A/N: I wanted to post this last weekend, and life had other ideas. (*Grumble*) Many thanks to some1tookmyname for the beta, and to Natesmama for being the world's best legal resource.
Booth stared at Parker's face on the monitor. "You listen to what your grandparents say, okay, bub?"
His son's eye roll was clearly visible in the Skype window. "I always do, Dad. They're cool."
"I know you do. But it's really important right now."
"So the creep can't get me. Yeah, I know." His expression turned troubled. "Do you think they're okay, Dad? What if he's already hurt them?"
It was Booth's worst nightmare, that his partner and daughter weren't out there somewhere with Max, safe, But he couldn't tell his son that. Still, what should he say? What could he say, knowing that Pelant was probably listening? He'd become nearly as paranoid as Hodgins used to be, at least where technology was concerned. Shrugging that off, he settled on what he himself was clinging to. "No, he's not found them. He'd have to let us know if he had, or there wouldn't be any fun in it for him."
Parker nodded, his face still far too serious. "You'll be careful, too, right, Dad?"
Booth acted affronted. "Hey, it's me! Your old man. I know how to take care of myself."
Another eye roll. "I know, it's just...you're all alone there."
The wave of loneliness that washed over him at the words made it difficult for Booth to speak for a moment. Then he saw Sweets walking through the bullpen toward his office. "Nah, I'm not alone. I've got Dr. Sweets, and the squints."
"Well, okay." Someone Booth couldn't see said something, and Parker nodded. "Gotta go, Dad. We're going swimming."
"Be careful, and call if you need anything. Mind your grandparents!'
"Will do. Love you. Bye!"
With that, the screen went black. Even knowing that Sweets was watching him, Booth reached out, touched the monitor. "Love you, too," he murmured.
"Sounds like he's having a good time with Rebecca's parents," Sweets said.
"Yeah, they're good people. He's always liked spending time with them."
"Any hint of trouble?"
"That would mean Pelant's targeting him? No. Mike's not seen anything, and his radar's pretty good."
"Rebecca's dad was a homicide detective, right?"
"Forty years on the job," Booth said. "He's only been retired a few years. I think he likes feeling useful, if you want the truth. But if you're right about Pelant, having Parker out of DC, with people who both love him and are smart enough to watch out for him is a good thing. I'm glad Rebecca suggested it. I didn't know what to say when she asked if Pelant might target Parker."
Sweets looked thoughtful. "She believes Dr. Brennan is innocent."
"Yeah." They might butt heads occasionally, but his ex wasn't stupid. "She knows Bones well enough to know it's all bullshit." He looked back at the blank monitor. "He's safe in Florida, right?" Sweets had reassured him a number of times on the subject, but he needed to hear it again. "Pelant will leave him alone?"
"If he gets bored, or frustrated enough by not being able to pursue his plans with Dr. Brennan, he might hassle them in some way, let you know he knows where Parker is, or could find him if he wants. But all the murders have been committed in DC, by Pelant directly. Nothing in the profile suggests he'll leave DC. He needs his equipment, needs his routine."
"You'd better be right." He yanked his mind away from Parker. "What have you got?"
"They found the log book at the psych facility. The chief psychiatrist mentioned it while we were discussing the other patients."
"And yet Dr. Noble didn't see fit to tell us. Or did she call Flynn?"
"It was only found this morning, shoved into a drawer at the security station."
"Let's go see what she has to say."
An hour later, he was staring down the psych facility director in her office. It was hard not to remember the last time he'd been here, when Brennan had been with him, but he was learning not to let his mind go in that particular direction. "Dr. Noble, we understand the log book from the security station has been located. I'd like to look at it." He kept his tone even when he addressed the facility director.
"It was discovered this morning. As I've told you before, Agent Booth, the log's whereabouts have not been a high priority for me. Dealing with the fallout from one of our patients being brutally murdered by your..." her voice faded in response to whatever she saw in his eyes, and she cleared her throat. "Being brutally murdered has been challenging. The video recording supercedes the log book, and when we couldn't find it after the night that Mr. Sawyer disappeared, locating it wasn't important."
"Where was it?" Already knowing the answer, he asked the question anyway. He didn't like the woman and didn't see any reason to make anything easy for her.
"Mixed in with some papers that had been filed in a drawer in the security station." She turned, handed him the log book from her desk.
Booth immediately thumbed through to the night Ethan had been released into the regular ward, and skimmed the entries. There were several after the time stamp on the video had shown Brennan entering the facility. But her signature wasn't there. He flipped back two weeks, to the night she'd said she'd been there, and felt a fierce satisfaction when he saw her name.
He handed the log to Sweets before turning back to Dr. Noble. Her lips were pressed together and before he could say anything, she said, "The video feed is the backbone of our security. The log is supplemental."
