A/N: Same song, different verse. The bad news: It's been 2-1/2 months since the last chapter. But, hey, the good news? I'm on vacation this week and am already hard at work on chapter 23. Promise:-)
Spoilers: "Butterflied," "All for our Country," "Play with Fire," "Inside the Box"
Disclaimer: OK, see, if I owned CSI:, it wouldn't be taking me two and three months between chapters.
Chapter 22: Fear and TremblingCatherine glared at her kit, but it didn't change a thing. She was still out of evidence bags, and no amount of scowling would make a difference. She was just thankful she'd already bagged everything she'd found in Tania Hutchins' bedroom, leaving only her gloves still needing a plastic home.
With a sigh, she plucked off the gloves and held them gingerly in one hand while she took one final look around the room. Her neck hurt, her back hurt, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and sink into a hot bath with a good book and a steaming cup of tea.
Not an option, she chided herself. She shook her head as she stashed the small pile of evidence she'd collected inside her kit. We've got a long night ahead of us.
Gloves in one hand and kit in the other, she switched off the bedroom light with her elbow and walked swiftly down the hall to the main living area. Forcing away the fatigue, she placed the kit on the floor and leaned against the doorframe. With a sly smile, she cooed, "If you want the job done right, ask a woman. I'm finished in the bedroom. You guys need some help out here?"
Warrick looked up at her with an easy grin. "Talking smack is so un-ladylike." He smirked at her exaggerated pout before jerking his thumb toward their supervisor. "To answer your question, Grissom's just gotta bag that note, and we're outta here."
She smiled as she looked toward her friend, but it quickly faded when she saw his face. He looked as pale as a ghost, and the paper in his hand shook minutely between trembling fingers. She took a tiny step forward to get his attention. "Gil?"
The sound of his name caused him to look up, and Catherine shuddered slightly at the chill that ran down her spine. His fear was so plainly written across his face that she could almost feel its cold grip. There had only been one other time she could remember Grissom looking so terrified, and that had involved a murder victim who could have been Sara's double. Hesitantly, she took a step toward him and craned her neck slightly to see what was written on the page.
Catherine's movement freed him from his trance, and he thrust the paper toward her so quickly she barely had time to reposition her gloves to take it cleanly. As she gripped the evidence tightly with her used gloves, she opened her mouth to protest. "Grissom!"
But he was too busy striding toward the front door to hear. For one moment, she watched him go, stunned at his inexplicable departure from such a crucial crime scene. And, in the next, she understood, because her eyes fell on the address written on the back of the note. Grissom's address, and she knew why he was leaving.
No longer caring about evidence contamination, she shoved the note, gloves and all, at a shocked Warrick and headed toward the door, ignoring her younger colleague's calls. He could wait.
By the time she'd ducked under the crime scene tape, Grissom was halfway to the parking lot, and she had to break into a jog to catch up with him. When she did, she reached for his arm. "Gil!"
He shrugged her off and kept walking. "What is it, Catherine?"
It was a struggle, but she kept up the frantic pace. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Home."
She stepped in front of him and stopped, and Grissom nearly ran into her. "Gil. You can't go home."
His eyes flashed angrily, but her fury had reached its own epic proportions. "This guy has killed four people that we know of, and he has your address!"
"That's exactly why I'm going."
"This is about Sara."
"Gee, Cath, all those years as a CSI have really paid off. Your deductive skills amaze me." And, with the sarcastic comment, he moved around her quickly and resumed his long stride toward the Denali.
Oh, no, he didn't. She took off after him. "You are a scientist, not Rambo! You can't be racing into danger and saving the day, Gil! Nick is with her, and Brass can send cops faster than you can get there anyway. Let the people who are trained for this handle it!"
He would have turned to look at her, but it would have slowed him down. Instead, he directed his comments straight ahead. "A black-and-white is already there."
Her jaw dropped open. "What! Then let them do their job!"
"Oh, like the last time? No, thank you."
It took her a second to figure out he was referring to the murder of two suspected serial killers while they were under the supposed watch of two undercover officers. Of course.
She was running out of time because they had almost reached Grissom's truck, and she managed to reach the door one step ahead of him, effectively blocking his entrance. He glared at her, but she met his gaze steadily. "Look, I know you're emotionally involved here. Hell, we all are! But don't be stupid! Getting yourself killed is not going to help Sara!"
