A Few Days in Las Vegas Chapter 7
By mid-morning, the two had slept enough to be rested until their hunger, or exhaustion, got Grissom out of bed to make coffee and Sara into the shower. He left coffee in the bathroom for her and called work.
When she walked into the kitchen, finding him talking on the phone, she placed herself within his free arm in such a way that he felt he could keep her there forever. His voice stumbled a few times before he finished the call.
"You look wonderful, feel even better."
"Shower. I'll fix us some food."
When he returned in fifteen minutes, she had cooked an omelet, toasted bread, and cut up fruit for two plates.
He smiled as he ate, saying, "This is the first time I've eaten your cooking."
"Don't expect much—my cooking is simple and usually consists of something I unwrap. I'm not Martha Stewart."
They drove west to Red Rocks Canyon. He had packed drinks and snack foods in a cooler. They made one stop where he bought a pair of hiking boots and socks for her. She tried to protest, but he stopped her with a silent wave.
"You need something to protect your feet for where we are going."
Grissom drove the circle road along the foothills, stopping often, showing her the red, gray and white sandstone mountains, the desert, the highest point along the mountain range, wild donkeys among the Joshua trees and cactus. They walked short trails and found pools of water tucked among rocks and in the shade of boulders. He pointed to a falcon's nest, gave her binoculars so she could watch as the female returned to the nest. Another trail took them into a canyon where water quietly bubbled from the ground and spilled into a rocky creek. They ate snack bars and apples and drank water he had packed.
They found a comfortable place among thorny bushes and crops of rock and talked as old friends. Grissom realized the knowledge she possessed about crime and techniques, especially the newest applications in using computers, was beyond what anyone in the Las Vegas lab knew.
"I'm old," he said. "I like to hold it in my hand, smell it. Climb a ladder and drop a fake body, hear the sounds."
In the middle of this discussion—his back against a boulder, her head on his thigh—he raised his hand. "Shhh—look."
A Bighorn sheep carefully stepped into the shade dappled path leading to water, no more than thirty feet from where they sat. There was no sound for miles. When the sheep stopped, looked behind her, waited a minute, they saw her baby emerge from a hidden crevice.
Sara's fingers pressed into Grissom's leg. For ten minutes, perhaps longer, they watched as mother and baby drank and moved around the creek. The only human movement was breathing and the fingertips that pressed bruises into his skin.
"I can not believe we were so close!" The grin across her face had not gone away since the sheep moved up the rocky mountain.
"That does not happen often," he said. "Usually you will see one at a distance." They had gathered their things and walked slowly along the trail. "Big spider—tarantula." He pointed ahead. It crawled across their path. He was holding her hand when he felt her shiver.
"They are not bad." He said.
She shook her head. "I don't like spiders."
He made a throat clearing sound before speaking. "I guess this is not the time to say I have a pet tarantula in my office."
Sara looked at him with wide eyes. "I hope you are kidding—seriously—they give me the creeps." He could tell she was serious.
He wisely changed the subject. "Golf—tomorrow, early, before you leave." The spider disappeared into desert weeds and shrubs.
"I've never held a golf club in my hand."
He laughed. "That's okay. At least you know it's a club and not a bat."
This time she giggled. "I don't like bats either—you don't have a pet bat, do you?"
