The two hours of forced inactivity during the flight to Chicago had Booth checking his watch and tapping his foot against the floorboard. He'd sent Shaw back to Atlanta with a photograph of their mystery woman, a subpoena for credit card receipts, and the hope that somebody would be able to put a name to the face. An identical set of paperwork was in the thick folder that rested on his lap, and a third set of documents had been forwarded to the Seattle field office, which had promised to send an agent to the downtown Barnes & Noble. The evidence was skimpy, and it was only Caroline Julian's fast talking that had convinced a sympathetic but skeptical judge to sign the subpoenas.
Alone with his thoughts, Booth slid his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing over the tiny metal object Todd had found in Bones's room at Palmer House. It had arrived at the Hoover as Booth was leaving to catch his flight, and he'd only had time to pull it out of the over-sized FedEx envelope and stuff it in his coat on his way out the door. Now he brushed a fingertip over its worn edges and wondered what had prompted Bones to take it with her on her trip.
The day Pops had given it to her they'd been visiting him at the assisted living center for their regular afternoon of dominoes. Their plan going in had been to come clean about the baby, but Booth had stalled, unable to decide how to broach the subject. Midway through the second game Bones had started sending questioning glances his way, and finally Pops sat back, folded his arms across his stomach, and gave them both gimlet-eyed stares.
"All right," he said. "Out with it."
Faced with a raised eyebrow from Bones and that all too familiar don't-lie-to-me-kid look from Pops, Booth swallowed hard. He stacked his dominoes in a neat pile, stalling for time as his mouth went dry and his pulse hammered in his ears. Finally he looked up, meeting Bones's eyes for an instant before turning to the one man who, more than anyone else, had taught him what it meant to be a family.
"Bones and I are moving in together, Pops."
There was an instant of silence followed by a broad smile. "Well thank the Lord and join the chorus."
"I don't understand what that means," Bones said, looking from one man to the other in open confusion.
Booth shook his head with a slight smile. "It's just something Pops says sometimes, Bones. Means he approves."
"You're damned right I approve," Pops put in, getting up from his chair and giving Bones a fond pat on the shoulder. "This calls for a celebration." He skirted the narrow bar that separated the dining area from the tiny kitchen and reached into a cabinet, talking to them over his shoulder as he pulled out a trio of mismatched glasses. "It's about time you made your move, Shrimp. I was starting to think you'd never get around to it."
Booth met Bones's eyes across the pile of dominoes. Their gazes held, memories flashing between them. They both had regrets. They'd both made mistakes. But it was time to focus on the future. Booth looked away first, turning to check on his grandfather.
"Need some help with that, Pops?"
"I might be old, but I'm not incompetent," was the acerbic response. "You just sit there with your girlfriend, and I'll be back in two shakes."
Amusement flashed in Bones's eyes as she started setting up a new game.
"So what finally made you see the light?" Pops asked, coming back to the table with the glasses balanced on a metal tray. He handed Bones a drink, then passed another to Booth. "Was it something I said?"
"I'm pregnant," Bones said, and the pride in her voice made Booth smile.
Pops stared at her for a moment, then sat down heavily in his chair. "You're kidding me."
"No, I'm not." Bones shot Booth a puzzled look. "Why would I joke about having a baby?"
"He means he's surprised, Bones." Booth was watching Pops digest the news, noting the range of emotions that flashed across the older man's face.
"Surprised isn't the half of it," Pops said. "You two have been trying so hard to convince the world you were just friends that I'd just about given up on you." He shook his head and reached for his glass. "To new beginnings," he said, raising it in a toast.
Bones reached for her glass, and Booth felt an instant's concern about its contents, but Pops spoke up before he could say anything.
"'Fraid it's just grape juice," he said. "Damned home won't let me have any of the good stuff."
Relieved, Booth picked up his own drink. "To new beginnings."
He was looking at Bones as he said it, and when her gaze locked on his with that liquid warmth he still hadn't gotten used to he felt his chest grow tight. This was happening, he told himself for the umpteenth time. This was really happening. He sipped, letting the sweet tang of the juice linger on his tongue before swallowing.
"So." There was a dull thunk of heavy glass on wood as Pops set down his drink. "When's the wedding?"
It was as if somebody had dashed ice water in Booth's face. Slowly, he put down his own glass.
"We aren't getting married," Bones said, blithely unaware of the firestorm her words could unleash as she reached out to shuffle the dominoes. "We're just having a baby."
Pops froze in the act of drawing a domino from the pile to fire a disbelieving look at Booth. "What do you mean, you aren't getting married?"
When Booth had been five or six he'd gotten his hands on a book of matches and used them to torch a note from his teacher, hoping to hide the evidence of the fight he'd gotten into at school. He still remembered the look on Pops's face. It was almost the same combination of shocked disappointment and disapproval he saw now.
"Bones doesn't believe in marriage," Booth said quietly, willing Pops to understand. Knowing he wouldn't.
"Doesn't believe in marriage," Pops studied Bones, aghast. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked. "You one of those new-agers?"
"No," Booth answered before Bones could answer. "She's a scientist, Pops."
"I can speak for myself, Booth." Bones shot him a glare that made him lift his hands in silent surrender.
