Disclaimer: I own nothing related to CSI.

CHAPTER 25

Amalia stood in the small kitchenette shared by all of the professors on their floor slowly preparing her morning cup of tea. She would usually sit at the small table, read a journal or chat with another co-worker as she enjoyed her beverage, but today she felt restless and a bit uneasy. She had not heard from her boss since he had first arrived in Las Vegas some three days ago. It had been painful to witness a man of such intelligence, compassion and dignity leave Paris in shame.

She left the kitchenette deep in thought and almost bumped into the provost. Thanking the heavens above she didn't spill her hot tea on the man, she offered him an apologetic smile and nod, the walked quickly to her office.

Upon entering, she noticed the door to the professor's office was standing open whereas previously she knew the door had been closed. She felt a brief bit of relief at first thinking perhaps Grissom had returned. That is, until she got closer to the door and peeked inside the office.

"Mademoiselle?!" Amalia could not control the anger of her voice, which was uncharacteristically louder and higher than normal. "What do you think you are doing?!"

Sylvie Martin turned her attention from an opened drawer in Grissom's desk to face Amalia.

"How dare you speak to me like a common criminal," the woman hissed. "I am merely retrieving something and you weren't at your assigned station. Where were you and what exactly were you doing?"

Amalia couldn't believe the woman, she had literally caught the woman with her hand the cookie jar, and the bitch had still turned it around and made it about her not being at her station. But Amalia knew she didn't have to justify anything to Sylvie Martin, and Amalia had a good idea what she was looking for in that bottom left drawer — the scotch Grissom kept there that Sylvie had spiked. "What were you doing in Professeur Grissom's office? He is not here, and you do not have his prior consent to be inside."

Sylvie pressed down her skirt as she stood up straight. Although she looked like a woman simply composing herself, Amalia knew Sylvie was merely buying time to produce a logical answer.

Surprisingly, the scheming woman did. "I am looking for the contract Professeur Grissom was to sign." The smile on her face was as wicked as her tone. "I would not be reduced to this if you or he were where you were supposed to be."

Amalia Chauncey was ready to strangle the woman, but as luck would have it, the telephone on her desk rang. She answered with an optimistic greeting: "Bureau du Professeur Grissom, Comment puis-je vous aider?"

While keeping an eye on Sylvie Martin, who had yet to leave Grissom's office, Amalia listened to the man on the other end of the phone line. "Oui Monsieur Morel. Comment allez-vous?"

As the elder professor spoke, Amalia haphazardly wrote notes to keep up with what he was saying. Sylvie had left the office but was lingering in the doorway looking straight at her.

Amalia ended the call, and then directed her attention to Sylvie. "Mademoiselle, if there is nothing else."

"Did Morel speak about how your job is in jeopardy?"

"Pardon?" Amalia couldn't believe the woman.

Sylvie sashayed over to Amalia. "I have spoken to Morel who has said if Grissom doesn't return within the week, with his contract signed, your employment with the Sorbonne — along with the professeur's — will be terminated."

Amalia held her ground and firmly grasped a fine line upon her emotions, especially her anger. "Mademoiselle, there are many things that need to be considered in response of what transpired five days ago."

Sylvie did not contain any of her emotions as she spoke, especially her anger. "What transpired five days ago is none of your business or the business of your husband. Grissom is nothing but a liar and a coward."

"Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave."

"I leave when I believe I am done."

Amalia quickly went around Sylvie and closed Grissom's office door, making sure it was locked. "Have a good day, mademoiselle."

The snarl on Sylvie's face punctuated the contempt she felt for this "low-level employee." Although she was ready to pounce, a slight knock on door frame near Amalia's desk made Sylvie freeze. She and Amalia saw the provost just outside the office door.

Sylvie left without a word to Amalia and nothing but a short hello to the provost. It was a move that mystified Amalia. Why wouldn't Sylvie take the opportunity to make a scene and trash Grissom in front of the provost?

Amalia smiled at her visitor. "Monsieur Sarto. Entrer s'il vous plaît. Que puis-je faire pour vous?

