Title: Skin & Bone
By: VicXntric
Summary: A series of murders that took place more than a half-century ago lead Nick to the possibility of a modern crime. One that will ultimately change his life.
Pairing: some Warrick/Nick UST.
Rating: NC-17

Living within the round-the-clock hustle that was Las Vegas, it was easy to forget that the middle of nowhere lay just an hour away in almost any direction. The abandoned Borax mine of I-15 wasn't quite that, but the desert twenty miles southeast of it certainly was. In the shadow of the aptly named Dead Mountains amidst scrubby patches of grass and random jutting boulders, Nick Stokes parked his Tahoe well away from the small group of people gathered in a loose circle, not wanting to coat them with a cloud of dust.

With no indication of what equipment would be needed, Nick decided to stick with the basics, slinging his camera around his neck and grabbing his kit before striding over to join the group. The morning sun hadn't quite burnt off the chill of the previous night and Nick was grateful for the brisk air that invigorated him for what looked like it could be a very tiring double.

The first person he met up with was Jim Brass, but the man was yelling into his cell phone, obviously dealing with a bad connection, so Nick walked past with nothing more than an amused lift of his brows to which Brass responded with a long-suffering eye roll. Gil Grissom was standing with three other people around an empty pit that was large enough to hold one, possibly two, bodies. It was at least three feet deep, surprising considering the desert's hard-packed soil, and was barely five feet by two. A uniformed officer was stringing the area with yellow tape and the pit had been condoned off by twine wound around short posts at each corner.

"Hey," he said to Grissom and nodded politely to the other three people present, none of whom looked much older than thirty. "What've we got?"

"We have two partially mummified bodies on their way to our morgue from the WLVU archaeological department."

Nick frowned. This was definitely going to be one of those strange cases. "Oh-kay..."

"We also have two DBs found on a construction site in Seven Hills," Brass added, joining them on Nick's opposite side. "Covered in bugs."

Grissom lifted his chin slightly, his attention caught by the announcement. Then he looked back down at the pit, obviously torn. "Tell them I'm on my way," he told Brass before turning to Nick. "I need you to start working this scene. Warrick will be out to join you when he's finished in court."

Nick blinked. All he had was a hole and no bodies. "Do we know what this is? Was? Body dump?"

"This is Ms. Ponds," Grissom indicated a tall, slender women with her blond hair in two braids. "She'll be able to explain the situation as well as I could." He patted Nick on the shoulder, "They all need to be interviewed." Before Nick could object, he started off for his own Tahoe.

Jim gave Nick a "whaddya gonna do?" shrug, and followed.

With a sigh, Nick set his kit down, feeling a little off-balance, but not too surprised. If an empty pit was up against two bodies covered in bugs, there was really no question which scene was going to take precedence with Grissom. He briefly wondered if getting stuck with a lot of grunt work was Grissom's way of letting him know he didn't get the promotion, but moments later decided it didn't matter, he still had a scene to process.

A quick glance behind the trio of twenty-somethings cleared up many of Nick's questions. He introduced himself, then nodded to the blonde. "You were in charge of the dig, Ms. Ponds?"

"Louisa," she corrected with a quick smile. "Dr. Bellemey is actually overseeing, but I'm in charge of the dig. I was working it with--oh," she indicated the people beside her as though she suddenly remembered they were there. "This is Javier Ora," she indicated a stocky, round-faced man. "And Kit Eagin," a thin young woman with her dark hair cut short.

"Hi," Nick said with a smile and a nod for each of them. "Where's Dr. Bellemey?"

"He's helping move the skeletons to your morgue," Kit supplied.

"Okay," Nick began focusing on what he really needed to know. "Now, why did you choose this spot? What were the indications you would find a skeleton?"

All three protested immediately. "We didn't know there was a skeleton."

"We weren't looking for one."

"Louisa flipped when we found a femur."

This last from Javier earned him Louisa's evil eye before she smiled at Nick again. "This was supposed to be my senior thesis. I was hoping to excavate near the old Borax mine, but couldn't get permission. This land is owned by the county and it's easy to get access, so when my cousin mentioned finding arrowheads out here--he was off-roading--I decided to check it. I also found some pottery shards that were definitely not modern, so I got permission and set up the dig."

"We expected to find an old Paiute campsite, maybe," Kit chimed in.

"Okay," Nick looked at the empty pit again while he considered this. "And what exactly did you find that made you contact the police?"

"It wasn't until we were removing the second skeleton," Louisa explained. "It was partially under the first--that we found the bullet hole in the skull. And it wasn't until we got it back to the university that we removed the bullet and found out it was a kind manufactured just before World War II. That's when we called the police."

"Because a criminal investigation is required in any homicide less than a hundred years old," Nick finished.

"In this case, I'd say it's in the last sixty or seventy years."

She seemed determined to impress, so Nick hid his smile--he could even relate a little. He looked down at the pit again. "Looks like you've already processed my crime scene for me."

Kit and Javier smiled, but Louisa laughed as though he'd said something particularly witty and pointed toward an old but well-maintained van. "Everything we've found is catalogued over there," she said, indicating several covered wooden trays on the ground beside it.

"Okay," Nick glanced around. "I'm going to ask you to stick around for a while yet, but I'll try to have you on your way within the hour. If you wouldn't mind just waiting in your vehicle?"

Kit and Javier seemed content with that and immediately headed for the van. Louisa remained where she was. "Not everything we've recovered is from the twentieth century. Will I be able to get those artifacts back?"

"Anything that's not related to the case I'll try to have back to you as soon as I can," Nick promised. Then the woman's situation occurred to him. "Do you think you'll have enough to build a thesis?"

"I might," Louisa replied. "If I discuss the finding of a modern crime scene, it could be quite original. I could interview you a few times about the crime scene aspect to gain some background," she added with a tilt of her head and another smile.

Oh. She was flirting with him. Nick hadn't been certain at first, but now there was no doubt. After the disaster with Kristy Hopkins, he'd trained himself not to react to women he met on his cases, whether they were suspects, victims or witnesses and was usually quite successful. Warrick often told him that was a little extreme, but Nick wasn't going to take any chances. If, in fact, it required barely any effort on his part not to respond to women, that was nobody's business but his own.

"I'd have to clear something like that with my supervisor," he told her, keeping his tone one of friendly professionalism. "Information would only be allowed after we've ascertained the case has been thoroughly investigated."

Much to Nick's relief, Louisa accepted his mild rebuff with a good-natured shrug. "I guess I'll start looking around for a new project, then," she said and walked away to join her fellow students.

Nick turned his attention to his crime scene, focusing his camera and stepping carefully around the rectangular pit, snapping pictures. He knew he didn't need quite as many shots as usual since this was obviously not the original scene, but he wanted to be thorough. As he crouched down to get a different angle, several long ridges in the soil on the opposite side of the pit caught his eye. Lowering the camera, he leaned back slightly, then backed up a few steps and crouched lower, studying the pattern and spacing. Running parallel to the long side of the pit, the ridges were about a foot and a half apart and there was some definite sinkage between them. Another few steps and another angle revealed the pattern repeating itself several times over, side by side.

Glancing over at the uniform on duty, Nick saw she was leaning against her patrol car, doing her job by keeping an eye on the scene, but looking utterly bored with the situation. Some officers would have been curious and interested in the actual scene, but obviously not this one. Nick didn't bother mentioning his suspicions to her. He briefly considered asking the students if they'd noticed, but another survey of the sunken areas convinced him it wasn't necessary.

After snapping another handful of photos, he returned to the Tahoe, dialing Warrick's number as he went. "Hey, Rick," he said when he got his friend's voicemail. "I'm at that scene southeast of the old Borax mine." He began rooting one-handed through the back of the truck and quickly found the metal probe he wanted. The metal detector caught his eye and he hauled it out as well. "Before you drive out here, see if you can get a hold of a GPR unit. Unless I'm seein' things, we've got more than one grave."

---

As it turned out, he hadn't been seeing things. Within two weeks, Louisa Ponds' senior thesis had become a mass grave that was keeping all three CSI shifts busy. Graveyard--appropriately enough--still had the lead on it and with Grissom's approval, Nick began splitting most of his shifts so he could be out at the scene during daylight hours. Several times a week, Grissom and Warrick would be there as well, but for the most part, the case was left in Nick's hands. However, Grissom was still keeping track of how it was--or wasn't--progressing. So at the end of the second week, he asked Nick and Warrick to meet him in his office to discuss everything that they knew.

"All right," Grissom started off with a sigh. Nick wasn't surprised, discussing this case was depressing in every way. "What are our latest totals?"

"Uh..." Nick hesitated, not because he didn't know, but because he hated going over these numbers. "We know there are 16 victims for sure. The breakdowns...ten skeletons in their entirety, six are partial. Of those that can be determined four are Caucasian, three are Asian, three are Latino, one is Native American and one African-American. The other four can't be determined." He tried unsuccessfully to stifle his own sigh as he continued with the sad tally. "The ages for those four also can't be determined. The rest are all between the ages of approximately nine and sixteen. They died and were buried at various times, but all within the same ten-year period, about 60-70 years ago."

All three men fell silent after the tally. Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "And we're certain they're all homicides?"

"Doc Robbins was able to determine COD for 13 of 16 vics," Nick continued. "All of them were homicides." He flipped through his folder, "I have those breakdowns, too..."

"Just tell me if there's any that stand out."

"That's easy. Of the 13, at least nine were either crushed or beaten to death."

"I just got off the phone with Curtis from days before I came in here," Warrick added. "She said it looks like they just uncovered least two more vics today."

"And now the bad news," Grissom dead-panned, making Warrick and Nick exchange humorless smiles. "I've been told by both Director Cavallo and Sheriff Atwater that days and swing will only be working on this case one more week, and after that it we're on our own. No overtime will be allowed for it."

Nick saw his own shock reflected in Warrick's expression. "You gotta be kidding me," Warrick said blankly.

"We still haven't figured out how much of an area there is to search," Nick protested. "Most of them were concentrated in those 50 square feet, but three of the bodies were found twenty feet away and--"

"I know, Nick," Grissom said.

"Three weeks," Nick felt his lip curl. "We uncovered what is basically a mass grave and they want to close the case after three weeks."

"With little chance of actually identifying a suspect and even less of bringing charges, the DA is just not interested," Grissom's expression indicated what he thought of that. "According to Sheriff Atwater, the county can't afford to expend resources and manpower on a case that isn't going anywhere."

"Sixteen kids were murdered," Nick said through clenched teeth. "If there's even a chance to find out who did it--"

"Nick," Grissom interrupted him again, not angry but firm. "I know there isn't enough evidence to confirm motive or suspect, but just going by the victims--most of them minorities, their ages--what does that indicate to you?"

"Child labor," Nick replied. "Probably in the mines."

"Very likely," Grissom agreed. "That's also what the DA and the Sheriff believe. With all the nearby mines having been closed for more than fifty years, the chances of finding the companies or parties responsible would be next to impossible."

Warrick nodded slowly, "And Atwater doesn't want too much focus on the bad old days of Nevada."

"Oh, that's--" Nick stopped himself before his temper got away. Going on about how disgusting he found such reasoning was pointless, because he knew Grissom and Warrick already felt the same way. He also knew that in the long run, it wouldn't change a thing. "Anymore bad news?" he asked, resigned.

"Unfortunately," Grissom put his glasses back on. "The land north and east of the site doesn't belong to the county, but to one Barrett Sampson, and he has refused to allow us on his land. I'm sure you've seen the barbed wire fence to the east, but there's no actual boundary marker to the north." He handed them each copies of a map. "This shows the property lines--we are not allowed to investigate past them. Days will be putting markers up so there's no mistake."

Nick looked over the map, then studied it more carefully, unable to believe what he was seeing. The land boundary wasn't much more than 200 feet north of the original grave, and although they hadn't excavated the area yet, there were sunken areas that suggested more burials. "Why won't he allow it?"

"Sampson? He didn't give a reason." Nick knew he must have let his suspicions show, because Grissom added--"He doesn't need to. He's only owned the land for the past twenty years."

"What about a warrant?" Warrick asked.

Grissom shook his head. "Other than the bodies, we've found two bullets, a handful of old coins and some equally old clothing."

"And that's not enough?"

