This version has been revised a little to clean up some spelling/word usage errors and to tie together a bunch of the chapters so that the readers are not forced to slog through so many of them to read.
The first time I watched the Woman in Limbo and Russ made the comment "I guess the criminal nature runs in the family," it got me thinking: What if Brennan had decided to follow her family's example and had become a criminal? And what if Booth was the one investigating her?
And then, during a hiatus-slash-nasty-case-of-Writer's-Block, I started writing this. What we have here is a hodge-podge: B/B fluffy moments, the Keenan history, and later the plot gets to case sensitive stuff, as will be apparent by the end of this chapter.
Of course, I hold no financial clam to Bones or any of its characters. But I have bought the DVDs and watch them repeatedly.
Tell me what you think...
--
Temperance Brennan carefully cut the netting over the window and eased into the mansion. She had thwarted the security system and had passed through the estate unscathed. Not bad, considering she had only staked the place out for about a month.
Although the guy who owned the large house was rather paranoid—on top of the fact that he was filthy rich—and his security systems were complex, neither were any match for her patience and powers of observation. She had learned the codes, the schedules, and all the time-tables.
And so, on the rather chilly late autumn night, she was standing in the dining room of the grand estate and looking around. She carried a single large bag and was calculating what little she would take. This man—Jack Hodgins—had both taste and money, and his main home was filled with highly expensive and possibly unique items. It was a thief's paradise, but she knew she only had one chance to take the stuff and run. Once he realized he had been robbed, security was likely to be doubled as his paranoia escalated. And at that point, his potential merchandise would be of no further value.
But for the moment, he was on a date with Angela Montenegro. And his dates with her always seemed to last a long time. The estate's only other occupant—Zack Addy—never strayed from his own position on the other-side of the main house, so he didn't pose much of a threat.
She smiled as she recognized an extremely expensive antique and slipped it into her bag, anticipating another successful endeavor.
--
Special Agent Seeley Booth rubbed his temples and stared at the massive amount of paperwork on his desk, swearing almost inaudibly.
She had struck again. And now the Jeffersonian was on his butt for not catching her. Dr. Jack Hodgins was in a rage, demanding that the FBI explain why only one agent was assigned to the thief who had stolen eight extremely valuable artifacts from right under his nose.
This was her twelfth robbery. And after all of the heists, she had left behind only one thing: a few strands of hair. The FBI had not assigned the thefts a terribly high priority, due to the fact that the only thing that had been injured so far was a wine glass, which had been knocked over at some point during the robbery. So here he was, at twelve a.m., alone, with a headache, and seriously craving a slice of pie.
Hell, the only reason they knew it was a she was because the hair had been ripped out at the roots and still contained a small amount of...He thought for a moment and couldn't recall what the lab techs had said they found. Only that it had something to do with DNA.
Having exhausted his capacity for thinking at that moment, he sighed and got up out of his chair to stretch. He didn't really want to see the files again until morning. He had been staring at them since morning anyway, so why should he have to spend the night going through them?
With that thought in mind, he headed off to the Royal Diner, thinking about pie and a large cup of coffee.
--
Brennan walked up to the Royal Diner's bar, craving a nice hot cup of tea. She was wondering why the place was so full at ten past midnight on a weekday, but wasn't sure she cared too much. She could be alone with her thoughts in a public arena. It wasn't that difficult.
Her fence was having a fairly difficult time moving the goods. Apparently Hodgins' stuff had been black-listed or something and were fairly noticeable on the current market. However, he had bought them, so they were his problem now, not hers. Although if she wanted to continue to do business with him she had better hope he would at least be able to find a buyer.
She sighed and flexed her shoulders, feeling tense and tired. She didn't really want any problems right now, she just wanted everything to take care of itself. But wishing never changed anything. She knew that and yet she was indulging herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man who took a seat right beside her. He had tried to gracefully slip onto the stool, but had failed, instead falling into Brennan's side. She steadied herself with a hand and turned to glare at him.
"Sorry," he said, loosening his tie and shifting in the seat. "Slipped."
She softened at the sight of him. His deep brown eyes were clouded over with exhaustion and frustration, and his suit was rumpled and in slight disarray. He looked as tired and irritated as she was, and she felt the anger drain away.
"Long day?" she asked, even though she never participated in small talk. Ever.
