Author's Note: Just a few points. First: YES this is a Sandle, I promise to actually include some (lots) romantic scenes, once I get this junk out of the way-- this is not an ANTI-romance, regardless of how it may seem. Second: Let me reiterate that this is science-fiction. Third: I am actually not a biology major, I just did IB biology and took a few courses in it, so while versed, I am not well-versed, and there will be errors. No disease described (in detail) in this chapter (with the exception of DID, though even its existence is debated) is a real disease that could come kill you in your sleep. So don't freak out. Fourth: If you don't like the heavy description in this chapter, please feel free to skip over it. Fifth: Enjoy the chapter.
Sara leaned her head against the window as she watched the buildings flash by. She was disheartened by what happened with the lineup. She was only too happy to obey Grissom's orders and go home to sleep. She remembered those blue eyes, though, a little too vividly. And none of those eyes were the same. The fact that she couldn't identify any of those men as her attacker drained all the strength she had left. She sighed.
"You alright?" Greg asked.
"I will be," Sara replied. "I didn't realize how tired I was."
"Yeah, well you should relax," Greg said. "Go to sleep. You're in good hands."
Sara closed her eyes and prepared to do just that when her phone began to vibrate against her thigh. Rolling her eyes, she answered.
"This better be important," she said through her fatigue.
"Sara," came Nick's voice urgently. "Get out of the car."
Sara yawned. "Why?"
"Something's wrong with Greg," Nick said.
Sara lazily glanced over at her driver. "He looks fine to me."
"Ask him to come back. Grissom wants a word with him."
"Can't it wait?" Sara whined. "I'm exhausted." She looked over at Greg. "Don't you think it's a little hot in here?"
Beads of sweat ran down Greg's face. "I'm freezing, actually," he replied.
"It can't wait," Nick insisted. "Greg wasn't kidnapped. He left the scene of his own accord."
"That's impossible," Sara muttered, falling asleep on the phone. "Greg would never do that."
"Sara," Nick said firmly. "I know you're tired, but you might be in trouble."
"Nick, I want to go home," Sara said. "Grissom wanted me to go home. Now he wants me to come back?"
"It's not you who's the problem," Nick said. "Please, Sara, just ask."
"OK," Sara said. "Who am I to stand in Grissom's way?"
"What's the problem?" Greg asked as they pulled up to a stop light.
"Nick wants you to turn around," Sara said. "I think you have some explaining to do."
"Aw, Sara," said Greg with a laugh. "You know I can't do that."
Sara shrugged half-heartedly. "Eh, I know, but it's a direct order. You know how it is, boss says jump…"
"No," said Greg casually. "I mean I can't go back."
"Greg, don't be difficult," Sara said. "I think you're already treading on thin ice with Grissom."
"I know," said Greg. "I think this is a good way of telling him I quit."
Sara woke up for the first time in the conversation. "Nick?" she said, nervously. "Why did Greg leave the scene?"
"Hang up the phone, Sara," Greg said, calmly.
"He went to the Flamingo," Nick said. "Won five thousand dollars. Scored with a chick, then called you pretending he had no clue what was going on."
"I said hang up the phone, Sara," Greg said, his voice now infused with some unspoken threat.
Sara was confused. "Why would he do that?"
She screamed and dropped the phone as a bullet streaked right in front of her face and made its way through the passenger window. It almost blew out her eardrums. "Jesus Christ, Greg what the hell is wrong with you? You could have killed me!"
Greg put the gun away and hit the gas as the light turned green. "I told you to hang up the phone."
"What's gotten into you?" Sara asked, looking for the phone on the floor.
Greg laughed. "What's gotten into me?" he said. "What's gotten into me?!" He aimed his gun at Sara without even looking away from the road. "Don't touch the phone, Sara."
Sara froze as she slowly sat up in her seat and stared at Greg. "Greg…" she said carefully. "You're upset."
"Upset?" Greg laughed again. "Damn right I'm upset. Oh, but you're incorrect to assume there's something wrong with me."
"There is something wrong with you," Sara hissed. "Leaving a crime scene to go gambling? Are you serious?"
"Actually," said Greg. "Yeah. It was the best time I've had in ages. I gotta tell you, though, Sara, that girl I'm sure Nick told you about, she doesn't compare to you. But of course, I could never even get close to you, could I? Out of my league, aren't you?"
"What are you talking about," Sara said, fumbling with the door.
"I wouldn't suggest opening that door," Greg said. "In case you didn't notice, I just pulled onto the freeway. We're going sixty-five with a bunch of other cars, some going even faster. You won't last two seconds once you hit that pavement."
Sara stopped and swallowed. "Greg, you're scaring me."
