Title: Wrong Turn, 1/2
Authors: buffyaddict13 and cycatryx
Genre: Gen, case fic
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: Reid, Hotch, Prentiss, and Morgan find themselves trapped by an UnSub after an investigation takes a terrifying turn. Garcia, Rossi, and JJ try to help before the rest of the team's time runs out.
Spoilers: North Mammon (2x7), Revelations (2x15), Doubt (3x1)
AN1: Giant sized thank yous to Riverbella for the support, encouragement and betaing. <3
AN2: For more information on the myth of the Minotaur, go here.



Modern man likes to pretend that his thinking is wide-awake. But this wide-awake thinking has led us into the mazes of a nightmare in which the torture chambers are endlessly repeated in the mirrors of reason.
~Octavio Paz



He paces. Everything is ready: the explosives are primed, the gas is set, the girl is waiting. The bitch. Harridan. Harpy. Ariadne, lover of Theseus, when once she loved him. She waits in her prison for discovery. But it won't come, and he takes comfort in that. This is his prison as well, but he's familiar with its walls and corridors. He knows the lines and curves of this place the way he once knew the curves of Ariadne's body. He knows each room, knows how many steps it takes to go from Point A to Point B. He knows there is only one true entrance and only one way out.

Minos abandoned him to this place (course of action) more than two decades ago. He does not miss his father. Minos had seemed a king, larger than life, when Asterion was a child. Now Asterion knows his father was nothing but a coward; what other kind of man leaves his child behind?

-----

1:59:59

He's in bed and his mother is reading to him. He can hear her voice, but he can't understand what she's saying. Spencer tries to sit up and the world slides, tilts, spins. Nausea clutches at his stomach and he retches onto the cement.

Cement. Not his bed, then. Where is his mother?

A man's voice now, a low rumble, a hand on his shoulder. His father. The hand squeezes Reid's shoulder encouragingly and Reid knows then the hand cannot belong to William Reid.

Reid's head aches, worse than when Hankel hit him. Everything sounds wrong; he's listening to a scratched CD. Words are garbled, their meaning slithers out of reach, stutters nonsense at him.

"–ied. –ied? –an –oo –ere me?"

Reid vomits again; he feels like he's being pulled inside out, like gravity's been reversed. "Guh," he mutters, and wipes his mouth with one shaking hand. It comes away red.

He stares at his fingers, wondering at the Rorschach of blood across his palm. His eyes flick to the ground and a pinkish-red puddle tells him something is wrong, something beyond broken voices and vertigo.

The hand on his shoulder pulls at him gently, guiding him upwards. He blinks, lifts his head. Morgan's on one side of him, Hotch is on the other. Reid understands at last. Of course. Randall Garner. The fire. There was an explosion. He was knocked off his feet. No wonder he can't hear properly.

But the sight of Emily's body pushes thoughts of Garner away. No, that's not right. She wasn't there. "What?" The word feels like twisted wire; his throat is raw, his mouth tastes like metal. "Emily? Is she—" He can't say it. First Garcia shot, now Emily. But how? What's happening?

Hotch moves his face close to Reid's. "Reid? Spencer? Can you hear me?"

Reid nods, and it's a mistake. The floor falls away from his feet; he falls with it. Morgan's grip keeps him upright, but only just. "Dammit kid, stay with us."

"She's alive," Hotch says quickly. "Her pulse is strong. When the gas came in, she fell and hit her head."

"How long ago?" Reid demands, mentally clearing the fog from his brain. Anger burns just below his worry for Prentiss. Gas? They were poisoned?

"Ten minutes, max," Morgan says, glancing at his watch. "I don't think I passed out."

Hotch's expression is grim. "Neither did I. But it was touch and go."

"So I'm the only one who—" Reid motions weakly to the puddle on the floor.

Morgan barks out a laugh. "I think I left a lung over there. That was some serious shit, man."

Reid licks his lips, tastes blood. He glances around the room, head clearing. He still feels ill but he's not in danger of passing out. He's no longer dizzy. Good. The pink sputum, on the other hand, is bad.

"We're in the warehouse," Reid says, looking to Hotch for confirmation.

His supervisor nods.

They're in a small room, what once might have been a reception area. There are no chairs, no desks. Reid calculates the size of the room; he also notes the floor and cement walls are clean. There's no dirt, no dust. Interesting. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, providing an unsteady glow. Hotch and Morgan look too pale, too angular in the harsh, staccato light.

Another warehouse. Thoughts of Charles Holcombe come to mind. Reid can still hear Maggie Cargill: Let me see his face, let me see his face!

But Maggie had lived. The four women that brought them to State College, Pennsylvania had not. And now another girl is missing.

Reid's gaze slides back to Emily. Fear twists inside him at the sight of her still form, her chalky complexion; his chest feels too tight, he can't breathe. The air feels too thick, too wet, too hot. He's burning up. Sweat rolls off him in sheets, it beads along his forehead and neck, down his back. He rubs a hand through his hair, belatedly remembering the blood. Great. Reid tries to slow his breathing, calm down. He tells himself he's simply panicking, hyperventilating—that's all, that's all.

