A/N: I was planning to let a couple more days pass before posting, but this is ready now, and I didn't want to wait!
Thank you to medical expert Skole and mon amie la mome, who read and offered comments.
To kick off Brennan's POV, the song excerpted here is "Splendid Isolation." Pete Yorn sings one version; Warren Zevon sings another.
Part 2
I want to live alone in the desert
I want to be like Georgia O'Keefe
I want to live on the Upper East Side
And never go down in the street
.
Splendid isolation
I don't need no one
.
Don't want to wake up with no one beside me
Don't want to take up with nobody new
Don't want nobody coming by without calling first
Don't want nothing to do with you
.
I'm putting tinfoil up on the windows
Lying down in the dark to dream
I don't want to see their faces
I don't want to hear them scream
.
Splendid isolation
I don't need no one
-.-.-.-.-.
Brennan called Booth as she rushed out of the lab. She listened to the phone ring and ring, while her footsteps echoed across the parking garage.
He was with Hannah. Earlier in the day, he'd said something about dinner reservations, which was probably code for sex.
Brennan hung up without leaving a message. If he wasn't answering the phone, she could swing by to get him, and they could call for backup on their way to the scene. But, as she started her car and pulled out of the garage, she realized she didn't know what restaurant they had gone to. Were they still there, or had they gone to his apartment? She couldn't waste time searching for him.
Brennan squinted in the glaring headlights of oncoming cars. Her foot itched to hit the accelerator, but weekend traffic was slowing her down.
It had been a long day in the lab, leaning over the remains of a young woman's body. Brennan could still taste the heavy smells of death and decay in the back of her throat. But those were replaced by a tingle of adrenaline, after the whirlwind last hour.
.
"I have time of death!" Hodgins hurried over from his station. "With the insect activity on this second body, I was able to narrow it down virtually to the hour. It was that Saturday after she went missing. Probably in the evening, because—"
"The pattern is almost exactly the same!" Daisy cried.
Rather than subduing her, Cam nodded. "We couldn't say it was a pattern until we had a second victim to compare it do. But the timing is awfully similar to be a coincidence."
"The first victim—" Brennan had to make sure their conclusions were correct. "She disappeared on a Wednesday. This girl went missing on a Tuesday. And based on the insect activity, they were both killed the following Saturday?"
"It was two different seasons," Hodgins said, "and months apart, but based on the insects—yeah."
Angela grabbed his arm. "Oh my God. It is a pattern. Because the third girl, who went missing this week, Ingrid Keller—she disappeared on Wednesday. And today's Friday."
"Then she's still alive!"
Brennan shot Daisy a cautionary glance. "We can't say that with certainty. But I'll agree, the odds are…"
"She won't be alive for long," Cam said, "if we don't do something."
.
When Brennan saw the sign for the highway, she grabbed her cell and dialed the FBI's emergency number.
"This is Dr. Brennan with the Jeffersonian. My team has discovered there is a high probability that Ingrid Keller is being held in an abandoned barn off the interstate." She gave directions, then told them there was a lesser chance the girl was being held at two other locations. "But I'm on my way to the first. Send backup."
As soon as she gained the highway, she accelerated like a race car driver. Her world narrowed to that stretch of road before her. It was darker outside the city, the blackness dotted by reflective signs, and streaked with red and white vehicle lights.
Brennan glanced at the directions Hodgins had given her, cursing herself for not getting her car's GPS fixed before now.
On the seat next to her, a gun poked out of her bag. She was very glad she had kept it, with extra ammunition, hidden in a drawer of her desk.
Maybe I should start packing heat again, she'd teased Booth, and he'd echoed her.
Packing heat?
Yes, I'm being colloquial. Joshing around. She'd been so pleased with herself. And he'd humored her, like he always did. But now, that conversation seemed very long ago.
You don't need a gun, okay? I'm your gun.
These past few months, since returning from Indonesia… Brennan didn't know how to characterize them.
Work at the lab. Try to write a novel. Smile and pretend everything is fine. Go home alone, then do it all again the next day.
Some days, however, she didn't feel. And numbness might have been preferable. She could focus on her bones, the way she used to. Until Angela said something like, 'How's that working out, honey?' Or until Booth said, 'Hannah's moving in.' And then the pretending became more difficult.
Stop, Brennan told herself. A girl's life is at stake. There's no room for anything else.
She glanced at her weapon once more, before fixing her gaze on the road.
My gun is too big for me.
I could've told you that a hundred times. Here, take mine. Guard Megan.
That night three years ago, she and Booth had saved a kidnapped girl. They'd brought Megan Shaw back to her family.
Watching road signs, Brennan saw that she still had several miles before it was time to turn off the highway.
Are you sure about this? Booth had asked.
Not at all.
Because he and Angela might call it guessing, when the team had made intuitive leaps to narrow down the kidnapper's lair. They'd done that again today, in the hopes of finding Ingrid Keller.
.
Once they identified the killer's pattern, they all redoubled their efforts.
Hodgins went right back to his particulates, comparing them to those found with the first victim.
