Requital 10 of ?
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It couldn't have been more euphoric if God himself had streamlined a heavenly beam of light upon that spot, she thought.
There were a few times in life when a person dreams of another's reaction. Asking for a hand in marriage. Informing a loved one of an impending birth. Witnessing the culmination of vengeance won upon an arch enemy's face.
Okay, maybe that last one wasn't completely normal.
But she'd been waiting years for this, and damn if it didn't live up to every expectation in the world.
Gil Grissom was frozen in place like a Beefeater in front of Buckingham Palace.
He stared ahead and remained so completely still that she could scarcely tell if he was even breathing. What was running through his head, she wondered? What nightmarish realizations ceaselessly circled his consciousness? Would they drag him into a burden of guilt so heavy he'd never escape? Could he stand to look at another crime scene again… would he be able to detach himself… or would he always see Nick?
God willing, she thought.
Finally, he stepped forward. In reality, it was probably less then a minute. But she figured it was a few hundred lifetimes for the entomologist.
He flicked on his small flashlight and illuminated the bathtub and the man within it. She guessed that's when he finally realized Nick wasn't dead; his gait seemed to pick up a bit, and he kneeled quickly at the side of the tub. She didn't expect him to say anything – his anguished eyes were, in their own way, deafening.
Grissom slowly reached his arm out and touched a shaky hand to the side of his friend's neck, completely oblivious to his surroundings.
"Nicky?" he whispered, but the younger CSI remained limp. "Can you hear me?"
His expression turned puzzled as he took in the blood on Nick's chest. Without hesitation, he traced a couple fingers through what he thought was the source, but found no entry wound. The wheels seemed to be turning now as the supervisor picked up the other man's left hand and examined the gash on his palm.
Juliette watched as he straightened and glanced around, presumably trying to see her, but then he stopped as if suddenly remembering something.
Ahh, yes. About time.
He bent down near one of the tub's curled feet and picked up the tape recorder. A crackle of static escaped from the small speaker after he pressed 'play,' followed by a very familiar-sounding voice. The CSI's eyes never left Nick as the message played.
Dr. Grissom! Wow, is it just me, or is there a faint sense of déjà vu in the air?
She grinned. Despite the terrible acoustics, she didn't sound half-bad.
Did you ever dream you'd be back here again? I guess seeing is believing, then… or is it? Remember how just a few minutes ago, you thought he was dead? Well you were right. Don't let that silly pulse fool you. I'm sure your ever-assiduous lab rats have already briefed you about nightshade poisoning. But did they tell you what happens when it goes on untreated? I'm sorry to inform you that at this very moment, Nick's vital organs are shutting down. He may be breathing, but he might as well be dead. It should be any minute, now. Bravo on the timing. You know, I wanted to have him make this little exercise more authentic by leaving his own scripted message on here, but gosh, he just didn't seem to be in the mood. Again. Oh well.
Juliette was disappointed at his lack of outward reaction. Grissom was such a damn sphinx.
So! Now that we've gotten that minor issue out of the way, let me say welcome back to Good Springs and congratulations on following my little footprints. You must be proud having conquered the kind of evidence trail that a bunch of third grade Cub Scouts could decipher before snack time. Are you wondering what happens now? Are you go—
She watched, surprised, as he hastily thumbed the 'stop' button and flung the recorder back towards the ground. It slid all the way out to the center of the floor, echoing off the bare walls. Thankfully it looked to be in tact – she'd be crushed if her second surprise got spoiled too early.
"Nick!" Grissom's attention was back to the unconscious man before him, who seemed to want no part of being roused. "Come on…"
Well, she'd had just about enough of their pointless, one-sided reunion. Especially if he had the balls to turn off her fun little message.
Stepping out of the darkest shadows, she swaggered over to the pair of CSIs.
"I would have said 'made you look,' but that seemed much too juvenile."
Grissom's head jerked up at the snide comment. Even the echoing acoustics of the warehouse seemed to be taunting him. He figured she was somewhere close by, but had been too concerned about Nick to give it much thought. He stood up and stared at the tallish figure nearing – her normally flawless work appearance now dirty and disheveled, her typical perky disposition turned cold and vile.
It took him a few beats to even think about reaching for his gun. What should have been instinct was clouded by his unfamiliar, emotional adrenaline drive. But by that point Mrs. Mason was already standing on the opposite side of Nick, arms crossed and wearing a smug smile.
"Well, aren't you going to say 'hello'?"
