Chapter Two: (un)Clear
"I can't wrap my head around it, man."
It wasn't the first complaint to leave his partner's mouth tonight and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. Subtly rolling his eyes, Greg redirected his attention from Nick to the commotion outside the passenger window. The Vegas Strip was more raucous than usual, its sidewalks and streets crammed with intoxicated tourists sporting red, white, and blue attire. Fewer of the city's full-time residents were present, and could be identified by their weary eyes and faintly annoyed expressions.
Greg wondered if he could get away with turning the radio volume higher in order to tune out his partner. He'd kill for some Manson but would settle for the public talk radio that was already drifting faintly from the speakers. D.B. must have used this Denali recently.
"I'm being serious! Don't roll your eyes."
Greg heaved a sigh. Another possibility wandered into his mind: he could bail from the vehicle. He mused that it should only be utilize as a last resort, since road burn was not tempting, but it would certainly get him out of listening to Nick have a bad night.
"This is one of the busiest nights of the year," Nick glanced to him, gesturing at the crowd. "I don't know about you, but I've always snagged an exciting case on the Fourth."
Greg scoffed. "Good for you. My first Fourth of July out in the field? You and Warrick sent me to an elementary school to help the plumber snake all of the toilets. Every single one."
"Now that was a learning experience, and an important one. You were looking for the knife used in the stabbing of a teacher."
"It took nine hours, and we found nothing but a bunch of candy wrappers and condoms," Greg reminded him. "Do you know how disturbing it is to find flushed condoms in an elementary school?"
"Learning experience," Nick reiterated. He threw a somewhat guilty smile at Greg before continuing. "My point is, this year Catherine and Russell are on a double homicide, Sara and Morgan are checking out a freaking bomb threat, and you and I get stuck with a lousy home invasion?"
Greg tried to remain passive, because arguing took too much effort. In all honesty, he was perfectly content with their 'lousy' case. The break-in had occurred in an upper-middle class neighborhood just off the strip and was secured by the responding officer. No one was injured and with any luck it would be straightforward.
If they could ever get there.
The air conditioning was on full blast but he could feel the heat radiating up through the tires from the road, which continued to preserve the warmth of the desert summer day. Simultaneously, goosebumps covered his forearms and his fingertips were freezing. He shifted uncomfortably, clasping his hands together between his knees to warm them.
"And does this case really need both of us?" Nick continued, then added quickly: "No offense."
"None taken. If you want, I'll take the case. Maybe you can drop me off and go see if anyone else needs help?" Greg offered. Working alone did sound appealing tonight, which was strange because normally he felt the opposite. But he hadn't worked alone, not since…
"I wouldn't do that!" asserted Nick. He immediately realized that he had allowed too much emotion into his words, considering what he was responding to.
Greg noticed also. "I don't need a babysitter," he muttered quietly.
"What?"
"Nothing." Greg risked reaching to turn up the volume but his hand was smacked away.
"Why don't you care that Morgan and D.B., the newest members of the team, are getting the best cases? What the—"
Nick slammed on the brakes, sending both men forward against their seat belts and narrowly avoiding hitting the man who stumbled into the street in front of them. Doubling over and using a hand on the hood to balance himself, the man vomited directly in front of the vehicle.
"Oh, man," Nick groaned. "Please don't get it on the car."
They wished the headlights weren't on because they were at a perfect height to spotlight the stomach contents that spewed from the drunkard's mouth. Two men ran over and helped him out of the road. They chortled and clapped his back. Another fun story for the guys back home; if they remembered it.
"When do you think the party started for him?" Greg asked as Nick accelerated the SUV and continued to their scene. He was mildly amused but seriously appreciative of the interruption. "My guess is sometime between the broccoli and the lasagna."
"Gross. Besides, you're changing the subject."
Greg eyed the radio, then the door handle. "Everybody has to learn somehow. Besides, Russell's also our superior, and I think that trumps our years on the job."
