Title: Each of Us Bears His Own Hell 1/2
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: FRT/PG-13
Type: Gen
Summary: Who can say where—or what—Hell really is?
A/N 1: A very big thank you riverbella  for the lightning quick beta and for putting up with my near constant Reid squee. Spoilers from all seasons, right up through Tabula Rasa.
A/N 2: This is my first Criminal Minds fanfiction. I've written Supernatural and Doctor Who fic, but this is my first time out with these characters. I've tried to do them justice.



“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.”
~Oscar Wilde


Now.

The grim-faced one—Agent Hotchner—holds the door and guides Virgil through. Virgil is surrounded by myriad agents, all armed, all watching. Virgil averts his gaze. He can feel their eyes, read their minds. He knows their dreams, their hopes. Their sins.

The police station looks real but Virgil knows it's not. Everything in life is a lie. Life is a lie. This is the first circle of Hell. A woman to his left says oh my God and her voice wobbles like an old chair. Virgil looks up and shows her a gentle smile.

"Don't be afraid. I can guide you." The walls transform and he sees towering rocks, the weeping trees. He can hear the lamentation of the damned; they stand shoulder to shoulder with the FBI agents and the police officers. He's the only one who can hear their desperate pleas, but there's nothing he can do. It's too late for them, but not for the living.

"We need to journey through each circle," he says, "before we can come out the other side."

The woman stares at him, mouth open, eyes glassy. She has black hair and bangs. She's wearing a red tank-top and lipstick to match. Virgil can see her true self. She is a wanderer like he is. She tries to hide her loneliness but he can see it tucked around her like a shawl.

Virgil glances at a dry erase board along one wall. There are pictures of his mother, her house, his careful, precise calligraphy. He smiles. He's pleased they've examined his work, understood his message.

The dark haired woman steps forward. "Hotch? What—?" One hand hovers near her gun, the other goes to her mouth. Virgil thinks she's not aware of these unconscious gestures, her search for comfort where none exists.

Virgil stopped looking for comfort long ago. There is none. There is nothing but Hell and its many rooms. There is pain and loss and sometimes you emerge from darkness into light, but the sun on his face is always fleeting. Maybe this time he'll get to Heaven. If he can guide these agents through the circles—

"I don't know yet," Agent Hotchner tells the woman. His voice is gravel.

"Stop this."

Virgil flinches. Dante stands in the corner, watching. She wears a long pale robe, her blond hair a halo around her head. "Let him go."

Virgil shakes his head. He can't. He won't.

He glances at the board again, at the copies of his message. He wonders if the agents truly understand who (what) he is. He is the gatekeeper. He holds the key. He stands at the door, as guide and warning both. What he does is not murder, it is compassion. He is leaving a message. Poetry. Forsake your wickedness or face pallid death. You need not abandon your hope if you abandon immorality.

ooooo

Three days ago.

"This is complete and utter hell," Penelope Garcia laments and drops her pink and blond head into her hands.

Kevin Lynch gives Garcia's arm a playful poke. "I love it when you talk all romantic like that."

Garcia taps a pink glitter pen against her mouse. "H-E-double hockey sticks," she reiterates.

"Aw, come on sweetie," Kevin holds his hands out. "I thought you'd be happy. We actually get a valid reason to spend time together during the day. At work. Without sneaking around or repercussions." He waggles his eyebrows above his glasses. "And I bet we can find time for a little bit of play, huh?" He grins, eyebrows continuing their aerobics. "Am I right?"

Penelope sighs and swivels her chair to face her boyfriend. "Actually, you're the exact opposite of right. The truth is Kevin, I don't want you here all day."

Kevin's face falls and Garcia offers him a fond smile to pull the sting from her words. "I love spending time with you sweetie, but not in my office. Do you have any idea how long it took me to get things back to normal last time? It took me days to undo all your damage. And I'm not even going to talk about what you did to my chair. If I had to watch you mess up my stuff all over again, I couldn't be held responsible for the consequences. It's not safe, Kevin. For either of us."

Kevin rolls his eyes. "I'm not afraid of you." He hesitates and looks away. "Much."

"Well you should be," Garcia grins. "Honey, I won't be able to do my job with you here all day. I need to focus, okay? I'm sorry about the new carpeting thing, but you're going to have to find a different work station." She gestures around her office, makes a large square with her hands. "One that is. Not. Here."

"Did you know you're sexy when you're all bossy?" Kevin asks.

Garcia beams. "I didn't. And I'd love for you to tell me exactly how sexy I am—"

"Very," Kevin interrupts. His eyes slide from her face to her chest. "Hey, did I mention 'very?'" He kisses his fingertips. "Molto bene!"

"—tonight over dinner," Garcia continues. "But right now you have to get out." She makes a shooing motion toward the door. "Scram. Go. Ciao."

Kevin makes a put-upon face but heads toward the door. He shoots her a hangdog look. "Really? You're kicking me out? Into the cold?" He gives her a look. "There's wolves out there. Plus people who don't like this shirt. And worse, this is the only floor with a good vending machine."

