Chapter Eight

He had not known doom could be a child's voice.

He had been sleeping; the dream had been flimsy and unsubstantial and almost faded, like a memory of dream replayed rather than a dream itself. There had been sun and laughing and childhood recollections remade and he had enjoyed the feel of it, even as faint as it had been. At first, he had thought the shrill of phone merely a part, though unwelcome and loud. It had persisted and the dream had died, leaving a tired mind and a fumbled attempt to find the phone. He had already decided on how to murder Greg if it had been him calling from Norway when he answered, but the voice had not been Greg's.

"Warrick? It's... It's Lindsey."

He had not known doom could be a child's voice, tinged with fear.

"Lindsey?" he breathed, suddenly very awake and tossing off the bed covers. "Is something wrong?"

"Mom didn't come home."

He stood up and felt the world fall on him, crushing into his bones, filling his marrow. He couldn't think for a second, merely stood and breathed, listening to Lindsey's breath on the other end.

"Warrick?"

"I'm here. Did she call and say she'd be late, or...?" He trailed off, sucking in a deep breath.

"She called and said she'd be right home and I waited and I tried to call and she didn't answer and I'm alone and..." Lindsey rambled, sounding more a child than ever, yet there was a ghost of Catherine in her voice.

"I'm gonna be right over, okay Lindsey?"

"Okay."

She hung up and he closed his eyes for a brief, brief second, summoning strength and cool. It was probably nothing. Maybe Catherine had come across an accident or something similar. There could be a thousand logical reasons why she was incommunicado. A thousand simple explanations to getting sidetracked.

'Then why are you so worried?' a little voice whispered and he felt a chill down his spin. Even if Lindsey was storming into her teenage years, Catherine wouldn't just leave her child like that.

He tried Catherine's number himself, and every ring was seconds of eternity. No answer.

He didn't remember dressing, but soon he found himself charging out and finding his car. He clutched the phone so hard his hands started hurting, but it took some of his mind away from another pain that was tearing through. Already, an image of Catherine as Holly was haunting his mind. He hadn't been there and Holly had died. He hadn't been there and Catherine was gone. So many ways to die in this town... A thousand simple explanations paled in comparison to that and his heartbeats felt so very, very loud.

Lindsey was standing at the steps as he peeled his car in, a white ghost in his car's headlights more than a girl. No sign of Catherine's car. The neighbourhood was mostly dark and silent, but the lights of Las Vegas glimmered, outshining the moon.

Lindsey didn't approach him, merely stood as a statue of marble as he knelt down and met her gaze. "Lindsey?"

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"We don't know that," he replied, and even thought it was a truth, it tasted bitterly of lie on his tongue. "Come on, let's go inside, you'll freeze."

The house felt quiet and dark, as if it too missed Catherine's presence. He knew it was an illusion of his mind, but that didn't make the feeling any less real. Only a few lights were on in the living room, where a TV still flickered its bright visions.

"I was waiting," Lindsey said in ways of explanation, sounding slight defensive, probably for watching TV so late. He merely nodded.

"Did your mom say anything that might indicate where she was when you spoke to her?"

"She said she'd be home soon and that she'd get some pizza for us."

"Is there anywhere she usually gets them from?"

She paused at his question, brow frowned. "There's a place a few blocks down - I don't remember the name."

"Cool. Hey listen, you stay here a while, I'm gonna make some calls, all right?"

She nodded and he could feel her gaze on his as he retreated to the hallway and dialled Nick's number. An answering machine greeted him and he left a short message, outlining the basic events. Brass, on the other hand, replied with a more than a little annoyance in his voice.

"Brass, hey."

"Rick, this is way too late to be calling unless it's important."

"It is," Warrick replied quietly and quickly explained the situation. Brass listened, grumpiness visibly fading from his voice as the tale progressed and he promised to put the word out there to keep an eye out for Catherine's car, unofficially for now, given it hadn't been twenty-four hours and they had no real sign of a crime.

"I'm sure she's okay, Warrick," Brass said after a moment, but Warrick could hear the lie there too. A comforting lie, but still a lie.

"Yeah. I'll call you later."

He hung up and made one more call, after which he returned to the living room, Lindsey watching his return with dark eyes. Some many comforting lies he could give her, but she would know them for what they were.

"You know Archie from the lab, right? He's gonna come over and stay with you. I'm gonna head for that pizza place and see if your mom was there. You'll be okay meanwhile?"

