Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me
Spencer drifted. He didn't know what time it was, or what day, or if he was in pain. He felt nothing. Sometimes he faded back to reality, to the dim light of the cabin and the burning smell in the air and the pain settled deep in his bones, but mercifully he would fade away again.
A rough hand gripped his hair and yanked his head upright. He gasped, drifting into consciousness.
"Are you ready, boy?"
Charles was back. Spencer flinched in his tight grip, squirming weakly. "Ready for what?" he asked, his throat dry. Charles wrapped his hair around his fingers.
"My weakling son thinks God gave you to him for a reason," he said, and he threw Spencer's head down, knocking his chin to his chest. "Let's see if we're both right."
Charles twisted the chair around, nearly dumping him to the floor, and then he set a camcorder on a tripod on the ground in front of him. Spencer blinked slowly. His mind wasn't working fast enough; he wasn't sure if it was drugs or stress or the pain.
At this angle he could see a row of laptops, each playing a different video. Spencer licked his lips slowly. His mouth was so dry.
Charles pressed a button on the camcorder and a little red light blinked on. He was recording. Spencer tried to raise his head, but his whole body ached.
"Can you really see inside men's minds?" Charles asked. Spencer didn't answer, couldn't answer.
"See these vermin?" he said, nodding towards the screens. "Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."
Not recordings, then. Livestreams of innocent, ordinary people living their lives. He couldn't give in to Charles, couldn't just fall into his trap.
"No," he whispered.
Charles spun on his heel and walked towards him, his hands balled into fists. "I thought you wanted to be some kind of savior," he said.
Spencer took a breath to steady himself, but he couldn't breathe deeply enough. "You're a sadist on a psychotic break," he said. "You won't stop killing. Your word's not true."
Charles's lips thinned. "The other heathens are watching," he said.
Spencer's heart squeezed in his chest. They were looking for him. They were. They could see him, even though he couldn't see them. He just had to trust that they were watching.
"Choose a sinner to die, and I'll say the name and address of the person to be saved."
Spencer hesitated. He didn't know what to say, what kind of message he could give without raising alarm. And what kind of message could he give, when he didn't know where he was?
He thought of Tobias walking in with the bloody stolen carcass, the grease on his lips and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I won't get choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher," he said slowly.
It was the best he could do.
Charles moved fast, faster than he expected, and hefted him out of the chair by his upper arms. "Can you really see into my mind, boy?" he demanded. He was holding him too tight, tight enough to leave bruises. "Can you see I'm not a liar?"
He tried to make eye contact with Charles, but he couldn't, he looked away. The leather belt strained at the chain of the handcuffs, pulling him down.
"Choose one to die, and save a life. Otherwise, they're all dead."
Charles threw him back down to the chair. His breath shuddered in his chest and he swallowed down a sob. "All right," he rasped. "I'll choose who lives."
"They're all the same." Charles said.
Spencer looked across the laptops. The last one was an older woman busy in her kitchen, finishing the dishes. She looked like a mom, her kids probably in middle school or high school. He thought of his own mother, how she probably didn't even know he was missing, and he choked.
"Far right screen," he whispered.
Charles glanced at the laptop. "Marilyn David, 4913 Walnut Creek Road," he said.
Spencer watched as the woman reached for the phone, chatted with someone. It was probably Hotch, maybe Gideon, maybe Morgan. He swallowed down a sob. They were watching, they were.
The woman reached for her computer, her face perilously close to the camera for a split second, and then the screen went black. Some of the tension eased from his body. He'd saved one person, at least.
Charles watched the screens, his back to him, and when Marilyn David disappeared he turned around slowly. His eyes were blank and black. Spencer's heart sank to his stomach. "Raphael," he whispered.
Raphael walked towards him, slow and measured, and switched off the camcorder. "You've done your part," he said. "Now it's my turn."
He left the cabin, closing the door behind him, and Spencer was left alone in the dark with only the lights of the three laptops to keep him company.
He could see them, ordinary people living their lives, not knowing that they were being watched by a madman. He could hear their conversations, light and inconsequential. They didn't know. They didn't know, and he couldn't help them. All he could do was wait.
It was the second screen from the left. A couple chatting on their living room couch. He saw the wife's reaction before Raphael appeared in frame, but he knew. He watched Raphael make the phone call, a knife held to the woman's throat. He saw the husband walk into the room as Raphael pulled the woman to her feet.
He closed his eyes, sobs breaking from his throat. The scene kept playing out in his closed eyes, his mind betraying him. He couldn't escape it. He kept watching them die.
The dilaudid long since dissipated from his bloodstream but he needed it fiercely, needed to feel pleasantly numb, needed to get away even though his body was trapped. Some part of him knew he needed to approach this calmly, rationally, think of a way to protect himself, but he was handcuffed to a chair in the middle of nowhere and thirst tore at his throat and no one knew where he was, no one was going to find him in time.
So he sat quietly, his head aching, his heartbeat slowing, and his mind went silent and blank.