"Booth is right," she said, turning back to Pops. "Marriage is an artificial and largely ineffective attempt to circumvent the laws of nature." She'd picked up a domino. Booth wondered if she was aware of the restless way her thumb rubbed across the smooth surface as she talked. "The divorce rate alone is proof that human beings are incapable of the kind of sacrifice that's required by a lifetime commitment to one person."
There was something in her voice and eyes that made Booth study her more intently. Was it ambivalence? No. Not possible. Bones had changed a lot since he'd first met her. They both had. But no matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise he couldn't believe that she was rethinking her opinion on this particular topic.
Pops was staring at her, too, his expression one of baffled disbelief. Booth considered a strategic change of subject, but before he could say anything Pops pushed his chair back and stood up.
"You wait here," he said. "I got something I want to show you."
After Hank left the room Booth raised an eyebrow at Bones. "Way to stir up a hornet's nest, Bones."
"I won't lie to him. And I won't pretend to believe in marriage just to make him happy." Her eyes filled with regret as they tracked to the empty bedroom doorway. "Your grandfather's a good man. He deserves our honesty."
A dresser drawer slammed in the other room, and a moment later Pops reappeared holding something cupped in the palm of his hand.
"I've got a little story to tell you," he said, seating himself at the table once more. His attention was focused so intently on Bones that Booth wondered if his presence had been forgotten.
"My Helen was a lot like you," Pops said with a faraway look in his eyes that Booth had seen before. "She had that same independent streak, that same hardheadedness." He shook his head with a fond smile. "We used to have some rip roaring fights, let me tell you." A clock ticked over the hour in the other room and Booth heard the familiar chime of its bell as his grandfather's gaze narrowed on Bones, his thoughts returning to the present. "But we never even thought about divorce. And do you know why?"
"I imagine it was because back then it was harder to get a divorce," Bones said. "It was an especially difficult choice for women, who often had no means of support beyond that provided by their husbands. Also, there was a great deal of social stigma attached to it."
Hank laughed. "Helen didn't much care about social stigma, and she didn't need me to support her," he said. "If she'd made up her mind that she wanted out of our marriage, she damn well would've gotten out." He shook his head, and when he went on his voice had dropped and deepened with the force of his memories. "We stayed married because we worked at it, day in and day out, for almost thirty years."
Pops took a sip of his juice and set the glass down, nudging it to one side, out of the way.
"Staying married isn't about sacrifice, Temperance." Pops rested his arm on the table and uncurled his fingers, revealing two game pieces. "It's about love. And commitment. And-" He tilted his hand so that the pieces tumbled across his palm. Booth saw remembrance in his grandfather's eyes, shadowed by sadness and loss. "And determination," he finished softly.
Booth looked across at Bones as Pops turned inward, obviously reliving the past in his thoughts.
"I don't remember much about my grandmother," Booth said, keeping his voice low. "But sometimes she and Pops would argue. Loudly. Then Pops would pull something out of his pocket or Grams would pull something out of her apron and suddenly the argument was over." He shook his head. "I thought it was magic."
"Nope. Not magic." Pops set a tiny metal shoe on top of a stack of dominoes.
"Monopoly," he said, and set another piece, this time a hat, beside the shoe. "We had an understanding, Helen and me. Whenever we had a tough decision to make or a fight to settle, we'd sit ourselves down for a game of Monopoly." He flashed a grin. "It's tough to stay mad at somebody for a whole game, 'specially when you can get even by putting hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place."
Bones smiled slightly. "Or buying up the railroads and utilities." At Booth's raised eyebrow, she shrugged. "Russ," she explained. "It was his favorite strategy."
Hank scooped up the playing pieces, then handed one to each of them. When they protested, he shook his head.
"You keep 'em," he said. He reached for a domino. "Maybe they'll do you two young folks some good. Seems to me you've got some decisions of your own to make." He picked up another domino. "Now. Are we gonna play another game or not?"
A burst of turbulence jolted Booth out of his reverie, and he tightened his seatbelt as the pilot's voice sounded on the public address system. They were beginning their descent into Chicago, the pilot explained. She apologized for the bumpy ride and promised to have them on solid ground soon. Booth tucked the little metal shoe back in his pocket and glanced at his watch. Five minutes early. Good.
As soon as he hit the terminal Booth turned his cellphone back on and checked for messages. There was just one, from Agent Shaw letting him know that she'd gotten an ID on their mystery woman from the staff at the Atlanta Barnes & Noble. Natalie Dabney, she told him when he reached her a few seconds later. Head of a company called Badenov Tech, which specialized in the design and installation of high-end industrial software. So job related travel could explain Dabney's presence at more than one of Bones's book signings, which meant that while better than nothing, the lead was still weak.
"Got an address?" he asked, jamming the phone into the crook of his neck while he pulled out notebook and pen. Weak or not, a lead was a lead, and he intended to follow it up.
"Corporate offices are in downtown Chicago," Shaw said, "but apparently Dabney works from home most of the time." She gave him both addresses, and he jotted them down.
"Got it." Someone jostled against him in the busy terminal, and he swallowed a curse as he grabbed for the phone just in time to keep it from falling under the feet of the passing crowds. "Anything else?"
"One thing. Dabney's married. Civil union about three months ago. Apparently it was a bit of an event. Top result on a Google search."
"Husband's name?" Booth asked, pen poised.
"You mean wife."
