Disclaimer: I do not own.

A/N: CSIfan3408--You got me there. If I didn't want to post again tonight, I shouldn't have named my character Samson. :) Next time, I'll read the rules more carefully.

faeriebabies--I hope your friend isn't angry. :) Read her the story, it'll distract her from the horrible, horrible pain. I wonder what she would have to say to Grissom's 'women' comment a few chapters back...

...As for the droid issue, Jelly, I am so very, very close to doing that. :) But, then again, it was my Christmas present to him... so it might be a little mean to take it away. Hehe.

Enjoy! Review! ...Dance?


Chapter Fifty:

I sat down as Samson was writing in gratuity. I realized with a cold, distant surprise that he was tipping twenty percent. I almost laughed—serial killers were concerned with supplementing poor wait staff wages. I bit back the laughter because I knew that if I let it out I would either be hysterically laughing or hysterically crying. Neither of which would get us out of here unnoticed. And while I didn't want to die, I had certainly accepted that I had to play by Samson's rules.

Gil walked away, Samson stood, and I numbly followed suit, blessing the halo of messy curls that moved away from me before following Samson out the restaurant's exit directly to the parking lot. He guided me to his vehicle, and allowed me to get in at my own leisure, gently reminding me to buckle up. I was feeling nauseous with all the niceties. But something else was occurring to me—he'd put me into his personal vehicle, hadn't he? I might not be able to save myself, but I could stop the bastard.

I leaned my head back against the seat, slowly, subtly, and rotated it back and forth, hoping I would slough off a few hairs. I rested my arm on the armrest, gripping my fingers around it to give clear impressions. No partials for this girl. He turned off, onto the interstate, and I rested my elbow on the little ledge of the door made by the window, letting my hand fall into my hair. I glanced at him, making certain he was concentrating on driving, and bit my lip before pulling hard—I wanted to make sure they could get DNA from the pieces I'd pulled out.

I waited several minutes, and then lowered my hand and let the hair fall below the seat. Any good CSI should get at least one of them.

I did whatever else I could, to encourage trace—I ran my feet back and forth over the floor mat, I shifted my body, hoping that a piece of my clothing would come off on the seat or some fibers from his seats would come off on my clothes. Anything.

It wasn't long before he turned off at a small gas station. When I glanced at him, he gave me a warm smile. "One of the only gas stations in Vegas that does decent detailing of cars without a security system here or in a nearby building. I'm rather meticulous, you might notice…"

I frowned. The hair and fingerprints had been a better bet than hoping for a random fiber. That thought was lost now. He pulled over, turning his keys over to a man who clearly knew him, though he gave no name… he paid for the detailing and said he'd be back tomorrow or the next day. My heart thudded in my chest—that was how long I had to live. I wondered frantically why this man had never told the authorities that each of the dead girls had come in with this man just before they disappeared…

But he hardly glanced at either of us. His eyes were red, but I didn't know if that meant he was high on something or just really tired. He seemed of less than impressive intelligence, but… if he'd just pay some damn attention! Regardless, I leaned on the counter while Samson counted out his money, betting that if this guy hadn't noticed all the missing girls appearing her then he wasn't likely to wipe down the counters either. I pressed my fingertips to the counter, spelling out SAMSON as quickly as I could, hoping it was even remotely legible.

I knew it was a long shot that they'd even find this gas station… but maybe, if Samson had given this man his real information once upon a time, they could trace where he was getting his car cleaned…

He walked me outside, pulling a separate set of keys from his pocket, to an old jeep that was already parked there. It was nondescript—brown or black, dirty, the cover pulled up but torn in places. I hesitated outside the door, wondering exactly how many girls had gotten into this jeep this way. He cleared his throat, and I stepped inside. He started driving again, and though I watched where we were going, trying to keep track, I still didn't know Vegas well. Instead, I asked him questions. If he was distracted, he would make mistakes. He would leave the evidence that I had been unable to, thus far.