He saw the authorities enter the murder scene, saw the EMTs try to revive people who were long since gone. Saw Hotch. Saw Gideon. He could see them, but they couldn't see him, and they couldn't save him.
"Slaughtered, same as the others," he heard the sheriff say. "We've got roadblocks for a fifteen mile radius. Every unit's on the road. But so far nothing."
"I don't know how much longer Reid can hold out," Hotch said quietly.
Hotch remembered him. Hotch was thinking about him. But Hotch wouldn't be able to find him until it was too late.
And then he saw Gideon, looking directly into the camera. Spencer couldn't make his eyes focus. His contact lenses were bone-dry, cutting into his corneas. "Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for understand me?" he said.
His voice was gentle, warm. Fatherly.
"He's perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you."
Gideon moved away from the screen. Spencer stared blankly. The words spun, replayed, distorted. He couldn't think straight. He couldn't move. He wasn't there anymore.
JJ held her breath as the sheriff took the call. "Raphael?" Gideon asked as he hung up.
"He called it in," he said. "I've got units headed that way already, but we'd better go check it out."
"Hotch, you come with me," Gideon said. "Garcia, you keep watching in case Reid comes back on screen. Prentiss, keep looking through the journals."
"What about me?" JJ said.
Gideon turned to her. "Try to get some sleep," he said.
Her mouth dropped open. "But Gideon, I-"
Gideon left the room in long strides. Hotch tugged her aside, his hands on her elbows. "You're still injured," he said. "You need to take a moment. Get your head on straight."
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're not," Hotch said bluntly. His eyes softened, just the tiniest bit. "JJ, you can't find Reid if you're not on your game."
The fight went out of her. "Okay," she said. "Okay. Is...it there anything else I can do?"
"Just rest until we get back," Hotch said. He squeezed her elbows. "We'll find him."
JJ nodded, looking down at the floor. Emily followed Hotch out of the room with a sympathetic glance. Garcia took a deep breath and went back to typing.
"I'll see if I can get the livestream back," she said, half to herself. "He might have turned off the connection, but if I can just track down where it was coming from…"
JJ abruptly turned and walked away. For a wild moment she thought about walking outside, just to get a change of scenery, clear her head a little, but she thought of the barn that reeked of blood and death, and she settled for the living room.
She laid down gingerly on the couch. Dust attacked her sinuses; the fabric smelled like mildew. Maybe she couldn't fall asleep, but she could at least close her eyes for a little bit. The lights were on, but she didn't dare turn them off.
Spencer didn't like the dark. They all knew it, but no one ever mentioned it. He never made a big deal out of it, but whenever they had to share hotel rooms while on location he would casually ask if they could leave the bathroom light on with the door cracked.
She thought of Spencer, alone in the dark, and she sat up. There was no way she could just sit there.
Reluctantly she pushed herself up and grabbed an empty plastic cup off the table. Maybe water would help, although the water in the sinks tasted soft and metallic and a little too warm. She walked into the kitchen, but Morgan was standing by the stove with the kettle in his hand. Her pace slowed. She couldn't just back away without him noticing.
"Thought you were going to try and get some rest," he said.
He sounded so casual, but she knew by the stretch of his shoulders that his anger hadn't dissipated yet. "Everybody else is working," she said, tapping her fingers on the flimsy cup. "I should be, too."
He met her gaze evenly. "We can handle it. It's fine."
She looked down at the cracked linoleum floor. "It's funny, I keep thinking...the one thing we need to crack this case is, uh...well, Reid."
She half laughed, trying to ease the pressure in the air, but Morgan didn't smile back. "Yeah," he said, emotionless, and he turned to leave with his coffee cup clenched in his hand.
"You think Reid and I should have stayed together at the barn, don't you?" she blurted out.
She'd been thinking it for the past thirty-six hours, she'd known they'd all been thinking it, but it didn't make her feel any better to say it aloud. It was somehow more awful.
He paused in the doorway and turned around. "JJ, go get some rest," he said.
"I can tell that's what you're thinking, so…"
"I just want to get Reid home safe," he said flatly.
"But...if I had his back," she said. "Like I was supposed to. He'd be here now."
"JJ, what do you want from me?"
He wasn't responding the way she though he would. "I just... I want…" she stammered. She wanted him to get angry. To yell. To take it out on her.
"Someone to tell me the truth," she said finally.
Morgan didn't look angry. He looked disappointed. She never thought that would hurt worse to see from him. "The truth is one of you is here, and one of you isn't," he said, quiet and even...and sad. "You've got to figure the rest out for yourself."
He left the kitchen and she stood there in silence, leaning up against the chipped stove, the plastic cup gripped so tight in her hands that the sides began to bend.
Sleep was his only solace, although maybe it wasn't sleep. Maybe it was drugged stupor, or fading in and out of consciousness. But no matter what, consciousness meant pain, the sharp throbbing that ran through his body and pulsed in his head, the nausea that clawed at the pit of his belly, the thirst drying out his throat. The fear and panic that squeezed his chest.
