Title: Enmity
By: Emily Brunson
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG
Summary: Gil starts to suspect that Nick's illness may be something more.

"The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’"

(Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland)

Go ask Alice

When she’s ten feet tall

(Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit")

Chapter One

"I’m only suggesting you take it into consideration," Mobley said smoothly. His smile was as immaculate and reflective as fine porcelain. Nothing of it showed in his eyes. Those were distant, and wary. "This isn’t an ultimatum. Just something for you to think about." The smile widened as he stood. "Thanks for your time, Gil. I’ll talk to you next week sometime."

Gil Grissom regarded the sheriff calmly. "My answer will be the same then."

"We’ll see."

After Mobley was gone, Gil leaned back in his chair, releasing a sigh he hadn’t realized he was holding. He glared at the stapled pieces of paper, and then stuffed the whole thing into his already full inbox.

"This a bad time?"

He looked up at Warrick, and shook his head. "No. Come on in."

"Because I saw Mobley down the hall, and that ain’t ever good." Warrick sat in the chair the sheriff had so recently vacated. "What’s going on?"

"A few proposed budget cuts." Gil smiled without much humor. "I’m sure you’ve heard rumors."

"Yeah. A few things. So we’re taking a hit?"

"Possibly. I don’t think it will mean anything substantive, but you never know. What can I do for you? Still working on Hendricks?"

Warrick nodded, and made a face. "And I’ll BE working on Hendricks until next month if we don’t get some help around here. Just tell me this budget stuff doesn’t mean personnel cuts, okay? We’re short-handed as it is."

"I know about as much as you do on that. But if I hear anything I’ll let you know, all of you. As far as I know none of us needs to polish their resume quite yet."

"Good thing. Okay. Listen, just wanted to remind you I’m in court all day tomorrow. How’s the overtime looking?"

"As little as possible, according to Mobley."

Warrick made another face, this one grim. "Yeah, and that means you don’t got me tomorrow night. Tellin’ ya, Grissom, we keep working like this and people are gonna start working on resumes anyway."

"Hopefully it won’t come to that. I’ll see what I can do about the OT. Best I can offer."

"Got it. All right. Later."

"Later, Warrick."

Alone again, he kept his hand flat on the unopened file on his desk. Budget cuts weren’t all that surprising. They could handle a little less money for materials, equipment. They were already fairly well set in those departments. But personnel? Gil’s crew worked hard, and still there were cases stacking up, waiting for someone to work down the pile and get to them. It simply took time, with not enough people to take care of all the older matters and still address the new ones arriving every night. There weren’t enough hours in the day – or night – and each person could only do so much.

He put on his glasses and made himself open the file. Maybe it was time to think about retiring. He didn’t have the stomach for a recession-borne personnel cutback. They couldn’t afford to lose anyone, not now. If their case load had been substantial before, it would be insurmountable minus one person. It wouldn’t fly.

His morose mood communicated itself to his staff, unfortunately. That plus rumors meant few smiles at the late-night meeting. Gil surveyed everyone and felt a helpless sense of dread. Who would be first to go, if it came down to it? He couldn’t imagine the lab without any of them.

Catherine looked tired – hell, all of them did – but also a little relieved, filling him in on her progress with the bodies found late the previous afternoon. "DNA turned up a couple of matches. Still working on the rest, but we should have that in a couple of hours, if they’re on file. If not, we’re still looking at two other John Does."

"Family? Criminal history?"

He listened with interest to her story about their disinterred car. Four sets of skeletal remains. All adult males, all with no trace of injuries or overt causes of death.

"Keep me informed, would you?" he asked, when she wound down. "But we have to keep this one low on the priority list. Those men have been dead for years; a few days won’t make that much difference."

"That we know of," Catherine said, but nodded. "Will do."

Next to her, Nick looked more tired than his colleague. Gil took in his pale cheeks and frowned. "You all right?"

Nick stirred. "Yeah. Fine. Listen, it’s a no-go on Rupert Johansen. That alibi’s sticking."

"So we’re back to square one. McAda find anything out?"

"Nope. We got DNA, but no matches." Nick swallowed. "You care if I head out on time for once?" he asked with a hooded look. "Day shift can work this one later."

Gil nodded slowly. "Get some rest. You look like you could use it."

"We all could use it," Nick told him. His smile was tired but real. "Present company included."

It might have been the power of suggestion, but a few minutes later Gil wrapped up as well. No sense in killing himself over it. It would keep. If Ecklie’s crew couldn’t push things through, it would all be waiting the next evening. Absolutely no question about that.

It felt odd leaving before the sun was up. The eastern horizon was only just beginning to turn pale. Gil brushed past a sleepy-looking uniformed cop he didn’t recognize and walked over to his truck. A few spaces down, Nick stood in quiet conversation with Al Robbins. Both men glanced at him as he approached.

"Everything okay?" Gil asked, smiling automatically at Robbins. "I thought you were going home, Nick."

"I am." Nick nodded. "Listen, Doc, thanks. Appreciate it."

Robbins’ inscrutable gaze left Gil and focused on Nick. "Any time."

When Nick was inside his own vehicle Gil gave Robbins a narrow look. "Do I even want to ask?"

"Think he caught one of the bugs going around. You know, I’ve noticed none of you seems to ever visit a regular doctor. I’m starting to think I should hang out my shingle again."

Gil smiled, but the first sentence had caught his attention. "If you’re telling me to expect people out sick soon –"

"Relax. Just a stomach bug, I imagine. Not pleasant, but should pass quickly. As it were."

"Lovely."

Robbins walked slowly with him back to Gil’s Tahoe. "I take it you got a visit from our friendly neighborhood sheriff tonight, too?"

"Possible budget cuts. He didn’t say whether or not personnel might follow."

"Sounds pretty much the same as what he told me. You worried?"

"Sure." Gil fished out his keys. "But I’m more worried about being short-handed tomorrow, if you want the truth. Warrick’s out for court appearances, and Sara’s not back until Monday. You did get Nick a prescription, didn’t you?"

Robbins snorted. "Rest and plenty of fluids, if he can keep them down. Aside from that time is the only cure I know."

"Wonderful. At least I had some warning." Gil shook his head. "Night, Al. See you tomorrow."

"Night, Gil."

---

Nick called in sick the next night. Gil nearly told him to suck it up and come in anyway, but hell, Nick wasn’t a malingerer. He sounded like crap, and no question that at the pace they were working, people were bound to start paying a physical price. Gil gave his resigned assent, and got up to tell Catherine they were pretty much the whole team for the night.

But fortune was kind for once, and only one new case passed his desk that night. And Catherine’s half-ironic challenge to see how fast they could crank these things out proved more fruitful than Gil had expected. It felt pretty good to do some of the work he’d been delegating to younger colleagues for years. Get his hands dirty. Not that he didn’t anyway, often, but he felt invigorated, and by three they had a substantial list of accomplishments between them.

"We better watch it," Catherine said dryly, eyeing Gil’s latest analysis. "We get this much done, it’ll be like this every night."

"We got lucky, that’s all." Gil smiled at her. "But at least we’re mostly caught up."

"Amen to that."

Hodges stuck his head through the doorway. His faintly obsequious smile gave Gil a familiar twinge of reluctant dislike. "I’ve got the DNA results you wanted," he reported with obvious satisfaction. "Anything else you need?"

Gil took the printout and shook his head. "That’s all for the moment. Thanks for your help."

"My pleasure. If you want I can stick around, fill in for Stokes. I know he left you in the lurch tonight."

"We’re fine," Gil said pleasantly. "Tomorrow should be back to normal. Listen, if you’re done you can head out. Have a good night."

Hodges looked a little disappointed, but nodded. "See you tomorrow, sir."

When Gil looked at Catherine he caught a tiny moue of dislike on her expressive features. "What?"

"Nothing." The moue disappeared. "So, unless you want to challenge me to see who can run fingerprints faster, I’m going home."

"We finished all the prints."

"I know," she said gently. "I was kidding."

"Oh." Gil smiled, and took off his glasses. "By all means."

"See you way too soon."

"Right."

Chapter Two

Warrick was back the next night, as promised, and Nick was there as well, looking a little worn around the edges but otherwise reflecting Robbins’ sound medical advice. And it was a good thing they were there, because it was far busier than Gil’s comparatively pleasant night working solo.

And after the weekend, Sara rejoined the ranks as well, and when nothing else hit Gil’s desk regarding money and lack of same over the next few days, he relaxed a little. So it didn’t annoy him as much as it might have when Nick called in sick again on Wednesday.

"I’m really sorry," he told Gil, sounding hoarse and tired. "I can’t kick this damn thing. But I’ll be there tomorrow, I swear to God."

Gil sighed. "Stomach bug again?"

"From hell. But I’m going over to the clinic in the morning. Get some antibiotics or something, I dunno. I’ll be all right. I just – don’t wanna hork all over a scene."

"That probably would be counterproductive, yes," Gil agreed. "Okay. Get well soon, Nick, I don’t have to tell you we really need you."

"Absolutely. Got it."

But when he saw Nick the next evening Gil wondered if he should have been a little more charitable.

"You look like shit," Catherine said baldly, staring at Nick’s pasty-white face. "You sure you’re up to this?"

Nick drew his hand across his upper lip, nodding. "I got some stuff," he muttered. "Just maybe want to keep your distance. You don’t want to catch this."

"Don’t have to tell me twice." Catherine backed away. "Sorry."

Gil frowned. "Nick, if you don’t think you can –"

"I can," Nick said heavily. "I think it’s mostly gone. Just – aftereffects, you know. Put me to work, man. It’ll take my mind off it."

He kept Nick close to the lab that night, and by the next he seemed back to normal. But when it happened again, Tuesday the following week, Gil felt his patience fraying.

"Nick, I don’t know what to tell you. You know the department’s absentee policy."

"I know." Nick sounded quenched and thoroughly miserable. "Look, maybe I could come in for a while. I just – this crap they gave me this afternoon, it’s knocking me for a loop. I think if I had to drive I’d kill somebody."

"This afternoon?" Gil frowned. "You went back to the doctor?"

"She thought it was maybe pancreatitis. But it’s not. Just – this thing. But the ER didn’t let me out until like, an hour ago, and –"

"The ER?" Gil echoed. "Nick, what is this? Is this serious?"

"No, man, they didn’t know what it was. Just checking some things out. I just got the mutant bug from hell, I guess, I don’t know." Nick sounded close to tears, and his slurred voice was getting even harder to understand. "Crap. Just a second."

Gil waited five minutes for him to come back to the phone, and the last of his annoyance disappeared, hearing Nick’s exhausted voice. "I’m sorry. What were you saying?"

"Go to bed, Nick," Gil said gently. "Don’t worry about the lab."

"Yeah," Nick said faintly. "Okay. Thanks."

"You need anything?"

"No, that’s okay."

"All right. Call us, okay?"

"Okay."

He looked up at Catherine, standing by the door. "Was that Nick?" she asked.

Gil nodded. "Sick again. This must be some bug."

"I’ll say. That’s what, three weeks in a row? Shit."

"So it makes us short again tonight. Everybody’s solo. Hope nothing big comes up."

"Yeah."

The next morning Catherine told him she was stopping by Nick’s to see how he was doing. Gil sent his regards, and didn’t think much about it until his phone rang, not very long after he got home.

"Gil, it’s Catherine. Listen, I’m at Nick’s, but I think I’m gonna take him over to the ER."

Gil stopped in the middle of taking off his shirt. "Really?"

"I don’t know what the hell this is, but he’s really sick. I mean, maybe it’s E. coli or something. Man."

"You want me to go with you?"

"And all of us get it?" She laughed, a little weirdly. "I’m already thinking about Lindsey. No, I’ll call you when we find out something."

"E. coli isn’t aerosol. If that’s what he has, it’s body fluids you need to be concerned about."

"Believe me, there are plenty of those around."

"Desert Palms?"

"I guess, yeah, listen, gotta go. Nick?" She muttered a curse under her breath. "Call you later."

He went to bed not long after, but his sleep was poor at best. Finally his eyes wouldn’t close again, and so he got up, wearily made some coffee, and had drunk half the first cup when he thought about Nick.

Catherine didn’t pick up her cell phone, and Nick evidently had his turned off. Wondering at the speed with which he’d gotten used to total accessibility, Gil dressed in off-duty casual clothes and picked up his keys. Mountains to Mohamed. So be it.

---

The ER was the same crowded, noisy, bustling zoo it always was. Gil waited somewhat patiently in the reception line, and was told Nick was in number 22, the last cubicle on the right, end of the hall.

The overhead light was dimmed, but he made out Catherine clearly enough. "Hey," Gil said softly. "How’s it going?"

Catherine stood up, putting a finger to her lips. "I think he finally conked out," she whispered. "About time, too."

Gil gazed down at Nick’s prone form. "Did they figure it out yet?"

"Come on. Let’s talk outside."

In the hallway Catherine blinked at the brighter illumination. "Sorry, just didn’t want to wake him up," she said, shaking her head. "They’re admitting him to the hospital. He’s pretty dehydrated, not surprising since he’s been puking everything up for at least 24 hours."

Gil stared at her. "Do they know what’s wrong with him?"

"It’s not E. coli, it’s not any type of bacteria they’ve seen. The doctor said it was gastroenteritis, just a pretty stubborn type. Evidently there’s a lot going around right now."

"But Nick’s had this for three weeks. Shouldn’t it run its course faster than that?"

"Maybe he got reinfected. I don’t know, Gil, I don’t even think the staff here knows."

Nick was moved to a room about an hour later, without ever having woken up. Gil and Catherine made a note of the room number, and then Gil glanced at his watch. "Have you even slept at all?" he asked, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes.

Catherine shrugged and yawned. "I’m off tonight, remember? And I’m going home to bed. Lindsey’s got that sleepover thing tonight anyway. Good thing."

"Good. I’ll stick around here as long as I can, then maybe I can drop back by later on." Gil sighed. "I hate to say this, but with budget cuts looming over our heads, Nick’s absenteeism won’t look too good."

Catherine looked appalled. "It’s not his fault he’s sick. These things happen."

"I know. I’m not suggesting blame. But Mobley’s not given to the generous gesture. You know that."

