A/N: Life and my other stories caught up to me, but finally: here is another chapter!
If anyone is interested, I'm looking for a Bones beta reader, to catch the occasional typo for me. If you'd like the job, go ahead and PM me. Thanks and enjoy!
Redux
Chapter 9 – American Soil
As Sweets listened to Vincent Nigel-Murray present the finding of his investigation into Rose Johnson's remains, he tried to stay detached. He tried to sculpt all the pieces of information into a coherent picture of the human being who could have done this. The middle-aged woman from a small town in New Mexico had been strangled, beaten, and stabbed. Sweets tried to focus on the fact that there was only one stab wound. For such a fierce attack, that single killing blow seemed out of place, almost like it had been an accident.
Well, if their prevailing theory was correct and this man was recreating an earlier murder, perhaps the original was an accident. A terrible fight gone horribly wrong. But who, of the five original families Angela's search had unearthed, was the original Rose Johnson? Which of these women died of a single stab wound?
"And, finally, the trace insect activity that Dr. Hodgins found suggests…" Nigel-Murray continued, his personal brand of chipper decorum suffused through every word. How could someone, even someone whose dream it was to work in this field, be so…flippant about another human being's death? Sweets saw this same compartmentalization in Daisy sometimes and that bothered him a little. He knew Daisy was the one for him, but if she could wall herself off from the reality of this horror, would she start walling him off eventually, too?
No, Sweets thought. She wouldn't do that to me. And even if she starts to, if I call her on it right away, Daisy is self-aware enough to change her behavior. Sweets hated thinking these thoughts and he had a second of regretting getting involved in this case. At least he regretted that and not promising to spend a year in Indonesia with his fiancée. He was just upset about having to postpone his year abroad, and anxious to get back there so he could marry his girl.
"…at least three days before being buried. What do you think that means, Dr. Sweets?" Mr. Nigel-Murray's voice broke into Lance's thoughts and all eyes in the room turned to him.
"Uh, sorry," he stammered, sifting through his brain for any scrap of the information he'd missed. "The suspect murdered Mrs. Johnson three days before burying her?" he asked, getting nods from all around. "Well, I would guess that since her body was found in Colorado, but she was abducted in New Mexico, that some of the time was spent traveling." Standing up and going to the board, Sweets pointed at one of the women who had been killed along with her family. "I'm most interested in the similarities Mrs. Johnson's murder has to this one. Naomi Gleeson."
"Yeah," Angela agreed, pushing some buttons to enlarge Mrs. Gleeson's record on the screen. "Forty-two, stabbed during an argument by her husband, Harold. The guy then…oh, God," the artist frowned, turning away to face the room as she continued. "The husband then shot Naomi's father, as well as the couple's two children. The girl was sixteen, the boy was seven. He survived."
"What happened to the husband?" Cam asked, her expressive brown eyes wide and her mouth frowning. Sweets had to agree. This case was one of the most distasteful ones they'd investigated, if only for the sheer scale of it.
Angela matched Cam's frown and replied, "Michael Gleeson left a note of apology and ran right away after the murders. They haven't found him."
"So he could be our killer," Sweets concluded. "Replaying the murder of his family over and over again."
"Could be," Angela nodded, waving away Brennan's open mouth as she said, "and I know that's a leap, sweetie. But it's all we have to go on right now, isn't it?"
"It is true," Brennan nodded, "that none of the evidence we've collected yet would indicate the specific identity of the killer. In fact, the force and angle of the stab wound indicate that anyone over seventy kilograms, and at least one hundred sixty-five centimeters tall could have delivered the blow."
"What does that mean to the rest of us?" Sweets asked, giving Brennan an encouraging look to let her know he wasn't being critical.
Mr. Nigel-Murray replied in her stead, scratching the back of his head and letting his eyes roll up towards the ceiling as he said, "Those statistics would be consistent with any larger-than-average woman and almost any man, according to recent statistics. Did you know that the tallest–"
"Relevance," Cam cut off the intern, rubbing both temples with the fingers and thumb of one hand, which served to cover her eyes too. Sweets wondered if Cam was okay dealing with this case. Normally her experience as a police officer and then a coroner gave her a steady hand and mind. There were the occasional cases that really got to her, though, and Lance wondered if maybe he should talk to her and make sure everything was fine. But if he was going to leave within a few weeks, the whole team would have to get used to his absence, including the absence of his often-solicited and always-free psychological advice.
The rest of the team went back to discussing this family and Sweets sat back, a tight feeling in his gut that this was the first thread and once they started pulling on it, everything would unravel. Whether that unraveling led to the successful conclusion of the case or to something unexpected and awful, Sweets knew he couldn't get too tangled up in it. He had a fiancée to get back to.
