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The sun has been down for less than an hour when he proposes that they stop for the night. She could argue, just on principle, but he's been driving all afternoon and she's in no shape to take over.
Mike pulls into the next truck stop, a slice of abandoned Americana that belongs in a photograph, neon lights spelling out “DINER” and “MOTEL” against the dark sky. “If we stay on the highway, we could find a Best Western, maybe a Denny's,” Debra suggests. “This is probably a roach motel, don't you think?”
He kills the engine, peering at the pink “MOTEL” sign through the windshield. “I don't know what's wrong with me, I feel like I'm going to pass out. I just want a meal, a shower and a bed, not necessarily in that order.” He glances at her, gives her a half-smile. “Roaches don't scare me. We've seen worse.”
She leans her head against the back of the seat and laughs, more of a token gesture than a sign of amusement. The ache in her chest spreads to her lungs, then digs in like a merciless surgeon's scalpel. She doesn't say anything else, just closes her eyes and waits for it to pass.
“We can keep going,” he offers after a minute, a token gesture of his own.
“No,” she says. “We're not in a hurry. I mean, I'm not.” Understatement of the year.
He reaches over, covers her hand with his. “I'm not, either.”
She should thank him again, but for what? Saving her life, not leaving her for dead? Sticking around until she could sit upright? Or volunteering to drive her to her sister's house, a grim task if there ever was one, because he knew she couldn't stand to be alone with anyone else? Except Hardy, maybe, but he isn't going to be driving anywhere for a long, long time.
“So, single room, double beds? Double rooms, single beds?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Single room, single bed?”
She laughs for real, and pays the price a second time. “Tell you what,” she says, when her breath returns. “Surprise me.”
*
When he returns with two keys, she's almost disappointed.
“I wasn't kidding about that shower,” he says, helping her out of the SUV. She's thankful for the support but hates the fragility, real and implied, that follows her now. “But the guy said the diner's closing in 20. Maybe you could get us a table and order for me?”
She glances down the long path toward the diner, and out at the blackness that surrounds the place. “It might take me 20 minutes to get there,” she says dubiously.
“Worth a shot, right?” He smiles at her, squeezes her shoulder, and then he's gone.
She stays close to the building, though it's ridiculous to think that the flickering fluorescent lights would protect her from any nearby threats. Her heart's pounding, from anxiety and exertion, and she distracts herself by imagining what she would have said 6 months ago if she could see herself now: breathless, dependent, paranoid, pathetic. Get up, she would have said. Get going.
Really, she would have said. It's not even the worst thing that ever happened to you. Not even close.
She supposes that she would have had a point.
But when she gets to the door, she practically clings to the handle with relief, yanking it open with such force that the bell echoes through the empty restaurant. Please, she would have scoffed.
“Closing in 10 minutes,” says a man she presumes is the owner. He's probably in his late 70s, but he's plainly underfed, which doesn't seem to bode well for the quality of the food. All the chairs are turned upside down, resting atop the tables. She slides into a booth, the only one with silverware still out. “Just you?”
“For now. Too late for decaf?”
“You're in luck.” He's remarkably chipper for someone with an empty motel sucking away at his retirement fund. Can't be cheap to keep those bright lights on. Good for him for sticking with it, she decides, as she peruses the sparse menu. After a moment, he sets a mug in front of her. “My son mentioned there were two of you, two rooms booked tonight. Your friend coming, or is It just you?”
“I thought he was, but maybe it's just me.” She glances at the clock. Almost 9.
“You know what you want?”
“I think I need a minute.” The options may be limited, but she isn't sure what she'll be able to keep down.
“Tick, tick,” he says, but when she looks up, he's still smiling.
*
“Deb.” Mike's staring at her, eyes wide with concern. This is clearly not his first attempt to wake her; his shoulders slump slightly with relief as he backs off, conscious that she won't want to be touched until she's figured out what the hell is going on. Always so considerate. So, so considerate.
She might be a little groggy.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says lightly.
Her constant headache is worse than usual. She backs up against the wall, disoriented. The lights are off. The owner's gone. No sign of her coffee. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” he says. “I'm sorry, I crashed out after my shower. Did you eat?”
“I don't know.” The table is clean, the silverware is gone. Surely there wouldn't have been enough time. “If I did, I don't think I paid.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
The doctor had said words like hallucinations and memory loss and she'd ignored him, or made a joke (there are some memories I wouldn't mind losing). She swallows, focuses on the facts. “He said he was closing at 9. Why did he leave the door unlocked?”
