm. Okay. Continue."

He did. The last time that Stuart had seen him, it'd been in the late evening, and he'd been trying to score another hit. Stuart had looked away for a moment—just a moment—to look into his stash within his trunk, and the young man had clocked him and kicked him in the abdomen a couple of times. A fight ensued. Aberdeen, equipped with a switchblade for self-defense, cut the man's face from cheek to chin. They grappled more, and the man made off with his caseful of assorted drugs before peeling off in that car.

Within a couple of hours, Luke, Alex, and Jennifer got their composite sketch from Stuart, approximating where the scar would be, and Jennifer got to work preparing the latest country-wide news alert after consulting with Aaron and Chief Strauss regarding what would and wouldn't be released to the public.

In a last-ditch effort, not only did they want people aware of this development, but Jennifer wanted to incentivize and reignite community interest in the case. They wouldn't reveal that this mystery person was connected to the Mustang, and so would allow viewers to speculate if this was a victim or a perpetrator, and their perpetrators to speculate on how much they knew with the aim of driving a wedge between them.

But driving a wedge between the two unsubs might also cause them to use their victim—if they had a victim—as collateral or blackmail against the other. It would inevitably put that victim's life in danger.

"The composite sketch of the man you see on your screens is currently a person of interest that we believe to be highly connected to this case. According to witnesses, this man is in his mid to late twenties, stands at about six feet, has auburn hair and blue eyes, and he speaks with a noticeable impediment. He was last seen in this five-mile area of New Jersey—which you will see circled on your screens—in late 2009. If you have any information on this man, we ask that you report this information immediately.

"Additionally, we are prepared to give a reward of $15,000 for any viable information regarding this person of interest, these other previous victims on your screen, the vehicles involved with this crime, or the perpetrators of this crime."

"We're again reaching out nationally to any of you who may have had contact with people that match the descriptions of our perpetrators and survived their ordeal. We would like to ask that you please come forward—we merely want to bring these people to justice. This can be handled anonymously."

In places near and far, people were watching, and some were still hesitant to act, while others were driven to react.

In a non-official work capacity , Jennifer and Alex had indeed lingered the following day in case the tip-lines would continue to buzz.

The impetus of the cash reward drew in many more fake tips and bogus leads, and these all had to be followed up rigorously within the local jurisdictions. No matter where, such as Hawaii—Oh, yeah, I'm pretty sure I saw that red mustang my way here in Lahaina.; others from Alaska—You probably wouldn't believe it if I told you, but I live here in Anchorage and I swear I've seen this car roaming around. Doesn't belong up here at all and that's why I thought it was so strange to see it!

Either way, unless they were called by Aaron, they wouldn't be needed for duty on the weekend, and they would help with manning the tip lines. Surely someone would recognize this person.

But it was now Sunday morning, and they had to move on, head back home, and allow Luke and the other officers to continue weeding through everything. It was discouraging but was a mere manifestation of what Jennifer had said the other day—she and Alex weren't quite as paralyzed or disappointed with this turnaround.

Moving on was becoming easier.

Not too long after they hit the I-95 turnpike, though, Luke called them.

"Hey, Blake, JJ." His voice was pitched in urgency. "We've got—someone called the tip line with something credible. Saw the broadcast Friday night, saw the other one back in June, too, but was reluctant to come forward until now."

Jennifer sucked in a short breath and looked over at Alex. She pulled the car over to the side of the road and planted her hand below her neck.

"Come forward?" Alex parroted. Something jittered in her chest and plummeted into her stomach. "How do you mean? Is it . . . is it one of the unsubs?"

"No," Luke answered. "The relative of someone who may have escaped from the unsubs, though."

"Is it sounding like a good lead?" Jennifer asked.

"A damn good one," Luke responded.

The disillusionment—the desensitization—dissipated in the presence of such an assertion.

"Stay on the line, Alvez," Alex directed. "I'm going to patch in Aaron." She proceeded to call Aaron.

"Hotchner."

"Hey, you alone?" Alex began calmly.

"Yes, go ahead," Aaron said.

"Jennifer and I were about to head back this morning when Luke called us. There's another potential witness. Luke's patched into the call."

"Hey, Hotch."

"Morning, Luke; hey," was the rushed response. "A witness? Someone who saw the car, or who recognizes the sketch?"

"This just might be a material witness," Luke said. "He claims—well his sister claims—that he was in captivity in or near Jersey for a while before he escaped. She thinks it may have been for more than a month."

"His sister?" Aaron asked.

"She called the tip line, not him," Luke responded. "And I'm thinkin' that this is pretty credible. He's not much of a talker anymore." And then punctuating his words, he next said, "According to her, he received an injury to his tongue while in captivity, has a missing tooth from it, and a couple of broken fingers. He hasn't really talked much since then. He doesn't tell her how it all happened, but when she saw him, he'd clearly gone through some bad stuff . . ."

Jennifer breathed again and swallowed. That was a detail that was never released to the public, that of anything to do with the tongues.

"Oh . . ." Aaron uttered.

"Aaron, this is major," Alex said.

"Absolutely, yes," Aaron responded.

"He lives in Maine—"

"Maine!" Jennifer echoed.

"Yeah, Maine," Luke responded, "and he refuses to go to any precinct or travel." He paused. "He emotionally can't do the latter."

"A month or more . . . That's a long time to root in a traumatic experience," Aaron concluded.

"Yeah. But he is willin' to give a statement to the leads on the case. I'd like to bring you guys in on it if you can. I've got a feeling that a female presence might be needed."

"I understand," said Aaron.

"There are no flights until tomorrow, and I'm intent on driving up there with the lights on right now. I don't wanna waste any time on this, so I'm gonna head up."

