Essential Listening: Highscore, by Panda Eyes and Teminite

0o0

"I don't understand," said Barton. "These surgeries are all hours apart. I didn't have to choose between patients." He shook his head. "If he's punishing me for my choices, none of these fit."

Grace pursed her lips and glanced at Spencer, who frowned, then tapped his chin before reaching for the files.

"Alright… look at the note again and compare it against the wording on the charts," he instructed. "A lot of times an unsub will unconsciously mirror the wording of situations."

Barton pulled a face, but did as he was told.

Grace tapped the page with the tip of her pencil. "There's nothing you can do – that sounds kind of like the way I've heard doctors make death notifications."

"You're right," said Barton, with a frown.

"Maybe you can't remember what the 'choice' was because you never had to make one," she mused.

"What do you mean?" Spencer asked.

"Well, we always say this stuff only has to make sense to one person," she said, with a one-armed shrug. "Maybe the unsub saw a situation where their loved one died and blamed Doctor Barton for it, even though there was 'nothing he could do'."

"Wait," said Barton, slowly.

"You remembered something?" Spencer inferred.

"Uh, I don't know," he replied, casting his mind back. "It was right after new year's. There was a car accident. One of the victims was Hispanic."

Grace was already hunting through the patient files when Spencer said, "New year's…"

She found it first. "Here," she said, reading it over. "January third. There's a two-car collision, you operated on a Hector Ledezma. That was your only surgery that night."

She handed it to Spencer, who absorbed it as Barton tried to remember.

"That's because I didn't operate on the boy," he said, after a moment. "He lost brain function on his way to the hospital. I – I tried to explain it to his father, but…"

Grace scrabbled through the taller pile of patients they had discarded because Barton hadn't performed surgery on them. "Is this the one?" She showed it to the Doctor and he nodded.

"Garcia, I need you to find a patient in the system named Jason Myers," Spencer said into his mobile, reading over Barton's shoulder. "He was admitted on January third, on life support."

There was a pause, then he said, "What?" The slightest frown formed between his brows. "Who's his father?"

Another pause; Grace felt her heart pick up. It sounded like they had him.

"Okay, get his photograph and details to the team at the school," he said at last. "I think he's our unsub."

He hung up and Grace raised her eyebrows.

"Patrick Meyers, forty-five," he told them. "Garcia said his son was taken off the ventilator three days ago."

Grace sat back. "There's your trigger."

"I couldn't have helped that kid," said Barton mournfully.

Grace nodded and met Spencer's eyes. They knew.

0o0

Emily stood at the door to the private room in the ICU feeling oddly like she had just run a marathon, or dropped about six floors in an elevator.

Hotch was alive.

Not conscious. Not uninjured.

But alive.

It was very disconcerting to see him lying so still and vulnerable, carefully cocooned in his hospital bed. His skin was almost grey, but his heart rate was steady on the monitor and every medical person nearby was calm, so Emily decided to cling to that.

She turned her attention to the doctor, who had been shocked to discover their John Doe was actually an FBI agent and the person who had dropped him off was probably one of the worst serial killers the state of Boston (and now Virginia).

"He was stabbed nine times, but no major arteries were hit," she said, checking his chart. "It's a miracle he's alive."

"When will he wake up?" Emily asked, offering up a silent prayer to the God she was never entirely sure she believed in.

"The anaesthesia should wear off within the hour," the doctor said, with a shrug, "but he's bound to be out of it."

Emily nodded. "Okay."

She looked at her boss – her friend – and felt all the fear and anger she had experienced when Garcia had been shot. And there was something else, too: a child's shock that the responsible adult was out of action. She was used to him being in control, being calm, knowing what to do.

Somehow, over the last three years, Hotch had become something like a father to them all.

It felt oddly like she was falling.

In her mind, a voice that sounded a lot like the announcer on the AMTRACK said, Normal Hotch service will resume after a short delay.

