The Gospel of Mary

by Emily Brunson

(c)2004

"The first form is darkness, the second desire, the third ignorance; the fourth is the excitement of death, the fifth is the kingdom of the flesh, the sixth is the foolish wisdom of flesh, the seventh is the wrathful wisdom. These are the seven powers of wrath." (8:10)

Part One

The Fall of Empires

Chapter One

"Thou dost frighten me with dreams and terrify me by visions." (Job 7:14)

"I hate fires," Nick said heavily, staring around them.

"We all do, Nicky," came Grissom's quiet reply at his side. "Come on."

It had probably been a very nice house. Not a mansion, nothing like that, but nice, broad expanse of expensively kept lawn, probably had a swimming pool around back. Good place to settle down.

Now it was a smoking hulk, charred timbers and debris everywhere, and where they were going to start was anyone's guess. For his own part he just followed Grissom and Catherine.

"So do we actually know this was arson?" Catherine asked, stepping carefully on scorched carpet.

"Not yet. Fire marshal hasn’t made the call."

"Guess that's where we come in."

He could hear Warrick behind him, coughing a little when tenacious wind caught ash and sent it scattering. Nick silently handed him a mask, holding another over his own nose and mouth. The smell was sickening.

"The fire burned extremely fast," Grissom stated, standing near a blackened wooden beam lying canted with one end reaching for the sky. "The family were all upstairs. Master bedroom over there," he added, lifting his chin. "Right where we are is approximately the living room."

"And the kids' rooms," Catherine added gloomily. "Like a pancake."

"The second floor collapsed just before the first fire teams arrived." There was a smudge of soot on Grissom's white mask. "Maybe five minutes after the 911 call came in."

Nick tried not to shiver. "Five minutes from smoke to structural collapse? That wasn't just a hot fire; that sounds like a bomb."

"You're right, for all intents and purposes." Grissom’s eyes flickered over him and back to the house. "Superheated the timbers. You've seen logs on a fire. The whole house was built around a series of hardwood timbers. Heat those fast enough, and the remaining sap inside explodes. It might not have even taken five minutes."

Nick was never really sure exactly what he was doing when it happened. Just poking around like everyone else, trying to sift a clue or two out of the disaster both fire and firefighters had left behind. He leaned down to get a closer look at something gleaming through the sodden remains of a couch, and reached out to push the debris out of the way.

It felt like a clap of thunder, although there wasn’t any sound. Just the sense that his brain had somehow suddenly expanded, not painfully but nauseatingly, bloated with a fast dump of information.

A man's voice, screaming, a raw sound of agony that made Nick's balls try to draw up inside his body. A dog barking maniacally. His nostrils were filled with an alien smell, harsh, not smoke but the acrid stench of terror.

Nick coughed out a shocked grunt and flung himself away from the spot, falling flat on his ass into a puddle of water.

"Yo, Nick, you okay?" Warrick called from about ten feet further on.

Nick stared at his hand and then wiped it frantically on the dry front of his jeans.

"Find a hot spot?" Grissom asked, but he had no idea what to say. That hadn't been heat, nothing like it. What he'd felt had been cold, and utterly alien.

"M'okay," he forced himself to say, carefully not touching the couch while he levered himself up. Gunk everywhere, shit, he was a goddamn mess.

He stared at the spot and heard the man's scream again, fainter this time but just as horrifying. Without thinking about it Nick clapped his wet hands over his ears.

"Nicky?" Grissom had somehow gotten right in front of him, staring at him with a frown. "What happened?"

He blinked away tears that shouldn't have been there and did an unsteady backward two-step, away from Grissom. "He was right here," he heard himself say. Words echoing inside his skull. "He watched the whole thing. He got off on it."

Grissom's frown deepened. "Who watched? What are you talking about?"

"The guy," Nick snapped, shaking his head. "He watched it, and he didn't do a goddamn thing to help him."

"Wait a second, Nick, don't --"

"He stood right here." Nick gritted his teeth and forced himself to step back over next to where the couch lay. "This was the driveway. He waited until he heard the timbers start to give. He heard the guy screaming. He LIKED it, man, he loved it!"

"You're saying the arsonist stood -- right here? How can you tell? We don't even know if --"

"I saw it!" Nick bellowed. "I saw what he saw!"

What he saw then made him feel as if the rug had been pulled out from under him all over again. Grissom's concerned face, morphing into a set look of doubt. "Nick, you can't know for sure. Not until we've gone over everything. It's too early to tell yet." He smiled, patronizingly Nick thought. "Come on, go back to the car. You're soaked."

Nick swallowed hard and stood his ground. "He knew them," he said shakily, and had to clear his throat. The images crowded inside his head, clamoring, confusing. "He knew the people who lived here. He took his time, waited until they were gone, and he -- put it together. He knew -- he knew when they'd be home again."

"Put what together?"

"The bomb," Nick whispered. "It was a bomb."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Arson, probably." Lou Johansen sighed and shrugged. "Hell of it is, there's no way to know one way or the other. Not unless the needle just happens to jump out of the haystack. I've been a firefighter a long time, Gil. Needles have a tendency to stay put."

Gil nodded. "I think we'll stick around. See what else we can find."

"You're not saying you buy what the kid said?"

"I'm not discounting it, if that's what you're asking."

"Fine. Go through the whole site with tweezers if you want. I’ll go so far as arson. But if my team didn't find any trace of any sort of bomb mechanism, and your team hasn't either, then I'm going to stand by my feeling that it wasn't a bomb."

Gil smiled briefly at him and went back to staring at the site. Or trying to, at least, while he reluctantly thought about the scene an hour ago.

Nick's face had been ashy white, dark eyes glaring at Gil as if they saw past him, through him. "He's a pro," Nick said hoarsely. "He has experience with explosives. It's why you haven't found any evidence."

"It's equally possible we haven't found that evidence because there's none to be found."

Nick shrugged. "It's there. He couldn't make it as perfect as he wanted to. He didn't have access to the right materials. But he was satisfied. It did the job."

"Job?"

"It was his job once, but not anymore. But now he sees it as his calling. It’s more than work; he does it because he loves it."

"There’s no way you can know that."

Nick nodded absently. "You’re right." The hollow tone gave Gil a distant shiver of unease. "But I do." He looked at Gil again, and the vague air gave way to sudden shock. "But how? How do I know?"

"You don’t. You suspect it. That’s all." Gil forced a smile. "Why don’t you head back to the lab, Nicky?"

If anything Nick’s face went even paler. "I’m gonna see who the neighbors are," he said in a rusty strained voice. "He’s one of them. I know it."

"Don’t –"

"If I’m wrong, I’m wrong," Nick interrupted. He rubbed his cheek and left a smudge of carbon like a mottled tattoo. "His background is explosives. But he knows it doesn’t look like a bomb, so no one’s going to look. He’s counting on that." His smile was bleak and tired. "He didn’t count on -- this."

"Count on WHAT? You don’t --"

"I’ll call you later, okay?" Nick was already walking away, his gait a little off-center, making him reel a tiny bit.

Gil watched him go, shaking his head as another vague chill washed through him.

"Got something."

Warrick’s voice jolted him out of his reverie, and he glanced over. Warrick was pointing at something in front of him.

"What?" Gil asked, walking over.

"Not sure."

Gil hunkered down to have a look. The piece of metal was violently twisted, the kind of damage he associated with extremely hot fires. "Could be anything."

"Yeah." Warrick nodded shortly. "And it could be a detonator."

Gil stared up at him. "Have you been talking to Nick?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Nothing. Bag it."

"Got it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt split in half. Part of him was pragmatic, skeptical, completely disbelieving. And the other part already knew what he’d find. No surprises, at all. The second part of him didn’t care about pragmatism. It simply knew.

Even then it shocked him to find what he did. Skepticism died hard, evidently; he wanted to deny the information staring him in the face, even when it vindicated his earlier statements. There was no comfort in being right. There was only wonder, and a sharp, acidic kind of terror.

By the time Grissom showed up, Nick had a dossier of sorts thrown together. Completely circumstantial at this point and not enough to warrant investigation on its own, most likely, but potentially devastating for all that.

Grissom’s gaze had a funny quality to it. A little wall-eyed, even with his vaunted self-control. "Hi."

"Find anything?"

For a moment Grissom didn’t say anything at all. Finally he gave a short nod. "Possibly."

"Bomb?"

"We won’t know until we do some analysis."

"But that’s what it looks like."

Another pause. "Maybe."

Nick nodded again and picked up his pile of printouts. "Here’s your suspect," he said. "John Maeker, lives four doors down."

Grissom took the sheets like he was afraid they’d burn him. "That’s fast work. What we found could be meaningless, just scrap metal."

"It’s not meaningless." Nick met his wary gaze steadily. "It’s proof."

Grissom flipped through the pages quickly after putting on his glasses. "Military background. Specialist in explosives." His lips thinned. "Early retirement two years ago." His eyes flickered to meet Nick’s. "Fits your profile. So why’d he do it?"

Swallowing, Nick replied, "I don’t know."

