*** 14 ***

The lab is quiet and dim under the security lighting. Temperance likes it. Maybe she'll get some work done. In her office, she turns on her desk and floor lamps, instead of the overhead, makes tea and rummages for Lorna Doones. Although she picked at Booth's cold chicken and tasted the bread pudding, she never did get a proper meal,. It feels too late to be eating a full dinner anyway.

Shuffling through the files on her desk, she finds written reports from Zach and Hodgins on the bodies and their effects in Bethesda, along with stills from the video feed and digitals of all the details. Angela has also started files on each, along with files for each of Stratton's victims from the data sent by Drs. Wolff and Caber. She's worked up three sketches so far from the Angelator views, and there's CD's inside each file. They've been busy. Dentals, prints, DNA, surgical markers and broken bones, recovered fabrics and coins and pens, it's all here, waiting to be pieced together by every agency with an acroynm in hopes of a positive identification.

She leans back to check her fax, and there sits Booth's list of reported missing in Robeson County. Under it is a request for help with a scattering of bones found under a building foundation in Manitoba, and another for confirmation of possible human remains found in Florida. She picks up Booth's list, plucks up a highlighter, and scans it for victims of the right age and sex to match the eight Stratton victims. There's twenty-seven possible matches.

Absently, she sips her tea and checks her voice mail. Bingo! One of the Bethesda bodies was identified by the FBI lab on a NCIC hit. They were gathering information and would forward it to Henson ASAP. The fourth message raises the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Dr. Brennan," says a computer generated male voice. "You will find something of interest in spot DD03. Please proceed there now."

"End of message. To delete this message, please..."

Temperance punches zero and 4 and listens to the message play again. Completely electronic. She hits zero and 1 and finds out it was left at 7:43 that evening, about the same time Stratton was assassinated. She calls the number back. It rings eleven times before someone picks up. She hears the sound of traffic before the receiver thunks back down. Dialing again, she waits through three rings.

"Hello?" A woman.

"Hi. Can you tell me the location of this phone?"

"Outside the Quik-mart," she says like Tempe should know that already.

"What street?"

"Oh. Um, Crandon Avenue. It's a pay phone."

"Thank you," she says and hangs up. She digs for her phone book, searches for the area codes, and finds out that Crandon Avenue is in Reston.

Rather than explain repeatedly, Temperance forgoes the phone, grabs a flashlight and gloves and beats it down to Security. She only has to tell her story twice before the third shift supervisor, Doug, has a team of four assembled and they proceed to her reserved parking spot, DD03. She's the only one without a gun, though she's certain she's been shooting longer than two of the guards have been out of middle school.

At the end of the row, they slow, creeping along with guns drawn. Tempe studies the ground ahead of them, looking for anything that shouldn't be there. Several spots away, she can see her car is gone. In its place is a little, white car. She places a hand on Doug's arm. "That's not my car," she whispers.

He nods, and motions his boys to fan out. They sidestep cautiously, faces tense.

"Someone inside," says the tall guard.

They all stop, about three spaces away. There's a green mini-van parked in the far side spot, and another white four-door on the side of DD03 closest to them.

Doug points. In a bass rumble, he stage-whispers, "Kenny, Mark, I want you to slowly cross behind and cover it from the far side. Watch for any movement from the vehicle, we've got your back."

The tallest guard and the youngest, creep forward. When they are in position, Temperance, Doug and the remaining guard close the distance. According to the label on the back, the car's a Ford Tempo, Tempe notes. It's dusty and older. There's rust along the bottom door edges, and the black window seals are faded to splotchy brown. There's a man visible through the driver's side window, but his head is tilted back against the seat, like he's sleeping. Temperance flushes cold with adrenaline. She's almost certain he's not sleeping.

Doug crouches and inspects underneath. "Clear," he says, and then adds, "Of anything obvious, anyway."

He stands and raises his voice, "Sir? Sir! Security. Open your door and step out."

There's no response.

"Sir? Sir! Please respond if you are able."

After a moment of roaring silence, Doug nods to his partner and slides forward. He peers in through the rear window, then, ducking, through the rear passenger window. He darts his head forward and peeks at the driver. Tempe sees him relax. "He's dead." Doug stands, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "When did that call come in, Dr. Brennan?"

"7:43."

"They're long gone from here, then. Kenny, go upstairs and get the yellow tape, to secure this scene. Locate the owners of these two cars, and that one," he says and points at the cars on either side of the Tempo and a red Camry across the aisle. "Get them moved. We're lucky it's late, otherwise it'd be a zoo. Mark, find Duplin and start reviewing the cameras. Scott, stay on this aisle, keep your eyes open for anything or anyone odd while Dr. Brennan and I coordinate. Don't let anyone enter this aisle, don't let anyone down here."

