Dark Side of the Moon 1/2
Title: Dark Side of the Moon 1/2
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.
Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.
~Mark Twain
There is a great streak of violence in every human being.
If it is not channeled and understood, it will break out in war or in madness.
~Sam Peckinpah
A noise.
Mark Harrison opens his eyes, listens, still half asleep. His first thought is, that little asshole's back. But no. The little freak's locked up. What had he heard then? A dripping faucet, a squeaky floorboard? Harrison rolls over, scratches his substantial belly, yawns.
There it is again.
Now he sits up, fully awake.
It's a footstep. Soft. Close.
Harrison is too pissed to be scared. Whoever this fuck creeping around his house is, they're gonna be fucking sorry. He reaches under his pillow, pulls out the long butcher knife. Huh. Maybe it is Adam sneaking around. Maybe he broke out of the loony bin. A slow smile twists his lips. God, he hopes so. He would love to teach that useless little shit a lesson.
The light snaps on so suddenly Harrison nearly drops the knife. Shit. He blinks, swings his legs over the side of the bed. This is it. Somebody's gonna fucking pay.
He blinks some more, until the thin figure in the doorway swims into focus. Not Adam, then. Harris actually feels disappointed. But whoever this fuck is, he looks a little like Adam. He looks just as gay and spaced out and weak-ass.
Harrison is so busy deciding how he's going to gut this junkie asshole he doesn't even notice the gun. Not until the safety clicks off.
Suddenly, the knife feels a lot less substantial in his hand.
"Who are you?" he grunts. He is not afraid of this punk asshole.
"My name is Spencer Reid," the punk asshole says. He speaks in a low, whispery voice. He sounds like a fucking faggot. There's no way he'll pull the trigger. No fucking way.
"I don't have no money," Harrison says. Although he's got a sock full of hundred dollar bills stashed in the bureau. No need to bring that up.
"I'm not here to rob you." The fag sounds calm. Then, incredibly, he says, "Say you're sorry." There's a little ice in the kid's voice now. Less whisper.
Harrison stares. Sorry for what? Who the fuck does this Reid asshole think he is? "I ain't sorry for shit."
The freak just stands there. See how calm the fucker is when he's got a knife jammed between his ribs.
"You owe Adam an apology."
Harrison laughs. Well there you fucking go. This guy is one of his retard stepson's friends. He's probably just as crazy as Adam. Well, fuck this shit.
"I don't owe that shithead nothin'." Harrison tightens his grip on the knife, points the blade toward the hallway. "Get the fuck out of my house."
"I can't."
Jesus. This freak gives him the creeps. He just stands there, staring, no expression. Maybe he's mental or something. Maybe he's from the loony bin.
Mark Harrison's lip curls. "And why's that?"
"Because I'm here to kill you."
Harrison laughs harshly. Christ, that's a good one. Adam's always been a weak little fuck. Adam had the chance to kill him and couldn't even go through with it. Come to think of it, isn't this the guy who talked Adam down? What is this, some kind of sick joke? "You don't got the balls, asshole."
Spencer Reid doesn't argue. He lets the revolver speak for him.
* * *
Special Agent Spencer Reid is waiting for her. She has no idea why. It's been months since his last visit. Why he thinks she'll let him talk to Adam now is beyond her. Nothing's changed. Nothing ever will. She scuffs into Doctor Roberts' office in her pink slippers. Amanda loves the color pink. It's the only thing she loves besides Adam.
Everything else is shit. Adam's stepfather, the police, social workers, that bitch from the hotel, those fucking assholes she killed, therapy, even Doctor Roberts. Roberts treats her with dignity and respect which is a nice change of pace, but it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't change the past. Don't they understand the meds just make it easier for her to keep Adam locked away?
Amanda's doing this for his own good. The world has treated Adam like shit his whole life. She's the only one strong enough to keep him safe. To protect him. She isn't punishing Adam, she's saving him. She's tried to communicate that to Reid, but all he ever does is stare at her with his big sad doe eyes.
Okay, if she's being honest, Agent Reid isn't complete shit. He does seem to genuinely care about Adam. And it's not like she's got a line of other visitors just dying to see her. Her day is filled with her sessions with Roberts, a lot of bullshit therapy, sleep, and meds. For a while there, she also had regular visits from Agent Reid.
The interesting thing about Reid is, despite his insufferable earnestness and his naive sense of justice, he doesn't treat Amanda like a freak. He talks to her like she's a regular person. It's kind of refreshing. She'd much rather talk to Adam, but Reid makes a tolerable second choice. It's kind of funny how she and Reid both prefer Adam to each other.
But the man standing in Doctor Roberts' office, barely resembles the federal agent she remembers. This man looks ill, malnourished. His eyes are red-rimmed, like they're infected, or he hasn't slept in days. Or he's spent the last week crying. He has a spectacularly bad hair cut and he's wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Most troubling of all, he's got a book tucked under his arm and she can read the title: King James Bible.
Great. Now he's not just trying to save Adam, he's trying to save her soul.
She drops onto the couch, crosses her legs demurely. "Pardon my candor," she says, "but you look like shit."
"Is every thing okay?" Doctor Roberts asks, glancing up from her notes.
