BONES
'In the morning' might have been too generous of a phrase, given the ringing of Booth's cellphone woke us at four-thirteen. The F.B.I. office in Clarksburg, W.V. had fielded a call from a man who'd seen the photograph of Angela's reconstruction on the late night news and was convinced the little girl was his niece. Invigorated by the thought we might have an identity in just a few hours, we'd lunged from the bed. In record time, with a thermos of coffee and bag of muffins in hand, we were in Booth's truck and on our way to a small town in northwestern West Virginia centered around a historic liberal arts college and little more, other than a general store.
Dr. Paul Buchanan, president of said college, was, indeed, the uncle of little girl whose body was found by the James River in Virginia. I was admittedly, initially perplexed. I'd seen no indications in the remains that would have suggested she'd been part Caucasian – something he very much was. The contradiction was easily cleared up when we met his wife, Imogene, a professor at the same college. She was a stunning woman of African-American descent who shared facial features with the child that was biologically her niece. Dental records emailed to the Jeffersonian quickly confirmed the remains in the bones room at the Jeffersonian was six-year-old Naya Davis. The childless, professional couple had taken the girl in for a little more than a year while her prescription drug addicted mother, Nicolette Davis, had gone to rehab. The mother had reclaimed her child a little over nine months before and returned to Baltimore where she'd previously lived. They hadn't seen victim since and it had been several months since they'd last heard from the mother.
With the child's identity confirmed and with a new lead to follow in the form of her mother, we left the devastated aunt and stoic uncle to grieve while we returned to D.C. Booth hadn't even backed fully out of the driveway before he was on the phone with an agent in the D.C. office, directing them to locate the victim's mother in Baltimore and to do a full background check on her.
We had just pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant in Uniontown, Pennsylvania when Booth's phone rang. When he hung up, he threw the truck in drive and peeled out of the parking lot, while filling me in.
"Nicolette Davis wasn't in rehab, voluntarily or otherwise. She was serving time for assault with a motor vehicle after hitting her live-in boyfriend with her car. She claimed she'd done it in defense of her youngest daughter after the boyfriend had hit her. The kid was two-and-a-half at the time and deemed an unreliable witness by the Court, so it was his word against hers. She ended up getting eighteen months and served fifteen. She was released on parole three months ago." He turned his head and leveled a look on me, his confidence I'd draw the right conclusion showing on his face.
"She couldn't have possibly returned for her daughter nine months ago," I voiced the logical, when another thought registered with me. "Booth, Naya Davis would have been, at the very least, four-and-a-half when her mother was sent to prison. She wouldn't have been the 'youngest daughter.'"
"She wasn't," he confirmed. "Natalia and Naya Davis were placed voluntarily by their mother with her sister and brother-in-law. She didn't want to risk them ending up in foster care. According to her parole officer, she only moved out of halfway house in Pittsburgh two weeks ago and had found an apartment suitable for her and her children in anticipation of bringing them home."
"Pittsburgh? Not Baltimore?"
"Pittsburgh," he repeated.
"You think Natalia's still there," I surmised.
"I do."
Booth had given no regard to the speed limit on the return trip. When the truck skidded to a halt in the Buchanan's driveway we'd both taken notice of the older model, boxy van with Pennsylvania license plates parked in front of the house. Neither of us were so foolish as to think this was a good sign. We'd approached the house with caution. When Booth raised his hand to knock, the sound of a gunshot coming from inside the home reverberated around us.
"Stay here," Booth orders. I don't know why he always says such things when we both know I'm not going to listen.
"No!" Bending down, I raise the cuff of his pants and pull his backup weapon from the ankle holster there.
"Then stay behind me!" I don't take offense at his tone. Him being annoyed with me in moments like these is also typical.
A test of the doorknob proves it unlocked. Swinging open the door, Booth creeps quietly through, me close on his heels, as we follow the sound of raised voices.
"Where's Natalia?! Tell me or I swear to you, the next time I won't miss!"
"You're wasting time, Nic."
"Don't call me that!"
"There's still time, but you're going to have to give me that gun." Booth peeks his head around the edge of the doorway leading to the living room where we'd sat not long before.
"Stay behind me," he warns again, "And don't shoot me." With those final words, he steps through the doorway, holding his badge up in his left hand and his gun in his right. "FBI, put down the gun!"
I follow a step behind and watch as chaos unfolds. Booth's sudden presence has proved the distraction Buchanan seemed to have been waiting for. He snatches the gun pointed at him from the woman's hand, pointing it at Booth, as he grabs the woman and pulls her in front of him like a shield.
"No! No!" She struggles against her now assailant.
