A/N: Thanks again for the reviews. This chapter was written as I was finishing up Aberrations, the only thing missing was the song I wanted to use. Then my reader "windbound" reminded me of a great Nick Cave song, "The Mercy Seat" which turned out to be perfect. Thank you.
Also: In chess, the endgame is the stage of the game when only a few pieces are left on the board.
Ch. 9: The Endgame
March 21, 2011
Marina Del Rey
Agent Moore stood on the deck of the boat and took a step backwards as he heard Grissom tell him, "Take a step to your right." He did as he was told, keeping his flashlight on the thin silver wires so as not to accidentally step on one. "Now, look into the cabin window directly in front of you and wave."
Moore stared into the window and into the cabin of the boat. Using his flashlight, he shined it through the window and saw it positioned on the table and propped up using a stand: a web camera. There was a red light above the lens indicating that it was on and watching him. "I'm not waving at you, you sick fuck. Is this really how you want to do this?"
"Did you just call me a sick fuck? Maybe you should call in a negotiator."
"We both know you don't want to negotiate—"
"I have my boat wired to blow and it's surrounded by the FBI…and you don't think I want to negotiate?" Grissom asked him in confusion. "I tell you what, before you make your next move, I would advise you to consult my website. As of now, I will no longer have any contact with you. No phone calls. If you and the FBI don't leave this port in one hour…I promise, it'll be a very bad night for a lot of people."
The call ended and he dropped the phone from his ear and slid it into this pants pocket as he stepped off the deck on the boat and onto the dock. Working his jaw, he let out a breath as he saw his team standing frozen up on the dock that surrounded the boat on three sides. Up on the road above the dock, he saw CSI Catherine Willows.
As he made his way up to her, he told Agent Wilson, "Get the bomb squad out here, now. I want access to this boat as soon as possible." Going up the ramp to the road, he headed straight to CSI Willows, saying, "He has a website. Is that how you found him?"
She stared up at him and glanced at other CSI before telling him, "That's right. We traced the IP—"
"I need access to it, right now," Moore said without leaving any room for debate as he started walking toward the FBI van. He pulled the door on the side of it open and walked up the two steps into the command center. Catherine had followed him and once she was inside the van, he shut the door, telling her, "Have a seat."
She didn't sit down as she asked, "What's this about?"
Moore grabbed a bottle of water out of the mini fridge as he told her, "What this is about is that your former colleague has this place wired to blow up. There are bombs all over his boat and under the dock."
Her eyes widened at that as she gapped a little. "That's not Gil—"
"I don't care what you think he's capable of, CSI Willows. Now, give us the website address so I can see what's going on inside that boat."
Catherine grabbed a pen and piece of paper and jotted the website address down and handed it to an FBI agent who was at a terminal. There were monitors and keyboards setup along one side of the van while the other side held lockers full of guns and ballistic vests and FBI windbreakers.
Moore ignored her as he kept his eyes on the computer screen and once the website was entered a video feed popped up. It said "live" and it was recording the inside of the berthing area. There was a bed and on the bed was a woman. Then walking into the camera frame was a man. It was Grissom. He sat down in the chair next to the bed, picked up a book, and started reading.
"That's Gloria Langston," Catherine told him as she stared at the live video feed. "What did he say?"
"He said if we don't let him leave, he'll blow us all up, including her," he told her before taking a drink of the water. This situation had gotten out of hand and he couldn't let it end in Grissom leaving. He also couldn't let it end with them all blowing up. "He didn't say anything about us not trying to disable the bombs. Bomb squad's on the way."
Catherine let out a breath as she told him, "I know you don't think Grissom has a soul, but I know him. He's not going to kill innocent people."
"He's desperate—"
"Desperate, maybe, but he's not a homicidal maniac. He also isn't suicidal."
Moore looked at her as he asked, "Are you certain of that?"
"Look," Catherine said as she got right up to him, causing him to take a step backwards. "He's a killer, I give you that, but not of an innocent woman and law enforcement—"
"Tell that to Officer Pritchard."
"Pritchard was a corrupt cop—"
"Grissom's a psychopath," Moore countered as he walked around her to the van door.
Catherine shook her head in frustration before telling him, "This isn't how he'll go out. He wouldn't take innocent people with him. If Grissom was to get backed into a corner and had one option which was death…he would make it count for something. It wouldn't be meaningless or a desperate act. It'd be calculated and he would only take himself out. He wouldn't kill Ray Langston's wife."
Moore finished the water and tossed the bottle into the trash bin next to the workstation. Pointing at the video feed, he told her, "That right there proves how wrong you are. He's in there, right now, with Ray Langston's wife with his figure on the trigger of enough explosive power to blow us all to hell. He's not leaving here alive, but he's also not taking any of us with him." He pushed open the door and stepped back out into the night air.
Walking to the edge of the road, he peered down at the boat and saw a light on in the forward berthing area. The shades were drawn so they couldn't see into the portal window or the hatch, but the light was on and from the video feed he knew that they were both in there. Once the bomb squad was able to get a look at what they were dealing with, then they could figure out how to disable all the bombs and prevent Grissom from killing anyone.
Then once he got a clean shot, he would end this.
Arvin Thorpe's House
Langston stared up at the white house with green trim as he saw a dog on the front porch. It was tied up by it's chain and was guarding the front door. The dog started barking as he headed down the sidewalk that went around to the back of the house. Opening the gate into the backyard, he pulled his gun. The yard had been dug up by use of a grid, much like they did when they were excavating a crime scene. He saw next to each open grave a body. All posed as the women under Haskell's cabin.