"Apparently not in a case this old," Grissom shook his head. "Look, we'll meet out there next week to see where we are. Nick, you can split the rest of your shifts until then. After that, you can continue working it, but not at the expense of the rest of your caseload."

More than anything, Nick wanted to make another argument about why this was so wrong, but instead, he kept himself to a single question. "Am I approved for any doubles for the next week?" He felt Warrick's eyes on him and Grissom was looking at him over the tops of his glasses.

"I can get you approval for two extra shifts on this case," Grissom finally said. "If you turn up anything probative, let me know. If there's something exceptional, the DA might change his mind."

Although tempted to push for more overtime, Nick knew he would only piss Grissom off. Instead, straightened all the papers in his folder and stood up. "That's everything?"

Grissom nodded.

"Okay. Thanks," Nick said, knowing Grissom had probably already done some arguing with the DA about this case. He left the office and started for the locker room, intending to head straight out to the scene.

Warrick fell into step beside him. "Nick..."

"Don't, man," Nick sighed.

"Are you going out there now?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna get changed and check what sort of progress they're making."

"Want some help?"

Nick blinked. He'd been half-expecting a lecture, "You?"

"No, Ecklie," Warrick snorted.

Nick chuckled as he opened his locker. He had several old t-shirts on hand for working the case, because it was just too damn hot to bother with coveralls.

"Nicky," Warrick began again, and Nick knew he was honestly concerned if he was calling him that. "I want justice for those poor kids, too, but we've got to be realistic about it. There's always a chance we could find out who is responsible, but it would take one hell of a break in the case. I just don't want you letting it get to you."

"I know, Warrick," Nick said. "But it is our job."

"It is," Warrick agreed, unbuttoning his shirt. "But Nick, don't let this take you away from cases where you can get justice for the victim. They need your help, too."

It figured Warrick would know just what to say to make an impact. "I know, Rick. But I've got one week left."

"And I'm gonna work the hell out of that week with you," Warrick agreed, stripping off his shirt and hanging it in his locker. "And although I know it isn't how you operate, pissing off Cavallo when you've put in for a promotion isn't a good idea. So if you do keep poking around afterward, keep quiet about it."

Warrick's last warning didn't quite register, because Nick was thoroughly distracted by the bare, muscular torso as Warrick rooted through his locker for another shirt. He'd seen Warrick shirtless plenty of times--the man seemed to be something of an exhibitionist--but every now and then, the impact of it hit him anew. Almost immediately, he looked away, disgusted with himself for ogling his friend. His straight friend.

"Hey."

Startled, Nick looked up to find Warrick with a sleeveless tee on.

"Get a move on," Warrick teased, bumping Nick with his shoulder as he passed. "You just lost yourself the driver's seat."

With a wry smile, Nick pulled on a t-shirt and hurried after him.

---

During the next week, two full bodies and the bones of three more were uncovered, along with more coins and clothing from the late 1930s. None of it was enough to change the DA's mind.

The site was deserted when Grissom, Warrick and Nick arrived. Boundary markers and crime scene tape were still up and would remain for several more days.

"What exactly are we supposed to find in a few hours that will crack this case?"

Both Grissom and Warrick looked at him in surprise, and Nick knew he sounded bitter. He couldn't help it, though. He was frustrated and exhausted by the case and for the past several days often found himself wanting to shred the entire file and forget the whole thing. That, in turn, would make him feel guilty. Warrick was watching him with concern, and Grissom didn't comment which made him want to crawl under one of the rocks that surrounded them.

"I brought three soil probes," Grissom explained as Warrick opened the back of the Tahoe. "I've also marked grids for each of us to work," he handed them each a copy of a map, marked off and labeled. "Take a soil sample from each square and well have them processed for human remains."

Nick studied the map. "This is a couple hundred samples each." Grissom gave him one of those looks, so he hastened to explain. "I don't have a problem with it, but Hodges is going to freak."

"Let him," Grissom replied shortly.

"Well," Warrick shrugged. "It won't be that bad. Hell, it's not like Gris can make them all top priority."

"I might," Grissom remarked absently.

Nick exchanged an amused grin with Warrick. Grissom's disdain for the trace tech was well known. Nick would have agreed at one time, but Hodges had lowered his level of brown-nosing and Nick found him easy to tolerate now. Apparently, Grissom didn't.

Gathering up his map, some markers, one of the soil probes and a case full of sample jars, Nick got to work. It was repetitive and uninteresting, but Nick kept his eyes open for any other signs of graves--he didn't notice any--and kept his mind occupied by running over the details of the case again. He didn't come up with anything new, but in this manner, he made such good progress that after three hours, he only had about thirty more samples to go. Deciding he could afford to take a quick break--it had been nearly ninety minutes since his last one--he picked up the bottle of water he'd tucked in the shade of a boulder and sat down on a lower outcropping of rock to rest his back and legs, which were beginning to ache a little.

His collection area took him close to the rocky bottom of the Dead Mountain and he idly surveyed the ground he was working as well as the land beyond. There was a large area of coarse, hardy grass that somehow survived amidst the dry, rocky soil and he looked it over, wondering if he should check it for possible graves, but deciding not to. Boulders and juts of rock separated the grassy land from the rest of the desert and made it unlikely he would find any.

Movement in the grass caught his eye and Nick tensed for a split-second before he saw several little black plumes moving through the grass. Craning his neck, he tried to make out whether the quails were California or Gambel's. As silently as possible, he moved to a closer, higher rock for a better view. Then he heard a klee-klee sound and looked up in time to see a small hawk dive into the grass. When it didn't rise again, Nick inched closer. The hawk, which was either a fledgling hawk or possibly a kestrel, was smaller than the quails, who didn't seem the least bit concerned by its presence.

Fascinated, Nick wished for his camera or at least binoculars. Besides the quails, there were also what looked to be thrushes or larks coexisting with the little hawk. It was possible that the small hawk found enough mice to sustain it and didn't want to risk tangling with birds as big as or bigger than it was. With the main attraction of the Dead Mountains being the petroglyphs on the opposite side, Nick supposed the birds lived fairly undisturbed. They hadn't even acknowledged his presence, but kept walking around one another with the occasional wing-flapping scuffle. It was enthralling--a live Discovery Channel he had practically walked into.

With neither camera nor sketchpad on hand, Nick committed the birds' various markings and shapes to memory, so he could look them up at home and satisfy his curiosity. Putting the cap back on his water, he lightly jumped down from his rock and headed back to finish his soil samples. He soon finished, and decided he might as well fill the six jars left over from the last case he'd brought. Going over the map, he added and numbered another six spaces on the grid, carefully measuring so he didn't cross the boundary onto Sampson's land and render them completely useless.

Once that was finished, he was tempted to check out the feathered community again, but firmly reminded himself he was on the clock and marched himself back to the Tahoe to see if Grissom or Warrick needed any help.

---

Warrick scowled as he finished playing the melody he'd been working on the week before and debated whether or not he should just trash the thing. He was playing it on a guitar, but maybe subconsciously he'd written it for the piano. That was still at least another year away, though. He'd finally paid off all the debt he'd racked up through years of gambling and rewarded himself with the Martin acoustic. A digital piano was further down his list, unless he wanted to abandon his plan of finally finding a bigger place.

The song probably wouldn't sound much better on a piano, anyway. He'd been aiming for bluesy, but somehow had ended up with something more along the saccharine lines of an old AM Radio power ballad, mawkish and endless. How the hell had he come up with something like that?

Looking back, Warrick soon had his answer.

Nick Stokes.

He had spent the last week worrying about the effect this mass grave case was having on Nick, especially when the Texan began asking Hodges for results on the soil samples every few days. Warrick half-expected Hodges to retaliate by putting all of Nick's trace at the bottom of his pile, but amazingly, the trace technician usually had results on at least a half-dozen soil samples whenever Nick asked. Thus far, none of them showed signs of human remains, but they were always there. Nick thanked Hodges every time he handed over useless results, which was more than Warrick would have done. It was probably also the reason Hodges kept at the soil samples so diligently even though they were low priority. Either that, or the trace technician had a thing for Nick, which would have been the only real sign of good sense the man had ever displayed.

Warrick quickly shook off the idea. The last thing he wanted to think about was how Hodges might feel about Nick because that would only lead to him thinking about what he felt for Nick.

He would probably be better off just to stick to worrying, Warrick decided, then winced as he struck an off-chord. It wasn't like he could avoid it, anyway. Worrying about Nick had become something of a habit for him over the past couple of years. Probably had something to do with seeing the guy get thrown out a second story window.

Nick had bounced back surprisingly well from the Nigel Crane ordeal. He'd moved shortly after, but no one had thought that was strange. Other then that, there hadn't been any overt signs of lingering effects. Overt being the key word, because Warrick sometimes sensed an unease from his friend that often seemed out of place with the situation. It was never enough to provoke a comment, and Warrick had no way of knowing if anyone else even saw it.

Of course, this current situation was entirely different and Warrick knew exactly what was going on.

Nick was putting on that big white cowboy hat of his.

If those twenty-one kids had no one else to fight for them, they definitely had Nick Stokes. The more people who turned away from the cooling case, the more determined Nick would become not to abandon it--or to his way of thinking--them. To a certain extent, Warrick understood, but he was usually able to distance himself from a case more than that.

Not Nick. It was one of his greatest strengths as a CSI. It was also one of his greatest weaknesses and usually the cause of the rare arguments between them. Right now, it could also keep Nick from that promotion to Lead CSI.

Warrick hadn't even bothered applying, knowing he had a couple of black marks in his jacket. He wasn't even sure he wanted it, anyway. His one stint as acting supervisor had been more than enough.

Nick seemed to think that Sara was a shoe-in, but Warrick wasn't so sure. Sara was a brilliant criminalist, but a little too uncompromising to be in management. Nick, as far as Warrick could tell, didn't much care for playing the necessary politics, but knew how and when to do it. The only person better at it would be Catherine. There were even times when Nick seemed more suited to management than Grissom. And that amused the hell out of Warrick, because if he ever said so, Nick would probably consider it sacrilege.

Warrick had worried briefly that if Nick did get the promotion it would change their friendship, but the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Nick wasn't the sort to go on power trips. He valued his friendships too much.

Fuck.

At the rate he was going, he might as well just call this song "The Ballad of Nick Stokes" and be done with it.

---

Things only went downhill over the next few weeks. Nick was kept busy between dead cops, more dead kids and the words of some pyro that got to him more than they should have. The mass grave case got colder by the day.

Grissom didn't follow through on his threat to torment Hodges by making all the soil samples priority, but the trace technician was working through them at a surprisingly steady pace, considering how busy things had been in the lab. The results were always the same, though--no human remains.

All this was capped off by the promotion he received being cut in the same letter as it was awarded. Nice touch. Even though it gave him a rush of pleasure to know Grissom had recommended him, it wasn't easy hiding his overall disappointment.

This last case, a boy being framed by his own father, had left a bad taste in everyone's mouth and by unspoken agreement, no one on graveyard suggested breakfast after shift. That was fine by Nick, he had the next day off and fully intended to crash for ten hours straight and not think of a single case until his next shift.

Surprisingly enough, all went according to plan and after he'd taken care of the errands that tended to pile up and had gone to the gym, Nick had an entire afternoon in front of him with nothing to do. He was at a bit of a loss until remembered the flock of mismatched birds near the Dead Mountains. He'd looked them up and as best he could tell, there had been two kinds of warblers, Gambel's quails, common ground-doves, and the "hawk" had been a full-grown American kestrel. Nick decided he'd kill the afternoon by driving out for another look. Even if the kestrel wasn't among them, he could still get some nice shots of the other birds. He hadn't taken any pictures outside of work for months.

His camera and binoculars were easy to find, but he had to do a bit of hunting for his old sketchpad. That, along with a few bottles of water, went into a knapsack that he tossed into the passenger seat of his Ranger. He hopped into the driver's seat, cranked up the really country music that his colleagues loathed and, singing along, set out for an enjoyable afternoon. Thoughts of the crime scene flickered through his mind, but Nick resolutely pushed them away. He was going to be more than a half-mile away from the grave sites and even a few dozen feet from where he'd taken the last soil sample, and he wasn't going to think about any cases.

That's what days off were for.

Tomorrow he could go over the case again, his eyes and mind all the fresher for the break.