Emil Sarto smiled back and entered the office. The man was small in stature, but his dark, deep eyes reflected his firm, fair-minded authority. "What Mademoiselle said, I'm afraid she might be correct."

The words pierced Amalia. She so wished Grissom was there to protect himself, but Amalia understood why he felt the need to leave. And she knew she would have to protect her boss in his absence. It was something she was willing to do. "Provost, perhaps it is not my place to say, but I do believe that Professeur Grissom was abused by Mademoiselle's actions. And, again it might not be place, but I do not believe Sylvie Martin should be trusted. She was searching his office without permission..."

Sarto put up his hands in surrender. While his tone was kind, the provost spoke honestly. "You do not have to explain, Madam. My apologies, but I observed what transpired here from outside the office." Sarto gestured for Amalia to sit behind her desk while he took a seat on the other side of her. "Madam Chauncey, While I have respect for what you and Denis say and for what Professeur Grissom told me, it is difficult that he is not here. Have you heard from him?"

"No provost," Amalia admitted glumly. "It is possible he is with his wife overseas and out of communication range. But provost, I do hope you will take what Professeur Grissom said as the truth..."

"Amalia, I do believe Professeur Grissom, however Mademoiselle Martin has refused to offer any statement to me in his absence. But that has not stopped her from using her connections to secure insincere and even detrimental sentiment against Professeur Grissom. I do not think I need to warn you of how his reputation is at stake."

"I understand, Monsieur Sarto."

"The professeur spoke about how important it was to return to his wife because of an emergency. And I trust that as the truth. Please know that I will extend to him as much time as I can afford to him," Sarto said, not as a warning, but as a promise, which Amalia knew to be the truth. Sarto stood up from his seat. "However, it does not help him that he is away for so long. It is imperative we contact Monsieur Grissom. If you do communicate with him, would you please alert me?"

"Oui Monsieur," Amalia replied. "Merci, provost."

"Remember, Amalia," Sarto said before leaving. "Time is of the essence."

Time became an elusive beast for Grissom. He had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been hours; it could have been days. The best thing Grissom could do was keep his mind focused on something, anything. And for the most part, that something would be trying to find a way out of the room.

He burned a slow, deliberate path around the room, continually trying to find a seam for a door. There was one spot that was a good possibility. There had to be something. How else would he have gotten into the room?

Along with checking the walls, Grissom inspected what he believed was a faucet in what he believed was a sink. He hadn't had a drink in a long time. Before he used the toilet, Grissom not only thought about drinking the water there, but standing in it to cool down his body temperature. It was a tactic he saw prisoners in hot Nevada correctional facilities do time and time again.

But what he believed was a toilet was more like one you would find in an airplane — no water in the basin.

The heat didn't let up, and his sweat soaked his clothes, Grissom stripped to his underwear to cool himself and allow his clothes to dry. Because the room was so hot, it didn't take long for the clothes to dry. Sometimes he would put them on just to give him something to do.

Grissom had to keep his mind occupied. He knew hallucinations were terrible consequences of sensory deprivation, and he had already fell victim to them. At odd times, he would hear noises — falling objects, cars passing on the highway, even the thrum of a gas chromatography-mass spectrometer.

While he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, he would feel something crawling on him, sometimes he could even hear the pitter patter of insect legs upon his arms, legs, even his face. When that would occur, he would claw at himself, bat the insects away, even though a part of his brain was screaming, "THERE IS NOTHING THERE! YOU ARE ALONE!"

Then there were the voices. People yelling his name. In terrifying moments, he would hear the the voice of Emilio Alvarado, a man he hadn't thought about for several years. How long ago was that? He said himself. Warrick was still alive. Sara was gone... the first time.

I was sick, he recalled. Walking pneumonia. But Maddie Klein ... God what a pain in the ass she was ... she insisted I work.

It turned out to be a case that lingered with him for a while. First there was the explosion while he and Warrick tried to enter an apartment. Then there was the meeting with Emilio Alvarado in his cell, only minutes before he was going to be released. But Grissom pulled his "Get out of jail free" card that the criminal thought he safely tucked away in Dante's Inferno.

