Chapter Text
He doesn’t drive very often. His hands were shaking so hard that the only thing keeping him clutching the steering wheel was the brute force that only that much adrenaline could give him. All of him was shaking but especially his hands. Maybe it was just the heavy movement of the tires on rocky terrain. He wasn’t sure.
The taste of metal coated his mouth. There’s a word for it. He couldn’t remember the word. He couldn’t remember much of anything then. The truck. He remembered the truck. He had to follow the truck no matter what it took.
He was faintly aware that his hand was bleeding. It didn’t really hurt. He gripped the steering wheel just the same. He’s supposed to be able to remember things. Spencer could barely string two coherent thoughts together, much less a whole memory. There’s so much. His heart was pounding, and everything was so fast, and he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing here.
He wasn’t near home. He knew that. Why would he go so far? It wasn’t safe. There’s something important. He didn’t know what it was. It had something to do with the truck. He didn’t know… that’s where the trail ends.
He didn’t normally wear hats. The sound of the cars roared in his ears. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to escape. His chest hurt. He was thirsty, and his throat burned.
Dysgeusia. That’s the word. He considered that this was more than just adrenaline. He really didn’t want it to be something else. The truck. He just needed to keep following the truck. That’s all that mattered.
There were sirens. He’d been hearing them, but they hadn’t caught his interest until now. Maybe they had. He wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem like they were his sirens. That wasn’t good. It got louder. There’s too much, but he just had to keep following the truck.
There were gunshots. The car swerved to the side. He couldn’t catch the truck on foot. That was really bad. The car stopped, and police officers approached him with urgent yelling. There was so much blood on his hand. He didn’t realize there was that much blood. It wasn’t English… Spanish. He can speak Spanish. His pronunciation has gotten a lot better over the years.
As instructed, he exited the car with his hands clearly visible. What’s going on? His heart was still trying to escape. He knelt to the ground. The dust burned his throat. It was already burning before.
They pushed him further. He soon found himself laying on his stomach. He felt the dust blowing against the slash in his hand. It still didn’t hurt very much. There was too much adrenaline.
There was something in the trunk. An officer folded Spencer’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.
“Hey, you’re under arrest. You understand?”
The officer’s words weren’t harsh. He was just doing his job. Spencer didn’t understand. How did he get here? What happened? He doesn’t understand. They dragged him along, and he tried to walk, but it felt like walking through air. It was less that he didn’t trust that there would be solid ground but more that his legs wouldn’t collapse the second they met it.
“Hey fool, you understand me or no?”
The officer’s voice was only slightly raised, but the sound of it was agonizing. His throat was dry. He couldn’t find the words.
“Let’s go.”
He sat in the back of a police car. Everything was dry. Everything burned. He didn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. He leaned his head back, trying to catch his breath. It felt like it was gone and never coming back. He needed to breathe. They started driving. He didn’t want to be there. He was so tired.
They needed to go find the truck. He tried to tell them. He really did, but not only could the words not get themselves sorted out, but he also doubted that his throat would allow him to speak. Spencer talked a lot most of the time, but there were times when the words got caught.
He briefly wondered if he would ever speak again. He had to. Spencer needed words. Words were important to him. It hurt that they had abandoned him. He watched the dust blow past the windows. There was desert for miles. Where was the truck going? Spencer must have been going to the police station, but he didn’t know what happened. He didn’t know anything. He just knew the truck.
He breathed. His lungs became reacquainted with air, but it surely wasn’t staying very long. Surely. That’s an odd word. Shirley and surely were so close to being pronounced the same, but they sounded different. What was it that made the difference? It didn’t matter. He needed to focus, but he wasn’t sure on what.
He rubbed at his face. There was dust and sweat. He hadn’t shaved in a while. He couldn’t remember anything. He knew he was on the ground, even his chin being pressed into the sand but not his arms. What was before? Everything before had abandoned him too. The truck. What happened to the truck? He was in a different car before. It had just happened, but he had already forgotten the different car. Why couldn’t he remember anything?
