CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

17

Like most seasoned travellers, planes don't bother me as much as they bother most people. Flying still does make me antsy, somehow more on this private flight. With my hair pressed against the headrest on and my fingers digging into the armrests, I close my eyes and try to sleep. The others move around without care. All I can think about is how if we hit turbulence, there aren't flight attendants to help us. The fear is irrational, and perhaps even idiotic. I've flown on a plane at least two dozen times, possibly more, and somehow I'm still the least experienced flyer here.

"Sleeping now so you can stay all night," Morgan's voice is so thick it's easily recognizable even in my tense and groggy state.

I peek up at him, not moving out of my reclined position, "I need to be rested if I'm going to engage in a hedonistic lifestyle before Lent."

"Are you giving up being bitchy this year?" Morgan winks.

With a head shake, a difficult action given how stiff my shoulders have become, I close my eyes. At least his joke distracted me for a second, and by the time I'm all worked up again we are landing, which really works me up since I'm not sure how smooth our trip will be without flight attendants.

We are in New Orleans in less than three hours, so I don't get all that much of a wink. By the time we are off the plane and have brought ourselves to our hotel, it is well past nine. Honestly, disembarking was so relaxing I feel like I don't need to sleep. There was no one pressed up against my back trying to muscle their way out of the plane, no luggage thrown around in the overhead compartments, and no long lines where I'm watching for my bright blue suitcase. It was always dirty from airport travel but at least I didn't have to worry about missing it on luggage rotation, or someone else mistakenly grabbing it.

Cities don't sleep, but apparently, our contact does because we are told to regroup in the morning. The hotel amenities are nicer than I was ever expecting. Government budgets pay better than the bank account of poor international students anyway. Estelle and I shared hostels in the Netherlands rather than shill out for a nice hotel. In this place, I have my own king bed and a continental breakfast. Though the plane wasn't relaxing, this hotel feels like my very own personal resort.

Usually, cases don't last longer than three days, maybe a week at most. If Estelle weren't off in her weekend paradise, I'd let her know not to expect me home for a while. Roommate courtesy, since we switch out duties every week and mine won't be taken care of. In the private sanctity of my room, I distract myself by thinking of my apartment rather than the flight. I feel like I left a pan soaking but I can't actually remember. Estelle won't be happy to come home to see it. I'll text her around the time Stéphane is planning to drive her back, provided I'm still here.

When the morning rolls around, I am up early. I'm half-expecting to see most if not all of them in the continental breakfast room, but only Reid is there. I put a few items on my plate and pour myself a coffee. He seems distracted when I sit down across from him.

"What time are we leaving?" I ask.

He checks his watch, "ten minutes. I've called a cab."

Thankful I grabbed little more than a muffin and a banana; I try to scarf it down quickly. The coffee is more of a challenge since it is so hot. While I eat, Reid lets me know the others went out for breakfast since the continental here isn't that great, and they'll be off in teams. I'm going to be at the precinct with Morgan, while everyone else moves about town. At least, that is the plan for the morning.

Then, we file into a taxi. The driver is chatty, and I try to play along while Reid is sullen and quiet. He doesn't look any better today than yesterday. A song comes on the radio and the driver turns it up.