I hope that everyone has a Happy Easter! Thanks and take care. Cathy.

Chapter 54

Cecilia stumbled through the open doorway into the house. She had disregarded Catherine's instructions and climbed out of the Denali just moments after the criminalist had. Catherine had been so focused on her approach to the bungalow, so fixed on what might be happening inside that she had neither heard nor sensed the writer come up behind her.

Cecilia hadn't been close enough to see inside Dean Sturney's home. She had stood poised on the bottom step of the porch, her hands clenched at her sides. Her palms were slick with sweat, while her heart thudded in her chest, and she wondered agonizingly what was going on. Jim was inside with Sturney, Cecilia knew it. She could sense him there, even if she couldn't see him yet.

When she had heard the gun go off, Cecilia's mind had seemed to short-circuit for a moment. She hadn't been capable of rational thought. She wasn't even aware that her brain had sent the message for her legs to move. She didn't stop to consider that she might only make things worse for the detectiveOr that she might put herself in danger.

All she was aware of was the image of Jim on her inner eye, the love for him that echoed in each beat of her heart, and the desperate overwhelming panic that he might be hurt. She had heard Catherine call out to her, the other woman's voice sounding disconcertingly distant, even though the criminalist was within arms reach.

Cecilia was still holding onto the doorknob when she faltered across the threshold, and if she hadn't had it for support, the writer might have fallen into the foyer. She saw Jim first, standing several feet away, impossibly, gloriously alive and seemingly unharmed. Her knees sagged with relief.

Catherine was bumping into her then as the blonde barreled through the door in pursuit. Cecilia looked back at the other woman even as she steadied herself on her feet. At Catherine's pale, frozen features. Then the writer turned her head again to follow the other woman's line of sight.

Cecilia noticed the gun first. It looked huge; solid and deadly in the small man's hand. He had to be Sturney, of course. Cecilia was taken aback by how physically unimposing and sickly the killer looked. He was shorter than she was, and painfully thin. Sturney's skin had an unhealthy, grey cast. He looked as though he had been fighting a serious illness for a very long time.

The Videx. HIV.

Jim felt as though he had been sucker punched, and the wind knocked out of him. NOOOO! Impossible! This was his absolute worst nightmare, although the detective knew hollowly that he wasn't dreaming. His mouth worked to call her name, but the sound was trapped in his throat. Cecilia was the last person Jim would either have wanted or imagined to be here. He shook his head wordlessly, trying to deny the horrifying reality of the situation.

Sturney stared at the two women, stupefied. Detective Brass really had been waiting for the cavalry! Dean couldn't believe how convincing the police captain had been, not giving the slightest hint that he was waiting for last minute rescue. That was why Brass had been able to maintain his composure, Sturney understood now. The fool had held onto the hope that someone would be coming to save him

Sturney's pale eyes narrowed as they shifted to the detective, annoyed at the other man's subterfuge. Dean was taken aback to see the slack-jawed, dumbfounded look on the other man's craggy features. Evidently, this little intrusion hadn't been in the script. Jim Brass was as surprised to see the two women as he was. Interesting.

There was a preternatural silence, as each of the four froze. Time seemed suspended. Sturney glanced through the livingroom window, expecting to see flashing lights out front. He listened for the ear-splitting wail of sirens. Waited for the other police officers to pour through his front door. He assessed the situation in a split second. There was no one else...just two women...come to liberate Jim Brass.

Sturney's lips curled in a lopsided smile. He raised the gun and pointed it at the pair. "Welcome, ladies." Sturney nodded first to the blonde, furthest away, and then to the brunette in the foreground. "Cagney. Lacey." He chuckled at his perceived cleverness. "Come in." He motioned with the muzzle for them to move further into the house and both of the women took a hestitant step forward.

The smile left Dean's face as he was all seriousness again. "Drop your weapons. Now."

Catherine felt a flash of anger as she reached out and let the gun fall to the ground. She was angry at herself, for the way she had handled everything. Each choice had been a mistake, she knew, from her first decision to come here to Sturney's, to rushing headlong after Cecilia just seconds ago. She was angry for ever thinking she could help Jim on her own, and mad at herself to know she had failed.

She was angry at Cecilia, for her insistence on coming, and for disregarding Catherine's orders to stay in the SUV. She was mad at Jim for taking on a madman alone and unaided in the first place. Mostly, she was angry with Sturney...for whatever it was that had twisted inside him and allowed the man to take human lives without conscience...and for the smug way he looked at them all now.

Fast on the heels of the anger, came the fear. Fear for the lives of her friends. Fear for herself. Fear over what would become of Lindsey if Catherine joined the list of the serial killer's victims...which seemed inevitable now. Catherine's gun had been their last hope for stopping Sturney and getting out of this alive, and she listened to it clatter uselessly on the floor.

"I told you to put down the gun," Sturney's voice raised in annoyance, as he waved the Magnum at Cecilia.

"She's not with LVPD," Catherine put in swiftly, trying to keep her voice level and soothing.