"Aw," said Greg, grinning madly. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to scare you. Kinda wish you didn't let me put your stuff in the trunk now, don't you? Sara Sidle, high-powered CSI, in civilian clothes and absolutely weaponless. You must feel pretty vulnerable right now."
"You won't hurt me," Sara said, sounding sure of herself but not quite certain it was true in his state.
Greg nodded slowly. "You're right, babe," he said. "I won't hurt you. Now, do me a favor, would you? Pick up the phone and throw it out the window."
Sara groaned inwardly as she reached for the phone. That was the trouble with Greg. He was a CSI. He knew exactly how they could be tracked.
"I said toss it," Greg replied when Sara held onto the phone too long. Sara closed her eyes as Greg rolled down the window electronically and she threw the phone on the road.
"I'm guessing your phone is off," Sara said, her voice shaking only slightly.
"See, Sara, that's what I love about you," Greg said. "Always so smart."
"Where are we going?" Sara asked.
"Somewhere," Greg answered. "I haven't quite decided yet." He bounced, excitedly. "Hey, where do you wanna go? You wanna go to California? Mexico?"
"I want to go home," Sara snapped. "Greg, I don't know what's up with you, but I don't like it."
Greg's demeanor changed again to be very apologetic and meek. "I'm really sorry you're angry, Sara, I hate it when you're—" He stopped and turned to her, flashing her a very sinister grin. "Oh, is that what you wanted to hear?" He tossed his head back and laughed. "Yeah. Of course it was. It's what I always say when you get pissed off. You are such a bitch to me, you know that? All high-and-mighty, even now, when I got you under my thumb, you're still putting up a fight. I will never be good enough for you, Sara, will I? No matter what I do, it doesn't matter to you. I'm the scum between your toes. You could care less what happens to me, and you think I don't know that. Nah. All of them. All of them, even Nick, though he does a good job of pretending, they put up with me because I'm Greg, someone to blame when shit goes wrong, well I'm not apologizing anymore and I'm not kissing any more ass. Fuck. That. No. I'm done with all the bull shit and the pretending to be more than I am. Because you know what gets me about all this Sara is that you're right. I don't deserve you. I will never deserve you. I know that, I do, I really, really do, but…"
He paused in his angry rant only when he ran out of words. He pounded the horn of the car, letting out a loud honk before he exploded again. "Jesus Christ, Sara, you're like a fucking angel or something, the way you get up inside his head like that, messing around in there, crossing his wires so he can't think straight. I only screw up when I'm thinking of you. I put you on a pedestal and you use me as a stepping stone— Jesus Christ, Sara! I know you're too good for me, but you make it worse every day by pushing me lower, taunting me, and you can't do that to me, Sara, you just can't. He's bonkers for you, Sara, but I hate you like the hell spawn you are. You're a Cancer, Sara. I'm not taking it any more. I'm purging you from me."
Sara noted the change in pronouns in the middle of his speech and began to feel a little cold in the hot car herself. "Greg…?" she began carefully. "Just calm down and take me back to the station. We can work this out."
Greg sighed. "No, it's too late for that Sara."
Sara looked over at him and tried to reason with him. "It's not too late. Look, they know I'm with you. If anything happens, you know they'll come after you."
"Nah," said Greg. "They'll come after Greg, and I'll be long gone by then."
Sara was swallowed hard. All of a sudden, a horrible thought occurred to her and it slowly wrapped its icy fingers around her heart. "Who are you?"
Greg turned and smiled at her. "I'm Greg Sanders, Sara. Don't you recognize me?"
Sara's eyes did widen in recognition, but not of Greg. She recognized his eyes. They were a bright electric blue. "You're not Greg…" she said suddenly. "What have you done with him?"
"So clever up until this point," Greg said. "Damn. In truth, I was hoping you'd figure it out by now. Oh well."
"What's going on?" Sara asked. "What happened to Greg?"
"Greg woke up from a very long nap," he replied. "You never knew him before. You know him now."
"What?!"
"So… what do you think about a car crash on I-15?" Greg said casually, as though he was asking what she wanted for dinner. "Should be fun for our friends to investigate, wouldn't you say? I bet they'd have a party."
"You're going to crash this car?" Sara asked.
"It'll probably kill us both," Greg replied. "Or not. Honestly, I'm kinda hoping I survive. But if I don't, I'll be alright about it."
This new piece of information prompted Sara to do something very, very drastic.
"I love you, Greg."
Something in him clicked into place. He turned to look at her, but Sara wasn't paying any attention to him as she grabbed the wheel and veered right.
"Sara no!" Greg yelled, but it was too late. The car swerved and crashed through the barrier of the highway, and that was all Sara knew.
When the phone went dead, Nick ran inside immediately to find Grissom and tell him what had happened. He was with Warrick, looking at something on the computer.
"Grissom!" Nick said, breathing a little harder from his recent jog. "They're gone, he's got her."
