Chapter Two: Encounter

Pink. That shade burst from every corner of six-year-old Lydia Groening's dainty bedroom. The carpet was soft and clean, the walls covered in a pale hue of the girl's favorite color. Her dolls, bedspread, even some scattered clothing flourished in the child's preferences. Looking up, glow in the dark stars were scattered on the ceiling, mixed with planets and comets. Booth thought sadly, she must have loved these. She went to bed every night under the heavens. Who wouldn't have liked that?

Moving to the center of the room, he could tell that hardly anything was out of place. Murmurs from the hallway and the sharp cries of the distraught parents yanked Booth back into reality, and he turned towards the mirror. Brennan came next to him, silent. Though her expertise in forensic anthropology was not required at the moment, she was beginning to sense that this would be another difficult case for her partner. She stood by his side, watching him closely as he took in the smeared, brown epithet.

Up the stairs they go,

to the war

of evermore.

"This is only the beginning," Booth muttered cryptically. "More kids are going to vanish, with only this message in their places."

"There is the possibility that the kidnappings will stop, or that ransoms will finally be made. It's obvious that most of the individual occurrences are connected," Brennan replied, analyzing the muddy substances on the mirror. "We should send Hodgins a sample of this. Have the photographers take pictures so I can get something for the team."

Booth motioned for the forensics team and stepped back with Brennan. "I don't know about you, but I sure as hell feel out of my element." Bluntly, he added, "We work with dead people, rarely with missing ones."

"I know what you mean. Nevertheless, no one has been confirmed dead, and I remember a very wise friend telling me that it's better that way. That you have something to look forward to," Brennan reminded him. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Pulling out an evidence bag and slipping on one glove, Brennan cautiously approached Lydia's dresser mirror. She scraped some of the substance into the plastic and sealed the package for the Jeffersonian lab. Booth placed a hand on her lower back and guided her away from the mirror. Of lately, she did not mind this gesture and allowed Booth to get away with it often. If circumstances had been lighter, she would have teased him about it. One glance at his troubled face quelled any future attempts. The two of them stepped out to allow the crime scene unit to finish up.

Turning, Booth said, quietly "I'm going to ask the Groenings a few more questions, and then we can drop the message sample off at the Jeffersonian. After that, do you think I can talk to you? At the Diner?"

Brennan nodded, understanding that a fair amount of venting was at hand, along with the chance to bounce ideas and theories about the missing children off each other. "Sure, Booth."

He indicated his thanks with a small smile and headed downstairs to the living room. Halfway in his descent, Booth called back, "Oh, by the way, I have a splitting headache from this morning. I reserve the right to 'be a baby' later, as you so straightforwardly labeled me."

Booth. Some things never change, no matter the situations.

"Okay," Booth thought aloud while sipping on some coffee. "We have four kids--3 girls and one boy, ranging from ages 5 to 8. Lyon Riddick disappeared one week ago. Parents went to wake him for school, and he was gone. Donna Willows vanished after going down to her basement for a skateboard five days ago, and Sophie Rodriguez disappeared from her home four days ago. Today, Lydia Groening was reported. They all live within three blocks of each other and even attend the same private school--St. Luke's Academy for Children. The families are well-off."

Brennan finished chewing a French fry and added, "Three of the four have the messages, whether it appeared on the floor, mirror, or wall. Which one was the one that didn't fit?"

Booth took a long swallow of his coffee, and Brennan waited impatiently. "Sorry," he murmured. "This stuff's addicting, you know. The first kid--Lyon Riddick didn't have that damned poem or riddle or whatever the hell it is. But everything else makes the boy just like the others, so it would be smart to include him."

"And Hodgins is analyzing the evidence now, though I'm sure your forensic people already identified the material used for the words," Brennan assumed.

"They said 'dirt'. So I figured it wouldn't hurt to let the Jeffersonian try and find something slightly more specific about it," Booth acknowledged, sarcasm dripping from his voice. Brennan chuckled slightly.

"Hodgins hates that word."

"And I hate the riddle. It sounds like an annoying song lyric. We researched it, tried to find some meaning, but we have nothing solid on the rhyme," Booth sighed wearily.

Brennan finished her food and watched Booth down the rest of drink. His fingers were drumming anxiously on the table and the small tremors in the floor indicated his left foot and leg were jumping. She frowned, switching her guard on. He doesn't get this nervous or upset about cases, even ones with kids. Something's wrong… Even though Brennan hated psychology with a fiery passion, she attempted to use it in order to help her best friend. "Booth…I'm getting the impression something else is bothering you."