"Yeah," he said, flagging a waitress. "Slice of apple pie and a large coffee."
His moves were deliberate and calm, not rushed or slow. Casual.
The waitress glanced at Brennan pointedly.
"Chamomile tea," she said.
The waitress nodded and departed.
"Mistake," the man muttered.
She glanced at him with her eyebrows arched, "What?"
"Should've gotten the pie."
"Why?" she scoffed.
"It's the best."
"I don't like pie."
He shifted slightly, his interest apparently caught, "You don't like pie?"
"No," she wasn't sure why she was having this conversation with a complete stranger, "I don't like my fruit baked."
At that very moment, his pie was set in front of him, as well as two forks.
"Here you are," the waitress says, flashing them a smile, "I'll be out with your drinks in a moment."
The man's mood was starting to noticeably improve at the sight of the pie, and Brennan couldn't help but smile slightly at his innocence.
He carefully cut a small piece of the fruit concoction and slipped it into his mouth, letting out a small moan, "You're sure you don't like pie?" he asked, staring at her as his jaws sucked every morsel of flavor from his dessert.
"I'm sure," she replied. There was something about him—his presence seemed to ease some of the tension that had been stored in her muscles. His happiness with the simple act of eating was a far cry from the arguments she had been having with her fences.
Two steaming mugs were placed in front of them.
"Have a nice night you two," the waitress says, slipping off her apron.
The man gave her a friendly wave and smiled, glancing at Brennan.
"What?" she asked, seeing the mischief in his eyes.
"She thinks we're a couple."
"Wha—How do you know?"
"Intuition."
She snorted and shook her head.
There was silence for a moment as she nursed her tea and he worked his way through the pie.
"What's your name?"
Brennan glanced over at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What?"
"Your name?"
She paused for a moment, "Joy," she gave her other name. The original name that never seemed to fit except when she needed it for a cover.
"Booth," he held out a hand, which she shook.
"Is that your first name?" she asked.
"No. But no one calls me Seeley."
She laughed slightly.
"What?" he looked at her, insecurity creeping into his voice.
She bit her lip and looked back down at her tea, "Nothing."
He watched her for a few moments before exhaling and shaking his head, "You don't get out much, do you?"
Her clear gray eyes met his own, "Get out where?"
Booth smiled, "Answered my question."
She inadvertently returned his smile with a grin.
"Would you like to go out sometime?"
Her eyebrows raised, "With you?"
"No, with George Clooney."
"I don't know who that is," she responded.
His smile, a charm smile, lit his face up even more, "Yes, Joy, with me."
She thought for a moment, arching an eyebrow, "Okay," she shook his hand once more, "I will go out with you, Seeley Booth."
--
Temperance Brennan—or now Joy Keenan—waited in a corner booth in Nolita's, an Italian joint she had taken to when she was craving a good red sauce. She had suggested the place, and Booth had agreed; she was glad he didn't feel the urge to control that decision. There were enough problems fighting her buyers for respect.
She carefully took a sip of red wine and skimmed through the people in front of her. Although she did not have a gift for reading people, she had learned to study physical characteristics in order to determine mood. The people in front of her represented what could only be called a complete hodge-podge. Some were tense, some were smiling and walked loosely, some had a shuffle to their gate, some just looked aimless, and some looked serious—there for the food, but not much else.
And then there was Booth, who showed up two minutes early and glanced around himself the moment he came in. Though he had a twinkle in his eye and a lightness to his step, he had the look of someone who didn't quite trust the entire world. It was a policeman sort of look. Not observational, but searching. As to what he was searching for, that she didn't know, nor did she really care. One cannot successfully dissect something that is not physical—at least that's what she believed.
When he noticed her, Booth walked forward, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"Hello, Joy," he said and settled across from her.
"Hello," she said, her own lips twitching. That damn smile of his was contagious.
"Got you something," from behind his back he pulled out a small bouquet of daffodils.
Brennan stared at them for a moment, "They're my favorite," she said, "How did you know?"
He smiled and tapped his head with a finger, "Intuition."
She laughed and could feel her guard start to slip.
He's very charming. And he knows it.
--
Booth watched Joy slowly twirl pasta with her fork until the noodles formed a neat little ball on the end of the utensil. She was dressed in a light brown jacket overlaying a deep purple shirt. Around her neck was a large silver necklace with lots of little rivets and symbols. When she moved, it caught the light and sent it shining into her eyes.
