DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters used within this story. They are the property of Anthony Zucker, Jerry Bruckheimer, and the CBS Studios. I am only borrowing them for use in this piece of fiction. I hope they would all approve.
DEDICATION: I dedicate this work to all who have encouraged my writing and to those beautiful, beloved characters who entertain and move us every Thursday evening. Thank you to you all!
A RISK WORTH TAKING
By: Hope Elizabeth Thomas
Grissom yawned. He could tell by the subtle changes in activity within the lab that his shift was almost over. The sun had almost completely risen, but within the seemingly windowless labyrinth of laboratories and hallways, the only evidence of a Las Vegas sunrise was the presence of fresh donuts and perking coffee in the break room. Grissom realized that the lab's secrecy was one of the key elements to its success, and yet, there were times when he longed for the friendly embrace of sunbeams through an open window, perhaps even the hint of a salty desert breeze.
Sighing, Grissom rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his leather chair. He hadn't been sleeping well and the effects were becoming increasingly more visible, even if only to himself. It had been several months since the incident with Nick Stokes and the lab had moved forward. And yet, even now, whenever Grissom closed his eyes in slumber, he was bombarded with images and thoughts of what might have been, of what could have been. Such images stirred up emotions that Grissom would have preferred to keep safely locked away.
With another sigh, he leaned forward and took a sip of his tepid coffee. He winced at the taste as well as the temperature and tossed the almost empty Styrofoam cup into the nearby garbage can. With a stretch and another extended yawn, he stood, lightly flexing his aching legs. It was time to go home.
His silent contemplation was interrupted, however, by a short series of taps on his doorframe.
"Hey Gris," Sara's voice, perky and bright despite her recent ten-hour shift, immediately brought him to attention. His head turned in her direction. "The gang's meeting up at the diner for breakfast. Nick just finished up the Russell case so it's his treat. Would you care to join us?" Sara smiled, eyebrows raised expectantly. Nick came up along behind her and stuck his head over her shoulder.
"Yeah Gris, why dontcha join us?" Grissom was tempted to crack a smile but both formality and fatigue held him back.
"Sorry Nick." Grissom started, reaching for a pile of folders on his desk, "I'm going home to get some rest." His eyes involuntarily met with Sara's and he cringed internally at the disappointment he saw echo within.
"Alright," Nick replied, grabbing Sara's arm, tugging on her lightly and starting for the door. "See ya Gris." And with that, they were gone. Grissom turned to lock his office door, finally allowing the corners of his mouth to rise at Nick's boy-next-door mannerisms. The truth was, Nick had great talent and one day, he would be the CSI Level One that Grissom knew he could be. For the moment, however, Nick still gave in to his emotions more often than was admissible in Grissom's educated opinion. But despite his reservations concerning Nick's current methods, Grissom knew that should anything happen to him, his lab would be in very good hands.
Walking towards the door, lost in his thoughts and very tired, Grissom wasn't watching where he was going and soon, he found himself colliding headlong with the last individual he had wanted to interact with that morning.
"Morning Gil," Conrad Ecklie's voice doused Grissom's moment of introspection like a bucket of ice water.
"Good morning Conrad," Grissom replied curtly, taking a breath and turning to meet the gaze of his supervisor.
"I'm taking into serious consideration your recent request regarding the re-formation of the original graveyard shift," Ecklie smirked as he spoke, his love and subsequent abuse of power emanating from every pore. Grissom remained silent but one of his eyebrows rose. Ecklie, obviously not having received the reaction he desired, continued on. "However, there are a couple specific issues I need to discuss with you. I'd like you in my office at one o'clock today so we can get these issues resolved as soon as possible." Grissom sighed. So much for sleep.
"Fine Conrad. One o'clock it is." And without waiting for confirmation, Grissom turned and left the crime lab, leaving Ecklie to stew in his aggravation.
As Grissom walked towards his truck, he shook his head and groaned in exasperation. Ecklie had been a thorn in his flesh for years. He was the poster child for absolute power corrupting absolutely. Grissom was tired, tired in body but even more tired in mind and spirit. He knew that even a few hours of uninterrupted sleep in his own bed would greatly benefit his outlook. So, once the key was in the ignition of his jet black Tahoe, that was exactly where he headed.
Grissom's condominium was his retreat. Within, he was surrounded by all the things that soothed his soul; his books, his work, and his beloved bugs. Grissom even took solace in the simple act of making coffee each morning in his own kitchen, with his own carafe, his own beans, even his own mug. Coffee, however, was the last thing Grissom needed on this particular morning. With a calm hand, he placed his key into the copper and brass lock of his solid pine front door. He was so fatigued, however, that he failed to notice that his door was already unlocked. Dropping a pile of folders gently on the marble kitchen counter, Grissom removed his shoes, sinking his sock-covered feet into the rich carpet that lay over his dark hardwood floor. He walked over to the stainless steel sink, turned on a steady flow of cool water, and softly splashed his face. He then opened his refrigerator door, extracting a sixteen ounce bottle of ice water, unscrewed the lid, and took a long, cleansing swallow. The cool river of liquid felt refreshing in his throat, dry from the desert dust, sour from too much coffee. Replacing the bottle, he softly closed the door. With quick but labored steps, Grissom made his way to the bedroom. His senses, usually so acute, were clouded from lack of sleep. And yet, something inside his head began to scream that something was amiss. A wave of sheer weariness created tunnel vision. He stumbled but didn't fall. His goal was the bed but as his world swayed and undulated around him, that seemingly simple journey became increasingly difficult. Finally, he shins came into contact with the right side of his queen sized bed. His last thought, before his body fell forward onto the mattress and the shadows began shrouded his senses, was of the strange smell permeating his nostrils; a strange scent that caused an instant of dizzy confusion, a moment of intense nausea, then murky darkness.
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"Sara!" Sara turned from her locker, her light spring jacket still halfway on her shoulders. Ecklie's voice was harsher than usual and Sara's defenses rose almost immediately. "Where is Grissom? He was due in my office over six hours ago! And he still hasn't shown up for his shift!" Sara finished hanging up her jacket, closed her locker door and turned to face Ecklie.
"I don't know where Grissom is." She replied, her eyes and voice steady. "But I'm sure he has a good reason for not being here or for not showing up. Have you tried his phone?" Ecklie rolled his eyes.
"Of course I've tried his phone. I've left him at least five messages!" Ecklie moved in, barely a hair's length from Sara's face. She fought the urge to recoil in disgust. "You tell him the second he gets here that I want him in my office…immediately!" And with that, he was gone. Sara sat slowly on the locker room's bench. The truth of it was, it really wasn't like Grissom to be late. In all the years she'd known him, he'd never missed a shift, never called in sick, rarely took a vacation, and was always at least an hour early to shift each night. Without thinking twice, she reached for her cell phone and dialed his number. It rang. Again. And again.
"You've reached Dr. Gilbert Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, Las Vegas Nevada. Please leave your message and I'll return your call as soon as I'm able." Sara clicked her phone shut. A feeling of panic rose in her chest. Something…wasn't right.
"Hey Sara," Catherine's voice invaded Sara's dread. Despite their tenuous relationship, Sara was glad for the interruption. "You seen Gil?"
"Uh…no," Sara swallowed…hard. "No one has since this morning. He was due to meet with Ecklie this afternoon and never showed." Catherine raised an eyebrow.
"Hmmm. It's not like Gil to be late." She pulled out her phone.
"It's no use, I just tried. There's no answer."
"Alright. I'm going off shift in a few minutes, " Catherine began, opening her locker and pulling out her coat. "I'll stop by his place and see what's going on."
"Great. I'm sure he's fine." Catherine nodded, smiled, and with a wave, walked out of the locker room. Sara sat motionless. "He's fine. He'll be just fine" The words repeated over and over again in her mind. "Fine, fine, fine, f…"
"Ms. Sidle?" Sara turned, eyes wide, suddenly detached from her thoughts.
"Yes?" A short, pudgy man, about thirty-five years old, reddened face, balding, clothed in a familiar uniform stood at the locker room door.
"There was, um, no one at the front desk and I, um, need someone to sign for this package," he was sweating, obviously in a hurry and more than a little uncomfortable. Sara stood and forced a smile.
"Sure." She quickly signed his clipboard, sending him on his way and relieving him of the package. He left without a look back or a thank you. Sara sighed, trying to pull her thoughts together, and with package in hand, she started towards the break room.
"Hey Beautiful!" Greg was lying out on the sofa, legs crossed, nursing a nearly empty bottle of a highly caffeinated soft drink. As Sara entered the room, he sat up straight, unconsciously fluffing his hair and pulling on his shirt. Sara sat beside him. "What's this?"
"Oh…this was just delivered. It's addressed to the Crime Lab so I'm guessing it's Grissom's job to open it." Sara's breath involuntarily caught in her throat. She dropped the package on the coffee table, noticing in passing that it was from the courthouse, and leaned back slightly on the couch.
"Still no word on Gris?" Greg zeroed in on Sara's worry
"Um…no. But I'm sure he's fine." Sara looked apprehensively at Greg, whose eyes were locked intensely onto here own. She looked away, uncomfortable. Greg let out a puff of air and lightly punched her in the shoulder
"Of course he's fine." Greg put a hand momentarily on Sara's shoulder then stood, straightened his shirt and started towards the hallway. Then he paused at the door. Turning to look Sara in the eye he added resolutely, "After all he is Grissom."
With nothing to work on, no one to talk too, and the break room to herself, Sara was left alone with her thoughts. Yes indeed, Grissom was most certainly Grissom. There was no one like him in all the world, a fact Sara was all too aware of. She thought back idly to the first time she'd seen him. True maturity and strength had always appealed to her, given her tempestuous past, and Sara could tell that, even in something as ordinary as a graduate school lecture, Grissom simply emanated those qualities. Perhaps it was his passion, or his incredibly intelligence. Perhaps it was the fact that, in spite of all his knowledge, he found it very difficult to relate to ordinary people, a trait he shared with Sara. But whatever the reason, be it singular or multifaceted, Sara was drawn to him.
She hadn't dated much, even in college. And it wasn't that she wasn't asked, she was just more interested in learning than she was in developing her people skills. Much more. The men who asked her out were very superficial. They couldn't begin to sympathize with who she was, who she had become, and the reasons why she preferred silence to nonsensical casual conversation; why she preferred the solitude of her work to the earsplitting chaos of frat parties; why she's rather cloister herself away in a lab than teach a class. People confused her. People scared her. People angered her. And people never failed to surprise her…with their ability to injure, destroy, and desiccate their own lives and the lives of others. That was why she preferred a microscope to dinner at the Bellagio. And that left her to a life of solitude. Throughout her short-lived grad school career, if she wasn't studying she was in a class, if she wasn't in a class she was working an internship. It was a pace that no one could keep up, and Sara soon learned that who she was, was too frenetic for the cloistered contemplation of study.
Then there was Grissom. It wasn't exactly love at first site. Their meeting was scholarly, a brief discussion after a seminar on forensic science, but to Sara, it was a life changing experience. She had always fantasized about the possibility that the same was true for him. Her interest in Grissom was an innate fascination. Instead of football scores, he memorized lines from Shakespeare, Pascal, the writings of Newton and Einstein. Instead of a baseball card collection, he had a butterfly collection and hissing cockroaches. And he devoted his life, mind, body and soul, to his work and the ethics therein. Maybe it was the fact that he knew all he knew, did all he did, and yet, seemed to have a better grasp on his reality than Sara did. Or maybe, it was the fact that underneath it all, he was still as disconnected as she was. Whatever the reason, whatever the pull, it was, to say the least, gravitational.
Before Sara had time to delve any deeper into her relationship with Grissom, her thoughts were interrupted by an all too sunny greeting.
"Good morning Sara!" Nick came strolling into the break room, way to happy for Sara's liking.
"It's seven o'clock pm Nick."
"Have you seen Grissom?" Nick shrugged off Sara's apparent pessimism, opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. "I really need to have a talk with him."
"Um…" Sara was about to speak when her cell phone rang. It was Catherine. Sara felt her stomach momentarily clench. "Hey Cath. How's Grissom?" Catherine's voice was stern and frighteningly direct.
"Get Nick and Warrick and get down here…Now!"
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Catherine hadn't been terribly worried about Grissom, even as she approached the parking lot outside his condominium complex.. Gil was eccentric, prone to following his own rules, his own schedule, his own erratic thought processes. And while it was true that he'd never been late for work, or missed an appointment, in times past, he was still the quintessential nutty professor, absentminded and reticent. Catherine drove through a few endless circles, advancing slowly on Grissom's building. Ah yes, there was his car. Catherine smiled. Poor Grissom. He had been looking tired lately. Perhaps he simply turned off his phone and fell asleep. Catherine parked next to Grissom's SUV, exited her vehicle and headed towards his front door. As she closed the distance between her car and Grissom's front stoop, she took a deep breath, unsuccessfully attempting to steady a quickly accelerating heart. All of a sudden, something…just didn't feel right, despite her vain attempts to convince herself to the contrary.
The stoop outside Grissom's condo was quiet. She knocked. Once. Twice. Nothing. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her key, a rather recent acquisition from Grissom . About a year ago, he'd attended to a week long seminar in updated entomological forensics. He'd asked her to feed his bugs and as a symbol of his trust, had bestowed upon her a spare key. Then, when he returned, in true Grissom fashion, he forgot to ask for it back. So Catherine kept it…for emergencies.
The first thing Catherine noticed upon stepping through the door was the heaviness of the air. It smelled sickeningly sweet, medicinal, and Catherine felt herself getting a bit dizzy.
"Gil?" No answer. She felt the room spinning. She had to get some air. Quickly, she opened the windows, letting in the late night Las Vegas breeze. She took a few breaths…and her head began to clear.
"Gil, are you here?" She looked quickly around the living room and kitchen. Nothing noticeably out of place, at least not at first glance. She then went into the bathroom, turned on the fan to help further clear the air, and found no evidence of Grissom's presence there either. Finally, she opened the bedroom door.
"Gil!" The sickeningly sweet smell was overpowering in this room and Catherine felt the bile rise in her throat. She raised a hand to her nose, breathing quickly through her mouth. Then, she saw it. A single piece of paper in an otherwise pristine space. She pulled a latex glove out of the pocket of her jacket, put it on, then picked up the page. The first tiny spiders of fear began to creep slowly into her mind. The note was computer generated and was printed on seemingly immaculate white laser jet paper..
It read:
"Nick Stokes was merely practice
Gil Grissom is the final exam
Do you have what it takes to pass?
