rocketman (it's going to be a long, long time) - elton john

Spencer paced. He had been pacing the D.C. police station for hours. And the day before. Ever since the team had found out that Maya hadn't caught a flight back home. Even JJ hadn't been able to make him stop. Hotch was particularly inclined to try; he was pretty sure if Reid sat still for more than a moment he'd implode.

This was one of the worst parts of the job: when they just didn't have enough information. They'd scoured everything. Photos, police reports, witness statements, every shred of physical and digital evidence there was to be found. Reid had figured out the link between the victims the day before, confirmed it through Garcia, but that didn't get them a lot. Or anything, really. There were still too many people that Maya interacted with on a regular or semi-regular basis that fit their basic profile. Plus, they couldn't rule out that the unsub was someone she had only met in passing. Maybe she didn't even remember seeing him. Garcia was supposed to be checking to see who could get access to information like Maya's childhood friends or college roommate. It was practically nothing to go on. Almost anyone with a computer and some time on their hands could find that kind of information. Even better? This was their last day to find her alive. The clock was ticking, ticking at an agonizingly quick pace.

So Reid paced. Occasionally, he'd halt mid-step and stare at some point in the distance, trying to piece together fragments that didn't fit. Then, after a moment, he'd regain his stride and continue his unending path crisscrossing the station floor.

An officer sipped coffee. A detective shuffled papers. A phone rang.

Reid's phone. It was out of his pocket and against his ear in a flash. His brain was barely registering the words "Unknown Caller" as he listened to the heavy breathing of the caller, still pacing.

"Reid," he said.

"Spencer Reid," echoed a low voice. Artificially low, Reid noted.

"Who is this?"

"I have Maya Davis." Reid froze.

"Hello?" said the man. Maya. Maya. Reid pulled his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"Where is she?" he asked. He knew he wouldn't get an answer even before he said it, but he couldn't help but ask.

"I'll never tell."

"Reid," Emily said. She was standing not too far from him. She had seen him take the call. More importantly, though, she had seen him stop pacing. The two of them made eye contact and she saw the urgency in his eyes.

"Hotch, it's her!" Emily called. Hotch whipped around, saw Reid on the phone, and immediately the team broke into action. Within seconds they had Garcia on another line tracing the call.

"Two minutes. Don't bother tracing the call. And no codes," the unsub said.

"We don't have codes," Reid replied, knee jerk. There was no response. Muffled speech could be heard, then, new, lighter breathing.

"Maya?"

"Reid." For a brief moment, the invisible hands squeezing Reid's heart loosened their grip. Only a moment, though.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he asked.

"My neck hurts." Her tone was exceptionally flippant, even for Maya.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"Mmm," she hummed, "Drugged."

"You're drugged?" Reid translated.

"Mmm," was the only response. Drugged. Another layer of difficulty to this already impossible challenge.

"Do you know where you are? Can you tell us anything about the surroundings?"

"You remember that song we listened to? 'Mars ain't the type of place to raise your kids,'" she sang slowly.

"I remember." Shouldn't Garcia have found him by now? What was taking so long?

"It's me, you know," Maya whispered. She sounded conspiratory, the way a drunk person sounds conspiratory, that is.

"The song?"

"No, not the song. Everything, it's me. It's all me." The missing link, she meant. She was it. All the other victims led back to her.

"We know, Maya. Garcia found Jennifer Ngyuen from your elementary school."

"Don't miss me too much when I'm gone, Spencer. Promise?" she slurred.

"We're going to find you." She laughed as if he'd just told her he was auditioning for the circus. Not meanly or even disbelieving, just amused.

"We're going to get you out of there, Maya," he said.

"Just promise you'll be okay?" she breathed.

"Maya-"

"Please."

"I promise. We're going to find him, alright?"

"And tell Hotch to smile every once in a while."

"Maya, can you-"

The line clicked off. She was gone.

~~~~~

"Well, he wasn't bluffing when he said 'Don't bother tracing,'" Garcia said, her voice emanating from Morgan's phone, "I couldn't pinpoint their location."

"Did you get anything?" Morgan asked. Reid was sitting for the first time in many hours, his leg bouncing, his eyes unfocused.

"I managed to narrow it to a two-mile radius. But I have some more detective work I want to try. I'll let you know if any of it pans out." Reid appreciated what he was sure was an active effort on Garcia's part to get straight to the point.

"Thanks, sugar," Morgan said and ended the call.

"We need to-" Emily began before Reid cut her off.

"'Mars ain't the type of place to raise your kid,'" he said slowly.

"What's that?" Rossi asked. Reid didn't move, much less respond.

"Reid?" Hotch prompted.

"'Mars ain't the type of place to raise your kid.' That's what Maya said when I asked her where she was."

"But she was drugged. She couldn't focus on your questions," JJ said, looking around for confirmation. Morgan's eye was trained on Reid; he could tell the kid was on the verge of something.

"'In fact, it's cold as hell.' That's the next line of the song she was singing"---he was talking fast now, typical Reid overdrive---"Morgan, have Garcia check uninsulated warehouses, abandoned buildings, places that might be unusually cold. It might be nothing-"

This time it was Emily's turn to interrupt: "But it's something."