At first, the conversation with her was rather awkward. The woman sitting across from him had quite the impressive wall up. He could see her analyze every person that stepped in front of her piercing gaze, formulating thoughts and opinions behind that wall.
He had tried asking her things. He knew that people liked to talk about themselves, and had hoped that that would get her into a more talkative mood. But she hadn't really responded to the tactic. She didn't dodge personal questions, she just answered them. Nothing stemmed from it. After the third attempt at starting conversation, he realized that it wasn't that she wasn't interested, it was that she wasn't quite sure where to go. Her social skills were obviously non-existent.
Then she asked what he did for a living.
It was interesting the change that took place in her features when he answered. She tensed. It was so slight that it was almost imperceptible. But it was there for just a split second before she relaxed again. Her reaction was strange, but he decided to let it go when she started asking questions.
And he answered her. She listened, her eyes glittering softly in the low lighting, responding to what he said with what seemed to be a genuine interest. And that was when he realized he was talking to someone very similar to squint. She certainly had the grammar of a squint, yet...there was something different. She didn't have the self-absorbed air he associated with most scientists. Her questions were simple and curious; her responses intelligent and sometimes bordering on witty.
After a while, the conversation became more fluid and they were able to communicate without creating massive rifts in between words. She was laughing and he was grinning. This—he realized—was near instant chemistry. And with a little work, he imagined that the two of them would be playing off each other's words in no time at all.
Then it was over. She bid good-bye on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and walked away, the night air swallowing her form in moments.
Booth leaned against his black SUV and pondered many things. But foremost on his mind was the woman who had left him there.
Oh, yes. He was definitely thinking about Joy Keenan. Oh yes, indeed.
--
Temperance Brennan spun the gun in her hand playfully before turning it and pulling the trigger.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
She glanced at the spot on the dummy's chest where the three bullet holes were clustered before shrugging lightly and walking out. She owned a .22 Glock and she made sure she could use it on a regular basis. Although if she thought about it, she really didn't know that she'd ever be able to point it at someone and pull the trigger. It was a precaution—like so many others.
She walked outside into the cool night air. It had been over a month since that first date with Seeley Booth. Since then, they had gone dancing and had taken many long walks and talks together—sometimes merely to be together, and sometimes to talk. She was deliberately vague about her "work" so their conversations about the topic usually led to his own job. She had gathered that one of his current cases had gone cold and he couldn't seem to find a lead. She had offered a "wish I could help" look and a small smile, which he had responded to.
Brennan stopped outside of her current target: another large estate. The owner did not have the complicated security system that Hodgins had, but nonetheless she was wary. She didn't want to underestimate a target and get caught. But tonight seemed like the night, for the owner was away, the neighborhood was quiet, and there was very little moonlight to betray her presence. Almost ideal conditions...Perhaps this man would have something of value to take. It certainly looked like the kind of place that would contain priceless artifacts or antiques.
She broke into the house easily enough and looked around. Her earlier scopes had revealed that the room on her right contained a lot of display shelving. She decided to check there first and was rewarded with several very old-looking jewelry boxes and small paintings. They were originals and certainly looked like they were worth money. She grabbed them and moved on, her thoughts drifting.
It was amazing how close she had gotten to Booth in just a little over a month. They spent a lot of time together. It had grown into a ritual of sorts. After a fight with a fence, she would go out to the Diner, and Booth would be there. Waiting. If he was troubled, then she would be there offering whatever comfort she had available.
As of late, something had gone wrong with his case. He never really talked about it. All she knew was that the leads were few and far between and that the newest piece of information had been hard on him. Something in his eyes had changed when he looked at her and it saddened her to see that.
Her breath caught in her throat as she was reaching for another valuable.
Someone else was in the house.
--
Booth watched as the woman he had grown such a great fondness for tensed, her hand in the process of grabbing a small statue.
He had known that it was her on their last date. Her demeanor had betrayed her for the criminal she was. Tense and wary. Searching and scoping. It was the behavior of either a criminal or a cop, and she was obviously not the former. He almost hadn't wanted to witness this moment. He had been hoping that his instincts were wrong and that on the night of her next burglary she would be with him.
But even now that he knew, he wasn't sure he wanted to stop it.
