His phone rang early the next morning, before he even had a chance to get coffee from the breakroom. Booth looked at the number on the display and grimaced. Resigned to whatever chaos was about to be thrown into his day, he reached across the desk for the receiver.
"Booth."
"Good morning, Agent Booth! How are you?" The friendly greeting did nothing to dampen his suspicions about the call.
"Fine, Darla. How are you?"
"Very well, thanks for asking." With the pleasantries over, Hacker's admin got down to business. "The Assistant Director would like to see you this morning. Are you free at 9:00?"
The request was merely for show. They both knew that Booth was expected to clear any obstacle in the way of the requested time.
"Sure. I'll be there at 9:00 sharp."
"We'll see you then." With a click, the line went dead.
He sighed inwardly and swiveled around to face the computer. Although he could think of nothing in his caseload that should have popped up on his boss's radar, something obviously had. With a few clicks on the keyboard, he called up the most recent batch of reports from his team and started reading.
Less than an hour later, he straightened his tie and stepped off the elevator when the doors opened at the top level of the Hoover building. Unlike the bustle and noise of the lower floors, where rank and file agents carried out their duties and the raised voices of both accused and accuser were not uncommon, the executive level was hushed and solemn. Even the air felt different, heavy and grave, with an undercurrent of power so strong, it was almost tangible. A uniformed guard manned a pair of glass doors that separated the Director and his immediate reports, but the men and women who filled the remaining offices were just as conscious – and sometimes more so – of their authority. It was to one of those that Booth turned.
Although his footsteps were muted by thick carpets, Darla looked up from her computer as he approached. Before she could speak, however, Hacker, visible through the open door of the office just behind her, waved Booth to come inside. Without interrupting the phone conversation he was involved in, he pointed one long finger at the door and then, when it was closed, to the empty visitor's chair in front of his desk.
Booth sat, using the time provided by the ongoing call to glance casually around the room. Nothing had changed since the last time he'd been there; framed degrees hung on the walls, mixed with photos of Hacker with the powerful elite of Washington DC, and one older snapshot from his youth, showing family members surrounding him as a smiling young man wearing a college graduate's cap and gown.
"Yes, ma'am, I'll get those background reports over to your office as soon as they're complete . . . Yes, ma'am. Absolutely thorough . . . It's no trouble at all, ma'am. I'm happy to be of service . . . Of course, absolute discretion . . . Yes, ma'am . . . Yes, ma'am . . . Goodbye."
The call ended and for just a few seconds, Hacker dropped his head into one hand and massaged his temple with a thumb. When he looked up again, he gave Booth a somewhat tired smile.
"Do you ever think about sitting behind this desk some day?"
He had thought about it, more than once in fact, but for the moment, Booth just grinned. "Is that an offer, sir?"
Hacker snorted. "No, it's a warning. The job is nothing but politics when you're sitting in this chair, Booth. There's no time for real police work. Not anymore." He sighed with what sounded like genuine regret then squared his shoulders. The brief moment of reflection ended. All business again, he folded his hands and laid them on his desk. "Speaking of police work, catch me up on Broadsky."
Booth obliged, in short, precise sentences that still managed to convey the long hours he and his team continued to put in. "He's got a hole somewhere," he concluded. "We just don't know where it is yet. We'll find him, though. You can count on it."
Hacker nodded. "I expect nothing less. Right now, though, I want you to hand the investigation over to Flynn. You'll need to brief him on - -"
The unexpected news was a shock. Booth was outraged and, boss or not, let it show. "What? You're taking the Broadsky case away from me? Sir, my people have spent months trying to find him! We're turning over every stone! You can't just - -"
A hand in the air silenced his protest. "Relax, it's temporary. I need you to go to Florida."
Booth's mouth clamped shut, then "Florida, sir? Why?"
Hacker opened a drawer at his side and withdrew a thin manilla file. "What do you know about shipwrecks? Sunken treasure?"
More out of habit than curiosity, Booth accepted the file when it was offered. "Sunken treasure?"
"The Santa Esperanza sank off the coast of Florida in 1774, loaded with treasure. Supposedly. There are rumours that a map showing the location of the wreckage has been found. If those rumours are true and if that treasure exists, the U.S. government wants it."
Busy skimming through the file, Booth spared his boss only a quick glance. "But why send me? Why not just use someone from the Miami office?"
"Dr. Brennan won't work with anyone but you." Hacker answered as if that fact was self-evident. It was not, at least not to Booth who was now even more confused.
"What's Bones got to do with this?"
"Didn't I mention . . . never mind. Let me start from the beginning." Leather creaked, rich and thick, as Hacker settled back in his chair. "The government has been looking into this since the rumours first surfaced a few months ago. As you can imagine, these kinds of stories pop up regularly down there but this one has some credence, especially since a local museum is claiming that the map they have is genuine. Unfortunately that map has disappeared, stolen, at least according to the security footage, by a security guard there named Sam Nozik. Late yesterday, the body of a man we believe to be Nozik was found in the Everglades. That's why Dr. Brennan is involved. We need her to confirm the man's identity.'
"I still don't understand. If it's a straightforward victim ID, why do you need Bones? Couldn't the local coroner or the ME handle it?"
