AN: Thank you so much for the reviews. I am so sorry I am late in posting on this one. Busy busy! Also, thanks to those that voted for me in the PCA awards! I am so grateful. Peace and love, Kricket

Chapter 9

The Center for Unexplained Phenomena, at ann undisclosed location near Las Vegas, New Mexico

Good grief, I'm surrounded by nerds.

It wasn't a thought that Spencer Reid had had very often—if ever—in his thirty-one years on the planet. He was rarely the coolest person in a group. The most well-educated, yes. The most intelligent, arguably so. But never the coolest.

And it was driving him crazy.

The thought was bizarre to him. He'd grown up in the Las Vegas, Nevada—Sin City—school district, where his intelligence had made him an outcast. Average high school students had seemed alien to him, especially since he was years younger than they were, and he'd wanted nothing more than to blend in with others of his kind. After years of secondary schools, doctorate programs, and the like, he'd realized quickly there weren't any of his kind.

It wasn't until Spencer had reached the FBI that he finally felt a kinship with others. They weren't like him, either, but they respected him, and they'd helped him grow in ways he didn't know he had to grow. He'd been truly happy with the BAU team. They'd become his family.

Now, he was in a group of people, a brilliant think tank of scientists and scholars who excelled in everything in their fields. The great majority also lacked social graces. They did nothing but talk of work, research, and their findings. That was wonderful—he was dedicated to finding a causative factor—but he was lonely.

He found himself wanting to hear a causally thrown nickname by one of the ladies on the intercom system, like, "Hey, sweet genius. Have you turned in your report on subject 31479?" He'd also like to hear a story on how someone's son was doing with reading. Or perhaps one of the other scientists could toss an arm around his shoulder, smile cockily, and ask if he'd "gotten any" recently.

God, he missed them.

"Dr. Reid?"

Pamela, one of the research assistants, came in, carrying another box of files.

Reid groaned. Pamela worked hand in hand with the other eggheads, and that included the lead of Reid's sector, Dr. Royce. He couldn't stand Royce, or her nearly mechanical assistants.

It wasn't always that way. When he joined, his job was to read through each of the case files of the victims, analyze the data, and find out if there was common thread to their victimology. The first few weeks, he'd been gung-ho, reading even faster than his twenty thousand words and coming up with link after link. He'd been shot down, time and time again, by Royce and her cronies. Now, months later, he'd lost some of that passion, and it was heartbreaking to him.

He wanted to find a cure and get the hell home again.

"Thanks, Pamela," he said, taking the box. She would've been a pretty young lady, if she hadn't been so waxen-looking.

"I'm supposed to collect any data you may have for Dr. Royce," she droned, rather unnecessarily. Dr. Royce always received Spencer's handwritten data—and probably circular-filed it.

Oh, well. Duty was duty.

"I have a few reports on my desk," he answered, turning and placing the box on the counter. He did his job, and when the agency's leader came back, he'd report his findings, and either himself or Dr. Royce would be terminated from the facility.

Pamela called out again when she'd reached his desk. "I also have a message for you. I haven't read it."

"You can leave it there," he said, reaching for one of the thicker files in the box. "I'll get to it later."

"Dr. Reid, I think it's important."

He glanced up to see the young woman staring at him. He'd had very little contact with Pamela, besides the usual drop off/pick up routine they'd just done.

He placed the file down. "Okay. I'll read it now."

Making his way to the desk, he tried to pass Pamela, but she reached for his arm.

He frowned. "What's the matter?"

She released his arm, and her cheeks flushed as she glanced down at her feet. "I'm sorry. I..." She shook her head and then met his eyes. "Just be careful, Dr. Reid."

The last words were said in near whispers. He watched as Pamela stared at her feet again, so he followed her gaze.

By his feet, he saw two small microphones at the foot of the desk.

Someone was recording him?

"Thank you, Pamela," he said as he normally would. He saw the relief in the woman's eyes, as she cleared her expression to the one of bland compliance that she normally had and walked out of the room.

Reid started to sweat as he thought of the magnitude of what he'd just heard and seen. Why would someone be recording him? Immediately, he thought of his research. He'd dictated many notes on the case files he'd read. Had there been something that Royce had rejected that had struck a chord?

Racking his brain, he thought about the latest link he'd had. It was a shocker, but it did make sense in how he'd had it laid out. Of course, many people would be in serious trouble if it was true, up to ranking officials, but that couldn't stop him from finding and reporting the link—or asking other researchers to delve into it.

Had he been right?

He cracked open the letter, marked Top Secret in red letters, and read the contents:

Dr. Reid: We would like to speak to you about your latest connection you've drawn between subjects and the drug, melacorcerin (Melax). -Royce

His head hurt, and the last thing he needed was a migraine. He needed to leave and relax for a bit before he dealt with Royce. He'd been working for hours; it was time for a break. He decided to head to his mother's new group home to have a sandwich and a soda. He'd immediately moved his mother from the more populated Las Vegas, Nevada, once the epidemic hit. The more populated the city, the more deaths and zombie rebirths there'd been. Strangely, zombies seemed to leave the mentally ill alone. Yet, he hadn't wanted to take chances. He had her nearby for the first time in many years; the group home was walking distance from the Center.

Reid called the front desk to let them know he was leaving, and then he began the short sprint to his mom's. As he walked up to the group home driveway, he saw a strange car there. A large, dark, luxury car that was familiar to him.

He placed his glasses on and read the license plate, letting the numbers arrange in his brain. XAZ4541. State: Virginia.

"Virginia?" he whispered in awe. At the same time, his brain came up with the car's owner.

David Rossi.