"For now hath time made me his numbering clock;

My thoughts are minutes."

William Shakespeare, King Richard II

(H/C)

The headache had expanded to cover his body. Or maybe his head had just expanded to cover his body, floating dizzily above it like a balloon on a string. He didn't mind much, though. It let him escape, let him leave his shivering body and drift off a few peaceful feet. He wasn't as thirsty anymore. Maybe he could simply float out of this prison. If he floated up to the ceiling, would that door open from the inside to release him? If it didn't, could he float through it anyway?

Keep thinking. His mentor had taught him that. Always keep thinking.

Who was his mentor?

The shock of the thought sent him crashing back into his shivering body again. He could picture him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a neatly-trimmed mustache. He could hear his voice exhorting them to keep thinking. He could picture his firm, confident stride. But he could not remember his name.

In desperation, he started calling the roll of his family and friends. Susan, his wife. He embraced the thought briefly, then moved on. His daughters, Diane and . . . A feeble half sob, half croak escaped through the tape. He couldn't remember their names. The faces were there, but he suddenly wasn't sure of any of the names beyond Susan. Was it Diane or Diana? And who was the second daughter?

His mind rammed against that wall until it fell back, exhausted, and then his head slowly expanded and floated up again, giving him a few peaceful feet of escape. Gradually, his prison retreated to a distance, the walls stretching, finally offering a way out. Susan. He held onto the one name he still knew and let himself glide away on it. He thought he heard the door opening back above his body, though he hadn't heard footsteps, but he couldn't open his eyes. He listened, or tried to, but there was no more voice. There was no more pain.

Still fastened to his wrist behind him, his watch had stopped.

(H/C)

Four days. Calleigh watched the video carefully, registering each detail on autopilot. Her mind was chasing itself in dark circles. It had been four days since Steve had been kidnapped. Was he still alive? From here, she knew every hour cut into his chances. Still, she absolutely refused to give up on him until she saw the dead body, partly due to her innate stubbornness, partly due to the strong bond among officers, partly due to empathy for his status as a hostage.

This case had an odd duality for her and even more, she knew, for Horatio. Everything they were doing to try to find Steve carried a ghostly whispering echo of last February, the most desperate week of their lives, when Stewart Otis was holding them hostage and planning to take Rosalind. The team had never given up, even when it looked more hopeless than this case, and in the end, they had come in time. Barely in time. She shuddered on that thought and firmly pushed it aside. No, they had come in time. Leave it there. The thought that had strengthened Horatio and Calleigh through the whole ordeal was knowing that the team was searching for them, as Steve must know now. Going through this case from the perspective of the hunters, not the hostage, was like standing behind a mirror, looking back through it somehow at herself standing on the other side, only the reflection trapped in the glass between was not her image but that of someone else. She didn't have to imagine Steve's thoughts; her own from the past would serve well enough. Horatio, too, was caught up in a mixture of empathy and memory, the elements inextricable, only with him even more than Calleigh, he blamed himself for letting something as personal as memory have any claim at all on him when someone else's fate was hanging in the balance.

Calleigh found her thoughts turning more and more to Susan. The only thing that had made that week survivable was that she and Horatio were in hell together. She couldn't imagine being left outside the situation, wondering, worrying, filling in an endless blank and fearing every hypothetical answer. Susan and the girls seemed to be holding up as well as could be expected, but Calleigh knew how fragile the front was. She had talked to Susan just last night. Horatio, too, had kept in touch regularly, trying to be honest but still optimistic.

Horatio. That, too, was a ghostly reminder of their own captivity – the gnawing, growing worry about Horatio. Once again, Calleigh was left watching but powerless to do anything to help him. He blamed himself for the lack of progress, she knew. If Steve died, Horatio would be crushed. Even more, he would feel guilty for surviving himself where someone else had not. That had been his specialty for too many years.

Her autopilot abruptly transmitted a signal to her distracted brain, and she snapped back to attention, staring at the screen. She rewound a few seconds and watched again as a man in a Marlins baseball cap and a leather jacket entered, asked the receptionist for something, then, as she turned away to a file cabinet, smoothly slid an envelope into her out basket. Calleigh froze the screen and marked the time. 10:15 p.m. Saturday. The first message had been delivered. She pulled out her cell phone.