"Affirmative. Good to know we have an understanding." Garcia turns back to her computer.

"Fine," Kevin huffs. "But I’m coming back here for lunch. And we're going to make some more plans for the Super Cool Italy Tour of 2008. You can't stop me."

Garcia smiles, fingers clicking a staccato rhythm across the keyboard. "Wouldn't dream of trying, babycakes."

A light knock on the door interrupts their conversation and Jennifer Jareau pokes her head inside. She blinks at Kevin, then nods a hello. She shoots Garcia a smile that looks suspiciously like a smirk. "Penelope? Can you meet me in the round table room in ten minutes?"

Garcia nods. "For you? Anything. That gives me just enough time to read Strongbad's latest e-mail."

"Who?" JJ's forehead creases. "On second thought, I don't want to know."

Kevin pushes his glasses up with the pad of his thumb. "Ooh, excellent! Everybody to the limit."

"Not you," Garcia says firmly. "Out."

Kevin makes a face. "You, Ms. Penelope Garcia, are one mean lady." He pauses in the doorway. "You're just lucky I like mean girls."

"Unquantifiably awesome girls, you mean." Garcia chuckles as she pulls up the Homestar Runner website.

ooooo

Now.

A telephone rings and a uniformed officer snatches the receiver. A young woman in a white blouse and navy skirt stands against one wall, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. Her aura is golden and pure and Virgil is pleased. "You will be saved," he tells her, smiling. It's good news, and in a world with so little he doesn't understand why her face crumples. Virgil turns away and studies the block letters scrawled across the white board: ritualistic killing to satisfy inner need and organized offender of high intelligence. The words reality never lives up to fantasy and brings own supplies – killing kit and knows his victims and blends in are circled below.

Steely hands guide him into a small room and force him into a chair. Virgil wonders where he really is. The air is cold. Sleet stings his arms, he can smell the rancid stink of garbage. He's in the third circle of Hell then. A uniformed officer attaches his handcuffs to a metal ring bolted to the table.

Agent Hotchner nods to the officer and he exits the room. Hotchner and a second man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee remain behind. Hotchner watches Virgil, his expression impassive, but there's something in his eyes, something like fear. "Have you sinned?" Virgil asks, shifting in the metal chair. The handcuffs rattle.

Dante stands in the corner, watching. She holds a key in one hand. It shines silver in the dim light. Virgil tips his head toward her. "Unlock me. I have much work to do." He doesn't plead. It's merely a request. And a reminder.

Dante shakes her head. "You're not the one who must be freed. The key is not for you."

The bearded agent casts a sharp look at Virgil. "Who are you talking to?"

Virgil ignores the question. So does Hotchner. The younger agent lowers himself into a chair across the table. He rests his hands on the scarred surface. He looks tired. "Do you know why you're here?"

Virgil considers the question. "I give evidence of the people's anguish. My face depicts pity and compassion for those taken by terror. I am the Poet and ask all to heed my warning or face the Abyss."

Hotch runs a hand over his face. His skin looks gray beneath the fluorescent lights. "Let me clarify: do you know why you're in this room?"

"Oh," Virgil blinks. "Because I sent a message."

"And how did you send the message?"

Virgil shifts in the chair again. He knows what Hotchner wants to hear. He will be gracious. "I killed four people."

The bearded agent's eyebrows go up. He darts a quick look at Hotchner, then at Virgil. "Excuse me?"

The Poet leans forward. "What is your name?"

The agent looks uncomfortable but he answers Virgil's question. "SSA David Rossi."

"What don't you understand, Agent Rossi?"

Rossi opens his mouth, exhales loudly. He looks at Hotchner. Hotchner folds his hands. "We've only found three bodies. Who's the fourth victim?"

"The boy." Virgil can still see his face. The brown hair and startled eyes. The hands raised in surrender. Or supplication.

"Give us a name," Hotchner barks, his patience unraveling.

Virgil obliges. "Spencer Reid."

ooooo

Three days ago.

"This is Elizabeth Maro of West Lafayette, Indiana. 62 years old. This photo was taken on March third." JJ clicks the remote and an image of a blond-haired woman appears on the screen. She's sitting in a chair, head bowed, gun still clutched in one hand. A bright fan of blood arcs across the wall behind her. "At first glance it appeared as if she killed herself. She was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's."

Reid's forehead creases. "Actually, firearms tend to be the preferred method of suicide for males…by 56.8%. Woman generally prefer poison as the method of death by 37.8%." He pauses. "Although women in their 40s and 50s do have the highest rate of suicide." He taps his chin, considering. "Granted, Elizabeth wasn't in her 50's but the diagnosis and—"

Rossi cuts Reid off with a question to JJ. "Why don't the West Lafayette authorities think it's a suicide?"

"For three reasons. The first, this was found beside her." JJ changes the picture to a close-up of an elaborately hand-written note. Ornate calligraphy reads Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter the foremost circle that surrounds the Abyss. There, as it seemed to me from listening, were lamentations none, but only sighs that tremble made the everlasting air. And this arose from sorrow.