Grissom’s expression was studiously casual, but his eyes flared with some kind of feeling Nick didn’t want to name. "Yes, you do," Grissom said crisply.

"He feels like he has no purpose now. The Army trained him and used him, and then threw him away. His skills have no use in regular society."

Grissom looked faintly sickened. "So he just decided to blow up the neighbor’s house?"

"He’s planned it for months. He had to make another fire. See it burn. He doesn’t care if he’s caught. He just had to make the fire."

"How do you know that?" Grissom asked in a strangled mutter. "How in the name of Christ could you possibly know that?"

"I don’t know," Nick replied miserably. "I just do. He’s happy right now. He doesn’t care that they died. He’s happy with his creation."

Grissom looked away, folding the papers carelessly. "Warrick’s having what we found analyzed. If it’s a detonator, or what’s left of one, I’ll let Brass know."

"You -- You won’t tell --"

"Tell him you saw it all in a psychic flash at the site? I think I’ll leave that part out for now."

A bubble of nausea bloated and popped in Nick’s belly. "Good," he said faintly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I was at home."

Gil studied Maeker’s calm visage. Utterly expressionless. No fear, no anger. As smooth and even as new-fallen snow, and just as cold.

Brass stirred, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Anybody who could maybe back you up on that?"

Maeker shook his head slowly. "I live alone. I don’t get out much."

"Your background in the military indicates a specialty in explosives." Gil shifted, keeping his eyes glued to the man. "Not a very useful civilian occupation. Why’d you retire?"

"It was time."

"According to you, or your COs?"

Maeker regarded him stonily. "Does it matter?"

"It might."

"Am I a suspect?"

"We have no concrete evidence a crime has been committed. Why, do you know something we don’t?"

Maeker smiled, a slow, dead expression that chilled Gil more than anything else about this odd case. "A lot of things," Maeker pronounced. "A great many things."

"All right." Brass stood up with a pop of knee joints. "Why don’t we take a little trip downtown, Mr. Maeker? Maybe that would jog your memory."

Maeker didn’t react. The frigid smile faded back to nothing.

"Pyromaniac?" Brass asked a few minutes later, standing next to Gil as they watched Maeker being loaded into the back seat of a patrol car. "Firebug?"

Gil didn’t look at him. "Or maybe someone society made to do something they don’t need anymore. Discarded when he was no longer useful."

"So Nicky figured it out, huh?"

That made Gil glance over finally. "You heard about that?"

Brass nodded. "What I didn’t hear was how in the hell he broke it before you even got back to the lab. What’s up with that?"

Gil shook his head slowly. "When I know, I’ll tell you," he said slowly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Two

Every man before he dies shall see the devil. (English proverb)

It was a shitty day, and Ray Carmody had the headache to prove it.

Something landed on his desk, and he flinched.

"Aspirin." Fisher walked over, looking about as tired as Ray felt. "Can we talk?"

"You're an asshole," Ray snapped. He popped four Excedrin anyway, chasing them with cold coffee. "What are we gonna talk about? Huh? Weather? The fucking horse races?"

"How about the case?"

"Be my guest. Be my fucking guest." Ray leaned back and put his feet up on his desk. "Amaze me with your new insights. Because I'm all out of ideas."

Fisher sat down heavily across from him. "I know we've been at this a long time, but --"

"No, WE haven't been at this a long time. I have been at this a long time. A long, long goddamned time. You on the other hand have been on this for exactly four months. You still think we can break this, don't you?" He laughed harshly, shaking his head. "Real life, Fisher. This ain't Quantico, and you're so green you could march in the fucking St. Paddy's Day parade."

Sometimes he really wondered if Fisher were hearing-impaired. It was the only explanation for why none of Ray's slams seemed to affect him. "The pattern changes," he continued stolidly. "I showed you. It changes, two years ago. There's something there."

Ray sighed. Ah, fuck, it wasn't even any fun to give Fisher shit today. If that wasn't a sign of a truly, mindbogglingly bad day he didn't know what was. "I heard you when you told me the first time. I promise. And I think there is a change. I think you're right."

"So why don't --"

"Shut up. Listen to me, okay? It doesn't help. Nothing -- NOTHING -- helps."

For once Fisher looked slightly wounded. "But you've done fourteen years of --"

"I know how long it's been. Trust me. I know. I tell myself that every day." Ray reached for his cigarettes before he remembered the no-smoking policy. The thought made him feel like quitting. Not quitting smoking. Quitting the job. "But we have other cases to work on. Real cases. Criminals who aren't as smart as we are, criminals we can catch. Let's just do that, okay? Let's just -- let it go."

"Sir --"

"Tell me you have something legitimate to work on."

"I do, but --"

"Then why don’t you make me happy and go work on it."

Fisher’s mouth turned down, but he nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."

He didn’t watch Fisher slink out. Instead he swiveled his chair to inspect the view out the window. Not a lot to see out there. Dust, and shimmering heat, and a few cars crawling along four stories down, looking like Tinker Toys.

He sipped his dreadful coffee and set the cup down before levering himself out of the chair. Christ, the years weren’t getting any easier on him, either, if the rifle-shot pop of his knees had anything to say about it. He wandered out to the restroom in the hall and washed his hands unnecessarily, staring at himself in the mirror. The man staring back wasn’t exactly romanticized, either. More salt than pepper these days, starting to look his age after a long time of putting it off.

Well, snipe-hunting will do that to you, Ray my boy. Chasing ghosts of people too long dead, people everyone but you has forgotten. Seeing connections where there aren’t any. It’s a hard way to live, and a fast way to grow old.

His phone was ringing when he got back to his office, and he glared at it for three more rings before finally picking up.

Shelley sounded breathless. "I know you said no calls this morning, but line 2 is Mike McAda. He said --"

"It’s all right," Ray interrupted. "I’ll take it." He reached over and punched the flashing button. "Hey, Mike. What’s up?"

"Hey, Ray." McAda sounded reassuringly himself: all smooth good-old-boy camaraderie masking the real purpose of his call, which was probably lousy news. "How’s it going?"

Ray sank down in his chair and eyed his cup of cold coffee balefully. "It was going all right," he lied, "but if I know you it just got worse."

No trace of offense colored McAda’s tone. "Got a DB over here, and I remembered what you said last spring about that case in Reno. Looks like the same MO."

"Tell me."

"Just between you and me, right?"

"Of course."

McAda sounded a lot crisper suddenly. "42-year-old male, Hispanic, appears to have been strangled. Rancher turned up the body while he was out checking his fences early this morning."

Ray nodded to himself. "I’m assuming this will become pertinent at some point?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

"Well, since the guy was evidently a man of the cloth…."

Ray sat up. "Priest?"

"Father Jesus Martinez. Maybe he never got over the name." McAda paused to appreciate his own lame joke and continued, "ME’s having a look now, and we’ll have a definite cause of death later this week. But I thought you might like a head’s up."

"Did anything else turn up at the scene?"

"Don’t know that yet. Got the CSI’s looking around right now."

Ray sagged a little in his chair. "Grissom?"

"He’s the man."

"Great."

"Come on, Ray. He don’t bite."

He barks, Ray thought. That’s plenty. "Let me know what else you find, okay?"

"Always."

"Thanks, Mike. Owe you one."

He could almost hear McAda’s satisfied smile. "I live to serve, Agent Carmody."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late that night, Marcia closed the book she was reading with a snap. When he glanced over his questioning look turned to dread. He met her frustrated expression with as much calm as he could muster.

"I know," Ray said, holding up his hand. "I’m sorry."

"You said a year." Her voice had lost its normal mellifluous quality; she sounded tired, and angry. "One year. It’s been nearly eighteen months, Ray. When will it be enough?"

He took off his reading glasses and set them on the bedside table, resisting the urge to sigh. "We’ve been over this before. I’ve told you everything already. It’s just temporary, until --"

"Until what, Ray?" she shot back icily. "Until you’ve done your penance? Until you’ve caught enough real criminals to make up for the one that doesn’t exist?"

It always hurt when she said that. Years of hearing it from his superiors didn’t make it any easier to hear from his wife. "I don’t know," he told her as calmly as he could. "Maybe."

She didn’t say anything for a second. When she spoke again, the cruel edge had blunted slightly. "You had a great career, and you could get it back. You know you could. Leave it alone, Ray. Forget about it. And let us get back to our real lives."

"This isn’t --"

"This isn’t our lives! This is a goddamn holding pattern, and you know it!" She tossed the book on the floor, where it thudded sharply on the thin rug. "I want to go home," she added thickly. "I hate Nevada. Elise hates Nevada."

Anger was harder to control when it was as leavened with guilt as his was now. He sat up and swung around to stuff his feet in his waiting slippers.

"What, Ray?" Marcia said to his retreating back. "Gonna have a drink? Drown your sorrows? How can you drown mine, too, huh? Can you do that? Can your Apostle do that for us?"

His teeth were grinding so loudly he though Elise could probably hear them down the hall in her bedroom. Downstairs he veered carefully around the door to the study, making himself head for the kitchen instead. He drank orange juice and took his cigarettes outside to smoke.

