A week later and things seemed like they were going back to normal.
"The victim was stabbed upward of thirty times. Every rib is marked. Vertebrae sternal, vertebrae costal."
Of course, I'm a seventeen year old whose job happens to be solving murders in the best lab in North America, so "normal" is a completely relative term.
"What kind of weapon?" Brennan asked Zach, writing something on her clipboard. This isn't an FBI case, so there was a bit less urgency. When the FBI wants the Jeffersonian to help, the speed of the results reflects on the institution. When it's just a local case, there's not as much hassle from the government and, therefore, not as much hassle from Goodman wanting the results faster.
Hodgins was leaning back in his chair. There was a clipboard in front of him with his own paperwork, but he was forsaking that in order to go over vacation photographs Angela had emailed from New Mexico. "Who vacations in the desert?" Hodgins complained about Angela's vacation spot loudly. "It's like lunching at the dump."
Zach happened to look up at his griping friend and ended up getting distracted by the scantily-clad artist standing in one of the photos. She was wearing a bikini despite there being absolutely no swimming pools or lakes anywhere even remotely nearby, probably because jeans and a shirt would make the weather unbearable. Her boyfriend, Kirk, was probably the person taking the picture.
"Uh… pointed, with no cutting edge," Zach said after a moment of distracted delay. "Like a giant ice pick."
Hodgins hit a key on the keyboard and the picture slideshow continued to a closer one of Angela, also in a bikini. "Whoa. Angela," Hodgins chuckled.
Brennan was too focused on the corpse to be particularly bothered by Angela's vacation location or her lack of normal clothes. "Or a sharpened screwdriver," she suggested to Zach.
"We warned her about the sun, right?" Hodgins double-checked, pushing his chair back and spinning it halfway around. "We told her to cover up, avoid melanoma?"
The slideshow continued of its own account. It must have been timed or something. The next picture was taken by someone else and had Kirk and Angela both standing on top of a sort of landmark resembling a cliff, arms wrapped around each other's necks and kissing.
"Who's the guy?" Zach asked interestedly.
"Or maybe a specialized climbing ax," I suggested to Brennan. It was a throwback to the case of the week before, when the murderer had been a climber. The victim, Marni Hunter, had discovered a secret vault hidden under the city and the climber killed her to keep it quiet. I glanced over at Zach. "That's her boyfriend, Kirk."
"Angela has a boyfriend?" Zach inquired, as surprised as I had been to learn about it.
"Every year, for three weeks, Angela has a boyfriend and a vacation," Brennan stated quite matter-of-factly, giving in to the personal conversation going on while she tried to work.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Playing house in a post-boho, rustic artists' cabin, in the desert, with her overpaid, pseudo-celebrity photographer boyfriend?" Hodgins scoffed derisively and when he phrased it like that, he got his point across despite that he sounded mean. "That is not a vacation."
Brennan had already lost what little interest she had managed to invest in the topic while bending over the skeleton to look at the dentals. She had an x-ray sheet pinned to a plain backlit monitor to bring out the miniscule details on the photograph that were otherwise easy to overlook. "Eight months to a year dead, correct?"
Hodgins waved one arm over the arm of the chair, his fingers flapping in an imitation of pointless speech. "Yeah, yeah. Pupae casings, maggots, blah, blah, blah. Eight months to a year."
"I don't think Mr. Doe would appreciate that you're so brashly writing off his murder," I said. Though I was snarky, I could have put a lot more attitude into it than I did. Though "Mr. Doe" was a pun on John Doe, the term used to mention unidentified male corpses, it was one of only a handful of times that I had named remains, even if it was just for ease of clarification. I had done so now without thinking about it too hard. Maybe it's because I'm used to actual dead people now, or maybe it's because I've accepted that I was very close to being one.
Hodgins completely ignored me, but I know by now not to take it to heart. When Hodgins hears something that he doesn't have a quick response to, he pretends that he has this disorder called ISH – Intermittent Selective Hearing.
Instead, he opened a new browser and accepted an incoming video chat invitation from Angela's title picture on his Skype. It took a moment, but by the time the image cleared, Brennan had looked up to see the conference call, and she stripped off her gloves, walking around the table to see the computer.
"Angela, looking burned!" Hodgins greeted and then added, with a smirk, "Are you using Crisco or butter for sunscreen?"
I leaned into the frame behind Hodgins. "He's only asking because he convinced Zach to make it a bet," I warned her, completely truthfully. Zach winced slightly, his shoulders rising, but Angela didn't even try to look irritated.
Hodgins was right that she looked sunburned – she was wearing a button-up green shirt with quarter sleeves, and sunglasses were pushed up into her hair, but her cheeks, nose, and shoulders were unusually red. Beyond that, however, her eyes seemed red and her cheeks were almost streaked, like she'd been crying. She actually looked quite solemn.
