Miami
Day 3-8:45 AM
Abandoned Air Hanger

It was dark. The air that surrounded her was stale and moist at the same time; her breathing was laboured from the oppressiveness of the room. Her hands were bound behind her, her feet were bound in front. Her hair was matted and dirty. She knew her make-up had run and smudged from the tears that would no longer fall. And she ached everywhere.

Catherine wondered whether she would ever be found. Her kidnapper (in the back of her brain she registered that she knew his name, but could not for the life of her remember it) had left her here what seemed like hours ago. Her throat felt like it had been force-fed acid from all of the screaming she'd done, and yet no-one had heard her. Oh, she knew that he could hear her, whoever he was (why couldn't she remember his name?)—but there was no doubt in her mind that her kidnapper was pointedly ignoring her.

Somewhere in her scientific mind, Catherine registered that she had not had anything to eator drink for hours. She knew that she had a mere seventy-hours before her body would slowly begin to shut down from lack of water, then begin to digest itself from the inside out. It was funny-she could remember that, but not the name of the man that held her prisoner. How many hours had she been here, anyway? Was she already going crazy from the lack of nutrients?

She mulled over that for a while. And prayed that someone, anyone, would find her.

Miami
Day 3-9:00 AM
MDPD Crime Lab-A/V Lab

Gil's cell phone sat hooked up to a series of machines he normally would know the name of—the problem being, he registered, that he really didn't care. All he wanted to do was snatch the phone up and hear the sound of Catherine's voice.

"Okay, we'll have to be careful about this." Horatio sat down at the computer consol and punched in a series of numbers into the keyboard. "Grissom, I hate to do this, but you'll have to stay off that phone. Stella is going to make the call."

Gil stared at the red-haired lieutenant like he was crazy.

"Excuse me?"

"You're too unstable to do this, Grissom," Stella laid a hand on his now shaking arm, "And Dalano may react to you. Let a woman handle this, okay?"

Grissom nodded. Stella glanced at Horatio.

"Ready?"

Horatio nodded, and Stella picked up the cell. She flipped through the speed dial until she landed on Catherine's number.

It rang once.

No answer.

Twice.

Still nothing.

Three times.

"I wondered when you would call."

Joseph Dalano's voice filtered through the phone and into Stella's ears.

"Mr. Dalano, this is Stella Bonasera. NYPD."

On the screen, Stella could see the GPS on the phone begin to connect with the computer.

"Network connecting." Horatio whispered.

"Ah, Detective Bonasera. I had the pleasure of flying you and your crew to Miami. You have the most stunning green eyes."

"Stall him." Horatio said. Stella nodded.

"Did you? I thought you were an American Airlines pilot."

She could nearly hear Dalano smiling over the phone.

"I am. But I couldn't resist when I saw three beautiful women trying to get to me, you see. So I made sure I was flying that plane. Pity I didn't get to meet you."

"Yes, Mr. Dalano, it was a tragedy, I'm sure. But you know, I think we could arrange to meet."

"Could we now?"

"Oh, yes. You see, you happen to have a friend of mine with you, and I'd really love to have her back." Stella watched as the area narrowed on the screen to a four-block radius.

"Oh, I don't think so, Detective. I rather like this one. I spotted her all those years ago in Las Vegas, while she investigated one of my pieces of art. Her hair is longer now."

"Well, Mr Dalano, perhaps we can strike a deal with you."

The search area narrowed to two blocks.

"I'm afraid not, Detective Bonasera. You see, I have an extremely beautiful woman sitting in front of me and little time to create my masterpiece. Your GPS should have nearly located me by now." Dalano sounded smug. "See you soon, Detective."

Stella heard dial tone.

Miami
Day 3-9:30 AM
Abandoned Air Hanger

Catherine had always assumed that the man in front of her painted his victims after he murdered them. Now, standing bound in front of him, she realized her assumption was wrong.

Dalano was demanding her co-operation in stripping her down.

"Stay still."

Her mind forced himself to concentrate on anything and everything but the man slowly cutting the clothing off her body. Her thoughts found her partner-was he looking for her? Or was he resigned to the fact that she would be dead by the end of the day? She shuddered. Dalano's shears were cold against her now exposed torso; the steel reminded her of the autopsy tables in Doc's Morgue. She'd never get to see him again, or the Lab, never get to return to her home—never get to see her daughter again. Tears ran silently down her cheeks, tears that she had sworn she'd run out of hours ago. Lindsey's face swam in front of her blurry vision-was she alright? Did she know of her mother's kidnapping? Catherine prayed that Gil would be the one to tell her of her mother's death, be there for the little girl that had called him 'Uncle' since the day she could speak. Gil had been shocked when the then two year old had spouted the phrase 'Uncle Gil' one day while they were sitting together at the breakfast table, while Catherine prepared breakfast. She'd invited him over after their shift. Eddie wasn't home; Catherine didn't care either way whether or not her husband was present. The man had always been jealous of Gil, for reasons unknown to both Gil and Catherine, but Catherine suspected it was Gil's ability to know exactly was she was thinking, no matter where, no matter when. They didn't always tell each other everything—some of the secrets were too painful for either of them to hear—but they had always supported each other, through thick and thin.

Well, it was the latter now, and Catherine, now standing in nothing but her undergarments, never needed Gil more in her life than she did then.

"He'll find me," she braved talking. The man chuckled amusedly while dipping a paintbrush into one of the trays sitting in front of him.

"That's very idealistic, my dear. However, they have little to go on. This whole neighbourhood is nothing but old warehouses and air hangers, and we're in a sealed security room. But I like that fight in you," she stood and stroked her face with calloused hands. Catherine snapped her head away.

He smiled, unfazed, and strode over to a set of chains dangling from the ceiling.

"Do you know what I love about the human body, my dear? It's the perfect canvas—contours to dream of. But the only way to create my art," he rattled one of the chains, "is to make sure I have a three-hundred and sixty degree view."

Catherine's eyes hardened.

"I'm not going to be one of your little projects. You can't just string me up like some sick puppet and expect me not to fight."

"You're not fighting now."

"I haven't figured out how best to spill your blood yet."

His smile took on a maniacal tinge.

"But I know just how to spill yours, my dear."

The only thing that Catherine thought of before the blackness was how badly she had let her best friend down.

Two blocks away, Gil Grissom was thinking the same thing.