“He probably didn't want to wake you. Did you order anything?”
“Coffee.”
He laughs. “So much for that.”
“Decaf,” she amends.
“Are you OK to stand up?”
She rolls her eyes, but he helps her to her feet anyway, and stays close as she heads back to her room. “Thanks,” she says awkwardly when they arrive at her door.
“Don't mention it,” he says. “Why don't you sleep in? Check-out isn't until noon.”
“Sounds nice.” They both know she won't be able to sleep more than a couple of hours, if at all. “You too.”
“If you need anything, don't forget we have adjoining rooms,” he calls, as he opens his own door. “Anything at all.”
She locks the door behind her, and quickly checks the adjoining door, too.
It's not Mike she doesn't trust.
Hallucinations. Memory loss.
Can't be too careful.
*
She tosses and turns for about three hours before sitting up in a panic. Her purse. It has to be in the diner.
The door's still unlocked.
She knows there's a 99% chance that she won't be able to sleep, with or without it, so she might as well just wait until morning. It's not like there are any other guests to worry about, because anyone with half a brain would just have just gone to the next exit with its reassuring chain restaurants and motels, the near-absence of dust bunnies and cigarette burns on every blanket.
Then again, neither of them are crazy about crowds anymore, so maybe that was the point of stopping here. The owner of this fine establishment has probably never heard of Joe Carroll. The rooms don't even have televisions.
She curses aloud, then drags herself out of bed, pulls a jacket on over her T-shirt, and prepares for another arduous trip through the darkness.
The fluorescent lights seem a little less bright this time. There are no cars on the highway at this hour, no distant headlights or engines, just darkness and silence.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something moving at the edge of the parking lot.
An animal?
Worse?
She closes her eyes, counts to five.
There's nothing there.
She keeps going.
*
She checks the floor underneath the booth, and there it is, wedged upside-down against the wall. Great. She pulls it out by the strap, then takes a moment to catch her breath before heading back to her room to stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up.
At first, she's certain that she must have imagined the sound coming from the kitchen. Auditory hallucinations. Fantastic. Check another side effect off the list. Next time, she thinks, she'll try listening to the doctor.
But then she hears it again – a ragged breath, then another. “It's just me,” she calls, just in case. “Forgot something earlier.”
“Just you?” His voice is high and thin.
“Just me,” she repeats. Against her better judgment, she heads toward the kitchen.
The air is charged. Her mind jolts into action, like a long-dead engine rumbling to life, and she reaches for a gun she doesn't have.
The owner is sitting on the floor, his mouth open as he silently sobs. He's holding a revolver in his left hand, but it's not aimed at her.
Around the corner, lying face-up in front of the deep fryer is a younger man who must be the owner's son, though he bears little resemblance to his father. His hair is black, not white, and he is hale and hearty. Well, he was.
His eyes are missing. Removed post-mortem, if she had to guess.
Her pulse pounds as the facts click together with sickening certainty. If it wasn't her – a possibility she can't entirely rule out, given that she has about three hours that can't be accounted for – well, there's only one other guest, isn't there?
She is overtaken by nausea and sinks to the ground, her hand over her mouth, as she stares at the body, looking for some clue, some sign that her worst suspicions couldn't possibly be true.
He literally breathed the life back into your body. Doesn't that earn him the benefit of the doubt?
What doubt?
The owner collects himself and looks at her, then raises his gun. “You.” His voice is hoarse, but she can hear him. “You brought this on us.”
She shakes her head. “I swear I didn't know,” she says, and it's almost the truth. I didn't want to believe it just makes her sound like a schoolgirl, a moron, or both. But how is she supposed to reconcile her persistent, paranoid suspicion with the tenderness he's shown her, time and time again, above and beyond the call of duty? “Where is he?”
The old man stares at her, uncomprehending.
“Have you called 911?”
“I tried,” he says slowly, “but the phone was dead.”
“You don't have a cell phone?” She already knows the answer. “What about your son?”
“He took it,” he says. “He took it after he--”
She doesn't want him to finish that sentence. “Did he see you?”
He shakes his head.
“Go.” She stands up, hoists him to his feet. “Take your car and go to the next exit. Get help.”
“He'll hear the car. It's loud.”
“He doesn't know you're here,” she says. “Drive fast, don't look back.”
