Author's Note: If you recognize it, it isn't mine. Regardless of how I keep hoping… And my goodness, hasn't it been a while since you've heard from me? Hope to do better with the rest of it!

Previously, in "Criminal Minds: The Prodigal":

"Here you go, Agent Gideon. Thought you might need something to drink."

Gideon sank his face into his hands, and Hotchner swore quietly. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut about Little Will.

"Come on now, you didn't think you were just dealing with an old country hick of a cop, did you? I know how to work Google too. If you'd just told me who you were at the start, we could have avoided a lot of tonight's fun. Now, you want to help me find the guy we're really looking for? Dust off that old profiling talent?"

Gideon closed the front door of the small house behind him, and leaned against it for a moment with his eyes shut. It had been a long night, most of it stressful as he tried to keep as much hidden from Phillips as he could. And, he had to admit, as he fought to keep the lure of the hunt from sucking him back into his old life. Having Hotchner around was bringing it all back; yes, the pain of losing Sarah was still there, would never fade, but the fascination with other people's behavior, with what made them do the evil that they did, would never fade either. He had hoped that it had, but this chance meeting had brought it back to the surface.

He pushed away from the door and glanced briefly at the watch face resting against the inside of his wrist. Already 4 in the morning… his jaws cracked in a wide yawn as he considered whether to give up and make coffee, or try to get a few hours sleep. In mid-October, the sky wouldn't start brightening for another few hours, but he had a feeling that the reactivated circuits in his brain would keep him from sleeping. Coffee it was, then. As he switched on the overhead light in the old kitchen, the glare against the dark windows and against the pitch black of the early morning outside reminded him of countless late nights and too-early mornings with the BAU. He leaned against the countertop as the water gurgled slowly into the carafe, and thought back through the conversations between Phillips, Hotchner, and himself.

Phillips had been unrelenting in trying to get Gideon to help Hotchner and Morgan put together a profile of the killer they were looking for. Gideon had not met the chief of police before now, but was impressed with the man's single-minded determination to catch the killer in his area. He had a feeling that Phillips probably would have done well in the BAU himself. It had seemed, all night, like Phillips knew exactly what sort of pressure would work best on Gideon. Between him and Hotchner, who was never one to fight cleanly against an old friend and colleague, Gideon had been hard-pressed to stay independent and uncommitted.

But he had managed to stay uninvolved, at least on the surface. And besides, all of that was behind him now, he wasn't going to get involved. Beside him, the coffee had finished brewing, and he poured the first cup of the day into his favorite, thick-walled mug. Taking his coffee with him, he passed through the living room, turning on the radio to catch the first hour of Morning Edition as he went, into the bedroom at the back of the house to take a shower and finish waking up. But as he went, he wondered how soon Hotchner and Morgan would succeed in finding their Unsub and going back to Washington. Gideon knew he'd be happy when they were no longer in "his" neighborhood.

A grating buzz dragged Hotchner out of a shallow sleep, and he growled wordlessly as he groped for the alarm on the nightstand. What had he been thinking? He wasn't a youngster anymore. He really should have just slammed some more coffee and stayed up all night; deciding to take a two-hour nap after spending most of the night trying to convince Gideon to help them had to have been one of his least intelligent decisions. But no, he'd set the alarm for 6 in the morning, and here it was already 6, even though it felt like he'd only closed his eyes five minutes before. After a shower and shave, though, he at least felt that he could look human even if he didn't feel it, and he headed for the coffee shop at the front of the restaurant. When he stepped out of his room, though, he realized he hadn't even looked at the damage to the Suburban the night before. The sight of the gouged car was shocking even to him, the scrapes running the length of the car as well as up and down on the doors and fenders of the passenger side. He was still standing there, shaking his head in disbelief, when Morgan came out of his own room.

"This is unreal, Derek. I mean, you'd said that the keyings you figured were linked to our guy were more than just keyings, but this is unbelievable."

