Desiderium: longing for something that has been lost

Chapter 23

"even after nights/ that lasted far too long/ morning presses on/with new hopes, with new songs"---morgan harper-nichols. 

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Las Vegas

February 21, 2008

1:07 pm

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The clientele list began trickling in a few hours after the visit to the El Cortez casino. As another box was added to the already impressive number, JJ let out a groan, and put down the files. 

"There's no way that all of these were consistent customers. He has to be stiff-arming us here Hotch." 

Hotch pulled out another file, a determined look on his face. "It doesn't matter at this point. He would have been the most consistent in the late seventies early eighties. We profiled him as a white male, during this time, he would have been younger, I'd say late twenties, early thirties. All of those--" He pointed to a stack of boxes. "Are useless." 

  Emily walked in, file in one hand, and a paper in the other. "I have the name of our three suspects. We come across them yet?"

Her face fell at the negative response and she sank to sit down cross-legged on the floor. "Damn." 

It was their one lead. If they failed here, it could be days before they scrounged up another one. 

They didn't have days, hell they barely had hours. 

The realization that this truly was their last hope settled in. Pages flipped faster and files were set aside messily as the names they wanted to see so badly did not appear.

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Garcia believed full heartedly in the goodness of man. It was a belief she forced herself to believe in, that in everything, there must always be something good, and pure in everything, because how else could the world continue to move?

She did not expect for that age-old childish belief of hers to be completely chipped away in a small dark room, tied to a chair. 

She cried for the loss of her innocence and the absolute unfairness of it all. 

The man sauntered over to her, the knife that was hanging from his hand, dripping with blood. "What's the matter sweetheart? Cheer up, it'll be over soon." He angled himself back so she could get another good look at Spencer, and her tears overflowed again. "Tell you what baby, give me a kiss and I won't slice his throat." 

She shot him a look of absolute derision, and glanced over at Morgan. He shut his eyes, and lowered his head. This would be a decision she'd make herself.

"Fine." She clenched her fists as he stepped closer, and grabbed her face. 

"Remember," he murmured in her hair. "When this is all done and over? You consented." He leaned forward and forced his lips onto hers. She pushed herself back, but he held her tight, sucking on her bottom lip.

Finally, he stood back, and stretched. "Thanks doll." Strolling over to where Spencer was slumped on the chair, he grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up. 

"Ok, so now choose a place or I stab." 

Garcia gasped. "But you said...." 

"I said I wouldn't slice his throat. Better choose, I'm getting anxious over here."

Morgan spoke up, tears glistening on his cheeks. "Leave him alone, please." 

"Leave him alone?" The knife slashed down across his chest, and blood seeped into the torn shirt. Spencer moaned, the pain bringing him back to awareness. "You know by now I can't do that." He slashed him again, across the face. "Should have chosen something."

The knife flashed up again, and buried itself in his shoulder. Spencer bucked forward, too spent to even make a sound. He twisted the knife, a finger to his lips. 

"You hear that?" There was a faint scrape. "That's bone." He yanked the knife out, and wiped it on Spencer's shirt. 

Morgan closed his eyes, and swallowed convulsively. "C'mon kid, stay with us now."

"Yeah, kid." He slapped him, and Spencer stiffened. "Can't give up the ghost yet." He pressed the tip of the knife against the other shoulder. "How about we finish the set?" 

Spencer shook his head, the sound of blood dripping from him slowly increasing. "Please, god, no." 

"Mmm. Let me think." He pretended to consider, taking the pressure off the knife. Spencer took a silent breath of relief. "God said no." And plunged the knife through. 

He let out a strangled scream, and panted hard, harsh breaths. All he could feel, all he could think, all he could see,  was white hot pain. He heaved, and he threw up, the vomit dribbling down his chest. 

"Damn, kid. You're disgusting." He withdrew the knife and inspected it. "Got your junk all over my knife." 

Spencer threw up again, tensing as his body spasmed. He felt the dark draw of darkness start to pull at him and slowly he started to slump over again. A sharp slap drew him out of the limbo and he felt the familiar waves of panic crash back in. 

"Can't quite stay awake?" 

Could you?  His chest was cold and heavy, a sign that his two heavy stab wounds were still flowing. He licked his lips, wondering when the last time he actually had water was. 

He heard shuffling a few feet away and decided to ignore it. For at least a few seconds, there were no knives cutting him open, no unseen voices coming from every which direction. He let out a breathy sob. He'd really wanted to live, really wanted to say goodbye properly to his mom, to just live.

It was so unfair.

He took a deep breath. A quiet rattling in his chest alarmed him, and he tried to analyze why that could be. None of his outcomes were good. 

The footsteps came closer and he tensed in his seat, waiting for something to happen. It was so hard when he couldn't see. If he could just see, he could mentally prepare, but this.

A rush of ice cold water rushed over him, and every coherent thought left him. He was left shocked, barely even shivering, as his body attempted to understand this new shock to his system. 

Faintly he heard, a shout, and then another intensely sharp pain registered. Wearily he wondered if this what his parents felt when they died, this bone-dragging exhaustion, this extreme need to just give up. He found himself mad at them, how could they just leave him alone? Why hadn't they taken him with them?

He let out a rough cough, and he felt blood bubble over his lips. He was fascinated by that. Maybe he had punctured a lung. 

Suddenly, his blindfold was roughly removed, and he sighed. Blearily, he saw two figures in front of him. A sudden spike of sadness rushed through him, and a small tear rolled down his face. 

He really just wanted his mom. 

He let out a tiny sigh, and let his head drop. 

Mom.