Markus Bathory had long ago learned to appreciate the desert for the many things it had to offer, beauty, mystery, excitement, danger and most importantly anonymity. The desert was littered with anonymity; shallow graves with no markers, holding nameless victims some long since forgotten. Hikers and explorers of the desert still came across bleached bones partially unearthed by the elements or animals. Without much to identify them the bones are eventually interned in a pauper’s grave with only a burial number to mark their erstwhile existence.
            Anonymity was sometimes a precious commodity. It was what Markus needed to finish his project and it was why he had long ago acquired the dilapidated gas station and garage sitting off highway 95. The two story main building had been a mom and pop run operation with a small convenience store on the lower level and an apartment on the second level. A rusting gray Quonset style building sat to the side and slightly farther back from the highway, where at one time a towing service had been located.
            The windows facing the highway had been boarded up for many years. Black spray painted letters across the plywood read CLOSED and NO TRESPASSING, while a heavy chain and padlock secured the front door. Heavy curtains covered the upstairs window even though the nearest neighbor was a truck stop four miles away. Even without the spray painted sign, everything about the place screamed go away!
            The heat of the desert during midday was oppressive. Even though the windows in the back of the station were opened to release some of the pent up heat, the air was still thick and hard to breathe chasing the inhabitants to the more bearable Quonset hut out back.
            The rear doors to the building were open wide, allowing plenty of sunlight to enter the garage. The corrugated, rounded metal walls were covered with hooks, chains and a variety of tools, some dating back to when the building was new. Several wooden work benches lined the walls and in the center of the building parked end to end was a black Ford Excursion with heavily tinted windows and a white heavy duty cargo van with a partially applied stick on logo.
            Wiping the sweat from his red forehead, Donny Kempler watched as Jake applied the next sticky portion of the logo to the surface of the van.
            “How long is this goin’ ta take?” Donny asked, the first sign of impatience rearing its ugly head. They had had to waste too much time relocated from the ranch and were now behind schedule. In less than a week everything was going to be in motion and if they weren’t ready the entire plan would be worthless.
            Jake glanced sideways at Donny. The heat made his pale skin bright pink and drew out the light sprinkling of freckles that covered his nose. Besides Donny and Jake, Markus had brought Scott and a woman named Laney. Markus kept her separate from them most of the time and it was obvious to Jake that the woman was a junkie but he also knew she served a purpose. Her purpose was a little vague since Markus did not confide in him, that was Donny’s job, but he knew it had something to do with the job coming up.
            “It’ll be done by tomorrow,” Jake answered sweeping dirty blonde bangs from his eyes. Wiping his damp palms on the tan coveralls, Jake eyed Donny curiously. Jake had learned long ago to trust nobody in the Bathory crew when it came to his life. It was an honor among thieves system as far as he was concerned.
            There had been sixteen people living at the ranch at one time or another, now there was the five of them. Jake knew that if he was useful he would get to live, so he always made himself useful. Watching Donny march through the large double bay doors, a chilling thought crossed Jake’s mind. I wonder if I will know when I’m useless?
Deciding not to dwell on the thought he quickly turned back to his task. Peeling of the no-stick paper he applied the next portion of the logo to the white van. Jake had never known where Grissom had fit into the plan but he could understand the job before him and knew if he didn’t get it done he would be more than useless.

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            Captain Jim Brass walked into the cold, sterile interrogation room like a man on a mission-and he was! Every instinct, every thread of evidence he had been able to recover, retrieve and recycle at this point told him that Mickey Etts had something to do with, or knew someone who did have something to do with Grissom’s kidnapping. Brass had a nice, neat little web of characters in his ongoing play of suspects. They were all connected in some form or fashion and the kid sitting across from Detective Vartann was smack dab in the middle of that web.
            Taking the chair next to Vartann, Brass sat down placing his elbows on the table he clasped his hands together. “Yooou,” he said pointing his fingers at the young man like a child with an imaginary gun “are going to tell me everything I want to know…then, everything I need to know.”
            Mickey’s eyes widened slightly. He had figured this cop was going to play good cop to the other detective’s bad cop but it was obvious to him now that Brass hadn’t come to indulge him and try and win him over. Mickey looked to Vartann as if to confirm what his mind had already told him. Vartann just smirked at the dawning realization that washed over the kid’s face.
            Leaning back in his chair Vartann said, “I warned you” before crossing his arms across his chest and ceding the interrogation to Brass.
            “I, uh, wha…?” Mickey stammered. He had never been in an interrogation before but always figured it was like in the movies. “Aren’t you suppose to get me a drink…or something?” he asked as if Brass and Vartann had forgotten their lines.
            Vartann just shook his head but Brass’ gaze was unrelenting as if he was attempting to mine through the man’s skull to extract the information he wanted. Mickey squirmed in his seat, his eyes darting from Brass’ intense stare to the table to Vartann, anywhere but at the police captain.
            “Michael Etts,” Brass began “Mickey, where have you been hiding for the last three weeks?”
            Mickey was completely out of his element but than he was one of those guys that rarely was in his element. Fidgeting with the front of his orange jumpsuit, Mickey tried to think up an answer to the detective’s question. “I, umm, I’ve been with friends,” he was finally able to blurt out.
