Author's Note #1. They're not mine, but if wishing made it so! I am making no profit from this story or any other.

Author's Note #2. The summer camp I describe here actually exists, and I spent 9 great summers there. I have no bad intentions in using it as a setting, nor do I mean any harm to any of the places mentioned. Simply that I know the place.

"Your killer is an intelligent man, probably highly educated, but working in a job that doesn't fit his skills. He doesn't associate with other people willingly, and when he does come into contact with other people he's quiet and unassuming," Hotchner said to start off the profile before the thread was taken up by Morgan.

"He knows the area well, and probably has a job that keeps him outdoors much of the time. He's good at blending into the background, at hiding himself, until he attacks." Morgan paced from one side of the small police office to the other as he spoke. "He's physically very fit; his victims have all been physically fit people, and while he most likely has the element of surprise he is still able to subdue them easily."

One of the local cops, a young man who looked barely old enough to shave, looked up from his notepad. "So is he just picking anybody, or does he kill these people for a reason?"

"We think he probably sees the kill area as his territory to defend. He probably feels threatened by people coming into his territory. If they would leave him alone, stay away from his turf, they'd be fine. Who knows how many people have escaped simply by taking the left-hand trail instead of the right-hand branch?" Hotchner looked over at Morgan.

"These killings don't have any sexual overtones to them. He's not doing this because it brings him release or pleasure, simply because these people are where they don't belong."

"So is he from here?" The speaker, an older man, looked uncomfortable at the idea of one of the locals having killed so many people.

"That's the hard part. Certainly the fact that all the victims have been tourists would suggest that he lives here, and is defending his 'turf' from the outsiders. At the same time, the killings only go back two years, so either he's a local who had some stressor just over two years ago – maybe an altercation of some sorts with a tourist – or he's an incomer who settled here then and feels some strong bond to the area."

The 10 cops in the room looked at each other, and Hotchner could tell there was something being discussed silently. Finally, the chief spoke up.

"I think I know who this might be. Don't know his name, nobody does, but he showed up about two and a half or three years ago, and settled in as a caretaker at the summer camp out in the country. And the camp is right in the middle of the kill area. He stays there year-round, keeps the buildings in good condition over the winter and then helps keep the grounds in order during the camp season. Like you said, he's quiet, and he's a real recluse. But when he talks, you can tell he's been out in the world. And Betty over at the post office told me once that he gets deliveries from Amazon nearly every week. Really heavy deliveries, sometimes, she says, so he apparently reads a lot."

Hotchner and Morgan looked at each other in surprise. Could it really be this easy, Hotchner wondered. Well, certainly it was worth talking to the caretaker; if he wasn't the one they wanted, maybe he'd know who it was. "All right, let's go see him."

They drove out of Oakhurst on a scenic two-lane road winding through the hills, the standard black Suburban wallowing behind the cruiser. Evergreen trees shaded the road completely in some spots and allowed only small patches of sunlight to hit the pavement. It certainly was different from Fresno, an hour down the hill from them and a completely different setting. There, even in October the morning sun had been hot and the city had been starkly lit, but the Sierra foothills were wooded and scenic. After a few minutes, Morgan broke the silence.

"Sure wish it was more than just the two of us. You think we'll ever take the whole team to a case again?"

"I don't know, but I don't think it'll happen any time soon. We've never gotten our full budget back since Gi – well, for the last couple of years. And you know we're not the favorite children any more. We had too much disruption in the unit, and really we're lucky we still have a unit."

"I hate politics," Morgan muttered as he went back to staring out the window. Hotchner drove on, trailing the cruiser through the small town of Ahwahnee and the even smaller town of Nippinawassee, as he mulled over the last couple years. Gideon's disappearance still nagged at him, and he still worried about his friend, wondering nearly every day if he was still alive. The team had gone through a rough patch since then, and he had a feeling they were all more or less still on probation.

Ahead of him, the cop signalled a right turn into a driveway, and Hotchner followed suit. They drove most of the way up the hilly, winding driveway, then turned onto a smaller dirt track beside a huge bare-branched oak tree. As they neared a small, woodframe house, he saw a dark form dart inside, close the door, and draw the curtains on the front window. The cruiser slewed to a halt on the loose dirt of the track, and Hotchner stomped on the brakes to avoid running into it. Clearly, the cop had seen the same thing he had. Morgan reached into the back seat, rummaged around, and came back with two bulletproof vests. "Guess we'd better suit up."

