A/N: I seem to apologise a lot for the delay in posting this story. However, school's now out for summer, so hopefully it'll be a chapter a day for the next couple of weeks. Thank you to those who have reviewed – I will make time to reply tomorrow. Reviews are still very much appreciated and enjoyed, so let me know what you think, good or bad.

Some bad language in this chapter.

Thanks to Lily Moonlight for the look through forthe first part!

Chapter 10 – Daytime Sleepers

Guilt had grasped every thought in her mind with both its hands, clutching on to them with a vice-like grip. The light in the room had gone out, leaving the day washed grey and without colour. Lightless.

Lindsay rested her head back against the lockers and recalled for the thousandth time that minute the instant she had told Tomas Mare that he didn't have to stay with her. She remembered Flack's expression when he'd found that Mare hadn't kept to his post, and the prediction he'd made. He'd have found the nearest bar. She hadn't known. No one had informed her. She remembered Angell's face when she'd told her that Mare's body had been found in a car, her expression one full of questions, questions directed at Lindsay. Why had she told him to go? Why had she insisted she was alright on her own? She had thought Flack over-cautious, too over-protective, and now she was beginning to regret those thoughts. Maybe it hadn't been her he was protecting. Mare had been transferred because of personal issues: working with a CSI as they collected evidence was easy and generally interesting. Pairing Mare with her gave him a chance to slide back into the job.

She dug her nails into the wood of the bench and cursed herself and her inability to think outside of the box when it came to people. As a scientist, she knew she was good, outstanding in fact. She didn't doubt her ability or knowledge as a CSI. But she struggled to read people, and found it difficult to empathise with them, or get inside their heads like Mac and Stella. She closed her eyes, wishing she could rewind the days back to before Goddard's body was left in an elevator in the precinct, to before she'd told Mare to go. The door creaked open and she looked up, torn from her list of regrets. Danny stood in front of her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking tired and sick.

"You shouldn't be in work if you're ill," she said, wishing the concern she felt for him would be reflected in her voice.

He shrugged. "I can do lab work and stay away from people. There's only so much daytime TV a man can talk," he said, unzipping his jacket. "How are you? I tried calling you last night but there was no answer."

She wondered what to say. She didn't like appearing weak, or admitting she'd made a mistake, but that was impossible not to do. She'd avoided his calls on purpose; as usual, she couldn't find the right words. "I needed time to think," she said, knowing that it sounded pathetic.

"It wasn't your fault, Linds," he said, leaning against the lockers and looking at her through his glasses. His prescription was high, incredibly high, so his lenses were always the thinnest he could get. Detail. She was good with detail.

"Flack told him to stay with me. He told me to keep Mare with me until we got back to the lab. I overrided him, Danny, and its cost a man his life," she said, admitting it. The words tasted sour in her mouth.

"You weren't to know that a psychopath was going to pick him up in a bar," Danny said. "If Flack had been clearer with you, you'd have understood."

She shook her head, not wanting to hear the lame excuses he was making up for her. None of it was Flack's fault. She looked at Danny, eager to please, eager to make her smile, most of the time. He was trying to make her feel better, she knew, that was what Danny did. He made people feel better. "Danny, I'm not allowing in self-pity. I made a bad call. I doubt Flack's going to want to work with me ever again, and I'm not surprised."

"Flack doesn't bear grudges," Danny said. "Yeah, it was a bad call. We've all made them. But you couldn't have known what was going to happen. You have to move on with it, Linds." He looked at her, as if reading her thoughts. "How about coffee later?"

She smiled and shook her head. As much as part of her wanted Danny's comfort, she knew it wasn't wise to go back there. It would be too easy. "Another time," she said, feeling even more cut off as he nodded and left the locker room, leaving her to the thoughts that would not cease tormenting her.

-&-

"He was a good boy," the woman across the table said as she sipped a cup of coffee which had just been poured. "Bright. Intelligent. He worked hard as if he wanted to make up for his disability. Not that it was much of a disability." She stared at the cup, as if waiting for words to appear on it.

"Did your son appear withdrawn at all, or depressed?" Mac said, his eyes sympathetic.

The woman shrugged. The action answered Mac's question. "I suppose he was a little different. He'd had a girlfriend but she'd finished with him. The trouble was most of their friends had sided with her and Joel seemed very much alone." She began to cry. Mac pushed a handkerchief toward her and she wiped her eyes, trying to regain composure.

