It happened at 5:00am, when Sara drifted awake to a soft voice penetrating the darkness.
"Grissom."
A pause.
"Grissom?"
Tucked into Grissom's side, Sara blinked as her cosy pillow moved. The mattress shifted, and she wearily inclined her head to make out the source of the commotion in the moonlight.
It was Sofia. She stood beside the bed in her lingerie, and at a glance Sara could tell something was wrong. Her face was sickly pale with cold sweat, and she gripped the bedside table with white knuckles to stop herself collapsing.
"Sofia?" Sara questioned, pushing herself up.
"Are you all right?" Grissom added.
"I feel really sick," Sofia said.
Her eyes pleaded with them for help, and she breathed erratically, as if unable to draw air. She wavered where she stood, and in a flash Grissom moved, throwing back the covers.
She looked about to faint.
"Come here –"
He locked his arms around her bare waist, and drew her to sit down on the mattress. The sheet was crinkled and sweaty from their love-making and the summer heat, but she did not seem to notice as she sat weakly down, gripping the edge for support.
"What happened?" Sara asked, wriggling across to sit with her. "Is it your head?"
"It's killing me," Sofia replied, still struggling for breath. "I feel really weird."
"It's probably the alcohol," Grissom ruled, crouched in front of her to examine her. "You probably drank too much."
"Do you feel hung-over?" Sara queried. "Do you usually get a headache after you drink?"
"It's not the grog," Sofia said, sounding slightly panicky. "It doesn't feel like this; this is worse. Something's wrong."
Her hand clutched the mattress harder, scrunching up a handful of sheet. She sounded desperate, and throwing a worried look to Grissom, Sara quickly seized control.
"Lie down," she guided. "Put your head on the pillow."
She tugged the pillow into place, and then gently held the back of her neck, guiding her down. She felt a rush of anxiety as she took in Sofia's condition, her weakness and erratic breathing, and above all else, her obvious distress. She knew Sofia was not the type to ask for help unless the situation was dire, and wondered how long she had delayed before it had become bad enough that she had resolved to wake them. She pressed her fingers to her pulse and found it slow but unsteady, and put a hand to her forehead and found her skin clammy. Sofia's eyes half-closed, and Sara swiftly moved to keep her awake.
"How many drinks did you have?" she questioned. "Do you remember?"
"I don't know," Sofia replied, weakly shaking her head.
"How many pills did you ingest?" Grissom asked, evidently thinking along the same lines. "Those painkillers."
"I don't know," Sofia repeated.
A sense of alarm was steadily rising within Sara, the facts and her own suspicions fast falling into a terrifyingly perfect order.
"Well how often did you take them?" Sara asked. "How regularly?"
"Was it every two hours?" Grissom prompted. "Every three?"
"I wasn't timing," Sofia confessed. "The pain was too strong – it's been bad since we left Vegas."
She put a few fingers over her eyes, as if shielding herself from a non-existent light, and to Sara this was the final indicator.
"I think you've overdosed," she told her. "Have you vomited? Been sick yet?"
Again, Sofia shook her head.
"I haven't been sick, I just feel weird."
"We need to get her to vomit," Grissom said, quickly reading her mind.
Sara nodded. If they had been in Vegas, she would never have dared to try it. They would have called 911, and got her to a hospital where the doctors could choose from a plethora of drugs to protect her body from the toxins. But they had none of those at their disposal, and their only hope now was to get her to expel it from her stomach before it killed her.
"See if there's something we can use as an emetic," Sara said, catching his eyes as he moved to the door.
"I'll find something," he assured. "I'll be right back."
He left, and Sara heard his footsteps padding hurriedly up the hallway. Next to her on the bed, Sofia's eyes had slipped closed again. She seemed to be focusing on the task of breathing, and a section of the bed sheet remained anxiously clenched in her hand.
"Don't go to sleep yet," Sara told her. "Stay awake."
"I'm awake," Sofia replied.
