Complications
"History as well as life itself is complicated—neither life nor history is an enterprise for those who seek simplicity and consistency."
~Jared Diamond.
*Author's Note: This chapter contains a reference to Henry Grace, aka Professor Rothschild (from 4.8 Masterpiece). Quick refresher, just in case you forgot: a psychopathic narcissist with god complex and an obsession with the Golden Ratio and the Fibonacci sequence, Grace challenged Rossi and Reid to a "game", in which he gave them clues to see if they could rescue his latest victims, who were still alive. Although his revenge was directed at Rossi, early on in the episode he makes it clear that Spencer Reid is the only person deemed "smart enough" to truly understand what was going on.*
Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.
"I know it seems impossible, but I think things just got a little more complicated," David Rossi announced as he re-entered the apartment. His phone had rung, and he'd stepped outside to answer it—though not before everyone else heard him address Jordan Strauss. Morgan had merely glanced over at Emily, whose concerned expression implied that she was already well-aware of Erin Strauss' daughter's involvement in the case.
"Well, good to see the BAU's usual run of luck hasn't changed," Emily Prentiss deadpanned. Penelope would've laughed if it hadn't been quite so true.
"What's wrong?" Derek stepped forward slightly, his facial features slipping into a look of cautious concern.
"Jordan just called," the older man held up his phone as if to emphasize his point. "Apparently Linnea Charles is missing—but not like before, where she's just been avoiding us."
He quickly relayed the tale that Jordan had told him—how Linnea's Daily records hadn't shown her logging in to work, although she was supposedly sequestered away to write, how the only person who'd had contact with her was her husband, who'd only communicated with her via text, how she'd already predicted that perhaps something would happen to her and put safety measures in place.
Once Rossi was finished, Morgan gave a small shake of his head, "The texting doesn't mean anything—anyone could send a text pretending to be her. There have been dozens of missing persons cases where friends and family didn't know the person was missing because their killer or kidnapper pretended to be them, checking in via text."
The Italian nodded in agreement, "That was Dannie's thought, too—and the guy who called her, Karl Miramontz, who works with Linnea, felt the same."
"So…what?" Emily looked around, as if confused. "Does Jordan want us to go find her?"
"I don't think we have much choice," Rossi admitted. "Linnea is Maeve's sister. She's just as much a part of this as Reid—and even if she isn't missing, she still has a lot of questions to answer for us."
"Alright then," Morgan gave a curt nod of agreement, turning back to Penelope. "Babydoll, let's see what kind of magic you can work for us."
His blonde companion never looked up from her computer, but she gave a smirk in response. "Oh, my lover-love, I'm already on it."
FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
Every fiber of Judith Eden's body was practically singing with nervous anticipation by the time she handed the phone over to Sura Roza. The technical analyst quickly plugged in a charger, quietly reminding everyone in the room, "It's probably going to be a few minutes before I'm able to actually turn it on."
"Just let us know when you've got something," Dawson informed her, turning his attention back to Jonas and Jude. "We've got plenty of other things to focus on."
Like Judith, Jack Dawson found the recovery of Spencer Reid's cellphone to be nothing short of miraculous—though he still remained wary as to whether or not this would actually help their case.
"Good work with the phone," he spoke quietly, giving a curt nod of approval to both his agents. However, the dark line of his brows hardened as he added, "I just spoke to the handwriting analyst a few minutes ago, and his initial finding is that the list of addresses was, in fact, written by Dr. Reid."
Jude's big brown eyes widened a fraction of an inch—she'd fought down the urge to protest, but she couldn't keep from at least questioning the edict. She glanced at her watch. "He's only had the sample for a few hours—things like that can take days—"
"Which is why I used the phrase initial finding," Jack pointed out, a slight edge slipping into his tone. "But this guy has also been doing this for a very long time—he's one of the best there is, and he wouldn't commit to stating such a thing unless he was fairly certain."
"Of course," Jonas spoke quietly, his hand going out to gently touch Judith's hip, as if trying to calm her down and reassure her that they were all still on the same team. Earlier that morning, when the Flying Js had assembled for their own private briefing at the start of the day, Jack had agreed—and even encouraged them—to approach the day's evidence collection from the angle of proving Reid's innocence, not his guilt. But this new information obviously went against that idea.