Reid smiles. It makes his face look like a skull. Amanda looks down at her long pink fingernails. She'd rather look at them than Reid's face. He looks like he's been in a fucking concentration camp.
Something's going on, but she's not sure what.
Amanda does what she's best at. She watches. She waits.
"Just fine," Agent Reid tells Roberts. "It's been a while and I wanted to talk to Amanda for a few minutes. And maybe, if you'll let me, to Adam."
Amanda shakes her head. Her answer is immediate. She injects boredom into her voice. Sick or not, Reid should know better. "No." She smiles sweetly. "You're stuck with me, Doctor Reid."
"I'll give you half an hour," Roberts says. She returns to her paperwork, providing the illusion of privacy. Bitch.
Reid opens the Bible and Amanda sighs dramatically, leans her head back against the couch. "I'm really not interested," she says.
Reid's mouth curves into something that looks like a smile, but isn't. "I'm not interested in your disinterest."
Amanda turns to look at him. There's something unfamiliar in his voice. Something sharp. Something hard. It's interesting.
"Do you know the book of Psalms?" He flips the Bible open. He has a page marked. "Are you familiar with Psalm 23?"
She rolls her eyes. "Are you familiar with my utter disdain?"
Reid sets the Bible on her lap, wraps a thin hand around her wrist. He's never touched her before. It's disconcerting. His hand is ice cold. His voice is low. And deceptive. He speaks calmly, but there's steel inside each word. "Please read the passage to yourself. Think about what it says."
Amanda sighs, glances at the bottom of the page. She frowns. She looks at Reid. He shakes his head, taps the page. Amanda reads the words again.
"I'm afraid I have some news," Reid tells her. "Some news you might find unsettling. I brought the Bible so you could find comfort."
It takes a few tries for Amanda to form the words. "What...news?"
"Mark Harrison is dead."
The doctor looks up. "What?"
Amanda blinks. Everything feels very slow. She is aware her right slipper has fallen off her foot. Reid is watching her. His face is the color of chalk. His eyes shine in the lamplight. Amanda's right hand begins to shake. Then her left.
* * *
The Bible slides off Amanda's lap. She staggers to her feet, arms jittering. Her head tilts back, her eyes roll. She tips sideways, falls into Reid.
Reid feels no panic. He is perfectly calm. Fear has no point. The dead aren't afraid. Yet sweat pours off him. He pushes the hair off his clammy forehead. He can see now he should have worn short sleeves. Reid lowers Amanda carefully to the floor. He pulls a pillow from the couch, slides it beneath her head. Roberts is already coming around the desk, eyes wide. She doesn't look calm.
Reid puts a hand to Amanda's neck. "There's a pulse, but it's weak. Call 911. I'm--I'm not sure what's wrong."
"You should have told me about Mark Harrison," Roberts snaps, half angry, half reproachful.
"I'm sorry," Reid says. He weaves remorse through his words, offers them again. "I'm sorry."
Amanda's making a choking noise in her throat now, a strange gasping sound. He's never heard anything like it. It doesn't sound good.
Reid pulls up the information he has stored on seizures. More than 2 million people in the United States--about 1 in 100--have experienced an unprovoked seizure or been diagnosed with epilepsy. Up to 5% of the world's population may have a single seizure at some time in their lives.
Roberts punches three buttons on her phone. "This is Doctor Ticona Roberts from Nueces Community Mental Health Center. One of my patients is suffering from--from some kind of seizure. We need an ambulance right away. She's breathing, but it sounds like she's, ah, having trouble." There's a pause. "No, she's unconscious." Then, to Reid: "Is she unconscious?"
Reid shakes Amanda's shoulder gently. Nothing. He shakes again. Her eyes fluttery briefly, but there's no other response. "She's out," Reid says.
Spencer is on his knees at Amanda's side. He rests one hand on her arm. (Adam's arm.) Reid's bad leg hurts. His head aches. He focuses on the the words in his head rather than what's happening around him. There are more than 30 different types of seizures. Seizures are divided into two major categories: partial seizures and generalized seizures. Within these two broad categories, there are many kinds of seizures. Amanda looks like she's having a tonic-clonic seizure. Tonic-clonic seizures have a host of symptoms, including stiffening of the body and repeated jerks of the arms and/or legs as well as loss of consciousness. Once upon a time, tonic-clonic seizures were known as grand mal seizures.
Reid had a seizure once. Charles Hankel stood over him, watched him die. Reid's holding Amanda's hand, but he's still dead on the floor of that cabin.
Doctor Roberts is back on the phone. "Come on, come on," she whispers, impatient. She slams the receiver down. "Dammit, there's no answer."
Reid looks over his shoulder. "What?"
"Someone needs to ride with her and--"
"I'll do it," Reid says instantly. "I'm a federal agent, I can accompany her to the hospital, make sure everything goes smoothly. I'll have the attending at the hospital contact you." He leans backward, snags one of the business cards from her desk. "Do you have my cell number?"
Roberts flips open a file, nods. "Yes."
Reid smiles. He tries to convey a sense of competence, of control. "Okay, then."
Amanda's finally stopped making the gagging noise. Her head rolls to one side.
"How long until the ambulance gets here?" Reid's voice cracks but he's not sure why. Maybe his body is taking on the stress his mind no longer feels. It's just as well. It makes him sound worried.
