Footprints of Angels 1/1
Title: Footprints of Angels 1/1
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: FRC/PG
Type/Characters: Gen, Eddy Mays, Reid, Hotch
Summary: Angels are messengers. Eddy Mays is listening.
A/N 1: A tag for episode 1x11 Blood Hungry. Warning: this fic is mostly from Eddy's POV, but there is some from Reid's POV also. Endless thanks to
riverbella for the beta--while she's on vacation. Bella? You. Are. Awesome. ♥
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
He walks in circles, once, twice, three times; he is a moon orbiting his duffel bag. He counts his footsteps, and waits, watches for signs. He looks for angels, listens for the ringing of bells, for God's voice. God's voice is everywhere, in the sound of a car horn, the screech of tires, the well-worn leather of his father's voice, a nurse's laugh, a bird's call. But he cannot find God in his mother's voice. Her voice is empty and made of metal. It feels like a needle but he (hates her) needs her. She's a drug, a prophet, a devil. She is his savior.
She's not coming.
He waits on the sidewalk, his one good shirt already stained with sweat. His mouth is dry; he's thirsty. He thinks he might be crying, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters but getting her back. He doesn't know what he did wrong, what part of him is broken that keeps her love out of reach, locked away. He knocks on the door, but he doesn't have the key and her eyes are always cold, cold, colder than her voice.
She's not coming.
He paces, back and forth and around, and someone asks if he's all right. He can't tell if it's a man or woman, there's only a voice and it's God and God loves him and the voice asks are you all right but beneath the words, sewn with gold thread, is the message: bring her an angel. He smiles and looks at the face of God and says, “And the smoke of the incense, which came with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel's hand." The passage is from Revelations 8:4. It's one of his favorites. God hurries away but it's okay because Eddy got the message; he has a plan, he knows what to do.
His mother's not coming to get him even though he called, he asked (begged), but it's all right. He has a plan. His fingers fumble at his pockets and eventually he locates his wallet. He has twenty-five dollars, enough to buy a bus ticket. Enough to go home. Where the angels are waiting.
ooooo
The bus is hot and crowded with people and there are strange smells and the mutter of voices (God). Eddy rests his head against the window and watches the cars flash by. They look like cars but they're really colored pulleys and levers that lead to the horizon, to heaven, to a better place.
He's tired. There's a bottle in his pocket of tiny white pills that remind him of the pearl necklace his mother wears. She let him hold the necklace once; it was cool and smooth and polished, just like her. He doesn't want to swallow the pearls because they quiet the voices, they quiet God, they hide the angels. Angels are everywhere if you know where to look.
The woman two seats ahead of him looks like an angel. He can see the wings beating inside her; her smile is the sound of a choir. But there are too many people and he's afraid to talk to her because he's only human, humble and broken and she's Uriel, the Archangel, bringer of light. He presses his face to the window, closes his eyes and trembles beneath her radiance.
The man behind him looks alive but isn't. He's dead because his soul is missing. Eddy can tell. He knows if someone has a good soul, a broken soul, or if they're just an empty shell, a walking corpse. Eddy's soul is broken. He can feel the jagged edges rubbing beneath his skin like bone and glass. It hurts. He's still crying but he doesn't notice. He picks at his fingernails until they bleed. He rubs the blood on the palms of his hands and wonders: if Jesus had known about Eddy would he have still gone to the cross?
ooooo
He can't remember his mother's phone number. The pay phone at the bus station doesn't work because every time he punches in a number it asks for the correct change. It makes no sense. There is no correct change. There is only change. Growth. Grace. Redemption. Forgiveness.
And damnation.
He drops the receiver and stumbles down the steps. He forgets his duffel bag. He walks a long way. Once, a boy named Eddy rode a bicycle past the bus station, played with friends and smiled. That boy is gone. Eddy wonders where he went, if he's lost.
He passes the First Methodist Church on Third Street. The angel smiles at him from the front steps. Eddy drifts toward it, a leaf in a river. The angel's voice is water and sunlight and hope. He says, “I am Gabriel and am sent to speak unto you, and to show you these glad tidings.” Pictures unfold in Eddy's mind like flowers. He understands.
Eddy nods and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you." He imagines his mother's arms around him and smiles. It's been so long. He can't remember what she feels like. But he remembers her smell: bleach and roses. He puts a finger in his mouth and bites down until his cuticle bleeds.
He thinks of angels while he walks. The word 'angel' is derived from the Latin angelus, which is derived from the Greek word angelos which means "messenger." He needs the perfect angel, the perfect messenger to tell his mother she must forgive Eddy. Eddy's words are invisible, nothing he says ever reaches his mother's ears. His words fall at her feet, small and useless. But an angel's voice can't be ignored.
He names angels in time with his steps: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Selaphiel, Jegudiel, Barachiel, Jeremiel, Zadkiel, Jophiel, Haniel, Chamuel. He wraps his arms around himself; his fingers smear red stripes along his skin.
He passes a second church, and then a third. The angels always whisper to him. They sing. They tell him it's his fault that he's broken. He did bad things, contaminated his body, made himself impure. But there is always forgiveness and Eddy is sorry, he's sorry for so many things. He can always hear God but he's not sure if God hears him.
The evening is cold and his breath fogs the air. He works his way through the angel hierarchy: Seraphim, Cherubim, Erelim, Ophanim, Hashmallim, and Malakhim. The Cherubim are beyond the throne of God; they are the guardians of light and of the stars. This is the gift he wants to give his mother. He wants to give her the divine light that filters down from heaven; he wants to open her eyes, to make her see that he is here, that he exists. That he is sorry.
ooooo
He's almost to the house when he realizes he can't go home, not yet, not without the angel. She won't let him in. Obviously, this is why she didn't pick him up in Boston. She knows he doesn't have an angel and she's angry. She's always angry. Eddy's stomach cramps and he wrings his hands.
