Title: Heaven & Hell
By: VicXntric
Pairing: Warrick/Nick
Summary: It's not over.
Note: Sequel to Skin & Bone. Season 6 AU after "Pirates of the Third Reich."
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence; non-con; graphic; dark.
Prologue
In hindsight, going to visit Kelly Gordon just a week after getting out of the hospital wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, but Nick wasn't completely unhappy with the result.
He'd had to wait another half-hour before he was able to drive home, and when he did, he also had to face his frantic mother and stoically angry father. He apologized, but before the end of the next week, his parents had made all the necessary arrangements for him to return to Dallas with them. Although many of his friends and co-workers disapproved the notion, and although at one time it would have made him dig his heels in, Nick simply let his parents take charge, content to follow in their wake again after so many years. He looked forward to spending some time in Texas and figured he'd be anxious to return to Vegas after a week or two.
Instead, he stayed in Texas for nearly three months.
It wasn't that he didn't miss Vegas--he did. He spoke to most of his teammates nearly every day and e-mailed them just as often. Many of the lab techs were in contact at least once a week, and between Archie, Hodges, and Bobby, Nick was kept well up-to-date on any lab gossip. Warrick came for a brief visit during the second month and Gil accepted a last-minute invitation to attend a conference in Dallas at about the same time. Both men went back to Vegas with the reassurance that Nick was definitely returning to Las Vegas CSI. He just wasn't sure when yet.
Nick did have every intention of going back, but right now it was pleasant to be on the ranch with little to do except take care of himself. Once he'd asked his family not to fuss over him, they'd backed off and went about their own lives, leaving him to his own devices. For now, that suited Nick just fine. Money was not a concern because Clark County, no doubt eager to avoid any bad press or even the hint of a lawsuit, had given him six months paid leave with the promise of another six months if it became necessary. "Still a hell of a lot cheaper than the ransom," Warrick gritted out bitterly when Nick told him. Of course, Nick had no intention of using up even the initial six months, but it was nice to have it there.
His parents had purchased the hobby ranch the year after Nick graduated from A&M, and Nick had never stayed there for more than a week during the holidays. Now he took every opportunity to be outside and enjoy himself, spending most of his time in the pool where he didn't have to worry about bugs or dirt. His only real responsibility was getting himself to and from his therapist's office three times a week. Initially, Nick balked at the notion of therapy, but he knew there was no way around it and trusted Phillip Kane's recommendation for a psychiatrist in Dallas. Nick didn't feel comfortable around Dr. Imogen Volker at first, but on his third visit she suggested that he see someone he felt more at ease speaking with. Startled, Nick admitted he was surprised she wasn't trying to get him to work through his discomfort. She replied that Nick was there to deal with his torture, not lingering issues he had with female caregivers, opening an unexpected dialogue that established a tentative trust.
Sometimes he was too shaky or upset to get himself home, and then Dr. Volker would call his parents, sister, or brother-in-law to pick him up. Samantha was the only one of his siblings that actually lived in Dallas, but Sammie and their mother made sure someone was available should Nick need a ride despite Nick's protests that he could take a cab. By the beginning of his third week in Dallas, after finally sleeping through the night a few times, Nick felt ready to discuss things with Dr. Volker that, although not directly tied to his hellish ordeal, affected his life as a whole.
A few weeks into his second month, after the visits from Gil and Warrick, the entire clan descended on the ranch for a four-day weekend and Nick decided this was as good a time as any to say what he had to say. Over the course of several sessions with Volker Nick had concluded that if he could live through twenty-some hours of impending suffocation, he could live through this. That didn't stop him from breaking out in a cold sweat whenever he thought about it, though.
In the end, nothing went as Nick planned it. His family contributed to the ruination of his careful speech, however unintentionally. The discussion among his parents and siblings the first night revolved almost entirely around what was best for the baby--without once including the 35-year-old "baby" in the conversation. At first, Nick managed to let it roll off his back with amusement--all but one sister had children of their own, yet they still had plenty of energy to concentrate on running his life for him. After hours of hearing that he really ought to move back to Texas, Nick had to remind himself that he was the youngest by eight years and his family had obviously never broken the habit of treating him as such. Then comments questioning the competence of his teammates, the LVPD and Vegas in general began and it didn't take long for Nick to get fed up and blurt out what he'd meant to carefully work his way up to with the speech.
Unsurprisingly, it happened while he was talking to Meredith and her husband, Douglas--never Doug. Eight years older than Nick, Meredith was the second youngest, and if Nick was going to argue with any of his sisters, it was usually her. It didn't help that Douglas reminded Nick of Conrad Ecklie, only with more hair and less finesse. In response to a comment from Nick, Douglas had begun expounding on the immorality in Nick's chosen city and how it had been founded on nefarious practices in the first place. Nick, thinking of the dedicated people he worked with and the hard-working people tourists never saw, finally lost his temper and snapped, "Well, what about me, Doug? I'm gay, so according to you, I'd fit right in!"
The entire room fell silent and Nick had only a split-second to be grateful that his younger nieces and nephews were in bed--the older ones were in the den and probably listening with all their might--before being bombarded with questions. Everyone was talking at once except Bill Stokes, who was looking more stoic than ever.
Nick kept his eyes on his father as he did his best to answer all the questions thrown at him. Yes, he was sure. No, it wasn't just because of what had happened. Yes, he had been discussing it with his therapist. No, he wasn't seeing anyone--jeez, Sammie.
The biggest surprise came from his brother. Brett, his extra-tough, gearhead, touchdown running, BMOC, City Attorney, Very Important big brother. "So when you goin' to be able to get on down to our place for a visit?"
That was enough for Nick to tear his gaze from his father's face. "Wh-what did you..?"
"I've managed to clear my calendar enough to take most of next week off. You could catch a ride back with us on Monday if you don't want to fly."
"If you don't mind being stuck in the back with a couple of teenagers for five hours," Brett's wife, Chantelle, added.
"Maybe catch an Astros game between fishin' trips, yeah?" Brett suggested.
His throat tight with gratitude, Nick could only nod in agreement.
After that, even though the sheer volume of questions didn't decrease, the tone wasn't as demanding or accusing. "How long have you...known?" his father asked suddenly.
"Since college," Nick voice hung in the silence that had descended again.
"Is that why you moved to Las Vegas?"
Nick couldn't help smiling. He could almost see that his mother was forming another argument in favor of him staying in Dallas. "No, Mom. No one there knows either."
"And you were scared to tell us, Pancho?"
"Yes," Nick admitted, unable to read a thing in his father's flat tone but taking heart that his nickname had been used.
The evening wound down quickly after that and although his parents never mentioned it again for the rest of the weekend, his sisters seemed to have a whole lot to say about it. Although their responses ran the gamut from supportive to concerned to disapproving, Nick could tell that even those who did have a problem with it weren't going to make a fuss and risk the wrath of those who didn't.
All in all, it was better than Nick's worst case scenario.
It was a relief, though, to climb into Brett's SUV early Monday morning. Not entirely sure how he'd react on a flight alone, Nick opted for the five-hour drive. Alec was seventeen and Caitlyn thirteen, so the drive wasn't too excruciating.
Nick had never stayed at Brett's before and was surprised by how comfortable he felt. After years of hearing about it and making pieces for it, Nick finally got to see Alec's impressive Breyer model horse collection. He was gratified and flattered to see all the model wagons and tack he had designed to fit the horses were prominently displayed. From his first attempt at a simple dogcart to a detailed stagecoach, more than a decade of Christmas presents from Alec's Uncle Nick lined the most visible shelves.
"Kyle still has all his, too," Alec told him, referring to another nephew. "And when Michaela was here she couldn't take her eyes off 'em. She got her first model on her last birthday, so she'll probably be hittin' you up for a fancy carriage soon."
"She'll have to start out with a buckboard just like you and Kyle--I'm out of practice," Nick grinned at the thought of Sammie's exuberant eight-year-old. "I don't even know where my plans are anymore."
"Good luck talking her out of it," Alec snorted.
Nick and Brett went fishing often, but conversation was minimal. That wasn't exactly unusual--they had never talked much. The eleven-year age difference meant Brett had been away from home by the time Nick was seven, and had his own family when Nick was in his teens. Any conversation between them, as always, focused on either work or sports.
Brett never once mentioned Nick's revelation, but he did everything he could to show Nick he was accepting--as did Chantelle and the children. Nick was surprised, touched and a little confused. It was Caitlyn, frighteningly perceptive for her years, who cleared things up.
"You scared the hell outta Daddy," she told him with refreshing frankness. "One of our cousins on Mom's side--couple years older than Alec--shot himself last year. They only found out he was gay in his suicide note. Daddy's really worried 'cause of everything else you've been through. He wants to make sure--well, he's not takin' any chances."
It took a few minutes for Nick to recover his powers of speech. "Are you supposed to know about this?"
She gave him a cheeky grin, "Not nowhere as much as I actually do."
After about ten days, Jocelyn, not to be outdone by her twin brother, packed Nick off to San Antonio for a week. Joss and Leland didn't have any children except for the Irish Setters they raised. Nick loved every minute of his visit and it took every ounce of his willpower not to take up their offer of his own puppy.
When Leland had to drop off two puppies to their new owners in Dallas a week later, Nick caught a ride back with him. He stayed another week with his parents and had several face to face sessions with Dr. Volker--he had been talking to her regularly over the phone while visiting--before accepting an invitation to stay with Adrienne and her family. This visit was strained and uncomfortable, even though Adrienne and Josh tried their best to be supportive. They were making the effort, and Nick told himself that's what counted, but he knew he wouldn't have lasted a week in Sweetwater if Bailey and Tessa hadn't been there as well. Nineteen and seventeen respectively, they were much more at ease with Nick than their parents.
Then it was back to his parents' to celebrate his birthday where, despite everyone's efforts, things were definitely tense. After that, Nick was content to stay on the ranch for until he suddenly awoke in the dead of night. The usual nightmare residues weren't tickling at his consciousness, so he couldn't imagine what jolted him from his sleep. He glanced at the clock and suddenly realized that there was probably nowhere in Dallas he could get decent Szechwan or steak and eggs at three in the morning. Then he smiled because then he knew what had awakened him.
He didn't say it to his mother because he knew it would hurt her feelings, but he was able to tell Dr. Volker on his next visit.
"It's time for me to go home."
Nick had returned to Las Vegas eager to get back to work, even if the first two weeks were to be spent in the lab, and fully prepared to tell his closest friends the truth about his sexuality. That was before he had a visit from his eldest sister, Susannah, and her husband, Wesley. Although both of them were as relaxed and easy around him as ever, Susannah had turned evasive when Nick first asked how things were back home. Eventually, she told him about the turmoil his announcement had left behind. Nick had already known that his parents were still troubled by it--it was simple enough to tell from the stilted phone calls he'd endured, but he'd never dreamed his siblings would be having knock-down drag-out fights about him. Susannah and Wesley did everything they could to assure him he'd done the right thing by coming out after so many years, but Nick began to seriously doubt it.
Losing his nerve, Nick had gone back to work without telling his friends a thing. That made him even more uncomfortable and Nick found himself beginning to avoid them. His friends, in turn, didn't push, obviously thinking he wanted and needed his space. In truth, Nick wasn't sure what to do with this sudden abundance of space and had the vague notion that it might be a good time to reacquaint himself with a scene he'd only experienced briefly during his junior year. That this was easier to deal with than the memory of a plexiglass coffin was a curiosity Nick acknowledged then firmly set aside.
The only gay bar in Vegas that Nick had really heard of was Pompeii's, so that was where he went. The moment he walked in, he knew this wasn't the place for him, but he stuck it out for an hour. That was all he could stand of the crowd of bodies, the pulsing music, but most of all, the flashing lights. Searching online a few days later led him to a small neighborhood bar that suited him much better.
It was also where decided to unwind once he finished the last shift of his first week back at work. As he made his way to the old-fashioned bar and order a beer, he noted that the place had a surprisingly decent crowd for 8 a.m. Most of the people were, like him, workers who were just finishing a night shift, but there were some people who still weren't finished partying from the previous evening. There weren't quite as many patrons as the last time he'd been there, but that wasn't Nick's concern. He wasn't here to hook up with anyone, he just found it preferable to be at King Jimmy's than to be home alone or even be with his friends at the moment. It was human interaction at a superficial level, and right now he preferred to keep things that way.
Nearly a dozen men had approached him on his only other visit, and although he had been attracted to several of them, he wasn't about to hop into bed with anyone. Once it had been established that he wasn't interested in a quick tumble, most men abandoned any conversation for greener pastures. There'd been a few men who hadn't applied too much pressure or had still seemed interested after he'd turned down their initial offer, but Nick didn't see any of them this time.
"I figured you'd be back."
Nick started at the voice so near to him and turned toward it. He had to force a polite smile when he saw Blake Randall had taken the stool next to him. Randall was the only familiar face in the bar, but Nick would just as soon have not known him. He worked in Personnel at the lab, in Human Resources, but how anyone as unsympathetic and arrogant as he was qualified for such a position was beyond Nick's understanding. Randall was always civil to him, but Nick had seen the way he treated people who didn't, or couldn't, fight back--belittling them for no apparent reason except to make himself feel superior. Still, they did work together--technically--so Nick mustered up a smile. "Hi, Blake."
Randall remained seated, but edged closer to Nick. "I knew you would."
"You did?" Nick asked, allowing his disbelief to creep into his voice.
"Sure," Randall gave him a speculative look that stopped just short of being a leer. "So you back in the game after being away or are you trying something new because of what happened to you?"
If Nick hadn't cared for Randall before, the man's casual callousness would have done it. Not to mention that he referred to Nick's life as though he already had a say in it. "I don't really want to talk about that." With you, Nick added silently.
A flash of annoyance crossed Randall's handsome face. "There's better things for us to talk about, anyway." He nodded to Nick's beer, "I'll get you another one of those."
"That's okay," Nick shook his head. "I'm going home right after this."
"Alone. What a crime."
Nick couldn't help rolling his eyes.
Randall either didn't notice or chose to ignore it. He leaned in and breathed into Nick's ear, "You don't have to be so shy. If you're nervous, I promise to make it good for you."
Nick shifted away and braced his arm so Randall couldn't invade his space any further. "I'm not interested, okay?" he said firmly. "Really."
"Think you can do better, pretty boy?" Randall sneered quietly. "Not with that attitude."
"Well, that's my problem, isn't it?"
"I don't know why you bothered showing up at all," Randall spat as he got off his stool. "You don't need to be here--you've already got something stuck up your ass."
"Nice. With charm like that, I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding someone else," Nick said flatly, no longer bothering to hide his distaste.
Randall shot him one last dark look before he left. Nick sighed and took a long sip of his beer. That most definitely was not the kind of encounter he'd been looking for when he walked in.
"He's not used to getting turned down."
Nick glanced up at the bartender and returned the young man's crooked grin. "It wasn't that hard, believe me."
The blonde's smile widened, displaying even white teeth that went well with the whole "California Kid" look he had going. "You're new here. To Vegas?"
"No. I've lived in Vegas for almost eight years. I'm new here, though."
"Texas?"
"Yeah." Then Nick chuckled because the bartender's tone seemed to imply more than merely birthplace.
"Do you want another drink?"
"No, thanks," Nick pulled out his wallet to pay for the beer he'd had. "I really do have to get home."
"Well, I hope you won't let the Aberzombie keep you away. It's always good to have another nice guy around here."
Nick raised an eyebrow, "What makes you think I'm a nice guy?"
"Please," the bartender said with another endearing, crooked smile. "I can tell. Believe me."
"Thanks," Nick threw several bills down on the counter. "I'll see you."
As he drove home, Nick's mood was much lighter than he expected. The fun, no-pressure flirting with the bartender had more or less killed any bad feeling left over from his encounter with Randall. If he knew for certain that his next visit would follow along those lines, or even be a bit like the time before, he'd leave his truck at home and take a cab so he could have more than one beer.
Eventually, he might even work up the nerve to accept one of those offers he kept getting.
Nick arrived at work the next night to find that he had been unceremoniously outed. Of course, he didn't find out right away. All he was aware of at first were curious looks, but he'd gotten used to those and didn't really pay attention.
Archie and Hodges pulled him aside, but didn't get out much more than Randall's name before Ecklie showed up and requested a chat with Nick in his office. By now, Nick knew what it was going to be about, but he didn't have the faintest idea what direction Ecklie might go with it. He wasn't too concerned--the Las Vegas Crime Lab had a fairly strong tolerance policy, and besides, Ecklie seemed be changing his spots a bit, if what Nick had heard and even seen for himself was true. That didn't mean he was looking forward to this conversation, though.
"Blake Randall is accusing you of making unwanted advances toward him in a local gay bar," Ecklie said without preamble and for one horrible, hideous moment, Nick remembered his disastrous encounter with Kristy Hopkins. "He has mentioned it to most of the people in Personnel and many employees on day and swing shifts. I need to know if you want to charge him with sexual harassment."
Nick gaped, trying to process everything he was hearing. "Charge--"
"Outing someone in such a manner is strictly against policy. If you did indeed make advances that could also constitute harassment--although the general consensus is that you probably didn't--Randall should have made a formal charge."
Still too flabbergasted to weave his way around such a touchy issue, Nick said bluntly, "It's the other way around."
Ecklie's nod was almost imperceptible. "Any witnesses?"
"Yeah, but...whoa," Nick shook his head quickly. "No. Look, the last thing I want is any more--aw, Jesus, what a mess." He slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.
"Do you want to press charges? File a complaint?"
"Hell, no. I just want the guy to leave me alone."
"I can probably take care of that," Ecklie said. Then more formally, "You are aware of LVPD's tolerance policy, aren't you? Problems with the lab, you come to me. Problems with any cops, me or Captain Brass."
"I know," Nick nodded. Then, because he didn't know what else to say--"Thank you."
"However, when it comes to explaining to your teammates why you haven't told them before this," Ecklie said dryly. "You're on your own."
"Yeah," Nick smiled ruefully as he opened the door. "That's fine." Then he stepped outside to face the firing squad.
One thing Nick did not expect was that his colleagues would actually be happy to have something to deal with other than his underground trauma.
The lab techs--particularly Hodges--were happy to fill him in on what Randall had said, adding that although most people accepted Randall's assertion Nick was gay, no one bought his story about Nick hitting on him. Randall's attempt to discredit Nick had basically backfired.
Grissom made sure Nick knew about the labs policies and then quoted him some arcane wisdom that Nick still hadn't figured out.
Catherine gave him hell for not telling her sooner, then hugged him and went back to treating him as she always had.
Brass gruffly echoed Ecklie's words, telling Nick to let him know if anyone hassled him.
Greg teased him incessantly, threatening to set him up with all sorts of people and giving some of the most entertaining and bizarre advice Nick had ever heard.
Sara also had a few choice things to say about not being told before. There were a few pokes about the way he'd tried to set her up with guys, a few questions to satisfy her natural curiosity and a few assurances he was handling it okay, before she let everything settle back into their usual friendship.
Warrick said everything a best friend was supposed to say. He was stalwart and supportive and nonjudgmental. Nick didn't care about any of that. What really got his attention was something in the green eyes--something unnameable that made his heart lurch painfully but hopefully.
Nick told himself not to push right now, that Warrick was probably still shocked by the discovery and needed a week or two to let it sink in.
One week later, Warrick was married.
The death knell of his marriage was a click.
Warrick stared at the cordless handset for a moment before setting it back in its nest, reflecting that this was somehow appropriate. He'd begun this marriage with as little noise and notice as possible--most likely because he knew it was a mistake from the start--and now it was ending the same way. So quietly that Tina probably didn't even know it was over yet.
There was no doubt left in his mind, though, so while he adjusted to the idea of a failed marriage, he also began packing up his things. There wasn't much to pack, because even after five-and-a-half months, most of his stuff was still in storage--another telling point. He decided he was going to leave behind the few purchases they had made together and let Tina do what she liked with them. He wanted this break to be as clean as possible.
Really, it wasn't the argument that had led to this--just the fact that it was an argument that had become very old very quickly. A brother-in-law's birthday. One that Warrick was currently missing because had to go in to work several hours early. He didn't think it was a big deal--he didn't like this brother-in-law and had only met him a handful of times. Tina felt otherwise. It was a "family get-together" and that meant he was required to attend.
Warrick had always thought he was all for family, but he had recently begun to revise that opinion. Tina had two brothers and a sister, and all of them had children. That, along with her parents made for a fairly large group. Throw in a few aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins and things got messy. Although Warrick liked her parents well enough, and could get along with the siblings when he had to, he didn't see why they--let alone cousins and in-laws--were suddenly entitled to know his business even though they were still near-strangers to him. He was immediately branded "standoffish" or, less politely, "stuck up." The latter amused him no end, considering it came from a group of people who thought his job in public service was a waste of his degree.
Suggestions that he find a more lucrative career had led to some harsh words on occasion, because Warrick never did take to anything that even vaguely resembled railroading. The usual result was a fight when they got home. Tina's assertion three months in that "you didn't just marry me, you married my family," made him feel much less guilty about the things he hadn't been honest about before their quickie marriage. She claimed she was willing to give him some leeway--something else that he hadn't liked the sound of--because she knew he didn't have any family, but she expected him to become accustomed to hers.
Warrick wasn't sure he'd ever become accustomed to being told he was wasting his talent or that he needed to start thinking more about the future.
Tina did have a point about his family--or lack thereof. With an anonymous father and a mother that had died when he was seven, Warrick's only family had been his grandmother. Aunt Bertha, whom he'd loved just as much, wasn't actually related. Somehow, he'd never gotten around to telling his wife about the true relationship between Esther Brown and Bertha Freedman. Of course it would have been odd to bring it up, since his grandmother had passed two years ago and Aunt Bertha six months after. Therefore, he had no family.
And yet, that wasn't entirely true.
During a recent fight--this time about Warrick telling off a cousin--Tina had fallen back on the old cliché, "You can't choose your family." This brought home the realization that, actually, he had. Perhaps there weren't any specifically defined roles for the people in it, but it was the family Warrick wanted. Somehow, though, he never got around to introducing her to any of them, so it wasn't really her fault for constantly overlooking them. She had no idea what his teammates meant to him--and with one particular teammate, he'd worked extra hard to hide it--so she could probably be forgiven for getting tired of constantly hearing about them.
And she did get tired of it, but then, he got tired of hearing about Dr. Robert Dayton.
Warrick had often wondered what had prompted Tina--whom he soon learned was not particularly impulsive or spontaneous--to accept his proposal without telling the family she was so close to. A few months of family gatherings made him realize that he was the rebound guy. Things he heard revealed that although the family had liked her the fact that she was seeing a doctor, they hadn't been too crazy about the fact that the doctor was white. Warrick suspected that good old Robert would now be welcomed back with open arms by the family--and probably Tina, too, considering how much she mentioned him.
Fair was fair, though--Tina mentioned Robert as much as he mentioned Nick. Warrick just wondered if she had caught onto the correlation.
She'd fired at him more than once that although she was sorry for what Nick Stokes had been through, she was tired of it affecting their marriage. That tended to make Warrick laugh--which only infuriated her more--because what happened to Nick Stokes was practically the entire reason for their marriage.
Well...maybe that wasn't entirely true.
It wasn't what happened to Nick that did it, but what Nick did after it happened.
Warrick still wasn't sure why Nick's coming out sent him rushing headlong into marriage. It was one of those knee-jerk--emphasis on the jerk--reactions that he was prone to and that rarely turned out well. It was when he told Nick about his marriage and saw the brief flash of hurt dismay before the Texan smiled and congratulated him that Warrick realized he had probably just shot himself in the foot.
Despite that, Warrick had made up his mind that this marriage was going to work. But only a month in, he knew that if his marriage was going to stand the slightest chance, he'd have to but some distance between himself and Nick. So he had, more or less shooting himself in the other foot.
If Nick had noticed that Warrick wasn't working as many cases with him, or that Warrick usually kept any conversation either to work or the most superficial subjects, he didn't comment on it. Likely Nick thought it was due to his admission of his sexuality, despite Warrick's efforts to assure him otherwise. Nick never called him on it, though.
Warrick forced himself to stand by silently and watch Nick struggle to come to grips with his trauma, finding his footing only to flounder again. During the McBride case, Warrick made himself return to Vegas and had to hear about Nick's miraculous rescue of Cassie secondhand. He kept his comments on Nick's foray into facial hair to bland teasing, when he really wanted to ask whether Nick actually thought it made him more attractive--and who he wanted to attract--or scared himself by wondering whether if it was the beginning of some sort of dissociation. When Kelly Gordon was paroled and promptly killed someone just as Nick seemed to be getting back on track, Warrick had steeled himself against demanding why the hell Nick hadn't been taken off the case. Three days later he heard about Kelly's suicide and practically gave himself an ulcer trying to keep from grabbing Nick and demanding he get everything out of his system. All this in an attempt to make his marriage work.
Looking back now, he realized he should have paid closer attention to the odds.
After that, he had to watch helplessly as Nick floundered again. Not wanting to let on, he tried his best to watch out for Nick without actually speaking to him. Tina noticed his increased in hours almost immediately and asked why he was working so many extra shifts. Warrick had no idea what to say to that, but knew he couldn't tell her the truth. Because Nick is working a lot of doubles and it's the only way I can keep an eye on him. And I need to keep an eye on him because he's turned into someone else since Kelly Gordon offed herself in front of him.
Warrick's willpower finally ran out two weeks ago when he and Nick had to search the desert during the Zoe Kessler case. The problem was no longer that Nick was floundering--it was the very opposite. Warrick could understand the lack of banter, since they hadn't spent any amount of time together in months, but Nick was so intent on being all business that he didn't even react when Warrick called him on his detached attitude. That only made the change--it was almost a break--in Nick's voice more noticeable when he spoke of a torture chamber.
And that was it.
Nick was still so obviously haunted by his ordeal that Warrick could hardly stand it and invited Nick out for breakfast at the end of their next shift. He had no intention of pressing Nick to talk--at that point, he'd just wanted to revive their flagging friendship. Before they were halfway through their steak and eggs, though, both men had fallen back into something resembling the easy companionship they'd always shared. In the process of worrying about Nick, Warrick realized he had somehow managed to overlook how much he actually missed Nick, and wasn't ready for the reconciliation to end with breakfast. Neither was Nick, it seemed, because he agreed immediately when Warrick suggested they go to one of their old haunts to shoot some pool. After that, it was back to Nick's to grill some burgers for lunch and just hang out in front of the television.
It was late afternoon before Warrick got back to his place, needing to get at least a few hours sleep in before work. He arrived home to find that Tina's brother had been promoted and the family was going out to celebrate. His objection that he needed sleep more led to another fight and Tina leaving without him. Warrick knew he should feel bad about that, but he was still in far too good a mood to care much.
Since then, as though making up for the last few months, he and Nick had been spending as much time as possible together, both on the job and off. Tina noticed this and made the mistake of trying to make him jealous. Although Warrick didn't like the idea of being a cuckolded husband, he didn't care enough to react. Likely that, and not this birthday, had been the final straw.
Standing in the center of the living room, Warrick surveyed the apartment. Forty-five minutes of nonstop packing had taken care of nearly everything important. His laptop, his clothes, his books and his music were all ready to go. He glanced at the clock and realized he wouldn't have time to find a hotel before work. That wasn't much a problem. This was Vegas, so it wouldn't take more than a phone call or two to line up a room. Grabbing his guitar case in one hand and a garment bag containing his best suits in the other, he headed out to begin loading his Wrangler.
It was all over but the cryin', and Warrick sincerely hoped there wouldn't be much of that for Tina. He suspected that if there was, Robert would be around to dry her tears.
Nick was relieved that the Sidley case didn't require any more input from him. Catherine and Sara--but mostly Catherine--had it now, which was fine with him. He'd put in three doubles in a row and needed to catch up on his sleep--something that had become elusive since Kelly Gordon's death. Things had improved a bit lately, and Nick chalked that up to he and Warrick having reestablished their friendship.
He'd felt completely bereft after Warrick's marriage, thinking the distance Warrick put between them was permanent, but apparently it was nothing more that Warrick's way of adjusting. That was something easy for Nick to understand--they both had plenty to adjust to. At first he'd panicked, worried that Warrick had somehow sensed his long-standing attraction, and was relieved when that didn't seem to be the case. Considering all the major changes in both their lives, the fact that they'd fallen back in so comfortably was something of a miracle.
A smile tugged at Nick's lips as he walked past his friend's Wrangler, but quickly faded into a curious frown when he saw the backseat was filled with luggage and boxes. Before he had time to consider the possible reasons for it, he heard the doors unlocking and he glanced back over his shoulder to see Warrick approaching. "Hey."
"Hey," Warrick returned with an easy smile.
Nick wasn't sure how to ask Warrick if the loaded jeep meant what he thought it did, and the best he could come up with was--"Doing some spring cleaning?"
"I guess that's the nicest way of putting it," Warrick returned dryly.
"Ah, hell, Rick. I'm sorry. Is it--how serious is it? Just a fight or--" Nick made himself stop, because Warrick had rarely mentioned his marriage, which meant it was none of his business.
"I moved out," Warrick said. "I'm gonna file in a few days."
"I didn't even know you guys were having trouble," Nick replied, annoyed at himself for having nothing more than trite phrases to offer his friend. "I really am sorry."
Warrick shrugged, "I figured out about a month or two ago that it wasn't going to work. Hell, I shoulda known before I even got married. How often have we sat around making fun on people who do what I did?"
"Warrick, no one ever--"
"I know," Warrick held up his hand. "I'm just sayin' you could have. I would have."
Nick peered inside the jeep again. "If you left--where are you staying?"
Another shrug. "Not a problem in this town."
That was not an option. "A hotel? When I've got an empty guest room?"
"I don't..." Warrick's expression evened out into nothingness. "I'm not sure how long it'll be until I find another place."
"All the more reason not to rack up a hotel bill," Nick pointed out, then realized that there were other reasons Warrick might not want to stay with him. He tried to smile as though these new differences between them didn't sting. "If you're uncomfortable with the idea, I understand. I just want you to know that if you need a place--"
"What?" Warrick frowned, then quickly shook his head. "Hell, Nicky, it's nothing like that. I just wouldn't want to...cramp your style."
Something was definitely off with the way Warrick said that. "What style?" Nick asked, calling his bluff. "You always used to give me grief about not having any style. Does admitting I'm gay mean I'm suddenly loaded with it?"
Warrick's comeback was immediate. "Couldn't tell it by the way you been dressing lately."
Nick smiled in spite of the dig. He hadn't meant to blurt out that last bit, and was relieved Warrick barely blinked.
"Really, though," Warrick explained. "I don't want to get in the way. Know what I mean?"
Don't turn red. Don't turn red, whatever you do. "Well, I'm not really--I mean, I tried my first month back in Vegas, but..." In spite of his efforts, Nick felt his cheeks flush. "I'm not really into--even before, I wasn't really one for..." He made a determined effort to stop rambling. "It's mostly just work, home and the gym for me right now, Rick. I don't really do much else."
Warrick stared and him for a long time, then abruptly turned away and opened his door. "Well, if you're sure..."
Warmth bubbled up inside Nick at the idea of having Warrick as a roommate--he firmly squelched any other notion with the ease of long habit. "Then let's go and get you unpacked."
Warrick parked next to Nick's truck and got out with a tired sigh. It was definitely a relief to know there would be no tension or arguments when he walked in the door after a stressful double. He would be able to grab something to eat--with as much sugar and fat in it as he wanted, thank you very much--and then crash until his next shift.
All he really had to worry about was resetting the security system and he did that the minute he walked in. It was one thing Nick could get touchy about. Warrick thought it was perfectly understandable, all things considered, and had quickly trained himself to remember it. Other than that, their first week as roommates had gone off without a hitch.
As he shrugged out of his jacket, Warrick was a bit startled to see Nick in the corner of the sofa, staring blankly at some infomercial on the television--usually a graveyard shift CSI would be asleep at this hour unless, like him, they'd been on overtime. "Hey."
"Hey," Nick replied, blinking a bit drowsily. "Turned into a double on you, huh?"
Warrick knew he'd have to become reaccustomed to hearing that without the thread of accusation behind it. "Yeah."
"Landers case?" Nick asked, returning his attention to the mindless program.
"Yep. Brother-in-law."
"I knew it." Nick had helped Warrick out on some of the leg work even though it hadn't been his case.
"The DA says no bail."
"Good. The guy was an arrogant dickhead."
Grinning, Warrick walked into the kitchen and quickly threw together a sandwich. When he came back out, Nick was off the sofa, checking the alarm. "I set it, Nicky," Warrick assured him.
Nick started and hurriedly stepped away. "Yeah. Just checking." He plucked uncomfortably at the hem of his t-shirt before going back to the sofa.
Warrick noted he was wearing pajama bottoms with the t-shirt--something he often slept in. A closer look revealed that Nick actually looked a bit rumpled, as though he had been asleep. The waistband of the pajamas was a bit low and it would be so easy to just...Warrick abruptly slammed the door on that train of thought. He'd been handling the close proximity to Nick fairly well so far and didn't want to start moving into such dangerous territory. "Were you asleep?"
"What?" Nick frowned as he settled himself back in his corner.
As he studied the way Nick practically huddled at one end of the sofa, feet up off the floor, Warrick was furious at himself for not catching on sooner. "Do you have nightmares very often?"
Nick's hesitation before answering was just enough to let Warrick know he was right. "Who says I have nightmares at all?"
"You're up. You look like you haven't gotten enough sleep."
"CSIs never get enough sleep," Nick shot back. Curled up, his feet bare, he seemed oddly vulnerable, a striking contrast to the way he'd been at work lately.
Warrick pretended to concentrate on his sandwich as he considered the difference from the way Nick had taken to dressing lately and realized the layers of ill-fitting clothes could very well be Nick's version of armor. "You haven't any before--I mean, since I've been here."
"Then it's not a big deal, right?" Nick sounded defensive, which was also a bit unusual.
"Okay." Warrick decided to give it one more shot before backing off. "Was it about anything in particular?"
"I don't know," Nick snapped. "I hardly ever remember them."
"Them?"
"I said it wasn't a big deal," Nick scowled, getting off the sofa. "Besides you're back now, so I'm gonna be able to get some more sleep, okay?"
With that, Nick walked into his bedroom, leaving Warrick with much more than a sandwich to chew on.
"Nick has court this morning," Warrick said once the waitress had brought their coffee and taken their orders.
"I know," Greg returned. "That's why I asked you today."
So Greg wanted to talk about something concerning Nick. Warrick just hoped he wasn't going to ask about Nick's social life. Sometimes he wondered about the playful teasing--flirting, really--that Nick and Greg had always done. He told himself that Greg pretty much flirted with everyone and to stop being such an ass. "What's up?"
"How long have you been staying at Nick's?"
Warrick tensed immediately. Surely Greg hadn't caught onto his feelings. Then again, Greg was capable of frighteningly accurate insights at times. "Just over two weeks," he said as easily as he could. "Why?"
"Has he talked to you about the Mullins' case? Or Kelly Gordon?"
"Nick doesn't talk much about anything expect work right now," Warrick pointed out. "You know that."
"Yeah, I know that. Not like him, though, is it?"
"Cut the guy some slack. He's been through--"
"I know," Greg said shortly. "But he wasn't like this at first. It's only since Kelly Gordon OD'd that he's been so...different."
Warrick thought back over the past six months and nodded. "Okay. Still, it's a lot to deal with."
Greg dropped his gaze to the table top. "But he hasn't talked about it. To anyone, lately."
"You mean is he seeing a shrink? Not anymore. Not that I know of, anyway."
The waitress brought their food, and Warrick watched as Greg toyed briefly with his pancakes and then pushed the entire plate away.
"C'mon, Greg, what is it?"
The younger man drew a deep breath. "Okay, well, Archie's been feeling really guilty about it."
"Archie?" What the hell did Archie have to do with anything? How far out of the loop had he been lately?
"Did you know Walter Gordon left a tape in the coffin with Nick?"
Warrick had to swallow before answering. Just the man's name still made his stomach clench and throat tighten with fury. "Yeah, I knew about that."
"Did you know the tape was recovered a few months later?"
That took a moment to register. "What?"
"The tape was brought in and Grissom had Archie analyze it, but told him not to tell anyone."
This wasn't making sense. "Why?"
"I'm not really sure why, but there was another voice on the tape."
"Who?" Warrick asked, wondering insanely if he was going to go through all five W's.
"Sylvia Mullins'. Which means she was involved in Nick's...Nick only found out about it when he was investigating her murder, because it cross-referenced his case. That's when he found out about the tape. Archie says Nick came to him with a known tape of Kelly and Sylvia's voices for comparison and that's when Archie let it slip that he'd known." Greg shook his head and spun his coffee mug aimlessly. "Since then, Nick's been...well."
Warrick didn't know who he was angrier at--Grissom for not telling Nick or Nick for not telling anyone else. Then much of his anger at Nick subsided--if he was pissed at Grissom, he couldn't imagine what it had done to Nick.
"I'm just wondering if Nick thinks we all knew and didn't say anything," Greg continued in a low voice. "Maybe that's why he's been so...I don't know."
"No," Warrick shook his head. "He would have said something to us. Maybe he can't go off on Grissom, but we would have heard about it."
"Really?" Greg looked dubious.
"I'll find out what's going on with him," Warrick promised.
So here he was lying in wait for his best friend, who had been nice enough to give him a place to stay. Warrick had decided that it would be best to confront Nick right away, because court often left a CSI drained and occasionally frazzled and he knew the only way he'd get anything out of Nick was to catch him off guard. He'd made a pot of coffee and also bought a six of beer, just in case. Although he had no idea what Nick was going to do when questioned, Warrick had a feeling it wouldn't be pretty. He heard Nick's truck pull into the driveway and forced himself to remain sitting--no sense in making the confrontation literal as well.
Nick walked in, loosening his tie with one hand as he walked right past the easy chair where Warrick was sitting.
"How was court?" Warrick asked.
"Hey," Nick stopped, looking surprised. "Boring. Laverne Coogan had already confessed, but she's going with an insanity plea. They didn't really need my testimony, but the DA wants to make sure he's got all his bases covered." He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a dining chair. "What are you still doing up?"
"Waiting for you."
"Yeah?" Nick finished with his tie and pulled it off. "What's up?"
"I want to talk to you."
"Okay," Nick sat on the sofa and undid the first few buttons on his shirt. "What about?" he asked, but no longer sounded quite so casual. He'd picked up on Warrick's tension.
Warrick was tempted to just back out. In so many ways, for so many reasons, he had no right to bring up the subject. He hadn't been there for Nick when it first happened and Nick had needed his support. What's more, there was nothing major that he could really call Nick on. None of the changes were either harmful or dangerous to anyone, and they certainly hadn't affected the Texan's job.
"Rick?" Nick sounded concerned.
"The Sylvia Mullins case."
