Chapter 1:
2006
It was getting hard to breathe. His body tensed as his gut ignited; heat spread up his chest. He was so close. Feeling Sara's gasping breath on his neck as she arched up sent him over the edge. He rocked into her a few more times, giving her everything he had to give while she fought to catch her breath. His lips kissed from her neck on down to her breasts as her hand grabbed at his sweaty hair. He rubbed over her front, chest to thigh, as he took one breast into his mouth and then the other.
He licked the salt off her skin before laying his head down on her chest. Fingers massaged his neck and shoulders as he listened to her heart beating. He could fall asleep just like that and be perfectly content in life. With both his body and mind sated, he felt himself start to drift.
A phone was ringing. He stirred against the warm body under him, kissed her skin as a moan rumbled deep in his throat. It rang again. Sara was on-call to help cover Swing Shift since Nick was still on leave.
"Sidle."
As Sara took the call, he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to clean up. He was always quick with the shower. In and out in five minutes. As he grabbed a towel to dry off, she walked by him with a hand combing through her tangled mess of hair.
"4-20 in Summerlin South."
He'd left the hot spray on for her and as she slipped into the shower, he leaned against the counter and watched her through the glass door. It was steamed up but he could make out her form. Her head was tilted back under the spray, hands running shampoo through her short hair.
They've been seeing each other for close to six months now. It'd taken nearly six years for them to get together. And he didn't even really ask her out. It just happened, like a natural progression of their relationship.
Arriving at her apartment building, he stared up at her door and let out a breath. Sara had nearly gotten fired; could still be fired. This last case she worked on had really gotten to her, but most cases involving wife abusers usually did. They also affected him but he had learned how to conceal his anger years ago. Sara was always so angry. That anger was going to ruin her life if she kept giving into it. She was letting it control her instead of her controlling it.
A small part of him thought that maybe it was partly his fault. He always felt like a poor supervisor when it came to Sara. It was easy with Warrick and Nick. When it came to Sara, it became so difficult. And the reason for that was because he loved her.
He could have blown any chance he had with her, and thought he had. She'd been dating other people while he denied his feelings. That was until Debbie Marlin's death. He had pure empathy. A double-edged sword that went both ways. Empathy for the victims and empathy for the killers. He had perception and projection to the point of putting himself in anyone's shoes. He could take anyone's point of view. In that case, he had envisioned himself being her killer.
Looking at Debbie Marlin dead, and knowing exactly how Dr. Vincent Lurie felt, had shaken him to his core. It also forced him to accept the feelings he'd had for Sara. And in accepting his feelings he knew one thing: he could risk it. Risk everything for love again. He didn't want to wind up like Lurie in the end, or worse.
He hadn't known if Sara was even still interested in him until he simulated holding her down against a bed sheet to which she blushed, moved away, and told him that she was still attracted to him. It was after that when he tried to work up the courage to ask her out.
A few days ago, he almost did it. They had been in his office, and he'd been asking her about her counseling. She said she was always falling for the wrong guy. He was emotionally unavailable. She was always rationalizing. Then just as he went to say that he wanted to start over, make a change, she cut him off. She gave a rationalization, again, then left. All he could do was kick himself as he watched her walk away.
He wasn't going to let her walk away this time. She needed him. And he needed her. He needed her more than she could possibly know. He got out of his car after several minutes, went to her door, and knocked.
She had a beer in her hand; he told her that the beer wasn't the problem. A long time ago a bottle in his hand had become a problem. He knew an alcoholic when he saw one, and Sara didn't have a drinking problem. She had an anger problem. An empathy problem.
He was also a problem. And that problem was one he knew he could solve.
What he saw in Sara, what she saw in him, confused him because she was the one person he didn't want to see. Seeing her meant seeing himself. It meant seeing the love she had for him and all the ways he could love her back. He thought for a long time he couldn't love anybody again. He was also afraid that she would judge him. Fear kept him at a distance.
It was after her heartfelt confession about her parents when he made his decision. What he understood immediately was that Sara would never judge him the way he had feared she would. It was time he stopped being so afraid. They were both the same in a lot of ways. All the ways that mattered. Then how they were different was what brought him back for more. He loved the difference more than the similarities. He never wanted to date himself.
As her tears fell, his hand gripped hers tightly before he let go, but it wasn't to leave. He stood and walked into her kitchen, opening cabinets and the refrigerator.
"What're you looking for?"
"I know you haven't eaten so I was going to cook you dinner. When was the last time you went to the grocery store?" he asked when all he saw in her refrigerator was a carton of soy milk and some hummus. Vegetables and bottles of water. Yogurt. He straightened as he shut the door.