Grissom got his man, but not before Alvarado threatened him as he was returned to his jail cell: "Mira, usted se va a morir." Grissom knew enough Spanish to translate those words: Look, you're going to die." As those same words in that same low, evil tone infected his mind, Grissom shuddered from the notion that, like Alvarado, he might never escape this prison cell.

But even more frightening than Alvarado's disembodied threat were the words he would hear Sara say: "GET OUT OF MY LIFE!"; "YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" He would try to silence those words by envisioning treasured moments of Sara, only to have them morph into moments of rage — when they walked along the streets of Paris and he held her in his arms and whispered how he loved her under the glow of the City Lights, she would turn in his arms, her eyes filled with tears as she screamed, "I WISH I NEVER MET YOU! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!" The moment he was in the helicopter holding her hand straining to see if she would open her eyes. She did, and his heart soared, but in this room, she removed her mask and in a raspy voice says, "You did this to me. I don't deserve the pain you give me. Why do you have to hurt me? Leave me. Just leave me."

Those voices left Grissom gripping his head and sobbing. He wished he could see Sara one more time to apologize for everything — the pain he caused her, the years she wasted on him, how he never cherished her and never deserved her.

Many times he would try to sleep just to silence the voices or combat the boredom. He would nod off and then awake with a jolt — each time his heart pounding in his chest and his mind reeling as it tried to process his surroundings — nearly an impossibility in the dark.

One of the first times he awoke, he rolled off the makeshift bed and fell hard on the cement floor. As painful as it was to wake up like that, it was much worse to wake up in the middle of the floor.

That had happened when Grissom was doing another survey around the walls, searching for a way out. The room was stifling — the air thick and hot. There was still no water flowing from the faucet, and just to make sure, Grissom would fumble with handle just to make sure it was open in case water would flow. But none did.

Although Grissom tried to count his steps as he sidled against the walls, his concentration wavered. He dragged his body forward and used the wall hold himself up. He had worn his clothes again, and while he felt overheated, he could no longer sweat because of the lack of fluid in his body. To combat his overwhelming need for water, Grissom's body shut down the mechanism that screamed how thirsty he was.

After hundreds of steps, his body fumbled and pushed off the wall. It caused Grissom to move a couple of steps away from the wall. He put out his arms to try and grope for a wall, a ledge, a toilet an anything so he could figure out which corner of the room he stood.

His breathing became rapid and he could feel the impending anxiety attack. He moved erratically, which compromised his balance. Nauseous and weak from the heat and dehydration, Grissom fell to the floor. He lifted up his head but couldn't fight the waves of dizziness assaulting him. He gripped his head tight to try and stem the dizziness and quiet the voices that filtered in his brain. A chorus of voices talked over each other, muttering nonsense and screaming. Grissom pressed down harder upon his head until a scream escaped his mouth. He didn't know if he fell asleep from exhaustion or passed out.

Nevertheless, at some point he jolted awake. His head and heart pounded simultaneously. Grissom felt around for a wall, but only found the ground. He felt his anxiety rise up again, so he sat up. Grissom placed both hands upon either side of his head and just started a mantra — anything would do, he told himself. "I will get out of here. I will get out of here. I will get out of here. I will get out of here."

It hasn't been quite three days, but it is damn close enough to it. He hasn't balled up in a corner... not yet, but I have no idea how many more times this guy can walk around these walls. When he allows himself a task, he just concentrates on it.

That has been what is abundantly fascinating to me. I wonder if he realizes he hasn't slept more than two or three hours at a time? There are times he might sleep for 20 minutes, and each time he wakes up like he is resurfacing from a dive into the deep sea — gasping for air and unaware of where he is.

Yet, he tries to calm himself down and take on a task. But it's taking him longer to calm down, and when he does a task — usually walking around and around and around the room — he loses focus quicker and quicker.