Instantly, the handsome features turned to stone. "There's not that much to tell," Nick said, in much the same tone he would have used to testify in court. "Sylvia Mullins was murdered and all the evidence pointed to a single suspect. That suspect confessed to the crime and then died from a deliberate overdose. Detective Curtis closed the case two days later."
It was several long minutes before Warrick managed to break the silence, and even then all he could say was--"Nicky."
Nick brushed his heavy bangs off his forehead, looking anywhere but at Warrick.
"I heard about the tape," Warrick told him.
Impossibly, Nick's gaze grew even more distant.
Warrick tried to remain patient, but it wasn't easy. "Why didn't you say anything? Hell, why didn't you recuse yourself from the case the minute Kelly Gordon came into the picture?"
That brought a change. Nick's expression darkened with indignation. "Hey, you can ask Catherine. It didn't bias my investigation. I still did my job properly."
"Jesus, Nick. You don't only recuse yourself for the case's sake."
Nick shook his head instead of replying.
"Why didn't you--? I don't know. Say something? To anyone?"
"About what?"
"About what?" Warrick repeated incredulously. "About Mullins. About the tape. About Grissom hiding it from you. About anything." When Nick's frown only deepened, he went on, "And I'm not saying it should have been me. Just...anyone."
"I did. I talked to Grissom."
Warrick hadn't expected to hear that. "About...the tape?"
"I told him I'd found--heard the recording, had Archie run the comparison and identified Mullins."
"What did he say?"
"He said it was over."
Warrick could practically hear the walls going up again. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," Nick shrugged. "What's to say? All the players are dead, so technically, he's right."
"Technically? Nick--"
"Am I supposed to be angry at Grissom?" Nick asked. "I was at first, but...he must have had a reason for keeping it from me. Maybe he thought I couldn't handle it. He obviously thinks I should have dealt with it by now."
"That's not his call," Warrick protested. "Even if Grissom believes that--and I'm not sure he does, after everything you've been through--"
"No." Nick shoved himself off the sofa, then paced the length of the living room a few times before stopping with his back to Warrick. "I'm tired of that. It's been long enough. What I've been through shouldn't even be on the table anymore."
"There's no time limit for this, Nick," Warrick stood as well.
"It can't be an issue forever, either," Nick countered. His shoulders hunched forward as he curled in on himself slightly. "It's enough. I don't want to be this madman's victim forever. I'm sick of it."
This was not the direction he'd expected things to go, and Warrick knew he had to tread carefully. "It's--this isn't your fault."
"I know that," Nick said with a tired sigh, but he didn't turn around. "Not what happened to me, anyway. But now that it's over, how long I stay a victim is up to me. And I'm not going to stay his victim."
Moving closer, Warrick tried again, "Of course not, but--"
"Okay, then, I just have to work a little harder."
Near enough to reach out and touch his friend, Warrick wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do or not. "Nick, you can't force--"
"Yeah, I was ticked off at Grissom at first, but he's right. It's over. And I want it over." Nick braced his arms against a chair back for support. "I'm so damn tired of it affecting my life. I'm tired of jumping at shadows. I'm tired of shying away from flashes of light. I tired of always feeling like I've got to watch my back."
"Well, cross that last one off your list. I've got your back again, Nicky." Warrick gave in and rested his hand on the back of Nick's neck.
Much of the tension left Nick's body, and when he turned, his expression had also softened considerably. "I know you do, Rick." He leaned back slightly into the pressure of Warrick's hand.
It occurred to Warrick that all he had to do was dip his head slightly, and he would be able press his lips against Nick's. Their gazes were locked, then the dark eyes widened slightly, and at the same moment Warrick decided to take away his hand, Nick took a quick step back.
"I'm gonna..." Nick cleared his throat. "I'm gonna crash for a while."
"Yeah, same here," Warrick nodded, wondering if he looked as dumb as he felt.
"We should, uh..." Nick moistened his lips nervously, and as far as Warrick was concerned, that did nothing to help the situation. "Big Twelve semi-finals are on tonight. Can't have beer, but we should order some pizzas and watch the game before work."
"Yeah, yeah," Warrick agreed immediately, taking another step back--away from temptation. "Sounds good."
"Cool," Nick moved hesitantly toward the door of his bedroom.
"So it's a plan."
"Right."
Warrick didn't release the breath he'd been holding until Nick went into his bedroom and closed the door.
Warrick hated picking up his mail. He'd left his key to the apartment behind in order to make a point. The point had been made, but now he could only pick up his mail when Tina was home. They both did their best to be civil, but that didn't stop things from breaking down into sniping much of the time. Even if no insults or accusations were exchanged, just the tension was enough to grate on Warrick's nerves.
Invariably, he always returned to Nick's in a lousy mood and cursing under his breath, angry at Tina, angry at her family, angry at the situation but mostly angry at himself. Today was no exception and Warrick grumbled darkly as he tossed his mail onto the dining table where Nick was working at his laptop.
"Mail day," Nick commented without looking up from his screen.
Warrick dropped into a chair across from him. "This sucks, man."
"Why don't you get your address changed?" Nick asked reasonably.
"To what? I still don't have a place." Warrick reminded himself again that he really had to get a move on in that department.
"Just have it sent here."
Warrick looked at him sharply, but Nick was still engrossed in his computer. "I can't do that. I meant to be out of your way after a couple of weeks--that's how long it was supposed to take for the divorce to go through."
Nick looked up, his expression silently questioning.
"There was a mix-up, though, and now it'll be another couple of weeks."
"A bit more than a month," Nick gave him a crooked grin. "That's still barely any time at all compared to--well, nearly everywhere else."
"I know," Warrick sighed, flipping through his mail. It was mostly junk and bills. "It's just that I want this over with yesterday."
"I know," Nick's grin turned into a sympathetic smile. "Well, about the other. I just figured it would be easier for you to have it sent here."
"Probably not a good idea for me to get too comfortable," Warrick said, more for his benefit than Nick's.
"I don't see why not," Nick shrugged. "You should know you can stay here as long as you want."
"Yeah, well, it's been a month already. Any longer and I might as well take my stuff out of storage and make myself at home."
"Like what? Are there things you've got in storage that you need?" Nick asked with a small frown. "Man, you should have said something before. Just get whatever it is and we can find room around here for it."
"I start doing that and I'll be here indefinitely." Warrick knew he was moving into dangerous territory again and tried to laugh everything off.
Nick shrugged in return, as if to say that he didn't have a problem with that. Then, abruptly, his expression changed. "Oh."
Warrick didn't like the sound of that. "What?"
"You think people might start talking if you stay here too long?"
That was the last thing he wanted Nick to think. "Nah, I'm not worried about that. Shit, I would hope people had more important things to worry about than that. No, that's not the point."
"What's the point?"
"I don't like being in your way longer than necessary."
"Who ever said you were in my way? You're not." Nick grinned again, this one much more teasing, "Unless you think having a roommate will cramp your style once you're a free man again."
Warrick laughed. "I don't think so. I'm gonna be taking it easy for a while."
With a soft snort, Nick turned his attention back to his computer.
"It would be different if I was chipping in," Warrick added. "But you hardly even let me buy food."
Nick stopped typing again. "Are you saying if I split the bills, you'd stay?"
"I...yeah, I guess." Warrick studied his friend. This seemed to go beyond merely politeness and hospitality. Unless his friend was doing a hell of an acting job--and Warrick couldn't think of a reason why he would--then Nick actually wanted him to stay.
Determined not to give in to his own wishful thinking, Warrick cast about for another reason Nick might want him to stick around. Nick had seemed more relaxed since their little go around about the tape. If it meant anything, he had finally abandoned the bulky layers for better fitting clothing--Catherine had noticed and complimented him on it. His smiles were now more frequent and less forced. The more Warrick thought about, the more it seemed that having someone else around was reassuring for Nick, even though the Texan had always lived alone. Warrick supposed it wasn't that surprising, all things considered.
And really, who was he trying to kid, anyway? He knew deep down that the moment Nick suggested he stay indefinitely, his mind was automatically made up, even though in many ways it wasn't a great idea. Still, he'd been doing all right staying there for the past month--he hadn't spontaneously combusted or anything. It was even possible that being around Nick so much would lessen the attraction--it had definitely worked with Tina.
The silence was about to become uncomfortable, so Warrick quickly said, "I mean, if I was payin' my half of the bills, then I wouldn't feel so bad about moving some of my other things in."
"Okay." Nick flashed him one of those big smiles that lit his dark eyes and creased the corners. "Okay, we'll work all that stuff out."
"Then you've got yourself a roommate."
Driving back to the lab from his latest crime scene, Nick drew in a deep breath of cool night air and blew it out slowly. It was the first time in a long time that he found himself able to breathe easily, that he didn't feel somehow constricted. Even stranger, he hadn't realized the problem had been there until it was gone.
As he wove the Denali through traffic, he let his thoughts drift, concerning himself with his driving but very little else. That was something else he hadn't been able to do for some time--when he wasn't on the job, he barely knew what he was thinking or feeling and that scared him. Being at work, processing the scene, working the case, all of it was a relief. He was nice and safe with a specific set of things to focus on, which kept his mind from wandering into dark and dangerous places. Ever since Kelly's suicide, it had taken more and more effort to avoid those places, to the point that Nick tried not to think of anything except work.
His friends were all worried about him and looking out for him. He knew that and yet somehow, he hadn't felt reassured until Warrick had said it. He believed Warrick. It was simple as that. Nick knew he would always believe Warrick's voice.
We gotcha. Hey, Nicky!
That voice, cutting through the sound of his own harsh, desperate--and he'd been certain, final--breaths.
We gotcha. We're gonna get you out of there.
Between the lights suddenly flashing into the coffin and the tears in his swollen eyes, Nick hadn't been able to see a thing, but he had known that voice.
Hang on. Hang on.
So he had.
We're gonna kill those ants, okay?
There had been a blast of icy air, one that had miraculously eased some of his torment.
I'm not leaving here without him.
Then Warrick had been gone.
And more terrifying than not being able to see Warrick, he had suddenly been unable to hear Warrick.
When Grissom had gotten down on the coffin, reassuring and reasoning, somewhere behind his terror and hysteria, Nick reminded himself that Warrick had said they were going to get him out. He trusted that voice and was able to calm down enough to pay attention to what Grissom said.
He'd believed Warrick.
He'd listened to Grissom.
He'd gotten out alive.
Was it any wonder, then, than when Gil Grissom told him it was over, he tried his damnedest to make it so?
Or that when Warrick said--"I've got your back," he never doubted it from that point on?
Or that sharing his living space with Warrick eased many of his unspoken fears?
Of course, sharing a house with Warrick brought its own set of problems, but so far, none of them had been insurmountable. He'd been trying had not to seem too dependant on Warrick, because there were still times when his friend seemed uncomfortable with their situation. Now that he was finally beginning to feel comfortable in his own skin again--and in some ways for the first time--the last thing Nick wanted was to make anyone else uncomfortable.
Nick smiled when he pulled up in the parking lot and saw the rest of the lab's Denalis were also there. A couple of months ago, knowing his colleagues were present, likely gathered in the break or conference rooms, Nick would have gone to an empty evidence lab with a convenient excuse for avoiding everyone. Now he dropped his evidence off with the techs and strolled to the break room for a cup of coffee before getting back to work. Greg and Sara were seated with Wendy at the table, and there was a half a pot of coffee in the machine.
"Hey," he said by way of greeting, then nodded toward the pot. "Who made?"
"I did," Greg grinned while Sara made faces at them both for the unspoken jibe about her coffee. Then Greg turned to Wendy, "Now's your chance to ask him."
"Ask me what?" Nick asked as he poured himself a cup. Even if Greg no longer got paid enough to keep the graveyard shift in Blue Hawaiian, the guy still made the best coffee in the lab.
After a brief, nervous glance at Greg, Wendy said, "If...um...if you're seeing anyone."
"Oh." Nick joined them at the table, unsure how he felt about someone wanting to set him up. "No. Uh...why?"
"Do you know Dominic Ferris? He works QD on dayshift--part-time."
Nick shook his head, unable to put a face to the vaguely familiar name--likely he'd only read it on a report somewhere. "Is he new?"
"He's been here over a year and a half."
"Oh. Jeez. Uh..." he looked to Greg and Sara for help.
"I didn't know who he was either," Sara said while Greg merely shrugged.
"He's really, really shy," Wendy said. "We're both from Vallejo--I went to school with his sister--I think that's the only reason he isn't scared to talk to me. Anyway, he asked me if you were seeing anyone," she grinned. "And then just about died when I said I'd ask you, but I thought I'd ask, anyway."
"Aw," Sara gave Nick an impish smile. "Someone has a crush on you."
"He should try and snag a night shift or two," Greg advised, shooting a wink in Nick's direction.
Nick did his best to ignore both of them and prayed he wasn't turning red.
"I told him the same thing," Wendy smirked. "He doesn't want to pester Ronnie."
"Um..." Nick hesitated. "I'm not sure what to..."
"Oh, don't worry about it," Wendy assured him. "I think if he actually had to talk to you right now, the poor guy would hide."
"Really?" Greg sounded dubious. "If that Clark Kent 'do Nick had didn't scare him off, I don't see why anything else would."
Nick rolled his eyes. Greg was referring to the way Nick hadn't bothered cutting his hair for the past several months--something that had been remedied just the week before. Hair had been the last of his concerns, and he could have cared less what it looked like. When he finally had gotten around to cutting it again, several people at work had commented or complimented him on going back to his old style. He didn't fuss much with his looks at the best of times--other than making sure he was presentable. He knew he was considered good-looking, it was something he had heard people talk about ever since he could remember. Not in his immediate family--his parents didn't believe in fostering that sort of vanity--but aunts and uncles and grandparents had made much of him, and he'd always enjoyed it.
Until he was nine.
"Are you giving someone flak about their hair?" Wendy asked Greg in disbelief, and Nick forcibly brought his mind back to the present. "Glass houses."
Sara chuckled.
"Sorry if I embarrassed you," Wendy apologized to Nick. "I'm not trying to set you up or anything. But like Sara said, he does have a crush on you, so I thought I ask."
"No harm done," Nick said easily, relieved that he'd gotten through it without blushing.
"Next time you work a double you should stop by QD," Greg suggested. "Get a look at your secret admirer."
"Hey," Warrick's voice in the doorway made them all turn. "They finally brought in Holbrook's minivan," he said, scowling at Greg. "You gonna process it or you gonna wait another week to catch this guy?"
Then he was gone, leaving everyone in the break room blinking in surprise.
Greg downed the rest of his coffee in a single gulp and hurried to the garage. He obviously had no desire to anger Warrick further.
"What's with him?" Sara asked.
Nick could only shake his head, "He was fine the last time I saw him. Maybe the surveillance tape he had was a bust."
"Well, I guess if you think about it," Sara pointed out. "He hasn't been that moody--not for someone going through a divorce."
Warrick couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to be both so right and so wrong on so many points as he'd been when deciding to move in with Nick. He had never pulled it off to this degree, he was certain. That's why he'd actually taken to keeping a mental checklist.
Having someone else around was reassuring for Nick.
Apparently so. As Nick shed the bulky clothing and unflattering hair, he'd also let go of the iron control he'd been maintaining--one that had brought a coldness that hadn't suited the Texan at all. There was now more of a difference between Nick on and off the job. When he wasn't at work--despite the changes forced on him by Gordon and those he'd decided to bring about himself--Nick was still the same person at his core. Still the warm, sweet-natured, caring man Warrick had met eight years before. On the job, however, that iron control Nick had used as a shield now eased into a cool confidence--one that suggested that although here was a nice guy, it wouldn't be wise to push him too far. It didn't quite jive with the way Warrick had always seen his friend, but somehow managed to make Nick even more appealing.
Being around Nick so much would lessen the attraction.
Right.
If anything, being around Nick, watching him struggle and then succeed in regaining his footing, only increased the attraction.
And it seemed he wasn't the only one who thought so.
The people they worked with were responding to the changes in Nick as well, and as far as Warrick could see, not all of it was based on mere friendliness. Graveyard CSIs had always flirted and teased among themselves, so that didn't bother Warrick, and neither did the way the techs acted around Nick. Except Wendy, maybe. He liked the DNA tech well enough, but thought she was overstepping her bounds a little, trying to set Nick up with someone when she'd only known him a few months.
Warrick also got annoyed with the way many of the detectives treated Nick. Weren't they supposed to be homophobic, anyway? What the hell were they doing laughing and teasing with a CSI that had been outed and never bothered to deny it?
As for witnesses, and some suspects, Nick never responded when they flirted, but it seemed to be happening more and more often.
The truth was, though, that Warrick couldn't be sure if it was occurring more or if he was just noticing it more since he'd moved in with Nick. He wasn't even sure which option he would prefer.
In many ways moving in wasn't a great idea.
Because before he'd moved in, he had been blissfully unaware of just how many people made plays for his friend in the course of an ordinary day--as blissfully unaware as Nick seemed to be of it.
He was certain that the cashiers--both male and female--at the corner store and video rental Nick frequented just lived for the days Nick came in.
As for the mail carrier--Warrick was pretty sure she staggered her route so she had the best chance of running into Nick when delivering the mail.
He was equally convinced that if Nick wanted to, he could get free drying cleaning, if the fawning of the fifty-something guy behind the counter was anything to go by.
He had never been to Nick's gym and had no intention of ever going--he didn't think he could take it.
One thing he really had to do, though, was find a way for Nick to change pizza places, because if that pretty-boy delivery guy got any more blatant, Warrick was going to do something drastic.
Not surprisingly, the only saving grace for Warrick in all this was Nick himself. Nick rarely, if ever, flirted back--according to him, these people were just "being friendly." On the few occasions that Nick did realize someone was flirting with him, he usually became flustered. As Warrick saw it, his friend was in limbo. Nick had never been that great at flirting with women--now everyone knew why--and was even more uncomfortable with it lately, but he still hadn't gotten used to the idea of flirting with men he didn't know very well.
Warrick was positive that was the only thing keeping him sane.
He hadn't spontaneously combusted or anything.
Yet.
There was still the chance of it happening, though.
Oh, he had the lust under control--for the most part--but he hadn't counted on the jealously.
Almost seven months to the day they took him to the Peppermill to celebrate his marriage, Warrick's colleagues returned to celebrate the end of that marriage. After his wedding, it had only been the four men from the graveyard shift along with Jim Brass. This time Catherine and Sara decided to join them, as did Sofia and most of the lab techs. Warrick knew it had to mean something when there were twice as many people there for the death as there had been for the beginning.
Grissom left after one drink, Brass after two, but everyone else seemed prepared to hang out until at least noon--the night shift's midnight. There were nearly a dozen of them, enough to fill one of the largest circular booths in the lounge and Warrick suspected that most of them would be taking cabs home. Greg was definitely going to be taking one, Warrick decided with a grin, and probably not alone. The youngest CSI was happily ensconced between Wendy Sims and Archie Johnson, and it was difficult to say which of them he was flirting with more.
Seated between Catherine and Bobby Dawson, Nick wasn't flirting, but he was bright-eyed and animated as he spoke to the ballistics expert--more so than he had been for some time. Sara, sitting directly across from Warrick, was watching Nick with a fond smile. Then, as if feeling Warrick's eyes on her, she met his gaze and flashed him that gap-toothed grin. Warrick returned the grin easily, feeling more relaxed than he'd been in months. His good mood lasted much of the morning, right up until Sofia returned from a trip to the bar with two drinks instead of one.
The detective stopped behind Nick and handed him one of the drinks, bending slightly to speak to him as she did so. Catherine leaned closer to hear what was happening, although it wasn't truly necessary--everyone in the booth was able to follow what was going on.
After a brief, surprised look at Sofia, Nick accepted the drink from her and looked behind him to the spot she indicated. He smiled and nodded at someone--Warrick made a determined effort not to look at who it might be--but didn't seem inclined to go speak to whoever it was.
From his place on Catherine's other side, Warrick wasn't able to ignore her encouraging words to Nick, despite his best efforts.
"You think so?" Nick asked.
"You don't have to, but why wouldn't you?" Catherine snuck another look toward the man in question. "Not that bad at all."
"I met up with him a couple of times at King Jimmy's," Nick explained. "He seemed like a pretty nice guy."
Warrick ordered a double from the next passing waitress.
"You've already met him?" Catherine exclaimed. "You liked him?"
"Well...yeah."
"Hell, Nicky, why wouldn't you go talk to him?"
"It's not like I came here looking to hook up with anyone," Nick explained. "I came here with you guys. That'd be liked...ditching you, wouldn't it?"
Warrick gritted his teeth as Sofia and Bobby quickly joined in the conversation, both of them assuring Nick that no one would mind. He made sure he was looking away in case Nick happened to glance in his direction--damned if he was going to influence Nick either way.
After a little more encouragement from Catherine and Sara--when the hell had Sara joined in, anyway?--Nick left the booth. Then Warrick had to listen to the women discuss Nick's love life--or current lack thereof.
By the time Nick returned, amidst much teasing, Warrick was halfway through his second double. That was fortunate, because it was the only way he managed to stay put while Catherine, Sara and Sofia suddenly turned into teenagers again and bombarded Nick with questions. Although he tried not to, he still heard snippets of Nick's answers.
"...name is Mark...met a couple of times at King Jimmy's...he's here with co-workers, too...yes, we hit it off...no, I'm not telling you that...send him a drink? Maybe..."
Warrick was so intent on not listening, that he didn't realize the conversation had ended until Nick flopped down next to him.
"Having a good time?"
Drawing on years of experience, Warrick bluffed with a smile. "Not as good as some people."
Nick returned the smile, somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I just--"
"Nah, go ahead," Warrick said magnanimously. "You buy him a drink?"
"I don't know..."
Warrick couldn't help feeling slightly cheered by Nick's reluctance. He was just beginning to relax when Catherine leaned over to Nick again. "I think someone is waiting for you over by the bar, Nicky."
Nick glanced over. It was difficult to tell under the club's lights, but Warrick was sure he was blushing. "You don't know that."
"Yeah," Sofia agreed dryly. "He's not interested. That's why he hasn't taken his eyes off you."
Do all female CSIs--and former CSIs--turn into gay matchmakers after a few drinks? Warrick wondered.
"Considering all the times you've told me to get out and meet people," Sara added. "You should set a good example."
Apparently they do.
After a few more protests, Nick went to join Mark at the main bar, not looking too unhappy about the prospect.
When Warrick finished his drink, he decided he didn't feel like waiting for the waitress and was just buzzed enough to think that getting his next drink at the bar was a pretty good idea. The bartender set another double in front of him, but before Warrick could reach for his wallet, a bill was pushed across the counter.
"We took you out," Nick reminded him with a smile. "You shouldn't be paying."
"You're just buyin' drinks for everybody today, aren't you?" Warrick smirked, looking over Nick's shoulder.
Nick looked behind him. "Oh. Warrick, this is Mark. Mark--Warrick. We brought Warrick out to celebrate."
"Birthday?" Mark asked politely as they shook hands.
"Divorce," Warrick tightened his grip a bit more than was necessary. The guy was too sleek, in Warrick's opinion, with his carefully styled, just-stepped-out-of-Abercrombie-&-Fitch look. Mark's smile became forced as Warrick tightened his hand further, and Warrick put a little more teeth than necessary into his own smile. Once his point was made though, he had no desire to stick around playing fifth wheel. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I think I see my road to recovery over there," he said, nodding in that direction.
Both men followed his gaze toward the outrageously curved brunette at the end of the bar. One corner of Nick's mouth tucked down slightly before he smiled again. "Have fun."
"Later." He moved to the end of the bar and easily fell into a conversation with Shanna or Lana--something like that. He didn't quite catch her name because he was busy watching Mark lean in to say something in Nick's ear. Nick pulled away, looking surprised, then flicked a split-second glance in Warrick direction before shaking his head with a smile.
Warrick spent the rest of the morning collecting phone numbers as if his life depended on it.
Most of his colleagues overlooked this as natural post-divorce behavior, although Catherine had a few things to say about it, while Archie and Greg commented that they might as well head home since he wasn't giving anyone else a chance. The strange thing was, he wasn't even trying as hard as usual, and still got half a dozen invitations to return to various apartments for a very special breakfast. So it was a pleasant surprise to find himself sharing a cab with Nick for their return home.
He really should have been satisfied with that, but he couldn't seem to leave well enough alone. "So how did things go between you and that guy?"
"Mark?" Nick reset his security system once they were both in the door. Warrick suspected he would have to be very far along before he forgot it. "Okay, I guess."
Warrick took his time hanging up his jacket, thereby crowding Nick into staying by near the door. "I figured you'd be leaving with him instead of taking a cab home."
"I could say the same about you."
"He wasn't my type."
"Very funny," Nick snorted. He shifted slightly, then stilled when it became obvious Warrick wasn't going to move. "You know what I mean."
"Do you know what I mean?" As soon as the words left his mouth, alarm bells went off in Warrick's mind, alerting him that he was headed down a dangerous path. He still had enough of a buzz to conveniently muffle them, however.
"Um..." Nick was still smiling, but looked uncertain. "I'm not sure I do."
It suddenly occurred to Warrick that he could probably use the alcohol as an excuse for his actions, and the moment it did, he bent his head to cover Nick's lips with his own. He was prepared for Nick to pull away, either laughing or irritated or shocked. He was not prepared for Nick's lips to soften under his, or for Nick to press closer with a soft sound of longing.
Startled, Warrick broke it off, wanting to look into those dark eyes that always spoke volumes, but as soon as he drew back, Nick stumbled away.
"Oh, jeez..." Nick breathed, keeping his eyes down. "I'm sorry, Rick."
Warrick couldn't process that. "What?"
"You've a lot to drink...and considering your divorce just went through today..." Nick explained, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor. "I shouldn't...I know you never would have...I just--God, I'm sorry." Before Warrick could say anything, Nick had pushed past him and practically ran for his bedroom.
Warrick stared stupidly after him. Nick had kissed him back. Nick had wanted to kiss him. Nick thought Warrick's kiss was brought on by booze and divorce. Nick thought he was taking advantage of Warrick. Warrick was torn between sitting down to laugh his head off and going after Nick to make his point.
On the other hand, Nick had every right to think what he did. Warrick had never admitted his bisexuality to his friend. Hell, he'd gotten married just to avoid doing so, because he'd been scared to death of finding out that Nick never wanted anything more than friendship from him. It had taken years and a lot of liquor for him to even gather the nerve for a chaste kiss.
Despite his fuzziness, Warrick forced himself to think straight. If he followed Nick into his bedroom and tried anything, Nick would probably turn him away on the basis that it was the right thing to do. Either that, or something would happen and Nick would guilt himself to death afterward.
He was in no shape to think clearly about this, so although it was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, Warrick walked into his bedroom and crawled into bed. Alone.
It was the only time in his life that he'd ever ignored such a strong temptation, but the possibility of something with Nick was too important to risk with his usual impulsive behavior.
Nick didn't wish a hangover on Warrick, but he was glad his friend had knocked back a little too much at the Peppermill. It meant he was sleeping like the dead and gave Nick the chance to get the hell out of the house without having to speak to him.
Of course, Nick reflected, it was the liquor that had caused the whole mess. But then, Warrick's single drunken kiss wouldn't have been a big deal if he hadn't been unbelievably stupid and tried to turn it into something more. He was determined not to think about it. At least, not until he absolutely had to, which would probably be once they'd both finished their shifts and Warrick gave some handy excuse for moving out immediately. If he thought about it too much, Nick knew he might very well light out for Texas like an utter coward.
Four hours was far too early to show up for work when he wasn't approved any overtime, so Nick killed an hour or two with a solitary dinner and some wandering among his favorite stores. He ended up buying a couple of shirts--one of which he paid much more than usual for--a pair of jeans and some dress slacks. At an electronics store he browsed over the laptops. He had considered getting a new one with the money he was now saving on rent, but that option had just vanished and it was the least of his regrets, anyway.
Finally, he gave up and headed to the lab two hours early, knowing he had plenty of paperwork to keep him busy. Grabbing a stack of his case files, Nick found a quiet corner and began plowing through all the forms and reports that seemed to constantly pile up. He managed to keep at it for almost an hour before he started going cross-eyed. As he gathered everything up again, Nick decided to go in search of his supervisor.
Grissom had likely arrived some time ago and might possibly have an assignment that Nick could start on. If Warrick didn't show up early as well--and Nick prayed he didn't--then they might not run into each other all shift.
He barely noted Detective Vartann in conversation with Ecklie as he walked down the hall, until he heard Vartann mention his name. Curious, he slowed a bit, and was able to catch most of Ecklie's reply--"It should only be cross-referenced under Stokes. Check the computer under Mullins."
"I did. There's no vault number," Vartann returned. "I checked under Gordon, too."
Nick stopped just behind Vartann, trying to ignore the knots those particular names brought to his stomach.
Ecklie noticed him at once and frowned uncomfortably. "Nick."
"Hi."
Vartann turned around, "Stokes." He glanced at Ecklie, "You...you worked Sylvia Mullins' murder, right?"
"Yeah," Nick braced himself involuntarily. "Yeah, Sofia closed it a while ago."
"What was the evidence in that case logged under?" Ecklie asked.
"Under Mul--" Nick suddenly remembered the phone call he received nearly two weeks before. "There was a dispute over some of her personal effects," he explained. "One of her clients was petitioning the court for everything. The judge ruled against him just a couple of days ago. It's in one of the holding rooms and hasn't been logged into the vault yet."
"Do you know where?"
"Sure. In the one right next to the drying room--I put it there myself."
"Can you show me?" Vartann persisted.
"Detective..." Ecklie began, looking from him to Nick and back. "I'll let Westbrook know you've found the evidence."
"Thanks," Vartann nodded, then gestured for Nick to lead the way.
Nick did, after casting Ecklie a tight smile to let him know he got the hint as well.
They were silent as they made their way to the holding room, and Nick couldn't help reflecting once again, on Vartann's easy acceptance of his coming out. Of all the detectives Nick worked with most often, Vartann was undoubtedly the most hard-nosed and arrogant but the man had never once treated him any differently.
Proving this point again as Nick unlocked the evidence locker assigned for his cases, Vartann asked, "Aren't you going to ask what this is about? I'd want to know if I were you."
Finding the necessary box almost immediately, Nick set it on the table. "She's been dead for months," he pointed out, trying not to sound too curious.
"Yeah, and this is probably going to go nowhere," Vartann admitted. "But our John Doe had no ID. The only name we found on him was her card." He picked up the bags containing the appointment and address books. "Who knows how long he had it."
"Those are probably your best bet," Nick started filling out the form so Vartann could take the bags.
"Yeah, I'm not gonna hold my breath, though," Vartann took the clipboard and signed off. "Thanks."
"No pro--" Nick stopped when both their pagers went off at the same moment.
Vartann had his out first. "A 402 on Jefferson and E. You, too?"
"Yep."
"There you are," Grissom stopped in the doorway. "There's a fire on Jefferson. You're driving."
"Right behind you," Nick assured him, handing the evidence to Vartann.
The fire, at a halfway house on Jefferson Avenue, officially belonged to the swing shift, but for the first 60 hours, nearly every CSI was working it. Most of the building burned to the ground, but what remained made it plain that the doors had been barred from the outside. That, combined with protective caging on the windows, meant that all the residents had been trapped inside until the LVFD had arrived.
Death may have waited for no one, but down in the City Morgue, it had to take a number for a while. Twenty-seven bodies, ranging from barely singed to hideously charred, were pulled from the smoldering remains. After three were found to have been dead before the fire--COD was actually the bullet holes in their skulls--all the bodies had to undergo thorough autopsies. Unless they were given high priority, most other cases had to wait--the press had jumped on the halfway house arson and the Sheriff had given his orders.
Things had been so hectic that Warrick only got home for a shower and a few hours sleep twice in three days. That was the norm for all three shifts during the investigation, making it impossible for Warrick to find the time to clear the air with Nick. Anticipation never failed to curl through him at the thought of what could happen after the air had been cleared. Although he told himself it wouldn't be wise to get his hopes up--after all, Nick had been drinking, too--Warrick couldn't help thinking about what it would be like if his hopes came true.
Of course, if it was up to Nick, Warrick was certain, there wouldn't be any sort of conversation about the kiss. Thus far, Nick had managed to arrange things so that they were never home at the same time and rarely worked the case together. Warrick hadn't even been able to get a few minutes alone with Nick to let his friend know he wasn't the least bit upset about the kiss. Now that things at the Crime Lab had finally returned their usual pace, Warrick intended for everything to be resolved after this shift. Barring another disaster Warrick planned to be home--at Nick's, but it had been very easy to start thinking of it as "home"--within the hour.
He had a sneaking suspicion that Nick might find somewhere else to be after work, but the guy had to come home sometime and Warrick was determined to wait him out. Warrick left the minute his shift ended, not bothering to look for Nick first--he definitely didn't want this sorted out at the lab. At home he got something to eat and tried to ignore the exhaustion pressing down on him. He didn't want to go to bed and risk missing Nick, so instead he stretched out on the sofa and was asleep in minutes.
He awoke to the sound of the door closing and opened his eyes to see Nick heading for his bedroom. "Hey."
Nick stumbled to an immediate halt and turned around. "Oh," was all he said.
Warrick got off the sofa, noting that Nick looked much more tired that even the past few days accounted for. He spared a quick glance at his watch. It was well past one--Nick had managed to avoid returning for quite some time.
"I wanted to tell you--" Nick's gaze immediately dipped to the floor. "I mean, to apologize--that is, I thought you might be packing..."
"Nicky," Warrick frowned. He'd had no idea Nick felt this bad about it.
"I can promise you it will never happen again," Nick said, raising earnest brown eyes to Warrick's. "Really."
Now that would be a crying shame. Warrick shook off any residual sleepiness. He knew he had to set this straight right away. "Nick, just let me ask you one thing."
"Sure," Nick nodded, although he seemed to be bracing himself. "Yeah, of course."
"Am I drunk right now?"
"Wh-what?"
"Am I drunk right now?"
"You were sleeping, weren't you?" Nick frowned in confusion.
"Nick," Warrick spoke firmly. "It's a yes or no question. Do you believe I'm drunk right now?"
"No."
"Good," Warrick said, and kissed him.
Nick froze, not reacting to the kiss at all. Warrick persisted, but was beginning to get worried until Nick let out a small, choked sound of want. Immediately, Warrick took advantage of the parted lips, sliding his tongue inside for a better taste. Nick moaned softly and Warrick ran one hand through the short, silky hair to cradle his head.
Finally, Nick broke away with a gasp. "What..? Warrick, what--?"
"Here's the deal," Warrick bowed his head to whisper into a slightly reddened ear. "I won't say how long I've wanted you and you won't say how long you've wanted me and this way neither of us has to feel like an idiot."
Nick drew back to stare at him.
Warrick couldn't help being nervous, because he knew how presumptuous his words were, but felt he was in too far to back down. "Okay?"
"That's probably a good idea," Nick agreed, a smile hovering around his lips.
This time when Warrick leaned in, Nick met him halfway, one arm coming up to encircle his neck, while the other wrapped around his waist. This kiss lasted much longer, until Nick moved his lips to Warrick's cheek, whispering his name against the stubbled skin over and over.
"What, Nicky?" Warrick murmured, stroking Nick's hair with one hand and his back with the other.
"I can't believe this," Nick breathed. "I thought you would leave because of what happened. God, it was killing me."
"Not on your life," Warrick assured him with another hungry kiss.
When they stopped for air, Nick persisted, "But are you even--? Have you ever--?"
Warrick smiled, he supposed there was no way to escape a few questions. "I guess I'm bisexual, although I don't see the need to call it anything." He teased Nick with a barely-there brush of lips. "I've just never had anything long-term with a guy before."
"Long-term?"
"Nicky, you want to talk, or you want to make out?"
Instead of answering, Nick drew Warrick's head down.
He had no idea where things might be leading, so Warrick savored every sensation from the moist heat of Nick's mouth to the shiver he prompted when he slipped a hand under Nick's shirt.
Then Nick broke off again and, panting, pressed his face against Warrick's neck. "Rick, I don't--"
He didn't finish the statement, and Warrick frowned at what he felt against his skin. "Did you just yawn?"
"Sorry."
"S'okay," Warrick kissed his ear. "How many times did you get back here?"
"Twice. But I only slept one time," Nick admitted. "I couldn't stop thinking about--wondering if you were going to move out."
"Aw, hell, Nicky," Warrick cupped Nick face with one hand and pulled back slightly to look into the dark eyes. "You must be dead on your feet."
One corner of Nick's mouth twitched, even though his exhaustion was evident. "I'm kinda wondering if I'm even awake right now."
"You think you're dreaming?" Warrick smiled.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Nick said, then promptly turned red.
Warrick felt his smile widen into a grin. "You need to get some sleep, Nicky. And I could actually use a little more."
"Together?" Nick sounded hesitant.
"That's your call."
"I...um...I'd like to..." Nick looked dismayed to find that it was up to him. "If it's only--that is, I don't know if we should..."
"It's okay," Warrick assured him, finding Nick more apprehensive than he'd expected. "We can get in a little more time before work."
"Yeah," Nick replied, disappointed. "I actually thought we could...I mean, I don't--jeez!" He blew out a breath of air, obviously exasperated with himself. "I'd like it if you were next to me, but I'm not sure about--"
"Anything else," Warrick finished with a smile. He'd never expected things to move quickly with Nick, anyway.
"I'm sorry," Nick muttered.
"Don't be," Warrick assured him with another kiss. "Just waking up next to you sounds pretty damn good to me."
If Warrick hadn't been next to him when he awakened, Nick wouldn't have believed the previous afternoon had happened at all. They had slept deeply--rather surprising in itself--and awoke with only enough time for a few kisses in between getting ready for work.
Nick still wasn't entirely certain Warrick had been joking when he suggested showering together to save time, but he laughed it off anyway. He seriously doubted it would save them any time at all and he was still a bit dazed by the whole situation. Which was stupid, because this was something he'd wanted for so long that it seemed he couldn't remember not wanting it. The part he was having trouble with was believing that Warrick wanted it as well.
Doubts and apprehensions needed to be put firmly behind him, Nick told himself. Nerves would simply have to be ignored. He was determined that any lingering issues he had about anything would not be a factor in this. Warrick had said long-term and Nick was not going to be the one to jeopardize that.
At the moment, though, Nick knew his main problem was keeping his mind on the job and not letting it wander into things that might happen when they got home. Nervous though he was, he was also filled with keen anticipation whenever he thought about it. It was fortunate that few of his current cases paired him with Warrick because he wasn't sure how well he'd be able to concentrate while working side-by-side with the man.
Nick was also worried that he would inadvertently give something away. While he'd had years of practice hiding his feelings for Warrick--and had apparently done a very good job--he doubted he'd be as successful now that he knew those feelings were reciprocated. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Warrick, especially when he had no idea how open Warrick wanted to be about whatever was between them. Since everyone already knew they were roommates and good friends, Warrick might just want to leave it at that.
