*Sorry I haven't updated in awhile. This chapter is extra long to make up for it. Thanks for reading!*
"It doesn't make any sense."
Hotch glanced at Rossi, irritated; the older profiler had interrupted him. "What do you mean, it doesn't make any sense?" Hotch snapped.
"Well," Rossi said, "He attacked the mental patients because he felt bad for them. I mean, that does show morality; twisted morality, sure, but he's still following a set of morals. But Gideon and his father—it deviates from his typical MO. It doesn't make any sense."
Hotch frowned, thinking it over. "It was revenge," he said slowly.
"But Reid started out killing those he felt pity for; it morphed into the murder of those he felt anger for. Since when does mercy-killing evolve into a revenge fantasy?" Rossi folded his arms. "It's two completely different MO's."
Hotch frowned, stumped, then glanced around at the rest of his team, wishing they could be a bit more helpful. Prentiss had barely said more than ten words in the hour they had been sitting there, discussing; JJ had only just returned from comforting Garcia, and was still doing nothing but furiously twist her hair in her fingers. Morgan had said nothing; he just listened with a kind of frustrated, angry intensity, his eyes darting from Hotch to Rossi every few moments.
"He says it was a warning, but he wouldn't kill his father and Gideon to warn us. It would have taken much less than that, and he knows it." Hotch sighed.
"Devolution?" Rossi proposed.
Hotch shook his head. "He's completely in control. If anything, I'd say he's evolving."
There was a silence.
"Morgan? Prentiss? Anything to add?" Hotch prompted.
Prentiss shook her head slowly. Morgan didn't move.
"JJ?" Hotch asked.
She gave Hotch a weird, half-smile and shook her head slightly
"Alright, listen," Hotch said, "I told Strauss that this team would catch Reid faster than any other team she could assign the case. By 'this team,' I did not mean me and Dave while the rest of you sit there like dazed convalescents. I understand how hard this is—believe me, nobody knows better than me!" He broke off, then glanced at Rossi for support. The older man gave him a small nod. "But we have to pull it together. We have to find him. For his sake. For our sake. For everyone's sake." He looked around imploringly.
Prentiss was the first one to speak. "He's right," she said, looking directly at Morgan. Then she turned her gaze towards Hotch. "It's a lot to take in."
"Believe me," Hotch said, "I know."
"But what the hell are we supposed to do?" demanded Morgan, speaking for the first time. "He could be anywhere by now. If he follows pattern, more people die tonight. And we have no idea where he could go. We only have two points. That isn't enough for a geographic profile. And even if it were, Reid knows geographic profiling inside and out. "
Hotch's mouth was a grim line. "We have to wait until he attacks again," he muttered. "Meanwhile, I need to send some of you to Las Vegas, to take a look at the crime scenes. The rest of us will wait here. Once we find out where he's attacked, we can set up roadblocks to trap him."
"I'll go," Morgan said. "I'll go to Vegas."
"Me too," Prentiss volunteered.
"Alright," Hotch muttered. "Rossi—why don't you go, too? Three crime scenes is a lot to go over. JJ and I will stay here."
Rossi nodded and stood. "Wheels up in five," he said.
Morgan ordinarily tried to sleep on jet rides, when there was nothing else to do—he was always feeling overtired. But this time, sleep wouldn't come—every time he closed his eyes, he saw the face of his former friend, his mouth folded into a mocking smile; and he felt a strange feeling of horror, numbness, and anger.
He let out a sigh; he needed to stay calm. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back; against his will, a memory came flying at him.
"Happy All Hallows Eve, folks! It's a paraphrase from Celtic mythology! Tomorrow night, all order is suspended, and the barriers between the natural and supernatural are temporarily removed…!" Reid was wearing a childlike smile as he waved a Halloween prop around in Morgan's face.
Morgan gritted his teeth. "Don't think about it," he muttered aloud. Before he could stop it, however, another memory came flying at him.
"Villain," Reid was saying.
"What?" Morgan asked, confused.
"In movies, unsubs are called villains."