            “Yea, I’ll bet…let me guess, Scott Abrams, Donny Kempler, Vonna Singer aaandd…” Brass paused briefly before laying the bomb at Mickey’s feet “Markus Bathory.”
            Mickey had kept his eyes glued to the table as Brass had listed off the names. That was until he had come to the last name- Markus Bathory! That name spoken out loud had the effect of a deer caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. Mickey’s eyes darted to the door and the uniformed officer stationed there, the irrational thought of running zipping through his panicked mind.
            Brass methodically followed Mickey’s gaze to the door, an almost sinister grin splaying across his face as he returned his attention to Mickey. For the first time Mickey knew what a rat felt like when it was cornered. With an almost exaggerated gulp Mickey tried to put on his best brave act.
            Wiping his sweaty palms on his legs Mickey sputtered, “I, I don’t know those, those people.” Mickey shifted in his seat not really feeling the bluster he was trying so desperately to project.
            Brass abruptly stood up from his chair before slowly circling the table.
            “Scott Abrams…Donny Kempler…Vonna Singer and…” Brass tapped the table forcefully with his index finger after each name. Coming to stand directly behind Mickey, Brass placed his hands on the back of the chair the young man was sitting in. Digging his fingers into the chair to control the growing urge to smack the kid across the back of the head, Brass leaned in and whispered in Mickey’s ear “Markus Bathory.”
            Brass could see that he was getting a rise out of the kid. He was starting to sweat profusely, his brown wavy hair clingy to his temples and his breathing had increased. Nervously Mickey rubbed his palms on his legs again. Realizing his agitated movements, Mickey slapped his hands down on the table in front of him in an attempt to control the revealing appendages.
            Continue to circle the table, Brass made certain to maintain eye contact with the twitching young man. Jim Brass wasn’t what most people would consider to be a big guy but his self-assuredness and demeanor made him seem much larger than his actual stature. The fact that Mickey was shorter and probably thirty to forty pounds lighter only made the police captain seem more imposing.
            “Tell me Mickey, cause I just don’t get…how was it you could let your sister-“
            Mickey shot frightened eyes at Brass. “My sister?” he asked in desperation “What happened to her?”
            Brass and Vartann exchanged curious glances.
            “She’s dead, Mickey,” Vartann said in a deliberate tone. Opening the file that contained Jeanie Etts’ crime scene photos, Vartann removed the top photograph and slid it across the table at Mickey.
            All pretenses and bravado were swept away in an instant. With a series of gulping breaths Mickey began to sob uncontrollably. His dark head fell forward bouncing with each broken intake of air. He was broken and Brass was ready to exploit it.
            “Who did this Mickey? Who killed Jeannie?” Brass standing near Mickey placed his palms on the table and leaned down and in. He used the victims’ name to remind Mickey It was a tactic he often employed to make the victim more real, more human.
            Mickey wiped the tear from his eyes angrily. Looking sideway at Brass he informed him, “I don’t know. I, I’d try to get a hold of her.” Mickey pushed himself up in his chair. “I kept callin’, you know her cell. I couldn’t, I couldn’t …she never answered me.”
            “Okay, Mickey,” Brass said soothingly “I believe you but we need to catch the bastard that did this.” Brass tapped his index finger on the photograph still lying on the table. It was a subtle reminder to Mickey, to keep him focused on the death of his sister and emotionally off kilter.
            “She didn’t die easy,” Vartann added.
            Brass nodded. “It’s true Mickey. Jeannie, well…” Brass paused as he retook his seat. “She suffered a lot. The sicko that did this,” he pointed to the photo again “he was cruel, very cruel and he probably even got his jollies in it and-“
            “Scott,” Mickey blurted out in a hoarse voice.
            Brass and Vartann exchanged knowing glances. They had already placed Scott Abrams in the apartment room, now they needed to know where to find him.
            “Scott Abrams?” Brass asked in mock confusion. “Isn’t he a buddy of yours?”
            Mickey seemed to contemplate Brass’ question. He had wanted Scott to be his friend, Donny and Jake too, but most of all he had wanted Markus to be the father he never really had. Markus always seemed to like him, protect him. He had made sure the other guys didn’t pick on him and the girls seemed to pay attention to him more when Markus was around.
            Jeannie had never trusted Markus and she had tried to avoid Scott and Donny when possible.  Still, she had done what they asked because of him and now that Mickey looked back on it all, he wondered what it was that Scott had said to her that night months ago when they wanted her help to steal the vet’s chemicals. She had been scared after that night, always asking him to come over to her apartment alone. Mickey never did and he would never get that chance either.
            “No. I wanted him to be but, I don’t know…” Mickey just shook his head, his bloodshot eyes seeking the older man’s.
            Brass nodded in understanding. It wouldn’t be the first time some kid desperate for a place to belong and people to accept him would do something stupid and sadly not the last. “Okay, so where can we find Scott?”
            Mickey scooted up in his chair. “I, I’m not sure,” at Brass’ dubious look he continued, “I swear! I snuck out a couple of nights ago to find out why Jeannie wasn’t calling me back and, uh, I…”
            “Okay, something simpler, where did you sneak out from?” Brass was really starting to worry that the kid was as dense as he was letting on.
