Strappado a fic by Niah - NOW POSTED!!!!!!!!!!!! 8/7/08

*pulls the oversized hood of her oversized sweater over her head, takes a deep breath and sneaks into the Fanfiction section of the fabulous ABY* Here goes...

In honour of the One Year Anniversary of the ABY, I have decided to pop up and FINALLY post chapter 3 of what appears to be my last try at fanfiction. Okay, and to be honest this is pretty much the first Thursday in over three weeks that I am not under the influence of heavy pain killers... Yeah, Niah luck struck again. I was in yet another car accident. But hush, don't make a fuss about it. I'm still alive and kicking, well sort of... Does kicking the Xerox machine at work count?

And thank you Mob, for caring enough to chase me. LOL

Author's note: (tiptoes in and carefully places a big flashing WARNING - BEWARE OF DARKNESS sign in front of the reader) There, that should be clear enough.

As always, major thank you to Faux Maven. I am giving credit where credit is due. Half of the explanation of this chapter title I owe to her. Thanks to her clear and precise observations, I did some research and turned a so-and-so first draft into what it is now. Like you said, Faux Maven, a bit of shake and bake can do wonders sometimes! And I couldn't have pulled it off without you. But you know that, right?

The Cat's Paw or Spanish Tickler is, as its second name hints, one of the most fun toys of the Spanish Inquisition. Just like a real cat's paw it has four nails. Well, four long bent spikes really. They are basically an extension of the torturer's hand. Some Cat's Paws are attached to a pole so the torturer can use it from a distance; torturers who prefer a more personal touch hold only the paw itself. The Cat's Paw is used to tear away the flesh of the victim. If you have the misfortune of being submitted to the Spanish Tickler torture, first you are stripped naked, then the flesh from your limbs is scraped away. Because of the shape and size of the Cat's Paw, neither bones nor muscles are spared. After your limbs have been torn apart, they move up your back and torso and eventually scratch your face away. It is a most gruesome torture method, I must admit.

(Un)Fortunately there are two other meanings which are far less cruel (1) the Cat's Paw is a light breeze that ruffles the surface of the water in irregular patches during a calm and (2) another meaning is known from the fable of the monkey that used a cat's paw to draw chestnuts from the fire. It is used by the monkey as a tool to obtain what he wants.

In chapter three, our Madman goes after another member of the Squint Squad. The one he chases fights back like a cat, hence the chapter title, and eventually...Well, you'll just have to read and find out. ;-) The other meanings of the Cat's Paw fit as well. It's after John's shooting, after Booth has discovered the sniper rifle. What happens now is disturbance ruffling the surface of Brennan's and her friend's lives. And of course, since Madman goes after another squint, he uses his victim as a tool for his plan.

Thursday November 15 - Rockville, Maryland - 22:37

So far time was on his side. The night was still very much dark and dreary--perfect for stage two. He'd strike them hard, her small select group of eccentric scientists. In less than twenty-five minutes from now he'd execute the next part of his plan. It would bring her to her knees. Then he'd disappear, but only for a short while. He'd vanish into thin air, would give Brennan time to get back on her feet, and would then return with a vengeance. His eyes flickered intensely dangerous and a low, satisfied grunt rumbled in the back of his throat. She would have been better off if she had been left chained to his basement wall. After he was done with her, she would wish that was the way it had gone.

He snorted as he thought back to the events of a little over an hour ago. Just like he had predicted, local police had come barging in minutes after he had pulled the trigger. From his first row seat on the sixth floor of the opposite building, he had witnessed a group of four officers invade her apartment and drag her away from John's corpse. His lips had been frozen into a cold and calculated smile ever since he had caught sight of the mask of appalling horror she had been wearing. Serves you right, Dr. Brennan, he had wanted to yell. Serves you fucking right for escaping your fate! But he had restrained himself. Shouting or even making the slightest sound would have betrayed his position. So he had been patient, like a spider lurking in the corner of his web waiting for a foolish fly. A bit before ten P.M., he had silently slipped out of the unoccupied apartment he had appropriated and even more silently had used the stairs to descend all six floors. Attracting attention by using the elevator was out of the question. Downstairs he had found the entrance doors unlocked. His smile had turned victorious as he thought I love it when a plan comes together. The doors were wide open inviting him to slip through and disappear into the night.

