Dead Reckoning
Summary:
The trouble with the past is that it tends to come back to haunt you. Angst enough for everyone, plus some Sara/Brass friendship and a nice bit of G/S just for the heck of it.
A/N:
First, a big thanks to the overwhelming response to Pax Vobiscum. It inspired me to try writing something else. Next, another big round of thanks to my friends who encouraged me to write this. Potential spoilers through the current episode.
Rating:
PG-13 for language
Disclaimer:
Will write for a 'clever' disclaimer.


Chapter 2

Reckoning – An act of retribution, revenge

Brass rounded the corner in time to see Sara storm into the lab, and he stopped short. Her manner made it clear she was following a lead, even if she hadn't been carrying a plastic evidence bag. He waited until she approached to smile and call out a greeting. When that elicited a growl in response, he did a comical double take and turned with his hands out questioningly.

"Was it something I said?"

She didn't stop, but strode purposely to the DNA lab. Hearing her faint cursing, he started to chuckle, wondering who had managed to get on her bad side. Grissom was in a meeting, so it wasn't his fault. Brass moved to stand next to her in the doorway, and he let out a whistle. Technicians had the equipment dismantled and were struggling to get a replacement part into the innards of the machine.

"We'll be done in about an hour, but there's going to be a backup," one of the lab techs told her, pointing to the bagged cigarette she carried. "Is that a priority?"

"No," she said grudgingly. Spinning around, Sara marched to the vault, where she quickly logged her evidence. Brass trailed behind quietly as she headed for her workstation. She was booting up her computer and staring impatiently at the screen when he strolled in after her.

"What's up?" the detective asked lightly.

"I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"If I knew who he was, I wouldn't be looking."

Brass rested his hip against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. His earlier amusement faded when he observed her closely. He'd never seen her like this. Sara was beyond annoyed. Something was really bothering her.

"Tell me what's going on," he demanded, although with an underlying kindness.

She didn't answer immediately, intent on pulling up records. When he called her name, she tossed her pen down. Leaning back in her chair, Sara pushed her hair away from her face. "I have a fan," she huffed out.

"I prefer air conditioning myself."

Sara swung her head around to give him a humorless stare. "Someone is following me. And no, I'm not paranoid," she added with a smirk when Brass raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Yesterday morning when I left work, someone bumped into me in the parking lot. Literally. Last night, the same guy was at a crime scene. Had some 'nice' things to say to me, too. I get home this morning, and he was waiting outside my apartment building for me."

"Describe him," Brass directed, pulling out a notebook from his inner jacket pocket. Seeing Sara's look, he brushed some imaginary lint from his badge. "I know this is a great fashion accessory, but that's not why I wear it. I'm a detective. Finding things out? That's supposed to be our job."

Sara let out a sigh and spun around in her chair to face him. "Male. African-American. Twenty years old, tops. About six-foot-one. Lean build, but he's not wimpy. Short hair. He has a distinctive scar. It starts high on the right cheek, crosses under the nose, and goes down his left cheek," she said, running her finger across her face in demonstration.

"Observant much?" Brass quipped.

"It's what they pay me for. Creep was wearing a pair of dark jeans, probably fairly new. There was no noticeable fading. Off-brand. Red t-shirt. Navy jacket with a pack of cigarettes in the chest pocket. He was wearing sneakers."

"You don't know the brand? I'm disappointed."

"I couldn't tell," Sara shot back, winking at the detective. She recognized he was trying to get her to relax and appreciated the effort. "His jeans were too long. They almost dragged the ground."

"This is all from memory? You sure you don't have a picture over there?" Brass joked, playfully looking over her shoulder.

"Dammit!" Sara swore irritably, slapping a hand on the table. "I can't believe how dumb I am! I had my digital camera in my purse the whole time. Should have snapped some pictures of him."

"No! Look, you leave this guy alone. I'm serious, Sara. He's probably just a punk, but I don't want you taking any chances. Ignore him. Don't confront him. Whatever you do, don't get in his face."

"You mean I can't shoot him?"

"You gotta work on the sarcasm, doll. That was barely dripping."

"I'm not stupid. Really. I know this guy is trying to get a reaction out of me. I'm not going to go after him. I'm not going to provoke anything."

"Good. 'Cause you'd only make things worse."

"Jim … I don't want to run into him again. He freaks me out," Sara admitted reluctantly. "People like that? You never know how they're going react. I don't know how to react around them. I just want to know who he is."

"And you think you'll find something in the records," Brass stated. DNA from the cigarette was only good if they had something to compare it to. An irate suspect or recently released convict would be the logical places to start looking.

"There's something familiar about the creep, but I can't place him," she said, her face a mask of concentration. "I should know this guy. I know it. But I don't remember anyone with a scar like that."

"It's okay. No one can remember every case."

Sara shook her head. "He was angry that I didn't know who he was."

"Did he make any direct threats?" Brass asked worriedly.

"It was more the way he said things than what he said. And he, uh, left with an interesting gesture," Sara said, recreating the motion of shooting a gun.

"Shit! You could have mentioned that earlier."

"Why? Seriously, Jim. What can you do? The kid hasn't done anything that you can arrest him for. That cigarette I collected probably shouldn't even be tested. Technically, it's not even evidence."

"Yeah, at this point, the DA would laugh it out of court. Okay. I'm going to have a patrol car swing by your neighborhood. If he's still around, I want the punk to know we're watching him. You head on home. I'll have my guys check the records. See who's been released recently."

"Thanks," Sara said, turning off her computer and grabbing her purse.

"No problem," Brass said.

Sara flashed him a grateful smile as she headed out. Her eyes darted to the side when he started walking beside her through the hallway. She stopped and gave him a pointed look as he turned with her towards the exit. "Playing chaperone?"

