Author’s Note:

The characters of CSI were created by A. Zuiker, and are the property of CBS and its affiliates.  All other characters depicted in this story are fictional; they are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author.  Although the locales in this story are real, all events, incidents and characters are pure invention.  © April 2003. LSI.

Grissom's Overture

by LSI

Gil Grissom stared at his computer screen and the animated e-card Sara had sent him for his forty-eighth birthday.  He wouldn’t have labeled it a lover’s card exactly, at least not in so many words, but he was warmed by her short friendly greeting after which she’d tagged on, ‘See you on the 29^th’—a sure sign that she still intended to visit him in a couple of weeks.

            But it wasn’t just a friendship card either, he noted.  In fact it was somewhat sexually suggestive—even if the tse-tse flies were doing things to each other that he knew to be physiologically impossible.  It had to mean something—hadn’t it?  

            He grinned and replayed the card.

            As he began to dissect it this time, looking for some deeper meaning in her choice of imagery, a frown quickly replaced his smile.  The tse-tse fly, while charming in its comical rendition here, was also a deadly pest which had destroyed entire herds of cattle from certain parts of Africa .  In the late nineteen-nineties, a Canadian entomologist had tried an unusual method of male sterilization using radiation to interrupt their breeding cycle which had eventually freed Zanzibar and other African regions of the disease carrying fly. 

            But Sara wouldn’t know that—would she? 

            He shook his head and cursed himself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts.  

            Ever since he’d come back from San Francisco, he’d felt at once on the proverbial cloud nine and on the edge of doom.  One minute almost giddy with happiness, the next terrified that it would all come crashing down.  He’d begun to feel that way from the moment he’d left her in his room at the Mark Hopkins Inter-Continental hotel after the most sensational night of his life.  He and Sara finally together should have left him with nothing but joy in his heart—and there was that—but there was also this dead weight that seemed to have permanently settled on his chest. 

            And he knew why.

            Still, as he replayed it for the third or fourth time, her e-card coaxed another smile—and that’s how Brass found him.   

            “You’re chipper today,” he said as he came into his office.  With a swift click Gil closed his browser and turned to the stocky man.

            “What’s up, Jim?”

            Brass settled comfortably into the guest chair across from Gil’s desk, crossing his legs at the ankles.  “Nothing,” he said.  “Actually, I’m much more interested in what’s gotten into you.”

            “What’s gotten into me?”

            “Yeah.  You’ve been in a much better mood lately, and I actually saw you smile just now.  So what’s up with that?”

            Gil shrugged and threw Brass a deliberately obtuse glance.  “Nothing,” he lied.

            “Look, Gil, how long have we known each other?  Thirteen, fourteen years?” he answered his own question.  “I know your moods, pal.  But the last couple of weeks, you’ve been different.  Like you’re… well…”  Confronted with Gil’s silent stare, he lost some of his confidence and cleared his throat.  “I don’t know; I was in love once.  But that’s…something else, I suppose.”  He took a deep breath and continued awkwardly.  “All I’m saying is, is a woman responsible for this new mood of yours?”

            Gil grinned and cocked a brow.  Brass getting personal wasn’t what he’d expected, but surprisingly, it didn’t make him feel uncomfortable.  Still, he didn’t respond.

            “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Brass said after a while.  Gil pursed his lips.  “I get it.  Don’t ask, right?”

            “Right,” he said softly.

            “Okay.”  Brass lifted his hands in defeat and promptly changed the subject.  “So what did you think about Lydia’s statement?”  

            “I think she’s lying, and so do you.  But the evidence will confirm it.”

            Brass nodded.

            Gil wasn’t particularly interested in the case.  It had been an easy one—open and shut.  Greg still had to confirm some of their conclusions, but there was no doubt in his mind that Derek Cameron’s wife was responsible for his murder.  All the evidence pointed in her direction, which Brass was well aware. 

            No—Brass hadn’t stopped by to discuss the Cameron case.  Would it have been so terrible to confide a little of what was going on to him?  Not that he was ready to tell anyone about him and Sara—Catherine was the only one who knew, and only because she’d found out by accident; she hadn’t even mentioned it which surprised him and, as certain as he was that curiosity was likely eating her alive by now, he appreciated her discretion. 

