what have i become
my sweetest friend?
Nine Inch Nails, "Hurt"
"So he didn't get to watch Jamal and Amanda destroy each other," Gideon said after hearing Hotch and Morgan's report.
"Assuming he was telling the truth—and I think he was—it was random chance that had him pulling the trigger," Hotch said.
"How awful," JJ said.
"He described a cell that jibes with what the ME told us," Morgan said. "There aren't basements in Florida, so we're looking for someone with a large outbuilding or garage."
"He'd need to live in an isolated area, too; otherwise neighbors might see him moving the bodies."
Detective Rodriguez stuck his head in the room. "Got the fax from Jacksonville PD. Looks like this's our boy." He held up the drawing that depicted a man with the same vague features Jamal had described. The most striking thing was his big, dark glasses.
"No mask," Morgan said, "but those glasses are just as good. That's all someone's really gonna notice."
"I'll put it out there anyway," JJ said, taking the faxed sketch from Rodriguez. "We might get lucky."
"Luck hasn't been our friend on this one so far," Morgan said, grimly.
Gideon rubbed his hands together, a thoughtful frown creasing his face. "Call Garcia. Get her the sketch and ask her to do a property check. I imagine our UNSUB owns a sizable chunk of land, probably something he inherited."
"Do you think it's on the island?" Hotch said.
"No," Gideon said with a shake of his head, "the island is densely populated, except for the park. But if you take Highway One south a few miles, you run into absolutely nothing." He indicated the roadway on the state map. "Between St. Augustine and Ninety-Five is a lot of empty land. Tell her to start with college employees, or with anyone employed by the school's outsourced firms."
"We need names that overlap those records and park volunteer or employment records. That should narrow it down some," Hotch said as Morgan began relaying instructions to Garcia.
Back in Virginia, Garcia's brightly tipped fingers flew over the keyboard. She threw the neon pink, feather-topped pen aside when it got in her way, and in moments she was searching database after database. "Okay, gorgeous," she said, "I've got three men who are listed as employees of the school and park volunteers. Of those, one is in his sixties, one lives on campus and seems to own no other residence, and the third…"
"The third?" Hotch said.
"He doesn't seem to own much of anything," she said in confusion. "Hang on, I'm checking family members." They heard the clack of the keyboard for a moment, accompanied by Garcia's muttering. Then, "Here we go, kids, pay dirt."
"Fortune five-hundred CEO pay, or lowly civil servant pay?" Morgan said.
"Pure gold bullion, sweetness. One Daniel Burns, age thirty-seven, was widowed April 2005. He inherited property owned by his late wife; it's still listed in her name."
"April. His wife died two springs ago," Gideon said, eyebrows raised.
"The stressor," Hotch agreed.
"Give us an address, beautiful, and I'll love you forever."
"I hope you'd do that anyway, but an address you shall have. GPS coordinates are being uploaded to you as we speak."
"You're the queen of my world, baby girl. Good work."
"Just find them, guys. Bring them home safe," she said in a soft, serious voice.
"We will, Garcia," Gideon said.
Morgan ended the call and Hotch showed his phone to Rodriguez. "Can you show me where this is on the map?"
The detective considered for a moment. "About here, looks like," he said, sticking a red tack into a spot on the map off of Highway 1. "Between the city and Ninety-Five, just like Agent Gideon guessed. That's the middle of damn nowhere; BFFL if it ever existed."
"Here comes a picture," Morgan said. He compared the photo on his phone to the sketch. "Looks pretty much like our guy. Hard to tell with those damn glasses."
"Detective, let's assemble a team. I want to go in soft, but we need to be prepared if things go bad. If he sees a lot of firepower at first, he might cut his losses and kill them. We can't let that happen," Hotch said.
Rodriguez nodded. "Can your tech get us satellite images of that property? It would be nice to know the layout. If the house is set off the road a bit it'd help us a lot."
"No problem," JJ said, shooting off a text. "Garcia can get you just about anything, up to and maybe including Jimmy Hoffa."
A few minutes later Morgan had the image up on the laptop. They all leaned close to study it as he scrolled around. "Look," he said, "that could be our outbuilding. That's where he's holding them."
"All right," Hotch said as he straightened. "Let's not waste any more time. JJ, get us a warrant. Rodriguez, have your team armed and ready to go within the half hour. Let's hit it."
