4.

Grissom's limbs were heavy, as if they were made of lead. His whole body felt bolted to the seat in the waiting room, melting into its plastic grayness, to the point he wasn't sure he'd be able to disentangle himself long enough to get up. Could be some strange side effect of the Sumatriptan and NSAID he'd been forced to take when the migraine became intolerable. Or it could just be plain wooziness from lack of sleep and low blood sugar. When was the last time he'd had something to eat anyway? Details escaped him. The whole day was nothing but an endless nightmare of evidence and microscopes. Strange how their latest case, something that had seemed so crucial only a few hours before, had now taken bottommost place in his mind.

When the ambulance first came in, they'd wheeled Greg away from him—"Glasgow 8," the paramedic had shouted to the nurses that came to greet them—"head injury". He'd been snapped up by a neurosurgeon and taken for a CT almost before Grissom could relay his name. That's when he noticed his migraine was getting bad. The world had become a dizzying mass of voices and lights—he could barely see straight long enough to find a seat.

Warrick was already there, hands wringing, the expression on his face impenetrable. Concern masked it for a second when his eyes fell on Grissom. "Griss, you okay? Need some water for that?"

Once the pills had been gulped down and he'd rested his eyes for a few wobbly moments, Grissom finally felt sane enough to talk. "How's Catherine?"

Warrick bit his lip and turned away, anger and frustration covering his features. "Doctor's in there with her—kicked me out. Looks bad."

"Bad how?"

The short pause caught Grissom's attention. He hated short pauses.

"Like sexual assault bad."

It took a while for the words to sink in and for him to recognize the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was no longer migraine-related. He wasn't sure he could deal with Catherine injured. Especially like that. The scenario of her being that kind of victim had never crossed his mind. She'd always appeared so strong, so confident—even after discovering Sam Braun was her father, even when they'd found her ex-husband lying dead in a ditch. Over the last fifteen years, she'd always been his sidekick, his friend, his equal. The one who fought his political battles for him—the single person he could count on to whoop his ass when it was needed. She'd been at this very same hospital only a few weeks ago, their roles reversed—to wish him good luck on his own surgery. How was he supposed to explain to her little girl she'd been hurt under his very nose? In the PD parking lot, of all places?

I can't do this by myself, he realized in growing desperation. I'm good with bugs, not people. I don't even know what to say.

All these years it had always been Catherine doing the mothering. And now she couldn't anymore.

"Shit," muttered Warrick, as if he'd read his mind. Leaning his forehead on his palms, he looked tense enough to explode. "How long are these damn doctors gonna take? I wanna know what I need to tell their folks when I call them."

Right. Have to call the relatives. "Not your job, Warrick."

His hand had just lingered reluctantly toward his phone to that purpose when a disheveled-looking doctor in a half-open coat appeared. "Good night," he said, sounding every bit as drained as he looked. It wasn't three o'clock in the morning for nothing. "I'm Dr. Wilkins. Are you Miss Catherine Willows' next of kin?"

"I'm her supervisor," Grissom spoke up, the uncanny languor gone as suddenly as it had come. "Gil Grissom. I'll be notifying her next of kin." Almost afraid to ask, he went on, "How is she?"

Dr. Wilkins jiggled his head as if to shake off the cobwebs—a disconcerting move. "At first glance, nothing seems to be broken except her nose. She sustained extensive soft tissue damage though, so we'll still need to take some x-rays of her ribs and a full head and face CT. So far the concussion seems a mild one—there's no focalization and her vitals are stable. Should wake up any minute."

At his side, Warrick slumped back in relief and Grissom's heart almost stopped with the same. Thank God. At least he'd have something positive to report to Lily Flynn when he called her.

His hand crept toward the phone again. But what the hell was the doctor still doing there, gaping at him?

"Mr. Grissom," Dr. Wilkins said awkwardly, after one of those pauses he hated so much. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

Fists clenched helplessly, Grissom had to force himself to follow him. His gut feeling told him he really really didn't want to hear this.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Poor Nicky was really taking it hard.

It barely showed, but Sara could tell. You didn't work with a person for three years and not notice the subtle mood changes that came with stress. They'd been pretty much through thick and thin together—through his awkward involvement with Kristy, the prostitute; his fight over seniority with Warrick, the whole terrifying Nigel Crane ordeal. She'd been the butt of his jokes enough times to know where she stood with him. Too bad she still hadn't learned how to comfort him.

Truth was, she wasn't feeling so hot herself. She'd been tired and cranky long before the parking lot incident—now she was just plain upset. Poor Greg—he didn't deserve this. It had merely been a couple of months since the lab explosion had already landed him in the hospital once. And now he was there again?

That Greg had a crush on her was public knowledge. And while Sara didn't exactly return his affection in the same way, she did care for him and the idea of him being hurt made her feel oddly suffocated. She had no idea what had happened, but she'd be willing to bet Greg had nothing to do with it. He rarely ever did. Like last time, he'd probably just been an innocent bystander.

"Sara."

Archie's voice startled her. She was so used to hearing Greg in DNA. It still didn't compute he wasn't around. "Yeah?"

"That hair Nick pulled from the windshield has a skin tag. You got anything for me to run it against?"

"No." Sara's mood deflated like a balloon. It was discouraging just how little they had to go on. A couple of prints, some shoe treads, some blood that had ultimately been traced back to Catherine, that unknown hair, and the Rampart matchbook.

She was loosely aware of Catherine's involvement in the Sam Braun case a few weeks back. Sam Braun, local casino entrepreneur and alleged mobster, had been charged with the murder of a showgirl. Unfortunately all evidence related to the case was on the verge of being declared tainted because Catherine had turned out to be biologically related. His daughter, no less. How that came about, Sara had no idea. But it was a fact, and would probably cost them the case.

Under those circumstances, she didn't really see why Sam Braun should send his thugs out to hurt Catherine. But Nick was all caught up with the idea. He'd been on Jacqui's back worse than a leech, getting her to compare the prints on that matchbook to Sam Braun and his "associates".

Just as she happened to be gazing at it, AFIS came suddenly to a stop—the magical words flashing out: MATCH FOUND.

"Whoa," Jacqui breathed, staring at the screen. "I'll be damned."