The screwed-to-the-floor plastic chairs of the ER waiting-room were hard and uncomfortable. Voices came and went all around her, some loud and shouting, some tearful, scared and pleading while their owners cast funny looks at her, their noses turning up at the foul smell. In the fifteen minutes she'd been sitting there Sara hadn't noticed any of it. Her gaze was fixed to the nurses' station, unblinking, unseeing, as waiting she replayed the events of the last five hours or so in her head.
The main ER doors slid open again and with it a new rush of air. Her eyelids drifted shut as she took in a deep breath, unconsciously welcoming the cooler night breeze gently making its way to her. Vaguely, she was aware of someone sitting down on the chair beside her.
"Remember when we met?" a quiet, smiley voice said after a moment.
Sara startled, then giving her head a shake refocused tired, blurry eyes onto the nurses' station. Finally registering who the voice belonged to, she turned toward it, finding Hank sat there, a soft, slightly wistful smile on his lips as he watched her. Her gaze narrowed, bemused.
"Doesn't bother me like it used to," he said, his shoulder lifting sheepishly, "Would go as far as to say I positively like it."
It took a moment for her to cotton on to what he was on about but when she did, she couldn't help the small smile that cracked her lips. Despite him pressing his lips tightly together, the boyish smile that she had once found so charming broke through, and she lowered her eyes to her coveralls, seeing his teasing for what it was, a clumsy attempt at cheering her up.
"There, that gorgeous smile of yours," he added, causing said smile to disappear instantly.
Hank had always been a smooth talker, and it was almost heart-warming to know he hadn't changed. Their paths had crossed a few times in the last nine years, but they'd never exchanged more than a polite nod or brief pleasantries. She had heard that he and Elaine had got married soon after their breakup and now she wondered if they still were, or whether Elaine had seen him for the lying, conniving, two-timing rat he was.
While they had dated, the young paramedic had filled an ache, a void, a desperate need – both physical and emotional – for human comfort and a man's touch. He had been fun to be with, the diversion she'd so badly needed, a no-strings-attached relationship that had still obviously meant more to her than to him. And yet, despite the fact that she hadn't been in love with him, that her heart was Grissom's even then, she couldn't deny that his cheating and the way she had found out about it had hurt deeply and left its mark.
"Don't," she said, her tone cold and final, refocusing her eyes to the nurses' station. And then after a beat, "Haven't you got some place else to be?"
"I'm on a break," he said, his tone losing all trace of levity. He shifted down on the seat, crossing his legs at the ankles, making himself comfortable. Sara was letting out an inward sigh when she heard the tell-tale unwrapping of a snack bar. Her stomach made a gurgling sound she hoped he didn't hear. "What happened to the boy's parents?" he asked, chewing.
"Father's on the way," she replied automatically, eyes flicking over to him. He held out his half-eaten cereal bar to her, and she shook her head in reply. "Mother's most probably on the coroner's slab."
Hank flinched at her turn of phrase. He pulled a face, his chewing slowing right down as he stared at his snack.
Sara turned her head away, her gaze sliding back to the main bowels of the ER. "You don't have to wait," she said, "I don't need you to keep me company."
Hank didn't answer, but didn't leave either, and Sara lapsed into silence with a resigned sigh, her eyes once more finding the nurses' station as her thoughts returned to Timothy. What was taking so long, she wondered? The nurse had promised to come and get her as soon as the doctor had finished examining the little boy and yet again she wished she'd insisted a bit more and refused to leave his side.
"The wound in his hand," she said after a moment, turning toward Hank, "what did it look like to you?"
Hank's eyes snapped open, and he pursed his mouth, considering her words. "A burn mark," he settled for. "I've seen one just like that before," he added in a chuckle, "except it wasn't infected." Sara's eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and he gave another chuckle, his shoulder lifting as he explained, "My daughter, when she borrowed Elaine's curling iron to curl her hair."
Sara swallowed, her gaze averting to hide her sadness at the mention of Elaine and a daughter.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, his tone contrite, "that was crass of me."
Sara looked up and forced a smile. "It's okay. And how is…Elaine?" she asked her curiosity piqued.
"She's good. Expecting number three," he said in a soft chuckle, and she cursed herself for asking. "We were trying for a boy, but…with our luck…it'll be another girl."
And there it was again, that hard punch in the stomach when she least expected it. A boy, a girl, what did it matter as long as it was healthy? Sara felt winded again, gasping for air, and she looked down to the clasped hands in her lap to hide her distress.
"What about you?" Hank went on, unaware. "You're married, right?"
