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The heavy door slammed. The keys rattled in the lock, and as the officer’s footsteps echoed away along the corridor, Emily tipped her head back against the cold, bare wall and laughed to herself.
Prison.
She kinda always expected, somewhere deep inside herself, that she would find herself in prison – but she rather supposed it would have been in the throes of teenage rebellion, and not as a 50-something Unit Chief of the FBI. But here she was. And why was she here? She sighed. Perhaps she should have assassinated Voit herself in the field – at least that would be a worthy reason for finding herself locked up. But she hadn’t done that. In fact, she hadn’t done anything. She was here because of some trumped up assault charge laid by Brian fucking Garrity of all people!
She knew the drill here – she’d been on the other side of those bars for decades. She had declined a meal, but accepted her one phone call: David Rossi. She hadn’t thought twice about who to call, and she knew that Dave would spring for her bail as soon as humanly possible. And one night in the cells was a small price to pay for the myriad of mistakes and sins that flooded through her brain as she sat, alone, and contemplated her life.
She wondered if she would lose her job because of this? She wondered if she even wanted the damn job any longer. Maybe she would just up and quit as soon as she breathed free fresh air again – after all, she’d lost her position as Section Chief (not that she gave a damn about that any longer). Another flat laugh caught in her throat at the thought. A few years ago, she had been in the running for Director….and stupidly, she had let herself believe, had let herself hope that it might happen. But then fate came in and screwed it over for her. And the saddest part was that she hadn’t even been that surprised. Fate had oft dealt her a cruel twist, and every time it did, Father Gamino’s smug and condescending face formed in her mind, telling her that she was damned.
“Jesus.” Emily sighed, tapping the back of her skull against the wall to shake those thoughts away.
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them. And then she closed them again and took another deep breath. She had never been much good at having nothing to occupy her, but for some strange reason, right now in this holding cell, she felt more at peace than she had done in years. For the first time since she had heard the name ‘Elias Voit’ – no, even before that; for the first time since she foolishly accepted the post of Section Chief – she felt no pressure; no vice like grip from her superiors, scrutenising her every move and making a drama of her every mistake.
She felt free.
And that thought produced a real belly laugh that bounced off the walls.
Yes siree, quitting looked mighty fine from where she was sitting. Saying ‘screw you’ to every stuffed shirt asshole that she had to kowtow to for the past fucking decade. Saying ‘fuck you’ to the spectres of unsubs past that haunted her dreams and scarred her body. She would walk to her office, head held high, pack up her shit in a cardboard box and flip the bird to the whole damn Bureau. She’d given her whole life to law enforcement and where had it gotten her? Nowhere. In a prison cell. Smoking again. Drinking in her office. Mooting the assassination of Elias Voit.
Her shoulders sagged at that. She had crossed the lines of the law before during her tenure at the BAU and before that, at the CIA…but this was too far. Luckily David Rossi wasn’t an assassin. He was a friend; her dearest friend. He was the man who knew her secrets – and she knew his. And he was the only reason that she realised that quitting the BAU really was a pipe dream and not a real option. While Voit was still in play, she couldn’t leave. She knew Dave was being tormented by that bastard, and she knew that Dave – much like herself – reneged on his mandated therapy and chose instead to confide in her. And she wouldn’t, couldn’t, leave him to cope with Voit alone.
It wasn’t just Dave either: the rest of the team needed her too. She was mentoring Tyler; she was fielding BAUgate away from JJ. She knew that any replacement for her would disband the team, much like Barnes had tried to do. Rossi would be forced to retire; Tara and Luke would be reassigned; Penelope would quit…and Voit? Voit would win: and THAT was not going to fucking happen. Not on her watch. And that was the bottom line; it WAS her watch – and she still had a Goddamn job to finish.
God, she wanted a smoke!
Brian. Fucking. Garrity. He had set her up, but she knew he was just a puppet; a gullible, useful idiot put, somehow, into play by Voit. She fell for the oldest trick in the book and it got her locked up. She pondered that, remembering how, when she first took over from Hotch and read up on the Peter Lewis case files, that Lewis had connived to get Hotch arrested. Quite the tradition, she mused, of Unit Chiefs being put behind bars by the very men who should be serving life without parole.
She checked her watch – it was late, and she wanted to be as alert as possible come morning when Dave came for her. The bed wasn’t much, but she’d slept in worse places during her time. Of course couch surfing at eighteen was a Hell of a lot easier on the spine than this old bunk at fifty five – especially without a glass of wine to dampen the edges of discomfort – but she was stuck here, and there was no changing that, so she might as well just get on with it.
*
“DAVE!” She shot bolt upright, a silent cry caught in her throat and her hand reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. She looked around frantically, as the nightmare of watching David Rossi’s image on a grainy Bureau monitor - Voit’s trap burying him alive (and with it her own chance of bail); his location a mystery while she was stuck at the office, unable to do a damn thing to save him) - already began to fade from her mind.
She blew out a shaky breath and felt sweat beading at her brow. She checked her watch again and rolled her eyes before settling back under the light blanket. Her body felt heavy and tired, the weeks of sleeplessness catching up with her in the solitude of the cell. She was powerless to fight it off, the gentle sounds of the officer doing their rounds acting as a lullaby, much like the hum of the jet, or the slow rocking of a train. Sleep came heavily.
The sound began softly, a shushing noise; a gentle patter. It sounded like sand in an hourglass, or maybe even soft raindrops. It was soothing and she smiled at the sound.
But then it became heavier, louder, more cloying and she began to feel it on her skin, the grains dancing on her flesh, weighing down her clothes, filling her nostrils and then her lungs with a dusty choke.
And her eyes flew open.