A prayer from his childhood floats into his mind. His father used to say it with him before bedtime. God our Father, in your loving providence you send your holy angels to watch over us. He needs God to send him an angel. He needs to-
Eddy stops in front of Paul Thompson's house. There's an angel standing in the front garden; its face is lifted skyward, hands raised in benediction. Eddy swallows. He knows it's a statue, but inside, there's something more. Michelangelo said I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free. That's what Eddy needs to do. The front door opens and Paul steps out to get the mail. He doesn't see Eddy but Eddy sees him. The corona around Mr. Thompson's head blinds Eddy and he stumbles backwards. A dog barks and it's God saying and, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
But Eddy isn't afraid. He is at peace, because this is what he's been waiting for: a sign, a wonder, a portent. Mr. Thompson goes back into his house and Eddy follows, unaware his feet are moving, oblivious to the words falling from his lips, the clenching of his fists.
He walks through the door and Mr. Thompson makes noise, his mouth moves but Eddy knows there is no Mr. Thompson, not really. He is only a mask, a shell the angel wears like a-like a prison. Eddy can't hear the shell's words over the singing in his ears, over the sound of the angel trying to escape. He can hear the wings beating, beating; it's his duty (destiny) to set it free. A knife on the counter calls to him and Eddy reaches for it. It feels good in his hand, like home, like hope, and when Mr. Thompson runs outside he follows. He will save the angel (he's Michelangelo, an artist, an apostle ) and bring him home. His mother will be so proud.
ooooo
It isn't right. It isn't right. He carved Mr. Thompson like the marble he is but there's nothing inside the husk; there's no angel, no light. There's only bones and blood and the knife is a traitor (a liar) and the trees whisper behind his back. But there's another sound beneath the mocking whispers: the sound of bells. It's a small sound, bright and silver and round; it's coming from Paul Thompson's blood. It's the sound of forgiveness and faith. Eddy rocks back on his haunches and starts to weep.
ooooo
Reid stands beside Hotch, shoulders bent. He should have realized right away the three interlocking rings in the crime scene photos weren't a signature at all-they were the rings left by a cylindrical container. He should have known. He shakes his head in disgust at his own blindness. If they had known sooner, would it have made a difference? Would it have saved Lynette Giles? Would Wally Brisbane be safe in his own home if Reid had seen what Gideon had?
Deputy Long sits on the Stuart porch, her face the color of milk. "He must have come by between patrols," she says, voice wavering.
Sheriff Hall sighs. "Now, Jackie, it's not your fault."
Reid bites his lip. He knows whose fault it is.
Long nods at the container in Hotch's hands. "Well, what the hell is it?"
Hotch opens the container and looks inside. He looks up, face grim. "It's a human stomach," he says softly, almost apologetically.
Deputy Long's face twists in horror. "Oh, my God! You mean Dave's wife?"
Reid nods. "We can only assume."
Sheriff Hall glances up and down the street. "Now, none of the neighbors saw anything?"
Long shrugs. "Well, we talked to Miss Wade across the road. Nothing. And the Maynards aren't even home."
Hall rubs his chin. "All right. We need a 24-hour watch here and at the other crime scenes, too. Go on."
"Okay," Long says and heads immediately for her vehicle.
The Sheriff turns back to Hotch. "Now, Agent Hotchner, I need to be very clear here. Right now all we got is some theory about a religious delusion. I mean, how the hell do you explain that?"
Reid's brain catalogues what they know so far, presents the information. He's not going to make another mistake. "Sometimes disorganized killers return body parts to the gravesites. It might be nothing. It might just be a way for him to manipulate the body even after death." He hesitates. "But it may also be an act of remorse."
Hotch glances at Reid and Spencer can see the approval on his face. It doesn't make him feel any better. "Even in the most extreme psychotic episodes there are variations in lucidity, degrees of insightfulness."
Reid keeps his voice neutral. It's difficult, but he manages. "If I'm coming out of a delusion…if I just killed someone and drank their blood…"
Hotch steps in. "And I'm starting to feel bad about it…"
"Where do I go?" Reid finishes. He already knows the answer: a place of worship.
"Sheriff, how many churches are in this town?" Hotch asks.
Hall shakes his head. "Gentlemen, this is the Bible belt. Maybe fifteen."
"I would post an officer at every single one," Hotch tells him. "Call in auxiliary cops if you have them."
"All right," Hall agrees, nodding. "You got it." He speaks into his radio. "Long, get on the phone with me."
ooooo
The angels are angry. There is no singing now, God is silent. Eddy pulls into the parking lot and it's hard to concentrate, hard to see. The world is breaking, cracking right down the middle. He can still hear his mother's voice, the accusations, the ice. Her words are razor sharp and they cut to the bone. What is wrong with you? and thank God your father can't see what you've become and you should never have come back here but what it really means is I'm ashamed of you, Eddy.
She doesn't want the angel. He doesn't understand, the angel is perfect and beautiful; he is a cherubim. Each of his four faces is perfect, his eight wings are bright as the moon, his voice is spun glass. He is the ideal messenger, but his mother doesn't see, (doesn't understand the message) she doesn't care, and Eddy doesn't know what to do. There's nothing left. He has nothing. He is nothing. He tries to pray Forgive us our trespasses, forgive, please forgive but he can't remember the rest of the words, they drift away like ash.
His mother told him to take the angel back, but he can't; it's not his place, he is only a humble servant. She slaps him and says she will do it; she tells Eddy to return the lost souls but he can't. The souls are gone now; the vessels of the angels have gone to heaven to sing, to sing. Eddy used to hear their song but now there's only noise and static; the metal-on-metal shriek of loss (of humiliation).
Eddy stumbles out of the car and heads toward the church. Father forgive me, I know not what I do, father forgive me, he thinks and I want my dad, I want my daddy and Gabriel the archangel looms out of the darkness and Eddy's mouth is a desert and his bones are dust.
The angel's voice is thunder and he says Hold it right there! and FBI! Don't move!
Eddy's hands go cold and his legs tremble and he looks over his shoulder to see a man and woman approach. They look human but they're not. Their faces are blank as the pavement he's standing on. He blinks, panic ratcheting through him, spilling frenzied words from his lips Make it ago away, make it go away. He prays to God and Mary and Gabriel and the other archangels; he prays to everyone and anyone he can think of because this isn't real, this isn't happening, there's no room for anything but terror now.