Sara's eyes narrowed and when she brought them up she saw he was staring at her hands. He looked up and smiled. "Yeah, I'm married," she said, her eyes dropping back down to her lap.
"Grissom?"
Her eyes shot up with surprise, and she nodded.
His smile widened slightly. "I'm happy for you." He sounded it too, and Sara felt herself relax a little, his candour dissipating some of her anguish.
"How did you know?" she asked after a beat.
His shoulder lifted. "I saw you two interact at the crime scene, remember? The way he was with you, the concern in his eyes, the…matching ring on his finger?" A smile broke through, and he shrugged again. "Can't say I'm surprised. He was always there, wasn't he?"
Hank's comment gave Sara pause, but before she could think of the words to respond the nurse that had whisked Timothy away earlier walked up to the nurses' station and she jumped to her feet, striding over through the open double doors. "How's Timmy?" she asked without preamble, the trembling in her voice betraying her worry.
The nurse's eyes flicked over to Sara and then Hank coming up behind her. "He's doing okay." A wistful smile formed on her tired face. "Poor kid looks like he could do with all the sleep in the world and a lot of TLC."
"He's awake?" Sara asked, surprised.
The nurse gave her head a shake, refocusing. Her smile faded. "No, he's not. We're giving him IV fluids, but nothing else at the moment, not until the doctor has been to see him."
Sara gave a long sigh. "How long is that going to take?"
"Your guess is as good as mine but it's Friday night and you can see how busy it is." The nurse gave Sara a warm smile. "For what it's worth he's going to be fine – physically anyway."
Sara's nod was on the forlorn side, for she knew first hand that emotionally he would be a wreck and that a trauma like that would shape the rest of his life, just as her father's death had shaped hers. "Can I see him?"
The nurse pondered Sara's query for a few seconds before nodding her reply. "Just for a minute," she said.
"Hank?" called a male voice from behind them. "We got to go. Crash on the Parkway."
Sara turned to look at Hank who looking back over his shoulder nodded his head before refocusing on her. His hand moved to her shoulder, light, friendly, and Sara didn't shy away from the touch. "You going to be okay?"
"Hank?"
Sara gave him a quick nod in reply, watching as with a parting smile he trotted out of the ER and once again out of her life.
"Curtain two," the nurse told Sara, "Down the corridor on the left-hand side."
Sara turned back. "Thank you," she said, already headed there.
When she pulled the curtain back her insides were already twisted in a tight knot. She swallowed and stared motionlessly at Timothy's small, pale form in the big hospital bed. Electrodes hooking him up to a cardiac monitor rose and fell on his chest as he breathed while an IV line dripped saline into his skinny arm. Slowly, almost tentatively she walked up to the bed and picked up his left hand that lay on his stomach, the one not bandaged. It felt warm and clean. Timothy flinched in his sleep, unconsciously tugging his hand weakly out of Sara's with a whimper, but Sara kept a gentle hold of it.
"It's okay," she said, using the same tone of voice she'd used before with him, "it's me, Sara," and the boy relaxed again.
With a trained eye she took in the outlines of tiny ribs stretching the skin on his torso. Reassured to see that the burn mark in the palm of his right hand was his only outward wound she pulled a nearby stool over and sat down on it. Still holding his hand she used her other hand to stroke his sticky brow while doing her best to manage her own turmoil of emotion raging inside her. After a while Timothy stirred and whimpered again. His eyes fluttered open, immediately locking on her, and her face lit up with a smile.
"Hey," she said, "It's me Sara. You remember me?"
Timothy's eyes narrowed, then flicked up to a point beyond her before darting all over the place, growing wider and wider with fear as he took in his surroundings and realised where he was.
"It's okay," she soothed. "Don't be scared. You're safe here too."
Before she could begin to form words in her mind to best ask him about what had happened the curtain was pulled back sharply, revealing a young male doctor, looking tired and harried and carrying a medical chart. The boy's eyes shot to him, once again wide and fearful. He started, seemingly recoiling in the bed. Sara pushed to her feet but didn't let go of his hand.
"It's okay," Sara told Timothy, "don't be scared. Doctor…"
"Pendleton," the doctor said, looking at Sara from head to toe, his nose twitching with distaste.
She turned back to Timothy. "Doctor Pendleton's here to help you too. Just like me."
"You're his mother?" he asked, eyes narrow and distrustful.
Sara swallowed her discomfort. "No. I'm…Sara Sidle from the crime lab. I―I found him. I left my ID at the…crime scene," she said the last words in a whisper and a flicker of her eyes toward Timothy. "His father is coming all the way over from Carson City so we don't know how much longer he'll be."
