It had to be a cold day in Hell, ice covering every inch of a brimstone and fire-scarred landscape. Lakes of refreshing water dousing the most parched throat, snowflakes falling and creating a steam bath of frigid mists. Conrad Ecklie had not only allowed a party to take place to celebrate all the victories of the night; he made the wise decision not to ruin everything by being present. The break room was filled with members of the Lab, employees dipping in and out to grab the food brought in from a nearby diner. The news with Callie Christopher roared in the background, but the chatter about her exclusive breaking story could not compete with the excitement of the group gathered or the music blaring from a boom box stolen from the AV room.
Grissom stood in the corner, polite mask in place, observing those around him release tension from the many months of turmoil that had affected every facet of the lab, and had stained each individual in some way with its heavy, loathsome touch. Instead of short tempers and petty bickering, his ears filled with loud voices, rich with jubilation, jokes, and even laughter.
Catherine made her way over, face etched with the toll that the latest closed case had inflicted on her. She gave him a wan smile and patted him on the shoulder. "Figures I'm huddle in a cramped van with the ripe bodies of people who need to buy a clue and the biggest case this year literally walks right into our own backyard." She tucked an errant hair behind her ear. "Must be a sign."
He pursed his lips. "Maybe just a turning point."
"At least this change in luck was one for the best. Maybe I'll see Lindsey for more than five minutes and we can all stop to catch a breath."
"Until the next headline is splashed on the front page."
Catherine shook her head. "Ever the optimist, Gil. Maybe for tonight you can relax a little. In about…" she looked at her watch, "in less than an hour, I'll be sipping something harder than just coffee."
"I still have the rest of my shift," he shrugged.
She laughed, scanning the ever-growing crowd. "I don't see the man of the hour."
"I'm not sure if he's done signing autographs." Grissom pointed towards Nick trying to ward off the attention of several employees.
Catherine's smiled broadened. "I don't think Nicky's very comfortable with his new rock star status."
"Nick's not about the spotlight, but the intense glow can be very overwhelming," Gil said softly.
"I don't know about all that." Warrick strolled in, huge dopey grin on his face. "Nick, man. Get over here!" he shouted, every face in the room now looking on expectantly at the Lab's hero.
One of the techs tapped the younger man's shoulder and pointed in their direction. Grissom could see Nick's eyes roll even from this distance as he extracted himself from his admirers and hobbled through the sea of merry revelers. Each person clapped or patted his back as he navigated the sea of ecstatic co-workers.
Nick eyes glared at his buddy and upon reaching their tiny corner of the room, shook his head. "What? Your two perfectly working legs couldn't make it across the break room, bro?"
Warrick and Nick did their ghetto low five-high five-whatever hand gesture thing the two had memorized.
"Looks like my bud learned his moves from old ladies in a New York train station," the taller man joked, pointing to the cane in new admiration.
Nick looked on questioningly while his partner jibed him. "You got some karate moves to go with your new weapon?"
The Texan followed his friend's gaze. "Just usin' what I had," he laughed. "Doesn't even need to be oiled or cleaned."
"To think I was bustin' ass on a robbery that popped up on route to the sting and the bad guys came here."
"Good thing you were taking a break," Catherine added.
Nick bowed his head and Grissom wasn't sure it was out of modesty as the younger man gripped his cane tighter.
The new Swing supervisor bobbed her head as a funky tune got turned up a notch, the party swelling with the music. Bobby Dawson grabbed Catherine's hand as they boogied their way towards a clear area. Other people pushed aside tables and did likewise with whoever was free. Catherine had no problem showing off a few dance moves playfully with the other man, as she obviously let off steam to the lyrics of some guy rapping about a short person's birthday. Gil just shook his head in confusion.
Greg and Sara finally made it to the festivities after a last minute check on some last results from an impending case. The rookie took it upon himself to try to show his own moves. Though Grissom for the life of him didn't know if those jerky spasms could count as dancing, the young female intern Greg had snagged to show off with seemed amused.
