Title: Jigsaw
Author: Burked and Mossley
Rating: PG-13, just to be safe
Disclaimers: We have no rights to CSI. It belongs to CBS, Alliance Atlantis, Anthony Zuicker and any number of persons and entities other than us.
A/N: This story is the second part of a two-parter begun with Burked's "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream." A little of this fic may not be clear if you haven't read it, but it's not critical.
Many thanks to Marlou and Ann for consenting to beta for us.
"I'm tired of playing games with you, Gil Grissom. I think it's time I show you just how serious I am." Angela Wyeth, the Angel of Death, "To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"
* * * * *
Chapter 8 – Charity Begins at Home
Lying against opposite ends of the couch, their bare legs intertwined, Gil and Sara were sipping their 'morning' coffee in the waning light of late afternoon.
"You know who's next, other than Catherine that is," Grissom said. "You want me to send the guys again?"
"Heather. Right leg. Second victim," Sara said, not yet answering his ultimate question. "Why do you think she broke into Heather's house? That is, if the prowler was her."
"I believe it was. Maybe to case it. Maybe to kill her. Heather might have been next on the list of victims," Grissom said, starting to feel the burden of being the romantic equivalent of Typhoid Mary once again.
"Not to kill her. Not yet, anyway. That would have messed up the plan, the pattern."
"She'll probably have to abandon it soon, anyway," Grissom said, chuckling lightly despite the subject when Sara drew her toe across the bottom of his foot.
"I'll go. Alone," Sara said, finally answering Gil's earlier question. It took him a moment to process what she was referring to, then another moment to get over his shock.
"Why you? Why alone?" he asked softly, enjoying the feel of silky softness as he ran the side of his foot the length of her leg.
"I probably need to. I've got to deal with this sooner or later. I'd rather do it now. Get past it. I have to be alone, though, just in case I don't deal with it in a constructive manner!" she chortled.
"You? Lose control? Nooooo!" Grissom teased, sitting up. He quickly grabbed her legs and pulled her into a straddle, his chuckle dying in his throat as he dragged his hands lightly up her arms to cup the bottom of her jaw line on each side, where it met the soft flesh of her neck.
Pulling her into a gentle but sensual kiss, he let his hands succumb to gravity, though they were unwilling to part from her body. His lips never leaving hers, their tongues now wrestling, his hands curved around to her back. As before, they started at the top and slid down smoothly, finally resting on her hips.
He instinctively pulled on her backside, pressing into her from the front. It amazed him, and sometimes frightened him, that no matter what the circumstances, all it took was the feel of her skin to arouse him. If she was close enough to touch, he wanted her.
Having just awakened a little less than an hour earlier, they were already wearing very little – boxers for him, and a camisole and panties for her. It took less than a second to be rid of the flimsy impediments.
Sara reclaimed her position on his lap, this time her legs tucked under her. As the tempo of their kisses and touches increased, she lifted herself. Grissom took the opportunity to kiss the breasts that framed his face, and to guide himself to her opening.
"I don't understand how you do this to me," he moaned, as she gently worked them into full contact.
Sara interrupted the passion, suddenly looking around the room, including the ceiling.
"What is it?" Grissom asked breathlessly, their ardor already beginning to pump adrenaline and testosterone into his system.
"Remember Nicky's stalker? He had cameras in the house. She could be watching us now," Sara answered nervously.
"Let her. Let her see that it's you I want," Grissom said, picking up where he left off.
"Videotape, Grissom. Remember how Nick felt when we were watching the tapes? And there wasn't anything in the slightest embarrassing on them. You want everyone in the lab watching us doing this?" she asked quietly in his ear, lest they were being audiotaped.
"It's too late to worry about that," he said, burying his face into the crook of her neck, driving her to lean her head back, willing him to leave no area of the sensitive flesh untended.
She matched the rhythm of the music in her mind, getting lost in the feel of him, reality fading into a distant memory.
Each time was different, and this time wasn't a gentle exploration, full of reverence and adoration. She needed to know that she was the only one he desired, and he needed to show her.
Soon he could no longer tolerate the relatively passive limitations of their position, and he pushed her over on the couch, needing to be able to more forcefully answer his body's demands. She had grabbed the edge of the afghan, pulling it down to partially cover them, but it slid unceremoniously to the floor, unable to find purchase on their writhing bodies.
He was so intent on her, so divorced from external stimuli, that he felt her rather than heard her as she began her instinctual pleading. He had to block her out, or she'd drive him over the edge too soon.
He took both of her hands and pushed them back over her head to open her body up to him and to keep her from touching him. He held them there with one hand while his other disobeyed him, exploring all it could reach.
