A Turn in the Tide

"There's nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we're not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge."
~Ayn Rand.

February 2015. FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

The Kills were rocking and rolling over the speakers as Sura Roza doctored yet another cup of coffee. Despite her recent declarations being off the addictive substance, the stress of the case and its inevitable long hours had sucked her back into the need for caffeine. Across the room, Jack Dawson watched his colleague sing along, hips shaking to the beat with the carelessness of a teen at a rave as she stirred in more creamer than could possibly be healthy for any human being. He smiled wryly at the picture—Sura wasn't exactly known as the cuddliest kitten in the basket, but she had her moments when she was utterly endearing.

She must have sensed him watching, because she said, "You should get up and dance, too. Good for your blood flow, helps the creative process, all that jazz."

"I'm good, thanks," he returned dryly. He held up a manila folder, whose contents included the BAU's encounter with Donnie Bidwell, the man John Curtis had used as a proxy killer. "Besides, this doesn't require much of a creative process."

"Hm. That kind of thinking will only lead to dead ends," she informed him, stopping her be-bopping to sample her coffee. She gave a curt nod of self-approval before heading back to the desk. "Crime-solving is a creative thinking process. It has to be."

"Not always," he glanced back down at the file in his hands.

She ignored his rebuttal, taking a moment to glance at her computer, which was currently rendering the security footage that they'd gotten from The District Times.

"Hey, wanna play a game?" She changed the subject easily.

"Every time I play a game with you, I end up losing money."

"Not always."

"You're right—last time I ended up losing my seats at the Sprint Cup."

"Yes, but you gave them up with a grace that was the very epitome of good sportsmanship."

"Write that on a sticky-note, Sura. I want that on my tombstone—he was a gracious loser."

She chuckled at the quip, shaking her head slightly. Her computer blurbled in notification, and she sat up, suddenly on-alert.

"Enhancement's done," she announced. She leaned forward, clicking through a few frames of the footage. "So the car's plates are definitely Linnea's…but the driver's face isn't. I'll have to run it through a facial recognition program, see if we can get a hit."

"The driver definitely isn't Linnea?" Jack was on his feet now, moving around the desk to look at the computer screen. One look answered his question—and also answered another.

"You don't have to run the face through any programs, Sura," he informed her gravely.

"What? You recognize her?" Sura looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Yeah. I've seen that face a couple of times today." His lips set in a thin line as a sudden dread settled into his bones.

He'd seen it on the back of a burned book, a Wikipedia page, a newspaper article—and now, Maura Morrow's face shone from the computer screen like a beacon, as unmistakable as ever.

However, Jack didn't feel as if the mystery had finally been solved. He had the unshakable and equally unwelcome feeling that they were only just beginning.

FBI Evidence Lab, Main Building.

Adelaide Macaraeg stretched her arms overhead, her lower back giving a twinge of protest as she arched, not-so-gently reminding her that she'd spent way too much time slouched in chairs and diner booths and airplane seats over the past twenty-four hours.

"I think it's time to call it a night," she announced. She didn't have to glance at a clock to know that it was already late, and they'd definitely put in well over a twelve-hour day. Jeff Masterson tossed a notebook back onto the table in silent agreement, and Rowena Lewis rubbed her eyes wearily, not even caring that her mascara stayed behind in the creases beneath them, making her look even more tired.

Mac still wasn't ready to get to her feet, so she gently pulled another piece of paper towards herself—the sheet on which Masterson kept a running tally of Fuller's co-conspirators. In the beginning, the number of mentions for each moniker (she, doctor, Reid) were pretty even, but now there was a noticeable discrepancy.

"When's the last time either one of you came across a mention of Reid?" She asked, frowning slightly.

Jeff and Roe glanced at each other, frowning as well.

"It's…been awhile," Masterson admitted, although he hadn't realized it until now.

"Yeah," Roe looked over at the notebook she'd been reading, as if accusing it of something. "You know, I'm not sure he's been mentioned at all in this journal."

"She and the doctor have definitely become the fan favorites," Mac held up the sheet to further make her point.

