Chapter Nine
He sat in his warm chair and wondered why he killed.
John's lifeless eyes stared up at him, asking the same. Why kill? The obvious answer was power. He liked power. He always had. His mother had never given him any, he had claimed it. He had let her die, breaking her medicine bottle under his shoe. Power.
No wonder he had let himself forget. Nothing compared to the euphoria. And he had forgotten, forgotten it all. Until Jane died.
Sweet, beloved Jane, crushed by a car as she was protecting Hannah. Dying with a lullaby on her lips and her eyes glistening with tears. Such beautiful eyes.
Her beautiful hair, soiled with blood. Blood. There had been blood everyone.
The next day he had burned down a house and embraced the fever rather than the grief. It was easier.
Carl Hansen had been the only witness to the hit and run, but not even that had been enough to catch the killer. Jane's killer. He'd told Mark he remembered only the eyes. Strong. Judgemental. Remarkable.
The red wine felt dry on his lips. Mark gulped it down impatiently. The joy of killing seemed only but a simmer now, and the urge was driving him mad. The more and elaborately he killed, the more he desired the feeling again. It was as if he had dived into a river of blood and the currents had pulled him under and he was breathing it.
Who are you killing, Mark? Your mother or your wife's killer?
He shuddered violently. He knew he should stop the killing. Deep down he knew he should. He'd gotten away with murder, the knowledge should give him enough power for a lifetime. But the urge – the urge would not be stilled.
What would still the urge? Grissom and his lovely Sara Sidle? He'd weaselled the name out of Conrad Ecklie when interviewing the investigator on the John Linman murder. The irony of it was not lost on Mark.
Sara Sidle.
He rose to his feet, staring out at the sky. There were no answers there, as he had once believed. There were no answers anywhere, or so he had thought.
The answer was only complicated if the question was hard. Would Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom still the urge? Only one way to find out..
He left the wine at the table, shining darkly red as the moon escaped from the clouds and hit the glass. Pale reflections.
He didn't see Hannah asleep in the backseat.
He saw only the blood.
II
Sleep wouldn't come to her. She tossed and tossed and tossed, feeling as if ants had crawled into her bed sheets simply to make her life miserable. Finally, she gave up and got up.
The kitchen was quiet, only the fridge humming its steady heartbeat. She leaned against it for a moment, cherishing the cool surface.
She had kissed him.
She had just meant to throw him off balance with his damn assumption of knowing what she was feeling. But when he had kissed her back, she had forgotten everything but the feel of his body against hers and the taste of him.
Damnit.
She rested her forehead against the fridge, staring at her rippled reflection. Grissom would probably say nothing. He was good at that. The man lived in silence and unspoken words.
Damnit, damnit, damnit.
Her eyes fell on the couch. He'd held her so gently, his breath tickling the back of her neck during the night. She could remember waking up at least once, being eased back to sleep by his quiet breathing.
The fridge coughed and died and suddenly, all she could hear was her own breath in the vast darkness.
And then the door slammed open.
II
She didn't answer her phone. The first time, he was merely annoyed, though he knew he shouldn't be. It was late, she was probably sleeping and he was only calling to make sure she came home all right. The second time, worry made its slow way into his mind, jabbing away. The third time he felt something like panic.
She didn't answer her phone.
He tapped a pen against the open pages of his Wilde book, staring at the words while dialling her number once more. There was a message in those words, he was sure. A message that would mean something to him.
She didn't answer her phone. He let it ring endlessly this time, each ring like a stab to the gut.
"Come on, Sara" he pleaded, but there was no answer. For a moment he just stared at the phone, trying to convince himself there was nothing wrong.
"For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die," he cited from the book, and a cold dread fell over him.
No.
But his body had already made the decision and he was halfway to his car before he realised he had even gotten up. The car gleamed in the darkness, and he urged it to life with as much calmness as he could muster.
He drove recklessly, passing cars that were going far too slow. This was Vegas. They should be speeding.
"Come on, come on…"
Finally, he pulled up to be met by darkness. The lights were out at her place and his panic finally took hold. If he felt anything beyond fear, it was buried too deep to surface at all.
The door to her flat was opened and he eased his gun out, gripping it firmly.
"Sara?" he called. He moved further in, and stepped on glass. He froze, his breathing slowing to a painful gasp. Signs of struggle. "Sara!"
The lights flickered on. He blinked against the sudden assault on his eyes. It took him a few moments to adjust and be able to make sense of what he saw.
Glass had been broken and lay scattered. The fridge door was open. A trail of dirt led further into the apartment and he followed it, careful not to step on it. Even now, his mind was all too aware it was evidence.
Catherine answered on the second ring.
"Catherine, I'm at Sara's. Get police and an ambulance now," he snapped, hanging up before she could say anything.
"Sara?"
The bedroom door was cracked open, and as he looked in, he saw Sara's still form on the bed.
For a moment he could not move, paralysed with pain and fear. He gasped painfully just as he saw her chest rise and fall. She was breathing. She was alive.
"Sara?" he asked gently. He winced at the sight of bruises on her arms. The bastard had hurt her. Again.
He froze as dead eyes met his. Dead eyes on Sara's nightstand, meeting his own.
"Hello John Linman," he whispered. One killer. Just one killer.
"Grissom?"
He looked up to see Sara struggle awake, eyes trying to focus on him.
"I'm here," he assured her gently, taking her hand.
"He had a kid, Grissom," she muttered, closing her eyes from a moment. "He came at me, and this girl's voice came… 'What are you doing, daddy?' He…"
She gasped painfully and he clung onto her hand.
"It's all right," he whispered. "You're safe."
She nodded weakly as her eyes closed again. He clung onto her hand like a lifeline, waiting and watching her breathe. Breathing was life.
Catherine found him like that, deadly calm and rage in his eyes.
The fridge hummed on, door open and cold escaping into the dawning morning. The fire in the sky burned as it always did, warming the earth.
The rage of life never died.