Hey all-
Well, here's the first CSI fic I've ever written, over a six hour
marathon session late Valentine's Day/ next AM. I suppose it could be
easily slashed. Huge apologies if I'm overstepping by this not being
slash, but someone requested Gil-torture, and this pretty much sprang
full-formed from my head ala Athena. Enjoy! Feedback loved!
Title: Killing Time
Rating: PG-13 to R+, esp violence
Warnings: I may have blown some medical stuff. Note time as story goes
on. Grissom torture.
Archive. : If you want it; just let me know where.
No spoiler warnings. All totally made up. Thanks to the PTB and
creative forces, esp. Billy Petersen's gift of Gil.
Summary: Gil never takes a day off because these kinds of horrible,
from-the-past things happen to him.
Killing Time
By Filter (S. Lopez)
Stifling a yawn, Gil Grissom couldn't figure out why his eyes were
hurting so badly. He was lying on his couch watching rain outside his
window, wondering about angle and force per square inch each drop
carried when it hit--it wasn't like he was staring down the barrel of a
microscope.
Reaching up, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was
then he realized he hadn't been blinking. *Well, that would do it,*
he thought to himself.
The head midnight shift CSI wasn't used to his days and nights off.
When he'd fallen asleep in his desk chair Catherine had poked him
awake and told him to take one of his days off which he was supposed
to have every week.
"We've been really slow anyway, Gil," she had told him. "Go the hell
home and take tomorrow off."
It could explode any time, Catherine, you know that. This is Las
Vegas," he had protested feebly.
"You're no good to us if you fall asleep on evidence at a scene. Go."
And with much grumbling he'd taken the day off, slept a good deal of
the daytime hours, and of course was awake as the night fell. He had
fed his tarantulas, petted them a little, checked his email several
times in case someone wanted something from him over at the lab.
Catherine had yelled at him the last time he'd called to check in, so
he'd let the phone alone for a while. He had finished every crossword
puzzle in his home. Grissom was bored, and he wasn't used to it.
He rolled off the couch and went to get a drink. On the way he passed
the treadmill he had bought on a complete whim a month ago and which
had only been used to walk Nick's dog the one time Nick had to leave
the Lab with Grissom. A fine dusting of dog fur still clung to the belt.
He got a mango juice drink out of the refrigerator and looked through
his kitchen at the treadmill. Gil knew he was out of shape in
general, though he didn't feel his job demanded he be able to run a
marathon.
"On the other hand," he said to himself, walking over to the machine.
He was remembering the one time recently he'd actually had to hop a
fence to look for evidence, and how Warrick had chuckled and given Gil
a push on one dangling leg to get him over. Gil had insisted it was
only because the fence was ten feet high, but Warrick had given him a
knowing look after leaping over effortlessly.
Since then Gil had thought about starting to run, and had been trying
to rationalize doing so. *It can't be because I'm feeling fat,* he
kept thinking.
With a grin Gil realized he had his answer. He padded into his
bedroom, laced on his running shoes, tucked his shirt into his shorts,
and went out to jump on the treadmill.
"I'm going to see what effect exercise has on the average man when he
has to exert himself immediately," he said aloud. Any time Grissom
could use science and analysis as an excuse, he found it easy to do
things he found uncomfortable.
Flicking the machine on, Grissom frowned at the readouts. He pressed
a few buttons, jumped as the belt started to move, and began to jog
slowly.
When he was younger, Grissom had enjoyed running--he had refused to
join his high school track team but ran anyway with the cross-country
runners. It was one of the few times the overly cerebral young man
felt open and free. By the time he graduated high school he was
running ten or twelve miles every day, six days a week. It made it
easy to get to remote locations with equipment when he started doing
unofficial work for the LVPD. After a few months people were used to
the skinny, intense kid with a jerry-rigged backpack of forensic
equipment jogging down gullies and over dunes, wreckage, and building
equipment to collect evidence.
He smiled a little remembering his youthful physique, and increased
the speed a little. Sweating and breathing hard, Grissom ignored the
pain and observed his body with detachment.
"Huh--took ten minutes for breathing to increase dramatically,legs
tiring around twelve minutes at 4.5 miles per hour." He spoke out
loud as he ran, interested in his heart rate's increase and pulse.
At forty-five minutes Gil looked down at his watch, lost his balance,
and flew backward off the machine. He sprawled on the floor, dazed,
and laughed. He was coated in sweat, flushed, but feeling pretty
good. Carefully he got up and shook himself, turned off the machine,
and went to shower. He thought that maybe he'd be able to go back to
sleep after the shower--maybe the run had tired him out.
Grissom came back onto the living room rubbing his hair with a towel,
wearing the joke handcuff boxers the CSI team had given him for his
last birthday. He hadn't seen the joke, and no one had been
surprised. Before he stretched out on the couch again he turned on
his stereo and Nina Simone flooded the room. He turned it up to
near-annoying level and flopped down on the sofa. Within minutes,
Grissom was asleep.
* * * * * *
Quiet wheels rolled across the alley behind Grissom's house. The van
went down another four blocks and stopped. The 830 darkness hid the
tallish man from view as he got out and walked back to the alley. He
crept silently up the alley until he was at Grissom's back yard, then
looked about and hopped the low fence and walked on the cement path to
the door. He knew there was no dog, no alarm, and no one else.
The back door opened with a silent sigh after the latch had been
lifted by a thin steel shim. The man left it open and before going in
he shook out two shoe covers from his jacket pocket, slipped them on,
and stepped inside.
He knew the lights might be dim, and was not surprised at the loud
music. With unerring precision he moved past the treadmill, around
the low divider, and found what he was looking for.
Grissom was sleeping on his back, one arm dangling off the couch and
the other thrown over his eyes. He had pulled the blanket from the
back of the sofa hastily over him and was in REM sleep.
The man pulled a balaclava up over the lower half of his face and
pulled his hood up over his head. He watched the sleeping man for a
minute or more, taking in the rising chest and its gentle fall, the
tousled, damp hair, the tan skin. Then, perfectly silently, he
reached into his jacket and extracted a gun fitted with a silencer.
He held it pointed towards Grissom's head while he reached into his
pants pocket. Withdrawing a small gun-like object, he squatted down
until he was at Grissom's eye level.
"Hello, Dr. Grissom," he said softly, mouth close to Gil's ear.
* * * * *
Grissom's dreams were always remarkably ordered, stories that had a
beginning and end, and his present one was no different. He was at an
evidence site with Catherine, sifting through leaves on the ground for
anything to help them find out where a body had been dragged from. He
was shining his flashlight at a clump of leaves when he felt Catherine
come up behind him close, lean over, and whisper "Hello, Dr. Grissom."
Something about it felt wrong in the dream, which instantly made
Grissom's unconscious mind set off an alarm. He groaned in his sleep,
slid his hand off his eyes, and opened them.
He came instantly awake and automatically began to rise when he felt
the silencer press into his temple.
"Just back off, Doctor."
Gil tried to place the voice, person, anything--the person was
remarkably anonymous in black clothes. He raised his hands
automatically and nodded. "I'm not moving," he said. He was happy
his voice was clear.
"True." The man had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the
music.
"What do you want?" Gil asked, and was rewarded with a muffled laugh.
He felt cold all of a sudden.
"You. Just you," the man said. He gestured with the silencer. "Push
the blanket down."
"I don't have anything here, if that's what you want," Grissom said
somewhat weakly. He began to feel terror growing on him. The
silencer jerked back to his head.
"Move the blanket."
Hand shaking, Grissom pushed the blanket down to his waist, body cold.
He hated the exposed feeling, and hated his fear. The silencer moved
closer to his head and he closed his eyes.
"Don't worry. Turn away from me. Do it."
"Please," Grissom whispered, shivering now with fear. He had no idea
what was about to happen but every synapse in his brain was screaming
danger. "Please don't."
The gun whipped out and connected above Gil's left eye. He gasped in
pain and automatically brought both hands to his face. "Do it," the
voice said again, still level.
Cursing the whimper that escaped his lips, Grissom shifted onto his
side. He kept his hands over his face and tried to still his body.
Panic gripped him as he felt steel touch the back of his neck, press
in, and then begin to slide down his spine.
*Please, please just kill me if you're going to, please kill me,
please, please!* Grissom kept saying to himself. A panicked sigh
escaped his lips as the barrel met the waistband of his boxers. A
short slide later, and Gil knew he wasn't going to get off just dead.
The man smiled under his mask. He pressed the barrel of the air
syringe against Grissom's body, holding the elastic of the boxers
aside with the gun, and pulled the syringe trigger. He watched
Grissom's body jump forward, then relax. He pushed the elastic back
in place, pocketed the syringe, and stepped back.
Grissom was still waiting when he heard the music soften. Scared to
move, it took a few moments for him to hear the voice. "Turn back."
The man watched Gil move carefully back, sweating and obviously
terrified of him. "You're gonna get a cold, sweating like that."
"Why?" Grissom whispered weakly through his hands. "Why?"
The man knelt down carefully and looked closely at Grissom. He
prodded the hands covering his face with the gun barrel and looked
into terrified eyes. To Grissom, they felt very much like he always
believed his eyes felt to an insect he was about to skewer with a
mounting pin.
With unblinking eyes, David Emerson looked at Grissom intently. He
knew Grissom didn't know who he was, had no idea what was happening or
why, and was absolutely terrified of him. He found the idea appealing.
"Oh, in time. In time, Dr. Grissom. About 36 hours, as a matter of
fact. Feel anything yet?"
Grissom stared back, confused, and then realized he was feeling very
tired and a little dizzy. He blinked, looked down, then back.
"What did you give me?" he asked.
"A little something to put you to sleep. After all those hours at
work, not a bad thing, huh?"
"I don't--" Grissom began, then stopped. The tranquilizer was working.
His head felt thick, his body heavy and weak. With supreme effort,
he tried to imprint on his brain everything that had happened, and all
that had been said. He dropped his hands from his face and with one
nail on his right hand scratched his leg hard. He then scratched the
couch leather hard, groaning to cover the sound. He watched Emerson
watch him with detachment.
"I know. Well, I better get that bag out of your closet. Don't go
anywhere," Emerson said, standing and striding directly into Grissom's
bedroom. He pulled the large duffel bag out of Grissom's closet and
went back, smiling a little at Grissom's weak attempts to sit up.
"Whoa, careful there!"
Stepping over quickly he caught Grissom right before he fell off the
couch. The sweat on the man's body surprised him, and he wiped his
hands on his pants. "Man, Doc. Need to take a shower after all that."
Grissom watched him hazily, eyes drooping again and again. He saw the
man open his duffel bag, spread it out on the floor, and the last
thing he saw was Emerson holstering his gun in his shoulder rig and
coming toward him. He was trying to digest the fact Emerson had to
have been in his house before and knew entirely too much about Gil
Grissom.
* * * * * * *
"Ya know, you tell the man to stay home and get some sleep--damn!"
Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes stared over at Catherine as she clicked her
cell phone shut. "Maybe he *is* sleeping, Cath. Think of that?" Sara
asked. They were about to begin a night shift and were gathered in
the lounge. Without Grissom around Catherine was head CSI, and they
enjoyed annoying her--she was easier to ruffle than the big boss.
"Whatever. He was calling all last shift when I sent him home. I was
going to tell him maybe I'd come by after this shift and give him the
good gory news, if there is any. He hates time off."
"Yeah, buddy. Last time he had a day off he came back pissed as
hell," Nick said as Warrick came in. "Bout time, Warrick."
"Yeah yeah. Grissom ain't around, you gonna be the head bitch?"
Warrick asked. Catherine cleared her throat.
"No, that would be me. Let's get to work, folks."
The shift only dealt with one stabbing victim, Warrick and Nick taking
the job. Sara and Catherine did paperwork and checked lab reports for
the shift. They were bored to tears.
Warrick and Nick came back in record time from the scene. "What up,
guys?" Sara asked as they came in. The guys sighed in tandem.
"It looked like it might be juicy, semen and blood, whole nine
yards, and then the wife came back from the liquor store and confessed
to the whole thing. Sheesh," Nick said. "Maybe it's only when
Grissom is around that stuff goes down."
"Maybe. Ah well. Let's finish the paperwork and wind down for the
man," Catherine said.
"You going over after work?" Sara asked. She had more than once
noticed Grissom and Catherine exchanging looks.
"Yeah, thought I'd give him some news--he has to be going stir crazy
right now."
* * * * * * *
1030pm
Grissom's eyes flickered open a little and immediately he thought he
was blind. A few seconds later he realized he wasn't, but he couldn't
see in front of him and the air around him was stifling. He could
feel rough canvas all around him, his legs bent, handcuffs around his
ankles. His wrists were handcuffed as well, behind his back. Before
his mind began to really panic, Gil imagined he was in his own duffel
bag, probably in a moving vehicle. Then, he panicked.
David Emerson drove Grissom's truck, the owner in the back, a few
miles below the highway speed limit. It was fairly busy for 1030 at
night, and he kept a close eye out for police. He could hear muffled
screams from the duffel bag in the back, and pushed the cd into the
player, smiling as Wagner blasted out of the speakers.
An hour had passed, though Grissom didn't know it. He had screamed
himself hoarse, particularly when he heard "Ride of the Valkyries"
begin, and when his voice had given out he'd tried to calm himself by
thinking of the biggest words he could and spelling smaller words out
of them. He was up to onomatopoeia when he felt the vehicle stop.
Suddenly, his senses were wired.
Emerson hopped out of the truck and pulled the back open. The duffel
bag was moving a little, and he was satisfied Grissom was alive. He
pulled the bag to him, grunted a little as he shouldered it, and
walked over to the door of the smallish house.
Opening the old lock with a key, Emerson shut the door behind him and
turned a corner into the kitchen. Six steps took him to the basement
door and he opened that and flicked on the overhead light before
starting down.
Grissom could feel the atmosphere and height change and tried to shift
around--his head was pointing down now and the blood was pounding in
it. He stopped when he heard a soft "uh-uh, Doctor."
At the bottom of the stairs Emerson hit another light switch. The
basement area was flooded with bright light and he looked around with
satisfaction.
The basement was 12x12, dirt-floored, without windows. Near the back
wall was a three by seven by two rectangle in the dirt, plastic
sheeting on the bottom of the area covering a drain. A metal grate
leaned against the back wall, meant to be fastened over the rectangle
and secured with steel bars and a padlock which fitted into rings set
into concrete around the rectangle.
Emerson set the bag down carefully, aware Grissom was now awake and
potentially dangerous. Emerson, unlike many other people, did not
discount Grissom's strength. He knew the generally mild countenance
hid strength and, more dangerous still, high intelligence. Drawing
his gun again, he pulled the long zipper across the bag and stepped back.
When Grissom saw light beginning to slash the darkness, he braced
himself to either shrink back or fling his body forward. Bound as he
was, he still had no intention of going quietly--he was too scared and
too tired. When the zipper was all the way open he tried to unbend
his legs and found he couldn't move them. He pushed against the floor
with his hands and struggled out of the duffel bag.
Emerson watched, gun drawn, as Grissom worked his way out and
painfully straightened his legs. The CSI lay panting and blinking
back tears of pain before glaring at Emerson. His legs tingled and
cramped as blood flooded back in. After being half-suffocated in a
bag for hours, Grissom was less scared than furious.
"Doctor Grissom, your anger is going to get you killed. Angry men do
stupid things," Emerson said mildly.
"Who--" Grissom swallowed hard, mouth dry, "--who are you?"
He watched as Emerson squatted down, gun pointing casually at Gil's
chest. "David Emerson. The last person you'll ever see."
Immediately Grissom began to flick through the names in his head, and
came up with John T. Emerson, 1997, murder, two victims. Grissom
remembered he had had the misfortune to be gathering evidence by
himself in a remote site when John Emerson tried to kill him with a
garrote. Then, Grissom had been faster and a little more angry in
general-he'd managed to get free with several kicks and punches and
ran away, dialing 911 on his cell phone as he ran. The evidence he
collected there and elsewhere, and his own encounter with Emerson, had
ensured a conviction. Citizens of Nevada had ensured Emerson's death.
Grissom had been left with a deep scar on his neck from the encounter
and a little more wisdom.
"John?" Gil finally asked. He felt the fear returning.
Emerson smiled. "You're good. John always has said you're good.
Yeah. David Emerson, pleased to meet you."
"But why?"
"Well, in about, oh--" Emerson looked at his watch, "--18 hours my
little brother will be executed. They do it at 5am here, you know.
It's 1130 pm-ish right now. And, at 5am--not this one coming up, oh
no, the day after tomorrow-you'll be dead too. That is, dead unless
your little group of investigators finds you first."
Grissom's eyes widened. "You're kidding," he finally said.
"Oh, no. So, we better get going now. Here, let me give you a hand,"
Emerson said, and stepped forward with a jump, launching a hard kick
at Gil's midsection.
Grissom doubled up with a grunt and rolled over several times. One
more nudge was necessary before Grissom's body fell into the shallow
rectangular pit. He felt the cold plastic under him as he landed on
his stomach. He didn't have time to turn before the grate was slammed
down and the bars set and locked. Grissom turned his head enough to
see up through the wide metal bars of the grate at David Emerson. The
man was smiling.
"Well, enjoy yourself. I'll be back later." Emerson left with a
whistle as Grissom screamed incoherently.
******************
345 am
Catherine wondered at the music wafting lightly out of Grissom's house
when she got there. He hadn't come to the door at her knock and
insistent ringing of his doorbell. She frowned and wondered if he had
been experiencing hearing loss again. She made her way around to the
back, looking, and froze when she saw the open back glass door.
Catherine jumped the low fence and crept across the grass, looking
around intently. She noted the garage door was closed, the lights in
Grissom's living room on. She hoped he was just letting in some air.
She called his name when she got to the door, gun drawn. She glanced
quickly in, saw nothing, then spun into the house. Nothing.
Catherine walked slowly in, gun turning with her head. No Gris,
nowhere. She turned off the stereo and stood in the living room. She
saw the blanket on the couch, a glass on the coffee table. No
Grissom. She walked into his bedroom, calling his name. Nothing.
"What the hell?" she said under her breath. A cold feeling was
creeping over her. She stepped into the living room again and dialed
Nick Stokes.
At home, Nick bolted out of the shower and cursed until he juggled his
cell phone out of his jacket. "Yeah, Stokes!" he said.
"Nick, it's Cath. Uh, there's something a little weird here at
Grissom's place." Catherine wondered how to describe it. "He-s--not
here."
Nick laughed. "He can drive, Catherine. Probably took off somewhere."
