AUTHOR'S NOTE: Haven't got anything interesting to report except that I really enjoyed the Monday I took off this week, he he. As for thank you's:

Faux Maven, you know how much your help is appreciated. You make wanting to improve myself very appealing and enjoyable. I'll be sad once this ride is over and there's nothing left to work on...But then again, that's what new story ideas are for, isn't it? (imagine one heck of a broad grin)

To those that reviewed the last chapter, put me or my story on alert or to those who stop by to read but don't leave a review, thanks for reading (and reviewing)!

And before I forget -- there's a link to Booth's "Spirit Bear" tie on my profile!

- XV -

-- THE MAN CATCHER --

When picturing the Man Catcher, imagine a long pole with a two-pronged head. An opening between the two semi-circular shaped prongs allows the prongs to slide around the victim's neck and then snaps shut immediately, effectively trapping the victim in the process.

Although seemingly closely related, the Man Catcher and the Thief Catcher served somewhat different purposes. Whereas the Thief Catcher was used to control a criminal's movements, the Man Catcher was designed to drag a person from horseback and pin him to the ground so he couldn't move. In medieval times it played a significant part in abducting noblemen for ransom. Because they wore armor, their necks were protected from the strong hold of the Man Catcher's metal prongs. Trapping and containing violent prisoners (whose necks weren't protected by armor) was another purpose of the Man Catcher.

In Papua New Guinea a weapon similar to the Man Catcher was once used by some primitive tribes. It consisted of a spike and a loop mounted on a pole. The loop was thrown over the victim's head and then the pole was violently jerked backwards, impaling the victim at the base of the skull.

In the previous chapter I mentioned Brennan and Cam would go hunting. What better way to capture a Madman than by using a Man Catcher? Unexpectedly, Brennan and Cam come across some very interesting evidence. Evidence that might just lead to Madman's downfall...

December 1 -- Washington D.C. -- 11:47

"Are you sure this is it?"

Without bothering to turn and look at Cam, Brennan narrowed her eyes as she squinted at the store across the street. A veil of mist drifting along the sidewalk obscured the building from view. Despite being close to noon, the sun -- watery and cold in a first day of December kind of way -- hadn't yet succeeded in burning off the thin but persistent vapors. Through this mist, Brennan stared at the vague impression of burgundy velvet curtains framing a display window that had the words 'The Old Antique Shop' engraved on it in medieval style calligraphy. The store was wedged in between dilapidated buildings ready to be torn down by bulldozers if they didn't collapse of their own accord in the near future. The clammy December weather, combined with the poor state of the neighborhood, explained perfectly why they couldn't spot a living soul walking down the street.

Both Brennan and Cam believed it strange that someone could have gotten the idea, or could have found an investor crazy enough to lend them the money, to open an antique store in an obviously condemned area. Neither of them would be surprised if the whole neighborhood was slated for demolition. And yet Brennan was staring with narrowed eyes at a perfectly intact store...Though its merchandise was far from being unremarkable. It could have been your average antique store had it not been for toe and thumbscrews, a Skull Splitter, the Chain Whip and an Iron Gag put on display in the window on rich embroidered cushions in the same style as the curtains.

"I'm as sure as Booth was," Brennan replied. "Miller gave him this address."

"Who's Miller?"

Brennan leaned back, but didn't make eye-contact with Cam just yet. She kept her eyes trained on the display window as if she expected to find a clue by gazing at the torture devices. There was something disturbing about those things, and it wasn't just because they were implements designed to cause pain and agony. They emanated an aura of pure, unadulterated evil, horrible and ugly in its most basic form. Brennan blinked several times to chase away all fatigue, ignoring the urge to rub her eyes, as she cocked her head to the side. Her logical side tried to study these objects of torture from a safe distance while judging their anthropological value, but it was hard to create distance between the chaos in her mind and the silent cries of misery and pleas for mercy radiating from them.

It wasn't just the torture devices that piqued her interest while at the same time causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. Something didn't quite fit; something felt 'off' about the store. Darkness loomed behind the display window, cupping its gigantic hands around the objects put on display. A malignant menace enveloped the building, causing Brennan to shift restlessly in her seat. Something about that store across the street, an invisible message broadcast by 'The Old Antique Shop', raised a red flag of alarm in Brennan's head.

