Chapter 2

Eventually, the fast-moving storm clouds opened up as Jim slowed down at a traffic signal. At that time of the morning the streets seemed deserted and he felt so isolated. Then again, nothing at this point would help ease the emotions that were seething underneath his tough exterior. The tables had suddenly turned and Jim was lost and very alone, but most importantly he felt angry at himself for failing to recognize Erin at the crime scene.

They had shared more than just a close friendship; she had listened to him when he was having a difficult time getting through a rough night and he had been there for her, when she needed him the most. But for the past several weeks their closeness had shown signs of strain. He blamed it entirely on himself but she refused to let him take the full load of the guilt. Never did he give much thought to her past coming back to haunt her. She did her best to avoid his questions and after some time he let it go; that was something he would always feel guilty about having done for as long as he lived.

Jim closed his eyes briefly, and became aware that he was deluding himself into thinking he would be okay. Sara had picked up on that in the parking lot during their conversation. He didn't expect, nor want anyone to go out of their way to help him get through this.

He knew people had their breaking points. He just hadn't reached his yet and he hoped he never would.

The light changed color and Jim let his sedan slowly cruise through the intersection. His cell phone rang causing him to catch his breath; he looked at the tiny screen and frowned at the familiarity of the number.

"Is the insomnia gnawing at you again?"

Jim smiled slightly at the sound of her laugh.

"Well, good morning to you too, detective."

He smiled again then sighed. Jim certainly wasn't expecting a call from her. It was a welcomed interruption though, at least for the next few minutes the sound of her voice would keep those recurring thoughts at bay.

"Horrible morning isn't it?" she asked, after getting no response from him.

"Oh, I don't know. I call this a cleansing type of rain."

"What's there to cleanse? Vegas isn't called Sin City for nothing." Another heavy sigh, then her voice dropped in pitch, "How are you doing, Jim?"

"I'm fine, just headed home after a long night."

"I heard… I'm so sorry," she said softly, voice laden with emotion. "I got a call from Grissom. He asked me to help out with the case, when I show up to work later today. It seems he's maxed out on overtime."

Jim remained quiet. He really had no idea what to say, besides the obvious. "Thank you," he whispered. He stared out of the windshield, keeping his eyes focused ahead of him and on the slick street. The always stoic homicide captain was dealing with a wound so deep; it would take him a long time to heal. Maybe he needed to be left alone to sort through his pain.

Until then, the nightmares would plague him for an unforeseen period of time.

"Talk to me Jim," she intruded into his dark thoughts.

"Not much to say, Cath. She's gone, and there isn't anything I can do to change that."

She let out a deep sigh upon hearing him say that. How many times had she heard that from others who had lost someone very important in their lives? Catherine had even said that to herself, after Eddie's death.

There were a few things she picked up over the phone about him: he was calm and collected on the outside, but on the inside she knew he was at war with his emotions. And he was too stubborn to let anyone in.

"Well, don't take matters into your own hands."

"I promise I won't. Besides, I don't have the strength to attempt something like that," he replied, with his own heavy sigh.

He knew what she was trying to do, and this time he really was telling her the truth. He had a lot on his mind to deal with and dispensing with his own personal justice would have repercussions on whatever remained of his career, and on the rest of his life. For now, he was on the outside looking in and he knew that was the only thing he could do.

"Listen if you need anything, I'm only a phone call away."

"Okay. But I already knew that."

"Get some sleep, Jim."

"Thanks Cath. You do the same."

He closed the phone after she hung up. The sound of Catherine's voice had done more than he thought it would, it had also managed to clear his mind a bit. One thing was certain: no one knew or could imagine what he was feeling when he pulled into the driveway of his darkened house. Perhaps a stiff drink then a few hours of sleep like she advised would shave off the guilt, and frustration he knew would be there until—in his own way—he let Erin go.

