Author's note: I apologize vehemently for the long wait for this chapter---I've been distracted by some other things, and been generally slacking on my internet stuff. Have no fear! The story is continuing. Please keep reading and reviewing, and thanks for your support and nice comments! ---Emyn

Grissom straightened his sunglasses, kit in hand as he stepped out of his Denali and onto the street. Brilliant afternoon sunlight shone yellow on the dusty pavement and old buildings, filling the air with the scent of hot tar, tempered with a faintly cool breeze from the mountains. He paused by the door, traffic reflecting in his dark lenses as he surveyed the storefronts, apartment buildings, and people walking along the sidewalk—perhaps still unaware that there was a predator among them.

The vicious killer they were pursuing had walked down that same street, blending in seamlessly, hunting for his victims. Like an invisible dragon or a mimicking virus, his evil was carefully concealed, and he attracted no attention. His chameleon exterior disguised the fang-jawed abyss within, the wolf sniffing out innocent lambs. The thought made Grissom's blood feel thickly cold. His mouth twitched as he wondered if the killer was watching him at that same moment, sizing him up. Maybe he was troubled that they had figured out his next targeted location. More likely, he was laughing.

Frowning, Grissom walked around the SUV and onto the sidewalk, then into the lobby of the Elko Police Department. He waved his ID at the receptionist, then slipped into a decent-sized conference room. Quietly he glanced over the crowd of police officers, to the large projection screen at the front of the room. The sweetly smiling face of Nora Sommers stared back at him, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight of a happier time. Gnawing his lower lip, Grissom slid into a cold metal chair in the back row. Brass stood rigidly beside the projection screen, outlined in the photograph's yellow glow.

"If the killer holds to his usual pattern," Brass stated, his voice ringing in the silent space, "then Nora Sommers has about three days left to live. However, considering that the time he keeps his victims has been getting shorter, it may be even less." He paused, allowing the urgency of their situation to sink in. "Each murder, with its specific, ritualistic pattern of rape and torture, fulfills the killer's fantasies. But the longer he goes without being caught, the more psychologically disturbed he becomes. Fantasies and reality get so entangled that he can no longer tell them apart. This, and his faster pace, makes it more likely that he'll make a mistake and get caught. That is one of the few advantages we have." Brass pressed a button, and Nora's image was replaced by the emotionless face of Douglas Belanger.

Grissom felt a chill claw at his spine at the flat, dark eyes staring back at him.

"In order to find Nora, we must find this man," Brass continued. "His name is Douglas Belanger, and he's our prime suspect. In brief, his psychological profile, personal and work history, and a few more specific clues make us believe strongly that he is the Silver State Strangler. He has no current address under the name Belanger, though we do know he used the alias Robert Greene in a previous incident. He may be using the same alias, or a different one. We don't know." Brass pressed the button again, and the screen switched to a lineup of several images, glowing in a somber grid. "A forensic artist at the Las Vegas Crime Lab has aged Belanger's photograph, adding a few changes, such as a beard or different-colored hair. We'll use these pictures and go to local businesses, hardware stores, restaurants, and so forth, to see if anyone remembers seeing him. The killer locates all three potential victims beforehand, so he would have been here for about two weeks previous to Nora's disappearance, most likely posing as a tourist. We're going to look at hotel records for a single man who checked in two weeks ago, and also show his pictures to the hotel staff. I'll make this very clear," Brass added firmly. "All of this must be done with extreme caution—Belanger has no idea we are looking at him, or that we even know he exists. If he finds out he's a suspect, he may simply kill Nora and vanish. I'll accept no excuses if this information leaks. Understood?"

The police officers nodded somberly, some muttering "Yes sir."

"Good. The third thing to look at may be the most important—real estate records. We know that he keeps his victims for about a week, torturing them the entire time. He couldn't do this in a hotel room or an apartment—he must own property, most likely at the outskirts of town. He must also have property near Vegas and Reno—he couldn't have one location for all of the murders, because they're much too far apart. Naturally, this means he owns property in or near Elko itself. It may have been purchased within the past two years, but possibly before then. Most likely, he used the alias Robert Greene—one man can only have so many fake IDs. We need to search all of those records for anyone by that name, or anyone with his same birthdate. He used his real birthdate for his Robert Green ID, so he probably would use it with other IDs. He sees no reason to use a fake birthdate. Unfortunately for him, that gives us a potential way to find him." Brass shut off the projector and gazed out over the assembled police officers. "This man has killed six women already, and he will never stop—not until he's either arrested or dead. I don't think I need to say that this case must be your absolute highest priority."

