Dark Side of the Moon 2/2
Title: Dark Side of the Moon 2/2
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Gen, Spencer Reid, Amanda/Adam Jackson, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Dave Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Nathan Harris
Words: ~16,200 total
Disclaimer: I don't own Spencer Reid or anyone else from Criminal Minds. I make no money off my lame ramblings.
Summary: Reid risks everything to find Adam Jackson.
A/N 1: This is a sequel to Hopeless Son. If you hated that fic, you'll also hate this. Sorry.
A/N 2: Thank you to rain_1975 for the beta. I'm planning for at least one more fic in this 'verse. And I made another mix. You can find it here.
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark.
~T.S. Eliot
In violence we forget who we are.
~Mary McCarthy
By 3:45 they're on their way to Washington DC. Two prostitutes have been found dead in the last three months. The case feels suspiciously similar to the one that first brought Nathan Harris into the BAU's orbit. But these prostitutes have been shot in the back of the head, execution style, each one found in a dumpster.
Hotch and Emily go to the crime scenes even though there's nothing left to see. JJ, Rossi and Morgan go to the police department to meet the detective in charge.
Morgan argues doggedly that he should go with Hotch to see Nathan instead of Emily.
"Emily was barely even part of the BAU back then," Derek snarls.
"That's exactly why I want her along," Hotch explains patiently. He doesn't mention he's afraid Morgan might wring Nathan's neck if Derek doesn't get the answers he wants. Hotch won't admit it aloud, but this is one of the few times he wouldn't mind having Gideon back. Jason had a kind of rapport with Nathan. Nothing like what Reid had, but still. Anything's better than the nothing Hotch currently has.
"If you really want to help Reid, do your job," Hotch tells Morgan. "Don't give Strauss anything to bitch about or second guess. Do you understand?"
Morgan sighs heavily. He nods. "Yeah. Okay."
"We'll let you know what we find out. Meanwhile, Garcia's doing double duty. She's looking for connections between the two victims, but she's also looking for Reid. Sooner or later, we will find him."
"I know," Morgan says, "but is he gonna be alive when we do?"
* * *
Nathan sits in one of the ratty armchairs next to Wick. Wick is a pyro, and his real name is Greg.
Nathan hasn't heard from Agent Reid in days. Reid warned him he wouldn't be able to talk for a while, warned him to turn the phone off and hide it. After calling the hospital in Corpus Christi, that's just what he did. He's all out of bad Harry Potter books, and he's already watched season four of Dexter illegally on his laptop. He's really fucking bored which leaves him nothing to do but hang out with Wick.
Wick is about a year younger than Nathan, but he's way more messed up. In Nathan's opinion at least. All Wick ever does is talk about fire. He doodles flames, paints fires, fiddles with an empty plastic lighter he treats like a holy relic. It'd be enough to drive Nathan crazy. If he wasn't already.
Still, listening to Wick talk about fire like it's his long distance girlfriend gives Nathan something to do besides stare at the walls of his room and worry about Spencer.
Wick taps the empty lighter against the arm of the chair. "Hey," he says, "I got a new book you can read if you want. My dad sent it. It's Joe Hill's second book, Horns." Wick smiles and his eyes nearly roll in ecstasy. "There's fire in it." He shrugs. "Plus the story's fucking awesome."
Finally, something worth talking about. "Thanks," Nathan says. "I could use something to read that's not on my stupid reading list."
"No kidding." Wick waves the empty lighter. "Christ, it's not like I can burn the books." He grins. "I've tried."
Nathan rolls his eyes. "You are messed up, my friend."
"At least I don't want to gut chicks."
"At least I didn't set my parents' house on fire with them still in it."
"You're bitchy today." Wick huffs in annoyance. "Besides, they got out."
Nathan smiles. "I know." The smile fades. "I guess...I guess I'm just worried about someone."
Wick lifts an eyebrow. "What? You're having actual emotions? Did you tell Van Der Berg? He'll give you a gold star for sure." Wick leans forward, holds his hand out for Nathan to high five.
Nathan dutifully slaps Wick's palm.
Wick flicks through the television channels. Today's options are: a rerun of Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman, Law and Order: WTF, a billion boring-ass soap operas, retarded game shows, and an episode of Friends Nathan's already seen about seventeen times.
"Look at all this shit," Wick laments. "You know what really needs to burn? The TV stations, man."
A male nurse walks in. One of the new guys. His name is John. Nathan is only allowed male nurses and doctors, so to make things easier, there are no female staff on this end of the floor at all. Doctor Van Der Berg thinks having male nurses is less of a temptation for Nathan. Not really. Nathan doesn't need to look at women to want to kill them. But he finds he wants to kill them less when there aren't any around, so maybe Van Der Berg's theory works after all.
"Hey Nate," John says amiably, "you got visitors. Two FBI agents."
Wick looks gleeful, the bastard. "What'd you do?"
"Nothing," Nathan says. Much.