"We've gotta look at this from every angle, Jude," he reminded his friend, whose dark look curtly informed him that she was well aware of how to run an investigation, thank you very much.
"Round up Fuller's coworkers," Dawson instructed. "See what they can tell us—we need to know if he ever had contact with Dr. Reid, and how and when. Then we'll have to go back to his mother, ask her about his apparent fascination with the Amerithrax case."
"I'll do that," Jude volunteered. "We established a rapport last night—she'll talk to me, I think."
Her unit chief gave a curt nod.
Jonas' phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket to see a text from Sura Roza—a list of all the agents in Benjamin Fuller's unit, with contact information. He glanced across the room, where the technical analyst was merely smiling. He pointed at her, raising his eyebrows (damn, you're good). She shrugged, flicking her eyes heavenward in smug self-satisfaction (don't I know it).
"I'll start calling in coworkers," Jonas held up his phone, heading out into the hallway. Jude moved to follow him, but Jack's hand on her arm kept her in the room.
"Jude," his voice was quiet, lined with caution. "Should I be concerned here?"
"I don't know," her voice dipped lower to match his tone. "You're the one doubting me, so should I be concerned?"
He didn't deny the fact that he was doubting her. "I can't afford to have an agent who's biased—"
"Jesus fucking Christ, if I have to hear one more line about my bias, I swear I'll scream bloody murder. Yes, I like Dr. Reid, but that has no bearing on how I do my job—I just happen to know that he's innocent, because the facts don't fit. The facts don't fit, and neither does the motivation—and I'd see that, regardless of who we had in custody. That's not bias, Jack. That's being a good investigator and trusting my gut."
She took a moment to let her words sink in—her voice remained low and even, but the bitter chastisement still made itself felt. However, she adopted a gentler tone, almost pleading as she added, "And you'd know it, too, if you'd just trust your instincts. You said last night that something was off—and last night, when you took us aside, you said—"
"I remember what I said," he interrupted quietly. "And I also remember telling you that we were not to speak of it outside that room."
She gave a sigh as she rolled her eyes—obviously, she found his prior command to be ridiculous, but she was smart enough to keep from verbally expressing her feelings.
"And regardless of what I think is happening, we still have to look at this from every angle," he reminded her.
"It's just an initial finding," she retorted gently. And he understood why she was bringing up the handwriting analysis again—because she thought that the expert's commentary was what had changed Dawson's outlook on Reid's innocence.
"I know," was his only response. "Now go talk to Della Fuller. Shostakovich and I will handle the coworkers."
She gave a quick nod of agreement before disappearing out the door. With a light sigh, Jack turned back to Sura, whose wary expression informed him that she'd heard most of the exchange, despite their low tones.
"Is this thing over yet?" He asked wearily.
All he got was a sad sympathetic smile in return.
Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.
Kate Callahan had to admit, the rest of her BAU colleagues handled crisis like champs. She and Hotch had returned to Penelope's apartment after the morning briefing, only to find David Rossi preparing some kind of Italian dish with a little help from Derek Morgan, who seemed intent on driving the old man insane by suggesting "improvements" to the recipe. Hotch and Callahan had joined Penelope on barstools, watching the lunch prep from across the counter—Kate had gotten a nostalgic prickle from all the times she'd sat like this in her mother's kitchen, watching her prepare meals while discussing those seemingly-life-shattering moments of teenage existence.
Except they weren't talking about this week's crush or who-asked-who to the dance. Hotch quickly caught everyone up to speed on what had been discussed at the briefing—adding his own exchange with Dawson afterwards and his suspicion that something was going on behind the scenes, to which the others agreed. There was also a round of delight at the announcement that Alex Blake was coming down to join them. Kate began to feel slightly overwhelmed—she still hadn't met Emily Prentiss, due to the fact that Emily had already left to visit JJ by the time they'd returned. She wondered how she would deal with meeting the woman whom she'd replaced, and the woman who'd been replaced by the one she'd replaced. From what she gathered, both Blake and Prentiss had left by their own volition, and had done so on very good terms with their team (otherwise, why would they be returning to help?), but there was still the idea of being placed next to these two women, both of whom were so obviously loved and missed by their coworkers, and being held in some kind of comparison.
