Chapter 20 Quiet
Booth was on a stake-out again. But this one was miserable. And far too quiet. His partner, his Bones, was not beside him. Not there to share a cup of coffee while they waited and watched. Not there to quietly compare theories about what the suspects' motives were, or what they might be up to, or what might be delaying their rendezvous for which the pair were on alert….
So while he sat in silence, Booth thought back over the few times of silence he had experienced with Brennan. Usually, they were engaged in conversation; discussing their current case, or Christine's latest brilliant achievements and entertaining antics, or Parker's latest hockey game, science project, test score, or when he might be allowed to spend the weekend with them again. Frequently they debated or differed in their view of a situation, bickering, Angela called it.
Booth's nights were far too quiet. No baby gurgles on the monitor, or gentle laughs or gasps of love, or murmurs of satisfaction, or breathy little snores from his partner. He took to sleeping in Parker's room, unable to lie in their bed without stark loneliness, stinging tears, the ache of missing her touch, her scent and her drowsy presence beside him.
No, this was a different kind of silence, a different sort of stake-out, for a very different reason. This Friday night, Booth was on a stake-out... in his own house…..again.
Bones had been gone, living off the grid for nearly six weeks. Ever since the moment she'd driven away from the church after Christine's baptism, Booth had been wracked with anxiety for her safety, yearned to talk to her, know she was okay, communicate somehow!
And much to Booth's amazement, the ever-resourceful Max Keenan had given him a way to do just that.
The second Friday evening he had come home alone, exhausted from work and worry, Booth had noticed something odd about the way one of his old blue sofa cushions felt. He had plunked himself down to watch a Flyers game, without his usual enthusiasm. But he couldn't get comfortable for some reason. Flumping around, he realized it was strangely lumpy. He pulled the cushion from under his rump, moved to its mate, and leaned forward to examine it. The zipper pull tab was skewed a bit. He'd never undone them, so he was suspicious. Sliding it open, he felt inside. A small flat cotton-wrapped bundle was concealed there. A burn phone fell into his hand and a tiny scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. "Uz 1c MK, dstry" it said cryptically. Booth slipped it into his boot, zipped the cushion closed and returned his attention to the hockey game.
An hour later, he went into the bathroom and locked the door. There were no windows in here. He pulled out the phone, said a quick prayer, held his breath, and turned it on. Much to his delight, a message appeared. "Booth, we r fine. Luv & miss u. Will try 2 get one of these 2 u now & then. Crush 1c u'v responded." Quickly, he typed, "I lv u, miss u, hug C 4 me." He waited a few minutes, but no answering text came back. So he took it apart, placed it under the bath mat, and ground his heel into it until the fragments were tiny enough to flush down the stool.
How in the devil had Max broken into their house without being seen? What a wily yet caring rascal! He had guts and daring beyond most men decades younger.
Ten days later, pulling weeds in Brennan's vegetable/herb patch, Booth felt an oddly-rectangular edge to a root he was trying to unearth. He grabbed a handful of dirt and leaves, and deposited it in his garden cart, along with the dandelion stems and crabgrass he'd pulled. Once in the garage, he secreted it in his pocket, emptied the bin, and pulled more weeds for another hour. Once in the house, he repeated his furtive messaging ritual with relief to hear from Bones and regret that his girls weren't home. Leaving each phone on for only a few seconds and crushing it into oblivion mostly insured they'd escape detection.
Eleven days later, Booth took the afternoon off, left his SUV at the Hoover, took a cab home, and spread out on the coffee table the files he'd brought to work on. He read and made notes until sundown, and then moved into his bedroom, where he sat on a chair in the waning light, waiting. Here he sat, on a self-assigned stake out to see if he could intercept the cell-phone-depositing Max. He waited until 11 pm, but no Max. No stealthy rustle of a key in the back door lock, cautious creeping footsteps through the kitchen. He knew the older man could pick a lock, blend into his surroundings, hide in plain sight. Grimacing in frustration partly because he missed Bones' brief texts but also because he'd wanted to thank Max for his cleverly-concealed kindnesses, Booth gave up and went to bed.
The next morning, Doris, his favorite waitress handed him a paper bag with his coffee-to-go. "Harry thought you could use some bagels, Agent Booth," she smiled, referring to the Royal Diner proprietor. Booth thanked her gratefully, and waved at Harry, who stood at the grill behind fluttering breakfast order pages clipped in front of him.
Once seated in the SUV, Booth took a careful sip of the scalding hot coffee through its slit-top lid, and reached into the sack for a bagel. Amid the pastries, he felt a flat phone-shaped object. It took his best poker face/gambler bluff/undercover Buck-Boris-Tony-restraint to keep from grinning like an idiot. He grabbed a bagel, took a few bites, stuffed it back in the sack, and jammed the bag into his console. That morning in his office d-r-a-g-g-e-d by. Lunch time Finally! He drove to Rock Creek Park, found an empty parking lot to pull into and turned off his engine. He sat for awhile, checking the rear view mirror, insuring that he was alone. Then he retrieved the bagel sack, spread cream cheese on a bagel, and chewed on it impatiently. At last, opening a bottle of water for a swig, he reached into the sack for the phone and turned on his treasured find. A message from Brennan appeared under a picture of Christine. It was taken without showing any of the room she was in, only a close-up of her sweet baby face and happy little smile. Even so, Booth could tell that she'd grown. Destroying this phone was the hardest thing Booth had faced in a long time. He stared at the picture, burning it into his memory, and gritted his teeth as he stomped on the phone and battery and scattered its pieces across a patch of dark shaded forest. Lord, how he missed his Bones and Chrissy.
A week later, Saturday evening found Booth mowing the lawn. He'd scrutinized the surface of the lawn, the flower bed edging, the underside of the tree swing seat, the ladder to Parker's tree house, and every other nook to no avail. Finally, he climbed up to the tree house and sat there to watch the sunset. In one of the cubby holes Parker had requested, he found an old bandana wadded up. His spirits rose just a bit. Sure enough, another burn phone, a loving message which he could answer, soothing his heart for a moment. Then it went into his sock, into the house, and up to the bathroom to perform another stomp dance.
That night in bed, under Parker's Iron Man sheets, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars Bones had stuck to the ceiling for his son, Booth sighed. He closed his eyes, mentally pictured his girls, said a prayer for their safety, more patience, and discoveries that could clear Brennan's name. Then, turning on his side and squashing his pillow, Booth waited in the lonely dark quiet for uneasy sleep to overtake him and erase one more night before his family came home.
A/N: To me, one of the saddest scenes in the Bones series is Booth sitting on the church steps, staring up at the sky, Christine's empty car seat on the sidewalk below. I loved "Once Upon A Summer" by Razztaztic. This chapter is a another slant on the same period of time, hopefully, different enough not to step on the toes of her genius writing. As far as I'm concerned, Harland Parrish is one of the most entertaining characters around. And Max, for all his faults and past mistakes, is just as protective of his family as Booth is, possibly more.