Author's Notes: I got the general consensus that a sequel to "Giving Up" would be welcomed, so with the large amounts of free time that I have lately, I sat down and wrote this, the first chapter. If this story gets even a tenth of the incredible feedback its predecessor did, I will be a happy little writer. Thank you and enjoy!
Letting Go
by Kristen Elizabeth
Well I know it wasn't you who held me down
Heaven knows it wasn't you who set me free
So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains
And we never even know we have the key.
- The Eagles, "Already Gone"
Dear Greg, Nick and Warrick,
Hello from Kakanj! And if you have no idea where Kakanj is, don't feel bad. I'd never heard of it either until two weeks ago. Kakanj is a city just northwest of Sarajevo in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Yes, gentlemen, I am in Eastern Europe. And it's not as bad as they make it seem on TV. If you don't count the fact that I spent my whole first day here in a seminar on how to detect and avoid active landmines left over from the war, it's really a beautiful country. Just very sad. But then, I am here to help uncover a mass grave just found on the outskirts of the Kakanj, so I wasn't expecting a vacation in paradise.
They're driving us out to the site tomorrow, and I'm not sure when I'll have access to a post office again, so I apologize if this is illegible. I haven't written an actual letter in a long time. And I am sorry I didn't email more from London. There was so much to do there, and I don't just mean seeing the sights, although I did plenty of that. There were also lectures and refresher classes and several doctor appointments. I am happy to inform you that I am now immune against typhoid fever. No jokes, Greg; it's not sexually transmitted.
I know I spent a good part of my last email talking about England and how I could live there forever, so now I'll spend a little time talking about the people I'll be working with for the next couple of weeks. Or months, maybe.
The only other woman in the group is Dr. Jan Jacobs, a forensic anthropologist out of D.C. Fortunately, we get along pretty well, because she's the only one I can turn to if I have a tampon emergency. Oh, I'm sorry, did it hurt to read that part? Get over it, boys. She's about five years older than me, divorced, no kids, and believes in the existence of supernatural phenomena, including, but not limited to ghosts, UFO's and Bigfoot. Conversations around here get strangely personal.
The other forensic anthropologist on the team is Dr. Anthony Richard Ryland, a professor from Indiana State University, currently on a six-month research sabbatical. And yes, he says it just like that. He's kind of ass; think Ecklie if he cared more about science than politics, but he's got a surprisingly good singing voice.
I just met our translator and U.N. contact, Berislav, but he seems nice. Which is good because he holds a lot of power over us. He's the one who tells us which door says 'gentlemen' and which says 'ladies.'
Our forensic pathologist, Dr. William Ashe, is an M.E. out of London. He reminds me so much of Doc Robbins that sometimes I have to tell myself I'm not in Vegas anymore. He's a widower with three grown kids who gave retirement a shot and decided it wasn't for him. He's also a great cook, even over a campfire, he claims. We'll see.
And rounding out the team is a reporter from the L.A. Times, Simon Christiansen. He's doing a major piece on the genocide, ten years later, specifically the ongoing efforts to locate and identify victims. What can I say about him? He calls me 'Vegas.' He asks a lot of questions, some intelligent, some to meant only to provoke a reaction. In other words, he's a reporter. You can't trust them. All they're after is the scoop, no matter the cost. I intend to keep my distance.
I can't believe that it's been two months since I left. I'm not sorry I did, but I do miss certain things, not the least of which being you all. Nick, have you shaved yet? Warrick, how's the Emerson case going? Are they going to convict? Greg, I sent this letter to your address, but don't go thinking I miss your ugly mug more than the others. Now your coffee, that's another matter entirely. Tell Catherine I said hi. Brass, too. And as for anyone else who might inquire after me, tell him I'm fine and I'm learning something new every day. This is an adventure that few people get to undertake. And as if that wasn't enough, I'm doing something really important for a lot of innocent victims of a horrible war. What more can a geek ask for?
Wish me luck. I promise to keep my toes away from landmines.
Hugs, Sara
"She's miserable."
Warrick raised his eyebrow over the top of his newspaper. "I got that same vibe. All those jokes and talk about adventure…I've never heard anyone sound more miserable."
"I see through your thin veil of sarcasm." Greg waved Sara's letter in the air. "Trust me, it's all a show. She wants us to think she's happy so we won't worry about her. Fortunately, I'm onto her game."
Nick shook his head as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'm not thrilled about the whole landmines thing. But at least she won't become Typhoid Sara." He set down the pot. "Look, I wish she hadn't left as much as you do, Greg. But she did. And she sounds happy. Happier than she's sounded in a long time. Don't make a mountain out of a molehill."
"But what if she gets so happy, that she decides not to come back?" Greg let the question sink in before nodding. "Yeah, hadn't thought about that, had you?"
"Warrick, have you analyzed the casts of the footprints from the…" As Grissom entered the break room, eyes on his clipboard, Greg scrambled to hide Sara's letter. His efforts to be inconspicuous only helped to tear Grissom's attention away from his case file. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Nothing," Nick said, a little too quickly. Greg had his hands behind his back, in the classic 'I'm hiding something' way. "Fresh pot of coffee," he went on, holding up the pot. "Want some?"
Grissom all but ignored him. "Warrick?"
"Report's on your desk," Warrick told him. "And there's a letter from Sara."
"What the hell, man?" Greg spread his arms, revealing what he'd tried to hide from their boss.
Nick sighed and took a sip from his mug. "So much for a quiet shift."
Grissom lowered his clipboard, his eyes now permanently fixed on the pages in Greg's hand. "How…" He stopped to clear his throat. "How is she?"