It was cold out, the crisp dry kind of Nevada cold that he silently relished. Nothing hidden about the desert; nothing seductive, covert, no pretty Virginia window-dressing. The desert was what it was, no apologies, and no quarter. It didn’t accuse, and it didn’t care about guilt. It simply was.

He dragged hard on his cigarette and stared at the bright glow of Las Vegas lights over the hard-won trees. That was the problem with fighting with Marcia. She wasn’t wrong. And neither was he, and there weren’t any easy answers. He could apologize for bringing them here, and he had. Too many times to count. But no apology changed anything. An apology didn’t change what he’d spent too much time doing, time he could have spent edging up the Bureau ladder instead of chasing the ghosts of a killer whose existence was as debatable as this sere desert wasn’t.

Christ, he was thirsty.

He was lighting his second smoke when he remembered Mike McAda’s phone call. Mike was laid-back and crooked as the day was long, but he was also smart, and nearly as paranoid as Ray himself. If Mike thought this new murder was worth a look, it almost certainly was. He didn’t call for no reason. Mike never did anything without a reason.

He couldn’t face going back upstairs. Instead he got clothes out of the hamper and dressed in the laundry room. Unwashed, but there was a kind of simplicity in wearing dirty clothes that were already on the laundry schedule, so it wasn’t a problem.

Besides, if he ran into lab people, it would probably make him look like less of a Bureau creep.

He put on the deck shoes he usually wore for gardening, and slipped away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, doc."

Robbins glanced around, eyes narrowed. "Agent Carmody." His voice was more than dry; the vocal equivalent of the dust outside. "What brings you here this time of night?"

"Insomnia," Ray told him as lightly as he could. He walked over to the table. "Is this Father Martinez?"

"Someone’s been telling tales out of school."

"I’m not here in an official capacity. How’d he die?"

"Unless you’re representing the FBI," stated a chilly voice behind him, "that information’s off limits."

Ray took a second to school his features to an impassive mask before turning. "Dr. Grissom. Fancy meeting you here."

"This isn’t your case, Carmody," Grissom said, snapping latex gloves on his hands. "If we need your help, we’ll let you know."

"I know your opinion of my predecessor wasn’t very high, and from what I’ve heard, deservedly so." Ray slid his hands into his pockets. "But I’m not him."

Grissom’s gaze was as impermeable as granite. "Be that as it may, we have work to do. If you’ll excuse us?"

"Dr. Robbins, can I ask you one question?"

Robbins had the hangdog look of a guy stuck in between a rock and a very unyielding place, and gave him a slow, reluctant nod.

"What did you find in his chest?"

He didn’t need to hear the answer. The narrow surprise in Robbins’ eyes told him. Ray nodded, as well. "Good night, gentlemen."

Grissom caught up with him in the hallway. "God damn it, Carmody, you can’t just barge in here and --"

"Correction, Dr. Grissom, I can." Ray faced him squarely, meeting Grissom’s dislike with tired calm. "You know, it would make things a hell of a lot easier if you didn’t treat me like the enemy."

"How did you know?" Grissom asked, as if Ray hadn’t said anything at all. "If you have information relevant to my case --"

"I don’t." Ray gazed at him, seeing Marcia’s angry face. "I don’t have anything."

Grissom frowned. "Then why are you here?"

"Chasing a ghost. That’s all. Just chasing ghosts."

He didn’t wait for a reply. Outside the lab the night had gotten colder, and Ray shivered in his sweat shirt. And then he thought about Robbins’ autopsy, and the object in Father Jesus Martinez’s chest, and he shivered again. This time he wasn’t feeling the cold at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Three

"Our passion is our task. And the rest is the madness of art." (Henry James)

Sleep was next to impossible, but he tried anyway. Shot of bourbon, Tylenol PM, white noise from the radio, tuned to static. But behind his closed eyelids he saw fire, orange and yellow flames and smoke, curling like baroque traceries of destruction.

He sat up, aware of the afternoon light trying to pry fingers under the bedroom’s blinds, and listened to his own ragged breathing for a minute before throwing back the covers and giving up.

With no sleep and after a night like the one he’d just had, he figured he’d be worth shit at work. But instead of tired and draggy he felt peculiarly energized. It wasn’t a very positive feeling. Twitchy anxiety made him hesitate before touching anything. He’d never been so glad for latex. It hadn’t stopped last night’s weird -- whatever it was -- but there was a little comfort in knowing he wasn’t making real skin-to-skin contact.

But even when he did, nothing happened. The things he touched were just things: coffee cup, microscope, doorknob, chair back. No more sudden core dumps of information, jittery jagging images that made his brain feel as if it too were furiously afire.

His shift was almost done before he had to deal with anything regarding the Maeker case again, and he’d relaxed a little by that time. Enough that he could face Grissom and not feel like immediately apologizing.

"Brass says he thinks there’s enough for an indictment." Grissom pushed his glasses up his nose, frowning at the papers he held in his hand. "Not the first fire, looks like. Maeker lived in Albuquerque before Vegas, and there was a suspicious home fire in his neighborhood there as well. Never tied to him until now, but it’s pretty interesting."

Nick shifted in his chair. "Warrick turn anything up with the stuff he found?"

"Not sure yet. Ought to know by tomorrow." He sat back and took off his glasses, and didn’t say anything else.

Nick took in his quenched expression with a flicker of unease in his belly. "What?" Nick asked shortly.

Grissom gazed at him. "How did you know?"

Nick swallowed dryly. "That it was Maeker?" He couldn’t quite meet Grissom’s stare. "A hunch."

"Hunches are based on information, Nick. But you didn’t have any, certainly no more than the rest of us did. It sounds more like an epiphany than a hunch."

"What difference does it make? Got the bad guy, everyone can go home happy."

"Tell me how it happened."

The flickering anxiety in his belly surged, making him swallow again. "You really want to know?"

Grissom nodded. "I really do."

"Look, I just touched something, okay? And I knew. That’s it."

"I don’t believe you. I think it was more than that." Grissom leaned forward, brows drawing together in a frown. "I saw your face, Nick," he continued urgently. "You didn’t just know. You saw it happen, didn’t you?"

His brain echoed with remembered screams, and the belling sound of the dog’s endless, frantic barking. "I guess. Something like that."

"Has this sort of thing happened before?"

"What do YOU think?" Nick snapped. His face felt hot, embarrassed. Afraid. "No," he added curtly. "Nothing like this."

But hadn’t there been something? a tiny part of his mind whispered. Is that true? Or do you want it to be true? Enough that you’d --

"I’m not accusing you." Grissom’s expression softened, took on a film of concern. "If it was a hunch, it was a damned helpful one. But you have to admit it sounds wild."

"Yeah, well, do me a favor? Don’t tell anybody else about it. All I need is people treating me like I’m some kinda damn -- psychic."

"One time, it’s a hunch." Grissom’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. "But if you start getting more of these ‘hunches,’ let me know?"

When the damn pigs fly, Nick thought, and nodded. "Sure. You’ll be the first to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two nights later, it happened again. But this time with a vicious power that made Maeker’s bomb look like a firecracker.

The night didn’t start out badly. In fact it went pretty well, all things considered. First some finishing work on the Maeker case, which appeared to be heading rapidly toward the promised indictment. A search of the man’s home had turned up some incriminating materials, and Brass told Nick not long after his shift started that he figured an arrest was imminent.

Nick wasn’t quite sure how that made him feel, considering he might as well have seen it in a fucking crystal ball for all the empirical provability it had, but he reminded himself of his own words to Grissom a few days ago: what difference did it make? The only thing he was completely sure of was that Maeker had built a homemade bomb that took the lives of several innocent people. That was enough to salve his twitchy nerves. At least somewhat.

By the time he met up with Catherine at their assigned scene, he felt pretty much as solid as he had in days. The case was fairly straightforward, if somewhat gruesome: death by misadventure, some kid out farting around on his friend’s motorcycle, ending up the way too many of those did.

Catherine looked up at Nick, nose wrinkled. "What do you think? Booze, drugs, or bad luck?"

He shrugged. "Take your pick. Tox screen will say for sure."

She straightened and peeled her gloves off. "Know what they call motorcycle riders in the ER?"

"What?"

"Organ donors."

The guy’s friends predictably weren’t that much help.

"Jesus, he didn’t have that much to drink." This particular friend was a type Nick recognized too easily: future frat president, slicker than snot and faintly repellent. Nick wasn’t sure why lately he’d been viewing his own fraternity history with a more jaundiced eye, but he chalked it up to maturity. Or maybe a growing cynicism.

"He was okay when he left," the guy added, jaw stuck out and eyes meeting Nick’s confidently. "It was an accident, all right? Shit happens."

Biting back the urge to comment on the guy’s blasé attitude in the face of death, Nick nodded. "Your bike?"

"Yeah. Man, look at it."

Catherine’s mouth had a tense look Nick recognized as the mirror twin of his own creeping disgust. "So you guys had a party, you let Mark go for a ride on your new bike –"

"Not that new. Got it four months ago."

