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Present Time
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Though it was beginning to slacken, the desert wind still sent small sand grains blasting into Sara's skin. Thankful that the wind was blowing in from the west, she continued to plod with her back into the wind and her face to the sun as it inexorably climbed higher into the sky. Thirty steps, stop and build a cairn. The movement jarred her injured arm as she stooped to place the rocks then slowly levered herself up again. Keep the count, Sidle. Thirty more steps.
As the wind dried the land, the sun seemed to grow stronger, blasting through the remaining mist in the sky. I can't believe yesterday there was water everywhere, and now -- Stop that! You are NOT thirsty... Just keep counting, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Time to build a cairn.
Suddenly Sara realized that the ground ahead of her was slightly damp. A slight depression, barely noticeable, where the floodwaters of last night had pooled slightly, depositing a load of debris. Water! If I go to the lowest point and dig, I should be able to -- WHAT IS THAT?! -- God! -- Get a grip, Sidle!
She hurried from the area, jolting her arm with every step, barely remembering to keep hold of the mirror in her hand, not aware of her direction or the distance she was travelling. Stop! Don't waste your energy... She paused, panting, struggling not to be sick, and sunk to the ground in a small patch of shade. Deep breaths... Can't afford to waste the water if you get sick, Sidle. Deep breaths... It's only a dead body. You see them every day. Don't panic. Breathe. Just breathe...
She lost track of how long she remained sitting in the shade, but finally managed to regain control of her stomach. Forcing her mind from the memory of the body buried in the sand, the thought that it could have been her, she concentrated on her situation. Okay, sun's getting pretty high, wind's dying down. Can't use the sun as a compass much longer... Those mountains look like they're basically to the east, and far enough away not to change as I walk... I'll use them as a guide. Forgetting to count, forgetting to leave signs for the others, Sara set her mind on the hope of a road that lay somewhere ahead.
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Thursday, December 7, 2006
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A large flat desk, surrounded by lights and tools, dolls lining the walls, large screens in the background, each with a different view. Surrounded by Chloe, green eyes staring, red blood pooling from her head.
Flash
Hands grasping her shoulders, pushing her back against a barrel, the strong pungent odour drifting from an open lid. Mouth forced to hers, body pressed against her, smell filling her senses. Fingers groping at her jeans, tongue wet on her neck, a pervasive, never-ending smell.
Flash
Metal tables on rolling wheels, one larger than the rest, high sides holding water, electric leads trailing from it. Clamps above to hold struggling chickens, suspended from steel beams criss-crossing the ceiling. Raymundo, grey and blue uniform drenched, face down in the pool of water.
Gloved hands carefully peel the rubber bands from the mould form, tweezers reach in to pull the carefully shaped silver rack, a dab of glue is applied to the tip of the piece and it is gently manoeuvred into position.
Flash
A large white barrel, lid slightly cracked, a strong pungent smell.
The hands lift up a miniature white barrel, carefully painting the letters onto the side with calm strokes.
Flash
A deep dark pool, spilling from the sidewalk onto the lawn, red mixing with green. Dolly -- no Chloe -- sitting on Daddy's knee.
She wouldn't go away, not like Mommy. One last piece, tucked carefully into the door. Chloe, always there, always watching.
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Friday, December 8, 2006
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Grey coveralls firmly tucked into black boots, shirt unbuttoned down the front, white tank top peeking through, bending over the large metal table, reaching for the drain plug. Large white barrel releasing a pervasive smell.
Just the flick of a switch.
Flash
Dark hair dripping, face hidden, slumped over the side of the table.
A gloved hand reaching down, flicking the switch once again, dragging the lifeless body forward onto the table, carefully placing the lid onto the bright white barrel, reverently removing the miniature from its box. Checking the room on last time, everything in its place.
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Saturday, December 9, 2006
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
!beep! "You have .. one .. new message, sent .. Saturday .. December .. ninth .. two-thousand .. six."