"Are you okay?" I asked, and as Hodgins seemed to process the live image, the smirk fell off of his face in place of concern. The playful mood of the lab was quickly gone. No offense to Mr. Doe or anything, but no one cared nearly as much about his murder as we did about Angela's wellbeing.
Then again, he's dead, so I don't think he cares about our priorities much, anyway.
"Hey, everyone." Angela's greeting was uncharacteristically fast and soft, as if she was just trying to get it out of the way. "Brennan, Holly, could I talk to you in private, please?"
Brennan and I looked at each other in confusion. I could almost imagine the question marks above our heads.
Angela called Brennan's laptop on her Skype after giving us enough time to leave the platform. Neither of us really knew what to expect, but Brennan set her laptop down on top of the coffee table in her office and we sat next to each other on the couch in front of the webcam.
"You're gonna think I'm crazy." Angela seemed to have a good idea at how this conversation would pan out. She ran her fingers through her slightly snarled hair; her normally voluminous hair was slightly less so because of the humidity. She wasn't putting as much effort into seeming fine anymore.
"What's up?" Brennan asked gently, leaning forwards and crossing her arms over her knees. "Boyfriend trouble?"
"No, I…" Angela took a deep breath and covered her face with her hand for a moment. When her hand fell back down to her lap, she seemed more composed. "I'd just send it to you, but the sheriff won't let me."
I frowned. "Send what?" What did the sheriff possibly have reason to veto? Souvenirs, technology, equipment?
"Somebody left a human skull in a box on the sheriff's porch." I straightened subconsciously, put on higher alert. There were so many ways that that could be interpreted – one of those ways was as a threat. "He says it was probably a Navajo who respects the dead, but doesn't want to get pulled into the whole white justice system." That was also a reasonable explanation, especially since Angela and Kirk were vacationing on a New Mexican Navajo reservation. "The thing is, is that Kirk went out into the desert five days ago on a photo shoot, and he hasn't come back." Angela looked off to the side and closed her eyes; she rubbed the side of her neck anxiously, a nervous tell. "Nobody can find him or his guide."
"You think the skull's Kirk's?" Brennan asked, but her expression was knowing. With this line of work, how could Angela not put two and two together and come up with the worst case scenario?
Angela waved her hand dismissively, but she did it far too quickly. "No, no. Kirk's always going out into the desert for days at a time," she said firmly, sounding like she was trying to convince herself more than Brennan or I.
I raised my eyebrows and tipped my head. "You're… you're kind of sending mixed signals." I said as delicately as I could.
"Yeah, well, I'm freaking out, I guess. I'm sorry." I opened my mouth to tell her not to apologize. Her fear was warranted. Skulls don't get left on sheriffs' porches every day, even on Navajo land. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. Pretend I didn't call. I'll just, I'll talk to you when Kirk gets back." She leaned forwards, reaching to turn off the call. Before either of us could object, her eyes darted back up to the webcam as she hit the escape. "Sorry."
The screen went black before Skype disconnected our side of the connection, too.
I swallowed. Was Angela or her boyfriend in danger? There's also the matter that, if it was Kirk's skull, then what had happened to his guide? They were in the middle of a desert. You can only carry so much water. Either they were okay and the skull was just coincidence, or at least one was dead and the other was either dead or dying of thirst. Frankly, I find it best not to assume such things are coincidences.
Okay, so maybe Brennan and I ditched Zach at the Jeffersonian for an hour with no explanation whatsoever. Who cares? It's not like he couldn't have called us if he needed something, and we all know he enjoys his job, at least to a reasonable extent. That point is further enforced by that he found the identity of the murder victim, and the murder weapon. The D.C. police would take that information and go from there.
We didn't leave him there to get out of working. We just went to Brennan's apartment and got our things. I was very resistant to living with another person at first, but Brennan was similar enough to me for it to be okay. I think I'd still rather live on my own, but Brennan knows not to push and she hasn't tried to start a conversation I wouldn't like. Aside from sleeping on her pull-out, we don't spend much time there, anyway. I used to idolize her, and now that I know her, I still look up to her, but I don't hold her in the same light that people do celebrities. I know her more as a friend or a mentor than I do as my favorite authoress, or as a revered scientist.
And really, I don't think leeching off of someone else's living room space, fridge, and laundry room counts as living with them if you only spend an average of nine hours or less there a day because your father forces you not to continue taking residence in an apartment you rented out yourself because your foster family ran out on you.
"You're taking a vacation in the desert with no notice?" Goodman sounded properly exasperated. I realized that without the context, it was a bit of a ridiculous impulse; Hey, you know what? My hand hurts from writing, so I'm heading out to New Mexico for a few days. See you later! If he knew the backstory, though, he probably wouldn't be complaining.