She shook her head. "Um, may I stay here?" she asked.

Foyet had dropped him off, so he was unlikely to come back – that would spoil his game, whatever that was – so security wasn't really an issue right now, but the idea of leaving the ICU when Hotch was still out felt instinctively wrong.

"Of course," said the doctor, and left to check on other patients.

"Thank you."

Emily pulled up the visitor's chair, making sure she had a good view of the door, and watched her boss's chest rise and fall.

When a nurse looked in to check on them both she was astonished to find that a whole half hour had passed. As soon as she had noticed her own inaction, she felt the need to get moving – to take action.

She reached for Hotch's chart. It was a breach of confidential information, technically, but at this point the entire BAU considered one another next of kin. Besides, there was no way any of them would let someone else track Foyet down after what he had just done, so Hotch's patient records would soon become evidence in one of their files, in the way their field-related medical information always did.

It didn't tell her much more than the doctor had related, other than the position of the wounds. It was eerily similar to the injuries Foyet had inflicted upon himself. He was attempting to bind Hotch to him, in a way.

Power, she thought, with intense distaste.

She was about to close the chart when a notation in red ink caught her eye: LC.

No way…

The doctor was at the main desk, just outside Hotch's room, so she went to interrupt her.

"Excuse me, may I ask you a question?"

"Sure," said the doctor, turning to her.

Emily showed her the chart, pointing out the abbreviation. "What does that stand for?"

0o0

Since they had identified the probably origin of the note, they had encouraged Doctor Barton to take a break. He had been wearing a hole in the carpet, which made it harder to think, and Spencer strongly suspected that if they hadn't got him out of the room, Grace might have lost her mind. She had developed a minor eye twitch, even so.

Garcia was sending information about Meyers through as she found it. He'd bought the gun a month before they took his boy off life support, and Spencer wondered whether he had intended to kill himself instead, before he'd formulated this new, mad plan.

Across the table, Grace looked up from the medical file on the man's son when her cell phone rang.

"Hey JJ, all good at the school?" she asked. "Uh huh. Yeah, Patrick Meyers. Sure."

She made grabby hands for the file Reid had printed out – with Barton's permission – and he relinquished it.

"Yeah, okay. He's forty-five, used to be employed as a clerk in an insurance company…" She walked off, deeper into the house, unable to keep still when she was talking on the phone.

From the other direction, Doctor Barton came in, clearing his throat. He was pulling on his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Spencer asked, frowning.

"The note says not to deviate from my routine, and I always pick up Jeffrey on my days off," said Barton.

"Okay," said Spencer. "I'm gonna come with you – I'll just let Agent Pearce know."

He rose, but before took more than one step, his cell phone rang. Emily's name flashed up on the screen; he felt his heart rate speed up.

Hotch?

"Yeah?" he said, answering it.

Dimly, he was aware that Doctor Barton had already left the room, presumably to wait in the car.

"LC on the unsub's note," she said, without preamble. "It stands for 'living children'."

Spencer frowned. That changed things. "Are you sure?"

"It's administrative," Emily told him, by way of confirmation. "It's when they're afraid a patient's gonna go on life support and they don't have a DNR order."

He felt his stomach drop. Oh, no…

"Reid?" Emily asked.

"What if the unsub was trying to tell Doctor Barton that he is actually the target – and that he's gonna leave his son without a father?"

He span – one of the interior doors had shut. Barton was leaving without him, leaving him vulnerable and unprotected.

Just as Meyers wanted him.

"Barton!" he hurried after him, his heart in his mouth.

The doctor was already at the front door, walking out along the path to the driveway.

"Doctor!" A man's voice – rough with grief, but calm, which was a very bad sign.

He barely had time to see the gun Meyers was raising. All he knew was that he had to get Barton out of shot. Spencer rounded the corner without thinking and tackled Doctor Barton to the floor.

The bullet went wide.