"What I'd like to know is how you knew there was a bomb in Ecklie's car?" Sara chimed in, eyebrows arched in expectation.
Grissom was interested in this too, but he stood in the background while everyone waited in rapt attention. Nick did his best to explain, as humbly as possible, while he tried to ease the weight off of his left leg, lifting it from the ground in an obvious attempt to find a more comfortable stance. The guy's knee had to be in agony after being pushed beyond its limit the other day and then run around on all night. Grissom nonchalantly snagged two chairs and casually brought one over to the other man. The second he dropped into himself.
Nick gave him a relieved expression and painstakingly eased himself into it, bad leg stretched out before him and some of that tenseness in his jaw relaxing a little.
"I dunno," Nick continued. "We all knew there was a pattern of some kind, but the last bombing at that fancy restaurant was way off."
"But we were still trying to nail down his targets. Why did the one the other night bother you?" Sara was honestly curious; everyone could tell she was stumped.
"It," Nick fumbled a moment. "It seemed even more impulsive than the others... so much more random. The place hadn't opened yet, didn't have a thing to do with British anything."
"The bakery was Japanese owned though."
Nick's smile twisted as he thought about Warrick's comment. "Yeah, but unless the bomber was researchin' financial records, he was never gonna know that. For me it was always the name... Buckingham Bakery. The royal branding seemed too perfect to pass up, not to mention the way that place was designed to look like the real palace."
Sara growled impatiently. "And this had you sniffing out bombs in the parking lot?"
"Ha. Ha. No," he drawled. "Bombers are irrational, prone to allowing emotional influence over their perceived targets. Some Italian eatery didn't jive with our guy's obvious hatred towards all things British, unless it was a hatred of someone at that grand opening."
"Ecklie." Warrick humphed under his breath.
"Those news conferences." Nick shook his head. "Always raggin' on the guy in public- it was like wavin' a red flag at a rodeo."
"I didn't know you knew a lot about the psychological makeup of bombing suspects," Grissom said, finally breaking his silence.
Nick looked up at him. "Had a lot of down time and thought the subject matter might help out in the future."
Grissom had no doubts of that or of Nick's quest to find out the motives of a person who had had such an impact on his life.
"Still, Nick. I just..."
The criminalist waved his hand at Sara to cut her off. "It dawned on me later. In the restroom in fact."
"Do all your best thinking there?"
Warrick nudged Sara admiringly.
Nick didn't seem to let the jokes at his expense faze him. Grissom found himself more and more impressed by the young man's ability to take everything in stride.
"It bothered me that our suspects were here and I guess my mind wanted to know what the target coulda been. When Conrad came in, acting his usual self, I remembered passing his car in the parking lot. It just clicked."
"You followed your instincts; an invaluable skill for a good criminalist."
The three stared at him in amazement, especially Nick who was rendered speechless. It dawned on him that giving out compliments had become such a rare thing, and he sighed to himself, knowing he would now have fewer chances to make up for such things.
"So, the brother didn't know about the bomb?"
Nick took a moment to steer his bewildered expression back over to his partner. "Nah. He followed Kevin over here after he planted it. I spoke to him after the bomb squad took over and found it."
"What I would have paid to see Ecklie's face," Sara said with a sigh.
"It was more human than you might think," Nick said offhandedly. Then the tiniest smile grew. "Though I did get a kick outa watchin' them tear his fancy car apart lookin' for it."
They all laughed. "I think there're still parts hangin' around the parking lot," Nick chuckled.
Warrick rolled his eyes. "A'ight. How'd the guy know which car to screw around with?"
"Alex asked that same question. Apparently Kevin was in the crowd after the bomb didn't go off, and he went down to find out why. When he saw Ecklie on the scene, he just waited and watched."
"Creepy," Sara muttered.
Next time he would get crowd shots when his instincts went on alert. Grissom let his mind wander, recalling that nagging voice from that night, but, for some reason, it was still not satisfied.