Booth paused, ignoring the curse behind his left shoulder as somebody made an abrupt course correction. "Wife?"
"Yes, sir. Chris Wright."
Something about Shaw's tone put Booth on the alert. He moved out of the flow of traffic, put his back to the wall, and lifted his head, listening intently. "What aren't you telling me?"
He heard her take a breath. Then, "Wright is a neonatal nurse. That's-"
"I know what it is," Booth snapped, his blood running cold as pieces started falling into place. "I'm going to head out to the residence for an initial interview. See if I can get a feel for what's what. I want you on the first plane out here."
"Yes, sir."
"And Shaw. I know Max Keenan's been in touch with you." Max was a shrewd son of a bitch who would do his damnedest to exploit Shaw as an information source. "If you mention one word of this to him you'll be living out of a cardboard box on some street corner by the end of the week." The last thing Booth needed was an angry father on his hands, especially one with Max's record.
"Understood."
"Good. Now get moving." He hung up, shoved the phone in his pocket, and headed for the Avis counter.
With traffic and tolls it took Booth another two hours to reach the outskirts of Lake Forest. As he neared the address Shaw had given him he thanked God he'd rented a late model SUV. Anything older or smaller would've drawn too much attention in a neighborhood where every other car was either a Lexus or a Lamborghini.
The GPS alerted him that he'd reached his destination, and he turned into a narrow driveway bordered on either side by an iron fence. The posts were closely spaced and topped by vicious pikes, making them appear to Booth more like planted Roman spears than ornamental landscaping. He stopped at the guardhouse, found it empty, and pushed the button to activate the intercom.
"Yes?"
The voice that answered his page was female. It also sounded rushed.
"F.B.I.," he answered. "Special Agent Seeley Booth." Beyond the gate the drive was deeply shadowed by overhanging trees. "I'm looking for Natalie Dabney or Chris Wright."
There was a pause, followed by a wary, "Why?"
He shot a raised eyebrow at the speaker. Interesting response. "I'd rather discuss that in person," he said, leaving off the standard 'if you don't mind' tag. He wasn't going to give her any excuse to turn him away.
Long seconds passed before a faint buzz signalled the opening of the big gate. He drove in, and the gate swung shut behind him.
The private road wound through thick trees that eventually gave way to a broad, rolling lawn and his first look at the house. The place was a classic example of conspicuous consumption, and Booth felt the familiar rise of his hackles at the sight of it. Tamping down his blue-collar resentment, he parked under the stone portico and cut the engine.
The heavy front door opened before he could push the bell, but the woman who peered around its edge at him wasn't Natalie Dabney. This woman was petite, with blonde hair and pale skin. She was dressed in blue surgical scrubs decorated with bright yellow airplanes. Chris Wright.
"Agent Booth. Come in." She stepped aside. "I'm Chris," she said, confirming his assumption, "but I'm afraid I can't talk for long. I need to get to work." She gave an apologetic shrug. "Night shift."
"I understand." Booth swept the room with his eyes, taking in the curved staircase, arched ceilings, and sparse but expensive furniture. "I won't take much of your time." He needed to see more. "Do you mind if we sit down?"
"Um … Sure. Right this way." She was nervous. He'd suspected it when he'd first heard her voice at the gate. Seeing her now, watching her eyes dart from place to place as she led him through the house, he was certain. Chris Wright was hiding something. He had to resist the temptation to grab her and shake her, to force her to talk. Instead he forced himself to relax and examine his surroundings. This could still be another false lead. But if Bones was here, or these people knew something about her disappearance, he had to be careful not to tip his hand too soon. He wouldn't take risks. Not when it came to Bones's life.
The back wall of the great room was more window than wood, with a broad expanse of tinted glass that overlooked rolling lawns and Lake Michigan. There were two boats-one a yacht, the other a speedboat-tied up at the dock. He made a mental note of that. If Wright and Dabney were his perps, he wasn't about to let them make a run for it across the lake.
"You said you had some questions?"
He turned to see Chris standing near an overstuffed leather chair. A pile of books on the table beside it drew his attention, and he narrowed his eyes, studying the spines. One was Bred in the Bone. Another, Bone Free. A notebook computer on another table displayed the home page for a local delivery service.
His instincts were screaming at him to act, but he reined them in. He didn't know. He suspected, yes. But he didn't know anything. Evidence, he reminded himself. He needed evidence. And it had to be more than a couple of novels and a set of surgical scrubs. With a wave of his arm, he gestured to the books.
"Who's the Temperance Brennan fan?" he asked, deliberately casual. He needed to put Chris at ease. He'd never get a search warrant if Chris didn't let something slip.
Chris picked up Bone Free, and Booth remembered the day he'd first read its dedication. He wondered if Chris had read it, too.
She hugged the book to her chest, almost protectively. "I am." Her eyes shone with reverence, adding to Booth's unease. "I've got all her books."
"She's a good author," he said agreeably. "What's your favorite?"
Chris shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. Defensive posture. "You said you had some questions?"
She wasn't softening. He'd have to jump in. "Temperance Brennan is missing," he said, watching her carefully. "She hasn't been seen in two weeks."
"Oh!" Wright's expression of surprise pinged false, but that was instinct again, not evidence. "I'm so sorry to hear that, but I'm afraid I don't see how I can help."
