Bones Season 6.5 x 18: The Sheep in Wolf's Clothing ~ Written by Rynogeny

Morning lit the area as Booth opened the door to the diner, his gaze drawn immediately to his partner. Her back was to him and he slowed. She might be an expert on bones, but he was an expert on her and the way she was sitting – unnaturally stiffly, hands in her lap, coffee apparently untouched in front of her - said something was wrong.

It didn't take much thought to guess where the problem was. They'd not yet discussed moving in together, despite the fact that they spent more nights together than apart, but she'd stayed in her apartment the night before without him because Max was in town and she wanted to spend time with him.

Max. Tense Brennan. It didn't take a genius to work that one out. He walked up behind her, touched her shoulder as he moved past to take the seat opposite her. "Morning, Bones." He studied her, noted the tension was around her eyes as well, and skipped all the other pleasantries. "What's up?"

She raised her hands to the table, but just left them there, appearing to struggle for a moment for a response. "Last night was very awkward. My father is acting peculiar, even for him." She looked at him, her gaze troubled. "I'm concerned that he's engaging in illegal activities."

Not a surprise, really, and yet it was. As far as Booth knew, Max had hovered right around that line for several years, but hadn't stepped over it, for his kids' sake. "What happened?"

She'd relaxed enough to sip her coffee. "He's being very secretive. He'd been staying with Russ, and, we expected him to be there through the end of the month at the least – Russ and Amy are taking the girls to Florida, and Dad was going to go with them. But two days ago, he came back from an appointment – he wouldn't say where – and told Russ he needed to come up here. And now, he's doing the same thing here – he says he has appointments today, but won't say where or with whom."

Booth frowned. "So, he significantly changed his plans and is in town for some specific reason but won't say what?"

"Yes." She hesitated. "I'm not good with reading emotions, but he feels false to me, like he's pretending everything is the same as it has been. He tried to tell me that the appointment was nothing major and he was just using it as an excuse to see me, but Russ told me that Dad had really been anticipating the trip to Florida."

The waitress sat a cup of coffee down in front of him, and Booth nodded his thanks, his mind turning over what Brennan had said. There might be something harmless about Max's activities, but he understood why she was worried.

"There might be perfectly legitimate explanations, Bones. He told me once that while he wasn't always exactly on the right side of the law after your mom was killed, he never joined forces with anyone else afterward. He blamed their involvement with that gang for her death."

"He was right," she said tartly. Then she sighed, and her expression was vulnerable. "So you're saying that whatever is going on, he's not involved in criminal activity with someone else. Of course, he wasn't working with anyone else when he killed Kirby."

"Kirby was threatening you," Booth said, suddenly uneasy. Was Max in DC because he believed Brennan was in danger? But he would have told Booth that…wouldn't he?

"Bones, your dad has been making choices for years now that allow him to stay in your and Russ's lives, because he loves you and wants that. Let's not jump to conclusions."

"You're saying I should trust him."

"Until we have more to go on, yeah." Before he could figure out what else to say, his phone rang. He answered it, listened a moment, and then said, "Yeah, we're on it." He disconnected, looked at her. "We've got a case. Body found in a state park in Virginia."

B&B

Booth stood back, observed the crime scene. The body, or what was left of it, was slumped at the bottom of a tree. Brennan crouched, studying it, while Hodgins took samples of the soil.

"What do you think, Bones?"

She looked up, frowning. "There's a lot of flesh here for Cam, but definitely male, most likely mid-thirties." She looked around. "There's a significant portion of the body that's not present, though." She motioned to the right side of the body. "Left arm, lower portion of left leg; right foot."

He nodded. "The ranger said something about that. I'll go get the details." He paused. "What's that scent? Do you smell it? Over and above the decomp, there's a sweet smell."

"Honey," Hodgins said. "It's all down the tree, mixed in with the soil and leaves." He touched the victim's jeans with a gloved finger, "and it's on his clothing."

Booth looked up, around. "There are a few bees around, but no sign of a hive."

Hodgins studied the area and then said, "The bees might be put off by the decomp, but this is why we're not seeing a hive." He scooted over a few feet from the body and held up a honey bottle.

"So they drenched the body in honey and then dumped it out here? Could he have died from an allergic reaction?"

"There are people for whom honey is an allergen," Brennan noted. "Though if he was allergic and knew it, why the bottle? But if it's murder, it doesn't seem very efficient. "More than likely whoever left the remains here thought that the honey would attract animals quicker."

"Because, yeah, that's top on the list of what murderers think about," Booth said dryly. "Being efficient." He turned, walked over to where the ranger who'd called in the body stood. She was angled so as not to see the crime scene, slightly upwind.

"Ranger Dubois?"

She was fit-looking woman of about thirty, Booth judged and there was a tan underneath the green tinted pallor of her skin.

"That's me," she swallowed. "I smell decomp all the time in animals, and it doesn't bother me. But knowing what's over there, I keep wanting to hurl."

"I understand. Can you tell me what happened? You were patrolling here for a reason?"

"There's been increased animal activity in this area – hikers reporting more bear sightings, bobcats. That almost always means something's up." She sighed. "Then, last night, a wild-eyed hiker stopped by the ranger station and said he'd come face to face with a black bear…who was completely uninterested in him because he – the bear -was carrying a human arm."

"So you checked it out."

"Had to, though I privately thought he was nuts. But, no." She motioned to the body.

"Before that, though, there were more animals around?"

"We don't always know where every animal is, obviously. But there are areas where they're more likely to be seen, and the trail through this area is way too close to the main road. So when we started getting hikers reporting seeing animals, we began checking it out."

"But you didn't see the body until today?"

She shook her head. "Unless we have something more specific to go on, we stay on the trails. There's simply too much ground to cover, otherwise. But after the arm report, I was looping off and on the trail," she motioned in a circular fashion, "and then I smelled it."

"Did you see any sign of the bear?" Brennan would want the arm back, if they could find it.

"No, but we're looking. I'll let you know if and when we do."

"Thanks." He looked down at the card he'd been jotting notes on. "How long have you been getting reports of increased animal activity?"

She frowned. "About a week? 10 days? No longer than that."

"I take it there haven't been any reports of abandoned cars in any of the lots?"