"Yep. Hey, I'm in law enforcement. It's what I do."

"So what am I? Chopped liver?" she groused when he grabbed her elbow and started walking again.

"No, you're not. And I want to keep it that way. Next time I go to the deli, I don't want to end up with Sidlewurst," he said seriously. Brass waited until he was sure his meaning was clear before giving her a grin. "Besides, do you know how long it's been since I got to take a pretty, young thing home?"

Sara rolled her eyes, but she gave him a good-natured smile of her own. "No, but do you know how long it's been since a nice guy took me home?"

"Well, I don't know if he was the last guy, but I know someone took you home. And why," Brass said meaningfully.

Sara stared straight ahead, but the embarrassment was written on her face. "You know about that?"

"Detective, remember? It's our job to find things out." He turned to give her an emotional stare. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Me, too."

Once in the relative privacy of the parking lot, Sara slid her sunglasses on. "I'm not a drunk," she said softly. "I had a problem. I didn't handle it well, but that's over. Trust me. I don't think there's anything that could make me start to … self-medicate again."

"Good," Brass said. He smiled affectionately at her as she opened her vehicle. "I want to make sure you're with us for a long time."

Sara returned the smile guiltily before driving home to check on her job inquiries.


On the way to her apartment complex, Sara noticed both a patrol and an unmarked police car driving slowly through her neighborhood. Brass trailed behind her. She thought he was overreacting; dealing with punks was one of the unpleasant side effects of the job. Most of the time, nothing came of it. Still, she was relieved to find no sign of her mystery man when she walked into her building.

Setting her things down, she stripped on the way to the shower. The feel of the hot water on her muscles gradually eased away the earlier stresses, and she let out a contented sigh. After drying off, she reconsidered her day's agenda. The encounter with the kid had disrupted her schedule. Yawning deeply, Sara decided her bed was the most appealing of the options.

After a few hours restless sleep, she gave up and got dressed. Dreams of someone chasing her through dark hallways had plagued Sara. Worse, she couldn't tell if she had been eluding her stalker or running away from Grissom. Her earlier anger was being supplemented with irritation at herself. She was leaving; it was for the best. If all went well, she'd be out of Vegas by the end of the month.

Her heart started to beat harder as she reached the building's entrance. She paused for a moment, using the time to take a calming breath. Reaching the parking lot, Sara scanned the area carefully, but the scarred-face man was nowhere to be seen. She rolled her eyes at her own reactions, upset that she'd let him get to her. Humming along with the radio, she didn't notice the car that pulled out of a parking lot down the street and followed her to the grocery store.

The strong smell of stale cigarette smoke mingling with an unwashed body was her first clue that something was amiss. The store was nearly deserted. Dropping some lemons into her basket, Sara surreptitiously looked behind her. He stood staring at her, just on the edge of her personal space.

She ignored him, moving to the next produce bin. The stranger remained quiet, but he never let her move more than a short distance away from him. Sara closed her eyes, fighting down her bile when she felt his foul breath on her skin. Thoughts of slamming her elbow into him tempted her, but she knew Brass had been right.

Sara didn't say a word, but bit her lip as he trailed her through the produce section. He was making her angry. She focused on her temper; she had better control over that. Fear was another matter, and she tried to ignore her rising unease. Taunts were easily ignored. The physical aspect was disconcerting.

She moved through the aisles quickly, and the youth stayed on top of her. Her normal routine was to shop on the off-hours. The quiet was normally settling, but tonight it highlighted how isolated she was. When she passed the deli and the meat counters, he finally called out to her.

"That's right. You don't need any meat. I got all the meat you need. Ain't that right, bitch?"

Sara turned around, her anger threatening to run over when he grabbed his crotch lewdly. Logically, she knew he was trying to provoke her, but her patience was wearing thin. Before she reacted, a flurry of activity surrounded her.

"You! Get out of here before I call the cops. I don't allow any punks in my store. Go on! Get out of here. You're trespassing. Go home and listen to that rip-rap hopping music of yours!"

"I'll see you later. Some place where we can be alone," the youth said to Sara, flipping off the store manager on his way out.

"Oh, I'm so impressed. And don't let me ever see you in here again. Stupid punks," the manager muttered before turning around. "I'm so sorry about that, miss. Would you like me to call the police?"

"It's okay," Sara said slowly, resisting the urge to laugh. He was a tiny, balding man with a high-pitched, squeaky voice. The sight of him driving away her would-be tormentor with his arms flapping had been amusing, even if the situation wasn't. She thanked the manager, reassuring him that everything was fine. But she nervously grabbed the last of her groceries, her eyes rapidly darting around as she did so.

"I'll take those."

She snapped her head up when the grocery bags were snatched from her arms. Sara spun around and took a step back. A very tall, very muscular man in a store vest was serenely watching her. "Mr. Murphy told me to carry your bags for you."

"That's all right," she insisted, letting out a relieved breath. "That creep? It's not the store's fault. You don't have to worry about it."

He kept the bags and grinned broadly. "Mr. Murphy wants me to scare that punk away."

Sara shook her head, but followed the titan as he headed out. The store's lights created pools of illuminated areas, but there were plenty of places to hide. Her escort chatted in a friendly way, but she could see he was surveying their surroundings. She was doing the same herself. The scarred-face troublemaker wasn't in sight, but as she drove away, Sara paid more attention to the traffic behind her.

Instead of going home, she drove straight to the lab. No cars followed her into the lot, but she didn't move out of her vehicle. She waited several minutes, looking to see if any cars parked in nearby locations, or if someone walked into the area. When there was no indication that she'd been followed, Sara swore. She grabbed the steering wheel painfully while resting her head on it.