"Your wife, Natalie, was seen with her the night she disappeared."
Chris blinked at him, then slowly put down the book. Booth watched her fingertips drag across the cover. Did he imagine their faint tremor? "Wait. Are you talking about that night at Women and Children First?"
"Yes." He noted the faint dilation of her pupils, the half step back.
"Yes, Natalie was there. I had to work that night, so Nat went to get an autograph for me."
"When she got home, did she mention anything that seemed out of place or unusual?"
Chris shook her head slowly. "No, I'm afraid she didn't." She glanced at her watch and gave an exaggerated grimace. "Listen. I'm sorry, but I really need to get to work." She picked up a purse from the top of the grand piano, then gestured toward the door. "I wish I could tell you more, but Nat honestly didn't say anything."
Everything about the exchange rang false, but Booth had no option except to leave. Whatever the truth was, Chris was doing her damnedest to hide it from him, and without solid evidence, he had no more right to be here than a traveling salesman.
He nodded. "I'd like to talk to her myself," he said. "When will she be home?"
Chris shifted uneasily and edged toward the door. "I don't know, really. Nat's schedule is pretty erratic."
"Big business," he said, with a commiserating smile. "It's tough being top dog, huh?"
With a nervous laugh, Chris opened the door. "Yeah, well." She shrugged and gestured toward their surroundings. "Money's good."
"Apparently." Booth reached for his wallet and pulled out a business card. He crossed the room and offered it to Chris. "Have her give me a call. I can be reached at that number any time of the day or night."
Chris took the card. Nodded. "I'll tell her."
He held it together until he'd left the high class enclave behind. Then he pulled into a grocery store parking lot, cut the engine, and slammed his palms against the steering wheel.
"Damn it!"
Wright was hiding something. Booth was certain of it. But he didn't have enough evidence for a warrant. His notebook was in the center console. He pulled it out, grabbed a pen, and jotted down what he did have. It was a short list. Too short. Not even Caroline Julian would be able to wrangle a search warrant out of what he had right now. Letting his head drop back against the seat, Booth stared through the window, only gradually focusing on the truck that was parked a few yards away, its bright green logo glinting in the afternoon sun.
Booth picked up his cellphone and jabbed in Shaw's number. When her number rolled straight to voice-mail he left her a series of terse instructions, ending with the name of the hotel where he'd reserved rooms and an order to stay put once she got in. He'd be there as soon as he could.
Finished, he disconnected and pocketed his phone, then got out of the car. An idea was taking shape in his mind, but he'd probably have to do some serious tap-dancing to pull it off.
*x*x*x*x*
It had taken three interminable days for his plan to come together. Shaw was going in undercover as a Peapod trainee, but to avoid raising suspicion they'd had to wait for Dabney and Wright to place an order. That had finally happened late the previous evening, and Shaw had arrived at Booth's hotel room that morning dressed in the khaki slacks, polo shirt, and ball cap of a delivery driver.
"Remember," he said, on the way to the warehouse. "Keep your eyes open for anything you can tie directly to Dr. Brennan. Anything."
"I remember."
He felt her eyes on him, but waited for her to tell him what was on her mind.
"Can I ask a question, sir?"
"Shoot."
"It's been more than two weeks, but you seem so certain she's still alive."
Two weeks of radio silence from a missing person heightened the odds against their eventual recovery. Standard procedure was to start preparing families for the possibility that their loved one might never return from the outset.
Booth's hands flexed against the steering wheel.
"She's alive, Agent Shaw." He refused to consider any other possibility. "She's alive. And we're going to bring her home."
He felt her gaze on him but didn't look over, concentrating instead on tamping down the roiling nausea that churned in his gut at the suggestion that he might never see Bones again.
"You can't start thinking that way," he said quietly. "You can't start thinking the person you love is gone forever, because as soon as you do that you start to give up." And then he did look at her, his foot hovering over the brake as he coasted in to a red light. "I'll never give up on Bones. Never."
She nodded wordlessly and turned to face front.
The rest of the trip passed in heavy silence.
*x*x*x*x*
The inside of the truck smelled of fresh produce and cardboard. Beside her, Robert chatted away, oblivious to Genny's real identify as he filled her in on the vagaries of life as a Peapod driver. His cheerful voice helped calm her nerves while she mentally reviewed Agent Booth's instructions. She was supposed to help carry in the groceries, then find some pretense to delay their exit as long as she could while she looked for evidence. There would be an inventory to do, of course, and paperwork to sign. That should buy her a couple of minutes, but she'd have to be quick.
"This is it," Robert said, turning left into a private drive. "Wait'll you get a load of this place. It's huge. And the kitchen..." He sighed theatrically. "The kitchen's a work of art. Top notch equipment, walk in pantry and freezer … What I wouldn't do for just a few hours alone in that room." Robert was an aspiring chef. He'd told her he was working at Peapod while he saved money for culinary school.
Genny summoned an enthusiastic grin. "Sounds dreamy."
Robert threw her a teasing look. "Dreamy?" His dark eyes sparkled with humor, the corners of his lips quirking upward as he looked at her. "You sound like a reject from the seventies."
She shrugged and smiled back. "Scooby Doo fan," she said. "Too many reruns for my own good."
