Title: Ghost
Author: Cheers
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created by Anthony E. Zuiker for the television series CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Allie for beta-reading. The flow and overall look of the story is due, in large part, to her input. As always, she is a class act.
Summary: When a member of CSI goes missing, the rest of the team swings into action.

***

Friday Night, 9:12 PM

"What do ya mean Anaheim," Nick Stokes told Warrick Brown. "What about Bonds, man?" The two CSIs were sitting in a booth near the wide screen, actually an entire wall of smaller screens that formed a twenty foot high sports viewing experience currently carrying live coverage of game six of the World Series between the Anaheim Angels and the San Francisco Giants. The two younger men were conducting a friendly argument about the eventual winner of the currently contested series to the amusement of the other three men at the table: Gil Grissom, the two CSIs' supervisor, Jim Brass, a homicide detective who used to be their supervisor, and Doc Robbins, the Clark County Chief Medical Examiner.

"Bonds or no Bonds," Warrick told Nick. "Smart money is on Anaheim."

Interrupting the discussion, a waitress arrived at the table with five beers. "That'll be ten dollars, fellas," she said as she placed the bottles, each with an empty glass upturned on top, in the center of the table.

Grissom's brow furrowed as he did a bit of mental math. "Miss?" he said to the waitress. "I think you're shorting yourself." Everyone at the table looked at him. "Five beers, two fifty a piece, that should be twelve fifty."

"That's right," Nick agreed, nodding.

The waitress was smiling. Somehow she knew it would be this guy who figured out the charge was light. She liked the fact that he worried about her shorting the charge for the order. It made him that much more attractive. Not just cute but a real gentleman to boot. Bonus.

"The charge is for four beers, handsome," she said, setting the last beer down in front of him and leaning on one hand to get very close to Grissom's face, which provided him a very nice view of her ample frontal wares. Her voice was just a bit deeper than it had been and she looked directly into his blue eyes. "This one is on me."

She held his eyes until she was rewarded with Grissom's half-embarrassed and lopsided smile. She slowly rose and turned away, making sure to give him a good look at her other wares as she went. He watched her go with more than a little interest.

"Blam!" Nick said.

"You got that right," Warrick added.

"Must be the aftershave," Jim Brass muttered, surprised at his friend's good fortune and half-jealous as well.

Grissom hadn't yet turned his attention back to the company at the table. "I never wear it," he informed Brass. "It interferes with the job."

"Why does that not surprise me," Brass retorted, reaching for his beer.

"As good as," Doc Robbins said, reaching for one of the beers himself. This did bring Grissom's attention back to the table and the coroner in specific. Grissom raised his eyebrows.

"Oh?" Brass said to the good doctor.

Robbins worked at his beer and began to pour the golden liquid into his glass. He paused only when he realized everyone at the table was waiting for him to elaborate.

"Pheromones," he said, setting down the bottle. "Nature's aftershave." The doctor knew Grissom well enough to recognize that the slight grin on his face did little to cover the mild blanch of the blush in his neck. It had obviously never occurred to the forensic that he was an active participant in the human mating ritual just witnessed. Robbins was sure Grissom would deny it if the fact were pressed. That made this whole thing just that much more fun.

Warrick sat back and nodded with burgeoning understanding. "Pheromones," he repeated.

"Fariwhat?" Brass said, obviously bringing up the rear with the whole science gig. He usually enjoyed hanging with the guys, but when the other guys at the table were all on the nerd squad, he felt decidedly backward.

Doc Robbins was about to explain but was surprised when Grissom beat him to the punch.

"Pheromones are chemicals emitted by living organisms to send messages to individuals of the same species. The class most widely explored are the sex pheromones produced by female moths which are used to attract conspecific males for mating," Grissom told the detective. "Bombykol, the sex pheromone of the silkmoth, was first synthesized in 1959. Since then pheromones have been isolated for hundreds of species including, interestingly, humans."

"Spoken like a true entomologist," Robbins said before taking a deep drink of his beer.

"You know what they say," Nick said, smiling and pouring his own brew.

"What's that?" Brass asked, sure he would regret it.

Nick's smile broadened. "You can take the boy out of the lab but ..."

"... you can't take the nerd out of the boy," Brass finished catching the smile and nodding.

"Or the boy's pheromones," Warrick added. He was graced with a brief but scalding look from Grissom for his trouble.

Grissom looked back toward the bar and noticed that their waitress was looking at him and talking with the female bartender. They were probably enjoying his surprise at her forwardness. He held his beer up and nodded in thanks. His gesture was rewarded with a sensual smile. He smiled back. Why not? he thought. Life is short, and he really was enjoying the beer and the attention even if it meant living with the good natured ribbing from his co-workers. Some things were just worth the hassle factor.

***

Sunday Night, 10:17 PM

Sara Sidle unlocked Gil Grissom's office door and pushed the door open. Flipping on the light, she entered. "Grissom?"

The room was empty. There were files occupying both in and out boxes, a few forms on the desk blotter, and an empty coffee cup with the dregs now dry in the bottom. Grissom had not been here in a few days. That in and of itself was odd. Even on his days off, Grissom could be counted on to at least check into his office to feed his menagerie and make sure nothing big was happening without him. Not much got by him anyway.

Turning on her heel, Sara headed out of the office and back to the break room. Catherine Willows entered right behind her.

Warrick looked up at the two entering CSIs and closed his cellphone. He and Nick had been trying to raise Grissom on the phone. "He's not answering yet. We've tried his cell AND his home phone at least five times. He's not there."

"Well," Catherine informed the group now in the room. "He's not in the morgue and he hasn't checked in there since Friday."

"Has Doc Robbins seen him?" Warrick asked.

"Not since your boys' night out," she told him. "Which, by the way, you were going to tell us about when?" Catherine gave Sara an informing glance at this last.

Warrick looked at Nick with a 'we're busted' expression and shrugged. "It's a guy thing," was all he said.

Nick held up the case slips from the reception desk, hoping to hopscotch over the guys'-night-out issue and get back to the boss. "We have three calls pending and Krista says she has over a dozen messages waiting for Gris. No one's seen him in a few days."

"His office is the same," Sara said. "No signs of life in there for a couple of days either."

"Yeah," Nick continued, "and he hasn't called in to get his messages. He hasn't answered his pager either. Krista said they actually had to page Eckley on Saturday because an issue with the Caldwell case couldn't wait."

"And Eckley didn't bother to tell any of us?" Warrick asked, his contempt for the day shift supervisor barely contained.

Sara was really worried now. "That doesn't sound right. It's not like Grissom to give a case the brush-off."

Catherine didn't like the sound of that either. "No, it isn't."

They all paused for a moment. The silence was a bit tense in its implication. Where the hell was Gil Grissom and why didn't any of them know?

Warrick was the first person to speak into the tentative silence. "You don't think..."

They all looked at him.

"What?" Catherine asked.

Warrick stared into the room without really looking at any of them. "Well, Gris once told me that he was a ghost in high school."

"Yeah, I remember that," Nick said. "So?"

Warrick gave a half shrug. "Remember the shift he assigned me as acting supervisor?"

Sara and Nick nodded meaningfully.

"When he got back he told me he did that to see if I could step in when he left CSI. He said that when he left there wouldn't be any cake in the break room. He'd just be gone, like a ghost."