"If you would like JJ and Alex up there with you, and if they're able to go with you, then I'm preemptively allowing it. I'll call Chief Strauss to apprise her of this update."

"Yes, absolutely, yes," Jennifer said threadily. One last time. She would do this one last time, the clinging, the grasping, the yearning for something to develop favorably. It had to. With her thumb, she began to twist Henry's birthstone ring around her finger to try to keep calm.

"That makes two of us, Aaron," Alex spoke.

Aaron then said, "This is my decision to have you two go up there, do you understand?"

"Eh, under our own cognizance, it's more so our decision."

"Alex—"

"We'll update you as soon as humanly possible, Aaron," Alex said succinctly before ending the call.

Jennifer looked at Alex with widened eyes, both impressed and a little shocked. But she couldn't deny the look that she saw in her colleague. There was a sparkling, flickering flame.

They were going to nail these people.

"You ladies still there, or . . ."

Determined, Jennifer went to search for the nearest jug-handle or exit to head back toward Newark. "Yeah, we're still here. We're coming to you, Luke—see you in about thirty. Can you make sure you have a camera and tripod with you just in case?"

"Oh yeah, sure thing."

"Great, thanks. What's the witness's name?"

"It's Marcus—his name is Marcus Delaney."

After Jennifer and Alex met up with Luke again, they climbed into his SUV, he kicked up the lights, and he weaved and sped toward the northbound I-95 to head up to Auburn, Maine, a near six-hour drive that they were going to make in four and a half hours with their speed.

"Is Marcus a Maine native?" Jennifer asked.

"Apparently yes."

"Did his sister give detail on . . . anything that happened?" Alex then asked. "We're talking a few hundred miles removed from Stokes State Forest."

"She didn't give me much, honestly," Luke answered. "The dude's not very forthcoming on what actually happened to him."

"How old is he?" Jennifer asked

"He's 28, now," Luke answered.

"And when did his captivity take place?" Alex asked.

"Back in twenty-ten," Luke answered.

"So he was 25 during his ordeal, give or take . . ." Jennifer said. "That would make him, the youngest that we know of so far to have been taken by the unsubs, if he was their victim. He's in the right age group."

"He's blonde," Luke added.

"So he fits some aspect of victimology," Alex said.

"One thing I gotta tell you guys, though," Luke started before tightening his lips. His expression was dubious. "I looked him up a little bit more, and the kid . . . he had a rap sheet."

"What for?" Alex asked.

"Possession, disorderly behavior, and . . ."

"And?"

"And solicitation."

"Sex for drugs," Alex supplied.

"Pretty much, yeah," Luke said. "It's spread out for about a year and a half. From 22 to 24 years old."

"Do we have any indication of his sexual orientation?"

"Mm-mm."

"So Marcus—along with our unknown Victims C and E—were all seemingly high-risk. And the person of interest from our sketch—he was last seen in an area where drug handling often takes place," Alex drawled. "The connections are a bit obvious. Is it a stretch to say that this is where the Ketamine, MDMA, and or GHB come into play?"

"Not a stretch at all, honestly," Jennifer answered. "The unsubs could have lured those victims with the promise of drugs before abducting them. It's textbook serial-killer-abduction MO."

"Doesn't account for the identified low-risk victims or Victim F, though," Alex said.

"We'll have to see, then, how this all comes together."

AUBURN, MAINE
The three agents arrived at the Delaney residence minutes after two o'clock. The three walked up to and stood at the steps of the home, a cute bungalow.

As they walked to the entrance, Alex had looked up, and she saw the blinds on the second floor shift closed. Luke rang the bell and moments later, a young woman answered it.

"Agent Alvez?" she asked.

"Hey, Trisha Delaney?" Luke asked.

"Yeah, please come in." Trisha stepped aside, then paused. "You're Agent Jareau," she gasped in wonder. At Jennifer's barely masked perturbation, she bumbled over her next words. "I've . . . I've seen you on the news a couple of times now," she admitted, flushing.

Jennifer smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Trisha. This is Agent Alex Blake."

Trisha smiled kindly and led them to the living room, noticeably limping. "Um, my brother, Marcus, he's upstairs. Gimme a sec." Her footsteps thudded up the stairs lightly and unevenly.

Below, the three caught one end of a verbal exchange after she knocked on the door:

"Marcus? They're here . . . No, Marcus, you said . . . you said you would." There was a pause. "Please, Marcus, c'mon. There's . . . there's someone else. Please. They need to find him." Another pause. "You can, Marcus. You can do this." There was another stretch of silence. "Mar—"

A door slammed closed.

"Marcus." Knocking. "Marcus, they've come all the way from Jersey just to talk to you!"

After a moment her uneven footsteps padded down. Turning the corner, Trisha was tearful, blinking her eyes. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," she said over and over again. "He's . . . he doesn't really talk much now and—"

"Can we talk to you for a little while, Trisha?" Jennifer asked.

"Um, yeah. Yes, that's fine." She sat in an armchair.

"Is it just the two of you?" Jennifer asked, easing into the conversation. No doubt the others had seen the slew of family pictures all around with both parents in various situations. "Is this the home you two grew up in?"

"Yeah. My parents died six years ago when, um," she answered. "We were traveling to Marcus', um, college graduation? There was an accident, and my parents didn't make it." Her eyes were filled with tears. "I did."

"He didn't take it easily, did he?" Luke asked.

Trisha shook her head. "Mm-mm. No. It was when he started, um . . ."

"That was when the drugs started," Luke said with no preamble.

She nodded. "Yeah, not long after that. He'd gotten his, um"—Trisha smiled—"his Bachelor of Music, and he was invited before his graduation to join the Portland Symphony Orchestra."

