***1. I don't own these characters, this show, or CBS (obviously, or
Season 3 would have been very different). 2. I'm not making any cash at
all out of this. 3. Word to all the UtB people (especially
freak_of_nature who was SOOOO nice to beta this for me weeks ago!! Thanks
so much!!) Also, any references to other persons/or places in Nevada are
completely contrived and have no basis in reality!***
Chapter 8:
Sara was nervous about the fading daylight, and grateful when she found an end to the footprints. There were some smudged marks on the wall above where they had ended. She looked up and saw a rope dangling from a climbing spike.
"Sara," Grissom said and she looked up to see him holding a climber's harness.
"Grissom, something's not right. A murderer would have climbed out of here. He would have needed the harness to do that.
"Maybe they came together. Maybe the killer left Halian's ropes behind."
"That makes no sense. Leaving evidence behind him?"
"More evidence," Grissom said, pointing behind Sara's feet.
She bent over and retrieved a book from the ground. It was black, with a smooth worn cover. It was held closed with a thick rubber band.
"A journal," she said.
Grissom's cell phone rang startling them both.
He answered it and Sara could hear a hiss of static. He pulled his head away from the noise. His face was in shadow. Her once sweat-damp body now shivered as a new chill rose with the moon.
"I can't hear you," Grissom said, "What about shoes?"
He turned into the light, his eyes dark, his mouth an angry line. Grissom held out the phone to her abruptly.
"See if you can hear him better."
She took it with surprise. Grissom hunkered onto a rock and opened the journal sullenly.
"Grissom!" Brass shouted through the speaker.
"No, it's Sara," she yelped, reeling from the volume, "Stop screaming."
"It's Brass, why am I talking to you?" When she did not respond, he continued, "I have some news," he said and she could hear him fairly clearly. There was a hissing static in the background, but it was irritating, not painful. She stared at Grissom, wanting an answer, wanting an explanation. He focused on the journal entirely.
"What about the shoes?" she urged, her eyes locked on Grissom.
"We found two leather sneakers by the entrance of the canyon. They were chewed to bits by coyotes."
"We didn't find any coyote tracks," she said, "And why would they want the shoes and not the body?"
Sara checked her watch, now glowing indigo. It was 6:20. The sun was almost gone. Grissom still read the journal. His mouth frowned deeply.
"Maybe it has to do with the poison, animals can smell that stuff," Brass said, "Sara if you've got something, I'm all ears, but I'm telling you I think this kid offed himself. We got in touch with the family and the kid was indeed troubled."
Sara pulled out her flashlight and pointed it at the last stretch of footprints. The steps were choppy, not a natural gate.
"He threw the shoes," she said to herself, "I don't know why, but I know that's what he did."
"Maybe it was a gift, symbolic to him," Brass offered.
She shook her head and her flashlight zigged and zagged over the footprints. Choppy footprints. He had walked backwards after climbing down. He had thrown those shoes and they probably tumbled down a slope. Then that teenage boy donned a pair of moccasins and trampled the ground, probably in a ceremonial dance. But instead of reliving a former life, the boy ingested a handful of poison and died. Sara shivered.
"Ranger Rhonseby is heading back for you in a few minutes, Sara. Do you want me to hold anyone?"
Sara looked across to Grissom. He now sat with the journal on his lap. He dropped the harness. Something in there must have told him the same because he was now just reading the journal. Not studying, not searching.just reading.
"Is there anyone to question?" Sara asked flatly.
He looked up and she saw a deep kind of sorrow in his eyes, "Only the world," he said, tugging off his gloves with a sigh.
"No, Brass. We'll head back."
She hung up the phone and picked up the journal lying on Grissom's lap. She crouched before him, looking into what she could see of his eyes. They were full of a bitterness she had never seen before.
"Will you tell me what that was about?" she asked of the call. He ignored her entirely.
She touched the journal with a sigh. "Can I read this?" she asked, sensing a raw pain growing within him. She wanted to be tender. If she moved slowly, maybe something would happen.
Yeah, maybe he'll run fast to Heather's to discuss it.