"Daphne, right?" He brought the truck to a stop at the front gate and rolled down the window. Genny watched him reach out to punch the intercom button. "Isn't she the airhead?"
Genny snorted, grateful to him for the slight easing of tension between her shoulder blades. "Now who sounds like a reject from the seventies."
Whatever he'd been about to say was interrupted by a voice from the speaker.
"Yes?"
"Peapod," Robert sang out. "We have your delivery."
"Yes. Thank you. Please drive around to the back."
"Yes, ma'am." Robert rolled the window back up as the big gate swung open. Then he shifted the truck into gear and started down the winding drive. When he started humming the Scooby Doo theme song under his breath Genny grinned and joined in.
"Scooby Dooby Doo. Where are you? We've got some work to do now …"
As they rounded the last bend in the drive Genny trailed into silence, the butterflies in her stomach once more taking wing. The house was austere and imposing. Built in the Georgian style, it reigned over the rigidly geometric landscape like William the Conqueror surveying his troops. She gave a light shudder, and Robert glanced over at her with a sidelong grin.
"Friendly place, huh?"
Genny shook her head. "Reminds me of the Tower of London."
"People who live here are nice enough, though. Gay couple. Good tippers."
Genny didn't know what sexual preferences had to do with tipping, but she didn't ask, more interested in evaluating the premises than in idle conversation. They'd need to cover the front and back doors if-when-they returned with a warrant. The five car garage was detached, but the covered walkway joining it to the main house meant another door to watch. As they pulled around to the back Genny eyed the lake access and the two boats moored at the dock.
"Nice life you if you can get it," she said.
"Oh, I don't know. They're all locked up back here behind that gate. Pretty isolated."
She looked over at him. "Some people like isolation."
"Hmm," was all he said as he cut the engine. "Ready?"
Genny adjusted her cap and nodded. "Ready."
There were half a dozen boxes of food and supplies to carry in. When Robert opened the back of the truck she hefted one of them, taking a deep breath of the organic vegetables while she waited for Robert to grab another box and lead the way down the concrete walkway to the kitchen entrance.
The woman who met them at the door was petite, with a spattering of freckles across her cheeks that made her look younger than the thirty-four years attributed to her by her driver's license. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, and her face was free of makeup. She wore no jewelry, and her fingernails were short and unpainted.
"Hello, Robert." Wright opened the door wide. "How are you today?"
"Can't complain," he said, squeezing past her with his overflowing box. "Got a new kid with me today. Trainee."
Genny followed him inside, setting her own box on the granite counter beside his before turning and offering her hand to Chris. "Genny Shaw," she said, hoping that her voice sounded young, innocent and a little bit nervous. "Robert's showing me the ropes."
"Oh?" Chris looked her over, ignoring the proffered handshake. "Kind of small for a delivery driver, aren't you?"
"I'm stronger than I look." Genny dropped her hand and glanced around. "Nice place you've got here." The room was spotless. No dirty dishes in the sink or junk mail littering the counter tops. No sauce packets or fast food napkins either, though Genny hadn't really expected any. Wide windows overlooked the lawns. One, lined with glass shelves, hosted a variety of potted herbs. Genny recognized a few of them, but most were beyond her limited experience. She wondered which of their suspects was the foodie.
"Thank you." Chris leaned a hip against another counter, near what looked like a restaurant-grade fridge. "We like it."
"Come on," Robert said, interrupting Genny's examination of the large, sunny room. "Help me bring in the rest of the boxes."
In minutes they'd unloaded the van. On their last trip inside Robert brought along his clipboard, and he and Chris settled in to review the order. Agent Booth had arranged some mistakes in the delivery, so hopefully the inventory would take longer than usual.
Genny was banking on that as she settled near the doorway that led to the rest of the house, then looked over to where Chris and Robert were deep in conversation. Chris had her back turned, her head bent over one of the boxes as she sorted through its contents, and Genny took advantage of the opportunity to crane her neck around the corner. To her left, a large open room overlooked the yard and the lake beyond. Genny saw a baby grand piano, a couple of chairs, and an end table loaded with books. On her right, a short hallway led to a half-opened door.
Genny glanced back, and seeing that Chris and Robert were still busy, edged out of the kitchen and down the hall, praying that her practical rubber-soled shoes wouldn't squeak on the polished hardwood floor. They didn't, but she knew she was on borrowed time. At any instant Chris might notice her absence and come looking for her.
Reaching the open doorway, Genny peeked inside. The room was empty. After another quick look back the way she'd come, she ducked inside.
Once upon a time the room had probably served as a pantry, but now it was being used as a small office. There was a laptop computer on the desk, its lid closed. A series of monitors lined the wall above. A sophisticated collection of hardware occupied a rack to one side of the desk, with a cordless headset/microphone combination unit dangling from a hook on one end. Genny lifted the lid of the computer and slid her finger across the mouse pad, activating the screen.
It took a second or two for the display to light up, and another for Genny to realize what she was seeing. Then she closed the laptop and backed out of the room, moving quickly and hoping her absence hadn't been discovered.
It hadn't, but she'd cut it close. When Genny ducked back into the kitchen Chris was handing the clipboard back to Robert, having apparently just signed her name.
"Want us to help you put any of this stuff away?" he was asking.
"No, thank you," Chris turned then and saw Genny leaning just inside the kitchen door. Her gaze narrowed for an instant, but then she nodded. "Nice meeting you," she said.
