Sara awoke from a rejuvenating nap and stretched. Her hand swept over Gil's side of the bed, the coverlet cool and empty. She hated that sensation. It made her feel lonely. The alarm clock on her nightstand said it was 2:12 p.m. Surely he was back from his bike ride by now, probably holed up in his office with a forensics journal. She smiled. She was very much in a mood to jar his concentration. She rinsed her mouth and went looking for him.

The study was empty. That surprised her, but she didn't worry. Then she saw that his note from the morning still sat on the kitchen counter. His truck wasn't back in the garage. His bike wasn't hanging from its ceiling hooks. She began to feel concern. She tried calling his cell phone. The call went to voice mail.

"Gil, when you get this, call me, please," she said. "I just want to know you're okay."

She sat on the sofa and stared at the phone, as if willing it to ring. And it did.

But the caller ID read, "Brass."

"Hey, Jim," Sara said.

"Hey, kiddo. How're you doing?"

"Everything's good, Jim. Thanks. You okay?"

"Absolutely. Is that buffed-out husband of yours around? I've tried calling his cell, but it keeps going to voice mail."

"I'm not sure where he is, to be honest. He went riding this morning, and he should have been back by now, but he isn't, and I haven't heard from him."

After a pause, Brass asked, "Are you worried about him?"

"Maybe just a little," Sara said. "I hope he's not on the highway today."

"You don't know where he went?"

"His note didn't say. Just that he'd gone riding and might be home later than usual. He tries to do one really long ride every week, and I assumed that's what he meant. Though why he'd try to do 30 or 40 miles in this heat is beyond me."

"He does pack water, right?"

"Oh, yeah. He's got three big bottles on his bike frame and belt holsters for two more."

"He's probably fine, then," Brass said. "Would you ask him to call me when he turns up?"

"Sure. You need him on a case? Should I send him to the lab?"

"No, it's just a question about insect progression."

"I'll let him know," she said.

"And, Sara, if he doesn't turn up in a reasonable time, let me know that, too, okay?"

xxxxxxx

It was nearly 5 p.m. when panic took a stranglehold on Sara. She called Brass, and she knew he could hear the fear in her voice. She had called every area hospital she could think of, and none had a record of treating or admitting anyone named Grissom. His cell phone still went directly to voice mail.

"I'll be right over," Jim told her.

While waiting, Sara called their friends and cancelled dinner. She said Gil had an emergency. They assumed it meant a case. Sara didn't tell them differently for the moment because she didn't know the nature of the emergency herself.

Jim walked in through the door she left unlocked for him. He took Sara's hands and sat with her on the sofa.

"I've put out an APB on the Tahoe," he said. "We've activated the LoJack tracker, but the monitoring equipment hasn't picked up a signal yet. There are lots of blind spots in the mountains. I've notified the state police and the National Park Police. Gil rides down at Lake Mead sometimes, right?"

Sara nodded.

"Okay, the sheriff and the LVPD all have the info, too. I think we're covered," he said. "Think, Sara. When he takes these long rides, where does he usually go?"

"Lake Mead. Boulder Basin."

Brass blew out a breath. "Well, they're jammed today. The holiday weekend and all. If he rode there, somebody might remember seeing him. On the other hand, if he remembered the holiday, he might have looked for someplace more secluded. You start thinking about what his alternative routes might have been, and I'll get the park police to start talking to visitors inside the rec area, maybe as far down as Willow Beach."

Brass was on the phone for nearly 20 minutes. When he returned to the sofa, he nodded.

"They're all over it," he said. "Did you think of anything else?"

"Well, you know he loves the petroglyphs, the ancient Indian rock art. Maybe he went exploring them and forgot the time, or got lost."

"Which petroglyphs?" Brass said. "They're everywhere."

"I don't know."

Sara's eyes caught Brass's as she tried to read the extent of his concern.

"Gil's in trouble, isn't he, Jim?" she said. The creases in Sara's forehead deepened, and her mouth turned down as it always did when terror threatened to overwhelm her.

"I don't know, kiddo. He might be." Brass bowed his head and shook it once, an act of frustration punctuated with a slow, heartbreaking sigh.

xxxxxxx

The injured cyclist opened his eyes slowly and closed them quickly against the burning sun. He felt as if his skin were on fire. He tried to remember how long he had been lying in the desert dust and how he came to be there in the first place. He had no idea. His state of awareness had telescoped into a spot only large enough to encompass his pain. The center of the spot was buried in the left side of his chest. From there the physical agony spread across his shoulders and up his neck to his head. It traveled down through his ribs, across his pelvis and down both legs. He couldn't feel his left arm at all.

He knew he should roll over, shield his face from the sun, and he tried, but the effort nauseated him. Something told him if he got sick and remained on his back, he could aspirate the vomit and choke to death.

He heard a vibration sound he couldn't immediately identify, but somewhere in his subconscious he knew it wasn't a good thing. The noise came again, and he recognized it: the warning signal of a rattlesnake. He studied a mental image of what it must look like: mottled brown, coiled, ready to strike, its tail upright and vibrating. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere near his head. He couldn't turn to look for it; truth be told, he knew better than to try to move at all. His only defense against a strike was to lie still and hope the snake stopped perceiving him as a threat. A grown human could survive a rattler strike, but in his depleted condition, unable to seek immediate help, it would prove lethal.

The rattle came again.

Oh, bite me!

He thought maybe he smiled a little at his own weak attempt at humor. He enjoyed it right up to the moment the red waves of pain from his injuries swept him over a cliff and down a black hole that seemed to have no end.

His final brief thought: Oh, God, I am so thirsty.