Failure can be murder"
Catherine's fear mixed with the sickly smell hanging in the air and she turned, stumbling out of the bedroom, through the living room and out onto the stoop. She had just made it onto the cool, level cement step when she found herself on her hands and knees, vomiting onto the dry grass of Grissom's front lawn. Shaking slightly, embarrassed at her inability to keep it together, she rose pulling the fresh air into her lungs like living water. Fear now clawed its way out of her mind's eye and began to devour her thoughts and actions. She took another long cleansing breath, steadied herself, then took out her phone…dialing Sara's number. The sooner the team got here, the sooner they could find their friend.
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Sara was taking deep breaths, gulping in the air-conditioned oxygen that circulated within her SUV. It wasn't helping. She still felt helpless, afraid, her nerves wavering on the edge of an invisible knife, threatening to break through the confines of her psyche and become as tangible as the sweat running down her face. Greg sat to her right, in the passenger seat, silent as the grave. Nick and Warrick were two car lengths ahead in the Vegas lab's mobile evidence unit. It wasn't very far from the lab to Grissom's condo, but it seemed to take an eternity. Temporary relief flooded her when they arrived at the lot only to be replaced by the larger fear that if Catherine had found it necessary to gather the whole team together, something must be terribly, terribly wrong. Sara couldn't get out of her car fast enough, refused to wait for the rest of the team and found her self rushing, taking two steps at a time, until she was face to face with a very pale, very grave Catherine. She had been sitting outside Grissom's door, knees raised, arms extended, head down between her knees. She had almost forced herself to stand when she saw Sara approaching. Sara didn't speak and neither did Catherine. But as their eyes connected, as the energy of the situation passed silently between them, Sara knew…this was bad.
It was Warrick who finally placed some words to the question hanging tentatively in air.
"Catherine," he breathed, coming to stand beside Sara, Nick in tow. "What's wrong? Where's Grissom?" Catherine took a deep, cleansing breath.
"Here." She handed Warrick the note. He placed a glove on his right hand and took the offering. Sara read his face. She reached in her pocket, pulled out a glove of her own and was unable to get it on fast enough. Without a word, she snatched the note from Warrick's hand, gaining a dirty look in the process. And despite her best efforts, she couldn't stop a tear from escaping the corner of her eye, nor could she wipe it away fast enough for it to be unseen by her colleagues. Nick stepped close and put a hand on her arm.
"Well what are we waiting for?" The words shot out of her mouth with a forcefulness that surprised even her, shrugging Nick's hand from her arm. Catherine nodded.
"Right." And immediately her demeanor changed. Catherine the concerned friend was transformed into Catherine the efficient leader. "Nick, get out your camera, photograph and sketch the interior and exterior of the building. Get everything. Warrick, Sara and Greg start processing the scene. I'm going to call Ecklie and find out all I can about Gil's schedule this week and next. Let's go." And with that, the group scattered.
Warrick, Sara and Greg walked into the condo slowly, their trained eyes canvassing every inch of wallpaper, every foot of carpeted floor, every piece of furniture, every breath of air. With Warrick and Greg tackling the living room and kitchen, Sara made her way to Grissom's bedroom. Her breath caught in her throat. The scent that had caused Catherine so much discomfort had significantly dissipated thanks to the bathroom fan and the open windows, but Sara still caught a whiff of the sickeningly sweet smell hanging in the air.
"Hey Greg, can you come here a sec?" Within seconds he was by her side. "Can you tell what that smell is?" She asked even as she began canvassing the room's perimeter. Ordinarily she might have identified the scent on her own, but her mind was otherwise occupied at present. Greg sniffed the air, taking in several breaths, holding them then making a face.
"Oh yeah. I'd know that smell anywhere. It's Ether." Sara nodded. Greg began searching and Sara noticed that he was searching with a definite purpose. With a slight "aha" escaping his lips, Greg approached Grissom's bed, more specifically, the ventilation grate just above Grissom's headboard. Placing sterile booties over his shoes, Greg stood on the bed, extracting a small army knife from his pocket and unscrewed the grate covering the condo's ventilation shaft. Then, without warning, a large metal canister fell inches from his head, landing on the comforter, then rolling to the floor with a bang. "Well, that wasn't what I was expecting." Sara ignored Greg's attempt at humor and approached the canister. It was blank, no identifying markers at first glance, and no clue as to the contents. As Sara examined the canister, Greg was gathering a sample from the ventilation grate.
"What have you got Greg?" Sara stood from her place by the bed and approached Greg with apprehension.
"It looks like condensation. I don't think it's water because it looks slightly more viscous, which means that something that was once a gas at one temperature or another, became a liquid at room temperature. This may be the answer to why the room smells like ether." Sara was about to respond when she noticed something odd on Grissom's windowpane. Grissom was a "place for everything ,everything in its place" kind of man, and it wasn't likely that he'd leave a speck of dirt anywhere for very long. But plain as day, there on Grissom's bedroom windowpane, was a rather large clod of dirt. Whether it was left there by accident or was planted, Sara didn't care. This clue could bring them one step closer to bringing Grissom home.
Warrick soon entered the room, shadowed by Catherine.
"Find anything?" Sara asked, expectantly? Warrick shook his head. Sara's countenance fell. Suddenly, Nick came quickly, almost jogging, into the room. His hands were gloved and speckled with plaster.
"I found a distinctive shoe print just underneath Grissom's window," he puffed, still catching his breath. "I caste it and it's waiting in the van, along with the small cloth sample I found, same location."
"It could be planted," Catherine explained, citing the truths that each of the five people in Grissom's bedroom knew to be true. "After all, according to the note we found, this is a sort of a 'test'." Sara sat on the edge of Grissom's bed. "Well," Catherine took in a deep breath. "Let's go get this stuff processed. I have a feeling Gil may not have a lot of time to spare." Sara watched them file out one by one. Nick turned and looked deeply at her.
"You comin' ?" He asked, hand on the doorframe. Sara nodded her head slowly, her eyes gazing out Grissom's bedroom window, failing to see the beautiful mountains that the window framed, but rather seeing only Grissom's face. "We're gonna find him Sara." Nick touched her shoulder, trying to reassure her. Again, a stoic nod of the head.
"Yeah," she breathed, almost without sound. "Let's go."
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Gil Grissom awoke violently. The ether was beginning to wear off, but the drug was hardly out of his system. The dramatic heaving in his abdomen brought him out of his drug induced slumber and without warning, he fiercely expelled the meager contents of his stomach onto the dirt floor on which he lay. With a groan and a cool hand placed on his forehead, he sat up slowly. His eyes were fuzzy, everything was blurry and he found it difficult to focus. His ears were full of an unremitting scratching, a muted scratching. The taste of vomit in his mouth made him gag but he mentally resisted the urge to heave again. He rubbed his eyes, blinked a few times, allowing tears to expel the dust and grit that scratched at his lids, and found that his eyesight was slowly becoming clearer.
Cautiously, he surveyed his surroundings. There was little light, the room in which he now sat seemed to be illuminated by a single ray of moonlight, just to his left, probably from a large door or skylight. The floor was a mixture of sand and soil, surprisingly cool to the touch, a welcome relief to his sweat-soaked skin. The walls that separated him from the outside world were solid Plexiglas and he was barely able to make out through the invisible barrier evidence that he was housed in some sort of barn or storage facility. Beside him, he now noticed a small opaque plastic bag brandishing his name in thick black marker. Instinct made him reach for a pair of gloves, which he slowly placed on his hands, hands that shook ever so slightly.
Placing a hand inside the bag, Grissom slowly extracted a small, seemingly unused tape recorder. Curiously, he pressed the button with the sideways green triangle and waited. The voice that greeted his ears was irritatingly high pitched and obviously altered. But it was the words and not the voice that gave Grissom reason for pause:
"Gil Grissom. You place so much faith in your
beloved CSI's. But would they be so successful
without their fearless leader? For your sake, I
hope so. Otherwise, in twelve short hours, they
will be a ship without a captain and you will be
a feast for the bugs you love so well."
Grissom was not given to extreme emotions. But at this moment, with a new, stronger understanding of the situation and the score, Grissom tasted an odd mixture of apprehension and curiosity. He had immense trust in his team of protégés. But with so little time and unknown amounts of evidence, he knew his chances weren't promising. In an attempt to keep focused, Grissom tentatively extracted the next item from the bag. What he now held in his hand was a small .38 caliber handgun. A .38 caliber handgun with a single bullet in the chamber. Grissom knew that one didn't have to be a CSI to realize this item's purpose. Another wave of nausea began to wash over Grissom. He lay his head back against the Plexiglas wall, closing his eyes, unable to rid his ears of an incessant static, like the crawling of thousands of insects inside his ears. Ringing or disruption in the ears wasn't a side effect of ether and Grissom's mind worked overtime as to what other drugs could be coursing through his system. With a slow shake of his head and another quick rub of his eyes, Grissom sought to remove the final item from the kidnapper's Pandora's bag. He soon found himself holding a large fluorescent green light stick and around it was wrapped a single piece of paper, a note from Grissom's benevolent host. Carefully unrolling the parchment from the plastic canister, Grissom padded around in his jacket pocket for his glasses. Upon finding them still intact, Grissom slipped them over his eyes, held the note close to his face, and began to read:
"Lift your eyes. Illuminate your mind. You are not alone."
Grissom raised an eyebrow. What new riddle was this? If only he was able to think. The throng of insects in his ears were crawling around with more intensity and frequency, ruining any chance at concentration. It was at that moment that the light bulb of realization flickered into a burst of light, as did Grissom's newly acquired torch…upward, straight in front of him higher and higher, until it illuminated exactly what Grissom believed he would find. There, about six feet straight ahead and four feet upwards, was a box constructed of the same Plexiglas material that housed Grissom. It was the same width as Grissom's cage, approximately three feet in height and in depth The only difference, however, between where Grissom stood and the enclosed area in front of him was that the area in front of him was home to several hundred scorpions; scorpions who were very much alive.
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Sara knew she had a somewhat pushy and at times, overbearing nature, but as soon as the evidence found in Grissom's condo was placed into Hodge's hands, she dogged him like a bad hangover. Along with the piece of fabric, the muddy shoe print, the liquid sample and the dirt clod on the windowpane, the CSI's had confiscated surveillance tape of the parking lot and perimeter of Grissom's condominium complex. Archie Johnson began reviewing the footage as soon as it was placed on his desk. It had been over four hours since Catherine had found the note. No one knew how long Grissom had been missing before the fact, or how much time he had left.
"Sara, I'm working as fast as I can!" Hodges shot Sara one of his classic, "your presence annoys me" glances. Sara stared him down regardless. "I can't make the machines work any faster than they already are. When I get something, you'll be the first to know. Now please, let me do my job." And with a slight push, he maneuvered Sara out of his lab and shut the door in her face. And so she began to pace, determinately, outside his door. After about 30 minutes or so, her feet beginning to ache, Sara made her way into the break room. With Nick working through the shoe tread database, Warrick working with Archie and the surveillance tapes, Catherine filling in Brass on the details and Greg aiding Hodges in evidence examination, Sara was left alone in the small, humble space.
Lying back on the couch, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest, Sara lightly closed her eyes. But instead of finding a welcoming darkness behind her lids, her mind's eye was flooded with snapshots of Grissom. Every time she closed her eyes, from the very moment Grissom went missing, his face was there. Not that Sara was unaccustomed to seeing his face behind closed eyes. Many a dream was haunted with his image, more evenings than she'd care to admit. She sighed and shifted herself on the sofa, laying an arm across her forehead.
"Grissom…where are you?" she whispered aloud. Was he suffering? Was he in pain? Was he already dead? That last thought brought warm tears to the edges of her eyes, a few wayward droplets spilling outward, down the sides of her face. Sara hadn't felt so helpless or useless since her mother murdered her father so many years ago. She'd worked all her life to protect against being unprepared. But what good were all her years of training if she couldn't save the man she cared about most. Grissom was, after all, the first man she'd truly cared about since her father's death so many years ago.
Sara's feelings were treasures, hidden behind lock and key in the innermost recesses of her heart. But within that gilded box, lined with velvet and locked with a thousand keys, there burned a flame that grew ever brighter, despite the ever present dissuading breeze of logic and decorum. But for a moment, for a brief moment, Sara indulged in thoughts of the man who held her heart in his latex-gloved hand…and had no idea to what extent he did.
"Sidle!" The voice of Detective Brass echoed in her head. Why was he there? This dream was just meant to be her and Grissom. How dare Jim Brass intrude? "Hey Sara Sidle!" It was the shaking of her knee and the increased volume of Brass's voice the finally woke Sara from her sleep. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up.
"Sorry Brass," Sara placed her head in her hands. "It's been a while since I've slept. Must have nodded off for a minute there. What have you got?" Brass knelt down until he was looking directly into Sara's eyes.
"419. And my bet is that it correlates with Grissom's kidnapping." Sara's eyes flew open. Brass had her full attention.
"Why? What ties them together?" She waited, breath baited, hoping for the clue that would unleash the hounds. Brass's eyes sparkled, the steely glint of a hunch burning bright.
"The victim is tied to a Ms. Kelly Gordon."
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The body of the woman, identified at the scene as Carman Rodriguez , was found in a small motel room a few miles off the Vegas strip. The room was dirty, horribly neglected, bed sheets askew, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke, empty Chinese takeout containers peppering the floor, some making the trashcan, the majority not so lucky. The bathroom was equally disheveled. The only corner of the room not in disarray was the in-room table, converted into a makeshift desk, complete with a laptop computer, webcam, and wireless router. The table also held what appeared to be an empty ten gallon fish tank. Sara, along with Brass, Nick and Catherine, surveyed the scene with a mixture of awe and disgust. On the floor, one leg still resting on floor, the rest of her lying on the unmade double bed, was the body of the victim.. David Phillips was just finishing up the initial examination as Sara approached.
"What have we got David?" Sara surveyed the body prematurely. Carman was clothed in a pair of cut offs, obviously homemade from an old pair of Levi's. She didn't have on a shirt and the right strap of her white brassiere was broken. A tattoo of the Virgin Mary adorned her left calf, but it was the tattoo of a daisy on the palm of her right hand that made Sara take notice. David didn't even bother to look up as she approached..
"Gun shot wound to the back of the head. Lividity's fixed, so I say she probably died where she fell, or else was moved right after, approximately six to eight hours ago." Sara nodded her head and snapped a few photographs of the body. Kneeling down, she began to visually comb the body for any evidence she could find. After collecting some dirt from under the fingernails and a few odd hairs that she assumed were the vic's own, from the body, Sara stood to assess where the rest of the team was in their investigation.