A movement slightly behind me catches my eye. With my gun still aimed in the direction of Buchanan, I turn my head for a better view of what had caught my line of vision. There, on the landing of the stairs behind us, lays Imogene Buchanan, clearly beaten, likely thrown down those stairs and fighting unconsciousness, her eyes rolling back in her head.
"Put down the gun and let her go," Booth orders the other man, as I inch slowly backwards then kneel beside the woman. Blood trickles from one of her ears and a check of her pupils shows one of them is blown, both signs of a serious head injury. My gun still trained on Buchanan, I lean down to hear what the injured woman is quietly muttering to herself.
"I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Agent Booth," Buchanan answers. "The way I see it, I've two options: Leave and build a new life elsewhere or face prison. I'm sure you can understand, the latter option is not at all palatable, especially for a man of my stature. So, I'm afraid it's you who will need to lower your gun and allow me to leave, elsewise I'll put a bullet in the brain of pretty little Nic here who was, after all, the source of our problems."
"Drop it, or I'll put a bullet between your eyes," Booth warns. The situation before me in hand, I turn my attention to the injured woman next to me who continues to babble.
"Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba—" Truthfully, I'm not sure what's she saying is not purely the result of the head injury.
"I don't understand."
"Na-Na-Nat-Nat!" Her insistent tone tells me she is trying to convey a message. I search my mind for potentially relevant words and it comes to me.
"Natalia?"
"Ye-ye-ye!" My mind registers the commotion behind me continues, but my focus is on the woman who's trying to convey a message to me. A weak hand clutches my arm. "Ba-ba-b-b-bat-b-bath! He-h-h-help!"
My stomach churns. I don't think, simply react, bounding to my feet and running up the stairs. Neither the sound of two gun shots nor the howls of a man and the screams of a woman bring me to a halt. The only thing I can think of are three words: Natalia, bath and help.
On the second floor of the home, I race from door-to-door, flinging them open. Small bedroom. Linen closet. Office. Attic stairs. The fifth door opened reveals a large bathroom, wet floor and a clawfoot tub beneath the window. I bolt towards it, a foot slipping against the slick marble of the floor. I manage to catch my footing and throw myself at the tub, grabbing blindly at the small figure partially beneath the water and hauling her upwards and out. I fall backwards, landing on my bottom, regain my balance and lay her on the floor. I tug at the zip ties around her hands to no avail.
"Bones! Bones!" Booth yells for me as a series of heavy footfalls move down the hallway towards me.
"Here, Booth!" I call back, then concentrate on the child. I can't do anything about the restraints, I acknowledge to myself. Straightening her head, I tip her chin back and check for the breaths I know I will not hear. The silence makes my heart pound. By the time Booth reaches the bathroom seconds later, I've already begun chest compressions.
"Eighteen-Nineteen-Twenty… Cut the restraints and call 911…" I order. "Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…" I continue the compressions and counting, half-listening as he makes the call and cuts the straps on her wrists and ankles with his pocket knife.
"Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI. I need backup and multiple emergency crews at 1660 Pleasant Point. Three injured: Adult male with gunshot wound, juvenile female drowning and adult woman—"
"Head injury," I puff the information. "Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four…"
"What the hell were you thinking, Bones?" he demands to know as he closes his phone. I glare at him.
"I think that's obvious," I retort, drily. "Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five.."
"You know better than to make sudden moves with someone armed in the room…"
"Eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three…"
"He nearly shot you, Bones!"
"I'm fine," I insist. "Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one…"
"That's not the point!" he snaps.
"Did you shoot him? One-hundred… One, two, three, four…"
"In the knee," he confirmed. "I cuffed him to the radiator, not that he could go anywhere if he wanted to."
"Good. Her mother? Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…" From downstairs, I can hear the clink of metal-against-metal accompanied by the occasional moan and a woman's consistent crying.
"Cuffed to the banister."
"Twenty-one, twenty-two… she was protecting her child," I protest. "Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…"
"Switch." I back up and he takes over. "Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two… She's a convicted felon, carrying a gun who crossed state lines—"
"To save her child!" I reiterate.
"Forty-three, forty-four…"
"You once told me sometimes you have to work outside the law in order to provide justice," I remind.
"Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…" His lack of comment makes me more persistent.
"You would do the same if it were Parker. You know you would."
He's saved from answering when Natalia begins spewing up water. I quickly brush away his hands and roll her to her side so she doesn't aspirate. Once the water is expelled she takes a gasping breath, then stills again. A check of her pulse shows it beating, but well below the norm for a child. Leaning over, I check for breath sounds while watching the rise and fall of her chest. She's breathing, but that she's unresponsive is concerning. I used my knuckles against her sternum to test her pain response. Her eyes open then her eyes roll back in her head and she falls unconscious again. A check of her pupils shows they are constricted.
