Icarus Ascending
"And when you lied before,
You broke our tie before
And then I tapped into a feeling that I could not ignore…
Fury, oh fury don't you misguide me
I need my wits to set me free."
~Nico Vega, Fury oh Fury.
*Author's Note: Two things.
1) Ye gods, it has been a reeeeally long time since I've updated this story. Apologies for that. Let's just say that life really got overwhelming for a while, and it's starting to ebb back into something more manageable. Thank you to everyone who still followed/favorited/reviewed/sent messages/checked to make sure I was still alive. I know we're a community of relative strangers, but your concern really helped, more than you can know. I don't know if anyone is still reading/following this story, but if you are, another huge thank you for hanging in there, champ.
2) I don't think I've said this yet, but mental casting for Maura Morrow is the one and only Gillian Anderson.*
February 2015. Benjamin Fuller's House. Rural Virginia.
Oddly enough, Maura's first impulse was to apologize. However, she quickly realized that at this point, words of any kind would be useless.
About as useless as her former plan. She'd shot Benjamin almost directly through the front of his forehead—how many people committed suicide this way? Usually men shot from the chin upwards, and women from the temple across—would the CSIs notice the oddness of the angle?
That question answered itself. Of course they would. If she, an untrained civilian, could notice how wonky things were, then a well-versed eye could certainly do it, and in half the time, probably.
Her previous feeling of controlled calm was gone. She could hear her own breathing, heavy and ragged, could feel the pull of her chest as her lungs strove to take on more oxygen, and yet, she didn't feel as if she were breathing at all. She was aware of the ringing in her ears, and wondered if the shot was loud enough to be overheard—Benjamin lived miles away from another human being, but the sound had been loud enough to alert the whole world. They were right on the river, what if a fisherman had been passing by?
Panic warred with nausea. She hadn't been prepared for the smell—the thick, tangy copper of blood, the heavier, roiling smell underneath that she assumed was attributed to the grey matter currently displayed across the back of the chair. Her head swam for a moment and she physically rocked back, unsteady on her feet. Unsure of what else to hold on to, she tightened her grip on the gun.
You can't do this, Maura. You can't fall apart now. It's all too far gone—you can't give up now, not when you're so close!
With a long, shaking breath, Maura nodded in agreement with her inner voice. After all, the hardest part was over. To fail now would be akin to tripping just before the finish line. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a few more beats to steady her breathing, and then returned her mind to her tasks.
First, there was the primary evidence. She pressed the gun into Benjamin's hand, making sure to leave fresh prints and to hit the points necessary to pass a preliminary GSR test. Then she let his hand drop—the gun went with it, setting the stage for the initial story that would be told when the FBI finally came crashing through the door. She removed her left glove, balling it up into her right palm and then removing her right glove so that it rolled inside-out, effectively bundling both gloves and keeping any excess blood from transferring. She put them in her purse.
She took the two tumbler glasses of whiskey, washing and drying them thoroughly, double-checking to make sure no prints were left behind before returning them to the cabinet. Then she wiped down every surface she'd touched in the kitchen (she'd kept a running mental list, the entire time she'd been moving about, making the drinks). She went back to her purse and pulled out a second pair of latex gloves and some cleaning rags, her footsteps pounding double-time down the hallway as she returned to Benjamin's study.
She took a beat to stand in the doorway, her brain whirring and clicking as she scrambled to make up for her previous mistakes. She needed time to think, and she didn't particularly have that luxury.
There was a small chance that whoever was on the bombing case would actually rule Benjamin's death a suicide. There was a greater chance that she'd fucked that up entirely.
Which meant there needed to be another culprit.
She moved to the desk, where a journal sat, still open to the place where she'd removed Benjamin's faux-suicide note. Her prints had to be everywhere, from the time she'd spent reading through the journals last week. She began at the top of the desk, scrubbing along the sides, taking out all the journals to wipe the inside of the drawer. Then she turned her attention to the journals. They certainly had to go—far too much incriminating evidence. She absentmindedly glanced at an open page before her, scanning a line Benjamin's meticulous script.
