A man, slowly, yet, in some unexplainable way, thoughtfully, walks across a
lawn rich in, how shall I say it, manure, the stench making him screw his
face up. He backs against a wall and withdraws a small metallic object from
within his jacket pocket. It glints in the dim moonlight, drawing only the
smallest of attention to its owner. He then pulls out a small penknife,
from his back pocket, he inserts it into the edge of the window and using
it to lever it up climbs safely inside. The moon throws large blue puddles
of light in every direction; the walls seem to be covered in a thin film of
plastic.
The room he has chosen is one of storage, the floors are strewn with oddities from past and present, and towering before him is a cedar bookcase filled with every type of book imaginable. For a few seconds he is lost in a fantasy world, he imagines a world where cups are no longer held on saucers, but where saucers are held on cups, where you do not have a child who will grow up, but an elder who will grow down. And most importantly, a world where good does not triumph evil, but evil triumph good. Suddenly he is snapped back to reality as a branch scratches the window, he knows what it is he has come for, not to feel once again the adrenaline running through his veins. This time he is doing it out of sheer boredom, to tease his pursuers with a carrot that they will never reach. He crouches low, carefully turning the handle of the door he pushes it only a fraction. His clear blue eyes can be seen peeping through, scanning the room for any threats, they come back negative. He opens the door fully.
This room is much darker than the first; the shadows portray a large room containing a sweeping staircase which leads to the second story. This hefty room, is obviously the most impressive of all the rooms in the house, it is strategically placed so as anyone entering or leaving the house can marvel in its magnificence or tremble in its glory, they can be impressed or intimidated, the choice is completely that of the master of the house, or so you would think. Like for instance, what if the master was unaware of his visitor, should he then still be in control? He creeps around the edge of the staircase and slowly mounts the first step, he remembers to keep his head low and his shoulders slumped, but he is unsure if it will be enough. He expertly hops up the stairs with little noise to accompany. The layout of the house is even now circling around in his brain, and with no hesitation he turns right.
Now as he grows closer to his target, the doubt is beginning to take hold, he tries to push it away into the back of his mind, but as he pushes a hand takes firm grip of his stomach and pulls. It is a completely new experience for him to undergo, not quite pain, but no other way of explaining it, more like a strong gut feeling of dread. He almost turns back, but knowing that it would tarnish his record for life decides that he must go on.
As he occupies his mind with other things the grip loosens considerably and he is able to fully focus on the matter at hand. Hugging the wall he creeps past the first door, second door, third and final door, his target, his aim, his goal. He sweeps his eyes down under the door to check for any signals of life, luckily there is no bar of light protruding his daydream. He presses his ear against the hard cold wood, reassuring himself of his safety, then with little indecision pulls the handle down.
Catherine Willows sat behind a large desk in a dimly lit room, the back of her chair shields her from the door, but she is prepared, a small metal glass sits in front of her revealing the door and any intruders that may or may not arrive. A large pane of glass is also situated in front of her allowing her a magnificent view of the tennis court, and in-ground swimming pool. She smiled to herself as the door handle twitches.
He pushes the door wide open; scanning the room for any dangers, after he is satisfied he looks for what he came for. To his right a large bed, four posters, draping cloth and candles, but it is undisturbed, no one has slept in it since the morning. He pauses a slice of indecision forms in his stomach, how prepared is he anyway? Will he be able to pull it off? His thoughts are directed to his recent success, if anyone could manage this it would be him, surely. Lifting one padded foot he steps inside the room, now being confronted by his surroundings, he notices something, the security camera up in the right hand corner. Has it seen him yet? No, not enough time has passed for it to make a full rotation. Lowering his head he quickly dons the navy blue spy mask, sock that he obtained in a practicable way. That is, practicable for his profession. Now that any obstructions have been removed, he is enabled to view the left hand side of the room. It contains a large, broad backed chair, with its back facing him. It faces a large wooden desk that, by the strong smell of resin, has been polished recently. Further on still a vast window, with, probably a magnificent view, unfortunately he is unable to tell this from the glare. Fortunately he is able to clearly see Ms. Willow's in the reflection, and now it seems that he has a large advantage. Or so it seems.