"Obviously, since your guards don't care whether anyone signs in or not, and can't actually keep track of the book."
"Agent Booth," she snapped. "We have been more than cooperative with the FBI on this matter. The individual who committed this act would be under arrest if she hadn't run. I am under no obligation to continue to be insulted by you as you try to clear your partner." She stood. "This interview is finished, and there will be no more such visits. And Dr. Sweets will cease demanding access to our patients."
Booth stood as well, and barely heard Sweets quietly say his name. He gave the woman a feral smile. "You're confused about how the justice system works. That log book - the one which doesn't match your video feed - is now evidence. The discrepancies between it and the video footage will have to be explained." He turned to Sweets. "What do you think, Sweets? Crappy security, guards who don't pay any attention...anyone could come and go."
Sweets didn't miss a beat. "If the only record is the video feed, there's still no record of exactly who is entering the facility, only a picture of them doing it."
"Could be anyone. Looks like this lack of cooperation is an attempt to cover their own incompetence. Just the kind of story the news likes." Booth turned back to the fuming director.
"You're harassing me."
"You can't have it both ways, Doc. Either Dr. Brennan was here that night, and your security guards screwed the pooch by not having her sign in, or she wasn't here, and they didn't do anything wrong."
Her mouth opened and closed, but she didn't say anything, and Booth pushed on. "My partner didn't murder Sawyer. She doesn't have the skills to have compromised your system in that way. But the man who did that, and killed Sawyer, is still loose."
Dr. Noble blew out a breath of frustration. "Fine. You may have the log, and Dr. Sweets may continue to interview such patients as our chief psychiatrist judges stable enough for such an experience."
In the SUV an hour later, Sweets cautiously looked at Booth. "That log book won't..."
"Clear Bones? No. Not when that video feed is out there. But we may not find a smoking gun here. There may not be one thing that will conclusively prove she didn't do it. It may be more a lot of little things that don't add up. We'll keep looking for the big finish, but for now, anything that chips away at what Pelant's set up is a win."
"What did the security guard say when you interviewed him?"
"He remembers the log being at the desk when the system went down, but not when it disappeared. They couldn't find it at the start of the next shift and started a new one without thinking much about it until we started asking to see it. He doesn't have an explanation for why it doesn't match the video. The guard that was on the desk that night doesn't remember Bones coming in, but that doesn't help us much."
"You think Pelant hid the log book?"
"Nah. If he'd thought to take it, it would still be gone. He either didn't know they had a manual log, or figured it wouldn't matter for exactly the reason it doesn't. A jury will always believe a video recording over a log book, particularly when the security guards are so lax: 'he can't remember where he laid it,' 'he doesn't think Dr. Brennan came in.' They're useless. But the log is a piece that doesn't fit Pelant's puzzle. Find enough of them and we can build a different picture." He glanced at Sweets. "What about you?"
"Dr. Adamason says there are three patients who were on Ethan's ward who are stable enough for me to talk to. The other two, he's going to let me observe but they're so far in their own reality he thinks it's unlikely they'll tell us anything."
"Puzzle pieces, Sweets. Puzzle pieces."
They fell silent, but after a few moments, Booth caught the sideways looks Sweets was giving him. He began mentally to count, and was surprised that he made it to fifty before Sweets opened his mouth to speak. Well, he had been counting fast.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm fine." It was an automatic question to what he thought was probably an automatic question on Sweets' part, at least based on how often he asked it. But what was he supposed to say? He was getting up every morning, he was doing the job. What more did anyone want?
"No, you're not."
Rage unexpectedly curled inside him, and he gripped the steering wheel a little harder. He knew Sweets. Knew he didn't mean to sound as asinine as he did. And still the urge to let fly was there, just under the surface.
Maybe he wasn't doing as well as he'd thought.
"I mean, your family is-"
"Sweets. Stop." They were passing a grocery store, and he thought of going in and buying a bag of frozen peas. It had worked once before. "Change the topic."
Something in his tone, or perhaps it was the bone white of his knuckles, worked in place of the peas, and Sweets fell silent. For nearly a minute, by Booth's count.
"Have you talked to Dr. Saroyan?"
He was going to stock frozen vegetables in the SUV.
"We talked yesterday, Sweets."
"No, I mean really talked."
"I opened my mouth, words came out. She opened hers, words came out. That's the way it works."
Grateful that they were pulling into the Hoover garage, he parked and looked over at the younger man. "Everything's fine, Sweets, except that Pelant's still out there, free, and Bones is a fugitive. So let's go see if we can work on fixing that annoying little problem."
Sweets' frown clearly showed he wasn't buying any of it, but he nodded and opened his door.