"And then of course there's Ecklie's daughter. Of course she's gonna get the good cases."
"Hey, it's not Morgan's fault that her dad's the boss."
Nick chuckled. Little did Greg know, Nick was trying to get a rise out of him. He didn't actually care who got which cases. For the last couple of weeks his friend and coworker was acting off, and his usual attempts to cheer him up weren't working. The one-year anniversary of Greg's kidnapping and torture at the hands of Whitney Adams and William Harris was less than a month away, and Nick suspected that could be the cause.
Thirsty for revenge after Greg and Sara helped lock her sister up for life, Adams had hired Harris as muscle and abducted Greg. For a week they held him in an old nuclear storage facility in the desert, which she had purchased under a pseudonym. Within those thick walls he was subjected to torment that Adams fondly called her 'games'. He'd held on despite all odds against him, enduring psychological and physical torture that would send most people over the edge.
Six days into the search, the team suffered another blow: Sara was kidnapped also. Fortunately, she was only held in the warehouse for a night before Greg helped her escape. She dodged their captors and was eventually able to contact the team. By the time they made it to the warehouse, Adams and Harris had taken Greg on the run.
Greg nearly died. Well, technically he did die, but a quick-thinking paramedic brought him back. It might have been taken as a miracle, for those who believed in such things. Luck? No, luck was a strong word, because considering Greg's extensive recovery and the effort he'd put forth in order to function as his own person again...it was a scarring process that Nick would wish on no one.
Except maybe Whitney Adams, wherever she might be. Harris had been killed at the time of the car accident that put an end to the pair's escape attempt and got Adams arrested. However, she had later caused a helicopter to go down in the desert and was never found in the aftermath. It was this fact, along with other daily reminders of the traumatic experience, that Nick was sure haunted Greg ceaselessly.
"This is it," Nick stated, mostly to break the silence, as he pulled to the curb and shifted into park. Two vehicles already occupied the driveway: a black-and-white sedan with flashing lights and a tan Mazda. The latter, at least a decade-old, stood out to some extent against the elegant, upscale Spanish bungalow.
A minute later, carrying their kits, the two investigators ducked under the crime scene tape secured across the doorway to the large house. A young officer met them just inside and led the way to a concerned-looking young woman dressed in wrinkled flannel pajamas and wringing her hands.
"This is the owner of the residence, Virginia Wilhelm."
Nick and Greg introduced themselves and the woman smiled distractedly while accepting their hands. Hers were clammy and shaky.
"Actually, my father owns it. I'm just watching the house while he's out of the country. He's going to kill me." Virginia's hands never stopped moving. When she wasn't wringing them she scratched at a sore on her chin or ran thin, bony fingers through her disheveled hair.
The investigators couldn't help but think that Virginia, like the Mazda, didn't exactly belong with this house. They believed that she was who she said she was, but this house—this neighborhood—was in no way her usual stomping ground.
"So, where were you when the break-in happened?" Nick asked.
"I was asleep in the guest bedroom. I didn't wake up until I heard the cops about ready to break down the front door."
"Good thing your neighbors called the police. Nice neighborhood like this...Does your father have an alarm system?" Greg's eyes scanned the room and landed on the panel near the door. A red light flashed.
"Off," Virginia said. "I forgot to arm it."
Nick whistled. "That's a shame. Was anything taken?"
"I-I don't think so. Not that I've noticed."
Meanwhile, Greg had started to scan the main room, camera in hand but simply glancing the place over for now. The large, two-story entryway blended into a living area, where an elegant mantel adorned the fireplace. He spotted a dustless square in the middle of the mantel.
"What used to be here?" Greg asked casually, nodding in the direction of the mantel.
"Oh, um. Weird. I think my dad displayed his gun there. I didn't even know it was gone."
"What kind of gun?" questioned Nick, hand instinctively moving to his holster. "Was it loaded?"
Virginia was looking more nervous by the second. "No, it was an antique. He bought it at an auction. It collected dust."