"Christ. If he fires Nick for being sick, I’m going on strike."

"We’re not a union shop."

"Not yet," she shot back.

Gil produced a tired smile. "Go home, Catherine. I’ll go check on Nick, and then I have to get to the lab. I’ll let you know if anything comes up."

"Okay. When he wakes up let him know we’re thinking about him?"

"Of course."

---

Nick’s room was on the tenth floor, at the very end of a long hallway. Gil peered inside the half-open door, smiling at a nurse adjusting something next to Nick’s bed. "I’m a friend," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Is he awake yet?"

"Halfway," she said. Her smile was kind. "We got an NG tube in him, that pretty much did the trick."

Gil winced, and walked inside. Outside the window the sun was sinking in the west, and he thought glumly about how he really needed to be heading to the lab before he saw Nick’s eyelids fluttering.

"Hey," Gil said, walking over to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Nick blinked blearily at him and reached up to touch the plastic tube in his nose. His eyes were appallingly bloodshot.

"Don’t mess with it. It’ll make you stop throwing up."

The nurse gave Gil an approving look. "Nick, I’m Suzanne." She waited for Nick to look at her. "I’ll be your nurse tonight. You slept all the way up here, but you’re in North 1024, in the hospital. They brought you up here from the ER."

Nick licked cracked lips. "Can I have some water?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"I’ll get you some ice chips, how about that?"

"Kay."

When Suzanne left, Gil pulled up a chair. "How do you feel?"

Nick wrinkled his nose, fretting with the tube. "Tired. Better, though. They give me something?"

"It’s probably the tube," Gil told him gently. "Stopped the vomiting."

"Oh." Nick closed his blood-red eyes for a second, then opened them again. "Man, this blows," he said, making another face. "I can’t believe I’m in the hospital."

"Well, you relax, take it easy, and stay here as long as you need to get better. Don’t worry about things, okay? Everything’s under control."

He wasn’t completely sure of that last, but it was worth a white lie to see the palpable look of relief on Nick’s drawn face. "Thanks," Nick whispered. His smile was tired but sweet. "S’good to know."

Gil smiled and reached out to pat Nick’s hand where it lay limp on the covers. "Get some more sleep. I’ll come by in the morning, see how you’re doing. Need anything?"

Nick’s eyelids were flickering as he shook his head. "Nah. Think I’m set."

"Good. See you tomorrow, Nicky."

"’Kay."

In the hallway he caught sight of Suzanne, standing by the nurses’ station in conversation with a tall man in a doctor’s white coat. Walking over, Gil nodded at both of them. "I’m Gil Grissom," he said at the man’s inquisitive look. "Nick works with me at the crime lab."

"Mike Dominguez." The doctor shook his hand briskly. "I’ve seen you on the news a few times, Mr. Grissom." His cordial smile faded. "Does Mr. Stokes have any family we should contact?"

"All in Texas. As far as I know his colleagues and I are about it for personal contacts locally." Gil regarded him steadily. "Any idea what’s causing this?"

"Well, we’re narrowing it down. At least we know what isn’t causing it." Dominguez shrugged. "No enteric bacteria or infection that we can determine. No diseases. No evidence of food poisoning. His blood work’s clean, barring the effects of prolonged uncontrolled emesis."

"So you have no idea."

The doctor paused, and then gave a minute shake of his head. "Not yet. I had some blood sent out to Atlanta. We don’t have the facilities to test for the really exotic stuff, and these days there’s always the chance we might be looking at something that hasn’t been seen locally. In the meantime we’ll keep him here, get him rehydrated, supportive care."

"How long until we hear back from the CDC?"

Dominguez’s expression didn’t flicker. "Three weeks, a month. Maybe six weeks. Can’t be sure."

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Gil nodded. "Would you do me a favor? Call me if he gets worse?" He dug for a business card. "Just in case?"

"Of course." Dominguez smoothly pocketed the card. "But I suspect with IV fluids and some rest he should be back to normal fairly soon."

Chapter Three

After a busy night, Gil made it back to the hospital around nine the next morning. Nick’s color, he noted with relief, was much better, and some of the glazed look was gone from his eyes.

"Yeah, better," Nick said when Gil asked how he was doing. "Think maybe I just needed some sleep, you know? Pretty tired."

Gil nodded. "Glad you’re feeling better. What does Dr. Dominguez say?"

"I think they’ll spring me today, depends on some tests, I guess." He shrugged and yawned. "Not really sure."

"Do they have any idea yet what this IS?"

Nick shrugged. "Not that they’ve told me. I think they’re down to testing for freakin’ bird flu and shit like that." He said it with an eloquent curl of his lip. "Now if they start talking Ebola or something, then I’ll get worried."

"Well, I don’t think it’s Ebola."

Nick snorted and grinned. "Nah. Just some stupid stomach flu, I guess. Dunno."

Gil thought about telling him that gastroenteritis wasn’t actually influenza, and nodded instead.

Dominguez wasn’t around, but the day nurse told him it looked as if Nick could go home either that evening or the following morning, depending on his latest blood work and the doctor’s opinion. Feeling tired and unsurprised, Gil looked back in on Nick, found him sleeping, and decided that sounded like a great idea.

His phone rang late that afternoon. Groggily, he answered it, and heard a male voice say, "Mr. Grissom? Dr. Dominguez."

"Hi." Gil clawed his way to a sitting position, licking his dry lips. "How’s Nick?"

"Doing quite a bit better. I’m going to keep him one more night, since we’re still waiting on a few reports, but if there’s no change I’ll discharge him in the morning."

Gil nodded to himself. "Still no idea what’s been causing all this?"

There was no mistaking the frustration in the doctor’s voice. "I’m more and more interested to see what the CDC has to say, frankly. I can’t find a reason for it. All his tests show clean."

"But he’s better now."

"Quite a bit."

"That’s good. Thanks, Dr. Dominguez."

"Wish I had something more substantive to offer."

"Understood."

He planned to stop by the hospital on his way to work, but a cranky phone call from Brass sent him in the opposite direction a couple of hours after the news from Dominguez, and by the time he did a bit of triage with an irate suspect, it was too late to visit. Fine. He’d go in the morning. Nick might need a lift home.

---

Nick looked so much better the next day, Gil wondered at it all anew. He’d shed a few pounds, jeans hanging a little on his hips, but his color was its usual robust shade of health, and his grin and headshake said he was more than ready to be discharged.

"Feel fine," he said, shrugging. "Hungry, man, I’m starved."

Gil uttered a short laugh and grasped the handles of Nick’s wheelchair. "Do me a favor and don’t overdo it? Remember, you just spent nearly three days flat on your back."

Nick was out of the chair before they actually reached the truck. "So you want me to come in tonight?"

"Tonight? No. Rest, get your strength back."

"I told you, I feel fine. Don’t I look fine?"

Gil smiled faintly. "You look fine. Yes. But I think another day of rest would be advisable. What did your doctor say?"

Nick settled into the passenger seat, looking a little disgruntled. "Two days," he admitted. "But –"

"Two days it is."

Catherine showed up at Nick’s condo about ten minutes after they got there, bearing chicken soup and Gatorade and a few containers Gil wasn’t quite sure about. When he left, Nick was slurping down soup and chattering animatedly with Cath about a case they’d been working on before his illness, and Gil took home a bit more reassurance that everything was getting back to normal.

And normal it stayed, from all appearances. Nick came back to work, cases were solved – it all felt pretty damn good.

So Gil was doubly startled when he saw Mobley standing outside his office on Monday evening. Mobley, and Ecklie, and Gil’s heart sank.

"Gil." Mobley gave him a tiny, humorless smile of greeting. "Got a minute?"

"Of course," Gil said slowly. "Conrad?"

"Affects both of us," Ecklie told him. His expression wasn’t any happier than the one Gil was quite sure he himself wore. "Unfortunately."

"Budget news isn’t that good," Mobley said, as if Ecklie’s comment hadn’t happened. They walked into the office, and Gil shut the door quietly behind them. "What we need to discuss is what this means for the department."

Gil slung his briefcase on the desk. "You tell us. How bad?"

"Definitely looking at personnel cutbacks." He raised his hands when Gil and Ecklie both gaped at him. "Look, I’m doing you a favor by letting you know almost as soon as I did, okay? There’ll be an official announcement tomorrow morning." Mobley’s lips thinned. "But in the meantime I need you to decide who you can do without."

"No one," Ecklie snapped. "My people are barely making it as it is. You’re suggesting we cut back even further? Impossible."

"How many positions?" Gil asked quietly, sitting at his desk.

"You’ll each lose two. One from the lab, one of your field personnel." Mobley lifted his chin. "Could be worse. Look, gentlemen, I’ve cut everything else I can. We already know the equipment budget’s down to bare bones. Now we have to look at personnel. I’m not saying I want it this way. I’m saying this is the way it is. Like it or not."

"How soon?"

"Fiscal year ends in June. You’ll need to move by May."

Gil nodded tiredly. A month away.

"Want my advice?" Mobley said quietly. "Make it a matter of absenteeism. I know neither of you has faced layoffs since you’ve been with this department. Boil it down to facts. Those employees with the most absences get the pink slips. It’s fair."

Ecklie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Bullshit," and Gil sighed. "Thanks for letting us know."

"I’m sorry about all this." And to Gil’s eyes Mobley didn’t look precisely happy. Even if his piggish eyes glinted the tiniest bit. "Make the best of it. It’s all we can do."

Ecklie strode out before Mobley, muscle twitching in his set jaw. Gil waited until the sheriff had exited as well before releasing a giant sigh. Layoffs. It was happening around the country. Why not Vegas, too?

He was still sitting motionless in his chair when Catherine peeked inside. "Knock, knock?"

Gil looked up. "Hey, Catherine."

"So, we working tonight?"

"Sorry. I’ll be right there."

She leaned against the door frame. "Heard Mobley came by. From the look on your face I’m going to guess it wasn’t to bring any good news."

He produced a faint smile. "Too true. Everyone here?"

"Yep."

"Let’s go to work."

---

On Wednesday he was no closer to a decision. Fact of the matter was, he couldn’t spare anyone. Could not conceive of laying off any one of his team, much less two.

And he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Enough rumors were flying; he didn’t want to add more supposition to the mix.

He sent Catherine and Warrick to a casino, Sara to a residence for a missing person, and kept Nick to himself for the shooting at a convenience store. Protective? Nick was the employee with the greatest number of recent absences. Would it be Nick’s neck on the chopping block next month?

He forced a smile when Nick grinned at him, and offered to take his own vehicle.

Two hours later he was solidly convinced it was an accidental death, in spite of the setting. But there was procedure to be honored, evidence to be gathered. He fastened a baggie around the weapon and glanced over at Nick. "Anything else?"

Nick turned and wiped a latex-covered wrist over his forehead. "Not much."

Gil frowned. In the harsh fluorescent lighting Nick’s color was appalling. "You okay?"

"Fine." Nick nodded fast. "Hot in here."

"No, it’s not. Come on." Gil straightened, hearing his back pop. "Why don’t we step outside for a second? Get some air?"

"Okay."

The relative dimness outside hid Nick’s greenish color, but his hand grasped his belly, fingers tightening and relaxing. "Nick?" Gil asked, stepping closer. "Feeling ill?"

"I’m okay." It sounded tight, between clenched teeth.

"Damn, Nick –"

"I’m not sick!" Nick grated. "I’m not gonna get sick again!"

"Come on, sit down." He took Nick’s elbow, and felt the tremors in the muscles. Nick was shaking like a leaf. "Jesus," Gil whispered. "Come on."

Nick uttered a groan near the car, bending at the waist. "Not this shit AGAIN," he said breathlessly. "Aw, fuck."

"Tell me what’s going on," Gil said urgently, peering at Nick’s drawn face. "Nausea?"

"Stomach hurts. God, it hurts."

Couldn’t be this fast. How long since they’d been out here? Two hours, a little more? Nick was fine at work. Gil touched Nick’s iron-tight back. "You think you’re going to be –"

Nick dropped to his knees and vomited, no prelude, near-silent.

Gil swallowed, while one of the onlookers clustered around the store’s entrance said, "Aw, man, gross. That guy just horked all over himself, didja see that?"

Walking quickly, Gil grabbed a towel from the back of the truck and brought it with him. Near the passenger door Nick was still kneeling, retching with a kind of single-minded focus that made Gil’s own stomach turn queasily.

"Christ," Gil muttered, leaning against the vehicle. "Oh, Nicky."

It took a while to slow down. Even before that, Gil had decided to bypass home and take Nick straight to the ER. There was nothing natural about this, not this kind of ferocity. Only salmonella, that he knew of, could kick in so swiftly and mercilessly.

Again? A part of his mind queried. For what? The fourth time in as many weeks? Or fifth? What kind of odds would Sam Braun give you on THAT, pal?

Besides, salmonella would have turned up in tests. Not salmonella.

After an utterly wretched quarter of an hour, Nick’s spasms let up enough for him to take the towel, make a bleary stab at cleaning himself off. But even as Gil was helping him into the truck Nick groaned and clutched his belly again. A sprint inside the store found him with a big plastic bowl, and he flung a ten at the man behind the counter before jogging back out again. Just in time; Nick cradled the bowl to him and bent with new spasms. Grimly Gil saw nothing coming up.

"He okay?" the uniformed officer on the scene asked. His pockmarked features were disgusted.

"Does he look okay?" Gil snapped. "Would you make sure our materials get back to the lab? He needs a doctor."

"Sure. I’ll take care of it."

"Thanks."

Nick dry-heaved all the way to the hospital. By the time they pulled up near the ambulance entrance, his white face was wet with tears of discomfort.

"I’ll get you a wheelchair," Gil said helplessly. "You’ll be okay, Nicky."

"Hurts so bad," Nick wheezed, shaking his head. "Didn’t – hurt this bad before."

"Hang on."

He snagged a wheelchair and a triage nurse inside, and between the two of them they got Nick mobile and indoors. Thankfully no stops; the ER wasn’t too horribly crowded, and Nick’s obvious distress won them a quick trip to the back.