Grissom said nothing, too caught up in the stark reality before him. It seemed she had taken her husband's own brand of blatant hubris and tripled it. What this woman had gone at lengths to do, what it was going to come down to… Never before had he encountered a suspect… an adversary… who was this brash, this—
"Not in the mood to talk, I see."
If he were anywhere else right now, he'd probably test his pulse rate just to see how much his doctor would scold him during the next visit. He hoped that despite his inner turmoil he was emitting his usual inscrutable exterior; the supervisor had no desire to surrender any more points to her. Grissom squinted in the murky darkness, just now noticing the pocket knife she coolly twirled around in one hand.
"Well, too bad. I didn't drag your sorry ass all the way out here to have a staring contest."
She squatted down next to the tub, leaning the knife arm on the edge while the other moved forward and brushed a hand against Nick's face. The receptionist pursed her lips and then looked back at Grissom, giving a nonchalant shrug.
He took a step forward, wanting to get her the hell away from Nick, but was apprehensive about what she may do.
"Don't touch him again."
"Or what? You'll sic a giant cockroach on me? I think it's a bit too late for heroics, Dr. Grissom, don't you?"
"I'm here now. Let's just get on with this. What is it you want?"
Juliette gave no indication of hearing his query, instead looking back at her setup.
"Pretty sweet reenactment, hmm? There is, of course, only the slight difference. But I much prefer slow and agonizing to quick and messy, don't you? I guess I sort of got both in anyway."
Grissom didn't answer, his emotions swirling like a mad vortex. He couldn't believe she was getting to him… but she was absolutely right. The poison in Nick's system had been escalating. Greg had called with the preliminary tox analysis and the details were not good. He and Hodges were still trying to determine the specific types, and Grissom swore it wouldn't be for naught. He absolutely had to get his CSI out of here, now.
She spoke again, as if reading his current train of thought.
"You know, there are some fascinating side effects with this kind of stuff. Are you curious to hear the highlights of our jaunt around southern Nevada?"
The supervisor felt his frustration reaching an unbearable level.
"Why don't you tell me what it is you want so we can just get this over with. Apparently you have some issues with me. Nick was hardly—"
She cut him off as if Grissom hadn't even been speaking. "He rambled quite a bit. Fever, hallucinations… who knows, really. But tell me, do you find it interesting that he mentioned you a lot?"
She paused just long enough to flash a feral grin. "I can't decide if my favorite was when he mistook me for Sidle and told her that you shouldn't worry, or the time he asked you to just forget him… not to come find him."
Grissom refused to be baited by her derision, but couldn't stop the sting that accompanied her words. There was no way this could end here.
"He was such a good little soldier in the Army Grissom… always putting himself first. Always ready to sacrifice. And for what? I'm sure it was all in good conscience. I'm sure he did it knowing you appreciated him… right?"
"Look. I don't see what any of this has to do with you and me."
Mrs. Mason smiled again. "You see, someone in the family always has to get kicked around a bit. He's kinda like the kid who does everything right… the one who brings home straight A's but gets pushed to the side for the sibling with the behavior problems or the demanding social life."
It was becoming increasingly difficult to tune out her words; their purpose only served to exacerbate his guilt. He realized this and knew he couldn't afford to give in. "Every member of my team is an equal and just as important as the other. You can play armchair psychologist all you want. Nick is well above any of your manipulations. And so am I."
"Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing. Why should Nick get all the fun, after all?"
He wasn't sure what he was expecting her to say, but that definitely wasn't it. The older man watched as she moved around to the side of the tub, still twirling the knife around in her hand.
"You know what's so great about your team? You're always there for each other. In fact, I'll bet you a free walk out of here that all of them are congregated outside, along with about two dozen police officers. And they're all waiting for some kind of signal from you. Am I right?"
Grissom said nothing; he merely stared back at her, unblinking.
"I thought so. Well, you've gotta be happy with such devotion. Especially since that SUV in the driveway is going to explode at the press of a button. Hey -- then they'll all be equally dead!"
God.
If his heart could drop any further, it would bust through the floor. But no need to show his cards, he thought, ruefully, as sweat dripped down his neck.
"Listen. I don't have time for more of your mind games. What do you want from me?"
Grissom knew it was a useless question. This was the main act in the feature finale of her power play, and he was the guest star. Nevertheless, she looked genuinely shocked at his apparent skepticism.
"I think it's pretty obvious. I don't want much… merely your full and undivided attention."
"And you don't think you have it?"
She placed a hand over her heart in a sarcastic gesture. "After all we've been through together, Dr. Grissom… I'm hurt. You think I'm bullshittin' you?"
