Chapter Thirty-Three

II

The sun was speaking loudly of day, but Warrick's mind was whispering of night time even so, talking of sleep and beds and darkness and he had to fight so as to not listen. No rest for the wicked or those who chased the wicked and so, he stayed faithfully stayed up and tried not to walk into walls or get too juicy a daydream.

That wasn't as easy as it sounded. Catherine's kiss was still burning on his lips as he stopped by the AV lab and collected the magnifications he'd asked for and went to find Grissom. Mind on work, not colleagues, that should help.

"Hey Grissom!" he called, poking his head into the QD room and wincing at his own loud tone. "Where was Catherine off to?"

"She and Sara are checking out another Keyes' property," Grissom said indifferently, almost too indifferently. Warrick wasn't fooled, but he only nodded.

"What are we looking at?"

"Anna's letter to her father," Grissom replied. "She apparently researched as much about her father as she could. There are references to his life, his family, Las Vegas..."

He shook his head, if in puzzlement or a sense of sadness for what never was, Warrick wasn't sure.

"I got the magnifications of the photo you wanted," Warrick said after a moment, handing over the envelope. "Definitely Las Vegas PD. Seventies, early eighties style. We're thinking he borrowed it?"

"Yeah," Grissom confirmed. "But from who?"

"Any way we can know if this friend went with him to Norway?" Warrick asked. "I mean, Alan must have been fairly young then and being a rich American boy, maybe he took some old high school friends on a trip to Europe."

"I sent Nick and Brass to track down his class list for possible older friends already," Grissom replied. "Though perhaps... Come, Warrick, let's chase a wild hunch."

"Cool."

He followed Grissom into his office, taking a quick glance at the fish. No Alan Keyes up there yet and with luck and skill, there never would be. The office had changed over the years, but it remained very Grissom, almost more than the man himself. Strange, that.

The man himself was already on the phone, apparently talking to a Norwegian police officer. Warrick only half listened, expecting Grissom to draw his attention when it was important. His mind was already taking the opportunity to half sleep, sinking into the darker corners and curling up, by the feel of it.

"Mrs. Jensen," Grissom said loudly, and Warrick snapped to. "I realise it is late there, and I apologise, but as I assured the warden this is important. Gil Grissom, Las Vegas crime lab. Yes. Yes, of course you remember. We are looking into a matter concerning Alan Keyes. Yes. Yes. I was wondering if you remembered why he was in Norway. Friends, you say? You don't happen to... Ah. Jacob, Frank and Christopher..."

Warrick made a quick note as Grissom spoke, circling each name. A possibility, a lead, a clue. An end-

"Thank you, Mrs. Jensen," Grissom went on. "You have been helpful. I will make sure the Norwegian authorities know of your co-operation. Yes... Yes, I will send your best wishes to Miss Sidle. Goodbye."

He hung up, giving Warrick a satisfied looked. "Anna's grandmother remembers it being four American boys. Alan, Jacob, Frank and Christopher. Now let's find Nick and see if he's got that class list."

Warrick trailed after him again, envying Grissom his energy and longing for a deep, soft bed with Catherine next to him. For now, he'd have to look for another cup of coffee.

Nick and Brass were both in Brass's office, Brass on the phone and Nick flipping through papers.

"Class lists?" Grissom asked. "Got any Jacob, Frank or Chris?"

"Start with high school graduating class," Warrick injected. "I still get drunk with some of my friends from my graduating class."

"That Leonard guy?" Nick asked as he skimmed the list, smiling faintly. "That guy should not be allowed near tequila or vodka."

"Tell that to him."

"I would, if I didn't think he'd kick my ass for it. Ah, here's a Frank Brinning. And a Chris Freeman. No Jacob."

"That's a start," Grissom replied, Warrick dutifully adding last names to the circled names on his pad. "Nick, see if any of the other lists has those names as well."

At that moment, Brass hung up, rolling his eyes at the sky. "Spare me from departmental hiccups. I send my officers to watch the scene, they get sent away by some asshole in the drug squad, who promises to let the CSIs know, but doesn't tell me. I'd like to let him know a few things."

Grissom looked up sharply. "They got sent away from the scene I sent Catherine and Sara to?"

"What's this asshole's name?" Warrick cut in, already seeing the end of Grissom's mind travel and feeling a sharp pain awaken his mind.

"Brinning," Brass replied and for a moment, time seemed frozen with a thousand bloody scenarios settling in the room all at once.

"Get some officers there now!" Grissom commanded sharply, already halfway out of the room. Warrick sprinted after, hardly feeling his heart or his body, only the scream in his mind. Alan's friend and Catherine, Catherine who Alan had gone after, Catherine who had to live or... Or. Ororororor.

"Hey Warrick!" Nick called after him, but he didn't listen, merely kept up with Grissom, feeling time as a noose around his neck. They could already be at the scene. They could already be dead.