She shuddered beneath him, pulling her hands free to run them quickly down his back, until she could pull at him, urging him, her shouted demands becoming more insistent.
All vestiges of human rationality left him as he acted out centuries of genetic programming intended to ensure the perpetuation of the species.
"Please," was the only comprehensible thing she said aloud, pulling desperately at him. Every muscle in her body began to tense.
"Ummm," she moaned into his kiss as their bodies began to slow, each intent on savoring every waning second.
He was content to bask in their afterglow, coherent speech still impossible for him. But he felt the separation keenly when they parted. He lifted up, propping himself on one elbow, allowing the other hand to softly direct the sweaty curls away from her face.
"I want you to know," he began, swallowing hard and closing his eyes briefly, asking himself if this was really the time, "how I feel about you."
"Tell me," she whispered encouragingly. Even after all that had happened between them, he rarely spoke to her of his feelings. He preferred to show her, which was enough for her. But she knew the significance of his finally feeling able to verbalize it.
"I love you," he said quickly, afraid that he'd lose his courage. It didn't come out as romantic as he would have wished, and he was afraid that she would think that he didn't mean it, that it was just a product of their lovemaking.
Sara grinned broadly, bringing a warmth to him that was altogether different from the passion they had just shared, but just as satisfying emotionally.
"I love you, too," she returned. She pulled his face down to her, adoring him with kisses of love rather than passion.
"Please don't ever leave me," he pleaded in a hushed whisper, returning her kisses, then rubbing his fingers lightly over her swollen lips.
"I couldn't. I tried once. A long time ago. I couldn't do it then, and I didn't even know yet what I'd be missing," she said softly. "I've always loved you."
* * * * *
"God, Gil!" Catherine said almost desperately on the phone.
"I assume you got a package," Grissom said, rolling slowly out of bed. He padded towards the kitchen to make coffee.
"In today's mail. Not just a package. It had a note in an envelope taped on the front of the box. Gil, it's bad. Really bad."
"What does it say?" he asked, leaning back into Sara as she wrapped her arms around him from the back.
"It's too long to read over the phone. Besides, I'm not sure I want to read it again. I came into the lab when Stevie picked up the box for the coroner. I scanned it for you. I'll email it to your home addy."
"Okay. Who's Stevie?" Grissom asked.
"Day shift diener for Telgenhoff. You've talked to him on the phone."
"Oh. I didn't remember his name," Grissom said, walking over to the computer to boot it up.
"Listen, I've got to go. Lindsey will be home from school in a few minutes. I'll see you tonight," Catherine said, hanging up, anxious to get off before he – and presumably Sara – saw the letter.
Sara brought them two cups of coffee as he typed in his username and password, then accessed his emails. The most recent was Catherine's; he opened the attachment and they read it together on the screen.
"To the Godforsaken Whore,
"You have gone too far this time. It was bad enough you were using helpless Gil, taking advantage of his lonely nature with your vulgar sexual advances, but now you have turned him against me. For that, you must suffer. Your death will be neither swift nor painless.
"You may have tricked him, but I know that you are screwing your way into a career, using the man I love. Do you have no morals whatsoever? Did you honestly think you could fool anyone? Your charade is as transparent as it is pathetic.
"Why would you be screwing a man practically old enough to be your father? You are far too shallow to appreciate my dear Gil for who he really is. No, you are promising him crass favors in return for keeping your job.
"I recognize you for what you are, you unclean whore. Do not think you can confuse me, the way you do sweet Gil. He is a weak man, easily swayed by your filthy offerings of perverted sex. You may not care what the consequences of your affair will do to him. I do care, though, and I will do whatever it takes to protect him from you and from himself.
"I know you have moved in with him. I have heard your fake screams of passion. I cannot even begin to fathom what he sees in you. One would think that you are far too thin and ugly to appeal to him sexually.
"You may have clouded his judgment with your perversions, but I will remedy that. I plan on videotaping your execution. Once Gil hears you begging for your life, admitting you were only using him, he will see that you had beguiled him.
"I will even slice off those bits of flesh you used to lure him away, so he can see they are nothing but inconsequential pieces of meat once they arrive in the lab.
"I promise you this, bitch: I can make your execution last days. You will pay dearly for what you have done to my poor Gil.
"Yours truly,
"The Angel of Death"
"Wow. That's intense," Sara said, reading the letter over Grissom's shoulder. This letter was more threatening, more disturbing than the last, but not completely unexpected. The implications regarding their relationship angered her deeply, but she pushed it back.
"What the hell does this psycho bitch want from me?" Grissom shouted, slamming both fists down on the desk hard enough to make the keyboard jump.
