A/N: New chapter! Some excitement-
A Return to Vegas
Chapter 14
It was mid-day when phones dinged with messages from the computer experts. Maxine and the Grissoms returned to the lab leaving the others packing evidence from the storage unit.
The tech guys had managed to open a gold mine finding multiple searches for laboratory testing, orders for supplies, and a folder of hacking information. An application for reconstructing graphics revealed the information for vector graphics.
One of the men showed them how, by changing a number, the graphic changed from one bullet to another. He went into a long explanation of how vector and raster graphics work and the virus slipped into the ballistic records was complex enough to keep working for weeks.
Another tech person showed how the list of names had been tumbled around to bring up any one name—much like a roulette wheel works. Simple but effective, random but limited to those names listed in the malware.
"Where is this guy," Maxine questioned, not expecting an answer from anyone in the room.
For a while longer, the experts talked about the complex virus, how the 'back door' Caldwell had found in ballistics files had allowed the placement of the virus.
"That's why he did not hack the entire lab," one explained. "This was an easy opening he found."
They talked about that for a while before Allie, Chris, and Josh showed up and brought food and reports from the storage unit.
Josh said, "It doesn't look like he used anything—but he had manuals marked up for DNA and fingerprinting."
"He found ballistics was easy," Maxine said.
"But why?" Allie asked. "Why did he do all of this?"
For a long moment, there was silence and then Grissom spoke.
"We may never know but something started it—there is always a reason, a cause. Maybe his feelings—he felt insulted, ignored—by his mother, perhaps, because she was working as a housekeeper for these guys in law enforcement. He's a smart guy but he's living with his mother—maybe that's where it started. For years, his resentment festered until he decided he would destroy the work of these men by making them appear guilty—malicious but not deadly. Throwing their work in doubt," he paused for a minute before adding, "He's already killed three people—he's set a deadly course for whatever he does next."
"We've got to find him," said Maxine. As she spoke, her phone dinged with a message; she read it out loud. "Silver Prius found two blocks from Dave Spencer's home. Meet us there."
Everyone stood, ready to head out.
Someone commented, "Did he go back to the house?"
…Alan Caldwell could not believe his luck; he'd driven twenty minutes out of his way to find two kids and a young woman in front of Catherine Willow's barn. Only the rich could afford pony rides in the middle of the week—and they had seen him as he pulled up. The little girl stood on a bench and waved at him.
He cursed, sitting in the truck for several minutes trying to think of another plan before opening the door and walking in the direction of the child.
Lindsey had walked to the other side of the pony so she had a clear view of the man in the truck. When he got out, she watched; he wasn't anyone she remembered but he seemed harmless as he threw up an arm to wave.
What happened next seemed to pass in slow-motion. She could see the man talking, laughing, reaching over the fence to Libby, lifting her up as she laughed. She could hear Libby's laughter. Before Lindsey fully grasped what was happening, the guy put Libby into the truck—not in a brutal way—both were laughing, talking. Releasing her hold on the pony, she ran across the paddock, her booted foot landing on the bench, pushing off the top rail of the fence, propelling her body toward the truck.
She knew she screamed as the truck door opened and crashed into her shoulder, shoving her backward before the door hit her again. Blackness followed.
Anthony had watched with curious interest; his sister was in a truck—he'd never ridden in a truck. Lindsey had left him, fallen to the ground where she lay motionless. Puzzled, the four year old sat on the pony for a full minute, watching the truck as it drove away, turning to where Lindsey was sprawled in the gravel.
He had been taught how to dismount but he ended up sliding off the pony and landing on his back side in a cloud of dust. Running to the fence, it took several moments for him to climb up, over, and down, and get to Lindsey.
In his young life, he'd seen dead fish, whales, dolphins, turtles, and sharks, and looking at Lindsey, he thought of these animals. Carefully, he placed his hand on her face and brushed her hair with his fingers. Dust and blood covered her cheek; her ponytail was messed up and her arm twisted in an odd angle from her shoulder.
