AUTHOR'S NOTE: A fun fact to share about this chapter is that the first half of it reminded Faux Maven of the song Masochism Tango by Tom Lehrer while the entire chapter made me think of Won't Back Down by Fuel. Goes to show what different impressions people can get from the same piece of writing...

That being said, let's move on to the usual rounds of thank you's. Muchos gracias to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I'm thrilled you all seemed to like the Brennan/Cam combo.

As for Faux Maven...I know I wasn't in the best of moods on Tuesday, but you didn't seem to mind much. Thank you for staying calm and keeping me grounded. Every youngster needs a rock. lol

- XVI -

-- THE GUILLOTINE --

The Guillotine is not so much a torture device as it is a device used for execution by decapitation. With its tall, upright frame (the bascule to which the victim is tied), the lunette (a plank that holds the victim's head in place) and its razor-sharp blade, the Guillotine was the main method of execution in France during both the French Revolution and the Middle Ages.

Dr. Joseph - Ignace Guillotin, a professor of anatomy on the faculty of medicine in Paris, was the man who thought of a way to turn guillotine-like devices such as the Scottish Maiden and the Halifax Gibbet into a swifter and more accurate instrument for dispensing death. Because the Guillotine was considered a precise instrument that delivered immediate death with no chance for failure, on March 20, 1792, the Guillotine was declared the official method of execution in France. Contrary to popular belief, Dr. Guillotin didn't die by means of his own invention, but rather of pneumonia.

Once the head was separated from the body, it fell into a basket at the other side of the lunette, was picked up by the executioner and then presented to the crowd. There is an ongoing debate about whether or not the executed person remained aware once head and body were separated. Scientists have reported opening and closing of the eyes in response to the executed person's name being called out, and speech and movement of the mouth, but this could well be random muscle activation.

The Guillotine is one method of capital punishment. The term "capital punishment" refers to the Latin word capitalis meaning 'regarding the head'. Capital crimes used to be punished by the taking of the head. Madman's well-planned schemes, each single one hatched in his brilliant, psychopathic mind, can be, without a doubt, catalogued as crimes worthy of capital punishment. In this chapter he receives just that, punishment for his crimes. Another reason I have chosen an execution device rather than a torture device for chapter title is because in this chapter Madman finally meets his end. It will be swift, precise and there will be no escape.

December 1 -- Washington D.C. Hospital -- 16:23

He was seething with anger -- absolutely boiling, close to the point of exploding and attracting unwanted attention. But except for jaw muscles sore from grinding his teeth and shaking hands, nothing of his inner rage showed as he slipped out of his car holding a freshly starched, spotless lab coat and an opaque plastic bag containing a stethoscope and two other objects that would remain hidden from sight until he was alone again. Those items neatly folded and tucked under his arm, he walked through the hospital entrance doors and moved toward the elevator intending on riding it to the fifth floor. It was one hundred percent pure luck that he had eavesdropped on the idle chatter between two nurses in the ICU and had learned both Booth's room number and his condition.

It was just the luck he needed for the final stage in his carefully constructed plan. He didn't like it one bit that he was forced to adapt the last act of his mission -- his quest -- of reclaiming Brennan, but he had no choice. In his original plan Booth would be dead by now, but thanks to Brennan's intervention the Bastard had survived, requiring him to revise a master plan that could no longer be executed. But it had to be completed if he was ever going to own Brennan. He just needed to separate her from her friends and eliminate the man who had so boldly laid claim to her. The Bastard would go down; he would burn and from his ashes Brennan's rightful owner would arise.

It didn't occur to him how violently Brennan might protest. The notion was, in his opinion, simply too ridiculous to waste thought upon. She was his, period. Soon she would realize just how well they fit together. Soon, very soon -- right after he had rewired Booth's heart monitor. The Bastard wouldn't know what was happening to him until he was beyond saving and had only one option: death by electrocution as his heart beat wildly…and then finally stilled.

He came to a stop in front of the elevator and hit the CALL button. A slow smile spread across his face as he watched the numbers above the elevator doors count down. If everything went according to plan, Booth's time was also counting down. Soon he would be as dead as that pathetic excuse for a boyfriend he had consigned to hell a bit more than two weeks ago. He snorted. No matter how hard he tried to understand the attraction Brennan had felt for that John-guy, the only thing he could come up with was that she was deliberately taunting him. Why else would she have been interested in such a wimp?