"Even if he did that, Nick--his back door was open. And--it just feels
wrong in here. His jacket's hung up, cell phone's on the
table-something's up."
Nick wiped water from his face. "You sure?"
"Nick, he never goes out without his cell. Too afraid one of us might
call him. Will you--will you come over here" I'm gonna look around
some more."
"Well--okay. Be careful, I'll be there soon."
After she hung up Catherine went out and looked in Grissom's garage.
His truck was gone. For a moment Catherine thought maybe, for once,
he had left his phone, and then disregarded it. Going back, she
sighed and tried to see the scene as a crime scene.
She slipped on gloves she always carried in her pocket and looked
around. Nothing was in Grissom's jacket, no notes on the table.
Picking up the phone, Catherine was about to replace it when she saw
the LCD readout that normally held time and could display a greeting
had changed.
Normally, the phone just showed the time. Grissom wasn't interested
in a cute welcome screen. As Catherine looked, she noticed the screen
was displaying a short message: MANHATTAN.
"Okay, now I *am* scared. Gris, where the hell are you?" she said out
loud.
************************
420am
Grissom had managed to turn onto his back in the pit. When Emerson
had left he'd turned out the light and darkness had fallen hard. With
an effort, Gil had calmed himself and was taking stock of the
situation. First, he was surprised to find he no longer was shackled.
Feeling around the pit led him to find two depressions in the side
walls. Sandy dirt fell into his eyes as he scratched around and
pulled out what felt like a tube. With a little work Grissom
discovered it was a penlight. He smiled a little and shone it on the
first depression, closest to his head.
In the niche was a long metal box. Grissom reached in awkwardly,
turning a little on his side, and pulled the box out. He looked at it
closely and then opened it. He gasped a little at what he saw.
The light picked up the pocket watch, the surgical steel gleam of the
scalpel, and the thin glass of a small ampule. Grissom had seen
enough military presentations and displays to know he was looking at a
cyanide dose, older to be sure, but still--he had no doubt--lethal.
"Jesus," he said, mouth dry. He shut the box with a fast click and
shoved it back, unwilling to think of reasons it would be there. He
swallowed and looked a little farther down, shining the light in the
second depression. This one held a canteen. Grissom reached in and
shook it a little. Liquid sloshed in it and Grissom sighed. "Great,"
he whispered. "Hate to die of thirst."
He flicked off the penlight and turned onto his back. He was cold,
frightened, and confused--more than anything, though, Grissom was
wondering if indeed his CSI team had any hope of finding him alive.
****************************
816am
Nick, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine were trying desperately to figure
out where their chief had gone, and how he had. Jim Brass had been
there and allowed a crime scene to be declared, but confessed himself
at a loss. The place was almost sterile except for the phone message.
Each CSI had taken a different room--Nick the bedroom, Sara the
kitchen, Warrick the second bedroom, and Catherine remained in the
living room area. The only thing any of them had found yet was dried
sweat on his treadmill and couch, a wet towel on the bathroom rack,
and Grissom's own hair on the couch.
Cursing, Catherine leaned against the wall and looked again at the
cell phone message, now in an evidence bag but still showing
MANHATTAN. She sighed and dropped her head. When she lifted it
again, she noticed something the changing light had finally allowed
her to see from her angle.
"Nick!" she called before moving. Nick Stokes came out of the bedroom.
"Yeah?"
"Look at this," Catherine said. She bent over near Grissom's
treadmill at a patch of faint salt from sweat. From the angle and
shape of the stain Catherine imagined Grissom had tossed a towel over
it without actually wiping it. There were very faint streaking near
the back of it, but more of a pooling of sweat near the treadmill
base. The sweat salt was barely visible, but what Catherine had noted
from her angle at last was the flattening of the stain.
Nick knelt next to her. "Salt from sweat--actually, a lot of sweat.
Well, it does look like he worked out tonight. What is it?"
Catherine pointed closely. "Yes, it's a sweat stain on the
floor--thank god it's a hardwood floor. But look here--see this ridge,
and this one?"
Nick leaned close, then laid out flat and eyeballed the shape.
"Yeah, not a natural way for sweat to fall. Like someone--what, stepped
in it?"
"Yeah, but there was something different about the shoe tread--see?"
"What's up?" Warrick asked as he came in, Sara close behind. "Find
something besides that damn phone message?"
"Cath may have found a footprint."
"Nick, it's his home. His footprints are going to be everywhere,"
Sara said as they all congregated around the spot.
Nick, still looking closely, shook his head. "There's something wrong
with the tread imprint-it's soft, or fuzzy. Liftable, but really hard."
Warrick knelt to look. "Whoa. Yeah. Okay, that's weird.
Electrostatic coming up," he said. Nick nodded.
"Jesus. Maybe we do have us a crime scene," Sara said, shivering at
the thought.
"In Gil's home. And with two clues. Oh, guys, this is not going to
be simple," Catherine said, voicing what none of them wanted to hear.
***********************
112pm
Five hours later, Grissom was managing a fitful, cold sleep in his
enclosure. He had yet to drink out of the canteen, worried about what
it held and also worried he just might need the liquid later.
He struggled awake out of a nightmare and blinked his eyes hard. He
gripped the penlight in his hand tightly and resisted turning it on--he
was afraid the batteries would die. Though he felt himself lucky he
wasn't claustrophobic, Gil wondered how long he would be able to keep
his mind occupied before debilitating panic set it.
A short while later he saw the light come on and squinted at the
sudden brightness, then heard steps coming close. He tried to make
himself small, frustrated by the enclosure, and shrank back when the
bars grated and the metal swung back.
"Doctor Grissom! Glad to see you're awake."
Emerson waited to see if Gil would reply, then nodded. "It's okay.
Save your strength, right--I understand. Here, let me help then."
Gil let out a frightened cry as Emerson reached down and grabbed his
hair. He managed not to cry out again as he was dragged halfway out
of the pit by his hair, finally ending up with his back against the
edge of the pit, lower half of his body still in it. His breaths came
hard as he watched Emerson warily.
"Sorry. No shirt to grab. Very macho of you, doc. But--well, it
doesn't matter."
"What--what do you want?" Gil asked, surprised at his voice's
steadiness. He saw Emerson turn away, then spin and Grissom felt a
boot slam into the side of his head. Blood flew from his lips and he
felt a blinding pain explode in his head. When his head returned to
center he opened his eyes and blinked them clear. Emerson was sitting
in a chair next to him, calm. He opened his mouth to let blood flow
and raised one hand to feel the injury.
"I don't really want anything from you, Doctor Grissom. Your life,
maybe--but even then, I'm giving you a one in a million chance to get
off. I suppose you might say that's about the odds my brother was
gonna get off--your evidence was perfect."
"He did it," Grissom managed to say. His head ached badly and he felt
his lower lip torn.
"I know. I know. John's not a good boy, and he's kind of dumb. It's
just too bad I don't believe in the death penalty, Doctor."
Grissom stared in astonishment. "You don't--"
"Nah. It's a crock. See, I know what Americans really want with it
is revenge, retribution"they want to inflict pain. But we have laws
against that. My brother's dying because we don't have the balls to
just say 'you know, we want to lynch him, that's what will make us
feel better'."
"You--I don't--"
"I know. Why am I doing this if I know he deserves to die? Because I
want revenge for it. He's a murderer, but he's my brother. I said
I"d take care of him. And if I can't--well, I can take care of you,
Doctor Grissom. A little retribution, a little pain--maybe I'll feel
better," Emerson said, then knelt next to Grissom. He grabbed the
graying hair again and pulled Gil's head close to his. "It'll hurt,
but as the hours go, well-it'll hurt more than this," he said, then
Grissom saw a black-gloved hand with a dully shining set of brass
knuckles on it making its way toward his face. His head flew back as
Emerson let go, and Gil knew before his body hit the edge of the pit
again that his nose was broken. He tried to get his hands up to
protect his face but Emerson pulled him close again and slammed the
metal-clad fist into his face again and again. Frantic, Gil managed
to deflect some of the blows with flailing arms, but he felt his nose
explode in pain again, his lip split open more, and the last blow sent
a shrieking pain from Gil's left temple up into his brain--it felt like
his cheek bone or supra orbital ridge had cracked. He moaned in pain,
trying vainly to lift his hands to his face. Emerson stepped back,
winded, and watched.
The sight didn't please him. His own rage had pushed him a little
farther with his fists than he planned on going, and he was upset he"d
lost control. The man writhing in pain, bleeding profusely, did not
make him happy. Emerson frowned.
Grissom had tensed for more blows, and when they didn't come he opened
his one good eye and looked. He saw Emerson watching him and thought
he saw something pass over his face, but the pain in his head was
canceling out his reasoning skills. Gil let his hands fall to his
side and simply waited"he could do nothing else.
Finally, Emerson cleared his throat and pocketed the brass knuckles.
He sat back in the chair and sighed. "That wasn't exactly planned,"
he said at last. "Sorry."
Grissom watched through a fine film of blood, trying to blink it out
of his eye. His whole body and head ached and all he wanted was to
lay down and either die or go to sleep for days. He waited for either
option to become available.
"Well, let's get on with this then--no, Doc. I'm not going to hurt you
like that again. Promise." Emerson stood, and with infinite care
settled Grissom back into the pit. Pain was spreading all through his
body but Grissom realized Emerson was trying to be careful. *What the
hell for?* he thought vaguely.
"There. Now, I need to move you onto your stomach--it's gonna hurt.
I'll try to be careful," Emerson said, and rolled Grissom onto his
stomach. Tears flowed from Grissom's eyes as he tried to keep his
face from touching the ground. His ribs ached as well from the kicks
earlier, and overall Grissom couldn't think of anything but how much
he hurt.
Reaching into his back pocket, Emerson withdrew a rubber glove and a
closed knife. He drew off his leather glove with his left hand
carefully and slid on the rubber glove before picking the knife up and
opening it. He knelt next to the pit and placed the tip of the knife
at the top of Grissom's spine.
Grissom felt the prick of metal and his breathing halted. Part of him
said, well, at least I won't be in any more pain, and another was
yelling at him that death wasn't an option.
"I need you to push your shorts down, Doc. Come on, you can do it,"
Emerson said lightly, pressing hard enough to force a drop of blood
from Gil's skin.
Shivering, Grissom managed to bring his left hand out from under him.
He had no idea what was going to happen, but something about Emerson
wanting him to do it reminded him of something. Before he moved the
hand down his side he scrabbled at the sandy dirt on the side of the
pit, trying to get it under his nails.
Slowly, he slid his hand along his side until he felt the elastic
waistband, hesitated, and a pain behind his head moved his hand. He
pushed the elastic down until he felt metal press against the skin he
uncovered. He released his breath shakily and closed his eyes,
digging his hand into the material and scraping his nails on the edge
of the elastic, trying to deposit dirt there--maybe it'd make its way
to his CSIs
Emerson released the trigger on the air syringe and Grissom felt a
cold shock. He thought it was over and let his hand drop, when he
felt the knife slide down his spine, cutting a shallow wound, then
slice deeply across his lower back. Grissom hissed in pain, then
cried out in fear when he felt the knife slide under the waistband of
his boxers and rip the cloth open down the side of the leg. Quickly
Emerson slit the other leg of the boxers and pulled the boxers off
Grissom. He held the bunched cloth on the bleeding back wound until
blood had fairly soaked it, then shook a plastic evidence bag open
from his pocket and tossed them in. He sealed it and stood up,
observing the shaking and moaning man below him with detachment.
"I imagine that hurt. Sorry. I don't think you'll bleed to death
from it. I wouldn't let you, anyway. Besides--in about 14 hours it'll
all be moot."
Grissom managed to turn his head so he could see Emerson. Pain
blurred his view but he tried to pay attention.
"The injection I just gave you? It's an interesting little
development in chemical warfare from friends overseas. How did I get
it? Same way I manage to get into this place--I know the right
people." Emerson set the bag aside and knelt down.
"It's basically the same family as Ebola, with a modification. It's
now a pneumonic form of bubonic plague-like thing. Massive internal
bleeding after a 12-16 hour period of incubation. Fever, chills,
sweating, dysentery--sorry about that. Vomiting--at a certain point
you'll be vomiting blood as your lungs start to degrade. If you make
it to 12 hours, you'll start bleeding from your pores,
probably--depends on the virulence of the strain I gave you, and your
own tolerance, of course. At 14 hours most people will be dead. No
one's alive after 16 hours.
"Why now? Well, I calculate that right about the time my brother's
being killed, you'll decide to kill yourself with one of the handy
tools I left you down there. I doubt you'll be able to take the pain.
In about sixteen hours he'll be dead, and so will you--by your own
hand or mine." Emerson stood, picking up the bag, then snapped his
fingers.
"Oh! I said I would give you a one in a million chance. I'm going to
leave one more little clue for your team. These shorts will prove you
are alive, or were, and maybe that you had some drug in your blood.
Unfortunately, they'll have to have figured out the first clue to
figure out where these are. I hope they're as good as you are,"
Emerson said. He set the evidence bag on the chair and replaced the
grate. "Sleep tight, Doctor Grissom," he said before leaving and
turning off the light.
In the darkness, Grisson wept bitterly.
************************
415pm
At the lab, Catherine was frustrated by attempts to retrieve anything
from the cell phone she'd found in Grissom's home. Nick, Sara, and
Warrick had retrieved anything it looked like Grissom had touched from
his house, and Warrick was going over the living room again in
one-foot sections.
Nick Stokes came into the lab, eyes bleary. "Hey, Cath."
"Nick," Catherine said, not looking up from the scope. "Anything?"
"No, goddammit. Not a damn thing. The print is smudgy--something
between it and the sweat--I just can't *think* clearly right now!" he
said, slamming his hand on the table. Catherine jumped. "Sorry."
"You know, I've been thinking about that. What if--Nick, what if
someone broke into Grissom's house, and kidnapped him?"
"Catherine, that's what we assumed happened!"
"Let me finish--what if they did it, and did it with knowledge of how
to keep any evidence from being left behind? Almost like they knew
Gil's job."
Nick leaned against a table. "Okay, that's creepy. But--oh, man."
"Nick?"
"Catherine, what if the guy was wearing shoe covers? Like we would in
a scene?"
Catherine let this sink in, not noting Sara had come in with her cell
phone to her ear. "Oh, Nick--"
"Okay--yeah, okay, here Cath. It's Warrick," Sara said. She handed the
phone to a surprised Catherine and stood next to Nick. "He found
something," she whispered to Nick.
"Yeah? Really. Oh, Warrick--that's not good. I mean, at least we
have something, but it's not a positive sign. Get it over here now.
All right." Catherine shut the phone and handed it back to Sara.
"Jesus, how much weirder can this get."
"What'd he find?" Nick asked.
"He found a little spot on the couch that had been scratched
deeply--there was a little blood and a tiny skin fragment. He thinks
it was deliberate from the angle and depth."
"Oh--oh, no. Okay, so let's assume Gil is in deep shit wherever he
is," Nick said.
"Yeah. Nick, tell Sara what you think about the lack of evidence,"
Catherine sighed, dropping into a chair.
"Oh--well, I was telling Cath, what if the guy knows how not to leave
evidence" I was thinking the tread print--what if he was wearing shoe
covers" The only reason we'd get anything is because he stepped into
a spot of sweat near Gil's treadmill and there was enough to soak the
fabric through--he must have been moving really slow. So the print is
barely there. Bastard *knows* about CSI methods!"
Sara let that digest for a moment. "Then--then Nick, maybe we should
be looking at Gil's case files. I mean--we all know it happens to
cops, what if someone Gil put away got out and is looking for him?"
"Maybe--but I'm thinking, it's more likely someone connected to one of
the perps. I mean, a lot of Gil's cases closed on life or the death
penalty. Not many of them would ever get out. We can go through all
of them if we divide up," Catherine said, standing with hands on hips.
"Cath, there are like hundreds. How are we going to narrow it down?"
Nick asked, even as he found some hope in the idea.
"I don't know. We'll leave out anyone with no family, I guess. I
don't know."
"We have to try. Let's search for Manhattan, too. Maybe born there,
maybe a last name or address," Sara added. Nick nodded.
"Yeah. I'll commandeer a computer in Brass' office--Cath, can you
access Gil's files on his computer?"
"Yeah. Sara--you get the computer in the other lab. Just start
searching, fast, guys!"
*********************************
634 pm
Warrick Brown came frowning into Grissom's office, looking at the
report Greg had handed him. He tapped Catherine's shoulder and she
looked up from the screen, eyes red. "Got the DNA report. It's
Grissom's," he said shortly.
"Of course. Anything else?"
"No. Why would it be there" I don't get this whole thing."
"Neither do I, Warrick. Maybe Gil tried to leave something to tell us
he wasn't going willingly. It'd be like him," Catherine said, sitting
back in Gil's chair. Warrick sat on the edge of the desk.
"Man, I'm freaked by this, Cath. Without Gris around, I'm feeling
jumpy--knowing I'm supposed to help find him. What if he's out there
waiting for us?" Warrick shivered a little.
"Don't think that. You did a great job finding that. Now, we'll see
if we can find anything in the files."
"Nothing yet?"
Catherine sighed. "Nothing obvious. That stupid phone message is
driving me crazy too. No Manhattan addresses in Vegas, no last names,
nothing."
Warrick hopped down and looked over her shoulder. "What about
business names?"
"Nothing there yet."
Warrick sighed and stood. "All right, I'm gonna find a computer and
try to Google me an answer. Maybe a paper in Manhattan covered a
trial here, who knows. Maybe the guy has a thing about New York."
*
*
855pm
Grissom clicked the penlight off after looking at the pocket watch.
He was cold, miserably cold, and he could feel a fever building. He
still lay on his stomach, convinced he would be warmer. It meant his
face was constantly hurting from being on the ground, but he really
didn't think he could be in much more pain than he was.
He was, however, finally giving in to his thirst. Reaching into the
second depression, he awkwardly opened the canteen with one hand,
brought it to his torn lips, and tipped it up.
Grissom took two swallows before he realized the water was salty.
Pain lanced his lips as he sloshed water on them moving the canteen
away. "Fuckin' bastard," he whispered harshly. Gil knew, if he
thought he was thirsty now, he'd be much worse later on after drinking
salt water. Still, he capped the canteen, put it back, and curled his
hand back under him.
He wasn't sleepy, though he was physically exhausted from trembling
constantly. He'd named all the bones in his body from his toes to his
pelvis to occupy his mind, and now he started on his fingers. Grissom
felt if he was still able to think, he would be okay, pain and all.
"Phalanges.metacarpus.scaphoid.os magnum.