"And if Dawson's right and those two are the same person, then doctor-she has to be involved," Masterson nodded towards the paper. "I'd say that's our co-conspirator, right there."

Lewis made a noise of agreement, rising to her feet and crossing the room to grab their coats.

Mac returned her attention to the sheet, the lines of her face still furrowed in confusion and concern.

If the doctor was the co-conspirator, then who was Reid? And why did he suddenly disappear from the narrative?

May 2013. John Curtis' House. Outside D.C. City Limits.

"This isn't going to work."

Good grief, Maura was being particularly mulish today. John Curtis flicked his eyes heavenward, the facsimile of an eye-roll, and held his breath for a beat, reminding himself to stay calm. Of course she didn't understand—on so many levels, she never truly did, and never truly would. She was a tool, and tools didn't always have to comprehend their own functions in order to actually perform them.

"It will work," he reiterated, turning back to her with a level of neutral calm that he didn't truly feel. Sometimes it was like trying to explain nuclear physics to a child—a petulant child who didn't want to believe it existed, much less learn how it worked. "It will work because he trusts you, implicitly. That's what these last few months have been about. The man suggested attacking federal agents for you—he's already on-board, Maura. He's ready to run, we just have to set him on the right track and let him go. The rest will take care of itself."

"What do you mean, exactly?" Now Maura blanched, and with a flash of fear, John realized that she might harbor some kind of affection for Benjamin Fuller. The fear muted to anger as John inwardly cursed himself for being stupid enough to think that this could go off without some kind of complication.

"You're not going to let him plan this whole thing on his own, are you?" Maura leaned forward, her hands flat on the kitchen table. "He's a follower, John, not a leader—he hasn't got the brains, the initiative—he'll get caught before he even begins!"

John's anger instantly melted. So she wasn't concerned for Fuller's well-being—she was worried that he'd ruin their carefully-crafted revenge, if left to his own devices. He couldn't help but smile at the thought that perhaps Maura truly had been the best partner for this task. She certainly possessed a sense of ruthlessness that was necessary for the work.

"Which is exactly where I come in," he reminded her, no longer frustrated at her inability to understand. "I'll speak to him, lay out all the groundwork for him, so that all he has to do is follow my instructions. He won't be able to mess it up—he'll be too focused on making sure every little detail is perfect, because he'd rather die than disappoint you, my dear."

The dear was sarcastic, and she felt it. Despite the fact that John had promised her that she wouldn't have to physically seduce Fuller, Maura had realized that her relationship with the young fan had certainly turned into a psychological seduction, a careful cultivation of his thoughts and actions so that all parts of his life were turned to her. Grooming was the word that came to mind, the phrase generally applied to pedophiles and their prey, and not exactly the kind of association that left a pleasant taste in her mouth. Sure, Benjamin was a full-grown adult, and Maura had never even stepped up to the line of impropriety, much less crossed it, but physical inaction didn't change what this was, on a psycho-emotional level. And John wasn't above making her remember this, and finding ways to make her feel whorish without ever actually uttering the accusation.

"It still won't work," she shook her head, funneling her anger at his treatment of her into actual concern for the plan. "He's going to meet you, and he'll remember your face. He followed the Amerithrax case in high school—religiously. What makes you think that he won't recognize you?"

"Because he's never going to see my face."

Maura suddenly understood—and she also understood that this put her in the more vulnerable position. John watched her face as the pieces clicked into place in her mind.

"So…if anything happens…he won't have any way to actually identify you," she was speaking slowly now, fully aware of just how dangerous the terrain had become. "He'll know my face and my name and everything about me, but you'll just be some disembodied spirit, some figment of his imagination—and mine."

She got it now, John thought smugly. She realized her place in the scheme.

However, her lips hardened into a thin line and she merely looked up at him, her intense blue eyes screaming everything that her mouth couldn't even whisper. If I go down, you're going down with me. He might not know who you are, but I do, and I'll shout it to the rooftops, if they take me in.

