Disclaimer: These people belong to the wonderful writers of CSI. Not me. But you knew that.
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Sara Sidle crawled into bed after another endless night working the graveyard shift. She was used to sleeping away the sunny days, and honestly, she didn't mind. There was nothing in the world she'd rather be doing. Her work was her life.
Her heavy blinds closed out the desert sun, barely letting a single ray in.
Placing down her Science journal, she reached out to switch out the light, then turned over and curled into a tight warm ball. Closing her eyes, she began to drift off.
Creak.
Her eyes snapped open at the sound, and she gasped.
Creak.
There it was again.
It sounded like footsteps, coming closer.
Her hand began to slide out to where her gun sat, just feet away on the bedside table.
A shadow loomed over her, and just as she opened her mouth to scream, a gloved hand clamped a handkerchief over her lips.
She fought to breathe; the strong smell of chloroform filled her nostrils. She scratched at her assailants hands, drawing blood. The grip remained tight, however.
The dark room began to swirl, and her eyelids fluttered as she fought to stay conscious. Her head was spinning, and she blacked out.
The attacker tore her bed sheet and using the strips, tied her ankles, and bound her wrists.
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Gil Grissom walked in, and surveyed his crew of cutting edge CSI's
Waiting in the break room were Nick Stokes, Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown. Nick and Warrick were playing with a mini-football, throwing it back and forth over the long table. Catherine, stylish in matching jacket and slacks, sat to one side, a Cosmo open on her lap, steaming cup of coffee on the table next to her.
Nick, seeing the supervisor arrive, turned to him and flashed an innocent smile. Warrick, however, did not notice, and threw the ball back to Nick. It hit him on the side of the head.
Rubbing his head, he turned to the hysterical Warrick and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Grissom's direction, mumbling something under his breath. Warrick turned an unpleasant shade of green, and stopped laughing abruptly.
Grissom managed a half smile, and scanned the room.
"We're one down." Grissom said, noting the absence of Sara. "Where's Sara?"
Nick and Warrick looked at each other, then back to Grissom.
"We thought you were gonna tell us." Nick looked puzzled.
"She didn't call in sick?"
"No."
Catherine looked up from her Cosmo. "Shall I call her at home?" There was an edge to her tone. Sara wasn't the type to skip work, and she could tell Gil was thinking the same.
"Yeah." Grissom moved out of the doorway to let her pass. "Use my office."
She walked quickly up the corridor, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.
She opened the door to Grissom's office. Various bugs sat in jars, lining the walls. A large red-kneed tarantula watched her from a glass case atop the filing cabinet. Catherine kept her distance.
She sat down in the huge leather office chair, which almost swallowed her slim figure.
Lifting the receiver, she hit the buttons in rapid succession.
Click.
It started to ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The answer phone kicked in.
"Hey, Its Sara, you know what to do." Beep…
"Um, Sara, its Cath. Just wondering, you know, where you are. Call in, would you?" Catherine replaced the receiver.
The feeling in her stomach had morphed into alarm.
She wasn't here. She wasn't at home.
She strode quickly back to Grissom and the others.
Grissom looked at her, and she shook her head.
Nick caught this silent exchange.
"It's only half an hour since shift started. Maybe she's stuck in traffic."
Warrick concurred. "Yeah. The strip is murder this time of night -" He paused. "-No pun intended"
Grissom nodded, though he didn't believe it.
"Speaking of murder…Here's tonight's assignments."
He gave one slip to Catherine, Nick and Warrick the other.
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Sara's limp body flopped into a hard wooden chair. Swift, now gloved hands worked to secure her there, removing the fabric ties and replacing them with rope. Still out cold from the chloroform, Sara was powerless to stop her captor.
"Well, Mr Grissom. What a pretty little CSI we have here."
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Catherine knocked on Grissom's office door.
"Come in."
Catherine opened it and stuck her head through the gap.
"Just came to ask…"
"No. She hasn't called."
"Shift's nearly over!"
Catherine looked shocked, and then worry crept across her face.
Grissom could tell he was thinking now what she had been thinking all night.
"I'm going to stop by her house after the shift. Do you want to tag along?"
"Sure." If she was there, it would set her mind at ease, at least. And if she wasn't…
Grissom nodded to her, and she left, closing the door behind her.
He checked the clock. An hour to go. He dialled her house, for the sixth time that night. The same rings, the same message. He hung up. Where was she?
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Sara slowly opened her eyes. Groggy from the chloroform, she tried to lift her hands to her face, to rub away the sleep. They wouldn't move. She pulled on them again, harder this time. Still, they would not move. She looked down, and saw the ropes on her wrists.
Frantically she pulled at them. They wouldn't budge.
She heard a footstep fall to her left. She stared into the fuzzy blackness, and could just make out a figure.
"Who's there?" Her voice was hoarse, and she started to cough.
There was no sound except her cough.
She caught her breath and spoke again, still not sure who she was talking to.
"Where am I?" The words wavered from fear.
Still, no answer.
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They pulled up outside Sara's less than a half hour after the end of the shift.
"Her car's still here." Catherine didn't know whether that was a good sign, and from the look on Grissom's face, neither did he.
They walked up the steps and Grissom reached out to knock on the door.
It was slightly ajar.
Catherine's hand went to the gun, holstered at her hip. She glanced over her shoulder. "Not open enough to be seen from the street."
Grissom pushed open the door, but Catherine placed a hand on his arm.
"You have your gun, Gil?"
He shook his head.
"Let me go first." She stepped past him and into the hall, gun barrel leading the way. He followed closely as she walked on.
Her foot crushed something, and she looked down. A lamp had been knocked to the floor, smashing into shards.
"Sara." She called out, hoping for an answer. There was none. "Sara!" She shouted louder.
Something told Grissom there was something very wrong here. "I'll check upstairs." He left Catherine, and raced up the stairs, two at a time.
"Gil!" What was he playing at? She followed him, afraid for his safety.
He found Sara's bedroom. The sight that met him chilled him to the very core.
Catherine looked over his shoulder, and gasped.
She pulled out her cell phone, and dialled 911, while Grissom just stood and scanned the mess.
The sheets of the bed were torn, and the duvet lay on the floor to one side. There was a small drop of blood on the pale carpet. Grissom hoped to god it wasn't Sara's.