He had stayed, though, for ten more minutes. Hearing the excited murmurs of a bloodthirsty crowd had teased his senses. It had felt a bit like what the emperors of ancient Rome had done thousands of years ago. Give the people entertainment and they will worship you as if you were God himself. As he had stood there, reveling in the pain, misery and shock he had caused, an SUV he was familiar with thanks to his observations of Dr. Brennan, had pulled up. With avid interest he had seen her partner stare at the crowd gathered in front of her building. He hadn't stayed long enough to catch a glimpse of the horror her partner was bound to experience upon realizing it concerned his anthropologist, but he could easily visualize the agent's actions and facial expressions. I'll see you in a few, buddy, he had thought full of hatred as he had gotten into his car.

In just about half an hour he had traded downtown D.C. for wealthy Rockville, second biggest city of 'America in Miniature', officially known as Maryland. Rockville looked picture postcard perfect. Thanks to recent improvements every house looked neat and cozy, trees lined straight and tidy streets, and some areas were now pedestrians only. Because it was an hour to midnight, lamp posts threw warm glows on parked cars and on a lonely pedestrian making his way home. Five minutes ago he had passed Saint Mary's Church where the grave of F. Scott Fitzgerald was located. For a city this size, Rockville breathed out a remarkable feeling of welcome and homecoming. The corners of his mouth twitched. In about ten minutes time, the peaceful mood of this city would be ruined for a particular someone and would be forever associated with a horrid memory.

He chuckled as he drove on, confidently turning left and right until he reached Beall Avenue. There he took the second street on his right and ended up on Maryland Avenue where he steered his car to the curb and killed the engine. He would have to walk from here on because his destination, Town Square Plaza, was a pedestrian zone. Without uttering so much as a single word, he got out of his car and followed the sidewalk. With the Rockville library on his right, he moved down the street keeping a close eye on his surroundings.

As he turned the corner and crossed the plaza, he glanced over his shoulder at the three-storied building on his right hand-- the Metropolitan Center for the Visual Arts, VisArts in short. Recently built and opened only two months ago, VisArts was easy on the eyes with its clean, straight-cut architecture. On street level there was a contemporary craft shop, on the second floor three galleries could be found, and on the third floor...His lips twitched again. The third floor housed the teaching areas. There naked men stood proudly in front of classes of women, men chipped away with chisels and hammers on marble, and other people threw entire buckets of paint against a canvas or sang off key while they were up to their elbows in clay. Every Thursday evening she came, that long legged, dark haired vivacious woman with soft brown eyes and an infectious smile. Once a week she spent three full hours here, living out her wildest artistic dreams and absorbing new drawing techniques. Why she visited this particular art centre in Maryland while she had all the artistic freedom she needed in Washington D.C. he could never comprehend, but it made stage two of his plan all the easier.

A glance at his watch told him it was four minutes to eleven--only four more minutes to go until show time. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, adjusted his scarf covering his mouth and part of his nose, and pressed himself against the sturdy tree trunks of a small group of trees planted on the far left side of the plaza. The surprising yet delicious coldness seeping out of the bark took him back to the walls of his basement dripping with filthy water from sewers. In between a particularly coppery stream of fluids and a light greenish spot of mold spreading across the dull grey stones, he had chained her. It had been December, almost a full year ago. The air in his basement had been chillingly cold, near the freezing point. Every time someone talked or only opened their mouth, their breath turned into a cloud of hot mist evaporating and blending slowly with the frigid air filling the confined space. How beautiful she had looked, with her piercing blue eyes shooting daggers at him, as he had taunted her over and over again by dangling the keys in front of her nose while teasingly tracing her cheeks and jaw bones. Once she had nearly bitten his finger off, which had resulted in a nasty kick in the gut for her.