            Mickey gave the police captain a worried look which had Brass inwardly cringing. “Umm, Markus’ ranch…”
            “Alright…”
            “But I’m not sure where it is at,” Mickey hesitated “exactly.”
            Brass sighed. He wondered how much trouble he would get in if he just started beating the stupid out of the kid. Surely it could be listed as therapeutic for both of us, he thought.
            “Well, see I never drove and, well I hitched to Jeannie’s and she always drove me back to the ranch,” Mickey rambled on desperately trying to prove he wasn’t as ridiculously dense as he sounded. But a cat is a cat and a moron is moron and Mickey Etts was just crowned King of the Morons as far as Jim Brass was concerned.
            Brass sighed again. Leaning back in his chair he decided to pursue a slightly different line of questioning. If Mickey couldn’t lead them in a straight path maybe they could somehow meander in the direction he wanted to go.
            “If you wanted to get in contact with Markus or Scott,” here goes nothing “how would you go about that?”
            Mickey blinked several times as he tried to get the rusty machine work residing in his skull up to full steam. “Umm, I… Markus always kinda found me,” Mickey’s eyes lit up as he realized he could answer the second part of the police detective’s question. “WAIT, Derek might know or umm…Boots,yea, Boots might know where to find Scott…but Boots kind of hates Scott,” Mickey sounded momentarily dejected but quickly recovered. “OR,” Mickey bounced with excitement “or the races or wait, maybe the sports bets. He loves to bet on anything sports!”
            Alright, now they might be getting somewhere, Brass thought hopefully.
            “When you say Derek, you’re talking Derek Lopez?” Brass asked.
            “Uh-huh,” Mickey nodded excitedly, “He’s Scott’s cousin. He and this guy named Robby or Roger or something use to ride for Boots’ shop.”
            Brass was getting a little confused as the Youngman rattled off name after name. Brass held up his hand to pause Mickey’s mach one mouth he said, “Wait, wait, who’s Boots?”
            Mickey looked momentarily confused by the question.“Boots?” he asked trying to center his thoughts on the captain’s question.
            “Yes.”
            “Boots owns this motorcycle shop that Scott goes to sometimes. Boots doesn’t like Scott much. I think Scott might have stolen something, maybe.”
            Brass jotted down a couple of quick notes before he continued with his questions. Reaching into the ever thickening file in front of him, Brass pulled out a photograph of Grissom. It was the same photo that adorned his CSI badge.
            “You ever seen this guy before?” Brass asked sliding the photograph across the table at Mickey.
            Mickey’s eyes grew wide and his hand instinctively went to his bruised and tender nose. He had never been hit so hard in his life as he had when Grissom struck him in the face. Mickey had made certain after that to be two arms lengths out of the captive man’s reach.
            “I, uhh, I-“
            Brass shook his head. “Now Mickey, before you start overtaxing that tiny mind of yours, you should know that Grissom escaped.
            Mickey’s eyes grew wider.
            “Mmm,” Brass arched his brows knowingly. “So, what do you say? Got something for me?”
            Mickey decided self preservation was in order. “I need protection! Markus’ll kill me! Or Scott or Donny!”
            Brass let a small grin ooze on to his face. “I’ll make sure you get a nice comfy cell all by yourself but you need to give me what I want.”
            “Okay, okay,” Mickey muttered as he prepared to come clean with the police captain.
            After more than hour of questioning Mickey Etts Brass was certain that compulsory birth control for some should be enforced. At least he had been able, with great effort and patience even the Saints would envy, to get some useful information out of the kid. With any luck at all he might be able to reduce his search area within the greater Las Vegas area.

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            “I bring coffee,” Catherine announced like a triumphant warrior returning from battle.
            Sara had to smile; not just because of Catherine’s theatrics but also because she really could use a good cup of coffee. The hospital swill they doled out by the gallon could only technically be called coffee. Anyone with more than two taste buds would call it swamp-water-poser coffee or at least that was what Sara had come to call the offending beverage.
            Catherine had caught Sara stretching her legs in the hallway outside Grissom’s new hospital room. It had been three days since Grissom had been found wounded and bleeding wandering the back roads of the Nevada desert. He had stabilized enough for them to move him from the I.C.U. and according to Warrick and Nick had taken him off the ventilator sometime in the night. It was a little disconcerting to hear the how and why the assisted breathing had been terminated but Catherine was still trying to look on the positive side. Now, all we need to do is get him to wake up, Catherine thought as she held out the copper colored, highly decorative and expensive coffee to Sara.
            “Awww, the elixir of the gods!”
            “How’s he doing?” Catherine asked peeking through the glass wall that gave a partial view into Grissom’s hospital room.
            Sara took a tentative sip of her coffee as she followed Catherine’s gaze through the floor to ceiling windowpane. Aside from the frightening display Grissom put on last night, he seemed to be doing well.
            “He still hasn’t woke up but he’s off the ventilator,” Sara informed Catherine with a mild hint of relief edging into her voice.
            Catherine glanced at the younger woman and was relatively surprised by how well she seemed to be holding up. Catherine imagined just knowing that Grissom was alive and having him back was a big relief. She knew it was for her and the rest of the crew.