He knew Henry O’Donnell, the ER doc. Fifteen minutes after their precipitous arrival O’Donnell met him outside Nick’s treatment room, unsmiling.

"So what’d he get into?"

Gil gazed at him and shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea. He was here a couple of times before for this."

"Yeah, I pulled his chart from the last visit. This was rapid onset? How rapid?"

"Minutes, maybe. One minute he seemed fine; the next he was – like this."

"Okay. Well, we can see what blood work shows up, and I’ll get him on some IV Phenergan, push some fluids into him." O’Donnell’s lined face was impassive. "I paged Dr. Dominguez. We’ll see what he says."

"Henry." Gil stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. "I’m out of line asking this, I know. But I have my reasons. I want a sample of Nick’s blood."

"Gil –"

"No one figured it out last time, damn it. My team is used to looking for odd things. It’s worth a shot, Henry."

O’Donnell gave a slow nod, doubt still clear in his eyes. "Rachel just drew a rainbow. I’ll snag one of them for you. On the QT, okay?"

"Of course. Can I see him?"

"Sure."

But Nick wasn’t seeing him, that much was clear, and after a few seconds of watching that unbearable endless dry heaving Gil stepped outside again, unutterably relieved. Catherine picked up after three rings, sounding tired.

"Cath, listen. I need you to come by the ER. Nick’s sick again."

She was silent for a second, and then blurted, "AGAIN?"

"Same thing. I have a blood sample, need you to pick it up and run every test we have on it."

"Jesus. Poor Nick. Gil, isn’t the hospital doing that?"

"They’ll do their jobs. Let’s do ours."

This time when she spoke, it was cautious. "Are you saying what I think you’re saying?"

"Hush-hush, Cath. Understand?"

"Right. Wait, no. No, I don’t understand. What?"

"I want it tested for organic and inorganic trace materials. Mass spectrometry, the whole nine yards. If you don’t find anything, broaden the tests. Think of it like a case. Not Nick."

"Jesus, Gil," Catherine breathed. "You sound like you think – somebody DID this to him."

Gil nodded grimly. "I’m not ruling that out. Neither should you."

"But that would mean –"

"That this isn’t an illness." Gil cleared his throat. "I think Nick’s being poisoned."

"Holy shit."

"He’s not our colleague anymore, Catherine, he’s a victim. And unless we figure out what’s going on, soon, we might be doing the rest of this work posthumously."

Chapter Four

"You didn’t tell anyone. Right?"

Catherine sagged down in a chair and shook her head. "Of course not. Gil, what the hell is going on? How’s Nick?"

Gil stabbed a button on his keyboard. "Still in MICU." He glanced at her. "According to the hospital, his tox screen was negative. Yours?"

"Nothing."

"Damn it. Nothing at all?"

"Completely clear. Not even a goddamn Tylenol."

"GC? Mass spec?"

She nodded. "Other than his electrolytes are completely screwed, nothing extraordinary."

"No trace alkaloids?"

"No, Gil. I’m telling you: Nothing."

"That can’t be." He stared at her, shaking his head. "You’ve seen him yourself, Cath. People don’t get sick like that out of the blue. There has to be a cause. We’re missing something."

"Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know," she fired back. "But nothing’s pinging the radar." She waved a sheaf of printouts. "I got Al to go over a bunch of this with me. He doesn’t see anything, either. And if the hospital doesn’t –"

Slumping in his chair, Gil gave a brief nod. "What else do we know?" He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "When did Nick get sick the first time?"

"It’s been, what? Four weeks?"

Gil gazed at her. "Longer than that," he said slowly. "He was sick at work one night. About – more than a month ago. He spoke to Robbins about it."

Catherine met his look, her brow furrowed. "So five weeks? Six, maybe?"

"And he’s always gotten better. And then worse again. It’s a clear pattern. He gets – whatever it is he’s been getting, gets sick. Stays home, or in the hospital, improves, comes back to work."

"And bam, he’s sick again. He’s getting it at work, Gil."

"Don’t be too hasty. Could be. Or something he brings to work. Lunches? He brings his lunch, doesn’t he?"

"Usually."

Gil nodded grimly. "We need to have a look around his house. In his refrigerator, pantry."

Catherine pursed her lips, then dug in her pocket, bringing out a heavy keychain. "Just so happens," she said, "I got his key." At Gil’s look she added, "I watered his plants last time he went out of town. Never got around to giving the spare back."

"Just as well."

---

Desert Palms lay in the same direction as Nick’s condo. At Catherine’s suggestion they stopped, and Gil spotted Dominguez when they exited the elevator on Nick’s floor.

"Mr. Grissom." Dominguez gave him a tired smile, his handshake cool and brief.

Gil nodded. "This is my colleague, Catherine Willows." He waited for them to shake hands, too, and then said, "How’s Nick?"

Dominguez considered, and then lifted his chin in the direction of a cluster of chairs near the elevator. "Why don’t we talk about Nick?"

Seated, his dour demeanor strengthened. "You already know we haven’t found the cause of Nick’s illness yet."

"Any theories?"

"Oh, we’ve got those." Dominguez sighed. "I still haven’t completely ruled out pancreatitis to my satisfaction, but his bilirubin levels aren’t that out of whack. This could be a vestibular problem – inner ear. And I’ve scheduled him for an MRI in the morning to rule out long-term problems related to that concussion he suffered last year." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "But the truth is, we’re shooting in the dark. His blood work, his urinalysis – all show the effects of prolonged sickness, but no causative factors that we can detect. Dehydration, electrolyte imbalances, sure. But all that can be attributed to the emesis itself."

Gil glanced at Catherine, who looked horrified, and desperately anxious. Turning back to the doctor, he said slowly, "I have a theory, too. We’ve put together a timeline of sorts, back to when Nick first became ill. There’s a distinct pattern of illness and recovery."

Dominguez’s dark eyes narrowed. "Suggestive of what, exactly?"

"I’m not a physician. But if I saw this pattern professionally I’d wonder about poisons."

That clearly shocked the doctor; he drew back a little, mouth open. "But we’ve ruled out any number of agents already. Chemicals, food-borne pathogens –"

"As have we." Gil sighed. "It’s just a theory for the moment. Until I can talk to Nick, I don’t know that this theory will prove correct. Certainly if it is a poison it’s not one that shows up in the normal array of testing. We’ve even ruled out some very rare poison types."

Dominguez nodded slowly. "Well, I hope it goes without saying, but if there’s anything I can do to assist you, just ask. I’m not…comfortable with sitting around while one of my patients suffers."

"Neither am I. How’s Nick doing?"

"He’s stable at the moment. If he continues to do well I’ll move him sometime today to a regular room." His gaze was troubled. "If you find his illness is caused by a poisonous agent, should the hospital assign security staff? I’m concerned for his safety."

"So are we," Catherine agreed soberly.

Gil considered it. "So far Nick’s improved at the hospital, not worsened. Whatever’s going on, I don’t think it’s happening here."

"Okay." Dominguez shrugged. "I’ll hold off. But please let me know if anything changes, right?"

"Of course."

"Would you like to see him? I can let you have a few minutes before rounds."

"Absolutely."

Walking into the room, he felt rather than saw Catherine tense next to him. No wonder: Nick was wraithlike on the bed, far too thin, and his color was terrible. But he smiled when he saw them, raising a hand in greeting that still showed the frightening tremor Gil had noted earlier.

"Hey," Nick said hoarsely. "No flowers?"

Catherine snorted. "Just us."

"S’okay. Don’t think they let you have ‘em up here."

Gil walked around to the other side of the bed while Catherine pulled up a rolling stool. "How do you feel?" Gil asked quietly.

"Better." Nick’s tongue slipped out to wet his lips. "Doc’s still saying he doesn’t know what the hell’s wrong with me."

Catherine took Nick’s hand between both her own. "That’s what he just told us, too."

"Never felt anything like that, last night." Nick frowned. "Last night? What’s today? Man, I’m losing track."

Gil smiled. "Friday. It was night before last."

"Oh. Yeah."

Leaning one hip against the bed, Gil continued, "Feel up to talking about it a little? They’ll only give us a few minutes."

"Sure."

"Nick, we’re not ruling out the idea that this might be – intentional."

Nick’s wide eyes were blank with incomprehension. "Huh?"

"That something – or someone – might be doing this to you."

Open-mouthed, Nick just gazed at him for a long moment. "You mean, like – poisoning me?" he said finally, breathless. "You’re shitting me."

"It’s only a theory right now," Catherine said, squeezing Nick’s hand until he looked at her. "To be honest we’re grasping at straws. We don’t know anything for sure." She waited until Nick’s alarmed look faded a little, before shooting Gil a warning glance.

Nodding, Gil said, "Dominguez says he’ll probably move you to a regular room today. Why don’t we wait until then to talk further?"

"But why?" Nick whispered. "Why would somebody want to –" He broke off, looking stunned. "That’s crazy. That’s just nuts."

"Look, don’t think about this right now." Catherine gave Gil another look, this one scathing. "You need to concentrate on getting better, and that’s all. We’ll come back by tonight, okay? Check out your new room."

Nick’s troubled eyes didn’t leave Gil. "All right," he said slowly. "Sure."

In the hallway Catherine rounded on him. "What the hell was that? Scaring the shit out of him? You think that’s gonna help?"

Gil regarded her. "Doesn’t he have a right to know what we think?" he countered. "If it were you, wouldn’t you?"

"You saw him! He looks like hell! The guy’s lying there in the goddamn ICU and you’re telling him someone’s trying to KILL him? We don’t even KNOW that yet!"

"It’s not my goal to hinder his recovery. But Nick’s not just some bystander here, Catherine. I think he has a right to know what we suspect."

She shook her head slowly. "Did you see his eyes? He was so scared, Gil."

Gil nodded. "Maybe he should be scared," he said softly. "I know I am."

"Me, too," she whispered.

Chapter Five

"'Contrariwise,' continued Tweedledee, 'if it was so, it might be, and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic!'"

(Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass)

Catherine walked up to stand next to him. "So. You know, Nick's a pretty decent housekeeper."

Gil nodded, but couldn't smile. "Kitchen first?"

"I got the pantry."

"I'll start with the fridge."

Without any clue what exactly they were looking for, they'd decided to sample pretty much everything. That meant a great deal of work, all of it unofficial at this point. But when Catherine shrugged and called the babysitter, Gil figured it would be churlish of him to mention that fact again. This was one of their own. Nick was worth it.

A few hours later, Nick's neat apartment was a disaster area. The counters and tables were covered with the contents of his refrigerator, freezer, pantry, cabinets. The bathroom was ransacked, and superstitiously Gil had even included a sample from each of the four bottles of cologne on the dresser in Nick's bedroom.

"I doubt he eats that," Catherine observed dryly. But when he glanced at her she was smiling. "What the hell. We'll be thorough."

Back in the main living area, Gil yanked off one glove and sighed. "Tell you what. When we're done, I'll call my cleaning service. Nick won't be home for a few days at least."

"It's the stand-up thing to do."

"Right."

Laden with more samples than Gil could remember collecting from any crime scenes recently, they unloaded at the lab near six that evening. "Well, it's a start," Catherine said, eyeing their loot. "Better hope it's a slow night."

Whether fortune or maybe God was listening, Gil didn't know, but it turned out to be, if not precisely slow, at least not a heavy night. Sometime after midnight he straightened from his crouch over the microscope, hearing his back pop with tired affront. A shadow in the doorway caught his eye, and he glanced over.

"What's up?" Warrick asked, slowly walking inside.

"Not a hell of a lot." Gil took his glasses off and sighed. "A wild goose chase, evidently. I'm not done yet."

"This has to do with Nick, right?"

Gil nodded, and Warrick shook his head, leaning one hip against the table. "So you gonna tell me what, or you gonna make me guess? Because I got a few ideas. None of 'em pretty."

"Close the door?"

With a narrow look Warrick did, and Gil drew a cautious breath. "I'm not convinced Nick's illness is entirely natural," he told him in a very low voice.

Warrick gave a slow nod. "My guess was right, then."

"This," Gil added, gesturing at the table, "is everything Catherine and I could sample from Nick's apartment. So far, nothing."

"So what's with the cloak and dagger? Man, you don't think it's someone around here?"

"Actually, no. I suppose…I'm being overly cautious." Gil gnawed on his lower lip for a moment. "Trouble is, I don't have even the beginnings of a theory. At this point the only person I can rule out is myself."

"Hey, watch it now." Warrick crossed his arms.

"All right. Catherine, you, and myself. Better?"

"Lots. But listen, I mean, who'd want to hurt Nick? He's a good guy, Grissom. He ain't perfect, but last time I checked his list of enemies was real short."

Gil looked alertly at him. "So there's a list?"

"No, man, I mean – That's what I'm saying. Nobody around here, that's for sure." Warrick shrugged. "Outside the lab? Nobody I know of." His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. "Wait. What about the whacko who stalked him couple years back?"

"Nigel Crane?"

"Yeah. He in prison yet?"

Gil shook his head. "State hospital. Nick testified last year, remember? Crane is most definitely out of pocket. Besides, this wasn't his modus operandi."

"True. Still." Warrick's expression darkened. "If there's one thing about Stokes we all noticed, it's that he draws the shit. Maybe he picked up another freak we don't know about."

"I haven't been able to talk to him yet, not really." Gil nodded slowly. "He'll be out of MICU tomorrow, hopefully. I'll check in the morning."

"So what can I do?"

Gil smiled. "You? Can help keep this lab going while I'm working on this. How'd tonight go?"

"So far so good. That jumper was a suicide, guarantee. Nothing left but the crying."

"Check with Brass."

"Will do. Say, tell Nick I'll be by later, all right?"

"I will."

---

At eight the next morning Gil pointed the Tahoe in the direction of Desert Palms, Catherine's last words still ringing in his ears. "You don't get some sleep, Grissom, you and Nick can share a damn suite at the hospital. Promise you'll go home after you talk to him again?"

He'd promised, and he meant to keep it. It had been almost four in the morning before he'd wrapped up his analyses. And all he had to show for it was a big fat nothing.