With his face near her ear, he whispered, "Lindsey—Lindsey," and when she did not respond, tears came to his eyes. His mother would wipe the dirt and blood away when he had a scrape or cut so he did the same, wiping his fingers on his shirt. He needed water, he thought, and ran to the water bottles sitting near the bench.
Returning, his attempt at washing Lindsey's face was clumsy; water poured from the bottle, overflowing his hand, splashing onto Lindsey's face and the dirt around her.
Lindsey groaned. The black pain became lightning flashes of agony; her mouth was filled with dirt, wet dirt, as she realized someone was pouring water on her face. She tried to move which caused an increase in intense pain. A wet hand patted her face.
"Anthony," she whispered—or thought she did.
"Lindsey—Lindsey—you didn't die."
She knew he had heard her. "Help, go get help." She knew the little boy stayed by her side. Spitting out dirt and water, probably blood, she said, "Get Bob. You can do it. We need help." As she tried to lift her head, the pain caused exploding white spots and she was afraid she was going to pass out again.
This time he moved and she sank into a gray oblivion of silent screaming.
Anthony stood and moved away from Lindsey and for the first time in days, he wished for his mommy. He wiped his face again, unsure of why he was crying—he wasn't hurt but his chest ached in a funny way. He turned in a full circle before he noticed the golf cart, parked near the barn. Bob had given him lots of rides on it.
Crawling onto the seat, the little boy knew Bob pushed a button and put his foot on the pedal to make it go; he did the same thing. The cart moved forward, not very fast at first, but when Anthony stood up, pressing the pedal harder, the cart moved faster. He had to do two things—keep his hands on the wheel and his foot on the pedal, moving at a snail's pace.
He felt better—he was going for help. Bob would know what to do about Lindsey and he'd know about his sister. He'd almost forgotten she was getting to ride in a truck but as the wind blew in his face, he felt a new-found confidence—Libby wasn't getting to drive.
The golf cart rode smoothly along the grass with no obstacles along the path Anthony made as he headed toward Bob. By the time he got near Bob and the mower, the child was smiling.
When Bob saw the golf cart coming in his direction, his first thought was one of aggravation but quickly changed to concern when he realized the driver was little Anthony. Lindsey was attentive; she would never let the child drive the golf cart. As he climbed from the mower, he grinned as he watched the abrupt halt of the cart and Anthony tumbled onto the seat, scrambled to the ground and ran toward him.
"What's going on, little buddy? How'd you get away from Lindsey?" His words were cut short when he saw the blood streaks on the child's shirt, his tear-stained face. "Where is Lindsey?" He scooped Anthony into his arms and both were back in the cart before the little boy answered.
"She fell down—she—she was bleeding—on her face—she couldn't get up," Anthony stammered out. His voice shaking; tears forming again.
"Okay—okay, we'll get her fixed up—you did a good job of driving—coming to get me," Bob hugged the boy close as he reached under the steering wheel and quickly adjusted a cable.
The cart had never been on a golf course and over the years, he'd made some adjustments to make it travel faster. A minute later, they were clipping along at nearly thirty miles an hour. In less than five minutes, he found Lindsey on her back, staring at the sky.
The older man had seen accidents before but nothing clicked in his brain to explain the obviously mangled shoulder, the twisted arm. Rushing to Lindsey, carrying Anthony with him, his mind tried to comprehend how she could have gotten hurt. And relief came as he bent over the young woman he'd known for years and heard her voice.
"My phone—it's in my jacket," she whispered.
Her jacket was hanging on a post ten feet away. Bob ran to get it, dialing 9-1-1 as he returned to her, reporting an accident, giving the address and directions, staying on the line. Lindsey was fading as he leaned over her again; he said, "I need to call your mother." He fumbled in his pocket for his phone.
Lindsey managed to shake her head, "Libby—tell them Libby was taken—the man in the white truck. He—he hit me with the truck."
A/N: Leaving you with a crisis...thanks for reading and for your comments! More to come!