But her impassioned plea fell on deaf ears, and she watched his eyes narrow dangerously. His voice was menacingly quiet when he spoke. "I'm not leaving her alone."
She wanted to grab him by the lapels, to shake some sense into him, to yell that Sara wasn't alone, that Nick was with her, that the black-and-white was there and more cops could arrive soon. But, somewhere inside the angry darkness of his eyes, she saw the truth and knew the futility of argument. And she found herself momentarily jealous of Sara and wishing there was a man who felt so passionately about her, even if he wouldn't show it openly.
Impulsively, she reached up and kissed his cheek before stepping aside. "You're a good man, Gil, and Sara's lucky to have you. Be careful."
Had he been less distracted, he would have cocked his head and looked at her in confusion, would have studied her as though she were some new species of insect he had discovered. As it was, he simply nodded and climbed into the sturdy vehicle, and she watched as he sped away.
When the taillights were out of sight, she turned with a heavy sigh to see Brass ambling toward her. "Where's he going?" he asked.
She glanced back in the direction Grissom had gone and said, "To his house."
The cop was confused. "What, is he sick?"
She shook her head. "No, Jim. That note we found? It had his address written on the back."
"What? And you let him go!" Brass' voice held an angry undertone, and her temper flared up to meet it.
"You think I didn't try to stop him? He's freaked out, he's scared, and this is pretty much a direct threat to the woman he's in love with. What would you do in that situation?"
He didn't back down. "I would have called in the professionals, especially considering many of them are my friends! Geez, Cath, I don't believe you!"
"Well, it didn't help that two of those professionals let a couple of suspects get murdered on their watch last year."
Brass was livid. "Is that what this is all about? What, you don't trust my guys now?"
Catherine sighed deeply at the counterproductive turn this conversation had taken. Closing her eyes briefly, she held up a hand and shook her head firmly. "No, Jim, that's not what I'm saying. I'm just telling you I tried to talk him out of going, but you should have seen his eyes. There was no arguing with him. Wild horses couldn't keep him away from that townhouse."
The detective shook his head in frustration, but she put a hand on his forearm. "We need to figure out a plan to keep both of them safe because Grissom's not leaving her again until we find this guy."
XXXXXXXXX
The smell wafting down the hall from the kitchen was the first thing that caught Sara's attention when she stepped out of the bathroom. Mmm, pancakes.
She hurriedly dropped her things in the guest bedroom and made her way to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to observe Nick concentrating on the frying pan in front of him. Smiling, she teased, "Pancakes? Nicky, I never knew you were so domestic."
Grinning, he glanced up at her momentarily before returning his attention to the pan. "I believe the word you're looking for is 'flapjacks.' And I'm not ashamed to say I know my way around a kitchen."
Her smile widened as she walked further into the room. Patting him on the shoulder, she stopped beside him, the pair momentarily dazzled by the sight of batter bubbling and browning in the pan. It was nice, having him here. Nick was fun, with his Texas drawl and his boyish mannerisms and his apparent ability to cook, and it reminded her of the lazy Saturdays in her teen years when she and David would arise early to make breakfast for the family.
She smiled at the memory and nudged his arm with her shoulder. "Well, I was just about to vote you off the island, but this new revelation of your culinary skills means you can stay. For now."
"Gee, thanks."
He intended to make a sarcastic comment, but the electronic sound of Beethoven erupting from the phone clipped to his belt intervened. He flipped a pancake before bringing the phone to his ear. "Stokes."
Sara headed for the refrigerator, pulling out orange juice and wondering at the comfort level she felt in rummaging through Grissom's kitchen. A few days here, and I'm acting like I own the place. That can't be good. And yet, the thought still brought a smile to her face.
She was in the midst of rooting through the pantry when Nick called her name, and she paused in her quest for syrup to see him holding his cell phone out to her. "It's Catherine," he announced, and his voice was curiously flat.
She raised one eyebrow in question, but his expression remained carefully guarded. She plucked the phone from his hand and willed her voice to be steady as she spoke. "Hey, Cath."
"Hey. I need to talk to you about something."
The words and the somber tone of the older woman's voice plowed into her gut like a fist, and Sara leaned heavily against the counter as she struggled to regain her breath. Please, God, don't let it be Grissom.