Warrick was right. It didn't make any sense. There was no motive Gil could determine, no one who particularly stood to gain by Nick's being out of commission, or even dead. Certainly there had been some tense times at the lab not that long ago. The competition for the misbegotten promotion had left both Nick and Sara with minor wounds, and Gil hadn't been alone in noting that neither colleague seemed overly eager to work with the other recently. But outright acrimony had never happened, and Nick's good-humored acceptance of what had ultimately not come to pass for either had had its effect on Sara, too. They seemed to have made the best of a very bad deal.

Aside from that, though, Nick was truthfully the most affable of any of Gil's co-workers. No, it simply didn't add up.

Outside the lab? Who knew?

He accelerated through a yellow light and reached up to adjust his sunglasses. Time to confront Nick with that question, if he was up to it this morning.

He found the man in question in his new private room, on the ninth floor this time. Gil tapped on the door and heard Nick say, "Yeah," and walked inside.

"Hey, it's a party," Nick said with a slanted smile.

Gil smiled at Nick's company, which included Jim Brass, Greg Sanders, and a sweet-looking blonde woman he vaguely recognized from the coroner's office. Amanda something. "I should have brought a cake," Gil observed, walking over to stand near the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good."

But studying him acutely, Gil didn't see quite the return to hale and hearty health Nick had enjoyed by the end of his previous hospital stay. Nick looked tired, and his drawn cheeks held no color. His dark eyes were sunken, and underscored with bluish smudges. And the hand raised to shake Gil's was palsied, perhaps less than before but unmistakable.

"Told Nicky here, if he wanted a vacation, should have just asked." Brass was smiling, and Gil tried not to see the shadow of pity in the man's eyes. "Been a lot easier."

"Not to mention cheaper," Greg added. His grin was a lot less freighted than Brass's. Maybe he hadn't seen as many seriously ill people in his life. Gil wasn't sure.

"Depends on where you go," Nick told him with a raised eyebrow.

"Speaking of going." Brass sighed and shook his head. "I am, home." He walked over to the bed, and took Nick's trembling hand. "Rest up, Nicky. Call if you need anything."

"Will do. Thanks for stopping by."

"My pleasure." Brass glanced at Gil on his way out, his company smile fading to grimness. Gil gave him a short nod.

"Okay, I guess that's our cue." Greg went over to do some kind of complicated handshake, too, and Gil saw the blonde girl's patently affectionate look. Not in Nick's direction, either. So her presence was a courtesy call. It didn't take watching her grab Greg's hand a moment later to confirm it. "See you later, man. Take it easy."

"You know it." Nick smiled at the girl, and waved, and suddenly there wasn't anyone else there. He looked at Grissom, and it hurt to see his game smile waver and collapse. "So." There was a world of anxiety in that one syllable.

Gil nodded and scooted one of the chairs nearer to the bed. He felt exhausted suddenly, tired to the bone. "What does the doctor say?"

"Not much yet. Hey, at least I got my own room again."

"True."

"So, I mean. Tell me. What's going on."

Gil met his frightened eyes squarely. "Nothing solid," he said as gently as he could. "I could be wrong, Nicky. I've been wrong before."

Nick swallowed. "Not that often."

"Catherine and I went to your house yesterday. I should have asked first, but –"

"No." Nick shook his head. "No, it's okay. What -- Did you find anything?"

"Not so far. Nick, I need you to think about this. Can you think of anyone who might mean you harm? Anyone at all?"

Nick's tongue snuck out to wet his cracked lower lip. "Believe me, I've been thinking about that," he said in a quenched voice. "But man, I dunno. You asking if I got any enemies?"

Gil nodded. "Anyone at all."

"Look, I mean, how would I know?" Nick's hand twitched on the bedclothes, fingers opening and closing over and over again. "Never had anybody walk up and say, 'Watch your back, I'm gonna kill you one of these days.' I mean, mostly I just keep my head down and do my job, you know?"

"What about off the job? Friends? Old girlfriends?"

Nick visibly thought about it. "I went out with a few people, sure," he said slowly. "I mean, everybody I know is in my Day-timer."

"I didn't see that at your house."

"In my locker. At the lab."

Gil nodded. "Anyone in particular?"

"No. I went out with this gal, Julie, a few times a couple months ago. Really nice woman. But she's moving, and I haven't seen her in a while. She may already be gone."

"You hang out with anyone?"

"Couple of guys from the gym. We play racquetball a few times a month. There's softball, but we're not playing right now. Don't start up again until May."

Gil made himself nod, hiding his disappointment. "You're right," he said quietly. "Nothing leaps out."

"I'm not saying I'm a saint." Nick snorted, and cleared his throat raspily. "But I can't think of anybody who'd do – this. Hell no."

"Okay. Nicky, all I can say is I'm not through looking. When you get out of the hospital, I want you to come stay with me for a few days."

Nick blinked. "With you?"

"Catherine and I haven't found anything yet, but that's by no means conclusive proof nothing's there. If you'd rather stay with Warrick, or someone else, by all means. But stay with someone. You can monitor your food and drink, everything you take in."

Still looking floored, Nick managed a nod. "Okay," he whispered. "Sure. You up for a roommate?"

"The guest room is all yours."

"Cool." Nick smiled, and then yawned cavernously. "Sorry."

Gil snorted and shook his head. "You need sleep now, and frankly so do I. I'll stop back by this evening. Call me if anything comes up?"

"Will do."

Nick's voice stopped him at the door. "Grissom?"

Gil turned. "Yeah?"

"Thank -- Thank you."

"I've hardly done anything yet, Nick."

"I know, but." Nick's exhausted eyes were too bright, suddenly. "I appreciate it anyway."

Gil smiled gently. "My pleasure. Get some rest."

"You, too."

Chapter Six

After two more days, Nick was pronounced well enough to go home. Gil was no closer to an explanation for Nick’s illness. If it was poison, he hadn’t found the substance yet. If it was not, he could only hope either the hospital labs or even the CDC would uncover it.

And an upswing in their case load meant he could no longer fiddle on the sidelines as he’d been doing, either. Nick was out at least another week, barring yet another relapse, and they needed all available hands on board. So when the contents of Nick’s locker yielded a few more possibilities, Gil reluctantly added Sanders and Hodges to the growing list of people who knew his suspicions.

"This is after you finish your official work," he told them, eyeing each in turn. "And it may be a wild goose chase. Probably is. But until we’ve ruled out everything Nick could possibly have come in contact with, we’re not done."

Greg’s expression hadn’t eased from his initial shock at Gil’s news. "You really think someone’s trying to poison him?"

Hodges shook his head. "Doesn’t make any sense," he said slowly.

"I agree." Gil nodded. "But the two of you are the best chemists we have on staff. If you have any ideas, my door is open any time."

The two techs gave him identical unnerved looks and nodded.

---

On Monday morning Gil brought Nick to the townhouse. He’d had a few second thoughts about his invitation, mostly borne of his long-term acclimation to living alone, but one look at Nick’s wan, drawn face and he’d wrestled those down. Nick had the look of someone now chronically ill, and if he didn’t need 24-hour nursing care any longer, clearly he was not ready to be alone yet, either.

"I stocked up on a few things." He threw his keys in the tray by the door and glanced at Nick. "You hungry?"

Nick shook his head. "Not really. Listen, you didn’t have to go to any trouble."

"It’s not trouble. Don’t worry about it."

He got him an Ensure anyway, but Nick only sipped it before finally sighing. "You care if I crash for a while?" His voice was still raspy, not quite his usual tone. "Kinda tired."

"Of course not."

It was a matter of a few minutes to show Nick where his room was, the extra towels in the guest bathroom, spare rolls of toilet paper. And then Gil left him to it.

Greg called late that afternoon. "That’s a big zipola on the locker stuff," he said, disappointment obvious in his voice. "I thought maybe the protein powder, but it’s just as advertised. Same with everything else."

"Okay. Thanks, Greg. It was worth a shot."

"How’s Nick?"

Gil smiled. "Sleeping right now. His doctor said to keep him on liquid foods until he gets his feet back under him." The smile slipped. "Greg, are you still at work?"

"Aw, no big deal." Greg sounded abashed. "Nick’s a good guy, you know? Me and Hodges both stuck around. I think he’s taking it kinda personally that he can’t figure out what this is."

"We all are, I suppose. Well, good work. Both of you. At least now we have more to add to the list of what we know it isn’t."

"Yeah. Okay."

As he hung up the phone, he spied his address book lying on the end table. Considering, Gil picked it up, flipping through it. One name made him pause. What time was it in Rockville? After work hours, certainly, although he didn’t think they paid any more attention to that at the FDA than right here in Vegas.

It took two calls and half a dozen transfers to connect. But hearing that heavily German-accented voice was a startling relief.

"Hi, Ernst. It’s Gil Grissom."

A pause, and then Glockner said, "Gil? What on earth?"

"I know, it’s been a very long time. How are you?"

"Ah, gut, und dir, mein Freund?"

Gil smiled. "Well, thank you. Is this a good time?"

"Of course it is. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"A personal favor, if you’re willing."

"Ask away."

It took longer to explain than usual, since Ernst’s questions were immediate and crisp, all business. "An escalating pattern, you say? How long?"

"About six weeks."

"What have you ruled out?"

Gil sighed. "Everything I can think of, Ernst. It’s why I’m calling you. I haven’t got a clue what this could be. And you wrote the book on toxicology. Literally."

"Hmm, yes." Glockner sounded distracted, formidable mind still mulling over what Gil had said. "So. You suspect long-term low-level poisoning, not intended to kill? Only to wound, as it were?"

"It’s the best theory I have at the moment, yes."

"Many suspects. You’ve ruled out chemicals, yes?"

"Nothing abnormal shows up on mass spectrometry."

"Have you considered plant toxins?"

Gil sat back. "Not seriously. Most would be too toxic for most people to survive."

"Did you read my paper two years ago on detecting ricin contamination in foods?"

"No. Ricin? Ernst, we had a case of ricin poisoning not so very long ago, right here in Las Vegas." He shook his head slowly. "But our victim isn’t dead. Debilitated, but not dead."

Glockner gave an eloquent snuffle, and replied, "Perhaps you have not yet identified your toxin because it is a protein. Hidden amongst all the others, like the one grain of wheat in so much chaff. Your testing would not detect such a thing unless you were looking for it, and even then would be difficult to find."

Gil swallowed. "I would have dismissed it," he said faintly. "Too toxic. My god."

"One would have to be very careful, true. Too much, and pfft. But just enough, and it’s possible. Worth a look, ja?"

"Ja."

"Send me a sample. I can have a look."

"I will. Jesus. Thank you, Ernst."

"Kein Problem, junge. Freut mich."

His hands shook as he hung up and dialed another number. Greg picked up on the third ring.

"I have another theory," Gil said, his free hand clenching into a fist. "How soon can you get over here?"

---

"No way." Greg gaped at him. "That stuff is like -- No way."

"An hour ago I would have agreed with you." Gil led the way to the guest bedroom. "Right now I’m not so sure." He tapped on the door, and stuck his head in. "Nicky?"

Nick was an unmoving lump on the bed. After Gil shook him a couple of times, his eyes opened, gazing blearily at them. "Huh?"

"Greg’s gonna take a blood sample."

"Greg?" Nick stared at Greg. "Do you know how to do that?"

"Ha, ha." Greg circled around the other side of the bed. "Grissom, you mind turning on the light? Or I could just stick him aimlessly for a while, for that comment."

Smiling, Gil hit the light switch.

"Thought outside the hospital I wouldn’t get poked so damn often," Nick grumbled, sitting up. He reached up to rub his eyes.

"Just take a second." Greg moved confidently, and was as good as his word: he had two vials drawn before Nick had time to really wake up. "There," he said, popping the tourniquet with a flourish. "Didn’t even hurt."

"Where’d you learn to do that?" Nick asked, bending his arm to hold a cotton ball against the tiny puncture wound.

"Told you a long time ago. Phlebotomy while I was in grad school."

"Could teach one of my nurses a thing or two."

"Always. Oh, you meant about taking blood."

"Hah." Nick’s smile disappeared when he glanced up at Gil. "So what’s this all about?"

Gil drew a deep breath. "A theory. A dark-horse candidate, but worth a shot."

"You think you know what’s making me sick?"

"Possibly." Gil glanced at Greg. "Call me?"

"Sure. I’ll start the assay when I get back to the lab. Shouldn’t take too long."

"Good."

After Greg left, Gil met Nick’s nervous gaze. "Why don’t we talk in the living room?"

"Okay."

He got another liquid supplement for Nick, and snagged a cup of coffee for himself, while Nick put on jeans and wandered out to sit on the couch. With a sigh Nick took his Ensure and eyed it gloomily. "Does it mean I’m feeling better if I say I’d rather have coffee?"

"Sure it does."

"Okay. I’d rather have coffee."

"Drink it anyway."

Nick sipped, and gave him a look. "So what’s your theory?"

"I ruled out a number of toxins early on, because they’re so powerful I assumed you would not have survived them. They seemed highly improbable."

Nick nodded slowly, looking shocked. "You changed your mind."

"Remember the ricin case two years ago?"

"Yeah."

"Ricin’s a protein. Proteins are tougher to find because –"

"—it’s a needle in the haystack, yeah." Nick nodded absently. "Interrupts protein synthesis."

Gil sat back. "Exactly."

"You’re telling me you think somebody’s giving me RICIN?" Nick shook his head vigorously. "After what we saw two years ago? How am I ALIVE?"

"I don’t have an answer for that yet. I called an old friend at the FDA. Ernst Glockner. Toxicologist."

"Okay," Nick said cautiously. "And?"

"He mentioned plant toxins. And since he’s an acknowledged expert on ricin in foods, if he says it’s possible to dose someone without actually killing them, I believe it."

"It would cause –"

"The uncontrolled vomiting, the diarrhea. Absolutely."

Nick didn’t say anything to that. His pale face got paler, and Gil swallowed a sudden surge of helpless pity. "I’m sorry, Nicky," he said gently. "I wish I could think of another way to say it."

"But who?" Nick whispered. "I mean, why? What’d I do to anybody? It’s not like you can go out and buy this shit at Walgreen’s, you know? Somebody had to make it."

Gil nodded. "And deliver it. Which is another question, and one I’m even further from answering."