"Nice meeting you, too," Genny tamped down the combination of anger and excitement that thrummed in her veins and crossed the room to where Robert waited near the door. He handed her the clipboard, and Genny glanced at the scrawled signature. The C and W were almost legible, but the rest was little more than a squiggle.
Robert pulled open the door and Genny followed him through it and down the stone steps. Heart pounding, palms clammy with sweat, she struggled to act as if nothing was wrong as she climbed into the truck and buckled her seatbelt.
"Everything okay?" Robert asked, studying her across the vinyl seat. "You look a little flushed."
She managed a weak grin. "Just a little nervous," she said. "Rich people terrify me." What she'd seen had infuriated her, and she'd wished she could take immediate action. But she didn't have backup, and she wasn't stupid enough let her emotional reaction put the entire operation at risk.
Robert looked over at the house, then at her. "I've never met Ms. Dabney," he said. "But Chris has never been anything but kind to me." He started the engine and shifted the truck into gear, then glanced over at her again as he steered the vehicle into the roundabout that would take them back to the main drive. "Most folks in this area are pretty harmless. Hell, a lot of the time you don't even see the homeowners, just the hired help. Also?" He flashed her a grin and tapped his breast pocket. "They're great tippers. Remind me to give you your share when we get back."
As soon as they were off the estate grounds and out of range of any surveillance Dabney might have put in place Genny pulled out her cell phone and punched in Agent Booth's number.
"How'd it go?" His voice was tight with a tension she understood. She glanced over at Robert, considering her reply as her fingers curled into fists in her lap.
"She's there, sir."
*x*x*x*x*
Faced with irrefutable evidence in the form of Genny's sworn affidavit, Hacker approved Booth's request for backup without hesitation. Using the same affidavit, Caroline Julian got a judge to sign off on the warrants he needed. She faxed them to him at the local FBI field office along with a terse command.
"Bring her home."
He intended to do exactly that.
Because of the circumstances of the case Hacker had given Booth a temporary promotion to SIC and placed him in command of the op-after warning him that if things went south it would be Booth's head on the chopping block. Booth didn't consider it a risk.
The setup was complicated by the security gate and the need to have somebody out on the lake. CPD agreed to send in two patrol boats, locking down the possibility that Dabney and Wright might try to escape by water, fleeing across the border and from there to God knew where. A second call, this one to emergency services, netted him the override codes for the security gate. Paperwork and codes in hand, Booth gave the order to move out.
Thirty minutes later Booth pulled up behind an unmarked SUV across the street from the residence and punched a number into his cell phone.
"It's Booth," he said, when the line was answered on the other end by an agent in the SUV. "Got anything?"
"One arrival." The reply was instant. Professional. "Late model Lexus."
Of course it would be another Lexus. "I.D.?"
"Tag's registered to Natalie Dabney, but no confirmation on whether or not she was driving."
"Right. You've got three teams. Fan them out along the fence line. Nobody gets in or out without my say so."
"Got it."
Booth clicked off, then watched in the rear view mirror as the Chicago agents assembled, talked, and then dispersed, one man returning to the car to provide mobile support. Satisfied, Booth looked over at Shaw.
"Ready?"
Shaw checked her weapon, gave her vest a nervous tug. "Yes, sir."
Booth had settled into a kind of deadly calm now that the end of his search was near, and he gave Shaw a nod of approval. "We're in the home stretch, Shaw. Just remember your training, follow my instructions, and this will go off without a hitch."
"Yes, sir," she said again, and it drew him back to when he'd been the rookie-a little too eager and a little too green.
He reached over and touched her sleeve. "You did good work, Shaw. You found her without breaking your cover. I made sure Hacker knew that."
Gratitude and pride replaced the nervous fear in her eyes. "Thank you, sir."
"You earned it." He shifted the car back into gear. "Let's get this show on the road."
At the gate Booth pushed the intercom button. He could've gone straight to the emergency access codes, but he was determined that every step would be by the book and above reproach. He wasn't about to give these two a legal loophole to squirm through.
"Yes?" The voice was sharp and imperious. Definitely not Wright, whose voice was softer and accented with a hint of New England.
"F.B.I.," he said. "Special Agent Seeley Booth."
There was a slight pause, then a cold, "What do you want?"
Booth pushed the button again, his eyes on the video camera mounted to a nearby fencepost. "We're here to execute a search warrant of the premises," he said, keeping his voice cool. Professional. "You need to open the gate."
This time the response was immediate. "Not until I call my lawyer."
"You can call your lawyer," Booth answered, "but we aren't waiting. Either you open the gate for us now, or I'll open it myself. Your choice." His finger was already hovering over the number pad, but again, he waited for her response. By the book, he reminded himself. Breathe. Think. Wait.
Stay cool.
Despite his determination to hold back, he'd already punched in the first two digits of the code when the gate began to open. He drew his hand back and looked over at Genny, noting her wide eyes and quick, shallow breaths. There wasn't much he could say that would bring her back down, so he returned his attention to the shadowed drive.
"Be ready," he said grimly. "This is going to happen fast."
She nodded and unbuckled her seat belt, then adjusted the bullet proof vest again. Booth triggered his radio. "Safeties off," he said. "Teams three, four and five will lock down the entrances. Team six, you're with Agent Shaw."