            But even if he had no intentions of discussing Sara with his colleagues, it didn’t mean he couldn’t have thrown Brass a bone…tell him that a woman was indeed responsible for his ‘chipper’ mood.  Instead, he’d stomped on his offer of friendship as he always did and with a: “Okay, see ya later, pal,” Brass had stood and abruptly left his office.

            He let out a long breath.  Sometimes he hated the recluse he’d become.  Sara was right.  He’d always been so intensely private that the people he considered his closest friends barely knew him.  Or maybe they did know him.  How the hell should he know?   

            Of everyone at the lab though, Sara had been the only one he’d occasionally allowed through his impenetrable exterior, and even then it had only been to serve scraps of himself when the situation warranted it.  Still, whether she realized it or not, she knew him better than anyone.  Gil was convinced of it.  And if she needed time to decide whether or not to return to Vegas, it wasn’t because he was a stranger to her, it was because she no longer trusted him.  Or maybe that’s just what he preferred to believe, since the alternative—that she no longer loved him—was too painful to consider.    

            He hadn’t heard from her since the day he’d left San Francisco two weeks ago.  The e-card she’d sent was the first sign that the twelve hours they’d spent together were not just a figment of his fertile imagination.  He missed her, but he hadn’t written or called for fear she would misinterpret his intentions.  He’d promised not to pressure her, and he intended to keep that promise.  But the effort was killing him.  It had taken them—him, he amended, so long to come to his senses, that he didn’t want to wait another day to begin the rest of his life with her.

            “Boo!” Gil jumped.  He hadn’t heard Catherine come in.

            “Catherine!” His glare didn’t deter her one bit.  She was all smiles as he turned to face her, heart still pounding in his chest.

            “You’re miles away.  And I bet I know exactly how many miles.”

            Okay, here it comes.  “Well, well, Catherine,” he said sarcastically.  “I suppose I should thank you for letting me off the hook for as long as you have.”

            “Ah, Sara warned you,” she said, dropping into the chair Brass had just vacated.

            “Did you think she wouldn’t?”

            “So what’s…the deal…with you two?”  Catherine had the grace to hesitate, evidently appreciating that she was treading into highly personal territory. 

            Gil didn’t respond immediately.  He debated whether to tell her everything or just enough to satisfy her for another little while—until he had some answers.  He chose the latter.  “No deal yet,” he said curtly.

            “What’s wrong with you, Gil?  I have to say it—you are the most thickheaded, clueless guy I know when it comes to relationships.”

            “By definition, Catherine, ‘thickheaded’ and ‘clueless’ are synonyms, so…one of them is redundant.”

            “Don’t even try your avoidance game with me.  That girl has loved you for as long as I can remember—“

            “Oh really!”  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk, threading his fingers.  “And you know that how, exactly?  Have you been in touch with her at all in the past year?” he asked coldly, his reaction revealing much more than he would have liked.

            Catherine’s jaw dropped, astonishment replacing the unmistakable exasperation that had twisted her features only moments ago.  “Sara’s the one holding back?”

            “She needs to think about it,” he spat out.

            Catherine shook her head quickly as if to clear it of that last bit of information.  “Well, there’s something almost satisfying about that.  You ignored her for years and now she’s giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

            “And I thought you were my friend,” he mocked.

            “I am, but not a very good one or I would have given you a good kick in the pants a long time ago—“

            “Spilt milk.”

            “So what did she say?”

            “Well, she didn’t say yes.  Yet,” he added with more bravado than he felt.  He had his pride.

            “What was the question?”

            Gil’s gaze shot up and collided with Catherine’s.  She held his stare briefly then stood, an all-knowing smile tugging at her lips, before spinning around and leaving his office without another word. 

            He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.

            What he wanted from Sara—what he wanted for both of them—had been very clear to him.  He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.  Had it been clear to her?  He hadn’t spelled it out exactly, but one would assume—

            “Damn,” he swore under his breath trying to recall the details of his proposition and how she might have interpreted it.  Suddenly, it wasn’t all that clear to him either.  What if that’s why she’d held back?  Hell, what had he offered her?  Her old job back?  Gil mentally kicked himself.       

            What was he supposed to do now?  Wait until Sara’s visit and try to make his intentions less ambiguous then?  Or break his promise and make sure she had all the facts before she made a life-altering decision? 