Once Hotch had finished, it was Rossi's turn to inform him about Linnea Charles' supposed disappearance, and Jordan's unsurprising involvement in relaying the information. Garcia had already done some online sleuthing in regards to Linnea, which she presented as they sat down to eat.
"So, this is what I've got so far," Penelope announced, settling into her own seat at the very-crowded dining table. "Linnea Charles hasn't used any of her credit cards in the past twenty-four hours, none of her social media accounts have been updated—though for Linnea, that's not particularly uncommon. She seems to only use Twitter to promote her work as a journalist, so she wouldn't be tweeting anything until her next article was out anyways. Aside from her connection to Maeve, she doesn't have anything remarkable in her history—"
"Aside from the fact that someone emailed her about a bombing before it actually happened—under Reid's email," Rossi pointed out.
"Right. Aside from that little bit."
"Man, this is good," Morgan was referring to the food.
"Mm-hm. That's because we followed the original recipe," Rossi reminded him, a bit darkly. "You don't fix what ain't broken—especially when it's this good."
"I'm just saying, a little thyme wouldn't have been a bad idea," Morgan held up his hands in a gesture of defense. "Thyme works with just about everything."
"Pardon me, Julia Childs, but if we could return to the topic at hand?" Hotch raised one eyebrow in an expression of longsuffering.
Callahan snorted at the comparison, ducking her head to avoid Morgan's gaze.
As usual, Aaron Hotchner kept an absolutely straight face, turning his attention back to Garcia, "So what evidence do we actually have to suggest she's missing?"
"Well…nothing, really," Garcia shrugged. "Just her coworker saying that she's not responding when she totally should be."
"But her husband states that she has been responding to him," Hotch pointed out. Garcia gave a curt nod of affirmation. He turned his attention back to his lunch, quietly deciding, "Find the address to the grandmother's house. Rossi, when Prentiss gets back, you two can go check it out."
"Why Emily?" Derek asked.
"Because she's here as a private citizen—and considering the fact that we technically aren't working the case, we might need to use that to our advantage." Hotch glanced at his watch again. "The next briefing is in an hour—Callahan and I will go. Garcia, I want you to look into Linnea Charles' past. See what other connections she has to her sister's case, to anyone at Quantico, or the Bureau in general. There has to be something there that we just haven't found yet."
"And what about me?" Derek sat back slightly, obviously distraught at the thought of sitting around and twiddling his thumbs.
"Stay here with Garcia until Blake calls—she'll need someone to pick her up from the airport."
Morgan wasn't happy with his assignment, but he knew better than to complain. Rossi gave him a sympathetic smile—none of them liked the idea of standing idly by when one of their own was in danger, even if it was necessary.
Not for the first time today, Morgan wondered what Spencer was doing—how he was holding up, if his little genius brain had figured it out, if he was being well-treated, if he'd found a way to calm himself down from what was certainly a panicked state at the thought of being labelled a terrorist.
Derek Morgan didn't believe in telepathy, or metaphysical connections. But he wished he did, in that moment. He wasn't sure what he'd say exactly, if he could reach out to Reid. He'd reassure him that they were on the case, that they'd get him out—to hold on and hang tight, because they'd all die before they let him take the fall for this maniac.
That wasn't right. This guy wasn't a maniac. He was delusional, but not unhinged. He was sociopathic, or psychopathic, but he wasn't schizophrenic. An organized-yet-deluded individual.
Like John Curtis.
"Let's call a spade a spade," he announced to the table. "This guy is trying to be the next John Curtis. We can dance around the similarities all we want, but at the end of the day, they're still there."
There was a look of caution around Hotch's dark eyes, but he didn't interrupt or refute Morgan's claim. Last night, Morgan had stated the same thing, but Hotch had been quick to remind everyone that it was just a working theory. But in Morgan's mind, it also happened to be the only theory that made sense.
"Reid's the smart kid of the group—taking him on is the ultimate challenge, right? I mean, Curtis did it, Henry Grace did it….any narcissist with a modicum of intelligence immediately zeroes in on Reid as their worthy adversary. It's almost a given," Morgan sat back, making a tossing gesture with his hand, as if physically throwing the fact on the table. "We're looking at Linnea and the email as an indicator of some kind of connection to Maeve. But what do all three of those have in common? Reid."