"I don't know. Five minutes, maybe less." Roberts chews nervously at her lower lip, heads for the door. "I'll go meet them, show them the way here. Hopefully it won't be long."
"Good idea," Reid says. Mostly because he wants Roberts out of the room. He exhales slowly, closes his eyes. He counts to five, then ten, then twenty. When he opens his eyes, Ticona Roberts is gone.
Amanda's eyes remain closed. Reid waits. His stomach tilts, drifts. He imagines his internal organs as the inside of a lava lamp, shapeless blobs floating up and down. He smiles. If Doctor Roberts had seen that look, she wouldn't have left Reid in her office.
Once they're in the ambulance, everything will be okay. Reid is not sure he believes this, but he tries to. His hand strays to the silver chain around his neck, the ring that hangs from it. His stomach settles at once. He's not alone.
Almost immediately, voices and the clatter of wheels sound from the hallway. Two blue-shirted EMTs enter Roberts' office, a gurney between them.
They check Amanda's vitals, declare her heart rate elevated, blood pressure normal.
"That's a good sign, right?" Roberts looks to Reid for confirmation. He gives her a tentative nod.
The paramedics don't reply. They're busy loading Amanda onto the gurney. They work carefully. Slowly. The EMT who adjusts the velcro straps over Amanda's chest and legs is a woman in her mid-thirties. She wears an expression that indicates she is not particularly enthused to be treating someone who has been confined in a psychiatric hospital. Her blond hair is pulled into a neat ponytail. Her name tag reads Walker. Walker studies the wig atop Amanda's head. She looks at her partner, frowns. "The 911 call said this patient was female," she says flatly.
"His name is Adam Harris," Doctor Roberts tells Walker. "He's 27 years old and suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. When the seizure started he was Amanda. Amanda has been Adam's dominant personality for the last ten months. I...I think of Amanda as female."
The second EMT, a guy who looks a little like Morgan, only with more hair and a mustache scribbles notes. His name tag reads Hall.
Roberts hands Hall a slip of paper. "These are Adam's current medications and the respective dosage."
Hall takes the paper, slips it into his front shirt pocket. He nods to Walker and they wheel Amanda out at a good clip. Reid follows. He has the Bible in one hand, the other hovers over his holster. It's habit.
They load Amanda into the back of the ambulance, Reid climbs in afterward. He's ridden in ambulances plenty of times. After Hankel. When he was exposed to anthrax. When he was shot. This is his first ride as a passenger and not the patient.
Walker's in back with Reid and Amanda, Hall drives. Spencer watches out the window as the blocks go by. One, two, three, four. The siren whoops. Red light tints the twilight outside. Okay, far enough.
Reid pulls his revolver from the holster. Walker's eyes go big. "What?" she says, as if Reid's just said something and she's hard of hearing.
"Turn left at the stoplight," Reid instructs Hall in a clear voice. "Or I'll shoot your partner." Spencer meets the man's eyes in the rear view mirror. "I'll also shoot you if you radio for help."
"Look," Hall says, "you don't have to kill nobody. I'm turning, okay? I'm turning."
"I didn't say I'd kill you," Reid explains patiently. "I said I'd shoot you. I'll even tell you where: the knee. As paramedics I'm guessing you know there are three bones in the knee, plus all that cartilage. I can tell you from first-hand experience, you don't want to get shot in the knee. Not unless you really enjoy pain and find months of physical therapy something to look forward to."
Hall makes the turn. "Now where?"
"You know where McKinley Park is?"
"Yeah."
"Pull into the lot, turn the vehicle off."
Walker puts a hand to her face. Tears leak from her eyes.
Amanda pulls at the velcro, sits up. "Stop crying," she says irritably. "He already said he wouldn't kill you."
* * *
Walker looks from Amanda to Reid. Her eyes look like they're about to pop right out of her face. Dumb cow.
Amanda slides off the gurney, yanks the blood pressure cuff from her arm, tosses it onto the floor. She sits on the metal bench across from Reid. They look at each other.
"So," Amanda says, "You certainly know how to get a girl's attention."
"You did a nice job," Reid says quietly. As if she got an A on a book report or parallel parked for the first time, instead of faking her way through a seizure.
She rolls her eyes, holds out a hand. "Can I see that?" She gestures to the Bible.
Reid throws it to her. She catches the book effortlessly, flips it open to where a small square of paper is taped to the lower half of the page. Sure enough, the words are still there. Written in Reid's cramped handwriting is the following message:
Read this carefully. Adam's stepfather is dead. When I tell you this aloud, you need to fake a seizure. Earn an Academy Award. I will get you out of here. You don't have to trust me, Adam already does. This is for him.
She lifts an eyebrow. "Well? Do I get my Academy Award?"
One corner of Reid's mouth edges upward. "No. Just your freedom." The corner drops back down. "And Adam's."
Amanda turns to look out the window. "A park? Now what?"
Reid shakes his head. "Just wait."
Hall pulls into a parking space across from a set of swings and a basketball court.
Agent Reid presses the gun to the back of Hall's head. "Get up. Slowly. Come back here. I don't want to shoot you, but understand that I will."