"Jesus." Nick’s gaze dropped to his hands, clutching his little can of Ensure. "So what you’re saying is, I oughta be dead."

"We don’t know this for sure yet, Nicky. It may not be ricin."

"Am I gonna get better?" Nick asked huskily. "I feel better."

"As long as we can keep you from receiving another dose? You’ll be fine."

Nick gave a tight nod. "And if I get some more?"

Gil sat for a moment without answering. Finally he nodded. "I think it’ll be worse," he said quietly. "Maybe quite a bit worse."

Nick didn’t say a word to that. Gil waited a few more beats, and finally lumbered on. "When you’re feeling stronger, I’d like you to go through your old files. Any cases you’ve worked that involved suspects or victims with chemistry backgrounds, biology, biochemistry. See if anything jumps out at you."

Nick shook his head slowly. "Done nothing but think about that lately. I don’t remember anything that specific. The ricin case. But she died."

"It could be more subtle. The case might not have seemed pertinent. But it’s worth a shot."

"I don’t have a clue." Nick’s bleak eyes regarded him. "You don’t, either, do you?"

It stung more than he’d thought it would, and probably more than Nick planned. Gil gave a curt shake of his head. "I don’t have a theory yet, no. Clues, we have."

"What? Because I’m not seeing a lot."

Gil sighed. "You, Nick," he said softly. "You’re the biggest clue. If I can figure out the why, why you, then I’ll know the who."

"You sure about that?"

"As sure as I can be," Gil replied honestly.

Chapter Seven

When he got to the lab, he found his office occupied.

"Hi," Gil said, putting his briefcase on the desk.

This Sara didn’t smile. "Got a minute?"

"Several, actually." His own smile faded. "What?"

"I was just wondering why I’m being shut out."

Gil sat down slowly, gazing at her. "Shut out?"

"Is it because of the promotion? That didn’t happen?"

He formed a little "oh" with his lips, but didn’t say it.

Her scowl was colored with hurt. "Nick’s my colleague," she said thinly. "And I like to think he’s my friend. Only I’m not sure YOU think I’m his friend."

"Sara, what in God’s name are you talking about?"

"Give me a break, Grissom," she snapped, shaking her head. "Don’t worry, no one’s told me a thing. I figured this one out all on my own. Something’s going on with Nick, something to do with his mysterious illness. And everyone knows what this something is, but me. Which suggests to me one very important thing. Would you like to know what that is?"

Gil sat back in his chair. "You’re not a suspect, Sara," he said quietly. "If you were, you’d know it already."

The hurt in her expression ramped up a few notches; her cheeks were almost as pale as Nick’s had been, a week ago. "Suspect? You think -- Jesus."

He drew a breath to say something, he never knew what, and she bolted up out of her chair. "You know what? No." She swallowed convulsively. "I get the picture. Loud and clear."

"Sara –"

But she was walking out, storming out, really, and narrowly missed Greg, who danced to the side and watched her go, eyes wide. "Whoa," he breathed. "Hope she isn’t carrying a gun right now."

Gil let out a heavy sigh and lifted his chin. "Yes?"

"So what’d you say to her?" Greg asked, plopping down in Sara’s recently vacated chair. "Man, she looked –"

"Greg. The samples?"

"Right." Greg shrugged. "Nada. Nick is not exactly healthy, according to his blood work, but whatever’s causing it, it’s not an anomalous protein."

Gil gazed at him, and then allowed his eyes to close briefly. "God damn it," he whispered.

"Hey, I thought it’d be good news."

"It is," Gil agreed dully. "But it means we’re back to square one."

Greg nodded, mouth turned down in sudden unhappiness. "Yeah, I see what you’re saying. Anyway." He held out a thick sheaf of test results. "If you want it."

Gil took the papers, glancing briefly at the top page and nodding. "Thanks. I appreciate your doing this. For Nick."

"Any time, you know it."

After Greg left, he sat tapping his fingers on the papers for a few minutes, staring at nothing. Finally he got up and went to find Sara.

---

"I suspect he’s being poisoned."

It got her attention. She gazed up at him, lingering anger and hurt briefly subsumed by shock. "Poisoned?"

Gil glanced around the small room, and finally leaned against the table, relaxing minutely. "My reasons for leaving you out of the loop have nothing to do with doubts as to your trustworthiness," he said slowly. "And everything to do with concerns for Nick’s safety. If I had my druthers, I would still be the only person who knows."

She put down her safety goggles and reached up to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were shaking slightly, and he spared a moment to wonder if she’d eaten anything tonight. Probably not. "Do you have any suspects?"

"No. Not yet."

"Can I help?"

"Probably. But I’d rather not involve you. Before you say anything," he added at her quick look. "Warrick is not involved, either. I’m not playing favorites, Sara. The fewer people who know the specifics, the better. This is one time where teamwork is not necessarily in Nick’s best interests. Do you understand?"

She was silent for a moment, and then gave a slight nod. "You think it’s someone here. At the lab."

"I haven’t ruled that out. I haven’t ruled anything out."

"You said I wasn’t a suspect."

"No more than anyone else."

"Even yourself?" she asked softly. Her dark eyes were challenging.

He ducked his head a fraction of an inch. "I suppose so."

She held his gaze for another moment, and then looked away. "Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it."

"Damn it, Sara, I’m not playing. This isn’t a game." He straightened. "Interpret it however you like. My primary concern at the moment is for Nick’s safety, not your feelings. I’ll save whatever apology you want to hear for such time as I’m convinced Nick is all right. That will have to suffice."

She gave a tiny nod.

He felt her gaze on his back as he walked out. It felt heavy, clingy, like hands touching his shirt. He wanted to shrug, push it away.

---

After two more days of Ensure and Gatorade, Nick put his increasingly healthy foot down.

"I’m fine," he said crossly, hand going up to flatten his exuberant spikes of morning hair. "And I’m freakin’ hungry. All right?"

Doing his best not to smile too openly, Gil gave a slow nod. "Cereal work?"

"Thank GOD."

As he suspected, Nick couldn’t eat much. It had been more than a week since his last solid food, and there wasn’t much room in his shrunken stomach. But he ate half a bowl of cereal with gusto, and watching him, Gil felt a tremulous surge of relief. No question Nick was very much on the mend. It would take a while for the last of the effects to subside, but he was much, much better. For that Gil was immensely grateful.

Pushing the bowl a few inches away, Nick leaned his chin on his hand and sighed. "Man, I never thought Cheerios could taste that good."

"How do they feel?"

"Like I died and went to heaven."

Gil’s smile slipped, and Nick made a face. "Sorry."

"You feel up to visiting the lab today? Going through those files?"

"Sure." Nick sipped his orange juice. "You really think that might be it?"

"It’s worth a shot." He didn’t dare say what he really thought. Those dire imaginings were best left unspoken.

"I need to be there anyway," Nick continued, in a more careful tone. "I mean, I do still work there. Right?"

Gil nodded. "There’s no rush," he said carefully. "You know that."

"Yeah, I also know things aren’t so good on the money front. Don’t want you guys forgetting I’m still on the payroll. This month, at least."

"Nick, what are you talking about?"

"I’m not that out of the loop," Nick told him quietly. "I heard a few things. Like maybe there’s some layoffs coming."

Under the circumstances, there was no way to lie gracefully. Gil inclined his head. "You have good sources."

"Christ. Guess I better work on my resume, then, huh?" A spasm of misery clouded Nick’s face. "I’ve barely been there for two months."

"I would never penalize you for something so utterly beyond your control, Nick," Gil said. "That’s not the way I work. You should know that by now."

"Okay," Nick said dully.

"Come on," Gil added in a gruff voice. "Why don’t you wash up, and we’ll go have a look at those files."

"Don’t you gotta sleep sometime?"

"I’m off tonight." Gil met Nick’s look with a smile. "I do occasionally take nights off, you know."

"Yeah. Okay."

---

It was well into their normal shift time before Nick finally finished poring over most of his old case files. His list of possibles was short, but Gil was acutely relieved to find there actually was a list.

"Three." Nick laid several scribbled-on pages of yellow ruled paper in front of him. "One’s really pushing it, though."

"Which?"

"Martin Abrams. The guy we suspected of poisoning his three kids. Goes way back, I think I’d been here about six months then."

Gil nodded, eyes narrowing. "As I recall it – correct me if I’m wrong – Abrams was later exonerated."

"It was the stepbrother. Used Dad’s lab to mix up some really nasty shit."

"Right. What about the stepbrother?"

"Lethal injection five months ago. I went to the execution."

"And Abrams?"

Nick shrugged. "Moved to Egypt. New Hampshire," he added, at Gil’s quizzical look. "Like I said. Major long shot."

"Who else?"

Nick shifted the papers. "Marjorie Lewis. She was the chemistry grad student who was suspected of murdering her professor lover back in ’02."

"But also exonerated?"

"Charges were dropped. He was a suicide. But she never believed our findings. Remember? She’s the one who kept coming by, months later."

Gil winced. "Right. Can’t believe I’d forgotten about that."

"Well, it was me and Cath she really hated. Our case." Nick made a face, shook his head. "She had all kinds of conspiracy theories. The major one was that forensics was in cahoots with the DA’s office, covering up the guy’s murder because of political pressure. She never made any death threats, nothing like that. But I got valentines from her for a while."

"Valentines?"

"Just shit. Letters. She found out where I lived, used to dog me sometimes at home. Tell me about how it was murder, and I knew it, and she’d make sure I never forgot, that I’d keep it on my conscience the rest of my life. Blah blah."

Gil goggled. "Never mind me forgetting that – how did you forget it?"

"I didn’t. Just -- She didn’t seem the type." Nick sighed. "Maybe I was wrong."

"We’ll come back to her. Who’s the third?"

"Another long shot. Bobby Michael. Remember him? That wasn’t that long ago."

"Family member, right? Tony Michael’s brother?"

"That’s him. Meth lab explosion. Bobby was the good brother, Tony was the bad seed. Only we thought in the long run it was Bobby doing the chemistry, Tony just had the rotten luck to be home when the place blew."

"You think he had the expertise to do this?"

"Meth wasn’t all they were cooking up. Bobby was smarter than shit. Genius."

Gil nodded. "I remember. And he’s still around?"

"Still being investigated. Arrested twice, no convictions. He’s weaseled out of everything so far."

"Any reason he’d pinpoint you, specifically?"

Nick slumped a little. "Not really, no. I mean, that I know of."

"So Marjorie Lewis is our primary here?"

"If you can call her that."

Gil reached out to pick up the phone. While he waited for Brass to pick up, he said, "You haven’t eaten or drunk anything here tonight, have you?"

Nick shook his head. "Water fountain."

"Don’t even do that. I mean it, Nick. Nothing whasoev -- Jim? Gil. Listen, swing by here when you get the chance, would you? I need to talk to you about something. No, not over the phone. It’s important. Right. Yeah, I’ll be here."

As he hung up, Nick said, "Water fountain?"

"Not even that."

Nick looked down. "You sure you want to involve the cops? We don’t even know what whoever it is was giving me."

"Let’s see what Jim has to say about that."

Chapter Eight

There was a look on Jim Brass’s face Gil recognized. One that combined shock with disbelief, and a dash of reluctance.

"I share your concern," he said slowly. "But frankly, Gil, doesn’t sound like you got much of a case here. You don’t know for sure this is attempted murder."

"I do know it. I just can’t prove it yet."

"And you know without better cause I can’t just go around questioning random people. I need more to go on than that."

"Marjorie Lewis isn’t random," Gil flared. "There’s a provable vendetta there."

"I agree. One that has no clear connection with Nick’s situation right now." Brass sighed and leaned forward. "Look, Nicky’s a good man. I’ve seen what he’s going through, and I also see where you’ve gotten your theory. But until you get something more substantial, it’s just a theory. You want me to go to the DA with that? You feel that confident about this Lewis woman?"

Gil met his gaze reluctantly. "Point taken."

"Sorry." Brass paused. "Besides, if I were you I’d be asking another question."

"What’s that?"

"Why is it, with all the expensive equipment around here, and all the experience between the bunch of you, you haven’t been able to figure out what this is by now?"

Gil stirred. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me," Brass replied softly. "But I wonder why you can figure out complicated random shit every day and twice on Sundays, and Nick’s out in the cold."

"You’re saying I should be investigating Nick’s colleagues?"

"I’d rather gouge my eye out with a fork than believe any of them is capable of what you’re describing. But I can tell you one thing. This shit smells, and it ain’t like roses, either."

Skin creeping, Gil nodded reluctantly. "When you put it like that. Yes. It does."

"Who benefits?"

"Cui bono," Gil whispered.

Brass shrugged. "I can say it in pig Latin if you want. Means the same thing. Who’d want Nicky out of the way?"

"I can’t answer that," Gil said helplessly.

"Can’t? Or won’t?" When Gil said nothing, Brass sighed. "Hell, I could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time." He glanced at his watch. "Christ, I gotta go. You find something more solid, I’ll be knocking on Ms. Lewis’s door five minutes later. But I need it solid. All right?"

Gil nodded, still shaken. "Of course."

"All right."

---

If Gil’s reaction to Brass’s words had been thunderstruck, Nick’s was downright aghast.

"I don’t believe it," he whispered. His face was terribly pale again, and it was small consolation knowing this time it wasn’t from illness. "I don’t. Not for a fucking second."

Gil glanced down at his drink. Good 20-year Scotch. It tasted like furnace oil to him. "He asked the question we should have been, all along," he said faintly. "Why can’t we identify it?"

"Two easy answers," Nick snapped. "One: it’s new, and we don’t recognize it."

"And two?"

"Because it’s not there!"

Gil stared at him. "You don’t really believe that."

"You don’t. You never asked me."

"So you think this is an – illness? Is that what you think?"

"I don’t know!" Nick bellowed, flopping back in his chair. "I don’t! But you’re saying somebody I WORK with, somebody I TRUST, might be fucking POISONING me? I don’t believe that. I won’t!"

"We see similar situations every day in our line of work. What makes you so different, Nick?"

"It IS different! Fuck!"