            He leaned back in his chair and stared into space, an idea slowly forming in his mind.  But what if it was another faux-pas?  He’d never been what one would call brilliant in affairs of the heart; in fact he was anything but as Catherine had correctly pointed out, so how could he be sure?  Maybe he should ask Catherine, but as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it.  The very notion of involving Catherine or anyone else in his quest to win Sara made him shudder.  He’d just have to trust that this was the right thing to do.  After all, it had worked before.  Maybe it would again.

            He flipped the cards in his rolodex until he found the one he wanted, and, picking up the phone he punched the number.  Cradling the receiver between his shoulder and his ear, he searched his wallet for the card on which Sara had scribbled her home address and telephone number.

            “Town and Country Flowers,” a female voice answered.  “How may I help you?”

            “I’d like to have a plant delivered to someone in San Francisco.”

            “Certainly sir, what kind of plant?”

            “An orchid,” he said.  “It has to be an orchid, the…uh…Phalaenopsis?”  After being put on hold briefly, the clerk came back to confirm that they did have that orchid, and rambled off a list of names for that variety.  Gil was at a loss; there was only so much he knew about orchids, but he remembered the one he’d sent Sara a couple of years ago.  The florist had recommended the white Phalaenopsis, the perfect one for a beginner they’d said because it was easy to care for. 

            “It’s the white one.”

            “Okay, good choice.  Where would you like it delivered?”  Gil gave the clerk Sara’s home address and his credit card information, and when she asked for the sentiment for the card, he didn’t hesitate this time. 

            “Marry me,” he said, surprised at how easily the words had rolled off his tongue.  “And sign it ‘Grissom’.  No, no.  Make that ‘Love, Grissom’.”

            “Fine sir.  This should be delivered before the end of the day.”  Heart pounding, he thanked the clerk and hung up the phone.  It didn’t get any clearer than that. 

            That afternoon, sleep eluded him.          

BY THE BEGINNING of the next shift, that sense of imminent doom weighed more heavily than ever on Gil.  He hadn’t heard from Sara.  He’d expected a call or an e-mail, some indication that she’d received the orchid.  To make matters worse, it was a slow night.  His team was tying up loose ends on other cases while he tried to catch up on paperwork.  But his mind kept wandering.  This was a new experience for him; where his work was concerned, very little ever distracted him.  Then again, he’d never asked a woman to marry him before.   

              By the time Greg sauntered into his office, he welcomed the intrusion.  The colorful lab tech plopped himself into the chair across his desk and waited as Gil perused the Cameron case file.

            “Well, nothing unexpected here, Greg.  Good work.”  Gil gave him a passing glance.  “I’ll give Brass a call,” he said as he dropped the file on his desk.  Lydia Cameron’s life was about to take a turn for the worst.  When Greg didn’t move, he looked up, peering over the top of his glasses at the spiky-haired lad.  “Was there anything else, Greg?”

            “Uh, yeah, actually.  I’ve been wondering… Did you see Sara when you were in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago?” he asked timidly, a small tremor in his voice. 

            If the very mention of her name hadn’t set his heart racing, Gil might have taken some pleasure in Greg’s discomfiture.  Poor kid, he’d always had a thing for Sara.  Heck, Greg hadn’t been the only one.  David, Bobby even Nick in the beginning; they’d all behaved like school boys around her at one time or another, and if he were honest with himself, he’d have to add his name to the Sara Sidle Admiration Society.

            A couple of years back, he recalled, after witnessing one too many goofy glances directed at her, he had snapped.  “Tell me, Sara, is every guy in this place enamored with you?” he’d blurted out without thinking. 

            She’d given him that flirtatious smiles of hers, the one that, even when it wasn’t directed at him still managed to increase his heart rate.  And, when it was directed at him, as it had been then, well, he’d have to remind himself to breathe. 

            “Every guy?” she’d quipped.  “Uh… I dunno, Grissom.  Are you enamored with me too?” 

            The heat had crept into his cheeks and, as much as he wished he could have come up with some clever retort, he’d just looked away like a dumb teenager.  He was quite certain his response, or lack of one, had been exactly what she’d expected and that she’d thoroughly enjoyed his discomfiture that day. 

