Author's note: After a long week of waiting, the new chapter is here! It's not as dark as the first one so no need for your flashlights/candles/torches.
Thank you to all the readers who reviewed the first chapter, to those who have already put this story on their favourites list, and of course to those of you who found the first chapter intriguing enough to put it on story alert. Know that it is appreciated!
Massive thanks to Faux Maven. Besides correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, you made useful suggestions and, more importantly, provided me with a gun. If it wasn't for you, I would have chosen a very impractical rifle. And of course lots of thanks for the 'discussion' we had on handcuffs. lol So thanks!
- II -
-- THE HANGING CAGE --
The hanging cage or gibbet is a torture method mostly used in Europe where the Spanish Inquisition kept people on their toes. After being tortured by other lovely devices, you are locked into a cage of wood or iron in the form of a human being. Then you are hung from a gibbet, a tree branch or a castle wall in either cities, towns or along rural routes. You can either be put on display and be freed after some time or you are forced to die a slow, brutal death as you are left to face hunger, thirst, and the elements (heat stroke and death because of extreme cold are common). Once you have died, your body is left inside until your flesh dissolves and your bones fall apart. Oh, and don't bother begging your relatives or friends to retrieve your body. There is a chance you are locked in a cage studded with nails that only a crow can enter.
In the first chapter we left Brennan at poor murdered John's side. As the police invade her home, she is unable to stop them and must feel as helpless as you stuck in that hanging cage. Brennan has to endure the torture of being put on display before a handful of officers who are hungry to make an arrest as well as a pack of unwelcome spectators.
Thursday November 15 - Outside Brennan's apartment - 22:15
Booth had never seen the place more crowded. Dozens of people were milling about at the apartment building's entrance doors. One look at the men and women clad in police uniforms trying to keep the other people, presumably citizens, at bay made Booth veer the SUV into the first available parking space he spotted. It was about 10:15 in the evening. Darkness had already settled over Washington D.C. leaving only numerous lamp posts and light shining from homes up to the task of chasing the night away in the city. Booth had been on his way to his partner's apartment building. Of course he had been well aware that it was a Thursday evening---a time Brennan recently had begun reserving for a certain man named John. Up until now Booth hadn't had the pleasure of meeting him, but that certainly wasn't Brennan's fault. She hadn't exactly tried to keep him a secret. Since Booth spent a great deal of time in her presence, the little hints she dropped had been more than obvious to pick up, especially since Brennan's subtlety was the equivalent of most people's bluntness. Those 'hints' hadn't so much enraged as shaken him. Another dimwit in her bed, he had resentfully thought. Let's hope he won't break her heart or I'll break him.
Booth ruefully shook his head as he got out of his car to meet the disturbance outside. He was completely engulfed in his musings. The fact that there were police officers swarming the apartment building where Brennan lived had made him screech to a stop earlier, but didn't seem to penetrate his thoughts now. It was as if he lost his concentration---his grip---on reality whenever the concept of Brennan entertaining other men occupied his mind. At any other given time he would have elbowed through the crowd and would have raced to the fifth floor to check on his partner, but now...He felt a familiar feeling---something he vaguely labeled as a mix of jealousy and disappointment---stir in his stomach. For some time now they were partners. Before Brennan, he had never imagined how intertwined his life could become with that of a squint. Now she was with him twenty-four seven---half the time physically, most of the time mentally.
Trouble, he had thought when he had first set eyes on her. Trouble, had crossed his mind again when he had 'rescued' her from airport security. Double trouble, his conscious and something in a more southerly region shouted nowadays whenever their hands accidentally brushed or a look lingered too long. It was all accidental of course because, after all, they were only friends---best friends actually, but still just friends. An occasional spark set them on fire every now and then, but they had mutually and silently decided not to let that spark engulf their friendship. They chose to ignite relationships with other people instead. In Booth's case that had happened precisely two times---once with Brennan's superior Cam, and once again with Sam, short for Samantha. Well, those were his most recent flings. Rebecca and Tessa he deliberately ignored because he felt they belonged to a different part of his life, from long before he had realized just how often Brennan was on his mind.
