Disclaimer: Hmmm? Wonder if we had enough money to pool together and that would be enough to buy them?

A/N: Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and character death. Proceed with caution. Remember there is something to be said for your patience in reading this piece; it does get better eventually.

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Chapter 4

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With the videos still playing on a loop pattern, McIntyre made sure that Grissom could not move his head in the makeshift helmet attached to the chair by jostling the helmet.

"If you close your eyes, you will be shocked," McIntyre said in a tired voice.

While his methods exerted less physical energy on McIntyre than with continuous physical beatings, he had to stay awake with Grissom, to revel the man's discomfort. But now, using a timer on his switch, he set the delay control to surge a one-second charge into Grissom's body every 60 minutes. Even if Grissom did close his eyes and sleep, the shock would awake him.

He left Grissom's side, not caring if the man was aware of that fact. McIntyre went to the kitchen and raided the refrigerator, since it was well past dinnertime. Spying fresh mushrooms, scallions and tomatoes, McIntyre thought pasta with primavera sauce would be a wonderful dinner. Some cooking would help settle his nerves; Jacob was keyed up from finally achieving his long desired revenge on Grissom.

He rifled through the kitchen cabinets for a pot or two and found a rather large dog bowl with little bones embellishing the sides. McIntyre had forgotten about the dog. Grissom must have taken him to be boarded while he was to be away for the roller coaster marathon.

As McIntyre chopped vegetables, he thought the dog wouldn't be an issue, so he sat back on one of the stools at the bar while the sauce simmered and enjoyed the sounds of Grissom's moans, sobs and pain-filled grunts.

At the edge of slumber, Jacob's memories of the past that brought him to the threshold of Grissom's townhouse, overcame him. He jolted awake, knowing he needed to stay awake, least his dinner burn. He gave into the images.

In 1984, McIntyre was a professional college student tenuously studying psychology when he'd met the woman who became his life while doing research at a drug rehabilitation facility. Dale Danley had been a patient at the facility, diagnosed as bipolar, and when she was "up," her spirit led her to take life and living dangerously to the extreme and when she was "down," Jacob found himself seeking ways to lighten her darker moods, to quash her demons.

Dale was the epitome of beauty: five foot eight, 120 pounds, blonde, blue eyed, Midwestern, girl next-door type. Only she wasn't the girl next door, unless the neighbor was a banshee in disguise. When she was bad, the whole world was on its knees. When she was good, Jacob was on his.

He found her mood swings fascinating, enticing and arousing. She could become suddenly violent on a whim, especially during her lows. But McIntyre, whose fascination with the human brain led him to voraciously study mental illness and mental manipulation, never left his damaged Dale. He also let her lead him by his nose, among other things. Anything Dale wanted from him, she got.

This obsession is what led them to Colony Community Bank that one February afternoon in 1985. Dale had aspired to rob, just for fun, a bank in Pine City, Minnesota, a small town about an hour's drive north of Minneapolis on Highway 35, and McIntyre was more than happy to oblige.

He would enjoy watching how the people in the bank would react to their actions. He didn't necessarily need the money, his family had more than enough. On one weekend prior to their planned heist, they'd snuck into his father's study and stolen two valuable Ivo Fabbri 12-bore shotguns with an estimated worth of around $70,000.

At first, their goal had been to rob and high tail it out of there, but as they lay in their bed with the shotguns paralleling and caressing her nude body, Dale spoke of a desire to really hurt people. She spoke of the control they could feel as they held people's lives in their hands. Her words and her passion ignited desire within McIntyre that he didn't know existed. He too wanted to feel that power, especially after the powerful orgasms the two had experienced.

So, they talked about hostages. They spoke about control. They spoke about pain and humiliation. And they conspired about their escape after the fact.

What never occurred to them was what to do if someone in the bank also had a gun.

Armed with the expensive shotguns, they made their way into the branch of the community bank. When they walked into the building, power and adrenaline drove them to distraction. If they were more focused, maybe they would have noticed the two men who seemed to move in a direction that gave them a vantage point of attack. Maybe they would have noticed the slight movement they made when they secured their concealed weapons. Maybe they would have noticed they spoke to one another in hushed tones.

But they didn't. And that ended up being a fatal mistake.

But McIntyre never saw it as a mistake he and Dale made. He thought of the whole misadventure and blamed Gil Grissom and Phillip Gerard.

When the single shot from Grissom's service revolver rang out, McIntyre's rush from the adrenaline and power dissipated. He knew he would never forget seeing Dale's pain as she clutched her stomach and as her blood quickly seeped through her fingers. He could see the pure agony and pain on her face. She would have died in his arms, if Gerard hadn't pulled him off her and disarmed him, cuffing him face down on the floor. McIntyre struggled against the restraint, but was helpless as Dale's life drained before his eyes.

