Chapter Ten: Billy

The sun was no longer high in the sky, but preparing to make its timeless journey west. Clouds began to blotch the already graying slate, and outside the windshield the trees rustled gently with the strengthening breeze. Traveling out of D.C., Brennan checked her directions one final time and turned towards an old-standing development, face set in a grimace.

She despised the suburbs.

Everything appeared identical on both sides of Hickory Street; the two-story houses with the white picket fence and a swimming pool, the two cars parked in the garage…the world was a diverse landscape. It was abnormal to find such places like the one she was currently at, in Brennan's mind. It was also a breeding ground for gossip, affairs, and crimes behind closed doors. All too often enough, Brennan and Booth's guilty suspect had been taken down in a suburb setting.

She wished he were there with her. It just seemed wrong to do this without him—this was his element. His argument was that questioning strangers alone was dangerous. He'd have a pig if he knew she was off playing cop.

I don't think it's pig…I distinctly remember he told me it's cow. Have a cow.

Spotting the address she was searching for, Brennan pulled to the curb and shut the engine off. Surveying the house, she observed lights on in the living room…and a curtain rustle on the second floor. She thought she caught sight of binoculars.

I hate the suburbs.

"The reason I'm here today, Mr. Rowley is to talk about your brother, William."

"I have no brother."

Brennan shifted her weight on the overly-cushiony chair. The balding man before squinted at her through gray eyes, and his mouth was turned down into a suspicious frown. John Rowley sat comfortably on a couch, his hands folded over a slight belly pouch. Though he was situated better than Brennan, she could tell he was a ball of nerves.

"I understand that…you're brother is deceased." Brennan stated unflinchingly.

John Rowley snapped, "That boy was a disgrace to my family. Nearly broke my mother's heart: God bless her soul. I have no brother that I acknowledge, dead or alive. Now, Dr…"

"Brennan," she supplied.

"Brennan. What exactly did you want? Why would a scientist come here to talk about rotting Billy?"

Brennan answered, "I am a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian Institute and Medico-Legal Lab. The current case I am working on involves several disappearances, and my team has come to believe that someone from William's past is involved."

White lie never hurt anyone.

"He died in 1970, I highly doubt there's a connection."

Brennan felt her temper begin to flare. No wonder why Booth got so frustrated sometimes. "I just want to ask you a few questions. I could get my partner, an F.B.I. Agent, and have him bring you in formally for questions. I'd prefer not to do that."

Rowley pointed a finger at Brennan and grit out, "Billy was 15 when he took off from home. He was dead a year later, thanks to his druggie friends. Died at some concert, Lead Hindenburg or some idiotic bullshit name. My mother and I decided to let his newfound friends deal with the burial. We had nothing to do with him as soon as he took off. We are a military family; he strongly disagreed with our views. It was his way or the highway. Guess where it landed him—dead."

"I think the band was Led Zeppelin."

"Whatever."

Brennan's mind began to think more like Booth's. "If you had nothing to do with Billy, then why was your name on the website as contributor? For UniqueEpithets?"

There was a short pause before John answered, "Money. I got 200 bucks for giving the website that information. I saw it once ten years ago. I had to drive my mother up to his grave. Said she wanted to make amends to the sorry bastard, even though he was dead."

Brennan nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. Something just didn't seem right…with what, she didn't know.

"Just one more question. Are you familiar with the names Lyon Riddick, Donna Willows, Sophie Rodriguez, Lydia Groening, or Drew Himmelman?"

"No. Are we finished?"

"Yes. Thanks for your—"

John interrupted bluntly, "Now, get out of my house."

--Cooperation.

Brennan slammed the door of her car and sat idly in the driver's seat, her head trying to process the interview. She discovered she would make a poor detective: she hadn't learned anything new about Billy, other than the fact that he had rebelled against his family and ran from home at 15.

Maybe big brother John had something to do with how Billy died. And now Billy's ghostie is kidnapping children and wanting revenge.

She snorted. "Incredibly, and utterly ridiculous."

Yet…

For the first time, her mind began to process what happened to her previously in the day. Could there be an outside force affecting the case? Though she couldn't believe in spirits, she did understand the phenomena occurred, without scientific reasoning.