But he knows better. Symptoms of pulmonary edema include difficulty breathing, coughing up blood, excessive sweating, anxiety, and pale skin. A classic sign of pulmonary edema is the production of pink, frothy sputum. If left untreated, it can lead to coma and even death. Okay. It's not an ideal situation, but it's not like they're trapped. They can get out.

"You okay?" Morgan asks him. "I'm gonna let you go. So if you think you're gonna fall on your ass, now's the time to let me know."

Reid's not okay, but he chooses his words carefully. "I won't fall down," he promises. It's not a lie.

"Where the hell are the SWAT guys?" Morgan hisses, stalking back toward the heavy door.

Hotch already has his cell out. He punches numbers on the keypad, brow furrowed.

Reid moves to Emily's side, pulls his damp sweater vest over his head and slides it beneath hers. He takes her hand and holds it, eyes sweeping over the room. There are three windows, all of them painted black. No, not painted exactly—they're covered with something thicker. Pitch? Tar?

Reid casts a nervous look toward Hotch. Aaron shrugs minutely. He glares down at his cell. "I can't get a signal."

Morgan holds one hand above the doorknob, drops it. "Let me try mine."

"STOP."

The word seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. A speaker crackles; feedback stabs Reid's ears like shrapnel. Emily turns her head, eyelids flickering, mouth stretched into a grimace. "Whuh?"

The voice is loud; it seems to vibrate through the room like a bass drum. "Do not attempt to open the door. All methods of ingress and egress have been rigged with explosives. If you don't believe me, listen."

The sound of the explosion is deafening, and Reid imagines he can feel the floor beneath him shake. But there is no dust, no cracked walls or broken windows here. Emily flinches and grips Reid's hand. Her eyes snap open, and her expression is one of fear. "Reid? What's going on?"

Hotch, Morgan, and Reid exchange wide-eyed stares. Good question.

"Agent, I believe you asked where the SWAT team was. They are no longer a concern. I wouldn't try that door if I were you. And I'm afraid your phone isn't going to work in here." The voice pauses, lets the information sink in. Then: "Oh, and by the way, the answer to your question is H₂S."

Reid's mouth goes dry. His hands are slick with sweat. He rubs them along the sides of his shirt. Oh God. He recognizes the formula. And now that he's concentrating, he can detect the faint odor of rotten eggs. He's used to the smell by now. They all are. The colorless, toxic, and flammable gas goes by many names: hydrogen sulfide, sulfur hydride, sulfurated hydrogen, hydrosulfuric acid, "sewer gas," "swamp gas," hepatic acid.

Reid swallows. He turns slowly, picks out the speaker on the far wall. It's been painted gray to match the cement. And beside it, a red light the size of a marble blinks at him like a demon's eye. A camera. They're being watched. He manages a single word: "Why?"

"What?" Hotch takes a step toward Spencer. "What is it?" He rubs his forehead, frowns. "What's H₂S? Is that—sulfur…sulfuric…what?"

"Hydrogen sulfide," Reid says softly.

"What's…what's that?" Emily asks, sitting up cautiously.

"It's not good," Morgan says tightly.

The speaker crackles, and the voice is no longer smug. "Remove your time pieces and all means of communication. Leave them at the threshold. And remember, I am watching. If you do not obey my orders, you will be sorry."

"I think he means watches and cell phones," Hotch says softly. He slowly unstraps his Rolex, unclips his pager and cell from his belt. Not that their phones would've done them much good, anyway. Reid and Morgan do the same. Emily hands over her cell phone, reluctantly. She isn't wearing a watch.

Hotch is preparing to unbuckle his ankle holster when the voice adds: "You may keep your swords."

Morgan's eyes meet Hotch's in disbelief, but neither of them says what the other is thinking: He wants us to get rid of our watches and phones but not our guns?

"You will find what you need in this room to complete your journey," the cold voice continues. "If you defeat the Minotaur, you will save Ariadne and yourselves."

"Ariadne?" Emily asks, her fingers exploring the back of her head. "Isn't the missing girl named Alyssa?" She holds out her free hand and Reid helps her up.

"Maybe he's got more than one," Morgan suggests.

"Who are you?" Hotch demands, his face inscrutable. "We heard screaming earlier. Is Alyssa Miller here?"

"I am the enemy of Theseus; the son of Minos. This is my prison as well as yours."

Reid's mouth drops open. Emily stares at him. "What?"

"Who's Theseus?" Morgan asks.

"You have exactly two hours," the voice says.

Reid checks the room again, now that he knows what to look for. Sure enough, on the floor below the speaker is a ball of string and a single piece of paper. A map. "It's definitely him," Reid yells to Hotch, hurrying toward the paper. "Daniel Dale."

"How do you know?" Emily asks. She sways on her feet, throws one hand out to catch herself. She leans against the wall, face gray.

"Because Alyssa was in his class. And he's a professor of the Classics," Reid explains. He leans down to pick up the map and string. The paper isn't a map after all, not really. It's a more like a blueprint, a series of gently curving lines of varying lengths. It's a puzzle. A maze. And not just any maze. "We're in the Labyrinth," Reid says hoarsely. He hands the page to Hotch.

Hotch takes the page, squints down at it. He turns toward the speaker. "What happens if we don't find Alyssa in two hours?"

There's no reply.

Reid touches Aaron's arm. "Say Ariadne, not Alyssa," he instructs quietly.