"Hey Sara! Come take a look at this!" Nick called Sara over to the makeshift desk in the corner of the room. Warrick was just starting on the laptop, but Nick was otherwise engaged. He was staring at the fish tank. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary tank, filled with a bit of soil and rocks, but otherwise empty. Sara raised an eyebrow in Nick's direction, questioning the importance of such a find. "Check this out." he explained and tapped on the glass. With sharp precision and dizzying speed, a black blur raced from one side of the cage to the other. Sara jumped.
"What is it?" She peered in, face uncomfortably close to the glass.
"I think…"Nick said, his eyes focused, "it's a scorpion." Sara shivered. While Grissom's obsession with bugs had slightly lessened the gross out factor, Sara was still unable to be enthralled by all insect life, especially the poisonous kind. "I'm gonna take this in to the lab." With Nick mesmerized by their recent find, Sara turned her attention to Warrick, who was examining the laptop. Sara pulled up an empty chair and watched him work.
"For an ex-inmate, this girl had some major cyber know how," Warrick commented as he attempted once again to infiltrate the laptop's password protected database, and once again, failing miserably. "I'm gonna have to take this into the lab." Sara again raised an eyebrow.
"Ex-inmate?" Warrick nodded.
"Didn't you get the 411 from Brass? Carman Rodriguez was an inmate in the same prison as Kelly Gordon. They were cell mates for a while until Carman was released last month. Catherine and Detective Curtis are questioning Kelly now, for all the good that will do." Sara stared, her mouth a tight, straight line, her eyes hard and concealing. She felt a stab of betrayal at not being asked to accompany Catherine in questioning Kelly Gordon, but deep inside, she knew the reasons why. She turned her head away from Warrick and stared out the window, trying hard to contain the very emotions that prompted Catherine and Sofia to exclude her from the interrogation. So many pieces in a puzzle that was still just a mess of unconnected cardboard. She didn't doubt that they'd solve this puzzle, sooner or later. She just doubted whether it would be later, and whether later would be too late for Gil Grissom.
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"What do you people want?" Kelly Gordon's eyes were surrounded by a light purple ring, signs of fatigue and stress played out in broken out skin and dull, oily hair. The walls of the prison interrogation room were colorless, lifeless, sapping the positive energy and emotion from anyone who entered. Kelly felt no love for the two women sitting opposite her at the cold metal table. The hatred she had once felt towards the law enforcement community had eased some, partially due to the kind words of Nick Stokes only a few months previous. But trust was not easily won. An individual in Kelly's position found if easier to be numb; numb from the feelings, numb from the outside world, numb from the past, as frigid as the solid chair on which she now sat. Kelly Gordon sat before Detective Jim Brass, Sofia Curtis and Catherine Willows, seemingly emotionless and cold.
"Ms. Gordon, did you have a relationship with a Miss Carman Rodriguez?" Brass leaned in across the table as close as he was able, arms folded, eyes steely. He wanted no small talk, no wasted time or efforts. He wanted the truth and he wanted it now. Kelly flinched slightly at the name but remained composed. With a glazy-eyed look, she locked eyes with Sofia, then with Catherine, ignoring Brass completely.
"She was my cell mate for about five months or so, right up to her release last month. As for a relationship, if you could call it that, well…" she paused a moment, collecting her thoughts and, seemingly, her emotions. "Let's just say she made sure we were real close." Kelly opened the palm of her left hand and stared unblinking at the daisy tattoo. Catherine stepped in.
"Nice tattoo. A gift from Ms. Rodriguez I presume?" Kelly looked up, the smallest amount of moisture gathering on the lower lids of her eyes, the lashes glistening under the bright overhead light. A quick nod gave Catherine the answer she was looking for.
"Did you ever divulge to Ms. Rodriguez anything about your father or the events that transpired several months ago involving Nick Stokes?" Sofia stepped in, asking the question before the words were even a whisper on Brass's lips, pushed forward, perhaps sensing Kelly's vulnerability.. Catherine played it cool and observed her colleague in action, mentally taking note of Kelly's reactions, state of mind and presence of body, mind and spirit.. Kelly placed her hands in her lap, one small tear escaping its lash-laced prison.
"You guys don't understand, " she began slowly. "If you don't make "friends" here, then you die here. Carman wanted a…a relationship, and I, well, I was tired of fighting. When things happened with that CSI and my father, I was… angry. Angry at you CSIs more than anything. One night, a few days after I found out about my father's death, Carman found me crying in my bunk. I was…vulnerable and I confided in her, told her everything…about the trial, my father, his plans and that Nick fellow. She…she told me that once she got out…she'd make you pay…that you'd pay for everything you'd done to me and my family. At the time, I didn't care and I admit, I was glad to think that you bastards would get what was coming to you. But then Nick…um, he came in and he…he talked to me. Don't' get me wrong. There is nothing that can undo the wrongs you people have done to me. But…" she took a breath, a sob escaping unrepentantly, surprising both her and her interrogators. Catherine handed her a tissue which she took, unexpectedly thankful. With a quick exhalation into the tissue, she finished her thought, eyes locked onto Catherine's. "I don't want anyone else to die. No more death. It's such a…such a waste." With a quick intake of breath, Kelly wiped away another wandering tear and focused her eyes intently on the table. Sofia leaned forward in her chair. Her eyes were softer, her hands unclenched, arms outstretched on the table. Detective Brass remained silent, allowing the CSI to work the interview, impressed at her ease of manner.
"One more thing Ms. Gordon," she almost whispered, her voice almost tender, a drastic change from her earlier approach. "Did Ms. Rodriguez ever talk about family…mother, sister, cousins, anyone she might live with after she was released?" Kelly met Sofia's eyes with her own.
"She told me about a sister… Marguerite I think…lived in a small condominium community way off the strip. I also think Carman said she's a lawyer." With that admission, Detective Brass began to close up the interview with the customary police jargon and appropriate goodbyes…but Catherine interrupted, having one more question of her own.
"Kelly, do you know of anyone who would want Carman dead?" Kelly's eyes, swollen and emanating weariness beyond explanation, gave a slow but deliberate shake of her head. Catherine offered Kelly a small, half smile as the defeated woman was led from the room. Sofia turned to offer commentary on the interview, but Catherine was already heading towards the car. She wanted to find this Marguerite…and now.
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It had been just over three hours since Grissom had awakened in his prison, or so the CSI supervisor calculated. It had taken about an hour for the full effects of the ether to clear from Grissom's system. Even now he felt a bit lightheaded. But undeterred, Grissom had spend the better part of an hour combing his cell for human error, a kidnapper's mistake, a fly in the serum. He had spent more than a few moments investigating the legion of scorpions, only a hair's breath away, crawling anxiously, venomously in their own synthetic jail. He knew they played some part in his extermination at the end of this game…and apparently, his kidnapper wasn't an entomological novice. These were Leiurus quinquestriatus, the Deathstalker scorpion, easily the most deadly and dangerous of its kind. Grissom knew from his reading that the sting from just one of these scorpions can cause a serious anaphylactic reaction in a man his size. And while one of these bugs would not be enough to kill him, the hundreds Grissom saw writhing around before his eyes were as fatal an adversary as the Grim Reaper himself. If Grissom couldn't find a way of escape, he knew his death was scurrying around inches from his face.
But Grissom knew better than to be frantic. Methodically, he waved his small Maglite back and forth, examining the floor, the walls, the ceiling. So far, nothing. A soil covered floor, dusty plastic walls, the smell of dirt and manure. Suddenly, as he passed his flashlight over the upper left hand corner of the room, he caught a glint, the flash of reflected light off metal. Moving in as close as he could, Grissom squinted. Unable to get a good look at the strange metal oddity, he quickly pulled out his glasses, squinted once again in the darkness, and focused. He heard nothing, smelled nothing, tasted nothing. All his energy funneled into his eyes and he willed himself to see what he knew he had to see. There! It appeared to be a webcam, small, taped into the corner of the room with an excessive amount of duct tape. And if there was a webcam that meant someone was watching, a someone who just might make a mistake, and someone who could be found. That last thought gave him hope. He closed his eyes and sighed. Unexpectedly, a wave of fatigue washed over him, the last remnants of his abduction, and he sank unwillingly to his knees. The truth was that Grissom was frightened. Frightened, not by death, but rather by his lack of control. And to someone like Grissom, helplessness was the most frightening feeling of all, even more frightening than the prospect of death by a scorpion's sting. To have no leads, no lab, no control, and no idea who he was dealing with or why. His only consolation at this moment was his faith in his team, a team that was most certainly working overtime in their attempts to find him.
Scooting into the corner and leaning his tired head against the wall, Grissom closed his eye, allowing himself a moment of contemplation on those he called colleagues. In his mind's eye, he anticipated the goings on of the last few hours. Catherine, in her usual manner, would take the lead, covering avenues even the most seasoned CSI would miss. By now she'd probably come up with a timeline, uncovered trace evidence and perhaps even a suspect or two. Her intuition was one of her strongest assets and her keen puzzle solving ability was always a feather in Grissom's cap. He knew she would be making strong progress. Warrick and Nick, the dynamic duo, were more than likely following a lead, processing evidence and making Hodges work much harder than the ornery technician would have like. Grissom knew those two wouldn't rest until every situation was examined and every hypothesis scrutinized. Nick wanted nothing more than to be the best he could be and although Grissom would deny it verbally, he was flattered by Nick's desire to please and impress him. Greg was most likely working side by side with Hodges, working in the area to which he was most gifted. For as much as Greg wanted to be a field CSI, and for as much as his knowledge was growing, both he and Grissom knew that his true gift was in the lab.
Grissom sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, lowering his eyebrows in a contemplative scowl. The image that flashed before his subconscious made his heart flutter and his palms sweat, an involuntary but usually controllable reaction. However, here, alone with none but his thoughts, the scorpions and an invisible captor to keep him company, Grissom allowed himself an indulgence. Sara. Grissom had come into contact with hundreds of women over the course of his career. He, like all living things, was attracted to beauty. But in his mind, beauty was more than a pretty face and figure. Grissom valued depth. He valued ambition. He valued intelligence. For one like Grissom, the old ideology of "opposite attraction" did not hold true. Even the women who shared his profession, his jurisdiction, his lab, most had a line drawn down the middle of their lives…work existed on one parallel, their real lives on the other. In Grissom's world, life and work were one and the same, and in trying to bring someone into his life who didn't share that lifestyle caused hurt feelings and misunderstanding on both sides. But then again, there was Sara.
Grissom had first interacted with Sara Sidle at a five day seminar he had given on forensic science more than eight years ago. She was younger than, for that matter so was he, but he still remembered every aspect of that seminar…more succinctly, every aspect of her. The seminar had taken place during one of Sara's Post Graduate semesters. Usually, Grissom detached himself from the crowds when he led seminars, focusing on the facts rather than the people. Grissom wasn't fond of giving speeches, especially to college students. He couldn't begin to count on his finger and toes the detached looks, glazed eyes, yawning mouths, and uncomfortable shrugs of those in his audience. But Sara…Sara had captured his interest. The seminar room was small, accommodating approximately twenty five to thirty students. Only half the chairs were filled, those that were, were in the back two rows of the room. But Sara was sitting in the front row. On the chair to her left sat a dark brown leather postman's bag, open, full to bursting with books and other student related paraphernalia. On the chair to her right, a stack of textbooks on various topics; Advanced Chemistry, The Complete System of Police Medicine by Johann Peter Franck, a biography of Carl Wilhelm Scheele, and the Complete Collection of Sherlock Holmes. She sat, pen and paper in hand, avidly entranced by Grissom's topic of discussion. She locked eyes with Grissom and did not deviate except to turn a page in her notebook or recheck the spelling of a name. When Grissom finished the speech portion of his colloquium and opened the discussion up for questions, her hand was the first, and only, one in the air. She craved information. It seemed as vital to her existence as oxygen. Before long, the twelve or so students who had attended Grissom's seminar had wandered from the room…but Sara and Grissom continued to converse for several hours. They were only made aware of the hour by the puttering around of the night time janitor as he began mopping the miles of laminate hallway flooring. Grissom, slightly embarrassed that he'd lingered so long, offered a short, friendly farewell and took his leave. At the door way, he turned to look back and found Sara lingering, rereading her notes and cross checking his references. He stared. Perhaps it was the knowledge she already possessed or perhaps it was her potential to be something special in the field. Perhaps…his heart felt something more. Whatever the reason, he loitered for a few moments more, staring, watching, taking in this unique anomaly.
Over the next four days, Grissom had watched in silent wonder at Sara's pursuit for knowledge. Her hand never seemed to leave the air. During Grissom's hands on exercises, she explored angles which he had only considered in theory. On the final day of his seminar, after all the notebooks had been closed, the field kits reorganized and sterilized, his suitcase packed and his spirit yearning for the familiarity of his own lab, she had come to say good bye. He had been sitting on a small grouping of steps outside the conference room, waiting for his taxi to arrive. He remembered hearing her footsteps before seeing her, a brief blur of color coming to rest next to him. He turned and found her eyes. She spoke on the surface only, of her esteem for his craft, her admiration of his knowledge and her thankfulness for his instruction. But, while her mouth spoke of friendly, safe ideas, her eyes revealed something much deeper. Grissom responded with a shrug, a polite appreciation of her gratitude and added a few compliments of his own, to her skill, her knowledge and her potential for greatness. He was rewarded with a blush, a female response he wasn't used to receiving. There was silence between them for several moments, an expectation hanging in the air as tangible as heavy perfume, but it was soon interrupted by the unwieldy arrival of Grissom's cab. Grissom had felt, as he stood, shook her hand and lingered a few moments in her gaze, that he was standing on the edge of something incredibly rare and special. And that feeling stayed with him, persistent, as he closed the cab's door and sped silently away
Grissom allowed the retrospect to end there. A cold sweat had begun to form on his forehead. Instinctively, he wiped away a traveling bead of moisture from his temple. He had always told himself that he had asked Sara to join the Vegas team because of her talent, her knack, her intuition. That would be, and was, the reason he gave to all who questioned his choice to bring in an outsider. But deep within the very sinews of his heart, Grissom knew that Sara's aptitude as a CSI was not his lone reason for bringing her to the Las Vegas lab. Even in his closest relationships, he did not feel as strong a connection, in mind and spirit, to the individual, as he did with Sara Sidle. And while the intimacy he shared with Catherine, Warrick, Nick and Gregg allowed him the opportunity to lower his internal emotional walls every now and again, Sara seemed to expose all the chinks in the armor of his soul. It was unsettling…and yet, even as he pondered the thought, the notion, he knew that it was also, incredibly desirable.