Her other hand slipped into her jacket as she turned to face him.
"You're a cop," she said simply. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact.
"Yes," he replied.
The small amount of moonlight which seeped into the room reflected off her hair and eyes as she took a small step forward, "Booth?"
"Yeah," he could not hide the hurt in his voice.
She just stood there, saying nothing. No doubt she didn't know what to say.
He watched her for what seemed like hours before speaking once more, "Is your name really Joy?" he didn't know why he asked it. He just wanted to know. Needed to know.
She hesitated, "My name is Temperance Brennan."
He nodded. He wanted to know why she was here, and why she was doing this. Why she had come into his life and created such a relationship, only to have it come crashing down around their ears.
He didn't notice that she had moved toward the open window until she spoke, "Booth..." she paused, "I wonder...if we had met at another time, in a different place, do you think that we could've been friends?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get any words out, she was gone, and he was left standing there with his thoughts.
--
Temperance Brennan paced around her small rent-a-house in irritation. Considering she was on the other-side of the country, one would think she could stop thinking about her time in DC; nonetheless, she could not drag her mind away from that old home in the outskirts of town where Seeley Booth had caught her at her trade.
Cursing, she walked outside and into her vehicle, hoping a drive would sooth her nerves.
Winter in the foothills of Northern California. Snow was forecasted on the news. Luckily, there was no ice on the roads as of yet.
Her mind drifted as she navigated through sparse traffic.
Images drifted up.
Booth, eyes shining as he laughed at one of her sarcastic comments. A smile tugging at his lips as he complimented her necklace. One small sigh as he loosened his tie. His lips brushing hers with a delicacy she never could have imaged...
She blocked out the thoughts as she parked outside of a small little restaurant called "The Willow." Famous for its steaks, she had found that they also made a mean potato. That was what she wanted now. A nice starchy potato, a salad, and a glass of red wine.
She chose a seat near the window. The restaurant was packed to the brim, and the small table had just been vacated moments before.
A man around her age walked over and wiped a rag over the surface of the table, then provided her with a menu. She accepted it, watching him walk back into the crowd. Despite all the noise and the friendliness of the atmosphere, she couldn't help but feel alone.
After only a little over a month, she shouldn't miss him as much as she did. But her mind kept drifting back.
The tired-looking waiter placed a glass in front of her, and she thanked him reflexively, reaching for the glass and craving the taste as it slid down her throat. One glass. That's all she would allow herself.
She sighed as she stared out the window, watching as the first flakes of snow lazily drifted down to kiss the earth.
--
Seeley Booth flipped through the pages in front of him, not particularly enjoying what he was doing.
Because she had provided him with her name, he was able to track down a history on the woman who had fled from the house only two weeks before.
The woman who was still occupying his thoughts as if she'd never left.
The woman he hoped would walk through the doors of the Diner and tell him it was all a dream.
He blocked these thoughts and skimmed through the file again, reviewing the details he was already familiar with.
Temperance Brennan was born to one Christine and Mathew Brennan in 1976. She had one brother—Russ Brennan—who was now, according to the history that had been compiled—in California with the rest of the family. But the wrinkle appeared in 1978, where the identities of all four of them had suddenly appeared.
A little digging had procured some interesting details: One—Temperance was not the only criminal in the family. Although Russ had a criminal record on his second identity, both Christine and Mathew—under the names of Ruth and Max Keenan—had been arrested for a string of bank robberies in the mid-to-late 1970s. After getting out of jail, the two had had children, moved to Chicago, and changed names. Everything since had been clean-nosed. By all appearances, the old crooks had retired. In 2002, the entire family—excluding Temperance—had moved west to the foothills of California.
He had also been interested to discover that Temperance had given her real name to him first, as opposed to her alias. When he'd asked for her real name, she had used the name of the second identity—the one that was clean. Booth wondered on the significance of that.
Her only arrest record was present on Joy Keenan. Temperance Brennan, however, had not received so much as a parking ticket in the course of her life. After much pondering, he had decided to call her by her second name.
Sighing heavily, he closed the files and leaned back into his couch. Outside, he could see snowflakes slowly pitter down, consuming the world in white.
Despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder what Temperance was looking at tonight.
--
Temperance Brennan sat back on the brick hearth, a fire roaring only about a foot from her back, slowly twirling the prod she had been using to adjust the logs.
