A/N: Oh, look, another alternate ending. Obviously, this isn't going to match up with the conspiracy the show has given us, so I'm creating a new one. Also, I didn't read over this before posting, so criticize away. Help would be appreciated. Also reviews. Thanks!
(Edited and reposted on July 15, 2015)
Part One: Evanescent / tending to vanish like vapor
"He'd lost everything. He'd lost Kiowa and his weapon and his flashlight and his girlfriend's picture. He remembered this.
He remembered wondering if he could lose himself."
― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried
September 25, 2014
"What do you mean, he's gone?"
No sooner does Booth ask that question than Aubrey lets loose another flurry of panicked, jumbled words, just like before. And, if he correctly understood any small percentage of what he said the first time, they probably don't have time for panic or stuttering or incompetency of any sort.
"Hey, hey," the agent says firmly, stepping away from Brennan and the older man. "Slow down. What do you mean?"
And the words come out in that same rushed style, only slightly slower and infinitely more understandable. It may not be what Booth wants to hear – but at least he gets it. Sort of.
Sweets is gone. There's a trail of blood across the first level parking lot of Sanderson Chemical. Skid marks across the center of the floor. There's a broken phone on the ground that sure looks like Sweets', an emptied gun by its side, but no evidence other than that. The security cameras, all taken out. No stray bullet fragments or shell cases to be found.
It's not much. But it's enough for Booth to grab Brennan by the elbow as soon as he hangs up, usher her away from their interviewee and throw a hasty goodbye over his shoulder as they rush to the car, with Brennan asking all the while what went wrong. It's not until they're in the car and speeding back toward that chemical plant that he tells her.
And what could she possibly say to that?
Events have been piling up in layers, blurring together like slides, and – in the midst of the chaos – the two are beyond hollow words of comfort or useless expressions of worry. They only fall on ears that have heard it all before and can no longer be fooled. Fear cannot be defeated by ideas alone.
Actions, on the other hand – like tearing through the city streets with sirens screaming viciously in their breathless rush for answers – those have potential. Those might accomplish something.
But when they finally screech to a stop in the parking lot where Aubrey is pacing, running nervous fingers through his hair with enough force to rip it all out, they're suddenly not so sure about that. Regardless, they're out of the car in seconds, switching (not so) seamlessly into the detective mode they're so accustomed to, trying to ignore the circumstance that brought them here. Whether or not they succeed is an open ended question.
Brennan is the first to speak as Booth opens the back of his SUV to rummage through his supplies. She scans her surroundings and turns to face Aubrey and his saucer eyes, speaking clearly and quickly.
"Have you touched the evidence at all?"
Dr. Temperance Brennan has always carried herself in a way that demands respect and – although this was never her intention – instills fear. And though she has never been the type of person to enjoy frightening people, she finds it works well for her when she needs something done. Special Agent James Aubrey is no exception.
As most people do when meeting her for the first time, he stutters and rambles.
"No, ma'am," he says. "No, I haven't touched it at all. I was going to try and gather evidence into bags, but I didn't have any in my car and I figured it would be best to wait until you and Agent Booth arrived so as to avoid any possible error on my part. So I haven't touched any of it, ma'am."
She only nods.
Booth emerges from the back of his truck, holding evidence bags in one hand and three pairs of rubber gloves in the other. They are distributed evenly among them, and they scan the area without another word, bagging evidence, taking blood samples, noting everything. By the time they finish, they have found nothing that gives them any idea of who took Sweets or where they could have gone. The blood sample, they agree, will be taken to the Jeffersonian to be analyzed, although they already have an eerie idea of whose it is. The reliability of assumption pales in comparison to that of science, after all.
Before they leave, just to be certain, Booth sends Aubrey to ask about the security tapes and see if they could discover what led up to what was no doubt a very violent attack. And, of course, the young agent is practically shooed out as soon as he walks through the door to the offices, in true "get-a-goddamn-warrant" fashion. There may or may not have been a crack about Doogie Howser going into law enforcement as he left, but regardless, Aubrey's perfectly willing to ignore it.
Thus the ride back to the Jeffersonian is a quiet one, with no evidence to offer the lab other than Sweets' discarded things and a heavy feeling of dread in the pits of their stomachs.
One day goes by, and the lab discovers nothing. There are no bones left behind to analyze, no flesh, no bugs. There is the blood, easily identified as Sweets', but nothing to show how he lost it. There are tire tracks, photographed and catalogued, but that alone can't identify much. Michelin tires, basic tread, defender series. That's all.
Imagine a spinning wheel held just above the ground, and you've got the Jeffersonian team. A group full of incredibly talented scientists and one star agent who can't do much more than spin and fidget and wait for something new to surface while their friend was gone without a trace.
Booth, he's waiting for the warrant he needs to send Aubrey to get the tapes from Sanderson.
The rest of them, they're waiting for those tapes. Because God knows they've looked at every small bit of evidence enough times to recite the facts by heart, and they still have not found even a tiny clue to where Sweets is or who took him. They don't even have enough evidence to say, in all truth, that Sweets is still alive – but they would certainly prefer to make this assumption than to consider the alternative.
They desperately, desperately need those tapes.
And it's a damn shame that Booth will never receive them, not even with Caroline hounding the higher-ups for the warrant every chance she gets.
Instead, all he receives is a single email, Pelant-esque in its cryptic anonymity. No sender, no subject, no timestamp – just a single sentence that burns the agent's eyes to read.
I highly recommend that you stop digging in the Bureau.
Another day goes by without rest. Then another. Days two and three vanish into the air, and they are no closer to solving this kidnapping than they were on day one.
The FBI sends their message to Booth denying his request for a warrant halfway through day four.
By day six, Booth is fully prepared to say that this case has gone to hell. That, however, is not completely accurate. Brennan levels with him, and they decide that this whole case already was hell. And all it has really done is rise.
He finds a case file on his desk on morning seven, when he stumbles into his office with his third cup of coffee in hand. It's nothing different than a normal work day as far as his desk is concerned – and that's how it will stay, if the assignment sheet on top has anything to say about it. No transferring this new case to another agent. No putting it off. There's even a handwritten note in the margin, addressed directly to him from one of his superiors.
Regardless of your concern about the disappearance of Dr. Lance Sweets, we advise you to step back from the case. We have other agents in more appropriate divisions investigating it. The safety and wellbeing of our men and women are of the utmost importance, Agent Booth; do not doubt that. They are working tirelessly to locate our missing agent. In the meantime, we expect you to continue your assigned work. Good luck.
It takes a great deal of self-control not to drop this new assignment in the shredder, and in that moment, Seeley Booth is struck with the sudden idea that he may, in fact, be in over his head. Nerves begin to dig at the lining of his stomach, and soon, he's flipping through the pages of that case file. The sooner they finish this case, after all, the sooner they can ignore the FBI's empty assurances and continue looking for Sweets themselves. They have no time for empty assurances. They have no time to waste on normal cases. They have no time to waste on anything other than finding Lance Sweets.
They can only hope that their time is not already up.