Hotch tries again. "What happens if we don't find Ariadne in two hours?"

The speaker crackles. "Then you die. I will release enough gas to kill all of you within minutes. I've already exposed you to the gas once, and I've killed your SWAT team. I suspect you know I am not lying." There's another burst of feedback and then nothing.

The four agents stare at each other, stunned. And then the room is plunged into darkness.

-----

Previous day
Somewhere in Pennsylvania

Hotch studies the photographs in the file while the SUV bounces down the highway.

"You know, when you said I got to come along, I didn't realize you were going to drive over every pothole in the state," Garcia laments from the front seat. "I'm starting to miss my office."

Morgan chuckles next to Hotch. "Construction season, Garcia."

Garcia rifles through the large, polka-dot bag on her lap. "I thought summer was construction season," she says, pulling out a pink PSP. "I feel like I'm riding on a frickin' trampoline."

"Welcome to the glamorous world of the BAU," Emily says, grinning and reaching for the iced coffee perched in the driver's side cup holder. "And you should know that every season is construction season around here." She peers into the rearview mirror, forehead creasing. "I don't see Reid, JJ, and Rossi behind us."

Morgan grins. "Rossi probably drove into a telephone pole. Reid said he was gonna bring The Foundation Trilogy again. Let's hope JJ brought her iPod."

"Morgan," Hotch says reprovingly.

"Hey, I'm not saying I'd drive into a bridge abutment or anything. I'd just toss Reid's tapes out the window, is all."

"Let's focus on the case and not Reid's choice of reading material, please. What do we know?"

"Four bodies," Emily says, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles to points. "All young women from Penn State, all killed nine days apart and dumped in alleys on and around campus."

Morgan flicks a look at Emily. "Do we know if campus security saw anything?"

"No, but Garcia's going to help the local PD go through the tapes, just in case."

"What else?" Hotch prods.

"Their hair was cut off and burned at the scene," Emily continues. "Their throats were slit, and their hearts and livers were removed." Her face goes hard. "And their breasts were mutilated."

"And each woman had a name carved into her forehead, like the mark of Cain. Like a…" Derek searches for the right word, "…an accusation."

"Or a judgment," Emily adds.

Hotch nods, flips to a detailed list of the victims. "That's right. Jennifer Carver, age 20, had 'Psyche' cut into her skin. Lila Newman, age 23, 'Hyppolyta.' Tammi Jasper, age 21, 'Daphne,' and Heidi McMann, age 19, 'Peitho.'" Hotch looks up. "What do those names have in common?"

"They're all women who were either objects of infatuation by men, or seducers of men in Greek mythology," Reid explains to JJ and Rossi in the other SUV. "The level of overkill suggests that the UnSub is taking out his rage on these women, that he's punishing them in place of someone else." Reid lifts a finger. "And, we know our UnSub has a decent knowledge of Greek history from the sacrificial manner in which he killed his victims. The names he's chosen to, uh, label them with also shows he probably feels betrayed by a woman he once loved."

Reid lets his hand drop and goes quiet. He can't help thinking about the last time college-age girls were killed. The last case he worked with Gideon. Reid shifts in the seat, lets his gaze drift out the window. He wonders where his one-time mentor is now, wonders if he's found happiness. Reid wonders if he'll find it as well.

"The fact that this bastard sent untraceable e-mails to the police taunting them shows he's technologically savvy," Rossi adds.

"Garcia should be able to backhack him." JJ lifts an eyebrow, smiles sheepishly. "Or whatever it is she does."

Reid shrugs. "I just call it computer magic."

JJ laughs. "You would."

-----

1:44:58

Asterion ducks his head through the doorway, wary of his horns. He is a Minotaur and this is his Labyrinth. His story has been told many times; he is myth and legend. But this time the story will have a new ending. The Minotaur will live and Theseus will die. He walks through the darkened corridors, the sound of his hooves quiet, almost like the sound of soft-soled shoes. He smiles. He doesn't need the light. He's lived in darkness far too long.

He wonders if Theseus and his followers have entered the maze yet. His long cloak hangs over his broad shoulders. He pats one pocket and smiles. The gas mask is still there.

So is the knife.

-----

1:40:11

"Is everyone all right?" Hotch's voice is sure and steady in the darkness.

Morgan speaks first. "I am." A pause. "Emily? Reid?"

Emily's voice is faint. "I've felt better."

"I'm—I'm fine," Reid says, but he feels light-headed. His lungs feel too heavy, as if they're filling with sand instead of air.

"Just a second." Hotch pulls a set of keys from his pocket. A small flashlight dangles from the keychain. He turns it on, and a thin sphere of light pokes through the blackness. He points the light at the paper and the other agents gather around him.

The lines are still there. Reid's heart sinks. "This can't be what I think it is," he mutters. "If it is, we're in trouble. Big trouble."

Hotch turns to the young agent, face hidden in shadow. "What do you mean?"

"According to Greek mythology, Ariadne is the name of Theseus' love, whom he later abandoned. Theseus is the man who killed the Minotaur at the center of the Labyrinth. I—I think Dale thinks he's Asterion—the Minotaur." Reid taps the page. "And this—this is the maze. He's converted the warehouse into a maze. That's what the string is for, so we can find our way through. But if, um, Dale catches us first, he'll most likely kill us. Or if we take too long to find Alyssa."