He tried to fight it, but someone was holding his arm, wrapping something around it tight, and his eyes opened despite himself. The smoke in the air from the woodburning stove stung, hazy in his vision, but a face came into focus, dark eyes staring at him in honest concern.
"Tobias," he said, his voice rising in a hoarse question.
"Sorry," Tobias said, ducking his head. "I had to leave for a while."
He was fastening his belt around Spencer's upper arm, tying it off tightly. "You can leave again, and you can take me with you," he pleaded. He knew he sounded like a child, but he didn't care. He needed Tobias to take pity on him, enough pity to be willing to defy his father.
But Tobias shook his head. "My father would be angry."
"Not if he can't find us."
"He always finds me," Tobias said absently. He was busy with the little glass vial again, measuring contents into a syringe.
"If you tell me where we are, my friends will come, and they'll save us," Spencer said, struggling to keep his voice calm and steady.
Tobias raised a skeptical eyebrow. "We can't be saved," he said, and he flicked at the syringe to deplete the air bubbles.
Spencer swallowed a childish sob. "We can," he begged. "We can. I promise." He tried to pull his arm away but he couldn't, he was tied, and the gesture strained his muscles. "If you tell me where we are, I'll save us both."
"Listen to me," Tobias said, and Spencer shrank back. "It's not worth fighting." There was a finality in his voice, as if the shreds of hope that Spencer still clung to had long since flown away for him. He held up the syringe. "Tell me it doesn't make it better."
He wanted to argue. He knew what the drug meant, that it was addictive and harmful and his body was already damaged, already under too much stress and strain. But he dropped his head, because the drug meant he would feel better, he would feel nothing, and Tobias took his arm in his hand, dirt and dried blood caked under his bitten-off fingernails, and the needle slid into his skin.
Relief was instantaneous. Warmth spread through his half-frozen body, settling in his fingers and toes, taking away the aches that pressed down him. He panted, his breath fading, and his head dropped.
He dreamed of his mother again, lying in bed surrounded by books and dirty dishes, dressed in the same pajamas she wore yesterday and the day before and the day before that. He was ten years old, taking care of the woman who should have taken care of him. He remembered forging her signature on paperwork, calling from a payphone to get the power turned back on, making ramen for dinner and getting sick from the salt because that's all he could manage to cook on his own.
He remembered his mother reading to him, her voice gentle and soothing and lulling him to sleep. She read to him because that was how she said she loved him. He wanted her to do something about it. He tried to remember being soothed and comforted, being cared for, and his memories came up empty.
Spencer's dreams faded into a soft blackness where he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, and he was grateful.
JJ wandered out of the kitchen. She could hear conversation in the dining room, but she didn't want to talk. Instead she found herself drawn to Hankel's computer room.
Garcia sat in front of the screens, uncharacteristically solemn, gazing at the webcam livefeeds. She held a red yarn rag doll on her lap; she kneaded it absently as she looked from screen to screen. It was unsettling to see Garcia without a smile on her face. It was like seeing your mother cry.
"Any more sign of Reid?" she asked.
Garcia shook her head without looking away. "And he just posted the last murder online," she said. Her voice sounded gravelly, like she'd been crying. "It's had over seventeen thousand hits in the first twenty minutes."
"I want to see it," she said quickly, before her resolve could waver.
"No, you don't," Garcia said, shaking her head.
"Don't tell me what I want and don't want," JJ snapped. "If I can't watch this... I have no business being in the field."
Garcia turned around, and she could see the sympathy written all over her face. She hated it. "Jayje, it's not a competition," she said.
Her resolve wavered. "I... I need to see it," she said.
"If you stop being affected by things, you...lose parts of yourself, you know," Garcia said.
JJ gritted her teeth. "Show me?" she asked, but it was not a request.
Garcia sighed and clicked a key. "I won't watch it with you," she said, throwing the toy to the ground and walking out of the room.
JJ sank into her vacated chair, transfixed. This is what Hankel did. This is what he made Reid watch. This is what he was capable of.
A figure in a black hoodie held a knife to a woman's throat while he spoke on the phone. "3514 Leavenworth. Raphael has killed them before their lies can free more sinners."
She watched it, the whole scene, daring herself to not look away. If Reid had to watch it, she had to watch it. It was only fair.
The video played through till the the last gory second. She clicked the mouse, her fingers trembling, and minimized the screen.
"JJ, are you all right?"
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Yeah," she said, standing up. "You can have your screens back."
Garcia sat down. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "Have you….um. Have you shown this to anybody else?"
"Not yet," she said. "There's a lot happening. It's a big deal but not big enough to distract everyone."
"Gideon ought to know," she said. "I'll tell him. You stay here. Keep watch."
Garcia nodded. JJ patted her shoulder on the way out.
The rest of the team clustered in the dining room, arguing over papers and photos. She cleared her throat. "Uh... where's Gideon?" she asked.
"He's upstairs," Morgan said. She could tell that he was still angry, but he was tempering it for Emily's sake. "Why? What's going on?"
"Hankel just posted the latest murder," she said.
Morgan swore under his breath. "I'll get him," he said. "Prentiss, fill her in. Keep looking through the journals."