Refusing to give in to a so called 'gut feeling', Brennan kept her tumultuous emotions firmly in check. The day before she had nearly broken down; she couldn't afford such an obvious loss of control now, not when they were tracking down their prey, not when they were busy closing in on the man who had turned their lives into a living hell. Now definitely wasn't the time to investigate the damage caused by the tidal wave of emotion that had so recently washed over Brennan. There would be plenty of time later for an in-depth radioscopy of her psyche. Later, but not now. Or perhaps never if Brennan had any say in it.

Shaking her head to clear away these unwanted thoughts, Brennan answered Cam's question. "Miller was a suspect Booth brought in for questioning. The creep spent his time videotaping me."

Cam turned slightly so that her shoulder was resting against the car seat, crossing her arms and mockingly lifting her eyebrows. "I don't know what's more shocking -- the fact that Booth broke the rules by allowing you to be present during the interrogation, or the fact that you consider it normal to follow Booth wherever he goes."

Scowling openly at her boss' remark, Brennan turned and gave Cam a pointed look. Cam shrugged. "Just trying to make conversation."

Brennan raised her eyebrows, but refrained from any comment. Instead she drew in a strengthening breath before unclipping her seatbelt and moving to open the car door. "Let's go."

Both women got out of the car, quickly wrapping their thick winter coats around them to keep the warmth from inside the car from escaping their skin and clothes. Brennan buttoned up her coat, wrapped her scarf around her throat, and bravely tilted her chin upwards. Her eyes locked onto the antique store again as she pushed away all feelings of foreboding. Just because Booth had been hurt on his way to the drop off point Miller had mentioned during his interrogation, that didn't mean that the same thing would happen to them. What had happened to Booth proved that there was something worth finding at 'The Old Antique Shop'. Muscles bunching with tension, Brennan clenched her fists as she strode across the street. She nodded decisively. Her partner and friends were in the hospital. They deserved and needed any clues she could find that would unmask whoever was behind the great scheme of turning their lives into pure hell, even if that meant risking herself.

Cam walked right beside Brennan, hiding her slight limp as best as possible. The wound near her temple aching terribly, and her hands were loosely tucked in the pockets of her winter coat. Hot breath billowed like smoke around her as she exhaled slowly, emptying her body of all breath as well as nervousness and blind anger. She could feel tension crackling along her skin. It clouded her good judgment; it hazed her thirst for justice. Every cell in Cam's body screamed for vengeance, for retaliation for the fact that a psycho had been allowed to touch and hurt her team. Cam fiercely wished they'd stumble across a clue in the store they were approaching. They needed something concrete, however little and seemingly insignificant it was, to nail the extraordinary monster who was after them.

Goosebumps of excitement spread across Brennan skin as she pushed the door open and a cheerful jingle resounded through 'The Old Antique Shop'. The sparkling tinkle of the brass bell hanging above the door rudely broke the eerie quiet present in the shop. The lack of customers and the dim lighting created a scene vaguely reminiscent of the typical abandoned mansion scenes so often seen in B-rated horror movies. The store's interior did nothing to help Brennan and Cam shed that impression. Wherever they looked, they saw hell. Table after table, exhibit case after exhibit case, was stacked with torture devices, some known and others unfamiliar. Some were flecked with droplets of dried blood, attesting to their authenticity and age. It was an unsettling and slightly frightening picture to behold.

The silence that fell after the doorbell stopped ringing was even more oppressive than the one they had disturbed upon entering the store. It pounded in their ears in rhythm with their heartbeats as a feeling of the utmost discomfort crept upon them. Tentatively Brennan and Cam took a step forward, but grew immediately bolder when they heard mumbling and a faint tapping sound. The tapping persisted as Brennan and Cam moved towards it as quietly as possible. They wove through the narrow pathways in between vast numbers of tables and book cases, each neatly stacked and its contents meticulously dusted. Brennan maintained a firm grip on her bag and Cam straightened her spine in preparation.

As they passed an Iron Maiden next to what seemed to be a prototype of an electric chair, a high wooden counter came into view. Behind it stood a man as peculiar as the tapping sounds they still heard. With a hunch-backed, meager frame and sickeningly pale skin, the man looked as if even the slightest puff of wind could blow him away. The wild disarray of grey and white-streaked hair and a pair of black-framed tortoiseshell glasses sliding down his long, sharp nose were visible signs of his profession. The black cane with a silver miniature globe on top, however, didn't quite fit the profile of the average antique dealer. The man restlessly tapped the tip of his cane against the counter as he mumbled incoherently and leafed through the pages of an ancient looking manuscript.

