"Have we got a trace on this bastard yet?" Sara's voice held anger and a hint of fear. Threatening the team members was one thing; they were law enforcement workers; it came with the territory. Threatening innocent kids was a whole other ball of wax and it really rankled in Sara's breast. "I mean, we know it's Greg's phone; let's trace it."
Gil shook his head, slowly turning back towards the bedroom doorway. His quiet, "we can't trace it when it's off, Sara," held enough pain and sorrow to make the younger woman want to kick herself. She'd forgotten, for just a moment, that only last month Lindsay had been kidnapped while under Gil's supervision. It must have taken a lot out of the man to know Cath's daughter was in mortal danger and he'd been the one to 'let' it happen.
Growling her anger and support Sara followed her supervisor from the room, trailed by Warrick, Nick, Jim, and, finally, a barely controlled Cath. As they carefully made their way through the crime scene that was their friend's home, the mother's worried voice asked shakily, "Gil, could he be back? Could he be messing with us . . . or did he really find Lindsay again?"
Jim frowned severely and turned a fierce look on Cath, but his expressive eyes held pain and sympathy. "I'll have his partner checked, Cath, and warn the guys guarding your family."
"Would you like some time, Cath? Spend it with Lindsay?" Gil's soft query stopped the worried woman in her tracks, and her long moment of silent hesitation revealed the offer sorely tempted her. She shook her head and called back, in a much stronger tone, "I trust Jim's men. Greg needs me . . . and if that guy has anything to do with this, I'm one of the few who Lindsay's described him to. I know what the bastard looks like, Gil."
The man nodded and walked carefully into the kitchen without another word.
"I've got Vega on her, Cath." Jim's voice came out quiet, offering hope, support. "Sam's one of the best I've got . . . the only one better is me."
Cath shot him a grateful, tremulous smile. "And Greg needs you more right now. I'll be fine; Lindsay's safe with Vega and Mom."
Nodding back in affirmation Jim headed towards the door, glancing absently out the nearby window as he passed. Stopping mid-stride, he inadvertently blocked the safest path through the debris, causing Warrick to nearly run him down.
"Whoa!"
"Is that . . . what it looks like?" Jim flicked his hand towards the window, pointing.
Back-tracking from door to table, Sara, too, looked out the window. Her eyes grew wider before she determinedly headed right past Gil and out the door. The others tried to see what Jim had noticed and were surprised that they'd over-looked such a valuable seeming lead for so long: a red-stained towel tossed in among the bushes in front of the window.
Carefully Nick started photographing and examining the window before finally sliding it open. "There's no indication the guy opened the window to throw it there; it probably came from the other side." He could see Sara on the other side, frowning and looking intently around the area.
"Can't see it from here. Can you reach it, Nick?" She pulled her camera out, ignoring the storm ripping at the canvas and lighting system. Instead, she shot off several photos of different angles of the bushes and ground area around it.
Nick called back, "Yeah, give me a sec," and snapped off one more photo. He reached out the window then leaned out, barely aware that two sets of hands grabbed him for added support. Thankful he hadn't yet removed his gloves, he carefully snagged the edge of the bloody-looking towel. "Got it!" Warrick and Brass helped Nick back into the room as Gil watched solemnly.
Sara hurried back towards the stoop but stopped short when her phone rang. With a deeper frown, she pulled off a glove then flicked her phone open. "Sara Sidle."
"You live alone."
Icy-cold fear replaced annoyance. The blood drained from the investigator's face and her hand began to tremble. The voice on the other side was obviously computer-enhanced, it didn't sound human. Again, it spoke.
"You live very alone."
"Who the hell is this?" Her scared, angry shout instantly brought the attention of the other investigators. Ignoring their worried, confused faces, Sara listened with deepening anger to the laughter on the other side. "You bastard! I'll hunt you down and . . ." the sound of the phone call being cut off effectively ended her tirade, and she started pushing buttons and sequences to try to figure out who had just called her.
Warrick's hand reached out and softly covered her wrist, but her instinctive jump told the group what they needed to know: someone had just threatened another investigator. "Sara? Tell me what he said."
Her eyes blazed as she lifted her head and the intense anger there did little to hide the underlying fear her friend could sense. "The bastard's calling from Greg's phone. It's gotta be the same asshole."
"What did he say, Sara?" Gil's authoritative tone cut through, drawing a nearly surprised look from her.
Taking a deep breath, trying to steady the shaking in her hands, Sara made a quick and potentially valuable decision. Leaving her cell phone activated, she offered it to her supervisor with a growl of, "He knows I live alone, Gil. He's trying to threaten me at home." She watched him gingerly take her phone and added "Really, it was to the point. He said 'You live alone. You live very alone.' It was computer altered, though." As her friends and teammates continued to hover protectively around the young woman, she added, "And there was no inflection difference when he added the word 'very.' He was just as conversational as if he was telling me my car lights are on."
