Spoiler: No Humans Involved

Disclaimer: Not mine, but they were laying on the sidewalk with nobody around.

Feedback has been terrific, and it has inspired me tons. I am still several chapters ahead of what I am posting so should be able to continue posting a chapter a day. Things start to get dark and scary now. Hope that doesn't scare you off.

Sheila

Ghosts Chapter 4

At first, she drank fast. Four beers down in an hour. Then she slowed, weighted down by the liquid in her stomach. She lost interest in drinking after five, and left the final can in the refrigerator. There was a newspaper propped on the kitchen counter in front of her. Hannah's picture was on the front page. A school picture. Blonde, scraggly hair. Freckles. And a big, gap-toothed smile. Sara could imagine that little girl with her hopes and dreams, believing that a better world was out there for her. Sara remembered having the very same dreams when she was a girl. She picked up Hannah's picture and wandered into her bedroom. Laying the paper beside her, she fell on her bed. For awhile, she just lay there, staring at herself in her dresser mirror. She reached down to her waist and pulled her shirt up the side of her torso. A pink line appeared along the side of her ribs, and she stopped. She ran her fingers along the raised ridge of her scar. It's soft color belied its angry history. For awhile, she stayed like this, running her fingers lightly back and forth, remembering its genesis; as an ugly, purple, gash that poured blood all over her mother's nice green carpet. There were other images to remember: screams and yelling, the dining room table being pushed over, a bottle of vodka spilled on the kitchen counter, syringes bouncing off the ground, a serrated steak knife, and her mother laying on the floor sprawled out like a rag doll. The toxicity of the alcohol spun those memories around and around inside her head until her brain mercifully settled into darkness.

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Catherine got only half the story out of her mouth before he was up. He brushed past her, and strode down the hallway. Greg saw him and attempted a conversation about the trace evidence on Hannah Dutton. Grissom moved on as if Greg hadn't spoken. He only slowed when he reached Ecklie's office. He could see Conrad sitting at his desk. At the doorway, he paused.

Conrad wore a grin. "Well, I timed it a little long. I thought it would actually take another 20 minutes before you showed up. Catherine didn't waste any time."

"How did you get something like that, Conrad? Did you lie? Did you lie to a judge to get a court order? What?"

Conrad leaned forward on his desk. "I protected this unit. That's what I did. I made sure that we knew our liability before the rest of the world did. I protected the victims whom she serves."

"Do you really believe that?" Grissom still stood at the door as if further proximity was too much.

"Do you even know her story? Do you know what a history like hers can mean to the integrity of our cases. You have let her compromise cases with her obsessions and inappropriate boundaries, and a relationship with you. You have sat back while she emotionally disintegrates in front of the entire lab. And you do nothing."

"I show her respect and I let her discover her own truths."

"Wow, Grissom. Have you been reading the Dalai Lama? Where do you get this stuff? A supervisor has to take control. But you will never know that. Once again, I have to save your own shift from you."

"Where is her file?"

"So you finally want to know her history?"

Grissom ignored him. He spied the California label on the cover, perched on the edge of Ecklie's desk. Striding over, he pulled it off the desk without a word. Ecklie jumped back.

"Grissom!"

"Sorry Conrad, her attorney is going to need this for the lawsuit."

Grissom tucked the file under his arm and left. Ecklie leaned forward, mouth wide open. When he could speak, he reached over to the phone and asked his secretary to get the sheriff.

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Catherine had the rounds that morning, and now Brass making a call of his own.

"Hey, Missy, I need a few minutes with the sheriff today. What do you say?"

"Sorry, Jim. Sheriff's too busy. Mayor is down his throat about next year's budget."

"Nope, Missy. I need him today."

"Doesn't work that way, Jim. You know that."

"Okay, Missy. Just get a message to him, okay?"

"I'll try."