The rain was cold and it felt good on his skin when he exited his car and walked slowly to the front door of his house. It helped cleanse away some of his pain. No one stirred in the surrounding homes, the neighbors knew he lived amongst them but the hours he kept never helped him get well acquainted with them. In some ways he preferred that, but a life of living alone did have its drawbacks.

For instance, coming back to an empty home after a long night such as this wasn't the easiest thing to do.

Jim took one last look behind him then stepped inside. He walked the length of the hallway, not bothering to turn on any lights and went into the kitchen. He slipped off his necktie, gun holster, and cuffs then placed everything on top of his jacket on a nearby bar stool. That drink he needed sounded good right about now, so he grabbed an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich then hesitated by thinking over his choice of alcohol. If he was about to drown himself in a bottle of liquor it called for the strong stuff. Maybe this would help him through those flashbacks and the guilt he was still experiencing about the crime scene.

Bottle in one hand and a small whisky glass in the other; he slowly made his way into the living room and dropped himself into his comfortable wingback chair. Pouring himself two fingers worth of the scotch, he drank and took pleasure in the heat that spread down his throat and into his rain chilled body. The silence enveloping him was comforting in a way, though it was interrupted here and there by the soft rumblings of the rain storm. He sat in darkness and let the alcohol, his sorrow over losing Erin, and the fatigue which had set into his body lull him into a restless sleep.

—————

While Jim slept and the heavens continued their onslaught, plans and decisions began to take shape.

A dark vehicle crept down the street then its headlights suddenly went out, as its lone occupant steered it closer to the detective's residence. He parked the SUV several yards away, enough to keep the house within eyesight, and a good distance away to keep himself out of sight. Though, at this hour of the morning he was sure no one would notice him anyway. The stranger let the engine idle for a few minutes then shut it off; he looked at his watch and thought over his next move carefully.

The timing had to be perfect and then everything else would fall into place, just like he hoped. This was a game to him and the senior homicide detective was just another piece that had to be played. After that, all he needed was to tie up a few loose ends then he would be able to enjoy all the hard work he had put into this.

This was just another job he had to complete; he was a puppet and answered to a master whom he had never seen. And cops or not, the people on his list were marks and he intended to fulfill his contract. Of course, this job didn't come without its share of enjoyment, and free reign was always an incentive with his employer.

He was destined to be labeled a serial killer by the media, of that he was sure. The idea amused him, but he wouldn't let all of the attention go to his head. He wasn't out here to live up to anyone's expectations; his only intent was to do away with a few—very specific—thorns in his boss's side.

The discovery this detective and his CSI colleagues had made this morning was the first piece on the board. The other woman proved to be expendable when she intervened. No problem, he did away with her with some relative ease. They both fought rather bravely, especially the detective, and he wasn't able to come away without any physical scars. Whatever they managed to collect in the form of DNA wasn't going to help the crime lab one iota; he was a ghost, and had successfully fallen off the grid a few years ago.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky overhead, and he flinched when the following crack of thunder reverberated through the frame of his truck. Something seemed different when he turned to wipe the side window with his coat sleeve. He squinted through the downpour and his expression changed from one of confusion, to one of surprise. The street was dark, and full of shadows, whatever street lamps were spread throughout the neighborhood had gone out.

He took this temporary power outage as a sign.

The figure turned in his seat and gathered a few things from the back; he checked his 9mm and prepared it by entering a round into its chamber then climbed out of the vehicle. It was still raining heavily but a little water wouldn't make him change his mind. He was set on what he had to do and this morning he intended on getting this portion of the job done. His mind went over the possible scenarios that would play themselves out; he knew it was a little out of his usual style. But, finesse had gone out the window when nature presented him with a nice opportunity to take care of the situation.

With a deep breath, he sprinted the distance from his truck to Captain Brass's front door.

He would have to lure the prey to him.

—————

A peal of thunder escaped across the night sky and traveled down into the foundation of Jim's home. Several creaks and moans came from the floorboards in the living room; the temperature had dropped a few degrees and the house protested. He was oblivious to the noises surrounding him, but there was something in the way his breathing came in quick gasps and in the way his free hand twitched.