"No, that was the first thing I checked on after reporting the body. No cars, no hikers unaccounted for, no abandoned campsites, at least not that we're aware of."

Brennan looked up as Cam entered her office. "The autopsy is done," she said. "Mr. Nigel-Murray is prepping the body to remove the flesh, and Hodgins has the clothes."

"Yes, he told me. Were you able to determine cause of death?"

Cam nodded. "Twelve gauge shotgun. Two slugs were still in him, though evidence suggests there were a total of four. One lodged in his spine after going through his heart and one in his upper right thoracic region are still there – I've got Angela working the slugs."

"And the other two?"

"One went through his right arm, and the fourth through his left hip. The heart was the kill shot."

"Interesting dispersal."

"There's more. There are wood slivers all through him."

"Back blow?"

Cam nodded. "Someone shot through something to get to him. Hodgins is typing the wood."

"Unless the slivers are from a tree, he most likely wasn't killed in the park."

"No, but Booth will probably want someone to take another look at the crime scene for the missing slugs."

"I'll call him."

B&B

Booth scowled at the monitor and entered another search term. It wasn't going well, but was that a good thing, or not?

"Hey," Sweets stood in his door. "Claudia said there's a case?"

"Yeah. Body found in a Virginia park." The results of his search came back, and he paused a moment, then entered a different parameter. It was a reach, but…

"What are you doing?" Sweets asked, curiosity in his voice.

"Running like crimes."

"I thought Claudia was doing that?"

It was probably busy work for her at this point, but too often the possibility of a pattern wasn't checked until far too late. "Different case."

"There's two cases? Claud only told me about the one.""

While the next search ran, he looked up. "Not really. I hope." At Sweets' baffled look, he said, "Max is in town with secretive, suddenly changing plans and appointments he won't explain."

"Dr. Brennan is afraid he's resuming his life of crime?"

"Yeah. But it doesn't fit." He picked up the dice on his desk, tossed it from one hand to the other. "I don't doubt that he's broken the law the last few years, skirted a few edges. But I can't see him hurting someone, or risking his relationship with Bones and Russ." He eyed Sweets and thought to himself, When you have a shrink at your disposal, you use that shrink. "What's your take on him?"

"On Max?" Sweets frowned in thought for a moment. "Healthy ego, strong sense of self. Solid moral code…it's just not necessarily the currently accepted one."

"Meaning…?" Booth was pretty sure Sweets had just summarized his take on Max, but it was always good to check.

"He's not going to be pressured into doing something he doesn't want to do, but will follow through on what he believes is right. He's demonstrated a willingness to suffer himself before risking his relationship with Dr. Brennan or her brother…unless they're in trouble."

Booth grunted, the scowl back. "He'd tell me if he thought Bones was in danger for some reason."

"So, are you getting anything?" Sweets motioned to the computer.

"Nope. Nothing that matches any of things I know to search on." The most recent search, too, came back empty, and he shut the program down. "Still nothing, which is what I was expecting. He's wily, and up to something, but it's probably not criminal, or no more so than running an illegal poker game."

B&B

Brennan frowned at the bones laid out on the table in front of her, minus the skull, which Angela was working with. "It's impossible to learn all we need to know about him when so much of the skeleton is absent."

"The rangers have not found any additional remains?" Vincent asked.

"No and while it's still possible that they'll find the bear and at least some of the arm, the other remains could be anywhere."

She turned over the left number seven rib, moved to bring it up on the monitor where she could see it more clearly. "There's a scar here. Knife wound, fully healed."

Vincent was studying the remaining humerus. "I believe this might be evidence of an old gunshot wound, as well."

Brennan motioned for him to put it on the monitor, and nodded. "It appears a bullet was lodged against the bone and then surgically removed. Very good, Mr. Nigel-Murray."

"None of the injuries, even the new ones, show evidence of honey."

"Correct. The slugs didn't travel through the substance, so it was added later."

"Did you know that the ancient Egyptians used honey for embalming?" At Brennan's look, he answered his own question. "Of course you knew that."

"Old knife and bullet wounds, evidence that his zygomatic arch had been broken and healed, death by shotgun. Booth will draw conclusions from that." She pulled off her gloves. "I'm going to see if Angela has made any progress with the reconstruction. Continue examining the bones and notify me if there are any other abnormalities."

She found Angela studying her monitor, comparing her computer-generated image with a photo in a split-screen.

"That looks like a match, Angela. If so, well-done. That was very quick."

"It always helps when they're in the first database I check," Angela said dryly. "But yeah, it's matching up. His name is Philip Thompson. He's an ex-con, paroled six weeks ago. Cam's getting the DNA to test and confirm, but the blood type matches."

"How long was he in prison?"

"He served 10 years of an 18-year sentence for assault, attempted murder, armed robbery. He was an addict, stabbed a woman with a knife 11 times when she didn't hand over her purse fast enough."

"Violent offenders frequently leave enemies in their wake," Brennan said. "I'll notify Booth."

Booth stood in the observation room with Sweets, watching the man at the table on the other side of the glass trace circles on the table, a dreamy expression on his face.

"That's the next of kin, isn't it? Isn't it unusual to put them in an interrogation room?" Sweets asked.

"Yeah. Name's Donnie Thompson. And no, not when the next of kin is stoned out of his mind. When I told him about his brother, he giggled, and said it was okay, that Philip would be singing with the angels."

"You think he's the murderer?"

"Can't rule it out, though it doesn't really fit with how it went down." Booth shook his head. "Thompson's parole office said he was living with this clown, but until I can get through the happy haze to whatever brain cells he has left, I can't determine if there's motive."

"Brothers have been killing one another with little or no motive for a long time."

"Cain and Abel," Booth agreed. "But look at the guy. Does that really look like someone who shot his brother and dumped the body in the woods?"

Sweets stared through the glass for a moment, then was forced to shake his head. "No, but Claudia told me the dispersal of the bullets wasn't consistent with any kind of professional, or even experienced, shooting. And then there's the honey - that's just plain weird."

"So you're saying maybe it all made sense to someone who looks like he hasn't been sober since he was twelve?"

"Something like that. What else did the parole officer say?"

"He seemed genuinely surprised and dismayed. Said he'd thought Philip had a chance of making it – that he regularly went to a 12-step program, and had managed to stay employed. All his drug tests came back clean."