Reid leans forward, reading the words carefully. "The foremost circle," he repeats softly.

Rossi looks at him. "You recognize that?"

Emily Prentiss lifts one neatly-plucked eyebrow. "I think I recognize it." She looks at Reid for confirmation. "It's from The Divine Comedy, right? We had to read it in high school." She makes a face and mouths bor-ing.

Reid grins at Emily. "That's right. It's from the Divina Commedia, Volume One, The Inferno, um…Canto four." Spencer closes his eyes and one finger darts in the air, as if he's counting. "Lines…23 to 30." He opens his eyes to find everyone staring at him. "I, uh, think," he adds.

The corners of Hotch's mouth twitch into a faint smile.

"You know the specific lines that were used from a 14,000 line poem?" Rossi looks like he can't decide whether to be impressed or horrified.

Reid swallows and rubs his hands together. "I've read it several times," he admits, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "The Longfellow translation is my favorite. In fact, my mom read it to me when I was little." He smiles at the memory. Emily catches his eyes and smiles back.

Garcia reaches out and pats Reid's hand. "You've had a strange life, sweetie. I'm going to buy you a copy of The Cricket in Times Square and make you read real children's literature."

Reid shrugs. "Frankly, I liked Trumpet of the Swan better."

Garcia's face is radiant. "Oh, I love—"The expression on Hotch's face stops her. "Sorry," she mutters contritely. "Suffered an attack of book love for a minute. I'm over it now, sir."

Morgan winks at Garcia, then turns a frown toward Reid. "Okay, The Divine Comedy. Fine. But it doesn't sound very funny to me."

"Serious late medieval scholarly works were consistently written in Latin, and considered 'high' dramatic works," Reid explains. "Works written in any other language, including Italian, were considered more--" he waves one hand "--trivial in nature. In essence they were considered 'low' works, in other words: comedy."

"You said there were three reasons Elizabeth Mori wasn't a suicide?" Hotch prompts.

JJ nods. "This is the second. Laura Emerson, age 29. She worked as an exotic dancer. She was found a little over two weeks ago." Another picture appears, this time of a slim brunette lying on a bed, her hands tied to the bedposts. Her arms are drenched in blood, a red Rorschach stains the pillow around her head. "Her wrists were cut and she bled to death," JJ explains.

Reid's face goes pale and he looks away from the screen. He drums his fingers on the table, lips compressed into a thin line.

"What are those boxes stacked along the wall?" Emily asks. She squints. "Are those…fans?"

JJ presents another photo. A row of ordinary box fans take up one wall. They're stacked neatly across a dresser, five fans in all. "Each fan was running and the windows were open." JJ fidgets with the remote. "Also, all the light bulbs in the room were removed."

Rossi frowns. "That's a little weird."

Reid rubs his forehead with slender fingers and recites: "I came into a place mute of all light, which bellows as the sea does in a tempest, if by opposing winds it is combated. The infernal hurricane that never rests."

JJ looks momentarily nonplussed before revealing the second note, the words just as elaborately written as the first. Reid's words fill the screen.

Morgan states the obvious. "That's no suicide note."

"No," JJ agrees. "It's not. And this is the third reason I don't think Elizabeth Mora committed suicide. Last night West Lafayette police found Rob Sanders in his apartment. The neighbors called the authorities when his dogs wouldn't stop barking after two days." JJ is careful not to look at the screen when she changes the photo. The remains of a man float in a bathtub, the water a frothy pink. Chunks of something Reid doesn't want to identify float in the water.

"Oh. My. God," Emily breathes.

Garcia looks sick and turns away, a hand flutters at her throat. "Oh. Oh no."

"What happened?" Morgan demands.

"From what they've been able to piece together, it looks like Mr. Sanders was bound and gagged and left in his bathtub."

Morgan leans back in his chair. "Was he drugged?"

"The preliminary toxicology report isn't back yet. But GHB is likely. Something to keep him in the tub."

Hotch gestures toward the screen. "And that's…a bathtub full of water?"

"Yes. It looks like assorted pieces of meat--various steaks--were left in the water with Sanders. All traces of dog food as well as water bowls were removed from the apartment and after several days…you can see what happened." JJ grimaces. "It appears Rob drowned before the dogs started…" her voice wavers. "Eating him."

"Let me guess," Prentiss says, brushing the bangs out of her eyes. "There was a note talking about the third circle of Hell."

"The third circle is where Cerberus guards the gluttons," Reid says quietly.

Rossi taps a pen against his legal pad. "Is there evidence that Rob Sanders was …how can I put this delicately? A big man?"

"He was heavyset," JJ confirms. "And apparently, pretty well off. His apartment was nice, high-end television, several computers, expensive furnishings."

"Gluttony could indicate greed as well," Morgan points out. "A hunger for things."

Reid scratches the tip of his nose. "Actually, the greedy and miserly are punished in the fourth circle of Hell."

