Author's Note: I have nothing to say at this juncture in the story. Except to once more thank Kegel for the beta, and you lovely and wonderful reviewers for your kind words and insight.


The Present.

He blinked a few times before he even realized his eyes were open. For a brief moment, he held his breath. Was he alive? Was he dead? Did the coin land heads or tails?

And then he noticed the musical jamboree that was blasting away at his eardrums. It was a concoction of harsh, utterly unrecognizable noise. He picked up some heavy metal, and one of his favorite Marilyn Manson song, but he couldn't focus on just one thing. On top of the music was a high pitched whine, and screeches, as well as what sounded like snow from a television set and general static. And all of it was loud and blaring.

He was dead. And he was in hell.

And then, his eyes began to focus in the light as his pupils shrank and he made out a dark shadow sitting in a chair in front of him. It took him a moment to recognize him as the man he knew as Chuck. It was worse than hell. He must still be alive. He was sitting in a chair as well, although unlike Chuck he was bound to his seat.

"You're awake," Chuck observed.

Greg was too tired and almost too disappointed to retort. He looked away. The white noise clattered in his ears. His chest ached and his mouth was parched. His nose felt funny, as if a gallon of water had entered it and was sloshing around in his brain now. His head continued to throb and his heart, despite everything it had been through, continued in its steady rhythm. He guessed he had almost drowned and they'd revived him. For the first time since arriving there, he actually wished they hadn't. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears, but it didn't work. He quietly sobbed. Maybe they'd finally broken him.

And then, Chuck did something that lit the old fire in Greg's belly. He laughed. And Greg looked up at him, blinking the tears out of his eyes, to see a man much larger, and much more powerful than himself… making him feel insignificant. And he remembered, verbatim, what his father said seventeen years ago. Don't let any of those goddamn bastards keep you down. At least, not for long. "What are you laughing at?" he whispered, though he doubted Chuck could hear it above the noise.

Chuck just grinned at him evilly. "Poor little man," he said. "All alone and in pain, not a friend in the world. Wanna tell me your name again, you stupid piece of shit?"

Greg stared at him for a long time and Chuck's smile remained in place. "I can't hear you," he lied. "The music is too loud."

Chuck laughed again and held up his hand as a sign to some invisible observer. Greg sighed as quietly as he could. It really is true what the librarians say. Silence really is golden. His ears thanked him for the reprieve as they drank in all of the beautiful quiet that filled the room and he slowly smiled. He was almost averse to talking to Chuck and breaking this glorious phenomenon, but not quite.

"I said," Chuck began sinisterly, "What is your name you dumb fuck?"

"I can tell you one thing," Greg replied in whisper. "It's not dumb fuck. I think you have me confused with your mother."

Chuck didn't like that. He hit Greg hard across the face, but not as hard as the Rat used to hit surprisingly. It didn't draw any blood at least. Greg wondered if he had any blood left to bleed. Still, it did hurt, and didn't help his migraine. "I asked for your name, funnyman," Chuck sneered. "Not some smartass remark."

Greg nodded. He knew what Chuck wanted. Chuck wanted him to admit defeat. But he had won that coin toss against Death, and whether there was a reason for it or it was just dumb luck, Greg couldn't let that victory slide. Not yet. "Sanders. Greg Sanders," Greg said quietly.

Chuck was obviously irked as he jumped to his feet and glowered at Greg. "I hope you had a nice nap," he said. "Because it's the last one you'll have in a very long time." He raised his hand and the noise began anew.

As he walked towards the door and the lights continued to shine in his eyes and the music continued to play, Greg wished there was someway he could hit himself on the head and knock himself unconscious. Because sleep deprivation was hardly any fun when he knowingly did it to himself. He couldn't imagine, but would soon discover, what it was like when he didn't have the option to stop.


