Bones: Buried Deep

7

The map in the glove compartment led Temperance Brennan to Oak Brook, a suburb of high-end stores, businesses, and nine thousand or so citizens.

As she rolled along the road around a ritzy open-air mall, she saw what she was looking for.

Just beyond a Cheesecake Factory loomed a formidable freestanding one-story structure with white stucco walls and an orange tile roof, all meant to put the visitor in mind of the sunny shores of Sicily.

The sign on the front said SIRACUSA.

Famished suddenly — and for some strange reason, just dying for Italian — Brennan pulled into the lot and found a spot for Booth’s Crown Victoria.

Even for someone who worked out as regularly as Brennan, opening the restaurant’s darkwood door with the wrought-iron handle was like lifting the heavy weights. This conveyed an old-fashioned, the man-gets-the-door mentality that suited the Old World design of the exterior.

Within, that same theme — and vibe — pertained, dark wood and dark support beams and dark-cushioned booths and just plain darkness, with pools of light provided not so much from electricity but the de rigueur red-and-white-checker tablecloths with their red-glass candleholders. The dining room was mostly full, the dinner crowd brisk — a fairly even mix of couples and families.

A partitioned-off bar area to the left seemed largely illuminated by a pair of flat-screen plasmas high behind the counter with the same baseball game playing in silence. The changing lights of the TVs gave the bar an eerie, almost underwater glow.

Frank Sinatra was singing “The Best Is Yet to Come,” a little loud for background music, as if the Chairman of the Board (deceased or not) demanded attention.

The attractive, thirty-something hostess — a tall brunette in a crisp white shirt with a tux tie and a black skirt — stood at a low-slung narrow lectern with a seating chart and a reservation book in front of her.

The woman had a ready, if brittle, smile.

“Good evening,” the hostess said. “I’m Julia — how many tonight?”

“Just one. Nonsmoking, please.”

“Did you have a reservation?”

Brennan shook her head.

Julia swiftly scanned her book, then said, “It’ll be a short time before a table is available. You can wait in the bar, if you’d like. Your name?”

“Brennan.”

The hostess wrote in her book.

“Julia, maybe you can help me. I heard a friend of a friend works here — Lisa Vitto? Is she on tonight?”

The hostess’s smile remained but her eyes tightened. “Friend of a friend? Ms. Brennan, are you by any chance police?”

“No,” Brennan said, and affected shock and confusion. “I’m an anthropologist, if it matters.”

Julia didn’t know what to say to that; her eyes cut to the bar, then returned to Brennan.

“Lisa’s a bartender?” Brennan asked.

With a little shrug, Julia said, “You didn’t hear it from me. I’ll go check on your table now.”

As the hostess disappeared into the dining room, Brennan went the other way into the small bar.

A couple sat at one of the dark tables off to the left while two or three middle-aged guys sat at the bar smoking cigarettes, nursing drinks, and watching the ball game joylessly.

The bartender was helped out by a single server, a haggard brunette in her late thirties wearing a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks; she seemed surrounded by the bar as if life had provided her no way to get out.

Brennan selected one of the tall stools, sitting as far away from the smokers and the couple at the table as she could get.

Down the nearby wall hung framed photographs at various levels — the same two men, perhaps the owners, sometimes both, sometimes singly, were in almost every shot, shaking hands or getting kissed or hugged by presumed celebrities whose grinning faces Brennan mostly didn’t recognize.

Slowly, the bartender, who was almost beautiful, worked her way down to Brennan.

The woman had a heart-shaped face with large dark mascara-heavy eyes and a full red-lipsticked mouth; she might have been anywhere from her late twenties to early forties. A few gray streaks highlighted her hair, whether provided by otherwise ineffectual years or the beauty shop, Brennan couldn’t say.

She smiled, not at all brittle. “Long day?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I’m gonna guess wine.”

“Not your first night back there,” Brennan said with her own smile. “Chardonnay, please.”

“I coulda guessed that, too,” the bartender said, and lifted a glass from a shelf behind her before going over to pick out a bottle of wine.

She pulled the cork, poured, and brought the brimming glass down to Brennan. “There you go, sweetie.”

The word brought Brennan’s friend Angie to mind, and she immediately felt warmth toward this woman. An illogical response, but after two days digging out skeletons, Brennan would allow herself that.

Putting a twenty on the counter, Brennan kept a finger on it until the bartender tugged on it, then looked at her, still smiling but curious.