Cecilia stood immobile, staring at him with wide, chocolate eyes, her features paling. Sturney knew the second woman wasn't a cop. She was the detective's lover. His ex-girlfriend, possibly, because Sturney hadn't seen them together lately. No more breakfasts at the pancake house. No more meeting up in the parking lot of the CSI building, where the brunette had some unidentifiable role. The woman had stopped staying the night at Jim Brass' place. But evidently there was enough residual good feeling left to cause her to rush here to the detective's rescue.

On reflection, Sturney realized that she likely didn't have a firearm. If she was stupid and undiscerning enough to lay on her back for a nothing like the detective, she was easily idiotic and short-sighted enough to come bursting in armed with nothing more than righteous indignation and a mistaken belief that good always triumphed over evil .

But perhaps he could have some fun, before this was all over, Dean thought. The first stirrings of fear were there, in the woman's dark eyes. He could feel his initial response to it; the way his respirations had increased, the rush of blood to his groin, the feeling of invincibility that was starting to grow. The pleasure that hummed through his veins.

"I'll give you one more chance to drop it," Sturney told the brunette, lowering his voice ominously, wanting her to feel the weight of the threat, and the worry that would come with knowing she couldn't comply. "And then I'll shoot." He raised the level of the gun barrel to her face, aiming it between her wide doe-eyes.

Women were always so vain about their looks. The idea of rearranging her features in chunks of bone, flesh and gore as the bullet travelled the ten feet or so between them and found its mark, appealed to him. Sturney had never owned a gun before. He loved the sensation of it in his palm now, and the knowledge of its power. He had never shot anyone and he wondered what it would be like. Her death wouldn't be as satisfying as watching the life drain from the detective's eyes, but her fear would still give him sustenance.

"Or did you want me to frisk you? Is that what you like?" Dean gave a slow, lascivious smile, while his gaze travelled boldly over her curves. He had the satisfaction of seeing her tremble, and he bit back a groan.

"She's not a cop, Sturney!" the deep voice rang out desperately. "She's a civilian, she's unarmed!"

The killer lower the gun, turning slowly towards the detective.

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Archie popped his head into Gil Grissom's office. He cleared his throat to announce his prescence, and the nighttime supervisor turned at the sound.

"Catherine wanted me to give you something," the tech explained, coming into the room. He handed the sheet of paper to the silver-haired scientist.

Grissom took the print-out of a man's driver's license. Not understanding what he was supposed to do with it, he frowned at Archie.

"Catherine said that if I didn't hear from her in twenty minutes, I was to give this to you," Archie continued. He crossed his arms over his chest. "It was the last thing Captain Brass accessed under the LVPD's computer system. He used a hidden password, after his was denied access."

Grissom's mouth felt dry. "Archie," he said slowly, "did Catherine say why you were supposed to give this to me?" He stared at the photo of the underweight, dark-haired man. "Did she go to this address?"

The tech wished he had thought to ask more questions, but the criminalist had rushed out of the lab, and he hadn't had time. "I think so. And I think she thinks Captain Brass was going there too."

Dean Allan Sturney. Grissom stared into the ice blue eyes in the photograph. Catherine, what have you done? He snatched at the phone on his desk. In a moment, he'd go find Special Agent Fontaine. But first he had to do something. Every second might count.

"This is Grissom. I need possible back-up for CSI Willows and Captain Brass, at Las Vegas address 74 Prospect Street. Excercise caution...I think we're dealing with a serial killer." Gil listened dumbfounded. "When? Okay, thanks."

"Did you show this to anyone else first?" Grissom asked Archie uncertainly. Archie shook his head. "Because it seems the FBI and P.D. are already on their way."

And what, Grissom thought anxiously, are they going to find when they get there?

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It took a moment for it to register that what Sturney was finally seeing on Detective Brass' face was fear. Not fear for his own life...but fear for the life of the tall, dark-haired woman.

Sturney was stunned. He'd heard of the phenomenon of course. I love you more than life itself. He had always dismissed it as a myth. One perpetuated by the insipid masses. By parents who wanted to make themselves seem like wonderful caretakers, their hearts overflowing with unconditional love, who would have you believe that they consistently and cheerfully put the needs...the very lives...of their offspring above their own. Dean knew firsthand how much of a fallacy that was.

It was the kind of thing men would say to women in order to bed them, and the kind of thing women would say to men to trap them into marriage and a lifetime financial committment.

It was the stuff of movies, books and popular songs. Oh sure it sounded wonderful. The concept that one human being could be so selfless as to care more about the existence of another, than for their own life. But that kind of love was as much a fairy tale as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and unicorns. Dean could always understand how some narcissistic types might want to believe it. To think that they were just so incredible, so unique...so irreplacable...that another person would value them more than their own life. But he had never been so naive as to buy into the hype.

Except...except that now the detective's features were ashen, his face was slick with sweat, and his eyes were wide and panicked. All because Dean had threatened the woman.

Jim realized his mistake immediately. He watched the speculation on Sturney's pinched features turn to understanding.