"That can't have been easy if he was living with that," Sweets said, motioning toward Donnie.

Right then, Donnie stood up and turned around in a circle, though it was hard to tell whether he was dancing to some internal music or trying to see where he was. "Hey! Can I get something to drink?"

Booth moved toward the door. "Stay here and observe."

He entered the interrogation room, where Donnie Thompson was now staring at his reflection in the glass, tilting his head back and forth. He spun around when Booth came in. "Oh! You brought me water. That's nice."

It was more than fair, to Booth's mind. They gave him water, he gave them DNA.

Booth sat the bottle down on the table. "Sit down, Mr. Thompson."

"Sure. I can do that." He did so and then managed to open the bottle and took a long drink.

"You are Philip Thompson's brother, correct?"

Donnie bobbed his head. "Sure. Yep. Though he's a year older than me," he said, as if that qualified the sibling relationship.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Donnie frowned. "Wait. I remember now. You said he was dead."

"I did. Someone murdered him. Do you know anything about that?"

He stared at the bottle for a minute and then vigorously jabbed his index finger in his ear, he seemed to be trying to scratch an itch he couldn't reach, "Nope. Don't think so. Pretty sure."

"You're pretty sure you didn't murder your brother?"

Donnie shrugged. "We weren't close. He'd been locked up for a long time. You know, in jail?"

"Yeah, I know what it means. But he was staying with you."

"When he first got out. But he was dull. He didn't want to party no more. That jail sucked all the life out of him." He stabbed at Booth with a finger. "Hey. Maybe jail killed him."

Was it possible to be this stupid, Booth wondered, "When was the last time you saw him?"

Donnie appeared to think about it. "Two weekends ago." He thunked his hand down on the table, apparently pleased with himself. "He was pissed because I had some people over to party. Said he'd get in trouble with his PO, even if he didn't do the junk. Moved out. I ain't seen him since."

"Where did he go?"

"Church." He giggled, and ran his fingers through his greasy, tangled hair. "He was always going to church, or to meetings. Kept praying for me."

Not holding out much hope for a sensible answer, Booth asked, "What church?"

Donnie took a drink, frowned in thought. "The big one, on the corner. Pastor Mike. That's what Phil would call him when he prayed. Pastor Mike." He looked around, and Booth thought something might be breaking through the haze. "Hey. Am I under arrest?"

Booth pulled into a spot in the parking garage at the lab, trying not to feel guilty for the detour he'd just taken. He and Brennan had exchanged keys a while ago and given the number of his belongings residing in her place, it wasn't unreasonable for him to have stopped there for some reason.

Only the reason he'd stopped was to see if Max was there. He hadn't been and Booth had stopped short of actually going through her father's belongings – though the only reason he'd not done so was that it would be pointless. Whatever was going on, Booth would bet money Max didn't leave evidence behind in his luggage.

Shaking his head, he put Max out of his mind and went looking for the team.

He found them in the ookey room, grouped around a monitor where Hodgins had just brought up a chemical analysis of some sort on a monitor. "Hey, Booth," he said. "Wood fiber's oak. Standard grade for exterior doors. The finish is old enough it's no longer being made."

"Someone shot him through an old door?"

Hodgins nodded, "That's what it says to me. Pretty much blew the door apart."

"Not to mention Philip. What color?"

"It appears to be a widely-used, dull brown." He turned and brought something else up on the screen. "What I got from the honey is that it's the most common brand sold in supermarkets in the area of Virginia where you found the remains."

"So…nothing there, then."

"Well…there's a farmer's market outside the park entrance nearest to the dumping site that sells a local honey – not this."

"They went prepared, took the honey with them," Brennan said.

"That would be my take on it."

Booth's phone buzzed, and he stepped away, answered it. He listened for a moment, then said, "Thanks for that," before hanging up. His turned back to the team. "That was Turner. She just got off the phone with the warden, and his take on the victim lines up with the parole officer. He did what they told him and worked to stay out of trouble for the most part."

Brennan looked thoughtful. "It appears that there wasn't anyone who had problems with him. Wouldn't that be unusual for an ex-convict?"

Booth shook his head. "He wouldn't go that far. He said Philip was in a fight a few years ago – he intervened to save an inmate who being attacked. Afterward, they had to put the guy he fought with in a different cell block because the other guy didn't like being thwarted."

"Is he still in prison?" Hodgins asked, interjecting himself into the partners' conversation.

"Yeah. He's due to be released in few months. But his brother is out. He runs a gang in Baltimore."

Hodgins shook his head. "Dude, no way that was a gang hit."

"No, but we'll bring him in, anyway, see what he has to say. Right now, Bones and I are headed to church."

B&B

Booth pulled into the parking lot next to the building proclaiming to be 'Faith Community Church.'

"This doesn't look like a church," Brennan observed.

It didn't. It looked more like a warehouse than a place of worship. "Yeah, but sign trumps architecture. It's big, it's on the corner, and it's just a few blocks from Donnie Thompson's apartment." He got out, waited for her to join him, then motioned to the sign. "And then, there's that." In smaller letters below the name of the church, it said, "Pastor Mike Scoler, Assistant Pastor, Brenda Eichs."

Brennan read the sign out loud, "Pastor Mike…"

They went through the doors and found half the building partitioned off into an auditorium of some sort, while the rest was meeting rooms and an informal gym. They followed signs to the office, where a middle-aged woman appeared to be reigning supreme.

When Booth showed her his badge, she pressed her lips together. "Cops," she said without heat. "No offense, but that's never a good thing."

"None taken, ma'am. Is Reverend Mike Scoler here?"

"Good thing you want him. He's here. Brenda's the one who's out." She pressed a button on her phone, and announced them. Then she pointed through an adjoining door. "That way."

The office they walked into was one part meeting room, one part library, and one part kitchen. Mike Scoler, who Booth judged to be in his late 40's, turned when they came in, and held up a coffee pot. "Can I get you some coffee?"

Booth nodded and they settled at the table. The minister took a sip of his and sighed. "I knew I'd need the extra hit of caffeine when Rose said you were here. What can I do for you?"

"Do you know this man?" Booth opened the folder he carried and slid out the photo of Philip.

Sadness touched the other man's rough features as he picked up the photo. "I know him. That's Phil Thompson." Then he looked up at them. "What happened? I find it very difficult to believe he's in trouble with the law."