*************************
*
1010pm
Warrick Brown leaned back in the desk chair, frustrated after his
twentieth Google search combination yielded nothing. Lacing his
fingers behind his head, he rocked back in the chair and allowed his
mind to wander.
"Okay. It's not going to be obvious. It's going to be connected, but
not obvious. So no city, no home or address--what's here that's
Manhattan besides a goddamn drink? And I could use one too, nice big
Manhattan and a blackjack table-"
Warrick stopped. Head spinning, he leaned forward and quickly typed
in *Las Vegas Phone Book* The search engine pulled up several sites,
and Warrick clicked on one even as he grabbed the phone and called
Grissom's office.
He waited for Catherine to pick up as he clicked several times, ending
up with a listing of casinos in Las Vegas. His eyes lit up as he
heard Catherine's voice.
"Willows."
"Cath, it's New York, New York," Warrick said excitedly as he clicked
on the final link to bring up the casino's home page.
"Warrick" What?" Catherine sat up in her chair as well.
"There's a Manhattan suite there--the casino, Catherine!"
"Jesus! Go, go, I'll get Nick, go!"
In less than twenty minutes all four CSIs and Brass were at New York,
New York, hustling into the casino through a mass of gamblers and
tourists. Brass shouldered to the hotel check in and asked for the
manager. Nick, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine let their eyes wander
over the crowd, looking for anything.
Brass came back with a brown package with a white typed label on it.
It bore the name of the person who was going to check into the
Manhattan suite when he arrived from Belgium in two days. The hotel
manager assured Brass no one had been in the suite and the gentleman
from Belgium had yet to make it to the States. Sara and Catherine
went up to the suite anyway, while Nick and Warrick took the package
and went back to the lab.
Opening it very carefully after x-raying revealed nothing overtly
sinister, Warrick and Nick pulled out an evidence bag, red printing
indicating nothing except EVIDENCE. Nick took the envelope for
analysis and Warrick the bag.
Warrick grimaced as he looked the bag over, then moaned softly. "Oh,
Grissom," he breathed. He recognized the silly handcuff boxers they
had given their chief as a joke last year--only now they were covered
in what looked to be blood. "Please, please be okay," he whispered as
he began the careful process of analyzing the bag and its contents.
***********************
1125pm
Violent trembling shook Grissom's clammy body, the sweat rolling off
his body pooling on the plastic under him. He knew he was running a
high fever, besides coughing, and his stomach was knotting in pain.
He knew he'd been lucky to just have to urinate in the last hours, but
even through his shivering he knew it wasn't going to last.
He was trying to curl up to get warmer when the first wave of nausea
hit. It was unexpected and Grissom's well-developed gag reflex was
overcome. He retched several times, painfully, and finally brought up
darkish fluid and bile. It made his head pound uncontrollably and
Grissom moaned and gritted his teeth. He managed to wipe the vomit
away from his face, toward the wall, with one weak hand. The hand
struck the metal box in the depression and Grissom pulled his hand
away quickly. He didn't want to remember what was in the box. The
watch he had set next to it so he wouldn't have to see the scalpel and
cyanide again.
Grissom had given up trying to occupy his mind with lists and
wordplay--now he simply let his mind bounce from pain to excruciating
pain. He found the worst pain was in his head, near his cracked brow
ridge, the second his lip, and the third his bruised ribs. Of course,
the general knowledge he had been given an injection of a disease that
would make him bleed to death from the inside brought its own unique pain.
A few hours ago, when the shivering had begun and not stopped, Grissom
had shone the flashlight on the contents of the metal box. He saw the
scalpel was bright and new, the cyanide ampule shiny as well. He
tried to figure out what kind of death both would be. Obviously,
cyanide would be faster. It was the obvious choice.
Grissom had assumed the scalpel was for cutting his throat or wrists"a
messy and not always successful way to die. He had been confused by
that for a long time.
It was when he coughed up his first dark yellow phlegm with a racking
wheeze, and noticed a few brown specks in it-blood--that he'd
understood the presence of the scalpel. It horrified him and made him
draw his body away from the metal box.
Grissom understood that Emerson was giving him two options--die
quickly, and relatively painlessly, or slit wrists and bleed slowly to
death. Gil realized that Emerson understood Gil's hope--he hoped his
CSIs would somehow find him. If he wanted to give them maximum time
to find him but minimize his own pain, he would use the scalpel and
cut his wrists. They might find him before he bled to death. But
Grissom knew he would have to time it correctly--if he cut his wrists
too soon he'd be dead, and if he cut too late he'd last and suffer a
horribly painful death if his team didn't find him. The cyanide was
there if Grissom managed to last fourteen hours and finally, when his
hope of being found had died, decided to end the pain quickly.
The realization brought unexpected tears to his eyes--he had never
known an understanding of sadism like Emerson's. He cried weakly as
he remembered Emerson's words--we want revenge, retribution. We want to
hurt someone. In all his years in the field of death, nothing had
felt so utterly painful and meaningless as the choice he was being given.
**********************
156am
Catherine bumped into Greg coming out of the lab, looking harried.
"Whoa, there."
"Oh, Catherine--I have the results of the tests on the shorts we--on the
blood, I mean"
"Greg, it's okay. We're all stressed. Can I see them?"
"Yeah--it's, uh, it's Grissom's blood. His DNA. There's something
weird in it, some synthetic tranquilizer-"
"What's this soil analysis?" Catherine asked, interrupting.
"Oh, that's the weirder thing. The soil's a relatively common sandy
composition, found all around the outer limits of the city, but it's
got a--see here, it's got a much higher level of radiation than
anything normal. It's from a place the soil's saturated with radiation."
"Jesus--the testing grounds! Greg, I love you!" Catherine said. Greg
smiled weakly. He was very nervous about his results, knowing his
boss' life depended on their abilities as a team. He hoped it was useful.
Catherine sped around the corner and smacked into Nick. She grabbed
his arm and dragged him into the lab where Warrick was working.
"Guys! We know he's somewhere with a really high level of radiation
in the sand--one of the old testing grounds!"
Warrick and Nick both looked at the report. "Jesus," Nick said. "But
Catherine, there are like hundreds of miles of old ground! And it's
all military."
"Most of it," Warrick said. He'd gone back to the computer, pulling
up Las Vegas correctional reports. "I was wondering if maybe someone
was coming up for execution who Gil had nailed. Now, there are a
couple but one guy is up later this morning--here. John Emerson."
"Does he have any family?" Catherine asked. She was dialing Brass on
her cell phone as she asked.
"Yes--a brother. Let me see--" Warrick opened another window on screen
and searched news archives in Vegas. He found several accounts of
John Emerson's trial, and found one reference to his brother David, a
former Air Force nuclear analyst. "Holy shit."
Nick looked. "His brother was a nuclear scientist? Oh my god."
"Okay, Brass needs to find him--find where he works, all
that--Catherine!" Warrick pointed at the screen. Catherine nodded at
him, speaking to Brass on the phone quickly.
Greg bolted through the door, Sara close behind him, waving another
report. "Guys! I wanted to let you know I found out a little more on
the radiation in that sample-"
"Greg is a genius," Sara said. Greg took a breath and began.
"I ran the sample's level of radiation against a database of radiation
degradation in that particular soil composition. It's definitely not
from a newer testing ground. The radiation in the soil is degraded
enough for me to give an approximate time the last exposure might have
occurred." Greg stopped, gasping.
"And?" Sara prompted him.
"I asked a friend in the Department of Defense if he could run the
sample's analysis against any database of radiation measurement he
happened to have around. They test all grounds each year, you know,
except some of the privately held ones sometimes fudge it and do it
every 18 months. He narrowed it down to a testing ground in Nevada
that's been defunct about 30 years--that gives us two places. One is
privately held and I think that it's more likely it's that one. No
military to shoot at you if you're careful." He finished and leaned
on the desk, breathless.
Warrick, Nick, and Catherine all stared at him, then spontaneously
hugged him. "Damn, Greg, I'll never tease you about your hair again!"
Warrick bellowed.
Greg shook himself free. "Guys, you gotta get going. This place is
five hours away. Grissom could be hurt."
"Five hours nothing. Warrick, call Brass and tell him we need the
police Lear. Greg, get me the precise location of this place. Nick,
you, me, Sara, and Warrick have to be on the airstrip in fifteen
minute--grab your gear and guns. And Nick--grab the big med kit and
find us a paramedic to go with."
The group spun into action, happy to have something to cling to and
worried they'd have found it too late for their chief.
************************
315am
Emerson had come down the stairs and opened the grate. He saw the
body move slightly--he had thought Grissom would still be alive. He
noted with a clinical eye the sweat, the ugly gash on the back, the
tremors running through the man's body. Emerson brought the chair
closer and sat, elbows on knees.
Something about the condition Grissom's body was in made him angry.
He knew he wouldn't lose control again, and didn't consider himself at
fault for the CSI's general shape now--but something bothered him. He
reached down and lightly prodded Grissom's shoulder, watching as the
body jerked slightly. He heard the breathing quicken and saw the man
try to draw away. His body barely had the strength to shift his
weight away from Emerson.
Emerson leaned back. He thought that perhaps he was bothered because
one, he was appalled at the degraded state Grissom had fallen into,
and two, because he halfway expected Grissom to have taken the
cyanide. Part of him knew that the CSI was a strong man, obviously
capable, and probably possessed of a high tolerance for pain, but he
had not thought Grissom capable of enduring what he knew to be
terrible pain for so many hours. It made him angry, sad, and a little
resentful. He wasn't getting the revenge he thought he wanted, and
the pain he was inflicting was beginning to seem excessive even to
him. *Well, there's nothing I can do now to stop it,* he thought.
Taking a small box out of his pocket, he looked at it, sighed a
little, and set it carefully down next to the edge. It bore a large
block-lettered word on its plastic case: E-66 ANTIDOTE.
"Doctor Grissom. I didn't expect you to really be with us. Right
now, I think they're probably asking my brother what he'd like to
eat--final meal and all. I wish I had more options for you, but I'm
afraid there are limited options." Emerson reached into his pocket
and tossed a Payday candy bar into the pit. It hit Grissom's shoulder
and he moaned in pain.
Grissom opened his one relatively unswollen eye and saw the candy
wrapper. He tried to find the humor in it--the salt in the candy bar
would only exacerbate his pain--and he failed. He had been unable to
drink anything else after his first few swallows of water, and his
throat was closing up with thirst, opened occasionally by violent
retching. The only fluid he'd swallowed in hours had been blood from
his torn lip and face. Blood, mucus, and grainy phlegm were sticky
and drying under him, for he had been unable to keep up with the
quantity--he had stopped trying to wipe it away from him.
As Emerson watched, a harsh cough racked Grissom's body and he
grimaced at the sound and the groans of pain. He wondered at the
man's ability to tolerate pain, and then wondered--what if he was too
weak to move now?
Emerson knelt at the edge of the pit and touched Grissom's shoulder.
A sound escaped and he prodded harder. Gil managed to form a
whispered "no".
"Okay. You are alive. I'm going to give you a hand," Emerson said,
and reached into the depression near Gil's head, taking out the metal
box. He opened it and set the cyanide pill in front of Gil's eyes,
and the scalpel into his right hand, after pulling the hand from under
Grissom's body. "There. I was worried maybe you weren't up to the
task." When he stood he shut the grate, barred it, and clicked the
padlock with a simple finality.
Grissom was too tired to cry. He weakly held the scalpel and drew his
hand up slightly to show he was quite capable. He shut his eyes on
the cyanide and tried to simply keep breathing.
******************
340 am
"Okay, I pulled all kind of illegal strings to get us here, informed
the military of where we're flying, and now we've got to figure out
where in a hundred mile square Grissom could be," Brass said over the
jet's whine. The CSIs and Brass were in the jet, along with the pilot
and a slightly bewildered paramedic Warrick has shanghaied.
"Hey, we're over the area now," the pilot said from up front. At
that, the team started looking out windows as the pilot dropped the plane.
"Are there any buildings left" Any structures at all?" Nick asked as
Warrick flipped through a file on the old Nevada Stakes proving ground.
"Most are gone, just fallen over, but it seems the owners report a few
old houses and sheds on the land. The houses were part of the
testing--see how they'd take the blasts."
"Some are still around?" Sara asked. Warrick nodded.
"Only those about a half-mile, mile away from ground zero. They're
still pretty damn radioactive."
"And me without a Geiger counter," Catherine sighed. Her fear for
Grissom was almost out of control. He'd been gone too long for
anything good to happen.
Brass was looking out a side window when he thought he saw a blue
metal flash in the distance. "Hey, Mike--do you see that flash up
ahead? About northwest?" he asked the pilot. The CSIs crowded round him.
The pilot looked, then veered slightly northwest. "There's something.
I'll drop down."
*******************************
350am
Lacking the strength to talk to himself, Grissom had been signing
lines from poems and songs he remembered, his hands moving feebly. He
felt he had to do something to keep from deciding on a form of
suicide. He kept his eyes tightly closed so he wouldn't see the
cyanide ampule in front of him.
The coughing was almost constant now, and Grissom could feel his lungs
filling with fluid--his breathing was labored and raspy. The last hour
or so dysentery had finally struck and he felt dehydrated and totally
void of energy. Between the vomiting, the shivering, and constant
stomach and intestinal pain, he knew he wasn't far from a bad death.
He forced himself to think very clearly, deciding on a way to end the
pain that could still save him--he had not given up hope in his CSI
team. Grissom figured that if he was going to die there was no point
in giving up until he was dead--the pain he'd tolerated so long could
not really get any worse. Of course, as he thought this every nerve
ending was screaming at him in shrieking, hysterical unison: PAIN.
Grissom didn't think he could use the cyanide. It was too final, too
completely irretrievable. At the same time, he knew he couldn't take
more pain. He had reached his limit of tolerance and only had enough
mind left to decide his next move.
He struggled and managed to bring his right hand up, then pushed with
his last muscular energy and was able to push his body up enough to
get his left hand out from under his body. It left him almost on his
side, and drained. It was several minutes before he could move again.
He moved his head so the cyanide was out of his direct line of sight
and breathed deeply, exhaling in a cough a fine mist of blood.
Grissom felt he should leave something, in case they didn't find him
in time, something--he wanted more than ever in his life to be able to
tell people he cared about that he did care for them deeply.
Moving his hands together, Grissom signed a goodbye to his mother and
his friends. He signed Catherine's name last, his mind trying to
focus on her, to give him any kind of center. A rattling cough turned
into a gagging as blood and bile warred to be vomited out, and the
intense pain decided him. He drove the scalpel cleanly into his left
wrist, pulling it down the vein, not across, then without
acknowledging that tiny hurt in a myriad of greater ones, turned the
knife and cut his other wrist open. Grissom dropped the knife,
brought his hands up to his chest, and waited for whatever was going
to happen to occur.
***************************
358am
The pilot had brought the plane down less than thirty yards away from
Grissom's truck. The CSIs piled out, guns drawn, as Brass ordered the
paramedic to stay near the rear.
Nick and Warrick went to the truck and glanced in. Seeing nothing but
the keys in the ignition, they backed up Brass, Sara, and Catherine as
they approached the wooden old house nearby.
Brass was about to knock, Warrick going around the side and Nick the
back, when the door opened. Brass jumped back and aimed, Sara and
Catherine training their guns as well on the man in the doorway. "Who
the hell are you?" Brass yelled over the whine of the jet engine.
"David Emerson. Please, don't shoot. Can I help you?"
Brass pushed the man aside, against the inside wall. "Damn well
better be able to. Where's Gil Grissom?"
Emerson watched with detachment as Sara and Catherine burst in, going
through the house. He stood mildly before Brass. "That's up to
Doctor Grissom, isn't it?" Emerson answered. Nick and Warrick came
into the house.
"Nothing out there. Grissom!" Nick yelled as he passed the two men in
the doorway. Warrick glared at Emerson as he too passed.
"They're upset with me," Emerson pointed out. Brass shook him and
tossed him into the living room area. Emerson sat on the only chair
in the room and watched Brass watch him.
Catherine had found a door in the kitchen and swung it open, waiting
for another person to appear. Warrick came behind her. She reached
up for the light.
"Got your back, Cath," Warrick said. They both felt a nervous energy
and a cold fear.
"Good." She went down the stairs carefully. Warrick followed,
pulling out his flashlight and flicking it on to find the next light.
He shone the light on the switch near the bottom and nudged
Catherine. As they got near the bottom of the stairs a sour smell of
sweat and blood filled the air. Warrick cringed inside.
Catherine flicked the switch, quickly checked the room for people, and
saw the grate. She ran to it, holstering her gun, as Warrick yelled
for the people upstairs.
Kneeling, Catherine saw what she thought was Grissom, but it was
difficult to tell under the blood and dirt. She pulled up on the
grate, saw the lock, and yelled for Warrick.
"Oh my god--Cath, is that--" Warrick started, then he saw the lock.
"Okay, screw the key. Back off," he said, pointing his gun at the
lock from the ground and firing.
The sound brought Gil around and he muttered a cry. He felt the
presence of people and was afraid all over again.
Warrick wrenched the grate up, tossing the bars aside, and recoiled
with a gasp. "Oh god, Catherine--Grissom. Jesus."
Catherine looked, paled, and turned to Nick who was coming down the
stairs. "Get that medic down here now!" Nick bolted back up, passing
Brass and Emerson and dragging the medic down the stairs.
Brass looked at Nick, and back at Emerson. "I hope he's alive, you
son of a bitch. For your sake." He saw Emerson look at his watch and
cross his arms.
"Four AM. Who knew he had it in him?" Emerson said. He smiled,
uncrossed his arms, and Brass saw he had a gun in his right hand.
Before Brass could bring up his own gun, Emerson had tucked the barrel
under his chin and fired. The shot knocked him backward, sprawling
him in a bloody mess against a wall. Brass looked once, holstered his
gun, and went out to call LVPD from the plane.
*
404am
"Catherine, he's bled all over, I don't know if--" Sara said, near
tears as she looked at her boss and friend in his own grave.
Catherine ignored her. She and Warrick were looking over the syringe
in the box marked antidote. "Catherine, we could kill him," Warrick
said nervously.
"He's dying anyway, Warrick! If this is really what he needs"
"Uh, he's not going to make it to a hospital, so anything you want to
try, do it," the medic said. They had turned Grissom over so he could
work. All the CSIs were appalled at the shape their chief was in, but
tried their best to ignore the wasted body. Grissom's vital signs
were almost gone and the medic was at a loss.
"Cath--do it. Anything, we have to do something!" Warrick hissed.