Brennan and Cam shared a look before Brennan cleared her throat and approached the counter. "Excuse me, Sir." The man ceased his rapid flipping of yellowed pages, but didn't stop striking the counter's side in an unnerving staccato rhythm. He slowly lifted his head and looked at Brennan over the rim of his glasses. "I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan and this is Dr. Camille Saroyan. We're from the Jeffersonian. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Ask away, Lucas Strom is at your service," the antique dealer replied in a nasal tone.

Unperturbed by Strom's annoying voice, but forced to suppress a shiver when she laid eyes on his bony, twitching hands, Brennan crossed her arms and said, "What can you tell us about Albert Miller?"

"He's a very pleasant man," Strom immediately answered, moving to tap his cane against the wooden floor boards instead of against the counter. Brennan quirked an eyebrow. Somehow she couldn't picture the hunk of toned muscle Booth had intimidated exchanging pleasantries with dull, grey Lucas Strom. He continued, completely oblivious to Brennan's silent and mental, but sharp-edged mockery. "Always courteous, always up for a chat. Yes, yes, I certainly like Albert," Strom nodded. "He drops by about twice a month, whenever he's got a delivery."

"What kind of delivery?"

The antique dealer's reply was vague and was punctuated by a short series of curt and rapid cane taps. "The devil may get me if I know. He just leaves a box containing God knows what with me and that's all I know."

Glancing at Cam, Brennan felt her lips thin into a grim set and her arm muscles tightened in reflex to the news. The dreaded tapes she had mentioned to Cam earlier had most likely been hidden in those boxes. "What happens after Miller's gone? Do the boxes stay with you?"

"Yes, but not for long. They are picked up the next day by one of my clients."

Brennan swayed and she had to keep herself from gripping the counter for balance. Could it be that this peculiar little man knew the man who had purchased the tapes of her, who had illegally obtained a Jeffersonian security badge, and who was quite possibly the mastermind behind all the attacks directed at them?

"Could you give us his name?" The slight crack in her voice as she spoke was the only indicator of the jarring emotions surging through her. Close, they were so close. Was this feeling in her bones the 'gut feeling' Booth often so eagerly welcomed?

"Of course, of course. I'll get my book." Strom's cane accompanied the squeaky noise of his shoes as the scrawny man hurried away.

Trying to control her rapid, shallow breathing, Brennan turned as Cam came up beside her. Surprisingly, Cam had kept to the background while Brennan questioned Strom. Now the pathologist materialized next to her and casually leaned against the counter. "So have you figured out yet what you're going to tell Booth when we're at the hospital tonight?" When Brennan shot her an incredulous look, Cam's mouth curved into a smile. In a conspiratorial voice she leaned slightly forward as she said, "You can't pretend that kiss didn't happen, Dr. Brennan. You can't forget it, no matter how hard you try."

Brennan remained silent, staring at Cam, until Strom returned carrying a heavy book. He placed it on the counter and opened it to reveal a long list of what appeared to be names and addresses. Cam and Brennan couldn't help but marvel at the precise, alphabetically ordered record of the people who had crossed the threshold of his store. The number of customers was larger than either of them could have expected. Strom began to flip through the book when he stopped to watch Brennan who set her bag on top of the counter, unzipped it, and slipped her hand inside to retrieve a small plastic bag. His mouth fell open when Brennan held up the evidence bag containing the 'Anello Della Morte'.

Breathlessly he asked, "Is that...?" Brennan nodded. "Could I...?" Brennan hesitated, but nodded and handed over the bag nonetheless. "This is extraordinary," Strom murmured. "What a coincidence. Yes, what a coincidence this is."

"What is?"

"The client's name I was about to look up for you...He's the owner of this fabulous 'Ring of Death'."

All color drained from Brennan's face as she stared at Strom and stammered, "Are you certain?"

"Dr. Brennan, in my profession you don't easily forget someone with such a vast and exotic collection of tease and torture implements. Especially not when he's one of your most loyal clients. In fact, I've got several pieces of his right here with me." Strom absent-mindedly gestured at a table on their right where some of the most vicious-looking devices were displayed.

Sensing Brennan's distress, Cam placed a possessive hand on the book that held Strom's client records and asked, "May we?"

"Sure, sure. Look under M. His name is Tatum Malloy. Keep the book as long as you want, but only if I may..." he replied, holding up the bag with the 'Anello Della Morte'. Cam nodded in agreement, picked up the book, and leaned against the counter as she flipped it open while glancing every few seconds at Strom from the corner of her eye. Brennan headed for the previously indicated table, somewhat lost but somehow managing to keep panic from overwhelming her.

