Brennan gaped at Booth, who added, “You think you’re the only one who went to college, Bones?”
“Not now,” she said, smiling.
Dr. Keller gathered some bandages and tended to Brennan’s self-inflicted wound on her IV arm.
While the physician was doing that, Brennan used her free hand to grab her cell phone from the bedstand and call Angela.
“What’s up, sweetie?”
Brennan explained, in terse terms, what had happened to her.
Angela was frantic. “My God — are you all right?”
“You always ask me that,” Brennan said.
“Being your friend always requires it!”
“I need you to go to my apartment.”
“Because?”
“You’re the only one who knows where my security stuff is, and can cancel my credit cards.”
Angela’s tone grew more serious. “Oh. ’Cause of your purse and… well, sure, I’ll take care of it right away.”
“Thanks.”
Brennan ended the call.
Less than half an hour later, she and the FBI agent were racing to the site of the latest skeleton.
8
Glancing over at Brennan — who was gazing out her passenger window, lost in private thoughts — Seeley Booth couldn’t help but think that maybe he should have fought on the doctor’s side and insisted she stay in that hospital bed.
Right now her skin — usually aglow with life — appeared sallow, and tiny beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.
“You okay?” he asked.
She looked his way, gave him a tiny smile and one tired nod. “Yeah. Where was this latest skeleton found?”
“Spring Lake Forest Preserve. On Highway 62.”
“And where is that, exactly?”
“Northwest suburbs, Barrington Hills.”
Brennan had been in Northwestern Memorial Hospital downtown; this, Booth knew, meant a long trip along I-90 West.
The FBI agent drove fast, but did not have the lights flashing or siren blaring as he wove in and out of Chicago traffic, using all three westbound lanes as he hustled toward the scene. Wrestling with both rush-hour traffic and driving into the setting sun, Booth got off I-90 onto I-290 and, at the very next exit, caught Highway 62.
Booth knew, under normal circumstances, Brennan would be brimming with questions. But he also knew she was recovering her balance — mentally, physically, emotionally — and he would follow her lead.
Step at a time.
The road was only two lanes as they neared their destination, and the surrounding countryside was mostly trees, the occasional house. The sun filtered through the canopy of leaves and Booth felt like he was driving in a tunnel. He took off his sunglasses… not that it helped.
He knew they were headed for a forest preserve, but it never failed to amaze him how there could be large rural stretches within the confines of a metropolitan area that was home to millions.
“Who found it?” Brennan asked.
She seemed to be getting up to speed.
“Hikers. They used a cell phone to call the police.”
“How did you learn about it?”
“After Jorgensen’s house, the cops will call us if they dig up so much as a Milk Bone.”
“Milk Bone?”
“Dog biscuit.” He glanced at her. “Do you even own a TV?”
“Yes,” she said blankly, apparently too numb to rise to the bait.
He decided to kid her out of her state — gently. “Ever turn the thing on?”
She hesitated.
“I thought so,” he said.
“No… I was just thinking. Weather Channel, Discovery, History, A & E, lots of stuff. I just don’t have a high tolerance for nonsense.”
He’d noticed.
But he was relieved she was alive again.
They lapsed back into silence, Brennan obviously still fighting the effects of the painkillers; and — as they rode along on the tree-sheltered two-lane, going slower now — she nodded off, head against the window.
He let her rest.
Before long, Booth turned into the Spring Lake Forest Preserve parking lot.
A county deputy stood next to a Sheriff’s Department car at the entrance, stopping anyone who tried to enter. As Booth swung in, the deputy held up a hand; even though the sun had not set completely, the country law enforcement officer brandished a flashlight in his other hand, careful to aim the beam away from Booth’s eyes… but waving it so Booth could not miss seeing him.
Booth knew cops felt safer going through an unknown doorway than doing traffic duty.
He stopped and powered down the window as the sentry approached. By the time the deputy got to the door, Booth had pulled out his ID.
“Special Agent Booth and forensic anthropologist Dr. Brennan.”
The deputy — medium height, emotionless steel-gray eyes — pointed to several cars parked to the left side of the gravel parking lot.
“Put it over there. No road beyond the lot. Have to walk in.”
Booth nodded. “Where’s our skeleton?”
“I’ll get you a guide,” the deputy said. He pushed a button on his shoulder-mounted radio mic. “Bobby?”
He waited.
Finally, a voice said, “Yeah?”
“Carl. Come on out — FBI Special Agent and an anthropologist. Need you to show ’em to the cemetery.”
“On my way.”
Deputy Carl and Booth exchanged nods, then Booth pulled the Crown Vic around and parked.
Booth hurried around the vehicle to help his partner, but Brennan was already wobbling out.
When he caught up to her, she leaned against him and he helped her straighten up, then she took a long breath, held it, and expelled it.
Guilt flushed Booth’s face. “I should never have let you talk me into this.”
“I’m all right,” she said, pulling away from him. “Really.”
He kept a hand near her, but didn’t touch her. He knew to give her her space. This was a woman who took pride in her independence, and he respected that. Admired it, even.
Still, he asked, “You sure, Bones?”
“Dead sure — we’ve got work to do.”
Booth was looking for something else to say, when a flashlight beam cut through the darkness. A deputy sheriff trailed the shaft of light into the parking lot.
“Welcome to Spring Lake Forest Preserve,” the deputy said, pleasant but not cheerful. He was a blocky blond with dark blue eyes in an oval, pug-nosed face; Booth made him in his early twenties.
“Thanks for having us,” Booth said. “You Bobby?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Booth. This is Dr. Brennan.”
No handshakes, just nods.
The deputy said, “I’ll lead you down the path to the cemetery where the thing was found.”
“Appreciate it,” Booth said.
Deputy Bobby was shaking his head. “Weirdest thing I ever saw around these parts…. You folks watch your step, now. It’s gettin’ pretty dark and these roots and stuff along the way? You can trip and take a header, easy.”
Swell, Booth thought.
Here he was dealing with a half-conscious Brennan — okay, maybe a ninety-percent conscious Brennan — and now they were traipsing through the woods in the dark.
Though the glow of the city and the suburbs surrounded the area, the woods were darker than anyplace Booth had been since his military days. The only light beyond the deputy’s flashlight came from the moon and a few scattered stars.
Whatever sense of wonder, of the majesty of the universe, that others might feel in the Great Out of Doors had been ruined forever for Seeley Booth. The woods to him were jungle, and jungle meant memories of the time he spent as a sniper.