"Don't move! Get down! Get on your knees!" The not-man shouts. "Get on your knees."
Eddy drops to his knees, the container beside him. Holy Mary Mother of God (my mother) pray for us sinners--
The not-woman screams "Get down!"
Eddy lifts his hands to his face, desperate for shelter, a place to hide. --to open our hearts with humility and purity to the Word of God--
"Hands on your head! Let's go!" The not-man yells and his voice is steel wool in Eddy's ears. "Hands on your head!"
Eddy's shivering, he can't stop, he'll never be warm (safe) again and this is his fault, this is his fault but he can't remember why. There's something broken inside him, something besides his heart. He lifts shaking hands and locks them behind his head. --now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
"Put them together! Don't move!"
Eddy keeps his eyes on Gabriel, squinting against the angel's luminous gaze. Gabriel's disappointment feels like a physical weight, it presses against him; Eddy struggles to stay upright.
The man and woman are speaking, but Eddy doesn't listen; their words are simply bits of paper floating away. The not-woman takes his container (lead not my soul into temptation) and a stifled sob bursts from Eddy's throat. She's not just taking a container, she's taking his chance to make amends, for forgiveness.
He begins to scream.
ooooo
She doesn't want the angel.
And now he's being punished. His mother is whispering in his ear and her blame feels like a noose. His throat hurts. He's in the dark. He's in a cave. He's underground. He's buried alive. Eddy rocks back and forth; he's lost (he's gone) and when will his father pick him up from school? He's going to be late and Mother will be angry, so angry.
I'm going to have to punish you, Eddy. How many times have I told you not to make a spectacle of yourself? How many times?
Eddy bows his head and words flash in his head like signs: please and help and mother.
His mother stands beside him, one hand on her pearl necklace. "You need to fix this, Eddy."
ooooo
The sound of screaming echoes down the corridor. They stand in the police station, grim-faced. Hotch lifts an eyebrow at the Sheriff. "His name's Eddy Mays, 21 years old. Do you know him?"
Sheriff Hall shakes his head; his face registers shock. "Yeah. I just can't believe a boy like Eddy would do something like this. He was the nicest kid you ever saw."
Reid tries not to hear the sounds coming from the cell at the end of the hall. He heard his mother scream like that once. It's a sound he wants to forget. "He's mentally ill, Sheriff. A boy like Eddy Mays could truly use an insanity plea in a court of law."
"You know," Hotch says, "the ironic thing about psychotic illness is generally they're less violent than the rest of the population."
Hotch seems to be the only one unaffected by Eddy's cries. Reid rubs his hands together, purses his lips. He wonders how Hotch can maintain such a complete aura of calm.
Elle glances toward the hall. "By the nature of psychotic delusions, when they do get violent…" she trails off. She doesn't need to elaborate. Eddy Mays is living proof of what happens when psychotic delusions become violent.
Morgan shakes his head in frustration. "We're never gonna get anywhere with him." He shrugs helplessly. "Not like this. Look at the guy. You can't read him his rights. You can't even process him."
Sheriff Hall sighs. "I better call his mother. It's a damn shame. His daddy died just a couple years ago. This is gonna fall awful hard on her."
Hotch's interest piques. "What's the family like?"
Hall considers the question. "Dad was a doctor, and Mary Gwathmey Mays comes from one of the oldest families in Tennessee."
"I'd like to meet her."
Elle gives Hotch a look. "We already have."
ooooo
Eddy chews at his fingers. Mary Magdalene gave him a shot. He's wearing a crown of thorns. He's in the cave and on the third day the stone will roll away and he'll be free. Yes. He needs to be patient.
Once he ran away to Boston. He studied religion because it was the only place he could find (unconditional) love. His mother gave her love in very small increments; each minute affection measured precisely. She liked to hold her love just out of reach. He wasn't good enough, smart enough, quiet enough, strong enough. All Eddy wanted was to forget how not good enough he was. For a while, forgetting was easy. But now he remembers, because the angels tell him--God tells him--the writing is on the wall. His mother is always with him now; there's no escape.
She didn't want the angel.
She didn't want the angel.
His mother sits on the edge of the small bed, her legs folded, her hands folded, genteel and respectable as always. What in God's name were you thinking, Eddy?
The cell door opens and Eddy looks up. Two angels stand before him. No, wait. Only one is an angel. The other is a prophet. The prophet is angry. Or stern. His face is stony. He might be a statue. Eddy can't tell. Michelangelo would know.
The prophet sits beside his mother. The prophet is wearing a suit; he exudes authority Eddy can't look at him. He averts his eyes, chews at his fingers. He wants to hide. He needs to disappear. He tries, he tries, but he's still here, he can't make himself go away. The prophet says, "Hey Eddy." His voice sounds gentle but its thin steel and somehow, it makes Eddy think of snow. He saw snow in Boston. Eddy can't look at the prophet, but he nods to show he's listening. He is a good disciple.
The prophet asks, "Do you know where you are?"
Eddy bites at his finger. He draws blood but he is not holy, his blood is not the blood of Jesus Christ, his sins are not forgiven. (This is My blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many, for the forgiveness of sins. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.) He sucks his fingertip and studies the cave. But caves don't have doors. They don't have bars. He blinks and shakes his head. He…he doesn't know where he is. He glances at his mother for help but she offers none. She never does. His eyes flick back to the door. Bars. Bed. Cell. A glimmer of understanding dawns. He's in jail. Like the apostle Paul. The scales fall from his eyes.
"Jail." His voice is a whisper.
It's the right answer. The prophet nods and Eddy is glad. He wants to get the answers right. He likes the extra credit questions best.
"That's right," the prophet says. "Do you know why?"
Eddy tries to think. His mother was angry with him. He went to college. He remembers going to a club where he did-he did bad things. Drugs are bad. He pulls a finger from his mouth long enough to admit "I was very bad. Before, I was very bad. But I'm -- I'm much better now, much…much better." No more drugs. But he has to repent. Forgive us our trespasses.
