Deflection
"Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate." ~Sun Tzu, The Art of War
May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.
Spencer Reid left the sunshine of the bright May morning, entering the cool and somber interior of the FBI building, his mind heavy and distracted with so many things.
Blake might be leaving them. In Detroit, she'd confessed that her husband had received a job offer from Harvard—with a teaching position for her included. Though Spencer hated the thought of losing another trusted friend (after all, she'd been there through so much, through so many dark moments, with her quiet advice and gentle reassurances, reminding him of the mother that he'd never had), he wanted what was best for her—the same way he'd understood that Emily needed to leave, because even though he would miss her, he knew that he couldn't ask her to stay, couldn't ask her to keep those demons in her eyes, couldn't ask her to be unhappy just to satisfy his own selfish desire to keep her close.
He had a lecture to give in four days, and he still wasn't exactly sure what he was going to talk about. That was more of a nuisance than an actual problem, because honestly, his notes were just guidelines and he generally extemporized based on whatever sparked in his mind at the time. Still, he liked feeling prepared, because public speaking made him nervous (though not when he was speaking to cops or other agents, or giving a profile, but only when he was speaking to the general public, whenever he was loaned out by the Bureau like some freakshow exhibit).
Only eight days remained in the Replicator's countdown. That, of course, was the most pressing thought in his mind. His subconscious was continuously mulling over the implications, thinking and rethinking every angle. Option #1, Option #2, Option #3. Flip a coin, I dare ya. Three shells, move 'em around, pick which one has the pea underneath.
That analogy triggered something in his brain. One of these is not like the other ones. Can you spot the difference?
He could be wrong. He didn't have the luxury of being wrong, especially when time was of the essence. He couldn't afford to be distracted by a false trail.
Distraction. That wasn't the first time that particular word had come to mind.
What's the first trick a magician should learn? There's nothing more powerful than the gift of distraction. That's why so many illusionists and magicians had such lovely assistants—a pretty woman was an easy way to garner most of the crowd's attention and distract their gaze from the trick itself.
But the Replicator wasn't a magician. He was a sadist, and he took supreme delight in being able to taunt his victims with the future, to let them squirm as they realized their utter helplessness, to show them how powerless they were against his greater will. He didn't make threats that he didn't intend to enforce.
The problem was that no one was quite sure what the threat was. Sure, it involved three sons (three options, three choices, three little Indians), but that was all they knew. Everything else was just a guess.
Spencer didn't like guesses, especially not when it involved the people he cared about. Guesses could be wrong. Guesses could become mistakes. Mistakes could be fatal.
Henry. Though he didn't wish for anything to happen to any of the boys, he felt a panic clawing its way up his throat at the white-hot realization that he couldn't let anything happen to Henry. Henry, the boy with the golden hair and the smile that always made Spencer smile in turn, the one who followed him with a childish reverence that was both endearing and frightening. If Henry were gone—he couldn't even finish that thought.
"Good morning, Boy Wonder," Penelope's cheerful attitude (though a little forced today) did not have its usual comforting effect on the young doctor. In fact, it was the opposite.
"Morning," he replied, a little surprised by his own irritation at his friend's appearance.
"It looks like you'll be jetting off to Missouri for a few days," she continued, holding up the stack of folders in her hand in explanation. "Although, I guess we can wait to talk about that, because frankly—"
"How can we catch this guy if no one will let us do our damn work?" Spencer growled suddenly, his ferocity causing Penelope to stop and stare after him. He turned back around, angry at himself for lashing out at his friend, but still too angry to apologize. "I have eight days to figure this out—eight days! How can I do that if I'm constantly being thrown on to new cases? I can't do the work that I need to do from the field, in fact, I can't do any work from the field because I'm too busy working in the field, and I know that's my job, but how am I supposed to think about those things when the clock in my head is ticking off another minute wasted?"
He was talking quickly now, his hands fluttering about in frustration and excitation as his voice rose with each word. There were people staring at him, but he didn't care.