"He's dead," Booth said. "Murdered. His body was found in a park in Virginia."

"Damn." At Booth's raised eyebrow, he shook his head. "Old habits sneak through, but I'm not going to apologize for that one." He sat back. "Murdered, you say?"

"Yes. What can you tell us about him?"

"You said you found it hard to believe he had done something illegal," Brennan said, "but he was an ex-con."

Mike nodded. "We minister to ex-cons and their families, as well as addicts. But that doesn't mean we're naïve. Many of those who come through here initially see us as easy pickings. Just another con: they say the right words, claim to have been saved, and we feed and shelter them. Or they don't bother with the con at all, but just scope us out, looking for what they can steal." He shrugged. "We help them get on their feet, will do all we can to help them get turned around. Whether they do or not is between them and God. But we're not as gullible as they expect. I've been doing this long enough to develop a sense of who's trying to play us and who's sincere. We'll help even the players…but we still know what they're up to."

"And Philip?" Booth asked.

"He was on the level. Absolutely. One of our members has a tree trimming service, and hired Phil. It's hard work, but Phil not only didn't complain, he looked for more to do. We have a variety of 12-step programs meeting here and some weeks, he'd go to one every day. His goal was to be clean long enough to sponsor someone else. He wanted that, wanted to give back." He brought his hand up, rubbed his eyes. "He was also seeking to make contact with his victims, to apologize, to seek forgiveness, to offer restitution where he could."

Booth exchanged a look with Brennan. Former victims was a whole other group to consider. "Was he having problems with anyone?" Thinking about the park, Booth added, "Others on the tree crew, perhaps?"

Mike shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of. Things had been tense between him and his addict brother, but even that calmed down when Phil moved out."

Brennan shifted. "Where did he go?"

"Generally, we don't provide any kind of long term housing – we don't have it to provide. But in Phil's case, an exception was made. He was renting a room from one of our deacons." He shook his head. "This is going to upset a lot of people. He wasn't perfect – no one is. But he was well-liked. Some of the other cons looked at him as a role model, looked to him for hope."

"What would he tell them?" Brennan asked, curiosity apparent.

"That they should look to God for hope. That he was just a man who got up every day grateful he'd made it another day without drugs, without harming someone else."

"So what was his flaw? You mentioned he had one?" Booth said.

"He could be very persistent. Annoyingly so."

Silence fell, and then Booth stood. "Thank you for your time. Can you give us the address of where he was living?"

"Certainly." Mike got up, went to his desk. "I'll also check with some other people, see if anyone remembers him saying anything. The recovery programs use our building but function on their own, of course, but I'll check with some of them, as well. Anything comes up, I'll have them contact you." He wrote out an address, handed it to Booth.

"That would be a big help."

"What will happen to his body? I can't imagine his brother being interested in making arrangements for a burial, even if he has the funds, and there is no other next of kin."

"We can release the body to you, if you like, when we've finished the investigation."

Mike blew out a breath. "Yes. I'd like that very much."

B&B

They were settled in the SUV and Booth was pulling out of the parking lot when Brennan broke the silence they'd maintained since leaving Mike's office. "Do people really change like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Philip Thompson was an addict who assaulted a woman, stabbing her 11 times. And now he's sounding like a model citizen."

"There but for the grace," he murmured. "But yes, I think people can change. I know they can."

"What was that first thing you said?"

He hesitated, then said, "It's part of a quote. 'There but for the grace of God go I.' I'm an addict – just because I wasn't addicted to drugs or alcohol doesn't mean I couldn't have been."

She was frowning. "That's true. I've been researching it, and the National Institute of Mental Health released a paper a few weeks ago that cites evidence that addiction is a brain disease. The brains of addicts are more sensitive to dopamine than the standard population."

"People have been saying it's a disease for years. All that means is that addicts have a convenient excuse."

"No more so than a diabetic has in managing their disease." Her tone was pragmatic. "Addicts are more likely to become addicted to certain substances or the pleasure rush from certain behaviors than are others, but that only means the responsibility falls on them to choose healthy behaviors." She turned to him. "As you do. And I do not believe you would assault someone like that. Addicts respond to differently to different situations, so what one would do is not necessarily the same as what others would do."

"Thanks, Bones, but I don't think any of us ever truly know what we're capable of, good or bad. Under the right circumstances, otherwise good people can kill – or bad people can do good things. Addiction only makes it more unpredictable." Damn, he hated this conversation.

"You changed. You beat the addiction. How do you know it's for good? That when you change, you won't change back?"

Trust her to ask the hard questions. "I don't think you do. Any day could be the day I slip. Gambling doesn't tempt me the way it did at one point, because I'm in a different place in my life. But that doesn't mean it couldn't."

"You mean you're managing the temptation more effectively than you once did. And by this line of reasoning, addiction is no different from other behavior, other changes individuals make, and can unmake."

"Personal responsibility, all the way."

She went quiet, and then said, 'So you can never really trust that someone has changed, that they won't revert to earlier behavior."

Max. He nearly smacked himself. He'd been comparing himself to Philip, and she was wondering if her father was headed back to prison. "I think you have to trust him until he proves otherwise. No one's perfect. We all let others down at some point – and ourselves."

"What do I do?"

"What do you do if he lets you down?"

"Yes."

"Only you can decide that, Bones. Either having a relationship with him is worth forgiving him, or it's not."

"This is very confusing, Booth. You say people can change, but then say they don't."

"I never said that. I said we all make mistakes. That's different from not changing. Your father's had opportunities to go back to his old ways since being acquitted of Kirby's murder, and he hasn't. He's made a lot of choices – even to letting me arrest him in the first place – for your sake."

"You think I should trust him."

"Until you know for certain you shouldn't…yeah."

She looked at her watch. "While we're out, could we detour to my apartment and see if he's there?"

His phone buzzed, and seeing it was Turner, put it on speaker phone. "Hey, Turner."

"Sir, we found the brother of the man Philip took down in prison and are bringing him in from Baltimore, but there's some sort of snafu on their end. It may be tomorrow morning before we can interview him."

"That's annoying, but doable. Hey, can you check Philip's file for me – does it list his victims there?"