Silently Brennan stared at the torture implements before she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began the task of sorting through Malloy's donated collection. They worked quietly for a few minutes, Cam methodically inspecting every name and address recorded under M and Brennan holding up torture devices for examination as she tried to remain calm.

"You didn't answer my question," Cam casually remarked as she located Malloy's entry and took out pen and paper to copy it.

"I don't see the point of discussing what happened with Booth," Brennan said.

Cam frowned. "You might not, but Booth won't drop the issue. You know how he is."

"But nothing significant happened. We just kissed," Brennan absent-mindedly replied, putting down a Breast Ripper and reaching for a Spanish Tickler. "We kissed. That's it. It's not like we had elevator sex."

"Oh, so he kissed you in the elevator?" Cam asked, her voice as well as her eyebrows rising. "What happened when you got to your floor?" Her question was met with silence. Finishing her precise copying of Malloy's home address and phone number, Cam looked up as she prompted, "Brennan?" Astonished she watched Brennan go rigid and lose even more color. As white as a ghost, Brennan stared at a pair of rusty medieval chains and handcuffs that lay before her.

"It can't be," she whispered, shaking hands hovering above the metal shackles. "It just can't be."

---&---

December 1 -- At the Jeffersonian -- 14:14

Wave after sickening wave of horror and fear spilled through Brennan's veins. Small eruptions of shock pricked her skin from the inside out and her mind was racing. The second Brennan laid eyes on those rusty chains, every piece of the puzzle had begun falling into place. She hadn't thought it possible, but the past had come back to haunt her in every possible way.

It was him. There was no escaping it or denying it. The methodically executed plans, the hatred broadcast by his every attack, the ease with which he had infiltrated the Jeffersonian museum the other day, the medieval chains...They all pointed to one culprit, one man Brennan wished she had never met. His face she had never seen, except for his cold and murderous eyes, because he had been smart enough to wear a hood, but his voice she remembered with awful precision. Until the day she died, Brennan would hear the cutting edge of his raspy voice as he whispered obscenities in ear.

'Pretty' he had called her before nearly snapping her neck by delivering a stinging slap across her face. 'Bitch' he had hissed at her whenever she dared to mention Booth's name. He had hated Booth with a fervor and a fury unlike any she had come across before. Shivering from the chilling memories, Brennan closed her eyes and squeezed the evidence bag with the grey tie and the tape she was holding. In a minute she would hit 'PLAY' and would have to witness Booth's staged burial. Every rational fiber of her being was battling down the mind-numbing cocktail of memories from her kidnapping nearly a year ago, the reluctance and pain of watching her torturer get the upper hand on Booth, of instinctively knowing the significance behind the tie she was clutching.

Drawing a deep breath, Brennan slid the tape in and pressed 'PLAY'. Immediately security camera footage from the museum came on screen. Brennan watched a handful of people mill about the African exhibit before the camera switched to the ones in the dimly lit Egyptian exhibit rooms. She froze. It took her perhaps half a minute to assess the man moving before her eyes. She saw him drag Booth over to the empty exhibit case, saw him lifting Booth's still body onto the table. Mesmerized, Brennan couldn't look away, couldn't stop studying Booth's captor's movements, as he enacted his personal version of the Egyptian burial ritual.

When the video showed Booth's tie being switched for the ugly scrap of fabric Brennan was clutching in her hand, she turned away, unable to endure the liberty and cruelty their tormenter allowed himself. There was no mistaking his identity. In about ninety minutes, when Cam got back from comparing the DNA samples they had scraped from under Angela's nails with the hairs Brennan had ripped out during her capture the year before, Cam would only confirm a fact Brennan was already certain of. She knew his fluid gait, knew every tilt of his head by heart. The entire week she had spent in his company, Brennan had memorized every peculiarity of his body language. She knew it as sure as she needed the next breath to live. She recognized him one hundred percent and therefore knew that the name and address they found at 'The Old Antique Shop' was fake.

This wasn't Tatum Malloy. It was him.

Brennan's mind was still reeling from the realization when her cell phone chirped. She stopped the video and put the evidence bag with the tie away before answering the call. The message was short, but relieved some of the shock and irrational fear tormenting Brennan. She thanked the caller, hung up, and got to her feet. In no time she was standing in the doorway of Cam's regular examination room where she watched Cam move around for a minute or two. When Cam caught sight of her and looked at her in question, Brennan weakly smiled.

"The hospital called. Booth awoke about fifteen minutes ago. He...He asked for me."

Next stop: the hospital!