Booth scrambled up to the first convenience store he saw in Montreal, Zack in tow, and bullied the scientist into buying a disposable cell phone. Booth had his own money, but Zack insisted that they only use cash so that the authorities wouldn't find them. Apparently it wasn't part of his "plan" to get caught so soon. He kept talking about how important it was that he be free to work the case until the killer was caught, but Booth noticed that more and more it seemed that Zack was trying to convince himself, rather than Booth.
As soon as the phone was out of its packaging and functional, Booth dialed his partner's cell number from memory. He held his breath while the phone rang four damn times before she answered, "Cam?"
"No, Bones," he exhaled before falling back on the words he'd practiced over and over. "I don't know what you heard, but it's me. It's Booth."
"Oh, hello Booth," she replied, sounding happy but not nearly as surprised as he would have guessed.
"You didn't hear?" he asked, suddenly uncompromisingly upset. "Jared promised he-"
"He did," Bones cut him off. "Just after the Army informed him of your death, he found me at the lab."
"Then…why?"
"Why aren't I more surprised to hear from you?" she chuckled and Booth recognized it as her, 'I know better than you,' chuckle.
"Yeah," he replied, suddenly knowing where this conversation was headed. "You know, Zack said you would be the first to figure it out."
"So it was Zack," she laughed. "We did surmise that he would have the capacity to synthesize such an accurate replica. How did he get to Afghanistan, though?"
"I'm not exactly sure," Booth replied, looking back to see Zack patiently guarding their luggage. "He showed up on the base in a Specialist's uniform and," Booth laughed, "I thought I was going nuts again."
"Booth," Bones said, her voice growing quieter over the silence of a few long seconds, "I'm glad you're not dead."
"Yeah," he whispered back. "Yeah, me too." After sighing, Booth continued, "I'm sorry Zack and I put you through that again. I called as soon as I could."
"I know," she replied, clearing her throat and Booth wondered if she was crying. He hated that thought, especially since he wasn't there to comfort her.
"Do you know if the Army…" Booth cringed, hating to ask this of her, but needing to know. "Did they talk to Rebecca? Is Parker okay?"
"Jared mentioned something about checking up on them, but I don't think Parker was told anything about your fallacious death," Bones said. "I can call him and find out if you'd like."
"No," Booth shook his head, "I'll do it. Thanks, Bones."
After another long moment of silence, she asked, "Where are you?"
Looking back at Zack, Seeley sighed and replied, "I can't tell you yet. Closer than I was last time we talked."
"Why can't you tell me? I wouldn't tell anyone."
Booth chuckled at the indignation in her voice. "I know you wouldn't, Bones. But everyone knows Zack was your student, and I wouldn't put it above some of my colleagues at the Bureau to put a tap on your phone in hopes of finding him."
Overhearing Booth's words, Zack approached him and tried to take the phone away from Booth, earning a strong hand on his chest and a stiff arm holding him out of reach. Huffing, the scientist backed off and Booth expected him to tap his watch or make a 'hurry up' gesture, but he didn't. Zack probably wasn't familiar with those forms of nonverbal communication, Booth supposed, even though he had considered such gestures universal before he met Bones and her strange student.
"Oh," Bones replied to his explanation, the word falling in surprise from her mouth. "I didn't even think of that."
"That's why you're the science lady and I'm the FBI agent," Booth laughed, his heart leaping when she chuckled with him. He loved that low laugh of hers. "Speaking of, I should probably go. Zack's giving me the evil eye."
"I don't know what that means," Bones muttered quickly, as if not wanting the customary explanation. Plowing right ahead, she confessed, "I just want to know when I'll see you."
"I really don't know. Zack's got some sort of a plan, I'm sure," he said in a soft voice, hoping Zack wouldn't be able to make out the words. He didn't want the guy knowing Booth had suspicions that despite all his planning, Zack had been winging it for a while. Ignoring Zack's fidgety pacing a few feet away, Seeley asked, "Any more progress on the case?"
"Sweets and Angela are convinced that a man named Michael Gleeson, who stabbed his wife, and then shot her father and his own two children, is behind these murders. He fled and was never caught."
"The whole family died?" Booth asked in surprise. "I thought Angela couldn't find a case that matched."
"No," Bones told him. "The son, also named Michael, survived."
On a hunch, Booth asked his partner, "How long was it between these first killings and the next one?"
"Um," she mumbled, the sound of paper rustling in the background. "About fifteen years?"
"That's a long time," he muttered, thinking over the problem. "I don't know if it was him."
"Who else would it be?" Bones asked. "You think Angela and Sweets have pinpointed the wrong family?"
"How old was the son?"
Bones rustled her papers again before answering, "Seven."
