He sent up a quick prayer before he went in the house, asking whoever was
up there to keep her alive. If she wasn't. . .he stopped that line of
thought before it got much farther, he didn't want to think about the
possibility that she was dead.
Grissom entered the house with his gun drawn, he was beyond careful as he searched the main floor and upstairs room by room; the suspect appeared to be gone. He sighed, exasperated, as he exited the last room of the top floor, his gun hanging by his side. He felt numb as he waved the cops and crime scene people to search the floor. She had to be here.
He walked into the kitchen, the linoleum squeaked under his shoes. He had no idea what to do, where to search next. He'd searched the entire house. Grissom left the house. She wasn't in there. The man had to have her somewhere else.
As Grissom walked around the perimeter of the house, he holstered his weapon. The sun was bright, he couldn't understand why Mother Nature didn't know to match his moods with a gray sky.
And then the sun glanced off a piece of metal onto a dirty window he hadn't noticed. The window was just above ground level, he never would've seen it, and he realized suddenly that there was a basement.
Grissom dashed into the house, looking fiercely for the door to the basement. He found it locked, and he broke the lock off without thinking about it. The door opened up to a dark and dusty space, a stream of light filtered through the dust to reveal a set of creaky wooden stairs. They hardly looked strong enough to stay up by themselves but he rushed down them anyway.
"Sara!" Grissom yelled, the name ricocheting off the walls, reverberating in his ears. "Sara, are you here?"
A faint moan led him to her battered and bloody form; she lay curled in the fetal position on a mound of tarps and paint-spattered drop clothes. Sara was covered in bruises, some nearly purple. Her exposed back had the words 'All finished' written in permanent marker, a skinning knife lay discarded by her side. He had obviously been interrupted by the arrival of the police. A hammer-shaped bruise, slightly faded but still dark, underscored the words. She had recently been hit repeatedly with some kind of rod, and as Grissom surveyed the scene, he noticed some plastic pipe that looked to be about the right size. "Oh, Sare. . ."
He tried lifting her gently and she cried out in pain, so he put her down and hollered, "I need paramedics down here NOW!"
"Grissom. . ." The sound of her voice made him turn to face her.
"Shh, Sara, I'm here, don't move." He sat down to wait, held her hand as she cried. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine," he repeated, for his sake as well as hers.
-------------
"She's gone through a lot, Mr. Grissom," the white-coated surgeon explained. "We're still fixing some of the internal bleeding. . .we took out her appendix, it was pretty damaged. Infection had set in. We've patched up her ribs, sutured muscle back to where it was supposed to be. We also reset her left knee; it had been dislocated, the tendons are torn. Oh, and she's got a deep cut on her face, we sutured it but it'll probably scar."
He listened silently, nodded, and asked, "How long will she be here?"
The doctor, who's coat had "Fuentes" stitched above his heart and looked to be all of twenty-five, replied, "Couple of weeks, maybe more, before she can even think about returning to Vegas. It may be a month or more after that before she can return to work."
He nodded again. "She's not going to like that."
Fuentes shrugged. "She's not going to have a choice."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"No problem," he replied. "She should be out within the hour. You're not family, but I pulled some strings and you'll be allowed into the ICU when she's ready."
Grissom nodded again, his neck complaining at the repetitive motion, and sat down. Fuentes walked down the hall towards the row of operating suites, but paused halfway down and came back.
Grissom rose from his chair to greet him. "I just wanted you to know," said the doctor, who had picked up on the older man's protective vibes and the way he looked at the patient, "that it doesn't appear that she'd been sexually assaulted."
Grissom let out a sigh of relief.
--------------
He was there when she awoke, groggy as hell and fighting the pain. Even with the high-voltage drugs they'd put her on, she was completely aware of every suture, inside and out, and the way they tugged on her bruised flesh. Sara looked up at Grissom through half-lidded eyes, confusion written all over her face. "What's going on?" she croaked, throat sore from the oxygen tube. She struggled to raise herself up and winced as her ribs wrenched against the action.
