August 2005
Over the course of summer, Booth settled into his new role as a Supervisory Special Agent.
His first few cases had been basic. In fact, the first case was so straightforward, the victim's driver's license was still on his remains and his ex-lover easily confessed. The work had been in building the case when the numbskull decided to plead not guilty by self-defense.
Then the difficult ones started coming. It started with a baby found buried in a backyard – child victims were always the worst. Mid-summer brought the discovery of a head with all its teeth missing and a substantial portion of the top smashed into the victim's brain. On its heels, his first semi-high profile case cropped up when multiple bodies, decades old were found, being the remains of some sisters who had gone missing in the area while on vacation in the late 1980s. Each successive set of remains had taken longer and longer to ID, but the FBI's forensics lab pulled through each time with the victims' identities within a week.
Booth's solve rate continued its impressive pace.
Until August.
Another smashed skull had been found, though at least this time attached to a body, but the lab had yet to get back to him after a week. There was only so much that could be done until he knew who the victim was, and that short list had run out.
He knew the one person who could help him probably wouldn't. She had gone back to her avoidance tactic when he had tried calling her for help on the first smashed skull case. What the hell. May as well get her voicemail so I can at least say I tried.
He sat forward and dialed her memorized number and waited.
A click told him the phone was picked up, but he heard nothing but muffled voices, apparently arguing over who was going to speak.
"Hello, this is the Jeffersonian Museum Medico-Legal lab, Zach Addy speaking. How may I help you?"
Booth rolled his eyes. He remembered her assistant. Great, now she's making him answer her phone for him?
"Zach, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth. I need to speak with Dr. Brennan," he was direct and to the point.
Sounding rehearsed, Zach answered, "Dr. Brennan is unavailable."
Yeah, sure she is. His jaw tensed but he managed to maintain his calm despite his frustration. "When will she be available?"
Zach answered without hesitation, "I'm not allowed to say."
"Not allowed to say? What do you mean you're not allowed to say?"
"It means that someone told me not to say," the assistant said unwittingly.
"Would that someone be Bones?" He asked mockingly. His gut already knew the answer.
"Who?" Zach's brow wrinkled, baffled.
"Dr. Brennan."
Zach, not understanding the nickname used for his teacher, needed to know, "Why did you call her Bones?"
"Don't change the subject." Booth snapped. "Was she the one who told you not to say?"
"I take that as a yes. So yes, Dr. Brennan told me not to tell you anything," the young man admitted.
"About what?" he barked into the phone.
Surprisingly unintimidated, Zach braved on patiently. "I believe I said anything."
Booth rubbed the bridge of his nose, staving off the tension headache he was sure to follow. "Fine, don't tell me anything. Have her tell me herself."
"She doesn't want to speak to you."
"Just put her on Zach," he yelled. "Tell her I threatened you if you have to. I have a case that I need her help with."
Finally flustered at the thought of what a threat from an FBI agent could look like, Zach bumbled, "She wouldn't help you, even if she were here." He realized his mistake the moment it was out of his mouth. He needed this conversation to end, and quickly so he wouldn't accidentally let anything else slip.
"What do you mean if she were…?" He cut himself off mid-question. "Where is she then if she's not there?"
"Somewhere else?" It came out like a question.
Gritting through his teeth, Booth jeered, "You know I'm FBI and I can find out, right? You may as well tell me."
"You haven't gone through the proper channels. How do I know you aren't stalking Dr. Brennan?"
"Again, I'm FBI Zach. If I wanted to stalk her, I would just use my resources here instead of wasting my time talking to you." Booth had begun calmly but by the end he was shouting once more in the younger man's ear.
Zach took a slow breath to maintain his resolve. "My instructions were to not give you any information."
"Too late, you've already told me she's not there."
Damn, he caught that. Afraid of saying anything else, Zach ended it. "I can't say anymore. Goodbye Agent Booth."
Booth pounded the phone receiver on his forehead in frustration. He had gotten very little information out of that annoying squint. His only hope for a quick case resolution was gone and he was stuck with the FBI's own forensic scientists.
Dialing anew, he called down to pressure the FBI squints for faster information.
It quickly became apparent they didn't have anything for him, further fraying his already unraveling patience.
