… part 3, chapter 2 …

The photographs before her were not helping her focus. None of this made any sense. And where the hell was Grissom? It was already 9 p.m.

Sara rose, frustrated, and walked down the hallways to the A/V lab. Charles was bleary-eyed as he reviewed the video footage for the tenth time. A medium-height, medium-build, nondescript everyman walked down the hallway. Charles moved the round dial on his left, and the man reversed, only to walk down the hallway again.

"Do you think he's got a limp?" Charles asked her softly. "I can't tell; it looks subtle."

Sara leaned over his shoulder, studying the man she knew was their killer. "No, I think he's off-balanced because of the weight in his bucket." After a moment, she murmured, "Sorry."

Charles sighed, but didn't respond. Sara knew this case was bothering him as much as it bothered her. Charles had his own demons, and although he controlled them well, they were still there to haunt him when things got tough.

"Have you seen Grissom tonight?" she asked hesitantly.

"No, I've been in here since four. He isn't with you?"

"No. I haven't seen him all night."

Charles eyebrows went up in surprise. "You haven't?"

"No… I thought he might be with you."

"Well," he said, "we'd better go find him. Make sure he didn't get himself lost in some bug experiment." Charles's tone was mocking, bitter. Sara shot him a condescending look, but he ignored her as he stood. She silently followed him as they wandered the hallways. Their search ended in the parking lot, where Grissom's rental car was noticeable by its absence.

"He's not here," Sara said.

"Maybe he left, went back to Vegas. Couldn't handle the pressure."

"Charles, you know he wouldn't do that. He isn't like that."

Charles looked off into the distance as he murmured, "Yeah, I know."

"So where is he?"

"Dunno. Maybe he called in sick."

"And Mike didn't tell either of us? I don't think so. And Grissom is never sick."

"Little you know."

Sara's scowl was deep as she left Charles in the parking lot. She found her supervisor in his office, his eyes distant and cold as he stared at the newspaper on his desk. This case wasn't doing Mike any favors, either. She knocked softly on the doorframe. "Mike?"

"What? Oh, Sara, it's you. I'm sorry, I was… lost in thought, I suppose."

"Difficult case; I know."

"Yes, it is. Anything I can help you with?"

"Have you seen Grissom at all this evening?"

Michael Nave blinked at her, surprised by the question. "You haven't?"

"No and neither has Charles. We were wondering if he had contacted you… or something."

"I've heard nothing from him." Sara saw the panic flash in Mike's eyes before it was quickly squelched. "I'm sure he's fine though," he said reassuringly. "There may have been an accident on 395. He may be stuck in traffic."

The sense of unease that Sara had felt all evening was growing. "He would have called." Sara stopped as she heard the desperation in her voice. "I mean… maybe you're right. Maybe he's just stuck in traffic. Or maybe his car broke down."

Mike looked at her strangely before slowly asking, "What do you really think?"

It was a long time before Sara answered. "Something is wrong."

Twenty minutes later, she and Charles were standing in Grissom's hotel room, guns drawn, as Jon secured the room. "There's nothing significant," Jon said pointedly after checking behind the shower curtain. "He was here earlier, and he got a shower. The towels are still damp." He picked up one as proof. "See?"

Sara shook her head at Jon from the bathroom doorway and smiled, "I'll take your word for it, thanks." She wasn't about to go in there if she could help it. She holstered her gun and studied the rest of the small room, noticing the half-made bed. Other than that, the room looked exactly the same as when she'd been here before. "Jon, we need to go to security. I want to see the video from the hallway, the parking lots; see if and when he left."

"Sure. I know he parked in the hotel garage."

The three of them walked down the hallway, their steps muffled by the carpet and acoustics of the hotel. "Do you really think something has happened to him?" Jon's voice portrayed his anxiety, and his age.

Charles was serious in his reply. "There are no traffic accidents, no disabled vehicles. Troop E and Montville haven't had any calls regarding a man that fits Grissom's description. And the rental car agency hasn't heard a thing."

"Maybe he had a heart attack or something," Jon said thoughtfully. Sara froze, and Charles shot Jon a withering glare.

"What? It isn't like he's a spring chicken or anything. And it would explain what happened…" Jon's voice faded as he noticed Sara's face. She was as pale as a ghost. "Oh… well, the surveillance video will show what happened. We, uh, shouldn't jump to conclusions."