Hall obeys. Reid instructs both EMTs to sit on the floor, their faces to the wall. They do. Walker is still crying. Hall is silent. Reid pulls a small role of duct tape from his pocket. He holds it out to Amanda. "Can you please bind their wrists?"
Amanda takes the tape. She feels like she's dreaming. Did goody goody FBI Special Agent Doctor Reid really just bust her out of Nueces Community Center? What the fuck is going on? If she is dreaming, at least it's an interesting dream. She takes the tape, wraps it around the woman's wrists multiple times, then the man's. There's no way they'll be able to rip through it without some kind of blade. Once they're bound, Reid pulls off two strips of tape, places one over each of their mouths.
"I'm sorry," Reid says. "And I thank you for your cooperation." To Amanda: "We have to go."
They exit the ambulance together. Reid grabs her arm, directs them past a small copse of trees, a pavilion, and to a navy blue Chevy Malibu parked on the opposite side of the park. It's fully dark now. Reid unlocks the car, motions Amanda inside. Reid pulls a bag from the backseat, yanks off his grandpa sweater vest, tie, button-up shirt. From inside the car, Amanda watches the agent pull on a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a black hoodie. She gapes when he pulls off his slacks and stands there in his boxers. She scans the street for traffic. There is none.
It's not like she gives a shit about Reid's body, or his clothes switcharoo. It's a good move, actually. It's just that, there's a federal agent outside her window who seems to be having some kind of breakdown. Amanda hates most people, has little compunction about killing, and has been diagnosed with sociopathic tendencies. But even she knows not to strip down to her underwear in public. But Reid's already pulling on a pair of jeans, stepping into tennis shoes. He slams the back door, runs around to the front. He slides behind the wheel, starts the car.
He checks the rear view, drives cautiously. No jack rabbit starts for Agent Reid, no speeding. Jesus, he doesn't even seem freaked out. Don't normal people panic when they're in the middle of committing a crime? Amanda's pretty sure Adam would be freaking the fuck out if he was here.
She watches Reid's profile while he drives. Street lights glide past. His face goes in and out of shadow. She leans back in the seat, folds her arms. Waits. God, she needs a cigarette.
Reid turns on the CD player. Some kind of classical elevator music wafts out of the speakers.
Amanda reaches out, turns the music back off.
Reid looks at her.
She expects annoyance or anger. She expects something but all she gets is Reid's blank stare.
"Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or am I supposed to guess? Because I haven't seen you in five months, and then you waltz in out of the blue with this weird TV bullshit scenario to get me out of Nueces." She holds up a hand. "Not that I'm complaining. But we aren't exactly friends, you and me. I don't like you, and you might think Adam trusts you, but guess what. Adam isn't here right now. I am. And I don't trust you."
Reid pulls onto a busy street, signals to merge onto State Highway 37.
"So...what? Now you're kidnapping me?" A thought dawns on her. "Wait a minute. Is this some fucked up way to get to Adam? Is Harrison even dead?" She glares at the side of Reid's face. Christ, she wishes she had some rope and a plastic bag. Or a blade. She could carve the truth out of him then.
"Harrison is dead," Reid says.
"And how do you know that?"
"Because I killed him."
Reid turns to look at her. It's a quick look. But it's long enough to see his eyes, to know he's telling the truth.
"W-what?" She's stunned. The anger is gone. It's replaced with surprise. Curiosity. And jealousy. Some part of her had always hoped she'd kill that fucker for what he did to Adam and his mom.
"I want to get as much distance between us and that ambulance as possible. I'm taking us to Fort Worth, then we'll see. I'm tired, Amanda. I need to concentrate on driving, because if we get pulled over, we're done. I know you have questions--I know you do. And I'll answer them soon, I promise. I just...I just want you to know that Adam is safe now." Reid's voice goes up a little, like he's asking a question. "You're safe. I still want to talk to Adam, but if you don't want me to, if you want to keep him hidden for the rest of your life I can't stop you. But you don't have a reason to hide him anymore."
Reid holds the steering wheel in his right hand while he talks, fiddles with a some kind of necklace with his left. When he lapses into silence Amanda lets him.
She doesn't know what to think. Or say. How could Doctor Reid kill Mark Harrison when he begged her not to? Reid could be lying--all men lie--but she doesn't think Reid's lying about this. If he's telling the truth, that means he killed Harrison for Adam. Maybe...maybe even for her.
She frowns out the window. No one's ever given her that kind of gift before.
* * *
He drives.
Amanda is quiet beside him. He can't quite believe she's really here, that he got her out so easily. That he might finally find Adam. Adam's body is right there. Reid can reach out and touch his arm if he wants. Reid can touch him, but he can't reach him. Sometimes, when Reid checks the rear view mirror to change lanes, he catches a glimpse of blond hair. He thinks Tobias, but he's never there. It's just a trick of the light. There's nothing in the backseat but his bag and an endless supply of guilt.
Reid rubs his thumb over the Latin words stenciled around his mother's ring. The ring lies to him, but his mother never did. He tries not to think about her. If he looks at the size of his loss, really looks at it, he's liable to cross the center lane and drive head on into another car. He can only take in his mother's absence around the edges. If he lets himself see the whole (hole) of his life without her, well. It's best not to go there.