"Oh? What did he play?" Alex asked with a warm smile, inviting Trisha to be more at ease.

Trisha smiled back at her. "The violin. He's good. Was." She cleared her throat. "Was good. He was supposed to be the understudy for the concert-master."

"He doesn't play anymore?" Alex asked.

Trisha shook her head. "Um, he lost dexterity. His—a few of his fingers . . . they were broken when he—when he got back from . . . wherever he was. He can use them, but not to the effect of playing the violin anymore like he used to. But he didn't even get a chance to be the understudy anyway, 'cause that was pretty much when the drugs started."

"Ah."

Trisha shrugged. "He got clean, though. Took him almost two years to do it, but he finally got clean."

Alex and Jennifer smiled, but they both passed glances at each other.

"When did he go missing?" Luke asked.

"Um, I'm not really sure exactly about that, to be honest. But it was around mid-May of 2010. All I know is when he came back, he was—he just wasn't the same anymore." Her hands shook and her face reddened as she looked down at her lap. "He had . . ." Her hand waved over her eyes, and she shrugged her shoulder.

Jennifer leaned over and placed her hand on Trisha's knee. "It's okay," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Trisha composed herself. "He just wasn't the same again. He's not been the same since."

"Please don't think me rude in asking this," Alex began, eyebrows drawn, "but how was it that you didn't know that he was missing?"

"Oh, he'd flown down to Georgia back in February. He was going thru-hiking on the Appalachian Trail."

"By himself, or with some friends?" Luke asked.

"By himself. Him and his gear and his violin case. He barely came back with anything at all." Trisha shook her head again, as if trying to forget something.

"So . . . he never made it up to, um, is it . . . Baxter State Park?" Luke asked.

"Yeah, no, he never made it there."

"Do you know where . . . where he was in captivity? What state?" Jennifer asked.

"I think it was in Jersey?" Trisha answered. "He and I, we hadn't really kept in contact most of the time, but at a certain point, any bit of information from him stopped trickling in. He told me that he'd gotten hurt in Pennsylvania."

"Back in the Duncannon area?" Luke asked.

"You're good," Trisha said with a soft smile.

"I've heard that that's one of the more difficult treks of the Appalachian Trail," Luke supplied.

"Yeah, he'd gotten injured there a few days before and he was running out of supplies anyway, so he told me that he was going to find the nearest motel in Jersey and rest up there for a few days. That was . . . that was the last time I heard from him for a while."

"You didn't report him as potentially missing?" Jennifer asked. "No calls?"

"I . . . I was twenty years old, Agent Jareau. When he'd started doing drugs a couple of years before, he totally changed. He and I fell out, and even though he was over half a year clean by that point, things just weren't the same with us." She shrugged again. "I was in uni, and I honestly didn't care about things outside of that, so . . ."

"These things happen." Jennifer smiled at her to let her know that she in no way placed any blame on her. She was probably feeling guilty enough.

"And when did he come back?" Luke asked.

"Near the beginning of July."

"So why did Marcus decide to thru-hike?" Alex asked in curiosity. "We're talking months to be undertaking something so large, especially by himself."

"Um . . . it was sort of . . . I guess, sort of his present to himself. He started it a little after his six-month sobriety mark in February, and he wanted to end up back in Maine by his one-year mark."

Alex smiled at her. "That's amazing. That's something."

Trisha sighed. "It was. I wish I'd thought that back then. All I told him was I'd believe he was clean when he got back. And when he did come back, I thought he'd been at the drugs again until I realized . . . he just wasn't the same."

"Mm. What happened when he returned? What did he look like? Was anything changed about him aside from his hands? You mentioned that he barely came back with anything."

"Just the clothes on his back—not his own clothes—and a backpack that wasn't his," she answered. "Um . . . he had splints on a few of his fingers. He was . . . he was a mess, and he couldn't talk."

"How do you mean?" Alex asked. "Disheveled? Clothes torn? Scarred?"

"The scars . . . the bruises. He had . . . I think he had rope burns on his wrists."

"And you guys never reported it." Alex stated.

"He didn't want to. I begged him. I did, but the most I got him to do was go to the hospital the next day when his mouth . . . He had a really bad infection. I ended up taking him to the ER, and he didn't let me stay with him."

"Do you remember the day he came back?"

"Yeah, it was a Saturday evening when he got back. I usually came over for the weekend to do laundry, and he got home and just—" She shook her head.

"And how would you say his behavior has been since then?" Luke asked. "Looking over his shoulder? Paranoid? Anxious? Depressed?"

"I mean, he has not stepped beyond the front lawn since that day he's returned, except to go to the doctor two or three times. He doesn't really talk much at all. Orders whatever he needs online. It took him about half a year to even open the front or back door. I think he has online therapy sessions, but I can't be too sure. It's completely debilitating."

Jennifer's hand went to her stomach and she was unable to control her sharp intake of her breath. She felt bad for this man but she could only think about Spencer.

"And he doesn't"—Jennifer swallowed drily—"he doesn't talk to you at all about what happened."

Trisha shook her head. "He . . . he sometimes loses touch, he just . . . I'll do or say something and he'll shut off for days. I don't know what specifically causes it. We're basically a couple of strangers under the same roof. Not much different when he'd started using."

"Would it be alright," Alex began, "if I tried going up there? To talk to him?"

"Please, yeah," Trisha began, standing. "Please, by all means. Follow me."

Alex stood after Trisha, who walked in front of her, and turned to the other two, giving them an expression that could have been understood as her requesting they trust her. She followed Trisha up, stopped at the door Trisha pointed two open hands at permissively.

"Hi, Marcus? My name is Alex. I'd like to know if you can hear me. Would you give me a knock on the door or something to let me know that you're listening?"

There was no knock.