Agent Reid believes that attacking at Quantico is the most effective option…
The lightbulb burst in her brain. Of course! Reid! Why, hadn't they already gotten him tangled enough in this web to raise a few eyebrows?
After John Curtis had first asked her to refer to him as Agent Reid in front of Benjamin Fuller, Maura had done her own research—she knew that Curtis had to be targeting Dr. Spencer Reid, a member of the BAU and supposedly the smartest agent in the Bureau. She wasn't surprised, really. John could be absolutely catty about anyone who challenged his impressive intellect, and when one added in the fact that the younger man was enjoying a glittering career in the prestigious unit that had been John's brass ring for so long, well…that was just rubbing salt in a very open wound. In true Curtis fashion, John claimed he'd chosen Dr. Reid simply because he had the right motivation—given the events surrounding the death of Maeve Donovan.
Of course, John had died before any further details could be discussed, but Maura was nothing if not a meticulous researcher. She dredged up what she could on Maeve Donovan, and subsequently found her sister, Linnea. Incorporating her into the plot was easy, thanks to Benjamin's skills.
Benjamin. He'd never asked why Agent Reid stopped being a part of their plans—and if he ever noticed that one of their targets happened to bear the same last name, he certainly never said so aloud. In retrospect, he had to have noticed. He was a bright boy. Maura had told him shortly after Curtis' death that Agent Reid was no longer aiding them in their schemes, and Benjamin had been, unsurprisingly, relieved. Then several months later, Maura asked him to hack into Spencer Reid's phone. Had Benjamin thought it was their Agent Reid? Had he thought he was getting revenge?
It was certainly too late to ask now.
The whole technical sleight-of-hand with Reid's email had merely been a way to show them how stupid they were, how helpless, how utterly powerless—not that Maura had cared much, but she felt it was something that John would do, and she owed him something. Of course, it would all be traced back to Benjamin, if the techs did their job right. Either way, it would never come back to her.
But now the card trick might have just become her own disappearing act. She looked at the journal with renewed interest. Originally, she'd intended to simply take all the journals with her and burn them as soon as possible. However, in light of recent events, she might be able to use them to her advantage.
No way in hell would Benjamin's death be ruled suicide. So she needed to make it look exactly as it really was—a set-up, a cover-up. The only thing she'd change was who needed to be covered.
She took a deep breath, weighing her decision. This was going to take longer than she'd planned—but ultimately, it would be worth it. A few extra minutes now for a lifetime of freedom later? An absolute bargain, really.
If she were covering up a murder, she'd need to take away all evidence that specifically pointed to her (and what a coincidence—that was exactly what she was doing, both as herself and as her new proxy, Dr. Reid). She couldn't make it too easy—Spencer Reid was a man of legendary intellect, he wouldn't be the type to make a paltry mistake—so she set out to remove every reference to herself and to Reid. She combed through every notebook, meticulously removing any stray bits of paper from the metal spirals, leaving no evidence that they'd ever been tampered with, at least at first glance. These techs might figure it out, but she was going to make them earn their keep. She wiped down the journal covers and gave cursory swipes on the pages—if she left any fingerprints behind, they'd be too smudged to identify, much less match to her own.
She went back into the kitchen to retrieve a trash bag, carefully taking all of the sheets and small bits of excess paper before returning the redacted journals to their drawer in the desk. She glanced around the office with one last satisfied air before heading back down the hallway, trash bag in tow. Then she gingerly removed her clothes, stuffing them in the bag as well. She donned her long winter coat, grateful that it covered enough to give the illusion that she was still fully dressed underneath, and gave the house one last walk-through to ensure herself that all was as it should be. In the kitchen, she took the last thing she'd ever need from Benjamin Fuller: a cigarette lighter.