He sat in the corner, his back to her. His thin body rocked back and forth and his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. He was shaking, and his shirt was adhered to his wracked frame with cold sweat.
It was time.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and stepped toward him, trembling hand outstretched. "Spencer," she murmured with a gentle touch to his shoulder.
He whirled around faster than should have been possible. The gun seemed to absorb all the light in the room, and in his long-fingered hand it looked alive, malevolent. She fell back, glass-green eyes wide. "Spencer, what—?"
"Shut up," he spat. "Hey!" he cried. "I'm ready to do what you want! I want to see what you're offering!"
"Spencer, please," she said. "You don't have to do this. You can fight it. Together, we can—"
"Save it, Elliot. Believe it or not, not all problems in this world can be solved by holding someone's hand and hoping really hard."
She didn't recognize the man who stood before her, the creature who glared at her out of Spencer Reid's eyes. The features were still his—fine-boned; gracefully made; attractive in a slightly awkward, almost androgynously pretty way—but she'd never seen them twisted into such an expression of disdain, base desire, and borderline hatred. This face was that of Spencer Reid the addict, not Reid her partner, Spencer her friend.
A tear slipped down her cheek, leaving a glittering trail in its wake. It was an act. It was all part of their plan. But that didn't make it any easier, and she'd had no idea Reid was such a good actor.
Before either of them could move or say anything further, the door swung open. Jackson moved deeper into her corner, shrinking back from the man she thought she'd known and the man who held them both captive.
"You rang?" the man said. The humor in his voice made her shiver.
"Let me see it," Reid told him. The gun he held on her shook in his hand, but he didn't lower it. "I'm not going to kill her unless I know you have it."
A slow grin unfurled across the man's bland features. He slid a hand into his pocket and they could clearly hear the tinkle of glass. "It's right here," he said.
"No," he said. "You're talking about me killing my partner. I want to see the bottle. Come closer. Show it to me."
The man let out a little huff of impatience, but he did as Reid demanded. He took a few steps into the room, positioning himself between his prisoners. He wore body armor, just as they had suspected he would. He pulled out the little glass vial and held it up to the light. "There. Happy now? Watch where you point that thing, kid; if you shoot me and I drop this, that's it."
Reid obligingly lowered the gun, and Jackson leapt.
The team, accompanied by St. Augustine P.D. and agents out of the Tampa Field Office, roared down Highway 1 with lights and sirens blazing. They reached Daniel Burns' rambling property in record time, but they parked the convoy well away from his driveway. As they all piled out and assembled on the side of the road, Hotch began barking orders.
"Gideon, Morgan, you're with me. JJ, Rodriguez, assemble your team and back us up. S.W.A.T., I don't want to see you anywhere near this damn place until we radio for you, got it? This man is very likely holding two FBI agents somewhere on his property. We're going to hit the house first, then the outbuilding. Everyone keep your head and don't do anything foolish. Our main objective is to get Reid and Jackson out of there alive and unharmed. Getting the UNSUB out alive is secondary. Everyone clear on that?"
There were nods and affirmatives all around.
"Good," Hotch said. "Let's go get our people."
Vests donned, but weapons still holstered, they approached the house carefully. When Hotch's knock met with no answer, he nodded at his team and at the one following. Weapons were drawn, and Morgan kicked in Daniel Burns' door.
It was a surprisingly small house for such a large property, and the team soon pronounced it all clear. "Outside," Morgan said grimly.
"S.W.A.T.," Hotch said into his radio, "we're hitting the outbuilding. Be ready."
"Affirmative," the disembodied voice replied.
They were hurrying across the back lawn, weapons lowered, eyes alert, when a gunshot shattered the incongruously tranquil day.
Jackson had Reid's tie stretched between her hands. As she landed on the man's broad back, she looped the length of silk around his neck and held on like a monkey. He struggled against the garrote, choking and spluttering, but she only pulled it tighter. Muscles straining, drained body aching, she tried to focus on blunting his mind, but it wasn't working.
"Shoot him, Spencer!" she said through clenched teeth.
His hands shook. His palms were slick with sweat. He was afraid he would hit her, or that the bullet would go through the man's body and into hers. He wasn't a great shot at the best of times. "Jack—"
"Do it! I can't—"
Her words were cut off as the man slammed her back against the cinderblock wall and her breath left in a whoosh. The pain was staggering; she might have felt something crack; and her arms were going weak. Every breath a struggle. She tried to ignore the bright, blinding flashes that arced across her vision, and tightened her grip. Any ideas about using her ability were gone now. Every cell in her body was caught up in the need to hang the fuck on, no matter what.