He brushed past JJ. "We've looked through these journals a hundred times, what are we looking for now?" she asked.
"A hiding place," Emily said. "Morgan says that wherever Hankel took Reid, it's a place that Tobias knows. Somewhere that he considers safe."
"We'll keep looking, then," JJ said. She sat down and picked up a journal.
Their brief silence was interrupted by Gideon storming past them into the computer lab. Morgan stopped by the table and let out a low whistle. "He's pissed," he said. "Here, pass me a journal."
Emily tossed him the nearest one. "Where's Hotch?" he asked.
"He's talking to the sheriff back in town," Morgan said. "He can only get signal outside." He started flipping pages. "Look for something about drug usage. This hiding place is probably where Tobias goes to get high."
JJ turned through the journal, looking through Hankel's crooked capital letters. He had the handwriting of a teenager, uneven and scratched. She wondered what Spencer would have to say if he had the chance to analyze the handwriting.
And then she heard Garcia scream, high and hollow and terrified, and all of three of them threw the journals to the floor and ran.
Once, when he was little, he tried to walk along the fence in his backyard. He had fallen then, fallen hard on the sunbaked ground, and knocked the wind from his chest. He laid there for a while, too shocked to cry, staring into the sun until he could breathe, and when he could breathe again he cried.
He felt like that now, except he couldn't catch his breath, and he didn't have the strength to cry.
There was no fight left in his body, no clever plan left in his head. His only thought now was survive. Just survive. Survive long enough to get out of here.
He sat quietly in his chair, shivering from the cold wind blowing through the cracks in the walls, his hands in his lap. Tobias sat across from him, watching his computer screens, but sometimes he was Tobias and sometimes he was Charles and sometimes he was Raphael.
He was playing the video of the newest murder, playing their screams over and over and over again.
Suddenly he jumped up from his chair, knocking it over. "No!" he bellowed, and Spencer's heart skipped a panicked beat. "No, no!"
He turned on Spencer, eyes sharp, and it was Charles glaring at him now. Spencer shrank back. "They're trying to silence my message," he said.
"I can't control what they do," he said in a small voice. "I'm not with them. I'm with you."
"Really?" Charles said. He pounded the keyboard and turned around, accusations in his eyes.
It was Gideon, calm and soothing and reassuring. Reid, if you're watching, you're not responsible for this. You understand me? He's perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you.
Charles hit a switch, sending all four laptops in darkness. He advanced slowly, looming over him. "Do you think you can defy me?" he asked in a low voice.
"I don't know what he's talking about," Spencer whispered, closing his eyes tight.
"You're a liar!" he accused, looking him up and down. His eyes settled on his bare right arm and he grabbed it tight, pinching his wrist and digging into his elbow. The track marks stood out red against his pale skin.
"You're pitiful!" he said, throwing his arm down. "Just like my son."
Spencer bit back a sob, his face crumpling. Charles picked up the camcorder and the tripod and threw it in place. "This ends now."
The little red light glowed on the camcorder. He was streaming again. The team was watching. Maybe Morgan could identify the background, or Garcia could trace the signal.
Help me, he thought wildly. I can't do it. I can't do it anymore.
Charles stood over him. "Confess your sins," he said. Spencer shrank back, unable to shield himself, unable to run away. Charles backhanded him, nearly knocking him out of the chair, and his teeth slammed together hard enough to crack. "Confess!"
"I haven't done anything," he sobbed. Charles struck him again. He could taste blood now, thick and warm, the only warm thing in his body.
"Tobias, help me," he begged.
"He can't help you," Charles sneered. "He's weak."
He hit him again, hard across the face, hard enough to throw him half out of the chair. He was dizzy now, so dizzy. He couldn't see straight. He couldn't breathe. He was trying to cry but his body couldn't even do that properly.
Charles snaked his hand through his thick hair, grabbing it tight, and yanked his head upright. Spencer panted, the world swimming around him. Charles leaned close enough that he could feel his breath on his cheek. "Confess your sins," he whispered.
"No," Spencer whimpered, and that made Charles angry enough to throw the chair backwards with a growl. Spencer's head slammed into the floor. His whole body seized, locking up tight, and then everything went black.
He didn't stay in the darkness though. He started to feel warm again, the tightness in his chest relaxing. Light surrounded him, warm and gentle and soothing. He felt safe, safer than he'd felt in a long time.
Oh, he thought. I think I'm dying.
JJ stared at the screen, numb and horrified. It's not real, she thought wildly. It's not real, it's not real, it's not real…
But it was real. Spencer's body sprawled on the floor, his wrists still pinned to the chair, his head tilted back. His light hair fanned around his head like an angel's halo and the blood at his temple shone dark scarlet.
"What happened?" Hotch demanded. "What happened?"
Gideon pushed him out of the way, storming out of the room. "He told him...to confess his sins," Garcia whispered, her hands over her mouth.
"Who?" Morgan said. "Hankel?"
