A/N: Thanks to everyone for staying with our story!

I Keep On Loving You

Chapter 15

After lunch, Catherine and Grissom were welcomed by the administrator into an office that appeared to be one of a successful man in any business. Shelves held photos of family members and golf events along with books and several diplomas. Centered in the room was a large desk but the man motioned the two visitors to a round table with four chairs.

It took several minutes for introductions and questions about Sara's recovery before Mr. James asked if there was anything else he could do for them.

Catherine sat, ready to pounce, but Grissom, in a surprising tactful moment, introduced Catherine again—and included her current job as a special agent for the FBI.

He said, "Mr. James, Sara's roommate is a lady who has been here twice for rehab." He provided Gracie's name and a brief history. "Gracie is of the opinion that several young men have died during rehab—healthy men who died suddenly days before they were going home. Sara has asked others about the men and it seems you've had several unexpected deaths. When Catherine heard the story—well, her nature as well as her job makes her curious."

Not how Catherine has planned to initiate an unofficial investigation, she thought, but she adapted quickly. "Do you think it is suspicious that four or five young men have died while in your facility?"

The administrator ran a hand through his stylishly cut hair looking at Catherine with a resolute expression. "I'm not surprised that you are curious. And yes, it is unusual. Let me say we have an outstanding rehab facility—recommended by the best physicians in Las Vegas. In our rehab unit we might have two or three deaths a year—elderly residents usually—and yes, there have been unexplained deaths." He sighed.

Several minutes of silence passed; Catherine and Grissom waited; Mr. James seemed to be thinking as his hands moved nervously, fingers tapping on the table before moving to his chin where his index finger rested. Cautiously, his eyes moved from Catherine to Grissom and back to Catherine.

"Red Rocks is a good facility. It has a long reputation of providing care to those who need it, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried." He paused again before continuing, "I normally would never consider this—but since you are FBI—I don't want this to be official or get out to the media—I—I could get their records and let you see what you think. We've looked at everything—or we think we have. It's not what we expect to happen." The man got up and walked to a file cabinet behind them. "I'll give you what we did—the director of nurses, the therapists, and I." He returned to the table with a file an inch thick and placed it in the center of the table. "I'd appreciate it if you'd read it here—in my office. That way no one else has to know. I have a meeting to attend in fifteen minutes. You'll have a couple of hours and no one will disturb you in here."

Quickly, Catherine explained the previous working relationship with Grissom and the man agreed that two sets of eyes were better than one.

Mr. James said, "I just don't think there is anything here—I've made some inquires—confidential with other administrators—asking about mortality rates among short-term residents. Their numbers are nothing like what we've had going on." He pushed the file in Catherine's direction. "I'd appreciate being the first to know if you find anything." He rose, saying, "I'll be back in two hours or so."

In the middle of the night, Sara lay awake, amazed at how fast things moved once Catherine and Grissom had visited the administrator's office and surprised at his willingness to share information. While she had returned to rehab for another session of pulling herself around on a mat, been given a shower, and had moved to a new room, Catherine and Grissom had read each page of the administrator's investigation.

And found nothing to indicate criminal intent in eleven deaths of men under the age of fifty-five that had occurred in the past year. It was a puzzle—Catherine and Grissom agreed—but the administrator and therapists had been thorough. The director of nurses and pharmacist had checked medications and, as the men were taking few medications and others were taking the same ones, found nothing to suggest harm.

Grissom and Catherine had related all this to Sara as they settled her into the new room—and Catherine had left, returning in an hour with shopping bags filled with new pajamas and colorful panties, several shirts and stretchy pants, nail polish, shampoo and conditioner—brands that Sara had never heard of but knew they were expensive—and, in the bottom of one bag was food; candy, granola bars, cookies, crackers, dried fruits, and nuts.

Sara had insisted Grissom go to dinner with Catherine while she and Gracie had dinner together and by the time she was ready for bed, Grissom had returned prepared to spend the night for the first time since Sara had moved from the hospital. They had watched a mindless television show, side by side in bed, holding hands until Grissom had fallen asleep; Sara realized he was exhausted. He woke when she turned off the television and moved to the sofa, insisting she needed the entire bed.

She stretched arms across the bed—even the mattress was more comfortable, she thought, and it made no noise as she moved. Having a private room was luxurious—a bed large enough so she could stretch arms and legs from corner to corner, a real closet, a bathroom with a shower, and, best of all, a sofa. Through the darkness, she could see her husband; she could hear his soft regular breaths. Rolling onto her side, she watched him sleep, his sock covered feet propped on the end of the sofa that was too short.

