As Brass' unmarked Taurus careened into the driveway of Jillian Edwards' apartment building, the scene registered on his brain with blinding speed.
Sara's SUV—door open—something against the driver's seat. Ski-mask running left—with a bloody knife.
Shit.
Every tendon strained, Brass charged out of the car in a vengeful whirlwind toward the escaping black-clothed figure. The knife had vanished, and the man darted toward the corner with uncanny speed. Raising his gun, Brass fired twice, exploding the dark silence with smoke-veiled lead. One bullet grazed the man's leg as he vanished around the corner. Brass was an impeccable shot, but the man was just weaving too much, moving too fast. Brass was about to pursue him, but a single thought consumed his mind like a lit match in dry grass.
Where is Sara?
Spinning around sharply, he faced her SUV. His heart froze when he saw.
Sara was lying on her back against the driver's seat, bloodied with several stab wounds.
"Damn it!" Brass cried, the words choking in his throat. Quickly he holstered his gun and ran to the SUV, surveying her still form in a single frantic sweep. He took a deep breath as his worst fears were expelled—she was only unconscious. She was wounded, but it did not appear life-threatening. Maybe her fighting or his arrival had stopped the killer from finishing the job.
"Sara . . ." Brass groaned, leaning in to lift up her head. Her face was bruised, a trickle of blood lingering cruelly on her pale freckled skin. Gnawing his lip, Brass yanked out his radio and called for backup and an ambulance.
The bastard can get away for now. There's no way I'm leaving her.
"Wake up, sweetheart," he whispered as he wiped the blood from her cheek with his handkerchief. Brass took off his suit coat and wrapped it around her gently, as she shivered involuntarily, eyelids flickering. She had lost some blood, but not enough to put her at serious risk. She would be okay until the ambulance arrived. He sighed, wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead as his adrenaline started to slow back to normal. It had felt like dying.
Brass leaned in slightly, and brushed her tangled brown hair with his lips in a lingering touch. As he inhaled, he noticed an odd smell, then nodded with understanding. Chloroform. She was unconscious because the killer had sedated her.
But why?
The killer sedated his victims with chloroform, but that was so he could move them.
He told Scott he had a reward—a "used bitch" for "entertainment."
Brass' lip curled in revulsion as he straightened slightly. Maybe Scott had sealed the deal after all, and the killer—Hunter?—was getting ready to bring Sara to him. Or maybe he had decided to do more than just kill her. "Maybe you just fought so hard he couldn't handle you," he smiled faintly. He sighed with relief as sirens burned sharply into the silence, and the ambulance's flashing lights washed across her pale skin.
Grissom pulled his Denali up sharply beside the screaming squad cars, heart wedged tightly in his throat. Quickly he snatched his kit and got out, forcefully slamming the SUV's door. Fist clenched with fear and anger, he marched toward the apartment building, clear blue eyes clouded. Images flashed through his mind in demanding sequence—caged windows, slashed throat, a fragile butterfly. He blinked hard at the flood of crimson memory, and swiftly surveyed the scene.
Sara's SUV. Blood in the driver's seat. Blood on the pavement. Smashed kit, fallen gun.
No Sara.
He half-expected her to glance up from some piece of evidence she had found, and explain what had occurred with a thoughtful light in her soft brown eyes. She was meant to investigate crime scenes, not be part of one. Grissom flinched as an image of a butterfly on skin against blood-pooled tile returned to his mind. It had always lingered there—the fear of losing his elusive butterfly forever.
"Where is she?" Grissom demanded, grabbing the arm of the nearest officer. "Where's Sara?"
"At the hospital," the officer replied. "The ambulance just took her."
Grissom released him sharply, jawline tense. "Where's Captain Brass?"
The officer pointed to his right, closer to the apartment. Grissom saw Brass standing there, back facing the street, flashing lights chopping across his strong but weary frame.
"Jim!" Grissom yelled, starting toward him. Brass turned slowly, and Grissom stopped a few feet away. His coat and tie were missing, and the front of his white dress shirt was stained darkly with blood. Grimness dimmed his dark blue eyes. Grissom stared at him silently, the fearful question left unspoken.
"Sara received several superficial stab wounds," Brass sighed, rubbing his temple. "Paramedics said she needs care, but she's stable and should be okay." He paused, shaking his head. "The bastard ran off when I got here. I hit him in the leg, but not too badly. He was really fast, like he's had some kind of training or something."
"So you didn't chase him." Grissom raised an eyebrow.
"No," Brass stated simply.
After a moment, Grissom nodded reluctantly. "Well," he said with a sigh, "gunshot wounds bleed. So much for not leaving DNA, right?"
