Author's Notes: I know I'm kind of saturating ya'll with chapters, but I wanted to get this one out while I could. There's a hurricane a'comin'! (I live in central Florida.) This is part of my storm prepardedness. If I lose power, it could be awhile before there's another chapter. Last year, during Charley, my parents didn't have power for a month. Let's hope Wilma misses us, so I can keep on writing. Meanwhile, enjoy! And thanks once again.
Giving Up
by Kristen Elizabeth
Grissom's call interrupted a lively debate over whether the man two tables over from them was really Adam Sandler. Lindsey swore he was; Catherine wasn't so sure. It was the most pleasant mother/daughter moment they'd had in L.A., maybe even that they'd had in years. So far their bonding weekend had consisted of her buying things for her daughter. And Lindsey pretending they weren't related. But Grissom ended all of that.
"Catherine," he said, not bothering with greetings. "Sara's missing."
"How long?" she immediately asked. Across the table, Lindsey sipped her soda and watched her with suspicious eyes.
"Only a couple of hours," he replied. "But…"
"I know." Catherine looked up at the baby blue sky. "It's Sara." She gave Lindsey a helpless look. The girl scowled into her drink. "If this were anyone else asking me to cut my vacation short, I'd hang up and let them stew in their misery, just so you know."
"Thank you, Catherine."
"We'll leave as soon as we can," she told him.
Catherine closed up her phone and carefully placed it next to her plate. Taking a breath, she addressed her daughter, who had already crossed her arms tightly over her chest, like a shield. "You know the woman I work with? Sara?"
"Yeah. When dad died…" She raised one shoulder. "She was nice to me. You were a bitch to her."
"Hello, language?" Catherine hesitated before going on; Lindsey wasn't entirely wrong. "Well. Sara is missing."
"And Mr. Grissom wants you help find her?"
"Pretty much." She shook her head. "Linds, believe me. This is not what I had planned for this weekend."
"Mom." She heaved a great, dramatic sigh. "It's okay."
Catherine frowned, puzzled. "It is?"
"Yeah. You need to help find her. Maybe it'll make Mr. Grissom happy again."
"How do you figure that?"
"He loves Sara. Right?"
She stared at her daughter for a moment before laughing. "You're a pretty perceptive kid, you know that?"
"Do perceptive kids get more allowance?"
Catherine signaled the waiter to bring their check. "Perceptive kids know to quit while they're ahead."
There was a lone buzzard circling overhead and Sara was trying very hard not to take it as an omen.
The sun was making a dive for the far off western horizon; she guessed there was approximately two hours until sunset, and that she'd been walking for at least that long, as well. But with no solid evidence backing that up, she had no idea. Time was meaningless out there, especially when your cell phone's clock relied on a tower signal in order to display it.
But she wouldn't be discouraged. Yes, her feet hurt. Hurt like hell, technically. Her boots and jeans up to her knees were white with sandy dust. Her arms and probably her face were beet red. She was so thirsty her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. But she wasn't nauseated. And she was still sweating, so there was still hydration in her body. She wasn't suffering from heat exhaustion or stroke. Yet.
The only symptoms of the heat she was suffering from were mental. She was plagued with all kinds of weird thoughts. Like, would Grissom visit her body in the morgue if she didn't make it? What if they found her in an advanced state of decomposition and she smelled like the man in the duffel bag had? Would Grissom use lemons to wash her away?
No. Grissom's last image of her wasn't going to be of a bloated, insect-infested corpse. Let it be of her triumphantly emerging from the desert, having survived the elements with nothing more than a sunburn and some blisters on her feet. Let him carry that picture of her from then on. It was a fitting way to leave.
She wasn't sure if the idea itself was a product of the heat, or if it had always been in the back of her mind and this experience had just brought it out, but the further Sara walked, the more she became convinced of one thing.
It was time to leave Las Vegas.
"Here's what we know. The last time anyone saw Sara was at one p.m. She was at her apartment and she was fine." Greg paused to give Grissom a dirty look. "Relatively fine. But that was six hours ago. Since then, nothing."
"And since it's only been six hours, it's way too early for an official missing persons report," Warrick said, almost to himself.
"Ecklie won't send a team to Sara's without a report. And you all can't process because even if you found something, your personal relationships with her would put the evidence into legal limbo," Brass summed up.
"So, what do we do?" Nick rubbed his hands together. Very cowboy itching for action. "We can't just sit around Grissom's place waiting for someone else to find her."
"Short of getting into our cars and driving all over, shouting her name, I don't know." Greg looked around. "I was hoping you guys might have some ideas."
"Are we sure she didn't just need to get away for a few days?" Warrick asked. "Girl's been stressed. Before we call out the cavalry, are we sure she's not halfway through a mud bath at the Mediterranean?"
"Sara Sidle?" was all Nick had to say.
Warrick nodded, resigned. "Just a thought."