Oddly, Nick’s faintly hysterical reaction made him feel a lot calmer. He set his glass on the coffee table and leaned forward. "Don’t think of it as you," Gil said intently. "Think of it as a case. If you were investigating this, wouldn’t you be asking the same questions?"

"No!"

"What if it were me? Or Catherine? Sick over and over again, a predictable cycle, worsening each time? No disease, no identifiable food-borne pathogens? Wouldn’t you be asking then?"

Nick’s mouth worked, but nothing emerged. He looked sick with shock, tinged with honest bewilderment.

"Maybe you can’t ask, Nick," Gil said softly. "But I can. And I will."

"This is a goddamn nightmare," Nick whispered. He shook his head. "I don’t fucking believe it."

"I’m sorry. God, more sorry than I can possibly say. But you have to think protectively. Be careful; don’t let personal feelings get in the way. Any more than you can help."

"Right." Nick’s tone was bright and bitter. "Piece of cake."

Ignoring it, Gil continued, "You’re back at work tomorrow night. Watch, listen. Pay attention."

"Pay attention to whom?"

"Everyone," Gil said heavily.

---

He took Nick with him when he reported for work the next night. Nick was silent, preoccupied – not at all himself, certainly not as elated about his return to the lab as he might have been prior to their tense late-night discussion. With a pang of remorse, Gil wondered if he’d ever quite recapture that feeling.

But he kept Nick at his side most of the night. Working their two assigned cases together, ensuring Nick didn’t eat or drink anything that had come out of a lab machine. Aside from that, he couldn’t think what else to do.

Others picked up on the new tension. Catherine was unnaturally terse, going about her business without any of her usual badinage. Warrick and Sara reacted in their own ways, stoic and touchy respectively. Even the techs were careful, minding their P’s and Q’s and generally staying out of the way.

But nothing really happened. Nick was fine; work was, if not inspired, at least productive. Gil couldn’t think of anything specifically wrong, out of place. It felt normal, or at least as close as it could get to normal, considering.

And it was the same the following night. And the one after.

On the fourth, the first after Nick had returned home, Gil came from his empty-feeling townhouse to find a disaster area.

"We’re slammed," Ecklie said tightly, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket with sharp, angry motions. "I mean, fucking torpedoed. They want to cut personnel? With a full staff we’re barely making it." He grabbed a stack of files from his desk and shoved them at Gil. "Here’s what we didn’t get to. Have fun."

Watching him storm out, Gil felt incredibly tired. So. It would be one of those nights. And he’d passed on the second cup of coffee. Might have to rethink that decision.

He’d sent everyone he could spare out on assignments, and was cleaning up preparatory to going out on the next one himself, when Hodges poked his head in.

"Sir? You got a minute?"

Gil glanced over. "Half."

Hodges looked uncomfortable, skulking near the doorway. "How’s Stokes?" he asked in a squelched voice.

"Nick? He’s fine, much better. Didn’t you see him here earlier?"

"No. No, must have missed him." A look of relief passed over Hodges’ features. "Look, I wanted to apologize."

Gil paused again. "Apologize?"

Hodges swallowed audibly. "I feel like I – let you down," he muttered. "Stokes. I want you to know, we did our best, you know?"

"David, no one’s suggested you did otherwise." Gil forced down the urge to sigh. "I appreciate all that you’ve done. Now – I’m afraid I have to get moving soon. Was there anything else you needed?"

"No, sir." Hodges’ pink face got redder. "No, that was it."

"All right. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of it."

The next case in the queue was a damn trick roll, the type of work he wouldn’t normally have touched with a ten-foot pole, but there was no one else to send out. They were stretched too thin as it was. He spent an hour at the Bellagio – all that he could spare – and before he left he was already making his peace with the idea that this one wouldn’t be solved by him. Let the cops do the bulk of the investigative work on this one; he flat-out didn’t have the time.

Because everyone was working solo, it was a catch-as-catch-can proposition to get progress reports. Finally near what should be the end of their shift, he resorted to calling everyone in for a meeting. They started congregating around 4:00am, but it was nearly 4:30 before he had them all there.

Gil glanced around the room, taking in the various expressions, from tiredness to impatience. "For the time being," he said carefully, "let’s plan on meeting at 4 every night, all right?"

"Can’t we just call you?" Catherine was one of the ones looking impatient. "Gonna be here late as it is."

"Humor me."

She gave a reluctant nod.

"So, one at a time. Cath?"

They took turns giving him an encapsulated version of their progress on their various cases. Silently Gil felt a surge of pride. Damned if he hadn’t truly collected the best team he’d seen in all his years in forensics. They might be occasionally obstreperous, but for the most part they got along well, played well together, and got some damn fine work done.

Nick had been silent while the others got them up to speed. When his turn came around, he gave a quick-and-dirty synopsis of his work on a pawn-shop burglary, and in the midst of it Gil took in the sweat on Nick’s face. His stomach dropped.

"Nicky?" he asked softly. "Are you feeling all right?"

All heads turned, and Nick shrugged. "I’m okay."

Catherine sat forward, as tense as Gil suddenly felt. "God, Nick, are you sick at your stomach?"

"No. Think I’m just tired."

The words were faintly slurred, and Gil’s immediate alarm ramped up a dozen notches. In the space of mere minutes Nick’s healthy color had vanished, leaving him looking gray and unquestionably sick.

"You look bad, man," Warrick stated flatly. "Come on, you wanna lie down?"

"Jus’ a second," Nick whispered, sounding like he had something in his mouth. He pushed himself out of the chair and immediately swayed forward. Warrick and Sara were nearest, both instinctively grabbing Nick’s flailing arms.

"We got you," Sara said tightly, and grunted as she and Warrick bore Nick’s weight down to the floor. "Lie down, Nick. Come on."

Catherine already had her cell phone out. "I’m calling an ambulance," she announced crisply. "Anyone think I shouldn’t?"

Gil met her fearful gaze and said, "Go ahead." He looked down at Nick, bending to ask, "How do you feel?"

Nick’s wandering eyes skated over him without quite seeing. "Sleepy," he slurred.

Gil drew a breath to say something, maybe, he was never sure. Nick’s head snapped back against the linoleum, and his body tensed in a bone-wracking seizure.

Chapter Nine

Alice came to a fork in the road. "Which road do I take?" she asked.

"Where do you want to go?" responded the Cheshire cat.

"I don't know," Alice answered.

"Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."

(Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)

Distantly he heard Catherine’s voice, crisp and terrified, snapping into her phone. "Yes, goddamn it, he’s having a seizure! Now!"

They’d grown an audience. It annoyed him that he noticed that; he should have been entirely focused on Nick’s convulsing form. But he let Warrick put his wadded-up jacket beneath Nick’s head while Gil looked around, saw Greg and Archie and Bobby and Hodges all standing in the doorway, faces slack with identical shock.

"Jesus," Sara gasped, and Gil whipped back around in time to see dark vomit fountain from Nick’s open mouth.

"Turn him," Warrick snapped. "Don’t let him breathe that shit in."

They got him over onto his side. Under Gil’s shaking hands the seizure seemed to ease, but Nick was drooling more of the dark liquid, dark from blood, Gil thought, and fought down a shudder.

Bobby elbowed his way in. "Here." Towels, where’d he gotten them? But Gil felt almost tearfully thankful Bobby was mopping it up, hands covered in latex. Christ, they should all be wearing gloves, that fluid might as well glow in the dark. And the smell, god almighty, yes, definitely blood, old blood.

"Archie," Bobby said crisply. "Wanna see if Robbins is around?"

Archie’s mouth opened, and then he spun and took off.

Bobby’s infernally calm eyes met Gil’s. "What’s he got?" he asked.

"I don’t know. We haven’t figured it out yet."

"He’s in shock, Grissom. I need to put a blanket over him, something, keep his temp up."

Frozen, Gil stared at him, and Bobby made a face and barked, "Blanket! Something! Come on, people!"

Gil’s paralysis wore off as people started to move. Blankets, more towels, and Bobby directing it all with a kind of calm confidence that astounded him, only backing away when Robbins showed up.

"Good God," Robbins muttered, awkwardly lowering himself to sit next to Nick’s limp form. "I trust you called an ambulance?"

"Yeah." Catherine hovered behind him, her face blanched of all color. "He had a seizure, Al, a long one."

"Nice work, Bobby," Robbins remarked. He glanced at Gil. "I assume this is related to Nick’s earlier problems?"

Gil nodded. "I can’t imagine what else it would be."

"He’s got internal bleeding. That’s hypovolemic shock."

Gil nodded again, this time without replying.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. By that time Nick’s vomitus was streaked with much brighter red, and Robbins’ expression was far grimmer.

Standing, Gil strode over to grab Greg’s arm, pulling him aside. "Test those fluids," he snapped. "If you don’t find anything, test them again, and again. We MISSED it, Greg, and I’m sick of it! I don’t care what it takes – you stay right here until you FIND it. You got that?"

Greg gaped at him, looking horrified, and nodded dumbly.

"Where are you going?" Catherine called when he followed the gurney out into the hall.

"To the hospital. I’m not leaving Nick alone right now. Call Brass; I want a 24/7 watch. No questions; you got that?"

She nodded, her eyes bright with belated tears. "Got it."

---

The question of Nick being alone was ultimately moot; his trauma room in the ER was so crowded with medical personnel, Gil couldn’t have stayed with him if he’d tried. He didn’t. He stood instead by the nurses’ station, making and taking an endless series of phone calls. Brass; Catherine; Robbins; Greg, several times.

The ER doc, a bone-thin man named Shihab, finally gave him a report nearly an hour after Nick’s hasty arrival. "We’re doing what we can," he said in a faintly accented voice. "He’s intubated, receiving as much fluid as we can get inside him. We’ll get him up to MICU in a few minutes."

"What about the blood work? Analysis? Do you know what’s causing this?"

Shihab shook his head. "Not yet."

"Christ." Gil took out his phone again and dialed Greg’s extension. There was no answer. He thought savagely that had better be because he was working too hard.

It was Dominguez who finally sat down with him and gave him a full report. "Don’t have to tell you, Nick’s in trouble," he said heavily. His glasses were on crooked, and Gil strongly suspected he’d been sleeping in that tee shirt before being called to the hospital. "Hypovolemic shock, the beginnings of renal failure. Without knowing what the hell CAUSED this, I’m not too confident about his chances." He sighed. "You still suspect poison?"

"I can’t see what else it would be. He crashed so fast. Right in front of our eyes."

"There’s no sign of continued seizure activity. But he’s comatose, and – Well." Dominguez paused. "I need to call his family," he said slowly. "They may need to make some decisions shortly."

Hearing it was like pouring salt in an open wound; Gil physically recoiled, shaking his head. "He has to make it," he whispered. "He can’t die. Not like this."

"Look, I’m sorry, Mr. Grissom, I truly am. But all bets are off at this point. We’re treating this as aggressively as we know how to do. The rest is up to him."

Gil nodded numbly. "I – have his contact information. At the lab. His parents. You’ll need the number."

"If you can get that for me soon, it would be best, yes."

"Of course."

Within a couple of hours of Nick’s arrival in MICU, there were two uniforms on duty. Brass’s bluff features were as grim as Gil had ever seen. "All right," he said thickly. "I believe you now."

Gil suppressed a savage urge to say, Too little too late, and nodded instead. "Will you stay until I get back?"

Brass gave him a narrow look. "Thought you were sticking around."

"I can’t reach Greg. And I need those test results."

"I’ll be here. Not goin’ anyplace."

"Good."

He tried Greg’s extension again on his way out of the hospital. This time the fact of no answer struck him as ominous. With a muttered curse he hit the speed-dial for Catherine.

"Grissom, we got a thirteen-car pileup about an hour after you guys left." She was shouting over a lot of background noise. "Somebody’s gotta keep working around here, you know?"

He gritted his teeth and said, "You’re right. I won’t keep you. I’m heading for the lab now."

"Find Greg," she bellowed. "Last I saw he was working on it."

"Will do."

Twenty minutes later he was pulling into the parking lot. He glimpsed Warrick in the hallway, in conversation with Bobby and Archie, and stalked up to them. "I need a report," he snapped. "Anyone seen Greg?"

"He was here," Archie said, looking worried. "Saw him a while ago."

"A while ago doesn’t interest me. I want his report now."

Warrick’s jaw tightened. "We’ll find him."

"Send him to my office. I need those results."

His own pace slowed when he reached his office. God, the worst duty he ever had to perform, looking up this kind of contact information. Knowing the why of it, knowing that a family was going to have the worst of all possible days. He wrote down Nick’s parents’ home number, and closed his eyes briefly before digging out Dominguez’s card and dialing. Cowardly of him, letting the doctor make that call. But he couldn’t. Part dread, part pure disbelief. Nick wasn’t going to die. Not now, not after all this. No. Unacceptable.

"We got his pressure back up a little," Dominguez told him breathlessly, after he recited the number. "Kidney function hasn’t tanked any further. If he holds like this, he’s got a chance."

"Thank God," Gil said shakily. "Please keep me informed?"

"You do the same. We need to know what’s doing this to him. I can’t treat something I don’t recognize."

"Understood. I’ll be in touch."

Warrick strode inside a few minutes later. His expression was thunderous. "Found this." He handed Gil a sheet of paper.

Glancing at it, Gil gave a curt shake of his head. "Unacceptable. This says there were no anomalous substances found."

"It’s all I got."

Gil stared at him. "Did you find Greg?"

Warrick licked his lips. "Didn’t find jack," he replied evenly.

"What? Where the hell is Greg?"

"Nowhere," Warrick said in that same lethal voice. "He ain’t here. He bailed."

Gil’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t say a word.

Chapter Ten

"I don’t believe it. I don’t fucking BELIEVE it."

Gil glanced at Catherine. "Let’s worry about belief later. I want Greg found, and I mean now. All of you, that’s your top priority. Got that? Until we speak with him, we don’t know anything." His gaze encompassed everyone. "Where’s Hodges? I’ll need him, too."

He watched them exchange puzzled glances. "Probably gone home already," Sara said. "I mean, his shift’s long over."

"No one’s shift is over. Not until I say it is. Call him."

"Right."

"What about you?" Catherine asked, standing. "Where will you be?"

Gil stood as well. "Right here. I’ll run the assays myself."