Warrick fell silent again and could tell the wheels were whirring in the heads of the present company. He looked at Catherine and prayed that the expression on his face was open enough that she would know he wasn't try to step on her toes. Catherine was next in line for the job of night shift supervisor and everyone knew that. What Grissom was thinking when he had Warrick sub was anyone's guess. Warrick just wanted to be as accurate as possible. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the most appropriate way to relay information. Grissom was enough of an enigma as it was.

Sara had folded her arms and was scowling. "That's crap," she said. "Like he can just walk off and no one would notice or care?"

Nick felt the same way. "Grissom actually said that?"

Warrick nodded.

"That is so bogus." This last came from Greg Sanders who was standing at the door. He had quietly opened the door and listened to the conversation for several minutes undetected. Now everyone was looking at Greg. He sheepishly took another step into the room and let the door close behind him. Technically, he wasn't a CSI but he had been a part of the night shift team for long enough to want to be included. Grissom hadn't checked in the lab for two days now. That, in and of itself, was weird. The conversation in the break room only made that fact weirder.

Catherine opened her mouth to say something to the lab technician and instantly thought better of it. Greg Sanders had as much right to be there as any of the CSIs on the shift. She was the one who had told Gil that as the supervisor people would build a family around him whether he liked it or not. Who was she to say who got to be a member of the family?

"All right," Catherine said. "Let's do this the logical way."

"How's that?" Warrick replied.

"First things first," Catherine told them all. "Nick, what cases do we have tonight?"

Nick looked at the assignment slips. "There's a 411A, recovered vehicle on Blue Diamond Road, a 407, attempted robbery at the Citgo on Trop by the San Remo, and a 403, possible prowler, at the Avendale Apartments on Decatur."

Catherine nodded and thought for a moment. There wasn't anything there that would require them to double up. That was good. "Okay," she said, making some quick decisions. "Nick, you take the 411."

"Got it," Nick said.

"Warrick," Catherine continued, "take the 403."

"I'm on it."

Turning to Sara, Catherine said, "Sara, take the 407."

Sara took the assignment slip from Nick and looked at it. "I'm there. But..." Sara looked up at Catherine.

"I'm going over to Grissom's house. I'll call Brass and have him meet me there. If there's anything, I'll let you know." Catherine had said this to the whole company. She was as concerned as they were. Maybe more. Grissom just didn't disappear. He didn't just not come to work. He didn't just not check in. Not the Gil Grissom that she knew. Something wasn't right and Catherine sure as hell wanted to know what.

No one had moved. They all wanted to go with her and she knew it. "Look," she told them. "Until we know anything we do our jobs. The sooner everyone clears their plates the sooner we have the extra hands if we need them."

This made sense to everyone and they all began to move. Grissom would have done exactly the same. They would do their jobs until finding Grissom became their job. Until then, the city of Las Vegas demanded some attention.

***

Sunday Night, 10:28 PM

Catherine rounded the corner in the main lobby of the Criminalistics building and found what she was looking for. All public buildings were required to have them. It had taken her several minutes to find instructions and then another few minutes looking through Gil's rolodex to find what she needed, and now she found the tool to put her gathered information to use.

The TDD station was a half-height booth nestled behind the main reception area of the lobby in their building. It consisted of a TTY machine on a small ledge in the booth.

Sitting down in front of the machine, Catherine placed the handset of the TTY in the acoustic coupler and turned on the power. She dialed in the phone number she had gotten from Gil's rolodex and waited. It took several seconds but her patience was rewarded as her screen lit up with the message she hoped she would receive.

Hello. This is Mrs. Grissom. GA

Catherine quickly began to type.

Hello, Mrs. Grissom. My name is Catherine Willows and I work with Gil in Las Vegas Criminalistics. GA

The TTY responded after a few seconds delay.

You have learned how to use a TTY. How lovely. I am pleased to hear from you but concerned. Is everything all right? GA

Catherine thought for a moment. Of course, she didn't want to upset Gil's mother, but if there was a chance Mrs. Grissom knew where Gil was the mystery of his disappearance could be cleared up quickly. This seemed the fastest way. If Mrs. Grissom were anything like Gil, and Catherine suspected that she must be (he had to get his nature from somewhere, after all) then she figured the direct route would be best.

Mrs. Grissom, when was the last time you heard from Gil? GA

She waited through another brief pause before:

Last Friday at 6:57 in the evening. My TTY saves time stamps so I can remember who called when. GA

Despite the purpose of her call, Catherine found herself smiling. Mrs. Grissom was as precise and informative as Gil would have been. She wasn't as surprised as she thought she'd be.

Did he say he was going anywhere this weekend? Do you know if he went out of town? GA Catherine asked.

There was a longer pause this time. Now, Catherine suspected, Mrs. Grissom was becoming worried. Catherine wondered just what she should tell Gil's mother. What would she want to hear if Lindsey were missing? She shook her head. This wasn't the same. Gil was a grown man with a very independent life and all their concerns, growing by the minute as they were, might just be a bit premature.

Ms. Willows, is something wrong? GA

"Damn," Catherine said out loud. The sound of her own voice startled her. She had been concentrating on the messaging and had forgotten they weren't speaking. She turned her attention back to the keyboard.

Mrs. Grissom, to be perfectly honest, I do not know. Gil did not come to work this evening and that is not like him. I thought that he might have had a meeting out of town that he forgot to tell anyone about or that he had gone to visit with you. Before getting too concerned I thought the logical thing to do would be to ask you. I hope I have not upset you. Do you know if he went out of town? GA

This time the wait was excruciating. It was probably only a few seconds but Catherine hated upsetting Mrs. Grissom and she knew that if Gil were all right he'd probably have a few choice words for her about it. But, dammit, what else was she supposed to do?

To answer your question, no, I do not know of any meeting or conference that Gil was supposed to go to. He is very good about telling me about his seminars and conferences. He usually sends me a postcard when he travels. I have received them from all over the world. I am sure that if Gil had to travel somewhere, he would have told me. GA

Catherine took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This call had been a long shot but a necessary step in what was rapidly becoming an official missing person's investigation.

Do you have access to the internet? GA

This question was answered more rapidly.

Yes, I do. GA

If you hear from Gil, will you contact me? My email address is GA

I will do it, Ms. Willows. Please tell me, are you afraid for Gil? Do you think something is wrong? GA

It was Catherine's turn to take a moment to respond. She decided that being as honest as possible was the best thing to do. Mrs. Grissom impressed her as being a no-nonsense sort of person. She was Gil's mother and she deserved to know the truth - as much of the truth as any of them knew at any rate.

Mrs. Grissom, I honestly do not know. I am concerned since it is unusual for Gil to be out of contact for so long. He is very conscientious. I promise you that we will do everything we can do to find out what the problem might be. It may be a simple miscommunication. I will contact you the moment I hear anything on this end. Is there a specific way you wish me to notify you? Email? GA

The wait for a reply was not long.

