If You Want Something Done Right...

PART ONE

The first thing Sara Sidle saw when she opened her eyes was… nothing. All around her was darkness so complete that it made no difference whether her eyes were open or closed. Being a scientist, she of course felt the need to test the theory: eyes open, eyes closed, open. Nope. No difference at all. Either way, it was dark.

I am an investigator, she thought with disgust. Investigate! So… it was dark, but not silent. Not a tomb; not a box buried in the ground. Oh, God. Not buried. Not like Nick- No! Don't even go there. Calm. Keep calm, she ordered

With effort, Sara managed to quiet her breathing. She had never before been afraid of confined spaces. During the almost daily storms that comprised the worst of her violent childhood, her bedroom closet, filled with shoes, forgotten toys and dust bunnies, had been her refuge, her safe place when her parents' fighting threatened to engulf the entire house.

With her eyes closed once again, Sara was better able to concentrate on her surroundings. She was lying on her side, hands and feet unbound (as far as she could tell) and unharmed. She had a headache, a queasy stomach, her right arm and hip were asleep and there was a strange, burning ache along her shoulders. But she was otherwise unhurt.

She remembered leaving her apartment, going up to her car on the top of the parking garage, setting her kit in the trunk of her car. Then, a strange, female voice calling her. "Sara." The voice of a little girl, so odd in that place, but filled with such purposeful malice. "Sara!"

Sara remembered turning to look for the source of the voice, then …

If she really tried, she could conjure up sense memories: a burning jolt along the back of her neck. Pain. Numbness spreading along her arms and legs. Her head hitting the open trunk lid as she pitched forward. A sharp sting in her arm. The effort it took to remember made her head feel as if it might burst open like an overripe melon, however, so she gave up the attempt and tried to concentrate on the here and now instead.

Now, she thought. Where's "here"? Searching around with her hands, she discovered carpet under her and metal above her. The smell of exhaust fumes, oil and rubber assaulted her senses. Ahhh. Now we're getting somewhere. A trunk. A car trunk. Not moving, though. Parked somewhere. And not her own trunk. Much as she loved her little Prius, it didn't really boast enough trunk space to transport a body. Not enough to accommodate her own long legs, anyway. That's okay, she soothed. It wasn't built for such things. People who care about the environment don't generally carry bodies around in the trunks of their eco-friendly hybrids.

Reaching forward, she tried to find the latch that would allow the trunk to open from the inside. As her fingers fumbled for the spring-loaded catch, the lid popped open on its own, the interior light blinding her.

With her eyes squeezed shut, she heard the familiar, soothing (freaky!) voice "You're awake." Another sharp sting, this time in her thigh. Oh, she thought. That pain, it was a needl… and she drifted down into nothingness once more.

The second time she awoke, she was lying face down in the dirt. It was still dark but not the all-consuming dark of the trunk. There was moonlight and she could see shadows. Her right arm was stretched out alongside her head and there was a great weight pressing inexorably down on her back, hips and shoulders. Pain built to an almost unbearable level as the object settled upon her, until she felt as if her bones must surely snap under the pressure. "Ca… can't breathe," she groaned.

She became aware then that she wasn't alone. A face, upside-down and partially obscured by lank hair, peered in at her from underneath the… what? Boulder? Twenty-story building? Had there been a cave-in of some kind? An earthquake? "You're awake again. Good. I need you awake for this part." The chilling voice now had a face.

The face disappeared and Sara felt a flicker of panic. It was slowly dawning on her that the face belonged to someone who meant to do her harm, but even the thought that there was a malevolent stranger with her was preferable to being alone in the dark with the great weight pressing down.

She heard a rhythmic clanking sound, and the weight eased slowly up off of her.

Taking great gulps of cold night air, it took a moment for Sara to identify the clanking sound as that of a jack placed somewhere to her right along the side of the object. No, thought Sara. Let's call it what it is. It's a car. I've been under enough of them to recognize one.

But… nothing around her looked like the familiar undercarriage of an automobile. She may have been disoriented but what she could see seemed to be the top of a car. A red one. How odd.

Before she had time to process this new information, she felt someone – The Bitch, as she had begun to think of her – give a mighty tug on her legs from the side of the car Sara couldn't see. Staring to her right, the only direction her pinned upper body allowed her to, Sara felt hands reach in under the car to dig at the soil and sand around her body, then tug again at her legs. Dig. Pull. Dig. Pull. The Bitch was beginning to pant and grunt with the effort of getting Sara's body positioned just so. Good. Why should I be the only one uncomfortable here, Sara fumed.

Sara felt her body eventually settle a few inches deeper in the dirt. Feet moved around the car, back to her right side. She heard the sound of the jack once more and the car again settled down on top of her. This time, though, the dented metal of the car's top at her back and the indentations in the dirt at her front meant that she was now thoroughly pinned, but not in immediate danger of being crushed to death.

