Thanks to everyone who read and to R.C. Wulfe, bindsy, and a guest for reviewing. Slowly getting back to writing, but life is hectic.
"Okay, what the hell is going on with Prophet?" Gina demanded.
"What? Nothing. I don't know. What do you mean?" Mick tore his eyes away from Coop's closed door to look over at her, well aware of exactly how absurd that had sounded, and it was no surprise that she snorted and came to lean against the side of his desk.
"I mean, he's been practically a zombie this whole week. He actually forgot—twice—that we've moved on from the serial rapists to an HSK. Once while we were talking to the California state highway patrol officer who found the last body. I'd be worried about a head injury if we'd done more than consult lately, although I guess it's possible that he lost a sparring match with Coop when I wasn't looking."
"I'm starting to wonder if there have been a rash of lost sparring matches recently," Beth said from her perch on the windowsill, focusing on Mick. "Or some sort of shared brain infection, maybe, since you haven't given Prophet one word of crap about anything for days. About as long as he's been impersonating a zombie, in fact. It's approaching terrifying."
Beth would keep track of something like that. Some days he hated working with profilers. "You don't spar with Coop," he said in a desperate—and completely futile, and he knew it—attempt to get their attention off him. "Maybe you'd win."
She rolled her eyes. "The only way in which I win is if he hurts himself trying to avoid hurting me which is why I will never spar with him. Returning to the subject at hand?"
"Like why Prophet and Coop have been shut up in that office for like an hour now," Gina injected.
"Okay, how is that on me?" Mick asked.
Gina crossed her arms over her chest. "Lack of other options."
"Not to mention that you've turned about two pages in that report since they went in," Beth said, hopping down off the windowsill to join them. "And since you wrote it, I can't imagine that it's that fascinating."
"Does it have anything to do with that last hell case of ours?" Gina asked.
In particular, some days he hated working with profilers as good as his teammates. "What makes you think I know?"
"You're his best friend," Beth said. "What I can't think of is anything he'd talk to Sam about before you."
Gina nodded. "Something obviously happened, and I'm very sure that it doesn't involve the HSK profile he hasn't been looking at for the California state patrol. I'm running out of ways to cover for him."
"I don't…it's not my place," Mick finally said.
That got him two distinctly unimpressed stares, and he was trying to come up with an excuse to leave the office—too late for lunch, too early for dinner, no paperwork requiring his immediate attention, damn it—when the door to Coop's office finally opened and he and Prophet stepped out.
"Beth, would you mind giving me a hand with something?" Coop asked, not commenting on their current positions despite the fact that there was no way that it looked like anything other than the interrogation it was.
"Sure." Beth shot Mick another look but didn't say anything else to either him or Prophet as she followed Coop back into the office.
"What's going on, mate?" Mick asked Prophet as the door shut again and Prophet made his way slowly back to his own desk.
For a minute Prophet didn't respond and Mick was afraid that they were going to have a reprise leading back to Prophet's fire escape, but then Prophet sank into his chair and let out a slow sigh. "He agrees that we can reopen the case, but under the circumstances he thinks we have to tell the director."
Mick felt his lip curl. He didn't like the way that the director had treated Prophet when they'd first joined the bureau, and even if it seemed like the man had finally gotten his head out of his arse there was no way that this particular cold case wouldn't re-raise some of those old doubts.
"It's not…Coop's right about the personal connection side," Prophet said with a shrug that was obviously forced, his focus on the far wall rather than Mick. "But for what it's worth, he's got some idea that he and Beth between them can bury it in other paperwork. Or that they can use the fact that we tend to be right more often than the brass, and Beth, at least, is not shy about rubbing noses in it, to put the attention on the case rather than…well, me."
"What's going on, Prophet?" Gina interrupted before Mick could figure out how to voice his concern. "Personal connection to what? You've been really quiet these past couple days. And Mick's been nice about it which, Beth is right, is just scary."
