Chapter 7: Night Terror

10:13 a.m.

Las Vegas Crime Lab

Las Vegas, Nevada

–

"Go over it again."

"There's no point in going over it again, boss. I've been over it until I got circles under my circles."

"You mean, whatever poor schmuck you passed it off to got circles under his circles, right, Greg?"

"It was a she, and contrary to the definition of the word 'schmuck', she is extremely competent and an expert on casino cheating. She was at security control of the Bellagio casino for four years, and she didn't pick up a single sign that Mr. Motou was cheating."

"Mr. Motou said Henstridge accused him of reading the card shuffles and then saying the positions to himself."

"His lips weren't moving. Looks like Henstridge just wanted an excuse to get Motou into the back room."

Grissom leaned back in his chair. "No doubt to bait Yugi into coming for him. He probably figured Mr. Motou would put up a fight over the money."

"I do have to admit, Mr. Motou showed rather uncanny ability in feeling the cards out. Which ones were good, which ones were bad – but if he was cheating, our expert didn't see it. And if she can't see it, I'll stake my reputation that Simon Henstridge didn't see it, either."

"...Greg, your reputation isn't noteworthy enough to stake on that claim."

"Exactly." Greg smirked. "So I don't have much to lose, do I?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't take pride in that. Getting back to the subject at hand, now we know for a fact Henstridge was falsely accusing Mr. Motou of cheating."

"Which gets us where, exactly?"

Grissom cocked his head, looking ready to tell Greg to beat it... but then he thought better of it and decided to indulge his subordinate. "Henstridge was desperate enough to get a duel with Yugi that he threatened to kick them all out of the Luxor on a fake charge. That shows he's both immoral and irrational – if you met your idol, wouldn't you want to treat him with the most respect possible, to have a greater chance of getting what you want from him?"

"Not necessarily," said Greg, sounding uncharacteristically thoughtful. "If it were me, I'd want to make sure I treated him like every other customer. Surely as a celebrity, he gets enough attention as it is. I figure he'd enjoy some semblance of normalcy in his life."

"But Yugi's not used to his status. If the hotel coddles him, he might be more likely to send his compliments to the management and what-have-you. It's a game of trade. Besides, it's common sense to treat your guests, especially your big-name ones, with dignity and respect, because it secures their repeat business and a glowing review of your hospitality."

"So now we've confirmed Simon Henstridge is irrational and immoral." Greg draped his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. "Aside from his missing hair and his zealous overprotection of his hands, how have we identified that he's any different from the rest of humanity?"

Grissom blinked. "His zealous overprotection of his hands?" he repeated.

"Yeah. The tapes of him touring through the casino show him wearing these white cotton gloves at all times. Most people who offered him a handshake didn't get one from him. He just kinda nodded at them and kept going. Got a few customers a little pissy, too."

Grissom's brow was now etched with a deep frown. "Wearing gloves, won't shake hands... and carrying an autoimmune disease..."

"Sounds like a recipe for paranoia to me," Greg noted.

Grissom nodded in agreement. "But maybe even more than that. It almost sounds like Simon Henstridge... is a hypochondriac." His brow rose.

"You say that like it'll help the case."

"Nick found a fiber of some sort at the crime scene. What color was it, and what was it made of?"

Comprehension dawned on Greg's face. "Off-white cotton."

Grissom was already out of his chair.

11:07 a.m.

Las Vegas Crime Lab

–

"You didn't shake my hand."

Simon Henstridge raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"You didn't shake my hand. You're not trying to be inhospitable, are you?" Grissom cocked his head at the middle-aged businessman.

"Not at all," Henstridge replied. He smiled awkwardly at his glove-covered hands; the gloves appeared to be made of a cream-colored leather. "I'm just... I don't much like touching people, that's all."

"Maybe not, but you shook hands at one point."

"I'm sorry?"

"When you met with Solomon Motou the first time, at the blackjack table. The tapes show you shaking his hand. You not only shook his hand, you were the one that offered it."

"Well, that's different. I was greeting him, he wasn't greeting me."

"When you greeted other people on the casino tapes, you simply nodded at them to acknowledge their presence. Why shake an old man's hand? You know how many transmittable germs he might be carrying?"

"Too many to count, I'm sure," Henstridge replied, "and I'll probably regret it later. In fact, I think I'm developing a cold. You might want to keep your distance."

"I think I'll be fine," Grissom replied dryly. "Mr. Henstridge, are you aware of a condition known as hypochondriasis?"

"I ought to, I suffer from it," was Henstridge's answer. "Always have. I've been overly fastidious since I was five years old. That was when my hair started falling out. I think I have my father to thank for that..." He looked down at his shoes. "That, and a great many other things."