He felt a searing pain in his knee, and then they were rolling across the grass. Somehow, Spencer got the doctor behind him, horribly aware that he could put no weight at all on his left leg. Blood began to pour down his calf, soaking into the fabric of his trousers.

Dimly, he could hear Prentiss, her voice small and tinny on the phone he'd dropped in the flowerbed – yelling for him to respond. Then the call cut out.

Hoping she had hung up in order to send back-up and ambulance, Spencer twisted. He grunted with pain, but forced himself to stay calm and ignore the heat and spreading coldness in his lower leg. "Are you hit?" he asked Barton.

"No."

He felt for his gun, but it must have fallen from its holster when he'd knocked Barton to the ground. He cast around for it and saw it a few feet away – too far for him to reach.

"Get my gun," he told Barton, who was still winded and confused. "My gun."

Barton began to reach and scrabble for it and Spencer matched his frame, trying to keep the doctor covered.

"Get away from him!" Meyers shouted. The shock of Spencer's appearance had shaken the attacker for a few, precious moments, but it was quickly wearing off. "Get away from him!"

"FBI! Put the gun down and get down on the floor!"

Spencer let out a quick gasp of relief. Grace must have heard the gunshot and gone around the back of the building. She was at the corner of it now, using Barton's car as cover. Now, Meyers was having to divide his attention – and where he pointed his gun – between the two of them.

"Whatever you do, stay down!" Spencer told the Doctor, as Meyers continued across the road as if Grace wasn't pointing a police issue weapon in his direction. He was so focused on his goal. Too focused.

Suicide by cop, Spencer thought wildly. He's going to try to shoot one of us in the end.

"Do not move!" she shouted. "Drop your weapon!"

He hesitated, stopping at the edge of the lawn. It was still too close.

Barton got the gun and pushed it into Spencer's hand.

"Drop the gun!"

"Don't protect him!" Meyers screamed.

Finally armed, Spencer had his gun up, too. Meyers took a few more steps forward, until he was level with the tree.

Too close. Too close.

"Get down on the ground, or I will shoot you!" Grace warned him. Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer saw her moving closer, covering them as best as she could.

"He killed my son!" Meyers raged.

"He did not kill your son," Spencer told him urgently. "Your son was killed by a car accident."

Sweat had broken out on his face and chest. The world didn't feel entirely real. Shock, he thought. I'm going into shock.

"Stand up!"

"Sir! Drop your weapon! I will not tell you again!"

"We do not want to shoot you!" Spencer shouted. "Please put your weapon down."

Meyers wailed, "Stand up, you coward!"

"Mr Meyers, listen to me," said Spencer, desperately. He could feel Barton just behind him. He wouldn't stay there if he thought Spencer would get shot again. He and Jeffery were too alike. He could feel him making the choice to get out of cover. "Doctor Barton did not kill your son. Your son was killed by a car. And this is not what he would want."

Meyers' gun started to lower and Grace took the opportunity to get a little closer.

"Okay?" said Spencer, as Meyers' face crumpled. "So, drop the gun. Please."

"Listen to him, Mr Meyers," said Grace, more calmly now his gun was lower.

For ten seconds he looked as though he was about to turn himself in, but then the sound of sirens echoed along the road, and Spencer saw Meyers make his decision.

"Don't do it," he warned.

"I'm sorry."

Meyers gun came up; both Spencer and Grace took the shot.

He dropped to the floor, the gun tumbling from his hand. Grace ran forward, securing it. Immediately, Barton started trying to look at Spencer's leg, but he shrugged him off.

"I'm fine. Go to him. Go to him."

Finally able to focus on his wound – which appeared to be bleeding heavily, he put his own gun down in the grass and wrapped his hands around the area, trying to keep pressure on it. A wave of nausea rolled over him from the pain. He closed his eyes, glad Grace was here and able to focus on their murderer – and potential victim.

Meyers moaned in agony that was equal parts emotional and physical as Barton carefully rolled him, looking for the wound. He wasn't fighting back and Grace had already frisked him.