These were Haskell's firsts. There were two women, a young girl, and animals: cats and dogs. Looking away, he saw parked next to the garage, behind the back fence in an alley, there was a Ford pickup truck. Haskell's truck? His father's? He had no idea. Turning back toward the house, he neared the steps that lead up to the backdoor.
It was dark in the house but he could hear music playing so he knew the power was on. Stepping up the steps, he held his gun at the ready as he reached for the door handle. The door creaked open as he stepped into a porch that held the trash bins, and boxes for recycling. There were a lot of beer cans, bottles, and boxes piled along a side wall and he grimaced at the stench of the smell of the trash mixed with stale beer.
There was another door that he had to open that led into the kitchen as he peered in through the window and saw the counters and a refrigerator. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open as he stepped through as his heart hammered inside his chest. He could feel the sweat already starting to coat his head and back. He was angry, but also scared. There were two serial killers, both likely here at this house, and his wife was stuck in the middle.
He could only pray that Grissom really did want to help him; he knew that man wasn't one to kill innocent people, and Gloria was innocent. She was so innocent and pure, but had become so tired over the years dealing with him.
Shaking his head, he couldn't let his mind go down that route, not right now. He softly shut the door behind him as the music started to play again. He realized that song was on repeat.
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof—"~
Reaching over, he flicked the light switch but nothing happened. The lights in the kitchen remained off. He opened the refrigerator as a test and saw that it was off as no light illuminated from the inside of it. It was still cool; the freezer still held the freezing air that kept the contents frozen.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
If he found the breaker box where the fuses were then he'd be certain he'd find that all the breakers were turned off except for the basement where the music was coming from. He spotted the opening for the basement; there were wooden stairs and he saw light at the bottom. The door had been taken off of the hinges. Taking a breath to steady his nerves, he took a step to head down into the basement as he kept his gun out in front of him.
~"Interpret signs and catalog
A blackened tooth, a scarlet fog
The walls are bad. Black. Bottom kind—"~
Stepping off the last step, he spun the gun around along with his eyes as he searched the basement. One side was in pitch blackness, the other was lit up in light from the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the middle of the room he saw a body on a metal table; the man was dead, his throat cut and gaping open. There was stained blood over his chest, on the table and a dried puddle on the floor. He could tell by the body and the dried blood, how it appeared brown, that the man had been dead for a while; possibly days.
~"They are the sick breath at my hind
They are the sick breath at my hind
They are the sick breath at my hind
They are the sick breath gathering at my hind—"~
There was another metal table next to it but it was empty; the straps for the arms, chest and legs hung loosely at the sides of it. Looking around, he didn't see the breaker box on that side of the basement. He had no flashlight; it had been in his field kit, and his field kit was in the trunk of his car. The only thing that he had taken time to grab was his gun.
Walking toward the darkness of the other side of the basement, he stopped just as he entered the shadows of the room and tried to focus his eyes. There was a thick wall separating the two rooms with only a thin entrance between the two off the stairs. He felt the sweat on his hands and hoped he didn't lose the grip on his gun as he kept his back to the wall as he stepped toward the corner.
~"I hear stories from the chamber
How Christ was born into a manger
And like some ragged stranger
Died upon the cross—"~
Feeling the cold brick wall behind his back, he reached out and felt the brick wall as he neared the corner of the room. The breaker box hadn't been on the wall he'd slid along so it had to be on one of the other three walls and the further he went back into the basement the darker it got. The light on the other side was dim, from that single light in the middle of the room, hardly enough to be helpful. He thought of backing out and going out to his car, but…he was already down there; he could be alone.
It was hard to tell since the music was so loud. The stereo that was playing the song was coming from that side of the basement; in the darkness. It was deafening.
~"And might I say, it seems so fitting in its way
He was a carpenter by trade
Or at least that's what I'm told—"~
Using his hand, he moved it along the wall with his body as he kept his gun out in front of him with his right hand. Seeing how he was left handed, it was awkward but he could still pull the trigger if he saw someone or—
A sharp pain stung him as a hand grabbed his right arm and shoved it back into the wall.
BANG!
The gunshot was loud in the room and echoed in his head as the stinging pain grew in his side, up his chest and down his legs. A familiar pain gripped his chest and he realized what it was that he was feeling. He'd been stabbed.
~"I tattooed E.V.I.L. across it's brother's fist
That filthy five!
They did nothing to challenge or resist—"~
His left hand balled into a fist and he swung, hitting the face of the person in the darkness. His knuckles hit flesh and metal, sending a shock of pain up his arm. The only thought he had was that the person was wearing night vision goggles right before he felt the blade of the knife slide out of his body.
A fist shot sparks of white hot light through his head. The gun slipped out of his already sweaty hand and hit the floor. Balling his hands, he swung again, a quick right jab and a left hook but only hit air. He stumbled into the darkness and then hit his knees as his hand went to the stab wound at his right side as pain shot up his body.
~"In Heaven, His throne is made of gold
And the ark of his Testament is stowed—"~
Refusing to give up, he reached around the cold concrete floor and didn't touch metal. His gun was either gone or he couldn't find it. Staggering up to his feet, he rested back against the wall and felt the stab wound again. It wasn't bleeding nearly as badly as it could have been. His vision was still sharp; his mind was clear…It was just pain.
He could deal with pain. Gloria needed him. He had to find her.