The day was hot, but not unbearably so and Nick ignored the air conditioning in favor of open windows, at least until he left the main road. The notion came, as it often did at times like this, that the only thing missing was a dog beside him with its head out the window. He really wanted a dog. There had always been one, often two, in the family growing up. His own dog, a shepard-collie mix called Lobo had passed away the year before he moved to Vegas. Since his move, he'd often considered getting another one, but didn't think it would be fair to the animal, considering the long hours he worked.

And now that he thought about it, he wouldn't have much luck photographing birds if he brought a dog along.

He rolled up his windows once he reached the old Borax mine, since the rest of his drive crossed the desert on only the barest hint of a road. As he headed for the mountains, he kept on a path directly toward the outcropping of rock he'd climbed that day, bypassing the crime scene completely. He parked well away from the grassy area, not wanting to disturb the birds. Approaching the rocks quickly and quietly, he settled himself on one of the larger boulders. He could see the Gambel's quails even without the binoculars and once he pulled them out, he could see the larks and warblers as well. There was no sign of the kestrel, but today there were also some chukars, ground-doves and tanagers, which made Nick just as happy.

When he was certain the birds wouldn't be startled by his presence, he carefully moved closer, choosing a slightly lower rock. From that vantage point he knew he would get some good shots. Especially with the zoom on this sucker, he thought with a grin.

He didn't remember the exact conversation, but when he visited home the previous summer, he'd mentioned to his oldest sister, Susannah, that he meant to get a new camera with better zoom on it. That Christmas, Susannah and Adrienne, another sister, had thrown in together to get him a fantastic digital Nikon with all the bells and whistles, including 12x and the mutli-lens capability to take it to 50x if he ever wanted to. Like I'm the freakin' paparazzi. He had only had the chance to really use it twice since Christmas, although he'd spent several hours fiddling with it to see everything it could do. He hadn't bothered with the adaptations for more zoom, knowing he'd get some good shots with the 12x.

Good shots? More like amazing shots. With this camera, he could get close enough to capture the subtle differences between the mourning and MacGillivray's warblers. He snapped away for the better part of a half hour and was lucky enough to get a series of shots of a tiny junco pestering the hell out a mountain quail.

He stopped and got out his sketchpad to do a few sketches, even though they weren't necessary, and jotted down some notes. Then he pulled out a bottle of water, but only had time for a couple of sips before he heard a klee-klee from above. Looking up, he saw the silhouette of a raptor, so he quickly capped the bottle and got his camera ready again.

Sure enough, it was an American kestrel, probably the same one, because it landed amongst the other birds without any of them showing alarm. Nick spent another hour alternately snapping pictures or scribbling notes, all the while mulling over various reasons for a raptor--even such a small one--to be living among ground and song birds. Orphaned, maybe? Did birds adopt abandoned young? He'd have to look that up. Such a small kestrel could probably survive on the insects the others ate, along with maybe the occasional rodent, so perhaps there was enough to go around. On the other hand, kestrels were perching birds and this one seemed at home on the ground. Possible imprinting? He'd definitely have to look into that orphaned thing.

He was just waiting for that bratty little junco to start bothering the kestrel so he could snap a great shot when the entire flock scattered, taking to the air. Frowning, Nick looked up from his camera and blinked in astonishment when he saw a boy who looked to be in his early teens walking uncertainly toward the mountains. "Hey, there."

The boy startled so badly he nearly tripped over his own feet and looked up fearfully at Nick.

In the direction the boy had come from, Nick could see nothing but horizon. Which meant the boy had been walking at least three, probably four or five miles. "Are you lost?" he asked in his most friendly manner.

"I am Alexei," the boy replied.

Nick's eyes widened. He hadn't expected to hear a Russian accent. Now he was definitely curious. "Hi, Alexei. I'm Nick." He started to climb down from the rocks, but halted when the boy took several steps back, looking alarmed enough to bolt. "What are you doing way out here? Where did you come from? Walk from?" he clarified, after a moment's consideration.

Another hesitation, during which Nick could almost see Alexei going over his words. "I walk from house," he finally said, pointing northward.

Nick looked, seeing no sign of a house. Alexei was definitely indicating Barrett Sampson's land, but there was no telling how far beyond that he meant. "Someone has a house out here?"

Alexei nodded immediately. "I stay with."

Nick nodded in return, taking in the boy's very American clothing, right up to the baseball cap on his head. Right now, though, he was also sweaty and dusty from his trek across the desert.

Alexei shifted nervously, "I am...scholar--student. Uh...menyatz...changing, yes?"

"Exchange student?" Nick supplied with a smile.

"Yes."

"And you're staying with--"

"With pakravytl...sponsor? Host."

"Your host family." Nick surveyed the desert again. "That's a long walk. Will you be able to find your way back?"

Alexei shook his head, "Find..?"

"Do you know how to..." Nick searched for a better word. "How to return to your house?"

The boy's eyes widened, "Yes, I will return to house." He spoke quickly, "Yes."

"Okay." But Nick was already deciding to give the kid a ride back to...wherever.

"I will go now?" Alexei asked nervously.

"You don't have to go now. You know what?" He reached into his backpack and pulled out his second bottle of water. "You've gotta be thirsty."

"For me?"

"Yeah," Nick grinned, hopping down from his rock to hand it over.

After a long hesitation, Alexei took it. "Spasiba," he said, taking several big gulps, then sighing with relief. "What do you do here?" he asked Nick carefully.

"I'm taking pictures. Photographs." He picked up his camera.

Alexei took another step back, "Of what do you photograph?"

"Birds," Nick replied.

"Birds?" Alexei blinked.

"See?" Nick held out the camera so Alexei could see the LCD. "Birds."

"Computer camera." The boy's interest was obvious. He'd even begun to inch closer.

"Digital," Nick corrected, grinning again because the boy sounded so impressed.

Alexei got close enough to hold out a finger, nearly touching the small screen which was displaying the kestrel. "You take those--here? And see them."

"Sure. Like this." Nick back away and aimed the camera at Alexei, snapping a picture.

Although he seemed to balk for a moment, Alexei took of his baseball cap and straightened his hair a bit.

Chuckling, Nick snapped a couple more pictures, then brought one up on the LCD. "See? And then you print the ones you want."

Alexei nodded, then backed away again, sitting on a different rock and taking another sip of water. "It is your work?"

"This?" Nick laughed. "No. This is a hobby, although I do sometimes take photographs in my job." Alexei tilted his head inquisitively, so Nick continued, "I'm a criminalist with the Las Vegas Police."

"Politzya?" Alexei stood again. "I will return now, yes?"

"Okay. My truck is right over there," Nick jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I can drive you back."

"No. I walk." He started to take several steps back, then halted and held the bottle out to Nick. "I go now."

"You keep it," Nick said, waving the bottle away. "Drink it on the walk back. Are you sure you want to walk?"

"I walk, yes."

"All right. It was nice meeting you, Alexei."

Alexei gave him a bemused frown, halting again. "Good-bye," he turned and started walking back across the grass and looked back momentarily when he reached the rocky desert soil again.

Nick waved, wondering if maybe he should insist on driving the kid home. But Alexei had said no, and he'd certainly walked out without too much trouble. Hot and parched, yes, but overall the boy looked healthy--well-nourished and properly clothed. At least he had water for the walk back.

Opening his own water again, Nick sat on the rock, waiting just in case Alexei changed his mind and decided he didn't want to walk. He knew there wasn't much chance of that happening. The boy had certainly been wary and obviously hadn't expected to see anyone out here--for that matter, neither had Nick. Possibly he'd been around in the previous weeks and shooed away from a crime scene--that would explain his nervous behavior.

Alexei was keeping a steady pace, but kept checking back out his shoulder and it suddenly occurred to Nick that the kid might have been waiting for him to leave. Maybe he wanted to do some exploring but felt uneasy with Nick around. Nick shook his head ruefully. Considering his job and some of the things he'd seen, he should have caught on sooner. Just because he knew he meant no harm didn't mean Alexei knew it. If he was indeed an exchange student, possibly his host family had warned him about strangers, even those claimed to be cops. If he wasn't actually an exchange student, then maybe just hearing about police scared him.

Either way, Nick knew there was little he could do, and that he'd probably only frighten the kid if he pushed too hard. Alexei was still in sight, so Nick quickly packed up his things, putting his water, camera, ball cap and sketchpad back in his knapsack and slinging it over his shoulder. As he started for his truck, he looked back and saw that Alexei had indeed stopped. For all he knew the kid had been here several times already, poking curiously around the old crime scene or maybe looking at the petroglyphs.

As he drove back to the city, Nick felt content with his afternoon. He'd nearly filled his video card, found a little nature mystery to investigate and met a kid from Russia. Not bad. Now he had the whole night shift free to download the pictures and pick out the best ones. Even more important, he wanted to see what he could find out about orphaned birds.

He checked his watch. It was just after four. Maybe when he got back to Vegas he'd give Warrick a call--see if his friend wanted to grab some dinner before he had to go to work.

---

The next night Nick went back to work with, as he'd hoped, as clear mind and renewed determination to solve the case.

It didn't change a thing.

No new leads.

No new insights.

Nick knew what that meant.

He'd have to work harder.

---

"You mean you're actually going to do it?" Warrick stared in disbelief.

"I think so," Nick said as they left the locker room. "I had it like that for a year at A&M."

"Frat hazing? Or did you lose a bet?"

Grinning, Nick gave him a playful shove. "Just thought I'd try something different."

"So what do you do? Just grab a Remington and go to town?"

"I actually did it myself in college," Nick laughed. "But I'll get someone else to do it this time."

"Well, if you're gonna do it, I guess summer is the time to--"

"Nick?" Greg stuck his head out of the DNA lab as they passed. "You got a minute?"

"Sure," Nick said, making a detour.

"Hey," Warrick muttered. "If you want to talk to someone about the whole head-shaving thing," he nodded to Greg.

"I'm not a miracle worker," Nick snorted as they walked in. "What's up?" he asked the tech.

"I finished running the DNA on all the skeletons in the mass grave case. Except for the three that didn't have viable DNA, of course."

"Really?" Nick was impressed, knowing that since he was trying to get as much experience in the field as possible, Greg didn't waste much time in the lab. "They weren't priority."

"I know, but I was caught up on everything." Greg handed Nick the results. "I don't know how helpful it will be, though."

"Right now, we've got practically nothing, so whatever you found will--we've got siblings."

"Two sets," Greg clarified.

"Really?" Warrick peered over Nick's shoulder at the results.

"P1 and P7 are brother and sister..." Nick mused. "P2 and C6 are brothers--hey, now we'll know P2's race. That's something."

"What?" Warrick frowned.

"On some of the partial skeletons, there wasn't enough to identify sex or race. Of course, with the complete skeletons, we know all that. P2 was one whose race couldn't be identified, but if the complete skeleton is his sibling..."

"...you'll know his race," Greg finished, looking pleased.

"Nicky," Warrick said quietly.

He sounded so serious that Nick looked up from the results. "What's the matter?"

Warrick glanced at Greg before asking, just as quietly. "You've got the stats on all these kids memorized?"

"Are you kidding me?" Nick couldn't help laughing. "There's twenty-one of them. No, I just know the numbers of the five partial skeletons, because we've been trying to identify them for so long." He noted Warrick's dubious look, "I am trying to keep some distance, Rick," he added.

Warrick studied him for a moment, then nodded. "We'd better get out to our scene, then. Brass is going to be getting testy."

"And that's new?" Nick asked, and they all smiled. "Okay, let's go. Thanks for the results, G."

"No problem. Like I said, I'm all caught up, so if you guys need a hand out at the scene..."

Nick's smile widened. So that's what this was about, at least partially. "We don't even know what we've got yet."

"I know. I'm just sayin'..."

"Let us see what we've got," Nick said, glancing at Warrick, who nodded. "And if we can find a reason for an extra set of hands, we'll call."

"Yeah, we'll keep you on speed dial," Warrick added.

"Cool."

After they left the lab, Warrick glanced back over his shoulder. "Man, I hope his proficiency is soon. The kid's gonna bust one of these walls with the way he's bouncing off them."

"Grissom wants to have someone to replace him in the lab first, doesn't he?"

"Greg said he found someone to start in a couple of weeks."

"What?" Nick frowned. "When did you hear this?"

"Last night. Someone with a couple years at CCL." Warrick saw Nick's blank look and clarified, "Connecticut Crime Lab."