Garcia nodded. "Reid kept saying he didn't have anything to confess, and he doesn't, because he's Reid, he's- he's so innocent, and Hankel hit him every time he didn't respond, and he was crying, and-" She choked. "He fell, he fell so hard, and…he was shaking."
"He had a seizure?" Hotch said.
Garcia sank back in her chair, covering her eyes. "He had a seizure," she repeated. "And then he went still, and Hankel said…'that's the devil vacating your body.' And then he left. And Reid…"
JJ stared at the screen. "He's dead," she whispered.
"He can't be," Morgan said. "He can't be!"
"He's so still," Garcia whispered. "I don't think he's breathing."
JJ's heart thudded in her chest. Spence was dead. Spence was dead and it was her fault, it was all her fault-
"Oh my god!" Emily exclaimed. "Oh my god, is he-"
JJ looked up. Hankel crouched over Spencer's limp body. But he wasn't hurting him. He was pressing his hands against his chest, forceful and rhythmic.
"He's doing CPR," Morgan said.
JJ watched, panic and hope rising in her throat in equal measure. Hankel bent over Spencer, breathing into him, and went back to chest compressions.
Spencer bucked against the floor, gasping, and Hankel leaned away from him as he coughed and spluttered.
"He's alive," Garcia sighed, relief palpable in her voice. "Oh, he's alive."
The light and the warmth left him, dropping abruptly back into cold and pain and afraid, but he was alive, choking down gulps of air. His surroundings flickered around him like flash photos, catching him off guard, and for a terrifying split second he saw a gravestone and he thought it was his own.
But it was a different name, and a different year, and the stone was half hidden behind boxes and shovels, and one thought fell flat into his mind.
Graveyard. This is a graveyard.
He coughed hard, tasting blood. Hankel stood over him, gazing down like an avenging angel. Spencer tried to slow his breathing, but exhaustion had drained his energy. Tobias had saved him, but now-
"You came back to life," Hankel said, slow and deliberate.
Tobias was gone. "Raphael," he rasped.
"There can be only one of two reasons."
Spencer couldn't catch his breath. Saliva dripped down his jaw but he couldn't wipe it away. "I was given CPR," he said.
Raphael's eyes narrowed. "There are no accidents," he said.
Hotch dragged Gideon into the room and they all stared in silence at the screen. Spencer was alive- weak and limp and terrifingly pale, but alive.
"We need to get him out of there," Hotch said. "Now. He can't survive much longer."
Emily straightened up. "Wait," she said. "Wait a second. When was the video of the last murder posted?"
"9:23," Garcia said, eyes glued to the computers.
"And what was the time of death?"
"The 911 call came in at 9:04, and the murder must have been moments later," Hotch said.
JJ sat up slowly, her hand at her throat.. "That's only a nineteen minute difference," she said. They needed Reid. He would have already calculated this by now.
"How long would it take to post the mpeg?" Morgan asked.
"Two or three minutes."
"Let's call it two," Morgan said. "You figure a maximum of sixty miles an hour in a residential area. That means Hankel has to be within a seventeen mile radius of the crime scene."
"Garcia, can we see it on a map?" Hotch asked
She pulled it up on the screen, punched in the numbers. The wide open map shrank to a small red-lined circle. Spencer was somewhere in that radius.
"Call the sheriff," Gideon said through gritted teeth. "I want that area locked down like it's martial law."
"Guys?" Garcia said quietly, and they all turned to look.
"How many members are on your team?" Raphael asked.
Spencer's chest heaved. "Seven."
Raphael almost smiled, almost looked pleased. "The seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound," he recited. "The first sounding followed hail and fire mixed with blood, and they were thrown to earth."
Revelations. He was quoting Revelations. That didn't bode well.
Raphael grabbed the back of the chair and lurched it upright; Spencer's equilibrium swam, leaving him dizzy and slumped. He was tired. He was so tired.
"Tell me who you serve," Raphael said.
"I serve you," he said softly.
"Then choose one to die."
It took a second for the words to register. He stared up at Raphael in horror, his shoulders drawing up. "What?" he said.
"Your team members. Choose one to die."
Spencer's breath came in a fast asthmatic wheeze. "Kill me," he begged.
"You said you weren't one of them."
"I lied."
"Your team has six other members," Raphael said, unfazed. "Tell me who dies."
He shook his head slowly, drunkenly. "No," he breathed.
Raphael took out his pistol. He opened the action, spun it around, closed it again. "Choose, and prove you'll do God's will."
He held the muzzle just a few inches from his forehead. "No," he said, he closed his eyes. He could accept it. He could.
Raphael pulled the trigger. An empty click. His finger pulled down the hammer slowly. "Choose," he repeated.
"I won't do it."
Another empty click. "Life is a choice," Raphael said.
"No."
Click.
The bullet was coming closer and closer. "Choose," Raphael said, and the silver muzzle gently brushed Spencer's forehead.
He dropped his gaze and met the tiny red light of the camcorder.
They were watching. The team was watching.
This was his only chance.
"I…I choose…" he said. He had one chance. "Aaron Hotchner."