His stomach growls. He forgot to eat. Again. He ignores the discomfort. Spencer ignores most things now. It's easy to ignore things that no longer matter. It's amazing just how many things don't matter: food, sleep, friends, the BAU, his college degrees, love, hope, laughter.
The one thing Reid still clings to is the power of statistics, the safety of numbers. Numbers don't die, facts don't leave. He rolls data through his head the way some people finger the beads of a rosary. The Dutch name for the orange is Chinese Apple. Sparrows can fly up to 19 mph. Approximately 7.7 million American adults age 18 and older--about 3.5 percent of people in this age group--have PTSD. Beethoven composed his first symphony in 1800, when he was 30 years old. As many as 98% to 99% of individuals who develop dissociative disorders have personal histories of recurring traumatic incidents before the age of nine. Hot peppers, horseradish and wasabi all release more endorphins than chocolate. Numbers don't call you names, facts don't tie you to a goal post.
Reid knows more, understands more than every teacher he's ever had. He has the fourth highest IQ in the United States. He knows almost everything, yet he knows absolutely nothing. Because none of the knowledge stored inside his head makes him feel better. None of it equals Diana Reid.
Spencer follows the speed limit. He uses the directional signals. He takes the first exit across the Oklahoma border to let Amanda use a gas station rest room. He buys a hamburger and reluctantly, cigarettes for Amanda. He buys coffee for himself. They're back on the road in less than ten minutes.
The moon has been whittled away. A lone sliver hangs high above the tree tops. It hangs like bone on fishing line, like the bone chimes that hung on Crazy Jane's porch. Spencer spent years studying constellations, looking for answers in the night sky. He looks now, at this scalloped moon, for his mother. For some sign she is somewhere--that she still exists outside of an urn of ashes and a silver ring. Reid doesn't believe in God or hell or heaven.
But now, while Amanda sleeps in the passenger seat and tail lights glow like eyes, he hopes there is a heaven. If anyone deserves to be in a better place, it's Diana Reid. Isn't that what Amanda said about Adam? He was in a better place? If that's true, what right does Reid have to pull him out of it?
* * *
"'Night buddy," Hotch whispers, and kisses Jack's forehead.
Jack beams up at his father. He's all smiles and tousled hair. He smells faintly of Play-doh and toothpaste. "Goodnight Daddy."
"I'll see you in the morning, okay?"
"Not if I see you first!" Jack giggles like he's just told the world's best joke.
Hotch grins at his son, winks.
He shuts the door and walks out to the living room, chest tight with love. Aaron Hotchner reminds himself he's a lucky man despite everything that's happened. Haley might be gone, but Jack's not. His beautiful, wonderful son.
Hotch sits down at his desk, pulls up his personal e-mail. He has a message from Penelope reminding him to "friend" her on Facebook. He sighs. Hotch considers himself fairly computer literate, but the last thing he needs is to stumble around on some social networking site. Next thing you know she'll be trying to get him to Tweet or Twit or whatever you call it.
Hotch rubs the back of his neck. He doesn't blame Garcia. He knows the real reason she's sending him e-mails. She wants to know if he's heard anything about Reid without coming right out and asking.
Work is a nightmare. Strauss is meeting with the whole team. Today she met with Hotch, Morgan, and Garcia. Garcia broke down in tears. Hotch walked out on his superior after she reprimanded him for hiring "an unsub in waiting." Aaron didn't bother mentioning Jason Gideon hired Reid. He simply got up, walked out. It was the highlight of his day.
Strauss can pretend Reid was an usub waiting to happen from the start, but they both know that's bullshit. Hotch knows Reid. Or at least, he thought he did. He knew the Reid that existed before Diana Reid was murdered. The person Reid is now? Hotch has no idea who that is.
The fact that Reid tracked down Jamie Kingford and killed him terrifies Hotch. Not just because Ried broke the law, not just because Spencer Reid killed a man out of anger and not self defense, but because Spencer found Kingford by himself. What else is Reid capable of? He doesn't need the rest of the team to identify and track an unsub...but they need him.
Reid's not using his laptop, his cell phone is gone, he's not using credit cards. He's effectively removed any way for Garcia to trace him. It's been four days since Reid killed Kingford and they're no closer to finding him now than they were then.
Hotch pushes back from his computer, drops his head into his hands. He is afraid for Reid. He's afraid Spencer will kill himself. Or be killed by some overzealous cop. Or, God forbid, by some other unsub Reid has tracked down. Hotch is afraid Reid is in the middle of a psychotic break. If Hotch can find Reid first, get him some help, maybe this whole mess can end well. Or at least less bad. With Reid's history, the torture, PTSD, the drugs, Diana's gruesome murder, Hotch can't believe Spencer will actually go to prison. As an FBI agent, he'd be killed. If only they could find him before this gets any worse.
Aaron's cell rings. He wants it to be Reid. It's not. He doesn't recognize the number, but it's a Texas area code. His calls are being forwarded from the office, so his answer is all business.
"Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner."
"Agent Hotchner? This is Doctor Ticona Roberts. I--I think one of your agents has just kidnapped a patient from my facility."
* * *
Movement.
The steady thrum of an engine.
The sound of music, low and melancholy. Something classical. Mozart? Beethoven?
