Chapter Eight – Volunteers
It was a sheepish Booth that approached Brennan to tell her the bad news, and, as he suspected, her temper immediately flared. The content of the tirade she proceeded into was not what he expect though. "But this is our case. OURS. He can't have me process a crime scene and then tell me he's passing off all my work to another agency without offering any closure! They're just going to toss this one back and forth while this poor priest waits in the cooler!"
In the past, Brennan may have thought things like this, but she had always been more guarded. Booth was seeing a side of her he'd never seen before, just when he thought he'd known her about as well as anyone could. She picked up a piece of paper from her desk, wadded it and threw it at the wall, and when that didn't provide her any sort of satisfaction, she followed it with a paperweight. The object thumped heavily where it impacted the wall, then bounced to the floor with an ear-splitting crash that left it in two pieces. She stared at the item morosely, both fists curled and hanging like anchors weighing her arms straight at her sides.
Booth knelt and looked at the bisected acrylic half-sphere. It seemed a strange item for Brennan to have had on her desk anyway. Her treasures tended to lean toward the arcane or historically significant. The book shelves in her home held spaces to display such items, each cradled in a custom-made stand or protected in a plexiglass shadow-box. A year ago, the only paperweight he remembered seeing on her desk was a petrified core sample from a digsite in Guatemala. "I hope this didn't mean anything to you," he said softly.
"A.D. Davis gave that to me," she retorted sharply. "A token of his respect."
Booth began to chuckle and then outright laugh. "So you launched it," he said.
Brennan nodded, beginning to laugh herself, though she didn't exactly look jolly, and maybe she didn't really see the significance. "I have to hand it to you, Bones. When I'm being destructive, I'm rarely careful to choose ammunition that sends a message. You, on the other hand, don't waste energy unless it speaks volumes."
Now Brennan really laughed. "Guess I did pitch his token respect."
Booth dropped to a seated position, laughing harder than he could have imagined just hours before. He realized he was exhausted and that it probably wasn't that funny and yet, for the moment, he was tickled beyond belief. Pretty soon Brennan joined him, sitting on the floor and chortling, their shoulders touching intermittently as each shook with laughter. Each time the gales almost died down, Booth pressed the two pieces of the broken paper weight together and then motioned splitting the halves with a vocalized explosion sound that was very reminiscent of what Parker did when he crashed two matchbox cars together. Both Brennan and Booth started to laugh again each time automatically.
"It was a little childish, wasn't it?" Brennan said at last, running her hand through her fine hair. Here in the office beneath the harsh lights in the ceiling and the recessed, soft white light of the display case, her hair was an even harder color to define. Brown by lamplight and blond in sunlight, it seemed almost red here. In his exhausted state, Booth found himself staring, and he failed to answer her question.
"Booth?" She regarded him with both eyebrows raised.
"I have childish moments, Tempe. You are always a woman," he remarked, partially aware of how over-the-line it was for two people who worked together. He watched her mouth drop open.
"That's the second time today you've called me by my first name," she observed, in a voice that had his attention for all the wrong reasons. "You should do it more often."
In something like a second, his mind replayed the events of Christmas, followed strangely by an image of his desecrated church. His hands brought the two acrylic pieces together again and he stared at the puzzle-piece connection it made. "Maybe I just need sleep," he said aloud, for no reason he could have explained.
"Likewise," she replied, scooting slightly away from him before getting to her feet. "But I don't want to sleep. And I don't want to let Davis sweep this case into the ether. That's what he intends, right? A few press conferences to say very pointedly that the police are doing everything that they can, while he waits for something huge to draw the public scrutiny away and then Father Thomas Cleary goes forgotten and the FBI neatly skirts a P.R. nightmare without any effort."
Booth got to his feet, meeting her fierce gaze with one of his own. "I don't think I could live with that."
"So what do we do?"
"We could investigate anyway. We'll probably both get fired…"
"We could keep it quiet and turn any evidence we find over to the police. Clark Edison would probably keep our secret if it meant he got the credit," she offered.
Seeley Booth smiled. Given the way his day had started, it seemed unlikely, yet there it was.
"It's very good of you to take such an active part tonight. Extra hands are always welcome," Father Samuel was saying barely two hours later, as Booth and Brennan stood in the soup kitchen, both decked out in Saint Patrick's aprons and hair nets. It had seemed the best way to meet the diners and to create some semblance of innocence if A.D. Davis should get wind of their doings – they could say they weren't investigating, merely volunteering after being made aware of the generosity of the church.
Behind them, a blond man hefted the first of three huge stock pots to the serving area. He set it on a heavy duty trivet on the serving counter and dropped a giant ladle into the pot, hooking the curved handle over the edge. "Ham and Bean in this one!" he said in a loud, booming voice which all of the volunteers heard. He returned to the stove and took the next stock pot. This time Booth realized how very heavy the pots must be – he could see the man's biceps swell with the effort. Brennan scurried to center the next heavy-duty trivet better, just before the man set the pot down. Again, he placed a large ladle inside before he announced, "Chili!"
