Grissom walked down the lab's winding hallway, his pace tightly measured, almost mechanical. Just over two weeks had passed since Sara had been lost to him. His emotions had ricocheted through every stage—shock, disbelief, anger, sorrow, and regret more profound than anything he had ever experienced. After much struggling, he had managed to restore the cool veneer over his feelings, covering the hollow emptiness inside him like the gilding on a sarcophagus. But the death within him had not been stopped, the demons left unsilenced. Through the maelstrom of screaming memory crowding his mind, he knew that he could not face it alone. He needed logical outside help.

Grissom paused in the doorway of an office, mouth twitching as he gazed inside. Catherine was sitting at her desk, poring over a stack of files, the pale golden light caught in her reddish-blonde hair. He thought of how long they had known each other, and how many storms their friendship had survived, though scarred. Her promotion to swing shift supervisor had deepened the change he had perceived in her—sharper attitude, need for dominance, increased reliance on her sexuality. The whole thing made him feel strange. Still, Grissom knew he could count on her for frank advice. "Hey Cath," he said quietly.

"Gil—been awhile," Catherine remarked as she glanced up from her papers, smiling slightly as she removed her stylish squared glasses. "I was starting to wonder if you'd left us."

"I'm still here," Grissom returned quietly, biting his lip in a sharp pang as soon as he said the words. Slowly he walked across the office and sat down in the chair in front of her desk. His face was lined with weariness, as if he had aged ten years, and dark circles framed his eyes.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you with something?"

"I've got a problem," Grissom stated, his voice coolly controlled but lifeless.

"I can see that." She tilted her head, studying him. "You look like a poster child for an insomnia study. So what's wrong?"

Grissom hesitated, glancing absently at his folded hands. "It's about Sara."

"Figured," Catherine nodded, leaning back in her chair. "Either that, or someone squashed your tarantula." She frowned slightly. "Is this about her getting attacked at some crime scene? Because I heard about that, and, you know, you really need to do a better job looking out for your people. After what happened to Nick, I always send my guys out together, or at least with an experienced officer."

"Yeah, I know," Grissom retorted, more harshly than he intended. Sighing, he rubbed his temple and continued, "Sara is going out with Brass."

A laugh burst from Catherine's lips, violating the room's quiet solemnity. "Right. And I bet you've got a bridge to sell me, too." Her grin faded as Grissom shook his head slowly. Clearing her throat, Catherine asked incredulously, "How long has this been going on?"

Grissom took a deep breath. "Brass told me about two weeks ago, so . . . at least that long."

Catherine folded her arms, lips parted slightly as she attempted to process the information. "So . . . why are you here exactly?"

"Because you're the people person."

Catherine's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "So, let me get this straight. You get upset with me for wanting human contact, but when your non-relationship goes south, you want my help. It's like a merry-go-round with you, minus the 'merry.'"

"I think we've established that I'm deficient," Grissom sighed, bitterness glazing his clear blue eyes. "I need you, Cath. I need to know how to fix this."

Sighing, Catherine shook her head. "What've you done so far?"

"Well, I talked to Sara right after I found out. According to her, it's because he's a wonderful guy, and she's done waiting for me." His voice was monotonous and withdrawn.

"Uh, Gil, I hate to say this, but . . . you can't really expect someone to stick around if you don't commit to them," Catherine said cautiously. "I know you two have an . . . unusual relationship, but people just aren't wired that way. Not even Sara."

Grissom nodded slowly, still unsure. "So . . . what do I do now?"

"Well, if she really is . . . dating Brass, you can't do a whole lot." Catherine leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. "Okay, look, it goes like this. When you like someone who's dating someone else, you can't be pushy about it. You've got to be nice, but not overbearing—just keep yourself on the radar. If things go sour with the new boyfriend, you'll be there for her to turn to. In the meantime . . ." She shook her head with a slight sigh. "Gil, you've got to move on. I know this terrifies the hell out of you, but you should go out, and meet a few women who don't work at the lab. There's plenty of single women out there—you're bound to find a bug-loving workaholic after a while. Or you could always try a second date with the blonde, what's her name, Sofia Curtis. I thought you liked her."

"I do," Grissom admitted hesitantly. "She's smart and attractive, but she's not . . ."