“I’ll, uh, bring you your change…”

Brennan said, “I’m not looking for change.”

“What are you looking for, honey?”

“Lisa Vitto…. Isn’t that you?”

The woman’s eyes flickered around the bar before returning to Brennan’s.

“I can use the twenty,” she admitted, in a whisper, “but not the grief. So I will bring you your change, you don’t mind.”

“Your choice.”

When she delivered the change, the bartender said, still whispering, “A female cop, this time? What’s the idea coming around the restaurant?”

“I’m not a cop. I’m just hungry. And thirsty.” She sipped the wine, but kept her eyes on the bartender.

“My name is Temperance Brennan — I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“Well, uh… I guess somebody has to be. Whatever that is.”

“I’m a scientist. I study bones. I work at a museum, in DC.” She shrugged lightly. “So, you know, sometimes I help out the government…?”

The bartender turned, went down to the other end of the bar, gave the game guys some fresh beers, then slowly, seeming to think about it as she wiped the bar, made her way back to Brennan.

“So, then, sometimes you study bones for the FBI,” she said, the whisper hoarse and throaty. A guy would have found it sexy; Brennan read it as desperate.

She sipped wine. “On occasion.”

“You want to ask about Stewart.”

It was not a question.

And “Stewart” was her boyfriend, Stewart Musetti, Booth’s missing, presumably abducted witness.

“Yes, Lisa, I would.”

She shook her head and dark hairsprayed-shellacked locks bounced, or tried to. “Listen, Ms. Brennan — God knows I’d like to help find Stewart. But I told the FBI everything I know.”

“You’re sure.”

Lisa Vitto nodded. “And you do know where you are? Who owns this place?”

The Gianellis.

Brennan ignored the question, asking her own: “Do you love him?”

Tears welled in the bartender’s eyes and she wiped them away with a napkin she picked up from the edge of the bar; the industrial-strength eye makeup was unaffected. “Yes. I do. But you make it sound like he’s alive.”

“He might be.”

Her eyes were tearing again and she was shaking her head. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

“Lisa, did you tell the FBI guys that you love Stewart?”

“No.”

Casually, she asked, “What else didn’t you tell them?”

The glittering eyes tightened. “Honestly, I don’t know. I suppose there are things they didn’t ask about, but… I can’t think of a goddamn thing. I mean it.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

Lisa glanced around the bar again. “Look — I got a couple ideas on that score, but they aren’t about where he is.”

“I don’t follow.”

“They’re about where his body would be.”

“Oh. How about sharing one of those ideas?”

Behind the moisture, the eyes were hard. “I think they gave my guy a ride on the ol’ Dunes Express.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Brennan said.

“You don’t want to know, honey. They killed him, and they buried him. Deep.”

“They? You mean the father and son who own this place?”

Lisa just stared at her.

“You think they’re behind the death of the man you love, and yet you still work here.”

Nodding, Lisa said, “Stewart stood up to them, and look what that got him. He was brave, I’m not…. By staying on here, I show them where I stand.”

“That you stand with them, you mean? Not Stewart?”

“That’s right, because, honey? Stewart isn’t standing at all right now. He’s lyin’ down… and he ain’t never ever gonna get up again, much less get back at these boys.”

If I can find where he’s buried, Brennan thought, he might….

“Thank you, Lisa,” Brennan said, and she handed the woman a business card with the name and number of her hotel on the back. “If you think of anything, give me a call.”

Lisa arched an eyebrow. “If I do, it won’t be from here.”

But the bartender took the card, slipped it up her sleeve and moved down the bar without another word.

Brennan turned and found a man standing behind her.

“Oh!” she said. “You scared me.”

His voice was smooth and resonant. “Didn’t mean to. My apologies.”

Tall, with dark hair that stood up slightly in the front, the man wore a dark, beautifully tailored suit over a white shirt and geometric-pattern tie, along with dark Italian loafers and a smile that probably made some females swoon but which Brennan found smarmy.

“Are you Ms. Brennan?” he asked.

His voice was smooth as brandy, but about as sincere as twist-cap wine.

“I am,” she said.

“Your table is ready,” he said, turning to lead her, but then stopped and turned toward her again. “You aren’t — Temperance Brennan, are you? The writer?”

“Actually, I’m Temperance Brennan the anthropologist. But I have done some writing.”

“I should say! A bestseller is some writing all right….”

He extended a hand and she had no choice but to shake it.

