Disclaimer: I do not own CSI, just the plot of this story.
A/N: This takes place season 9 or later.
Shackled to the Past
Chapter 1
"No, please!" the whispered plea from the nine year old boy elicited no response from the young woman. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed his upper arm, making him cry out quietly in pain.
"If you don't do what I tell you, I will hurt them!" she hissed menacingly in his ear.
The boy thought of his older brother and sisters, all obliviously asleep in their own rooms. Closing his eyes, he tried to lay still, let her do what she wanted. Tears forced their way through his closed eyelids.
It felt like hours later when she pulled away from him. Before she left, she stroked his cheek and whispered, "If you ever tell anyone, I'll come back and hurt you and your family."
Nick Stokes sat bolt upright in bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He rested his forehead against his knees.
It had been years since he'd dreamed about that night, but it still made him feel like a small helpless child again. He sat and sobbed, like he hadn't sobbed since he'd been buried alive. He felt he'd bounced back from that like he'd never truly bounced back from being molested at age nine by the last-minute baby sitter, Mary Ann Preston.
He hadn't gotten up the courage tell his parents what had happened until he was in college. And that had only really been because he'd been forced to.
The school had contacted his parents about an essay he'd written. Administration was concerned about the suicidal thoughts inferred throughout the paper.
His parents were told that Nick would be dropped from the college, if he didn't seek professional help.
He remembered that day. Bill and Jillian Stokes had turned up at his dorm room door. Judge Stokes held the essay in his hands, his eyes looking imploringly at his son, as he quietly said, "Poncho?"
Nick had moved aside, letting his folks in so they could speak in private. "Cisco," he'd replied quietly, his gaze locked on the papers his father held.
"Why would you think these things?" his mom asked, her eyes wide with fear for her youngest child.
A shell shocked expression settling on his face, Nick knew it all had to come out.
"Mary Ann Preston," Nick began.
"Who?" his mom asked, confused.
"Sh- she was that last-minute baby sitter," Nick stammered out, as tears began to press through tightly closed eyelids.
Nick didn't think his mom's eyes could widen any more. He was wrong. When he finally looked at her, her eyes were even bigger than before.
"Wh- what about her?" his father asked, not really sure he wanted an answer.
The dam broke on Nick's tears, and they flowed as his body was wracked by heaving sobs.
Jillian pulled Nick into her arms, her hands holding him tightly against her, as only a mother can.
With the sobs, the whole story finally poured forth.
Judge Stokes had promised to bring the woman to justice. He'd issued an arrest warrant the very next day, but Mary Ann Preston had disappeared the previous year, so no one knew where she was.
Finally, the tears were spent. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again.
Afternoon sunlight crept around the edges of the blackout curtains in his room, giving enough light that he could confidently move around the room without further illumination.
Feeling dirty in a way he hadn't in years, Nick went into the bathroom and turned the shower on so hot he was nearly scalded.
He tried to avoid his image in the mirror, knowing he wouldn't like what he saw.
Feeling the stubble on his face as he showered, Nick knew he'd have no choice but to confront that image. When he got out, he wiped a hand across the fogged up mirror, and grabbed the can of shave gel. He lathered up his face before looking up at the mirror.
His brown eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles under them from insufficient sleep. They held a look he had seen far too many times in the eyes of victims he'd questioned.
All of his co-workers thought he was so strong. Nick laughed ironically. If only they could see him now!
Shaking his head, he resolved to talk to his therapist about it at his next session. He'd been in therapy since college, and figured he'd probably be in therapy for the rest of his life. If not for the molestation, then for something or other relating to work.
Being held at gun point more than once and being buried alive would be enough to make anyone a little crazy. Nick figured he was probably just a bit worse off than some of his co-workers. At least he hadn't been blown up – he didn't really count the coffin exploding, since he wasn't injured by the blast – or beaten nearly to death the way his friend Greg Sanders had been.
After dressing, Nick went out to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. For all the normal people in Vegas – those who held down nine to five jobs – this would be considered lunch time. For Nick, this was an early breakfast. He usually slept until five p.m., unless he had to be in court or had to take care of something around the house. This was early for him, and he knew he'd be dragging by the end of shift at six a.m. Twelve noon was just way too early to be up!
Once he'd eaten and cleaned his dishes, Nick glanced over at his cell phone. He contemplated checking for messages, but decided that if anything came up at the lab, they'd call the house phone if they couldn't get him on the cell.
He had a couple of on-going cases. One was a breaking and entering, which had started looking like a group of neighborhood punks looking to score. The other was a hit and run that had gone cold. The former would probably be solved that night, but he would probably be pulled from the latter and assigned a new case.
The ringing of the house phone startled Nick, pulling him out of his revery.
Ingrained habit made him say, "Stokes." when he picked up the phone.
"Hey, Nick. This is Catherine. I didn't wake you, did I?" Catherine sounded like the one who'd been awakened, her voice still heavy with sleep.
"No, I got up early to get some house work done," he lied, not wanting to go into why he was up at this ungodly hour with Catherine, even though she knew what had happened all those years ago. She was the only person at the lab who did.
"Good! Ecklie called. He needs someone to pull a double," she had to pause to yawn. "Lindsey's home with strep throat, so I can't. I told him I'd ask you."
"Okay, sure. No problem," Nick replied, groaning inwardly. It was days like this for which he slept all the extra time he could.
"Thanks, Nicky! I'll owe you one," Catherine thanked him before hanging up.
He clipped his phone and gun to his belt, and snatched up his keys. From the hook by the door, he grabbed his vest, and scooped his field kit up from the floor.