Disclaimer: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away... ooops sorry, wrong fandom.

Chapter 21

Brass had completed the paperwork on his part of the investigation of the three slain officers while he sat at his desk in his office in PD. He thought about David Fromanski for a moment and sent up a prayer for the man's soul and for those of the other two officers. Officer-involved shootings always hit Brass hard. He was debating on whether to drink himself into a stupor or to pick up some anonymous woman for meaningless sex and even considered the merits of doing both when his office phone rang.

"Jim Brass."

"This is Lieutenant Michael Slavin with the Barstow P.D. My captain suggested I call you."

"Yes?"

"I may have some information you may find helpful. I saw the mug shot you left with Hollis, and it sparked something. I was investigating an attempted homicide at the Motel 6 about a week or so ago."

"Go on." Brass grabbed the pen.

"A man with an injured right arm, in a sling. Said he'd injured it in after an argument with his old lady falling down a flight of stairs. I knew he was lying to me, but it wasn't part of my investigation, so I noted it and forgot about it until this morning."

Brass felt his heart stop for a second. He knew this was the man that had kidnapped and tortured his friend.

"Can you describe him?"

"His face was a lot harder than the young man I saw in that mug shot. But the man I questioned was tall, blond hair, blue eyes. Lanky kinda guy. Spoke with a heavy southern accent. But the resemblance between the man I interviewed and the mugshot is uncanny."

Brass took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before he asked the question he knew he had to ask, "Did you get the man's name?"

"James Braid."

It was no surprise to Warrick when he found Sara at the layout table looking over the evidence from Grissom's case, after they'd wrapped up the case involving the three dead officers. All that was left was for Bobby Dawson to connect all of the ballistic evidence and they would have the three gang-bangers dead to rights.

"Hey, I don't know about you, but I need some sleep. I need to head back to Grissom's. You taking me or do I need to catch a ride with someone else?"

"Um... yeah," Sara said. "Right behind you."

It had been a long week, and both had had little sleep.

Sara looked forward to seeing Grissom for a few minutes before heading home to catch some seriously needed sleep at her apartment.

Warrick looked forward to crashing in Grissom's spare bedroom for as long as possible.

Brass tried to call Grissom's house again, only to get the machine. "GODDAMMIT!" He wanted to smash his phone against the dashboard of his police issued Charger, but suddenly thought about Warrick. Brass quickly dialed.

"Brown," Brass heard on the other line.

"Rick. I can't get a hold of Grissom. Are you with him?"

"We're almost back to his place. What's up?"

Brass explained what Officer Slavin told him on the phone. "Jacob McIntyre is using the alias James Braid. ... Yeah... the guy next door to Gil. I'm on my way and I've got backup meeting me at 1857-A Plum Poet Place."

Warrick looked at Sara who heard enough of Warrick's end of the conversation to frantically call Grissom.

"Brass. We're pulling in Grissom's driveway, now. We'll find him."

Warrick hung up and and watched as Sara hung up her phone. "He's not answering?"

"No. He's not."

"It's OK," Warrick reasoned. "He probably took Hank for a walk and didn't carry his phone."

Grissom didn't hear the phone ringing as Hank barked and barked and barked. He didn't just want to be left out. He wanted freedom.

"OK. Calm down," Grissom said. Hank scratched at the sliding glass door that led to the back yard. "I just let you out to pee 20 minutes ago."

Grissom opened the door slowly with his left hand, and when the opening was wide enough for Hank, the dog darted out (although it didn't seem wide enough for the dog to Grissom's trained eye). Hank went to the fence shared with the neighboring townhouse and let out a multitude of growls and barks. He even jumped up onto the fence, as far as his hind legs would allow and scratched at the boards.

"What the hell are you doing, Hank?" Grissom called as he walked to his companion. Before he reached Hank, he saw his neighbor standing on a ladder, seemingly working on the roof of his shed with a hammer in his hand.

The man who was blond and blue-eyed shot him an evil, knowing smile. It hit Grissom like a bullet in his gut. That face. Oh my God.

The man offered a neighborly wave and retreated down the ladder.

Grissom stood immobilized, completely shell-shocked.

