The Telepath's Daughter

The Dead of Night

Hotch had forgotten how rustic, worn and comfortable the old doctor's home was.

As usual, the front door was unlocked. Unthinkable to someone like the Unit Chief of the BAU that such a thing existed as a town without crime. The doctor's rich laugh told Hotch he'd been read.

"I wouldn't say we're without incidents, Aaron. We've got hijinks and mistakes and mischief, but what's the point in robbing someone's home if a good half the population can telepathically sniff you out almost as soon as you've committed the crime? And sometimes before?" Hotch gave his head a rueful shake; it was still, and likely always would be, incomprehensible to him. He could thank his profession for that. He wondered if he'd ever be able to shake off the aftereffects of his daily total-immersion in crime and horror.

The doctor pushed the front door open and ushered Aaron in, gesturing toward the hallway on the far side of the living room. "Take your luggage in there. Same room you used last time. Then come on back and we'll talk. Unwind a little."

Hotch walked down the hallway and entered the room where the memories of being healed and being allowed to show weakness made him at once grateful and uncomfortable. He hefted his go-bag onto the faded quilt folded at the foot of the bed. He took a moment to admire once again the hand-hewn look of walls and furniture that were likely almost as old as his host. It was warm and welcoming and he felt the tension he always carried in his chest loosen a fraction. With a deep breath, Hotch decided to make an effort to take advantage of the respite the sanctuary offered. Determined to relax, he toed his shoes off and padded back out to the living room.

The doctor was arranging crackers, cheese and small slices of ham on a plate. There were already two heavy, crystal tumblers containing a deep golden liquid sitting on the small table in front of the sofa.

"That one's yours." The doctor nodded at the fuller glass. "You don't have to work in the morning." He winked and placed the snacks between their drinks.

Hotch sat on the end of the couch that corresponded with the more potent drink, picked up the tumbler and took a judicious sip. The antique scotch rolled down his throat, spreading a glow and melting some more of the tension that was his constant companion. He let his eyes close and his head fall back onto the cushioned headrest. A deep sigh escaped before he even had time to realize it was in him.

"You're tired, Aaron. But...something more is working on you, isn't it."

Hotch's lips gave a mirthless twitch as he recognized the words as statement of fact rather than question. He opened his eyes and turned his head, still resting against the back of the sofa, to look at the doctor. "Mind if I call you Nathaniel, here where there's no one to hear us?"

"It's not a secret. You'd be surprised how many people don't care if I have a name or not. I'm just 'the doctor.'" He shrugged. "What I do is more important than who I am at this stage of the game."

Hotch gazed unflinching into the weathered, old eyes that he knew were appraising him. He considered himself an intensely private person who kept walls and shields around his vulnerable core at all times. But here...he didn't mind shedding his protective coverings.

Still, it was an adjustment that wasn't entirely comfortable, so Hotch closed his eyes again and turned his head back to its original position, straight forward, but still supported. "You're right, Nathaniel. I'm tired. And I'm lost. And I'm..." His voice faded.

After a moment of silence... "Do you want me to help you, Aaron?"

The silence stretched once more. At long last, Hotch straightened, pulling himself up to a more alert position. He took another sip of his drink before responding. "I don't know. I don't know that I want the answers yet." He glanced at the doctor and saw no judgment; just unwavering, compassionate regard. "Do you know I was afraid to come here?"

"Yes."

Hotch chuckled and tasted the excellent scotch again. "Of course you did. You know everything."

"Not everything, Aaron. And even if I did know everything, it wouldn't do much good. As I explained to the telepath years ago, knowledge earned has meaning. Knowledge that is given to someone without any effort to acquire it on their part is usually worse than useless. It can actually prevent them from expending the effort to learn in other situations."

Hotch nodded, but it was only a vague acknowledgement. His thoughts were less philosophical; more indicative of his own circumstances. "So you know I was afraid to come here. And you know the reason why, too."

"I knew the reason long ago, when I first met you, Aaron. It hasn't changed. It's just that you're coming closer to realizing that you have options in your life. You're coming closer to understanding that you don't always have to deny yourself. You can put your own needs first at some point."

Hotch contemplated the liquor still in his glass as though it might hold the answers to any number of mysteries. But after a moment, his lips pressed themselves into a firm line and he gave his head a slow, deliberate shake. "No. I can't put myself first. I have Jack and my job and obligations, duties, responsibilities, and...and..." Hotch's voice softened and the doctor caught a current of deep and complicated emotion.

"It's alright to say it, Aaron. Saying it won't in any way be a betrayal of all those ties that are binding you."

"Fine. I'll say it." Hotch locked eyes with his host. "I want to stay here. I want to hide. I want to heal. I want to rest." Unshed tears made his dark eyes glisten. "I don't want to leave, Nathaniel. And that terrifies me."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Melinda had never seen a cemetery before.

She'd read about them in passing and had gleaned inadvertent information from other people's thoughts as they mourned losses or contemplated their own ends. But she'd never actually set foot in a plot of ground devoted to the dead.

Even so, she knew there was something different about this particular graveyard.

There was a shimmering. Melinda was sure that the shivery silver wasn't something you'd find in just any old cemetery. Not even if you could see auras the way she and Daddy could. There was something peculiar about it that made her wonder if maybe Uncle Aaron had been right; maybe exploring in the daytime was a better idea than traipsing about in the dark.

But curiosity overrode fear. She pulled her quilt and its now ragged train closer about her shoulders and concentrated. I can't see you. Where are you?

We'll come closer...

Melinda leaned forward, peering at the mist. She strained without knowing exactly what faculty she was trying to push into use. Then...

It was an almost painful...shift-click.

Like a joint popping; a knuckle cracking.

Except it was in Melinda's brain.

She winced. A small whimper escaped her and she almost sent out a call for Mommy! Daddy! Help me! Something's happening and I'm scared! But the change was so swift and then, so utterly natural.

And then she could see something that she hadn't before and she realized if she broke away to call for help, she might disturb the fragile balance in her mind, and she might never get it back. It was too new to trust.

Deep in the clearing, under the starlight, small, grayish, gnarled things seemed to be pulling themselves from the ground. They might have been made of silvery mist.

They might have been children.