"Jesus--Gil, please, please, you gotta hang in there," she said as she
took the filled syringe up. She tapped it, wiped the side of his
neck, and injected it into his carotid artery. She held a gauze pad
over the site as the skin sealed itself. "Well, this way it moves
pretty fast. My god. Can we at least get him out of there?" She
asked the medic.
He shrugged. "He's so incredibly damaged. That he's not already
dead--if his neck is fine, let me brace it and we'll pull him out."
The CSIs made space and the medic worked swiftly. They all noted with
mixed hope and dread that Grissom was still breathing. "All right.
Help me," he said, and they carefully lifted Grissom out and placed
him on a cloth-covered body board.
Sara, unable to look any longer, stood up and walked up the stairs.
"I'm going to call Greg and tell him it's okay," she said softly.
Tears streaked her face as she walked.
"Is it okay?" Nick asked, staring at the still body of their boss.
The medic covered the body gently with a sterile sheet and continued
to bind the wrist wounds up. He was very silent, trying to ignore
both the anguished faces of the CSIs and the ravaged body he worked on.
Catherine was kneeling next to Grissom, Warrick next to her. She
reached out and very gently touched Grissom's matted hair. "It has to
be okay," she said.
Nick felt someone behind him and found Brass standing there.
"Jim--what was that sound" Where's that asshole who was here?"
Brass walked in and sat on the chair Emerson had occupied before him,
looking intently at Grissom's body. "He shot himself. He said "Four
AM. Who knew he had it in him?" and then blam. Grissom?"
Nick looked back at his boss. "There was a box marked antidote next
to that--pit. Catherine gave it to him and our man's been working his
ass off. We're waiting a little, I guess."
With a sigh, the medic, who had never announced his name as Bill, sat
back from the body. "Okay. He's not bleeding overtly anywhere now,
but his blood pressure is still so low--like he's bleeding inside.
He's got a lot of superficial wounds, broken nose, maybe a broken
cheek bone--and from the amount of vomitus in that hole, he's
dehydrated and very, very sick from something that's making him cough
up blood."
"Do you know anything about an"E-66 virus, or drug, or something?"
Catherine asked. The medic shook his head.
"No--I mean, we all probably have to be quarantined in case of
contagion, but if I had to guess, I'd guess someone's infected him
with something incredibly fast acting and bronchial--attacks the lungs.
Some forms of Ebola, old bubonic plague--hell, I don't know!"
"It's okay, man. You're doing a great job," Nick said, sliding down
the wall to sit next to Bill.
"How long are we gonna wait?" Warrick asked. He was still holding
onto the fact his boss was still breathing. He was afraid to look
away in case Gil stopped.
Catherine sighed. "I don't know. If that stuff was what he needed,
well, maybe we gave it to him in time. He's so--damn, Warrick, he
looks like he's been thrown out a window!" Catherine cried. She
leaned into Warrick and he put an arm around her tightly.
"I know. He'll be fine--I mean, he hung on for so long. He had to--he
had to believe we were coming."
"You know, he may have. I found a glass capsule in his pit there--like
an old cyanide pill. And a scalpel. It's like he could have chosen
either one--cyanide would have been fast suicide. Instead, he--" Bill
stopped. The horror of the situation finally hit him. "Jesus," he
breathed.
Nick moved closer to Grissom. He reached out a hand and let it rest
on Gil's leg lightly. The sheet was already staining with blood and
fluids. "He was still hoping we'd come. Damn it. Buddy, we're here.
Stay with us, okay?"
**********************
435am
Grissom had felt his body move, and had decided it was simply shifting
into shutting down, bit by bit. He could barely feel his legs. His
face was numb, his hands freezing--*how did I manage to get on my back,
then?* he wondered.
An uncomfortable pressure on his wrists brought him once again into
the present--he had been almost enjoying the gradual descent of cold on
his body. He tried to open his one good eye and couldn't--everything
felt weighted down.
Then a shock of pain had stabbed across his neck, and his body had
screamed in pain again. Grissom's nerves vibrated, sending tremors
throughout his body. He tried to shift, tried to speak, tried
anything--nothing seemed connected to his brain anymore.
A short time later, though measured in Grissom's space of anguish it
seemed days, he felt blood running more strongly in his limbs. The
overloaded, simple, survival part of his brain began to function with
his more rational mind again. For the first time in hours Grissom was
able to think critically. He didn't like what he found.
A voice cut across his mind. He thought it sounded familiar, and was
afraid it was the insane man who had caused all this. With a huge
effort he struggled to open his eyes. The effort failed, and Grissom
felt a burst of despair.
"There! Look, he tried to blink--Catherine, did you see it?" Warrick
yelled, pointing. He felt a little like an idiot, but his joy at
seeing some sign of life in his boss was overwhelming.
"I did--oh, Gil," Catherine said. She touched his dirty, matted hair
again, trying to communicate through touch how much she wanted him to
live. Nick patted Grissom's leg.
"I knew it. He's gonna make it."
"Well-I'll take his blood pressure again, and then let's get him the
hell out of here. I don't know what else to do," Bill said.
Grissom felt the pressure on his arm and pain flared. A tear washed
across his face and Bill noticed it. "I'm sorry," he apologized. He
checked the dial and quickly released the pressure in the cuff.
"Okay, it's up. Let's move him, but be really damn careful. If it's
something affecting his blood or lungs, I don't want him screaming or
breathing fast. He has to be moved very, very carefully. We'll get
him in the jet and I'll have the pilot call Vegas Medical. There's a
guy on staff there who does toxicology and immunology and has seen
some strange shit in Africa. I want him to see this."
"What do we do?" Catherine asked, trying to focus again.
"I'm going to strap him on this, then I need a hand getting him out of
here. You-Nick-- Can you help me? And someone should clear a spot in
the jet for the board."
"I'll do it," Warrick said, jumping up and running up the stairs.
Brass followed him, casting a look back at Grissom.
Catherine stood and moved to let Nick and Bill work. She grabbed the
box and empty syringe, Bill's equipment bag, and moved up the stairs
ahead of them. She couldn't shake the smell from the room.
Nervous, Nick took his end of the body board and waited. Bill took
the other end, holding it so he could walk up the stairs facing
forward. They lifted slowly, conscious of Grissom's delicate state,
and started up the stairs.
Warrick was near the hatch of the jet, Catherine and Brass already
inside. Sara was in her seat, buckled in, nervously jogging one leg
up and down and watching. Nick and Bill exited the house and moved
quickly to the jet. Warrick stepped down and let Nick and Bill enter.
They carefully set the board down on the floor and Warrick came back
in, shutting the hatch. "Ready!" he yelled to the pilot.
"I need to call Vegas Medical-we're gonna take him there. Can you
land this anywhere near it?" Bill asked, going up to talk to the pilot
as they took off.
"No, I can't. Closest I can get to any hospital is one of the
military bases, and they're too far. But I can put it down on our
strip and have a medevac fly him to Vegas Medical. Only lose five
minutes or so in the transfer. All right?"
Bill frowned. "Okay. Please make great time!"
"Don't worry. I'll set it up, and then I'll tell Vegas Medical to
expect a chopper soon. We'll make it happen," the pilot said, and
Bill went back to his patient.
***********************8
5am
John Emerson was put to death by lethal injection at 500am local time,
his death witnessed by reporters, his aunt, and the father of the two
people he'd killed. His last thoughts were about his brother, the
only person he had been close to in his life, as he was strapped to
the gurney.
************************
6pm
Nick Stokes was taking the 4-6 shift at the hospital, sitting in a
chair outside Grissom's room. Catherine was sitting against the wall
across from him. Nick smiled.
"Weren't you here from 2-4 too?" he asked. Catherine nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I'd just hang out until shift begins.
"Catherine, that's hours away. Go sleep somewhere. You know you're
the first person I'd call if anything happened."
Catherine rubbed her neck. "I know. I'm just--Nick, I have to keep
nearby, that's all. I'm feeling over protective. I can't help it."
Nick moved over and sat next to her. "I know. I know. I just--when I
saw him, Cath--I got so angry. No one should ever have to feel what
he must have. I wanted to beat the shit out of someone when I saw it.
Then Brass comes down--and the guy's gone. Just gone. No one to hurt
for this. I wanted--Christ, I wanted to beat someone to death!" Nick
said. He hadn't let himself feel the fear and anger he'd felt when
they found Grissom, and he fought to keep it from returning completely.
Catherine looked at the younger CSI, then put her arm around him and
her head on his shoulder. "You'd have to get in line behind me, Nicky."
They were still on the floor when Warrick walked up. "You two okay?"
he asked.
Nick and Catherine looked up. "Hey," Nick said. "You too?"
Warrick sat in the chair. "Uh-huh. Hey, I talked to our medic--name's
Bill. He's a good guy. I told him we owe him. He said he"'d be happy
if we didn't call him again for anything like that."
"No kidding," Nick said.
Catherine was about to ask Warrick about Sara when a doctor rushed
past them and into Grissom's room. Warrick stood and looked through
the door window. He saw the doctor looking at the myriad of machines
helping Grissom breathe and monitoring his vital signs. Catherine and
Nick crowded behind, and all three were shoved out of the way by
another doctor. They congregated again and waited.
In the room, the doctors were looking at Grissom's blood pressure
readout and his oxygen intake. The sensors had set off an alarm in
the monitoring area, indicating Grissom was struggling to breathe.
What it meant at times was that a patient was trying to breathe on his
own.
The doctors were hesitant because of the unknown nature of the disease
that Grissom had. Dr. Harry MacDowell, the toxicology specialist, was
most intrigued by the fact that whatever had been injected into the
man after the first injection actually seemed to be preventing the
disease from wreaking any more havoc. The disease didn't seem to be
contagious now, and if it had been before, Dr. MacDowell imagined it
would have killed whoever had it by now.
"You know, if he's trying to breathe on his own, it means whatever was
basically liquefying his lungs has stopped. After we suctioned the
damaged tissue, it doesn't seem he's had any more damage. I don't
know how, but there it is," he said. He looked over at Martin King,
chief of thoracic surgery.
"Well hell. He's obviously a stubborn man. And, it seems he's going
to make it. I'm happy to let him try breathing on his own."
To the CSIs chagrin, they were elbowed once more by a nurse who went
into Grissom's room. They looked through the window and watched as
Dr. King and the nurse removed Grissom's breathing hose and switched
off the pump. Nick could feel Catherine's nails digging into his
shoulder and winced.
Struggling in what seemed to be an airless room, Grissom's mouth
worked and his body tried to remember how to breathe. He could feel
the air trying to pass his sore lips, and tried to suck in a breath.
A few failures, a moment of panic, and he inhaled on his own, a deep
breath followed by a shaky exhale. It happened again, and then again.
In his mind, Grissom felt an infusion of energy, something clearing
and fresh. He thought the air sweet and cool, and even though it hurt
a little to breathe, he committed himself to it and reveled in the
sensation.
The doctors were surprised to have to push the door open past three
CSIs. They looked over the tired investigators and Dr. King smiled.
"You all need sleep. He's breathing on his own. That's really a
great sign," he said. Nick, Warrick, and Catherine let out their
collective breaths.
"Jesus--thanks. Thank you," Catherine said.
"Any idea when he might come around?" Nick asked, arm around Catherine.
"Not really. We don't know enough yet about whatever he was given.
But whatever it was it seemed that antidote, or vaccine, worked. I
think he'll be fine."
"Yes, god," Warrick whispered. "Thank you."
The doctors smiled at the CSIs and left. Catherine, remembering, ran
after them. "Doc!"
Both turned. "Yes?" Dr. MacDowell asked.
"Can--can we sit in his room now, do you think?" she asked quickly.
She saw them look at each other.
"Oh--okay. Only one of you, and really I'd prefer it if for the next
day you wore a gown and mask. Just in case," Dr. King said. He
smiled at her. "I think he'd like it if he woke up and you were there."
"Thank you--thanks!" she said, and trotted back to the guys.
"So?" Nick asked.
"I'm going in. Gotta wear a mask, and gown, for now. I'm staying
until shift begins," Catherine said, taking a surgical gown and mask
from a nearby cart. "No noise. You two can sit out here if you want,
but I suggest you get some sleep. Don't make me pull rank."
Warrick laughed. "All right, girl. I'm going to go to the lab and
crash on the lounge couch. Nick, wake me when shift starts?"
Nick nodded. "Yeah. I'm gonna stay here a little longer, then I'll
be down."
Warrick nodded, kissed Catherine on the cheek, and walked off.
Catherine, tying her mask on, tapped Nick's shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me go in first."
Nick smiled. "Happy to. If he comes to you tell him I said hi, okay?"
Catherine smiled and pulled up her mask, then went in. Nick looked
through the window once, then settled down into the chair, closing his
eyes.
*************************************
855pm
Catherine sat in a chair pulled up to the bed, watching Grissom
breathe. She had seen his right eye flutter, as if it would open,
several times, but nothing more.
"Gil open your eyes, come on. Let me know you're here," Catherine
said under her breath. She reached out a hand and let it rest on his
forearm, on the wrist bandage. Before she closed her eyes, she took
in the stitched lip, the stitches and butterfly bandages obliterating
Grissom's left eyebrow, the plastic mask carefully strapped to
Grissom's face to protect the fine surgical work of setting the supra
orbital bone and to provide tension to keep the fracture together as
well. She felt again the anger and despair, and tried to think about
Grissom as he usually was.
Grissom was becoming more aware of his surroundings, even though his
body was on a fairly large dosing of painkillers delivered
intravenously. The doctors had wanted to keep his body generally
sedated to discourage any movement that might irritate the ravaged
lungs, stomach, and heart.
Through the haze, he felt his body's weight on the bed, and the severe
pain in his head. He felt as if he should be able to raise his hands,
but any attempt left him confused as to where his hands actually were.
He engaged his mind as fully as he could, trying to concentrate his
energy on opening his right eye, the only part of his face that didn't
seem tacked down.
Catherine opened her eyes with a start. She wasn't sure if she'd
dropped off, and sat up quickly. "Gil?"
Grissom flicked his eye over at the sound vibration he perceived. He
didn't think he had lost his hearing again, but he felt his mind
wasn't picking up on things with its normal acuity. The focus was
slow, but when his vision cleared he saw Catherine looking intently at
him. For the first time in a few days, Gil felt he actually was alive.
"Gris? Oh, Gil--thank god. Gil, I'm so--it's good to see you back,"
Catherine said. She stood, bending over him so he wouldn't have to
turn his head. She felt tears forming in her eyes and tried to blink
them back.
Grissom felt Catherine holding his left hand loosely. He couldn't
speak quite yet, and swallowed painfully. With effort, he moved his
fingers in her hand.
Catherine looked at the moving fingers, then back at Grissom. She saw
the effort it was taking him to move them on his face. "Gil, don't.
Just rest," she said, very gently stroking his hair.
Frustrated, Grissom moved his fingers again, forcing his hand to work.
He began to shape meaning with his fingers. And as he looked up at
Catherine, he saw her begin to understand.
Catherine looked again at Gil's hand, trying so hard to move. She
took her hand away and watched. To her amazement, he was spelling out
HELLO in sign language.
When he finished, his hand was weak but he grasped Catherine's
fingers. He tried to say hello, say her name, say anything through
his open eye. What he had back of himself he tried to communicate to her.
Catherine looked back at Gil's face, tears on her cheeks. His heart
jumped a little at the sight.
"Hi to you too. Welcome back."
***********************************8
The next morning
Grissom was fully awake now, if not fully conscious of his body's many
injuries. He was lying in the bed slightly elevated, his right eye
roving as far as it could. He seemed to be desperate for sensory input.
Doctors had come and gone, impressed at his recovery but not
understanding his frustration. He couldn't make much sound yet, and
they hadn't noticed his frantic one-handed signing for what it was.
He was working his mouth, prepping for the pain he'd feel when he
finally spoke, when Nick and Warrick walked in. Grissom tried to
smile and winced a little.
"Hey chief! Looking good!" Nick said as they strolled up. Neither
wore protective gear, both doctors deciding Grissom's recovery was
assured.
"Yeah, buddy. And--Nick, he looks a little pissed!" Warrick noted.
Something about the way their boss looked at them with his one clear
eye seemed angry to Warrick.
"Maybe. Hey Gris, you feeling okay?" Nick asked. He wasn't sure if
Gil could talk, but he was trying to keep it light.
Gil flashed his eye over at Nick, then Warrick. He dragged his right
hand up onto his chest, surprising both CSIs, and began signing.
Nick's brows raised. "Gris--uh, I don't know ASL, man. Warrick?"
"I know the alphabet, but--uh, I don't know," Warrick said. He leaned
a little closer and tried to make out the letters. "Um, let's see--R,
and E, A--yeah, A. D-d? READ? Oh! Read!" Warrick cried triumphantly.
Grissom let out a small sigh of relief. He'd managed to communicate
something.
"You mean, you want to read" Or something to read" Or us to read to
you?" Nick asked. Grissom rolled his one eye. With a painful gulp,
he opened his mouth.
"S--second," he rasped out. The sound of his voice was both welcome
and unfamiliar to the CSIs. It sounded dull, harsh, and grating.
"Jesus, Gris! You spoke," Nick said happily. "Damn. I better call
Catherine," he said, walking out to use his cell phone. Warrick moved
closer.
The sight of his chief and friend's battered frame, the obscene
plastic mask seeming like both a joke and a terrifying reminder of
what Gil had gone through, was still shocking to Warrick. Even with
his extensive experience of death and the obscenities humans could
commit, Warrick had a difficult time seeing the damaged Grissom.
Before Warrick would let Grissom know how scared he'd been for his
boss, though, he'd pretend he was okay with it all.
"Hey boss. You had us a little nervous for a while there. Kind of
stretched our skills on this," he said quietly. He reached out and
patted Gil's right hand. "Don't do that again, okay?"
Grissom saw the emotion his CSI was hiding badly. It touched him that
Warrick was concerned and afraid for him. He would never admit he
liked Warrick's work and personality better than any of his team
besides Catherine, but the two men worked together with a facility and
communication that Grissom knew arose out of mutual respect and
talent. Gil knew Warrick was the one who would have his job one day.
*Could've been soon*, he thought wryly.
Grissom held Warrick's fingers to get his attention, and started to
fingerspell slowly again. Warrick concentrated on the fingers.
"W--WO, um, M. No, N. T. WONT? Oh--okay, you won't do that again. I
get it. Good." Warrick smiled, then was shocked to feel wetness on
his face. He removed his hand from Grissom's and quickly wiped the
tears away. "I'm sorry."
Gil slowly moved his head side to side and fingerspelled NO. As
Warrick watched, Grissom spelled out what he"d been trying to say for
hours now.