He got in when the elevator arrived, nodding vigorously. Yes, there was absolutely no other reason why Brennan had dated John. It was precisely why he had pulled that trigger and had taken his rival out of the equation. The same went for the Bastard: he stood in between him and delectable, blood-stirring Dr. Brennan whom he would ravish as soon as he had vanquished his rival.

By the time he arrived at the fifth floor, exhilaration flowed through his veins and a satisfied smile curled around his lips. But he didn't let his guard down. His entire scheme could collapse if he was discovered. Cautiously he moved down the hallway, his eyes roaming over every object, stealing glances of other patients as he walked past their open doors. Some were sleeping, others had visitors, but they were all waiting for dinner to be served. If he had done his homework properly a pair of nurses would, in about half an hour, come down the hallway with a large cart holding a meal for each patient. All he had to do was find the Bastard's room without anyone noticing him.

But first he had to change into more suitable attire. The black sweater and dark jeans he wore were perfect for surveillance, but in a hospital, surrounded by bleak white, it was the equivalent of a neon sign. He would never get close enough to the Bastard if he didn't shed his current skin. The guard posted at Booth's door, now but a vague figure at the end of the hallway, would never let in an unauthorized person wearing such stark and somber clothing.

Quietly he disappeared into an empty room and closed the door. As he pulled his sweater over his head he checked the black dress shirt he wore underneath for undue creasing. He had chosen the shirt deliberately, not wishing to make a bad second impression on Brennan just when he had killed her partner. Brennan had to see she was in safe hands -- safe and fashion-conscious hands. He would keep her locked away from the world so she would never know harm again. He would be the world she needed; he was bent on becoming the center of her universe. She would never accept him if he looked like anything but the powerful, sophisticated former-Jeffersonian donor with money to burn.

As he focused on the image of a submissive Brennan he ignored the unwelcome clenching of his hands. They twitched unpleasantly as his mind jumped from Brennan serving him to Brennan smashing the exhibit case he had locked the Bastard into. How baffled and angry he had been when he had discovered that he had injected both Hippomane mancinella and his self-invented sleeping drug into Booth's system. How annoying it was to have his plans thwarted, if only in part? But how could he blame himself? It wasn't his fault that the last user of the 'Anello Della Morte' hadn't cleaned the ring properly. He had been furious at first when finding out what a crucial mistake he had made -- overkill just wasn't his thing -- but now he could only be grateful. Thanks to the murderous intent of the last owner of the Ring, he could now end the Bastard's life in style, a bit more violently than he originally intended, but in style nonetheless. Hell, Booth should feel honored to be murdered by him. He'd exit stage right in high dudgeon – if only he knew what was happening to him!

Lost in thought he folded his sweater and put on the lab coat. He briefly felt the right pocket of the lab coat, reassured when he felt the contour of a modified power cord beneath his fingertips. The stethoscope he draped around his neck, below the lab coat's collar, as any regular doctor would do. As a final touch he retrieved the Bastard's "Spirit Bear" tie and slipped it over his head and around his neck. A hint of a smile touched his mouth as he ran his fingers down the smooth, cool silk, intensely enjoying the feel of it. How satisfying it was to wear Booth's badge of masculinity. To him, taking the tie was the equivalent of stripping the Bastard of all that made him virile and a temptation to Brennan. By snatching away that precise piece of fabric, he intended to show Brennan just how easily her beloved partner could be defeated. Wearing the tie now, at that crucial moment when he would tip the scales in his favor forever, was more than just a caprice. The moment Brennan saw the tie, she would know who was the strongest, who had the right to call himself Alpha, and who exactly was Brennan's rightful owner.

Satisfied with his appearance, he quickly hid the bag underneath the bed. Loosening his neck muscles by rolling his head and breathing in deeply, he strode out into the hallway. The guard barely looked up as he approached. Frowning, he slowed down. If he had known Booth's FBI colleague was so unworthy, he would have just opted to knock him senseless so he could gain access to Booth's room instead of playing out this masquerade.

Clearing his throat as he came to a stop at Booth's door, he looked up and met the guard's eye. "I need to examine Agent Booth."