Ah, he'd forgotten that Maura didn't have much to lose—only her life and her freedom, which didn't seem like much when confronted with a chance for vengeance. That made her more dangerous.

John made a mental note to make sure that if things got out of hand and their cover was blown, he'd have to find a way to end Maura before the FBI arrested her—before she could talk and give away his identity.

However, right now he merely gave a reassuring smile, "Maura, nothing's going to happen. We've worked too hard and been too careful—it'll all end exactly as it should."

She nodded, looking away. Worry and doubt had begun to creep in, deadlier than any other threat their operation could face.

"Here," he turned around, pulling a prepaid cellphone from the bag that had been laying on his kitchen counter. He set it on the table, right in front of her. "It has only one number saved in it—that's the number you use to contact me. Fuller will follow your lead. If you show that you're confident in me and my abilities, he'll trust me as well. He'll need a little prodding at first—he won't want to give up the idea of being your white knight and relinquish the planning aspect to me, but if you play it right, he'll fold easily enough."

Maura nodded, delicately taking the phone into her hand with a gracefulness that suddenly made John Curtis see exactly how a young boy like Benjamin Fuller could become enamored with her.

"One last thing," he felt another surge of gleefulness. She looked up at him, cautious and uncertain. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, as if they were just playing a grand game of make-believe. "When you're with him, refer to me as Agent Reid. Agent. Reid."

"Why?" Her brows quirked downward in confusion. By now, she was fully aware that John did nothing without definitive reason, so she knew that there had to be some kind of meaning behind that particular name, although she wasn't sure what.

He was smiling again, self-satisfied and patronizing. "Remember, you're not the only one who's getting a stab at revenge."

"Right," she gave a small nod. "Agent Reid."

Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.

Maura Morrow wasn't one to say I told you so, which was fortunate for John Curtis—because just as she'd predicted, Benjamin balked at the idea of bringing a third person into their plans. Not that she entirely blamed him. Benjamin's biggest (or at least his most vocal) concern was that Agent Reid refused to meet in person.

However, Curtis had been right, too. Maura had been able to persuade Benjamin to agree to a phone call, fervently promising that she trusted Agent Reid with her life (and yes, she did notice the flicker of jealousy in the younger man's eyes, which she just as quickly ignored). He'd finally acquiesced, though his facial expression throughout the phone conversation with Curtis/Reid was a clear indication of how unpleasant he found the whole thing. Maura had simply kept her gaze locked on him, offering small, reassuring smiles whenever he looked her way, remembering to soften her eyes and infuse a sense of pleased adoration in them that she didn't really feel. That had done the trick—by now, she'd learned that Benjamin would do anything, just to elicit that response from her.

Afterwards, he quietly told her, "I still don't trust this guy. This…what we're trying to do here, it's dangerous, Dr. Morrow. The less people we involve the better—and the less people we trust, the safer we'll be."

She nodded in grave agreement. He continued, obviously trying to make up for upsetting her with his stance on the matter, "I'm sure he's a good guy, and I'm sure he could help us—but how can we know for sure? How can we trust a man who won't show his face?"

"It's for your safety, just as much as his," she pointed out. "I'm the only link between the two of you. If something happens, the only person he can implicate is me. You'll be safe."

Of course, she knew that keeping Benjamin safe was the last thought on Curtis' mind—the fail-safe had been put in place to protect John, not Benjamin.

"I don't need to be safe," Benjamin leaned forward, his eyes shining earnestly. Maura heard the unspoken end to that statement: Don't you get it? I'll die for you, if need be.

She pushed down another wave of guilt and channeled her apprehension into her performance. "Benjamin, do you trust me?"

That question, like those glacial eyes, pierced him to the heart.

"Of course," he felt the air escape his lungs. "Of course I trust you."

She stepped forward, lightly placing her hand on his chest. "Then trust me—trust me when I say that we need this man's help. I want those people to pay for what they've done, but I don't want losing you to be part of the cost."

He nodded, a tiny, quick movement of his head. She held out her hand, and he placed the prepaid cellphone back in her palm. Her face blossomed into a smile again.