For one second he thinks maybe it's Spencer. But no, that's impossible. Especially if there are two agents. It's okay, no reason to panic. These are probably just the BAU guys Agent Reid works with. They're freaking out over Spencer killing that Jamie dude. If they give him too much grief, Nathan can always call his mom. Besides, it'll be kind of nice to see Agent Gideon again.
When Nathan gets to his room, neither agent is Jason Gideon. Worse, one of them is a woman. Shit.
He recognizes the man vaguely. He's not sure if he knows the woman or not, he keeps his gaze firmly focused on the floor. They're here for the phone. They probably don't even give a shit about him, they just want to know what Reid's been up to. Good luck with that. If there's one thing Nathan knows, it's how to keep a secret.
"Hi, Nathan Harris? I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner, this is Agent Emily Prentiss." Hotchner holds out his hand. "We met on a case a few years ago. Do you remember me?"
Nathan doesn't take the offered hand. He remains against the wall, head down.
"No," Nathan says. He injects nervousness into his voice. He doesn't have to try all that hard. "Is my mom okay?"
"Your mother is fine," the woman says. She's using that friendly sing-song voice all women use on pets and kids. He hates her for it. He imagines the word bitch carved into her stomach, down each arm.
"We're here because Agent Reid's phone records indicate he placed several calls to this location last week."
Nathan frowns down at the carpet. "And you think that means he called me?"
"We do," Hotchner says.
"Why would he call me?"
"We understand Reid has visited you in the past, he's called on several occasions to see how you're doing."
"You're right," Nathan says, "but he hasn't called lately." Nathan scuffs his shoe along the carpet. "Why isn't Reid here? Where's Agent Gideon?"
"Agent Gideon no longer works for the BAU," Hotchner says. He doesn't bother answering the question about Reid. They're probably trying to keep the fact Agent Reid is a big fat killer on the down low.
"If you haven't heard from Agent Reid lately, then I'm sure you don't mind if we check your room just to make sure," Hotchner says. Hotchner probably think he sounds sincere and manly, but Nathan thinks he sounds completely fake.
Nathan wants to tell the agent he minds a fucking lot, but he keeps his mouth shut. He risks a quick look at Prentiss. She has long, straight black hair. It's parted down the middle. She has bangs. Her face is pale and beautiful. She's wearing dark red lipstick. The color of blood. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kill her. With difficulty, Nathan pulls his gaze away, focuses on Hotch. Sweat breaks out along his neck, back, armpits. He feels sick. And excited.
"Isn't it...isn't it possible Agent Reid was simply contacting a doctor here?" Nathan asks. "Doesn't his mother have schizophrenia?" Or at least she did before that fuckwad Kingford killed her.
Hotchner ignores Nathan's question. He takes a step forward, eyes scanning Nathan's desk.
"Don't you need search warrant?"
"Not under the terms of your incarceration."
Incarceration? Nice.
Okay, fuck this guy and the woman sidekick. Nathan played along, he was nice about their visit, but that's enough. No way are they getting his phone.
Nathan puts his hands to his face and slides down the wall. He grits his teeth, groans a sad little Ah. He folds his voice into something small and desperate. The last time he sounded like this was when he begged Reid to let him die. He doesn't think about that now, he thinks about saving his one connection to the outside world, to his one real friend.
"Can you--can you please leave?"
"After the search," Prentiss says. Her voice is steel wool against Nathan's skin.
Nathan takes a deep breath. Time to bring on the crazy. "Get out," he begs. Then he ratchets his voice louder, until it spins out into the hallway. "Get out! Getoutgetout!" He bashes his head against the wall and that fucking. Hurts. He bashes again. He wonders if he can somehow knock the darkness out of him. Probably not. He couldn't bleed it out, after all. He'd tried.
"I can't look at you! You have to get out before it's too late! Please!" It's not hard to act freaked out, because he is freaked out. He keeps thinking about what he wants to do with Prentiss and Jesus, fuck, just get her out of here. This is too goddamn hard. He's not even sure he's pretending anymore.
Nathan starts crying. He didn't mean to, but now he's picturing himself standing over his mother with a knife, her blood running down his arms. Tears run down his face. Snot bubbles in his nose. He's pretty sure he looks just as pathetic and creepy as he feels.
Hotchner and Prentiss stare at him, stunned.
Emily advances, arms out in a universal it's okay gesture.
Shows what little that bitch knows.
"Get the fuck away from me," Nathan shrieks. He waves an arm wildly in her direction. If she touches him, he's doomed. Well, he's already doomed, but if she touches him he doesn't know if he can resist touching her back. Around the neck. With both hands.
He's shivering. Christ, he's such a monster. Where's the fucking cavalry, already?
Two nurses run in. One of them is John, the other is Carl. Thank God. Carl knows him, knows the rules. Carl's eyes flick from Nathan, to the agents, to John.
"What the fuck did you do?" he hisses at John. "No women around Harris retard, it triggers him. Jesus, do you even know why he's here? What the fuck's wrong with you?"
John's face drains of color. "What? No, I didn't--"
"He's allowed one female visitor. That's his mother and even then there's supervision."