//Thank you.//
END | |
Well, here's the first CSI fic I've ever written, over a six hour
marathon session late Valentine's Day/ next AM. I suppose it could be
easily slashed. Huge apologies if I'm overstepping by this not being
slash, but someone requested Gil-torture, and this pretty much sprang
full-formed from my head ala Athena. Enjoy! Feedback loved!
Title: Killing Time
Rating: PG-13 to R+, esp violence
Warnings: I may have blown some medical stuff. Note time as story goes
on. Grissom torture.
Archive. : If you want it; just let me know where.
No spoiler warnings. All totally made up. Thanks to the PTB and
creative forces, esp. Billy Petersen's gift of Gil.
Summary: Gil never takes a day off because these kinds of horrible,
from-the-past things happen to him.
Killing Time
By Filter (S. Lopez)
Stifling a yawn, Gil Grissom couldn't figure out why his eyes were
hurting so badly. He was lying on his couch watching rain outside his
window, wondering about angle and force per square inch each drop
carried when it hit--it wasn't like he was staring down the barrel of a
microscope.
Reaching up, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was
then he realized he hadn't been blinking. *Well, that would do it,*
he thought to himself.
The head midnight shift CSI wasn't used to his days and nights off.
When he'd fallen asleep in his desk chair Catherine had poked him
awake and told him to take one of his days off which he was supposed
to have every week.
"We've been really slow anyway, Gil," she had told him. "Go the hell
home and take tomorrow off."
It could explode any time, Catherine, you know that. This is Las
Vegas," he had protested feebly.
"You're no good to us if you fall asleep on evidence at a scene. Go."
And with much grumbling he'd taken the day off, slept a good deal of
the daytime hours, and of course was awake as the night fell. He had
fed his tarantulas, petted them a little, checked his email several
times in case someone wanted something from him over at the lab.
Catherine had yelled at him the last time he'd called to check in, so
he'd let the phone alone for a while. He had finished every crossword
puzzle in his home. Grissom was bored, and he wasn't used to it.
He rolled off the couch and went to get a drink. On the way he passed
the treadmill he had bought on a complete whim a month ago and which
had only been used to walk Nick's dog the one time Nick had to leave
the Lab with Grissom. A fine dusting of dog fur still clung to the belt.
He got a mango juice drink out of the refrigerator and looked through
his kitchen at the treadmill. Gil knew he was out of shape in
general, though he didn't feel his job demanded he be able to run a
marathon.
"On the other hand," he said to himself, walking over to the machine.
He was remembering the one time recently he'd actually had to hop a
fence to look for evidence, and how Warrick had chuckled and given Gil
a push on one dangling leg to get him over. Gil had insisted it was
only because the fence was ten feet high, but Warrick had given him a
knowing look after leaping over effortlessly.
Since then Gil had thought about starting to run, and had been trying
to rationalize doing so. *It can't be because I'm feeling fat,* he
kept thinking.
With a grin Gil realized he had his answer. He padded into his
bedroom, laced on his running shoes, tucked his shirt into his shorts,
and went out to jump on the treadmill.
"I'm going to see what effect exercise has on the average man when he
has to exert himself immediately," he said aloud. Any time Grissom
could use science and analysis as an excuse, he found it easy to do
things he found uncomfortable.
Flicking the machine on, Grissom frowned at the readouts. He pressed
a few buttons, jumped as the belt started to move, and began to jog
slowly.
When he was younger, Grissom had enjoyed running--he had refused to
join his high school track team but ran anyway with the cross-country
runners. It was one of the few times the overly cerebral young man
felt open and free. By the time he graduated high school he was
running ten or twelve miles every day, six days a week. It made it
easy to get to remote locations with equipment when he started doing
unofficial work for the LVPD. After a few months people were used to
the skinny, intense kid with a jerry-rigged backpack of forensic
equipment jogging down gullies and over dunes, wreckage, and building
equipment to collect evidence.
He smiled a little remembering his youthful physique, and increased
the speed a little. Sweating and breathing hard, Grissom ignored the
pain and observed his body with detachment.
"Huh--took ten minutes for breathing to increase dramatically,legs
tiring around twelve minutes at 4.5 miles per hour." He spoke out
loud as he ran, interested in his heart rate's increase and pulse.
At forty-five minutes Gil looked down at his watch, lost his balance,
and flew backward off the machine. He sprawled on the floor, dazed,
and laughed. He was coated in sweat, flushed, but feeling pretty
good. Carefully he got up and shook himself, turned off the machine,
and went to shower. He thought that maybe he'd be able to go back to
sleep after the shower--maybe the run had tired him out.
Grissom came back onto the living room rubbing his hair with a towel,
wearing the joke handcuff boxers the CSI team had given him for his
last birthday. He hadn't seen the joke, and no one had been
surprised. Before he stretched out on the couch again he turned on
his stereo and Nina Simone flooded the room. He turned it up to
near-annoying level and flopped down on the sofa. Within minutes,
Grissom was asleep.
* * * * * *
Quiet wheels rolled across the alley behind Grissom's house. The van
went down another four blocks and stopped. The 830 darkness hid the
tallish man from view as he got out and walked back to the alley. He
crept silently up the alley until he was at Grissom's back yard, then
looked about and hopped the low fence and walked on the cement path to
the door. He knew there was no dog, no alarm, and no one else.
The back door opened with a silent sigh after the latch had been
lifted by a thin steel shim. The man left it open and before going in
he shook out two shoe covers from his jacket pocket, slipped them on,
and stepped inside.
He knew the lights might be dim, and was not surprised at the loud
music. With unerring precision he moved past the treadmill, around
the low divider, and found what he was looking for.
Grissom was sleeping on his back, one arm dangling off the couch and
the other thrown over his eyes. He had pulled the blanket from the
back of the sofa hastily over him and was in REM sleep.
The man pulled a balaclava up over the lower half of his face and
pulled his hood up over his head. He watched the sleeping man for a
minute or more, taking in the rising chest and its gentle fall, the
tousled, damp hair, the tan skin. Then, perfectly silently, he
reached into his jacket and extracted a gun fitted with a silencer.
He held it pointed towards Grissom's head while he reached into his
pants pocket. Withdrawing a small gun-like object, he squatted down
until he was at Grissom's eye level.
"Hello, Dr. Grissom," he said softly, mouth close to Gil's ear.
* * * * *
Grissom's dreams were always remarkably ordered, stories that had a
beginning and end, and his present one was no different. He was at an
evidence site with Catherine, sifting through leaves on the ground for
anything to help them find out where a body had been dragged from. He
was shining his flashlight at a clump of leaves when he felt Catherine
come up behind him close, lean over, and whisper "Hello, Dr. Grissom."
Something about it felt wrong in the dream, which instantly made
Grissom's unconscious mind set off an alarm. He groaned in his sleep,
slid his hand off his eyes, and opened them.
He came instantly awake and automatically began to rise when he felt
the silencer press into his temple.
"Just back off, Doctor."
Gil tried to place the voice, person, anything--the person was
remarkably anonymous in black clothes. He raised his hands
automatically and nodded. "I'm not moving," he said. He was happy
his voice was clear.
"True." The man had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the
music.
"What do you want?" Gil asked, and was rewarded with a muffled laugh.
He felt cold all of a sudden.
"You. Just you," the man said. He gestured with the silencer. "Push
the blanket down."
"I don't have anything here, if that's what you want," Grissom said
somewhat weakly. He began to feel terror growing on him. The
silencer jerked back to his head.
"Move the blanket."
Hand shaking, Grissom pushed the blanket down to his waist, body cold.
He hated the exposed feeling, and hated his fear. The silencer moved
closer to his head and he closed his eyes.
"Don't worry. Turn away from me. Do it."
"Please," Grissom whispered, shivering now with fear. He had no idea
what was about to happen but every synapse in his brain was screaming
danger. "Please don't."
The gun whipped out and connected above Gil's left eye. He gasped in
pain and automatically brought both hands to his face. "Do it," the
voice said again, still level.
Cursing the whimper that escaped his lips, Grissom shifted onto his
side. He kept his hands over his face and tried to still his body.
Panic gripped him as he felt steel touch the back of his neck, press
in, and then begin to slide down his spine.
*Please, please just kill me if you're going to, please kill me,
please, please!* Grissom kept saying to himself. A panicked sigh
escaped his lips as the barrel met the waistband of his boxers. A
short slide later, and Gil knew he wasn't going to get off just dead.
The man smiled under his mask. He pressed the barrel of the air
syringe against Grissom's body, holding the elastic of the boxers
aside with the gun, and pulled the syringe trigger. He watched
Grissom's body jump forward, then relax. He pushed the elastic back
in place, pocketed the syringe, and stepped back.
Grissom was still waiting when he heard the music soften. Scared to
move, it took a few moments for him to hear the voice. "Turn back."
The man watched Gil move carefully back, sweating and obviously
terrified of him. "You're gonna get a cold, sweating like that."
"Why?" Grissom whispered weakly through his hands. "Why?"
The man knelt down carefully and looked closely at Grissom. He
prodded the hands covering his face with the gun barrel and looked
into terrified eyes. To Grissom, they felt very much like he always
believed his eyes felt to an insect he was about to skewer with a
mounting pin.
With unblinking eyes, David Emerson looked at Grissom intently. He
knew Grissom didn't know who he was, had no idea what was happening or
why, and was absolutely terrified of him. He found the idea appealing.
"Oh, in time. In time, Dr. Grissom. About 36 hours, as a matter of
fact. Feel anything yet?"
Grissom stared back, confused, and then realized he was feeling very
tired and a little dizzy. He blinked, looked down, then back.
"What did you give me?" he asked.
"A little something to put you to sleep. After all those hours at
work, not a bad thing, huh?"
"I don't--" Grissom began, then stopped. The tranquilizer was working.
His head felt thick, his body heavy and weak. With supreme effort,
he tried to imprint on his brain everything that had happened, and all
that had been said. He dropped his hands from his face and with one
nail on his right hand scratched his leg hard. He then scratched the
couch leather hard, groaning to cover the sound. He watched Emerson
watch him with detachment.
"I know. Well, I better get that bag out of your closet. Don't go
anywhere," Emerson said, standing and striding directly into Grissom's
bedroom. He pulled the large duffel bag out of Grissom's closet and
went back, smiling a little at Grissom's weak attempts to sit up.
"Whoa, careful there!"
Stepping over quickly he caught Grissom right before he fell off the
couch. The sweat on the man's body surprised him, and he wiped his
hands on his pants. "Man, Doc. Need to take a shower after all that."
Grissom watched him hazily, eyes drooping again and again. He saw the
man open his duffel bag, spread it out on the floor, and the last
thing he saw was Emerson holstering his gun in his shoulder rig and
coming toward him. He was trying to digest the fact Emerson had to
have been in his house before and knew entirely too much about Gil
Grissom.
* * * * * * *
"Ya know, you tell the man to stay home and get some sleep--damn!"
Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes stared over at Catherine as she clicked her
cell phone shut. "Maybe he *is* sleeping, Cath. Think of that?" Sara
asked. They were about to begin a night shift and were gathered in
the lounge. Without Grissom around Catherine was head CSI, and they
enjoyed annoying her--she was easier to ruffle than the big boss.
"Whatever. He was calling all last shift when I sent him home. I was
going to tell him maybe I'd come by after this shift and give him the
good gory news, if there is any. He hates time off."
"Yeah, buddy. Last time he had a day off he came back pissed as
hell," Nick said as Warrick came in. "Bout time, Warrick."
"Yeah yeah. Grissom ain't around, you gonna be the head bitch?"
Warrick asked. Catherine cleared her throat.
"No, that would be me. Let's get to work, folks."
The shift only dealt with one stabbing victim, Warrick and Nick taking
the job. Sara and Catherine did paperwork and checked lab reports for
the shift. They were bored to tears.
Warrick and Nick came back in record time from the scene. "What up,
guys?" Sara asked as they came in. The guys sighed in tandem.
"It looked like it might be juicy, semen and blood, whole nine
yards, and then the wife came back from the liquor store and confessed
to the whole thing. Sheesh," Nick said. "Maybe it's only when
Grissom is around that stuff goes down."
"Maybe. Ah well. Let's finish the paperwork and wind down for the
man," Catherine said.
"You going over after work?" Sara asked. She had more than once
noticed Grissom and Catherine exchanging looks.
"Yeah, thought I'd give him some news--he has to be going stir crazy
right now."
* * * * * * *
1030pm
Grissom's eyes flickered open a little and immediately he thought he
was blind. A few seconds later he realized he wasn't, but he couldn't
see in front of him and the air around him was stifling. He could
feel rough canvas all around him, his legs bent, handcuffs around his
ankles. His wrists were handcuffed as well, behind his back. Before
his mind began to really panic, Gil imagined he was in his own duffel
bag, probably in a moving vehicle. Then, he panicked.
David Emerson drove Grissom's truck, the owner in the back, a few
miles below the highway speed limit. It was fairly busy for 1030 at
night, and he kept a close eye out for police. He could hear muffled
screams from the duffel bag in the back, and pushed the cd into the
player, smiling as Wagner blasted out of the speakers.
An hour had passed, though Grissom didn't know it. He had screamed
himself hoarse, particularly when he heard "Ride of the Valkyries"
begin, and when his voice had given out he'd tried to calm himself by
thinking of the biggest words he could and spelling smaller words out
of them. He was up to onomatopoeia when he felt the vehicle stop.
Suddenly, his senses were wired.
Emerson hopped out of the truck and pulled the back open. The duffel
bag was moving a little, and he was satisfied Grissom was alive. He
pulled the bag to him, grunted a little as he shouldered it, and
walked over to the door of the smallish house.
Opening the old lock with a key, Emerson shut the door behind him and
turned a corner into the kitchen. Six steps took him to the basement
door and he opened that and flicked on the overhead light before
starting down.
Grissom could feel the atmosphere and height change and tried to shift
around--his head was pointing down now and the blood was pounding in
it. He stopped when he heard a soft "uh-uh, Doctor."
At the bottom of the stairs Emerson hit another light switch. The
basement area was flooded with bright light and he looked around with
satisfaction.
The basement was 12x12, dirt-floored, without windows. Near the back
wall was a three by seven by two rectangle in the dirt, plastic
sheeting on the bottom of the area covering a drain. A metal grate
leaned against the back wall, meant to be fastened over the rectangle
and secured with steel bars and a padlock which fitted into rings set
into concrete around the rectangle.
Emerson set the bag down carefully, aware Grissom was now awake and
potentially dangerous. Emerson, unlike many other people, did not
discount Grissom's strength. He knew the generally mild countenance
hid strength and, more dangerous still, high intelligence. Drawing
his gun again, he pulled the long zipper across the bag and stepped back.
When Grissom saw light beginning to slash the darkness, he braced
himself to either shrink back or fling his body forward. Bound as he
was, he still had no intention of going quietly--he was too scared and
too tired. When the zipper was all the way open he tried to unbend
his legs and found he couldn't move them. He pushed against the floor
with his hands and struggled out of the duffel bag.
Emerson watched, gun drawn, as Grissom worked his way out and
painfully straightened his legs. The CSI lay panting and blinking
back tears of pain before glaring at Emerson. His legs tingled and
cramped as blood flooded back in. After being half-suffocated in a
bag for hours, Grissom was less scared than furious.
"Doctor Grissom, your anger is going to get you killed. Angry men do
stupid things," Emerson said mildly.
"Who--" Grissom swallowed hard, mouth dry, "--who are you?"
He watched as Emerson squatted down, gun pointing casually at Gil's
chest. "David Emerson. The last person you'll ever see."
Immediately Grissom began to flick through the names in his head, and
came up with John T. Emerson, 1997, murder, two victims. Grissom
remembered he had had the misfortune to be gathering evidence by
himself in a remote site when John Emerson tried to kill him with a
garrote. Then, Grissom had been faster and a little more angry in
general-he'd managed to get free with several kicks and punches and
ran away, dialing 911 on his cell phone as he ran. The evidence he
collected there and elsewhere, and his own encounter with Emerson, had
ensured a conviction. Citizens of Nevada had ensured Emerson's death.
Grissom had been left with a deep scar on his neck from the encounter
and a little more wisdom.
"John?" Gil finally asked. He felt the fear returning.
Emerson smiled. "You're good. John always has said you're good.
Yeah. David Emerson, pleased to meet you."
"But why?"
"Well, in about, oh--" Emerson looked at his watch, "--18 hours my
little brother will be executed. They do it at 5am here, you know.
It's 1130 pm-ish right now. And, at 5am--not this one coming up, oh
no, the day after tomorrow-you'll be dead too. That is, dead unless
your little group of investigators finds you first."
Grissom's eyes widened. "You're kidding," he finally said.
"Oh, no. So, we better get going now. Here, let me give you a hand,"
Emerson said, and stepped forward with a jump, launching a hard kick
at Gil's midsection.
Grissom doubled up with a grunt and rolled over several times. One
more nudge was necessary before Grissom's body fell into the shallow
rectangular pit. He felt the cold plastic under him as he landed on
his stomach. He didn't have time to turn before the grate was slammed
down and the bars set and locked. Grissom turned his head enough to
see up through the wide metal bars of the grate at David Emerson. The
man was smiling.
"Well, enjoy yourself. I'll be back later." Emerson left with a
whistle as Grissom screamed incoherently.
******************
345 am
Catherine wondered at the music wafting lightly out of Grissom's house
when she got there. He hadn't come to the door at her knock and
insistent ringing of his doorbell. She frowned and wondered if he had
been experiencing hearing loss again. She made her way around to the
back, looking, and froze when she saw the open back glass door.
Catherine jumped the low fence and crept across the grass, looking
around intently. She noted the garage door was closed, the lights in
Grissom's living room on. She hoped he was just letting in some air.
She called his name when she got to the door, gun drawn. She glanced
quickly in, saw nothing, then spun into the house. Nothing.
Catherine walked slowly in, gun turning with her head. No Gris,
nowhere. She turned off the stereo and stood in the living room. She
saw the blanket on the couch, a glass on the coffee table. No
Grissom. She walked into his bedroom, calling his name. Nothing.
"What the hell?" she said under her breath. A cold feeling was
creeping over her. She stepped into the living room again and dialed
Nick Stokes.
At home, Nick bolted out of the shower and cursed until he juggled his
cell phone out of his jacket. "Yeah, Stokes!" he said.
"Nick, it's Cath. Uh, there's something a little weird here at
Grissom's place." Catherine wondered how to describe it. "He-s--not
here."
Nick laughed. "He can drive, Catherine. Probably took off somewhere."
"Even if he did that, Nick--his back door was open. And--it just feels
wrong in here. His jacket's hung up, cell phone's on the
table-something's up."
