Chapter Twenty-Four

"Maybe there's a secret compartment," Erin said.

She was groping the floorboards, crawling around feeling blindly for God only knew what. Booth tried to move, but gave that up as a terrible fucking idea when the pain shot through him again.

"We're in the secret compartment," he said. "Besides – we're in a boat. You open anything up down here and I'm pretty sure we're cooked, 'cause I'm sure as hell not up to swimming right now."

She stopped looking and sat back down, her back against the bunk where Booth was still lying down. He could breathe, at least, but he was sweating bullets and every move he made felt like it would be his last. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on something besides the pain.

"We're still alive," Erin said.

He waited for her to add something a little more hopeful to that statement, but she just went quiet again. She still looked like hell, but Booth noted that she'd managed to keep down the baked beans she'd eaten earlier – that was something, anyway. Every so often when she thought he wasn't looking, he could see that she was struggling; it wasn't all that long ago that he'd been breathing life into her lungs after all, sure she was a goner. The adrenaline may have kicked in for her now, but she was due for one hell of a crash once it was gone.

"Have you thought of names?" he said, out of the blue. If he spent anymore time obsessing about how far up shit creek they actually were, he was sure he'd go nuts. He thought he'd have to clarify his question when Erin didn't answer right away, but then her hand fell to her stomach.

"Adam," she said, quiet now. She looked back over her shoulder at him. "It was my dad's name. And I know what you're thinking – it's probably bad form to name your kid after a guy who went nuts and killed himself."

She bit her lip, thinking that through before she continued. Her voice was light, but he could tell how much it bothered her saying those words.

"He wasn't always that way, you know. I mean… Before the fire, he was a good father. A good man."

Booth waited for her to go on, but she seemed lost in memories. A few minutes passed in silence, but then the pain in his chest kicked in again and he didn't quite have the strength to just leave her to her thoughts.

"You started to tell me before why you were out here," he said.

Another couple seconds passed before she turned around to look at him. She sat with her knees curled up to her chest, locked in a debate he could almost read on her face. Tell the dying guy the whole truth and distract him for a few minutes longer, or keep it to herself? He tried to shift and just about blacked out from the pain, and the look on his face seemed to be enough to make up her mind. Sharing time it was.

"I inherited the island," she began. "The letter came about a month ago, but I haven't been living with Michael for a while… I just got it last week."

"So, you decided you had to come visit in the middle of a blizzard," he said. "Yeah, now I get it. Good thinking."

She rolled her green eyes and gave him a pretty little smile. "Are you gonna let me finish or what?" She took a big breath and let it out nice and slow. "There was something in with the paperwork the lawyer sent me – some pictures."

He was still lost so far, but he didn't have the energy to keep prodding her.

"The gist of it is this: That cult suicide where thirty-four people died on the island supposedly in a suicide pact, after which my father lost it completely?" She was watching him now, gauging his response. He got the feeling she hadn't told anybody this stuff yet. "It turns out, it might not have been suicide after all."

That got his attention. "And if it wasn't suicide, you think people might start pointing fingers at your old man?"

She touched her index finger to her nose. "Bingo."

"But you know he didn't do it," he said. There was no hiding the doubt in his voice.

"Yeah, I do know, as a matter of fact," she said. Her back was up a little now. "He wouldn't do something like that."

"That still doesn't explain why you had to go out there in the middle of a blizzard, though."

This time, he was sure she wasn't going to answer. She scratched at her hand and played with her shirt sleeve and then, finally, she looked at him.

"I got a call," she said. "Someone who said he knew what happened out there. He said to meet me out here last night." She pushed the hair back from her face, her eyes suddenly dark. "I need to know. I knew everybody who died out there – I grew up with those kids. I went to that church. I lost everything when it burned." Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them away so fast Booth wondered if he'd actually seen them at all. She sat up a little straighter. "This guy knew things nobody else could have about that day. I couldn't miss the chance to talk to him."

Just the look on her face told Booth she was telling the truth. Before he could ask any follow-up questions, though, there was the sound of the boat's trapdoor opening above them. They'd been using a little battery-powered lantern for light, but now full sun shone down on them. Booth blinked in the glare, a whole new dread taking hold.

"Not dead yet?" the Constable asked Booth. He whistled softly. "I knew you were a tough son of a bitch first time I laid eyes on you. That's enough lying around, though – I need you two up here."

Erin glanced at Booth, then back up toward the constable. "Are you nuts? He can't move – right now the only thing keeping him alive is a fucking juice box straw in his chest."