Speed-walking to the GC lab, he berated himself. Why hadn’t he been doing it himself all along? Why had he trusted Greg, and Hodges? Why hadn’t he acted on his own suspicions, kept it to himself, done all the goddamn work himself? No one could be trusted. No one.

Greg’s materials were still laid out on the table. As if he’d simply gotten up to grab a cup of coffee, and never returned.

"Where’d you go, Greg?" Gil whispered, sliding into the chair. "And what did you find, really? Something you had to cover up? Or something you couldn’t cover up, and you knew it. So you bolted?"

The vials sat dumbly on the table, labeled in Greg’s messy hand.

In spite of his crushing hurry, he forced himself to be methodical, perform each piece of the task with utter focus.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard Catherine’s voice. "How’s it going?"

Gil flinched, turning to blink at her. "Almost finished. Did you find him?"

Her mouth turned down in an unhappy scowl. "Hide nor hair. God, Gil, you really think he did all this?"

"He has the biochemical expertise. I know that much."

"But why? For God’s sake, he and Nick are FRIENDS."

"I’ll have to leave that theory for a later time." He returned to the microscope. What he saw jolted him anew. "My god," he breathed.

"What?" Catherine’s voice cracked with agitation. "Tell me!"

Gil drew back, mind racing. "It’s right there," he said feebly. "Right in front of me."

"What’s right in front of you? Damn it, Gil –"

"Wait." The printer began spitting out pages, not nearly fast enough. What he saw was the final bit of proof he needed. He looked up, meeting her wide eyes. "It’s a protein, all right. But it’s not ricin."

She gave a jerky nod. "What is it?"

"It’s abrin. Similar. But about 75 times worse."

---

"Abrin is made from the seeds of the rosary pea, sometimes called the jequirity bean." Gil cleared his throat, but it didn’t demonstrably improve his voice. "Abrus precatorius. Highly decorative, red and black seeds."

Robbins gave a slow nod. "Abrin has bioterrorism applications. Gil, if what you’re saying is true, it’s a miracle Nick survived the early doses. Whoever did this knows exactly what he’s doing. To a microgram."

"If I’d just run the tests myself," Gil whispered. His throat ached savagely. "But I didn’t. I trusted him."

"What now?" Catherine asked bleakly.

"We keep trying to find him," Warrick snapped. His mocha skin was gray with anger and fatigue. "What do you think?"

"No."

Four sets of eyes stared at him, while he shook his head. "No," Gil repeated. "You stay here."

"What?" Warrick rolled his eyes. "No WAY, man –"

"Listen to me. I can’t guarantee your safety. Not outside this lab. Not even inside. I want you to stay together. Let the police handle the manhunt. I want you together, in one place, until this is all settled. Is that understood?"

Sara’s expression was aghast. "You don’t think he’d try it on one of us?"

"I don’t rule out anything, and neither should you," he said flatly.

"Greg," Catherine began, and broke off, shaking her head. "I just don’t believe it. Not Greg."

"I understand that," Gil replied. "I do. I’m not saying I want to believe it, either. But I’m operating with what I know, and I know that Greg is implicated here. His absence suggests very specific things. Like it or not, BELIEVE it or not. I won’t risk the rest of you. Absolutely not."

"And what makes you think the lab is any safer than anywhere else?" came Robbins’ quiet question. "After all, if he’s managed to hide the delivery to Nick this well, why wouldn’t he be able to do it on a wider scale?"

Skin creeping with new horror, Gil fought to make his voice work. "Nothing," he managed. "But I have to trust that it’s been Nick all this time who was the focus of these attacks. If it is Greg – or whoever – he isn’t interested in taking the rest of us with him. Not yet, at least."

"You’re staying too, right?" Catherine’s eyes narrowed. "Tell me you’re sticking around."

"I’m going to the hospital."

"Oh no, you’re NOT –"

"Listen to me." He pitched his voice low, as steady and intent as he still could. "Nick’s physicians need to know what this really is. And the police need to know what we’ve found. For Nick’s protection. I won’t trust that to a phone call. For God’s sake, Jim Brass is up there. You want to risk his life, too?"

"He can take care of himself," Warrick said gruffly.

"But will he? No. I’m going. I’ll call you as soon as I can."

"Be careful," Catherine whispered. "Promise."

"Believe me, I will."

---

Paranoia was an odd emotion. It made him vigilant in a way he couldn’t remember experiencing, constantly looking over his shoulder, in the rear-view mirror. It had him dialing Catherine’s number two different times, in the short period it took to reach the hospital. And Brass’s, too.

Catherine picked up both times. Brass didn’t. Fear coagulated like bitter sand in his mouth. Didn’t? Or couldn’t?

He caught Dominguez in the elevator, going down. "Ride with me," Gil said tersely, stepping on board. When the doors closed, he said, "Abrin. That’s what’s poisoning Nick."

Dominguez stared at him, and gave a jerky nod. "All right, then."

"Your staff could be in danger. We have a suspect now. I’m on my way to warn the police."

Dominguez looked more than a little rattled. "I haven’t – noticed anything. Anyone out of place."

"You probably wouldn’t. But I need you to inform your staff. Abrin…is very, very nasty stuff."

"No shit." Dominguez’s cheeks were very pale. "Right. I’ll take care of it."

He felt microscopically better when he spied the two uniforms standing outside the MICU entrance. No Brass, but surely he’d be around. Gil walked briskly up to the nearer of the two cops. "Brass here?"

The cop – his nametag read "White" – shook his head. He looked bored. "Nah. He went down to the cafeteria for coffee, I think."

Coffee. Gil forced himself to nod. "You’d better get him on the radio. We have a suspect now."

The boredom vanished from White’s face, replaced with uneasiness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Gil bit off. "Has anyone tried to get in who doesn’t belong?"

"Not a soul. Just staff, sir."

"Hospital staff?"

The man blinked. "Well, yeah. And your guy."

Gil froze. "My guy?"

"The tech guy. He said you wanted another blood sample. He just went in."

"Stay out here," Gil said crisply. "No one enters, no one leaves. Do you understand me?"

"Jesus. You’re saying that was your guy? Your suspect? But he’s one of yours!"

Gil glanced over at Dominguez. "Considering the nature of this substance, I want an absolute quarantine, all right? Once I go in, that’s it. Call security, seal off this floor."

Looking terrified, Dominguez gave a fast nod. "I’m on it."

"Get Brass on the radio. NOW."

It never occurred to him not to go inside. Someone had to. And it should be him. He deserved it, didn’t he? So much time, and he’d let it all slip past him. So many opportunities, missed. It was right, to go. And whatever happened, would happen.

His hand didn’t shake when he opened the door and slipped inside.

It was dim, the usual lights doused. He could see Nick’s unmoving form on the bed, hear the reassuring steady beeping of the monitors.

And a man-shaped figure, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

Gil stopped, suddenly aware of the frenzied pounding of his heart. "You don’t have to do this," he said thickly. "It can end here."

"You’re right about that," said a low voice. "It does end."

Gil squinted, startled. Not the voice he’d expected. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Not yet. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you do it? Why Nick?"

The figure by the bed moved, an amorphous hand going out to grasp the line of one of Nick’s several IVs. A random gleam of light shone off a hypodermic syringe. "Why Nick." The voice was maddeningly familiar. "Yeah, you would ask that, wouldn’t you?"

"Show yourself," Gil snapped. "For God’s sake. You can kill Nick, and me, too, but first let me know who the fuck you are."

"Can’t see in the dark? Oh well." A thin chuckle, and the figure moved again, this time toward the head of the bed. "Und Gott sprach, Es gab Licht."

Gil blinked in the sudden radiance of the light over the bed.

"Now then," David Hodges told him, his lips twisted in a smile. "You were saying?"

Chapter Eleven

A number of things went through his head in that moment. The irony of the light, for one. Oh yes, symbolic, in a kind of "NOW you see, moron" way. It had been right in front of him, too, all along. Like the protein itself.

"You look so shocked," Hodges said, still in that eerily conversational tone. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen that particular expression."

"Did you kill Greg?" Gil asked.

"Sanders?" Hodges’ mouth turned down while he shrugged. "I may have. But you don’t really care about that, do you? It’s Nick you really care about."

Gil shook his head slowly. "You’re wrong. I care about both of them. They’re colleagues, and friends. You think I want to see either man dead?"

Hodges shifted a little, but never lost his grip on Nick’s IV line. Below, Nick slumbered on, chest moving evenly with the action of the ventilator. "Do you know how many times I tried to figure it out? Why him. Why him, of all people."

"Who? Nick?"

Hodges snorted. "He’s not the smartest of your team. Not the most experienced. I mean, I couldn’t understand it. There was no reason for it."

"Nick’s a good man, who doesn’t deserve what you’ve done to him."

"Deserve?" Hodges snapped. "Since when did you ever give people what they DESERVE?"

His mouth was very dry. Swallowing with difficulty, Gil shook his head again. "I don’t follow you."

"From the first day, you know? I kept seeing it. Good work, Nicky. Nice job, Nicky. How about breakfast, Nick?" His cheeks were flushed now, eyes dark with rage. "I am so much MORE than he is!" he hissed, his chin lifted. "And you never saw it. Never."

"This isn’t a competition, David," Gil heard himself say, at the same time his mind plotted exactly how far it was to the bed. To that now-shaking hand, poised so dreadfully close to that plastic tube. Could he stop him? Ten years ago he could have. Maybe. Was it worth that risk now? "I never pitted you against anyone. You did that yourself."

The high color was leaving Hodges’ cheeks; he looked stricken. "But why him?" he asked, in a queerly reasonable tone. "I just want you to explain that to me. Why Stokes?"

"I don’t play favorites," Gil said stonily. "If you perceive it that way –"

"Oh, come off it," Hodges snapped. "Of course you do. Is it because he’s better-looking? It is, isn’t it? Guys like him always know how to play that card." His upper lip lifted, sneering. "Pretty boys. Smile just right, and they get the world handed to them on a silver platter."

"Nick earned his position. Through hard work, David. I never handed him a thing he didn’t deserve."

"I deserved it!" Hodges bellowed. "Not him!"

"What did you deserve, that you never got? You’re paid well. You have your colleagues’ respect."

Hodges’ expression was suddenly bewildered. "But you still don’t see, do you?" he whispered, and Gil was appalled to see bright wetness in his mad eyes. "You were never going to look at me the way you do him. I was never going to matter to you, the way he does. He does matter to you. And I don’t understand that."

Gil nodded slowly. "And so you decided to kill him."

The momentary softness vanished from Hodges’ features. "He wasn’t supposed to die," he said tightly. "You think just anyone can do what I did? It takes skill, Grissom, practice. Training. Anyone can kill someone. But – reducing them, like I did. That is a fucking ART."

"Tell me how. How did you do it?"

The grip on the IV line grew stronger. "He’s vain. You don’t see it, but I did. That supplement in his locker, the protein powder. He drank that every night. Build up those muscles. One particle per million. That’s all it took. I could have poisoned the entire city of Las Vegas with what I made."

A cold lance of terror shot up Gil’s spine. He kept from shivering with difficulty. "We tested that supplement."

"You think I’m stupid? Because I’m not, Grissom. I’m the smartest man you’ll ever meet. IQ of over 170." Hodges grinned. "You know something that really kills me? It was so EASY to fool you. I mean, it’s almost disappointing. I kept thinking you’d figure it out."

"David, stop this." He didn’t try to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. "Please. Don’t. Just walk away."

"Walk away?" Hodges gaped at him, and then uttered a harsh laugh. "It’s way too late for THAT, Grissom. No, I know I’m not walking out of here. But he’s not, either. I’m going to finish taking him away from you. And what you’ll have to live with is the knowledge that you never saw what was right in front of you. If you’d just opened your eyes. If you’d just SEEN me. But you never did. Not until I made you."

"I did see you. I do. For God’s sake, David. Don’t do this."

"He’ll probably die anyway," Hodges said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I’m actually doing him a favor." He reached up, inserting the needle into the branch of the IV. "He’ll just stop. It’ll be fast. Over in just a few seconds."

"You want me to see you the way I see Nick?" Gil gave a fast nod. "Then give me a reason, David. Do the right thing here. Nick would. Nick wouldn’t kill someone just to prove a point. You want to be the same as he is in my eyes? Don’t do it."

Hodges’ eyes were vaguely sad. "But you’ve shown me I won’t ever be that," he said softly. "It’s too late for that."

"Hodges, NO!"

Seeing the plunger sink down, Gil felt suddenly separate from his body. Distant, observing, while the physical part of himself acted without thought, launching himself at the bed, diving not for Hodges. No. Left hand snagging the clear plastic tube, carrying it with him and rolling over Nick’s supine form and ripping it free. And onward, crashing with Hodges onto the floor beyond.

For a moment there was struggling, Hodges’ inarticulate roar of rage and the feel of a fist, or maybe an elbow, cracking against Gil’s cheekbone. And then another roar, this one from farther away, and another crack, the sharp report of a firearm. Once, twice.

Hodges went limp beneath him.

Gasping a lungful of air, Gil flung himself backward, shoulders thudding against the bed rails. The IV line still dangled between his fingers, and he very carefully laid it aside.

"You okay?" Brass asked gruffly.

Staring at Hodges’ open eyes, Gil didn’t reply.

Then the eyes blinked, and Hodges gazed up at him. A bubble of blood formed at one nostril, popped as he gave a minute shake of his head. "You never told me," he said in a very clear voice. A cough, and the next word wasn’t quite as clear. "Why?"

His face hurt. Pulsing pain in his cheek, ramping up by the second. Gil shook his head. "Why him and not you?"

Hodges gave a slow nod. His eyes rolled oddly in his head.

"Because he’d never do what you did, David. That’s why."

A faint smile lifted the corners of Hodges’ mouth. "You never – know," he whispered in his bubbling voice, and then his eyes didn’t see Gil, or anything else at all.

Gazing down at him, Gil nodded. "Yes," he said thickly. "Yes, I do."

---

"Thought you were gonna talk to him all night." Brass still looked a little tight around the edges, although he’d relaxed a bit in the hour since the scene in Nick’s MICU room. "Christ. Pretty long-winded."