Samantha had been a feisty red-headed lawyer, almost two heads shorter than him, and with a well known temper that could rise and fall in one breath. When Sam was on the warpath, the tide could turn in the most unexpected direction. Either she drove him in a corner while tirelessly throwing accusations at his head, or she ended up chaining him to the bed with his handcuffs and keeping him up almost the entire night. It had been a tempestuous, wildly emotional, and most of all, short-lived relationship. Looking back on his intense month with Samantha, Booth realized he had only used her as an outlet for all the different kinds of frustration he had been harboring for quite some time now---ever since he had met Brennan to be honest.
The times his mind had wandered towards a possible plan of trapping his partner in her office and pinning her to a wall, he had done so with Samantha. Whenever Brennan's stubborn streaks had gotten to him, he had deliberately caused an argument with Sam to blow off some steam. It had calmed him for a while, going home every night and knowing Sam would be there to stimulate him in one way or another, until one day Brennan had turned up on his doorstep. If he thought it had been awkward finding her at his door when Tessa was around, then he obviously hadn't anticipated how ridiculously embarrassed he had felt when Brennan had interrupted Samantha and him mid-lovemaking. Sam had taken one look at Brennan, had scrunched up her nose, and had stomped out of his house not caring that she was only wearing his shirt. She hadn't even bothered freeing Booth from his handcuffs, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxers, metal bracelets, and an uncomfortable smile. Just as suddenly as Samantha had entered his life, she had vanished when she had laid eyes on Brennan. If only the men passing through Brennan's bed did the same as soon as they saw him.
Booth tightly clutched the file he had brought with him to serve as a pretext for visiting Brennan's place at this time of night. It was not unusual for him to be there after 10 P.M., but that was only when they were on a case. Right now they were supposedly working on separate cases, while they waited for a victim to turn up that would require both their skills so that the victim could be identified and the mystery could be solved. So without a case it would appear awkward for him to stop by her place for no particular reason; that's why he had brought the file. He was going to use it as a ticket for the spoil-Brennan's-night train. Booth sighed as he absent-mindedly noted the different slap of his shoes on a wet street. Stupid weather, he groaned in his head. Stupid November weather. Stupid Thursday evening. Stupid John. His presence would be awkward anyway, especially when Brennan had made it clear that she didn't want to be disturbed tonight. But how could Booth not do so? Telling him to steer clear from her place was like telling Hodgins and Zach to stop racing beetles---a pointless request that would never be granted. Especially because he had a bad feeling about that John-guy. He had wriggled himself into Brennan's life too fast and too smoothly for Booth's liking. He would have to be careful and keep a close eye on his partner for the time being.
The crowd of curious spectators didn't part when Booth tried to approach the entrance door. He sighed and began pushing past them. Sidestepping a pregnant woman, rounding a young man who was gaping upwards without making any attempt of closing his mouth, and brushing past an elderly couple staring up and pointing to the building in front of them, Booth slowly made his way through the dense group of people. All the while he kept thinking how he could properly explain his reason for showing up uninvited at her door. He couldn't just flat out confess that he wanted to check out whoever was responsible for that foolish smile she had been wearing the last couple of weeks. If he dared stating he had a hunch John was not on the up-and-up, Brennan would hurl one of her travel souvenirs at his head. Claiming that he desperately needed her signature, the excuse he at first had thought of using, wasn't a good enough reason either because...All thoughts, as well as color, drained from him when he glared at a woman who suddenly jabbed her finger at something above them and he absent-mindedly followed her pointing.
