Brennan clicked off of her cell and sighed, staring at the notes she had compiled. Files were everywhere, and papers were coating every square inch of the glass table in the Jeffersonian's lounge. Her clock read 3:20.
Leaning back, she rubbed her eyes, mentally replaying what had happened on the sidewalk only six hours before.
Booth diving behind the car she had fallen against, bringing her with him.
Glass shattering. Screams from down the street.
A dull pain in her wrist.
Booth, eyes wide with fear as sirens sounded.
Police. Questioning. Notes. Someone looking at her wrist for damage.
Her own voice insisting that she was fine.
Booth with his phone out, making several calls.
The scientists from the Jeffersonian asking for all the evidence, despite the protests from the cops.
Cam offering shelter at the lab; Angela, Hodgins, and Zack agreeing.
She accepting the proposal.
Hodgins' car. The Jeffersonian's steps. Files. Papers. Notes. A call to her father. More notes.
"You feeling okay, sweetie?" Angela's voice suddenly materialized directly across from her.
She jumped, her eyes flying open.
The artist looked disheveled. Hair back, make-up worn away, a tired look in her eyes.
Brennan managed the slightest of smiles. It had been years since anyone other than her immediate family had asked for the status of her mental or physical health, and now she was being virtually accosted by the question. It felt nice. "Yes. I'm fine, Angela."
Angela settled across from her and looked at all the papers that had accumulated in the past few hours, "Did you find anything useful?"
"Yeah..." her voice trailed off as she mentally summed up all that she had found, "Simon Holt, aka 'Cabot,' joined the crew around 1972 and was McVicar's right-hand man."
"McVicar?"
"Hitman for the crew."
She nodded.
"Even though it was never technically proven that McVicar performed most of the hits, everyone still knew it. Cabot would usually be the one to dig up the information on the victims, but occasionally he would perform one or two hits himself. He disappeared in 1978."
"The same year Harper and Delaney were murdered?"
"Mm." She nodded.
"What else did you find?"
Brennan glanced down at her notes, "He was trained in several different kinds of weaponry. Was one of the more violent of the crew members."
Angela picked up the list of FBI code names, "The list says he's still alive."
"Yeah. I know," she said, absently picking at the graze hole on her jacket's sleeve.
"Did your source know where to find him?"
"No, and he recommended I don't look."
"Will you?"
She looked up, "Yeah. I will."
"But you'll be careful, right?"
"Of course."
Angela paused, "Are you going to get any sleep tonight?"
"Booth told me not to leave here."
"I could grab some blankets from my office. There's a couch down there."
"But wouldn't I be bothering you?"
"No, sweetie. It would bother me more to leave you up here in your condition."
She paused, "Why are you being so nice to me?"
The artist blinked, "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know," she blinked heavily. "I...just don't know."
"Come on, sweetie," Angela gently pulled on her arm, eyes filled with concern, "Get some rest."
She allowed herself to be led away, destined to get five hours of sleep.
-----
Booth paced around his office, running purely on coffee and his musings. It was amazing how many problems had cropped up in only a few short days.
Kirby had disappeared. The evidence from the journal and the inconsistent coroner's report were more than enough to justify his arrest, but when the cops had shown up, he was in the wind. Him, his sniper training, and his gun.
Eight shots someone had fired at Brennan before driving away. She had thankfully escaped with only a graze, but the incident was more than enough to warrant concern. He had ordered her to stay at the Jeffersonian until they could figure out the identity of the shooter, but he didn't have much confidence that she would listen. He had no doubt that if she found something, she would go after it. Whether or not she would inform him about the lead was a dubious question. And he couldn't keep constant watch over her.
He sighed and plopped into his office chair.
Angela had called to inform him that Brennan was asleep and filled him on Cabot's stats. The fact that Cabot also had sniper training worried him. Ballistics had not begun work on the rounds yet, but he had no doubts that they were from a sniper rifle. And if Brennan potentially had two people with sniper training after her, then an extra set of eyes would certainly be necessary.