I tightened my fist around the straps of my bag, pulling it up over my right shoulder. It wasn't very heavy, since it would be kind of hard getting much on the plane as a carry-on. My bag was about the size of an average backpack, though, and it held a couple of books, a few changes of clothes, as well as bathroom necessities like my hair brush, toothbrush and the works.
"It shouldn't be for very long, and you've still got Zach and all of Dr. Brennan's undergraduates to call if you really need more than Zach can provide." I reminded Goodman. Zach is an undergraduate, but he's also Brennan's intern; therefore, his placement in the Jeffersonian is semi-permanent, and will last either until he receives his doctorate or until his contract runs out. Brennan has a large class of undergraduates at the Jeffersonian that only attend part-time, and assuming that Zach leaves once he gets his degree, those undergrads will apply either for semi-permanent internship or go through a rotation of turns in the Medico-Legal lab.
"I don't get the attraction," Hodgins sighed, shaking his head sadly. "I really don't. Snakes, scorpions-"
"Shut up, Hodgins," I warned over my shoulder as the two men followed us to the doors. "You know I don't like snakes."
Brennan raised her voice to signal that this wasn't going to become an argument. "It should only be for a few days."
Hodgins continued. "-Buzzards, and did I mention snakes?"
"Shut up, Hodgins!"
"What about the stabbing victim?" Goodman inquired hopefully, now mostly grasping at straws and reasons for us to stay.
"Zach identified the weapon and the victim," Brennan answered calmly, pushing open the right side of the double-doors with the arm not wheeling her grey suitcase behind her. "Our job is done."
Neither of them immediately offered another argument, including snakes, murder victims, or otherwise. I thought that we were in the clear so I left my bag hanging on my shoulder and caught the door when my name was called from behind me.
"Miss Kirkland?" Goodman asked, trying to get my attention in a final attempt.
I only turned halfway around, palm pressed flat against the cool glass of the door. It wasn't too heavy but it wasn't very light, probably because of the metal paneling and handles. I looked at them both with my eyebrows raised in question.
"Don't you think you should tell Agent Booth before you leave the state?" Goodman questioned after a momentary pause, like he had been debating whether or not he really wanted to open that line of discussion.
On one hand – the more rational one – I could sort of see where he was coming from with it. Booth is trying to be a guardian, so he should know if I leave Maryland, right? But, on the more dominant hand, which was weighted by my independence and pride, I've been taking care of myself for seventeen years and why the hell should I bend to another person now? He doesn't even have custody and we're still waiting on the Jeffersonian to get the paternity results back definitively. It took a while to get around to having them actually done, and then there was a paperwork thing.
"What, is he my keeper now?" I ended up retorting coolly. He's got no legal say over me and even if he did, I have to respect someone as a parent to keep them informed of my whereabouts. Sure, I respect Booth as many things – a colleague, a friend, a veteran, an FBI agent, et cetera – but as a father? I'm not too sure I even know how to respect or trust someone as a parent. A smirk grew on my face and as I turned back around and resumed walking, I called over my shoulder, "You call him if you're so worried."
It took a few seconds, but luckily for me the door is heavy enough for it to close slowly. It was open long enough for me to hear a drawn-out sigh, and then Hodgins asked where Goodman was going.
"To make what is likely going to be an unpleasant phone call," he responded grudgingly.
Angela met us at the airport nearest to her location in the desert. She was out in the middle of nowhere on a Navajo reservation; I was stunned there was a sheriff, because when I thought of the way she described it, it seemed like Mr. Sheriff was only actually the sheriff over a grand total of ten people at most. The natives that live on the land aren't under the man's jurisdiction, so he doesn't really have that many people to enforce laws unto.
Angela rented out a dark grey, light black Jeep to use during her vacation from the airport, and she had the back stocked with lots of bottled water. There were only two seats in the front, but I honestly didn't mind just sitting in the back with the water. Not only do I get water, but it's nice to move safely but not to feel quite as enclosed. She had the top taken off so we could all still communicate. Without the top on it, I had no doubt that I would get sand in my eyes, face, and hair.
So I just leaned against the back of Brennan's seat and lifted up my bag, hugging it in my lap like a shield for the first ten minutes of the ride until I figured out that I may have exaggerated the whole sand-all-over thing.
I pulled one of Brennan's books out of my bag and waved it at my face, closing my eyes and enjoying it. The sun was out, there was no wind, and the air was as dry as the ground. I felt like I'd been in a sauna for the last hour, not a Jeep.
"I mean, it's not like I actually think that the skull is Kirk's." Angela sounded rational and all that, but she was nervous. She didn't have to say it, it was just something I knew from reading her behavior. Her nails tapped on the steering wheel. She kept glancing away from the road, like she was making sure I was still there. She talked faster and her voice was just a note sharper. Her back was straight, her shoulders tense. "But, I mean, if you could just look at it, and tell me it isn't, then I could stop worrying about him being dead and just be mad at him for being a flaky artist."