            “How are you holding up?” Catherine felt the need to ask. Sara had the innate ability to chew up doubles and triple like they were Chicklets, so the long hours put in at the lab and the hospital were probably having little effect on her.
            With a waggle of her head Sara answered, “I could probably use a real bed for an hour or two and a shower…definitely in my future but otherwise I’m good.”
            While Catherine asked Sara detailed questions about Grissom’s medical condition Sara quizzed Catherine on the investigation. Nick had called her shortly after he and Warrick had returned to the lab to tell her that Brass and Vartann had a possible suspect in custody. For the briefest of moments Sara had had to resist the urge to go down to the police station and release the pent up rage she still contained for the bastards who had hurt Gil. 
            “Brass has the sports books staked out?” Sara asked quietly as the two women entered the hospital room.
            “If Abrams tries to place a bet in Vegas, Brass has got’em,” Catherine punctuated her words with a raised brow and incline of her head. Jim had let everyone involved in the stake outs know in no uncertain terms that he wanted Abrams balls in a vice should he pop his head up for even a second.
            “Good,” Sara stated before her attention was stolen by the man in the hospital bed.
            Sara chuckled as she went to Grissom’s side. “He’d be so pissed if he could see himself right now,” Sara smiled lightly, her hand moving the ever wayward curl that continued to drift across his forehead.
            Catherine huffed humorously as she had to agree. Gil was Mr. Neat and Tidy and although he was cleaned up he was still a mess. They had shaved his beard off in surgery but there was an unkempt five o’clock shadow growing on his face and his hair was pretty unruly with the salt and pepper curls appearing to have an agenda all their own. Then there were the less amusing features that would undoubtedly have the obsessive man quite on edge.
            The surgeons had done a wonderful job of stitching the cut near his left eyebrow and Catherine doubted it would be very noticeable once it was healed but the eye itself was still very swollen and horribly discolored. The poor man’s lips were a series of healing cuts and just under his jaw line was another nasty cut that the doctors had stitched expertly. Catherine inwardly sighed as a wave of sadness washed over her.
            Grissom was many things to Catherine. Boss, mentor, major pain in the ass, but most importantly he was the closest friend she had ever had. The two of them were as different as night and day, and they fought and they argued and could easily push each others buttons with ease but Catherine was never in doubt who had her back. “I always have your back,” he had told her years ago and Catherine knew it.
            “He didn’t deserve this,” Catherine muttered softly to herself.    
            When Sara glanced over at her and nodded, Catherine realized she had spoken her thoughts out loud. Catherine opened her mouth to explain what she would love to do with the perps that had done this, when she noticed Grissom begin to slowly stir.
            Sara snapped her head to look at Grissom as he moved with muted agitation, as if he was slowly swimming through a sea of confusion.
            “Gris,” Sara reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder, trying to reaffirm for him that she was there and he was safe.
            Grissom sprang forward at her touch. His eyes darted wildly about the room focusing on nothing. His breathing consisted of short, quick pants bordering on hyperventilation. His right hand had come up to ward off a perceived danger while his left attempted to support his weakened body.
            “Gil!” both women exclaimed.
            Catherine bolted to the foot of the bed, while Sara hesitated to come any closer. It had taken five of them the night before to even pretend they had control of the terrified man; Sara harbored no delusions as to whether or not she and Catherine could control him. Even if his adrenaline wasn’t surging through his body, Sara knew how amazingly strong Grissom was.
            Grissom’s wild gaze slowed enough to pick up on the two women. “Cath…Saraaaa,” Grissom’s eyes rolled back in his skull as he fell back against the bed. The two women exchanged worried glances before snapping into action. Sara reached out to find the erratic pulse at Grissom’s neck while Catherine snapped up the call button and pressed it repeatedly.
            Catherine placed her hand on Sara’s shoulder a mute inquiry.
            “I think…he just passed out?” Sara said uncertain as she and Catherine moved out of the way of the nurse that had come to their summons.
            The heavy set woman with the dark brown hair and turquoise scrubs quickly went about her business. Taking Grissom’s wrist she collected a pulse and did a cursory exam. “He seems to be okay,” She informed them. “What happened?”
            Sara blinked and gestured at the now resting man. “He sat up…then keeled back over,” Sara’s voice held a hint of astonishment. It wasn’t the first time she had witnessed someone passing out but it did startle and worry her when it came to Grissom fainting dead away.
            “Did he sit up quickly?” the nurse asked slipping her stethoscope around her neck.
            Both Sara and Catherine nodded. “He seemed disoriented,” Catherine informed the woman.
            The nurse nodded as she made her way between the two women as she headed toward the door to the room. Opening the door halfway she turned and said, “I think he’s fine. Probably just threw his blood pressure off by sitting up so quickly. Happens all the time but I’ll have the doctor come check on him for ya.” She smiled as she made her way from the room.
            Sara glowered at the man on the bed. “I swear I’m going to be lying in a hospital bed right next to him if he keeps this up,” Sara said accusingly.
            Catherine patted her chest above her heart as she nervously chuckled while making herself comfortable in one of the hospital chairs. He’d definitely given her a start and she could only imagine Sara, especially after the whole trauma of last night’s episode.
            “Well, he’s never one to make it easy…is he?” Catherine grinned at the sour expression on Sara’s face.