July 4, 1990

He sat on the porch and watched the neighbor kids across the street play with black cats and firecrackers, chasing each other with sparklers. Of course, his mother never let them have fireworks. She thought they were too dangerous. And she didn't even let Greg play with the neighbor kids. She'd heard of so many accidents with sparklers… Greg knew she meant well, but sometimes her over-protectiveness ruined his social life.

He heard the door close behind him and looked at her over his shoulder. She was cleaning her hands off on her apron, the perfect portrait of a loving mother with her hair back in two short pigtails and her red paisley shirt and blue jeans. She grinned at him, but her eyes were tired, and Greg felt the sudden urge to reassure her.

"You look great today, Mom," he said and she beamed, the smile finally reaching her eyes.

"I made pie," she said. "Cherry à la mode, just how you like it. And later tonight, if you want, Wesley said he'd take us to the river."

Greg made a face. "I'd rather stay here and watch the neighbors' fireworks if that's cool with you and him."

Her smile faded, but she nodded in understanding. She sat down next to him on the porch and watched the neighbors with him before sighing. "I know you don't like him, Greg, but he's mighty fond of you, you know. And he was a good friend of your father's…"

"It just doesn't feel right, Mom!" Greg suddenly burst out. "I mean… Dad's been gone for two months and you just jump on this guy like…" But he trailed off as he looked over at his mother, who was staring at her apron and nervously straightening it out. "Aw, Mom, I'm sorry… but…"

"You're right," she whispered, a tear glistening in her eye. "Greg, I… I loved your father so much, but it feels like we've just been going through this agonizingly long break up and in a way, I… I need this, Greg. I need to try and move on. But you're right. You're right, and I feel it every time I'm with him. No matter all the things your father put me through, Greg, I just… It feels like I'm betraying him. If he is still alive. No matter what he did to me, I just can't… I can't do anything to hurt him." She looked up at Greg. "I mean, he's still my husband, through it all. And no matter how I try, I just can't stop loving him…"

Greg looked down. "He loved you too, Mom," he said. "He loved you a lot. He just… He told me once that he'd made the wrong choices in life. That he put other things in front of the people he loved most in the world. You and me."

His mother smiled at him and put her arm around her son. He leaned his head on her shoulder as the sun set and the first couple fire works were going off. "Oh, Greg. I don't know what I'd ever do without you."

"You'd manage," Greg said. "Though admittedly, not very well."

She laughed and Greg was glad to hear it. They were quiet a moment before she spoke again. "Papa Olaf called. He and Nana are going to come over next weekend to… help me sort through some of your father's things. I mean, he has so much clutter in his closet, and I… I just can't touch it, not on my own. I could never invade his privacy. He was always so particular about that…"

"What are you going to do with his things?" Greg asked.

"Well," she said. "I think… I'm going to keep most of it, maybe put it aside for when he comes home again. And some of it I'll put in the attic. And some of it I might sell in a garage sale, but you know, only the really old stuff, nothing important. And some of it, I'll give to you."

Greg looked up at her. "To me?"

"He was your father, Greg," she said. "I'm sure there are a few things he wanted you to have."

Greg smiled at the thought and leaned his head on her shoulder again. "Yeah…"

"And who knows…" she said musingly. "Maybe we'll find something that will give us a hint as to where he's gone to."

"Maybe…" Greg agreed. But he doubted it.


Seventeen years later…

He'd reached his apartment in one piece, though he had the eerie sense that he was being watched. By who, Greg couldn't tell you, but every time he looked over his shoulder, he felt that some demon had just retreated into the shadows. Still, he convinced himself that it was all in his head. Who would be following him anyway?

Regardless, he still double-locked his door before making his way to his phone, checking briefly and uninterestedly to see if he had any messages before lifting up the receiver and dialing.

It rang a total of four times. Greg counted every ring. "Hello, Olivia Sanders speaking."

He smiled at her formal telephone manners. She always was old fashioned. "Mom, it's me," he said.

