Gimme Shelter, The Rolling Stones

Angela's voice came across the speaker on his cell: "The last known coordinates of Brennan's cell phone place it in the middle of a highway in West Virginia, Booth."

He dropped his phone into his pocket and slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Max cursed.

Nothing was going right.

Somewhere out there, Dr. Temperance Brennan was on the lam as Layla Knowles with a man who robbed old people and their families in order to fund his lifestyle. His one, known accomplice was dead, her body unceremoniously dumped near a drainage tunnel. There was no telling where Brennan was or if she was hurt or. . . .

His phone vibrated and he dove his hand into his pocket to retrieve it.

"Booth?"

The voice, one he'd heard regularly for the seven years of their partnership, held more than a hint of concern.

"Bones?"

"I'm fine, Booth." He heard muted voices, then the distinctive chatter from a police radio in the background. "I've been arrested."

oOo

He glanced at Willy Bowman, blood staining his shirt, an ice pack covering his nose, and then at his partner who was quietly composed, her hands neatly folded over the dark wig in her lap. Without the green contacts that gave her an exotic look, she was his Bones again.

Max Keenan had stepped outside—Booth was convinced that the man had a healthy allergy to police stations—to contact the Jeffersonian faithful and let them know his daughter was alive and well and in handcuffs.

And that little something seemed to run in the Brennan blood, thought Booth.

"How's the hand?" he asked. "Are you sure you don't need some ice? A good lawyer?"

She cast him a look that was a mixture of annoyance and exasperation. Pure Bones. "I'd really just like to go home."

He couldn't help grinning.

"Iwouldliketogohometoo," Bowman slurred as he pulled the ice pack from his face. "Datbitchassaultedme."

Bowman's nose looked like it was going in two different directions.

"She's my partner," Booth said, squaring his body in front of the banker, "and once the local police sort this out, it's going to look a bit different." He glanced up. "Isn't that right, Sheriff?"

The Sheriff, a good old boy who knew justice could turn a blind eye when necessary, nodded, barely concealing his own grin. He bent to unlock Brennan's handcuffs. "Seems to me that you've got the gun, you've got the car keys, you've got the weight and height advantage on this pretty little thing." He made a slight nod toward Brennan. "Besides," he straightened as he spoke, "a federal officer comes in and tells me you are prime number one suspect in a fraud case that might reach into the millions. . . ."

"Tens of millions," Brennan corrected.

"Tens of millions of dollars, and that money was stolen from the bank accounts of the dead," the Sheriff stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Booth. "Why my own poor grandmother would turn over in her grave if I did not fully cooperate in the investigation into this matter."

"And I've got the federal prosecutor working on additional charges," Booth added. "Concealing a death, failure to report. . . ."

"You're looking at 20 years for each count of fraud alone," interrupted the Sheriff.

"What's the number of accounts he emptied, Bones?"

"Over seventy," she offered. "But that's just an estimate."

"Just an estimate," Booth repeated.

"Awrightarwright," Bowman muttered. "Butkeepdatbitchawayfromme."

"That what?" asked the Sheriff as he closed the distance between himself and Bowman. "The only thing this young woman did was stop your sorry ass from taking off and defrauding even more people of their hard-earned money."

The banker shrank into himself, defeated, and the Sheriff only nodded.

"Uh, huh," he said. "She was protecting herself from being forced to follow you over hell and dale and beyond. Besides," he added casting a grin toward Brennan, "some women get mighty attached to their cell phones."

oOo

Booth glanced at the rearview mirror and caught sight of Max Brennan curled on the seat, his head resting on his neatly folded coat.

Brennan had taken up her regular perch in the SUV, but her head was resting on the headrest and her eyes had been closed for some time.

Cracking his window, he let the cool night air revive him.

"We could stop at a motel, Booth."

"Bones!" He made a show of glancing back at her father softly snoring in the backseat and tried to exaggerate his surprise at her suggestion.

In typical Bones' fashion it took her a moment to catch on, but she did and laughed softly. "Oh, you're joshing. That's amusing."

He flashed her a smile.

She'd played it perfectly, insinuating herself into Bowman's confidence until the man opened up.