He was right not to believe the part about Cam, Booth thought as they started toward the elevator. The two of them had spoken exactly twice in the three weeks since Brennan had left. Brief, perfunctory calls that didn't begin to touch on, well, anything.
But he'd be damned if he'd tell Sweets that.
With a casual glance around, Brennan seated herself in front of one of the public library computers. They were living in Indianapolis, at least for the time being. The problem with small towns and rural areas, according to Max, was that people were more likely to pay attention to their neighbors. And the problem with big cities was that residents were more used to seeing celebrities in them, so if they saw someone who reminded them of Temperance Brennan, it would seem more possible that it could be her. But in a small city in the midwest, people wouldn't expect to see her, and so wouldn't.
The logic of it escaped her, but he'd had a place here, a small house in an unremarkable neighborhood not far from a city university. That, too, Max said was important. University areas saw a lot of turnover, another reason people wouldn't notice them. Brennan had argued that point a bit, pointing out that such an area wouldn't notice students. A woman, an infant, and an elderly man weren't exactly typical for a university area.
But the benefits outweighed the risks, and there would be risks everywhere they went.
She mostly stayed home with Christine, while he went out to get groceries and supplies - from a different store each time, which he said was another benefit to a more populated area. But a few times each week, Brennan ventured out to a local library. There were several branches within a thirty minute drive of their house, and while she couldn't risk applying for an actual card, which required more address verification, access to computers only required a piece of ID.
Thanks to Max, she had plenty of that.
Today, she was 'Anne Summers.' She'd only been to this branch once before, but that had been a morning visit, and now, late in the afternoon, she saw no one she recognized from the first visit.
Avoid being seen too often in the same place, avoid doing anything remarkable or memorable. Don't stay too long.
She was careful with her activity on the computer as well. Anne was from Missouri, she'd decided, and was a fan of the St. Louis Cardinals. So she'd usually begin a session with a search of the sports news sites, clicking on anything having to do with the team, before moving on. Reading about sports teams that she had no interest in was tedious, but if something in one of her other searches somehow caught Pelant's attention, he'd hopefully be more likely to assume it was a coincidence if nothing else from that computer session looked like something Temperance Brennan would search for.
She now knew a distressing amount about the Kardashians, as well. And Lindsay Lohan.
When she'd finished skimming the celebrity sites, she'd turn to news, first local coverage, then national, including DC. She never did a direct search, but would skim anything having to do with her case.
After all, someone interested in the Kardashians would probably want the latest information on Temperance Brennan, fugitive author.
There was very little news, though apparently someone had insisted to the police that they'd seen her in Houston at one point. Maybe Max was right about the big cities.
Eventually, she'd turn to a parenting site Angela frequented. Brennan had thought long and hard about a user name for the forum, and finally settled on 'SmartMamaNora.' Shortly after Christine had been born, Angela had come over one day with The Thin Man films and forced Brennan to watch them, insisting that there were similarities between the fictional couple and Booth and Brennan.
As usual, Angela was being highly imaginative, as Brennan saw no similarities between them at all. But she had enjoyed the films, and that was something she and Angela had shared that Pelant might not know.
So several times a week, she logged into the site and went to the the chat area. Angela, who went by the moniker, 'SexyArtist' was still active on the site, but had not yet been in the chat room when Brennan was.
She wasn't there today, either, but two others were, so Brennan participated in the conversation in a casual way while reading some of the discussion threads. It was important to appear as if nothing was out of the ordinary - she was simply a mother engaging in discourse with other parents. Remembering to use colloquialisms and simpler words was the most difficult part.
Discovering a thread discussing the effects on infants when a military parent was on deployment for long periods, she nearly missed the flashing symbol indicating someone new had joined the chat.
SexyArtist. Angela.
Brennan froze, suddenly unsure. She wanted desperately to identify herself and say hello, and knew she didn't dare. But even sticking to her plan to see if she could make contact without explicitly identifying herself suddenly seemed dangerous. Would Angela figure out who she was? Would they actually be able to communicate? Was there any chance that Pelant was monitoring this parenting board? Would he see something to make him suspicious?
She had to try. She had to have some way of knowing how Booth was doing. So she added her greeting to the that of the other two.
SmartMamaNora: Hello.
For a moment, there was no response.
SexyArtist: You're new here, aren't you?
SmartMamaNora: Yes. It's a very informative community.
One of the other participants inserted a picture of a smiling face into the chat window, and Brennan frowned, uncertain whether she was being made fun of. She couldn't afford for her lack of social skills to give her away.
Clearly, she had to be more cautious. She spent the next few minutes simply observing the conversation, which moved from a discussion about preparing a child for kindergarten to infants who didn't travel well. Apparently the other two people in the chat had several children each, of different ages.