Hotch stands and leans against the table. "I think it's clear we're looking at a mission-based killer." He turns a steady gaze on the group. "He's using The Divine Comedy as some kind of how-to manual."

Reid bites his lip. "But that doesn't make sense," he says, shaking his head. "The Divine Comedy is an allegory. There are three canticas--volumes--to the poem: The Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso. Obviously the UnSub is fixated on the first volume, at least for now. He's not using the poem to say see what I can do…it feels more like, he's…he's sending a message. Or a warning." Reid blinks and sees Tobias, hears Hankel's gruff voice hiss choose one to die, save a life. He feels the belt cinch around his arm, the needle bite his skin. Reid swallows and folds his arms around himself. He blinks again and focuses on Hotch, forces the memories back down. "Especially when you…um, when you consider the notes he leaves behind?"

Rossi glances from the new note on the screen to Spencer. "What about them?"

"The style they're written in? Is called illuminated text. It's…it's when the text of a manuscript is supplemented with decorations such as initials, borders, and small illustrations. Originally, illustrated manuscripts only referred to texts decorated with gold or silver. But the term now applies to any decorated or illustrated manuscript from the Western or Islamic traditions. Similar styles in Far Eastern and Islamic works are called 'painted' texts." Reid points at the screen. "I'd like to examine those pages so I can study the calligraphy and handwriting styles. His drawings are simplistic, almost childish, but the borders around each quote? Could be gold leaf or maybe a specific brand of paint we can trace."

"We'll get you copies, Reid. Good work." Hotch nods at Spencer and stands. "Wheels up in one hour, people."

ooooo

Now.

Darkness presses against him like a living thing and Reid struggles to keep his breathing even. His head hurts. Various statistics about brain damage whisper in his mind and his chest hitches. He has no idea where he is or how he got here. The fact that he can't remember scares him more than his current situation.

Reid tries to move his hands. That's when he feels the circular metal cut into his wrists. He's handcuffed. No. Not again. Please.

The darkness looms closer, heavier, and Reid squeezes his eyes shut. He listens carefully, concentrating, straining for any sound, any hint of movement. Spencer listens for the sound of a screen door, the soft snick of a belt, the scrape of chair legs against a bare floor. There's nothing.

Nothing.

Spencer swallows. His throat feels like sand. "Is there…is there anyone there?"

He tries to lift his hands but the handcuffs are anchored to something. He can't move. His head throbs. The pain sends electric wires into his neck and arms.

"Hotch?"

He's an idiot to call his superior's name. He should keep quiet. Wait. Take stock of his surroundings. But he can't stop himself. He clasps his hands together, not in prayer, but in an attempt to stop their trembling. That's when he feels the slick wetness. He's had blood on his hands before. Literally, with Nathan Harris. Metaphorically with Rebecca Bryant. And Ryan Phillips. Panic claws its way out of his stomach and up his chest. His heart thunders and finally, there's something he can hear. He's got to keep calm. He'll be okay. This is—this is--

"Hotch!

ooooo

Two days ago.

Reid and Morgan examine Elizabeth Mora's house. They study the rooms, the paintings, the dusty tchotschkes that line the copious book shelves. Reid looks at the photographs of a smiling Elizabeth and a little boy. Spencer traces the boy's growth from childhood into adulthood with a cluster of pictures. The boy always looks the same. His mouth smiles, but his eyes don't. Reid hands Morgan a framed photo. "I think we need to talk to Elizabeth's son."

Prentiss and JJ spend several hours at Laura Emerson's apartment, sorting through her mail, her desk drawers, her closets. They don't find much except for a lingering patina of regret and a box of year books showing a younger, fresh-faced Laura. Emily thinks of her own yearbook picture, wonders if she's happier now than she was then. She thinks she is. Emily sighs and pushes the box back into the closet. "Come on Jaje. Let's get out of here."

Rossi and Hotch walk through the crime scene at Rob Sanders's apartment. Two animal control officers remove the dead dogs from the apartment. There are multiple Purdue College catalogs as well as official looking correspondence littered across an end table. "Look at this," Hotch says. He points to a bookshelf containing the complete works of Dante Alighieri, Geoffrey Chaucer and what looks like an antique edition of Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron.

Hotch taps a notated edition of The Divine Comedy. "Quite a coincidence."

Rossi's jaw clenches. "I don't believe in coincidence."

ooooo

Now.

Virgil sits in the room by himself. There's a large mirror on the far wall. He knows it's not really a mirror, that the agents are observing him from the other side. He doesn't mind. He knows how to be patient. Going through Hell as many times as he has requires much more than patience. It requires strength of character. Virgil is many things. Lost. Alone. But he's not weak.

The door opens and Hotchner returns alone. He sets a small paper cup of water in front of Virgil.

Virgil smiles. "Thank you." The handcuffs don't give him enough leeway to reach it. His hands are still covered in blood. He's missing a fingernail. It doesn't hurt. Not really, not compared to his head. The smile fades and he swallows, dry throat clicking. "I'm afraid I can't reach the water." He gestures toward the cup. "Do you…do you mind?"