Gil nodded, giving a cursory glance at the screen of the cell phone, noting that the last received call did indeed come from Greg's cell and no one had made any attempt at hiding the fact. He looked up. "He doesn't care if we know he's the kidnapper . . . or that he's the same one threatening Lindsay."
Sara took a deep, steadying breath as Cath put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Jim finally jumped back into the conversation, sounding calm, "And we've got more information right? Let's get out of this rain . . ."
Suddenly everyone seemed aware that they still stood outside Greg's house. Individually the thought that the kidnapped might be able to watch them there sunk in; the kidnapper might actually be able to glean information as they discussed the case at Greg's back door. In silent accord, the entire group collected their equipment and evidence containers and headed for their vehicles, destined for the lab and a full night of work laced with fear and worry.
As the last Tahoe pulled away, the only things remaining at the crime scene were the lighting and tarp system and three very wet police officers endlessly patrolling the original kidnapping site of a fellow law enforcement employee.
Cold started to seep into his nude torso, the rain lashing over Greg like needles. At first he had been unaware of how painful it felt; relief and nausea had combined to distract him most effectively. As time passed, however, the young investigator became increasingly aware of the danger he faced . . . danger from more than just his assailant. Not only was the kidnapper a threat, but staying out in that weather dressed only in a pair of boxers wasn't the safest of ideas, either.
His arms shook with the effort of pushing up to his hands and knees; Greg's ordeal had left him very weak. He gritted his teeth, grimacing briefly at the lashing rain and the tearing wound to his side, and pushed himself further up. Catching the lip of his trunk, Greg hoisted his bruised, aching body even further up.
He had to find help. That guy could be back at any time.
Once on his feet, Greg leaned against his car, moving as quickly as his debilitation would allow. He reached into the trunk and flicked open his case, pulling out the flashlight and screwdriver . . . one never knew when a weapon would be needed and Greg didn't have much of anything else available to him.
After only a few moments, the young man pulled out some of his supplies and started to construct a makeshift bandage for his side, grimacing at the pain and the horrible sight of the damaged flesh; it looked as if it had been chewed on. Using collection papers and lifting tape would provide only temporary cover for the wound, and Greg swore silently that he would add a first aid kit to his supplies when he got the chance. He followed the ministrations to his side with dressing his head wound as best he could; it would have to do.
An unidentified noise brought the investigator to instant stillness, warily listening for a repeat. His entire, pain-filled body tensed as he waited. 'Is my attacker coming back? Is it some other kind of threat?' When the noise repeated, a snorting-snoring noise, Greg frowned and glanced quickly around his surroundings.
Shock washed over him.
This wasn't some playground parking lot in the heart of Las Vegas; it was a campground. Slowly he turned his gaze over the vegetation, the nearby water, and the myriad RV's mixed with the occasional tent or passenger car. Jaw dropping, Greg recognized just where his kidnapper had parked: Lake Mead. /Why the hell did he kidnap me, drive me all the way to a campground in a well-inhabited resort, then abandon me? It made little sense.
Throbbing in his side reminded Greg that he was still in danger from his injuries, not just his mysterious, and probably extremely warped, abductor. Leaving the trunk open might give his escape away too quickly; if that guy came back, Greg wanted him delayed from pursuing too quickly. The young investigator reached up to try to shut the trunk, but remembered his training suddenly. If he tried to close the trunk, he risked damaging vital evidence . . . fingerprints, blood spatter, and even tool marks. He'd be best to leave it open.
'What am I thinking?' The incessant rain destroyed external evidence already and would destroy the evidence inside the trunk, as well. What he needed was to get the car into a safe location. Without keys he couldn't do more than try to keep it locked up. Sighing, Greg reached in, pulled out his case, then reached up and gripped the trunk lid, slamming it down hard, smiling grimly as it caught the first time. He'd learned from his kidnapper's earlier attempts, after all.
Knowing he had to get moving, Greg still took the time to carefully swab blood on the trunk. He'd hurt the man in their initial struggle, and there was every chance the perpetrator's blood had fallen to the trunk surface during the kidnapping and subsequent threats. These few swabs could make a world of difference to catching his attacker and keeping him behind bars for a very long time according to the Little Lindbergh Laws; if someone kidnapped a person with intent to harm or kill and moved the victim from the original location, it constituted a capital offense. Some states even had the death penalty attached to such a crime.
Finally Greg moved out, and a new world of hurt opened up as he used muscles cramped and abused from hours in his trunk. Walking quickly exacerbated his injuries and he felt his side bleeding heavily into the make-shift bandage he'd made. He hoped the tape held out until he reached help. The case didn't feel too heavy though he suspected it would feel heavier as he went. Fortunately the flashlight had new batteries. His main worry, aside from the bleeding, was the possible unexpected return of the man who'd captured him in the first place.