Warrick glanced at both Nick and Greg before replying. "She's fine. She's learning something new every day."
The look on Grissom's face told them that he desperately wanted to know more, but couldn't quite bring himself to ask. Nodding, he tried to focus back on his file. "I'll be in my office."
He left, and Warrick shook his head, raising his paper once more. "Pay attention, Greggo. That's miserable."
"Hey, Vegas. Guess what?"
Sara turned her head away from the crackling fire in the hotel's hearth, irritated at having been interrupted. She'd sought out a quiet corner of the lobby to write a letter to Greg, Nick and Warrick, not so that she might be pulled into guessing games with Simon, intrepid boy reporter.
'Boy' wasn't a fair title to give him; he was only a year younger than Sara herself. Taller than her by a couple of inches, he was well-built with a shock of black hair, long enough to brush his collar. Without waiting for an invitation, he plopped down next to her on the overstuffed loveseat. The shoulders of his ubiquitous leather jacket were wet and he smelled like fresh air.
"It's snowing," he informed her.
"It's August."
"Guess you're not in Nevada anymore, Dorothy." Simon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his digital recorder. "Will snow impede the recovery efforts? How would you feel about this, now that you're actually here, ready to go?"
She folded her finished letter and tucked it into her journal. "As long as the ground isn't frozen, it'll just make things colder."
"Whatcha got there?" he asked, pointing to the edge of the letter sticking out between the pages. "Pen pal back home?"
"And what part of your article concerns what I do in my spare time?"
"Human interest," Simon replied. "Any two-bit journalist can do a follow-up story on the war. I'm looking for a fresh angle." He paused. "And you're it."
Sara blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Hear me out here." He talked with his hands, fanning them dramatically as often as possible. "People, the American public specifically, can't really care about something unless an American is involved in it. Put a fellow countryman's face on a political issue and suddenly it matters. If I write a story about an American scientist helping dig up foreign victims of a foreign war, I'm way more likely to get interested readers. And a Pulitzer. So, Vegas, what do you say?"
"I say…there are two other Americans on the team. Let one of them be your ticket to fame and fortune."
"No offense to Jan or the Dick, but neither one of them is even half as beautiful as you are." He'd caught her off guard with that, and he took the opportunity to sneak in another compliment. "I bet you photograph really well."
Sara regained her voice a second later. "You're opportunistic and you need a new line." She gathered her journal and stood up to go. "I'm not here to be your cover girl."
"What are you here for, Vegas?"
Now standing behind him, Sara gripped the back of the loveseat with her free hand and counted to ten. "What did I just say about…"
"Off the record." Simon turned off his recorder. "See?"
Sighing, Sara released her grip. "What makes you think I'm not here for the obvious reasons?"
"What are the obvious reasons?"
She lifted one shoulder. "To help. To bring closure for people who really need it. To further my own experience as a forensic scientist."
"How can you make 'forensic scientist' sound sexy?"
"Goodnight, Simon."
He jumped off the couch, waving her back. "C'mon. Wait." She stopped, but didn't turn around. "Is all of that noble stuff really why you're here?"
Sara glared at him from over her shoulder. "What are you implying?"
"Well…" He gave her a lopsided grin. "Jan's here in the aftermath of a messy divorce. The Dick is escaping a plagiarism scandal. Doc Ashe has spent his whole life taking care of a family that's now grown and doesn't need him and a wife who passed before her time; he needs to be useful again." Simon studied her for a second. "What personal demons drove you all the way to Bosnia?"
I have to find the Sara Sidle who came to Vegas six years ago.
When you do find her…will you come back?
"This interview is over," she told him in a flat, no-kidding-around tone. "See you in the morning."
"I'm wearing you down, Vegas!" he called after her. "Pretty soon you'll be in love with me!"
It pissed her off to no end that 'My name isn't Vegas!' was the only thing she could think to yell back.
Alone in his hermetically sealed townhouse. Wasn't that how Catherine had put it once upon a time? He wasn't sure about the hermetically sealed part, but the alone bit…that was still true.
He'd had the phone in his hand for twenty minutes and had yet to make the call. It would be an experiment, and like any experiment intended to yield important results, it couldn't be rushed. Grissom tapped the end of the phone against his mouth. He could do this. It wasn't hard.
He dialed, put the phone to his ear and waited.
"I'm not coming in on my night off, so don't ask."
"Hello to you, too, Catherine. This isn't a business call." Grissom hesitated. "Do you want to have dinner with me?"
He thought he heard a choking noise on the other end. "No."
That hurt and he wasn't even interested in Catherine romantically. "I'm not asking you out. Well, I am, but not with any connotations."
"Of course not. 'Cause I know you way too well to ever be your lover."
"I was just hungry and thought you might be, too."
"I am. And I could be persuaded if you're buying. But there's something more, isn't there?"
Grissom scratched his beard. "I haven't asked a woman out in…awhile."
"Brushing up on your skills while she's gone?" His silence was answer enough. "Oh, Gil…you are trying. And that's something. So take me to dinner."
"Thank you, Catherine."
"Somewhere classy."
"Okay."
"Roses, not orchids. I'm old-fashioned about some things."
"Catherine…"
"It's called 'wooing.' Live it, learn it, love it. See you at eight."
On his way to hang up the phone, Grissom passed by his dining room table, on which his atlas lay open to a map of the whole world.
"Wherever you are," he said out loud. "I hope you're not missing me as much as I'm missing you."
He left the map open and went to get ready for his 'date.'
To Be Continued