How tempting it had been to rip her clothes off and admire the way the cold made her nipples stand out. How awfully close he had come to raking his nails down her smooth skin and hearing her screams echo through his basement. He had loved seeing her jerk and fight against her restraints as he slapped her face from side to side hoping to see it turn all shades of the rainbow before his very eyes. Unfortunately he had never gotten a chance to finish his latest project. Before he could have gotten his tools out, the silent alarm he had installed had gone off. He had just fled his basement through a secret hatch when her partner had burst through the door, gun ready and his eyes full of murderous intent.

Well, there would be no heroic FBI-agent around now to save the damsel in distress. He'd take her innocence and he'd take it good. Since she liked art so much, he wondered how she'd feel about becoming a piece of art herself. With her arms sprawled out, one leg drawn up, and her head slightly rolled to the side as if drifting off to sleep--that's how he'd display her. He'd ravish her body, would leave bloody scratches all over her chest, arms and thighs. In the end, he would dip his fingers in the paint and Chinese ink she carried with her and smudge it all over her skin. She'd suffer--suffer beyond words--and her suffering would make her best friend suffer. He was determined to torment her friend badly enough to make Brennan howl out in pain.

His eyes flickered with anticipation when a group of eccentrically dressed people exited the art centre. They were the only group to leave at this time of night. It was as if fate was giving him a hand at this point. All other classes usually ended at 9 P.M., which would have interfered with his plan, but fortunately her class was an exception. It worked beautifully with how he wanted his plan to unfold.

He easily picked her out, because of her sparkling laugh and well-cut, expensive clothes. Within the next two minutes the group fell apart. Some people headed for the bus stop, others for the subway, which were both a block away. Four people made their way to the parking garages situated behind the ring of stores circling Town Square Plaza. The dark-haired beauty waved at them and started towards Gibbs Street where a fancy red sports car was waiting for her. Her rich fool of a boyfriend would be behind the wheel. He always parked just around the corner because he wanted to kiss her senseless right after she had gotten into the passenger seat. There had been an evening or two when they had stayed around the corner for more than twenty minutes, without a doubt fooling around. That was probably the reason why the car was always parked so far away from the exit. No-one wanted to be disturbed as things heated up. Foolish playing around usually made him sick. Where was the fun if you didn't make your partner writhe with pain? But tonight their childish games would work in his advantage. He'd steal her away right from under rich boy's nose.

Not bothering to withdraw in the shadows his tree provided, he tailed her with his eyes as she casually strolled down the plaza staying close to the arts centre. He glanced around the tree trunk to judge if her class mates were out of hearing range. Then he moved a bit to the side to measure the distance from where he was to the corner of the street. He was about halfway. And so was she apparently. During the minute he had needed to assure himself there were no spectators, she had moved away from VisArts and was nearing the fountain, about ten yards on his left. He nodded.

Perfect.

Without any warning he lunged forward, closed the short distance between them, hooked an arm around her waist, and covered her mouth with his hand to silence all shrieks. Ignoring her protests and avoiding the kicks she aimed at his shins, he dragged her to the group of trees where he had been hiding. He wanted to throw her down, but she was smart enough to hold on to his arm and hook her foot around his ankle, thereby forcing the both of them to the pavement. A disgruntled groan escaped him. He wasn't supposed to be lying on the ground too. Stupid little piece of shi... Moments later he gasped for air when her elbow plunged hard in his stomach. He cried out when she bit down on his hand still covering her mouth. Without bothering to look who he was, she rolled away and got up on her knees intending on making a run for it. That wasn't going to happen when he was around; there was no way he letting her escape!