Right above them, on the fifth floor, on the balcony Booth was certain belonged to Brennan, were four people standing. One of them appeared to be a police officer. Even in the dim light of the lamp-posts Booth could distinguish his uniform. The two standing next to the police officer he unfortunately immediately identified. Their blue jumpsuits were too familiar for him to not recognize. They could either be crime scene investigators or attendants from the coroner's office. Either way, their presence meant trouble. The fourth person...Booth's breath hitched when he locked onto a wild mass of auburn-reddish locks and a glimpse of pale skin. In no time Booth was wrestling his way through the crowd as if his life depended on it. He roughly shoved past a kid about eighteen years old who was staring upward with an ear to ear grin and nearly poked a man's eye out with the file he was holding because he was attempting to swim instead of push his way to the entrance door.
"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he stated as he flashed his badge at the man guarding the door. Booth figured using his authority as FBI agent would be the fastest way to get to the fifth floor. As a plain civilian he would be held back like all those eager men and women drumming for a glance of blood behind him.
"A Fed?" The man Booth had addressed whistled in awe. "I knew you guys were fast, but this is just..." He whistled again, grinning as well this time. When he saw Booth's impatient glare, he quickly stepped aside to let him pass. "It's on the fifth floor. You better brace yourself. It ain't a pretty sight."
Those words made Booth hurry even more. He had just seen Brennan standing on her balcony, very much alive, but that didn't mean she couldn't be hurt. Doing his best to keep himself centered, Booth poked the button several times to call for the elevator. He almost sighed in relief when the doors finally slid open. It was ridiculous of him to worry so much. He mentally corrected himself. It wasn't ridiculous to care about his partner. It was only stupid to get so worked up over probably nothing. But then his muscles tensed and his stomach churned. Who was he trying to kid? Police wouldn't invade her home if everything was alright. They only showed up when something bad happened. And in this case that something bad involved his partner. All the way up to the fifth floor Booth tried to calm himself. He had always been quite an emotional man, but when it concerned Brennan, his emotions got the better of him for some unknown reason. Whereas he normally would worry just enough like every other person, his spine was as stiff as a board and he was swallowing nervously. He vaguely wondered when his feelings for his partner had spun so out of control, but his mind was already set on other matters---what was going on at Brennan's apartment to be more specific.
The second the elevator doors opened, he burst through them and hurried down the hallway. He walked rapidly past two police officers who were questioning Brennan's neighbors and skidded to a stop once he had passed the apartment's threshold. In the middle of Brennan's tidy living room he found her staring numbly at a man in uniform who kept firing questions her way. He had a pen and a small notebook similar to Booth's in his hand just in case Brennan gave him a useful or valuable piece of information. But by the looks of Brennan's absent gaze and the crease on the man's forehead, she wasn't cooperating. Booth's eyes briefly flicked from Brennan's arms tightly folded over her chest to the empty plates on the dining room table. Then he eyed the two men in blue---they were from the coroner's office he could now conclude---who were laying out a large bag the size of a human being. God no, he mentally moaned. Please don't tell me...A glance at the lifeless body with grayish skin and a thin line of blood running down the man's face out of a small round hole in his forehead confirmed his initial conclusion. Brennan's latest boyfriend had been shot. He crossed the room with a couple of long strides.
"Bones, what the hell happened?" His exasperated bark with a tinge of worry annoyed the police officer questioning her, but seemed to pull Brennan out of her paralysis.
"Booth," she mumbled surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to...Never mind, it doesn't matter." He fiddled around with the file he had meant to use as a poor excuse, tempted to throw it on the table next to a pair of empty dinner plates. But since he didn't want to contaminate the crime scene, he stopped fiddling and went back to staring at his partner. "Answer the question, Bones. What went down here?" Brennan frowned and was about to reply when the officer, slightly ticked off because Booth had interrupted his interrogation, butted in.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step back. We're in the middle of an investigation here." He tried his best to sound dominant. He even put up a hand as if he wanted to push Booth out of the apartment, but thanks to the nervous twitching of the corners of his mouth his entire authoritarian appearance was not very convincing.