Alex pursed her lips. "Just one little tap, Marcus, that's all I ask."

Moments later, there was more than just a tap—it was a thud, like a body leaning against the door.

"I'll take that as a sign you're on the other side, Marcus. No need to come out at all; you can just listen. I think you deserve to know this. Over half a year ago down in Jersey, a little boy found a body in the forest there. I think you know where; it's been all over the news. And I think you know who might have done this. Now, Marcus, the person he found . . . he was newly engaged when he went missing. He was starting a new chapter in his life. Years before that, he'd lost his father and his twin sister on the same day."

Trisha whimpered, covering her mouth.

"And his fiancée—she was pregnant. She's had a little girl by now, and that child won't know her father, because months ago, that man didn't have the ability to do what you did. You escaped, didn't you? You must realize, Marcus, that you are a strong person. It doesn't make him weak; it only means that after you escaped, you must have scared your captor or captors enough for them to change up how they dealt with their next victims. What you did put fear in them. Do you understand me?

"Another one of the people found in that forest, Marcus—he came from a place of tragedy, too. But he turned his life around, and he was ready to marry, and he was a first-time father to a little baby girl. He went missing shortly after she'd turned half a year old. She's nearly two, now, and she hasn't a father.

"There are others who we don't even have the identities of yet, who have been hurt by these people. And right now, Marcus, there's someone who's been taken by the same people who took you. The people who hurt you, Marcus, have done the same things to that man. They may seem like monsters, but they're human, and you scared them. We can't let them win, Marcus. Please understand that; we can't. We find them, and we can bring them to justice. That gives you some closure. But this can also give you a piece of something that you lost, which is more control over your own life.

"And Marcus. That man who's been taken? He's a very good person who only ever tries to help other people, who's shaped his life around saving people, and stopping the evil ones. We don't know why he was taken, or why you were taken, but it was in the act of trying to understand what the victims went through—essentially, what you went through. He wanted to prevent it for anyone else. You can save his life, Marcus. You're literally the only person with the ability to save his life or to stop this from happening to anyone else. Realize that that comes from a place of power. That power is in your hands. What you have is powerful."

Jennifer was standing at the bottom of the steps by now, and her hands were folded into each other and tucked under her chin. She didn't miss how Alex spoke of Spencer—how she spoke of him as if he were still alive. It was a terrible thing to have, that hope.

There was no response from the other side of the door. Alex nodded. "Marcus, thank you for your time." She turned toward the stairs.

"You're . . . are you leaving?" Trisha's eyes were widened. "You're leaving?"

"Yes, well, we can't force anyone to do something that they don't want to do," Alex answered in a softened voice. "It's not how things work, and it's not healthy. I wish you both all the very best, though. When we get these people, we want to let you know. We'd love to get your help with any criminal prosecution."

Alex turned the corner and began walking down the steps, giving Jennifer a sullen expression and shaking her head.

As she neared the first floor, though, the door opened behind her.

"Mar—Oh! Agent Blake? He said you can all come in."

It wasn't necessary or customary for statements to be recorded. Agents typically filled out 302 forms, took sparse notes. But before entering Marcus' room, Jennifer discussed it with Alex and Luke and said she wanted this recorded so they could refer to what Marcus may say with exact accuracy, so long as Marcus was amenable to it.

'I have a feeling,' she'd said, 'That this might be a one-time deal.'

Marcus was a guarded man with a blanketed expression, and he sat at his computer desk chair and pointed his hand in a simple motion to indicate that they could all sit on his bed or in the chairs that Trisha provided.

Everything in his room was neat and orderly. And Trisha was seated the furthest she could be from him.

Two strangers in the same home she'd said, and it probably wasn't very far off.

Marcus had yet to truly land his eyes on any one person in the room. His leg was jittering up and down, and he was hunched in his seat, hands clasped between his legs. Retractable pen top was being clicked in incessant but intermittent intervals.

"Thank you so much, Marcus, for agreeing to help us," Jennifer started.

Marcus shrugged a shoulder in response.

"Would it be alright if we record your statement?"

While the question had the effect of him turning wan, he eventually nodded, eyes watering as he swallowed.

"It's not required, Marcus, and you can refuse."

After a soft sigh, Marcus finally spoke, and his voice was but a whisper. "It's fine." He had a pronounced lisp. But this was clearly not the same person from the composite sketch that Aberdeen had met.

So Jennifer set up the small tripod and camera in just a couple of minutes.

"Do you remember the day you were taken, Marcus?" Alex asked by way of starting the witness statement.

He nodded, sucking in a breath, humming. "Mm. Yeah."

"Could you tell us what happened?"

"I'm only going to tell you guys this just the once."

"We understand. We really do thank you, Marcus," Luke said.

Marcus' breath shuddered out and he paled at hearing Luke, tilting his body away from him. The pen began clicking underneath his hand.

They noticed, but they didn't act on it.

"Go ahead," Alex said softly.

He shuddered a breath and then spoke. "Um, I had to rest for a couple of days 'cause I'd hurt myself while I was hiking and I also needed to resupply. And, um, I hit the main road, tried to get a motel room but it was booked."

"Do you remember where this was?"

He nodded. "I know that . . . it was somewhere on Route 206, but I couldn't tell you the town. There was a woman outside the motel that was sitting in her car. She asked me if I was—"

'—alright there?'

'Oh, no, yeah. Just tried to get a room at this place. A little bit more than I'm willing to pay, and that's saying a lot for a motel. Figures. Jersey.'

'Hah! You're up to the gills in hiking gear. Coming from Stokes?'

'Yeah. I'm trekking the AT.'

'You're thru-hiking! That's amazing. We're of the earth, and connecting with nature heals the soul. You're doing a deep dive, yeah? Oh, are you hurt? I saw you limping just before. And you look tired.'