~"A throne from which I'm told
All history does unfold—"~
Leaving the dark room, he stumbled up the wooden steps, using the railing for support as he made it to the first floor. Walking through the living room, his eyes searched around the darkness for anything to use as a weapon. Through the open blinds, he saw the dog on the porch, barking at the window. At him.
The street lights outside on the sidewalk casted a glow into the room and after a moment his eyes were able to adjust to the ambient light and he saw a long stick…No, a bat against the wall by the front door. He grabbed the bat as his body slumped against the wall that led up the stairs to the second floor.
A light could be seen on the ceiling in the hallway. The only other light source in the house was coming from the second floor. He took a step and heard a gunshot burst through the music and he felt the fear grip his chest as he yelled out, "Gloria?!"
Putting one foot in front of the other he headed up the stairs as his bloody hands gripped the baseball bat. He got to the top floor and saw blood on the floor in the hallway outside of an open bedroom door where the light was coming from. "Gloria?!" he had to yell to be heard over the music.
He headed toward the door, bat raised up to take a swing as he came around the corner. Stopping short at the sight he saw, he stared at the woman on the floor with her hands bound behind her back.
It was Sara Sidle. What the—
~"Down here it's made of wood and wire
And my body is on fire—"~
Pain ignited in his head as he was hit from behind and stumbled into the room and landed on the floor next to Sara. Moaning at the pain, he rolled over and saw Nate Haskell standing in the doorway of the room.
In his hand was a gun. His gun.
"Calm down, Ray," Haskell said as he walked into the room. "I'm not ready for this to be over so soon. You just got here. I want you to suffer a little bit longer. I'm going to make you watch as I take this bitch," he said as she looked at Sara, "to be my wife…Oh, are you wondering where Gil is?" he asked her as he stepped closer to Sara. "That gunshot was me shooting him. As I would have loved for him to watch as I torture you, and then make you mine…I'm going to have to settle for Ray."
He saw Sara's jaw tense as she glared up at Haskell as she held something in her hand. Focusing his eyes, Langston saw it was a small blade…like a razorblade. Sara was cutting through the flexi-cuffs that bound her hands behind her back.
~"And God is never far away—"~
Marina Del Rey
~"Into the mercy seat I climb
My head is shaved, my head is wired—"~
Agent Moore waited as the bomb squad leader, Lieutenant Cross, inspected the wires and pipe bombs. Checking his watch, his jaw tightened as he saw that they only had five minutes left before their hour was up. Going back into the FBI van, he checked the video feed and saw that Grissom had gotten up and was gone and then he saw movement as he returned with a cup in his hand. He took a sip of the drink and sat back down in the chair and picked up the book at the same time he checked the watch on his left wrist.
He had tried calling Grissom back, but the phone only rang with no answer. On the screen, Grissom looked back at Gloria and said something to her before going back to reading the book. He watched his lips moving and realized that he was reading the book to her.
"Agent Moore," Agent Wilson called out as he stepped up into the van. Turning away from the computer screen, he saw him standing with a look of disbelief on his face as he told him, "Lieutenant Cross is done examining the explosives."
Following Agent Wilson out of the van, he spotted Lieutenant Cross heading his way as he removed the blast suit. "Well?"
"They're all wired together, interrupt one, and they all go off," Cross told him. "Grissom knew what he was doing. There is no way to disconnect them. We may be able to stop some from going off by snipping the wires at the same time, but not all of them. The good news is that even though they appear to be high explosives, they're not. They're low explosives. I'm thinking they're filled with powders, not Semtex or anything volatile. What we're looking at are a lot of flash bangs. The kind of stuff used in pyrotechnics, like flares, fireworks, and guns. The effect of them going off will be similar to a detonation. They're propellants. They'll blow out windows and knock you on your ass and put holes in the boat and dock, but...no fire and flames. Just a hell of a lot of broken stuff and smoke."
"Are they deadly?"
Cross gave a nod as he said, "Any explosive can be deadly, Agent. A firework going off in your hand can blow your fingers off. The shrapnel, the blast, though minimal, can be deadly if the debris catches you in the head or chest, or nix an artery."
He turned and started for the ramp that led back down to the boat as he called out to Agent Wilson, "Wilson, go grab some facemasks and ballistic vests. We're going in."
"Hey," Cross yelled after him as he tried to catch up with him as he yanked the rest of the blast suit off his body. "Just because they're not filled with Semtex doesn't mean you can just walk in there. Oxidized fuel is just as dangerous."
"Watch me," he said as he passed Catherine who was standing at the end of the ramp watching him.
Catherine tried to stop him as she said, "Agent Moore, you should listen to Lieutenant Cross. Grissom knows bombs. He's studied them from the inside out. He's built them, detonated them—"
He ignored her as Wilson came running back over with a couple of facemasks. As he pulled the mask on, he told his team, "We're going to set off the bombs. They'll cause some damage and produce a lot of smoke, but little else. Then, we'll go in. If Grissom so much as moves a hand, shoot him."
"Agent Moore," Cross tried to stop him as he called out to him. "That's a mistake. Someone could die."
"The only other option is to leave and let him leave this marina. And since that isn't an option, this is the only way since you can't keep them from going off. We'll cut a wire from a distance, let them go off, and then go in through the cover of smoke. We'll also be catching Grissom off guard. He'll be disoriented from the blasts. Like you said, they're only flash bangs."
"Yeah, about fifty of them. That's a lot of bang," Cross told him.
Ignoring him, Moore and his team went down to the boat.
~"And like a moth that tries
To enter the bright eye—"~
Wilson came up beside him as he asked, "How are we going to cut a wire from a distance?"