"Yes, sir. I saw that earlier. Just a moment." She came back, and said, "There are three listed in his file - the attack he went to prison for and two robberies from before that."

"Set up interviews with all of them and see if any of them had asked to be notified of his release."

"Ingrid Calhoun – the assault victim – should know." Turner said. "It's in his file that she was notified. I'll set up the interview."

Out of the corner of his eye, Booth noticed Brennan checking her watch. Something about her face had him covering the phone's speaker and saying, 'What? What is it?"

"Can we have time to detour to my apartment before the interviews? I'd like to see if Dad's been back."

He glanced at the time on the phone. 6:30PM. Resuming the conversation with Turner, he said, "Tomorrow morning is fine for the victim interviews, Turner. We'll start fresh in the morning on all of them. Go home."

"Yes sir," she said, and disconnected.

"You didn't need to do that, Booth. We don't need to take the whole evening off. I just want to check on him."

"I know, but there's no reason not to take the evening off. We're allowed to do that occasionally, you know, for non-critical cases. And nothing about this is saying serial killer to me."

He could tell she wanted to argue, but she nodded. "Very well."

And the ease with which she gave in told him more clearly than anything else how worried and distracted she was.

Max wasn't at the apartment. Brennan stared around in silence, obviously frustrated. "I don't begin to know where to look for him. When he's stayed before, he's been much more forthcoming about his plans."

"We're not going to look for him," Booth said. "At least not until we've eaten something. Then we'll check with the police to make sure he's not in jail, and go from there." And call the hospitals, but he left that part out for the moment.

"You're right. He is an adult and however discourteous of him not to communicate his plans with me, he has every right not to do so." She spun on her heel toward the kitchen, and he followed.

They'd developed an easy rhythm to meals together, one which he enjoyed. They moved around one another, with Brennan chopping tomatoes and garlic for pomodoro sauce for pasta, while he pulled out a chicken breast to broil for himself that he'd eat with the pasta.

"Make a second chicken breast for Dad, in case he shows up. He says he understands with his head that it's possible to get all the right proteins with what I'm making, but that his stomach never agrees. It's a whimsical statement," she added. "His stomach isn't capable of thought."

Booth smiled. "Got it, Bones. Two chicken breasts coming up for the carnivores."

The meal was nearly ready when the door opened and Max walked in. Booth glanced at Brennan, saw her shoulders relax. For just a moment, he allowed himself to entertain the thought of simply throttling her father. "Hey, Max."

"Hi, Booth. Hi, honey." He leaned over, kissed Brennan's cheek. "Wow. That smells wonderful. Any chance of meat to go with it?"

"Chicken breasts are in the oven," she said. "It's nearly finished."

It wasn't until they were sitting down to eat that Booth noticed how tired Max looked, and very old. No wonder Brennan was concerned.

"So what did you do today, Dad?"

He took a bite of his pasta, and Booth was nearly sure it was to give himself time to come up with an answer. "Oh, a little of this, little of that. Hung around here for a while – day time television just isn't the same as it used to be," he grumbled. "Then I had a couple of appointments with some old friends." Something must have clicked, because he smiled. "People I knew from before your mom and I met. Not a shady character among them."

"I stopped by mid-day," Booth said casually. "To get something I needed. Guess you'd already gone by then."

Brennan gave him a sharp look – no doubt knowing perfectly well what he'd been up to – but Max looked sheepish. Or tried to. It wasn't a particularly successful expression for him. "That must have been when I left to see Rosamunde."

Brennan cocked her head. "Rosamunde?"

"A woman I see occasionally." Max winked at her. "I'm not so old as to have lost all interest in the fairer sex."

"As far as I know, there is no age at which males lose that interest," she said dryly.

The talk turned to more general things, with Max asking after Parker, and telling them stories about Russ's daughters. When they finished, though, he stood, and yawned. "However young I feel when I'm around Rosamunde, I'm old enough to occasionally need an early night. You kids be good." He winked at Booth and patted Brennan on the shoulder as he headed toward the guest bedroom.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Brennan turned to Booth. "Do you see what I mean? He's not acting like himself."

"Yeah. I'd say he's worried about something, at the very least." He stood, began gathering the dishes to take into the kitchen. "But I'm not sure what else we can do until he's ready to tell us."

She nodded, and they loaded the dishes into the dishwasher in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. When the kitchen was clean, he turned to her. "What do you want to do tonight?"

She glanced at the clock. "I should work on my presentation for the conference next month, but then…" she gave him a considering look, one he'd come to recognize and which had him going hard. "I didn't sleep well last night, and sex would relax me."

He laughed, and pulled her to him for a kiss. When they broke for air, she murmured, "That is, if you're not too prudish to make love when my dad's here."

He nipped at her lip. "Don't know how you can think I'm a prude after our weekend at the cabin," he said. "But I'm happy to help you relax in any way I can. Besides, I'm pretty sure your dad knows we have sex."

"Of course he does. He asked me if we were."

Okay, maybe he had a bit of prude in him, after all. Booth groaned and dropped his head on her shoulder. He wouldn't ask for the details of that conversation. He just wouldn't. Some things were better left alone.

B&B

Booth was in his office when Turner stuck her head in the next morning. "Agent Booth, Bruce Ritchie is here. I'm having him transferred to the interrogation room."

He looked up at her. "Good. Hey, you've taken some of your boyfriend's shrinkery-for-cops classes, right?"

Her lips twitched at his terminology but she kept her face straight. "Yes, sir."

He stood. "Good. You can observe. Sweets has that meeting at Georgetown and Bones wanted to follow up on a few things at the lab."

They made their way to the observation room, and Booth went to study the brother of the man Philip had fought in prison. He looked cocky, assured. "He's not worried," Booth said. "His hands are completely relaxed on the table." He turned to Turner, and inserted his ear piece. "Well, it was always a long shot, but I'll see what he has to say. Just tell me if you catch something I don't seem to be following up on, or if his body language changes – especially the parts of him I can't see."

"Yes, sir."

He entered the interrogation room. "Mr. Ritchie. We appreciate your cooperation."

Ritchie snorted. "Cooperation, my ass. I was just minding my own business when your dudes picked me up. You ain't got nothing on me."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Yeah. 'Cause I ain't done nothing." He smirked.

Pity he couldn't arrest the guy just for being obnoxious, Booth thought. "Does the name Philip Thompson mean anything to you?"

