Chapter Two
'There won't be another death this morning,' she thought, and darkness seemed to lift around her.
He was going to be all right. A broken arm, some burns, a concussion… Wounds that would heal, bones that would mend. He was going to be all right.
Relief surged through her body, mixing with anger and resentment. Whether it was directed at him or the bastard had done this, she wasn't sure. Perhaps both. Perhaps herself.
Catherine was still on the phone with Warrick, no doubt being filled in on the crime scene findings and relating the good news.
The sun was rising, and for a while Sara let herself bask in the pale orange glow from the window, staring out and beyond. He was going to be all right.
Was she?
"They've found a badly burnt shoe," Catherine declared, coming up behind. "They don't think it's the victim's or Grissom's."
"A shoe?"
"A shoe."
There was something familiar about that, but she was too tired to think.
"Can we see him?"
She asked without thinking, driven on need and emotion rather than mind. If Catherine noticed the raw need in the question, she said nothing.
"Doctor Fraser is on call. I think he could be persuaded."
"You know him?"
"Let's just say he was once a fan."
II
The morning spread like wildfire, darkness devoured by light and stars banished by the sun. The moon became a crust of pale silver, fading into blue. Some clouds were out this morning, sailing over the sky lazily, as if they had all the time in the world.
Nightlife fell asleep as the day awoke to the heralds of morning. The cool wind soon gave way to the blanket of heat, wrapping the city, stilling the air.
The media was awake, as always. Another morning, another murder. One dead victim, one in hospital. Attacker unknown. The crime scene was locked off. Possibly an interrupted robbery. Simple, acceptable. One more murder and then the weather.
Mark Grundy watched the news bulletin and knew it was not that simple. It never was. He'd been foolish, careless, not thinking at all. He hadn't planned anything, merely acted. It might ruin everything; his life, his career, his dreams…
He'd been awake all night, sweating under the cool sheets. It had been everything he secretly desired and yet not enough.
His coffee was cold, but he drank it anyway. It tasted slightly bitter. Absentmindedly, he slipped sugar lumps into it, eyes still focussed on the TV screen.
Planning. That was where he had gone wrong. It had been sweet, such a high, such a low, but the thrill of a planned, successful killing…
His hairs stood on end and an echo of the euphoria from last night slammed into his body. Though a pale imitation of what it had been, it was enough. For one shining moment, Mark felt… Alive, bursting with something beyond happiness. He thought of the tin can in his bedroom, his secret trophy. It would be his, forever.
The euphoria died away, leaving him shaking and craving.
The weather had become commercials, blazing colours and sound at him, bringing him back to the real world.
Was there anything to connect Mark Grundy, respectable citizen, to this fire?
The car, if someone had seen it. It was California registered, that might help him. But perhaps discreet arrangement could be made to get rid of it. To be safe.
The shoes. They should have burned up, though. He doubted much would come of any find either, but it left a nagging feeling of unease in his mind. They were common enough shoes, bought on clearance sale. Nothing that could be connected to him, surely.
Gil Grissom.
The man lived (since it was impossible that the store owner still lived, the man in the hospital had to be Grissom), which was the biggest worry. What had he seen? What had he heard?
Mark furrowed his brow. There was nothing to connect Mark Grundy with the young man Grissom had known; yet the possibility was there. He could not risk the tiniest hint of a connection. Grissom would have to be off limit. A man with a grudge would be expected to continue the vendetta. As sweet as it would be…
No, it couldn't be risked.
The fear was wonderful and Mark basked in it, tearing at the sugar pack until it fell apart between his hands. Sugar spilled out, as blood would have. He stared at the small lumps, crushing them under his thumb and evening the spill out over the table. He considered the image of the fire, but the blood came unbidden to his mind. The power of the kill. The surprise on the man's face… The knowledge that he, the always overlooked Mark Grundy, had that the power to give death…
Such a wonderful feeling. How much more wonderful could it be when it was planned, anticipated, every aspect considered?
The fever was there again, but it was different this time. Slower, more intense, as if it was building to a stronger fire. He could wait. A little while. Not for the fire, but for the kill. The fire was not enough, not anymore. One more murder. No one would notice.
He smiled as he got up, ready to walk out into the world and wear the mask of normality once more.
II
The heat was what awoke him. Or perhaps it was the slow, steady heartbeat rhythm, filling his body until he found himself breathing to match it. For a while, he merely listened, content to be the rhythm and feel nothing.
Slowly though, pain edged its way into his mind. It was not insistent or sharp, but it was always there, nibbling away. Burning. A burning pain. Heat.
His mind begun to calculate what kind of damage would create such a pain, taking into account the slight numbness that indicated painkillers. Second degree burns? It felt as if it originated in the legs.
The ceiling came into view slowly, becoming fine-tuned and allowing him to focus. It took him a while to adjust to the sharp light stabbing at his eyes, some sunlight seeping in through the window. Somewhere distantly, he heard voices.
The room was white, his hands red, as if sunburned. He could flex his right arm, though there was a slight pain attached. The left felt broken and a quick look confirmed it had been plastered. Lifting his head, he winced at the sudden pain blazing through his skull and his arm.
"I would be careful with that," a voice said dryly. "You could knock someone out with that arm."
"Catherine," he breathed.
"I know you were hoping for a cute nurse," she went on, entering his field of vision. Her hair looked slightly muzzled, and the dark circles under her eyes spoke of little sleep. Behind her, a shadow leaned against the wall.
"Hey," Sara offered weakly, forcing a smile out as she stepped out of the shadow and approached the bed. Her cheeks looked tear-streaked and there was a smudge of ash on her chin. He resisted the urge to reach for her and brush it off.
"What…" he began, interrupted by a dry cough that sent his head spinning.
"You were knocked out," Catherine answered, crossing her arms. He could see a glimmer of rage behind her calm features, and then it was gone, leaving only a ripple in her voice. "Store owner was shot at least eight times."
"Brass thinks maybe it was a robbery in progress," Sara cut in. Her voice was strangely even.
"No." He shook his head, and grimaced as the pain came surging back. "He came in after me. If he was a robber, he could have waited or shot me first, in the back. This was not a robbery."
Neither looked surprised, which told him they knew more than they were letting on. He wondered where Nick and Warrick were, though he had his suspicions.
"Brass will be by later, as soon as the doctor allows him," Catherine replied, avoiding any comment on his statement. She was thinking the same thing, then.
"And the doctor allowed you two in?"
The two women exchanged glances, Sara looking slightly bemused for a moment.
"Old acquaintance. He owed me a tip," Catherine simply said, then leaned down to look him sternly in the face. "You need rest, Grissom."
He tried to smile reassuringly, but on reflection, probably not the smartest thing to do. His head started ringing again and he groaned before he could stop himself.
"We better…." Sara began, gesturing towards the door.
"We better," Catherine agreed, patting his shoulder for a moment. "We'll feed your bugs."
"Thank you," he replied, but his eyes were on Sara. She returned his glance hesitantly, then walked over. He tried to read her face and failed, unable to penetrate the wall of pain on her face.
"Thank you," he said again. She nodded slowly, but her expression didn't change. Catherine slipped soundlessly away, leaving only Sara to gaze at him with her dark eyes.
"I… I came as fast as I could," she offered, biting her lip.
"I know."
"I better go," she muttered. Her fingers brushed against his for a millisecond and then she was gone, leaving him only with the slow rhythm of his breathing echoing in his ears.