"Who was his girlfriend?" Stella asked gently. Mac didn't turn to look at her, but he was aware it was her sat there and not Lindsay or Angell. As much as he liked his colleagues and respected what they did, working with Stella was different. He knew what she was likely to say, even though her quickness of thought often surprised him. They were like well oiled cogs, he supposed, although he knew she would not like the comparison.

"Shoshanna. Shoshanna Sullivan. They called her Shoshie for short. She was a pretty girl. Dark, Jewish, well-mannered. They were together for almost two years and Joel worshipped the ground Shoshie walked on," she choked back tears and Mac saw the disdain she held for Shoshanna in her eyes.

"Why did they split up?" Mac said. Fire burned in the eyes of Joel Jones' mother and Mac almost pitied the girl who had incurred her wrath.

"I have no idea," she said. "One week she was over most night, hating her dorm mate and loathing her course. She and Joel were very all-in-all to each other – always had been. At first it made me worry, but when it seemed they were going the distance I said nothing. Then one week she didn't come round at all. Joel said she'd made friends with some people at the college and he didn't like them. The next thing I know they've spilt up and her new friends have become his. He became sullen and sulky, like he was fourteen again and I didn't know what to do. Then he stopped coming home." She put the handkerchief down on the table and looked directly at Mac, as if challenging him to say something different.

"Did you hear from him at all?" Mac said quietly, his eyes fixed onto the woman's, reading what was in them, searching for clues.

She nodded. "He phoned a couple of times to say he was okay and staying with friends. Six weeks after his last call they found his body. Strangled." She looked away, unable to make eye contact.

"Have you heard from Shoshanna since?" Stella said, calling Joel's mother to look at her and focus in the present.

Mrs Jones nodded. "She came around the day before the funeral. I remember she looked dreadful, as if she hadn't slept for days. I asked her if she was okay and she just nodded, didn't say very much. Her visit seemed pointless."

"Did you know that a lecturer at the college, David Rostow, had been having an affair with her?" Stella said, her tone as gentle as she could make it without the woman feeling as if she was being patronised.

Silence fell about the room, a dark silence. Mrs Jones said nothing, looking at the white desk, not wanting to speak.

"Mrs Jones, if you know anything that may help us to catch your son's killer then please tell us," Stella said, fracturing the silence.

Eyes as back as coal looked at them, arms folded across her chest. Body armour. "Shoshie stayed with us plenty, but she and Joel always had separate rooms – at her request. When Joel told me about Rostow I was shocked. She'd been adamant about no sex before marriage." She fell silent, thinking about what else to tell them. Mac waited. With some people patience was all that was required; they simply needed to find the correct words to pass what they wanted along.

"Before they spilt up they'd spoken about Rostow. Joel thought he was a nice enough guy, but distrusted him. Shoshie thought he was wonderful as he'd been giving her extra tutoring in his area of expertise," she said the words with bitterness.

"Did either of them ever mention a girl with blonde hair; her name may begin with R?" Stella said, her expression feigning uncertainty well.

Mrs Jones nodded. "Rachael. That was one of the friends. When Joel last phoned he said he was well and staying at Rachael's. When I asked who Rachael was he was vague. I heard her in the background – at least I assumed it was her – telling him to hurry. I often thought she was worried about what he was saying." She stood up, tucking the handkerchief into her purse and giving Mac a wan smile. "I have to go. My daughter needs picking up from her piano lesson."

They watched her leave, the silence in the room her gift to them as both sat, thoughts taking the place of words. Mac became lost in the puzzle, only disturbed when Stella turned to him suddenly. "What do we have on Rachael McKinsey?"

"Other than that she had a conviction for shoplifting in '99, nothing. She's 28 and was of no fixed address at the time," Mac said. "Why? You thinking along the lines of the Manson murders – Rachael McKinsey as a Linda Kasabian figure?" It was almost a joke, only one with a serious knife-point to it.

Stella shrugged. "You're thinking along the lines of cults – which, I agree, is seemingly plausible. If Rostow is a Manson type figure then it's likely he'll have others out to do his dirty work. But," she paused, "we have no evidence."

