Bones: Buried Deep Read online

  “Lousy,” she said. “But good enough to resent everybody using the editorial ‘we’ about my pain.”

  “Sorry,” he said, and managed a smile. “I’m Dr. Keller.”

  Booth gave him a look, turned to Brennan, and whispered, “Doogie Howser to the rescue.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Keller apparently did, and shot daggers at Booth. “I’m perfectly qualified to attend to Dr. Brennan.”

  “How old are you?” Booth asked. “Twelve?”

  “Twenty-seven,” the young doctor said. “If it matters.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Brennan said to the physician. “Intellect intimidates him.”

  “Well, there’s nothing challenging to understand here.” Keller opened her chart and read aloud. “Concussion, two cracked ribs, lacerated ankle, assorted bumps, bruises, scrapes. Bottom line, Dr. Brennan, is you’re going to be fine. After a couple days of bed rest, you should be good to go.”

  Booth’s cell phone chirped.

  Dr. Keller frowned. “Visitors are required to turn off their cell phones. You—”

  The FBI agent waved and disappeared into the hall, closing the door as he left.

  The doctor gave her a quick exam and, by the time he was done, Booth was reentering the room.

  “Got to go, Bones.”

  “Not without me, you don’t!”

  Booth smiled. “You are feeling better. Look, this case has gotten weirder.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Seems to be. We’ve got Jorgensen in custody, but another skeleton’s just turned up. I’m headed out there.”

  Brennan sat up, wide-eyed. “You mean, we’re headed out there….”

  Dr. Keller said, “Dr. Brennan—”

  “My clothes?” she asked Booth, ignoring the physician.

  “In the closet,” the FBI agent said. “But look, I can handle this. You need to—”

  “It’s another skeleton. That’s where I come in, right? Why you called me in the first place?”

  “Well, yeah, sure, but—”

  Dr. Keller said, “I really must insist…”

  Brennan pointed to the IV in her arm. “Would you take this out, Doctor, or should I?”

  The young doctor shook his head. “I can’t. You’ve sustained injuries….”

  She yanked out the IV needle and blood squirted, and Booth made an ick face as she grabbed her sheet and used it as a compress.

  The physician was aghast. “Dr. Brennan!”

  Staring at the young man, she said, “You have three choices, as I see it. A., you can try to stop me and I’ll kick your ass.”

  Eyebrows hiked, Booth looked at the doctor. “She can do it too, Doogie.”

  “B., you can call security, but I’ll be gone before they get here. Or C., you can bandage this and help me depart with dignity.”

  Still shaking his head, Keller said, “Dr. Brennan, I’m afraid…”

  Booth laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Doc, you know who Sisyphus is?”

  The doctor blinked. “Uh… Corinthian king so cruel that when he went to Hades, his punishment was to roll a rock up a hill and when he got it to the top, roll it back down again?”

  Nodding, Booth said, “Surprisingly good lit chops for a medical school grad. So when I tell you that arguing with Bones here is a Sisyphean task, you do know what I mean?”

  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.

  Deputy Bobby led the way, single file, Booth behind Brennan to catch her if need be. The path was well worn and mostly flat, leaves falling in heavy clumps in some places, making exposed roots even harder to see despite Bobby trying to point them out with the beam of the flashlight.

  Trailing behind, feeling sweat starting to soak the underarms and back of his shirt, Booth was beginning to wonder how Bobby had made it to the parking lot in such a short time after the radio call.

  Then the woods parted and Bobby stepped left, and Brennan right, and Booth found himself damn near face-to-face with the eyeless sockets of a skull, the rest of the skeleton hanging down as if the fleshless man stood before him.

  The arms of the skeleton had been draped over and secured to the wrought-iron gate of the Guild Cemetery. Like the first skeleton, this one had been wired together in the manner of those seen in medical school classrooms.

  Booth stepped to one side and got his bearings.

  Small, at least by modern standards, the cemetery was home to one hundred or so souls buried between 1854 and 1899. The wrought-iron fence that surrounded the space seemed in good repair, but the gate was padlocked and Booth knew that this final resting place received few visitors these days.

  At least until tonight.

  Now, besides Bobby, two more uniformed sheriff’s department officers, as well as Special Agent in Charge Dillon and SA Woolfolk had come to pay their respects, before Booth and Brennan even arrived.

  Inside the fence, Booth saw a flashlight beam, moving slowly between the graves.

  “Crime scene unit on the way?” Booth asked Bobby.

  The deputy turned to the older of the two uniformed officers. “Sheriff, this FBI agent here wants to know if the—”

  “My hearing’s fine, Bobby,” the sheriff said, stepping forward and meeting Booth’s eyes. “And yes, crime scene analysts are coming — I requested Chicago PD and got it. I’m Sheriff Greg Trucks, by the way.”