"Didn't you guys do that just about an hour ago?" the guard asked wearily.

He blinked, but smoothly offered an immediate explanation. "There is something wrong with his stats. We believe the heart monitor is malfunctioning." He wasn't lying. It would be malfunctioning soon enough.

"Oh," the FBI Agent said. "Sure."

Giving Booth's guard a curt nod, he shoved his hands down into the pockets of his lab coat and strolled across the threshold. Dusk had just begun to settle in, shrouding the room in a dim light that seemed to blur all edges. It felt like a dream. He and the Bastard hung suspended in time, cut off from the world, waiting for life to begin again. In semidarkness Booth rested; in twilight he waited for his strength to return. But what the Bastard didn't know was that the darkness would never end. There would be no more waking up for him, no more sunrises to behold. It would end today, within the next half hour. He just needed to make a few adjustments and then...

He startled when Booth mumbled incoherently. Upon entering the room, he had thought Booth was asleep. Was his rival awakening from what appeared to be a drug-induced slumber laid upon him by doctors so they could, as his guard was down, examine him thoroughly? Was he exhausted because of all the tests he had undergone, or was the Manchineel venom still polluting his blood? It was of no importance. As long as the Bastard kept quiet and remained groggy, he could do as he pleased and could end his mad chase of Brennan tonight.

As quietly as possible he moved forward, planning on circling the bed and locating the heart monitor cables. He briefly halted at Booth's side. Dismayed, he noted how there was no apparent bruising. That would be the only thing he would regret when it was all over. In his original plan, he had given the Bastard a respectful burial. As much as he loathed Booth because he had dared to lay a filthy hand on Brennan, he had admired him. He had to, since he would be taking his place. But now that things were different, now that he had changed plans, he felt his hands itching to grab a hold of Booth's throat and squeeze the life out of him. Envy, a profound jealousy unlike any he had ever experienced, pushed him into moving again. He had barely taken a single step when Booth began to mumble again, only this time it was completely comprehensible.

"What are you doing here, Doc? More tests?"

He quickly glanced at the FBI Agent. The man looked pale and sleepy, his eyelids at half-mast and his head lolling slightly to the left. Booth tried to focus on him, even tried to push himself up against his pillow, but his muscles didn't seem to respond. He cocked his head. Either the poison or some other drug was effectively keeping the Bastard sleepy and incapable of recognizing the man who had knocked him out cold only a few days ago. Perfect.

What to do now? Not answering was not an option. Clearing his throat, he decided to call on his chameleon-like abilities. If he could duck in and out of the Jeffersonian unnoticed, he could easily mislead this pathetic excuse of an FBI Agent. He pasted on a fake smile and deliberately adopted a bit of a lilting voice as he replied, "No, just checking on your heart monitor. The plots seem a bit off."

Booth rubbed his eyes before nodding. "Right. I'd better take these off then." Booth was about to reach up and tug the electrodes off his bare chest, but was stopped by a shake of the head.

"No, you must keep those on. I shouldn't be a minute."

Less than a minute if he had any say in it. Plugging the heart monitor cables into a modified power cord leading to the wall outlet instead of to the monitor was a piece of cake. All he needed to do was find the right leads.

After a final glance at Booth's peaceful features, he crouched down and began sorting through all the wires and cords on the floor. He quietly snorted in disbelief upon seeing the number of machines the Bastard was hooked up to. Had his ordeal at the Jeffersonian taken such a toll on him? Had he hurt the Bastard more than he thought he had? Apparently so, judging by the crescendo of bleeps, sucking and ticking noises filling the room. No wonder health insurance was so expensive. He smiled in satisfaction. He liked how the Bastard was suffering. It was a foreshadowing of the utter torment he was about to experience. Now if he could just find the right cable and...

"Hey, Bones," the Bastard suddenly mumbled. "Looks like you got my message. Thanks for leaving a pair of PJ's last night."

He froze. Brennan? Here? It couldn't be! His every muscle went taut as he listened in horror to the ticking of high heels and the sound of a door being closed. The tapping of stilettos continued until Brennan came to a halt at Booth's bed. He remained utterly silent and completely motionless. If he was lucky she would stay at Booth's left side and wouldn't notice him crouching on the other side. He ducked even lower as he reached out to quietly tug at the power cord he had been looking for, but his hand paused in midair when Brennan began to speak.