"Eddy, do you remember hurting anyone?"
The prophet's face glows brighter and Eddy's eyes slide to the wall behind the man's head. Eddy hasn't hurt anyone. Just himself. Do you know how much it hurts me to see you act this way, Eddy? Do you know how ashamed I am of you? And he hurt his mother. He hurts his mother all the time. Has she put him in jail? Can you go to jail for disappointing your mother?
His heart beats faster and he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He shakes his head tentatively. A sin of omission.
"Where did you go to college, Eddy?"
Eddy glances toward the angel, then back at the prophet. He knows this answer. It's easy. "Mmm. Boston." He puts another finger in his mouth. His teeth work at pulling a fingernail loose. The pain is good.
"Did you like Boston?"
It snowed there. (His mother came.) This question is harder. He should have studied. "Mmm. No." He looks at the floor. "I don't know."
The angel speaks and his voice is gentle, it sounds like the sky and autumn leaves. Eddy likes it. It's not an archangel, but it's not a messenger, either. It's hard to see; the angel is hiding in the shape of a thin young man. He looks like a T.A. Eddy had back in school. The angel-man asks "What was your favorite thing about Boston, Eddy?"
Okay. Another one he knows. Relief floods through him. "Harvard--I went to Harvard Square. I had cappuccino." He used to sit on a park bench and watch the people. He'd scan the crowd looking for (hiding from) his mother.
The angel's face is filled with sorrow, his eyes are broken. Eddy doesn't understand why. Did he get the answer wrong after all?
"Cappuccino," the angel repeats softly, and hands a photo to the prophet.
The prophet studies the photo and then asks "Eddy, do you remember Wally? Wally Brisbane?" He holds the photo toward Eddy.
Eddy can almost hear the angel sing This is my Father's world. The cherubim brings forgiveness. His voice is made of stars. I want my father. Eddy smiles. When he was fourteen they went to a cookout at the Brisbane's. His father played horseshoes with him. It was the Fourth of July. There were fireworks. "I know the Brisbanes."
"You took this little boy," the prophet says and once again, he's made of stone. His face is hard and smooth (and cold).
Eddy chews at a cuticle. Wrong. Wrong. He did not take a little boy. He took an angel. The angel was supposed to say Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women but his mother wouldn't listen. Her heart is hard, just like Pharaoh's. Eddy shakes his head, eyes on the photo. "No. No. I did not…I did not do that."
"Eddy, I understand you're uncomfortable. Your--your hands are cut up. Your arms are bruised. Do you know why?"
Eddy guesses. He has a fifty-fifty chance of being right. You should never leave an answer blank. "Yeah."
The prophet says. "You killed three people, Eddy."
The words make no sense. It's a test. Eddy tries to pass. He mimics the prophet. "You killed three people, Eddy. You killed three people, Eddy."
The prophet looks at the angel and Eddy can't tell if his answer was right or not. This is harder than he expected. The angel-man has more photos. He shows them to Eddy.
"Paul Thompson."
Eddy blinks and sees a shell. He remembers God's voice and the angels. He remembers the sound of the ocean.
"Annie Stuart."
The cherubim had been hiding in that house. He thought it was trapped in the woman. No, not a woman, just a husk. Like corn on the cob. His dad made corn on the grill. They used to play catch after school, in the backyard. Eddy doesn't like the photos; there's something wrong with them, but the angel won't take them away.
"Lynette Giles."
The wrongness has spread to Eddy's chest. He can't breath. Maybe he's a shell. Maybe there's an angel inside him. But that's just another lie; he knows there isn't. If he was an angel, his mother would love him. He was just trying to fix-to fix himself. But he can't. He's too broken. The pieces are all wrong. He can't be put back together now. God is punishing him because he doesn't know the right answers; because he didn't put the angel back where he found it.
"No! No! Stop it!" He echoes his mother's voice. "You will--you will be punished. God is punishing you." That's right. That's right.
The prophet and angel move toward the door and Eddy knows if they leave, they take any hope of redemption with them. They are going to leave him alone with his mother.
"No, no, no. I brought you an angel," he tells her, tears streaming down his face. This is his last chance. She has to understand, she has to. She must accept the gift. She has to love him, please, please, let it work. He will beg. He will plead. "See?"
"No," she says, "I do not see. I do not see."
"Please. Please. Please! I brought you an angel. Please. Take it." (Take me.)
The prophet and angel-man walk out of the cell and Eddy can feel himself falling, falling, falling. She doesn't want him. She never has. Okay. Okay. Then she has to go. Let him be. Throw him away. "I just want to know," he asks, his voice rising, spiraling like smoke. "When will you leave me alone?"
ooooo
Reid leans against a tree, watching Wally Brisbane's mother cling to her child. His throat feels too small, and he crosses his arms against the night air. The sight of this woman holding her child makes Reid feel like an intruder, a voyeur. He wonders if Mary Mays ever loved her son this much. He's relieved that Wally is okay, that he'll have the rest of his life to get over the past twenty-four hours. But at the same time, he's sick at heart that Eddy didn't receive the help he needed earlier.
Reid rests his head against the smooth bark and thinks about families and their secrets. He knows what it's like to try to hide mental illness behind closed doors; he knows what the weight of shame feels like. His greatest humiliation is that he does feel embarrassed by his mother. And that's wrong. But his love vastly outweighs any the humiliation. He would do anything for her. Despite her faulty brain chemistry he still adores her. And Reid has never doubted she loves him.
Reid turns away from the Brisbanes and heads toward the SUV. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He wishes there was some way he could help Eddy. He wishes he believed in God, that there was someone looking out for Eddy besides doctors and nurses.
Reid walks to the car, hands deep in his pockets. He almost wishes angels were real, that they could offer some hope to Eddy (and himself), that guardian angels really were watching out for him. Or there were archangels to guide his way, light his path. Spencer knows the names of the archangels; he's read the Bible and the book of Tobit: Michael, Gabriel, Uriel. And Raphael.
But they're not real.
And Spencer knows damn well he'll never meet an angel.