"What do you mean you don't have an identity yet?" Booth's hand rested on his hip as he stood behind his desk.
"It's a difficult reconstruction," the tech defended the lab.
"No more difficult than the smashed in skull six weeks ago or the Carly sisters last month," the agent harangued. "What's the difference?"
Silence.
"Marcus, I can't do my job until you do yours." Booth complained. "I needed the ID, yesterday."
"It's the end of the workday. We'll prioritize it first thing tomorrow," the tech offered.
"That still doesn't help me today." Fists were clenched in exasperation. Yelling didn't seem to be intimidating them as much as it had in the past. "And it doesn't answer my question: why isn't this one done as timely as the others?!"
Pausing to swallow his own ego, Marcus quietly acknowledged, "We may have used a consultant on those cases."
"Fantastic, use them again." Booth smirked and slapped his desk at the win. "Why is this so hard?" If they had found a good consultant, his case would be moving again in no time.
"Well you see… the problem is," he seemed to be having difficulty sharing some difficult news.
"Spit it out!"
Marcus did as he was told. "Dr. Brennan is out of the country until next month and…"
"Wait, wait, wait," Booth held up his hand to stop the man from continuing despite the fact he couldn't see. "Dr. Brennan? The Dr. Temperance Brennan? From the Jeffersonian? She's been working on my cases?" he practically squeaked.
"Yes. But…"
Booth interrupted, plopping in his seat as he felt his chest constrict. "You know what, I don't care. Just get me an ID."
He hung up without another word. It was suddenly harder to pull air into his lungs. Bones was working on his cases. He could hardly believe it. She was the reason he was able to be so successful at his job. Damnit, he needed her. As soon as she was back from wherever she was, he was going to cut out the middle-man and convince her to work with him directly, no matter what it took.
He had a project while he waited for the lab to figure out who their victim was. He needed find out where she had gone and how to get her back in his corner. That would probably involve figuring out what exactly the proper channels were at the Jeffersonian. At least now he knew why she hadn't responded to his email.
A trench had been dug alongside where the bodies lay so the living would not trample on the dead, jumbled in confusion, a mass grave of tangled limbs.
Each day was the same. Dr. Brennan, Dr. Hunter, and two grad students, working in pairs, would work in the trench, gently and methodically extracting a single victim at a time. Treating each set of remains as the individuals they were, the bones were laid reverently in simple coffins.
It was slow work, meticulously toiling to ensure all bones were accounted for and no one's bones were mixed with another's. Without fail, each morning would bring a few family members of the missing from the nearest village who made the seven mile trek to observe and report back to the rest of the village each evening.
Once a set was complete, Temperance would climb out of the pit on a rickety wooden ladder to work with the artistically-trained archaeologist, Dr. Summers, to begin the process of identifying the person that once was.
Once in a while, something – a picture, an engraved piece of jewelry, once even a prosthetic eyeball – would be found with the remains making for a quick ID. Most times, they started from scratch, first determining height, then gender, then age. Next Dr. Brennan analyzed the bones for skeletal indicators that could point to profession or lifestyle. Finally, she would help place markers on the skull for the artist of the group to begin his rendering, a sketch to pass around the local villages.
The day victims were identified was a great day. The camp of scientists would share a shot of liquor after supper, congratulating each other, celebrating that more of the missing had been found.
However, the day following was always difficult. Those days, large parties of mourners would parade from whatever villages the victims had lived to collect the coffins to bring home for a proper ceremony and burial. The villagers would want to embrace each member of their crew in gratitude for returning their loved one to them. Dr. Hunter, Dr. Summers and the two others would line up to accept the thanks graciously. Dr. Brennan would slip away from camp to respectfully observe the parade from a nearby hillside.
This day was a regular day down in the trench. A tent-like structure built with branches and tarps hung over the pit in an attempt to keep the work area slightly drier from the rain showers than the surrounding space. The two armed men assigned to their protection stood guard in the damp open air. The only thing missing was her grad student partner who had driven to the nearest city with Dr. Summers for more supplies and to collect their mail, so she worked alone to extract another victim from the earth. By late afternoon, the passing showers had turned into a steady rainfall.