"How's that feel?" The Bitch asked, suddenly reappearing under the car's rim.

"Fine. Thanks for asking," Sara managed to choke.

"Good. Good. Wouldn't want you to die too fast, would we."

"No. We certainly wouldn't."

Sara was finding the whole situation monstrously surreal. She hadn't experimented with hard drugs during her college years. She'd been too protective of her intellect to have any desire to damage it with dangerous substances. But, if she ever had, she imagined she'd be having just this sort of conversation with a piece of lint.

"Why are you doing this?" Sara asked. (The desire to giggle hysterically was almost overwhelming. God, I can't believe this!)

"He's got to pay. He'll be too late and you'll die but I can't kill you. I promised Ernie."

"Ernie? Ernie who?"

"He needs to pay." The voice belonging to The Bitch had begun to sound eerily petulant and Sara's blood chilled at the realization that she was dealing with someone living far outside the Sanity city limits. "He's going to find out what it's like. I can't kill you myself but you'll die just the same. He'll be too late to save you and it'll be all his fault. Not mine. Not my fault. His." The Bitch disappeared from view, still muttering in that childish whine, "It'll be all his fault. Not mine…"

Sara heard a loud clank as the jack was pulled out from under the car, the thunk as tools were thrown into a trunk, the lid slamming shut, whump of a car door closing, an engine starting up, tires skidding on dirt, then asphalt, then engine noise fading into the distance.

Then she was alone with the quiet and the dark and the moonlight and the car poised above her.

And the panic.

"Whose fault!" she screamed into the night.

Her heart beating furiously, blood racing, Sara began to squirm violently, tugging at her outstretched arm, trying to bring it in toward her chest. What little room she had didn't allow for much movement, however, and all she got for her trouble was sore muscles and a mouth full of grit.

After a few minutes' struggle, she lay panting, beginning to sob quietly in frustration. Dammit! she raged. She'd known things were going too well for her. She knewHappily Ever After was not how her story was supposed to end. She knew it! How many times did life have to smack her down before she got that?

Pressing her face into the crook of her right elbow, she allowed self-pity to take hold. Just for a moment, she indulged in tears she rarely let anyone see but the man she loved. It didn't take long, however, before the tears dried, sobs quieted, and Sara was left with an anger as intense as anything the Bible claimed as God's own.

All her life, Sara had been at the mercy of circumstance. Other people had been determining her fate since the day she was born to parents too obsessed with destroying each other to notice the brilliant, beautiful gift they had been given. Children's Services had squandered the gift on foster families too overcrowded and overworked to appreciate it. College admissions boards, academic advisors, potential employers; one very frightened, very compelling (very sexy) entomologist.

Yes, even Dr. Gil Grissom, Man Of Her Dreams and Love Of Her Life, had pulled her strings until she danced exclusively to his tune. He had been the one to initiate their first encounter, so many years ago (a lifetime, it seemed) in Berkeley. He had been the one to break it off when he returned home. He had been the one to entice her to Las Vegas with a job offer. He had been the one too afraid to act on their mutual attraction and yet unwilling to allow her to be with anyone else. And he had been the one to decide when the time was right to start it all up again. The sweet, secret life she and Grissom had managed to carve out for themselves had been worth all the effort it took to build. She knew that. Still… very little of it had been strictly on her terms.

Someone had been determining the twists and turns of her life for as long as she could remember, settling her fate before she'd even realized she had one. And now, she was at the mercy of some nameless lunatic with an unfathomable grudge who wanted her to die all alone underneath an overturned car? I don't fucking think so, she thought angrily. Struggling against Fate had gotten her nowhere her entire life. It was time to take charge and tell Fate to go to hell, she decided.

With effort, Sara managed to get her rage under control. She ordered her racing pulse to slow down, her breathing to calm, her muscles to relax. Evidence. Gather the evidence. It's what you do best, Sara.

Sara concentrated on what little she could see and feel and hear, searching for clues that would help her formulate a plan of action, but it was difficult. Her headache was worse now, her vision beginning to blur. She couldn't feel her right arm. The car's weight wasn't resting fully on top of her but the dents in its roof didn't fit her body exactly. There was a lump pressing uncomfortably on her right shoulder, another digging into her left thigh; sharp metal poked the back of her skull if she raised it too high. The pressure was bearable only if she remained still. Nausea welled up and for one terrifying moment, she thought she might be sick. Great. What a way to top off a perfect day, lying face down in my own vomit.

She took deep breaths and, to her relief, the nausea receded. Not gone but… under control. More distressing, she felt her eyelids growing heavy as she realized that whatever The Bitch had given her in that syringe wasn't yet gone from her system. She was losing consciousness and the thought terrified her. She struggled, trying to focus but the dark was beginning to engulf her. No! What if I don't wak…?