Sara scanned the first few words, and then read aloud from the page that was open.
"It will never make any sense to me. I have done so much, but for so little. I marched in your lines like an insects, following in your shoes, never questioning the way. Always for money. Always for things. Always for the "right here" the "right now". Is this what I have become a man for? Is this how far the world has come? So much has been learned, but even more has been forgotten. I know so many facts, yet so little truth. And so I close my eyes this night, praying dawn will bring me back to the rightness of the world. Without truth, there is no purpose. I will go back. I will go back to learn my truth on this sacred ground. Perhaps my failure to find it in life will be forgiven in death."
Her voice quivered into silence and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When she met Grissom's pale and lifeless stare, she felt compelled, even haunted by the words of a young and desperate man.
"There is nothing we can do. No justice we can serve," Grissom said, his eyes fixed on some distant place.
"Tell me your truth?" she probed nervously, empowered by the pages beneath her fingers.
"Sara, don't." he said, shaking his head stubbornly before rising to stand.
"Maybe you can walk away from that, but I can't" she said, standing to face him.
"The truth is that our victim committed suicide, Sara. Our job is done."
He moved to walk away, but she grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn. The boy's words burned like fire in her memory. She knew they would be branded on her heart for years to come.
Without truth, there is no purpose.
"I'm not talking about our job," she said.
"Then there isn't anything to talk about," he said.
"I think there is, but I'm afraid to ask you," she blurted, covering her mouth hesitantly as soon as the words slipped out.
His eyes narrowed and his head tilted, "You aren't afraid of asking anything," he said.
"Yes, I am," she whispered, " But only with you; it's different with you."
"Different?" he asked, and now she released him.
Anxiety made her clumsy. She dropped the flashlight and it clattered and rolled to rest at her feet, casting strange shadowy light up the canyon walls. She could his face more clearly now. The air around her was chilling her through. She crossed her arms.
"Yeah, different," she said, her courage fading, "There's something about you that I can't get out of my head." Suddenly, courage came in spades. It's like a dam had been broken within her, "There's something about your eyes that makes me afraid to look at you. Something about your voice that stops me dead in my tracks. Something about your pain that makes me want to take it from you."
Chapter 8:
Sara was nervous about the fading daylight, and grateful when she found an end to the footprints. There were some smudged marks on the wall above where they had ended. She looked up and saw a rope dangling from a climbing spike.
"Sara," Grissom said and she looked up to see him holding a climber's harness.
"Grissom, something's not right. A murderer would have climbed out of here. He would have needed the harness to do that.
"Maybe they came together. Maybe the killer left Halian's ropes behind."
"That makes no sense. Leaving evidence behind him?"
"More evidence," Grissom said, pointing behind Sara's feet.
She bent over and retrieved a book from the ground. It was black, with a smooth worn cover. It was held closed with a thick rubber band.
"A journal," she said.
Grissom's cell phone rang startling them both.
He answered it and Sara could hear a hiss of static. He pulled his head away from the noise. His face was in shadow. Her once sweat-damp body now shivered as a new chill rose with the moon.
"I can't hear you," Grissom said, "What about shoes?"
He turned into the light, his eyes dark, his mouth an angry line. Grissom held out the phone to her abruptly.
"See if you can hear him better."
She took it with surprise. Grissom hunkered onto a rock and opened the journal sullenly.
"Grissom!" Brass shouted through the speaker.
"No, it's Sara," she yelped, reeling from the volume, "Stop screaming."
"It's Brass, why am I talking to you?" When she did not respond, he continued, "I have some news," he said and she could hear him fairly clearly. There was a hissing static in the background, but it was irritating, not painful. She stared at Grissom, wanting an answer, wanting an explanation. He focused on the journal entirely.
"What about the shoes?" she urged, her eyes locked on Grissom.
"We found two leather sneakers by the entrance of the canyon. They were chewed to bits by coyotes."
"We didn't find any coyote tracks," she said, "And why would they want the shoes and not the body?"
