A/N: Thank you for the reviews and for your patience. Like I said, this story is going to take me a little bit longer to write. I truly do appreciate all of you for reading. Thanks again.
Ch.2: The Sweetest Price He'll Have to Pay
SARA
February 20, 2011
Las Vegas
The lights of Las Vegas sparkled and lit up the clear night sky. She couldn't see any stars; the city lights were too bright. She would have to go out to the middle of the desert if she wanted to see any. Even the moon was hard to see from all the lights shining through the glass window. The light show from the fountain below was a stunning spectacle, attracting admirers as people stood around the railing, taking pictures and videos on their phones and cameras.
She remembered standing at that fountain years ago, leaning over the side and staring down into the water with one thought on her mind: death. That had been the night she'd gotten drunk due to her ex, Mike, and she had called Gil to come get her. It was the night that changed everything for her. If she hadn't had made that phone call with her last quarter, who knows what would have happened to her.
Would she have gone back to Los Angeles with Mike? Would she have left him and found someone else? Would she have decided to end it all?
Gil had taken her into his house, made her tea and read her Shakespeare until she passed out. He'd tucked her into bed and then, in her moment of uncertainty, told her that she could stay with him. She lived with him for two years after that. Two years of coming to understand him, how he was, had made her fall in love with him. But it hadn't been enough to ease her fears and calm her urge to run. She had left him. In her attempt to find herself, and to find closure, she had found Hank.
Shaking her head, she turned from the window and looked around the hotel room. Then, in a hotel room similar to the one she was standing in now, that had all changed when Hank put a gun to her head, and then put it in her hand. Hank had been shocked that she'd pulled the trigger, shooting him in the chest, hitting his lung.
And again, her life had changed after that night. And again, Gil had walked in and saved her from herself. He protected her at the risk of exposing himself. In his eyes, in his actions, she'd seen the truth. She had seen the shadow of darkness that he really was underneath. She had seen the killer.
His love had been one she'd known before, and a love she wanted. A love she needed. The violence in his heart was one she accepted. He wasn't an abuser, but one who stopped the abusers. Even if it meant killing them, she had accepted it. So much so that she married him.
What did that say about her?
The truth to that question was the one she was trying to figure out now. That was why she was there. There was a pain inside of her that had never gone away. It'd been burning inside of her heart for a long time, she was never able to figure out what it was or what it meant.
A noise broke her out of her thoughts as she saw a FBI Agent come through the door along with her lawyer, Sally Mills. The agent left them alone as he exited the hotel room and shut the door.
"It's okay," Sally told her. "We're free to talk. The FBI assured me that the only thing tapped in this room is the phone. Plus, they know that anything said between us is privileged; they wouldn't risk this case getting thrown out due to violation of your rights."
"I'm assuming since they brought me here and not to a jail cell that they're considering my offer."
Sally poured them both a drink and brought her a glass of the bourbon as she told her, "I'll be meeting with the AG in the morning to draw up the papers. If this goes well, you'll be a free woman." She clicked her glass with her and then sat down on the sofa. "And I must admit, you convinced me. You did very well today. How are you feeling?"
She'd learned over the past four weeks that Sally was just like her wife. She was confident and strong and very serious most of the time. Being a lawyer, she would have to be all of those things. They were two powerful women and luckily, they were on their side: her and Gil's. They were lucky to call them both friends.
She sat in the sitting room, drink in her hand, as Edmond laid his head on her lap. He'd missed her and she had missed him deeply. Edmond had nearly knocked her down the moment she'd walked into the house. And then he'd gone to the door, anxiously looking out the window and sniffing around as he whined. She realized that he was expecting Gil to be with her. It nearly broke her heart when Edmond walked back over to her, whining as he laid down next to her.
As she petted his head, scratching behind his ears, she told him, "I miss him too."
Sally had brought her a drink as Heather took a phone call in her office. Across from her, sitting in the chair, was Sally. She was a blond woman with blueish green eyes. All her sharp features and striking eyes made her think that at one point she was a model. At least she should have been.
"Heather's a therapist now, former dominatrix…What'd you do?"
"I'm a lawyer, former masseuse and submissive. I worked those jobs to pay for law school."
Well, that made sense seeing who her wife was. The silence was growing, and it was getting awkward; she was never good at meeting new people. And it wasn't like Sally was new to her, or Heather, it was just that they never really talked, not even at the wedding. She had no idea what to talk about with the woman, other than Edmond.
She didn't even know why she was there, other than she had nowhere else to go and she knew that she could trust them because Gil had trusted them. Heather walked back into the room and smiled softly at her as she said, "That was your husband."
"How is he?" she asked.
Heather let out a breath as she told her, "Distant. He blames himself. Said it was his obsession that drove you away. Compared himself to Captain Ahab."
"I knew it," she said as she shook her head. "I knew he would put all the blame on his shoulders. He's going to take it all on and let it consume him. It's a lie, and he knows it, but that's what he'll do, even though it's my fault."
"It's not your fault. It's no one's fault. Placing blame is the worst thing you can do. You have to accept that some things are beyond your control."
"Tell that to Gil the next time you talk to him," she shot back at her as she took a drink of the water in her hand. Edmond shifted next to her and looked up at her at the mention of Gil's name.
Sitting down on the arm of the chair beside her wife, she asked, "Why are you here?"
That was a damn good question. She knew what she had to do; and so that was what she told them. Why she had come to Vegas. "I'm turning myself in." They both looked at one another and then at her in disbelief. "I can't be on the run anymore. I want immunity. I want out. That's why I'm here."
Sally looked at her as she said, "Then you're going to need a lawyer."
"Sally—" Heather went to say when Sally cut her off.
"Honey, can you excuse us? This is privileged."
Sara watched as looks were passed between the two until Heather stood and said, "I'll leave you two alone."
Once Heather was out of the room, Sally regarded her as she said, "That is if you accept me as your counsel."
She gapped at her and then nodded, saying, "I think I'll need all the help I can get."
"Good."
"Why? I mean, why help me?"
"I believe everyone deserves legal representation and a second chance despite their past and the mistakes they've made. I believe in forgiveness, not punishment," Sally told her. "That's why I'm a lawyer."
"Even if you became a fugitive because you were in love with a serial killer?"
Sally smirked slightly as she said, "You weren't in love with a serial killer. You are in love with him. The CSI."
"The entomologist," she said with a smile.
"When you turn yourself in, you're going to have to convince the FBI of that. You're also going to have to lie. Are you okay with that?" Sally asked her.
Giving it some thought, she told her, "The thing Gil taught me about lying is that you don't lie. You tell the truth. It may not be the correct version of the truth, or it may be a possible truth based on what is known, but it's always the truth, and that is where you hide the lie."
"Then you should have no problem." Sally's stern lips turned downward as she said, "I'm going to have to know what happened between the two of you. I don't want to be surprised by anything you say."
"I don't know where to start."
"Start anywhere. What were your expectations?"
"Of being on the run with him?" She rubbed Edmond's head as she tried not to get too defensive as she thought about her expectations. Of her love for Gil. "I thought once we got away together, he would have no need to kill again. That we could just work together, side-by-side, preserving wildlife and insects and live on a beach somewhere. And we did, we were. We were fine at first."
"What happened?"
Pushing down the urge to get up and leave, she said, "What happened was that...reality caught up to the both of us. He can't stop being who he is. He started drinking a lot. I've never seen him drink like that. And he did it because he couldn't get the desire to kill out of his head. And what scares me is that he doesn't fear anything. He's not concerned with what will happen, or what could happen to him."
