Dim light shone coldly into the sleek modern office, grey from the gathering clouds. Stuart Williams flicked on a lamp with a blue glass shade, hands moving nervously. "I don't know why this guy keeps sending these messages to my newspaper," he muttered. "We want information, but this is starting to creep me out."

Sara picked up the sheet of paper with her slender gloved hands. "Mr. Williams, one objective of a serial killer is creating fear. It makes him feel more powerful. Sending it to civilians, like a newspaper, has a greater effect."

"But the messages are directed at you guys. Why send them to us?"

"When we catch him, I'll ask," Brass replied. "If you'd prefer, you can tell your post office to forward them to us."

"Okay," Williams nodded, then glanced around as if he was disoriented. "I need to get back to work. We're doing a big political story right now—married senator's been running around with some showgirls. Big scandal. Anyway, I'll call you if we get another letter." Then the editor darted out, nearly slamming the door behind him.

"Muckrakers," Brass muttered.

Sara glanced at him and smiled slightly. Their smiles faded, and he sighed and moved closer. Sara held the letter so they could both read.

Still you persist. I don't know what you're thinking. Is it that you want to get rid of her, but having me do it is easier for you? You people aren't thinking. You'll continue with your messed-up investigation, but you won't drop the thing that's compromising it. She has no discipline, no control. She's grown up damaged, so she doesn't understand the submissive role of women. Her bitch mother screwed that up forever. Little slut's probably waiting around to kill one of you, just like her mother did.

So go ahead. Keep chasing me, if you don't fear the consequences. And if you're worried about mine, I'm working on number six now. She'll be yours soon.

And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

Brass' hand clenched as his eyes traced Sara's delicate profile. Every year wore out his face in a mask of weathered hardship, and the edge of fear darkened his eyes. He knew she was strong, but there was still an innocence to her, a pure spirit hidden behind streaming vaults of pain. She could withstand a thousand blows, but break at a whisper.

"Sara," Brass said softly.

"I can't let him scare me," Sara stated, sliding the letter into an evidence bag. "I have to do my job without worrying about my safety."

"Are you afraid?"

Sara looked up at him, soft brown eyes mirroring his somber expression. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "But so are you." Brass gazed at her silently. "I think that's why you were so tough with that suspect today. You wanted him to be the killer."

"Yeah," Brass sighed. "I was pushing pretty hard, on mostly circumstantial evidence. I kept hoping that he would say it, that he would slip up and give us some clue, or even confess. I wanted to lock him up in some hole somewhere, so he could never harm anyone. So you'd be safe." He shook his head. "It just . . . bothers me to think that I may not be able to protect you from this guy."

"I know. You're always looking out for me, like a guardian angel or something." A slight smile crossed her lips as she put the letter and her gloves into her kit.

Brass bit his lip as she unknowingly used the killer's phrase. He glanced away with a faint smile and shook his head. "I'm no angel."

"Neither am I," Sara said quietly, meeting his gaze. Brass tilted his head, remembering his similar exchange with Grissom. A lifetime had passed since then. "You know," Sara remarked, as they headed toward the parking lot, "the thing that bothers me the most is that he knows about . . . about my parents." She frowned darkly, shaking her head. "Maybe he has access to police files, or newspaper records, or—"

"Sara," Brass interrupted gently, dread pressed tight against his throat. "What happened? Your father, did he . . . hurt your mother, or you . . ."

"He abused my mother," Sara stated softly, memory's scent gnawing at her coldly.

"So . . . she killed him, didn't she." Brass winced as Sara nodded slowly. He touched her arm. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Are you—"

"No," Sara sighed, "I'm not really okay. I think I've made as much peace with it as I can, at this point. It just hangs in the back of my mind." She shook her head with a bitter smile as they stepped outside. The rain had started, falling lightly in cool, gleaming drops. "How fitting," she remarked, gesturing to the sky. "My raindrops never really go away, do they."

Brass gazed at her softly. "You know, I really only mind rain when I'm alone. If I have someone to go through it with me, it's okay." Sara glanced at him, the drops catching in her dark hair. The world was grey and silent except for the patter of the rain. Brass took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, flexing his hand. Everything that had happened over the past six years flashed through his mind. It seemed fast, yet it had been building for a long time. Something in her eyes told him that he should not wait any longer. "Sara," he said quietly as they reached the car. "Could you, ah, help me with something?"

"Anything," Sara replied, freezing him briefly with her eyes' intensity.