Yep. Sounds all great in theory. In practice, however… well, the odds were against it. I knew better than to open my mouth and tell that to Angela, but I was dreading the outcome of this ill-planned vacation. Also, ill-planned vacation with ill-chosen location.
Brennan leaned forward to the Jeep's controls. She hit the button in the center of a circle to turn on the F.M., and twisted the dial for station frequencies. She didn't pick up on anything – the only thing that came out of the stereo system was static.
Angela glanced down briefly before looking back up. "You won't get anything out here. We're about a hundred miles past where Jesus lost his sandals."
Brennan sighed and depressed the same button again so that the annoying sound stopped, leaving us in the quiet of the Jeep. "I assume that's a way of saying we're extremely isolated?"
I was squinting while I looked at the road in the direction from which we'd come. The sun was ridiculously bright. I could practically feel my skin sizzling as the water in my body evaporated away. Melanoma, here I come, I thought wryly. I snapped my fingers once and repositioned myself against the back of the seat, crossing my legs and then putting my backpack back on top.
"That's why we come out here every year," Angela added sentimentally. Her hands flexed on the wheel. "It's like you stand still, and the whole universe just comes at you."
"At one hundred ten degrees," Brennan pointed out as she agreed, making a face and leaning out the side to see the ground.
I took a deep breath, doing my best to relax. Using the book as a fan wasn't working very well, so I set it back on top of my bag and let my body rest limply, my arm in a sling across my chest and my other arm gripping loosely to the straps of my pack. Though I still had to wear bandages, I no longer needed excessive wrapping. I suppose the doctors at the hospital figure that if I'm stupid enough to take off the bandages, then I'm healed enough not to immediately start pouring blood.
"Yeah." I agreed with both of the older women before adding more pointedly, "It comes at you, alright. Armed with coyotes, sandstorms, and tumbleweeds." Interestingly enough, I hadn't seen a single tumbleweed so far, but I'm fairly confident that it's just a matter of time.
Even Angela couldn't "on the bright side…" her way out of that. She half-nodded noncommittally. "You know, Kirk was out with a good guide. Our friend Dhani." I liked that name. It was nice to hear. "I mean, he said he's be back. He said we'd go out for nachos and beer." She paused and looked over at Brennan to gauge a response. "And this is a man who's serious about his beer."
Brennan didn't reply to Angela, and if a nonverbal interaction occurred between them, I wasn't able to see it happen.
Angela walked into the sheriff's office first. The place was small and dark, despite that there weren't any curtains over the windows. Maybe it was just because almost everything in the room had dark colors to it. The sheriff's desk was large and cluttered. A computer monitor was on top of the desk, a computer system on the righthand corner. In front of the system, there was a paper plate with a muffin on it. Its friends had been eaten already, I guess. The walls were made of wood and the floor had a brown and black rug thrown down over it in front of the desk. A landline telephone was mounted on the wall, closed in by the desk, which touched the wall on its left side. A tall Caucasian man in light brown pants and a green shirt, with a sheriff's star pinned to his vest, had the phone held to his ear with one hand and leaned against the wall, bracing himself with his other hand's palm pressed along the edge of a filing cabinet behind him
"I got the Navajo police looking between Dano Ona Canyon and the Otero Bluffs," the sheriff said impatiently into the telephone. His conversation was obviously about the missing Kirk and Dhani. He glanced at Angela by means of acknowledging the familiar face, but didn't so much as notice Brennan or I.
Angela wasn't patient, either, and she interrupted the sheriff's phone call. "Hey, Ben. Dr. Brennan and Miss Kirkland are forensic scientists with the Jeffersonian Institution." I didn't have any neat titles like 'doctor' or 'agent,' but being called a forensic scientist and given the affiliation of the Jeffersonian was still enough to make me proud.
Brennan took note of Angela's familiarity and first-name basis with the sheriff and looked between the two. "We spend most of the time helping the FBI conduct murder investigations. Miss Kirkland…" She trailed off, hesitated. Don't go there, I thought with a wince, taking a wild stab (damn, bad choice of words) at what she was thinking of sharing. "Her father is an FBI agent."
The breath I'd had left my body with an audible, maybe melodramatic whoosh and I hung my head. "You went there," I muttered quietly under my breath.
Sheriff Ben Insert-Surname-Here lowered the telephone piece and pressed it against the shoulder of his vest to muffle his voice to the other half of the conversation. "Angie, I kinda got my hands full getting searchers out to look for Dhani and Kirk," he hinted before raising the phone back up to talk into it. "The state police said they would lend us a chopper, but only if we narrow down a search area."