Yet. At one point society thought the world flat. In time, there will be an explanation for what is deemed "paranormal" or "supernatural."

Until then, she knew she needed to go along with the idea that there was an entity, possibly William Rowley's, who was connected to the case with the missing children. There were just to many coincidences to rule out or even deny that option. How he was connected, she did not know. In addition, she saw something when she was driving from the hospital, and if she hadn't, she would have been t-boned. Not only did you see it, but you felt and heard a…change…as well. There was also the mysterious phone call that was traced to Brennan's own cell number. However, the biggest evidence to date was Booth. For some, still undiscovered reason, it had imprinted on Booth. It nearly killed him.

No, Bren, PCP almost killed him. Stick with the facts.

That part of the case was definitely tangible. No ghost did that…but Booth was convinced that he saw it in his apartment multiple times, and Brennan was convinced that he wasn't making it up. She knew, as she began driving off to avoid any unwanted encounters with John Rowley, what she needed to do next.

She dialed the number to Booth's room in the hospital.

"Yeah?" he answered roughly. She cringed, remembering the night before.

"It's Brennan," she answered. She felt a pang of regret for being so harsh with him, but more so for the suddenly formal quality to her voice. She said, again, "It's Bones." Truthfully, she knew Booth would never do what she accused him off. Her head said otherwise, and it was as frustrating as the current case.

"Is everything okay?"

She couldn't help but laugh. He should have been furious with her, for not being believed in. Instead, he was concerned that she was still in one piece, without him around.

"I can survive a day without you by my side."

There was a pause. She heard him ask, "What do you want?"

She detected underlying anger, and she swallowed hard. "I have updates for the case."

"I'm off the case, remember?"

"Please tell me you're going to be in a better mood than John Rowley."

"Who?"

"We have some breaks on the case…and I…I might owe you an apology. For being so harsh on you…"

"Sweetheart," Booth finally snapped, "that's not a might. That's a definite." He could almost hear her bristle at being called 'sweetheart,' especially since he didn't mean it in an endearing way. He sighed and felt some of his anger dissipate. What the hell was she expected to think? He didn't know how the PCP got into his bloodstream any more than she did.

"I said might," she repeated. "Not yet. PCP is a very human aspect of this case. You can't tell me your friend put it into your body."

"That doesn't sound like the Bones I know. What do you mean 'human aspect?' Are you trying to tell me you have a non-human aspect with the case?"

She answered simply, "Yes."

"Oh. Wow. Are you jerking me around?"

"Never. You know that," Brennan sighed.

She heard Booth whistle. "Not that I wasn't freaked before, but what in the hell happened between you storming out of here and now?"

"It's a long story. I'll come to the hospital right now," Brennan replied.

"Don't bother. I'm about to get checked out. Meet me at the Diner."

Brennan was genuinely surprised. "They're letting you go already?"

"You mean 'why aren't you going directly to prison?' Cullen recommended that I can be trusted to Internal Affairs, despite an apparent drug-addiction, so I get to go home, as long as I stay within D.C. for…until further notice. I'll explain more when we get to the Diner."

"Okay," Brennan said as the sun set below the horizon. "See you there."

She hung up, and completely missed the flicker of a boyish face in her rearview mirror.

By the time she made it to the Diner, the sky had completely blackened under the night clouds. She couldn't even discern the moon as she walked across the street. The air had chilled considerably, so she hugged her jacket tighter to her body. She could see Booth sitting inside already, and she felt the insane urge to up to him…out of the cold. Out of the night, and the sudden heaviness in the air.

"Temperance…"

She whirled around, and found nothing but the deserted street.

Hurrying her pace, all she could think about was getting inside the Diner. A primal instinct fought past the barriers of reason, and she felt fear. There was something watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she felt a gush of cold air. It felt like a hand touching her skin. She ran, ignoring the rational part of her mind, calmly telling her she was overreacting and letting her imagination run wild. Fright ruled everything else out. She burst into the Diner, silencing the small dinner crowd that was there. Her partner looked up from the table and shot her a querying look. Clearing her throat and trying to hide her flushed cheeks, she made her way as discreetly as she could to the booth.