Callahan squinted as she followed the train of thought, "So, we've been looking at this as the UNSUB choosing Reid because of his past with Maeve—and you're saying we should look at it the other way? Like, the guy chose to contact Maeve's sister because of her connection to Reid?"
"Reid's the target. His connection to Maeve is secondary." Morgan pointed out. "We don't need to look at how Linnea is connected to the FBI, or to Spencer—because it isn't about how, it's about the fact that she simply is connected to Reid in some way, through Maeve."
"Our UNSUB chose Reid because, by virtue of his intellect, he'd be the hardest to fool, in theory," Hotch surmised. "And then he built a case around events that had happened in Reid's life."
"I can buy that," Rossi gave a curt nod of approval. "Still doesn't explain why the UNSUB chose to target the BAU at all."
"It's not the BAU," Callahan motioned towards Morgan, as if highlighting his theory. "It's just Reid. Because he's not just seen as the smartest person in the BAU—he's considered one of the smartest people in the entire Bureau."
"Exactly," Morgan pointed back to her.
"All of this would point to a kind of obsession," Hotch gave a slight shake of his head, implying that he still wasn't sold on that angle, which Morgan had proposed during last night's discussion.
"Setting up an elaborate trap around one man seems pretty obsessive to me," Rossi commented drolly.
"We haven't seen anything in the way of actual evidence," Morgan reminded him. "Who knows? This guy could have all sorts of things on Reid."
"But if he was obsessive, wouldn't the evidence further prove that Reid is in fact a target, not an accomplice?" Callahan pointed out before taking another bite of her lunch.
"The level of detail suggests a personal vendetta," Rossi's voice was distracted, as if his mind were taking him down a distant path. "I mean, sure, choose Reid because he's supposed to be the hardest to beat. But the level of planning that went into this, the lengths this guy went to, just to set Reid up—doesn't that seem extremely personal? Would you go that far to frame someone who didn't really have any kind of connection to you?"
"If you were trying to prove to the Bureau that you were smarter than everyone else in it, you would," Morgan shrugged.
Penelope Garcia had been very quiet throughout, her big Bambi eyes merely darting from person to person as they spoke. However, she finally broke her silence, "Wait…so it this about Reid or not? Because you've all implied that it's both all about him, and that it really isn't about him personally at all."
"Both. And neither," Rossi responded in a flat tone. "At this point, it could be either option."
Penelope gave a heavy sigh. For some reason, she didn't find that entirely comforting.
FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
"Wait, Benjamin? You think Benjamin was somehow a part of this?"
Jonas Shostakovich took a beat to simply observe Michael Carroll, the unit chief of the Cyber Crime Division, better known as the CCD. Carroll seemed genuinely surprised at the idea.
"That's not what I said," Jonas corrected quietly. "I simply said that we believe whoever killed Agent Fuller might be connected to the bombing."
A stipulation, a slight re-arranging of words, but a necessary lie. The human mind was an extraordinary thing—if told that a certain person was guilty, you could suddenly recall a thousand moments of suspect behavior that really weren't indications of motive or guilt at all.
That seemed to ease Carroll's nerves, because the man sank back into his chair slightly.
"Now, did he ever mention any friends, any new acquaintances in the past few months?" Jonas kept his tone even, neutral, unaffected.
Carroll frowned as he tried to remember. "I don't think so…but Benjamin was a pretty aloof character—no, not aloof, just…reserved."
"What's the difference?"
"Well, aloof would imply that he had some kind of superiority complex, and he didn't. He spoke when spoken to, and was quite polite—not outgoing or overly friendly, but not rude, either."
"Did any of the other agents in your unit spend a lot of time with him?"
"No…I mean, not that I noticed. But it never seemed to bother Benjamin, either. You know, sometimes you can tell when someone's lonely, when they're desperate to fit in or make friends—but I never got that vibe from him. He seemed pretty content with being left alone."
"And did you? Leave him alone?"
