“ . . . So, this
is just a
rough idea of the accident, but there’s something about the
timing that bothers
me, and I appreciate you guys being willing to help me out
here—“ Nick flashed
a smile at the assembled group.
“Hey, no
problem—“ Greg
replied. They all stood out on the asphalt of the back lot behind the
lab:
Sara, Greg, Grissom and Nick, waiting patiently as the latter went over
notes a
clipboard. The night was calm and the white floodlights on the building
made
each person cast long shadows on the ground. Sara noted the chairs that
Nick
had set up at various points and smiled.
“Car accident? Is
this that
one with the, ah, cattle, Nick?”
The young CSI blushed, but
nodded gamely, “Yeah. Cath gave it to me since
she’s allergic to cowhide.”
“She’s
allergic to cow
PIES,” Sara murmured in a very soft tone to Greg, who
snickered. Even Grissom
managed a very faint grin, acknowledging the truth of
Catherine’s universally
known distaste for cases involving anything remotely connected with
livestock.
Nick was scribbling out nametags and handing them out.
“Okay, I need a
cattle truck
driver . . . Greggo, that’s you. You’re Ornell
Perkins of
“What, I have to
wear a
suspect’s HAT?”
“Nah man,
it’s one of mine.
Mr. Perkins claims he was wearing one and it shaded his eyes, so
I’m just
trying to get the exact conditions right. Come on, it’s
clean.”
“It’s a
“Yeah?”
“I’m
sensing a bias here—“
Greg replied, but he set the cap on his head, wincing a little as it
dropped
down over his ears. Sara snorted and Greg whipped it off again,
adjusting the
band.
“And we have the
Herrerras;
that will be you two. Sara, you’re Butch—“
“Excuse
me?” she dimpled,
mock-annoyed. Nick held out a nametag, a laugh in his eyes.
“You heard me. No
girly
girl for you this time, you’re going to be Butch Herrera,
nervous father to be
driving his sweet and lovely Rosalita--“ here he handed a
nametag to Grissom,
who arched an eyebrow at him, “—To the hospital
because she’s in labor.”
Greg laughed, smothering it
immediately as Grissom glared his way. Grissom then turned to Nick, his
gaze
demanding an answer to the question. Nick held out an appeasing hand.
“There’s
a method to my
madness, trust me, okay? I have a LEGITIMATE reason for Sara to be the
husband
and you the wife, Grissom, so just bear with me here.”
“Come on
Griss—“ Sara
soothed him. “Don’t get upset.” She
paused for a moment and added with a grin,
“It’s not good for the baby.”
“Nick—“
Grissom began with
exaggerated patience, his expression darkening. Nick shook his head,
his smile
dimming a bit.
“I’m
serious, man. Just—go
with it. For me, okay?” came the soft little plead and a
sudden painful
flashback of Nick in the Plexiglas box came back to Grissom. He nodded
tightly;
a little loss of dignity was worth getting Nick back into the swing of
the job.
Grissom carefully pinned
the tag reading ROSALITA H. on his chest.
Sara already had hers on,
proclaiming BUTCH H. and she shot him a smirking grin. Greg wore his
ORNELL P.
tag a little off-center, his cap now fitting properly. Nick nodded.
“Okay, I have to
go round
up my cattle volunteers, so ah, you guys hang here a moment. Get into
character
or something.“ With that, Nick ducked back into the building
leaving the three
night shift CSIs to stand in the floodlight.
“So, the
Herrerras, huh?”
Greg nodded, swaggering up in exaggeration.
“Butch—and this is the, um, little
woman?” he risked a glance at Grissom. Sara grinned broadly
and rubbed his
back.
“Yep, my little,
uh, love
tortilla. We’re expecting a bambino you
know—“
“Niño,”
Grissom growled
faintly, “or niña. Bambino is Italian.”
“Oh I can
see—“ Greg
nodded, glancing at Grissom’s stomach. “Wow, could
be twins—“
“Greg—“
Grissom rumbled,
feeling real exasperation now. It was pretty clear both Sara and Greg
were
going to needle him all through this re-enactment and the sudden urge
to dish a
bit himself came forward. He lifted his chin and tried to think of a
retort,
but nothing came to mind.