Sally was silent a moment before asking her, "Do you love him?"
"Yes, I do," she said sternly. She would never stop loving him. "I just can't be with him right now. I can't live that life. That's why I'm here."
"We can use that."
"Use what?" she asked.
"His drinking. His impulse to kill that will never leave him. Did you ever feel threatened, like you could become a victim?"
"Never. He would never—"
"Okay, but... We're hiding lies in truths, remember? How about making the assumption without actually saying it out loud? Maybe we can convince the FBI that you did feel threatened of being a victim without you having to even say those words. It's all in the implications made, let them draw the conclusion."
She let out a breath and realized how hard this was going to be. "How am I going to do that?"
"He's obsessive. We can make him out to be obsessed with you. Is there anything that can prove, even by conjecture, that Grissom could be obsessed with you?"
She knew exactly what could be used to implicate Gil's guilt. "He loves to take pictures."
Sally actually smiled as a fondness came over her face. Her blue eyes sparkled as she said, "I know."
Sara looked at her in near disbelief as she said, "He's taken pictures of you, and not just on your wedding day."
"Plenty of times and in many different ways. He is a photographer."
She nearly gapped but held it in. That man, she thought as she shook her head. "When?"
"Before you two got together. He never took pictures after, except for on our wedding day. Figured you were enough to satisfy him."
She wondered now if that was the reason he'd been struggling lately. Was she no longer enough for him? Did he want more from her? She had no idea. "I have a flashdrive of our laptop contents. Two, actually. One is full of his pictures of me from when we first met to just recently. There are...thousands."
"Were any that were taken without you realizing it? From another room—"
"While I'm asleep, at work, in the shower, bath...in bed. I actually think he is obsessed with me, but not in a creepy, stalker way," she admitted. The more she thought about it, the more she realized the possible truth. Gil was obsessed. She was all he ever wanted. He had told her that. No other woman, ever, because he didn't want anyone else. No one but her.
She heard his love song. His words to her filled her head as she thought about his unreasonable love for her: "Sara...have you asked yourself why you're with me? How is it that you can love me?"
Why was that? Why was she the only one? What had he seen inside of her that she still could see?
"Let's imply that it was," Sally was saying. "How long have you two known each other?"
"Oh, God, um" she quickly did the math as she told her, "Twenty-one years. I was eighteen when we met."
Sally was surprised by that as she said, "So that would have made him how old?"
"Thirty-three."
"That's quite the age difference."
She nodded. It had been, but it didn't matter now. At the time, Gil had been concerned. "He didn't know how old I was when we met, he said I looked older because of the makeup." Then he spent years avoiding her, only writing to her and mentoring her in her education.
Maybe the age difference had played a part in his resistance to initiate any physical contact with her. She had to be the one to do it; always with the surprise kiss when he was let his guard down. She had to be the one to finally push him down and tell him exactly what she wanted.
"Still, one could make the argument that he preyed upon you due to your age. Groomed you," Sally said.
"You don't know Gil," she said as she looked over at her. "If anyone took advantage, it was me, but I see what you're saying. The FBI could think it possible that he took advantage of my naiveness, and... infatuation, and that he made me susceptible to his charms."
Sally almost laughed as she said, "And you weren't?"
"Oh, no, I was. Only his charm was taking me to a butterfly grove at three o'clock in the morning. Or, out on a canoe to observe game fish and wildlife. Talk endlessly about bees and spiders and every other insect on the planet."
Sally was smiling at her because she herself was smiling as she talked about him. "When you speak of him with the FBI, don't sound so much in love."
Sara sighed and closed her eyes. "This is going to be hard. Cause I do love him."
"Convince yourself you don't. At least for a little while."
Sara took a drink of the bourbon as she walked away from the hotel window and sat down across from Sally. She had asked her how she felt, and all she could tell her was the truth. "I'm scared. I've been scared for a long time."
She had to figure out how to not be scared anymore. And she was certain that the answer lies within her burning heart.
May 22, 2010
Pacific Ocean
~"Childhood living is easy to do
The things you wanted
I bought them for you—"~
Lying in bed, a book forgotten in her hand, she listened to the music playing from her playlist on her laptop as she thought about the past year, and Gil. He wasn't doing anything, just sitting up there in the cabin, thinking. He'd been doing that a lot lately. Losing himself in thought, into his head, and forgetting about the world.
They were safe in international waters, but they couldn't stay on the water forever. They had to make land for fuel and restocking of food and supplies. They could convert saltwater to freshwater, that wasn't ever an issue, but they always needed things and only had so much space for storage. And then there were mechanical issues. Both of them were great mechanics, but not everything that broke could be fixed in the water. They had to dry dock it once to perform a repair.
With their new identities, thanks to Gil's motto of always being prepared, they could work within their respective fields. Her a wildlife biologist and him an entomologist. He had new identities prepared for the both of them for years. Those identities were the names they had gotten married under before Gil ever turned himself into police.
~"Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can't let you
Slide through my hands—"~
Sitting the plate with the sandwich down on the counter, he pushed it away as he looked over at her and said, "We need to talk."
She stopped eating as she looked over at him. They were in their townhouse, and he'd just told her that he was planning on selling it. That he was leaving. She thought he was talking about going away with her.
Instead, he told her his plan. How he knew a way to learn about the circle of corrupt cops, how it all worked, and where to find Jeffrey McKeen. But he would have to go away for a while. To prison. She thought he was crazy, but he was certain of his plan.
"And if I'm not," he said, "then…I'll be where I belong."
"You belong with me," she stressed as grabbed him behind the neck.
"I'm always with you," he told her before saying, "I think…we should get married."
Her eyes shot up as she said, "Is that a wise decision? If it's on record that we're married–"
"Hold that thought," he said as he stood and walked across the living room into his office. He returned with a package in his hands and handed it to her.
She opened the package, emptying the contents. They were passports, birth certificates, and social security cards. Documents for their career fields, certificates, but not in their real names. He was Leonard G. McCartney, and she was Sally McQueen. "Sally McQueen?" She nearly laughed.
"Like Steve McQueen," he said simply. "And...you are my Queen."
"I guess it's better than Eastwood or Rogers. As in Clint and Roy...respectively," she said after she saw his look.
He stared at her as he said, "Are you teasing me about my love of Westerns?"
"I am," she smirked as he smiled a little.
Then, he got serious again as he said, "It's easier to explain away me calling you Sara as Sally is a derivative of Sara. Also, document and clerical errors happen all the time. Sally could easily be misheard and misspelled as Sara."
"I'm assuming the "G" middle initial stands for Gilbert?" He smiled slightly. "How–"
"What's the point of being a criminal who's also a CSI if you're not going to take advantage of your access to government documents and databases? Plus, I met a professional forger once. This has always been a possibility."
"How many different aliases do you have?"
"We have," he corrected before telling her, "I have five; you have two. Even though I was never a boy scout, I have always liked to be prepared."
A new life under a new name. A fresh start. Once he got what he wanted, and that was McKeen's location in Mexico.
Using their new identities, they went to the Justice of the Peace at the Las Vegas City Hall and got married. It was official. He was her husband, and she was his wife.