Charles put his hand lightly on Sara's shoulder as the chime for the elevator dinged. "No," he said pointedly, "we shouldn't. We should never assume anything until we have all the evidence. Isn't that right, Detective Northwind?" Charles's eyes were sharper than daggers as he looked over Sara's shoulder, and Jon cowered in the corner of the elevator when he replied, "No, I mean, yeah, I mean… We shouldn't assume anything."

A black man in his late fifties looked up as the trio walked into the security room. "Tyrone, we need to review the footage of the fifteenth floor as well as the hotel's parking garage," Jon commanded, perhaps with a little too much authority. "Start around three-thirty today and go from there." Tyrone's raised eyebrows and curious expression mirrored his voice as he coughed out, "Sure thing, Jon." Sara stood close against Charles, images of Grissom collapsing alone, laying prone on some floor, gasping, dying… Her head turned away from the monitors as tears welled up in her eyes. If he was dead…

Charles noticed Sara's unease and pulled her close. "It'll be okay, sweetheart. No matter what happens, I promise it'll be okay."

Tyrone quickly rewound and played the footage from the hotel hallway. They all watched as a relatively alert and very-much-alive Grissom walked towards the same elevator they'd just ridden. Grissom stood quietly while he waited; rubbing his temples as he usually did when he was tired or bored. Within one minute and ten seconds, the elevator arrived, and Grissom stepped on. No one left, no one followed, and the hallway was vacant for a good fifteen minutes until a woman and her son left their room and waited for the elevator.

"Lobby next?" Tyrone asked, figuring out the reason they were there. He punched and flicked with expert ease and they watched as Grissom exited the elevator and walked out the double-doors into the parking garage. More clicks and flickering on the monitors as Tyrone searched for Grissom. They all stood in silence as Grissom walked through various camera views, Tyrone switching the footage almost seamlessly, until they reached the one where Grissom approached the far corner of the second story parking area. They stared as another man stood from behind the truck on the near side of the concrete pillar. Sara gasped when the other man apparently pushed something into Grissom's raised arm. Then they saw nothing but hints of movement from behind the pillar. A minute and twenty-three seconds passed before the hooded man walked around the car, only to disappear behind the pillar again.

It was three minutes and four seconds later when the car backed out. It jerked and bucked as the driver struggled to get the car in gear. With a jump, the car grabbed a gear and pulled forward, extremely slowly.

Jon barked a nervous laugh. "The guy doesn't know how to drive it." Charles and Sara looked at him in question. "It's an Audi, with the modified transmission. You have to drive it kind of like a stick-shift."

As the car crossed the camera's view, Sara spoke. "Freeze it," she ordered. Tyrone responded, and the still frame displayed their hooded man in the driver's seat. The passenger's seat was empty. Charles was ready to bolt towards the garage, but Sara held him back. "Wait," she told him softly. To Tyrone she asked, "Can you enhance it?"

"Give me a minute." Tyrone did more clicking and key-punching, and the still image showed up on a computer monitor to Tyrone's right. "We do this with the in-house cameras to determine if folks are cheatin'," he told Sara. "Not a problem." An application loaded, and Tyrone dragged the image into the application. He clicked again, and the image enhanced. "Again," Sara urged quietly, and the image enlarged and grew clearer. The man in the driver's seat was frowning, his dark eyes peering out from the hood. His nose was long, his features square. No tufts of hair stuck out from the hood tied tightly in a neat bow under the man's chin. His hand was resting awkwardly on the gearshift.

"There," Charles said, pointing. Between the driver and passenger seats, they had a view of two things: Grissom's dangling wrist, his long fingers limp, and the silver reflection of his kit lying on its side in the space behind the driver's seat. The letters "LVC" were visible.

Sara turned to Charles, a quiet fire brewing in her brown eyes, the rage and panic within her deepening her voice to a deadened whisper that neither Charles or Jon had ever heard from her before. "That's him." Charles silently shifted in agreement. "And how much do you want to bet that thing," she said with rising venom, pointing at the hooded man, "that thing there is our killer?"

oooooooooooooooooo

The light was entirely too bright. Ghosts of fiery pain washed over Grissom as he opened his right eye slowly and then slammed it shut in a harsh squint. His body throbbed, but he couldn't fathom why. Was he hurt? Where had he been hit? He tried to recall what had happened.