Prophet dropped his head, shifting his focus from the wall to his desk for a minute, and then he shook himself and moved from his chair to sit on the edge of said desk, finally making eye contact with both of them. "Coop will fill Beth in, but the short version is that my little brother was kidnapped and murdered when we were kids. He died a lot like those boys a few weeks back."
"Shit," Gina said.
"Yeah. Anyway, someone couldn't keep his nose out of things—"
"I love you too, mate."
"—and it turns out that some records got computerized recently proving that he wasn't the only one. Ty, I mean, not Mick being a pain in the ass. The case was never solved, they never even had a suspect, but with a string of murders with the same signature over the course of several years…. "
"We're reopening it, then?" Gina asked.
Prophet made an open-handed gesture. "Unless we get shut down."
Her jaw tightened, and she crossed the space between the desks to give Prophet a hug. "Of course we're reopening it."
"Thanks," he said quietly, hugging her back.
"Do you have the files?" she asked as he released her.
"Hardcopies. Mick's got the electronic versions."
"You've read them all?" She looked over at Mick. "Both of you?"
"Yeah," Prophet said as Mick nodded. "The progression is pretty obvious, and I'm afraid it's going to come down to where he started and where—and why—he stopped to have any chance of figuring out who it was. If we even can. We're talking something that happened almost thirty years ago now."
"We won't know until we try. Send them my way and I'll add another set of eyes." She shook her head. "That HSK isn't due to strike again for another month at least, and it's not like we've found any promising leads."
He winced. "Not like I've been any help. Sorry about that."
"You've had other things on your mind."
Mick didn't really appreciate the scowl aimed in his direction, but he didn't bother arguing. It wasn't like she or anyone else on the team would actually have wanted him to spill Prophet's secrets without his permission.
Beth and Coop came out of the office while Mick was starting to plot out the path of the kills on a larger scale map than he could carry in his bag, and all three of them looked over.
"Message sent?" Prophet asked.
"Message sent," Coop agreed. "We'll see what happens."
Beth was by far the least tactile person on the team, but even she patted Prophet's arm as he caught them up on what had been started—not much—and Coop gripped his shoulder lightly.
"Gina and I will start from the first abduction," Coop said. "Beth, Mick, you take the last, and we'll work in from there. Prophet, have you got updated phone numbers for the local police precincts?"
"A couple," Prophet said. "Haven't actually picked up the phone." Even as he said the words he did just that, though, pulling his cell out of his pocket and tapping the screen.
"Do you want to use the office?" Coop offered.
"Please."
Mick shifted to the side to show Beth the map he was working on, and then she grabbed the case files and started to page through them while he finished up. Attempted to finish up. He was back to staring at Coop's door again.
"He'll be fine," Beth said quietly. "Better if we can solve this."
"Profilers," Mick muttered.
"So you think the sheriff of your old hometown is really your brother's best friend?" Mick asked, digging around—fruitlessly, thus far—in Prophet's cupboards. "Are you sure? I mean, Dan Reeves can't be that uncommon a name, and wouldn't he be kind of young for the position?"
"I'm pretty sure it's him. I mean, she sent his driver's license photo, and he looks a lot like I remember his dad looking," Prophet said. "Besides, he's got half a dozen years on you, and we're talking about a small town in the middle of nowhere. Odds are that he splits most of his attention between the two drunks and three dumb kids with too much time on their hands." There was a long pause. "What are you doing, anyway? You're look like you're about to tunnel through to Mrs. Hanson's place. And not that you're not always welcome, but why the hell are you doing it now?"
Mick pulled his head out of the cabinet. "Where's the tea?"
"What? I don't know. You ate it all."
"You don't eat tea."
"Then you drank it all, smartass. Or maybe Beth did the last time we all did a movie marathon."
Mick sighed and shut the cabinet. "Blaming Beth. Definitely blaming Beth."
Prophet shook his head and grabbed a second mug out of the cabinet. "Just drink some coffee like a normal person and explain to me why we're having this conversation at eight in the morning on a Sunday. You hate mornings."
