Author: TemporaryUniverse
WC: 2881 (25158 Total)
Warnings: minor character death by shooting


Chapter 10: The Dead of Night

Day 3 ~ 3:30 pm

REID

After he had finished his meal, Reid had sunk into a kind of stupor. It was an in-between state, limbo was the simplest way to describe it. The world around him was muted and his limbs felt heavy like there were concrete blocks holding them down, but he was still awake, able to sense everything from the metallic scent of drying blood, to the lingering taste of bread, to the dull view of the blank, grey walls. His fingers moved rapidly, though, fiddling with the plastic spoon that had been left for him to eat his soup with.

He was playing through his life's memories like watching a newsreel. It was like his life was flashing before his eyes, but it wasn't happening quickly, probably because he was dying slowly. They were mostly happy ones, his mom on her good days, his dad when they got along, receiving his first, second, and third doctorates, Ethan, Gideon, Elle, the team. There were bad images as well, the football field prank, the Fisher King case, Hankel, Gideon's letter, the Riley Jenkins case, Foyet—

He was cut off from the limbo world by the sudden snap of the spoon. His fingers froze in shock and he blinked down at the broken halves. He ran the pads of his thumbs over the ends where the plastic had been separated. They were sharp. If he put enough force behind them, they could cause injury. He had a weapon. The knowledge that it was now possible to fight back revitalized him more than the food had.

Of course, this moment of realization was cut off by the abrupt arrival of the Unsub that was making his life a living hell. Reid quickly slipped the spoon halves into the pockets of his slacks, his practice with sleight of hand helping him disguise the action.

His heart jumped to his throat when he realized the man was dragging something behind him. An alive and struggling something. The woman had tears leaking from her soft hazel eyes and tangled golden locks swept across her face. Her body thumped down the wooden basement stairs, each step accompanied by a small whimper of pain. Reid felt helpless as the man tied his latest victim to the metal table. He wasn't sure he would be able to do this again, but he knew that Henry and the team came first. It was either the unknown woman or the only people besides his mother he cared about. For him there was no choice.

He hated that he was letting the Unsub win this way, but it was like playing a game of chess with Gideon, sometimes you had to let the other player think they had the advantage, sometimes you had to sacrifice your queen to checkmate the enemy. Sometimes you had to lose the battle to win the war. He wasn't quitting, he was waiting, he told himself. Biding his time until he could make sure his team was safe, and the monster was either behind bars or, preferably, six feet under. Did you know that most graves aren't six feet deep? The original specifications of graves came from England in 1665. The requirement was six feet because they thought it would prevent the spread of the plague. Now, caskets are required to have a minimum of 18 inches of soil cover in most states, which means an average depth of about four feet. If… Shut up, Reid. Burial statistics are not helping you right now.

Still, he was sacrificing a life for his own wellbeing, to save himself from the devastation and guilt of losing his friends, his family. She probably had a family too, parents, a sibling, a spouse, maybe even a child. How could he be so selfish as to take that away from them? The other woman likely had people who loved her as well, he had stripped them of that, her death would crush them the same as Henry's, JJ's, Garcia's, Morgan's, or even Rossi's deaths would him.

The Unsub approached him and he carefully stood, keeping a submissive posture, but fingering the plastic in his pocket. He let his captor lead him over to the restrained victim, and he tried to keep his hands from shaking. He had to fight the urge to pull away from the man's grip on his elbow; the touch sending shudders up his spine. They halted next to the prone woman and Reid gazed down into her face. Their eyes connected, and he could see into her soul, could see her pain and misery, but also the hope and joy of a life well-lived. As she pleaded with him, silently because of the gag that stifled her words, Reid could feel the walls that he had hastily constructed around his emotions beginning to break down. He swallowed, trying to shove his morals down and lock them up so he could do this, but every tear that escaped onto her cheeks had him losing his control.

The Unsub turned to move around the table when Reid impulsively acted. He lashed out with every ounce of force he had left and impaled the sharp end of the plastic spoon into the man's shoulder. The man let out a howl of pain and rage and Reid inwardly cursed, he'd been aiming for the neck. Then there was a fist in his face and the young profiler was crashing to the floor. Reid struggled to get up, but a boot-clad foot kicked him in the ribs and he collapsed with a grunt.

"You little bitch," the Unsub hissed as his boot connected with Reid's stomach. The genius curled up in a ball, trying to protect his more vulnerable areas from the attack. He was forcefully reminded of his years in middle and high school, and the near weekly beatings he received from bullies. The man landed a few more hits on his spine and arms before leaving the room, clutching his shoulder.