Caroline had called to say that Beckett was to be released by morning and that she was going to bed. Her final words to him before hanging up had been one word: "Duck."
It was good advice.
Tapping his fingers against his desk, Booth decided to look through the things that had been confiscated from Kirby's office. He was thankful that the case had gone to him as opposed to someone higher up. Even though Eternal Affairs would want in eventually, for now he had free reign.
He grabbed a small booklet contained names and phone numbers. A phone dump was in the works, but he didn't have it yet. Likely the phone company wouldn't get around to it for hours.
After several minutes of flipping he paused, not even believing his luck.
In the margins of the section marked "H" one name was written.
Cabot.
Suddenly he was in a froth to get those phone records.
----
Booth walked rapidly toward Angela's office, several pieces of paper stacked in his arms. The lab was in mid-morning swing, and to his surprise the artist's space had blinds drawn and lights off.
Not stopping to consider this, he opened the door.
Brennan was resting quietly on the couch almost directly across from him. A large Native American themed blanket had been draped over her, and just under the thief's chin he could see a few files poking through the long cloth's cover. One of her hands was wrapped protectively around the pages, and he could see a pen poking out of her hairline.
He stood there for a moment, watching her chest slowly expand and contract as she breathed. She looked peaceful, and he realized that she rarely looked this way. No guarded eyes, pursed lips, or pinched eyebrows. Calm. He remembered that Angela had called some time around 4:00 to report to him that she was asleep. Which meant that as of now, she had gotten only about five hours of sleep. He was seriously tempted to just stand there and watch, but he knew he couldn't do that.
As he stepped toward her, he saw the small tear on her sleeve and a wave of guilt washed over him. He should have been more careful; those bullets had just barely missed her. Booth sighed and settled in the space between the couch and a free chair, his hand hesitantly reaching forward to wake her up.
But he paused half-way to her shoulder. Somehow he didn't think that if she woke up to find him touching her that it would be well-received. In fact, it would probably piss her off. He quickly retracted his hand and rethought things, all the while staring at her as if in the hope that she would solve the dilemma herself. But she didn't. Brennan hadn't shifted an inch and did not look as if she would any time soon.
Booth slowly rose to his feet before quietly plopping into the seat across from her, his hands fidgeting with the files in his hands.
It was a very unfortunate situation for him. On the one hand, if he went to investigate the lead on his own, she would probably explode. On the other, if he shook her awake and she was still tense from the shooting, he could end up with a broken wrist. Without even realizing it, his teeth had begun worrying his thumbnail and he dropped his hand with a slap.
He flinched as Brennan's breathing hitched and her eyelids twitched. With a slight groan, her hand slipped from under the blanket and reached up to rub her eyes. Hair cascaded from her shoulders as she slowly sat up and the pen and files dropped to the floor.
"Shit," she hissed, reaching down to retrieve them, freezing as she spotted his pants. "Booth?" her eyes met his, and she smoothed her hair behind her ears. "What are you doing here?"
He smiled at her as she leaned back into the couch, hugging the files to her chest as her free hand rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Got a lead."
"Really?" the gray of her irises retracted as her pupils grew wide. "What is it?"
"Phone records from Robert Kirby and his date book."
She crossed to the chair next to him and he handed her the papers.
"How were you able to get these? He's high up in the FBI food chain, correct?"
"Well, he was until the evidence you gave for the Harper case surfaced."
"Is he in custody?" She skimmed down the list in her hands.
"No. He's in the wind."
She briefly met his eyes, "For how long?"
"Well, time-stamp says around the time Cam faxed the autopsy results to us."
"And you said he has training as a sniper?"
He knew where she was going, "There's no proof he's the one who took a shot at you."
"It wasn't a shot. It was eight. Logic would suggest that the shooter is only one of two people, both of whom are attached to this case. Kirby disappeared just hours before the shooting and he has sniper training. I thought you FBI boys didn't believe in coincidences." She paused and took a breath, "Did forensics recover the bullets that were meant for me?"