            Realizing she was frowning, Sara relaxed and returned Catherine’s grin. “No… I think difficult could be his first, middle and last name…all in capitals!”
            Grissom arched his back in slow, lethargic stretch. His right hand lazily ran across his temple and into the unruly hair on top of his head.
            “Sar…Sara?”
            Grissom’s voice was a harsh whisper as he strained to return to the land of the living. His mind seemed muddled and thick as he tried to grasp where he was and why he hurt so badly.
            “Gil!” Sara exclaimed in a soft, joyous voice as she rushed to his side. “I’m here…you’re okay,” she assured him taking his left hand in hers.
            Grissom did his best attempt at a smile as his eyes came open or at least his right eye. The poor abused left eye was nothing more than a slit of blue surrounded by purple and black. Noticing his limited vision, Grissom raised his free hand to touch tentatively around his swollen eye, wincing as he did.
            “What?” Sara could see he was confused and was about to explain everything to him, when the doctor and nurse came in.
            “Aww, I see my patient has finally awoke,” The doctor called out good naturedly as he approached. “My name is Dr. Kyle Mutzengarr, Mutz for short. How are you feeling?” he asked as he took Grissom’s radial pulse.
            Sara immediately pegged the doctor as one of those men you just couldn’t help but like. He was just slightly shorter then Sara with an athlete’s physique and thick silver gray hair that was on the verge of going white. With a perpetual look of mischief and hint of ornery glimmering in his eyes, Sara couldn’t help but smile at the man.
            Grissom frowned. He felt like hell and had no idea why. “I, umm, feel like… crap,” Grissom answered a tinge of sarcasm lacing his words.
            “Mmm…understandable,” the doctor muttered as he shone his penlight across Grissom’s face. “Need to ask you a few silly questions,” the doctor explained snapping the light off and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his scrubs “You feel up to it?”
            Grissom rubbed the heel of his palm against his right brow. It was a feeble and worthless attempt to clear the grogginess from his head. “Sure,” he answered tiredly.
            “Okay,” Dr. Mutzengarr smiled at the weary man as he took the computer tablet from his nurse to record Grissom’s answers. “Name?”
            “Gil Grissom”
            “Birthday?”
            Grissom sighed, “August 17”
            “I know these questions are tedious,” the doctor sympathized “Can you tell me the last date you can recall?”
            Grissom opened his mouth as if to answer right away, only to hesitate as he tried to recall his last memory before waking up in the hospital. His mouth opened and closed as his mind tried to make sense of the barrage of sounds and pictures that strobed across his mind’s eye. “Uhhh…I…”  He could smell, iron and gunpowder and the heat burning off the desert sands. Grissom crushed his eyes together as the pressure inside his head increased. He could hear crying, a woman-no a girl and laughing, not joyous but cruel laughter. He saw silver eyes in the shadow, so intense as they burrowed into his skull, cracking it, black vitriol liquid oozing from the crevices.
            “I, uhhh…I don’t remember,” he groaned, trying desperately not to slip back into oblivion. He ground the heel of his hand into his forehead trying to subdue the chaos that was erupting inside his skull.
            A concerned grimace spread across Sara’s face as she looked to Catherine, who mirrored her alarm, and the doctor.
            Seeing that his patient was becoming agitated, the doctor quickly dismissed the question. “That’s okay,” he said smiling at Grissom “It’s a trick question anyway since I can’t remember what day it is anyway.”
            Sara could see that Grissom was still preoccupied with trying to recall the date. She placed her hand lightly on his upper arm, an action meant to both comfort and distract him. Sara smiled lovingly when Grissom’s battered face looked up at her, his frown easing as he temporarily forgot the confusion that plagued him.
            “Was I in an accident?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her face.
            Sara swallowed hard as she fought back the overwhelming sadness that rose up out of her chest and threatened to choke her. She wanted nothing more than to grab a hold of him and take away the pain and bewilderment that clouded his eyes. Sara settled for gently stoking his unruly head.
            “Sort of,” she answered softly “I think you should rest now…we can talk about it later.”
            Grissom shook his head vehemently. “No, no…no,” he repeated over and over. Grissom began to gasp as if choking, his lungs heaving in short choppy breaths.
            Seeing Grissom’s growing agitation Dr. Mutzengarr quickly but casually took action. “Gil,” he said firmly placing his hand on Grissom’s shoulder “let me take a look at this eye.”
            Grissom’s protests dwindled as he watched the doctor pull his pen light from his breast pocket and shine it into the heavily bruised and swollen left eye. Shining the light from Grissom’s good eye to his bad and back again the doctor hummed as he quickly concluded his exam. It had mostly been a diversionary tactic on the doctor’s part, attempting to sidetrack Grissom’s growing anxiety.
            “Alright,” he began snapping the light off and replacing it back in his coat pocket “I’ll be back to check on you and depending on how that eye looks in the next couple of days I may have the resident eye doc come and see you- pun intended.”
            Patting Grissom on the shoulder Dr. Mutzengarr made to leave making quick eye contact with both Sara and Catherine as he followed the nurse from the room. Catherine trailed after the doctor wordlessly, trying to simply slip out of the room. The doctor obviously had something he wanted to relate to her and Sara but not in Gil’s company. For some reason that knowledge and Grissom’s reactions set Catherine on edge.