"You're welcome. Anything is better than those hospital gowns." She paused long enough to draw in a deep breath. "Cam and I went to 'The Old Antique Shop'."

"Great," Booth replied, shifting around so he could, presumably, see his partner. "And?"

"Miller was right. He used the store as a drop-off point for the tapes."

Brennan's clothes rustled when she sat down. She placed her bag between her feet. He could see it all happen in his head as he listened to her making those noises no more than five feet away. He shivered in delight. Very soon he would no longer have to survive on his memories or the crumbs he had gleaned from tapes and surveillance. Very soon she would make those noises and do a hell of a lot more just for him. His fingers curled around the power cord while Brennan continued her report in a clipped voice.

"We talked to Lucas Strom, the store owner. He recognized the 'Ring of Death'."

It took all of the control he possessed to bite back a chuckle. Brennan was certainly right. Strom had nearly been drooling the second Brennan had showed him the most valuable piece of his collection. He had seen the entire interrogation, or what had to pass for one, from his hide-out in the back of the store. Poor old Strom never knew that he had made a copy of his keys.

Another suppressed chuckle shook him as the last time he had seen Strom flashed through his head. The man had loved the 'Anello Della Morte' to bits. Strom had promised to do anything if he could have the small piece of decadent jewelry. So that's exactly what he had demanded as a payment. He had ordered Strom to burn his client ledger before he had given him the ring he so desired...and then forced him to swallow it. It had taken a few well-placed blows and kicks, but eventually Strom had eaten the ring, albeit it with tears and blood streaming down his face. That had been right before he had strapped the antique dealer to the prototype of the electric chair that stood beside the Iron Maiden, plugged it in and flipped the switch. He bet Strom had wished, right before he had been fried to a crisp, that he had never restored the chair and had never plugged it in to see if it would work. It had certainly done a proper job for such an old piece of equipment.

"He gave us a name," Brennan said, still oblivious to the audience at the other side of the bed. "A fake name."

Duh, he wanted to say, however dumb the expression was in his opinion. Of course Strom had provided them with a false name. Smart people who handled illegal affairs never offered their real names.

"Doesn't matter," Booth replied. "I know what make of car he drives. I know his voice. I've seen his face. We have enough to recognize him if he makes another appearance."

He nearly snorted as he pulled the monitor cables from the cord leading to the monitor. Right, that's why I'm half a yard away rewiring your heart monitor...

The Bastard winced as he sat up straight. "Hell, if we were Zach and Hodgins, I'd shout "King of the Lab!" Well, "King of the Investigation", really."

"It's Jackson Dolan."

The entire room froze in shock. Booth barely had time to suck in a sharp breath when a roar of outrage broke the spell cast by those three words, pronounced in a tight voice by Brennan. Footsteps pounded the clean hospital floor, a growl erupted from his throat, and then he was on top of her. In a matter of seconds he leapt over the bed and jumped on Brennan, taking the both of them down and knocking the air from her lungs. He growled again and wrapped his hands around her throat, tight as a vice.

"So you finally remembered me, bitch," he hissed. "Took you long enough."

And remember him she did. Dolan felt her eyes roving over his face, felt her penetrating stare burning his skin. It was a magnificent thing to behold how she catalogued his appearance. Refined cheekbones, nose crooked from a well-placed elbow about a year ago, pointed chin and skin the color of cream just like hers. But it was his eyes she lingered over, those blue-grey eyes that had coldly stared at her, had openly stripped her naked, just like they were doing that very instant; watching her as she had been chained to a wall covered in dirt, mold and coppery water. His eyes were the only part of his face she had ever really seen; and would without a doubt remember forever. He smiled at her, suppressing the urge to tell her it was rude to stare, and how she didn't need to memorize his every feature since she had a lifetime left to study him. Smiling wickedly at Brennan, he rested his entire weight on his hands as he tightly curled them around her neck.

He could see a miniature reflection of himself in her eyes. Since Brennan barely blinked, she provided him an unusual mirror to check his appearance with. As he smiled, two rows of yellowed teeth -- one front tooth strangely twisted and a missing incisor that formed quite a gaping hole -- appeared. His ears stood a bit apart from his head and were of a moderate size...or so he thought. It was his hair he was proud of. Razed ultra short, only a few millimeters long, his ash blonde hair -- more ash than blonde, closer to grey than he wanted to admit -- crowned what he believed was a well-shaped head containing a much larger than average brain. Dolan had always thought of himself as handsome, as a more than fair catch. Brennan didn't know just how lucky she was for having caught his attention.