Carl jerks his thumb toward the door. He stares double-edged daggers at Hotchner and Prentiss. "Out. Now."
Nathan is still shaking on the floor. At least he's stopped crying. Mostly.
"We're not done with our search," Hotchner says. He looks like he'd love to grab Prentiss and run, but Nathan knows he wants the phone, wants to catch Nathan in a lie.
"Yes you are," Doctor Van Der Berg says harshly. He stands just inside Nathan's room. "I don't care who you are, you have greatly upset my patient. Get out before I call security."
Hotch and Prentiss exchange frowns.
"Doctor," Hotchner beings, "it's imperative we--"
Van Der Berg cuts the agent off. "The only thing that's imperative right now, agents, is that you leave this room at once."
The agents reluctantly leave.
Nathan rests his head on his knees, closes his eyes. He smiles wanly into the gray fabric of his sweatpants.
* * *
"Sorry, kid" Carl says. He offers Nathan a half wave, then locks the door behind him.
Nathan sighs and lets himself fall back onto the plastic-covered mattress. The plastic squeaks beneath him.
The freak-out has earned Nathan a trip to the "recovery room." Which is just a nice way of saying "solitary confinement."
It's a rubber-walled room with a single mattress and a metal toilet in the corner that looks like something out of a horror movie. There's nothing else. It reeks of disinfectant, sweat, and piss. Nathan's only been in here once before.
If nothing else, Wick'll be impressed.
* * *
They're in some dump of a motel. Still, Amanda's been plenty of worse places.
She stares down at her hands. Jeez, Adam really fucked up her nails.
The room's decorated in Early American shit hole with two twin beds and a bathroom the color of mold.
Reid's sitting on the bed closest to the bathroom. Two keys sit on top of the chipped desk. You can tell it's a shit hole because the doors still have key locks, not cards. She feels a brief pang of homesickness for the Hudson. At least that place was clean. Thanks to Adam, of course.
Amanda has no reason to bitch. This dive is still better than the hospital. Reid isn't even paying attention to her. He's working on his laptop, pages of notes spread around him like a paper nest. He keeps messing around with a flash drive.
"What are you doing?"
"Configuring my laptop," he says. "I had to get a new one and I'm just transferring files."
"Why? So the FBI can't track you?"
"Yes."
She'd been kidding--sort of--but now she looks at Reid with renewed interest.
"You really killed Harrison?"
"Yes."
He's still not looking at her.
"Why do you think the BAU would look for you?" Her lip curls. "Did you staple a business card to Mark's forehead or something?"
"No." Reid says, "I killed someone else first. That's why they're looking for me."
Amanda stares at the skinny agent on the next bed. He--what?
Reid answers before she can ask. "The man who killed my mother."
Spencer had told Adam his mother was dead. But she hadn't expected this.
"Who killed your mom?"
"The man I killed."
Huh. It's going to be like that, is it? It's not fair that Reid knows all about the men she killed and she doesn't know diddly about his. She's trying to figure out exactly how pissed off to be when Reid lifts a plastic bag from the other side of the bed.
"Here." He hands it to Amanda. "I figured you might blend in a little better with real clothes."
Curious, she dumps the bag on the bed. A pair of men's jeans fall out, a plain black t-shirt, a long denim skirt, a pink women's shirt emblazoned with the words shut up. There's also a package of socks, a pair of boxers, a seriously dowdy pair of panties and matching bra, a pair of tennis shoes, a set of gray sweats. There's also a pair of pink barrettes with little skulls.
"I didn't know what you'd want, so I got stuff for you and Adam. I figured you could both wear the sweats. If something doesn't fit, we can go shopping." Pause. "But it might be better if we get some more distance before you decide to go to the mall."
Amanda picks up the barrettes. "You...bought me clothes," she says. "And these." Her voice is monotone.
He looks over, nods. "Yeah. If you don't like them, just--just throw them away."
She can't imagine throwing the barrettes out. Ever. They're not even hideous. They're kind of...punk.
Spencer Reid might be the only other man besides Adam who actually deserves to live.
Her eyes sting and her chest feels like it's been wrapped with thick rubber bands. It's a weird feeling. Is this what gratitude feels like? First Harrison, now pink shirts and barrettes? What kind of kidnapping is this?
"How long are you going to keep me here?" she finally asks.
Reid shuts his laptop and turns his full attention on her. "I'm not keeping you here," he says, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I just want to keep you safe for a day or two and then you can do whatever you want. Start a new life."
She regards him skeptically. "What does that even mean?"
Spencer clasps his hands together. For the first time she notices his fingernails are torn and bloody. His wrists are unbearably thin. She begins to suspect Reid really has killed two people. He's got the same empty-eyed look Adam used to get after Mark beat the shit out of him. Reid just sits there, blank.
Amanda snaps her fingers at him. "So I can just run around killing douchebags if I want? That's okay with you?"
Reid jerks, blinks. He unclasps his hands, pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, it's not okay. That's why I killed Harrison. So you didn't have to. I wanted you to have a fresh start, Amanda. Both of you."