Someone decided to play DJ and turned up the volume control, cranking up the party once more. It made talking a challenge and Warrick extended his hand to Sara who smiled coyly at him.
"I don't dance."
"Aw, c'mon, Sara. You can cut loose for once." Warrick wouldn't take no for an answer and had one arm wrapped around her shoulders as he eased her out on to the makeshift dance floor amidst some playful protests.
Wendy and Mia took that exact moment to wander over and Grissom laughed at the thought that Nick would be relieved of some sticky circumstances thanks to his bum joint. Apparently having the attention of two ladies caused the young man to smile sheepishly... a lot. As his former supervisor, he was about to come up with a way out of the awkward position; Nick was, after all, trapped in his chair. But the young man would have to fend for himself as he saw Penny Lovejoy and Conrad Ecklie entering the room, the director gesturing for him to come over.
To try and spare himself just a bit more time away from the man, Grissom took his time getting there. The feisty but ever gracious MI-5 agent extended her hand to the Grave shift supervisor in greeting.
"I wanted to say goodbye and offer my country's thanks for a job well done, Gil."
He took her grip and nodded. "It was a team effort, Penny."
"Indeed it was. I've already written a letter to your State Department, as well as the Sheriff, applauding the efforts of this Lab and of Mr. Stokes, whose detection of those two lads in the parking lot and his brilliant interrogation closed this case for good."
Grissom smiled. "I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Although if you told him in person," he said, eying Conrad.
She patted his shoulder. "Already did. Several times. What a lovely gentleman. I don't think he's used to such praise."
He looked back to see Nick sitting alone, hand kneading a spot behind his ear, staring off into the crowd with the oddest expression on his face. Mia and Wendy were nowhere to be seen and Nick seemed to be disturbed… or was it distracted?
"Don't worry Ms. Lovejoy; I've had a plan to take care of such recognition for a while now."
Grissom cocked his head in his 'oh really?' manner.
Conrad's smug expression grew. "Can't have the man responsible for raising the bar at this Lab go unnoticed like it has been for so long."
The British agent smirked, obviously knowing there was a ploy afoot. "Mr. Ecklie, I do have a flight to catch."
"Yes, of course."
Grissom let it slide for now, as he wasn't in the mood for more politicking. He cast another look over at Nick as something gnawed at him about the younger man's disposition. He looked so self-isolated. Grissom's feet were turning but an arm encircled his.
"Would you mind escorting me out along with Mr. Ecklie?"
Grissom wasn't about to be rude. "Well, of course, Penny."
After taking the time to chat a bit more about the idea of working abroad, Grissom made it back to the lab, stopped three times along the way by various people offering congratulations and a detective letting him know about a cold case that had warmed up again. After grabbing some files and dropping them off at his desk, he made it back to the break room.
He looked in the doorway to find everyone was still celebrating but the person who had created the reason for the joy was nowhere to be seen.
From the time that he'd made the mental connection about the bomb in Conrad's car, through the subsequent flurry of the bomb squad's arrival and the device's removal from the AD's car, on through the return of the rest of the team from the sting that wasn't, and the hand shaking and backslapping, he'd managed to keep it together. There'd been no repeat of the hearing problems of earlier and other than his knee slowing him up, it had been a rollercoaster of adrenaline and activity.
Then came the culmination of it all- the celebration. Noise and music, talking and laughter. And Nick basked in it. After months of bad news, anxious harried looks, circular discussions and walking on eggshells, the team was finally able to sit back, catch their breath, and live a little.
He sat back in the chair Grissom had surprisingly and gratifyingly procured for him, smiling as he watched the dancing. Mia and Wendy had flanked him, Mia offering her normal acerbic humor and a smooth, close-to-but-not-quite flirtation. All bark and no bite. Wendy was her polar opposite; flustered and fumbling, eager smile and blush-tinted cheeks.