            In retrospect, he realized she’d given him plenty of opportunities over the years to voice his feelings.  No wonder she’d lost interest.  If he’d only said yes to her that day instead of blushing like a school boy and tripping over his emotions and letting his fears rule his heart, he might not be going half out of his mind now wondering if she would ever say yes to him. 

            “Uh, Gil?”  Greg prompted, snapping him back to the present.   

            “Yes, Greg, I did see her.  She says ‘hello’.”

            “Did she say anything else?”  At Gil’s obvious confusion, Greg continued.  “Did she ask about me?” 

            Poor Greg, he still had it bad.  It was time to put a stop to this infatuation of his.  Gil chose his words carefully.  “Yes, she did ask about you, Greg, and about Nick, and Warrick, and Catherine, and Hodges, and—“

            “Hodges?  She doesn’t even like Hodges!”  Nobody liked Hodges.  Greg thought about that for a split second then threw him a disappointed look.  “Okay…got it.  I’d better get back to work.”

            He’s a smart kid, Gil thought as he watched him leave, sympathizing with him.  He knew only too well how his DNA specialist felt.  Picking up the phone he called Brass to give him the good news.  Another murder solved. 

THE LAST TWO weeks had crawled by at a snail’s pace, but finally, the day Gil had been waiting for was upon him.  He’d asked Catherine to cover for him during Sara’s visit.  He had plenty of vacation time owed to him and wanted to spend every possible minute with her.  That’s if she was still coming.

            As his final shift for the next four days wound down, Gil wasn’t certain of anything.  He still hadn’t heard from her.  He’d left messages at her house and on her cell phone yesterday, but she hadn’t returned his calls.  He wondered not for the first time if the orchid, or rather the proposal attached to the orchid, had been a mistake.  He wished he could talk to Catherine about this, get her insight into the situation, but frankly he wouldn’t know where to start.  Gil Grissom didn’t do confidences easily.  What a sorry excuse for a human being he was, he thought.  He suddenly felt very alone. 

            Giving himself a mental shake, he headed for the locker room.  One thing was certain:  moping around here wasn’t going to make him feel better.  He’d keep going on the premise that she would arrive this evening as expected and he’d pick up some groceries and some wine, and a few odds and ends he knew would please her. 

            He’d have to get used to having a woman around the house, he mused.  The thought made him smile.  He looked forward to getting used to having Sara in his house, in his bedroom, in his bed.  He pictured her in his kitchen and wondered if she knew how to cook.  He frowned.  There was so much he didn’t know about her.

BY THE TIME Gil had run his errands and reached home, a good part of the morning had vanished.  He balanced a couple of grocery bags in the crook of his left arm while he fumbled with the key to his townhouse.  Stepping inside, he pushed the door closed with his shoulder and made his way to the kitchen, groping for one of the bags with his free hand before it emptied on the floor.  After dropping the groceries on the island counter that also served as a visual separation between kitchen, dining area and living room, Gil scanned the ‘great room’ with a sharp eye, trying to see it from Sara’s perspective. 

            She’d only been in his house a couple of times when Sheriff Mobley had suspended him for not cooperating with the FBI on the Strip Strangler case.  In a show of support, the members of his team had declared themselves civilian investigators in the serial murder case, and had made his home their control center.  In the end, they’d solved the case, Gil had been reinstated as shift supervisor, and the FBI had accepted all accolades for his CSIs’ work.  He’d never felt prouder.  That was a long time ago.

            Back then, Gil had been much less concerned with Sara’s opinion of his home than he’d been about protecting his privacy.  He hadn’t liked having his team in his house, period, but the circumstances had made it necessary. 

            Now he worried whether Sara would like his decorating style which bordered on the functional and necessary, only made interesting, in his opinion, with his personal touches—his bug and butterfly collections and his miniature live stock of spiders and cockroaches.  Catherine had once said it was a kid’s dream home, and looking at it now with as much objectivity as he could muster, he had to agree with her. 

            He suddenly wondered if Sara would want children.  The thought made him pause.  Fatherhood was not a state he’d ever contemplated for himself, and somehow he doubted Sara had any interest in becoming a mother—hadn’t she said once that she wasn’t good with kids? He tried to recall the event that had led to that confession, but it eluded him at the moment.  He added this to his mental list of things he needed to learn about Sara.