I don't remember working as hard as he does. Even though his energy is down to maybe 10 percent, the son of a bitch is still going.

But now I'm worried about his health. It's almost been three days. I think it's time I cut him a break. And maybe later, I'll pay him a visit.

"I will … get out of here. … I ... will get out … of here. I ... will ... get out of here. I ... will … get ... out ..."

He could hear his own voice, even though it was barely above a whisper, was slow and terribly labored. Grissom tried to let the words soothe him, but even concentrating on the mantra made his head pound and some screams in his head become louder.

Then he heard something else. A steady hiss.

He stopped his mantra and focused on the hiss. Was it more noises flitting in his mind? The hiss sputtered then started again.

No, the hiss wasn't from his head. It was concrete. It was real. He stood up and tried to figure out where the hiss was. He turned a few degrees to his right and the moved forward one, short, choppy step at at time. Three steps. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Then he bumped into the sink. "Oh, thank God."

Grissom cupped his hands under the running faucet and immediately drew water into his mouth, ignoring the metallic taste and relishing the feel of the wet liquid going down his throat. He drank handful after handful as his t-shirt became soaked from the run-off.

He stripped off his t-shirt and ran it under the faucet. Over and over, he wiped his head, neck, armpits and chest with the wet shirt. Then he put his head into the basin and cupped water on his scalp. He felt his body temperature lower.

He soaked his shirt a few times, then wrung out the liquid before hanging it on the corner of the basin so it could dry. This was as close to a clean shirt that Grissom would get.

Even though he thought his thirst was satisfied, Grissom continued to drink handfuls of water. He had no idea how long this water supply would last. Which led him to ponder the question — should he turn off the faucet or let it run? If this was not an infinite supply, he could be wasting water if the faucet runs. But without it continuously running, he might miss the opportunity to drink again.

He decided to be cautious. After touring the room God knows how many times, he knew how many steps it was from his makeshift bunk to the sink. He would have to check as often as possible to see if the water was running.

And no longer would he be waking up in the middle of the room. It was paramount that he gauged his energy level better so that he returned to a specific known location in the room in case his energy plummets again. Whether it is on the makeshift bunk, or near the sink and toilet, or at that one spot on the wall where there might be the door seam — those the are the places he could rest and wake.

For now, Grissom turned from the sink and walked the necessary steps to his makeshift bunk. He sat upon it and pressed his bare back to the wall. The temperature in the room started to lower. Maybe his captor was taking pity on him.

Or maybe he was playing some kind of game. Like a game of cat and mouse.

Or maybe it was a game that just involved a "cat." Like Schrödinger's cat.

That's it, Grissom thought to himself. My captor is Erwin Schrödinger. As Grissom sat on his makeshift bunk and thought about Schrödinger, he let out a weak laugh.

Schrödinger was the Austrian physicist who developed the thought experiment/paradox. So in his present situation, Grissom was... well... his captor's cat. Based on random acts occurring in a steel cage, is the cat dead or alive or both? Is the cat required to be an observer, or does its existence in a single, well-defined, classical state require another external observer? Those were just some of the quandry's that could be pondered by the paradox created with Schrödinger's cat.

As Einstein wrote to Schrödinger, one cannot get around the assumption of reality — something independent of what is experimentally established. And for some reason, Grissom found that thought insanely amusing. This whole scenario … Grissom in this box without light, without food, with minimal water … it was so completely absurd. It was pointless. What could possibly be gained from this little experiment?

The thoughts kept Grissom occupied for a while, until he shivered violently. After receiving the gift of running water, the temperature in the room changed dramatically. If Grissom could see, he suspected he could see his own breath. Grissom felt chilled to the bone. He put on his socks as soon as he found them, but couldn't put on his shirt since it was still wet.

God it is so cold, Grissom thought. Once again, Grissom felt an impending anxiety attack. Sleep seemed an impossibility while he was so cold. So all Grissom could do was calm down and wait.

So he waited. And waited. And waited.

tbc

A/N: Special thanks once again to Chauncey for her help. I hope this was OK. Let me know.