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Chapter Seven: Prayer, Penance, and Fault
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He sat in the chair by the window, watching the sun drop low over the obstructed horizon. Beams of orange light crisscrossed through the maze of buildings on the Strip. The chair wasn't even real wood, he thought dismally. It was some kind of junky plastic reproduction, and cold under his fingertips. Greg dragged his thumbnail along the false grain, and watched in bleak amusement as it left a wavy trail, like a line in a bar of soap. His father always got onto him when he was a kid for carving up the soap in the bathroom with his thumb, striping and checking the bars aimlessly as he showered. He had to cut his nails - - they were getting kind of ragged.
He knew that Grissom was behind him. He knew that Grissom had been behind him for the last two hours.
"You want to hear a joke?" he asked, not turning around.
Grissom didn't sound surprised at the sudden start of a conversation. "Sure."
"A guy goes to his boss and asks for a couple of weeks off, okay? He wants to get his head together. Because this guy has some disorganized shit in his life, if you know what I mean. So the boss - - because he's a relatively nice guy - - says, okay, that's fine, go right ahead, and if you make your way to Hawaii, bring me back a couple of hula girls. Something like that. Are you following me?"
"I'm following you, Greg."
"So the guy thanks his boss and hits the road. And he stays gone a year, and that's kind of a problem, get it?"
"Because he only asked for a few weeks off."
"Exactly. You're sharp, Grissom. Surprised you don't cut yourself." He smiled viciously and dragged his thumb down the arm of the chair again. His nail tore almost to the quick. He pressed hard and watched a rosy line of blood form. "Guy comes back. The boss - - good guy or not - - really just wants to know where he's been. I mean, it's not good business etiquette to just disappear like that. A person could lose his job that way."
"What does the boss say?"
"Right. Keep me on top of things. I'm glad I have you for that."
He sounded so hateful, even to himself.
"The boss wants to know where he's been. The guy says, 'I wanted a couple of weeks off to find myself.' And the boss says, 'How on earth did you get so lost?'" He waited for a few seconds. "You're supposed to laugh, Grissom. That was the punch-line."
"I didn't think it was funny," Grissom said stiffly.
"No. I guess you wouldn't. It's not exactly a big hit at parties."
"Do you feel lost, is that it?"
"You don't have a clue what I feel," he said softly. The sun was too bright, but going blind would have been better than seeing Grissom, so he just screwed his eyes shut and continued to face the window. "There was a gun at the back of my head. I guess you know that."
"Distinctive bruising above your collar."
"So you know the evidence. Big deal. You know, Grissom, the more this kind of thing happens to me, the more and more I start to think that what we do for a living is crap." He chuckled without any humor. "Even if you found this guy, what are you doing to do? He mugged me. That's not exactly heavy crime. Oh, and let's not forget that he gave me a psychotic episode, but, in all fairness, that's not really his fault. It's not like he knew that I'm some kind of lightning rod for people like him. It's not like he knew what he was going to do."
"There's not much useable evidence," Grissom said quietly. "I don't think we'll find him."
"Does that bother you?"
"Yes."
"It shouldn't. I mean, come on, Grissom! This is more your fault than his."
He couldn't see Grissom's reflection with the glare on the window, but he could almost feel the knife he had stuck in his boss's back, and his grin hurt him. It was too hard, too sharp, and too fierce. He clapped a hand to his mouth, partially to hide it from some bewildered sense of shame, and partially to accentuate his words in a theatrical "oops" gesture.
"Did I screw up? Ruin your image of the perfect victim? Well, sorry, Grissom. You have my most sincere apology. I'm just a little crazy right now."
"Please look at me, Greg."
"Really rather not."
"Then tell me how you think I should have stopped it."
His fragile sense of self-control broke. "I don't know. I don't care." He was either screaming or crying, and he couldn't tell either way. Didn't care either way. "I had a gun at the back of my neck and you want me to have a reason for any of this? I can't do that. I trusted you."
"Did you?"
"Didn't I?"
"Please turn around. I don't like talking to your back."
He stared resolutely at the glass. The Strip was beginning to turn darker, the buildings the color of soot, and lit by neon. "They won't leave me alone, you know. We're getting filmed right now."
"Are we?"
"Suicide watch. They're so very scared that I might break this window and, oh, I don't know. Cut up my arms, I guess. Or just jump. We do live in Vegas, and that move's very popular, here."
"When are they going to let me take you home?"
Home. What makes him think that I'd really let him take me anywhere? What makes him think that he deserves that? Or that I deserve him? What makes him think that he's really the person I need?
"Did any of the groceries make it back?"
Grissom's voice was almost a whisper. "I saved the plantain for you. The rest of it died a messy death."
"Kind of like me."
"You're not dead."
Aren't I? Are you so sure about that, Grissom? Is anyone? I didn't tell you that Catherine was here earlier, and that she flinched when I touched her hand. No one likes the dead to move, and they like it even less when they touch. I wanted to thank her for staying when I was delirious, but I saw how she looked at me - - like she was scared.
It was easier for everyone to be here for me when I was asleep, wasn't it?
He said, hoarsely, "Were you the one who was praying?"
"Nick prayed earlier. I don't think he knows that anyone heard him, though."
"I heard him," Greg said, remembering Nick's voice as he stumbled over what to say. "But Nick's not a Catholic, and I thought heard someone saying a Hail Mary." Someone said a Hail Mary to do penance for some sin. What sins did Grissom have that would drive him back to penance when he had given up on God so long ago?
I'm his sin.
"I said one," Grissom allowed.
Greg felt his mouth form a broken smile. "Was it enough?"
"Not nearly."
"Is that why you want to take me back? I'm your sin, and I'm your penance, too?"
"You're not my anything, Greg," Grissom said quietly. "Your father was the only person who ever tried to make you into some kind of possession. You don't belong to us. You belong with us, and no one's forgotten that. You're not a means to an end."
"So what am I?"
"Greg."
Fantastic. He's such a great guy to be. He has so many friends who all know so well what it's like to sit by his bed and wonder if he's going to wake up, or if he's going to lose it and just be some vegetable staring into the distance and talking about tarantulas. Let's all be just like Greg, shall we?
Grissom's hand on his arm was like a lightning bolt, and Greg practically jumped from his chair.
"I said don't touch me!"
God - - who am I now?
He caught sight of Grissom's face and his first thought was that the man had aged ten years. More lines had developed at the corners of his eyes, and he was ghostly pale, just a shadow of the man who had been both intimidating and inspiring the night Greg had started to work in Vegas. It looked like something had been eating at him. His eyes were too light, and too wild.
I'm hurting him, he thought. All of this is hurting him. What am I doing?
I'm not Grissom's penance, he's mine.
"I'm sorry," he said, unaware of his own tears until the moisture hit his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Grissom, I promise, I'm sorry."
His head struck against his hands, cradling his face.
"But you haven't done anything, Greg," Grissom said
desperately. "You haven't done anything
wrong." His voice sounded insistent, as
if he was begging Greg to hear him.
"None of this is your fault - - listen to me! You didn't do anything. . ."
Doesn't matter.
It's always been my fault.
Nathan Sanders could have told Grissom that.