Dusk hung thickly grey over the roadside, punctuated by the bright white, blue, and red lights of squad cars. Yellow tape fluttered in the cool breeze that stirred the rain-soaked air, and the moisture still clinging to the tree branches. Grissom stood a few feet in from the road, backlit in the harsh glow, tracing his flashlight across the body. The woman was lying on her side, wearing only a bra and underwear. A few strands of her long, straight dark hair floated across her face, thinly veiling her pale skin and full lips. She was young—maybe under eighteen. Ligature marks cruelly encircled her neck, and cuts and bruises covered her body. His flashlight lingered at her neck, revealing five small, parallel cuts.

"So we meet again," Grissom said quietly, the body's distorted image reflecting in his glasses and clear blue eyes.

"Well, it's definitely our M.O." Grissom turned to see Brass standing at his right, gazing grimly at the body. "First officer tells me that an amorous teenage couple found her. Pulled over in their favorite spot, and, well, I guess this ruined the mood. They're clear." He tilted his head, peering at the victim's face. "I saw this girl in the missing person's reports. Samantha Guerin, from Henderson. She was reported a week ago today. I thought she was a potential victim," he added with a sigh.

Grissom nodded absently. "He's accelerating." He stepped closer to the body and squatted down beside it. "He kidnapped her right after strangling Jamie Martin."

Brass nodded, flexing his fingers. "Serials do that. I wonder what the rush is, though."

"Who knows why anybody does anything," Grissom shrugged, studying the distinctive ligature marks.

A car door slammed, and Brass turned to see that Sara had arrived. She stopped beside him, kit in hand, her expression strained. "Damn it," she spat sharply, lowering her flashlight.

"Sara," Grissom warned, without looking up.

Brass frowned at Grissom, lip curling in disgust. She had a right to be upset—the killer they were hunting had taken another victim. But Grissom suppressed his own emotion, so of course he expected that same cold aloofness from others. Sighing slightly, Brass gently patted Sara's shoulder, understanding in his eyes. She gave him a faint grateful smile, then moved to the other side of the body.

As Sara began taking photographs, Grissom paused near the victim's thigh, his flashlight catching on something. Frowning, he took a pair of long tweezers from his kit and reached into the shallow wound. He withdrew what looked like a small piece of glass.

"Now that's new," Brass remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah." Grissom slipped it into an evidence bag. "I'll get it to Trace. Maybe we'll get lucky and find something unusual."

Sara tilted her head thoughtfully, looking over the scene as a whole. "Her body is closer to the road than the last victim."

"The killer wants them to be found," Brass suggested. "Feeds his ego, maybe."

"I think it's also about risk," Grissom commented. "By taking his victims from their homes, keeping them for a week, then dumping them in fairly public places, he's increasing his chances of getting caught. It gives him more of a thrill, and heightens his feeling of power. Which is what sadistic sexual crime is all about."

"Power and possession," Sara recited quietly. "The victim is dehumanized and dominated, completely at his mercy. The killer becomes god."

"I guess that makes us devils," Brass muttered, gazing down the road. He noticed the grey media vans barreling toward the scene, and rolled his eyes with disdain. "She's been dead for less than three hours, and the vultures are already circling."

Grissom glanced over his shoulder. "I'm too busy to talk to them."

"You want me to be the sacrificial lamb, as usual?" Brass asked, tensely sarcastic.

"Yeah, could you?" Grissom replied, not bothering to hide his festering irritation. "You look prettier on TV than I do."

Brass' lip curled, a sharp spark glittering in his eyes. Squaring his shoulders, he turned and walked toward the swarming journalists.

Sara raised an eyebrow at their exchange. "Did I miss something, Grissom?"

As if he had not heard her, Grissom stood without answering, an oddly puzzled expression on his face. "I'm bringing this glass to Trace," he stated absently. "Why don't you finish up the one-to-ones and then keep working on the victimology."

"Okay," Sara returned quietly, frowning. She had already taken all the necessary photos.

Gazing over the scene for a final time, Grissom nodded vaguely, then turned and left.

Sara started packing up her kit, and glanced over to where Brass was standing, engulfed by eager reporters. Microphones bristled like cactus spines in front of him, his strong silhouette outlined sharply by the glaring lights. She allowed herself a slight smile at his confident answers and firmly repeated "No comment." She knew Brass hated the media's hype and sensationalism, the way they sought out stories to increase their nightly ratings and personal fame. He was a fierce advocate of truth, and the polished evening news was sometimes far from it.