"Ballistics is running tests on 'em right now."
"They'll call when they get the results?"
"Yes."
Her eyes slid back down to the list and she paused. "Is this a landline number?"
"Mm-hmm."
She looked up at him, "We have Cabot's address?"
"Mm-hmm."
"And it's here in DC?"
"Oh, yeah."
She got up, "Let's go."
He grinned and followed suit, "Right after you, Bones."
She smiled slightly at him as they both headed out the door.
----
"Do you think it's going to rain?" Brennan asked, staring up at the dark clouds in the sky.
Booth glanced in the direction she was looking, "Yeah. Probably."
She shifted in her seat and turned to him, "So how does this work? Do we have back-up or something?"
"No."
She blinked, "But isn't there always back-up?"
He shook his head, "No. This is just a social call; that's all."
She raised her eyebrows, "A social call?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Then why are we just sitting in the car outside his house?"
"Because I'm not sure I want you to go in."
"I thought you said this was a social call."
"I did."
"So what's the problem?"
It was his turn to shift, "Well, it's like you said. There were only two people who could've fired that gun. And one of them is in that house." He pointed at the building in question.
"Yeah, and the other one is in the wind. You forgot the second part."
He sighed, "That's not the point, Bones."
"Then what is the point?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment or two of silence, he finally shrugged and said, "There is no point, Bones. No point at all."
She was about to ask why he had said there was a point when there wasn't one, but he opened his car door before she could get the words out.
"Yeah," he announced, "I think it's going to rain."
She smiled at his pathetic subject change, but took the hint. He wasn't pursuing the topic any further. Her car door opened with a click and within moments they were heading up the short concrete walkway to the house.
The squat building stood in the middle of a postage-stamp lawn which had long since been overrun by clover and dandelions. The house itself was plain and white, the windows blocked from the inside by yellow curtains. Or perhaps they had once been white but over the years had changed colors. It was unclear from Brennan's angle.
Booth approached the door and pressed the buzzer for the doorbell.
"You know, it just occurred to me."
She looked at him.
"This guy was in the strong-arm crew in the 70s. He's in his sixties."
"And what of it?"
"How many old men killers have you heard of?"
"Booth," she waited until he looked at her, "You know how he got old?"
He smiled, "Aging?"
She didn't, "By being smart and fast. He's an old criminal and survived after the rest of the crew was killed—including the cops who were working the case. You can't underestimate him."
"Him?" he jabbed a thumb at the door.
She sighed, "Ever hear of Hugh Kennedy?"
"No."
"Well, I'll introduce you to him when we get back."
"No, that's okay, Bones. I believe you." He reached over and tapped the buzzer again.
She bit the inside of her cheek and adjusted her footing.
After a few moments of waiting, Booth turned to her, "Think I should announce my title?"
She raised her eyebrows, "Why are you asking me?"
"'Cause your a crook, he's a crook. See the connection?"
"Not at all."
He sighed, "Bones, you would know how this guy thinks."
Her hands shifted to her hips, "How do you know?"
Booth seemed to be trying to backtrack, obviously realizing his mistake, "Well...What would you do in this situation?"
She leveled a gaze at him, "I don't think I'm comfortable saying."
"I'm not going to use it against you, Bones," he said, sounding wounded. "You know that."
She sighed and moved her hands again, this time across her chest, "I would run."
"You?" his eyebrows rose, "Somehow I never would've thought of that."
"Why?" She could feel her own eyebrows crimp.
"You seem more like the..." he raised his hands into mock fists and punched the air.
His assessment was true enough. She had beaten up quite a few of her unruly business partners and, on the rare occasion that she was contracted, a few clients. But she was intelligent enough to know that that kind of behavior toward law enforcement would be the makings of a scrape. "It would be illogical to attack a police officer, let alone an FBI agent."