Before she could decide whether or not to comment, the other two announced they had to leave to attend to other matters and suddenly Angela was the only one left in the chat with her. Afraid her friend would leave, she typed another message.
SmartMamaNora: My daughter doesn't do long distance car trips well.
A long moment passed.
SexyArtist: How old is she? How long of a trip?
SmartMamaNora: She's fourteen weeks old.
Another long silence. Was Angela thinking about how to respond, still trying to decide if it was Brennan, or simply doing something else? Maybe it hadn't even occurred to her that it could be Brennan she was chatting with. Maybe this was a foolish, risky idea.
SexyArtist: That's a challenging age. My little boy is nearly eleven months old. The car usually puts him to sleep, but we've never taken him on a long trip. Maybe the next long trip, someone could sit in the back with your daughter?
SmartMamaNora: Maybe.
SexyArtist: So what other threads were you checking out here? It's a good community.
SmartMamaNora: I was reading the section about parents who are deployed with the military, the effects of separation.
A long beat.
SexyArtist: Is your husband overseas?
Brennan frowned again. What if Angela wasn't getting it at all? What could she possibly say that would confirm it, but not seem odd to Pelant if he was monitoring Angela's actions?
SmartMamaNora: Her father's an army Ranger. [Well, that was true. Booth still referred to himself as a Ranger.] We've got some recordings of him reading children's books that I play for her every night. She responds to his voice, but I still worry.
SexyArtist: Ah... She likes those recordings, does she?
There was something about the way Angela worded it that Brennan suddenly knew, with absolute, inexplicable certainty, that Angela knew who she was.
SmartMamaNora: She does. It often soothes her - and me, as well, actually. I miss her father.
SexyArtist: I'll bet you do.
Another pause.
SexyArtist: We've got a good friend who's separated from his wife and kid. It's hard on him. He misses them.
Puzzled, Brennan stared at the screen. Ah! Angela was talking about them, but was using 'wife' to confuse Pelant. Then the words themselves registered, and she froze. 'Separated' was a term used to describe couples who were no longer together, no longer committed to one another, often coming before divorce. Pressure on her chest made it hard to breathe. This wasn't that. He knew that. He'd said so in that note he gave to her father.
But it was hard to argue with the literal meaning of the term, and she sat there, unsure what to say next. It sounded so ...lonely.
The long pause must have clued her friend in, because another comment appeared.
SexyArtist: He's counting on them getting back together at some point. But it's still hard.
What about Parker? Was Booth seeing him? She wanted to ask, but didn't know how.
SmartMamaNora: Does he have any other family?
SexyArtist: His other son is out of town with family for the summer. But my husband's with him tonight. They hang sometimes, with another friend.
The pressure eased, and her fingers trembled only a little as she replied.
SmartMamaNora: It's good that he has friends. It's hard to be alone.
A tear landed on the back of Brennan's hand, and it was only then she realized she was weeping. Swallowing, and reaching into her bag for a tissue, she hurriedly wiped her face.
SmartMamaNora: I need to go. It was nice chatting with you.
SexyArtist: You, too. How often are you around the board?
SmartMamaNora: A few times a week. I'm too busy to be on more often than that.
SexyArtist: I get that. We've got a big project going on at work that's keeping me working all hours. But hey, this was fun. So if you know you're going to be around, send me a message through the forum messaging system and I'll see if I can check in at the same time.
SmartMamaNora: I don't always know when I'll have time to be here, but I'll do that.
SexyArtist: Sounds like a plan. Take care of yourself.
SmartMamaNora: You do the same.
Even knowing it wasn't wise - the briefer they kept these exchanges, the better - Brennan struggled with wanting to say something else. But before she could figure out what, Angela signed out of chat, leaving her alone. She quietly clicked the windows closed and logged off, then sat and stared at the blank screen for a long time.
Booth watched the pattern of shadows on the ceiling over him. Although no light leaked in from outside - not that there was light yet, anyway - the power strip for the electronics in the man cave cast a weird glow.
He'd spent too many nights studying those patterns, waiting for the night to be far enough gone that he could call it over and get up. He knew that if he looked, his watch would say it was about 4:45AM. The internal clock that had been so honed during his Army Ranger years was back and sharp as ever.
Not a particularly useful skill, but he might as well know how much time he wasn't spending sleeping. Giving up, he got up, dressed in shorts and running shoes, and went out for an early morning run. He'd always liked to run, liked the sense of power and freedom it gave him. But since Brennan had left, there was an edge of desperation to his runs, a desire to move just a little faster. Fast enough to escape ...everything.
To push himself hard enough that there wasn't room in his head for anything more than the next step, the next breath. To be free, for a little while, of thoughts that always circled back to what they could have done differently. To what they should have done differently.