She sat up, and saw the walls to her cell had shrunk, shrunk right down to the size of her bed. And the ceiling? The ceiling was lower, much lower – so low, in fact, that standing was an impossibility. Her eyes widened and she tried to call out, but her lungs were full of it – the dirt; the soil; that was falling from above.
She reached her arms up top push at the ceiling, trying to raise it, her arms bent at the elbows it was so low. But it wouldn’t budge.
And still the soil fell in. Faster. Faster now – and already her legs were buried beneath it, the weight rendering them immobile.
“NO!” she called, the dirt at her chest, pressing against her ribs and she gasped, her lungs struggling to find air; her chest restricted by the heavy earth as it buried her alive.
“HELP ME!”
The earth fell ever faster, and she felt like Penelope Pitstop – trapped in mortal danger, and she prayed for the commercial break so that when programming returned, the soil would be lower once again, as it always was in the cartoon… but there was no commercial break. There were no Anthill Mob to race to her rescue in Chugga-Boom…and still the soil fell and now her arms were immobile too and everything was black and she was suffocating, her eyes peering out from the grave as her cell became a coffin.
“CHRIST!”
For the second time, Emily awoke with a cry, her heart racing as she frantically sucked in air, her body hyperventilating.
She concentrated on breathing, on settling her heart rate. It had been a part of her training years ago, and she was thankful for that. Her hands were shaking – shit, her whole body was trembling for the fear. This wasn’t the first time she had been plagued with nightmares about being buried alive. When Ian stabbed her, and she coded, that heavy blackness, that suffocation, was akin to being entombed… and that recurring torment continued while she was in Paris, when she knew there was a coffin out there, buried back in DC, buried beneath a tombstone with her name carved into it. Her nightmares placed her inside the coffin, screaming to get out; that she was STILL ALIVE!!! But no one heard her.
Picking at her thumb nail, Emily thought about those dreams – and she remembered the first time she’d had it. It was the night after Matty had walked her to the front of the church. At the time, she had felt powerful… but that night, after her eyes had closed and a restless sleep had taken her, the condemnation in Father Gamino’s eyes had caused a cascade of earth to pour down over her. She never told anyone about that dream – but vowed from that moment on that when she died, she wanted to be cremated. She recalled arguing with her parents about that – they had a family plot (as if Emily had any desire at all for her soul to spend Eternity under her mother’s scrutiny) – but she guessed her mom won that row in the end, because a coffin and interment was what she received after Ian. Like some big cosmic joke.
“Hey, did you hear about the crossword addict who was buried?” she asked herself, aloud, in a jovial voice. “Eight feet down and three across. Ba dum tss.” She sighed again and took another look at her watch, deciding that sleep might be nothing more than an outside chance after all.
“Corny.”
Emily looked up in surprise at the officer’s voice. “You didn’t like my joke?”
The officer shrugged and gave her a grin. “It was pretty funny in nineteen seventy two.”
Emily chuckled. “You weren’t even born!”
The officer – Brogan, her name tag read – leant against the door, peering in. “Only by a coupla decades. You okay?”
Emily stood, her posture regaining that of Section Chief. “Of course.”
Brogan nodded. “Uh-huh. I heard you calling out and figured I’d best check on you.”
“Do you have that level of concern for all your charges?”
Brogan raised a brow. “Only those who outrank me a gazillion times. You’re FBI, right?”
“SSA Prentiss. BAU.”
“I feel like I ought to salute you.”
“Do that and I might land another assault charge.” Emily joked.
“Duly noted, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ‘ma’am’ either.”
Brogan nodded. “Anything I can get you?”
Emily sighed and shook her head. “A glass of wine for an agent who outranks you a gazillion times? No, honestly, I’m good.”
Brogan nodded and checked her watch. “You should try and rest. I hear you’re leaving our fine establishment in the morning.”
Emily nodded. “A friend has bailed me – David Rossi.”
Brogan’s jaw dropped. “David Rossi? THE David Rossi?!”
“The very same.”
Brogan chuckled to herself. “You know I always had a bit of a crush on him.”
Emily laughed loudly. “He will love to hear that. He’ll probably give you an autograph. And his phone number.”
“And maybe we’ll get married and I can be a lady of leisure.” Brogan laughed.
“You know, right now, that sounds like a Helluva good idea. I might propose to him myself.” Emily nodded.
“You’d miss it though, right? The job - the excitement?”
Emily sat back on her bunk. “Ask me again when I’m free. This kind of excitement I could do without.”
“What happened?”
Emily chuckled. “THAT is a damn good question. I am hoping to have an answer by tomorrow.”
Brogan nodded. “Well I’ll not distract you further. Have a good night, Agent, and call if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks Officer Brogan.”
Brogan threw a cheeky salute her way before heading away.
Emily’s brow furrowed. “Distraction.” She mused. Is that all this was – a distraction? A way to keep her occupied? A way to discredit her? To keep her on a leash? It made sense – and they found the perfect patsy in Brian. All they had to do was feed him a good story – and he fed it right back to her: Goldstar. And like a fool she fell for it and went scurrying to meet him in a damn underground parking lot at night. Christ, you’d think she would have learned from countless ‘80’s TV Lifeteime movies to NEVER go to a meeting in an underground parking lot alone at night.
But she did it, and her entire focus had been on why Brian had done this – but it wasn’t Brian she should have been looking at. He was just their puppet. And their little ploy worked, because, dammit, she shifted her focus – the team’s focus – to Brian, and she damn well near turned in her badge because of it.
They must be getting desperate to try this – and that meant that the team are getting close! And that meant that maybe Voit’s little game would be over soon!
God, she hoped so – for all their sakes.