As his fingertips, long and bony and ending in thick, hornlike fingernails, dug into the soft skin of her throat he could feel her fear emanate from every pore. He could smell the heady mix, felt himself become aroused by the sharp tang of it. How he loved to make her squirm. Her panicked clawing at his hands only served to make him rock hard. He leaned down until their faces were only an inch apart. Brennan's struggle for air, her gasping breaths punctuated by the pounding of her knees against his back, made him smile sweetly. For a minute he basked in the rush of adrenaline that her fight for life sent surging through his veins. Their breaths mingled and a sensual sound escaped him. Dolan shuddered with desire. It had been such a long time since he had felt her wriggling beneath him, since he had felt her bending to his strength.

"So pretty," he murmured. "So very pretty. I've always thought of you as beautiful." He held her down with one hand as he ran the fingers of his other hand over her face. Continuing in a voice so low and growling that only Brennan could hear him, he lowered his face some more and brushed his lips over hers. "You smell of him, do you know that? Even through your fear, I can detect his stink. I'll have to work to make you mine again."

Rage blazed from Brennan's eyes. She tried to scream, roar, rage, but could only utter a weak squeak. Dolan grinned. "There's no escaping, my dear. I won't let you go so easily this time. We'll be the perfect couple."

She released her hold on his choking hand and lashed out. He groaned in pain when Brennan dragged her nails down his face, quickly followed by a right hook as he leaned back to get out of reach of her clawing hands. Dolan slid his fingers through Brennan's hair and wound it around his hand, yanking her head back. Quite possibly he would drag her out of the hospital by her hair if she continued to resist him. But before he could do just that, a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he was jerked around. A fist crashed into the right side of his face and he moaned and fell to the floor.

Blood spurting from his nose and his jaw aching from the impact of the punch, he stared up at Booth who was wobbly on his legs, but wide awake nonetheless. Dolan could see the muscles at the base of the Bastard's neck bulging and tightening, and the blood running down the back of his hand where he had torn out his IV. His eyes were narrowed to slits and he was clenching his fists in anticipation. Wordlessly Dolan got to his feet, wiping away the blood before shrugging out of the lab coat and pushing up his sleeves.

"I should have killed you first," Dolan muttered as he eyed his opponent. Booth stood about three inches taller and outweighed him easily because of his muscled physique, but Dolan was swifter and leaner...or so he liked to believe. He almost felt ashamed for challenging the Bastard into such and unjust and unfair fight. He spat on the ground. "I should have put that bullet through your brain and saved a lot of time."

Without any warning he lunged forward, aiming for Booth's waist so he could take him down, but Booth grabbed him by the collar and all air was pushed from his lungs when Booth folded him over the metal side rail on the bed.

"Over my dead body," the FBI Agent said through clenched teeth before punching him again.

Dolan fell to the ground once more. From the corner of his eye he saw Brennan scrambling to her feet, probably intending on sprinting to the door and notifying the guard outside. "No, you don't," he muttered as he took hold of her ankle and yanked her back. Brennan fell down with a yelp and kicked back in response. Her stiletto heel dug into his shoulder, making him wince in pain as he wondered what it was with women and high heels. Didn't they know they could mortally wound a man with those killer shoes?

He was about to pounce on Brennan again when Booth grabbed him by the shirt collar and growled for him to let go of his partner. Dolan ignored the Bastard, instead swinging out his leg and sweeping Booth's legs out from underneath him.

"Over your dead body, you said?" Dolan asked as he caught sight of his discarded stethoscope. "That can be arranged."

He grabbed his stethoscope, winding his hands around the ends of it as he straddled Booth, and quickly wrapped the tubing around Booth's throat. The agent wheezed and groaned as Dolan tightened his strangle hold. A smile spread over Dolan' face. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he whispered as he choked the life out of his opponent. "In a minute you'll be dead and then nothing will stand between me and Brennan. She'll be mine, all mine."

"Like hell I will."