Raphael took a step back, eyeing him closely, and the gun lowered slowly. "He's a classic narcissist," Spencer said. "He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team. Genesis 23:4. 'Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense. In emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense'."
He stared at the floor. He couldn't look at Raphael. He couldn't look at the camera.
What if he got it wrong. What if they didn't understand.
Raphael raised the gun over Spencer's head and fired at the wall.
Spencer flinched, unable to cover his ears at the sudden loud blast. Raphael opened the action and let the empty round fall to the floor, then placed another bullet.
"For God's will," he said, and he clicked the action closed.
Spencer sank against the chair. There was no more adrenaline left in his body. He was tired, so tired. Slowly he sagged forward, his shoulders going limp, but he didn't pass out. He hovered on the edge of awake, dizziness creeping into him, nausea crawling at his belly, but he couldn't reach unconsciousness.
JJ covered her mouth in horror. "Aaron Hotchner," Spencer said. He sounded weak from exhaustion but it was unmistakable. "He's a classic narcissist. He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team. Genesis 23:4. 'Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense. In emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense'."
Hotch's jaw dropped; he slammed his mouth shut and stormed out of the room. They all looked at each other. "What do we do now?" Emily said.
"Garcia, keep watching," Gideon said, and he walked away. JJ looked at Emily and Morgan; they shrugged, and all three of them followed Gideon out of the room.
Hotch was frantically flipped through the Hankel family Bible. "I'm not a narcissist," he said.
Giden sighed. "Oh, come on. Look, you can't think anything from that-"
"No, stop-"
"-he's not in his right mind, Hotch-"
"Stop!" Hotch said. "All right, everybody right now- what's my worst quality?"
JJ's mouth dropped open. No one spoke, they all seemed just as startled as she was.
"Okay. I'll start," Hotch said. "I have no sense of humor."
JJ blinked. "You're a bully."
"I'm a bully," he repeated, almost gleeful.
"You can be a drill sergeant sometimes," Morgan suggested.
"Right."
"You don't trust women as much as men," Emily blurted out.
"Okay, good," Hotch said. "I'm all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't, ever."
JJ paused. He was right.
"Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that," Hotch said. "And he also quoted Genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. Read it."
He dumped the Bible into JJ's hands; she scanned the onionskin pages for the right passage. "I am a stranger and a sojourner with you," she read. "Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight."
She looked up. That was definitely not the verse that Spencer had recited to Hankel. Gideon was smiling- pleased, relieved. "He wouldn't get it wrong unless it was on purpose," Hotch said, and his voice cracked.
"He's in a cemetery," Morgan said. He pushed back into the lab. "Garcia, is there a graveyard in that circle?"
"I don't know, but I can look!" Garcia said.
JJ leaned over her, Emily at her shoulder. Garcia typed quickly, moving the image around. "I don't see a cemetery," Emily said.
"Call up the first time we saw Reid," Gideon said. She frowned, but then it clicked. Maybe he left other clues.
Garcia scanned through the footage, slowing down as she caught a frame of Spencer looking directly at the camera. "I won't choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher," he said, and his gaze into the lens was strong and unnverving.
"Check to see if there are any reports of poaching in the last couple of days," Hotch said.
Garcia complied quickly, pulling up a window on another screen. "Okay, uh…" she said. "A farmer reported two sheep being slaughtered on his property."
"Where are we talking?"
JJ squinted closer at the map. "What's that patch of green there?" she asked.
"Marshall Parish. I think it's an old plantation," Hotch said.
Emily leaned back. "Wait., Tobias wrote in his journals about staying clean and keeping away from Marshall," she said.
"Guys?" Garcia said. "There's a cemetery on the grounds."
JJ's heart squeezed in her chest. "That's it," she said. "That's where he is. It has to be."
"It's the only possible lead we have," Hotch said. "Garcia, you stay here. Keep us updated in case something happens."
"Yes, sir," Garcia said.
JJ got up but Morgan caught her elbow. "Hey," he said. "Stay here with Garcia."
"Why?" she asked.
He nodded to the bandage on her forearm. "You're compromised," he said.
"I'm not," she said. "I have to go."
"We can handle it," Morgan said. "You should-"
"I need to be there," she snapped. "I need to be there when we find him."
He stopped. She looked right into his eyes, her arms crossed over her chest. "Okay," he said. "Let's go get our boy."
"Hey. Hey, are you okay?"
Spencer drifted back towards consciousness. He wasn't sure who was talking to him.
"Hey, come on, open your eyes."
He was tired, so tired. He wanted to go back to sleep.
"You gotta wake up, before my dad gets back."
He forced himself to open his dry eyes. He was still in the cabin, still breathing in the acrid scent of burning fish guts, still chained to the chair. Bile burned in the back of his throat.
"Here, drink this. You'll feel better."
A ceramic cup was held to his lips. The water tasted like metal and dirt but he was so thirsty. He drank what he could, the water catching in his throat. The cup pulled away and he whimpered.
"Slow down, it's okay."
He looked up blearily at Hankel, who knelt beside him with the cup in his hand. "Tobias," he whispered. "Is that you?"
