Summary: Grissom goes stargazing in the desert. Big mistake.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. No silver has crossed my palm, either.
A/N: Special thanks to phdelicious, smacky30, brandie, csishewolf, and misscam for all your help and support. Written for the BestKeptPrivate weekly fic challenge, prompt: bottle of vodka. Contains dialogue references to CSI Season 1, Crate 'n Burial and CSI Season 6, Pirates of the Third Reich.
Patience and tenacity of purpose are worth more than twice their weight of cleverness.
Thomas Huxley
Add cleverness to both, however, and you've got something.
Gil Grissom
xxx
Billy Regis watched as the tow truck pulled the big SUV out of the station. "Hey, Jupe…what the hell was that?"
Jupiter Johnson walked over to his friend, wiping his hands on a shop rag and shaking his head. "Jesus, Billy, I'm not sure…some guy from Vegas."
"I heard you talkin' to him…was that crap he was spoutin' true?"
"You know, I thought he was full of shit when he limped in here, but now I'm not so sure…" he said, scratching his head. Suddenly he looked around cautiously and pulled a bottle from his coverall pocket. "Want a belt?"
Regis grinned, stopping short when he saw the label. "What the fuck is that?"
Johnson twisted off the cap and took a long pull. Red faced and breathing hard he managed, "La de dah Polish vodka…hundred and fifty bucks a bottle…at least, that's what the guy said." He offered Billy the bottle again before dissolving in a coughing fit.
"Smooth, Jupe, real smooth," Billy said, taking the bottle and giving it a sniff, then making a face. "Jesus, this shit is pure alcohol…you gotta' cut it with something."
Eyes still watering, Johnson sauntered off toward the station's office. "I got just the thing…"
Billy hurried to catch up.
xxx
Earlier…in the desert...
"Son of a bitch!" Grissom yelled as he wriggled out from under the Denali.
When he stood up he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. One look at the display made him shut it again with a snap. No signal. "Dammit!"
And this had been such a good trip, too. There's nothing quite like star gazing in the winter. Atmospherics don't interfere like they do in warmer weather, plus it's possible to spend time in the desert without boiling the whole time. That's what had lured him out to this remote spot past Beatty and Velvet Peak in the Mojave Desert. Sara had given him a telescope for Christmas – he wanted to test it out. Now he was stuck in lower-knee-jerk Nevada with a pin-holed gas tank and no signal on his phone.
Sighing heavily, he walked toward an outcropped rock to take advantage of the shade. It might be winter but it was going to get God damned hot pretty quick. Time to assess the situation more carefully.
First problem: hole in the gas tank. "Must have been that last bump," he thought, wishing he'd looked at the SUV a little more carefully when he'd stopped. From the look of things, a rock had opened a small hole in the tank and most of the fuel had slowly leaked out during the night. "I should be glad the rock wasn't flint," he thought, not feeling at all thankful.
OK, so no fuel and no cell. Shit.
Walking back over to the Denali, he opened the rear gate and surveyed the contents. Even though this was his personal truck, he kept it stocked the same as the county vehicle he drove for work. CSIs had been stranded in the middle of nowhere more than once, so current Lab policy required there be emergency supplies in each vehicle for just such an occurrence. He had a case of bottled water, blankets, first aid kit, flares... and pretty much anything else one might need to survive in the desert.
Too bad there wasn't a spare fuel tank in there…or gasoline.
Removing his hat and wiping his face with a handkerchief, Grissom thought about his options. He pulled out a plastic box he'd stocked with auto supplies. There were all kinds of goodies in there: WD-40, antifreeze, electrical tape, fuses, duct tape, muffler tape, temporary radiator sealant, brake fluid, power steering fluid…a virtual Auto-Zone. As wonderful as all this stuff was, there was no spare gas tank in there, either.
He tossed the lid of the supply box back in the truck and pulled his cell phone out again. Still no signal. "I'm sure they're putting up towers this very minute," he thought, realizing how pointless it was to keep checking.