"She's not Sara," Catherine finished for him.

"Yeah," Grissom sighed.

"Sara's not worth all this," Catherine shook her head slowly. "You don't have the emotional capital to spend fixing all her hang-ups. I think you both need to ditch the drama and get on with life."

Grissom gazed at her silently, his logical mind venturing hesitantly that she was right about moving on, though his emotions were as stubbornly deaf as ever.

"Listen, Gil," Catherine said quietly when he did not answer. "You wanna know what you really need to do right now?" Straightening, she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper. She held it up so he could see the front page and ordered, "Now tell me what that says."

Frowning, Grissom took a deep breath and read. "'Killed by a Ghost: Still no suspects in the Silver State Strangler Case.'"

"That's your case, Gil," Catherine returned firmly as she put the newspaper away. "You need to put aside the personal stuff and throw yourself mind, body and soul into finding that killer. Those victims are your priority, your responsibility—everything else can wait. They deserve a dedicated CSI on their case, not somebody who's going to be mulling over his romantic problems while processing scenes. You've got to chase the evidence—now more than ever."

Grissom tilted his head, nerves starting to relax as he forced himself to refocus. Her words were crystalline logic, piercing with welcome rationality into the chaos that plagued his mind. Putting off the issue terrified him, but he was more afraid of facing it. Catherine was right—the case was his duty, the life purpose he had chosen years before. He had to devote himself to science. It was the only way he could catch the killer—and keep his sanity.

Catherine leaned forward again, a pragmatic light in her blue eyes. "So what do you have for physical evidence, right now? And I don't mean catchy theories or stuff that's useless without comparison."

"Well," Grissom frowned slightly, allowing the cool scientist to take over, "we've got fingerprints from the payphone near the fifth victim's apartment, but that got no hits—except one of our dead guys."

"Well, you keep saying he wears gloves," Catherine commented. "Are there any other phones you can check out?"

His eyes widened, flickering as the dust fell rapidly from the wheels in his mind. "He'd wiped down the phone outside Jillian Edwards' apartment, so no usable prints . . . But when we were working on the first Vegas victim, Jamie Martin, we didn't know about the phone thing."

"So check her phone records. Maybe the killer called her from a payphone, too."

"He could've slipped up and left a print," Grissom finished, standing quickly. "And if he worked in law enforcement or in a courtroom, his prints would be on file."

"Then run with it," Catherine smiled.

Grissom nodded, breathing deeply as his mind began the painful return to logic. "Thank you, Cath."

"For what?" Catherine sighed with a shrug. "Just telling you what you already know."

Brass awoke from a light sleep, the moon's silver light glowing through his eyelids. Taking a deep breath, he shifted slightly, the pillow cool against his worn cheek. He smiled with a sigh as his elbow bumped smooth skin, eyes opening slowly to marvel once again at the miracle of smooth dark hair and delicate features beside him. Everything had happened quickly, but, looking back on it, he knew it had been a long time in coming. Once it had started between them, it had all flowed so easily, so naturally, like they had always been made to fit together. On that cool night a week before, the gentleman in him had stopped her, stilling her slender hands, to make sure it was what she really wanted. Within a few minutes, he had no more breath for questions. The simple thought that Sara Sidle wanted to be with him touched Brass beyond words, filling him with a warmth he had only dreamed of. After so many years of lonely emptiness, the feeling was indescribable.

"Are you awake?" Brass asked her softly, below a whisper.

A smile spread warmly across Sara's serene face, her eyes still closed. "No," she returned, her voice foggy with half-sleep.

Brass brushed back her hair with his hand, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, lips lingering against her skin. As he pulled back slightly, her eyes fluttered open, filtered moonlight shining in their soft brown depths.

"Can't sleep?" Sara asked, slim finger tracing the deep line between his nose and mouth.

"Ah, I'm always a light sleeper," Brass smiled faintly with a shrug. "I'm just . . . thinking." His smile faded, hand clasping hers as the gnawing fear at the back of his mind returned in a cold whisper. Relentlessly, his gaze was drawn to the scar across her cheek. Dark blue eyes grown somber, he asked quietly, "Do you think we'll catch him?"