Nick wiped water from his face. "You sure?"
"Nick, he never goes out without his cell. Too afraid one of us might
call him. Will you--will you come over here" I'm gonna look around
some more."
"Well--okay. Be careful, I'll be there soon."
After she hung up Catherine went out and looked in Grissom's garage.
His truck was gone. For a moment Catherine thought maybe, for once,
he had left his phone, and then disregarded it. Going back, she
sighed and tried to see the scene as a crime scene.
She slipped on gloves she always carried in her pocket and looked
around. Nothing was in Grissom's jacket, no notes on the table.
Picking up the phone, Catherine was about to replace it when she saw
the LCD readout that normally held time and could display a greeting
had changed.
Normally, the phone just showed the time. Grissom wasn't interested
in a cute welcome screen. As Catherine looked, she noticed the screen
was displaying a short message: MANHATTAN.
"Okay, now I *am* scared. Gris, where the hell are you?" she said out
loud.
************************
420am
Grissom had managed to turn onto his back in the pit. When Emerson
had left he'd turned out the light and darkness had fallen hard. With
an effort, Gil had calmed himself and was taking stock of the
situation. First, he was surprised to find he no longer was shackled.
Feeling around the pit led him to find two depressions in the side
walls. Sandy dirt fell into his eyes as he scratched around and
pulled out what felt like a tube. With a little work Grissom
discovered it was a penlight. He smiled a little and shone it on the
first depression, closest to his head.
In the niche was a long metal box. Grissom reached in awkwardly,
turning a little on his side, and pulled the box out. He looked at it
closely and then opened it. He gasped a little at what he saw.
The light picked up the pocket watch, the surgical steel gleam of the
scalpel, and the thin glass of a small ampule. Grissom had seen
enough military presentations and displays to know he was looking at a
cyanide dose, older to be sure, but still--he had no doubt--lethal.
"Jesus," he said, mouth dry. He shut the box with a fast click and
shoved it back, unwilling to think of reasons it would be there. He
swallowed and looked a little farther down, shining the light in the
second depression. This one held a canteen. Grissom reached in and
shook it a little. Liquid sloshed in it and Grissom sighed. "Great,"
he whispered. "Hate to die of thirst."
He flicked off the penlight and turned onto his back. He was cold,
frightened, and confused--more than anything, though, Grissom was
wondering if indeed his CSI team had any hope of finding him alive.
****************************
816am
Nick, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine were trying desperately to figure
out where their chief had gone, and how he had. Jim Brass had been
there and allowed a crime scene to be declared, but confessed himself
at a loss. The place was almost sterile except for the phone message.
Each CSI had taken a different room--Nick the bedroom, Sara the
kitchen, Warrick the second bedroom, and Catherine remained in the
living room area. The only thing any of them had found yet was dried
sweat on his treadmill and couch, a wet towel on the bathroom rack,
and Grissom's own hair on the couch.
Cursing, Catherine leaned against the wall and looked again at the
cell phone message, now in an evidence bag but still showing
MANHATTAN. She sighed and dropped her head. When she lifted it
again, she noticed something the changing light had finally allowed
her to see from her angle.
"Nick!" she called before moving. Nick Stokes came out of the bedroom.
"Yeah?"
"Look at this," Catherine said. She bent over near Grissom's
treadmill at a patch of faint salt from sweat. From the angle and
shape of the stain Catherine imagined Grissom had tossed a towel over
it without actually wiping it. There were very faint streaking near
the back of it, but more of a pooling of sweat near the treadmill
base. The sweat salt was barely visible, but what Catherine had noted
from her angle at last was the flattening of the stain.
Nick knelt next to her. "Salt from sweat--actually, a lot of sweat.
Well, it does look like he worked out tonight. What is it?"
Catherine pointed closely. "Yes, it's a sweat stain on the
floor--thank god it's a hardwood floor. But look here--see this ridge,
and this one?"
Nick leaned close, then laid out flat and eyeballed the shape.
"Yeah, not a natural way for sweat to fall. Like someone--what, stepped
in it?"
"Yeah, but there was something different about the shoe tread--see?"
"What's up?" Warrick asked as he came in, Sara close behind. "Find
something besides that damn phone message?"
"Cath may have found a footprint."
"Nick, it's his home. His footprints are going to be everywhere,"
Sara said as they all congregated around the spot.
Nick, still looking closely, shook his head. "There's something wrong
with the tread imprint-it's soft, or fuzzy. Liftable, but really hard."
Warrick knelt to look. "Whoa. Yeah. Okay, that's weird.
Electrostatic coming up," he said. Nick nodded.
"Jesus. Maybe we do have us a crime scene," Sara said, shivering at
the thought.
"In Gil's home. And with two clues. Oh, guys, this is not going to
be simple," Catherine said, voicing what none of them wanted to hear.
***********************
112pm
Five hours later, Grissom was managing a fitful, cold sleep in his
enclosure. He had yet to drink out of the canteen, worried about what
it held and also worried he just might need the liquid later.
He struggled awake out of a nightmare and blinked his eyes hard. He
gripped the penlight in his hand tightly and resisted turning it on--he
was afraid the batteries would die. Though he felt himself lucky he
wasn't claustrophobic, Gil wondered how long he would be able to keep
his mind occupied before debilitating panic set it.
A short while later he saw the light come on and squinted at the
sudden brightness, then heard steps coming close. He tried to make
himself small, frustrated by the enclosure, and shrank back when the
bars grated and the metal swung back.
"Doctor Grissom! Glad to see you're awake."
Emerson waited to see if Gil would reply, then nodded. "It's okay.
Save your strength, right--I understand. Here, let me help then."
Gil let out a frightened cry as Emerson reached down and grabbed his
hair. He managed not to cry out again as he was dragged halfway out
of the pit by his hair, finally ending up with his back against the
edge of the pit, lower half of his body still in it. His breaths came
hard as he watched Emerson warily.
"Sorry. No shirt to grab. Very macho of you, doc. But--well, it
doesn't matter."
"What--what do you want?" Gil asked, surprised at his voice's
steadiness. He saw Emerson turn away, then spin and Grissom felt a
boot slam into the side of his head. Blood flew from his lips and he
felt a blinding pain explode in his head. When his head returned to
center he opened his eyes and blinked them clear. Emerson was sitting
in a chair next to him, calm. He opened his mouth to let blood flow
and raised one hand to feel the injury.
"I don't really want anything from you, Doctor Grissom. Your life,
maybe--but even then, I'm giving you a one in a million chance to get
off. I suppose you might say that's about the odds my brother was
gonna get off--your evidence was perfect."
"He did it," Grissom managed to say. His head ached badly and he felt
his lower lip torn.
"I know. I know. John's not a good boy, and he's kind of dumb. It's
just too bad I don't believe in the death penalty, Doctor."
Grissom stared in astonishment. "You don't--"
"Nah. It's a crock. See, I know what Americans really want with it
is revenge, retribution"they want to inflict pain. But we have laws
against that. My brother's dying because we don't have the balls to
just say 'you know, we want to lynch him, that's what will make us
feel better'."
"You--I don't--"
"I know. Why am I doing this if I know he deserves to die? Because I
want revenge for it. He's a murderer, but he's my brother. I said
I"d take care of him. And if I can't--well, I can take care of you,
Doctor Grissom. A little retribution, a little pain--maybe I'll feel
better," Emerson said, then knelt next to Grissom. He grabbed the
graying hair again and pulled Gil's head close to his. "It'll hurt,
but as the hours go, well-it'll hurt more than this," he said, then
Grissom saw a black-gloved hand with a dully shining set of brass
knuckles on it making its way toward his face. His head flew back as
Emerson let go, and Gil knew before his body hit the edge of the pit
again that his nose was broken. He tried to get his hands up to
protect his face but Emerson pulled him close again and slammed the
metal-clad fist into his face again and again. Frantic, Gil managed
to deflect some of the blows with flailing arms, but he felt his nose
explode in pain again, his lip split open more, and the last blow sent
a shrieking pain from Gil's left temple up into his brain--it felt like
his cheek bone or supra orbital ridge had cracked. He moaned in pain,
trying vainly to lift his hands to his face. Emerson stepped back,
winded, and watched.
The sight didn't please him. His own rage had pushed him a little
farther with his fists than he planned on going, and he was upset he"d
lost control. The man writhing in pain, bleeding profusely, did not
make him happy. Emerson frowned.
Grissom had tensed for more blows, and when they didn't come he opened
his one good eye and looked. He saw Emerson watching him and thought
he saw something pass over his face, but the pain in his head was
canceling out his reasoning skills. Gil let his hands fall to his
side and simply waited"he could do nothing else.
Finally, Emerson cleared his throat and pocketed the brass knuckles.
He sat back in the chair and sighed. "That wasn't exactly planned,"
he said at last. "Sorry."
Grissom watched through a fine film of blood, trying to blink it out
of his eye. His whole body and head ached and all he wanted was to
lay down and either die or go to sleep for days. He waited for either
option to become available.
"Well, let's get on with this then--no, Doc. I'm not going to hurt you
like that again. Promise." Emerson stood, and with infinite care
settled Grissom back into the pit. Pain was spreading all through his
body but Grissom realized Emerson was trying to be careful. *What the
hell for?* he thought vaguely.
"There. Now, I need to move you onto your stomach--it's gonna hurt.
I'll try to be careful," Emerson said, and rolled Grissom onto his
stomach. Tears flowed from Grissom's eyes as he tried to keep his
face from touching the ground. His ribs ached as well from the kicks
earlier, and overall Grissom couldn't think of anything but how much
he hurt.
Reaching into his back pocket, Emerson withdrew a rubber glove and a
closed knife. He drew off his leather glove with his left hand
carefully and slid on the rubber glove before picking the knife up and
opening it. He knelt next to the pit and placed the tip of the knife
at the top of Grissom's spine.
Grissom felt the prick of metal and his breathing halted. Part of him
said, well, at least I won't be in any more pain, and another was
yelling at him that death wasn't an option.
"I need you to push your shorts down, Doc. Come on, you can do it,"
Emerson said lightly, pressing hard enough to force a drop of blood
from Gil's skin.
Shivering, Grissom managed to bring his left hand out from under him.
He had no idea what was going to happen, but something about Emerson
wanting him to do it reminded him of something. Before he moved the
hand down his side he scrabbled at the sandy dirt on the side of the
pit, trying to get it under his nails.
Slowly, he slid his hand along his side until he felt the elastic
waistband, hesitated, and a pain behind his head moved his hand. He
pushed the elastic down until he felt metal press against the skin he
uncovered. He released his breath shakily and closed his eyes,
digging his hand into the material and scraping his nails on the edge
of the elastic, trying to deposit dirt there--maybe it'd make its way
to his CSIs
Emerson released the trigger on the air syringe and Grissom felt a
cold shock. He thought it was over and let his hand drop, when he
felt the knife slide down his spine, cutting a shallow wound, then
slice deeply across his lower back. Grissom hissed in pain, then
cried out in fear when he felt the knife slide under the waistband of
his boxers and rip the cloth open down the side of the leg. Quickly
Emerson slit the other leg of the boxers and pulled the boxers off
Grissom. He held the bunched cloth on the bleeding back wound until
blood had fairly soaked it, then shook a plastic evidence bag open
from his pocket and tossed them in. He sealed it and stood up,
observing the shaking and moaning man below him with detachment.
"I imagine that hurt. Sorry. I don't think you'll bleed to death
from it. I wouldn't let you, anyway. Besides--in about 14 hours it'll
all be moot."
Grissom managed to turn his head so he could see Emerson. Pain
blurred his view but he tried to pay attention.
"The injection I just gave you? It's an interesting little
development in chemical warfare from friends overseas. How did I get
it? Same way I manage to get into this place--I know the right
people." Emerson set the bag aside and knelt down.
"It's basically the same family as Ebola, with a modification. It's
now a pneumonic form of bubonic plague-like thing. Massive internal
bleeding after a 12-16 hour period of incubation. Fever, chills,
sweating, dysentery--sorry about that. Vomiting--at a certain point
you'll be vomiting blood as your lungs start to degrade. If you make
it to 12 hours, you'll start bleeding from your pores,
probably--depends on the virulence of the strain I gave you, and your
own tolerance, of course. At 14 hours most people will be dead. No
one's alive after 16 hours.
"Why now? Well, I calculate that right about the time my brother's
being killed, you'll decide to kill yourself with one of the handy
tools I left you down there. I doubt you'll be able to take the pain.
In about sixteen hours he'll be dead, and so will you--by your own
hand or mine." Emerson stood, picking up the bag, then snapped his
fingers.
"Oh! I said I would give you a one in a million chance. I'm going to
leave one more little clue for your team. These shorts will prove you
are alive, or were, and maybe that you had some drug in your blood.
Unfortunately, they'll have to have figured out the first clue to
figure out where these are. I hope they're as good as you are,"
Emerson said. He set the evidence bag on the chair and replaced the
grate. "Sleep tight, Doctor Grissom," he said before leaving and
turning off the light.
In the darkness, Grisson wept bitterly.
************************
415pm
At the lab, Catherine was frustrated by attempts to retrieve anything
from the cell phone she'd found in Grissom's home. Nick, Sara, and
Warrick had retrieved anything it looked like Grissom had touched from
his house, and Warrick was going over the living room again in
one-foot sections.
Nick Stokes came into the lab, eyes bleary. "Hey, Cath."
"Nick," Catherine said, not looking up from the scope. "Anything?"
"No, goddammit. Not a damn thing. The print is smudgy--something
between it and the sweat--I just can't *think* clearly right now!" he
said, slamming his hand on the table. Catherine jumped. "Sorry."
"You know, I've been thinking about that. What if--Nick, what if
someone broke into Grissom's house, and kidnapped him?"
"Catherine, that's what we assumed happened!"
"Let me finish--what if they did it, and did it with knowledge of how
to keep any evidence from being left behind? Almost like they knew
Gil's job."
Nick leaned against a table. "Okay, that's creepy. But--oh, man."
"Nick?"
"Catherine, what if the guy was wearing shoe covers? Like we would in
a scene?"
Catherine let this sink in, not noting Sara had come in with her cell
phone to her ear. "Oh, Nick--"
"Okay--yeah, okay, here Cath. It's Warrick," Sara said. She handed the
phone to a surprised Catherine and stood next to Nick. "He found
something," she whispered to Nick.
"Yeah? Really. Oh, Warrick--that's not good. I mean, at least we
have something, but it's not a positive sign. Get it over here now.
All right." Catherine shut the phone and handed it back to Sara.
"Jesus, how much weirder can this get."
"What'd he find?" Nick asked.
"He found a little spot on the couch that had been scratched
deeply--there was a little blood and a tiny skin fragment. He thinks
it was deliberate from the angle and depth."
"Oh--oh, no. Okay, so let's assume Gil is in deep shit wherever he
is," Nick said.
"Yeah. Nick, tell Sara what you think about the lack of evidence,"
Catherine sighed, dropping into a chair.
"Oh--well, I was telling Cath, what if the guy knows how not to leave
evidence" I was thinking the tread print--what if he was wearing shoe
covers" The only reason we'd get anything is because he stepped into
a spot of sweat near Gil's treadmill and there was enough to soak the
fabric through--he must have been moving really slow. So the print is
barely there. Bastard *knows* about CSI methods!"
Sara let that digest for a moment. "Then--then Nick, maybe we should
be looking at Gil's case files. I mean--we all know it happens to
cops, what if someone Gil put away got out and is looking for him?"
"Maybe--but I'm thinking, it's more likely someone connected to one of
the perps. I mean, a lot of Gil's cases closed on life or the death
penalty. Not many of them would ever get out. We can go through all
of them if we divide up," Catherine said, standing with hands on hips.
"Cath, there are like hundreds. How are we going to narrow it down?"
Nick asked, even as he found some hope in the idea.
"I don't know. We'll leave out anyone with no family, I guess. I
don't know."
"We have to try. Let's search for Manhattan, too. Maybe born there,
maybe a last name or address," Sara added. Nick nodded.
"Yeah. I'll commandeer a computer in Brass' office--Cath, can you
access Gil's files on his computer?"
"Yeah. Sara--you get the computer in the other lab. Just start
searching, fast, guys!"
*********************************
634 pm
Warrick Brown came frowning into Grissom's office, looking at the
report Greg had handed him. He tapped Catherine's shoulder and she
looked up from the screen, eyes red. "Got the DNA report. It's
Grissom's," he said shortly.
"Of course. Anything else?"
"No. Why would it be there" I don't get this whole thing."
"Neither do I, Warrick. Maybe Gil tried to leave something to tell us
he wasn't going willingly. It'd be like him," Catherine said, sitting
back in Gil's chair. Warrick sat on the edge of the desk.
"Man, I'm freaked by this, Cath. Without Gris around, I'm feeling
jumpy--knowing I'm supposed to help find him. What if he's out there
waiting for us?" Warrick shivered a little.
"Don't think that. You did a great job finding that. Now, we'll see
if we can find anything in the files."
"Nothing yet?"
Catherine sighed. "Nothing obvious. That stupid phone message is
driving me crazy too. No Manhattan addresses in Vegas, no last names,
nothing."
Warrick hopped down and looked over her shoulder. "What about
business names?"
"Nothing there yet."
Warrick sighed and stood. "All right, I'm gonna find a computer and
try to Google me an answer. Maybe a paper in Manhattan covered a
trial here, who knows. Maybe the guy has a thing about New York."
*
*
855pm
Grissom clicked the penlight off after looking at the pocket watch.
He was cold, miserably cold, and he could feel a fever building. He
still lay on his stomach, convinced he would be warmer. It meant his
face was constantly hurting from being on the ground, but he really
didn't think he could be in much more pain than he was.
He was, however, finally giving in to his thirst. Reaching into the
second depression, he awkwardly opened the canteen with one hand,
brought it to his torn lips, and tipped it up.
Grissom took two swallows before he realized the water was salty.
Pain lanced his lips as he sloshed water on them moving the canteen
away. "Fuckin' bastard," he whispered harshly. Gil knew, if he
thought he was thirsty now, he'd be much worse later on after drinking
salt water. Still, he capped the canteen, put it back, and curled his
hand back under him.
He wasn't sleepy, though he was physically exhausted from trembling
constantly. He'd named all the bones in his body from his toes to his
pelvis to occupy his mind, and now he started on his fingers. Grissom
felt if he was still able to think, he would be okay, pain and all.
"Phalanges.metacarpus.scaphoid.os magnum.