Short term, he was probably OK. He could stay hydrated, the outcrop would serve as shade, and people would be looking for him soon. Well, in another 24-36 hours. He winced, remembering his conversation with Sara as he headed out:
"You're sure I can't talk you into coming with me? A night under the stars?" he'd said, wiggling his eyebrows.
She'd leaned through the window to kiss him goodbye. "A 'night under the stars' would be lovely if I didn't have to worry about scorpions in my sleeping bag."
"Hey, I have an Aerobed back there...it'd be just like home..."
"I don't have to worry about peeing on my shoes at home, Griss," she'd grinned. "Have a nice time."
The last thing he'd said to her as he pulled away was, "I'll be back Sunday night…I left a map on my desk... Love you."
Sara wouldn't start to get worried until some time Sunday night. It was now early Saturday morning…that meant two days and a night in the desert…maybe two nights. Providing they started looking for him right away. Well, at least they would know where to look…the lesson of Aron Ralston had not been lost on him. Grissom never went anywhere off road without telling someone and leaving an itinerary, just in case. "Just in case I get stuck in a crevasse and have to cut off my arm with a pocket knife…" he thought, rubbing his arm absently.
Thoughts of Aron Ralston led to thoughts of Zoe Klein, which led inevitably to thoughts of Lady Heather. Brass had told him just the other day that the charges against her had been dropped in the assault on Leon Sneller. She must have some serious juice for that to happen. He'd never doubted that for an instant, but seeing it in action was curious…somehow problems just evaporated when the right favors were called in. Wondering if maybe Heather would have preferred the fight as a way to exorcise some of her rage over Zoe's death, he shook his head sadly. A tragic end to an peculiar chapter in his life. "I hope you have someone to lean on, Heather...like I do."
He had to get up at that thought…concentrate on the problem at hand. Walking slowly around the Denali, he realized it was sitting on a slight incline. It took him a few moments to understand what this meant: there could be some fuel left in the tank. Not much, but some…which might mean getting himself out of here if there was a way to put a patch on that tank. Looking back toward the road, he estimated he was at least 40 miles from certain help…a park ranger or that last gas station out on Route 274. "Just a little farther…I had to drive a little farther into the park to get away from the light pollution. Good job, Gil."
OK, so what could he use to make a temporary patch? Walking quickly to the rear gate, he pulled through his auto supplies. Duct tape? Muffler tape? He held both in his hands and considered the pros and cons. Sara would use the duct tape… "The woman has a thing for duct tape," he thought smiling. Muffler tape might work…it could certainly withstand some heat. Thinking about the solvent qualities of gasoline, he wondered if the adhesive of either tape would stick long enough to get him to a phone. He finally decided that they probably wouldn't and immediately felt let down. It had been a good idea.
Blowing air between his lips, he considered other items in the Denali…things not strictly related to vehicles. There was his kit and all the spare supplies he kept. Nope. Nothing in there would work…though using a latex glove between the tank and the tape was appealing. Still, with no way to adhere the glove to the tank, that wouldn't fix the solvent issue. How about as a plug? Grissom opened his kit and pulled out a glove, then knelt next to the left rear tire...could he plug the hole with a rolled piece of latex, then hold it place with the tape? That might just work.
The smell of gas made him cough and he had to stand quickly. Most of a full tank had drained into the earth directly under the SUV…he prayed quietly that nothing set off the fumes.
So, if he could patch the tank with a glove and duct tape, just how much fuel were we talking here? He rocked the Denali gently, listening for a sloshing noise. Faint…very faint. Not very much gas in there at all.
Dammit.
The heat was starting to bake the back of his neck even with his hat on; he grabbed a bottle of water out of the back and went to sit in the shade of the rocks. Taking a deep pull on the bottle, he ran over a list of items in his head. "OK, do I have anything that will burn? Nothing in the kit will work…I have those two bottles of STP Gas Treatment, but they're only 12 ounces each…not nearly enough."