The sky was darkening prematurely and the tarp struggled to do its job prompting Dr. Hunter to approach Brennan. "The East side is getting too slick, our tools keep slipping. How is this side faring?"
Continuing to remove the soil between the bones with her plastic spoon, Brennan conceded, "As much as I want to finish extracting these metacarpals, I don't think daylight is going to cooperate."
He stood watching her intense focus for a moment before excusing himself. "I'll go tell Ben to pack up for the night. Do you want any help?"
"No, I can take care of it myself," disappointment laced in her voice. She brushed her hands on her pants then stood tall as Dr. Hunter retreated, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had built up over the hours of hunching over in the pit. A smear of dirt appeared on her cheek as she rubbed it on her shoulder to satisfy an itch.
Moving to cover the coffin with its cover and marking her place in the dirt with some pin flags, Brennan then gathered up her tools in her roll kit. She didn't use much: a pointing trowel, a hand brush and a few plastic spoons, preferring those over metallic instruments that could potentially damage the bones. Then hoisting the kit on the side of the pit, she climbed the rickety ladder and walked towards the tents.
As she reached the women's tent, artificial light bounced ahead of her and the sound of a motor joined in the gentle rain patter. Dr. Summers honked the horn as he and Jill passed by in the Jeep, parking by the generator attached to the shack posing as their kitchen and mess hall.
They would unpack the vehicle once the rain stopped so Brennan entered her tent to wash her mud encrusted face and hands before dinner.
A trip to the city meant fresh beef for dinner, a treat for their bean and corn heavy diet. Joining together in the shack, Jill served dinner while Dr. Summers passed out the mail. "Three for Dr. Hunter, one for Dr. Brennan, two for Ben…" she called out as she handed out their only semi-steady contact with home at the table. The others kept up a chatter of updates from the city and updates on the day's dig.
Brennan took her piece and continued updating Jill on the progress she had made without her, ignoring the archaeologist calling out names afterwards since this would be her only letter, always from Angela.
Dr. Summers interrupted Brennan mid-bite, sticking a second envelope under her nose. "Here's another one for you Dr. Brennan."
She took it silently, wrinkling her brow in confusion and setting her fork down to look it over. The stamp was American, the postage marking from D.C., but the return address was just an address, no name included and she didn't recognize the handwriting.
The small group grew quiet as they noticed her study the envelope in bewilderment. "Got a secret admirer you've been hiding from us, Dr. Brennan?" Dr. Hunter teased.
"Hardly," she hurriedly stuck the second envelope under her plate to avoid further scrutiny. "Did you happen to check weather reports?" She redirected the conversation onto Dr. Summers. There was no way she was going to assuage her own curiosity about the mystery letter with four others ogling to get a peek, too. It would wait until she went back to her tent.
"I did," Dr. Summers nodded. "The forecast says we should be dry for the next three days before it gets wet again. I suggest we get to bed early tonight so we're up with the sun to make the most of these few days."
A chorus of murmurs agreed with the sentiment and within fifteen minutes, the kitchen had been cleaned, and everyone had parted ways for the sleeping tents.
Jill always fell asleep quickly which frequently worked to the favor of the anthropologist who cherished her privacy.
Brennan sat on her bed and started with the letter from Angela. Unfailingly Angela wrote every week, somehow cramming a week's worth of gossip and news into a single envelope: what dates she had gone on, strange things Zach had said or done, Jack's latest creepy attempts at friendship, or amusing workplace anecdotes. This week, her letter included a story of Dr. Goodman getting so fed up with Zach's incessant talking that he had created a new rule for the grad student, claiming that he only spoke with other doctorates.
It never made her feel homesick or especially happy, but the contents were often entertaining and brightened her mood when she missed basic plumbing and electricity.
Tonight, there was something akin to excitement as she once more studied the second letter, searching for any clue as to its sender. Without finding anything useful, she tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper filled mostly with white space. The first two lines were typed and the sloppy signature signed with flourish.
She read:
Dear Dr. Brennan,
I'm sorry I doubted you.
Regards, Special Agent Seeley Booth
Apparently it was in his power to apologize. She blinked in surprise a few times before setting it aside and turning out the light. It happened rarely, but tonight, she didn't know what to think. Perhaps she would evaluate her decision to have Zach block all his calls. Perhaps.