"Good girl, Missy. Just tell him that in the next 3-4 hours, I don't know when, I'm going up to Ecklie's office and I am going to shoot him in the knee cap. I don't know if it will be the right or the left one. I'm not sure. I haven't decided yet."

"Jim!"

"Right. So Missy, if you could please tell him that I would be mighty appreciative."

"You do not want to me to bring this nonsense to the sheriff."

"Tell him, I will probably be free around lunch time, and I know this great Philly steak and cheese place."

"Believe me, Jim, if I bring this sad collection of threats to the---"

He interrupted. "And remember to tell him how I'm a man of my word. You can remind him of the time when I first got to Vegas, and he was a homicide detective and he was involved in that police brutality incident where the 15 year-old kid sustained three fractures and I was the one---"

"Jim, just give me the address of the steak and cheese place, will you?"

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Sara let the radio wake her. Hannah Dutton was still a top story. The reporter said that authorities had yet to arrest a suspect. She wasn't surprised. Dealers like Viktor were used to living life on the fringes. He probably had a number of places he could stay under the radar for however long he wanted. She imagined him sitting somewhere watching t.v., getting high, eating; going about his everyday life feeling nothing for the girl with freckles that he hurt and killed.

Sara finally sat up. She looked in the mirror and, for a moment, she saw Sally Dutton. Tangled dark hair. Pale, skinny arms. Shadows born under her eyes of dehydration and too little food. A hangover was growing at her temples. And then she saw her mother's face staring back at her.

She climbed of the bed in search of some aspirin and a glass of water. Again, she passed the bedroom mirror. She was looking as thin as Sally. Forgetting to eat was always a byproduct of her stress. The continuing similarities to Sally disgusted her. Pathetic Sally who couldn't care for her children. Pathetic Sara who couldn't care for herself. She grabbed a towel, eager to erase as many of the similarities as possible.

At the bathroom mirror, she stopped again. Could she and Sally live in the same world? Her teeth were too good, and her skin too pink and unmarked. But other than that. She stared. She saw herself and then Sally, and her mother. Her mother had no equal. She was so pretty when Sara was a girl; golden skin and soft brown hair with eyes that glowed. She would walk into a room, and people would stop what they were doing to stare. Sara liked to remember her mother like this; before the glow faded.

The phone rang several times while she stared in the bathroom mirror, and then somebody was pounding on the door for a while. She ignored all of it. Hannah, Sally, and her mother were with her, and she couldn't be disturbed.

Finally she dropped the towel to the ground. She had come to a decision. It was an extreme one, and she felt a mixture of fear and excitement swirling about inside her gut. She turned to the bathroom cupboard and began fumbling until she located the syringes she used for the occasional allergy shot she self-administered.

Back in the bedroom, she cleaned the inside of her right elbow. Wincing slightly, she began poking herself. She did it carelessly, allowing bruises to form from missed veins. Again, she looked in the mirror. Her arm looked red and raw, but she still felt too clean. She remembered the numerous bruises on Sally's upper arms. Getting up, she positioned her closet door open. Then, with a grunt, she swung her arm into the door's edge. She did this again and again. Her arms ached from the abuse, and she felt sure that angry, purple welts were soon to follow.

Then she remembered her rag drawer. From it, she pulled an old t-shirt. The cotton fabric was thin and worn. Several, small holes marked the shirt. She pulled it over her head, and went in search of the oldest pair of jeans she could find. She pulled her tangled hair into an uneven pony tail, and rubbed potting soil into her fingernails.

She surveyed herself in the mirror. She looked dirty and bedraggled. Her arms were patched with colorful bruises. She was already feeling sour, and it was all she could do to keep from brushing her teeth. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. She needed to look and feel hungry. She looked at her bedroom clock and saw it was almost 9 p.m. Her odd hours were working in her favor. She took some change, and headed for a bus stop. Showing up to the Oasis lounge in an SUV was going to ruin the effect.

She thought about calling someone, but knew she would get nothing but resistance.

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TBC