"Yeah. If he's not our man, he's certainly twitchy about something." They strapped on the vests, Hotchner hating the choking, compressed feeling he got every time he wore one, then slowly got out of the car. Ahead of them, Chief Phillips and Sergeant Decker opened the doors of the cruiser and climbed out.

"Hello in the house," called Phillips. "We just need to talk to you, can you come out please?" He was answered by silence, and he and Decker exchanged a look. "We just want to talk. I'm sure you know about the murders around here, all the tourists that have been killed. Maybe you can help us. Can you do that? We've got two guys from the FBI here, they'd like to ask you about it." He turned and waved Hotchner and Morgan forward.

Hotchner stepped up beside the chief, and looked at the house for a minute. "Look, I know it's intimidating. But we just want to ask a few questions, see if you have any help for us." The four of them watched the silent house for another minute. "Can you tell me your name? It's easier to talk if we all know each other's names. I'm Agent Hotchner, and this is Agent Morgan. Who are you?"

There was another minute of silence, and then the front door opened slightly. The four of them tensed up, and both Hotchner and Morgan drew their guns but held them pointed at the ground. An interviewee holed up in a house was always a tense situation. A hand appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again and again, throwing several items out onto the ground in front of the house. The door closed again, and Hotchner shifted his weight.

"OK, I'm going to walk up there and look at what you've tossed out, all right? I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to bring my weapon with me, it's what I've been trained to always do. It doesn't mean anything." There was no answer from the house. Phillips reached out as Hotchner started to step away from the cruiser.

"Agent Hotchner, are you sure about this? We don't know anything about this guy, and for all we know he's baiting you to go up there so he can get an easier shot at you!"

"I know he could be. And no, I'm not sure about this, but I think he threw this stuff out for a reason. If I see what it is, maybe I'll know what he wants." He walked forward, slowly, and from behind him he heard Morgan mutter "Be careful, man."

Ten steps brought him to the five items that had been tossed out into the loose dirt in front of the house. As he suspected, three of the items were easy to identify: a 9mm semi-automatic pistol, currently swaddled in a black fabric holster, and two magazines for it. The fourth and fifth objects puzzled him, and he reached down and picked them up. One was a small key, with a tag on it that read "gun safe", while the fifth was a half-brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it and taped on. He slit the tape, took off the piece of paper, and looked at it. It had one word on it, his own last name, written in stark black ink in severe upright capital letters. He didn't have Reid's gift with analyzing handwriting, but he had a feeling this wasn't the writer's actual handwriting. Leaving the pistol and magazines where they had been tossed, he went back to Morgan and the waiting cops.

"What do you think of this?" He passed his partner the note, and watched the younger man think about it.

"I think he wants to talk to you alone."

"That's what I thought too," Hotchner said as he set his weapon down on the hood of the Suburban and reached down to unstrap his ankle holster. "Here, watch these for me, will you?" Morgan reached over and slapped him on the shoulder as Phillips watched in disbelief.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Look, he tossed a weapon and two magazines out the front door, as well as the key to the gun safe. He wants to talk to me, and he's willing to disarm himself in order to do so. That tells me that I should also be unarmed. The best way to find out if this is our guy or not is to go talk to him, so that's what I'm going to do."

"Are you crazy? He shut himself up in his house the minute he saw us, he's got to be the one we want, and you want to go in there with no weapon?"

"Just because he shut himself up in there doesn't mean he's our man. It means that for some reason, he doesn't want to confront two cops and two FBI agents. But he does want to talk to me."

"I don't like it, but all right, I guess you know what you're doing. But if you're not out in 15 minutes to tell us you're all right, I'm calling for backup, and they're gonna be armed." The chief's voice rose in volume as Hotchner walked away from the cruiser, past the weapons still lying on the ground, and towards the small house. As he neared the house, the front door opened again, just enough that when he got up onto the porch he could step sideways through the doorway into the house.

The door closed beside him, revealing the figure standing behind it.

"Hello, Hotch."