You can contact me here or online at Please do not forget. GA

You have my word, Mrs. Grissom. GA

Gil speaks very highly of you. I know I can trust you to do what you say. Thank you for letting me know. GA

Catherine sat back from the machine for a moment. She felt a little thunderstruck. It never occurred to her that Gil might have talked with his mother about her. The moment she thought that she realized how silly that must be. Of course Gil spoke to his mother about his work at CSI and about the people he worked with. His job, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be his life. Still, it gave Catherine pause to know that Gil said nice things about her to his mother. Lord knew he had reason enough, from time to time, to offer a not-so-glowing report of Catherine. She sat up and typed again.

You are welcome. I will contact you very soon. Good-bye. GA

Bye. GAtoSK

The phone light went out on the TTY and Catherine knew that Mrs. Grissom had hung up. Catherine turned the power off on the TTY and replaced the handset before rising.

She hadn't helped find out where Gil was at all, and she probably was causing some real undue concern for Mrs. Grissom. Way to go, Willows, she chided herself as she headed back to Gil's office and the phone on his desk.

***

Sunday Night, 10:58 PM

He looked up. If he sat in just the right spot he could catch the barest glimpse of the night sky. One thing about the high desert, the view of the heavens was spectacular. The lights of downtown Las Vegas obscured this kind of view. How many times had he taken a moment when he was out of the city at night to just look up and wonder? That had been one of the perks of the job. He didn't always have to be in the office. Field work, real field work, afforded him the occasional unencumbered view of the night sky.

The sound of a soft rustling brought his attention swiftly away from the few stars he could see and back to his immediate surroundings. The rustling was close and he had to remind himself not to hold his breath. Make no sudden moves, he told himself, easy does it.

The rustling was quite muffled now and he didn't know if this was because his hearing was impaired at present or because the sound was growing more distant. He guessed it was the former.

"Probably another snake," Gil said out loud. His voice echoed softly. He had decided to use his voice to keep himself company. "Probably a common western," he continued. He was far too big for a snake to consider him prey so all he really needed to do was stay calm and not startle the reptile. The snake would find a cozy place to curl up for the night as the temperature continued to drop. The sounds of the snake's passage finally faded to such a degree that after several long moments of concerted effort Gil could no longer hear it.

He looked up again. This night sky was the third he had seen since being thrown down in the shaft. It must be late Sunday night. "I should be at work now," he told the night sky. He took a deep breath and winced at the jab of pain it elicited. The pain brought his head down again and Gil gripped his right side for support. His eighth or ninth rib had to be broken, perhaps both.

The renewed pain brought with it a reminder of another discomfort. Thirst. Gil could not remember when he felt so thirsty. He was hungry too. Don't go there, he chided himself silently.

"Think about the sky," he said softly. They were under the same sky. They were looking for him under the same stars.

Sunday Night, 10:59 PM

This Citgo was store number 243, the second of three Citgo stores on Tropicana Boulevard in the downtown area between Rainbow and Eastern. The afternoon clerk, a young man approximately twenty with questionable hygiene habits, was sitting on the top of two inverted and stacked milk crates and was in a state of nervous agitation, jogging one leg, chewing on the inside of one lip, and rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans. A uniformed police officer was taking his statement.

Sara made a cursory visual sweep of the counter and noted the popped cash register drawer with empty bill slots, an overturned Citgo coffee mug with dark liquid pooling at the opening, and very few other signs of disturbance. She looked up and saw that the security camera that monitored the counter was seated near the ceiling just above the office door. It hung loosely from a bracket and the wiring had been pulled from the back of the camera. The camera's power light was off.

Detective Corrie Pavin greeted Sara as she exited the office with the convenience store manager. "Hi, Sara."

"Hey."

"Sara Sidle, this is Mr. Singh, the manager," Pavin introduced a thirty-something man dressed in crisp new jeans, polo shirt, and v-neck sweater to the CSI.

"Mr. Singh," Sara said to him, "I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Were you here when the robbery took place?"

Mr. Singh shook his head. "No. I arrived about twenty minutes ago, after Rick called to tell me the store was robbed."

"And Rick," Sara said, turning to look at the nervous clerk still sitting on the milk crates, "works here in the evenings?"

"Yeah," the manager nodded. "He works four evenings a week. This is the first time he's been here when the store was held up, though. You know this is the third time this year?"

Ignoring the statistic, Sara looked up at the damaged security camera. "How long has the security camera been in this condition?"

The manager and the detective both looked up at the camera. Mr. Singh shook his head again. "It was in perfect working order this morning when I left."

"Really," Sara said as she looked back at the clerk. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded slightly. This had the distinct feel of an inside job. "Well," she told the manager without looking away from Rick, "I better get busy so we can catch whoever did it this time."

"For real?" Mr. Singh's voice sounded surprised.

Sara turned to look at the manager again, a small but sly smile gracing the corner of her mouth. "For real."

Sunday Night, 11:03 PM

Grissom's house was dark. Catherine and Jim Brass approached his front door hesitantly. Grissom's townhouse was the second to the last third floor unit in a building that housed perhaps twenty renovated condominium homes in an old industrial complex. The hallway outside Grissom's front door was light tan paint over cinderblock. The doorframe of Grissom's unit was painted white and glowed slightly from the reflected florescent light recessed into the hallway ceiling. There was a dull wearing pattern around the doorknob that was usual for everyday handling. Both Catherine and Brass saw the dark smudge approximately five and a half feet from the floor on the inner edge, handle side of the door frame; head high for a man five eleven.

Brass knocked on the door loudly. "Gil Grissom! Grissom, you home?! It's Jim Brass!"

There was no answer.

He tried the knob and to his surprise, it turned easily in his hand. His surprise registered on his face when he looked back at Catherine. Brass gestured with his head for Catherine to stand behind him. When she nodded, he slowly opened the door to Grissom's home. Tentatively, Brass stepped inside.

"Grissom?!" Brass yelled again as he entered. Again there was no answer. Using the handkerchief from his coat pocket, Brass flipped on the entry light. Catherine was not far behind him despite his desire for her to stay safely back.

Brass was about to take another step in when he was stopped by a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Jim, hold up," Catherine told the detective.

Turning, Brass saw that she was looking at the floor to his right. He followed her gaze and glimpsed what she had found. His stomach tightened at the sight of what was obviously, to a detective with over twenty years on the job, several drops of dried blood on the floor.

***

Sunday Night 11:46 PM

A black Tahoe pulled up along the road and stopped, the headlights casting shadows past the far side of the three other vehicles stopped nearby. Warrick killed the engine, stepped out of the Tahoe, and headed for the farthest vehicle, where he could see a Nevada State Trooper bending over to look at something.

The something turned out to be Nick Stokes. Nick was crouched in the rear passenger side doorway spraying luminol over the passenger side rear seat of a '95 white Toyota Corolla with Arizona plates.

"What's up?" Warrick asked as he approached the two men.

The Trooper and Nick looked up as Warrick drew near. "Warrick Brown, CSI," Warrick introduced himself to the NHP officer.

"Cliff Thompson," the Trooper replied, nodding to the newly arrived CSI. "I found this vehicle abandoned here with an out-of-state tag. When I ran the plate, it came back stolen. I looked in the windows and saw the blood so I called for you guys."

Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "Blood, eh."

"Hey, Warrick," Nick greeted his friend. "I thought you had that 403?"

"Yeah, I did. Turns out it was a teenage boyfriend sneaking in a ground floor window. We caught the lovebirds in action."

Nick chuckled as he flipped on the ALS. "I bet you scared 'em for life."