~"Wild horses
Couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses
Couldn't drag me away—"~
Unbeknownst to her, he had been using his alternate identities for years. Half his assets and equity were tied up in the things he had under his real name of Gil Grissom, the other half in things under the names of Leonard McCartney who was an entomologist, Robert Waters who was a real estate investor, Harold Melville who was a coroner, Ansel Archer, freelance photographer, and Arthur Young, who was his fallback for anything he needed. A jack-of-all-trades, from Private Investigator, or a Locksmith, to an Electrician. Those three professions allowed Gil access.
"So, you've been living multiple lives?" she'd asked.
"Not necessarily," he said as he looked at her. "I've always been living one life. I just wanted to be careful doing, you know, what I do. All these aliases allowed me what I needed. Money, access...and, an out. I knew one day I might have to leave. Robert," he said as he picked up the passport and identification in Robert Waters name, "I've been using since '77. He's a real estate investor because I needed passive income. Buying property became a solution. Plus, any property I buy under his name, say, the warehouse I bought in Los Angeles, I was able to live in and if the warehouse had been discovered it would have led to Robert, who doesn't exist, and not to me. The warehouse I bought here was under my name. I didn't want it to lead back to Robert, because of obvious reasons."
This was a lot to take in. But it all made sense why he did it and had to do it. Money and access were necessary. It helped him to avoid detection. She stared at him a moment as she thought about that. She didn't know why she just realized that he would need to have different names if he wanted to remain undetectable and avoid prison, long before now.
It was still hard to wrap her head around the fact that he was a killer, and because of that, he operated differently than other people. He had aliases, and he thought about gaining access to people's homes and lives. He thought about how best to murder someone.
She had to get her mind off those thoughts as she asked, "Passive income? How much are we talking about?"
He glanced off, in thought, before saying, "Robert was able to retire a millionaire a decade ago. It's over several million now. Made a few good investments…Condos here in Vegas."
She gaped at him in surprise. "You're serious? How come you never just left. We can leave and go anywhere."
"And we will," he said. "I never left before because I didn't want to. I love working, my job...You. I don't care about money. It's only a means to an end, not...It's not what I want or what I was after. It gave me financial security. That was it."
"And the coroner Harold Melville?" she asked. "As in Hermen Melville?"
He smiled slightly. "He's my out. Along with Leonard. I can work as an entomologist or a coroner. Melville moved out east a few years ago when I was on sabbatical."
She looked at him and smirked. "You moved a fake identity across the country?"
"Yeah. Opened a bank account for him in Maryland. Looked at some property on the Potomac."
"Did you buy anything?"
"A house on the Potomac. I'm renting it out right now as a vocational summer house to a couple and their kids. It has a boat dock. During the winter it's locked up. It's nice. Maybe one day we might be able to live there. It'll have to wait though. Once I turn myself in…" he looked at her with sadness in his eyes as he said, "my face will be everywhere for a while. Give it time, people will forget. One of the reasons we can never trust eyewitnesses to a crime. People's minds make them forget, or, change things. My face will become just another face that maybe kind-of looks familiar but can't be that guy."
She wanted to believe that. She had to have hope that they could have a life, a future, together. "You've thought of everything."
"Of course. I'm always thinking ahead. Before, it was only about me. It changed once it became...us."
~"I watched you suffer, a dull aching pain
Now you've decided
To show me the same—"~
Since the bank account he emptied out in Las Vegas was under his real name of Gil Grissom, he had to present them with a falsified marriage license that had been forged from the real one they had been presented after their marriage. However, though it kept the name of her alias on the forged marriage license, Grissom's name had been his real one.
Gil has several bank accounts in Los Angeles under his aliases, and it was with McCartney's bank account–after depositing the funds from his Las Vegas account–that was used to buy the boat. Everything they had now and used was under their new identities. Their bank accounts, IDs, and passports.
Even with the safety it provided, they didn't provide security from being fugitives on the run. Gil had seemed less concerned about it, especially in foreign countries. Limited news coverage and also eyewitness unreliability, he had told her. Most people wouldn't recognize them even if they saw their pictures. And most wouldn't even think they were the fugitives even if they saw them and thought they looked like the fugitives.
Still, the fear grew like it had before all those years ago. The sense of safety and security couldn't be trusted.
"Do you trust me?"
Gil eyed her behind his sunglasses as he gave a nod. "Implicitly," he told her before handing the loaded gun over to her.
It was a bright sunny day on the beach in southern Mexico. A hand drawn target was pinned to a palm tree ten yards in front of her. Gil had gone over all the gun safety rules with her and showed her how to shoot. It had been her choice to learn since he did keep a gun on board the boat. Plus, she felt she needed to learn for her own peace of mind.
She thought it would help her feel more secure, and strong, and capable. Everything she felt she was lacking at the moment.
Steading her breathing, she raised the gun and punched out like Gil had told her, a push-pull with her right and left hand. Pushing out with the right, pulling in with the left, dropping her left elbow slightly, and looked down the sights of the gun as she took aim and then squeeze the trigger-
Bang!
She nearly jumped as it took her by surprise, along with the recoil, but she held steady as she saw the bullet hit the target. It wasn't dead center, but it was close.
Taking aim, she did it again, but hitting the target right in the center of the smallest circle.
"Remind me to never piss you off."
She smirked slightly as she fired again, hitting center mass. "I had a good teacher," she said as she lowered the gun and looked over her shoulder at him.
He was smiling slightly and then said, "Let's see how good you are at twenty-five yards away."
~"No sweeping exit, or offstage lines
Could make me feel bitter
Or treat you unkind—"~
Still, she couldn't help the fear of being watched. That they would get caught and end up in prison. Gil had no such fear and no matter his words, his logic, it was always in the back of her mind. One day, it would all come crashing down. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or a year from now, but one day her life would end with her being killed or in prison.
Then, he started to change. It wasn't overnight. It was gradual. One day at a time, over months, he got quiet. He started hiding his sketchbook from her. He started escaping into his head more and more.
He thought she could no longer hear him in the silence, but that wasn't the truth. She still heard him, but she also heard herself. For the first time in a long time, if ever, she was listening to herself.
They were playing the same song. The thing was, he couldn't hear it. The wall had gone back up and nothing could penetrate it. Not even her.
~"Wild horses
Couldn't drag me away—"~
They were sitting outside a restaurant in Buenos Aires; the building was brick painted in bright blues and pinks and yellows, there was tree coverage around them with lights hanging from the branches. Soft music was playing from a house band, and he was sipping on a local beer brew while she had a glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, nice breeze and not too hot. They were only a few streets away from the South Atlantic Ocean. They had made their voyage through the Panama Canal and around the north side of South America and decided to head down toward Falkland Islands.
She was talking to him about the penguin migration, mostly to the Falkland Islands, and he was thinking about something else. She had no idea what; all she knew was that he wasn't focused on what she was saying. His eyes were distant as his hand mindlessly grabbed the knife on the table. He was fiddling with it.
"Gil?" When he didn't look at her, or say anything, she tried again. "Gil?" He finally blinked, lifted his eyes to hers, and frowned as he suddenly looked around. Smiling at him she said, "You were off in your own world. Anything you want to share?"
The confusion was in his eyes. He had no idea what she had been talking about. Instead of talking about something else, he finished his beer and ordered another one.
"I was talking about the penguins."
He gave a nod as he told her, "Falkland Islands has an oiled seabird rehabilitation facility. They also use local support and community volunteers to help preserve the habitat. If you want, when we get there, we can help out for a while."
She heard his words and even though he was looking at her, his voice was distant; unemotional. It was like he was on autopilot. She knew he hadn't been sleeping well. He would get up in the middle of the night. It was exhaustion; she told herself.