"New-ish. And nobody saw the actual crash?"

"Janie. But it’s dark, man, who can say?"

"Right. Served alcohol at this party?"

"Just beer."

"Last time I checked beer contained alcohol. How much beer?"

This time the guy’s look was mulish. "I already told the cops. You a cop too?"

"No," Nick said flatly. "We’re crime scene investigators."

"This wasn’t a CRIME –"

"If you let your buddy Mark drive your motorcycle knowing he was shitfaced? That, my friend, is a crime in all fifty states."

It got him the first honest look he thought this guy had worn since they met him. Nick wanted to smile at the scared flicker in the guy’s eyes. "I’m sure the police will be in touch once we’ve gotten Mark’s toxicology results," Nick added smoothly. "Thanks for your time."

When he turned away he stopped trying not to smile. Felt too damn good, wiping that smug look off that fucking kid’s face.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was overtime before he met Catherine at the morgue. He was surprised to see Grissom there as well, but then hadn’t he worked another DB that night? Nick wasn’t actually sure, but what the hell. At least the case he was one was looking pretty cut and dried.

"Your timing is impeccable," Robbins told them with a crooked smile. He lifted his chin in the direction of a file on a table nearby and went back to his work. "Toxicology, the usual suspects."

Nick brushed by Grissom on his way to retrieve the file, giving him a fast just-us-grunts smile. "So was he tanked?" he asked over his shoulder.

"BAL was .16. Your motorcycle rider shouldn’t have even been allowed to take a walk."

"Figured." Nick tucked the file under his arm and wandered back over. "Guess I’ll give Lt. Hankins a call." To his shock he almost made a crack about not needing any psychic abilities on this one, but bit it back before it could escape his lips.

"So what you working on?" Catherine had been standing at Robbins’ elbow, looking on with professional curiosity. Now she leaned forward a little.

Grissom gave her a brief look. "Terry Fletcher, age 34. Wife found him, dead of a single gunshot wound."

"Ah. Any leads?"

"Might have, if we finish this autopsy before the next millennium."

Catherine grinned and ducked her head a little. "So, we’ll stop bugging you, how about that?"

Grissom looked amused. "No problem. Good work, you guys."

"Easy work," Catherine told him dryly, but by that point Nick had pretty much stopped listening.

He didn’t ever figure out exactly why he decided to take a closer look himself. He wasn’t normally that interested in other cases. Yes, this was his livelihood, and he found all their cases at least professionally interesting, but it didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to work the ones he wasn’t assigned to. Too much of a busman’s holiday, and he had enough crap to deal with without taking on someone else’s as well.

But that didn’t stop him from stepping over, near the end of the table. Terry Fletcher was a heavyset man, and the first thing Nick thought was how his shoes must have been too tight, maybe from edema, because his feet were puffy, toenails a little discolored. Diabetes? Certainly possible.

He let his eyes travel up Fletcher’s body, and felt his hands tingling. The room was so quiet. All he could hear now was his own heart, thudding away in his chest. Too fast, and the room was so cold, so goddamned cold.

Without thinking he reached out and touched Fletcher’s ankle.

A welter of images, flickering and jagging like a videotape on super-high speed. Faces, an elderly woman with tears drying on her face, a boy of maybe nine, gazing over his shoulder at him with a grin, a girl so beautiful she belonged on magazine covers. And places, a house with an immaculate yard, gorgeous roses, clipped grass and perfect hedges, and a swing on a white-painted porch. An empty field after harvest, and dust curling down the furrows. A lake – Tahoe? – and a boat, and hands stringing a fishing line with a chunk of bright orange cheese.

A man’s face, twisted in shock and horror. Blood on a mirror, and a finger tracing a figure in the gore. A woman in a black dress, staring with dead eyes at nothing.

When the voice came he wanted to scream, but he didn’t know if he was, couldn’t feel his throat anymore, couldn’t feel if he had air in his lungs. He listened because he had no choice, because the sound was all-encompassing, a trumpet blast pointed not at his ear but at his mind, a furious, elated bellow of triumph.

Screaming, Nick tore his hand away, and then the autopsy room was gone, and the voice as well, and he sank into welcome, silent blackness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Four

Behold ye scoffers, for I will work wonders in your days, which ye will not believe. (Book of Habbakuk)

"Nick. Nicky. Wake up. Come on, open your eyes."

His eyelids felt sticky, and he pried them open with difficulty. Above him, hovering like anxious birds, were Grissom, Catherine, and Doc Robbins. Catherine’s face was white as death.

"Nick, are you okay?" she asked, touching his shoulder.

He blinked at her, and glanced at Grissom, and something whispered in his mind, some remnant of awfulness. He drew a harsh gasp and sat up, and the room swam for a second.

"Not so fast." Grissom’s mouth was drawn into a tense line, but his hand was gentle, urging Nick to lean against the table leg. "Take it easy. You fainted."

"How are you feeling?" Robbins asked. He had a black bag open on the floor next to his crutch, and Nick thought about how weird it was, because he was still alive, and Robbins worked with dead people. Didn’t have to ask them how they felt, did he? "Dizzy? Any nausea, headache?"

Nick worked some spit into his ash-dry mouth. "What happened?"

No one said anything for a second, and when he looked at them he saw a trio of similar expressions: wary, uncertain, more than a little shocked. "You might have to tell us, Nick," Catherine said finally, giving him an unhappy little half-smile. "I looked over at you and – you looked like you were having a seizure or something. You started talking, I mean, yelling. And then you passed out cold. Happened so fast, we didn’t –" She broke off, looking more unhappy. "Nobody had time to catch you. Are you okay?"

"Talking?" Nick cleared his throat rustily. "What did I say?"

He didn’t miss the look all three of them exchanged. "What?" Nick added more strongly. "I don’t – remember much." Anything, he almost added. But he did. A little.

Only Grissom met his eyes fully. His expression was impossible to read. "It wasn’t English," he said calmly.

Nick stared at him, dizziness forgotten. "Huh?"

"I don’t even know it was real words as such. No language I recognized." His tone was faintly peeved, as if that puzzle surprised him.

"Nick, I’d like to get you over to the ER," Robbins said. "Get a CT scan, make sure you don’t have something going on. I can’t say if this was a seizure or not until we get some tests run."

"Is – Do you think that’s what happened?"

Robbins shrugged. "It’s certainly possible. When you woke up you were pretty post-ictal. Confusion is standard after a seizure."

"I don’t feel confused now."

"What’s today’s date?"

Nick swallowed. "March 18^th."

"Who’s the president of the United States?"

"You’re kidding me."

The ghost of a smile flitted over Robbins’ grizzled features. "Humor me."

"George Bush. Dubya. I didn’t have a seizure."

"I’d prefer if we –"

"And I don’t need to go to the hospital." Nick grasped the table leg and hoisted himself up, glad the room didn’t immediately turn into a Tilt-A-Whirl this time. "I’m okay."

"Nick, why don’t you go?" Catherine asked in a low voice. Her hand was cool on his arm. "It won’t take long. And you can make sure nothing else is going on."

"I’m already sure." A ripple of anger made him swallow. "We all know what it is," he added gruffly, flicking a glance at Grissom. "We’re just not saying it out loud." He took a step forward and looked down at Fletcher’s blue-tinged body. "He had a stone, didn’t he? In his chest."

When he looked over Robbins’ face was almost as pale as the dead man’s. "How –"

"Where his heart was," Nick continued flatly. "The killer removed his heart and replaced it with a big rock."

"Who have you been talking to?" Grissom gazed at him with what looked a lot like anger, but wasn’t. Just that familiar, terrible intensity, now point in Nick’s direction. "How do you know that?"

Fighting down the urge to laugh, or maybe cry, Nick shook his head. "Who do you think I’ve been talking to, man? Nobody! I’ve been doing my job. I know it the same way I knew Maeker blew that family to kingdom come the other day." He held his hand over the body, an inch from touching. "I know it because I SAW it. You think I’m making this up? How could I know this? How?"

"You couldn’t," Catherine said unsteadily. He hated the almost fearful look in her eyes. "There’s no way you could know. Unless you were here."

"But I was with YOU," Nick shot back. "I’ve never seen or heard of this guy. And his chest’s already sewn up again, I mean, it’s not like I watched the whole autopsy. What kind of evidence do you guys need? I didn’t have a seizure, okay? I –" His momentum ran out abruptly; he felt suddenly exhausted, and bewildered. "I don’t know what I had," he added after a silent moment. "But I saw things. I saw – what he did to Fletcher."

"Who?" Grissom demanded. "What who did?"

"The killer. I – saw parts of it. And there was more." He put his fingers to his forehead, where a tiny headache had blossomed. "I don’t remember that as well."

"Nick, what you’re talking about –" Robbins broke off, looking flummoxed. "You’re talking about a psychic ability, and that’s pure science fiction. You couldn’t possibly –"

"Morris Pearson was legit." Nick ignored Robbins, focusing on Grissom. "He was right. About everything. You saw it yourself."