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Nick halted at the door.

"What? That's what he said."

"Aw, hell. He's never gonna get out of the lab," Nick shook his head and walked outside.

"Why not?" Warrick frowned, following.

"Connecticut? To Las Vegas? Hell, even when I came from Dallas, it was a shock. Just the size," Nick shook his head. "A week. Tops. You can't make that kind of a jump."

"No way," Warrick shook his head.

"Rick, you've only lived here. Vegas definitely takes some adjusting."

"You're exaggerating," Warrick insisted.

Nick glanced at him, and the words were out of his mouth before he thought, "How sure are you of that?"

Warrick stared.

Fuck. You idiot. "Rick, I'm sorry..."

"Let's make it not worth my while," Warrick suggested easily. "Five bucks says the newbie makes it through a week--that's actually six shifts," he held up a fist.

Nick considered dropping the whole thing, but decided to follow Warrick's lead. "Done," he bumped knuckles with his partner before climbing into one of the new Denalis.

---

Glancing down at the red ball cap on top of his knapsack, Nick shook his head with a rueful smile before focusing his attention on the highway again. It was nearly two weeks since his last day off and he'd enjoyed it so much, he decided to take another drive out to the Dead Mountains. When he was filling his knapsack again, he found the ball cap inside and realized it must be Alexei's. After a moment's confusion, Nick recalled quickly gathering his things--likely he'd tossed the cap in without thinking.

No wonder the poor kid was looking at me funny. He probably thought I was stealing his hat.

So he brought it along on the off-chance that he met up with Alexei again, although he seriously doubted that would happen.

Nick parked in his usual spot, grabbed his knapsack and quickly strode to the first rock. Much to his disappointment, there were only a couple of thrushes sitting in the grass, and they seemed to be drowsing. Now that he was out here he didn't want to turn right around and go back, so he took out a bottle of water and decided to give it half-an-hour.

When he spotted something moving out on the desert, beyond the scrubby grass, Nick grabbed his binoculars for a better view. It was the little kestrel fighting with a--what was that anyway? A rodent of some sort. One that was too large for the kestrel, so instead of a meal, he was getting a fight.

Your eyes were way too big for your stomach, buddy.

Nick took a couple of shots with his camera, but even with the zoom, they wouldn't be that great. Slinging his knapsack over his shoulder, he jogged across the desert, getting as close as he dared. He didn't want to break up the fight--it wasn't his place to intervene. Besides, the kestrel and...it looked like a kangaroo rat, seemed pretty evenly matched. They were too busy tangling with each other to pay much attention to him, so Nick crouched down on his haunches and started snapping.

Filling his card with shots of the almost humorous battle, Nick was only distantly aware of the sound of motors. His attention was focused on using his camera's abilities to shoot a few short video clips as well. Not until the animals abruptly separated, the rat skittering across the ground and the kestrel going airborne, did Nick bother taking note of his surroundings.

Nick stood just as two SUVs blew past him and parked near his Ranger. Two men got out of the white SUV, and started toward him, so Nick walked to meet them. "Hey."

"You're trespassing," one of the men said.

Glancing around, Nick realized he'd walked onto private land while trying to get the perfect shot. Ah, hell. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going." He continued toward the county land, but his footsteps faltered when the men advanced on him. They were both taller and heavier than he was and there was something about their posture that did not bode well.

"You've been out here before," the first man said. Bald and with a goatee, he was so thickly muscled that his neck seemed to just blend right into his shoulders.

The man's tone was not reassuring, and Nick wished he'd brought his gun. He rarely carried it off-duty, though. "Not on this land. I've just--"

"He's got a camera," said the other man--apparently quite the genius. Built like a brick house, his thick black hair was slicked back with some sort of oil. A lot of it.

Nick catalogued all these things out of pure habit. "Look," he explained in a friendly tone. "I apologize, okay? It was a mistake and I'm leaving right--hey!" He tried to jerk away when the cueball grabbed his arm, but before he could get very far, the greaseball plowed him one right in the gut.

Okay, now he was mad.

Pausing only long enough to catch his breath and let out a few choice curses, Nick brought up his free arm for a swing of his own. Before it went anywhere, that arm was caught by Greaseball and Cueball landed a punch on his ribs. Then both men twisted his arms painfully behind his back. Gasping for air now, Nick struggled, but that only made the men wrench his arms harder.

Hearing the doors on the second vehicle open, Nick realized he needed their tags, but the vehicles were parked too far away and the angle made it impossible, anyway. As two more men approached, Nick twisted again, then decided to wait for a better chance. One of the men was bigger still, with white-blond hair pulled back in a tail. The fourth man was expensively dressed, but other than that, nothing about him stood out. He was average height, average build, average features and average brown hair. Utterly forgettable. "You're trespassing," Expensive Suit reiterated.

"By mistake," Nick said. "And that doesn't give these guys the right to assault me. Is any one of you even Barrett Sampson?"

Ponytail stepped forward, casually backhanded him across the face and took his camera from around his neck before Nick could recover. Nick spat blood out of his mouth and instinctively began to struggle again, until one of his arms was wrenched so high he thought it would break.

"What are you doing out here?" Suit asked.

"Nothing that warrants this," Nick insisted.

That got him another backhand to his head, hard enough to make him see stars. Jesus, what the hell did these people think this was? They were acting like this was the Old West or the Mob days when they could just--

Now he was getting worried.

None of these men seemed particularly concerned about the consequences of their actions, and Nick couldn't help but wonder the reason for that. He was suddenly acutely aware that no one knew where he was, and no one would have the slightest idea where to start looking should anything--

And now he was scared.

Ponytail handed the camera to the Suit and bent to pick up the knapsack that had fallen from Nick's shoulder. Just Nick's luck, Ponytail pulled out--"Binoculars."

Nick stifled a groan. This wasn't looking good.

Then Ponytail pulled out the sketchpad, "What the hell is this?"

Nick bit back the first sarcastic remark that sprang to mind. "My sketch pad. I was out here bird watching," he said, still panting a bit.

Suit was going through his LCD display. "I'm tempted to believe you."

Well, good.

"But just this once, I'm going to resist temptation." He took the knapsack from Ponytail and stepped back, giving a small nod.

Nick barely had time to brace himself before Ponytail closed in. Cueball and Greaseball obligingly held him still so the big guy could do some serious damage. His ribs were taking most of the hits, and Nick had a moment to be grateful they weren't landing punches like that to his head before things started greying out.

He was vaguely aware of someone saying, "Stop!" and thankfully, the punishment did end.

He heard someone--the Suit, maybe?--speaking to him. "So you're Nick, are you?" At least, that's what it sounded like, but Nick was too fuzzy to be certain. The man didn't seem to require an answer, which was good, because Nick wasn't in any sort of shape to give one.

Then there was a brief discussion that Nick could only partially make out past the ringing in his ears, but it sounded like it was about him and where he worked. He was lifted and carried some distance before being unceremoniously dropped to the ground, knocking most of the breath he'd managed to catch back out of him. His knapsack was slammed down onto his back, with the camera and binoculars inside, judging by the pain to his spine, while the camera's memory card was crushed beneath someone's heel right in front of his face.

Nick didn't try to get up--not that his body was likely to cooperate at the moment--and didn't want to contemplate what else these men had in store for him. When he heard them getting back into their SUVs, his brief moment of relief was dashed by the panicked thought that they might run him over. But the sound of the vehicles soon faded, and Nick relaxed as much as his aching body would allow. He shifted enough so the knapsack slid from his back and was startled to see his truck tire. That was strangely considerate of them.

Trying to push himself up brought a stabbing pain to his side and tears to his eyes, but Nick forced himself into a sitting position. He reached for his knapsack and a bottle of water to rinse the blood and gravel out of his mouth. The first things he found were the torn pages of his sketchbook, and so didn't even think about looking at his camera, just went for the water. Leaning against the tire, he went over his injuries. His ribs were definitely bruised, possibly cracked, but he didn't think they were broken. He could feel his lip beginning to swell and carefully prodded his left eyebrow. There was definitely a cut there, but with any luck he wouldn't need stitches. He took a small sip of water, mindful of the way his stomach was lurching.

His head was beginning to clear, and Nick was sure that he'd be okay to drive as long as he kept his mind on the road and not the reason behind the attack. That was something he would be able to figure out once he got himself safely home.

Nick touched his eyebrow again and then his lip. How the hell was he going to explain this at work?

By the time Nick got home, he decided that he wouldn't need to go to the hospital and hoped that with a little sleep he'd even be able to work that night. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his shirt off and put it in an evidence bag, sealing it. He still wasn't sure what he was going to do about the encounter, but he wanted to be prepared in case he followed up.

That done, he took a couple of Tylenol and was about to crash for a few hours when he remembered the things in his knapsack.

Fingerprints.

Both Ponytail and the Suit had handled his camera and binoculars. He wasn't up to dusting them himself at the moment, so instead he sealed them each in their own bag as well--all the better to preserve any prints. If he did decide to follow up, he'd probably be better off letting someone else dust the items, anyway. He handled them carefully, even though his prints were already all over them, not wanting to obscure any new ones. Then he took out the sketches that had been torn into quarters and with a sigh of regret sealed them as well.

He left everything on his table and went to his bedroom, setting his alarm so he would have plenty of time to get ready for work. Moving as carefully and slowly as possible he sank into his mattress with a groan that ended in a grateful sigh.

Only a few minutes later--at least that's what it felt like--his alarm was buzzing at him. Nick reached to turn it off only to find that his body wasn't cooperating. His tried again and this time managed to stretch enough to turn off the alarm, as his arm, shoulder, back and side all screamed in protest. Nick felt as though he'd be tackled a dozen times on the football field and followed that up by drinking a keg of beer.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow.

At least it was quiet again, though.

All the better to go back to sleep.

When Nick opened his eyes again, his clock read 8:03 and he had the nagging feeling he'd overlooked something. Then he heard someone knocking at his door and remembered what it was.

Shit.

He was supposed to go with Warrick to check out a friend's new music store and then grab dinner before their shift. With several groans and muttered curses, he got out of bed, thankful that he hadn't taken his jeans off before lying down--he'd stiffened up so much he wasn't sure he would have been able to get them back on. He didn't bother looking in the mirror on his way to the door--he didn't want to know how bad he looked and he wouldn't have been able to hide it from Warrick, anyway.

Nick regretted that decision as soon as he opened the door and saw Warrick's horrified expression. Looking down at himself, he saw several bruises now darkened his torso to something of a mottled purple. Yeah, he was in for the third degree now.

"What the hell happened?"

Sighing, Nick stood aside to let him in. "Long story."

"I don't care. I want to hear it. Were you jumped? Have you been to the hospital?"

"Not exactly and I don't need one," Nick replied, stretching experimentally. Ow. Don't do that again. He froze when Warrick suddenly grasped his chin with one hand and stared deep into his eyes. Only once his friend released him did he remember to breathe.

"Pupils are normal. I guess you don't have a concussion," Warrick admitted, although Nick suspected he was ready to haul him off to the hospital at the slightest notice.

"I don't. They stuck mostly to my mid-section, fortunately."

"Fortunately, my ass," Warrick snorted. "Who did--what's all this?" He walked to the dining table and looked over the bags.

"Evidence."

Warrick just stared at him.

With another sigh, Nick eased himself onto one of the dining chairs, knowing it would be less painful to get up from again. He wasn't looking forward to explaining this. "Excessive force. Emphasis on excessive, although technically I was trespassing."

"Where?"

"Out by the Dead Mountains," Nick said reluctantly.

"Where by the Dead Mountains?" Warrick frowned.

"I was on that Sampson guy's land, okay?"

"Ah, hell, Nicky."

Nick rubbed his eyes. "Ow," he muttered, because it hurt to do that, too.

"What the hell were you doing out there?" Warrick sounded as though he didn't know whether to be angry or concerned. "You've got to step back from this. I mean, of course we'll charge them for assault, but--Jesus, Nick."

"I wasn't working the case," Nick muttered.

"What?"

Nick wasn't looking forward to this. He got enough teasing about watching too many bird documentaries. "I know no one is going to believe me, but I wasn't out there working the case."

Sure enough, Warrick was looking doubtful. "Okay. What were you doing?"

"Bird watching."

That only got him a blank look.