He was just tired.
~"Wild, wild horses
Couldn't drag me away—"~
They had gone to the Falkland Islands, stayed for a while as they volunteered and offered up their services to help with some of the birdlife that had been involved with an oil spill. They stayed on their boat instead of at a local hotel or the room that was offered to them. They had their boat and Gil wanted his privacy. She also preferred them to stay away as she knew of something going on with Gil that he wasn't consciously aware of. He was having night terrors and had started to sleepwalk.
During the day he was mostly quiet, barely speaking to anyone, and functioning out of habit and muscle memory having not slept well during the night despite the exhaustion of working during the day. He would then go to the boat and do something he'd never really ever done before: drink. He started drinking a lot, and not just beer. While they were in Brazil, he had bought a case of whiskey. Every night he would drink almost half of the fifth of whiskey while he drew in his sketchbook.
He was sitting across from her at the small table in the cabin. It was night and the ocean was very dark. Gil was drawing in his sketchbook and humming a song before he started to sing, "And if I had a boat, I'd go out on the ocean, and if I had a pony, I'd ride him on my boat. And we could all together go out on the ocean, me upon my pony…on my boat."
She smiled slightly as she sat her drink down next to the book she'd been reading. "I hate to stop you from singing Lyle Lovett, but...we need to talk."
"About?" he asked without looking up.
"I think maybe the alcohol is why you're not sleeping. You know, it can disturb your sleeping pattern, leading to sleep disturbances. Sleep disturbances cause night terrors, which contribute to sleepwalking."
He stopped sketching as he looked up at her over his glasses. There were dark circles under his glassy eyes. He was very confused. "...What?"
"Gil...you've been sleepwalking."
His head wrinkled in confusion. "I have?"
He didn't know because hardly anyone remembered sleepwalking or even having night terrors. She had done some research and gave a nod as she told him, "Yeah. You have. I read that it can be caused by stress. And alcohol is also a contributing factor. Did you ever sleepwalk as a child?"
He shrugged, saying, "If I did, I wouldn't know."
"Your parents never mentioned it? Because, usually it's hereditary or if done in adulthood, it was done in childhood as well."
Looking down at the sketchbook, he shook his head and then picked up the bottle and took a drink. Then he went back to drawing.
As she got up to walk around him to see what he was drawing, he quickly flipped the pages and she saw a whale on the page he'd flipped it to.
"Sara," he said as he glanced over his shoulder at her.
"I know," she said as she grabbed her plate and headed over to the sink. "You like your privacy. It's just, you had no problem before with me seeing your sketches and paintings."
He got up, grabbed the bottle, and went out onto the deck. Sitting out near the stern of the boat, he sat down, his back against the side of the boat, and went back to drawing. He still took pictures of the animals, insects, and birds they came across. And her, he still took her picture, but it wasn't as often and only when she wasn't looking.
That night, she felt him flinch in his sleep. That was how it started, with a flinch. His chest started gasping for breath, his hand jerking, as he spoke in his sleep. Words that were slurred and inaudible, unintelligible, until he said her name. He panicked; his breathing was short and raspy, until he sat up, eyes open but not seeing anything. He didn't see her.
Getting out of bed, he started walking up the steps as she got up to follow. "Gil? Gil," she tried to wake him up, but he kept muttering to himself, words she didn't understand as his unfocused eyes darted around. When he tried to open the door to the cabin, she stopped him. The last thing she needed was him accidentally walking over the side of the boat.
"Gil, babe," she said softly as she put her hand on the back of his neck, "you need to come back to bed." She coaxed him back around and steered him down the steps.
Getting back into the bed, he laid down and closed his eyes.
She watched him as he slept; a fear building in her chest. Waiting a few minutes, ensuring he was actually asleep, she got up and searched for his sketchbook. He'd been hiding it from her, but she'd been searching every night for it and finally found it.
Sitting down at the table, she turned on the light and then flipped it open. The first five or so pages were of insects, animals, and whales, but getting further into the pages, it all started to change. The animals were no longer alive. They were all dead. She saw the red oil pastels he used for blood, and it was everywhere and on every page. Dead animals, dead birds, dead fish, and then she saw her face.
Her body. His hands. And all the red.
She knew he would never hurt her, but she realized what he was dreaming. He was dreaming of murder, or killing, and one of those people who were killed in his dreams was her. He could have been drawing it as a way to get it out of his system, hoping that his art would expel the temptation out of him. If that was the case, then he would hopefully stop having night terrors. He would stop sleepwalking. He would stop drinking so heavily.
But that didn't happen. It got to the point where his art wasn't enough.
She found him on the boat; he had disappeared. He was hovering over something he had on a metal table in the cargo area of the hull. As she got closer, she saw what it was. A bird. A dead bird.
"Gil?"
He looked over at her and she saw the distant look in his eyes again. Blinking at her, he realized she was there. Looking down at the dead bird, and then back up at her, he said, "This wasn't a protected species."
Like that was her only concern. "You kill animals now?"
Wrinkling his head at her in confusion, he told her, "I used to kill animals all the time."
It was so nonchalant. It simply was, because this was simply what he did. And, she had no idea he used to kill animals. It shouldn't have surprised her, she had done her research. Psychopaths who turned into serial killers would start by killing animals.
"It was research, experimentation," he continued on, "like this is. A good scientist has to learn to distance themselves from their subjects. Do you know how many birds, fish, and rats I've killed?"
~"I know I've dreamed you
A sin and a lie—"~
She knew how Gil was and understood the cycle. He had told her it was a compulsion, like an addiction. The desire would never go away. He would fantasize. He would dream. He would sketch his desires and urges in the hopes that it would be enough, but it wasn't. That temptation couldn't be put to rest by simply drawing it. He also couldn't drown it with alcohol no matter how hard he tried.
It got to the point where he had to kill something. He would never kill innocent people. And no longer being a CSI, or with law enforcement, he had no way of finding a criminal or someone evil to kill. But, one day, he would have to because the urge would be too strong to ignore.
One night, nearly a week later, she sat across from him as he was reading a book on oceanography. He hadn't shaved in a while despite telling him that she would trim his beard for him. He had refused.
"I was doing some research myself here lately."
"On marine life?" he asked.
"On you."
He peered over his glasses at her as the confusion filled his eyes. Shaking his head, he asked, "Me?"
"People like you," she told him before taking a breath. "Compulsive psychopathic serial killers." Just saying it out loud brought the reality of who this man was to the forefront. Gil was many things, and there were many things she loved about him. One of the things he was, was a serial killer. It was pathological. It was embedded inside of him just like his love of bugs. "You never shy away from the truth. So why do you refuse to learn the truth about that part of yourself?"
He didn't answer; instead, he asked, "You think I'm a psychopath?"
"I think the research says that you are," she told him. "It's not one size fits all; there are variations-"
"What else does the research say?" he asked, cutting her off. He was being combative, but he was also curious as to what she had to say.
Gil wasn't the type to be in such denial to ignore the truth. All he wanted was the truth. But maybe the truth about himself wasn't something he wanted. Maybe it was too much for him. She thought about keeping quiet and just let it be, but she couldn't.
He shook his head slightly and went back to reading. Or at least pretending to read. Either way, he didn't want to hear it. But that didn't mean he wasn't listening.