"Grissom has a boat hook on the deck. We can use that to trip one of the wires."
Stepping onto the boat, Moore stepped over the silver trip wire and headed toward the side of the cabin door. Hanging beside it was a boat hook on an extension rod. Grabbing it, he pulled it off the side of the wall where it hung and a split second later saw that he'd made a mistake. Having anticipated the possibility of the boat hook being used, Grissom had attached a trip wire from the bombs inside of the cabin to the hook outside the cabin through a tiny hole in the wall. The wire snapped-
A blast hit him in his chest, tossing him backwards. He landed on his back and his head hit the deck of the boat and the world around him went black.
~"So I go shuffling out of life
Just to hide in death awhile—"
Catherine dropped to the ground as the blast rocked the dock of the marina. There was no heat from a ball of flames and fire, instead it was smoke that seemed to suck the very air out the night. She covered her ears and watched as several FBI agents landed in the water as glass, wood, and fiberglass from the boat shattered over the dock.
Gapping at the sight of the explosion, she looked over at Lieutenant Cross who had also dropped to the ground. His stunned eyes looked at hers as she looked at him in shock. He swallowed hard and told her, "He wouldn't listen."
"They never do," she shot at him as she stood and headed down the ramp toward the boat called Ishmael.
Climbing onto the deck, she saw Agent Moore on his back. Kneeling down, she checked for a pulse and felt one. At least he was still alive.
Agent Wilson ran past her with a face mask over his face and gun drawn. He entered the smoke-filled cabin along with three other agents and after what felt like hours, they reemerged. He yanked the face mask off as he shook his head and told her, "He's not here."
"What about Gloria Langston?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Gone. The boat's empty. Where…" Agent Wilson looked around in confusion as he asked, "Where the hell are they? It was a live video feed…Wasn't it?"
As Agent Wilson asked her that question, she remembered the phone call she'd received from Greg. Pulling out her cell phone, she saw movement next to her and looked up to see Morgan Brody standing over her. She only had one thought on her mind as she told Morgan, "Nick. I sent him to Haskell's house…to go after Ray."
~"And anyway I never lied—"~
Arvin Thorpe's House
~"My kill-hand is called E.V.I.L.—"~
Langston saw movement behind Nate Haskell. Coming out of the shadows of the hallway was a blur of a figure and he caught the light reflecting off the knife before he saw the face of the person who welded it. He couldn't believe his eyes, and it was as if in slow motion that Grissom charged out of the darkness across the floor as Nate turned around just in time as he slammed into his body.
~"Wears a wedding band that's G.O.O.D.—"~
Grissom had the knife embedded into Haskell's gut and he was lifting him up off the floor as his momentum and rage exploded out. The gun in Haskell's hand fell to the floor and slid towards the bed where Sara was bound. The look on Haskell's face was one of complete horror as their bodies slammed into the wall behind him.
~"'Tis a long-suffering shackle
Collaring all that rebel blood—"~
Langston jerked up as he moved out of the way, across the floor and up against the wall. He saw the rage in Grissom's eyes as he pulled the knife out. Nate's scream made a wet gurgling sound as blood spilled from his gut wound. Using his left forearm against Haskell's chest to pin him to the wall, Grissom brought the knife up to his throat. Blood dripped down off the knife as he prepared to bring it across Haskell's throat to kill him.
~"And the mercy seat is burning
And I think my head is glowing
In a way I'm hoping
To be done with all this weighing of the truth—"~
Haskell pulled a knife from behind his back and jammed it into Grissom's jacket, right in his gut, and twisted. As Grissom stilled at being stabbed, Haskell was able to get the advantage as he spun them around and pinned Grissom to the wall. That was when he saw the bullet hole and blood on the front of the jacket. Grissom had been shot in his right side. Haskell was stabbing him in the left.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And I've got nothing left to lose
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
Haskell was digging the blade of the knife further into Grissom's gut and the oddest thing was that Grissom wasn't even screaming. If he was in pain, he wasn't showing it. His deathly dark eyes glared into Haskell's as he reached out and instead of pushing him off of him, grabbed him and pulled him closer as he spoke to him.
Due to the music blaring from the basement, he couldn't make out what was said. Then he watched as Grissom dropped his arms away from Haskell's body as if giving up the fight-
~"And the mercy seat is a-glowing
And I think my head is melting
And in a way I'm hoping
To be done with all this twisting of truth—"~
Bang!
He flinched back as a gunshot rang out in the room and his head jerked to the right, toward the door to the bedroom. Sara held the gun in her hands as she aimed it again and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang!
Haskell's body jerked, blood pouring out of his back, as he stumbled forward into Grissom and then fell to the floor. Staring down at Haskell's dead body on the floor, he was stunned.
"Who's the bitch now?"
Upon hearing Sara's words, his head was snapped out of the fog as he stared up at Grissom who was sagging against the wall in exhaustion.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth—"~
Blood splatter was all over Grissom's shirt, his pants, on his face, as he stared across the room at Sara through the dark raging eyes of a killer. His latex covered right hand still held the bloody knife. He breathed out a deep breath as his arm dropped to his side and he let go of the knife. It hit the floor as he straightened and stepped over Haskell's body.
The darkness in his eyes seemed to clear as he smiled at Sara and took a step—
—Bang!
~"And anyway I saw no proof
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
He flinched as he watched as Grissom's body stumbled backwards and hit the wall before he dropped to the floor.