'M'yeah, a bit in the feet. Was hoping to rest up here for a couple of days. Guess I'll continue walking down and see if I can find another motel.'

'If you need a place to stay, you can stay with me. I can take a look at your feet, too.'

"I told her I wouldn't be able to give her much money, but she told me that if I was concerned about paying her back, I could just help her with some light chores the next day. She was just—she said she just wanted to look at my injuries and make sure I was okay."

"If we had a sketch artist, do you think that you could remember her face enough to make a composite?" Luke asked.

Again, Marcus bridled, and he closed his eyes and held his breath for a moment before blinking something out of his vision. Nonetheless, he answered.

"No. I can't remember what she looked like. It's one of those faces. If I see it, I'll remember it."

Alex tilted her head. "Was there anything significant that you'd recognized about her? A scar or a birthmark?"

Marcus straightened his lips and shook his head. "Can't remember. She was wearing a white or tan baseball cap that night. Maybe late thirties or early forties."

"It was the evening?" Jennifer asked.

Marcus nodded. "Yeah. And she told me to hop in her car, so I did."

"Do you remember what it was? The car?"

Marcus tilted his head and let out a soft breath. "SUV or truck—can't remember anything beyond climbing into it. I mean, I had no reason . . . not to trust her."

"You can't remember if the truck was dark or light?" Jennifer asked.

He shook his head. "It was dark, and that's all I can remember about it. I couldn't tell you the color. I was tired."

"That's okay, that's no problem at all. Did she have you sit in the front or in the back?"

He tilted his head. "The front."

"Okay." Jennifer nodded. "Were there any logos, food items or anything inside or outside that you might remember?"

Marcus closed his eyes, his leg jittered, and he shook his head.

"When you drove off together, do you remember where you went? Do you remember seeing anything significant? Street signs, restaurants, notable buildings that you had passed?"

"No. I . . . I fell asleep, pretty much right after I got in and she told me to rest."

"That's okay. After you woke up, where were you?"

"A garage. At a house. She'd parked inside the garage. So we went inside, she offered me a shower and some food and gave me a guest bedroom to sleep in. She even took my clothes to put them in the laundry and asked me if she could take a look at my feet." He swallowed, and when his voice came out next, it was strained, and he was unable to look at anyone. "That's when, um, when—"

Click click click.

Marcus closed his eyes and then inhaled before a low sound of distress petered out. His lips moved as if he were speaking to himself.

"Hey, Marcus, you're in a safe space with us here," Luke said.

The reassurance didn't help. Instead, Marcus flinched, and his leg wouldn't stop bouncing up and down.

"Marcus?" Jennifer repeated in a soft, even voice. "Hey . . . you're in a safe space."

No one missed how he calmed after her reassurance. Luke exchanged a meaningful, silent message with his two companions, and they understood—he was going to leave the rest of the questioning to them.

"You're in your home in Maine, and your sister Trisha is right here." Jennifer looked at Trisha meaningfully and tipped her head.

Trisha seemed to cotton on. In a soft voice, she reassured her brother. "I'm here, Marcus. It's Trisha."

His furrowed eyebrows twitched.

"Can you hear me, Marcus?" Trisha asked.

Swallowing, Marcus nodded and he let out a hum.

"Go ahead, Marcus," Jennifer said in a whisper-soft voice. "It's okay."

Marcus swallowed. "Her husband or boyfriend arrived. I didn't see him, I just heard him from the bedroom. But I didn't think anything about it. She just finished up, and I got to sleep. So the next morning, all my clothes were . . . they were there folded near the bed, and then she invited me down to the kitchen to give me something to eat and asked me if I was okay to do some small chore—something in her basement after I'd eat up and after she would look at my feet again. So"—he shrugged—"I let her look at my feet, I eat, and then I follow her to the basement. The, um, the next thing I remembered"—he paused and click click clicked—"I woke up on a bed, my wrists were tied in rope to the bed, and I was blindfolded. That's how I was for the next few weeks."

"Oh, Marcus," Trisha murmured.

"Can I ask . . ." Jennifer's voice was soft. "When you escaped, why didn't you ever file a police report?" There were many other questions to ask him, but they would ease into that.

"I . . . I"—he sighed out—"used to do a lot of drugs, got arrested a few times . . . I figured they would look at my record and think I was lying, or that I had . . . sex for drugs and that something went wrong. That I was trying to cover something by saying I was abducted and attacked." Marcus looked away in shame.

"Okay, Marcus, understand that no one blames you for this. You're not at all to blame for this."

Marcus wiped a hand over his brow and breathed. "I went thru-hiking because I got clean, and I wanted a new start. I thought maybe I could, I don't know, have a greater appreciation for life by the end of the first year."

Alex held up her hand and cleared her throat. "Trisha, would I possibly be able to get some water?"

Trisha perked. "Oh, yeah, of course. I know you guys drove a long way. Do any of you need something to snack on, maybe? Or coffee or tea?"

"Coffee would be great, thanks," Luke answered softly. He had a suspicion that he knew what Alex was doing.

Trisha stood and left the room, closing the door behind her, and Marcus' eyes lingered after her.

"Marcus, we have some touchy questions to ask you," Alex admitted. "I think it would be best to give you some privacy."

Marcus nodded, face reddening. He seemed to have known the reason for Alex's request.

"If you find that you can't answer them, it's okay." Her voice was hushed.

He nodded again. "Please," he said, "I just want this done with. I can only do it once."

"Okay," Alex said with a curt nod. She then looked over at Jennifer and dipped her head.

Jennifer began, but she eased into those more difficult questions. "Do you recognize any of these men?" She showed him the faces of the main suspects they'd had months ago, as well as the recently released composite sketch and the facial reconstruction of some of the victims.