Obviously, Reid's gone mental. Which is fine with her, but she's been faking her way through "normal" enough to know Spencer's nowhere near it. So, just to clarify: "You're saying it's okay for you to kill assholes, but not me?"
Reid tilts his head. He smiles but he doesn't look happy. He shrugs. "I'm not afraid of the dark anymore," he says quietly. He says the words like they're supposed to mean something.
They don't. She glares at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you and Adam have spent enough time in the dark. It's time you--"
"If you tell me to walk toward the light I'm going to punch you right in the goddamn face." She'd make sure to pull the punch though. Probably.
Spencer rifles through his notes and throws her a pen.
She catches it, suspicious. "What's this for?"
"Tell Adam what he wants to hear."
Amanda stuffs the clothes back into the bag. "I don't know what that means, either. It's like you're talking in fucking tongues. And I'm getting sick of it."
"I think you know exactly what I mean." He sounds all patient and kind. That shit pisses her off even more than his fortune cookie nonsense talk.
She reaches for the pack of cigarettes, lights one. She inhales. Maybe she does know what he means. She uncaps the pen, pulls up her sleeve. She prints carefully across her arm. I will never leave you.
As soon as she writes the words, she can feel Adam's presence. He understands. He believes her. So she lets him out (into the light).
* * *
Adam blinks, studies the dingy room.
Reid watches him. He can tell it's Adam, just from the way he holds holds his head, the slump of his shoulders, the way he doesn't quite meet Reid's eyes.
Adam looks down at the black words scrawled on his arm. He rubs a thumb over them gently, almost reverent.
"Adam?"
Adam glances up, does a double take at the cigarette in his hand, takes a drag.
"Are you okay?"
Adam nods tentatively. "I think so." He plays with the handle of the plastic bag. "Amanda said you killed my stepfather."
"I did." Reid's not sorry. He's not guilty. He's not anything. A boy with haunted eyes sits across from him smoking. His hair is too long. If Reid squints, Adam almost looks like Jamie Kingford. Almost.
Adam had Amanda to protect him.
Jamie had no one.
Reid's mind is traitorous.Good thing Adam didn't kill your mother.
"Why?"
It takes Reid a minute to focus, to realize Adam's talking to him. He wants to feel happy Adam is here with him, he wants to tell himself he saved Adam, but he doesn't know, he doesn't know. He couldn't save Diana, but he saved Adam. Surely that counts for something. But what?
Reid leans forward, rubs sweaty palms over the denim knees of his jeans. His mother's ring swings like a pendulum. He wants to tell Adam he killed Harrison because he had to. Because killing Kingford and Harrison were the only things that made Reid feel anything at all. Because he owed Adam. (Because he owed Tobias). Because Charles Hankel was already dead.
"I killed Mark Harrison because he deserved to die for what he did to you," Reid tells Adam truthfully. "He should have been the one they put away, Adam. Not you."
Adam sits for a long moment, the plastic bag on his lap. Finally he stands, tries to look at Reid. He doesn't quite succeed. "Thank you...for the clothes. I'm, uh, I'm going to take a shower." He hesitates, as if waiting for Reid to stop him.
"Go ahead," Spencer says, "there's shampoo and soap in there."
Adam nods his head, hair obscuring his face. He stops in the doorway, his back to Reid. "Thank you for finding me," he says in a choked voice. "Thank you for everything." He shuts the door behind him. A moment later the lock snicks into place.
Reid stretches out on the bed, careful not to crumple his notes.
Thank you for finding me.
Did Spencer know he'd eventually find Adam? Reid had certainly had faith (hope) Hotch would find him, once upon a time. Hotch had found him, but Reid's still lost. Adam's back, but the monsters still win. Reid should know. He's become one. Maybe that's why he spent so many years afraid of the dark, of his mind. Some part of him knew what was waiting for him.
He can no longer tell who the monsters are. Society says Amanda is the monster, but Reid knows better. If Amanda is evil, it's only because Mark Harrison made her that way. If Mark Harrison is gone, Amanda no longer needs to kill him, symbolically or otherwise.
Reid has compiled lists of unsubs who've eluded capture throughout his years at the BAU. Spencer keeps trying to pick a name (choose one live, choose one to die), to weigh the number of bodies against the force of violence, but there is no equation that works. He can't find another Mark Harrison or Charles Hankel.
Spencer looks at the ceiling. Cracks criss-cross the plaster, water stains form mysterious shapes near the far corner. He tries to hold on to the relief at knowing Adam is just in the other room, but Reid finds he can't hold on to much of anything.
Not his father.
Not JJ.
Not Gideon.
Not Tobias.
Not his mother.
Not even himself.
He doesn't know what to do. He finds himself daydreaming about driving around with Amanda and Adam, a sort of modern day Bonnie and Clyde and Clyde. They'll make the world a better place one death at a time. But that's all it is, a dream. Adam deserves to live, he deserves peace. Reid's not going to do anything to jeopardize Adam's second chance. Reid's not even going to try to hold on to Adam.