Stunned, he turned his head and saw the gun still in Sara's hands before they started to shake. She dropped the gun to the floor as tears were streaming down her face at what she'd just done before blinking over at him.
~"And the mercy seat is melting
And I think my blood is boiling—"~
Then she got up and came over to him as she pressed her hand into his stab wound. He hadn't been able to get up. He felt numb as he lost more blood. "It'd be okay, Ray…The police are on the way. They're coming for you."
~"In a way I'm spoiling
All the fun with all this truth and consequence—"~
Blinking back as his head started to spin into a fog, he saw movement. "Ssara…"
She turned her head and saw Grissom moving. He was staggering to his feet as he stumbled across the room and out the door. He heard him hit the wall in the hallway before he couldn't hear him anymore.
Sara returned her attention back to him as she reached up to grab his tie and yanked it off his neck. Folding it over, she pressed his tie into the wound, causing him to groan in pain.
"Why'd you shoot him?" he asked through the fog in his head. She was his love. His light. And she had shot him.
Sara wiped the tears away and smeared blood on her face as she told him, "He was suffering."
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth—"~
He realized what she was saying, what she meant, and knew she was right. Grissom knew that this was it; the end of the line for him. He wanted to die. He had been suffering. And she, as his wife, had put him out of his misery.
She loved him enough to kill him.
As he looked at her, he was reminded of a conversation that he'd had with Dr. Heather Kessler.
Heather smiled at him slightly as she said, "I don't know what you're fighting, Doctor, but it looks like you're about to be overrun. Nate Haskell...is an enemy. A formidable enemy, but...he's not the enemy is he?"
He sighed heavily as he adjusted himself in the chair, telling her, "When I went for my interview at med school, the first question they ask you quite naturally is, "Why do you wanna be a doctor?". Well I can't remember the answer I prepared but I remember the one I gave; I told him, if I'm helping people...I'm not hurting them. The guy stared at me for what seemed like a lifetime, then he burst out laughing. So I started laughing. And within a half an hour I'd secured myself a place in medical school."
"You had answered truthfully," she said as she looked at him.
He had. "There's violence in me. In my blood, sometimes I can taste it."
She nodded, saying, "But as long as you keep a lid on it…"
"-DNA is not destiny, that's what I've always told myself," he said with a shrug as he looked at her; an unanswered question lingering between them. One that he tried to get the answer to when he had gone to talk to Dr. Grissom alone at the prison.
"I can't answer your question."
He nearly smiled as he said, "I didn't ask you a question." Or did he?
"Sure you did," she said. "Why else did you come here? Tell me that story? Doctor, you want legitimacy. You want to know that it's okay to lose the muzzle for a while. I can say this. The good Dr. Langston isn't going to catch Nate Haskell."
The bad Dr. Langston would? The dark side of himself. "If I give into my nature…" Like Dr. Grissom had, "I won't catch him. I will kill him."
She gave a nod as she continued to look at him. "Yes, you will."
"What becomes of me then?" he asked her and received no answer.
Looking at Sara, he now knew the answer. What he would have become if he had killed Haskell would have been Grissom. A man who shook the hand of the devil, and then spent the rest of his life suffering for it. They had saved him from becoming a killer. She had saved him. He let out a breath, swallowed around the dryness of his throat, and told her, "Thank you" as he closed his eyes.
~"And I've got nothing left to lose
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning—"~
Nick pulled his gun as he ran toward the back of the house as he heard gunfire the moment he'd pulled up into the front of the house. He had taken the time to call it in before grabbing his gun and getting out of the car. Rounding the corner, he stopped as he raised his gun as he saw someone stumbling over the dug-up backyard toward the gate. Beyond the gate he saw a Ford truck parked.
"Stop! LVPD," he called out as he pointed his gun at the man.
The man stopped moving as he raised his hands and slowly turned around. At the sight of a bloody Gil Grissom standing in front of him, Nick nearly dropped his hands as he took in his former boss. He was covered in blood. He'd also been shot, twice, and stabbed.
He stumbled as he took a step backwards, hands still raised. Shaking his head slightly, Grissom told him, "You're not going to shoot me, Nick."
"Grissom, stop," he said again as tears stung his eyes as he raised the gun, aiming for center mass.
~"In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof—"~
Nick felt the anger rising up in his chest at his own reluctance to stop Grissom from leaving. All he kept thinking about was that this was Grissom. The man who had not only been his mentor, but a friend. A man who had saved his life from Amy Hendler.
"Mrs. Hendler, I'm a good listener. You got to give me the gun," he pleaded with Amy Hendler as she kept it pointed at him.
She was crying. "I can't! I'm sorry."
He realized that she wasn't going to hand over the gun. "No, wait."
"But you arrested my husband," she said as she moved her finger.
"Wait!" he tried to plead again as his mind was frozen. He couldn't figure out the right thing to say–
"Mrs. Hendler." Grissom's voice shocked him as he looked up and saw him behind Amy Hendler.
She swung around, aiming the gun at Grissom as he had his own gun pointing at her. Where he was trembling in his boots, Grissom was calm. Steady. He didn't appear remotely afraid with a gun pointed at his chest. His entire focus was on her as he told him, "Nick, don't move."
Amy's hands were shaking now.
Grissom stared at her as he told her, "Please…I don't want to fire my gun any more than you do. For five years, you've been washing the blood off your hands…Let's put down the guns." To his surprise that was all it took, and Amy Hendler dropped her arms. He had known exactly what Amy needed to hear and it had worked. Looking over at him after he got Amy's gun, he asked him, "Are you okay, Nick?"