As Brass finished, the assembled police officers stood uneasily, talking to each other in low tones and slowly leaving the room. Grissom stayed in his seat, his glasses' earpiece resting against his lip, one arm stretched across the back of the chair beside his. His forehead creased pensively as he considered the state of the case. Before, they had felt like they were chasing a phantom, grasping for any piece of evidence that would give their suspect human form. Now their main enemy was time—and still the killer's cunning. Science and sound human logic had brought them to that point, and only solid detective work could ferret out their elusive opponent, and save his innocent victim from death. Grissom's mind stepped back for a moment, gazing beyond their case to the vast struggle it represented—the constant tug-of-war between evil and good. His job kept him looking through a microscope, always close to the evidence, without the luxury of considering broader theories of life or human behavior. Still, the greater purpose always stood behind his practical daily work, reminding him that he was part of something vital. He and his team were warriors, with science as their weapon. As Grissom's mind descended back to their suspect's cold gaze, his jawline tightened, hardened with unflinching resolution.

We are going to catch you, no matter what.

"Gil."

Grissom glanced up to see Brass standing by his chair, his dark blue eyes solemn. Feeling a strange twinge of something like regret, Grissom slipped on his glasses and stood slowly. "Jim," he nodded in reply, his voice vaguely austere. "Nice job with the briefing."

Brass shrugged with a sigh. "Honestly, I'd feel better if I was working with my LVPD boys. I mean, these cops are okay, but from the looks on their faces I think they're overwhelmed by the whole thing."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully, gazing across the room. "Elko isn't a big city, Jim. It's never had to face a serial killer."

"I know." Brass followed Grissom's gaze over the departing officers, then glanced sideways at him. "So what do you think?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow without looking back. "About what specifically?"

"Do you think we'll find Nora alive? Your gut feeling, I mean."

"I'm not even thinking about it," Grissom replied, jawline tightening. "When I do my work, I move forward with the assumption that I will identify and apprehend the suspect. In this case, I have to assume that will happen in time to save Nora." Forehead creasing slightly at his less than satisfactory answer, Grissom glanced sideways at Brass. "What about you?"

Brass shrugged. "I tend to be realistic to pessimistic, but . . . I really want to get this guy. If we all work hard and Elko cooperates, we should be able to find him soon."

"Then I guess we should get to work." Grissom started to walk away.

"How are you doing, Gil?" Brass asked slowly, his voice low.

Grissom paused and turned to face Brass. He squared his shoulders, lips pressed in a tight firm line. "Fine," he returned coolly, understanding Brass' meaning, then turned again and left the room.

Deceptively cheerful sunlight filtered dully between the thick green curtains, hanging in an uncertain haze amid the apartment's shadows. Its thick silence was tempered by the neighboring tenants' radio, disembodied female vocals seeping through the dusty walls in a wordless tide. Sara stood just inside the doorway, kit in hand, surveying the scene. Her first glance revealed no sign of a prolonged struggle—only a tipped bottle of soda betrayed a disturbance. She gazed at the congealed puddle of sugary liquid, its dark stain on the cheap linoleum floor reminiscent of old blood. As she watched an ant testing the puddle's edge, her thoughts were drawn to the victim.

Was she sitting alone when you took her?

Sara stepped closer to the couch, picturing the blonde, blue-eyed Nora Sommers staring across her lifeless apartment, dreaming of a future beyond the dust of an overgrown cow-town.

Was she worrying about her dead-end life? Problems with her boyfriend, maybe? Any everyday issue that was nothing compared to the devastation you cause?

Her lips pursed tightly together as anger whispered coldly along her spine.

So now, because your mom was mean or you got picked on or for no reason at all except the joy you find in death, you've got an innocent young woman in hell.

At that moment, something on the sofa caught Sara's eye, and she put her kit on the coffee table and leaned down to look at it. On the worn brown fabric was a small, darkly spattered mark. Forehead creasing curiously, Sara took out a swab and the small bottle of phenothalyne. Carefully, she swabbed the spot, then squeezed a drop of the clear liquid onto its cotton tip.

The white surface blushed into a brilliant pink.

Sara's lips parted as she straightened, visualizing what had happened. Nora is sitting on her couch, drinking a soda. The killer rings the doorbell.

Sara half-heard the sound in her mind.

Nora gets up to open the door, thinking he's just some benign delivery guy or something. He comes in, the door closes, and he tries to chloroform her.

Sara's tongue absently traced the edge of her lip as the smell and taste of the chloroform-laced cloth returned to her. Her pulse quickened.

But instead of succumbing immediately, Nora gets out of his grasp. She runs back toward the sofa, to . . .