So, she continued, "Fine. I'll tell you. You're classified as a vigilante serial killer. Your first murder was your abuser. It created a sense of justice and righteousness that propelled you to keep going. You inserted yourself into law enforcement and ultimately became a member of law enforcement. You blended in; the use of aliases and being a private person helped you go unnoticed and kept you a ghost. And you're on the psychopath spectrum because you don't have remorse for the things you've done, and you don't fear punishment for any of it."
He was incredibly quiet as he took all that in. He may not have regretted the things he's done, or completely understood why he had done it, but he did fear her judgment. "You could be a profiler," he said after a moment of silence.
"All it took was a little reading. Reading you could have done yourself." It was hard to say what she was about to say, but after extensive research and learning about men like her husband, she had to ask. "Gil...do you enjoy killing?"
He put the book down and leaned back as he removed his glasses. Staring at her, she saw the depth of the suffering in his eyes before he pushed it away. Deep down along with everything else. It was all gone in an instant. The man looking back at her wasn't feeling anything.
He shook his head as he asked, "Is that what you think?"
He always turned it into a question when he didn't want to answer something. It was either because he didn't know the answer himself, or he was afraid of it. She had no idea which one it was.
Taking his hands in hers, she told him, "I don't know, that's why I asked. I want to understand you. You're my husband and…I love you. You can't hide this from me. I don't want you to. I want to know all that you are."
Staring at her, he let out a breath as he looked down at their intertwined hands. "All that I am," he repeated as he gave a nod. "All that I am now, and want to be going forward, is your husband. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote: "You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought"."
She squeezed his hands as she knew he meant every word he spoke. It was tearing her up inside because she knew despite those words, they weren't going to be enough the way they headed. "You are all that to me as well, and that's why I know that you are hurting. That something is wrong. Just being my husband isn't going to be enough for you. It never will be." He went to speak when she cut him off, saying, "A few years ago, while we were driving back to Vegas from California, I was thinking that if I stayed in Vegas any longer that I would grow to resent being there and blame you for it. That was one of the reasons I took that job in Africa. I had to do what I had to do, for me, but also for us. Being away kept us together. We needed that space and time apart."
He was silent for a while, thinking about that, before saying, "You think I'm going to regret you? Or blame you?"
"I think you already do. You just don't realize it."
He stared at their hands as he shook his head. He didn't understand. She could tell he was struggling to understand. "'There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us...with or without repentance'." Looking up at her, he said, "Charles Dickens."
"Is that what's haunting you? Your memory and...remorse, or your lack of it?"
In all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen him so uncertain. His shoulders dropped, his eyes and face crestfallen. "Are you certain you want to know everything?"
Her hands tightened in his and she readied herself as she gave a nod. She was certain.
He took a moment to think before telling her, "I used to think I did understand myself," he said, "You're accurate about most of what you've said, except thinking that I haven't researched myself. You're right, I want to know the truth. And I have read so many books trying to understand why I am the way that I am. I've studied many killers. What it all comes down to is that...Killing evil made me feel alive and it gave me purpose in life. Without it, I felt...dead. Empty. You help me quite a bit, actually. You brought me so much life and color and warmth...Sara, I will never regret us, or you, ever."
"I hear a "but" coming."
He shook his head at her as he said, "There is no "but". You have always been able to see me, see us, with clarity whenever I have been blinded. Trying to hide from you is what's pushing me away, I know that. I'm not the one being blinded anymore...You are."
"Gil…"
"Sara," he said softly, cutting her off as they looked at one another. "You were under the assumption that I didn't know myself, or, what I am... without asking me first or talking about it-"
"How can I know if you don't talk about it?"
He looked away at that, in thought, before nodding. "You're right, I haven't said anything." Taking a breath, he told her, "You know, I've been this way before."
She shook her head at him; she never saw him this way before, other than that night after his sabbatical. "What? When?"
He squeezed her hands in his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, as he eyed the table. He couldn't look at her right then. "When you were away. With Hank. I stopped for a year. I uh...I tried to find other ways to fulfill my desire but, I came up empty. I barely slept during that time, never did sleepwalking, unless I did and didn't know I did. I drank more than usual, walked the floor while getting lost in thought...I was lost, felt lost, until I was finally able to kill again."
She sucked in a breath and let it out as she regained her composure. "Here's a question for you: Why do you think you're struggling to make it to fifteen months now?"
He closed his eyes as he told her, "I can find a way."
"That's not an answer."
He sighed heavily and looked away. This was frustrating him. He said that he used to understand himself, but now he couldn't. She wasn't just challenging him, but this whole situation. He was pulling away; she saw it in his eyes. If she let him get too far in his head, she knew it'd be a day or more before she could talk to him again.
"Gil." His eyes cleared as he looked at her, giving her his very much divided attention. "How did you do it before? You said you went a year, how—"
"I was losing my hearing," he told her. "I was trying to learn how to be intimate. How to be a friend," he told her. "And I worked. I took pictures. I painted."
She thought about that and realized he'd stopped working on his intimacy. "You can still work on your intimacy issues. You're sketching and taking pictures, which I learned is related to voyeurism. Another sign of psychopathy. I'm not saying that all photographers are psychopaths, I'm just saying there's a correlation—"
"My work," he finally said, cutting her off from talking too much. "I was still able to fulfill my purpose with my work. I still sought out criminals and got justice by putting them away. I took pictures of crime scenes. I was around death all the time."
"You think that's what you're missing? You're missing doing something about the criminals?"
He stared at her a long moment before letting out a breath. He was trying to find a way to refute it. It was hard for him to not try to find the flaws in someone else's reasoning.
She was surprised as he said, "Yes. I miss the pursuit. Finding out who's evil and who isn't. I did it for nearly thirty years, Sara. I thought—...Before, I thought I was getting tired of it, and I was, but then...I realized how much I wanted to keep doing it. If I'm going to abstain then I have to find my own way. It's an addiction, there are ways to supplement the desire and urge."
"And if you don't, you'll relapse and someone will die."
He looked away from her and stared out the window. "Why is that such a bad thing if they are killers and rapists who prey on the innocent?" he asked her as he kept his eyes out on the water.
She had no answer because she realized then how conflicted she was in her belief. On one hand, she knew how dangerous it was for him and how wrong it was legally and morally. On the other hand, she felt okay and even, in a way, powerful when she had held the control for him.
They hadn't needed that dynamic in their relationship since he went after McKeen. And she remembered that in that moment, watching him and knowing what he was going to do and the reasons why, she hadn't wanted him to stop.
He shifted his eyes over to her as he asked, "How about you?"
"Me?" she asked in confusion.
He tilted his head at her as if studying who she was and said, "Sara...have you asked yourself why you're with me? How is it that you can love me?"
She was startled by the question as she felt the conflict grow deep inside of her. She knew her reasons for loving him, but maybe the reason why she wanted to know more was because of her own self-reflection. Her own questioning of the exact same questions he threw her way now.
Coming to a quick answer, she said, "The heart wants what the heart wants."
"True, but... that's not an answer, is it." When she could only look away as she feared the answer that burned in her heart, he stood and grabbed the book as he leaned down. After kissing her head, he said, "When you know-"
"Gil," she said as she looked up at him while the fear burned inside her heart, "where I can see you, you can see me. You have always been able to read me better than anyone I've ever met." He stared down at her and waited for her to say or ask what he already knew.
Then she stopped herself. She couldn't voice it.
As he looked down at her in a way that reminded her of their first meeting, with such intrigue and contemplation in his eyes, but most of all, understanding, she knew he'd known for years what was inside. He knew her.