His mind drifts to Garcia and Hotch. And Morgan. Emily. JJ. Rossi. (Not Gideon.) Reid wonders what they're doing. Looking for him, most likely. Garcia probably got Nathan's number from the cell he left at Kingford's. That's okay. Nathan's smart. Even if someone comes to question him, Reid's confident Harris can keep the phone hidden.
Reid wishes he could call Nathan, make sure he's okay. He considers calling Garcia instead. He could ask her to find out. But no, she'd just cry. Or worse, track him. He doesn't want to be found. He's not ready. Reid needs to figure out his next step. The thing is, it's hard to see in the dark.
He sits up, reaches for a legal pad. He takes the pen from Adam's bed and starts to write.
* * *
Hotch and Prentiss sit at the hotel bar. Hotch sips his scotch, sighs heavily, defeated.
"Are you okay?"
Emily waves Aaron's concern away. "I'm fine. I just feel bad for that boy. And his mother. God."
Hotch rests his chin on one hand. "I can't believe how badly I blew it back there. I should have brought Morgan after all. I was so busy worrying about Reid that I didn't even think about what bringing you would do to Harris."
"It's okay. I'm all right. Nathan's all right."
"And we still don't know where Reid is. Or Adam Jackson."
Emily stirs her martini. "You said Reid tried to help Nathan? That's how they know each other?"
"Reid is partially responsible for Nathan being at Great Oak Village. He brought Nathan to Gideon and Gideon recommended Nathan be institutionalized."
Emily considers eating the olive in drink, decides she doesn't feel like it. "And what, Reid feels guilty? That's why they stayed in touch?"
Hotch draws vertical lines in the condensation on his glass. "I don't think Reid's guilt stems from Nathan's placement, exactly. It comes from the fact Nathan tried to kill himself," he says. "He nearly succeeded. Reid found him and kept him alive long enough for the paramedics to arrive."
"Jesus." Reid's been through more than most people endure in three lifetimes. Only a few months ago Reid taught her to walk a quarter along her knuckles. She wasn't very good at it, but Spencer acted like she was Houdini reincarnated every time she got the damn coin across her hand.
Emily wipes her eyes, leans her shoulder against Hotch's. "I keep thinking I'm dreaming. That I'll wake up and everything will be okay. Reid will tell me the average number of pips in an orange, or he'll show me some new magic trick." She forces a watery smile. "Remember when he got his cane and learned to twirl it like a baton? He and Garcia had twirl-offs for weeks."
Aaron's mouth smiles, but his eyes don't. "I remember." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "I never thought he'd do something like this, Emily. Never. I feel...lost."
Emily puts her hand over his. It's an impulsive gesture, she's not thinking about Hotch the supervisor, she's thinking about Hotch the friend. God, Hotch is going to think she's drunk. She can't take her hand back now or she'll really look stupid. Brilliant move, Emily.
Still, Aaron doesn't snatch his hand away, throw his drink in her face, or shove her off her chair.
"Lucky for you," she says, with only a trace of the blazing awkward she feels in her voice, "I'm pretty good with a map."
Hotch smiles and this time it lights his whole face.
* * *
There's another day of driving.
She naps on and off, listens to some of the shitty music on Reid's mp3 player, fiddles restlessly with her barrettes. The message she wrote Adam is still on her arm, but the black ink has faded to blue. He wrote back on her other arm: I know.
Amanda pulls down the sun visor, checks her face in the little rectangle of mirror. She purses her lips, applies a fresh coat of lipstick. There. Much better. She's wearing the stupid denim skirt and the pink top. Both fit reasonably well. She's thankful for the extra socks because now she fills out the new bra tres magnifique. Reid, the eternal gentleman, isn't even staring. She figures knowing her bra's jammed full of tube socks probably decreases the level of mystique she's got going on. It's not her fault she's so flat she's practically concave. Everybody's got their own burden to bear.
They're passing a sign that says St. Louis - 20 miles when she turns to Spencer. "So how long until you decide we're far enough? What are we, Thelma and Louise? You're the new Dexter and we're all living in the United States of Tara?"
Reid keeps his eyes on the highway. "Who's Dexter?"
"Never mind."
"I think we'll be far enough tonight." Reid's voice drops like he's talking to himself instead of her. "I wish I could get Nathan out too."
"Who's Nathan?"
"A friend. He's in a hospital in Washington DC."
"Why can't you get him out? Give him the old fake seizure treatment like you did with me."
"I can't get him out. He'll kill people."
Amanda snorts with laughter. It's unladylike, but whatever.
"You kill people, apparently." Amanda blots her lipstick on a napkin.
"It's not the same," Reid says, mouth set.
It's obvious Reid wants her to shut up, but too bad. It's not like he's the one wearing the pink shirt.
"Why didn't you let me kill him?" She asks quietly. "I was going to, before. You begged me not to. I remember exactly what you said. 'I swear to God, if you put the knife down I'll get you and Adam the help you need.' What happened?"