He was fighting off the demons that had invaded his dreams and was steadily losing the battle.

Slowly, a cry full of anguish and pain begin to build up in his throat until it escaped his lips. He sat up in terror and the small glass still full of liquid, slipped through his fingers and crashed onto the floor—tiny splatters of scotch spread everywhere. He wiped his hand across his stubble covered chin and exhaled loudly, when he felt the chill seep back into his body.

The house did feel colder when he rose out of the chair, and it seemed unnaturally quiet. The rush of air he was accustomed to hearing from the air vents was muted. He sighed, when he realized that the electricity must've gone out. Jim stood still, long enough to gather his bearings, and looked at the glowing hands on his watch. It was close to two in the morning and the storm still hadn't migrated out of the city. Jim glanced down at the floor and cursed under his breath; that would have to be cleaned up before he crawled into bed. It was a big mistake falling asleep in the brown leather chair; his back and neck were paying the price now as he moved into the kitchen. Resting his hands on the marble counter, he closed his eyes.

Old and useless was what he felt like.

The investigation weighed heavily on his mind and he was anxious for some news, but he sensed that Sara hadn't called. He turned and focused on his cordless phone which sat on the bar, and contemplated calling her instead. Maybe the sound of her voice would do him some good, so he reached across the counter top and froze. He figured it would be best to wait for her to reach him instead and turned away from the counter, not bothering to check his messages.

Jim couldn't help push away a nagging feeling that the evidence in the case would prove inconclusive. That was something he hadn't shared with Vega—let alone Grissom. Jim knew in the back of his mind that the TRO Erin had filed had no bearing in this case. Those feelings didn't help soften that blow though. She was in need of his help when she was alive and he hadn't been persistent enough in finding out the truth for himself. He stood in the darkness thinking about how quiet the house was, and how lonely he felt.

He sighed then left the kitchen. His body craved sleep, but he was afraid of what his dreams might hold for him when his subconscious awoke again. Jim was about to enter his bedroom when a pounding on the front door echoed through his home. The pounding got louder and he became intensely annoyed.

"This better be good," he muttered to himself, while strolling back down the hall.

He stopped near the opening to his kitchen and looked over to where his gun holster was lying on top of his jacket, he approached the bar stool and took the sidearm out of it. His sidearm felt cold through the fabric of his pants as he pressed it up against the back of his thigh, but its weight made him feel secure when he moved over to the front door.

Jim looked through the peephole and noted that his early morning visitor appeared nondescript, was dressed in black, and the shadows in the alcove didn't help him get a good look at his face.

"Yeah, what is it?" he spoke through the heavy door, favoring caution and his gut feeling.

"Captain Brass, there's been an accident."

"Are you a cop?" Jim knew all the tricks home-invasion perps used to get into your house. Nearly everyone in this town knew who he was and what he did. He wasn't a stranger to a TV camera; including the fact that just about anyone had access to the internet and personal information. "I ain't opening this door, until I see a badge or an ID."

"Well, that's a shame…"

The black-clad stranger kicked in the front door, pushing the detective back forcibly. Jim's weapon slipped out of his grasp and clattered to the floor next to him. The air was stolen from his lungs when he landed hard on his back and his eyes tried to focus on the ceiling above, but they failed him. He fought off the impending darkness which threatened to drag him under.

The figure leaned in and whispered into Jim's ear, "Does it hurt?"

In response Jim tried to make a move for his weapon, but was painfully stopped when the figure smashed the butt of his own 9mm on the detective's fingers. There was an audible crunch, in the silence of the enclosed space, and he cried out. The assailant placed his foot on Jim's weapon and nudged it a few feet away.

"Uh uh, Captain. Now, as I was going to—"

Jim winced and softly said, "Your voice… familiar."

"I'm shocked. How could you have forgotten me so soon?"