"What do you mean 'he's got her?'" Grissom said, the color draining from his face.
"Greg, something's wrong with Greg, you're right, Catherine's right, something here is not right."
"Calm down, Nick," Grissom said, although even he felt the panic beginning to rise in his chest. "What happened on the phone?"
"Greg wouldn't turn around," Nick said. "He and Sara argued, and then there was a huge bang—maybe a gunshot, Sara said something about how Greg could have killed her. They talked some more after that, but it was muffled, I think Sara dropped her phone, and then there was nothing. It went dead. I did get one thing—Greg was turning onto the freeway, maybe I-15, it's the closest. Grissom, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you what's going on," said Warrick, who hadn't looked up upon Nick's entry. "Katerina Samson wasn't an attorney."
Grissom and Nick came around and looked at the computer. "What do you mean?" Nick asked.
"The firm she works at," said Warrick. "It doesn't exist. Do you know how many cases they've taken this year?"
"How many?"
"Twelve," said Warrick. "All of them clandestine, all of them under assumed names, and all of their bills absolutely outrageous, even for a law firm. Like, in the billions. Something trippy is going on over there."
"Can you find out anything else?" Grissom asked.
"They don't have a legal license," said Warrick. "That's the other thing that tipped me off…"
Catherine walked in at that moment, flipping her hair back. "Ah," she said. "There you boys are. What are we looking at?"
"Mrs. Samson's place of employment," Grissom replied, turning around. "Sara's in trouble."
"So's Brass," Catherine replied. "He needs you in with Samson. Now."
"What's going on?" Warrick asked. "All this is happening too fast."
"I think the pieces are beginning to fall together," said Grissom. "Nick—figure out what happened to Greg and Sara. Warrick, check up on this fake law firm. Catherine, come with me."
They all left and Warrick was alone with the computer. The firm's file listed no address, but there was a phone number.
"Thank you for calling Bennett & Locke. If you would like to make a payment, please press one. If you would like to lodge a complaint, please press two. If you would like to leave a message, please press three. If you would like to check on a case, please press four."
Warrick pressed four.
"Thank you for choosing Bennett & Locke to take your case. Please enter your identification number and press pound. To visit the main menu, please press seven."
Warrick sighed and pressed seven.
"Thank you for calling Bennett & Locke. If you would like to make a—"
Warrick pressed two.
"If you have paid for our services, but have not received results, please press one. If you have paid for our services, but your bill appears to sill be outstanding, please press two. If you are dissatisfied with a service, please press three. For more assistance, please press four."
Warrick pressed three.
"Please enter your identification number and press—"
Frustrated, Warrick pressed seven.
"Thank you for calling—"
Warrick pressed three. "If you would like to leave a message for Samantha Utterson, please press five. If you would like to leave a message for Brandon Carter, please press six."
"Brandon Carter…" Warrick said, the name sounding familiar. He pressed six.
"Hi, you've reached Brandon Carter, Attorney at Law. Please leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as I can."
Warrick all of a sudden recognized the voice. "Mr. Carter, this is Warrick Brown from the crime lab. I spoke to you earlier at your residence concerning the death of Mrs. Samson and her children? At the time, you neglected to mention that you weren't just her neighbor, you were her boss—"
"Hello?"
Warrick was momentarily surprised. "Mr. Carter, what are you doing at your office at 4:30 in the morning?"
"When you spoke with me earlier," said Carter, "I wanted to come into the office, clear up a few things before I broke the news to our crew."
"Yes, actually, that's why I'm calling," said Warrick. "If you're at your office, mind if I come over?"
"Actually, Mr. Brown, I'd rather you didn't," said Carter.
"I'd rather not do this over the phone if I can avoid it," said Warrick.
Carter sighed. "OK, why don't I come down there?"
"You're very accommodating, Mr. Carter," Warrick said.
"So I'm told," Carter said with another sigh.
As they walked briskly down the hall, Catherine had to ask. "What happened to Greg and Sara? Are they OK?"
"I don't know," Grissom admitted. "But don't get too excited about killing him. I have a feeling he's already dead."
"What?!" Catherine exclaimed.
"Or dying," Grissom corrected himself. "I don't mean to be dramatic. But I took blood from his arm earlier this morning. There was a previous puncture wound on it, and it was recent. Also, Mia just gave me the results to the tox screen. There were unusually high levels of phenylcyclodine."
"PCP?!" Catherine exclaimed. "That doesn't make sense, that stuff isn't injected—"
"It's not," Grissom agreed. "But it wasn't the only drug found in his system."
"What?" Catherine said.
"She couldn't identify them all," Grissom said. "A 'cocktail of chemicals,' she called it. But she did run a DNA test."
"Why?" Catherine asked.