There's a moment of silence. Morgan speaks first. "You have got to be kidding me."

The flashlight sputters suddenly. Once. Twice.

"Can we get a mythology lesson later? How about right now we concentrate on gettin' out of here," Morgan says hotly.

The flashlight flickers a final time and goes out.

"Sorry," Hotch says, a trace of the discomfiture in the apology. "I guess the battery was low."

"You guess?" Morgan asks, incredulous.

"It's okay," Reid placates, holding up his hands in the darkness. "I've already memorized the map."

"How do we get through?" Hotch asks.

"Well," Reid admits tentatively, "That's going to take some, uh, time."

Morgan points out the obvious. "Yeah, except the problem is, we don't have much time, and there's no room for trial and error."

There's a soft moan across from him. Reid knows instinctively it's Emily. He reaches out automatically and snakes an arm around her waist. "Emily? Is it your head?"

"I'm tired," Emily whispers.

Morgan follows the sound of her voice and steps close. "I've got her, Reid."

"My head hurts," she complains, her words slurring. "Wanna go home."

Reid starts unspooling the string. His hands shake, but only slightly. "I'll get you home," he promises. "I'll get us out of here."

-----

1:55:18

"What the hell happened?" Rossi glares at the walkie-talkie in his hand. "I just lost the SWAT team." He goes to the conference room door and pokes his head out. "Lieutenant Thomas? Did you change the frequency?"

The Lieutenant's got a cell to her ear, her dark-skinned face tight with apprehension. She turns a nervous gaze toward Rossi. "We've got a big problem."

JJ looks up from the press briefing she's drafting, instantly alert. "What kind of problem?"

"I just got word of an explosion at the warehouse. Blew the windows out of a patrol car. Two uniforms are on the way to the hospital right now."

JJ shakes her head in disbelief. "I…what?" She feels as if she's just been slapped. "What about…what about—" she can't quite get the words out of her mouth. Gooseflesh ripples up her arms. For one horrible instant she has a vision of her co-workers' battered bodies among the bombed wreckage. This is what happens when I don't go with Reid.

Rossi asks what she can't. "What about our team?"

Thomas shakes her head. "No word yet. But Rosenbaum—one the uniforms—said one of your guys—the skinny one—found a second entrance, he thinks they went in that way. And that's not where the explosion occurred."

"Jennifer!" Garcia's in a cubicle to the right of the conference room they're using. Her voice is high and panicky, and the use of JJ's given name is never a good sign. "I need you and Rossi right now."

David runs a hand over his neatly-trimmed beard and sighs, face haggard. "Let's hope she's excited about an especially entertaining e-mail regarding men's anatomy."

Lieutenant Keesha Thomas follows Rossi and JJ to Garcia's borrowed work station. "I've been monitoring all incoming and outgoing e-mails," Garcia says rapidly, words tumbling out of her mouth. She twists her hands together before reaching for the mouse. She clicks it a few times and presses half a dozen keys on the keyboard. An image appears on the laptop positioned next to the monitor. It's a grainy, black-and-white picture of near-total darkness. But the tinny voices coming through the speakers are unmistakable: Hotch, Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid. JJ leans against the table, the relief so powerful it makes her legs weak.

Silently, Garcia points to a series of numbers in the bottom corner of the screen: 1:48:53. As JJ watches, the numbers go from 1:48:52 to 1:48:51 and then to 1:48:50. "Is that a clock?" she asks, the relief dissipating like smoke.

Garcia nods. "The e-mail is signed 'Asterion.' He says they have two hours to escape the maze or they all die." Garcia's voice wavers, a hand plucks at the neck of her sweater. "He said—he said he's already gassed them once. He said we can help from here, but if we go into the warehouse—if anyone goes into the warehouse—he'll blow the whole building."

Rossi sums up everyone's thoughts succinctly: "Shit."

-----

1:27:09

He listens. They can't see very well in the darkness, but they've managed not to trip over one another. Asterion smiles, pleased at their progress. The thin one is using the string to track their movement. So far they've been through three rooms and met a dead end. The big one wasted precious time trying to kick a door down. The Minotaur rolls his eyes. As if it would be that easy.

Something is wrong with the woman. She hit her head, and the other agents take turns helping her walk. It's a fortuitous development—a member of their own team slowing them down.

Nearby, Asterion can hear Daedalus screaming to be let out. The Minotaur scowls. Daedalus has about as much chance of escaping as the FBI team does: none at all.

-----

1:22:58

After leading them straight to two dead ends, Morgan and Hotch finally defer the lead to Reid. He can see the twists and turns in his mind; the darkness makes no difference to him. He trails one hand against the wood wall and envisions himself as part of the maze.

"Why don't we just bust through these walls?" Morgan asks. "Dale built this; we don't have to follow his instructions. Wouldn't that be faster?"

Hotch lifts an eyebrow. "Only if he didn't lay traps or explosives for just that contingency. For now we follow his instructions."

"We're playing into his…his…delusion," Emily says, with some effort.

"We are," Hotch agrees, and his tone makes it clear that particular conversation has ended.