"Well, as much as I could, given the fact that I'm still his supervisor and we're still part of a team." Carroll made an expansive gesture with his hands, as if implying that he was merely a cog in a greater machine. "I mean, Benjamin was smart, he worked quickly and he didn't need constant supervision. That's the key to being a good supervisor—learning how each person works best, and allowing them the space to work like that. Benjamin worked better when left alone. So, I left him alone."
"Hard to work alone in a bullpen full of other agents," Shostakovich commented.
"Oh, he had his own office—we all do." Carroll waved away the thought. "We have a morning briefing, go over everything we needed to handle for the day, and then go our separate ways—after all, we are doing work on computers, it's not like we need to pair off before hitting the streets. Even if we're working on the same case, our tasks have to be performed on separate computers. If a case is more intensive than usual, we might have another meeting or two throughout the day, but most of the time we communicate via email. Our type of work doesn't really fit the bullpen mentality."
"I see." Jonas was getting the sinking feeling that no one in Fuller's unit was going to be able to help. Still, he tried, "And you never heard Benjamin mention any new friends in passing—maybe he mentioned running into another agent, from another department?"
He couldn't directly ask if Fuller had ever mentioned Spencer Reid. People would get suspicious, ask questions—it would go against Jack Dawson's command that they keep Dr. Reid's arrest as quiet as possible.
Carroll shook his head, "Nope. But then again—as I said before—I didn't really have a lot of personal chats with Benjamin. I did try, in the beginning—but he seemed to want no part of it."
"How d'ya mean?"
"Well, if you started talking to him about anything other than work, he'd quickly divert the conversation back to it—or he'd politely excuse himself and go back to his office, to work. It was like everything else was a waste of time to him. Pretty soon, everyone in the unit realized that Benjamin wasn't the chummy type, and we pretty much let him be."
Let him be. If only Carroll and the rest of Fuller's coworkers had realized just how dangerous that decision would become.
"You know, I kinda wondered if he had Asperger's or something like that," admitted Antoine Harlan, another one of Fuller's unit team members who was currently being interviewed by Jack Dawson. "He had some of the signs—poor interpersonal skills, laser-like focus on a particular area of interest. And he was quiet. Like, quieter than a normal person would be, even if they were shy. But if he did have Asperger's, it was…well, he'd definitely been given the tools to cope."
"Explain." Dawson frowned slightly, intrigued by this assumption.
"He could make eye contact. He seemed able to read people's pitch and tone—like he could tell when they were joking or being sarcastic or whatever, and he didn't seem to take things literally." Antoine opened his hands as he explained. "So, if he did have Asperger's, it had to be mild. It was a thought that only crossed my mind every now and then, ya know?"
"You seem to be pretty knowledgeable about the condition."
"My sister has it." Antoine gave a wide grin. "She's a professor at MIT."
He was proud of his sister, anyone could see that. And he'd obviously had front-row seats to the condition for most of his life—so his words weren't meant lightly. This was the first time anyone had mentioned such a thing in regards to Benjamin Fuller, so Dawson took mental note.
It could mean something; it could mean nothing.
One detail that could mean something was the lack of emotion elicited from Fuller's peers when they were informed of his death. They were surprised, at first, maybe slightly confused, but no one seemed particularly grieved. No tears, no frantic questions—just quiet acceptance which came easily, given the fact that they'd known so little about his personal life.
"Did Agent Fuller ever mention any friends, or any other agents outside the unit?"
Antoine gave a light snort of amusement. "Absolutely not. In fact, I'm not sure I could tell you anything about him that wasn't entirely work related."
"You don't know anything about his family, his background, where he went to school?" Dawson tried to imagine not knowing any personal details about his team, the people who'd spent almost every day at his side for years now. It seemed impossible—even when you weren't trying to dig into their private lives, bits and pieces of personal history still came out from time to time. It was just part of the territory.
Antoine shook his head. "Nothing. He never mentioned a family, never had photos in his office. Never brought anyone with him to the office Christmas party—come to think of it, I'm not sure he even went to an office Christmas party."
Jack's phone buzzed, and he casually checked it.
Jude, texting to inform him that Della Fuller hadn't provided any helpful details about her son's associates. However, Jude was going to stop by Fuller's cabin again, just to make sure that wasn't something else that might have been overlooked the night before.
