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Drawn In Slow Strokes by Pink Siamese



Chapter Notes: This chapter was altered on September 23, 2010. See end notes.

The small conference room is stocked with corkboards, markerboards, a coffeemaker, and a big plate of pastries. Its chalk-white walls are hung with muted watercolor beach scenes. A big pine hutch holds plates, cutlery, and coffee cups printed with the hotel’s logo, linens, coffee filters and boxes of sugar packets and dried creamer. The table is large and heavy, carved out of dark gleaming wood. The chairs are the kind that stack in the corner. Fluorescent light pours through frosted panels in the suspended ceiling. It bleaches out the paintings, hurts Emily’s eyes and hums straight into her head. The lost hours of sleep swim around beneath her eyelids, threatening to pull them down.

Reid glances around. “Nice place.”

Emily takes a sip of hot coffee. “It doesn’t suck.”

Hotch sits down. His eyes flick from hers to Reid’s and back again. He holds her gaze for a brief moment, then turns his attention to the pile of folders on the table. “It’s what the Bureau would pay for.”

“It’s also what was available.” Emily straightens up. “You have no idea how lucky we got. We could’ve easily ended up scattered all over the island. Had this happened in the middle of summer, we would’ve been.”

“Thank God for that,” says Reid.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“All right.” Morgan sighs, flipping open a folder. “The sooner we catch up, the sooner we can all get to bed.”

Reid takes a huge bite of strawberry Danish. He holds it in his hand as he flips through the pages.

Morgan nods at him. “Do those notes mean anything to you?”

Reid nods and swallows. “Yeah, sure.” He pulls out the scans. “These are all quotes from a short story by William Faulkner titled ‘A Rose For Emily.’ It was first published in the April 30 edition of Forum, 1930. It’s one of the most well-known American short stories.”

Hotch rubs his forehead. “So what’s the connection?”

Reid shrugs. “Beats me.” He taps the corner of a page with his finger. “Here, in this note, there’s a descriptive passage taken out of context: ‘Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue.’ It refers to Emily Grierson, the titular character. Physical description is used as a device in the story to illustrate the passing of time.”

Emily looks into her cup. Reid’s voice falls into soft-focus along with her surroundings. The humming in the lights makes her think of moth’s wings, fluttering and frantic in the face of entrancing light.

“In this case, of course, it could be referring to the location of our Jane Doe, but it could also mean something entirely different. The first note makes no sense at all.”

Reid slides it to Emily. She looks up.

“There’s no way to connect it to the scene or the victim,” Reid goes on. “The second note does contain a reference to reaching thirty years of age, and the victim was twenty-nine years old, but it’s a tenuous connection at best.”

He pushes the second note across the table to Morgan.

Reid shrugs. “So the second note doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, either.”

“Why handwrite them?” Morgan leans on his forearms. “Why not just print it out? If the story’s everywhere, it can’t be too difficult to print a copy off the web.” He looks around. “Printed stuff is pretty much untraceable.”

“Unless he wants the notes to be connected, via the handwriting.” Rossi looks at Hotch. “Has anyone had it analyzed?”

Reid leans back in his chair and brushes crumbs off his shirt. “The first two are a definitely a confirmed match, but I can tell you by just looking at all three together that the third one will be too.”

“I agree with Rossi,” says Hotch. “The handwriting is intentional. It’s an easy way to link all three murders, and if this guy is looking for recognition”“

“He’s not looking for recognition.” Emily puts her cup down and pushes it away. It skids across the polished wood. “It’s not about recognition. It’s about unity.” Her gaze moves around the table. “These three murders are linked to each other. Part of a series. A triptych.” She pauses. “He’s made no contact at all with authorities. The notes aren’t specifically addressed to anyone. So there’s absolutely no reason to think he’s…glory-hounding.”

“Glory-hounding?” Morgan grins. “They teach you that one at Yale?”

“Oh shut up.” She picks up her coffee.

“Hey hey.” He leans back, holding up his hands. “Sorry. Look, man. I was just teasing you.”

“I’m tired.” Her face falls into her hand and she rubs her temples with her fingers. She sighs. “I didn’t mean…look, I’m sorry.” She glances at him. “It’s just been a really long day.” She holds up the mug. “Peace offering?”