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Sara, Catherine and Detective Brass gathered in a small huddled half circle outside the front door of Marguerite Rodriquez's condominium. Sara's presence hadn't been expected, but upon catching up briefly with Catherine via her cell phone following her interview with Kelly Gordon, and given the fact that Sara wasn't much for sitting patiently and waiting, she invited herself to the party. At the moment, she couldn't seem to keep still. Greg and Hodges were still working on the evidence found at both Grissom's condo and Carman's hotel room. It would be at least two hours before anything came to light. Sara needed to feel involved. The intense heat from the midday sun felt calming on the exposed skin of her arms as she played idly with her necklace. Her foot tapped to her own internal rhythm. She hated waiting. Thankfully, neither Catherine, Detective Brass nor Sara had to wait very long. After a few short, calculated knocks on the rather heavy, wrought iron tinged mahogany door, a pretty, petite Hispanic woman stepped out from the cool air conditioning of her condo into the dry heat of the Vegas summer.
"May I help you?" She was about 5'7; her cocoa colored skin was flawless. Her nails, fashionably lacquered in a classic French Manicure and her attire, tan linen shorts and an off-the-shoulder crimson sweater, demonstrated high quality and even higher price tag. She was barefoot, her toes nicely matching her fingernails. But despite her "all together" outer appearance, Sara noticed a flutter in her eyes, a quickening of her breath. She seemed, nervous, anxious, flighty. Sara wanted to know why.
"Ms. Marguerite Rodriquez?" Brass inquired, reaching into his shirt pocket to retrieve his badge. She nodded.
"Is this about my sister?" Marguerite folded her arms in front of her chest, the apprehension in her eyes increasing.
"I'm afraid so. May we come in please?" Brass placed his badge back in his pocket and took a step forward. With another nod, she stood aside, allowing them to enter. And as soon as Sara placed her foot over Ms. Rodriquez's threshold, she became nothing but her senses; her eyes, microscopes, her ears, microphones, her body taking in changes in temperature and movement. As if on autopilot, she allowed her body to follow Catherine and Brass into Marguerite's living room, each taking a seat on her sectional chamois sofa. Sara, however, elected to stand.
"So," the lovely Ms. Rodriquez began, "what trouble is my little sister in now Detective?" Marguerite sat composed, legs crossed, hands delicately folded in her lap. Brass informed her, rather informally, about her sister's demise. Both Catherine and Sara waited with baited breath for the emotional reaction. Agony, sadness, anger, relief, each was a reasonable expectation considering the circumstances. But to the surprise of both female CSI's, the woman didn't bat an eyelash. Instead…she smiled.
"Did I miss a joke Ms. Rodriquez?" Brass was just as quick as the two women in picking up on Ms. Rodriquez's odd reaction. And with that comment, the smile left as quickly as it had appeared, and just as mysteriously.
"No, Detective. It's just, well, my sister has been in trouble her whole life." she uncrossed and then recrossed her legs. "First it was marijuana in junior high, then rampant promiscuity in high school. She got to be so much of a, well, a problem that my parent's threw her out of our home when she was seventeen. All her rebellion escalated into her recent lifestyle of prostitution and illegal substance abuse. She continued in that lifestyle for a number of years, cutting herself completely off from her family, her friends, everyone. That is, until she was apprehended during that undercover drug bust about six years ago." Marguerite stopped here. She locked eyes with Brass..
"You seem pretty happy that she's gone Ms. Rodriquez," Sara jumped on the woman's sense of confidence, seeking a flaw, a tear in her sense of certainty. She was rewarded, for a moment. A quick flash of panic flickered in Marguerite's eyes as she turned her gaze to meet with Sara's. It was nothing more than a glimmer…but Sara caught it. And so, she gathered, did Catherine.
"Look," Ms. Rodriquez began, leaning forward and linking her fingers together just below her knees and placing her eyes back on Brass. "She was trouble, from the very beginning of her life until the very end. She was my sister, so, yes, I loved her. But honestly, Detective, the world's a much better place, without people like…like her. I'm a lawyer, after all. I do know what I'm talking about. And I'm sure all three of you would agree with me." She leaned back on the sofa once again.
"Were you aware that she was released from prison almost one month ago?" Detective Brass continued on as though Ms. Rodriquez's reactions were normal, but Sara knew better. She watched Marguerite's reaction. Again, the same flicker of something in her eyes, there for a moment then gone.
"Yes, I was. She telephoned me around that time, asking for a place to stay."
"And you refused her?"
"Of course I did Detective! I hadn't spoken civilly to my beloved sister in over ten years! The only reason she's ever contacted me was to ask for money or a place to stay while she was "working one off." I didn't have time for that bullshit then and I certainly don't have time for it now." Gone was the calm, composed façade of a moment ago. Marguerite's face was beat red. The veins in her forehead were prominent and her skin was stretched taut on the sides of her neck as she strained in anger. No amount of Clinique could cover this temper or the fury brewing underneath the surface. Someone this volatile was bound to snap eventually. And perhaps, Sara thought chillingly to herself, she already had.
"Um, Ms. Rodriquez?" Sara filled in the silence with a question. The woman turned, the color in her face slowly fading from crimson to a paler shade of pink. "May I use your restroom?" And there it was again, the flash of uneasiness in her eyes, followed by a quiet nod.
"Down the hall, third door on your left." Sara forced a smile and headed through the living room door. She glanced back over her shoulder briefly, catching Catherine's gaze. Catherine's eyes communicated a silent "what are you up to". The corner of Sara's mouth rose as she walked out of sight.
She heard the voices of Brass, Catherine and Ms. Rodriquez as they resumed their questioning . But Sara didn't want to waste time with questions. They had a very tentative timeline were Grissom's kidnapping was concerned, and no one was even sure that this murdered woman had any connection. But something about Ms. Rodriquez wasn't adding up and Sara intended to find out what it was. Sara had no interest in using the bathroom…but she did have every interest in snooping around. Glancing left and right, Sara visually combed every inch of the hallway. An oriental rug adorned the oak hardwood floor. A long mahogany coffee table sat underneath a painting, a Monet reproduction, Water lilies, atop which sat a ceramic bowl full of potpourri, lavender, and a collection of scented candles. The first two doors on her left led to both a well organized laundry nook, complete with high end washer and dryer, and a pantry, fully stocked, neither holding anything of interest at first glance. To her right, Sara observed a full country kitchen, decorated in neutral colors, burnt sienna marble countertops, sand colored cabinets, the works. She was about to walk by when something sparkled, something metallic catching the rays of the midmorning sun. Sara squinted, focusing all her visual energy on the small silver object sitting in plain site on the marble island. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and looked again, afresh.
Glancing over her shoulder and gratefully hearing the reward of continued voices coming from the living room, Sara took a tentative step into the kitchen. In short order, she approached the island but then, stopped short. Her eyes became captivated, staring intently at the object that lay motionless in front of her. In most households, a cell phone lying on a kitchen counter was an ordinary thing. But, as Sara had realized, this phone was special for two reasons. Slowly, almost reverently, she closed the distance between herself and the phone.
The first characteristic that classified this phone as unique were the small, but distinguishable blood drops on the otherwise shiny faux steel casing. There were three or four of the pinhead sized spatter marks, dried to a dark maroon. Sara was began to reach for the phone when common sense stopped her short. Looking over her shoulder like a guilty child sneaking a sweet before supper, Sara slipped on a latex glove and then, only then, did she pick up the phone. She had a hunch. Her brain was ninety-nine percent sure…but for science's sake…she had to be one hundred percent certain. With a slow intake of breath, Sara flipped open the phone. For a moment she did nothing but stare, mouth slightly open, skin clammy despite the constant flow of centralized air, a single tear gathering on the lower lid of her left eye. Then, catching herself, she closed the phone, wrapping it as tightly as she could in her still gloved hand, and hid it casually behind her back.
Re-entering the living room, Sara could tell that Brass was almost done questioning Marguerite. She glanced at Catherine and found a question mark burning brightly behind each iris of her beautifully blue eyes. Sara's eyes sparkled in return, but she managed to keep her emotions veiled.
"Did you find everything alright?" Marguerite looked in Sara's direction, her eyes and voice steady, her inflection, irritatingly sweet. Sara was preoccupied but managed a polite nod of her head and a half smile. Brass stood, and both Catherine and Marguerite followed suit.
"I do hope you'll keep me informed Detective Brass, on any developments concerning my sister's unfortunate fate." Marguerite's smile was saccharin, nauseatingly so, but all three of the Las Vegas Crime Lab interlopers managed to let it slide.
"Of course, Ms. Rodriquez, of course. And, if you happen to, ah, remember anything, you'll be sure and let us know, eh?" Brass didn't even attempt to veil his sarcasm. As Brass continued with the formalities required in order to bring their time in Ms. Rodriquez's home to a close, Sara grabbed Catherine's forearm, silently but pointedly ushered her out the front door and into smoldering Vegas sun.
"Sara, " Catherine breathed, the question marks that once hid behind her eyes now expelling themselves from between her lips. "What in heaven's name is wrong with you?" Sara's eyes locked on to Catherine's as she tentatively pulled the phone from its hiding place behind her shoulder blades. It lay still, silently unmoving in the palm of her latex encased hand, but despite its outward silence, the phone managed to speak volumes. Catherine exhaled sharply and before she allowed herself to take inventory of the item in Sara's hand, her supervisory, almost parental, qualities began to exude themselves.. "Sara, you know you can't take anything from this house without a warrant. Even if this turns out to be viable evidence, without a warrant you know it'll be thrown out of court. What the hell were you thinking?" Catherine's eyes blazed as she questioned her friend. But Sara had a comeback that even Catherine hadn't seen coming. And in all her sanctimonious ramblings, even Catherine's trained eyes had missed this important clue.
"Catherine," Sara began, her heart racing as she edged one step closer to her enraged female superior. "I don't care about courts and search warrants. Right now, I'm thinking about Grissom. Catherine…look at this phone" It was at that point, when Catherine allowed her skills to take the place of policy, that she saw with fresh eyes what Sara had seen moments before in the air conditioned oasis of a kitchen. Sitting innocently in Sara's palm, its metallic façade seeming to glitter with the morning's radiance, was Gil Grissom's cell phone.
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Greg and Hodges, albeit varied in rank, personality and intellect, now sat side by side With evidence results in hand they were the proverbial dealers, turning a case with a turn of their cards.. Nick and Warrick stood before them, two anxious blackjack players, awaiting that flip of the card that would give them the magic 21. Hodges, seeker of fame and glory, chest puffed like the pigeon he was, opened his mouth to speak. But Greg, edgy, more than a little bit more intelligent, and ever the show stealer, jumped the gun.
"All the blood, chemical and soil tests are in on the trace evidence found in both Grissom's condo and Carman Rodriquez's motel room." Gregg's eyes sparkled, tinged with that tiny bit of insanity that made criminalistics his ideal calling. "As you both know, we found dirt in both places; on the windowsill of Grissom's bedroom and tracked onto the floor of Ms. Rodriquez's room . All the soil samples contained, on the whole, the same trace elements. The conclusion therefore, is that the soil found in both places… came from the same area." He paused, regained eye contact with his audience, took a breath, then continued. "The liquid we found on the vent in Grissom's condo was liquid ether, more specifically, isoflurane, a type of halogenated ether. which reverts to a liquid form once it reaches room temperature. It looks like the isoflurane was pumped into Grissom's condo via the air ducts and converted back into it's liquid state once it warmed." Greg shifted from one foot to the other, his nervous anxiety beginning to show, like a teenager who had ingested too much Starbucks. Hodges took this moment to put his two cents in.
"Moving on to the motel room trace, I ran the tests on your blood sample. All the blood found in the room was the victim's."
"But here's where it gets interesting." Greg jumped back in, receiving a glare from Hodges for his trouble. "Doc Robinson did uncover a single bloody fingerprint, a partial, on the underside of the victim's neck, underneath her hair. AFIS is still searching for a match as we speak." With a sigh, Greg sat down on the high-legged steel lab chair, leaning back, folding his arms limply in his lap . "Other than that, guys, I got nothing." Greg's eyes searched both Warrick's and Nick's anxious expressions.
"You guys have any luck?"
"The shoeprint Nick found outside Gil's place is still running through the database. " Warrick ran a hand over the back of his neck restlessly . "And I'm just about to get back to going over the computer equipment from the motel room with a fine toothed comb."
"Well, " Greg stood once again, the energy and anxiety coursing through his veins a tangible source in the small, glass-enclosed room. He looked in Nick's direction. " I will start calling pet stores around the city, see if anyone purchased or ordered any of those scorpions you found in the past few weeks." Nick granted Greg a half smile as he watched him practically bounce out of the lab. How did he retain so much energy. Nick's eyes were tired, bags beginning to form under his lower lids, the fatigue of Grissom's disappearance and their long hours taking its toll.
"Do you guys really think you'll find him in time?" Hodges callously spoke the words that plagued the back of everyone's mind. Upon hearing the dreadful thoughts spilling from Hodges unceremonious lips, every eye glared in his direction, just as every heart skipped a beat in fear. No one bothered to issue a reply.
Warrick took this opportunity to take his departure, walking silently from the rest of the group, and seating himself despairingly in the cool steel chair which sat opposite the laptop recovered from the motel room. Warrick's nature was usually tinged with melancholy, but today, more so than usual. He couldn't shake the sense of foreboding fear over Grissom's disappearance. Warrick knew the team was good, he knew the team was thorough, and he knew that in time, Grissom would be found. But without a timeframe, concrete evidence or even a viable suspect, Warrick knew that both Grissom's time ,and the team's time, was running increasingly short. And to top off his frustration, he'd been working on this computer for more than an hour and still wasn't having any luck. This software was more watertight than the bottom of a canoe. He'd started running the system through the lab's decoding software, but knew it could take hours to get a hit. What had him concerned was the webcam attached to the laptop. Memories of Nick's ordeal several months prior played out in his memory, the possibility of similar torture being afflicted upon Grissom caused his hands to clench into tense, trembling fists, his frame shaking slightly. He cursed softly to himself.
"Whoa there, calm down tiger." Nick's voice always seemed to sooth Warrick's wind tossed emotions, which is why the two made such good coworkers. But today, with Grissom missing for over fifteen hours and the case one big dead end, even Nick's dulcet tones didn't bring much peace. Nick entered the dark computer lab having just returned from recovering information on the shoe print found under Grissom's window. His navy sweater and blue jeans were more than a bit wrinkled, but it was his face that showed the truest signs of his stress and emotion. He laid a hand comfortingly on Warrick's shoulder he sat beside him. "Not much luck with the laptop huh?" Warrick turned and a sigh escaped his lips without his consent. He merely shook his head, his eyes conveying all the negativity Nick needed to answer his question. He elicited a soft sigh of his own.