Hacker nodded. "The medical examiner's office has already issued a tentative identification. But this is a sensitive matter," he added. "If the ship is found and if there is treasure with the wreckage, then the Vatican might also have a claim, because the captain was a Jesuit priest on the way back to Italy. There are potentially millions of dollars at stake here and we need to have all the big guns on our side. Dr. Brennan's reputation and integrity are above reproach."
Booth knew that to be true. He nodded, accepting the explanation on its face and turned his attention back to the file.
"You'll be working with a local consultant, Walter Sherman. His contact information is all there."
The name was like the scratch of a needle on a vinyl record. Booth's head snapped up again.
"Excuse me? Did you say Walter Sherman?" Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head and closed the file. "No, sir. I'm sorry but I can't work with him. We . . . have a history. From the military."
"You mean when he arrested you?" Hacker's lips quirked with a hint of a smile at the surprise he saw on Booth's face. "You're a federal agent. We know everything about you. That was what, ten years ago?"
A futile sense of exasperation set in. Jaw set tight, Booth ground out, "Eleven."
"Well, there you go. It's all water under the bridge now."
"Sir . . ."
Hacker pokered up. "I'm giving you an assignment, Agent Booth. I expect you to complete that assignment, and that includes working with Walter Sherman."
Knowing that further protest was useless, Booth tamped down his continued need to object. "Yes, sir."
"Good man. I knew I could count on you." Satisfied, Hacker dismissed him with a nod toward the door. "Since this is coming out of the Director's budget, Darla will make your travel arrangements. Make sure you bring Flynn up-to-speed on Broadsky before you leave."
"Yes, sir." Frustration screaming out of every line of his body, Booth got to his feet and headed for the door. He had his hand on the knob when Hacker spoke again.
"She seems happy."
He half-turned, genuinely confused. "Sir?"
"Temperance." Hacker toyed with an ink pen, flipping it from finger to finger and giving Booth only the barest of glances. "I talked to her this morning to make sure she was available to make the trip, too. She sounds happy. Things are going well for the two of you?"
Booth hesitated. Technically, there was a rule against agents fraternizing with consultants and outside experts. More than once, defense attorneys had successfully used those private affairs to cast doubt on the cases the couple worked together. His chin rose a fraction of an inch; if he was going to be fired for having Brennan in his life, so be it.
"Yes, sir," he said firmly. "We're figuring it out. Everything's good."
"Good, good. Glad to hear it." Hacker's smile was much wider than necessary and then disappeared entirely in a show of sudden industry as he picked up the phone and waved toward the door again. His voice stopped Booth one last time. "Make sure you both expense a hotel room," he ordered curtly. "I don't care which one you use but if this gets sticky, we don't want even the appearance of anything funny going on."
Booth's hands itched with the need to drag the man from his chair and shake him until his teeth rattled. Instead, he used every ounce of self-control he possessed and nodded briefly.
"Yes, sir."
His mood was foul throughout the morning and remained so as the time of their flight approached, even after a helpful airline clerk changed their seat assignments so he and Brennan could sit together. The trip was less than three hours long; after thirty minutes spent listening to Booth snap at every question, Brennan had had enough.
"What is wrong with you? Why are you so irascible?"
Yet another peevish retort was on the tip of his tongue when he looked over. Irritation sparkled in her eyes but behind it, he saw a glimmer of concern. Chastened, Booth let his head fall back against the seat.
"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I shouldn't be taking it out on you."
"What is it that you're taking out on me? Is there something about this case that's bothering you?"
"You could say that. This consultant I have to work with, I know him. Bastard."
Brennan had read through the brief file earlier. Now, she flipped through it again to find the relevant information. "Walter Sherman?"
"Yea." Booth cast a wary glance over his shoulder and then lowered his voice to avoid eavesdroppers. "He arrested me once."
The admission was an obvious surprise. "What?"
He sighed again. "It was a long time ago. What happened was, a few months after I met Rebecca, I mustered out of active duty. I signed on with the Bureau, we moved in together, everything was fine. Then she got pregnant and the reserves called me up at the same time. It was only supposed to be for a few months, just to help out with some training, but . . ." He shrugged. "It turned out to be for more than just a 'few' months. When Rebecca's due date got close, I put in for leave but my commander wouldn't let me go. So when she went into labor, I went AWOL."
"Because you wanted to be there for the birth of your child."
He nodded. "Exactly. But the CO didn't see it that way. She sent Walter after me. He's got the finder power."
Brennan's eyebrows rose. "Finder power?"
"Yea, finder power. He's got this Voodoo mojo thing, whatever. He can find anything. So of course he found me, too."
"That couldn't have required any extraordinary powers of deduction," Brennan pointed out. "I'm sure it was obvious where you'd be. This "finder power," if it exists, wasn't necessary."
Her disbelief didn't surprise Booth. He brushed it aside. "Oh, it exists, trust me. But that's not even the point. He arrested me in front of my son! My newborn son!"
Brennan again pointed out the obvious. "Parker would have no memory of that event, if that's what worries you. Experiential memory doesn't begin in humans until after the age of four."
"It doesn't matter," Booth insisted, lowering his voice again when he realized he was almost shouting. "Okay? It doesn't matter. Somewhere in his subconscious, he knows. I was holding my newborn son in my arms, and Walter Sherman arrested me. Handcuffs and all."
Head tilted, Brennan observed him curiously. "You're obviously still quite upset."