The memory of wearing earbuds and listening to screams over and over flooded Grissom's mind. The man yanked the buds out of my ears. He smashed his fist hard against the right side of my face three times. Then he took a step back and kicked me in the chest so hard, I fell backwards. He hovered above me and screamed, "DO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, THERE, YA FUCKIN' BASTARD?"

For the first time since his kidnapping, Grissom realized he had seen his kidnapper's face. He hadn't worn the ski mask when he ushered Gerard into the house at gun point.

His tormentor was his next door neighbor. Grissom went back into his house, forgetting about Hank, who continued to bark and yelp, then began digging at the bottom of the fence that connected his yard with the townhouse next door.

Inside his townhouse, Grissom grabbed the weapon he'd retrieved at his office from the day before. He went out the front door as he ignored the calm voice in his head that said, Call for help. All he could hear were the echos of screams, mostly his own.

He went next door and noticed the fence door was open in the backyard. He walked through it and saw the shed where his kidnapper, Jacob McIntyre, had stood on a ladder and taunted Grissom. McIntyre was no longer outside. The side door was left ajar. Grissom took a deep breath to calm himself, raised his gun held firmly in his left hand and entered the shed, clearing the small building used for storage within seconds.

McIntyre wasn't there. Grissom took in his surroundings. He noticed it was wired for electricity and had two sturdy, double-paned windows. McIntyre seemed to use the shed as a workshop. In a far corner was an unused push lawn mower, but Grissom quickly drew his attention to a large work bench. On it were metal-workings and welding tools, and a diagram of a very familiar chair. "I made this myself with you in mind, there, Grissom." A wave of nausea hit Grissom, he bent down and retched as memories of what was done to him in that chair came back to him. He ribs ached as he vomited, and could feel his mental strength dwindling.

Suddenly, he felt he was no longer alone, and when he heard something being pushed across the cement floor, he made a firm grip on his gun and stood upright as quickly as his body allowed. McIntyre was there to greet him. Although he had his weapon trained on McIntyre, Grissom looked distressed. His hand began to shake and his breathing and heart-rate increased dramatically. He had yet to say a word to McIntyre, who didn't seem surprised to see Grissom there.

"Ya fuckin' bastard," McIntyre said, as he took two steps closer to Grissom. He held some type of device concealed in his left arm. "Whatcha plan on doing now?"

"Don't move, McIntyre." Grissom's voice mimicked his hand.

"Don't move, eh? Why? Whatcha going do, ya fuckin' bastard," McIntyre said, standing his ground. "Ya plan on killing me in cold blood. Because you've done that before and are good at that, that's fer sure."

"I... I don't ... want." Grissom began to sway just slightly. He could feel himself going weak at the knees, but he caught himself. "NO! Just... don't move!"

"You know what there, Grissom," McIntyre said, an evil smile upon your face. "Your eyes look so familiar. Now where have I seen those eyes before? Know what, ya fucking bastard? You look just like yer dearly departed mommy. I'll bet she didn't even know who spawned you."

Grissom raised the gun in the air and pointed the barrel directly at McIntyre's chest. "I'm going to kill you."

"Ya go ahead there, Grissom. You're a cold blooded killer. Remember?" McIntyre said. His voice became calm but strong and calculated. "How many murders do you have to call your own? How many there? ... I'm asking you a fuckin' question, ya goddamn, fuckin' bastard!"

Grissom held the gun as steady as possible. The words of Philip Gerard filled his head. You did nothing wrong, Gil. "I... I had no choice. That little girl..."

"YOU KILLED MY DALE!"

"She... she was going to kill that little girl. Four years old! Now, she's getting married."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! YA KILLED HER!" McIntyre wanted to pounce upon the crippled man, the man who he'd crippled, but stopped. He controlled his emotions in a heartbeat and his voice returned to a steady, unemotional tone. "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Stand up straight there. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

As he looked at McIntyre, Grissom's eyes began to glaze over. He stood up straight reflexively and tried to listen to Gerard's voice in his head. You did nothing wrong, Gil. You did nothing wrong, Gil. But it was hard as McIntyre continued to say in his steady, monotone voice, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Stand up straight there. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

Sara had the key to Grissom's place in her hand, but didn't need it was the door had been left slightly ajar.

"Grissom!" Warrick shouted. Unlike the last time they entered Grissom's home together, Warrick and Sara moved frantically and independently from room to room. "He's not fucking in here," Warrick said. "Where's Hank?"