She drove five miles down the deserted country road before pulling over. Teeth chattering from the cold, she trudged out to the Potomac River, which ran a few yards away from the path. The trash bag came with her—piece by piece, she held up her clothes and her latex gloves and lit them on fire with the cigarette lighter, letting them burn as much as possible before dropping them into the water. The key to Benjamin's desk fell out of her pants pocket and she cursed slightly at the realization that she hadn't returned it. Even though it was a three-minute drive, she wasn't going back there again. She tossed the key into the water as well. Rocks were added to the trash bag, which still held the papers from the journal. A few well-placed holes in the plastic would ensure that water could rush in and do its irrevocable work on the paper, and then with one last heave-ho, she chucked the bag into the river. Her shoes followed as well, and she stood, barefoot and barely clothed, smiling with self-satisfaction. There was still so much left to do, but she was filled with an overwhelming sense of serenity. She'd done the hardest part, the rest would fall into line as well.
She briefly wondered if John Curtis had ever felt this elatedly calm during his time as the Replicator. If so, she could understand why he'd continued his work. It was an absolutely addictive feeling.
She looked up at the stars, smiling in collusion with the Universe. They shared a secret now—they both understood what it meant to be invincible.
Three Days Later. Ninth Floor, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.
It was a good thing that Adelaide Macaraeg didn't much care for how she looked when she was working, because she currently resembled something out of a contagion movie—she'd suited up in her white jumpsuit, complete with hood and safety glasses, and she'd added a face mask, due to all the dust swirling around the air. Once she reached the center of the blast site, she also donned a headlamp. She got the sneaking suspicion that if the situation weren't so serious, Jeff Masterson would be cracking jokes at her appearance. However, the barrel-chested man remained stoic, holding steady the ladder that the cleaning and electrical crews had lent them. Those crews were currently positioned at the other end of the hallway, keeping a respectful level of distance and silence. Mac and Jeff hadn't missed their looks of concern whenever they'd been informed that there was still a piece of vital evidence left somewhere in the rubble—they'd all probably wondered if it were a piece of vital evidence that could still blow up, no doubt.
In a way, they weren't far off the mark, Mac reasoned, though she wisely kept that line of commentary to herself. Instead, she merely gave a light sigh before ascending the ladder.
After the discovery in Fuller's journals that the bomb had included a timer, Mac had gone back over every bit of evidence with Jeff, leaving Rowena to continue assessing the chemical makeup of their latest boom. Unsurprisingly, yet worryingly, they hadn't found anything in their collection of evidence to suggest it had once been a timing device of any shape or form (unsurprisingly, because if it had been found, one of them would have recognized it as such right away, and worryingly, because that meant they'd somehow missed a crucial piece of evidence). They'd looked at the site schematics that they'd taken on the first day, and had concluded that the only logical place for the timer to be would be above—somehow lodged into the rafters, lost in the tangle of electrical wires and air ducts.
Which was why Mac was currently standing atop a twelve-foot ladder, engulfed in cold darkness from the waist up as her head brushed against wires and soggy bits of insulation. The darkness was dispelled by the clicking on of her headlamp, but the rest of the scenario was unfortunately unchangeable.
A smaller bundle of wires, lost somewhere within a larger tangle of wires. Should be a walk in the park, right?
She leaned forward slightly, craning her neck to get a better view, and the already-damaged ceiling tile caved further in, reminding her how unstable it all was. Below, Masterson made a noise that sounded like whoa, but she couldn't tell if it was directed at her or the tile.
Things were gonna have to go slowly, and carefully. Normally, Mac didn't mind taking a little extra time, but she'd already wasted so much time not knowing about the existence of this timer—she was already behind, and she couldn't afford to be. She needed to confirm that this timer was real, and she needed to have done it about twenty-four hours ago.
With a frustrated sigh, she shook her head and began to slowly turn in a circle, taking full beats to visually examine each section before slightly turning. She could feel the ladder wobble beneath her feet, but it suddenly became rock-steady and she knew that Masterson had tightened his grip, reinforcing the frame.