"Hey, it's me, Ernie. I just spent the last five hours at the police station. They showed me pictures of those miniatures of yours. Said whoever made them was a killer. I'm comin' over. To talk."
!beep! "Message has been .. saved."
Ernie... police... Ernie... police... killer... killer...
Flash
A deep dark pool, spilling from the sidewalk onto the lawn, red mixing with green. A white shirt and floral skirt, arms curled upward as if in sleep, legs cushioned in the grass, white shoes still pristine. Chloe, a broken doll on the concrete.
Flash
Newspaper lying on the dark wood of the dining room table, breakfast of bacon and two eggs sunny-side up, untouched, fork lying beside the plate. Marble rolling pin, a few blood stains remaining, tucked into the baking drawer. Izzy slumped over the table, blood dripping from his tight cropped curls, white tank top displaying his tattoo.
Flash
Pot of daisies on the wicker table, roses beneath the window, drugs hidden beneath the largest rock in the garden. Glass littering the floor, pieces stained with blood, remnants remaining in the cracked window pane. Penny, slumped out the window, cuts marring her face, blood running down into the roses.
Flash
Metal tables on rolling wheels, one larger than the rest, high sides holding water, electric leads trailing from it. Clamps above to hold struggling chickens, suspended from steel beams criss-crossing the ceiling. Raymundo face down on the table of water, grey coveralls firmly tucked into black boots, shirt unbuttoned down the front, white tank top peeking through.
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Present Time
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Dust swirled in the downdraft of the choppers blades as the SUV came speeding up to find a scene eerily like the miniature back at the lab, but the rains had left their mark. Oh my God! It's completely covered! Sara!
Grissom slammed on the brakes as Nick pulled open his door. He barely allowed the vehicle to come to a stop before he, too, jumped onto the sandy track. They both rushed toward the far side of the car, where Sara's arm should have been visible had she been unable to escape, but could see nothing through the sand and debris which had piled there as the floodwaters passed.
He could barely hear Nick calling out above his own panicked heart beat and the pounding of the helicopter as he tore into the dirt, still damp under the surface. He didn't allow himself to think as he tore through the wet sand, bringing himself closer and closer to the answer for a question he didn't want to ask, but which reverberated through his head, Is she in there? Please God, let her be alive! It's been so long, please!
Suddenly he realized that Nick had stopped digging and was looking at something he had pulled from beneath the dirt. He watched as Nick's hand wiped the dirt from the name, seeing it appear beneath his fingers: SIDLE. The blood rushed to his head as he stared at her name, her vest, covered in sand. Her vest. Not her. It's not her.
Nick slowly raised his eyes to look at him, and they shared in a slight feeling of relief mingled with a new feeling of loss and anxiety. If she got out of the vest, her arm was free. She got out of the trap... But where is she? Where do we look now?
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Saturday, December 9, 2006
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A small train winding round and round, threading past perfect tiny houses, little people waving it on as it passes. Winding past scenes of death, years of visions. Ernie, pacing, pacing...
"I just come from the police. They showed me pictures of your miniatures. And they showed me pictures of some dead people. Cops know I helped you -- put some of that stuff together. They know I-I-I delivered that -- that package to that old ladies house, like you asked me to. They think I killed -- I killed all those people."
But why? Why Ernie? He didn't kill them.
"You didn't."
"Natalie, did you kill them?"
Flash
A small hand, a little push. Chloe, a broken doll on the concrete.
Flash
A gloved hand, a marble rolling pin. Izzy, blood dripping from his tight cropped curls.
Flash
A latex-covered hand, a dropper of nicotine. Penny, slumped out the window.
Flash
A rubber-sheathed hand, a flicked switch. Raymundo, face down on the table of water.
"Did you kill those people?"
"Yes."