She was up and walking towards him while saying, "You don't have to stay. I can–"
"I'm taking you to dinner."
She was wiping the tears off her face still as she cleared her throat. "I'm fine. You don't have to be nice just because—"
"Sara," he said, drawing her attention. Once he had it, he told her, "There has never been a time where I pitied you. I'm not going to start now. We are going to have dinner together because…" He let out a breath and said, "I want to have dinner with you."
She blinked at him in sort of a confused state before realizing what he'd said. "You mean as in a date?"
He gave a nod. "Yeah. A date."
She still seemed startled, and confused, surprised mostly, before trying to give him another out. "I thought you said you couldn't risk it. Your career—"
He wrinkled his head in confusion as he wondered how she knew that. He'd only told Dr. Lurie when…The answer came to him and he smirked slightly. She was behind the glass. It was after that case when she started drinking more.
Shaking his head, he thought again that it really was his fault. "When I said that—"
"You've worked hard to get where you're at. Not to mention you're my supervisor. You were right, I'm not worth—"
"Sara!" She stopped at the sharpness of his tone. "Will you stop talking already? You always do that. Let me finish a sentence." Her hair had fallen in her face. Reaching up, he moved her hair behind her ear as he cupped her face. "What I told Dr. Lurie was that I couldn't take the risk. Couldn't is past tense. I never said that I can't."
"I don't want you to make any rash decisions only to regret it."
Leaning forward, his thumb rubbed over her cheek as he looked from her eyes to the lips that he desperately wanted to kiss. "When have you ever known me make a rash decision?"
She nearly smiled. "You want a list? I can make you—"
He kissed her. She kissed him back as her hand went to the back of his head to pull him closer. He didn't want to stop but somehow found a way to do it.
Pulling back, he told her, "I will never regret this. If you would have let me finish what I was trying to say back in my office a few days ago, I would have asked you out then. I hesitated, but…I always do that. Give me a moment to work out what I'm saying and let me say it. Okay?"
Where he could hide his emotions under his intellect, Sara never could hide. She was afraid he'd break her heart, but she still wanted him. She could risk it too. "Okay."
"Good. Now, I don't know too many vegan places around here, so you're going to have to tell me where you want to eat. I'm buying."
Once in his car, and enroute to the restaurant, Sara said, "You were going to ask me out in your office?"
"I was. You really need to learn when to stop talking."
"Oh, so it's my fault—"
"You automatically assumed my response instead of letting me—"
"Maybe because for the past five years your response has been the same."
"People change." He stopped at a red light and looked over at her.
She no longer seemed upset or angry. She was smiling. It was such a beautiful smile. He took her hand in his and went back to driving. He only let go of her hand when he got out to open the car door for her.
Another cell phone started ringing. He left the bathroom with just a towel around his waist and grabbed the phone off the nightstand. It was Brass.
Flipping it open, he answered, "Grissom."
"Heya, Gil, sorry to get you up—"
"I've been up. What's going on?"
"4-20. Catherine's already called Sara out to the scene, but I just got here and, uh, I really think you need to see this."
He frowned into the phone as he asked, "Is it bugs?"
"No. Double homicide. Look, um…I cleared the house. No one else is going in and you really need to get out here. A supervisor is needed."
There was something odd about his tone that he couldn't place. "Send me the address."
"I already did. Ask Sara."
He flipped the phone shut as he heard Sara enter the room. Did Brass know that they were together? And they've been so careful. Sara pulled out the clean clothes he had in her closet and handed them to him.
"I'm wanted at your crime scene. Brass sounded…off. I'm going to head straight there. You go to the lab first and grab a department vehicle and extra field supplies: coveralls, lights, evidence bags. The whole shebang. I have a feeling we're going to need everything."
"Got it."
He touched her waist before she could move away. Moving in closer, he gave her a kiss. He smiled as he let her go. Then he got dressed, poured himself a cup of coffee in a thermos, and then left her apartment.
Summerlin South was nearly a forty-minute drive and during that time he received a call from the Sheriff, then the mayor, and the Director of the Lab. The entire chain of command was asking him questions that he had no answers to. He wasn't even at the scene yet.
A couple of long minutes later he pulled up alongside a Deputy who was keeping the scene secure. Since he was in his personal vehicle, he was stopped. Deputy Metcalf recognized him immediately once he tilted his head down to peer in through his open driver's side window.
"Grissom," Metcalf said with a smile. "Go right ahead."
He waved at Metcalf and continued on towards the parked Sheriff cars and Brass's detective's car. Parking next to him, he got out. There were several officers watching him. These were all nice, big houses. Summerlin South was one, if not, the most prestigious neighborhood in the Las Vegas Valley. Prominent rich folk, as Brass once put it.