Closing her kit with a snap, Sara stood and walked toward her CSI-standard-issue blue SUV. She wondered why Grissom was in a bad mood this time, and why he and Brass were suddenly not getting along. Frowning, her mind traced back over the past few days. She realized the last time she had spoken to Brass alone was when he had made his revelation about Lurie's interrogation. The shared knowledge made her vaguely uneasy, like when he found out about her issues with alcohol. But he never told anyone about her problems. He trusted her to do what was best, just as she trusted him. It was a comfort.

But the look in his eyes.

Sara paused, lowering her gaze with a sigh. The only time she had seen such mingled fire and sorrow was when she looked in the mirror. She knew Brass protected her because he understood.

As she opened her car door, a question from one of the reporters caught her attention.

"Captain, do you have any information on the message from the killer that was received by the Las Vegas Review-Journal earlier today?"

Sara paused, frowning sharply. What message? "I can't comment on the details of an active investigation," Brass replied without hesitation. "I assure you, we are doing all we can to find this killer and bring him to justice. Thank you," he added with a final nod, then turned and walked toward Sara, leaving the media to their speculation.

"What message from the killer?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as he stopped beside her.

"Damned if I know," Brass shrugged. "But we're going to find out." He tilted his head toward his sleek unmarked car, smiling for her through his weariness. "Feel like a Thursday evening drive?"

Grissom gazed at the dead young woman on the steel table, blinking hard in an attempt to increase his focus. He was distracted, his mind going in two different directions. Damn that Brass, he cursed mentally. Of course, personal issues were always in his thoughts somewhere, but he tried not to deal with them too often. Though he loved studying the tiniest fiber under a microscope, he kept his feelings at a safe distance. Emotions were too fickle, too dangerous. He would deal with Sara in some way, eventually. Still, Grissom wondered why Brass had confronted him at that time. Had he been talking to Sara? The thought made Grissom uneasy.

"Long shift, Gil?" Doctor Robbins, glancing at him across the autopsy table.

Grissom glanced up. "Sorry, Albert. I was just, uh, thinking. About the case." He straightened and cleared his throat. "So, anything different?"

"She's exactly like the last victim," Robbins shrugged. "Strangulation with a belt as ligature, repeated object rape, physical abuse, no food for about a week. The only difference is, she's marked with five cuts." The medical examiner shook his head with a curious frown. "Isn't marking victims like this unusual?"

"Any kind of signature is unusual, actually," Grissom admitted. "Serials often have no signature, and use a varying M.O. It's a common misconception that killers always kill the same way."

"So you have yourself a rarity," Robbins nodded. "If anything, this attack was more brutal than the last, especially the rape. Remarkably vicious tears and bruising."

"And she felt all of it. He wanted her to." Grissom shook his head slowly. "I've seen too many rapist murderer cases, but sometimes the level of violence just amazes me." He started slightly as his pager beeped. Withdrawing it from his belt, he glanced at it quickly, then slid it back in place. "Hodges," Grissom stated apologetically, then slipped off his lab coat and hurried out the door.

Sara gazed at her reflection in the dark window, watching the lights flicker through it like fireflies skimming over still water. She always liked riding in a car at night. Something about it was peaceful, and made everything seem beautiful in a strange, sharp way. It felt safe.

"Nickel for your thoughts."

Sara turned to her left, pushing back a strand of dark hair. "Inflation," Brass shrugged with a warm smile, glancing back out the windshield. She let herself smile back, trying to fill the empty, shadowed corners in her mind.

"Actually," she replied with vague embarrassment, "I was thinking about how I used to like riding in a car at night, when I was little. I remember thinking the cars' lights looked like strings of diamonds and rubies, in some princess' castle somewhere." Sara shrugged slightly. "Silly, huh."

"Not at all," Brass smiled, hand sliding along the steering wheel as they turned. "You were a little girl, Sara. Little girls see jewels and castles everywhere. It's the beauty of childhood."

Sara bit her lip, forcing back the sharp, metallic memory that lingered in her senses. It always smelled like copper. Like blood. "It wasn't beautiful," she said faintly.

Brass glanced at her, concern flooding his dark blue eyes. He had long suspected that something had happened to Sara, but never sought it out, assuming she would tell him if she wanted him to know. His jaw tensed, the thought of someone having hurt her cutting him like a cold knife.

"It's okay," Sara said, attempting to reassure him. "I, uh, talked it over with my counselor, and with Grissom, actually. Just saying it to somebody was cathartic, even if they didn't really offer much help." She shifted slightly, dashing the moisture from her deep brown eyes. "I'm at the point that I need to move past it—to get on with my life, not to think about it. It's just . . . hard to let go."

Brass nodded slowly, his gaze soft. "For whatever it's worth," he said gently, "I'm here if you need anything. Anything."

"I know." Her voice was just above a whisper, weakened by the strength of his eyes. I guess you always have been.