Something else was said and the sheriff pulled the phone away from him and brought the receiver back down onto the mount on the wall, disconnecting the line. He shook his head and sighed to himself, bending over his desk and setting his fists on the surface. "They gotta be running low on water," he said. He looked up to Angela, straightening his back to see her. "I don't give them more than a couple of days."
"Ben," Angela tried again. "If you could just show my friends the skull…"
"Or point us toward the morgue," Brennan offered. I'm sure she meant to be helpful, but I looked around. This was really all there was to the building, aside from two doors to the left that probably led to a bathroom and an evidence room or something of the like.
"Dr. Brennan, it's a small community," I stated mildly, stepping up to stand next to her, just in front of the desk. Angela, Brennan, and I made a line blocking off the desk from sight to anyone behind us. "They probably don't have a morgue the way we think of it."
I was not mistaken. The sheriff cocked his head at Angela. Angela returned the gesture with her lips pursed tightly and Ben looked over Brennan and I closely. I felt like I was under scrutiny. He was sizing us up, judging whether or not this would lead to any more hassle for him. Apparently we must have been marked with an A-O.K. in his mind, because he doubled over at the waist and reached under the side of the desk and came back up with a box.
He set the cardboard box in the seat of his office chair and pulled at the top flaps to open it. One hand holding up the side, he reached in with the other and took a skull out from inside, bagged in clear plastic. He set it right on top of the computer block system.
"Welcome to the Merville County Morgue."
I stared, unblinking, at the definitely human skull. Going from first thoughts alone, it was adult and European. My second impression was that we should really take it out of the bag in case condensation started, but then again… we're in the desert. It would be weird if there were grey clouds, forget actual rain and humidity.
"Told you," I said quietly to Brennan.
Brennan looked to Angela, who turned so her back was leaning against the wall. She was physically distancing herself as far from the skull as possible. No matter what she said about not thinking the skull belonged to Kirk or Dhani, she couldn't hide that she was frightened that that was exactly the case. The anthropologist donned her latex white gloves and reached into the bag, pulling the skull out carefully. It wasn't completely bone. There was dirt and soil in the orbital sockets and decorating the maxilla and cranium, and sinew was keeping the mandible attached.
The sheriff only stared at the bag in mild distaste when it fell back off of the computer system and landed on his clipboard.
"Prominent brow ridge indicates the victim is male." Brennan dictated, already transitioning to her analytical, scientific means of speech. I glanced to Angela empathetically to see how she was doing with the deduction, but while she looked sad and forlorn, she didn't look like she was overwhelmed. Brennan gestured with one hand to the plate with the muffin while holding the skull comfortably in her left hand. "You mind?"
Ben frowned for just a moment before he shrugged, deciding he wasn't going to need his muffin, anyway. He picked up the plate and held it out. "Be my guest."
I eyed the muffin, but if I ate anything right now, it wasn't because I was hungry, it was because I was stressed, so I opted not to try for it. Besides, it wasn't the breakfast that Brennan wanted – she was after the plate. Brennan would never compromise potential evidence by eating while she works. If Ben knew her better, he wouldn't have misunderstood.
Angela relaxed just a bit at the comedy in the situation and I was glad to see some of the rigidity drain from her posture as she motioned for Ben to keep the muffin. "No, no. She wants the plate, Ben, not the muffin."
The sheriff paused, looked at the muffin, looked at Brennan, looked at the skull, and looked at me in confusion. I just shrugged. He waved the plate enough to knock off the muffin onto his desk and handed over the paper plate. Brennan took it without further acknowledgment and turned it over, setting it down and setting the skull on the bottom of the upturned plate.
"Cranial shape and nasal features suggest Caucasian."
"Died in the last several days," Angela added, making a nervous glance at Ben. Even if she wasn't technically a scientist, Angela had spent a lot of time at the lab and it was generally okay to take her word for it on simpler matters like that.
"Critters been at it pretty good." Ben commented on the lack of flesh. Dead in the last couple of days was all good, but there had to have been animal or insect activity to strip the bones so bare.
"Pattern of basilar suture fusion puts age…" Brennan trailed off at the last minute in a sort-of prompt, just like she does with Zach.
Technically, Zach is her intern, and I can be considered either the Jeffersonian's or Goodman's, but she still tries to teach me directly at times. Even when she's not teaching, per se, she's still mentoring and I'm learning by experience. "Thirty to thirty-five," I answered, actually telling myself mentally not to smile, because this was just getting more and more coincidental and that's definitely a bad thing.
Angela re-crossed her arms and said sharply, "Well, it doesn't look like Kirk." It was almost like she was daring anyone to disagree with her as her fears were becoming more and more recognized.
