(no subject)
Martirio's cellphone vibrates on his dresser, and slowly he rises from his bed to inspect.
The cellphone scoots along the wood, buzzing rythmically as it moves.
Looking down at the number, he recognizes but refuses to believe.
It's the number from Sheridan's house.
His pager having been destroyed two days prior must have led them to desperate measures, he thinks.
Martirio grips his cellphone as the tiny vibrations shock in his hand.
"If they know this, then what else do they know?"
Knees like coccaine-addict-lips-twitches, his blood pounds with a beat beneath his skin and the phone still rings in his hand.
For seven long, painful rings he stands still.
Too scared to move, too scared to admit it.
He won't answer the phone because he knows that will only bring someting heavier than he's willing to bear.
And so the phone rings, with Martirio almost sobbing, shaking like the cellphone, like a rattlesnake.
Until it stops.
The silence of the room explodes inside Martirio's head.
He remembers Ricky, he thinks of Mary and Johnny. He wonders what life is doing without him.
And the phone starts back up, startling his hand.
He drops the phone and it opens, connecting the call.
Dropping down to his knees, but not touching the phone, he puts his ear near the speaker.
A computerized voice marches out the phone and into Martirio's ear:
"A-1-7"
He chokes on his Adam's Apple, hisses a wheeze of a gasp, and his eyes well-up.
On the other end of the line, Bones cuts the connection before looking back over at Vegas.
"It's done," he says with his voice weary.
"And now?" Vegas replies.
"It's his move now,"