He dove forward, right onto her back forcing her flat onto the cold and stony ground wetted by spray of the fountain. Now it was her turn to be out of air. Smelling a golden chance, he wiggled around a bit, until he was straddling her and had effectively locked his fingers around her wrists. He lifted himself up a bit leaning heavily on her lower body and hands. She kept perfectly still, probably afraid for her life. A sadistic grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. Now that he had her under control, he was going to play around a bit. He raised himself into a kneeling position with his knees boring down into the back of her knees and forcing her hands behind her back. Not a sound was heard except for the clear sparkling of the nearby fountain. He frowned and pulled some more on her arms--again no sound. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was meant to moan in pain when he roughly tugged at her wrists.

Still frowning because of her silence, he got up to his feet and dragged her up too. Her body uncoiled like a spring and before he was aware of what was happening, her fist came flying at his face with merciless speed. She punched his nose and drilled her stiletto heel into his foot. He jumped back in surprise and hurt. She turned and made a mad dash in the direction of Gibbs Street, but her attack hadn't discouraged him. With renewed vigor he went after her. He grabbed a handful of her curls and jerked her back--back to his tree, back to the fountain.

This time she couldn't help but make a sound. It wasn't the toe curling scream he had hoped for, but the pitiful whimpering she produced was enough as he pulled her back flush against his chest with an animalistic growl. He roughly and relentlessly roamed her chest, stomach and hips with raking fingers. She was frozen into place, barely breathing, until his hand disappeared under her short jacket, down the hem of her pants. He heard her cry of despair and sensed she was going to elbow him again, so he withdrew his hand and violently pushed her to the side. His shove sent her spinning around until she lost her balance and went down, roughly hitting her head on the stone side of the fountain. Stunned by of the impact, she could only raise herself onto her knees clutching the side of her head with a trembling hand. He smiled viciously. That was going to leave a nasty bruise.

Perfect.

She tried to get up again, but he was upon her before she succeeded. The sound of a slap faintly resembling the crack of a whip resounded over the plaza and mixed with the ever-cheery splashing of fountain water when he hit her across the face with the back of his hand. With a thud and more whimpering she hit the pavement and curled up on her side. He turned her onto her back and again ran his hand across her lovely features. The whimpering stopped to his dismay. She should have been begging for her life by now. A request which he wasn't going to grant, but she didn't know that. She just laid there, one hand cradling her side, the other one clutching her head, and her vision blurry as blood welled from a cut in her forehead and trickled into her eyes. For a minute he was tempted to beat her senseless, until she screamed out to have mercy. Instead he straddled her, ripped her jacket open and threw her scarf over her head. The beautiful noise of clothes being torn apart filled his ears. A maniacal laugh was stuck in his throat. How he was going to enjoy this! He was going to strip her naked, leave his marks all over her, was going to make her scream out, was going to do everything he had wanted to do to her dear friend Dr. Brennan.

He suddenly cried out when she freed one of her arms and buried her fist in his stomach. What happened next took less than a minute, but he would forever remember the stabs of pain and embarrassment. She lashed out dragging her nails down his face. She karate chopped his sides with her hands as if she was trying to snap him in half, her knee flew up hard enough to diminish his crotch to nothing for the rest of his life, and finally she put one stiletto boot on his chest and kicked him off. With a smothered growl he landed on his side. He didn't move or try to stand, stunned by the pangs of pain shooting up from where he was protectively holding his hands, as he watched her scramble to her feet and run towards Gibbs Street. She stumbled, grabbed her bag two feet on, and without another look disappeared around the corner.

It took forever for him to work himself up onto his knees. Blood poured down his face as he slowly stood up. He would have to hide or, better yet, make a run for it. Any minute now her angry boyfriend would come hurtling around the corner bent upon revenge. If he wanted to live, he'd have to leave immediately and be patient until he got another chance to get his hands on Dr. Brennan's pretty best friend. But first he fished a small package out of his pocket. With the utmost care he deposited it on the side of the fountain. If that bastard doesn’t find it, he's even more stupid than I thought.