"Alopecia isn't genetic."

"No, but for a long time, it was the only way I could explain such a premature loss to myself. Once I realized it was a sickness, I started being as clean as humanly possible... and, well... you see what's resulted."

"Yes, I do. Mr. Henstridge, I was wondering if I might take some samples from your gloves."

"May I ask why?"

"We found some fibers at the scene of the crime and on the victim, and we're making sure we can match them all in our process of elimination," Grissom replied. "You were probably in close contact with your father at some point or another that day, am I right?"

Henstridge nodded. "I was. I've always been close to him. Strong family ties. One of the few people I wasn't afraid to touch."

"I see. In that case, all I'm looking to do is eliminate some errant fibers that we haven't yet been able to identify as belonging to anyone."

The businessman considered, then nodded. "Okay. Can you do it now?"

"That's why I'm here." Grissom pulled a pair of tweezers and several small evidence bags from his pocket.

12:22 p.m.

–

"No match."

Grissom frowned. "What?"

"I said no match." Nick's tone was adamant. "The cotton fiber didn't come from his gloves."

"That's impossible."

"Apparently not. Consistency's not the same. And the fiber I picked up had traces of antimicrobial residue. This stuff doesn't." Nick retreated from the microscope. "Look, if you wanna see for yourself..."

"No. I trust you."

"If that's true, why do you keep questioning my findings? For that matter, why do you keep questioning everyone around here about everything involving this case?"

"Because there's something not right about all this." Grissom turned toward the door. "I don't know what it is. I can't explain it. But Simon Henstridge is hiding something, and he's hiding something big, and it's hindering this investigation."

Nick's expression was one of exasperation. "Look, Grissom, we're here because we're good at what we do. But if you keep applying your own conclusions to the case, all you're doing is wasting your time and ours. We can check this stuff over and over again and it's just gonna yield the same results. You keep telling us the evidence is the one thing we can count on to tell the truth. And the truth is that the samples you got from Simon Henstridge's gloves do not match the fiber I picked up."

Grissom heaved a sigh. "Sorry, Nick. You're right." Then something dawned on him. "Wait a minute. You said there were traces of soap on the fiber you found?"

"Yeah, antimicrobial. And there wasn't any on the glove samples."

"Henstridge is a hypochondriac. He would have washed his gloves before wearing them..." Grissom frowned. "Except the ones he was wearing were leather."

"Fake leather, according to this analysis, but yeah. Tough to wash even fake leather gloves with antibacterial soap." Nick realized from the look on Grissom's face that his boss might be on to something. "What? What is it?"

Grissom turned and left the lab, muttering something. It sounded to Nick like he'd said, "I've got some videos to watch."

6:42 p.m.

Room 1203, Luxor Hotel

–

Are you ready to do this?

Only if you're ready, aibou.

Yugi took a deep, calming breath, and nodded. I'm ready.

Then let's begin.

Yugi was physically alone in the bedroom. The others had gone to Tristan's room, where they would spend the evening in quiet civility, purposely ignorant of Yugi's self-appointed mission. He thought he could hear the television relaying a sitcom episode to his friends and grandfather, but he paid it no heed.

Yugi was sitting on his knees. He'd donned new clothes for this occasion – now he wore a pair of deceptively comfortable dark jeans, as well as a fresh sleeveless black shirt and his favorite wrist bands. In opposition to his usual fashion statement, however, he was not wearing his buckled collar. He would not need it tonight.

The four Millennium items in his possession surrounded him as four points of a square, each painstakingly placed for easy access without Yugi needing to budge a centimeter more than he needed to. The boy's violet eyes were closed in silent meditation.

Now he opened his eyes, slowly. The room's lights were all shut off, but the illumination of the strip insistently pushed past the poor filtration of the curtains and cast an eerie golden glow over the dwelling's features.

Yugi reached out, looped his fingers through the silver chain that encircled the Millennium Puzzle's eyebolt. He picked it up slowly, and then carefully slipped the chain over his head and around his exposed neck. He closed his eyes again, ready to merge with his darker self and become whole.

Light pulsed softly from the Eye of Horus adorning the front of the Puzzle.

No longer was it simply Yugi or simply Yami performing the actions. It was both of them at once, as one person, together, as they had meant to be. It was they who opened their eyes as one, inspected the triangle of remaining Millennium items, and reached to the next on their agenda – the Millennium Tauk.

As carefully as Yugi had placed the Puzzle, so too did they take their time to secure the Millennium Tauk's golden band about their neck, underneath the links of the Puzzle's chain. With the simple click of the clasp, they had access now to both the past and the future.