The other man's expression didn't change in any way except for a slight flicker in his eyes. "No. Should it? Someone I need to thank for this little government-sponsored trip to DC?"

"Your brother knew him."

"Ray?" The eyes went flat and cold. "You mean that little prick that went after my brother? No, I don't know him. Why?"

"Seems like a guy like you might want a little payback for his brother being humiliated like that."

Ritchie sneered. "He didn't humiliate Ray. Ray walked out of that room. That dude was carried out on a stretcher." Realization seemed to sink in. "I wouldn't be carted all the way to DC because someone spit at him. He's dead, and you think I did it." He started to laugh.

"And that's funny because….?"

"Ray has plans for him. Big plans, the moment he's loose. Be more than my life is worth to go after him before that. In fact, it's going to ruin his whole day when I break the news to him that someone beat him to it."

"For what it's worth, I believe him," Turner said in his ear.

Yeah, Booth did, too.

B&B

He was finishing the paperwork on Bruce Ritchie when his phone rang. He looked at the readout, and then said, "Hey, Sweets."

There was no preamble. "Max Keenan is at Georgetown University Hospital."

Something sick slid in Booth's gut. Fear for Brennan. Fear for a wily old man he liked a great deal. "As a visitor?" Maybe it was that simple, and he'd been telling the truth, was visiting a childhood friend.

"I don't think so. I was just leaving, heading to my car, when I saw him entering the southwest entrance. Booth, that's the cancer wing. So I came back in and followed him. He's in a waiting room for patients waiting to see consultants."

"By himself?"

"Yeah."

"Damn it. Did he see you?"

"No. At least he didn't act like he did."

And if that wasn't an indication that Max was off his game, Booth didn't know what was. "Thanks, Sweets. I'll get Brennan and head over there."

Damn, damn, damn.

He left his office at a near run, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Opening the SUV door, he hit speed dial. When Brennan answered, he said, "Bones, we know where your father is."

His tone must have warned her. "Where? What's going on?"

"Sweets says he's at GU Hospital, in a consultants' waiting room. He's by himself," he said quickly, "but we don't know why. Could be he's waiting for someone else who's seeing a doctor…"

"Of course." Her tone was even. Practical. "I may not make it to the witness interviews, Booth. I need to go to the hospital. I need to find out what's going on."

He gritted his teeth. Did she really think he'd let her do that alone? "I know, Bones. I'm on my way to the lab right now to pick you up. Meet me at the door."

"What? Oh. Of course. Thank you." Her tone was suddenly small and uncertain.

As instructed, she was waiting when he pulled up. She climbed in, and sounded much more herself when she said, "As you said, it may not be anything. He may be there for someone else, perhaps this Rosamunde he mentioned."

"Yeah. No sense in worrying until we know."

"But if that's why he's here, why wouldn't he say so?"

Booth didn't have an answer for her, and he drove in silence, unsurprised when she reached over and laid her hand on his leg. He dropped his hand to cover hers.

B&B

As they left the SUV in the hospital parking lot, Brennan watched Booth open his phone and call Sweets. "Is he still there?" Apparently the answer was affirmative, because he said, "Good." If the doctor comes in, stall him….Yeah, reveal yourself. Tell the doctor Max's daughter is just coming up."

He disconnected, took her hand as they walked into the elevator. It felt like she should say something, but she didn't know what. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry. She wanted to go back to the lab and take another look at Philip's bones. The rangers had found part of the arm, and while it was unlikely to reveal anything new, she still would take the time to look.

Was her father dying? Booth's hand felt warm against hers. Warm and strong.

"Russ said my father had appointments there that he was secretive about as well, before he suddenly announced he was coming up here. This appointment isn't for someone else. He's here for himself."

"I know, Bones."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"We'll ask. But best guess is he didn't want to worry you until he knew the details."

The doors opened, and she took a deep breath, and stepped out.

Sweets was waiting for them across from the elevators. "He's right down there," he said, indicating with his head. "He's the only one in the waiting room."

"Thanks, Sweets," Booth said.

"Should I stay here? I'm happy to do so."

She saw Booth glance at her, but her focus was on her father. What should she say to him?

"No, you go on back," Booth said. "I'll call you when we know what's going on. You may need to do an initial interview with the victim's victims."

"Okay." He looked at her. "This is a very good hospital, Dr. Brennan."

That got her full attention, though she was puzzled by his pointing it out. "Of course it is."

Sweets smiled a bit, and waved goodbye as he headed into the elevator and they walked in the direction of the waiting room he'd pointed out.

He was right. Max was alone in the room, his head resting on the back of the chair, his eyes closed.

"Dad?"

He looked up, and a crooked smile formed. "Tempe. Why am I not surprised you tracked me down?"

"Because we're the best investigating team the bureau has," she answered in a neutral tone, and watched his smile grow. "Dad, why didn't you tell me? What's wrong?"

He sighed as they took seats across from them and said, "We don't know sure for that anything is wrong, honey, and I didn't see the point in anyone else worrying until we know for sure."

Brennan slanted a glance at Booth. Those were nearly his exact words. Then she focused on her father again. "What exactly are you being tested for? I assume you're waiting to see a specialist?"

He nodded. "I had a routine colonoscopy a couple of weeks ago, and the doc was concerned by some polyps that he thought might be pre-cancerous. He wanted me to get checked out by someone else. That's all it is, honey. If it is cancer, it's such an early stage that the first doc couldn't definitely ID it."

Her breath eased out. Maybe he was attempting to make it sound better than it was, but he was right. That was far better than a stage 4 diagnosis would have been.

"You still should have told us. Russ is worried, too."

Max sighed. "I know. I knew I wasn't really convincing you. Guess my skills are slipping."

Her voice was dry. "The lying skills?"

"Yeah, those. Or maybe I just have a couple of really sharp kids." He shook his head. "I don't really know why I didn't tell you. Too used to being alone, I guess."

The comment struck her. It had never really occurred to her that he, too, had spent many years alone after her mom was killed.

Before she could figure out a response, a noise at the door drew their attention. A man stood there in a white coat, his name embroidered in red above the pocket: "Dr. Peter Meadors."