"The Replicator should be our number one priority and yet, it's not even a priority at all, and I don't understand what colossal leave of his sense the director must have taken to order—"
"Dr. Reid." The low, deadly rumble of another woman's voice stopped him mid-rant.
Penelope and Spencer turned to see Erin Strauss, her fingers tightly gripping a travel mug of coffee as if she were trying to strangle it, her leather clutch briefcase clamped to her side as her icy gaze remained locked on the young man.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my office."
It wasn't a question, or even a suggestion. It was a command, given in a cold and emotionless tone that would brook no refusals.
To Spencer's credit, he didn't flinch at the pronouncement. "Yes, ma'am."
She breezed past him, but his long strides soon caught up to her shorter ones.
"You should be more careful about where you decide to criticize the director," she said coolly, not even looking at him as they made their way to the elevators.
"I wasn't—"
"You hadn't yet, because I stopped you."
He couldn't argue with that.
As they waited for the elevator to arrive, she turned her concerned eyes back to him, "Do you really think that we don't consider the Replicator a priority?"
Per usual, Spencer chose the path of brutal honesty, "I think you do, because you have an emotionally vested interest in the outcome of this particular scenario—but no, ma'am, I don't think that the director considers this case a priority, based on his past responses."
Strauss gave a heavy sigh at his words. "I'm afraid I can't refute that, Dr. Reid."
Switching gears, she looked up at him again, almost not daring to hope as she asked, "Have you—have there been any more developments?"
"No, ma'am, there hasn't." Again, anger was creeping into the young man's tone (and frustration and worry, Erin heard that too, dancing at the edges).
The elevator was filled with other people, so they fell silent until they had reached the safety of Erin's office.
"So there are no new theories, at all?" She resumed her line of questioning, closing the door behind her as she moved easily towards the small conference table on the right side of her office, setting her case in a chair and her coffee on the table, turning back to him with a sense of guarded expectancy.
There was something in her voice that nagged at Spencer—it almost sounded as if she were...fishing for something.
"No," he answered slowly, suddenly wondering how much of his current thought process that he should share with her. She may be an ally to the BAU now, but this was a special circumstance (the enemy of my enemy is my friend), and past experience had proven that she wasn't the most trustworthy person.
She gave a small sigh of frustration and distress, and Spencer saw something in her face that he felt in his own soul—the need to protect the boys at all costs, the fear of failing, the sheer helplessness of it all. His previous reservations dissipated, and he added, "I can't help feeling like perhaps he's trying to use the boys as a distraction of some sort."
She furrowed her brows in slight confusion, but she listened quietly as he continued, "Before, all his taunts were specifically directed at team members, but they applied to the entire team, and were always tied to a case we were working. This is almost too specific."
"Too specific?" Erin repeated, folding her arms over her chest. Suddenly, she understood, "Because this only targets three members of the BAU specifically, and because the boys are not involved in our work."
"Exactly."
"There wasn't a mention of zugzwang in this taunt, either," she said softly, her mind reeling through its internal rows of data (analysis of a crime, finding the points at which multiple incidents intersect, highlighting the points at which they do not).
The chess term sent off a firework on the young doctor's brain.
The Replicator wasn't a magician. He didn't use distraction. He was a chess player. He used deflection.
"That's it," he breathed, and Erin was immediately alerted to his change of tone, standing a little straighter and cocking her head to the side as she waited for him to announce his latest discovery.
"In chess, deflection is the act of luring an opposing piece away from its defensive position—removing a piece that fulfills an important defensive role renders it useless, because it can't defend anything else without giving up the defense role it's assigned."
"What exactly are you saying, Dr. Reid?" Erin Strauss was not a chess player.
"By using the boys as bait, he's luring us away from our original positions," Spencer's voice began to rise as he paced across her office, his brain clicking things into place even more quickly than his mouth could express the thought. "If he distracts us—if he deflects our attention—he can strike in the area that's left vulnerable, the area we should be paying attention to."
"Which is?"
Ah, those two words. If only they were as simple as they sounded.
"I don't know yet," he answered truthfully.