"Yes! And now I have to work with him!" The short talk had done nothing to smooth the ruffled edges of his temper. He settled back in his seat with a growl of frustration, folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. "I'm going to sleep the rest of the way."
"Fine." Brennan shrugged and pulled the reading material she'd brought for herself out of the bag that rested between her feet.
Several minutes later, long after she thought he'd fallen asleep, Booth shifted restlessly and muttered, "Son of a bitch."
He stewed in silence the rest of the way.
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The airport was crowded and busy, and dense with the sound of dozens of languages being spoken at once. With the keys to their rental car in hand, they walked outside and into a wall of heat and noise, and the kind of sunshine that seems to shine brighter when the sea is nearby. Sunglasses firmly in place, Booth slid behind the wheel of the nondescript sedan.
"Hotel first?"
Brennan nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Then you can leave me at the medical examiner's office while you meet with Walter Sherman."
"Bastard."
Taking note of the the way his hand clenched on the steering wheel, Brennan pursed her lips. "Perhaps I should go with you instead."
The offer brought a grudging smile to his face. "No, that's okay. I'll be fine. I'm over it." When she just looked at him, he laughed. "All right. Almost over it."
The business class hotel was bright and airy, filled with tropical plants and surrounded by palm trees. When Booth asked for a rooms on the same floor, the clerk behind the check-in desk was professionally indifferent.
"Your reservations were made separately. Would you like connecting rooms? I also have one king suite available, if you'd prefer that."
Booth and Brennan shared a glance filled with the same longing to give into temptation. One hotel room. One king size bed. Hot, sultry nights and bodies slick with sweat from passion and the heat outside and no one back home any wiser . . .
The secretive thought cast a tawdry shadow over their mutual desire. They had nothing to hide, and no reason to cheapen their fledgling relationship by concealing it. Almost in unison, they tore their gazes apart and faced the clerk again.
"Separate rooms, please," Brennan said firmly.
Booth reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "On the same floor."
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.
.
The familiarity of frequent travel meant they were soon settled into their rooms and on to other tasks. The medical examiner's office proved to be an ordinary brick office building that hardly differed from others on the street around it. Booth parked and went inside, too, just in case his badge proved necessary to get Brennan access to Sam Nozik's body. He needn't have worried. Not only was she expected but as soon as news of her arrival circulated, people poured out to meet her. He left her there with a promise that she would call when she was ready to leave.
A phone call to check in with the local FBI field office netted him the information that Walter Sherman had been told to expect him. Resigned to the inevitable, he pointed his car in the direction of Route 1 and headed out.
The bar owned by his erstwhile nemesis looked less than profitable. A two-story structure built of pine boards whose blue paint had long since faded from the hot sun, it had a wide covered porch running along the front that provided shade for big open windows and a few shabby chairs. Despite the late afternoon hour, the gravel and sand parking lot held only a battered SUV that had clearly seen better days.
The heels of his shoes tapped out an efficient rhythm as he strode briskly across the wooden floor of the porch to the door. A squeak from rusty hinges announced his presence when he stepped inside a large, open room scattered with empty tables and spindle-backed chairs. A bar ran the length of one wall, in front of shelves filled with liquor bottles, glasses and other staples common to similar establishments. A young woman, tall and slender, with brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, worked behind it. At the end opposite the door, an African-American man sat reading, wearing a tank top that showed off an impressive muscular physique, with his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a vintage hat.
Booth took in every detail with one raking glance, and noted, too, that the only person not in the room was the one he'd come to see.
"I'm looking for Walter Sherman." The brusque demand seemed to echo around the room.
"Who are you?" The deep bass voice rumbled up from the man at the end of the bar. As he spoke, he turned a page in the book lying open in front of him.
Booth felt what little patience he had draining away. He pulled out his badge and flipped it open, then just as fast, flipped it closed again.
"Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. Who are you?"
The book closed with a snap. Hands roughly the size of catcher's mitts folded themselves neatly on top of it. When his chin tilted, Booth got his first real look at the man's face, and the sharp intelligence glinting in his dark eyes.
"Leo Knox. I'm Mr. Sherman's legal advisor."
"I'm Ike, Walter's bartender." The woman behind the counter leaned a hip against the railing. "Want a beer?"
"No," Booth snapped, "and now that we're all best pals, I'll say it again. I'm looking for Walter Sherman. He was told to expect me today. Where is he?"
"Out," said Leo.
Booth's sneer was lethal. "Out."
"Out," repeated Ike.
He glanced from one to the other, briefly considered hauling both of them to the nearest police station, and then abruptly changed his mind. Instead, he slapped a business card down on the bar.
"Fine. Have him call me as soon as he gets back."
The pair inside the bar watched in silence as Booth stomped out. When the rental car pulled out of the parking lot with an angry spin of tires, Leo opened his book again.
"He's gone. You can come out now."
Walter Sherman popped up from his hiding place next to a cooler of cold beer.
"I told you he was still mad at me."
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For Booth, the rest of the afternoon was almost routine. He went back to the local field office, where they found a spot for him to work. A few phone calls started the process for a search warrant of Sam Nozik's apartment, pending Brennan's confirmation of the identity of the body found in the swamp. Another call lead to a meeting the next morning with the curator of the museum where he'd worked. By the time he was done, the sun was low on the horizon and Brennan was back at the hotel, having taken a cab when she finished earlier.