Then he remembered an article he read once about putting water in your gas tank. It had said most fuel tanks behave as if they're empty when there is really some gas left…the level isn't high enough to reach the outflow. If you were desperate, you could put water in the tank. Any fuel in the tank would float to the top. Since fuel is taken from the top of the tank, gasoline would be drawn off first…and presuming you had enough gas in the tank, you could get to civilization before it started drawing water. Which you would want to avoid because the engine would be seriously damaged if it started to draw water.
Well, that was a desperate measure and this was a new SUV. He didn't want to replace the engine if he could help it. Besides, he might well be uncomfortable before someone came to his rescue, but he was in no immediate danger. It was not yet time for desperate measures.
Pulling out his cell phone, he flipped it open to check for signal again. Nothing.
"Well, this is annoying," he said to no one.
For all his thoughtful demeanor, Grissom was a man of action. When there was a problem, his preference was to do something…sometimes anything. Hard experience had taught him to be patient. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Jack Garris, "in situations like this if you want to go fast, go slow." Of course, the man didn't yet know his wife had conspired with his trainer to kidnap herself, but the advice was still sound.
And this situation wasn't so bad, actually. "I'll be all right unless a meteor falls on me," he grinned, quickly scanning the sky. "Guess I'm safe," he thought, laughing out loud.
He got up and walked around the Denali again, which looked remarkably like a beached whale perched at a slight angle in font of him. Fingers working at his sides, he chewed the inside of his cheek and checked his watch. Ten o'clock in the morning. "Eat, I should eat."
Opening the left rear passenger door, Grissom inspected the contents of his cooler. Mostly melted ice, a few beers, and a sandwich sealed in a zip bag. "Thank you, Sara," he said, silently gratefulSara's cooking skills might be sketchy, but she could make a mean sandwich. She'd even cut it diagonally to make it pretty. Settling down in the shade he took a bite. It was tasty, though some of the ingredients were a bit of a mystery.
As much as he'd have liked to wash his sandwich down with a beer, the dehydrating effects of alcohol made him decide to pass. Water would have to do until he got home.
Home. Now there was a word that held promise these days. His townhouse used to be a haven primarily because it was not the Lab. It had been a place to sleep, study...be alone. Now it was a place to discover Sara. Oh, and they'd been discovering each other intimately for 19 luscious months...the happiest months of his life.
They'd just had a wonderful Christmas. He could still see the excitement in her eyes as she'd watched him open his gift: a 127mm Star Max reflector telescope. Once he'd ripped off the wrapping, she'd knelt in front of him, telling him all about each of its special features in a voice that could hardly contain her excitement. Sara was not that interested in astronomy, but she knew he was and that he'd been thinking about buying a telescope. She'd listened to his off-hand comments and turned them into the best gift he'd ever received...not the telescope...the gift of her thinking about him and trying to please him. He cherished that more than any object he owned.
The rock he was sitting on was hard and his ass was starting to hurt. And he really wanted to go home. When his hand wandered to his cell phone again, he got up, gathered his trash and stowed it in the truck. Opening the right rear passenger door, he checked his telescope...the case was a little dusty but the instrument was fine. "I am a lucky bastard," he thought, smiling to himself.
If Sara had thought carefully about his Christmas gift, he had started to think of her wants and desires in surprising ways. He had never been that careful about recycling until Sara moved in. It never occurred to him check his investments for companies that had suspect human rights records. Even this SUV was a nod to her. He'd bought a Denali for expeditions like this because he really liked the one he drove at work, but he'd gotten the flex fuel version because it was environmentally friendly...and because it would please Sara. Sometimes he felt a little foolish...he wasn't sure changing the makeup of his portfolio was all that effective for changing the world...but it couldn't hurt and if it made Sara happy, well, he had a few years of make-up work to do there. Not for her...for himself.