He shot back a reply, approving of her plan and warning her to be careful at the same time. Then he returned his attention to Antione Harlan. He asked a few more questions, more out of habit than an actual belief that he was going to find some kind of useful information, and then let Agent Harlan go.
Shostakovich was in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe of the room he'd been using to conduct interviews. Once Agent Harlan was far enough away, Jack nodded towards his teammate, "Anything?"
His only answer was a slow shake of Jonas' head.
"Me either," Jack admitted.
"I have noticed something, though," Jonas spoke softly. "Both people I interviewed always referred to him as Benjamin. Never Ben. Worked with him for years, never used any kind of nickname."
Jack knew what he was getting at—humans, being generally lazy creatures, were highly prone to assigning nicknames or shortening longer names (such as Ben for Benjamin). If you worked with a person and didn't give them some kind of appellation like that, it implied a certain level of detachment, a lack of intimacy. If you still referred to them formally after years of working together, that implied an actual commitment to such detachment.
Benjamin Fuller, by all accounts, had been committed to ensuring his coworkers knew that his relationship to them was merely professional. No more, no less. He didn't encourage familiarity, and they didn't pursue it.
"Should we waste our time with the other two interviews?" Jonas asked tiredly. There were eight people in Fuller's unit—six to interview, leaving Fuller and one agent who was currently hospitalized. Jack and Jonas had each finished their second interview.
"Might as well," Jack sighed in response. He doubted it would produce anything substantial, but it was always better safe than sorry.
"I'll check with Sura—see if she's got an ETA for the others," Jonas headed down the hall. The cyber division hadn't been called in to work today, due to the fact that the main building was still without electricity, with the exception of the lab which was being powered by generators—so Sura had to call each team member and arrange for them to get to Quantico as quickly as possible.
Jack went in the opposite direction—where Jess was stationed outside the door to Spencer Reid's makeshift holding cell.
Jessalyn Keller didn't look particularly thrilled to be here. She'd found a chair and brought it into the hallway, sitting in her usual position—on the edge of the chair, turned slightly sideways, right leg crossed over left, right arm wrapped around her torso, left arm still pulled in close to her body as she held her cellphone. Self-contained, as unobtrusive as possible—typical Jess. Somehow, she even made the way she sat look like an apology.
"How's it going?" Jack asked nonchalantly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he approached.
"I'm up six levels on Trivia Crack," she intoned dryly, not even looking up from her phone. "I've also watched an alarming number of corgi videos."
"Corgis, really?"
"They're cute. And they always seem ecstatic about life." She didn't tell him that the only reason she'd even started watching said videos was because Jude had sent her a link via text. Because she'd known how dark Jessalyn's depressive state was this morning, and how much the blonde loved those ridiculously adorable little dogs. Jude couldn't be there to hold her hand or offer soothing words, but Jess never had a moment's doubt that she was still constantly in the Englishwoman's thoughts.
"Take a break," Dawson suggested, jerking his chin back down the hall. "Grab a cup of coffee, take a lap around the building."
"This isn't exactly taxing work, Jack," she retorted lightly, although she still rose to her feet. Lowering her voice, she gestured towards the closed door, "He's been in there most of the time. Pacing. Sometimes I hear him murmuring to himself."
"Can you make out what he's saying?"
She shook her head. "It's too low. But I think it's safe to say that he's probably trying to figure this whole thing out."
Dawson gave a small hum of agreement.
Jess hesitated, then quietly admitted, "He, um…he's aware, I think, of our theory."
"You think or you know?"
"Well," she gave a helpless flop of her hands. "I let it slip that we're trying to protect him. He's smart enough to infer everything else from that."
Her unit chief merely nodded.
"I'm sorry, Jack, I know we weren't supposed to say anything—"
"It's alright. I promise you, that's the least of our worries right now."
She glanced down at the floor, accepting his easy forgiveness. Then she changed the subject, "Where's everybody else?"
"Joe is checking in with Sura about the rest of Fuller's coworkers. Jude's back at Fuller's house—"
"What?" Jess looked alarmed. "Did she take backup?"
"No, it wasn't planned, exactly," Jack was slightly surprised by the force of her reaction. "She went to interview Della Fuller again, and afterwards she decided to go have another look around, just in case."