"Grissom." Greg looked at the older man again. He was sitting in the same position he had been since he sat back down after opening the door to let them in. As far as he knew, Grissom hadn't even blinked since they'd all arrived. Greg waved his hand in front of the man's face. "Grissom!"
Finally , he was acknowledged. "I heard you the first time, Greg."
"Anything you want to add here? Or are you just wondering how soon you can get us all out of your house?"
Nick, Warrick and Brass exchanged looks.
But if they were expecting a scene, they wound up disappointed. Grissom ignored Greg's sarcasm and biting accusations. In a sudden burst of movement that startled them all, he shot to his feet.
"Boss?" Nick ventured to ask. "What are you thinking?"
"Lawton Forbes," Grissom announced. His expression was foreign to the other men. They'd never seen him quite so possessed, not even when confronted with the worst criminals imaginable. "He knows where she is. If we want to find her, we have to find him."
"Gil," Brass began.
"He took her, Jim. It's what he does. He seduces and he kills. I know it and you know it!"
"I know that we don't have enough evidence to say that for sure," Brass went on. "So just…take a second and think about this rationally."
"Rationally?" Grissom grabbed a paperweight from the coffee table and hurtled it across the room, not seeming to care that it hit one of his low-hanging, framed butterflies, shattering the glass. "Don't look for rational here," he yelled. "Sara could be…" His chin dropped to his chest. The changes in his demeanor were dizzing. When he looked up again, his eyes red-rimmed. "You'll go?"
Brass nodded once. "I'll go. The D.A. should have the extended warrant from the DNA match by now. Nick, Warrick, you wanna process?"
Both men agreed.
"Greg." Brass jerked his head towards Grissom. "Keep an eye on him."
"Yeah." Greg glanced at the half-broken man. "Sure."
When the three men were gone, there was utter silence. Eventually, Greg couldn't take it anymore. Clearing his throat, he pointed to the broken glass. "Want me to take care of that?"
"It doesn't matter," Grissom said, dully. And it didn't. It was just a one part of a collection he'd been working on for most of his life. All that time and effort and all he had to show for it was a wall of perfectly mounted dead things. He hadn't killed the butterflies, but in displaying their bodies, was he just as responsible for them? If Sara died…he would bear just as much responsibility for her death. He closed his eyes. He wasn't making sense because he couldn't think clearly. And he could always think clearly.
Except, he admitted to himself, whenever Sara was involved.
Greg hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his pants, unsure of what to do. He was still full of righteous indignation over Grissom's initial lack of reaction to Sara's disappearance. But maybe he'd been hasty in judging his boss. The man standing in front of him was seriously grieving. Already. What would he be like if something much worse than vanishing for a few hours had happened to Sara? Greg wasn't sure. But he was fairly certain he didn't want to be around to see it.
"I'll get a broom," Greg finally said. "Do you want to save the butterfly?"
"Yes." Grissom's answer was so faint that Greg barely even heard it. "I want to save her."
She'd stopped sweating. And it wasn't just because the sun had melted into the horizon and darkness was descending. Any CSI in a desert environment had processed the body of a heat stroke victim. The warning signs were all there. Fatigue, dry skin, dizziness, sudden lack of sweat. It didn't matter that the temperature would soon plummet; the damage would already be done. In fact, the sudden cold might just make her condition worse. Her body was already weakened from the heat. She had no natural defenses against the cold now. She'd succumb even faster.
If she didn't get a signal soon, it would be too late.
Even if she'd let herself cry, she wouldn't have been able to. She was too dehydrated. Like she'd been wrung out to dry. This was not a good way to go. It was undignified. She would have been really pissed off if she hadn't been so exhausted.
Sara's feet gave out on her without warning. One minute she was walking; the next, she was on hands and knees, gasping for breath. She rubbed her hand across her mouth, not surprised to find her lips cracked and swollen.
Racked with dry sobs, Sara tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak moan. She didn't want to give up. She wanted to make that triumphant appearance from her ordeal. But it wasn't going to happen. She'd tried her hardest, but she couldn't beat nature.
Sara fell over on her side, ignoring the sharp rocks that now dug into her body. Still, she held onto the rope and her phone. She'd be found with them. She had to be.
Rolling onto her back, Sara looked up at the stars. She should have counted them years ago, but she'd always been working when they were out. It was too late now. She closed her eyes, preparing to give up.
Beep…beep…beep…beep.
It was an auditory hallucination, she told herself. Nothing more.
Beep…beep…beep…beep.
Auditory hallucination. Not her cell phone desperately trying to tell her something.
Almost as if to assure herself that it was her imagination so she could rest in peace, Sara lifted the phone up to her face.
Entering service area. 8:15 p.m. New voice mail.
She had no energy left to react. All she could do was enter three numbers.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"My name…is Sara Sidle. Help me. Please."
To Be Continued