Greg
suddenly grinned. “I’ll go easy on you
just because you’re in labor. Probably sound just like my big
and beefy girls
in the back—“
“Hey, hey
don’t be
comparing my wife to your bovine payload there,
Vato—“ Sara glared, coming to
Grissom’s defense. She turned to look at Grissom, a saucy
twinkle in her eyes.
“Don’t mind him, honeybuns, he’s just mad
about his moo-moos running off across
the highway—“
Whatever Grissom was going
to say disappeared from his mind as Sara leaned forward and playfully
rubbed
her nose on his. The sudden, shockingly sweet proximity of her smile
dazzled
him. Grissom blinked, and Sara lightly patted his stomach.
“I’ve
been thinking about
names—maybe Gilberto—“
“It could be a
girl . . .”
Grissom countered in a little daze. Sara’s grin deepened,
dimples clear.
“Oh I’d
love that, just
like her mama . . . beard and all—“
“Man, that is one
perverted
thought—“ Greg broke in, his face screwed up in a
moue of distaste. Both
Grissom and Sara looked at him, their little reverie broken. Greg
shrugged.
“You know, a little bitty baby with like, the Riker beard
Grissom’s got.”
“Riker—Oh
man you are SO
right! I never realized it but it IS, isn’t it?”
Sara chortled, looking at
Grissom once more. Grissom closed his eyes—it was going to be
a LONG night.
*** ***
***
“Okay, so
let’s see what we
have . . .” Nick murmured encouragingly. Greg was in a
rolling office chair,
baseball cap on, pretending to clutch a steering wheel in his hands.
Behind
him, David Phillips and Judy were standing and looking more sheepish
than
bovine. David held a bicycle horn in one hand, and Judy a cowbell.
“Okay, so the
Monarch Meat
Truck is set . . . “ Nick nodded, giving Judy a wink. She
blushed, smiling
back, clutching her cowbell tightly. “And now the Herrerras .
. .”
He looked over at Sara and
Grissom, who were sitting in another set of office chairs, side by
side. Sara
had her left hand out, gripping an imaginary steering wheel; the right
one
patted Grissom’s knee. He looked down and watched it a
second, then shifted his
glance to her broad grin.
“Don’t
worry babe, you’re
still the hot mamacita I married.”
“Sure, you say
that NOW—“
Grissom shot back, keeping a perfectly straight face as Sara did a
double take.
Nick gave an approving nod and motioned them to scoot forward a bit.
“Okay, now from
the initial
report, the Herrerras were coming into the intersection and had the
right of
way, even though they were moving through the yellow . . . “
“Oh Honey, you
always drive
too fast,” Grissom murmured to Sara. She squeezed his knee
again.
“Hey,
we’re having a baby,
Sweet Churrito baby. I think it’s important that happens at
the hospital and
not the back seat, okay?”
“Full circle to
the point
of conception?” Greg hooted from across the intersection,
making both David and
Judy blush. Nick frowned and looked at his report more closely.
“Guys, guys,
settle down
now . . . except for you, Gr-Rosalita. You’re having
contractions, so YOU can
be bitchy.”
Grissom looked smug.
Greg grinned, shaking his
head. “Too easy—I’m not going to take
THAT shot.”
“That’s
good, because I
need you to roll out into the intersection, ten-four.” Nick
murmured.
Obligingly Greg scooted his chair forward, warbling.
“Staaaaand by
youuuuuur
Mannnnnnn . . .” behind him David shuddered and Judy
threatened to clang Greg
in the back of his head with the cowbell.
“Okay, according
to this
you tried to stop but claimed the sun was in your
eyes—“
“Aghhhh, it BURNS,
it
BURNS!” Greg yelped out cooperatively, throwing an arm over
his face in
dramatic fashion. Nick sighed.
“Get serious man,
just
because nobody died in this case the first time doesn’t mean
there won’t be a
body THIS time—“ he warned. His threat almost
worked, but Greg was still
grinning. Nick glanced at Sara and Grissom.