Grissom knew better than to underestimate her – he'd done that enough already. But he still found it hard to believe she'd have the resources to orchestrate something like that.
"Your husband may have been a killer and a judge, but he wasn't an explosives expert. And I don't think you can learn that much online."
Juliette laughed. "Ah, but: Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots…"
The CSI's expression changed to one of disgust as she crooned a vaguely familiar off-key tune.
"Cause I got friends in low places…" Getting no reaction, she stopped singing, instead, laughing manically. "Oh, c'mon! Okay, not a country fan? Well, Nick's gonna need someone to inherit of all his CDs now, so I guess you'll learn it soon enough."
He quashed the urge to blow her away right there. Her malicious references to Nick's condition were quickly pushing him towards the inevitable breaking point. But who knows how she might react to sudden moves…
"Anyway," she continued, "My husband couldn't have lead a double life as a serial killer and a judge for years without having friends in low, or should I say, high places."
Grissom willed himself not to 'go there.' Whoever hooked her up with supplies and information was a twist he couldn't deal with right now.
"And how do you plan on escaping?"
Juliette snorted. "Don't you think you should be worrying about other things, like, say… the soon-to-be 20 dead bodies on your watch?"
She walked to the front of the tub, positioning herself between the two CSIs; Grissom retreated backwards, almost unconsciously. The receptionist gestured with the pocket knife.
"Showtime. Go pick up the tape recorder."
He hesitated, not wanting to turn his back on her. He glanced over at Nick, who was now out of his immediate reach.
"Don't look at him!" She gripped the knife tighter, eyes flashing. "He's already dead!"
Grissom had no desire to wait around and prove the legitimacy of her poker face. This had to stop, and soon. The older CSI considered going for his gun again, but the knife and her proximity to Nick caused him to consider otherwise.
"DO IT!"
He backpedaled until he reached the plastic device. Never breaking eye contact with the receptionist, he picked it up and slowly walked back in her direction. She stepped out a few feet herself, almost meeting halfway, and snatched it from his outstretched hand.
She examined it briefly before looking back at Grissom, satisfied. "I'm glad to see your earlier temper tantrum didn't damage the 'pause' button – you'd have blown your friends up before I got a chance to rib you about it!"
"Mrs. Mason," Grissom paused, realizing this could be his last chance to prevent a disaster. "Listen to me. You were living a lie before. Paul – Doug – could have ended up hurting you. Hurting your son."
She shook her head almost violently. "He would have never done that. He loved us."
"He may have, but he also murdered three people. No matter how close you were, he deserved to be punished for those crimes." Grissom watched as her anger slowly turned towards grief. Maybe he was finally breaking through. "How do you think the families of those three victims felt?"
As quickly as her grief appeared, it changed back to the familiar bitterness. "Don't you dare turn this on him. This is about you and your compulsive need to screw up other people's lives."
So much for breaking through.
Suddenly, the smug smile from earlier was back in place. "Remember what you felt like when you found my note in Doug's fake hand?"
His brow furrowed, and he suppressed a shudder as a sudden chill washed over his body.
"Remember what you felt like when you walked through that door and saw Nick?"
He twisted the head of the flashlight in his sweaty palm, his eyes burning behind strained lids.
"Remember what it felt like to see it was a set-up, only to learn you couldn't save him anyway?"
He swallowed thickly, trying to recall a time when his mouth had ever felt this dry.
"Remember that guilt. In fact, prepare to suffocate in it as you waste away, alone."
He already had a taste of that helplessness and wasn't about to let it become a permanent fixture.
Clearing his throat, Grissom finally found himself able to respond. "I think you're sorely mistaken."
"No, I think you are. We were a family. A real, honest-to-God family. Not like this fake shit you have, married to your goddamned job. You'd never know what it's really like. But I'll take what I can get. Maybe the guilt of Nick and the rest of your team will approach half of what I felt. You wanna know what you're here for? I'm returning my hell to you, tenfold. This is my requital."
Her hand gripped tighter on the tape recorder, finger inching toward the 'pause' button.
"Listen, you don't—"
Before he could finish his rebuke, a sudden, sharp crack broke the air and Grissom felt his back slam onto the unforgiving concrete floor. For a moment he wasn't sure if he was actually hit with something or if his body simply reacted to the threat around him. Then he realized it hadn't sounded like an explosion.
Trying to reclaim his bearings, he noticed the judge's wife sprawled face down a few feet from him, a dark stain pooling across her back. Shocked, Grissom's attention flew immediately to his CSI, whose eyes had just fallen closed before the forgotten gun slipped from his outstretched hand and clattered to the floor.
TBC.