After showers and a change of clothes, they walked together down to the hotel's restaurant for dinner. Although it was too far inland to allow for views of the ocean, the decor captured the essence of the sea with the clever placement of fountains and an enormous cylindrical aquarium in the center of the room. With massive windows open to the sultry night air and the sunset spinning the light into gold, the atmosphere was warm and romantic.
Booth put aside the day's worth of ill-humour and instead, set out to enjoy the evening with Brennan, who looked particularly fetching in a slim lavender dress that left her arms and shoulders bare. He'd changed, too, trading the usual suit for a white polo and belted slacks. As the waitress left with their orders, he raised his glass in a toast.
"Here's to dinner with a pretty girl."
She seemed to be of the same mindset and accepted the compliment with a smile.
"I'm sorry I have to leave tomorrow." After an afternoon spent in what she termed the 'primitive' conditions of the medical examiner's facilities, she'd arranged to have Nozik's body shipped to the Jeffersonian for study. Now, she looked at Booth with a hint of regret. "It is necessary, however. The equipment here is outdated at best, and in some cases, simply ineffective. I'll have answers for you much more quickly if I work from my own lab."
One shoulder lifted in a dismissive shrug. "I get it. It's the difference between being forced to work with whatever pennies the government tosses your way, and having access to private donors, like at the Jeffersonian. I remember Cam saying something similar when she first got there."
"I have grown accustomed to a standard of excellence that I find difficult to match in other facilities," Brennan conceded.
Booth reached across the table for her hand and squeezed her fingers. "We'll deal with goodbyes tomorrow. Tonight is just for us."
The unexpected arrival of Walter Sherman put paid to that notion. Seemingly out of thin air, he popped up beside their table and, without warning or invitation, snatched an empty chair from a nearby table, flipped it neatly around and sat down between them with his arms folded over the back.
"I heard you were looking for me."
Booth dropped Brennan's hand and glared at the unwelcome visitor. "No, right now I'm having dinner. I was looking for you earlier this afternoon, when you were told I would be there."
Walter ignored him and turned to Brennan. His glance slipped over her with lazy appreciation. "No sense of humor, this guy. Walter Sherman. Who are you?"
Taken aback by the overt flirtation, Brennan was slower answering than she might otherwise have been. "I'm . . . Dr. Temperance Brennan."
Walter leaned a bit closer and wiggled his eyebrows. "Are you sure? You don't seem sure. It's okay. I have that effect on women."
The sound of Booth's teeth grinding together was audible. "Stop it, Sherman."
"Why? Are you two a thing?" Walter's attention switched between them with a speed that was almost dizzying. "Are you dating? Are you sleeping together?"
Brennan recovered her aplomb and answered before Booth could. "How is that relevant?"
"No harm in asking." His teasing smile widened even further. "Would you sleep with me?"
"Hey!"
Walter kept his attention focused on Brennan and ignored Booth's outburst. "It's worth a shot. I'm better looking than him."
Head tilted, Brennan studied him for a moment, cataloguing the smooth, handsome face and chiseled jaw as carefully as she might have the skull beneath the flesh.
"That's true."
"HEY!"
"Objectively speaking," she explained, when Booth glared at her. "He's taller than you," she pointed out, not altogether helpfully, "and his features are more symmetrical. But . . ." Her eyes skipped over Walter's face one more time before she turned back to Booth with a smile. "I prefer you."
Booth was partly mollified. He gave Walter a smug little grin. "So much for your shot."
The waitress arrived then with their dinner plates; as she set them in front of Booth and Brennan, she looked curiously at Walter.
"Will you be joining them, sir? Would you like a menu?"
Booth didn't give him a chance to answer. "He's not staying. As a matter of fact, he's leaving right now."
Walter grimaced playfully at the waitress. "I apologize for my friend. He'll be doubling your tip to make up for his rudeness." When she was gone, he plucked a piece of bread out of the basket of warm rolls sitting on the table and tore off a hunk. "So I hear you're looking for a treasure ship."
"If you'd read the briefing material I sent you, you'd know that we're actually looking for a map - -"
"Chart." Both men looked at Brennan. "When it involves a body of water, it's referred to as a chart."
"Okay, chart." Walter shrugged. "Whatever you call it, I'll find it."
"Just like that?"
Brennan's skeptical laughter had him looking at her through narrowed eyes. "You don't think I can?"
"We don't know anything about the man who stole it from the museum," she pointed out, "other than the fact that he's dead. If he was killed for the chart, then it's reasonable to assume that the murderer now has it. But first we have to catch that person - -"
Walter cut her off. "Uh uh. I find, you catch."
A frown wrinkled her brow. "I don't know what that means."
"It means that I have to catch the killer." Booth swatted Walter's hand when he reached for the bread basket again. "I catch the killer, he finds the chart."
Brennan laughed again. "Using his 'finder power'?"
Walter gave up on the attempt to snag another warm roll and sighed with disappointment. "Oh, you're one of those. Okay, give me something."
"Excuse me?"
He draped his arms over the top of his seat again. "Tell me about something you've lost. I'll find it for you."
"I haven't lost anything."
Brennan assumed a stubborn expression that Booth was all too familiar with. Although he had little interest in helping Walter, there was the small matter of proving his own assertion about the other man's abilities. "What about that thing you told Parker about? Remember? That thing you won when you were his age."
She dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. "That would be impossible to find. I'm sure it was discarded or thrown away years ago."
"Nothing's impossible," Walter said confidently. "Whatever it is, I'll find it."
When she hesitated again, Booth gave her an encouraging nod. Still somewhat reluctant, she gave in. "All right. There was a medal. I won it when I was a young girl, for a school science fair. It was - -"
"That's all I need." Walter stopped her with a hand in the air and then turned to Booth. "So, 9:00 tomorrow morning? We can go talk to the museum guy. It will be like old times."
Booth's expression flattened. "We don't have 'old times,' Sherman."
"I could put you in handcuffs again." When the only response was a teeth-baring growl, Walter leaned over and nudged Brennan with an elbow. "See what I mean? No sense of humor."
He plucked a bright red tomato off the salad Booth had hardly touched, popped it in his mouth, and left.
Brennan took note of Booth's frustration as he watched Sherman amble away. "Perhaps I should examine the remains here, despite the substandard working conditions."
He tore himself away from thoughts of vengeance and retribution and forced a smile that was meant to be reassuring. "No, you go back to DC. The sooner you get everything you can out of Nozik's body, the sooner this whole damn thing will be over with."
They turned their attention back to dinner but the sparkle of the evening had dimmed. Instead of spending the meal in light-hearted conversation and not-so-subtle flirting, they talked about the case and about the chances of finding a cargo of treasure buried beneath the sea for over 200 years. When coffee arrived, Booth leaned in and reached for her hand again.
"I'm sorry, Bones. I meant for tonight to be about more than just some seaweed covered shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean."
She accepted his apology with a squeeze of her fingers. "We are here for professional reasons," she pointed out. "Besides, we seem to make a habit of discussing our work over a meal."
"Well, you know what they say about all work and no play. Come on." Booth pushed to his feet and offered her an elbow. "Let's take a walk."
They stuck to the gardens that surrounded the property, built to bring the feel of the ocean closer to the hotel. It was just the thing to put a little magic back into the evening. Strolling along the winding paths, beneath palm trees that stretched into the night sky, and serenaded by the sounds of water and the sultry, hip-swaying beat of salsa music, romance was once again in the air.
Booth stopped at a leafy bower tucked beside a small waterfall and drew Brennan into his arms. "Now this is more like it."
She went willingly, already lifting her face to meet his kiss when his head lowered. Other couples, looking for the same privacy, paused in the same spot and then moved on, but their footsteps were nothing more than background noise, and just as easily ignored.
Still holding her close, Booth rested his cheek against her hair and watched a fallen frond from a tree overhead drift in the water. "We should do this again," he said suddenly.
With her arms draped around his neck, Brennan drew back only far enough to look into his face. "Come back to Miami?"
He shrugged. His hands spread across her back, fingers stroking in idle circles. "Maybe not that exactly, but go somewhere. Get away. You know, after things are settled for us. Take a week, maybe two, and find a beach somewhere just for the two of us."
She didn't question that eventually, things would settle for them. Instead, sparkling with mischief, her eyes were as bright as the light dancing on the man-made stream running beside them. "Where we can pretend skeletons don't exist and joke about not coming back?"
Booth's delighted laughter boomed out around them. Her words called up old memories of their first years working together and of the dance of feint and parry they'd played as they grew closer. He remembered that solitary vacation in Jamaica, too, because he'd spent too much of it wondering if she missed him.
"Do you remember everything?"
She nodded as if the answer was obvious. "Of course."
"Good to know." He drew her close again, and she had another kiss to add to the others she would always remember.
Eventually, they made their way back inside the hotel, walking arm-in-arm and looking for all the world like just another couple, beautiful and well-matched and in love, with a night of intimacy ahead of them. They knew differently, however, and at Brennan's door shared one last kiss shaded with regret. She didn't invite him in and for that, Booth was grateful. The tropical air was filled with a heat that had nothing to do with the weather and it seemed unwise to test the limits of their self-control.
"Call me when you're ready for breakfast," was all he said, before whispering goodnight against her lips. When the lock clicked into place, he made his way down the hallway to the solitude of his own room.
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He saw her into a cab headed to the airport just after breakfast.
"You sure you don't want me to drive you there?"
Brennan shook her head as the driver loaded her carry-on into the trunk. "There's no need. Your time is better used working on the case. As you said last night, the sooner it's concluded the better."
"Okay. Well, call me if you find anything relevant on Nozik."
"I will." When she was settled in the back seat, he leaned down for one last kiss goodbye. She laid a hand on his cheek before he straightened. "When I left for Canada, you told me to think of you. Should I leave you with the same instructions?"
He smiled and kissed her again. "I'm always thinking about you, Bones."
He swung the door closed and tapped the roof twice. As the taxi pulled away, Walter Sherman spoke from just behind him. Somehow, Booth wasn't surprised.
"Separate rooms? Really? Are you saving yourself for marriage or something?"
He turned with a scowl that would have sent any other man scurrying. "You spying on me?"
Walter merely smiled, looking relaxed and casual. While Booth was in the standard FBI uniform of dark suit and tie, he wore another floral cabana shirt and jeans. "I have my sources. So, are we going to see the dead guy's boss? I'll drive myself, if you don't mind."