"What's wrong?" Booth asks.
"I'm not sure," I admit. "It could be a response to lack of oxygen, but…" I launch myself to my feet. "If she stops breathing, start compressions again." I'm out the door before he can speak.
"Where you going, Bones?" he calls after me.
I don't answer, my mind singularly upon the person who can provide the answers I am seeking. I move down the stairway as quickly as possible, then run across the living room to the man who was, no doubt, responsible for the little girl upstairs ending up nearly drowning in the bath.
"Did you give her something?" I demand to know as I come to a halt in front of him.
"Is Natalia okay? Is she okay?" her mother screeches behind me. I ignore her, the answer far more important than her emotions at the moment. Buchanan glares up at me, silent.
"Did you give her something?" I demand again. When his demeanor doesn't change, I make the decision to change it for him. Easily identifying the injured knee, I step on it, applying substantial weight. He screams, as I knew he would.
"I'm not saying a word," he pants. I know better. I step on the knee again, this time driving weight directly into the wound. He bellows again.
"What did you give her!?" I demand, lifting my foot to deliver another round.
"What did you do?!" her mother shouts.
"Oxycodone!" he shouts, then moans, "Oxycodone."
"How much!?" Furious that he's fallen silent again, I grind my foot even more soundly into his knee. The howl he lets loose sounds like it come from the animal he is.
"Stop! Stop! No more," he begs. I let up on the pressure but don't remove my foot.
"How much!?" I repeat.
"Six-…Sixty milli-… milligrams."
"I promise you, I'll find a way to get you alone and I'll kill you! You're dead! Do you hear me? You're dead!" the hysterical mother continues to rant. I don't have time for it or offering comforting words that don't come easily to me.
"I hope they give you the death penalty," I tell him passionately. Using my foot, I shove his leg with gusto, deriving great satisfaction from the sound of him howling as I run out the front door towards Booth's truck.
Flinging open the hatch back, I grab the first aid bag and unzip it, digging through it trying to find what I'm looking for. Impatient, I turn the bag upside down and shake out all the contents. Seeing what I need, I grasp it, then slamming the hatch run back into the house, up the stairs and into the bathroom. I drop to my knees next to the little girl and rip open the box, extracting a syringe.
"What are you doing, Bones? A shot?" Booth questions.
"Not a shot," I correct as I finish assembling the apparatus. "A nasal spray. Narcan. She was given toxic dose of oxycodone for her size." I find the smile on his face confusing. Dismissing it, I focus on the little girl. "Tip her head back," I direct.
"Wait." I halt as I lean forward then sit back on my haunches. "It's the drugs keeping her from coming to?" he questions, as he does what I ask.
"I don't know," I admit. "It could be lack of oxygen from the attempted drowning or an injury we haven't found. What I do know, is if we don't reverse the effects of the oxycodone toxicity she may never wake up." He doesn't even question my answer.
"Do it." I nod, then insert the dispenser into one nostril, administer a spray, then do the same to the other nostril. "How long until we know?" he inquires after it's done. I glance at my watch before I lift and drop my hands.
"I don't know. We wait two to three minutes to see if she responds. If she doesn't, we do it again and keep doing it until the ambulance arrives."
"We keep— Can you give her too much?" He worries now.
"No. When Cam gave it to me for the first aid bag, she said you can't overdose on Narcan and that the pediatric dose is the same as that for an adult." I check my watch again.
"Buchanan… volunteered… he'd given her the drugs?" I cock my head, trying to discern his tone.
"With a bit of encouragement, yes," I answer. There's that smile again. "What?"
"Could that 'bit of encouragement' have anything to do with the screams I heard?" The corner of my mouth tips up.
"Maybe." The look in his eyes almost makes me blush and I can't help but think about that first case we worked together…
"You are so hot."
The sex tonight might just be the best yet and it's already well exceeded my considerable expectations.
My watch tells me it's time to try another dose.
"Tip her head back again?" I request.
"Yeah, sure," he agrees, repositioning her head before he finishes the two monosyllabic words.
"Do you hear that?" I inquire, while I push myself up on my knees and repeat the dosage of Narcan. He nods his head. I note the time, then sit back on my heels again to wait.
"Yeah."
"For such a condensed area, I expected them to arrive much sooner."
"My guess would be their fire department is staffed with volunteers," he speculates. It's a logical conclusion.
"You're probably right." My eyes fall on the little girl's chest, which still rises and falls but her respirations seem deeper now. I press my knuckles against her sternum and firmly rub, as I did after she'd first began breathing again. Her response, this time, is opposite what it was the first: A hand reaches up to shove mine away, her face contorts and she begins to cry. Booth and I share a look of profound relief. "Can you get a blanket?"