With his face shoved to his side, he saw the man who shot Dale stoop down, brush the hair from her neck and touch her. Although Grissom only sought to find a pulse, McIntyre saw it as a violation of his beloved Dale. He wanted that bastard who had killed Dale to feel the pain she felt. All the sudden the need to seize power and control brewed again in McIntyre's heart.

McIntyre was convicted of attempted armed robbery and was sentenced to 20 years in prison with possibility of parole after 15 years. His affluent family disowned him and effectively severed all connection to him. He knew what he needed to do in the years of his incarceration: study and fly under the radar. He spent his time earning a degree in psychology. He independently studied much about mental breakdowns, mind torture, mental suggestion and hypnosis. And he dreamed of the revenge he would exact upon both Gil Grissom and his mentor, Phillip Gerard.

As he watched Grissom, now writhing in the chair, McIntyre felt a sense of pride. His hard work seemed to have come to fruition. He had not yet used all the elements of his study, but he soon would. A simple phone call would jump start the next phase of his torture of Gil Grissom and extract a form of revenge upon Phillip Gerard.

But first McIntyre wanted to eat. The pasta was done and the sauce smelled heavenly. And perhaps he would grab a few more hours of sleep. He was sure Grissom wouldn't mind, or even have mind enough to disagree.

Throughout the night and early morning hours of Saturday, McIntyre would check on Grissom. At times he would stop the timed electrical charges, move the electrodes to different parts of Grissom's body. At one point, he watched as Grissom received the small, hourly jolt and then passed out from exhaustion. Another timed charge was not due for another 60 minutes, so McIntyre decided to pause the video and turn off the electrocution box for a few hours.

He wanted to see if Grissom's sleep pattern had been compromised to the point that respite from the images were impossible. After some 12 minutes of sleep, McIntyre heard Grissom scream and moan and beg. He relived the images in his sleep but did not wake. Then, as if on clockwork, his body jolted awake, accustomed to doing so because of the timed charges. Then exhaustion set in again, Grissom's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he was again asleep.

The scene before his eyes fascinated McIntyre to no end.

Some 12 hours after he started the videos, McIntyre prepared to make a phone call for one of the most important phases of his plan. Grissom was awake and the videos were running. After attaching a hands-free device on Grissom's cordless phone, McIntyre turned off the videos and took the helmet off of Grissom's head. Even though the television screen he had watch for hours was now turned off, Grissom could still see the video images in his mind.

McIntyre sensed Grissom's lack of focus and slapped him across the face twice. He removed all the electrodes and placed them safely away from the table. McIntyre then took a cup of ice water and poured it on Grissom's head. Somehow, the pain from the ice seemed to aggravate his wounds from the first day and Grissom screamed in pain.

"Come on, there, Grissom. You need to focus."

McIntyre put the earpiece in his own ear, and secured the microphone by taping it to Grissom's chest. "Good thing you don't have any chest hair, there Grissom. It might hurt when I take the tape off."

While laughing at his own cruel joke, McIntyre started a word processing program and made the font size extremely large so Grissom could easily read the typeface.

McIntyre lifted Grissom roughly by his head and said, "Read out loud what I type on the screen."

Grissom could barely focus after looking at the screen for so long. McIntyre grabbed Grissom's head and pulled it back. "Open your eyes so I can put in these drops here."

For the first time since the nightmare began, McIntyre did something that aided Grissom. The eye drops felt good on his fatigued eyes. "Better, eh?"

"Yes," Grissom replied.

"Now read."

Grissom looked and did as he was asked. "My name is Gil Grissom and I am a murderer."

"You bet you are, ya fucking bastard," the chilling tone of McIntyre's voice returned and Grissom shuddered. "Now, you listen carefully, Grissom. I am going to make a call, and you are to read out loud exactly what I type. Do not add a word. Do not emphasize any particular words. If you do, I will leave here, enter the home of your protégé Warrick Brown put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. You've seen what I've done. You know I can and will do it again. Understand?"

Grissom nodded weakly. He has no idea who his tormentor was calling. Without an earpiece, he would not be able to hear the other end of the conversation and identify the caller. After a short lapse, he saw his tormentor type something quickly on the monitor. Grissom had no choice but to read the words aloud.

"It's Grissom."

On the other end, Phillip Gerard began a conversation with Grissom even though Grissom couldn't hear a word. "Gil. Good to hear from you. How are things with you?"

Grissom saw McIntyre smile as he quickly typed, "I'm good. You?"

Gerard didn't seem phased by Grissom's short answers. On the contrary, it seemed natural. "I'm good, Gil. Thanks. The seminar was fairly cut and dry. I finished yesterday. I was leaving Las Vegas tomorrow morning, are you perhaps interested in meeting? It would be good to see you without the specter of a court case coming between us."

As McIntyre listened, he typed again. "Yes. Dinner at my place?"