He hands her the gun. It's loaded.
“Don't miss,” he says, casting a long, last look at his son. “Please.”
*
When she wakes up in the passenger seat, she is able to convince herself for a brief, glorious moment that the last hour has been a bad dream. After all, she's no stranger to night terrors.
Then she sees him coming out of the diner with a red gasoline can.
She reaches for the gun, vaguely remembering that she had tried to conceal it in her jacket pocket after the old man left. To her surprise, it's still there, along with the pepper spray that has become her constant companion since she left the hospital.
Either Mike is an idiot or he doesn't consider her a threat. Imagine that, she thinks, as a swift, sharp pain in her chest steals what's left of her breath and she barks out a harsh, dry cough.
When it passes, she surveys her options. He's locked her in from the outside using a remote, so an alarm will sound if she opens any of the doors. That happened at the first gas station before they even left Virginia, and they'd joked about it for a good ten minutes afterward.
Is she really prepared to believe that the same guy flat-out murdered an innocent man for no reason at all? The same guy who sang every word of “Mary Jane's Last Dance” under his breath? When the song was over, he had sheepishly confessed his love for Tom Petty and that he'd already bought tickets to see him in six months with his younger brother. She didn't have an opinion either way on the subject, and was only vaguely familiar with the song, so she had tried to make appropriately impressed-sounding noises until he moved on to the next subject.
It's not real. It can't be real.
She watches him enter her room, and she can almost see him pouring the contents of the gas can over the bedspread, dousing the curtains and the cheap, old carpet.
Her bag's in the backseat of the car. Always so considerate.
When he emerges with the empty can, he stares right at her. It's too late to pretend she didn't see it.
She closes her eyes, counts to five.
He presses the button. The doors unlock. She's free.
She opens the door and gets out.
“So,” he says. “Now what?”
“I think we need to talk,” she tries to say, but her stomach turns so suddenly and hard that it seems to trigger a chain reaction, the dreaded muscle spasms (thanks, doc) and she has to brace herself against the car. She tries to stop it, but her body betrays her, pitching forward in a fit of dry heaves or violent hyperventilation.
He drops the can and is by her side in an instant, bracing her, holding her up. She's close enough to smell the bar soap he must have used, mingling with the overwhelming scent of gasoline. She wants to be repulsed, revolted by his touch, now that she knows his hands are capable of such cruelty. But all she can think about is a late night long ago, the same hands warm against her bare skin as she drifted to sleep. Gentle, understanding, sweet. He had regarded her with mild bemusement but hadn't protested when she panicked the next morning, mum's the word, moment of weakness, never again.
She thinks she might even have apologized. Abuse of power and all.
Well, it's a level playing field now, isn't it?
The old Debra would have taken advantage of his proximity and her own perceived weakness to take him down.
When it passes, he looks at her the same way he did that morning, bemused, like he knows he has to let her work it out for herself. He raises an eyebrow. “You were saying?”
“I'm at a loss,” she says, stepping back, leaning back against the car, trying to distance herself from him. The wind is picking up, and the sun is starting to rise. Behind him, near the diner entrance, she can see the dead man, sprawled out in the dirt.
“You had to know.”
She's not sure whether he means that he had to tell her, or that she must have already known, long ago (and she did, damn it, she did). Both, maybe, but what's the difference now? Maybe this whole thing is just a vivid hallucination, a waking dream.
He hesitates. “Something happened to you, right? I don't know what,” he says too quickly, “but I know that the way you talked to Emma Hill about your mother wasn't fabricated for her benefit.”
“We're not talking about me,” she says. “I'm not the one who--” She can't force herself to finish the thought. Say it, urges the old Debra. Make it real.
“Something happened to me, too. I thought, maybe—I don't know what I thought,” he admits.
“Yeah, something happened.” She shrugs. “A lot of things. But somehow I've managed not to kill anyone in cold blood. Yet.”
He ignores her. “I have three brothers. I only talk to one of them. Because the other two? Made my life miserable on a daily basis, for years. I'm not talking about 'boys will be boys' stuff. Real damage.”
He backs off, lost in his own thoughts for the moment, and she takes the opportunity to slip a hand into her pocket and close her fingers around the handle of the old man's revolver.
“My dad was never around, my mom couldn't control them, or didn't care. When the people who were supposed to protect you just turn a blind eye, that's a fundamental betrayal that just...” He trails off. “Well, pardon my language, but it fucks you up.”