She sat down and Booth commented dryly, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not funny."

He sipped his coffee and ordered one (with a side order of fries) for Brennan as soon as the waiter came by. Brennan took in her friend's appearance, and was slightly dismayed at what she saw. His five o'clock shadow was darker than normal, almost gruffy. His eyes were hollow, and his face was sunken in a sickly manner.

"Just so you know, I'll be under a narcotics investigation, and I'm suspended without pay until further notice. I think you can buy tonight's coffee," he chuckled mirthlessly.

"Yeah, sure," she said absently. "Are you okay? You look horrible."

"Like shit would be the phrase you're looking for." She grimaced and he added, "I feel okay, though. Really. Just tired. Now, tell me what happened today."

She picked at the fries that was set down in front of her and began, "It started when I drove home from the hospital…"

When she finished, he stared so intently at her that she began to fidget. Finally, he broke the quiet and demanded, "You went to some loony anti-socialite's home, alone?" She rolled her eyes and asked exasperatedly, "Of all the things I found out today, with the team's help, you're worried about John Rowley and me?"

He waved a hand in dismissal and explained, "What I am supposed to do? Call it a bad habit, alpha-male tendency, whatever—it's what I do. It's what we do." He paused again, and added gently, "Because let's face it, if we didn't, I'd definitely wouldn't be here right now."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly stopped her with an interruption, "You might want to eat your fries; they're getting cold."

She looked down at her untouched snack. She smiled weakly, "We keep coming here, and I'm going to get fat." She opted to drink the coffee, instead.

"Did you just make a joke?" he asked incredulously.

"I believe so."

"The world really has turned upside down. You're cracking jokes, and 40-year-dead hippies are haunting the both of us," Booth whistled. He tapped the side of his head and thought aloud, "So the message on your mirror, it was the exact same as the kids?"

"Yes, and it was written on Billy Rowley's grave," Brennan confirmed.

"Hmm." He mused, "I agree with Hodgins. For once. The lyrics of that Zeppelin song are about the forces of good and evil…I'm still trying to figure out which side Billy Boy is on, and what he has to do with the missing kids."

Brennan fought past her initial instinct to fight the logic of the ghost. Instead of scoffing or dismissing Booth, she asked, "Did it ever hurt you? I mean, it kept me from getting into an accident."

Booth shook his head. "No. Just scared the hell out of me. Before I almost overdosed, I had an encounter every day…hey, you know what? One time it said, 'Up the stairs they go…you need to find them before they go to the war of evermore.'"

"You just remember that now? Don't you think that was a little too important to forget?"

"Drugged up, remember? For God knows how long? I know I saw a flash of what he looked like, but I wouldn't be able to pick him out of a line up. By the way, as soon as I can, I want to see what this Billy looks like in a picture, so you know, in case he starts haunting me again, I'll be able to make you happy and recognize him," Booth defended himself.

Brennan shrugged. "So what does that message mean? I don't understand."

Booth tapped his fingers against the table. "Good vs. evil, keep the kids from going to that battle…help them keep their innocence maybe? Keep them from going Darth Vadar on our asses; I don't know."

"I don't know what that means."

"Of course you don't."

Just then the waiter who served them their food approached the two, informing the Diner was closing early. Booth looked at Brennan and asked, "Is it alright if we take this back to your place? Mine's under surveillance, and if Cullen found out I was still working a case, he'd have a cow."

She smiled at him then, suddenly radiant. He smiled back at her, missing the joke completely, but not caring. For one moment, everything was all right again. They took their coffee to go, and exited the Diner.

Their waiter watched them go. Bringing a cell from his pocket, he discreetly dialed a number. Several seconds later, he reported in hushed tones, "They're going back to the Doc's house. Left a minute ago. The take down should be easy for you."

Outside the restaurant the wind began to howl.

Something was terribly wrong.

He felt sick coming out of her car. The edges of his vision began to fade and blur, and he had to grip the car door to keep from stumbling. He began to sweat feverishly, and tremors shook his body. He looked at Brennan helplessly, and saw that she had stopped mid-stride.