            An hour later, he had finished putting the groceries away and had collected his other purchases from the car.  He stood in the middle of his living room admiring the half grown tropical plant he’d brought in.  The plant added life—non-bug life—to the room which he hoped would please Sara.  He’d also put away the candles and the scented soaps and the bath salts—items he’d purchased because they looked feminine and he thought she would like them.

            He glanced at his watch.  Almost two p.m.   He’d spent the better part of yesterday tidying the house so he could relax and maybe get some sleep this afternoon.  He figured that she’d catch an early evening flight after her shift, which would put her in Las Vegas at around nine at the latest.  He wished she’d contacted him with the flight information; he would have liked to pick her up at the airport.  But there wasn’t anything he could do about that now, so he decided to catch a few hours’ sleep.

GIL WOKE WITH a start.  The small clock on his night table told him it was seven in the evening; he was surprised he’d slept so long.  He threw his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for the phone to check for messages just in case he’d slept too soundly to hear it ring.  Nothing.  His cellular phone didn’t yield any messages either.  On a sigh, Gil headed for the bathroom for a shower and shave.  If his time estimate was correct, Sara would be here in a couple of hours.

            After his shower he dressed casually in black jeans and a blue golf shirt and reheated a light supper of left-over cod in a lemon-butter sauce and vegetable rice.  He then loaded the dishwasher, tidied the kitchen, and moved to the living room to relax with his latest bug book, and wait.      

            Nine o’clock, then ten, then eleven came and went.  No Sara.  By one in the morning, he was furious.  He called her again, but this time when the answering service picked up, he didn’t leave a message.  He slammed the receiver down, fell back on his leather couch, and tried unsuccessfully to douse the agonizing pain that burned in the general vicinity of his heart. 

            He wasn’t angry with Sara—well maybe a little angry that she hadn’t bothered telling him she wasn’t coming—but he didn’t blame her.  No, he was mad as hell at himself, in part for letting her slip through his fingers a couple of years ago when he might have had a chance with her, and in part for allowing himself to hope he still had a chance now.

            Gil had spent his entire adult life protecting himself from this kind of pain.  For years he’d carefully avoided Sara outside of work instinctively knowing that she could destroy the sheltered existence he’d created for himself.  But his heart had had a mind of its own; it had let her crawl into it and settle there and that’s where she’d lived ever since.  But by the time he’d realized just how much he wanted her in his life he’d already lost her to someone else.  Or so he’d thought until he read the Tom Havilland trial transcripts.  He’d dared to hope then that it wasn’t too late, and had taken a chance.  He smirked humorously.  He’d had a taste of paradise, and look where that had left him!        

            He let out a ragged breath and got up, grabbed his car keys and a light jacket.  Gil was going to do what he did best.  He headed for the lab.

“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”  Catherine said popping her head into his office.  “Where’s Sara?”

            Gil threw the pen he’d been holding down on the desk and leaned back into his chair.  He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed a spot above his right eyebrow with the pads of his fingers.  “She didn’t come,” he said wearily.

            As she approached his desk, Gil looked at her, unprepared for the pity he saw in her eyes.  Damn!  This would be so much easier if she hadn’t found out about Sara and him.

            “Did she say why?” Catherine asked gently.

            “No.  She just didn’t show up.  Listen—Catherine, I really don’t want to talk about this.  Is there anything going on that you need my help with?  I came here to work.”

            “No, it’s a surprisingly slow night.”  Catherine studied him silently for a beat, then said, “Gil, aren’t you worried?”

            He looked up quizzically.  “Worried about what?”

            “Sara.  Don’t you think it’s odd that she just didn’t show, without even calling?  That’s not like her.”  Catherine went into investigator mode.  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

            He thought about that for a moment, and a frown marred his forehead.  What if something had happened to her?  A jolt of anxiety replaced the now familiar steady burn in his chest.  He’d been so self-absorbed that it never occurred to him that something might have happened to Sara.  He felt a pulse jump in his throat. 

            “Do you think…?  I haven’t talked to her since San Francisco.  I got a card from her on my birthday and a note that she’d be here on the 29^th.  That’s all.”  He didn’t tell her about the plant.  “You’re scaring me, Catherine.”