Something caught Greg's attention under a nearby end table. A decorative tablecloth covered nearly all of the item, except for one protruding corner. He crouched down, pulled on a pair of gloves, and lifted the tablecloth. A rectangular glass box, roughly the size of a shoebox, was revealed.
"Let me guess, this is what it was displayed in?"
She nodded, eyes wide.
"Was this gun worth a lot of money?" Nick asked as Greg shot some pictures of the display case.
"Daddy said he paid over a million for it and that was a steal. It belonged to, uh, Gay...Gay Sam... ugh, I don't remember."
"Big Sam Gay?" Greg exclaimed, suddenly excited. He jumped up from a crouch, camera still held in front of him.
"I think so." Virginia shrugged.
"What am I missing?" Nick asked, glancing between the two.
"Sam Gay! A legend of the early nineteen-hundreds!" Greg's tone implied Nick should have known. "The guy started out as a bouncer on block sixteen and worked his way up to sheriff of Clark County. He kept the position for almost two decades."
Nick nodded politely.
Greg shook his head in disbelief as he continued to look around the room. "That's incredible."
While Ms. Wilhelm continued to speak with the officer, Greg and Nick made their way to the location of the break-in, which was the rear entrance. The sliding glass door had been shattered inward and the investigators had to step carefully as they moved around the area.
"You know," Greg said, "there are rumors that Sam Gay was on the wrong side of the early mob presence in Vegas. Maybe, this case is mob-related."
Nick smiled. "Yeah, maybe."
It was nice seeing his friend enthusiastic again. His voice was animated and instructive and as always when he felt passionate about something, his hand gestures became more exaggerated.
He continued to talk about Vegas history as they examined the door. Their hope was that the intruder had cut themselves on the glass and left behind DNA, but they couldn't detect any blood. They took samples to test anyway, and collected several fingerprints from the doorframe and glass.
"Nick, how much noise would you say an average glass door makes when it's smashed?"
"A hell of a lot," Nick confirmed. "One of my buddies accidentally fell into one back in college."
"Was he accidentally drunk, also?"
"Of course. I was upstairs in my bedroom, headphones blaring, and heard the crash."
"Hmm," Greg said simply before leaning down to photograph markers he'd just placed amongst the shards of glass.
"You're thinking it's strange that daddy's little angel out there didn't hear anything," Nick observed, lowering his voice.
"Her story isn't adding up," agreed Greg.
Companionable silence returned for the next hour as they methodically processed the rest of the room. Once finished with that area, Nick continued to check the main floor and Greg took the second. Neither was finding anything that looked out of place, and no belongings seemed to be missing except for the gun. It was likely the owner's most valuable possession besides the house. It seemed a bit too convenient that they learned the weapon had been purchased quite recently, and the robber clearly knew where to find it.
Greg was about to enter the third bedroom when Nick called to him from the main level. One side of the second-floor hallway looked down on the first floor, the drop guarded by a four-foot banister. Greg looked down at him.
"I'm all set here. You ready to head back?" Nick's head was tilted back to peer up at him, kit in one hand and a stack of evidence bags gripped in the other.
"Just about," Greg responded. "One more room, then I'll join you outside."
Nick turned and exited the house to load up the SUV. He intentionally slammed the door on the way out to wake up the officer who dozed in a lawn chair on the front porch.
Greg had just turned the knob when the door burst outward. He jumped back just in time to avoid having his face remodeled, but stumbled over his own feet. The hooded figure that dashed from the room further propelled him backwards, their arm and shoulder ramming into him. He felt his lower back impact with the wooden rail. For a second he thought he'd be all right; that the railing would do its job and prevent a fall. The intruder would just keep running past him, then Greg would gracefully regain his balance, tackle him, and become the hero of the story.
