Chapter Six
Her head was pounding fiercely, eating away at any sensible thoughts. She had several ugly bruises, but no serious damage had been done. Not a high price to pay for a lead - a red BMW with a blue-eyed driver. So why did she feel so cold?
"I heard what happened."
She looked up to see Warrick in the doorway, looking at her with obvious concern. She tried to smile, but it became a grimace.
"I'm fine. Grissom drove me to the hospital and I'm officially off the hook," she replied. "Any leads on the car?"
"We're gathering a list of all sold BMWs in Nevada the last few years. It will take time to narrow it down by colour."
"I know it's him, Warrick," she said forcefully, then bit her lip. She didn't want to think about his eyes. Normal, deep-blue eyes, shining with madness and something that could only be evil.
"You should go home," Warrick said gently. She looked down, unwilling to face the concern radiating from his face. She was fine. She was.
"Yes, you should," Grissom added, appearing behind Warrick. "You were ordered to rest, as I recall."
"They ordered you to rest too," she countered tensely. He sent her a slightly displeased look.
"You two should both go home," Catherine said forcefully, joining the small gathering. "Gil, if Conrad caches you around, he'll force a leave of absence on you."
Grissom started to say, something, but she sent him a hard look.
"Or I will," she added, steel in her voice. "Go home."
"The tribe has spoken," Nick added as he joined them. "I have the list you wanted, Catherine."
"Thank you," she cut in before Grissom could say anything. The trio disappeared, leaving Grissom and Sara and an uncomfortable silence.
There seemed nothing to say, and too much to say. Finally, Sara grabbed her jacket and brushed past him.
"Sara?" he called after her.
"What?"
"You shouldn't drive," he said quietly. "I'll take you."
II
Mark stared into flames in his small fireplace, trying to feel the fever. It wasn't there. He was cold, not warm, and angry, not euphoric. He hadn't killed. He had a fire, but not a kill.
The fever was in the blood now, not in the flames.
He hadn't killed her. Hadn't seen her blood spill, her life die away.
Frustration gnawed at him, every heartbeat a second too long. He'd given the investigators a lead unintentionally. He'd tried to kill and failed. Again. He was not used to such bitter pills to swallow. Life had been easy. The fire had been easy.
What if they caught him?
He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. They could not catch him. He decided who lived or died. They could not catch him. He had to know what they knew. Who of his old friends was close to the CSI?
"Dad?"
"Yes, Hannah?"
"Could you read me a story?"
He smiled as he pulled her up on his lap, rubbing her shoulders gently.
"Of course," he said warmly, reaching for the book on the table. She squirmed in delight, her slender hand so small in his grip. So pale, blue veins visible through the thin layer of skin.
The fever was in the blood, singing to him, singing, singing.
He smiled.
II
He wasn't sure what awoke him. Perhaps it was the quiet breathing; perhaps it was the sense that he was not alone.
For a moment he wondered where he was. This wasn't his bed, and it was more comfortable than his couch.
Sara's couch. Of course.
He'd insisted on staying to wake her every two hours to be on the safe side. Head injuries, no matter how small, should be kept an eye on. And he had wanted to make sure she slept and didn't stay up working on the case like he would.
What time was it?
His feet made contact with something soft as he began to move to get up.
"Sara?" he asked into the blackness.
"I'm here," she breathed. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he could make out her shape hutched at the end of the sofa.
"You okay?"
"I just couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about his eyes."
"We'll catch him," he promised and hoped it would be true.
"He looked so normal, Grissom. But it was him. He killed Joanne Harris and Steve Johns and nearly you…"
"A mind can be evil without being abnormal, Sara."
She nodded slightly, knowing it to be true. But knowing something was not always the same as realising the implications. He'd seen realisation dawn on so many as they came face to face with the cruelest streaks of humanity, and it was never pleasant.
"I… Um… You want some tea?" he offered hesitantly, before he realised he had no idea if she even had tea.
She shook her head and bit her lip slightly, looking down. She looked pale in the darkness, pale and tired. His heart leaped painfully.
"Lie down," he said quietly, surprising even himself. She looked up, shadows playing across her face.
"Lie down," he insisted again, and finally she complied, stretching out next to him. Her hair tickled his chin as she nestled against him, and he lifted an arm to rest on her shoulder. He could almost feel her heartbeats through her skin, echoing his own.
Gradually, her breathing slowed, her eyes closed and her face lost the edge of exhaustion. She slept so quietly, her breaths barely audible. She was beautiful.
He tried to stay awake, but the silence filled his body, void of pain or exhaustion. A warm haze took over his mind, edging out all other things.
He slept.
II
She slept.
Mark watched her from the shadows, fingering his cold car keys. The car would have to go. He had friends in the police; he could have one of them report it stolen as of a few days ago.
The fires would end. He didn't need them; the fever was not there. A new murder without fire would not be linked to the others. He could distract them with new murders. The fires would be forgotten. He would upstage them, drive the investigation elsewhere. It would all work.
And then he would kill Gill Grissom and the women with such sad eyes. He remembered her eyes, meeting his without hesitation.
Beauty. There was much beauty in eyes. He wondered idly if the beauty vanished when life did, or if it lingered behind. Perhaps he could find out.
His blood sang and he shivered in joy. He had failed today, but there was always tomorrow and the day after. Always another chance.
Always another pair of eyes.