"No," Booth said simply as he called for the check.

Relentless, Brennan tried, "Was it the nightmare, I mean you took a pretty nasty bump last night--"

"Son of a bitch, I said NO. It ain't that goddamned hard to figure out, Sherlock!" Booth barked suddenly. For a moment, his eyes took a crazed, feverish quality to them that made Brennan freeze. She saw him jerk his head and he blinked several times before the gentle brown orbs returned to normal. He looked at her with a horrified expression and his cheeks flushed bright red with sheer embarrassment and remorse.

Standing up and fumbling for an apology, he murmured, "Jesus…I'm sorry Bones. I didn't know where that came from. Umm…I have to leave…"

"Booth--" Brennan tried softly, trying to get him to stay. Endless scenarios to his sudden behavior change streamed into her mind. Stress, caffeine overdose, or the worst, his skull may have been injured from last night. The slightest pressure on the brain can do so much damage…she shook her head at the last one. He's aware that he snapped at me, so that can't be it, can it?

Booth grabbed the bill from a miserable young waiter with flaming red hair, and left the table immediately, leaving a bewildered, worried, and absolutely speechless Brennan.

He barely made it into his apartment.

Not even bothering with the lights, he tried shrugging off his jacket, feeling as if his head had been stuck in an oven. Tripping over a leg rest, he experienced an unexpected and the completely unnecessary urge to throw it out one of the windows of his third floor home. Instead, he kicked it and was shocked to see the small piece of furniture fly across the entire room and smash against a wall. Falling to the floor, he could have sworn he saw a little hole in the plaster now. Booth gazed at it oddly, wondering if he was dreaming. Did I just put a hole in the wall? After that, my foot should be broken. This has to be a dream…

Hr glanced at the clock and saw the LED numbers glow 12:29 p.m. It was only then did he realize that the sky was as black as night, as thick cloud cover blanketed D.C. and threatened to bring a downpour that would cause flooding. The air grew heavy, and Booth thought dimly that his apartment seemed to be changing. The digits on the clock blurred and the room began swirling again. He staggered into his bedroom, feeling as if he were about to pass out and vomit simultaneously. He collapsed onto the queen-sized mattress, and his eyes briefly rolled back as darkness nearly dragged him from consciousness. A coldness seeped into his bones, and he shivered. Booth fought the sudden need to slip into a deep, exhausted sleep and he forced himself to open his eyes. The stench of decay overpowered his senses and the black figure from last night appeared a foot from his head. Booth froze as a pair of blurred hands gripped the bed. Then slowly, the intruder sunk beyond sight, the head disappearing into the floor.

"Christ…" Booth gasped as his heartbeat suddenly quickened. It was pounding as if he had finished a marathon and his mouth felt like cotton balls. He reached weakly for the phone. Ambulance…sick…feel like…feel like I'm almost dying…his fingers brushed against the nightstand wireless phone, and he knocked it to the floor. Booth tried to stand on his feet, but to his alarm he could not even feel his legs. Breathing shakily, and almost to the point of hyperventilating, Booth lowered himself awkwardly to the floor. Grabbing the phone, he dialed 911.

He heard a click, and he breathed raggedly, "Operator…I need an ambulance--"

"Up the stairs they go…you need to find them before they go to the war of evermore"

Booth dropped the phone as if it were on fire. He stared at the offending object and scrambled away. His breathing became even more rapid, and violent trembles overpowered Booth's sick body. Thunder rumbled and lightning cut the sky sharply. By the window, the black figure reappeared. Booth felt himself struggling to stay awake, and the thought that he's be alone with this eerie stranger terrified him. Another bout of lightning cast the figure in a glow, the vague figures becoming distinct. Nothingness gripped Booth, and the last thing he saw before his mind shut down was the image of a young man, smiling sadly and standing over Booth's now motionless frame.

"Jesus Christ!"

Booth bolted upright, gasping. The storm had long passed, and the clock showed that several hours had come and gone. Wiping his brow, Booth stood cautiously. He felt like he had been hit by a semi, and his head rung much like a wino's would. Looking around, he saw that he had several messages, all from Brennan, asking him to come to the Jeffersonian, and that if he didn't want to talk about what happened this afternoon, she wouldn't press him. He searched for the phone and found it lying next to his feet. Distorted memories came back to him, and he groaned, frustrated and mystified. Not to mention his foot felt like he kicked a cement block. Booth surveyed his apartment, probing for one hint of an intruder. To his dismay, he found nothing at all.

This is getting old fast. What the hell is going on?