A/N: Thank you to everyone who continues to read...enjoy!

I Keep On Loving You

Chapter 17

"Little packets—those things used to flavor water."

Grissom appeared confused but he let her go and scooted out of bed.

"About this big," Sara said as she used her fingers to show him the size. "Like sugar packets—only smaller—and round. Gracie found them in rehab—I think I know what caused those men to die, but I need the packets!"

Quickly, on hands and knees, he found what she wanted. "These?" He asked, presenting several in his hand.

"Yes—keep looking—should be a few more. Clear packets that look like sugar."

His head disappeared under the bed, then his shoulders, his butt in the air. Sara reached out and gave him a gentle pat. Softly, she giggled, "I love that butt!"

Slowly, he backed out from under the bed, holding two clear packets between his fingers. "What on earth have you found?"

"The package says its caffeine—a lot of caffeine, I think. Several months ago—in Ohio or Indiana—a young man died of a caffeine overdose. Reported at the time, and we talked about it at work, probably happens more than we know—and usually reported as a cardiac arrest or seizure." Her eyebrows lifted in an expression of pleased triumph. "Caffeine powder isn't regulated—and isn't checked for by most coroners! So when Hodges tests those packets, I think we're going to know how they died!" Screwing up her face as she grinned, she added, "At least we will have a probable cause."

Grissom turned the packages over in his hand. "It appears to be a home-made packet of some kind, not like the others—it's—I think it's a drinking straw!" He rolled one between his fingers. "White powder—what made you think caffeine? It might be cocaine."

Sara laughed and shook her head. "Look close—it's written on one of them—in Spanish. And cocaine in a nursing home—why? We get lots better stuff than that—all legal—for pain, to sleep, to wake up, for depression—there's a pill for that." She took the packet from his fingers. "I'm calling Hodges—I'll bet this is pure caffeine and it doesn't take much to cause death."

Chuckling as he sat on the bed, he said, "No one is going to believe you and Gracie solved these deaths—or probably have. How'd you find the packets?"

"Gracie. She said the water man hands them out—and she found these in a box with the others. We took all the caffeine ones."

"What if I take them in? Maybe Hodges will be in a forgiving mood."

"Forgiving mood? For what?" Sara asked as she struggled to move on the bed.

Grissom watched a few seconds and then said, "Let me help you." He slipped arms underneath and around her and easily shifted her into a more comfortable position as he talked. "Oh, he kept emailing me and I ignored him, deleted his messages—never even opened them—except for the lab, I—I never had much to say to Hodges."

Sara grimaced, "Well, that's probably for the best—that you didn't read his emails. He has his own opinion of everything that happens—not always right—but he thinks so." Waving the little packet in the air, she giggled. "I do believe he'd forgive all if you asked him to solve a little mystery."

Grissom took the packet and several others, wrapping them in a tissue before sticking them in his pocket. "You need to rest—and that nurse is going to be back. I'd think an attack—dementia or not—would be written up and reported."

Thumping her pillow with a fist, Sara slumped back on the bed. "I am so tired of this place—I'd give anything to—to go home!"

Suddenly, Grissom's face brightened with a grin; he stood, rocking back on his heels. "That's my news! In all the excitement, I'd forgotten—you are going home! Insurance has approved everything—and Benita is going to be your nurse of record! When you are discharged from here—which I think I'm going to speed up when I talk to the administrator—you get to go home. From there, you'll be an outpatient at the institute."

Sara's face had gone through a series of expressions from surprised disbelief to dumfounded amazement before she said, "How? How'd you manage this?"

Grissom sat down on the bed beside her. "Perseverance, dogged determination—I kept calling, kept asking questions. When one said 'no' I'd ask to speak to someone else." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and continued, "It really isn't that unusual—for people to be out-patients—and once I—we—agreed to all the requirements, it became possible."

He could feel Sara's relief as she relaxed against him. "Home," she whispered, "I can really go home?"

"Yes, yes, but you have to go in for rehab six days every week—a few more days here—maybe less—and you will be sleeping in your own bed."

"I'm going home." Suddenly, she turned to look at him. "Gil," tears glistened her eyes. "Who—who…" fingers covered her mouth as she attempted to gain control of emotions. "Gil, I don't want you to have to—to be my nurse! To—to have to wait on me—there's so much I can't do! I—I don't want you to have to do everything. It's a lot of work to get a shower—and cooking, driving back and forth…I can't even stand up yet."

There was a moment of silence; Sara could see the muscles in Grissom's jaw twitch several times.