Saved him from Walter Gordon.
As he panicked, trying to get out of the box, a voice cut through the fear and brought him relief. Brought him comfort and something to reach out to. A hand on the glass and a name he hadn't heard in years.
"Pancho! Put your hand on my hand!"
Staring up at the man who wasn't his father but in a lot of ways had been a father-figure in his life, he reached his hand up against the glass and put his hand on Grissom's hand. Though he couldn't touch him, didn't feel his hand on his, it was enough to focus his mind on something other than the fear.
He had known exactly what he needed. Contact. Familiarity. And it worked. He calmed him down and then saved his life.
He was also a killer, a fugitive, and Nick fought hard against the urge not to pull the trigger.
Then Grissom dropped his hands as he told him, "Ray's hurt…he's in the house…Go help him, Nick."
Ray was hurt; his friend and colleague needed him. That thought was what caused him to let out a breath as he lowered the gun, pointing it at the ground. He watched as Grissom opened the door to the truck and fell into the driver's seat. As he pressed his hand to one of the gunshot wounds, he looked at him as he grabbed his left leg and pulled it into the truck before reaching for the door.
"Grissom…" His voice shook as he watched as he shut the door. He knew that would be the last time he saw Grissom dead or alive. He fought back the pain that hit his chest as he realized that Grissom was beyond saving. That much blood…He knew that he was a dead man walking.
Turning away from Grissom-who started the truck engine and pulled away down the alley-Nick ran towards the back door of the house.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth—"~
There were blood drops that lead the way through the house and up to the second floor. Grissom's blood trail. He saw the blood on the floor in the hallway and the open bedroom door. Entering the room, gun out, he saw on the floor the dead body of Nate Haskell before he spotted Sara and Ray.
Sara was trying to stop the bleeding by using Ray's tie. She looked back at him as he holstered his gun and told her, "Ambulance is on the way. Ray? Can you hear me?"
Ray's eyes were closed but he opened them to look at him. Then he smiled. "I'm still here. Can't get rid of me that easily, Cowboy."
~"And anyway there was no proof
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
Enroute to the Pacific Ocean
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof—"~
Racing through the streets of Los Angeles, Gil kept the car as steady as possible as his bloody hands slipped on the steering wheel. There was blood everywhere and it poured from the holes in his jacket. Blood was also on the GPS that he used as he made his way toward his docked boat.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
Blood covered the seat he was sitting in and his heart was pounding in his chest, his head, and in his ears as he took a deep breath. He just had to get to the dock, to the boat, and he'd be okay. He just had to get there. That was his only focus as he steered the truck across the freeway, across Los Angeles, and toward the Pacific Ocean.
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof
A life for a life
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway there was no proof
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
Getting off the freeway, he nearly lost control of the truck as he took a wide left turn at the light off the exit ramp. Correcting the truck, he got it under control as he sped through a red light and along the streets. There wasn't that much traffic as he darted between the cars that he did see on the street.
He knew he was racing time. He didn't have much of it left. Stepping on the gas, he gripped the steering wheel as he kept his eyes focused on the road in front of him.
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is smoking
In a way I'm hoping
To be done with all these looks of disbelief—"~
Police lights lit up behind him down the street and he heard the sirens of the approaching police car as the palm trees that lined the pier came into focus. Hitting the gas instead of the brake to slow the car in time to make the right turn into the pier parking lot, the tires spun as he made the turn and barely kept control of the truck.
He made another right to head towards the last basin only to suddenly see that there was no right turn.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
And I'm not afraid to die—"~
A palm tree appeared in front of him and he jerked the steering wheel to the left as the truck spun right into the palm tree. The passenger side of the truck crashed into the side of the tree as his body jerked to a stop by the seat belt and the air bag that shot out and hit him in the face.
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof—"~
He heard the police sirens as he peered through the rearview and side mirrors. He had to wait until his head was no longer dizzy before he could unbuckle the seatbelt. Getting out of the truck, he headed toward the dock. More blood dripped down his body onto the pavement and the dock as he staggered down the pathway to the ramp.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth
But I'm not afraid to die—"~
"LAPD! Stop!"
He heard the voice of the police officer yelling at him but paid him no attention as he felt his feet stumbling. He caught himself on the railing and used it to help himself down to the dock toward the boats.
~"And the mercy seat is waiting
And I think my head is burning
In a way I'm yearning
To be done with all this measuring of proof—"~
Stumbling toward the end of the dock, he collapsed. He laid there on the cold wet surface as he felt his body shiver against the cold night winter air. Then, he saw someone running. They were the approaching steps of the police officer.
He pressed his hand into the gunshot wound as more blood seeped through his fingers.
~"An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
And anyway I told the truth—"~
Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the night sky and saw no stars in the sky. It was cloudy. Taking a breath, he closed his eyes. Turning over once more, his body dropped into the water. He felt himself sinking. Dropping deeper and deeper into the black abyss as the ocean water surrounded him.
As he drifted down into the abyss, he was reminded of his words to his team during a case: "So the victim and the killer became one and the same. The very nature of addiction...is that the very behavior we use to survive it becomes a behavior that ends up killing us." In his case, the opposite could be said to be true. When it came to the nature of his addiction, the behavior that he used to kill became the behavior that he used to survive.
His obsessions, his meticulous mind, and his need to plan the before, the during, and...the after. Forethought.
Just as he thought he wouldn't be able to hold his breath any longer—
~"And I'm afraid I told a lie."~
—his leg sent out a kick as he started to twist and turn in the water. Opening his eyes, he looked up and headed toward the surface.