“Nah, we’re all good.” He holds up a hand and she smiles. “I hear you, though,” he says. “I’m wiped.” Morgan shifts his attention to Reid. “So what do you know about this story? Are there any clues in it, any themes? Anything that’s some kind of pattern?”

“There’s no coherence to the dump sites.” Emily gets up and dumps the rest of her coffee into a trash can. “Two were in relatively secluded natural bodies of water, one was in a public pool.” She sits back down. “So there’s no obvious connection there.”

“The victims all bear a striking resemblance to each other,” says JJ. “ I mean, even in things like weight and height, and age, they’re all within a narrow range.”

Hotch looks at her. “You think we should focus more on victimology.”

“I think it’s the best way to start, yeah.”

“Um, well,” says Reid, brows furrowing, reaching for another pastry, “referring to the story: as in all forms of art, interpretation is subjective, but a pretty popular theme in ‘A Rose For Emily’ is that of implied necrophilia. The story’s famous for it.”

Rossi’s eyebrows go up. “Any evidence of that on the first two victims?”

Hotch shakes his head. “No, and any bodily fluids would’ve washed off in the water. The rape kits all came back clean and there was no evidence of postmortem trauma to the vaginal or anal areas.”

Emily looks into her coffee cup, spinning it around and around. She lifts an eyebrow. “Did anyone look in the wound?”

“Ew.” JJ makes a face. “Because that’s gross.”

Morgan nods. “Straight up nasty, but not unbelievable.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer was fascinated by the idea of wound sex,” offers Reid.

“No.” Hotch looks at Emily. “I can’t speak for Jane Doe, but the other two wounds were clean.”

Emily shrugs a shoulder. “There is more than one way to have sex with a body.”

“A good point,” says Rossi.

Hotch nods. “I’ll have the medical examiner swab the wound and the throat as well.”

Morgan yawns.

“And on that note.” JJ pushes her chair back and stands up with a little smile. “I’m going to bed.” She shoulders her purse. “Are we meeting back here in the morning?”

“Yeah,” says Hotch. “There’s continental breakfast if you want that. I suppose we could grab a real breakfast after the morning meeting if you all prefer that.”

“I prefer that.” Reid looks at Emily. “Know of any good places?”

She grins. “I know of several.”

“Great.” He stands up. “Good night, everyone.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Hotch gathers up loose papers and shuffles them into folders. “Go get some sleep, everyone. I’ll straighten up here.”

Emily hangs back, watching the others leave the room. Hotch glances at her. “What?” He wears a small smile. “You didn’t learn that one at Yale?”

“I can’t help it. I’m tired. It annoys me.”

He puts the folders in his briefcase. “What annoys you?”

“Just, you know…” She flips a hand. “Digs at my education level or my family’s money. I’m self-conscious enough and not that it happens all the time, but now we’re here and you all are looking at me like I’m some sort of guide.” She braces her hands against the edge of the table. “Brave the wilderness of…of…lobster bakes and summer homes with names and rich guys in pink pants! Your Guide Emily knows all the best places to catch the native population in action. But remember: this isn’t big game hunting! Only shoot em with your Nikons, please!”

He starts to laugh.

“Hey, it’s not funny.” A corner of her mouth turns up. “I’m serious.”

“It is funny.” He walks to the doorway and puts his hand on the light switch. “But I promise I won’t laugh at your pain.”

“But you’ll smile.”

“Yes.” He does and it’s a slow thing, pouring light into the lines of his face. “I will smile.”

“It’s nice.” She touches his chin. “You should do it more often.”

Emily moves through the doorway and into a corridor. Hotch turns out the light, closes the door.

Their steps fall into rhythm. Her eyes glide over the patterns in the carpet, the wall sconces. She soaks up the details and layers them into her consciousness, using them to diffuse the images of the unnamed woman floating in the water, break them up, disassemble their magnetism. She counts the sideboards, table lamps, shades of blue. She thinks about structure: all those hidden joists at right angles, the plaster, insulation, the thin layers of paint and the wind and the foggy sky beyond.
They step outside. A muggy wind blows across the brick walkways, flipping Emily’s ponytail from one shoulder to the other.

He looks around. “Now, where is room 17?”

Emily points. “Over there.”