Over the years, she'd been called every name in the book and had received letters that would make a sailor blush. She'd had a shotgun waved in her face, been around explosives, blood-borne pathogens and dangerous makeshift drug labs. Why was this man bothering her so much?

She left her groceries in the car, knowing there was nothing that would perish in the cool night air. Sara tried to relax, and her mildly shaking hands irked her. She went into the locker room and changed out of her sweat-drenched shirt. Grabbing a cup of tea, she settled into a chair in the break room. Mentally, she tried to visualize what the youth would look like without the scar, but the reconstructed face still eluded her recognition.

When Grissom entered the break room, she debated whether she should tell him about the latest development, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts. She forced a friendly greeting that was barely acknowledged. A feeling of sadness washed over her as he headed back to his office without noticing she was upset. She really did love him. Leaving would be painful. A small voice was telling her she was running away from her problems, but Sara doubted that. She'd tried, making the first move. She'd waited, hoping he'd come around. What else was left?


Sara had taken her assignment slip professionally, even giving Grissom another friendly smile. Despite all that happened, she was glad to be working her case alone; she wasn't in the mood to explain why she was short-tempered that night. As she drove off, she saw the youth sitting on a bench across the street. He waved at her, but he made no move to follow her. She processed her scene quickly, but thoroughly, before heading back to the lab. Her thoughts kept drifting to Brass and whether he'd made any progress.

It was near the end of shift before she caught up to him. To her surprise, Detective Vega was with Brass. Unfortunately, they were heading towards Grissom's office. He was her supervisor, but Sara didn't look forward to involving him. If Brass had overreacted, Grissom would go postal.

She knew it was his way of showing he cared, but it irritated her as much as it touched her. The only time he showed any concern was when she was having troubles. Once the problem was resolved, he'd retreat again. When he thought she was fine, Grissom had no interest in her.

"Hey, Brass," she called out, but not before realizing Grissom was in his office. Sara nodded her head towards the conference room in a last-ditch effort to keep him out of the discussion, but the detectives didn't budge. Glancing through the door, she noticed Grissom wasn't paying attention to them.

"The gang's all here. So to speak," the detective said with a wry expression. His demeanor hardened as he held out a picture. "Is this your stalker, Sara?"

With that, Grissom's head jerked up so quickly she was convinced he'd hurt himself. She took the photo from Brass, nodding immediately. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grissom moving around his desk. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. This is him. Who is he?"

"That's the guy from our scene last night," Grissom noted, snatching the picture from Sara's hands. "Did he bother you again?"

"You don't know about this?" Vega asked.

"What's he talking about?" Grissom demanded, turning to Sara quickly.

Brass raised his eyebrows and gave Sara a knowing look. His lips twitched at her gruff expression, but he knew better than to laugh. "Why don't we take this inside your office?" he suggested, gently pushing the two CSIs out of the hallway.

Vega followed, closing the door behind him. He remained there, letting Brass and Sara take the two seats in front of the desk. Grissom sat on the edge of the desk facing her. Again, he asked her what was going on.

Sara recounted her earlier encounters. She tensed even more when she noticed Grissom's reaction. This wasn't going to be pretty. With a shoulder roll, she added what happened on her way to work. Her initial description was short on details, but all three men grilled her for more information.

"Why didn't you say something earlier? It was dangerous to go out to a scene by yourself," Grissom groused, tossing the photo to his desk. "He could have followed you there. You should have more sense than that."

She closed her eyes and counted to ten, but she was unable to completely control her temper. Too much had happened already that day. The creep had followed her, insulted her and threatened her. She didn't need Grissom's implications that it was her fault.

"I tried to talk to you at the start of shift, but you wouldn't listen," she snapped. Seeing his startled expression, Sara took a breath. That hadn't been completely true. She softened her voice and changed tactics. "You were distracted. And I wasn't alone. There were cops at my scene. Brass sent cars around my neighborhood. What else could we do?"

"Arrest him! He's stalking you," Grissom stated angrily, deeply hurt by her accusation. Sara's attempt to defuse the situation didn't calm him any. "He's threatened you."

"Prove it," Sara demanded, crossing her arms and giving him a sharp look. His anger only fueled her own. She'd been forced to repress her emotions at the store, but now they were seeking release.

Grissom blinked and leaned back at her harsh challenge. He noticed both detectives shifting uncomfortably. Things had gotten out of control, and he wasn't sure how to restore order. He opted for logic. "You have that cigarette that he threw at you."

"You want to charge him with being a litterbug? Ecklie would love to see the bill for DNA tests on that case," she said acerbically.

"The store manager heard him."

"Being crude. Do you really think he'd be charged with indecency? In Las Vegas? Get real."

"Well excuse me for caring that some punk is threatening one of my CSIs," Grissom said sarcastically. His hand reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. That had been the wrong thing to say. Thoughts of that foul-mouthed stranger threatening Sara upset him, but he wasn't handling things well. He didn't have time to filter his anger, and it was creeping into his speech.

Sara started to reply hotly, but Brass rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. Instead she tossed her hands up. Her voice was more controlled, but still conveyed her irritation. "It's my word against his. The DA isn't going to waste time on a case like this. Period. We get jerks hassling us all the time. It's part of the job."

"True," he said. "They say things. But they don't follow us around."

"What about that drunk old dancer that keeps coming on to you? Why haven't you had her arrested?"

"It's not the same, and you know it," Grissom said coolly.

"The only difference is I'm the one being bothered."

"That's not entirely true," Vega interrupted. He ignored the glares both CSIs directed at him. "Do you remember Tony Thorpe?"