"So," a voice purred, "you're finally awake. Good. It's time for your medication."

Grissom heard a groan, and realized it came from his own mouth. "Where am I?" he tried to ask, but all that came out was a harsh whisper of unintelligible noise. Grissom tried to focus. He licked his dry lips and swallowed before saying again, "Where am I?"

"You're safe, so don't worry. I promise not to hurt you if you behave. You need to take your medication for me, okay?" There was a note of fear and unease as the man's voice rose in question. Grissom tried again to open his eyes.

Piercing white. Blink. Your eyes will adjust. Things came into focus. A workbench, tools hanging neatly on the wall. A door with a small cross hanging above it. Unfinished wood floors and walls, a cross-beam ceiling. He turned his head slowly, easy now, to the right. Three slot machines, and neat coils of wire. More tools. Another table with papers and plastic bottles and miscellaneous boxes atop it. Everything appeared very orderly, a little too much so. The air was cool and damp.

There was also a man in a folding chair in the center of the room. Buzz cut brown hair, long nose, and dark eyes. Young, most likely in his mid-thirties. He was dressed casually in jeans and a faded grey t-shirt, holding a glass of wine in his left hand. Wine. That's significant. Why?

"Hello Bearded Doc. Forgive me for not remembering your real name, but names are not important to me." The man stood from his chair in such a way that Grissom got the impression he'd been sitting for a while. "Now are you going to cooperate and drink the wine, or are you going to make things difficult?"

Grissom scowled. He was not a child. This was wrong. He tried to walk, but found something held his legs back. He went to move his arms, but he could not. Slowly, he turned his head to rest it on his right shoulder. He followed his arm up to where his wrist was taped and secured to a large nail in the wall. Huh? Grissom jerked his head to the other side, and found the same scenario. I'm taped up. He started yanking with his arms, and pain flashed through his wrists and palms. He tried to kick, but his legs were taped together and pinned to something he couldn't see. He felt the tape pull against the hairs on his bare skin.

"Please don't do that," the man said as he approached. "You'll hurt yourself. Please don't struggle."

"Who… who are you?"

"I told you, names are not important. You can call me 'Sir' if you must. Actually, I think I'd like that. Yes, you can call me 'Sir'."

"Where am I?"

"You're in my custody. I'm going to take care of you for a while, until I've finished my redemptions. Then I'll let you go. I'm sorry about that, but you were getting in my way."

Words flashed through Grissom's clouded brain. Rapist. Bleach. Murder. Casino. Sara. The thought of Sara cleared some of the haze. Connecticut. Sara. Joint case with Sara. Home.

He blinked, and the odor of red wine filled his nostrils. The man was close, holding the plastic wine glass to Grissom's lips. "Drink please, Mr. Doc. I have to go to work soon, and I really don't have time to spare. I'll miss my bus. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

No, of course not. Very sorry… wait! The fog and lethargy was lifting, and Grissom lifted his head slowly. Steel blue met dark brown as Grissom glared in defiance. "No," he spat. I will not be this man's pansy. I will not tolerate this.

"Well, that's good…" And the man lifted the glass to Grissom's lips.

Grissom jerked his head away. "No," he repeated.

"Oh dear, I was afraid of this. You are being stubborn."

Grissom regained his voice. "You are holding me captive. Let me go. Now." Fury and raw fear flared adrenaline through Grissom's veins. He jerked again with both arms, ignoring the pain lancing through his hands.

The man stepped back hesitantly, walking over to the table to Grissom's right. "Please. Don't make me hurt you." His voice was pleading, pathetic. Grissom continued to struggle and he felt the short hairs on his legs rip painfully as he struggled and kicked against the tape. "Please," the man begged. Grissom continued to fight against his bonds, self-preservation fueling his rage. When he was free, he would pound the young man's face. He saw himself doing so, his fist rising and falling in rhythm. "FINE!" the man screamed wildly. Grissom stopped struggling and turned as he saw a black box in the man's hand, the wine glass resting on the table. The man moved his thumb.

A flash of white-hot, searing agony. Grissom heard the screaming, and knew it was his own. Minutes passed as he panted, regaining his composure. His whole body was aflame, the after-image of red fire echoing against his closed eyelids.

