(The Woman in the Whirlpool)

Thank you for reviewing my story. I appreciate it.

I really don't own Bones.

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His life wasn't what he wanted it to be. Not by a long shot. He had thought that at this stage in his life, he'd have everything he wanted. He had a loving wife, two beautiful children and another child on the way. Booth was the head of Major Crimes at the Hoover and had already turned down two promotions so that he could continue to work in the field with Brennan. He loved investigating crimes and working behind a desk was not a goal in his life, although he was smart enough to know he would have to move up sooner or later. He was happy or he had been happy until he had started gambling again.

The itch to gamble had always been there and up until the case with the dead poker player he had controlled it. Now it controlled him and he was losing everything. He'd had everything he had ever wanted until he had sabotaged himself and he really didn't understand why.

Brennan was pregnant with their baby boy and here he was living away from her, because he lost control of his addiction. He wanted to scream in frustration, but he knew that wouldn't solve anything. Maybe there was no solution to his problem and he was going to die the loser his father had been. He had fought his whole life denying that he was his father, that he was a better man and now he wasn't so sure. Was he a loser like his father, like his brother? He prayed he wasn't, but at the moment all he could see was failure and loss.

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Restless, he had pulled on some sweat pants, an old tshirt, his running shoes and he'd left his efficiency apartment. His body thrumming, he needed to burn off some of the energy coursing through his body. He knew it was the urge to gamble that was causing this frantic restlessness. He had been fighting it all day and denying something he really wanted to do was making him a little crazy, a little hyperactive. Booth hoped that running might help. He prayed that it helped because he couldn't gamble. If he did that, he would be lost. It would mean there was no hope for him and there had to be hope. He wanted Brennan back. He wanted his daughter back. He wanted what he had tried to throw away. He didn't want to be his father. He didn't want to die alone and unloved.

Jogging around the park, he knew it was late because there were no joggers on the path with him. Because he didn't have to worry about other runners he picked up his pace and ran as fast as he could for as long as he could stand it. As he raced down the path, his feet started to burn and his heart started to pound. He was running too fast, but he couldn't seem to stop. He moved swiftly down the path, around the small lake and up towards the entrance to the park. As he approached the exit he knew he had to stop. Panting he staggered to a stop and the last few steps turned into a tumble. Rolling in the grass next to the path, he finally stopped face up, his breathing like a bellows as he tried to catch his breath. He was in good shape, but he was forty five years old and he couldn't run like the wind anymore. His feet were throbbing and he knew he had pushed himself too far.

As he lay looking up at the dark sky, he heard footsteps slowly approaching where he lay. "Hey, you okay?"

Moving up on his elbows, Booth noticed an old man standing on the path near where he had fallen. "Yeah . . . yeah." His breathing was still labored, but not as badly as it had been just a short while before. "I . . . I over did it." He wasn't embarrassed he had fallen, but he was aggravated that he wasn't the strong virile man he had been in his twenties. Those days were definitely gone. "I'm fine."

Moving over to a bench across the path from where Booth lay, the old man sat down and leaned on his cane. "I wish I could help you stand up, but I can barely keep upright as it is. It's a bitch getting old . . . I watched you running. You do know that isn't how to jog right? You're not supposed to run that fast."

"Yeah, I know." Booth's breath was finally calm and he sat up. "I was burning off some energy."

He had been a runner in his youth, so he understood Booth's need to run. "At least no one else is around . . . You're sure you're not hurt? That was quite a fall."

Booth shook his head. "When I saw I was going to fall, I tried to relax and roll. If you do that most of the time you won't get hurt."

The old man nodded his head. "Yeah . . . I come out here when it's late to walk and to think. I can't run, but the quiet of the park helps me clear my head."

"Yeah." Booth sighed. "It's been a bad day and I needed to do something." Booth noticed the old man had a ratty Army Ranger's ball cap on his head. "You were in the Rangers?"

"That was a long time ago." The old man smiled. "Good times . . . I served in the First Ranger Company. We destroyed the 12th North Korean Division headquarters during the war." He stopped talking and stared over Booth's head. "They can call it a conflict all they want, but it was a war as far as I'm concerned." He laughed. "That's an old argument I have with my oldest son all the time. He served in Desert Storm . . . My family has been in the military since this country started."

Booth pulled his legs up so he could circle his knees with his arms. "I'm a Ranger myself. I was in the 101st Airborne Division, 75th Ranger Regiment. I was part of Delta Force for a while." He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about his past, so he stopped.