Sara checked her watch, now glowing indigo. It was 6:20. The sun was almost gone. Grissom still read the journal. His mouth frowned deeply.
"Maybe it has to do with the poison, animals can smell that stuff," Brass said, "Sara if you've got something, I'm all ears, but I'm telling you I think this kid offed himself. We got in touch with the family and the kid was indeed troubled."
Sara pulled out her flashlight and pointed it at the last stretch of footprints. The steps were choppy, not a natural gate.
"He threw the shoes," she said to herself, "I don't know why, but I know that's what he did."
"Maybe it was a gift, symbolic to him," Brass offered.
She shook her head and her flashlight zigged and zagged over the footprints. Choppy footprints. He had walked backwards after climbing down. He had thrown those shoes and they probably tumbled down a slope. Then that teenage boy donned a pair of moccasins and trampled the ground, probably in a ceremonial dance. But instead of reliving a former life, the boy ingested a handful of poison and died. Sara shivered.
"Ranger Rhonseby is heading back for you in a few minutes, Sara. Do you want me to hold anyone?"
Sara looked across to Grissom. He now sat with the journal on his lap. He dropped the harness. Something in there must have told him the same because he was now just reading the journal. Not studying, not searching.just reading.
"Is there anyone to question?" Sara asked flatly.
He looked up and she saw a deep kind of sorrow in his eyes, "Only the world," he said, tugging off his gloves with a sigh.
"No, Brass. We'll head back."
She hung up the phone and picked up the journal lying on Grissom's lap. She crouched before him, looking into what she could see of his eyes. They were full of a bitterness she had never seen before.
"Will you tell me what that was about?" she asked of the call. He ignored her entirely.
She touched the journal with a sigh. "Can I read this?" she asked, sensing a raw pain growing within him. She wanted to be tender. If she moved slowly, maybe something would happen.
Yeah, maybe he'll run fast to Heather's to discuss it.
Sara scanned the first few words, and then read aloud from the page that was open.
"It will never make any sense to me. I have done so much, but for so little. I marched in your lines like an insects, following in your shoes, never questioning the way. Always for money. Always for things. Always for the "right here" the "right now". Is this what I have become a man for? Is this how far the world has come? So much has been learned, but even more has been forgotten. I know so many facts, yet so little truth. And so I close my eyes this night, praying dawn will bring me back to the rightness of the world. Without truth, there is no purpose. I will go back. I will go back to learn my truth on this sacred ground. Perhaps my failure to find it in life will be forgiven in death."
Her voice quivered into silence and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When she met Grissom's pale and lifeless stare, she felt compelled, even haunted by the words of a young and desperate man.
"There is nothing we can do. No justice we can serve," Grissom said, his eyes fixed on some distant place.
"Tell me your truth?" she probed nervously, empowered by the pages beneath her fingers.
"Sara, don't." he said, shaking his head stubbornly before rising to stand.
"Maybe you can walk away from that, but I can't" she said, standing to face him.
"The truth is that our victim committed suicide, Sara. Our job is done."
He moved to walk away, but she grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn. The boy's words burned like fire in her memory. She knew they would be branded on her heart for years to come.
Without truth, there is no purpose.
"I'm not talking about our job," she said.
"Then there isn't anything to talk about," he said.
"I think there is, but I'm afraid to ask you," she blurted, covering her mouth hesitantly as soon as the words slipped out.
His eyes narrowed and his head tilted, "You aren't afraid of asking anything," he said.
"Yes, I am," she whispered, " But only with you; it's different with you."
"Different?" he asked, and now she released him.
Anxiety made her clumsy. She dropped the flashlight and it clattered and rolled to rest at her feet, casting strange shadowy light up the canyon walls. She could his face more clearly now. The air around her was chilling her through. She crossed her arms.
"Yeah, different," she said, her courage fading, "There's something about you that I can't get out of my head." Suddenly, courage came in spades. It's like a dam had been broken within her, "There's something about your eyes that makes me afraid to look at you. Something about your voice that stops me dead in my tracks. Something about your pain that makes me want to take it from you."