At least one of those things happened. The railing cracked noisily. Greg's arms instinctively flung outward and he happened to grasp onto the figure as they tried to escape towards the stairs. They managed to pull away and any balance that Greg had gained was lost. Instead of a slow-motion fall like the movies, time sped up after the banister collapsed and he plummeted to the first-floor entryway. The fall prompted the memory of a steep drop in a roller coaster, and this sensation reminded him of a time when Grissom had ridden next to him on one.
The impact with the table below knocked every thought from his mind and every ounce of air from his lungs. The back of his head felt like it was hit with a baseball bat. A sharp throb lit up his left arm, accompanied by tingling that reminded him of bleeding.
He felt a slight weight on his chest and looked down to see Sam Gay's pistol grasped in his right hand. The suspect must have been carrying it, and Greg happened to grab onto it when trying to avoid his fall.
"Greg!" Nick shouted moments before arriving at Greg's side. He had been on his way back inside to grab something he forgot when the intruder darted past him. The young officer ran after them. "Are you okay, man?!"
Greg smirked and held up the pistol triumphantly before his arm relaxed, collapsing back onto the table as he lost consciousness.
Nick cursed and checked his pulse. It was strong and steady, but that was quite the fall and considering Greg's complex medical history, he worried. Only now noticing the blood flowing from a cut on the inside of Greg's forearm, he swore again and pressed a hand over it.
"Call an ambulance!" he shouted. When he remembered that the officer had chased the perp and no one was there to hear, he retrieved his own radio. "I need backup and a bus to six-eighteen Lilac, I have a CSI down and a suspect on the run."
Bursting through the emergency entrance of Desert Palm Hospital, Sara nearly knocked over an elderly gentleman that was awaiting his ride. She uttered a brief apology that he probably could not hear and made a bee line for the triage and information desk. Morgan trailed behind, struggling to keep up.
"Greg Sanders?" she demanded anxiously, not caring that the clerk was on the telephone. The man irritably held up a finger, requesting she wait, and Sara sighed. She was prepared to head down the first hallway she saw and check every room until she found him. She even considered rounding the counter and searching the check-in list herself if he didn't hang up soon.
She was reaching for the swinging gate when she heard his voice.
"Sara? Morgan?"
She turned on her heel and spotted him instantly. Greg had emerged from a hallway to the left of the desk and stopped a few yards from them, looking surprised. Sara nearly tackled him in pure relief but stopped when she got a better look at him. His hair was in disarray, a bandage was taped securely around his left forearm, and his clothing was scuffed and wrinkled.
He took in the alarm in her features and flashed a grin. It was an attempt to lighten the mood, but only looked out-of-place. "So, crazy story…"
Sara wanted to shake him. Instead, she placed a hand flat on her chest to calm her own racing heart.
"Why are you two here?" Greg faced Morgan, although he inched nearer to Sara.
"For you, dummy," the blonde CSI responded lightly. "And Nick. Is he okay? Russell didn't have many specifics for us."
"Nick's fine. Brass called him in to ask him some questions; he left a few minutes ago. He really didn't even need to be here."
Both women let out sighs of relief.
"But you did. What happened?" Morgan asked.
"Can I tell you on the way back to the lab? I'm fine but I really need a shower." Greg shyly offered his unbandaged arm to Sara, who linked her own with it after a pause. Still watching him cautiously, she allowed him to lead her to the parking lot. Morgan followed them out, looking down at her phone after it vibrated indicating a new message.
"You can get your shower, but not at the lab," she informed them after reading the screen. "Russell says I'm driving both of you home."
"What? Why? It's only halfway through shift," Greg protested.
Sara raised an eyebrow as if daring him to try and go back to work, then she turned back to Morgan. "What about our cases? Besides, our vehicles are in the parking garage."
"Nick and Catherine are taking the cases over. I'll pick you both up tomorrow night—it's not like we don't work at the same time."