He was sleeping six feet away from her. Sara folded her pillow under her head wishing Grissom would wake up, open one eye and look in her direction. She fought back tears remembering the last time they had slept together—months ago after his mother had died. He had arrived for the memorial service, staying two nights in his mother's apartment. Hours after the service, she had used her key to go inside and found him sitting at his mother's small table, surrounded by her papers.

Glancing up, seemingly unsurprised by her arrival, he said, "I don't know what to do," his hand waved across the table, "about—about this." He had not changed his clothes; his eyes were red rimmed, his face weary.

She approached the table, circled it to place her hand on his shoulder. "Leave it, Gil. I'll—I'll take care of it. Get some sleep."

He had stayed at the table for several minutes before getting up, taking her hand and walking into his mother's bedroom. Without a word, he had pulled her onto the bed, both fully dressed, wrapped them with an old quilt, and hugged her to his chest. She had felt a quiet sob in his chest seconds before he kissed the top of her head. Slowly, his body relaxed and soon he had drifted into sleep. Hours later, when she woke, he was gone. Fate—her own actions of the past—had determined this, she thought. The bed was cool, his bag no longer on the chest. She had rolled over and cried into the pillow.

Suddenly, Grissom shifted his position on the sofa; his eyes opened and when he met her eyes, he smiled.

"Hey," he whispered. "Need anything?"

"Sleep with me."

Shaking off the blanket, he stood, stretched, and walked to the bedside. "Which side?"

In the darkness, Sara could see his smile. She patted the bed, saying, "Doesn't matter—I'm happy you're here."

He retrieved his blanket before crawling into the bed. "I hope this is approved—I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night with a big nurse giving me your meds—or something worse." Chuckling, he spread the blanket over both of them.

Sara giggled, "Carol taped a 'Do not disturb' note on the door—she thinks we'll be up to hanky-panky tonight."

Grissom sighed, saying, "I don't think Carol has the same physician's orders that I got."

Another giggle, "And what were those orders?"

"No sex—at least two months." His arm went over her to rest his hand on her abdomen. "But right now, it feels good to do this." He snuggled and kissed her shoulder.

"Thank you, Gil." Turning her face to his, she pressed her lips into his hair. Bringing his face to hers, he smiled.

"I-I'm sorry, Sara," he whispered before he kissed her again. His hands gently combed through her hair as he deepened the kiss. His tongue flicked against her lips and she responded with a smile as she managed to get her casted arm over his shoulder. Her hand pressed against the back of his head.

Sara thought she had grown accustomed to the little jolts of intimacy that sparked every time he touched her. But she was unprepared for the breathtaking kiss. Her husband's mouth was hot and hungry on hers, as if he was demanding—needing—a response. And she did, pressing fingers into his hair, opening her mouth to him.

Groaning, he pulled away. "You smell so good," he whispered against her throat. His fingers touched her cheek and then he kissed her again, a light glancing kiss that was affectionate and filled with promise. He touched her nose with the tip of his finger, saying, "You need to sleep," he said. "You need rest."

She laughed. "Did the doctor really say two months?"

"Yes."

Laughing again, she said, "I'll need my leg pillow to sleep. And I have some questions for the doc." She laughed again, lighthearted, before giving him a mockingly stern look.

He reached for the foam wedge Sara used to support her broken leg. "How does this work?" Gently, he lifted her casted leg and fit the foam pillow between her legs. "How's that?"

"Perfect," she said.

He settled back beside her. "What do you think—is anything going on with the men? Is it something we've missed? Or is it—is it an unexpected effect of trauma?"

Sara replied, "If there is nothing to be found—we can't very well do tox screens—or dig up graves unless we know there is a crime. Or have reasonable evidence of a crime." She sighed, "I'm watching everyone in rehab—and there is nothing! Everyone works—we work!"

"In the information we read today, the therapists and aides in rehab had written what they remembered about each man—they—the men—were on the treadmill or lifting weights when they fell over. By the time the crash cart and nurses and the doctor arrived, the men were dead—nothing they did brought a sign of life."

"Maybe it's not in rehab—maybe it's something outside of rehab." She said as she placed her hand on Grissom's face. "I don't want to think about this right now." Then she moved her hand to adjust the foam wedge between her legs. "I have to adjust this thing again."

Softly, he laughed. "This is like having a big dog in bed with us. Can you sleep?"

Sara rolled over so her back was against her husband's chest. "I think I can sleep—easily. I could get used to this."

In the darkness, Grissom knew she smiled. His arm tightened around her waist as he said, "I've never forgotten." His arm wrapped tightly around her. "I can too."

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