"Find anything interesting?" Mustang asks as Hughes walks back to him.
"In a manner of speaking," Spencer interrupts. He catches the men exchange a glance, but he continues on. "I think we need to go to the Maes house. In the midst of everything's been going on since Derek and the others went missing, we haven't actually had time to thoroughly go through the house."
"Since the crime scene was in the barn, we didn't check the house," Seaver says. She doesn't slap her forehead, but she looks like she'd like to.
Mustang's brow furrows. "Do you really think there could be anything of interest there?"
"Well, if he learned your alchemy anywhere, we should at least see if he left evidence," Will says. "This is a small town, and Tucker Maes was a small-town guy. He wouldn't have had a lot of places that he felt safe outside of it."
Prentiss and Rossi step out of the sheriff's office, where they'd been taking a call with Cruz.
"How'd it go?" Spencer asks.
Given the looks on their faces, he's not surprised when Emily says, "Could have been better."
"What did you tell your boss?" Mustang asks.
"We told him that half of our team were magically sucked into another world, but it's okay because Special Agent Elric's boyfriend is here, and he has a magical psychic connection," Rossi says with sarcasm thick enough to cut it with a knife.
Prentiss sighs. "I told him that we have reason to believe that they're still in the area and we think we're getting close. I also told him that we had contacted Will to let him know about JJ's current status since it's been over forty-eight hours."
"How'd he take that?" Will asks.
For someone who generally has as good of a poker face as Prentiss is capable of, she definitely does not have it with them. "Not great. He wants to send a backup force to scour the area."
"More people learning about alchemy or witnessing it would not be ideal," Mustang points out.
"Having had to try to explain 'magic is real' a couple times now, I really don't look forward to trying to explain it to another group of people," Prentiss says. "I convinced him that we have the situation under control and that we're getting close to finding them." She pauses, glaring at Mustang. "We are getting close, aren't we?"
To his credit, Mustang doesn't immediately give her a platitude. "Yes, we are getting close," he says, but he says it with the careful sort of tone that one uses when couching good news in caution. "But I don't know if it's a 'we'll have everyone back where they belong tomorrow,' close, or if it's a 'this might take another couple weeks before we get there' close."
"I think it needs to be a 'we'll have everyone back where they belong tomorrow' close," Rossi says. Spencer's heart leaps with hope, with longing. He doesn't remember the last time he's gone this long without talking to Derek, and realizing how completely out of reach he is hurts with a pang that's physical.
"I agree," Spencer says. "Section Chief Cruz isn't just going to accept that three of his people have just vanished into thin air, especially not JJ. It's a minor miracle he hasn't pulled in favors to have half the National Guard deployed to help search."
"That's because we told him that we suspect the extra people to coordinate with would just slow us down and make things worse," Rossi says.
"We also told him that we believe that Maes has a partner and that his partner is likely holding them."
"Kimblee," Mustang makes the educated guess.
Rossi nods his head in acknowledgment.
"We don't have a lot of time to make serious progress or to at least be able to reliably fake having them recovered for a day or two, otherwise Cruz is going to make a move, whether we like it or not," Emily says.
"That sounds bad," Hughes says, leaning on the desk behind where Mustang is seated.
"That is very bad," Prentiss agrees.
"Cruz and JJ are particularly close," Spencer volunteers. "He'd be upset about any of his team missing, but with JJ being one of the people missing, he's not going to let this go until we either have them recovered or until we have their bodies."
"And God help whoever made them bodies," Will says.
Prentiss tilts her head in the way she does when she agrees but doesn't have the words for it.
"Ed will sooner keep them where he is than risk sending them back if he isn't certain he can do it safely," Mustang says with certainty that Spencer finds oddly reassuring. Something about his steadiness, his calm confidence, reminds Spencer of Derek, and he finds Mustang's easy assurance comforting.
"But how long might that be?" Rossi asks.
"I hope sooner. Until I can talk to Ed, though, I won't know for sure. I can't read his mind. I don't know how close he might be."
"So tonight, probably," Spencer says. "Unless you feel like maybe taking a nap?"
Mustang runs his thumb over the tattoo on his wrist, eyes going distant for a moment before he shakes his head. "I'd rather sleep tonight. So far, that's been somewhat reliable. We don't know if we might link up while one of us is awake, but Ed seems to be on a similar circadian cadence to ours. Or at least, he didn't complain to me about falling asleep at odd times. But then, we haven't really had a lot of time to talk."
Propping his elbow on his other arm, Spencer thinks about the times that Mustang has fallen asleep, trying to calculate how long he had been asleep. "Each of the times you saw Ed," he starts, getting Mustang's attention, "how long did it feel like you spent with him? Did it feel like hours or just minutes?"
He can see the mental wheels turning as Mustang takes a moment to consider the question before he answers. "Short," he decides. "The first time… maybe felt like fifteen minutes? Half an hour at the high end."
"And the second?" Spencer prompts.
Frowning, Mustang says, "No more than an hour, I'm sure." His gaze turns outward again, and he meets Spencer's eyes. "I was asleep for much longer in both of those cases," he says with realization.
Spencer nods. "We didn't time how long you were asleep the first time because we didn't know what was going on. It was definitely well over an hour though. I'm not even sure we know exactly how long you were asleep the second time the array was active, but considering Will didn't arrive until well after midnight, I think it's safe to assume you were asleep for at least three hours. If that ratio is consistent, we can assume that about fifteen minutes passes in your dream world for every hour you're asleep, in which case, waiting until you're able to sleep for a protracted period of time would be vastly preferable to letting you get an hour catnap and only getting fifteen minutes with him."
