Chapter Fourteen

Grissom sat in his quiet office and stared at his spider crawl back and forth, the arachnid as anxious as he felt. Was he the hunter or the hunted? The line seemed so blurred it was enough to make even his hairs stand on end. Somewhere out there was Mark Grundy, the bastard who had nearly killed Sara. Waiting to be caught or waiting to catch?

He slowly loosened his grip on his glasses, realising he had nearly crushed them. Catherine had threatened to handcuff both him and Sara to a car if either of them went near the evidence and had managed to get Nick and Warrick to swear to do the same. He knew she was just trying to save them trauma and keep the evidence process free of claims of bias (though that would probably arise anyway), but it was driving him slowly mad.

And somewhere in a cold room sat Hannah and Sara and Catherine. He wondered what they talked about.

"Hey boss!" Greg peeked in, looking quite cheerful. "Exiled to your ivory tower, huh?"

"Can I help you, Greg?"

"Actually, I can help you. That analysis on the envelope the poem was delivered in came back. It had spores on it."

"Spores?"

Greg nodded. "It's from Dendrobium bigibbum, the Cooktown orchid. Someone who'd been in recent contact with it handled that envelope. He didn't leave fingerprints, but spores fell into it, probably from his hair."

Grissom finally looked up.

"It's native to the tropical parts of Australia," Greg went on, looking extremely pleased with himself. "I checked where you would find them here in Vegas…"

Grissom was already up and heading out the door. He knew where the orchids were.

"Don't mention it!" Greg called after him.

He almost made it to the door.

"Ahem," a voice said forcefully and Warrick stepped out of the shadows.

"Did Catherine set you to baby-sit me or something?"

"I believe she used the phrase 'make sure he doesn't run off like a headless chicken'."

"I'm your supervisor."

"But Catherine knows where I live."

They stared at each other. Finally, Grissom shook his head in resignation.

"Fine. But I'm driving."

"Where are we going?"

"To chase orchids."

II

"Hannah, we really need to find your father," Catherine said gently. Sara could tell she was trying hard not to sound impatient or frustrated from the slight tension in her face.

"He should be home," Hannah answered again. She fiddled slightly with her backpack. "He was asleep when I left."

"Is there anywhere he likes to go?"

"He goes to Carl sometimes," Hannah said hopefully. She looked to Sara, seeking some strange comfort in a victim of her own father. "And sometimes he just drives."

Catherine leaned back in her chair as Brass entered, giving a small wave.

"I'll be right back."

"Yeah," Sara replied, watching the two disappear down the hall. Hannah immediately moved closer, still clutching her backpack as if it was all she had. Perhaps it was.

"Dad is in a lot of trouble, isn't he?"

"He will be in more trouble if we don't find him, Hannah."

The kid nodded, eyes downcast.

"Hey Hannah… Is there somewhere you like to go? Where your dad knows you like to go?"

As she asked it, she suddenly realised it was the question she should have asked at the beginning. Mark wasn't hiding. Mark was looking for his daughter, as any father would.

"By the butterflies."

"And where are the butterflies?"

"It's a secret," Hannah whispered. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I can tell you if you promise not to tell anyone."

"Can you tell Jim and Catherine too?"

"Do I have to? It won't be a secret anymore."

"It's really important, Hannah."

"Okay."

The child nodded, just as Catherine and Brass came walking into the room again, followed by the Sheriff.

"It has white flowers. Mum grew up with white flowers. That's why dad showed it to me."

Catherine met Sara's eyes, echoing the same sorrow.

Flowers and butterflies and death.

II

A leaf fell from the tree, spinning slightly in the wind as it fell against the earth. Leaves in the wind. That was all life was, Mark thought bitterly and stared down at his hands.

The blood was still there. He wanted nothing more than to wash it away, to sit clean and warm by the fireplace, to read to Hannah while the stars winked merrily outside.

But Hannah hadn't been here, and now he stared at the white orchids with despair. They were blooming, as they had when Hannah had been here last. She had been so happy, among the flowers and butterflies. Always with the butterflies.

Once, they had all been so happy. Jane and Hannah and him, a little family.

He fiddled with the gun, that too bloodied by Carl's death. There was one bullet left in it. One bullet. One kill. One last fever.

"Drop the gun, Mark."

He looked up to see Grissom and some other investigator approach, guns drawn.

"Without the brunette today, Grissom?"

"Drop the gun."

"Why?"

"For you daughter."

"So she can see me like this? I'd rather die. Or perhaps I will shoot you." He lifted the gun, aiming at Grissom. The man didn't even flinch.

"Drop the gun, Mark."

"No. Come on, Grissom, you want to kill me."

"What I want is to see you behind bars for life," Grissom replied. He didn't even hesitate at the answer, as if there was no urge to kill at all.

"It will never be over, you know."

"Yes, it will be."

Mark heard the incoming sirens, saw the cars pulling up. The trigger didn't resist, it pulled backwards as softly as a knife through butter and a bullet through flesh.

He hadn't meant to shoot, but somewhere in his mind he desired to anyway. One more kill. They would shoot back, and he would die as the fever rose. Dying in the urge. Symmetric. Perfect.

And then, over the sirens and the gunshot, he heard her cry.

"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!"

The fever boiled, becoming a hard pit in his stomach, draining all the joy, feeding the pain. Hannah. No. She shouldn't be there. She shouldn't….

He lifted his face against the sky and screamed; screamed and screamed until bullets slammed into his body. The pain rose like a tide. Never had he thought dying could be this painful. Something that had to be guilt stabbed at his heart until it seemed unable to take anymore.

The scream died and suddenly all he could see was the night sky, so dark and beautiful. But there were no stars. No light.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaad!"

The sound tuned out and left a deafening silence as he stared and stared. Under him, his body crumbled and fell like a sack of potatoes.

The ground was soft. Grass and flowers, he could feel and then even the feelings vanished. One last heartbeat. One last breath.

And then that too, was gone and there was nothing.