"Hey, sit back down," he ordered.
"Hello to you, too, Grissom."
He cringed a little as he realized how harsh he must have sounded. "Sorry, it's just best if you don't move."
"Yeah, I figured that out." She forced a smile, but even that hurt. "Ow."
"I'm not going to ask how you are, because it's pretty obvious."
"Like I got run over by a steamroller, thanks for asking," she murmured. "Where am I?"
"Atlanta General." At her blank look, he continued, "Georgia, seminar, failing to get away from a killer, any of this coming back to you?"
"A little." Sara closed her eyes, and in the silence that ensued, he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. Her voice assured him that she had not. "My parents coming?"
"I called. They'll be here as soon as they can."
She rolled her head away from him, not wanting him to see her face as she replied slightly hurt, "As soon as the last guest leaves."
"Hey," he reassured her, "it's business."
"Figures," she said, eyes still closed. "They tell me to take it easy most of my childhood and not put business first, and now they change their minds."
He didn't have a response to this and she was fading, so Grissom watched her until she fell asleep, whispering, "I love you," to her and kissed her forehead.
-------------
"Mr. Grissom?" The voice of young Dr. Fuentes rolled through Grissom's ears, waking the scientist from his sleep.
"Yes?" He groaned sleepily, stretching. He had followed Sara into sleep a few hours ago, forgetting how uncomfortable hospital chairs were.
"Can we step outside, please?"
"What's going on?" he asked, worried.
"I'd like to talk to you, but I don't want to wake her up," the doctor said quietly.
Grissom glanced down at the sleeping brunette, who looked. . .lost. He hadn't had the chance to see her sleeping, and there was something about the way her face relaxed that mystified him. Her cheek, swollen from the injury, was the only flaw he could see, and he knew she would make some comment about being Frankenstein when she awoke. "Sure," Grissom replied, after he had finished his observation.
They stepped into the fluorescent hallway, Grissom blinking at the light. "You're concerned about Sara?"
Fuentes looked away, then met Grissom's eyes. "What do you know about her eating habits?"
The question caught him off-guard, he did not answer for a few moments. "She's a vegetarian," he offered, not quite knowing what the doctor wanted to know.
The doctor nodded. "And as far as you know, she doesn't have an eating disorder?"
"No, why?" He stared at the doctor, eyebrows pulling together, forehead wrinkling in question.
Fuentes sighed. "She's underweight. She's, what, a hundred and ten pounds?" At Grissom's blank look, he continued, "At her height, she should be at least ten pounds heavier, if not more."
"How do you know her weight isn't due to the trauma she's been through?"
"Her medical records. She's chronically underweight, Mr. Grissom. I'm worried that this. . . situation. . .may exacerbate her condition. Do you know why she stays that thin?"
Grissom thought for a moment, then answered, "She has trouble keeping weight on. It's partially the job, the stress, but she has a lot of energy. Sara burns her food very quickly, when she eats."
"When she eats?"
"It's the job," he explained again. "Sometimes, she gets so wrapped up in a case that she forgets about what she needs. I'm sure you've seen that before."
Fuentes nodded. "Medical school. Studying for my medical Boards. My first run in the E.R. I assume you'll be the one taking care of her in Las Vegas?"
"Yes." The answer rolled off his tongue automatically.
"I need you to put some weight on her while she's not working. Get her in the habit of eating three times a day, every day, regardless of what she is doing. Get her on a schedule. Whatever works for her."
----------
"Hi, Sara. I'm Dr. Fuentes, I was the surgeon assigned to your case, I'll also be your primary doctor while you are at this hospital."
"Hi," she replied, groggy. The young Latino doctor had been in the room when she awoke.
"Just a couple of things real quick and I'll let you get back to sleep, alright? First, we had to remove your appendix, so you'll have a slight scar on your abdomen. Second, your ribs are taped, and we had to suture your external intercostal-uh, rib-muscles, so you may have some pain when you inhale or exhale."