Sara had swung around to stare at the detective, but she slowly settled back into the chair. While her head nodded to the side, she swallowed reflexively. Her arms gripped the armrest tightly as a trickle of cold sweat ran down her back. "That bastard," she whispered hoarsely.

"Who's Thorpe?" Grissom asked irately.

"You, Sara and Nick handled the case with me," Brass said. "Four years ago, the Adler case."

Grissom shook his head, but it was Sara who continued. Her voice was low, but heavy with emotion. "Thorpe carjacked Pamela Adler from a mall parking garage. He raped her and then he shot her repeatedly in the head. Left her for dead on the side of a highway like a bag of trash. Since she never died, he wasn't charged with murder."

"And he was fourteen at the time, so he only got four years in juvenile detention. He was released ten days ago," Vega said.

Grissom moved behind his desk slowly. A facial tic developed, and he was unable to control it. His concern for Sara made him snap earlier, and it was clear he had made her angry. Failing to recognize a crime that had affected her deeply hadn't helped. As he took his seat, he watched her, but her gaze was focused in the distance.

"He's a Snakeback," Grissom recalled, turning to Vega.

"More or less."

"What do you mean more or less? Once you are in the gang, you're in for life. The only way out is when you die," he said.

"True, but Thorpe is on the ropes. When he got to juvie, there was only one other Snakeback in there with him. Curtis Brown was really popular in the gang. He's a cousin of Reggie Brown, one of the lieutenants. A fight broke out, and Curtis died," Vega explained.

"Is that how Thorpe got the scar?" Sara asked, her gaze still fixed on some distant object.

"In a sense. There was no indication he took any part in the fight. The other Snakebacks decided he was a coward. The scar happened a year later. Payback. It's supposed to look like a snake. A reminder of who he belongs to."

"Thorpe is in a bad situation. If he doesn't prove himself to the gang soon, they'll cut him loose. And in his case, that means fatally," Brass said.

"Grissom, have you seen this kid around your place? Has he been to any of your scenes where Sara wasn't present?" Vega asked.

"No."

"He hasn't been hanging around me, either," Brass said. "I'll give Nick a call later. He needs to be on the lookout."

"So I'm the lucky one," Sara stated sarcastically.

"The gangs don't usually target law enforcement. It's an invitation for a major crackdown. Thorpe isn't the brightest, but he has to know that. So why is he bothering you?" Brass asked rhetorically.

"He's trying to scare me," Sara said, turning to the detective. She gave herself a shake and sat up straighter. "That's all. Look, he hasn't done anything that could get him arrested. He's playing games. If he wanted to hurt me, he knows where I live. He could have ambushed me."

"That's true," Grissom allowed reluctantly, "but I don't want to take any chances. You're not going to any scenes alone. I don't want you to leave the building by yourself."

"And wear your vest when you go to and from your car," Vega added.

"I'll have a patrol car go through your neighborhood before you leave for work or get home. I can have a deputy out in the parking lot, too. We …"

"Whoa! Hold on," Sara said, standing up and pacing the room. "No. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"We're trying to keep you safe," Grissom said, making sure to keep his voice level.

"I am safe. I told you – he could have gotten me if that's what he wanted. All this attention? It's what he wants. Ignore him."

"Sara …"

"No, Grissom. I know he's dangerous. Trust me, I know what he can do," she said, her eyes watering at the memory of Pamela Adler. A shudder ran through her body and she began pacing the small office again. "We can play it safe without making a big deal out of it. Besides, I'm going out of town next week. If I'm not around, he'll get bored."

Brass shrugged and stood up. "You're probably right. I think I'll bring him in for a little chat, though. Lay down the law. If he knows we're watching him, he may lose interest. So, where are you going?"

Sara stopped her pacing in mid-step. "Out of town," she said evasively.

"I know that. Vacation?"

"Something like that."

"What? It's top secret?"

She forced a casual smile. So much for being discreet about her plans. "I'm going out to the coast. Seeing some friends in San Francisco, then going to visit another one in Portland," Sara said. It was true, but she didn't mention the reasons for the visits. As she headed out of the office, she noticed Grissom watching her, his head tilted quizzically.

Once shift was over, she found Greg and Sofia waiting by the locker room. Grissom joined them shortly. "Stay here," he directed her, signaling Greg to go. The younger man nodded, and Sara could tell he was a bit nervous. She raised an eyebrow at Grissom, but he remained silent until his cell phone rang. After a short conversation, he gave her a pointed look. "Thorpe is sitting on the hood of your car, smoking a cigarette. I'll have a deputy …"

"Don't," Sara sighed. "I was serious, Grissom. I don't want him to think he's rattling me. It'll only encourage him. He's not going to do anything in our parking lot."

"She's right," Sofia said. "I'll walk out with her. We'll chat, make it look casual. Thorpe won't try anything with witnesses. Let's go."

Sara marched out, absentmindedly talking with Sofia. She appreciated Grissom's concern, but she noticed he accepted Sofia's comments without question. It hurt that he didn't question the blonde, even though she had used the same logic. Mentally, she berated herself for snapping at him. It put Grissom on the defensive, and started the escalating argument. Still, Sara thought she reason to be in a foul mood.

Looking up, she kept eye contact with Thorpe, and he slid off her car. Walking around it, he paused to mock-hump the door handle before leaving with another obscene gesture. She thanked her companion and drove off, her attention focused on the young rapist as he leaned against a street signpost. She never saw Grissom observing the entire exchange with a concern expression.


When the knock came at her door that evening, Sara set her glass down carefully. She approached slowly, carefully looking through the pinhole. With a sigh, she removed the safety chain and waved Grissom in.

"I'm finishing up dinner. Can I get you something?"