            Sara watched as Catherine followed the doctor from the room. She had caught the doctor’s silent and subtle communication. Leaning down she gave Grissom a quick kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” she said softly as she quickly left his side, not wanting to answer any questions he might have until after she spoke with the doctor.
            Sara found Catherine and the doctor speaking down the hall, near the nurse’s station and a safe distance from Grissom’s room door.
            “It could be a number of reason’s” Sara heard the doctor say.
            “What could?” Sara asked as she came to stand next to Catherine. She folded her arms across her chest, almost hugging herself. She was nervous, slightly worried and desperate for some answers.
            “Ms. Willows was asking about his apparent amnesia,” Dr. Mutzengarr explained “It could be physical. He did sustain some trauma to the skull. As you know his tox panel came back loaded with various drugs, some of them have amnesic properties.” The doctor paused for a moment before dropping the final possibility, “It could also be… psychological. Obviously something terrible happened to him and his mind may just be trying to protect itself by forgetting.”
            Catherine blew out a long breath as she glanced back at the room they had come from. They were in a quandary. In order to catch the guilty parties they would, in all likelihood, need Grissom’s help and that required him remembering what happened the three weeks he was missing. However, knowing that Gil Grissom’s psyche maybe throwing up protective barriers told Catherine that what they may find if those barriers came down could be far worse than any of them would want to bear.
            “I have a friend, a colleague that I would like to consult on Gil’s case. His name is Gerald Thoren,” Dr. Mutzengarr leaned over the high counter of the nurse’s station and grabbed a pen and scrap piece of paper. Scribbling the man in questions name down, he continued, “We served together in Vietnam. Gerry has a medical degree and one in psychology- overachiever,” the doctor joked “He worked for the FBI after leaving the military, studied PTSD in soldiers, POWs, the like. He can probably tell you everything you want to know and a lot you don’t want to know about the psychological effects and techniques of torture.”
            Sara’s intake of breath caught both Catherine and the doctor’s attention. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said “but I’m afraid that may be what we are dealing with here.”
            Catherine took the piece of paper the doctor held out. “Thank you doctor,” she said with conviction before following Sara back into Grissom’s room.
            The two women found Grissom wrestling with his IVs and his bed.
            “Griss!” Sara called out rushing to stop him from pulling the IVs from his arm. “Stop, please,” she said dismayed that he tried to push her hands away to continue at his attempts to extricate himself from the clear plastic tubes.
            “I want these OFF,” he stated firmly.
            Catherine had joined in the fray as she tried to get the head of the bed up. Her goal was to make the man more comfortable and the IVs less noticeable. “Here, Gil let’s get you up since you don’t plan on sleeping.”
            Grissom stopped fighting with Sara and the IVs. Lying back, he allowed Catherine to raise the bed and him with it. “Good?” Catherine asked.
            “Better.” Grissom answered willing to cede the battle to the women for the moment. “Tell me what happened. I feel like I was drug behind a car or something. Was I in a car accident?” His face lit up at his query thinking he may have stumbled onto the mystery of why he was in the hospital.
            “Griss…you…weren’t in a car accident, you…” Sara looked to Catherine not sure how to approach the subject.
            Catherine rarely bothered with subtle. Sure she could be charming if she wanted to be but most of the time subtlety was lost in her line of work and she had found it to be a bit bothersome. So straight to the point was generally the course Catherine followed. “Gil you’ve been missing for over three weeks.”
            Grissom’s mouth slackened, opening slightly as he blinked in utter confusion. “Wha? Wait, missing?” Grissom ran his hands through his hair trying to jumpstart his brain. “Missing how?”
            Sara and Catherine exchanged looks of mild incredulity. It seemed unbelievable that Grissom would not remember anything when the past twenty-seven days were etched into their minds like a fiery brand. Sara reached for his hand needing to touch him, to reassure herself that he was really there.
            “You were taken,” Sara softly replied, her voice cracking slightly.
            Grissom frowned, his mind kneading her words over and over, trying to make sense of them. It was as if Sara had started speaking in tongues, she didn’t make sense. Surely he would know if he had been abducted? I’d remember, he thought adamantly as he shook his head, denying Sara’s words.
            “I, I …don’t remember,” Grissom stammered in confusion his eyes seeking Sara’s. Sara almost broke down into tears as she saw the fear and uncertainty splash across his battered features. He looked like a child that had been separated from their parent, seeking answers and protection.
            “It’s okay,” Sara whispered stroking the curls at his temple “It’ll come back to you.”
            Even Catherine was compelled to physically comfort him, patting his shin through the off-white blanket covering his legs. “You’ve been through a lot. Give it time and I’m sure it will all come back to you,” Catherine said out loud; inwardly she wasn’t so sure she wanted him to remember. The possibilities were frightening and she wasn’t sure she wanted to have him confront them.
            Grissom sighed and began to relax back into the pillows behind him. Slowly Grissom succumbed to the fatigue that still laid heavily on his mind and body. The mild dose of sedative trickling away from his IV didn’t hurt either and with a few abortive attempts at trying to stay awake he finally yielded to the blackness.
            “I’m going to stay a little bit longer with him,” Sara informed Catherine, using her free hand to pull the chair near her closer to Grissom’s bed.