Dolan had just enough time to look up, eyes wide with surprise, when a steel urinal hit him full-force in the side of his head. He tumbled to the side, dazed for a few seconds. Then he jumped to his feet, wiped off his face, and lunged for Brennan. They fell onto the bed, Brennan landing wild yet precise kicks and blows, Dolan doing his best to avoid her every attack while pinning her down. Behind him he heard Booth come towards them. He was pulled off Brennan and was tossed to the side. Brennan fell off the bed, on the side where he had quietly been fiddling with cables and cords just a few moments ago.

Booth grabbed him and held him still, sweating with the exertion. Pain was etched in every line in his face, but he didn't seem to feel it. Dolan kneed him in the side and tried to push him away, but Booth worked harder to pin him firmly to the mattress. But the struggle was getting to the FBI Agent. Dolan could clearly see the exhaustion etched in his face. Growling loudly, he swung his fist and hit Booth on the side of the head. With Booth momentarily stunned, Dolan wormed himself free of his death grip, turned around, and prepared to make another lunge for Brennan. But he froze before he could push himself forward.

On the ground, right before him, Brennan sat -- and she had that look on her face. His heart stopped upon seeing her eyes flick back and forth over the task he had abandoned when he heard his name fall from her lips. She saw the heart monitor cables unplugged; she touched the modified power cord lying next to them. And there it was. Bingo. The 'Fork in the Toaster' look. She knew exactly what he had been up to.

Shit.

He roared and leapt for her, but was held back by Booth who twisted his arms behind his back. He kicked and spat and squirmed, his emotions overtaking him, pouring through him like an unstoppable avalanche until rage consumed the whole of him. He was no longer a man, no longer an evil genius with a perverse desire for Dr. Brennan. He became a beast, a prisoner of his own feelings of possessiveness and anger. Through a blood-red veil of madness he watched the Bastard's face contort in pain. He felt himself kicking and punching, like an animal driven into a corner. He heard Brennan's cry of outrage, heard her yell but couldn't quite make out the words.

Dolan didn't need to hear because seconds later Booth rolled off him, panting heavily, and a new pair of hands grabbed him by the collar. He was pulled to his feet and immediately pushed against a nearby wall, arms twisted up behind his back and a pair of cold handcuffs mercilessly snapped over his wrists. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the grim-faced guard staring back at him. Behind him, Dolan heard the Bastard sit down on the edge of the bed, pushing out a deep and exhausted breath.

"What took you so long?" Booth groaned.

"I was getting coffee," the guard apologized. "I figured you would be safe with Dr. Brennan around. You know, with her martial arts and stuff..." He trailed off, clearing his throat as he threw an embarrassed look at Booth and Brennan.

"Just get him out of here," Booth ordered, waving them away.

The guard turned, dragging Dolan with him as he recited his Miranda rights. He hardly paid attention to the guard's words. As they led him away, he could see it all in his mind, all the horror he had caused, all the torture he had committed. Brennan, secured to his basement wall with medieval rusty chains, bruised and bleeding. He had beaten her, had nearly raped her. John Percy, her dead boyfriend, whom he had mercilessly shot through the head. Angela, the tall, dark-haired beauty, whom he had chased in Rockville, who had given him a run for his money when she had fought him like a wild cat. Zach Addy, the skinny kid, who he had beaten and tied to a tree and had left for dead. Jack Hodgins, 'Curly', who he had poisoned in such a devious way. Camille Saroyan, the beautiful scientist who he had tried to blow to pieces. And finally Booth, the Bastard, the thorn in his eye, the nail on his coffin, the one he had respected enough to give a proper burial.

They had all survived; they had all escaped the gruesome fates he had chosen for them. In his final moments he saw them all laugh at him. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He, Jackson Dolan, was meant to be the survivor. He was destined to be Brennan's owner. He, and only he, could live.

But as he looked back, right before he and the guard exited Booth's room, he was granted a glimpse of how life would continue on without him. Brennan stood beside Booth, her hand on his shoulder, Booth's hand that still bled at the wrist covering hers. They were together, hurt and bruised and bleeding, but together nonetheless. His whole scheme had failed. He hadn't even rubbed off on them. They were together; they were a whole.

They were -- he snorted with disgust -- just perfect.

Let's get cheering. The next chapter will be the last!