Adam opens his eyes, tries not to panic. He's in a car. He keeps still. Keeping still is always the key. If you stay still he won't see you. Won't hear you. If you're invisible he can't hurt you. He can't touch you.
He moves his eyes, not his head. He is very careful. He almost gives away the fact he's awake when he sees who's driving. It's not Mark. It's Agent Reid, the FBI agent who kept talking about wanting to help him. Has he been arrested then?
Shit. He has no idea what's happening. The last thing he remembers is--
No.
He doesn't want to remember.
He killed people. He pushed Julie off the roof. No, it wasn't him, it was someone else, someone inside him, his other self. Her. She did it. But his hands pushed Julie. He is culpable. (Guilty.)
He wants to tell Julie he's sorry. What if she's dead?
Please no. Please not that.
God, he wants a smoke.
He should have jumped off the roof. He should have jumped off the roof when he had the chance.
Adam tries to sort through the jumble of confusing images inside his head. At least the headache is gone. The pain has been replaced by fear and confusion. He remembers a black woman with a kind smile. A glimpse of Agent Reid standing beside a mirror. Pink slippers. Amanda's voice in his ear promising to protect him no matter what.
But she's gone now. Relief rushes through him, wide and giddy. Followed by a slow, crippling dread. Does this mean he doesn't need protecting? Did she leave him like his mother did?
He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything.
He's wearing fake fingernails. He peels them off, throws them on the floor. It hurts when they come off. Not much. Not enough. He reaches up, feels the wig on his head. He pulls that off too. He no longer cares if Reid knows he's here. He needs help. He needs to know what's happening.
"Adam?" Reid pulls the car over to the shoulder of the highway, idling.
Reid stares at Adam like he's a ghost. Adam feels lost, transparent, far away, so maybe he is.
"What's going on?" Adam demands. "Where are we? Where's Julie? Is she okay?" Adam's voice cracks. There's a pack of Newports between the seats. He grabs the pack, pulls a cigarette out with shaking fingers. He flicks the plastic yellow lighter, inhales. Okay. That's better. That's better.
"I'm sorry I didn't realize," Reid tells him. "I'm sorry I didn't see the signs until it was too late. I should have known you had Dissociative Identity disorder. I've seen it before, I should have known."
Adam presses his back against the car door. "What's that?"
"It used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder. You have another personality, Adam. An alter."
Adam tries to think. It's hard. His brain feels like mud. "Amanda?"
"Yes."
"And you're arresting me? For what I did to Julie?" Hot tears leak from Adam's eyes. Fuck, this can't be happening. This isn't real. "And those frat guys?"
"You didn't do anything," Reid says. His voice is steel. "Amanda did, not you. You're not under arrest. You've spent the last ten months in a hospital. Amanda, she--she kept you hidden. I just broke her out." Reid shakes his head, like he's amazed. "And now you're here."
Adam concentrates on the cigarette because the agent's words make no sense. He looks at Reid through a veil of smoke.
He can barely get the words out his throat, but he has to know. "Is Julie...I mean, is she still--"
"She's alive," Reid says. "She's alive and she's okay."
Adam leans forward, desperate to believe Reid's words. "Really? She's okay?"
Reid's gaze slides away. "She's in a wheelchair, Adam. But she's back working at the Hudson Street Hotel." A pause. "She doesn't blame you."
Adam starts to cry. "I blame me! Oh, shit. Shit. I can't believe I did that. I owe her everything. Oh, God." He fumbles for the door handle, half falls out of the car. He stumbles to the grassy embankment, drops to his knees, retches.
There's movement beside him, a hand touches his shoulder. Adam flinches, but it's just Reid. The agent crouches beside him, hands him a paper napkin.
"Thank you," Adam rasps. "I just--I don't know why she did it. Why would Amanda hurt Julie?"
"Because you're Amanda's first priority. She didn't want you to get caught. She didn't want Julie to turn you in. She wanted to kill Mark Harrison for you."
More images. His stepfather standing over him, belt in hand. The sound of his arm breaking when he was seven, the pain. Mark burning his back with cigarettes if he doesn't put the dress on. Mark forcing him face down on the bed, the beatings, the nights he was locked in the basement. Some if it's hard to remember, it feels like Mark was doing those things to someone else, and now, Adam realizes, he was.
Adam vomits again. He doesn't want to remember, he can't. He needs to keep the door closed. If he opens it, he might remember more (he might see the body on the floor of the closet).
He covers his face, still crying. He's disgusting, he's weak and horrible and a fucking failure. He doesn't deserve Amanda, he doesn't deserve anything. He closes his eyes and Mark's face looms, the smile that cuts worse than the belt.
Adam starts rocking. Reid's hand is still on his shoulder. "I still see it," Adam whispers. "I still see all the bad things when I close my eyes. They won't go away."
Reid lowers his head, talks urgently into Adam's ear. "Listen to me, Adam. Just listen to me. I've been where you are. Where all you can see is the despair and all you have are bad memories. You asked me once when you'd be able to close your eyes and stop seeing bad stuff, do you remember? I'm going to tell you the truth. Never, Adam. You never stop seeing the bad stuff. At least...at least I don't. It's always going to be there. So you either have to learn to live with it, or you let it drag you down.
