A/N: Here's another new chapter after a longer than usual wait. But at least it's not as much of a time lapse as last time. I have to thank my wonderful beta, Grissom, for that! She's the best! Thanks, Gris, for the quick work despite your busy week! *big grin* Once again, I appreciate everyone who is reading this and sticking with it through the delays. I know this chapter is kind of short, but I hope everyone likes it! Thanks for all the reviews! Enjoy!
Chapter 18: Interminable
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep…
That familiar stanza of poetry had somehow wound its way into Grissom's pain-filled mind and had refused to leave. The final line kept reverberating through his head, becoming a mantra of sorts that seemed to describe exactly how he felt. Sleep was a distant destination for him right now; it seemed almost interminably far away. Although his body was begging for rest, he wouldn't give in, not yet. They were simply too close to the resolution of these cases.
He had situated himself on the break room couch—his head leaning back against the cushions, his eyes closed and covered with his right hand—away from the other CSIs who were all sitting around the central table. It was unusually quiet in the room, especially with such a large group of people there.
The entire graveyard shift was present, along with current 'honorary' members, Cohen and Sears. Some of them were eating or drinking, some were having muted conversations, some were seemingly lost in their own thoughts, but all of them were exhausted. They were on their second or third shifts in a row, and the long hours had taken their toll. Right now all they could do was wait, and it was difficult and frustrating. It was an uncommon situation that the criminalists found themselves in: they had the evidence they seemed to need to convict Daniel Sampson of five murders, but the suspect himself had proved an elusive catch for the police department. So they remained sitting there together, hoping for some progress in Brass's search.
It could easily have been the utter exhaustion pervading the room that was keeping the noise level down; but more likely it was the fact that all the CSIs were trying very hard not to disturb Grissom. Everyone had immediately noticed that the night shift supervisor looked terribly unwell, and the way he was sitting made it appear that he was asleep.
Sara, however, knew otherwise; she was certain that Grissom was awake. Even though he should have been sleeping, she knew that he was fighting it. He was just trying to make it through the waiting like the rest of them.
Sara turned away from the table and studied Grissom for a long moment. It was obvious to her that he was in agony. At her insistence, he had finally taken one of his migraine pills; that had been quite a while ago, and it hadn't seemed to have any effect yet. Despite repeated offerings, he had refused to eat or drink anything besides the sip of water he had taken to swallow the pill, and Sara was worried about keeping him hydrated, especially with his fever as high as it was. She continued looking at him, silently wishing she could help.
But Grissom was oblivious to her concerned stare. Slumped on the sofa, he was struggling to stay awake and aware as the dull throb of the migraine mercilessly assaulted the inside of his head. And although the pain was nearly debilitating, he was actually focusing harder on trying not to throw up in front of his entire team as the pressing surges of nausea churned through his stomach, continuing to strengthen. He shifted slightly, hoping to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible.
Sara was having a difficult time paying attention to anything but Grissom, so she finally gave up trying and went over to him. She sat by his side, knowing he was unaware of her presence. "Gris?" she said very softly, placing a hand on his arm and sliding it up to his shoulder. "Hey, Gris?" She gave him a very light shake.
"Miles to go before I sleep," he mumbled, turning his head slightly toward her.
"What?" she said, her voice just a touch louder.
"Huh?" he replied. He removed his hand from his eyes and squinted at her, trying to focus; the overhead lighting sent searing stabs of pain into his eyes. "Sara?" came from his dry throat when he finally realized she was there.
She nodded and gave him a little smile. "Robert Frost," she said.
"What?" he asked blankly.
He looked completely confused, and her urge to take care of him grew even more. She was finding it hard to deal with the fact that she hadn't been able to make him feel better. "You were quoting a Robert Frost poem," she explained gently, running her hand up and down his arm. "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. You know, 'But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep'?"
"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding slowly and sitting up a little straighter. He rubbed his temple. "Those lines just kind of made their way into my head and stayed there."
"Well, I think the last line probably describes how we're all feeling right now. We're so close and yet still so far from nailing Sampson."
"Yeah," Grissom agreed.
Sara studied his face, noticing that he was even paler than before and that his features were tensed into a mask of constant pain. "Didn't your pill help at all?"
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly to combat a fresh wave of nausea. "I'm afraid not," he admitted.
"I'm sorry you still feel so bad," she told him quietly. She was keeping her voice as soft as possible, knowing that loud sounds would only make his headache worse. "I know I keep asking this, but you will tell me if there's anything I can to help you, right?"
"There's really nothing you can do, Sara," he replied tiredly. "But I appreciate your offer."
"No problem," she assured him. "Just please tell me if you need anything."
"I will." He reached for her free hand and gave it a weak squeeze.
Attempting to be discrete, but truthfully not caring if anyone saw, Sara touched his forehead, and then slowly moved her fingers down the side of his face. He was as hot as he had been when she and Catherine had pulled him from the layout room yesterday. "We need to give you something for this fever," she told him. "I'll ask around. I'm sure someone has Tylenol or Motrin on them or stashed in their locker. "I'll be right back." She stood and went back to her coworkers at the table.
Grissom leaned back and resumed his previous position on the couch. He quickly placed a hand over his closed lids again—the lights were really wreaking havoc with his already stinging eyes.