She gave a small nod, silently accepting the regret and apology behind his words.
"By placing the boys in danger, he's taken away our concern for our own safety," Erin began slowly, trying to weave together the pieces of information that they did have. She gave a slight shake of her head, "But that has only increased the amount of protective detail around the three of us who have children. Seems a little counter-productive, don't you think?"
"Something's still missing," Spencer agreed. "But he would have thought of that—he seems to have a contingency in place for every outcome; it seems unlikely that he wouldn't have already been prepared for such a move. He never does anything without a reason."
"No, he doesn't," the section chief gave a heavy sigh. With a sudden glance at her watch, she resumed her former air of all-business, "I've made you late for your briefing, Dr. Reid."
Spencer moved towards the door, and Erin offered one last olive branch as she quietly added, "You know...you know that I wouldn't send you out into the field, if I could—I'm just following orders."
"I know," he said simply, neither condemning nor condoning her actions. With one last small smile, he disappeared.
And though he was gone, the question still remained: what were they missing? What was the thing that they were supposed to be busy guarding?
Alex Blake smiled warmly at Spencer as he entered the conference room. He was a few minutes late, but Garcia had already informed everyone that he'd been called into Strauss' office, so there was no reprimand from Hotch for his tardiness.
Once Penelope had given them the details of the new case, Reid put forth his latest theory. There were a few looks of uncertainty (Morgan, JJ, Garcia), and few nods of agreement (Blake, Rossi), and one look of pragmatic ambivalence (Hotch, always Hotch). Then the team dispersed, going back to grab their bags and head out again.
As they were walking towards the elevators, Blake sidled up to the young doctor, a smile playing on the corner of her lips as she quietly informed him, "So...I'm staying."
He turned back around, his face filled with happy surprise. "Really?"
"Really," her own grin deepened at his reaction.
"And James?" His expression became cautious.
"He understands."
Spencer gave a curt nod, "Good. That's good."
"It is," she agreed with a smile.
Derek Morgan appeared beside her, his handsome features wearing a different kind of smile as he spoke, "I hear your hubby's back in town."
"He is," Blake suddenly understood the sly light in Morgan's eyes, and she wanted to laugh—sometimes he was worse than a teenaged boy.
"Could that be the reason we are so happy and smiling today?" He asked with an air of mock seriousness, as if he were truly contemplating the question.
"It certainly could," she gave a slight shrug of feigned nonchalance. But of course she couldn't let it go at that, "Or maybe it's just because I'm so overjoyed at the chance to spend another day at your side, Agent Morgan."
He laughed at her snark, gently bumping her shoulder with his own, "Trust me, lady, the feeling's mutual."
On her other side, Spencer Reid gave a small nod of agreement as they walked together down the hall. Alex Blake felt a small wave of warmth pass through her chest at the knowledge that she'd truly made the right decision. Her mind went back to the words she'd spoken to Dave on the plane ride from Detroit—that's just the kind of creatures we are. That was the kind of creature she was, and she was finally in a place where she was able to use her abilities for the greatest good, in a place where she was surrounded by like creatures, in a place that felt like home.
The last realization startled her, but in a good way. She'd bumped around several times during her career, and it had never bothered her—people and places, they come and go, it's just part of the territory. But then again, none of those other places ever felt quite like this one, and none of those people ever understood her quite like these did.
My home away from home, in lovely Quantico. She liked the sound of that.
Vienna, Virginia
It was strange, how much things could change, and yet how much they could stay the same. Erin saw this truth in living color as she sat at the dinner table, surrounded by her ex-husband and her children, who were all talking and joking as if the past three years were gone entirely.
This was when she missed Paul—when he was right in front of her, reminding her of his quiet care and tenderness over the years, when she could see the resemblance between him and Anna, when Jordan and Christopher's mannerisms mimicked his own, when he said something that made her laugh and reminded her of the good times. She didn't want him back (at least not in a romantic way, because her brief time with David had taught her that there was so much more that could be shared, and she could never go back), but gods, she did love the feeling of safety and belonging that had always come from being with Paul. They had always just clicked, in simple ways, though those little connections hadn't been enough to withstand every test of time, and though she knew it was for the best, she still missed how easily they'd always fit into each other's lives. With Paul, she'd sacrificed passion for comfort, but she didn't regret it.