"Jealousy." Gil stared at him. "All of this, because of one man’s jealousy of another."

Brass gave a slow, eloquent shrug. "Not the first time you’ve seen it. Is it?"

"No. But never this close."

"Hey," Brass said gently. "You stopped him. That’s what counts."

Gil regarded him, and shook his head. "Not in time to prevent a lot of suffering. Nick’s suffering."

"Nicky’ll be okay."

"Maybe."

"He will. You done good, Gil."

Gil said nothing to that.

"Mr. Grissom?" Dominguez stuck his head in, and held up a pair of x-ray films. "Got your scans."

Gil gave him what he hoped was an alert look. The throbbing in his cheek had ratcheted up to a steady deep ache. "Call me Gil," he said thickly.

Dominguez smiled. "Okay, Gil. You got a cracked cheekbone. Not fractured."

"Ah."

"I’ll write you a scrip for painkillers. Not much you can do for it, I’m afraid." His head cocked to one side. "Damned lucky, if you ask me."

Gil nodded. "I agree." An image popped into his mind, and he shot Brass a sharp look. "Greg. Did you find him? Is he all right?"

Brass gave a faint wry smile. "Room 4."

Alarmed, Gil opened his mouth, and Dominguez said, "Your colleague should be fine. Mild concussion, a nasty contusion. We’ll keep him for 23-hour observation, make sure there are no lingering after-effects."

"Thank God," Gil breathed. A thread of tension he hadn’t known he was carrying let go. "That’s good news."

Dominguez nodded. "I’ll get your nurse to give you your discharge papers. You’re free to head home anytime you like. I suggest getting some rest, let your face start to heal up."

"Look like a damn prizefighter," Brass said, with a bigger grin.

Reaching up, Gil felt a huge lump over his cheekbone. "I see what you mean," he replied dryly.

He stopped by Greg’s room on the way out of the ER. He wasn’t alone; the rest of the team was there, all wearing twin looks of alarm at Gil’s appearance.

"Just cracked," Gil said quickly, forcing a painful smile. "How are you feeling, Greg?"

Greg’s features were noticeably pale, but he smiled. "Head aches." The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Grissom, I saw it. The abrin. Jesus, I tried to call you. And the damn lights went out."

"I know." Gil nodded. "It wasn’t your fault, Greg. We all know that."

"I keep thinking." Greg’s woebegone expression didn’t ease. "I let him do those tests, you know? I trusted him. And all the time he was doing it. He was the one. Why didn’t I see it? Musta been blind, I mean, it was right THERE."

Gil sighed. "I’ve been asking myself the same questions. I don’t have an answer for you. Wish I did."

Catherine reached out to grasp Greg’s wrist. "Hey. The important thing is, you’re okay. You’re both okay." She glanced at Gil. "Nick’s going to be okay. Right?"

"I believe so," Gil agreed softly.

"Grissom." Warrick sounded gruff, his handsome face drawn with tiredness. "You want a lift home?"

"I have my car. Although I suppose painkillers mean I shouldn’t drive." Gil gave an absent nod. "Yeah. Thanks, Warrick."

"No problem."

He glanced back at Greg. "Get some rest, all right? See you in the morning?"

Greg’s smile was wan but real. "You bet."

"Good."

Outside his room, Gil paused. "I’d like to go see Nick. Before we go."

Warrick nodded. "Absolutely."

---

The room had been restored to its former neatness in the time he’d been in the ER. Hodges’ body gone. The yanked-out IV replaced, the poisoned line vanished, Gil devoutly hoped someplace safe. To his eyes, Nick hadn’t moved. Still lying silent and peaceful, surrounded by vigilant machines.

Gil walked over to the bed and stood for a moment, gazing down at Nick’s waxy-pale face. His throat ached, and a wave of exhaustion swept over him, loosening his knees. He sagged into the single chair.

"I’m sorry, Nick," Gil said in a strangled voice. "I’m so sorry this happened. That I didn’t see it before now."

The ventilator moved Nick’s chest up and down. His eyelids didn’t flicker.

Gil reached out and touched Nick’s right hand, very gently. "I let you down. And –" He cleared his throat. "I think I let David Hodges down, too. In some way. And what hurts, what sticks with me." He swallowed. "Is that I’m not sure I’ll ever know how."

He sat in silence for a long moment, until he realized he was waiting. Waiting for Nick to wake up, look at him, tell him what he thought. Why this had happened. Nick would understand, on some level. Intuitive in a way that Gil wasn’t, had never been. Nick had been born with that, that ability to perceive things Gil had almost always missed. So easy to chalk it up to being a people person.

But it was more than that. It was the draw Nick had, that Hodges didn’t. That deep-rooted awareness of humanity, that had nothing to do with IQ or test scores.

It was the answer he hadn’t been able to give Hodges. The thing a man like Hodges could never understand, or perhaps even perceive.

People kept wanting to become Nick. For the first time, Gil thought he was beginning to understand why.

He gave Nick’s cool fingers a gentle squeeze. "Get well soon, Nicky," he told him. "Everything’s going to be all right."

Outside in the hallway, Warrick was leaning against the wall. He gave Gil a tired look. "Ready?"

Gil nodded and smiled, ignoring the sullen ripple of pain in his cheek. "Ready," he said.

Chapter Twelve – Epilogue

"Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."

(Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)

As much as he’d wished it, Nick’s recovery wasn’t fast or easy. Two days after David Hodges’ violent death in his room, Dominguez diagnosed the onset of pulmonary edema, fluid building up in Nick’s lungs as a result of his poor renal function. Dialysis eased the burden on his kidneys, but it was nearly three weeks before he could be moved to a regular med/surg room, and another two before his eventual discharge.

A week prior to Nick’s release from the hospital, Gil had a visit from the sheriff.

"Have you thought about what we discussed?" Mobley was expressionless, all business.

Gil considered, and then lifted a hand, making an aimless gesture. "In all honesty? Not lately."

"I’m sorry to hear that. Gil, as you know, we’re all working under a deadline here. Fact of the matter is, we’re two days away from the end of May, and decisions have to be made." Mobley cleared his throat. "Now, considering the events of a month ago, you certainly don’t have to worry about one position. But that leaves us with one more that is going to be eliminated. Based on what I’ve seen, it appears that Stokes has by leaps and bounds the largest number of absences."

Gil stared at him. "You’re honestly suggesting I fire Nick? Now?"

"It isn’t termination. It’s a layoff. It won’t reflect badly on his resume. Layoffs are a fact of life these days."

"Fact of life?" Oddly, he felt dizzy suddenly. A hissing in his ears, the room’s light fading a little bit. "You want me to tell Nick that this is a fact of LIFE?"

No answering alarm on Mobley’s face. He was infernally calm. "I’ll trust you to handle it in an appropriate fashion. But you will handle it."

Regarding him without saying anything, Gil sat very still for a moment. Then with a crisp nod, he pushed himself away from his desk and stood. "Come with me."

"Grissom, this is not the time –"

Gil ignored him, brushing past him to stalk into the hallway.

It was early yet, and he saw various members of his team around. It took only a lift of his chin to include them on his walk to the lounge. Greg, completely healed from his assault, with the spring back in his step. Catherine and Warrick, bickering about matters Gil didn’t know about and probably never would, and he didn’t mind it, because they were a team. Teams bickered. But teams accomplished, too. Accomplished a very great deal.

Sara, looking curious, and Bobby with a smudge of grease on the bridge of his nose, Archie. All of them, save Nick. He nodded at each in turn, and looked over at Mobley, standing in the doorway with the first sign of discomfort on his features.

"No more secrets," Gil said evenly. "The first order of the evening. I don’t keep them from you, and you don’t keep them from me."

The rest looked obscurely nervous, a little uncomfortable. But Catherine nodded, her eyes flickering to take in Mobley’s presence before returning to Gil. "Hear, hear," she said loudly.

"With that said. We’re in a budget crunch. You all know this. We’ve cut all the equipment funding we can without leaving ourselves seriously under-supplied. There isn’t any fat left. We’re down to the bone."

More specifically uncomfortable looks. Fear, in more than one set of intent eyes.

Gil nodded crisply. "And so I’ve been told that one position has to be eliminated."

A sound like the sighing of wind through elm leaves, indrawn breaths. Gil held up his hand. "But." He drew a deep breath of his own. "We’ve already lost one member of our team. And we’ve come very close to losing another." A flicker of remembered fear made his voice dip briefly. "And so," he continued thickly, turning to face Mobley, "I’ve decided to say no. No, we won’t eliminate that position."

Mobley’s cheeks had gone a dull shade of red, and his blue eyes narrowed. "As much as I respect your obvious loyalty to your colleagues," he enunciated, "the decision isn’t yours to make. You give me no choice but to make it for you."

"Correction," Gil said calmly. "You won’t lay off a man whose absences were entirely due to an act of vendetta on the part of another. You won’t have to. Because you’re going to find that money elsewhere."

With a peevish sigh, Mobley shook his head. "And where do you suggest that might be, Grissom? Believe me, I’m all ears. Growing on trees?"

Gil allowed a little smile. "Much closer than that. Right here."

"I don’t follow."

"A simple matter of addition and subtraction. You’ll take Hodges’ salary, and add to it what you need from mine, to make it equal."

He didn’t risk looking at his colleagues then. Just focused on Mobley, whose expression had already taken on a sneering cast. "You’ll pay Stokes’s salary? Come on, Grissom. Not even you would be so selfless."

"I’d rather take that pay cut," Gil said tightly, "than see a man punished for something that is entirely outside himself. And no matter how you slice it, no matter what you call it – a layoff, a downsizing maneuver – the results are the same." He swallowed. "Nick’s been punished enough already. I won’t see this happen, too. If it takes a pay cut, so be it."

"Not that big of one," Catherine said softly.

Gil glanced at her.

"Believe me, I need every penny I earn," she continued slowly. "But I don’t want blood money. And that’s what it would be." She looked at Mobley. "I’ll pitch in. Don’t fire Nick. Not like this."

"Shit, I’m on that," Warrick said gruffly. "You got a man lying on his back in the hospital and you wanna FIRE his ass? No way. It ain’t right."

Greg had shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His expression was tragic. "Man, I let Nick down," came his thick voice. "And now you’re saying he’ll lose his job over it? Catherine’s right. It’s blood money. Cut my pay if you have to. This won’t last forever. And Nick deserves way better than what he’s getting."

The lump in Gil’s throat ached far worse than his cracked cheekbone ever had, healing. He couldn’t push words past it. Instead he nodded, and kept nodding, awkwardly, while Sara shrugged and said it was worth it, and Bobby, and Archie. All of them. His bewildered mind was dancing with numbers. It wouldn’t even be so much of a cut, not with all of them pitching in. He’d make sure his was the biggest slice. He could afford it far more than Catherine. But it was doable. For each of them.

The room was very quiet when he turned to look back at Mobley. The sheriff’s face was pale again, but this time he looked not angry, but quenched. And, reluctantly, gratified.

"So what’s it going to be?" Gil asked hoarsely. "Because if you fire Nick after all this, you’ll have my entire salary to play with, Mobley. I’ll leave."

Mobley said nothing for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. "Under the circumstances," he said slowly, "I think arrangements could be made. That is, if everyone’s willing, and stays that way."

"I think we’ve made it clear we’re quite willing."

"I can’t promise to restore salaries to their current levels anytime soon. Our fiscal situation isn’t improving in the near future."

It was on the tip of Gil’s tongue to mention that was more up to the voters putting Mobley and his ilk into office. But he refrained, and nodded. "Understood. Do we have a deal?"

Mobley’s thin mouth quirked, almost a smile but not quite. "I’d say we have a deal, Mr. Grissom."

Gil held out his hand. Mobley’s fingers were cold, but his grip was firm.

"Thank GOD," Catherine said in a shaky voice. "Does this mean we can all lay THAT rumor aside now?"

Glancing at her, Gil grinned. "That’s the second-best idea I’ve heard all day."

She grinned, and held up her hands. "Amen to that."

---

"No, look, right there. See it?"

Gil shook his head, squinting. "Not a thing."

Nick pointed. "Right there, the limb that’s sorta shaped like an S. The nest’s right there."

"I think," Gil admitted with a sigh, "I need binoculars for that."

"Can’t believe you didn’t know they were nesting right in your backyard." Nick grinned and shook his head. "Cooper’s hawks. That’s so cool."

"Isn’t this a bit urban for hawks?"

"Guess not."

Gil leaned a shoulder against the window frame, turning back to look at the big elm. "I’ll try to be more observant in the future."

"Gil?"

He glanced at Nick. A week out of the hospital, and Nick was still far too thin, his health fragile. Still having biweekly dialysis treatments, and Gil wasn’t sure whether or not that might be a lifelong proposition. But the color was right in his cheeks, and the light in his brown eyes was the one Gil remembered. "Yes?"

Nick’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. "I can’t believe you guys did that." His voice was suddenly rusty, crackling a little. "Pretty goddamn cool."

Gil smiled. "It was, wasn’t it?"

Nick nodded. "I won’t forget that."

"Neither will I."

Nick’s bashful smile faded into contemplation, as he glanced outside again. "I keep thinking about him," he said softly. "Hodges. I don’t think anyone’s ever – hated me before. Not like that."

"Hatred, maybe. Envy, certainly."

"Just – doesn’t really make sense to me. Why would anyone be jealous?"

Gil shifted, crossing his arms. "If I could really explain the mechanics of envy, predict who would do what, I’d quit my job and hang out a psychoanalysis shingle." He smiled briefly. "Hodges saw something in you he wanted for himself," he continued. "What that really was -- I’m not sure even he could have articulated well."

Nick nodded slowly, still watching the nest in the elm tree. "Maybe so." He sighed, and leaned back. "So can I come back to work now?" he asked a lot more vigorously.

"You feel up to it?"

Nick considered, and then shrugged. "I think so, yeah. I’m ready."

"Then I’d say, absolutely. Welcome back, Nicky."

A bright, open grin. No lingering shadows. "Thanks. It’s good to be back."

Gil smiled, and between the branches of the elm he made out the grayish lump of a bird’s nest.

END

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