Title : WHEN THE DEAD AWAKEN
Chapter Eight
Dead ends.
Catherine supposed she should be used to them, but running headlong into one
still knocked her off her feet, still felt painful to fall in. So many dead
ends. In life, in work.
In love.
Warrick pulled the Tahoe over into the Crime Lab parking lot, looking as
disheartened as herself.
“No link between Frank Jones and Victoria either,” she said, shaking her head.
“He could be lying,” Warrick replied, turning the engine off.
“He could be,” she acknowledged. “But he isn't. Brass isn't gonna find anything.
I can feel it. Another dead end.”
“Dead ends is how we end up in the right lane eventually.”
“Don't go Grissom on me,” she said irritably, then shot him a glance. “Sorry.
Case is...”
“I know.”
With another person, those words could be trite, but not with Warrick. He did
know. He knew her, understood her in ways Grissom could not, for all the time
she had known him.
And then there was something other, something she dared not think about yet. Too
many dead ends and her heart had learned to guard itself.
She just wasn't sure it could this time. Warrick was too close, too
understanding. But perhaps... Perhaps this time she would not need it to.
****
Sara sat in the silence and the dark and listened to her breath. As long as she
kept breathing, she was still alive, was she not? Breath was life. Breath was
another heartbeat. Breath was life.
Was it not?
“Sara?”
Catherine's voice was hesitant, her shadow falling into the room and merging
with the darkess.
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Grissom?”
“Him too.”
“Ah.” Catherine slipped further into the room and sat down beside her. For a
while they just sat in the darkness, life and sounds buzzing on in the distance.
“I don't know how to look forward anymore,” Sara suddenly found herself saying,
her voice sounding tired and pale even to her. “I've been standing still so long
I don't know where I am anymore.”
“And I rush forwards so fast I lose myself in dead ends and forget some roads go
the right way,” Catherine said softly, as much to herself as Sara.
“I guess we both make a mess of things.”
“Nah. Grissom's mating rituals stretch over decades. An inch to you is a mile to
him.”
“I don't know if an inch is long enough for me. How do you do it? Griss shares
with you,” Sara muttered, feeling frustration burn through her mind.
“I don't hold his heart,” Catherine replied evenly. “If he lets you in, he
cannot let you go. The games Grissom and I play... You know.”
Sara nodded. She did know. But she wondered why Catherine had chosen to tell her
now, of all times. “Why are you telling me this?”
“The same reason you are.”
“You were here and you listened.”
“Exactly,” Catherine replied and got up. “We had something back from trace. You
coming?”
“In a minute.”
Turning in the door, Catherine gave her a smile. “If all else fails, get him
drunk and tie him to your bed.”
Sara found herself chuckling, even if it felt slightly bitter. “And that works?”
“Trust me.”
With that, the older woman was gone and, leaving Sara with the shadows dancing
in the darkess. And beyond waited the dead, sleeping but awake. And always, she
searched for the lullaby to bring them to peace.
Sighing, she got up. It was time to do something. Solve this murder and put one
more dead to rest. And perhaps then it was time to move on. Another lab,
perhaps. Or perhaps not. But she couldn't continue like this. She wasn't living.
But for a while yesterday, she had almost felt alive, kissing his breath away.
When she entered the trace lab, she found the others all there, Nick looking
very energised. He practically beamed at her as she entered.
“Now can you tell us, man?” Warrick asked. “We're all here.”
“I think maybe I have a lead,” Nick replied. “On a hunch, I checked out the
neighbours. Frank Jones has no connection to our victim. But his neighbour does.
Jack Phelps teaches an arts class Tara attended. And so did Victoria.”
“She got the wrong house,” Catherine said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Who else attended this class?” Grissom asked. Sara dared a look at him, but she
could read nothing from his expression. That was part of the problem, she
reflected.
“Brass is getting a class list,” Nick replied. “I thought I could talk to Mr.
Phelps, see what he has to say.”
“Good,” Grissom said absentmindedly. “Bring Greg.”
“There's another thing,” Nick went on. “The class was apparently held in a
building just a few blocks from where we found Victoria.”
“I'll go back to the crime scene, see if we've missed something,” Warrick
replied.
“I'll come,” Sara said quickly. Grissom sent her a look, but she ignored it.
“Cool,” Warrick said. “Let's go.”
She could feel Grissom's eyes on her back as she walked out, but she refused to
look back. It was time to move forward. Wherever that might be.
But the cold grip on her spine didn't go away.
*****
Grissom came home to find his house bathed in moonlight, silent and calm. As he
liked it. But tonight he found himself wishing there was one more there. Perhaps
he should have waited for Sara to return. Perhaps he should have insisted she
come home to him and bathe in the moonlight with him.
But here he was, alone.
It was finally Catherine who had chased him home, saying he could do nothing
more. She was firm and determined and he let her win. He was tired. Perhaps at
home he could think, analyse, find a solution to what he should do about Sara.
But the man in the moon hummed lullabies and soon he found himself asleep. And
he dreamt; fleeting, confused dreams that seemed to be of importance, but he
could not grip onto them. They slipped away like water between his fingers.
Nightmares.
The only clear image was of a phone, ringing insistently, until he realised it
was not of the dream and reached to answer.
“Griss?” Catherine's voice was tired, but hard and tinged with worry. He felt a
cold grip on his spine, dreading what was to come. He knew it would not be good,
could feel it in his heart and her voice.
“Catherine.”
“Warrick and Sara didn't return from the crime scene.”
And suddenly the nightmares of dream seemed preferable to those of life.
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