Reaching deep into his mind, Jim was able to recall the memory. "You killed those women," he said, struggling for air.

"Yes. Though, I was really after the detective." The assailant knelt down next to him and kept his own gun pressed up against Jim's temple. "Ah, I sense the detective meant something to you."

Jim narrowed his eyes in anger then dredged up all the strength he could and willed his left arm to move. His assailant recoiled at the sudden movement, but the detective was faster. He grabbed the black-clad stranger by the collar of his shirt and twisted it, trying to unbalance him in the process. The figure choked on his own words and tried to use the butt of his gun again; this time raising it over his head—defending himself, Jim blocked the strike with his right forearm and winced. The detective succeeded in doing what he intended and the stranger grunted, sending both arms out to control his fall but the back of his head smacked into the wall, disorienting him a little.

Jim took advantage of the situation and turned on his side, using his elbow to push himself off the floor. He flinched when the barrel of his assailant's gun came into view and froze in that position.

"My boss told me you would try and put up a fight." The stranger rose, massaging the hollow of his neck.

Jim looked up a little confused, he tried to focus through the haze and asked, "Your boss?"

"Never mind that. Get up, Captain Brass."

Jim swallowed and tasted his own blood as he stood up clutching his injured hand tightly against his side. His mind was fuzzy and his legs threatened to give out, so he placed his other hand on the wall to steady himself. A coughing spasm sent another stab of pain down into his lower back. It subsided but he continued to stare down at the floor; angry at himself and his predicament. He had to act quickly, to get out of this alive; however, he knew that any course of action would put him at risk. His eyes searched in vain for the gun, but he softly cursed to himself when he couldn't find it.

Armed or not, he would have to make a bold move to extricate himself out of this. He just prayed that he wouldn't end up taking a bullet in a vital area. Just the pain from the broken hand was enough make anyone black out, but he kept his senses and waited for the stranger to make his own move.

"It's been a pleasure," the figure said, taking a step back and raising the gun. "I know you can't say the same, though."

It's now or never…

Jim lunged forward and knocked the perp off of his feet again; the sound of the gunshot disrupted the stillness enveloping them and traveled throughout the house. The detective fell to his knees and sagged against the wall with his eyes closed then felt something warm flowing down his temple, into his right eye. A gunshot wound to the head should've killed him instantly, but why was he still breathing? He opened his eyes and tried to ignore the pain and noticed the figure in the shadows, gasping for air.

The gun, where the hell is my weapon?

Hoping to get lucky, he sent his left hand out in search of it, while his attacker seemed distracted, and Jim's fingertips came in contact with the cold steel. Jim raised his sidearm with a shaky left hand and fired, the flash from the muzzle blinded him for an instant but the resulting cry of pain let him know that the shot had found its target.

"Shit!" the stranger cried, voice full of frustration.

Blinking several times in the darkness, Jim shifted slightly when he noticed the perp raise his own gun again. He had a good bead on him, but the detective moved at the last minute and winced when the gunshot went through his right shoulder. If he was the intended target of a hit then his attacker had done a poor job. Gasping for air, he heard—through the low ringing in his ears—his attacker stumble out of the house. Eventually, his footfalls faded and merged with the sound of the rain.

Jim slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position against the wall, knowing well enough that he wouldn't be able to walk the length of the hallway to call for help. So, he rested his head back and listened to the early morning downpour, along with his rapid breathing. The water drifted in on the wind and through the doorway then trickled into his half-opened eyes; it felt cold, but it wasn't enough to keep him conscious.

Jim finally let himself be embraced by the shadows around him.

oOoOo

Sara Sidle occupied the empty break room in the crime lab; she sat in the black leather sofa with her hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea. The stuffiness of the lab hampered her ability to think and get through her building frustration.