"Most of what Pearson said was so vague as to be interpreted almost any way you like. He gave very few –"

"He came to my own goddamn house because he knew I was in danger." Nick glared at him. "He was a mile ahead of you, and you know it! How could he have known that? He knew about Jane Galloway, he knew about me."

Grissom sighed. "Nick, our experiences with Morris Pearson were far from empirical data. I agree there were some startling congruencies there, but it’s not proof."

"What would be proof for you?" Nick asked. His heart thudded in his chest, and his headache was getting worse by the second. "What would it take for you to believe he was right? Or that I am? I respect the scientific method as much as you do, but I also know what I know. Pearson saw Nigel Crane fall through my ceiling, hours before it actually happened! How can you stand that and tell me that isn’t proof? I was THERE! I lived it!"

"Nick, I need you to calm down." Robbins had an anxious look now, a doctor-y look. "This isn’t going to be resolved right here, this very moment, and I’m not convinced you haven’t experienced a neurological event. If nothing else, will you go home and rest for a day or two?"

As much as he was not going to admit it to anyone there, he felt like hammered shit about now. His head was killing him, and he felt like he might hork up his dinner sometime pretty soon. He settled for shrugging. "Sure. Okay. I can do that."

"Catherine, would you drive him home? He shouldn’t operate a motor vehicle right now."

She nodded. Grissom looked thunderous, but said nothing at all. Nick thought about some parting shot, but his head hurt too much to come up with anything good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He started noticing it the next night at work. Subtle, not really all that big a deal, but it was there. Definitely there.

"What?" he asked finally.

Greg blinked at him. "What what?"

Nick drew a deep breath for calm. "What was the look for?"

"What look?"

"Look, you got something you want to ask me? Ask me." He sat down in the nearby chair and crossed his arms. "I’m an open book, man. Shoot."

"I’m not asking anything." But his eyes flickered when he said it, and it didn’t take a psychic to see right through him.

Nick nodded. "You want to know if it’s for real?"

A painfully evasive look twisted Greg’s features. "It’s none of my business, Nick, I mean –"

"The answer is, I don’t know. I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. There. Now you have something to tell people around the water cooler."

He stood up fast, and the chair shot out behind him, rolling on casters. Greg now looked absolutely miserable. "Aw, Nick, come on. Word got around, okay?"

"What word? Word about what?"

"The guy that blew up the house. You know."

"And what are people saying?"

"Just – that you knew it was him before anyone else."

"That’s all?"

Greg’s eyes slid away from his own. "Well. And that you kinda, you know. Just. Knew."

Hearing it spoken aloud had a curiously deflating effect; it didn’t sound quite as weird as he’d thought. Or else so weird his mind didn’t quite bend itself around it, one, he wasn’t sure which. Whatever, he now felt tired, and on display. "I did," he said hollowly. "I just knew."

Greg looked back up, this time with real surprise. "So it’s true? Oh man, that’s so freaking cool. Like a psychic flash or something?"

"I guess. Something like that. Look, it’s no big deal, all right? Just one of those freaky things, that’s all." He forced a smile that felt as fake as – well, most psychics he’d ever heard about, actually. "Could have happened to anyone. We’ve all had that kind of thing happen once or twice. You know, got a feeling you know who’s on the phone before you answer it. That kind of thing."

"Knowing who’s on the phone’s a little different from knowing who killed four people," Greg said softly.

"Maybe. But maybe it’s not that different. Just – a different flavor of the same thing."

Greg nodded, looking completely unconvinced. "Sure, Nick. Okay."

"I’m not a psychic, Greg. Whatever people say. I’m just a regular guy. Just like I always was."

Greg nodded again. It made Nick feel like screaming.

The rest of the night was pretty normal, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that people were staring at him. Talking about him when he wasn’t around. Which was stupid, because if he WAS psychic now, god only knew how, he’d know anyway, right? Not just feel paranoid – he’d have the whole story. But he didn’t. Just this creeping uneasy feeling, like the walls had both eyes and ears.

It took him by surprise when Grissom stopped by.

"Hey," Nick said, taking off his goggles. "What’s up?"

"Got a minute?"

Nick felt his fragile smile slipping. "Sure."

"Come down to my office."

Never failed. Going to Grissom’s office was just exactly like elementary school. Going to the principal’s office. Only he wouldn’t get detention or a smack from the paddle this time. This was grownup shit, and he felt as if he were wading through wet cement, walking down the hall.

By the time he got there Grissom was already seated at his desk. "Have a seat," he said mildly.

"What’s up?" Nick sat cautiously.

No smile lightened Grissom’s features; he looked as bleak as Nick had ever seen, which was saying something. "I’m pulling you off your current cases."

Nick recoiled. His heart triphammered in his chest. "Pull –"

"I want you to work with me on this one. It’s not censure. Don’t think that."

"Oh." He relaxed minutely, still staring at Grissom. "Your case? Fletcher?"

Grissom nodded. "Except it isn’t just Fletcher," he added grimly. "It’s potentially a lot bigger than that."

Nick sagged a little. His pulse was still way too fast. Damn, Grissom really knew how to get a guy’s attention. "Okay. Look, you know I’m all over it, whatever I can do." He paused. "This isn’t just – needing an extra hand, is it?"

There had been surpassingly few times he could remember seeing Grissom look abashed. The expression sat strangely on his features, like an ill-fitting suit. "No," he admitted, ducking his head a little. "It’s not."

Nick nodded slowly. "It’s because of last night."

"I had an interesting conversation last night with Ray Carmody. You know him?"

"Not – no, I’ve never met him. He’s the ASAC, right? FBI?"

"Agent Carmody has an informant somewhere. I’m not sure where, and believe me I’ll find out." Grissom’s jaw twitched. "But what was interesting about this conversation is that there is a possible connection between Fletcher’s murder and several older crimes. Crimes Carmody has investigated in the past."

Nick drew a breath, and Grissom held up a finger. "It gets a lot better. Because Carmody has chased this killer for a very long time. And to date he’s never had a shred of concrete evidence to prove the person even exists. He’s a ghost."

Swallowing, Nick said, "I’m gonna assume you don’t mean a real ghost."

"There are some notable differences between our cases and those Agent Carmody worked earlier."

"Cases? Plural?"

Grissom reached out and picked up a thick file. "The first Las Vegas victim was Father Jesus Martinez. The M.O. was different. But."

"The heart. It was gone."

Grissom nodded. "You were right about Fletcher. And Martinez was the same."

"So…what do you want me to do?"

Grissom leaned forward, holding out the file, and Nick took it with cold fingers. "Read this for starters. I’ll get you what I have on Fletcher when you’re done. After that?" Grissom sat back again, lacing his fingers together. "Work the case," he said simply. "Because our cases are so far limited to the state of Nevada, Carmody can’t help in any official capacity. But he’s availed us of his notes, and that might help. We’ll meet with him tomorrow."

"Okay."

"What happened last night was inexplicable." Grissom’s expression darkened, looking frustrated. "I’m not going to say that I believe in paranormal phenomena. Or that I’m so stuck on this case that I’ll grasp at straws. What I do believe is that there is an explanation for things. We may not have that explanation yet, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Do you take my meaning?"

Nick nodded stiffly. "Kinda how I feel, too."

Grissom smiled fractionally. "That said, I think you had some insight, and I’d be a fool not to put you to work where you might be able to benefit the case in ways others can’t."

"So just in case."

"I guess so. Yes."

"I don’t – know anything," Nick said, feeling the words out cautiously. "I saw some stuff. But I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what any of it means. Or if it means anything at all."

"The things you said last night – they bothered me. I’m familiar at least in passing with a lot of languages, and these didn’t even ring a bell. I wrote down what I could remember of them." Grissom shifted papers around and pulled out a sheet of legal-sized yellow paper. "It wasn’t much. But I called an acquaintance of mine in California, a linguistics professor at UCLA. I gave him what I had, and he was fascinated. He couldn’t identify the language with ironclad certainty, but he did have some comments."

The room felt as if someone had cranked down the air-conditioning; it was meat-locker cold. Nick fought down a shiver. "Comments?"

"The closest match he could come up with was Aramaic. Precursor to modern Hebrew, the language Christ spoke. A dead language, long dead."

"Aramaic?" Nick stared at him. "That’s – I don’t speak any other languages. I mean, a little Spanish, I took French in college. But –"

"He couldn’t be certain, and he did have a couple of names, people he said might be able to say more accurately what this was. I want you to look at what I wrote down. See if it seems familiar."

Nick took the paper he held out, holding it gingerly. "O-kay."

Grissom had shitty handwriting, and for a second Nick almost made a joke about how maybe the alphabet was just as foreign as the language. And then he forgot about making jokes, and took in the words.

It wasn’t anything like the previous jolts. Nothing overt, nothing he could pin down. And he certainly didn’t know what the words meant.

But some part of him knew something. He could feel it in the prickle of the short hairs on the back of his neck, the way his hands started to shake. It was gibberish, but it wasn’t. What it was, he couldn’t say. But not garbage.

"Nick?"

Grissom’s soft question made him jerk in his chair. He drew a fast breath. "I can’t read it," he said, hearing his own voice as if from a distant room. "It doesn’t mean anything to me."