  The sheriff — a beefy, craggy, dark-haired guy in his fifties — extended a hand.

  Booth shook it, introducing himself and Brennan.

  “Glad to have you, Doctor,” Trucks said to Brennan, shaking her hand as well. “We haven’t had a murder in seven or eight months… and we never had anything like this.”

  “Where are you,” Brennan asked, “with checking the graves themselves?”

  Trucks pointed toward the nearby cemetery. “That’s Mary Newman in there — she’s from the local library association. They’ve taken on the history of the cemetery as a pet project, so I called her in. She’ll know if anything’s been disturbed.”

  While they waited for Ms. Newman to finish her survey, Booth watched Brennan studying the skeleton in the moonlight.

  After a short time, she turned to the deputy.

  “Bobby? May I borrow your flashlight?”

  Bobby glanced at his boss; the sheriff nodded.

  The young deputy handed over the light and Brennan ran the beam slowly up and down the limbs of the skeleton.

  The other onlookers seemed as fascinated as Booth as they watched her work the beam over the skull, the ribs, then the spine, and, finally, the legs clear down to the feet…

  … where there appeared to be another note bound to the toes.

  Turning to the sheriff, she asked, “Have you photographed this site?”

  Trucks nodded. “But I don’t think we should be touching any of it until the crime scene people get here.”

  That, Booth knew, was the wrong thing to say to Brennan, drugged or not.

  “Thank you for the advice, Sheriff,” she said, artificially polite. “My advice to you, had I had the opportunity to offer it earlier, would’ve been not to have all these people tromping around a crime scene. I didn’t plan on touching anything — I was merely requesting information.”

  She’s baaaack, Booth thought, and almost smiled.

  The sheriff, who looked like he’d been slapped, struggled for a response.

  Before this could escalate into an argument, Booth’s local boss, Dillon, stepped in, but his words were addressed to neither the sheriff nor Brennan.

  “Ms. Newman,” he said, “what did you find?”

  Booth looked up to see a woman leaning on the fence near the gate. Tall, thin, with a sharp chin and a straight nose that propped up wire-frame glasses, white hair flying out from under a Cubs baseball cap, the chipper Ms. Newman wore a Cubs windbreaker and jeans.

  Booth couldn’t see the woman’s eyes in the darkness, but she seemed to be smiling.

  “Everything’s all right,” she announced with obvious relief, as if a skeleton wasn’t tethered to the fence barely two feet from her. “Not a single grave has been tampered with.”

  “Mary, you’re sure?” Trucks asked.
/>   “Gregory, why would you even ask?” She tried to respond with grace, but the irritation was evident. “You know this place has been my life for the last ten years.”

  “Sorry, Mary,” Trucks said, suitably cowed. The beefy guy was not doing well with the “weaker” sex tonight.

  Five minutes later the Chicago PD crime scene unit finally showed up and started working the scene. The parking lot had been disturbed by ten or so city, county, state, and federal cars since the perp had made his delivery, but a couple CSUs stayed behind to work the lot anyway.

  This assumed, of course, that the perp had arrived by car and hiked in as they had. Airlifting was probably the only other way, and no one in their right mind would skydive with an extra skeleton lashed to his or her back.

  Not that leaving reassembled skeletons around Chicago indicated a right mind….

  Booth noticed Brennan shining the flashlight on the skeleton again.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Aiming the beam at the midsection of the skeleton, Brennan said, “Look at this. What do you see?”

  Booth stepped closer. “Bones, I see bones.”

  “Cute,” she said. “But don’t just take in the surface — look closer.”

  He tried, but gave up. “I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for…”

  “Try here,” she said, pointing to where the clavicle met the sternum just above the ribs.

  “Yeaaaaah,” he said, still not getting it.

  “Do you see the dirt spots on the ribs?”

  “That I do see. Why?”

  “Where are they on the clavicle?”

  She shined the light on the collarbone and he searched for any kind of smudge but saw nothing.

  “There isn’t any dirt on the clavicle,” he said. “Okay. What’s that mean?”

  “This bone… this particular bone… has never been buried… and judging from the color? It was defleshed artificially.”

  He repeated, not quite sure it was English: “Artificially defleshed…?”

  “Yes. Sometimes, in the lab, if we have a partial body and we want to study just the bones, we will deflesh the bone by soaking the remains in enzyme-activated detergent and water.”

  “And I thought my job had its gross moments,” Booth said.

  “It’s just science, Booth. What if defleshing bones meant the difference between finding a murderer and not?”