"He's not going to give you any more trouble," Spencer heard her say, and then she was kneeling beside him.

He opened his eyes and drank in her beautiful face, that little frown firmly in place, deep blue eyes carefully assessing him. It was just possible, he conceded, that shock, adrenaline and blood loss was making him a little giddy. "Hit anywhere else?" she asked, stripping off her jacket.

Shaking his head made him feel worse.

"Good, cause I have to tell you," she added in an undertone, "if you die I'm going to raise your spirit and force you to watch '90s rom' com's with me."

He laughed, and she used the distraction to remove his hands from the wound above his knee and replace it with her jacket, wrapping it tightly in place. Grimacing at the pain, Spencer let himself fall back against the warm grass, groaning and reviewing his life choices.

"Can you get him stabilised?" Grace called to Doctor Barton, who was still treating his would-be murderer at the other end of his front lawn.

"I think so," he replied. "Just hold on. Hold on," he encouraged.

"The medics are nearly here," Spencer mumbled, listening to the sirens and calculating the speed and distance.

"They're right here," Grace amended.

"Help is coming, okay? Hold on. Hold on."

It sounded like an ambulance had pulled up – a squeal of tyres and the clanks of someone grabbing a stretcher – and then another vehicle. And then another and another.

"We need a backboard and a C-collar," Barton instructed, sounding entirely in his own element. "Put pressure right here. Call ahead to the ER. Tell them they got a GSW to the thoracic cavity and have him redlined to the OR, stat. There's a through-and-through GSW in his upper left arm."

He was jostled. Spencer opened his eyes again to find Doctor Barton back with him, checking Grace's tourniquet and the pressure she was doggedly maintaining on his thigh.

"Looks like it went clean through," said Barton, which was a relief.

"You might have just saved his life," said Spencer, doing everything he could to not think about the hole in his leg.

Barton met his gaze, but didn't say anything. Spencer understood. It was who he was – he could no more prevent himself from helping Meyers than Spencer could have stopped himself pushing Barton clear. He let his head drop back to the grass.

"Keep pressure on that, okay?" said Barton and Grace nodded.

"You got it."

There was the sound of running feet – much different to the general milling around of the police officers who had arrived with the paramedics and found themselves with little to do, and familiar voices yelling his name.

"We're good here, Doctor Barton," said Grace. "Your son's here – Jeffrey's here. We're good. Go."

"I'm fine, go!" he said loudly, which dislodged the doctor, and then Morgan, JJ and Rossi's worried faces appeared in the halo of sky above him.

"You okay?" JJ asked.

"I'm fine," he said again, and then his brain – which had been flooded with the cocktail of chemicals that emergencies, serious injuries and shock released – seemed to snap back to reality. Using a fistful of Grace's blouse to pull himself upright, he gasped.

"Woah!" Rossi called, but Spencer had already met Grace's gaze.

"We'll get you to a hospital," Morgan told him, picking up his gun.

"No," Grace told him, sliding back into her holding pattern of professional calm and tension. She slid one arm around him, holding him steady. "You need to find Emily."

"Call Emily," Spencer added.

They were talking over one another, words tumbling out now their first priority had been resolved. The concern on their colleagues' faces morphed into open fear.

"Where is she?" Rossi asked.

"It's Hotch," Grace said. "He's missing –"

"There was blood at his apartment –"

"A bullet hole in the wall –"

"Emily's looking for him –"

"Garcia's calling the hospitals –"

"We gotta –"

"You've got to let a paramedic look after you," Grace snapped, turning to him. "We'll go help Emily."

"Yeah," he said, feeling shaky. "Yeah. I'm good, you guys. The EMTs are here, I'll be fine. Go help Hotch."

She glanced up at Rossi, the de-facto leader in Hotch's absence, and he nodded.

"Yeah, kid. We got this. JJ, call Emily. Find out what's going on."