"I think I'm going to be ill…" she breathed out.

"Let's get into the apartment," he mumbled. The coffee slipped from his hands and crashed to the pavement. He sloshed through the mess and grabbed Brennan's arms, leading her up the stairs.

"Either our friend is back," she fought to concentrate, "or we are suffering from the side effects of ph…ph…"

"PCP, Bones," he supplied for her. She fumbled with the key to her apartment, and after several failed tries, the door swung open.

"Rubbery feeling in the legs, nausea, dizziness, unable to concentrate, distortion of time and space perception," she said breathlessly as she sank uselessly down onto the couch. "Def'itly drug," she stated.

He fumbled for the phone. "We need help…"

She started laughing. "Where's your friend?"

He shook his head; it was a bad move because the room jerked in and out of frame. "Not here," he answered. "It's different from before…we got drugged."

He fell back onto his haunches, and discovered he had held the phone upside down. Flipping it over, he thought hard about when it could have happened.

Hospital…too long a wait for drug to kick in…

Bones called…

The Diner…

The image of the spilled coffee filled his mind.

He couldn't understand.

The door burst open again, and Booth half-expected to see the form of Billy Rowley in the entrance. Instead, a very human figure rushed toward Brennan. Booth launched himself onto his feet and stumbled toward the intruder. He saw the barrel of a gun coming out from under a vest, but Booth plowed into the masked man anyway. He fell on top of Brennan's attacker, and both were slammed to the ground. The gun spun across the floor. Immediately Booth was thrown off like a rag doll, and his head hit the hardwood floor with a painful thud. Brennan tried grabbing the gun, but found she was unable to move her arms where she wanted. The assailant pulled her up by the hair and whispered harshly into her ear, "You're coming with me. Stay silent or I'll shoot your partner dead."

He went to reach for the gun, until he discovered it was no longer on the floor. He whirled around using Brennan as a shield. From the back of his jeans he pulled a switchblade out and held it to her jugular. Closely. Booth had stood up with the gun now in his possession.

"You're higher than an airplane," the stranger taunted. "You don't know what you're aiming at."

Booth couldn't answer him: he was right. Truthfully, all he could see was the nearly unconscious form of his best friend and partner in the vice grip of an attacker, with an extremely sharp knife against her throat. He needed to get her to a hospital. He felt a feral rage, and he wanted to pull the trigger. Badly. But the room was still spinning ferociously, and he couldn't stop blinking. He was on the verge of going into convulsions, and the images his eyes were processing were fragmented, grayed, and jumpy.

"Booth…" Brennan choked out. "Behind you."

He looked in the mirror behind Brennan, unwilling to lose balance by turning around. In the reflection, he saw a dark shadow. The room stilled slightly, and he was able to make out a pair of eyes. For once, instead of fear, he felt hope.

"About time you showed up," Booth grit out.

Brennan's attacker looked nervously around the room. As he began to edge towards the door, he threw back, "Higher than a jet plane, man. No one's here."

A voice filled Booth's head.

"Aim at your Bones. Right between the eyes. Aim at her. And everything will work out."

Booth shook his head. He couldn't…he wanted to throw up on the spot but choked it down. He was stuck: if he didn't react, Brennan would be taken God knows where, and almost overdosing on PCP to boot.

But to take a shot at her? What the hell? I can't even focus…

His broken thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice.

"Take the shot now!"

He swallowed, then remembered, he couldn't possible be hallucinating the voice.

Brennan had seen it, too.

Without waiting any longer, he aimed the barrel on Brennan's forehead, and pulled the trigger. He heard the man moan in agony as the shot blasted through the air, and into the man's right shoulder. In an absurd realization, Booth understood that his perception was extremely screwed, and second, he never would have pulled the trigger if he were sober.

He laughed at the irony.

Brennan kicked out at the fallen, bleeding attacker and stumbled back. A neighbor who had heard the commotion had already alerted the cops, and the screams of sirens sounded in the distance. Booth pulled Brennan close to him, and looked to the mirror for the darkened figure.

The mirror only reflected the two friends.