"Okay," Prentiss says. "So that means that a nap is out of the question, which means we are able to split up."
Startled, Spencer looks at her. "Why are we splitting up?"
"You said that the Maes house was never thoroughly gone over, right?" He nods. "Well, then we need a team to go over the house."
"And the other team?" Will asks, suspicious.
"The other team needs to drive about an hour east of here. There's been a bombing."
Mustang's expression darkens alarmingly. "Kimblee," he says.
"Possibly," Prentiss says. "Penelope also finally finished going through the surveillance footage that the Library of Congress sent her."
"She found Kimblee," Hughes guesses, sounding annoyed.
Rossi makes a gun shape and points it at Hughes. "Got it in one."
"I'd like to take Seaver, Will, and Mr. Hughes with me to investigate the bomb—"
Before she finishes, Hughes is shaking his head. "Take Roy with you," he says. "I can go with Dr. Reid and Agent Rossi to the house and look over it."
"But if we find something related to alchemy in the house, you won't be able to help with it," Rossi says in the kind of tone that invites further explanation.
"No, Maes is right," Roy says. "He won't be able to tell you anything about any arrays you might find, but he knows enough to recognize most alchemists' workshops and their work. Be careful not to touch any arrays or to carefully rub out and break any circles you come across, and you should be okay. If there's any paperwork, you can just bring it back for me to look through."
"That doesn't explain why you should go with me and Emily," Will says, raising an eyebrow.
"Because I know fire and I know explosions. More importantly, I know Kimblee's explosions. I can tell you if he set it off, and I can tell you if he used ordinance or alchemy. Most importantly, Truth forbid he's still around, but if he is , you're going to want me there."
"We have guns," Will points out.
"Trust me," Hughes says, "where Kimblee is concerned, you want Roy. He's a lot more dangerous than a gun."
"And if Kimblee shows up here before you get back?" Spencer asks.
Hughes and Mustang exchange another glance before Mustang says, "If you can, run and hide. If you can't, hope the guns are good enough."
"You told us that he used explosive alchemy before… that he was basically a walking bomb," Seaver says. "How good was his range?"
"I'm not sure," Mustang says.
"How can you not be sure?" Prentiss asks, a little sharper than she usually would, probably her own stress bleeding through.
Mustang laces his fingers together, the way Spencer has noticed he does when he wants to be taken seriously or when he feels like he's in a position of authority. "Kimblee was a ranged specialist. No one was put close to areas he would be attacking on a battlefield, not unless you don't happen to care about friendly fire." His mouth turns down in something closer to a grimace than a frown, and he adds, "He also had an amplifier. There's no good way to measure the magnitude of amplification the Stone provided him, or at least, that's not math I can do. Maybe Ed could. If it's really important, I can try to ask tonight."
"If you can," Spencer says. More information is nearly always better in his experience.
Shrugging, Mustang says, "There may not be a nice linear equation Ed can use to calculate it. The whole purpose of a Philosopher's Stone is to negate the need for equivalent exchange. Without it, a person's ability to activate massive arrays is more a reflection of their individual creativity with arrays, how flexible their personal arrays are, and their mental strength and concentration."
Spencer sees Rossi and Prentiss exchange an uneasy look of their own, before Rossi asks, "And how flexible were Kimblee's arrays? How mentally tough was he?"
One of Mustang's hands rises to rub at his forehead, which is not a good sign. "Excellent," he says. "Both in regards to the flexibility and creativity in the use of his arrays and in his mental fortitude." His hand drops. "Kimblee was a psychopath, but he retained his sense of self and his own personal code right until the last moments of his life."
"Do I want to ask what happened to him?" Hughes asks with an idle sort of curiosity that has a hint of a bloodthirsty undertone.
Mustang shakes his head. "I despised Kimblee," he says, "but I don't know that I would have wished his fate on anything human."
Interesting distinction there, given what little he's mentioned of homunculi.
Hughes grins a cat-with-the-canary grin that's all teeth and nothing nice, and says, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."
"So basically, even if we find him, don't engage unless as a last resort," Will summarizes.
Patting Mustang on the shoulder, Hughes says, "Just leave him all to Roy," in a tone far too upbeat for the grim task.
"Can you handle him?" Prentiss asks, and she's careful to make it a question, not an accusation. Both her posture and her eye contact say that this is an inquiry, not another veiled insult.
Mustang lifts his hand and rubs his fingertips together for a moment, and a slight smell of phosphorous and something almost like sulfur fill the air, bringing to mind the smell of a struck match. He meets her eyes, and Spencer is again reminded that Mustang is an extremely dangerous man. "If I have to," he says.
"Okay, then," Emily says. "Mustang, you and Will are with me. Rossi, you take Reid and Hughes to the house and see if you can find anything there." She turns and makes for the door.
There's a pause, and Spencer catches Mustang and Hughes exchange what looks like a quick silent conversation of looks and a few gestures before Hughes pushes away from the desk. "I do so love a woman in charge," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading toward the doorway.
The others follow his lead until there's just Spencer and Mustang left in the room.
"What's wrong?" Spencer asks him.
"I don't know that anything is wrong," Mustang replies without missing a beat, but his eyes are distant again, so he's in his own head more than paying attention to Spencer.
"Then why are you worried?"
Standing, Mustang says, "I prefer not to say."
"Superstitious?" Spencer asks, surprised.
Mustang hesitates a moment before saying, "I've just been in enough tight spots to have a very healthy respect for Murphy's Law. I'd rather not invoke it, if it's all the same to you."
Fair enough. Spencer puts his own hands in his pockets and follows Mustang out of the station and to the cars.