"There's this girl I used to know, a long time ago," Brass began slowly. "She had this smile like . . . like the sun, so warm and bright, like nothing could ever stop it. There was this brilliance, this fire in her eyes. She's the most beautiful person I've ever known." He paused, gazing at her. "But I haven't seen her in a long time. I think she's lost, but I'm looking for her, and I'm willing to do anything to find her. Will you help me find her, Sara?" Slowly he reached up and brushed her cheek with his weathered hand. Her skin was warm beneath the rain's coolness. "Will you help me find that woman still smiling inside you? I know we've both seen a lot, that life has burned and beaten us down in different ways. I mean, I'm not perfect, but I just . . ." Brass paused, staring into her soft brown eyes, finger trembling against her cheek. Sara gazed at him in silence, and he noticed a single tear roll past her eyelashes, melding with the rain. Eyes widening, he lowered his hand, afraid that he had hurt her somehow. "Oh God, I'm sorry . . ."

"Jim." Slowly Sara took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. Her eyelids fell like dark butterflies as her lips brushed his palm. Brass blinked hard, pushing back the rain, searching her face. He moved closer as his arm slipped around her slender waist and hers brushed his neck. Slowly he leaned forward, closing his own eyes and catching his breath at her nearness. He thought he would drown in the scent of her as their lips nearly touched.

Suddenly, his cellphone rang, fracturing the grey silence. "Damn it," Brass muttered, straightening reluctantly and fumbling through his pockets for the phone. Sara pushed back a dark strand of hair, half-startled at her own response. Her faint, rain-soaked smile faded at the insistent ring—it was never good news. "Yeah," Brass answered, then met her eyes grimly. She knew without him saying a word. "Okay. We're on our way." He hung up and slid the phone into his pocket, glancing sadly at the sky.

"It's only been six days," Sara said quietly.

"Then he's accelerating," Brass sighed. "It's been confirmed as our M.O. This is the sixth victim."

Rain ran in quick cold streams down the tree branches, pooling at the road's edge in dirty, leafy puddles. Light wind tossed the branches in a slow dance, brushing like gritty silk across the dead woman's pale, freckled skin. Her red hair was scattered around her head in thick ragged waves, clumped and darkened by the gathering water. The distinctive ligature marks encircled her slender neck, with six small cuts below it. Flashes from Sara's camera illuminated the body in crisp succession, outlining every bruise and cut with sterile detail.

Grissom pulled up the collar of his blue forensics windbreaker as he looked down at the body, rain dripping off the brim of his baseball cap. He glanced sideways at Brass, who was standing silently as the rain rolled slowly down his overcoat. "Who found her?" Grissom asked quietly.

"A female motorist," Brass sighed, fingers flexing. "Noticed something weird, then pulled over and called us. She's clear." He shook his head. "I mean, the body's pretty close to the road. It's not like he was trying to hide her."

"It's part of his pattern," Sara commented, glancing up from the body. "Acceleration and escalation. The victims end up closer to the road, and the rate that he kidnaps and kills them increases." She straightened, pushing back her rain-slicked hair. "I'm thinking the rain has something to do with it. For all the other victims, it was raining when the bodies were dumped. The only exception is victim number two, Julie Palermo, who appeared to have been hosed off."

"The killer's covering his tracks," Brass remarked.

Grissom nodded thoughtfully. "Jim, do we have an ID yet?"

"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Jillian Edwards, from Vegas. She's seventeen. Her mother reported her missing six days ago."

"That's the same day we found Samantha Guerin," Sara frowned.

"Fits with the idea that the victims are all pre-selected," Grissom added.

Brass frowned. "So what does this guy do, go to an area and shop around for victims, then get to work on them one by one?"

Grissom shrugged. "Seems like it." He peered up at the unrelenting sky and sighed. "Well, if our killer is still working in threes, this will be his last victim in Clark County."

"Guys." Sara squatted back down, placing her camera inside her kit. Carefully she reached beneath the body with her long tweezers, and withdrew a folded sheet of white paper. She unfolded it and glanced at it grimly, then held it up for the two men to see. Two short lines of text marked the center of the page.

One last thing before I go—
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Brass gazed at Sara, caressing her protectively with his eyes as they exchanged knowledge in silent communication. He glanced sideways alertly, squaring his shoulders.

"The Waste Land," Grissom nodded slightly, studying the second line. "From the first section, 'The Burial of the Dead.'"

"One-track mind," Brass muttered. "I guess he has limited taste in poetry."

Sara slid the paper into an evidence bag, soft brown eyes downcast. "Confirms that he's moving on to another area."

"And that he intends to harm someone else first," Grissom frowned, glancing at Brass. "What did the letter to the Review-Journal say?"