But by then it was too late for him.

Once she had what they needed, she'd ended the charade and the cross country exodus and. . . somehow she'd ended Bowman's life on the run and gotten herself rescued in one well-aimed blow.

He couldn't help grinning.

And while he liked Max's suggestion that they return to the Waffle House and leave a large tip for the waitress who had called in Brennan's assault on Bowman, he liked the idea of getting her home much better.

"That sheriff liked that we left Bowman with him," she murmured. "He liked being a small fish in a big pond."

"Big fish in a small pond, Bones." He caught her eye. "I thought we lost you."

One moment the air between them was light and airy, and the next? He'd aired his own fear and he saw her expression darken.

"I know what it's like to worry, Booth."

He knew there was an apology in there.

They had only a few more miles until home and he wanted to chase away the old worries. "Sweets said it was possible that you'd succumbed to Stockholm syndrome, Bones. Decided to take up sides with your captor."

The inverted V between her brows deepened and her scowl was classic. "That's highly improbable, Booth. It would be highly irrational for me to. . . ."

Somehow her voice, indignant and preachy, was all he needed to keep him wide awake as they made their way back home.

oOo

They'd barely managed to stumble into her apartment, Max mumbling a goodnight and sketching a wave before slipping into the guest room while he and Brennan steered each other into her bedroom. Once inside, he stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed.

She soon followed and he wrapped his arms around her. "I thought I lost you," he murmured again.

And he fell asleep to her lips on his shoulder, and the warmth of her in his arms.

oOo

When he awoke a few hours later, it was as if his mind had simply been on pause.

A quick glance at Brennan, a small shift of his body, and he re-established the connection that had been lost sometime during the night.

Willy Bowman's arrest did not close the case. No, not by a long shot. Bowman had grumbled and groaned, but between the Sheriff and himself and Brennan's increasingly damning evidence, the banker had almost conceded defeat. The Sheriff, a deceptively cunning man, had helped convince Bowman that lock-up at his jail was preferable—especially since someone was out there killing the people involved in the fraud.

Mark Fletcher was dead.

Eric Street had discovered the body when he'd followed the path that Bowman had been on before the banker had veered off. The director had been bobbing in a hot tub, a neat .22 hole in his skull, the blood giving the burbling water a pink tinge.

"Your Dr. Saroyan estimates the time of death to be a day after that of Tracy Lord." Eric Street was now making a habit of calling everyone from the lab, everyone on his team, your.

It was not-too-subtle, but Street was turning the case back over to him. And he was letting go of Brennan.

"Take care of your Dr. Brennan," he'd said last night as they exchanged updates. "She's something else."

And that was that.

Or it should have been.

Courier and seller of cards, dead. Law enforcement official who protected scheme and schemer, dead. Schemer, cooker of books, arrested.

But who killed the courier and the cop?

Not the schemer.

Bowman was shaken—visibly shaken—when told that Mark Fletcher was dead. Cam was going to run DNA and fingerprints off the gun he had had on him at the time of his arrest, but Booth's gut told him that it wasn't in Bowman to kill Tracy.

No. Someone was cleaning up the loose ends, taking out the players.

And someone else had stirred, turned toward him and was using her hands to stimulate more than thought.

So he gave little more thought to the case, putting that on pause again, while his lips and hands and body gave its full attention to the woman in bed beside him.

oOo

"What about your cop? That fellow in Philadelphia?"

Max Keenan might have made a good cop himself, thought Booth. Well, before that life of crime thing.

"Matt Harding," Booth supplied. "Bar fight out west." He sipped at his second cup of coffee that morning. "Dead."

The players in this card game had short life expectancies, Booth thought. Much too short.

Max scowled and sat back on the chair. "Bowman's not given you any other names?"

"Only Fletcher." He shook his head. "Street was delayed picking up Bones because he caught an FBI agent planting a bomb on the Trans Am." He saw the look on Max's face and was glad it had been Street who had caught the man and not Max. Bones might never have seen her father again. "Street made him. One of Fletcher's men. Arrested him—he's still in custody." Hog-tied him and locked him in the trunk before driving him into the FBI auto impound. "The car's entered into evidence—Russ isn't likely to see it for a while."