But she did not look it; she was sinking fast.
Sara listened anxiously for Grissom downstairs, wishing he would hurry up, and after a moment was rewarded with a dull clunk as the household pipes stirred to life with running water, and she knew he was in the kitchen.
"Hang in there," Sara said. "He'll be back in just a sec'. You'll be fine."
"Sara, I don't feel good."
"I know," Sara said, nodding. She reached for her hand and replaced the clenched bed sheet with her own fingers. "We'll just get some of the toxins out of your system and you'll feel better. Don't worry."
Sofia gripped her hand tight, and Sara kept glancing over her shoulder, scared that the doorway was still empty, and no sounds were coming from the dark corridor beyond.
Sofia fell quiet, still on the pillow.
"Stay with me," Sara urged. "Don't close your eyes."
Sofia ignored her, whimpering into the pillow.
"My head really hurts."
"I know," Sara said, holding her hand tight.
"I think my skull's going to disintegrate."
"You'll be fine," Sara repeated. "I'm sure it's just the alcohol."
"Sara, you're not listening."
There was a biting irritation to her tone, and her eyes snapped open, locking on Sara with frustration. But as her anger simmered Sara spotted a second emotion in her friend's blue eyes which scared her infinitely more – fear. Sofia was not just scared, but so far beyond scared that Sara suddenly understood why she had woken them, and what she was trying to say. Suddenly it felt like the floor had fallen out from under her, and she fought to find words.
"It's that bad?" she asked.
In response Sofia merely looked at her, pleading for her to understand.
"I didn't want to wake you, but I think it's …"
"It's okay," Sara cut in, thinking that Sofia's only crime had been in hesitating so long. "I'm glad you did."
She glanced over her shoulder, but still the hallway was empty. She felt scared as she realised that Grissom was taking too long, taking up time they didn't have.
"I'm going to go see what's keeping him, and then I'll be straight back, okay? Just hold on one second."
"I'm trying," Sofia replied.
She grasped her head, and her eyes slipped closed again. Sara leapt off the bed, jogging to the door and rounding the corner to see Grissom at the top of the stairs, calmly holding a glass of water and a bucket. He looked alarmed as she rushed toward him, seizing his elbow.
"She's in trouble," she explained, hurrying him forward with her. "She thinks she's dying."
She caught a flash of his eyes widening, but they were stopped halfway as the door to Nick and Warrick's room opened, and Nick appeared, rubbing his eyes.
"What the hell's going on?" he asked sleepily. "It's not even morning yet."
He looked critical of their racket, but Sara had no time to explain. As she ushered Grissom forward, she spoke over her shoulder.
"Go wake Warrick and Catherine, get them in here."
"They're trashed, Sara –"
"Just do it," she ordered.
She had no time to see if he obeyed or not, but rounded the bedroom doorway with Grissom, and saw Sofia exactly where they had left her; lying back on the pillow with eyes closed, covered head to toe in a glistening cold sweat.
Grissom put the bucket down and placed the glass on the bedside table before reaching for her.
"Sit up, we need you to drink this. It'll help clear your stomach."
"What is it?" she asked.
"Saltwater. It'll remove the poison from your system. Once that's out, we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with."
Sofia weakly shook her head. "I don't think I can."
"I know you don't feel like it, but you need to," Grissom counselled. "It'll all be over in a minute."
"It won't help."
She looked as though she would not be giving in, and that she couldn't even face the thought of sitting up, let alone drinking a liquid that she knew would make her incessantly vomit. She closed her eyes, still holding her head in agony, but Sara was not in a mood to give in either, not willing to throw away Sofia's life without a fight.
She took the glass, and sat down on the bed beside her, holding her.
"Drink up," she urged. "When it's over you can rest as long as you want – we promise."
"You can stay right here," Grissom agreed. "But you need to drink first."
"Just let me rest a second," Sofia begged.
She raised a hand, fending off the approaching glass. Sara sighed. She was plotting her next move just as she heard Catherine's grumpy voice issuing from up the hall, evidently in a filthy temper.
