Author's Note: If you recognize it, it isn't mine. Regardless of how I keep hoping…
Author's Note 2: Another new chapter. Already. Yes, those probably were pigs you just saw flapping past your windows.
Author's Note 3: Sorry about the notification and re-notification. I published this before checking the formatting. Forgive me please?
Previously, in "Criminal Minds: The Prodigal":
"Hotch, it's me. We definitely have something over here. All three killings were after the fire was extinguished, and all the victims fit the profile – well-off guys with big vehicles, parked at trailheads. I think we need to focus on the fire as the precipitating event."
Once he had the groceries put away – oh good, Mrs A at the store had sent him some really fresh vegetables this time, including a whole head of garlic that hadn't even been on the list he'd sent in the previous week with Sam – Gideon finished fixing the float in the water trough and tested it. The horses weren't here during the winter months, of course, but several times lately he'd seen deer in the apple orchard behind his house, and deer deserved water to drink at least until the first freeze. He put away the plumbing tools, then picked out the pliers, leather gloves, and other tools he'd need to fix any problems with the fencing and gate up behind girls' camp.
"Scenic route, or short cut?" he asked aloud. His first months alone on the property, the first winter he'd acted as caretaker, he'd spoken only a few words each week, and had at first felt like an idiot talking to himself. But he found himself needing to speak, and get the words and ideas out of his head, even if there wasn't anyone there to hear him. "Take the scenic route, why not. Check on that tree branch in the arena on your way, why don't you."
Without the 100 or so campers on the property during the winter, there was of course less to do, but he'd managed to keep himself busy nearly every day he'd been up here. Fixing fences where the steers from the neighboring property had scratched an itch and managed to knock down part of the fence, insulating the plumbing, draining the big water tank, keeping brush back from all the buildings, checking on the roofs every now and then, keeping squirrels out of the cabins, the jobs went on and on and kept his body busy. Unfortunately, though, they didn't keep his mind busy. It had taken a busy summer looking after the property and fixing everything the kids managed to break, plus three months of working himself to exhaustion every day that first autumn, to get at least a little bit of the litany of "could have, should have, shouldn't have, didn't" out of his head. But it came back at odd moments if he let his mind wander. And he could tell today was going to be a bad day.
"Damn Aaron Hotchner! Why the hell did he have to show up out here? Isn't the rest of the country enough for him, can't he stay away from these 50 acres?"
Even as he walked through the riding arena – yes, that branch was going to have to come down soon, but he'd need to hire someone for that; maybe Sam? – his mind kept going back to the case that had unfortunately brought Aaron to his doorstep.
"White middle-aged DINKys, none of them from around here, all with SUVs, all of them shot in or near their trucks, and all shot in the heart. Why? No. Stop it!" He reached over and snapped the rubber band he'd put around his left wrist that morning. That had been one of his tools to get Washington, and Frank, and all the rest of them out of his head that first year. He'd realized that morning that he'd probably need it again, although he'd had to go up to the office and raid the desk drawer to find a rubber band that wasn't rotted through.
Halfway up the hill to girls' camp, he stopped to watch the nuthatches scooting up and down the trunks of the old Ponderosa pines and squabbling over who'd found the best snack. Once winter set in, he'd start feeding them, but for now they were doing fine on their own. A magpie fluttered down from the roof of the nature cabin and peered up at him, then hopped off on its own errands. "Leave the birds alone, Gideon. You've got a fence line to check. Then what? Kitchen? No, go sweep out the dining hall and wash the windows, that'll get you some good exercise."
He continued up through girls' camp, the cabins exuding a sleepy calm that would only last until the following June. How on earth 50 girls could make that much noise he never could figure out, but every summer was the same. The brush lining the trail grabbed at his shoelaces, and he made a mental note to trim back the manzanita soon. Even in the fall, that shrub had to be kept under control to limit fire danger.
So was it rage by a have-not against a have? Old guy driving a top-of-the-line SUV comes out and parks it in the middle of a pretty economically depressed area, that could – "Stop!" He snapped the rubber band again.
Once he reached the gate, he set down the tool bucket and stretched as he eyed the gate. "New hair in the barbed wire, looks like the steers have been back. Wish they'd find somewhere else to scratch their butts." A magpie landed in a tree on the other side of the gate and screeched at him. Alarm, or just conversation? He thought it was just conversation, since the bird didn't go anywhere but sat there watching him. "And the same to you. If you're not going to help, then quit criticizing the work." With another screech, the bird flew off.
The fence posts on either side of the gate were still solid, but the rest of the fence line would have to wait another week or so to be checked. He'd need to clear brush along the fence, and he didn't really feel like meeting a rattlesnake as he did that. But by next week it should be chilly enough that they'd be going into hibernation. He stopped to think… yes, next week was All Saint's Day, the temperatures should certainly have dropped by then.