Warrick smirked. "I bet their parents do." He bent down to watch as Nick moved the ALS wand into the back seat "I thought I'd come and babysit you."

"Watch and learn, my man," Nick retorted and turned his attention to the task at hand. The blue light from the ALS bathed the rear interior of the recovered vehicle. A good-sized section at the front edge of the back seat began to luminesce. The floor mat glowed with small spots and the back of the passenger side front seat demonstrated a widely scattered fine spray pattern.

"Whoa," Warrick whispered half under his breath. Trooper Thompson whistled softly.

"Something bad happened here," Nick said while handing his camera to Warrick, who took the cue and started snapping pictures before the luminol effect faded.

When he had finished Warrick said, "I'll call in the tow."

Monday Early Morning 00:11 AM

Sara's cellphone rang. She dropped the last print pickup tape in the envelope labeled "counter face" and reached for her cellphone.

"Sidle."

"Sara," Catherine's voice sounded in Sara's ear. The gravity of Catherine's tone said enough to make Sara's heart jump a beat.

Sara stood still and forced herself to breathe. She had a bad feeling about whatever Catherine had called to convey. Steeling herself for the worst, Sara told Catherine, "Tell me."

"I don't know where he is but we now have an official case. How close are you to finishing there?"

"I'm done," Sara confirmed. "What do you need me to do?"

"Drop what you have back at the lab and then meet me at Grissom's house. We have some processing to do here first."

Sara swallowed hard. "What about Nick and Warrick?"

There was a pause at the other end, and Sara was sure she heard Brass' muffled voice. Catherine said, "Okay," but not into the phone. When she did speak to Sara again she said, "They're on their way back to the lab now. Bring them with you when you come. I'll update everyone as soon as we're together. Coming?"

"Like the wind," Sara said and snapped her phone closed. There was going to be hell to pay if anything serious had happened to Gil Grissom. Sara would make damn sure of that.

Monday Early Morning 00:41 AM

He came awake with a start. The sensation of something crawling on his neck brought him out of a very shallow sleep. He snatched at his neck with his right hand and felt the squirming of something alive with more than a few legs. Without his glasses and without any light it was impossible to identify the offending interloper with any certainty. By the size and feel of the insect in question, he guessed it was some species of tiger beetle.

"I don't know who you are, pal," Gil told his many legged friend, "but I don't need another tenant right now."

Careful not to hurt the insect, Gil let the bug go on the ground and gingerly pushed himself back up into a sitting position, trying unsuccessfully to protect against more pain from his broken ribs. This maneuver was made more complicated by the compound fracture of his left wrist, making that limb almost useless. Once he had managed to sit up again, he cradled his left forearm in his lap and leaned back against the earth wall behind him. The temperature of the air and the deep darkness told him it was sometime around midnight. He had slept for perhaps an hour. This had become a pattern ever since he had awoke to find himself in this place. He was only able to sleep for brief periods of time and he was becoming more fatigued as the time wore on.

He had long since stopped bleeding. If the hunger and thirst would just give it a rest he'd probably be able to sleep despite the pain. Especially the thirst, he thought.

"Don't go there," Gil said out loud. "Think of something else. Think about the case."

He closed his eyes and tried to make his mind obey his voice. Gil had been trying to place the face of his attacker. The guy had said only six sentences to him:

He had unlocked his front door and had barely gotten the door open when:

"Gil Grissom?"

He turned at the sound of his name and was sucker punched for his trouble. The first blow sent him through his front door. His briefcase fell from his grip onto the floor, followed by his keys. The second blow, this one to the back of his neck, sent him to his knees. The blood from his cut lip welled up at the corner of his mouth almost immediately.

Even with slightly hazy awareness, the result of two blows to his head, he recognized the sound of a bullet being loaded in the chamber of a handgun. The slide snapped back, and when he looked up he was staring into the barrel of a loaded Ruger nine millimeter pistol.

"Remember me?"

Gil looked at his attacker and saw his face for the first time. He didn't recognize the man who held the gun.

"No," he said, as he ran his hand across his mouth to wipe away some of the blood and assess the damage. "Who are you?"

The sneer on the man's face faded into a wrathful indignation that gave Grissom his first real taste of fear. The attacker had expected Gil to know him.

"You took my life from me," the gunman informed him through half-clenched teeth. He held the gun in a determined yet relaxed and practiced grip. This wasn't the first time this guy had used a gun in the commission of a crime. Grissom got the distinct impression that pulling the trigger was something it would be all too easy for this guy to do. Something else he noticed – the guy wasn't wearing gloves.

Gil shook his head, ostensibly to signify lack of understanding but more importantly to try and clear the cobwebs that still clouded the edges of his mind. He wanted to place this guy. Remembering would help him understand what the hell was happening and why. He wasn't getting far with it and his attacker was becoming angrier with his silence.

"How?" Gil asked, hoping the man would want to tell him about this perceived injustice. "How was your life taken from you?"

He had miscalculated. Talking wasn't in the game plan for this particular aggressor. A cold rage filled the man's eyes. Grabbing Grissom's jacket collar, the man, who stood over six feet and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Gil stumbled forward and had to grab the doorjamb to keep from going down again. When the attacker approached him again Gil used his leverage from his grip on the doorjamb to force his shoulder into the side of the gunman.

His attacker was apparently expecting such a move, he had braced his feet and didn't lose his balance enough to go down, but he had to reach for the door to keep upright. Grissom spun around quickly, trying to take advantage of the opportunity. The gunman was quicker. The next blow was to Gil's midsection and doubled him in half.

"Try anything else and I'll shoot you right here," he was told icily. Gil didn't doubt that.

Without giving him time to recover much, the gunman pushed him out of the doorway and into the opposite wall. Another shove pushed them both down the hall, heading toward the fire doors at the end of the corridor and the back stairway.

They navigated the staircase and Grissom managed to leave blood on the railing of each flight and both fire doors. Gil had taken several sharp jabs from the gun barrel to his back while doing so. When they exited the building they were standing next to a white Toyota with the rear driver's side door open. Whatever this guy wanted to do to him, it wasn't going to happen here.

"You know you won't get away with this," Grissom said. It may have been a cliché but that didn't make it any less true.

"Shut the fuck up and get in."

A very hard jab of the gun barrel to his ribcage made Gil move to comply. He had only gotten one leg in when his attacker hit him again, this time nearly square in the face. Gil was sent head first into the back seat.

He was turned roughly onto his stomach and his hands were handcuffed behind him. The rear car door slammed shut and Gil pushed his feet hard against the inside door panel. He had a few seconds before the front driver's side door opened. Reaching over the seat, the gunman cuffed Grissom's legs through the rear door's handle grip, effectively preventing him from sitting up.

Blood was flowing from Gil's nose and down the back of his throat, forcing him to cough violently to keep his airway clear. The engine roared to life and Grissom fought to stay conscious as the car began to move. It was a battle he lost.

The sound of a door slamming brought him back to consciousness. Both pairs of cuffs had been removed and he was dragged from the back seat. Gil was having a hard time focusing, he was dizzy and sick to his stomach. At the very least, he had suffered a slight concussion. Time to figure out what the hell was happening was rapidly running out.

"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" Gil said hoarsely.

"I did the time, I might as well do the crime."