*************************
*
1010pm
Warrick Brown leaned back in the desk chair, frustrated after his
twentieth Google search combination yielded nothing. Lacing his
fingers behind his head, he rocked back in the chair and allowed his
mind to wander.
"Okay. It's not going to be obvious. It's going to be connected, but
not obvious. So no city, no home or address--what's here that's
Manhattan besides a goddamn drink? And I could use one too, nice big
Manhattan and a blackjack table-"
Warrick stopped. Head spinning, he leaned forward and quickly typed
in *Las Vegas Phone Book* The search engine pulled up several sites,
and Warrick clicked on one even as he grabbed the phone and called
Grissom's office.
He waited for Catherine to pick up as he clicked several times, ending
up with a listing of casinos in Las Vegas. His eyes lit up as he
heard Catherine's voice.
"Willows."
"Cath, it's New York, New York," Warrick said excitedly as he clicked
on the final link to bring up the casino's home page.
"Warrick" What?" Catherine sat up in her chair as well.
"There's a Manhattan suite there--the casino, Catherine!"
"Jesus! Go, go, I'll get Nick, go!"
In less than twenty minutes all four CSIs and Brass were at New York,
New York, hustling into the casino through a mass of gamblers and
tourists. Brass shouldered to the hotel check in and asked for the
manager. Nick, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine let their eyes wander
over the crowd, looking for anything.
Brass came back with a brown package with a white typed label on it.
It bore the name of the person who was going to check into the
Manhattan suite when he arrived from Belgium in two days. The hotel
manager assured Brass no one had been in the suite and the gentleman
from Belgium had yet to make it to the States. Sara and Catherine
went up to the suite anyway, while Nick and Warrick took the package
and went back to the lab.
Opening it very carefully after x-raying revealed nothing overtly
sinister, Warrick and Nick pulled out an evidence bag, red printing
indicating nothing except EVIDENCE. Nick took the envelope for
analysis and Warrick the bag.
Warrick grimaced as he looked the bag over, then moaned softly. "Oh,
Grissom," he breathed. He recognized the silly handcuff boxers they
had given their chief as a joke last year--only now they were covered
in what looked to be blood. "Please, please be okay," he whispered as
he began the careful process of analyzing the bag and its contents.
***********************
1125pm
Violent trembling shook Grissom's clammy body, the sweat rolling off
his body pooling on the plastic under him. He knew he was running a
high fever, besides coughing, and his stomach was knotting in pain.
He knew he'd been lucky to just have to urinate in the last hours, but
even through his shivering he knew it wasn't going to last.
He was trying to curl up to get warmer when the first wave of nausea
hit. It was unexpected and Grissom's well-developed gag reflex was
overcome. He retched several times, painfully, and finally brought up
darkish fluid and bile. It made his head pound uncontrollably and
Grissom moaned and gritted his teeth. He managed to wipe the vomit
away from his face, toward the wall, with one weak hand. The hand
struck the metal box in the depression and Grissom pulled his hand
away quickly. He didn't want to remember what was in the box. The
watch he had set next to it so he wouldn't have to see the scalpel and
cyanide again.
Grissom had given up trying to occupy his mind with lists and
wordplay--now he simply let his mind bounce from pain to excruciating
pain. He found the worst pain was in his head, near his cracked brow
ridge, the second his lip, and the third his bruised ribs. Of course,
the general knowledge he had been given an injection of a disease that
would make him bleed to death from the inside brought its own unique pain.
A few hours ago, when the shivering had begun and not stopped, Grissom
had shone the flashlight on the contents of the metal box. He saw the
scalpel was bright and new, the cyanide ampule shiny as well. He
tried to figure out what kind of death both would be. Obviously,
cyanide would be faster. It was the obvious choice.
Grissom had assumed the scalpel was for cutting his throat or wrists"a
messy and not always successful way to die. He had been confused by
that for a long time.
It was when he coughed up his first dark yellow phlegm with a racking
wheeze, and noticed a few brown specks in it-blood--that he'd
understood the presence of the scalpel. It horrified him and made him
draw his body away from the metal box.
Grissom understood that Emerson was giving him two options--die
quickly, and relatively painlessly, or slit wrists and bleed slowly to
death. Gil realized that Emerson understood Gil's hope--he hoped his
CSIs would somehow find him. If he wanted to give them maximum time
to find him but minimize his own pain, he would use the scalpel and
cut his wrists. They might find him before he bled to death. But
Grissom knew he would have to time it correctly--if he cut his wrists
too soon he'd be dead, and if he cut too late he'd last and suffer a
horribly painful death if his team didn't find him. The cyanide was
there if Grissom managed to last fourteen hours and finally, when his
hope of being found had died, decided to end the pain quickly.
The realization brought unexpected tears to his eyes--he had never
known an understanding of sadism like Emerson's. He cried weakly as
he remembered Emerson's words--we want revenge, retribution. We want to
hurt someone. In all his years in the field of death, nothing had
felt so utterly painful and meaningless as the choice he was being given.
**********************
156am
Catherine bumped into Greg coming out of the lab, looking harried.
"Whoa, there."
"Oh, Catherine--I have the results of the tests on the shorts we--on the
blood, I mean"
"Greg, it's okay. We're all stressed. Can I see them?"
"Yeah--it's, uh, it's Grissom's blood. His DNA. There's something
weird in it, some synthetic tranquilizer-"
"What's this soil analysis?" Catherine asked, interrupting.
"Oh, that's the weirder thing. The soil's a relatively common sandy
composition, found all around the outer limits of the city, but it's
got a--see here, it's got a much higher level of radiation than
anything normal. It's from a place the soil's saturated with radiation."
"Jesus--the testing grounds! Greg, I love you!" Catherine said. Greg
smiled weakly. He was very nervous about his results, knowing his
boss' life depended on their abilities as a team. He hoped it was useful.
Catherine sped around the corner and smacked into Nick. She grabbed
his arm and dragged him into the lab where Warrick was working.
"Guys! We know he's somewhere with a really high level of radiation
in the sand--one of the old testing grounds!"
Warrick and Nick both looked at the report. "Jesus," Nick said. "But
Catherine, there are like hundreds of miles of old ground! And it's
all military."
"Most of it," Warrick said. He'd gone back to the computer, pulling
up Las Vegas correctional reports. "I was wondering if maybe someone
was coming up for execution who Gil had nailed. Now, there are a
couple but one guy is up later this morning--here. John Emerson."
"Does he have any family?" Catherine asked. She was dialing Brass on
her cell phone as she asked.
"Yes--a brother. Let me see--" Warrick opened another window on screen
and searched news archives in Vegas. He found several accounts of
John Emerson's trial, and found one reference to his brother David, a
former Air Force nuclear analyst. "Holy shit."
Nick looked. "His brother was a nuclear scientist? Oh my god."
"Okay, Brass needs to find him--find where he works, all
that--Catherine!" Warrick pointed at the screen. Catherine nodded at
him, speaking to Brass on the phone quickly.
Greg bolted through the door, Sara close behind him, waving another
report. "Guys! I wanted to let you know I found out a little more on
the radiation in that sample-"
"Greg is a genius," Sara said. Greg took a breath and began.
"I ran the sample's level of radiation against a database of radiation
degradation in that particular soil composition. It's definitely not
from a newer testing ground. The radiation in the soil is degraded
enough for me to give an approximate time the last exposure might have
occurred." Greg stopped, gasping.
"And?" Sara prompted him.
"I asked a friend in the Department of Defense if he could run the
sample's analysis against any database of radiation measurement he
happened to have around. They test all grounds each year, you know,
except some of the privately held ones sometimes fudge it and do it
every 18 months. He narrowed it down to a testing ground in Nevada
that's been defunct about 30 years--that gives us two places. One is
privately held and I think that it's more likely it's that one. No
military to shoot at you if you're careful." He finished and leaned
on the desk, breathless.
Warrick, Nick, and Catherine all stared at him, then spontaneously
hugged him. "Damn, Greg, I'll never tease you about your hair again!"
Warrick bellowed.
Greg shook himself free. "Guys, you gotta get going. This place is
five hours away. Grissom could be hurt."
"Five hours nothing. Warrick, call Brass and tell him we need the
police Lear. Greg, get me the precise location of this place. Nick,
you, me, Sara, and Warrick have to be on the airstrip in fifteen
minute--grab your gear and guns. And Nick--grab the big med kit and
find us a paramedic to go with."
The group spun into action, happy to have something to cling to and
worried they'd have found it too late for their chief.
************************
315am
Emerson had come down the stairs and opened the grate. He saw the
body move slightly--he had thought Grissom would still be alive. He
noted with a clinical eye the sweat, the ugly gash on the back, the
tremors running through the man's body. Emerson brought the chair
closer and sat, elbows on knees.
Something about the condition Grissom's body was in made him angry.
He knew he wouldn't lose control again, and didn't consider himself at
fault for the CSI's general shape now--but something bothered him. He
reached down and lightly prodded Grissom's shoulder, watching as the
body jerked slightly. He heard the breathing quicken and saw the man
try to draw away. His body barely had the strength to shift his
weight away from Emerson.
Emerson leaned back. He thought that perhaps he was bothered because
one, he was appalled at the degraded state Grissom had fallen into,
and two, because he halfway expected Grissom to have taken the
cyanide. Part of him knew that the CSI was a strong man, obviously
capable, and probably possessed of a high tolerance for pain, but he
had not thought Grissom capable of enduring what he knew to be
terrible pain for so many hours. It made him angry, sad, and a little
resentful. He wasn't getting the revenge he thought he wanted, and
the pain he was inflicting was beginning to seem excessive even to
him. *Well, there's nothing I can do now to stop it,* he thought.
Taking a small box out of his pocket, he looked at it, sighed a
little, and set it carefully down next to the edge. It bore a large
block-lettered word on its plastic case: E-66 ANTIDOTE.
"Doctor Grissom. I didn't expect you to really be with us. Right
now, I think they're probably asking my brother what he'd like to
eat--final meal and all. I wish I had more options for you, but I'm
afraid there are limited options." Emerson reached into his pocket
and tossed a Payday candy bar into the pit. It hit Grissom's shoulder
and he moaned in pain.
Grissom opened his one relatively unswollen eye and saw the candy
wrapper. He tried to find the humor in it--the salt in the candy bar
would only exacerbate his pain--and he failed. He had been unable to
drink anything else after his first few swallows of water, and his
throat was closing up with thirst, opened occasionally by violent
retching. The only fluid he'd swallowed in hours had been blood from
his torn lip and face. Blood, mucus, and grainy phlegm were sticky
and drying under him, for he had been unable to keep up with the
quantity--he had stopped trying to wipe it away from him.
As Emerson watched, a harsh cough racked Grissom's body and he
grimaced at the sound and the groans of pain. He wondered at the
man's ability to tolerate pain, and then wondered--what if he was too
weak to move now?
Emerson knelt at the edge of the pit and touched Grissom's shoulder.
A sound escaped and he prodded harder. Gil managed to form a
whispered "no".
"Okay. You are alive. I'm going to give you a hand," Emerson said,
and reached into the depression near Gil's head, taking out the metal
box. He opened it and set the cyanide pill in front of Gil's eyes,
and the scalpel into his right hand, after pulling the hand from under
Grissom's body. "There. I was worried maybe you weren't up to the
task." When he stood he shut the grate, barred it, and clicked the
padlock with a simple finality.
Grissom was too tired to cry. He weakly held the scalpel and drew his
hand up slightly to show he was quite capable. He shut his eyes on
the cyanide and tried to simply keep breathing.
******************
340 am
"Okay, I pulled all kind of illegal strings to get us here, informed
the military of where we're flying, and now we've got to figure out
where in a hundred mile square Grissom could be," Brass said over the
jet's whine. The CSIs and Brass were in the jet, along with the pilot
and a slightly bewildered paramedic Warrick has shanghaied.
"Hey, we're over the area now," the pilot said from up front. At
that, the team started looking out windows as the pilot dropped the plane.
"Are there any buildings left" Any structures at all?" Nick asked as
Warrick flipped through a file on the old Nevada Stakes proving ground.
"Most are gone, just fallen over, but it seems the owners report a few
old houses and sheds on the land. The houses were part of the
testing--see how they'd take the blasts."
"Some are still around?" Sara asked. Warrick nodded.
"Only those about a half-mile, mile away from ground zero. They're
still pretty damn radioactive."
"And me without a Geiger counter," Catherine sighed. Her fear for
Grissom was almost out of control. He'd been gone too long for
anything good to happen.
Brass was looking out a side window when he thought he saw a blue
metal flash in the distance. "Hey, Mike--do you see that flash up
ahead? About northwest?" he asked the pilot. The CSIs crowded round him.
The pilot looked, then veered slightly northwest. "There's something.
I'll drop down."
*******************************
350am
Lacking the strength to talk to himself, Grissom had been signing
lines from poems and songs he remembered, his hands moving feebly. He
felt he had to do something to keep from deciding on a form of
suicide. He kept his eyes tightly closed so he wouldn't see the
cyanide ampule in front of him.
The coughing was almost constant now, and Grissom could feel his lungs
filling with fluid--his breathing was labored and raspy. The last hour
or so dysentery had finally struck and he felt dehydrated and totally
void of energy. Between the vomiting, the shivering, and constant
stomach and intestinal pain, he knew he wasn't far from a bad death.
He forced himself to think very clearly, deciding on a way to end the
pain that could still save him--he had not given up hope in his CSI
team. Grissom figured that if he was going to die there was no point
in giving up until he was dead--the pain he'd tolerated so long could
not really get any worse. Of course, as he thought this every nerve
ending was screaming at him in shrieking, hysterical unison: PAIN.
Grissom didn't think he could use the cyanide. It was too final, too
completely irretrievable. At the same time, he knew he couldn't take
more pain. He had reached his limit of tolerance and only had enough
mind left to decide his next move.
He struggled and managed to bring his right hand up, then pushed with
his last muscular energy and was able to push his body up enough to
get his left hand out from under his body. It left him almost on his
side, and drained. It was several minutes before he could move again.
He moved his head so the cyanide was out of his direct line of sight
and breathed deeply, exhaling in a cough a fine mist of blood.
Grissom felt he should leave something, in case they didn't find him
in time, something--he wanted more than ever in his life to be able to
tell people he cared about that he did care for them deeply.
Moving his hands together, Grissom signed a goodbye to his mother and
his friends. He signed Catherine's name last, his mind trying to
focus on her, to give him any kind of center. A rattling cough turned
into a gagging as blood and bile warred to be vomited out, and the
intense pain decided him. He drove the scalpel cleanly into his left
wrist, pulling it down the vein, not across, then without
acknowledging that tiny hurt in a myriad of greater ones, turned the
knife and cut his other wrist open. Grissom dropped the knife,
brought his hands up to his chest, and waited for whatever was going
to happen to occur.
***************************
358am
The pilot had brought the plane down less than thirty yards away from
Grissom's truck. The CSIs piled out, guns drawn, as Brass ordered the
paramedic to stay near the rear.
Nick and Warrick went to the truck and glanced in. Seeing nothing but
the keys in the ignition, they backed up Brass, Sara, and Catherine as
they approached the wooden old house nearby.
Brass was about to knock, Warrick going around the side and Nick the
back, when the door opened. Brass jumped back and aimed, Sara and
Catherine training their guns as well on the man in the doorway. "Who
the hell are you?" Brass yelled over the whine of the jet engine.
"David Emerson. Please, don't shoot. Can I help you?"
Brass pushed the man aside, against the inside wall. "Damn well
better be able to. Where's Gil Grissom?"
Emerson watched with detachment as Sara and Catherine burst in, going
through the house. He stood mildly before Brass. "That's up to
Doctor Grissom, isn't it?" Emerson answered. Nick and Warrick came
into the house.
"Nothing out there. Grissom!" Nick yelled as he passed the two men in
the doorway. Warrick glared at Emerson as he too passed.
"They're upset with me," Emerson pointed out. Brass shook him and
tossed him into the living room area. Emerson sat on the only chair
in the room and watched Brass watch him.
Catherine had found a door in the kitchen and swung it open, waiting
for another person to appear. Warrick came behind her. She reached
up for the light.
"Got your back, Cath," Warrick said. They both felt a nervous energy
and a cold fear.
"Good." She went down the stairs carefully. Warrick followed,
pulling out his flashlight and flicking it on to find the next light.
He shone the light on the switch near the bottom and nudged
Catherine. As they got near the bottom of the stairs a sour smell of
sweat and blood filled the air. Warrick cringed inside.
Catherine flicked the switch, quickly checked the room for people, and
saw the grate. She ran to it, holstering her gun, as Warrick yelled
for the people upstairs.
Kneeling, Catherine saw what she thought was Grissom, but it was
difficult to tell under the blood and dirt. She pulled up on the
grate, saw the lock, and yelled for Warrick.
"Oh my god--Cath, is that--" Warrick started, then he saw the lock.
"Okay, screw the key. Back off," he said, pointing his gun at the
lock from the ground and firing.
The sound brought Gil around and he muttered a cry. He felt the
presence of people and was afraid all over again.
Warrick wrenched the grate up, tossing the bars aside, and recoiled
with a gasp. "Oh god, Catherine--Grissom. Jesus."
Catherine looked, paled, and turned to Nick who was coming down the
stairs. "Get that medic down here now!" Nick bolted back up, passing
Brass and Emerson and dragging the medic down the stairs.
Brass looked at Nick, and back at Emerson. "I hope he's alive, you
son of a bitch. For your sake." He saw Emerson look at his watch and
cross his arms.
"Four AM. Who knew he had it in him?" Emerson said. He smiled,
uncrossed his arms, and Brass saw he had a gun in his right hand.
Before Brass could bring up his own gun, Emerson had tucked the barrel
under his chin and fired. The shot knocked him backward, sprawling
him in a bloody mess against a wall. Brass looked once, holstered his
gun, and went out to call LVPD from the plane.
*
404am
"Catherine, he's bled all over, I don't know if--" Sara said, near
tears as she looked at her boss and friend in his own grave.
Catherine ignored her. She and Warrick were looking over the syringe
in the box marked antidote. "Catherine, we could kill him," Warrick
said nervously.
"He's dying anyway, Warrick! If this is really what he needs"
"Uh, he's not going to make it to a hospital, so anything you want to
try, do it," the medic said. They had turned Grissom over so he could
work. All the CSIs were appalled at the shape their chief was in, but
tried their best to ignore the wasted body. Grissom's vital signs
were almost gone and the medic was at a loss.
"Cath--do it. Anything, we have to do something!" Warrick hissed.