Reid rubs the back of his neck, shifts behind the wheel. "I realized there is no God, and there's no one to help. I was wrong. So I'm...I'm doing the best I can."
"You can't save me," she tells him. "In case that's what you're trying to do. I'm not a project. I'm not some kind of extra credit you can work on to make yourself feel better about your mom." She doesn't think this is Reid's angle, but just in case it's good to get that out in the open.
Reid rubs his eyes. "Amanda, I can't even save myself. You're not a project, you're a person. All I want is for you and Adam to go somewhere where you can live your life without looking over your shoulder, where you don't have to worry about Mark Harrison or the past."
Amanda looks out the window. She watches farm land roll by through her faint reflection. She tries to imagine someplace safe, somewhere she and Adam can go. She can't. She's spent the last twenty-three years hating. What else is there?
"What about you?" she asks Reid. "Are you some kind of badass vigilante now?"
"I'm nothing," Spencer says simply.
"What does that mean?"
Reid shrugs. "It means I'm nothing. I'm already dead. Just like Jamie."
Amanda sighs. She doesn't know who Jamie is, and doesn't care. "Okay, you're crazier than I am, Doctor Reid. I mean, what's the goal, here? Are you going to give yourself up so all your FBI friends can wring their hands and wear sack cloth? Are you going to move to Asshole, Montana and live on a mountain? Are you going to try for America's Most Wanted? You've got to have some kind of plan."
"I did. My plan was to get you."
"Well mission accomplished, Doctor. But I was hoping for something a little more long range."
"Why? What does it matter? I already told you you're free to go."
Amanda crosses her arms, contemplative. She stares at Spencer for a good five miles or so.
He pretends not to notice. Finally, his eyebrows jerk upwards. "What?"
"All those times you used to come and visit me, hoping for a glimpse of Adam. But now...now I feel like you're the one who's gone. I can see you, Doctor Reid, but it's like...you're not there."
Reid smiles, but his face is broken. The expression is wrong. His mouth is still trying to smile when he says, "Now you're getting it."
Amanda has seen a lot of bad shit in her life. She's done a lot of bad shit. She doesn't scare easily. But the smile on Reid's face is something she never wants to see again
* * *
It's been a long day. The team is still in DC working the case. Everyone except Reid. Kevin wants to take her out for dinner, try to cheer her up, but she's just not in the mood. She wants to be comatose for a while. Eat something with too many carbs and watch something with a goodly amount of funny. Maybe she'll put in the first disc of Firefley. Or maybe Flight of the Conchords.
Garcia stops at the door, checks the mail. There's a Priority Mail envelope. Her name is written in blank ink. She recognizes the handwriting instantly. Penelope's hands start shaking and she hurries inside. As soon as her door is unlocked she drops everything on the floor--her purse, the copy of Persopelis she's been reading, the bag of freshly ground coffee she bought on the way home--except the envelope.
She tears it open. There's a single sheet of yellow, lined legal paper.
Reid's handwriting unspools across the page.
I miss writing my mom letters.
I almost e-mailed you but I figured you'd find me. At least you can't hack snail mail. Yet.
If I was still alive, I'd miss you.
Three lines. There are three lines of cursive. Garcia presses the paper to her chest and cries. She knows Reid is broken, that he's not the same man he was, but this letter proves the Reid she loves is still out there.
Penelope really likes Kevin, but she loves Reid. Not in a sexy way, in a you're like my brother and I'd do anything for you kind of way. But she has no idea what to do, how to help.
She wants to contact him, talk to him, hold his hand. She doesn't care if he goes to prison. She hates that he killed Jamie Kingford and Mark Harrison, but she doesn't hate him. And frankly, if Reid was caught today, she's not sure a jury would actually put him away for killing Kingford. If he does go to prison, she'll visit him every day. She'll bake him cookies, carve him soap swans, whittle Popsicle sticks into shivs, knit him a prison orange sweater vest. She'll write him letters, she'll send rice krispie treats, she'll buy him the nerdiest books she can find.
Garcia will do what she always does: be there for Reid.
* * *
She wakes to the sound of sobbing.
At first she thinks it's Doctor Reid. But when she looks over at his bed, he's curled on his side, hand over his face, silent.
Amanda sits up, listening.
A man is crying in the next room. Ragged, hopeless sobs seep through the thin wall. Amanda watches Reid while the stranger cries. Eventually the sobs taper off into intermittent weeping, and finally: silence.
The FBI agent in the other bed is not the man she met last year. This Reid reminds her of Adam at his worst, plagued by headaches, lost, alone. Too bad Spencer doesn't have anyone to keep him safe. There's a part of her that wants to stay, that half dreams of trying to build some kind of life with Spencer, a future with picket fences and adopted Asian babies. But Amanda knows Reid isn't interested in her, especially since she's toting around Adam and his penis. She might want to protect Reid, but she needs to protect Adam. Besides, she knows Adam's the one Reid really identifies with, wants to talk to. It's enough to give a girl a complex.