“Vincent Gianelli,” he said, gesturing to himself. “One of the owners of the place.”

She had already suspected as much, yet she still fought the urge to snatch her hand back.

“Well,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m in town consulting and one of the guidebooks said Siracusa was the best Italian food in the suburbs.”

The handshaking stopped finally. She resisted the urge to count her fingers.

“I like to think best Italian in Chicago,” he said, and flashed that white smile. “Listen, I’m a big fan — loved your book. Your money’s no good here, Ms. Brennan.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, Mr. Gianelli.”

He held up a stop palm. “It won’t be free — it will cost you….” He turned to the bartender. “Lisa! Getthe camera!”

“Oh… no….”

“Now don’t be shy.” He took her hand again, and she let him, squirming inside. “We’re very proud of our Wall of Fame.”

“I noticed. So many celebrities….”

She didn’t mention that she hadn’t recognized many of them.

“We get all kinds of famous people in here,” he said. “My dad knew Frank and Dino, y’know.”

Well, even she knew who they were….

“Of course,” Gianelli was saying, “I was just a kid then… but in the years since? Belushi, Aykroyd, anybody who’s anybody in Chicago has eaten at Siracusa and become a member of the Wall of Fame.”

“Well, that is impressive,” she said, and tried to make her smile convey that lie.

“Ditka, Walter Payton, Jordan, Sammy Sosa, you name ’em, they’ve broke bread here. Even writers like Bill Braschler, Eleanor Taylor Brand… and now you.”

She swung her head toward the photos to make a show of studying them, even though rarely recognizing any but the most famous on the wall… until she saw one photo in the corner, in the shadows.

The photo depicted a balding middle-aged man shaking hands with a much younger Vincent Gianelli.

She recognized the balding man to be John Wayne Gacy.

One of America’s most notorious serial killers might have been more appropriately displayed on a Wall of Shame… but for some sick reason, there that notorious killer was, grinning like a demented clown.

“Ms. Brennan…. Are you all right?”

“That’s… that’s you shaking hands with John Wayne Gacy, isn’t it?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, I know, not the best of taste, huh? My dad feels the same way — the old boy takes it down, but I put it back up, then he takes it down, and I… It’s almost a running joke between us.”

Hilarious, she thought.

“See, the guy, Gacy?” Vincent was saying. “Was real respectable. I had my picture taken with him when he was a Chamber of Commerce president or somethin’ — Nancy Reagan or Jimmy Carter’s wife or somebody, they did the same thing, I think.”

“So it’s up just as an… oddity? A conversation piece?”

He grinned that hideously handsome smile. “It’s workin’, isn’t it? Aren’t we conversing?”

Vincent pointed to a picture near the bar, showing him in casual clothes, squatting next to a big tan dog.

“Now, that’s my favorite,” Gianelli said. “That’s me with Luca, my Neapolitan mastiff.”

Brennan nodded approval. How could you abhor an alleged killer who loved dogs?

Wasn’t that hard, actually.

Coming up behind them, Lisa said, “Got the camera ready, Vince.”

Turning at the sound of the woman’s voice, Brennan found herself standing with Vincent Gianelli, his arm around her and shaking her hand.

She thought, You know what would make an interesting picture?

And into her mind came the mini-movie of her grabbing Vincent in a wristlock, dropping him to his knees, then crushing his larynx with a martial arts chop….

Of course, in what she laughingly thought of as real life, that might not be the most socially acceptable way for a writer-headed-to-the-Siracusa-Wall-of-Fame to behave herself.

Still, though being this close to Booth’s gangster nemesis made her skin literally crawl, she also noticed that her host’s expensive cologne wasn’t half bad.

What the hell.

She stood stiffly beside him, shaking hands, as Lisa snapped the photo.

The flash blinded Brennan and she saw multicolored spots behind her eyelids. The feeling was just dissipating when she opened her eyes and the flash went off a second time. Again, the colored spots exploded in her vision.

She could barely see Lisa and the camera fading back toward the bar, though she thought she caught the bartender’s smile, which was strained.

“Thank you so much for this,” Gianelli said, slipping his arm from her shoulder, but squeezing her hand even harder. “I loved your book so much — great read. Let me show you to your table.”

Brennan followed along, her vision slowly clearing, her mind still a little blurred.

“You’ve been really terrific,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Glad you like the book.”

“Oh, I love that kind of stuff — I wore out my copy of Silence of the Lambs.”