"What any woman in love wants – your faithfulness," Sara said, the irony not lost on either of them. When they began seeing each other a couple of weeks ago, it was such a sweet relief that the last thing either of them wanted to think about or talk about was past relationships. None of that mattered once they finally connected. But she was forcing them to focus on the past, on every moment spent with someone else.
"I don't even know who she is!" he huffed, getting up to yank the curtains closed, taking a moment to survey the street for anything out of the ordinary.
"Well, she knows who you are. She must have met you sometime, at the very least." Sara purposefully kept her voice lower, more measured than his response. He was embarrassed and upset, as she was, and beginning to get very frustrated and a little afraid, just as she was.
Though she could understand his reaction, since she shared it, she was trying to keep him calm. They had to keep their wits about them if they were going to catch the Angel of Death. It would imperil the case, not to mention several women, if they allowed her to get into their heads, controlling their emotions.
"She knows who you are, too. I don't want you to so much as go to your car without carrying your weapon. Just do that one thing for me," he said with a finality and desperation that brooked no argument.
"Okay. If it'll make you feel better," Sara said, knowing it probably wouldn't make any difference, if this woman were really intent on killing her, but agreeing in order to sooth him. The effect all of this was having on Grissom began to anger her more than the overt threat to her.
"I'm calling Brass. If we can't sleep, neither can he. I want to know what the hell he's doing to catch this nutcase! Is he just sitting on his dead ass waiting for us to find her for him? I want him staking out this house 24/7, since that simple strategy hasn't seemed to dawn on him yet. There aren't many people on this list. Surely to God he can assign someone to keep an eye on them in between breaks for donuts and coffee," he roared.
"You might want to rephrase all that when you talk to him," Sara suggested, smiling sweetly. She walked up behind him as he peered through the small opening in the curtains, lightly stroking his back, saddened by the knots of rock-hard tension in his muscles.
"Grissom, this is going to sound funny coming from me, and believe me, it's been a learning experience, but I need for you to calm down. I need for you to get control over your emotions about this case. If you can't, you won't be able to help me or anybody else. We're depending on you to be your usual detached, rational self."
Grissom chuckled mirthlessly. How many times had he told her the same thing? How many times had he watched, feeling helpless to stop it, as she tortured herself over a case? But she always managed to stay in enough control to stay focused on the case. She had never let it derail her, as it currently threatened to derail him.
"It's bad enough that she killed someone I knew, presumably two women I've dated. And she's terrorizing the others. But to add insult to injury, she's humiliating me, making my love-life a laughing stock, exposing me to public ridicule. And she thinks she loves me! I wonder what she'd do if she hated me!"
"She's sick, crazy. Everyone knows that. Nobody's going to take her seriously," Sara offered, kneading the tense cords in his neck.
"I do. I take her very seriously, because she's very serious. She won't stop until she destroys everything and everybody that I care about. Sara, think about it. Catherine's read this letter, and presumably Brass. It's in an evidence bag for Ronnie to look at tonight, as well as Jacqui. If she finds any prints, it'll go to Greg to try to retrieve DNA.
"It'll be scanned and put on the LIMS computer, where it will stay until she dies or serves out her sentence. The District Attorney will have it with all the other evidence, as will her defense attorney. It'll be read in court, where every journalist who's ever gotten pissed at me for not talking to them will have a field day with it.
"Even if she's ruled incompetent, Philip Kane will read it, as will any other psychiatrist who evaluates her. The list just keeps getting bigger."
"Yes, and they'll all see that she's a nut."
"Yeah, she's a nut. A nut who accuses me of cradle-robbing and you of sleeping your way to the top. She makes me sound like a pussy-whipped simpleton who's being manipulated by a conniving younger woman."
"No one will believe that ... no one who knows either one of us."
"Some won't; but some will. People love gossip. Every time we walk into that lab, they won't see us as scientists, as professionals, but as a desperate older man being led around by his genitals by a manipulating subordinate."
"We'll deal with that when it happens, Grissom. Right now, you've got to detach your mind from being the victim."
"I'm not sure I can do it. Maybe I should hand this case over to Catherine. She can be more objective."
"No, she can't. She's a victim, too, not to mention the fact that she cares about you. And no offense to Nick and Warrick, but they can't even come close to having the experience needed to get ahead of her. It has to be you, Grissom. You have to get it together."
"I'm trying to, but she's taking something that's beautiful, that's very meaningful to me, and making it sound sordid and pathetic."