Sara shivered slightly, dark lashes lowering. She had been thinking of the same thing. It lurked, ghostlike, at the edge of every smile, every moment they shared, knowing that the clever monster who had attacked her and killed six women was still eluding them. "Honestly?" She squeezed his hand gently. "Right now it feels like we never will. I keep wondering how many more innocent women have to die. It . . . haunts you."

"I know," Brass sighed, his low voice weary. "I mean, every time I see a girl about that age, I wonder if maybe she'll be his next victim—if I'm doing all I can to protect her. It makes you feel so powerless, thinking that one man can cause so much evil."

"But I guess that's the answer," Sara returned quietly. "Whether we think we'll catch him or not, we have to keep fighting. We're the only thing standing between those girls and his evil." She sighed faintly, solemn light in her eyes. "Deep down, I do believe that we'll get him, whether it takes days or years. He's human."

"That's what scares me," Brass said grimly, brushing her fingers with his lips. At that moment, the telephone on the nightstand rang loudly. Frowning, Brass sat up and answered it with a curt, "Hello?" His expression darkened as he listened. "Yeah, this is Jim Brass . . . I'm fine, how are you?" Sara propped herself up, tilting her head as she gazed at him. His mouth twitched, shadow crossing his dark blue eyes. "When?" He paused, listening. "Our team will come up as soon as we can. Okay. Thank you." Sighing, Brass hung up, then turned and gazed at Sara silently.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing from the sorrow in his eyes what his answer would be.

"Got a hit."

Grissom's head jerked up sharply, nerves taut with anticipation. Jacqui Franco was running the fingerprints from the payphone near Jamie Martin's apartment—at least all the prints that were more than smudges. Grissom leaned forward, peering at the computer screen over the shoulder of the seated fingerprint analyst. The image of an average-looking man with light brown hair stared back at him, dark eyes flatly impenetrable. "Douglas Belanger," Grissom read aloud, a cold wave tracing down his neck as he glanced at the information. "Born September 4, 1959. Graduated in 1981 from California State College, San Francisco, with a B.S. in chemistry. Worked as a criminalist in Modesto from '82 through '86, then transferred to . . ." Grissom paused, his jawline tensing.

"Transferred to the Las Vegas Crime Lab, where he worked until he was fired in 1990," Jacqui continued.

"Why was he fired, I wonder," Grissom frowned. "Do we know where he is now?"

Jacqui shook her head after a few more clicks. "No current driver's license. Last known address is an apartment building in Henderson that was torn down over five years ago."

"What about the records from Sierra Glass?"

"I'm checking 'em out now." Squinting, she clicked into a new window and typed the man's name into the records' search engine. "No hits," she frowned after a minute.

"Maybe he's using an alias." Grissom gnawed his lip, thinking. "Jacqui, can you search for anyone with the same birthdate as Douglas Belanger, 11/4/59?"

Jacqui nodded and punched in the numbers. "Here we go—Robert Greene. He bought several large sheets of one-way glass in the fall of last year. Paid cash, though, so no personal information was recorded."

"Covering his tracks." Grissom straightened, eyes hardening with resolution. "This is our guy."

Jacqui nodded slowly. "How are you going to find him?"

"We'll tell Elko P.D. to look out for anyone matching his description," Grissom nodded slowly. "I guess we'll also use the media to get his picture out." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, then turned and marched down the hall. Eyes narrowed purposefully, he went around the central lab and stopped in the doorway of one of the offices. Inside was Conrad Ecklie, sitting at his desk, flipping through a massive stack of papers. Grissom paused, lip curling slightly at the lab's chief internal antagonist. Over Grissom's career, Ecklie had constantly, notoriously, stood in his way. He had shown laudable humanity when Nick had been kidnapped, but afterward had still stubbornly refused to reunite the old Grave Shift team. Grissom figured the conflict would never end. "Hello Conrad."

"Grissom." Ecklie glanced up with a slight nod. "I heard you're having trouble with that serial case. You know, Swing Shift just arrested a renegade gangbanger in their execution murder case. Sounds like Catherine and her guys are way ahead of your little ragtag bunch." He shrugged with an acidic smile. "But that's expected."

"Actually, we've got a suspect," Grissom returned. "Do you by any chance remember a guy named Douglas Belanger? Worked here from 1987 to 1990?"