Had Max Keenan been anyone else, Booth might have dismissed the look on his face. Hard. He'd seen the same look on other men: men who were preparing to take a life.

"Bowman only dealt with Fletcher," Max said. "There's no telling who Fletcher included in the scheme to keep the money rolling in."

Booth had already conceded that fact—Fletcher had used at least one FBI agent to help cover the scheme and had traded on his connections with other law enforcement types to protect his little treasure chest from prying eyes. Who else was involved was anyone's guess at this point.

Max maintained that hard look, the look that Booth understood to reveal the true nature of the man. "You know, Booth," Max was saying, "you and Tempe have targets on your backs."

oOo

That thought had occurred to him as he walked into Silverman's conference room to find the atmosphere grim. Federal Prosecutors Caroline Julian and G. Anthony Franzcwa III sat across from each other while Eric Street stood, leaning against a table along the wall. Each wore a somber expression.

"The tally sheets don't add up quite yet,' Caroline said. "We've got more dead bodies than evidence on this fraud investigation."

It wasn't his first concern, not by any means. He caught Street's eyes and saw a question there.

"All we've got is the bank manager who apparently initiated the plan," Franzcwa was adding. The prosecutor tapped the table with his finger. "He'd be smart to keep quiet. We've got precious little."

"Cards that are virtually untraceable," Caroline said. "For all we know, Franzcwa's walking around with a stack of those cards in his pocket."

Booth heard the tension in her voice, the undeniable frustration.

He'd had his own frustrations with the case, seen how it had left other agents stymied. He'd done his homework, interviewed the other agents who had taken the case and then discarded it or been reassigned.

It was just like the Remington mansion in California that Parker had been talking about—doorways that go nowhere, staircases leading to walls, windows that never provided a view.

Fletcher might have protected the banker, headed off trouble before it began, but he'd been wrong to think that greed of one of his underlings wouldn't become a factor in the case.

Dead wrong.

Silverman strode into the conference room, his smile in sharp contrast to the mood of the room.

"The marshalls are moving Bowman to a safe house," Silverman said as he took his place at the head of the table. "And the man's talking."

"So, Dr. Brennan's evidence and a reading of the charges to be leveled against him has Willy Bowman opening up like a mall on Black Friday?" Caroline visibly relaxed. "Good, cherie. It's about time we got a real break in this case."

"It's a bit like Christmas morning, today," Silverman said. "Or Hannukah, if you'd rather. A few lumps of coal meted out for the bad little boys and," he leaned forward toward Booth, "a few special gifts."

"So it's basically mopping up, eh?" asked Franzcwa. His expression hadn't really changed to match Silverman's news.

Silverman's mood grew more expansive. "He's just laying out how it worked and such, but he really knows more about Fletcher's end than one might suspect. We've already had a few surprises." He grew more serious. "Fletcher's death and our crooked FBI agent are going to look bad for the bureau, but the upside is that we've put a stop to the scheme. We're also recovering quite a bit of the money."

He gave a slight nod to Booth. "Bowman and Tracy Lord were conservative about how they spent the money. Fletcher had safety deposit boxes filled with the cards."

"So," Street ventured, "it's over?"

Silverman practically beamed. "Just as Mr. Franzcwa said, it's just a matter of mopping up."

oOo

Nothing was as simple as it seemed, thought Booth. Nothing.

He watched from the railings on the other side of the platform as Brennan was explaining the markers on an X-ray to Wendell, the young man's attention never veered from the black and white images projected on the large monitor. He made one final nod before turning from his adviser, taking up the left femur, and heading from the platform toward the bone room. Brennan switched off the monitor and directed one of the techs on the platform to do something with the left ulna. That bone, too, seemed headed toward the bone room as the young tech disappeared from the platform.

"So, this is the Jeffersonian?"

Booth turned. Silverman stood at the bottom of the stairs, Eric Street at his side.

"Thought I'd beard the lion in the den, as it were."

Street's slight head bob drew his eyes back toward Brennan who had stopped her work to take in the visitors.