"Hi, Max." he said. "Why don't you come on back and we'll discuss the results of the second colonoscopy. He looked at Brennan and Booth. "Are these your kids?"

Max looked at her, and smiled, then grinned at Booth. "Two of the three." Booth started, and Max shrugged. "Well, technically, he's not, but he's so much hers, it's pretty much the same thing."

The doctor smiled. "I know how that works." He stepped back, said "Come this way." As they moved down the hall, he looked at her. "You look familiar to me…Temperance Brennan! I enjoy your books very much – and your papers."

"You read papers on forensic anthropology?" Booth asked.

"It's a hobby of sorts. I enjoy other areas of science."

They settled into his office, and his smile faded. Brennan felt her muscles tense, and realized that Booth had shifted his chair closer to her, had taken her hand. Her days of being alone were over, she realized.

Dr. Meadors turned, brought up something on his computer, then looked back at Max. "The polyps are benign," he said without preamble. "The cellular structure doesn't resemble anything we've ever identified as any form of malignant or pre-malignant cells."

Air expelled into the room from all three of them, and the pressure on Brennan's chest eased.

"I don't have cancer?" Max asked.

"No. Still, it's not completely without concern because a body that generates benign cells that mass can occasionally begin producing malignant ones. That's not the same as precancerous," he said firmly. "It just means we need to be careful."

"Careful, how?" Brennan asked.

"I'm going to make recommendations for some dietary changes, and I want you to be tested again in two years – sooner if you experience any of the symptoms on this handout." He handed Max a brochure. "I have absolutely no concerns at the moment about your health. It's just wise to take precautions. And now that we have this exam on record, we'll be able to compare it with future results and tell immediately if there's any sign of aggressive growth of polyps." His glance took in all three of them. "Does that make sense? Any questions?"

"Makes perfect sense to me, Doc."

"You've explained it quite adequately," Brennan said.

He smiled. "That's high praise coming from you, as I understand it."

"You got that right," Max said with a smile toward her. He stood, and the rest of them followed suit.

"Don't hesitate to call if you have any concerns or questions," Meadors said, and escorted them out.

As they walked toward the elevator, Brennan turned to Max. "So now what? Will you go back to Russ's?"

"'Fraid so, kiddo." His eyes gleamed. "I have beach plans with two little girls." He sobered. "You don't mind, do you? I'll be back up here driving you crazy soon enough. I just figure this is sort of like a honeymoon period for you and Booth, and you don't need me hanging around."

Booth said nothing, though his face was tinted slightly. They'd been noisier the night before than they'd intended.

"Of course I don't mind. You're welcome anytime – you know that."

"I do," Max said. They'd reached his car, parked not far from the SUV. "I'll be in touch, and will be back within a month or two."

"Give my love to the Russ and the girls," she said, "and enjoy Florida."

"No question of that." He held out his hand to Booth. "Good seeing you again, Booth. You take care of my little girl."

"Always," Booth said. "I'm glad things turned out the way they did."

"Yeah, it's a relief." With that, he opened the door and climbed in. They started toward the SUV, waving as he drove out of the lot.

At the SUV, Booth suddenly took her hand, tugged on it until he could pull her into a hug. She went, laying her head on him with a sigh. "I'm fine."

"I know you are," he said. "But maybe I'm not. I think we might need to soundproof the walls before he comes back."

She laughed and leaned up to kiss him. "Shall we go back to witness interviews?"

"Yep, back to murder and mayhem," he agreed.

B&B

They found Sweets in the conference room at the Hoover. "How is everything?"

"Fine," Brennan responded. "A colonoscopy revealed some polyps, so a specialist re-did the exam. They're benign."

"Oh, that's great. I'm really glad to hear that, Dr. Brennan."

"Thanks for your help this morning," Booth said. "Following him and keeping an eye on him."

Sweets shrugged. "I'm glad I happened to see him."

Brennan shifted, clearly ready to think about something else. "So what about the witness interviews?"

"The first robbery victim is a no-go. He's in a retirement center in southern California, hasn't left in two years. I just finished with the second robbery victim. Her name is Linda Farnhurst,she was in town and admits to seeing him. He came to see her three weeks ago, to apologize and return the money he stole from her."

Intrigued, Booth asked, "How much?"

"He got $70 in cash and a nice watch. He told her he didn't know how much the watch was worth, but gave her $300. Told her he knew it didn't really make up for what he did."

"What was her reaction?"

"All positive. She said she'd never heard of a thief doing that before, and said that before he showed up with the money, she'd not really thought of the crime in years."

"Did you believe her?" Brennan asked.

"Yeah. I just can't see her killing him. But I'll continue trying to get a better picture of her schedule over the past few weeks."

"That works. Thanks, Sweets."

He looked up at the clock. "Ingrid Calhoun should be here any minute."

On cue, Turner stuck her head in the door. "Ingrid Calhoun and her husband are here."

Booth motioned to the table. "Bring them in, Turner."

"I'll go write up the report on the robbery victim," Sweets said, and followed her out.

Ingrid Calhoun was a small woman of perhaps 35. Her husband, who introduced himself as Steve, looked to be few years older, a beefy guy with a tanned face.

Booth had them sit, and then said, "Did Agent Turner explain why you're here?"

"Not really," Steve said. "I gather it has something to do with that piece of shit who attacked Ingrid."

"Is he back in prison?" She sounded hopeful.

"No, ma'am," Booth said. "He's dead. Murdered."

"The state should have done that for us," Steve commented. At Booth's look, he shrugged. "He tried to kill her. Thought he had, according to his confession. Do you know how much damage 11 stab wounds will do?"

Booth saw Brennan start to speak, and knowing she was going to answer the rhetorical question, said instead, "I understand the sentiment, Mr. Calhoun." His glance took in both of them. "But the man was murdered."

"Well, we can't tell you anything beyond the fact that we'd like to thank whoever did it. He can't hurt anyone else, and that's a good thing as far as we're concerned."

Aware that she'd said very little, Booth turned to the woman. "What about you, Mrs. Calhoun? You were aware he was being released."

"Yes." She took a breath. "I was notified. We bought more locks for the door."

"Did he contact you?"

"No," she said immediately, and shuddered. "I would have called the police if he had."

"So, no contact at all? You didn't see him, didn't hear from him?"

"You sound like you don't believe her," her husband said, his tone belligerent.