That was the last thing he heard before being shoved bodily down the shaft to his new home.

"I did the time, I might as well do the crime," Gil told the darkness.

That was it. Gil had processed the evidence in some case that sent this guy to prison. Beyond that, his attacker believed himself to be innocent.

He shivered in the cold night air. God, he was thirsty ….

***

Monday Morning 01:30 AM

The door to Grissom's house stood open. Warrick, Sara, and Nick entered, each carrying their field kits. They found two uniforms, Jim Brass, and Catherine standing in a tight group in the center of the living room. All three arriving CSIs saw the blood on the floor carefully segregated by a demarcating yellow evidence flag. The smudge on the doorframe did not escape them either.

"Damn," Nick said softly.

Catherine saw them enter. "Hey," she said rather heavily.

Warrick had stopped in the doorway and was staring at a familiar green and brown leather briefcase lying on the floor three feet away from the blood. The briefcase's contents were partially spilled, including a cellphone and pager. A set of keys lay a foot beyond this near the base of the first of nearly a dozen bookcases housed within the confines of Grissom's home. He took a slow deep breath. "Damn, Gris."

"What do we know?" This was Sara. Her face was a hard, determined mask. All she wanted to do was get started. The sooner they did that the sooner they would figure out what the hell happened to Grissom.

Jim Brass moved to join Catherine and the other CSIs. He held up a brown case folder. Right this minute he needed to be the veteran detective, not the friend of the victim. "We are now investigating a four eighteen, four twenty-five," he told the CSIs in an all business manner. "Missing person: one Gil Grissom, missing since 2330 hours last Friday night, last seen at Sports Deluxe, Hard Rock Hotel and Casino sports bar on Paradise Road."

"What about the blood?" Nick asked. "Did you check …"

"Clinics," Brass interrupted, "hospital emergency rooms, Grissom's primary physician's office, 911 calls. No hits. His car is parked in his parking space outside."

The ominous note of the last piece of information brought an uneasy quiet with it.

After the shock of this information had set in, Catherine added, "I called Grissom's mother. She hasn't heard from him since Friday either. She doesn't know where he could be any more than we do."

Sara nodded and looked back toward the blood on the floor. "Then this must be the crime scene."

"Yeah," Catherine said grimly.

"Let's do it then," Nick said, his jaw set.

"I got prints," Sara offered, reaching into her jacket pocket and producing a jar of red print powder.

Warrick slowly nodded his approval. "Red Creeper."

"Serious crime," Nick started.

"Deserves serious print powder," Sara finished.

"Okay, do it," Catherine told her. Sara moved off immediately.

Catherine looked up at Warrick. "Take the corridor, elevator, and stairs. Find out how he left here."

"You got it." Warrick headed back out the door.

"I'll take the bedroom," Nick told Catherine. Although Catherine had been the closest of any of them to the boss, some things were best dealt with by another guy. By the look on Catherine's face, Nick knew his intuition was right on the money.

"Thanks, Nick," Catherine said, a note of relief in her voice. "I'll finish out here."

Nick gave her a reassuring smile and headed toward the back of the house.

Brass finished giving the uniforms their marching orders to check the dumpsters, alley ways, parking lots, and shops for several blocks in every direction. They exited with photocopied images of Grissom in hand, leaving Jim and Catherine alone in the living room. "More uniforms are on the way," he told her. "The Sheriff has been informed and he's authorized a search of Gil's past case files for potentials. We've got the APB out. I'm headed back to the sports bar to interview the staff who worked last Friday. We're covering all the bases."

He looked at her with his best poker face. Catherine knew as well as Jim did that the first thirty-six hours after a disappearance were crucial to a missing person's case. They were at least fifty hours out now. The implication was too horrid to put into words.

"We may be starting too late," Catherine told the detective. She ran her hand through her hair distractedly. "I know."

Monday Morning 01:56 AM

Mandy made steady progress with the prints from the 407. Sara's hunch had been correct. The prints on the camera matched the manager's and the clerk's. The freshest of these were the clerk's. Amazing how stupid people could be, Mandy mused. The almost total absence of prints from the cash register told them that the robbery suspect had wiped the register, which should have been completely covered with prints, but they had not thought to wipe the rear of the camera or the damaged cables.

There would be plenty of probable cause to bring the clerk in for further questioning, but Mandy knew that this would wait until days. She had already marked the case for transfer to Erik Watson on the dayshift per Sara's request. There was another case that trumped this one, and Mandy was trying to clear her backlog as quickly as possible.

When the prints from Grissom's house came in she would dedicate all her energies to processing them. The news of their Supervisor's disappearance had frightened everyone. The lab, though still busily going about the job of processing evidence, remained hushed. The usual hubbub of co-worker joviality was conspicuously absent. No one wanted to say what they all feared – that Grissom might be dead.

And Grissom was the steadiest and smartest person any of them had ever known. He was feared by some but respected by everyone. If you did your work well he respected you, and respect from someone like Grissom was the highest form of praise. Everyone working in the crime lab, whether they were willing to admit it or not, wanted the respect of Gil Grissom more than just about anyone else alive. He was just the kind of investigator and scientist that other people wanted to emulate.

Her throat tightened a little and Mandy realized she had stopped looking at the print on the table in front of her. She roused herself out of her reverie and threw her energies back into the work. She had to finish if she was going to be a part of finding her boss, and that particular job was one that everyone in the lab wanted to be involved with.

Monday Morning 02:02 AM

Greg stepped into Grissom's office like he was entering a shrine. The last time he had met with his boss here he had stormed in ready to accuse Grissom of biological terrorism. Now his ire then seemed silly.

It was as if Grissom represented the person Greg might become one day. Greg knew he was smart and he knew he was young. Grissom had been young once, too. Rumor had it, Grissom played poker in college to fund a body farm. Greg had sneaked a peak at Grissom's CV and knew that by the time Grissom was Greg's age he had completed his first graduate degree and had become the youngest coroner in Los Angeles County history. In his career, Grissom had published thirty-seven times in academic or forensics journals and had eight textbook chapters to his credit.

But what Greg wanted to do more than anything else was to be the investigator Grissom was. It wasn't just the brains, it was the instinct and deductive abilities that Grissom possessed that made him so different, and Greg wanted to learn that. He had come to think of Grissom as the master. Maybe that was weird, but that was just the way it was for him.

Greg looked around the office and found what he had come for. Moving toward the glass home of Grissom's orange-kneed tarantula, Greg set a box of crickets down on a corner of the desk. He had run out to get them after the conversation in the break room, when he had learned that Grissom was really missing.

"Hey there, buddy," Greg addressed the spider. "Are you hungry? I brought something for you."

He placed the crickets in with the tarantula and closed the lid. "There ya go, buddy. Bon appetit."

Greg watched the tarantula for a few minutes before turning to go. Retrieving the box from the desk again, he spotted Grissom's coffee mug. He stared at it for a moment. The saliva was over two days old but would still provide a decent sample.

He found a box of gloves on a shelf and donned a pair. Picking up the cricket box and the mug, Greg headed back to the DNA lab. He would begin his work on Grissom's case right now.

