Author's Note: As some of you know, I have recently resumed work on an old piece of writing that I started a number of years ago. That project, now entitled Origins, is still currently unfinished. Fret not, I have every intention of bringing it to a close, but since receiving word that both Dr. Gil Grissom and Dr. Heather Kessler are slated to return to the screen on September 27, 2015 for the series finale of CSI, the bones of yet another story have begun to rattle noisily around in my mind and I've become quite consumed with them. So much so that it's interfering with all of my other creative work here on this site.

It seems there's not a moment in the day when Grissom and his lady are not on my mind. While I'm washing dishes, while I'm walking the dog, while I'm cooking the dinner, or tending to my nieces and nephew, and even while I'm standing in my backyard lamenting over the parched condition of my plants and vegetables; wishing it would rain. Water! My garden needs water! Come on, rain already! Water is the elixir of life! Yes, even then they're on my mind. If they aren't deep in conversation over afternoon tea in Heather's front parlor, than they are up to other things in far more exotic locales, and some of them are fairly salacious. What's more, they're getting quite noisy about it. Ordinarily I wouldn't dream of working on two stories of the same time, let alone three, but as is usually the case with me, I have no clue how this story is going to end as of yet. The only thing I do know for certain… is that the only way I'm going to have any peace from the commotion in my head is if I start writing. So here goes!

Also, please be advised, this story will begin set early in the year 2009. I will follow the TV show CSI up through the point where the episode titled "Leave out all the Rest" was aired. Beyond that point, I will do my best to weave my story loosely in with the events of the show, though there will be some significant differences. You should not view this as an extension of any of my previous work regarding Heather and Gil. This is not a continuation of the story Origins. This story will stand alone.

Disclaimer: The characters within this story are not my own. I do not own them, nor do I profit from them in any way… unless you count my own personal enjoyment in the telling of the story that follows as compensation.


The Road to Africa

Chapter one

In Las Vegas on the first Monday in December 2008 at just after 9:00 PM, the heels of her boots tip tap noticeably as she crosses the polished floor of the crowded main lobby at UNLV. People, some of them faculty and some of them her fellow students, are compelled to turn and watch as the captivating brunette makes her way to the exit with purpose in her stride. She's not in a hurry, but she won't linger either. There is simply very little this woman does without deliberation, and right now, her focus is on leaving this place. She's done here for tonight. It's time to go home. She needs a meal and few hours of study time before bed. And she plans to be asleep before midnight. Allison is with her all day tomorrow and she wants to be well rested for her soon-to-be four-year-old granddaughter's visit

A few of the observers in the lobby lower their voices and step closer to each other in tepid attempts at discretion. They try unsuccessfully to shield their hands and mouths from view as they point and whisper…

"Hey I know her." or "I've heard of her." or, "Isn't she the one who… Yeah, she's the one who use to run that fetish house." Still another hushed voice offers, "My uncle says he went there once." One young male replies, "That's creepy!" And the one with the uncle counters "Dude, she's creepy! I wonder what's wrong with her; something bad must have happened to her. Hey don't look at me like that, I'm just saying, there has to be something…nobody normal does something like that." In response, an independent young female voice hisses more discreetly than the rest. "Shut up Bobby. You don't know what you're talking about. She's in my Aberrant Psych class. She's quiet, doesn't say too much, but she's wicked smart … Could probably teach the class better than the prof … and she's nice too. Just because a woman might happen to thoroughly enjoy sex does not automatically mean that there is something wrong with her! It does not make her creepy. Of course… you might know that if you actually had sex once in a while, moron!"

Without turning, or giving a single indication that she heard any of this, Heather Kessler can't help but smile at the young girl's remark as she extracts her keys from the pocket of her leather jacket and slides the key to her front door between her index and middle finger. Ready to use it as a weapon if need be as she crosses the well-lit college parking lot on the way to her waiting vehicle.

She muses silently as she pushes through the double doors and descends the wide shallow steps in front of the building.

Most people, even most young people, are predictably boring in their assumptions and accusations. The girl however, the girl has potential.

Even without turning to confirm her identity, Heather had recognized the girl's voice at once. She doesn't know the girl's name but, in the classroom, she's row six, seat eight; second from the end. The girl always sits in the same seat. So, like most people, she's a creature of habit. She's picked out her comfort zone in the classroom, and she sticks with it. But she's bright. She's never late to class. She's always quiet during lecture, concentrates on what is being said, is a prolific note taker, isn't afraid to ask questions, challenge what is being said, or offer an alternative point of view. She participates passionately in class discussions. She allows people she adamantly disagrees with to speak their mind without interrupting them. She's open to new ideas, but at the same time she makes up her own mind about things, and isn't easily swayed once she does. Someone taught this girl how to stand on her own two feet and think for herself.

A hint of melancholy finds its way into Heather's smile as she approaches her Mercedes. Still a safe distance away, she automatically checks the ground below the vehicle as well as the backseat looking for anyone who doesn't belong there. Finding no cause for alarm, she silently releases the thought, "I miss you Zoë. She reminds me of you."

When close enough, she beeps the lock, and stows the black leather tote with her heavy textbooks in it on the floor behind the driver's seat before removing her jacket and tossing in on the back seat.

As she opens her driver's door and slides in behind the wheel, the girl from the lobby makes eye contact and approaches but then something else seems to catch her attention. She stops walking, leans backwards, craning her neck to one side as though peering into a vehicle in the row of parked cars behind the row where Heather is parked. The girl backs up slowly, approaches a blue late model Camry with uncertainty and taps hesitantly on the driver's window. Heather assumes she misinterpreted the girl's approach and begins to close her door until she hears the girl ask, "Hey, hey pal, are you okay in there?"