Los Angeles Hospital
"Doctor Hasan."
Hasan looked up from writing on the chart as a nurse approached him. "What is it?"
"The woman in Room 332 is awake," she told him.
He quickly signed his name on the chart and left it on the counter at the nurse's station and followed Nurse Muesing to Room 332. Walking into the room, he saw the woman in the bed. She was awake and confused but seemed to be responsive as he told her, "Hello, good evening, I'm Doctor Hasan."
"My head hurts," the woman said as she pressed her hand to the side of her head.
"Do you know where you are?"
She gave a nod as she told him, "I'm in Los Angeles and this is a hospital, Dr. Hasan."
He smiled as he said, "That's good. We weren't entirely clear of your situation. Only that the man who brought you here said that you were unconscious and needed a good night's rest. What's your name?"
"Gloria," she told him. "Gloria Langston."
"Well, Gloria," Dr. Hasan said as he checked her vitals. "It seems that everything is as it should be. Besides some facial lacerations and dehydration, you're perfectly healthy. Is there anyone we can call for you?" he asked as he grabbed her chart.
She seemed to consider that a moment before she told him, "My husband. His name is Ray. Ray Langston. I can call him myself if I can get a phone."
He stilled as he went to write something on her chart as he looked at Nurse Muesing who glanced over at him in disbelief. "Uh, no need…" he said as he sat the chart down as the name sounded familiar. It was because less than thirty minutes ago Ray Langston was admitted to the hospital with a non-fatal stab wound. "I'll be sure you're able to see your husband as soon as you can," he told him before gesturing for the nurse to follow him out into the hallway.
It had been a busy night. First the Jane Doe who turned out to be Gloria Langston who had been brought in by some stranger who left before anyone could ask him any questions. Then a couple hours later, the FBI agents who had superficial cuts and injuries, and one with a concussion, had been brought in due to a boat explosion. About thirty minutes later, a victim of a stabbing that turned out to be done by the fugitive serial killer Nate Haskell, that the news reports were saying was dead.
Ray Langston was the hero law enforcement officer who had been there along with a hero woman: Miss Sara Sidle. She was in a room being questioned by some of those FBI Agents who'd been brought in earlier that evening.
Shaking his head, Dr. Hasan had a feeling this night was just going to get a lot longer than it already was.
One Week Later
Las Vegas
Catherine went over everything she had on the case; the same information they had given the Los Angeles chain of command a day ago. Sitting in the conference room at the crime lab, she concluded by telling the DA, the Sheriff and the Director of the lab all the same thing as she laid out the evidence, "We found his blood in the house," she said as she presented the photographs. "He'd lost almost a liter; probably didn't even realize that he'd entered the wrong GPS coordinates once he got into the truck owned by Arvin Thorpe. He had several destinations programmed, and instead of tapping on the one for Marina Del Rey, he hit the one for Redondo Beach. That's where LAPD Officer Derrick Fields engaged in a pursuit after spotting Grissom running red lights. He crashed the truck into a palm tree…"
She presented more photos of the scene and tried to keep her voice as professional and even as possible. It was hard for her, looking at the pictures and thinking that Gil was dead.
"He'd lost more blood in the truck, about another liter. Security footage saw him staggering and stumbling," she presented the still shots taken from the security cameras. "Then he collapsed and…" she showed them the last photo and said, "fell into the marina. Officer Fields saw the whole thing. Said that Grissom never resurfaced. We found a jacket in the water with damage caused by a stab wound and two gunshot wounds."
Sheriff Atwood nodded as he looked over the evidence presented and said, "Your official final report is that Gil Grissom is dead."
She gave a nod, saying, "Yes. That's what we filed in Los Angeles. It's also the conclusion of the FBI."
They all looked at one another and got up to leave, saying "okay's" and "good work, Catherine". A lot of back patting and hand shakes and then they were all gone, leaving her alone in the room.
She gathered up all the evidence into the file and then left the conference room. It was quiet in the lab. Nick was out on a new case with Greg. Ray was out of the hospital and at home with his wife, Gloria. It had been a non-fatal wound, only meant to incapacitate. Ray had told her that he believed it was Grissom who stabbed him, and not Haskell. Haskell would have done worse, he'd told her.
Nearing the DNA lab, she saw Mia waving her down. Stepping into the evidence room, she asked, "What'd you have for me Mia?"
She pulled off her latex gloves as she told her, "Can I just say how brilliant I think Grissom is. I know he's a criminal and had gotten away with murder, literally, but I must say that he's a clever son-of-a-bitch."
"How so?"
"Well, you were right," Mia told her. "There's something different about this blood. The LAPD crime lab would have just run the basic test, checked to ensure it was Grissom's that he had on file, and once they got a match it was case closed. Now, for me, I've been thinking…"
"Why would a serial killer put his blood and DNA on file to begin with, especially since here in Vegas it's not mandatory?" she asked because that had been something on her mind for a long time now, ever since she found out that Grissom was a killer.
Mia stared at her and smiled, saying, "Okay, besides that…You know when you found McKeen and he had Warrick's blood being transfused to keep him alive? Ever since then, I've been wondering about that blood. Unless Grissom was able to obtain Warrick's blood after death, before it coagulated, he would have had to have transfused blood from a prior donation."
"Frozen blood."
"That's right. Grissom is a collector of a lot of things," Mia was saying. "One of the things he always collected was—"
"Blood," Catherine finished for her as she gave that some thought. He was a meticulous bastard.