"There's a leak."

oOo

The lounge high above the platform of the Jefferson Medico Legal Lab was always warmer than the floor below. The skylights afforded extra warmth in the winter and made the heat in the summer sunlight barely tolerable at times. Even today, with the clouds obscuring the sunlight, the area was warmer than the platform below.

A bit too warm.

"Thank you," Silverman said as Booth handed him a cup. "I understand the coffee here is far better than the swill we drink at the bureau."

Booth sat next to Brennan and took in the assistant director's movements. Cam sat to Brennan's left, perched at the edge of the cushion as if she were going to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.

Neither Silverman nor Street had given any indication of the latest roadblock in the case.

Until now.

"My little act in my office earlier was to mollify our prosecutor friends," Silverman began. "To take the focus off you and Dr. Brennan."

"I don't understand," Brennan said.

"Someone's out there killing off anyone involved in the case," Cam said, her voice catching at the end, "that's pretty easy to understand, Dr. Brennan."

Bones shifted. "No, I mean that I don't understand why you felt it necessary to put on an act for Caroline Julian and Mr. Franzcwa." She paused. "Unless they're suspects."

Silverman blinked a few times then looked to Street who was studying the tops of his shoes. As if on cue, the agent began his part of the story.

"That agent I caught with his fingerprints all over your brother's car? The guy who planted the bomb? Layton? He's talking. Pointed out a few avenues that we hadn't suspected including a blind eye turned toward some legal issues." He looked up. "The federal prosecutor's office is implicated. We're still checking the details, but our list of suspects has grown and includes G. Anthony Franzcwa and Caroline Julian."

oOo

He'd remained upstairs in the lounge after the meeting, after Silverman had updated him on the case, after Street had outlined security measures. And even though the meeting was meant to show them the layer of protection covering Brennan and himself, it felt as if he was laid out naked in the middle of Constitution Avenue.

He couldn't believe it. Franzcwa was old money. He'd built his career ferreting out corruption. And Caroline?

He didn't believe it; he wouldn't believe it.

"Booth?"

The others had filed away back to work, and for that he had been grateful. But he wasn't ready for any of them.

"Booth?"

He finally turned toward the voice and said the only thing he could.

"She didn't have anything to do with this."

And Bones, being Bones, could say the only thing she could. "You don't know that, Booth."

"I know Caroline, Bones." His voice rose, but he didn't care if everyone in the place heard him. "She risked her job to free an innocent man, a man your father had evidence on. And he sat on the evidence for years and when Caroline got the evidence, she didn't hesitate. Not Caroline. And what about you? She flew all the way down to New Orleans to be your defense attorney, for you, a woman who you couldn't even bother to remember her name because she wasn't a bone you could examine."

He'd seen the expression on Brennan's face before and he knew he should stop, but his anger and frustration propelled him forward.

"All your shiny machines and scientific hoo-ha can't measure the character of a person. You can't put it in a beaker, or study it under one of your microscopes, or X-ray it. It can't be broken down into atomic particles or DNA. The character of a person is something you feel."

"Time after time she has stood up for what is right. She hasn't hesitated to help you and your family and if anything, Bones, you owe her. You, of all people, Bones, ought to know that Caroline Julian is one of the good guys. She's as honest as the day is long."

"You can't rely solely on your gut, Booth."

"She drives a heap, for God's sake." He practically shouted at her. "A piece of nothing car." He took a breath. "No federal prosecutor on the take drives a death trap held together by paint and a prayer. It's a mistake. Caroline would not cover up a fraud like this leaving dead bodies all over the place. I don't believe it."

"What other evidence do you have?"

If it had been anyone else, she might have lashed back or stormed off. But she had taken his barrage of words and provided the best comeback.

"What?"

She stood opposite from him, her arms crossed, her face a mask since the crack about not remembering Caroline's name. But she wasn't flinching.

"Evidence, Booth. Evidence." She cocked her head. "It's what we do. We investigate murders. And frauds, it seems. Caroline would not allow anyone of us to go into court without enough evidence to convict."

He paused. "Air tight, she says. Everything except the last period in place." Caroline would have scoffed at his outburst.

And Bones had simply taken it.

"Look, Bones. . . ," he said, starting toward her.