He bashed her against the wall again. She let out a strangled grunt of pain and knew she couldn't hang on any longer. She began to slip. Small, clenched fist still clung to the tie, and the man's head jerked back, his face going from livid crimson to desperate magenta.
Reid watched the struggle through wide, disbelieving eyes. He couldn't seem to keep up with what was happening, it was all so fast.… But as she started to crumple to the floor, he knew he had to act or they'd both die. Aiming as best he could with quaking hands and blurred vision, he pulled the trigger.
"Hold! Do not approach!" Hotch said into his radio. "Wait for my order."
Hotch, Gideon, and Morgan hit the outbuilding door at a dead run. They slammed through it, weapons raised, but the three agents stopped short at the sight before them.
Reid still held the gun in his wildly trembling hands. The UNSUB—Daniel Burns—was sprawled on the floor. Jack was collapsed against the cinderblock wall; her breath came in short, pained little gasps. She was cradling herself with one arm, and a length of cloth—they recognized it, strangely enough, as Reid's tie—dangled from the other hand. Blood dripped from her locked fingers onto the floor in tiny patters
Gideon stepped forward, hands spread. "Spencer, put down the gun," he said, a quiet command.
Reid started, and wild hazel eyes flicked from Burns to Jackson to Gideon. "Gideon," he said, "Gideon…I—I think he's dead. Is he dead?"
"It's okay, Spencer. We'll find out. Just put down the gun."
His parched, raw throat clicked as he swallowed. Slowly, warily, he bent and placed the gun on the concrete floor well away from Burns' reach. "I shot him," he breathed, gaze fixed on the man's prone figure.
"Yes," Gideon said. "Well done, Spencer." He approached his young protégé and put a careful, protective arm around thin shoulders. "Let's get you out of here."
Morgan knelt next to Burns and checked his pulse. "He's still alive. Hotch, get some medics in here."
Hotch radioed as he bent to examine Jackson. "EJ, talk to me," he said. He didn't try to touch her; he wasn't sure how she would react.
She looked up at him with pain-dazed eyes. "I'm okay, Hotch," she said. "My ribs…" She shifted, winced.
"Don't try to move, okay? The medics are on their way."
"Did you really attack him with Reid's tie?" Morgan said, taking note of the livid redness around Burns' neck.
Her mouth twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. She managed to straighten her cramped fingers. Her eyes lingered on her bloody palms with dispassionate interest. "Yes," she said. "It was Spencer's idea. I had to distract him so Reid could—Hotch, please don't be mad…I had to let him…don't be mad."
"Mad? Why would I be mad, EJ? You had to let who do what?"
But she didn't answer. Consciousness had finally given up its tenuous hold on her, and she was out cold.
Quantico, VA - One Week Later
Days had passed since their return from Florida. Jackson had spent the first night in a Jacksonville hospital, protesting vehemently the whole time, but despite aching ribs, lingering bruises, and the abrasions to her hands, she was relatively unscathed. After all, she hadn't been the one to kill a man…though she had tried very, very hard.
Daniel Burns died in the hospital without regaining consciousness. No one mourned him, except, maybe, the young man who'd shot him. Reid had killed a man before, but it never got easier. That was a good thing, he knew, but still he struggled. He'd saved their lives. He'd done the right thing. Maybe he'd even redeemed himself a little?
Still he struggled.
That day, as the Virginia evening approached on silent cat's paws, the team was preparing to go home for the weekend. Morgan and Garcia joked quietly about some inside secret of their own before sharing the elevator down. JJ was finishing up last-minute paperwork. Gideon had already left for a quiet weekend at his cabin. Hotch was sequestered in his office, laboring over the St. Augustine report. He would be at it a while.
Reid and Jackson lingered at their desks, oddly reluctant to leave the relative safety of the BAU office. The bullpen was quiet for once, and each agent felt a strange sense of peace. She sighed softly as she studied him. He looked…fairly terrible. She'd told him a thousand times in the intervening days that none of it had been his fault. She was pretty sure he'd never truly believe her.
"How're…things?" she said, her voice tentative, unsure. It was hardly adequate, but it was the best she could do for the moment.
"I'm still here," he said, vaguely.