"I'm hoping you didn't page me to say it's ordinary glass." Grissom folded his arms with a raised eyebrow.

Hodges tilted his head with a slightly arrogant smile. "Please." He gestured to the microscope, and Grissom peered into it. "On this side, you can look straight through to the blue circle on the paper underneath. Now you see it . . ." He reached beneath the lens with long tweezers and flipped over the shard. "Now you don't."

"One-way glass, or mirror glass," Grissom remarked, noticing the reflection of the lens. "Oh, and excellent display," he added wryly. "Pretty soon you'll have photo collages and fancy diagram posters, like Greg."

"This is a crime lab, not an art studio," Hodges said, rolling his eyes. "But Sanders would have such unconventional methods."

Grissom pulled back from the scope, ignoring the trace analyst. "This raises the question of what one-way glass is doing on our vic."

"That's not for me to answer," Hodges shrugged. "However, being the hardworking and devoted employee that I am, I looked up distributors and manufacturers of one-way glass in Nevada." He pointed to a sheet of paper on a nearby desk. "There are about half a dozen. You could get a sample from each place, and I can compare densities and other properties, maybe find a possible match. It's a wild goose chase."

"Ah," Grissom corrected, "but at least there's a goose we're chasing, not just a ghost." He snatched up the paper and started toward the doorway. "This is the second time you've impressed me, David Hodges."

"A raise would be sufficient thanks," Hodges called after him. "Sir."

"We received the letter this morning," stated Stuart Williams, editor-in-chief of the Las Vegas Review-Journal. He paced nervously in front of the closed blue drapes, casting sharp shadows in the coldly lit, modern office. Brass and Sara stood by the desk. "The opinions editor was disturbed by its contents, so she brought it to me. We're going to run it in tomorrow's paper as part of our full coverage of the Silver State Strangler."

"Catchy," Brass frowned. "And when exactly were you going to call us?"

"Let me guess," Sara suggested with a raised eyebrow. "After tomorrow's paper came out."

Williams threw up his hands. "This hasn't happened to me before. But I kept the letter and the envelope it came in." He went over to his desk and withdrew an envelope from the top drawer.

Sara slipped on her latex gloves. "We'll also need the fingerprints of anyone who touched it, so we can rule you out and identify any possible prints from the killer."

"Sure," the editor nodded quickly. "Anything you need." He handed Sara the envelope, and she held it so Brass could see it over her shoulder.

"Henderson," Brass commented, noting the postmark. "We'll check out the post office later."

Nodding, Sara withdrew the letter from its envelope. It was a sheet of plain white paper, the message typed in nondescript letters.

I applaud your efforts. You've connected some dots, but you're still too far. I suggest you don't try getting any closer.

I've used this one up, and I won't keep the next one waiting. My trinities keep spinning—seeing, breathing, dying—all in my hands. You people don't know what life is, not until you've squeezed out every drop of it with someone's breath. Each time I become more powerful. I've done it many times. It feeds me.

Nothing you can do will stop this cycle, and if you try too hard there will be consequences. Keep looking behind you. I suggest you keep an eye on your bitch, too. At least she's not my type.

Not with a bang but a whimper

Sara folded the paper, her eyes solemn. She glanced over her shoulder, startled by the closeness of Brass' dark blue gaze. "We'll, uh, get this to Questioned Documents at the crime lab," she said to the editor, turning back to face him.

"If you receive anything else, send it to LVPD immediately," Brass ordered.

"Yes, of course, Captain," Williams agreed quickly. "We'll be in contact with you."

As they reached the parking lot, Sara felt Brass' arm protectively against her back. "I'm okay," she lied, her voice quiet.

Brass stopped and turned to face her, his face sharply lined in the streetlights' glow. He sighed deeply, weariness and fierce concern melding in his eyes. "I . . . I'll be looking out for you," he assured her. "I won't let anything happen."

"Don't worry, Jim," Sara said softly. He stared at her for a moment, then turned to unlock the car. She glanced up at the sky, the stars hidden above the city's glare. She knew her words were hollow.

"Why exactly are you calling me while I'm at a crime scene?"

Grissom leaned back in his desk chair, raising an eyebrow at Catherine's tone coming from his cellphone. "We got the victim's things from Reno, and I was wondering if you'd talked to Nick or Warrick yet."

"Gil." He could hear sirens and people talking in the background. "Right now I'm looking at three 419s, all execution-style gunshots to the head. I've got screaming family members clawing at me, plus eyewitnesses. P.D. already has possible suspects to check out. I can't spare either of my guys."

"Well, did you ask if—"

"Yeah, I asked. They'd love to help, but we're kinda booked." Catherine paused, and Grissom thought he heard her talking to someone, then her voice returned. "I'm really sorry, but I'm maxed out, too. I gotta go."

