Here it is, Brennan's actions after Christie left.
Joy
I managed to wait until I heard the door slam. That was when I broke and began to sob.
How? I wondered, how did she dream that night? I had read reports about people that could see things others saw in their dreams, but the science, if their was any, was flimsy.
More important than how, was what? I knew that she wanted to know who her father was. It had been hard, very hard, to raise her without a father figure. But in all my attempts to make her like me, she turned into a clone of her father. Booth. I missed him. Everyday. I couldn't begin to tell her what an amazing man he was. It hurt so much to even think about it.
What hurt more than his death, if that were possible, was the uncertainty. Did he love me back? Did he only think of me as a friend? Did he find me ugly, or pretty, or plain? These questions could never be answered. I was left in the dark, groping for answers. My scientist side, which I had tried to ignore for years to cultivate the growth of my cop side, demanded answers. They both demanded answers.
I finished cleaning the beer spill.
Now I waited for Christine to come back. So I could explain why I couldn't give her the answers she wanted.
I waited.
And waited.
Something is wrong. I looked at my watch. Almost noon. I couldn't take it anymore. I picked up the phone and dialed.
After a few ring the line picked up. "Hello?" an older voice asked.
"Mr. Breckenwitz, it Joy Keenan. I was wondering if my daughter was there? She left last night and she hasn't come back home yet."
"She isn't here, Joy."
Ice seemed to slide down my spine. When my daughter wasn't home, she was at Jake's house. "What do you mean she isn't there? Whenever she isn't at home or school she is always there."
"I mean that Christie isn't here. She was here. But she left."
"Where?!" I asked franticly. Worry seemed to pool in my gut. My breathing got shallower.
"I can't tell you," I fell to my knees. I couldn't breathe.
I used to identify the remains of people who were only skeletons. That was a past life. I know this feeling. Last time I felt it was when I was fifteen. I wondered when my parents would come back. After the days went by, my hope began to fade. Suddenly, I wasn't the nearly fifty year old Sheriff. I wasn't the former SWAT officer or Bomb Squad member or cop. I was a fifteen year old girl who didn't know where a loved one was.
"Joy?" the gentle tone from the former commando brought me back, "Come over. You're gonna need some comfort."
~*~
I sat at the table, a cup of coffee in my hand. It was shaking. I didn't bring the drink to my lips, partly because I was afraid to spill and partly because the swill he drank could strip paint off a car. Christine had said that after a sip.
Marcus Breckenwitz stared at me with eyes that asked forgiveness. All I needed to do was find out what to forgive.
"Where is she?" I asked.
He shook his head, "I'm sorry kid," he used my least favorite nickname, "I cant tell ya."
My face contorted with rage, "What do you mean, 'You can't tell me'?" my voice shook, "You either know where she is or you don't. If you did, you will tell ME!" I reached across the table and grabbed him by the shirt. I pulled his massive frame toward me, "WHERE IS SHE?!"
His eyes again asked for forgiveness. He sighed and said "I can't tell you."
"WHY?" I screamed. Tears blurred my vision. "Why?" I began to sob.
"I was told not to."
~*~
Calson
When Joy called, I was immediately assigned the case.
Just to clarify: I didn't not like Kennan. I didn't like her either. Most assume I don't like her because she took my job. On the contrary. She was able to gather evidence to put away those politicians. I had tried for over a year to get the evidence to put them away. She did it better than me. I watched, trying to learn how she did it.
We searched Brekenwitz's house first. I liked Marcus. We had beer every Tuesday when I was off duty. We would reminisce about our days in the service. Though I could do without a few of those stories about leave in Bangkok.
I dusted for prints. But something was wrong. Ordinarily, whenever you dust a house for prints, you get hundreds. This house was clean. Only Marcus' Prints, and they were on whatever he touched this morning.
Some one had cleaned up after themselves. Even the places that no one ever thinks about, like under the sink and behind the TV. I know Marcus isn't that good.
I cast my mind out, searching for people I know that could have this amount of skill in covert ops.
But Sergeant Major Jon Trevodur was long dead.
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