"We have no Rachael McKinsey either," Mac said. "But we do have a crime scene." He referred to Paul Murphy's home, where Danny and Hawkes now were, sifting through whatever they could find. "And Sid's autopsying Diane Murphy as we speak."

"Maybe we should go see what they've found at the house?" Stella said. "Is Lindsay making contact with the parents and friends of the other missing persons?"

Mac nodded, standing, moving his limbs slightly after being sat so long. "I've told her to contact us if anything interesting comes up." Stella stood too, making her way to the door. "We need a break with this case and soon."

-&-

Lindsay sat back and looked at the most recent page of handwritten notes, pushing aside any personal feelings for the hundredth time that morning. She would have word processed while she was on the phone but the sound of keys being tapped in the background was often off-putting to those she was speaking to. Her eyes glanced down the neatly written words. Grown distant… Moody… finished with boyfriend… become a different person. All of the descriptions she had received bore similar traits. None of the relatives or friends of the seven missing persons had heard from them within the past twelve weeks, all of them, apart from Jack Causier's parents, were still putting funds into their bank accounts. And money was still being withdrawn.

She glanced out of the window at the day too dull to have shadows. The sky was without blue, a collage of clouds blocking the sun. She paid little attention to the weather unless it impeded her work, or it happened to rain when she least wanted it to, but today the lack of light seemed portentous. She recalled a notice one of her colleagues back in Bozeman had had by his workstation –"Due to lack of funding, the light at the end of the tunnel has been switched off" – it resonated within her: Murphy hadn't been apprehended, they had no knowledge of Rachael McKinsey's whereabouts, and nothing solid to give weight to any theories. Her mind began to sort through the drabbles of information that had been given to her; most of the conversations she had had over the course of the past three hours had been lengthy, the parents and friends clinging onto the lifeline her call had thrown them. Snippets of the dialogue began to reel around, odd words from one conversation resonating in another, making connections.

And then it clicked. She saw the connection.

"Mac," she said as a voice broke the ringing. "I think I know how they were targeted."

-&-

"Max," the voice was quiet but pleading. He turned over and looked at Rachael, her blue eyes wide open, sleep not touching her. "I can't sleep."

He sighed. He was tired and had an essay that would have to be done tomorrow otherwise he would miss the deadline and fail the module. "You're insatiable, but it's ten in the morning and I really need to sleep for a couple of hours."

"Why?" she said, on top of him in one swift movement. "You're doing well. Your body will become used to getting less sleep and you'll have more time to live your life, instead of wasting it with your eyes closed."

He laughed, his throat dry, and shifted so her weight moved back onto the bed. "Rach, I don't buy this crap, I'm sorry. Maybe you just need less sleep than me."

She smiled, her whole face lighting up the room. "It isn't that. I've told you – there are loads of my friends who have managed to cut down the sleep they need. You said you weren't sleeping well when I met you. Who says there is such a thing as sleeping well? We have it drilled into us that we need so much sleep a night – that's not true. You just need to break your habits."

He felt her hand slipping down his chest and his body responded. His eyes were dry with tiredness and he as if his head was full of cotton wool. It had been almost forty eight hours since he had slept, since he had met her in a bar. "Rachael," he said, impatience growing slightly. "I don't give a fuck what your friends do, or these mad ideas you have about not sleeping and sleep being close to death and all that crap. I have a term paper due in less than twenty-four hours and I haven't even started. If I don't do it, I fail and my father cuts my allowance. I need sleep. Then you can tell me how to stay awake and get this paper done on time." He turned over abruptly, her hand automatically leaving him. He had been blunt, he knew, but it seemed like the only way of managing to get some sleep.

Max paid no attention as she got out of the bed, letting his eyes close. He hoped she would go home, or even better, move onto someone else. However pretty she was he really did need a little more calmness around him. A little more serenity. Sleep began to fall on him, taking him into its lair and he gave himself up to it willingly. Rachael's presence in the room became irrelevant; he could sleep anywhere if he was tired. He moved onto his front, his back exposed to the warmth of the room, the light from the window blocked out by the thick curtains.

Then a different sort of sleep began to consume him. The one Rachael had warned him about, the sleep that sought its victims and introduced them to someone else, its twin, Thanatos.

Death.

Please review – let me know what you think of it so far!