Chapter 11: Expected Visitors
Chapter 11: Expected Visitors
I am in blood
Stepped so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth 3.4
Residence of Jonah Thomas
Hotch had decided to assemble the team to accompany Rossi and Prentiss on their fishing expedition, and as a result they'd gotten a later start than he'd intended. The farm was about 30 minutes outside of Earthshine proper, but still within Chakchiuma County and therefore under Dixon's jurisdiction. A squad car followed the big SUV, and a deputy would make the actual arrest. A crime scene unit was on standby, and Dixon was calling around in search of corpse-sniffing dogs.
Hotch drummed the steering wheel impatiently as a tanker truck pulled out in front of them on the winding country highway. The speed limit was 50, but the truck was doing something like 35. He didn't want to run the lights and sirens; land was pretty flat here, and Dixon had warned that Thomas would see them coming from a long way off.
Rossi was studying the map, and Prentiss was following the breaking news updates on her phone; back at the station J.J. was holding the press conference, and they wanted to know the moment it hit the wires. Reid and Morgan were catching up on the latest info Garcia had gathered about Jonah Thomas, and they both agreed he fit the profile almost perfectly.
"I think it's just up ahead," Rossi said. "There should be a left turn."
Hotch nodded when the turnoff came into view. "I don't think I need to remind you all to keep your eyes open. With the right probable cause we won't need the warrant."
The asphalt turned to gravel, but it was well maintained, and the SUV crunched along with ease. Another 5 minutes brought them to a ramshackle farmhouse. To Prentiss the scene looked like something from a Norman Rockwell painting: homey, slightly worn around the edges, and limned in a patina of Americana.
"It doesn't look like the home of a mission-driven serial killer," Rossi remarked.
"It never does, from the outside," Hotch said. He cut the engine and they unloaded. Hotch motioned the deputy over. "You understand what we're doing here, Deputy Hutchens?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. We're here about improper disposal of a corpse only. Don't mention the murders, Tuck, or Buddy Lester."
"Good. Keep your head about you, Deputy; though we suspect that Jonah Thomas is the UNSUB, we don't know for sure. Be careful, stay alert, and remember we're right behind you." Hutchens was no green recruit - he was a 20-year man, in point of fact - but this case was pushing everyone's buttons. Tucker's murder had upped the stakes considerably, and Hotch didn't want any of Dixon's men taking revenge on the UNSUB. He and Morgan followed the deputy to the house, and the rest of the team took up positions around the yard.
Several steps led up to a wide, wrap-around front porch. The stairs sagged a bit in the middle, but the railing had been recently repaired. Hotch noticed marks on the steps where flowerpots had once stood; on the porch a swing hung from rusted chains. He studied the front door; its red paint had once been fresh and bright, but now it was faded. From a distance the house had looked homey, but up close he saw that any personal touches had been neglected or removed.
Hutchens knocked on the weathered door. There was no answer. Hotch indicated that he should knock again, and he did so, harder. "Mr. Thomas, Chakchiuma County Sheriff's Department. Open up!" he called.
Silence, interrupted only by the lazy clucking of chickens, echoed through the yard.
Morgan reached around the deputy to hit the doorbell, but Hotch's hand on his arm stopped him. "Wait," he said. "Look at that." Wires ran around the doorframe to the bell; the three lawmen studied them with perplexed, apprehensive expressions.
"I ain't never seen nothin' like that," Hutchens said. "Who the hell needs all them wires for a damn doorbell?"
Hotch called Reid over, and the young genius hurried to join them. He leaned forward; scrunched his face in consternation at the strange configuration. "This doesn't make any sense. There's no way a doorbell would require this much wiring." He straightened; rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I need a screwdriver, the kind with a big plastic or wooden handle. Anybody have something like that?"
"I probably got one in my emergency kit. Be right back," Hutchens said.
"You gonna take it apart?" Morgan asked.
"No," he said distractedly. Reid squinted at the doorbell; followed the wires with a hovering fingertip. Hutchens returned and offered him a big Phillips head with a sturdy plastic grip. "Stand back," he told the others.
"Reid, whatever you're planning, I don't think-"
Hotch's protest was cut off as Reid stabbed the doorbell with the business end of the screwdriver. Sparks flew, and inside they could hear the muffled wail of an alarm.
"Holy shit-! It was live," Morgan said. He stared down at his hand as though to make sure it were still whole and unscathed. "I woulda lit up like a Christmas tree."
"Off the porch," Hotch barked, "now. If he has one trap he could have others."
No one wasted time arguing, and they were soon gathered in the yard with a puzzled Rossi and Prentiss. "What was all that about?" the former asked.
"The doorbell was rigged," Morgan said. "There's no way Thomas doesn't know we're here now."
"I guess he wasn't planning on many visitors," Reid said.
"Or he suspected we'd be coming," Hotch replied grimly.
Prentiss' phone binged softly, and she pulled it from its holster. "J.J.'s press conference was picked up nationally," she said as she checked the screen. "Now the entire country thinks John Davis is the UNSUB."
Jonah Thomas was pulled away from the portable television's small screen by the immediate, angry wail of the alarm. He frowned; glanced between the screen and the alarm's flashing light. He had no doubt who his unwelcome visitors were.
He'd been expecting them.
He just hadn't been expecting them quite so soon. His work wasn't anywhere near finished yet. He muted the television; turned off the alarm's insistent noise. Now he could hear the whimpers, the small, child-like cries that his latest prisoner made.
He sighed and turned away from the pretty blond's silent image. The idea of John Davis doing this work was absurd, and he was sure the FBI was putting it out there as a red herring, a juvenile and blatant attempt at manipulation. Ridiculous. He wasn't going to let such worries interfere with his mission. "We're running out of time, Mr. Lester," he said. "So let's cut to the chase, shall we?" He paused at the brazier and took a moment to select the perfect tool.
Buddy's face crumpled in terror; tears coursed down his round cheeks, and he struggled against the bonds that held him. Thomas sighed; the pinchers in his hand glowed white-hot. "Now none of that, Mr. Lester. We have work to do. Very important work."