She'd never been one to pray, but the plea seemed to well up involuntarily from deep inside. Grissom in danger. Grissom hurt. Grissom dead. The thoughts came and, just behind them, the prayer was there again, and she was begging, pleading with God for His mercy, for His help. Please, God. Please, God.
"Sara? You still there?" The tone was urgent, and she could hear Catherine's concern over the line even as she saw Nick's in his movement toward her.
"It's Grissom, isn't it? Is he…" She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought because, somehow, that would make it true, would make it reality, and that was just not possible.
"What? Oh, God, no. No! He's fine. Really. I promise."
The older woman's voice was sincere and, when the words finally registered in her fogged brain, she let out a choked breath, clenching her jaw to keep it from becoming a sob. And the prayer changed in purpose but not in zeal. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.
Catherine was contrite. "I'm sorry, Sara. I just… God, I didn't mean to scare you. He's on his way there now, as a matter of fact." She sighed and added, "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."
Shakily, Sara made her way around the breakfast bar to one of the stools and sat as Nick worriedly looked on. She smiled in an attempt to reassure him, but it didn't seem to help.
She pointed to the stove, and her companion muttered an expletive as he refocused his attention on the nearly burnt pancakes. And there was something in the normalcy of the moment that gave her strength. She drew in a breath, and the steadiness of her voice surprised her. "What is it, Cath?"
"Listen close, because I have a lot to tell you."
XXXXXXXXX
His hands were shaking. Shaking violently, and he couldn't make them stop. He couldn't steady them, no matter how tightly he gripped the steering wheel, no matter how he clutched it until his knuckles were white, until his muscles ached. They wouldn't stop shaking, and he didn't know if they ever would. Maybe they would tremble forever, a lasting reminder of his fear, of his inadequacy.
He remembered a conversation he'd once had with Greg. The DNA technican had been embarrassed by the shaking in his hands, an unwanted legacy of the explosion that had nearly taken his life. But Grissom had calmly assured him that the shaking would stop. And it had, in short order, as the resilient young man's once-steady hands returned to their previous form, even if his former happy-go-lucky attitude did not. At first, the supervisor had been pleased with his employee's seeming maturity, but he was now left to wonder whether it just hid Greg's inner scars. And how he would hide his own.
Grissom knew he needed to call Sara, but the shaking wouldn't allow him to dial the number. So he kept his hands on the wheel and sped onward into the night, accompanied only by the glare of flashing lights and the whine of his siren.
The chirp of his phone made him jump, and he cursed soundly as he fished into his jacket pocket. Finding the offending device, he glanced once at the caller ID and tossed it onto the seat beside him. Brass could leave a message.
Traffic was light on the interstate at this time of night, and he was thankful that he didn't have to weave around other vehicles. He wasn't sure how well he could maneuver with the shaking in his hands.
The phone chirped again, and he glanced at it to see the message light flashing. He mentally calculated the odds that Jim was calling for something besides a reprimand and decided that they were somewhere between slim and none. He left the phone on the seat.
Grissom accelerated past a sports car filled with rowdy teenagers, ignoring their wide-eyed stares. His one goal at the moment was to get to Sara. What he would do next remained a mystery.
His pager buzzed, and he grabbed it off his belt quickly. Pressing the button to light the display, he pursed his lips as he read Jim's message. "Gil… answer the friggin' phone."
He turned the pager off and returned it to the holster on his belt. He needed to get to Sara first, and then he needed to get her someplace safe. Until that happened, the tremors in his hands would continue. Of that, he was certain.
XXXXXXXXX
When he reached the couch, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, chewing absently on one thumb. He was worried. This was a bad situation, and he didn't like it one bit. He crossed the kitchen's linoleum floor and turned around.
"Sixteen," said the calm figure on the couch, and he blinked at her quizzically, partially because of the random comment and partially because of her demeanor.
"What?"
"That's the sixteenth time you've paced across the floor, Nick. You're going to wear a hole in the carpet, and Grissom won't be a happy camper," Sara told him with a grin. She patted the sofa next to her. "Come sit."
"Fine," he responded petulantly as he plopped down on the sofa. He turned to look at her, holding his head back slightly to see her more clearly. "How can you be so calm about all this?"
She shrugged. How could she tell him that the earlier perceived threat to Grissom had realigned her priorities? Was there a way to explain that, as long as she was with Gil, it didn't matter where they were? As long as he was there, she had everything she needed – or wanted. But even admitting that to herself sounded ridiculously melodramatic.