And they saw...

"The guest in this room was complaining about the various facilities, the jacuzzi in particular. He insisted that a manager take care of it personally."

"I don't have time to inspect each and every room in this whole damned hotel. That business is for the main lobby, not the owner."

"Still, he was quite insistent. His name is Joey Wheeler, he's a VIP."

"...bloody hell, you should have told me so. That's different, that is." The older man sighed. "All right, I'll take a look."

On his way to the 12th floor, he is met by someone else.

They cannot not identify the person, save that it is male – the Tauk refuses to let them see his face. "I heard about some trouble with one of our VIP's."

"Yes, one Joey Wheeler. You're familiar with the name, aren't you?"

"Yes, I've heard it in passing." They share a moment of laughter. "Let's see what has our guest so malcontent, shall we?"

"I suppose we shall." They enter the room. "The lower management said Mr. Wheeler was complaining particularly about his jacuzzi." He moves further into the room and inspects the tub. "It's on full blast. Maybe he just doesn't know how to operate it, eh? What're you doing back there?"

"Grabbing a pen and paper to let him know the management was here personally."

"Ah. I like your sneakers, by the way. Interesting choice. Decided it was Casual Tuesday, all of a sudden?"

"What can I say? I like to live a little."

A snicker from the older man. "Plenty of opportunity to do that yet." He turns. "Well, I suppose the least I can do is shut the damn jacuzzi off, anyway – ugh!"

The unidentified person chooses that moment to make his attack. The lamp is already unplugged – he had plotted this carefully – and he grabs it and delivers a devastating blow to the back of the older man's head. The sound of the man's skull fracturing is audible. They cringed in sheer revulsion.

"You've gotta see stuff like that coming, old man. Subterfuge from every side. You're too frail. Looks like your services aren't really needed anymore." He tosses the lamp carelessly to the bed, for he will replace it on the bedside table after he is finished, and he begins to shove the older man to the jacuzzi.

The older man resists, starts to turn around despite the blood flowing from his wounded scalp. The attacker grabs the older man's left arm and spins him around. Again, the sound of bone crunching is heard.

They again wince, but there is nothing they can do – they are locked into the vision until the deed is complete.

"Just die quietly, old man," the attacker rasps, and holds the older man against the lip of the jacuzzi. The attacker firmly grabs the back of the older man's neck, and with that iron grip, shoves his head underneath the roiling water's surface. The older man's screams are stifled by the water, but nevertheless can be heard as his entire head is subjected to searing hot temperatures.

The attacker does not let go, either of the older man's arm or neck – if anything, the screams spur him to grip even harder, apply even more pressure to the older man. The older man flails, but there is little he can do in his position.

Slowly, his energy ebbs. His limbs begin to slacken. He has run out of air, and all that will enter his mouth and nose is scalding water.

They can almost see his soul leaving his body. It is doomed to be forever in torment, until the crime is avenged.

As if to add further insult to injury, the attacker takes time to heave the older man's entire torso into the water. He then picks up the lamp, inspects it for a moment, then places it back on the bedside table.

And lastly, he looks at his white hands. They steam with the kiss of boiling water.

Ironically, they are both soiled with the burden of killing... and for the first time in the attacker's life, they are clean.

They returned to the hotel room, their vision clearing. They take several calming breaths. They are not strangers to death, but this was the first time they had ever seen murder through the eye of the Millennium Tauk.

Their gaze drifted to the next item they would need – the Millennium Ring. Unlike the Puzzle, this item still bore an ancient rope as its necklace. The irony did not escape them that for one Ryou Bakura, this item had borne a chain greater than any dungeon master could conjure. It was with even greater care than they had shown for the previous two items that they placed the Ring's noose around their neck. They held the Ring gingerly, and spoke in unison.

"Millennium Ring... show us where such evil as this lies."

It was impossible for a Millennium item to refuse a direct command from its owner. Nevertheless, the Millennium Ring had a history of stubbornness all its own that made it stand out from all the rest; thus a long moment passed before it obeyed the directive they had given it. But it did obey; as they held it in the manner of a large compass, the five spokes adorning its lower half jingled ominously, then glowed and pulled downward and towards the lower interior of the hotel, as if attracted by some great magnetic force.

Their left hand dropped to their side, while their right held the still-pointing Ring. Their left hand reached out and grasped the last of their items, the Millennium Rod. Only a moment of doubt flashed between them before they reasserted themselves – they were set on achieving this task, and they would use the Millennium Rod to help them do it.