"This better be good."
"She didn't say why?" Warrick asked, also sounding pissed off.
"I think something's wrong," Nick offered.
"Well of course something's wrong," Catherine said, as if they were deliberating stating the obvious just to be aggravating. "We're still stuck in this hell-hole."
"It's like groundhog day," Warrick muttered.
"Yeah, well, don't shoot the messenger, all right?" Nick shot back.
Sara looked up as they entered, and saw all three of them looked dreadful. They were all still in their underclothes from hours before – although Catherine had put back on her bra – but they looked distinctly the worse for wear. Their hair was ruffled from attempted sleep, their faces sickly with a pending hangover and barely restrained temper.
Nevertheless Catherine's eyes quickly took in the scene, and when she spotted Sofia breathing shallowly between them, her anger appeared to vanish.
"What the hell happened?" she asked, striding forward to join them.
"She overdosed on beer and the meds, and it's aggravated her head injury," Grissom supplied.
Sara again attempted to get Sofia to drink, moving the glass toward her again.
"Come on," she urged. "Drink up. It'll only take a minute."
"I know it's not pleasant, but you'll be fine," Grissom added. "And if you can't do it for yourself, or for us, then at least do it for your mother. She wouldn't want you to give up."
"Just give me a minute," Sofia pleaded, eyes still closed.
"You've had a minute," Grissom countered. "Your time's up – now drink."
But Sofia didn't move.
"Just drink it, Sofia," Warrick said, looking impatient.
Catherine put a hand on Grissom's shoulder, urging him out of the way.
"Stop pussyfooting around," she said.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, tucked her red hair back behind her ear, and then reached to take the glass from Sara. A firm, no-nonsense look was set on her face.
"Sofia," she said, voice firm, "Look at me."
Sofia reluctantly opened her eyes.
"Here's the deal," Catherine said. "You can either take this voluntarily, or – in the interest of saving your life – we'll force it down your throat. I'm going to give you to the count of three before I lose my patience."
Sara made a mental note to never again wake Catherine mid-hangover, but did not move to stop her. She had the impression that Catherine had done this before; her actions reeked of experience.
"One –"
Sofia simply looked at her, as if debating whether she meant it, or if she herself had the energy or inclination to fight her off.
"Two –"
Sara braced herself, on edge to either hold Sofia down, or hold Catherine back.
"Just do it, Sofia," Nick urged.
"Three."
Catherine didn't hesitate – she reached forward and pinched Sofia's nose closed, forcing her to open her mouth to breathe, and moved to pour the saltwater in. Sofia struggled, shooting up a hand to grab Catherine's wrist, but before Sara could move, or even decide whose side she was on, it was all over. Sofia drank the first sip reluctantly, but then, her fight vanished. Catherine let go of her nose, and she began to drink the rest voluntarily.
"Drink it all," Catherine said, voice gentle again as Sofia paused, "All the way down."
Catherine held her head as she drank, helping her get it down, and then placed the empty glass back on the bedside table.
"Sit up – it'll make you sick."
Sara moved to help her up, motioning for Grissom to get the bucket, and he held it ready in front of her. Sara held back her long hair as Sofia leaned over. Her back was slick with perspiration.
"Don't try to hold it back," Catherine said, arm around her. "Just let it out."
Sofia did. She vomited several times into the bucket, pouring out the contents of her stomach. When done she stayed leaning over, as if uncertain whether more was coming.
"You done?" Catherine asked.
But Sofia held up a hand. Grissom held the bucket for her, and after a moment she started again, vomiting twice more before her stomach was at last empty, and then stopped, catching her breath.
"Finished?" Grissom asked.
Sofia nodded.
Sara let go of her hair, and rubbed her back a little. She felt her trembling.
"You've got the shakes," Catherine observed. "Lie down, catch your breath."
Sofia went silently, laying down on the pillows and closing her eyes.