"Let me tell you something. You're a strong person. Amanda says she's stronger than you, and maybe she is. But that doesn't mean you're not strong, Adam. You are. You're strong enough to find something--or someone--that gets you through the darkness.'
Adam wipes his eyes. He watches the passing cars, not Reid. "What gets you through?"
"Making sure killers don't go free." Reid's voice is gentle. "Helping you."
Adam risks a quick look at Reid's face. He doesn't look he's lying. "But why? Why me?"
Reid sighs, rubs his forehead. "You remind me of someone who helped me once. And I wasn't...I wasn't able to thank him. I wasn't able to help him back. But I can help you. You might think you don't deserve help, but you do. You deserve a life, Adam."
Adam wraps his arms around himself. He's cold, miserable. He's still wearing these weird pink hospital pajamas. They look like scrubs. "I just want to go back," he tells Reid. "I want to live in my room at the Hudson and work with Julie. I was happy there." He can feel fresh tears; he blinks them back, ashamed.
Reid pulls up a handful of grass, lets it go. "And I want my mom back," Reid's voice drops so low Adam can barely hear him. "She was murdered last week. She's gone. I want her back but that's not how the world works. You can't have Julie and I can't have my mom. You can't have your mom. But we can both get back in the car and drive someplace safe." Reid stands, brushes a few blades of grass off his jeans. He holds out a hand to Adam. "What do you say?"
Adam wants to say okay, but he feels himself drifting away. He is outside his body. The world is porous. It fades into fog. Everything is distant. His voice no longer belongs to him. It's pitched higher. A cruel voice, but never to him.
Amanda's back.
She smiles coolly at Reid. "I say you talked with Adam long enough."
* * *
The rest of the team is already assembled at a corner table. Garcia hurries over, a manila file clutched to her chest.
"Sorry I'm late, guys."
Hotch pulls on a tired smile for the computer tech. "Don't worry about it. You're here now."
It's almost 7:00 a.m. They're meeting at Denny's to talk about Reid. Hotch doesn't want to risk talking about Spencer at the office. Especially when Erin Strauss is on the warpath.
"I'm meeting with Strauss today," Emily says glumly.
Hotch shrugs. "Just be honest. There's nothing we can say that will make her understand Reid's point of view. I don't even understand Reid's point of view. But I'm not willing to sit back and do nothing while Erin condemns someone she doesn't even know."
"Strauss had your back with Foyet," Garcia objects. "Maybe--"
Hotch shakes his head. "No, this is completely different. I killed Foyet in self defense. I was in immediate danger and so was Jack. Reid's murder of Kingford was premeditated. He took the time to tape a confession, Garcia. For God's sake, he tied Kingford to a chair."
"I know!" Garcia says, visibly upset. "I know all that. I just...I hate this. I don't want Reid to have done this."
"I don't think you're alone in that," Rossi says. A plate of untouched eggs sits before him.
"Still no word on Jackson?" Derek asks. He doesn't look up when he asks the question; he's playing with a silver whistle on a red cord.
Hotch knows what the whistle represents. He spent forty-five minutes searching his office for an empty film canister he confiscated from Reid four years earlier. He came dangerously close to crying when he eventually remembered he threw it out.
"I spoke with Doctor Roberts forty-five minutes ago. The ambulance has been recovered. The EMTS are fine, a little shook up. But Adam Jackson and Reid are still missing."
"Why would Reid even take Adam?" JJ asks.
Morgan turns the whistle over and over in his hand. "He's got some kind of hang up on that kid. Reid told me he wanted to help Adam because he couldn't help Tobias."
JJ stares at Derek. "He said that?"
"Why the hell would he want to help Tobias Hankel?" Emily demands, incredulous.
"Guys," Garcia says, "there's something else you should know."
"Wait a minute," Dave says, pushing his plate out of the way. He leans his elbows on the table. "Hankel, that's the guy who tortured Reid, right?"
Derek smiles bitterly. "Reid says Tobias didn't do anything but save his life. It was the Charles Hankel personality--the father--that wanted to kill him." He meets Hotch's gaze. "Reid tried to talk to me about it right after we caught Adam--Amanda, whoever. But I didn't really listen. When I think back on the insensitive shit I said or did to that kid, Christ." Morgan's voice is thin and hard. It's the sound of wire. He drops the whistle on the table. "I think Reid was trying to drown himself back in Vegas and I didn't want to believe it."
"Of course you didn't," Rossi says. "Neither did I. Who would?"
Morgan shakes his head, angry. "I should have stayed with him, man."
"I told Emily to give Reid space," Hotch says hoarsely. "Space. I'm the one who should have known better, Morgan. We can all sit here and blame ourselves but the truth of the matter is, Spencer pulled the trigger in that house." He nods at Derek. "You didn't. I didn't. None of us did. We can't afford to waste time on second guessing and playing what if. Not when Reid's still out there."
"Sir," Garcia says, "I really think you should hear this."
Aaron turns his attention on Penelope. The manila folder is open, she's holding a piece of paper. "Um, I make it a policy to flag the names of certain individuals who've been involved in cases. You know, people who deserve to be in jail but for various and sundry reasons they're--"
"Garcia," Hotch snaps. "The point."