Hotch's face pinches, but he moves beside Virgil. He puts one hand on the back of Virgil's head, tips the cup to Virgil's mouth. It's an oddly gentle gesture. Virgil drinks and the pain in his head drops one notch lower. "Thank you."

Hotch nods and returns to the seat across the table. Rossi pokes his head into the room. "Hotch? Strauss is on the line. She wants you out of here. She wants him—" Rossi jerks his thumb toward Virgil "brought back to Quantico."

Virgil licks his lips and leans forward, watching Hotchner. "I understand you," he says. "You're midway upon the journey of your life. You find yourself in a forest dark, the straightforward pathway has been lost. I can show you the right path." Virgil turns to Rossi. "And you? Must repent. I see what you are."

Hotchner waves Rossi off. "I don't care what Strauss says. Until I know what's going on and what happened to Reid I’m not going anywhere. Let her come here and get us." His quiet voice drops into a near growl. "Let her try." He turns to Virgil. "The only path I want is the one Reid is on."

Rossi lifts an eyebrow at Virgil. "You see what I am? And what would that be, exactly?"

"Someone who's in love with their own words, the music of their own voice. I've read your books, and I can see you." The Poet is sorry to tell Rossi the truth, but he has to, without the truth there is no freedom, without freedom, there is no transformation. "You're a classic example of a narcissist."

Hotchner blinks at Virgil. "What did you say?"

"You will wander within the ten bolgie of the eighth circle if you don't repent."

Rossi opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "I…" He looks at Hotchner. "I'll tell Erin you can't come to the phone."

Aaron nods. "Thanks." He turns back to Virgil. "I need you to tell me what happened in John Maro's apartment."

Virgil smiles thinly. "You already know."

ooooo

Two days ago.

By six o'clock everyone is assembled in the conference room of the West Lafayette Police Station. "First of all, there are some inconsistencies in what the UnSub is trying to say," Reid explains.

Morgan rolls his eyes. "You think?"

"I mean, if we're supposed to believe Elizabeth Maro killed herself, why didn't he use the correct canto?" Reid taps his photocopy of the first note. "The seventh ring of the Inferno is divided into three additional rings. The middle ring is for suicides who are transformed into gnarled thorny bushes and trees. They're attacked by…by harpies and they maintain their tree shapes the entire time, with their own, um, corpses hanging from their limbs."

JJ holds up a hand. "I get the picture."

"So what are you saying, kid? The UnSub got it wrong?"

"I’m saying if Elizabeth killed herself he didn't want to think of her suffering that way. He put her in the first circle, which is the only circle without any real torment." Reid's hands knead the air as he speaks, his excitement contagious. "And if he did kill her, he still put her in the first circle."

"He cared for her," Hotch says.

Reid nods. "I…I think he did. I also think the UnSub might be…her son."

"John Maro? Have you interviewed him?"

"We went by his office—he runs a small print shop called The Printing Press. But the other employees say he hasn't been in for at least two days."

"Garcia's digging through his credit card records right now."

The door opens and Emily rushes in, triumphant. "Hotch, I found a connection between all three victims. We know Elizabeth was a professor at Purdue, right? She taught several of the Italian Studies courses and a course called Dante's Divine Comedy. It turns out Laura Emerson took that class, she was a student at Purdue before dropping out, about six years ago."

Reid takes notes. "What about Rob Sanders?"

"He used to substitute for Maro and occasionally guest lecture."

Reid studies his notes, flips back a page. "Guys? There's something else. Elizabeth died on March 3. That's two threes. Each volume of The Divine Comedy consists of 33 cantos. The number three is prominent throughout the poem. Laura was killed on April 13 and Rob on May 3. All dates with a three."

"So…what? You think the UnSub won't kill again until May 13…or May 23?"

Hotch shakes his head. "We can't risk it. May 6 and 9, they're both divisible by three. We don't know what this guy has in mind. Or how many victims he's already identified."

Morgan's cell bleats and he flips it open. "Hey Baby Girl, what do you have for me?"

Reid unfolds himself from the chair. "Hotch? There are a lot of different interpretations of Dante's poem. My mother taught classes on it over the years. Do you mind if I call her about it? As long as I don't reveal anything about the case?"

Hotch nods, a fleeting smile ghosts across his face. "That's a good idea. Thanks Reid. Let me know if you come up with anything useful."

Reid smiles. "I will."

ooooo

Now.

Hotchner rubs a hand over his jaw. "I don't know what happened in that apartment. I really don’t. I'd like you to explain it to me." His cell phone rings and Aaron pulls it out, flips it open. His face seems to fold in on itself when he hears the voice on the other end. "Garcia."