Reid tells himself that he's keeping one hand on the wall to track their progress and not to keep himself upright. He feels like he's spent the last three hours running. Breathing heavily, he says, "According to Greek mythology, the Labyrinth was an elaborate structure designed and built by Daedalus for, uh, King Minos of Crete. It was built to hold the Minotaur, a creature that was half man and half—"

"I know what a Minotaur is," Hotch says mildly.

Reid's face burns even hotter. Okay. Of course he does. Reid should conserve his energy and stop talking. But he's nervous and scared so he clings to the familiar: words. "Oh. Right. Sorry. The Athenian Theseus volunteered to enter the maze and destroy Asterion—that is, the Minotaur. Asterion means 'star,'" he babbles.

"And Theseus won. He killed the monster," Emily says. "And he escaped the maze thanks to his love, Ariadne, who gave him enough thread to find his way back out." She smiles thinly. "I read Rose Madder a few years back and spent weeks reading up on Greek mythology."

"That's great," Reid says, pleased. "Did you know that even though it's called the Minotaur's Labyrinth, technically it was a maze? An actual Labyrinth tends to be unicursal—that is, a single path to the center—whereas a maze is like a puzzle in that you have various branches to traverse. Both literary and artistic descriptions make it clear that the Minotaur was trapped in a multicursal maze."

"Multicursal?" Morgan says dubiously.

"Yeah. A maze with false routes, dead ends, and only one—one correct path. And we've, um, already come across several dead ends," Reid says delicately.

"Wait a minute." Hotch taps Reid's shoulder, stopping him. The string goes taut in Reid's hand. Hotch peers into the darkness, trying to discern what lies ahead. The corridor appears to end a few feet ahead of them. One doorway leads left, the other right. "There's an intersection. Reid, which way do we go?"

Spencer closes his eyes. He focuses on the maze, projects the pathways in his mind. Right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. He mutters the directions under his breath, picks out their current location. "Left," he announces. "We go left and then right, left, right, right, then left."

Hotch stares at him. "You're sure?"

Reid stares back.

Hotch rubs his forehead, sighs. "Sorry. Left it is."

"And we're just assuming Professor Minotaur is gonna let us walk right up to Alyssa Miller and save the day?" Morgan huffs.

"He's been ahead of us the whole time," Emily says, one hand pressed to her head. "And we don't know where he started. He could be waiting for us in that room."

Hotch holds his weapon in his free hand. A muscle in his jaw tics. "I hope he is."

-----

1:16:33

In his prison, Daedalus paces. Asterion is insane; he can see that now. At first, when King Minos had asked him to build the Labyrinth to keep the Minotaur hidden from the world, Daedalus had wondered at the request. After all, there were many half-men, half-beasts in Zeus's sprawling Olympus garden.

But then Asterion had grown angrier, hungrier, more violent. He wanted blood. He demanded living flesh be brought to his table; he'd cursed his father and renounced his mother. Daedalus covers his eyes. Oh, Pasiphaë—poor Pasiphaë; none of this was your fault. Blame your husband, if one must be blamed; he is the one who crossed Poseidon.

And now he, Daedalus, is imprisoned along with the monster—for the second time.

He thought he was free after he and Icarus escaped Asterion—after Minos had double-crossed them by trapping them inside the Labyrinth with the Minotaur—but then his world had fallen apart.

Icarus was perfection. Icarus was the embodiment of everything good. He had only wanted to bask in the beauty of the sun; it was not his fault the heat was too great, the angle too high, or the sea too deep. Daedalus had delivered his boy from the Labyrinth, only to watch him drown in the cold, gray waters of Crete. He had thought giving Icarus wings a great gift, a miracle. He sees now he did nothing more than curse his son to an early grave.

He wonders now: Is it Icarus' demise for which he is being punished? Or is King Minos still afraid that Daedalus will spill the secrets of the Labyrinth to the Athenians? The old man wrings his hands and curses the mute stone walls. It has to be the latter. If Minos had not desired the boy to die, he would not have placed him in the Labyrinth. But Daedalus is still a liability. A danger to Minos and to Crete. The king wants him silenced—and Asterion wants his conquest.

Only it is not Daedalus and Icarus he is after this time. The Minotaur has grown tired of his prison's architect; he has even soured of red-lipped virgins and tousle-haired youths. Asterion is now thirsty for blood of the most revered and noblest rank—that of the Athenian hero.

-----

Previous day
State College Police Department
State College, Pennsylvania

"There's another girl missing." Keesha Thomas hands Hotch a picture. "Alyssa Miller, age 21, a junior at Penn State. Her mother says she talks to her every few days, and she hasn't heard from her in over a week."

Hotch studies the photo of the attractive strawberry blonde. She looks younger than her 21 years, and there's something innocent, yet sultry in the way her pale blue eyes stare out at him. It suddenly occurs to him that this is the type of girl an older man might find attractive. Someone…well, someone his age.

Prentiss eyes the picture over Hotch's shoulder. "She's pretty," she remarks.

"There's something else," Keesha says, just as Hotch opens his mouth to ask Has anyone checked her residence?