            “Well, before we jump to conclusions, let’s try calling her,” she said soothingly.

            “I have been calling her, for a couple of days now.  She doesn’t return my calls.”  He saw apprehension settle on Catherine’s features and fear gripped his gut.  He glanced at his watch.  He hadn’t tried her at work, but she wouldn’t be there anyway at this time of night.  He shared that information with Catherine.

            “Okay, let’s try her home number and cell phone again.”  Gil nodded and, from memory, punched her home number first.  The service picked up after the first ring so he hung up.  He immediately dialed her cell number.  No answer there either. 

            “Nothing.”  He glanced at his watch again.  It was going on three a.m.  “I can’t call her boss at home at this time of night.”  He stared at Catherine for a beat as a possible solution came to him.  He didn’t like it, in fact he loathed it, but he couldn’t wait another four hours for news of Sara.

            “What?” Catherine asked, recognizing the look.

            “There’s someone who might know where she is,” he said, looking through his rolodex for the number, and finding it, placed the call and waited for an answer.

            “San Francisco Crime Lab, Tanya, speaking.”

            “Tanya, this is Gil Grissom of the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau.  I’d like to speak to Martin Hunt please.”  Catherine’s brow furrowed as she listened to Gil’s end of the conversation.  She didn’t recognize the name.

            “One moment please.”  Grissom took a deep breath.

            “Dr. Grissom?”

            “Yes.  Hi, Martin… I’ve been trying to get in touch with Sara for a while but she seems to have vanished from—“

            “Damn,” Martin interrupted.  “You don’t know.”

            Gil’s chest constricted until he could scarcely breathe.  “Don’t know what?” his voice increased by a few decibels.

            “She’s going to be okay,” Martin said quickly.  “But she’s been hurt on the job and—“

            “Hurt how?”  He met Catherine’s worried gaze.

            “She was attacked—“

            “What?”

            “She was processing a scene in one of the suites at Pacific Bell Park —there was a murder during a Giants’ game—anyway, she’s processing the scene when the perp came back.” 

            Gil felt a headache coming on.  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose reminding himself that Martin had said Sara was going to be okay.  Still, he braced himself for the rest of the story.   

            “He struck her in the head with a baseball bat,” Martin continued.  Gil gasped.  “The whole thing is still under investigation, but what we think happened so far is that before Sara passed out, she shot and killed the guy,” he delivered bluntly.

            “Oh no.”

            “Yeah… Well the bastard deserved it.  He put her in a coma… not long, just a couple of days, but she has no memory of what happened, so we’re trying to piece it together.”

            “Where is she?”

            “She’s gone to her parents’ place—they run a Bed and Breakfast on Tomales Bay .”

            Gil nodded.  He remembered Sara telling him that once.  “You wouldn’t have a phone number by any chance?”

            “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”  Gil hated himself for the sensation of relief that flowed amid the pain and fear that had been ravaging his body for the past few hours.  “Burns would probably have it, but he won’t be in for a couple of hours at least.”

            Gil thanked Martin for the information and hung up.  Catherine was sitting on the edge of her seat, concern on her face. 

            “What happened?”  He relayed the story.

            “HR will have a next-of-kin contact on file,” she said as soon as he finished.

            “They won’t be in for a few hours,” Gil said, frustrated.  He’d always preferred the graveyard shift because it was quieter in the lab at night, but right now he would have given anything for the bustle of day shift if that meant he could put an end to this nightmare.  Then, as another idea lit his face, he removed a ring of keys from his desk and unlocked one of the cabinets behind him.  He shuffled through some file folders until he found what he was looking for.

            “Sara’s old file,” he said to Catherine as he began leafing through the folder.  “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled a sheet of paper from the bottom of the file.  “In case of emergency contact, John Sidle, father…415-555-3132.”  He stared at the piece of paper for a moment then shot her a glance.  “Can you take care of this place for a while?”

            “Sure.”  Of course, Catherine liked nothing better than to be in charge.  “How long?”

            He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Could be two days; could be two weeks.  I’m going to Tomales Bay .”    