He could hear the grin in her voice. He loved calling her because he knew she loved hearing from him. Except for today. "Greg, I'm so glad you called, someone was just asking about you."

"Really?" Greg said, suddenly wondering if his feelings about being watched were warranted after all. "Who?"

"Oh, you remember Wesley," his mother said. "He came over today and asked me to make him some of that cherry pie he loves so much. We talked for hours, some about your father, some about you… He was curious as to what you were doing these days, so I told him that you were working for the Las Vegas Crime Lab and how you were helping solve cases by processing DNA—"

"About that, Mom…" Greg said. "Remember… a while ago, I called you and told you there'd been an accident?"

His mother hesitated. "You said you were attacked…" she said. "Out… Outside of work, you said you were… helping someone. You said you saved his life."

Greg nodded. "Well, it… It wasn't outside of work. It was when I was still on duty. I was on my way to a crime scene…"

"Greg, what would they need a lab technician at a crime scene for?" His mother was laughing, but he knew she was slowly figuring it out.

"Mom, I'm a CSI now, I do field work," Greg said quickly. "But we can talk about that later, OK? I need to ask you something about… about Dad."

"Greg, how long has this been going on?" his mother asked, sounding aghast. "I mean… you've been a CSI all this time and decided to just not tell me?"

"Mom," Greg said sharply. "I want to talk about this later, I need to ask you something about Dad."

"Why did you tell me this now?" his mother persisted. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Mother," Greg said, getting irritated. "I wouldn't even have told you now if I didn't have to, but it would be too difficult to explain my questions otherwise. Listen, I'm working on a case right now, OK? They… We found Dad."

Finally, there was silence on the other end of the line as he heard his mother hold her breath. He waited for her to react, to say something, but she remained silent.

He continued. "He was pulled out of Lake Mead… Now, I don't know what he was doing in Lake Mead anymore than you do. I didn't even know he'd ever been to Vegas."

"He went at least once a month…" his mother whispered finally. "He would send me… postcards and such. I always thought his mistress lived there and he was visiting her…" She choked back a sob. "I knew he was dead, but I always hoped… Oh my God…"

Greg knew her emotions because he mimicked them exactly. "It'll be OK, Mom," he promised her. "I just need to know a few things. What did you know about Dad's job?"

"N-nothing," she stuttered. "He wouldn't tell me anything about it. He always said it would bore me, or he wasn't allowed to discuss it—"

"Mom, but what did he do?" Greg interrupted. "Who did he work for? I mean, you were married to him for twenty-one years before he disappeared, you had to know something for Christ's sake!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, Gregory!" his mother snapped.

Greg sighed, exasperated, but he had to smile. No matter what, she was still his mother, and she would always treat him like a child. "OK, I'm sorry, but seriously… Do you even know the name of the company he worked for?"

She didn't speak for a long time, and when she did, her voice was sharp and to the point. "Before your father and I got married, he told me there were things about his life that he couldn't share with me. He asked me if I could still marry him, knowing that I could never fully know everything there was to know about him. I was just a girl at the time, so I thought it was exciting and mysterious and said of course! Well, I shouldn't have been so impetuous, but what did I know? If you want to know anything about your father, you should call Wesley up, he was a childhood friend of his, maybe he could help you—"

"I don't want to talk to Wesley, Mom, I want to talk to you!" Greg exclaimed. "Didn't you ever nose around a little, maybe ask him a question when he was drunk, weren't you ever curious?"

He could hear his mother pursing her lips even over the phone. "I never asked him questions about his work. It was part of the deal. But we met at a Halloween party in '64 and I'll never forget one of the first things he ever said to me… I was dressed as a cat, you see, and he was dressed as Dracula, and I was wearing a mask. I told him that his face looked arrogant, and he told me that I looked sassy in my mask. And I said, 'Well, at least mine is a mask, and I can take it off any time I want,' and he replied, 'And how do you know I'm not wearing a mask?' It was a joke, but… He never showed me his real face. I always knew there was a whole other person beyond the façade he showed me. I wasn't an idiot, Greg. I knew that he was into some very shady things. In my heart, I guess I always knew that it wasn't another woman, but I didn't want to believe that he loved his work—an inanimate object— more than he loved me. Another woman was just so much easier to deal with…"

"Mom, he wasn't into anything shady," Greg said. "He worked for the government. Some top secret branch, CIA or something else entirely, I don't know. The point is, they found out we have his body and they came to Vegas and completely took over the case."