She was dreaming. She had to be. Grissom wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of green in real life and even her dreaming self knew it and understood the absurdity. But, oh, it was good to be home, even if only in a dream, even with Grissom in pajamas so blinding it was jarring. Their big bed was warm and soft. She was lying comfortably stretched out on her stomach, watching as Grissom approached her side of the bed, carrying a glass of wine. She was so thirsty, the slightly sweet white wine would really hit the spot. He smiled, regarding her over the tops of his glasses, and she found herself smiling back. She couldn't help it. Grissom could charm the spots off a hyena when he put some effort into it. As he extended his hand, wine glass within her reach, Sara felt something cold and wet touch her fingers. She looked down and, from his position on the floor by the bed, Bruno, their gentle boxer, was pressing his nose into her hand, sniffing around for-

Wait, what's Bruno doing here in the desert? she wondered. He hates the desert. All those jackrabbits and lizards send him scurrying to Mommy's side, trembling. He never ventures far from the city streets…

Sara slowly surfaced once again, becoming aware that what she felt on the back of her hand wasn't the dog's wet nose at all, but raindrops. The disappointment she felt at finding herself not in her comfy bed but still stuck under the wrecked car was so acute she thought her heart might stop with it.

Now, along with all the other aches, pains and discomforts, she was now cold and wet. The rain fell steadily but not hard. It was still dark, and Sara had no idea how long she'd been there, how long she'd been unconscious, or how long until dawn. Was it still Thursday? Her body lay on a slight incline, with her head higher than her feet. This meant, she realized, that the water that streamed under the car didn't come anywhere near her mouth. The rest of her body, however, were surrounded by enough water to swim in.

Taking inventory once again didn't take long: Yep. I'm still stuck.

The anger she had been holding at bay was creeping back. The dream (or hallucination or whatever) of Grissom and their warm bed had reminded Sara of how far they had both come and how much they both had to lose. Sara wasn't particularly vain, but she could at least admit to herself that she was very important to Gil Grissom. Her death would also be the death of this man she loved so much. Whether literally or figuratively, she knew he wouldn't survive it. It had taken him so long to open up to her, to accept the possibility that they might actually be good together; to accept that she wasn't on the verge of leaving him for a younger model. The guilt, if she died because he wasn't able to find her in time, would eventually eat him alive.

("All his fault, not mine.") The words muttered by The Bitch as she disappeared into the night suddenly made sense.

She doesn't want to kill me, Sara realized. For whatever reason, she wants Grissom to be unable to get to me in time. I'll die of exposure and dehydration before anyone can pinpoint my location and he'll take the blame on himself. He'll figure he killed me, and the guilt will kill him. Two for the price of one.

Ohhh… hell no! Sara might have been willing to resign herself to the whims of a cruel fate with which she was intimately acquainted but faced with the prospect of her lover's death, however, she was more determined than ever to see that the sinister stranger who had brought her to this place didn't win. She had worked too damn hard to get what she had to let some lunatic with bad hair and a bad attitude take it all away from her.

Cautiously, Sara began to explore the area around her body. She couldn't move her right arm (even if she wanted to, it was a dead weight at the end of her shoulder) but she could move her fingers. She began digging, clawing at great handfuls of wet earth and plant material. There was some room down by her left thigh and she was able to move her left arm and hand around in a small circle. Her feet, as well, had some wiggle room. There didn't seem to be as much weight pressing down on the backs of her legs as there was on her shoulders.

Sara began to dig at the sand on which she lay. Worried that dislodging the soil might cause the car to shift on top of her, she kept her movements small, hyper aware of the wreck above her. The sand was fairly hard-packed but the rain seeping in helped loosen it. What had once been solid earth was slowly turning into a substance Sara could dig at - and move aside.

After what had to have been several hours of painstaking work, her right hand had created a trench above her head and her left hand could move along her side, from hip to knee, scooping soil with each pass. Her feet, encased in boots (how grateful was she that she didn't go in for the slinky open-toed shoes Catherine favored?) had dug a shallow trench about a foot long.

Time ceased to have any meaning and Sara's body took over the job of moving earth, needing little assistance from her mind. Sometime during the night the rain slackened, slowed to a light drizzle, then stopped altogether. The clouds must have blown aside because she could see faint shadows once again. Soon, the darkness all around the car began to lighten and she realized there was sunlight creeping along the bit of desert floor she could see from under the car's edge.

Still she continued to scrape at the sand. It was mindless work and Sara passed the time indulging in long, elaborate fantasies of being home, at last. The first thing she'd do was drink several bottles of water. Cold, clear water. Then, a bath. With bubbles. Clean clothes and clean sheets and precious, clean sleep, with Grissom's warm body curled around her back.