"That works for me," McIntyre heard Gerard reply. "I could be at there around six, unless that's too soon."

McIntyre typed again. "No. That's fine. I'll see you then. 1855-B Plum Poet Place."

"OK, Gil. I'll catch a cab there. Good to hear from you."

McIntyre ended the call, took off the earpiece and removed the microphone from Grissom's chest. "Who was that?" Grissom asked. "Who did you contact?"

"I ordered a pizza. I hope you like mushrooms," McIntyre said before roughly grabbing Grissom's face. "I really wouldn't want to ruin the surprise for you there, Grissom. You'll find out before too long. But until then, close your eyes fer a while. I'll have some music to play fer ya, so you won't get too lonely."

McIntyre grabbed a pair of wireless earbud headphones and put them in Grissom's ears. McIntyre started a familiar program on the computer.

It was the video again. Grissom shut his eyes tight. Then he heard McIntyre extend the volume to its loudest point. Pain-filled screams, begging and pleading filled Grissom's ears. Nothing would allow him to escape that.

He felt McIntyre leave his side. Grissom tried to shake the buds out of his ears, but to no avail, the helmet held his head in place.

He knew the pitch, timber and rhythm of every scream, moan and chaotic movement on the videos by heart. And now, the emotion of every sound now had a physical feel to it. He could move in rhythm to the sickening sounds of his mother thrashing about on her bed before she drew her last, labored breath. Although he could hear the screams and knew the video was dark, he knew the exact moment Terri Miller stopped flailing her arms, a moment then followed by a splash as her body was thrown back into the tub.

And he could see vividly the exact moment Sara's throat was slashed, blood spilling down her body. He could see the final frozen look of horror on her face. He saw the last beads of sweat upon her brow just below where her hair was matted against her forehead.

He even memorized the pattern of the blurred tiles in the background. A pattern that seemed so familiar, a black and white checker board pattern, yet he couldn't focus on it because all he could see were Sara's dead eyes and her limp body as her lifeblood drained from her body at the hands of his tormentor. I could have loved her, if I'd just had the time.

His mind was numb as the sounds merged in his brain to provide a white noise. He hardly noticed when the earbuds were removed from his ears several hours later.

Grissom never heard the doorbell when Phillip Gerard arrived, which made McIntyre laugh. McIntyre took off his mask and discreetly looked out the window and made sure Gerard's cab drove away before answering the door. He opened the door and grabbed Gerard's arm effectively dragging him inside the townhouse before the older man could say a word.

The two men looked at each other face-to-face, and McIntyre realized Gerard recognized him. Gerard fought his attacker and even grabbed hairs off his head after the ski mask fell off of McIntyre's head.

But ultimately, Gerard failed because McIntyre used the same tactic from Grissom's kidnapping, a few well placed whips to the head with the butt end of his pistol. Once Gerard was on the ground, McIntyre made quick work of binding the man's hands and feet.

Gerard struggled against the binds, but it was no use, he knew nothing good would come out of this scenario. He was sure of it as Jacob McIntyre dragged him through Grissom's townhouse.

Gerard recognized McIntyre the moment he answered the door with nothing hiding his face. Eighteen years couldn't erase Jacob McIntyre's face from Gerard's mind. Even though McIntyre looked older and his hair was thinner, Gerard knew he was the man who attempted to rob a small town bank on a cold February morning.

Fortunately the bank personnel, customers (including that little girl Gil saved) survived the heist before the duo could begin their carnage. While McIntyre lived, his foolish partner/girlfriend was not so fortunate. Gerard and Gil had been lauded for their heroism during the bank robbery, but Phillip knew the death of Dale Danley weighted heavily upon Gil's soul.

McIntyre dragged Gerard to the main room, and the older man's heart dropped when he saw a battered Gil Grissom stripped and bound in a chair. "Dear God, what have you done to him?" Gerard asked McIntyre.

"Shut up, Gerard," McIntyre said as he unceremoniously dropped Gerard at his feet. Grissom still couldn't hear a thing from the previous assault on his ears. The lasting effects of the homemade horror movies still lingered in his mind. Once again, McIntyre recognized Grissom's lack of focus.

Since he had an audience, he made the beating count. McIntyre pushed the table with the laptop upon it out of his way, with the laptop flying off the table and hitting the floor hard. Pieces of the machine broke away from it.

McIntyre's fist connected hard against the right side of Grissom's face, once, twice, three times. McIntyre then took a step back and kicked Grissom in the chest. The force of the blow caused the chair and Grissom in it to fall backwards. McIntyre hovered above him and screamed, "DO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, THERE, YA FUCKIN' BASTARD?"

He then pushed the chair upright and stooped in front of Grissom as he watched his the bound man catch his breath. McIntyre laughed and looked down at Gerard who witnessed the whole ordeal. Despite his own nerves, Gerard seemed calm. It was not the reaction McIntyre hoped for, but at the moment, McIntyre couldn't care less.