“Really.”

He looked back at her, his dark eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “Yeah, but even before that, from when I was a kid? Always had this fascination with mysteries and crime and horror.”

He paused and she almost ran into him as he glanced back to share a whispered secret.

“Especially serial killers,” Vincent said.

“No wonder you liked my book,” Brennan said, doing something with her mouth that was almost like smiling.

Vincent gave her a real, strangely disarming smile. For a reportedly sociopathic gangster he had a certain charm of sorts.

At a small table by a window onto the parking lot, her host withdrew a chair for her and she took a seat.

But he did not go — he hovered, leaning a hand against an empty chair beside her, as if hoping she would invite him to join her.

“So,” he said, “I suppose you’ve heard these stupid rumors about my family.”

“Rumors?”

He shrugged. “The usual stereotypes — as if every Italian in Chicago is Al Capone.”

She decided to pander. “My understanding is that most of the organized crime in this city is in the hands of street gangs, grown older and more savvy.”

She was practically quoting a Chicago Tribune article she’d read the other day.

But Vincent took the remark at face value. “Exactly! You want to hear something interesting?”

“Sure.”

“No one in my family… no one… has ever done time or even been convicted of a felony.”

Brennan blinked. “… Well. How many families can say that?”

“Right! What are you working on in Chicago? Is it for the FBI or research for a new book?”

She tried to smile again but it felt like a wince; she wondered what it looked like.

“You’ve been so gracious,” she said, “and I don’t mean to be rude… but, really, that’s something I can’t talk about.”

Vincent patted the air. “It’s okay, it’s okay… business is business. I understand. The feds get nutzoid about leaks.”

“…Thanks for not pressing.”

“No problem.” Then he leaned in. “But tell me — is it this serial killer thing? The bones at the Biograph?”

Somehow Brennan willed her mouth not to drop open.

She had thought that no one outside of the Booth/Brennan circle knew about the case; but once the Chicago police were in on it, she should have known nothing would remain secret. Too many people were involved for it to stay quiet.

At least the media didn’t seem to have it yet.

But Vincent Gianelli did.

“You don’t have to answer,” Vincent said. “I just figured, with your background? You’d be in on that.”

A waiter approached, short, in his early twenties, with swept-back black hair. Like the rest of the wait staff and Lisa the bartender, he wore a white tuxedo shirt, black bow tie, and black slacks.

“This is Hector,” Vincent said. “He’s our best. He’ll be your server.”

The young, Hispanic-looking waiter smiled and placed Brennan’s glass of wine from the bar on the table. The glass had been refilled.

Despite all this hospitality, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask Vincent to join her — she really didn’t feel she had the interrogative skills to pump the man about the missing Musetti without giving herself away.

Besides, Vincent was taking his leave, finally.

“I really do love your writing,” he said. “It’s so true to life…. If you need anything while you’re in thearea, don’t hesitate to call.”

Brennan nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Gianelli.”

“Vincent. Please. Make it Vincent.”

“Thank you, Vincent.”

“You’re very welcome, Temperance.”

As he turned and strode away, Vincent Gianelli seemed very pleased with himself.

Brennan couldn’t tell if the mobbed-up restaurateur really was a big fan, or if he was pumping her for information. He seemed to know what was going on in this city even before the media, so the fact that she was working on a case with Booth might well have been known to him.

On the other hand, she wasn’t working on the Gianelli/Musetti case against his family, so what was Brennan to him?

Hector handed her a menu.

“I’ll give you a minute to make your selection,” Hector said, and disappeared.

When the waiter returned, Brennan made her choice, then nursed the second glass of wine until her food arrived. She ate quickly, and really enjoyed the meal — gangsters or not, the Gianellis knew how to run a restaurant.

As the waiter refilled her cup for a final after-dinner coffee, Brennan asked for the bill.

“On the house,” Hector said.

“No, I could never…”

Hector waved a hand. “Mr. Gianelli said you would say that. He said to tell you this is standard procedure for celebrities who join our Wall of Fame.”

“And did he tell you I would very likely insist on paying no matter what you or he said?”

With a sideways smile, Hector said, “Yes, he did — pretty much word for word.”

Brennan assumed she was supposed to find that charming; she did not.

“Hector, please get me the check.”

The waiter shook his head. “Normally at Siracusa, the customer is always right; but I learned a long time ago that here? Mr. Gianelli’s wishes are my wishes.”