“Okay,
there’s the impact,
nothing major but it shakes you two up. Rosalita, you’re
panicking, in
hysterics.”
Grissom arched an eyebrow.
“I don’t DO hysterics, Nick.”
A second later in complete
contradiction to this statement, Grissom suddenly squirmed and nearly
jumped
out of his chair. Nick brightened. Sara coughed hard to cover her
giggles while
Grissom glared at her offending hand as it rested on his thigh, fingers
curling
towards the inside of the leg. She beamed at him.
“Sorry there, my
little
pregnant piñata—I guess my hand slipped.”
“Slipped—“
Grissom
commented dryly, settling himself back on the chair and shifting a
little.
“—Don’t give me grounds for a divorce
before the baby gets here, Butch.”
“Can I help it if
you’ve
got adorable thighs? Any court in
“Yes well look
where my
thighs got me today—pregnant and
provoked—“ Grissom hissed back. Nick motioned
to Sara.
“Okay. The
Herrerra’s cell
phone is dead. Sara, I need you to get out of the car and start
running.”
“Uh,
where?” Sara demanded,
rising out of her chair and looking around. Nick pulled out a
stopwatch. “Take
off around the outside of the fence, one lap. It’s the about
the same distance
Butch claims he ran to get help. Go!”
Sara yelped and shot off in
a long loping stride to the gate and darted around it. Greg, David and
Judy
watched for a moment, then Nick called to them.
“Okay, David,
Judy, you
need to start your stampede towards the car . . . slow and loud . . .
“
With embarrassment, the two
of them stepped around Greg, honking and clanking as they started
towards
Grissom.
“Moo.
Moo.” David muttered.
Judy swung her cowbell in a wide arc.
“MwooooOOOOoooooh!!”
she
bellowed out into the night, drawing applause from Greg and a surprised
look
from Nick.
“Wow. That is one
AMAZING
cow impression.” He told her with sincerity. Judy blushed,
shifting the cowbell
from one small hand to the other.
“Thanks. I had a
cow for a
pet when I was little—“
“No kidding.
“
“Milk?”
David broke in.
Judy nodded.
“Yep. Two gallons
a day,
fresh. Uncle Paul babied her so we did it by hand instead of with the
automation—“
Sara came around the fence,
panting a little, grinning. “Back—we need better
lights near the parking lot
end, people. I nearly smacked into the rail guard. Nice cow call by the
way, Judy.
I think they heard that one all the way to Pahrump.”
Nick
looked over at her and frowned. Sara
rolled her eyes.
“You
didn’t—“
“Sorry,
Sare—look, I’m
pushing the button . . . NOW!”
Sara took off again around
the fence. Grissom leaned back, grinning. As she passed close, he
called to
her.
“The contractions
are
getting closer, Honey!”
Greg spun in a circle on
his chair. “So, what am I supposed to be doing?”
“Well according to
YOUR statement,
Mr. Perkins, you got out of your truck and tried to herd the
cattle.”
“Herd
them?” Greg looked
skeptical. “We’re talking about forty or fifty,
right? All upset and nervous
because of the accident. And this one old trucker seriously thought he
was
going to HERD them?”
Nick gave a shrug.
“That’s
the statement, man. So, hop out of your rig and see if you can get
Ferdinand
and Bubbles here back in the truck.”
Judy shot Nick a
questioning look and he nodded.
Grissom watched, smiling
faintly as Greg darted around a completely uncooperative Judy.
“Get back in the
truck,
shoo, cow, shooo!”
“I’m
baaaaack!” Sara
announced, puffing a bit. Nick clicked the stopwatch and grinned at
her,
motioning her to sit by Grissom.
Judy ducked under
Greg’s
arm.
“Sorry Greg, but
cows don’t
shoo. They’re not flies.” She informed him
brightly. Greg turned to David, who
stood unmoving.
“What’s
YOUR problem?” Greg
demanded. David managed a small smile.
“Oh nothing.
I’m sitting
here just quietly, smelling the flowers. And wondering what the word
‘Shoo’
means.”