Brennan, Daisy and Cam kept analyzing different components of the body, while Angela went over some of the investigative leads that Booth and his colleagues had explored.
It wasn't long before Hodgins shot out of his chair. "Pigeon poop and mold! That's what stumped me about the first body. The samples were too small to verify, but this time we have a lot more particulates that are better preserved."
The team assembled around his station, where he was punching computer keys to bring up several maps.
"Most of these substances could have come from any number of places. But this precise combination—"
"Hodgins," Cam cut in. "Are you saying you can tell where he took his victims?"
He nodded. "I think I can get a ballpark. Maybe better."
"Then do it."
Hodgins started working his maps and databases, highlighting segments of the countryside. "These locations represent loci where the necessary concentrations of particulates can be found. The grass pollen and spider webs, also on the first victim, are too common to be much help. But now we have these identifiable, and unique, traces of pigeon poop and mold."
The mold, he explained, was a strain that could develop on straw, for instance if farmers didn't procure fresh bedding for their animals. "The high concentration of this sample suggests a neglected environment," Hodgins said, "like an old barn that's no longer in use. And those locations…"
Here Angela stepped in, with her knowledge of databases. Together they called up another map, where scattered squares represented buildings.
"That's still a lot," Hodgins said, "but if we factor in this sub-species of pigeon…" He pointed to an additional map, and Brennan leaned over his shoulder. According to a study tracking bird populations, groups of these pigeons had recently taken up residence in several rural areas outside D.C.
"That's it," Cam encouraged. "We're getting there."
They were still left with half a dozen places, but pushed on with their analysis. Angela cross-checked some of the barn locations with satellite maps and construction records, taking a few off the list due to recent renovations. Daisy jumped in almost as Zack would have done, eliminating a few more that were too far away, or otherwise inaccessible based on traffic patterns and the kidnapper's likely starting point.
They got it down to three, and that was good enough. Based on her team's assumptions and her own calculation, Brennan could choose the most likely site. She ran to her office to gather her things.
.
Now she found the highway exit and turned onto a quieter road. It would still be several miles before the next turnoff, a dirt road leading to the abandoned barn.
But it was here that her memory became unreliable. When she would look back on that night, the exact order of events blurred together.
It seemed that she drove in a sort of suspended animation, not knowing what to think or expect. Had they guessed right? Would the girl really be there? And what about the kidnapper?
Brennan's analytical brain was not postulating scenarios or creating contingency plans. But then, she'd always had Booth, before, to distract and reassure her. Now she had only herself. And no Wonder Woman costume making her bold.
Can I please shoot this one?
Okay, how did you even have a place to carry that?
Brennan almost missed the unmarked road, but braked hard, and guided her car onto the dirt track she was looking for. Her headlights swept across gravel and glared on the bare branches of trees. The surface was rutted with potholes, and she was forced to crawl along, feeling every passing minute: one more minute that a teenage girl might be enduring torture.
If this was the right location.
She had traveled perhaps half the distance toward the barn, when she saw lights ahead. Red ones, far in the distance, then a beam of headlights, as a car made a slight turn. Some instinct made her shut off her own lights. Because it couldn't be the FBI's backup team; they were some ten minutes behind her.
Slowly, in the dark, she approached the end of the road.
The old barn was visible now. Slats of light came through the windows, and a truck was parked outside.
Brennan felt a cold wave of adrenaline. One of the suspects, Warren Dawes, drove a car like that. Booth had said he had a bad feeling about the guy. But there hadn't been enough evidence to hold him, or to single him out more than any other suspect.
If he was here, he'd just arrived.
Brennan stopped her car before she got too close. Pulling off to one side, she kept her eyes glued to the building for some clue about what was happening.
Was Dawes keeping the girl somewhere in the barn, and now meant to torture and kill her? It was a day ahead of his previous routine with victims. But patterns could easily be broken.
Brennan had no backup. No bulletproof vest, and no plan. But she could not afford to wait.
She got out of the car, taking only her phone set to mute, and her weapon.
The night was cold, but her face felt hot, and the gun barrel molded to her hand. She crept along the side of the road, until she could walk in the shadow of the building. The windows were boarded up, but not completely. This one on the side—she could look in the gaps between the wood.
Heart pounding, Brennan put her hands on the rough, weathered wall. The window was high, but she could just see inside if she stretched up on her toes.
A floor littered with old straw. Support beams going to the ceiling. Bare light bulbs glowing at intervals along the rafters.
And a man's back. Dawes, standing in front of one post.
Oh, no.
A girl was tied to the post, hands pulled over her head and secured to what looked like a hook.
Brennan could only see snatches, from her awkward vantage point. But the girl had pale blond hair, tangled and falling in her eyes. It was Ingrid Keller. Fifteen years old. Missing for three days.
Brennan couldn't hear anything, through the thick window glass. Ingrid seemed uninjured, but she was crying, and clearly terrified.
Had Dawes kept her in some other part of the building? Somewhere out of the way, like a shed or hay loft? And now he'd brought her out, in order to…
At the man's right was a table. Brennan had to crane her neck, standing taller to peer through the boards. The table held a variety of weapons. Knives, screwdrivers… She didn't need to see them close up to know what kind of marks they could leave on bone. Let alone muscle and flesh.