Hotchner turns in the chair, his back partially to Virgil. "I can't---I can't right now. I don't know anything yet." His voice drops lower. "Get Diana Reid's number. We'll have to contact her. Right." Hotchner bows his head, runs a distracted hand through his hair. "I don't care, try anyway. Penelope, I know. That's what I'm—what we're all trying to do." There's a pause. "Absolutely not. There's no way. No, Garcia. I understand you're upset but I can't possibly—" Hotchner flashes a quick look at Virgil. Virgil meets his gaze calmly. "You can't talk to him, it wouldn't help and it's against policy. Trust me. Yes. We all feel helpless…look, see if you can find Gideon. Can you do that? Okay then. I know. I will." Hotchner flips the phone shut. "I'm sorry."

Hotchner shifts the chair toward the door and snaps his fingers. "Officer Linnley? I need that folder now." A uniformed officer hands Aaron a manila folder. Aaron studies Virgil's face for a long moment. "I'm going to show you some pictures. I want you to identify each of your victims. Can you do that for me?"

Virgil nods slowly. "I can. But I want to be clear with you, these people were not victims. They were poems."

Hotchner's mouth pull into a tight line. "Okay. Your…poems then." He pulls a stack of photos from the folder and lays them out on the table. The first photo is of a short-haired blond woman standing in front of a large brick building. The second photo is of another short-haired blond woman standing in front of a large brick building. The third photo is of a weary looking Laura Emerson. The fourth photo is of Rob Sanders. The fifth photo is a candid shot of Spencer Reid taken at a Superbowl Party the previous year.

"Look at the pictures and tell me their names." Hotchner instructs.

Virgil studies the photos carefully. He recognizes them all of course. He points to his mother. "Elizabeth Maro." He identifies each photo. He looks at Spencer Reid's the longest. "Agent Reid," he finally says.

Hotchner inhales through his nose and blows the air out again. "I want you to look at the picture of your mother again. Do you notice anything…out of the ordinary?"

Virgil glances back at his mother. It's a face he's seen a million times. A face he loves. He couldn't bear to see her disappear day by day in front of him. "She asked me," he whispers. "She asked me."

"She wanted you to kill her?"

Virgil's mouth twists. "It was the only way to save her. Do you know what Alzheimer's is? Do you know what she called it?"

Hotchner shakes his head.

"A living Hell."

"But that's not your mother, Virgil. The woman you identified in that photo, the woman you identified as your mother is a woman named Diana Reid. She's Agent Reid's mother, not yours."

Virgil frowns. "What?"

Hotchner pushes the second photo closer. "Elizabeth and Diana were both professors of Medieval Literature. They both raised very intelligent sons all on their own. What I’m telling you is: you picked Spencer's mother, not your own."

Dante moves next to Virgil, lays a hand on his head. "You're leading them in the wrong direction," she says. Her voice is the sound of bells. Her voice is beautiful. Virgil loves her voice, the inflection, the tone, the cadence. For years the sound of her voice was his whole world. Virgil looks into Dante's face and he recognizes the face from the photo--Diana Reid. Virgil jerks in the chair, tries to push back from the table, away from Dante and the FBI agent. The handcuffs bite savagely into his wrists and his chair topples backwards. Virgil barely stays on his feet, eyes wide with panic.

"I'm supposed to guide you through the Abyss, but I’m trapped. I—I can't get out. I need to lead Dante out of here. She said I’m going the wrong way. Let me out. Let me go."

"Dante's a she? What did she say?"

Virgil shakes his head furiously. "You don’t understand. No one understands."

"Why did you confess to killing Agent Reid?" Hotchner watches Virgil coolly.

The agent's eyes fix him in place; the Poet is anchored to the floor. He's being crushed. He's in the fourth circle. His eyes burn with unshed tears but he doesn't know why. "Because I tell the truth. A good Poet doesn't need to lie. Each syllable is veracity."

"I’m not lying either. When I tell you Spencer Reid is alive, I'm telling you the truth."

Virgil smiles, but there's no humor in the look. "He might be alive now, but he won't be for much longer. I'll never tell you where he is." Virgil's voice rises, spittle flecks his lips. "You'll never find him. He's buried alive, in the deepest pit in the darkest circle of Hell." Virgil's fingers grasp the edge of the table, he leaves thin tendrils of red behind. "And he's wondering where you are—he's yelling for you Agent Hotchner." Virgil's smile grows wider, his teeth flash. "You'll never reach him in time."

ooooo

Earlier this afternoon.

"What else, Garcia?" Reid paces the length of the conference room. A thorough search of Maro's apartment came up empty. There's not a single reference to Dante, The Divine Comedy, Laura Emerson or Rob Sanders. There's no trace linking John to any of the murders. Now JJ's meeting with a group of local reporters and Hotch and Rossi are back at The Printing Press. Reid needs to find something, anything before the UnSub kills again.

"All right, I've got his registration right here. John Virgil Maro attended Purdue at the same time as Laura Emerson. That's something."

Reid grips the phone tighter. "Did you just say his middle name is Virgil? Oh my God Garcia—that's it!"

Reid can hear the doubt in Garcia's voice. "You think this guy is our UnSub because he's got an unfortunate middle name?"