"Not my problem," he said shortly. He peered in a little closer, and Booth could see the gun he had levered at them both. "Get up or I'll just shoot you now. Makes no difference to me. One way or the other, we're getting off this boat."

Booth had been in pain before. He'd been tortured, he'd been shot, he'd been blown up - it was hardly new to him. But this was a whole different level of agony; he couldn't even think straight, let alone move. Erin sat down beside him on the bunk and gently picked up his arm and put it around her shoulders.

"Just think about Brennan, all right?" she said. "You and her in a nice little house together, the gorgeous babies you'll have one of these days." She looked at him intently. "I'm serious, okay? I told you before: We're not dying today. Now try for nice, shallow breaths, and no sudden moves."

He nodded. Somehow, she got them both on their feet. Getting up into the cabin of the boat was another story, though – it was just a matter of climbing two wooden stairs, but it might as well have been Everest.

"What are we waiting for?" the Constable asked. Booth could see him now, standing up there at the edge of the trapdoor. He was dressed in heavy winter gear, his shoulder in a sling, his face bruised and bloodied from the jail break he and Lindley had faked the day before. "Come on up here, son. You're a hell of a lot more valuable to me than a second string reporter like Erin there, trust me."

Booth just stood there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up; trying to figure out how the hell they were supposed to get out of this.

"Did you know he was gonna shoot you?" Booth asked. It was hard getting any volume behind his voice, what with the whole collapsed fucking lung and all, but he could tell Mills heard him. A shadow crossed the old man's face.

"You didn't, did you?" Booth continued. "That's why you killed him – he took things too far. Pissed you off. And now you've got two hostages you can't handle and a blizzard that's apparently never gonna end, and no clue what happens next."

For a few seconds, Booth thought he had the other man on the ropes; he was on the right track, at least. It didn't last long, though, before Mills shrugged it off.

"The snow'll end soon – and right now it's a gift. As long as it keeps snowing, nobody'll be out to look for me. Or you."

Booth wouldn't bet on that, but he didn't say anything. If somebody was coming for them, he didn't want to blow it. The hard part was gonna be staying alive until that happened.

"Now come on, dammit," Mills said. "I'm not waiting here all day."

Just two steps; he could do that. Booth managed to get his left foot on the first step, sweat dripping down his face. The problem wasn't so much the pain as knowing that if he moved wrong, the straw Erin had stuck inside him to keep his lungs clear would slip right out – it was hard to show much enthusiasm about life with that kind of threat hanging over his head. Still, he used Erin's shoulder as a crutch and managed to make it up the first step.

His head cleared the trapdoor. Booth looked around the pilothouse, stopping at sight of the sizable pool of blood not far from where he was standing. His blood, he assumed. He swallowed past another knot in his throat. Mills was getting antsy – the skeleton was nowhere in sight, and the old man kept looking out the window. Snow was still coming down, but it looked like it was slowing. Booth had no clue what time it was, but his guess was early afternoon. Bones would know something was wrong by now. Much as he didn't want her to put herself in danger, he had to admit he was really hoping she had somebody out there looking for them.

It wasn't the time to try something – both he and Erin were goners if he did. He took the next step up. Mills stood just far enough away that Booth couldn't get hold of him if he decided to try something – not that there was anything he could try in his condition, anyway. Instead, Booth concentrated on just holding himself steady. He glanced down to his left, where Erin was standing with his arm around her, trying to keep them both up. She somehow managed to look vulnerable as hell and tough as nails all at once; she gave him an encouraging smile, but he could see the fear in her eyes all the same.

"You're almost there, Booth. You can do this."

Booth nodded. She was right - he could do this. He was just getting ready to make that final awkward crawl up above deck when he saw a change on Mills' face: some flicker of spite that sure as hell wasn't a good sign. Then, the old man leveled the gun down below again, where Erin was still doing her damnedest to keep Booth on his feet.

Before he could even react, Booth saw the man's finger squeeze the trigger – in slow motion almost, like some cheesy seventies flick. The explosion so close to Booth's head nearly shattered his eardrum as Mills fired twice in quick succession, straight down into the cabin below. Erin screamed, and Booth's knees went out from under him as soon as she wasn't there to hold him up. His heart rocketed up into his throat and his chest caught fire again.

"What the fuck are you doing? Erin!" The old man was smiling, his eyes hard; Booth felt that fragile thread that had been keeping him conscious so far start to fray when Erin didn't answer.

TBC