Don't get carried away, he told himself firmly. It would probably be best not to have too many expectations when Warrick could merely be on the rebound. After all, when he had mentioned long-term, it had been to say that he'd never been long-term with a guy before. Maybe that was his way of warning that this wasn't very serious.
No, Nick finally decided. Warrick said they wouldn't rush, and if it was just a fling he was looking for, that was--a double beep alerted him that the last set of prints he'd run through AFIS had returned without a hit. Focusing his attention on the case again, he went looking for Sara to give her the bad news and find out if the bank records had turned up anything interesting.
"Stokes!"
Nick turned and slowed his pace when he saw Vartann hurrying to catch up to him. "Hi, Detective."
Vartann held up two evidence bags. "Thought I'd get these back to you."
"Thanks. I need you to sign again, though."
"I know," Vartann nodded, following when Nick made a right into the holding room.
"Did they help at all?" he asked, tossing the bags on the table and looking through the papers on the clipboard.
"Not really," Vartann shrugged. "I'm still trying to reach some of the names, but I don't think there's anything there." He took the clipboard Nick handed him and signed off. "A business card is a long shot at best, but it's all we've got."
"Do you want me to hold off sending it to the vault for another week?" Nick asked. "Just in case?"
"Yeah," Vartann set the clipboard on the table. "Maybe until I manage to reach everyone."
"No problem," Nick assured him, resealing the bags.
"Thanks," Vartann left.
Nick initialed and dated the new seals, then dropped the bags back in their bin with a slight frown of distaste. He locked up again, then continued his search for Sara.
Rarely was Warrick so glad to be maxed out on overtime. Although he'd been anxious to get home the previous morning, it was nothing compared to this. Usually he was known only for losing his cool to anger, but for the entire shift he'd been hard-pressed to keep from making a fool of himself, and the last hour especially had seemed endless.
Greg kept shooting him strange looks during that last hour, but didn't comment, perhaps recalling Warrick's surly mood the week before. When they got delayed in traffic and Warrick muttered a few choice curses under his breath, Greg looked ready to jump out the door. Warrick glanced over, and seeing the younger man's wary gaze, couldn't help laughing. Greg relaxed visibly.
He felt like a teenager ready for his first date, Warrick decided ruefully, only with less apprehension.
When they arrived at the lab, Greg offered to bring in the evidence, allowing Warrick to take off. Warrick paused only long enough to thank him, before jumping into his Wrangler and heading for West Charleston. He didn't miss Greg's curious look, though, and knew the former tech would soon be trying to find out what exactly was going on.
Nick's truck was parked in the driveway, and that was enough to make Warrick's pulse speed up as he hurried into the house. "Hey," he called, shrugging out of his jacket.
"Hey," Nick emerged from the kitchen.
"C'mere," Warrick said. "I want to talk to you."
Nick's brows rose dubiously, but he stepped forward with a tiny smile.
Warrick met him more than halfway, pulling him close and kissing him hungrily. Nick mmmm'd happily and gave himself up to the kiss.
Easing off slightly, Warrick trailed his lips along Nick's cheek and up to his temple. "That was one hell of a long shift."
"What shift?" Nick laughed softly.
Warrick chuckled as well before moving to Nick's ear and nibbling gently on the lobe. Then he nuzzled just behind it, reveling in the little sounds of pleasure Nick made as much as the sensation of Nick's hands stroking and kneading at his back and sides. The usual tension of the day seemed to melt away like ice in the desert sun. For Nick as well, Warrick realized, feeling the smaller man relax against him.
As their lips met again, Warrick slid both hands down to the small of Nick's back. They couldn't get any closer, but Warrick still made the attempt, pressing Nick more firmly against him. Nick settled easily and began exploring Warrick's neck industriously, seeming particularly interested in the hollow of his throat. He licked and sucked at the spot, making Warrick groan with pleasure.
Warrick tugged Nick's t-shirt from his jeans, eager for warm skin under his fingertips. Nick shivered against him, a sensation Warrick enjoyed as much as any other. He slid the t-shirt higher and Nick stilled for a split-second before raising his arms so the shirt could be pulled over his head and tossed aside.
Skimming his hands along Nick's ribs, Warrick also bent his head to press kisses along his collarbone. Nick shivered again, grabbing handfuls of Warrick's shirt.
"Yeah," Warrick husked, quickly ripping the shirt up and off. "There we go."
Nick's breathing was hitched as he pressed his face into the crook of Warrick's neck briefly before lifting his head for more kisses. Warrick was only too happy to oblige, running one hand up and down Nick's spine and reaching for his belt with the other.
Suddenly, Nick's hands were on his arms, pushing them away. "Whoa," he gasped, stepping back unsteadily. "Not--sorry...just--I just--"
"Okay..." Warrick felt a bit off-balance, still fuzzy with desire. He looked at Nick, standing with his shoulders were hunched guiltily. "Too fast." It wasn't a question.
"I'm...it's just..."
"Come here, Nicky," Warrick coaxed, holding out his hand.
Nick took it immediately, stepping back into the circle of Warrick's arms and returning the embrace. "It's been...when I..." he sighed, and dropped his forehead to Warrick's shoulder.
"It's been awhile?" Warrick supplied.
"Yeah."
"Since just after you came out?"
"Um...no. I didn't actually hook up with anyone."
Warrick knew he had no right, but was still happy to hear it. "So when was the last time you were with a guy?"
Another soft exhalation. "My first year in Vegas, I went with a guy for a few months."
"Since then it's only been women?"
"Yeah," Nick voice was muffled.
Warrick could sense his embarrassment, but also had the feeling this was something important. "When was the last time you were with anyone, then?"
"Um...a woman that I used to work with came for a visit and we'd gone out a few times back in Dallas, so..."
"When was this?" Warrick asked, not remembering if Nick had mentioned any such woman.
There was a long pause, and then so quietly Warrick barely caught it, Nick admitted, "A couple of months before...before...."
"Yeah. Not quite a year ago then." That seemed like a hell of a long time to Warrick, but he knew their situations were very different.
Nick was silent and burrowed slightly closer.
"Nicky?"
"I was a couple of months before...before that whole thing with Crane," Nick's voice was very quiet.
"Crane," Warrick repeated blankly. "Nigel Crane? That's almost..."
Nick froze and then began pulling away.
"That's...four years?"
"I know," Nick muttered, high color on his cheeks. "I know it's weird."
Having never gone more than a few months without someone since college, Warrick struggled with the concept. "With anyone?" He realized his mistake the moment he said it, because Nick broke away completely.
"Maybe this whole thing is a bad idea, Rick," Nick backed up a few steps. "I have a lot of...issues, and I'm not even sure where they--"
Warrick couldn't stand that Nick looked ashamed of himself--as if he'd done something wrong. Then he thought about four years of spending nights--days--all alone and his heart ached. His libido cooled considerably and what stood out was how terribly lonely Nick must have been for so long. That was just wrong. Especially for Nick. A single, long stride brought him close enough to pull Nick into a tight embrace. "It's okay."
"It's not," Nick insisted. "I know you think it's--"
"It was just a bit unexpected," Warrick assured him, raining kisses on the soft hair. "That's all."
"Right," Nick's disbelief was evident.
"Hey, I've got no problem slowing things down."
"That's not it," Nick disentangled himself again. "I had no idea I was going to stop until I did. I'm not even sure why I backed off."
"Because we were going too fast," Warrick said simply. "Look, I think we might be making this a bigger deal than it actually is."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Warrick insisted, desperately wishing he hadn't reacted when Nick first told him. Nick sounded so uncertain, but so hopeful that Warrick wanted to banish any doubts from his mind. "So we go nice and slow. Think I care as long as it's with you?"
"It's been four years," Nick sighed, moving in close to rest his forehead against Warrick's collarbone. "Dammit, the last thing I want to do is stop."
Laughing quietly, Warrick tilted Nick's head back. "C'mon, Nicky. You know that going slow and stopping are two totally different things." He captured Nick's lips again, this time in a soft, leisurely kiss.
Nick began exploring Warrick's bare skin again, tentatively at first, but as the kiss deepened with more confidence. Slowly, their kisses and touches became heated once more. Warrick tried to remain detached enough to be aware of the slightest negative reaction, but it was a losing battle. Despite a momentary hesitation here and there, Nick seemed fine with the situation. More than fine, Warrick decided, giving another encouraging rub to the bulge in the Texan's jeans.
Stumbling back toward the sofa and pulling Warrick down onto it with him, Nick took advantage of this new position to further explore Warrick's chest with his mouth, latching briefly onto one nipple and then the other while his hands stroked at Warrick's ribs and stomach and thighs.
Cautiously this time, Warrick reached for Nick's belt again. Nick shuddered, but when Warrick would have pulled away, Nick caught hold of his wrist. He straightened slightly, making it easier for their lips to meet in another deep kiss. "Okay," Nick finally murmured, releasing his wrist. "It's okay."
Warrick fumbled with Nick's belt and fly, and Nick returned the favor, although his hands were shaking slightly so he had to use both. Warrick's other arm was around Nick's shoulders, his free hand cradling Nick's head while he kept his lips pressed to Nick's temple. "Like this?" he whispered, pushing denim and cotton aside enough to free Nick's erection.
"Wait...wait..." Nick hissed, after a quick, desperate arch of his hips. He fumbled briefly before freeing Warrick as well.
Whoa. Warrick had not expected sparks to ricochet crazily through his entire body just because Nick grasped his cock. Hell, he certainly wasn't the first person, or even the first man to do so. And, Jesus, this was their first time together and Nick didn't even know just how he liked it but it was Nick and the touch was so gentle but firm and giving and sweet, just like Nick just like... "Just like that, Nicky..."
It suddenly occurred to him that he should be reciprocating, and he gave Nick a few careful strokes. After four years without another person's touch, that was all it took and with a sharp cry, Nick began pumping himself into Warrick's hand. His fingers tightened convulsively, but not painfully around Warrick's cock, and that was enough to carry Warrick along with him.
Feeling utterly boneless, aware of little except the warm puffs of breath on his neck, Warrick decided they would definitely have to take things slow. If a mere hand job made him feel like this, anything else was going to kill him.
He really had to stop grinning like a maniac.
He could handle having Catherine and Sara notice at the crime scene and tease him unmercifully about his "new guy." He could even take Hodges' drawling sarcasm about his unnecessarily good mood. But he was heading down to the morgue and a big goofy smile would just be creepy.
Dr. Robbins was nowhere in sight, but Nick easily found David Phillips tapping away at the computer. "Hey, Super Dave. You got a minute?"
After a few more keystrokes, David turned to him. "Sure. What do you need?"
"I know you've only done the prelim on my John Doe, but I need another look at those ridges in his arm. How close were the scars?"
"Scars? There were some in the crease of his elbow." David got up from the desk and walked over to the cooler wall.
"Yeah, that might be--" When he looked down at the body on the metal slab, alarm bells went off, and not only because it was the wrong body. "This is..." he cleared his throat, because his voice was suddenly hoarse. "This isn't my John Doe."
"Oh, sorry," David apologized, checking the door. He started to push the drawer shut, but Nick stopped him.
"Wait." Staring at the still form, Nick recognized the face, even though it was older and thinner. He felt his heart sink and settle in the pit of his stomach. "What's his story?"
After giving Nick a brief, curious look, David checked the file. "Um...John Doe 06-108. Died approximately April 10, brought in April 12. No matches in AFIS, CODIS, or NCIC."
"His name is Alexei," Nick said quietly. "At least, that's the name he gave me."
David's eyes widened. "You know him?"
"I met him once, a couple of years ago. I'm not 100% positive, but--well, yeah. I guess I am. What's the COD?"
"Injuries to--" David looked back down at the file and cleared his throat nervously. "He bled out--massive blood loss."
Nick gave him a sharp look, but decided not to press it. Although shy and nervous, David could be surprisingly stubborn when it came to protecting the privacy of victims in his care--almost as if to make up for the invasion of autopsies. "Which CSI?"
"Hal Westbrook. Oh," David frowned. "That must be why he's still here."
"Westbrook never got around to signing the release," Nick nodded. Hal Westbrook, one of the day shift CSIs, had suffered a sudden heart attack only days ago and was now away indefinitely. "Who has the case been reassigned to?"
"It doesn't say that it was."
"Dead kid no one is looking for," Nick studied Alexei and felt sadness overwhelm him. "Not a high priority." He released a pent-up breath and nodded to the man across from him. "Thanks, Super Dave."
"Wait," David said when Nick turned to leave. "What about your John Doe?"
"Right," Nick hesitated, but only for a moment. "I'll be back later about it." He pushed open the large swinging door, and rushed down the hall, nearly slamming into Catherine as he barreled around a corner.
"Whoa."
"Sorry."
"Does this mean you matched what's in our vic's arm?"
Nick winced, "Ah...no. Something else came up."
"Are you okay?" Catherine frowned. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not quite." He mustered up a smile, "I'll get back on it soon, okay?"
"I can check it, now that I'm here." She studied him with concern, "I'll catch up to you later?"
"Yeah," Nick agreed quickly. "I'm still on the case, Cath. I just have to check on another one first."
Catherine's tight expression relaxed. "Found a lead on a different case?"
"Sort of."
"Go for it," she waved him on. "I'll talk to you later."
Nick got all the way to Grissom's office before he remembered that his supervisor was lecturing at a conference in Chicago for four days and there were still two days left. That meant he'd have to talk to Ecklie about it, except that Ecklie wasn't in tonight and Nick had no idea when he would be.
Since becoming the Assistant Lab Director, Ecklie rotated his hours so that he worked a different shift each week, assuring that no shift got more of his attention. Whatever else Nick thought about Ecklie, there was no denying that the man had stepped up to the plate and was infinitely better than his predecessor. A quick check of the schedule revealed Ecklie was on day shift this week, which meant Nick could probably catch him before leaving.
Realizing he was letting himself get far to wound up about a case that wasn't even his--yet--Nick headed to the break room for something to drink while he got his head on straight. He decided that caffeine was the last thing he needed and ignored the coffee pot, grabbing a juice from the fridge instead. He took a look sip and leaned against the counter, trying to organize his thoughts.
Alexei hadn't been in the country legally. It had been only a suspicion before, but a certainty now. Even if by some chance he had been an exchange student at one time, he definitely wasn't at the time of his death and probably hadn't been when Nick encountered him in the desert, either. Nick didn't allow himself to speculate on the nature of Alexei injuries, but he knew they must have been nasty considering the way David had avoided mentioning them.
Right now, though, Nick knew he had to calm down and get back to his current case. Alexei, sadly, wouldn't be going anywhere. Nick decided he'd be better off focusing on the metal beads they'd found in the victim's pockets, whether or not they were responsible for the ridges in his arms and why the hell they were there.
Reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, Nick pulled out a small bag containing samples of the metal beads he'd brought along for comparison. He knew there was an extreme body modification practice that involved inserting similar implants under the skin--usually for those who felt that tattoos and body piercings had become too mainstream. Nick had never quite understood the appeal of some of the more unusual piercing, and had no idea where metal implanting was done.
What was especially strange in this case was that the victim had no other form of body art or piercing. Strange that he would begin with the most extreme procedure. Maybe he'd take some photos to "Ink, Inc." It was one of the better places in Vegas, and Nick knew the owner reasonably well--they used the same gym. He was pretty sure than Dane Mossor found him a constant source of amusement, but the man was always willing to answer his questions, even the ones that probably seemed stupid to someone with a bald, tattooed head and dozens of piercings. Nick considered bringing Catherine along--she'd probably get a huge kick out of Dane.
Dropping his now-empty bottle into the recycling bin, Nick headed back to his case with renewed interest. He was looking down at the metal beads again, so he collided with Warrick in the doorway and stumbled back a step. "Sorry," Nick said automatically, and immediately felt a smile tugging at his lips again.
"I'm not," Warrick grinned. "How's your case going?"
"Pretty good. You?"
"It's going." His voice dropped, becoming low and intimate, "Still no overtime, though, right?"
They were standing far enough apart to avoid notice, but that voice was almost like a caress. "Right. But I have to talk to Ecklie when he gets in."
"Something wrong?"
Nick decided this wasn't the time to tell Warrick about recognizing Alexei. "Not really."
"Okay. Don't be long." He edged past Nick in the doorway, pressing closer than strictly necessary for longer than strictly necessary.
"I won't," Nick promised, then moved away before they forgot where they were or someone noticed them. Even though he'd given up gambling, Warrick was still awfully fond of taking chances. Nick wasn't about to complain about that, however, considering what had resulted from the last chance Warrick had taken.
As he returned to the evidence lab, Nick found himself fighting back another goofy grin.
By the end of shift, he and Catherine had managed to identify their John Doe as Aaron Wilke, a WLVU student originally from Twin Falls, Idaho. He seemed one of the least likeliest people to be interested in metal body implants. They still didn't have a COD--that would probably be waiting for them the next night. Sofia had the unpleasant job of informing his parents and attempting to get a bit more background from them. All Nick had left to do was speak to Ecklie and then he'd be able to go home.
Where Warrick would be waiting.
Okay, he really had to stop with the smiling.
The only thing stranger than grinning on the way to the morgue, was grinning on the way to see Ecklie.
Ecklie's door was open, so Nick just knocked on the jamb.
The Assistant Director glanced up only long enough to identify the visitor before focusing back on whatever he was writing. "I hope you aren't here to request more overtime."
"No," Nick leaned against the door frame slightly. "I came to see if you'd reassigned all of Hal Westbrook's cases."
"Most of them," Ecklie replied without raising his head. "Don't have enough to do?"
"I just thought I might pick up one of them," Nick shrugged, even though Ecklie wasn't looking at him.
"There's five cases left. Take your pick."
"The John Doe," Nick said promptly.
Ecklie stopped writing and looked at him.
"John Doe 06-108," he clarified.
"That's more specific than I expected," Ecklie set down his pen.
"I'd like to see what I can do with it," Nick said honestly.
With a shrug, Ecklie swivelled his chair to go through the small pile of folders on the shelf behind him and pulled one out. He flipped through it and his expression turned sour. "You don't think there would be a conflict of interest?"
Nick was thrown by the question. Had Dave reported to Ecklie that he mentioned Alexei by name? That didn't sound like him. However, Dave might have said something to Catherine when she went in after Nick left, and Catherine would almost certainly remember the case. But no, Catherine definitely would have said something to him about it herself. That was hardly the point, anyway.
"If there is a conflict of interest, it's likely peripheral," Nick said firmly. That Ecklie would bring this up was something of sore point. "We've allowed CSIs to work more personal cases, and I believe I've proven that I can hand such cases without bias." There.
After studying him a few more seconds, Ecklie nodded to concede that point, albeit reluctantly. "Okay. I'll think this over. If it's in your slot when you show up for your next shift, then the case is yours. If it's not, then I don't want to hear about it again. Deal?"
Nick frowned. He was tempted to argue, but he knew that pissing Ecklie off was a good way to guarantee that he wouldn't get the case at all, and that his life would be difficult for the next few weeks. Instead, he nodded his agreement and left.
It wasn't as difficult to do as it might have been at one time. He was eager to get home, and he couldn't remember when he'd last felt that way. For the past year, before Warrick moved in, he had usually dreaded going home, and even before that, it was just something he did, not something he anticipated. Normally the only time he would look forward to it was after he'd been working doubles or triples, and that was more about ending his exhaustion than anything else.
As he drove out of the parking lot under the morning sun, sleep was the last thing on his mind.
Nick knew that for a lot of people, what happened between he and Warrick would barely count as anything, but he had gone four years without anyone else's touch--to him it meant everything.
And dammit, he was grinning again.
Warrick had never learned to cook. Even though they'd been strict with him in all other aspects, food had been the one area where his Gran and Aunt Bertha had allowed themselves to spoil him. Once he'd moved out, they still made sure he left after each visit loaded down with homemade meals that he only had to microwave. It might have had something to do with the too-scrawny kid he'd once been.
After they were both gone, Warrick had gotten by on frozen meals and sandwiches when he wasn't eating out or dating someone who was happy to cook for him. He knew he could probably follow a recipe if he ever had to--hell, he was a scientist, but he was certainly never going to have a knack for it.
Nick, on the other hand, was actually fairly competent in the kitchen. He'd laughingly told Warrick once that before he left for college, his mother and each of his sisters had taken him aside and taught him how to properly prepare one full meal so he wouldn't starve. Considering each meal contained several dishes, Nick had ended up with a decent repertoire. And, of course, the guy could barbecue like nobody's business.
None of that solved Warrick's problem, which was that he wanted to have something ready for breakfast when Nick got home.
Nick's favorite breakfast place was about twenty minutes out of the way, but Warrick put the pedal down and managed to get there, get breakfast and get home before Nick arrived. In fact, he made it with time to spare and when Nick pulled up, all Warrick had to do was put breakfast on the coffee table.
When Nick walked in, he noticed the spread immediately. "What's this?"
"Breakfast," Warrick replied with a kiss.
"I know that," Nick's laugh was a little breathless. "But--hey, is that Taco Rancheros? From The Egg?"
"Yep," Warrick nuzzled Nick's ear.
Nick tilted his head to give him better access. "Spoiling me already?" he asked with a sigh.
"Of course," Warrick moved back to those tempting lips. "Besides, I figured after a meeting with Ecklie, you could use a break."
"It wasn't that bad," Nick chuckled. He tucked his head briefly in the crook of Warrick's neck and emerged again after a few soft kisses. "But this is great, because I didn't get the chance to grab a bite at work."
In response to his words, Warrick nipped lightly at Nick's lips. "Then let's eat. I don't want to take advantage of you on an empty stomach."
"I thought I took advantage of you that first time."
"I know you do, baby," Warrick grinned, releasing him after one more kiss.
Nick laughed as he took off his jacket, then joined Warrick on the sofa.
"What did you have to talk to Ecklie about, anyway?" Warrick asked.
"Picking up one of Westbrook's cases," Nick replied, digging into his breakfast at once.
"What? You don't have enough to do?"
"Hunh. You sound just like Ecklie."
"You're not funny," Warrick shot him a dark look.
Nick chuckled around a mouthful of food.
"Come on, why the extra case?"
"It's a John Doe I want to look at," Nick replied, some of his good humor disappearing.
"You think it has something to do with the John Doe you and Cath are working?"
"No. And that's not a John Doe anymore, anyway." Nick went on to explain the progress they had made on the case.
As they worked their way through breakfast, conversation remained focused on work. Even though Nick didn't bring it up again, Warrick couldn't shake the feeling there was more to the John Doe case he'd requested. He waited until they had finished eating, though. "What's the deal with the other John Doe? Westbrook's?"
"Well, I don't have the background on the case. Ecklie didn't give me a definite answer."
That was odd. "How did you find out about it?"
Nick hesitated. "I saw the body when I was down in the morgue on another case."
"How old?"
"About sixteen."
There you had it. It wouldn't be the first time a CSI had felt a connection with a victim--it happened often, especially with kids. As Warrick reached over to put his empty plate on the coffee table, he glanced at Nick, who now seemed to be lost in thought. There was an expression of sadness on his face that made Warrick wonder what else about this kid had made Nick want the case so bad.
Nick sat forward a set his empty plate down as well, then remained in that position. After a moment, his shoulders lifted in a deep, silent sigh.
"Hey."
Nick looked over at him, then leaned back with an apologetic smile. "Sorry."
A gentle tug was all it took to encourage Nick to lean against him instead. "What is it about this case?"
"I'll explain it if I get the case, okay?"
Warrick wasn't crazy about that idea, but it was a fair deal. "Okay. Now how am I gonna keep your mind off it until it's time for work?"
With a smile that banished more of the shadows from his eyes, Nick pressed closer. "Need any ideas?"
"Nope. Think I got it covered." Warrick cupped Nick's cheek and traced the parted lips with his thumb before capturing them.
Nick shifted his weight once more, leaning back and pulling Warrick along to lie on top of him. Warrick followed, but kept himself levered off the smaller man. He didn't relax and settle until Nick wrapped both arms around him.
There was no telling whether the blissful haze lasted five minutes or a half-hour, and Warrick didn't much care. He was too busy exploring Nick's skin with his lips and Nick's mouth with his tongue while Nick did the same. He felt rather than heard Nick mumble his name.
"Hmmm?" It came out as a purr directly in Nick's ear. Warrick spent quite a bit of time around those ears, particularly the spot where the line of Nick's jaw almost reached his earlobe. Nuzzling that sensitive patch of skin always produced interesting results. "What, Nicky?" he asked, and applied his tongue to that spot, making Nick arch and gasp against him.
"Mmmm--maybe we could move to the bedroom."
"Okay," Warrick agreed, but made no attempt to move.
Nick didn't seem to be in that much of a hurry, because they exchanged several more long kisses before he prompted "Warrick?" again.
With some regret but more anticipation, Warrick got up off the sofa, then pulled Nick to his feet as well. When Nick turned to walk toward his bedroom, Warrick couldn't resist sliding his arms around him from behind and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. Nick leaned back, tilting his head to share another deep kiss, then continued walking without breaking the circle of Warrick's arms. Warrick allowed himself to be led along, and once in Nick's bedroom, he rested his chin on the shorter man's shoulder and began unbuttoning his shirt.
Nick caught his hands just before the last two buttons. "What about you?"
If that made his new lover more comfortable, Warrick was happy to oblige. He stepped back and stripped off his shirt, acutely aware of Nick's eyes on him. Nick had finished taking off his own shirt but seemed more interested in watching that removing any more clothing.
Warrick didn't have a problem with that, either, and was very deliberate in his movements as he shed the rest of his clothes. It wasn't quite a show, but it was close.
Once Warrick was naked, Nick closed the distance between them and before Warrick could draw him into an embrace, dropped smoothly to his knees. There was no mistaking his intention and Warrick felt another jolt of lust surge through him, although this one was tempered by concern. "Nicky..."
Just the sensation of Nick's breath on his erection was enough to make Warrick groan. After a few exploratory licks, Nick took the head into his mouth and Warrick had to lock his knees so they wouldn't buckle beneath him. Nick gotten halfway up his shaft barely a half dozen times before a sudden thrust from Warrick caught them both off guard.
Warrick fought the urge to grab Nick by the hair and pump himself into that warm, moist heat. Instead, he lifted Nick back up and pulled him close to ravage that talented mouth. He could taste himself on Nick's lips and tongue, prompting a low growl from his throat.
Nick's hands ran down the length of his spine and back up again, and Warrick copied the action, but stopped when he encountered denim. He broke of the kiss with an effort, "Am I the only one at this party?"
With a smile, Nick stepped back, but Warrick stopped him putting a hand on either side of his waist, allowing him to move back only enough to unfasten his belt and jeans. Then Warrick knelt, tugging Nick's jeans and shorts down and holding them so Nick could step out. He kissed his way back up from Nick's knee, sliding his hands along the back of the muscular legs and alternating kisses from one leg to the other until he reached Nick's erect cock. He licked along the shaft, only occasionally taking the head in his mouth, until he felt Nick's legs trembling. When he got to his feet, he was met with a desperate kiss from Nick.
The full skin-to-skin contact brought them both close to losing control. Together they stumbled to the bed and toppled onto it. Warrick quickly rolled onto Nick, who began arching frantically against him. He shifted so their cocks slid against one another while Nick tangled their legs together. Pressing down heavily, Warrick tried to counteract Nick's wild bucking. "Slow down, Nicky. There's no rush," his voice was hoarse, surprising him.
"Easy for you to say," Nick panted. "You haven't--oh, god!" He threw his head back as Warrick bore down harder.
Warrick meant to hold out a bit longer, but the needy noises come from Nick's throat made that impossible. Instead, he matched Nick's pace, covering Nick's mouth and swallowing his moans. Feeling the warm wetness of Nick's release spread between them, Warrick jerked convulsively against the near-limp body beneath him before collapsing on the smaller man.
Eventually, Warrick became aware of Nick stroking his sweat-slick back and summoned the energy to roll off him. He mustered a little more to find something to clean off with, then shifted along with Nick so the sheets could be pulled back. Before joining Nick under the covers, Warrick studied the handsome features, which were more relaxed than they'd been in some time.
Nick opened his eyes. "What?" he smiled with bemusement.
Shaking his head, Warrick leaned over to give him a soft kiss before sliding under the sheet. "You okay?" he asked, sliding his fingers through the soft hair.
"You're kidding, right?"
"Just checking." He pulled Nick close and smiled as the smaller man snuggled in comfortably.
Nick fell asleep quickly, but it was not a quiet sleep. Warrick awoke several times to Nick's troubled voice, although actual words were impossible to understand. With soothing words and gentle touches, he usually managed to quiet Nick without forcing him to return to consciousness and could only hope that this method somehow helped Nick deal with the remaining darkness that haunted his dreams.
The case file was waiting for him when he got to work.
Nick opened it and began reading it on the spot, ignoring the jostling of his colleagues as they picked up messages and mail. He looked over the coroner's report first and saw why David hadn't wanted to list injuries. Alexei had been sexually brutalized for a long time before his death, and the last assault had been so savage that he died of the blood loss.
With a sick feeling in his stomach, Nick flipped through the rest of the file to see what progress had been made. Okay, so Vartann is working the case. I can--oh. Oh. That John Doe.
The conflict of interest Ecklie mentioned was the discovery of Sylvia Mullins' business card on the body. Nick knew that if Ecklie found out he'd met Alexei--even though it was only once--he'd be taken off the case immediately. True, it was a bizarre, somewhat disturbing, coincidence, but as far as Nick could tell Mullins' card in Alexei's pocket meant very little. At least, there was nothing significant noted in the file. He'd have to talk to Vartann, and perhaps take another look at Mullins' client list himself.
"Stokes."
Nick looked up, smiling slightly at Greg, "Sanders."
"You running late?"
"Shit," Nick muttered when he checked his watch. "Sorry. Did Cath hand out assignments already?"
"Yup. Sara asked me to track you down. We've got a multiple in Henderson."
"Okay. I'll meet you guys at the truck in a minute."
"All right," Greg disappeared as quickly as he'd appeared.
Although Nick wanted to dive right into Alexei's case, he closed the file and made the effort to clear his mind in preparation for a fresh crime scene.
The multiple turned out to be a murder-suicide and a relatively simple scene. All three deaths were in the same room and the note describing a pact seemed authentic. Five hours was almost unheard of to process the scene of three bloody deaths, but Nick got back to the lab in plenty of time to wrap up more of the Aaron Wilke case. That was the case of an exceptionally bright kid who did something exceptionally stupid in an effort to impress a girl. The metal beads had become infection, and Wilke had actually died of blood poisoning. Hardly surprising, considering it had been a do-it-yourself job.
That, and tying up some loose ends on several other cases, took the rest of his shift. His mind was so wrapped up in cases most of the time and so wrapped up in Warrick the rest of the time, that he completely forgot he had the next shift off until an offhand comment from Catherine reminded him. He didn't want to wait that long before discussing Alexei's case with Vartann, so after a quick call, he arranged to stop by the station on his way home. Warrick had mentioned going to the gym after work, so Nick figured it would be good timing.
It was an unspoken agreement between them that they would keep going to their individual gyms and keep their separate workout schedules. They already worked and lived together, and both recognized that doing some things apart was for the best. Even more, Nick knew that having to see Warrick working out without being able to react would be torture and was fairly certain it was the same for Warrick.
He hoped so, anyway.
He pulled up to the police station and his heart sank a little when he saw Metcalfe and Michaels talking out front. That meant he had to walk past them, and if he said anything to Metcalfe, had to say something to Michaels as well. Nick always tried to avoid speaking to DA Michaels whenever possible, because no matter what he told himself, interacting with Michaels always brought back painful memories. He got out of the truck slowly, relieved to see the conversation seemed to be ending. He waited a few minutes more, hearing Metcalfe say--"I don't know how you managed to get two weeks vacation at once, you lucky SOB, but have fun in Hawaii."
Two weeks without having to worry about running into Michaels at a scene. Hearing that made Nick's day, and he gave Metcalfe a cheery "hey" when he passed.
As Nick walked down the hallway, about half the cops he passed nodded or greeted him. The other half mostly ignored him, although there was the occasional mutter. No one ever actually hassled him--no one wanted to risk the wrath of Captain Brass--but it was strange to have some to the guys he used to play softball with suddenly act as though he didn't exist. For the most part, Nick kept his head down and went about his business as always. He tried not to let it get to him, but it was still a relief to reach the detectives' bullpen and Vartann's desk.
"Hey," Vartann greeted him. "You want to go over this here or..?"
"Is there an empty interview room?"
"Should be." Vartann stood and led the way to one of the smaller interrogation rooms that often doubled as an office when a detective wanted somewhere more quiet to work. Sitting at the table, Vartann shook his head. "Why the hell would you take this case?"
"I didn't know it was this case until after I read the file." Seeing Vartann frown, Nick explained, "I saw the kid down in the morgue and recognized him."
"Fuck."
Nick raised his eyebrows in question.
"You know this kid?"
"I've only met him once. It was...what? Two years ago? I don't even--the only name he gave me was Alexei and I can't be sure it was his real one."
"Sounds Russian."
"He was."
"Russian?" Vartann began scribbling notes. "Where the hell did you meet him?"
"Do you remember a mass grave case? Also about two years ago. Way out past the Borax mine, by the Dead Mountains."
"Yeah," Vartann nodded slowly. "Okay--it was some sixty-year-old case, wasn't it?"
"Right. Well, I was out there after the case was closed and this kid came walking out of the desert. I talked to him for a while and gave him a bottle of water for the walk back."
Vartann's frown deepened, "Didn't you...run into some trouble out there?"
"Yeah," Nick smiled wryly. "Supposedly for trespassing on that Sampson guy's land."
"Sampson?" Vartann froze. "Barrett Sampson?"
"Yeah. There was a lot of stuff around him, but nothing that really stuck. Why?"
"Barrett Sampson was in Mullins' appointment book."
It took a moment for that to actually register. "What?"
"He was a client of Mullins'," Vartann clarified. "He couldn't have killed the kid, though. He was out of the country. I've talked to his assistant, and he's supposed to have Sampson contact me. In the meantime, I'll try to find out if any of those Cayman Island accounts point to Sampson."
"That's right. She did a lot of interesting banking out there, didn't she?" That brought to mind something else about Barrett Sampson, and Nick felt himself growing more uneasy with every passing minute. "When, uh, when Jim and Catherine investigated Sampson, the only thing they could find on him was a business deal with this guy named...Krause? Or Prause. Something like that. Ties to human trafficking."
Vartann studied Nick in silence. "This is--seriously, Stokes, do you think you should be on this one?"
Nick gritted his teeth. He was getting tired of people constantly doubting his judgement. It wasn't like he was the first CSI to ever work a case that was even remotely personal. Comparatively speaking, it might not even be that personal. "Do you have a problem working with me on this?"
"No," Vartann said firmly. "Not a problem, exactly. But--"
"Good."
The detective sighed. "So what happened with the case?"
"The Feds took it over."
"Right. Right, I remember that." Vartann took a deep breath, "Look, Stokes...Nick. This kid, Sampson, Mullins, an assault on you, your kidnaping--really, should you be anywhere near this?"
Nick fought the urge to shift uncomfortably. When stated so bluntly, it did sound bad, and he wasn't sure where to draw the line between caution and paranoia. He didn't see why everyone had to know that, however. "Then where does Walter Gordon fit into this? He's the one behind my kidnaping and he already gave his reason--revenge on CSI. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time."
"Mullins?" Vartann prodded.
"There's no way of ever knowing how she became involved," Nick said, leaning back. "But from what I can make out, the ransom was her idea. Gordon never had any intention of collecting it. That's why Mullins took Kelly's inheritance."
"And the Gordon woman killed her."
"Yeah," Nick cleared his throat and tried to banish the image of Kelly Gordon convulsing violently. "Whatever problems Kelly had, I don't see why she would lie when she knew she was dying." Vartann stared at him, and although it wasn't easy, Nick held his gaze stubbornly. "From looking over Mullins' records, though, I have no trouble believing she worked for all sorts of..." he shrugged rather than finishing.
"Crooks and kooks need their taxes done, too, is that it?" Vartann still looked dubious. He tossed his pen down. "Too many links. This kid was seen wandering the desert on Sampson's land, Mullins worked for Sampson, Mullins' card was found on the kid, who is Russian--oh, and by the way, is connected to a guy involved in human trafficking. And Walter Gordon..." he sighed and looked down at the file. "Was not."
"Look, there are just as many possible broken links as there are links," Nick said, for the first time having some difficulty remaining objective. "Sampson's connection to human trafficking might just be unfortunate--Jim said it wasn't incriminating. The same could apply to Mullins' being tied to both Sampson and Gordon. And really, there's no sign that Gordon has the slightest thing to do with this, so I'm not sure why his name keeps popping up--" His voice was rising, and he had to make an effort to return it to normal. Okay. Okay, man, admit it. This is going to get to you. "Look, right now, the only definite links to me personally are tenuous at best. The business card--which everyone gives out--of a woman who was an accomplice to my kidnaping on the body of a kid I met once for less than ten minutes." Nick sighed, it sounded bad no matter how it was phrased. "I'm off tomorrow night, so let's leave it until after that. If you talk to Sampson and he makes you suspicious, then that's one link too many and I'll take myself off the case again, all right?"
"Good deal," Vartann nodded, then his expression became even stonier than usual. "Either way, I'm going to make sure this gets taken care of, don't worry."
"I'm not worried," Nick lied.
"That's the tenth gust of air you've let out."
"Sorry."
"S'okay. Just sounds like you've got something on your mind."
"Yeah. I guess."
Nick didn't say anything more, which disappointed Warrick, but didn't surprise him. Nick had seemed distracted ever since Warrick returned from the gym and had arrived to find that Nick had made coffee but hadn't bothered cooking anything to eat. That wasn't a problem, though, since they had two days worth of takeout to finish off. Nick had held up his end of the conversation during the meal, but his mind had obviously been elsewhere.
They moved to the sofa, where Nick paid much more attention to the kissing than he had to the talking. Even so, from time to time, Nick would just lay still with his head on Warrick's chest, his silence broken only by those deep sighs.
"Anything I might be able to help with?"
"No. Not really," Nick lifted his head for a moment to give Warrick a soft kiss. "I appreciate you asking, though."
Warrick ran his fingers through Nick's hair, uncertain how to proceed. He didn't want to push too much--Nick wasn't prone to brooding usually, but if anyone had reason to, he did. For all that he seemed to have put the worst of it behind him, there was still a lot to deal with. Hell, even their three-day-old relationship was a lot to deal with, considering Nick's prior monk-like lifestyle.
"It's the case," Nick said, startling Warrick out of his own reverie.
Right. The case he'd asked for. Of course. "Ecklie wouldn't hand it to you?"
"He did, but...I'm probably going to turn around and recuse myself from it."
An alarm bell went off--tiny, but unavoidable. "Why?"
Nick tensed, hesitating briefly before answering. "I recognized the victim. I thought I could maintain my objectivity in spite of that, but--"
"Who is it?" Warrick asked, because that was the last thing he expected to hear.