Morgan rolled his eyes. "My bad."
"You wanna know why horror movies are so successful?"
Morgan really didn't. But still, he asked, "Why's that, genius?"
"They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman's scream would signify danger and the men would return to protect their pack. That's why it's always the women and not the men who fall victim to the boogeyman."
"You can count on you, Reid, to always break a movie down to science."
Reid's easygoing smile was flashed in his direction.
The next thing Morgan knew, he was on his feet, having just thrown his case file at the opposite wall. Rossi and Prentiss were staring at him blankly; as if they understood, were not surprised, and had nothing to offer as help.
It was a long day. The crime scene at the hospital was exactly like that of the first one; except this time, there were only two victims, shot execution style. Both of the victims who were killed had tried to commit suicide; and one of the nurses grudgingly admitted to giving an "FBI Agent" access to the patient's medical files.
The next crime scene that they went to was that of William Reid.
"He was sitting on the couch," the sheriff told him. "Whoever killed him must've forced him inside with a gun; looks like he was shot in the stomach, first—" The sheriff pointed to a dark red spot in the abdomen of the mutilated body. "Looks like he tried to get up, so the killer shot him in the leg; he falls back here, onto the floor, like sideways; killer shoots him in the face, he falls back against the couch again."
Morgan was trying very hard not to picture the whole thing; and failing miserably.
"Shooting in the face suggests rage. Three shots is overkill. That suggests a close personal relationship, but," Rossi chuckled grimly, "We already knew that, of course."
Morgan turned and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Prentiss asked.
"Come on," Morgan muttered. "There's nothing we can learn from this. We already fucking know who the killer is."
"Morgan," Rossi hissed, "Cut it out." A small group of crime scene technicians were looking at him disapprovingly.
"Excuse me, sir, but we'd all appreciate it if you'd be professional," the middle one said.
Morgan had a sudden desire to dart forward and throttle the offending technician. Instead, he took a deep breath, turned to Rossi, and said, "We already know the relationship he had with his father. We're just wasting time."
Rossi looked like he was about to protest, but then nodded slowly. "We'll stop by Gideon's," he said eventually, "Then head back."
Gideon had been murdered in a hotel.
"When did he check in?" Morgan asked the lady at the desk.
"The night before the incident," the lady said clinically, typing away at her computer. "He was only staying for two days. I talked with him, actually. He said he was meeting a friend. Nice man," she said as an afterthought, then continued to type.
"Reid must have called Gideon," Morgan said to Rossi, pushing his way into the hotel room, "Told him he wanted to meet up, to reconnect, or—oh." He stopped suddenly when he saw the body.
Rossi and Prentiss were silent as well, staring as if in tribute at the body of their former colleague; the former colleague who had once been a brilliant man. With all that had been going on, Morgan hadn't thought about how seeing Gideon's body would affect him; he hadn't seen the man in years, and the whole thing had felt very detached; almost unreal.
But now, he felt kind of sick.
"H…he was shot in the stomach, once," Prentiss said; her voice was very unsteady. "His cell phone was gone and the phone lines were cut, and there was duct tape over his mouth…so he couldn't call for help. The coroner estimates that he lay here for about…t-two hours before he died of blood loss."
There was a beat of silence.
"That's just sadistic," Rossi muttered, his voice a mixture of grief and disgust.
Morgan turned abruptly and exited the apartment; he couldn't bear to look at Gideon's body anymore. Prentiss and Rossi followed not long after.
Hotch didn't want to fall asleep; he didn't think he would be able to, anyways, what with all that was going on. But his body had other ideas, and he hadn't slept in over 24 hours. When he lay down on the couch, it was 7:30; when he woke up again, it was 1:30, and his phone was ringing.
Hotch groped for it in the darkness, knowing that it might be important.
"This is Hotch," he mumbled into the receiver.
"Agent Hotchner?" A panicked female voice called from the FBI.
"That's me, what's the problem?"
"You—you asked us to contact you if there were any further murders in hospitals?"
Hotch sat up immediately; he was wide awake. "Where?" he demanded.