***

Monday Morning 02:24 AM

Grissom's house was a conglomeration of insect zoo, laboratory, library, and living space. Tables covered with projects midway through completion contended with bookshelves for wall space. A terrarium housed his racing stock, hissing roaches from Madagascar. Bookshelves were filled to overflowing, and there were small piles of texts on the floor in corners and next to chairs. The walls housed a multitude of framed insects of various varieties, several beautiful art prints Catherine couldn't identify, and only a few of the many awards he must have received through the years. His house was like his office, clean but cluttered.

Catherine had made her way through the kitchen. Nothing was unusual there. Gil had two plates, a saucepan, two glasses, seven assorted eating and cooking utensils, and a single coffee cup all carefully rinsed and placed in the dishwasher. Both sinks were empty and clean. The counters were clean and neat. A single dishtowel was draped over the edge of the counter next to his refrigerator. The latter was filled with a surprisingly healthy assortment of foodstuffs in varying degrees of preparedness: precut salad, steaks, fresh vegetables, fruit juice, milk, a few bottles of beer. Also sharing the refrigerator space were a number of petrie dishes, bottles of various chemicals, collection jars filled with God and Grissom only knew what, and what she could only assume were multiple experiments in varying stages of progression.

The guest bathroom was spotless. Catherine guessed that it was used so rarely that only Sara's pass for prints would determine whether or not a living soul had stepped into the room for weeks.

She had moved on to the living room. When she turned on his television it was tuned to ESPN. "Well that figures," she muttered. The volume was a bit loud so she quickly turned the TV back off. The media unit was ordered with stereo and other electronic components, albums, DVDs, videos and CDs categorized by genre, a little heavier on the classical side then anything else but filled with quite an expansive variety of artistic expression. Calling Gil's collection eclectic was probably an understatement.

Turning from the entertainment center, she saw the cluttered coffee table. This housed a lamp, several days' worth of the Las Vegas Sun newspaper, a coffee cup, a half-empty bottle of water and three books. The first of these was the present they had given him two months ago for his birthday – The New York Times Sunday Crossword Omnibus, Vol. 5. The book held 200 Sunday New York Times crossword puzzles, and thumbing quickly through the book Catherine found that he had completed more than half of them already. The inscription read, "Happy Birthday, Boss. Enjoy!" They had each signed it. The idea for this gift was Warrick's, and it was apparently a big hit. It was the first collective birthday gift that they had given him. Catherine still remembered the look of utter surprise on his face when they presented him with the wrapped gift that evening. Gil had not been expecting anyone at the office to remember much less mark his birthday.

A melancholy smile crossed her lips. "You're still not certain about this family you've acquired, are you?" she said as she set the crossword book down.

The second book was an osteology text, Identification of Pathological Disorders in Human Skeletal Remains. He had the second chapter entitled 'Types and Uses of Anthropometric Devices' bookmarked with a small notebook upon which he had been making notes. Nothing like light reading on your time off, she thought.

The last book was opened and turned face down on the edge of the table. It was a very beautiful copy of Hamlet opened to Act 1, Scene 5. She picked up on the same page where he had left off:

Ghost

I am thy father's spirit,

Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,

And for the day confined to fast in fires,

Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature

Are burnt and purged away.

Catherine stopped reading and sat down on the couch with the open book in her gloved hands. "A real renaissance man," she said softly. "Where are you, Gil? What happened to you?"

"He went down the fire stairs."

Catherine jumped a little and her head shot up. Warrick stood in front of her with a look of grim concern on his face.

Monday Morning 02:33 AM

"He's a hunk. What can I tell you?" the waitress who had served the guys last Friday told Brass. "He has this whole Kirk Douglas thing going with his chin, you know? And he had really pretty eyes. I just thought," she shrugged, "why not? I mean, nothing ventured, right?"

"Yeah, I guess." Brass shook his head in wonder. The waitress was Sandra Hutchinson. She had moved to Vegas from Sedalia, Missouri two years ago. The manager confirmed that she had worked in the Sports Bar for well over a year and was a dependable employee. Her background check came up clean except for the odd traffic ticket.

"Listen," he continued, "did you hook up with Kirk Douglas after you got off work that night?"

This time it was Sandra who shook her head. "He left before my shift was over. I never got his phone number. He was cute, but he wasn't really interested. A girl can tell." She shrugged again. "Maybe he wasn't in play."

"Married to his job," Brass said under his breath.

"Too bad," Sandra replied with a wistful grin.

Monday Morning 03:01 AM

"Man, I'm telling you. Gris must be a monk," Nick told the group now reassembled in Grissom's living room. "There's no indication that anyone else has been in his bedroom."

Nick saw the looks the three other CSIs gave him and instantly regretted his remark. The joke had been in poor taste. "Sorry."

His contrition made Catherine feel for him. This was bound to be hard on all of them. She touched his shoulder. "That's all right, Nick," she said gently. "He probably is."

Nick smiled weakly.

"I got a full handprint off the outside of the front door," Sara informed them, moving on. "I also lifted prints from the hallway and stairwell and from the doorjamb," she continued. "The usual places inside the house. It'll take a while to go through it all."

"Yeah, and I sampled all the blood here, in the hallway outside his front door, and in the stairwell. The trail ends just outside the building," Warrick informed them. "He had to have gotten into a vehicle of some kind in the alley out back. He could be anywhere."

"Then we'll look everywhere," Nick insisted. "We'll find him."

Catherine nodded. "Let's run it. None of the neighbors report hearing anything out of the ordinary. There are no signs of gunfire. We know he didn't seek medical attention, and there's a trail of blood leading out of the building. So … what happened?"

Warrick spoke up first. "The absence of blood anywhere else in the house makes me think he was tackled at the door."

They all moved to the entryway.

Sara followed Warrick's lead. "Person or persons unknown come up on Grissom as he's opening the door."

"And someone's injured right here," Nick added, stepping around the blood spots on the floor in the entry way.

"Then the struggle moves back out the door?" Warrick surmised.

Sara nodded pointing to the doorway. "Someone is pushed into the doorjamb leaving a blood smear here."

"They struggled," Nick continued, "forcing the aggressor to reach up to catch his balance." He reached up and placed his hand next to the print mark on the door.

"The struggle continued out into the hall," Warrick went on, moving toward the blood mark on the wall opposite Grissom's front door. "And then down the stairs." He pointed down the hall.

"He was trying to get away?" Nick asked.

"Or being taken away," Sara countered.

"No drag marks, though," Warrick interjected. "He was on his feet when he left."

"Any footprints? Shoe prints?" Catherine asked.

"A few from the landings," Warrick told her. "The stairs are those industrial metal ridged jobs. No way to lift a clean impression from them. Whatever shoes Gris was wearing, he took with him, so there's no way to compare his shoe prints with the ones I collected."

"Grissom is bowlegged," Sara offered thoughtfully.

"What?" Warrick replied, eyebrows furrowing.

"That's right," Nick was nodding. "He is. His stride would be unique. Most of the pressure would be on the ball and outside edge of his foot."

Warrick thought about that for a second. "It would, wouldn't it."

"We can check the wear pattern on his other shoes," Nick offered.

"Okay," Catherine said, drawing their attention. "Let's get what we have so far back to the lab. Sara, take a look at the handprint first. Warrick, get the blood to Greg and work on those shoe impressions. Bag his shoes. Take the comb and toothbrush Nick got from Grissom's bathroom with you, too. Greg can use them for DNA comparison. Nick and I will finish here. We've got Grissom's computer and personal papers to go through."

