Author's Note: Thanks for all of the reviews, alerts and favorites. Also, special thanks to Amilyn for speed-betaing over the weekend.

Chapter 10: Where to Begin.

He rode back to D.C. in the passenger seat of his SUV- Bones' seat. Some eager young agent had offered to drive him. It broke another of his rules, letting someone else drive his vehicle, but you know what? Fuck his rules. The agent, some kid who reminded him of Sweets, obviously wanted to talk about the case. He was asking Booth all sorts of questions about post-abduction protocol and likely outcomes.

Booth clenched and unclenched his fists slowly. Agent Whatshisface was acting like this was a fucking case study, something out of a textbook in Quantico. He wanted to yell at him, to yank him out of the car and pound him into the ground, to tell him that the "victim", was his partner. He wanted to throw him against the side of the SUV and tell him that yes, he damn well knew what it meant to have gotten nowhere after forty-eight hours. He wanted to scream in his face and ask him why he didn't pay attention to the gossip, why he didn't know that he loved her- that she was his. Why didn't he know that Booth didn't want to hear anything now that wouldn't lead to putting Bones right back in his passenger seat where she belonged?

He closed his eyes to shut the man out, and he awoke several hours later to the sight of the Washington Monument out the windshield. The Mall. There was a coffee cart at the Mall, not too far from the Jeffersonian. Eight months ago, at the airport, they'd agreed to meet at that cart when they returned from their respective time-outs. They weren't supposed to be here. He didn't belong in the passenger seat of this SUV, and she didn't belong on this continent. Not yet. She should have been in Maluku. God, he'd been so worried about her there. He'd imagined all of the things that could've gone wrong, all the ways she could've been hurt...but she'd been safe there, with her bones. She should still be there, and he should still be looking forward to that day, four months from now, at the coffee cart.

He pounded his fist on the dash, startling his driver. Booth didn't try to explain, didn't even glance over at the other agent. "Turn here," he directed. "I want to go directly to the Jeffersonian."

oOo

He wasn't sure what he expected to find at the lab (the lab that wasn't supposed to function without her), but he definitely wasn't expecting Sweets to be holding court on the platform, surrounded by squints with stacks of paper.

All eyes were on him as he approached. He saw Angela's eyes darken before she turned away from him. She blamed him. For taking her Bren away from her bones. For making her...not safe. He didn't belong here. He never really had. But these were her people, and he needed them. He couldn't find her on his own. Obviously.

Sweets rose to meet him.

"Agent Booth," he was all business, "I hope you don't mind, but when I heard that Dr. Brennan's disappearance appeared unrelated to the McIntosh murder, I asked the Jeffersonian team to help me start sorting through emails, messages on the fansites related to Brennan's books, appointments on calendars..."

Sweets trailed off, and Booth just stared, because the anger was fading and being replaced by despair, and it was too early for that. Forty-eight hours was late, but it wasn't too late. He was at the beginning, not the end, but he had trouble remembering that. He felt paralyzed, and he was just so grateful that Sweets had been able to do something.

But despite all of his claims to the contrary, Sweets didn't really understand Booth all that well, and he misread the staring. He missed the gratitude, taking it for disapproval.

"I mean, I know that I should have waited for you to get her and tell us what we should do. I know that, but we all just...we needed to start somewhere. It's hard to know where to start, because we don't know what motivated the kidnappers, and I'm not an investigator, but I thought...You know, if someone stood out as obviously dangerous..."

Booth knew it was time to find his tongue; he needed to let Sweets know he'd done well. He needed to appear confident. These were her people, and they needed him too.

Booth nodded and forced himself to sound authoritative. "Good job, Sweets." The psychologist nearly sagged in relief, and Booth knew that authoritative was the attitude everyone was hoping for. He looked at the others. "Alright, people, let's hear it. What have we got so far?"

oOo

Two hours with the squints, and the desperation was becoming palpable. Nothing had stood out in any of the emails they'd looked through. The perusal of Brennan's fansites had yielded a few crazies. Booth had sent a few agents to check them out, but he knew it would lead nowhere. He'd run checks on everyone who worked in the lab and had interviewed most of them; Hacker was doing the same thing at the FBI. They hadn't found a single clue that spoke to motive. Sweets was right, without an understanding of motive, they had nothing. Not this time.

He needed a place to start. Something to pursue. He'd never had more to lose and less to go on. Crimes didn't work this way. People weren't the victims of well-planned, well-executed abductions without there being a reason. People didn't abduct someone right out from under the nose of a federal agent without a hint as to why.

He and Cam had co-opted one of Angela's smartboards, and started a list of every person who had known about their trip to Virginia Beach. They'd mapped out every possible line of inquiry, but just like with the obsessive fans, Booth knew they were off-base. It just didn't feel right. Teams were out conducting interviews, but all he could think about was how they were just wasting more time and how those men had looked at his partner before they'd taken her. It was killing him.

Metaphorically. It might literally be killing her.

He jumped when he felt his phone vibrate. His first reaction was anger, because the FBI had been able to replace his phone so quickly, but no one had been able to get his partner back. He let it pass, though, and pulled his eyes from his lists; He had a text. A number he didn't recognize. His heart began to pound. He had a feeling. He flipped his phone open.

A reason, starting to take shape.

"A father for his daughter. You have two days. We'll be in touch."

Max. Booth had called Russ and told him that his sister was missing, and Max fucking Keenan had never called him back. He'd never called him back, and they'd done nothing but lose time.

Max, who had never been anything but trouble.

Fury. There was nothing left but fury.