And he wanted her to know herself.
They met for the first time because she had killed a man. She had become what her mother had been and what Gil was: a murderer.
Was that why she could love him? Was that why she was there with him? She understood?
What was it that burned in her heart?
~"I have my freedom
But I don't have much time—"~
Their marriage had prevented him from being who he was. It stopped him because he wanted to be with her. He couldn't be who he was while on the run with her. He couldn't attract the attention. He wouldn't risk her life, her freedom, to satisfy his own needs. He made a commitment to be her husband. That was sacred, he had said.
Even so, he was suffering. He was fighting against his very purpose in life. With her, being on the boat, a life at sea, was only hindering him. With his exhaustion, and the fact that he wasn't normally interested in sex along with the combined alcohol usage, he stopped touching her. He stopped being receptive to her advances. And then when he did realize he had to please her, he only satisfied her and then left the bed, never even allowing her to try to satisfy him.
They were lying in bed, her hand massaging his neck while his hand rested on her lower back on top of her shirt. His eyes looking at her in the way he did when it became beyond awkward. She was used to it by now. Maybe he was writing poetry in his head or thinking of song lyrics to express how he felt, either way he wasn't really looking at her at all. He was in his head.
"It's okay to not be interested. I know it's not a priority for you."
He blinked back as he wrinkled his head in confusion at her words. "You're a priority."
She smiled. "But I like being able to please you."
"You are. Don't think you're not because of my disinterest in sex at the moment. You please me in other ways."
"Why is that?" she asked. "We developed a very satisfying and frequent sexual relationship and then, now, it's hard to get you to notice?"
He thought about it for a while, and she wondered if he was ever going to develop an answer. There might not have been an answer. Her hand left his neck and travelled to the hem of his shirt and slid under it to rub at his chest.
His eyes slightly closed before he touched her hand to stop her.
"Babe, I want you," she told him.
"I'll try."
And he did try. He was always able to satisfy her, focus on her pleasure over his own, and bring her to orgasm. She came, gasping for air, panting his name, as her hands gripped in his hair as her legs shook.
He kissed up her body, over her chest and to her neck, but never got hard. He made her come again with his hand and then soothed her down, kissed her, and then left the bed. She heard him cleaning up before he pulled on a pair of long shorts and went up into the cabin.
Damn it, she thought as she felt the coolness from the air blowing through the hatch above the bed. She got cleaned up as well, dressed in only swimwear and a robe and then joined him.
He never was one to apologize, but she saw it in his eyes as he looked over at her.
"What do you need?" she asked.
He was startled by the abruptness as he stared at her. "What'd you mean?"
"I mean, what do you need? You need something. Everyone needs something. Is it space? Time apart? You know, I was thinking, since you normally don't have much interest in sex that us being around each other all the time is what's the problem. There was no constant expectation of it before. We used to have a break. Now it's expected and you're not able to perform."
He sat at the table as he eyed her as she opened the cabin door and let the breeze in. They were off the coast of Panama; it was beautiful. She felt like going for a swim.
So, she went for a swim. The ocean water was warm; so, she swam a few laps around the boat. Then she sat on the deck and did some yoga and meditation while Gil prepared dinner. He was quiet all day and well into the evening. As she ate dinner with a glass of wine, he slipped on his whiskey and stared out the window.
"Are you bored?" she asked. He could have just been bored. That man used to always have something to do and somewhere to go. He never sat so still for so long.
"Can I take pictures of you?"
She looked over at him at that sudden question. "Since when do you ask for permission?"
"In bed."
Oh. That was different. Eyeing him and seeing his look of contemplation as his eyes met hers, she realized that this was something he'd been thinking about for a while. "Uh...sure."
"That doesn't sound permissive. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
"You're my husband-"
"That doesn't give me permission to do whatever I want at your expense. If it crosses a boundary…"
Setting the glass of wine down, she told him, "It took me by surprise, that's all. Why do you want to take my picture?"
"You asked me what I needed."
She stared at him and gave a nod. If this was something he needed, then…"Okay," she said more definitively. "You can take my picture in bed."
His eyes looked around the cabin, like he was debating if he was certain now that he wanted to, before saying, "Okay."
Gil could make her feel comfortable in nearly every situation. He was calm and considerate, playful even, and always in control. He never let anything get out of hand or go beyond her comfort level. He never pushed her when she said stop or no. He let her dictate everything, how far they always went together.
That evening was no exception as he pulled out his digital camera, since he couldn't use a film camera because he had no darkroom to develop it, and then started taking pictures of her. At first he did it while she was still clothed and just standing there, and then when she was on the bed. There was much he could do with lighting other than dimming the lights, but he made it work for him as he snapped photo after photo.
Through it all they shared moments of pleasure and laughter as she focused on his words and her movements. He'd watched her please herself plenty of times but never once as he held a camera in his hand. What little uncertainty and reservation she held at the start had quickly faded away and by the end of it, she was sated and happy.
He looked satisfied. Like he'd said, there were many ways she could please him. This was one of the ways.
~"Faith has been broken
Tears must be cried—"~
He needed her permission. That was what he really needed above all else. She could give him permission to kill. She was the one in control.
~"Let's do some living
After we die—"~
However, the fear that burned inside was too much. She was afraid. She was afraid of herself with him. She was afraid of not being able to say stop when they needed to stop. She could blame it on his silence. That it was too loud and violent and his distance too vast and wide. She could search for every crack in their relationship and pick away at everything he said and did to find a flaw and fault while she placed blame.
She could blame him, and he would actually take it. He would take all the blame on himself so she could walk away unafflicted, innocent, leaving him feeling guilty as sin.
"I think we're spending too much time together."
He shined the waterproof flashlight up at her as she leaned over the side of the boat with the thru hull replacement valve that was covered in 3M 5200 adhesive in her hand. A thru hull in the galley had broken due to an electro galvanic reaction, or corrosion. The corroded valve had then been accidentally stepped on, completely breaking off, causing ocean water to rush up through the hole and into the galley.
She had quickly grabbed a wine bottle cork and plugged the hole. And the wine bottle that the cork had belonged to had been the reason why the thru hull value had accidentally been stepped on. That and Gil pressing her back up into the counter as he kissed her. The first passionate kiss they'd shared in weeks.
But now it had to be fixed and the only way to do that was to dive under the boat, tap out the temporary plug with a hammer and then tap in the thru hull from the underside of the hull; hence why the value was called a thru hull because it went through the hull of the boat. Then once Gil had it through the hole, she could screw on the nut, put on teflon tape, and then re-attach the valve.
Gil made it seem simple. Except it was nighttime, and they were on the Pacific Ocean, and they only had one replacement valve and if he dropped it…"Don't deep six that," she told him once she handed it to him.
He took it from her and then asked, "You think we're spending too much time together?"
"You know the saying that distance makes the heart grow fonder? I think we need to actually spend some time away from one another."
He thought about that before he told her, "Actually, the proverb says that "absence makes the heart grow fonder", not distance."
The moment he said those words, correcting the quote, her annoyance grew and he knew it. She could tell by the look on his face. "Gilbert, fix the damn boat."
He smirked as he put the mouthpiece for the air tank in his mouth and pulled down the face mask. "Point proven" he said before dropping down into the water.
Packing her bag, she tossed it over her shoulder as she slipped on her sunglasses and headed up the steps and out the cabin door. He was sitting at the table, iPad in his hands, and briefly looked up as she walked by him.