"What about you, sir?" Genny asked, after the other agents had acknowledged his orders.
Booth pulled up in front of the house, turned off the engine, and pocketed the keys in one swift, fluid motion.
"I'm going after Bones."
A matched set of black SUVs had followed them up the drive, and as Booth got out of the car a dozen agents fanned out across the property, some running around to the back, others to the sides of the house. Ignoring them, Booth sprang up the steps to the front door and heard the roar of diesel engines as the patrol boats he'd requested neared the dock. He rapped the heavy door twice with his knuckles, then jabbed the doorbell.
"F.B.I!" he called out. "Open up!"
When there was no answer he tried the knob.
Locked.
Swearing, he gestured at his backup team. They sprinted to their vehicle for the battering ram as he gave the door another sharp rap, then punched the doorbell again. Still nothing. They were here. No question. Which meant they knew why the F.B.I. was back and had locked the door to buy themselves time. Booth steadied his grip on his gun. It also meant they were desperate.
Sixty seconds later the door crashed open. Booth didn't wait to hear it slam against the wall before he was inside.
"F.B.I.!" He yelled again. His voice bounced off the tile and echoed against the vaulted ceilings. There was no response. More agents had arrived while they'd been taking down the door, and Booth gestured to them to clear the ground floor while he turned to Shaw.
"Office," he said tersely.
She nodded and led him through the house, Booth chaffing at the extra seconds it took to clear each room. By the time they reached the small office just off the kitchen it was all he could do to keep from shoving her aside.
The monitors she'd told him about were still there, as was the rack of hardware to one side. But the computer was gone.
"Damn it!" Booth turned to Shaw, but before he could say anything his radio crackled.
"Second and third floors clear." The voice belonged to one of the Chicago field agents. "No joy."
Booth swore again. "Have a team check the outbuildings," he snapped, and waited for the acknowledgement before narrowing his gaze at Shaw. "What do you remember about the room she was in?" he asked urgently. "Is there anything, anything at all that you might have left out?"
Shaw shook her head. "It was a bedroom," she insisted. "There was a big bed and a dresser. The floor was carpeted. There were pictures on the walls."
"What about windows?" he asked. "Could you tell what side of the house it was on by the angle of the sunlight?" He should have asked earlier. Should have thought of it. Now he cursed the mistake that was costing them precious time.
Shaw was still talking. She shook her head. "I only got a quick look, but I don't remember seeing any windows."
Booth pushed past her and turned left into the kitchen, hoping to find some clue, some hint of where Bones might be. There was a metal panel set into the wall near the fridge. He crossed to it. Dumbwaiter. No surprise there, considering the size of the house. Then he looked more carefully at the control panel.
"Shaw!" When she joined him, he pointed. "See anything odd about that panel?"
She studied it for a second, then- "There's a down."
"And we're on the ground floor."
"Basement?"
"That's what I'm thinking."
"Property records didn't show a finished basement."
Booth shrugged that off. "They could've added it after moving in."
He strode across the vast kitchen, gun in hand, and stopped at a door he'd assumed led to a pantry. He didn't know what he was going to find on the other side, but whatever it was he had to find it alone. Against procedure or not, he was doing this part without backup.
"Join the others," he said. "Help them search the outbuildings. And secure those damned boats."
"But sir …"
"That's an order, Agent Shaw."
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
A moment later she was gone, and Booth pulled open the door, his heart in his throat. Please, he prayed. Please let her be okay.
A set of stairs dropped into shadow. The narrow wooden steps were set between concrete walls. There was a landing midway down, after which the stairs took a sharp right turn into a space he couldn't see. What little light there was seemed to be coming from whatever lay beyond.
He thought about calling out, but decided against it. Instead he eased down the stairs, gun arm extended and braced, finger poised over the trigger. He paused at the turn as an agent's voice sounded in his ear.
"We've got Wright," he heard. "She was headed for the dock."
Then another voice, Shaw's this time. "Agent Booth? The house and outbuildings are clear. Do you need assistance?"
Booth clicked the regulation hold response but said nothing, unwilling to reveal his position to whoever might be standing at the bottom of the steps. Hoping Shaw would stay put, he focused on the task at hand. He had to assume Bones was nearby-and with her, Natalie Dabney.
Rounding the last corner in a swift, fluid move, he brought his gun to bear on the space below. Half a dozen more stairs ended in a short hallway, at the end of which light spilled through the open door of what looked like a bedroom.
Between Booth and the doorway stood Natalie Dabney.
Her face was set and hard, her eyes fierce.
Booth swallowed hard.
Dabney had one arm wrapped around Bones's neck, while a short knife gleamed dully in her other hand, its point aimed squarely at ...
"Bones …" Her name came out on a whispered breath. "Dear God. Bones …"
"One more step and they both die." Dabney's voice was calm. Unemotional.
"Booth ...?" Bones sounded lost. Afraid.
Booth shifted his gaze from Dabney's face to hers. Even in this light he could see that she looked tired and pale. A tidal wave of protectiveness washed over him, and he almost risked everything on a single, desperate lunge. Instead he took a deep breath and forced reassurance into his voice, pushing it past the rage and fear.
"Yeah, Bones. I'm here."
"Booth … They want the baby."