“Hec-tor….”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brennan — I don’t have it.”

“Then get me Mr. Gianelli.”

“I can’t, ma’am. He’s left for the evening.”

Nonetheless, Brennan tossed two twenties on the table. Perhaps Hector would end up with a hell of a tip, but Brennan could not allow herself to be comped for dinner by the likes of Vincent Gianelli.

She sat in the car, cooling down as she read the map by the light on the ceiling, and picked a route back to the hotel.

As her fingers touched the ignition key, Brennan thought about everything she knew about the mob, the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra; she read mostly nonfiction and had taken in her share of true crime.

But she also thought about The Godfather, one of the handful of movies she’d bothered to see in her life.

Remembering the scene where Michael’s Italian wife got blown up when she started a car, Brennan felt a momentary chill.

Then she smiled at herself in her rearview mirror, and mouthed, “Silly.”

Anyway, she wasn’t working on anything mob-related, though, was she? That was Booth’s domain.

She had tried to help him out a little by talking to Musetti’s girlfriend (though he’d be irritated with her for that). And — just as Booth had told her it would — that had pretty much been a fool’s errand.

She turned the key and the Crown Vic roared to life, and she said to herself in the mirror, “See — we didn’t blow up.”

She swung out of the parking lot, drove a block, got on the expressway, and headed east.

The night was dark but cloudless, with lots of stars and a very white half-moon. Obeying the speed limit, Brennan drove along, enjoying the solitude and freedom.

Although she worked with a good-sized staff at the Jeffersonian, Brennan was basically a loner, and the last few days she had found herself surrounded by other people at every turn.

It felt good just to be alone for a while.

Every now and then a car would pass her, but for this time of night, traffic was scant. When the white SUV pulled up behind her, Brennan noticed but paid little attention. She assumed it would pass her soon enough.

It didn’t.

After a mile or so, she began to get anxious, and was reaching for her cell phone to call Booth when, finally, the SUV pulled around her and passed.

She shook her head and sighed.

This whole thing was starting to get to her.

Two days of excavating the victims of a decades-busy serial killer, then “relaxing” by hanging out with a slick, sick gangster at his restaurant… well. No wonder she was exhausted, physically and mentally.

She knew all she needed was a good night’s sleep. But she’d wait till she was in bed at the hotel, and not behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, before getting started….

The rest of the trip was uneventful and she turned the car into the hotel garage, grateful the end of this long day was finally in sight. She had found her way home all by herself, which would have no doubt wounded Booth’s pride, and was now ready to take a shower and get to bed.

She pulled the Crown Vic into a parking spot in the hotel’s parking ramp, got out, and locked the vehicle with the remote on her keys.

Trudging up the level to the elevator at the far end, her purse swung over her shoulder, she passed parked cars on either side of the aisle. As she neared the end, she glimpsed a white SUV.

She stopped and stared at it, fighting the urge to go look in the windows.

Sure, it reminded her of the one that had spooked her on the freeway; but white SUVs were hardly uncommon….

Brennan was walking past the rear of the vehicle when the back door flew open.

Instinctively she threw up her arms, which kept the door from hitting her in the face, but it came at her with such force, she was knocked off balance anyway, and almost went down, staggering back. Her purse flew off her shoulder, skidding under a car behind her.

Three figures in black, each wearing a stocking-cap mask, piled out of the vehicle, coming toward her.

She reacted, kicking one in the chest, but the effort wobbled her farther, and the other two got to her, one on either side.

The first blow, a fist, caught her hard but missed her kidney.

She felt the air rush out as she dropped, and tried to roll, hoping to get some space so she could fight back; but the second guy kicked her in the side of her head, sending bells, sirens, and whistles blaring in her brain.

Her vision blurred as she felt another fist dig into her stomach. The first guy was up now and they had her triangulated. The kicking started again and Brennan made herself as small a target as possible, the blows coming one after the other.

Consciousness fluttered like a dying bird, and Brennan knew she either had to act…

…or die.

She lashed out with her foot, and swept one attacker off his feet.

As he crashed to the concrete, the others hesitated.

That was the moment she needed.

She drove her fist into the nearest crotch. As the assailant screamed, another one grabbed her head. He was about to drive it into the cement, when she brought her hand up and smashed it into his nose.

The guy released her as he gurgled in pain and stumbled backward.

Every bone in her body hurt, but she struggled to her feet.

But the others were up too.