Quietly, he spoke, "Sara! Honey, I'll take care of you—I came back because you needed me—I need you to need me." His hand reached for hers as he turned so he faced her, saying, "At one time, we grew to need each other." He sighed, "And then we grew apart. It's—it's not something I'm proud of, Sara. Let me—let me do this—for me—as—as a way of apology."

For a fleeting minute, he caught a glimpse of uncertainty as she searched his face, seemingly testing him before compliance and agreement soften the sparkling gold flames in her eyes. He saw the moment pass as she relaxed allowing her head to fall against the pillow.

His sense of relief was almost overwhelming as she murmured a soft "okay".

Managing a smile as his mind tried to make order out of the chaos of recent events, he asked again, "Are you sure you are okay?" The intrusion and attack seemed to be pushed out of her thoughts with relative ease.

She nodded just as a light rapping on the door occurred; instead of the usual, "Come in" he got up and opened the door.

The nursing supervisor asked, "Is it okay to come in? I've really got to make a report."

Sara nodded again, "Come in." She looked at Grissom saying, "Hodges—and the administrator."

Grissom nodded, touched his pants pocket, and started out the door halting his footsteps to return to Sara's bed. "I'll be back," he said as he lifted her chin and softly kissed her lips. "Rest."

As he headed in the direction of the administrator's office, Grissom had time to reflect on the panic that had hit him immediately upon seeing the frenzy in Sara's room. In an instant, he had realized, again, how much he loved her—and how much he had failed as her husband. When Sara had responded, not with horror and misery, but with an amusement that interrupted a predictable routine, he had, again, realized a responsibility—his responsibility to the woman who was his wife; he had followed ambitions that would ultimately mean little to anyone as he had traveled around the world. Sara—his lonely wife and the only woman he had ever passionately loved—had remained in their house, taking care of their mothers and their dog without complaint as he had abandoned and neglected the most important person in his life.

What a fool he had been, he thought as he arrived at the office of the administrator and, as if expected, was shown in, door closing behind him.

Immediately, several minutes of apology preceded Grissom walking across the room and taking a seat in a chair across the desk from the administrator who kept expressing regret for "this incident".

Hearing enough—without hearing a real explanation—Grissom interrupted, "Mr. James, how often does this happen? How does a man living here manage to enter rooms—and I understand there can be no locks on the doors—when he's an obvious danger to others?"

The man stammered another apology.

Grissom remained calm and quiet. And remained in the chair.

Mr. James spread his hands across his desk, saying, "We've already called his responsible party—the man will be leaving as soon as possible."

"To another place where he will keep doing the same thing to unsuspecting women?"

The administrator dropped his head. "I don't know—I don't think so. He has a history—a criminal past."

Grissom could not believe what he was hearing. "He's a criminal? Please don't tell me this guy is a sexual predator—a rapist!"

The man's eyes remained cast downward as he pushed a single piece of paper across the desk. "This is in strict confidence—I take responsibility because it was my decision to admit him—but first, I want you to know that I was told he had dementia and his—his past was behind him—forgotten with dementia. But it's not—your wife was the third woman he has attacked." He kept fingers on the paper, pausing a few seconds before continuing, "I knew him when I was a kid—could not believe—it was difficult to believe he had killed those young women over several decades…" The administrator wiped his face and looked at Grissom. "He was my dentist—a kind, considerate old guy—I knew his daughter!"

Grissom's jaw slacked in surprised astonishment. "Don't tell me this is David Lowry?"

The administrator nodded, saying, "It is."

Leaning back in the chair, Grissom found he was gripping the armrests of the chair. "David Lowry—David Lowry! He was sent to prison for life!"

"It's a well hidden fact of the prison system—and places like this—that elderly, senile, sick prisoners are discharged to long-term care facilities. Most of them are not ambulatory, most have a few months to live, and are harmless—don't even remember why they are in prison. So when his name crossed my desk—and it is my mistake—I decided to approve his admission."

Grissom did not pick up the paper; speechless, he stared at the administrator, incredulous disbelief playing across his face by what he had just been told.

Mr. James said, "I sincerely regret this. The most I can do is offer my services—whatever I can do—to rectify the situation. Anything?"

At this offer, Grissom immediately knew what he would ask of the administrator. "Get the man out of this place—call the prison—whatever you do—get him away from women!" He leaned forward, saying, "And I want my wife discharged—tomorrow. Work it out with her physicians and therapists—but she's going home."

A/N: Who remembers David Lowry? And Sara's going home! More to come...thank you for reading and we appreciate those who send a comment or review!