"My name is Bob Cummings. Nice to meet you." Bob leaned back against the bench.

To be polite, Booth nodded his head. "Seeley Booth."

Bob stared at the younger man for a few seconds. "My middle son was a Ranger too. He served in the 75th like you. I don't know if you knew him . . . Bobby Cummings . . . Robert Cummings the third. He died in some mess in Ghazni Province in Afghanistan back in '02."

Sharpley inhaling, Booth felt like someone had walked on his grave. "You're Bob's father? Six two, red hair, hazel eyes, freckles so bad they looked like a birth mark on his face?"

Surprised, Bob nodded his head. "That's my boy. His brothers called him Spot when he was growing up because of the freckles. The boy took after his mother. She was beautiful, but she hated the freckles and avoided the sun as much as she could. I thought they made her look cute, but . . . well she's gone now and so is Bobby."

Chills running down his spine, Booth licked his lips. "I was with Bob in Ghazni . . . I was with him when he died."

Eager to hear about his boy's last day on Earth, Bob leaned forward. "Could you tell me about it? Did Bobby suffer? Did he . . . he was shot in the head . . . I . . . you don't have to talk about it. I understand."

He really didn't want to talk about it at all, but the man sitting across from him needed to hear about how brave Bob had been. "He didn't suffer . . . I promise he died quickly when he was shot . . . we were sent into Ghazni to secure a ridge. We needed it because of a special operation that was going to occur in the next few days. When we got there, we found out we weren't alone. The Taliban were already there. They pinned us down for six days . . . Our people knew we were in trouble and they tried to get us out, but we were in an exposed position and if we moved from where we were or if someone came up to rescue us . . . the situation was bad . . . Bob was a cheerful kind of guy. He thought it was his duty to keep up our morale and he did a good job. He kept telling us we couldn't quit. We had to fight and that we'd make it if we trusted our brothers to get us out. We just had to hang tight and we did, but the Taliban picked us off one by one. The day before our guys finally drove off the Taliban, Bob was worried that those of us who were left were going to die of thirst. We had all run out of water the day before . . . He and I . . . we decided to wait until it was dark and try for the water that our brothers had been carrying when they died. If we moved we risked being spotted by the Taliban, but we didn't have a choice. We could be shot or we could die of thirst. I managed to get three of the canteens and Bob got two. He wanted to go after McBride's canteen, but his body was further down the ridge . . . Bob moved out around midnight, but he only got about ten feet when he was hit. He died instantly. He was a brave man, Mr. Cummings. He was a Ranger to the end." He stopped speaking and wiped the tears from his face. Sometimes he cried when he talked about that moment in time and other times he was just angry. It was still hard to think about that fight and the loss of his friends. "Only three of us came out alive. Twelve of my brothers died and I was lucky enough to make it out. I still don't know why I was one of the lucky few, but . . . " He couldn't say anything else. Booth rarely spoke about that time in his life. He had told Wendell about it once when the man seemed to want to quit fighting his cancer, but he just hated talking about it. It was too painful.

The old man knew that Booth had struggled to talk about his boy's last day, but he was a Ranger himself and he appreciated that the younger man was willing to talk about it. "My boy was always an optimist. Nothing got him down. He believed that no matter how bad a hand you were dealt you had to play it and live with the consequences. But he firmly believed that you have control over those consequences. He'd tell me 'Dad you can roll over and give up or you can brush yourself off and move on. Giving up is not an option' and he was right. You can never give up . . . Thank you for talking to me." Bob stood up. "I need to go home. My daughter is going to worry if I show up too late. She's a worry wart." He moved across the path and stood on the grass edge. "Whatever has been chasing you must be bad. Face it, deal with it and move on." Waving his hand, he turned and walked slowly down the path towards the exit. The conversation had been sad, but he had got to talk about his son with someone that knew the boy and that made it worth it. His son had been brave as he had known all along. Rangers lead the way!

Booth continued to sit where he was and watched the old man until he disappeared through the park exit. He hadn't thought about Bob Cummings in a long time, but his philosophy was worth following. Standing, he brushed the dirt and grass from his backside and walked slowly towards the exit. Tomorrow, I'm going to talk in my meeting. I'm done siting around waiting for Bones to take me back. All of this shit has been my fault and no one else's. I'm going to fix this shit pile I created and I'm going to get my family back. I'm not my father and I'm not Jared. I don't have to be.

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A/N: We heard about this deadly mission in 'The Corpse at the Convention."