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Where the Blue of the Night

"Evil is the product of the ability of humans to make abstract that which is concrete."

- Jean-Paul Sartre

Chapter Thirty Six

November 9th

People rarely look up to notice the dust accumulating on a top shelf, or a spider, resting on its web as it has been for days. They usually forget to look down also, missing the lost and forgotten that has dropped under their feet; the earring, the odd dime, the important phone number on a scrap of paper. It was something Rossi had understood more over the years; people fail to notice the things that are just outside of their line of site, looking in the places they're used to, never changing what they see.

He'd once dated an elementary school teacher, many moons ago, somewhere between his second and third wife. She'd had more sense that to marry him, although he had asked, and she was preoccupied with her job.

"Children," she'd once said, "become pigeon holed. If they're deemed early on as having a learning difficulty, or not being good at math, no one ever expects that to change. They're never given the harder paper; instead they're stuck with the easier version all the way through, a ceiling placed on how high they can achieve."

He knew it was the same with people's perceptions of those they knew; they expected them to behave in certain ways, and always notice the expected behaviour. Anything new would often be easily dismissed, or ignored if it was too difficult to deal with. Or just not noticed.

Rossi listened carefully to John Moore's answers, Will's Southern American English accent softly breaking down his fears. Moore expected different things from LaMontagne; he was a friend rather than an investigator, and he wasn't there to judge. Or so Moore thought.

"Has Martha done anything recent that's been strange for her?" Will said, the drawn out syllables acting as a relaxant on Moore.

Moore shook his head. "No. I don't think so."

He wasn't looking anywhere other than where he was used to. Any question of guilt had been almost wiped away; he'd seemed genuinely horrified by the things his wife was accused of, and Rossi considered himself a good enough judge as to whether someone was acting or not.

"It could be something small; going out at unusual times; buying extra food..."

"She bought another lunch box the other day. Said it was for a boy in her class who wasn't getting any food from home but I thought nothing of it. She often did things like that for people. She was kind. That's why I... married her," he looked at the table, his face frozen, his expression one of shock. He was not going to get over this for a long time, if ever.

"What did Martha say about having her own children?" Will said. He was sat back almost lazily, and Rossi felt as if his demeanour was like a soporific. He had always been a successful detective however, and although he never raced through things, he reached the end in good time.

"She couldn't," Moore said. "She never said why, but I figured it was something to do with her ex-husband. He was older than her; a friend of her father's, I think, and she didn't get on well with her dad. I asked her about it a couple of times, but she would react so badly, I stopped trying."

Will nodded. "Why didn't she adopt?"

"She said you never knew what you were going to get, and that she was too old anyhow. I tried to tell her that it was untrue, that any child would be wonderful with her as a mom, and that we weren't too old, but she wouldn't even consider it. I asked if she wanted to foster – I thought she'd be really good at that, but that was something else she wouldn't talk about," he said, it spilling out like sand from a bag. "She won't have done this. She wouldn't hurt a child."

"What makes you think that?" Will said. Rossi had briefed him on the drive there; what sorts of questions to ask, what sort of responses. They talked about which topics to hang on, and on which not to dwell.

"She was always so nice with them," he said, looking baffled.

"Was she nice with Alfie?" Will said, sitting up, shifting his body slightly closer.

Moore clearly didn't know how to answer that, and instead of responding, he simply looked like a deer stood in an illuminated field.

"John, look, I know you don't want to believe this, but it is likely that Martha has killed at least a cop and is holding a small boy hostage. You are her husband and you are implicated in this whether you've helped her openly or not. I suggest you answer the question," Will said, his voice a little more awake.

Moore looked worried. "She spoke to him for ages every time she saw him. She would even take him sweets and small toys. I was nice to him to – I like kids – but I did get a bit fed up when she would spend so long talking to him when I wanted to get home to do stuff."

"Stuff like what?" Will said. Moore wasn't a bright man and he needed to be encouraged to articulate what he meant.

"Making things. Bookcases, tables, furniture, I guess. It's what I like to do."

"Martha ever ask you to make anything for her?" Will said.

"Sure. I made most of the furniture in our house. She never asked me to make anything else though. Sometimes I don't think she liked what I did. She'd have preferred it if I had a professional job like a bank manager or something. But that was never going to be me, you know," Moore said, his face softening slightly.

"Do you have any idea of where she might go?"

He shook his head. "You've checked the neighbour's house that she was looking after? And all round our house? There was nowhere else she liked, apart from the parks. She'd spend hours walking round them, talking to the children and their parents. If I thought I knew where she would be I'd tell you. I know now that she'll be safer when you've found her, then we can sort all this mess out."

"You think she might hurt herself?" Will said slowly, giving time for Moore to think.

Moore shrugged. "She can get very upset sometimes. She's locked herself in the bathroom before with some tablets and I've had to knock down the door and make her be sick, else she would have ended up at the ER. It's never happened a lot, but I'm real worried about her, sir."

"We're trying to find her. In the meantime, we need to ask you to stay here." Will had stood up and headed to the door.

"Am I under arrest?"

Will shook his head. "No, not right now. But the detective in charge needs to decide where he wants you to be. Martha may try to head back to you. Someone will be with you soon."

Rossi nodded at Will as he exited the room. "You did a good job. What was your opinion of him?"

"Not very bright and clearly loves her. I would put money on her using him to some degree rather than it being a genuine relationship," Will said.

"I agree. Although Martha wouldn't. I get the feeling that she thinks she is untouchable and beyond reproach. Something in her past, possibly with her father or husband or both, has made her feel that she is owed, and therefore won't be punished, because she has been punished enough," Rossi said.

