Taking a deep breath, Grissom closed up the last swab, placed it in his kit, and snapped it closed. He gazed silently across the driveway and into the bushes where the killer had fled. His mind burned, almost with physical pain, at the thought of their serial—and Sara's attacker—being so near, yet beyond their reach. Every nerve throbbed with a scientist's frustration and a human's fear.

He could have killed her.

Grissom flinched, his clear blue eyes cold and vacant. She had come close before—the lab explosion, Miguel Durado, Adam Trent at the psycho ward. Every time had frightened him in a primal way that he could not express in words. Yet emotion always defied his attempts at explanation, and even after all that had happened, the risks had suffocated him into silence. Somehow, this time had felt different. Worse. She had been deliberately attacked, drugged into unconsciousness, and had wound up in the hospital. It had been closer than before, and the nearness of it pierced him to the quick. Even if he stayed silent forever, Grissom knew one thing for sure.

He could not bear to lose Sara.

"Hey Gil."

Grissom glanced sideways to see Brass standing beside him, looking out across the driveway. His bloodstained shirt was gone, replaced by a slightly wrinkled navy blue one. "How goes the war?" Brass asked quietly.

Grissom shrugged slightly, sighing. "Well, I'm still here."

Brass glanced at him, his dark blue eyes solemn. "Are you?"

Grissom looked back at him silently, their expressions mirrored. Brass' reference to his words to Lurie in the Marlin case unnerved him. It and the memory of it summed up all his emotion with disturbingly clear simplicity. He knew Brass somehow understood what he was thinking. Brass always understood. After a moment, Grissom sighed, "I collected blood from the gunshot wound. Maybe we'll get a hit on the DNA. I also found a few black fibers and blood on Sara's kit—it looks like she used it as a weapon."

"Yeah, that's what she told me," Brass nodded with a sigh. "Did you find the bullets?"

Grissom nodded. "Three 9-millimeters—two from your gun, the other presumably from Sara's. Considering the smaller amount of blood, I'd say yours only grazed the killer. He may not even need to go to the hospital."

"Well, a gunshot's less sophisticated than a swab, but at least we've got his DNA." Brass glanced back at Sara's SUV. "She says he was about 5'9", average build, maybe brown eyes."

Grissom shook his head. "It was too dark. Even blue eyes can look brown in shadow."

"Sara knows." He lowered his eyes. "So, she also said that the killer called Edwards' phone, and left a threatening message. She said he could see her."

"I'll have the tech checking out Edwards' apartment grab the tape."

"Sara said the message was . . . personal," Brass explained, looking back at Grissom. "She might not want the whole lab listening to it."

Grissom nodded, biting his lip. "We'll keep it sealed until I talk to her. DNA is more important, anyway. It's not like we don't know what he was threatening to do."

"Right." Brass paused, sighing after a moment. "Uh, Gil . . . when you get a chance, could I talk to you about something?"

"About what, Jim?" Grissom asked, vaguely suspicious.

"Nothing you did," Brass said quickly. "There's no rush. I just—" Brass' cellphone rang sharply, cutting into his words. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled it out and answered, "Yeah." His forehead creased as he listened. "You're serious. But that can't be."

Grissom glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

"So you've confirmed it, then." Brass frowned darkly, shaking his head. "Okay. Yeah. We'll be right there." He hung up and glanced at Grissom.

"What happened?" Grissom wondered, a strange sense of dread breathing cold against his neck.

Brass' eyes were grimly puzzled. "We've got a problem."

Erratic light from the flashing squad cars chopped in blue, red and white across the body, casting odd shadows on the man's face and multiple stab wounds. His open eyes were glazed white, and a small battalion of maggots was busily doing its work. Grissom squatted down beside the body, his flashlight tracing the man's faded brown hair, ragged mustache, and average features.

"Allow me to reintroduce Josh Hunter, a.k.a. Ray Brentwood," Brass stated from where he stood behind Grissom, his shoulders squared.

"He's been dead for at least a week," Grissom remarked with a frown.

"Smells it," Brass commented, nose wrinkled with disgust. "So unless he was miraculously reanimated, there's no way he committed tonight's attack."

"Nope. Which also means he's not our serial." Grissom tilted his head, glancing over the body. "These wounds were made by a single-edged blade, about three-quarters of an inch in width. Possibly a standard kitchen knife."

"Well," Brass sighed, fingers flexing, "that fits with Sara's description of the knife her attacker used."

"So the real killer murdered Hunter, and then attacked Sara a week later with the same knife," Grissom explained, the words leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

"Hunter was framed, and then finished," Brass nodded. "So, what, the killer got tired of the distraction?"

"I don't know." Grissom stood slowly, still gazing down at the body. "Whoever did it had me fooled." He glanced back at Brass as a thought entered his mind. "Martin Scott."

"What, you're thinking he—"

"He set us up," Grissom frowned darkly. "He knew Hunter's past. Scott was an English major—he could have easily planted that Eliot book in the Sierra Glass office."

Brass nodded thoughtfully. "But why was Hunter going by an assumed name, if he didn't kill anybody?"