            Catherine nodded; she thought it was best that someone from the team be with him as much as possible. If he did remember something it might useful in their ongoing investigation. “Okay, I’ll have Greg come by later, then you go home and get some rest alright!”
            Sara didn’t have the energy to fight Catherine and knew that the other woman was right. Sleeping in the hospital chair wasn’t helping anyone but she felt such and overwhelming need to be near him that it was hard to be rationale. She could have lost him, almost did and that knowledge terrified Sara like nothing she had ever encounter in her life.
            “I promise… when Greg gets here I’ll run straight home and get some sleep,” Sara smiled at Catherine before turning her attention back to the man sleeping in the bed. Her fingers gently messaged the back of his hand, circumventing the tubes protruding from his flesh.
            Catherine placed a reassuring hand on Sara’s shoulder before leaving. With the soft click of the door closing behind Catherine, Sara whispered words of love and comfort as she continued to pet his hairline gently. Soon her exhaustion became too much. Lying her head down near his arm she slept dreamlessly, her subconscious too tired to do its part.

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            Scott Abrams had been itching to get out of the desert for days before Grissom had escaped. Part of him was actually glad the bastard had gotten away. It gave him a chance to help Donny cull some of the dead weight around Markus and he got a free ticket to Vegas. His only regret was that he hadn’t found Grissom and placed a bullet in his smartass head.
            Abrams had come to hate Grissom almost as much as he hated the world and definitely as much as he hated his older brother Lewis. Lewis the perfect son, SO smart, SO good.  Just thinking about the older man caused a fresh sense of rage wash over him. His parents never accepted him. They always shipped him off to therapist with barely concealed fear and disappointment in their eyes while they beamed at everything his older brother had done.
            When he was eleven Lewis went off to college and Scott had thought he’d finally have his chance. It wasn’t his fault that other kids pissed him off and he got into fights and if the principal hadn’t been such a dick, well…the dickhead’s lucky I just killed his dog!
            Abrams pulled a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. Out of habit he smacked the pack against the back of one hand before pulling a cigarette loose and replacing the pack back in his jeans pocket. He had completed half of his errand easily but the second half was proving more difficult than he had originally thought.        
            He had taken care of Mickey’s stuck up bitch of a sister, so Jeannie’s apartment had immediately been scratched from his list of possible places Mickey would go. Scott had checked Mickey’s other favorite haunts, the comic book shop, the laser tag arena and Striporama all had come up bust. That left him with one last place to look, Mickey’s grandma’s house.
            He had followed Jeannie there from her apartment. She didn’t know he was following her otherwise she would have never gone home to grandma. He had tried to be nice to her, hell, he was nicer to her than anyone else he knew but she just thought she was too good for him. Always looking at me like I smelled bad or something, Scott’s indignant thoughts raged.
            When Markus had sent him to take care of Jeannie, he knew that it was the older man’s way of rewarding him. Jeannie had been surprised to see him, especially since Mickey had not been in tow. She had known almost from the beginning that she was in danger, even though he had tried to make her relax. Jeannie had stumbled her way through an elaborate lie about having a job interview in Carson City to get ready for.
            Her biggest mistake was having turned her back on him. Her intention was to show him to the door, to get him out and away from her. Jeannie didn’t have a job interview, Jeannie was preparing to run hard and fast from Markus Bathory and all his crew. She had given up trying to save Mickey and had gone straight to self preservation mode when Scott had entered her apartment.
            When Jeannie had unwittingly offered up her back he had taken it, relishing her struggles and attempts to scream. She had bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth, only to be rewarded with a heavy fist cracking the side of her skull. When she struggled her way back to consciousness she knew, just knew, that she would never leave her little apartment again or untwist the mess that had come to be known as her life.
            Scott Abrams had not let her die with dignity. It had not been quick or painless. It had been ignominy and wretchedness    wrapped in a scalding dose of hell. Never in her short life would she have believed how welcoming the sound of her slowing heartbeat would be as her life pumped steadily from her body. Death wasn’t welcomed but embraced.
            Since he was in Vegas, Scott decided to mix a little fun while looking and waiting for Mickey to pop his head. He’d partake of a few of his favorite vices and maybe bust in on a few friends. Markus and Donny could be entertaining as far as Scott was concerned but they could also be a drag.
            Donny was rarely anything but pissed off, unless it had to do with sucking up to Markus. Guy lived for Markus and his brother, Scott thought as he carefully checked the street. And Markus, well, Scott had to admit that he was kind of in awe of the man himself but at times found him a little too intense. He was a genuine freak but then…freaky is what I like best! Scott chuckled to himself as he casually dashed across the parking lot to the little hole in the wall bar.
            Pulling on the garish red door, Abrams entered. The place never changed. It still smelled of cigarettes, stale beer and mold, like the floors never got dry or something. The bad lighting hid the fact that the glasses were dirty and that activities were being explored in booths that should have been reserved for motel rooms. It was a seedy little dive that could make Vegas blush and Abrams loved it.
            Abrams immediately sought out the end of the bar and waited to get one of the bartenders’ attentions. With the hooking of two fingers, Abrams got the attention he wanted. Flipping the stained bar towel over one shoulder, the bartender walked over to where Abrams sat. His shoes made a sticky sound on the rubber mats that covered the floor as he walked.