Her mouth quirked. "Barely." She straightened some pens on her desk. Arranged papers. Avoided looking at him. Finally, "Spencer, you know I didn't tell Hotch anything."
"I know. I did."
Her head came up. Her eyes widened in surprise before her expression smoothed. "I'm glad. What did he say?"
He cleared his throat, and finely-drawn brows came together as his face scrunched. "He told me to take care of it."
She relaxed a fraction. "And will you?" she said.
"I…yeah, I will."
"Good," she said. "I miss you, Spencer."
He looked away, unable to bear the softness in her clear green eyes. "I miss you, too," he told her in that quiet, gentle tone that had been absent from his voice since Hankel.
Her face lit in a smile. She reached for her bag. Neither of them would be helped by a long, drawn-out conversation tonight. "I'll see you Monday, then."
She hesitated a moment. What could she possibly say? He had saved her life; he was a drug addict whose problem had gotten them into the situation in the first place. At least partially.
He had saved her life, and he was her friend. "I hope you don't think—that is…it wasn't your fault," she said. "I know I've said it before, but—I need you to believe it. It wasn't your fault, Reid."
His mouth moved in a tired smile. "It was," he said. "If I'd been in my right mind—"
"He still would have figured out a way to jump you. He still would have lured me in just like he did. He was a predator."
"Aren't we supposed to be the ones to outsmart him?"
"Ha. That's just it, boy genius. We did outsmart him. We beat him at his own game. That was because of you."
"I'm not the one with the broken ribs."
"No, but—" She let out an impatient sigh. "Stop martyring yourself over this, Spence. Okay? We both fucked up. We both got kidnapped this time. Hankel wasn't your fault, and neither was this."
He eyed her across the partition dividing their desks. "You called me Spence."
She paused. "Well, yes. Is that okay? Or is it only for JJ?"
"No," he said, "it's okay. I'm just not used to it from anyone else. And I thought—you'd be too mad."
"Too mad for nicknames?"
He shrugged. "Well yeah."
She looked down at her hands. The bandages were awkward, but at least not as heavy as they'd been back in the hospital. One deep slice had required stitches and would probably leave a scar, but it wasn't her first. Certainly wouldn't be her last.
"I am mad," she finally said, "but…less at you than one might expect. Less at you than I even realized."
"You're allowed to be mad at me."
Her head came up and she pinned him with a glare. "Of course I am! And you're allowed to be mad at me, too!"
Now it was his turn to pause. Mad at her? Why on earth would he be mad at her? She'd saved their lives with his stupid tie, of all the damn things. She had broken ribs and a split lip and those goddamn bandages on her hands. All he had was a bruise on the side of his head from the guy's club in that bathroom.
"Jack, why the hell would I—?"
"I couldn't do it," she said.
"No one expected you to—he was a lot bigger than you, and we hadn't eaten in two days. I didn't think you'd be able to choke him out."
"No! Not that!" She drew in a shaking breath. "I tried to work him. His mind. I couldn't get in. It was like—like he was inside that cell. His mind was, I mean. I just kept slamming into that goddamn metal door no matter what I tried."
"Oh." His face twisted thoughtfully. "So that means you strangled a guy nearly a foot taller than you with a necktie while he was smashing you into a concrete wall over and over. Without any extra help. Just you, a tie, and your own personal willpower." He huffed out a brief chuckle. "Look at your hands, Jack. Most people would've let go way before the cloth embedded itself into their skin."
"Spencer…" She hadn't brought this up so he could comfort her. "I'm sorry," she finally said.
"You don't have anything to be sorry for."
"Neither do you," she said. "Not about this."
"Okay," he said, though he wasn't sure he believed her.
"Okay," she replied in the same tone.
They watched one another for several long seconds until she rose from her desk and gathered her things. She hesitated, eyes seeking out his. "Take care, Spencer," she said. "Promise me."
He ducked his head. The kindness and compassion in her gaze was too much, and it made him ache. "I promise," he said. This time he meant it.
She gave his shoulder a tender, uncharacteristic squeeze as she passed him. He watched her leave. A small, wistful, pained smile flitted across his features, and he wondered if, finally, he could live up to the faith she had in him.
Fin.
11/2009. 8/2020.
I've also rewritten the third chapter in this series, History. Look for it to start hitting soon. It has maaaaaaybe my favorite thing I've ever written for Criminal Minds in it, so that's idk. Kind of exciting?
Hope you've enjoyed the journey so far.