"I can't help but think of how much this situation has in common with your kidnapping," Warrick voiced, allowing feeling to override science for one brief moment. "I look at this computer, at this webcam, and can't help but imagine a helpless Grissom on the other side, suffering, and we can't do a damn thing about it." His muscles began to tense again but this time he merely shook it off.
"I know where you're coming from," Nick replied, his foot tapping lightly, trying hard to erase the anxiety building within his own muscular frame. "But if we let our emotions and our thoughts second guess our evidence and our knowledge, we'll fail before we even have a chance at success." Warrick turned, looking Nick directly in the eye.
"Now you sound like Grissom." Nick paled slightly at his words, but something also warmed deep inside him. Nick gave Warrick a small smile and focused his attention on the computer print out he'd brought into the computer lab.
"I finally got a result on that shoe print we found under Grissom's window," Nick had Warrick's full attention.
"Whatta ya got Nick?" Glad to have something to do, both Warrick and Nick turned their eyes on the printout.
"The print is from an Adidas Barricade, quality, expensive, high end sneaker. It's either a men's size nine or a woman's size ten." Warrick nodded, although he had long since lost track of all the latest fashion trends in his quest for occupational perfection.
"Well, at least it's another piece in the puzzle." Warrick knew that each piece they uncovered would help them to solve this labyrinth in which they now found themselves. But where each piece would fit, that was the mystery. His comment elicited a silent nod from his partner. With a final sigh and a bit of a grunt, Warrick adjusted himself on his seat and shook out his hands. "Better get back to this computer while I still have some stamina left." Nick gave him a smile and another pat on the shoulder. He was about to take his leave when Greg came running, almost sprinting into the lab.
"We got a match on that fingerprint." He was sweating, out of breath, but full of an energy that only comes with a truly amazing lead. He had Warrick and Nick's instant interest. "The print belongs too.." and he held out the sheet so everyone could view the results . In unison they all repeated the name aloud…softly. "Marguerite Rodriquez."
"Isn't that the sister of the woman we found in that motel room this morning?" Nick asked the question, but he already knew the answer. Warrick and Greg nodded, Greg so much so that Nick thought his head was going to fly from his shoulders.
"And check this out, "Greg continued, his momentum building, if such a thing were possible. "This may just be coincidence, but someone by the name of Marguerite Rodriquez, attorney at law, used her credit card to purchase no less than 200 scorpions less than a month ago from Exotic Pets on N. Decatur Boulevard." Nick and Warrick exchanged a look…and a smile.
"I don't know about you Rick," Nick began, pulling out his cell phone. "But I don't believe in coincidences do you?" He began punching in Brass's number. Warrick smiled again and shook his head.
"You better believe I don't."
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Sara and Catherine had been sitting silently inside their air-conditioned Tahoe for approximately forty five minutes. Their next move was, indeed, a tricky one. Sara had recovered crucial evidence linking Marguerite to Grissom's kidnapping, but without a warrant, in court or anywhere else, it was as good as useless. Catherine stared, seemingly at nothing, through the closed window of the SUV. Her mind was working like a well oiled machine, but one could not tell behind her beautifully serene and composed features. Sara, on the other hand, looked pensive. Her eyebrows were drawn, her forehead slightly wrinkled, her eyes locked onto her hands, one on top of the other, palm side up, the topmost hand holding, almost reverently, Grissom's cell phone. Brass was seated within his Taurus, going over the notes from their interesting time with Ms. Rodriquez. Catherine allowed her eyes to linger on the stocky, balding, navy blue suited detective. Her admiration for Brass and his dedication for his work, and their team, never wavered. He was on their side one hundred and ten percent of the time and Catherine felt incredible tenderness well up, if only for a moment, at his perseverance during this case.
Catherine's internal reverie was momentarily interrupted when she noticed Brass hastily grabbing for his cell phone. He spoke rapidly, his horizontal mouth slowly forming into an abstract half moon as he hung up the line. Almost as quickly as the call was over, Catherine noticed him dialing in another number, followed by a five minute conversation and an even wider smile. As his phone clicked shut, he opened the door to his vehicle, almost jumping to his feet, and approached his female coworkers. Catherine rolled down the window and smiled sweetly in his direction.
"You've had an interesting few minutes, " she quipped, her teeth sparkling in the sunlight, rivaling that of gloss-covered lips. Brass, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses but his wide smile revealing a somewhat chipper disposition, nodded his agreement.
"Want some good news or some greater news?" Sara lifted her eyes, covering Grissom's phone with her still-gloved left hand.
"Both," she replied, not waiting for Catherine to respond. Brass continued to grin.
"Apparently, Dr. Robbins found a bloody fingerprint on the back of Carman Rodriquez's neck. The boys back at the lab ran it through AFIS and they found a very interesting match." Catherine and Sara's eyebrows raised at the same time, an interesting affect not unnoticed by Brass. But, in all urgency, he continued on. "This same 'match' also used her credit card to purchase quite a few of those stinging friends we found in Carman's motel room. That's the good news." Brass took a breath and continued as Catherine and Sara exchanged glances. "The greater, um, better news is that I just talked to the judge and we'll have a search warrant for our match's house in our hands in approximately ten minutes, care of the LVPD."
"So what are we waiting for?" Catherine responded, anxious to find the answers; the puzzle pieces they all so desperately needed. "When do we leave?." Brass only smiled more broadly, if such a feat was possible.
"No need my dear Ms. Willows, no need. We are already here." There went the eyebrows again.
"Let me guess," Sara interjected, beginning to slowly open the door to the Tahoe. "Sister dearest?" Her question elicited a slow, deliberate nod from Brass.
As if on cue, a tell tale black and white Ford rolled slowly to a stop a few feet behind Brass's vehicle. A tall, reasonably good looking officer strode confidently towards the bunch, a sheet of familiar white paper in his hand.
"Detective Brass, " he approached the detective with an easy but respectful manner. "Here's your warrant sir. " Brass offered his thanks, receiving a tip of the officer's hat and a smile in return. As the faithful courier stood in waiting, Brass turned once again to Catherine and Sara.
"Ready to start putting this puzzle together?" The look in their eyes was answer enough. Helping Catherine from the car and joined by Sara on his left, the four crime stoppers once again approached the Mexican-style condominium of Ms. Marguerite Rodriquez, attorney at law. Sara lingered behind her two superiors, holding the phone just out of view…from Brass but more importantly, from the prying eyes of their number one suspect. Ms. Rodriquez opened the door slowly, her appearance still impeccable, although her countenance seemed fatigued, if not tinged with agitation.
"Did you forget something?" she asked, her voice dripping with false interest. Sara even detected a hint of sarcasm. Brass didn't bat an eyelash; eyelashes that were now clearly visible with the slow removal of his sunglasses. His eyes sparkling with a mixture of anger , at her betrayal, and excitement, at the prospect of finding his friend.
"No, no, we didn't forget anything," Brass began, the tone of his voice light and friendly, belying the emotions that ran deeper than he was allowed to express. "But it seems you left out some very important details Ms. Rodriquez." The woman's eyes grew wide and the anxiety which Sara had seen flash within them sporadically throughout their earlier discussion, now made itself quite at home. She shifted from one foot to the other.
"I don't know what you mean." Sara raised an eyebrow. She didn't have time for this nonsense.
"Oh I think you do," she interceded, catching half-angry glances from Catherine and Brass. She didn't flinch, locking her eyes onto Ms. Rodriquez with an intensity that made the anxiety she was feeling shift to mild fear. Sara took pleasure in her discomfort.
"You did some shopping not too long ago, " Brass continued, brushing off Sara's interruption and continuing with his dialogue. Marguerite raised her eyebrows, begging Brass to continue, feigning ignorance.
"I do quite a bit of shopping Mr. Brass. This is, after all, Las Vegas." Her cool tone did not betray her unease, but all those on her small stone stoop knew better.
"Well, that may be true Ms. Rodriquez, " Brass replied, "but this was a rather, ah, unusual purchase." Again, her eyebrows rose. "Scorpions, Ms. Rodriquez. Lots and lots of scorpions." Marguerite's café latte complexion became more latte then café as the color drained from every pore. She had no response, no comeback, no interjection. So she did what any intelligent attorney would do. She asked for a lawyer.
"Of course, Ms. Rodriquez. You can phone your lawyers as soon as you like," Brass conceded, smiling as he gently touched her arm. "You can phone your lawyer on your way to the station where I'll be asking you some questions. Myself and my colleagues here, however, will be making use of this search warrant," he brandished the white sheet so the woman could read it for herself, "after your departure. Officer, please escort Ms. Rodriquez to the station please." The hefty officer nodded his compliance and began to lead the woman towards his cruiser.
"Am I under arrest?" Marguerite was more a scared little girl at this point than she was high priced attorney. Brass turned from his place, in between the cool interior of Ms. Rodriquez's home and the ragged heat of the Vegas sun.
"Not yet. But we'll keep you informed." And with that, the cruiser door opened, then closed, and Brass watched as a very confused, very awestruck Marguerite was whisked to the Las Vegas police station.
Catherine and Sara had wasted no time in entering the house once Brass had presented Ms. Rodriquez with the warrant. Catherine turned to Sara as soon as Brass was out of range.
"I'll take the upstairs. Why don't you take the kitchen. See what you can, uh, dig up." Sara offered Catherine a half grin and one of her all too familiar raised eyebrow glances, indicating that she damn well knew the source of her sarcasm. Someone was looking out for her today. That warrant couldn't have come at a better time. With a nod, she began looking over the rest of the downstairs. Catherine watched Sara begin her work, marveling at her methodology and concentration. After a few moments of contemplation, Catherine began her moderate trek up the single flight of hardwood stairs leading to Ms. Rodriquez's top floor. The floor contained a master bedroom, a rather large bathroom, and what appeared to be a moderate sized loft.
The loft was blanketed in an attractive, high end taupe carpet. It was lush and Catherine imagined it would feel beautiful between one's toes. With a trained eye, she took in her surroundings slowly: a chaise, a coffee table adorned with a few larger hardback volumes, mainly showcasing modern art, a floor lamp and a few odd potted cacti, sitting here and there in attractive clay pots made up the loft decor. At first glance, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing, that is, except a few small, hardly distinguishable, dark red drops standing out like blemishes on the plush fawn carpeting. Opening her kit and setting it carefully on the floor beside her, Catherine grabbed a sterile swab. She poured a bit of hydrogen peroxide on the cotton tip, ran it gently over the first maroon spot she could reach, following that up with a few drops of phenolphthalein. She was rewarded with a bright pink response and the answer to her internal question. Blood drops.
Standing slowly, she began to follow the trail,. The trail led her into the master bedroom. The décor in this room could leave no doubt in anyone's mind of Ms. Rodriquez's success as a lawyer. There was a soft, French blue duvet cover, silk, enveloping an overly fluffed queen-sized bed. There was a mahogany armoire accented with rich, polished brass, matching bedside tables and cabinets, cashmere throws and pillows, crystal brass floor lamps, all the signs of a more than healthy bank account. Catherine stood still for a moment, taking an instant to drink in the lavishness. Then, merely shaking her head, she turned her attention back to the blood drops. Through the room they led, past the bed, past the expensive trimmings, and into a sizeable walk-in closet. It was there that the droplets disappeared from view. At least, Catherine though silently, to the naked eye. The closet was full of runway worthy attire, three figure price tags, shoes, accessories, box after box stacked upon the upper most shelf, more than a few Ralph's and Calvin's among them. Catherine had a hunch, a hunch backed up by a sufficient amount of evidence to make even the hunch-proof Grissom proud, that the murder weapon was probably in one of those boxes. Walking slowly back into the loft and recovering a bottle of luminol from her kit, Catherine returned to the closet and began spraying. Then, placing a glove on her left hand, she gave the closet door a soft tug, blanketing herself in darkness. But only for a moment. Within a mere half a moment, the darkness of the wardrobe was replaced by a clustered array of vibrant blue dots, illuminated by the interaction of blood with the luminol. The drops resumed their trail, from the floor to the sleeves of a few items hung closely together, and ended on the edge of an older, moderately sized, unmarked shoe box. With a satisfied smile, Catherine reopened the door to the closet, placed a glove on her right hand as well, and slowly reached up, softly grabbing the shoebox , tested its weight, and transported it to the top of the bedside table. With a quick breath, a clearing of her lungs, Catherine tried fruitlessly to repress her hopefulness. Tentatively, she took hold of the box top and removed it slowly. She was rewarded with a small handgun, the trigger slightly encased with a dry coat of blood, along with a blood-spattered, ivory silk blouse, wadded into an unattractive ball. To cover her bases, Catherine performed the Kastle-Meyer Color Test once more. The pink that greeted her eyes solidified her intuition. Replacing the cardboard cover on top of the box , she placed her findings safely into her kit, picked up the box containing the gun and the blouse, and walked quickly down the stairs to join Sara and see what, if anything, she had found.
Sara had combed every area of the lower floor, leaving the kitchen for last. Up until that point, she hadn't found anything of pertinence. Upon entering the kitchen, everything looked serene, calm. Sara began going through the drawers, the cabinets, anything she could get her hands on. Her search proved fruitful; a credit card bill from the month previous, listing charges to the pet store , the motel where her sister's body was found, as well as a few thousand dollars spent on electronic equipment , medical equipment and clothing. Also amongst the pile was a cell phone bill, a bill with multiple calls from one number in particular, a number that Sara would identify as soon as they returned to the lab. She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. The puzzle was finally coming together.
She had just begun opening the door to the garage when she felt Catherine's breath on the back of her neck. She turned her head and greeted Catherine's gaze with her own.
"Find anything?" Catherine smiled.
"Only if you consider dried blood, a handgun and a bloody blouse anything." Sara offered Catherine a smile of her own. Then, with a small push, Sara opened the door to Ms. Rodriquez's garage. It was quiet, relatively uncluttered, housing a tool bench, now covered in clay pots and un-potted flowers, various gardening tools, cardboard moving boxes, and a silver BMW coupe, a newer model. With each one silently taking their own side, the two women began examining the room. Catherine slowly began combing through the cardboard moving boxes, collecting dirt samples, while Sara concentrated on the car, gathering fingerprints from the steering wheel and car doors as well as collecting a few soil samples of her own. After a half hour, neither had come up with anything substantial, despite their thorough and valiant efforts.