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: FRC/PG
Type/Characters: Gen, Eddy Mays, Reid, Hotch
Summary: Angels are messengers. Eddy Mays is listening.
A/N 1: A tag for episode 1x11 Blood Hungry. Warning: this fic is mostly from Eddy's POV, but there is some from Reid's POV also. Endless thanks to
riverbella for the beta--while she's on vacation. Bella? You. Are. Awesome. ♥
He spake well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
He walks in circles, once, twice, three times; he is a moon orbiting his duffel bag. He counts his footsteps, and waits, watches for signs. He looks for angels, listens for the ringing of bells, for God's voice. God's voice is everywhere, in the sound of a car horn, the screech of tires, the well-worn leather of his father's voice, a nurse's laugh, a bird's call. But he cannot find God in his mother's voice. Her voice is empty and made of metal. It feels like a needle but he (hates her) needs her. She's a drug, a prophet, a devil. She is his savior.
She's not coming.
He waits on the sidewalk, his one good shirt already stained with sweat. His mouth is dry; he's thirsty. He thinks he might be crying, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters but getting her back. He doesn't know what he did wrong, what part of him is broken that keeps her love out of reach, locked away. He knocks on the door, but he doesn't have the key and her eyes are always cold, cold, colder than her voice.
She's not coming.
He paces, back and forth and around, and someone asks if he's all right. He can't tell if it's a man or woman, there's only a voice and it's God and God loves him and the voice asks are you all right but beneath the words, sewn with gold thread, is the message: bring her an angel. He smiles and looks at the face of God and says, “And the smoke of the incense, which came with the prayers of the saints, ascended up before God out of the angel's hand." The passage is from Revelations 8:4. It's one of his favorites. God hurries away but it's okay because Eddy got the message; he has a plan, he knows what to do.
His mother's not coming to get him even though he called, he asked (begged), but it's all right. He has a plan. His fingers fumble at his pockets and eventually he locates his wallet. He has twenty-five dollars, enough to buy a bus ticket. Enough to go home. Where the angels are waiting.
ooooo
The bus is hot and crowded with people and there are strange smells and the mutter of voices (God). Eddy rests his head against the window and watches the cars flash by. They look like cars but they're really colored pulleys and levers that lead to the horizon, to heaven, to a better place.
He's tired. There's a bottle in his pocket of tiny white pills that remind him of the pearl necklace his mother wears. She let him hold the necklace once; it was cool and smooth and polished, just like her. He doesn't want to swallow the pearls because they quiet the voices, they quiet God, they hide the angels. Angels are everywhere if you know where to look.
The woman two seats ahead of him looks like an angel. He can see the wings beating inside her; her smile is the sound of a choir. But there are too many people and he's afraid to talk to her because he's only human, humble and broken and she's Uriel, the Archangel, bringer of light. He presses his face to the window, closes his eyes and trembles beneath her radiance.
The man behind him looks alive but isn't. He's dead because his soul is missing. Eddy can tell. He knows if someone has a good soul, a broken soul, or if they're just an empty shell, a walking corpse. Eddy's soul is broken. He can feel the jagged edges rubbing beneath his skin like bone and glass. It hurts. He's still crying but he doesn't notice. He picks at his fingernails until they bleed. He rubs the blood on the palms of his hands and wonders: if Jesus had known about Eddy would he have still gone to the cross?
ooooo
He can't remember his mother's phone number. The pay phone at the bus station doesn't work because every time he punches in a number it asks for the correct change. It makes no sense. There is no correct change. There is only change. Growth. Grace. Redemption. Forgiveness.
And damnation.
He drops the receiver and stumbles down the steps. He forgets his duffel bag. He walks a long way. Once, a boy named Eddy rode a bicycle past the bus station, played with friends and smiled. That boy is gone. Eddy wonders where he went, if he's lost.
He passes the First Methodist Church on Third Street. The angel smiles at him from the front steps. Eddy drifts toward it, a leaf in a river. The angel's voice is water and sunlight and hope. He says, “I am Gabriel and am sent to speak unto you, and to show you these glad tidings.” Pictures unfold in Eddy's mind like flowers. He understands.
Eddy nods and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you." He imagines his mother's arms around him and smiles. It's been so long. He can't remember what she feels like. But he remembers her smell: bleach and roses. He puts a finger in his mouth and bites down until his cuticle bleeds.
He thinks of angels while he walks. The word 'angel' is derived from the Latin angelus, which is derived from the Greek word angelos which means "messenger." He needs the perfect angel, the perfect messenger to tell his mother she must forgive Eddy. Eddy's words are invisible, nothing he says ever reaches his mother's ears. His words fall at her feet, small and useless. But an angel's voice can't be ignored.
He names angels in time with his steps: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Selaphiel, Jegudiel, Barachiel, Jeremiel, Zadkiel, Jophiel, Haniel, Chamuel. He wraps his arms around himself; his fingers smear red stripes along his skin.
He passes a second church, and then a third. The angels always whisper to him. They sing. They tell him it's his fault that he's broken. He did bad things, contaminated his body, made himself impure. But there is always forgiveness and Eddy is sorry, he's sorry for so many things. He can always hear God but he's not sure if God hears him.
The evening is cold and his breath fogs the air. He works his way through the angel hierarchy: Seraphim, Cherubim, Erelim, Ophanim, Hashmallim, and Malakhim. The Cherubim are beyond the throne of God; they are the guardians of light and of the stars. This is the gift he wants to give his mother. He wants to give her the divine light that filters down from heaven; he wants to open her eyes, to make her see that he is here, that he exists. That he is sorry.
ooooo
He's almost to the house when he realizes he can't go home, not yet, not without the angel. She won't let him in. Obviously, this is why she didn't pick him up in Boston. She knows he doesn't have an angel and she's angry. She's always angry. Eddy's stomach cramps and he wrings his hands.