She's trying not to listen, but the words hang heavy in the air between them.
“I saw it over and over again at the BAU,” he says. “An abandoned, malignant heart, right?”
She doesn't respond.
“Anyway, Carroll saw me coming a mile away. I thought I was studying him, but he made quick work of me. He offered everything I would have wanted from my own father: sympathy, righteous anger, the promise of vengeance.”
The fire roars behind him, as it spreads from her room toward the diner. She hopes the old man made it to safety.
When he turns to look at the flames, not to admire his handiwork but to confirm that it's finished, she takes the opportunity to aim the gun at his heart. Don't miss, says the old man.
He shifts his gaze back to her. Unfazed by the new development, he presses on. “A year after I met him, my oldest brother got into a car accident, T-boned by a semi. Broke his neck. Body cast, the whole deal. He still hasn't recovered. That was Joe.”
“So you owe him one?” To her credit, her voice doesn't waver.
“Two,” he says, searching her face for some sign of sympathy. “He never meant for you to survive.”
“Then why did I?” The million-dollar question.
He just stares down at his hands. “Back then, I took my own beatings, and my little brother's, too. You're supposed to protect the people you love,” he says. “Aren't you?”
The wind fills the silence between them, pulling her hair into knots and feeding the fire. “Mike,” she finally says. “We never really talked about that night, before--”
“We didn't have to,” he says. “I knew the deal.”
“I'm not sure I did.” She pauses. “Was that just part of your plan to infiltrate us? Some of us more than others?”
“Of course not.” He actually sounds offended. “I meant everything. You know I did.”
“Were you helping him the whole time?” It comes out a little more wounded than she intended.
“No,” he says slowly. “This morning, while you were packing, I got a message. When I finish this, it's over.”
“Does that mean he's alive?”
“Doesn't matter. I'm done.” It's an Oscar-worthy performance; she almost believes him.
“They beat the crap out of you,” she says. “You could have just told them where Claire was, if you were on their side.”
“Yeah, I could have.” He gives her a rueful smile. “But I spent my whole life learning to take a punch.”
The smoke burns her eyes, snakes its way into her lungs; she concentrates on staying upright. “What was the point of bringing me here?”
“Come on,” he says. “You don't want to go to your sister's any more than she wants to have you there. It's a prison sentence.”
“I deserve it.” For so many reasons. Her eyes sting. “Why didn't I see you coming?”
“Deb.” She watches him consider reaching out to her, then decide against it.
“You know the worst part? I did see you coming, but I talked myself out of it, over and over again.” She laughs, ignoring the pain. “How stupid am I?”
“I owed him a favor after Havenport. I promise, this is the end of the line.”
After Havenport. After her. “What interest could he possibly have in this place?”
He shrugs. “The word is it's a message for Claire. I don't care. We're free,” he says. “That's all I wanted.”
He's watching her carefully, but if he's expecting her hand to shake, he'll be disappointed; her aim is as steady as her voice as she says, “Why am I really here?”
“You said I was a good man. I wanted it to be true,” he says. “So badly.”
“Me too,” she says, but the words are swallowed by the wind. As the sun begins to illuminate his face, he breaks into a wide smile that's sincere, almost childlike; he looks like he has finally managed to wrestle himself free from a secret that's been eating him alive.
She remembers that feeling.
“We could just get back in the car, keep driving,” he suggests, his tone remarkably even. “West, maybe. To the coast.”
“I'm an FBI agent,” she says, as if he's forgotten, though it's not entirely true anymore.
“How's that working out for you?” he asks, not unkindly.
She doesn't have an answer. “You killed him,” she says instead. “There's no getting around that.”
“I traded his life for mine.” He pauses, stares her down. “I'm sure you can imagine how that feels.”
Bile rises in the back of her throat. “Did you read my file?”
He grins. “I was good at my job.”
“Not that good,” she says.
In the distance, she can hear sirens. The old man must have made it after all, or maybe someone saw the flames from the highway. The sound doesn't bring her any relief; it just means it's time to make a decision. No more stalling.
“So what do I do now? Let them take you in? Pull the trigger?” She takes a deep breath and instantly regrets it, but she stays upright. “Or do I just let you go, since I owe you one?”
His laughter cuts through the wind, delirious and wild.
“Tell you what,” he calls to her, raising his voice to be heard. “Surprise me.”