"I asked her to," Grissom replied simply. "His DNA is mutating."
"You're kidding. How ?"
"Splitting," Grissom said. "Adding guanines and thymines where there shouldn't be. Making him into a whole other person right down on the cellular level. Some viral agent is causing it, she thinks. My theory is the drugs weaken the immune system, put the brain in a ready state, and then the virus goes to work on the DNA."
Catherine stopped and Grissom walked a few more paces before he realized she wasn't next to him anymore. He stopped to and looked at her.
"You've got to be kidding me," Catherine said, her jaw nearly reaching the floor.
Grissom remained incredibly impassive. There was a crash in the interrogation room. Grissom glanced toward it, then to Catherine. "Didn't you say Brass was in trouble?"
"Grissom, mind-altering drugs is one thing, but Robert Louis—"
"We can talk about this later," Grissom said sharply. "Let's go."
The minute he entered the room he could tell why Catherine had summoned him. Brass stood at the window, watching Matthew as he went berserk, throwing chairs around and upending the table.
"Grissom," said Brass upon his entrance. "I'm pretty sure we've found our killer."
"It is Matthew Samson," Grissom said.
"Not quite," Brass replied. "A severe form of dissociative identity disorder."
"He's a completely other person," Grissom observed, fascinated.
"Almost," Brass half-agreed. "I'd say he's a completely other animal."
Grissom frowned. "What?"
Someone else stepped out of the shadows, which both Catherine and Grissom found eerie. "Mr. Grissom, I am Dr. Feder, I specialize in these matters."
"And what kind of matter is this, Doctor?" Grissom asked.
"A reversion into a primordial state," Dr. Feder said as he approached the window and watched Matthew Samson. He was on all fours, trying to rip the table apart with his hands, biting himself and scratching at the floor. "DID cases like this tend to be incredibly self-destructive. It probably started small at first. A sudden stint of spontaneous disregard for responsibility and the wellbeing of others. Lashing out at friends and family. A violent increase of the sex drive, which quickly elevates to more aggressive tendencies... All of this interspersed with episodes of complete lucidity and normality, such as that which you observed earlier. In Freudian terms, it is a complete obliteration of the super-ego, and a role-reversal between the id and ego, in that all of our repressed desires and emotions spill forth from us while the ego and a sense of what is normal is pushed lower into the unconscious. Meanwhile, the ego, or in this case the personality of Matthew Samson as we knew him previous to this episode, is suspended in a fugue state, completely unaware of the actions of the id."
"So instead of two separate personalities…" Grissom muttered, "it's one personality at war with itself."
"Exactly," Dr. Feder said. "There is no precise trigger for this case as the disease progresses. The id comes forward and then falls back when it finds it is convenient. But I've never seen a case this far along, or this intense…"
"What causes it?" Catherine asked.
"The same things that cause any disorder," Dr. Feder said with a shrug. "Traumatic pasts, difficult childhoods, abnormalities present from birth…"
"A virus?"
Dr. Feder frowned at Grissom. "I suppose it's possible," he said. "Though I know of no virus that could induce such a state, at least not permanently."
"We never took his blood," Grissom said. "We didn't need it. We had a swab of his saliva, and his prints, and his teeth… we don't have his blood."
"We don't need to," Catherine said. "We have Greg's."
"Greg?" Brass said suddenly. "What about Greg?"
"He's infected," Grissom said simply.
"With what?" Brass asked.
"With this disease. I have a feeling it was manufactured in a lab somewhere," Grissom replied. "We found large amounts of PCP in his blood, plus a dozen other chemicals Mia is still trying to identify for us."
"A dissociative psychedelic," Dr. Feder said, nodding. "Yes, that would account for a temporary suspension of reality, but not for any permanent damage."
"It's completely altering his DNA," Grissom said.
"That's impossible," Dr. Feder said. "A drug can't do that."
"It isn't just the drugs…" Grissom said. "It's a virus. The drugs just provide the opportunity for it to spread faster."
"Wasn't Sara with Greg?!" Brass said, sounding nervous.
A knot formed in Grissom's throat but he swallowed it. "She is."
"Then what the hell are we doing here?" Brass asked.
"You wanted me here," Grissom replied calmly. "Nick is on it."
"Grissom…" Catherine said, slowly shaking her head. "How are we going to fix this one."
Grissom watched Samson as he bit hard into his arm, drawing enough blood to use as ink and he began to write on the walls. At first, it was just bloody handprints, smearing red across everything he saw, but soon, his finger began to draw out words.
TO BLAME TO BLAME TO
BLAME
I KILLED KATERINA
SAMSON
I ATTACKED THE GIRL
I ATTACKED BLONDE
TIPS
ASK ME WHY
MATTHEW SAMSON IS NOT
TO BLAME