When the detective had watched the killer point the gun at Cecilia, it had seemed that the room had tilted, and his vision swam. It felt as though his heart had temporarily suspended beating in his chest, only to restart in a new staccato rhythmn. Blinding terror, unlike anything Brass had ever known, had stapled him to the spot even as he had wanted to throw himself at the madman. Jim could have sworn he had heard the Magnum's retort, and felt the writer's warm blood splatter his face and clothes, the image was so real.

When Sturney had leered then at Cecilia, dropping his tone suggestively, the detective had pictured the nude, or partially nude, battered bodies of the women the killer had raped and murdered. He had imagined Cecilia's screams, her pain and terror, as Sturney forced himself on her, punishment for disobeying his directive to put down her gun.

Brass knew Cecilia had never even held a gun before, and that Catherine wouldn't have risked arming a neophyte. All he had wanted was for Sturney to leave the novelist alone.

Jim had vowed to protect Cecilia, and in the end...his love for her had betrayed her. He saw that truth in Dean Sturney's cold, pale blue eyes.

Sturney could kill Jim Brass now, he accepted with satisfaction. The detective had given him what he needed. But first...he would take from the cop what the other man valued the most. Even more than his own life, as impossible as it might seem. Even more excrutiating than the bullet that would pierce the detective's own skull, would be those final moments beforehand, when Brass would watch the light go out of the eyes of the woman he loved. Knowing it was Dean who had stolen it.

Jim watched the killer begin to raise the gun again, towards Cecilia. All of his training, all of his years of experience...every cop instinct he had...was telling Brass to dive low, to make himself less of a target. To go for Catherine's discarded gun there on the floor. So that before Sturney could get off a second shot, he might be able to preempt him.

But Jim's heart was telling him to get to Cecilia, to put his own body between her and the killer.

Cecilia was no more than a half a dozen feet away. But she might as well be at the end of the block, the detective knew. Jim Brass was no superman. He wasn't able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. And he wasn't faster than a speeding bullet. It was futile. Not only would he be unable to save Cecilia, but this course of action would only guarantee his own death as well.

But without her, there was nothing worth living for.

The detective heard the anguished roar escape his own lips, as he launched himself into the air, extending his body, trying desperately to make up the distance between them.

Over the sound of the detective's bellow came the thunder of the Magnum, as Sturney took his shot.

The bullet whistled through the air, digging easily through skin and flesh. It tore through muscle, sliced through bone, and ripped apart capillaries, arterioles and venules. It punched out through the other side, and coated now with human blood and tissue...its work done...it buried itself into the exterior wall.

The second shot rang out while the deadly song of the first was still reverberating in the air.

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"What the hell is going on!" Sheriff Brian Mobley barked, as he stormed into the conference room. His face was crimson, contorted with anger and uncertainty. The reports from the scene had been chaotic and tenebrous.

Conrad Ecklie stared back at him evasively. "We think we've got a lead on the serial killer. Fontaine and O'Reilly are on their way..." He glanced at Grissom and Sara Sidle, standing next to him, seeking support.

"How the crap did you botch things up so badly?" Mobley demanded, his breathing ragged. "It's all over the scanner! It sounds like the gates of Hades have opened up out near McCarran. A residential street...Prospect. I've got conflicting accounts, but there seems to be one common thread. One dead, one critical, enroute to University Medical Centre. I've got LVPD and the Feds on scene. If the press isn't there already, they will be soon."

Ecklie paled. "No one has checked back in yet..." he began hoarsely. Oh shit! Something had gone seriously wrong, and somehow this was going to be his fault.

One dead. One critical. The sheriff's voice seemed to reach Grissom down the end of a long tunnel.

Mobley's cell phone rang. He swore as he read the display. "So what the hell am I supposed to tell the mayor!"

Sara clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. Her dark eyes sought out Gil's face. There was no emotion in the sky blue eyes, behind the clear lenses. She felt the tears gather behind her own lids.

"We have to wait til we learn something conclusive," Grissom cautioned evenly, his features impassive.

"Conclusive?" Sara laughed humourlessly, as she fought the rising panic. "One person is dead, Grissom, and another person might not make it." Sara swallowed hard. "Catherine is there. And Brass. You know that." His expression didn't change. "I don't understand you!" she cried. "They're our colleagues. Our friends. And you look like the biggest thing you have to worry about is what to watch on t.v. when you get home!" Her accusation rang in the air, as Sara sought an outlet for the emotion that threatened to drown her.

"Sara, until we know..." Grissom began.

"Until we know what? Which one of them it is? If not both?" she asked incredulously. "The odds aren't looking so good right now, you know, and in a few days, in all likelihood, you're going to have to dig out your black suit, and order some flowers. I don't understand you, Grissom. Don't you care about anyone or anything?"

Sara turned and stalked out of the room, bumping into Nick Stokes in the doorway. Nick, who had heard the news also, gathered her trembling frame into his arms.

Gil watched Nick stroke Sara's dark hair, and murmur something against her ear. He had heard the disgust in Sara's outburst. He stood alone, silently, a muscle spasming in his jaw.

Catherine. Jim. Grissom closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn't begin to imagine losing either of them.