Her mother had thrown her out of the kitchen so that the two would not be vying for space on the counter. Max Keenan, Brennan's father, knew not to interfere with cooking duty, so he had merely watched as mother and daughter duked it out for one of the chopping boards.
After several minutes, Brennan had conceded and retreated to the living room to adjust the fire.
Mesmerized by the reflecting flames on the prod, she jumped when a new object entered her field of vision.
"Relax, Tempe," Max held the wine glass away at a safe distance.
She reached for the glass, "Thanks."
"Welcome, honey."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the smell of frying onions and garlic wafting in.
"Is something bothering you?"
"Hmm?" She looked up at him.
"You've been acting a little strange since you got back from DC," her father's eyes were filled with concern, "Did something happen?"
"No..." her voice trailed off as she took a sip of wine. Yes, something had happened, but she was slowly getting past it. It was really the guilt that was holding on; that, and, well...something else she couldn't identify.
His eyes continued to search hers.
"I'm fine, Dad. Really," she rose and gave him a quick hug, "You worry too much."
"How could I not?" he replied as she resumed her seat on the bricks.
She smiled at him.
If anything could be said about her father, it was that he oozed charm. This man could make a...She paused for a moment and tried to think of the right metaphor. Her mind latched onto the word "Vulcan." Yes. Vulcan. That sounded right.
Her father could make a Vulcan smile.
She smiled inadvertently at her use of the term, even if it was only in her head.
"Glad to see you're cheering up," Max noted.
She blushed slightly, but couldn't help but smile again. Shaking her head, she changed the subject, "Is Russ going to be arriving soon?"
"Yeah," he nodded slightly, "He called a few hours ago to say he'd be here in time for dinner."
Brennan glanced out the window to see that snow was still drifting from the skies, and it didn't look like it was about to waver, "In this weather?"
"I advised him to come earlier, but he said his car had had some sort of mechanical problem he'd needed to fix."
She nodded. That always seemed to happen around family get-togethers—although it had been her car last time.
A loud sizzling sound broke the memories of her debate with the car-repairmen, and both Max and Brennan glanced away as if they could see through the wall to the stove—both thinking about dinner.
Max walked out, and his daughter could hear bits and pieces of cooed words following his entrance into the kitchen. The two had been married for decades, but none of the love had bled out. Nothing but their appearances had changed in recent years.
She smiled at the slight knock on the door and moved to let her brother in, her spirits already lifting at the thought of spending an evening with her family. It was nice to do this again after so many months apart.
--
Seeley Booth stepped into his hotel room and tiredly dropped his suitcases onto the floor, rolling the tightness out of his shoulders before bending down to pick up a briefcase.
Placing it on the bed, he flipped open the lid and pulled out the contents, laying them all out on a nearby table. Even though he really just wanted to sleep for a while, something about the files and papers was bothering him.
He picked up one page and held it up, reading the names he had started to become familiar with.
Wilcox, Holt, Keenan, Dewett, Parker, Genzlinger, Peterson, Brown, Gallagher...
Cook, Cabot, Columbus, Fremont, Stuart, Long, Balboa, Drake, Lewis, Clark, Magellan...
It just went on and on.
Only three names did not have a (D) following it: Columbus, Fremont, and Cabot. Although he couldn't help but wonder about the accuracy of the sheet, he was hoping the information was accurate.
Besides, it was a list of FBI code names. How hard could it be to make a spreadsheet?
He set the page down and glanced through several others.
Theft reports.
Descriptions.
Arrest records.
Death certificates.
Pictures.
Histories.
Notes.
The guy at the reception desk had taken several hours to find what Booth had been asking for. The reason had become clear when the man handed over the papers.
Hell, it took one briefcase alone just to carry the stuff.
He sighed and turned his attention to the other papers.
Two dead FBI agents. Their papers, once gathered in a separate section, were mingling with those of the strong-arm crew. He had pulled everything he could think of.
Something was wrong with this picture. He just couldn't decipher it.
The itch had been driving him insane until he had finally decided to take some vacation time to pursue this—off the books.
Of course, the fact that she was here had nothing to do with it.
Nothing to do with it at all.
Feeling a headache pulsing through his temples, he closed the file he was staring at and got up, switching off the light as he went.