"You think it was a bit strange, that she had married a friend of her poppa's?" Will said, looking back toward the interview room.

Rossi turned his mouth down, shrugging slightly. "It's not normal. If she had fallen in love with him, then fine. But she was only sixteen when they married; then she disappears from any records for around fifteen years, so we can't say what sort of life she had." He stopped momentarily. "I'll get my phone and call Hotch, let him know what we've found out."

Rossi made his way to where he'd left his jacket, putting his hand in the inside pocket to get his phone. He looked around on the floor, frowning.

"What's the matter?" Will said.

"My phone's gone," he said. "Shit."

"I'll ring Llewellyn and let him know. He'll have it cancelled," Will said.

"Excuse me, sir," a voice came from the corner. "Is this your phone? It was on the floor – I was about to hand it in once I'd finished."

Rossi gave a quick nod to the man who was filling up the drink dispenser. "That's solved a few problems. Cheers."

They left without a second thought.

Sophie was reading. It was better than kicking herself, or shaking in a corner, or sitting there bored. And the reading material wasn't uninteresting. It was about explosives, something she hadn't been that knowledgeable about, but that had changed in the past however many hours since the clock had stopped.

She put down the pile of papers and looked about the room. From the notes and diagrams she'd been studying, she knew her captor had stayed in this room himself; it had been his home for awhile. There had to be another way out, something she wasn't thinking of. There were no bolts on the other side of the door that she could remember. It was just a key – she could recall hearing the lock turn as clear as day. But what if you lost your keys – there had to be another exit. Had to.

Sophie stood up and began to try to move furniture she'd previous thought was fixed. Her sense of direction had been warped, and she wasn't sure which wall was the side of the front of the house was. She forced back the heavy bookcase, sliding it along the floor with books tumbling off it as if an earthquake was happening. She was sweating now, a finger bleeding where her nail had been bent too far back, and she'd briefly heard a rip where her clothes had been torn. But she had a second wind, a massive rush of energy and determination to get out of there. She knew what he was planning, at least, she'd knew what his plans had been, and she had to tell someone. Fast.

It had been easy to show a falsified identity card and slip into the bullpen, then the changing room. Just as easy as it had been to find out where Martha Moore's husband was being held. It seemed Llewellyn and the technical analysts knew who he was now, or at least had an idea. His user account had been suspended, which meant he'd had to hack into someone else's account to get the information he needed. But that wasn't difficult either, and because he knew where they were going to look, he'd found the account from elsewhere. Andrew Dennis was a newbie agent who was currently on holiday in Hawaii and he doubted anyone would think of tracing his account. No one would associate them together, unless they had seen them having a couple of quick discussions in the gym about football. He doubted that.

It was almost lunch, and he was debating leaving his hiding spot to make himself and a Rosie a quick sandwich when a car pulled up with a driver and passenger who were immediately recognisable.

"You want a coffee, Agent Smith?" he heard Rosie say from the back room where she had been watching daytime TV that he couldn't stand.

"That would be lovely," he shouted back, aware that her hearing wasn't all it would have been a decade ago. He'd told her he was an FBI agent simply because she'd understood what it was better than describing what he actually did. And besides, by the time he'd saved the boy and turned in Martha Moore, and had JJ's testimony about how much of a hero he was, he was pretty sure they'd make him an agent straight away. There was the small matter of Mansfield, but he was pretty sure that would be overlooked, all things considered.

He peered out of the window, making sure he couldn't be seen from outside. There was a lot of commotion going on outside Martha Moore's house, with officers seemingly surrounding it. He saw Agent Hotchner climb out of his car, followed by Prentiss, and they headed over to the guy who seemed to be charge.

From what he could make out, they thought that Martha Moore was inside the house. Someone had seen movement upstairs, a figure near the window.

He froze, hoping she'd had more sense that to go back home.

Agent Hotchner and Prentiss went inside, followed by some of the ordinary officers. It was only a couple of minutes of less before a man was brought outside, handcuffed and snarling.

He recognised him as being one of the journalists that had started hanging round the place, looking for the next big headline. Heads would undoubtedly roll as to how he'd got in there in the first place, but Dan could guess: not all police officers were satisfied with their salaries.

His hand twitched as he again saw the vehicle that Agent Hotchner had been driving. It had been parked almost directly outside Rosie's house and without thinking, he slipped the door onto the catch and walked down the path, unnoticed. He wasn't remarkable in the slightest, and he'd done enough to his appearance in the past few days to make himself look different that he had appeared at work. His fairish hair was now dark; he had a beard and wore coloured contact lenses. He'd also been growing his hair for the past couple of months, with no one having said anything because – well, they just hadn't.

He bent down and looked under the car, seeing the perfect place to put number two. It didn't take very long, and when he looked over to Martha Moore's house he could still see Hotchner and Prentiss talking with the detective in charge.

He smiled as he went back inside Rosie's, smelling the freshly brewed coffee. It had been a successful morning, and if what he had done with Rossi's phone worked, he'd soon be able to log on to his laptop and find exactly where that safe house was.

Martha could hear someone else doing the roll call. Calleigh Buckley was absent again; she hoped she hadn't had another asthma attack. Nobody should be doing her roll call. She was the teacher of this class. No one else.

Standing outside the door, she could hear her pupils. Someone was whispering, probably Janie. She waited, hearing the substitute teacher begin to speak. She didn't recognise the voice. Someone she didn't know. Someone who would be no good for her pupils. Her babies.

She pushed open the door slowly, rows of little faces turning to look at who was entering. The substitute gasped, her jaw dropping down. A couple of the children looked scared. They must have been told stories by Mrs Peachman. They should know that she'd never hurt them.

"Well, children," she said. "Shall we have a story?"