Sara didn't like the sound of that. "He'd freak if he knew what we are doing here."

They all knew that she was right. Grissom was an intensely private individual. It was uncomfortable to think about poking around in his personal stuff, but if they were going to try to reconstruct possible scenarios, they needed to know what was happening in the rest of Grissom's life - not just what little they could see at work.

"Not if we find him dead," Nick said.

***

Monday Morning 04:09 AM

Nick rubbed at his face. Reading through Grissom's email was the closest he had ever come to feeling as if he were violating someone. Not that he was learning all that much about his boss.

Besides the office server traffic that Grissom downloaded to his home computer and the usual smattering of junk mail, there were only a few people with whom Grissom corresponded on a regular basis. Most of it was what Nick would expect from a workaholic guy without much time for a social life.

The last few weeks' worth of email consisted of various professional issues. The editor of Science & Justice was trying to persuade Grissom to do a series of articles on the role of entomological evidence in crime scene reconstruction. Grissom was planning his next seminar in Chicago in March with the American Board of Criminalists and the Canadian Society of Forensic Sciences. There was a request for a keynote address from the Royal Society of Medicine at their annual conference in London next July and another request for a keynote speech from the National Center of Forensic Science. This last email message had been read on Friday morning.

He was also corresponding with an anthropology professor from New Zealand, apparently participating in an ongoing chess game. The last move was made by Grissom last Wednesday. He corresponded, on and off, with Teri Miller. The last email from her was dated two weeks ago. Grissom had not, as yet, replied.

Grissom corresponded regularly with his mother. They talked about some class Grissom was thinking about taking, the art gallery Mrs. Grissom apparently sat on the board for, her health issues with arthritis, the latest bit of literature either of them had been reading, and the weather. Gris always signed his messages to his mother, "Your loving son." The last email Grissom had sent was on Thursday evening. He told his mother he would call her on Friday. That jibed with Catherine's call to her last night.

Catherine entered the room that served as Grissom's office at home and found Nick a bit bleary-eyed at the computer. "How's it going?" she asked.

Nick shook his head. "Sara's right, we shouldn't be doing this."

She sighed as she looked around Gil's home office. This room was filled almost to capacity with more bookshelves. These shelves held a vast collection of journals from just about every conceivable professional forensic organization not to mention newsletters, transcripts, old case files, notebooks, research note composition journals, and more textbooks. Several degrees hung in frames on the wall above his desk. A picture frame on his desk held a black and white photo of a woman who could only be Grissom's mother, and a smaller Polaroid of the nightshift CSI team from the Christmas party last year was stuck in the lower right hand corner of the frame. Everyone was smiling, even Gil.

"Procedure, Nick," Catherine told him. "Procedure."

"I know," he replied. "But it still feels wrong."

"Well, I went through his mail and didn't find much except for a cable bill and a pre-approved credit card offer. There's nothing else out there. What did you find in here?" she asked.

Nick took a deep breath before starting. "I can tell you he doesn't do his banking online. He has an eBay account, but he hasn't used it for over four months. He plays chess with a professor of anthropology in New Zealand and he writes to his mother regularly." He paused and sat back from the computer. "There's really not that much here and really nothing to suggest a reason for an attack or … worse."

Nick fell silent. Catherine could tell something else was bothering him. "Tell me," she said.

He swallowed heavily before continuing. "He's a regular guy, Cath. He pays his bills on time, shows up to work every day, and works harder than anyone I've ever met. He just goes around being … well, Grissom. I mean, look at this." Nick pointed out the TTY sitting on Grissom's desk next to his phone. "We know he knows sign language. He has a deaf communication device. He knows about dwarves and schizophrenics."

"And?" Catherine asked, hearing the silent 'but' he didn't say. She left the TTY reference alone, having decided not to tell the team about Gil's mother's deafness unless it became necessary.

Nick looked up at her. "It's got to be related to one of his cases. I mean, sure Gris could ruffle feathers but it was always about the job, nothing personal. He has a way of demanding the best from people. Sometimes they don't … well, sometimes they don't measure up all that well."

"Nobody's perfect," Catherine told him. "Not even Grissom."

"Yeah, but he sure as hell tried hard to be the best," Nick insisted. "I mean, look at all this stuff." He gestured around the room. "The man's a walking encyclopedia. There doesn't seem to be anything he isn't willing to learn. He's being asked to speak and to teach at all these conferences, to write articles and at the same time he's talking to his mom about taking a class this semester at a local college."

"That's our boss," she affirmed.

Nick was still shaking his head. "I worry about getting my pants on right every morning. If I could be just half as smart as Grissom …." Nick stopped and took a deep breath. "You know, I told him once that I wanted him to think I was a good CSI."

"You are." Catherine told him honestly. "No one works for Grissom for long unless they've got some game, Nicky. You know that."

"I know," he said. "But it's taken a while. I wasn't exactly … a natural."

"Yeah, but you're plenty smart, Nick. You've got good instincts. The rest you can learn."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, I can," he said quietly, swallowing back his emotion, "from him."

She patted him on the shoulder. "Just like the rest of us, Nicky," Catherine said gently. "Just like the rest of us."

Monday Morning 04:11 AM

Sleep wouldn't come for more than a few minutes at a time, so he gave up on it for the time being. Wispy clouds were moving across the small patch of night sky he could see, obscuring the stars from his view.

His pain was not as bad now as it had been. He was saving strength for the work he had to do after dawn. He was so thirsty that it was becoming hard to speak. His mouth was too dry for him to form the words well. He had to keep his mind busy. Try not to think about the thirst, he told himself. Think about the case.

Closing his eyes, Gil tried to place the face again. If this guy had gone to jail for a crime Gil had investigated, it would have been several years ago. Kidnapping, negligent homicide, and second degree murder all carried pretty lengthy sentences. If his attacker had "done the time" for a crime that resembled what he was trying to accomplish now, he would have been in prison for at least seven years, probably longer. If it had been fifteen or twenty years, this guy's case could go back to Gil's time in Los Angeles County.

Gil had worked on thousands of cases in his career as a CSI. Of those, how many involved dumping a person, alive or dead, in an abandoned mine? He could only think of four cases, and all the participants involved in those cases were either dead or still in prison.

This guy just didn't ring a bell. Gil was missing something, some piece of the puzzle that would help him understand. He had been attacked at his home, taken by force, and dumped in this mineshaft. His attacker had said he had already done the time.

What if the original case hadn't involved an attack? Or maybe it hadn't involved leaving someone to die? If this guy feels he hadn't committed a crime, Gil reasoned, maybe the circumstances had been an accident – an accident that left a person alone to die in a mineshaft. Or was that wrong as well?

What if it wasn't a mineshaft but another kind of shaft? He wondered. Had he worked on a dead body case in another kind of shaft?

Gil's eyes popped open as recognition dawned. He hadn't been a CSI when he had worked the case. If he was right, he had been much younger.