Gideon unchained the gate and opened it, putting some WD40 on the squeaking hinges. Yes, the gate post itself was going to need to be replaced soon. For the meantime, he'd do what he could. As his hands worked, his brain slipped automatically back into well-worn grooves. "No, I don't think it's economic. If it was anger over the economy, he'd target any drive-in hikers, not just the ones in SUVs." And from what Philipps had said the night before, it was only SUV drivers.
"So if not the economy, then what? What else is there? I don't think it's money, and how can it be love? Revenge? But for what? None of these guys overlap, none of their contacts overlap, they aren't in the same line of work. And that's odd enough for this many victims to not have some area of overlap. Unless Hotch didn't tell you everything. But why would he hold anything back? Doesn't make sense. So set revenge aside. Sex? No, that's not it, one of the victims was gay, the others were all straight. Unless… did the Unsub want sex and they turned him down? Or did they offer, and this was his reaction? Set sex aside as a maybe."
He focused on the work for a minute, then closed and rechained the gate and stood looking out across the scrubland next door to the camp. The owners were related to Sam somehow, he knew that, but he'd never been quite sure where Sam fit into the family. There'd been a couple divorces and remarriages, and somewhere along the line the young man had shown up with one of the new spouses. They were good neighbors, though, letting the kids come and do trail rides across their property in the afternoons, and they helped out with jobs he couldn't handle on his own.
The magpie was back, he saw, and as he put his tools back into the bucket the nosy bird flew to the tree just on the other side of the gate. It hopped from one branch to another, then screeched again and flew to a low shrub. "Thanks for the approval, boss. You want to sign my time card?"
The walk back down the hill took him past the flagpole, the computer science cabin, and around the kitchen to the dining hall. The noise of unlocking the door echoed in the empty space, and he went around opening all the doors to air the room out. "Sweep first, then dust the plaques, then go work on dinner." Suiting action to words, he set out sawdust and started methodically sweeping the concrete floor.
"What about environment? These are all gas guzzlers, and all these guys have travelled a ways to be out here. Is the Unsub defending the environment? If so, why? What triggered all of this?" He swept some more. It was comforting to see a tangible effect. Put down sawdust, dirty up the floor, then sweep it all up again. He could see the effect of his work on the floor, and feel like he'd accomplished something.
"OK. Environment is reasonable. But why only the SUVs at trailheads? Why not go after ski resorts, or fancy hotels, or tour buses? Access, maybe? The victims are all out on their own in the woods, but getting to a tour bus in town, or even in the park, might be harder. Is that it? Is he defending a particular environment, or is it the environment in general? If one environment, why that one? Does he feel like they're trespassing on his land?" Philipps had shown him on a topo map where the murders had been, and they'd all been on public land, so that probably wasn't it.
Finished with the sweeping and dusting, he closed all the doors and locked up the dining hall again, then looked to see what time it was. The sight of the rubber band around his wrist next to the watchband startled him for a moment, then he realized he'd quit even trying not to think about the case that wasn't even his. For good measure he pulled the rubber band out a good four inches before letting go of it, then spoiled the effect by immediately rubbing the stinging skin. "Idiot!"
He walked past the maintenance shed on his way back down from the dining hall to his house and stowed his tools, then made a note to call Sam about the tree branch in the arena. It wasn't urgent, nobody would be using the arena for another seven, almost eight months, but still.
As he walked down the path leading to his house, he saw a lithe form slinking out from under the front porch to crouch under a bush in his tiny front yard. "Hello, cat. You here for dinner? Give me a little bit and I'll feed you."
In the kitchen, he poked the lamb shanks he'd put in the refrigerator to thaw, and decided they were defrosted enough to cook. His hands minced garlic, diced a shallot and celery, chopped peppers and tomatoes, and sliced carrots while his mind chewed over the killings. Was it really reasonable to think this could all be about the environment? Well, why not? He'd certainly seen stranger reasons for one person to start murdering other people. Once he had the casserole dish filled with the osso bucco, he put the dish in the oven to cook, prepared the cat's dinner, then poured himself a glass of red wine, tucked the wireless phone under his arm, and took everything out to the front porch. The cat danced from foot to foot as Gideon put down the dish, then headbutted a pine seedling in its excitement; as Gideon retreated to the other end of the porch and sat on the porch railing, the cat slunk up by its food dish and started eating, keeping a wary eye on him all the time.
He didn't think the cat had a name. It had shown up one day the first autumn he himself was here, and he had seen it sitting under a bush looking bedraggled and thin. Eventually the cat had overcome its fear of humans enough to eat something that a human had touched. It had taken over a year for it to accept him sitting on the porch as it ate, and he didn't think he'd ever be able to touch it. It looked sleek now, though, and as though its life had gotten easier since it had shown up here in front of his house.
He set the wine down untasted, and sighed. There was no avoiding this, no matter how hard he tried. He dialed a too-familiar number and waited while the connection was made, then waited with a racing heart through one, two, thr—
"Hotchner."
"Aaron, if I work with you on this, behind the scenes, will it get you out of my backyard sooner?"