As Morgan drove the two to their apartment, Greg told both women about what happened at the scene. His fall had been from a height of about nine feet, and he had landed on his back on an entryway table. Miraculously nothing was broken, but he had a decent number of bruises and would be sore for a while. His arm was bandaged due to the splintering banister snagging it and leaving a three-inch cut. The suspect had been apprehended two blocks away by K-9 units, where he hid crouched in a box-thorn bush likely regretting his choices. Virginia had been livid with her boyfriend. Backup had to take her into custody as well when she attacked him.
The gun had departed with Nick to the lab, and Greg wished he had gotten a better look at it. He spent a lot of time talking about the history of the gun but breezed through the incident.
"Who was the responding officer?" Sara asked finally. She had been silent throughout his retelling, while Morgan had at least asked questions and clarified details.
Greg knew this was a bad sign. Leaning forward from the rear seat of the SUV, he poked his head between the two women. "Sara, it's not his—"
"It's entirely his fault," Sara cut in, turning in her seat to face him. "Is someone else supposed to clear the scene?"
Greg sighed. His body ached deeply, especially his back and his head. Now that he wasn't allowed to work he just wanted to get home, take a shower and some pain medication, and pass out in bed with Sara in his arms. "It's okay, really. I don't want to make a bigger deal out of this whole thing than it's already turned into."
She respected that Greg was exhausted, so Sara left the subject alone for the time being. The ride to their shared apartment passed in tense silence until Morgan adjusted the radio's volume so high that none of them could even think over the music.
Sara waited until she overheard the shower running before she undressed and joined him. Hearing the curtain rustle, Greg glanced back from where he faced the shower head and greeted her with a crooked grin. He hastily rinsed the shampoo from his head before turning around, forcing her to drag her gaze from his severely bruised back. She stepped closer, reaching to tenderly trace a developing mark on his chest. He instinctively winced at the touch and she pulled back guiltily.
Closing the distance between them in an instant, he drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She returned his embrace carefully—the worst of the bruising was on his mid-back—and buried her face in his freckled shoulder. The bag he had tied around his bandage crinkled as it brushed against her.
"Shh," Greg soothed. The warmth of his voice and of his skin against hers reminded her how he could have been stolen away so easily. Again.
She wasn't shaking from the cold, but he turned so the hot water streamed down on them equally.
After a long time, Sara pulled away just enough to stare into his deep brown eyes. "You're okay?"
Greg chuckled quietly and nodded. "I promise."
"Don't ever do that again."
He raised his eyebrows at her unreasonable request but kissed her forehead fondly. "I'll do my best not to have any more run-ins with faulty banisters."
Sara managed a smile, nervous though it was. Greg leaned in and kissed her forehead once more and then her cheek, and she ran her hands lightly over his shoulders and chest. She celebrated in the fact that he was here with her, and he was breathing, alive; closed her eyes and felt his muscles, how they tensed as Greg pressed her against the cool wall of the shower. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, laid a trail of kisses from her shoulder to her jawline. When one of his hands slipped between her legs, it was so much easier for Sara to feel as care-free as he acted.
She draped her arms over his shoulders and leaned her head back against the wall of the shower. The miracles he worked with his long fingers eventually sent her over the edge and she relied heavily on his support as she moaned and bucked in his grasp. Greg cupped a hand behind her head and pulled her in for a kiss once she had mostly recovered, which she returned greedily.
Moving both methodically and acting on pure animal instinct, Greg gripped Sara's thighs and hoisted her onto his hips. On the way, the soft flesh of Sara's stomach brushed his erection and he groaned. Getting Sara off, watching her ride out her orgasms, was still the sexiest thing Greg had ever experienced.
She helped him by pulling herself up, but he inhaled sharply and bowed his head. Swearing, Sara pulled her arms from his shoulders, leaving him to completely support her but only thinking about how she must have hurt him. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I'm all right, just a little sore," Greg breathed into her sodden hair. After a small hesitation, he leaned his head back to gaze into her eyes. "I need this. I need you."