Booth's glance flickered down to the knife, then back up to the cool confidence in Natalie Dabney's dark eyes.
"I know."
He saw it all so clearly now, and with understanding had come fury. He turned his attention back to Dabney.
"Let her go," he said coldly. "Now."
Natalie didn't move except to press the tip of the knife more firmly against Bones's stomach. Bones flinched, and Booth almost lost himself to the murderous rage that rose up inside him at the sight.
"She doesn't want it anyway." There was no doubt in Dabney's voice, which told him that she didn't know how far Bones had been willing to go to get pregnant, or the price she'd almost paid. "Oh, she says she wants it, but that's just hormones. Once her levels return to normal she'll remember who she really is."
Stay calm, he reminded himself, gun hand steady as he searched for his adversary's weakness. Pay attention. Don't provoke her.
"Oh?" he asked conversationally. "And who is that?"
Something flickered in Dabney's eyes, but the light wasn't good enough for Booth to guess what it was. "She's a forensic anthropologist," she said as if she thought Booth was a little bit slow. "The best in her field."
"Yeah, so?" Deliberately casual, he inched his right foot forward, easing off the landing and onto the first step. "Lots of scientists have babies."
"She's also a world class mystery writer."
"World class, huh?" Not a term Booth had heard applied to Bones before. Best-selling, yes, but world class? "I didn't know that."
Below him, Bones's eyes flared with indignation, and he prayed that just this once she'd keep quiet and let him do his damned job.
Dabney eyed him warily, as if trying to figure out what he was up to. "Have you read her books?" she asked. "She dedicated one of them to you. The least you could do is read it."
So she knew who he was. Did she also know that he was the baby's father? Either way, it complicated things. She'd be on her guard anyway, but with the additional knowledge of his relationship with Bones ... With studied nonchalance, Booth gave a light shrug and eased down another step. "I'm not much for reading," he said. "Now if you want to talk hockey …"
The end of his sentence was forestalled by a sudden movement from Bones as she struggled against Dabney's hold. The knife shifted. Dabney swore. And Booth felt the diamond-sharp edge of rising panic. Don't move, he thought. God damn it, Bones. Don't move! As if reading his mind, she stilled, her eyes finding his in the near darkness.
"Hockey is for neanderthals," Dabney sneered when Bones had settled. "It's all about men beating their chests and fighting for supremacy."
Another step. Only a handful left. He needed to keep her talking. Buy time. "It's more than that," Booth said calmly. "Hockey is about courage. And heart."
So much of life was about heart.
"Dr. Brennan's heart is in her work," Dabney said, bringing the conversation full circle. "As it should be." Her expression dared him to argue with her. "Chris and I will give this child a good home," she said. "We'll raise it as our own, send it to the best schools, make sure it has access to all the best teachers and learning tools."
"My child," Bones said in a low venomous tone that sent alarm racing up Booth's spine, "is not an it."
With that she burst into action, moving so fast that Booth had no chance to do anything but curse as he sprang down the three remaining steps to the narrow hallway while Bones and Dabney struggled for the knife. Bones had slammed her elbow backwards into Dabney''s stomach, causing the other woman to let out a grunt of surprise that rolled into a curse when Bones's heel came down on her instep. Booth shoved his gun into its holster and closed in on the pair as Bones dropped and twisted, catching Dabney's wrist and yanking it back and up until there was a faint popping sound followed by Dabney's howl of pain, then the clatter of metal on concrete as the knife hit the floor.
Dabney didn't go down, though. Swearing and struggling, she took a wild swing at Bones that could've broken her jaw if Booth hadn't intercepted its power mid sweep, his hand closing over her wrist in a fierce grip. He yanked out his handcuffs and slapped the first around her left wrist before she could react. Then he grabbed her other arm and pulled it back, ignoring Dabney's grunt of pain while he slapped on the second cuff. Bones had stepped aside by then, out of the line of fire, and Booth spun Dabney around by the shoulders, slamming her against the wall. She stared at him, panting hard, eyes wild as his forearm pressed into her neck hard enough to make her gasp.
He wanted to press harder, wanted to watch her eyes roll back in her head and feel her body struggle helplessly against his. He wanted her to beg for her freedom the way Bones might've begged for hers. He leaned in, just a little, and watched her face redden with the need for air, listened to the scrabble of her fingernails against the concrete wall at her back. He was dimly aware of movement behind him, but he ignored it, more interested in the woman in front of him, the woman who'd threatened Bones and their child, the woman who'd wanted to destroy his world.
"You're going to regret this." He kept his voice low, too low for anybody but Dabney to hear. "And if I find out you hurt her ... in any way," he snarled, watching her eyes glaze with terror, "jail isn't the only thing you'll have to worry about.
There was a hand on his arm, then. And a voice in his ear. It took a moment to recognize it.
"Let her go, Booth."
Bones. He shook his head without taking his eyes off of Dabney's. Her mouth was open now, her eyes panicked.
"Booth! I'm okay!" The desperation in her voice, the fierce determination behind it, finally drew him back from the edge. Slowly, he eased his hold, his gaze flickering to the stairwell and the sound of clattering footsteps. With a grunt of disgust he stepped back and let Dabney crumple, her breath harsh and rasping, to the floor.
Then he turned, swept Bones into his arms, and buried his face in her hair.