"No, thanks," he replied.

Sara finished her pasta, watching as Grissom tried to sit nonchalantly on her couch. She cleaned the dishes, straightened the kitchen, and poured another glass of tea. Moving back into the living room, she finally rolled her eyes.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly.

"I was in the neighborhood," Grissom said with a forced lightness. "I thought I'd give you a ride to work."

"Ugh," she muttered sinking into her chair. "I appreciate the gesture. I do. But I don't want you driving me to work. I don't need it."

"It'll make me feel better."

Sara found herself staring at him in disbelief. Grissom was obviously uncomfortable, and she knew her blowup that morning contributed to the tension. The only reason he was there was because of Thorpe. But he was trying to be friendly. Finishing her drink, she grabbed her things and followed him to the parking lot. On the ride to the lab, Grissom alternated from scanning pedestrians to darting his eyes to her. He didn't talk, but a play of expressions crossed his face.

"What?" she finally asked.

"You never did say why you needed time off."

"It's … personal," she answered.

"I … see," he said with equal reserve. He waited a beat before adding, "You took three days off last week."

"Not really. Greg wanted time to go to a concert, so we traded days off. It's not a big secret."

"Unlike where you're going. You're private, but you're not evasive – normally. You've been leaving work on time. That's also unusual for you. Then there's the fact you're taking a vacation, and on such short notice. You aren't telling me everything."

"Grissom, I'm not some psychotic killer you can profile," she huffed out, surprised that he had noticed.

"I wish you were."

Sara blinked slowly, wondering if she had heard correctly. Slowly, she turned to stare at him. "I'm going to try to ignore that you said that."

Grissom bobbed his head briefly in her direction. "If you were a psychotic killer, I'd understand you. At least I'd have an idea what you're thinking."

"I'm harder to understand that some psychopath? Gee, Grissom. Watch it with the compliments. Someone might think you care."

His eyes scrunched as his fingers drummed the dash. "I think I just proved my point. I never know what to say."

"When have you ever tried?" Sara muttered, shifting on the seat. "It's not that hard. I'm not complex. I want respect. Don't jerk me around. I value honesty. Well, maybe that is hard for you."

Grissom's eyes darted to her in surprise. After he lost his temper in his office, he'd suspected she was upset with him. Obviously, he had underestimated the extent of her anger. The tip of his tongue peeked between his lips as he drove. Something was wrong. He was certain of it, even if the couldn't isolate what it was. And he was equally sure that it went beyond her troubles with Thorpe.

"Yes, it is hard for me," he admitted grudgingly.

"Don't worry about, Grissom. It's not a problem," she said with finality, staring at the side window. Or not for much longer.


They found Thorpe waiting on the sidewalk in front of the crime lab. He made no moves, but just stood there staring darkly into the car as they drove by. True to his word, Grissom made Sara work in the lab that night. In the morning, there was no sign of Thorpe as he took her home. Her relief was short-lived; neighbors were milling around the hallways, angry about the word "bitch" that was spray-painted outside her apartment.

She went to bed pissed.

The next night, Brass met Sara to act as an escort. The detective had been unable to locate an address on Thorpe, and the rapist had managed to avoid the parking lots when deputies were around. Going out to her car, they found someone had let the air out of all of the tires. He waited with her for AAA to arrive, and then insisted that she ride to work in his car.

Sara felt exposed in the open night air.

At the lab, Sara tried to get an assignment. Another break-in had been reported, and it matched their earlier case. More importantly, she didn't want to hide. She wanted to face her fear rather than let it fester and multiply. Grissom refused, despite her angry protests. When the first obscene phone call came, she hung up quickly, but soon Judy had to start screening her messages. Attempts to trace the calls led to pay phones spread around a six-block area.

People began to whisper as she walked by, and Sara could feel her control slipping.

Greg drove her home that morning, stopping to treat her to breakfast at the diner. They joked, but Sara never relaxed. Thorpe arrived shortly after they did. He sat at the counter, sipping a soda and glaring at her. She called Brass, but by the time he got there, the youth had left.

Her mood had escalated to discomfort.

Once at her complex, Greg insisted on walking her up, and both of them gagged at the smell of human urine coming from her door. He attempted to call Grissom while Sara angrily tried to wash the offensive stain away, but she stopped him. He insisted on staying as she prepared for her court appearance, and Greg walked Sara to her car. She barely acknowledged the wave from the deputy making a round through the parking lot.

Her hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel.

Sara was sitting on the witness stand when she spotted him. Thorpe sat in a back row with his folded hands in front of his face. The index fingers pointed up, and he began to drop his hands forward repeatedly. The gesture looked like a nervous action, if she hadn't seen his earlier gun pantomime. She tried to concentrate on her testimony, but her eyes kept darting to the rapist, finally alerting the DA that something was wrong. He asked for a recess, but Thorpe slipped out of the courtroom while they were conversing.

After her testimony was over, Sara stormed out of the courthouse as quickly as she could without making a scene. Standing on the sidewalk, she spun around looking in all directions, but he had gone. She was breathing heavily, her emotions roiling violently.

Her earlier confidence that Thorpe was only trying to scare her was waning. And she had to admit his terror campaign was working. He'd eluded the police, meeting her or leaving "tokens" for days, despite the department trying to find him. It wasn't a priority case, but she knew the cops were looking.

Swearing, she stalked off to the parking garage, her steps slowing as she entered the darkened structure. It was a perfect trap. Sounds echoed confusingly off the concrete, and she jumped nervously when a car backfired. She didn't have her gun; she couldn't take it into the courthouse. Sara slapped a wall angrily, letting the pain override her fear. She paused in front of the entrance to the elevator, her eyes swinging between it and the door to the stairwell.