"I don't know," Grissom shrugged. "Maybe Hunter changed his name so he could start a new life, or just to avoid registering. Either way, he's not our serial."

"Then I guess we should go pay Scott a visit."

Grey artificial light sifted from dusty fixtures down the walls' peeling beige paint, coldly illuminating the dirt and disrepair. As they walked down its gloomy length, Brass' casually strong stride and Grissom's neatly clipped pace were matched in dull rhythm on the worn wood floor. In unison, they stopped at the beaten brown door labeled 101.

Brass rapped sharply on the door. "Martin Scott—Las Vegas Police." He was met by the night's silence and a distant infant's cry. He banged on the door again, then tried the doorknob. "Unlocked," Brass frowned.

"Guess we won't need to wake up the apartment manager," Grissom commented.

"Your door's open, Mr. Scott," Brass repeated, slowly inching the door open and cautiously drawing his gun. He and Grissom stepped inside the darkened apartment, and were met only by the silent television's brightly colored glow flickering against the bare walls. They paused just inside the door, and Grissom pulled out his flashlight, its clear white beam stretching over Brass' shoulder and across the dated carpet.

Grissom frowned as his nose twitched. "Something's not right here."

"Maybe he forgot to empty his garbage," Brass shrugged, stepping further into the room.

"Garbage shouldn't smell like a decomp," Grissom remarked quietly.

Silently, Brass strode through the living room, and around the corner into the kitchen. "Uh, Gil."

Raising an eyebrow, Grissom walked toward him, stopping sharply in the kitchen's doorway.

On the yellow-tiled floor lay Martin Scott, dead, his body torn by vicious stab wounds.

Jawline tensing, Grissom stepped forward, tracing the body with his flashlight. His eyes flashed blue fire as anger built up quickly inside him. This meant that both of their suspects had been eliminated.

"Son of a bitch!" Grissom cursed suddenly, slamming the end of his flashlight against the counter. It sputtered, then returned to its brighter glow. Brass gazed at him silently, his somber eyes reflecting the same frustration. "He's fooled us twice, Jim," Grissom spat bitterly. "Twice. Scott's been dead long enough to rule him out, just like Hunter." He took a deep breath, fist clenching. "So the killer took advantage of Hunter and Scott's nearness and questionable pasts, and framed them both so neatly we never thought twice. We thought it had to be one or the other. And we've lost all this time not chasing the real killer." He shook his head. "This bastard is way smarter than we are."

"Then why end the charade now?" Brass wondered, lip curled in disgust. "I mean, we could've been chasing these two for months. Why eliminate both loose ends?"

"Because the killer is an egotist," Grissom muttered. "He wanted to distract us, but while we were going after these guys, we weren't focusing on him. Everybody thought Hunter did it, so nobody talked about this brilliant, faceless killer, which is what he really wants. I think he likes misleading us, but he likes our attention better."

Brass nodded grimly, dark blue eyes sharp. "So no more games."

"No."

"Okay, so we'll forget this little detour," Brass said, straightening his shoulders. "What do we have for evidence?"

"Well," Grissom sighed, "we've still waiting on the killer's DNA. We've got a few black fibers from his clothing, torn by Sara's kit. The answering machine tape can be analyzed further. And the one-way glass still applies, too."

"Maybe he's one of the people in Sierra Glass' customer list, even though you didn't get any hits," Brass suggested. "Could be a first-timer, or somebody who just slipped under the radar."

"Believe me, we'll look into it," Grissom nodded. "Other than that, we've got nothing." He shook his head, shutting off his flashlight. "Call the coroner, would you? I'm going to the hospital to see Sara."

Brass glanced over his shoulder as Grissom started to leave. "What are you going to tell her?"

Grissom paused in the doorway, a pale hollowness in his clear blue eyes. "That we're back to chasing the ghost."

"Excuse me, I'm here to see Sara Sidle."

Sara glanced up at the familiar voice, faintly audible through her hospital room's door. Gingerly she pulled herself up against her pillows and straightened her white hospital gown, feeling suddenly uneasy. The pain medication had started to wear off, and her few wounds that had required stitches were uncomfortable.

But then again, it could just be Grissom's arrival.

Something about her situation and everything that had happened brought back bitter memories in a ragged, taunting chain. Emotionally and mentally, Sara had moved past them. Still, those suffocating feelings had refused to leave her mind entirely, lingering faintly like the smell of lies and bloodstained metal.

Slowly the door opened, and Grissom peered inside. "You're awake," he commented as he shut the door behind him. It was too terse, but simply seeing her alive seemed to have frozen his vocal cords.

"Yeah," Sara replied quietly, blinking as he sat in the chair beside her bed. "What, ah, brings you here?"

"I just wanted to make sure my favorite CSI is okay." Grissom's lips twitched into a faint smile, as if unaccustomed to the gesture. His eyes were a contradiction of concern and clear blue coolness.

"I'm fine," Sara smiled falsely. "Just a few scratches."