Spencer grins. "No, because Virgil Maro is the name of the poet who leads Dante through the Inferno and Purgatory in the poem. John Maro literally thinks he's Virgil." He resumes pacing. "So he's got to have someplace else, another apartment, a storage facility, somewhere he can work on his illuminated pages and plan the killings."

"Did your Mom have any suggestions? Derek said you called her."

Reid leans against the table. He rubs the skin beneath his eyes. "No. She…she couldn't help." He looks at the floor. There's a stain on the carpet. Probably coffee. It resembles the shape of Florida. The panhandle is right there.

"Reid? Are you okay?"

Reid swallows. He wants to tell her everything's fine, nothing wrong, he's fine, he's great but his mouth whispers "No," before his brain can catch up.

"Is everything all right with your mom?"

Reid's never been able to resist Garcia's kindness. She's the only one who knows, really knows about his mother. Even when he admitted what he'd done, that everything that happened with Randall Garner—and Elle—was because of his letters, she hadn't blamed him. Then again, Garcia doesn't have to. He blames himself.

Reid's throat constricts to the size of a straw. He swallows and wipes his eyes hard enough to hurt. He concentrates on this small fresh pain, and not what happened with his mother.

"She didn't read my last letter. Didn't even open it," Reid admits, his voice nearly a whisper. "And when I called, she--she refused to talk to me."

"Oh honey, I'm sorry." Garcia's voice is pure sympathy and that makes Reid feel even worse.

"She doesn't know who I am. She doesn't…doesn't remember me right now. I had to tell her." He takes a steadying breath. "I had to tell her I was one of her old teaching assistants just to get her talk to me."

"I'm sorry, Reid."

"Yeah." Reid sinks into a chair, pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "They're going to adjust her medication, see if that helps."

"Look, Reid, if you need to talk, or—"

"It's okay," Spencer tells her. He needs to change the subject. He needs to hang up. He needs to forget. "Thanks for the information."

"I didn't give you much. Just a dorky middle name."

"And a connection to Laura Emerson. Oh, hey, that gives me an idea. Virgil—the poet--was interested in his cognomen—"

"Say what?"

"Uh, like his last name. 'Maro.' If you look at it from an etymological standpoint Maro is an interesting last name because anagrammatically, it contains the words 'amor' and 'roma.'"

"Love and Rome," Garcia says. "Italian for the win!"

"Okaaay," Reid agrees, vaguely nonplussed. Then again, Garcia's exuberance and pop culture references confuse him on a daily basis and he's learned to live with it. "But my point is, if John is as familiar with this poem, with Virgil, as I think he is, he'll know this too. See if you can find any apartments or property registered to…to a Roma Amor or something with those letters. Or maybe an anagram. Can you check for anagrams?"

"Does Iron Man kick ass?"

Reid pushes the hair out of his face. "I'm going to…I’m going to say yes."

"And you'd be correct, sir. He kicks ass and so do I. Me and anagrams go way back. You can't tell, but I'm doing that thing where you stick two fingers together that means you're total BFFs."

Reid laughs. "That's good to know. And I'm sorry if that's a lot of work, but I'm only talking about West Lafayette, someplace midpoint between his mother's house and the Emerson and Sanders apartments."

"I'm on it, Junior G-Man."

"Thanks Garcia," Reid hesitates. "And…thank you."

He can hear the smile in her voice right through the phone. "Prego, mio amico."

ooooo

Now.

The darkness moves inexorably closer. It smothers him like a blanket (tarp). His voice is long gone, he's screamed himself hoarse. His throat feels like he's been sanding floors with it.

Reid's hair hangs in his face. He can't move. He's beyond terrified and despite what he told Hotch, he is not doing his best work. Sometimes he imagines he can hear Hotch's voice. Or Morgan's. But the harder he listens the less he hears.

There's a sudden pressure against his leg and Spencer cringes away from it, but there's nowhere to go. A pale oval looms out of the darkness, a gentle, familiar face. Tobias Hankel smiles. "I saw my Mom, Spencer." His smile is beatific. "Do you want to see yours?"

ooooo

Now.

"Where is he?" Morgan's voice echoes in the hall. "Somebody better tell me what's going on right now. " His voice is like thunder.

Hotch hurries to the door, blocks it with his body. "Morgan. Wait outside. Better yet, find JJ. She's waiting for the paramedics."

Morgan pushes past Hotch and into the room. He looks at the figure handcuffed to the table, then at Hotch. All the anger leaks out of him. His shoulders slump, he deflates against the wall. "Oh man. What the hell? What. The. Hell?"

"In the hall," Hotch's voice is steel.

"But—" Morgan takes another step into the room. "Please tell me—"

"The hallway. Now." Hotch puts a hand on Morgan's chest and physically pushes him out the door.

"Why's he handcuffed like that?" Morgan demands, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. His voice is too thin and an octave too high. He sounds like someone else. Right now, he wants to be someone else.

"I didn't know what else to do," Hotch says, and the words grind together like gears. "This is not the optimum situation, Morgan."