She smiles at her own ingenious, the idea that instead of simply taking him in they would disgrace him, they would beat him at his own game as they had to so many before him. Watching his reflection he was so predictable that it almost surprised her, it worried her that he would actually fall for such a simple trap. If it were possible she may have pulled out right then and there, but to make any sudden moves would completely ruin this game, it may also put her life in danger. A danger that she may not be able to handle.
He chuckled to himself, how would she ever see this coming? Was it really fair? No matter, he would not have to worry about that when he was in Venezuela. With only the smallest of sounds, he unrolled the thin piece of wire, stretched it tightly between his hands twisting his thumbs around to stop slippage. His hands slowly stretched out in front of him where he reached over the top of the chair and began to withdraw.
Catherine was deeply lost in thoughts of what a bad idea this was, when a glint of wire attracted her attention , and without another thought she reached her thumbs up to protect her throat. Only one made it under, which could be seen as fortunate or unfortunate, this did allow her one spare hand. But would this be enough?
He was snapped from his dream like state, one where the victim did not fight back but sat back and allowed him to get to work; he was surprised at the intelligence and speed of this particular one, that is all he thought of her as, another victim. The concept that you should protect your throat before anything else would have never occurred to him had he been in this situation. But it wasn't him in the situation, yes he was involved, he was the cause, but he was not actually in the situation. A stab of white pain echoed through his body as he realized that, that bitch had scratched him, deep to, he was already able to feel the blood trickling down his face. The taste exhilarated him beyond belief. He thought to himself that someone would obviously have to teach her a lesson. And why shouldn't that someone be him? He reached down, blinded by his anger, and grabbed her by the arm, dropping his original weapon in the process.
She felt her arm twisted painfully behind her back and the warmth of a mouth next to her ear; 'Look, bitch, don't think I have any sympathy for you, not now anyway. Try anything and I'll kill you, and have no doubt of what I say' Now she was certain that the idea of going behind Grissom's back was a bad idea, but hey this psycho needed to be taught a lesson that no law court could inflict. A lesson, one where he was beaten at his own game, and this was for sure, under no circumstances would she think that this was incorrect, even if it meant that her own life was to be put in danger. At any cost this would have to be achieved. Gritting her teeth she spat back, 'Who would want your sympathy? Its worth less than that of a cremated fly. Don't think for one second that you are in control.' With that she swiftly bent her blonde head and twisted around to face him, no longer attached, she went for her gun.
The room he has chosen is one of storage, the floors are strewn with oddities from past and present, and towering before him is a cedar bookcase filled with every type of book imaginable. For a few seconds he is lost in a fantasy world, he imagines a world where cups are no longer held on saucers, but where saucers are held on cups, where you do not have a child who will grow up, but an elder who will grow down. And most importantly, a world where good does not triumph evil, but evil triumph good. Suddenly he is snapped back to reality as a branch scratches the window, he knows what it is he has come for, not to feel once again the adrenaline running through his veins. This time he is doing it out of sheer boredom, to tease his pursuers with a carrot that they will never reach. He crouches low, carefully turning the handle of the door he pushes it only a fraction. His clear blue eyes can be seen peeping through, scanning the room for any threats, they come back negative. He opens the door fully.
This room is much darker than the first; the shadows portray a large room containing a sweeping staircase which leads to the second story. This hefty room, is obviously the most impressive of all the rooms in the house, it is strategically placed so as anyone entering or leaving the house can marvel in its magnificence or tremble in its glory, they can be impressed or intimidated, the choice is completely that of the master of the house, or so you would think. Like for instance, what if the master was unaware of his visitor, should he then still be in control? He creeps around the edge of the staircase and slowly mounts the first step, he remembers to keep his head low and his shoulders slumped, but he is unsure if it will be enough. He expertly hops up the stairs with little noise to accompany. The layout of the house is even now circling around in his brain, and with no hesitation he turns right.
Now as he grows closer to his target, the doubt is beginning to take hold, he tries to push it away into the back of his mind, but as he pushes a hand takes firm grip of his stomach and pulls. It is a completely new experience for him to undergo, not quite pain, but no other way of explaining it, more like a strong gut feeling of dread. He almost turns back, but knowing that it would tarnish his record for life decides that he must go on.