Reid allowed himself to relax when he heard the door bang shut. He groaned as he unfolded his body and pushed up to a sitting position. Every movement had him wincing slightly, but he pushed determinedly through the aching of his muscles. His bruised ribs throbbed in protest. He somehow managed to pull himself to his feet and limped the few feet to the table.

The woman on the table was watching him with wide, terrified eyes. She flinched when he reached out, but he simply removed the gag, pulling the cloth over her chin.

"W-what's your na-name?" He stammered out. His voice was extremely hoarse. The soup and water had helped, but his tongue felt like sandpaper in his dry mouth and his throat felt like he had swallowed gravel.

"Allison. What's yours?" She asked slowly, clearly unsure of his intentions.

"Dr. S-sp-spencer Reid," He coughed out and adjusted his position to start tugging at the wires on her wrists, trying to loosen them. His trembling fingers slipped multiple times, soon the metal was slippery with his blood and his hands were covered in scrapes and cuts. Allison, for her part, stayed still, letting him work, and he was grateful that she appeared to trust him. Finally, the stubborn wire came undone and her wrists were freed. Reid allowed a relieved sigh and moved to begin untying her ankles.


Day 3 ~ 4:06 pm

UNSUB

The man muttered profanities under his breath as he hurried to find his first aid kit. When he had finished cleaning the wound, thankfully it wasn't very deep, as the cheap plastic of picnic cutlery was hardly enough to be fatal. He bandaged it with gauze and medical tape. His shoulder twinged when he rotated it experimentally, and the pull of skin was mildly distracting, so he popped a few pain pills to dull the sting.

He checked the monitors before he went back into the basement. He scoffed at the live stream from the basement's camera. Dr. Reid was trying to free the woman. The other monitors showed the bullpen and conference room of the BAU offices, the cameras for which he had installed on a visit as the janitor. He hit a button to turn on the sound, checking discreetly on the investigation, and his blood froze in his veins. Shit! How the hell did those idiots figure it out? The man growled low in his throat and clenched his fingers into fists. He glanced toward the basement door. He knew what he needed to do, though he didn't like it very much. At least he had planned this out beforehand.

He stormed into the basement, wielding a gun. Dr. Reid and the woman both froze, her ankles nearly unbound. The man raised the gun and fired. The woman fell back on the table, a neat hole in her forehead and her brain matter splattered across the cold, grey wall. Dr. Reid stood there in shock, a new blood spatter adorning his cheek, unable to take his eyes off the newest victim. The man approached the young genius, stowing the pistol and pulling out a small key. He undid the manacle around Dr. Reid's ankle, grabbed his bicep, and shoved him forward. The agent stumbled, but regained his footing, and the man led him up the stairs and out of the basement.

It wasn't hard to throw the doctor into his van; the younger man was practically catatonic and allowed himself to be manipulated easily like a large doll. Minutes later, the van was pulling out of the garage and racing away from the death-filled house, its driver seething angrily and its cargo bloodied and broken.


Day 3 ~ 4:27 pm

HOTCH

The second black SUV squealed to an abrupt stop behind an identical one. Five FBI agents poured out from the two cars in flak jackets as a trio of FBI tactical vans were speedily parking in front of the neatly maintained house. A group of the black-armored men raced across the lawn to join the profilers on the porch, while a couple of agents led the rest around to the back of the house, looking to cut off an attempted escape.

Hotch stood at the door with Morgan, waited a long minute to be sure that the others were in position, and gave his subordinates the go ahead. Morgan lifted his foot and kicked, the force causing the lock to break and the wooden panel to swing inward. A similar crash was heard from the opposite end of the house. A chorus of "FBI!" rang out, and the stomping of feet echoed as the agents rushed to clear the rooms. It didn't take long for them to determine that there wasn't anyone on the premises.

"Hey, guys? You need to see this," Prentiss shouted from the office. The profilers made their way there and crowded around her. She gestured to the computer screens.

"Sonuvabitch," Morgan growled, "He's been watching us this whole time?"

"It appears so. That's how he cleared out before we got here," Prentiss answered darkly.

"Did anyone check the basement?"

"The tac team did. They found a body, but it's female." The gathered group let out a collective breath of equal relief and sorrow at Rossi's announcement.

"That's probably where he was keeping Reid as well. I would like to take a look, see if we can profile anything more. Prentiss? Dave?" As he named them, each of the two profilers nodded.