Tobias nodded and held the cup back up to his mouth. He gulped it eagerly, water spilling down his chin. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "You saved my life."
A shadow crossed Tobias's face. "I'm sorry," he said at last.
"Why?"
Tobias looked up at him, dark eyes mournful. "He'll win in the end," he said simply.
He got up, taking the cup with him. Spencer licked the last drips of water off his lips. "Tobias, I need to know something," he said. "It's important." Tobias knelt beside him again, waiting. "Are...are we in a cemetery?"
"Yeah," he said. "I used to come here to get high."
Spencer relaxed. He was right. He got it right. And hopefully the team understood, and hopefully they were coming for him...
"I was right," he said aloud, his voice faint and raspy
But Tobias had taken off his belt again and he was wrapping it around Spencer's arm. "No one bothers you here.," he said as he filled the syringe. "I never told anyone about it."
Spencer didn't have a chance to answer. Tobias slid the needle under his skin, and he slipped easily into unconsciousness.
He dreamed about his mother again, but he wasn't a little boy this time, he was eighteen, and he was watching them take her away. He was eighteen, but he was still a child who needed his mother, and he laid down on the floor and cried and cried until his eyes were bone dry and his chest ached. He was lonely, but that was nothing new, he was always lonely.
It replayed over and over and over in his mind- his mother pulled from the room, begging and pleading, and him left behind, crying apologies that no one could hear.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
"What are you sorry for, boy?"
He hadn't realized he'd said it out loud. "I sent her away," he whispered.
"Who?"
He didn't have the energy to raise his head; his lank hair hung over his face. "My mom," he said in a small voice. "I couldn't... I couldn't help her."
"Is that a confession?"
Was it a confession?
He couldn't stop it. He nodded his head, slow and drunken. He thought of his mother begging him to let her stay. "I confess," he whispered.
"You know your bible," Tobias said, but it wasn't Tobias, he realized slowly, it was Charles, looking for a reason to punish him. "Exodus 21:17."
The words rose from his memory unbidden. "And he that curseth his father or his mother... shall surely be put to death," he said quietly.
He'd signed his own death warrant.
Charles unlocked the handcuffs. They fell away with soft clicks, leaving behind deep red welts on his thin wrists. He was almost gentle with him. For a brief dizzying moment he wondered if Charles was going to set him free.
Charles stood up, looming over him. "Grab a shovel," he said, and Spencer's heart sank.
"I...I can't, I-"
Charles gripped him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. "I said, grab a shovel," he said through his teeth.
Spencer wavered, his knees threatening to buckle. He hadn't put weight on his injured feet yet and his ankle was ready to give out from under him. All the blood rushed from his head and the world shifted briefly underwater. "I can't," he said, his voice breaking. "Please, I can't-"
Charles thrust the wooden handle of the shovel into his limp grip. "Let's go, boy," he said.
He shoved him across the floor and he fell hard, his chin knocking into the metal pan of the shovel. "Get you, you lazy bastard!" Charles bellowed. Spencer pushed himself up, his arms trembling. He was so tired. But he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, even though his shoes were long gone, and he stumbled across the splintered wood floor.
Charles grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved him through the door. It had been chilly inside the cabin but now, outside in the star-dotted dark, he was cold, freezing cold, the wind whipping at his thin shirt and his bare feet.
"Let's go," Charles said, pushing him off the porch. His feet hit damp dirt, cold against his skin, and he winced. He limped away, following Charles's insistent prodding. If he had the strength he would try to run, try to fight, but there was no fight left in his body.
Charles nudged him down the side of a gentle slope, just far enough that the cabin disappeared behind the trees, and spread out before him were neat gravestones scattered like teeth. Spencer stumbled to a stop, the shovel sliding in his grip.
"Find you a spot and start digging," Charles said, and Spencer caught the glint of a silver muzzle in the moonlight as the pistol pointed at his head.
"I said, dig," Charles repeated. He planted his boot on Spencer's shoulder and forced him down, his face smothered into wet leaves. "Don't make me say it again."
JJ stared out the window, watching the reflection of blue and red emergency lights flicker on the glass. "Did you bring a warmer coat?" Hotch asked. "It's in the thirties."
"I'll be fine," she said. She watched Hotch drive out of the corner of her eyes. "How much longer?"
"Not too far," he said. "Almost there. Ten minutes."
She glanced back. Morgan was driving the SUV behind them with Emily and Gideon; the sheriff and his men weren't too far behind. "Do you think it's too late?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Hotch was the only one would give her a straight answer. She knew that. "We'll need to get to him fast," he said after a brief tense silence. "He's had a seizure and had to be revived. Clearly Hankel has been beating him regularly as well, so we can assume he hasn't been cared for over the past few days. He's going to be in bad shape, and we'll need to get him help as soon as we can...but it won't be too late."
His words were somewhat comforting. "Morgan blames me," she said quietly.
"Yes, I know," Hotch said.
That wasn't comforting at all.