Booth ignored his feeble attempts at sending him away and instead crossed his arms and harshly said, "You call this an investigation? Your buddy downstairs let me through the second he saw my badge. If you're not careful, anyone waving something badge-like around can waltz in here and compromise our crime scene!"
"Our crime scene? Sir, I don't think this is..."
"Yeah whatever, pal," Booth interrupted him. "Why don't you go play with your officer friends while I handle this, alright? Great, thanks." He was about to turn his back to the young police officer, but changed his mind. "Oh, and do you think you could put this somewhere safe? Preferably in an area that's already cleared?" he said as he thrust the file at the young man. The officer sighed, accepted the file, and walked away to leave the file in a cleared corner where his colleagues had set down their equipment. Booth nodded satisfied. In a matter of seconds he had taken over the investigation and had everyone accept him as the new lead. Just how he liked it. Without further ado Booth turned and gently lifted his hands to Brennan's face. "You alright there, Bones?" he murmured as he tilted her head from side to side to check for scratches, blood, or anything that might look worth worrying over.
She swatted his hands away. "I'm fine," Brennan sharply returned. Her arms rapidly went back to being folded across her chest.
"You're not fine." Booth sighed deeply as her eyes flickered dangerously. It would be of no use arguing with her over her sanity right now. He brought his hands up again, this time to grip her upper arms. "What happened here?" he asked for the third time, staring straight at her with the intention to match her words with what he saw roaming in the depths of her eyes.
"We were outside, John and I, when..." She quickly looked away, wetted her lips, and hesitantly turned back to meet Booth's stare. "John was shot...a single round to the head. I have no idea where it came from. It happened too fast for me to see. He fell to the ground before I understood what was going on."
"John as in John your boyfriend?" From the corner of his eye, Booth saw police photographers shoot several series of pictures of the patio and of the body before it could be moved. . His stomach churned upon catching sight of grey matter mixed with blood trickling down the neck. The image, however, also made him frown. Was the exit wound supposed to be this low if Brennan had shot him? Embarrassment immediately washed over him. Like any other cop, he suspected right away the only other person who had been with the victim in the same room at the time of the murder. Brennan hadn't shot him; she would never. If John had attacked her, her first instinct would have been to kick him somewhere down south, not blow his brain all over the patio.
"No, as in ex-boyfriend." Brennan's tone had turned sharp as razorblades again and shook Booth out of his thoughts. She was pointedly eyeing him as if she had read his mind two seconds ago. One of his hands pushed back his jacket and found his hip as Booth thoughtfully stared at his partner. She was panic-stricken. Of course she was. Nothing made Brennan turn cold faster than frightfully strong emotions. Brennan stared him straight in the eyes. "John was shot," she said next in a monotonous voice. "There's an entry wound in his forehead and an exit wound on the back of his neck. Only the lower half of his skull is shattered. A close up shot would have had a different outcome."
Booth nodded confirming. "You know these things better than me. I believe you, Bones." When he turned, he saw the coroner's assistants wrap the body bag around John's corpse. They zipped up the bag and lifted it onto a stretcher. When they rolled the stretcher past them, Booth stopped them. He wasn't a fan of remains, whether they were still fleshy, juicy or already reduced to a pile of bones, but something about the entry wound was nagging in the back of his mind. Though he had only caught a glimpse of John's head, something had felt off. So he stopped the stretcher, opened the bag, and examined the clean, rather small, bullet wound. As he did so, he casually asked Brennan, "What kind of a man was John? Did he have, you know..."
"A blood link to Al Capone?" Brennan dryly retorted. "He was an honest man, Booth. John had no enemies." Booth gritted his teeth. So this was no drive by or a settlement of an account. He turned back to the bullet wound. "I'm no expert," Booth began slowly, "but I have to agree here. If you shot him, the entire back of the skull would be a mess, not just half." Brennan nodded in agreement.
"The exit wound is too low," she said. "Only someone considerably taller could have shot him from that angle."