One pulled an automatic, and as the other two jumped into the SUV, he leveled the pistol at Brennan.

She dove behind a car as he emptied the clip, windows spiderwebbing, metal doors and fenders puckering, one shot ricocheting off the cement, a piece of concrete or bullet nicking her leg.

She looked under the car, trying to see if her attacker was coming at her; but what she saw was her purse.

Grabbing it and dragging it to her, she tore through the contents.

All she came up with was a small, voice-activated mini-cassette player.

Hearing the SUV start, she rose. The vehicle backed out of the parking place, the third guy barely getting in as the driver stomped on the gas and the truck hurtled out of the ramp.

She fired the mini-cassette player at the retreating vehicle, heard the thing thwack into the back window of the SUV.

Then the vehicle was gone, and her attackers with it. Unsteady on her feet, struggling to hold on to that fine Italian meal, Brennan fished out her phone and speed-dialed Booth’s number, then slumped to the concrete.

In the distance, sirens spoke, and she figured the gunshots had spurred someone to call 911.

“Booth,” he said, after the second ring.

“Jumped me,” she managed.

“What? Who? Temperance?… Are you all right?”

She didn’t have the strength to answer.

“Where are you? Temperance!”

“Hotel,” she managed. “Ramp…”

Then everything went black.

Brennan was loath to open her eyes.

If her head hurt this much with her eyes closed, what the hell would open feel like?

She didn’t care to find out.

She lay there, doing an inventory of what hurt and what did not.

The “did not” list took considerably less time, involving as it did her toenails, one earlobe, and about one square inch of the area between.

What had happened in the hotel parking garage played through her memory like a sped-up movie; and she knew then that she would have to open her eyes to discover who had found her — the good guys, or the returning bad guys in the SUV….

Opening them a fraction at a time, Brennan finally got her lids parted enough to allow vision; and, much to her surprise, the pain in her head dissipated.

Slightly.

Brennan eased her head to the right and saw a hospital monitor. The numbers showed her blood pressure, normal, and her heart rate, also normal.

Well, at least something in her life was normal.

The pain in her head erupted again, and she had to close her eyes for several long moments before it subsided.

When she opened them again, the pain was not as severe. She continued her visual survey, content that she was in a hospital, which meant the authorities had been the ones to locate her.

The next thing she saw was a big window with the blinds drawn.

Adjusting her near vision, she took stock of a needle in her right arm and followed the line to a pair of clear plastic bags hanging from a stainless-steel pole. One was saline, the doctors keeping her fluids up, the other a painkiller.

Great.

If it hurt this much while she was on an IV painkiller, what was cold turkey going to feel like?

With considerable effort, Brennan swung her head to the left, seeing a TV mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. She panned to a dresser on the wall to her left; and beyond that, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking chair, snoring quietly, sprawled Seeley Booth.

Covered with a white hospital blanket thinner than Bill Jorgensen’s alibi.

And for a moment or two, she didn’t hurt at all.

A voice from the doorway said, “Look who’s back among the living.”

Brennan turned to see a slender woman in white slacks and a flowered smock.

“I’m Nurse Oakley,” the woman said, striding in. “But you can call me Betty.”

Looking back to the chair, Brennan saw Booth stirring as the nurse came in and took her pulse.

“How are we feeling?” the nurse asked.

“We are feeling like three guys kicked the hell out of us,” Brennan said.

The nurse nodded. “That sounds about right. Pulse is fine — sense of humor, too…. I’ll tell Dr. Keller you’re awake. He’ll be in shortly.”

The nurse flicked a smile and was gone.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Booth sat up.

“How long have I been out?” Brennan asked.

Booth checked his watch. “Just about twenty-four hours.”

Her tongue felt thick. “I’m thirsty.”

Booth went to a small bedside table and picked up a plastic cup with a lid and a straw. He held it as she gulped, the icy water tasting wonderful.

“Care to share what happened?” Booth asked.

She told him about her reception in the garage.

“Three bastards?” he asked.

She nodded. “Is that an official FBI designation for assailants, Booth? ‘Bastards’?”

“Why, how would an anthropologist put it?”

She thought. “Bastards will do.”

“Any sort of description?”

Shaking her head, and wishing she hadn’t, Brennan said, “Three men wearing stocking-cap masks — all dressed in black. About average height, one a little heavier than the other two, but… that’s about it.”