That bit of news was perfectly fine with Booth, who wasn't interested in being trapped in a vehicle together. He wasn't so thrilled when Walter disappeared with a "that's all I need!" not long after the museum's curator showed them the security footage from the last night Sam Nozik had been seen alive. His own interview with Dr. Chaisson took much longer so it was almost two hours later when he arrived at Sam Nozik's apartment, along with a crew of crime scene techs. Seeing Walter leaving the scene at the same time, with the added insult of a jaunty wave out of the window of the same beat-up SUV that he remembered seeing in the parking lot of the bar, didn't improve his temper.
"Son of a . . ."
Standing in the doorway, he cast one glance around the rather dingy little apartment and noted that the film of dust below a stack of paperbacks on the table next to a shabby recliner had been smeared. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
"I want every inch of this place gone over with a microscope," he bit out. "If you find any fingerprints that don't belong to our victim, I want to know about it."
He didn't see Walter Sherman again for two days. When he showed up on the morning of the third day, he interrupted breakfast when he pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down.
"Your girlfriend is Max Keenan's daughter."
Whatever else he might have expected to hear, nothing on that list included Max. Keeping his expression blank, Booth swallowed a bite of scrambled eggs and then took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee while he studied Walter over the rim of the cup. "And?"
"Max Keenan." Walter repeated the name as if he were looking for a reaction that Booth wasn't giving him. "Do you know who he is?"
Booth sat back in his chair and leveled the other man with a pointed gaze. "Right now I'm more interested in how it is that you know who he is."
Walter's eyes frittered away as if he were searching for an escape route. After a beat of silence, he popped up from his chair. "Never mind."
"Sit down." The sharply worded order stopped him in his tracks. "Sit," Booth said again, this time pointing to the empty chair, "unless you want to wear a pair of handcuffs yourself. Tell me about Max. How do you know him?"
Giving in, Walter sat down again and shrugged as if the answer should be obvious. "I find stuff, remember? Things that were lost. Things that were . . . stolen."
Booth nodded, having expected to hear something of the sort. "Okay. So you've worked for one of Max's victims. That makes sense, he was a thief. So what? Why does it matter now? All of that was a long time ago. He's been straight for years."
Walter burst into laughter, then just as quickly hushed it up when Booth remained stone-faced. "Oh, you're serious? You believe that?"
Booth's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying he isn't?"
Walther threw up his hands in a gesture of defense. "I'm not saying anything. See these pretty symmetrical features? I want to keep them that way." Before Booth could ask anything else, he reached inside the front pocket of yet another brightly patterned shirt and withdrew a wrinkled pawn slip. "Here you go. Your friend Sam hid the map - -"
"Chart."
" . . . chart in a ukulele, which he pawned, probably to hide it. The pawnshop still had it but it was busted up and the chart was already gone."
Booth slammed a fist down on the table, causing heads to turn their way as glassware and silverware jumped. "Dammit, I knew you'd been in his apartment! What else did you find?"
Walter shrugged. "Nothing important. Just the sad and lonely remains of a sad and lonely life."
Booth sighed. "So where's the chart now? And don't tell me you don't know."
"I'm insulted. Of course I know. It's with a girl. She skippers a boat called the Screw You - -"
"Charming."
"Yea, she's a dainty feminine flower. Anyway, she hires it out, mostly to drug dealers and assorted bad guys. I've got a lead on her now at a marina off Bayshore Drive. Thought you'd want to know. If I find anything - -"
Booth stood up when Walter did. "I'm going with you."
Walter's glance raked his suit-clad figure. "She'll see you coming a mile away. The word "cop" is like a flashing red light around you."
Booth was implacable. "I'm coming with you."
"Fine. But we're taking my car. And I'm driving."
"Fine with me. While you drive, you can tell me about Max."
"Awww, man . . ."
Despite excessive speed and a few street maneuvers that were, frankly, illegal, when the two men found the slip registered to the Screw You, it was too late. The boat was a dot on the horizon, with the feathery trail of a wake fading behind it.
"Told you she'd see you coming." Walter blamed Booth, despite the fact that the boat had obviously pulled up anchor long before they arrived at the marina.
Booth ignored him and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through numbers until he found the one he wanted. "I need to track a boat."
.
.
.
It was early afternoon before a small Coast Guard patrol boat pulled up alongside the Screw You. The larger craft was anchored seemingly in the middle of nowhere, floating peacefully in the bright clear water, miles away from land and with nothing visible around it as far as the eye could see.
It also appeared to be deserted. Booth had long since discarded the jacket of his suit; now, with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose, he climbed from one boat to the other and searched it from stem to stern.
"There's no one here."
"The map?"
"Chart." Booth corrected Walter automatically. "No, it's not here either."
"Sir? There's a tank missing." The captain of the Coast Guard vessel drew Booth's attention to a rack made to hold scuba gear and pointed out the obvious: one spot was conspicuously empty. She bent over the remaining tank to examine it. "This one's full. If your missing female went down with one like this, she had about an hour's worth of air, give or take. How long have you been looking for her?"
Booth and Walter shared a glance filled with an ominous realization.
"Longer than that."
The captain nodded. "I'll send a couple of divers overboard to take a look. The water's pretty clear this time of day."