"Typical Judith Eden," Jess practically growled. "Running off alone—jesus, Jack, did you think about what could still be in that house?"
"Jess, the techs did a thorough once-over last night—"
"Once-over—things can be missed. She's in a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere, with no backup—anything could happen." Jess' arm whipped out in a gesture of frustration, but she quickly pulled herself back, letting out a sigh as her hand delicately went to her forehead. "I'm sorry, Jack, I'm just—this whole Replicator-copycat-thing has me spooked."
"We're all a little spooked," Jack assured her gently, still confused by the vehemence behind her words.
"I'm gonna…go take a lap or two," she jerked her thumb down the hallway.
He nodded in agreement. She turned on her heel and headed off. Within a matter of seconds, she was on her cell, calling Jude.
"Hello." Jude didn't add darling, but it was implied in her tone. Her tenderness only made Jess angrier.
"What the hell were you thinking, going to Fuller's cabin by yourself?" Jess kept her voice low, but the frustration ripping through her words was unmistakable.
"Jess, darling, it's perfectly safe—"
"I'm sure that's what everyone at Quantico thought about their office before the bombing." Jess shot back. "Why didn't you call for some kind of backup? It would've taken twenty minutes for someone to come out and meet you."
"And if the house had been rigged to explode? What good would backup do, besides provide witnesses for my death inquiry?"
The question stopped Jess cold. Even though Jude couldn't see her, she instinctively knew she'd hit a hard nerve.
"I'm sorry, love. I didn't—"
"You can't say things like that, Jude. Not in the middle of a case like this."
"I know, I shouldn't have. I'm sorry." Judith didn't try to defend herself, and for that, Jess loved her—the Englishwoman had an amazing ability to accept responsibility for her actions, without becoming defensive. It was honorable, in the humblest and hardest of ways.
Jess knew she had to make her own apologies. "I know you can handle yourself, I do. I just—it scared me, the thought of you going off alone. I don't…I don't like this case. I have a bad feeling about all this, and it only worsens when you're not near me."
Judith understood the implication—not near me, where you can support me, but near me, where I can see that you're safe.
"Well, I'll be near you very soon," the older woman assured her. "I'm on my way back now."
"Did you find anything?"
"No. Not that I really expected to, I suppose. It was just one of those futile things you do when you don't know what else to do."
Jess hummed in understanding.
"How's Spencer?"
"Coping, I suppose," Jess answered as honestly as possible. "I haven't seen him in a few hours—he's locked himself away. If I had to guess, I'd say he's trying to unravel the whole thing in his brain."
"Can't blame him."
"No." Jess glanced up, noting the distance between herself and the Flying Js' temporary headquarters. "I've got to get back to work. I was just—"
"Calling to bawl me out?" Jude's West Sussex drawl thickened with dry amusement.
"Don't act as if you didn't deserve it, Agent Eden."
"Oh, I'm not complaining. You're very cute when you're mad."
"Cute?"
"I might have said that to enrage you further."
"You and your mind games."
"It's called flirting, Agent Keller."
"You need to take some lessons."
"Oh, I think I get by just fine. I'll give you an in-person demonstration when I get back, just to prove it."
Jess couldn't stop herself from grinning. "I'd like to see you try."
"Challenge accepted, darling."
Jess ended the call with a huff of frustrated amusement, trying to work the smile off her face before entering the Js temporary headquarters.
Jonas and Sura were in the middle of some serious discussion when Jess breezed into the room. The warm feeling instilled by her final words with Judith immediately dissipated.
"What's wrong?"
Sura shifted in her chair uneasily. "I finished searching Spencer Reid's phone."
"And?" Jess took a small step forward, her breath stopping in her lungs. Everything about Joe's body language informed her that the answer wasn't the one they wanted.
Sura Roza gave a small, slow shake of her head. "There isn't anything there. No remote access program, no spyware, nothing. That email was sent from his phone, and it had to be done by someone who had the phone in their hand at the time."
"Well," Joe gave a small, quiet sigh. "This isn't good."
Jess gave a small nod of agreement. She was equally surprised by the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat.
"Things never work out the way we want them to."
~Anton Chekhov.