Chapter Four

The cool air was a blessing coming from the stuffed, sickly air of the hospital. It smelled slightly of rain, Grissom noted – to come or what had been he could not tell.

He took a deep breath, staring out over the city from the hospital parking lot. Somewhere out there was a killer. And the evidence to catch him.

The skies opened, dropping their precious load of life onto the earth. Grissom did not move. He barely felt the tickle of water drops, his mind in an altogether different time and place.

The hospital had not wanted to release him merely a few days after his injuries had occurred, of course, and he suspected Catherine and Sara would be concerned, but he could not have stayed in the hospital bed a minute longer. Thinking, wondering, having no evidence to end speculation with. One more day, and he could possibly have gone mad. His feet itched and the bandage of his head turned quite a few heads, but he felt strong.

He heard the car before he saw it. Water splashed from its tires as it pulled up, brakes screaming as the driver noticed him and came to a stop.

"What are you doing out in the parking lot?" Sara asked, opening the door. She shook her head as water fell on it, sending a few drops his way.

"You're late," he replied calmly.

"What?"

"You're late. You visit every day at 12.27. It's now…" he glanced down at his watch. "12.32."

For a moment she just stared at him with confusion all over her face.

"We got some results back," she finally replied. "Grissom, I thought the doctors said…"

"I'm fine," he said casually, and slid into the seat next to her. "You can tell me about the case on the way back to the lab."

She gave him another long look he couldn't quite read, then she fastened her eyes onto the road and set the car in motion.

"Ecklie will have a fit when he sees you back," she commented lightly. "He's been trying to boss Catherine around."

"It's our case, not Ecklie's."

He closed his eyes for a moment, smelling the burnt flesh once more. The case. It wasn't the sounds or the sight that seemed to stay with him, but the smell. Strange. He had smelled far worse over the years. Decaying bodies, rotten organs… But this was different. Personal. His case.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She did not seem convinced, but let it drop. For a while there was silence, stretching on. Rain drummed against the front window with ferocity, patters of water shaping before being pushed away by the spoilers. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

"We think we may have a lead on the shoe," she said after a while, lifting her voice slightly to counter for the rain. "It's a British brand named Vegona. You can't get it here."

"Our killer has British connections," Grissom said slowly.

"Or possibly he is British." She shook her head. "It makes no sense, Gris. He knocks you out with a tin can and then shoots the other victim?"

"A tin can?"

She shot him a quick look. "Yeah, a tin can. There were tiny specs in the blood from your wound. But we couldn't find it and there was no blood residue on any of the tin we found in the ashes."

"The killer took the can with him," Grissom translated. "A souvenir."

She merely nodded, eyes still on the road.

The silence felt charged, and he idly wondered why. She looked tired, though she was putting up a good front. He stared at her intently as she pulled up, turning the engine off.

"Did you cut your hair?"

"I had to. Some of it was burnt," she replied, and this time there was no mistaking it. There was pain in her voice.

"Sara…" he said quietly.

"It's okay, I was going to cut it soon anyway," she said frantically. "Really."

Her knuckles whitened as she firmly gripped the car keys, as if trying to crush them in her hand.

"Sara," he said again, and his hand went to hers on its own. She froze slightly at the touch, almost flinching away.

"I like it," he said gently. Her hand was warm under his, her skin soft as he traced a slow pattern with his thumb.

They sat forever there, rain becoming drizzle becoming drips. Until he finally let go of her hand and she vanished into the building without a word.

II

It had been so easy this time.

Strange. Mark had expected the guilt to be worse this time, adding up both murders. Instead, he had felt strangely free, forgiven. As if the second murder erased the feeling of the first.

She had been a brunette before the fire had eaten her hair and flesh. A brunette. Beautiful, though not overly so. He had seen her in a supermarket car park and known. It had been her eyes.

Judgemental. Like Grissom. Like his mother. Such strong eyes.

He had followed her for a day, planning and anticipating, shivering in the grips of a fever that never seemed to break. She was a loner, had nothing but her work and a cat. He had watched her sing to it, silhouetted in the window. So alive.

Beautiful. But the fire was more so, always more so.

She even let him in.

He wondered later if she had seen death in his eyes when he had lifted his gun and swung it at her head. The cat had howled, as if knowing. He had taken pity on it, and rummaging about her kitchen he had found some string. He then tied the cat to a tree outside, patting it before going in again. The fire awaited.

It had felt different this time. The euphoria had not slammed into him, but rather filled up slowly until he could nearly not breathe. The power. The strength. The knowledge. He threw the shoes into the fire with a jubilant cry and hands raised high, feeling the warmth of the fire against his body. Such beauty.

The fire had raged as he slipped away, a small mantelpiece clock in the seat next to him. His prize, his memory. He had been home less than an hour later, just as the rain started once more. And now he sat quietly in the kitchen, staring at his food.

It had been so easy this time. So easy. Snuffing out a candle. Killing a flame to feed the fire.

"Dad?"

"Go to bed, honey," he answered quietly, staring out at the road. "You have school tomorrow."

"Yes, dad."

Her steps echoed away, and he slowly got up, noticing for the first time that the darned cat had scratched his gloves. Next time, he would make sure there were no pets.

Next time…

And he smiled slightly as he turned off the lights, leaving the kitchen to the darkness.

The rain thundered on.