"You remember when we went to take soil samples?" Nick asked, and continued when Warrick nodded. "When I was taking a break, I saw some quail in the grass about 20 feet away. Well, then this kestrel landed among them without any of them scattering--weird, yeah? He was walking like he belonged with them, but man, he's a kestrel. He's supposed to be eating--well, if not the quail, then some of the smaller ground birds. So I went back on my day off." With no prompting whatsoever, Nick went on to relate all his observations that day, with only a brief mention of Alexei as an afterthought.

Nick momentarily forgot his aching body as he enthusiastically told Warrick about the various birds all living in one area, the entertaining interactions and his theories. He was just beginning to describe the kestrel-kangaroo rat battle when he noticed Warrick staring at him in bemusement. That's when he realized he'd been rambling nonstop and fought the urge to squirm with embarrassment. That's also when he became acutely aware of the fact that he hadn't gotten around to putting a shirt on. He let his words trail off and fiddled with the bag containing his camera.

"So you weren't working the case." Warrick sounded amused, but the affection in his voice took away any sting.

"Sorry. Got a little carried away, there."

Warrick grinned, making Nick feel even more self-conscious.

"Anyway, I guess I wandered onto his land when I was following the fight," Nick explained. "The kestrel and the--"

"Kangaroo rat," Warrick finished, showing that whatever he thought, he'd at least listened. "So what did you do when they said you were trespassing?"

"That's just it. I was already walking back off the land, and of course I apologized and explained. But they stopped me before I got all the way off the property."

"And they just grabbed you?"

"Pretty much. I mean, they didn't really seem to care why I was there. I wasn't even sure they were going to let me leave." Nick wrapped his arms around his mid-section, a protection that hadn't been afforded him in the desert, and the reality of the situation began to set in. A shudder ran through him. Ow. That hurt, too, dammit.

Warrick noticed, of course. "Nick?"

"After they worked me over, they dumped me next to my truck and they left." Nick thought back, although things were foggy at best. "I think they knew my name and that I worked with cops. I think that's the reason they didn't--well."

Fidgeting with the evidence bag, Warrick was wearing his blankest poker face. "You need to go to the hospital," he finally said, his voice tight.

"Rick, I don't need a hospital." Then Nick got pissed off, because that practically came out a whine.

"You're gonna press charges, though, right? You bagged the evidence."

"Of course." Several more shudders ran through him, and Nick wished he could chalk it up to the cold, except it wasn't. Great. Now some sort of delayed reaction setting it. "I mean, of course I sealed the evidence--in case I do report it. But I haven't decided yet. Warrick," he said quickly, because he knew his friend was about to argue. "Even though I wasn't out there on the case, it could still look bad for CSI."

Warrick growled something under his breath.

Nick felt too sore, too self-conscious, too stupid to get into this debate right now. "Look, I'm gonna have to bail on the store. It'll probably take me a bit longer than usual for me to get ready for work and--"

"You're not going to work," Warrick said immediately.

Nick pushed himself up from the table, gritting his teeth against a groan so Warrick didn't have any more ammunition. "I need a shower," he said and headed for the bathroom. He knew he was being rude, but he just wanted to get away from Warrick. He appreciated his friend's concern, but even being expressed in the businesslike manner, it was sending Nick toward something of a meltdown and he didn't need that right now. He didn't need that at all. And he definitely didn't need it in front of Warrick, because Warrick would bundle him off to the hospital before he knew it, and he didn't need that, either.

Now that he was alone, Nick felt free to groan and curse as he took off his jeans, and he did a lot of it, because every twist and bend brought more pain. Still, considering what could have happened to him, what almost had happened to him, he was pretty lucky.

You just need to shake it off, man, he told himself as he turned on the shower. Or wash it off.

He stepped under the spray and let out a yelp, then another string of curses as the hot water made contact with the patches of raw skin. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. That hurts. Hadn't noticed the abrasions amidst all the other aches and pains, but he knew they were there now, caused by fist against shirt against skin. He let his breath hiss out through his teeth as he adjusted to the new discomfort.

Usually, he loved the fact that his shower was very high pressure, and he was sure he'd be grateful for it in another day or two, but right now it just hurt like hell. He didn't linger in the shower, but he wasn't able to move with his usual efficiency, either. It balanced out, though, and didn't take much longer than usual. As he walked to his bedroom, he saw Warrick still seated at his table, looking over the evidence.

He wanted to go out dressed and moving with his usual ease, just to show Warrick he was fine, but just getting shorts, jeans and socks on left him exhausted. He probably needed to wrap his ribs, and if he really wanted to do a good job of it, a couple of the worst abrasions could use attention. The cut above his eye and his split lip, although they made him look like hell, really weren't an issue. Not like his ribs, although he was positive they were only bruised. Maybe--maybe--one was cracked, at the most.

Lowering himself onto his bed, Nick decided he had time for a breather before he went looking for his first aid kit and tensor bandages. He heard Warrick enter the room and sighed but didn't open his eyes. "I'm fine, Rick." Seconds later, he let out a startled squawk as something ice cold was laid across his side.

"You should have done this before," Warrick told him.

"Damn, that's freezing." Nick opened his eyes and half-smiled at the bag of frozen vegetables resting on his ribs, "I forgot I had these."

"Other side probably needs one too," Warrick handed him another bag.

Nick looked at it. "Oh yeah, these are those stir fry things I've been meaning to try."

"Well, right now try them on your ribs."

"Bossy," Nick complained, but he complied, hissing in discomfort. "I'll stay like this for a few minutes, then I should be able to wrap them."

"Fifteen minutes, minimum," Warrick insisted, sitting next to him. "Twenty would be better. And you don't wrap bruised ribs."

"Warrick--"

"Hey, if they're so bad they need wrapping, then you need to see a doctor."

Nick let out a soft, aggravated sound, his only acknowledgment that he knew Warrick was right. Then Warrick shifted, and Nick was suddenly self-conscious again. Warrick was in his bedroom. Warrick was sitting on his bed. Although Warrick had been to his place plenty of times, had been in the bathroom, living room, kitchen, even the guest room, he'd never had a reason to be in Nick's bedroom. It was strangely intimate, even though they were the best of friends, and Nick didn't dare contemplate whether he liked it or not.

"--got a few hours until shift. Why don't you take another couple aspirin and crash until then?"

That made Nick immediately suspicious. He could see the possibility of Warrick giving up on making him go to the hospital, but for him to drop the argument about going to work was a surprise. "Okay..." he said, warily.

"Why don't I swing by for you an hour early?" Warrick continued easily. "Then you can go to PD and talk to Brass. Log the evidence in. There should at least be a record of this."

Nick smiled in spite of himself. Sneaky. "Okay. Deal."

"Cool." The bed shifted again as Warrick stood up. "By the way, it's too bad about your sketches. I didn't know you were that good."

Nick kept his eyes closed and hoped his blush wasn't too obvious. "Thanks."

"I'll be back in an hour or two," Warrick said, his voice coming from the doorway.

"Thanks, Rick," Nick said, and decided to forego the aspirin, because he was already drifting off.

---

Warrick's plan worked out just the way he intended--almost. Not wanting to argue with the injured man, he stopped suggesting the hospital, relented to Nick going to work and in the process got Nick to agree to make a report.

Jim Brass took Nick's statement himself and even managed to convince Nick to let him follow up. Warrick had counted on that--Brass wasn't about to let an attack on the graveyard shift go without being all over it. They also left the evidence with Brass, and although Warrick wasn't quite so thrilled about that part, he figured Brass would bring it by the lab for him to process later. Next they showed up at the lab for their shift, where Grissom took one look at Nick, heard what happened and sent him straight home.

Warrick tried not to seem smug about that, but judging from the look Nick gave him that combined both irritation and resignation, he wasn't too successful. He had counted on Grissom sending Nick home--it was the only reason he'd stopped arguing with his friend about it at all. He had also figured that if Grissom hadn't sent Nick home, Catherine, who always had something of a protective streak when it came to Nick, would have insisted on it.

What he hadn't counted on was just how protective Catherine could be of Nick. He found out when Catherine took Nick's case--a case that Warrick was certain he'd be working. Instead, he was sent off to a home invasion.

He kept track of Catherine's progress--what little there was. Once she'd eliminated Nick's prints, there were only a few partials and a thumb print that were useful. AFIS hadn't brought up hits on any of them, so Catherine left them with Jacqui to run in a wider search while she finished up some of her other work in preparation for going out with Brass to speak with Sampson personally.

The next day it started to rain, which led to such a slow night that Grissom told Nick to stay home for one more shift. The downpour only let up near morning, and by then the flooding had washed up a DB from the storm drain. Warrick joined Catherine to rack up some overtime strolling through the tunnels in search of evidence. It gave him the chance to find out what she had on Nick's case, which, as it turned out, was precisely--"Nothing."

"Nothing?" he repeated blankly.

"Nothing we can actually use," Catherine sounded disgusted and Warrick couldn't tell whether it was due to their current assignment or what they were discussing. "No hits on any of the prints, and Barrett Sampson has been in Europe for nearly a month." She picked up a piece of debris from the water and abandoned as nonrelated. "His assistant is house sitting--that's who we spoke to--and according to him, there have been no disturbances on the property."

"Does he match any of the descriptions Nick gave?"

"No," Catherine sighed. "And Nick gave us some good descriptions to work with. What's more, Sampson's passport matches up to what the guy is saying."

"So Sampson has nothing to do with it?"

Catherine swept her flashlight along the side of the tunnel, looking at the graffiti.

"Cath?" Warrick prompted.

"It all checks out to clear Sampson," she said after another moment's hesitation. "But something about it just doesn't click. I'm pretty sure Jim thinks so, too."

"You think he has something to do with it?" Warrick picked a plastic bag out of the water.

"I don't know," Catherine trained her flashlight on it as well, then kept walking when it proved to be plastic tangled with a tree branch. "The guy is perfectly clean. Doesn't even spend that much time in the States."

"So...nothing."

"The rain will have washed away any tire tracks," Catherine shrugged. "We left word for Sampson to contact us immediately when he returns. Other than that, there's nowhere left to go right now."

She sounded just as dissatisfied with the situation as Warrick felt, so by unspoken agreement, they dropped the subject and concentrated on the case at hand.

---

After spending all morning in the city's storm drains, the lousy shower at the lab just didn't cut it, and Warrick took another, much longer shower the minute he got home. He decided it would be a good idea to go straight to bed and get some sleep, knowing that he was looking at another double once Brass got a warrant for the Durbin residence.

Going to bed immediately was simple enough, but falling asleep was another story and Warrick found himself going over what he knew about Nick's assault in his mind, trying to think of something Catherine or Brass might have missed. He knew they probably hadn't overlooked anything, though, and that what he was really doing was just worrying about Nick. That was something he'd been doing far too often. Not only worrying, but he had been thinking about Nick too much lately. For the sake of his sanity, that really had to stop.

Right now, he should be getting himself off to the memory of Catherine in his arms and pressed up against him. They had been flirting with each other for years. The attraction was there--had always been there. Cath was smart and savvy and, for all her "den mother" status, was one of the sexiest women Warrick had ever been fortunate enough to meet. Warrick was sure that if anything ever happened between them, it would be fiery and fantastic and very likely burn itself out within six months. That would not be beneficial to either of their careers, or for Lindsey.

With Catherine the possibility was definitely there, the chemistry was definitely there, and his mind should definitely be there. And yet, as he stroked himself to completion, it wasn't to thoughts of strawberry blonde waves, lush curves and a sultry voice, but velvety dark eyes, a lean sculpted body and a soft Texas drawl.

---

Back at work in time to lend a hand on the Durbin case, Nick found himself trying to identify another child's skeleton. Catherine sat with him at the computer as they went through the files of children missing for more than a year hoping to locate a possible victim.

As they scrolled through the depressing database, Catherine filled him in on his case. It was bending the rules, but Catherine always was good at that, and Nick was grateful to her for letting him know where things stood. Even if it wasn't good news, it set his mind at ease to a certain extent.

Nick agreed it was suspicious for the men to concern themselves with his trespassing if they weren't working for Barrett Sampson, but he could think of a few reasons for it. The men might be using the land without Sampson's knowledge--especially if the guy was out of the country much of the time. There were caves and abandoned mines on both Sampson's and Clark Country property that could be used for all sorts of illegal activity. Between the recent police activity and Nick's presence, perhaps they got nervous and used trespassing as an excuse--they never did mention Sampson's name, after all. Nick felt certain that if he'd thought of that, Catherine and Brass had, too, and were probably looking into it.