To whether Brennan and Christine were still okay.
To whether they'd ever be able to come home.
By the time he finally circled back to the house - he no longer thought of it as home - he was physically exhausted, but the demons had been silenced. His mind was clear enough for another day of searching for the evidence they needed.
He loped up the steps, and went still at the sight of the piece of paper taped on the door. Had it been there when he left? Maybe. He couldn't remember. A glance around the quiet neighborhood showed nothing out of the ordinary. No cars, no slight movement of shadows suggesting someone was watching. He peeled it off, saw his name printed on a standard printer label: Seeley Booth.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, the words printed in the same font: They're fine. They miss you. She plays the recordings of the books you gave her every day, says your voice soothes both of them.
That was it. He turned the page over, desperate for more, and then, torn between relief and fury that someone, somewhere, was in contact with his family and it wasn't him, crumpled the note in his hand.
Entering the house, he paused at the kitchen island and smoothed it back out. It wasn't enough, but it was something. It was more than he'd had before.
"Your voice soothes both of them."
Despite his early rising, Angela and Hodgins were at the diner when we arrived for their breakfast meeting. Shortly after Brennan's departure, he'd realized that a day seldom went by when he wasn't having a meal of some kind with one or more of the squints. He should probably be touched by it, but since it only emphasized everything currently wrong in his life, it mostly irritated him.
But a guy still had to eat.
He settled across from them, then pulled out the note. "This was taped to my door this morning."
Hodgins reached for it, but Angela took a casual sip of coffee, and Booth stared at her with narrowed eyes. Her gaze back was innocent.
And he knew. Angela was never innocent. Even when she was. He opened his mouth to confront her, and saw in her expression that she knew he knew.
And they couldn't talk about it. As long as he didn't know for certain, he wasn't doing anything wrong by not telling the bureau that a lab employee was in communication with a fugitive.
Hodgins cleared this throat. "It was on your door? Do you think it's legit?"
Booth glanced at Angela, who took another drink of coffee, and tried harder to look innocent.
"Yeah, I think it's legit." And there was no point in discussing it further. He reached for the coffee the waitress had poured for him. "You got anything new?"
"I went to see Zack."
Booth gave him a sharp look. "I thought you said he wouldn't be able to help."
"I said I thought the math would be beyond even him," Hodgins corrected. "But I thought he should know, if for no other reason than to warn him."
Annoyed that he hadn't thought of that risk, Booth nodded. "Good thinking."
Hodgins shrugged. "No point in taking chances, not when Pelant killed Ethan. But while I was there, I showed him the math notes and asked for his opinion on it. He wants to study it, of course, but more to the point, he gave me the name of a guy at GWU who he thinks might be able to help. The only problem is how to approach the guy without getting him killed, but I've got an idea on that, too."
"And?"
"I'm going to go visit an old friend of mine who's in the chemistry department there, and get lost in the math building while doing so."
Was all the subterfuge really necessary? It seemed ridiculous, somehow. But even if he did suspect Hodgins might be enjoying that aspect of things, they were right to be careful. Pelant clearly had no limits on who he'd go after.
He looked over at Angela. "Anything on your front?" Besides that you're in contact, somehow, with Brennan?
"Progress, but it's slow. We got an anti-virus setup for the library to identify any malicious code - by which we mean anything that shouldn't be there - on an RFID tag. Part of what the program does is identify materials that have a compromised tag. And there we hit a glitch."
"What kind of glitch?"
"There are twenty-two books in the system that have code on them that were never checked out to Pelant."
"He'll use that to create doubt should it ever go to trial," Hodgins said.
Angela shrugged. "Only if we never break the code."
"You're thinking some of the programs have to do with wiping out his history on the other books?" Booth asked.
She beamed at him. "Exactly. And I'm going to break the code. Or someone is."
"What do you mean?"
"I uploaded a fragment of it to a programming forum. Remember when I said the coding language wasn't intended to be used for real programs? That it was more a theoretical, esoteric exercise?
"Yeah?"
"Uploading to that site...geek feeding frenzy," Hodgins smirked.
"Exactly. It's driving them crazy that someone actually used it. Some of the most brilliant coders in the world are trying to figure it out. I'm not sure, but I think the guy who invented the language is even giving it a crack."
"Setting them loose on it is what's brilliant, babe." Hodgins grinned at his wife and she gave him a smug look back.
"It is," Booth said slowly. "But both of you be careful. He killed Krane because he was going to talk; he killed Ethan. Maybe that was primarily to frame Brennan, but we don't know what Pelant will do if he feels really threatened. I'm guessing having the world's most genius programmers breaking his code would qualify, though." He looked at Hodgins. "So will consulting with the math geek. He might go after them - or he might just go after you."