"No shit," she whispered, grimacing.
Grissom entered the house with his gun drawn, he was beyond careful as he searched the main floor and upstairs room by room; the suspect appeared to be gone. He sighed, exasperated, as he exited the last room of the top floor, his gun hanging by his side. He felt numb as he waved the cops and crime scene people to search the floor. She had to be here.
He walked into the kitchen, the linoleum squeaked under his shoes. He had no idea what to do, where to search next. He'd searched the entire house. Grissom left the house. She wasn't in there. The man had to have her somewhere else.
As Grissom walked around the perimeter of the house, he holstered his weapon. The sun was bright, he couldn't understand why Mother Nature didn't know to match his moods with a gray sky.
And then the sun glanced off a piece of metal onto a dirty window he hadn't noticed. The window was just above ground level, he never would've seen it, and he realized suddenly that there was a basement.
Grissom dashed into the house, looking fiercely for the door to the basement. He found it locked, and he broke the lock off without thinking about it. The door opened up to a dark and dusty space, a stream of light filtered through the dust to reveal a set of creaky wooden stairs. They hardly looked strong enough to stay up by themselves but he rushed down them anyway.
"Sara!" Grissom yelled, the name ricocheting off the walls, reverberating in his ears. "Sara, are you here?"
A faint moan led him to her battered and bloody form; she lay curled in the fetal position on a mound of tarps and paint-spattered drop clothes. Sara was covered in bruises, some nearly purple. Her exposed back had the words 'All finished' written in permanent marker, a skinning knife lay discarded by her side. He had obviously been interrupted by the arrival of the police. A hammer-shaped bruise, slightly faded but still dark, underscored the words. She had recently been hit repeatedly with some kind of rod, and as Grissom surveyed the scene, he noticed some plastic pipe that looked to be about the right size. "Oh, Sare. . ."
He tried lifting her gently and she cried out in pain, so he put her down and hollered, "I need paramedics down here NOW!"
"Grissom. . ." The sound of her voice made him turn to face her.
"Shh, Sara, I'm here, don't move." He sat down to wait, held her hand as she cried. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine," he repeated, for his sake as well as hers.
-------------
"She's gone through a lot, Mr. Grissom," the white-coated surgeon explained. "We're still fixing some of the internal bleeding. . .we took out her appendix, it was pretty damaged. Infection had set in. We've patched up her ribs, sutured muscle back to where it was supposed to be. We also reset her left knee; it had been dislocated, the tendons are torn. Oh, and she's got a deep cut on her face, we sutured it but it'll probably scar."
He listened silently, nodded, and asked, "How long will she be here?"
The doctor, who's coat had "Fuentes" stitched above his heart and looked to be all of twenty-five, replied, "Couple of weeks, maybe more, before she can even think about returning to Vegas. It may be a month or more after that before she can return to work."
He nodded again. "She's not going to like that."
Fuentes shrugged. "She's not going to have a choice."
"Thank you, Doctor."
"No problem," he replied. "She should be out within the hour. You're not family, but I pulled some strings and you'll be allowed into the ICU when she's ready."
Grissom nodded again, his neck complaining at the repetitive motion, and sat down. Fuentes walked down the hall towards the row of operating suites, but paused halfway down and came back.
Grissom rose from his chair to greet him. "I just wanted you to know," said the doctor, who had picked up on the older man's protective vibes and the way he looked at the patient, "that it doesn't appear that she'd been sexually assaulted."
Grissom let out a sigh of relief.
--------------
He was there when she awoke, groggy as hell and fighting the pain. Even with the high-voltage drugs they'd put her on, she was completely aware of every suture, inside and out, and the way they tugged on her bruised flesh. Sara looked up at Grissom through half-lidded eyes, confusion written all over her face. "What's going on?" she croaked, throat sore from the oxygen tube. She struggled to raise herself up and winced as her ribs wrenched against the action.
"Hey, sit back down," he ordered.