While keeping his eyes on the empty baby-bottle nipple package, he wiped some blood away from his cheek and grimaced because of the stings his touch evoked. He turned and began crossing the plaza. He moved from shadow to shadow, careful not to be spotted by unforeseen passers-by, realizing he didn't have to kill the woman who had wounded him. Seeing her in her ravished state would surely hurt the good doctor a great deal. His face was grim and he felt like howling in rage. He was going to make Dr. Brennan pay, both for humiliating him by escaping his basement and for teaching her best friend about self-defense. But, despite the escape of his victim, he could easily move on to stage three of his plan without any problem. Only next time he'd have to be more careful, more prepared. His next victim would have to suffer even more because of his failure today.

Thursday November 15 - Shady Grove Adventist Hospital, Rockville - Close to midnight

Bitterness was all Booth tasted. It tasted foul in his mouth and slowly crept through his veins, poisoning him from the inside. If whoever had shot John had meant to hurt Brennan, he was doing a damn fine job at getting to Booth as well by turning him rigid with anger and spite. Booth had been outsmarted by a man who knew how to handle a rifle and draw up a masterful scheme. And if there was one thing Booth couldn't stand, it was having a cocky criminal one step ahead of him. His grip on the steering wheel painfully tightened when the image of the murder weapon waiting on the coffee table came to him. It had been deliberately put on display to tease and taunt him; Booth was sure of that. If he had doubted whether the message was truly for him, the baby-bottle nipple stretched over the barrel would have convinced him. It was a sign left for the professional sniper to read.

If Angela hadn't been assaulted, Booth would have firmly believed someone was out to get him and Brennan and them alone. But by attacking Angela, the murderer had clearly targeted their entire team as well. Booth felt a surge of bitter anger course through his body. As much as it pissed him off that someone had dared to lay a hand on the team's forensic artist, his mind was entirely focused on Brennan. Whoever was toying with them had succeeded at undermining Brennan's usual poised, rational behavior. By disturbing the predictable life she knew, he had thrown her off balance. On top of that, he had managed to stretch Brennan's confidence in Booth to the limit. After they had received a call from a frantic Hodgins explaining Angela was in the hospital, all of Booth's clever observations at the crime scene, his reassurance they would find whoever shot her boyfriend, and his tentative attempts at conversation had been swept off the table.

Being the one to break the news to her that she couldn't go and see Angela hadn't endeared him to Brennan. He had tried to be gentle when he reminded her of standard procedure, but he had been ignored. Booth had wanted to be offended, but had found he couldn't. In fact, he perfectly understood why Brennan had given him the silent treatment with a couple of dark glares added in as a bonus. They both knew Brennan couldn't simply walk away from a still active crime scene, not an hour after the murder, but somehow Brennan had hoped being his partner would make Booth grant her request. Though the rage of a murderer outwitting him had had him in its grip, it hadn't made him forget how to follow procedure. With mixed feelings he had left her in the hands of local police and a select FBI-team sent to the scene on his request.

A snort escaped him. If Brennan had been an average, boring scientist who loved spending entire days at the lab, none of this would have happened. Booth wouldn't have had to stand his ground and refuse Brennan. He wouldn't have had to witness how Brennan closed up and would certainly not have been tempted to kick himself for being the cause of her mental retreat. And he wouldn't be alone right now in Rockville, Maryland, on his way to check on her best friend who would probably not have been hurt in the first place if Brennan hadn't been teamed up with him. Both incidents--Angela's assault as well as John's murder--brought a familiar, uncomfortable feeling to the surface. He tried to shield Brennan from all the harm chasing bad guys brought, but it was only an illusion. He protected her with his life, but dumped her in the dark and bitter side of the world at the same time. Brennan knew this as well as he did. By demanding to be his partner, she had chosen to walk a very dangerous path. She had accepted the risks and perils that came with the job. She had accepted that horror, pain and death were an inerasable part of their everyday lives. They both led unconventional lives which sometimes--more often nowadays--made Booth wonder if in all the hassle their jobs brought with them, they couldn't find solace in each other. He blinked as he mentally reprimanded himself. Focus.