"Easy now," he warned gently.
A large section of insulation was hanging in front of her now, still wet and mildewy from the emergency sprinklers and the lack of proper ventilation. She brushed it gently with her hand, and a heavy glob fell onto the ceiling tile with a dull thud.
"Y'Okay?" Jeff was immediately on alert.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she reassured him. "The insides of this ceiling are just falling to pieces."
The thought niggled at the back of her brain. She turned slightly again, so that she was fully facing the section of damp and disintegrating insulation. The blast had knocked it loose, of course, but most of it hadn't started falling until after it had been soaked by the sprinklers and had sat for several hours without drying out. Which mean it was falling on top of things that had landed atop the ceiling tiles during the initial blast.
"Hey, watch out, things might come falling down," she warned. Jeff made a noise that implied he'd heard her. Mac leaned forward a little more, resting her right hand on a metal rafter beam as her left began to gingerly pick away the layer of soggy insulation. Despite the cool February air and the lack of heating, she soon felt a sheen of perspiration on her forehead—the full forensic suit and the stuffy air had teamed up to make her forget that it was the middle of winter.
She tried to move the debris to another ceiling tile which looked stable enough to hold the extra weight, although a few pieces still fluttered through the openings in the ceiling and onto the floor below. She was glad that Masterson had worn his protective glasses—the last thing she needed was a team member with God-only-knows-what stuck in his eye.
She grabbed another handful of debris and heard the first little scratching sound—the indication of something else is in here. She began to move more slowly, more meticulously, moving things piece by piece.
The sound returned—light and plastic, foreign in a scenario that had been a symphony of slick wires sliding together, wet insulation sucking and plopping, dried out tiles cracking and crunching, and steel beams giving low cool dings. Mac's fingers gently shuffled in the darkness, and even through the numbing latex, they found purchase on a small piece of plastic, now warped by the heat of the explosion.
"Hand me up the camera," she commanded, and Masterson obliged. There was a little bit of uneasiness as she tried to bend down enough to reach the camera in his outstretched hand, but she recovered and re-steadied herself, directing her headlamp back to the area where she'd found the plastic so that she'd have enough light for a clear photograph. Granted, evidence collection protocol would probably have let it slide if she didn't photograph the piece of evidence before removing it, but to be honest, she wanted to be able to show people just how damn hard this thing had been to find.
The photos were taken and the camera was handed back down, and Mac finally reached out to take the plastic bit.
"Watcha got?" Masterson finally asked, his voice etched with curiosity.
Mac frowned slightly, bringing it closer to her face for inspection. "I think it used to be a cellphone."
"Cellphone detonator, one of the easiest ways to go," Jeff supplied. In fact, the London bombings, which also had TATP as their basis, used cellphones as detonators—and Jeff had said as much, during their first day on the case.
Holding her arms out to maintain her balance, Mac slowly sank onto her knees, keeping herself perched atop the ladder (and oh, how her thighs and knees shrieked in protest, still too worn by too much stress and too little sleep). Masterson kept both of his hands firmly on the ladder, but he craned his neck forward to see the fruit of their endeavors.
He lowered his voice, not wishing to be overheard by their on-looking audience, "Question is: does this affect our theory of the crime?"
She made a small noise of approval for the question, although she didn't have an answer. Jeff removed his left hand from the ladder, reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit to pull out an evidence bag. Mac deposited the disfigured plastic into the bag, giving a slight shake of her head, "Right now, all this means is that our bomb was meant to go off at a specific time."
"But does that also mean it had a specific target?" Jeff returned easily. Now both of his hands were off the ladder as he sealed the evidence bag and took a pen from his pocket, scribbling all the necessary information onto the bag's label. Absentmindedly, he warned, "Don't take any swan dives, 'kay, boss?"
"I won't move a muscle 'til your hands are back on the ladder," she promised.
"Atta girl."
She gave a huff at that—girl had been a moniker lost to her many eons ago. Still, she smiled, because she saw that her feigned derision made Jeff Masterson smile in turn.