"Alexei."
"Alexei?"
Another deep breath, but this one sounded more as if Nick was bracing himself for something. "Do you remember when I went bird watching out by the Dead Mountains? Near the site of that mass grave? This was a couple of years ago, so you probably don't--"
"Some guys worked you over for supposedly trespassing," Warrick felt a fresh burst of fury at the memory.
"Yeah, the second time. But the first time?"
"Okay...you met some kid from--aw, hell, Nicky. That's your vic?"
"Yeah." Almost too quiet.
With some difficulty--it was two years ago, and never his case--Warrick drew on what he remembered about it. The FBI had taken the case away because it had involved--"Human trafficking. You'd said the kid was Russian. You think that--were there signs that he'd been..?"
"Yes," Nick's voice was heavy with sorrow. "So severely he died from his injuries."
"Jesus." Warrick didn't know what else to say. He didn't want Nick on the case at all--the guy would undoubtedly tear himself up over it. He couldn't say so too forcefully, though, because if sounded like an order, Nick was likely to turn stubborn and change his mind. "Do you think the Feds might end up taking this case if they get wind of it?"
"Oh, damn," Nick rubbed his eyes tiredly. "They probably will. I'll have to warn Vartann about that. I already mentioned the FBI had been involved, but not the way they shut us out."
"Wouldn't all that make it directly related to your assault? You'd have to recuse yourself from that."
There was a long silence, and Warrick began to worry until Nick finally spoke. "There's no proof it's tied to that, but..." he was quiet for several more minutes, then shook his head slowly. "Yeah. I'll tell Ecklie tomorrow night. He'll probably be relieved."
He's not the only one. "Why tomorrow night?"
"I'm off tonight."
"Right," Warrick nodded.
Nick lifted his head to meet Warrick's eyes, and several times it seemed as though he was about to say something. Instead, he shook his head once more and settled against Warrick.
Knowing that it had to be bothering him, Warrick didn't mention the decision again and instead softly ran his fingers through the dark hair until he felt Nick relaxing. He was far too comfortable to consider moving, and before too long he began to doze off. "Well, some of us have to work tonight," he said, rousing himself. "I've gotta get some sleep."
"Me, too," Nick said, sounding drowsy as he sat up. He leaned in for a kiss, "Bed?"
"The same bed?" Warrick smiled. "You sure that's going to get us any sleep?"
"Not right away, maybe," Nick returned. "Can't you stay up a while longer?"
Warrick knew it was an innocent remark, but the effect of Nick's words on his system was definitely not. He received proof it wasn't a deliberate double entendre when Nick realized what he'd said and muffled his laughter in Warrick's shoulder. "I think I can manage," Warrick said dryly. "But if you're offering your help..."
There was a faint flush on Nick's cheeks, but he was grinning. "Your place or mine?"
Glad to have successfully distracted Nick away from an upsetting case, at least for a little while, Warrick stole another kiss. "You've got the bigger bed," he said, referring to the California King Nick had bought years before in a fit of indulgence. Warrick loved that bed already, and not only because of whom he shared it with.
Nick stood and tugged Warrick to his feet as well. They got pleasantly lost in another long kiss then kept stealing more as they made their way to Nick's bedroom. Once inside, Nick took the lead, but so softly--almost courteously--that Warrick felt asserting himself would be rude.
"Maybe we could get your shirt off."
"Why don't you let me help you with those jeans?"
"Would you like to lie down?"
Warrick happily submitted to every gentle request, encouraged by Nick's hands and lips. Nick was so eager to please, so obviously happy to be with him, that Warrick felt humbled. Had any other lover treated him that way, he would have been flattered and a little smug, but Nick was someone he'd wanted yet thought unattainable for so long that he was still awed this was even happening. That he was naked, stretched out on Nick Stokes' bed with the owner straddling his hips and smiling down at him was the realization of a long-held fantasy.
"This okay?" Nick asked.
"Pretty damn close to perfect."
Nick's smile wavered almost imperceptibly, "Close to perfect?"
"Little overdressed, aren't you?"
The smile widened and Nick began unbuttoning his shirt, only stopping when Warrick reached up to do it for him. Then he leaned over for a deep kiss, making it easy for Warrick to push the shirt off his shoulders. Then Nick climbed off only long enough to quickly shed the rest of his clothes before returning.
"That's more like it." Warrick slid his hands over as much skin as he could reach. He noticed Nick was almost fully erect and reached to help the situation along, but Nick stopped him.
"Rick..." he whispered, stroking Warrick's chest. "Let me take care of you, okay?"
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, Nick ran his tongue over his lower lip. It was something he did often enough, a nervous habit, but this time it was a deliberate communication, and it made Warrick's entire body take notice. It also meant that from now on that little nervous habit was going to drive him crazier than it ever had. "Yesterday was the first time in a long time," Nick said. "But I think I can get the hang of it again."
"Just like riding a bike, Nicky."
"Oh. That is different than I remember," Nick sounded serious, but his eyes were twinkling.
"Smart ass," Warrick laughed, drawing him down for another kiss.
Then Nick began making his way down the Warrick's body, leaving a heated trail of kisses in his wake. He spent extra time on areas that Warrick reacted to--his nipples, his navel...Jesus, especially his navel. Warrick thought he could have come from that alone, if he had been able to get any friction. He couldn't, because Nick had moved down until he was sitting on Warrick's knees, bent over so that his chest lightly brushed Warrick's straining erection while he thrust his tongue in and around Warrick's sensitive navel.
Warrick had always scoffed at the phrase "enthusiasm counts for a lot," but he quickly revised that opinion when Nick moved lower. If Nick was a bit hesitant at first, there was no doubt he loved what he was doing. He licked every bit of skin several times over, letting out breathless little moans as though he was the one being pleasured. Between the sound and sensation, Warrick knew he wasn't going to last much longer. Nick finally took him into his mouth, sucking gently at first and then more firmly as he began moving his lips up and down the length.
Although he held back as long as he could, when Nick moaned again, around him, it was all over. Through the bright explosions of bliss, Warrick was vaguely aware of Nick swallowing some before finishing with his hand, but by that point he was past caring how. He was only concerned with what and who.
When he could think straight again and opening his eyes, he found Nick lying next to him, watching him with a pleased smile. Nick didn't ask--there was no need, they both knew it had been fantastic. Nick leaned in for another kiss, and Warrick felt the man's still-hard erection against him. "What about you?" he murmured against Nick's lips.
"Don't worry about it," Nick whispered. "I'll take care of it myself."
No way in hell that was happening. "Not a chance, baby," Warrick said, pushing Nick onto his back. "It's my turn now."
Nick's breathing sped up almost immediately, so Warrick decided not to waste any time. He took Nick in his hand, coating his fingers with precum and nuzzling one hipbone before wrapping his lips around Nick's cock. Nick seemed to be saying something, but when Warrick listened for a moment, he realized that there were very few actual words being articulated. With an inward smile--his mouth was otherwise occupied--he began to work one hand under Nick's body.
Using the other to hold Nick off, Warrick kept the touch of his lips and tongue on Nick cock light while he probed between the firm cheeks with eager fingers and stroked the puckered opening. Nick made a choked sound and started trembling. Encouraged, Warrick slowly thrust one finger inside, all the while sucking more of Nick's length into his mouth. One touch to that sensitive gland was all it took. Nick came with a sharp cry and Warrick gladly swallowed every drop.
Warrick rested his head on Nick's stomach and listened to his lover's breathing return to normal. Then he heard--and felt--Nick chuckle softly. He wasn't sure what to think of that.
"No wonder people think we're competitive," Nick's voice was still breathless. "Show off."
That made Warrick laugh as well, and he shifted position so he could give Nick a long, lazy kiss. "Nothing wrong with some healthy competition," he said.
Nick let out another contented sigh as Warrick wrapped arms and legs around him, and they were both asleep within minutes.
Nick didn't normally run his errands after dark, but decided to make an exception tonight. They'd awakened and had dinner, then there was a long, leisurely make out session on the sofa, followed by quick, intense hand session in the shower. In spite of--or maybe because of--all that, Warrick had still been kissing and groping him a mere half-hour before shift was scheduled to start.
As much as Nick wanted to take Warrick up on his offer to break in his bed, he also didn't want them to get in the habit of cutting things so close they'd wind up late for work. That's when he told Warrick he needed to get his errands done before midnight. Some dorky, Boy Scout part of him never failed to be amused by the notion of shopping the dead of night. He was a bit surprised when Warrick, concern in his green eyes, apologized for applying too much pressure. Wanting to assure him, Nick gave him another kiss, and they ended up wasting several more minutes before Nick finally steeled himself and went out to his truck.
His cell phone trilled and he glanced at the display, smiling and looking out at Warrick as he answered. "Go to work, Rick," he laughed. "I'll be waiting when you get home."
"Don't say that," Warrick groaned. "It'll only make the night seem longer." He started walking to his jeep, "I'll call you later."
"Okay. Now get a move on."
"Bossy," Warrick chuckled, then hung up.
Nick gave Warrick a wave, and watched him drive away, then decided that since his was already in his truck he might as well head to Walgreens to pick up a few things he needed. There was something he had been considering ever since the first time he and Warrick shared a bed and he'd finally settled it in his mind just a few hours ago. So, in addition to soap, vitamins and light bulbs, he also bought condoms and then had a hell of a time figuring out what kind of lube to buy--he didn't remember there being such a variety the last time he needed any. He felt a little silly buying them, not because of the actual purchase but because likely Warrick already had some. Hell, he probably had some somewhere.
Back at home, he put everything away and started up his laptop. He flipped through his data CDs, found the one he wanted and settled himself at the table. As the CD loaded, he opened a bottle of Snapple Kiwi Teawi--ridiculous name, but good iced tea--and got to work.
Maybe he had to give up Alexei's case again, but if it was at all possible, he was going to hand it back along with some new information. He hoped that going through the pictures he'd taken near Sampson's land would refresh his memory or perhaps remind him of something important. The photos from the second day popped up first, and Nick checked them all to see if perhaps he'd gotten a picture of one of the vehicles. He didn't--all the shots were tightly focused on the kestrel and kangaroo rat locked in battle.
In spite of the situation, Nick couldn't help smiling a little--not only at the shots, but at the memory of rambling about it all to Warrick and likely coming across as a total geek. Warrick had actually listened very patiently, considering how upset he'd been about the assault. Nick leaned back in his chair, recalling how freaked out and embarrassed he was to have Warrick in his bedroom--it seemed completely ridiculous now. I won't say how long I've wanted you and you won't say how long you've wanted me...
Had Warrick wanted him back then? Nick didn't know--wasn't sure he wanted to know. He'd hate to think they had wasted an entire two years when they could have been together. Doesn't matter, Nick told himself firmly. They were together now and that was the important thing. Still...
Shaking his head, Nick forced himself back to the task he'd set and began clicking through his first set of pictures. He couldn't remember much about the pictures he'd taken of Alexei--he'd deleted them when he'd uploaded the pictures and had barely paid any attention at the time. He kept clicking dejectedly, and was in the process of concluding that nothing was going to spark a memory, so it actually took a few minutes for him to register what he'd just seen. Hardly daring to believe it, he slowly flipped back a couple of shots, then stopped and stared.
It was Alexei.
It was the first random shot he'd taken, different from the others of Alexei because he hadn't bothered setting it up much. After that first one, the youth had taken off his cap and fixed--
"His cap," Nick said out loud.
The red baseball cap.
The cap he'd taken by mistake.
Would he still have it? After two years?
Only one way to find out.
Nick began rooting through every closet, his trunk, his dresser, anywhere that old knapsack might be, all the while muttering "baseball cap" under his breath without even realizing it. Had he used that knapsack again after his encounter with the four men? He couldn't remember. Had he brought it with him to Texas? He might have. Shit, had he left it in Texas? No, he couldn't have brought it, or if he had, surely he would have noticed the ball cap. Of course he hadn't exactly been firing on all cylinders at the time.
Wait a minute.
He'd had it on the seat of his truck. Had he put it back in the knapsack? That he couldn't remember, but then he hadn't remembered more or less swiping it from Alexei.
"Dammit." No way it would still be in his truck--he'd cleaned it out too many times since then.
He only had the hall closet left to go through, and he did it without much enthusiasm--until he found the old knapsack. Hadn't he turned it over to CSIs after the assault? No, he remembered, just the contents. Holding his breath, he looked inside and saw a splash of red.
"Yes!" Now Nick wanted nothing more than to get out his maglite and go over cap for possible trace, but he didn't dare. It was already a dodgy chain of evidence and he didn't want to make it any worse. Instead, he grabbed a bag and a pair of tweezers from his kit, extracted the cap and sealed the evidence. He examined the cap through the clear plastic and smiled grimly when he saw several blond hairs.
Between that and the photo, Vartann would have somewhere to start. There was only so far Alexei could have walked that day, and Nick had a general direction. If not Sampson, then there had to be someone in a certain radius who would have known this kid.
Back at his computer, Nick printed the picture of Alexei along with a page of notes of everything he could recall about the meeting. He put everything in a large envelope and left it on his table where he wouldn't forget it, no matter how much Warrick distracted him.
Nick considered that for a moment.
No, better to just put it in his truck right now.
For the past three mornings, Warrick had done almost exactly the same thing: went home, talked about work over breakfast--today it was some sort of Texas omelet Nick had whipped up--and then sat on the sofa to relax. He had no complaints about any of it, but it was strange for him when in a relationship, especially a new one.
If the relationship was with a woman, he'd be taking her out to dinner or dancing or a show; with a man, they'd be going to dinner and then a club. In both cases, they would usually only return home for a very specific reason. It hadn't even occurred to him until that moment that he'd made no attempt at any wining and dining in this case.
True, this was a very different situation--they were already living together, but Nick certainly deserved to be treated as well as anyone else he'd ever dated. Hell, he deserved better.
Was that the reason Nick seemed a bit off this morning? When Warrick asked, Nick assured him that he was okay with giving up Alexei's case. It wasn't the same sort of distraction as before, anyway. Nick undoubtedly had something on his mind, but whatever it was seemed to be making him nervous rather than moody.
"Hey," he finally said, nudging Nick gently. "You feel like doing something?"
Nick gave him a bemused smile, "Sure, what?"
"No," Warrick shook his head, Nick seemed to think he was asking for a favor. "I mean, doing something. Going out."
Nick stilled briefly, "What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know. Just name it."
"Oh. I...I thought people usually went out to get to know each other."
Hunh. Warrick had never quite looked at it that way, but it was a pretty good point. He just didn't know how to reply to it.
"If there's something you want to do, then sure," Nick continued. "But going out just to go out? That's not really..."
Warrick found himself nodding along. "Fair enough."
"Sometimes I feel like going out for the hell of it, but usually...I'm probably pretty boring compared to you, Rick."
"That's not what I'd call it," Warrick snorted.
"I know you go out a lot, so whenever you--"
"Nope." He pulled Nick in close and gave him a kiss. "This is something I'll be happy to get used to."
"But we're still going to Pearl's next Saturday, right? The Storyville Five?"
The Storyville Five were a Dixieland quintet they'd made plans to see before ever getting together. Although Nick liked most of the jazz and soul Warrick listened to, Dixieland was undoubtedly his favorite. "Yeah," Warrick smiled. "Yeah, that's definitely still on."
"Good."
Warrick ran the back of his fingers along Nick's cheek. "I just want to make sure I do this right, Nicky."
Nick pulled away, looking confused, "Why would you be worried about that? Warrick, don't you have any idea how...how much you've...?" he couldn't finish.
He didn't have to. "And I want it to stay that way."
Nick stared at him for several minutes, and just as Warrick was about to get lost in the depths of those dark eyes, surged forward, kissing him hard. Warrick held on, letting the momentum bear him back, and pulling Nick along on top of him. Feeling Nick's lips on his neck, he arched his head back to give better access and wondered briefly if Nick would leave any marks. He decided not to mention it, on the off chance Nick would get self-conscious and possibly stop--he definitely didn't want Nick to stop.
As he slid his hands under the old, thin t-shirt Nick was wearing, he suddenly remembered their conversation from the evening before. "Hey," he said, his voice already husky with pleasure. "We're supposed to break in my bed, aren't we?"
Much to his dismay, Nick froze almost immediately, "Oh."
"Hey," Warrick held on tighter. "Hey, I was kidding, Nicky."
"It's okay," Nick said, freed him from the embrace and stood up. "I just--"
"Nick," Warrick quickly got to his feet as well. "It doesn't matter where--"
Nick stopped him with a kiss. "It's okay, Rick. You go ahead and I'll be right there." With another kiss, Nick went off to his bedroom.
Feeling slightly off-balance, Warrick went into his own bedroom and took off his shirt. When Nick walked it, he slipped one arm around the trim waist and pulled the shorter man close. Nick murmured appreciatively as Warrick nuzzled his ears and jaw, then untangled himself and took Warrick's hand, pressing something into it.
Warrick looked down at the tube and wrapper, blinking to be sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He raised his eyes to look at Nick, who was watching him carefully, his lower lip in his teeth. "Nicky..." Warrick finally managed. "Nicky, you don't have to..."
"I want to. Well," Nick gave him a crooked smile. "I want you to."
"Are you sure?"
"Warrick." That was all, but there was a tone of longing and a wealth of meaning behind it.
Warrick tossed both items in the general direction of the bed and took Nick's face in both hands, trying to put everything he couldn't say into that kiss. He groaned when he felt Nick wrap both arms around his neck, giving himself up completely. Already his jeans felt painfully tight and Warrick forced himself to calm down--he wanted to take the time to make sure Nick was absolutely ready for him.
Slowly, carefully, he undressed Nick, much as Nick had done to him the day before. He stroked and kissed each patch of skin as it was revealed until Nick was trembling from head to toe and his legs gave way. Warrick quickly shed the rest of his clothing, then knelt by the bed. He lavished attention on Nick's weeping erection, taking long slow sucks and licking up and down the length, not stopping until Nick choked out a warning.
Mindful that it had been a long time for Nick, Warrick guided him onto his hands and knees. "This okay, baby?" he asked, smoothing a hand along Nick's spine. Catlike, Nick arched into his touch, and Warrick took that as a yes. He found the lube and coated his fingers, pressing several kisses to Nick's lower back while he let it warm on his fingers.
Running a finger between the firm cheeks, Warrick began petting the tight opening. He kept it up even once Nick's arms were shaking too much to hold himself up and he folded them, resting his head on his forearms. His first finger slipped inside as easily as last time, so Warrick added a second, establishing a rhythm--nudging Nick's prostate on the way in and scissoring on the way out, and keeping up a steady stream of murmured encouragement all the while. Despite Nick's pleas and demands that he was ready, Warrick added a third finger and continued.
"Warrick..." It was almost a sob, and Nick pushed himself up on his arms once more. "For God's sake..."
Satisfied that Nick was ready, Warrick knelt behind him, quickly opening and rolling on the condom then adding more lube to make absolutely certain. He positioned himself, then took a deep steadying breath--for a split second he wasn't sure he could do this. It was something he wanted so badly that it actually scared him. "Nicky..." He couldn't explain, and Nick was past listening in any case.
"Warrick, please..."
As slowly as he could, Warrick eased himself into the tight passage, holding tightly to Nick's hips. Nick let out a low, breathless moan of pure pleasure as Warrick sank in to the hilt. "Perfect," Warrick whispered, and started to move. It was his third stroke that Warrick knew he'd found the exact angle--that's when Nick pushed back against him hard.
Warrick began moving harder and faster, sliding one hand up Nick's back to grip his shoulder and pumping Nick's cock with the other. Nick had long since reached the incoherent stage, and Warrick could only make out his name or the occasional word. He wanted so badly to wait until Nick had come, but like a juggernaut his climax was suddenly upon him and along with the explosions behind his eyes he felt an explosion of warmth against his hand and that was even more perfect and so were Nick's cries of pleasure and oh jesus it was almost as if he was coming a second time this was lasting so long and nothing had ever ever ever been this perfect.
Eventually, Warrick became aware of the prone body beneath him, and noted that even their collapse onto the bed had failed to dislodge him. It only made him more reluctant to move, but eventually he withdrew, somewhat surprised to hear Nick's small sound of protest. He discarded the condom, while Nick roused himself enough to clean off with a corner of a sheet. Rather than move and climb under the covers, Warrick grabbed the folded duvet from the foot of the bed and settled it over both of them.
Nick hadn't said a word, hadn't even opened his eyes, but Warrick didn't care. All that mattered was the way Nick nestled as closely as possible, that he was going to fall asleep with Nick's lips pressed against the pulse in his neck and the sensation of Nick's soft breath against his skin.
Nick arrived at work five minutes after Warrick--taking their own vehicles was another silent understanding between them. He had just closed his locker door when Catherine peered around the corner. "Oh, good, you're here. Looks like a busy night."
"Right behind you," Nick said, waiting until Catherine turned before following her out. He still moved a bit gingerly and if anyone noticed, it would be Catherine, and she would probably tease him unmercifully about it.
Warrick had been worried when Nick woke up rather sore, so Nick had done his best to assure him that it wasn't that bad, that it was only because it had been a while and that it had been worth it, in any case. As it turned out, he might have done too good of a job with the assurances, because Warrick had been looking immensely pleased with himself ever since.
Nick would have been annoyed with him, but that was impossible when he felt so damn good. Unfortunately, that pleasant ache was also going to make it more difficult than ever to keep his mind off Warrick at work.
As he entered the break room where the rest of the graveyard shift was already assembled, Nick hoped that he looked the same as he did any other night. So far he'd managed to keep the goofy grin off his face, but he didn't dare look at Warrick, because he knew if he did, he would definitely give something away.
No one seemed to notice anything unusual. Grissom glanced up only long enough to make sure everyone was present, then began handing out assignments. "Okay. Catherine, you said you would take the jumper at the Sphere. Sara, break-in at a pharmacy in Spring Valley. Another B&E in Summerlin, Nick, in the same area as the two you processed a week ago. Warrick, trick roll at the Monaco. Greg, you're with me--we've got three legs and an arm found in a dumpster. They're still searching for the rest of the bodies."
Everyone took their slips and headed for the door, although Greg looked a little disappointed not to be in on the trick roll. It was going to be one of those nights when several "lesser" crimes kept everyone busy, and Nick was satisfied with the case he'd pulled. If it was similar to the other two, then he had another chance to catch the person responsible.
As the group headed for the doors, Warrick fell back until they were in step together, and managed to bump and brush against him several times without being too obvious about it, Then, as they walked outside and separated to go to their Denalis, Warrick simply said, "Later," the same way he did every night.
Opening the door to "his" Denali, Nick wondered if he could pull off something similar, but knew it wasn't likely when Catherine grinned at him across the hood of her vehicle. "Enjoy your day off, Nicky?" The grin became teasing when he looked at her in surprise. "What was his name again? Mark, right?"
Nick ducked his head before he could catch himself, making Catherine laugh as she got into her truck. Unable to help smiling, he waited until she had pulled away before doing so himself, turning west out of the parking lot. He double-checked the address--10039 Covington Cross Drive. That was one street over from the two previous burglaries, so Nick made himself remember everything he could about them.
He parked in front of a xeriscaped, Better Homes and Gardens candidate that was marred only by the black and white sitting in the driveway. There was a uniform waiting just outside the door, and Nick nodded to him as he approached. "Paul and Meg Bergin. Family is away," Carreiro told him. "Alarm went off a few hours ago. Detective Vega called, he was on his way but got caught up in a convenience store hold up."
"Caught up? What, was he in the store when it happened?"
"Yep," Carreiro grinned. "Punk nearly pissed himself."
Nick started laughing as he walked inside, but stopped as soon as he saw the living room. This was definitely not the same burglar as the other two Summerlin homes. Those were professional jobs. This was a disaster. He surveyed the living room as he readied his camera. They would have to wait for the owners to return to be certain, but nothing even seemed to be missing.
After snapping pictures of the plasma TV on the wall and the state-of-the-art home theater system, Nick lowered his camera and took another look around. There was always the possibility that whoever it was had been looking for something specific, but Nick was ready to put money on kids breaking in just for kicks. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be kids from the area. Although most of the furniture was overturned, the high-end electronics hadn't been touched. A peek into the dining room revealed the same thing in there. Better to save the speculations until he had gone over the entire house.
That was probably going to take hours.
He wasn't thrilled about having to spend most of the night processing a scene that would probably go nowhere, but that wasn't his call. At least, if this case went the way he thought it would, he'd get to watch Vega scare the snot out of a couple of bored, over privileged kids and hopefully set them back on the straight and narrow.
Two hours later, Nick was ready to scare the snot out of whoever was responsible, himself. He was only halfway through printing the living room, with no end in sight and he had five more rooms to dust. Carreiro had stopped in to chat now and then, but mostly kept by the front door, probably bored out of his mind. Nick debated taking a break and calling Warrick, but decided against it. That would be a very bad habit to get into.
As he crouched on the floor--he stifled a smile at the twinge such movement brought--he heard Carreiro talking to someone. Good. Vega was here. It would make the time go faster if he had someone to discuss the case with, even though Vega wouldn't be too thrilled to have drawn such a shit case. That, and Nick wanted to hear what had happened during his hold up. He heard a startled curse, then the sound of someone stumbling.
"Careful," he called, standing again. "Whoever pulled this was really sloppy."
"I don't appreciate that."
Nick spun at the sound of the cold voice. He stared, at first only registering the gun pointed at him. A gun with a silencer on it. "What the hell is this?" he demanded, still not believing what he was seeing. Who was holding a gun on him. "What did you do to Carreiro?"
"What do you think? Come on, you know the drill. Hands behind your head."
Nick obeyed the command, disbelief and comprehension warring in his mind. It all made sense, but this couldn't be happening. Those two conflicting facts ricocheted back and forth in his mind. His surroundings faded away, and all that seemed to exist was the man holding the revolver. "You shot a cop?" he asked, his voice suddenly, inexplicably hoarse. "Jesus, are you out of your mind? You'd better just get the hell out of here."
"No can do."
At the touch of a hand on his belt buckle, Nick had to steel himself from reacting--any sudden movement would probably get him shot, even though he was obviously wanted alive. He felt the belt being pulled free of the loops and then heard his sidearm and phone drop to the floor. The gun barely wavered during the proceedings--Nick knew because he hadn't looked away from it. "Look, I don't know why you think you have to do this, but--"
"I just do. No loose ends. Hands up, take those gloves off."
His mind frantically working through options, Nick did as he was told.
"Hands behind your back."
The gun was no longer in sight, but that didn't calm Nick's racing heart. Not when he felt the sensation of plastic restraints being fastened around his wrists. It was a sensation that immediately brought him back to the interior of an SUV, struggling for leverage while waiting for a glimpse of his captor. This time though...Nick looked over his shoulder.
"Face forward. Keys."
"Keys?" Nick repeated blankly.
"To your vehicle."
"In...my right front pocket," Nick replied, still unable to take in the surreal situation. This couldn't possibly be happening again. He couldn't let this happen again. He couldn't go through this again. "You must know you don't have a chance. You shot a cop."
"Let's go for a little walk."
Cuffed in plastic restraints as though he were the criminal, Nick was marched out through the front door. He barely had time for a glimpse of Carreiro lying on the floor, but it was enough for him to make out a pool of blood. Frantically, he scanned the area, but people of Covington Cross Drive paid well for their privacy and the driveway was very secluded.
He was manhandled into the passenger side of his Denali, sitting painfully on his cuffed hands. The gun remained trained on him while the window was rolled down and the door was shut. Confused by such actions, Nick almost missed the large piece of white cotton that suddenly appeared in his captor's free hand. The aroma that wafted from it brought back more hideous memories, and Nick felt dizzy and nauseous even before the ether-soaked cloth covered his face.
"Don't--" was all he had time for before his nose and mouth were covered and his head was pressed against the back seat and held firmly.
Nick kicked, tried to turn his head, but with his hands behind him could only writhe helplessly. He tried to hold his breath, but the ether was burning his nostrils and crowding his mind with more memories and in spite of himself, he let out a desperate, choked sob.
Then his world went dark.
Barrett Sampson settled himself behind his hand-carved oak desk and nodded to his assistant to bring in his visitor. "As soon as you've shown him in, you can head back to the other house."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sampson."
While he waited, Sampson studied the imitation Anatolian rug in front of his desk--he was never one to throw money away--and assured himself it was properly placed. Satisfied, he opened the line to his security room. "Be sure to alert me when Mr. Vrederveld has left the premises, Mr. Abbey."
"Yes, sir."
Although Hugh Vrederveld was an excellent assistant and was just intimidated enough to keep his mouth shut about some of his employer's illicit business activities, there was no sense in tempting fate. It was one thing for Vrederveld to arrange for him to "be" in Austria rather than his new house outside of Mount Charleston, but it was another to have him tangle with the LVPD head on. And while Vrederveld could effectively hold off the police when he thought it was all monetary, Sampson was certain he would crack when confronted with the kidnaping or murder of one of their own.
Still, Vredereld was good enough at what he did do that Sampson wasn't prepared to lose him if he didn't have to. The beautiful estate about an hour west of Vegas had been acquired within a week of Sampson requesting it, and although he didn't appreciate having to give up his very useful ranch once again, the spanish-styled manor was a satisfactory replacement. At least he was still close enough to keep a personal eye on the proceedings. He had resigned himself to the fact that he might have to give up on the Dead Mountains property for good--it was something he'd have Vrederveld begin looking into.
A knock sounded at the door, and after a swift glance to a darkened corner of the room, Sampson said, "Enter." He waited until the man had stopped directly in front of his desk. "Well?"
"Uh...well...well, I lucked out and the detective got hung up. Had to shoot the uniform, though. And there was no way to sneak up on the CSI, so he knows who--"
"Do I look like I'm interested in your problems?" Sampson frowned.
A nervous clearing of the throat. "I knocked him out with the ether and brought him to the meeting place. I turned him over to Clayton and Lon after they gave me their names as said they were headed to Amargosa Valley--just like you said they'd say."
"And?" Sampson demanded. Surely the man wasn't waiting for a pat on the back?
"Oh." Another throat clearing. "I brought Nick's vehicle back to lab and took his truck. Parked it at the Tangiers parking lots and came here."
Sampson's phone trilled. "Yes?"
"Mr. Vredereld is gone, sir."
"Thank you, Martin."
"Look, they're going to be all over this. I need to get moving--you said to name my price."
"So I did," Sampson agreed, making a quick motion with his hand. "I didn't say you'd get it." He watched as Lars Wietzel, his most trusted employee, stepped from the shadows and put a bullet through his visitor's head before he'd even had a chance to turn around. "Excellent work, Lars. As always."
"Thank you, Mr. Sampson." Wietzel flicked a strand of white-blond hair from his eyes before efficiently rolling the body up in the rug and the plastic sheet underneath. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and strolled out of the room.
Sampson leaned back in his chair and lit a Cuban. What a shame that Officer Michaels hadn't paid more attention. "No loose ends," Sampson said, and smiled around his cigar.
Greg drew a deep lungful of--relatively--clean air when Grissom was finally satisfied that the dumpster had been thoroughly processed and allowed him to climb out. He jumped to the ground and was just about to describe his ordeal in great detail when he noticed the serious expressions on the faces of his supervisor and Sofia Curtis, who was on her phone. "What's going on?" he asked Grissom in a low voice.
"I'm not sure yet," Grissom replied, his eyes on Sofia. "But I believe we may have another crime scene."
Sofia hung up, and turned to the officers standing anxiously by their cars. She motioned for one to stay and waved the rest off--they all got in their black and whites and sped away at once. "Officer down," she said, turning back to the CSIs. "I have to go."
"We'll need someone to secure this scene," Grissom said. "But we can get right over there."
"I'm leaving Officer Cooper. You should--"
Grissom's cell rang and he checked the display. "Four four four. Code Red."
"Okay," without another word, Sofia headed for her car and sped away.
"I'll drive," Greg offered, heading for the Denali. When Grissom didn't respond, he turned back and noticed how strange the entomologist looked. "Grissom?"
"Call Nick," Grissom said, still staring at the display.
"What?"
"Call Nick," Grissom's voice was like steel. "Now."
Greg flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial for Nick's number, wondering what had set Grissom off--the man's expression was stark, his eyes fairly burning. "Do you want me to tell him to meet us there?" he asked while he waited for Nick to answer.
"The scene is in Summerlin--10039 Covington Cross Drive."
"Oh," Greg nodded--Nick's phone was still ringing. "Nick's already in Summerlin on--" and suddenly he couldn't breathe. No.
"Is he answering?"
Greg had no idea where his voice went, but speech was impossible--he could only shake his head.
Grissom's face had turned to stone. "Get in the truck. I'll drive."
Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. He was dreaming about waking up in a van with his hands bound.
Strange. He'd never relived that in his dreams before.
Voices. There had been no voices when he woke up in the van. So he had to be dreaming.
Reassured, he went back to sleep.
Normally, Jim would have handed a pharmacy break-in to someone else, but the sheer volume of drugs stolen and the professionalism of the job meant it required his attention. So he was at the biggest Rite-Aid in Vegas with Sara when he got the call.
He hated having to break the news to her when she was so obviously enjoying herself dusting for dozens of prints. He hated having to break the news at all. Sick at heart himself, he walked to the back of the store. She was humming a little tune as she worked. "Sara?"
"Hmmm?" The tune stopped.
"I need to talk to you."
She must have heard something in his voice, because she emerged from the rows of shelves immediately.
"We've got an officer down."
"Oh..." Her voice was low, concerned. "You have to get to the scene, then. Do they need me there?"
"Sara..." He tried again, and her dark eyes widened at the raspiness in his voice. "It was Nick's scene." Sara went so pale so rapidly that Jim reached out involuntarily to grab her arm. "Sara?" Normally, he would never worry about such a thing, but at the moment he thought she might faint.
"What..." Sara was white to the lips. "Is Nick the one who was hurt?"
"No. It's Carreiro. Nick...isn't there."
A small, sharp breath that wasn't quite a sob jerked through her body. Then she exhaled slowly, blinking rapidly all the while. Jim could practically see her unsheathing that slender but unbreakable blade of strength he'd always admired in her. "We'd better get over there right away," she said.
"So you worked for this guy before?"
"Yeah. And if I'd been smart and stuck with him, I never would have ended up in the can."
Stay awake this time, he told himself. You aren't dreaming this. Oh, god help me, I'm not dreaming this.
"What kind of boss is he? How much does he let slide?"
"Fuck. Don't go in thinking like that, man. This guy will take good care of you, but if he draws a line, don't fuckin' cross it or he'll gut you like a fish."
The voice faded out as the movement of the van lulled him back into unconsciousness.
"What?" Catherine glared at the man in front of her.
Metcalfe shifted uncomfortably, feeling singed by those fierce blue eyes. "There's an officer down. It was Stokes' scene, but he's not there."
The image of Nick's smile sprang unbidden to her mind's eye. He'd been so happy in the past few weeks, after a year of struggling so hard and dealing with so much and finally putting it behind him.
"When did he leave for the scene?" Metcalfe asked cautiously.
"At the start of shift," she looked at her watch. "Hours ago. Do you know whether he arrived?"
"Haven't heard that, just that he's not there. Neither is his vehicle."
Catherine clutched at that desperately. Please, please, let him have a flat tire or engine trouble. Let him have decided to ditch work to see Mark. Let him have ditched work to go pick up some random guy. Let him have quit the job. Let him be getting laid or drunk--hell, let him be getting high, just please don't let him have been at that scene. Despite her silent prayer, she knew that Nick wouldn't possibly have done any of those things. She began packing up her kit when her phone trilled. "Willows."
"Catherine."
"Gil. There's an officer down--"
"I'm on the scene now. They've taken Officer Carreiro to the hospital, but it doesn't look good." Grissom drew a deep breath, "Catherine--"
She knew then. Knew by the sound of his voice, but she couldn't let herself believe it. "No, Gil. No."
"His kit is here. His gun, his phone, his belt. And a pair of latex gloves have been discarded."
He's been through too much for this to be happening again.
"Catherine?"
"I'm on my way."
They were still moving.
How far were they going to go, anyway? Where were they taking him?
The windows showed darkness, so it had probably been less than four hours since Michaels pulled a gun on him. Either that or a full twenty-four.
"Yes! How many fuckin' times do I gotta say it? This guy always has his shit together, okay. He found a shithole motel out in the middle of nowhere. The old fart who runs the place was so fucking thrilled to have a customer that he ain't askin' questions."
"How long do we gotta say out there, anyway?"
"The fuck do I know? Don't worry about it. He always pays good. Hell, he's got someone bringing us food every day and even satellite TV."
"Yeah? What about--? What?"
"He's moving."
Keep still. Keep still. Keep still. If they think you're awake, they'll--
"Yeah, yeah. I don't know why the fuck we gotta mess with this shit. Helluva lot easier to fill him with a shot of something."
Oh, God. Please, not that.
A sharp scent reached his nostrils, then darkness descended again.
The rolled trick was taken to the hospital despite his very vocal protests. Whatever the hooker had given him had done more than knock him out, and after the man had fallen down for a third time, Caveliere got the EMTs to cart him away.
Warrick continued processing the room, even though he didn't have much hope of identifying which working girl was responsible for this particular trick roll. Caveliere was off in the corner scribbling some notes before going to the hospital with more questions. When Warrick's phone trilled, he took it from his belt immediately, hoping it was Nick, but knowing it was probably Grissom with a new scene for him. "Brown."
"Warrick?"
"Greg," Warrick recognized his voice, but was a bit surprised to hear it. "What's up?"
"Warrick..." Greg couldn't seem to get much past that.
"What's wrong?"
"There's a...problem at Nick's crime scene."
Without a second thought, Warrick began packing up his kit. "What happened?" he asked, then his attention was drawn by Caveliere's voice.
"Fuck!" The detective was also on his cell. "Where?"
Warrick looked at him, and Caveliere held his gaze while listening to his caller.
"Warrick?" That was Greg again.
"Officer down," Caveliere said, and swore again.
"There's an officer down," Warrick told Greg. He stood up, abandoning his kit.
"Yeah, at Nick's scene," Greg's voice was shaky. "He was shot."
"Where's Nick?" Warrick demanded, not liking the way Caveliere was staring at him. "Is he okay?"
"Yeah," Caveliere was saying, "I'm here with him now."
Warrick didn't like the sound of that at all.
"Warrick, Nick--" Greg broke off with a slight choke. "Nick isn't here. His things are here, but--"
His legs gave out--he nearly missed the bed and wound up on the floor.
"Warrick?" Greg said again.
"Address," Warrick demanded.
"Uh...10039 Covington Cross Drive."
"Okay," Warrick said, and hung up.
"I'll get him there," Caveliere promised before hanging up his phone as well. "Warrick..."
His voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. "Who was the officer?"
"Neil Carreiro."
"Transferred in last year." Odd that he would remember that, of all things.