His hands had found his gun without thinking, feeling the comfortable shape of steel that could avenge, blood for blood, death for death.

'Fight, dammit,' he thought, as if that thought could reach Catherine and fill her. She had to fight. She had to live. Both of them, Catherine and Sara. Fight. Fight.

Grissom had found his car and started it with a roar, Warrick barely getting in before it skid off. Grissom looked so intent it hurt to look at him, hands gripping the wheel like claws, but even more deadly. Warrick didn't think he'd ever seen Grissom in such a state and he wondered if he'd ever felt that way himself.

"I shouldn't have sent her," Grissom muttered, shaking his head.

'Sent them!' Warrick's mind screamed, but he said nothing, merely watched the road as they dived ahead of cars, the road seemingly endless. If ever he did sleep, the road would be all he could see and never get off. Endless, never-ending road, the pain driving. All there was.

They finally did skid to a halt, the house silent, a car already there, but no officers. Warrick didn't even suggest waiting, his gun already firm in his hand. Grissom yanked out his own, looking white. The door was open ahead of them, and sounds spoke of some life and fighting. Warrick didn't much think, only bolted in, nearly tripping over a body, fearing, dreading, hoping, feeling nothing.

A male, he registered, then looked up. Catherine stood upright, was the first thing he saw. Alive. There was blood in her hair and down her shirt and in her shaking hands, she held a gun. Sara was fighting a male that could only be Alan Keyes, who was clutching his own gun, trying to keep it aimed at Sara.

All three in the room paused for a moment as they registered the new arrivals. Catherine looked relieved, Sara seemed to only have eyes for Grissom, meeting his gaze. Grissom seemed frozen, gun not even up, only staring.

"Give it up, Alan," Warrick said, feeling a part of him jump in and take charge as Grissom hesitated. "It's over now."

"You again," Alan muttered.

"Me again. Let her go and drop your gun or I will kill you here and now."

"Warrick..." Catherine said softly. "Don't..."

"If I don't kill him, he's always gonna haunt you," he said tightly, gun still raised.

"If you kill him, he's always gonna haunt you," she replied, and for a moment, he felt her gaze fade the anger.

"I got nothing to live for," Alan cut in, still clutching a now still Sara.

"You still want to live, don't you? You can live and dream of all the things you want. Anna. Your family. You die, you don't even have the dreams anymore. Let her go," Warrick urged. "Let her go."

For a moment, Alan looked distant and Sara took the moment to kick low. Whimpering, Alan let go just long enough and she wriggled free, leaping out of his reach. She breathed hard, still staring at Grissom, who was staring back. Alan seemed to fall apart, sinking down, gun falling from his grasp, sorrow radiating from him.

"Anna..."

And in the distance, a siren gave a long, mournful cry.

II

The sun felt fainter, somehow, as Warrick stood still and let it warm him. Behind him, he could hear Sara give her statement in a cool, detached voice, Grissom hovering nearby, still not speaking, almost as if he were afraid that would open a torrent and drowning everything.

Warrick couldn't say he blamed him. He could feel a violent river of emotions within himself, but at the moment he was too tired to be swept away.

Over now. And yet not. Aftermath remained.

He found Catherine sitting at the back of the open ambulance, clothes changed. Nick had probably collected them. Yet more evidence against Alan, as if they needed it. But there was still blood on her hands and in her hair and she would need a shower before she could see Lindsey.

"Hey," he said, sitting down next to her, watching the car taking Alan Keyes away. For a moment, Warrick almost felt pity. Distantly, he thought about fathers. His own, a ghost. Catherine's, a ghost materialised, a killer. Lindsey's, a sometime asshole, but missed in death nevertheless. Anna's, a killer, but a suffering human too. And maybe himself one of these days, perhaps adopted, perhaps for real. A father.

"I managed to get that cop's gun," Catherine said after a moment, interrupting his thoughts. "When his attention was on Sara."

"You did well," he assured her. She just shook her head.

"I made a mistake. I knew something was wrong. We shouldn't have gone in there."

He could lie and tell her she didn't and maybe she would even believe him. But he could feel his own mistakes piling in the back of his mind, echoes of the past that lived on in the present. Deny them and they gained hold of you, perhaps even becoming dreams and obsessions instead. Remember them and you were stronger, as long as you didn't let them haunt you. Always the balance to find.

"I know," he said instead. "It doesn't matter. We're all human. We all make mistakes. We all move on."

'Always the aftermath,' he thought, lingering ahead, ready to be grasped, fought, sorted, but for now, just another thing waiting.

A breath and she leaned against him, her hair unkempt, make-up smeared, dark circles under her eyes, blood in her hair and yet she'd never been more beautiful. He could feel her heartbeats echo with his own, a rhythm of life, each beat making the present forever. No tomorrow. Just today, struggling free from the grasp of yesterday, beating steadfastly on against a horizon that never was.