Ben looked away from the skull and to Angela. I don't know how long they have known each other, or how well, but they must have been friends for a while. "It doesn't look much like anyone, Angie," he corrected her softly.
Brennan rubbed off some of the soil from the skull onto her glove and raised it closer to her face to sniff. I wrinkled my nose in disgust but understood why. When humans and animals decompose in soil, there are more nutrients and minerals for the ground to absorb. As a result, soil is more fertile and rich, and it happens in different stages.
"Putrescine," Brennan determined. "Early stages of decomposition." She turned the skull by rotating the bottom, curving ridge of the paper plate.
Angela shifted uncomfortably. "Cause of death?"
"A man gets caught unawares out in the desert, he could be dead in a few hours." The sheriff wasn't being mean by pointing out the danger of going off hiking like Kirk and Dhani had done. If anything, he seemed just as unsettled as Angela. Maybe he knew the missing people, too.
"I don't doubt it," I said, completely seriously. "A healthy adult can last weeks without food. In an environment with average temperature, they can last somewhere between three and five days without water. In a heated desert with low humidity and hundred-degree temperatures… ugh."
Brennan leaned down and she rocked closer to the skull, her eyes squinting at the back of the cranium carefully. "Uh-oh."
"What?" Angela was already on high alert because of her missing boyfriend, and this didn't help her anxiety. Her body just tightened up, which couldn't be good for her sunburn, however light.
"The base of the skull here detached from the spinal cord." Brennan didn't touch exactly where the spinal cord would have connected, instead very lightly touched the tip of her index finger to the spot just above it. "See these little bevel marks? Peri-mortem contact gunshot. It wasn't the desert who caught this man unawares. It was someone with a gun."
My mouth fell open and I looked to the sheriff after a long moment. "You know what she said about my father being in the FBI?" I asked him with a grimace at saying it out loud myself. I think it's one of the first times I've ever verbally mentioned Booth's paternity and it left me feeling odd. "Well, please don't make this a jurisdictional war."
Angela rented out a bungalow close to the sheriff's office. It wasn't like a Hollywood home, let's be clear. There was no pool, it wasn't very large, nothing like that. The front door had been taken off to let the air circulate through the remaining screen door. The large living room had a couch and a fireplace, and a coffee table, but no television. There was a small case with three shelves which Angela had books and her laptop on. The third of the room on the left was actually a kitchen, separated from the living room by a long island counter. There wasn't a dishwasher, but there was a stove, an oven, and a fridge. The countertop was long and the cupboards were extensive, filled with foods that lasted a while.
On the right side of the living room, there were two doors. The one closer to the front door and front porch was a bathroom, and the one further away from the door was the bedroom, which Angela was taking residence in. Her suitcase must have been in there, because it wasn't in the living room.
I pulled Brennan's suitcase into Angela's bedroom after carrying my bag. I guess the privileges of being kidnapped, stabbed, and temporarily handicapped only last until you start complaining about the sling getting in the way of everyday life.
When Kenton slammed my hand down, he did so at an angle that tore a ligament in my wrist. Now, when you're judging the severity of a sprain, it's either a grade one, grade two, or grade three injury. A grade one sprain is when the tendon, ligament, or muscle is just pulled or stretched unnaturally. A grade two is when it's torn, which is what I have. A grade three is when the tear becomes a complete rip.
Because I've been doing well at not over using my left wrist, within the next few days I should be able to stop wearing the sling. I'll still have to wear a cast, yes, but I'll start attending physical therapy more often than just once a week and I'll actually start using that hand again, because the cast will keep my wrist from moving too much.
I wasn't sure whether Angela wanted her bedroom door left open or closed, but I figured Brennan and I would just have to go right back in to get pajamas, so I left it open. It's not like there were any men there, anyway. There's something to be said for living with only people of the same sex. It's just a lot less awkward in some ways.
Angela and Brennan were both in the side of the front room that counted as the kitchen. There were photographs on the rolling island that had been developed already. I approached with soft footsteps when my socks hit the floor, having already abandoned my boots by the door.
I mean, let's face it, this is the desert. I'm probably not even going to wear my sweater most of the time. I like my privacy and I feel better with my arms covered, but I don't want heat stroke, thank you very much.
While Angela opened a beer, I leaned over the counter, looking at the pictures. I recognized Kirk in several of them, as well as Angela. Most of them looked candid – not in a stalker way, but like a third party had been taking pictures intermittently. To support that theory, there were a couple with a woman I didn't recognize. The lighting was dim but I could see she had long black hair and dark eyes.
"Is this Dhani?" I asked Angela, looking up to the other two.
Angela had to look over her shoulder but then she saw I was looking at the pictures. She went back to the glasses and finished pouring their beers. (I'm not getting in a car with either of them tonight.) "Yeah. Dhani Webber. She's Kirk's guide in the desert."