As he grabbed his field kit out of the trunk, Brass walked over and said, "I hope you haven't eaten."
He winced as he shut the trunk. "That bad?"
They started towards the house that by some standards would have been considered a mansion. By Las Vegas standards, it was just a house. The Ridges, which was the guard-gated community a few streets over to the southwest, held the two-million-dollar mansions.
"Brother, I've never seen anything this bad. Residents were the Hayashi's. One a doctor—"
"Joy Hayashi?" he asked in surprise.
"You know her?"
"She's my doctor. I was invited to a dinner party here once. I turned it down."
"Socialites and finger food not your thing?"
"Never met her husband." He noticed that the lights were on inside the house.
"Dot com guy. Made his money in software and tech. Yeah," Brass said as he looked over the big house and garages and the long driveway. "I used to think I got into the wrong career field. Then I see the walls these people live behind, all the money they have to spend to keep everything looking pristine, and say to myself…Who am I kidding? I'd take this money over my cop salary any day."
Stopping at the door, Gil wiped his shoes on the doormat, sat down his field kit, and then slipped the booties over his shoes. "Well, I don't care about money. I do this because it's the only thing I want to do."
"Think about all the things you can do with this kind-of money. All the ant farms you could buy."
He smirked at Brass as he said, "Sara will be here soon to get all the shoes from everyone who went inside."
"The EMT's, two of the responding officers, and me. No one else." Brass was slipping booties over his shoes.
"You're coming in?"
"Someone has to take your notes. Besides, I've already been inside. I know what to expect," Brass said as he took the metal clipboard and pen out of his hands.
He picked up his field kit as he walked through the open front door and into the foyer. There were several different odors in the air. "Air smells of copper, cooking oil…A fragrance from…a candle, maybe?"
He left the kit in the foyer as he walked further into the house, being mindful of his steps. He kept to the walls and maneuvered around furniture. There was a baby grand piano in a sitting room he passed through. Empty sofas but the coffee table set for three with a tea set from a fine china set; pot, cups and saucers.
He dipped his pinkie into one of the cups and felt the temperature of the tea. "Cold." There was a fire burning on its last embers in the fireplace. Melted candles. He moved on.
There was music playing. It was faint. "You hear that?"
Brass stilled himself as he listened. "I don't hear anything."
"Sounds like the piano."
Brass shrugged. "Maybe a neighbor has their window open?"
Gil swore he heard music. Maybe it was the neighbor; or he was tired. He wasn't exactly sleeping. Between work and having dinner with Sara, spending time with Sara, having sex with Sara, and watching Sara sleep when he should have been sleeping, he had no time to sleep. He was exhausted. Nearing the kitchen, he used two fingers to push the swinging door open.
The sight before him caused him to stop. There was a lot of blood. He let out a breath and moved to the side as he kept to the wall. Brass was right behind him. Nearing the dining table, the music grew louder in the back of his head.
This was a dream, he thought. A dream I dreamed decades ago.
"What's the husband's name?" Gil noticed how his voice sounded fogged, distorted. It always got like that when he was purposely distancing himself from what he was thinking.
"Daniel."
Daniel was seated at the head of the table. Joy's naked body was on display on top of the table. Her chest cut wide open; lungs spread eagle beside her. Her heart was missing. It was cooked and half of it was on the plate in front of Daniel. Daniel was dead. Half of his brain had been removed through a hole in the side of his head. It went through his ear.
A metal and wooden medieval looking device was bloody and on the table. An empty plate and a discarded knife and fork at the other head of the table. From the smeared sauces and the oil on the plate, remnants of a meal, he knew someone had sat there and eaten.
His eyes shot around the kitchen, taking everything in. The cookware on the stove. Glasses of wine. Bottle of wine opened on the kitchen island. A picture on the refrigerator.
That was odd, he thought as he tilted his head at the picture. In this house, these people, it wasn't tasteful. As he got closer, the picture came into perfect view and he stopped in his steps as a breath caught in his throat.
"Come on, Will, turn around so I can take the damn picture," Crawford barked at him. "You've received a medal for putting an end to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, try to act remotely satisfied. What are you? Embarrassed by your achievement?"
He felt his face heat up at the question; it wasn't from embarrassment but from guilt. He had killed Hobbs, emptied his gun into the son-of-a-bitch, and when he saw Hobbs' dead body on the floor and the daughter being taken out of the house alive, he didn't feel satisfaction in saving her life. His only feeling of satisfaction was that he'd put Hobbs down. Killing a man, no matter how horrible that man had been, shouldn't have made him feel like doing it again; no matter the justification.