While she reboarded her own boat and barked out orders, Walter nudged the tank that remained in the stand, causing it to rattle against the catch that held it in place.
"Dammit."
In an unexpected moment of solidarity, Booth could only agree. "Yea. Dammit."
An hour later, Brittany Stephenson's body was laid out on the deck of her own boat. Booth stood beside her. She'd been pretty once, he thought, and was again. Death had softened the lines that would have made her look hard and dangerous.
"This the girl you were looking for?"
"The tattoo matches," Walter said. "Can't be too many women walking around with Do Not Resuscitate on their chest."
"Okay." Once again, Booth reached for his phone. This time, the number he called was a speed dial programmed into his phone. "Bones, it's me. Tell Cam I'm sending her a body."
Walter waited until Booth hung up. "You think this was deliberate?"
"I think people don't take off their air masks underwater on purpose."
"Coast Guard divers said there wasn't any wreckage down there," Walter pointed out.
"Which is probably why she's dead," Booth answered. "She had someone with her, or called another ship out here becauses she thought the treasure was here. When it wasn't, that someone killed her."
When they were back on land, Walter watched without comment as Booth made arrangements for the body to be flown to DC that evening. Then, instead of driving him back to the hotel, he drove to his own bar.
"We need a drink," he said, in answer to Booth's silent query.
Nothing much had changed from Booth's first visit. The place was still empty except for the two people he'd already met, and lit now by the warm glow of twilight instead of the bright sunshine of early afternoon. Neither Ike nor Leo seemed surprised to see them; instead, without saying anything, Ike pulled two cold beers out of the nearest cooler and slid them across the polished wood of the bar.
"Thanks." Booth sat down on a stool and drank a fourth of it down at once.
Walter sat down, too, but took only one small sip before offering an explanation for their unexpected arrival.
"The girl's dead. We found her that way," he said quickly, when Leo's eyebrows rose. "Swear to God. Ask my partner here."
Booth snorted. "We aren't partners."
Walter watched as he tilted the bottle up to finish the beer. "Come on, dude. Are you still upset because I arrested you? I was just doing my job!"
As if he'd been waiting for the opportunity to lash out, Booth slammed the empty bottle on the bar and swiveled around. "You arrested me in front of my son! My newborn son!"
"At least I waited until after he was born!" Walter shot back. He scoffed at the look of surprise on Booth's face. "It's not like you were hard to find. We all knew where you were headed. The CO even told me to take my time getting there. And when I did, you were still in the delivery room. So I waited, and gave you another hour after the kid got here. You're welcome," he added, although the sneer made the comment less than generous.
Booth thought about it for a minute, adding this new revelation to the grudge he'd been holding for eleven years. Then he shrugged. "You're still an asshole."
"I'm the asshole?" Walter laughed. "You were AWOL, man, and for that, you spent less than 12 hours in the stockade, and when you got out, you got a week's leave. Like I said, you're welcome. And speaking of being grateful . . ."
He pointed at a small box wrapped in white paper, sitting on one of the shelves filled with sparkling glassware. When Ike handed it to him, he slid it over to Booth.
"What's this?"
"Your girlfriend's medal."
Booth looked at him in surprise. "You found it?"
Walter didn't dignify that remark with a response. Instead, his expression turned somber. "You might want to be there when she opens it."
Booth glanced at the small package again, this time almost warily. "Why?"
"You know her story, right? Parents took off when she was a kid?"
There was very little he didn't know about Temperance Brennan but, showing remarkable restraint, Booth merely nodded. "I know what happened to her."
Walter hesitated a moment, looking for the right words. "I'll just say that sometimes when people ask me to find something, they aren't thinking about what it was they really lost. It's amazing how often the real treasure turns out to be something else altogether."
Borrowing a phrase from Brennan, Booth shook his head. "I don't know what that means."
Walter signaled for another round. "Just be there when she opens it."
Knowing that was all he was going to get, Booth finally nodded. "Okay."
With a fresh, cold beer in hand, Walter's eyes slanted toward Booth. "If you talk to Max Keenan, make sure he knows I found that medal for his daughter."
"Oh, I'll be talking to Max."
"I was afraid of that."
.
.
.
The body of Brittany Stephenson arrived at the Jeffersonian and while performing the autopsy, Cam discovered not only the missing chart, which had been forced down Brittany's throat, but a portion of a man's finger as well. Stained with blood, the chart now gave up its final secrets, revealing the true location of the wreckage of the treasure ship, the Santa Esperanza.
Brittany's last desperate act served another purpose, too, that of identifying her murderer. With two cases solved and a team of divers busy excavating the trove of precious artifacts lost beneath the sea, Booth handed the rest of the work to local agents and returned home.
"I'm sure Andrew was pleased that you managed it all so quickly."
He and Brennan were in the kitchen of her apartment, cleaning up after having dinner together. Confident and at home in her space, Booth finished loading the dishwasher, added soap, and with the press of a button, started it up. Brennan, meanwhile, poured herself a glass of wine and refreshed his drink with a splash of the single malt Irish whiskey she kept on hand just for him.
"Well, I didn't want to give Flynn too much time to settle in with the Broadsky case. That guy's looking for the straightest path to promotion. He'd keep it in a heartbeat." He followed her into the living room, accepting the drink she offered with a kiss and a murmur of thanks before sitting down with her on the couch. Almost immediately, he popped back up. "Hang on, I have something for you."