She hands him another photo. Blood smeared over Eggshell White walls to form the words 673 Silver Lake Drive. ARIADNE. Hotch's breath catches in his throat; he has a sudden flash of Elle Greenaway's wall with RULES splashed in dark crimson beside the doorway. He'd spent nearly two hours trying to scrub it off; in the end he'd just re-painted the wall. He wonders if Elle knows that her blood is still there, beneath a fresh layer of Cottage White.

He looks from the photo to Keesha. "The officers found this at her apartment." It's a statement, not a question. He already knows she's been taken.

Keesha nods.

"Who owns the Silver Lake property?"

Keesha shrugs. "It's a warehouse. Supposedly abandoned, although records indicate it was once used as a laboratory."

"A lab?" Prentiss queries, raising an eyebrow. "What kind?"

"Private research—I don't know what kind. The paperwork is pretty disorganized." Keesha pauses, looks sheepishly toward Hotch. "But that's not exactly unusual for this area."

"This doesn't make sense," Morgan cuts in. "You're tellin' me that we talked to every single professor specializing in the Classics and all of them have alibis? And now this guy's sick little mythology play is leading us to an abandoned laboratory?"

"Guys!" Garcia calls from her computer across the room. "I just found something about your girl—and maybe a suspect."

They crowd anxiously around the computer as Garcia pulls up an article from the Centre Daily Times. The date is April 16, 2007.

"Says here that Daniel Dale, age 39, professor of Greek mythology at Pennsylvania State University's Classics and Ancient Mediterranean Studies program, was fired after the school board deemed his relationship with student Alyssa Miller, age 20, to be a 'detriment' to the reputation of the university and its faculty," Garcia paraphrases. "Looks like she threatened to take out a restraining order against Dale when he wouldn't leave her alone after she broke off their affair. Then she accused him of sexual harassment, but decided not to press charges. Dale denied ever having harassed her, but it appears he left the school quietly."

"Definitely sounds like a lead," Keesha asserts, squinting at the grainy image on the screen of a man with wild, light-colored hair and an overly-chiseled jaw.

Morgan straightens up. "We need to talk to this guy. Find out where he lives."

"That explains why all of the current professors have alibis!" Reid says excitedly, gesturing toward the monitor. "He hasn't been teaching for over seven months."

Hotch looks around the room. "Okay. Garcia—pull Dale's address and see if there's anything to connect him to the other victims. Dave, you and JJ—"

A young officer calls across the bullpen, interrupting Hotch's instructions. "Lieutenant! There's someone on the phone asking for the FBI. Says he might have information about one of the victims." His had covers the receiver tightly, as if trying to block out the person on the other end of the line.

Hotch casts a sharp glance at Keesha and Rossi.

"This could be our UnSub," Keesha says, a hairline crack in her voice.

Hotch strides over to the BAU's makeshift desk, signals for the officer to transfer the call. The bullpen is suddenly quiet as Keesha calls for a trace. They can all feel it: the palpable intensity of a prospective break, the looming possibility that the killer's voice will be the one to crackle out of the receiver.

Aaron picks up the phone. "This is Agent Hotchner with the FBI." He's careful not to mention the BAU. He doesn't want the UnSub to know anything more about the investigation than he already does.

"Ariadne cannot help you now. If you want to keep her alive, you must come and claim her." The voice is deep, harsh. The low growl of an animal pursuing its prey.

"Who is this?" Hotch demands.

"How many more messages must I leave?!" The man screams, teetering on the edge of frenzy. Hotch thinks he can hear a faint cry in the background. Is it a woman? Then the man speaks again, and he is eerily calm. "You know very well who this is. Come and claim her—or she will die."

"Is this Daniel Dale? Is Alyssa Miller with you?" Hotch barks. His answer is the sound of the dial tone.

Keesha looks hopefully to the female officer at the call-tracing station. "We've got it," the officer announces proudly. None of them are surprised when the location she reads off is the same Silver Lake address written in blood on the wall of Alyssa's apartment.

-----

1:09:44

"Hey! Anybody there?" Morgan calls out, as if answers are waiting in the darkness.

In the half-light from the high, pitch-streaked windows, Hotch gives Morgan a reproachful stare. They're all starting to feel frustrated, but pushing contact with Dale, at this point, could encourage him to give them another taste of the gas. And Hotch isn't sure Reid would be able to handle more hydrogen sulfide.

Reid's already having trouble breathing as it is, and although Prentiss's condition has improved (she seems to have suffered only a minor concussion), Reid's has worsened. His coughing fits have forced them to halt more often than they would like, and the young agent now seems so exhausted that Hotch privately wonders if Reid is still leading them in the right direction.

"Man, this place just keeps gettin' bigger and bigger the further we go," Morgan comments darkly as they round another turn. Dead end. Hotch senses Morgan's professional breaking point looming, and he decides to focus their attention on something besides the maze.

"Wait a minute." Morgan and Prentiss stop in their tracks. He looks surprised; she looks apprehensive.

Reid slumps against the wall, shaking his head. "This isn't right," He gestures weakly toward the solid wood. "There's not supposed to be a dead end here." He blinks and rubs his face, stares at something on his hand. The hallway feels claustrophobic. With Dale already so far ahead of them, is there even a chance they'll find Alyssa in time? Reid wipes his hand on his sweater and squints back down the hall. In the darkness, it looks like it goes on forever.