"Well…" his mother said slowly. "If they want to take it over Greg, then you let them. I don't want you getting involved in this, you could hurt yourself. Just like the last time… Are you sure your talents aren't better suited in the lab? Your tenth grade biology teacher always said—"

"I'm not going back to the lab, Mom," Greg said. "And I'm not going to let the goddamn government, the same goddamn government that killed Dad, just sweep another murder under the rug. They won't tell me anything about the investigation they run, if they even run one at all. If I want to know what happened to Dad, I have to run my own fucking investigation."

"Gregory!" his mother said warningly. "Firstly, don't use that kind of language, that was your father's language, and I don't want to hear you saying those words. And secondly, you stay put, do you understand me? Don't make me fly out all the way to Las Vegas just so I can ground you!"

"I'm not twelve-years-old anymore, Mom, I can take care of myself," Greg yelled into the phone. "And just so you know, I've been a CSI for years now, and I've put dozens of crooks behind bars, and I'm good at it, Mom. I'm damn good, and I will use whatever language I feel fits the moment. Now I'm sorry to have upset you, but I have to go."

"Gregory Anthony Hojem Sanders, if you hang up this phone, I promise you I'll—"

But what she was promising him, Greg never found out as he slammed the phone down. He stared at it for a moment angrily, as though daring her to call back, but the phone remained silent. It was then and only then that he noticed he had a voice message as the little red light blinked on and off. It hadn't been there before he called his mother, so the call had to have come in while he was on the phone with her. Curious, he pressed play. The phone number was restricted, according to the machine, but the message was clear.

"I can tell you something about your father. Meet me as soon as possible at Jean Luc's Pet Clinic a little ways outside of town. Come alone, and tell no one, especially not those government suits."

Greg knew that all B-rated private eye movies started out this way. Come alone. Tell no one. A smart person would have ignored both of those orders. But unfortunately, all the people he could tell would keep him from going. He knew Grissom would lock him up in order to make sure he didn't go, and wild horses wouldn't keep him from this meeting. If he asked Sara or Nick to come along, they would just ask too many questions. If he asked Warrick or Catherine, they'd think he was up to something and want to tell Grissom. He had to go alone. There was no other option.

Still, he wasn't a complete idiot. He had to leave something behind, a hint to where he was headed. So he scribbled a note to his fictional roommate on a Post-It by the phone. He had to be discreet, so as not to alert the government agents, but he wanted his friends to recognize something was wrong if something indeed went wrong. He had to give them a trail. Breadcrumbs. Something to follow if it all went to hell in a hand basket. He thought for a long time about his wording.

Poncho— Went to Jean Luc's Pet Clinic to pick up the dog. Vet said he should be back to full health by tomorrow morning. If he isn't, go back to the center and ask the vet what's wrong. Tell Sunshine Woodstock happened in 1969, not 1964, so I win the bet and get to keep the ring. Don't forget to do the dishes and please, please would you just take out the garbage already? Greg.

He looked at the note for a long time, hoping his friends were bright enough to decipher his code. But then he reminded himself, they were CSIs. Of course they'd figure it out. If they had to figure anything out. He was fully intending on returning from this mysterious rendezvous. Still, it never hurt to be prepared. His Dad had taught him that.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. He walked into his kitchen and lifted the lid on his trash can. In it, he put a picture of himself with his father when he was very young. He put a newspaper over it before closing the lid. And with that, he grabbed his coat and left his apartment.