"You have a sister, don't you?" She guessed. That kind of teasing screamed of having a sibling to practice on for years.
"Three, actually."
"You were the baby, the long-awaited son?"
"My family really strove to be stereotypical in every way." He confirmed dryly.
She laughed at that. This was her first case in the field with her team, so she was still learning Jeff and Rowena's personalities and quirks. She decided that she definitely liked Masterson's easy self-effacing humor—and she liked that fact that it was still intact after four long days of grueling work even more. Being able to keep a sense of humor was just as important as having it in the first place, especially in their line of work. Anyone could crack a joke at the office—but to still be smiling and relatively sane after what they'd been through, now that was a challenge.
"I'm gonna see if I can find any more pieces," she informed him, waiting until he'd set down the evidence bag and resumed his grip on the ladder before rising to her full height and returning to the rafters again.
A few more suspicious bits of debris were added to the evidence collection, and then Mac descended from her perch.
"Couldn't have done it without your support, Agent Masterson," she quipped, peeling off her headlamp and face mask.
"Just doin' my job, ma'am," he deadpanned in return, resting his elbow on the ladder like a cowboy leaning on a hitching post.
Mac opened her mouth to reply, but she was cut short by the ringing of her phone. She unzipped her jumpsuit to retrieve the cell from the front pocket of her jeans, feeling a wave of trepidation when she saw the name on her caller ID.
"It's Gosslee." She announced. Jeff made a small sound of surprise as well. She answered, "Don't tell me you've already got something."
"Oh, my dear, but I do," Gosslee was practically crowing with self-delight.
"You've only had the thing for like—"
"Almost ten hours straight."
Mac stopped for a moment. She'd forwarded the samples to Goss late last night, but she hadn't expected the woman to start looking at them until this morning. "Jesus, Shelley, when's the last time you slept?"
"The older you get, the less sleep you need. It sucks most of the time, but right now, it comes in pretty handy."
"You have not been staring at a bunch of numbers and letters for ten hours."
"I haven't. Not entirely, anyways. But that's not the point—don't you wanna know what I've found?"
"I'm honestly not sure," Mac admitted, slinging the camera case over her shoulder. Behind her, Jeff had gathered the evidence bags and was telling the clean-up crews that it was safe to go back to work.
"This is the most beautiful frickin' forgery I have ever seen," Goss pronounced. Her tone was tinged with awe at its creator, and still a hefty dose of delight at her ability to spot the fake.
Mac stopped moving again. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely. Well, ninety-five percent sure. Maybe eight-seven. OK, like seventy-five percent—"
"Normally I am the first person to appreciate your sense of humor, Goss, but right now—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry—there are always factors that can be interpreted either way. Which is why I'm assuming the first analyst said it was a match. He was looking to prove that it was, so he discounted the very same evidence that I'm using to prove that it isn't, if that makes sense."
"Despite your convoluted delivery, yes, it does make sense, actually."
"Look, it's gonna be a thousand times easier for me to show you how I've come to this conclusion if I can physically show you. Can we set up a skype-date for later this afternoon?"
"Sure," Mac gave a curt nod of agreement. "I'll need some time to round up the lead investigator on the case—he'll definitely want to be a part of this. And we have some evidence of our own that needs top priority right now, so—"
"Well, say no more, my dear. Text me a time, whenever you figure it out, and I'm all yours."
"I adore you more than is proper, Shelley Gosslee," Mac admitted, and without even turning around, she could feel Masterson's amusement at the pronouncement.
"Good. Proper's overrated." With that, Goss disconnected the call.
"Good news?" Jeff Masterson guessed. He made absolutely no attempt to pretend as if he hadn't been eavesdropping.
"I think so." Mac was smiling again. "At least for your friends in the BAU."
FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
Penelope Garcia really, really wished that she'd been able to wear heels—or, at least, a heel—because without them, she felt decidedly less ready for battle. However, one ankle was already in a splint, and it didn't seem wise to try and hop around on crutches in a four-inch stiletto.