Heather quickly steps out of her SUV, moving hurriedly in the girl's direction, calling out just in time to halt her next action.

"Stop!" she orders in a calm but commanding voice. "Don't do that. Do you know him?"

The girl looks up, startled. "No, I don't."

"Then don't open his car door… especially not alone, at night, on a college campus."

An odd expression crosses the girl's face when she realizes she's being looked after, as though she doesn't know whether to frown or smile. "But…" she starts slowly; hesitantly, "but I think something's wrong. It looks like he's passed out."

More quietly, Heather answers. "That doesn't matter. He could be faking."

Sudden awareness of potential danger floods the girl's face… "So some nice young college girl will come along and check on him… I'm an idiot. I didn't even think… What a dope."

Heather smiles as she comes up beside the Camry. "You aren't an idiot." She leans over slightly and peers in at the young man slouched, almost drunkenly, in the driver's seat.

One look raises goose flesh on the back of her shoulders and neck. Her intuition begins to hum with a silent message she doesn't want to receive."

He's dead.

She tries to push the thought aside. She silently reminds herself not to jump to conclusions as she searches her pockets, and comes up with a lace handkerchief. Before opening the door, she pauses to look at him once again. His eyes are open, but his gaze is unfixed. If he does see anything at all, it's nothing in this world. Her intuition repeats…

He's dead.

The girl beside Heather is unconsciously chewing on her lower lip; a nagging uncertainty is already visible in her round hazel eyes. On some level, the girl is already aware of the truth, but Heather doubts that she's fully conscious of it.

In a soothing, yet resolute voice Heather states "I want you to step back. Don't touch the car. I'll do this."

The girl nods mutely and then adds hopefully, "Maybe he's just drunk; you know frat boys."

Heather doesn't say anything as she carefully uses her handkerchief and only two fingers to test the door handle. When the door opens easily, the young girl involuntarily takes another step back, increasing the distance between herself and the young man in the car. Heather kneels for a better look, being careful not to touch anything she doesn't absolutely have to. Again, with only two fingers, she reaches around to the side of his neck opposite her to check for a pulse. Her touch is met by cold metal coated in what was once warm and is now rapidly cooling, but still tacky blood. She carefully leans in a bit further, close enough to actually see the long handled screwdriver protruding from the right side of his neck. Just to be certain, she carefully checks the left carotid hoping for a faint but detectable rhythm. She isn't surprised when she finds none, but his body is still warm. He probably hasn't been here long. The desert air is cold tonight. When she removes her hand, she discreetly wipes faint traces of congealed blood onto her handkerchief so as not to panic the young girl who can't see what is obviously a murder weapon from where she stands.

Heather rises to her feet slowly, starts to close the car door, and then thinks better of it; catching herself just in time. She turns her back on the body of the young man; shielding him from the girl's view and extracts her cell phone from the pocket the handkerchief wasn't in.

Her classmate eyes her; still hoping. "You calling for an ambulance?"

"No. First I'm calling campus security. Then I'm calling the crime lab."

"Oh." The girl breathes solemnly as the last bit of hope drains from her face. She stands as still as a statue and watches Heather dial.

As she waits for her first call to be answered, Heather takes the girl by the hand and leads her away from the Camry making sure not to stop until they cross the lot. Heather gently backs her up against the rear bumper of her Mercedes and the girl instantly sags; her knees collapsing. She seems to deflate; optimism running out of her like air from a leaky balloon.

Heather tells campus security what they need to know and hangs up; immediately dialing again; this time, a much more familiar number. Again, she repeats all the necessary information, leaves her name and contact information and hangs up. When the second call ends, she looks up to find the girl watching her, and for the first time, she sees genuine panic rising in the girl's eyes.

"Take it easy. Just concentrate on breathing. Breathe in, and push it out again slowly."

She does as she's told and then simply stares at Heather for a long moment before she says unevenly, "There's… There's a dead body… Over there! Oh my God. Oh… My… He's dead. Fuck! That's messed up!"

"It certainly is." Heather says dryly. Then, more compassionately, she reminds of the girl. "Just breathe."

She gulps air.

Heather coaches patiently. "Slow. Easy. Relax. In through your nose, and out slowly through your mouth. You're safe. The dead can't hurt you. He can't hurt anyone anymore. It's the living you should be wary of."

The girl inhales more slowly and nods dutifully. She raises a curious eyebrow and points. "That doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it does. Murder should bother everyone."

"You don't look bothered."

"What you see, and what I feel are two very different things."

The girl squints, but then nods and shrugs. "Shouldn't we at least close the car door? You know, give him some privacy, or something."

"No, he doesn't care about privacy anymore, and we shouldn't disturb the scene any more than we already have. Campus security will come first and then the police and crime scene analysts. They'll take care of him."

"Okay. Then what?" the girl questions; getting a grip by focusing on the details.

"You tell them what you know. What you saw. What you did."

She nods again and repeats, "Then what?"

"You go home, and hug your mom or your dad."

A flash of uncertainty clouds her pretty eyes and then mingles with anger. "And what, life just goes on without him?"

Heather nods sadly. "Yes, it will… But that doesn't mean that your life will be the same as it was before tonight."

Anger flashes again, hardening the soft planes of her face. "Good! It shouldn't be."

"No. It shouldn't."

The young girl opens her mouth to speak, and then a new thought distracts her. She hesitates briefly before asking, "You actually know the number for the Las Vegas crime lab?"

"I have a close friend who works there."

The girl nods yet again; curiosity evident in her eyes, but she thinks better of asking nosy questions. Instead, she offers her hand to shake. I'm Amelia."

"And I'm Heather. I wish it had been under better circumstances, but it's nice to make your acquaintance, Amelia"