"Well, " Catherine began, as she and Sara converged once more, stripping the gloves off of her hands with a resounding snap , "I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I think we've found more than enough evidence to link Ms. Rodriquez to both the killing and Grissom's disappearance." Sara nodded silently, her eyes distant. With a slow turn of her head, she took in the garage exterior one last time. It was on this last visual examination, however, that something new attracted Sara's attention. Moving quietly towards the gardener's bench, she viewed anew a pair of mud encased tennis shoes, tennis shoes she somehow had failed to see. Catherine moved to stand beside her.
"Catherine, can you pass me the luminol please?" Without a word, Catherine passed Sara the spray bottle. Sara scraped off a bit of mud into a plastic evidence bag, then proceeded to give the shoes a few quick squirts of luminol. She was greeted with a spattering of bright blue droplets. Using a swab to collect the blood evidence, she handed her findings to Catherine to tuck safely away, proceeded to bag the shoes, then stood quickly.
"Come on. We've got a lot to do and we're running out of time."
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Grissom's deductive reasoning allowed him to conclude that he had been trapped in this plastic prison for approximately 20 hours. In that time, as the hours crawled by, he had tried to force himself to sleep, and for mere moments at a time, he had succeeded. But his mouth was dehydrated, partly due to the lingering effects of the ether, partly due to the sand, dust and pollen particles that sucked the very moisture from him. His stomach rumbled incessantly, the glazed donut he'd eaten more than 20 hours earlier no longer fulfilling his need. More than once he'd waved at the webcam in the corner of his cell, but since he didn't know much about his own whereabouts, he couldn't help anyone with much success. He'd long since discovered that his cell phone was missing, so his ability to aide his team was extremely limited.
As time passed agonizingly slow, Grissom had divided his time equally between three activities: motioning to the webcam, an activity he found increasingly pointless, examining the scorpions, he was fascinated by the species, and avid contemplation. The scorpions, without food and water themselves, a ignorant mistake on his kidnappers part, were slowly beginning to die. Grissom realized that without water, he was looking at a very limited survival quotient as well. But strangely, as he sat on the dusty, sandy floor, pondering to himself, he came to the satisfying realization that death did not scare him. What ignited even the smallest flicker of trepidation in his heart was the thought of incompletion. There were so many things he hadn't done, knowledge he hadn't obtained and people he hadn't connected with. He'd wanted to see his cockroaches win just one more race. He wanted to travel deep within the Amazonian rainforest to find a species of beetle never before discovered. He wanted to be there to applaud with joy when Catherine took his place as grave shift supervisor. He wanted…The thought that came next was a difficult one. But here, faced with his own mortality, Grissom allowed himself the luxury. With a small, quick breath, he uttered her name.
"Sara." Her name lingered on his lips like the last sweet remnants of a decadent dessert. At this point in his life, he regretted Sara. Another time, another place, perhaps. But Grissom knew, from experience, that all the odds were stacked against them, stacked against them before they even began. He had been aware of Sara's infatuation, and his own, from that first meeting so many years ago. Perhaps it was selfishness that had incited his decision to bring her to Vegas, wanting her close yet allowing extreme caution to dictate his decisions. It hadn't been fair to her and he had to be honest, it hadn't been fair to him. He'd dated, dated quite a bit, even since her arrival. But his schedule, his mindset, his cloistered emotions, his ideals and work ethic, one thing or another set him up for failure before he even asked for a phone number. He recognized, if he recognized anything, that he and Sara were very much alike. He valued her insight, her work ethic, her stamina, and while he'd deny it on the stand, he even valued her emotional sway. Grissom knew his success in the field was due not only to his knowledge, but to his ability to keep an emotional distance from the suspects and victims within the cases he worked. But he was not beyond noticing how Sara's emotional connection to this situation or that individual also allowed her a unique edge when it came to bringing the evidence together. Grissom also knew that he was an intense person. If he allowed emotions to take even the slightest foothold, there was no guarantee he could keep it under control. It had taken years to suppress his heart the way he had, years of pain and emotional numbness. He wasn't completely certain that, if he opened a crack in his countenance, that the floodgates wouldn't open as well, a deluge of repressed emotion that he wouldn't be able to control.
And yet, seated here in more than an inch of dirt, his mouth aching for a cool sip of water, his stomach sour from lack of food, fighting off the mental urge to visually imagine his untimely end, the prospect of a kindred spirit, someone who truly understood who he was and why he was, a soft hand on his cheek, a pair of sympathetic fawn-colored eyes absorbing his psychological fatigue as readily and willingly as a sponge absorbs spilled water, seemed like the proverbial mirage in the desert; implausibly appealing yet inconceivably unattainable. And than another thought flickered within the movie theatre of his psyche. How would he be remembered? As a solid leader, a fine supervisor, an entomological force, a prodigy of sorts, all worldly accolades. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought; a sad, very small smile indeed. He appreciated the thought that he would be remembered for his work. After all, his work encompassed him, body, mind and dare he admit, spirit as well. But what caused Grissom the most sadness was the fact that he would not be remembered for his success within his relationships. He knew he'd tried to stick up for his team, tried to make others see them for all that they were, prepping them for individual success, not just success within the Las Vegas crime lab. But he wished, wanted more than he realized, to have had a more interpersonal relationship with those around him. Catherine had been the only person who'd seen past the surface. He'd only allowed her that privilege because of her insistence of such a connection and because he knew there was no underlying romantic connotations. But when was the last time he'd taken Warrick out for coffee…accompanied Nick to a ball game…allowed Greg to ramble without taking issue…talked to doc Robbins about his wife or even asked Catherine about her daughter? With these internal questions silently answered, Grissom felt a strong pang of regret.
Rising, painfully, from his squatted position in the corner, Grissom walked up towards the webcam. He felt the ache in the middle of his back as he waved, not quite as exaggerated as in times previous, but still with effort. And then, thoughts, so many thoughts, of never tasting the pungent juice of a ripe orange, never inhaling the bitterly rich aroma of freshly ground coffee, never experiencing the delicate tickle of a tarantula's delicate hairs on the palm of his handy, never again gazing on a luscious valley of maple, birch , and oak in full autumn splendor, never feeling the silken caress of a supple female hand upon the ragged day old stubble of his cheek. Oh dear Lord, there were so very many nevers. What started as a trickle soon became a torrent as a flood of "what-ifs" crashed like ocean waves upon his soul. And, surprising even himself, he began to pound, harder, harder, on the Plexiglas panels beside him, the sides of his clenched hands becoming red with the repeated abuse, his voice rising loudly then escalating into a scream, almost begging for help to arrive. Gil Grissom realized he was not ready to die after all.
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Warrick, Nick and Greg were all gathered in a huddled half circle around the smooth aluminum table on which sat the lap top Warrick had gathered from the dead girl's motel room. All three watched with anticipation as Warrick typed incessantly, trying desperately to place the last pieces of this particular puzzle together. He was close. They knew it. He knew it. Sweat had formed in miniscule droplets along the line of coarse hair on his forehead and amidst the two day old stubble of his upper lip. Five more keystrokes, then four, three, two, one. There! He was in! He looked momentarily into the expectant eyes Nick and then Greg.
"Ok, cowboy," Nick said, his eyes moving from screen to keypad to Warrick's emotionally charged green eyes. "Let's see what this baby has to say." Warrick nodded and with an exaggerated punch of the keys, he granted himself entrance to the informational world of Carman Rodriquez's computer. Searching superficially through various files, the team found nothing of apparent importance on first glance. Warrick took a breath then exhaled hard. He rubbed his eyes with his index fingers, the images on the screen beginning to blur from fatigue. Warrick felt his stomach rumble unexpectedly, then he realized he hadn't eaten in over ten hours. Before he had time to regroup, he felt Nick at his side.
"I'll take over big guy," he said, placing a reassuring hand on Warrick's shoulder. "You should go take a break." Warrick wanted to resist, but his weary eyes, swimming head and empty stomach spoke otherwise. With a defeated nod, he rose and walked from the room. "Why don't you go see if Hodges has any thing else for us Greg" Realizing that Nick wanted to handle something on his own, Greg raised an eyebrow, gave a quick wave of his fingers and took his leave. Nick took a sharp breath of his own as he began working on the small console. He knew what he was looking for, he just had to find it. Searching with click stroke after click stroke, he finally found a suspicious folder filled with oddly titled .jpeg files. But it was the group with the file name "bugman" followed by a series of sequential numbers that got his immediate attention. He clicked on the most recent photograph. Immediately, before his wide and unblinking eyes, a still webcam photo of a seemingly dozing Grissom seated on a dark dirt floor filled the fifteen inch screen. Before Nick had time to register the image, another one, this one newer, untitled but also of Grissom, this time standing with fists against glass walls, covered the first. Nick investigated. Apparently, the still images were coming from a webcam, a webcam capable of capturing still shots every so often as well as offering a nonstop video feed. Nick searched frantically for the webcam's program, a wireless webcam connection that would take him into the silent but active world of Gil Grissom's prison. With little effort, he was soon rewarded.
With a click of the mouse, Nick was transported into a fuzzy, mute scene; a scene that contained the captive Grissom who now appeared to be beating his hands, palms open, against invisible walls. From this angle, Nick could see his face only from the right side, but he could see that he was yelling, screaming, something. Struck with a deep pang of fear, Nick envisioned the numerous types of torture that Grissom could be subjected too at this very moment. Without resistance, tears formed on his lower lids, making way for a quiet stream that etched its way down his unshaven cheeks. He jumped, jerked really, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Warrick stood over him, to his left, looking with wide eyes at the same images Nick was seeing. But he soon turned his eyes towards his friend.
"He's alive Warrick." It was a statement, not a question. Warrick shook his head.
"There's no guarantee these photos are recent nor is there any guarantee this webcam is up to date." He tightened the grip on Nick's shoulder. "I want Grissom safe and sound as much as you do man, but we have to be realistic." Nick's head turned with amazing quickness. His eyes, full of tears but firm and hard, bore into Warrick's with unwavering intensity.
"He's alive Warrick." And with that, he rose. With a brush of fingers beneath his eyes, he wiped away the tears. Warrick sighed, understanding his colleagues' insistence but still, his experience in unhappy endings plagued any hope of optimism. Nick was ready to exit the workroom and Warrick prepared to continue his work with the computer when an exuberant Greg raced to the open doorway. He was smiling, that silly, childish grin that both annoyed Warrick, but also forced him to smile.
"Nick, Warrick, come quick." He was panting now, unable to catch his breath, but unwilling to wait to deliver his obviously amazing news. "Brass just brought in our suspect." Warrick and Nick exchanged glances, their eyes wide with amazement. "Well don't just stand there," Greg continued, almost dancing from one foot to another. "Catherine and Sara are just starting with Brass. You don't want to miss this."
"Yeah, " Nick added, stepping forward, " and it looks like we have some new evidence to add to the mix."
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In the small interrogation room, the long aluminum table reflected the fluorescent lamps that rose atop it, the two glasses of water that sat upon it, and the faces of Catherine, Sophia, Detective Brass and Marguerite Rodriquez, seated above it. Behind the one way mirror, the faces of Nick , Warrick and Greg were pressed together, watching and waiting. Sara was there as well, but she had forced herself to sit away from the glass, in one of the hard plastic chairs provided them. Her eyes were awake, vivid, like a cat watching a mouse, taking in every moment and nuance of the woman seated across from her colleagues. The three men before here were almost pushing through the glass, their short, even breath making snowflake designs, each quickly melting, fading in the humidity. They were all silent as the grave.
"Are you sure you don't want a lawyer present Ms. Rodriquez?" Detective Brass was making sure all formalities were out of the way before he allowed Catherine full reign with the suspect. Ms. Rodriquez shook her head, silent. She looked different now, Sara had noticed. While she was still clothed in the same attire as earlier in the day, her skin, once radiant, now seemed sallow, her eyes, once bright, seemed distant. All in all, Ms. Rodriquez seemed defeated. That, Sara reasoned, was the cost of bearing such a heavy burden in secrecy.
"Ms. Rodriquez, you are aware that we acquired a search warrant for your home and property this afternoon. The reason for this warrant of which you've been thoroughly informed." Catherine remained calm, but her heart was beating quickly. She continued, trying to speak slowly but the words rushing out a bit more freely than she could contain. "Sara Sidle and I searched your house. We found this," she laid out the evidence bag containing the blood stained blouse, "this", the bag with the tennis shoes, "and this", finally, the bag with the gun. "We also turned up blood evidence on your premises. Upon investigation, the DNA lab has shown that the blood from your house, the blood on this blouse, the blood on these shoes, and the blood on the muzzle of the gun, are all consistent with that of your sister, Carman, murdered not twenty four hours earlier. Also, we checked your credit card statements and phone call records. The statements show some rather large purchases were made in the last week or so. A lap top computer, a webcam, wireless routers and a canister of ether from a medical supply store. And this charge, a rather strange purchase from an exotic pet store. It seems you purchased three hundred Deathstalker scorpions." Catherine allowed herself only a small breath before she continued. "We have matched your fingerprints to the gun and traces of your epithelials as well. But here's the interesting twist. We found a tennis shoe print outside a Gilbert Grissom's condominium yesterday evening. The print matches these tennis shoes exactly. Now, Ms. Rodriquez…is there anything you'd care to say?"
As the evidence quickly stacked against her, Marguerite said nothing. Her eyes remained downcast and Sara swore she saw a nearly invisible trail of tears winding down her cheeks. Catherine and Detective Brass had witnessed this as well.
"Marguerite, " Catherine leaned forward. " I know your sister was into a lot of trouble. I know she was a burden. Perhaps she pushed you too far. Perhaps she sickened you by her actions. Fear, anger, it's all understandable. But you were in her hotel room, you saw her laptop and her webcam, a webcam that was taking video and snapshots of Dr. Grissom. And you had this on your kitchen counter." She finally lay the evidence bag with Grissom's phone on the table. At this, Marguerite raised her eyes, and the evidence of her tears was visible, two light trails traveling through the foundation on her brown skin. She let out a sigh, shaking slightly.
"If I tell you were to find this Grissom, can you cut me a deal?" Her voice was surprisingly strong for one in such an emotional state. Catherine swallowed her shock and looked to Brass. Brass's features were unmoving, stoic, solid. He approached the table and placed his hands on the cool metal.
"We can't make any guarantees Ms. Rodriquez. But, if you cooperate, it will look quite favorable to the DA. We can then try and make a plea for involuntary manslaughter. But that's the best we can do." Marguerite knew she was outnumbered and defeated. She could try to fight, cop an attitude, hold out for as long as her pride allowed, but even with all her law school training, there was too much evidence, too much dirt, too much water under the bridge. She knew she'd be a fool not to take Brass's offer. And she was tired…so very tired. With another sigh, her shoulders sunk forward, sagging slightly.