"Grissom, that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Sara said, smiling as she grasped his shoulders, turning him to face her. "Maybe I should thank her. If she hadn't poisoned me with those psychedelic mushrooms, who knows how much longer it would have been until we got together?"
"Yeah, and if we hadn't gotten together then, we wouldn't have our sex lives plastered on half the evidence of this case," he said, grimacing.
"You see cloud. I see silver lining," she whispered, slowly stroking his chest. "At least we have a love life to have plastered on the evidence."
"I do love you. You know that, right? This isn't some middle-age fling to prove something to myself. It's not just about the sex. You know that. Tell me you know that," he pleaded earnestly.
"I know. I'm not going to pretend that I don't enjoy making love with you. I think that's obvious. But if we never had sex again, I'd still love you. I've loved you for years without ever being able to do anything more than brush up against you ... accidentally, of course."
"Of course," he smiled, pulling her into a hug.
* * * * *
The Angel of Death sorted through her tools carefully, selecting just the right implements. Placing them in the wheelbarrow with the other items, she pushed it carefully to the backyard, whistling cheerfully as she went.
Stopping in front of the birdbath, she started her work by moving the collection of garden gnomes and the birdbath aside carefully, then raking away the decorative stone mulch. Once that was accomplished, she dug a deep hole.
She opened each of the glass Mason jars, watching as the flies buzzed away to freedom sadly. So much for that plan. It had seemed inspired at the time. Letting out a sigh, she dropped each jar into the hole.
You shouldn't have protected the slut, dear Gil. That had been your perfect opportunity to rid yourself of the hussy.
After she had realized the brown-eyed whore was tempting Gil, the Angel of Death moved to destroy her career. Each day, she stuck a piece of meat in a jar and placed it under the shade tree. Once the maggots infested the meat, she placed a lid on the jar – with air holes, of course – and set them in her cool garage. There, the bugs developed slowly.
She had followed the slut every day, finally catching her returning alone to the scene of the drug bust.
Probably went to retrieve the drugs and money she hid from the others!
After the harlot left, the Angel of Death waited until the drug dealer returned. Like flies to a corpse, she knew the vermin would return to his den eventually. She had considered shooting him, but she didn't know what type of gun the CSIs carried.
Besides, Gil would have found out it wasn't the bitch's gun. He said that once – they could match a bullet to a gun.
Instead, she had taken her tire iron and bashed him in the head. There was no way she was going to touch the vile man with her bare hands. Unfortunately, her blow hadn't been enough to kill him. He swung widely as he staggered, connecting once with the iron bar before she had used it to crush his larynx.
She then turned the flies loose in the room, turned off the air conditioning, and opened the curtains. That would cause the bugs to mature faster, making it seem like the body had been there longer than it had.
Gil taught me that. He was an expert on these things! Why, he was on the television all the time, testifying how they could link the time of death based on the bugs!
The next day, she went back to the house, turned the A/C back on, watching in delight as the maggots squirmed on the uncouth creature's corpse. Smiling happily, she left the house, giving a squeal of delight once she was in her SUV.
I knew sweet Gil would work that scene. Too bad it was inside; oh, I love to watch him work. I created it just for him, to show him how filthy his whore was. He would see how much I loved him; who else would create a scene with bugs so they could connect? Certainly not the scrawny bitch!
Oh, she was evil, the brown-eyed hippy! She tricked my Gil into not firing her. What type of vile persuasions did she have to resort to? Poor Gil. The whore fooled him twice – once for the mushrooms and once for the drug dealer!
Oh, you think you're so smart. Your Harvard degree won't be any use against me.
After filling in the hole and raking the stones back in place, the Angel of Death took care in rearranging the birdbath and the collection of gnomes until everything was pretty as a picture.
The small ornaments reminded her of Melanie Grace, the sweet dwarf woman Gil had shown compassion for. She was such a noble creature, not letting her stature interfere with her life. The Angel of Death always admired those who overcame their difficulties with grace.
She'd even donated the money she had found on her victims to the March of Dimes. Charity starts at home, after all.
Of course, Melanie wasn't a threat; the dear was as cute as a button, a living doll. Gil would never have considered a relationship with her.
Besides, her tiny body parts were too easy to identify.
Brushing her gloved hands together, the Angel of Death took a moment to survey the backyard. Not so much as a blade of grass was out of place. They would have the wedding here. One advantage of living in the desert was you didn't have to worry about being rained out.
We can exchange our vows by the rose garden.
Taking her tools back inside, the Angel of Death chuckled heartily as a plan formed. She'd bury the whore's body in front of the rose bushes.
We'll stand on her rotting flesh as we say our vows. It would be the perfect wedding present for Gil.
* * * * *
TBC