Chapter 10.
Sara's hospital stay lasted 10 days. She needed surgery to repair her kidney and supervised rest to allow a hairline skull fracture to begin healing.
Brass was discharged two days after Sara and Grissom were found, as was Patrick Shea, whose wife had been at this side since the automotive ambush. They returned to Los Angeles after a brief conversation with Sara and a visit to Grissom's room in the ICU. Grissom was completely unresponsive, which tore Shea apart.
"Some bodyguard I am, huh?" he said to the silent patient. "Come back to us, Grissom. The world needs you. There's a wonderful, brave lady named Sara who needs you more. I'm headed home with Kit now. But when you're awake and feeling up to it, I'll come back and teach you how to play chess."
When that line got no reaction – Shea had defeated Grissom at chess only twice in their long rivalry – the L.A. CSI knew his friend had a long road ahead of him. Or a tragically short one.
Two days after the thoracic surgery to repair Grissom's ribs and lung, a renal specialist performed another surgery to repair his kidney, the same specialist who had worked on Sara.
Grissom's condition continued to deteriorate.
Two days later, Dr. Jennings reported that Grissom had lapsed into a coma.
"Doesn't the body do that sometimes to let itself heal?" Sara asked, desperate for an explanation that didn't point toward death. Catherine reached over and took Sara's hand. Sara was in acute pain but refused serious medication for it because she wanted to be alert to hear every news update on Grissom. The report that he was comatose wrenched a sob from her chest, which sent a shockwave through her kidney and laid a sledgehammer to her head. Catherine saw her pain and felt it as Sara clamped down on her hand.
"Yes," the surgeon said, "sometimes that happens. Sometimes we deliberately put a patient into a coma for that very reason. In this case, we didn't trigger it, and we have no idea how it will end."
"How long will he be this way?" Catherine asked. She spent hours at the hospital each day with Sara to be whatever comfort and distraction she could.
Jennings shook his head. "A day. A lifetime. Again, we just don't know. He might open his eyes tonight and be fine. Or he might never wake up. And I have to caution you that if he does come back, there's no guarantee he'll be the same person you knew. His heart stopped twice, periods when his brain got little or no oxygen. He nearly bled out before we got him to surgery, a long period when the brain was left oxygen-deficient."
Sara seemed unable to speak.
So Catherine asked, "Is there some way you can test for that?"
"Not until he's awake. I'm sorry."
xxxxxxx
Sara was allowed to go home 10 days after she was admitted. But she might as well have stayed in her hospital bed. She spent almost as much time in the building as a visitor as she had as a patient.
She couldn't drive, so Catherine would take her to the hospital every morning after shift, and Sara would take a cab home when the nurses finally forced her to leave.
Nick still had Hank, and he loved the dog, so Sara had no worries on that score. She knew she couldn't handle the big boxer yet and couldn't risk having him jump on her. Her bruises were beginning to turn yellowish brown. But she still suffered with a constant headache, and going to the bathroom caused excruciating pain. Doctors had assured her both symptoms would diminish, given time.
She had given the police a formal statement about the McCaskey experience while still in the hospital. Ecklie had come by the same day to report that McCaskey's two accomplices had been found dead, both with their throats slit. One was in a cheap motel room off The Strip, the other in a Suburban that had obvious collision damage and paint transfer from Brass's car.
"That guy didn't leave witnesses," he said.
The day she checked out, Brass came by to tell her Doc Robbins had concluded there was absolutely no need for a coroner's inquest, and the district attorney wasn't even considering a grand jury. Her actions against McCaskey were deemed justifiable. No surprise there.
"In fact," Brass said, "the D.A. asked me to thank you for killing the bastard."
Sara hadn't been amused. If it hadn't been for a stupid judicial screw-up, or a stupid appellate decision, she and Grissom wouldn't have been in that situation to begin with. They might even be married by now, making love in the shower every day.
"Doc Robbins also asked me to tell you what McCaskey's autopsy report would say. The mode of death is homicide. His only choice. There are only four possible modes: homicide, suicide, natural and accidental. Homicide is the only category that fits."
"I know that," Sara said. "It sure was no accident."
Brass smiled. "The cause of death is listed as myocardial infarct. The manner of death is blue plastic plate. Doc says he expects to be asked to write papers on that one."
"Better him than me."
xxxxxxx
There is no epiphany in coming out of a coma. No visits from angels, no bright colors, no amazing dreams.
The world is black, and then it isn't.
In Grissom's case, the process was slow. Black faded to dark grey. When the shift reached light grey, he became self-aware again, and in that awareness there was considerable pain. He tried to shift his body, but he couldn't move. Was he paralyzed? Restrained? What had happened to him?
He lay still, with his eyes closed, trying to remember.
Sara had come home. He recalled everything about that. The McCaskey threat thundered back, too, and he felt himself wince at the memories.
Had he been in a fire?
No. There had been a fire, but in a pickup truck. They thought McCaskey had burned Sara alive. But it wasn't Sara.
He remembered leaving the morgue with Brass and Shea. There had been an accident. Deliberate.
That's where his memories ended, for now. He realized he didn't know if Brass and Shea were dead or alive. That worried him.
He knew the human brain never sleeps. It has a tremendous capacity to absorb events within sensory range, even during very deep slumber, even in a coma. So whatever his body's condition, his brain continued processing other, fainter memories, more like gauzy impressions, really. He thought he remembered the voices of members of his team, concerned, encouraging.
And Sara. So many impressions of her voice, her touch. What had she said to him? He longed to remember, but he couldn't. He knew he kept trying to respond to her. And he kept failing. He thought maybe he had lived to hear her voice.
What had happened to him? Where was he?
Slowly and tentatively, he opened his eyes.
Dimly lit room. White. Tubes everywhere. Monitors everywhere. Something in his mouth, down his throat. A respirator?
He felt something move over his right hand and glanced down. A shock of long, dark brown hair. Sara! Sleeping on his hand. Settling her face against his skin. He saw her outstretched arm. He felt her hand lying lightly on his thigh.
He tried to say her name and realized quickly that wasn't going to happen around the respirator. He wanted so badly to see her face, to look into her eyes.
He tried to move his hand and found he could. He had only a limited range of motion, but as best he could he let his fingers brush her cheek.
She raised her head and turned to him. The joy he saw on her face was beyond description. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed him.
A solitary tear ran down her face.
xxxxxxx
Grissom was back.
Word spread through the graveyard shift like wildfire. It was a busy night for the CSIs, so they couldn't get to the hospital immediately, but Sara had told them not to even think about coming for a couple of days. There was too much the doctors had to do, including an assessment of possible brain damage.
They took Grissom off the respirator immediately, removed his feeding tube and unhooked some of his monitors. His catheter would have to stay for the time being, and Sara knew that had to be uncomfortable for him. He also would remain in the ICU for at least 12 hours, until doctors were confident he was able to function without the intensive-care oversight.
Dr. Jennings had left orders to be called if Grissom's condition changed and was at his bedside 47 minutes after Grissom woke up. He examined his patient and cautioned him that he would have difficulty talking for several days. The respirator had left his throat a raw mess.
"That's a very precise medical term, 'raw mess,'" Jennings said.
Grissom smiled and nodded weakly. Then Jennings left, and Sara and Grissom were alone.