She could see his familiar face so clearly; his blue eyes concerned and his smile warm and caring. How are you doing, Honey? Dream Grissom asked. His face was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen, asleep or awake.

Not so good.

I know. You're a bit stuck. Don't worry. We're all looking for you.

Thoughts of Nick and Greg and Warrick and Brass and – yes, even Catherine – made her eyes misty. Her friends. All the family she would ever need. She missed them. She could imagine them scurrying around, studying evidence, searching for clues to her whereabouts. She had no doubt they were looking. But, would there be anything for them to find?

I'm so tired. And I hurt. Everywhere. I think I'm scraping all my skin away.

Keep at it, Grissom encouraged. We're coming to get you. It won't be long now.

What if you can't do it? What if you can't find me out here?

Silence was her only answer. Even her Dream Grissom, it seemed, had better things to do.

"Griss?" she called. But Grissom's face was gone, replaced by a blinding beam of sunlight, reflecting off the car's side mirror somewhere to her right. The sun, which had come up in front of her so many hours ago, was now behind her head, on its way down on the other side of the car.

While she had every confidence that Grissom and the rest of her friends would do everything in their power to find her, Sara decided that it would probably be in her best interest to do her part in getting herself unstuck. Just in case.

The prospect of another cold night spent pinned and helpless under the wreck gave Sara a renewed sense of purpose. Grissom might find perfection and beauty in his little many-legged friends but she was damn tired of sharing her temporary home with creeping, crawling, unseen but definitely felt… things. At least two lizards and… what… something that looked like a small tailless mouse, had crawled under the car to escape the midday sun. Sara shuddered at the thought of the things she'd felt crawling on her exposed arms and head, not to mention up under her shirt. If push came to shove, Sara decided, Grissom was going to have to choose: her or the bugs.

Sara continued to dig, her hands, elbows, knees and feet moving continuously; always sweeping soil away from her body. Every bit of exposed skin was raw and painful and (though she couldn't see she could well imagine) bloody. She didn't care. What difference would a little blood loss - or infection - mean to her if she died out here? It would be worth it once she was back home and safely tucked in bed.

What the hell is this fascination with our bed, she thought. There are lots of other places I feel safe and secure - my apartment, Grissom's cluttered study, the lab, my car. Thirst, hunger and sleep-deprivation had dulled her wits but Sara found herself unable to let go of the feeling that there was something else going on. Engaged in the process of (possibly) dying alone in the desert, she couldn't stop overanalyzing her impossibly complicated relationship with her ex-mentor, current boss, and lover. It can't just be because it's the place we have sex, she thought. They'd had sex plenty of other places and she wasn't fixating on any of them. Besides, none of her fantasies had featured sex. Was it Grissom? Was the bed the place she associated with him, more than any other? While it wasn't the only place they communicated so personally, it was the place they communicated most simply. Closer, she thought, but not quite. Was it the idea of having the dog around for company? A longing for security? I'm so tired, could it simply be sleep I'm craving?

Thinking about it, Sara decided that it was probably some combination of all of the above. Her needs, from the moment she had been left alone in the desert, had simplified dramatically. A comfortable place to sleep, safety and protection from the elements and a cool drink were all she could imagine she would ever need. Well, all that plus the solid presence of the man she had loved for what seemed like her entire life. Everything came together, in her mind, in the king-sized bed in Grissom's townhouse, with Grissom beside her and Bruno The Surrogate Child somewhere nearby. It doesn't get any better than that, she mused.

Now, all she had to do was get there.

Having sorted out her priorities, Sara redoubled her efforts at freeing herself. She had been able, some time ago, to pull her right arm down near her shoulder and could now move both arms in a confined arc around her upper torso. Her knees and feet had created a groove that ran from thighs to toes. She focused her attention on digging at the dirt around her head, the last body part still pinned.

The sun had fully set and the air was cooling dramatically by the time she was able to move enough dirt out of the way to move her head from one side to the other. Or she would, if her neck wasn't so stiff. Lying with her head turned to the right for the better part of 24 hours had stiffened every muscle and tendon in it. Slowly, painfully, Sara lifted her head and turned it until she was lying with her right cheek (for a change) in the dirt. Wow, she thought. All that effort and the view to my left looks exactly like the view to my right.

The result of hours of effort meant that now she had room to move. Not much, but enough. Slowly, painfully, she slid her body backward along the shallow trench made by her hands and knees and boots. Her cheek scraped on small rocks that had minutes before been digging into her chest. Her back grazed the indentations and bumps in the roof of the wrecked car but they didn't impede her and still she moved. Backward. Inch by agonizing inch she pushed with her hands and squirmed with her hips, until, at last, her head cleared the edge of the car and she rolled over, finally able to look somewhere other than to the side.

Free at last, dear Lord. Free at last!

TBC