Brass sighed, gazing at the wet ground. "Mostly threats against Sara, but it didn't name her or give any specifics," he said, lowering his voice. "It, uh, did mention her parents, though."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You know about . . ."

"Now I do. And apparently the killer does, too."

Sara stood, closing up her kit, her eyes grim. "He knows forensics, he has access to chloroform and one-way glass, the victims let him in, and he has access to police records."

"You think he's in law enforcement," Grissom suggested.

She shook her head. "Not currently. I think he's maybe a dirty cop, or maybe retired. He could also be a disgraced criminalist, or even a student who failed the Academy's entrance exam." Sara shrugged. "I just think he was involved in the system somehow. Of course, if he's . . . determined enough, he could have gotten old newspapers. But I don't think the rest can be explained by coincidence."

"I hate to say this, but I tend to agree with you," Brass nodded with a sigh. "Too many factors pointing toward it." His cellphone rang, and yanked it out of his coat, and answered it. "Yeah." A pause. "Really. Tell him to stay put. We'll be there in a few minutes." Brass hung up and glanced at them with a raised eyebrow. "We have a guest at P.D."

"Who?" Grissom frowned.

"Martin Scott."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "The rapist."

"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Apparently he wants to talk."

"Mr. Scott."

Martin Scott stood quickly and spun around, finding himself face to face with a steel-eyed Brass.

"Sit down," Brass ordered in a low cold voice.

Scott complied and added with a frown, "Look, I came to you."

"Yeah, you did." Brass remained standing, fingers flexing. "So why are you here exactly?"

"About an hour after I left here, my phone rang," Scott began. "It was this guy who was in prison with me, a few cells down—Josh. I haven't talked to him since he got out, even before I did. It's not like we were friends—he was kind of a creep."

Brass raised an eyebrow. "A creep. This is the three-time rapist talking."

Scott folded his arms defensively. "Josh was there for raping a woman—with the handle of a hammer, he said. He was always muttering about how he would do better next time, read some books before doing anything."

"Did he say anything specific back then?"

"Yeah. Something about a trinity." Scott shrugged. "I figured he was either Catholic or a Matrix fan."

Brass' jawline tensed, and he sat down slowly. Trinities . . . "What did this Josh tell you on the phone?"

"He told me that I made an excellent red herring, and to keep it up," Scott continued. "He said he was moving on, as soon as he finished up some business."

"Did you ask what he was talking about?" Brass felt foreboding tighten his chest.

"Yeah, but he said if I watch the news I already know."

Brass' mouth twitched, twisting in an angry curl. "Go on."

"Josh asked if I would lend him a fingerprint. He said if I kept helping him out, there would be benefits. I told him I wasn't going to land in jail to help him, and that he could keep his money. He said he wasn't offering money."

"What was he offering?" Brass' eyes narrowed, focusing his fierce stare.

"I'm not sure. He said something about a used bitch that I might find entertaining, but I said no way."

"Her name," Brass commanded.

Scott shook his head. "He didn't tell me. I told him to go to hell, then I hung up."

Brass leaned forward menacingly. "So why do you feel compelled to share this with us, huh? You making this up?"

"No," Scott stated firmly, anger darkening his face. "How would it help me?"

"I don't know," Brass shrugged disarmingly, standing. "Maybe you can tell me."

Scott also stood, shaking his head in disbelief. "Honestly? I came to tell you because I figured you would find out that he called me, and then I'd wind up in prison again. That's it. I'm leaving now."

"What's this guy's full name?" Brass demanded, louder tone matching his fierce gaze.

"Josh Hunter," Scott stated, then marched out the door.

"Yeah, Grissom."

"Where are you?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow at Brass' curt tone from his cellphone, swiveling in his office chair. "I'm in the computer lab, going over the Sierra Glass records. No hits yet, but I'm—"

"Screw the records. I got a name off Martin Scott."

"How does he—"

"Just run the name," Brass insisted. "Josh Hunter."

"Okay." Grissom pulled up the police database and punched in the name. "I got a hit," he remarked, scanning the information on the screen. "Josh Hunter, age thirty-seven. One prior for rape, served his full sentence."

"Look at the picture." Brass' tone was strained.

Tilting his head, Grissom's eyes shifted to the mugshot. He stared, noticing the average build, faded brown hair, and slightly grizzled mustache. He had just seen that face a few hours before, in a quiet warehouse over coffee.

"Look familiar?"

"Son of a bitch," Grissom cursed darkly, jawline tightening. "It's Ray Brentwood."