She smiled in return. She needed him too. He nodded once, and she reached one hand to help guide him. They both let out moans as he eased inside of her. Sara returned both arms to his shoulders and the back of his neck. She began to carefully pull herself up and down as Greg moved his hips and they once again pressed their lips together passionately.
Inhalations and exhalations became ragged; motions more urgent and much less controlled. Sara's fingers wound their way through his hair. As Greg's body started to tense more and more, she moved her lips down to his jaw then to the side of his neck and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder. His breaths huffed against Sara's breast and he was hitting that spot just right and she felt herself about to come again. She whispered to him, lips brushing against his ear, repeating "I love you, I love you, oh God Greg I love you so much" and then he was groaning, thrusting into her a few last times before (oh shit no condom that's right) pulling out and coming between her legs.
Greg held her for a while longer, breathing heavily against her shoulder, stroking her hips with his thumbs. Then he eased her down until she was standing and pulled back, eyes twinkling, smiling whimsically at her.
She laughed nervously, suddenly feeling scrutinized. "What is it?"
"How'd I get so lucky?"
"How'd you get so cheesy?"
"Ever tried gamalost?"
"What?"
"It's a Norwegian cheese known for its unique smell, appearance, and taste." He leaned in and touched his lips to hers lightly. "Viking Viagra, they call it."
Laughing again, Sara pulled him in for a kiss.
Greg slept reasonably well until just after two in the afternoon, when thirst woke him. He rose stiffly, his body crackling in several places. Grimacing, he shuffled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He was extremely sore, especially his back, and his skull throbbed in time with each heartbeat. He hoped that he could take some more pain medication and catch a couple more hours of rest before work.
He popped some ibuprofen and was about to raise the glass to his lips when a voice whispered in his ear.
"Did I say you could have that?"
He gasped and dropped the glass in shock. Somehow it did not shatter, but landed flat on its base and sent water splashing everywhere, including on Greg. He barely noticed, having spun in the opposite direction seeking the source of the voice but finding nothing but the center island of the kitchen.
It had been her voice. He would recognize it anywhere, especially in his own home.
His mind raced, searching for possible explanations. They never found her body so there was never any proof she was dead, although it was the general consensus that she couldn't have survived. Common sense urged him to agree, but he struggled. Had she finally returned to finish him off? Perhaps she forced her way into the apartment while they were sleeping. Was she hiding close by, taunting him before stealing his life away? It wouldn't be quick and it most certainly wouldn't be painless; that wasn't Whitney's method.
If she was here, she could be just as easily be after Sara. It was only this that unfroze him and forced him to take a deep, shuddering breath and step over the puddle of water at his feet. He circled the island to reassure himself that no one hid on the opposite side of it. He even checked the larger cupboards, the pantry, and the closets, then the rest of the apartment just to be safe. It was unoccupied besides those that should have been there. Sara slept peacefully in their bedroom, the blackout curtains creating an allusion of night.
Okay, so you made it up.
That wasn't a comforting notion, but it was more appealing than Whitney Adams actually being there. Thirst forgotten and pills already swallowed, he toweled up the water mess in the kitchen and completed one final sweep through the apartment, checking the locks on the door and windows. The longer he was awake, the less sure he was of what he heard. Although their neighbors were mostly quiet, he supposed a sound from a television next door could have fooled him.
Closing and locking the bedroom door behind him for some added security, Greg climbed into bed next to Sara. He lightly draped an arm around her, careful not to wake her, and inched closer until his chest was pressed to her back. Her body felt perfect against him, as if she was molded to be there.
He fell asleep quickly and found himself in a nightmare land where Sara was gone and all of the people who hurt him and wanted to hurt him were lurking unseen. A cold breeze carried familiar whispers, giggles, and jeers, and the reflection of eyes gleamed preternaturally from nearby shadows.
"Hey, killer."
A/N: I thought about putting a warning at the top of this chapter about the sexual content, but it is in the story description, as well as being rated 'mature', so...
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you for the comments, follows, and faves! I love hearing what you think.