"Let's have some tea, shall we?" She moved away, flitting around the kitchen with her usual airy grace that easily matched the lyrical style of her writing, a parallel that had always amused and entranced him.

That was the first time that she'd ever physically touched him, he realized, lightly placing his hand over the spot where her hand had been, just moments before.

Benjamin Fuller's House, Rural Virginia.

Despite his full faith in Dr. Morrow, Benjamin Fuller still didn't trust this Reid character. The man was an agent at the Bureau, with plenty of insider information—or so he claimed. Benjamin searched for every mention of an Agent Reid at the FBI he could find online, but the results were scattered. Reid had said that he'd once worked at Quantico, but he'd failed to mention where he was currently stationed. Benjamin had noted the number that Dr. Morrow had dialed on the burner phone—its area code was in Texas, but that didn't mean anything, since anyone could get a redirect number through Google Voice with any area code they wanted.

This Agent Reid might be smart, but he didn't have Maura's best interests at heart. Benjamin could sense that. He also sensed that he shouldn't trust the man, no matter what Maura said. Someone had to be the voice of caution and reason—he'd play Reid's game until he knew for sure what the man's angle was. Then he'd prove to Dr. Morrow that he and he alone was the man who could help her, the one who could complete this mission for her.

He'd be her hero again—and she'd look at him again, like she did that night when he walked her to her car, and that sunny afternoon when he first told her that he would right all the wrongs that those people did to her.

Once Benjamin returned home, he went into his study and found a notebook, tearing out the few pages that had writing on them (plans for raised flower boxes for Dr. Morrow's garden—a task he'd complete, later on). He sat down at his desk and began writing.

If the time came, he'd have undeniable proof that Agent Reid was linked to all of this. He hoped he wouldn't need such insurance, but he wasn't willing to put his or, more importantly, Maura's life at stake.

And perhaps, if he were honest, he wanted proof that this had all been his idea. That he'd been the one to save Maura Morrow, the one who helped her plot revenge and find peace afterwards, the one who'd been her confidant and her defender.

He wouldn't write her name down—it was too damning, and in a way, it seemed almost profane, to use her name in a document that was meant for another man's downfall. He wouldn't sully her like that.

But Reid was fair game.

Benjamin started from the beginning, finding a sense of catharsis and comfort in chronicling the past few weeks with the doctor. He stayed up long into the night, recapturing it all. He kept his personal feelings, both for Morrow and Reid, out of it—he hoped these scribblings never saw the light of day, but if they did, he didn't want anything too personal in there.

He ended with the day's phone call to Agent Reid. And with a smug sense of satisfaction, he boldly printed the name across the paper.

Benjamin truly did believe that Dr. Morrow wasn't letting them meet face-to-face in order to protect him. But he also knew that he didn't need protecting. He'd gladly admit the truth, gladly stand next to her and scream in defiance at their captors. However, he knew, just as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the east, that Agent Reid would not be so steadfast. If things went sideways, he'd try to distance himself from them, he'd prove his unworthiness to the doctor and to her cause.

But Benjamin had corrected that, with the simple stroke of a pen. No one would betray his beloved doctor again, not without consequence, and not as long as Benjamin Fuller had breath in his lungs.

Try to wiggle out of this one, Agent Reid.

"Could be a nail in my coffin and I don't need another one
Could be a nail in my coffin and Lord knows I ain't ready yet
Could be a line I'm crossing and I am never gonna get back from."

~The Kills.

*Author's Note: Just FYI, I'm sticking with the original timeline I created in Pay the Piper, which has Curtis' death in mid-June 2013.

Also, I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update—a few weeks ago, I fell and severely injured my wrist (Wanna good laugh? It happened while getting out of a freaking sandbox—yeah, twelve years as a classically trained ballerina, and this is as graceful as I get…) and unfortunately, typing became an issue. But I'm well on the road to recovery, and we're back on track—with four new chapters! As always, thanks for your patience, your reviews/adds/etc, and most importantly, for sharing this crazy ride with me. Onward we go!*