Paladin Crossing

A/N: So, I swear I'm working on something fluffy, but this one is angst from top to bottom. Hope you find it interesting...Ana

He stalked the length of the corridor, his pace doubled by the echoes of heavy footsteps ricocheting back from the concrete block of the walls. If others were there, knotted in pairs of two, groups of three, they would have parted, ceding the path to his single-minded march, perhaps even pressed themselves against the walls to avoid contact with the anger radiating from him. He would have been blind to them all, to everything but the pulsing rage that owned him. It was well into night though, and there was no one there to stare wide-eyed as he passed, to wonder what is was--injustice or slight or betrayal--that possessed him.

“They found another one.”

“Are they sure it’s our guy?”

“Yes. He didn’t leave any room for doubt.”

“Oh, god. How…how old?”

“I don’t think you should…”

“Just tell me. How old?”

“Seven.”

Hatred bled into his fury, both hissing in his ear, goading him as he pushed through the door, mindless to the ringing collision as it swung into the concrete wall. Closer now, his control loosening, he shed the remainder of the ballast that held it in place. Suit jacket. The tie around his neck, the credentials from his pocket. They fell to the floor as he stormed forward, sparing them no thought. Expensive wool, smooth silk and hollow authority--that was all they were now, useless to him.

“….cause of death is definitely blunt force trauma to the back of the skull..”

“Like the others then.”

“But there’s something else you should see. Look. Here and here. Notice the bruising on his neck, the overlapping pattern in the lines.”

“I see it. What does it mean?”

“He used some sort of ligature to cut off the air supply long enough for the victim to pass out. Waited until the boy regained consciousness and then…”

“Did it again.”

“And again. A minimum of three times, maybe four. Angela’s working on a reconstruction now.”

“Jesus, Cam. At least tell me that this time the sick bastard didn’t…”

“I wish I could. I’m still testing for DNA, but there are definitive indicators of…”

Finally he stood before the punching bag, a battered relic with burst stitching reinforced by silver patches of duct tape, its taut canvas faded and stained . Had he not been so overwhelmed with his own intent, he might have wondered why it had been relegated to a shadowed corner in a room filled with sleek machines, or spared a thought for those that had left their marks with sweat or blood or even tears. The images were swarming now, cresting over the tidewalls as he landed the first blow. There was no room left in him find kinship or comfort from others had been there before, driven by what they were forced to see.

The sky was grey, casting a steady rain that stirred the sour, loamy air at the bottom of the tree-choked gully. He could hear it against the jackets they wore--pock, pock, pock--the sound dousing the grim voices and rustle of leaves, the steady click and whir of a camera.

As he approached, one of the men stepped aside, and there it was, a flash of unnatural white shining back from the browns and blacks and greens. A hand, tiny fingers curled back, beckoning him to come closer. He stalled, sliding the notebook from his pocket, searching for a pen, until he had no choice but to step forward.

There was no continuity after that, his mind slicing each aspect of the scene into a separate image, refusing to let the whole come together. Pieces of broken leaves caught in matted, rain-darkened curls. A thin arm angled over the bare torso in an act of accidental modesty. The sagging elastic waistband of the small Spiderman underpants, the red face of a comic book superhero visible from beneath grime and dirt. The open stare that went beyond them all, terror still trapped behind the dulled blue eyes.

He looked down at the pen in his hand, the notebook he held, its blank pages waiting for words he didn‘t have.

Another punch followed, and then another, each one landing with a grunt that only hinted at the primal cry still trapped deep in his gut. Again and again, the rhythmic impact of flesh and bone against weighted canvas grew manic, murderous, and did nothing to slake his need to exact pain from the man that stripped that boy of every innocence he’d known and then, when done with that evil, threw his broken body down a ravine as if discarding a worthless piece of trash. With each impact, the hunger for vengeance grew visceral. He wanted the monster’s blood on his hands, to break him, hear him plead for mercy and forgiveness, and then deny him both. But he was out there, beyond reach, still faceless. Still hunting.

“Son of a bitch.”

“We were close this time.”

“Close doesn’t count. Not with him.”

“You’ll get him, Booth. You will.”

“Yeah, but right now he’s out there. Tell me, what do I tell the next mother whose kid disappears? What then, Bones, what do I say to her?”

A wild swing missed its target, his momentum forcing him against the bag itself, and everything stopped. He rested his body against the musty canvas and listened to his heart pound, felt the skin tight and hard over his knuckles, the ache in his muscles, as he flexed his hands. Closing his eyes, he wondered if it had been enough. And in that moment, so near to atonement, the pictures fueling his rage changed. Fingers that had beckoned turned to point in accusation. The terror in the clouded blue stare became a haunting indictment.

He stumbled back, blinded by the guilt that laid in wait, cloaked behind the anger. Fists clenched at his sides, the fight draining from him as he accepted the blows one by one. It was him. He was the one not fast enough, smart enough, strong enough to stop the monster after the first boy was found. After the third. The fifth. Now it was seven. Seven times he had stood over a dead child, left the mud and leaves in their hair for fear of disturbing evidence, watched as they were splayed open on an autopsy table, waited for their fractured skulls to be pieced back together, filed their smiling faces in red bordered cardboard folders.

“May we come in?”

“You found him?”

“Yes.”

“He’s okay, right? Where is he?”

“Ma’am, please. If we could just step inside…”

“Just tell me that he’s safe. Tell me my baby’s safe…”

“I’m so sorry.”

He launched himself at the punching bag, striking wildly this time, blindly seeking the pain, wanting it to silence the memory of a mother’s wail as her world was ripped apart, hoping it would lessen the pain of his failure.

The touch of a hand, cold against his heated skin, startled him from the deep frenzy for absolution. He turned, his fist still clenched, instinct drawing his arm back, coiled to strike. When he finally saw her, the force of his swing halted in mid-arc. Shame breaking over him, he watched her lips form the shape of his name, the concern in her eyes. He opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, but the words vanished into the vacuum. Then, with the slightest nod of her head, the anger and guilt shattered, and finally, the grief hidden below it all brought him to his knees.

“I don’t think I can I do this anymore. Not after a case like this.”

“But you will.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“It’s who you are. Righting wrongs. Seeking justice…“

“But that’s all of us.”

“We squints safeguard whatever clues their bodies hold. Angela gives them faces, names. But you, you’re the one that speaks for them, Booth, when death, murder, takes their voice.”

“Really? That’s how you see it?”

“Absolutely.”

very good very real

wow sweetie...that was intense and bloody awesome...
I loved how Bren fixed it for him at the end....
to bad Booth doesn't see himself as clear as Bren and we do

fab

Loved it! ;D