Then he returned for the final pot, though Booth beat him to it. He picked up two towels before grabbing the large metal handles. "I came to help, I should help," Booth remarked to the man.
He set the pot on the third trivet, and the cook dropped another ladle in it, smiling at him gratefully. "Chicken Noodle!" He announced before returning to the stove. He opened the industrial oven, revealing loaf after loaf of homemade bread, the aroma filling the overly warm kitchen. As if that had been the ringing of some alarm, Booth could hear a din beyond the aluminum roll-down window which was still sealing the kitchen from the cafeteria beyond. Voices hissed and rattled, but one clear, tenor voice projected above the others, restoring order and reminding all to be courteous to their neighbors – that there was plenty of food in God's bounty to go around. That same voice began to lead a prayer and the volunteers in the kitchen silently bowed their heads to join in, even though they could not be seen by the hungry masses in the outer room.
"I had promised to introduce you," Father Samuel said, when the prayer was over. Our fine cook is John Edwards. Before John took his place behind the counter, we bought bread. This is a much tastier and much more nutritious choice. John is a true Godsend. He drives straight over from his job in Arlington and begins cooking without so much as a single break."
Father Samuel helped Edwards overturn a couple of loaves on a giant cooling rack before he resumed. Then he pointed to a woman gathering bowls. "Marie Chang helps every night too and I cannot say enough about her. She's always a server and very patient and kind to our guests." Marie waved a finger and smiled at the compliments paid to her. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall and probably of Chinese descent, as evidenced by her glossy hair and almond-shaped eyes. "This is Dr. John Taylor," Father Samuel introduced further, indicating the elderly man now wielding a large bread knife. "He also serves often. He has the most unique ability to cut bread in equal pieces, which saves on arguments. Dr. Taylor is a veterinarian by day, but a generous individual always giving of his time."
"Please, Father Samuel, you shouldn't gush so," the smiling man said, as he began to carefully slice the warm bread – something Booth thought you just didn't do until it had cooled more. "I preferred to be called John until there were two of us, but don't address me as Doctor Taylor, I beg you. It seems so pompous in here where we are all just people."
Father Samuel snorted, while Booth and Brennan shot looks at each other. "Perhaps it isn't so pompous tonight, Doctor Taylor," Father Samuel continued. "I'd like you to meet Seeley Booth and Dr. Temperance Brennan, our new volunteers." Booth had carefully instructed Father Samuel not to call him "Agent" but Brennan had not been so concerned.
"Another Doctor," John Taylor extolled, setting down his knife to shake her hand warmly. "Are you a medical doctor?"
"Forensic Anthropologist," she said with a smile.
"Ahhh, our kitchen just added some major education," he returned with a wink. John Edwards and Marie Chang exchanged slightly uncomfortable looks.
"Call me Tempe. I'm not interested in being ostentatious either," she said agreeably.
"And tonight I'm just Seeley," Booth added quickly. He needed the group to not be guarded.
"Then we are Johnny, John, Marie, Seeley, Tempe and Father Sam," John Taylor said indicating himself for the first title. "Outside our volunteers include Jim, Jack, Sue, Holly, and Father David."
"And I will introduce you to them later," Father Samuel remarked with a look that bespoke apologies for not finishing his promise.
Booth and Brennan were given a brief overview of how to carry out their serving duties, all while Johnny sliced bread with amazing skill. The "guests" would get a choice of soup and two pieces of bread. The volunteers outside helped to keep the lines moving and assist each guest to find a seat without arguments. Marie manned the ham and bean soup, Brennan took the chili and Booth took the chicken noodle, each understanding that sometimes guests brought their own bowls. The were to insure that each bowl was clean before filling it, and no matter how large or small the bowl, each was served two full scoops of soup. If the private bowl was too small, the remaining went in a polyfoam cup. Johnny stayed with the bread to serve, while John and Father Sam began clean up. It didn't take long for Booth to surmise that John hardly spoke unless it was directly necessary to his task, though the others seemed to include him in every conversation anyway.
When the bread was completely sliced, the aluminum window cover was rolled up, and the onslaught started. The line seemed almost to stretch into infinity. Father David to select a bowl of soup, always managing to speak to each familiarly and kindly, and maintaining peace that seemed unlikely given the sheer numbers.
The hardest thing for Booth was seeing the large number of homeless children in the mix. With each small face, he felt less as if he was investigating and more like a true volunteer, who had no intention of ever shirking this duty again. Brennan had begun their serving by indicating every time they heard a name that she'd seen on the list Father Samuel had provided of regular overnight guests. But that had ceased after the first homeless child, and soon her face formed a look Booth had never seen before. He suspected he was glimpsing a reflection of the discarded child she had once been.
Many of the diners asked about the rumors of Father Tom's death, and each question caused a pained look to Father David and gave Booth a pang. Time flew in a way that seemed supernatural. Weary, sore-footed, and awash in grief, Booth found he'd spent three hours in what felt like minutes, and as they moved out into the cafeteria to gather dishes and wipe tables and seats, hope of finding a culprit had abandoned him.
