A/N: I am so sorry that I haven't updated this fic in a couple of months. Real life hasn't been too helpful. I am really hoping to have this story finished by my wedding date (May 21), so here's to hoping that I can pull it off. Thanks to those of you who have been reading and/or reviewing; it's much appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.
Spoilers: None. This also takes place before Sara left for Costa Rica.
Title: Mars
Summary: Seven dead women, one mysterious tattoo. Can Sara find and stop a serial killer?
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"Any leads on an address for the Mars Commune, Greggo?" Nick calmly asked, walking into the lab where his coworker had been scouring various databases for the past several hours.
"Yeah, a few," Greg barely glanced up, his eyes glued to his monitor. "I expanded the search radius to three miles off of the strip, because Andrea Walker mentioned something about the commune being within two miles of it. I cross-referenced all properties bought and sold to someone by the name of Harold, and came up with eight possibilities."
"Eight?" Nick's eyebrows shot up in interest. "That's not too bad, bro."
"No, it isn't," Greg hit print just as Sara entered the room. "I ran all eight names through the system, and came up with records for five of them."
"Any of those five in jail at the moment?" Sara curiously asked.
"Yep," Greg handed the printout to her. "Two of them are currently out of commission."
"So that leaves us with Harold Simmons, Harold Jenkins, and Harold P. Morrison," Sara read through the document, handing it over to Nick when she was done perusing it.
"Simmons and Jenkins were both arrested for assault and grand theft," Nick commented, "And Morrison for fraud and petty larceny."
"My money is on either Simmons or Jenkins," Greg informed everyone, leaning back in his chair.
Nick wasn't so sure, though, and shook his head no. "The Mars Commune reminds me of a cult, and cults remind me of places where the strong pray on the weak. In my mind, the best way to do that is through fraudulent activities."
"Well my money is on wherever the evidence leads us, so shall we go?" Sara cleared her throat, wanting to explore all of the options before drawing her own conclusion.
"Yeah, sure, but it's spooky when you channel Grissom like that," Nick laughed, strolling to the door. "Greg, you in?"
"I've got some evidence to process from the Wellington case, so no thanks," he made himself comfortable in his chair. "See you guys later, though. I'll send Brass the directions."
"Thanks, and later, bro," Nick called out over his shoulder.
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Sara sighed as she glanced out of the passenger side window of the Denali, absentmindedly playing with a loose string on her vest.
"What's wrong?" Nick hesitantly asked, throwing her a sideways look as he approached a red light.
"… Cults," she murmured her reply. "I don't really like them."
"Does anyone really like them?" he chuckled.
Sara remained silent.
"Okay, besides the people living in them?"
Again, Sara remained silent.
Nick furrowed his eyebrows in confusion at his friend's reaction, stepping on the gas pedal when the light turned green. "Lemme ask you this," he tried again. "When you say you 'don't really like them,' does at least a small part of you find them interesting?"
"Well—" Sara trailed off. "Yes and no."
Nick again laughed. "You're not making much sense, Sara," he informed her.
"It's not that I like them, per say," she finally turned to look at him. "It's that a very small part of me understands the appeal of being in one."
"Uh, come again?" Nick's confusion only grew.
"I know it sounds strange, but I understand how it feels to desperately want to belong to a family."
"But you are in a family: ours," he flashed her a small smile.
Sara briefly placed a reassuring hand on Nick's arm, giving him a soft smile. "I know, and I appreciate that," she murmured, returning her attention to the world outside of her window, her smile slowly disappearing. "But it wasn't always like that for me. Growing up, my family was… different. That isn't the point, though," she rushed on. "Cultists have a way of finding those who desperately want to belong, and then making them feel loved. When people feel loved, well, they're more willing to do things that they wouldn't normally do."
"Do you really believe that?" Nick quietly asked.
"Yeah, I do," Sara looked at him, a haunted expression on her face. "How many times have we read about cult members giving up their entire life savings for the good of the cult? Or how many times have we seen people join a cult, only to turn their backs on their old lives?"
"Plenty, I guess," Nick mused, turning down a suburban street. "You're sort of describing religion, though, too, in terms of donations and belonging."
"I'm hardly making that comparison," Sara snorted back a laugh. "There's a big difference between organized religion and cults, even though many cults form around religious beliefs. No, Nicky. Cults can be extremely dangerous if the wrong person is running things."
Nick pulled up to an older looking house, the home of Harold Simmons, mulling over Sara's statements. She had a point, that was for sure. The Branch Davidians made themselves famous in 1993 with the Waco, Texas, standoff between cult members and three separate governmental agencies, resulting in the death of not only the cult leader, but of 82 of the leader's followers.
And then there was Heaven's Gate, where the cult leaders somehow talked thirty-nine members into committing suicide in 1997 while the Comet Hale-Bopp was at its brightest.
And who could forget the Manson Family and the brutal murders which resulted from simple instructions from its leader.
No, Sara was definitely right. If led by the wrong person, cults could be extremely dangerous.
"That's why we have to find the right Harold," Sara softly told Nick as she climbed out of the car, waving at Brass as he pulled up behind them. "He's praying on women who just want to be loved, probably getting off on either killing them or watching them commit suicide."
"We'll find him, Sara," Nick led her up the path to the front door of the house. "Just be patient."
"Patience will only lead to more deaths," she mumbled under her breath.
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"Two down, one more to go," Sara flopped into the passenger seat, completely exhausted and discouraged. "Neither Harold Simmons nor Harold Jenkins are the right man. Who would have thought that locating a cult would be this difficult?"
"I don't think they really want to be found, Sara," Nick pointed out, turning the key in the ignition. "If they did, every cultist's family would be banging on the door to get in."
Sara turned to look at Nick, her eyes wide with surprise.
"What?" he cautiously asked, gazing back at her.
"You're right," she told him, feeling her heart start to race. "They don't want to be found, so they're hiding."
"And?" Nick prompted.
"And we'll have to be sneaky if we want to find them—" she was interrupted by the shrill ring of her cell phone. "Sidle," she answered without looking at the caller ID.
"Sara, it's me, Andrea," the sixteen year old's terrified voice filled her ear.
"Andrea? What's wrong?" she asked, motioning to Nick to pull over. "Where are you?"
"They took me, and they're going to kill me!"
"Where are you?" Sara urgently repeated her question.
"I don't know!" Andrea fearfully replied. "I'm scared! His name is Harold Morr—something," she told the CSI. "But he said he was going to kill me! You have to save me, please!"
"Morrison? Is it Harold Morrison?" Sara asked, slamming her phone shut in frustration when the line suddenly went dead. "They have Andrea," she needlessly told Nick, "and in order to get her back, I'm going to have to join the cult."
"What? Are you out of your mind?" Nick gaped at her. "You can't join the cult!"
"Well we can't just go up to Morrison's house with guns blazing!" she irrational retorted. "What if he kills Andrea before we find her?"
"Sara, seriously, you need to breathe." Jumping as something knocked on the Denali's window, Nick sighed in relief when Jim motioned for him to lower the window. "Harold took Andrea," he immediately filled the captain in. "And Sara wants to go in."
"Well that isn't going to happen," Jim told Sara. "But we'll go pay Mr. Morrison a visit right now, to see what we can see."
Sara held her protest to herself; if she had to, she would make herself seem worthy enough to join the Mars Commune. She wanted Harold taken down, and she didn't think that them showing up at his front door was going to do much to reach that particular goal.
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TO BE CONTINUED