She'd tasted true passion, and now the absence of it ate away at her insides like a tumor. The way she missed David was different from the way she missed Paul—with Paul, she missed the good, and with David, she missed it all.
It was strange, missing a person who still spent so much time around her. They'd been in Missouri for two days now, and she'd been relieved at his absence—knowing he was in the same building was utter hell, because she actually ached (yes, ached, the same way she used to ache for just one more drink) for some excuse to see him, for some reason to speak to him, to make him have some kind of contact with her, and she had fought against those selfish desires, because she knew that he couldn't stand the sight of her anymore, and she didn't want to hurt him any further. With a wry and saddened smile, she acknowledged that as usual, they'd fallen on opposite ends of the spectrum—she was hurt by his absence; he was hurt by her presence.
Her phone buzzed, its vibration making it dance across the polished table top, and she stood, giving a regretful smile to her family, "I've got to take this."
She disappeared through the French doors, out into the backyard before answering.
"Do we think it's Mother's Italian Lover?" Anna asked with a grin, which quickly disappeared once Jordan gave her a swift kick in the shins under the table and she sheepishly realized that their father was sitting next to her.
"Probably work-related," Paul answered easily, overlooking his daughter's comment—not that it truly bothered him, because after all, he'd been dating again for several months (though Erin's love life suddenly sounded so much more exotic than his—an Italian lover seemed much more enviable than the sweet-but-placid business types he dated).
Christopher quickly diverted the subject and a few minutes later, Erin reappeared.
"Everything alright?" Jordan asked, and her mother nodded in response.
"Yes. That was just one of my agents, giving me an update from the field." They knew better than to ask any more questions, because she couldn't comment on ongoing investigations, and even if she could, she wouldn't talk about such things at the dinner table. That was one thing that Paul had always prided his ex-wife on—she never brought her work home, never let the darker side of the Bureau seep into their children's existence. The only work-related memorabilia she'd ever kept were the books in the library, and she'd kept them away from the children until they were old enough to understand them. Of course, this rule of not bringing work home had meant that she'd spent many late nights at the office, which had caused a strain on their marriage on more than one occasion, but he'd always understood her reasoning.
She'd always tried to do her best for their little family, even though sometimes it meant that sacrifices were made. In the end, it had all turned out alright, and Paul could accept that.
"You're not working tomorrow, right?" Christopher asked, his eyebrow arching in a slightly reprimanding way.
"Not unless the director calls me in for some emergency," his mother answered diplomatically.
"Awesome," Jordan grinned. "That means we can spend the whole day poolside."
"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Erin replied with a dreamy smile. After the stress of the past week, spending a day surrounded by her children and basking under the sun was exactly what she needed.
More plans were made as the dishes were cleared away and the family adjourned to play a few rounds of billiards and to give one hilariously bad performance on Rock Band. All too soon, the hours slipped away as the five Strausses retreated into the familiar cocoon that they'd always been able to create amongst themselves.
Paul grimaced when he noticed the time, "Oh, you have kept this old man out way past his bedtime."
Erin followed him back into the living room, where he gathered his things, glancing behind her to make sure that the kids were still safely ensconced in the den.
"You could just stay here, you know," she spoke softly, hoping to all the gods above that he didn't take her offer the wrong way.
He turned back to her, his expression a mixture of mild surprise and confusion.
"Jordan could bunk with Anna, and you could have the guest room," she clarified. She glanced at the clock again, "It's so late, and if you're just going to come back tomorrow, why not save yourself the trip through traffic in the district?"
Paul took a moment to contemplate her words—she was right, of course (Erin was nothing if not a logical being), and he really didn't look forward to the drive back to his place, which was on the opposite side of D.C. It was a simple offer, and there wasn't any need to make things weird. So he simply nodded.
"Sounds good."