"Horatio."

"I've got it. Delivery of the first envelope, 10:15 Saturday night."

"I'll be right there."

Calleigh watched the scene again twice while waiting. We should have just started with this tape, she thought. This was the last of the security tapes, of course. Eric was processing what little they had from the alley crime screen, while Speed was working on the envelopes and letters again.

Horatio swept into the room and stopped to hover behind her. "Let's see it." She replayed it. "Nice work, Cal. Okay, we need to get Tyler on this. That's got to be the captor himself; that whole message delivery is too smooth, too practiced for somebody he asked to do it for him as an innocent favor. I want anything that can be learned about him from the tape. Not that we can see much." He tilted his head as if that would help the view.

"He would be wearing a baseball cap," Calleigh sighed. "He's got the jacket collar turned up, too."

"And he's wearing gloves," Horatio continued. "That's another reason I think it's the perp himself. He looks like a walking disguise. He was planning to fool the cameras." His hands clenched on the back of Calleigh's chair. "He underestimated us, though. There's got to be something useful. I'll get Tyler." He started for the door of the video lab, then stopped as the Narcotics secretary came down the hall of CSI, envelope in hand. "Do we have another one?"

She was so pale that her lipstick looked like blood against her skin. She nodded, handing it to him. He snapped on gloves and took it. "I sorted out the U.S. mail this morning like you asked as soon as the postman came. This one is even worse."

Horatio picked up an empty evidence envelope from a nearby stack and handed it to her without instructions. She knew the drill by now. She signed it using the glass wall for a table as Horatio pulled out the note. Calleigh came up beside him to read it, and he slid over half a step to give her room in the doorway. They both stared at the note. 'The rest is silence.'

"Where have I heard that?" Calleigh asked, shivering slightly. The meaning was clear, even if she couldn't identify the quote.

"Hamlet's dying words," the secretary supplied. She shivered herself. "I saw Hamlet put on a month ago. I'll never forget that last scene. Just to think that somebody's trying to recreate it using officers makes me sick."

Horatio instantly snapped to attention. "Where did you see Hamlet put on a month ago?"

"At the University. It was the fall theater production."

"Thank you," he said, so sincere that she gave him an odd look. "I appreciate your efforts to get us this as soon as possible." She gave him a somber nod and headed back up the hall toward the elevator. Horatio turned to Calleigh. "None of those 32 parolees have any connection that we know of with the theater. I finished running those searches just before you called. But it's possible that the perp saw Hamlet recently. Anybody already plotting revenge who happened to see Hamlet would have a powerful reaction to it."

"Maybe he actually worked at the production, either an actor or behind the scenes," Calleigh suggested. "Maybe it isn't one of these 32. It could be revenge for a relative who's killed or still in prison."

"True," Horatio admitted. "Or it could be another grudge that we don't understand yet. Let's take a road trip, Cal, and talk to the theater department at the University. First, though, we need to get this to Speed and put Tyler to work on the video. Maybe we're finally getting real leads to work in this case."

(H/C)

Speed flattened the note on his table with the envelope above it and studied them. This time, knowing it had been through the Post Office, he put off running fingerprints on the envelope until last. That would be even worse than sorting out the MDPD mail room workers. He had run fingerprints on the note inside, coming up with only the secretary. He methodically ran through a list of mental checkpoints. The envelopes were all peel and seal variety, so there was no chance of DNA when the perp licked the flap. The envelopes and the paper were all standard, available by the thousands at Wal-Mart. The printing was the most odd thing about them, always perfectly regular block letters. The handwriting analyst had already concluded that they were written using a stencil. Any kind of analysis was almost impossible from that, though she did make an educated guess that it was a male. Speed started carefully going over the envelope and the letter for any trace, as he had done with the previous ones.

For the first time, something turned up under his light. There were several faint specks on the note and a few on the envelope. The stencil, he thought. The perp had something on his hands, and he probably picked up the stencil at some earlier point before putting on gloves for the actual writing of the note. Passive transfer. This hadn't been on any of the previous letters, so it must be something he had picked up yesterday before mailing this letter last night. Speed carefully collected a sample of the faint spots, then started the analysis. The spec machine whirred and clicked busily, then spit out its answer. Speed lived up to his nickname as he grabbed for his phone.