Tomorrow he would start to figure out what was going on, but tonight he needed to sleep.
--
Brennan shut the door of her old Mazda outside of a small Italian restaurant in the heart of town and stepped inside the building. The cold of the winter was banished immediately by the warmth of the indoors, and she could smell tomato sauce and pasta cooking somewhere out of sight.
Feeling carefree and blissful, she took a seat by the reception area and awaited someone to lead her to a table, thoughts of homemade ravioli tangoing with her hunger. When the familiar figure finally walked over to her, she hopped up and they hugged like old friends.
"John," she said.
"Temperance," John Scaletta replied, "Here for your usual?"
"Of course," she smiled at him.
She followed him back to a small table near the window, remembering other times she had visited this place. Dinners with her family; lunches with Russ; a meal or two on her own. Never would she pass up a chance to eat here when on a visit. No matter how many times she had the food, greeted the owners, swapped tales with any of the other staff, it was never enough. The place was as close to a second home as she had.
And even though John had been running the place for thirty-two years, none of his cheeriness had died. The man was just a pleasure to be around.
Small memory bits of dinners with her father where she had spent half the time struggling not to pound the table in mirth as Max and John traded quips came to mind and she smiled at the thought. Yes, her father was a character, but pair him with another man like him and one ended up in the tricky situation of choking on fine Italian food as the two men traded stories they all found hilarious.
"I'm going to get your order moving," John says with a grin tickling his lips, "And then I'm coming back and you're going to tell me all about what you've been up to recently."
Brennan nodded and waved him away with a laugh. Of course he would want to hear some stories. Now she'd just have to think of a few to tell.
She inhaled deeply and could smell garlic and onions cooking. Yet more fantastic smells to add to this place. Her olfactory delights were interrupted by a portly women who greeted her in much the same fashion as John had.
"Tempe!" her Polish roots bled through her words, "How are you?"
"Lena!" Brennan said as she was given another hug, "Oh, I'm fine. How are you?"
"Good, good," she was beaming, her brown eyes twinkling, "Everything is fantastic!"
"I'm glad to hear it."
Brennan resumed her seat as Lena Scaletta turned the chair from a nearby table and sat across from her. Immediately the two were chatting about shared memories and soon enough John joined them, although he occasionally had to pop out to help out with the dinner crowd.
It felt like old times again, and everything that had happened in DC started to melt away, being replaced by a great feeling of contentment and peace.
--
Booth walked out of his hotel room deep in thought. The files in the room were starting to tell him stories, and he didn't like where the plot was going.
In 1971, Mathew Gallagher appeared on the criminal scene with a small band of armed robbers working through the banks of Ohio, Kentucky, Iowa, West Virginia, and Tennessee. By the mid 1970s, a large-scale task force had been compiled to deal with the crew. Secret Service, state police, ATF, FBI—all collaborating to catch what had, by then, become a syndicate of thieves with a real tendency toward violence.
At the time of the crew's arrival on the bank-robbing scene, Max and Ruth Keenan had already been working the same turf for years. Their specialty was safety-deposit boxes. No guns. In fact, their history had been clean of bloodshed until they had joined Gallagher's crew, where things had gone down-hill. But interestingly, the two had never been charged of doing anything more harsh than slugging a few clerks.
In 1974, one of the crew—who remained unnamed in the file—ratted the whole organization out. Although most remained in prison for many years, Max and Ruth did not serve such an extended sentence due to their less violent methods and two year-old son.
In 1976, Joy Keenan/Temperance Brennan was born.
The wrinkle occurred in 1978 when, officially, Max and Ruth Keenan disappeared to be replaced by Mathew and Christine Brennan. In the same year, one Garret Delaney and Augustus Harper were murdered—two FBI agents.
An identity change and two murders. Booth was starting to wonder if there was some kind of connection.
The agent dug his hands into his pockets and continued to walk down the street, wondering if there was a decent restaurant nearby where he could rest and collect his thoughts. His stomach was starting to remind him that it had been more than six hours since lunch.
He walked by the corner of the building he was near and paused, noticing chairs and tables through a large window. His mind jumped to two very important conclusions: One, the lights were on, meaning the place was open, and two, the place must serve food if it was set up for people to sit and put things on tables.
Booth took a step backward, pivoted, and made for the door...
...And found himself face-to-face with Temperance Brennan.