"Okay, Cath," Grissom sighed as she hung up. He knew she had her own difficult case to deal with. Still, he missed her company, and the old team. Employees' gambling, sleeping with prostitutes, paternity test scandals and "gift" checks—somehow, that stuff had been simpler. Frowning, Grissom put away his cellphone and got up from the desk. He grumbled darkly to himself as he left his office and started down the hall. As he rounded a corner, he crashed into Sara.

"Hey," she greeted, then paused as she noticed his expression. "Something wrong?"

"Where have you been, Sara?" he asked, voice sounding harsher than he intended. "We finally got the stuff from Reno, and I've got nobody here to look it over."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "You always tell me to run with the case. I was with Brass, following a—"

"Oh, so now he needs a sidekick." Grissom rolled his eyes and kept marching down the hall. "He has the whole homicide department. He doesn't need to steal my CSI."

"We were following a lead," Sara snapped defensively, catching up to him easily with her long strides.

"A lead on what? I took the glass, and there was nothing else at that crime scene." He glanced over his shoulder, surprised at her firm tone. "You should have called me," he added, a vaguely possessive glint in his eyes.

"I was doing what I always do," Sara frowned. "If you wanted me here that badly, you could have called."

"Well, I'm your supervisor," Grissom stated, "so you need to tell me when you're going to deviate from my instructions."

As they reached the evidence room, Sara paused by the edge of the table and folded her arms. "What's your problem, Grissom?" she asked quietly. "Why are you so ticked off at Brass?"

Damn it, Grissom growled mentally as he started separating the evidence bags. "Call it the stress of the case," he said instead, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, I'm not ticked off. This lab has work that needs to get done, and I'm trying to make sure somebody does it."

"Of course. The lab." Sara rolled her eyes, but Grissom either ignored it or did not notice. "Aren't you going to ask what we found?"

"What did we find, Sara?" Grissom sighed with exasperation, his tone slightly mocking.

Without speaking, she held up the letter in its neat plastic evidence bag. Grissom frowned and took it from her. As he read the message, the irritation drained from his face, replaced by grim solemnity. A cold, visceral memory of a dark-haired woman, throat slashed in her tiled shower, shouted at him from a corner of his mind. The butterfly on her back had been red, like the blood surrounding her. It was too close. "This psychopath is threatening you," he growled when he finished reading.

Sara nodded, suppressing the cold that tingled her back. "Serial killers often threaten law enforcement. I still have to do my job."

He sighed, leaning against the shelves behind him. "Well, you should stay in the lab as much as possible, and make sure you have an officer nearby when you're at a scene."

"I'll be careful," Sara assured him, then went on, "I'm bringing the letter to Q.D. I already fumed it—there are no prints except from the two editors from the Review-Journal, where it was sent. First glance says it's just a generic printer, nothing traceable."

Grissom glanced over the letter again, forcing himself to focus on the case. "'The Hollow Men,'" he muttered, eyes lingering on the last line.

"Excuse me?"

"This last part is a quote from T.S. Eliot's poem 'The Hollow Men,'" Grissom explained as he pointed to the line. "'This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper.'"

"A serial killer who likes poetry." Sara raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. In between victims he visits the library." Grissom paused, adjusting his glasses. "Well, the shard from the vic was one-way glass. I'm going to contact some companies—we may be able to determine the distributor."

Sara frowned. "So he knows forensics, uses chloroform, and has one-way glass."

"Odd, I know," Grissom nodded. "And the glass was inside the victim's wound, suggesting that it created that wound. It wasn't transfer from his clothes or something. She was somewhere with one-way glass, either already broken or broken while she was there."

"But why? What does it signify?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. We'll chase it, anyway. Maybe we'll find something." Shrugging, he added, "Anyway, I'm going to start looking over this stuff. We're focusing on planners, calendars, journals—anything that has people the victims knew, or places they may have gone. We're just looking for some connection."

"I'll help," Sara nodded. "First thing tomorrow I'm going to see Samantha Guerin's apartment, right after we talk to her family."

"Yeah, I'm going to see the family, too. Keeps things in perspective, without getting too involved." He returned the letter to her and glanced over the bags again. "When you go to the apartment, make sure you bring a uniform."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Am I allowed to take Brass?"

Grissom glanced at her over his glasses. "Yes," he frowned. "He's a good cop. Besides, you get along." He knew he sounded too sarcastic, but he did not care anymore.

"Yeah, we do." Shaking her head, Sara turned and started down the hall toward Questioned Documents. Grissom noticed her lack of sarcasm and glanced up, but she had already gone. He looked back at the evidence and took a deep breath.

The case. Just worry about the case.