* * * * *

BLUE HERON INN emerged unexpectedly from behind a patch of tall redwoods off Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, just past the village of Inverness.  As he pulled in the long tree-lined drive, Gil dipped his head sideways to bring the sprawling two-storey buildings into full view through the passenger-side window of the rented Lexus.  There were three of them, each linked to the other on the first level with what looked like passageways.

            Although he hadn’t given much thought to what Sara’s family’s B&B would look like, he was surprised.  Whatever he might have expected, this wasn’t it. 

            Nestled between a valley to the left where horses and sheep grazed and the blue waters of Tomales Bay—almost completely hidden by various species of trees and shrubs at the end of a wide path that ran a hundred or so yards off to the right, the Blue Heron Inn was much more imposing than he would have expected.

            He stopped the car in the graveled parking lot directly across from the center building but didn’t immediately get out.  He continued to scrutinize the premises with the same attention he would have given a crime scene.  While the buildings’ architecture reminded him of east-coast salt boxes, their exterior finish of redwood siding was a reminder that they were indeed in California .  But it was the size of the structures—all three identical except for one that had been built on a perpendicular angle to its twins—that gave them an air of grandeur, which sharply contrasted with their simple, unpretentious lines. 

            On closer inspection, he saw that one of the connecting ells housed a store of some sort, perhaps a gift shop, and the other the main entrance.  An old fear gripped his gut.  Sara was on the other side of these walls.  Would she be the one to greet him?  Would she be angry and ask him to leave? 

            When he’d called to make a reservation yesterday, he’d spoken to Sara’s mother, Pat, and other than a brief pause when he’d given his name, there had been no indication that she knew who he was.  And he hadn’t told her.  There would be plenty of time to explain when he got there, he’d thought.  Well, he was here now and it was time to stop procrastinating.  Mustering his courage, he climbed out of the car and removed his luggage from the trunk.

            The sign at the front door said to ring and walk in.  He took a deep breath and lifted his hand to ring the doorbell, but before his index could reach the tiny button, the door flew open to reveal an attractive woman he immediately guessed to be Sara’s mother.

            “Welcome.  You must be Mr. Grissom,” she said pleasantly.  Other than being a little shorter than Sara he noted as she ushered him in, there was a striking resemblance between the two women.

            “Yes.  And you must be Mrs. Sidle.”

            “Please call me Pat.”  She smiled widely then, and if there had been any question in his mind as to her identify, that smile would have given it away.  He couldn’t help but smile back.

            “And you should call me Gil, or Grissom as Sa…”  He stilled, eyes darting to her face, wondering if she’d noticed his slip. 

            “I know who you are, Gil,” she said softly, confirming that she had.  He nodded, unsure how to proceed, so was relieved when she continued.  “I didn’t tell Sara you were coming, and before you see her, her father, John, and I would like to talk to you about her condition.”

            “Her condition?” he replied, perplexed.  “I know she was injured at work, but I was told she was going to be okay.”

            “And she is, eventually.  But there’s something more you need to know.”  He frowned.  “Try not to fret.  John and I will fill you in on the details in a few minutes.  But first things first.  This is our busiest weekend of the year, and we were full up when you called.  Luckily one of our guests checked-out about an hour ago otherwise we would have had to give you our son’s old room for tonight and move you tomorrow.  Gracie—that’s our maid—is making up your suite now.  If you don’t mind, I’ll put your luggage away in the back office and we can have that talk while you wait.”

            “Where’s Sara?”

            “She’s gone for a walk on the beach.  We don’t expect her back for at least another hour—she spends a lot of time on the beach.  We’ll have plenty of time to plan our strategy—“

            “Strategy?”  He needed a strategy to see Sara.  That didn’t sound good.

            “Well, strategy’s the wrong word, I suppose.  But we do need to prepare you.” 

            That sounded even worse.  Prepare him for what?  But he didn’t ask the question.  He just wanted this little talk to be over so he could see Sara, and hopefully she’d let him stay and care for her, and then she’d come back with him to Las Vegas where they could put the past behind them and get on with the rest of their lives, together.  That’s all he wanted.

            “Show me where I can put these,” he lifted the two black travel bags, one which carried his toiletries and enough clothes to last him a couple of weeks, and the other, his laptop computer and a little something he’d picked up for Sara.

