Ok, this is the last chapter. I just want to thank all the people who have read this and commented, I'm really glad you liked this. GSR forever!
"Gil, quiet her down." Sara said breathily.
"Yeah ok", Grissom replied, slowing down the vehicle as they approached a steel building, like a smaller version of a warehouse, bang-smack in the middle of the Nevada Desert.
The letter they had been given by the woman at the diner had simply given them directions to this particular place they were now at.
Grissom had called for back up, which was now on standby, a quarter of a mile down the road.
Sara would serve as watch and signalwoman for Grissom.
The couple got out of the Denali and secured their weapons in their belt loops.
Sara and Grissom stood at the head of the bonnet. "Grissom?" Sara gazed at him.
"Ten minutes or a gunshot Sara, alright?"
Sara fought back tears, she was sorry that she'd put Grissom through this grief when she had volunteered to be bait for a killer/rapist, she knew what it felt like now to send the person you love to the waiting arms of a psychopath.
"I love you Gil."
Grissom leaned forward and grabbed her tight, stroking her hair. At that moment he cared not about the watchful eyes of the law enforcement squad behind them, to him at that moment, he and Sara were the only ones there.
"I love you too."
He let her go reluctantly. "Ten minutes", he said.
She nodded and he turned around and signaled to his backup that he was going in.
Grissom walked slowly to the small door of the warehouse and knocked.
"Mr. Grissom", a Brooklyn accent came. "I've been expecting you."
Grissom took that as his signal to enter the building. He pushed the door open ever so slightly, his free hand resting on his hip.
"Tool Debbor?" Grissom questioned the dark room. "Tool ATTOLA Debbor," came the reply. Grissom stepped forward into the dust and his eyes finally rested on a short, shady figure of a man. "Have you been enjoying my little game Mr. Grissom?"
Grissom's eyes narrowed at him as his worse fears were confirmed. It was just a game to him; this was ALL just a game to him.
"Actually, no, I haven't particularly been enjoying it… in fact with a fine enigmatic mind like yours; I do wish we could have met under different circumstances Mr. Debbor."
Debbor sneered at him. "I'm great with games, everybody loves my games. I use to be the games host at a rest home in New York, I had seventy-eight old fogies in the palm of my hand… do you know how much life insurance that is?"
Grissom felt disgusted. Yeah, he knew.
"What did the woman do to you? Nothing right? You just wanted her kid to do be the servant of your dirty deeds; you needed a small child to tell us things that made no sense, that could be mistaken for childlike ignorance, but in fact, he was told every little thing to say, by you. You knew what we would ask him, you knew how this would go, the kid was your little messenger boy, you had no use for his Mom, she was just trying to stop you from taking her son, so you had to kill her. But then in another brilliant flash of inspiration, you decided to set yet another conundrum by cutting off her head and telling the boy to say a shark did it. Leading us on a wild goose chase."
"A wild shark chase", Debbor corrected him.
Grissom blinked. "And all this to get back at some people for a few late payments and a claim leading to a measly two year jail stint?"
Debbor began to fume. "Hey! I was a clean man once upon a time. At one stage, I was doing those rest home gigs out of the goodness of my heart. Then people started screwing me around, and I asked myself – "When is it going to be my turn? When is life going to be good for Tool Attola Debbor?" People should be allowed chances, even your dirty-rotten gambling C.S.I Brown had his second chance, but not me; I never even got my first!" He was breathing heavily now.
Grissom shook his head. "And you thought you'd get it by doing this?"
Debbor began to laugh - at the irony of it Grissom supposed.
"Go people to look at me didn't it, got people to respect me AND resent me."
"You seem to be a rather intelligent man. Why choose to be a loan shark?"
Debbor grinned a toothy, sickly grin. "I hear you're a man who likes a riddle Mr. Grissom." Grissom's brow furrowed.
Debbor continued. "The tool can be found, in its reflection."
Now Grissom was really confused.
Debbor nodded toward the end of the building where yet another small envelope sat propped up against a barrel.
Grissom turned at looked at the envelope.
The next thing that happened became a blur in Grissom's memory as the loud bang of a gunshot echoed through the Warehouse.
Grissom turned back sharply, horrified at himself for letting his guard down, panicked because he thought he was shot. When he could focus again though, he found, he was not wounded at all. What lay in front of him however, was Tool Attola Debbor, dead on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
That night after dealing with a panicked wife and a tumultuous afternoon of fighting his way into CSI through a sea of reporters, Grissom sat at his desk in his office with his head in his hands and a brown envelope in front of him. Grissom sighed and picked it up, tearing it slowly open. Grissom pulled out the piece of paper inside at stared at it, almost unbelievably. It read in bold writing - "All I ever wanted to be known as doing - Tool Attola Debbor." Grissom frowned and recalled what Debbor had said to him earlier. "The tool can be found in its reflection."
Grissom thought "Reflection. Reflection…"
Grissom jumped up out of his chair and ran to the other side of the room where he picked up a small mirror. He rushed back to his chair and sat down it, picking up the piece of paper again. He held the mirror slantways against the paper. He read the writing on the paper once more. "Tool Attola Debbor." He shifted his gaze to the mirror and stopped breathing for a moment when he read. "robbeD alottA looT."
THE END.