While he talks, Temperance inches in near him and peers in at the body. He looks familiar, but he's bloated and grey. There's a circular hole in the center of his forehead, and the back of his head is flattened; his short, blonde, greying hair matted with blood, brain, and skull fragments. The seat's relatively clean, though.

Male, caucasian, maybe in his forties, though the decomp makes it hard to judge.

The boys scatter. Scott starts checking the smattering of parked cars along the row for staff stickers.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm calling my boss, Dr. Goodman, and the police, in that order. Please don't touch the car."

"I've got gloves," she says. "I'd like to open the door, Doug, but I won't touch the body."

"No, Dr. Brennan. This car is an unknown, parked in your spot. It could be rigged or anything."

Ah. Okay, he's right.

"Where is your car parked, Dr. Brennan?"

"It was parked here."

Doug looks grim. He makes that scooping gesture at about her shoulder level that men make when trying to herd women, and ushers her out into the aisle. While he talks to his boss, she dials up Booth, but there's no answer. She leaves a message and then takes the phone from Doug and talks to Goodman at home, trying not to envision him in striped pajamas and failing.

Within twenty minutes, her parking spot is an official crime scene, complete with staff bystanders after they've moved their cars out of the way. One of the two locals Booth requested shows up to add to the chaos. He's assigned to her alone, not part of the official response, so stands exactly eight feet away from her, hands in his pockets.

She tries Booth again. There's no need to, and she knows he's probably already been re-deployed on the sniper hunt, but she leaves another message. Then she gets caught up in the action, giving a statement while watching the car inspection. They even run a mirror underneath before cautiously opening the doors. Nothing happens. A collective hush falls as everyone breathes and then everything begins happening, all at once. All doors and the trunk are opened, fingerprint dust billows, cameras flash, both CSI's and Jeffersonian security's. The ME's office moves a gurney in.

Temperance details her story and eventually takes someone up to record her voicemail, since it's stored on the Jeffersonian's private system. She can retrieve remotely, but she's not about to share that fact with an investigator and have to jump through cyberhoops to change all her passwords again. When she returns, they are loading the body and Doug shares the info he's gleaned. It's not enough to tell her why she's standing here at one thirty in the morning.

***

Bones looks kinda forlorn, standing off to one side with her hands in her pockets. Not her usual look at all. A cop standing near her notices him and Booth holds up his badge, on a lanyard around his neck, and a finger to his lips. Drawing Bones' attention, the cop meanders off, towards two others standing over the scene.

Her hair is pulled back and he can feel the warmth rising from her skin as he leans in. "Hey," he says.

She jumps, but Booth manages to catch her elbow mid-strike and placing his other hand on her waist, pulls her back into him. "What? Asleep on your feet?"

"No. Just tired."

"Me, too." He eases his hands to her shoulders, pressing his fingers down as she tries to turn. "Wait." He squeezes experimentally, and then digs the balls of his thumbs into the twin knots along the slopes of her shoulders. "Geesh, Bones, tense a little?"

"My car's gone."

Booth works his way to her neck and runs his thumbs up the corded grooves to the base of her skull. He smiles when she arches her neck, her chin dropping onto her chest. She has a long neck. He runs his fingers firmly down the back of it as he answers her. "That's okay, I found it."

"You did?" He lets her turn then, and watches as she takes in his hair standing on end and the cut on his temple. Her eyes move to the dark stains on his Kevlar vest before coming back to his.

"I did," he says.

"What happened?"

"Ghilley was driving it."

"So you got him?"

"Not exactly." Booth looks down. It wouldn't do to smile just now.

"Where's my car?"

He fights it down, but he's made her suspicious. He swipes at the soot on his vest. "Reston."

"Where in Reston?" she says, her voice sharp.

"Uh." When he looks up, her eyes are narrowed. He feels just like a beetle sitting on a board, the pin driving straight at him. "The lake."

"My car's in the lake?" she yells.

Booth flinches. The CSIs glance up, one rising to his feet in alarm, and Doug spins, hand going to his hip. The cops just grin.

"It's okay," he calls to them. "Look, Bones," he says, lowering his voice. He goes for serious, but he's still high from the chase. "Temperance. It's being winched up right this second. But, since it was on fire..." God. She's furious. He winces, trying to keep his lips from curling. "... when it hit the water, I doubt there's much left."

"Booth!"

"C'mon. They don't need you here, do they?"

"No," she sighs, and wilts, the fight gusting right out of her.

He waves at the local. "I've got her, I'll call it in."

"The body's been transported," Bones informs him. "He seemed familiar, but I can't place him. His Georgia license states he's Tad Daniels, but that name doesn't ring an alarm at all."

"A bell, Bones, doesn't ring a bell. C'mon."