The bricks gleam with moisture. They walk around the edge of a courtyard and she listens to his footfalls, the slight echo of them and how they overlap hers, how hers are softened by the rustle of new spring leaves. In the darkness the plantings look dense and wild, robbed of their elegance by the strategic placement of small floodlights. The shadows churn, tossed about on the silver shingles and skitter across the paths.

They move up a narrow walkway between calf-high lights and push open the door, moving out of the wind and into a short white-painted hallway. She feels Aaron trapped inside with her, caught in the silence, Aaron and not Hotch inside four walls; it’s a difference subtle as a handful of degrees in temperature. She looks up at his profile. His heat hovers near her skin, always respectful; a gentleman waiting for permission.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft.

He looks at her and she takes his hand, holds just his fingers with her own. The stone in his face turns to water, dozens of subtle expressions flowing through him.

“Do you””

“Come to my room with me and give me a kiss.”

Aaron slides a hand across her back, lets it fall. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he murmurs.

She turns. “It was a good idea six hours ago.”

“Six hours ago we were both on vacation.” He moves his hands down her upper arms. “Now we’re both on a case.”

Emily steps back and unlocks her door. “There are going to be cases in the future.” She pushes it open, tosses her key card onto a small table. “What then? Are we supposed to turn it off every time we get on the jet?”

“I…” He sighs and closes the door behind him. “I don’t know.”

Emily leans down and turns on a small lamp. The light bounces off a red bedspread and gleams on a four-poster frame. The lone window offers a view of shrubbery and parking spaces. Her suitcase is on her bed, sprawled open. She walks up to it and retrieves a grooming kit from its zippered pocket.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I didn’t think…I guess I just got knocked out of my groove. Look.” He shakes his head, following her into the bathroom. He steps around so he can look into her face. “We don’t need speculation derailing anyone’s concentration. If someone knocks on my door and I’m not there, or someone sees me leaving this room in the morning…” He pauses. “That’s exactly what’s going to happen, and you know it. It’s better to wait and do this on home soil.”

She steps away. “What is it with you and home soil?” She unzips the case, takes out her toothbrush, a little tube of toothpaste, a small bottle of Listerine. “I’m still here, Aaron. I’m here, even if this isn’t home.” She glances at him. “Am I not allowed to want you while we’re on a case?”

“Yes, yes, of course you are.”

She turns toward him and folds her arms. “Because I have to tell you, being on a case doesn’t change anything for me.”

“It doesn’t change anything for me, either.” He reaches out, touches her waist. “Thank you for saying it.” He smiles a little. “It’s nice to hear.”

Their eyes lock. She holds her breath in the space of a heartbeat and lets it out in a long sigh. “I can’t sway you, can I?”

His voice softens. “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

She pushes past him. “All right.”

“Emily…”

She pushes the suitcase aside and sits on the bed. “It’s okay. You don’t want me to push you and I won’t.” She kicks off her sandals. “I’ll respect your boundaries, even if I think they suck. Even if this home soil fetish of yours makes absolutely no sense to me.” She eases the elastic out of her hair and tosses it onto the nightstand. Without looking at him, she makes a beckoning gesture. “Come here.”

Pursing his lips a little and exhaling through his nose, he does.

“Kiss me.” Her head turns and she looks up. “Just a kiss.” She smiles, looping her pinky around his. “I swear.”

His smile softens. He bends over, touching her neck, and her eyelids flutter closed. He lifts her face to his mouth and she hangs her hand on his forearm, her breath coming faster. He hovers over her, lowering his mouth for a brief kiss. He pulls back, smoothing her hair, and kisses her forehead.

“Good night,” he whispers.

She nods. “I don’t like it.”

He kisses the high curve of her cheek. “I don’t either.”

She takes his hand. “You better go if you’re going.”

“Right.” He runs a hand over her hair. “Good night.”

She looks up at him. “Good night.”

Endnotes: Whilst hip-deep in what feels like endless Nantucket-related research, I learned that the Nantucket Inn (which is where our intrepid FBI team is staying---that it's the Nantucket Inn will be established in chapter 20) does not have its conference rooms and guest rooms in the same building. Therefore, a scene going from conference room to elevator to guest room isn't factual. Also, unforeseen developments in chapter 20 have made it so that the scene with Emily and Aaron in Emily's room works a lot better as an ending for chapter 19.
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