They were at the police station. If the officers had said anything in the car, he didn’t notice. They brought him to the wall. He stared at the lines and numbers. He felt even taller than normal, limbs too long for him to control.
“Turn to the camera. Over here, at the camera.”
The camera. He didn’t want to be seen. His knees wanted to buckle. Did they find the truck? Her stepdad’s name… Can’t she just run the plate? There were two people behind the camera. The man snapped to get his attention. It made Spencer feel like a child. He didn’t like being made to feel like a child.
“The camera.”
He looked into it. His eyes burned. They kept taking his picture. He wanted them to stop. He didn’t want anyone to see him. He didn’t know the plate. She can’t run the plate if there’s no plate to run. The man snapped at him more.
“Hey, look up.”
It wouldn’t stop. Nothing would stop. His chest hurt, but his heart seemed to have given up on its escape attempts.
“The camera.”
The woman took more pictures. The man snapped at him more. He was so tired. He was done. Thank god he was done. The man took him by the arm and guided him and his gangly legs to a cell. Why was he in prison? What did he do?
The officer said something, but Spencer was more focused on the man already in the cell. Who was he? Was this man going to hurt him? He already hurt. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to see his mom. His mom was even more important than the truck. There was something… there was a connection between his mom and the truck. She doesn’t drive very often though.
“Go inside, man. He won’t bite.”
His legs hesitantly moved.
“Hey, you’re supposed to let me out of here now!” The man in the cell yelled desperately.
The creak, slam, and locking of the door rang in his ears. He needed to say something. He needed to figure out what was happening.
Spencer sniffed before asking in Spanish, “Where are we?”
“Disneyland,” the man snickered.
Disneyland. That didn’t make sense. The man was lying. This was really bad. He still didn’t know where he was, but he needed to get out of here.
“I should call my mom,” Spencer mumbled.
His voice didn’t sound right, and the issue wasn’t his switch back to English. His phone should be in his pocket. It wasn’t.
“You need…” the prisoner drew closer, too close behind him, “your mommy? You’re gonna need a lot more than that, Vato.”
His name wasn’t Vato. He didn’t remember… It wasn’t Vato. He didn’t understand.
With a v…has a different con- vulgar and. Oh. Vato.
An officer approached them, “sit down!”
The man backed away, hands up in surrender. The officer stopped in front of Spencer. He looked older, maybe kinder. He wasn’t sure yet.
“You’re American?”
He… yes. He knew that. He nodded slowly.
“Where’s your identification?”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He just wanted to see his mom. Everything was so loud it hurt. The sickly fluorescent lighting buzzed against his skull. He couldn’t shut down. Not then. It wasn’t safe.
“I don’t know,” his voice felt so small and weak.
“Your papers? Passport?”
The officer didn’t sound kind. Spencer felt like he was failing a pop quiz. His head hurt. It was so dry.
“Something’s wrong. I can’t… I can’t remember anything.”
“What’s your name?”
He didn’t… It was in his brain somewhere. He couldn’t find it.
“What happened to your hand?” He heard concern in the officer’s voice.
His hand? He looked down at it, seeing so much blood. When could that have happened?
“Seems like the kind of thing a person would remember. It could get infected.”
He called for another officer to get a medic. This officer didn’t seem very kind, but he was patient with him. He’d really need that at the moment. He’d need help getting out, so he could see his mom. God knows he wouldn’t be getting out of here without help when his own wits were the way they were.
“Thank you,” Spencer murmured, “I should call someone.”
His voice felt more steady.
“You don’t get a phone call. That surprises Americans when they get in trouble here, but maybe if you help me figure out why you had narcotics in your possession, I can help you notify someone.”
The word sent something tugging painfully at his memory. Narcotics? No no no He didn’t like narcotics. He didn’t want them near him. Why were they in that car?
“You forgot that too? In the trunk of your car?”
All he remembered were sirens and the truck and laying in the sand. Not narcotics. He didn’t remember narcotics. More than adrenaline… no no-
“What were you doing way out there?”
