Stranded

"It's just a nickname," Rossi told Reid in a quiet, fierce, tone. "It doesn't mean anything. Could be a coincidence."

"Did you see the other tags on the desk?" Reid was hunched over in the car seat, his head in his hands. "Dutch Uncle. Dog Soup. The Crooner."

Rossi hadn't, but he'd seen a few of the name tags of people walking out of the convention center. "Hammer of God" was a distressingly familiar name. So was "Myth America." Profilers had debated whether "The Grass Widow" was even real, or just a group of opportunistic murderers latching onto a legend.

That was a lot of coincidences.

He exhaled through his nose and cast a glance across the parking lot. "It could be a fan convention," he said. "People… role-playing. Serial killers have their fans, repugnant as that is."

"But it fits," Reid almost whimpered. "My profile of Fun Land suggested a middle-aged man who likely suffered belittlement and social ostracization, originating almost in his youth, leading to ongoing unhealthy behaviors. Weight gain was one of the primary traits I expected, both as a reason for his poor self-esteem and a way of emulating a child-like physique. I even…"

"The person most likely to become a fan of a serial killer would be someone who fit the same profile," Rossi argued. He wasn't even sure why he was debating the point right now. The whole thing felt too incredible, too unbelievable. But it didn't change that it was happening.

For a while neither of the men said anything. They just sat in their car, watching other cars roll in, seeing people get out of them and walk inside. They saw others walk back out to grab luggage from their cars. One threw them a strange look.

"How many cards were on that table?" Rossi asked Reid.

"Twenty-seven." Reid passed his hands over his face. "Space for… anywhere between thirty to fifty other cards. Maybe more."

"Seventy-five serial killers, all in the same place?" Rossi shook his head. "A convention? It's not possible, it makes no sense, it can't…"

"We need to call Hotch. The FBI. The police, the military. Somebody." Reid pressed his hands to his eyes.

"How?" Rossi asked, almost rhetorically. "What do we even say? 'We ran into a man wearing a name tag that said 'Fun Land' on it?' What would that prove?" He shook his head. "No. We need to leave, and we need to leave now. We can decide what to do later." Pulling the keys from his coat pocket, he inserted it into the ignition and turned the key.

The car made a clicking noise.

Rossi tried again. Click. Click. Not even a revving sound. Just a click. Rossi looked over at Reid, who met his gaze with wide eyes. "Okay, maybe now we should call someone."

Reid's hand went to his coat pocket. His eyes, if anything, got wider. "No, no…" he whispered, checking his other pocket. "No…"

"Spencer," said Rossi, keeping his voice even. "Where is your phone?"

"It's just… no, I see it, I see it." Reid fumbled for the door. "It's over there on the ground; I must've dropped it when I came running out, hang on…" He popped the door open and wriggled out, heading for a glittering square on the pavement.

A massive pickup truck came driving out of nowhere through the parking lot, missing Reid by inches. The glittering square disappeared under the tires.

Rossi's hands were in his hair. Reid seemed frozen, out in the parking lot. Slowly, he took a step forward, then took a step back. He looked to the car, looked back at where the glittering square had been, then slowly, stiffly, walked back to the car. He opened the door and sat down without saying a word.

Rossi's hands were still in his hair. He spoke without looking at Reid. "It's broken?"

"Atomized." Reid's voice was high. "Like glitter."

Silence. Rossi's hand went down to the ignition, turned it. Click. Click. Click.

"This… this is bad." Reid swallowed. "How far are we from the interstate again?"

"Five miles."

Reid seemed to relax a little. "Oh. Well that's not…"

"Depending on how safe you feel walking alone on these roads." Rossi's tone was very dry. "I mean, what are the chances that someone around here would want to prey on a random traveler?"

Reid stiffened. "Oh. True." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "So… not a lot of options."

"Not many, no." Rossi watched as the man from before returned from his car, again throwing the pair of them a look. "Including staying out here in the car. There's not a more obvious way to say 'we're trapped and without help' than a pair of men sleeping out in a car in front of a hotel."

"We can't leave, we can't walk, we can't phone, and we can't stay." Reid's voice was high. "What can we do, actually?"

"Only one thing, really." Rossi shrugged out of his suitcoat, grabbed some sunglasses from the dash. He unbuttoned his shirt to expose the white t-shirt underneath.

Reid gave him a look. "What's that?"

"We go undercover." Rossi looked at him. "Put on your glasses, and tie that hair back in a ponytail or something. Your 'Fun Land' gatekeeper got a good look at us. We're going to need to change up our look, and just do our best to look like we belong there."