"H-huh... Why? -- They're going to put you in jail, honey. -- ugh. -- Unless there's somethin' else. If you had good reason, they'll listen to that. -- Raymundo... Did he put his hands on you?"
Flash
Hands grasping her shoulders, pushing her back against a barrel, a strong pungent odour drifting from an open lid.
"Yes... and that smell."
"And the old lady? And that pervert rock star? If they done somethin' to you, just tell me what it was."
Flash
Sweat dripping from his tight cropped curls, clean cotton sheets soft against Annie's skin, the smell of bleach still on her hands.
"Honey, I know there's some people out there that deserve killin.' And you... you had good reason, right? ... to kill 'em, right?"
"Yes."
"Alright. -- I want you to listen to me. What you done, is done. I can't fix that. But I can still take care of ya. I ain't gonna let the police get ya. But you got to promise me, you won't kill nobody else. Promise me you'll be a good girl."
"Your special girl?"
"That's right... My special girl."
"I promise."
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Monday, December 11, 2006
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Aisles of food, multicoloured, stretching in front of her. A small TV blaring in the corner.
"In other news, Ernie Dell, a local maintenance man and member of the model train club, Locomotiveville, committed suicide last night as police entered his apartment to arrest him on a number of charges. Sources inform us that these charges include the murder of Izzy Delancy. We'll take you to Joyce at the scene now, and see if we can get confirmation on that. Joyce, over to you."
"Thank you, Rob. As you can see, the night crews are working overtime processing the scene. Our sources have said that he committed suicide after sending a full confession to the nightshift supervisor of the Crime Scene Investigations unit, Gil Grissom, who is here processing with his team. Let me see if I can get a statement. Dr. Grissom?"
"No comment. Excuse me."
Flash
"Love you, special girl."
"Promise me you'll be a good girl."
"My special girl."
Ernie... suicide... Ernie... confession... Ernie... Suicide!... no... No. NO! NO!!!
Flash
"They think I killed -- I killed those people."
"I can still take care of ya. I ain't gonna let the police get ya."
Police... killer... Grissom.
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Present Time
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As he stared at the vest, Grissom became aware that others were arriving at the scene. Officers and rangers jumping from their vehicles, grabbing shovels from their trunks, frantically digging through the dirt. He pulled himself to his feet and stepped back from the car, allowing those with shovels greater access. They're right, she might still be trapped under there, just because she got her arms free, doesn't mean she got out completely. But...
Despite the frantic activity, Grissom felt sure that the presence of the vest meant she had escaped. He watched, almost in a daze as the windows were uncovered and the officers were able to peer under the car, but no one shouted that they had found her. Additional vehicles continued to arrive, and the officers worked with the tow truck driver to right the Mustang, and still no sign of Sara was found. He watched as Nick and a couple officers continued to dig in the sand around the vehicle, then snapped his eyes away.
Officers were now combing the rocky hill nearby, searching for her among the boulders and brush. Maybe she got out and up to higher ground then passed out... but I don't think so. If she got out, and she's not here, in plain sight or calling to us, I don't think she's here... She'd try to save herself. She's very... independent. He allowed himself a small grin at this understatement then forced himself to assess the situation around him.
Grissom slowly realized that the cars and officers swarming the scene were likely destroying any clues to her whereabouts. Their search methods would work only if Sara was still in the immediate area. This time, it's not about preserving the evidence, it's a rescue mission, but ... we need to find out where she went.
He was vaguely aware of Catherine shouting to Nick as he began to scan the perimeter, beyond the rushing police vehicles and the wandering rangers, looking for any sign that Sara had passed that way. The earth had dried in many areas and sand swirled around them, but he suddenly saw a series of deep prints in an area of cracked and drying soil, leading away from the scene and into the desert, heading toward a large hill, a vantage point, in the distance. Sara.
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TBC
A/N: Natalie's voice mail messages were taken from CBS's CSI miniature killer webpage.
Feedback greatly appreciated! Nitpicks welcome.