"Alright." Marguerite's eyes quickly flitted from Brass's own to the full glass of water on the table. Without a word, Brass nodded. Grasping the glass of water with both hands as if clinging to it for her very life, she took a long, slow drink. Then, placing the glass gently on the table once more, she cleared her throat and began.
"What I told you about my sister being the black sheep was absolutely true. When I was a teenager, I was so embarrassed by her actions. Here I was, the older ,wiser sibling, doing my best to make a name for myself, working so hard to get the good grades, the scholarships, the accolades so I could get into a top ten college. And Carman, she was hell bent on further sullying our family's name. My parents were lower class at best, you see. We grew up in a very small mobile home, one bedroom shared between my sister, my parents and myself. We scraped by, literally scraped by. We were Hispanic…and my parents shared one high school education between them. My father had over twenty odd jobs over his lifetime, usually part time, usually third shift and very few with any type of benefits. My mother tried to work in a respectable position, but soon the allure of prostitution and easy money become too much for her to overcome. I suppose that's where my sister got the idea in the first place, what with mom sneaking all those men over to our house while dad was out working. I remember she, well, she used to peek through a crack in the door while my mom 'serviced' her customers. I read books. After all, Wonderland and Narnia were far more appealing locations."
At this point in her story, she took another long sip of water, this time holding on to the glass after she set it lightly on the aluminum, rubbing her left thumb idly up and down the cold, wet surface. "Anyway, it suffices to say, our life growing up wasn't all that great. I took the academic route, my sister chose a life of crime. And…I resented her for it. But after mom and dad died and I heard that Carmen was getting out of prison, I hoped to, I don't know, make a fresh start, let bygones be bygones. She called me, the week before she was going to be released. I was, tentative, but willing to trust. She fed me all this crap about a business opportunity and how she needed some supplies to get herself started. She fed me the stuff all family wants to hear, wants to believe. She was turning over a new leaf, she was a better person, all that bull. And I believed her. God help me I believed her."
"When she got out of prison, I met her, got her a motel room off the Strip and gave her my credit card. I told her that I was successful, very successful and I'd be happy to help her start her new life. I told her we could be a family again. She just…smiled. Then, a week went by and I heard nothing from her, even after several attempts to reach her on my cell phone. I became suspicious but God help me, I tried to repress the anger, the resentment, and fear that I'd been had, tricked once again by my own sister. It wasn't until I got my credit card statement, however, that I knew the truth. And I went…crazy. Something snapped. All the lies, the lifestyle, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it bubbled to the surface. I was like…a human volcano. Needless to say, I confronted her immediately in her motel room. It was…disgusting, food and dirty clothing everywhere. She hadn't showered in days and the room reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I started questioning her and got half assed answers, as I expected. She told me about some woman she'd met in prison, how she believed herself in love. She believed she'd been sent to this woman, sent to her in order that she might carry out some divine retribution against her assailants. She mentioned some ridiculous story of tainted cops, faulty evidence, biased investigators, political bullshit. It only stoked my rage. I don't think I even realized that I'd taken my gun with me when I left my house, but before I could stop myself, I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. I aimed it at her heart, wanting more than anything to hurt her in the same place she'd hurt me so many times. You know what she did? She laughed. The bitch laughed at me! And that, well, that was the icing on the cake. I fired, not knowing where I'd hit her or even caring. She fell back onto the bed…there was…so much blood."
At this confession, the tears began to flow steadily and freely down Marguerite's cheeks. She choked back sobs, her body shivering, shaking with the force of her emotion. No one moved or said a word, except Brass. He reached into his jacket and handed her a crumpled tissue. She thanked him wordlessly, blew her nose softly, dabbed her eyes, the mascara pooling in dark semicircles under each eye. She composed herself, sniffed lightly, then began once more.
"I hated myself after I fired. I didn't, I didn't mean to kill her. Honestly. But she looked, so peaceful, so…beautiful. Her body was bent, unnaturally, so, I moved her head slightly and closed her eyes. Then I saw the cell phone, read quickly through the numbers and messages and realized it couldn't be hers. I sat down in front of the laptop and saw the webcam photos of this man, this Grissom. He was older, with a beard, graying hair. Anyway, I assumed she had already had her way with him, probably killed him, so I left the laptop where it lay. I left those horrible scorpions alone as well. And that…that's everything. I thought the police would find her, perhaps think she committed suicide and that would be that."
The team, those in the room with Ms. Rodriquez and those behind the glass were equally bewildered. The puzzle had, in one surprisingly brief moment, come almost completely together. Nick's eyes were damp with tears, Warrick's eyes were fierce and bright, Greg's eyebrows were low and tightly knit while Sara sat seemingly without emotion. Catherine and Sophia exchanged glances with each other and with Brass, no one saying a word. It was Catherine who finally mustered up the effort to speak but her words were tight, soft, they didn't come easily. Meanwhile, Marguerite was retreating quickly into a half lucid world of her own design.
"Marguerite, why don't you tell us now where Grissom is?" Marguerite looked at her with empty eyes, no more tears now, no emotion at all, just numb emptiness.
"Who?"
"The man, with the beard and the graying hair. Grissom, Gil Grissom. He's been missing for almost two days. You said you know where your sister might have taken him?" Marguerite's eyes returned to the table top, staring into blankness. Sophia leaned forward as Catherine leaned backwards in silent exasperation.
"Marguerite…tell us where he is?" Wordlessly, as still as a mute, Marguerite reached into her tan Gucci pocketbook. It had gone through police security so no one recoiled in the fear that she might be carrying a weapon. Instead, they watched as she pulled out a pen and a piece of white scrap paper. Hastily, she scribbled, then handed the scrap to Catherine. It was an address.
"I hope you find him." Then with another look she motioned to Brass that she was finished. With a nod, Brass signaled to the policeman outside the door that Ms. Rodriquez was ready to be taken away. Catherine heard the faint voices as the door began to close.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." Then the door was closed again. Catherine stared at the scrap of paper silently as Sophia ushered the rest of the team into the small room. All eyes were on Catherine in that moment as she raised her head, her eyes brimming with unexpected tears, and she returned each of their gazes in turn. Then pushing herself to her feet, her hands braced upon the table's surface, she looked at Brass.
"Let's go." And in a flash, they began to exit the room in one big huddled group. Sara, however, felt herself linger slightly. She didn't rush to the door as the others had done and Catherine was the only one to notice her distress. Catherine went to Sara, saying nothing but asking plenty of questions with her eyes. Sara couldn't look at her.
"What if he's….what if he's already…." Sara could bring herself to say the world "dead" because the concept brought to light to many horrible realities. If Grissom was gone, if the sickos of the world had succeeded in hurting him, the man who knew so much, led so well, examined every possible nook and hiding place in people's minds, if they could kill him, then what she and her team was doing really was meaningless. Sara hadn't felt this afraid in years, not since she had been a child, hidden under her bed, while her mother and father screamed at the tops of their lungs, throwing glassware and insults like confetti. Catherine took her shoulders in her hands and began to guide her from the room. Sara relished in the warmth of her presence.
"He's not." She reassured, opening the door to let Sara pass through. Sara sought pacification in Catherine's eyes but found none. And in that moment, with Catherine's strength added to her own, she allowed herself once more to hope.
"Let's bring him home."
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Grissom sat with his head leaning against the wall of his cell. His breath came in short, ragged gulps as the oxygen within his box finally began to dwindle. His mouth ached for water, his thirst becoming an almost tangible force, a demon raking its thick claws against his throat, his lips, his tongue. His stomach, beyond empty, gnawed with hunger, more claws, the agony only sometimes overpowering his throbbing thirst. His hands were curled lifelessly in his lap. They were red and swollen from the hours he'd spent beating them upon the walls. In places he'd broken open the skin and his knuckles were caked in a thin layer of dried blood. His knees were bent, Indian style, but his full weight rested upon the plastic wall. To his left lay the handgun with a single bullet, the same handgun he'd pulled from the plastic bag hours before. Gently, he lifted it from it's resting place on the cool dust floor. He weighed it in his hands, back and forth, from one hand to the other. It would be so easy. One extension of his arm, one contraction of his index finger and all the pain, the demons in his stomach, the fire in his throat, it would all be over. And to Grissom's horror, he actually considered it.
Tossing the gun away in disgust, he allowed his eyes to wander through the Plexiglas, first to the collection of scorpions, all of them dead or dying, no longer a threat to anyone and then, to the faint hint of moonlight that entered his dark, rectangular world. Moonlight, blessed moonlight. Like a thread of purest silver, the one tiny beam penetrated the darkness, as if it were a sword from another realm. Grissom tried to hang on to that piece of light, to wrap the fingers of his soul around it, a heavenly raft that kept his mind afloat. But strangely, it wasn't the thread of moonlight that allowed him to retain hold of his sanity, but rather another image altogether. This image he kept always in the back of his mind, a mental cameo as distinct as a picture.
It was a brilliant sunny day in Vegas, the light streaming down around her in an almost liquid cascade of ambient light. There was a bright perimeter of vivid yellow tape surrounding her, surrounding her in her chocolate suede boots, her russet bootleg slacks, her coffee colored camisole covered by the black vest etched with familiar white letters. Her hair, pulled away from her face and strung lightly through the hole in her dark ball cap, caught the sun in a brilliant shimmer of softness, a few wayward strands playing gaily in the gentle breeze.. Her eyes, edges crinkled slightly around the edges, were locked upon his as her lips curled upward in a genuine smile. Sara. His Sara. Doing what she loved, deep within the thick of it all, getting her hands dirty, stretching her mind to its breaking point then coming back even stronger…just the way he liked her. Her spirit, her drive, her lust for life and her work, her admiration for Grissom, all these things were contained within the sparkle of her eyes, those eyes that Grissom yearned to lose himself within, but so often avoided. And yet, here, here in the darkness, here in the moment that teetered precariously between life and death, all fear, all presumption, all burdens slipped effortlessly away. In this moment, he could grasp all that he'd hoped for with both hands and shout unto the very heavens his heart's truest desire.
"Sara." It wasn't a scream. It was the slightest whisper, barely audible, but to his parched spirit, it echoed with luxurious exhilaration. And in that moment, as his eyes began to close, as his mind drifted painlessly away, he swore he heard bells ringing in jubilation.
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Sara sat in the front seat of the black Tahoe as Catherine raced towards the address listed on Marguerite's tiny scrap of white paper. Her back ached from the tension in her spine, but she wasn't about to relax. There was too much at stake and time was running out. The location listed was an abandoned farm, a good thirty miles from the bright lights of the Vegas strip. But with Catherine pushing the pedal to the floor, the SUV was traveling a good thirty miles over the posted speed limit. Ordinarily, Sara would have been alarmed, but in such an instance as this, she had to bite her tongue to keep from prodding her companion to go even faster. Behind her Nick and Greg were sitting silently, and Brass carried Warrick and Sophia in his Taurus. The vehicles were paced by three police cars, sirens flaring brilliantly in the night. Sara's heart was racing, her eyes scanning the roadside for their destination, even though she knew they wouldn't be there for five or ten minutes more. Nick and Greg were hushed uneasily behind her and she could feel, almost taste, their palpable anxiety. If Marguerite was being truthful, a fact Sara wasn't entirely certain of yet, then this was it, the end. Good or bad, they would find Grissom and they would bring him home.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Sara caught sight of a dilapidated barn. In the murky darkness of evening, she couldn't make out more details that that, but the distance and location seemed to be correct. She grabbed hold of Catherine's arm.
"There!" she practically screamed at Catherine who in response, turned the car with such force that Sara was certain they were maneuvering on only the two left wheels. The Tahoe, the Taurus and the three police cars surrounded the barn in an awkward semi-circle, lights flashing, flaring in a dazzling display. Sara had the car door open before the it had come to a complete stop and she wasn't alone. As her eyes become accustomed to the darkness, she saw that both Nick and Warrick were sprinting hastily in front of her. Her legs were two burdensome weights, unable to carry her as quickly as she would like. Her breath was coming in ragged gulps as she pushed herself to run harder, faster, willing herself towards an uncertain end.
Nick and Warrick reached the barn before Sara and she could see their searchlights weaving in and out of the barn's cavernous darkness. As she herself approached the barn's open door, she saw only muddy shadows at first glance. Taking out her own flashlight, she flashed it into the void. It wasn't until her light was coupled with Nick and Warrick's in a radiant triune of illumination, that she saw him. He was leaning, motionless against a Plexiglas wall, his shallow breathing producing a noticeable mist against the clear plastic that supported his head. And at this moment, Sara found she could not move.
In a blur every this around her was suddenly moving with incredible speed. Nick and Warrick, Catherine and Greg, Brass and Sophia, a slew of policemen, lights flashing, saws grinding, voices raised in an indiscernible babble. Sara watched helplessly as every effort was made to free Grissom. The sound of the chainsaw cutting a sizeable hole in his prison brought him slowly out of his slumber. Although he was severely weakened from lack of food and water, Sara was relieved to see that he was able to stand on his own albeit more than a little unsteady. As the last of the wall was cut away and Grissom was able to step into the world beyond, she saw him lean in close and whisper something inaudible into Nick's ear. Without hesitation, Nick reached into his vest pocket and handed Grissom a bottle of water. He downed the whole bottle in one long swallow.
It was at this point that Sara realized her feet were no longer planted to the ground on which she stood and she willed herself forward into the fray of helping hands and relieved friends. Grissom was smiling broadly but weakly as he willingly received a long, intense, almost violent embrace from Catherine whose tears moistening his dust-covered shirt. Nick, Warrick and Brass followed suit while Greg and Sophia offered firm but tender handshakes, carefully avoiding his wounded knuckles. And yet, Sara noticed that even as he embraced his colleagues and friends, he seemed to be searching for something…or someone. As a pair of steady hands wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and an onslaught of paramedics ushered him towards the now awaiting ambulance, his eyes finally came to rest on Sara. And Sara found herself, once again, rooted to her place. She noticed, or was it her imagination, that Grissom tried to take a step towards her, but in his weakened condition, he was instead led out the door and onto an awaiting gurney. His eyes never wavered from her own. Finally, she took a step forward, but only after he was out of sight , lost to her behind the barn's large wooden door. She watched mutely as Grissom was hoisted into an ambulance, Detective Brass climbing in beside him. Then the doors closed, the sirens sounded, and the ambulance drove swiftly away into the night.
Catherine was now standing beside her, but it took her a moment to acknowledge.
"Sara!" Catherine's voice cut thickly into her thoughts much like the irritating buzz of a frantic insect. Reluctantly drawn from her thoughts, she turned to face her superior.