There were different kinds of paranoia, Brennan had realized. There was Hodgins' kind, where behind every news story lurked a conspiracy, and there was her father's kind, where you collected safe houses in different locations, 'just in case.' When she'd asked him how many he had, he'd only smiled and said, 'not that many.' He didn't seem to understand that even one was bizarre.
She didn't know how he'd come by it, whose name it was in, how long he'd had it, or who'd been taking care of it prior to their arrival. She didn't really want to know.
But there were worst places they could be.
Like the rest of the house, the back yard was small. But it had a privacy fence and trees, which allowed her to sit out on the equally minuscule patio with Christine and pretend that things were normal.
From the moment she'd realized she was on her own at age fifteen, that neither her parents nor Russ were coming back, she'd made a point of not indulging in pretending things were other than they were. Wanting what wasn't didn't serve a purpose.
But now, with Christine curled up on Brennan's chest, her fist shoved in her mouth, Brennan couldn't seem to help closing her eyes and imagining, just for a moment, that Booth was somewhere nearby, that he'd come out and tease her about her lack of progress on the book she was reading before leaning over to kiss both her and their daughter.
The problem with indulging in the fantasy on even a short term basis was that it made the routine of the days without him that much harder. Careful of the baby, she shifted, reached for the math theory book on the table next to her. The city university bookstore had had a number of texts on advanced mathematics, as well as books on infant development. She'd told her father what to look for, and he'd made two different trips at different times of the day to see what he could find - because a man buying books on pure math and child development at the same time might be too memorable.
The mp3 player was on the table too, and the temptation to listen to Booth reading nearly won over the research.
But the research would get them home.
A sound alerted her and she looked up to see Max stepping onto the patio. Noting the time, she observed, "You were gone longer than you expected to be."
"I like to shop in different stores. It's safer. And I bought you something." He reached into the bag he was carrying and produced a digital camera and several SD storage cards.
"A camera?"
Settling in the seat next to her, he nodded toward the baby. "Sunday is Father's Day."
The comment baffled her. Did he want something from her in acknowledgement of the day?
"For Booth," he clarified.
"I don't understand."
"You don't think he'd want to see photos of her? Even video?"
"I'm sure he would, but there's no way to get them to him without giving away our location."
"You fill up one these storage cards, and get anything else you want for him, and I'll get them to him without a postmark."
There was so much she wanted to share with Booth that even thinking about it made her insides twist. She had thought both holidays a bit silly, but on Mother's Day, which had been the day before they'd found Ethan's body, he'd made her breakfast, brought her flowers and a card, and given her a pair of earrings with Christine's birthstone.
And If Parker was out of town, he'd be alone.
Booth stared down at his scotch and tried to think of a good reason to go back to his empty house rather than back to the Hoover.
There wasn't one.
It was odd, but once or twice since they'd been gone, the house hadn't felt quite so lonely. He'd walked in and seen her things, remembered moments they'd shared, and felt something close to peace, and a sure confidence that she and Christine would return home. That they would have that life back.
But tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight was a sleep-at-the-office type of night.
Movement at the door alerted him and he saw Cam came in. He was a cop, after all. He noticed everything.
She hesitated, then came over and settled on the stool next to him without saying anything, simply motioning to the bartender.
It was time that they talked, though God knew what there was to say. That was the problem. People kept trying to find the right combination of words that would fix this, and there weren't any. "Sweets send you?" He was the only one who'd known where Booth was going. He didn't frequent The Founding Fathers much these days.
Cam nodded, and he muttered, "Meddling twelve year old." But there wasn't any heat to it.
He took a close look at her. "Don't take this wrong, but you look bad." Not that any of them were looking their best these days, but Cam had looked less wiped out in a hospital bed after Epps had nearly killed her.
She shrugged, and sipped the wine the bartender had placed in front of her. "You're not looking so hot yourself."
There was no response to that, and the silence between them lengthened. "I'm sorry," she finally said.
He turned toward her. "Could you have done anything differently?"
She shook her head. "That's why I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"He's screwed with me, with the lab, and I let him."
"You know damn well if you'd not done exactly what you did, Pelant would have found a way to prove that you were covering up evidence. The lab would be off the case, and your ass would be in the sling with the rest of us." Frustrated, he tossed back the rest of his scotch, and then immediately regretted it. He was at his limit for the night, and with the scotch gone, had no reason to delay the choice between the house and his office.
Still, he didn't move to leave. There was comfort in sitting next to her, even with the silence. Or perhaps because of it.
"How often does Dr. Brennan clean the inside of her car?"
"What?"
"How often does she have it vacuumed?"
"I don't know. Once a month, maybe? Why?"