A prayer from his childhood floats into his mind. His father used to say it with him before bedtime. God our Father, in your loving providence you send your holy angels to watch over us. He needs God to send him an angel. He needs to-
Eddy stops in front of Paul Thompson's house. There's an angel standing in the front garden; its face is lifted skyward, hands raised in benediction. Eddy swallows. He knows it's a statue, but inside, there's something more. Michelangelo said I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free. That's what Eddy needs to do. The front door opens and Paul steps out to get the mail. He doesn't see Eddy but Eddy sees him. The corona around Mr. Thompson's head blinds Eddy and he stumbles backwards. A dog barks and it's God saying and, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
But Eddy isn't afraid. He is at peace, because this is what he's been waiting for: a sign, a wonder, a portent. Mr. Thompson goes back into his house and Eddy follows, unaware his feet are moving, oblivious to the words falling from his lips, the clenching of his fists.
He walks through the door and Mr. Thompson makes noise, his mouth moves but Eddy knows there is no Mr. Thompson, not really. He is only a mask, a shell the angel wears like a-like a prison. Eddy can't hear the shell's words over the singing in his ears, over the sound of the angel trying to escape. He can hear the wings beating, beating; it's his duty (destiny) to set it free. A knife on the counter calls to him and Eddy reaches for it. It feels good in his hand, like home, like hope, and when Mr. Thompson runs outside he follows. He will save the angel (he's Michelangelo, an artist, an apostle ) and bring him home. His mother will be so proud.
ooooo
It isn't right. It isn't right. He carved Mr. Thompson like the marble he is but there's nothing inside the husk; there's no angel, no light. There's only bones and blood and the knife is a traitor (a liar) and the trees whisper behind his back. But there's another sound beneath the mocking whispers: the sound of bells. It's a small sound, bright and silver and round; it's coming from Paul Thompson's blood. It's the sound of forgiveness and faith. Eddy rocks back on his haunches and starts to weep.
ooooo
Reid stands beside Hotch, shoulders bent. He should have realized right away the three interlocking rings in the crime scene photos weren't a signature at all-they were the rings left by a cylindrical container. He should have known. He shakes his head in disgust at his own blindness. If they had known sooner, would it have made a difference? Would it have saved Lynette Giles? Would Wally Brisbane be safe in his own home if Reid had seen what Gideon had?
Deputy Long sits on the Stuart porch, her face the color of milk. "He must have come by between patrols," she says, voice wavering.
Sheriff Hall sighs. "Now, Jackie, it's not your fault."
Reid bites his lip. He knows whose fault it is.
Long nods at the container in Hotch's hands. "Well, what the hell is it?"
Hotch opens the container and looks inside. He looks up, face grim. "It's a human stomach," he says softly, almost apologetically.
Deputy Long's face twists in horror. "Oh, my God! You mean Dave's wife?"
Reid nods. "We can only assume."
Sheriff Hall glances up and down the street. "Now, none of the neighbors saw anything?"
Long shrugs. "Well, we talked to Miss Wade across the road. Nothing. And the Maynards aren't even home."
Hall rubs his chin. "All right. We need a 24-hour watch here and at the other crime scenes, too. Go on."
"Okay," Long says and heads immediately for her vehicle.
The Sheriff turns back to Hotch. "Now, Agent Hotchner, I need to be very clear here. Right now all we got is some theory about a religious delusion. I mean, how the hell do you explain that?"
Reid's brain catalogues what they know so far, presents the information. He's not going to make another mistake. "Sometimes disorganized killers return body parts to the gravesites. It might be nothing. It might just be a way for him to manipulate the body even after death." He hesitates. "But it may also be an act of remorse."
Hotch glances at Reid and Spencer can see the approval on his face. It doesn't make him feel any better. "Even in the most extreme psychotic episodes there are variations in lucidity, degrees of insightfulness."
Reid keeps his voice neutral. It's difficult, but he manages. "If I'm coming out of a delusion…if I just killed someone and drank their blood…"
Hotch steps in. "And I'm starting to feel bad about it…"
"Where do I go?" Reid finishes. He already knows the answer: a place of worship.
"Sheriff, how many churches are in this town?" Hotch asks.
Hall shakes his head. "Gentlemen, this is the Bible belt. Maybe fifteen."
"I would post an officer at every single one," Hotch tells him. "Call in auxiliary cops if you have them."
"All right," Hall agrees, nodding. "You got it." He speaks into his radio. "Long, get on the phone with me."
ooooo
The angels are angry. There is no singing now, God is silent. Eddy pulls into the parking lot and it's hard to concentrate, hard to see. The world is breaking, cracking right down the middle. He can still hear his mother's voice, the accusations, the ice. Her words are razor sharp and they cut to the bone. What is wrong with you? and thank God your father can't see what you've become and you should never have come back here but what it really means is I'm ashamed of you, Eddy.
She doesn't want the angel. He doesn't understand, the angel is perfect and beautiful; he is a cherubim. Each of his four faces is perfect, his eight wings are bright as the moon, his voice is spun glass. He is the ideal messenger, but his mother doesn't see, (doesn't understand the message) she doesn't care, and Eddy doesn't know what to do. There's nothing left. He has nothing. He is nothing. He tries to pray Forgive us our trespasses, forgive, please forgive but he can't remember the rest of the words, they drift away like ash.
His mother told him to take the angel back, but he can't; it's not his place, he is only a humble servant. She slaps him and says she will do it; she tells Eddy to return the lost souls but he can't. The souls are gone now; the vessels of the angels have gone to heaven to sing, to sing. Eddy used to hear their song but now there's only noise and static; the metal-on-metal shriek of loss (of humiliation).
Eddy stumbles out of the car and heads toward the church. Father forgive me, I know not what I do, father forgive me, he thinks and I want my dad, I want my daddy and Gabriel the archangel looms out of the darkness and Eddy's mouth is a desert and his bones are dust.
The angel's voice is thunder and he says Hold it right there! and FBI! Don't move!
Eddy's hands go cold and his legs tremble and he looks over his shoulder to see a man and woman approach. They look human but they're not. Their faces are blank as the pavement he's standing on. He blinks, panic ratcheting through him, spilling frenzied words from his lips Make it ago away, make it go away. He prays to God and Mary and Gabriel and the other archangels; he prays to everyone and anyone he can think of because this isn't real, this isn't happening, there's no room for anything but terror now.