"Grissom? Grissom?" McIntyre said in a sickly sweet voice. "You have a friend here, Grissom." McIntyre reached down and positioned Gerard exactly as he wanted — on his knees with his hands and feet bound behind him. Directly in front of Grissom. "Well, say hello, you two."

"Hello, Gil," Gerard said calmly.

"Phillip?" Grissom, whose nerves were exposed after having violent images branded on his brain, couldn't discern if what he was witnessing was real or not.

"It's me, Gil. It's Phillip. I'm here with you, Gil."

"Well, we have such a nice reunion here, don't we gentlemen? Now, if I remember correctly, you were like a mentor, even a father-figure to Grissom, weren't you Gerard?"

I was, Gerard thought. The older man knew their last meeting did irrefutable damage to their relationship due to Gerard's arrogance. But now Gerard's gut told him this would be his and Grissom's last meeting. If he could, Gerard had to do something right, to help his former friend.

Grissom stared at Gerard. His breathing was still somewhat labored. When McIntyre punched Gil in the jaw. McIntyre made sure not to damage Grissom's eyes. He obviously didn't want his vision to suffer. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped from Grissom's mouth. His body was physically exhausted.

Within the past 48 hours he had been pistol whipped, burned, punched, whipped and electrocuted. But even more demanding was his mental exhaustion. Despite the fact that Gerard was in front of him and had reassured him of his presence, Grissom still could not believe he was face-to-face with him. Grissom dared to hope Phillip would be able to free him from the clutches of this evil man who'd stripped away his illusions of life and taken away the only two women he'd ever loved in his life.

"Well," McIntyre said, breaking the silence passing between the two men, "if you two don't have anything to say to each other, then how about I get on with this, eh?"

McIntyre went to the kitchen and left them alone. Gerard took the moment to speak quickly. "Gil. GIL." The familiar intensity of Gerard's voice roused Grissom. "Gil, I need you to listen. Look at me Gil. Listen!"

It took a moment, but Grissom did as he was told. He eyes stopped glancing from side to side and he focused on Gerard's face. "Phillip. ... I'm sorry."

"Don't say anything Gil. I need you to listen to me and focus," Gerard's tone was direct and succinct. "Don't trust anything but the evidence, Gil. From cuff to collar, trust nothing but the evidence. Do you hear me?" Gerard looked over his shoulder and saw what McIntyre was bringing from the kitchen. "No matter what ideas this man puts in your head, you only trust the physical evidence. You did nothing wrong, my friend."

Grissom's breathing became erratic. "I... I don't even know who he is..."

Gerard pursed his lips but before he could continue he felt something cold, hard and metallic hit the back of his head. "That's enough talk, Gerard." McIntyre flashed the gun in Grissom's face. "It doesn't seem like you've used this in a while, eh, Grissom?" McIntyre possessed Grissom's old service revolver in his hand. "I spent some time today making sure it is still usable," McIntyre said as he cradled the gun in his hand and then raised it to check the sight. "I've got to tell you, for someone who doesn't carry a weapon anymore, you keep your guns in good working order."

When McIntyre placed the gun roughly against Gerard's temple, the older man didn't say a word. But Grissom gasped and strained to shout, "DON'T!"

"Don't what, Gil? Kill your friend with your gun? Well, let me tell you, buddy, you're the one who's pulling the trigger. You're the one who's going to cause your friend's brains to explode all over your nice townhouse."

"Don't do this!" Again, Grissom strained to shout his words.

At that, an angry McIntyre put the gun to his side and went to grab the roll of duct tape on the table. He ripped a piece of tape off the roll and planted it upon Grissom's mouth. McIntyre repeated the action two more times. He then turned around and threw the duct tape against a wall, shattering glass. McIntyre looked at the gun, and returned to the kitchen, and Gerard took that moment to speak again. "A hell of a day for a side trip, huh Gil?" Gerard smiled at Grissom, who seemed perplexed by the statement. "Just remember, Gil. Sometimes the shot has to be fatal."

As the words floated in Grissom's head, McIntyre came back and resumed the executioner position next to Gerard. The gun now had a silencer attached. "You pulled the trigger, Grissom. Your gun. Your trigger. Your action."

Grissom heard the shot. Grissom watched as Phillip Gerard's final breath was drawn.

Grissom watched the brain matter explode from the head of the man he once regarded as his friend and mentor. Grissom felt Gerard fall forward at his feet. Grissom noticed the pattern the arterial spray made on the armrest of his leather coach and the pool of blood gathered around Gerard's head.

Grissom listened for a final breath. Grissom heard nothing. Then Grissom saw nothing.

McIntyre tightly secured a blindfold around Grissom's head. And somehow, Grissom knew his tormentor wasn't done with him.

TBC