Chapter Twelve
He surged upwards, through the light, higher and higher until he screamed and bolted and realised suddenly he was not at all flying, but rather was in his bed.
Daylight was filtering through the window, beginning to crawl up the bed. The house was quiet, much too quiet. Hannah should be up, watching loud cartoons and he would pretend to be annoyed. He never was. Watching her laugh was beautiful.
But the house was quiet.
Her bed was neatly done, her favourite dress missing from the closet. The TV was off, the kitchen was quiet. The water in the pool stirred lazily, but she wasn't there. She wasn't there.
"Hannah?" he called out. "Hannah!"
She wasn't there.
Carl. Carl must have come and taken her. Carl had always envied him Jane.
He drove like a man possessed, not caring what lane or even what road he was on. Carl. Carl, that bastard.
The house was dark as Mark pulled up, and he didn't even bother to kill the engine. He bolted to the door, blood pounding in his ears.
"Mark? The door opened to reveal a very tired Carl, only half dressed.
"Where's Hannah?"
"Hannah's missing?"
"You know she is, you bastard."
Finally, something seemed to register on Carl's face – something much like fear.
"I didn't take her, Mark."
"You always wanted her. You always wanted Jane."
"No, Mark. No."
"Yes."
"No. I protected you. I helped you after Jane died."
"You couldn't identify the driver, you bastard! You let him go!"
"Damn right I did!" Carl hissed. "I covered for you, buddy. I covered for you! Drunk out of your mind. You should never have been driving."
The silence was deafening. Carl continued to talk, but Mark couldn't hear anything but his blood burning. No. No. No. It wasn't so.
He reached for the gun and swung it at Carl, blood spilling onto his hands. Carl fell, and bullets ripped into his chest even as he fell as Mark shot.
"No," Mark hissed. No, no, no. No. "I didn't kill her. I didn't. I loved her. I loved her."
Carl's dead eyes stared up at him, holding all the guilt and grief in the world.
No. No.
The urge did not care. A death was a death, blood was blood. Anything to feed the fever. He stared at the bloody gun, at his hands, at the still running car, at the vanishing stars. They were all dead, the stars, though their light shone on. Alive, yet dead.
Alive, yet dead. He had nothing now. Just the blood. His only solace.
"HANNAH!"
II
"We've got him!"
Catherine marched into the room, paper held high and wide smile on her face, slamming a hand down on the table, nearly causing Nick's water bottle to spill.
"Mark Grundy. Journalist, well off after his adoptive parents left him their estate. Has a daughter named Hannah. Used to drive a red BMW."
"And we have a warrant," Brass added, holding up his own paper.
"Our guy?" Nick asked, dropping his sandwich.
"Only one way to find out," Catherine smirked. "Get moving, boys."
Nick and Warrick exchanged a glance, then leaped to their feet and followed Catherine and Brass out, leaving the breakfast to the mercy of Greg (which probably meant they'd ever see it again).
"Do you want to call Grissom?" Warrick asked in a low voice as he caught up with Catherine.
"No." She shook her head. "He and Sara are way too emotional about this case. We'll call them when we're at the scene."
"Grissom won't be happy."
"Grissom is never happy."
II
There was a flutter in his chest that could have been happiness, or at least relief. Evidence to lead to an arrest, at last. Sara would be safe.
He smiled at her as he picked up the phone and called Catherine.
"Hey, Catherine. The guy we're looking for is Mark…"
"I know!" Catherine snapped at the other end. "Mark Grundy. We're at his house and he's gone with his daughter. Car missing. We've found blood and quite frankly, all the evidence we need to convict him."
"But he's missing," he replied. Sara looked up, her eyes widening slightly.
"We're on it, Grissom," Catherine sounded slightly annoyed, though it as probably not with him. "I'll call you when we have anything."
And with that she was gone and left only the insistent dial tone humming in his ear.
"They're on the same guy," he told Sara, flopping down on the couch again. "He's missing."
"And his daughter?"
"She too."
She stared up at him, eyes dark. Something wet streaked her cheek, something much like tears.
"Hey. The police will find him. We solved the case."
"If that child hadn't been there…" her voice cracked slightly. "Would you have gathered evidence, found the killer and then felt nothing, Grissom? Just another case."
"That's unfair."
"Is it?" She got up, wiping away the tears.
"Yes!" he followed her up, reaching out to take her hand. She flinched away. "Sara, you're a CSI. I would be…"
He fought to find the right word to express how his heart had been ripped to shreds when he thought her hurt, how he couldn't even imagine the pain of her death.
"Devastated," he finished weakly.
"I'm a CSI," she echoed, but with acid in her voice. "Swell. I do hope you bring in someone young and clever to replace me, like I replaced Holly."
"Hey!" He gripped her arm, pulling her closer. "I would not replace you. I would replace a CSI. I would not replace you, Sara."
She looked at him, then closed her eyes. "I'm so tired."
"You can sleep if you like, I can…"
"You can what, Grissom? Watch me sleep? Hold me when I cry?"
"Yes," he whispered and pulled her even closer. Her smell engulfed him, and he cupped her cheek in his hand. Her eyes were still closed as he caressed her skin with his thumb, his other hand going around her waist and locking her to him.
She leaned into the embrace, nestling against him, her breath hot on his neck. They merely stood like that forever, sunlight filling the room with patterns of light.
And then he kissed her, because she was near and warm and Sara, and he wanted to. He kissed her temples, her cheek, her jaw, her lower lip, her nose, her eyelids, her neck and finally, her lips again.
It only took a few seconds until his lips were eagerly parting hers, kissing her deeply and possessively. His hands wandered inside her shirt, to feel her heartbeats against his palm.
She was alive. Every heartbeat was a solace, every heartbeat was hope.
"Sara," he whispered. The name was a caress, a tide raising his heart.
"Griss," she whispered back, lifting her arms and allowing him to lift her shirt up. He marvelled at her exposed skin, winced at her bruises.
Outside, the Earth spun on as it always did, a cradle rocking its children, protecting them from the vast and cold Universe.
And morning became day in the bright, bright sunlight.