Marcus shook his head vehemently. "I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't recognize them. I never saw his face," he responded. "Not ever."

"What about the vehicles?" Jennifer asked. "We showed them in our international alerts."

"Yeah." Marcus gave a quick succession of nods. He then elaborated. "The grey Mustang. It was in the garage. That I can remember."

"Okay. Thank you." Jennifer closed the binder and then folded her hands into each other. "You said that you were afraid that the police would think that you had sex for drugs. Were you drugged while you were there?"

He cleared his throat and nodded.

She looked at Alex and Luke and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Are you aware of how often this might have happened? Or what it might have been? Or who drugged you?"

Marcus' fingers twiddled. "I . . ." He clenched his jaw. "I just slept a lot those first few days."

"Okay. Don't worry about that, Marcus, I'd like to ask you some questions about your encounter with the man and about those weeks you spent there and whatever you can remember. Is that okay?"

Marcus nodded, sighing out.

"Was he ever physically violent?"

"Mm." He had to pause and compose himself. "You have to understand . . . I lost some time when I was there, especially in the beginning. Sometimes I'd be screaming for someone to help me and then I'd wake up and my skin would be raw. I figured he was using a belt."

"He?" Alex clarified. "You're sure it was him."

"I . . ." He blinked. "Yeah. It was him."

"What kind of violence did he use? Fists? Kicking? Or just the belt."

Marcus' eyes slipped closed, he breathed out, and tilted his head. He swallowed. "Belt. The belt. And then she . . . helped me. She took care of me."

Jennifer then asked, "Was the violence ever sexual?"

Marcus breathed, closing his eyes, and a low sound came from him again. Click, click, click, click, click.

It kept going in varying intervals.

"Marcus, you're in a safe place, and he can't hurt you here. " Jennifer neared him. "You're at your home in Maine, and Trisha is downstairs, just a call away. Marcus, you're going to feel my hand on your wrist. Concentrate on that feeling. I'm not going to hurt you. Is that okay? And just breathe with me. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four."

Luke, though, watched the interchange with difficulty, unable to understand how these two could be so calm. He was seething and seeking to pummel these people who had hurt Marcus.

Marcus hadn't answered Jennifer but continued clicking instead. Her hand touched his sleeved wrist, and she, kneeling in front of him, gave his hand a little rub, speaking consolingly to him, telling him to breathe, and reminding him that he was in a safe place.

Eventually, his squared shoulders relaxed, his expression softened, and he opened his eyes while taking in a deep breath.

"Are you with me, Marcus?"

He nodded.

"Can you point out a couple of things in the room right now?"

"Um, yeah. Um, my desk? The window."

"How many fingers do you feel on your wrist right now?"

"Three."

"Can I stay right here, Marcus?" Jennifer's voice was tender. His trauma was genuine, and she could feel his pulse rushing beneath her fingertips as his body vibrated In her loosened grasp.

He nodded.

"Can I leave my hand here?" Her hand remained on his. When he nodded again, she said, "Okay, Marcus. I'm going to continue asking you questions, and if you need me to stop, please tell me." Again, he nodded, so she continued. "Did he go beyond beating you?"

Marcus' eyes shone as his face reddened. But at last, he nodded.

There was a sound of knocking at the door, Marcus jumped, and Luke quickly stood to answer it.

"Would you like Trisha to be here, Marcus?" Alex asked.

He shook his head. "No. No. She can't know any of this. No."

When Luke returned, there was a tray with glasses of water and a couple of coffees and light snacks. Trisha, per Luke's advice, stayed outside the room.

"Would you like one of these waters, Marcus?" Alex asked.

He outstretched his hand to take the one that Alex handed him, and both she and Jennifer could finally see, beyond his sleeves, clear scarring around his wrist. He drank thirstily, but Jennifer watched him closely in case he dropped the cup from his shaking grasp. He had to use both hands to hold it, and they could hear his excoriating breaths getting trapped in the cup before every gasping intake and outward breath.

He finally set the cup down on his desk and began wringing his hands.

"Take your time, Marcus, and start when you're ready."

He blinked something out of his eyes and nodded. "He didn't . . . do anything like that to me for a couple of weeks. It was usually . . . the woman who I came into contact with. The guy—after he would use the belt, the woman, she . . . she took care of me, fixed me up, gave me food, and made sure that I was cleaned. The whole time I was there, that's what she did almost every day."

Jennifer's eyes glided over to Luke and Alex for a moment. She brought her gaze back over to Marcus. "You were on a bed. What was it like?"

"Old. Wooden. Creaky. The ropes—they were tied to the headframe."

"The room where you were kept, how did it smell?"

"It smelled . . . sour. The walls . . . it felt like I was still in a basement or something, but it wasn't the same one we had gone down to before."

"Trisha said . . . that a few of your fingers were broken?"

Marcus nodded. "When he saw that I'd tried to escape, that I'd tried to take off the blindfold he broke my finger. I did it twice, and he broke a finger both times. I didn't do it again."

"What was used for the blindfold?"

"Tape and fabric."

And Jennifer decided to dive in. "So his violence was only ever corrective," she concluded, to which he nodded. "But did it become sexual?"

Click, click, click—

Jennifer was about to ground him again, but it seemed she didn't need to. He continued on his own.

"I . . . I got him angry one time when he was—when they were taking me to the bathroom."

"They took you to a bathroom?" Alex interjected. "They didn't just leave you to let things happen in the room you were being kept in."

"No they"—he drew in his brows, and his eyes were still closed—"took me to the bathroom. And while we were walking, I tried to take off. I didn't get anywhere before he caught me. I went off on him, shit-talked him whenever I could get a word in. Spat on him when he punched me. I mean, it was, like, two weeks in, and I wanted to be let go."

