Author's note: I apologize for the wait and the slightly shorter length. I've been highly busy wrapping up this semester. I'll probably be slow with the next update, also due to college. Please be patient, and keep commenting! ---Emihn

The warehouse door smashed open, shattering the echoing silence in dusty wooden splinters. Black-clothed officers stormed through the jagged opening, weapons ready, plowing in opposite directions through the vast dark space. Brass charged in after them, suit coat stretched taut across his shoulder blades, every line of his body rigidly alert. Flashlight and gun braced in front of him, he strode slowly forward, turning sharply at any faint noise or shadowed corner. His triple reflection, flashlight-haloed, crashed in sleek cold steel against the gleaming rows of glass and mirrors.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Brass stopped as he reached the worn metal wall, turned and holstered his gun. "Good job, guys," he sighed as the SWAT team went back outside.

Grissom peered in the doorway, backlit by the squad cars' rhythmic glow, his own flashlight casting a white ray across the concrete floor. "So he's not here."

"Nope," Brass replied tersely.

"So then Brentwood—Hunter—knew we were coming," Grissom frowned. "He must have figured Martin Scott would contact us." He paused, head tilted, scanning the silent warehouse. "Why even call Scott, if he's just some random guy from prison?"

"I don't know." Brass sighed, shaking his head. "I mean, we're going on the word of an ex-con here."

"I think Scott is telling the truth," Grissom mused. "If Hunter isn't hiding something, why is he going by an alias, and running from us?"

Brass nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm thinking Hunter is our killer, but maybe he's in cahoots with Scott somehow."

"Could be. Did you check out Sierra Glass' business credentials?"

"Yeah. It's a legitimate business. Everything's in order, and all the employees check out. Looks like just Hunter was living a lie."

Gnawing on his lip, Grissom ambled toward the office. "Well, let's see if he left us anything." He peered in, tracing the shelves and papers with his flashlight. Slipping on his latex gloves, he went inside and started flipping through the papers. "Hey Jim."

Brass stepped in after him, holding up his own flashlight. "What've you got?"

"A little light reading, perhaps?" Grissom pulled out a slender leather-bound book. "The Essential T.S. Eliot."

"Interesting choice." Brass tilted his head, glancing at the book. "Anything unusual?"

Grissom flipped through the pages slowly. "Well, I've got a few underlined passages." He glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "They're the same quotations used by the killer."

"Congratulations, Darwin. You found the missing link," Brass sighed wryly. "Scott studied Eliot's poetry in college, but this is more specific."

"Unless Scott is lying, and planted the book," Grissom shrugged dispassionately. "We'll dust it for prints, anyway." He shook his head as he slid the book into an evidence bag. "You know, finding this guy is not going to be easy."

Brass nodded. "Hunter's got a Nevada license, but no vehicle registered in his name, or under the name Ray Brentwood. No home address, either. We've checked out family, company vehicles, the works. Everything is accounted for."

"So he's using an unregistered vehicle," Grissom mused. "Maybe one with fake plates? Or maybe just a vehicle belonging to some friend we don't know about." He thought for a moment, forehead creasing pensively. "Where are the other warehouses?"

"Here in Vegas, then Elko, Pahrump, and Sparks."

"Sparks," Grissom repeated, tilting his head. "One of our victims was from Sparks. Two were from Reno, right next door."

"Right," Brass nodded, catching on. "And he has a place here, right near where the last three victims lived."

"Samantha Guerin had one-way glass from this store in her wound. Maybe he keeps the victims in or near his warehouses." Grissom glanced curiously across the vast space. "We need to go over every inch of these places."

Brass nodded thoughtfully, following Grissom's line of vision. "By the way, where's Sara?"

"At the sixth victim's apartment," Grissom replied as he stepped out of the office.

"Alone?" Brass strode quickly after him, jawline tensing.

"No," Grissom shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "I sent an officer with her."

"One officer." Brass shook his head sharply. "Gil, the killer is threatening her. Do you think one clueless cop can protect her?"

Grissom paused, eyes widening slightly. "Sara . . . Sara's fine. I—"

"No, it's not fine," Brass retorted, whipping out his cellphone. Quickly he dialed Sara's number, then waited. He stared across the dark space as the phone rang and rang, ending with the stark finality of her voicemail's beep.

Orange light from the street shone fitfully through the blinds into the darkened apartment, scattering dimly across the living room. It caught on a glass of water on the end table, gleaming in faded ripples on the empty couch. A single poster from a science fiction film hung on the beige wall, characters obscured by shadow except for eerily white teeth and unnatural blue eyes. The dull roar of a passing car filtered through the night's silence, blending with the incessant noise of a neighbor's television.

Sara closed her kit with a snap, making a final sweep across the room with her flashlight. It was the same as all the others—no forced entry, minimal signs of struggle. Nothing unusual.

Just like all the others.

The telephone rang, startling Sara with its loudness. After four rings, the answering machine picked up. Sara shook her head as Jillian Edward's voice invited the caller to leave a message. The machine beeped loudly, followed by a space of silence and static. She shifted slightly at the empty gap.

"Sara Sidle. We finally meet."