"I'm so sorry," the man wailed softly. "I don't want to hurt you. Please, please cooperate." Grissom slowly opened one eye, and saw the man with tears in his eyes, the wine glass in one hand, the black box in the other.

"What do you want with me?" he choked out, his voice raspy. His body burned and he felt his fingers twitching. What had the man done to him?

"I want you to take your medication. You'll sleep. It'll be okay. I've already taken care of you with regards to your personal needs, so please, just take your medication and go back to sleep, okay?"

Personal needs? "What personal needs?" he said; his voice a whisper.

"Your bodily needs. Elimination. I took care of that for you."

What? Grissom looked around, lowering his head. The jolt to his system had woke him fully. He realized that he was clad only in his boxers and socks. His legs were indeed taped together around his calves and ankles by the same black tape that bound his wrists and apparently his hands. He tried to wriggle his fingers, but found he could only move his fingertips. Part of him realized this removed any leverage he might have by forming a fist with his hands. He pondered this for a moment, until the man's words registered and Grissom shuddered in revulsion. This man had violated him. His mind whirled at the implication of the man touching him in that way, in any way. Bile rose in his throat and he gagged.

"No!" the man screamed, "don't you dare!" And the blinding waves of agony coursed through Grissom again as the man pressed the small button on his black box.

It was longer this time before Grissom recovered. Tears streamed down his cheeks into his beard; their path traced by the cool air brushing against the dampness. He felt the saliva pooling in his mouth, running over his lips. He licked them subconsciously, gasping in pain.

The man was whimpering. "I only did it so you wouldn't soil yourself. I didn't hurt you, and I disposed of it properly."

"What… are you doing to me?"

"I told you, I cleansed you so you wouldn't soil yourself. And I helped you urinate…"

Grissom gagged again, coughing as his entire body retched, and the man's eyes grew wide in fear. "No…" Grissom pleaded, "I won't… please, no more." The man relaxed, and Grissom tried very hard to control himself as he spoke. "What… does the black box do?"

"It's the only way I could think to control you. I don't want to use it, really, I don't. It's… it's a shock collar. I modified it a little…"

Grissom's mind tried to comprehend his situation, and he quickly came to the conclusion that he was in mortal peril. The unstable man before him, the man who held the remote control to the dog collar around his neck (yes, he felt it now, the two prongs poking slightly into the softness of his neck); he held Grissom's life in his hands. He was most likely their serial killer; he certainly fit the profile and his words seemed to indicate the same. Grissom would tell Sara she was right, their killer was definitely OCD.

This also meant, assuming the research was correct, that Grissom would be killed. It wouldn't happen now, but when the burden of a hostage became too much for the man, he would kill his captive. Grissom's only option was to cooperate, and pray that Sara and Charlie realized he was missing and found him in time. His brows furrowed in thought. The last thing he'd remembered was walking towards the parking lot to go to work… and now he was here, a prisoner, and he needed to keep this man calm. "I'll drink the wine," he murmured softly.

"Good, good. Please do as I say. I promise I won't hurt you if you do as I say." The man walked over slowly, clearly afraid. The wine glass trembled slightly in his hand as he held it up to Grissom's lips. Grissom drank quickly, not realizing his thirst. The glass was drained in seconds.

"There. That wasn't so hard, now was it? Now you'll sleep."

Grissom grimaced at the bitter aftertaste of the wine. Cheap Merlot, if he wasn't mistaken. He suspected the wine was laced with Rohypnol, and he'd be out within fifteen to twenty minutes. Rohypnol's effects lasted at least eight hours, during which time Grissom would be oblivious. Part of him wished to fight back, to rebel, to pull and struggle with all of his might until he was free. But another part of him welcomed the calm, as it knew that struggling would be a wasted effort. He would die here, in this building, unless someone found him. Sara…

The man placed the glass and the dog collar remote on the workbench, close to the door. "I have to go now," he said, "but I'll be back. Behave now, and maybe I'll bring you a treat." The man smiled, and Grissom saw the flash of pure insanity in his grin.

Only after the man left, and Grissom's mind grew fuzzy and the aches in his body faded, did he realize he recognized his captor.

TO BE CONTINUED…