'Let me go, you son of a bitch. Why are you doing this? Why are you keeping me like this? You're weak. You hear me? You're a coward. Is that why you keep me tied up? 'Cause you can't handle me? You get off on this? Keeping me here like this? Fuck you. Is that it? You're getting off on keeping some guy in your basement? That what you jack off to, you asshole? Say something, you bastard. You beat your wife to make her feed me? Clean me? You smack her around? I can't see why she'd be doing this unless you were beating her, too. You're a damn coward. Normal people don't do the kinda shit you're doing to me or your wife. Real guys don't do this shit.'

"And then what happened?"

Marcus tipped the corner of his lip. "He beat me. Wrapped his hands around my neck and strangled me until I passed out. When I woke up again, I was back on the bed, and I had a missing tooth. After that, he left me alone for days, and the woman—she helped me. Took care of me. The next time he finally came back in, I'll never forget what he said 'cause it was the only thing he ever said to me the whole time I was there. I could tell that he was pacing. Back and forth. And he reeked of beer. I thought he was gonna kill me. And he kept saying the same thing over and over again."

He swallowed, mouth dry.

'You think you can talk big? You know what bein' a real man's about? I'm gonna show you. I'll show you real good what we did in 'Nam whenever we'd catch a lonely bird. They'd be about your size, too. Got 'em right sloshed just a little more than what you are, then we fucked 'em good. Take another beer, you bastard. Take the fucking beer.'

Jennifer, Alex, and Luke all glanced at each other in morbid curiosity.

"He . . . made me drink a couple of bottles of beer and he made me take a few pills. I don't know what they were but, you know, I knew. Same feeling I'd get back when I was doing drugs. And then he, um, removed my pants and underwear, untied one of my hands. I got . . . he didn't do anything to me until . . . He waited until I . . ."

Click, click, click.

Jennifer's hand squeezed his leg. "It's okay, Marcus. I understand. Did he say anything while he raped you?" she asked directly, not using any colloquialisms. "Did he insult you, or call you anything derogatory? Did he make you say anything or call him anything? Make you engage you in any type of role play?"

Marcus shook his head.

"Did he force you to masturbate him or did he masturbate you in any way?" These were forward questions she hated asking, but the answers might help her assert what kind of rapist he was, and that would give them clues about who he was as a person.

Leg bouncing, pen clicking, Marcus again shook his head. Sucking in a deep breath, he spoke again. "He never said anything to me during. He only ever said those few words to me in all the weeks I was there. And he didn't force me to do anything, but I got, you know . . . It just . . . it lasted forever and it was like he wasn't doing much of anything, but I was"—his face reddened and he looked distinctly ashamed—"I participated. I thought that maybe if I got him off, it'd make it end sooner. Whatever he gave me, and getting buzzed, too, it got me going. But he didn't ever . . . he never . . ."

He paused.

"It's okay, Marcus, you don't have to continue," Jennifer said.

And yet, Marcus did. "He didn't come. I did. And that's when I'd realized he'd lost his erection. I thought he might kill me or beat me for not getting him off. I know how some of that goes. So that's when I tried to touch him. I think it pissed him off that I tried that. He beat me, strangled me again a few times, all before he pulled out another one of my teeth because I said all kinds of things when he was—when he raped me . . ."

Jennifer nodded in understanding. "Did he wear protection, or force you to wear protection?"

Marcus shook his head.

"Was there anything sexually degrading that he made you do? Were you sodomized with any foreign objects?"

"No. No."

"Did he make you perform fellatio on him?" Her voice was soft. "Or did he ever . . . fellate you?"

But Marcus shook his head vehemently, and he began to click the pen.

"And the woman, she never participated? She never forced you to have sex with her?"

"No. No, she only ever . . ." Marcus paused, tilted his head, and his expression evened. He teetered as if to taste the veracity of what he said next. "She took care of me."

Alex tilted her head.

"Fixed me up. Cleaned me. Fed me."

There were many, many more questions that Jennifer wished to ask him, but he was becoming increasingly disconnected.

"Tell us a little more about the woman." Alex urged him. "How did the woman clean you? What did she do to take care of you? You said they took you to the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"Both of them?"

"Yes. I was always still tied up and blindfolded. And the guy, I could always hear him going somewhere like out in the hall or downstairs. But she bathed me and would ask me if I was feeling okay or if I needed anything to be more comfortable."

"I'm sorry," Alex interjected. "She physically bathed you?"

"Yeah," Marcus answered.

"Each time?"

The look on Marcus' face was as if it was normal. Acceptable. "Yes. She took care of me. Fixed me up."

Alex straightened in her seat. "What other conversation did she have with you?"

"I . . . can't remember. But she took care of me. Fixed me up. Fed me. Said it was nice when I was quiet, or didn't talk at all because then I didn't need to be . . . disciplined. She said she would know when I needed something. But she took care of me."

Jennifer blinked and looked over at Alex and Luke.

Alex cleared her throat. "Marcus, when you spoke aloud, were you beaten?"

Marcus seemed to teeter again, shifting like a light wind was blowing him left and right. "I thought I mentioned that already?"

It didn't answer the question.

"How often were you strangled, Marcus?" Alex asked.

He cleared his throat; the pen clicked. "Whenever . . . whenever he finished raping me."

"Can you remember how many times he raped you?"

Marcus swallowed and nodded. "Three. Three times."

"Did he drug you each time? Make you drink beer each time?"

His voice was small. "Yeah. Yes. He did." Click click.

"Did he become flaccid each time he raped you?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever orgasm or ejaculate when he raped you?"