Unsurprisingly, Derek Morgan sensed her lack of certainty, because he gently set his hand on the small of her back, taking a moment to simply look at her before they entered the double glass doors of the Academy. "Just remember, Babygirl, you're the one they need right now. You're the smartest one in the room, and no matter what they say, they're in your house, OK?"
She gave a small nod.
"We're doing this for Reid," he reminded her gently.
"For Reid," she echoed, her voice bolstering up a sense of determination that she didn't quite feel. Of course, she was ready to help, and dead-set on clearing her beloved doctor by the end of the day, but she was going to be doing so in an environment that wasn't nearly as cozy and comforting as her lair in the main building.
There was the added matter of working with Sura Roza, who wouldn't exactly be taking home any prizes for warmth and charm, based on their previous phone conversation. Even when Roza had called her back to request Garcia's official help on the case, the woman had been cool and concise.
Penelope didn't do well in hostile environments. And Morgan couldn't stay there, holding her hand or hovering over her shoulder like a guardian angel for the entire day—although he would, if she asked him to. She felt bad for even thinking it, and worse for knowing that it was true.
That man would follow your lead in a heartbeat. Sam had thrown that at her, when she'd broken up with him just a few nights ago (was it really such a short time ago, why did it feel like ages and centuries had passed since then?). He'd assumed that their split had something to do with her relationship to Morgan, and she'd assured him that it wasn't the case. His response had simply been that it wasn't the case only because Penelope hadn't given Morgan the right amount of encouragement—yet.
She didn't like that—being made to feel like some kind of tawdry other woman, as if she could pull a man into a world-toppling situation with a mere crook of her finger. Granted, she was well-aware of her own sex appeal, and she knew that a certain type of guy couldn't help but fall head over heels for her certain type of girl, but this implication was different.
It was different because Derek Morgan wasn't that type of guy. It was different because Derek Morgan was her closest friend. It was different because Derek Morgan deserved to be utterly happy and he was well on his way to achieving that with his current romantic relationship and Penelope didn't like the idea of being some kind of potential stumbling block, something to be watched with caution and distrust, instead of merely being his supportive best friend.
For the briefest of flashes, she felt a wave of righteous anger towards her now ex-boyfriend, for planting this doubtful seed, for creating this current oddness between her and her best friend.
She was angrier at the fact that there was truth in the statement.
"Y'okay?" Morgan's gentle voice brought her back to the present.
"I'm fine," she assured him, moving through the door that he was holding open for her.
"I can stay a while, if you want me to," he offered. Again, she kind of hated herself for so easily predicting his behavior.
"No, I don't think it's necessary." She stopped and turned to face him, "In fact, I think it's best if I take it from here—on my own."
He blinked as if he'd been slapped, but quickly recovered. "Whatever you think is best, babydoll."
That wasn't what he'd wanted to say, but he was obviously trying to play by their new rules and give her space.
That man would follow your lead in a heartbeat.
Penelope forced a smile. "You're a good man, Derek Morgan."
"You bring it out in me, Penelope Garcia," he returned just as easily. Except he wasn't wearing his usual flirty smirk. He was being honest—no teasing, no playing involved.
"I'll call you when I need a ride back," she offered another smile—this one soft, almost apologetic.
"Sure thing," he waved her off and turned to go. She felt a pang of jealousy at how quickly and how easily he moved, without injury or encumbrances.
Penelope took a moment to watch him leave, then turned on her heel, steadying herself on her crutches. They all had jobs to do, to bring Spencer home. It was time to do hers.
She hadn't been in the Academy in years, but Sura Roza had given clear directions on how to find the small office that was serving as the investigation's headquarters. The door was open, and when Penelope stepped into the doorway, the older woman at the desk looked up expectantly.