"Annapolis, Maryland."
"How many dead?"
"Seven."
"Seven?"
"Seven," the woman repeated.
"We'll be right down. I'm bring my team. I'm—" he broke off. "How long ago was this?"
"Approximately forty-five minutes, Agent Hotchner."
Hotch moaned. "Why didn't you call sooner? Did you set up road blocks?"
"Well, not yet, Agent Hotchner—"
"What? But he's gotten away by now!"
"Well you see, Agent Hotchner, the hospital people only just called my people, because, you see, all of the phone lines had been cut, and then my people had to figure out how to get in touch with your people, and—"
"Just set up the road blocks anyways, and we'll be down there shortly," Hotch snapped, hanging up the phone. He immediately dialed Morgan's number.
Morgan answered after the first ring. "What is it, Hotch?"
"Another attack, forty-five minutes ago. Annapolis, Maryland. We'll meet you three down there." He hung up and started towards JJ's office; but she was nowhere in sight. It was at this point that he remembered that it was 1:30 in the morning.
"Hello?" JJ answered. She sounded fearful.
"JJ, there's been another attack. We need to—"
"Hotch? Henry…Henry isn't feeling well. Is it okay if I…stay home?"
Hotch frowned. "Well, don't you want to—" he broke off. "Alright, JJ," he muttered, figuring that the younger woman was probably intentionally avoiding further crime scenes. "You don't really need to come. We'll probably be back late tomorrow. I hope Henry feels better."
"Bye, Hotch," JJ said.
Hotch found Garcia asleep in her chair. He shook her shoulder gently. "Garcia, we had another attack. I need you awake for after we get there."
She mumbled something incoherent and reached for her glasses; Hotch was already out the door.
"It's the same. It's all the same. Not evolution, no devolution. It's just as careful and meticulous as the rest of the attacks."
Hotch crossed his arms, frustrated and exhausted; they had been at the hospital all day, and were getting absolutely nowhere.
"I hate to say it, Hotch," Rossi said, "But we're going to have to wait for another attack."
The mood at the sheriff's department was not a positive one. Prentiss and Morgan were interviewing witnesses in the hospital; Hotch and Rossi sat in a conference room, attempting to make a geographic profile and trying to ignore the fact that they were hopeless at it without Reid.
It was at this point that Hotch's phone started ringing. He glanced at it.
Unknown number.
"Get Garcia on the phone," he said to Rossi. He let it ring twice more before he answered.
"This is Agent Hotchner."
"H…Hotch?"
Hotch swallowed, and gave Rossi a small nod. "Hello, Reid."
"Hotch, I….I couldn't finish."
Hotch frowned. "What do you mean?"
The voice sounded drastically different than the Reid he had spoken to several days earlier; this was panicked, horrified. "You made me do it, Hotch. You made me. Why'd you have to make me?"
"I haven't made you do anything, Reid," Hotch said sharply.
"You did, I warned you, but you came anyways, you tried to stop me, and I warned, and, I…" He broke off. "And I couldn't finish, Hotch. It was no fun at all. It was horrible."
"Reid," Hotch said, "What are you talking about? Where are you now?"
"I…I'm sorry," Reid said, "I couldn't finish." The line went dead.
Rossi was shaking his head. "She couldn't track it, Hotch. It was a disposable cell phone."
Hotch sat up. "Garcia?"
"Yes, sir?" she asked.
"Call JJ."
There was a pause. "Why?"
"Call her. Right now!"
"Al…alright, sir, I'm calling her…" There was a pause. "Sir, she isn't answering."
"Call Will!"
There was another silence. "He isn't answering, either, Hotch." There was an edge of panic to her voice.
"Get police and ambulances over to her house, now," he demanded.
"Yes, sir, I'm doing it, right now, I'm calling them!" Garcia's voice had escalated into hysteria.
Hotch glanced at Rossi, fear and panic and guilt congealing in his throat and preventing him from saying the one thing they were both thinking—that they were already too late.
*Thank-you for reading, review please!*