He remembered. It was so small, but he remembered. It was small, especially because he was someone who always remembered. Just not now. It was unsettling.
“I uh, was meeting someone. I was meeting a woman,” his eyes were closed, focusing hard on pulling as much as he could from the memory, “I’m not usually like this.”
“Heroin will do that.”
No fuck no no no don’t say that please
“I don’t use drugs,” he felt quieter.
“You just run them.”
He shook his head. He hated drugs. There was a flash of a memory, and it didn’t stay long, but Spencer got the sense that he stayed as far away from being high as he could get. Someone like that wouldn’t run them.
“You’re not high right now?”
His eyes jolted open. More than adrenaline. He hated it. He wanted it out. Something dark, almost painful curled in him. He couldn’t remember why. Narcotics. No no no fuck. He didn’t want it to be more than adrenaline. Please, he didn’t want it. His mind ran and ran.
The officer’s voice brought him from his thoughts, “Why are you in Mexico?”
He’s in Mexico. That’s helpful. Even if this was more than just adrenaline, he was making progress. He now knew he was in Mexico. He could tell his mom where he was.
“Because I’m trying to… help my mom,” he could hear the slur in his voice.
He hated it. He was so tired. His eyes closed again with focus.
“Your mother is with you in Mexico?”
“Mm-mm, she’s not, but…Rosa. I’m meeting Rosa who’s a doctor, so I should find her.”
“Rosa who? Where does she live?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
Another officer called, “Jefe,” from nearby.
“Deme,” the patient officer said.
“Yeah,” the other said as he passed something to the patient officer.
He looked back and forth between the object and Spencer. His brows were furrowed, and his eyes were wide.
“You’re not just American… You’re Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI?”
That was his name. Spencer. English surname… dispenser of something. He was a doctor. Three things… no, five. He wasn’t sure. FBI Profiler. He nodded.
“Deme, did you… did you find that medic?”
“Yeah, you should be good to head over there.”
“Alright, come with me, Dr. Reid,” he said as he unlocked the cell.
“He gets to go walk around when I’ve been stuck in here-“ the man yelled in Spanish from across the cell.
“Wait your damn turn!” The other officer yelled back before walking off to his next task.
Spencer glided his hand along the wall as the patient officer guided him to the medic. He sat down in a metal chair across from a younger man. The medic began quickly cleaning and bandaging his hand wound. Spencer watched the blood get washed away.
“I’m going to run some tests to see what you’re on right now,” the officer said.
It was more than adrenaline. He’s denied narcotics before. Get it out. He didn’t want it.
“Thank you… that’s helpful.”
“We’re having a hard time finding this Dr. Rosa. You still don’t remember her last name or where you met her?”
He wanted to remember. It would only help himself to know more, but his brain wasn’t giving him much of anything.
“I’m trying.”
“When my officers chased you, you were racing toward the border. My guess is you planned on crossing it. Is that true?”
His officers… he must be the chief. Spencer shook his head.
“No…I uh,” the truck, “think I was chasing someone.”
He could almost hear the roaring of tires on rocky terrain. The police chief sat down in front of him.
“Who?”
“They were in front of me,” the blaring of sirens and shuttering of metal filled his ears, “maybe one of your officers saw them?”
“They did. No one got the tags.”
Still can’t have Gomez… Garcia run the plates. Everything was falling into place. He felt something in it, a small semblance of what his brain is normally like. He may have figured something out.
“This has to be a mistake. I think… I think I’m being framed.”
It was so hard to keep his eyes open.
“You have enemies who would do this?”
He dug through the recesses of his mind for names. Harper… Harper Adams? no. Ian Boyle… no. Peter L something… Again, his eyes jolted open. He was so close. Spencer looked up at the chief.
“Peter Lewis,” he whispered, the name slithering from his throat.
“You put him away?”
“I don’t… he’s on the run. He hurt my team. I don’t- I don’t know how, but I know he hurt us.”
“Do you think he’s capable of something as big as this?”
“Completely. He’s a genius. He used drugs to commit the crimes. It’s him. It’s Peter Lewis.”