"Reid." Spencer turns his head, and in the pinprick of light from the window Hotch sees a dark stain running down the agent's chin and jaw. Aaron puts his hands on his teammate's shoulders, notices how he sags against the light support. "Are you all right? What's going on?"

Reid looks down at the rapidly-shrinking ball of string in his hands, suddenly embarrassed. With all eyes on him, he feels like a child who's been caught doing something wrong. And obviously he has; they're at another dead end. Which makes no sense—he knows the way out. He's the only one who has the power to lead them out of the Labyrinth—the only one who can clearly see the map. So why a dead end? Is there even a way out? Is Dale not only delusional but a liar as well?

Spencer closes his eyes. He can still see the trail in his mind, but it's blurry now, a smeared overhead transparency laid over his thoughts. The ink is smudged, the proper path buried beneath layers of confusion, obscured by pain. Right, left, left, right, left, right, right, left. The map splits, the directions fray into a dozen different threads.

He thinks: Right. Right-brain thinking includes random, intuitive, global and holistic, synthesizing, subjective and whole. Here's a right-brain thought: This whole situation sucks.

Left. Statistics have concluded that when both parents are left-handed, there is a 26% chance they will produce a left-handed child.

Left. His father left him. So did Gideon.

Right. 'Might makes right.' The first known use of this phrase in the English language was in 1846 by the American pacifist and abolitionist Adin Ballou. This idea has been attributed to the History of the Peloponnesian War by the ancient Greek historian Thucydides. Theseus. Asterion.

Reid pulls in an agonizing breath. He's going to die. And if he dies, they all die. He's going to let everyone down. (Again.)

No. That's wrong, not right. He can do this. Just keep going. Keep breathing. Ignore the pain.

His mother isn't in her right mind. Soon there'll be nothing left of the woman who raised him. Reid puts both hands to his head, massages his temples. Why are they just standing here? They're running out of time, they're—

Hotch is staring at him and Reid refocuses with a Herculean effort, pulls the threads back together. Did Hotch ask if he was all right? Not exactly. "I—uh, well, no. I'm—"

Another coughing fit slams through him, and Hotch quickly steps back to allow Reid room. When Spencer takes his hand away from his mouth, blood drips from his fingers.

"Oh my God. Reid—" Prentiss starts, but doesn't finish. Her eyes are wide in the gloom, white with fear.

"Reid?" Hotch asks. His voice is casual, but even now Reid can pick up on cues, find the truth hidden between carefully-modulated syllables. He can hear the worry in Hotch's voice beneath his calm demeanor.

"It's—it's the gas," Reid croaks, and the words are like rocks in his mouth. There's a thick gurgling in his throat. He has a terrible taste in his mouth, and his tongue feels too thick. "I—I think I may be experiencing symptoms of Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome…and possibly pulmonary edema, as an effect of toxic gas inhalation. I was, um, probably the one closest to the source of the emission."

"Translate that," Morgan snaps, and Hotch feels the agent's anger building. Morgan's like an avalanche. As a snow bank, he can weather storms, undisturbed, for months—years, even; but then an icicle will fall, and he'll come crashing down in an explosion of fury. It's a trait Morgan has tried hard to control over the years, but sometimes it gets the better of him—especially when he's afraid or out of control. Right now, Hotch suspects he's feeling a bit of both. They all are.

Reid coughs weakly. Even in the faint light, Hotch can see how pale he looks; he can see the beads of sweat on Reid's face.

"Pulmonary edema occurs when fluid builds up in the lungs, causing shortness of breath, excessive sweating—" Reid wipes his hand across his forehead, "and the…the expulsion of blood or sputum."

"And?" Morgan tone is too calm, too quiet. It's almost deadly.

"If left untreated, it can lead to coma and eventually death from…from hypoxia." Reid finishes in a near-whisper. He feels like he just ran ten miles. His hair is wet with sweat; it sticks to his face like he's spent the last hour in the rain. The string is damp in his hand. He's not suffocating, he's burning to death. He's become a furnace. He works to catch his breath and wonders if he always sounds this way when he talks—like an encyclopedia.

Morgan is silent, but his expression says volumes. Prentiss inhales sharply; Hotch can tell she wants to cry but won't.

"Then that gives us all the more reason to find Dale and Alyss—er, Ariadne—and get the hell out of here," Hotch says, determined. But beneath his bullet-proof vest his heart stutters against his ribs. He won't lose an agent. He won't.

Suddenly, the intercom buzzes and a faint, hurried voice issues from the speaker. "You need to hurry. Asterion will be back with the girl. Time is running out."

"Now who the fuck was that?" Morgan grits, but Reid instantly discerns a similar inflection to Dale's deep rumble. He looks at Hotch, his bright eyes a striking contrast to the dark shadows beneath them.

"He didn't call her 'Ariadne,'" Reid whispers. "He—he must believe he's someone else…someone besides the Minotaur." His mind flashes briefly to a small cabin in a cemetery, the burning stink of fish hearts.

"Where is Asterion?" Morgan growls. His hands curl into fists.

A slight pause, and then: "In the Labyrinth."

Morgan rolls his eyes as if to say, No shit.

Hotch clears his throat. "Can you tell us how much time we have left?"

Static crackles out of the speaker. Then it goes silent.