Adam Jackson is her best friend, her brother, her self. She'll never leave him, never betray him, never put him second. Choosing between Spencer and Adam isn't a choice at all. She's already made her decision. It's time to go.
Amanda slips off the bed, steps into her shoes, stands over Doctor Reid. His face looks tense even in sleep. If he even is sleeping. Reid lies so often he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. He's a good liar, but Amanda's better. She's had a lot more practice.
She could take the plastic bag, put it over Reid's head and pull, pull, pull. It wouldn't be an act of anger or revenge. This isn't about Adam's father or the jock assholes who treated him like shit. This would be an act of kindness, her first one for someone other than Adam.
Amanda sighs. No, she can't kill Doctor Reid. She won't. She's done killing. For now, anyway. Maybe even for good. She bends down, kisses the agent's forehead.
Spencer opens his eyes. He blinks up at her. He looks disorientingly like Adam after Mark let him out of that fucking closet. It makes her feel...she's not sure. Not sad, exactly. Uncomfortable. Wary. All at once the room is too claustrophobic, too dark.
"Adam?" Doctor Reid's voice is a whisper.
Amanda manages a smirk. "That's right. Adam is totally gay for you."
Reid doesn't smile. He doesn't laugh. He simply slides his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up. He knows. That's what makes it so dangerous to be around Doctor Reid. He always knows more than he lets on.
"You're leaving." It's not even a question.
"Yes."
He exhales slowly. "Good." He sounds relieved.
Reid pulls his wallet from the little table tucked between the beds, pulls out a handful of hundred dollar bills.
Amanda stares at him. "Jesus, have you been robbing banks too?"
"Take it," Reid says. "You'll need money to get started. And this." He lifts his messenger bag from the floor, rummages inside. He hands her a cell phone. "This is a disposable cell. I programmed my number in it, and my e-mail. If you need me, call or write."
She can't figure out how she's supposed to respond to his generosity, so she simply says: "Thank you."
They look at each other.
In light of Reid's generosity, Amanda decides to be honest. "I'm going to steal your car," she tells him. "Just so you know."
Reid hands her the keys, as if people ask for his car every day. "Fine. But my recommendation is you return it to Hertz. Then take a cab to the bus station. Buy a bus ticket to wherever you want to go, Colorado, Montana, someplace that's not South Padre Island, okay? They won't be able to trace you if you pay cash."
"Okay."
"I know you don't want to hear this, but let Adam do most of the traveling. The authorities are looking for you, not him."
"I know. We'll be okay."
Spencer nods. "Good."
She regards Reid curiously. "Will you?"
"I'll be fine," he says. This time, his smile looks almost real.
She's already wearing Adam's clothes, there's nothing to pack. She drops the phone in the bag, pockets the cash, carries the keys. Amanda wonders if she's supposed to hug Reid, or shake his hand. She decides to skip the emotional crap altogether and heads for the door.
"Amanda?"
She hesitates, hand on the knob.
"Good luck to both of you. Uh, tell Adam, okay?"
"He knows, Doctor Reid," she says, and turns the handle.
And then she's outside, the night air cool against her neck. The world is waiting.
* * *
Reid spends the rest of the night dozing fitfully.
He wakes to the sound of crying, runs his fingers over his face, unsure if the tears are his. Spencer's skin is dry; the tears belong to someone else. Reid hasn't cried since his mother died.
Around 3:00 a.m., Spencer pulls the shade off the bedside lamp. The bare bulb's light shines sharp as glass. It cuts through the darkness of the room, but not what's inside Reid. He stares at the bulb until his vision is filled with a flickering white globe. Every time he blinks there's a perfect moon. He stares at the light until the moon is too big to fit in his head, until he's dizzy. Until his eyes water. That's as close as he gets to crying.
Reid thinks about dilaudid, wonders if he misses it, if he even wants it. Would it help? Reid decides he's already numb enough. Besides, he needs to think clearly. If he wants to stay ahead of the police, of Hotch and the FBI, he can't afford any missteps. Or comfort. The dilaudid made him feel better, and that forgiving warmth is last thing he deserves.
Just before dawn Reid slips back into sleep. He dreams of Jamie Kingford.
Again.
* * *
Adam sits in the very back of the bus. There are empty seats on either side of him.
They're on their way to Kalispell, Montana. It's one-third the size of Corpus Christi, but close enough to tourist attractions to have decent hotels. Adam doesn't care where he works; a hotel, restaurant, tourist trap. All he needs is a little income and a place to sleep.
The headaches have stopped. Adam figures this is because he's finally accepted (acknowledged) Amanda. She's sitting next to him, legs crossed, arms folded. She exudes boredom.
Adam knows better.
"While you work your sad, menial job, I'm going to study psychology. Maybe take some classes. You would not believe the messed up shit people have wrong with their brains."
Adam gives her a withering look. "I have an idea."
"Don't be so bitchy. I told you once we get settled we'll send the flowers. Chill, dude."
"I just feel bad," Adam says. He flicks a quick look at Amanda. She looks so much like him, but her eyes are colder, her expression harder. Her smile mocks unless it's aimed at him. Adam bows his head. "Are you...are you even sorry?" he asks her.