"Yeah. From Oregon."
"He gonna make it?" It was what to say, even though at the moment he didn't care about the answer.
"Doesn't look good."
"Shame." This was getting easier. Everything seemed to be going numb. He could handle that.
"They said Nick's vehicle is gone. He might have gotten away."
That got through, and it filled Warrick with fury. He practically bolted off the bed and got right in Caveliere's face. "What the hell are you saying? You think Nick would just ditch a wounded cop?"
Caveliere had a temper, so Warrick was surprised that the detective didn't respond except to say--"No. He wouldn't. Look, maybe--maybe I'll give you a lift out there, okay?"
He was numb again. Good. He liked that better. "Nah. I'll meet you there."
They weren't moving anymore. Someone really needed to tell that to his stomach.
Nick didn't know if it was the ether or his situation, but his nausea was so intense that it required all his focus. Knowing any quick movement would trigger it futher, he kept as still as possible until he slowly became more aware of his surroundings. Not that he had much choice in the matter--at some point, his captors had bound his ankles as well.
Lying half on his side, Nick could make out voices again, but it was some time before any of the words made sense to his still-cloudy mind.
"...wondering how long we would be here..." Okay, that was the guy who had been doing all the questioning in the van.
"...least four or five days..." A new voice. The boss, probably. "...most important thing...people will be taking note..."
"Who?"
"--ing an example of him?" That was the former employee. Nick shuddered, he knew being made an example of was never good news.
"...more of a demonstration...last time...recommended a lunatic...don't appreciate what it's done to my credibility."
Last time? Michaels had done this, Nick suddenly remembered. It couldn't possibly be a coincidence, but Gordon, Mullins and Kelly were all dead. Who else was there?
"And after the demonstration?"
"That depends on many different things, but I expect it will be no problem for you to guard him as long as necessary, will it?"
"No problem at all, Mr. Sampson."
Sampson! Barrett Sampson. It has to be. Nick was certain the man was somehow responsible for Alexei's death, he just didn't know how it all fit together.
"He should be waking up soon, and then we can all have a nice chat."
He didn't know how it all fit together, and was terrified he was about to find out.
The situation was beyond nightmarish. It was a nightmare when a cop was shot. It was a horrible nightmare when a CSI was abducted. Now a cop had been shot and a CSI was missing--the same CSI who had made the news with his abduction just over a year before. The situation had to be contained, and quickly.
That's what Conrad Ecklie forced himself to think about--the situation. He wasn't going to think about the young officer who was likely bleeding to death on his way to the hospital, and he was definitely not going to think about what could have happened to Nick Stokes. If he allowed himself to start thinking of those things, he would lose his grip on what was going on around him--a grip that was already tenuous at best.
He had arrived on the scene just as Carreiro was being loaded into the ambulance. Grissom and Sanders were the only CSIs present, but Conrad had no doubt the rest were on their way. Vega was there--he had sent out the call, which pretty much eliminated the whole "first on the scene suspect" scenario--along with Sofia and nearly a dozen uniforms. Fortunately, one of the uniforms was Sergeant Herrera, whom Conrad had worked with often as a CSI, so when he suggested barricades, Herrera got right on it. They both knew Captain Brass would take charge of that aspect when he arrived, but also knew it's exactly was he would order. Curious neighbors were beginning to wander near, and soon the press would be there as well. Conrad wanted all of them kept well away.
As for Undersheriff McKeen, he would likely be arriving at some point and could give the statement to the press. Whether or not the Sheriff would make an appearance probably depended on how many reporters showed up.
Conrad already knew how he wanted the scene processed and who he wanted--and didn't want--to do the processing. He also knew that it was not going to go over well, so before Grissom and Greg entered the house, he stopped the entomologist. "Gil, I don't think having graveyard work this one is a good idea." From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sanders readying a protest, but Grissom said nothing. If Conrad didn't know better, he'd almost say the man was shell-shocked. "You and Catherine will be on it, but I want to Deems and Hempstead from swing and Travis and Ogawa from days." Those people were all the senior CSIs from each shift, and also some of the best in Vegas.
"Fuentes, not Travis," was all Grissom said in reply.
"Done," Conrad said, and pulled out his cell to call. He couldn't fault Grissom for his request. Although Lee Travis had more seniority than any of the quartet besides Oscar Deems, and although he was capable enough, the man had little inborn talent or even passion for the job. Marisol Fuentes, although only a CSI-III for six months, had talent, passion and boundless energy.
Grissom had finally entered the house, and had also spoken to Sanders, apparently. The former tech was waiting outside the house with a small knot of officers, not looking happy with the decision, but not trying to go inside, either.
Then his cell phone started to ring, and Ecklie simply waved Deems and then Fuentes inside when they arrived, while fielding calls from McKeen, Internal Affairs, several techs in the lab who had heard and a handful of reporters. Catherine arrived just behind Fuentes and stopped to talk briefly to Greg before going inside as well.
Right behind Catherine were Brass and Sara. Conrad quickly cut short his call to the Lab Director--fine time for the SOB to be in Washington--and went into the house to find Grissom. It didn't matter that he was the Assistant Lab Director, Sidle wasn't going to a damn thing just because he told her to and as much as that pissed him off, now wasn't the time to deal with that issue. His phone was ringing again, so he quickly beckoned Grissom over. "Captain Brass and Sidle are here. Could you--?"
Grissom nodded and went out without a word. Conrad watched him go, then turned to Catherine, who was also looking after the entomologist with concern. She met his gaze and shook her head slowly, looking thoroughly drained herself, then went back to work.
Answering his phone, Conrad walked back outside. "Ecklie."
"Conrad, it's Vartann. I just heard."
"Alex." They had actually gotten along well since the Bilmeyer case and more so since Bell's shooting, getting together every couple of weeks to see who could out-cynic the other.
"Any idea yet about what happened? Or why?"
"None yet."
"That John Doe case Nick asked for--the kid with Mullins' business card. Did he talk to you about it?"
"No," Conrad tensed. "Why?"
"He recognized the vic."
"Fuck." The word just got away from him. He never used it on the job--it made one look too unprofessional--but at the moment, there was nothing else to say.
"That mass grave case two years ago. He met this kid out there, on Barrett Sampson's land. A couple of weeks later, four guys roughed him up when he was out there again. The Feds took the case over because there was the possibility of human trafficking."
Conrad nodded slowly, remembering the case. "Okay. You think this has something to do with that?"
"Barrett Sampson was one of Sylvia Mullins' clients."
"Fuck!" Conrad wanted to hurl his phone hard enough it would shatter, but he still needed it. He had known with a gut instinct that he shouldn't have given Nick that case. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He was only vaguely aware that cops and CSIs were staring at him in shock.
"Conrad--"
"Okay," he cut Vartann off and took a deep breath. "Where are you?"
"Henderson. I should be there in about fifteen minutes."
"I'll get Brass to call you. Go over this with him."
"Okay."
Conrad disconnected the call, pointedly ignoring all the looks he was receiving as he walked over to Brass. "Give Vartann a call on his cell. He was on a case with Nick that might be relevant." Brass gave him an inscrutable look before moving away to make the call, but Conrad didn't have time to wonder about it because his phone was ringing again. He looked at the display. Hodges. Christ, he didn't want to talk to Hodges right now and listen to the guy go on and on about how he could be counted on blah, blah, blah. Kiss ass some other time--I'm busy. But he answered it anyway. "Ecklie."
"Nick's truck is gone." There was no preamble, no smarmy tone.
"What?"
"Nick's truck--his vehicle is gone, and we're pretty sure the Denali parked here is his."
"It's there? In the lab's driveway?" This was just getting weirder all the time.
"Wendy noticed it when she got back from break. We tried his place, but there was no answer, so Archie is pulling the tape to see what--wait, he's here."
"Conrad?" Archie's voice came on the line, tense with worry. "I checked the tape. I wasn't able to identify the person, but I know it's not Nick. I'll keep trying for an ID, though. Bobby went out to seal the doors on the truck."
That clinched it, then. This was almost definitely a kidnaping. Another kidnaping. "Keep at it, Archie, and have the vehicle towed into the garage. I'll send someone to process it right away." He hung up again and walked over to the group. "Sofia, can I talk to you?"
The blonde detective arched an eyebrow--they had barely spoken since her change in careers--but followed him a little distance away.
Conrad wasn't too worried, she was too much of a pro to react, no matter what she might actually think about him. "Nick's Denali was returned to the lab and his truck taken by someone. Archie still hasn't got an ID, so--Nina!" He waved over the wiry brunette who had just arrived. "Check with the Captain and see if you can join Nina when she processes the vehicle."
They all looked at Brass, who was still on the phone and wearing a very foreboding expression. "I'll leave him a voice mail for when he's done," Sofia said. "I'm sure he'd okay it." She looked at Nina, "I'll fill you in on the way."
Nina Hempstead, fortunately, was ever unflappable, so she merely pushed up her glasses and headed back the way she came. Conrad was relieved they would be processing the vehicle--the pair had always meshed well when they were on day shift together.
Brass was still on the phone, which was probably why Herrera came up to him to say that the press was gathering, obviously scenting a story, and were getting demanding. Conrad sighed, the press was sometimes helpful in locating a missing person, but something told him it would only endanger Nick further if his abductors heard themselves mentioned on television. He told Herrera to hold them off until his spoke to Brass about a statement, then quickly brushed the sergeant off because he saw a bigger problem approaching.
A much bigger problem.
Warrick Brown strode up the driving, ignoring Greg and Sara when they called to him and making a beeline for the door.
Bracing himself, Conrad stepped in and blocked his path. "Grissom and Catherine are the only graveyard CSIs working this."
"Not anymore," Warrick moved around him.
Conrad moved as well, blocking him again. He noticed that Vega and Caveliere were slowly approaching, obviously expecting trouble. Sara had also moved closer, but there was no telling whether she planned to stop or assist Warrick. Warrick feinted the other way--so did Conrad. "I mean it. This is different then last time. An officer was shot."
"Get out of my way." Brown was looking a little crazed, and Conrad was brought back to that night, when the ex-gambler had been prepared to blow up rather than leave Nick's side. They shuffled back and forth a little more, Brown getting more aggravated by the moment. "I said get the fuck out of my way!"
"You're not going in," Conrad insisted, moving when Warrick moved. "You want me to have to get Grissom or Catherine and take them away from the scene? You want to make trouble? Cause hassles? You think you're wasting my time? You're wasting Nick's time."
It was probably the only thing he could have said that would make Warrick stop and Conrad was immensely relieved it occurred to him to say it. Warrick was now silent, but still wild-eyed and tenser than a bow string--Conrad couldn't tell if he was going to take a swing at him or simply collapse. Sara was speaking to him in a low voice, but the man didn't seem to hear a word.
Brass had finished his call and also hurried over, "Rick--" he began, but couldn't come up with anything other than that.
"Just let me go over a few things with Captain Brass and then I'll tell you everything we know so far," Conrad offered, hoping to forestall any other problems. "We're going to need your input on several things, and after that I'll keep you updated as often as possible. But you're not getting in on this one."
Warrick's jaw worked briefly, then he gave a short nod and allowed Sara to lead him away. Conrad didn't bother trying to fool himself into thinking that it was the last time he'd have to tangle with Brown, he didn't have time for that at the moment. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he turned to Captain Brass.
"Vartann filled you in on his suspicions?"
"Yeah," Brass rubbed his forehead. "Jesus H. Christ! I'm gonna have to talk to Gil and Catherine about this. If it's connected--" he shook his head.
Conrad, for once, could actually relate. It almost seemed that there was too much information coming from too many directions--he still hadn't gotten the chance to let Grissom know about the vehicle exchange and that was pretty damn important. As Nick's roommate, Warrick had to be questioned as well as filled in, and that was going to be trouble all around. And--oh, son of a bitch! If Nick wasn't found within twenty-four hours, someone was going to have to notify Nick's parents that their son was missing--again. First things first. He told Brass that Sofia was processing the vehicles, then changed the subject to--"We've got to give the press something before they start either making stuff up or trying to sneak past the barricade. Just something to hold them off."
Brass nodded in agreement. "I don't want names given out yet either, especially Nick's. Until we're positive what's going, it could jeopardize him. What about McKeen? You heard from him?"
"Once. Says he'll be here. Didn't say when."
"Okay. I'll give 'em something to chew on." Brass started up the street, and Conrad followed.
His progress was halted by an unbreakable grip on his arm. Warrick's stark expression was a silent demand for answers. "I just want to hear Brass' statement, and then everything I know, you'll know."
Warrick released him, and they all moved to hear what Brass had to say.
"I'm Captain Jim Brass of the LVPD. I have a brief statement and will not be taking any questions. Any officer was shot at this morning at approximately 3:40 am. He has been taken to Desert Palms Hospital and is in critical condition. We will not be releasing his name until his family has been notified. The LVPD is pursuing several leads and we are attempting to locate a witness believed to have been at the scene. I cannot give any more information at this time."
There was almost no warning before a hand grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into a semi-sitting position. Trying to maintain his balance with his hands and feet still bound, Nick reluctantly opened his eyes and looked around the dingy motel room. The single lamp between the two beds didn't reveal much of the room, but it was enough to let Nick know this wasn't a four-star establishment. He couldn't check his watch to see how long they'd been traveling, but he couldn't hear any traffic no matter how much he strained his ears, so he knew they had to be well out of the city.
He looked at the man who had him by the shirt, but there was no way to tell whether he was the one that had worked for Sampson before or the one with all the questions. At the foot of the bed stood a man that was utterly nondescript--average height, average build, average features and average brown hair. Several more pieces clicked into place for Nick, none of them good. It had been Sampson's men that had attacked him out in the desert and Sampson himself had been there.
With a jolt, it suddenly occurred to Nick that none of the men were taking any precautions that would keep him from identifying them. He knew what that meant, and fought for control over the panic that was bubbling through him again.
Stay calm. Stay calm. They found you once before. They're looking for you now. All you have to do is hang on until they find you.
All three men were looking at him as though they expected him to say something, but Nick remained silent, his jaw clenched slightly. He knew that if he began to speak, his voice would start to shake, then he would start to shake, and probably lose it. That couldn't happen. He had to keep his cool, to stay on top of things if he was ever going to make it out.
"We've met before, haven't we, Mr. Stokes?"
Nick swallowed hard.
"And I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."
"Alexei," Nick whispered, the name getting away from him.
"Do you realize that I've had to change my plans and my base of operations several times because you decided to make a nuisance of yourself? And naturally such things have cost me, both monetarily and in regards to my reputation. So I've decided it's only fair that you help me in this demonstration that will restore the faith of my business associates."
"Yeah, what exactly is this demonstration?" asked the question guy. He was standing further away and Nick couldn't make out many distinguishing features except that he easily the largest of the trio.
"Quite simply, Mr. Rauscher, I need to prove that I can keep secrets--especially when those secrets happen to be human. Keeping Mr. Stokes hidden even though the entire police department is looking for him will go a long way toward restoring confidence in my business."
Out of pure bravado, Nick said snidely, "Didn't you already try that? I don't think it worked."
Rather than seeming annoyed, Sampson merely smiled. "I suppose that only proves the old adage, 'if you want something done right...' I never should have taken Sylvia at her word that she could handle that lunatic Gordon. Fortunately, his equally lunatic daughter took care of Sylvia for me, so that was one less chore."
Nick felt the breath rush from his lungs as panic now tightened like a band around his chest. Sampson was confessing, and the more he admitted, the less chance there was of him letting Nick live.
"I'll be back when the time is up," Sampson said to the men. "There may be more things I have to discuss. Mr. Moutry, our guest seems rather subdued at the moment, but if begins to annoy you, this should do the trick." He handed Moutry what looked to Nick like an elaborate gag, made of leather with some sort of tongue depressor built it. "I expect to find him alive when I return."
Once Sampson was gone, Rauscher spoke from the shadows. "Alive. That gives us a whole lot of leeway."
The band around his chest tightened inexorably.
In rare moments when he wasn't thinking about Nick, Warrick was forced to acknowledge that Ecklie had been right to keep him off the case. He hated admitting it, but it was so far down the list of things he hated about the last sixteen hours that it barely registered.
Normally, the knowledge that he wasn't up to doing his job, that his colleagues knew he wasn't up to doing his job, that he couldn't just handle things, would have driven him around the bend; maybe sent him to the tables, but not this time. This time he was frozen, in every sense of the word, and goddammit, that wasn't supposed to happen to him. Warrick Brown did things--it was how he dealt. The right thing or the wrong thing, smart move or bad move, he always did something, and right now he was incapable of anything.
That included maintaining his poker face, which only made things worse. It showed. Warrick knew it showed--it was obvious in the way people were treating him. In the way Sara never left his side for the first five hours; the way Greg kept his voice pitched low and careful when they spoke; the way all the techs tiptoed around him; the way Ecklie kept him updated without being asked; all of it indicated people knew Warrick Wasn't Dealing Well. And that sucked. It wasn't his thing. It wasn't him.
He had no way of knowing if anyone suspected that his relationship with Nick had changed and didn't particularly care if they did. For some reason, though, he couldn't bring himself to actually tell anyone.
Shock, maybe. He must still be in some sort of shock for all that it should have worn off by now. Shock was the only explanation for his reaction to Ecklie's suggestion that he go home and rest.
He went.
Not even an hour into a double and he had gone home. He, Warrick Brown, who could work three triples practically back-to-back before he started to drag, had gone home a mere hour after his usual shift would have ended. Even though every CSI was now on the job, even though the case was life-and-death, he went home.
And he stayed.
And here he was.
He kept his phone on and nearby, but for the first several hours, Warrick lay on Nick's bed with Nick's scent surrounding him. He even slept, which surprised him, and dreamed of Nick, which did not.
Filled with self-loathing that he could even think of sleeping, when Warrick awoke the first thing he did was call Sara. There was no real change, she told him, and Sampson still looked like their best lead, except that he wasn't in the country.
"Look, I'm just going to grab a shower and then I'll be in to pick up some slack for swing," Warrick said, even though he privately doubted he'd be of much use.
"Warrick--"
"I'm sorry about skipping out on you guys like that."
"It's okay," Sara said.
"No. It's not," Warrick insisted, then said good-bye.
He headed straight for the shower, making a determined effort to clear start thinking clearly--hell, at this point he would have happily settled for being about to think at all. Right now, he just had to hang onto the fact that Nick was somewhere and alive. That wasn't just a desperate hope on his part, he knew. If Nick was dead or seriously wounded, he would have mostly been left at the scene with Carreiro. So someone wanted him. Warrick didn't allow himself to think any further than that, knowing he would only freeze up again.
Although Sampson was their most likely lead, there were still several different ways he could fit into the picture. It was just a matter of untangling coincidence from connections.
When he finally stepped out of the shower, Warrick could hardly believe he'd actually left work in the first place. He actually left the place he was most likely to hear any news about Nick immediately. If he needed proof that he wasn't rational enough to work Nick's case, that was it. He would hinder, not help on Nick's case, but there would still be other cases coming in. Crime didn't stand still just because the most important person in someone's world disappeared, Warrick knew that as well as anyone. He didn't want Deems and Hempstead to think about anything besides Nick's case, and if that meant he had to work their entire caseload, so be it.
He'd almost finished dressing with Nick's home phone rang. With his heart in his throat, Warrick bolted into the living room and snatched it up. "Hello?"
"Hello," a woman replied, and Warrick's heart sank back to the pit of his stomach. He knew it was unlikely, but there had been the tiny flicker of hope he would hear Nick's voice. "Is Nick there?"
"Who's calling?" Warrick asked.
"It's Joss. Is this Warrick? Nick said you two were going to be roommates."
Warrick filtered through Nick's sisters--the only two he'd met were Susannah and Sammie--Joss was the twin sister of big brother Brett. "Yeah. Warrick Brown," he said, the words automatic.
"Hey, Warrick," Joss said, in that same friendly way Nick had. "Is Nick there?"
Oh, Jesus. What could he say to her? Obviously Nick's parents hadn't been notified yet.
"Hello?"
"Someone--" he had to clear his throat before he could continue. "Someone should be contacting you...or your folks about Nick."
"What?" There was dread in her voice already.
"There was an incident at--that is, we believe--" Warrick sighed. What the hell was wrong with him? He never stammered like this.
"Where's Nick?" Joss' voice rose fearfully.
"We...don't know."
"You don't know...he's missing?"
"Yes. He went missing from a scene he was working."
"Does...does this have anything to do with what happened to him last year?"
"We don't know for certain at this point," Warrick said, strangely relieved that the worst of the news had been broken. "It's one of the things we're looking into, though."
"Oh, my God..." she sounded close to tears. "When?"
"Between three and four this morning. Your parents may have been contacted already."
"I thought there was supposed to be someone with him at a scene at all times. That's what he told us when he was here."
"There was. The officer was shot."
"Oh...oh, dear God..."
"Miss Sto--Mrs...umm..."
"Joss," she whispered.
"Joss. I'm going back to work now, and--"
"You're a CSI, too," Joss said.
"I am. I'll make sure that someone had told your parents. I can give you my cell phone number if you want information or anything like that."
"Yes, please."
"It's 555-0127."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry," Somehow it was painful to say that.
"So am I," she said, and rallied briefly. "You're Nick's best friend. He's told us that often enough. Mom told me you were there for him every step of the way."
"I'm going to try to be again," Warrick promised.
"I know you will," she whispered, her voice breaking. She disconnected without another word.
As soon as he managed to swallow the lump that had returned to his throat, Warrick began dialing Grissom's number. He wanted to warn them in case the Stokes hadn't been notified. The Judge had been coldly furious with the LVCL and the entire LVPD the last time around, even after they'd found Nick. There was no telling what he would be like this time.
The conversation kept replaying through his mind in an endless loop. Even after morning and afternoon had passed and the sun had set again. After the room had grown stifling and stuffy--despite the air conditioning--and then began to cool once more. After he had sat up, then lay down first on one side and then the other, always trying to move unobtrusively so to not attract too much attention. After concocting and abandoning dozens of possibilities for escape. After all that, Nick still couldn't get that conversation out of his mind.
Sampson had been gone for an hour, and Nick's guards had spent the time checking everything and getting organized to their satisfaction before settling in front of the television. Nick, on one of the room's two double beds had been mostly ignored, and that suited him just fine while he tried to get his bearings. The sun still hadn't come up at that point, and the men seemed content to work by just the light of the television and a single low-wattage bulb, so Nick hadn't been able to make out many of the details of the room or his captors. All he'd been able to note was that he was in a standard low-end motel with a little kitchenette, that Moutry had a stringy, wiry build and longish hair while Rauscher would have towered over Warrick by several inches and bore a striking resemblance to a brick wall.
Nick's ears had served him better during that hour, and he'd learned that Moutry had been released from prison about a month earlier and had gone to Sampson looking for work. Rauscher had only been out for a week and immediately brought in on the job by Moutry. It was during this exchange that Nick heard the exchange that chilled his blood.
"What's all this shit you've got going on about leeway, anyway, man?" Moutry asked after they'd been watching television for only a few minutes.
"Just wanted to know."
"Fuck that. Why?"
"I know him," Rauscher replied, his voice hard.
"Him? Wait...you know him?" Moutry jerked a thumb in Nick's direction.
Nick quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to provoke them in any way at the moment.
"Fucker blew my alibi out of the water with some shit about fibers. Goddamn judge gave me the whole nickel on a fuckin' C felony because of him. Second strike, too."
Oh, dear God. Nick frantically searched his memory for the name of Rauscher.
"Son of a bitch, and you served the whole stretch," Moutry gave a low whistle
Going back five years, Nick finally remembered Rauscher, who had attempted to burn down the trailer of a witness to another crime, but hadn't succeeded. He'd insisted he'd been out of state, and had witnesses to say so, but Nick had been able to prove them wrong with the chemical burns on Rauscher's clothes and fibers found on the scene. The judge had given him the maximum. And if he'd served the entire five years, he definitely hadn't been a model prisoner.
After that, Nick had abandoned his half-formed plan to engage them in conversation and had decided he'd be better off drawing as little notice to himself as possible.
Once the sun had come up, Nick spent two hours scanning the room as thoroughly as he could from his position, then spent another two scanning it again in case he'd missed something the first time.
The rest of the day, Nick sorted through everything he'd learned, trying to fit what might somehow help him versus what could possibly provoke his captors. He also tried to estimate what sort of progress was being made on the case without getting his hopes up too high. Unlike the last time, which had seemed completely random, Nick was certain that Vartann would be following up on Sampson as a lead almost immediately.
Except that Barrett Sampson was supposedly out of the country.
How the hell had he pulled that off?
Nick didn't waste too much time wondering how; the fact remained that it was most certainly possibly. Hell, Sampson had done it before, he realized with a jolt. The man had been present at Nick's assault by the Dead Mountains, despite the fact that passport records had shown him to be out of the country then as well. Great. How was anyone supposed to put that part of the puzzle together without Nick letting them know?
Michaels. There was another piece of the puzzle. I don't know how you managed to get two weeks vacation at once, you lucky SOB, but have fun in Hawaii. Everyone probably figured Michaels was in Hawaii. No doubt Sampson had helped him with that trick. If he had fled, it would be two weeks before anyone started looking for him. Or, if he figured neither Carreiro nor Nick would survive, he might just return to work.
Carreiro. Oh, Jesus, Carreiro. Was he still alive? Vega had been due to arrive at the scene at any moment, maybe he got there in time. Maybe the wound hadn't been fatal.
He listened whenever his captors talked, but most of their conversation centered around the Ely State Prison. They discussed who had been killed, who would be killed, who should be killed, who had clicked up, who'd been sent down, turned out and signed in. Nothing Nick heard was very encouraging.
From the sound of it, even allowing for exaggeration, each of his guards had gone down for some of their lesser crimes and never been brought to justice for the more serious ones. Granted, they never actually admitted to anything, but by listening carefully, Nick was able to discern that between them they had three murders and innumerable assaults. It was more incentive than ever to remain silent and still.
They nuked some fast food at one point and kept glancing at him while they ate as though they expected him to ask for some.
Not in a million years, assholes. Of course, the whole idea of food raised other issues, but Nick knew he had a few days before the issues evolved into actual problems.
Sampson wanted to demonstrate he could successfully hide a person--and if that wasn't an admission to human trafficking, Nick didn't know what was--but no one was going to be impressed with someone remaining hidden for a mere 48 or 72 hours. Nick estimated in order for it to be even remotely impressive, he'd have to be held for at least five or six days. Maybe during that time he would be able to find a weakness in their plan that would result in a way out. Unlike the last time, there was a much higher chance of human error that he could exploit--he just had to watch for his chance.
Not once since he'd regained consciousness had he thought about Warrick, and he made a determined effort not to start now.
He couldn't.
He didn't dare.
There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Barrett Sampson was behind the abduction. There was certainly no doubt in Alex Vartann's mind, and as far as he was concerned, there shouldn't have been doubt in anyone else's.
Naturally the CSIs on the case were looking at every possible option and he didn't fault them for that--that's what CSIs always did. He was going to do was he always did--follow his gut.
It led him straight back to Hugh Vrederveld.
Brass had practically told him to run that lead as far as it could go and to bring in Caveliere or Curtis if he needed the help. Vartann decided to follow the lead alone for now, Chris was taking care of any BOLO calls on Stokes' truck, Sofia was tracking down the bullet they'd pulled from Carreiro's body and Sam was doing practically everything else.
Besides, he didn't need any help at the moment, because Catherine Willows happened to agree with his gut and that was pretty much all he needed. Conrad might run the lab, and Grissom might be a genius, Catherine was the one who really knew how to get results. She could get techs, other CSIs, even cops to do almost anything she asked of them.
In the early hours of the morning after Nick's abduction, Vartann had gone to see Vrederveld, demanding a straight answer about Sampson's whereabouts. Vrederveld stammered something about Brussels, so Vartann returned to the lab to tell Catherine, but they were unable to find him anywhere in Belgium. So Catherine set Archie--when he wasn't analyzing the video--to tracking Sampson's passport.
Vartann returned to Sampson's ranch house in the afternoon, and told Vrederveld if they didn't find Sampson, he'd be getting hauled into the station. More nervous than ever, Vrederveld rattled off two more countries and promised he was cooperating.
Luxembourg and Sweden were also busts, and when Vartann tried to contact Vrederveld again, the man had disappeared.
Rather than being upset, Vartann felt suitably vindicated--he'd been on the right track all along. He'd known the guy would crack, too.
Now he just had to run Vredereld to ground and get the truth from him.
Warrick wasn't sure what exactly had possessed him to offer to pick up Nick's family from McCarran. Maybe it was just too frustrating to be at the lab right now when evidence in Nick's case was still being processed and not much was being discovered. Perhaps it was that he remembered that Judge Stokes and Grissom had pretty much been oil and water during Nick's recovery, even though neither man would ever acknowledge it. There was almost some sort of competition there, although Warrick wasn't sure what it was based on and didn't want to contemplate it too much.
It was also possible that he felt obligated to look out for Nick's family because of his relationship with Nick, even though he had no intention of telling them--or anyone--about it. Most likely it was a combination of all those things.
Of course, he'd made the offer before he'd known that Brett was joining Nick's parents. Warrick still didn't know what his opinion of Nick's brother was, but then he barely knew a thing about the guy. He had learned the basics over the years--wife, two kids, city attorney in Houston, but really wasn't sure how Nick related to him. The most he'd ever heard had been in the past few months, because Nick had spent a lot of time talking about his visit with his brother, but Warrick had never quite been able to work out what that meant.
At the airport, he spotted the Stokes' immediately, and would have spotted them easily even if he had never met Nick's parents before, just by the man standing next to them. Brett Stokes was a taller Nick Stokes with blond hair and a few more years but without that easy, friendly smile. The lack of a smile, Warrick reminded himself, could very well be due to the circumstances, but somehow he didn't think so. Taking a deep breath, he walked forward to meet them.
"Mrs. Stokes. Your Honor."
The Judge's expression was one of cold fury, but he thawed slightly and very reluctantly, "Mr. Brown." He had always acknowledged Warrick and Nick's close friendship by being less disapproving around Warrick.
"Warrick," Jillian Stokes took his hand. "Has there been anymore news since we last spoke?"
"Has there been a ransom demand?" Brett asked.
Warrick looked at him in surprise.
"Sorry. Brett Stokes," he held out his hand.
"Warrick Brown," Warrick replied. "No ransom demand, but we aren't really expecting one. We believe--maybe we could get your bags and I can explain on the way. Once we get you settled at Nick's and you've had the chance to--"
"We're going to the police department," Stokes stated in a tone that brooked no argument.
Well, he hadn't expected it to be easy. "I thought you might want to--"
"We want to know what's going on with Nick."
"And I'll tell you," Warrick said, trying to speak firmly without seeming argumentative. "On the way to Nick's."
It didn't work. The Judge's expression grew colder and darker. "If you think we're just going to sit back and let this happen all over again, you are sorely mistaken. I'm going to talk to your Gil Grissom--I want to know why he let this happen again."
"Bill, please--" Jillian said, looking around.
They weren't drawing much attention, though. Stokes' voice wasn't overly loud, although it still got his point across. "Goddammit, I knew we shouldn't have let him come back here."
If there was one thing about Judge William Stokes that never failed to infuriate Warrick it was the way he dictated--tried to dictate--everyone's actions and the way he'd always acted as though Nick's presence in Las Vegas was some sort of disobedience. He tried his best to keep his temper, though, knowing Nick wouldn't want him fighting with his parents. "I don't think the airport is the place for this...sir."
"He's right, Dad," Brett said, after shooting Warrick an unreadable look. "Let's just get to Nick's place and figure out what to do from there."
No one spoke as the Stokes got their bags and Warrick led them to his jeep. As he pulled away from the airport, Warrick began relating what the LVPD knew so far, but the Judge was more interested in having his questions answered. "Why don't your people expect a ransom?" he demanded.
"How is the officer who was shot?" Jillian asked, cooling the situation in the car somewhat.
"Officer Carreiro is holding on, but they aren't exactly counting on him waking up."
There were a few moments of quiet, respect for the fallen cop, then the Judge spoke again, "Jocelyn told us you said this might be related to the last time."
"We think their might be some connection, yes."
"Then why wouldn't there be a ransom demand this time?"
"How could they be related?" Brett added a few of his own questions. "We were under the impression that Nick's kidnaper had acted alone. Wasn't it some sort of revenge?"
Warrick glanced at the two men in the rear view mirror, then over at Jillian in the passenger seat. "It's...more complicated than that. Walter Gordon had a partner. She made the ransom demand, even though Gordon himself had no intention of collecting it."
"So you know who has Nick," Jillian exclaimed, hope in her voice. "It's his partner."
"No, ma'am. She's dead, too." Realizing Nick hadn't done it, Warrick told them about Mullins' involvement and subsequent murder, and Kelly Gordon's release and suicide. Once he'd finished, heavy silence descended and lasted until they reached the house.
"Why...why wouldn't he have told us this?" Jillian whispered after they were inside.
The Judge was standing with his arms braced against the back of a chair, holding onto it as though that were his only means of controlling his temper. "If everyone is dead, how the hell could these cases be connected?"
That led to the explanation of Sampson, the land by the Dead Mountains, the mass graves, Nick's meeting with Alexei, his assault while "trespassing" on Sampson's land and Alexei's recent death.
There was another long silence, broken only when Nick's father spat--"What the hell is wrong with that boy?"
"Hey!" Warrick snarled without thinking.
"Bill," Jillian said in a much quieter voice.
"Why don't we know about any of this?" Bill asked her, then turned on Warrick. "Anything else we need to know about? Anything else happen to him in this god forsaken sinkhole of a city?"
Warrick ignored the insult to his hometown, because he was too busy wondering whether Nick's family knew about Nigel Crane. "That's everything we have on the case right now." All three of them exchanged glances and Warrick realized he really should know better than to try bluffing a bunch of lawyers.
"Why haven't the FBI been called in?" The Judge asked, and didn't wait for an answer. "Nevermind. I'll contact them myself."
Not the Feds. Jesus, not the Feds. If they think it'll nab them a trafficker they'll leave Nicky twisting in the wind. "We found him last time and we'll find him this time. If you'd just sit down, I'll go over every single thing we know so far."
To Warrick's immense relief, they sat.
Nick awoke with a jolt, bewildered to find himself upright instead of horizontal. By the time he recovered from his surprise that he'd managed to fall asleep in the first place and got around to opening his eyes, he found himself in the motel room's small, crowded bathroom. Crowded because both of his guards were in it with him, Moutry by the bathtub holding a gun on him and Rauscher holding him up by his arms. That last part was absolutely necessary, because they hadn't bothered untying his feet, making any sort of balance virtually impossible.
"What..?" was the only thing that sprang to mind.
"You're gonna take a piss now," Moutry informed him. "Or you can wait another day."
What the hell?
Nick felt the restraints on his wrists being removed, and his hands tingled as the blood flow returned to normal. Rauscher kept hold of one wrist and twisted that arm painfully behind his back, the man's other meaty hand gripped his neck. "You gonna take care of it?" The man's breath on the back of his neck made Nick shudder, "Or do you want us to?"
Under no circumstances was Nick going to give them a reason for that, so he quickly did as instructed, unfastening his jeans with one hand. The situation was humiliating--which Nick was sure was part of their intention--but so surreal that it wasn't that difficult to deal with. Besides which, he actually had to go.
Then Moutry leered, "He probably would love it if you did give him a hand."
Oh, God.
"Yeah?"
"That's what Sampson said. Heard it from a cop this guy works with."
Michaels. You bastard.
"You must really be enjoying this, then," Rauscher breathed in his ear.
Nick clenched his jaw and concentrated on refastening his jeans with one hand. A hand that, thankfully, did not shake despite the panic bubbling inside him. He wanted desperately to keep the lid firmly fastened on that panic.
"All done?" Moutry asked, falsely solicitous.
Rauscher yanked Nick's free arm behind his back and fastened them again. Only then did Moutry holster his gun. Nick's precarious balance disappeared and for a brief moment he felt the lid shift slightly until he realized his guards were merely dragging him back out of the bathroom. The lid rattled even more dangerously as the men abruptly dropped him half on the bed and he froze, not daring to move until he was certain they were in front of the television again.
He squirmed and struggled until he was completely on the bed and lying on his side--it was as comfortable as he could be in the situation--and prepared himself for another long stretch of tense watchfulness. The sun was up again, so Nick knew it had been at least twenty-four hours, but beyond that, he couldn't even guess at the time. His guards were blocking the television, so Nick strained his ears as they flipped through the channels, silently willing them to stop on a news station.
Instead, overdone panting and moaning sounded from the speakers, leaving no doubt what they had decided to watch. Nick stifled his own groan--of disgust. At some point, he knew he might be grateful for having their attention so focused on something other than him, but at the moment there were no opportunities or viable options for him to take advantage of.
It was back to waiting, then. They had to trip up somewhere, sometime.
Warrick looked up from the comparison scope as Catherine walked into the ballistics lab.
"What have you got for me, Bobby?"
"I finally track down the bullet taken from Carreiro."
Immediately, Warrick abandoned the bullets from the previous day's drive-by. Neither Catherine nor Bobby commented on his listening in even though it wasn't his case--everyone in the lab was doing the same thing whenever Nick's case was discussed, all of them hoping for some shred of new information.
"The bullet is a .32, manufactured for a CZ-70," Bobby said. "These are pistols used by the Internal Security in Czechoslovakia. The ammo is not sold here in America, and the weapons are usually only owned by collectors. Special permit is required for import--printout goes back five years," he handed Catherine a sheet.
"Sampson," Warrick said immediately.
"He's not on the list," Catherine said as her eyes scanned the paper. "But that doesn't mean much. I doubt anyone we're looking for would be on--Prause."
"Who?"
"When we first investigated Sampson, this guy's name came up," Catherine explained. "The Feds have been trying to find him for years. Dammit!"
"Well, you've got a starting point, then," Bobby pointed out.
"Yeah, but if we try to look up his files, it'll red-flag the Feds for sure. If that happens--" Catherine let her words trail off.
"Jesus," Warrick whispered. "The Sheriff is already itching to call them in, if they contact him, he'll hand it over for sure."
"And if the Feds think that sacrificing Nick will get them Prause, they'll cut him loose without blinking," Catherine finished.
"God!" Warrick gritted out through clenched teeth and left the lab, not even sure where he was headed. It had taken 27 hours to find Nick after his first abduction, and nearly twice that much time had already passed. Even worse, they about 20 hours away from the 72 hour mark and something was bound to change after that.
"Warrick. Warrick, hey."
Warrick stopped and allowed Catherine to catch up--he was just storming blindly through the hall, anyway.
"We're going to find him, Warrick. We found him before and we can do it again."
"This is different, Cath. You know it is. Jesus, we've got a dead cop on this one."
Her eyes widened in shock, "Carreiro is..?"
"No," Warrick sighed, "But you've heard the prognosis."
