Chapter XLIII

All Hands On Deck

He let the tarantula crawl over his palms and fingertips. The tickle of eight small, hairy legs would be enough to send some people into a four-alarm panic. For Gil Grissom, it was enjoyable, almost therapeutic. It had been a stressful shift and it was only--he glanced at the wall clock--two AM.

He had weathered his disagreement with Sara the same way a sailor weathered a winter gale: just barely. Then just as he thought the turbulence and uproar was over, he realized that the scant thirty minutes had just been the misleading calm that was the eye of the storm. He resigned himself to chaos when Catherine threw his office door open and stomped in. She informed--all but screamed, rather--him of her own heated conversation with Sara.

When Sara did things, she didn't skimp, cut corners or do things by halves. Grissom half wondered if he was going to get a call from Conrad Ecklie as well. It wouldn't surprise him a bit.

He knew better than to ask Sara and Catherine to get along, but he did expect them to co-exist, for the good of the lab if nothing else. They could do it, he knew that. There had been times, rare blue moon occasions, when someone might have mistaken the two women for friends. There was something, though, some aberration or mental block that he couldn't quite place or understand, that kept them at odds with each other. He had asked Sara about it one night, but her answer had been vague at best. There were many mysteries in the universes, phenomena that he could not explain or even begin to understand. The inner workings of people's minds and thoughts for the most part escaped him. When it came to Catherine Willows and Sara Sidle, though, not even the most talented psychologist, physiatrist or mentalist would have a clue.

He turned the unoccupied hand over and shifted it around so Toby could skitter across it again without changing directions. He wished he did have some sort of insight, some window, into Sara's mind right now.

This entire topsy-turvy situation didn't quite add up. Alexandra Dupree was an unknown variable in the equation that made up who and what Sara Sidle was. She wasn't by any means the only variable, but he had thought he'd figured at least most of them out. This relationship had come seemingly from the blue, like summer thunder. He thought Sara had trusted him. She had told him about her family and the past she guarded so dearly. Yet, even when they had met oh so many years ago, he had not known that she was interested in the other women. The notion that she had been involved in a functioning lesbian relationship was just odd.

How was a man supposed to feel when his very-recent ex revealed that she was, in fact, bisexual?

Alexandra Dupree was younger than Sara, rich, and just happened to be one of the most beautiful women on the planet. How could he, or anyone, compete with that? He didn't know. He had been with her for two years and it was like he didn't know Sara at all.

How many other little revelations had she glossed over? He had a feeling that there were still vast and deep fathoms of unexplored depths in the woman's mind and heart. Depths he would never see or explore.

Gil Grissom sighed. It was a deep sigh that started in the center of his being and encompassed all the feelings and words he would not show or say. He shouldn't think about Sara anymore tonight.

He had a case to solve and a killer to catch and that was where his attention needed to be. Despite that great intention, he didn't move except to keep Toby happily occupied on his hands. This could have continued for hours because neither spider nor man was particularly motivated to do anything else. Criminals, however, didn't bother to ask permission or check schedules.

The phone rang, and it's sudden shrill sound brought him back from the ether. He handled Toby carefully, as he didn't want to startle him into biting, and answered the phone in a calm, quiet tone. "This is Grissom." The etymologist listened without commenting, though his face did grow still and grave the longer the one sided conversation went on. It ended abruptly and without Grissom getting a single word in edgewise. Usually that would mean that the other person was exceptionally rude, very harried or one's boss. In this case it was all of the above: Rory Atwater had pulled out all the stops and called him directly. She had struck again. The media had already given this murderer an over-the-top nickname and were stirring the already murky waters as hard and fast as they could. The fact that a celebrity was involved was not helping things.

Grissom rubbed at his temples and stared at the phone he had just hung up. Two AM phone calls from the sheriff were never a good thing. During all his years in Vegas he had never gotten a birthday wish or congratulations at two o'clock in the morning. The so-called Male Mutilator was the only case in Vegas. Tonight's new scene was the only crime in the city that mattered and the Sheriff wanted him and his team there twenty minutes ago.