"I'll get a damp cloth," Sara volunteered, noting her sweat. "Something cold."
"I'll go," Nick interrupted, stopping her as she moved to get off the bed. "You stay there."
He left.
"Open a window," Catherine directed to Warrick. "Let some fresh air in. It's stuffy in here."
Sara knew the room carried a subtle smell of sweat and sex, and was grateful when Catherine did not state the obvious, but for once passed over the opportunity. Warrick did as she asked, and a moment later the fresh night air swept the room. It was still warm outside, a scent of the desert on the air.
Nick returned with a damp washcloth, and taking it, Sara placed it on Sofia's forehead.
"Thanks," Sofia whispered.
"You just rest," Sara soothed. "We'll stay with you a while. You'll be fine."
"How do you feel?" Grissom asked. "Faint? Hot? Cold?"
"I don't know," Sofia said quietly.
Standing by the window, Warrick raised an eyebrow.
"I know you don't feel well, but that's not much of an answer," he said.
Sofia did not reply, evidently too ill to care what he thought.
"Well … is there anything we can do?" Nick asked, throwing an uncertain look to Warrick. "Anything you need?"
"I don't think so," Sofia whispered.
Her eyes remained closed, her body still shaking slightly. Nick's brow furrowed, concerned, and he threw questioning looks to the others. Sara responded with a grave look of her own, trying to communicate everything that Sofia had hinted at earlier without having to use words. Catherine nodded, and then watched Sofia for a moment before making a decision.
She edged closer to her on the bed, and after hesitating a moment, took her hand in hers.
"It's your head, isn't it?" she asked gently.
Sofia didn't respond.
"Look, I know you're scared. If I thought not talking about it would help, I'd stay silent forever. But I think we're past that point, and I think maybe we do need to discuss it. I mean, if you'd rather speak with one of us alone, that's fine. That's okay. But I know you're in pain, and I know you wouldn't have woken Sara if you thought you could cope. If it's bad, you need to tell us."
Sofia said nothing for a moment, but Catherine held her hand, and stroked back her long hair, and a second later, the gesture of tenderness broke her.
"It's bad, Catherine."
Her voice was a whisper, and there was a hitch in it of threatening tears that struck Sara. She reached forward to put a hand on her arm, feeling dreadful for her. Watching beside the bed, Grissom looked pained.
"I saw you taking a lot of pills in Vegas," Catherine went on. "Was it this bad then, or only since tonight, when we started drinking?"
"It's been bad since Vegas," Sofia answered. "It feels like I've been stabbed in the head. But it's been killing me since midnight."
Sara knew the alcohol and drugs had made it infinitely worse – and that they should never have given them to her. They had been crappy friends to let her drink at all, and even worse to get her drunk and talk her into taking her clothes off as a joke. None of them had even paused to ask if she had been okay, none of them had bothered to care. Guilt swamped her, and she shook her head, disgusted with herself, with all of them.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Catherine asked quietly.
Sofia's little finger shifted, wiping at a stray tear.
"Because I knew you wouldn't have cared," Sofia said honestly. "You had no strength to care."
Coming back from Vegas, Sara knew it had been the truth, and this knowledge made it hurt all the worse. Even when they had woken in the pharmacy the next morning, not one of them had asked about her condition, and while all of them had noticed that she had swallowed too many painkillers, not one of them had asked about it, or looked out for it in any way whatsoever. Sara knew that if Sofia had had any thoughts of telling them, they certainly hadn't given her any opening to do so, not until now, when she had been forced to come to Sara due to blinding pain, and yet felt the need to apologise for doing so.
She felt sick, and wondered what on Earth she had been thinking.
"Sofia, I'm sorry," she said, unable to hold back any longer. "I should have been a better friend. I should have looked out for you, known that you weren't okay."
"It's all our faults," Grissom said, looking equally gutted. "We should never have made that trip to Vegas. We put our hunger for information above your health, and that was wrong."