Slowly and carefully, they held up the Rod, reached out alongside the pointing spokes of the Ring, and focused their energies into the dangerous totem.

They saw a mother, trying to keep her children from stealing candy.

They saw an old woman putting yet another nickel in the slot machine.

They saw two gentlemen conversing with each other about the corporate world.

And they saw...

They saw... him.

So. It was a man, after all.

They didn't want to believe he was capable of such a brutal, aggressive, insane act – but they already knew better, as they probed deeper and deeper into his mind. They wanted to stop, but oh, they wanted to continue... they needed to stop, but they only needed a little more...

STOP!

The sheer force of the command ripped them apart, and suddenly they were not one, but two. They were no longer able to maintain control over all four items. For they were no longer one.

They were no longer whole.

But even as two, they still had one purpose.

They would bring him to justice.

6:49 p.m.

Ground Level Casino VIP Room, Luxor Hotel

–

Simon Henstridge smiled easily at his guests. "Would anyone like a beverage? Or a snack, perhaps?" He waved over an eager waiter.

His guests – indeed, his very bread and butter – were movie stars, world-famous musicians... everyone and everything a successful businessman could hope to pull into his humble establishment. He could not be happier for the Luxor's business.

"Simon, I was so sorry to hear about your father. Have they made any arrests yet?"

Simon's expression knit into a frown. "By rights, they should have, but they've cleared their prime suspect of any wrongdoing. Actually, I'm beginning to think they have their eye on me."

A collective gasp rose from the table. "That can't be right!" "How could they think you would ever do something like that to your own father?" "They must have cleared their suspect a little too early..." "Surely there's someone else they suspect!"

It was at that moment an assistant approached Simon. "Mr. Henstridge, you have a personal call from your broker?"

"Huh. I was just thinking about him. Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I'll be back in just a few moments." He rose and approached the bar, where a phone connected to the private line was already waiting for him. He picked up the receiver. "Frank, this is an–"

"–unusual hour to call, but you're always eager to find out how the Cayman account is doing. You want to know about the interest rate climb for this year. And you know this isn't really your broker, but you're curious as to how I knew exactly what you were thinking. No, I'm not one of those hack mind-readers you see on television."

Simon opened his mouth to ask a question, but the voice on the other end intercepted it."Don't bother asking who this is; names aren't important right now, but you already knew that was going to be my answer. Likewise, you know I have something on you, otherwise I wouldn't be calling you right now. You're perceptive.

"I know you framed Joey Wheeler for the murder of your father. You purchased the same type and size of shoes he brought with him from Japan to link his shoeprints to the crime. Your reason for the frame was revenge on him for defeating you in a duel in front of a crowd, and for blocking your goal of dueling against the King of Games himself. But you've wanted your father dead a long time now, because you wanted the glory of handling the Luxor on your own. You just wanted the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Don't hang up yet, I'm getting to the good part.

"I also know you've been embezzling money from the Luxor by tampering with end-of-day tallies for the past five years. It's only been a little bit here, a little bit there... not enough to be noticeable, because with the money you pull in every day, a few hundred dollars is even less than a drop in the ocean. No, this isn't Solomon Motou, although he did have a point when making that analogy Monday afternoon. You should have let him keep his money without any fuss. You might not be in this much trouble otherwise.

"As I was saying, you've been taking money that isn't yours and dumping it into an account in the Cayman Islands. In fact, you were planning to withdraw some of the money in that account this coming Saturday, because your daughter's birthday is Saturday. It's also the tenth-year anniversary of your wife's death due to childbirth complications. You're planning to take your daughter out to a private horse ranch and buy her the pony she's always wanted – a white purebred. And this really isn't a good time to think about running from the law, because the getaway car you're thinking about using has a license plate number. Shall I read it to you, or have you taken my point?"

"You've made your point painstakingly obvious," Simon hissed, his heart racing. "What is it you want from me?"

"I want to play a game, and unless you're willing to risk exposure of all that information to the authorities within the next five minutes, you're going to play it with me. You'll meet me outside 'The Search for the Obelisk' with your Duel Monsters deck and the two duel disks you keep hidden in the second drawer down on the right side of your office desk for private play with your daughter. If only she knew her father's crimes. Five minutes. And don't bother bringing that suitcase of money you're considering, either. Bribes don't work on the vengeful."

The other end of the line clicked, signaling the end of the call.

Bullets of perspiration formed on Simon's forehead; he grabbed napkins from a nearby dispensed and dabbed at the sweat. He checked his watch.

Not enough time to run. Not even enough time to breathe. He raced out of the VIP room and bolted for his office.

He had only one chance.

He had to play the game.