He put Toby back in his terrarium and made sure the top was fastened securely. It wouldn't do to have him lose in the lab. There was too much evidence to risk contamination and too many arachnophobes to worry about. That being done, he took his cell phone off of the charger and called Jim. Capitan Brass was on speed dial 3, Catherine was on 4 and so on and so forth.

He didn't bother with a greeting, Grissom jumped straight into the important questions and Brass answered just as quickly. Apparently, Jim hadn't left yet either, but Sofia and Nick were already on their way. Since the scene was in Boulder City, Grissom assumed that one of Sofia's contacts had tipped her off. The detective and CSI were already halfway there and were going to start processing immediately

Since he didn't have to bother with speed dial 5, Nick, and he would walk by Catherine's office, he quickly called speed dial 7 for Greg. Greg was in the garage, and would be on his way as soon as he had re-secured the evidence he had taken out. His next call would usually be to speed dial 6, but Warrick was down in Laughlin with a murder of his own. While it was all hands on deck, he would not call anyone off of an active scene that was almost an hour away. That simply didn't make sense. He would let Warrick work where he was for now.

His thumb lingered over the 2 key before pressing it. Sara's number had long ago been put on the second digit, only because 1 was taken by his voice mail. Since it would be a complicated shuffle of numbers, he had left it there. All of his CSIs were on speed dial, what difference did the exact number position make?

He was annoyed and just a little surprised when his call was sent to Sara's voice mail. Yes, they'd had an argument, but this was her work phone and he was her supervisor. Sara had done many things, made mistakes, everyone did, but he had never known her to disregard her duties as a CSI, ever. He keyed in 10, which was the speed dial code for Sara's personal cell phone. He was, once again, sent to voice mail. As a last ditch attempt, he tried her at her apartment, speed dial 11, to no avail. He was aggravated, and a trifle worried, but had no time to spare. He went down to speed dial 8, and asked Doc Robbins to meet him at the scene.

Even with the ME, detectives and what part of his team would be there, he was woefully shorthanded and felt the pressure of the entire upper echelon of the county and city bureaucracy weighing down on him.

He rounded the corner and could see that news, especially bad news, traveled fast. Every single lab tech was clearing their respective work stations in anticipation of priority evidence. Bobby was even helping Hodges in the Trace Lab. It had gone through last year that due to budget constraints every full-time tech needed to be cross-trained and certified in at least one other specialty.

Grissom paused in the hallway, a thought rushing to the forefront of his mind. Cross-training, that was how he would solve his people problem.

He took a few extra steps and leaned into the DNA Lab. The brunette genetics specialist was nowhere in sight.

"Wendy?"

There was a sudden, and painful-sounding thud, and Wendy Simms popped up from behind the lab's center island. She was rubbing the abused crown of her head with one hand while she balanced a fresh batch of sterile test tubes in the other. "Yes?"

This all felt rather familiar, like he'd had this conversation before. Same lab, same circumstances, different person.

Grissom rubbed at his beard, "You've passed your written exam for field work?"

The woman looked puzzled, but nodded. "Yes."

Pleased, Grissom looked around, storm blue eyes taking everything in. "Is everything ready for evidence?"

Again, Wendy nodded, saying, "Yes."

Grissom, mind already made up asked one more question: "Have you passed your weapons qualifications?"

This time Wendy shook her head. "Not yet."

Now Grissom frowned, and weighed the consequences of what came next.

"Then stick close to Catherine, Nick or myself at all times."

Now Wendy did look confused. "What?"

Grissom turned to leave, replying, "You've shown interest in working in the field, and this is your trial by fire, we're leaving in three minutes."

Grissom walked out, intent on rounding up Catherine while Wendy stood there, shocked. The shock, however, wore off quickly and after a quick victory dance, she shed her lab coat and rushed to catch up.