"JJ and I'll search up here. Maybe we can find something," Morgan said. The three darker-haired agents headed to the basement with heavy hearts. They had been so close to finding their beloved genius only to lose him again, and this time they had even less of a chance of rescuing him. They descended the wooden steps, just refraining from gagging due to the vomit-inducing stench of blood, death, and human waste. Rossi sent up a silent prayer at the scene that greeted them, Prentiss grit her teeth and released a slow breath, and Hotch closed his eyes briefly, hoping he would wake up from this nightmare.

There was blood everywhere. It coated the concrete walls and floor with red puddles in various stages of dryness. A woman lay on a cold, metal table, one of her ankles wrapped in wire, her limbs hanging haphazardly off the surface's edges. Her head tilted towards them, once blonde hair now stained crimson, death-clouded eyes staring sightlessly at the wall opposite her. There was a ragged hole in her forehead, a line of blood drawn down her face. A spray of rouge dripped down the concrete behind her, a pool of it had formed under her head. Crusted blood trailed to a drain in the center of the floor. A steel chain lay snake-like on the ground, its head a sturdy, unlocked, metal cuff and its tail tethered to a wall. The effect the gore and stark atmosphere of the room gave the impression that it was a scene straight out of a horror film.

"CSI's on their way," a gruff voice said. The profilers turned to see a tactical agent in the doorjamb watching them. Hotch nodded his thanks, not sure he would be able to speak if he opened his mouth. The agent moved out of view.

"Reid's been down here for three days?" Prentiss looked queasy at the prospect.

"He's smart." Rossi chose to ignore her rhetorical question. "This place is organized and specifically designed for his revenge. It would have taken him months to plan all of this and still stay below the radar. He installed all of this himself, passed the background checks to get a job as a janitor at the Quantico office so he could keep tabs on his target and the investigation, and set up a patsy to throw us off his trail. He planned every last detail to ensure he got what he wanted. Something changed, though. It's like what we see with first-time killers. They understand the theory, but when they go to implement it, it's not what they expected."

"I see what you mean," Hotch said. "We know that he stalked Sarah Hendrix before he abducted her, but past that point, he deviated from his plan. He kidnapped Allison in broad daylight where there were possible witnesses and now he's killed her with a bullet to the head. She nearly escaped as well, so he left Reid alone in the room with her for a prolonged period of time in a position where he could free her. He's getting sloppy."

"He's trying to keep Reid alive as long as possible," Prentiss told them, peering into a paper bag. The other profilers looked at her quizzically. "He gave him food and water."

Hotch examined the room one last time and sighed, "What is your end game?" He muttered to the absent Unsub.

Michael Raymond Harper. That was the name that had been on Hotch's mind for the past half-hour. The name that made him contemplate committing murder. The name of the serial killer who was currently torturing one of his agents. Harper had managed to be one step ahead of the BAU ever since they started searching for their Unsub. It was infuriating.

They knew that he was born on May 9th, 1978, in Nashville, Tennessee. His deceased mother was Susan Harper nee Copeland. His father was Tristan Harper, a serial killer who had murdered 16 women, including his wife, along the East Coast between the years of 1984 and 2005. It had been one of Reid's first cases with the BAU. The young genius had practically solved the case by himself.

They knew that Tristan Harper had died five months ago while in jail at the age of 58 and that this was Michael's stressor. They knew that Harper had brutally killed the two cops who had arrested his father, and seven other women in Monroe, North Carolina. They knew what he looked like: 6'2", 179 pounds, brown-haired, blue-eyed. They knew everything about him, except where he had taken Reid.

He turned back to his subordinates and said, slightly louder, "Let's go see if JJ and Morgan have found anything. We don't want to get in the CSU's way."

"Hotch," Prentiss said softly, concern furrowing her brow, "The odds of finding a victim after–"

"I know the statistics, Prentiss," Hotch interrupted sharply. She winced at the hard edge in his voice. As much as he tried to hide it, anger was simmering just under his impervious demeanor. Hotch grimaced but didn't apologize. "This is Reid we're talking about. He knows behavior and he will keep himself alive long enough for us to find him."

Rossi had stopped in front of the TV in the corner and was frowning at it.

"I wonder what this is about," he said, turning it on. The image of a house appeared on the screen, the perspective from a window across the street.

All three of the profilers studied it. Prentiss' eyes suddenly widened in realization.

"That looks like… no... it is! That's JJ's house!" The agents ran for the stairs.

"JJ! Morgan! We know where he's taking Reid," Hotch yelled. "JJ, call Will!"


A.N. This is the final prewritten chapter. I don't know if I'll ever get around to the last one, but I'll try my best. Thanks to everyone who's read, liked, and commented on this story, your support is greatly appreciated.