"Were… they all awake?"

He smiled, looking over to me. "I didn't take them all away from where I found them. I killed Karen in the hotel room next to where her boyfriend was."

I swallowed. "They… found her in the parking lot, right? …She... they were driving to San Diego."

He grinned. "That's my Sara—it's not even your case, but you remember each girl intimately."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not yours."

He chuckled. "Do you think that you're Gil's? Has he told you he loves you?"

I swallowed, looking down. Why I didn't just lie to the son of a bitch, I don't know… but I didn't. He laughed. "Exactly. …You are mine, Sara. No one you used to know believes you're alive, and no one in this life knows who you really are. Gil might have fucked you, and Wes might call you Mommy because he's too young to know better… but who in the world loves Sara Sidle?"

He waited while I wiped the tears away, refusing to look at him. When my hands fell back to my lap, he spoke softly. "I do. That's why you're mine, Sara."

I grit my teeth. "Gil might not love me, but you don't either. This… this isn't love, this is control. And maybe a little bit of revenge. Why do you only go after women you knew in foster care? Why were all of them the girls who had no hope—who weren't going to be taken home to mommy and daddy in a month or a year or ten years? It's about dealing with your own shit, whatever it is. You're a psychologist, diagnose yourself! Did you dad rape you like mine did? Is that why you picked me? Or were you beaten regularly? Maybe it was worse than that… maybe you had to protect your mother… or maybe your mother was the aggressor. No other female can live up to her example, but you pick the ones who are as damaged as you are to be your playthings. You pursue sick, twisted encounters, call it love, and then go home and tell rational, normal people what the fuck you think is wrong with their lives?! Fuck you!"

He backhanded me. …It hurt, a lot. I let out a cry before I could stop myself, putting a hand to my face, blinking back the tears that threatened. I wanted it to be nothing—to roll off of me like it used to, when I was used to it, but I couldn't.

There was silence in the jeep for a brief moment, and then he turned to me. "I'm sorry I had to do that, Sara. I didn't want to hurt you."

I didn't answer, and he let the silence sit between us, and then he cleared his throat. "I, uh… I had good parents. They were in a car crash. And then I went into foster care and I… I saw all these beautiful, damaged little girls… I loved them all so much. Wanted to save them from what they'd been through. But you can't erase that kind of trauma—I've learned that the hard way. In fact, often times, people who were abused will abuse their children. …I'm doing you a favor, Sara. I did them all a favor. I'm ending the cycle of violence… putting to rest all those horrible memories and moments. Aren't you grateful that it's just going to be over, my Sara?"

I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming at him. I didn't want to get hit again. "No. No, I'm not grateful, I'm not yours, and you're not doing me a favor. Kill me if you're going to, but save me the self-righteous bullshit. This is about you, and if it isn't some psychosis you developed as a child, then there's something wrong with your brain. There is not a single part of this that doesn't feed something inside of you… so just… shut the fuck up."

I flinched when his hand rose to the radio, thinking he'd been about to hit me again. He smiled wanly, turned the dial until music came out, and glanced at me again. "I'm sorry that we don't see eye to eye, Sara. I promise, though, it's for the best."

I wasn't going to argue with him about whether his acts of murder were kind-hearted or not. I stared out the window, into the night, wondering where he was taking me… how many hours left of life I had… where he would leave me after he'd killed me and cleaned me. I would have been afraid he'd rape me—but none of the other girls had been, and he'd more or less told me that I wasn't special… I was just one of many. So I was left to wonder the details of the crime itself… and hope that it would be fast, at the very least.

I tried to remember how the other girls had died—strangulation, stabbings, smothering, slitting into vital veins and arteries… no guns, no drug overdoses... He was hands-on.

I closed my eyes, praying for the first time since I was a very small child to the god I had stopped believing in when he'd taken my family away. …I didn't pray for him to save me. I prayed that he would protect the new family he'd given me… and I prayed that I could be strong.