Sara's gaze flicked past the sofa to the telephone on the wall in the nearby kitchen. She flinched as the young woman's screams floated into her mind.

Nora tries to reach the phone, to call for help. He catches up to her by the sofa, and pushes her down, trying to overpower her. Her soda is knocked from the end table. She scratches him somehow, leaving a trace of his blood on the side of the couch.

Sara moved closer, examining the fabric near the top of the sofa. She could barely make out a fine spatter pattern against the brown material.

Enraged, the killer hits her in the face, causing a small amount of bleeding—from her nose, probably. He gets on top of her, holding her down as he presses the chloroform cloth over her mouth and nose.

A cold wave rushed up the back of Sara's neck as she remembered the hatred in those flat, dark eyes. She could hear the young woman's cries slowly fade, and the killer's cold silence as she fell unconscious.

"Looks like it's just you and me now."

Her hand whipped to her gun, every muscle straining in a visceral response to the memory of that icy voice. At that moment, her cellphone rang. Slightly startled, Sara dropped her hand from her gun's grip and pulled out her phone. "Hello?"

"Hey Sara, it's just me."

"Hey you," Sara sighed with relief at Brass' warm voice, smiling with faint embarrassment at her sudden fear. "Are you guys done with the briefing?"

"Yeah," Brass replied with a slight sigh. "I'm hoping some of it sunk in. These Elko cops are something else. They're all either overwhelmed by the situation, or territorial."

"Well, you know cops are possessive of their jurisdiction," Sara returned as she walked to the window and leaned against the casing. "Hopefully they'll get through it and do what has to be done."

"Hopefully." Brass paused, sighing. "I don't know, Sara. I want to believe that we'll find Nora alive, but this guy . . . If we don't find her, she'll die, but I'm afraid if we get too close he'll kill her anyway."

"Maybe," Sara admitted. "Still, I feel like we're so close now. We're almost sure of his identity. Even if we're too late for Nora, we're on his trail. We're going to get him soon."

"I think we will," Brass agreed. "I just talked to Grissom, too—he's determined to get this guy before he murders Nora."

Sara nodded, strangely relieved. "I'm glad he's focused on the case again. You know, I haven't really seen him since we got up here," she added quietly. "How is he?"

"He's Grissom," Brass returned wryly. "He's okay with stuff relating to the case, but personally, he's chilly."

"That's normal," Sara half-smiled. "He'll stop sulking eventually."

"I hope so. By the way, got anything at the apartment?"

"Yeah, actually," she returned, glancing back at the sofa. "Nora managed to scratch the killer somehow, so I've got bloodstains. If they match the blood from, ah, from his gunshot wound—"

"Then we'll have physical evidence to link him to the murders," Brass finished, enthusiasm in his voice. "Excellent."

"I think it's appropriate that one of his victims was able to thwart his attempts at leaving no trace," Sara remarked.

"Probably really ticked him off, too."

"Yeah," Sara smiled wryly. Her expression faded rapidly as she looked back out the window. A man was standing by the beaten blue mailbox near the apartment building's front entrance. Even at that distance, Sara noticed his light brown hair and thoughtful, almost scholarly features. She felt cold slice in a razor down her spine as his dark gaze flicked up to the window, then back to the letter he was holding.

"Sara?" Brass asked, sounding slightly worried. "Are you still there?"

"It's him," Sara croaked, pulling back slightly from the window. Saying it filled her with dread, as the ambiguous ghost had suddenly taken shape in front of her. She stared at his harmless-looking form as he slipped the letter into the mailbox's cold metal interior.

Brass understood immediately, his voice suddenly fierce as steel. "Sara, where is he?"

"Outside, putting a letter in the mailbox."

"Damn it," Brass cursed under his breath. She could hear his footsteps on the police department's linoleum floor. "Are you sure it's him?"

Sara half-blinked as the man looked back up at Nora's apartment, a vague smile playing across his lips. "I'm sure."

"Sara, don't you move, you hear me? I'll be right there with the special response team. Stay on the line." His voice was commanding, but darkened with concern. "Did he see you?"

"I don't think—he's walking around toward the back of the building," Sara hissed, eyes flashing as the man vanished from her sight. "He's going to get away."

"Give me five minutes," Brass ordered.

Sara heard him lower his phone and start shouting orders at the people around him. She moved to the far left edge of the window, peering around the green curtain, but she could no longer see him. Mind working rapidly, Sara bit her lip until she almost drew blood. Taking a slow, calming breath, every nerve steeled with resolution, she picked up her kit and walked out of the apartment.