"Yeah?" Catherine staring at her in exasperation.
"I said, it's time to work the scene." Sara couldn't believe it. Catherine was actually thinking of working the scene. But even in the back of Sara's clouded mind, she knew protocol. Probably better than Catherine herself.
"Yeah, right, the scene. I'll take the perimeter." And with that, she exited the barn. In truth, she was thankful for the chance to get away, to have a chance to pull her ragged emotions together, pushing herself to place of emotional composure. With a breath, she forcibly pressed her sentiments down, deep down inside, to the place where all unwanted emotions go. But, walking slowly along the outline of the barn, instead of the shoe treads, fabric fibers and blood spatter she was supposed to be looking for, all she could see were Grissom's eyes. The look he'd given her, the intensity within, it unnerved her. There was something familiar about his gaze, as if she'd seen it before, briefly, a glimmer quickly subdued within the moment.
She didn't realize that she'd been standing stark and still until she felt Nick tapping lightly on her shoulder. She turned to face him, her face blank and a little dumbstruck.
"You find anything?" he asked innocently, his face a mess of dust, sweat and tears but his eyes glowing with inner joy. In his hands he held his kit and a few larger evidence bags, one containing two or three dead scorpions, another a handgun. She stared at both for a moment, inadvertently cringing at the cadaverous insects. Nick followed her gaze and lifted the bag to shoulder level. "I'm no entomologist, Sara, but looks to me like our boy had someone looking out for him tonight.." Sara realized that it was Marguerite and her happy trigger finger that had probably saved Grissom's life, foiling her sisters plan inadvertently. She felt her resentment towards the woman lessen.. Nick lowered the bag slowly, his gaze returning to Sara's face. "So, anything out here?"
"Um, no…nothing. It's clear." She knew she hadn't even looked but pride and embarrassment fueled her response. With a smile and a nod, Nick started back towards the Tahoe.
"Come on Sara!" Catherine called as the gang began to pile wearily into the crime lab's Tahoe and Brass' Taurus.. Sara waved her hand in acknowledgement and began her trek towards the now purring vehicles. As she eased herself into the passenger seat of the black SUV, she heard the laughter and relieved joviality of her colleagues. The cars began to pull away from the crime scene. Trees flew by, tan bushes, orange desert, white headlights coming at them from the opposite direction and within ten or fifteen miles , the dazzling lights of the Vegas strip. But amidst the immense ocular input she was receiving, the only thing that Sara could see where Grissom's eyes.
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Five days had passed since Grissom had been extracted from his synthetic penitentiary. After keeping him overnight to hydrate him once more and fill his empty stomach with much needed nourishment, the doctor was insistent that Grissom take no less than five days leave of absence from his demanding profession. Grissom had reluctantly agreed but with one stipulation…that he might be allowed to work on his files from home. Equally as reluctant, the doctor had agreed. It was now four days later and life had returned almost to normal for the graveyard team. The first few days Grissom had been flooded with cards, flowers, fruit baskets and best wishes, all thankful for his return. He knew better than to believe that all these well-wishers were genuine. Most were merely political courtesies but he accepted them thankfully just the same.
Grissom knew he had promised his doctor that he would stay home, resting, allowing his aging body to recuperate despite his mental desire to get back to work. But he'd left an important file on his desk and he needed it to continue his research. Truth be told, he was very glad to be back within the mellow half lighted halls of his precious laboratory. This experience, corny as it sounded when he thought seriously about it, had given him a new attitude on his existence. His reasons for living, reasons for doing what he did day in and day out were the same and yet, they were now somehow different. Perhaps the difference came in his outlook. A week ago, Grissom had felt old. He had been more than willing to acknowledge his aging bones, his slowing response time, his occasionally sluggish synapses. But now, his willingness to fight against his age was renewed and his felt himself battle with age as emphatically as he battled with the criminals he helped prosecute. Walking through the lab now, his back straight, his eyes clear, his steps steady and sure, he felt more alive than he had in a very long time.
"Well, well, well. I should have known you'd break protocol." Catherine's voice was sly, jovial and sarcastic as she met Grissom headlong in the crime lab's lobby. He smiled and opened his arms to receive her quick embrace.
"Yes, well, you know me, the quintessential rebel." Her wink and widening grin made him chuckle and he quickly explained that he was just here to pick up a file. Patting him on the shoulder, she wished him well turned to go about her business. He passed the break room slowly and idly glanced inside. Nick and Warrick were engaged in buoyant conversation. Upon seeing Grissom their grins grew wider.
"Hey Gris," Warrick offered, waving his free hand and nodding his head.
"Hi there Grissom," Nick followed, giving a similar wave. Grissom smiled broadly and leaned against the door frame.
"Hey guys. Busy working I see? As always." They rolled their eyes and chuckled.
"Aren't you supposed to be on vacation Gris?" Warrick raised an eyebrow and pointed his finger at his supervisor. Chuckling lightly, Grissom gave Warrick an artificial scowl.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm just grabbing a file and then I'm gone. You two," he pointed at them in turn, "get back to work." Eyes rolled again and laughter filled the room as Grissom took his leave.
Grissom's office was just as he had left it. The door was closed and the light was off. With a small, cockeyed grin, Grissom closed his palm around a cool metal knob, turned it slightly and pushed open the door. Then he froze. Amidst the darkness, Grissom had caught, just briefly, the smallest intake of air, a minute intake of breath, a gasp. His lips parted as he began to form the words "who's there" but he stopped himself. Seated, wide eyed and red faced, arms wrapped securely around her knees as she sat upon his leather office chair, her features illuminated only by the light cascading in from the now open door, was Sara. Grissom raised an eyebrow but still said nothing. His breath was gone. In an instant, Sara had jumped to her feet, raising her hands to her face, but Grissom was still able to catch the slightest traces of condensation on her cheeks before she wiped them dry.
"Grissom," Sara stuttered slightly, her shoulders quivering ever so faintly. "What are you doing here?" Grissom closed his office door behind him at the same moment, flipping on the overhead office lights. Sara winced slightly at the onslaught to her senses, but her eyes quickly adapted. Moving towards her, he motioned to a pair of oak chairs that straddled a matching table. Sara sat awkwardly, but hastily, still haphazardly wiping underneath her eyes. Grissom took the seat opposite her, folding his hands underneath his chin. He locked eyes with Sara, holding her gaze with magnetic force. And all of a sudden, she was still.
"Perhaps I should be asking you the same question." In any other situation, that comment might have elicited a smirk or a smile, but both Grissom and Sara remained straight faced, quite serious, and amazingly silent. "Sara," his voice broke in a seemingly exasperated breath, "are you alright?" Sara's eyes grew wide as the river of tears broke through the weak dam of eyelashes, flooding the invisibly soft hairs on her cheeks. She stood, hands now clenched as fists at her sides. Her eyes bore into Grissom's own.
"No, damn it, I'm not alright." She began to pace. "How can you ask me that?" Grissom remained silent, watching, waiting. "You know, Grissom, my life has been just one big pile of loss. I lost my father, lost my mother," she choked back a wave of more savage tears, "my childhood, my innocence. Everyone I've ever gotten close to has…left. I tried to move on, tried to find solace in the knowledge that I'd helped families find absolution and peace, solace knowing that I'd helped put merciless killers, rapists, liars into prison. But I made one mistake Grissom, just one. I came here. I allowed myself to follow my school girl delusions of infatuation, brought myself in so close, so damn close Grissom. You've always pushed me away, kept me at a comfortable distance, but, then…you were gone and I didn't know…" a sob gripped her and she pushed through it, "I didn't know if you were alive or dead, if I'd ever see your face again. It was more than I could bear Grissom…so much more than I could bear." She wrapped her arms securely around herself, swaying lightly, the tears lightly flowing now, and Grissom could tell that she was willing herself into composure. Grissom remained silent, ever watchful. They remained in silence for several long moments. Then, wiping her cheeks once more, Sara locked her eyes onto Grissom's face. Seating herself across from him once more, her hands extended on the even surface of the table, her fingers meshed together nervously, she spoke in a hushed but unyielding whisper. "Grissom…I can't do this anymore. I can't keep living on this precipice, only half living." A few more long, deep breaths. She lowered her gaze, staring instead at her lightly shaking hands. " I'm glad your alright, so very glad. But I can't go on like this. I just…I just can't." Elevating her eyes once more, she dove into the depths of Grissom's eyes, searching his soul. Then, she sighed. "Excuse me Grissom. I'll get out of your way."
All this time, Grissom had said nothing and yet, his eyes never wavered from Sara's face. With a jerk forward, Sara rose and began to leave the room. She had taken but one step past Grissom's chair when his hand shot out, grabbing her upper arm. His grip was strong, but it was a gentle strength. He could tell she was surprised, so much so that she froze in her place. Such physical action was unlike Grissom and he could tell that she was, in that split moment, somewhat afraid. Standing, so that he now stood eye level with Sara, Grissom cleared his throat.
"You're right Sara." Her mouth dropped open slightly, her eyes wide. Thankfully, she remained silent, allowing him to continue. "I was wrong to bring you here, wrong to keep you close when I had no intention of letting anything transpire between us. And Sara, I am so sorry for that." There was no doubt that Sara felt his inflection, the emotion he had placed into the word "so", and through her skin, he felt her heart pounding, witnessed the fresh, new tears springing to her already saturated eyes. "I hadn't planned on having this conversation here and now, " he chuckled and then frowned, flushing slightly, as though he couldn't imagine what he had found comical at a time like this. Still, Sara said nothing, permitting him to continue, realizing intuitively that he was gathering himself, choosing his next words wisely.
"Sara, I've lived the same way my entire life. I always assumed that I had avoided taking risks, avoided allowing this," he pointed to his chest, "to affect this," he pointed to his temple. "But the truth of it is, Sara, that all I've done to get here, right here, where I am today, is take a great number of risks. Measured risks, mind you, but risks just the same." Sara was still silent, her eyes dry but wide and searching, lost in the blue abyss of Grissom's irises. Grissom cleared his throat, his eyes vacillating between Sara's gaze and the floor. Then he did something she did not expected. He took a step closer.
Grissom felt Sara's warm breath on the tiny hairs of his neck. He knew his own breath was washing wordlessly over Sara's left ear. He was centimeters, millimeters from her, their bodies not touching and yet, Grissom could feel his body's heat echoing off her own.
"Sara." He didn't speak the word but rather breathed it, the spicy warmth of it sending shivers down his spine. He relished her heat but reluctantly pulled his head back slowly so that he was once again looking into her eyes. They weren't twinkling or sparkling as they usually did, either with joviality or intense thought. No, at this moment, they were ablaze, burning, brilliant sources of illuminating radiance. He watched as her lips parted, almost in slow motion. "Sara, " he said her name again, this time continuing his thought. "Some risks…" he leaned in closer, so close now that their breaths were one and same. "some risks are meant to be taken." He waited for the fear, waited for the panic, waited for the still small voice inside of him to scream in warning. And for the first time, Grissom felt nothing but excited anticipation..
Grissom stared now, not into Sara's eyes, but instead at her lips. They were swollen slightly from her crying, moist with a mixture of tears and saliva. And he thought silently to himself that he'd never seen anything so marvelously inviting. With no effort, no regrets, Grissom slowly, ever so slowly, gently, tenderly, allowed his lips to travel the infinitesimal distance that remained between his lips and Sara's. The kiss started as temperate, almost chaste, but once they realized that neither one was pulling away, once the reality of this decision bobbed clearly to the surface of thier mind's eye, chastity was all but forgotten. Sara's arms weaved around Grissom's neck, her fingers knitting themselves within the softness of his slowly graying curls. Grissom allowed his arms to connect firmly around her waist as the kiss grew in fervor. And though the kiss lasted only a few precious moments, it seemed to Grissom and Sara, to last one beautifully blessed eternity.
When they finally parted, cheeks flushed, covered in a diaphanous glowing sheen of moisture, lightly gasping for breath, Sara went limp against his chest, arms still draped about his shoulders. Grissom feared he might go limp himself, but the blood that rushed through his frame allowed him an almost supernatural strength. He held onto Sara, held onto her firmly and tenderly as he felt her lean heavily upon him. Of all the weights, both external and internal, that Grissom had born throughout his life, he was certain that none was more pleasurable, none felt more right than this. Grissom rested his cheek gently on the top of Sara's head, breathing in the sweetness of her hair, soothed by the steadiness of her breathing.
Grissom wasn't sure how long they stood there, quiescent in the other's arms. For that fleeting moment in time, where he stood, why he was there, was both paltry and inconsequential. But soon, he felt a stiff ache creep into his calves, then into his thighs, making its way irritatingly into the small of his back. Reluctantly, he pulled away. He took this opportunity to gaze deeply once again into Sara's face. The edges of her hair were wet, slightly matted with sweat, her lips bright pink and puffy, the skin of her face freckled with red, a trivial amount of smeared mascara lingering underneath her eyes. And yet, her eyes were bright, shining like beacons with a joy and a hope Grissom hadn't seen for so very long. Perhaps…perhaps he'd never seen it. And yet, Grissom also knew that this new responsibility did not in any way annul past responsibility. With a sigh, he leaned forward, placed a delicate kiss on Sara's forehead, then backed away, slowly and halfheartedly.
"I think it's time we both got back to work," he said, turning away from Sara to grab a file from off his desk. When he turned back around, he saw that she was standing, arms folded across her chest, one eye brow raised, apprehension slowly replacing the joy within her eyes. He smiled lightly.
"You've got cases to work on," he continued, opening the door to his office then turning to face her. "And so do I." He switched off the light. Silently, they exited his office in single file. Sara then leaned against the wall just outside his door, her arms still folded, one leg straight, the other bent slightly at the knee, her head lowered, staring at the floor. Her countenance was more than slightly troubled. Grissom pulled the door shut behind him. He then turned to stand perpendicular to Sara, his eyes staring past her into the hallway beyond. His right hand rested in his right pants pocket, his left gripped a pile of manilla file folders. Without turning to look at her, he spoke. His face was thoughtful but his eyes danced with delight. "First…we work." Sara's head rose, her eyes locked intensely on Grissom's face. His neck turned, his eyes finding Sara's gaze. "Then…we play." He smiled, a broad, gleaming grin that shone like the beam from lighthouse beacon, and his left eye opened and closed quickly in a playful wink. Then, wordlessly, Grissom turned and left the crime lab…and a slightly bewildered Sara Sidle.
Sara's felt her grin start at the left corner of her mouth, then felt it spread to the right, her lips parting until her grin had butterflied into a smile of epic dimensions. And for the very first time since she had begun her work in Vegas, Sara couldn't wait for her shift to end.
THE END