Hell
If this wasn't one of the rings of Dante's inferno, he wasn't sure what was.
Agents led them through the house to the cluttered basement workshop.
"It's rather small," Brennan said. But he didn't much care about the size of the man's studio.
He'd lost her.
"We have to find her," he repeated, his voice raspy. "We can't let this bastard have her."
Brennan was off in her own little world while he resided in hell. "Aubrey, you need to do a complete search of all this guy's relatives and anyone who knows him. We can't just. . . ."
Aubrey stepped right in front of him. "We're looking into all of that. This is the only property that we could find in his name. Apparently he changed his last name back to. . . ."
He broke in, repeating what he thought Aubrey should do, what the damned FBI should do, but they were just talking over each other, the man trying to calm him while he was feeling desperate.
"You can't just stand around here," he stiffened as he tried to intimidate a man in a bullet-proof vest with a kind of verbal firepower. "Do something to find my wife."
Just then he heard a ripping sound and turned around to see Brennan and Booth pulling a piece of paneling from the wall revealing a hole.
"We need a light over here," Booth ordered.
Flashlights were trained on the black hole, illuminating a hallway that disappeared downward.
"Booth."
Brennan was pointing toward the dirt floor of the hall. He leaned in.
There was a set of footprints and a drag mark that looked like a person had been dragged. Then he felt a large hand on his chest.
"Gun goes first, Bug Man."