He's on his feet immediately and walking out the door, no questions asked. By the time he returns, less than a minute later, I've stripped her wet clothes off, she's crying with vigor and nearly alert.
"I wa—want my… my Mom—my."
I lift her up as I stand and he lays the blanket over her back, wrapping her up in it as he takes her from me. He shifts her to one arm and fumbles in his pocket withdrawing his keys. He fingers through the ring, then holds up a key. I don't need to ask what the distinctive key is for.
"You're sure?" I ask.
"You were right." I nod, then leave knowing he'll pause for several seconds to give me time to remove the cuffs from her mother… and before I give in to the impulse to kiss him.
He's truly a good man.
I watch as Booth places Natalia in her mother's arms.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," Nicolette sobs her gratitude before focusing on her child in her arms. "I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere, ever again. I promise. You and me are going home…"
"You're not going to arrest her?" Buchanan shouted his protests. "The bitch shoved her way into my home! She pulled a gun on me! She threatened to kill—" Booth storms across the room, towering over the prone man.
"Shut up before I put a bullet in your other knee!" he warns. Any retort the man might have, is cut off by the arrival of the police and ambulances.
Booth directs the traffic as effortlessly as he always does. Natalia is loaded into one ambulance to be checked out at the hospital, her mother climbing into the back of the vehicle, refusing to leave her daughter's side. Imogene is transported in another ambulance to a life-flight helicopter landing area, to be transported to a neighboring city's trauma center, given the gravity of her head injury. Buchanan was the last to be loaded as Booth shouted to the paramedics…
"He's to remain cuffed to the gurney at all times," then turns to the chief of police, "He'll need a guard around the clock."
"Morrison, go with him and don't let him out of your sight until you're relieved," the chief orders, before turning to Booth. "Now, I'd like to know what in the hell is going on here! Do you have any idea who Paul Buchanan is and what he means to this community?!"
"Paul Buchanan tortured, starved and beat to death his six-year-old niece, then shoved her body in a freezer for months before tossing her away in eastern Virginia like she was garbage." I watch as the chief's face blanches making his ruddy cheeks stand out even more.
"I… I… I… don't believe that. Paul is… is… a well-respected—"
"Shortly before we arrived, this man you 'respect' gave his four-year-old niece a potentially lethal dose of oxycodone, filled a bath and left her there to drown," I add. The man pales even further.
"I was retiring next month. Why couldn't this have happened after?" he laments. "The Chancellor and Commissioners are going to have fits."
"Yes, well then, I'm sure you'll be relieved that I've asked the State Police to take lead on the case," Booth informs the chief. The man straightens and squares his shoulder.
"Probably for the best since Paul and I play golf every Sunday. Impropriety and all."
"Yeah, impropriety and all," Booth replies, a note of derision in his voice. "Clear the crime scene of your men. We'll wait for the State's Crime Scene Unit to arrive."
I step away as Booth and the Chief speak, taking out my cell and dialing information. In under a minute, the call is placed.
"Parkside Hospital. Janice speaking. How may I help you?"
"This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I need to speak with the doctor in charge in the E.R."
"Hold please."
"Dr. Brennan, this is Dr. Robert Kinzenbaw. How can I help you?"
"Dr. Kinzenbaw, you have a four-year-old patient named Natalia Davis on the way to you by ambulance. She was given sixty milligrams of oxycodone and suffered a near drowning. Narcan was administered to counteract the oxycodone but we have no idea how long she was without oxygen from the near drowning. It is suspected she is the victim of long-term abuse and possible starvation." I pause when Booth joins me. "It would be my recommendation that a full set of x-rays be taken to determine any healing and the extent of the abuse, as well as a full blood panel as her sister had rickets prior to death." Booth indicates to me that he wants the phone. With a tilt of my head I do so, curious as to why he wishes to speak with the doctor.
"Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI here. Dr. Paul Buchanan will be arriving in one of those ambulances. I don't care if he goes into surgery: the guard is to be with him at all times… Yes, that Paul Buchanan… Whether or not you can believe it, he's murdered one child and attempted to murder another. He is not to have any contact with Natalia Davis or her mother. He is not even to be seen by them. Do you understand?... I don't care how inconvenient it is. Make it happen." He ends the call and hands the phone back to me.
"Worried Buchanan will get free and go after Natalia?" I wonder.
"Actually, I'm more concerned the mother will try to finish what she started."
"Because that's what you would do?" He sighs, heavily.
"Yeah." We turn in tandem as we hear cars pulling of the roadway and onto the drive. "State Police. Let's get this handed off to them and go home. What do you think?"
"If we can stop for lunch on the way..."