"Don't move! Get down! Get on your knees!" The not-man shouts. "Get on your knees."
Eddy drops to his knees, the container beside him. Holy Mary Mother of God (my mother) pray for us sinners--
The not-woman screams "Get down!"
Eddy lifts his hands to his face, desperate for shelter, a place to hide. --to open our hearts with humility and purity to the Word of God--
"Hands on your head! Let's go!" The not-man yells and his voice is steel wool in Eddy's ears. "Hands on your head!"
Eddy's shivering, he can't stop, he'll never be warm (safe) again and this is his fault, this is his fault but he can't remember why. There's something broken inside him, something besides his heart. He lifts shaking hands and locks them behind his head. --now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
"Put them together! Don't move!"
Eddy keeps his eyes on Gabriel, squinting against the angel's luminous gaze. Gabriel's disappointment feels like a physical weight, it presses against him; Eddy struggles to stay upright.
The man and woman are speaking, but Eddy doesn't listen; their words are simply bits of paper floating away. The not-woman takes his container (lead not my soul into temptation) and a stifled sob bursts from Eddy's throat. She's not just taking a container, she's taking his chance to make amends, for forgiveness.
He begins to scream.
ooooo
She doesn't want the angel.
And now he's being punished. His mother is whispering in his ear and her blame feels like a noose. His throat hurts. He's in the dark. He's in a cave. He's underground. He's buried alive. Eddy rocks back and forth; he's lost (he's gone) and when will his father pick him up from school? He's going to be late and Mother will be angry, so angry.
I'm going to have to punish you, Eddy. How many times have I told you not to make a spectacle of yourself? How many times?
Eddy bows his head and words flash in his head like signs: please and help and mother.
His mother stands beside him, one hand on her pearl necklace. "You need to fix this, Eddy."
ooooo
The sound of screaming echoes down the corridor. They stand in the police station, grim-faced. Hotch lifts an eyebrow at the Sheriff. "His name's Eddy Mays, 21 years old. Do you know him?"
Sheriff Hall shakes his head; his face registers shock. "Yeah. I just can't believe a boy like Eddy would do something like this. He was the nicest kid you ever saw."
Reid tries not to hear the sounds coming from the cell at the end of the hall. He heard his mother scream like that once. It's a sound he wants to forget. "He's mentally ill, Sheriff. A boy like Eddy Mays could truly use an insanity plea in a court of law."
"You know," Hotch says, "the ironic thing about psychotic illness is generally they're less violent than the rest of the population."
Hotch seems to be the only one unaffected by Eddy's cries. Reid rubs his hands together, purses his lips. He wonders how Hotch can maintain such a complete aura of calm.
Elle glances toward the hall. "By the nature of psychotic delusions, when they do get violent…" she trails off. She doesn't need to elaborate. Eddy Mays is living proof of what happens when psychotic delusions become violent.
Morgan shakes his head in frustration. "We're never gonna get anywhere with him." He shrugs helplessly. "Not like this. Look at the guy. You can't read him his rights. You can't even process him."
Sheriff Hall sighs. "I better call his mother. It's a damn shame. His daddy died just a couple years ago. This is gonna fall awful hard on her."
Hotch's interest piques. "What's the family like?"
Hall considers the question. "Dad was a doctor, and Mary Gwathmey Mays comes from one of the oldest families in Tennessee."
"I'd like to meet her."
Elle gives Hotch a look. "We already have."
ooooo
Eddy chews at his fingers. Mary Magdalene gave him a shot. He's wearing a crown of thorns. He's in the cave and on the third day the stone will roll away and he'll be free. Yes. He needs to be patient.
Once he ran away to Boston. He studied religion because it was the only place he could find (unconditional) love. His mother gave her love in very small increments; each minute affection measured precisely. She liked to hold her love just out of reach. He wasn't good enough, smart enough, quiet enough, strong enough. All Eddy wanted was to forget how not good enough he was. For a while, forgetting was easy. But now he remembers, because the angels tell him--God tells him--the writing is on the wall. His mother is always with him now; there's no escape.
She didn't want the angel.
She didn't want the angel.
His mother sits on the edge of the small bed, her legs folded, her hands folded, genteel and respectable as always. What in God's name were you thinking, Eddy?
The cell door opens and Eddy looks up. Two angels stand before him. No, wait. Only one is an angel. The other is a prophet. The prophet is angry. Or stern. His face is stony. He might be a statue. Eddy can't tell. Michelangelo would know.
The prophet sits beside his mother. The prophet is wearing a suit; he exudes authority Eddy can't look at him. He averts his eyes, chews at his fingers. He wants to hide. He needs to disappear. He tries, he tries, but he's still here, he can't make himself go away. The prophet says, "Hey Eddy." His voice sounds gentle but its thin steel and somehow, it makes Eddy think of snow. He saw snow in Boston. Eddy can't look at the prophet, but he nods to show he's listening. He is a good disciple.
The prophet asks, "Do you know where you are?"
Eddy bites at his finger. He draws blood but he is not holy, his blood is not the blood of Jesus Christ, his sins are not forgiven. (This is My blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many, for the forgiveness of sins. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.) He sucks his fingertip and studies the cave. But caves don't have doors. They don't have bars. He blinks and shakes his head. He…he doesn't know where he is. He glances at his mother for help but she offers none. She never does. His eyes flick back to the door. Bars. Bed. Cell. A glimmer of understanding dawns. He's in jail. Like the apostle Paul. The scales fall from his eyes.
"Jail." His voice is a whisper.
It's the right answer. The prophet nods and Eddy is glad. He wants to get the answers right. He likes the extra credit questions best.
"That's right," the prophet says. "Do you know why?"
Eddy tries to think. His mother was angry with him. He went to college. He remembers going to a club where he did-he did bad things. Drugs are bad. He pulls a finger from his mouth long enough to admit "I was very bad. Before, I was very bad. But I'm -- I'm much better now, much…much better." No more drugs. But he has to repent. Forgive us our trespasses.