Grissom’s eyes narrowed just a little. "Really?"

His throat had gone painfully dry. "It’s familiar," Nick added hoarsely. "It’s like – nonsense syllables. But I feel like I’ve heard them before."

"I can’t swear that what I wrote down is anything like accurate. Maybe in the ballpark, but more than that I seriously doubt. But you went white as a sheet when you read those words."

Nick reached out and put the sheet of paper on Grissom’s desk. He felt absurdly like crying. "This is all kinda – freaking me out," he mumbled, not meeting Grissom’s all-too-penetrating gaze. "I don’t -- I don’t know anything. I just saw some things."

"Tell me what you saw? What you can remember?"

"It’s all mixed up together. I can’t -- I don’t know what’s what. I don’t."

"You screamed, Nick," Grissom said gently. "Just before you fainted. You screamed. Was it because of what you saw?"

Nick tried to swallow, and couldn’t anymore. The dryness in his throat had become real pain. "No," he choked. "No."

"What?"

"I don’t know."

But the thought was right there, immediate and irrefutable: You do know. You know good and well.

"Nick?"

He heard his throat make a dry little "glick" sound before he replied. "It wasn’t what I saw, it was what I felt," he said in a cracked rush. "I felt it."

Grissom nodded, eyes locked with his own. "What did you feel?"

"Evil," Nick whispered. His eyes filled with tears. "The worst evil imaginable."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Five

Hey there Mister Madman, whatcha know that I don't know

Tell me some crazy stories, let me know who runs this show

(Kansas)

"Your 8:30 appointment is here."

Ray reached out and tapped the intercom button. "Thanks, Shelley. Send him in."

"Him" turned out to be "them"; Grissom was accompanied by a man Ray had never seen before.

"Dr. Grissom," Ray said evenly, standing and coming around to shake Grissom’s hand.

"Agent Carmody." Grissom didn’t smile. "This is my colleague, Nick Stokes. He’s working the case with me."

Stokes shook his hand lightly and fast, as if he’d touched something very hot. Frowning, Ray circled his desk again. "Have a seat, gentlemen. Want some coffee?"

"No, thank you." Grissom didn’t look at Stokes as he sat down. "I realize you can’t help in any official way, but I’m very interested in see what you might know about our case."

Ray nodded cautiously. "I don’t know anything about your case, aside from a few similarities to some I’ve worked in the past," he qualified. "But I’m willing to talk about those. Off the record."

"Of course. You’ve seen something like this before?"

Ray nodded again. "You should know that none of what I’m about to tell you has ever been given any official sanction." He sat back and laced his fingers together. Work day barely started, and he was already hearing that little whisper in the back of his head. The one that wouldn’t be a whisper for long, but louder, until it was a yell he couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear. He thought about the bottle he didn’t keep in the bottom left drawer anymore, and swallowed.

"If we are looking for a serial killer," he continued heavily, "he’s slippery. My interest in this case, if you want to call it that, started back in 1989. I was new with the Bureau, working out of the Dallas field office. A nun was found murdered in November of that year, Sister Mary Peter McWhorter. Strangled, no sexual assault. It got quite a bit of publicity, and I had the chance to see the coroner’s report. The case was up to local law enforcement, but I followed it out of curiosity."

Stokes stirred, and Ray glanced at him. "Yes?"

"I remember that case. People said it was a cult. Satanists, maybe. But no one ever found out for sure."

Ray eyed him consideringly. "Right, yes. You sound like you’re from Texas. Did you work that case?"

Stokes shook his head. "Still in college. But my parents did."

"Stokes. Thomas Stokes?"

"My father."

Ray sat back, raising his eyebrows. "I worked with Tom Stokes on a few cases. Tough as nails. He’s a justice now, isn’t he?"

"Right. But it always bugged him that the Sister Mary Peter case was never solved. He never closed the file, always said there was something else there, something they’d missed."

"He was right," Ray said baldly. "But neither he nor I could ever prove it."

Stokes leaned forward, his square-jawed face a younger replica of his father’s. Ray was irked that he hadn’t seen the resemblance until now, but hell, how many years had it been, anyway? And he hadn’t seen Tom Stokes in a lot of those years. "Did she fit our pattern here in Vegas?"

"Not quite. There was no stone in her chest, for one thing. And there was something at that site, and subsequent ones, that you haven’t mentioned having found with yours. Some writing."

Grissom shifted. "Note? What did it say?"

"No one there could read it." Ray sat back and shrugged. "It took a while to find anyone who could. It was in Aramaic."

Both Grissom and Stokes flinched.

Ray raised his eyebrows. "Or maybe I was wrong about you not finding any notes," he said dryly.

Grissom shook his head. "No notes." He looked distinctly uncomfortable, shooting Stokes a quick glance. "Let’s just say that doesn’t come from as far out of left field as it might normally. Did they get a translation?"

"They did," Ray said slowly. "Roughly, ‘For the nature of the body returns always and only to its own nature.’"

"I don’t recognize it. Nick?"

Stokes shook his head, gazing at Ray with rapt focus. Ray nodded. "It’s a quote from one of the Gnostic gospels. Not exactly on most people’s summer reading lists."

Grissom cleared his throat. "Gnostic, from the Greek ‘gnosis,’ for knowledge. Traditionally Gnostics believed they had a special knowledge of all things divine. And a nun was murdered. You think the killer is Gnostic?"

"I have no idea. But the Church and gnosticism have traditionally been pretty divided. It hasn’t made it any easier to find our killer."

"Who else has he killed?" Stokes asked, dark eyes intent as ever.

"That’s a very good question, and the answer is: I don’t know. I know how many I suspect. Can I prove them beyond the shadow of a doubt? Not enough to please my superiors, or a court of law."

Grissom shifted in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. "So you believe our two local murders are connected?"

Ray sat back and shrugged. "The symbolism of replacing someone’s heart with a stone is pretty blunt. I’d say there’s a resemblance, but I’m sure more than one person has resorted to ham-fisted symbols in order to get a point across. Heart like a stone, hard-hearted, etc. Father Martinez’s murder clearly suggests a connection. But the second victim wasn’t Catholic, as far as I’ve seen."

"Nor I. Were all the previous victims Catholic? Just how many are we talking about, total?"

"That I know of, or at least suspect? Eight. Only one wasn’t a practicing Catholic, but he was raised in the Church. Your victim, Fletcher -- he doesn’t fit the paradigm."

"He was religious, though," Stokes said quietly.

Ray glanced at him. "How so?"

"Mormon."

Grissom was also looking at his partner, his expression a little puzzled. "When I spoke with Fletcher’s wife," he said, turning back to Ray, "she expressed his devotion to the LDS church. Different creed, similar faith. Still think he’s not connected?"

"Doubtful. But I won’t say it’s impossible. If he is connected with the previous cases, it suggests a significant deviation from the pattern."

"So if you’ve got all this evidence linking fourteen years’ worth of crimes," Stokes said abruptly, "why don’t you have a task force assembled? The FBI’s just letting these cases go unsolved? Why?"

Staring at him, Ray felt his throat tightening. With anger or something else, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. "That’s a good question," he said after a moment. "The answer is, these cases were investigated. This isn’t closed."

He saw Stokes frown, and had a flash of Tom, flushed and angry over a beer. That same lantern jaw, and an identical bulldog look. When had that been? Four years ago? Five? After William Carnes. Baltimore, Jake’s Roadhouse, and Ray had had about six shots of tequila past his limit. And that was a big limit. "You’re fucking it up, Ray," in Tom’s velvet Texas twang, softness covering tempered steel. "Aren’t you? Goddamn it, you’re fucking it all up."

Aloud he continued, "We’re still working on it." He produced a formal smile. "Don’t worry. But until we have some piece of concrete evidence linking your two dead men with my eight victims, I can’t offer any more than discussion."

"Do you have a suspect?" Grissom asked, regarding him stolidly.

"Not as such," Ray replied after a moment. "There’s the rub, as they say. Off the record?" He sighed. "Combine Mr. Clean with the Invisible Man, and that’s who we’re looking for. He leaves no trace evidence at the scene. There is no connection between the methods of the victims’ deaths; whoever is doing this seems to choose a different method for each person, with no connection that I can determine. Two victims were shot, but ballistics turned up no matches in any of our databases, nor were any weapons found. The scenes have been scrupulously clean. Does that line up with your two victims?"

Grissom nodded. "So far, nothing. Aside from their gender and the ritualistic aspects of their deaths, our two victims seem to have nothing in common. No trace evidence specific enough to move us forward."

"What about the location?" Stokes asked suddenly. "Vegas. I mean, it’s Sin City. If our guy is making some kind of statement, what better place to do it?"

Ray nodded. "Good point, and it occurred to me as well. But it gets us no closer to our perpetrator."

"But if he stays local, that could change."

"Maybe. That’s all I have, gentlemen." Ray forced a professional smile and shrugged. "Aside from files and various bits of – ephemera. Evidence of a sort."

Grissom’s eyes were all too astute. "You’ll share?"