"Sara?" he asked in confusion.
She didn't want to stop. If she stopped, she would change her mind.
"Sara?" he said again, this time more urgent and concerned.
~"Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses
We'll ride them some day—"~
Stopping, hand on the latch for the door, she turned to look at him. He was more confused than concerned. Turning the iPad around, he told her, "Dr. Langston was nearly stabbed to death by Nate Haskell."
She let go of the latch as she walked over and took the tablet from him. She read the report and then played the video. Nate Haskell was being taken out of the hospital where he'd received treatment.
Haskell was staring at the news camera, speaking to those he called his "disciples". "You all have no idea what I've started! Langston thought he was so clever. A person has to do what I have done to understand me! You understand. I know you do! I'm a teacher too, and I've set my students free! They're out there. My disciples are everywhere. Spreading the word. My word! It's too late! The blood is on your hands, you hear me! " As Haskell was being shoved into the awaiting prison bus, he said, "You hear me! I made my move–" The prison bus door shut, cutting off whatever Haskell had to say next.
Looking over at Gil, she said, "He's talking to someone. He made a move...What does that mean?"
His eyes were distant as he thought. Getting up, he rubbed his hand through his hair as he told her, "He's talking to me."
Looking down at the tablet in her hand, at the headline of the article, she felt a conviction rise up inside. Whatever she was feeling before was pushed aside as she looked up at him. In all her life, she had been left by the men in her life. They had always found ways to fail her. She always walked away from them with tears in her eyes.
"Were you going somewhere?" she heard him ask in confusion.
She couldn't be the one to fail him when he needed her the most. This was a marriage, and just because it was getting tough didn't mean she should abandon it. Taking a deep breath, she met his eyes and asked, "What'd we do?"
He looked at her as he took the iPad out of her hand and placed it on the table. Taking her hand in his, he asked, "You were going to leave, weren't you?"
"Gil, I-"
"You didn't want to end up regretting me, but you already are, you just don't realize it."
Those were the words that she had spoken to him. At hearing them being thrown her way, she felt the tears well up in her eyes as they hit her like a gut punch to the chest.
She couldn't help but agree, because he was right. He was right about everything.
~"Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses-"~
She kept thinking it was him; that he was the one changing and had changed. In small ways he had, but it was her looking for an out. A reason to run. She was coming up with excuses everywhere she looked. The truth was that his drinking had almost stopped, and he was sleeping easier. He was still quiet, but he was always quiet. He was coping and finding ways to be intimate despite not having the desire to always be in the mood for sex when she was. He was constantly trying.
He was the same man she'd fallen in love with all those years ago. It was just now they had no break from each other. She had no break from him, the boat, the water, and from her life. She was an escape artist. That was what she was.
"You said that I can read you better than anyone. Whenever you don't want to admit to something, the way you feel or a truth you know about yourself, you turn it onto the other person." Reaching out, he wiped a tear off her cheek. When did she start crying? Finally meeting his eyes, she heard him say, "You're the runner, Sara, that's what you do. It's okay if this is too much. You can say "stop". You don't need to find an excuse to leave."
At that touch, feeling his hand on her face, she felt the truth in her heart; the pain if caused nearly broke her. "I can't breathe here," she finally choked out as he pulled her into a hug. As he let her cry against him, she told him, "I love you so much-"
"I know."
"But I can't do this."
"I know," he said again, a whisper in her ear. "You shouldn't have to."
She shook against him as she tried to fight the tears. She'd been fighting it for months and just had to let it out. It all came pouring out. Through it all, he held her.
Then she heard his voice in her ear, telling her, "I'll get you out of this. I'll find a way."
He would find a way. He always did. And if there was one thing she loved about him the most, it was that he was a man of his word.
~"We'll ride them some day."~
February 19, 2011
Las Vegas, NV
They were shown to a room with a mirror on one wall, which had to be a two-way mirror, and a table with four chairs. Her and Sally sat on one side while an FBI agent sat across from them. She introduced herself as Special Agent Jaime Reynolds. She was a profiler.
As she waited, shifting in the seat and looking over at the two-way mirror, Sally sat still and calm next to her. She was confident and they had gone over what they were going to say, how this was going to play out, for weeks. She'd stayed at Heather's Victorian house, in the room on the third floor, and spent hours every day doing exactly as Sally instructed; she convinced herself that she didn't love her husband.
That Gil was another abuser: obsessive and damaging to her and her life. That he had used her for his own twisted needs. Groomed her into loving him. Now, she just had to convince the FBI of that fact in the hopes that they believed her.
The door opened and another FBI agent entered the room. "I'm FBI Agent Daniel Moore," he introduced himself as he looked her over. "I took over the taskforce in charge apprehending Grissom after Agent Culpepper stepped down." He eyed her as he crossed his arms over his chest and said, "You're going to help us do that?"
"My client is here on her own accord. She wants this to end, and in doing so, she has information you need to help you apprehend Grissom, but only if she gets immunity."
Agent Moore rubbed his head as he started to pace. "Your client married a serial killer—"
"I had no idea who he was until he turned himself into the police," Sara said as she watched Agent Moore pace the floor in front of the table. "We had already gotten married—"
"Under aliases—"
She sighed as she knew this was going to come up. All she could do was offer up a possible truth, but in it, the truth. That was how you lied without lying, she told her again. And right then, she had to convince them. "Gil knew my past and he said he also wanted a fresh start. Paul Milander broke into his house and committed suicide. Gil had put thousands of criminals away; he had enemies. I was stalked by my ex-husband. We both had reasons to want a clean slate once he retired. That's what he said he was going to do: retire. He said he could bypass the normal route of changing our names through the courts because he knew Judges and how the system worked. He had all the proper paperwork, documents, and we got real passports. I thought it was all legal. I believed him. He had a way of making you believe every word he said, because he didn't ever lie."
"You knew when you decided to go on the run with him," Agent Reynolds said as she leaned on the table.
Sara realized what they were doing. Reynolds was the calm voice of reason, sitting patiently in the chair in front of her, while Agent Moore paced the floor and looked combative. They were hoping to divide her attention and make her trust Reynolds. To confide in her, woman-to-woman. It wasn't going to happen unless she wanted it to happen. And she did want it to happen, but to her advantage, not theirs.
"It wasn't by choice," she told her.
"He coerced her," Sally spoke up. "She divorced him; sent him the papers to a P.O. Box he had set up in South America. I have a copy. On it are the aliases that were used. You'll have his name. The location of the P.O. Box in South America."
Agent Reynolds asked, "Why come to us and turn yourself in? Why leave—"
"He's a psychopath who's obsessed with me," Sata told her as she looked up at Agent Moore who was watching her. "Could you stop doing that? I'm anxious enough."
Agent Moore nearly huffed out a laugh in disbelief as he said, "You think we're going to believe—"
"She has proof," Sally said. "Files from his laptop that's on a flashdrive, and if you want it, you'll get the Attorney General in here. She wants immunity. She had no prior knowledge of his crimes before his arrest. He coerced her to help him once he escaped, and when she got the chance, she left him. That's what happened and she has proof of it. Any more questions—"
"No, no," Agent Moore stopped pacing as he said, "you want us to get the A.G. and to offer her immunity, then she has to tell me about him."
Sara stared at him as she said, "I am telling y-"
"No, tell me how he is. Tell me how to find him. How to catch him. How does he operate?" Agent Moore leaned on the table and said, "If you want immunity, tell me, tell us," he said as he gestured to Agent Reynolds, "who your psychopathic husband is."