"Yeah." Brass glanced down the street, still alert. "So, you think it's the glass man?"
"Hunter?" Grissom shrugged. "At this point, I really don't know. I definitely want him at the station, though." He paused, frowning, then added, "What about Scott?"
"Actually, I had two of my guys keep an eye on him, UC. They tell me he was at a bar the whole time, and never left their sight." Brass shrugged. "Who knows."
"We need to lay everything out again," Grissom muttered. "The killer's gotten his three victims from the Vegas area, so he'll be moving elsewhere. That gives us a little time to catch up." He gestured to the bloody SUV. "Once we process this."
"Right," Brass sighed, glancing at the pavement. "I need to get to the hospital, so I can get Sara's account once she wakes up."
"She's unconscious," Grissom stated, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah. He used chloroform on her."
"Chloroform?" Grissom frowned sharply. "Like on his victims. But for what?"
Brass shook his head. "That's for you, Sara, and the evidence to tell us. Which is why I need to get her statement."
Grissom straightened his shoulders, eyes determined. "I want to see her."
"You will," Brass sighed, faint irritation seeping through his weariness. "But right now, I'm the cop and you're the CSI. I take the statements and you process the evidence."
"Yeah, well, thanks for clearing that up."
Shaking his head, Brass started toward his car. "You know, Gil," he called over his shoulder, "this isn't your fault."
Grissom's mouth twitched, and he started to reply, but Brass got in his car and left.
Sara blinked as she rounded the corner of the dirty staircase, keeping Brass' strong silhouette, flanked by two officers, firmly in her vision. She walked carefully into the long cold hall, graffiti-coated blue walls entangling her in sharp python swirls. White light shone sharply upward from the walls, casting a strange glow on the writhing patterns. Each step resounded in her ears with unnatural volume, nearly matching the pounding in her brain. Something nagged at her, fragmented images gnawing at her mind. Yet they were indistinct, almost faceless, reduced to odd sensations and a pervasive sense of dread. Only the scent of copper and decay was clear.
They stopped short beside a worn brown door. Sara glanced sideways at Brass, who gripped his gun firmly, bracing for their forced entry. She stared almost blankly at his strong form, noting his neatly tailored, deep blue suit, shirt and tie, and how they matched his eyes. Through the haze of her mind, she half-remembered nearness in a cold grey rain. It felt distant somehow, but the thought of it warmed her in a strangely intoxicating fire.
"Las Vegas Police!" Brass shouted fiercely as an officer smashed the door. He and the two officers charged into the dim, red-papered room, as Sara lingered in the doorway. She watched as Brass turned cautiously, gun swinging in a tight half-circle.
Slowly she slid into the apartment, drawing her own gun. It was eerily quiet, faint rays of sun filtering through red-painted windows. Her muscles tensed with blind determination as she glided past the sofa, toward a barely open bathroom door. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself and shoved open the door, gun ready. "I got h—"
Sara came to a jolting halt, her mind clearing from its dreamlike haze the moment she looked inside the door.
It was not a hardened gang-banger waiting for her. It was the black-clothed figure of the killer, bloodied knife gleaming fanglike in his gloved hand.
She cried out and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He moved forward, wrenching her arm as the useless gun clattered to the floor. Sara struggled fiercely, twisting and slamming into the bureau under the window, vision fragmenting in red wreaths of pain with every stabbing motion.
"Let's finish what we started, huh bitch?" the killer hissed in her ear, hand sliding tightly around her throat, followed by cold steel. Every muscle straining desperately, she took a ragged breath and screamed.
"Sara? Wake up, sweetheart. It's okay."
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, absorbing her surroundings. She was lying on her back, looking up at a white ceiling. Sara glanced to her right, noticing pale greenish walls and medical equipment. She was in a hospital. A slight groan escaped her lips as she rolled over onto her right side, noting the pain across her body. Then she remembered, and pulled her arms tightly against her with a shiver. Reopening her eyes, she was slightly startled to see Brass sitting in a chair beside the bed, concern in his eyes. His hand gently brushed her cheek, and she gazed at him silently, letting the warmth of his touch help her nightmare fade.
"Are you okay, Sara?" Brass asked gently.
Sara's lashes flashed down in a slow blink. "Did you get him?"
Brass shook his head slowly. "I shot him in the leg, but he got away."
"Then no, I'm not okay." She pulled herself up gingerly into a half-sitting position. "Did you tell the hospitals to—"
"Already did it. If they get anyone with a wound matching our description, they'll call us up right away. Everyone wants to catch this guy." He brushed a disheveled strand of hair back from her face. "I promise you, we're going to get him, no matter what it takes."