-----

1:01:45

"What's the clock say?" JJ asks as she grabs the directions to Daniel and Melinda Dale's residence from the printer.

"One hour, one minute, forty-five seconds," Garcia answers with uncharacteristic gravitas.

"We'd better get rolling." Rossi eyes JJ, and she nods.

"Okay, Garcia, we'll be back as soon as we can. Call us if anything—important—happens." The qualifier seems to cheapen their teammates' predicament, but JJ's not willing to admit her fears aloud. She gathers her Blackberry, purse, and paperwork in a daze, and prepares to follow Rossi out into the bullpen. She hesitates when she notices Garcia cover her face with her hands. The technician's shoulders shake.

JJ drops her purse and files on the table and goes to her friend. "What is it?" she asks, eyeing Garcia with concern, but Penelope just shakes her head. JJ tentatively puts a hand around her shoulder. "What is it?" she asks again, gently.

Garcia lifts her head and sniffs. Her eyes are red, and there are streaks of mascara and purple sparkly eye shadow smeared across her cheeks.

She swallows hard. "I—I've just been sitting here, watching them, and—and Reid's not okay."

Something shifts in JJ's chest. "What do you mean, 'Reid's not okay'?"

"He's—he's coughing a lot and—I hate the way this sounds, but I think he's—he's holding them up. There's something wrong with him. He's sick." Penelope sniffs again and reaches for a tissue. She tries to wipe the makeup from her face, ends up smearing it more.

Penelope turns back to the screen and JJ follows her gaze. Hotch is standing with his hands on Reid's shoulders, talking. It's hard to hear their voices, but it sounds like Reid is giving some sort of medical advice.

All of a sudden, Garcia's eyes grow wide. She turns to JJ, digs her nails into her hand. "They have to get out of there! We have to get them out of there! There's got to be something the police or the FBI can do!" Her eyes are wild, and JJ is suddenly scared. Desperate to calm Garcia down, JJ envelopes her friend in a fierce hug.

"It's going to be all right," she says, patting the other woman's back, not caring when Penelope's tears seep through the shoulder of her silk blouse. "They'll be okay," JJ says, and she's not sure if she's trying to convince Garcia or herself. "We're going to go collect as much information on Daniel Dale as we can, and whatever we find will help them. I promise."

Garcia breaks away first. She looks up, and JJ can see a measure of hope restored to her tear-stained face.

"I'm sorry… it just—it just reminds me of, you know—before."

The memory hits JJ like a fist; she recalls the snapping razor teeth of hungry dogs, the sight of Reid bound to a chair, helpless. The claustrophobic feel of that house, the panicked, endless hours of waiting. A wave of nausea ripples through her and JJ knows it has nothing to do with morning sickness. She hasn't worked up the nerve to tell the team. The thought that she might never get the chance stabs a sliver of panic—and regret—through her chest. Focus. Take a deep breath. If Garcia sees you're scared, she'll flip out.

JJ forces a smile, and hugs the pink-and-blonde-haired technical analyst again. She picks up her things from the table. "We have to think positively. And we can't compare this case with Hankel—that wouldn't be fair to Reid or anyone else."

"I know," Garcia answers glumly. She resumes staring at the monitor, forehead creased with worry.

"Just be strong, okay? Reid would want you to." JJ squeezes Garcia's shoulder before she turns and heads out the door after Rossi.

--------

0:53:17

Asterion runs his hands through the basket of barley. The feel of the small, oval grains slipping through his fingers brings a sense of peace. This will indeed be a noble sacrifice. He checks to make sure the bowl of water is still on the altar. It is. He must soon begin the archesthai—the cleansing. He removes his machaira from the sheath inside his cloak and admires it in the dim glow of the single light bulb overhead. The blade is clean and sharp; it has already dispatched four Athenian virgins over the last two moons.

A small whimper from the corner of the room unfocuses his thoughts. It is Ariadne.

"Be quiet, Ariadne. Theseus draws near. You must be brave for him, as he is for you."

She blinks rapidly. She hugs her bleeding arms and hands to her chest. "Please let me go," she implores. Her voice is weak and pitiful; the mewling sound angers him.

"Stop sniveling. Don't you know you have a higher purpose?" He reaches for the barley again and lets the feel of the grain soothe him. He will not lose his temper. This is a time of preparation and he is a noble beast.

"Please, Professor Dale—don't talk to me like that. It's me, Alyssa. You remember me. You remember me, don't you, Daniel?" She looks up, tears—and desperation—in her eyes.

The name, when she says it, wounds him, although he doesn't know why. And yet she says the word as if it has great meaning, as if it holds a vast significance he should understand. Ariadne is beginning to irritate him, although he knows he cannot kill her yet.

"Be silent," he instructs her, and slaps her hard across the face. The blow elicits a fresh burst of crying from Theseus' love-pet, and Asterion turns away, disgusted. There was once a time when he would have crossed the Aegean for Ariadne—when he had sacrificed many lambs to Aphrodite in her name. But those days are long dead, and all he is left with is the dry husk of a forbidden love and the darkness of the Labyrinth.

The Minotaur's thoughts turn to Daedalus, the architect of this hell he calls his prison. He will die for what he has done, he vows silently. They will all die. 

 

chapter 2