Sara slumped into the chair
next to Grissom, studying his profile as he watched the cattle drive
play out.
“Miss me?”
“I’m not
speaking to you,”
Grissom retorted, crossing his arms across his chest. “And
the minute I’ve had
the baby I’m going home to mother.”
“That’s
just the
contractions talking—“ Sara bluffed. “You
know you don’t mean it, my little
bearded Bonita. Hector your love stallion will make it alllll
better.”
“You RAN OFF and
left me in
the middle of the intersection in LABOR, you fiend. What kind of father
does
THAT?” Grissom scowled. Sara looked at Nick, who waved the
clipboard and spoke
up.
“Hector says he
was back in
less than a minute after he’d flagged down a DoodleCake truck
and radioed for
help. Says he scared the cattle away from the driver’s side
door and managed to
calm Rosalita down, as much as he could—“
Sara cupped
Grissom’s face
in her palms, bringing his gaze to hers as she popped a hard firm kiss
on his
mouth. Grissom’s hands flailed comically for a moment behind
her, then gripped
her shoulders. Amid applause from Nick, Judy and David, Greg laughed,
shouting
out:
“Oh Rosalita, has
your
Hector-daddy got a DoodleCake for YOU—“
Grissom opened his mouth to
speak, and at that moment their two office chairs began to roll
backwards. Sara
and Grissom twisted, trying to keep their balance, but failed when Sara
applied
insufficient braking action and Grissom’s bulk pulled her out
of her seat. She
toppled onto him, sending the pair of them along with the chair in an
ungraceful dump on the asphalt.
Greg and David scrambled
over to help them up. Nick sighed, scratching the back of his head.
“Yeah,
that’s pretty much
what happened to the Herrerras too. Hit the shift and threw their car
into
reverse.” He made a notation on the paper. “I
thought it was a fluke, but if we
can re-create it here, then it’s got to be what happened.
Thanks guys, I
appreciate your help on this.”
“So
that’s it? No more
stampeding?” Judy asked with a hint of sadness in her voice.
Nick shot her a
smile and took the cowbell from her. Greg was helping to dust Sara off
and
Grissom was limping a little towards them a gleam in his eye.
“Well for now . .
. but
I’ll tell you what—if you’d like to come
by later and shoot the bull with me,
Brahma style—“ he offered in a low tone. Judy
blushed.
“Ow! Grissom,
Grissom . . .
Uncle---“ Greg moaned as his arm was gently twisted up behind
his back. Sara
blinked a little.
“Never taunt a
woman in
labor, Greg. Especially if she’s bigger, meaner and older
than you are.”
Grissom commented casually as he released his grip. “Chalk it
up to the
hormones.”
“Message
received—“ Greg
acknowledged with a wince. He pulled off his cap and ran a hand through
his
hair. “Man, I never thought you’d resort to
violence though, Grissom. You’re
not the type.”
“Yes, well once
every seven
years, three months and eleven days, I like to bully,”
Grissom growled lightly.
“In the meantime, we still have that 419 from
Slowly the rest of the
re-enacters wandered back into the building. Sara straightened up the
office
chair, feeling a little breathless, and not just from her run. Grissom
turned
to face her, his expression unreadable. “So . . .
Butch.”
“Rosalita . . .
“ Sara
replied, her voice a little squeaky. Grissom eyed her mouth
thoughtfully.
“How did you know
. . . he
kissed her?”
Sara smiled, and in the
glow of the floodlight, her dimples framed her smirk. She reached out
to
Grissom’s nametag, touching it lightly.
“Part of it was
intuition.
Part of it was . . . improvisation. And you just looked like you needed
to be .
. . kissed.”
Grissom took that in with a
little frown. He stepped closer to Sara, gripping one of the office
chairs. He
leaned down, lips brushing hers, breath mingling with hers.
“Good
interpretation. One
that I think should be . . . practiced—“ he
whispered.
“Practiced?”
Sara whimpered
happily as Grissom laughed softly.
“Yes. Until the
cows come
home.”
END