"I want him in jail for his victims, not for me," Sara insisted, attempting to steady her voice. She bit her lip as the day's nightmare washed over her in a returning tide. Tears began to drown her soft brown eyes. "I'm just scared," she confessed as the gathering water rolled down her cheeks.
Brass flinched at her pain, and held his arms out gently. Without hesitation, Sara leaned forward and buried her face in his shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around his strong frame like a lifeboat in a battered ocean. He embraced her carefully, suppressing a shiver as her tears soaked through to his skin. After a few wordless minutes her sobs faded into calmed breathing, matched with his.
"I . . . I'm okay," Sara mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just . . . sometimes things like this make me feel like I'm at the edge . . . like I'm falling."
"I'm right here, sweetheart," Brass said quietly, a tremble in his voice.
Sara glanced up at him, moisture glistening on her pale freckled skin. "I know," she whispered, a warm shiver creeping up the back of her neck. "I'll be all right. I just need a few hours to collect myself."
"The hospital wants to keep you for a little while, anyway, for observation, so that will give you some peace," Brass nodded slightly, wiping the tears from her face. Hesitantly, he added, "Do you . . . want to talk now, or would you rather wait?"
"There's not much to tell," Sara sighed, pulling back slowly. "I had just finished processing the victim's apartment, and her phone rang. It . . . it was the killer." She twitched faintly, folding her arms. "The voice was kind of distorted. He left this message on her answering machine, directed at me. I knew he could see me. It was . . . personal. Like the letters, except worse."
Brass nodded silently, jotting it down in his notebook, though he knew he would not forget.
"I knew he could see me, from wherever he was. At the end, he told me to look out the window. I did, and I saw the officer outside drive off with his lights flashing."
"Maybe a bogus call, made by the killer," Brass frowned. "It's happened before."
Sara nodded slowly. "He said it was just me and him, then he hung up. I knew he was going to try to attack me, so I decided to just get to my car and get away. I wasn't sure where you guys were, but I didn't think you could get there in time if I called. Even if you could, what would I do? I couldn't just stay there—for all I knew, he was in the apartment building with me. At this point I don't know what would have been better."
"You did fine," Brass assured her gently. "So, you went outside . . ."
"As I opened my car door, I heard a noise. I spun around, and there was this guy all dressed in black, with a black ski-mask over his face, and a knife. He was average-built, maybe about 5'9". I think his eyes were brown, but I'm not sure. He didn't say anything—he just came at me with the knife." Sara took a deep breath, focusing her mind like with any other case. "The knife was about six inches long, single-edged. There was dried blood on the blade. I . . . shot at him, but he shoved me hard as I fired, so I missed. He was very strong. He knocked the gun out of my hands and started stabbing at me, but not at my heart or throat or anything. I smashed his shoulder and ribs with my kit. I think I got him pretty good, but he didn't stop. He pulled this cloth out of his pocket and shoved it over my mouth and nose. I figured it was chloroform, but I couldn't get away." She shrugged, exhaling in a sigh. "That's the last thing I remember before waking up here."
"That's very detailed," Brass nodded, though the thought of what happened to her made him feel cold. "Did you, uh, notice anything unusual or distinctive about him?"
Sara shook her head. "Just his . . . his eyes were strange. Hateful, but almost afraid, too." She leaned back tiredly against her pillow. "So how did you guys know I needed help?"
"A hunch," he smiled faintly for her. "Grissom and I were at the glass warehouse, and he said you were at Jillian Edwards' apartment with one cop. I panicked." Brass shrugged. "Overprotection is my middle name. But in this case it was warranted."
"Well, it's nice to have a guardian angel," Sara smiled wearily.
"That's me," Brass sighed, reflecting her smile. He glanced at the clock on the wall and shook his head. "I need to go back to the, uh, scene, and figure a few things out. I told the hospital to call me when they're ready to release you. I can bring you home, so don't worry about anything, okay?" Tilting his head slightly, he added hesitantly, "If you'd feel safer, you can crash at my place for a while, no pressure. Just think about it for now." He stood reluctantly.
"Jim." Sara gestured for him to lean closer, as if she was going to say something. Curious, Brass complied, and was startled as she leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek. "Thank you," Sara said softly.
Brass felt himself blush slightly. "For what?"
"For saving me." Sara laid back against her pillow, letting herself smile, pushing back the nightmare. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she murmured wryly, "My knight in shining armor."
Brass gazed at her silently, the day's emotions choking in his throat, grateful beyond words that he had not lost her. Reluctantly, he slid his notebook and pen into his pocket, then turned and left the hospital room.