When Brass arrived soon afterwards he found her, head in hand, leaning against the nurses' station. Timothy had drifted back to sleep, and one of the care assistants was giving him a sponge bath before he was due to be moved onto the paediatric ward. Brass still wore the same rumpled clothes and he looked as she felt, world-weary and in need of some strong coffee.
"How is he?" were his greeting words.
She couldn't tell if it was the caring tone in his voice or her overwhelming tiredness that brought tears to her eyes, but before she knew it they were streaming down her face. "I'm sorry," she said in a murmur, the back of both hands coming up to swipe at them.
His face gentled and he took her elbow, leading her away from the hustle and bustle to a quieter corner from where they could still keep an eye on the nurses' station. They sat down on a couple of plastic chairs, and Brass shoved the black sports bag he was carrying under his chair. He didn't speak, didn't try to comfort her, simply waited for her to compose herself, and she was grateful for that
"He's going to be fine," she replied to his original question when she was calmer, "Physically at least. Emotionally…" her words trailed off with a shrug. "He woke up briefly when the doctor came to examine him, but he is so scared, Jim, so scared. He was barely responsive."
Brass spread his legs, resting his forearms on his thighs, his hands meeting in the gap in the middle. "Did he…say anything?" he asked, turning his head toward her. "Tell you what happened?"
"No," she said in a small voice. "He never uttered a word, to me or to answer the doctor's questions, never asked for his mother, or his father for that matter." Her shoulder lifted pitifully. "They're waiting on a psych consult as we speak, but that won't be till morning."
Brass gave a nod. "What I don't get," he said, "is why he never called for help, made his presence known. A child his age should be capable of calling 911. He had to have heard the front door bell when the officers first came round, without mentioning all the commotion afterwards."
"Put himself in his shoes," she said, keeping her voice low, "All alone all this time, with his dead mother in the pool house? He must have been petrified. I know I would have been."
"You think he saw her?"
Sara shrugged. "Why else react the way he has―is doing?"
Brass sighed, nodding. "His father should be here in a couple of hours." His eyes flicked away from her, scanning the rest of the hall. "You spoke to Russell?"
"What, since I got here?"
His eyes on a drunk talking to himself a few feet away from them, Brass gave a nod.
"No." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
Brass's gaze refocused on her. "No reason."
"What do you know about the father?" she asked, a little guardedly.
The captain's face pursed as he considered her question. "Geoffrey Carver, thirty-eight, originally from Phoenix, Arizona. Moved to Vegas ten years ago to set up his dermatology practice. More money to be made here, he figured, and he was right. He and Melinda got married back in 2004, which is when they bought the house, and Timothy came along soon after. Record's clean, not even stopped for a traffic violation."
"Anything on Melinda?"
"Vegas born and raised. Only child, parents both deceased." He shrugged. "They split up six months ago, not on the best of terms, and from what I gather from the work colleague I spoke to he stood to lose more than she did."
"Timothy," she stated, and to his nod gave a sigh. "Motive?"
Brass's brow rose. He didn't reply straightaway, as though he was choosing his words carefully, and Sara had the distinct impression he was keeping something back from her. "Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said, before she could question him. "Remember we've still got to formally ID the body as that of Melinda's. What is sure is that Timothy was the apple of both his parents' eyes." He paused, his gaze holding hers affectionately, and he smiled, his arm lifting from his lap to drape across her shoulders. His eyes flicked down to her chest. "You want to go freshen up while I get us some coffee?"
A grudging smile broke across Sara's face. "You trying to tell me I smell?"
Brass's returning grin was wide and tender. "I wouldn't dream of it." He reached for the sports bag under his seat, lifting it onto her lap and it was only then that she realised it was hers.
She turned a puzzled gaze on him. "You picked the lock to my locker?" she asked in a giggle.
"No," he denied vehemently, feigning offence at the mere suggestion. His shoulder rose, small and contrite, as his gaze flicked downward in mock-meekness. "Grissom did. Told me to tell you he didn't snoop." He paused, his eyes lingering on her a little too long, and she dropped her gaze to the bag. "You know he'd be here if he could, right?"
Eyes looking down, Sara gave a nod. Then she opened the bag, finding a Hershey's bar next to her cell and wrapped tightly around it a couple of ten-dollar bills, the small bundle sitting atop the wash bag and spare clothes she normally kept at CSI. Tears rose again, and she cursed this case for making her so emotional.
Brass leaned in toward her, giving her arm a gentle nudge, and she swallowed. "I'll keep guard here," he said softly, "and give you a holler if necessary."