Grissom carefully latched the telescope case, stood up and closed the rear passenger door. Well, he'd eaten and he was hydrated. It was eleven o'clock. Now he was bored. And a little sleepy. He was usually asleep at this time of day. Part of him still felt like he should be walking out of here or doing something else to get himself back to civilization, but walking was a terrible idea...waiting was the only option that made sense.
"Oh, well..." He padded the rocks with enough blankets so that he wouldn't have a permanently broken rear when this was all over, then he raised the hood and the rear gate of the Denali in the universal sign of broken-down-need-some-help on the off chance that a ranger happened by. Sitting with legs extended and ankles crossed, he laced his fingers over his belly and closed his eyes.
But sleep was elusive and his mind started to wander.
Christmas had been so good. This seemed to be the year of booze; that was what they'd gotten from almost everyone. Brass had given them wine, Catherine's choice was champagne, Nick had brought them a case of Texas Longhorn Beer, Warrick a good bottle of aged port, and Greg...Greg had gotten them a bottle of Norwegian vodka. In fact it was Greg who had started a debate about the relative merits of everyone's favorite poison when he went on and on about his vodka. Vikingfjord was a premium Norwegian potato vodka made with water from the Jostedalsbreen glacier (the largest glacier on the European mainland, he'd said proudly), and filtered through fine gravel the glacier left behind. The unique filtering removed impurities that might affect taste, which was why Vikingfjord won an award for quality in 2005. As the evening progressed, discussion had gotten more and more heated as everyone participated in an ill-advised taste comparison. The next day, Brass, grumpy with a sore head, when asked why he had broken his own rule about mixing spirits, had said, "What's a little ethanol between friends?"
Grissom sat straight up from his perch on the rocks. "What's a little ethanol between friends? Jesus, I can't believe I missed it." He had two cases of ethanol on the floor in front of the passenger seat, or more accurately, two cases of spiritus rektyfikowany: 95 percent pure Polish vodka. After the 'taste test,' he'd arranged for Josef Detloff, a Polish entomologist of his acquaintance, to ship it to him. The route had been circuitous and not strictly legal but he had enough to share. And now he had a supply of almost pure ethanol to burn in his flex fuel vehicle.
If he could patch the fuel tank.
As Grissom prepared the items he'd need for that patch, he calculated how much fuel he'd need.
"Let's see. Pure ethanol has 37 percent less energy than an equal amount of gasoline. If this whale gets an average of 18 miles per gallon of gas, it would get a little more than 11 miles per gallon of ethanol." Double checking the vodka, he assured himself that it was in liter bottles. "OK, there's 34 fluid ounces in a liter, or about three and three quarters bottles to make a gallon. I'm going to need at least four gallons of ethanol to drive 40 miles, so that's 15 bottles, give or take...I've got 24, so even if my calculations are off, I can still make it."
Standing next to the Denali with a bottle of vodka in each hand, he started to laugh. This stuff had ending up costing about $150 a liter, what with the creative methods he'd used to get it into the country. "And people are complaining about the price of gas..." he laughed. "Well, at least I'll get a good story out of it."
The rubber glove and duct tape made an admirable plug. To Grissom's surprise, the tape was holding. He'd been careful to clean the area and he was hoping the tightly rolled latex would prevent seepage long enough for him to get out of here.
Just as he was sliding out from under the Denali he felt something brush against the back of his neck. Bringing his hand up quickly, he knocked it away and felt a sting on his palm. "What the fuck...?" Once out from under the vehicle, he scanned the area. Scurrying under the SUV and back into the dark was a pale yellow scorpion with small claws. "Centruroides exilicauda..." His hand was already starting to swell and the pain was intense.
If he was in trouble before, he was in real trouble now. He'd just been stung by bark scorpion. People had died without medical attention after such stings...so he'd better get himself the fuck out of here. He was going to need some help. Soon.