The damage to his face wasn't very noticeable anymore and he could move without too much discomfort. Although he regretted not being able to go out to his personal aviary any longer, he also couldn't shake the feeling that it was his own damn fault. In some ways it served him right for not paying more attention to where he was going. If the men had been working for Sampson, the landowner could have made a big deal about his being there. He could have received a harassment complaint in his file and faced some level of disciplinary action. Unless something else turned up, Nick decided to just fill out the paperwork to get his camera and binoculars back and consider the rest of it a wash.

Matching this most recent skeleton was beginning to look like a wash as well until he met with Grissom later in the shift and was told to check missing persons records that were as little as five weeks old. Once Nick did that, he was able to identify the body and provide some closure for the boy's grandmother. Even after his part of the Durbin case was finished, Nick had plenty of work from the rest of his caseload to catch up on. He worked steadily through the rest of his shift and reluctantly admitted to himself--if no one else--that he wouldn't be too effective in the field for a few more days. There was a little more than an hour left in his shift and he was already feeling pretty ragged.

He was determined not to let it show, however, because Warrick had joined him in one of the evidence labs to go over their hit-and-run that was due in court next week. Warrick had done enough worrying about him already. Warrick, who was out there with Sara yanking doors off closets filled with pipe bombs, kept worrying about him. Nick thought that was a nice bit of irony.

When Greg bounced into the evidence lab with as much energy as he'd had at the beginning of shift, it wasn't only Nick who gave him a slightly resentful look. Greg ignored the looks. Nick was certain he couldn't have missed them. "Guess what?"

"We don't make guesses, G." Nick couldn't help but notice that Greg was keeping both hands behind his back.

Greg let out an I'll-be-patient-with-the-poor-sap sigh. "You know I've been trying to get the decks cleared so the next DNA tech won't be so overwhelmed."

Nick felt his lips twitch and exchanged an amused glance with Warrick over the Chandra Moore disaster.

"Anyway," Greg paid no attention to those looks, either. "I was running all the results of the viable DNA from your mass grave case through CODIS."

Nick frowned. That didn't sound right.

Warrick obviously agreed. "Greg, those kids died over 60 years ago. They wouldn't be in CODIS."

"Then it's amazing that I have this, isn't it?" Greg brought one arm from behind his back and waved a paper tantalizingly in front of them. "Can anyone say moderate stringency match?"

Nick felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. "You found a relative?" One victim. If they even identified one victim, it could mean so much.

Greg looked at him and the teasing stopped. He handed the paper over at once. "Victim C4 had seven alleles in common with one Geraldo Quihuiz. He's been in Primm for dealing a few times." He handed over the file, which he also had behind him.

"Father?" Warrick asked.

"Not old enough. Brother, I'd say." Greg nodded to the file, "His mother's address is in there. That's his last known."

Nick grabbed the file, flipping through it eagerly. "This is great work, G," he said, unable to take his eyes from a breakthrough he'd given up hope on. "I'll have to go talk to her. Let her know or..."

"Nick--" Warrick began.

What actually got Nick's attention was that Warrick said nothing more than that. He'd half-expected some sort of cautionary statement, and when none was forthcoming, he looked up and saw that Grissom had joined them. The entomologist seemed to know something was up and obviously expected an explanation. "Greg found relatives of one of the victims from the mass graves," Nick handed over the file.

Grissom looked it over, then looked at Nick, one eyebrow raised.

Nick suddenly found himself at something of a loss, but that tended to happen under Grissom's scrutiny at the best of times. "I'll...see if I can talk to the mother. Find out if she remembers anything about her daughter's disappearance."

"Daughter?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh at Warrick's concerned tone, Nick handed him the results. "It says XX on the printout, Rick. Anyway," he turned back to Grissom. "I'll phone to make sure she's available and find out when I can speak to her."

"Remember. No overtime." Before Nick could protest, Grissom added, "So split your shift on that day."

"Will do," Nick agreed at once, not wanting to push his luck.

"I'll go with you," Warrick offered.

Nick was about to tell Warrick he didn't need a keeper, but then remembered that Warrick had worked this case from the beginning as well. What's more, it would be stupid of him to argue when deep down, he knew he wanted that extra support Warrick would provide. It wasn't going to be an easy interview by any stretch of the imagination. "Okay. I'll get back to you about the day once I've talked to Mrs. Quihuiz."

Grissom looked from one to the other. "Let me know how it goes," he said, handing the file back to Nick.

---

"Are you sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"No, thank you, ma'am," Nick sat on a sofa that might have been fashionable in the late seventies. Like everything else in the house, it was shabby but meticulously clean. Warrick sat next to him. "I'm sorry to bring up a painful subject, but we'd like to talk to you about your daughter."

Palma Quihuiz perched on the edge of a recliner. She was a tiny woman in her late eighties without a spare ounce of flesh on her body. She didn't look fragile, though. To Warrick, she seemed to carry an air of indestructibility about her. "You didn't say which daughter this was about."

"Your deceased daughter--"

"I had four daughters. All are dead."

Nick floundered. "I'm so sorry."

"Seven children," she continued matter-of-factly. "One is still alive."

Both men fell silent briefly to absorb this.

Mrs. Quihuiz waited for them to continue, her expression calm. It was as though nothing they had to say could possibly be worse than anything she'd already endured in her life.

With one more uncertain glance at Warrick, Nick cleared his throat. "This is a girl who was approximately eleven when she died. It happened more than sixty years ago."

"Consuela," she said immediately. "She was twelve the last time I saw her. That was in...'42."

Warrick raised his eyebrows, wondering if that's all they were going to get from her. "Ma'am..." Nick began.

"Jorges--my husband--had taken the three oldest children with him when he went to work for the summer picking fruit. The younger three stayed home with me. José and Carolina returned with him. Consuela, he told me, drowned."

"Where?" Nick asked, and Warrick could feel his unease with the conflicting story. "Did he say where she drowned?"

"No. Jorges came home because he lost his arm in a piece of machinery. I did not have time to grieve my daughter."

Warrick winced. Palma Quihuiz came across as a hard woman, but apparently she had reason to be. Nick didn't seem to see her as that way, though. His voice remained gentle and consoling as continued asking questions. "Mrs. Quihuiz, Consuela was found in the desert--"

"My husband took the truth to his grave with him, but José, when he found he was dying, told me the truth some thirty-five years ago." Her lips tightened, but Warrick couldn't tell if it was with grief or anger. "Someone from a factory--or was it a mill? Someone went to the farm where my husband was working, wanting to hire people--he offered the jobs to the children, even though there were laws that children under the age of fourteen weren't supposed to be--" she stopped abruptly and Warrick bit his lip to keep from commenting on the fact that the children probably hadn't been sent to the farm with their father to play. "Well, the factory was far out in the desert and no one really bothered to check. My husband allowed José, Consuela and Carolina to go. José never said exactly what happened to Consuela there, or even what sort of factory it was. He only said that Consuela forgot the machines were more important than the workers. As for Carolina, she never spoke of it. She died only five years after Consuela."

Nick looked down at the file in his hands and his tongue snuck out to moisten his lower lip--usually a sign of his nervousness. He seemed at a momentary loss, and although Warrick wanted to step in, he didn't have the slightest idea how to proceed, either.

"Where did you find her?"

Looking relieved with what was a simple question, Nick replied, "She was buried about twenty miles southeast of Borax with several other bod--children."

"Do you know how she died?" Mrs. Quihuiz face betrayed no emotion.

"According to our findings, blunt force trauma was the cause of death. We.." Nick cleared his throat, "We thought perhaps--well, it could be the result of an accident with machinery."

"I wondered," Mrs. Quihuiz said simply. "I thought she might have been burned."

"Why?" Warrick asked.

"José talked about a fire--perhaps more than one--but he didn't say if it happened while they worked there. When there was a fire, they would close the firewall to protect the equipment--if a worker got caught in the room..." she let her voice trail off.

Nick's jaw was working, so Warrick picked up the thread of conversation. "It sounds like it could be a glass factory."

"My son never did say what sort it was. I don't know that it was even a legal factory."

That might explain why they did such a careful job of burying the bodies, Warrick thought.

Nick's chest rose and fell in a deep, silent sigh. "Mrs. Quihuiz, I know it can't be easy recalling all this and we appreciate the help you've given." He hesitated briefly, "But if there's anything else you can remember your son saying? Anything about the people? The location?"

The woman's gaze grew distant, and she was silent for several minutes before shaking her head slowly. "There is nothing else. I'm sorry."

Warrick knew Nick was disappointed, but thought the Texan was doing a good job of hiding it as he gave Mrs. Quihuiz one of those smiles of his. He did tamp the wattage down out of respect for the situation, though. "That's okay, ma'am. We're grateful for the information you were able to give us."

"Is there some way I can visit the spot my daughter is buried?"

"Oh," Nick blinked in surprise. "No, ma'am. She's actually been moved to one of our facilities. You can claim her--"

"Claim her?" The small frame stiffened, and for a moment Warrick though Nick's words had offended her. "You mean...I would be able to give her a proper burial?"

"Yes, ma'am," Nick quickly rifled through his pockets for a card and wrote a number on the back. "This is the number for the coroner's office. If you ask to speak to a David Phillips, he'll be able to tell you how to proceed and make arrangements."

Mrs. Quihuiz took the card and kept her eyes fastened on it as she spoke. "My other children all lie near their father. I take comfort in the fact that they are all together, but for Consuela I always--" she pressed a hand hard against her mouth for several seconds. "Thank you," she said when she'd recovered her voice.

Nick glanced at Warrick and his throat worked briefly. Warrick was unable to speak past the lump in his own throat, and was impressed when Nick's voice came out so clearly. "You're very welcome, ma'am," he said, then stood. Warrick rose to his feet as well. This was all Nick, and Warrick was happy to follow his friend's lead in this situation. "Again, thank you for your help."

They both shook hands with her and allowed her to usher them to the door. It was unspoken, but Warrick was sure they all felt the need to end this meeting quickly in order to deal with its impact--he certainly did. He got behind the wheel of the Denali, but didn't start it. Instead, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to make his mind move away from the utter tragedy of Mrs. Quihuiz's life. He let out a sigh and heard it echoed from the passenger seat. When he looked over at Nick, he saw his friend was leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed. "Ready to go?"

"Yep."

"Want to grab a beer?"

"Yeah, but I can't. I've got to get some sleep before work."

Warrick pulled away from the Quihuiz house. "Your ribs still bothering you?"

"A little, but hasn't even been a week." Nick shifted slightly and winced, "I don't know if there's anywhere else to go with the case."

"Don't worry, man," Warrick assured him. "Cath won't let it drop until she gets something. Neither will Jim."

Nick turned to him with a slight frown, "I meant this case, Rick. Consuela Quihuiz. I guess that's what I'll file it under." He adjusted his seatbelt slightly, "I'll look into records to check out the other things she told us, but I think Mrs. Quihuiz is telling the truth. I don't know how we'd find an illegal factory out in the desert. Maybe with aerial photography, but I don't think the county will spring for that. Satellite photos, maybe." He shook his head slightly, "Even if we did manage to find the remains of a factory, there's no way to tell if it was the right one. There wouldn't be any record of the owner, especially if--"

Warrick felt irritation course through him. "Jesus, Nick. Just drop it!" That he wasn't even sure what was pissing him off only made it worse. "You've worked it as far as it can possibly go, all right?"

"Wh--?" Nick stared at him in surprise. "What the hell, Rick?"

Taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly in an attempt to calm down, Warrick kept his eyes fastened firmly on the street. "You've been working it for more than two months."

"I've worked cases for longer. We both have. But I've been working on other cases, too." Nick's next question was cautious, "What? You think I'm not pulling my weight?"

"No," Warrick snapped, braking at a red light. "Hell, no. But you worked your ass off on it and look what it got you."

"Warrick..." Nick's voice rose with shock. "I can't believe what you just said."

Warrick sighed, "It didn't come out right."

"Oh. Good."

"I meant look what's happened to you because of it."

"What's happ--you don't mean you think what happened to me in the desert has something to do with the case, do you? Rick, that's really pushing things."