As if on cue, they heard the sound of Hank barking. Sara had heard him bark like that once before and knew Jacob McIntyre was close. They looked at one another and bolted out the sliding glass door, which was, just as the front door, suspiciously unlocked. "Hank!" Sara called after the dog who ran to her, jumped on her and then returned to the fence. "Grissom is next door Warrick. We've got to get over there."

"Backup's on the way, Sar," Warrick said, as he ran after Sara through the sliding glass door.

"No! NOW!"

They went to the front door of the residence where Jim Braid, aka Jacob McIntyre, lived and pounded on the door. "JACOB MCINTYRE! LAS VEGAS CRIME LAB. OPEN UP!"

Warrick was about to slam his body against the door in an attempt to open it, but Sara grabbed the door knob before he had a chance. It turned and the door opened slightly. They knew they should wait, but they pulled their weapons from the holsters at their waists and went inside anyway. They worked in tandem clearing room to room and finding no one. Like Grissom's townhouse, McIntyre had a sliding glass door to the back yard.

"There's a shed out there, Sara." Warrick opened the sliding glass door and ran to the shed, with Sara close behind him.

Warrick ran to the door and tried to get it open. But Sara stopped to look through the double-paned window. She looked and Grissom standing straight but swaying as he held up his gun against McIntyre. "Put the gun down, Gil. Please put the gun down," she said hoping her words would somehow reach Grissom.

Grissom felt frozen as he stood and looked directly into McIntyre's eyes. He tried to listen to anything other than McIntyre's voice. But all he could hear was "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Put the gun down. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

McIntyre never moved from his spot. He stood still with his arms at his side, and a smile on his face. The second he uttered, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Put the gun down. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom," Grissom put his gun down on the concrete floor. He then hesitantly returned to the standing position.

Sara couldn't tear her stare away from the window, but she said to Warrick, "Open the door. Please open the door." She still looked through the glass as Warrick stopped trying to kick the door in then pulled his gun and shot the doorknob off the door. He then worked to push the door open. McIntyre had jammed a heavy bench against the door.

Grissom didn't flinch at the sound of the gunshot when Warrick shot off the doorknob. He stood as if transfixed, watching the monster from his nightmares.

McIntyre saw Sara staring through the window and heard Warrick entering the shed. The ex-con slyly pushed the button on the device he held in his left palm. Grissom still appeared transfixed as the garage door behind him opened behind him. He simply listened to the words of McIntyre, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Listen to only my voice. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

"FREEZE!" Warrick stepped into the shed with his gun drawn and began walking toward McIntyre. Sara followed close behind Warrick, using his body almost as a shield, but went straight to Grissom's side. Grissom still didn't move and kept his eyes on McIntyre.

Making a universal sign of surrender, McIntyre smiled with his left arm raised in the air and raised his right arm, still in a sling, up in the air as far as possible. He took two more steps toward Grissom. Warrick never let down his gun as he rushed to McIntyre.

"Stop, McIntyre. Don't move a muscle or I'll blow you to kingdom come." Warrick warned as he kept the gun trained on McIntyre.

McIntyre could just about feel Grissom's breath in his face. "Only listen to my voice, Grissom."

"Shut up McIntyre," Warrick said.

"Only listen to my voice, Grissom."

"One more goddamn word, McIntryre..." Warrick went to grab McIntyre's left arm, but McIntyre's eerily calm voice filled the air of the small enclosure.

"Bang Gil Grissom."

For McIntyre, the moment happened in a New York minute. A stunned silence fell, immobilizing everyone but McIntyre, who seemed to have sprouted wings when he ran out of the shed through the open garage door like a bat out of hell.

For Sara, time slowed to an agonizing rate. She watched as Grissom bent down, picked up the gun, and raised his trembling left hand to his stomach. He pressed the gun to his side, let out an soft, but agonized sound, and pulled the trigger. Then the gun fell to the ground. It was followed closely by the collapse of Grissom's own body onto the ground.

As Grissom dropped to his knees, he reached for Sara, who dropped down beside him. She rolled him on his back and urged him to lay still. She took off her jacket and watched as the fresh blood flowed from his wound. She looked up and saw Warrick take an incredulous look at Grissom and then charge out the door. She then tried to staunch the bleeding with compression and her hands quickly covered in blood.