Brennan left Angela's side for a moment to look at the pictures from the other side of the island. She was seeing them upside down, but it's less of a task to see pictures upside down than it is to read that way. "She's beautiful," she noted, something different in her tone. I couldn't tell whether she was sympathetic or sad. Maybe both because Dhani was missing, too.
"Dhani's lived here her whole life." Angela handed one of the beer glasses to Brennan, who just set hers on the counter to listen to Angela while completely sober. Angela kept hers in her hands, but she stared down at it like it would tell her where her boyfriend was. "You know, Ben says that she knows the desert better than anybody. Look, there's no way that she gets lost or she runs out of water. There's just no way."
I nodded noncommittally and hummed softly to the tune of some old song I'd heard somewhere. I couldn't quite remember the lyrics…
Brennan frowned and she raised her hand up to Angela's shoulder. It was one of the universal gestures of comfort, but instead of enjoying it and appreciating the effort, Angela recoiled away from her. "No. And you, stop that!" She added, giving me a bossy look to go along with the order.
"What?" Brennan looked suitably put out, and slightly offended, by the rejection. I blinked. What did I do? Breathe? Agree?
Angela dropped her eyes back down to her beer and she clinked it down onto the top of the island. "Sweetie, you hum when you're nervous, and Bren, if you hug me and you be all caring, it's because you think Kirk is dead, or because he was sleeping with Dhani."
I looked at Brennan and she met my eyes. I weakly raised my shoulders and bit my lip. Angela had a point. Humming is a nervous habit of mine. I love music, but I usually only sing or hum when I'm anxious about something. Brennan isn't typically a very touchy-feely person, although she's not apathetic. If she thinks something is wrong, she'll definitely go for hugs.
"No," Brennan corrected, still frowning. "It's because… I'm sorry that my friend is upset, because someone she loves is missing."
"I just want him to turn up okay. Dhani, too," I added when I glanced back down at the pictures.
Angela pursed her lips tightly in consideration of our honesty and then she sighed. "Alright. I can buy that." She held out her arms to Brennan, who eagerly hugged her in turn. The hug didn't last for very long and it seemed to lead Angela into completely forgetting her beer. "If you don't mind, um, I'm just gonna head to bed."
It was only seven or eight, but I suppose after an emotionally taxing day she's probably more tired than usual. I don't think she's been sleeping right, either, since Kirk never came back when he said he would.
Brennan nodded her agreement. "Goodnight," she offered softly.
"Sleep well," I said without thinking too much on it. It seemed casual and sincere at the same time, so I saw nothing wrong with it. Angela walked around the island and was almost to the door of her room before I remembered that our luggage was in there. "Um, we should just grab pajamas first," I called.
Brennan and I both knew Angela could use some time alone to rest, so we hurried to get pajamas from our suitcases, and Angela opened the door to a closet in her room and got an extra blanket. I don't understand what she thinks we'll need blankets for when it's seventy or eighty degrees, give or take some, but it's the thought that counts.
"Can I use your laptop and phone?" I asked Brennan hopefully, helping her pull out the fold-up couch bed by dragging the coffee table out of the way.
"Of course. What for?" She asked me in return, tossing the cushions off and to the side, exposing the pull-out underneath. She grabbed at the metal bar in the middle of the couch and pulled. As the mattress came up higher, the legs underneath it unfolded and dragged out to touch the floor.
I kind of liked that the what for was only an afterthought. Who'd have thought that I'm apparently that easy to trust?
"I want to look for airplane flights out here," I said easily. Though I'd been arguing with myself about it for hours, it was easy to admit to Brennan that I wanted Booth out here, too, no matter how many times he'd probably insist that it's because I missed him. That was his personal theory for why I asked him to the Jeffersonian after finding evidence of murder that Goodman wouldn't do anything about, and it took him a while to shut up about it. I'm not ready to really want anyone as a parent, but as an FBI agent and a partner? Hell yeah. "Kirk and Dhani aside, we know someone was murdered."
I found Booth in Brennan's contacts easily, one of the most frequently contacted. While it rang, I glanced over to where I knew the pull-out couch was longingly. I wanted to sleep, but I had to get this done first. If I want to be treated like an adult, I have to take responsibility, right? Anyway, Brennan turned out the lights and turned in to bed once I was connected to the Wi-Fi with no problem, saying that when I was done I could just close the laptop and crawl in with her.
I'm seventeen, so obviously I have no secret desire to crawl in bed with my mom, dad, or sibling to cry about a nightmare, but I had to grudgingly admit to myself that it had its own appeal. I don't need to have someone near to sleep, but if it's going to be anyone, Brennan and Angela are the best. As I'd thought before, it's easier to be comfortable around people of the same sex, and as hard as it currently is to hold my own in a fight, I'd much rather be in trusted company than completely alone in an unknown environment.