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh were returning from the University, armed with a playbill listing the cast and production crew of Hamlet last month. The director had been cooperative but adamant that no one would have been involved, these were all good kids, and they would be discrete in their inquiries, wouldn't they? The theater department had never had any crimes associated with it, and she didn't want to start now. Sensing that Horatio was about to explode, Calleigh had taken over then with a firm reminder of what was at stake here. Unfortunately, there was no way to completely track the audience. The play had run for four nights, and tickets had been available at the door. Some people had called ahead for reservations and picked up their tickets that night. A list of those names was provided, but the director estimated that most people seeing the play had bought their tickets at the theater that night.

The Hummer restlessly prowled back across Miami through the traffic, picking up on its driver's mood. Horatio drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as they stopped at a light. It wasn't a habit he usually had. Calleigh looked at the paperwork and names in her lap. "Maybe we have the name in here somewhere," she suggested brightly, trying to stay optimistic for him.

"Gives us more useless computer searches to run and visits to make, at least," he replied sharply. He gave her a look of apology a second later. "Sorry. I'm not annoyed with you."

"I know. It's just the case. It's okay, Handsome." She glanced at her watch as the traffic started back up. It was lunch time. She eyed Horatio's taut expression and decided to just pick up a sandwich for each of them from the break room machines. She didn't think this was the best time to suggest stopping for lunch.

The cell phone rang. "Horatio."

It was Speed. "H, the envelope and letter have traces of sap from the manchineel tree. He had that on his stencil this time. It's only found in Hell's Bay, so he had to be out there yesterday."

Horatio hit the lights and siren, and the drivers of the surrounding cars glared at him, wondering if it was just an excuse to get out of the traffic, before they started to edge over, gradually clearing a way for the Hummer. "I'm on my way out there. Contact Tripp, Rescue, the team, anybody else you can think of. Meet me there."

"Got it, H." Speed hung up.

"Where?" Calleigh asked.

"Hell's Bay." The Hummer accelerated into the opening traffic, and Calleigh was pressed back against her seat with the power.

(H/C)

There was only one road into Hell's Bay, and as Horatio spun the Hummer into it, they could hear sirens approaching. Calleigh twisted to look behind them and saw another CSI Hummer, two patrol cars, and an ambulance turning into the road behind them. The cavalry was arriving.

The Hummer attacked the bad road at a speed that would have been dangerous if Horatio hadn't been in perfect control of the vehicle. He was leaning forward as he tightly gripped the wheel, his eyes tracking the vegetation, and as the bay itself came into view, he slammed to a halt. He bolted out of his seat without bothering to close the door, racing around the Hummer to the drag marks he had seen. Calleigh had to fight her seatbelt for a minute; it surrendered just before she was about to take her pocketknife to it. The other vehicles screamed up behind them.

About five feet off the road, Steve Parker was tied to a tree. Horatio was already there, ripping the duct tape off, frantically feeling for a pulse, first in the wrist, then in the neck. He couldn't find one, but Steve still felt warm. Horatio yanked out his own pocketknife and quickly sawed through the ropes, and Steve instantly collapsed, falling forward across his friend. Horatio caught him and carried him back the few feet to the road, laying him down on the pavement. He once again frantically felt for a pulse. Steve was so warm, not even stiff; there had to be a pulse.

Strong but careful hands pulled him away. Tripp. "It's too late, Horatio." Horatio let himself be dragged off but only because the paramedics were moving into place.

"Pupils are fixed and dilated," one voice said. "He's gone." The brain was dead, even if by some miracle the heart and lungs could be restarted.

"Try anyway," Horatio snapped, but they were already automatically starting CPR, dutifully going through the motions, even if their postures screamed how hopeless this was. Calleigh took Horatio's other arm – Tripp still had one – and held it tightly as they watched in silence. She knew there was nothing she could have said.

The paramedics eventually sat back in defeat. The fact couldn't be denied any longer. The scene's jurisdiction passed from life to death, and the CSIs moved in.