"Jesus--Gil, please, please, you gotta hang in there," she said as she
took the filled syringe up. She tapped it, wiped the side of his
neck, and injected it into his carotid artery. She held a gauze pad
over the site as the skin sealed itself. "Well, this way it moves
pretty fast. My god. Can we at least get him out of there?" She
asked the medic.
He shrugged. "He's so incredibly damaged. That he's not already
dead--if his neck is fine, let me brace it and we'll pull him out."
The CSIs made space and the medic worked swiftly. They all noted with
mixed hope and dread that Grissom was still breathing. "All right.
Help me," he said, and they carefully lifted Grissom out and placed
him on a cloth-covered body board.
Sara, unable to look any longer, stood up and walked up the stairs.
"I'm going to call Greg and tell him it's okay," she said softly.
Tears streaked her face as she walked.
"Is it okay?" Nick asked, staring at the still body of their boss.
The medic covered the body gently with a sterile sheet and continued
to bind the wrist wounds up. He was very silent, trying to ignore
both the anguished faces of the CSIs and the ravaged body he worked on.
Catherine was kneeling next to Grissom, Warrick next to her. She
reached out and very gently touched Grissom's matted hair. "It has to
be okay," she said.
Nick felt someone behind him and found Brass standing there.
"Jim--what was that sound" Where's that asshole who was here?"
Brass walked in and sat on the chair Emerson had occupied before him,
looking intently at Grissom's body. "He shot himself. He said "Four
AM. Who knew he had it in him?" and then blam. Grissom?"
Nick looked back at his boss. "There was a box marked antidote next
to that--pit. Catherine gave it to him and our man's been working his
ass off. We're waiting a little, I guess."
With a sigh, the medic, who had never announced his name as Bill, sat
back from the body. "Okay. He's not bleeding overtly anywhere now,
but his blood pressure is still so low--like he's bleeding inside.
He's got a lot of superficial wounds, broken nose, maybe a broken
cheek bone--and from the amount of vomitus in that hole, he's
dehydrated and very, very sick from something that's making him cough
up blood."
"Do you know anything about an"E-66 virus, or drug, or something?"
Catherine asked. The medic shook his head.
"No--I mean, we all probably have to be quarantined in case of
contagion, but if I had to guess, I'd guess someone's infected him
with something incredibly fast acting and bronchial--attacks the lungs.
Some forms of Ebola, old bubonic plague--hell, I don't know!"
"It's okay, man. You're doing a great job," Nick said, sliding down
the wall to sit next to Bill.
"How long are we gonna wait?" Warrick asked. He was still holding
onto the fact his boss was still breathing. He was afraid to look
away in case Gil stopped.
Catherine sighed. "I don't know. If that stuff was what he needed,
well, maybe we gave it to him in time. He's so--damn, Warrick, he
looks like he's been thrown out a window!" Catherine cried. She
leaned into Warrick and he put an arm around her tightly.
"I know. He'll be fine--I mean, he hung on for so long. He had to--he
had to believe we were coming."
"You know, he may have. I found a glass capsule in his pit there--like
an old cyanide pill. And a scalpel. It's like he could have chosen
either one--cyanide would have been fast suicide. Instead, he--" Bill
stopped. The horror of the situation finally hit him. "Jesus," he
breathed.
Nick moved closer to Grissom. He reached out a hand and let it rest
on Gil's leg lightly. The sheet was already staining with blood and
fluids. "He was still hoping we'd come. Damn it. Buddy, we're here.
Stay with us, okay?"
**********************
435am
Grissom had felt his body move, and had decided it was simply shifting
into shutting down, bit by bit. He could barely feel his legs. His
face was numb, his hands freezing--*how did I manage to get on my back,
then?* he wondered.
An uncomfortable pressure on his wrists brought him once again into
the present--he had been almost enjoying the gradual descent of cold on
his body. He tried to open his one good eye and couldn't--everything
felt weighted down.
Then a shock of pain had stabbed across his neck, and his body had
screamed in pain again. Grissom's nerves vibrated, sending tremors
throughout his body. He tried to shift, tried to speak, tried
anything--nothing seemed connected to his brain anymore.
A short time later, though measured in Grissom's space of anguish it
seemed days, he felt blood running more strongly in his limbs. The
overloaded, simple, survival part of his brain began to function with
his more rational mind again. For the first time in hours Grissom was
able to think critically. He didn't like what he found.
A voice cut across his mind. He thought it sounded familiar, and was
afraid it was the insane man who had caused all this. With a huge
effort he struggled to open his eyes. The effort failed, and Grissom
felt a burst of despair.
"There! Look, he tried to blink--Catherine, did you see it?" Warrick
yelled, pointing. He felt a little like an idiot, but his joy at
seeing some sign of life in his boss was overwhelming.
"I did--oh, Gil," Catherine said. She touched his dirty, matted hair
again, trying to communicate through touch how much she wanted him to
live. Nick patted Grissom's leg.
"I knew it. He's gonna make it."
"Well-I'll take his blood pressure again, and then let's get him the
hell out of here. I don't know what else to do," Bill said.
Grissom felt the pressure on his arm and pain flared. A tear washed
across his face and Bill noticed it. "I'm sorry," he apologized. He
checked the dial and quickly released the pressure in the cuff.
"Okay, it's up. Let's move him, but be really damn careful. If it's
something affecting his blood or lungs, I don't want him screaming or
breathing fast. He has to be moved very, very carefully. We'll get
him in the jet and I'll have the pilot call Vegas Medical. There's a
guy on staff there who does toxicology and immunology and has seen
some strange shit in Africa. I want him to see this."
"What do we do?" Catherine asked, trying to focus again.
"I'm going to strap him on this, then I need a hand getting him out of
here. You-Nick-- Can you help me? And someone should clear a spot in
the jet for the board."
"I'll do it," Warrick said, jumping up and running up the stairs.
Brass followed him, casting a look back at Grissom.
Catherine stood and moved to let Nick and Bill work. She grabbed the
box and empty syringe, Bill's equipment bag, and moved up the stairs
ahead of them. She couldn't shake the smell from the room.
Nervous, Nick took his end of the body board and waited. Bill took
the other end, holding it so he could walk up the stairs facing
forward. They lifted slowly, conscious of Grissom's delicate state,
and started up the stairs.
Warrick was near the hatch of the jet, Catherine and Brass already
inside. Sara was in her seat, buckled in, nervously jogging one leg
up and down and watching. Nick and Bill exited the house and moved
quickly to the jet. Warrick stepped down and let Nick and Bill enter.
They carefully set the board down on the floor and Warrick came back
in, shutting the hatch. "Ready!" he yelled to the pilot.
"I need to call Vegas Medical-we're gonna take him there. Can you
land this anywhere near it?" Bill asked, going up to talk to the pilot
as they took off.
"No, I can't. Closest I can get to any hospital is one of the
military bases, and they're too far. But I can put it down on our
strip and have a medevac fly him to Vegas Medical. Only lose five
minutes or so in the transfer. All right?"
Bill frowned. "Okay. Please make great time!"
"Don't worry. I'll set it up, and then I'll tell Vegas Medical to
expect a chopper soon. We'll make it happen," the pilot said, and
Bill went back to his patient.
***********************8
5am
John Emerson was put to death by lethal injection at 500am local time,
his death witnessed by reporters, his aunt, and the father of the two
people he'd killed. His last thoughts were about his brother, the
only person he had been close to in his life, as he was strapped to
the gurney.
************************
6pm
Nick Stokes was taking the 4-6 shift at the hospital, sitting in a
chair outside Grissom's room. Catherine was sitting against the wall
across from him. Nick smiled.
"Weren't you here from 2-4 too?" he asked. Catherine nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I'd just hang out until shift begins.
"Catherine, that's hours away. Go sleep somewhere. You know you're
the first person I'd call if anything happened."
Catherine rubbed her neck. "I know. I'm just--Nick, I have to keep
nearby, that's all. I'm feeling over protective. I can't help it."
Nick moved over and sat next to her. "I know. I know. I just--when I
saw him, Cath--I got so angry. No one should ever have to feel what
he must have. I wanted to beat the shit out of someone when I saw it.
Then Brass comes down--and the guy's gone. Just gone. No one to hurt
for this. I wanted--Christ, I wanted to beat someone to death!" Nick
said. He hadn't let himself feel the fear and anger he'd felt when
they found Grissom, and he fought to keep it from returning completely.
Catherine looked at the younger CSI, then put her arm around him and
her head on his shoulder. "You'd have to get in line behind me, Nicky."
They were still on the floor when Warrick walked up. "You two okay?"
he asked.
Nick and Catherine looked up. "Hey," Nick said. "You too?"
Warrick sat in the chair. "Uh-huh. Hey, I talked to our medic--name's
Bill. He's a good guy. I told him we owe him. He said he"'d be happy
if we didn't call him again for anything like that."
"No kidding," Nick said.
Catherine was about to ask Warrick about Sara when a doctor rushed
past them and into Grissom's room. Warrick stood and looked through
the door window. He saw the doctor looking at the myriad of machines
helping Grissom breathe and monitoring his vital signs. Catherine and
Nick crowded behind, and all three were shoved out of the way by
another doctor. They congregated again and waited.
In the room, the doctors were looking at Grissom's blood pressure
readout and his oxygen intake. The sensors had set off an alarm in
the monitoring area, indicating Grissom was struggling to breathe.
What it meant at times was that a patient was trying to breathe on his
own.
The doctors were hesitant because of the unknown nature of the disease
that Grissom had. Dr. Harry MacDowell, the toxicology specialist, was
most intrigued by the fact that whatever had been injected into the
man after the first injection actually seemed to be preventing the
disease from wreaking any more havoc. The disease didn't seem to be
contagious now, and if it had been before, Dr. MacDowell imagined it
would have killed whoever had it by now.
"You know, if he's trying to breathe on his own, it means whatever was
basically liquefying his lungs has stopped. After we suctioned the
damaged tissue, it doesn't seem he's had any more damage. I don't
know how, but there it is," he said. He looked over at Martin King,
chief of thoracic surgery.
"Well hell. He's obviously a stubborn man. And, it seems he's going
to make it. I'm happy to let him try breathing on his own."
To the CSIs chagrin, they were elbowed once more by a nurse who went
into Grissom's room. They looked through the window and watched as
Dr. King and the nurse removed Grissom's breathing hose and switched
off the pump. Nick could feel Catherine's nails digging into his
shoulder and winced.
Struggling in what seemed to be an airless room, Grissom's mouth
worked and his body tried to remember how to breathe. He could feel
the air trying to pass his sore lips, and tried to suck in a breath.
A few failures, a moment of panic, and he inhaled on his own, a deep
breath followed by a shaky exhale. It happened again, and then again.
In his mind, Grissom felt an infusion of energy, something clearing
and fresh. He thought the air sweet and cool, and even though it hurt
a little to breathe, he committed himself to it and reveled in the
sensation.
The doctors were surprised to have to push the door open past three
CSIs. They looked over the tired investigators and Dr. King smiled.
"You all need sleep. He's breathing on his own. That's really a
great sign," he said. Nick, Warrick, and Catherine let out their
collective breaths.
"Jesus--thanks. Thank you," Catherine said.
"Any idea when he might come around?" Nick asked, arm around Catherine.
"Not really. We don't know enough yet about whatever he was given.
But whatever it was it seemed that antidote, or vaccine, worked. I
think he'll be fine."
"Yes, god," Warrick whispered. "Thank you."
The doctors smiled at the CSIs and left. Catherine, remembering, ran
after them. "Doc!"
Both turned. "Yes?" Dr. MacDowell asked.
"Can--can we sit in his room now, do you think?" she asked quickly.
She saw them look at each other.
"Oh--okay. Only one of you, and really I'd prefer it if for the next
day you wore a gown and mask. Just in case," Dr. King said. He
smiled at her. "I think he'd like it if he woke up and you were there."
"Thank you--thanks!" she said, and trotted back to the guys.
"So?" Nick asked.
"I'm going in. Gotta wear a mask, and gown, for now. I'm staying
until shift begins," Catherine said, taking a surgical gown and mask
from a nearby cart. "No noise. You two can sit out here if you want,
but I suggest you get some sleep. Don't make me pull rank."
Warrick laughed. "All right, girl. I'm going to go to the lab and
crash on the lounge couch. Nick, wake me when shift starts?"
Nick nodded. "Yeah. I'm gonna stay here a little longer, then I'll
be down."
Warrick nodded, kissed Catherine on the cheek, and walked off.
Catherine, tying her mask on, tapped Nick's shoulder. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me go in first."
Nick smiled. "Happy to. If he comes to you tell him I said hi, okay?"
Catherine smiled and pulled up her mask, then went in. Nick looked
through the window once, then settled down into the chair, closing his
eyes.
*************************************
855pm
Catherine sat in a chair pulled up to the bed, watching Grissom
breathe. She had seen his right eye flutter, as if it would open,
several times, but nothing more.
"Gil open your eyes, come on. Let me know you're here," Catherine
said under her breath. She reached out a hand and let it rest on his
forearm, on the wrist bandage. Before she closed her eyes, she took
in the stitched lip, the stitches and butterfly bandages obliterating
Grissom's left eyebrow, the plastic mask carefully strapped to
Grissom's face to protect the fine surgical work of setting the supra
orbital bone and to provide tension to keep the fracture together as
well. She felt again the anger and despair, and tried to think about
Grissom as he usually was.
Grissom was becoming more aware of his surroundings, even though his
body was on a fairly large dosing of painkillers delivered
intravenously. The doctors had wanted to keep his body generally
sedated to discourage any movement that might irritate the ravaged
lungs, stomach, and heart.
Through the haze, he felt his body's weight on the bed, and the severe
pain in his head. He felt as if he should be able to raise his hands,
but any attempt left him confused as to where his hands actually were.
He engaged his mind as fully as he could, trying to concentrate his
energy on opening his right eye, the only part of his face that didn't
seem tacked down.
Catherine opened her eyes with a start. She wasn't sure if she'd
dropped off, and sat up quickly. "Gil?"
Grissom flicked his eye over at the sound vibration he perceived. He
didn't think he had lost his hearing again, but he felt his mind
wasn't picking up on things with its normal acuity. The focus was
slow, but when his vision cleared he saw Catherine looking intently at
him. For the first time in a few days, Gil felt he actually was alive.
"Gris? Oh, Gil--thank god. Gil, I'm so--it's good to see you back,"
Catherine said. She stood, bending over him so he wouldn't have to
turn his head. She felt tears forming in her eyes and tried to blink
them back.
Grissom felt Catherine holding his left hand loosely. He couldn't
speak quite yet, and swallowed painfully. With effort, he moved his
fingers in her hand.
Catherine looked at the moving fingers, then back at Grissom. She saw
the effort it was taking him to move them on his face. "Gil, don't.
Just rest," she said, very gently stroking his hair.
Frustrated, Grissom moved his fingers again, forcing his hand to work.
He began to shape meaning with his fingers. And as he looked up at
Catherine, he saw her begin to understand.
Catherine looked again at Gil's hand, trying so hard to move. She
took her hand away and watched. To her amazement, he was spelling out
HELLO in sign language.
When he finished, his hand was weak but he grasped Catherine's
fingers. He tried to say hello, say her name, say anything through
his open eye. What he had back of himself he tried to communicate to her.
Catherine looked back at Gil's face, tears on her cheeks. His heart
jumped a little at the sight.
"Hi to you too. Welcome back."
***********************************8
The next morning
Grissom was fully awake now, if not fully conscious of his body's many
injuries. He was lying in the bed slightly elevated, his right eye
roving as far as it could. He seemed to be desperate for sensory input.
Doctors had come and gone, impressed at his recovery but not
understanding his frustration. He couldn't make much sound yet, and
they hadn't noticed his frantic one-handed signing for what it was.
He was working his mouth, prepping for the pain he'd feel when he
finally spoke, when Nick and Warrick walked in. Grissom tried to
smile and winced a little.
"Hey chief! Looking good!" Nick said as they strolled up. Neither
wore protective gear, both doctors deciding Grissom's recovery was
assured.
"Yeah, buddy. And--Nick, he looks a little pissed!" Warrick noted.
Something about the way their boss looked at them with his one clear
eye seemed angry to Warrick.
"Maybe. Hey Gris, you feeling okay?" Nick asked. He wasn't sure if
Gil could talk, but he was trying to keep it light.
Gil flashed his eye over at Nick, then Warrick. He dragged his right
hand up onto his chest, surprising both CSIs, and began signing.
Nick's brows raised. "Gris--uh, I don't know ASL, man. Warrick?"
"I know the alphabet, but--uh, I don't know," Warrick said. He leaned
a little closer and tried to make out the letters. "Um, let's see--R,
and E, A--yeah, A. D-d? READ? Oh! Read!" Warrick cried triumphantly.
Grissom let out a small sigh of relief. He'd managed to communicate
something.
"You mean, you want to read" Or something to read" Or us to read to
you?" Nick asked. Grissom rolled his one eye. With a painful gulp,
he opened his mouth.
"S--second," he rasped out. The sound of his voice was both welcome
and unfamiliar to the CSIs. It sounded dull, harsh, and grating.
"Jesus, Gris! You spoke," Nick said happily. "Damn. I better call
Catherine," he said, walking out to use his cell phone. Warrick moved
closer.
The sight of his chief and friend's battered frame, the obscene
plastic mask seeming like both a joke and a terrifying reminder of
what Gil had gone through, was still shocking to Warrick. Even with
his extensive experience of death and the obscenities humans could
commit, Warrick had a difficult time seeing the damaged Grissom.
Before Warrick would let Grissom know how scared he'd been for his
boss, though, he'd pretend he was okay with it all.
"Hey boss. You had us a little nervous for a while there. Kind of
stretched our skills on this," he said quietly. He reached out and
patted Gil's right hand. "Don't do that again, okay?"
Grissom saw the emotion his CSI was hiding badly. It touched him that
Warrick was concerned and afraid for him. He would never admit he
liked Warrick's work and personality better than any of his team
besides Catherine, but the two men worked together with a facility and
communication that Grissom knew arose out of mutual respect and
talent. Gil knew Warrick was the one who would have his job one day.
*Could've been soon*, he thought wryly.
Grissom held Warrick's fingers to get his attention, and started to
fingerspell slowly again. Warrick concentrated on the fingers.
"W--WO, um, M. No, N. T. WONT? Oh--okay, you won't do that again. I
get it. Good." Warrick smiled, then was shocked to feel wetness on
his face. He removed his hand from Grissom's and quickly wiped the
tears away. "I'm sorry."
Gil slowly moved his head side to side and fingerspelled NO. As
Warrick watched, Grissom spelled out what he"d been trying to say for
hours now.
//Thank you.//
END | |