Amanda frowns, taps her hand against the seat. "I'm sorry I hurt someone you liked. It wasn't something I planned, Adam. She threatened you and...I reacted." She leans back against the seat; the headrest turns her pink barrette sideways. "You miss Julie because she was nice to you. She reminded you of your mom. But you don't need her, Adam. You're stronger than you think."
Adam's mouth quirks. "But I need you?"
"You bet your ass you need me."
Adam chuckles. He leans back so their shoulders touch. He pulls the pen from his pocket, writes thank you on his arm.
Amanda plucks the pen from his hand, writes back along her wrist: You're welcome.
* * *
Spencer walks to the gas station across the street to get coffee. He buys an apple as well, takes a few bites on the way back to the motel. It tastes like chemicals and grass, which is how most food tastes to Reid now. But the coffee is hot and bitter. It tastes like anger.
Rockford, Illinois feels far enough from Texas and Quantico for him to stop running for a few days. He'll pick up another car by the end of the week, as soon as he decides on his next...project. By Saturday he can probably risk calling Nathan, have him do a little research.
Garcia should have his letter by now. He can't tell if he feels better for writing it or not. His emotions have flattened out, melted together. Everything feels like the same gray nothing. There's a term for it: loss of affect. Reid's no longer with the BAU, but at least his psychology degree won't go to waste. He can always diagnose himself.
Reid's almost back to the motel when the door next to his opens. A rumpled looking man emerges. He's in his mid- to late thirties. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them red and puffy. It's obvious this is the man who's been crying. He has greasy red hair, his face is waxy looking and stubbled. He's wearing a khaki jacket and worn jeans. Reid's not sure if the jacket is military or not. The man turns to shut the door behind him and Spencer glimpses a patch on the shoulder. There's a red number one, skull and crossbones, some stars. It's the patch for the First Reconnaissance Marines.
The man mutters to himself; he's clutching a crumpled newspaper clipping in one hand. The way he holds his head, always listening, the way his eyes track the deserted courtyard, Reid recognizes the signs. Spencer saw them in Ted Bryar. And his mother. The man appears to have some kind of schizo-affective disorder.
Reid stands in the potholed parking lot, watching. Waiting.
The man spots Reid and walks toward him, then runs. He holds the paper out, his face hopeful and desperate at the same time. The stranger reminds Reid vaguely of Detective Lewis, he has the same pale blue eyes, the same lines around his mouth.
"Have you seen my daughter?" The man asks, shoving the paper at Reid. "This is her. She's missing."
Reid looks at the proffered newspaper clipping. There's a black and white photo, two columns of print. The page has been handled and folded so many times, most of the text has worn away. The photo is indistinct, nothing but shadows.
"Her name is Sophie," the man continues, eyes boring into Reid's face. That's when Reid understands the man isn't just desperate, he's terrified.
"What's your name?" Reid asks gently.
"Keane. William Keane." While he talks to Reid, the man's eyes scan the street, the gas station, the parked cars, constantly searching for threats. For his daughter. For something.
William Keane stinks of sweat and stale french fries. He stands too close to Reid, oblivious to the younger man's personal space. His breath smells like liquor and mint. There are fresh scabs along Keane's knuckles. Keane squints, looks over his shoulder, cocks his head, looks back at Reid. William Keane is the kind of man most people avoid. He's the kind of man people don't remember because they don't want to see him in the first place.
Spencer Reid isn't most people.
"William," Reid says, "my name is Spencer Reid. I'm sorry, but I haven't seen your daughter."
Keane's face contorts and he drops his gaze to the ground. He runs a hand helplessly through his hair again and again. A car backfires a few streets away and Keane flinches, shakes his head. The agony on Keane's face strikes a chord within Reid. Spencer understands loss. He's become an expert.
Reid's already decided to stay in Rockford a few more days. Adam and Amanda are gone, hopefully heading for a new start. No one knows where Spencer is. Maybe he has time to help Keane. Maybe he wants to help Keane.
Reid puts a hand on William's shoulder. "Just because I haven't seen her doesn't mean she's not here. I'm an FBI Agent, Mr. Keane." Reid keeps his voice calm, his body language nonthreatening. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
Keane wipes his face with a sleeve and stares at Reid, clearly shocked.
"You're...you're with the FBI?"
""That's right." Reid points toward the motel. "I'm staying in the room next to yours. Why don't you come in and tell me what happened to Sophie."
Keane nods eagerly, eyes wide. "Okay." He sounds subdued. "I'll tell you everything. Just help me find her. Please, please help me find her."
Reid unlocks the door, gestures Keane inside. He has no idea if he can help Keane or not. Reid's not even sure helping Keane is the point of inviting him in. Keane's awkward, stuttering speech, his nervous tics, they all remind Reid of his mother. Reid can't resist the familiarity.
There's a strange sense of pressure in Reid's chest, a kind of lifting. At last, an emotion he recognizes.
It's not hope.
It's something better: excitement.