"I've gone over every piece of physical evidence related to all of this, again and again. And I keep coming back to that hair. I realized yesterday what it was that was bothering me. We generally do the entire crime scene analysis, but not with her car. Flynn gave me the hair to test - or re-test, rather - after bureau analyzed the car."
"You think he planted it?"
She shook her head. "No, the evidence trail is clear and too many other crime techs were involved. But it means I didn't initially see the full report of where in the trunk the hair was found, what other residue was around it."
"And now you have?"
"I had to get pissy over it," she said. "Flynn didn't want to me to have it, so I threatened to call Director Cullen. If my analysis of the hair is the primary physical evidence being used against Dr. Brennan, I have the right to see the full report."
"And?" She wouldn't have mentioned it if wasn't important.
"It's not a magic bullet," she cautioned. "But there's something very odd when you look at the report for the entire interior of the car. The only really clean area is the one area of the trunk where the hair was found. Other places in the trunk, the passenger seats, the floorboards in the back...they have other detritus. Hairs belonging to her, to your kids, to you. Baby spit. Grass and dirt. That one small area is completely clean."
"He wanted to make sure it was noticed," he murmured. "But they'll argue that Bones cleaned the car to get rid of the evidence."
"That's what Caroline said, when I ran it by her. But then they have to explain why a woman who works crime scenes for a living didn't at least clean the entire area where the body was, and why a single damning hair was spotlighted in that way."
Booth thought about what she'd said, turned it over in his mind. "It's a screw-up on his part, not to have cleaned the entire car, but he probably ran out of time. Planting the hair isn't something he could get a computer to do for him."
"It's not enough to clear her."
"Not nearly, not since it's too easy to use it against her. But we keep chipping away at it. Hell, Cam, if anyone would actually look at all this crap, they'd know she's being framed. She's guilty because she knows the circulatory system and Pelant doesn't, but he's not guilty when he's the convicted hacker and she doesn't have any programming skills?"
"You've got enough to create doubt, and might even win a trial at this point," she agreed. "But you're not trying to get her acquitted. You're trying to completely clear her so the charges are dropped."
There was nothing to say to that. Cam took another sip of her wine, and Booth motioned to the bartender for another scotch. At least he wasn't drinking alone.
With his family gone, the weekend was just another two days. On the third Saturday in June, thirty-three days after his life left, Booth got up, went for a run, took a shower, and went to his office, where, for variety, he worked on paperwork for other cases rather than immediately turning to Pelant. He had court appearances coming up, trials for perps they'd caught.
Some of the defense lawyers were trying to get their clients' charges dismissed due to the murder charge against Brennan. It was a royal mess, and was requiring extra preparation on all their parts.
He worked steadily from 7AM until 3PM before the need to eat became too strong to ignore. He was reaching the point of uselessness, anyway. He needed a break, a real break, from working and sleeping. But doing something normal, something just for fun, felt wrong. It was too much of a surrender, an acceptance that this half-life they were living might be the new norm.
But working well past the point of emotional and physical exhaustion every day for over a month simply put him at risk of missing something, of not seeing that one thing that would make a difference, that one question that needed to be asked.
So he packed up and headed home, stopping for pizza on the way. He'd eat, watch whatever ball game was on, and try to rest his brain.
A sly voice inside that he'd not heard for a while made the observation that a different game would do the same thing.
When he was gambling, he wasn't thinking of anything else.
Grimly, he shook his head as he took the turn onto his street. He would not face Brennan when they next met knowing that he'd let those hooks back into him. There were people he could call if the urge got bad enough. People who'd understand. But he wasn't there yet, and, God willing, wouldn't be.
There was a car parked in front of the house, and he slowed as he studied the man leaning against it. Russ. In seconds he'd parked and was across the yard, tension coiled inside him.
"Russ."
"Booth." His voice was even as he met Booth's eyes, and then shook his head. "I don't know where they are. Dad called me the day it went down, told me what was happening. But that's it. He wouldn't tell me anything else. He didn't want me to have to lie when they asked."
Booth frowned. "Have they asked?"
"Your Agent Flynn thinks he's my new best friend." Russ shrugged. "He got a warrant for my phone records, but apart from that one phone call, there's nothing to find."
Flynn was a bastard, but Booth figured Russ knew that. "So why are you here?"
Russ reached through the open window of the car and handed him an envelope. "This was in my mailbox yesterday, no postmark, just that note saying my dad wanted me to get it to you."
Booth turned over the envelope, his heart jumping a bit when he saw his name in Brennan's handwriting on the front. "So, not from your dad, then?" He opened the note, read the brief sentence. "Your dad needs this to get to Booth."
"It's not Dad's handwriting," Russ observed, then added, "The more convoluted the path, the harder it is to trace."