"On the QT? Sure. But don’t get me wrong." He felt his fragile smile falling and didn’t much care. "I’ve been chasing this ghost for a lot of years now," he continued, leaning forward and placing his hands flat on his desk. "You keep me informed, in the loop. Or I take my toys and go home. Understood?"

"Understood," said Grissom with a faint smile.

Ray glanced at Stokes. "Your father cared a lot about this case, and so do I," he said bluntly. "There’s more to it than I’ve been able to find. I can already tell you’re not being completely square with me. What did the Aramaic mean to you? Why wasn’t that a surprise?"

Stokes didn’t say anything, but his face lost color. Grissom shifted and to Ray’s eyes, looked almost diffident. Certainly an expression Ray hadn’t expected to see. "Take my word for this," Grissom said in a soft voice. "When we understand, we’ll tell you. Okay?"

Ray regarded him stolidly. "Not really," he replied after a moment. "But what the hell." He drew a deep breath. "There’ll be more bodies. He’s been on a hiatus, I think. Something maybe happened, delayed him. Or something else changed, I don’t know what. But he’s back in business, and I think until someone stops him you’ll be busy. I’ll bring my unit and everything at my disposal if you can give me one link to the files I’m giving you. Don’t make this territorial, Grissom. We gotta share the pool, or he’ll get away."

Unruffled, Grissom nodded. "We’ll be in touch, Agent Carmody." He lifted his chin. "Thank you for speaking with us."

Ray watched the files change hands, all that information so hard to obtain and looking so insignificant, reduced to a few folders and a couple of Paige boxes. He walked the two CSIs to the door, and caught another hooded, uncertain look from Stokes.

"Talk to your dad," Ray said impulsively, hand on the doorknob. "Ask him if what I say is true."

Stokes swallowed. "I’ll do that."

Door closed, Ray walked slowly over to the window. Outside the day had turned gray, clouds moving in from the west, casting dull shadows over the sidewalks below. He shivered, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Maybe he’d take off early today. Go home, spend some time with Marcia. Let her talk, for once. Listen to her, as he hadn’t been listening since what she said tended to be so familiar. Familiar because he’d heard it before? Or because it matched what he felt?

Time to let go of all of this. Go do the right thing, go back and make up for lost time. Wasn’t too late. Couldn’t be. He couldn’t afford it to be.

He swallowed convulsively and leaned his forehead against the glass.

Chapter Six

He shall lean upon his house, but it shall not stand: he shall hold it fast but it shall not endure. (Job 8:15)

"Thoughts?"

He glanced over at Nick, who had been silent since their departure from Carmody’s office. Nick’s mouth was pinched, and he kept his eyes forward. "Nick?"

"Huh?"

"I was asking what you thought of all that."

"Oh." Nick still didn’t look at him, glancing instead at the heavy file folder he held. "I’m thinking if he’s right, we have a lot of work to do." His tone was light, but something about his tense body language shouted to Gil of unexpressed tension. "I remember my dad talking about this, a few times," Nick continued. "Sister Mary. Nearly drove him crazy that he couldn’t prosecute her killer."

Gil directed his attention back to the road ahead. "You’re Catholic, right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ever study any of the Gnostic gospels? Learn anything about Gnosticism in general?"

From the corner of his eye he saw Nick shake his head. "You?"

"Nothing substantial. This entire case – if these cases are indeed all connected – reeks of religious mysticism, something, I’m not sure what. Don’t you feel that?"

"Think it or feel it?" Nick replied in a sharp voice, and Gil looked at him. "You asking me as a CSI?" Nick continued, dark eyes somehow dangerous. "Or something else?"

"I’m asking you as Nick, the person I’m working the case with," Gil returned mildly.

Nick paused, and then sighed. "Sorry. Guess that was kinda uncalled for."

"Understandable, though. I didn’t ask you to work the case with me solely because of what’s been happening. Much as it might appear that I did."

"Know something weird?" Nick tapped the folder in his lap. "I thought maybe something would happen, up there. In Carmody’s office, you know, talking about all this. Something like in the morgue the other day."

Gil nodded and signaled for his turn. "And?"

"Nada. Well. I mean, nothing that big."

Gil raised his eyebrows. "That’s not the same as nothing," he said slowly. "Are you saying you did feel something?"

"Maybe. Not sure what, though."

"You want to tell me about it?"

Nick was silent while they exited the highway, and only drew a breath once Gil had made his right turn. "It’s Carmody," he said suddenly. "But it’s not. It’s – like something connected to him. I don’t know how to explain it."

Gil nodded slowly. "When you know, tell me?"

"Absolutely."

They didn’t speak again while Gil drove them back to the lab. It was late, they were both hours into overtime, and as he watched Nick trudge over to his own truck and climb in, Gil felt a sharp tug of sympathy, unexpected and plangent. Nick walked like a man waiting for a blow to fall, someone in the midst of a beating who knew there would be more, and who dreaded it even as he expected it as surely as night followed day.

Nick had just climbed into his vehicle as Gil approached. His expression lightened a little. "You okay?"

Gil smiled. "I was about to ask you that."

Nick sagged a little, hand draped over the steering wheel. "I’m all right. I mean. You know."

"Buy you an early lunch?"

"Yeah? I – sure. Yeah, hop in."

They ended up at Paco’s, of course; it was still early enough to hint about breakfast, and this was the greasiest of greasy spoons, but the food was horrifically great and Gil didn’t mind. He ordered something disgusting and waited to hear Nick’s equally cholesterol-laden request, but Nick surprised him with cereal and fruit. "Hey, I can be healthy," Nick retorted, catching Gil’s raised eyebrow. "On alternate Tuesdays."

"Today’s Thursday."

"Then, too."

Gil sipped his coffee and regarded Nick, smile slipping away. "Have there been any more – flashes?"

"No. Not except the thing with Carmody. And I don’t know what’s up with that."

"How do you feel?"

Nick’s gaze was dark and guarded. "Tired," he said slowly. After a moment of swirling his glass of ice water he added, "And a little scared."

"Of the case, or what’s happening to you?"

"What is happening to me?" Nick shot back. "Do you know? Because I sure as hell don’t."

"You want to know what I really think?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Gil nodded carefully. "I think you are more insightful than you appear to be. And I think intuition can look very much like something mystical, under the right light."

"So I’m not psychic?"

"What’s psychic? How is it any different from a hunch that proves to be correct? The label doesn’t change the intrinsic facts. A hunch can seem fully as insupportable as a psychic – flash, if you want. But intuition is based on knowledge, in the long run. Maybe even knowledge you don’t know you have. Observation, thought, experience."

Nick gave a tight nod. "So that’s how I knew Fletcher had a rock where his heart ought to be? A hunch?"

Gil sat back and shrugged. "I don’t know. You said yourself your father was obsessed with Sister Mary Peter’s murder. It’s likely that you’ve drawn on old knowledge, dredged up –"

"She didn’t have a stone inside her."

"No."

"Lucky guess?" Nick snorted. "I just don’t buy it. I didn’t guess. I knew."

"How did you know? Did you realize it, think about it?"

"No. It was like – something falling out of the sky. One moment it wasn’t there, the next it was. I didn’t know and then I touched him and I did. That’s it."

After a moment Gil sighed. "Be that as it may, Nick," he said gently. "Humans aren’t truly psychic, as popular media would define it. Morris Pearson was a very sensitive person, that much I will say. But being empathetic is not being psychic."

Nick’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. "So what would it take to make you think there WAS such a thing? What would convince you?"

"What difference does that make? My belief or disbelief in psychic phenomena doesn’t change what you’re experiencing, does it?"

"No. I don’t guess so." Nick sipped his water. "So why’s this happening now? Why didn’t it happen a year ago, or five years ago?"

"Maybe it was happening, and you didn’t recognize it as such."

"No. No, it wasn’t. I’d have known." Nick shivered visibly, his cheeks going a little pale. "Take my word for it."

Gil nodded. "Then maybe it’s better not to ask at all. Just go forward. What else can you do, realistically?"

Nick’s smile was ghostly. "Not much."

They ate in silence, and Gil thought some of the savor was gone from Paco’s cooking. That, or Nick’s palpable discomfort sapped Gil’s appetite. They finished fast, and Gil paid and followed Nick outside.

Back at the lab, Nick put his truck in neutral and kept his eyes forward. "Tell me this," he said tonelessly. "What if you’re wrong? What if it really is psychic?"

"It isn’t, Nick. Trust me. Don’t let your imagination run away with you."

What Nick said next chilled him. "I never imagined anything like this. Never." Nick’s eyes were dark with misery. "But someone else did. Does. How can I imagine someone else?"

Gil put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and felt him tense and then slump a little. "I don’t know," Gil said gently. "But I think the absence of an explanation doesn’t mean one isn’t there. It only means we don’t have it yet."

"I hope you’re right," Nick whispered. "God, I hope you are."

"Get some rest, Nicky. It’s been a long night."

"Yeah. See you later."

