Binding Ties

my life over for the last goddamn time!'

Dayton lurched over and grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked it out of the detective's leg, like a demented dentist extracting a tooth.

Feeling white hot pain from head to toes, Brass nonetheless kicked with his good leg at the red-streaked naked figure, sending the killer sprawling back, and giving himself time to at least get to one knee before Dayton charged him again.

And when the attack came, Brass crouched low as Dayton raised the knife high.

When the blade arced down, Brass threw himself forward and left, the knife grazing his sportcoat and sending Dayton off balance, just as Brass smashed into the killer's knee with his shoulder.

Brass heard the satisfying crunch as Dayton's knee gave way and the killer toppled, twisting as he went. Then with a jungle cry, Dayton lunged at Brass, and the two of them rolled on the floor, fighting over the one knife they had between them.

Again Grissom found himself in a darkened room and flipped on the flashlight.

This room was small, rather like a fruit cellar, and indeed a set of shelves against the wall on the left recalled such a cubicle. Of the five shelves, three contained books and magazines and scrapbooks, including various editions of CASt Fear, including the recent one self-published by Perry Bell; Grissom allowed himself an educated guess that the other books and magazines contained chapters or articles about the murders, and the scrapbooks CASt clippings.

The next shelf held coils of rope and a dozen lipstick tubes: Limerick Rose.

And the top shelf was home to a row of small jars, the likes of which you would be unlikely to find in a typical fruit cellar, except perhaps at Ed Gein's farm.

In each jar sat a dried, shriveled index finger.

All but two, that is.

One jarred finger looked fairly fresh-very possibly, Perry Bell's.

And the fifth one from the left had no finger at all-likely the jar that had held Vincent Drake's finger before CASt sent it to the Banner, sacrificing it in defense of his good name.

This thought was still passing through his mind when he heard the sounds.

Grissom looked toward their source, yet another door, and what else was there to do but go through it? In such a small room it took only three quick steps, and he went in to see a yellow light on over a workbench and-their backs to him-the naked bloody Dayton and Brass struggling over a knife, locked in both their hands.

Brass had blood on him, too, perhaps not all of it Dayton's.

Grissom crossed the workroom just as Dayton, on top, hooked a left that caught Brass's chin and knocked the detective's head against the concrete floor. Brass didn't seem to be unconscious, but the fight appeared out of him, momentarily at least, and Dayton now had control of the knife. He grabbed onto Brass's left wrist and lay the hand on the cement. He was pressing the blade against the forefinger, just above the knuckle, when Grissom put the nose of the pistol against the back of Dayton's head.

'Drop the knife,' Grissom said.

Dayton moved the knife to Brass's throat.

'Back away,' CASt said, 'or I cut it!'

'When I fire,' Grissom said blandly, 'your motor skills die with you.'

Dayton froze.

'It's not a theory,' Grissom said.

CASt cast the knife aside.

Grissom backed off slightly. 'Stand up and fold your hands behind your head.'

Coming up slowly, Dayton spread his arms wide, crucifixion style. Then with great care, the killer wove his fingers together behind his head, grinning defiantly at Grissom.

'Turn around,' Grissom said.

Dayton did.

Then Grissom holstered the weapon and got out his handcuffs, about to secure the prisoner's hands behind him; but Dayton dipped, swept a leg around, and took the CSI's feet from under him.

Grissom went down hard on the cement.

Leg throbbing, Brass struggled to his feet, then slipped, his fingers nudging something cold…

…his pistol!

Grabbing the weapon, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and managed to get to a knee.

Dayton was punching a disoriented Grissom in the face, once, twice, then as the naked killer pulled back his fist for a third blow, Brass got his footing and once again Jerome Dayton had the mouth of a pistol kissing the back of his head.

'Case you were wondering,' Brass said, 'difference between me and Grissom? He did his best not to shoot you…. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry-please, please give me an excuse.'

Dayton swallowed thickly.

Sanity got the better of the madman, and he put his hands up, and caused them no further trouble.

Eleven

A s he sat in the interview room, Jim Brass was constantly aware of the bandage under his pant leg, and the stitches pulling at his skin. On either side of him were Sara and Nick, who had worked the case from its two different angles: new and old.

For the first time since the discovery of Marvin Sandred's body, Brass was not struggling with rage and/or frustration. He felt good-cool and calm, and ready to enjoy his revenge as a dish best served cold.

Across the table, a sullen, silent Jerry Dayton-in jailhouse orange and handcuffs-stared at the detective with death daggers in his eyes, and Brass felt only amused. Next to Dayton sat attorney Carlisle Deams, looking as respectable and distinguished as a college dean, a ruddy study in gray (hair, mustache, three-piece suit), frequently referring to a small pile of papers, a man who seemed unable to stop talking in his effort to assure Brass that his client wasn't talking.

The 'tell,' as ex-gambler Warrick might say, was the attorney's eyes: dark dead orbs that might have been a shark's.

'My client has nothing to say to you people-do you understand? Nothing.'

Dayton's cuffs were in front of him-not the standard, safer behind-his-back-since he was in the presence of his lawyer.

'He was fairly chatty before,' Brass said, 'when he was running around wearing nothing but Mark Brower's blood, and sticking a knife in my leg.'

'Well, you'll just have to be content, Captain Brass,' Deams said with a nasty smile, 'with your memories.'

Brass provided his own mirthless smile. 'My take on your client is that he has a mind of his own. This meeting is a courtesy, really.'

The lawyer's dead black eyes blinked. 'A courtesy?'

'Yes-to provide Jerry an opportunity to explain himself, to express his unique point of view.'

Warrick said, 'Mr. Dayton obviously has a certain pride in his…hobby. We thought he might like to help us sort out his work from that of this…interloper.'

Sara said, 'Of course, Mr. Dayton, if you don't help clear things up? His efforts may be confused for yours, and vice versa.'

Dayton was frowning, and the lawyer patted his client on the arm while saying to the adversaries across the table, 'Very clever. But your attempts to play on my client's pride are not going to crack his resolve. He has nothing to say to you, nor are either of us interested in anything you might have to say.'

Brass shrugged. 'Well, then, we'll let the evidence do the talking…in court.'

Deams chuckled dryly. 'I'm more than happy to face the best the District Attorney can throw at us.'

'Good.' Brass beamed. 'You're happy. I'm happy.'

Deams smirked. 'Let me tell you what you have-a charge against my client for simple assault.'

Warrick said, 'Not that simple-he kidnapped Mark Brower, and cut off his finger, and had him bound up in a torture chamber.'