ON BROKEN WINGS

CHAPTER TEN

Sara drove aimlessly for what could have been hours, circling blocks, then finding an old disused winding highway that led to bare empty desert. She stomped on the gas and opened all the windows, imagining these flashbacks to the violent death of her father flying out of her head and away. If I drive fast enough—far enough—maybe they won't be able to find their way back. Maybe I can sleep, at last, in peace. Maybe. Huh. Maybe not.

As if in a bad movie, a dive bar appeared in the distance. Sara felt compelled to stop, to pull herself together at least. Her long fingers trembled as she turned off the engine and stepped out. She pushed her sunglasses up and stood for a full three minutes after the door swung shut to be able to walk another step inside without tripping. It was as dark as a cave in contrast to the unforgiving Nevada sun outside.

When she could see again, she looked around the bar. Heads of dead animals on the walls. Check. Stale cigarette smoke. Check. Neon beer signs the brightest light. Check. Beefy guy behind the bar. I bet his name is...Lou.

"Hey, sweety, what can I getcha?" the barkeep called out.

"Hi, Lou." Sara bit the inside of her cheek when he shook his head in surprise and looked at her closer.

"How'd you know my name? I know you?"

"A little." A smile flashed. "Gimme a Heinekin? And a shot of Jack? I'll be right out."

"You got it, doll face."

Sara smoothed her wind-tossed hair with water and splashed some of the desert dust off of her skin. She made small talk with Lou, politely refused drink offers from the other three men present, drank two shots and the beer, ate a small bag of pretzels, and felt much better. Lou was asking for her phone number when she walked out, laughing kindly. She didn't take off her sunglasses the whole time at the bar and felt confident and mysterious. The drive back to Vegas was much calmer and her nerves were steadier than they'd been since this whole love triangle thing started.

What to do, though? Choose. I gotta choose. She's right.

It's Grissom. It's always been Grissom. I'm sorry Deb. I bet you won't be surprised, but I hate breaking up. I hate hurting feelings. Having been on the receiving end, that's why. And it makes me feel guilty. She sighed. Better get it over with. Grissom will be a bear at work unless...and I can't avoid him. I have a future with him. I hope. If I haven't soured it with him as well. We need to talk.

She drove back to Debbie's neighborhood.

"HEY! Look out!" Sara yelled out, frightened, when a speeding black Mercedes narrowly missed her, veering wildly all over Deb's street. She glanced back and caught a glimpse of the man driving. "Asshole."

Debbie's red BMW convertible was still in the driveway. Grissom's SUV was gone. Sara pulled up to the curb and gave herself a fervent pep talk. You can do this. You can do this, Sidle. You can be kind, but firm. End it without hard feelings—like yanking off a band-aid. Sidles don't just slink away. Sidles are honest.

Grissom started to drive toward Sara's apartment complex, but felt warm blood pooling inside his shoe. His foot was throbbing. He had yanked out the shard of glass in haste as he dressed, but just put a sock on and hoped it would stop bleeding. No way would he ask that bitch for anything, not even a band-aid. Reluctantly, Grissom parked at an ER clinic, explained his injury at the desk, and sat down to wait. No one seemed in any hurry to see him.

Sara's senses felt alarmed even before she crossed Debbie Marlin's threshold. Something was off. It felt...it felt like someone was home, but no one was home. That doesn't make any sense. The door was ajar. Sara grasped automatically for her holster, finding air just as she pictured her service revolver in the gun locker. Is anyone here? The front room was still trashed. She stepped cautiously forward. Signs of struggle. A metallic smell—a smell of iron. Oh God no. An unnatural stillness. No. Bloody footprints. Stop! Don't contaminate...sweet Jesus, is this a crime scene? It is! Arterial spray with smears on the bedroom wall. A blood trail to the bathroom. Who. Who is it? Whose body is in the bathroom?

Grissom winced and groaned as the doctor stuck needles full of Novocain into his foot. Fuck that hurts. Worse than the stitches. But when the doctor kept probing his wound, searching for tiny shards, Gris changed his mind. Numb, there was a morbid fascination with watching the probe tip disappear in his heel and poke around. It would have been agony without. The doc peered closely, flushed the wound repeatedly, then pronounced it ready for stitching. Three sutures, a tetanus shot, a thick wad of bandages around his foot and a scrip for antibiotics later, and Gil was free to go. A nurse gave him an oversize footie to wear over the bandages and he limped back to his SUV, carrying his other shoe.

Barely breathing, her face a mask of horror, Sara side-stepped into the white bathroom while hugging the walls. There was a scream climbing hand over prickly hand up from her lungs to her mouth. It burst out and echoed around the shower walls when she finally saw the body of her lover on the white floor. Red blood had pooled stickily on the white tiles. She screamed again, louder. When the last of that piercing noise had died away, Sara crouched into a ball, hugging her knees, and rocking slightly. She stared for a long time at the face staring back at her. Remembering the first time they met and looked into a mirror together. Her face, her eyes looking into hers, with a grotesque red slashes across the neck, the cuts deep and bloody. The flashbacks appeared. Dad. On the floor. Mom with the bloody knife...No!.. I'm looking at my own dead body? I'm dead? No! That's not right. It's Debbie, it's now...it's me...she looks like a dead bird. A bird with broken wings...

"Pull yourself together," she ordered herself harshly. "This is not the time to go off the deep end. Debbie's dead. Murdered. She deserves to have her death investigated professionally, and the killer caught." A horrible thought pushed itself inside her head. Deb and Grissom were fighting, just hours ago. Screaming, struggling, hitting, throwing shit at each other. Grissom said...he said he wanted to kill...oh Lord, could he have done this? Killed her? Why? Over me?"

Who else could have killed her?

"Dispatch, this is CSI Sidle." She tried to make her voice steady, but it wavered with emotion as she stammered. "I need to...I'm reporting...I need help...at this location."

TBC