As he occupies his mind with other things the grip loosens considerably and he is able to fully focus on the matter at hand. Hugging the wall he creeps past the first door, second door, third and final door, his target, his aim, his goal. He sweeps his eyes down under the door to check for any signals of life, luckily there is no bar of light protruding his daydream. He presses his ear against the hard cold wood, reassuring himself of his safety, then with little indecision pulls the handle down.
Catherine Willows sat behind a large desk in a dimly lit room, the back of her chair shields her from the door, but she is prepared, a small metal glass sits in front of her revealing the door and any intruders that may or may not arrive. A large pane of glass is also situated in front of her allowing her a magnificent view of the tennis court, and in-ground swimming pool. She smiled to herself as the door handle twitches.
He pushes the door wide open; scanning the room for any dangers, after he is satisfied he looks for what he came for. To his right a large bed, four posters, draping cloth and candles, but it is undisturbed, no one has slept in it since the morning. He pauses a slice of indecision forms in his stomach, how prepared is he anyway? Will he be able to pull it off? His thoughts are directed to his recent success, if anyone could manage this it would be him, surely. Lifting one padded foot he steps inside the room, now being confronted by his surroundings, he notices something, the security camera up in the right hand corner. Has it seen him yet? No, not enough time has passed for it to make a full rotation. Lowering his head he quickly dons the navy blue spy mask, sock that he obtained in a practicable way. That is, practicable for his profession. Now that any obstructions have been removed, he is enabled to view the left hand side of the room. It contains a large, broad backed chair, with its back facing him. It faces a large wooden desk that, by the strong smell of resin, has been polished recently. Further on still a vast window, with, probably a magnificent view, unfortunately he is unable to tell this from the glare. Fortunately he is able to clearly see Ms. Willow's in the reflection, and now it seems that he has a large advantage. Or so it seems.
She smiles at her own ingenious, the idea that instead of simply taking him in they would disgrace him, they would beat him at his own game as they had to so many before him. Watching his reflection he was so predictable that it almost surprised her, it worried her that he would actually fall for such a simple trap. If it were possible she may have pulled out right then and there, but to make any sudden moves would completely ruin this game, it may also put her life in danger. A danger that she may not be able to handle.
He chuckled to himself, how would she ever see this coming? Was it really fair? No matter, he would not have to worry about that when he was in Venezuela. With only the smallest of sounds, he unrolled the thin piece of wire, stretched it tightly between his hands twisting his thumbs around to stop slippage. His hands slowly stretched out in front of him where he reached over the top of the chair and began to withdraw.
Catherine was deeply lost in thoughts of what a bad idea this was, when a glint of wire attracted her attention , and without another thought she reached her thumbs up to protect her throat. Only one made it under, which could be seen as fortunate or unfortunate, this did allow her one spare hand. But would this be enough?
He was snapped from his dream like state, one where the victim did not fight back but sat back and allowed him to get to work; he was surprised at the intelligence and speed of this particular one, that is all he thought of her as, another victim. The concept that you should protect your throat before anything else would have never occurred to him had he been in this situation. But it wasn't him in the situation, yes he was involved, he was the cause, but he was not actually in the situation. A stab of white pain echoed through his body as he realized that, that bitch had scratched him, deep to, he was already able to feel the blood trickling down his face. The taste exhilarated him beyond belief. He thought to himself that someone would obviously have to teach her a lesson. And why shouldn't that someone be him? He reached down, blinded by his anger, and grabbed her by the arm, dropping his original weapon in the process.
She felt her arm twisted painfully behind her back and the warmth of a mouth next to her ear; 'Look, bitch, don't think I have any sympathy for you, not now anyway. Try anything and I'll kill you, and have no doubt of what I say' Now she was certain that the idea of going behind Grissom's back was a bad idea, but hey this psycho needed to be taught a lesson that no law court could inflict. A lesson, one where he was beaten at his own game, and this was for sure, under no circumstances would she think that this was incorrect, even if it meant that her own life was to be put in danger. At any cost this would have to be achieved. Gritting her teeth she spat back, 'Who would want your sympathy? Its worth less than that of a cremated fly. Don't think for one second that you are in control.' With that she swiftly bent her blonde head and twisted around to face him, no longer attached, she went for her gun.