Brennan gripped her gun, and headed for the barn door.
She could not say if she'd intended to wait for backup. Perhaps she'd thought the kidnapper would be absent. She could find where the girl was being held, and free her right away.
With the man there… waiting for backup was the logical thing. But logic couldn't stand against this. A child tied to a post. A killer about to pick his weapon.
There was no choice. No thinking.
Brennan moved around the corner of the building, past the truck, to the barn doors. She took half a second to appreciate the location of that entrance. From the window, she could tell Dawes stood near the barn's right corner. If she came through the door on the left wall, she would have a profile view of both him and the girl. And hopefully, a clear shot.
Brennan found the doors unlocked. She lifted the latch, took a breath, and shoved inside.
She should have used the element of surprise.
The door swung open with a loud creak, but she could still have caught Dawes off guard. With Ingrid in imminent danger, she should have fired first and asked questions later.
Dawes hovered too close to the girl. Brennan was a good shot, but she could have hit the victim instead of her target.
He turned as she barged in. She aimed her gun straight at him, advancing a few steps. "Back away from her! Hands in the air."
It was not a time to worry about following the rules. And yet she did, playing the cop and giving orders as Booth would have done.
Dawes had a knife in one hand. He held out his arms, without haste. His face revealed no worry, only mild surprise.
"Put down the knife," she told him. "Slowly."
He didn't raise his hands as she had said. He stood in front of his table of weapons, palms facing forward like an anatomy drawing.
Now his gaze flicked to the windows, surely looking for police or other weapons trained on him. Brennan wished she could lie convincingly. Should she bluff, and tell him he was surrounded? That he'd be dead, if he didn't do exactly as she said?
But she could hear Ingrid breathing. It sounded like suppressed sobs of fear, around the gag shoved in her mouth. Brennan saw it out of the corner of her eye: a roll of fabric, tied behind the girl's head. With that in her mouth, and with congestion from crying, it would be hard to get enough oxygen. She could be in danger of choking, of suffocating.
What happened next… Brennan couldn't be sure of the details.
She must have ordered Dawes to drop his weapon, with as much clout as she could put into the words. "Drop the knife and get on the ground. Now!"
I have no handcuffs, she thought. What will I do, even if he obeys?
He did move his knife hand, slowly. Keeping his eyes on Brennan, he reached behind him, to rest it on the table.
No, she was about to tell him. On the ground.
But it was then that Ingrid made a distressing sound; like she was choking on cloth or saliva, and for one second, Brennan looked at her.
For one second, she took her eyes off Dawes. His arm moved swiftly—to reach for a weapon from the table? Or something hidden at the small of his back?
Brennan recognized the action as he raised an object toward her.
It's a gun. Her brain told her to fire before her hand could aim. She squeezed the trigger—the shot cracked through the air—but Dawes didn't stop.
She had missed, and Dawes brought his gun up and fired, the sound exploding in the high-ceilinged room. Something hit her in the ribs, sharp and powerful like a bolt from a crossbow. It made her stagger backward, but she didn't drop her weapon, and never took her eyes off the criminal. In the space of two heartbeats she had straightened, re-aimed, and fired.
As if in slow motion, Dawes reeled backward, a crimson hole appearing on his forehead. He stumbled into the table, the gun falling from his hand. Then he dropped to his knees, and slumped forward onto his face.
For a moment, everything was silent. Brennan's ears rang from the blast of the third shot. She could hear the girl's hiccuping sobs, and her own shallow panting. It felt like a horse had kicked her, knocking the air from her lungs. There, at the base of her ribs. She could feel the hot slickness of blood, but couldn't spare attention for it right now.
Brennan walked carefully forward, her weapon trained on the body.
She had to check Dawes, although she knew he was dead. Inching forward, she stood near his head. His face was turned away from the girl, his eyes open and staring. The hole in his head still pulsed blood onto the wood floor.
Brennan slid the safety on her gun and tucked it into her coat.
No more time to waste on him.
She hurried over to Ingrid. The girl's face up close: her eyes wide with panic, nose running, cheeks wet with tears.
Brennan gasped some reassuring words, trying to slip the gag from Ingrid's mouth. The girl winced, as Brennan dragged it free. And she knew just what that felt like. The saliva collecting at the back of your throat, while your tongue is so dry you can't swallow. The filthy taste of the cloth, like sweat and dust and blood. The way it tugged and stung the edges of your mouth.
Ingrid was crying harder, now, but at least she could breathe. Brennan reached to free her hands from the post, though the hook seemed impossibly far away. Stretching upward—it made her abdomen clench in shock. But she grabbed the girl's wrists and gave a hard upward jerk.
Ingrid fell onto Brennan's shoulder, and she half carried the girl a few steps—away from the post, away from Dawes' body—before they both folded to the ground.
-.-.-.-.-.
A/N: Next chapter, we're back in the hospital waiting room. And it's Angela, not Max, who wants to kill Booth.