"Or a sniper," Booth grimly added. Upon feeling all eyes turn on him, he straightened up. "They were outside. The shot could have easily come from across the street. I would start by searching the opposite building." The young officer agreed to both Brennan's as Booth's surprise. But Booth's next observation stopped him from sending someone to check out Booth's theory. Booth was leaning over the corpse again. "There's something wrong with this bullet hole. Most sniper rifles are military. Commercial .308 Winchester slugs or NATO 7.62 x 51 mm rounds are commonly used for those rifles, but they would have caused a much larger wound. This one is too small." He squinted as he rounded the stretcher to look at the wound from a different angle. Suddenly he cursed. "I bet it's from a .22 caliber rifle. Both military and terrorist snipers have been known to use small caliber rifles in close urban settings. Maybe our sniper is no ordinary shooter. He seems to prefer unconventional rifles," he finished, cold anger ringing loud and clear in his voice.
Booth was charging for the front door in no time. Brennan hastily walked after him. She skidded to a stop, wearing a dangerous scowl, when he turned and pointed at one of her couches. "Sit, Bones. You are not coming with me." Seeing Brennan was on the verge of exploding, Booth's face softened. He gestured more gently at the couch now. "You can't leave now. I'm sure there are some CSIs on the way, ready to check you for gunpowder residue." Brennan defiantly crossed her arms and her glare turned even darker. Booth's stomach turned when it dawned on him Brennan was shaken up enough she didn't want to be left alone in a situation where she usually was on the other side, examining the scene as a forensic anthropologist. Being treated as a potential murderer despite Booth's conclusions and being subjected to all the tests she knew were mandatory unsettled and annoyed her more than she was willing to admit. The fierce glint in her eyes an attempt to hide her panic told Booth enough though.
"You know the deal, Bones," he softly spoke so only she could hear him. "They'll probably want to keep an eye on you at least until tomorrow morning." He tried to smile reassuringly. "You know what? After I've confirmed my sniper theory, I'll come back and keep you company until everyone has cleared off." A frown appeared on his face. "Maybe then you could explain why you didn't call me."
"Booth, I..." Brennan started.
"Later, Bones. Now sit," Booth ordered again before turning and striding out.
Three police officers promptly followed him. They would have never guessed this to be a sniper murder. Booth on the other hand found himself seething inside. His partner's boyfriend, as much as he had loathed him even though he had never set eyes on the guy, had been gunned down by a murderer taught the same skills as Booth. Booth would never try to justify his actions as right, but at least he had shot dangerous men capable of killing dozens of people, not some innocent man who happened to be out on a patio with an anthropologist. Flanked by the three officers, Booth pushed through the still dense crowd, ignoring the questions thrown at him, and swiftly crossed the street. He halted on the sidewalk to inspect the building. Most of the lights were on, except on the sixth floor. In the apartment farthest along the right side there was not a single light lit. Seeing that everyone else had left their lights on in their haste to view a blood spectacle, he had a feeling the apartment was empty and thus an ideal hide-out for a sniper.
Booth confidently entered the building and was pleased to see a man with a set of keys---probably the janitor---come rushing in after them, obviously meaning he wouldn't be tempted to shoot the door lock. All five of them rode up to the sixth floor and went down the hallway, the policemen checking open apartment doors just to be sure. The janitor used his key to open the door, leaving Booth to note either his hunch about the apartment was wrong or the lock had been picked earlier.
As he drew his gun and carefully walked inside, Booth's anger suddenly flared and a loud curse escaped him. Before him, neatly arrayed on the glass coffee table, put on display as if it was a crown jewel, lay a black and brown sniper rifle. It was a Russian SV-99, exactly one meter long, designed to the technical requirements of SPETSNAZ---Russia's special force. The nipple from a baby bottle stretched over the end of the barrel to serve as a silencer. The sniper had obviously left it behind for someone, maybe even for Booth himself to find. As a more than clear message it said that John's shooting was no accident; it was straight-out murder. They had a madman on their hands.
Can you say "dum dum dum dummm"?