A few minutes later, Sara returned from her successful trip to the locker room, carrying a small plastic bottle in her hand. Greg came in right behind her.
"Finally finished it all!" the lab tech announced, dropping into the chair that Sara had vacated earlier. "I got through all the DNA from Sampson's clothes, his car, and the knife." Greg's voice was extremely loud in the nearly-silent room; over on the sofa, Grissom winced, and moved his fingers over his forehead, trying to massage away the escalating pain.
"Keep it down, Greg!" Catherine warned in an angry whisper.
"What?" he said, just as loudly, and still not comprehending. He glanced around the table, finding five sets of stern eyes glaring at him. When he got back to Catherine's face, he watched as she jerked her head toward where Grissom sat. Greg looked that way, took in Grissom's position, and it finally dawned on him. "Oh, sorry," he added, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. "I didn't realize the boss was sleeping over there."
"He's not sleeping, Greg," Sara told him. Her voice was quiet, yet held obvious annoyance aimed at the lab tech. "But he has a horrible headache, so shh!"
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I really didn't know." The normally eager young man looked properly chagrined and sounded truly apologetic, so Catherine softened her attitude toward him as she said, "It's all right, Greg. Now what were you saying about the DNA?"
"Oh, yeah." His enthusiasm and smile came back, though he remembered to keep the level of his voice low. "I finished everything you brought in, plus what we found in the car. All the DNA matches the victims', including the blood on the knife. The fibers from the car also match the fibers we found on the third victim. It all fits. There's no way Daniel Sampson didn't kill those people."
Catherine considered for a moment. "It may not be as airtight as we think. Do we have anything that directly and irrefutably links Sampson to being present at the crime scene?"
"You mean besides the blood all over his clothes and car, and his shoeprints found at two of the scenes?" Greg asked, the sarcasm evident in his hushed voice.
"How do we know they were his clothes and his shoeprints? And couldn't somebody else have been driving the car?"
Greg started to respond immediately, but then stopped and thought; it was rare for the young technician to try to control his impulsive nature like this. "I see what you're saying, Catherine," he began after a few seconds. "But it would be an incredibly huge coincidence if Sampson wasn't the owner of those bloody clothes and shoes, especially since they were found in his trash."
"I know that, Greg, but signature killers are usually very intelligent—that's what makes them so dangerous. I wouldn't put it past Sampson to deny knowledge of the clothes and the knife," she told him. "So we need to make sure we have something else that he can't deny…" She trailed off into thought, then smiled. "Greg, go back and check Sampson's shirt for DNA—the inside of his shirt," she clarified. "Check around the collar. If he sweated while wearing it, there could be enough DNA there for a match."
"You got it," Greg replied, jumping out of the chair again and feeling reenergized.
"I'll go check with Jacqui," Catherine added, also standing up. "Maybe she got a print off the knife or trash bags."
Sara watched them leave the break room, and then continued on her path to Grissom. "Here you go," she said, gently touching his arm to get his attention.
When he slowly turned his head and cautiously opened his eyes, she held up the pain relievers. She shook two into his palm and told him, "Take these. They should help." She handed him his barely-touched bottle of water, and he obediently swallowed the pills.
His stomach lurched in protest and he quickly lifted his head from the sofa cushion. He grimaced, waiting to see if the medicine would stay down. When his stomach settled into its rhythm of queasy, but less urgent swells once again, Grissom leaned back and closed his eyes. "Thanks, Sara," he offered in a pained whisper.
"Sure. I hope they work," she replied.
"Me, too," he said, and then exhaled deeply.
Sara began stroking his arm again, wishing she could do more to console him. "Are you sure you won't let me take you home?" she asked softly, repeating a discussion they had had earlier. "You could get some sleep, and Catherine could call when they have Sampson in custody."
"It won't work, Sara," he pointed out, his voice wispy.
They both knew very well that once he ultimately went down, he would be out of it for a long time.
"Then what about going to your office?" she tried. "I know you don't have a couch in there, but it's dark and quiet. It might be better for you to relax in there while we wait."
He was silent for a while, and she didn't know if he was considering her suggestion, or was so focused he hadn't heard her, or had actually drifted off.
Sara almost jumped in surprise when he finally said, "My office sounds like a good idea."
She was glad he was willing to go somewhere where he could at least rest more comfortably. She wished he had a couch in his office so he could lie down, but she still thought the peace and solitude would help.
She was just about to help him up when Catherine came back in, looking more excited than she had been since their latest case had begun. "I just got a call from Brass," she announced to everyone at the table, taking care not to speak too loudly. "They just nabbed Daniel Sampson outside of Henderson, and they're bringing him in. They should be here in about a half hour."
Grissom and Sara overheard the news and a satisfied glance passed between them. She knew that there would be no getting him into his office now. He'd want to stay where the action was, no matter how badly he felt.
An energetic buzz spread through the well-populated break room. Everyone suddenly seemed a lot more awake and they were talking animatedly among themselves—although they still managed to keep down the din out of deference to Grissom.
Sara settled comfortably next to Grissom on the couch. They could both hardly believe this long drawn-out ordeal was nearly over. To be more exact, Sara felt extremely relieved. Watching Grissom close his eyes and cover them with his fingers again, she hoped this whole thing would come to a quick and simple end.
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