"Ah, Miss Garcia." She rose to her feet. She was short, with wide hips and hair that had once been strikingly ginger, but was now faded to a brassier shade—a common fate for all natural redheads. The copper strands were swept into a serviceable chignon, but all other concessions to vanity were nonexistent, besides mascara to give her naturally-blonde lashes some kind of form. She was Penelope's polar opposite—jeans and a button-down under a cable-knit sweater, with low-heeled boots that probably would have been at-home on a farm. Her one piece of jewelry was a simple wedding band, which shone from the hand that she currently extended in greeting.
"Sura Roza," she announced, her accent clean and concise, just as it had been in every conversation before. Penelope shook her hand with a small smile, and then the older woman motioned to the corner of the room opposite her own work station, where another folding table had been set up, with a desk chair. "I've got some guys bringing over the rest of the stuff you requested from your own office. They should be here soon."
Penelope merely nodded, moving towards the area that would be her home-away-from-home until the case was closed and the main building was restored. She gratefully took a seat, her sore arms reminding her just how out of practice she was when it came to crutches.
"Coffee, tea, anything?" Roza was still polite, despite the antiseptic nature of her tone.
"I'm good for now," Penelope informed her.
Now Roza seemed at a loss. She glanced around the room for a moment, opened her mouth, closed it again, clasped her hands in front of her and sighed.
"I, um." She stopped and looked down at the floor. She didn't seem particularly embarrassed or nervous, just unsure of how to continue. With another deep breath, though, she charged forward, "Look, Ms. Garcia, I know our teams—even ourselves in particular—haven't exactly started out on the best foot. That doesn't matter to me. I'm not someone who needs to be liked."
Penelope was already well-aware of this aspect of Roza's personality, but she kept silent.
The older woman continued, lifting her head to keep eye contact with the blonde. "I'm here to do my job, to the best of my ability. And my job is to help catch whoever did this. I may not know much about you, but I know you approach your work with the same intentions—we wouldn't be doing the work that we do for as long as we have, if we didn't feel passionately about bringing some sense of balance and justice to the world."
"I agree," Penelope spoke up, still slightly surprised by how open and honest Roza was being in this moment.
"Good," Roza gave a curt nod of approval. "The point I'm trying to make is this: we don't have to be bosom friends. But let's make some magic happen, OK?"
Now the blonde gave the first genuine smile since she'd walked into the room. She understood that the woman wasn't trying to apologize for her brusque behavior, or even excuse it—this was a statement of facts, not a plea to emotions. It was a declaration of war on a common enemy, and a truce between them and their respective teams. Roza wasn't looking for forgiveness, but rather a committed ally, someone who could push past hurt feelings and do their best to help bring about justice. Penelope could deal with those terms—so she merely opened her hands in a welcoming gesture.
"Magic is my specialty."
Jack Dawson sat at the large table that took up the lion's share of the conference room, rocking back in his seat as his eyes scanned the two dry-erase boards that now contained everything they knew of Linnea Donovan Charles' movements and connections over the past four days. Cruz and O'Donnell had worked tirelessly throughout the morning and afternoon, speaking with Linnea's husband, coworkers, and even Jordan Strauss. Dawson had called Johnny Adams as well—but there were definitely still some gaps in the coverage of Linnea's timeline. None of this pointed to a direct connection to either Maura Morrow or Spencer Reid, much less Benjamin Fuller.
Cruz and O'Donnell were out on a much-needed late lunch break, and Keller had called about fifteen minutes earlier to tell him that Jude was out of surgery and would slowly begin coming out of anesthesia. Shostakovich had left the scene at Morrow's house and was en route back to Quantico. Everyone seemed to have something to do or somewhere to be except Jack Dawson. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.
There was a light knock on the door—so light that at first, he thought maybe he'd imagined it. But then the door opened and Adelaide Macaraeg's face cautiously appeared.
"Hope I'm not disturbing anything." She wore an apologetic expression. With her severe features, it looked more like a grimace.
"Not at all," he swiveled his chair so that he could face her. He gestured to another chair at the table, "What can I do for you, SSA Macaraeg?"