The bottom line is that I'd probably feel safer sleeping near Brennan than I would elsewhere, anyway. I know I didn't like when I woke up on her couch a couple days ago and she had left the apartment to get groceries. I mean, sure, she left a note and was only gone half an hour, but still.
The phone only rang twice before it was answered and, as I stared tiredly at the Priceline search results, there was the rustling of papers on the other end of the line before Booth actually answered. "Booth."
"How far are you from the airport?" I asked bluntly, getting straight to the point. I kicked my legs a bit before twisting my ankle and catching on one of the front legs of the bar stool I was using, sitting in the kitchen at the island.
"Holly! Great to hear from you this time. You know I had to hear from Goodman that you were going on a totally spontaneous trip to New Mexico, right?"
He didn't seem like he was scolding me as much as he was just irked that he'd been told secondhand, which I suppose I can understand. I'd be pretty irritated if he went off to a seemingly random state when I might want him around and then had to hear it from someone else.
"What, am I on a leash now?" I responded quickly with a roll of my eyes, although he couldn't see. I'm sure if I wasn't worn out by the day, I'd have come up with a better retort. "How far are you from the airport?" I reiterated.
This time, he actually answered, and he didn't seem all that annoyed that I hadn't apologized. Either it never bothered him much to begin with or he knew it would be a pointless battle. "As far as the lab is from the airport."
I frowned and looked away from the layover information and instead looked to the less-stared-at internet advertisement in the bottom right-hand corner for some new skin care product. "Why are you at the lab?"
"I need the findings on the Richmond case." If I remembered what I'd been barely paying attention to correctly, then that was the guy that was stabbed "upward of thirty times" and then had his death belittled by Hodgins. "Listen, Zach, he won't tell me where they are unless he has permission."
I smirked. Way to go, Zach! I remember the first time I met them, Booth had Brennan detained by Homeland Security upon her return from Guatemala because he needed information Zach refused to give him. "He's a good assistant," I said to him, wondering idly if he remembered the same incident I was thinking of. I hoped so, otherwise my memory wasn't being appreciated, since I was saying the same thing Brennan had said at the time.
"Yeah, very funny, thanks. Can you just tell Bones-"
"You can tell her yourself," I interrupted with a bright little faux smile. "There's a nine thirty flight to Denver. If you hurry you can get there. Then there's an eleven thirty-five flight to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Assuming Priceline is right, you may have to run to make the connection, but the flights arrive and depart from the same terminal, so it shouldn't be too bad."
Booth scoffed. "Forget it."
"Well, that seems a little harsh," I replied slowly, hiding that it had actually hurt my feelings a little bit. I asked for very little that wasn't totally relevant to a murder. If he's actively trying to be a guardian, then maybe he should hear me out. I'm not unreasonable and he knows that. "Do I even get a chance to plead my case or will I be held in contempt if I try?"
Booth cursed after I heard the sound of something falling over, and then I could have sworn that I heard something breaking.
"If it gets me better favor, I'll even pretend I didn't hear that," I volunteered optimistically.
"Ugh. You know what, yeah, fine. Plead your case."
"Angela's boyfriend and their friend went out into the desert several days ago and never came back," I started promptly. I felt pretty comfortable that I had very good reason for wanting him to get those flights. "This morning, the local sheriff had a skull dropped off anonymously in a box. There's clear evidence of murder. Angela's freaking out, but we can't tell if it's her boyfriend or if it's unrelated. Brennan even tried her charm-"
This time, Booth interrupted me. "Her charm? Oh, boy."
"That's nice," I bit quickly. Still, at least he was definitely paying attention. "But when we wanted to send the skull to the Jeffersonian, he said that despite our allegiances, we are not cops, and we don't have any jurisdiction." I slipped into a mocking voice and tone while I had spoken, so there was no way Booth missed how irritated I was by this.
"Which is true," he pointed out in response to my agitation. "Okay, so what do you want me to do?"
I glared at the computer screen. This one seemed pretty obvious. "I want you to come down here, get federal on his ass, and give us jurisdiction so that we can solve the murder and find Angela's friends!"
"Oh." Yeah, he definitely sounded smug and satisfied. Either he found what he was searching for or he heard what he wanted to hear from me. There was a pause when neither of us said anything. "You know what else I think's going on?"
"What?" I asked quickly, sitting up straighter and more attentively.
"I think you miss me."
"Ugh." I groaned loudly in protest and then had to turn the computer to the side to shine the light from the screen in Brennan's direction. The anthropologist remained still on her side, a thin blanket over her. Glad that I hadn't woken her up, I turned the computer back around. "Not this again," I complained, leaning forwards and hitting my forehead on the countertop.