"Yeah, isn't it? But, this is worse than any of the others. Those were bad, but this is vicious."

"You think it was a message, or did he just go to town?"

The younger agent shook his head. "No, I think he probably knew who we were, I mean who wouldn't, we show up with the cops and then get into a jeep with the chief and leave this behind? And with government plates? Nah, it was a message."

"So what do you think it was?"

"This is my land, get the hell off my mountain, I hate cops, I hate SUVs, take your pick. What do you think?"

"About the same as you. So, what are you planning for today?"

Morgan pulled folded-up maps out of his back pocket, and gestured for Hotchner to follow him to the coffee shop. "I've already got Garcia started on looking for possibly linked crimes in some of the counties around us, to see what she can pull out of her databases. She said she thought she'd have results for me by noon DC time, so after I hear from her I'm going up to Mariposa to talk to the cops up there. Then maybe over to Bridgeport or Sonora unless we break things open. What have you got planned?"

"I think spend some time with Philipps, go through some of his thinking, see if he can come up with anyone who might be tied in here, and go interview anyone who looks likely." He broke off as the waitress came to the table, and both the men ordered breakfast. Hotchner was glad to see that Morgan was drinking just as much coffee as he was this morning.

"So what about our mountain man? You guys sure he's not the one?"

"Mountain man?"

"You know, Hotch, this guy up at the camp that you know. Maybe I should talk to him? I mean, if you know him, maybe you're not the right person to be interviewing him." Morgan sat back and looked steadily at his boss.

Hotchner returned the gaze, then sighed. "No, Derek. He's not involved. He won't let you interview him, and neither will I. Philipps is satisfied that he's not our guy, too, so let it go."

"All right, man. I sure hope you're right."

They both waited wordlessly for their breakfasts, both of them feeling the tension and not sure how to defuse it. They were finally served, and the act of eating seemed to break the deadlock.

"Hey, boss, should I take our wheels today, or try to get another one?"

"No, you go ahead, Philipps said his men had everything they needed, and he's loaning me a department car for as long as we need it."

"Good. Did they find anything, any prints or trace?"

"He said the only prints they found were ours and his, and no trace other than a little bit of paint from the last SUV that got keyed. Whatever it is this guy's using to key the vehicles keeps the paint and transfers it to the next vehicle. So it's something he doesn't use a lot, or else the paint would have been rubbed off in the meantime."

"Damn. All that damage, and no useful evidence from it. What a waste."

They finished their breakfast, chatting about what they'd heard of the other cases currently on the go, then Morgan went back to his room to call Garcia and Hotchner walked down to the police station to trade ideas with Philipps and pick up a car.

Gideon paused and looked up from the float valve he'd been repairing in the water trough. Had he heard something? He was always overly alert, in fact he knew he could be the poster boy for PTSD, but with Hotch and Morgan in town he knew he needed to be more alert than ever. He listened attentively, and sure enough he'd heard something. He rounded the barn just as his nearest neighbor, at least during the winter months, swung down off his horse.

"Hey, Sam. How you doin'?"

"Isaac. Got your groceries here, sir."

"Thanks, Sam. How much were they?" He dug in his pockets for the cash he'd stuffed there as he was getting dressed, and waited while Sam finished unloading half of each saddlebag.

"No problem, sir. It's 15 dollars. Mrs. A down the store said the cops were up here yesterday. And some government cops too?"

"Yeah, they're looking for somebody killing hikers, and wanted to interview me."

"But it's not you."

Gideon smiled faintly despite himself. "No, but they were pretty convinced for a while."

"They gonna come back?"

"I don't know, Sam. They're pretty hot to find the guy, so they'll probably talk to anybody around here that they can find. They're not looking for anything else, they don't care if you're off the grid and living differently, so don't worry about that."

"Thank you, sir. Good to know. Never did trust the government types, not after I seen what Uncle Sam did in other countries." He swung back up into the saddle and turned his horse. Gideon stood and watched him ride away, wondering just exactly what Sam had seen, and where.