Brennan held up a hand when he opened his mouth to respond.
"He sees us," she said quietly.
"What?" He turned and looked at the door.
She spotted his hand moving into his jacket and she shook her head, lightly grabbing his arm, "No."
He sighed, "FBI, Simon Holt. We'd like to ask you a few questions." He pounded on the door. "FBI."
The door opened the slightest fraction of an inch, "Badge?" a husky voice asked.
Booth showed it to him.
After a long moment of silence, Cabot opened the door enough to reveal his face. "What is it that you want?"
He had a silver beard shaved close enough to his chin so that it didn't stick out. Even in his sixties he had hair, which looked as if it had grown to a certain point before giving up. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue, indicating he hadn't lost much of his watchfulness. He held himself with good posture, but his arms and legs were loose. His nose was thin and long.
Yeah. It wouldn't be smart to write this guy off.
Booth apparently had deduced the same thing, "Mr. Holt, we're conducting an investigation on the disappearance of Robert Kirby. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
Brennan raised her eyebrows, wondering why he had suddenly jumped that on the old con.
Contrary to her own reaction, Holt hadn't so much as blinked, "No."
"You sure about that?"
"I know nothing of his disappearance."
"We found your name in his phone records."
"I never said we didn't talk."
Booth just gave him a stony stare.
"Kirby and I were reliving old times."
"On what prompt?"
"I'm afraid that's none of your concern, Agent Booth. Now, unless you're going to arrest me, I suggest you leave." His eyes shifted to meet Brennan's for a fraction of a second before flicking back, "As I'm sure you're aware, I know my rights."
The door shut.
"He was friendly," Booth commented dryly, turning to leave.
"Yeah," Brennan said absently. "He was."
"Are you even listening to me, Bones?"
"Hmm? Yeah..." her voice trailed off as she followed him back.
"What's a matter with you, Bones?"
She looked at him, "Nothing." He just felt very familiar to her. "Nothing at all."
----
"Hey," said the woman behind the counter upon spotting Brennan and Booth as the entered the Diner, "I haven't seen you two in a while. How've you been?"
The couple settled across from each other at the table next to the center window.
"I was out of town," Brennan hedged.
The waitress—her name was Janine—smiled, "Well, it's nice to see you guys again. Want me to get started on some coffee?"
"I'd love some," Booth said.
Brennan agreed.
Janine nodded and walked around back.
"You know what I don't understand?"
The agent looked over at her, one hand still clasping the menu. "What, Bones?"
She set down her own menu and leaned forward, "If Kirby killed both Delaney and Harper, then why would Cabot have any motivation to kill me?"
He shrugged, "They've been in contact for a while. Maybe Cabot's trying to cover for Kirby."
"Why would he do that?"
"Well, think about it, Bones. Kirby's FBI and he probably has something on Cabot. If something were to happen and Kirby got arrested, he could flip on Cabot."
"I see." She didn't really.
"Of course, there's another possibility."
"And what's that?"
He shrugged again, "Maybe Kirby didn't kill Delaney."
"The evidence indicates that he did."
"Cabot also had weapons training, as well as experience with gathering information. He easily could've pulled a copy-cat hit."
"But why would he do that?"
"So that no one would suspect him? Because he felt like it?" Yet another shrug. "Could be anything."
Two coffees materialized on the table, cutting of her response. Both of them spouted out a "thanks" to Janine.
"Would you like anything to eat?"
Brennan shook her head, "Not hungry."
"Slice of pie," Booth said. "Apple."
Janine smiled, "Sure thing. And lucky for you, a fresh one is coming out of the oven in a few moments."
"Mm." He rubbed his hands together, "I look forward to it."
The waitress nodded and left to take care of a few other customers.
"So what's the next step from here?"
Booth took a sip from his water, seeming to consider the question. Finally, he lowered the glass and leveled a gaze at her, "We wait for the squints."
And with that sentiment ringing in the air, Booth's pie was delivered and their discussion ended, not to be broached again for several hours.