Morgan is incredulous. "That's the best you can come up? 'This is not the optimum situation'?" Derek waves his hands. "His head's still bleeding. He doesn't know what he's saying. He didn't kill anyone, man." Morgan bends over, hands on his thighs, like he just ran five miles. "Dammit, Hotch. You know he didn't kill anyone."

"His hands were covered in blood. Maro was dead when we arrived."

"He went there on his own? By himself?"

"We were late." Hotch looks away, face flushed. "There was some kind of traffic accident. We were too late." He lifts his head, his eyes bright and hard as pennies. "Where were you?"

Morgan pulls a shuddering laugh from his throat. "My phone died, okay? My freaking phone died." He throws it at the wall and it smashes, metallic pieces drop to the floor like shrapnel.

Prentiss jogs toward them. "What's going on? Is he--?"

Hotch shakes his head once, the movement nearly mechanical. "The same."

Morgan rubs his hands over his smooth head. "And he confessed to killing Maro?"

"No. He confessed to killing Elizabeth, Emerson, Sanders. And…and he keeps saying he killed Spencer Reid. Or that Reid's not dead yet, but he's dying."

Prentiss grips Morgan's arm for support. "Oh sweet God."

"He said…he said he buried him alive, that he's in the deepest pit of Hell."

Morgan scrubs his face with his palms. "That last part I believe. This has got to be…I can't believe this." He drops his hands and stares from Hotch to Prentiss. "This is what he was afraid of. He told me, back when he was dealing with that Nathan Harris kid."

Prentiss shakes her head. "I don't follow. What was he afraid of?"

"Emily, his mom's schizophrenic. She's locked up in a loony bin."

Hotch's glare is spectacular. "Morgan, that's enough."

Prentiss puts a hand to her mouth. "I didn't know. Why didn't anybody tell me? With everything he's been through…I would've…I would’ve…" Her voice dissolves into a choked sob. "My God, every single day is a stressor for him."

"I want to come in with you. I want to talk to him."

"I don't think that's a good idea. He thinks he's Virgil."

"You mean he's taken on John Maro's identify? Like Henry Frost and Francis Goehring?"

"No, I mean I think he thinks he's actually the poet Virgil leading Dante through Hell." Hotch spreads his hands, frustration and worry etched into his face. "He thinks he's supposed to save sinners, he's talking about repentance. He called David a classic narcissist."

Emily wipes her eyes. "He did what?"

Morgan's eyes go wide. "Like he did with Hankel. That's got to mean something."

"And when I told him to identify his mother, he picked out a photo of his actual mother, not Elizabeth Maro."

"Did he really kill Maro?"

"I don't know. It looks like he did."

"Did you see his head? Then it was self defense, Hotch, pure and simple. This isn't like Elle," Morgan snaps, "Don't give me that look."

"I'm not giving you a look."

"If we're such damn good profilers, why didn't we see this coming?" Emily demands. "How could we not know?"

"I don't know." Hotch looks shaken and Emily can't look at him because Hotch is never shaken. He's sturdy and dependable and solid. He's Hotch. "He's kept all his psychiatric evaluations, nothing's been flagged, he's been going to—making progress with that whole…with—"

"The Hankel thing."

"Yes."

"Let me talk to him, Hotch. Please."

Hotch shakes his head. "Strauss is already on my ass over this, Morgan."

"What about Gideon?" Prentiss squeezes Morgan's arm, her voice raw with hope. "Couldn't he get through to him somehow?"

"Maybe," Hotch says grimly. "Do you have any idea where he is? Because I sure don't."

Emily's face falls. "I…no. I have no idea."

"I've got Garcia working on it. That's the best I can do."

"Please, Hotch. This is for Reid. We owe him."

Hotch and Morgan lock gazes. Emily waits. She's still holding onto Morgan but she doesn't care. This is unreal. She feels like she's in a Vonnegut story. She's not unstuck in time, she's unstuck in reality.

Hotch sighs heavily. "Fine." He casts a weary gaze toward Emily. "I'm sorry Emily, but I want you to stay out here. Touch base with Garcia. See if we've got a cause of death for Maro yet."

Emily nods. "Okay. I can do that." And she can. She needs something to concentrate on. Something else.

Morgan and Hotch return to the small room.

Spencer Reid is still handcuffed to the table, his long hair matted with blood, his eyes wide and staring. He nods to Hotch and gives Morgan a curious stare. "Abandon your sin," Reid says, and Morgan's gut clenches. It takes everything he has to keep his face neutral. He can do this. He wants (needs) to do this.

"Abandon your sin so that Beatrice may lead you to Paradise." Reid focuses on a patch of nothing above Morgan's shoulder. "So that you may avoid the eternal torment of the Abyss."

"Why is it your job to lead Dante through Hell? To warn sinners about the consequences of their transgressions?"

Reid's eyes roll back toward Morgan. His lips pull into a parody of a smile. "It's God's will."


 

 chapter 2