Sara looked over at Sally as she looked over at her. This was something that she and Sally hadn't discussed, but she knew what she had to do. Convince them, she told herself. She had to convince them that she didn't love her husband.
She had to convince them of what they thought him to be: a monster.
~"I'd listen to the words he'd say
But in his voice I heard decay—"~
"He likes to play mind games," she finally said, then took a breath. She could do this, she told herself, she had to do this. "You probably already know this, but Gil loves to get inside people's heads and manipulate them. Much like he did with Dr. Langston and Officer Rahm. He has to know how everything works, including people. What makes them tick. What they want. Everything he does is for a reason. He's figuring it out, an in, or a weakness, that he can exploit. His weakness is me."
Agent Moore gave a nod as he looked over at Agent Reynolds who gave a nod back to him, "Anything else?" he asked her.
Sara swallowed hard as she told them, "He'll stay on the west coast. He won't stray too far."
"How'd you know?"
"Other than the fact that we've been on the run for over a year and never left the Pacific Ocean?" she said as she looked at Agent Reynolds who'd asked that question. "It matters to him. Imagine being locked away, with no view, horrible food, and unable to breathe fresh air and then one day...you're free. Where would you go? What would you do? Gil, if anything, is a purest. He stays true to the parts of himself that makes him...him, no matter where he chooses to live. But he always goes back to what he knows. He knows the west coast. California. Nevada. He doesn't like the cold. He'll stay south or west. Never east or north."
"What does he like?" Agent Moore asked
"What does that have to do—"
Agent Reynolds answered as she said, "Knowing what he likes will help us find him. The kind-of beer he drinks, if he has a favorite food, or if there's something he has to have no matter where he goes."
"So, when he buys it you can track him? His likes and wants create a pattern?"
"Something like that," Agent Reynolds said.
She gave a nod. "He's a man of fine things; beauty. Afternoon tea with fine china. Jameson whiskey. He bought a case of it. He likes to indulge in the finer things in life because he... he's plagued by the worst of it. It's a way to cope. Museums, especially art museums. His mother was an artist."
Agent Moore looked at her, a cocky smile on his lips as he said, "He is a man of fine things and beauty. The finest and most beautiful asset he has is you. And you are exactly where he wants you to be, Sara: in his control. He doesn't want to lose that. Why should I believe anything you say? How can we know that you're not here to help him? You say he's south and west; I'm thinking he's north and east."
~"The plastic face forced to portray
All the insides left cold and gray—"~
She swallowed hard as she shook her head. "You're absolutely right that you have no reason to trust me, except, that you're wrong. You're wrong about our relationship. He's not the one in control. I am. If you doubt that, ask Ray Langston how Gil views our relationship. It's the dominant-submissive relationship. The submissive is the one in control. And the reason you can trust me is because I know that I was his victim, where he still thinks I'm his wife." She looked at Agent Moore as she told him, "I was eighteen when Gil approached me. He saw me at my most vulnerable: a victim of abuse by my abusive boyfriend. A man I killed in self-defense. That was how we met, in a hospital room. I was young, naive, impressionable, and he knew it. He started showing up at the restaurant I worked at. Always in my section. Watching me." She felt a tear on her face and wiped it away as she made herself believe the words she was about to say. "Gil is the master of controlling people's minds and their perceptions of the truth. He manipulated me for over a decade. I thought he could actually love. I had no idea that he wasn't capable. I just couldn't…I fell in love with an entomologist. The kindest, gentlest, lover of animals and bees on the planet, only to find out that underneath he was a monster."
Agent Moore regarded her for a long moment as he narrowed his eyes at her. "How did he coerce you to go with him?"
~"There is a place that still remains
It eats the fear, it eats the pain—"~
Letting out a breath, she told him, "I shot my stalker ex-husband in a hotel room; it didn't kill him, but it wounded him. Gil was there. He grabbed Hank up, shoved him into a bathtub, put a gun to his head…" her voice broke as she looked away and took a breath, "and then he blew his brains out in front of me. Then—then he said that he did it for me. He had to protect me and save me in order to keep me out of prison. It had been self-defense on my part. I had proof. Text message and phone calls and voicemails. All the jobs I took and the distance I put between me and Hank and the complaints. The divorce papers, but Gil, instead of taking me to the police so that I could explain, he kills Hank and then he says it was my decision. That I told him to do it. He put it on me; the guilt all on me, like it was my fault. I had to protect him in return. He made me feel like I was an accomplice to his murder, and I had no choice. He made me think I had to return the favor, and I did. Then he used that to his advantage after his escape. He said if I went to the police, that they would put me in prison for Hank's murder. I believed him because of my own guilt for protecting him in the first place. That's how."
Agent Moore and Reynolds shared another look as her hands shook. She hadn't even realized that they were shaking the entire time.
"Gil is, uh," she continued saying, "blinded by his own love for me that it makes him think he can trust me, but the truth is he can't trust anyone. He views people as insects. We're nothing but a science experiment to him. Making people subjects in his twisted experiments is his way to show complete and utter contempt for not only his victims, but society in general. To him...we are nothing but flies to burn under a microscope. Those are his words. That was the explanation to me after I realized just what he was. He thought…He actually said that I would understand. I don't understand, but he thinks I do. He only engages with three types of people: those he wants to kill, those he wants to play with, and then there are the select few where he wants to do both with."
"Which one are you?" Agent Reynolds asked.
~"The sweetest price he'll have to pay—"~
Sara stopped and took a breath. Everyone in the room was staring at her suddenly. They all seemed to have the same question. "What'd you think? I'm both. I know you wouldn't believe me, that's why I took everything I could when I left. I don't just have a flashdrive. I also have sketches he drew of me. I knew I had to get away when I found drawings of my dead body. He dreams of killing me. I left so that wouldn't become a reality."
Agent Moore asked, "Where is he headed next?"
Sara answered as she looked up at Agent Moore. "My guess, he's on his way here. And if you want to catch him, then you need me to be cooperative. The only way I'll do that is if I know once this is over with, that I can be free of this nightmare. I want my life back."
Reynolds gave a nod as she asked, "Why would Grissom come here and risk getting caught?"
"I already told you," she said, "he's obsessed. He calls me his "light in the darkness". He says that he needs me. He actually thinks I can stop him from killing. He'll never stop. He doesn't want to stop." Sara swallowed the dryness in her throat as she said, "He wants me back. He'll do whatever he has to do to get me back. When he tries, you can arrest him."
There was a tap on the two-way mirror. Agent Moore sigh heavily before leaving the room. Agent Reynolds also stood before walking out. She knew that once they were gone that she couldn't let out a breath of relief. They were still watching her. They were still listening. With a shaky hand, she reached up and wiped the rest of the tears away.
Sally looked over at her and told her, "You're being extremely brave doing this. Don't forget that."
"Then why does it feel like I've signed my death warrant? He's going to kill me, you know."
"They'll make sure he doesn't. All they want is him in custody where he belongs. It'll be fine."
Sara gave a nod and tried to believe that it would be fine. That they would believe her. They had to. If not, then this was all for nothing.
~"The day the whole world went away."~
TBC…
Disclaimer songs used/mentioned: "Wild Horses" cover by The Sundays (which was used in season 3 episode 'Crash and Burn'. Original by The Rolling Stones). "If I Had A Boat" by Lyle Lovett. "The Day the World Went Away" by Nine Inch Nails.