Images of a brain-dead Pamela Adler crept into her mind.

"Damn son-of-a-bitch," she called out, finally deciding it was safest to walk up the ramps to the fourth level where she'd parked. The exercise helped to burn off her anger, but the fear lingered. Approaching her car cautiously, she visually inspected the spaces between the cars.

Sara was still scanning the area when she grabbed her door handle. With a disgusted cry, she jerked back. Holding her hand out, she dropped to her knees and gagged violently when she saw the semen dripping from her fingers.

"Oh, God," she whispered, shakily standing up when she realized the precarious position she was in. The semen was fresh; Thorpe had to be nearby. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she tried to retrieve a tissue from her purse with her clean hand. She staggered around to the passenger side, hesitantly opening that door. Once inside, she locked the doors and fumbled with the glove box, grateful to find a box of wipes.

The drive home was quick, but Sara had to concentrate on the road. She was on the verge of losing control, and she screamed angrily at cars that cut her off. Reaching her apartment, she didn't even bother to look for Thorpe; she was too angry to avoid a confrontation. She slowed as she went down the hallway; a piece of paper was sticking out from under her door.

Sara snatched the paper and checked the hallway as she opened the door. Going inside, she unfolded the sheet and felt her stomach drop. It was a disturbingly violent hand-drawn pornographic image. It was crudely sketched, but it was clear that the brutalized victim being raped was intended to be her.

Crumbling the paper, Sara leaned against the door, and slid slowly to the floor. Closing her eyes, she pounded the floor until her hand was raw. Sobs of fear and frustration escaped from her lips despite her attempts to stifle them.


After a scalding hot shower, Sara called dispatch to locate Brass. Learning he was in an interrogation, she drove to the police station, again climbing in from the passenger side. Her rage was barely controlled. She wasn't going to let Thorpe get away with his threats. He'd crossed the line and he'd left physical evidence this time.

She was rapidly walking through the station when a hand touched her shoulder. She twirled around, and Grissom stepped back instinctively. He let go and lifted his hands calmly.

"Sorry."

"Dammit, Grissom! What are you trying to do?"

He frowned, troubled by the raw emotion in her voice. He'd seen her angry, but never like this. Her breath was coming in short pants. Sara's hair was still damp, and she hadn't bothered to put on any makeup. Most disturbing was the wild look in her eyes as she jerked her head from side to side.

"I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?" he asked slowly and softly.

"I'm fine. Where's Brass? He better arrest Thorpe before I kill the damn bastard," she answered angrily.

Grissom huffed out a breath, cocking his head to the side as he considered what to tell her. She was visibly on edge, rubbing one hand gingerly over the other. After a minute, he took her elbow and led her to the one-way mirror. Thorpe lounged in a chair with Brass grilling him.

"The DA called Brass after the encounter in the courtroom. Judge Blackwell wasn't amused," Grissom understated. "She had the bailiffs on the lookout for him. One spotted him exiting the parking garage, and got the license plate number off of his car. Patrol picked him up a few blocks away. If you want a restraining order, she's ready to sign off on it."

She gave a nod of understanding and headed for the door. Her movements were so rapid that Grissom barely stopped her from entering the interrogation room. Even when he moved in front of her, Sara tried to shove him aside. The fury was uncharacteristic and it frightened him.

"Don't do it, Sara," Grissom said firmly. "Don't. It's over. Brass spelled it out to him. Thorpe went too far this time. If he does anything else, he's facing prison. He's scared. He's not going to bother you again."

"So you want me to pretend this never happened?" Sara asked harshly.

"It's over. Don't dwell on it."

She stood there, panting heavily. Moisture gathered in her eyes as conflicting emotions raged. Thorpe was going to get away with his threats, but he wasn't going to bother her again. Sara ran her hand through her hair.

"Fine," she croaked out. "Fine. He can go on with his life. No punishment for what he did. I'm sure I'll stop looking for him around every corner eventually."

"Sara," Grissom called out as she walked quickly out of the building.


There was no sign of Thorpe when Sara left for work that evening. Still, she was on edge, walking through the parking lot cautiously. Her eyes tracked the traffic following her nervously. At every traffic stop, she observed the pedestrians closely. By the time she reached the lab, her hands were shaking.

Grissom let her go to a scene with Greg that night. As she worked it, she thought there were more deputies present than were warranted for a bar fight, but she didn't say anything. She left work on her own, but an inordinate number of officers were taking cigarette breaks at the time.

Again, there was no sign of Thorpe, and Sara drove to the lab the next night feeling slightly more relaxed. Grissom assigned her to work with him as they investigated another break-in. The thief had hit several times, and he was growing bolder. They processed the scene, and she only felt slightly vexed that Grissom wouldn't let her be in a room alone. There was still no sign of her stalker when they returned.

On the third night, Sara was able to exit the car in the lab parking lot without her legs shaking. She was examining evidence when her pager went off. She went to Grissom's office, closing the door when he motioned. He was smiling, but she felt herself tense. She recognized his posture before one of his 'talks'. Sara waited as he went through a preliminary questioning about paperwork that needed to be done before she left for vacation.

"How are you doing?" Grissom eventually asked.

"I'm fine," she answered levelly.

"Good. I have the paperwork for the ASCR conference in New York in May. I'm putting you down for it."

Sara dropped her eyes to the floor quickly. Going to the conference was a enormous opportunity. The lab only sent one CSI a year. Unfortunately, her plans were to be out of Vegas by then. The reservations were expensive and non-refundable. It wasn't fair to let him sign her up.

"You better let someone else go," Sara said.

"Why? It's a great conference. You'll have fun, and it'll fulfill your continuing education credit."