When Mia nodded her head at the impromptu dance floor and raised an inquiring eyebrow, he caught disappointment clouding Wendy's face. He quickly pointed at his outstretched leg and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. No left foot."
The two DNA techs had soon left to find alternative partners, the mood and the music too infectious to ignore for long. He laughed as he saw Wendy dancing with Ronnie, the Questionable Documents tech light on his feet for a man of his generous size. When he dipped her the floor cleared back and gave them more room.
The music changed and a slower song was played, an R& B flavored song with a female singer he didn't recognize. Couples pulled a little closer as the tempo came down a few notches.
The caramel smooth tones of the singer's voice were soothing and he felt his eyelids droop as he relaxed into the music. A party pooper turned the volume off in the middle of the chorus and his head jerked up, realizing as his eyes darted over to the stereo to see who was responsible that he wasn't hearing a chorus of protests from angry partygoers. And there was no one standing near the boom box.
The familiar blanket of white noise dropped over everything and he felt his head growing heavier as if a bag filling with sand.
He growled to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, rubbing behind his ear, finding both actions fruitless.
He waited, sitting with his eyes closed for a few minutes, hoping it would pass as it always had before.
And it didn't.
Five minutes turned to ten, and if anything it got worse. What had been intermittent was now solid silence, his head filled with the buzz of static.
He felt a presence in front of him, a change in air pressure and a shadow on the floor. He looked up to see Wendy had returned, smiling and holding a plate of food.
She gestured at the potato salad and mouthed silent words at him.
"No, thanks. Already had my fill," he said, patting his stomach.
By the crease in her brow and the disappointed look on her face he knew immediately that he'd guessed wrong.
"Sorry, music's kinda loud," he muttered to her as he rose as steadily as he could from his seat, using his cane to push off and away. "I hafta…" and he dashed her an apologetic smile and left the break room, easing himself past people holding voiceless conversations.
He made it out to the parking lot, hauling himself up into his truck, his mind fixated on getting the hell home. Home where he had no worry about people asking him questions he wouldn't be able to answer. Home where he could bury his aching head in his pillow. Home where he could try a little more digging on the internet.
The engine turned over, his only clue the vibration of the machine around him, and he shifted into drive and pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, the need for home pushing his foot down heavily on the accelerator.
Traffic was heavy as it always was; twenty-four seven there were cars on the road in Vegas, and brake lights filled his view of the road ahead.
Swallowing back the bile that threatened at the back of his throat he pulled the wheel hard, cutting off an SUV that was probably honking at him considering the finger he saw raised at him out the driver's window, but making it onto a side road, the pedal mashed down to the floor again.
A few more sloppily made turns and he was on a straightaway, his head now throbbing in earnest, the weight in his skull pulling his head to the side. The vertigo was worsening and he saw the streetlights smear into a blur as his surroundings whirled.
He balled his fist up and rapped himself on the head, hard. Again and again, like his brain was a wonky TV that just needed a good whack to adjust the picture. But what may have worked with tubes and electrical wiring did nothing more than increase the amplitude of the hum, the sound- the ONLY sound he'd heard the last twenty minutes now just getting higher and sharper. But still constant. And piercing.
He fumbled his hand on the truck's stereo, watching as the digital readout of the volume rose from five to seventeen. He could feel the vibration- the bass pounding out of the speakers in the door next to him, but nothing breached the cotton wool filling his ears.
He leaned over to knock the volume back down, pulling the steering wheel with him. He felt the truck lurch across the road, the rumble of the tires on the shoulder, and he pulled, too hard, righting the vehicle back on the asphalt with another swerve.
Another wave of nausea washed over him and he closed his eyes briefly against it, trusting to his ability to keep the vehicle on the road for just that short time.
As he opened his eyes he felt the impact of the front tires on the low curb that ran along this section of street, jerking the wheel hard but too late. The front of the truck wrapped around a light pole as his vision filled with the white of his airbag.