After a moment, Ecklie nodded thoughtfully. "Doug Belanger. Yeah, I remember him. He was a meticulous CSI. Ended up being a real nutcase, though."

"What do you mean?"

Ecklie pushed back his chair, folding his arms. "I was the new guy on Days during his last year here. I remember some of the lab guys saying that Doug got kicked from Modesto because he made some kind of comment to a young female intern. Things used to slide in those days, but supposedly this was pretty offensive. At any rate, from what I saw, he was very introverted, but a hard worker. Always struck me as a little eccentric, but harmless, like most of we scientist types." Ecklie tilted his head with a slight frown. "The only thing I noticed was that Doug always wanted to work the sexual assault cases, especially rape-murders. He always made a special point of talking to the victims."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Talking to them how?"

"Supportively," Ecklie replied. "Occasionally I sensed some scorn on his part—you know, the old attitude about rape victims. He was old-school, but never open about any derogatory feelings. Well, until his last case." Ecklie frowned, remembering. "This young woman, about twenty years old, had been raped. There was little evidence—plus no DNA testing—so Doug needed to talk to the girl again, to try to iron out exactly what happened. When Doug sat down to talk to her, he was polite at first, acting very professional while she told him the details of the rape. When she was done talking, he just . . . snapped. He launched into this tirade about how she had brought it on herself—called her a slut and a whore."

"Did he say anything distinctive?"

Ecklie shook his head. "Not that I can remember. He'd done so many other interviews before without anything like that happening. Maybe it was some kind of bad anniversary."

Grissom's eyes sparked. "I'll look up the date in the file," he nodded. "So the lab fired him, without any harassment charges?"

"Yeah," Ecklie nodded. "It was a little weird. But the lab was going through a shakeup, so I guess the director didn't want to make things more public. The girl was upset, but she didn't file. It seems like the lab officials discouraged her from filing, if you ask me. Plus, we were still working on getting a rape conviction on the suspect. She had more serious things to worry about."

"What was her name?"

"Dana Guerin," Ecklie replied. "But she and her husband died in a car crash over ten years ago."

Grissom's lips parted with shock, cold washing up his spine. Silently, he spun around and hurried down the hall to his office. His brain spun rapidly as he fished through the files on his desk and pulled out a particular folder. Flipping it open, he stared at the sheet inside. "Samantha Guerin," Grissom read aloud, his voice taut. "Parents, Richard and Dana Guerin, both deceased." Clear blue eyes bright with discovery, he closed the file and dropped it on the desk. The serial's fifth victim was the daughter of Dana Guerin, the rape victim Douglas Belanger had berated. The connection was sickening, but undeniable.

Douglas Belanger is the killer.

Grissom jumped as his cellphone rang, piercing the expectant silence. Fumbling in his pocket, he yanked out the phone and answered, "Grissom."

"Hey Gil."

Grissom's thoughts came to a jarring halt at the voice from his cellphone. Immediately his logical side went into damage control overdrive, smoothing his emotions under his professional veneer, reminding him over and over that he had to focus on the case. It was the only way he could keep his sanity.

"Gil?"

"Jim," Grissom replied quickly, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I'm, uh, in a bad area. The lab, you know, it has bad reception."

Brass hesitated, the air heavy with what they left unsaid. "I . . . haven't seen you in a few days," he replied, his voice strangely somber. "Make any headway with the records?"

Grissom nodded, then rolled his eyes at the obviously unseen gesture. "Yeah—I've just found a very good suspect. Douglas Belanger. Fits the profile like a glove, but we've got no current address or driver's license. We'll have to inform Elko P.D."

"Will do," Brass agreed. "Actually, I was calling to tell you that Elko called me a few minutes ago. A young woman was just reported missing."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Last time it took twenty-five days. It's only been, what, a little over two weeks since Jillian Edwards' death? Does this girl fit the profile?"

"Nora Sommers, eighteen, works as a waitress," Brass returned. "Lives in an apartment in Elko by herself. I'm told she was kidnapped from her apartment the night before last, no forced entry, nobody saw anything."

"Call Elko," Grissom replied, jawline tensing resolutely. "Tell them to book three hotel rooms. We're going up."