"Yes, but for some twisted reason you enjoy them, and I wanted to talk to you before you called anybody." He wanted to be with Prophet before he called anybody.
"Why would I call someone at—once again—eight in the morning on a Sunday?"
"Because that email from Garcia about Sheriff Reeves came in last night, and you won't be able to wait until tomorrow to call him. If Garcia had gotten us the information one minute before ten pm, you'd have already called him." He accepted the cup from Prophet and headed for the refrigerator and the milk. "Since I won't be able to stop you from calling, I can at least make sure that it happens at a reasonable hour and you're not alone when you do it. Also, I like pancakes."
"At what point did pancakes become a part of this conversation?"
Mick stared at him pointedly.
Prophet grabbed the canister of flour off the top of the microwave. "Fine, as long as you're in there, pass me a couple eggs. And remind me again why I like you."
It was nine-thirty before Prophet's fingers began to twitch, and Mick gave in and began collecting the plates. That had gone better than he'd hoped, really…he'd figured nine at the absolute latest before Prophet was reaching for his phone. "Do you want me to listen in?" he asked.
Prophet started to shake his head and then stopped and nodded. "Yeah, that'd be good."
Mick very much hoped that this Sheriff Reeves was working today because Prophet had the guy's cell phone number too and there was zero chance that he wouldn't use it. He understood why Coop had Prophet making the initial contacts, but he really wasn't sure that this one was a great idea.
Too late to argue the point now, though, as Prophet punched in the number and then set the phone on the table between them.
"Cartersville Police Department," a woman's voice said a moment later.
"Hello, my name is Agent Simms, with the FBI," Prophet said. "You're on speaker with myself and Agent Rawson. Could we speak to Sheriff Reeves, please?"
"The FBI?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"One moment, please, I'm not sure if he's in today or not."
"Of course."
They were on hold for considerably longer than a moment, and Mick wondered idly if they'd have gotten a better response if they'd said that they were alien invaders. That was sometimes the case when it came to the real little towns. Normally Prophet would have enjoyed the joke as well, but he was tensing more and more as the seconds passed, and Mick had a feeling that he wouldn't even hear it.
Prophet was just starting to tap his fingers against the tabletop when there was the click of another phone connecting, and then, "Sheriff Reeves, to whom and I speaking, please?"
"Danny?" Prophet asked.
"Excuse me? Who is this?"
"I…it's Jon. Simms. Ty's brother."
"What?"
Prophet closed his eyes. "You're Danny Reeves, right? Born in Cartersville just at the end of Sparrow Road? My brother, my dad, and I lived a couple miles from your place."
There was a long silence, and then, "You're dead. I mean, we thought you were dead. Everyone thinks you're dead. After your dad—I mean—how are you not dead?" A pause, then considerably more suspiciously, "How do I even know you're Jon? Everyone knows where my parents live."
Which said as much as anything about how small the town Prophet was from was.
"I taught you and Ty to ride bikes together when you were five," Prophet said. "Or I tried, anyway, Ty figured it out, but you sucked and I got to carry you back and forth to kindergarten on my handlebars for like six months before you managed to keep the damn thing upright for more than ten feet at a stretch."
"That's not fair, I was shorter than Ty and my bike was bigger." There was a sigh. "Jesus, Jon, everyone thought—thinks—you're dead."
Prophet snorted. "Yeah, I got that. Although I doubt more than a dozen people besides you even remember me."
At least not as anything more than a murdered kid's older brother, Mick added silently.
Prophet closed his eyes again for a minute and then shook himself. "I have some questions for you about Ty, Danny. Uh, we have some questions for you."
"Hello," Mick said, taking that as his cue. "I'm Mick Rawson, also with the FBI."
"Dan Reeves." A beat of silence, and then. "Seriously, Jon, you work for the FBI? And you're really asking about Ty? Now?"
"Yeah," Prophet said. "Older stuff is getting into the nationwide databases, and it turns out that he wasn't the only one to die like that. Not by a long shot."
"Christ."
"Yeah."