            After dropping his luggage in a small office behind the reception desk, Pat escorted him through the foyer.  His practiced sense of observation kicked in and he mentally collected details of the room despite his preoccupation with his upcoming meeting with Sara’s parents.  He noticed the antique pine furniture, the colorful rugs and what appeared to be original artwork on the walls.  There was a small wood stove in a corner, an overstuffed armchair which was home to a brightly colored overstuffed pillow that matched, at least in style, the Turkish rugs.

            As they passed a staircase, Pat mentioned that it led to the family’s private rooms.  All guest rooms were in the other buildings.  The ones on the east side, facing the meadow, had private entrances and sun decks.  His room would be on the east side, she said.  All other amenities—except for a small spa and a gift shop and snack bar where guests could purchase a picnic basket of goodies to take to the beach, were on the main floor of this building which housed, in addition to the reception area, the kitchen, a solarium where they served breakfast, and a living room, which is where they were headed now.

            They sat in facing armchairs on each side of a large field stone fireplace.  Pat offered coffee, but he declined.  He wanted to talk about Sara, and wondered where her father was. 

            As if on cue, a tall, fair-haired lanky man Gil would have guessed to be in his mid-sixties strolled in.  Gil rose, and shook hands with John as Pat introduced them. 

            John didn’t beat around the bush.  He sat in the small sofa across from the fireplace, and, looking him straight in the eye, asked in a raspy voice, “How much do you know about what happened to my daughter?”

            Gil repeated the information Hunt had given him.

            “Well, there’s a little more to it than that,” John said.  Gil bit the inside of his lower lip.  It was bad enough as it was; he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more.  He took a deep breath and waited for John to continue.  “According to the neurologist, Sara may never regain her memory of the attack.”

            Gil nodded.  He’d done a lot of research on the Internet about head injuries and memory loss in the last day.  “I read that it was quite common to forget the details of the accident—or the trauma—that caused the coma.  For Sara, I think it’s better if she never remembers.  She wouldn’t cope well knowing that she killed someone.”

            Pat smiled.  “You know our daughter well, Gil.  Unfortunately, she already knows that she killed this man.  She found out when they interrogated her about the incident.”

            “How is she taking it?”

            “Not well.  She wants to quit her job.  She says she doesn’t want the kind of job that makes her carry a gun anymore.  She even said she’d be content running this place when we retire, but this is not Sara.  She’s just reacting, and we’re hoping you’ll be able to get her back on track.  We figured if anyone could, you could.”

            That surprised him.  So they’d known who he was, but how much did they know about the true nature of his relationship with Sara?  “Why?  Why do you think I can influence that decision?”

            “Well she’s always spoken highly of you,” Pat continued.  “You’re the reason she went into this business you know.  And as much as we don’t like that it’s a dangerous job, we know she wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.”

            “It’s not a dangerous job,” he said quickly.  “At least, it shouldn’t be.  Someone screwed up, that’s why Sara got hurt.  And you’re right—I don’t think she’d be happy doing anything else.”

            Pat nodded.  “So will you try to help her?”

            “Do you think she’ll let me?  I mean, uh, we…”  Stop stammering you idiot!  “I think it’s my turn to ask how much you know…about my relationship with your daughter.”

            Pat and John exchanged a glance, and in their silent communication—the kind that happened between two people who had been together a long time—they decided Pat should handle that question. 

            “I got a call from her at the beginning of August.  She told me that she ran into you in San Francisco and that you wanted her to move back to Vegas.”

            “Is that all she told you?”

            “Well, no…Let’s just say that I know you care about my daughter,” she said softly.  “The fact that you came here to be with her proves it.”

            “I don’t think she feels the same way,” Gil said dejectedly.  “She hasn’t returned any of my calls… Frankly, I don’t think she’ll want me to stay.”

            Another glance passed between Sara’s parents.  It was John who spoke this time.

            “There’s something else you should know,” he began in his raspy voice.  “Sara also suffers from remote memory loss.  It’s unusual in this case.  The neurologist said this rarely happens in mild trauma cases, but it’s not unheard of either.  He thinks she’ll regain full memory eventually.  It could take a few days or a few weeks, but it will come back.”

            “Are you saying…”  Gil frowned.  He was trying to process all this.  He knew what remote memory loss meant.  But how remote—