Crawford smirked as he said, "A guy like you should be glad. You've changed the way we all look at brainiacs."
"How so?" he asked.
"With less snickering. You pulled your gun and used it to take down a killer instead of shooting yourself in the foot."
He frowned and stared at the floor. They were at some banquet hall. Among the Christmas decorations, medals had been awarded to FBI agents for their stellar achievements in their field during the past year. Champagne passed around, finger foods on trays, and all he wanted to do was leave. He wasn't an agent, for starters, but a Special Investigator. He was only there because Crawford had gotten him a position with the crime lab. He was out of place, both in the eyes of the FBI agents but also on the inside. He felt…weird.
Dr. Lecter waved a hand in front of his face. "Will, as uncomfortable as we both are with getting our pictures taken solely to satisfy Jack's sense of amusement, I must remind you that it's getting late and I don't want to pass on having the both of you over for dinner."
"Pictures are pointless," he'd said. "They always end up thrown out or in a box under my bed. People should put artwork or something interesting to look at up on their walls or shelves, not images of people. A snapshot of a happy family before the murderer with the ax comes in to mutilate their bodies. Now tell me, who wants to look at that on a daily basis?"
"That attitude is exactly why I'm your therapist." Dr. Lecter smiled slightly. "Though, I can't help but agree that there are far more interesting things to put on display." He looked him over before saying, "I'm getting the slight indication that this protest is about something else entirely. To rephrase Jack's earlier question, are you embarrassed by the distinguished honor of being called a hero, Will?"
"Will you two please stop yammering for five seconds and turn around so I can take this picture?" Crawford asked in annoyance.
Leaning closer to him, Lecter whispered, "Jack taking the place of the pig with the apple in its mouth, offered up on a silver platter...now that, dear Will, would be far more interesting to see on display, wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't think Jack would be amused by that," he said while trying not to smile at the dark humor. It didn't work.
"No?" Lecter asked as he wrapped his arm around his shoulder as they both turned to face the camera. "I suppose you're right. We'll have to make do without the main course. How about some fine wine and caviar instead? What'd you say?"
He barely flinched as the flash on the camera went off. "I say...I prefer beer over wine and I don't like caviar."
Gil's hand shook slightly as he took the photograph off the refrigerator. Flipping it over, he saw a handwritten note. The blurry words came into focus as he steadied his breathing. He read:
Dear Will,
It is with a heavy heart that I take the first steps in shattering your well-constructed illusion. You were such an interesting man, Will. Has your life as Doctor Gilbert Grissom put to bed the demons of your mind and the darkness in your heart? What lies have been told, I wonder. What secrets heavily guarded? Secrets and lies. Like the past, they always find a way of being brought to the light. How very alike we are with our spoiled secrets.
Do you dream much, Will? I bet not. Too many times you have envisioned yourself as the murderer you seek that it's gotten you to repress who you are. You let Paul Millander get away twice because you couldn't see him. How do you expect to catch the monsters if you don't let yourself dream? Dreaming is what you were made to do. It is how you see. Never-the-less, while you continue to repress yours, I shall express my darker purpose.
Are you going to smell yourself to get that ol' scent back? I can't wait to find out.
Truly Yours,
Dr. Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
A distant voice, one he hadn't heard in years, poked its ugly head out. It was metallic and taunting. "Do you know how you caught me, Will? The reason you caught me is that we're just alike. Smell yourself."
A shaky breath, one after the other, jerked out of his chest. He couldn't breathe. His vision started to blur as he closed his eyes.
"Grissom?"
He'd forgotten that Brass was in the room. "Leave."
"Are you—"
Opening his eyes, he said, "Jim." His voice curt as he left no room for debate. He was afraid. His fear made him angry. He didn't want to be angry with Brass. "Leave. Now."
Brass didn't hesitate before taking steps backwards out the swinging door.
Once Brass was gone, Gil closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. His body was now steady, however, his mind was anything but steady. Still, he told himself. Still. A pendulum, back-and-forth, swinging as his thoughts swung until it stopped.
He re-opened his eyes and took in the kitchen with a different set of eyes. The entire house suddenly changed in his senses and in his mind. Before, it was just another house, but now it was completely different. Madness, the worst kind, butchered people and ate them here. It smelled of Lecter; his aroma still lingered in the air along with the burned-out candles and cooking oil.
The echo of Lecter's time spent in the house started creeping its way into his thoughts. The Hayashi's had been entertaining a house guest when they were murdered. Three cups of tea on the table in the sitting room with a fire in the fireplace. A scent filled his nose. It was coming from the photograph in his hand. His latex hand raised the photo and he breathed it in.
