Chapter Thirty

Sean enjoyed – no, relished – the screams of pain and tears of shame. For him sex wasn't about love. It wasn't even about lust. It was about control, pure and powerful. In bed, like in life, he wanted to be the one dominant and he exerted that ruthlessly. When he heaved himself off from bed, his wife was bleeding. In the pale light of the room, he smiled at the bruises and marks he left on her skin. They could be inconspicuously covered up with the designer clothes he lavished upon her. He always spared her face. She was his arm candy, the perfect trophy wife, and he wanted her beauty intact for the world to marvel upon.

The blood, however, he frowned upon. It didn't concern him that he had hurt enough to scratch her blood vessels. It bothered him to see blood stains that would be hard to wash off and he really loved that bed spread.

"Get up and clean yourself." He muttered.

She knew better than to argue with him. With an incredible amount of effort, she propped herself up. Her groins hurt and the floor shook beneath her jelly-like legs. But Carol didn't dare express her pain or complain. It would only arouse a stronger desire in Sean and she didn't think she had the ability to bear any more that day. Wincing with every step she took, she managed to walk herself to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and only then allowed herself to weep.


Sean walked quietly into his study. That was one room he didn't allow anyone to enter, not even the servants for cleaning. A key and a code, both of which were exclusive to him, were required to gain access into the room.

The study was huge, lined with concentric rows of bookshelves. A workstation stood at its center. The computer, his files, diskettes and loose papers were neatly arranged atop the Oak wood. He loved cleanliness. He planned and ordered everything in his life.

Seating himself on the huge leather chair, Sean typed into his computer. A secure but anonymous email client – a well-used service by many people from the Intelligence to Terrorists – popped up. He had three new mails.

One was a receipt from his account at the Caymans notifying him of a successful deposit of $10 million.

The second was a potential business deal. The life of an Israeli diplomat would gain him 20 mils. Of course, he planned to bargain. He surmised the end deal could stretch to around 25, maybe even more.

The third was from his contact in San Francisco, a warden at the California State Mental Facility.

There had been another incident regarding his mother. The doctors would undoubtedly send a letter to the fake address he had provided. The warden ensured he was kept up-to-date on his mother's condition.

Almost ten years ago, he had hired the best defense lawyers to reopen his father's murder case. With the help of some tear-jerking testimonies and fabricated psych evaluations, Laura Sidle had been judged mentally incapable. She was transferred from death row into an asylum where Sean planned to keep her as long as he thought was necessary.

He tapped his knuckles against the polished wood. Things were just starting to get interesting for him here and he was reluctant to leave everything and go to San Francisco. But then, it was his mother. There was no question that he would help her, wanted to help her.

He turned his attention to the properly stacked folder pile. Slowly he sorted through them.

"A. J. Skinny… Rehmat Al Khurshid… Moses Harberg… Vivian Cole… Yin Ja Kim… Sara Sid… aah!" Sean picked up the last one with almost reverent care. "Sara Sidle."

Pictures were laminated on the left side. The right side contained notes in his beautiful, cursive handwriting. He had the most information about his sister from their early years, when they were still a family, and the past six years. Only scattered clippings and pictures told him anything about the period in between. He filled in the blanks with his painfully gathered anecdotal details. He bribed his way past the security guards in Child Services to visiting all the Foster homes where Sara had housed one time or the other. He spoke to her high school teachers and college professors. Two dinners with the ME at the San Francisco Crime Lab had told him all about her early days in the forensic career.

But he wasn't satisfied with just skimming the surface. He knew all about her relationships, little as they were. Her friends, her rivals and her lovers. People she had cared about and people she couldn't stand. People for whom she would do anything and people she would give anything to forget. That is how he had stumbled upon Rachel… er… Courtney Andrews.

Manipulating Courtney wasn't a difficult task. He had learnt a valuable lesson in his business: where drugs worked, money and guns didn't. Some people just need to be tempted by a tiny pack of white powder and they'll do absolutely anything you want. Poor Sara. She thought she could make a clean person out of her friend. Noble intention it was. He truly gave her credit for it. What Sara hadn't counted on was that her friend didn't want to be saved. She only wanted to return to that ecstasy, no pun intended.

Poisoning Courtney's mind had been the first step in his Grand Plan. Already clouded by drugs, vines of malintent crept into her heart. Very soon, he had her agreeing into blowing Catherine Willows off.

By then, he had established a close informer within the ranks of the LV Crime Lab, Janet Simmons. He had a sword dangling over her - a video proving her brief stint as a, uh, porn actress. Coming from a respectable family of doctors and politicians, she would do anything to keep that video secret. Anything.

He leant back and took in the sharp tang of leather. He always found it so amusing how everyone had vulnerabilities, a skeleton in their picket-fenced backyard. Returning his attention back towards the folder, he flipped open to a large photograph dominating an entire page. His sister was there, holding hands with Catherine Willows. They were dressed casually in bathing suits. Unbeknownst to them, a paid photographer had been taking their pictures. They were laughing over a shared joke. She looked very happy, a state-of-mind that hadn't been hers for most of her life. A pang of jealousy filled him.

The next few pages had similar candid shots of Sara with Catherine. Sometimes they were accompanied by the young girl, Lindsay. He felt the familiar rage bottle up inside him. He wanted to tear them out and throw them into the fire. But he controlled himself and later he was pleased with his restraint, an essential skill he had cultivated over the years.

"Signore Sidle."

Sean looked up to find Victor half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway. Victor was his chauffeur, his right-hand man. The guy never bothered him unless it was necessary.

"Victor, problema?"

"Si, Signore. Problema grande."

"What's wrong?" Sean didn't like the look on his man's face.


Sara drifted in and out of unconsciousness, like a pendulum oscillates under the force of gravity. She saw an endless sequence of events flash in front of her: Lindsay smiling on top of a rollercoaster, the paramedics covering her face with an oxygen mask, Catherine holding her hand, the passing of Las Vegas streets through the window, Sean in his multi-million dollar mansion, the doctors and nurses speaking in urgent tones, Grissom amidst his eight-legged friends, Sofia murmuring words of encouragement, her lab colleagues watching her with anxiety, her lab colleagues teasing her in the lab. After a while, it became impossible for her to determine what was real and what was not. All the different sounds blurred into one combined buzz. Through it, she could only hear someone whispering "Catherine" over and over again.

The anesthesiologist looked at the surgeon in charge. "Who's Catherine?"

"Who?" The doctor questioned absently. His concentration was fixed on the abnormally spiking vitals.

"Catherine. She's saying her name."

He paused for a second, long enough to listen to Sara's softly moving lips. "Yeah, she is. Must be someone dear."

Sara only heard "Catherine" echoing in her mind before she slipped into a deep oblivion.