"As we all know," Mia said as she started to grab some results that she'd gathered, "it's possible to store blood frozen for up to 10 years, but it takes specialized equipment and procedures to store it and then to also thaw it for transfusion. The RBC's, red blood cells, are stored for up to 6 days at 1 to 6 degrees Celsius before being frozen in a cryoprotectant and stored in the frozen state at minus 65 degrees Celsius or colder. To thaw, the RBC's are then deglycerolized by sequential washing with 12 percent hypertonic saline followed by 0.9 percent normal saline mixed with 0.2 percent glucose. Following deglycerolization, they are re-suspended in AS-3 additive solution and stored at 1 to 6 degrees Celsius until ready for transfusion."
Catherine gave a nod as she said, "So, you're saying that Grissom knew how to freeze and store blood, and how to thaw it and get it prepared to re-use in order to transfuse. And, since he was in prison, and then immediately left for Mexico, then he would have already had it thawed and stored at 1 to 6 degrees Celsius somewhere, waiting to be used. How long before blood goes bad? Forty days?"
"Forty-two days."
"Gil was still in prison," she said as she shook her head. "That's too long."
"Or," Mia said as she countered her thought, "he thawed it after his escape. We theorized he may have taken a private plane. The freezer unit could have been on the plane along with everything else he needed."
Catherine gave a nod, saying, "I'm assuming you're telling me all of this because you think the blood belonging to Grissom was once frozen."
Mia smiled wider as she presented the results to her, "Bingo."
Looking at the sheet of paper Mia had given her, she had no idea what she was looking at. "What is this? There's no way of testing for that. Blood aging?"
"Well, that's not entirely true," Mia told her before saying, "I did the laser light test."
Shaking her head in confusion, she asked her, "The laser test?"
"You guys need to keep up with the latest in forensic chemistry. Okay, I read this article in the newest edition of—"
"Mia, just get the point."
"Sorry, it's just exciting." Whenever Mia got excited about a new breakthrough in DNA or blood analysis, she was worse than Greg. Greg knew when to stop talking, Mia didn't care. She gave you everything whether you asked for it or not.
"At the moment, we have no single validated approach to determine when blood might have been deposited at a scene, which could, in theory, lock down a case or exclude a suspect," Mia was telling her. "With this new discovery, that can be possible in the next three to five years. The Raman spectroscopy involves shining a laser on a sample and measuring the intensity of scattered light. No two substances give the exact same Raman spectrum and so the spectrum is essentially a unique fingerprint for a given material. More importantly, the process is non-destructive. It can be repeated at any time without damaging the sample. That way other tests such as DNA sequencing can be carried out. Anyway, through experimentation, researchers were able to provide an age for any given sample with an accuracy of 70 % and could distinguish between stains aged hours, days, weeks, or even months. I used a control test sample of blood, my own, and tested it first. I ran it through the laser test every hour to track aging. Then I tested Grissom's blood that you sent me. Based on how rapidly my own blood de-aged, etc...I expected at the same time interval to find the exact same intensity of scattered light, meaning our blood had de-aged at the same rate. It should have been a match. It wasn't the same. The sample from Grissom's blood was much more deteriorated. It was too old. Some of the RBC's deterioration determined that it had to have been years since it was fresh. All Grissom needed was usable blood to determine that it was his through a sample, which we got. He never thought we'd be able to date it."
Catherine took all that in as she asked her in disbelief, "How old do you think?"
Mia tapped the results on the sheet and said, "That's where my theory of Warrick's blood comes into play. I had a sample of Warrick's blood from the McKeen evidence sent to me and I did a comparison laser test. The light scattered was nearly exact to Grissom's. So, if Warrick's blood was from ten years ago, then Grissom's blood would have at least been around the same amount of time."
"He froze his blood to be able to reuse it in order to fake his own death," she mused in thought before saying, "This is damn good work, Mia. There's only one problem."
"It won't be accepted," Mia said with a sigh as all of her excitement faded into annoyance. "Even though I knew it wouldn't, I had to do it anyway. I mean, we literally have a breakthrough in forensic science, but we can't even use it to prevent a fugitive from getting away."
"It happens," she told the DNA expert as she shrugged her shoulders. She felt sorry for her, going through all this only for it to not matter in the court of law. "This isn't the first time. Grissom once tried to get a warrant based on experimental science and was denied even though he had the proof. The courts haven't caught up to the science, and the science itself is years away from being approved for official use. They'll never officially declare that Grissom faked his own death on this blood alone; they'll need solid proof. All the proof in the world right now, outside of this, is saying Grissom lost three liters of blood and his body is in the ocean."
"And in three to five years when this Ramon spectroscopy is common forensic testing, then it'll be accepted. Only for Grissom to be long gone."
She heard the disappointment in Mia's voice. They've all been there. Catherine handed the results back to Mia as she told her, "Long gone isn't dead. On the bright side, there is no statute of limitations on murder. Thanks, Mia."
As she walked away, Catherine felt herself smile, not just at Mia and her brilliance, but at the thought that Grissom was possibly still alive. His death, though justified and, in an odd way fitting, had left her feeling sad. The man was a killer, and a lot of other things, but…
But...She shook her head at herself and at the thought that he was a friend. Grissom didn't really have friends. That didn't make him any less of one to her.
She filed the report as it was, that Gil Grissom was dead. Days later it became official as the news broadcasted the report.
Gil Grissom, the serial killer, had died in Los Angeles.
TBC…
Disclaimer song used: "The Mercy Seat" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.