She was irked that someone whose expertise was bones — who understood posture, stature, kinesiology — could not provide a more detailed description of her attackers.

The bastards, yes bastards, had gotten on her so damn fast that her only thought had been survival.

Booth was asking, “The SUV?”

She searched her memory, fuzzy with drugs. “White.”

“Did you get the make, model?”

More searching. “No. Sorry. General Motors, maybe?”

“Plate number?”

“Nope.”

“Bumper stickers?”

“No, but I did hit the back window with my mini-cassette player.”

Booth frowned. “Cassette player?”

“I threw it at them — you know, that little mini thing I use to record interviews and so on.” She shrugged and it hurt. “That was all I had.”

He was still frowning. “Wasn’t a cassette player at the scene.”

“Somebody probably picked it up,” Brennan said. “Some bystander, ’cause the bad guys were gone…. Spoils of war.” She had a sudden thought. “What about my purse?”

Booth shook his head. “Sorry. Not at the scene, either.”

“Shit,” she said.

“Anybody could have picked it up — a good five or six minutes between when you called me and the cops arrived.”

Shit shit shit.

Her purse, her money (what there was of it), her credit cards, dammit, all her ID, gone now.

“My cell phone?”

He nodded and got something out of his pocket.

Her phone.

“This you still have,” he said. “Was in your hand.”

“Security video?” Brennan asked.

“Yeah,” Booth said, “but not much on it — white SUV, picture’s crap, couldn’t even tell the make and model, let alone catch the license number.”

Brennan felt empty inside.

Booth said, “Tell me where you were from the time you left me.”

“…Promise you won’t be mad?”

“No,” he said.

She began—

“Siracusa?” he fumed.

She shrugged, and again it hurt. “I had to eat.”

His eyes and nostrils flared. “You—”

“I thought I would lend you a hand.”

“Did I ask you to?”

“No,” she said, defensive. “But you said Lisa Vitto hadn’t been interviewed by a policewoman, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“With your people skills?”

She almost said, Look who’s talking.

But she knew he was right.

Lamely she managed, “Sorry.”

“And did Lisa Vitto tell you anything she didn’t tell me?”

“Just that she loved Stewart Musetti.”

“She didn’t have to,” Booth said. “It was obvious she loves him.”

“I said ‘loved.’ It was more past tense. She’s convinced he’s dead.”

Booth said nothing.

Brennan thought about it a moment and said, “You know how you always say I don’t get out enough?”

“What, we’re changing the topic to the obvious now?”

She ignored that and said, “You continually make fun of me not understanding or knowing about any pop culture references….”

“Of course.”

“Well, Lisa mentioned that she thought ‘they’ — I assume she meant the Gianellis — put her guy Stewart on the ‘Dunes Express.’ ”

Booth shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No. I don’t know what the hell that means.”

She sighed, and the IV must have kicked in, because it didn’t hurt at all. “Well, at least it’s not just me this time.”

“One good thing,” Booth said. “This narrows the list of suspects who attacked you.”

“How?”

“Had to be the Gianellis. Their crew. I mean, Vincent saw you talking to Lisa.”

She frowned at him. “But you talked to Lisa, didn’t you? He didn’t come after you.”

“They tend not to frontally assault FBI or cops. You’re sort of a civilian.”

“But why would he come over and talk about being a big fan and… what’s the word? Shmoo with me?”

“Shmooze.”

“Why would he do that, and then send his boys after me?”

Booth shrugged. “Maybe he was stalling you while some underling rounded up the goon squad and piled them into a white SUV.”

“…Couldn’t it have been a simple mugging?”

“Doubtful.”

“Does Jorgensen have any known associates?”

“Are you kidding?” Booth said. “Elderly serial killers don’t usually have crews of strong-arms on call.”

“But he is an elderly serial killer who preys on much younger men, then buries them…. He could have had help.”

“Bones, he almost took out the three of us by himself!”

Brennan said, “Given… but who would consider me a threat? Gianelli, whose case I’m not working? Or Jorgensen, whose basement I’d been excavating for the last two days?”

He was shaking his head again. “Serial killers have been known to work in pairs — but in fours?”

A very tall, very young man in a lab coat and tan Dockers strolled in carrying a chart in front of him like a schoolbook. He wore wire-frame glasses and his hair was straight and dark.

Cheerfully professional, he asked, “And how are we feeling today, Dr. Brennan?”

With that baby face, he looked to be barely out of his teens, much less medical school.

“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.