Catherine nodded sadly, her hair falling forward to obscure her face. "Conrad asked Gil to join him and Brass when the meet with the Sheriff."
"When is that?"
"This afternoon at four."
"No," Warrick closed his eyes.
"What?"
"Judge Stokes said he has a meeting with the Sheriff at four. Cath, can you get in on it?"
"On the meeting?"
"Or ask Gris to stay out of it?"
"What?!" Catherine looked at him as if he'd gone insane and her voice rose with honest anger. "Warrick, don't you even--Gil is giving everything on this. I know he's been...different, but--"
"You noticed that too?" Warrick asked, momentarily distracted. He'd been meaning to ask someone about it, just to find out if he was the only one seeing it.
Tears sprang to Catherine's eyes and she motioned for Warrick to follow her into the office. "This is killing him," she whispered. "He won't talk about it...not in any context except as a case, but--"
"I know," Warrick agreed quietly, and immediately the image of Grissom sprang to mind. Blue eyes burning, features drawn, expression stark, like a man on a crusade. Like a man with nothing left except that crusade. "And that's not what I meant. It's just that he and Judge Stokes..."
Catherine's anger subsided and she nodded, "I know."
"I've told his parents why it's not a good idea, but the Judge is insisting on calling in the Feds." Warrick paused as a lump rose in his throat. It was getting more difficult not to give in to despair, because the stack against them--against Nick--just kept getting higher and higher. Even the people who were supposed to be on the same side seemed to be working against them. "He's so...he's furious with everything. With Grissom, with CSI, with LVPD--hell, with Las Vegas. I don't think he wants anyone here working on Nick's case."
"Warrick, he's not going to sacrifice his son out of spite."
Warrick couldn't bring himself to answer, not even when he heard Catherine's sharp intake of breath.
"Would he?" she whispered in horror.
"No. Not consciously," Warrick said. "But..."
"Oh, God. Okay. Okay, I'll talk to Gil about the meeting."
Nodding, Warrick suddenly remembered he'd been in the middle of a case, and turned to go back to ballistics.
"Warrick?"
"Yeah?"
"Did anyone get a hold of Mark? Does he know?"
"Mark?" Warrick frowned, trying to place the name.
"Wasn't that who Nick had been seeing?"
He froze, "Uh..."
"I was teasing him about it the last time I--" her voice caught. "Well, he didn't deny it. And he'd been so happy these past few days I figured it had to be love. Didn't you notice?"
He was going to die. Right here in Catherine's office. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything expect pain. No one could possibly hurt this much and not die.
"I'll look into," he said roughly, and fled.
Another day and this time in addition to the humiliating trip to the bathroom, there was also a dry cheese sandwich and half a bottle of water to break up the tedium. They didn't bother to untie him for either food or drink, apparently finding it entertaining to hand-feed him.
By the time his meal was over, Nick had nearly choked twice and his shirt was damp from all the water that had spilled. He'd remained silent throughout the meal, but it hadn't been easy. His guards were definitely trying to provoke him, no doubt hoping for the chance to put him back in his place. Nick wasn't about to give them that satisfaction.
His limbs were beginning to seriously cramp--his legs hadn't been untied since arriving in the hotel room and his arms only twice. Even if at some point he was suddenly free, he was going to waste valuable seconds trying to regain his equilibrium.
His guards were methodical, never leaving him an opening, and yet Nick could sense the situation beginning to change, even after two days. Thus far, the television and their conversation, along with hurling the occasional insult in his direction, had been enough to keep both men occupied, but Nick knew they were getting bored already.
He didn't want to think about what would happen when the imprisonment began to get to them as well.
Jim glanced over at Gil Grissom for what seemed like the hundredth time, willing the man to come out with one of those bizarre, obscure quotes or facts that gave everyone pause but still managed to bring people around to his way of thinking. Unfortunately, Gil seemed beyond either quotes or facts at the moment. They didn't have much evidence for him to draw from either, which might have been the reason for his unusual silence.
It was horribly chilling to realize that if not for Walter Gordon's twisted desire to gloat by contacting them the last time, they never would have found Nick. While they actually had leads this time around, they were still no closer to locating him.
All Gil had really been able to say--and he'd said it more than once as though to make up for the lack--was: "We'll find him." It was one of those rare times--Jim knew he could probably count them on one hand--that he'd seen the entomologist operating on nothing more than blind hope; on the conviction that they were going to find Nick simply because he couldn't bring himself to contemplate not finding Nick. Although Jim considered himself a realist, at the moment he was happy to go along with his friend--he had also been stubbornly refusing to think about what not finding Nick would do to everyone.
Today, though, Gil's inability to expound in his usual manner might actually be working in their favor. Jim had the feeling anything the scientist said would only infuriate Nick's father more and would automatically be denied. Judge Stokes wasn't interested in Gil's determination and Jim doubted he would have been interested in cold, hard evidence, either. Stokes didn't want Gil--or anyone else from Las Vegas--on the case and had been arguing vehemently on the subject for the past twenty minutes.
He knew it would make little difference, but Jim decided to step into the breach once more. "Your Honor, Gil Grissom is responsible for finding your son the last time."
"And who is responsible for the boy disappearing again?"
"We have several--"
"Don't give be your we have several leads bullshit, Captain," Stokes cut him off. "I want to know why Nick was taken at all. What the hell were your people doing when this happened?"
Asshole. I don't care if you are a Supreme Court Judge. "A cop was shot!" Jim growled. "And he was probably shot trying to protect your son!" And dammit, the last thing he wanted was for Nicky to be the battleground in this fight.
The Judge obviously knew he'd crossed a line, but instead of retreating or drawing a new one, he simply obliterated it all together. "Well, let's not have any more of your men getting hurt on my boy's account--the FBI can take it off your hands."
"It's a good point, Captain."
Jim had to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out at Sheriff Burdick. Unlike his predecessor or his undersheriff, who both occasionally still thought like cops, Ron Burdick was all politician. He was only too happy to have such a difficult case taken off his hands and as a bonus, do a favor for a high-ranking judge, even if it was one from another state. Jim couldn't think of a way to argue the point.
Much to his surprise, Ecklie could. The Assistant Director had been silent for most of the meeting, but now he spoke up. "You'd know the mayor's take on this better than I would, Ron, but I don't think the Lab Director would care for the implication that the Las Vegas Crime Lab can't handle this case. We are, after all, second only to Quantico. Will the mayor like it getting out that the City can't take care of its own?"
The Sheriff actually looked disconcerted, and Jim made a mental note to buy Ecklie a drink when this was all over. Whatever else he was, he knew how to play the game to perfection, and for once Jim was glad to have him on their side. As for Stokes, he was staring at Ecklie as though seeing him for the first time, and Jim supposed he was--before this, the Judge had merely treated him like an insignificant paper pusher.
Before anyone could pick up the argument again, there was a knock on the door. Jim was keeping an eye on Burdick to gauge his reaction, but turned when he felt Gil start next to him. It wasn't difficult to see what had thrown him--at first glance the man beckoning to Judge Stokes could have been Nick.
"Excuse me," Stokes said with a frown, and left the room.
Gil's shoulders slumped and he took off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Jim shifted in his chair and rolled his neck, trying to work out some of the stiffness in his shoulders. No one in the meeting room spoke as they listened to the murmur of voices outside. It sounded like an intense discussion, but wasn't loud enough to be understood. After a good fifteen minutes, the Judge returned, and Jim could see Nick's mother had been out in the hall as well.
Stokes did not look happy, and when he spoke it was through clenched teeth. "If you truly believe your people will be able to find him, I won't press for the FBI to be brought in."
Jim looked at Gil and then Ecklie, wondering what the hell had just happened.
"Your Honor," Burdick was quick to change gears. "Let me assure you that we'll have the maximum manpower assigned to this case."
Stokes left with nothing more than a curt nod to the Sheriff.
Ecklie glanced through the doorway, then shrugged. "Back to it?" he asked.
"Yep," Jim stood.
Gil followed, the distracted expression back on his face. None of the three men bothered taking their leave of the Sheriff. They hadn't gone more than a few yards down the hall when Warrick stepped out in front of them. "What happened?"
"What are you doing here?" Jim asked.
"Did he call it off?"
"He did," Gil said, studying the younger man closely.
With a sigh, Warrick slumped against the wall.
"What did you do?" Ecklie asked.
"When Catherine told me there was a meeting about calling the Feds in, I knew Judge Stokes wouldn't listen to any of you. I've been trying to tell him since he got here, and he won't hear it," Warrick explained, rubbing his neck absent-mindedly. "So I started talking to Brett, explaining how the Feds already tried to take over this case two years ago, and that I figured they'd give Nick up if they thought it would help their case. Finally, Brett called a couple of his friends in the Bureau, just to ask a few questions."
"And...?" Gil prompted.
"He made it hypothetical, of course, but basically they told him the same thing I had--that they'd probably sacrifice someone if it meant catching a big fish. Once Jillian found that out, we came straight over here."
Ecklie gave Warrick a hard look and obviously wanted to say something, but thought the better of it and walked away.
Gil, on the other hand, reminded him--"You aren't working this case."
The younger man bristled immediately, but as he studied his supervisor's expression, his anger subsided. "This wasn't part of the case."
After a moment, Gil nodded his agreement and Warrick left as well. Jim hated the way everyone had become so subdued. There were no longer waves or salutes or smart ass remarks whenever they took their leave of each other. He heard Gil let out a sigh and glanced over--the entomologist was staring after Warrick even though he'd long since disappeared around a corner. "Gil?"
"I told him in was over," Gil said quietly.
"What?"
"Nick. When he was working the Mullins case. I told him it was over."
Gil's voice was toneless, dead. Jim wondered if he would have been able to think of a way to reply if there had been any emotion or inflection. He doubted it.
Even more quietly, Gil added, "Never meant to disappoint you."
Jim watched him walk away, unsure whether that cryptic remark was meant for him or Nick.
"How's it going, Archie?"
Archie gave Catherine a small smile of greeting as she joined him in front of the computer. "It's going. Nothing more on Sampson yet. I'm positive he's in the States--probably here in Nevada--but I haven't been able to find anything besides the ranch."
"He's got to have an alias."
"Probably several. Detective Vartann called to ask if I could dig a little deeper on his assistant...um, Vrederveld. I'm going to see if any names jump out."
"Vartann called you?" Catherine looked mildly surprised.
"Yeah. And Detective Cavaliere was here a couple of hours ago, too, with a possible lead on Sampson." Archie didn't bother adding that he'd spoken more to the Detectives in the past four days than he had in the past four years. "Should I tell them to go to one of you guys?"
"No, that's fine," she assured him. "Don't worry about it. Everyone wants to follow every lead they can. Speaking of which--" She opened the folder she'd brought along. "I have a huge favor to ask of you. I just want you to know that if you don't want to do it, I completely understand."
Archie was immediately on his guard. The last time a supervisor had made a similar request, it had nearly cost him a friendship. Nick had eventually allowed him to explain and forgiven him, but he still regretted it--now more than ever. No harm in finding out what it was, though, so he nodded for Catherine to continue.
"You know we investigated Sampson before, right?"
Archie nodded, by now everyone in the lab was very familiar with the cases out by the Dead Mountains.
"At the time, we found a business connection between Sampson and a guy named Prause--this guy was into some bad stuff and was probably the reason the Feds took over the case. Yesterday, Bobby traced Carreiro's bullet to a Czech gun that has to be imported. Prause's name is on the list of permits from a few years ago. I've been trying to do more digging on him without alerting the Feds, but I can't get anywhere. They've been after this guy for years."
"And we don't want them on Nick's case."
"No, we don't," Catherine's voice was low. Then, even more quietly, she added, "Is there a way you can check this guy out without throwing up any red flags?"
She was asking him to do something that was unethical at best and illegal at worst, but Archie only felt a sense of relief. His biggest worry was that he'd have to lie or hide something from his friends again. What Catherine wanted could land him in a whole lot of trouble, but he was more than willing to take that risk. "Nothing I might find will hold up in court."
"I don't give a damn about court."
He figured she'd say that.
"I'll do it," he said without hesitation. "And if you want, I've got some friends...of some friends of an acquaintance who might be able to dig even deeper."
Catherine gave him a tiny smile as she slid the folder under his keyboard. "I knew you were the man."
Warrick emerged from his bedroom and vaguely acknowledged Nick's parents and brother as he walked past on his way to the bathroom. He hoped that a shower would be enough to wake him up after only two hours of sleep. Even though Ecklie was insisting that each CSI go home at least 6 out of every 36 hours, he had no way of making sure they actually rested once they got there. Most of the CSIs would have willingly worked until they dropped right now, but Ecklie's plan meant they could keep up their intense pace for longer.
Warrick spent most of his six hours in his bedroom, but few of them actually sleeping. He knew he needed more sleep, and was beginning to worry that he might be losing his mind a little. In preparation of the Stokes' arrival, he had changed the sheets on Nick's bed--that only made sense. What didn't make sense was for him to still have those sheets in his room, and use them as covers instead of throwing them in the laundry. He knew it was sad, but couldn't decide if it was sick.
He would lay on his bed, wrapped in those sheets, reliving those five short days that he and Nick had been together and trying to forget the five endless days Nick had been missing.
Showered and dressed but still with a couple of hours before he could return to the lab, Warrick was back in his bedroom and more reluctant that ever to leave it. Tense did not even begin to describe the atmosphere between himself and Nick's family, which was strange considering they all had the same goal. The Judge still emanated icy rage, not directed at Warrick or anyone in particular, but at the entire city. Jillian tried to diffuse or divert her husband's anger, but was too sick with worry over her youngest to have much effect. Brett did make an effort to talk, to be reasonable, even to get to know Warrick, but something else was also weighing on him--to Warrick it almost seemed like regret.
Thus far, none of them appeared to have any idea how much his relationship with Nick had changed, and for that, Warrick was grateful.
Finally, he forced himself to leave his room and went straight to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He drank it standing next to the counter.
Jillian ventured to one of the two stools at the breakfast bar, "Aren't you going to eat?"
"Nah," Warrick replied with a shrug.
"I can make you something if you like."
"Thanks," Warrick mustered a smile for her. "But I'm fine."
"I don't think I've seen you eat since we got here," she persisted.
"I usually grab something on the way to work," he assured her.
"She's revving up because she won't have me to feed much longer."
Warrick looked at Brett questioningly.
"I have to get back to Houston. I can't stay away from work any longer."
Warrick nodded then glanced at Jillian, "Both of you are staying though, right?"
Before she could answer, the Judge spoke from the living room, "We won't be going back to Texas until we bring Nick home with us."
Gritting his teeth, Warrick managed not to retort.
There were several beats of silence before Brett gamely stepped up again, "Suz...my sister Susannah is coming. She said you two had already met."
Warrick didn't have to search his memory for that sister, he definitely remembered meeting her. Thirteen years older than Nick, she alternated between the roles of big sister and second mom around her youngest brother. Both she and her husband had been very easy to get along with. Despite that, Warrick felt it was time to mention something that had been pressing on his mind for the last few days. "I think I'll let you guys have a little more space. I'm going to stay at a hotel for a few days."
Immediately, both Brett and Jillian protested. "Do you have a problem with Suz?" Brett asked with a frown. "Because, she could just stay at a--"
"No, nothing like that," Warrick assured him.
"We can't let you do that, Warrick," Jillian looked honestly distressed. "You aren't getting enough sleep as it is. It'll be worse at a hotel."
"If you're that uncomfortable, we can make arrangements to stay elsewhere. Nick'd be downright ticked if he came back to find we'd chased his best friend out of his own house."
And that was why Warrick never stayed mad at Judge Stokes very long--the man's bluntness worked both ways. What's more, the way he spoke of Nick's return as though it were a foregone conclusion was soothing to a fractured spirit. Almost before he knew it, Warrick was acquiescing and saying he would stay.
"For fuck sake, go do that in the bathroom!"
"Fuck you. What do you care where I do it?"
"I wouldn't care if you didn't do it twenty fuckin' times a day."
Nick seconded Moutry's words wholeheartedly. After two days of having to listen to Rauscher's self-gratification he was thoroughly sick of it. He was just glad Rauscher was always facing the television and he didn't have to see it as well.
"You've been out for a month," Rauscher complained. "You had plenty of time to get laid. The day after I get out you haul me in for this fuckin' job."
"What the hell does that have to do with you doin' it the goddamned can?"
"I want to watch TV while I do it, do you fuckin' mind? What the hell else I got to work with? You gonna blow me?"
There was a charged silence, and Nick stifled a disgusted sigh. Oh, hell. Don't tell me I'm going to have to hear that, too. He had been so concerned with staying alive and watching for a chance at escape that it never occurred to him that he'd have anything else to worry about. As their silence went on, curiosity made him lift his head. His heart stuttered to a halt when he saw them both staring at him, then began beating double time as realization sank it.
"Work with what you got," Moutry suggested.
"Hell, he's probably better than the bitch boys in Ely." Rauscher stood up, "Probably had plenty of practice."
Nick struggled to sit up--he knew logically that with hands and legs bound he wasn't really going to get anywhere, but he certainly wasn't just going to lie there and wait. "Look, Sampson's the one the cops are going to be after," he said, addressing his guards directly for the first time. "When he goes down there won't be a whole lot on you guys--don't mess that up by doing anything stupid right now."
"Shut the fuck up," Moutry said, grabbing Nick's arms. "It's nothing you ain't done a thousand times before." He looked at his partner, "How you want this? On his knees?"
"On his back--you think I'm gonna leave it up to him how much he takes?"
They pulled and shifted him, and Nick fought every step of the way. He might not have a choice about this, but he'd be damned if he was going to make it easy for them. Since reasoning obviously wasn't going to have any effect, Nick spat curses at them instead.
Neither man paid much attention.
"He's prettier than that punk you had in Ely," Moutry commented.
"Helluva lot prettier than anything you had in Ely," Rauscher jibed in return.
Finally they stopped when Nick was lying across the bed on his back with his bound arms pinned under him and his head hanging over the edge. When Nick struggled once more to sit up, Moutry straddled him, sitting heavily on his stomach. "And don't take all day," he told Rauscher. "I'm gonna get in on this, too."
From upside down, Nick could see Rauscher approaching, cock in hand and already leaking. He squeezed his eyes shut, but there was no way of escaping the heavy scent of the man. "No," he said flatly, bracing his jaw closed.
"This is no time to get difficult," Moutry warned.
Nick heard the click of the gun and felt the press of cold steel under his chin. Rather than increasing his panic, the familiar sensation actually helped him focus. "You think that scares me?" he gritted from clenched teeth. "If you kill me before your boss wants me dead, he'll kill you. So go to hell."
Moutry snarled and got rid of the gun, but Rauscher wasn't the least bit deterred. The musky scent grew stronger and Nick clamped his lips more firmly together. He felt flesh slap his cheek, his lips, his chin, felt the wet smear of precum against his skin. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, he swallowed a sob, determined not to let it escape.
Then Moutry's fingers began to dig into his jaw, painfully forcing his mouth open. Rauscher wasted no time; holding Nick's head stil, he slid his thick cock inside. Nick gagged as much on the size as on the taste of stale sweat and semen. Ignoring the shooting pain in his arms, he tried to twist away, but to no avail.
"Good?" Moutry asked.
"Oh, yeah," came the panting reply as Rauscher began fucking Nick's mouth in earnest.
Nick fought the desire to vomit, and less successfully tried to fight the tears that leaked from his closed eyes. Finally accepting that this was going to happen no matter what he did, Nick told himself he just had to get through it--just like he always did when bad things happened.
Blocking who was actually doing this to him, Nick thought back to his junior year in college when he was braver--or more stupid--about some things and had been willing to experiment. There had been many nights at various clubs, getting and giving anonymous blow jobs.
This isn't much different, he told himself desperately.
Rauscher let out a loud groan, and Nick felt him tense. He barely had enough time to prepare before his mouth was filled with warm bitterness, and he swallowed convulsively. Rauscher slid free, and chuckled as he sprayed the last of it over Nick's face.
Moutry released his jaw and Nick moved it gingerly while he coughed and swallowed in an attempt to rid himself of Rauscher's taste. More tears escaped from beneath his lids despite his best efforts. He fought briefly again before Rauscher--twice as heavy as Moutry--straddled him, even though he knew it was useless. What's more, Rauscher only required one big, meaty hand to force his jaw open. Moutry's: "Jesus, you going again?" left no doubt what Rauscher was doing with his other hand.
Then Moutry thrust into his mouth--although he wasn't as massive as Rauscher, that didn't make it any easier--and it started all over again. Nick endured, telling himself it wouldn't, it couldn't last forever until finally, Moutry filled his mouth with metallic wetness. This time there was also a spray of warmth against his neck as well.
The weight disappeared from his sternum and the cock from his mouth, and Nick took several deep gasping breaths. He heard them zipping up, then sitting back down in front of the television. Relieved that they seemed to be finished, Nick finally dared to move, rolling onto his side and shifting further onto the bed. Rubbing his face frantically against the rough bedspread, he tried to rid himself of them as best he could.
He heard a lighter flick once, twice, then the scent of a newly lit cigarette wafted through the old smoke and the heavy smell of sex.
"Well, that's one way to pass the time," Rauscher chuckled.
Nick's eyes were still closed tight in the hope--even though he knew it made no sense logically--that if he kept them shut and thought about something else, anything else, when he did open them, he would find it had been nothing more than a nightmare.
"Catherine, you got a minute?"
Catherine slowed her pace at the sound of Ecklie's voice, but only briefly. "Actually, no. I have to get to PD. Vartann left me a message more than two hours ago that they finally found--"
"Vrederveld. That's what this is about."
"Oh. All right," she followed him into his office and sat down.
"The guy was such a nervous wreck that Vartann didn't want to wait--worried he might grow a spine."
"Okay. Well, I can call him for--"
"I joined him for the interrogation."
Catherine blinked, completely thrown.
"Vartann called me looking for one of the CSIs working the case. No one was immediately available, so I went in."
"Oh." Catherine couldn't help wondering when Ecklie had last been in on any significant interrogation. "How did that go?"
"First of all, I don't think Vrederveld knows anything about the crimes we suspect Sampson of. Vartann agrees, by the way," Ecklie's lips twisted into a rueful smile, "I don't expect you to go solely by my judgement in this case. Anyway, the guy was happy to spill his guts about all sorts of tax evasion and fraud. Sampson would be a fool to trust him with anything more serious."
"And whatever else Sampson is, he's no fool," Catherine added.
"He finally admitted that Sampson is probably here in the States, but claims he doesn't know where. He did say that Sampson had moved from his ranch by the Dead Mountains to a house west of Vegas. He got a little vague about there, saying it was Sampson's, then saying it belonged to a friend, then saying he had made the arrangements."
"So the house probably isn't in Sampson's name," Catherine frowned.
"Not likely. Vartann and Cavaliere went out there to see if they can find enough for a warrant."
"After that, we asked him about Sampson's employees and he offered to get us a list, since he was in charge of paying them--except one."
"That's probably the most interesting one," Catherine's lips quirked.
"Most definitely. Sampson's personal bodyguard, one Lars Wietzel. Vrederveld figures Sampson must pay him from a personal account--apparently the man has worked for him more than a decade." Ecklie handed her a folder. "Extensive rap sheet. More than two dozen Class A & B felonies--no convictions."
"That is very interesting," Catherine said.
"The next time you see Gil, could you tell him?"
Catherine nodded, then sighed, as she always did when she thought about Gil Grissom lately. Anyone that had ever called Grissom a robot before this--and Catherine included herself in that group--had to revise that opinion, mainly because in the past six days, Grissom had brought "robotic" to a whole new level. He didn't neglect his need for sleep or food as so many others were doing; he slept and ate enough to keep functioning at his best for the case. What he ate or where he slept made no difference, nor did his feelings or anyone else's.
The pace he was setting was not a mad, headlong rush, but steady and determined as though it could go on forever if need be. Leads that others had abandoned as fruitless he pursued to their furthest possible point and handed back.
As for telling him about Ecklie's interrogation, Catherine suspected the entomologist already knew about it. No longer was Grissom the absent-minded professor they were all familiar with, now he seemed able to keep up with what everyone on Nick's case was doing. Catherine had often admonished him to keep a closer eye on things, but now regretted that wish, just as she regretted discovering the circumstances required to drive him to such vigilance.
She knew what it would do to her if Nick was never found, but was absolutely terrified what it would do to Gil.
Warrick took his usual seat in front of Grissom's desk and Grissom closed his office door before sitting behind it. The sight of his supervisor's expressionless face and flat eyes caused the tightness in his chest to constrict even further. Whatever Grissom was about to say to him was bad. "You...you found Nick--you found his body?"
"No!" Grissom said quickly. "No, that's not what this is about."
Warrick closed his eyes with relief. He could handle anything else.
"We have some questions for you."
The unexpected voice made his eyes fly open and he turned to see Ecklie seated in a chair slightly off to the side.
"Conrad is here to observe that everything is above board. Some of these questions may be difficult."
They had found out about he and Nick. Someone had figured it out. Although it was never the way he'd ever intended their friends to hear about their relationship, Warrick felt it would be something of a relief for them to know. It also explained why the questions would be difficult; a lover was almost always a suspect in such a case and Warrick knew that having kept quiet about it would not look good. He wasn't too worried, because he was with Caveliere and another uniform at the time, but hard questions would have to be asked. He wasn't going to make the situation even tougher on Grissom by being difficult about it, so he took a deep breath--"Okay. Ask."
Grissom nodded and glanced briefly at Ecklie. "How well did Nick know Officer Carreiro?"
It was so far from what he'd expected to hear that it took Warrick a minute to process the question. "What?"
"How well did Nick know Officer Carreiro?" Grissom repeated patiently.
"Wh--I don't...as well as any of the other uniforms I guess, maybe not as much. Carreiro had only been here for a year."
"Did you know of any bad blood between them?"
"Nah. Why are you--oh, hell, no!" Rage surged through him as the implication finally sank in. Considering him a suspect was one thing, but Nick? "What the fuck is--"
"Warrick," Grissom said, with no edge to his voice, just weariness, and that stopped Warrick where the other wouldn't have. "It's something we have to consider."
"The hell it is!" Warrick snapped, then caught himself. "No one would buy this."
"There have been...questions about why we haven't explored the possibility."
"Who? Who?!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Brown," Ecklie said coolly. "We aren't about to tell you that. These questions have to be asked, otherwise it will look as though we're deliberating guiding the case in a certain direction. Carreiro isn't expected to wake up, and with the possibility of a dead cop, we can't take any chances."
As always when Ecklie spoke to him, Warrick was reminded of the Assistant Director's words on that first night. Pitching a fit now would only waste more time, better to get this ridiculous lead finished off as quickly as possible. But he couldn't help growling a little under his breath. "Keep going."
"Has Nick ever mentioned Carreiro?"
Warrick took the time to think about it, if there was something, he didn't want it coming up later. "Not that I can think of. At least not other than, y'know, which uniform is on scene and stuff like that."
"Did he mention if he was being harassed?"
"No. If anyone on the force hassled him, it was never bad enough for him to mention it." Warrick leaned forward, suddenly exhausted, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in the palm of one hand. For a moment, he considered telling Grissom about them anyway, but just couldn't bring himself to do it and the worst part was, he wasn't entirely sure why. "Anything else?" he finally asked.
"No. That should cover it. We've already heard the same from several other people and should be able to put this to bed soon."
Warrick looked up and saw much of his own on pain reflected in his mentor's face. He escaped the office as quickly as possible.
It became part of the daily ritual, along with the trip to the bathroom and the bottle of water. Food was not an everyday occurrence.
Nick briefly considered just going along instead of fighting--trying to fight, really--knowing that it would save him a myriad of bruises and pain. He just couldn't bring himself to, though. The outcome might be inevitable, but Nick wasn't going to make it easy for them.
He knew he'd made the right decision when several hours after their second time, Rauscher suggested another round. Moutry's "the little fucker fights like a wild cat--too goddamn much trouble every time you want to get off" only proved to Nick that he'd made the right decision.
Someone had come by to replenish their supplies at some point, but Nick had been asleep at the time, and if Sampson returned on the second day as he'd said, Nick had missed that as well. So the first time he saw anyone other than his guards was when Sampson arrived on the sixth day--or seventh--Nick thought he might have lost a day somewhere. When Sampson walked into the hotel room, Nick did his best to stifle the panic that suddenly began to bubble over. This was probably it, then. It had been a week and he hadn't been found. Any demonstration Sampson wanted to make about his competency to hide people would have been successful and Nick knew he was no longer necessary.
"It wasn't quite as perfect an example as I wanted," was Sampson's greeting. "The police have been investigating my dealings a little more closely than I'd have liked." He sat down in one of the chairs and lit a cigar. "Still, the fact that I've been able to keep Mr. Stokes hidden despite an intense search will speak well to those I do business with."
"So now what?" Moutry inquired.
"An excellent question. I believe he is the only thing connecting me to the dead body, but I'm not entirely certain of it. Is there anything you can tell me about that, Mr. Stokes?"
"I can tell you the dead body's name was Alexei," Nick spat, part of him wondering where his nerve was coming from when he felt so scared.
Sampson's shoulders shook once in a silent laugh as he looked at Nick with amusement. Then he frowned and leaned forward slightly. "God Good, he's a mess. What in--aaahhh. Entertaining the troops are we, Mr. Stokes? How gracious of you."
"Want to have a go?" Rauscher asked.
"First of all," Sampson said mildly. "This is hardly the setting I'm accustomed to. Secondly, he's a little old for my tastes. And third," his voice suddenly became deadly. "If I did care to have him, I would hardly require your permission."
"Yes, sir." It was the first time Nick had heard Rauscher sound even remotely subdued.
"Is that what you're going to do with him?" Moutry asked. "Sell him?"
Nick blood turned to ice as a whole new set of terrifying possibilities opened up in front of him.
"I've considered it," Sampson said. "As I said, he's a bit old, but still quite a fine specimen, and his quasi-celebrity after last year, along with the fact that he's in law enforcement would definitely raise the price. But that still wouldn't be enough to cover the cost it would take to properly acclimate him and what's more, the chance that he'd somehow escape is much higher than average. I'm afraid the risks outweigh the profit margin. That's not to say he couldn't prove useful in other ways, however. If say, he told me what I needed to know about this irritating investigation."
Shooting the most withering look he could manage under the circumstances, Nick spat, "Why would I tell you anything? I know how this turns out."
"Not necessarily. You may be able to provide me with time and convince certain people to abandon evidence."
"You're out of your mind," Nick said flatly. "The Las Vegas Crime Lab doesn't make deals."
"True. But your friends there do, don't they? They were willing to deal with Sam Braun in an attempt to get you back. I think they'd be willing to throw a wrench into an investigation and junk some evidence in order to do the same."
Nick wasn't entirely sure he knew the answer to that. If he was being completely honest with himself, he didn't want to know the answer to that, whether it was good or bad. It was a moot point, in any case. "I can identify you and you've confessed a multitude of crimes in front of me, but you expect me to believe that you still might let me go? Do you think I'm stupid?"
"On the contrary," Sampson said pleasantly. "But I can understand that your mental skills might not be working at full capacity at the moment. Perfectly understandable, of course. The truth is, Mr. Stokes, that I would prefer not having to kill you. Kidnaping charges wouldn't follow me outside of the United States the same way murder would."
"You've practically admitted to killing Alexei. Of course they'll be murder charges."
Sampson waved that away. "That's another matter. The murder of a homeless illegal, or even a crooked cop, won't be looked at too carefully. Not like the murder of an upstanding member or law enforcement and the son of a Texas judge to boot. Some things are just more easily ignored that others."
Shock at the realization that Michaels was dead warred with disgust at the way Sampson so easily placed value on human life.
"I'll let you think about it for another day or two." Sampson tamped out his cigar in the little glass ashtray, leaving more than half of it behind when he stood. His lip curled with distaste as he surveyed the hotel room. "And for God's sake do something about the smell in here before I come back," he demanded of Nick's guards. "There's running water in this place, don't you two use it?"
"It's not us," Rauscher explained and pointed at Nick. "He's the one that hasn't had a bath for a week."
"Then give him one," Sampson ordered on his way out the door.
When Warrick returned to the house for yet another mandatory break, he found it empty. That was something of a surprise, because unless they went to the police department or the crime lab, Nick's parents rarely left the house. Instead, they preferred to stay by the phone, keeping in near-constant contact with family members in Texas.
"I told them to get out for a while. See a movie, have dinner and not come back for at least a couple of hours."
Warrick glanced toward the dining table and saw the eldest Stokes' child sitting with a cup of coffee in front of her. Susannah Sutherland had arrived just as Warrick was leaving for work the day before, so they'd only exchanged greetings. "How did you pull that off?" he asked as he hung up his jacket.
"Told them that's what cell phones were for, then offered to show Dad how to use one if he was having a problem with them."
He'd met three of Nick's six siblings over the years and Susannah had been his favorite. Now he knew why.
"I know you're here to crash, but I was hoping you could join me for a cup of coffee first."
She wanted a complete run down of the case, Warrick guessed immediately. Separate from what her parents had told her. It wasn't that unusual a request for anyone, and not at all unusual coming from anyone in this particular family. "Sure. Let me just grab a cup." Then, coffee in hand, he sat across the table from her, preparing himself to go over the whole thing one more time for her benefit.
After meeting his eyes steadily for several long seconds, she asked, "How long?"
"It's been a week," Warrick said, then hastened to assure her. "But that doesn't mean we won't find him--"
"No, Warrick," she smiled sadly. "You and Nick. How long?"
Warrick managed to close his mouth after his jaw dropped, but that was it.
Susannah looked down at her coffee cup and back at him. "I started to wonder back when Nick was...ooh, nineteen or twenty, I guess, if he might be more interested in men than women. After college he went to work at the Dallas Crime Lab and I don't think he went out with anyone for more than a couple of weeks during those three years. Everyone seemed to assume he was playing the field, but that was never Nick. I've occasionally run into women who have dated Nick and the things they've said--nothing bad, but...well, they kept me wondering. When he moved to Vegas, I was actually happy for him, despite the rest of the family being up in arms." Her gaze drifted to a point past Warrick's shoulder, "One thing I never expected was that he would come out to the family the way he did last summer. Not easy to do in any family, and especially not ours. I underestimated him, though."
"Everybody does," Warrick barely managed to get the words past the lump in his throat.
"It must have been about three or four years since I noticed that Nick talked about you the most," Susannah touched his hand briefly. "And talked about you differently than everyone else. When Wes and I came for a visit, it was obvious the two of you were close, but it didn't seem to go beyond friendship, so I thought--maybe not. Then Mom told us how you reacted when Nick was kidnaped last year and I thought--maybe so. When Nick came out to all of us, I thought it was so he could tell us you two were together, but a month later he said you got married. Then he told us you'd gotten divorced and that you two were roommates. I figured things were finally settled, but since this has happened, no one has mentioned it..."
"Oh, God," Warrick squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that finally filled them.
"Oh, God," Susannah sounded horrified. "You weren't together. I'm sorry, it's just when I got here yesterday and saw how--"
"Five days."
"Pardon?"
"Five days," Warrick whispered. "We had been together five days before this happened."
"Warrick..." Tears sprang to Susannah's eyes as well. She took his hand.
"We didn't know. I thought--he thought--" Warrick swallowed hard. "How did you know?"
"By the time Nick moved to Vegas, I had pretty much convinced myself of the reason. So I paid attention, and it wasn't hard to tell who he had crushes on and who he had deeper feelings for."
Warrick shook his head, certain that if he tried to speak, he'd break. It was something of a relief--that someone knew. Knew that Nick had been so much more than a close friend. And if any of the siblings had to know, he was glad it was Susannah.
"It was too soon for you to tell anyone."
He nodded, keeping his gaze on the table.
"What about now?"
"Five days?" Warrick croaked. "That's not a relationship."
"Warrick..." her voice was softly chiding.
"No, I can't. When we find him there'll be time enough. If we don't find him--then there's no point." If they didn't find him, he didn't want the inevitable fall out from Nick's family, or the pitying looks of his friends. If they didn't find him, he was going to hoard those five days like treasure.
"But--"
"Please."
"All right."
Warrick freed his hand. "I should get some sleep," he muttered, barely waiting for Susannah's nod before going to his bedroom. There, he burrowed under Nick's covers, buried his face in Nick's pillow, and for the first time in seven days--cried.
Nick fell into another exhausted sleep several hours after Sampson left and awoke again to the sound of his guards arguing--again.
"Christ, you think he was serious about that?" That was Moutry.
"You sure he wasn't? You want to risk finding out the hard way if he meant it or not?"
"Look, it's different than when the guy just takes a piss. Then his legs are still tied and you got one of his arms twisted up behind his back. Besides, he doesn't seem too worried about getting shot anymore."
Shaking off his drowsiness, Nick realized with horror they were discussing Sampson's suggestion about giving him a bath. Although he felt disgustingly grungy and still had dried semen on him in spots, he would have willingly gone another month without bathing rather than endure what Rauscher was suggesting.
"S'matter you think you can't handle the little featherwood?"
"Fuck you," Moutry snarled.
The next thing Nick knew, they were hauling him off the bed and standing him up. Panic rose again, but he throttled it with the knowledge that this might be a chance at escape. He prayed that his legs wouldn't buckle when he tried to run, and even though logic told him he wouldn't get far with his hands bound, he had to try.
"You got his feet?" Moutry asked.
"Yeah," Rauscher crouched down in front of him.
There was a split-second of disbelief before Nick realized that the men had got their wires crossed and Rauscher was untying his legs at the same time as Moutry was taking off the flexi-cuffs. He tensed, hardly daring to breathe as he struggled to find his balance. He felt the bonds slip from his ankles and stayed still until he was certain both hands were free. Then he exploded into action, kicking Rauscher as hard as he could, ripping his hands from Moutry's grip and making a break for the door.
His legs wobbled only slightly, but that was enough for Rauscher to tackle him at the knees and send him crashing to the floor. "No!" he hollered, trying to get up again. Before he could, they were both on top of him.
"Fucker!" Rauscher snarled, digging a knee into his spine and landing several punches to his ribs. Moutry was sitting on his legs and together they managed to bind his hands and feet again, but it took a solid fifteen minutes to do the job.
It was only after he was once again trussed like a Christmas turkey that Nick stopped twisting and struggling.
"Fucker!" Rauscher spat again, putting a boot against Nick's ribs and shoving him aside.
"The hell with it," Moutry was panting.
"Oh, no," Rauscher insisted. "That son of a bitch is getting a bath if I have to drown him in the goddamn tub." Then he snorted, "Hell, we should have thought of it before."
"What?"
"We can just cut his clothes off. We don't have to untie him."
No.
"What's he going to wear once we're finished?"
Please.
"Who the fuck cares?"
No.
Archie had gone in search of Catherine and was dismayed to find her in Grissom's office. He was about to return to his A/V lab before they saw him, but wasn't quick enough.
"Archie, did you want to talk to one of us?"