Because of his thoughts, Booth barely took the time to throw the SUV in park and turn the engine off. With fingers cramped because of the intense mix of guilt, rage and hurry racing through his veins, he fiddled with his seatbelt until it finally popped open. He was out of the car quickly, locking the door electronically as he headed to the hospital entrance. As he briskly walked across the parking lot towards the Shady Grove Adventist Hospital, he clenched and relaxed his jaw muscles in rhythm with his hasty strides. Silently cursing the cold mid-November temperature, he dodged pools of water and rounded the few stray cars that blocked his path to the hospital entrance doors. A sudden chill wind pushed his jacket open and crawled up under his clothes causing goose bumps to race over his clammy skin. It wasn't the most pleasant evening to be out and racing across a hospital parking lot just as he had raced down the I-270, but Booth couldn't care less. All he wanted was to see how Angela was holding up, go back to D.C.--to Brennan--ASAP, and find out whoever was trying to bring them down.

When he stepped through the doors, Booth immediately scanned the area. Finding the E.R. as fast as possible was his top priority. He was tempted to pull the receptionist over her desk when she was a tad too slow for his liking when pointing him in the right direction of the E.R. As he walked away from her, his mind vaguely wandered to the possibility of the two attacks being connected somehow. In all of his years as FBI-agent, he had rarely dealt with coincidence. Two people he knew were the victim of something gruesome on the same night. If that wasn't 'coincidence', he didn't know what was. But with a shake of his head and a slight quickening in his pace, he pushed his assumptions to the back of his mind. He would visit the crime scene later, but now he just had to see Angela. Booth passed the elevator, turned a few corners, and bumped into a nurse who led him to one of the private examination rooms the E.R. counted. He walked straight into the room without a shimmer of hesitation. He had work to do.

"Angela," he addressed the fragile figure with hunched over shoulders sitting on the examination table surrounded by typically white hospital equipment and even more white walls. There was so much white it nearly hurt Booth's eyes.

As Angela cracked him a weak smile, Booth's gaze slid over the nasty looking cut covered in bright red blood crusts on her forehead. He gauged the swelling on her right cheek that was already starting to discolor, briefly halted on her split lip, and finally locked onto a pair of vicious looking scratches running down her neck until they were hidden from view by an oversized dark blue sweater. When Booth made eye contact again with Angela, all words escaped him. From Hodgins' nervous explanation Booth gathered that Angela had been attacked by a stranger and that she wasn't exactly a sight for sore eyes, but actually seeing her in this ravaged state was quite a different matter. Booth gritted his teeth and shoved his hands down into his pockets to hide his balled fists. He turned to Hodgins who was sitting next to Angela, tightly clutching her hand as if holding on for dear life. Hodgins gave him a curt nod before loosening his grip and concentrating on tenderly caressing Angela's hand. So Booth lifted his eyes to Angela again.

"You look like hell," he finally said. She smiled.

"You're one to talk."

Booth's hand flew up to his face as if he wanted to smooth away the lines engraved in his skin by anger, fatigue, and worry. The last two hours had completely drained him. It was close to midnight. Instead of watching television or being in bed, he was running from one crime scene to another. Worse yet, his night wasn't over. After speaking to Angela, he would have to leave her and drive back to D.C. where he'd probably have a hard time convincing Brennan to get some sleep while he stayed on her couch. In a way he didn't mind. At least it would give him the opportunity to keep an eye on her.

"It's been a rough night," Booth vaguely admitted. Until he had questioned Angela, he didn't want to break the news of John's murder to her. She would be entirely focused on Brennan then, instead of on his questions. He didn't want her to cut corners and leave out important details because of her worry.