He watched Nick drive away, and hated the tiny stubborn voice that repeated Nick’s question inside his head. What if he was wrong? It wasn’t impossible. Improbable, maybe, or so he believed, but not outside the realm of possibility. What if Nick, against all odds, all requirements of the scientific method, had somehow gained an ability that went beyond the norm?

He was sweating, and the air felt cold and dry against his skin. Gil swallowed and dug in his pocket for his keys, pushing the vague unease away.

Chapter Seven

A man’s past is not simply a dead history…It is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavours and the tinglings of a merited shame. (George Eliot)

When he awoke it was pitch dark inside his apartment, only the faint green gleam of his alarm clock breaking the blackness. 9:14.

Nick sat bolt upright in bed, and immediately put a hand to his forehead, gritting his teeth at the surge of pain. Slept too long, maybe, or no maybes about it, he was two hours late to work, and his head was killing him. Remnants of dreams clung like vapor hugging the ground: a man’s face, his father’s, crooked teeth showing in an awkward grin, his hands covered with soot. Awake he strained to remember what his father was trying to say, and felt it slithering away, vague as mist.

His hand shook when he picked up the phone. Grissom answered after the first ring, sounding tense.

"I overslept."

"I noticed."

Nick swallowed as his headache expanded and contracted again. "I had the weirdest dream," he blurted without thinking. "I want to remember it. I need to."

"Nick, I don’t have time right now. Are you coming to work? Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah. I just – musta been tired, that’s all. I’ll be there in a minute."

"Call me when you get in."

"Will do."

He trudged to the shower, and in the middle of relishing the feel of blazing hot water and soap on his skin he wondered about the smell. Perfumey. Not the soap, and he wasn’t anywhere near putting on any cologne, even if Grissom didn’t frown so prodigiously on the practice. No, this was feminine, a little heavy, he wanted to call it old-fashioned.

By the time he rinsed off the smell was gone, but it nagged at him. Visions and kooky dreams were one thing, but ghost smells?

Youth Dew? Something he associated with older women, maybe his mom wore it.

Damn.

It was nearly 10:30 by the time he made it to the lab, and he remembered why he hated coming in late. Everyone running around with things to do, and he was sort of waving in the background, going, Here I am, got anything? He checked Grissom’s office, but no joy, so he wandered over to the break room and got a coffee before he called Grissom’s cell phone.

"Just stick around there," Grissom told him, yelling over the noise in the background. "I want you to memorize Carmody’s files, okay? Know them inside and out."

"You have anything new?"

"What?"

"You got anything new?" Nick bellowed at the phone, startling Greg, who peered into the room. Nick grimaced at him.

"No, nothing new, just wrapping up on this accident scene! I’ll see you at the lab!"

Nick thumbed the phone off and shook his head. "Man, I’m glad I’m not wherever he is."

"We’re running a tad late tonight, aren’t we?" Greg quipped, heading to the soda machine.

"Yes, Mom, thanks for noticing. Working on anything interesting?"

"Working, but nothing interesting." Greg took out a soda and uncapped it. "You missed the excitement, man, 13-car pileup on the interstate. I think Grissom sent the whole crew out there."

So that explained the noise. Nick thought about the probable carnage and felt tired. "He’s on his way back."

"Goodie."

Nick sniffed. "You smell that?"

"Smell what? I mean, aside from the general eau-de-crap that tends to hang around this place?"

"Perfume. Smell it?"

Greg regarded him gravely. "So that’s why you’re late, then. You dog." He cracked a grin.

"No, man, I just keep smelling this perfume. Old-lady perfume, something. Really sweet."

Greg tapped him on the forehead on his way out the door. "Brain tumor. Olfactory hallucination’s one of the first signs, my friend. Got your will made out?"

"Ha ha."

But the smell didn’t go away. Not strong enough to really annoy him, just to keep him constantly aware, while he settled at his desk with Carmody’s files, started flipping pages. Christ, the guy really was obsessed with these cases. If these were all the work of the same person, this was gonna be big when they finally broke it. Huge.

Chanel #5? His mother had worn that, he knew; he’d seen the bottle.

With a jolt of pure terror he slapped the file shut and fumbled for the phone.

His father answered, half-awake and mumbling. "’Lo."

"Dad?"

"What? Nicky? Is that you?"

"Aw, man, I’m sorry I’m calling so late."

"It’s all right." His father sounded more awake already. "Is something wrong?"

Nick swallowed and tasted metallic fear. "No, I was gonna ask you that. Everything okay?"

"Here? Fine, everything’s fine."

"And Mom? She’s okay?"

"She’s asleep, but I can --"

"No." Nick had to swallow again. "No, don’t, I just -- I don’t know what I was thinking."

"Nicky, what’s wrong? You sound funny."

Nick sat back, pulling his knees up to his chest and balancing his heels on the seat of his chair. "You remember Sister Mary Peter?" he asked softly.

His father didn’t say anything for a second. When he did, his voice was toneless. "Why do you ask?"

"I think I’m working on something that might be related. I’m not sure yet."

He could hear his dad walking, the click of his house shoes on the tile hallway. "That was a long time ago. But of course I remember. We never found her killer, and it’s always stayed with me."

"This case -- I had this meeting today with somebody you used to know. FBI. Ray Carmody?"

"My God. He’s out in Nevada now?"

"Yeah. He’s the ASAC in Vegas. He gave me his files, Sister Mary Peter, some others. They may be connected to a couple of murders we’ve had locally."

His father sighed. "Ray’s a good man, but -- Be careful. Okay? I was caught up in Sister Mary’s case, but Ray -- Ray was obsessed. Still is."

"What was your theory? His theory?"

After a moment his father said, "Ray believed it was the work of a serial killer."

Nick nodded. "And you didn’t?"

"I didn’t believe or disbelieve. There was no evidence in either direction. Just a lot of tangents, suppositions. No hard proof."

"Was I a weird kid?"

A startled laugh. "What?"

Nick closed his eyes. "I mean, was I different? Weird? Could I – do things?"

"Nick, what the hell are you talking about? Things? What things?"

"I -- Nothing. No, I just, I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget it."

"Why would you think you were a weird kid?"

"I never did anything you – you couldn’t explain?"

His father laughed again, sounding bewildered. "Every one of you kids did unexplainable things every DAY, Nick, you’ll have to be more specific. I mean, you were so dreamy you had accidents all the time. Was that what you mean?"

Nick frowned. "Dreamy?"

"Well, it was Liz who noticed, more than I did. Just the usual kid thing, though, nothing weird. Your imaginary friends. Even I remember Buster."

It hit him like a missile, hearing the word. Because he DIDN’T remember, not until he heard his father say the name, BUSTER, oh Jesus God, Buster.

"Nick? Nick, what is it? You’re spooking me."

Buster. Oh God, Buster. "Nothing," Nick breathed, staring at the far wall. "You just – surprised me. Look, it’s late and I woke you up. I’ll let you go, okay? Say hi to Mom for me when you can."

"I don’t know what exactly is going on up there, but you be careful, kiddo? Do you hear me? Call us tomorrow. Don’t forget."

"I’ll call," Nick said through numb lips. "Night, Dad. Thanks."

"Night, son."

The perfume was back, but for the moment it didn’t matter, didn’t make him curious. All he saw was the outline against the wall, that sturdy shape. No one else saw him, but Nick did, Nick always had, and no amount of teasing and crap from his sisters changed it. Not until later, not until

the bad thing

much later. And then it was as if Buster had never existed, even though he hadn’t, not really, right? Imaginary, the tool of a lonely kid with too many sisters and hardly any friends. And he’d forgotten him, completely, erased him along with so much other stuff, and he felt the weight of all of it like oceanic force, pushing him down onto his chair, harder and harder, until he could barely breathe, suffocating in a room full of oxygen.

I put aside childish things, he thought, while the room darkened and the corners grew monsters, things with claws and fangs and sweet high melodious voices. I set them aside and I did it so well I forgot them, I unmade them, and part of me along with them. What part? What did I put away along with Buster and Teddy and Isabel?

"Nick?"

He was out of the chair before he realized he was moving, flinging himself to the back of the room, crouching and screaming for Buster inside his head, Buster, help me, it’s going to get me this time, it’ll GET ME and there won’t be anything left.

"Nick. What’s wrong?"

He blinked at Grissom’s puzzled, more than slightly alarmed face, and drew a deep breath and made himself stand up straight. "You scared me," Nick whispered. The high sound of his own voice shocked him.

"Unintentional." Grissom took a careful step toward him. "What happened?" he asked softly. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I have, Nick thought, and forced a shrug. "Got the willies reading through those files, I guess." He swallowed dryly. "There’s a lot of stuff there."

Grissom nodded, looking unconvinced. "Question is, is any of it related?"

"Not sure yet."

"You ready to talk shop, or you want to take a breather first? You’re white as a sheet."

"I’m good. No, let’s talk."

Catherine chose that moment to look in, and Nick was thankful he’d at least had his head turned the right direction this time. Grissom had already seen him spooked; wouldn’t do to reinforce this whole fucking fragile-Nicky thing he’d already started.

"The pickup driver." Catherine waved a print