"I agree," Warrick added. "And we should never have let you drink tonight, either. We got you drunk instead of putting you safe in bed, or at least making sure you were okay."
"Got you drunk and treated you like a sex object," Nick agreed. "I'm so sorry, Sofia."
He had tears in his eyes, looking deeply disturbed.
"I'm sorry too," Catherine added. "For all those reasons – but most of all because I have the feeling that you're about to tell us that it's too late. That you woke Sara for a reason, or that she woke us for a reason."
She held Sofia's hand tight, and face hidden behind her other, Sara heard Sofia sniffle, her tears falling.
"I'm so sorry, Catherine," she said, voice breaking.
"It's not your fault," Catherine said emphatically. "It's our fault. It's all our fault."
She sounded miserable, on the verge of crying herself.
"Promise me you'll go see my mother – afterward," Sofia pleaded. "Go explain, tell her I tried. Tell her I love her."
"If it comes to that, we promise," Sara vowed, thinking it was the least they could do after the despicable way they had treated her.
"We'll go see her," Nick promised. "We'll take care of everything, don't you worry."
As they watched Sofia deteriorate, Sara's guilt continued to wrench at her. It wrenched with sickening heaviness when Sofia asked if they'd mind staying, and even more when she helplessly watched her condition worsen despite their best efforts to help. They had proved powerless, and it was a harsh reality check that brought Sara to a painful acquaintance with how insignificant and helpless they were in the cruel natural order of the world, and that they had thrown away the only defence that Sofia had had in their friendship. The hours that followed were some she did not care to ever remember, and though she tried to scrub them from her memory the pain of guilt remained, and never receded.
All she could do was vow to never be that stupid again, and that had to be enough.
XXX
In the Catholic cathedral of Las Vegas, Brass stood at the edge of the crowd, taking in the masses. It had been nearly a week since the CSIs went missing, Sofia with them, and the prayer service had not come as a surprise. For days they had searched, had lost sleep and trawled through their absent colleagues' houses searching for clues, but the lack of any had got to them all. He had never felt so helpless, or more desperate as the devastating reality had set in days later. He knew they had crossed a line now, that kidnapping deadline cops knew about, that they were now beyond the point of any realistic hope of finding them alive. Wherever his friends were, they were long gone. The hopelessness that had set in had led the Sheriff to organise the prayer service for the LVPD staff, to give them an outlet for their emotions, but standing now at the edge of the crowd, Brass could not shake the feeling that he should be at the office instead. He should be doing something – doing anything – rather than sitting in some church praying.
His eyes settled for a moment on the projector screen at the front. The six photographs of his missing friends and colleagues were there on display, their names neatly typed beneath. The effect made it feel like a funeral service, and Brass felt barely able to look at the photos without the gnawing feeling in his gut starting again, their smiling faces only filling him with agonising pain. He had not done enough, but had no idea what else to do, what more to try. The news of their disappearance had made headlines, and with it had come a spate of media speculation and an intense interest from the public which did not help matters. He felt pressed to give speeches when he should have been out looking, and having to admit to having no real leads only made them all feel worse. The FBI in Washington DC had offered to help, and Brass and his senior colleagues had gratefully accepted – so devastated after several days' searching that they were willing to embrace any expertise offered – and now FBI agents were mingling with the crowd, talking with the families, gathering intelligence from the people who knew them best.