"Grissom, no. You really should let someone else go," she said pointedly. "Greg's never gone. He'd learn a lot there."

"Is there some reason you don't want to go?"

"It's not that," Sara evaded.

"Then why do you want me to send someone else?"

She let out a sigh and directed a half-shrug at him. "I don't think I'm going to be around that week."

"You can take vacation another week," he said in perplexity. "What's the big deal? I'll go ahead and fill out your paperwork."

"Grissom, don't do it," Sara said, her tone harsher than she intended. She licked her lips and lowered her voice. It couldn't be avoided any longer. "I won't be here that week because I'm planning on leaving."

"Leaving," he repeated. Grissom dropped the folder onto a table. His eyes darkened as realization dawned. "You're leaving. You're getting another job. That's why you wanted off next week."

"Yeah."

"You weren't even going to tell me!" he barked accusingly. "You were just going to slip off in the dark."

"That's not true," Sara replied, forcing herself to remain calm. This was already awkward; she didn't want it to become painful. The trouble was that her nerves were still frayed from her repeated run-ins with Thorpe. Grissom's accusations were hurtful and eroding her restraint. "I was going to give you my notice."

"Oh, how nice of you. I really appreciate that."

"Well, it wasn't like I was going to ask you for a recommendation," Sara said with a pointed stare.

Grissom pushed back in his chair and dropped his glasses to his desk. "Is this what this is all about? I can't believe it. You're still upset about that promotion."

"No, I'm not," she barked. "God, you're doing it again. You never learn. This isn't some quirk."

"Well, what's your problem this time?"

"Like you care!" Sara snapped, holding up her hands in mock-surrender. Her anger was barely under control when she stood up. "You know. It doesn't matter. This isn't about you. This isn't some stunt that I'm pulling to get your attention."

"Well, you certainly have it now."

"You know what? I don't want it."

Grissom stared at Sara as her words sank in. His anger started to fade, but the other emotions replacing it were more unsettling. He grimaced as he hissed out a aggravated sigh. Turning around, he picked up his glasses from his desk, and trained his eyes on them as he gathered his thoughts. When he finally looked up, he tried to keep his voice calm, but even he detected his petulant tone.

"What can I do to get you to stay? I don't want you to leave. Is it the pay? Do you want more responsibility?"

"I want out of Vegas, Grissom. I want to get on with my life. Coming here was a mistake," she admitted with a catch in her voice. "I need a better place."

"We're the best lab in the country."

"And there's more to life than work. Don't you get that? I didn't come here because of the damn job."

He shook his head in frustration. "Then what do you expect me to do?"

"Nothing. You finally got that drilled into my head. You're never going to offer me more. Work is too important to you. I know how you feel about that."

Grissom averted his eyes, frowning deeply at her allegation. The fact there was an element of truth to it made the sting worse. "How do you know what I feel? You never asked."

"You know, it doesn't matter what you feel. It doesn't matter what you want or think. The only thing I care about is how you act. And I never know when you're going to be decent to me or ignore me. I'm tired of it."

"And you said this wasn't because of me."

"Whatever," Sara sighed, standing up forcibly. "You're the reason I came to Vegas, and you're part of the reason I want to get the hell out of here. Happy now?"

Both jerked their heads to the door when it opened suddenly. Sofia walked in, asking a question about a case. She stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed the tension. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," Sara stated. She walked to the door, and turned to give Grissom a sharp, parting look. Her voice was filled with a sad resignation. "We're finished."


Sara clinched her fists tightly as she headed back to her evidence. That had gone worse than she had ever imagined was possible. And when it came to her interactions with Grissom, she had a very active imagination. She tried to bury herself in work, but her mind kept drifting back to the fight, wondering how she could have prevented it.

After an hour of examining crime scene reports, she tossed them down disgustedly. A shell casing had been found at the latest break in; the thief had fired a warning shot when a homeowner walked in on the robbery. Ballistics matched it to the gun used in the earlier shootings of the rundown buildings.

"I can't make any sense of this," she muttered. Deciding the fresh air would do her good, Sara gathered her kit and drove to the tenement where the last of the unexplained shootings had occurred. She and Sofia hadn't found anything at the time, but maybe things would fall into place if she re-examined it.

When she entered the building, the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with unwashed flesh assaulted her. A shudder ran through her body, and her pulse started racing. She jumped when a door slammed on an upper floor, her hand dropping to her hip. Her fingers fumbled with the leather strap covering her pistol's handle as she turned to look around.

"Oh, I've got to get a grip on myself. I'm losing it."

With an effort, she took a series of calming breaths, and reminded herself that plenty of people smoked. This building was rundown; it probably hadn't been cleaned in years. Of course it would smell like cigarettes.

Standing back up straight, Sara let out a sigh. Thorpe had given up his threats. She couldn't function if she kept thinking he was trailing her. He would win if that happened. She'd spend the rest of her life jumping at shadows, and she wasn't going to give him that.

It would be easier once she was out of Vegas, Sara told herself. The distance would help put Thorpe out of her mind. It was another reason to add to her list on why she should leave. After her confrontation with Grissom, she knew she couldn't stay. He was hurt, even if he tried to mask it with anger. That hadn't been her intention, but the results were what counted.

Sara gave her head a shake. In two days, she'd be in San Francisco again. After that, she was heading to visit a friend that had taken supervisory position in Portland. She'd never have to deal with Thorpe again. Pointing her flashlight in the direction of the rear hallway used by the shooter, she returned to work.

On an upper landing, the brief flash of a lighter highlighted a mask of rage.