"He was contacting his victims to apologize," Booth said, "and to make restitution, where possible." So, it's odd that he didn't make contact with you.

Ingrid looked animated for the first time as she scoffed. "Apologizing? He's probably scouting out their homes, planning to return and rob them blind."

"That's not so," Brennan said. "He made restitution to one of his robbery victims."

"Yeah, well, there's no way he can make up for this." She pulled down the collar of her shirt to reveal scars, faint but visible.

"I understand," Booth said. "But since he contacted his other victims, we need to understand the break in pattern."

Something passed between her and her husband, and then she shrugged. "I got a few hang-ups on my cell from 'unknown numbers.' Maybe that was him. I don't answer those kinds of calls. But it wouldn't have mattered. As soon as he identified himself, I would have hung up and called the cops. When I woke up in the hospital 10 years ago, I decided no one was going to screw with me that way again. Especially not him."

After the Calhouns left, Booth turned to Brennan. "There's something off there, but I can't decide if it's just their usual dynamic, or the way she handles the repercussions of her attack."

"The contrast between her and the robbery victim Sweets interviewed is quite extreme."

"Well, you know, difference between being robbed and nearly killed, but yeah. Still a lot of bitterness there, and fear, too, despite her bravado."

"Now what?"

"I'm going to do a deeper run on the Calhouns, see if anything pops. And then I'll track down the AA groups he was part of. Someone wanted him dead and that means someone probably knows who it was that wanted him that way."

"I'm going to return to the lab and see what kind of progress Mr. Nigel-Murray has made with the part of the arm the rangers found."

"Sounds good. Keep me posted."

He'd just finished his notes on the Calhoun interview when Turner knocked on this door. He looked up, saw Mike Scoler standing there.

"Reverend Scoler asked to see you. He said it's important."

"Of course." He motioned for the other man to come in, take a seat. "How are you, Pastor Scoler?"

"I'm fine. I've been on the phone off and on since you left yesterday, and something one of my parishioners said struck me as odd. I was in the city today, anyway, and thought I'd drop by."

"I appreciate it." Booth leaned back over his desk, picked up a note card. "What did you learn?"

"Cody's out of town on business, but I tracked him down. He was discipling, sponsoring, Philip and I knew he'd want to know." He sighed. "I should have thought to mention him yesterday, because aside from the deacon Philip was living with, Cody probably knew him as well as anyone. But he's been in Denver for the last week, doing some consulting work."

"What did he say when you told him?"

"He was very upset, as I expected. But then he said something which struck me. He told me that the last time he saw Philip was three days before he left for Denver. They had lunch and prayed together, because Philip was going to go see one of this victims that afternoon, and he was nervous. Cody said he tried to call him that day and the next, and Phil didn't answer his phone. He thought perhaps the meeting hadn't gone well and Phil wanted some time to process it, so he didn't pursue it further right then and then he left for his trip."

"He's not heard from him since?"

"No."

"Did he say whether or not he'd talked to the person before going to see them?"

"Yeah. She wouldn't talk to him. Told him to leave her alone."

"She actually spoke to him? Didn't just hang up?"

"No. She told she didn't want to see him. Wouldn't see him. He thought she'd change her mind when he showed up."

"He didn't happen to know the name of the person Phil was going to go talk to? Was it Linda?"

"He did know the name, because they prayed for her. But it wasn't Linda." He pulled out his phone, checked something. "Ingrid. Her name was Ingrid."

Bingo baby, Booth thought.

B&B

Booth pulled the SUV into the Calhouns' drive. "Nice place," he said to Brennan. "Set back from the road a bit, nice yard."

They got out, walked up the path. He checked his gun, made sure it was loose in its holster.

The door opened before they were fully on the porch. "Agent Booth," Ingrid said. "Why are you here?"

"We can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way," he said. "Lying to a federal agent is a big no-no."

"I didn't lie." But panic was starting to flicker in her eyes.

"Philip told a friend that you'd refused to speak to him," Brennan said.

"He didn't have any friends. He couldn't have."

"He did. And he spent time with him right before he left to come here. I've got a warrant for your phone records, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to see calls from him to you. Calls longer than what it takes to hang up on an unknown number."

"Oh, damn it," she said, and shoved at the door. "This is so unfair. He ruined my life once, and now he's going to do it again."

"No, I think this time you managed that on your own." Booth grabbed her by the arm, turned her around, and cuffed her. "Nice door by the way. Is it new?"

B&B

Booth sat back on Brennan's sofa and stretched. One of the nice things about doing case paperwork now was that when they were finished, they could just walk in the other room and go to bed.

"Such a waste," Brennan said. "His life. There was potential there."

"Yeah. Caroline says they're probably going to plead it down. Calhoun will claim post-traumatic stress or diminished capacity due to her identity as a victim."

"She doesn't show any remorse. It seems like she should. She was very clinical in her description of what happened."

"He showed up, she freaked, grabbed her husband's shotgun and started shooting."

"What about her husband?"

"They're charging him as an accessory after the fact. It's possible he'll serve more time than she will if she gets a sympathetic jury. But he helped her transport the body, replaced the door, and lied his ass off."

"Maybe she'll feel remorse then," Brennan said.

"It's possible that it's easier for her to hold the line that he was evil and deserved to die than to face the fact that she killed a man who was sincerely trying to make amends."

She finished organizing their notes, and sat back next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Good people can kill under the right circumstances, you said."

"I don't know if she was good, but yeah, I imagine she thinks of herself that way."

"People don't just change for the better."

"No, they don't. We probably know that better than anyone." He shifted so he could look down at her. "Are you getting to something specific, Bones?"

"Not really." She was silent for a minute. "Just thinking about that combination of choice and biology. We're never static. Something happens to us, we react, and change – either in a positive or negative direction – and then something else happens. Even when we don't realize we're changing."

It was an unusual mood for her and he wasn't completely sure what to say. "That sounds right."

She reached down, linked their hands. "I've changed a great deal since the day I met you."

Now he did know what to say. "All for the good, Bones. And you've changed me, too." He tilted her chin up, and kissed her.

When a painful figure from their past is found murdered at the hands of Creeps McGee, the team finds themselves struggling to stay on the trail of their nemesis without losing their way. Join is next week for The Shock to the System by Squinttoyou.