"Um...Catherine." He shrugged to indicate it wasn't a big deal, "Whenever you have a minute."
"You have something for me?"
"That...that information you asked about."
Catherine's lips formed a silent 'oh' when she realized what he meant.
"Is this about Nick's case?" Grissom asked.
Archie met Catherine's gaze, hoping for some clue how to proceed.
"Archie," Grissom beckoned him into the office, his manner leaving no room for argument.
Archie clutched his folder like a shield and closed the door behind him without being asked before taking the chair next to Catherine.
"This is about Nick's case, isn't it?" Grissom asked again.
They both nodded.
"Well, what is it?"
"You know that Kurt Prause has a gun like the one that shot Carreiro," Catherine said, stepping into the breach.
"And it's been nearly impossible to track him without alerting the Feds."
"Well. I...asked Archie if he might be able to find a way around those things."
Grissom frowned and then temperature in the office seemed to have dropped several degrees. "Hacking?" His voice was pitched low in spite of the closed door. "You have someone from this lab hacking?"
Grissom was really making him uneasy, but Archie didn't feel right leaving Catherine to bear the brunt of his anger. "I had some people I know look into the touchier stuff, so nothing will ever come back to--"
"Archie." Grissom's voice was enough to freeze the rest of his words in his throat.
"Gil, I asked him to do it. It was my idea."
The look Grissom gave her spoke volumes, but Catherine met it defiantly, without flinching. She might as well have shouted in his face that she'd do it again in a heartbeat, because that was the attitude coming off her in waves.
After a brief staring contest, some of the tension left Gil's shoulders and with it, much of the tension in the room. "What did you find?"
"Well, there were several different levels of difficulty for getting someone this information. The fairly simple stuff that I took care of here, the tougher stuff that I dug through from home, and the nearly impossible stuff that my friends found for me. As far as reliability, I trust what they found completely.
Grissom nodded, "Start with the data that was nearly impossible to get."
"Kurt Prause--at least the one matching the picture and prints--has been dead for at least ten years. While he was alive, though, he was involved in the sort of stuff the Feds are after him for."
"The Feds are chasing a ghost?" Catherine gaped. "How can they not know?"
"Maybe he's their ghost," Grissom suggested.
"I can have my friends look into it," Archie offered, not liking the way Catherine slumped, almost in defeat.
"Do that," Grissom said.
Archie jotted that down. "Anyway, that renders most of the basic information useless, but there are a few interesting things that I found after quite a bit of digging. There have been several people employed by Prause since his death. There were four that showed up more than once and had been to the US at some point. Umm..." He looked though the file, "Serena Jazch and Kenneth Case went up in smoke once I looked too hard--they never existed in the first place. Piers Vanous seemed to be a hired gun but has been dead for three years, and Lars Wietzel is almost untraceable except for a long rap sh--" Archie stopped when Catherine took the folder from his hands. He glanced at Grissom in question, but his boss was busy dialing the phone.
"Detective Vartann, this is Grissom. Call me as soon as you hear this. I need to know if you're still holding Vrederveld and if you've found Wietzel anywhere."
"I'll meet him at PD," Catherine said, then looked at Archie, holding up the folder. "Can I take this?" She barely waited for his nod before rushing out of the office.
"Good job," Grissom said.
"I owed him," Archie replied and regretted his words when Grissom closed his eyes in pained acknowledgment.
"Yes, sir. No, sir, I haven't heard from him. Yes, sir, I'll tell him." With a sigh, Detective Caveliere put his phone back in his pocket.
"Brass?" Greg asked.
"Who else?"
"Is he calling about Vartann again?"
"What else?"
Greg nodded and turned his gaze back out the windshield. He was waiting on a stakeout with Caveliere--who was working regular cases in addition to Nick's--so he could process a suspect immediately after he walked out of his home and meth lab. If they got him, it would be a slam dunk case, but in the meantime, it was just boring.
They had been there for an hour and Brass had already called twice asking about Vartann, who was supposed to be working Nick's case but had been AWOL for the past several hours. Shortly after getting a call from Grissom telling him about Wietzel, Vartann had cut Vrederveld loose--the exact opposite of what Grissom had asked--and hadn't been seen since. Greg had actually been happy to get out of the lab, because Grissom and Catherine had been just plain scary since they'd heard.
That didn't mean he wasn't wondering about Vartann as well. "Why would he cut Vrederveld loose after Grissom asked him to hold him?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, even if he was pissed at Grissom for some reason," Greg mused aloud, "It affects the whole case. And he didn't even call to say he wouldn't be in for his shift, did he?"
"So?"
"Lousy time for him to take off," Greg said. "Especially since he didn't leave word with anyone. I mean, he's one of the main detectives working Nick's case."
"You trying to say something, Sanders?" Caveliere turned to glare at him.
Greg knew he was pushing every one of Caveliere's buttons, but didn't really care. He slanted the detective a look, "Just that it's strange for him to disappear right after he cut Vrederveld loose--when he wasn't supposed to cut Vrederveld loose."
"Yeah?" Caveliere's lip curled in contempt. "Well, some people think it's strange that Stokes disappeared right after a cop got shot."
"That's--!" Outrage robbed Greg of his voice and he could only sputter furiously.
"Hey, you don't want me saying shit about Stokes, then stop trying to find a bad cop," Caveliere said, shaking a finger in his face.
Greg fought the urge to snap at that finger and held his tongue as well. Getting into it with Caveliere was a bad idea on all counts, tempting though it was. A week of helplessness, of not be able to do anything to help Nick, of watching Warrick and Grissom--the two men that had taught him most about the job--tearing themselves up inside, had diminished his usual ability to let things go.
"Look, we've got a scumbag to catch, so why don't you just worry about doing your job?"
He couldn't resist. "That's some advice you need to save for Vartann."
"Get away!" Nick snarled when he felt himself hauled off the floor and dropped onto the bed once again. But after that, he went back to keeping silent. He already knew that reasoning had no effect. He was certain threats would be ignored or only anger his guards further. Any pleas would most likely be mocked, and in any case, Nick was not going to give them the satisfaction of hearing him beg.
"You got scissors?"
"What the hell would I be doing with scissors?"
A laugh. Then the soft snik of a blade snapping open.
"Oh. Right." Snik.
Nick considered fighting again, but knew it would be futile and probably get him badly sliced up. Once again, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and waited. He concentrated instead on what his chances were of actually being released, trying to weight the pros and cons of killing him versus freeing him from Sampson's point of view.
His t-shirt came off with little trouble. They barely had to use their knives and instead simply tore it after the initial cut. Then they stopped and there was silence that went on so long Nick nearly opened his eyes.
"What a good boy," Moutry snorted. "Not a single tattoo."
"You get kinda used to seeing guys with tats," Rauscher commented. "Don't know when was the last time I've seen skin all clean like that."
Nick swallowed hard. That was not a comforting observation.
A hand slid down his chest to the waistband of his jeans and Nick fought to suppress a shudder. They unfastened his fly and tugged his jeans down only slightly before going to work with their knives. The denim was more difficult, and the blades often missed and cut into his skin even though he tried to hold as still as possible.
His shorts, like his t-shirt, came off easily and Nick rolled onto his side, curling in on himself.
"Aw, he's shy," Rauscher crooned.
Moutry let out a grunt of laughter. "Let's get him in the tub."
Nick flexed every muscle, holding himself as rigid as possible, but several tremors still betrayed him when he felt their hands on his bare skin, picking him up to take him into the bathroom. They sat him on the edge of the tub and simply lifted his bound legs, dumping him in. He hit his head hard enough to see stars, but any pain was lost in the jolt that traveled through his entire body when he landed. By the time he got his bearings again, water was cascading down on him from the showerhead. With difficultly, he managed to squirm into a sitting position, leaning forward instinctively.
If they only had left him alone in the tub, Nick would have been happy to endure the too-hot water pouring down on him for hours. If nothing else, it felt good to have the sweat and grime of a week rinsed away, and even better to be rid of their stench, even for a short time. But both men simply stood and looked at him, commenting on his body and offering to wash his back, among other things.
Although neither guard had mentioned it, from the moment cutting off his clothes was suggested, the fear of much more than bath had been hovering at the edges of Nick's consciousness despite his best efforts. He knew he had to keep those thoughts at bay, that if he allowed them to fully form, he'd succumb to a blind, mindless panic.
"That oughta do it," Rauscher said, grasping Nick's arms and hauling him back up.
"What about his front?" Moutry asked, sitting on the closed toilet to watch.
With a laugh, Rauscher turned Nick to face the spray, but balancing in a tub with bound feet was impossible. Almost immediately, Nick's legs skidded out from under him and he landed against Rauscher. Wrapping an arm around Nick's chest, Rauscher leaned in until his nose was practically pressed against the skin of Nick's neck. "Smells a lot better," he commented.
Please. Please, please, please, no.
"Showers always were the best place to find a punk," Moutry added, standing. "And if Sampson didn't give a damn about us fucking his mouth--he ain't gonna care about this."
"No!" As they took him out of the bathroom and put him face down on the bed, Nick's reserve finally cracked. "God! Don't--dammit! No!" Even though he knew it was still useless, he fought harder than ever, swearing at the top of his voice.
His wet, slippery skin did make it difficult for them to hang onto him, but rather than angering them further, it only seemed to amuse them. They were obviously enjoying sliding their hands over him, content to let him wear himself out with his struggles.
"Think we'll need to untie his legs?" Moutry wondered aloud.
"Nah. Should still be able to get in there." To demonstrate his point, Rauscher gripped one of Nick's buttocks and pushed several fingers in between. "Oh, yeah. Nice and tight."
Nick thrashed away and, laughing, Rauscher let him. Panting from his exertions, Nick no longer had the breath to curse at his tormentors. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to somehow escape the hands that roamed over his skin, pinching, slapping, cruelly handling the same body that Warrick Brown had treated with such care and tenderness.
Immediately, Nick stopped that train of thought. Thinking about Warrick now was obscene--even more obscene than what was being done to him.
Eventually, exhaustion forced him to stop and Rauscher didn't require any assistance to pin him down on his stomach. Moutry, Nick was revolted to see, had pulled a chair up to the bed as though it were the television and he was settling in to watch a show.
A finger, slick with spit, probed between his cheeks, prodding insistently, then entering the tight opening. "This is going to be good," Rauscher voice was eager.
A sob finally broke from his throat, and before another escaped, Nick pressed his face into the bedspread. He bit down on a mouthful of it, ignoring the taste of his sweat and their semen. It was the only way to stifle his screams when Rauscher viciously thrust into him, because he couldn't bear to give them that additional satisfaction. It didn't actually stop his cries, only muffled them.
He tried to think of something else, anything else, but it was impossible when Rauscher was pounding at him, panting and hissing vile things in his ear. All he could think was that when Rauscher finally finished, it would be Moutry's turn.
Warrick knocked on the open door of Grissom's office and waited until his boss looked up before walking it. "The DA called be a while ago. He's been trying to get in contact with you about the Faye Matthews case."
"Faye Matthews?" Grissom frowned. "I wasn't even aware charges were being pressed. I thought she had been placed in a mental health facility."
"Apparently, he's decided they're going to prosecute, claiming that she wasn't legally insane."
"What?" Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Does the elaborate fantasy life she created mean nothing? I don't have time to go over the case again."
"I know," Warrick said, holding out a folder. "But you're the primary."
"Unless I turn it over to you," Grissom said, picking up a pen. "I just need the form..." he started rifling through his desk drawers.
"There's one in the folder," Warrick said.
Grissom gave him a tiny smile before rapidly filling out the paperwork necessary to make Warrick the primary CSI on the case.
While he waited, Warrick let his eyes roam over the rows of books that lined the walls. Sadness welled up inside him unexpectedly--that was happening more and more often. "Which one?"
"Which one what?" Grissom asked, sounding distracted.
"Which book did you find the ant in?"
The silence stretched on until Warrick finally turned to see that Grissom had gotten up and was standing next to him. "Warrick--" he began, then shook his head helplessly.
"Sorry," Warrick muttered, and he was. The last thing Grissom needed was to be reminded. He'd been living and breathing nothing but Nick's case.
"We just--" Grissom stopped when his phone rang. At any other time, they might have ignored it, but not when Nick was still out there somewhere. "Grissom."
As Warrick watched, the entomologist's face went slack and he leaned heavily against his desk. No. No, no, no, no...
"Yes. I'm on my way," Grissom said, and hung up.
Warrick just stared, too heartsick to ask.
"That was the hospital," Grissom's voice sounded odd to Warrick's ear. "Carreiro woke up."
It was one of the few times Gil Grissom felt completely in tune with the people around him. That those people were cops only made it stranger. Even before he got in his Denali to drive to Officer Michaels' house, after only the brief phone call from Sam Vega, he could feel the rage thrumming through the air and not only understood it, but shared and even reveled in it. There was only one thing that could do that to an entire police department.
Bad cop.
When Neil Carreiro awoke, he'd barely had the strength to speak, but still answered Vega's question--do you know who shot you? DA Michaels. What was Michaels doing at the crime scene? Vega had to lean forward to catch his words: looking for Stokes.
Fifteen minutes after Vega heard that, detectives, uniforms and CSIs descended on Michaels' small house. Gil was among the last to arrive because he'd spent quite some time trying to convince Warrick not to come. After a week of being so unnaturally calm that Gil had found it worrisome, Warrick exploded into a maelstrom of curses, threats and promises of retribution. It took some talking, but eventually he managed to convince Warrick to channel that rage elsewhere.
So Warrick was off to inform Greg, Sara and Nick's family of a major break while Gil drove to Michaels' house--rage intact. It was a rage he saw reflected in the faces of the cops around him when he got out of his vehicle. A barely-controlled fury that one of their own had betrayed them in the worst possible way. This was nothing like Brass' accidental hit during a fire fight. No one doubted Carreiro or thought he might somehow be mistaken. No cop had forgotten that Michaels was on the scene of Nick's first abduction.
First on scene, first suspect.
Gil had let that slide because the man had been a cop--another betrayal. Everyone had treated the man like an idiot instead of the criminal he was.
It was something of a relief to finally have someone to direct his anger at. Before this he'd only had the shadowy figure of Barrett Sampson, and it was difficult to rage at an invisible man. Gil knew that much of this anger sprang from his own guilt for having lied to Nick--twice. First about the tape and then with his ridiculous assertion that it was over. He knew, logically, that he couldn't possibly have predicted this, but that didn't really matter. It had been a lie when it said it--he'd known just by looking at Nick it had been a lie.
He had seen the disappointment--hurt, really--in Nick's eyes and hadn't been prepared for it. Especially ironic when Nick's dying concern had been disappointing him. It was something he'd always meant to rectify, but couldn't find a way. After Kelly Gordon's suicide, Nick had kept his distance and Gil was ill-equipped to bridge it. If--when...when they found Nick, Gil promised himself, he'd give the Texan a long overdue apology.
Of course, he'd promised himself that the last time as well.
Sofia was walking out with such a sense of purpose about her, that he stopped to ask.
"We found a long-term parking pass for the Tangiers," she said, holding up her notebook. "I took down the number."
Gil nodded, Could mean something, could mean nothing.
"Michaels' car is in his garage," Sofia added.
It definitely meant something. Nick's GPS unit had given them nothing--either it had been dismantled or was being blocked--and the BOLOs hadn't turned up anything either. This could finally be Nick's truck. But the jolt of excitement that accompanied a big break was tempered by the fear of what might be found in any vehicle parked there.
Sofia knew it, too. "I'll call as soon as I find the parking spot."
"Thank you," Gil said and continued into the house.
Catherine was already there, along with a rather subdued Caveliere and Oscar Deems. Someone--Catherine, no doubt--had reminded the detective to snap on latex gloves as well.
"What have we got?"
"Michaels was off for two weeks of holidays, but from the looks of things around here, he was planning to be gone much longer," Catherine said, blue eyes flinty with plenty of fury of her own. Gil pitied the suspect she finally decided to unleash it on.
"How so?"
"Fridge is empty. Cable, phone, gas and electric all shut off. Closet and dresser drawers empty as well."
"Hmh," Gil pulled on a pair of gloves and knelt by the large suitcases near the door. "So he did everything except actually leave."
"So you really think Sampson is going to let him go?"
"You'd better hope not."
Nick shifted in discomfort, nearly dislodging Rauscher's feet from where they were propped on his buttocks. Rauscher responded by slamming his boot heel into Nick's hip before propping them--very hard--on the small of his back. Clenching his teeth against the pain that soon blended into the rest, Nick forced himself to focus again on keeping still. Whenever his mind began to drift, Rauscher seemed ready to catch him off guard.
"What'd you mean I'd better hope not?" Rauscher asked, settling again. "You're in on this, too."
"Not like you, man. Christ, Clayton, it hasn't even been a day and how many times have you fucked him?"
"Lost count."
Nick ignored that. Ignored the laughter that followed. Ignored the agony in his lower extremities. He knew the fact that it was getting easier to ignore it all should be worrisome to him, but he was too tired to care.
"The fucker owes me. Didn't get myself any until my second year in Ely. That's about a year's worth of ass." Rauscher took his feet down and leaned forward in his chair. "If we find out Sampson's gonna let him go," he gripped one firm cheek with a meaty hand. "I'll just make sure the pussy blows his wad a few times and he won't want to tell anyone about it." He laughed again, released Nick, then slapped him on the ass. "Gives him something to look forward to, doesn't it?"
After barely more than an hour at Michaels' house, Gil found himself back at the lab with Catherine, in the garage. Sofia had called not long before to say that it was Nick's truck at the Tangiers, and she had sealed it and was waiting to have it towed. Since that usually took at least a couple of hours, Gil went back to processing Michaels' home. That was until Jim took matters into his own hands and got things moving much faster down at auto detail.
It had been some time since Gil had processed an entire vehicle himself, but this was too important to leave to anyone else. Except Catherine, of course. It would have been an effort in futility to try keeping her away. She was photographing the exterior, after several moments of staring into the cab.
Gil took shot after shot of the interior. Aggie key chain hanging from the mirror--just the right length not to interfere with visibility--snap. Pen, paper and extra sunglasses in a holder on the visor--snap. LVPD car mug in the cup holder--snap. A handful of coins in the center console--snap. A black hooded sweatshirt behind the passenger seat--snap. The black courier bag Nick sometimes used instead of a briefcase tucked behind the driver's seat--snap.
Then Gil brought it out and opened it, frowning at the sealed evidence bag inside. Nick knew better than to bring evidence home. He took it out, but the red baseball cap inside meant nothing to him. Next he took out the folder and opened it, staring at the photograph of a youth wearing a red baseball cap. Evidence in context. There was a two-page printout in the folder as well, each page signed and dated by Nick. "Catherine," he said, scanning Nick's witness statement.
Catherine crowded beside him, looking over his shoulder. "Wow," she murmured. "He really wanted to get this guy for Alexei. He must have gone back over two years worth of pictures to find that one."
"Warrick said he was going to recuse himself from the case."
"It looks like he meant to. He would have been a witness." She read over the report, "This must be what got him taken--both times. There's just too many commonalities. Bird watching," she whispered. "Oh, Nicky."
"I'll get the hat to Wendy--she'll know to make it priority. Nick was working this case with Vartann, right?"
"Yeah. Still no word from him, though."
Gil declined to comment on that, not wanting to put into words the tiny suspicion that had been burgeoning since he'd learned of Michaels' involvement. "I'll be back in a minute to finish the cab."
He knew it would work.
It was a damn good thing, too, if the messages on his phone were anything to go by. From the sound of the half-dozen messages Brass left and the warnings from Chris and Sam, his job was on the line. Not too surprising, considering he'd been AWOL for the past 36 hours when they were all in the middle of a major case. On the other hand, his job might be the least of his worries, judging by the messages Gil Grissom had left. The guy probably knew of a hundred different ways to kill a person with bugs so that no one would know, and although that normally wouldn't have worried Alex, he'd never heard Grissom sound the way he did on those last few messages. There had been no messages since the arrest, which surprised him--he'd thought the uniforms in the car behind him would have called it in already.
That didn't matter, though. He'd taken a big risk and it had paid off. Even if Brass had to take action over his unauthorized absence, it would be half-hearted at best. Once he walked into the department with Wietzel in cuffs, no one was going to care much about his impromptu disappearance. After Grissom's call about the long-dead Prause, Vartann had gone back to Vrederveld and talked about charges for fraud, for identity theft, saying that as Sampson's business manager, he would be equally liable as soon as they had the necessary proof. Then he'd rolled the dice, and unceremoniously cut Vrederveld loose. He'd been right about Vrederveld--the man was too craven to go to the big boss with such bad news, and instead made contact with Wietzel.
He didn't want Sampson--yet. There was less chance of Sampson rolling, and once they had him in custody, they'd never find Nick. They had enough to hold Wietzel, and Wietzel was the key to eventually getting Sampson. And if anyone would know about Sampson's plan, it was his right-hand man.
Alex knew as well as anyone that Nick's time was running out, and didn't bother with permission or backup--he just began tailing Vrederveld. Again, risky, but Wietzel would almost definitely have noticed more than one tail, so Alex put on his vest and went alone. When he got the message about Michaels, he almost abandoned the whole thing, but decided there would be enough cops looking for that son of a bitch--he was the only cop looking for this one.
Vrederveld met Wietzel in a park in a suburb--Alex recognized Wietzel through binoculars--and they left in separate cars. It was Wietzel's car Alex followed, a nondescript, late model Mercury that looked like it belonged to a soccer mom. Smart guy, Alex had to give him that much, but even the smart guys could screw up. Wietzel's mistake came when he stopped at a convenience store. He was dressed like a soccer dad, in schlumpy shorts and a t-shirt, and wouldn't have gotten a second look anywhere.
Alex couldn't have asked for a better place to arrest the guy.
It was a nice little neighborhood store, the kind of place where people just didn't get arrested. The employees and customers would definitely remember it--Wietzel knew that as well as anyone, and so he did nothing to draw more attention to himself. He cooperated fully--hands behind his back when told; yes, he understood his rights; yes, he was carrying a weapon, he had a permit. Just to be sure, Alex only mentioned charges of fraud, knowing that as long as there were only "paper" charges, Wietzel wasn't going to risk anything greater. He took Wietzel's gun and walked him out to the car, sitting him in the back seat.
Then he drew his own gun while he called for a black-and-white to take Wietzel to the station. The guy was docile enough at the moment, but Alex wasn't fooled--the guy had a cold, watchful look and it would have been insane to drive to the station with someone like that in the backseat of a Taurus. He wanted this guy cuffed to the seat and behind a cage--although he'd beaten them in the past, Wietzel had more than enough priors to warrant such precautions.
The uniforms arrived, and almost started talking about Michaels, but Alex told them to keep it quiet--he didn't want Wietzel knowing the police had uncovered the bad cop until just the right moment. As he drove back to the station, he wondered whom he should call first with the news, Brass or one of his fellow detectives. Then he decided he did such a good job that he deserved to call whomever he wanted, and hit the speed dial for Conrad Ecklie.
"There's Grissom," Sara said. "Wendy must have paged him that she has the results."
"C'mon," Warrick said, nudging her to join him on his way to the DNA lab. "I'm not sure what good the results are going to be, though."
"It'll be another tie from Nick to Alexei to Sampson," Sara returned.
Grissom glanced at them as he walked into the lab, but didn't comment. "What have you got, Wendy?"
"The hairs from the hat were human and a match to John Doe 06-108," she handed Grissom the printout.
"Then he is now Alexei Doe," Grissom replied. "I'll notify the morgue of the change."
Wendy nodded and Grissom left the lab.
"At least he has some identity now," Sara whispered sadly. "It doesn't get us any closer to Nick, though."
Warrick sighed and left her with Wendy, trailing after Grissom to the garage. He should have been working his latest arson case, but no one seemed to care that he was starting to slide on the job. No one commented on it, anyway. Warrick knew that probably should bother him, but for the past couple of days, he'd thought about getting out more than once. If the worst happened and they found Nick's body, there was no way he'd be able to go on working in this lab. If they never found Nick, it would only be a matter of time before he left. A vague, impersonal curiosity about whether that made him weak flickered through his mind, but never remained long enough to interfere with his other thoughts.
He stood just inside the doorway of the garage, watching as Grissom and Catherine went over every millimeter of the truck as though it were a brand-new case and not one that was rapidly cooling. They both glanced at him, but neither said anything.
There wasn't the slightest damage to the vehicle. Warrick couldn't help thinking that Nick would be relieved to know that, what with the way he'd always babied that truck. Turning his gaze away, his eyes fell on the table where all of Nick's personal items had been spread out and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out and touching. Not only was he not wearing gloves, but if anyone saw him doing that, it would start being muttered around the lab that Warrick Brown had gone off the deep end.
Providing that wasn't being muttered already.
"Hey, Rick," Brass' voice startled him out of the reverie.
"Hey," Warrick straightened away from the wall, trying not to look too much like a useless waste of space.
"I've got some news about Detective Vartann," Brass raised his voice so it carried through the garage. "If anyone's interested."
Grissom's head popped up from inside the truck and Catherine rolled herself out from underneath it. "You found him?"
"Yep."
"Where?"
"Escorting Lars Wietzel into the station. The two uniforms with him said he'd called them down to a convenience store in Spring Valley about fifteen minutes ago. They're booking Wietzel now."
"He found Wietzel?" Catherine sounded impressed--not an easy thing to do.
"I only spoke to him for a few minutes," Brass replied, "But apparently that's why he cut Vrederveld loose."
"So he could tail him to Wietzel," Warrick finished, his respect for Vartann going up a notch.
"Why didn't he say something?" Grissom asked. "Isn't a detective supposed to get permission from you to tail or stake out someone?"
Brass nodded, "Vartann said Wietzel would have caught wind of something like that, so he went alone."
Warrick's respect rose even more.
"I'll be taking disciplinary action of course."
For the first time in a week, Warrick felt a smile tug at his lips. Brass' impossibly dry tone indicated he'd probably inflict a pay bonus on Vartann as punishment.
"Anyway, he'll be interrogating the guy ASAP if you want to get in on it."
Grissom and Catherine looked at one another, then Catherine nodded. "I'll finish the truck."
Gil left the interrogation room fighting to urge to shred the file folder in his hands. It was rare that he felt the need to demonstrate his feelings physically, let alone so destructively, but the interview with Wietzel had pushed him close to the edge of his control.
He couldn't tell whether Wietzel actually knew where Nick was, but the man gave every sign of knowing about Nick's abduction and definitely knew where Sampson could be found. Yet he would give them nothing. Being presented with proof of Alexei's identity and presence on Sampson's land prompted no reaction--Wietzel obviously knew they had nothing to tie him to the teenager's death.
Not smug or taunting like so many other criminals Gil had encountered, instead Wietzel treated them with a cold amusement that was even more infuriating. Even telling him that they knew Michaels was in on it didn't get them so much as a flinch.
As he headed for the door, Gil saw Warrick--who should have been at home on another six-hour rest--waiting for him, and his heart sank. He was unable to speak and merely shook his head.
It was enough to get his point across.
Warrick's shoulders slumped and he nodded once before walking away.
"Car," Rauscher announced and Nick swallowed a sob out pure relief, not because he thought the car meant rescue, but because it at least meant a brief reprieve from the attentions of his guards. After another bath, Moutry had begun following Rauscher's example and taking Nick whenever the notion took him.
The door opened and Sampson barked, "Get him up!" before he had even crossed the threshold.
Nick was lifted into a sitting position and drew his knees up to his chest. It was the only means he had of shielding himself and he would have given anything to even be able to cover himself with a corner of the bedspread.
"I'll only ask you this once," Sampson growled at him, "And you'd better hope to God you can answer it. What could your people possibly have that would lead to the arrest of one of my top men?"
"What happened?" Rauscher asked.
"They arrested Wietzel," Sampson said, lighting his cigar with jerky movements. "And they've been in and out of that idiot's house all day."
"Which idiot?" Moutry asked, his tone cautious. Nick could tell they weren't used to seeing Sampson in such an agitated state, but didn't know if that was good or bad.
"Michaels," Sampson spat. "He botched his goddamned job again. The cop he was supposed to take care of woke up."
The laugh Nick let out surprised him as much as it did the other three men. He hadn't felt it coming, and was glad of that, because he might have been tempted to stifle it. "Good help is hard to find, isn't it?" he rasped, his voice worn.
Sampson leaned down and blew a stream of smoke into Nick's face. "What is it they have, Mr. Stokes?"
Nick shook his head, he knew he didn't have an even playing field, let alone the upper hand, but he was going to enjoy this while he could. "Maybe one of your people ratted you out."
"My people know better than that," Sampson returned immediately.
"Well, you haven't exactly hired the most competent employees in the past," Nick taunted.
For a moment Sampson looked as though he might just kill Nick with his bare hands, but then his contorted features smoothed out into a smile. Nick felt his own, forced, smile slide away--Sampson's amusement chilled his blood. "For a moment I didn't see this for what it was," Sampson chuckled. "But of course...one last dance before execution. One last display of courage. After this is gone comes the begging for mercy. The crying, the squirming, the screaming, the bargaining--I look forward to seeing it."
Nick tried to meet Sampson's eyes defiantly, but couldn't hold his gaze. It was all he could do to keep his expression from crumbling.
"You have some time yet, though. Your life may no longer be worth much to me, but I'm looking into the possibility of making your death profitable. I will be back soon, though, to watch as that bravado disappears. Perhaps you would be so kind as to give me a demonstration." Instead of the ashtray, Sampson stubbed out his cigar on Nick's shoulder.
After a yelp of shock and pain, Nick clenched his teeth and managed to remain silent as the smell of burnt skin wafted through the hotel room.
"Gentlemen," Sampson nodded to Rauscher and Moutry, then left.
Moutry watched from the window as Sampson drove away, but Rauscher sat down on the bed and yanked Nick closer so he could inspect the burn. "You think he's right?"
"About what?" Moutry turned toward them.
"About the screaming," Rauscher leered, taking Nick's chin in his hand. "He hasn't been doing much so far, and I'd really like to hear that."
You won't. You won't ever get that satisfaction. Nick jerked away from Rauscher's grasp. He had no idea how he was going to stifle his terror when those last moments came, but he wasn't going to let them win this particular contest of wills.
Rauscher prodded at the small burn. "Hey, isn't there some peroxide around here?"
"You don't put peroxide on a burn, dumbass."
"I'm gonna put it on this one."
"Warrick," Jillian met him at the door the moment he walked in. "We were told they brought a suspect in."
"They did," Warrick nodded.
"Is it the cop Neil Carreiro named?" Judge Stokes joined his wife, effectively boxing Warrick in.
"No."
"We went to the hospital," Jillian told him. "They won't allow us to visit Officer Carreiro, but we spoke to his sister. She said we should be able to see him in a few days."
Warrick nodded again, not sure if he was expected to comment on that.
"What about that crooked cop?" Stokes persisted. "Have they found him?"
"No, but they did find Nick's truck," Warrick said, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get away from the door until he told them what they wanted to know. "Inside, Nick had evidence linking Alexei to Sampson."
"This was only after the arrest?"
"Uh...no," Warrick said, knowing he was moving into a minefield. "They've been at Michaels' house since early this morning."
"Why weren't we called about it?"
"About..?" The synapses in his brain just didn't seem to be connecting anymore.
"About finding the boy's truck!" Stokes snapped, his scowl darkening. "We were supposed to be kept informed, dammit! I knew we should have brought the FBI in."
Warrick was sick of that underlying threat. "You think the Feds would keep you informed? Are you out of your mind?"
"I don't think they could possibly tell us less," Stokes replied icily. "Or take any longer."
They had him practically corralled by the door, otherwise Warrick would have walked away at that moment. He was getting close to crossing the line with Nick's father, and it was the last thing he wanted to do.
"You know what this reminds me of, Dad?" Susannah peeked over her father's shoulder. "It reminds me of when you were a DA and you'd always complain about how the victims' families kept calling and never gave you the time to actually do your job." Judge Stokes gave his eldest a look that probably scared the hell out of most people brought before him, but Susannah remained undaunted. "Besides, Warrick doesn't even work Nick's case. And he only gets six hours off a day--he's supposed to rest."
His scowl easing into a frown, the Judge studied Warrick briefly before stepping away. "You look like you need the rest," he said gruffly.
"I'll tell you everything I know," Warrick said wearily. "I just want some coffee."
As though realizing their error, Nick's parents hung back as he walked into the kitchen. Only Susannah trailed after him. "You must be hungry."
"You must be a diplomat," Warrick returned, grateful that someone was able to keep their head.
"Not by a long shot. I was a case manager for corrections until I took early retirement. But if you mean Daddy, that's years of experience."
Warrick got his coffee and joined the Stokes' at the dining table.
"This man they arrested..." Judge Stokes said in a much calmer tone. "Has he said where Nick is?"
"From what I gathered, he hasn't said word one."
"What about money?" Jillian asked. "Does he want money?"
"I don't think so," Warrick shook his head. "I've heard he's Sampson's right-hand man. It's not likely he's gonna turn on the guy."
"Who...who's handling him?" Susannah asked.
"It was Detective Vartann that brought him in," Warrick said.
"Vartann," Susannah nodded. "He's been pretty involved in this case."
"Next to Captain Brass, more than any other detective," Warrick confirmed. "He had been working Alexei's case with Nick before this happened."
"Then...there's nothing we can do? Still?"
Warrick hated that note of despair in Jillian's voice and knew it would break Nick's heart to hear it, so he offered what comfort he could. "They've made a lot of progress in the past 24 hours. This guy they arrested--Wietzel--the Feds have been after him for years and it was Vartann who got him. So..." He let his voice trail off, out of steam.
Jillian leaned against her husband, and Susannah stood with a heavy sigh. "I'm gonna...got out for a while. You need me to get anything, Mom?"
"No, thank you, Suz."
"Okay. Hey," she put a hand on Warrick's shoulder. "You get yourself some rest, hear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Warrick said, but knew neither one of them believed it.
There were many people who would consider having drinks with Conrad Ecklie a form of punishment, but Alex Vartann wasn't one of them. He was being punished at the moment, though, at least officially.
After finishing the unsuccessful interrogation, Brass had called him into his office and told him he was suspended without pay. That was actually harsher than Alex had expected, and it angered him to be taken off Nick's case, but he sucked it up. "How long?"
"Twelve hours," Brass said, scowling so there was at least some pretense. "Long enough to get drunk, forget about this case for a while and sober up again."
Two out of three ain't bad. The drunk and sober thing he could do, but forgetting about the case wasn't going to happen.
He called Ecklie, knowing the Assistant Director hadn't had much of a break himself for the past week and asked if he wanted to meet up at their usual place. Ecklie agreed, sounding grateful for the invitation.
Their 'usual place' was a bar more upscale than the shabby pub most cops frequented, but not exclusive like the club where Ecklie socialized with those in city and county upper management. This was an in-between stop on the Strip that served an assortment of cops, attorneys and white collar city employees. No one concerned themselves with the hardass detective who always drank with the unctuous Assistant Lab Director.
So they sat and drank and actually made a brief, pathetic attempt to talk about something other than the case, but soon gave that up as hopeless.
"Do you think there's a chance Wietzel will give anything up?"
Optimism was not something Vartann usually indulged in, but he gave it a shot. "Maybe eventually. But we don't have enough to hold him for the time it would take."
Ecklie turned his glass idly, watching the contents. "Alex. Level. Do you think Nick is still alive?"
That was a little easier. "Yep."
His swift response made Ecklie stare. "Really?"
"Yeah. If Nick was dead, Sampson would want us to find the body, most likely because he'll find a way to make it lead to someone else."
"That's comforting," Ecklie said, his voice drier than his martini.
"Detective Vartann. You're a difficult man to track down."
Alex didn't recognize the forty-something brunette standing next to their table. Her face was more compelling than pretty, with a square jaw, patrician features and blue eyes that shone with an intimidating amount of intelligence. Out of habit, Vartann took a quick inventory; the coiffed hair, designer clothes and understated but expensive jewelry all screamed affluence, while her posture and expression suggested a woman accustomed to getting things done. Although he didn't appreciate the interruption, Alex found himself standing on pure reflex and saw Conrad had as well.
"I'm Susannah Sutherland," she said holding out her hand.
"Mrs. Sutherland," Conrad held out his and she took it. "I'm Conrad Ecklie."
"Mr. Ecklie," Susannah nodded.
"She's one of Nick's sisters," Conrad explained.
"Oh," Alex immediately took her hand when she offered it again.
"May I join you?" she asked.
"Of course," Alex returned, because it just didn't seem right to say 'no.'
"I'd like to speak to you about my baby brother," she said, then stopped when a waitress approached. "Maker's Mark and water, thank you." That done, she turned back to the men, "I understand the man you arrested refuses to talk."
"So far," Alex admitted. "But--"
"Would you be willing to listen to a suggestion?"
Alex exchanged a glance with Conrad, then nodded. "I suppose we have the time."
Jim knocked once on the door jamb then walked into Grissom's office. "Gil."
Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before looking up. "Yes?"
Studying the lines on his friend's face that grew more pronounced every day, Jim hoped the news he brought might finally put an end to it. "Wietzel rolled," he said, nodding when Grissom gaped at him. "Vartann questioned him again when he got back from his suspension," he smiled humorlessly when the entomologist rolled his eyes. "Wietzel says he doesn't know where Nick is, but he gave up some locations where Sampson is known to hide...merchandise, they call it," he couldn't keep the disgust out of his voice. "I've got a detective and two black-and-whites rolling out to each location and the paramedics on standby. I thought you'd want to get CSIs ready to go out in case--well, just in case."
Grissom stood and walked slowly around the desk, then leaned against it, looking a bit dazed. "How in the world did Vartann--? Did he..?"
Jim knew what Grissom was asking and at one time it might have infuriated him, but he'd been wondering the same thing. "Did he beat it out of the guy? There's not a mark on Wietzel. Besides, Ecklie was in there with him the entire time."
"Ecklie?" Grissom shook his head, for once looking as confused as Jim felt. "Did they make him a deal?"
"Nope. No deals, no attorneys requested. All Wietzel asked was for protective custody, and you'd better believe I made sure he got it."
"What did--did either of them say what happened?"
"Not a word, no matter how many times I asked. And y'know what? I don't really care."
Grissom nodded, "I'll call Catherine."
Nick winced when Rauscher abruptly pulled out of him, not so much because of the pain--he'd gotten used to that--but because Rauscher never pulled out before he was finished. More often than not, he would stay in until he got hard again, biting Nick's back and shoulders until he was ready to go once more. Nick had quickly learned that any change to the routine--no matter how horrible the routine--usually meant things were about to get even worse.
This time was no exception. He was abruptly flipped onto his back and then pulled into a sitting position by two hands fastened around his neck, cutting off any air supply. Nick kicked his bound legs and bucked frantically as spots began to swim before his eyes. This couldn't be it. Not just like that. He thought somehow that he'd have more warning--that there would be words of some sort, even gloating words.