Grissom tilted his head slightly and nodded, refusing to acknowledge the lie. "Do you need to . . . talk about what happened?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I don't need to go over it again. I already talked to Jim."

"Oh." Her use of Brass' first name registered in Grissom's mind as vaguely out of place, but he ignored the feeling. "Well, I, uh, finished processing the scene. We've got the killer's blood, and some black fibers, but not much else."

"He told you about the answering machine tape, right?"

"Oh, yeah, that too," Grissom nodded. "Brass said it was . . . personal, so I wasn't going to have anybody analyze it unless you said it was okay."

Sara nodded slowly, feeling cold as she remembered the killer's message. "I, uh, really don't want it going around the lab grapevine. If it's okay I'd like to do the preliminary analysis. I can lift the voice track, and let Archie in AV analyze the background. I don't think there was anything relevant, anyway."

"That's fine," Grissom agreed. "But if you find anything that seems probative in the voice track, you'll have to let Archie check it out. I'll fry him if he even thinks about leaking anything."

Sara smiled slightly. "He's part of our old tech family, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"Yeah." Grissom glanced nervously at his folded hands. "Uh, Sara, we've had some . . . developments in the case."

Her soft brown eyes flamed suddenly. "You have something."

"It's more like what we don't have." Grissom lowered his eyes, framing his words. "We've eliminated both suspects. Josh Hunter and Martin Scott are both dead, each for about a week."

"What?" Sara's expression faded rapidly into shock. "But . . . but how?"

"They were both stabbed to death. By the appearance of the wounds, they seem to have been killed by the same person who . . . attacked you." He shrugged with a sigh. "We think the killer found out about their pasts and proximity to the victims, and framed them to mislead us. After a while, we were pursuing them too closely to fulfill his need for attention, so he murdered them."

"So the killer went to all the trouble of framing them, then killed them both?"

Grissom shrugged. "That's what the evidence is saying."

"Then we're back where we started—with clues that so far have led us nowhere," Sara frowned sharply.

"Well," he replied, "we're still waiting on the DNA."

Sara glanced across the room, shaking her head. "It's always about the science, isn't it, Grissom?"

Grissom tilted his head. "Only science doesn't lie, Sara."

"Right now, I don't care about science," Sara returned fiercely, her eyes gleaming with unshed moisture. "I just want to know how many women have to die before we can stop him."

"I . . . " He took a deep breath, removing his glasses. "I don't know."

"I know you don't know. If you did, he would be in jail, and we wouldn't be here right now."

Grissom bit his lip, forehead creasing. "Sara . . ."

Sara shook her head, sighing. "I don't mean it's your fault. It's just so frustrating to have him keep slipping out of our reach."

"He's human," Grissom replied firmly. "And like any human, he's going to make a mistake. When he does, we'll be right there to nail him. The evidence is our Holy Grail, Sara. We have to follow it wherever it leads, and we can't force it to lead us there any faster. We don't get to choose. That's its beauty—it's the truth, above any human will."

"This isn't philosophy class," Sara said quietly, "and you can't put evidence into some abstract universe somewhere. We fight for the victims, for the human beings behind every fingerprint, fiber and blood drop. We need the truth, but we can't avoid the flawed people whose deaths and crimes give us our purpose. If the victims don't drive you, you might as well be at some chem lab or teaching at a college."

Grissom shifted slightly, his clear blue eyes cold with forced austerity. "Emotion taints our reasoning."

"Sometimes, yes," Sara agreed, taking a deep breath. "I know that. I do. But unless you're a robot, the case gets inside you. If you get to the point that the death of an innocent person becomes just a profile of numbers and descriptions, I think you've lost something vital. Something that makes us human. So even if it hurts, more than these wounds ever could, I'm not going to pull away." Sara looked up at him, her soft brown eyes unswerving. "And I don't think you can say that this case hasn't made you feel something."

Grissom stared at her silently, lips slightly parted. "It has," he admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. "But . . . focus on science is how I keep my sanity. If I let go . . . I'm not ready to deal with where it could take me."

"We know," Sara said quietly.

Grissom frowned faintly, feeling vaguely uneasy. At that moment, a nurse knocked on the door, and opened it slowly. Grissom glanced over his shoulder to see Brass step inside.

"Hey guys," Brass smiled wearily as he stopped just inside the door. Sara looked up at him, a grateful light in her soft brown eyes. "The hospital is releasing you shortly, Sara. The nurse said she'd get some scrubs for you to wear, since your clothes are, uh, evidence."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "So you're here because . . ."

Brass tilted his head. "Well, I figured you'd be at the lab, so I was going to bring Sara to her apartment." He glanced nervously at Sara. "I'll leave if you're still talking."

"We'd just finished," Grissom said tersely, standing. He glanced sideways at Sara. "When you feel up to it, we'll meet at the lab and go over everything. Maybe the day after tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will be fine," Sara replied, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, if I'm just sitting there talking."

"Fine. I'll call you when the DNA comes back. Now excuse me, but I have a date with the morgue." Grissom turned and walked past Brass toward the door. As he closed the door after him, the cold knob matched the sudden chill he felt.