Doing the math quickly in his head, yes he could do basic math, thank you very much, Booth came to the conclusion that, "It was him. The son. He grew up and took after his old man, in the worst possible way." Booth got a sudden vision of Parker in an Army Ranger uniform, a sniper rifle up to his eye and pointed down at a playground full of kids dressed as warlords and terrorists. Man, if that didn't send shivers down his spine!
"We have no evidence to support your claim, Booth," his partner insisted, "except that according to his most recent driver's license, Michael Gleeson Junior falls within the calculated parameters of the killer." Booth was about to open his mouth and congratulate himself when Bones added, "Along with sixty-five percent of the adult population."
"Oh," he replied shortly. "But it can be conjecture for now, right?" he asked. "You know, a hypothesis to test."
"Booth!" Bones cried with a chuckle. "You have been paying attention."
Returning her laugh, Seeley replied, "I've been paying attention to a lot of things, Bones." As their shared mirth died down, Booth noticed Zack staring daggers at him – an expression that was universal, even for creepy squints – and said, "I've really got to go, Bones. I'll talk to you soon."
"Goodbye, Booth," she whispered. "Talk to you soon."
And then it was over. Seeley had to wait for the next phone call, and who knew when Zack's "plan" would allow for that. Speaking of, Booth turned to the man in question and asked, "What now, Zack? You're the genius. What's the next step in your genius plan?"
"I believe it would be correctly called an ingenious plan, Agent Booth," the squint replied, "grammatically speaking."
"Aren't you science types supposed to suck at English things like grammar?" Booth asked, hiking his bag onto his shoulder and following Zack down the sidewalks of Montreal.
"I am well trained in all forms of academic success," Zack replied, consulting a map as they reached a corner. "I went to private school, where the education was superior. Plus, I have a very high IQ, which means understanding and remembering all rules of grammar is much easier for me than it is for you."
"I don't know about much easier," Booth muttered, following Zack when he made a decision. A bit louder he asked, "So what's the plan?"
Zack shrugged and put away his map, saying, "We investigate the murders in Toronto."
"How?" Booth asked, getting around in front of Zack so the guy would stop short. "I'm not much good to you without my FBI credentials and contacts. This is outside my jurisdiction, Zack. If I'm going to get anything done, diplomacy has to happen first."
Zack looked up at Booth and breathed, "Oh. I hadn't thought of that."
"Exactly," Seeley nodded. "So let's think about this plan together, alright?"
Taking his map back out and studying it, Zack asked, "How fast can you walk one point three miles?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Booth shot back angrily. "And I don't know, twenty minutes? Half an hour?"
"Good," the squint nodded, folding the map back up and pulling two canteens from a pocket in his bag. "It's hot out today. Make sure you drink enough water," Zack ordered, handing Booth one of the canteens. The pink one. Or maybe it was metallic red, but it looked pink enough for Booth to be offended. But, besides shooting Zack an angry look and following him back the way they came, Seeley didn't say anything. Might as well just let the squint do his thing.
Booth took a few swigs as they got going, wondering why his pack would be so heavy if he'd left almost all of his belongings behind. It was only fifteen minutes and half a canteen later that Booth realized something was wrong. "Zack," he called ahead to the squint. "I'm not feeling so great."
"Drink more water," Zack urged, waving him forward faster.
Booth did feel thirsty. And dizzy and a little fuzzy around the edges. It wasn't that hot out, was it? After being in the desert for two weeks, he couldn't really tell. A little more water would probably help.
It didn't. "Zack!" Booth complained. "What's going on?"
"Just a little further," Zack urged, waiting patiently next to a wrought-iron gate. "You can sit down here, Agent Booth."
"You fucking drugged me, didn't you?" Booth accused, sitting where Zack told him to, because he couldn't figure out why not to.
Taking Seely's arm in one of his gloved hands, Zack raised it up and locked a handcuff around Booth's wrist, attaching the other end to the wrought-iron gate. "Before you pass out, I want you to remember three things."
"What?" Booth asked, addled by whatever Zack had slipped him.
"You are Sergeant Seeley Booth again," he slipped Booth's old wallet into the agent's front shirt pocket, "and I kidnapped you. You did not assist me in any way, except under heavy sedation. And finally, you would not divulge the information I wanted about the location of Gormogon's things, and I had no more use for you."
"Why are you doing this?" Booth asked, tugging on his arm and frowning as the cuffs refused to come undone.
"You have to go back to the FBI," Zack insisted, "and I can't go back to the hospital. Not until we solve this case." He took the prepaid cell phone from Booth's pocket and held it up. "I will be in touch soon."
Booth looked up once before he passed out to see a giant American flag flapping jauntily in the Montreal breeze. Zack left him at the consulate, on American soil.
A/N: Please don't forget to review. I love hearing from you!
