AN: Wow, I'm really happy to know people are liking this. I promise not to disappoint! Backstory chapter. Onward with the show...
Chapter Four: Connections
"I'm sorry."
Brennan glanced up from the third victim's remains, what was left of Jeff Hastings. Booth straightened and took a step forward, his eyes averted from hers. They were alone on the platform, his sudden apology directed to her and herself only.
Brennan sighed and said, "Me, too. What I asked was inappropriate, both in context and in our present situation."
Booth nodded slowly, his eyes finally meeting her face. "We're through."
Brennan frowned, staring at the body before her. "No, I'm not, Booth, I still need to get these bones cleaned and then—"
Booth rolled his eyes and interrupted, "I meant Cam and me, Bones. About what you asked me earlier?" He started fiddling with that poker chip and Brennan asked, "…and you don't want to talk about it?"
"Precisely."
"I understand…if you do want to, I mean you don't have to, just that I'm, well, you know…" Brennan fumbled, confused at her sudden lack of vocabulary. All she'd meant to say was that if he needed to talk she'd be happy to listen. She felt Booth's penetrating gaze and her neck and cheeks flushed with red.
He gave a small smile and answered, "Thanks."
They then remained in comfortable silence for the next few minutes until Booth noticed he was running late for a meeting.
"Oh, shit, Cullen's gonna have my head if I'm late to this," he swore after glancing at his watch. "File's on your desk, I gotta go…"
"Bye, Booth," Brennan smiled, trying not to chuckle.
"Talk to you later," he called over his shoulder as he went down the steps. He nearly collided with an unfortunate messenger, aka, the night janitor, who still grunted angrily long after Booth disappeared completely.
Clearing her throat, she asked the newcomer, "May I help you?"
"This was on the floor of your office when I cleaned it," the janitor said as he waited for Brennan to meet him on the steps. "It actually came for you while I was in there, and I thought you may need it now," he explained.
Brennan nodded her thanks as the janitor handed over the manila envelope. Her name was scrawled on the center in careful calligraphy, the sender unknown.
Curious, she opened the envelope.
- - -
"Zach? You okay? You seemed a little quiet today."
Angela watched her friend's facial reactions as he blinked from his computer screen.
"I'm fine," he answered flatly before returning his attention to the screen. Angela's eyes raised and she yawned casually, "You lie like Brennan. And that's not a compliment."
Zach rolled his eyes irritatingly. "Angela, I have work…of course we could always get JC to do it…"
Bingo!
"Uh-oh. You don't like JC?" Angela ventured. She couldn't see why Zach would dislike the youthful and cheery grad student. "Was there something I missed? Did he say or do something that pissed you off?"
"No, no, of course not," Zach answered honestly.
"Then what is it?"
Zach opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself. Angela cursed him inwardly.
"I plead the fifth," he said simply.
Sighing, Angela stood and said, "Okay, okay. I won't bother you anymore."
"No, you'll try to get information from Hodgins or the others," Zach added wryly.
"Hmmm…" Angela murmured in reply. She smiled, knowing that she didn't have any comeback against the truth.
- - -
"Dear Dr. Temperance Brennan,
First and foremost, I would like to commend you on your writing abilities. Your latest book left me on the edge of my seat, and I didn't breathe until the last page was read. One day I hope to be an author, also.
Anyway, I hope you receive this letter because you have inspired my life in many ways beyond the amazing books you create. Though the press doesn't recognize you and the Jeffersonian as much as the law enforcement, I know of the deeds you accomplished. It amazes me what you see everyday, and what you do to provide truth and justice for lost identities. You give people hope... you see, a very good friend of mine was cheated of his life. I rather not go into the details of it, but I just want to let you know that I look to you and your team for hope. Hope that justice will once again serve those dead. Hope that you can provide me the answers to who snatched my friend from this life. God bless.
Most sincerely,
Kay-Anne Boome
"Hmm," Brennan sighed absently. The letter left her with mixed feelings. Sadness for the death of the friend. An appreciation that there were some who understood what Brennan searched for everyday—the truth and the justice. But she was also disconcerted. Did this person really believe that I can solve this murder? Even if I wanted to, I don't have anything. And that was the least of her queries. Heaviness filled the air, as if the coming of the letter foreboded something worse to come. Completely irrational…
But still…
Brennan tucked the letter back into the folder carefully, occupied with multiple questions for which she had no answers.
- - -
Booth rubbed his eyes as he sat wearily in his chair, still stuck at FBI headquarters. The meeting was over, but he remained troubled. Looking at the clock he saw it was close to eleven at night. He wanted to tell Brennan something else earlier, but chose to wait until this point. Knowing she'd still be at the lab, he called his friend.
"Dr. Brennan."
"Some life you have."
He could almost hear the smile in her voice, even if it was slightly annoyed. "If I'm not mistaken, Booth, you are calling from your work place, which also implies that you have no life either."
He smiled faintly before answering, "Yeah…I want to talk to you about what that meeting was about."
"Shoot."
He paused shortly before saying, "One of my first cases with the FBI dealt with a serial killer. It was some pretty…pretty bad stuff. MO was bombing the victims."
Brennan caught on immediately and asked, "Like now?"
"Yes. A lot of us are thinking copy-cat. But there are some things that don't add up. The original guy, George Wycliffe, never left identification. But there was an obvious connection. All the victims were widowed wives in there thirties. But now…" he stopped.
"I see…did you consider talking to Wycliffe?"
Booth closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "When we finally figured out he was the guy, he fought back. Hard. Blew a couple of homemade bombs as a screw-you. He ended up getting shot. An agent died. Two others were injured. I was the only one able to walk away that day…" He fought back surfacing memories and waited for Brennan's reaction.
"Is it possible that this isn't a copy-cat killing, that the MO happens to be the same?" Brennan asked.
"I hoped that, but from what Hodgins told me and my people, the same type of bomb was used in both case. And not just the make, but the same damn components. Like a signature. It's in the file I gave to you, didn't you read it yet?" Booth frowned.
"Oh…I'm sorry, I was distracted by something earlier, I didn't have a chance." Changing subjects, she asked again, "So we have the same raw materials for a bomb, no obvious connection, and we're able to ID the victims quickly—by the way, dentals confirm Jeff Hastings is definitely our victim—but what should we look for now?"
"Gut feeling tells me the victims are related, somehow. I say we find it, whatever that element is between Jeff Hastings, Jake Graceland, and Carla Summers. I know you like facts, but I really believe there's a connection. Are you willing to go with me on this?" Booth asked quietly.
He expected her to ramble off on how irrational he was acting, but was surprised to hear instead, "Your gut's been right before…I'll go with you on this one." He breathed deeply feeling more relaxed now then when he first called Brennan.
"That means a lot to me," he said softly.
"I know."
- - -
"Please! I have money, I won't tell anyone what you look like, please, please…"
She was shaking with terror as she cowered on the ground, her tears running freely as she sobbed and pleaded with the figure standing menacingly above her.
"Now, now Abbey…"
She cried harder at the sound of her name. She was tied tightly to a stake firmly planted in the ground, and no matter how hard she struggled, she only managed to have the rope cut sharply into her pale skin.
The bomb around her chest weighed her down even more.
"Please…" she gasped as the figure backed away, holding a detonator. He disappeared into the shadows of the night. She screamed a blood-curling sound of anguish and black fear, knowing no one would hear her. No one would come to her.
The scream was cut off by a blast, a column of fire and smoke rising to the sky.