Marcus' eyes fluttered. "No. No. But afterwards the woman, she—"

"She took care of you."

"Yes."

Alex shook her head subtly at Jennifer.

"How exactly did you escape?" Jennifer asked.

"He was gonna rape me again, that fourth time. It was . . . he was giving me one of the pills and I just . . . I bit him. I bit his thumb until I could taste his blood. He beat my face until I let go, and then I spat on him. I goaded him again. I said some things I'm not proud of saying."

"What you said and how he reacted isn't your fault," Alex said. "But would you be able to relay some of it? It might help us understand what sort of person we're dealing with."

Marcus sighed. "It was all childish. I . . . I was frustrated. I just wanted to go home."

"That's no problem, Marcus. We won't judge you for what you said."

But the pen clicked a few times. "I told him that he . . . he probably couldn't, um, have sex with his own wife. I told him it was a good thing his dick was broken 'cause he wouldn't . . ." Click click.

"We won't judge you, Marcus."

"I said 'cause he wouldn't breed any nasty bastards like him."

Alex blinked.

"So he strangled me and beat me until I blacked out. But when I came to, I could just remember. I was on the floor. On my back. Hands all over me, all over my face and . . . I thought I was gonna lose another tooth. But." He pointed a hand to his mouth. "Tip of my tongue."

"I think I was left there to die, because I wasn't tied back up. It's the apex—it'll bleed but it's not as bad as if more had been cut off. I stuffed my shirt in my mouth, got the blindfold off, and I just went to the door. Went up the stairs. The guy, he wasn't there, but I could hear crying when I actually got up there. The woman—I could hear her crying. So I found the nearest door and I just remember taking off."

"Was it day or night?"

"It was night. I just got into this mindset that if someone saw me, they'd call the cops, and I still had drugs in me. I panicked, and I didn't want to be arrested. I just wanted to get home. I don't know how far I got before I snuck into a house and . . . I just knew to pack the wound. Rinsed it with soap and water and packed it to stem the bleeding."

Jennifer's stomach quavered, and she had to fight not to pull away. He'd been resourceful in surviving his murder attempt, and his body must have been working on pure adrenaline, for such-like wounds were dangerous and life-threatening.

"I found some cash, took a couple of small pieces of jewelry to pawn if I needed to, took some of their clean clothes, and left with a backpack that I packed with aspirin, more cotton, and water I'd taken."

"We'll check with local jurisdictions in Jersey to see about any break-ins that were reported in early July," Jennifer asserted. "The likelihood is that nothing will link back to you, but we might be able to get an approximate location—see if anyone has reported stolen jewelry."

Marcus swallowed and nodded.

"How did you get back up here?"

"When I'd left and started walking, I heard a train and went in that direction until I found tracks. Walked them until I eventually found the station."

"You don't remember the station?"

Marcus shook his head. "No. But it was NJ Transit. Passed out there for hours. It was sunrise by the time I woke up again. Cotton was soaked in blood, so I switched it out."

"If we can link a train station near where we might find reports of a break-in, we might be able to get a more exact location."

"I just knew to get to New York Penn, and then the Amtrak up to here. The day after I got back up here, I got an infection and Trisha and I went to the ER. They had to debride my tongue at the hospital."

"They didn't ask about the suspicious nature of your wound? About your fingers?"

"I just . . . I told them it was a hiking accident and left it at that. I'm pretty sure they knew I was lying."

They were silent for a while, and Jennifer tilted her head. "Marcus, your ordeal wasn't easy at all, but you survived it. You're resourceful, and you're very strong. Please know that not anyone could have gone through what you went through, had the awareness to take the steps you took, and be where you are now. Whatever you did to keep yourself alive while you were with them and after you escaped, don't feel ashamed. You came out with your life."

Marcus blinked something out of his eyes, swallowed painfully, and let out a tremulous breath, his mouth ticked again in a false smile. "What life?" he asked. "What life did I come out with?"

Marcus gave them permission to follow up with him if they needed his assistance, but they let him know that he had helped them tremendously. With an assurance and ardor that they probably shouldn't have relayed to him, they told him that they would catch the people that had done this to him.

He told them, though, that he wouldn't go to the stations if he had anything else to give them or if any additional evidence might come up.

In less than another half hour, the three agents were sitting in Luke's car and he was starting up his engine.

Jennifer's eyes glistened and she continued looking out the window, her hand fisted at her mouth. There was no telling what Spencer might have or might still be suffering. It was too much, both regarding the woman and the man, for her to fully comprehend at the moment.

They'd only perfected his craft with each new victim. Where he started with Marcus to where he was now—there was an escalation.

There was no doubt that these were their unsubs. This was it. They were so, so very close to all of this.

"That was . . ." Luke began, breaking the quiet. "That was intense. Just . . . damn. This is a lot of stuff to unload."

Alex sighed and shook her head, pulling out her phone. "I'm calling Aaron," she declared.

Aaron answered the phone after just two rings. "Alex," he began, and Alex put him on speaker. "How was the witness statement?" There was no preamble.

"You need to talk to Strauss and get the team back to Jersey. We have a lot to share with you. Either way, even though his account is fraught with inconsistencies, Marcus was definitely with our unsubs."

"I'm going to patch her in right now so you can give as thorough an account as possible," Aaron said.

Jennifer, though, pulled out her phone and began to text while they waited for Chief Strauss to answer.


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Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. If you think what Marcus survived is too good to be true, read the amazing survival story, or watch about it and a couple other amazing survival stories that I've linked in my bio.

Please take note that the next chapter is very, very long, so it will be split up into two chapters as a double-chapter release. This is a heads up so you're not reading the second part first. In addition to this, it may be updated on Monday or Tuesday, but I'm desperately hoping that it'll be updated by Sunday.