Sara turned slowly to face the machine, flashlight gleaming white in her hand. She gripped it tightly, frowning at the distorted male voice.

"Your dear friends just missed me, unfortunately for them. We could have had an interesting conversation. But, I thought it was fitting for me to address you directly at this point. The men don't seem to understand. They're under your spell, so to speak." A slight chuckle. "What a pair of admirers they make. A scientist and a cop, both brilliant in their field. Las Vegas' finest. It amazes me, looking at you, that these men are affected so strongly. I mean, seriously. If you're the most beautiful person he's ever known, he mustn't know many people."

Silent, Sara felt her mouth twitch. He had no right to use Brass' words, to insult them.

"Of course, this happy little triangle helps me out. They're going to tear each other apart. You know that, right? Sad, really. Best friends grown to hate each other. When the good Dr. Grissom finds out about your pending dalliance with the captain, he's going to be seriously angry. So much for the investigation, huh?"

Senses sharpened, she slid her right hand slowly along the grip of her gun.

A darker laugh, tone like bloodied steel. "It's okay. You don't have to talk to me. You know, that's the problem with you. You've got this attitude like you're something special. Like you're some kind of brilliant investigator. You're a stuck-up bitch. You're just like your mother."

Sara bit her lip, cold tracing down her back.

"Laura Sidle. Now, she really didn't understand the role of women. That's the worst kind—the kind that refuse to learn, refuse to submit, no matter how strongly the man asserts his natural authority. Your poor father. He wasn't smart enough to throttle the bitch before she stabbed him." A pause, empty except for faint static.

The memory hissed maliciously in her ear, reemerging in a blood-scented cloud that threatened to drown her. Sara swallowed hard, trying to push it back.

"And you saw him right after she blew sliced him up, huh. Blood everywhere. Even the cop couldn't take it. So, daddy's in the morgue, and mommy's in the joint. With an examples like that, I'm not surprised you turned out so screwed up." He laughed coldly. "Ah, the beauty of genetics. A weak father and a knife-toting bitch mother kind of dictate where you're headed, don't you think?"

Sara's knuckles turned white around her flashlight, the words turning her heart to ice. It was a lingering fear at the edge of her memories—and one of the forces that drove her to swing toward the opposite, and become a criminalist.

"Do you really think you can escape it? Forget about it and it's gone? That's not how it works. You've got lead and murder in your veins, as deep as DNA."

Our past creates us, Sara.

She took a deep breath as Brass' words from what seemed like years before came back to her.

You can't be blamed for anything that's happened, that's made you what you are. But the past is only a blueprint. You get to decide what you become.

Sara straightened her shoulders, releasing her breath in a sigh as the cold in her heart started to fade. Her eyes flashed fire as her spirit rose in defiance of the killer's words. Who would she believe—Brass, or a serial killer? She had to force herself to believe Brass.

"So what are you going to do?" the voice continued with quiet malice. "What's finally going to make you explode? A misogynist suspect? Maybe you'll shoot your formerly beloved Dr. Grissom in a fit of rage. Or, if your precious Jim looks at you sideways, maybe you'll shoot him. How about in his sleep, just like your coward mother?"

Shut the hell up, you bastard, Sara muttered fiercely to herself. The fear that his words were true still gnawed at her, but she knew she could not heed them. It would be fatal.

"You're a liability, Sara Sidle. But I'm afraid your male companions aren't man enough to put you in your place, so it's become my job. Almost chivalrous, don't you think?

Sara glanced around the room, finding everything still dark and unmoving. Her mind began to refocus sharply on her present situation.

I need to get out of here.

"You might want to look out the window."

Biting her lip, Sara turned slightly to peer between the blind slats. As she did, she saw the single squad car speed off screaming down the road, slicing night's tense thickness. Her SUV stood in the driveway leading to the apartment like a dark monolith.

"Looks like it's just you and me now." The message ended with a sharp beep.

Sara drew her gun and slid her flashlight into her forensics vest, grabbing her kit with her other hand. Mind working rapidly, she weighed her options. She had no idea where the killer was exactly—if he was across the street, or even in the same building. She could call for backup, but by the time anyone got there, she could already be dead. She could call Brass, but he could not get there in time, either.

As soon as I get a few blocks away, I'll call him. Right now I need to focus. I still need to do my job.

Ears straining for any sound, gun ready, Sara slowly made her way out of the apartment and into the corridor. A few flickering lights shone on the dated carpet and beige walls, casting a sickly yellow glow. Danger screamed at her with each step, each creak of the floor, drowning the pounding of her heart.

After what seemed like ages, Sara reached the door. She put down her kit for a moment, and pressed the button to unlock her SUV. Jumping slightly at the clicking beep, she picked up her kit again, braced her gun, and headed outside. The only sound marring the silence was the quiet, measured slap of her feet against the pavement. Breath held tightly in her chest, she felt a slight tinge of relief as she opened the car door. Then she smelled it, like a wraith from her fractured memories.

Metallic. Like copper. Like—

Sara spun around, gun tensely ready, kit swinging like a second weapon. She was just in time to see the dark silhouette, and the streetlights' glow catching on the knife's blood-stained edge.