-----
Brennan paced around her hotel room, staring at an object on the table directly across from her bed.
"Why?" she asked it absently, "You didn't have to come back to me."
As expected, it remained silent.
She sighed and sat next to it, her fingers reaching forward to stroke the delicate curves of the statue.
It was old. Almost two thousand years old. Not only that, but the thing was in excellent quality. She didn't know where Hodgins had come across such a valuable artifact, but he had. And now so had she, and she was stuck with it.
Her fence had informed her that the merchandise was so unique it would be recognized on the market immediately. He had given her two choices: one, he would try to sell it and if he was caught he would finger her, or two, he would give it back. She had gone with the latter option.
Now she was wondering if the first would've been a better choice.
But thankfully, the other art piece she had stolen he had managed to sell, so that was one less problem to deal with.
She stared at it as her mind replayed the flash of remembrance that had occurred when she had met Cabot's eyes. She had seen something. But what was it?
Try as she might, the memory bits remained stubbornly out of reach.
A light tapping on her door brought her out of her mind and back to reality.
Warily, she got up from her chair and headed to the door, being careful to keep her feet from making shadows that any possible enemy could detect. After the shooting she couldn't be too careful. But a glance through the peep-hole revealed Booth in his usual leather jacket, not a psychotic with a gun.
'Well,' she thought to herself as she turned the lock, 'He's preferable to a lunatic, that's for sure.'
------
"Hey, Bones," Booth said the moment the woman in question opened the door, "I got us dinner."
She put hands on hips, "Chinese?" Although her posture and words may have suggested irritation, he could see the smile in her eyes.
"Mm-hm." He grinned at her.
She backed up a bit, smoothing stray hairs behind her ear, "Come in."
He did, setting the food on a small coffee table near a couch large enough for three.
"Any news?"
He handed her a carton and a pair of chopsticks. "Ballistics confirmed our bullet came from a sniper rifle."
"Does this bring us anywhere?"
"Not until we find a gun to compare it to."
"I see." She lifted and swallowed a noodle.
He nodded and glanced around himself, and after a moment his eyes settled on the object on her table, "Bones?" he said, setting down his carton, "What's that?"
"Uh..." For one of the first times, she looked nervous. "It's..."
He got up and looked at it, "Wait. This is Hodgins' statue."
"Yes. It is."
He looked at her incredulously, "Why do you have this here?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, and seemed to consider his question. After a moment, she met his eyes again and spoke the truth, "Fence couldn't sell it."
"I see."
"Mm." She looked very uncomfortable.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Well, I would like to return it, but he's got a lot of security in his place."
"Didn't you bypass it before?"
"Yes, but it has since been tightened."
"How would you know that?" He looked at her suspiciously.
"It's a safe assumption. Someone as paranoid as him wouldn't just leave himself wide open a second time. Though admittedly he wasn't exactly wide open the first time." She looked slightly bitter about that.
"No stealing?"
She met his eyes again, "No. I wouldn't think of it."
They settled at their dinner again.
"Why?"
Her chopsticks paused before they could enter one of the small containers. "Can't rob from a friend."
"Even thieves have morales?"
"Of course, Booth. We're still human."
"Really? I never could've guessed."
She smiled, "Ha."
"I thought it was pretty funny."
"You're hysterical." Her voice was bone dry.
"I think so."
She cuffed him lightly.
Booth laughed.
"Any plans for tomorrow?" she asked.
"Well, I was thinking that—" His phone chirped. Booth threw her an apologetic look before reaching into his pocket and pulling it out, "Booth."
He listened to the caller and his breath caught; Brennan's eyes locked with his.
"When?"
"A few hours ago. Thought you'd need to know as soon as possible."
"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Charlie," he said and clicked off.
"What?" Brennan asked.
"Looks like our suspect pool was just narrowed." He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"Why?"
"They found Kirby."
"And?" She looked excited.
"He's dead."