"I'm a grown girl," she snapped and for a moment, there was fire in her eyes. He almost smiled, knowing that fire very well.

"You are. I'm glad you called me. I'll find her," he promised and made it to be a truth for all the empty lie it usually was. He would.

She nodded solemnly, another gesture that reminded him so of Catherine a thousand memories flashes across his eyes. He squeezed her shoulder gently and left, only now feeling the chilly air outside and realising he hadn't brought a jacket. But in the east, the horizon promised the sun's warmth soon enough.

He found the pizza place easily enough, but no one there could confirm having seen Catherine. She could have called in and been by so quick no one had noticed, but still, he felt tension crawl up his neck. He plotted out the most likely route she would have taken from the CSI lab to there and drove it back and forth, to no avail. Next, he started circling out from the pizza place, paying attention to any parked cars.

Nothing.

Nick returned his call and agreed to start a search on his end, too, voice sounding as worried as Warrick felt. He couldn't lose her, couldn't let Lindsey lose her.

And ever, a conversation between him and Grissom replayed itself in his mind.

"I blew it."

"Yeah. But you're not the one who's paying for it."

A piece in the mosaic of his life. A pattern.

He wasn't quite sure why he suddenly found himself driving to Georgina James's crime scene. His tired mind just seemed to run on autopilot and there was where he ended up. It was still taped off, though not under watch, and he wondered. Could Catherine have followed a hunch on her way home or just have wanted to see the scene again?

The crime scene tape had been cut, but the house was empty and silent. Catherine could have been there, but so could others. But still, if she had been there, where could she have driven next? Or had she met someone there and been incapacitated and brought somewhere else? In her car, maybe?

He started circling outwards, driving until the road seemed endless and forever and it hurt to be still awake, but he couldn't imagine sleeping. This was a nightmare as surely dark alive as a dreamt one, anyway.

Light pink had torched the clouds when he finally spotted it, parked in front of a garage at a lone house and for a second, he believed it an illusion from looking too long. But it was still there on second look, the front licence plate visible in the pale light.

"Brass. I found her car!" he barked into the phone the moment it answered and gave the best address estimate he could and hung up without further ado.

The car screeched as he pulled violently over and he jumped out, glad he'd had enough sense to pick up the gun. It felt a comforting weight as he clutched it, looking into the driver's seat and finding it empty. No sign of blood, to his relief. The garage was unlocked and he pushed the garage door up and found another car there, filling up the space. Probably why Catherine's car was outside, though why it hadn't been dumped was a good question. Lack of time, belief she wouldn't be missing yet, lack of opportunity?

Boxes were tossed around, as well as what he assumed was Catherine's field kit. As he slipped carefully further in, he finally saw her, her body dropped on the ground. He hurriedly knelt down next to her, taking in her closed eyes and bruises across her arms. He felt relief so strong it was pain to see her chest rise and fall. She was alive. It was quickly replaced by anger as he took in her bruises and he couldn't help but brush a hand across her cheek. She didn't stir.

He felt the cold of metal against the back of his neck and froze. He knew the feel of a barrel against skin and he supposed he should have expected it.

"You shouldn't be here," a male voice said, sounding almost familiar.

"Neither should she," Warrick replied calmly, not moving a muscle.

"Oh, but she should. She's gonna help me answer some questions."

"Hey, I'm with the crime lab too. Maybe I can answer them."

"Tell me why my daughter is dead," the voice said, shaking and filled with such grief it hurt to listen to.

"Your daughter?" Warrick asked, edging his head slightly away, keeping his eyes on Catherine's face. She made no sign of awareness of her surroundings, but it was a comfort to simply see her breathe.

"My daughter," the voice confirmed, bitter sorrow in it. "I need to know. I need to..."

He trailed off, but Warrick could feel the unspoken words and sentiment.

Redemption. Redemption from the dead, redemption for being alive.

"Who's your daughter?" he asked casually, but only silence answered. Brass would get some officers there pretty soon, surely. Only a matter of time. "Hey man, let's talk."

The gun withdrew for a moment. Then it came crashing down against his head and he fell.

The garage light was bright on his face, but the light seemed to be brighter still inside his head, like pain had become a colour. Darkness seeped into him as he felt Catherine next to him and his last thought was irrational and comforting all the same, a strange thought of redemption.

'At least I'm here.'