***

Monday Morning 04:27 AM

The evidence examination table glowed up at him as he laid out the print impressions and shoes on it. Warrick had finished making impressions from two pairs of Grissom's shoes: some tennis shoes Grissom had put some decent wear on and a pair of loafers Warrick had seen him wearing at the office several times. Nick had been right. Grissom's shoes did have a unique wear pattern, ball to outside edge of the foot, the left shoes more so than the right. That pattern matched one set of shoe prints from the landings in the stairwell of Grissom's building. Warrick had been able to lift them using the electrostatic dust-print lifter. They were a size eleven, as well. Same shoe size as Grissom wore. There was no doubt about it - Grissom had gone down the emergency stairs recently. If the blood Warrick had collected from the handrail matched Grissom then it was a good bet that he was injured the last time he made the trip.

There was another set of impressions that didn't match Grissom's size and wear pattern. These were a size thirteen with a more normal wear pattern on the soles. By the looks of the tread, they were work boots of some kind. Warrick would have to go through the shoe tread database to be certain.

When he looked up from the shoe impressions, he found Sara standing just inside the doorway. Her expression was unreadable.

"How long have you been there?" Warrick asked.

Sara tilted her head a little. "Long enough to see you make the match."

"What'd you find with the prints?" he asked her.

"The handprint from the door isn't Grissom's. Mandy's running it threw AFIS. No hits yet. Some of the prints on the banister in the stairwell match the handprint. Whoever it was took the stairs out."

"What about Grissom's prints?" Warrick pressed.

"Positive match to the bloody fingerprints," Sara said solemnly, "both in the hall and in the stairwell."

"Yeah," Warrick said, returning his attention to the evidence on the table. "It was Grissom going down those stairs all right." He fell silent. They already knew something bad had happened. It just felt like every new piece of evidence was another nail in a coffin nobody wanted to think about.

"Hey, Warrick, did you ever think about it?" Sara asked, almost as if she could read his mind.

"About what?" he responded suspiciously, a little startled by the coincidence.

"What it might be like after," she replied.

"What? After he left CSI?" Warrick said, knowing they were talking about Grissom. "No."

Sara moved into the room and stood across the table from Warrick. She picked up one of Grissom's shoes to look at it more closely. "I never did. I figured he'd always just be here. Like, he belonged more than any of us."

"I know what you mean. He lives and breathes this stuff." Warrick said, nodding toward the table.

"I didn't understand that. Not really." Sara confided. Her voice was filled with what sounded to Warrick like regret. "I've said some pretty awful things to him."

Warrick's eyes narrowed. "No way."

"For real," she said, meeting his gaze squarely.

"Like what?" Warrick wondered aloud.

She set the shoe back down on the table. "I accused him of partiality," Sara confessed, "of not having any feelings."

"Who, Gris?" he replied, a little surprised. "He feels it, believe me."

"I know," Sara nodded. "I do. It just seems like he …." She paused, not sure where to go with her thought.

"Controls it - holds it in," Warrick finished for her. "Yeah, I know it seems that way. I guess he does. But he has his outlets."

"Rollercoasters?" Sara asked.

"Rollercoasters," he confirmed with a little smile, remembering his own trip on the tracks with Grissom.

"I told him once that I wished I could be more like him," she continued after a moment. Her voice filled with emotion. "Feel nothing, care less." Sara brushed a tear off her cheek as if it were offending her. "Truth is, I do want to be more like him. I do because he does care. He believes in himself, trusts his instincts - trusts his friends." She folded her arms protectively.

"He trusted me when no one else did," Warrick told her.

"Like me." It wasn't a question but a statement. Warrick could see the honest regret in Sara's face.

"I didn't mean that," he said immediately. There was no need to open old wounds.

"I know. That doesn't make it any less true," she said softly.

"Look, Sara," Warrick told her. "Gris took a chance with me. He went against orders. I told him I wouldn't let him down again. It's been one of the hardest promises I've ever made, but it's a promise I've tried to keep."

"Because you made it to him?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly, "because I don't like the idea of letting him down any more than you do."

They both fell silent again, listening to the hum of the light from the evidence table and dealing with their own private feelings.

Finally Sara asked the question she knew no one wanted to ask. "What if we're too late?"

"I can't think about that," Warrick said firmly. He didn't want to have to deal with the implications of that. He had a promise to keep. There was no way he was going to let Grissom down again. "We'll find him," Warrick told Sara. "We have to."

Monday Morning 04:39 AM

The Sheriff, Brian Mobley, and Conrad Eckley were waiting for Catherine when she and Nick got back to the crime lab. The men stood in Grissom's office and turned to look at her as Catherine and Nick approached the door.

Catherine saw Eckley and the Sheriff a split second before Nick did and pulled up short. Nick noticed she had stopped walking and looked at her. He followed her gaze and realized Grissom's office wasn't empty.

"Nick," Catherine told the junior CSI, "why don't you find out what Sara and Warrick have now. Tell them I'll see them in a minute."

"Sure," Nick told her, looking from the visitors back to Catherine. "I'll be just down the hall if you need me." With that, Nick set off to find Sara and Warrick. He had a pretty good idea what this visit from Eckley and the Sheriff was all about.

The Sheriff nodded to her as Catherine stepped into the office. "Catherine."

"Sheriff, Conrad," she greeted them coolly. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Eckley glanced at the Sheriff. He looked too smug for Catherine's liking. Conrad didn't say anything.

It was the Sheriff who was going to tell her the bad news. "I'd like to talk about Gil's case," he started. "I think there's some important decisions we need to make at this juncture in the investigation."

"Politic to the last, aren't you Brian," Catherine replied.

"I think it would be better for all concerned if Conrad and his dayshift team took over the investigation of the case," Mobley told her. "You're too close to it."

"That's not going to happen," Catherine informed them. Before the Sheriff could interrupt her she went on. "No one is more motivated than we are. And if Gil has a prayer in hell of being found then we need some people with an honest desire to find him."

"You don't think I want to find Gil?" Conrad asked, sounding wounded.

Catherine turned to face Eckley squarely. "I don't suppose you've told the Sheriff about the page you received on Saturday."

By the look on his face, Catherine knew that he hadn't. "I thought so."

"What page?" Mobley asked, obviously confused.

"Look," Conrad began.

Catherine interrupted him, "Grissom was paged about a case on Saturday afternoon," she told the Sheriff. "When he didn't respond to repeated pages, the office paged Conrad. How many times since Gil has worked here has he failed to answer a page, Conrad?"

Eckley shuffled his feet nervously. Catherine didn't bother to wait for an answer.

"I'll tell you. None." She turned her attention back to the Sheriff. This was obviously news to Mobley. "If Conrad had bothered to tell someone about that we could have been on this case as little as twelve hours after we think Gil was attacked, not fifty." Catherine wasn't even bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice any more.

"Look, Brian. I'm staying on this case. If it were any one of us out there, even Conrad," she gave the dayshift supervisor an angry look, "Gil would be the first CSI on board and the one to work the hardest to find out what happened." Her voice was filled with her conviction. "This is Grissom we're talking about. I'm not leaving him out there without exhausting every tool at my disposal. Every member of this shift feels the same way."

The Sheriff looked from Catherine to Eckley and back again. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He nodded as he came to a decision. "All right, Catherine. You stay in charge of the case, but I want you to keep me in the loop. Don't use Gil's example as a model on this. I want regular updates on the progress you're making."

"I'll keep you posted," she told him. "You have my word."

***

Next part of Ghost.