So she settled for patting her friend on the shoulder reassuringly. "We've been over it a million times, Nick. This will work. Just stick to the plan."
He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to voice some protest, but he was once again interrupted by his cell phone. With some irritation, he plucked it from his belt and barked, "Stokes."
"It's Grissom. I'm outside. I just didn't want to scare you when I came in."
"Oh, hey, cool," Nick replied before ending the call. "Grissom's here," he told Sara, and the two involuntarily looked toward the door at the sound of a key being turned.
He shut the door firmly before he allowed himself to look at her because he anticipated his own response. And, when he turned around, his eyes locked on hers, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to prevent himself from crossing the room to pull her into his arms. But there was no time for that. First goal accomplished, he turned his focus to the second – to get her to a place of safety. He just had no idea where that would be.
Lucky for him, others had already decided. Nick stood up quickly and grabbed the two bags from the floor. "Are we ready?"
She nodded, but Grissom was momentarily thrown. "Ready for what?"
They both stared at him momentarily, but it was Sara who recovered first. "Crap, I forgot you don't know about Catherine's plan."
He blinked a little, kicking himself for not listening to Jim's message. "Apparently not," he responded flatly.
"It's OK," she smiled. "They couldn't have told you everything over the phone anyway. But it's pretty simple."
"Yeah," Nick agreed. "You've just gotta get her to the hotel. Should be easy enough, hopefully."
Grissom hadn't thought it was possible to be more confused but, clearly, he was wrong. He cocked his head. "Hotel?"
Sara glared at Nick before shifting her focus back to her bewildered supervisor. "Cath told us about the note, and she and Brass decided this probably isn't the safest place for us to be. She made a reservation for us at the New York, New York. Brass has undercover cops all over the place between here and there and, once we get to the room, we're supposed to stay put until instructed otherwise. And he is none too happy with you for not answering his calls, by the way."
Grissom managed a tiny smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Anything else?"
"Yeah, we can't use our cell phones in case there's a trace on them, so we're taking Nick's. And we're not supposed to use our credit cards either but, for some reason, Nick won't let us have his." She grinned at the young man in question. "Did I forget anything?"
He shook his head, but their boss spoke up. "Sara, is there some reason you're dressed like that?"
She glanced down at the button-down shirt that draped almost comically down her slight frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times. Its scent, so comforting at first, now seemed to accuse, and she reddened slightly under Grissom's continued scrutiny.
Thankfully, Nick piped up, "That was my idea. I figured, if we put her in one of your shirts and put a baseball cap on her, maybe she'd pass for a guy from a distance. You know, just in case this psycho is watching her or something."
When their boss didn't respond, he stammered in embarrassment. "Well, I mean… not that Sara really looks manly or anything…" He glanced at his friend helplessly, but she only stared back as he floundered. "I mean, he'd obviously have to be real far away or half-blind or something… i-it was kind of a dumb idea, I guess…"
"Nick!" Grissom interrupted, prompting the young man to blink back at him, wide-eyed. "It's a good disguise. Nice thinking." When the Texan responded with a beaming grin the size of his home state, Grissom looked sideways at Sara and cracked, "It's just a little big for you, though."
She smiled as she took her duffel bag from her colleague. "Yeah, well, Nick picked it out. If this is any indication of how good he is at guessing a woman's clothing size, I'd say it's pretty obvious why he can't keep a girlfriend."
"Hey, that's not fair! I don't go shopping for my girlfriends in Grissom's closet!"
"I'm more delighted to hear that than you could possibly know, Nick." His voice was serious, but his eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Sara giggled.
"You know what I meant," the younger man grumbled. He held up the remaining bag in his hand and said, "Well, you'd better hope I'm better at picking out guys' clothes because I'm the one who packed your suitcase." And they all laughed at that.
Grissom was the first to regain his composure, and he took Sara's bag from her and his own from Nick, shouldering them both easily. "We should go."
"Yeah," she agreed, sobering quickly. She turned to Nick and threw her arms around him. "Bye."
He returned the hug and said, "Be careful, OK?"
Grissom watched the exchange awkwardly, but Sara merely nodded and turned towards the door. And, when she turned to smile at him, he could do nothing but follow.