"Yeah." Either that, or they really weren't that far away and Max was just hiding that. But it didn't feel that way. He motioned toward the house. "You want some pizza?"
Russ shook his head. "Thanks, but no. I need to get back to the Amy and the girls." He started to walk around the car, then paused, turned back. "How's it looking, really? Will they be able to come home?"
"Absolutely." No other option was on the table. "We're chipping away at how he framed her. We don't have the big win yet, but everything helps."
"Keep me in the loop, won't you?"
Booth nodded. "Yeah, I'll do that."
He watched the other man drive off, then turned back to collect the pizza, the envelope clenched in his hand. In the house, he made himself put slices of the pizza on a plate and grabbed a beer before settling at the kitchen island. His patience ended, he slit it open, and pulled out a letter written in Brennan's distinctive writing, and an SD memory card, which he glanced at and then set aside.
Dear Booth,
I wanted to find a Father's Day card for you, but the shop I was in had a very limited selection of cards that were all either unacceptably plain, factually wrong (why portray human fatherhood with the image of a male mammal that abandons its offspring?) or which seemed particularly unsuited to our current situation.
Since it seems that it is the motive which matters, hopefully this letter will suffice.
We are doing well. I am spending my days studying mathematics in an attempt to better understand what Ethan was telling me. It is very theoretical, but I believe I am making progress in grasping what's involved in predicting behavior.
Christine continues to develop normally according to the manual I purchased. A few days after we left, she rolled over for the first time. She now repeats the behavior often, and seems quite amused by it. She is also nearly sitting up on her own. Dad bought a digital camera and the storage media I've included has photos of her as well as short video clips, so you can see for yourself.
I sometimes read the math texts to her, just to interact with her while I'm studying. She does not understand it, of course, and often laughs at me, not unlike the way you do at times.
We bought her a few more books appropriate for infants, and I read those to her as well, but she has shown a decided preference for the ones we have you reading along to. I play them on the laptop, and she often reaches for your face and becomes quite animated.
I've also found that the sound of your voice, minus the video, soothes her when she's fussing. Lest you believe I say that only to make a point, there is a video on the memory card which demonstrates it.
I take some comfort from the sound of your voice as well, as foolish as it seems to me to be reassured by the reading of children's literature. It is, however, no substitute for having you to turn to when Christine does something new, or on those occasions when I fear Pelant will win, when I'm afraid the life we had, the life I've come to treasure, is over for good.
I also very much miss having intercourse with you.
As I understand the tradition of Father's Day, its purpose is for a child to acknowledge their love and appreciation for their father, or for someone else to do that for them if they're too young to do so themselves. One of my cherished memories is that last Sunday we were together, when you brought me my card and the gift you bought me in Christine's name. I regret that we're not together today, that I can't give you this in person, can't see you napping with our daughter asleep on your chest.
One of the cards I looked at but didn't buy had a little girl telling her father, "You're the best dad because you've always been there for me." Of them all, that was the one I came closest to buying, because even now when you don't know where we are, I believe you're there for us. We both miss you, and yet, I know as I go through these long days that you are thinking of us as often as we are thinking of you. (Well, I am thinking of you. I'm not certain that would be an accurate descriptor of Christine's cognitive processes.)
But I love you, and I believe she does, too.
Brennan (and Christine)
His eyes were wet but he was smiling when he finished the letter. He re-read it several times, his fingers smoothing over the ink. "I adore you," he murmured, smiling at her complaint about animals in Father's Day cards and her blunt comment about sex.
His laptop sat on the counter, so he slipped the SD card into it, and impatiently waited for the files to display. Even knowing Brennan didn't do things by halves, he was surprised to see over thirty photos and four videos listed. He watched the videos first, swallowing repeatedly at the images of Christine rolling over and laughing. The last two were longer, with one showing Brennan breastfeeding the baby, and the second showing her holding her on her lap while they watched the video of him reading one of the books.
The intent expression on the baby's face in the last one caused his heart to clench hard in his chest.
He then started clicking through the pictures, stopping on one of Brennan sitting on a bed, reading, the baby sleeping next to her in a pose familiar to him. It took him a moment to realize what was different. "You changed your hair color," he said softly. He'd not noticed that earlier, not really. Maybe the lighting had been off. "That was really smart."
Ignoring his now-cold pizza, he spent an hour studying the photos and re-reading the letter. There was nothing in any of the images to provide a clue as to where they were. He couldn't even say for certain that it was a hotel room. Just tightly cropped images of Brennan and Christine. That shouldn't surprise him, though. Not when Max was the photographer.
Not unlike his daughter, he reached out more than once to touch the screen of the laptop, wishing desperately it was warm skin he was touching. "God, I miss you both."
He had to figure out how to get them home.