"Right, sir. Sorry." She slides the page across the table toward Hotch. "Last night I got a hit on the name Mark Harrison." Garcia keeps her gaze firmly on the empty folder, not Hotch. "He was found dead in his house yesterday afternoon. A single gunshot wound to the head." She doesn't say just like Kingford. She doesn't have to.
The table goes silent. Emily takes Garcia's left hand. JJ reaches for her right. The three of them hold each other, unable to speak.
"That's--that's--" Derek can't get the words out.
"Yes," Hotch says, numb. "Adam's step father."
"So," Rossi says slowly, "I think it's safe to say we might have an idea who killed Harrison."
JJ shakes her head. "We don't know that."
"Here's what I know," Hotch says. "Strauss is going to do her best to make sure the big bad rogue agent gets what he deserves." Hotch holds a hand up. "What she thinks Reid deserves. I know for a fact she wants us back on the job by this afternoon. We can't try to find Reid on company time. If she finds out we're trying to find Reid--or worse, contact him--the repercussions will be dire, to say the least."
Emily and JJ exchange a glance. "What about if we work off company time?"
Hotch considers the question. "I don't think that's a good idea," Aaron says carefully. "That said, I plan to have breakfast here tomorrow. And the day after that. If anyone happens to join me out of a mutual love for Denny's Grand Slam breakfast I have no problem with that."
Prentiss wipes her eyes. "I'll be here."
"And me," Morgan says.
"What if we're on a case?" JJ asks. "What then?"
"We don't talk about Reid in the office, on the plane, anywhere someone might be listening."
"Are you saying the plane is bugged?" Garcia asks, eyes wide.
"I'm saying we should be careful. No e-mail on the work servers, but personal e-mail is okay." Hotch glances at Garcia. "I'm very fond of you Penelope, but please stop e-mailing about the status of your Facebook farm."
Garcia's face goes as pink as her glasses. "Sorry, sir." She clears her throat. "I have one more thing."
Morgan grabs the whistle, stuffs it in his pocket. "Shit, now what?"
"I have the list of numbers Reid called on the cell he left with Jamie. Now, the phone number isn't registered to a specific person because it's one of those pay as you go dealios. But I was able to get a location on where the phone is located. It's a psychiatric hospital named Great Oak Village in Washington DC."
"But that's not where Adam was." Prentiss looks to Hotch for confirmation. "Wasn't he in a Texas facility?"
"Yes." Hotch's forehead creases. "Garcia, is there someone at the hospital connected to Reid or the BAU?"
"There certainly is, sir," Garcia says. "Nathan Harris."
* * *
JJ spends the next three hours searching for a legitimate case they can assist with that's close enough to DC for Hotch and Emily to slip away to question Nathan Harris.
Jennifer sorts through the myriad files on her desk. As she works, one hand occasionally strays to the delicate necklace around her throat. She misses her sister. She misses Spencer. One minute she's reading about three bodies found in Baltimore, the next she's thinking of the look on Reid's face the first time he held Henry. She thinks of how hollow, how broken, he looked after they found him in Georgia. She remembers the shy, nervous smile on Reid's face when he asked her to a basketball game so long ago.
JJ loves Will. She loves Henry. She loves her life; she knows things would never have worked out between her and Reid. She doesn't regret choosing the role of friend over girlfriend; being Reid's friend has been one of the highlights of her life. But now, she can't help feeling like she let him down. If Reid had someone in his life, someone to love besides his mother, would he still have killed Jamie Kingford?
She shakes her head, tucks the necklace beneath her silk blouse. Reid's actions aren't her fault. She knows this. But if she had made more of an effort to talk to him in Las Vegas, could she have gotten through to him? They had a rule after Hankel, they're not supposed to leave each other alone, they're supposed to have each other's back. But isn't that just what Reid's done? He's left her--he's left all of them.
And, unlike Gideon, he didn't even leave a letter behind.
He left a body.
Jennifer's vision blurs. She sniffs, blots her eyes with a kleenex. The worry that twists inside her stomach is this: what if she left Spencer alone first?
"Any luck?"
Penelope stands in the door of JJ's office. Garcia's usual rainbow attire has been replaced. She's wearing black from head to toe. JJ wonders if Penelope has always owned this much black, or if she went shopping the minute they got back from Vegas.
JJ sighs. "I guess so. I've narrowed it down to three cases." She gives Garcia a pleading look. "I shouldn't feel guilty, right? I mean, all of these police departments are asking for our help. If I pick a case that just happens to be in the same vicinity Nathan Harris is, that doesn't mean I'm not--"
"You're doing the right thing," Garcia says decisively. "I know it, Hotch knows it. We need to do this. We're still doing our job, so don't worry."
JJ laughs weakly. "Easier said than done." She points to the chair on the other side from her desk. "What about you? Anything more on Harrison?"
Garcia sits. She looks grim. "Same weapon that killed Jamie Kingford killed Mark Harrison."
JJ closes her eyes. "Dammit."
"My sentiments exactly." Garcia smiles forlornly. "I keep e-mailing him. I leave messages on his cell even though I know it's gone. I can't help it. I just...I just want to talk to him again."
JJ pushes back from her desk, walks around it to hug Garcia. "I know."
"I'm so afraid," Garcia whispers into JJ's shoulder.
JJ holds her friend tightly. She can admit the truth to Penelope. "Me too."
Part 2 of 2