But she retreated. "We've got two bodies, two murders to solve." Her posture became a bit more rigid. "Cam wanted you to know that the bullet I dug out from the tunnel where Tracy Lord was killed and the bullet she retrieved from Mark Fletcher came from the same gun."

"Meaning we have one shooter."

She nodded. "More than likely." Her eyes looked bluer than usual in the light streaming in from the glass above. "She also said that the bullets were placed at similar locations severing the C-4 on each person."

"Makes it a professional, someone with training."

She assented and he studied her. Why was it they could still take one step forward and two steps backward?

"Director Silverman said that they are looking into the financial records of everyone on the prosecutor's office who might have had dealings with Fletcher or Bowman," she was saying. "It is perfectly logical to follow the trail of evidence to the federal prosecutor's office, Booth. Looking at and assessing the evidence it is not the same as proof."

She hadn't changed her stance—ramrod straight with her arms crossed in front. But her tone had softened.

"We should investigate who killed Tracy Lord and Mark Fletcher," he offered, his own tone matching hers. "That could lead us to the shooter. . . ."

". . . Which could lead us to the person behind the fraud," she countered. "Besides Bowman."

He knew that look, too.

"I don't want to believe that Caroline had anything to do with the fraud," she said, "but it is irrational to speculate."

"I wouldn't argue with her," came a voice just behind him.

He turned on his heel. "Street?"

The younger man eyed them both. "She's a genius, Booth. Remember?" He took a step closer. "But hell, you don't have to be a genius to figure out that anyone could be in on this right now. Fletcher could have brought anyone in—you don't get rich on a cop's salary. And you don't know how many people owed the guy a favor or two or the people he owed. A few thousand dollars buys instant karma."

"That's not strictly. . . ," Brennan started.

"Metaphor, Dr. Brennan. Metaphor." Street crossed his arms and shook his head. "Bowman's safely stowed away, Layton's not going anywhere, and Silverman is willing to lie through his teeth to make sure that the two of you stay alive long enough to wrap this damn thing."

Street's look at Brennan tied a knot in Booth's gut.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Street."

The look lingered a second too long for Booth. "Didn't come here for a pep rally, Booth." He cocked his head and nodded toward the main floor. "You two have a visitor in Dr. Brennan's office."

oOo

She stood up from the couch as they entered the office and immediately met them near Brennan's desk. He often thought of her as the Rock of Gibraltar—constant, immoveable and just as tough. And if he ever got chance to see that rock formation, he had little doubt it wouldn't stand a chance in a fair fight with her.

"Seeley Booth? Dr. Brennan? Why are you both at the lab when you should be out there figuring out who killed your mystery woman and another crooked FBI boss?"

It took him seconds longer to respond than Brennan, who seemed just as unmoved by Caroline Julian's surprise visit as she had been by his outburst upstairs.

"We're trying to determine our course of action given what we know so far," Brennan said.

"Which is squint speak for we still don't have anything of substance," Caroline countered.

Brennan, who had remained unbowed by his earlier anger, seemed taken aback by Caroline's sarcasm.

"What are you doing here, Caroline?" he finally managed.

"Oh, you thought I should be cowering in my office because my financial records are being examined under a microscope by several government agencies?" The Rock of Caroline seemed more annoyed than worried. "You think I would come here, begging gimme shelter? I'm so sorry for taking thousands of dollars in ill-gotten gain and I won't do it again?"

"Caroline?"

She barely moved. "You have a job to do, Seeley Booth. Both of you do." Her voice, the stuff of granite, crumbled a bit. "I know Silverman's speech was full of moonbeams and fairy dust. You two still have some work to do here in the real world."

"We know Tracy Lord and Mark Fletcher's killer is a professional," Brennan offered.

Caroline's eyes met Brennan's and lingered as both women seemed to pass some kind of understanding between them. Caroline then turned to him.

"Good looks and youth aren't going to keep you safe out there," Caroline said. "Use those genius brains you've got here and some good old fashioned common sense while you're at it, cherie."

She began to walk away, but pivoted toward them, just inside the glass door of the office. "And remember, I do not look good in an orange jumpsuit, cherie," she threw back at them before turning and making her way out of the lab.