"Eddy, do you remember hurting anyone?"
The prophet's face glows brighter and Eddy's eyes slide to the wall behind the man's head. Eddy hasn't hurt anyone. Just himself. Do you know how much it hurts me to see you act this way, Eddy? Do you know how ashamed I am of you? And he hurt his mother. He hurts his mother all the time. Has she put him in jail? Can you go to jail for disappointing your mother?
His heart beats faster and he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He shakes his head tentatively. A sin of omission.
"Where did you go to college, Eddy?"
Eddy glances toward the angel, then back at the prophet. He knows this answer. It's easy. "Mmm. Boston." He puts another finger in his mouth. His teeth work at pulling a fingernail loose. The pain is good.
"Did you like Boston?"
It snowed there. (His mother came.) This question is harder. He should have studied. "Mmm. No." He looks at the floor. "I don't know."
The angel speaks and his voice is gentle, it sounds like the sky and autumn leaves. Eddy likes it. It's not an archangel, but it's not a messenger, either. It's hard to see; the angel is hiding in the shape of a thin young man. He looks like a T.A. Eddy had back in school. The angel-man asks "What was your favorite thing about Boston, Eddy?"
Okay. Another one he knows. Relief floods through him. "Harvard--I went to Harvard Square. I had cappuccino." He used to sit on a park bench and watch the people. He'd scan the crowd looking for (hiding from) his mother.
The angel's face is filled with sorrow, his eyes are broken. Eddy doesn't understand why. Did he get the answer wrong after all?
"Cappuccino," the angel repeats softly, and hands a photo to the prophet.
The prophet studies the photo and then asks "Eddy, do you remember Wally? Wally Brisbane?" He holds the photo toward Eddy.
Eddy can almost hear the angel sing This is my Father's world. The cherubim brings forgiveness. His voice is made of stars. I want my father. Eddy smiles. When he was fourteen they went to a cookout at the Brisbane's. His father played horseshoes with him. It was the Fourth of July. There were fireworks. "I know the Brisbanes."
"You took this little boy," the prophet says and once again, he's made of stone. His face is hard and smooth (and cold).
Eddy chews at a cuticle. Wrong. Wrong. He did not take a little boy. He took an angel. The angel was supposed to say Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women but his mother wouldn't listen. Her heart is hard, just like Pharaoh's. Eddy shakes his head, eyes on the photo. "No. No. I did not…I did not do that."
"Eddy, I understand you're uncomfortable. Your--your hands are cut up. Your arms are bruised. Do you know why?"
Eddy guesses. He has a fifty-fifty chance of being right. You should never leave an answer blank. "Yeah."
The prophet says. "You killed three people, Eddy."
The words make no sense. It's a test. Eddy tries to pass. He mimics the prophet. "You killed three people, Eddy. You killed three people, Eddy."
The prophet looks at the angel and Eddy can't tell if his answer was right or not. This is harder than he expected. The angel-man has more photos. He shows them to Eddy.
"Paul Thompson."
Eddy blinks and sees a shell. He remembers God's voice and the angels. He remembers the sound of the ocean.
"Annie Stuart."
The cherubim had been hiding in that house. He thought it was trapped in the woman. No, not a woman, just a husk. Like corn on the cob. His dad made corn on the grill. They used to play catch after school, in the backyard. Eddy doesn't like the photos; there's something wrong with them, but the angel won't take them away.
"Lynette Giles."
The wrongness has spread to Eddy's chest. He can't breath. Maybe he's a shell. Maybe there's an angel inside him. But that's just another lie; he knows there isn't. If he was an angel, his mother would love him. He was just trying to fix-to fix himself. But he can't. He's too broken. The pieces are all wrong. He can't be put back together now. God is punishing him because he doesn't know the right answers; because he didn't put the angel back where he found it.
"No! No! Stop it!" He echoes his mother's voice. "You will--you will be punished. God is punishing you." That's right. That's right.
The prophet and angel move toward the door and Eddy knows if they leave, they take any hope of redemption with them. They are going to leave him alone with his mother.
"No, no, no. I brought you an angel," he tells her, tears streaming down his face. This is his last chance. She has to understand, she has to. She must accept the gift. She has to love him, please, please, let it work. He will beg. He will plead. "See?"
"No," she says, "I do not see. I do not see."
"Please. Please. Please! I brought you an angel. Please. Take it." (Take me.)
The prophet and angel-man walk out of the cell and Eddy can feel himself falling, falling, falling. She doesn't want him. She never has. Okay. Okay. Then she has to go. Let him be. Throw him away. "I just want to know," he asks, his voice rising, spiraling like smoke. "When will you leave me alone?"
ooooo
Reid leans against a tree, watching Wally Brisbane's mother cling to her child. His throat feels too small, and he crosses his arms against the night air. The sight of this woman holding her child makes Reid feel like an intruder, a voyeur. He wonders if Mary Mays ever loved her son this much. He's relieved that Wally is okay, that he'll have the rest of his life to get over the past twenty-four hours. But at the same time, he's sick at heart that Eddy didn't receive the help he needed earlier.
Reid rests his head against the smooth bark and thinks about families and their secrets. He knows what it's like to try to hide mental illness behind closed doors; he knows what the weight of shame feels like. His greatest humiliation is that he does feel embarrassed by his mother. And that's wrong. But his love vastly outweighs any the humiliation. He would do anything for her. Despite her faulty brain chemistry he still adores her. And Reid has never doubted she loves him.
Reid turns away from the Brisbanes and heads toward the SUV. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He wishes there was some way he could help Eddy. He wishes he believed in God, that there was someone looking out for Eddy besides doctors and nurses.
Reid walks to the car, hands deep in his pockets. He almost wishes angels were real, that they could offer some hope to Eddy (and himself), that guardian angels really were watching out for him. Or there were archangels to guide his way, light his path. Spencer knows the names of the archangels; he's read the Bible and the book of Tobit: Michael, Gabriel, Uriel. And Raphael.
But they're not real.
And Spencer knows damn well he'll never meet an angel.