"Tell me about it." Angela grimaced as she sat up straight. No doubt her injuries were hurting her. Hodgins murmured a few endearments and laced his fingers through hers. Booth had never seen Hodgins like this. It was as if he was scared and enraged at the same time...exactly how Booth felt upon recalling what happened in Brennan's apartment.

"Where's the other half of the dynamic duo?" Angela asked as she looked at him, pulling her lips into a small crooked smile. "I guess I can't blame her for not being here. This place isn't exactly what I would leave my warm and cozy bed for." She gestured around sarcastically, wincing quietly in pain. Booth noted how she was doing her very best not to move too much. Whoever had gotten to her had done it thoroughly.

"She couldn't come. I wouldn't let her," he said as he approached the examination table.

"You wouldn't let her?" Angela frowned.

"If it helps, it took a lot of convincing to make her stay behind. I was even tempted to handcuff her."

"Handcuffs? My, my, aren't we naughty? Welcome to the dark and spicy side," Angela quipped, but doubt and weariness were evident in her voice.

"Angela," Booth said in a low voice as he frowned.

Hearing Angela doing her best at challenging him with sexual innuendos was quite relieving, that much he had to admit, but she shouldn't have to resolve to cheerful banter to hide her emotional wounds. She was trying her utmost to make everything seem normal even though every movement caused her to stifle a grunt or whimper. He felt like kicking and cursing again, if only to let out his pent-up frustration. But he couldn't. He had to focus now. Neither Angela nor Brennan would be helped if he lost his calm. As he maneuvered his hip against the examination table, he cocked his head to look her in the eye.

"What happened, Angela?"

"Are you asking me as a friend or as an FBI-agent?"

"Both."

His answer made her tilt her head to the side and study him wearily. Gone was the flirtatious woman. Just like Brennan whose fuse had been shorter than usual, Angela had tried to put up a façade as if what had happened had no effect on her. But the seriousness of her situation began to dawn on her. Booth could read it in the spark that slowly disappeared from her eyes and the nervous twitching of her fingers. Angela nodded slowly and knowingly as if she had read his mind. She looked away as she sighed and fiddled with the over-sized sweater Hodgins had given her. Her eyes flicked around the room, focusing on everything she came across, before hesitantly settling again on Booth. Hurt threw shadows in her eyes, intensifying the strange light that was burning in their depths. She was lost in her thoughts for a moment, without a doubt reliving the whole incident, before answering.

"I was walking to Hodgins' car when he grabbed me. He..." She paused, glancing at the white cover of the examination table. Hodgins comfortingly squeezed her hand as he shot Booth a warning look. Booth nodded reassuringly at him as if to say he knew his boundaries when it came to questioning victims. Shaken from her staring, Angela quickly shot Hodgins a small smile, ignoring his dark glare, and then continued.

"He hit me...several times. He threw me on the ground, shoved me against the edge of the fountain and he..." She stopped again. Instead of continuing she slowly tugged her hand free from Hodgins' grasp and pulled up her sweater. A trail of blood red scratches--the result of sharp finger nails having been roughly dragged over her smooth skin--trailed down and stopped right above the hem of her jeans. Booth's eyes first widened and were then narrowed making the anger blazing from them almost palpable.

"Did he...?" he began.

"No," Angela retorted. "But I'm pretty sure that's what he was going for. I kicked him, scratched his face, and ran away." Both Booth and Hodgins breathed out audibly.

"What time exactly were you attacked?" was Booth's next question. He tried to sound calm and collected. What had happened had seriously alarmed him, but he didn't want Angela or Hodgins to notice. Hodgins already had his hands full with worrying about Angela. He was solely focused on making her feel better. If Booth wasn't careful, he could antagonize Hodgins in his desire to protect Angela from further harm...or Booth's persistent questioning in this case. Booth clenched his fists. He understood Hodgins better than he let on at the moment, but he couldn't let his feelings show. Seeing Booth seem more worried about Brennan than about Angela could also trigger Hodgins' anger. Angela's eyes suddenly widened.

