Escape
He knew a thing about torture, but the faculty get-together in which he had finally engineered an escape—"Our little man's got a cold"—had pushed torture to a whole different level.
"That was. . . (he tried to find the right adjective) fun," he announced as he turned the car onto the street.
"You enjoyed that?" Bones asked.
"I don't think anyone enjoys things like that," he countered. "Is there some anthropological reason for that kind of thing? Some Darwinian need for the survival of the dullest?"
If he thought he was going to have a conversation with his wife about the party they had just left, he was mistaken. Bones had already pulled out her phone and was dialing, a frown telling him exactly whom she was calling.
"Angela?"
"Yes," she sighed. "I've left her voicemails and several emails." Her voice trailed off. She sighed again.
"They probably have a case," he offered. "On top of that weird rib thing. Then they've got to pack for Paris and. . . ."
He kept talking, filling the car with speculation. The mistress of cold, hard evidence didn't stop him, even as his ideas became wishful.
". . .And you know Angela. She's probably deep into one of her paintings and can't remember what day it is."
"Maybe," she said.
She'd spoken mostly to the window, but he heard it just the same.
"Who is the one who's always talking about evidence?" He felt it was shaky ground, but he'd step on it to make her feel better. "She's got to be busy, training someone new."
She sighed. "I know you're right."
He'd call half the FBI tomorrow if he had to. He wasn't going to let his wife go through any more silent torture like this.