Okay, cutting and pasting from the original is getting old, so I'm putting together three of the original chapters here, and I just hope the combination doesn't exceed posting limitations. This will take you right up to the first heart-stopping event, though I sincerely hope none of your hearts stop.
All disclaimers are still in effect.
xxxxxxx
Chapter 3.
Sara's reaction to the threat named Eugene McCaskey was about what Grissom expected and feared.
"I'm not going to get separated from you again, Gil," she said. "This is really going to sound really, really hokey. Shakespeare and Henry James would rather slice open their wrists than get caught writing this, but I'm a scientist, not a writer, so I'm not ashamed. I would rather die with you than live without you."
Grissom smiled, but he wasn't amused.
"That's not so much hokey as a bit heavy on the bravado," he said. "And it might be hard to sustain if you're staring at the business end of one of McCaskey's killing tools."
They were sitting on his sofa. Grissom had his left arm draped around Sara's shoulders, and she was leaning into him. He raised his hand and began stroking her hair.
"Do you understand that if something happened to you at the hand of a maniac trying to get to me, I could never live with it?" he said. "I think I'd go mad."
"Then you'd better not let that happen. Because I'm not leaving you alone to face him. Hey, I'm as good with a gun as you are. In fact, as I remember, I scored two points higher than you on our last proficiency test."
"That was six, almost seven months ago, Sara. You haven't had a gun in your hands since you left."
"It's probably like riding a bicycle."
Grissom took his arm away and turned to face Sara.
"Will you please take this seriously," he said, a touch of desperation in his voice. "You can't believe what this sadist is capable of. All you know of the case is what was in the media back then, and they didn't have 10 percent of the story. I'm pretty sure his decade on Death Row hasn't done anything to mellow him out."
"Why don't you tell me what I don't know?" she said.
"I'll do better than that," he said. He stood up and offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. "I'll show you. I had my friend, Pat Shea, email the McCaskey files to me so I could refresh my memory. You ready to see them?"
"After the autopsies I've seen, I think I can take anything."
He raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure that was true. They went into his office, and he had Sara sit at his desk. He manipulated the computer keyboard over her shoulder. Half an hour later, she raised her hand.
"That's enough," she said. "I get it."
She had watched a slideshow of horribly abused and mutilated bodies. Most had been beaten beyond recognition. Some had been bled like slaughtered livestock: incisions into carotid arteries, femoral arteries and wrists, small cuts that pumped slowly enough for the victims to experience their deaths at some length and in considerable pain. One photo showed an array of the McCaskey brothers' weapons. They included Bowie knives, electric drills and tree pruners. The abuse and the mutilation frequently were sexual in nature, though it was clear none of the McCaskey brutality was about sex. It was all about violence and terror.
"So you'll go?" Grissom said.
"No," she replied. "But if he comes for you, I'll stand with you and fight."
Grissom looked desperate. "Sara …"
She put a finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhhh."
When she took her finger away, she replaced it with her mouth. At first Grissom resisted, but that couldn't last. He was helpless in her presence, just as she was in his. The kiss deepened with urgency. Her hands slid under his shirt and caressed his chest and back. His hands slipped her shirt over her head. Then he unhooked her bra and lowered his face to her breasts. His tongue drove her wild.
He moved her backward and onto his office sofa. She sat down, but wasn't ready to lie under him. She undid his blue jeans and pushed them to the floor with his shorts. Then she took him in her mouth.
She heard Grissom's sharp intake of air. He moaned in sheer pleasure. That pleased her. She loved doing that for him.
When he was fully aroused, he pushed her back onto the sofa gently, slid her slacks off her legs and returned the favor. Then he entered her and raised himself up on his elbows to watch her face.
They made it last as long as they could.
xxxxxxx
Four days passed uneventfully. The protection amassed for Grissom and Sara was open and aggressive.
The first day the paper deliveryman was run up against a wall and frisked. His credentials – and the fact that he had about 400 papers in his truck – eventually saved him from a trip to the police station.
A FedEx driver got the same treatment, and the bomb squad insisted on examining and opening the package he had for Grissom before delivery. It contained hard copies of the Eugene McCaskey files. Patrick Shea had sent them.
Even Shea had to run the security gauntlet when he showed up, unexpected, at Grissom's apartment on Day Three.
When he finally rang Grissom's doorbell, he looked disheveled.
"Pat!" Grissom hadn't expected to see his old friend. It had been nearly two years. "Come in." They shook hands warmly. "You look great. How're Kit and the kids?"
"Everyone's fine, Gil. Kit sends her love. Matt's a sophomore at UCLA now. Kerrie starts at USC in the fall. You're not gonna believe this. She wants to be a CSI. I think she got that from her Uncle Gil."
"That pleases me more than you know. But one kid at UCLA and one at USC? I don't think I want to be at your place during football season."
"I don't think I want to be at my house during football season."
"What are you doing here? Can I get you some coffee?"
"That'd be great."
Grissom went to the kitchen and poured a mug from the pot that seemed to be going 24 hours a day lately. "Still take it black?"
"Good memory. Yes."
When Grissom handed over the mug, he got to the point. "You here because of McCaskey?"
Shea sipped the coffee and nodded.
"I don't think that's going to happen," Grissom said. "He knows I'll have an army around me. He's probably running as fast as he can in a totally different direction."
Shea reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. "As much as I wish that were true, take a look at this. It's the reason I'm here."
The envelope contained a copy of a photo. Eleven years had passed since Grissom's last look at McCaskey, and McCaskey had aged badly on Death Row. But there was no denying the picture.
"Where was this taken?" Grissom asked. "When?"