"It's Brennan, isn't it? Did something bad happen to her?" Booth was taken aback by her awfully precise observation. His eyes darted between Angela's bruised face and Hodgins' creased forehead.

"I guess you could say that..." Booth sighed and pinched his nose bridge between thumb and forefinger. For a few seconds he hesitated, wondering if now was the best time to fill his friends in about John's murder. In the end he decided there would never be a right time so he might as well get it over with. He only hoped Angela would still be focused afterwards. "John Percy was shot this evening."

"John Percy? As in John 'the Boyfriend' Percy?" Angela briefly squeezed her eyes tightly shut and suppressed a moan. Crestfallen she ran her hand through her hair. "How did she take it?"

"You know Bones. Always trying to shut out everything and everyone the second things get too emotional. Though in this case I can't blame her." He pushed himself away from the examination table and began pacing around. "They were on her patio when John was murdered. A sniper took him out."

"They were...She was...?" Angela muttered incoherently and blanched a little as Hodgins' mouth fell open. She shook her head and again ran her hand through her hair. "This can't be good. He gets shot and I am assaulted."

"And you are assaulted," Booth repeated, clasping his hands together behind his back and coming to a rest in front of Angela. "Exactly. It's too much of a coincidence, I believe."

"Care to share what's on your mind?"

Booth frowned and seemed to hesitate before saying, "John was shot before 10 P.M. You were attacked around..."

"Around 11 P.M.," she supplied. "Right after art class."

"So around eleven. That leaves us with a one hour window. Our sniper could have easily driven from D.C. to Rockville." A curse escaped him. "He planned this whole thing." Booth ran a hand over his tired face and drew in a deep breath. "Angela, you're a walking crime scene now. You scratched him so you're likely to have skin particles lodges underneath your nails." The three of them looked down on her neatly manicured nails. "And as much as this pains me, we'll need pictures of your injuries."

Hodgins nodded grimly. "I'll see to it."

To Booth's surprise, Angela was smiling. "Scrape under my nails for skin particles, Booth? Someone's been paying attention to Brennan! Just wait until I tell her. She'll be so proud."

Booth only lifted an eyebrow defiantly. "I'm heading over to the crime scene now. Don't forget about those nails and pictures, alright? And do you think you could attempt drawing your attacker?" The second Hodgins and Angela nodded, Booth turned and stormed off. The night wasn't over for him yet.

--&--

Friday November 16 - Town Square Plaza, Rockville - 00:32

When Booth got out of the SUV, a series of bright flashes instantly attracted his attention. He had parked in the middle of plaza, next to three police cars. Because it was now an active crime scene, no-one cared about it being a pedestrians only zone. Whipping out his badge and waving it at anyone who tried to stop him, Booth made his way over to where the flashes were coming from. Just as he had suspected a team of CSIs were processing the scene. A number of small yellow signs with numbers on them marked what they considered evidence and needed to be photographed. They were currently working on a pattern of blood drops and smears near the fountain. Booth turned to the man that seemed to be in charge of everything.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth," he said, flashing his badge for the millionth time that night. The other man nodded.

"D.C. police told me you'd be paying us a visit. Evidence we have already collected is over there." He gestured at the open back of a van where a box with evidence bags was standing. Booth thanked him and went over. Frowning deeply, he rummaged through the box checking labels and verifying contents. He came across torn pieces of clothing, cotton swabs used to collect blood, and...

"Damn it!"

His irritation and anger reached boiling point as he took a hold of an evidence bag. Another, more violent curse escaped him as he studied it. This was the crucial piece of evidence he had been looking for. The empty package of baby-bottle nipples he was holding was solid proof that someone was out to harm his friends. And that someone was also sending him a message. They truly had someone dangerous on their tails. Booth sank down on the edge of the back of the van. He gritted his teeth and tried to regain his composure, but his stare never left the evidence in his hands. He was angry, seriously pissed off, but also slightly frightened because he had a feeling the game had only just begun.