Grissom moved through the hallway determinedly, his hands flexing as his frustration mounted. Where was Sara? He couldn't find her anywhere. About the only rooms he had left unchecked were the restrooms. Thoughts that she was already gone floated on the edge of his consciousness, taunting him cruelly.

She was leaving.

The reality of the situation had finally sunk in, but the shock was still fresh. He'd sat in his office, too stunned to chase after her. Instead, he'd automatically answering Sofia's questions while he tried to comprehend the situation. Now, he knew he had to stop her. He couldn't let Sara leave, especially under the circumstances.

"Who are you looking for, boss?" Hodges inquired.

"Sara."

"She had her kit and was heading out about five minutes ago."

Grissom didn't thank him but retreated to his office. Sitting behind his desk, he rubbed his beard and considered what to do. Sara had been hurt when she left. He needed to rectify things; this wasn't something that could be ignored. The longer he waited, the worse it would become. They had to talk – calmly this time – but he also knew she'd need time to unwind. Maybe he could convince her to have breakfast with him.

With a sigh, Grissom went back to work. He hoped it would distract him from his nagging self-doubts, but he picked up the reports from the earlier shootings half-heartedly. Like Sara, he considered they could hold a clue to their current break-ins. Moving to the Layout Room, he arranged crime scene photos into neat grids, but nothing jumped at him.

Grissom thumbed through the crowd shots quickly, but his blood froze. Going back, he pulled out the previous photo and set it on the table. Grabbing his magnifying glass, he focused on a partial face in the back of the crowd. The shot wasn't the clearest, but a snakelike scar ran down the man's profile.

He reached for the stack of other crowd shots, knocking a folder to he floor in the process. Grissom's pulse skyrocketed when he found another picture of Thorpe at one of the other shootings. Had Thorpe been the shooter? Why? Sara investigated the last one. Thorpe started stalking her after that.

The shootings were a ruse to get her out in the open so he could find her. Sara had gone back to a scene. The only cases she was working were these shootings.

"No," he whispered, frantically searching the pictures from the other scenes.

"Grissom!"

"Not now, Greg!" he barked in reply, his hand reaching for his cell phone. Should he call Sara first or Brass?

"Grissom!"

"Some other time, Greg. I've got things to do," he yelled.

"This is important. It can't wait. I think it involved that creep that was bothering Sara," he said, his anxiety escalating when Grissom turned to him violently. "My robbery case? It's at a grocery store. It's the one by Sara's apartment. The one where she said Thorpe confronted her and the manager chased him out. He was attacked. I'm sure it was Thorpe."

Grissom snatched the photos from the younger CSI's hand. His knees shook as he stared at the first one. The wounds were bleeding heavily, but he could easily make out a fresh, angry scar undulating across the manager's face, running from one cheek to the other.

"Oh, God," Grissom whispered. This couldn't be a coincidence. The knife slash was a mirror image of the one on Thorpe's face. They thought he'd given up, but they'd been wrong. A cold dread settled over him and he looked at Greg with an ashen expression. "Sara's out there."


Sara stepped forward gingerly, keeping her light trained straight ahead. It took all her concentration to keep it from shaking as she moved the other foot. The sound came again. It wasn't her imagination. Someone had crept down the stairs to her left. Fresh cigarette smoke wafted through the air. She swallowed nervously and took another step; an answering one landed in the hallway behind her.

She closed her eyes briefly as she mentally reviewed the layout of the building. This hallway ended in a boarded up doorway. Unless one of the side doors was unlocked, she was trapped. Her free hand slowly slid to her hip and wrapped around the icy-cold grip of her pistol.

Sara jumped as her cell phone started to ring and an evil laughed greeted her. There was no question someone was sneaking up behind her now.

She pulled the gun free and twirled at the same time. Instinctively, her training kicked in and she dropped into a crouch that was supposed to minimize target area. Her hands were shaky, making it hard to keep either the gun or her flashlight steady.

The light reflected off the barrel of another weapon, and Sara fought to keep her breathing steady.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab! Put down your weapon! Now! I'm not kidding. Put it down now."

"Shut up, bitch. I can hear the fear in your voice. You ain't gonna shoot me. You ain't gonna do nothing but scream."

Sara could see Thorpe was holding his arm in front of his eyes, squinting against her light. She stepped back as he came forward, but slipped on some debris on the floor. Landing on one knee painfully, she bit her lip to stop from crying out.

"I said stop!"

"Or what?"

"I'll shoot!"

"Hell, bitch, you can't even stand up. You think I'm scared of you? I'm a Snakeback! We ain't afraid of nobody," Thorpe said. He was waving his gun around, and Sara's eyes frantically tried to track its movements. She hissed a breath, and trained the light in his eyes. She focused on those.

"You're an idiot," she told him, trying to make her voice sound confident. "If you shoot me, the police will haul your ass to jail in a minute. They'll know who did it."

"Do you think I give a shit? You ruined my life. You're going to pay."

"I did what?" Sara sputtered incredulously.

"I been robbing houses on my own. It ain't my fault Curtis got himself killed, but I'm making up to the Browns. Now you got that judge riled up. Dumb cops are bothering the Snakebacks, and they blame me. I'm on the shit list again."

"What do you think will happen if you attack me? The Snakebacks will really get it, then. You'll be dead."

She realized Thorpe was still squinting, but he was aiming at her light; it was a beacon for him. She instantly jerked the flashlight away from her body, holding it off to the side. It only took a moment to adjust it so it was shining in his face again. Her arms were trembling. Images of Pamela Adler lying unresponsive on a bed merged with the violent rape drawing he left at her apartment.

"You damn bitch! I'm dead anyway. I'm gonna make you pay."

Thorpe was moving forward and she heard the gun fire. Her finger squeezed the trigger, and Sara closed her eyes.

TBC