Horatio walked over to the tree and studied the ropes scattered on the ground near it. "We need to mark our cuts," he said in a tightly-shuttered voice. "Maybe we can identify the tool marks from the cuts made by the killer. Mark the rope, please, Cal." She knelt and started the task, keeping one eye on her husband at the same time. Eric and Speed had started fanning out along the road, looking for any clue from the vehicle that had brought the body. Tripp was talking to another officer next to the patrol cars.

Alexx knelt next to the body, wishing for the thousandth time that her services could be used before death. Horatio walked across and stared down at Steve's pale, still face, the cheeks caved in, the skin shrunken, the only color in his face the tape marks across his dry, cracked lips. Alexx stopped her work and looked up at Horatio in sympathetic concern. "What do you think made those marks on his arms and chest, Alexx? A taser?"

"That would be my guess. It's too regular to be coincidence or random injury. I think he was hit on the side of the head, too; there's ecchymosis along the left parietal area. That's several days old, probably from the night he was taken. I'll know exactly at post, but I'd say it was definitely the lack of water that killed him. The torture and stress might have sped up the process, but they were secondary." Her own voice was tight with anger. This man she was examining had been a person, had had a family, a job, hobbies. She hated reducing a life into clinical terms, even while she knew it would help to catch the killer. "There's bruising and some burns around the wrists, too, much more recent than the head injury. That's from the rope."

"He was alive when he was tied up here, then."

She nodded slowly. "Still alive but probably too far gone for whatever they were using him for. He wasn't struggling; they just tied him that tightly. There are still a few fibers imbedded."

"He was still warm when we found him. What is the TOD, Alexx?"

She had deliberately put that off, already suspecting the answer and not wanting to make it official. She knew it would make things even harder for Horatio. "I haven't taken liver temp yet."

"Do it now." His tone was sympathetic but commanding. Alexx reluctantly pulled out the thermometer from her kit, made the incision, and then stared unwillingly at the answer. It confirmed her guess. "Alexx, when did he die?" Horatio insisted. There was an edge of annoyance under the words now. He knew she was holding out on him for his sake, and he resented anything being done for his sake when Steve Parker was the victim waiting for justice.

Alexx looked up with a world of regret in her dark eyes. "About 1:00 p.m."

Even though she stopped halfway, Horatio finished the math instantly. "Just 30 minutes before we got here." He abruptly turned away from the body. "Thank you, Alexx." The voice was a polite, fragile shell encasing torment. He walked away, heading up the road, his eyes fixed on the dirt, scanning for evidence but not seeing anything. The repeating chorus of failure overpowered his senses. 30 minutes. On an investigation that had taken days, he had failed his friend by a mere 30 minutes. Steve had still been alive when he was tied here, had hung on as long as he could for his friends. He had beaten the odds, by Alexx's range. It was his friends who had sealed his death by coming too late.

Savagely, Horatio kicked a large tree trunk as hard as he could, putting all his frustration into it, and jumped back with an involuntary gasp as sharp pain reverberated all the way through the plate and multiple screws in his left leg. He leaned against the tree, almost savoring the pain even while waiting for its echoes to die. He deserved it. He had thought he was well up the road from the knot of investigators, out of range of their attention, but somehow, suddenly, Calleigh was there beside him, reaching out. She gripped his arm with firm tenderness, her hands silently asking him to let her replace the tree as his means of support. "Horatio, are you all right?" He raised his head to look at her briefly, and his eyes were kaleidoscopes of pain. He saw no condemnation at all in hers, nothing but concern. Concern for him. But Steve Parker was the victim here.

Horatio straightened up, gently but firmly pulling back. "Fine," he said, his tone absolutely ending that topic. He leaned onto the leg, testing it, and it held. The sharpness was subsiding to a dull ache. Calleigh hesitated, unsure if it would be better for him to push him at the moment here at the breaking crime scene or not. More ashamed of the outburst itself than its being witnessed, he turned away from her and retreated into professionalism. "You need to finish those ropes. Check the tree bark, too. We might be able to get something from the tape, tool marks, at least. I'll work the road with Eric and Speed. We aren't going to miss anything on this scene." He walked back down the road, his eyes sweeping the landscape on all sides, and now he really was intently looking for evidence. Calleigh slowly followed him back to the main scene, and her eyes never left his tall, lonely figure. All the evidence she was concerned with at the moment was right in front of her.