Then the hands were gone and Nick slumped against the headboard, gasping for air. He'd barely gotten more than a lungful before he was grabbed by the hair and yanked in close to Sampson's enraged face. "The cops are at three of my best locations," Sampson hissed. "I want to know what you have to say about that."
"Yee-haw," Nick rasped.
With a snarl Sampson moved back far enough to slam his fist into Nick's jaw, knocking his head against the wall.
"Did Wietzel roll?" Moutry asked.
"Shut up," Sampson snapped.
There was silence long enough for Nick's head to start clearing, then the hand was back in his hair, yanking him forward until he was bent almost double. After a few moments, he was pushed back against the headboard again where he decided to fall back on his old tactic of remaining as still and unnoticeable as possible.
"What the hell have you two been doing?" Sampson sounded calmer, even curious. "The bites make sense, but what happened to that burn?"
"Hydrogen peroxide," Rauscher said.
"And all these cuts?" Sampson leaned in for a better look. "Are those letters?"
"We're just getting his voice warmed up," Rauscher explained gleefully. "He's barely said anything since he got here."
Sampson chuckled. "I might have a permanent job for you when this is all over."
"And when is that going to be?" Moutry asked.
"I need another day to make some arrangements, so you do have some time to enjoy yourselves a bit more. However, I would prefer that he be alive when he goes into the ground."
Nick couldn't choke back his moan of horror when those words rolled over him.
"Take heart, Mr. Stokes," Sampson took Nick's chin in his hand and tilted his head up. "I'm willing to make you one last offer. Tell me everything the police have and I'll dispatch you nice and quick."
Jerking away, Nick closed his eyes so Sampson couldn't see that tears were threatening. "I can't. Anything I knew isn't valid anymore. Our lab is second only to Quantico, so there's no telling how much they've found out if they've been investigating for a week." He knew his words would enrage Sampson further, and took some small satisfaction from that.
"What a shame." When Sampson finally spoke his voice was as calm as usual, "I think, just for sharing that little tidbit, we'll forego any box this time."
The feel, the scent, the taste of dirt suddenly filled Nick's senses and his stomach abruptly turned itself inside out. Rauscher and Moutry hadn't fed him for the last two days, so he was able to keep what little contents there were down and was at least spared that additional humiliation, but the dry heaves forced him to double over and the painful clenching of his abdomen brought tears to his eyes.
When his vision finally cleared, Nick looked up and saw that Sampson had been watching him dispassionately the entire time.
Sampson turned away and looked at Nick's guards, "Have fun."
Nick's head bowed again--he could feel the weight of Moutry and Rauscher's gazes.
"If we do him at the same time, we'll get a lot more in," Rauscher suggested.
"Then we'd better make the most of it," Moutry agreed.
Warrick gave up the pretense of working while the search was on. Instead, he spent the time in the lab's smaller conference room that had been set aside for Nick's family to wait in. Ecklie, probably relieved that he hadn't insisted on going to one of the sites, didn't object. Warrick had no intention of going out to any of the sites. He wasn't about to take the chance of being 80 miles southwest of Vegas if Nick was found 50 miles northeast. Better to stay in the city, able to go to Nick the moment he heard.
Hours passed, and when Ecklie walked into the conference room again, Warrick's hope evaporated. He couldn't tell by Ecklie's expression how bad the news was, but he knew it was bad.
"We found Officer Michaels' body at one of the sites," Ecklie said without preamble. "And the remains of an unknown teenaged girl at another." Then he hesitated, obviously hating what he was about to say, "There's no sign of Nick at any of them."
Jillian let out a soft keening sound and all but collapsed against her husband. Warrick didn't see Susannah's reaction because almost before he knew he was moving, he'd shouldered his way past Ecklie and made for the garage. Not that there would be anything of comfort there, but he couldn't stay in the room and endure Nick's mother's grief when he could hardly bear his own. He was vaguely aware of Sara, then Greg saying his name as he passed, but didn't slow his pace until he was standing beside Nick's truck.
The Ranger had already given them all the evidence it was going to, but was still in the garage and would likely remain until they had no other choice but to move it. Warrick slumped against the driver's door and then slid down until he was sitting on the cold concrete. He heard footsteps approaching but didn't look up and only discovered who it was when Sara sat down beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Moments later, Greg sat on his other side.
No one said a word.
There were none.
Subdued did not even begin to describe the atmosphere in the Crime Lab. It had been 'subdued' for the past week, but now it was deathly quiet, almost as though the entire building was in mourning. Normally, the lab was bustling, constantly in motion with a sense of purpose that pervaded everything, even though it hadn't been there lately. When Catherine left just a few hours before, the place had been buzzing with hope and anticipation. That was gone now.
She walked down the hall, searching for any member of the graveyard shift. As she passed the garage, she caught sight of someone on the floor and stopped in the doorway for a better look. Greg, Warrick and Sara were all sitting against Nick's truck. Sara had both arms wrapped around one of Warrick's and was resting her head on his shoulder. Greg was on Warrick's other side and although not actually leaning against the older man, he was sitting close enough so their shoulders and legs were touching. Warrick was as still as a statue, and didn't even seem aware of his companions. None of them noticed her, so Catherine slipped away without saying anything.
Sara and Greg would both return to work in another hour or two, Catherine knew. Although their ability to focus was diminished, they were still able to pull themselves together when they had a case to hold their attention. But Warrick...Catherine didn't know how to deal with Warrick anymore.
It was even more difficult because for all his problems, Warrick had always managed to be the one looking out for his teammates. When Greg had a rough night as rookie or Sara became so intent on evidence she disregarded her own safety, Warrick was right there. Catherine had experienced it often, both in regards to Lindsey and firsthand. He had a strong protective streak that extended to everyone he cared about, and to Nick in particular. Catherine had never given that a second thought. Warrick was probably closer to Nick than anyone at work and Nick had definitely been through more than any of them.
The last time Nick had been abducted Warrick had taken it hard, but this was something entirely different. He seemed so...lost that he was barely to look out for himself anymore, let alone anyone else. Obviously, she wasn't the only one who thought so, because the postures she had seen from Sara and Greg were those of the comforters, not the comforted.
Not for the first time, Catherine wondered just how deep Warrick's feelings for Nick went, but she wasn't going spend time wondering about that now. There would be time enough to deal with it later--after they got Nick back.
Once she knew where her team was, she began a search for Nick's family or Conrad Ecklie. Someone had to go over the details of the case and answer any questions they had and Catherine wanted to save Grissom that task. After that she was going home to see her daughter for a few hours. Although Lindsey had been surprisingly accepting of her mother's absence--the fact that she'd alternated crushes between Nick and Warrick for the past seven years might have had something to do with it--she was a teenager and just not equipped to remain solemn and focused elsewhere for so long.
She went to the trace lab, since all gossip flowed through Hodges. This wasn't exactly gossip, but if anyone knew, he probably would. "Do you know where Conrad or the Stokes' are?"
Hodges looked up from the microscope, "I saw Nick's parents leave not long after Conrad broke the news. Mrs. Stokes was...she looked as though she took it pretty hard."
Catherine never thought she'd miss Hodges' snotty attitude, but she felt its loss keenly. "And Conrad?"
"Was still talking to Nick's sister last I saw. Rosewood brought in a pile of trace from a meth lab case and I've been doing that ever since."
"Okay. Thanks," she pushed the door open.
"Catherine?"
She turned back. "Yeah?"
"I--I know Nick wasn't at any of those places, but was there any sign? Any lead?"
"Nothing," Catherine said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hodges nodded and quickly ducked his head back to his microscope.
Jim Brass was trying to head off charges of police brutality. That was why he had kept the pedal down all the way back from the old Borax mine and why he was currently bulldozing his way through LVPD headquarters. He wanted to find Vartann before the detective got his hands on Wietzel.
Normally, he wouldn't worry about Vartann. The man was fairly level-headed and self-controlled about such things, but no cop liked being jerked around by a suspect. The stakes were even higher than usual--one dead cop, one missing CSI, a risk to his job and whatever else Vartann had done to get Wietzel to spill those locations in the first place. And no results whatsoever.
Jim knew that if he was in Vartann's place, he'd be looking to bust the guy's head.
"Captain?" Akers voice finally stopped his progress--he was standing in the doorway of a small room where prisoners were allowed to make phone calls.
"You see Vartann?" Jim asked him
"Yeah, he left about fifteen minutes ago."
Rather than being relieved, now Jim had to wonder was the hell his detective was up to this time.
"After he talked to Wietzel."
So much for relieved. "How is Wietzel?"
"See for yourself," Akers stepped aside to reveal Wietzel on the telephone, his hands in cuffs. "Vartann told me to let him make a call and then take him back to his cell until you got here."
"Until I got here," Jim repeated.
Wietzel towered over both men, but somehow seemed much smaller as he carefully approached. "Captain Brass? I need to speak with you."
Jim nodded coolly and said to Akers, "Put him in interrogation B." He watched at the officer followed orders, but made no move to follow. Wietzel was definitely bothered by something and Jim was happy to let him stew for a while. "Did Vartann say anything else?" he asked when Akers returned.
"No, sir."
"Wait out here," Jim said. He strolled into the interrogation room as though he hadn't a care in the world, never letting on that he'd been going near-crazy all week trying to locate a missing CSI. Wietzel, on the other hand, was not the same man Vartann had walked into the station. His expensive suit jacket and silk tie were gone, his pale hair straggled out from its ponytail and a fine sheen of sweat covered his skin. The remote, indifferent expression he'd been maintaining was also gone. "We're here," he said as he sat down. "Talk."
"The only things you've charged me with are fraud and identity theft. I'll make bail on those no problem. Do I go in front of the judge tomorrow?"
Jim got a sour taste in his mouth, because the guy was absolutely right. "You asked to see me so you could gloat?"
"Nah. I just want to know if it's true. Or is there a chance they'd deny my bail?"
"Who am I? Your lawyer?" Jim wondered if the guy was coming down off something.
"If Sampson pays my bond, I'll be out of here."
Tempted to indulge in a little police brutality of his own, Jim had to grit his teeth. "Yeah, you'd be out." He started to stand, "All done?"
"I shot Officer Michaels," Wietzel said bluntly.
Jim froze, it was the only way to keep the gobsmacked expression off his face. Then, slowly, he sat back down. "You. Shot. Michaels." The automatic fury that came with confronting a cop killer was tempered by his personal opinion of what should happen to crooked cops. "You. Shot Michaels."
"In the head," Wietzel clarified. "On Barrett Sampson's orders. In Barrett Sampson's office."
The guy had to be up to something. No one in their right mind confessed to killing a cop unless they wanted something major in return. "I'm not the District Attorney, either," Jim pointed out. "I can't make you a deal. Besides, you don't have a lawyer present."
"Damn right I don't," Wietzel was becoming more agitated. "My lawyer is on Sampson's payroll. But you can order me into protective custody permanently. As in solitary. Otherwise, I'm a dead man."
"I can promise protective custody," Jim agreed readily. "But that's all--you won't get any deals from me."
"Think I care?" Wietzel scoffed. "If I live through this I've still got plenty for making deals with your DA and the Feds."
That sour taste was back--the scumbag was probably right. "If you live through this, huh?"
"I ratted out Sampson. You think he's managed to stay under the radar for thirty years by letting jabbers live long?"
"I'll buy that," Jim said, although he still felt he was missing a page or two. "So why rat out the guy the first place?"
"Hey, it's one thing to do a nickel in the state pen for the guy," Wietzel snarled. "But now he's setting me up to take the fall for something that'll get me life--or the needle. That's what I get for twenty years of loyalty? Fuck no, I'm not taking the fall for this."
Jim nearly asked Wietzel what made him think Sampson was setting him up to take the fall for this, but he didn't want to let on he wasn't in the loop. He had his suspicions, but at the moment he also had other matters to deal with. "All right, let's take it from the top. Why did Sampson want Officer Michaels dead?"
"Did he pass out?"
"I don't know. That was the most screaming he did so far, though."
Nick did his best to remain limp and keep his breathing even, not an easy thing to do, even though his body had long since been pushed past its limits. He kept wanting to tense, brace himself against the agony that even the slightest movement brought to his lower body. It was laughable now think back to what he'd regarded as pain before. There had been some tearing, but not too much more than would happen on a night of frequent, rough, consensual sex.
This last time, though, they had abandoned all consideration, untying his legs so he could be better arranged to be penetrated by both of them at once. There was no longer any risk of his escaping, they knew he was far too debilitated to make another attempt.
He'd managed not to plead for mercy, although keeping silent had not been an option. And they'd wanted him to beg, maybe more than anything else by this point.
"Ask us nice and we'll go easier."
"Say please and we'll stop."
"Tell me you want to suck my dick and I'll stop fucking you."
Did they expect him to believe that?
They'd degraded him in every possible way, brought him to tears and despair, but he wasn't going to give them a damn thing. They could push him to such extremes of pain that his cries were involuntary, but ask anything of them? Give them the opportunity to mock him as well? Give them the satisfaction?
Not a chance in hell.
It was the last shred of control he had over his life--the choice of how he was going to die. Not much of a choice, because his death wasn't going to be heroic or self-sacrificing. It wasn't even going to be useful, but he'd be damned if it was going to be enjoyable for these monsters.
"Hey, is that a car?"
Oh, God.
"Fuck, already? I thought we'd have more time."
"Maybe things are getting too hot and he decided to speed things up."
Just when he needed it most, the last of Nick's determination turned to water. He wouldn't be able to remain stoic and disdainful. Who was he trying to fool? He closed his eyes against the tears that filled them. He was going to beg. He'd plead. He'd promise anything not to be put in the ground again. He'd beg for a bullet instead and the last thing he'd hear before he died would be their laughter.
No.
No, dammit.
No.
Nick heard the car door slam and knew he couldn't wait any longer. There was only one way to remain silent, only one means he had to thwart them even a little in his last moments. It was something he'd been half-preparing for since they gave him that first bath.
It was the only means of escape left.
But first, because he wasn't going to allow them to be his dying thought, Nick finally allowed himself to conjure up Warrick's image. He'd half-expected to forget what Warrick looked like, but no, there were those green tiger eyes as clear as day.
As if from a distance, he heard his guards opening the door and calling a greeting.
It was time to go.
Let them come in now and do their worst. Let them rape him again. Let them put him in the ground and fill his nose and throat with dirt. It didn't matter.
He wouldn't know.
Nick Stokes had left the building.
"Captain?"
Jim looked up, not sure what to expect when he saw Vartann in the doorway to his office. He wanted to know if the detective had been up to anything else, though, so he waved him in.
"Can you arrange to have a SWAT team on stand-by, sir?"
Jesus. "What the hell have you got going on now?"
"I should have a location for you in about half-an-hour."
"Don't you mean a possible location?" Jim scowled. The disappointment of the last time still pained him.
"No, sir. Wietzel will be making a call to a...colleague who knows where Nick is and will confirm that he's still there...and if he's--well. Wietzel only agreed to make the call after his informant has had time to get away."
Jim stared hard at his detective without saying a word. Usually if he did this long enough, the object of his gaze tended to get nervous and offer more information to placate him. It worked more often than it failed, and it worked this time as well.
"He's...uh...it's in his--Wietzel's best interests that we find Nick. That we can put Sampson away for a long time, otherwise Sampson's going to be hunting him down for rolling."
"He confessed to killing Michaels," Jim said.
"Yeah, I heard about that," was Vartann's only reply.
Leaning back in his chair, Jim gave the man another long look. "What do you think made Wietzel turn on Sampson in the first place?"
Vartann brushed imaginary lint from his jacket with studied casualness. "Change of heart?"
Jim barely stifled a smile. So Vartann wasn't going to let him in on it. Not even a mention of Wietzel thinking Sampson wanted to frame him. That was fine. The detective was smart enough not to have done anything that would cause major problems down the road. If it got Nick back, Brass didn't care what sort of compromises were made. "I'll have SWAT ready and let Grissom know, but until Wietzel makes that call, I don't want anyone else hearing about this."
Lon Moutry frowned when Marshall Abbey showed up carrying a plastic bag.
"Is that Abbey?" Rauscher said, looking out the window. "What the fuck is he bringing us more supplies for? We're supposed to be out of here today or tomorrow."
Moutry was wondering the same thing, but he motioned for Rauscher to calm down. At the same time, though, he got his gun ready. Abbey had made the two other supply deliveries, and Moutry had worked with him during his previous stint for Sampson, but there was no denying something was off. Add to that the fact that Abbey's loyalties actually lay with Wietzel and there could be a problem. "Just stay quiet until we find out what's going on," he said to Rauscher. "Could be nothing."
"No reason for the fucker to be here," Rauscher muttered, but then subsided.
Staying behind the door as he opened it, Moutry tried to look as though everything was normal when Abbey walked in. "Hey. What's up?"
As he set the bag down, Abbey's eyes darted around the room, resting briefly on Rauscher standing by the door and then on Nick's prone form. "Wietzel told me you needed this stuff. Especially the paper."
"I thought the cops had hauled Wietzel in," Moutry said, resisting the urge to go through the bag immediately.
"He got word to me." Abbey's eyes were on Nick again, "He dead?"
"Just worn out," Rauscher leered.
Abbey nodded. "Later."
Neither man moved until Abbey's car had pulled away, then Moutry tucked his gun away and crouched down to look through the bag. Inside were a six of Pepsi--no booze on their watch--and a couple of foil-wrapped burgers. Then his eye fell on a scrap of paper at the bottom of the bag, grease-spotted but still readable. He picked it up and quickly scanned the few sentences, then glanced warily at Rauscher.
"What?" his partner demanded.
Moutry wasn't looking forward to sharing the contents. When he'd met Rauscher in Ely, he'd known immediately the man was greedy, tough and unscrupulous--just the qualities he looked for in a co-worker--and had assumed the man's occasional insanity was just the result of being behind bars. After all, he tended to get buggy on the inside, too. Except that Rauscher turned out to be the same on the outside. Moutry had no problem enjoying their captive, since he was right there in front of them. He didn't mind getting a little freaky about it, but Rauscher was becoming crazed and had been acting like a loose cannon.
"Well?" Rauscher said.
"Wietzel rolled on Sampson because Sampson was going to set him up to take the fall for this," Moutry said. "And he says that if he's not in line to take the heat anymore, we are."
"Fuck!" Rauscher tore the note from Moutry's hand and read it. "Fuck! He's a dead man! A dead man!"
Moutry wasn't sure who Rauscher was talking about and waited for the guy to get it out of his system.
"Keeps us locked up here for over a goddamn week and then thinks we're going to take the fall for this? I knew! I knew there was something rotten about the guy. He was too goddamn slick!" Rauscher turned to look at Nick. "Just needs a day to make some arrangements, my ass!"
There was no denying that part was pretty fucked up.
"Well, I'm not waiting for him another fuckin' minute," Rauscher took out his gun and walked to the bed. He pressed the muzzle against Nick's temple, but the CSI didn't so much as twitch. "I'm getting rid of him and taking out Sampson the minute he walks in that door."
"You don't want to do that," Moutry said, keeping his voice level so he didn't piss off his partner even more. "If Sampson is setting us up, we don't want this guy dead--he'll be the only one who can say Sampson was behind everything. If Wietzel is lying, do you really want to cross Sampson at this point?"
Rauscher glowered at him.
"We'll wait 'til he gets here. If the guy starts acting weird, then we've got time to take him out and take the car, because right now we've got no way out of here."
Obviously not happy about it, Rauscher nonetheless stepped away from the bed.
Moutry stared hard at the motionless CSI. "Is he even breathing?"
Rauscher stared as well. "Yeah. For now."
The sound of his office door being closed made Gil look up. He watched with growing dread as Jim walked up to his desk, planted both hands on it and leaned in closely.
"In about twenty minutes, Wietzel is going to make a phone call to find out where Nick is." Jim's voice was low, urgent and nothing like his usual wry tone. It also left no room for Gil to reply. "SWAT and EMTs are ready to roll out, but haven't been informed of the exact situation. Until we know this isn't a false lead, don't tell anyone else. I'm on my way out. Don't ask to come along--it's too high risk and even the EMTs aren't going to be allowed to get close until everything's cleared. Keep both phone lines open--as soon as I know, you'll know."
Then he walked out, leaving the entomologist staring after him.
Vartann pushed open the cell door. "Time to make that call, Wietzel. Let's go."
"He's been pacing for a solid fifteen minutes," Archie said, peering down the hallway for the hundredth time. "Something has to be up."
"Catherine, did he say what was going on?" Greg asked.
"Not a word," Catherine replied, sounding a bit hurt.
"It must be about Nick," Sara stated.
"Captain Brass was in there not too long ago," Bobby offered.
Greg and Sara both nodded simultaneously, "It's about Nick."
"Then he should have told me," Catherine insisted, getting up and starting for the door. She paused when Grissom's door opened and the entomologist left his office.
"Is he coming here?" Ronnie looked ready to bolt back to QD.
"The rest of the lab is practically empty and we're all sitting in the break room watching him," David Hodges said dryly. "Where else would he be going?"
Silence fell over the group that had been gathering in the break room for the last quarter hour. Grissom's frown grew darker the closer he got, and so everyone began emptying coffee cups and cleaning up as though this had been some impromptu break. As Grissom reached the doorway, his phone trilled, and he froze for a split-second before fumbling to open it.
"Hello!" he snapped, making everyone exchange concerned glances. He listened for a moment, then suddenly grabbed onto the doorframe. Catherine jumped to her feet, but he waved her back. "Okay. Oh, God. Okay, call me back as soon as you know." He hung up and stared at everyone blankly for several seconds. "That was Brass. They've received word of Nick's location."
There was no reaction from anyone. And Catherine spoke for all of them when she asked, "How...are--are they sure this time?"
"The informant says he actually saw Nick--and that he's alive."
Sara broke down crying and Greg, at the table beside her, looked close to doing the same. Shock, relief and more tears were on the faces of everyone in the room.
Grissom looked around again, "Where's Warrick?"
"I sent him home about an hour ago," Catherine replied, wiping damp cheeks. "He was just--he wasn't able to work."
"I'd like for the two of you to go in person to tell him and the Stokes' about this," Ecklie appeared behind Grissom.
"You've heard?" Grissom looked back.
"Detective Vartann called me with the news."
"We're going out to the scene," Catherine said.
"No," Ecklie shook his head. "That's a bad idea. It's too dangerous and at least 90 miles away. EMTs will be the first ones in after the scene is cleared, and by the time you get there, they would be on their way back. Captain Brass, as well as Detectives Vartann and Curtis will be out there--Nick will have someone he knows on scene. They'll be taking him to Desert Palm Hospital."
"Do they know anything about his condition?" Archie asked.
"No," Ecklie replied. "Gil and Catherine, you'll inform Nick's parents?" Catherine nodded. "Sidle, Sanders, call in Rosewood and Young from days to cover for you. The rest of you just continue working as best you can--I'll do my best to keep you updated."
"We won't be burying him alive," Sampson said the moment he entered the motel room, leaving the door open behind him. "We'll take care of him here."
Moutry and Rauscher exchanged glances. Sampson did not look like his usual calm, pristine self. "Why?" Moutry asked. "The guy hasn't moved since--hell, for a while now."
"I've got things to take care of, so you two finish him off and I'll send a car out for you."
"Ah...no," Moutry returned. "If you want him finished now, no problem, but then we'll be going back with you."
"We're sick of this fucking room," Rauscher added.
Sampson studied them with the cold, flat eyes of a cobra. "I don't know what's suddenly given you the idea that anything I say is up for debate. I said finish him off and I'll send a car back." Without giving them another chance to argue, Sampson walked out.
"Fuck!" Rauscher followed, gun in hand. "Don't get in the fuckin' car, Sampson!"
"Put that away," Sampson ordered, not sounding the least bit intimidated as he opened the driver's side door. "Or you're a dead man."
"Oh, I'm a dead man? That's a good one coming from--fuck me! Moutry!" he hollered back into the room. "Yo, Lon! There's a huge fucking cloud of dust out here! Jesus! It's like a goddamned convoy. It's the cops, man! It's gotta be the--I said no, you fucker!"
Moutry ran out just in time to see Sampson go down, hit by several shots from Rauscher's weapon. He saw the caravan of vehicles barreling closer. "Let's go," he said, stepping out Sampson's prone form. "Hey!" he hollered when Rauscher headed back to the motel. "What the fuck are you doing? Let's get the hell out of here!"
"I'm not leaving that pussy alive!" Rauscher insisted.
"Jesus, leave him and let's move!"
Rauscher hesitated, but only briefly, then continued on his way.
Quickly weighing his options, Moutry opened fire on his partner, hitting him in the shoulder and effectively spinning him out of his path to the door. "You kill him and we get the needle for sure, you dumb fuck!"
"You son of a bitch!" Rauscher screamed, taking aim.
Moutry emptied his clip before Rauscher got a single shot off, then quickly dove under the car as gunfire began coming from the cars that had rolled to a halt. He tossed his gun a distance away and held both hands out so SWAT knew he was surrendering.
Better to take his chances with a jury than a bunch of seriously pissed off cops.
SWAT surrounded Sampson's car, hauling the gunman out from underneath and checking on the status of the two downed perps. Jim barely gave them a glance as he made a beeline for the open motel room door, Sofia and Vartann at either shoulder.
"Captain," the SWAT leader called. "We haven't cleared any of the rooms."
"We'll clear this one," Jim didn't break stride. He and Sofia took up position on either side of the door while Vartann carefully stepped inside.
"Oh, God..." Vartann said, and that was all.
"Alex?" Sofia prompted.
"Clear," Vartann's voice was shaky. "I'll check the bathroom."
The tone of his voice made Jim throw caution to the wind and rush into the room. When he saw the bound, motionless figure lying face down on the far bed everything around him shifted into slow motion. Sofia's choked sound of shock barely registered and it seemed to be taking him forever to get to the side of the bed.
"Sweet Jesus, Nicky..." Jim covered Nick with the bedspread even though it was stained with blood and God knew what else. Anything to banish the sight of dried blood on the back of Nick's thighs.
Sofia gently laid her fingers against Nick's neck, "Pulse is strong."
Jim cut the flexicuffs and Nick's arms fell limply to his sides. He had to catalogue the injuries in sections--the bruises on Nick's hips, the ghastly burn on his shoulder, the dozens of bites everywhere and more cuts and slices than could be counted--he didn't want to think of them collectively, of Nick enduring over a week of torture. He couldn't handle that right now. Instead he concentrated on the lax features of Nick's face. "Get those EMTs in here," he ordered Vartann.
"They haven't been cleared to come in yet," Vartann pointed out, but took one look at his Captain's expression and quickly got on his radio.
"Nick?" Jim laid a hand against Nick's cheek, which was dark with a week's worth of growth. He had no idea if Nick could hear him, but what he said was as much for himself as anyone else. "It's Jim, Nicky. We're here to take you home, kiddo."
It was eerily similar to the situation Gil had encountered in the break room barely two hours before. There were fewer pairs of eyes on him and he was listening to Sofia Curtis instead of Jim Brass, but all the same feelings swirled in the atmosphere of Nick's house as had pervaded the lab.
Catherine was hanging onto Warrick with both hands--she had been ever since they'd broken the news. At the time it had been in preparation to keep him from bolting out the door, but now Gil suspected it was a matter of reassurance for both of them. Warrick hadn't said a word the entire time, and was sitting in the easy chair, staring at nothing. Catherine was perched on the arm, alternating her gaze between Gil and Warrick. Nick's parents stood just behind the chair, watching their eyes on Gil. Susannah was pacing near the kitchen, but immediately stopped when Gil thanked Sofia and said good-bye.
He closed the phone and took a deep breath, trying to adjust to this new situation. They had all, sadly, gotten used to living with dread and despair and the good news almost seemed unreal. Despite his best efforts, his voice was still a bit unsteady. "Nick is on the way to Desert Palm."
Jillian collapsed against her husband, who dipped his head to hide his face in her hair.
"Why didn't Jim call?" Catherine asked, almost as though she thought there had to be bad news in there somewhere.
"He's riding in the ambulance with Nick," Gil said. "Nick was being held in a motel off an abandoned highway. There were three men on the scene. One is dead, one is also on his way to the hospital and the other is in police custody."
"Nick."
Gil looked at Susannah who was now standing with her parents, a hand on her mother's back and her cheek pressed against her father's arm. Although interpreting voice nuances was not his strong point, Susannah was more than capable of getting her point across with the simple inflection in her brother's name--they didn't give a damn about the condition of Nick's captors and Gil was wasting their time. Smiling faintly, he got back on track. "Nick was unconscious the entire time Sofia saw him. She didn't go into much detail about his injuries--just said he was in rough shape. However, the EMTs did say that although Nick's injuries were serious, none of them are likely to be life-threatening. They expect to arrive at Desert Palm in about forty minutes."
Catherine had released Warrick, needing both hands to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but Warrick hadn't moved since the phone rang--not a flinch and barely a blink.
"Warrick," Gil put a little extra sharpness into his tone.
Slowly, Warrick raised his eyes to meet Gil's.
"We got him," Gil said firmly.
Warrick nodded and closed his eyes.
Sara wished she'd brought something heavier to wear, but she and Greg had practically run from the lab when they got Catherine's call. She wrapped her arms around herself, knowing the shivers she was experiencing weren't entirely due to the temperature any more than huddling against the wall was solely in the hopes of finding warmth. She was hoping that if she stayed quiet and kept out of the way, no one would ask her to leave. Greg, apparently thinking the same thing, was beside her.
The small room off the ER was normally for hospital staff and five people would have been a tight fit. Right now there were nine people in it--the graveyard shift, Nick's family members and Detective Vartann. No one from the hospital had chased them out--professional courtesy allowing them to stay in a place normally off limits.
They'd had a fleeting glimpse of Nick being wheeled in, but after that could only catch snippets of the orders being volleyed back and forth. So far Sara had heard nothing that gave her any real idea of Nick's condition--most of it sounded fairly standard.
Warrick was checking the door every thirty seconds, and Sara had the feeling Mrs. Stokes would be doing the same, but for her husband's arms around her. As for Warrick, Sara was glad to see something in those green eyes again. He'd been so dazed for the past several days that if it had been anyone else, she would have assumed there had been a little chemical coping. Now he was himself again, with that strange laid-back intensity that only he could pull off.
Except, of course, for the tremors that shook him as they did her.
When Brass walked into their little cubbyhole, Sara expected him to be bombarded with questions and so kept hers to herself.
As it turned out, everyone else was of the same mindset, so Brass instead stepped into a room filled with an expectant hush. Fortunately, the Captain was not a man easily overwhelmed. "Well... uh...he didn't wake up, but he was breathing steady and the medics said his vitals looked okay." His eyes shifted over everyone, "They--they roughed him up pretty good. There's cuts and bruises and a burn...he's dehydrated and um, it looks like he was kept tied the whole time so there's that--" He trailed off with a shrug.
The unbearable tension in the room eased somewhat, but then the ER door swung open briefly.
"--another SAE kit, to be safe. We don't want to--"
Another group of people might not have known was an SAE kit was. Another group of people would not have been in that cubbyhole to hear it. But everyone in that room worked law enforcement in some capacity and everyone knew the significance of the request.
Warrick stumbled back as though shot and Greg turned away from everyone else, leaning his forehead against the wall.
Sara didn't see any other reactions. The fresh tears that filled her eyes made it impossible.
Epilogue
Things slowly began to untangle. Lon Moutry gave chapter and verse, making himself seem like a fearful bystander. Then DNA results proved he was one of Nick's rapists and he became a little more forthcoming. No one believed him when he placed most of the blame on Rauscher and Sampson, but they already had enough--kidnaping, assault and second degree murder--to put him away for a long time.
Until Nick was awake and able to give a statement, it couldn't be truly known how involved Rauscher was, but he already had paid the ultimate price at Moutry's hand. As for Sampson, it didn't seem likely that he would ever stand trial or even be charged. If he lived, Barrett Sampson would be a quadriplegic, tied to a ventilator for the rest of his life. One of Rauscher's bullets had caught him between the second and third vertebrae, and further damage was done when Moutry scrambled over his body trying make his escape. Now that he was out of commission, most of his employees had scattered, but Vrederveld didn't flee quickly enough and was brought in again. He and Wietzel began singing their hearts out and between the two of them, the truth about Barrett Sampson finally began to emerge.
Or rather, the truth about Stanislav Brezeanu finally began to emerge. Born in Romania, his American citizenship was fraudulent, as were the numerous aliases that he'd had accounts under worldwide. Vrederveld helpfully handed the account numbers over, although Vartann suspected that the only account numbers the police were given were those Vrederveld hadn't managed to reroute to his own. Any account Sampson--or Brezeanu--had kept under the name or alias of an employee mysteriously closed within 24 hours. Various countries, including the US, seized whatever was left, leaving Brezeanu penniless.
This put the District Attorney in an uncomfortable position. They could either charge a quadriplegic with a laundry list of crimes or deport him to an economically stressed country stripped of both health and wealth. There would be protests no matter what they decided. Nick's parents discussed the case briefly with Jeffrey Sinclair, pushing for deportation. It was one of the few times Nick's friends were in complete agreement with Judge Stokes--with Moutry confessing, deporting Brezeanu would spare Nick testifying at any trial. If any of them were hoping for a slow, painful death for the helpless Brezeanu due to poor medical care, no one saw sufficient reason to bring it up.
DA Michaels was buried without any trappings usually afforded a fallen police officer. A handful of his fellow officers attended, but wore regular clothes rather than uniforms. Sam Vega was the only detective to attend, not to pay his respects, but to "make sure the son of a bitch is really dead." Instead, the police were rallying around young Neil Carreiro, who had recovered enough to tell everything he knew and continued to improve.
Nick, on the other hand, had still not regained consciousness by the third day. He was stable, breathing well on his own and his injuries were healing without complications, although he was on an IV to deal with his dehydration and provide much-needed nourishment. He'd been scanned and tested but no injury or condition was found to account for his continued unconsciousness. Thus far, the doctors were sticking with a diagnosis of shock and exhaustion, but everyone knew they'd have to revise that if Nick didn't wake soon. The only good news about Nick's condition was that since they had the identity of his attackers, they were able to thoroughly test for STDs or HIV. The results for both men were negative. There was still the possibility, of course, but it wasn't as likely.
Nick was quickly moved to a large, private room, and no one had any doubt about who was behind that. Yet for all his previous anger at Nick's co-workers, the Judge was now surprisingly lenient about Nick's visitors--requiring hardly any urging from his wife and daughter. Warrick was surprised to find himself granted the same access as family. He wasn't sure whether it was Susannah's doing or simply habit because they'd shared Nick's residence throughout the ordeal, and he didn't care much. Taking blatant advantage of it, he rarely left the room for more than one hour in eight. Dr. Neidiger, in charge of Nick's care, occasionally protested the number of people in the room, but for the most part, she turned a blind eye. The one thing she did insist on was that she be paged the moment Nick showed signs of regaining consciousness and that interaction be kept to a minimum until her arrival so his reactions could be properly tested.
It wasn't easy to agree to and even more difficult to do when those long lashes began to flutter near the end of the third day. Fortunately, Dr. Neidiger was already making rounds and arrived before Nick was fully conscious.
Nick's parents and sister reluctantly stepped back when asked. Warrick and Gil were on the other side of the room, and although she glanced in their direction, the doctor did not ask them to leave. Everyone held their breath when the dark eyes finally opened and gradually focused. Nick coughed, shifted and then moaned slightly. He lifted one hand and frowned at the IV in it, studying it for several more seconds before letting it drop back to his side. As he looked around the room, his eyes fell on his parents first, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Hey," he said softly, his voice rough.
Dr. Neidiger poured a glass of water from the pitcher that was always in the room. "You recognize them?"
"Sure," Nick nodded.
She held the straw to his lips and he sipped it with obvious relish. "Then you know your name?"
He swallowed, "Nick Stokes." His voice had cleared, but a frown was beginning to crease his face. Warrick tensed as he waited for the pleasant newly-awakened haze to evaporate and reality to set in.
"Do you know where you are?" Dr. Neidiger asked after giving him more water.
"Desert Palm Hospital." Nick's eyes were already beginning to droop again.
"You know the hospital?" The doctor sounded impressed in spite of herself. "You recognize it just from the room?"
"Says so on my wristband," Nick offered, holding up his hand again.
Standing next to Warrick, Gil let out a startled huff that mixed amusement and admiration. Nick turned to look for the source of the sound, and stared at Gil briefly before moving onto Warrick. The dark eyes widened for several seconds before Nick dropped his gaze and ducked his head as if embarrassed. Warrick wasn't sure what to make of that, or of the way Nick continued to dart quick looks in his direction. He didn't comment on it, content to let Nick set any pace, any boundaries he wanted. Nick was alive. Nick was safe. Warrick was certain he would find a way to handle anything else.
"Is...is everyone okay?"
Warrick swallowed hard. Only Nick.
"Officer Carreiro survived the shooting," Judge Stokes assured him. "He's recovering nicely."
All traces of drowsiness vanished. "Officer...? Oh, God..."
"Do you remember anything that happened?" Dr. Neidiger asked gently.
Taking a deep breath, Nick closed his eyes. After several minutes, he opened them again, shaking his head slowly. "No. No, I'm sorry." He studied his parents again and his frown became one of worry, "It's something really bad, isn't it?"
The question, asked so innocently, brought a lump to Warrick's throat.
Jillian couldn't stifle her reaction, and pressed her fingers to her lips as her eyes filled with tears.
"Aw, jeez, Mom!" Nick struggled to sit up straighter, but Dr. Neidiger easily kept him down with a hand on his chest. He looked at his father, "Sorry, Cisco, I--"
"It's okay, son," Judge Stokes assured him.
"I need to--" Nick bit his lip. "Is--is everybody here?"
"Probably right outside," Grissom said.
Nick looked at the entomologist, his eyebrows rising in question. Then he met Warrick's eyes again. The expression in the dark eyes was intense, but before Warrick could identify it, Nick had turned back to his parents. "Everybody? The whole family?"
"No," Jillian dabbed at her eyes. "They're still it Texas." She paused when Nick tilted his head slightly, then added. "Suz is here in Vegas, though."
Nick's jaw dropped.
"What is it?" Dr. Neidiger asked.
Nick started to move his hand--Warrick was tell it was to run it through his hair as he often did when stalling--but stopped when he felt the pull of the IV tube. "Dammit."
"What?" the doctor prompted.
"I just can't believe they talked me into it."
"They talked you into it?" Judge Stokes was incredulous. "Into--"
"This," Nick made an expansive gesture. "I really should have stuck to my guns. Gone with my gut."
Warrick's heart sank. It sounded like Nick was beginning to find a way to blame the situation on himself.
"Pancho, what are you saying?" Judge Stokes persisted.
"When Rusty and Dan suggested Vegas to me and Tibs, I knew it was a bad idea. I knew we should have gone to Daytona for spring break with the rest of the frat."
Continued in Lost & Found
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