"Please, as I've said before, call me Mac."
"Only if you call me Jack." He gave a faint smile. "Mac and Jack. We sound like a comedy duo."
"Well, this case has been a real laugh riot from start to finish, hasn't it?" She was too weary to even smile at her own joke, although her tone still held an amused air. She settled into a vacant chair, her eyes flicking up to meet Jack's. When they'd first met, Jack had been struck by the amber hue of her irises—it was the kind of color you saw in vampire eyes in those schlocky teen movies, not the thing you'd expect to see in real life—but right now, in this ill-lit room, they looked inky black. The change in eye color made her seem more solid, more tired, and more sympathetic (although those last two might just be what she was actually feeling at the moment, he supposed).
Mac took a light, barely perceptible breath, as if she were setting herself to an unpleasant task. Her eyebrows quirked downward and her already-thin lips practically disappeared into a straight line.
"Jack, you can't keep Spencer Reid in custody much longer," she spoke quietly and calmly, just barely removing the tone of authority from her voice. She wasn't used to deferring to others on cases, Jack could tell that, and he respected her restraint in this situation.
"I have to be sure," he returned in the same low tone. But he wasn't really disagreeing with her, and they both knew it.
"It's been almost forty-eight hours since you arrested him."
"It's been only forty-eight hours since I've realized that he was in danger of being murdered by someone responsible for an attack on the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he re-arranged the statement.
Mac closed her eyes and ducked her head, as if acquiescing to the change of wording. However, it didn't stop her from continuing, "I understand why you had reason to believe that it might be someone close to him, but honestly, Jack, we've got Maura Morrow now. She's our prime suspect. Benjamin Fuller was the inside man, and he's gone. You and I both know that the probability of more accomplices isn't high. For the same reason most conspiracy theories don't hold up—because the more people you involve, the less likely that it stays a secret, or even goes according to plan."
She shifted in her seat. "Which brings me to our next issue: I don't think the bombing went according to plan."
Jack wasn't surprised by this pronouncement. He simply waited for Mac to continue.
"Fuller's journals indicated that there was some kind of detonator on the bomb. We didn't find anything like that in our initial evidence collection. However, after reading that, Masterson and I went back up to the ninth floor." She pulled an evidence bag from her winter coat, lightly tossing it onto the conference table. The slick plastic slid easily across the table, stopping just a few inches from him. "We're pretty sure it's the remains of a cellphone. One of the easiest triggers to use for long-range detonations. Right now we're not sure if that changes anything, in regards to the theory of the crime, but it does mean that the bomb went off before it was supposed to."
"All those innocent people," Dawson murmured, gingerly picking up the mangled plastic through its protective bag.
"Beg pardon?"
"Della Fuller, Benjamin's mother, said that in his last phone call to her, he kept mentioning all those innocent people who were killed or injured in the blast."
Mac sat back slightly. "Well, I guess that gives further credence to the idea that the bomb was designed for a very specific target. Someone that Fuller didn't think was innocent."
"The package itself was addressed to the BAU," Dawson pointed out.
"Doesn't mean that they were the actual target."
"No," he slid the evidence back across the table. "Doesn't mean that they weren't, either."
She simply shrugged. He had a point.
After a beat of silence, Mac spoke up again. "There's one last thing. My analyst in New York. She's convinced that the list of addresses is a forgery. She wants to show us over Skype this afternoon. Whatever time works best for you."
"I'm ready when you are," he was slightly distracted, his mind already turning with another line of thought. "Afterwards, I'm gonna have to sit down with Aaron Hotchner. It's time we had a talk, I think."
"One thing about them tables, baby…they always turn."
~Unknown.
*Author's Note: Another mental casting…which maybe I've shared before, but just in case—for Sura Roza, I always think of Megan Follows. In fact, her line to Garcia in this chapter about "bosom friends" is a nod to Follows' iconic turn as Anne of Green Gables.*