"Hello to you, too, Grissom."
He cringed a little as he realized how harsh he must have sounded. "Sorry, it's just best if you don't move."
"Yeah, I figured that out." She forced a smile, but even that hurt. "Ow."
"I'm not going to ask how you are, because it's pretty obvious."
"Like I got run over by a steamroller, thanks for asking," she murmured. "Where am I?"
"Atlanta General." At her blank look, he continued, "Georgia, seminar, failing to get away from a killer, any of this coming back to you?"
"A little." Sara closed her eyes, and in the silence that ensued, he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. Her voice assured him that she had not. "My parents coming?"
"I called. They'll be here as soon as they can."
She rolled her head away from him, not wanting him to see her face as she replied slightly hurt, "As soon as the last guest leaves."
"Hey," he reassured her, "it's business."
"Figures," she said, eyes still closed. "They tell me to take it easy most of my childhood and not put business first, and now they change their minds."
He didn't have a response to this and she was fading, so Grissom watched her until she fell asleep, whispering, "I love you," to her and kissed her forehead.
-------------
"Mr. Grissom?" The voice of young Dr. Fuentes rolled through Grissom's ears, waking the scientist from his sleep.
"Yes?" He groaned sleepily, stretching. He had followed Sara into sleep a few hours ago, forgetting how uncomfortable hospital chairs were.
"Can we step outside, please?"
"What's going on?" he asked, worried.
"I'd like to talk to you, but I don't want to wake her up," the doctor said quietly.
Grissom glanced down at the sleeping brunette, who looked. . .lost. He hadn't had the chance to see her sleeping, and there was something about the way her face relaxed that mystified him. Her cheek, swollen from the injury, was the only flaw he could see, and he knew she would make some comment about being Frankenstein when she awoke. "Sure," Grissom replied, after he had finished his observation.
They stepped into the fluorescent hallway, Grissom blinking at the light. "You're concerned about Sara?"
Fuentes looked away, then met Grissom's eyes. "What do you know about her eating habits?"
The question caught him off-guard, he did not answer for a few moments. "She's a vegetarian," he offered, not quite knowing what the doctor wanted to know.
The doctor nodded. "And as far as you know, she doesn't have an eating disorder?"
"No, why?" He stared at the doctor, eyebrows pulling together, forehead wrinkling in question.
Fuentes sighed. "She's underweight. She's, what, a hundred and ten pounds?" At Grissom's blank look, he continued, "At her height, she should be at least ten pounds heavier, if not more."
"How do you know her weight isn't due to the trauma she's been through?"
"Her medical records. She's chronically underweight, Mr. Grissom. I'm worried that this. . . situation. . .may exacerbate her condition. Do you know why she stays that thin?"
Grissom thought for a moment, then answered, "She has trouble keeping weight on. It's partially the job, the stress, but she has a lot of energy. Sara burns her food very quickly, when she eats."
"When she eats?"
"It's the job," he explained again. "Sometimes, she gets so wrapped up in a case that she forgets about what she needs. I'm sure you've seen that before."
Fuentes nodded. "Medical school. Studying for my medical Boards. My first run in the E.R. I assume you'll be the one taking care of her in Las Vegas?"
"Yes." The answer rolled off his tongue automatically.
"I need you to put some weight on her while she's not working. Get her in the habit of eating three times a day, every day, regardless of what she is doing. Get her on a schedule. Whatever works for her."
----------
"Hi, Sara. I'm Dr. Fuentes, I was the surgeon assigned to your case, I'll also be your primary doctor while you are at this hospital."
"Hi," she replied, groggy. The young Latino doctor had been in the room when she awoke.
"Just a couple of things real quick and I'll let you get back to sleep, alright? First, we had to remove your appendix, so you'll have a slight scar on your abdomen. Second, your ribs are taped, and we had to suture your external intercostal-uh, rib-muscles, so you may have some pain when you inhale or exhale."
"No shit," she whispered, grimacing.