Then, all the sudden, time resumed at a frantic pace. She heard sirens in the background and a car come to a screeching halt just outside. She heard Warrick screaming for an ambulance and something about McIntyre.

"Gris... Focus on me, baby. Look at me."

His eyes seemed wild. But finally he found Sara's face and they stilled on her features. "I didn't want to...," his voice turned into a sob. "What happened?"

Sara could no longer hold her tears. "We'll get you help. Don't move."

"DAMMIT!" His face twisted in pain. "I'm sorry, Sara..."

"Gris, don't talk and don't move. Please, baby." She took his left hand and held it firmly.

Grissom swallowed. "I love...your...hand.."

Sara couldn't stop the sob that escaped her lips. "Just ssshhh, please. I know, Gris. I know."

McIntyre already had an escape route mapped out when he sped out of the shed. Instead of leaving the shed and running through the front gate, where he heard sirens approaching he hid behind some overgrowth on the side of shed next to the other neighbor's chain link fence. He waited for Warrick to sprint out, stepped on a couple of cement blocks and jumped the fence over into the neighbor's yard.

But once again, McIntyre was foiled by an unknown variable. Unlike the bank job, this time it wasn't Grissom.

This time it was Grissom's dog.

Hank successfully dug a hole from his side of the fence to McIntyre's yard and came out to other side of the fence as Warrick ran out of the yard. Hank barked and ran full speed. His senses knew exactly where his target was. With agility and tenacity, the pooch hurled himself over the four foot fence, with an agility unknown to his species and caught up to McIntyre, quickly taking a bite out of his leg.

McIntyre spun around and screamed in pain. He didn't have a good hold on his gun, but aimed it as best as he could toward Hank and fired. The shot connected somewhere, because Hank stopped fighting and let out a yelp. The dog appeared incapacitated. McIntyre laughed at the downed dog. I got you, too, ya fucker!

Shaking his head to clear it, McIntyre took aim with his left arm but was caught off guard when Warrick came behind him, grabbed his injured right arm and swung McIntyre off balance about 45 degrees counterclockwise and forced him to the ground. The uniformed officer who had followed Warrick, kicked the gun out of McIntyre's hand, and then helped Warrick force both arms behind McIntyre's back.

"FUCK!" McIntyre screamed. "You're ripping my fuckin' muscle, ya bastards!"

"Stand him up," Brass called out, as he made his way into the now crowded backyard. He stopped to check on the animal, Hank seemed scratched, but fine. The bullet had grazed his left ear. "Jacob McIntyre, you're under arrest."

McIntyre laughed. "For what? Shooting a dog that was attacking me, or watching some crazy mother fuckin' murderer shoot himself in the gut?"

Warrick grabbed McIntyre's face, hard. "You made Grissom do that to himself, you son-of-a-bitch. You fucking made him do it."

"Prove it," McIntyre said before spitting in Warrick's face.

Warrick stood in front of McIntyre and retrieved a DNA swab from his back pocket as the spittle dribbled down his face. "Something Grissom always taught me," Warrick said as he swabbed McIntyre's spit from his face. "Always be prepared."

"You're under arrest for the murder of Phillip Gerard," Brass said. "And that DNA sample CSI Brown just collected, should cement the case for us, McIntyre."

Brass and the other officer led hand-cuffed McIntyre away, while Warrick stayed with Hank. The animal's body shivered in pain as Warrick calmly ran his hand over the dog's brown coat along the spine, over and over. "Shhhh, boy. It'll be okay. Shhh. Come on, let's go check on your daddy."

The only people who were allowed to enter the shed were two paramedics. Sara allowed the EMTs to work, but would not leave the shed.

The paramedics lifted Grissom up onto the stretcher quickly. Sara never lost a step as they wheeled him to the ambulance. After pushing the stretcher up and through the doors, one paramedic went to the driver's seat, as the other moved behind the stretcher.

"Move over," Sara said. "I'm going with him."

He looked at her with sympathy, but her CSI vest and holstered gun gave the paramedic enough evidence that she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. He then spoke into the microphone, "48 year old white male, GSW to abdomen. BP 98/45, rapid pulse. Blood flowing freely although pressure has been applied since initial injury. ETA four minutes."

She held his left hand laced with her own tightly for those four minutes.

TBC