"McCarran," Shea said. "Delta terminal. Last night."
Grissom's heart raced. "He's in Las Vegas, then."
"It would seem so. TSA at McCarran got this photo. We put them on alert after two people at the L.A. Crime Lab reported suspicious calls from a man asking for you. When they told him you hadn't worked there in years, the guy kept pressing on where you'd gone. Nobody told him, but it's easy enough to Google you. You aren't exactly anonymous in Vegas."
Sara walked in at that moment, fresh from a shower she'd taken alone for a change. Her hair was still damp. She didn't know Shea, but she recognized immediately he was someone Grissom knew and trusted.
"Well, hello," Shea said. He turned to Grissom. "You going to introduce us?"
Grissom looked from Shea to Sara and back and grinned. "Patrick Shea, my old friend from the LAPD, this is Sara Sidle, my fiancée."
"Your what?" Shea burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Sara. It's a pleasure meeting you. But back in L.A., we weren't sure if Gil was gay or just not interested in women. He never dated anyone we knew of. He was a workaholic with no outside interests." He turned to Grissom. "Well, my friend, you came late to the game, but when you got there, you got there in grand fashion."
"If you come on to her, Pat, I'll deck you first and then report you to Kit," Grissom said with mock seriousness. "You'll never be able to go home."
Sara wasn't sharing in the fun. She knew who Shea was. She wanted to know what brought him to Vegas. So she pressed him, and he told her.
"So the guy's here, and you're sure of that?" she said.
"Yeah," Shea said. "I'm sorry. But as of today, you've got one more set of eyes watching out for you. Mine. We let McCaskey get away. Our bad. I want him back before he does any more damage."
xxxxxxxx
Grissom's apartment began to resemble New York's Grand Central Station. Catherine and Brass showed up together. Brass stayed nearly an hour before leaving to answer a B&E call. Over the next two hours, Warrick, Greg and Nick all dropped by to see if there was anything they could do to help. Grissom began to wonder if they weren't all finding ways to become part of his protective service. He didn't want that. He didn't want any of his team standing in the line of fire. He said as much.
"We're not here for that," Nick said. "We're just hanging out, playing with the dog. Whatever."
Grissom scowled at Nick over the top of his glasses, but he was more touched than angry. The mention of Hank reminded Grissom it was time for a walk.
"I'll do it," Nick said, snatching the leash.
"You think I'm in danger walking my dog?" Grissom said.
"Yeah," Nick said. "Besides, what would the neighbors think? You and Hank surrounded by a dozen S.W.A.T. thugs with automatic weapons. There goes the neighborhood. Not to mention the embarrassment for the pup. It's hard to go with a lot of strangers watching."
Grissom grinned. "You'll have to pick up after him," he said.
Nick waved the plastic bag he's already taken from a box of them. "Got it covered, boss. I'm a CSI. I've picked up lots worse things."
Shea helped himself to the last of the coffee and started a new pot.
"I see you've earned the same sort of loyalty here you developed in the City of Angels, Gil," he said. "Though I don't recall anyone in our shop offering to marry you."
"No surprise there, Pat. They were all guys."
"Yeah," Shea said, "there was that."
The CSI crew began to wander off as the afternoon moved toward evening. They needed to get ready for work. Ecklie was the last to stop by. He came to put Grissom on paid leave until the McCaskey matter came to a resolution.
"I need you at work, but I can't risk it," Ecklie said. "You'd be too exposed in the field and, frankly, I can't see you confining yourself to the lab for the duration. Besides, it would mean leaving Sara unprotected. Since she's not with the department any more, the city won't pay for more than one officer outside her door. From what I know about McCaskey, one officer wouldn't help."
The thought of Sara alone terrified Grissom. He knew Ecklie was doing them a huge favor. As long as they stayed together, he could justify all the protection the city could muster to keep his senior CSI supervisor safe. If Sara was thus protected, as well, it was merely a side benefit, not an additional expense to the taxpayer.
"Thanks, Conrad," Grissom said. "I appreciate this." He meant it.
Finally the crowd thinned to Grissom, Sara and Shea, who was going to bunk in Grissom's second bedroom and serve as Grissom's last line of defense.
"I guess I'd better think about putting together some dinner," Sara said. "I'm thinking vegetable lasagna with fresh basil from Grissom's herb garden and a salad."
"That sounds great, Sara," Shea said. "Anything I can do to help?"
"You and Gil can make the salad later," she said. "The lasagna's a one-person job."
Grissom and Shea talked a while, until well after dark, about McCaskey and the errant judicial procedure that set him free. After a time, the back of Grissom's neck began to tingle, as if a couple of spiders were walking through his hair.
He stood up abruptly, his eyes frantically scanning for Sara and not finding her.
"Sara!"
No answer.
He looked in his office and called to her again.
Nothing.
He went into their bedroom. The bathroom door was open and she was nowhere to be seen.
Shea came up behind Grissom. "What's wrong?" he said.
"I can't find Sara," Grissom said. He could feel the thudding of his heart in his ears.
Basil! Sara had mentioned using fresh basil in the lasagna. It was in his garden, in the back yard.
Grissom wrenched open the sliding glass door to his patio, startling the two officers on duty.
"Have you seen Sara?" he asked, more a demand than a question.
"Yes, sir," the older man said. "She said she was going to the garden."
"And you didn't go with her?" Grissom was incredulous. He jerked the screen door open and stepped outside with Shea and the two cops on his heels.
"Sara," he called into the darkness. "Sara!"
He moved toward the garden. He didn't think he'd ever been so frightened.
This can't be happening. Sara, where are you? Please answer me.
"Sara," he called, louder this time.
Only the wind replied.