"No, not directly." Warrick tried, but couldn't stifle a frustrated sigh.

"I told you I wasn't out there on the case. Didn't you believe me?"

"Of course I did." Warrick knew he was digging himself into a deep hole.

Nick laughed a little. "You don't want me to go bird watching anymore? Trust me, I didn't plan to go back out there."

"I know that."

"Warrick, what's going on?"

Tightening his grip on the wheel, Warrick tried to think of something to say that wouldn't give away the depth of his emotions. "You're more concerned with a sixty year old case than you are with what happened to you. It just seems--I don't know..."

"What am I supposed to do?" Nick's voice had taken on a slight edge. "Other than stay away from there, that is? If it's Sampson, Catherine and Jim will find out. What would you have me do?"

"I don't think you're supposed to just shrug it off."

Nick shook his head. "It's all relative, Warrick."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"We deal with people who lose their lives. Who lose loved ones. I lost a memory card and a few weeks of easy movement."

Well, hell. When he put it like that... Warrick stifled another sigh and let the subject drop.

---

Nick tracked down Warrick when he arrived for shift and suggested they find Grissom to go over what they'd learned about the mass grave case right away. Now that he knew he'd worked this case as far as it could go, Nick wanted to put it to bed. He felt vaguely guilty about how eager he was to get rid of it, since there still hadn't been any real justice for the victims, but knew it was time to let it rest. It would be labeled "cold"--a bit of an understatement--instead of "closed," so that there was still the possibility of following any new lead. It just wouldn't be active, and that would definitely be something of a relief.

Grissom seemed to agree on that point, going so far as to say Nick had done as much as anyone could for the victims. It wasn't exactly a compliment, but Nick had learned to take what he could get when it came to praise from the entomologist. Grissom sent them, along with Sara, out to a double murder in Henderson. Since the police already had a suspect in custody--the male victim's ex-girlfriend had been found on the scene--processing the scene was straightforward, if time-consuming.

It was certainly a case of rage and overkill, bullets were sprayed everywhere, and it was almost as though the victims had only been hit by chance. The shooter certainly hadn't been aiming anywhere specific. "You gotta wonder how a Fine Arts major gets her hands on a semi-auto," Nick commented as he pried another slug out of the wall.

"That's Vegas, baby," Sara commented, making both men grin.

Nick was glad to see a reappearance of the almost playful attitude Sara displayed when the three of them worked together. It had been noticeably absent lately and she had seemed very down. At one time Nick would have broached the subject with her, but he suspected that the whole non-promotion might still sting, even if she didn't blame him for any of it.

Right now, though, their old camaraderie permeated the scene and they all worked companionably for several hours. After that, Sara went with Detective Vega to interview their suspect, while Warrick and Nick returned to the lab to drop off evidence and attend the autopsies.

More than four dozen bullets were dropped off with Bobby--along with an apology--and half that many prints were left with Jacqui. In such an open-and-shut case, there were only a few things for the trace lab.

"Just a minute," Hodges stopped them, and was sifting through a stack of papers. "I've got another set of results for your soil samples."

Nick winced, realizing he hadn't told the chemist they were no longer necessary. "Uh...Hodges," he began, knowing he was in for several especially sarcastic remarks. "We don't need those anymore. We put that case to bed at the beginning of shift. Sorry."

"Really?" Hodges arched an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Nick said again, because he did feel a little bad about it. He glanced at Warrick, who also seemed to be waiting to hear Hodges' sarcasm in full cry.

"So...you don't want these results?"

Nick frowned. Hodges didn't seem to be irritated. He almost seemed smug. "Not really."

"I think you do." Definitely smug.

"Why?" Nick asked carefully.

"Traces of cadaverine, putrescine and all those other organic compounds to indicate a body has been decomposing," Hodges hands over the paper. "And the levels in the soil indicate it was within the last five years."

---

After he went to Grissom with the results from Hodges, Nick fully expected to end up working a double and wasn't pleased when he was told to go home when his shift ended. Even worse was arriving at work the next night to find that Sara, Warrick and Greg had all been called out to the spot once Brass secured a warrant. Since it showed every sign of being a completely different case, Grissom could assign anyone he chose to it. Nick knew that, but it still stung a little. He tried not to let it show though, as he took his assignment--suspicious circs in Henderson--and headed out with Sara.

Driving out to the scene, Nick could feel Sara's eyes on him much of the time.

"It wasn't a full warrant," she finally said. "The scope only allowed us to search the land. No buildings and no land in the main yard. The judge said it wasn't enough to make Sampson a suspect."

Nick wondered if she was trying to make him feel better. "Okay."

"GPR didn't show anything and there were no unusual sinkages or patterns on the grounds. Warrick and Greg spent most of the morning collecting more soil samples," she explained. "I think the hope is that if we find traces of decomp closer to the house, Brass will be able to get a warrant for the inside."

"That makes sense," Nick nodded, and reluctantly admitted to himself that keeping him off the case made sense, too.

"No one's even been assigned to the case yet," Sara went on. "It was all a bunch of grunt work that you got out of because your ribs aren't fully healed."

She was definitely trying to make him feel better, and it was actually working a little. Enough that he could flash a smile her way. "So the case is just floating right now?"

"Until we get results from the new samples. After that, Catherine will probably get it."

"Oh." Nick couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You don't think this decomp is related to your mass grave, do you? There's a sixty year difference."

"I know," Nick was able to say honestly. "It's probably an entirely different case."

"Catherine is already investigating a case in the area."

"Nice way of putting it, Sara," Nick shot her a look. "But yeah, considering my screw up, I probably shouldn't be near any case on Sampson's land."

He hoped his tone was nice and reasonable, but Sara didn't answer right away. When he turned to look at her, she was regarding him with a pursed-lip smile that usually meant she was trying not to laugh. "What a pro," she said, sounding amused. "It's okay, Nick. No one says you have to like the situation."

Nick couldn't help laughing at that. When Sara was her usual spirited self, it was a simple matter for her to talk him out of any sort of funk with a combination of logic and friendly understanding. Fortunately, tonight she was her usual spirited self.

---

When Catherine asked him to stop by Brass' office, Nick didn't have to ask why. He wasn't working the case, but he'd still heard enough about it to know what sort of progress was being made. The set of samples closer to the house had shown two more areas of organic compounds associated with decomp, and that was enough to get a warrant for Brass and Catherine to search the inside of Sampson's house, even though the man was still out of the country.

Catherine had shown Nick a picture of Sampson when they'd first begun their investigation, and although the bearded, greying man bore a vague resemblance to the Suit, Nick wasn't certain enough to make a positive ID. However, neither Catherine nor Brass were willing to discard the possibility that both Nick's assault and the decomp were somehow connected to Barrett Sampson.

Nick arrived to find Catherine sitting in a chair in front of Brass' desk, the one next to it ready for him as if this were any other case they were all working together. He was grateful for the small concession. Normally, Catherine would be standing next to Brass' desk, opposite the victim, and Nick didn't like the idea of being a victim in this case--or at all. Having to deal with that feeling after Nigel Crane was more than enough for him. Nick Stokes helped victims.

"So what's up?" he asked, taking the chair next to Catherine.

"Recognize this guy?" Brass asked, holding out a paper.

Nick took the printout of a passport ID for someone named Kurt Prause, a narrow-faced man with thin blond hair. The information said he was in his sixties, but he looked at least a decade younger. He was also completely unfamiliar to Nick. "Nope. Sorry. Who is he?"

"He is the only real link we found connecting Sampson to anything remotely shady," Brass said.

"Besides three areas of decomp in his yard," Catherine added dryly.

"Which are not enough to get him arrested and extradited."

"So otherwise Sampson is clear?" Nick asked.

"A little too clear," Brass returned, his tone indicating what he thought about that. "Almost nonexistent."

Nick nodded his understanding. "And this guy?" he handed the picture back.

"Had to do some digging for this prize," Brass studied the printout again. "Make a few calls. He actually holds dual citizenship--here and Poland. He's had charges, but none of them have stuck."

"What sort of charges?"

"Trafficking."

"Yeah," Nick nodded again. "A drug operation was the first thing I thought of after I ran into those guys."

"Not drugs," Brass' lip curled with distaste.

"You said trafficking."

"Humans."

"Shit." Nick felt his stomach do a sudden dip and roll. "Y'know, six or seven years ago, I would have said that it was probably an urban legend."

"I know."

"We also wanted to ask you about--"

"Oh, god," Nick knew in an instant what Catherine was going to say and suddenly felt chilled to the bone. "Oh my god. That kid..."

"Nicky," Catherine said in a tone that always managed to steady him.

"What if--what if he was trying to get away?" Nick whispered, then took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Okay. Jesus. Okay, what do you need to know?"

Brass' expression was as dour as ever, but his eyes were sympathetic. "Just go over everything you remember."

Nick rubbed at the stubble on his head as he organized his thoughts, and then he recounted everything he could remember about the meeting.

The detective was scribbling madly, "So he said he was an exchange student? That will be easy enough to check. And that he was staying with Sampson?"

"That he was an exchange student, yes, unless something got lost in translation. But he never said who his host family was."

"You just assumed it was Sampson," Catherine nodded.

"Not really," Nick shrugged. "I only noticed that he'd crossed Sampson's land, wherever he'd come from."

"Okay," Brass jotted down a last note. "We'll check it out and get a few pictures for you to look at."

"Picture! I took--" Nick felt his heart leap and just as suddenly sink again. "Shit. I deleted them. Dammit."

"You took pictures?" Catherine looked surprised.

"He seemed so interested in the camera--like he'd never seen an actual digital camera before. I snapped a few pictures of him to show him on the display." Nick dropped his head into his hands, "I deleted them when I got home. Dammit."

"How could you know?" Catherine consoled.

"Hell, Nicky," Brass added. "I would have been more worried to hear you had kept pictures of some random kid."

Nick shot him a humorless smile.

"Hey," Catherine rubbed his shoulder briefly. "Don't beat yourself up over this. The kid didn't look or act like he was in trouble. You did everything you could with what you knew. If you'd tried to do more, you would have been overstepping."

"Yeah," Nick sighed, sitting up straight again. "I guess."

"We'll look into it," Brass assured him. "But even if he doesn't turn up as an exchange student, it doesn't mean much. He could be an illegal and still have nothing to do with either Sampson or Prause."

Nick gave him a dubious look and Brass responded with a shrug that indicated he didn't necessarily believe that, either. "Look," he glanced from Brass to Catherine. "I know because I'm possibly involved I can't work the case, but--"

"We'll be keeping you posted, Nicky," Catherine promised.

"Thanks," Nick mustered a smile. "Are we done now? I've got to find Detective Cavaliere. We're supposed to be interviewing a suspect."

"Table saw, right?" Brass arched an eyebrow.

"That's the one."

"Have fun."

"Thanks," Nick stood. "Catch you guys later." He left Brass' office and walked toward the bullpen in search of Chris Cavaliere.

---

During the next week, Brass gave Nick over a dozen pictures of foreign kids that matched Alexei's description, but none of them were Alexei. Other than that, Nick didn't hear a thing about the case until Catherine stormed into the break room one night, lips white and eyes blazing.

Nick exchanged a wary glance with Sara, who was sitting at the table with him, and then with Greg, who was standing next to the coffee maker. Catherine grabbed a mug, and Greg, who was still holding the coffee pot, silently filled it for her. She stared into the mug for a moment, then dashed its contents into the sink and dropped the cup in after it. Greg wisely decided not to object to such disrespectful treatment of his precious Blue Hawaiian.

Catherine abruptly turned, and crossing her arms, leaned against the counter and stared at Nick. "The Feds want to talk to you."

Gaping was the only response Nick could come up with.

Sara, however, wasn't the least bit rattled. "Why?"

"Well," Catherine kept her arms crossed and shifted her shoulders, a sure sign of her agitation. "Once we started looking more closely at Prause, I guess the FBI started to notice. They've been watching him for years, although you couldn't tell it by the charges--those have all been made through state police. Anyway, because this case in all likelihood crosses state lines, they've decided they want to take it over."

"You're kidding me!" Nick groaned. "So it's already been handed over?"

"Yeah," it came out as a small huff of indignation. "They put in the papers with Cavallo. He's out of here in five months, so what the hell does he care? He rubber-stamped it on through." Catherine's lips twisted into a sneer, "And we are, I was told, going to cooperate fully with the Agents."