XXXXXXXXX
"Reservation for Kirby." Sara glanced around the casino as she waited for the desk clerk to call up the information. It was a little after midnight and, still, the hum of active slot machines was overwhelming.
Grissom, too, seemed dazzled by his surroundings, and she smiled as she watched him look around the lobby with his mouth slightly open. When he turned back to face her, he reddened slightly at her gaze. "I've never actually stayed here before," he admitted lowly.
"Me either," she whispered conspiratorially and was rewarded with a smile.
"Ah, here we are," the clerk announced. "James and Elizabeth Kirby?"
Grissom looked shocked, but Sara spoke up quickly. "Yes, that's us." She reached for his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, hoping he would just play along and not give them away. And he must have understood because he relaxed his hand and intertwined his fingers with hers.
She looked up at him in surprise and was met with the ghost of a smile, but the clerk demanded her attention again. "Your room is taken care of by a private donor, who has also agreed to fund any incidentals. Is there anything further I could assist you with?"
Sara shook her head, and the young woman handed her an envelope containing two key cards. "You're in room 1217. We hope you have a pleasant stay at the New York, New York, Mr. and Mrs. Kirby."
Grissom thanked the clerk and, without releasing Sara's hand, led the way to the elevators. "Kirby, huh?"
She was caught up in the feeling of his fingers brushing against hers, and his question caught her off-guard. "Um, yeah. What's wrong with Kirby?"
He shook his head as he stared at the display above the elevator. "Nothing. But Catherine's not as smart as she seems to think."
Sara stared at him, mystified. He grinned and explained, "William Kirby is widely considered to be the father of entomology, so I'm sure Cath thought I'd appreciate the joke."
The elevator doors parted, and Grissom tugged her into the compartment behind him. She looked up at him quizzically. "Then how is she not so smart?"
He smiled, obviously pleased with her interest, and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. "Because Pierre-André Latreille is the true father of entomology. He was writing definitive textbooks on insect classification before Kirby ever published anything of real value. Latreille never got the recognition he deserved." He glanced at her with a mischievous wink. "Then again, maybe Cath did know what she was doing. I'm not sure we'd pass for French."
The bell dinged to announce their arrival, and she followed him out with her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. The man was nothing if not amusing.
He let go of her hand to slide the key card into the magnetic lock and held the door open for her to enter first. Sara strolled in and dropped onto the double bed beside the window. "I'll take this one."
He nodded as he dropped the bags next to the closet and sat wearily on his own bed. As he scrubbed a hand over his face, he realized how exhausted he was.
Sara must have noticed, too. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," he argued, but his yawn betrayed him.
She smiled. "You could sleep, you know. It's not like we're going anywhere. It sounds like a good idea to me, too, actually."
She kicked off her shoes, and Grissom watched as she stretched out acrossthe bed like some long-legged tigress before she curled up on her side to face him. "Take a nap, Griss. You'll feel better."
Unwilling to argue further, he removed his own shoes and arranged the pillows to allow him to recline in a semi-seated position. He closed his eyes but, each time slumber drew near, he jolted awake.
After the third time it happened, Sara opened her eyes and glanced up at him in mild irritation. "What's wrong with you?"
He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed, hands beside him on the mattress and eyes staring wildly around the room. "I can't sleep."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Either," he snapped.
"Why not?"
Her voice was too gentle, and it bothered him. He dropped his eyes to the floor and rubbed across the back of his neck. "Because! I'm supposed to protect you and, if I go to sleep…" He shook his head, having no desire to finish the thought.
She said nothing for a long time, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. He focused on the carpet, on the swirling pattern of black and deep red, and he started when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He jerked his head up quickly.
"Scoot over."
"What?" He narrowed his eyes in bewilderment.
"Grissom, don't argue. Just move over there." She pointed to the opposite side of the bed, and something in her tone compelled him to comply.
When she stretched out beside him, he nearly panicked, but she simply covered his left hand with hers and intertwined her fingers with his. And, when she spoke, her voice was gentle, soothing, and reminded him of the ocean. "Now you can sleep. Nobody can take me without waking you up."
He stared at her for a long time, and she smiled and closed her eyes, her breathing settling into a gentle rhythm. But, before she could sink completely into a deep sleep, he turned away from her, draping her arm across his side and holding her hand against his heart to keep her close to him. She smiled against his back and, as he cradled her hand in his own, he realized for the first time that his hand had stopped shaking.
TBC…
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