Among the crowd were those he knew – Lindsey Willows with her grandmother Lily Flynn up the front, talking with the Sheriff, and nearby in the front pew with a sign language translator, Grissom's mother. In the thick of the crowd at the rear of the church was Dianne Curtis, whom he had never known prior to her daughter's disappearance, but who he had come to regard as a much needed friend over the last few days. Dianne Curtis was a thin woman who had a vibe of someone who was too busy to ever sit down, and though she looked little like her daughter – Dianne's hair straight and black to her shoulders – she shared all her mannerisms. She was every bit the efficient, down to Earth police captain that Brass had expected to find her, and though she worked in a separate county of Nevada, they had quickly found themselves to be on the same wavelength, and he had got to know her well over the last several days. On the third day after the disappearance, when Dianne had been starting to crack, he had secretly shown her the files – technically illegal and yet he had been eager to tap into her expertise and any personal knowledge of Sofia which might help – but though Dianne had perused the file with him for several hours, nothing further had occurred to them. Fears and suspicions were abundant – the most likely of those that they had been kidnapped or murdered, or even held hostage – but the only thing which had even come close to being a lead was their discovery of Catherine's hidden wealth, and secret share of the Eclipse that she had inherited from her father, Sam Braun. They had followed that possibility rigorously, but the casino denied receiving any ransom note, as did Lily Flynn and Lindsey, and as time wore on it seemed increasingly unlikely. Nevertheless he had become keenly, unpleasantly aware now of how good looking all three of the missing women were, and hoped that whoever had them, that the men had been able to do something to protect them. The possibilities had been haunting his dreams.
Brass nodded in greeting to Greg Sanders, who stood across the church with a few of Nick's brothers. Of everyone involved, Greg had been affected as bad as any of them, and the signs were beginning to show. His face was grey, the bags under his eyes deep from sleep deprivation, and despite being catastrophically short-staffed, and flying in forensics experts from across the country to fill the void, Ecklie had still sent him home twice in the past week. And yet mental illness had been a symptom for all of them who knew the CSIs and Detective Curtis best, and it was for this reason that half the LVPD had shown up today. Everyone had worked with them at one stage, and everyone felt bad, desperate for good news which seemed unlikely to ever come. LVPD psychologists were now mingling with the crowd too, offering what help they could, and handing out cards.
"Jim."
Brass gave a tight smile as Sheriff Atwater joined him.
"So it's come to this," the Sheriff said, glancing over the crowd and talking lowly. "Prayer."
"It's about all we have left now," Brass replied.
He felt awful, and yet it was the truth.
"Well I pray they're alive," the Sheriff said, "out there somewhere."
"If they were okay, if it was just an accident, they would've found their way back by now."
Brass knew that much was a certainty. Sara and Catherine, at least, were tough as steel, and he had no doubt that if it had been a simple matter of getting lost, they would have reappeared in Vegas days ago. The fact that they hadn't only meant one thing.
"They're in trouble," he added.
The Sheriff nodded in discrete agreement.
"At least they're together, and armed. We have to be grateful for that much."
Brass was, but as the days wore on it offered little comfort. The Sheriff caught the eye of the Governor at the back, and quickly excused himself. Brass did not follow. He knew that in a minute he too would have to pull himself together, to go play the part of the still hopeful Captain he was required to play, and above all else, to go check in on Lindsey for Catherine's sake, but he wanted to seize a moment of quiet before that time came.
Hope. It all seemed so far away. And despite the label of a prayer service, a service of united hope, it still felt like a funeral.
He had failed them, and that was that.
End Part One, and the first half of the story.
Again, a depressing chapter to write, and one that makes me determined to insert some lightheartedness into the next few to make up for it. But I'm glad to have reached this point; it's such a key turning point in the story and I've reached it earlier than I expected.
On the up side - on a completely unrelated matter - I am giggling at the possibilities of the havoc I could unleash (a good 10-15 chapters on from here) if I had Dianne Curtis and Jim Brass actually get together. It's not implausible - shared pain of trying to cope, both captains etc - and yet the thought makes me smile with cheekiness. Sofia's reaction would be like, "WTF?", followed closely by, "He's my boss, *not* my father", or "You slept with my boss?!", or even "What do you mean you're married? Are you serious?" Seriously makes me laugh although I doubt there'd be room for it, so I'll probably have to pass on it. But strange the directions my brain takes sometimes.
Thanks to those who've read this far, and especially to those who've offered support and feedback through the first half of this story - the turning point in the whole thing is now here, and I hope you'll stick around for the rest. Love, Anna.