"It's not Culpepper, is it?" Sara asked, looking equally unhappy.

"No, I think he's back at Quantico."

"Good."

"Nicky, you'll have to answer their questions about Alexei and your attack," Catherine said, sounding apologetic.

"Okay," Nick nodded, not letting on how dismayed he was to hear the case was out of LVPD hands. It wouldn't make Catherine feel any better. "Where's Brass?" he couldn't help asking. "Does he know?"

"He knows," Catherine was beginning to calm down a bit. "He's been on the phone swearing at people for the past hour. I figure he's got another couple of hours to go before he's done."

"Are they going to keep us in the loop?" Nick asked.

"So they say," Catherine poured herself another cup of coffee. "I wouldn't hold my breath, though."

---

Special Agents Brian McNealy and Tara Leyden were nothing like their predecessor. Both seemed talented, not just competent, but that didn't mean anyone in Las Vegas law enforcement liked having them around.

Nick had to repeat his story yet again, and then suddenly found himself out of the loop. Unlike his co-workers, the federal agents felt that being a possible witness in the case meant that one shouldn't know a thing about its progress. Nick could see their point--sort of, but as Sara had said, he didn't have to like it.

Catherine and Brass didn't like it, either, because once the FBI had collected all the files and evidence related to the case, the whole spiel about "mutual cooperation" went right out the window. If they wanted to know anything about the case, they had to leave nearly half a dozen messages before one of the agents would deign to get back to them.

For the most part, though, life at the Crime Lab went on as usual. Nick got his camera and binoculars back, but didn't have time to use them as much. A series of arson kept he, Catherine and Sara scrambling to find the firebug before any more buildings went up in flames. Once that was done, the "Blue Paint Killer" struck again. Although they did finally manage to identify the killer, he finished himself off before he was even charged.

There was also the surprise of a commendation for both Nick and Warrick for their "dedication to the forgotten victims" of the mass grave in the desert. Palma Quihuiz, who had been so stoic in person, had no problem expressing her feelings on paper. Nick and Warrick each got letters filled with gratitude, but she also wrote to the Director and the Sheriff, which was the impetus for the commendations. The irony of receiving commendations for sticking to case they'd been ordered to abandon hadn't escaped either CSI, although Warrick made some remarks about not exactly deserving his. Nick wanted to list all the reasons that Warrick most certainly did deserve the commendation, but had the feeling he'd come off sounding lovesick and looking calf-eyed and instead kept his comment to an unsatisfying--"Take 'em where you can get 'em."

With the Quihuiz case now firmly behind him, Nick's caseload was well under control, so when Grissom paged him halfway through a shift, Nick left the drying room where he'd been working and headed for the supervisor's office to pick up a new case. He hesitated in the doorway when he saw Brass and Catherine already seated inside.

"Hey," he said carefully.

"Pull up a chair," Grissom gestured to the empty one in the corner.

Nick obeyed, setting himself next to Catherine, who didn't even glance in his direction. She had her arms crossed and was staring at some point behind Grissom. Nick looked past her toward Brass, who wore his usual morose expression. Only the glint in his eye indicated how pissed off the Captain was. Grissom wasn't showing any signs of anger, but was definitely unhappy about something.

Nick was just relieved that none of the anger seemed to be directed at him. "What's going on?"

"Brass and I have each received calls from both the Sheriff and the FBI's SAC for Nevada."

Immediately, Nick braced himself. He knew he wasn't going to like whatever was coming next. "And what did they have to say?"

"Quite a lot," Grissom said in his driest tone. "But the bottom line is that we are not to contact them in regards to, nor are we to pursue ourselves, any cases turned over to the Bureau between October 1 and November 1 of 2005."

"Wow. They just want to blanket the whole shebang, don't they?" Nick forced a tight smile.

"I can't believe they expect us to just drop this," Catherine voice was strained. "A CSI was attacked, for God's sake."

Nick appreciated Catherine's concern for him, but wished she'd stop referring to it as an attack--even if that's what it was.

"According to the SAC, any more activity would put a much larger case in jeopardy," Grissom sent Catherine a look over his glasses that was part warning and part commiseration.

"Trafficking," Nick said.

"They didn't say," Grissom said with an eloquent lift of his brow.

"What about Alexei?"

"No sign of him."

Nick sighed.

"They're probably going to back off in the hopes that whoever we managed to spook gets comfortable again," Brass said. He seemed ready to add more, but his pager went off.

Catherine was still shaking her head, "And there's no one to go to about this." It wasn't really a question.

"Come on," Brass nudged her gently and held up his pager. "That was Metcalfe. They just hauled in our suspect in the Owens rape case. You can take it out on him."

Catherine's lips twisted into a parody of a smile and she rose to go, laying an apologetic hand on Nick's shoulder as she passed him.

"That it?" Nick asked, when it was just he and Grissom.

Grissom hesitated. "Under no circumstances do I have the right to ask you this, but you aren't planning on going back out to that area, are you?"

"By Sampson's land?" Nick let out a startled laugh. "No. Honest, Gris, I don't go looking for trouble. And I wasn't there about the case, I was--"

"Bird watching," Grissom finished. "I saw Catherine's report."

"Yeah," Nick willed himself not to blush.

"Did you get any good shots?" Grissom asked.

Any other time, Nick would have been flattered by Grissom's interest, but now the question was an unhappy reminder. "Yeah, but it turns out I deleted the most important ones," he said, and after giving his boss a regretful smile, left the office.

---

Bad news usually traveled twice as fast in a crime lab as anywhere else. Nick was barely back in the drying room before most of the techs knew that the FBI had snatched a case--or two, no one was sure on that point--away from CSI and LVPD. Warrick found out when stopped by the break room and heard Archie warning Hodges to tread lightly around Catherine for the rest of shift, Archie apparently heard Judy giving the same warning to newbie Mia Dickerson. When he heard the reason for the warning, Warrick could only shake his head ruefully--it wasn't surprising to know that Catherine was angrier about losing the case than Nick. Catherine got very territorial about her cases at the best of times, that it involved Nick would only make her worse.

Still, it wasn't Catherine Warrick sought out at the end of shift, it was Nick. Warrick wanted to invite him for a few and to make sure he was handling this new development all right. He found the Texan easily enough, in the locker room. Greg was there as well, changing scuffed sneakers for a much sharper pair that Warrick knew ran several hundred dollars. Better make that pair last a long time, buddy, Warrick thought. You aren't going to be able to afford kicks like that anymore. He was glad Greg was there, though, because he'd been having second thoughts about asking Nick to join him for a drink--especially considering the dreams he'd been having. Greg's presence, hopefully, would prevent any suspicious behavior on his part.

"Hey, you guys want to grab a beer at Paulie's before heading home?"

Greg immediately perked up when included in the invitation. Paulie's was a cop hangout and although CSIs were usually welcome, lab techs never ventured inside.

Nick had seemed on the verge of declining until confronted with Greg's enthusiasm. "Okay," he agreed. "Meet you there."

Warrick was hard pressed to keep from laughing at Greg's obvious disappointment when he walked inside Paulie's. With no food except pretzels and peanuts, and no music except the 10-year-old songs on the jukebox, Paulie's was nothing more than a slightly shabby neighborhood bar. He had no idea what the soon-to-be CSI was expecting, but this wasn't it. Greg seemed satisfied though, when some of the detectives who usually worked with CSI greeted them as they made their way to a table near the window.

"Tough night?" Nick asked once the waitress had taken stopped by.

"Nothing too serious. You?"

Nick's eyebrows rose. "Good thing you don't gamble anymore, man. You're losing your touch with the bluffing."

Not on your life, Nicky. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You heard about the Feds." It wasn't a question.

Warrick gave a one-shouldered shrug, "Who hasn't by now?"

Greg's eyes bounced back and forth as though watching a tennis match. "There's nothing you can do about it?"

"Me? Not even my case."

"But--oh." Greg frowned, "Right, it's Catherine's. But you were--can they really just march in a take over like that?"

"That's why they're the Feds," Nick pointed out.

The waitress arrived with their drinks and Warrick handed her a twenty. She quickly counted out the change from the tray and left them to it without even an attempt at banter--she was probably close to the end of her shift as well.

"That sucks," Warrick took a long pull from his beer. "Y'know what happened. Cavallo and the Sheriff just waved them on through. Cavallo's out of here in few months, and Atwater probably knows he won't be re-elected. What the hell do they care?"

"God," Nick groaned. "Is that when Ecklie takes over?"

Greg, as the top DNA tech, had never had the same antagonistic relationship with the day shift supervisor as the graveyard CSIs, and declined to comment. Warrick noticed a smile hovering around his lips, though and decided to call him on it. "Looking forward to Ecklie's appointment?"

"Huh?" Greg's eyes widened, then he shrugged. "No, I'm just thinking about what I heard today," he said and his grin escaped.

"Okay, what?" Nick seemed relieved to have a change of topic.

"Well, you know there's a big dinner for Cavallo's retirement. Black tie, fancy dinner all that."

"Yeah."

"Well, they also are going to mention the new incoming director. Say a few words, blah, blah, blah..."

"Yeah," Warrick nodded. "So?"

"Guess who they've tapped to make a speech about Ecklie," Greg's grin was a little manic now.

No way, Warrick thought, torn between horror and unholy glee. They wouldn't. Hell, bureaucrats? Sure they would. What do they know?

"Grissom?" Nick looked equally torn between laughter and dismay.

Greg nodded, pleased with the reaction his news got.

"Oh, man," Nick snickered. "That actually might be worth sitting through a mind-numbing, overpriced dinner for."

---

Epilogue - Four Seasons, San Francisco, CA

Barrett Sampson settled himself comfortably on the sofa, a cigar--Cuban, of course--in one hand and a stiff drink in the other, and contemplated the view from his hotel room.

Of course, technically, it wasn't his hotel room. Technically, he wasn't even in the country and hadn't been for several months. In reality, he could probably go anywhere in the States that he chose except his property in Nevada. Just to be on the safe side, he was staying away for about six months--a self-imposed exile until things cooled down. When he got back, he'd have a great deal of repairing and cleaning up to do, since in the scramble to leave not a shred of incriminating evidence, the majority of his set-up had been destroyed or removed.

It had been a very nice set-up, which was something of a surprise considering that he had only purchased the desolate package of desert as a means of concealing a large amount of money he shouldn't have had. Not long afterward, he discovered that the abandoned mines and bunkers scattered over the property were excellent places to conceal all sorts of merchandise. It had proved so secure that it easily made up for the extra distance to the docks of the California coast.

That the nearest city was ever-expanding and ever-changing with a constant flow of tourists and transients was an added bonus for a man who did so much traveling and transporting. Things had gone smoothly for nearly a decade, making him a very successful and wealthy man.

Then a few months ago, cops showed up to a mass grave on the outskirts of his land and had put a serious damper on things. Even when they were done, one investigator kept coming back. That made both his customers and suppliers very nervous, and once word got around that cops had been inside his property, business dropped off dramatically. His abilities to deliver were being called into question, and he couldn't have that. A six-month break was no picnic, but he could absorb the cost without too much difficulty. What he couldn't have was people doubting his ability to act in secret, to constantly slip under the radar. Before he returned to Las Vegas, he would have to somehow demonstrate that he hadn't lost his touch.

Absently, he scratched at the beard that was growing in. He hated the damn thing, but grew it out often, because he had it in his passport picture and most other ID. The best part about having a beard is that when he shaved it, his face had nothing else to make it stand out--he was utterly average-looking, something that had served him as well as his desert acreage.

Focusing again on the problem at hands, he recalled a recent conversation he'd had with his accountant--one of his accountants. The one in Las Vegas who handled his Cayman Island "retirement fund." She had heard about his troubles with CSI and mentioned that an old business partner of hers also had something of a grudge against them, and was hoping to take out his anger in a most spectacular way. Intrigued, Sampson had asked if this man had any particular CSI in mind. No, but arrangements could probably be made, the man was desperate for funding to test his plan. All of this had been couched in the most careful of terms, but had left Sampson in no doubt about what was being offered.

As he set down his drink and picked up the phone, he noted that it was 2 am. Most accountants wouldn't take calls from clients at 2 am, but Sylvia Mullins was no ordinary accountant.

Continued in Heaven & Hell.

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