            “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” the bartender stated in a monotone voice indicating he couldn’t care less one way or another.
            The bartender was one of those men that looked older than he was. Bad choices, bad life or just plain bad karma had worked to age the man beyond his forty years. His graying black hair was constantly hidden under a sweat stained ball cap and his over grown goatee hid the fact that his puffy cheeks had turned into jowls, the product of too much boozing. His name was Barrett something or something Barrett but everyone called him Barry the Bartender, like he was some television mobster.
            “You seen Derek around lately?” Abrams asked as he toyed with the cigarette in his hand, flipping it end over end “Or Karns?”
            Barry the Bartender seemed more interested in what was going on in the dark, corner booth than the conversation. “Roddy hasn’t been in here in forever and Derek was here last Saturday, I think. He made me a hell of a deal on some crank, made a few bucks, you know…why?”
            Abrams tapped his cigarette on the bar, “No real reason…just bored.”
            Abrams wasn’t about to reveal his motives to the bartender. The truth of the matter was that Markus thought Roddy Karns would be useful in his evolving plan but had not informed Abrams as to why. It was for the best as for as Abrams was concerned. If he knew enough, he was useful. If he knew too much, he was a liability. Useful was always better than liability, in his circles.
            Sensing the conversation was over Barry pushed himself away from the bar before wadding up the bar towel and throwing it at the corner booth patrons. “GO GET A ROOM YOU SKANKS!”
            Abrams glanced into the shadows, barely making out the man and woman grinding away at each other.
            “I’m not cleaning that up,” Barry adamantly said before heading to the other end of the bar.
            Watching the couple in the booth go at it put Abrams in the mood for a little fun time of his own. He had acquainted himself with a number of energetic hookers who didn’t mid getting banged around in the process as long as he paid them a little extra. He was flush with cash, one of the benefits of working with Markus. “A little sin in Sin City,” Abrams muttered to himself.
            Lighting the cigarette he had been playing with, Abrams made his way out of the bar and into the street. It was Sunday; he had a pretty good idea where he could find Derek and Roddy Karns tomorrow night. Until then… Abrams grinned salaciously, his tongue sneaking out to lick his lips as he thought of his upcoming activities.

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            Sofia spotted Brass as he entered the main reception area. He had that determined look on his face that was accentuated with that glint Sofia equated to a serious hunter. Brass had paged her fifteen minutes ago and was obviously getting ready to go out in the night in search of some felony prey.
            “Jim,” she called out, quickening her pace to catch up with him and patrolmen that were assigned to his hunting party. “What’s up?”
            “Running down some leads I got from that mental defect, Mickey Etts,” Brass informed her as he led her and the patrolmen from the building.
            Sofia smiled. Jim Brass was a serious hardass at times but she did enjoy his sarcastic wit and appreciated his dedication to job and loyalty to his friends. She had no doubt that the man was burning a box of candles at both ends just to find Grissom’s abductors. I wonder how committed Bathory and his people would have been if they had known the kind of shit storm they were going to bring down upon themselves?
Sofia slipped her jacket on as she followed Brass out to his car. “I wanted to let you know that Lopez would be arraigned at the tomorrow. Ballistics came up bust on the weapon we found at the apartment but we’ll still pin him with illegal possession.”
            Brass nodded. In all likelihood Derek Lopez would serve six months, maximum, and be out on the street before anyone would notice. Prison overcrowding, had to loathe it!
            “Anyway, I did a little prodding here and there and got a, ‘You didn’t here it from me’, from Phillip DiSilva in Narcotics but apparently the DEA thinks Lopez may be hooked into the low end of Cezar Elescu’s organization,” Sofia gave a small nod at the interested look Brass shot her from the driver’s seat. “Yea,” she answered his unvoiced surprise “me too.”
            “Elescu. That’s no guppy in a fishbowl,” Brass stated, maneuvering his car through the never ending busy streets of Vegas.
            “More like a big shark in a small ocean,” Sofia agreed.
            If Cezar Elescu was involved in his ever growing web of suspects, exactly where did he fit in? Although Elescu looked clean on paper, he smelled dirty. From his pricey digs in Seven Hills to his hand tailored Armani suits, the man reeked of dirtbag. Unfortunately no one had ever been able to get anything to stick. Cezar Elescu was a turd wrapped in satin and lace but he was one hell of a smart turd.
            He had immigrated to the United States at the age of sixteen with a hand full of female relatives and by the time he was twenty-five he could afford a European sports car for everyday of the week. By thirty his fingerprints were buried so deep in dummy corporations and off shore banks that the Hubbell telescope couldn’t find them. And he is smart, Brass admitted reluctantly.
            Brass had come across the ex-Romanian only once in his time in Vegas. An airport security guard had been found murdered at McCarron Airport. The evidence pointed to a mechanic in Elescu’s employ but strangely the man disappeared, like a fart in the wind. His instincts told him the bright, sophisticated Elescu was involved but with no body, murder weapon or crime scene, Brass was forced to let it go.
            “Our little cast of characters gets more interesting everyday,” Brass muttered more annoyed than amazed.
            “Indeed,” was Sofia’s only response.