It smelt like a—cologne? Maybe? Aftershave?
"That shaving lotion is something a child would select," Lecter had said when he'd visited him in the mental institution. "It has a ship on the bottle, doesn't it?"
Fifteen years since he left Florida. Fifteen years since he left Will Graham where he belonged: in the past. But the memories were there. They were always there.
He felt the stabbing in his gut that dug deeper and deeper as his blood ran down his leg. Hannibal's eyes as they bore right through him as his life spilled out of his body. He'd seen not the man he'd pretended to be, the one that wore a human suit. No. In that moment, as he thought he was dying, he had seen Hannibal Lecter for what he truly was under that human mask. A monster. A devil. The Devil.
"See." Hobbs' voice had filled his head. "See."
He had seen. He saw. He knew the truth.
Lecter leaned forward in his chair at the mention of Garret Jacob Hobbs. Penetrating him with those steely maroon eyes as he asked, "Do you really feel that bad, Will, because killing him felt so good?"
Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to will Lecter away. This was happening. How was this happening? Opening his eyes, he looked around the Hayashi family kitchen once again. Joy Hayashi had been his doctor. She performed his stapedectomy surgery a few years ago.
He'd been found. Lecter was in Las Vegas. And Joy and her husband Daniel were dead because of him. With an enormous weight on his shoulders, he turned and left the kitchen. Brass was in the sitting room along with Sara. Upon seeing her, he let out a breath and looked away. He'd finally let himself love again, and it was going to fall apart. How could it not?
Sara was in the middle of processing the sitting room. His Red Creeper fingerprint powder was everywhere. Including on the piano keys. The music was louder in his head. The baby grand was playing 'Goldberg Variations'. It was the music that he'd been hearing in his head ever since he first entered the house. Lecter had sat at the piano and played it for the Hayashi's after he'd killed them. It wasn't a perfect replication of the Bach masterpiece, but it was surprisingly good.
Brass was watching him with concern. He understood now why Jim sounded off on the phone. He knew it as he looked into his eyes. He had seen the photograph. That was why he kicked everyone out of the house and then called him out to the scene.
"You were in there for nearly half an hour," Sara was saying as she lifted prints from the piano keys. "Must be some scene. I'm almost done here."
Without taking his eyes off Brass, he told her, "Sara, I want you to take the perimeter."
"This is my case—"
"Not anymore. I'm the lead." The way he said it should have warned her not to argue, but Sara wasn't listening.
"Grissom, if anything this is Swing's—"
"You're right. This should be Swing's case. When Nick gets here, I want you to go back to the lab and take the lead on the first—"
"Nick's still on leave from the Walter Gordon—"
"Sara," he nearly snapped as his eyes found hers. It'd been a long time since they'd butted heads and he really hoped she heard the warning in his tone. He was scared. Joy was dead because of him. He didn't want to see the same thing happen to her. "I need you to trust me."
There was that stubbornness in her eyes but a softness in her face. Whatever debate or argument that spurred up was immediately dropped. She knew this wasn't personal. "I'll take the perimeter."
She put everything in her kit, closed it up, and then left the house without another word. She was angry. He couldn't blame her for that. It was supposed to have been her case.
Once she was gone, he told Brass, "Contact the Sheriff, let him know we're going to have to call in the FBI."
Brass tapped the pen on the metal clipboard. "I saw the picture, y'know."
"I know." He saw his field kit on the floor by the kitchen door and grabbed an evidence bag out of it, dropping the photograph inside.
Filling out the information on the front of the evidence bag, he put the agency, item and case number, and date and time of collection. Collected By, he wrote "Night Shift Supervisor CSI Grissom, Gil." Description of Evidence…He skipped the description and went down to location and wrote "kitchen, on refrigerator".
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
Description of evidence…Gil shook his head. "Not right now. I have a house to process. Everything else can wait. I'll probably be here all night."
Brass seemed like he wanted to say something else but stopped. "Yeah, okay."
"And Jim," he said as he finally lifted his eyes off the evidence bag, "I'd, uh, appreciate it if you didn't mention the picture to anyone just yet."
"Mum's the word." Brass handed the clipboard and pen back to him.
He watched as Brass left and then steadied himself before looking back down at the evidence bag. Description of Evidence. He finally wrote "photograph, circa Dec. 1976. Dr. Hannibal Lecter and FBI Special Investigator William Graham. On the back, a handwritten note signed by Hannibal Lecter."
After putting the bag in the field kit, he pulled out his cell phone. He had to get Nick Stokes back on duty. It was going to be a long night.
TBC…