Doc Robbins and his assistant David Phillips' autopsies of both women solidified the COD and what had killed them. It was a single shot in the center of the chest cavity, from which they both had bled to death—all of the other injuries had been inflicted anti-mortem. Sara also took on the task of finding out the second victim's identity, by running her fingerprints through AFIS; it turned out Carey Peters was an employee at The Palms casino. Not only had they both been brutally beaten; they had also suffered a slow and painful death. A ballistics test matched both bullets to that of a Walther P99 9mm caliber weapon. There were also no signs of sexual assault which meant the CSIs' weren't looking for a sexual predator.

Sara had been relieved to find that out; she was afraid of how Jim would react to that kind of news. Her thoughts then turned to how the detective was doing after being forced to surrender the case over to Detective Sam Vega. She was worried about him and after failing to reach him at home, she got it into her mind that he needed someone to be there for him, whether he liked it or not. She rose from the sofa and tossed her remaining cup of tea in a nearby trash receptacle then headed down the corridor, lost in thought.

The evidence recovered from both victims wasn't helpful at all. Either it had been contaminated, or something was inconsistent, she dared not say there had been an error in its collection—Gil Grissom was the one who had processed the bodies. Just by looking at her boss she had picked up on the anger and frustration, evident in his fierce blue eyes when he had found out the news. The DNA had given him the most trouble; the scrapings he had gathered from both women proved to be inconclusive, but he wasn't about to accept that. He demanded Mia run the tests again, until he was satisfied with a positive answer.

None came though, and Sara had to excuse herself when he had received the secondary test results in his office. She could feel the tension in the room when she had left him to his own thoughts. Her departure hadn't even managed to elicit a glance from him.

So, as she neared her supervisor's office once again, she poked her head around the door and he looked up at her.

Grissom waved her in, but she hesitated, "I can't. I uh, need to check on something."

"You mean Brass?"

"Yes. He isn't answering his phone and I'm a bit worried, especially with the way he walked out of here earlier."

"Go ahead," he responded, this time not arguing with her.

"What is it, Grissom?" she asked, noticing an edge of frustration in his voice.

"It's just this case, so many…"

"…anomalies?" She finished his thought with a tiny smile.

Grissom's eyebrow arched, he then stood up and met her at the door, "I think I'll go through the evidence we gathered at the crime scene again."

She nodded her head and was about to say something, but he turned his back on her.

"Keep your cell phone with you in case—" he said, as he walked away.

"I know… in case you need me."

Sara watched him stop in mid-stride and tilt his head to the side. She imagined the look on his face, since she couldn't see it for herself and once again smiled.

—————

As Sara meandered down a semi-deserted street in Henderson headed towards Jim's home, the moon eventually broke through the dissipating cloud cover. She craned her neck over the steering wheel to have a look out of the windshield; it was a full-moon and it looked beautiful. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the center console while awaiting a traffic light to change, and her mind once again wandered to how Jim might be doing emotionally. She suspected the detective was having some difficulty falling asleep or maybe he hadn't even gone home at all.

Her assumption about not finding him at home was dashed as soon as she turned onto the street where Jim's house was situated. She sensed and noticed something different about the surrounding neighborhood as she neared the darkened home.

Sara parked the SUV in the detective's driveway, alongside his vehicle and climbed out. She chastised herself when a noise stopped her in her tracks—a cat hissed and darted across her path and she gasped. The electricity was still out in certain areas, and that's when she realized what looked different about the neighborhood: the street lamps weren't lit up like they should be.

But she couldn't shake the sensation that something else was wrong. She neared the house's front door and stood still, shock having rooted her to the spot. The moonlight had penetrated into the alcove and was shining into the entrance through the wide open front door. Sara took a step forward thinking her mind was playing a horrible trick on her, but she paused when the sight of a human hand made her jump.

On instinct, she un-holstered her sidearm and clicked off its safety. Creeping further into the darkness she squinted, letting her eyes adjust to the absence of light.

Even in the gloom she was able recognize the homicide detective's body, and the sight of his blood frightened her.

To be continued…