He crossed to the jacket he'd draped over a chair and came back with the small white box.
"From Walter."
Brennan set her glass aside and accepted the box with wary caution. She took her time opening it, and when the contents were finally revealed, gasped in surprise. Lying on a bed of tissue was a round medal suspended on a faded nylon ribbon of red, white and blue. Hardly bigger than a silver dollar, it was engraved with the words 1st Place Woodside Elementary Science Fair.
"It's my medal." She looked at Booth with open-mouthed astonishment as she lifted it out. "He found it. I wouldn't have thought it possible but . . ."
A folded piece of newsprint, yellowed with age, lay beneath the medal. When she opened it, Booth heard a shuddering breath catch in her throat. She looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"It's my mother. Look." The headline blared 11-Year-Old Wins CPS Science Fair, and underneath it, Christine Brennan - Ruth Keenan - stood beside a young girl who was unmistakably Temperance Brennan. The medal was around her neck and, smiling with pride, she lifted it high for the picture.
"I'd forgotten about this article," Brennan whispered, brushing the tip of one finger tenderly over the image of her mother. "I have so few photographs . . . I didn't know," she explained, glancing at Booth with such despair that he ached for her. "When I was first assigned to foster care, I thought it was temporary. I didn't realize I would never see my home again. I thought . . . Russ . . . I still believed that my parents would return. But they didn't. The house was sold at auction and the contents . . . I don't know what happened to all of our things. If I'd known . . . if I'd realized, I would have filled my suitcase with pictures but I didn't. I didn't know . . ."
Booth knew a moment of gratitude for Walter's advice to be with her when she opened the box. The thought of her alone, weeping as the scars of her past were scraped raw, was a dagger to his heart. He circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her close. She leaned against him, accepting the comfort he offered.
"Look how young she is. Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yes, she is."
Brennan wiped away a tear that slid down her cheek. "I will treasure this."
He gave her a little squeeze. "We should have it framed."
The suggestion appealed to her. Once again, she traced the lines of her mother's face with a gentle fingertip. "Yes. That is an excellent idea."
He had another one.
"Tell me about this science fair. What did you do? The award you won, what was it for? What was your project?" Booth kicked his shoes off and propped his feet on the coffee table, stretched and comfortable and looking for all the world as if he wanted nothing more than to sit on the couch with his arm around Temperance Brennan and listen to her memories. The image was a believable one, because it was true.
Brennan carefully laid the newspaper clipping aside and picked up the medal again. With one leg folded beneath the other, she curled into Booth's side and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
"Oh, deoxygenation using visible light photoredox catalysis."
"Well, sure. That makes perfect sense."
He had no idea what any of those words meant. When he leaned forward for his drink, the movement of his body pushed hers forward, too. He gave her a wink as he sat back, settling them both more comfortably.
The strategy was working, though. The tears were gone and in their place, a knowing amusement.
"You didn't understand anything I said, did you?"
Booth laughed and captured one swift kiss. "Not a word. So, did your mom help you with it?"
Brennan looked mildly offended. "Of course not. We were supposed to do the work on our own. Dad offered advice but he was careful not to get too involved. He was out of town on the day of the science fair so my mother accompanied me. We were both surprised when I won." She frowned with a hint of bygone cynicism. "Of course, my project was obviously far more advanced than any of the others but even in elementary school, there is a political element to these competitions."
Booth hid a smile behind a sip of his drink. Despite the many years since the science fair, the injustice of a potential loss obviously still rankled.
She toyed with the medal for a moment. "How odd . . . I remember now that when the reporter approached us for the photograph, my mother hesitated. She said her hair wasn't styled properly but I suppose it was because she feared we might be recognized." Brennan glanced up at Booth with a hint of worry. "Do you think that's what happened? That someone from their old life saw this article and - -"
Absolutely certain, he cut her off. "No, that's not what happened. Look how young you are there. How old were you? Eleven? It was years before their past caught up with them."
She sighed. Her head fell back on his shoulder. "Yes, I suppose that's correct."
Booth pressed a kiss into her hair and hugged her in closer.
"You look a lot like your mom. Tell me about her."
Brennan thought about it for a few seconds. "All right. Once, when I was seven, Russ had a pocket knife, one of those multi-tool versions . . ."
Booth listened as she spoke, making all the right noises and asking questions in the right gaps, but in the back of his mind, Walter Sherman's words played over and over. "It's amazing how often the real treasure turns out to be something else altogether." He was right. The medal itself was insignificant next to a faded photograph in a yellowing piece of newspaper, and the memories it recalled.
Listening to the husky voice of the woman he loved, he made a mental note to give Walter a call. A thank you seemed appropriate.
.
.
.
AN1: It's impossible to pin down the exact timeline for Parker's birth when it comes to Booth's military service vs. working for the FBI. I feel like every time I use that point in a story, I bend the details to fit the narrative I want to use. I'm going to blame it on a lack of consistency in canon and hand/wave it away. Voila!
AN2: These long ass chapters are killing me, y'all.
AN3: I have to take a short break from this story. I signed up for an original story exchange on Wattpad and since it's due on August 24, I probably better start writing it! I'll pick up here as soon as I finish with that one. (And if you want to read along, my username on Wattpad is also razztaztic.)
Thanks for reading!