His left hand was swollen, numb and almost useless already. He sat on the edge of the passenger seat, held each bottle secure between his thighs and twisted the cap off bottle after bottle with his good hand, getting up in between to pour each one into the fuel access. When numbness in his hand started to crawl up his arm to his shoulder, Grissom tried to quicken his pace, which only resulted in his dropping and breaking two bottles. By the time he got enough ethanol in the tank, his vision had started to blur a little.
A prayer accompanied the turning of the ignition. When it caught and started to run, he leaned back in his seat and gulped for air. "Thank you...thank you..." Putting the Denali in gear, he headed toward the road and help.
It was weird how distance seemed to stretch or contract, depending on how badly you wanted to get somewhere. The desert seemed to roll on and on. "I don't remember driving this long," he thought, "I should pick up 274 soon..." By the time he hit the highway he was having trouble breathing. Knowing it was useless, he pulled out his cell to check for signal, but couldn't make out the little bars on the screen. No matter. He punched 911 and send. Nothing. Still out of range.
At first Grissom thought the white stucco building was a mirage. He'd wanted to see it so badly and it seemed to take so long to get there, but it was real enough.
Jupiter Johnson happened to be standing in the doorway of the station when the big SUV rolled over the curb and nearly ran him down. "Jesus, man...what's wrong with you? You could have killed me!"
Grissom practically fell out of the Denali. "Please, call 911. I've been stung by a scorpion. Tell them I need antivenin for a bark scorpion sting...Centruroides exilicauda..." he managed.
Jupiter Johnson stared open-mouthed at the man in front of him: dirty, smelling of gasoline and booze, left arm swollen, drooling and stumbling. He thought calling 911 was an excellent idea for reasons of his own, so he backed into his office and slammed the door before grabbing the phone. Grissom half fell against the Denali before plopping down bonelessly on the curb against the station.
Beatty might be in the middle of nowhere but the antivenin was available to the EMTs; they had enough scorpion stings every year to make it necessary. A rescue unit roared into Johnson's station within five minutes.
It took the sheriff about half an hour to roll in. Grissom was already responding to treatment by that time, able to breathe normally and answer questions.
"Mr. Grissom, that is the wildest story I've ever heard."
"I realize that, but it's true, Sherrif Taylor," he said, offering his department identification.
Taylor studied Grissom's ID carefully. "Well, OK...is there someone I can call for you?"
"I need to get my vehicle back to Las Vegas and I need to get home myself...if you could call Detective Jim Brass for me at this number..."
"Sure thing, Mr. Grissom...sure thing," he said.
Once the sheriff was gone, Jupiter Johnson approached Grissom cautiously. "Excuse me, mister. Did you really put vodka in your gas tank and drive out of the desert?"
"Yeah, I did."
Johnson offered his guest some water, "That must be some vodka!"
Grissom smiled, and took a sip. "It's spiritus rektyfikowany, 95 percent pure Polish vodka."
"Man, that's 190 proof...is that even legal?" he asked, incredulous.
"Sure...hey, take a bottle...there's part of case in the front seat. As a thank you for helping me."
"Wow, thanks, man...I've never had Polish vodka before."
"Well, enjoy it on me..."
Johnson turned away, eying his friend Billy Regis who was hanging at the edge of the office out of earshot. Then he turned back, "How much does stuff like this cost, anyway?"
"$150 a bottle, give or take..."
Jupiter Johnson's eyebrows crawled up into his hairline trying to take that in. Who in their right mind paid $150 a bottle for booze? This guy, apparently. "Damn!"
Brass showed up with a tow truck a couple of hours later, bundled Grissom into his car and supervised the tow. Johnson kept his distance so as not to eavesdrop, but he heard Brass laughing, so he guessed everything was going to be all right. Pretty soon, he was watching the big SUV disappear south down Route 95.
Billy Regis called from the door of the station. "Hey, Jupe…what the hell was that?"
Jupiter Johnson walked over to his friend, wiping his hands on a shop rag and shaking his head. "Jesus, Billy, I'm not sure…some guy from Vegas."
FIN