"He thinks you should have stayed together. But I think he forgets sometimes that Reid can be incredibly impulsive and stubborn, and he probably wouldn't have listened to you even if you tried to stop him." Hotch glanced at her. "Don't worry. He'll forgive you the second we have Reid back. And then you'll need to forgive yourself."
JJ leaned back against the pull of the seatbelt. Maybe Hotch wasn't the best person for a heart-to-heart. And maybe now wasn't the time.
Hotch turned the SUV down a narrow dirt road, driving through the gap in a rusted metal fence. The Marshall Parish plantation was wild with overgrowth; the remains of the historic house had long since surrendered to the elements, the crumbling walls pulled to their deaths by ivy and lamb's ear. Hotch switched the highbeams on full blast, driving by the house and bumping over a narrow gravel path.
JJ grabbed the handle of the door, straining her eyes in the darkness. "There!" she said. "There's a cabin there, that's it, that has to be it."
Hotch pulled the SUV up close. The cabin looked abandoned, one solid storm away from falling to pieces, but smoke rose from the chimney. JJ got out of the car, her hand on the grip of her gun.
"Stay quiet," Gideon said. "We need to catch Hankel off guard."
JJ clicked on her flashlights. Lights flickered on like fireflies, warm and deceptively cheerful. Morgan took the lead, his gun extended, and Hotch followed close behind.
She made her approach, cautious and quiet, brittle leaves crunching under her heels. The wind whipped at her hair and for a moment she wished she'd listened to Hotch and worn a warmer coat. She held her breath.
"Go!" Gideon shouted, and Morgan ran up the porch steps, kicking the door down.
JJ ran into the room, her gun pointed, but her arms slowly lowered.
Spencer was gone.
She could hear the others shouting, talking, but it was a dull roar in her ears. She couldn't move. He wasn't there.
The air stank like burning flesh, but even with the fire it was freezing inside the cabin. She could see the electronic glow of the computer screens against the wall, still broadcasting webcam feeds. Hankel had definitely been here.
"Let's spread out. They have to be on foot," Hotch said. "Let's go!"
JJ turned and she saw the chair. An old wooden highbacked chair with a leather strap wrapped around the lower rail, And handcuffs, silver handcuffs. Behind the chair, tossed aside, were a pair of discarded shoes.
He was here. He was here, and now he was gone.
A gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. She turned to see Gideon beside her, and he was also gazing at the wooden chair. "We'll find him," he said. "He can't be far." He squeezed her shoulder again, firm and reassuring. "Let's go, JJ."
He didn't have the strength to force the shovel into the dirt. Over and over again he turned over handfuls of red Georgia clay, the wooden handle rubbing sore spots into his palms. The last shot of dilaudid had long since worked its way out of his system and he could feel everything, the throbbing in his hands and the cold wind biting his bare skin and he was tired, so tired.
Charles leaned against a crooked tree, watching him as he toyed with a silver knife. "I ought to bury you alive in there," he said. "Give you time to think about what you done."
"I know what I've done," Spencer said. His nose was running but he didn't dare pause to wipe at it so he settled for sniffling hard instead.
"Don't talk back to me," Charles said. "Dig."
He kept going. His chest ached with exertion. He was so cold now he couldn't take in a deep breath. Time was running out. He knew it.
"You see that?" Charles said, and he nudged the silver pistol on the ground with the toe of his filthy workboot. "Raphael's just waiting for his turn. Just waiting." He laughed, a harsh barking noise. "That's what waiting for you."
He kept going, silent and mechanical. The sore spots on his palms began to rub into blisters. His arms began to shake, his back and shoulders hurt. His breathing came in ragged slow gasps, he couldn't take a deep breath anymore and it made him dizzy. The dilaudid would help, it would, he'd feel so much better if he could just…
He heard something over the ridge. Footsteps, maybe?
Charles saw him hesitate. "What are you stopping for?" he demanded. "Dig faster."
Spencer drooped, the shovel sliding in his grip. "I'm not strong enough," he croaked.
The moon lit Charles's face in sharp shadows, highlighting his disgusted expression. "You're all weak!" he snarled, throwing off his coat
He saw flashlights. A dozen of them, weaving through the skeleton trees like fireflies.
They were looking for him.
"Get out of there," Charles ordered, but he stopped when he saw Spencer staring behind him. He turned to look.
It was his only chance.
Spencer dropped the shovel and lunged for the pistol. It shook in his grip, but Charles turned back towards him as his thumb drew down the hammer with a solid click.
Charles pointed the knife at him, the blade glinting in starlight. "Only one bullet in that gun, boy," he growled.
Spencer pulled the trigger.
Author's Notes:
wow what a great way to end a chapter, am I right?
This is the longest chapter so far, but I hope you're ready for the next one- it's a doozy! Even more Spencer feels.
Lots and lots of love and thanks to nitrogentulips, Sam the duck, fishtrek, guest, ferret54, and mythepoeia (mythepoeia! your review made cry, it was so great!) Ya'll are angels and you are making my quarantine so much happier.
Up next: Spencer suffers, the team struggles